How to Play a Game Called Murder

Chapter 43: Shattered Hearts

John and Mary gave each other a look as the door to 221 Baker Street flew open with a loud bang against the wall.

Mrs. Hudson's indignant voice rang out from her flat. "William Sherlock Scott Holmes, don't you go banging about in my building!"

"Do shut up, Mrs. Hudson!" came the yelled reply as Sherlock took the stairs two at a time and burst into the sitting room where John, his wife and daughter, and Molly were still pouring over the autopsy reports.

Why are there always people here? Why can't they leave me alone?

The pathologist instantly shot to her feet, sprinting across the room to envelop him in her arms, anxiously checking him over for injuries.

"Sherlock! We were so worried!" Molly held him at arm's length, observing his face. "Where have you been? It's been hours! You didn't answer your phone."

Doesn't she ever think about anything else? I don't have time for this.

He grimaced. "Molly, stop talking." Sherlock extricated himself from the petite woman's grasp, avoiding the hurt he knew he'd see in her eyes. He couldn't afford to think about her right now. He had to solve the case.

He stalked into the room and glanced around. Besides the papers on the coffee table and his desk, the room was surprisingly neat.

Where the bloody hell are my things? Why does she change everything?

He didn't want to ask the real question. The flat didn't matter.

Why did she change me?

He made his way to his chair and collapsed, steepling his fingers in his signature thinking pose.

The other three exchanged glances, with Mary rising from the couch stiffly (she was still rather sore from childbirth) to rub soothing circles on Molly's back. She murmured something to her and both women left the room, Molly hoisting Amanda into her arms, to head up to the spare bedroom.

John settled into his chair across from Sherlock and waited. He didn't have to wait long as Sherlock jumped back to his feet after only a few minutes.

"Dammit, John!" Sherlock grabbed up a glass half full of water and threw it, the slam against the wall and subsequent shattering doing nothing to soothe his battered nerves. He glanced down at John, who was staring at him, a mixture of anger and understanding on his worry-lined face.

"I've got nothing, NOTHING!" he yelled, the release cathartic. He wanted to scream and rage and lay waste to kingdoms, so great were his frustration and fear. "I don't know, I don't know, I don't-." Abruptly, he collapsed to the floor in a heap, his knees hitting the rug hard. Sherlock sat there, his body limp as a rag doll for a few cleansing breaths, before slowly pulling himself back up.

This is going to break me.

"You see, John? Do you understand now why I avoided sentiment at all costs?" his tone was weary, but venomous on that particular word. The one he'd abhorred for years, knowing that it could, would, destroy him if he let it.

John shook his head. "Sherlock, don't do this." He didn't elaborate, but then, he didn't need to. He stood, rubbing his palms on the sides of his trousers. "I'm going to take the girls home now. It's late and I know Mary's tired, even if she doesn't say anything about it."

Sherlock only half listened to him. He went back to his chair and slouched into it, not acknowledging his friend's departure from the room.

A few minutes of silence later, and John returned with Mary and Amanda in tow, and Molly trailing behind. Hugs were exchanged as farewells, and the couple headed out, back home to rest.