How to Play a Game Called Murder

Chapter 41: A Disturbing Coincidence

Sherlock's ringtone abruptly broke the silent serenity of the early morning. He sleepily rubbed at his face before reaching for the phone, his bleary eyes barely able to focus on the display.

It was Lestrade.

Sherlock was tempted to let it go to voicemail but decided against it. He thumbed the call button and put it up to his ear, shifting Molly gently so he could regain possession of his other arm, which was currently under the small woman's torso.

"Holmes." Sherlock's voice was hoarse with sleep. He smacked his mouth, which was dry, and rose from the bed, stalking into the kitchen for a glass of water, disregarding his nakedness.

"Sherlock, I've got something you're gonna want to see." Lestrade was tense, his words clipped and to the point. Sherlock's brow furrowed with anxiety.

What now?

"Text me the address."

"Will do." Greg hesitated then sighed. "You better bring Molly."

Sherlock unceremoniously dropped his glass on the counter, his heart sinking. Lestrade would only specifically ask for Molly if it so obviously involved her that even Scotland Yard couldn't miss it. The detective exhaled before replying.

"We'll be there."

He ended the call and stared down at the phone in his hand for a moment before walking back to the bedroom, dragging his feet along the way. He opened the door and Molly sleepily smiled up at him. He returned the gesture but it didn't reach his eyes.

"Molly, we've got to go. Lestrade called," he said, his voice monotone, as if he didn't trust it where emotion was concerned.

Her eyes opened fully and she sat up, biting her lip.

"Again?" her voice was low, and he knew exactly what Molly meant by that one simple word.

"It looks like it," he confirmed her suspicions.

Nearly an hour later, Sherlock and Molly ducked under the police tape that cordoned off the crime scene. The area was crawling with the Yard's finest and it took them a couple minutes to locate Lestrade in all the confusion.

"Sherlock, over here!" The Detective Inspector was waving at them from the entrance to Molly's favorite coffee shop.

"Maybe I can get a latte," she murmured under her breath, and Sherlock fought a smile.

"Don't make jokes, Molly," he replied out of the corner of his mouth as they made their way to Lestrade's position.

Greg looked them both over, his brow furrowed. Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he scanned the Detective Inspector with critical eyes.

Hands shaking, sweaty palms, rubbing them against his trousers. Eyes darting from Molly, to me, to inside. Labored breathing, slight nervous twitch. Conclusion, our friendly tormentor has struck again and it is easily linked to the three of us.

Sherlock made his deductions in the blink of an eye, but that left him with too many possibilities. After all, the three of them had all been involved in many cases over the years. He needed more information before he could come to a solid conclusion.

"Show me," was all he said to Lestrade, who glanced inside one more time before nodding and motioning them both to come in.

"You're gonna want to suit up," Greg said to Molly, handing her a blue suit and some gloves, along with a net for her hair.

"Just the gloves, Molly," came Sherlock's distracted voice. He was busy peering over at the corner where Molly's favorite chair had been. Anderson was over there, along with several others. Instead of taking evidence though, they were all quietly facing Sherlock and Molly, their hands idle by their sides.