How to Play a Game Called Murder

Chapter 39: The Taunt

Molly appeared in the sitting room at half past nine, eliciting a smile, then a frown, from Sherlock. She'd changed clothes, but not into her work attire. No, she was in comfortable yoga pants and a vest, both items of clothing clinging to her small frame. The appreciative look from Lestrade didn't go unnoticed by the detective. Especially after Sherlock had gotten a good look at her bum and realized that there were no lines from her knickers.

"Get enough sleep?" he asked, his voice dripping with annoyance. She glanced at him, hurt by his harsh words, and he immediately regretted them, but was too proud to retract in front of the other men.

"Coffee, Molly?" offered John and she nodded at him, smiling gratefully. After accepting her cup, she blew on it and Sherlock zeroed in on her lips. He couldn't help but think of them forming that perfect 'o' around his cock. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair and snatched up another book to take his mind off of her mouth doing delightful things to portions of his anatomy.

He looked back down at the book and let out a frustrated sigh, dropping it onto the floor. As much as Sherlock projected control and aloofness, the stress of keeping everyone safe was grating on him, pulling at the tendrils of calm that remained. He methodically checked book after book, cursing the fact that he and Molly enjoyed so many of the same ones. A while later, a voice pulled him from his reverie.

"Listen, I've got to get to work." Greg stood from his seat on the couch, moving a pile of books that had already been checked to the side. "I'll be seeing you," he nodded to John and Molly, glancing Sherlock's way slightly.

John and Molly both said their goodbyes, while Sherlock merely grunted his acknowledgement of Lestrade's departure.

A few hours later, and John had to go as well. Mary was still recovering from the birth and he needed to be home to help with little Amanda. It was obvious that he was uncomfortable being away from them for long, but no one acknowledged that fact.

That left just Molly and Sherlock to dig through the massive piles of books. The pathologist glanced around helplessly. There were so many books left to check.

"There has to be something I've missed!" Sherlock's voice was raised, not quite yelling, but certainly not speaking at a normal volume. The detective ran his hands through his hair, exasperated. There was only an hour left and Molly had succumbed to silence, while Sherlock became increasingly agitated by the second. He paced through the room, dodging volumes scattered along the floor.

Molly continued quietly searching, though the resigned look on her face betrayed her lack of hope. Finally, with a quarter of an hour left, she stood.

"I'm going to take a bath."

Sherlock stopped his frantic pacing and stared at her, dumbfounded. "You're kidding."

She shook her head, her eyes sad. "Sherlock, it's over. We failed. I'm going to take a bath so I'll be clean for whatever we're dragged into next." She grabbed up her e-reader and a can of coke and headed towards Sherlock's bathroom and the big claw-footed tub.

Sherlock collapsed into his chair, his head in his hands.

He'd failed. He'd had an entire day to simply find the right book and he'd failed.

He was angry. Furious even. He was Sherlock Holmes. He didn't fail. His head shot up, glaring in the direction Molly had gone.

Molly.

She was distracting him. Her scent, her touch, her face. Everything about her was consuming his mind. Not a moment went by that he didn't think about her. Worry, fear, sentiment overriding his cool detachment.

Sherlock stood from his chair, intent on barging into the bath and thoroughly punishing her for so completely taking over him, mind, body and soul.

To that end, he opened the door to the bath roughly, slamming it against the wall, making Molly jump and stare up at him, startled.

And suddenly, he saw it.

Molly was immersed in the water, covered in bubbles, the coke next to her and her e-reader in her hand. Suddenly, it all made sense.

"Molly, quickly, what book are you reading?" he asked, his voice impatient.

Her brow furrowed. "The Count of Monte Cristo. It's my favorite. Why?" His face lit up as his theory was confirmed.

Sherlock dashed into his bedroom and fell flat on the floor, digging under his bed and grinning when his fingers closed on a torn book.

He pulled it out and sat back, his legs stretched out in front of him. Molly appeared in the doorway, water dripping down her legs and pooling on the floor, the towel around her ineffective.

"Sherlock?" she questioned, as a smile broke across his face and he began to laugh, before holding up the book. Her eyes widened with recognition. It was Molly's paperback copy of The Count of Monte Cristo, though it was a bit worse for the wear, with tears in the pages and what appeared to be some slight burning around the edges.

"That's mine!" she cried indignantly. She made to snatch the book out of his hands, but he pulled it back quickly.

"How'd you get that? I lost it ages ago!" she glared at him. "That's my favorite book, Sherlock, I've had it since I was a teenager."

Sherlock nodded. "I know. I, um, might have borrowed it one of the nights I stayed in your flat after the fall." He had the good sense to look contrite, knowing that he'd taken one of her most treasured possessions without her permission. It hadn't mattered to him then.

Well, in a way, it had. He'd picked it up on a whim, and became engrossed in the plot, with all its twists and turns. He'd taken it, not only because he wanted to finish it, but because he wanted a piece of her with him. He hadn't understood why at the time but now it was abundantly clear to him.

"I never thought to look at this book because I didn't see a copy in your set. I didn't think about your e-reader until just now." Sherlock neglected to mention that he hadn't actually entered the bathroom with that in mind and just got lucky. Molly didn't need to know that.

Now, he opened up the worn, crinkled pages to the first set of coordinates and smirked, holding it up for Molly to see. The word was highlighted, the bright yellow screaming out from the page. His sense of triumph overrode the fact that whoever had done the highlighting had been in the flat quite recently, since Sherlock read a bit in the book nearly every day.

He stood, sprinting back into the sitting room and opened his website, noting he still had four minutes. Molly glanced up at the paper with the sets of numbers on it and located each, reading the words out to him when she found them.

Four sets of clues, eight words total.

NOW IT'S MY TURN TO MAKE YOU DANCE.

Sherlock frowned and his eyes narrowed as he posted the sentence to the site with a minute to spare. It wasn't a clue, just a taunt from their enemy.

The ping of an incoming message alerted them that their enemy had seen the post and sure enough, it read simply,

GOOD.