How to Play a Game Called Murder

Chapter 44: Taken

He stood frozen by the window for some time after seeing her stumble out of the flat and down the street, his mind strangely blank. Numb. Not the good kind of numb that came from a seven percent solution or sex with Molly. No, his mind felt sluggish. Heavy. Asleep. Dead.

What a terrifying thought.

He had come to the conclusion that he was unable to think with Molly close by, but now, to his horror, he realized it was the other way around. He couldn't think without her. Even though he'd been bombarded with the need to keep her safe and random thoughts of her all the time, it hadn't impeded his brilliance. If anything she'd sharpened him.

You blind idiot.

Sherlock had known that what he was doing was foolish and wrong but hadn't been able to stop himself from taking out his frustration on the only person within reach. The only person who really mattered to him. And now she was gone because of his actions.

After a few more moments of thought, he sprang from the window, his sudden movements alien in the stillness of the flat. As he turned, he heard the crunch of a paper underfoot. Sherlock looked down at it, annoyed at the noise that disturbed the silence of his brooding. His eyes narrowed and he moved his foot, examining the crinkled page, his brow furrowing in concentration. He stooped down, snatching it up and held it to the light.

His eyes widened, realization hitting him like a freight train.

On the page, written in Molly's familiar doctor's scrawl, were the details of each victim. It was the way she'd written them that caught his attention though.

MO – F

RI – M

AT – F

TY – F

AN – M

DM – M

OR – M

AN – F

She'd only written the initials of the victims and their sex. His eyes flitted back and forth on the paper and he nearly dropped it when he realized that the initals, in order of death, spelled out the words:

MORIARTY AND MORAN

Now, beyond a shadow of a doubt, Sherlock knew that this had all been planned long before it began. His mind reeled. Nothing is a coincidence. Lestrade, the only officer in Scotland Yard who would be willing to work with him, being the one to find him high in an alley. Molly, who wasn't even a fully qualified pathologist, being the one to do the autopsies. Her boss being sick in the bathroom, mild poison no doubt, leaving her the only person on duty. Three sets of bodies showing up, with Sherlock unable to solve the puzzle without all the data. And now, the last piece falling into place, giving him the name of their tormentor.

Sherlock's head shot up. The name of their enemy.

If he was finally showing himself that meant that the game was almost over.

And Molly was out there.

Oh God.

Sherlock was out of the room in a heartbeat, pulling on the Belstaff as he clattered down the stairs and flung open the door, bursting out into the night.

Nearly a half hour later, Sherlock was frantically running down the street, searching for his pathologist. He tried to calm himself enough to think, to consider what he knew of Molly and figure out where she would go. A fleeting memory made its way through his chaotic mind.