How to Play a Game Called Murder

Chapter 46: A Message for Mr Holmes

The first thing he knew was a low roar, and many different voices murmuring indistinctly. Sherlock tried to open his eyes, to concentrate, but his head hurt so badly. He focused on the voices, eventually able to pick out John's repeating variants of the same sentence over and over.

"Everything happened so fast, with the lights going off and Sherlock yelling and the next thing I knew, he was gone."

Who was gone? Oh, Moran.

The fog in the detective's brain slowly cleared and he grimaced in pain, eliciting a reaction from the people around him. He heard Lestrade's voice announcing to someone farther away that he was coming to, just before Sherlock was able to open his eyes.

"What the bloody hell?" was the first thing out of his mouth, as he glared up at John, Mary, Greg and Mycroft who were gathered around him, looking down at his prone form.

Mycroft's lips pursed and he looked rather displeased as Lestrade answered Sherlock's question.

"You nearly got yourself killed, mate. I told you to let us go in with you." The grey-haired Detective Inspector shook his head. "Now the bloke is gone and we still don't have Molly."

Molly. Oh God, where's Molly?

Sherlock sat bolt upright, wincing at the sharp pain in his head. He reached up to rub the source of the pain, and brought his hand back down with blood on it. He glanced up at John, a question in his eyes.

"He hit you in the back of the head with the gun when you went for him. I tried to help," John's voice cracked a little, "but it was dark and he was just gone. No one saw him leave."

Mary squeezed her husband's hand and offered Sherlock a small smile.

"Nonsense John, he can't be 'just gone.' He had to have gone somewhere." Sherlock reached up, grabbing John's offered hand and stood, swaying a bit as he got his bearings, trying to ignore the pounding in his skull. He looked over at the carriage, which was a few meters away, then back to the small group next to him.

"Mycroft, the hole," Sherlock said, beginning to unsteadily walk in the opposite direction from the carriage, his feet catching a couple times on the tracks. John caught up quickly, steadying the taller man each time he stumbled.

"Mmm," Mycroft agreed, his face still pinched, betraying his annoyance and worry.

Try as you might, no one can not like Molly Hooper, not even you, Mycroft, Sherlock thought as he walked.

They arrived at the vent that would have directed the explosion from the carriage bomb up into Parliament, and peered up into it.

"He couldn't possibly have gone up there," Lestrade said in disbelief, glancing from Sherlock to Mycroft and back, then at John and Mary to see what their reaction was.

"Unfortunately, it is entirely possible and is indeed exactly what occurred," responded the British Government, looking simultaneously pleased with himself and utterly furious with his agents who didn't think to cover that escape route.

Sherlock stood silently staring up into the blackness, his mind racing, wondering where Moran had gone to ground and where he would resurface. It was obvious how this would end. Either he or Moran would die. The only important thing though, was if Molly would be alright.

Several hours later, Sherlock sat in his chair in 221B, his fingers steepled in front of his mouth, eyes unfocused. He was reviewing every bit of information he had on Moran, which, in the current light of things, was just the tip of the iceberg, so to speak.