How to Play a Game Called Murder

Chapter 49: Bedside

She'd been lucky, relatively speaking. The bullet had entered her lower back at a severe angle, traveling down and out through the inner thigh, miraculously missing all bones and organs. It had, however, shattered the main artery in her leg and she'd had to have one donated, along with two transfusions.

It had been touch and go throughout, and it was nothing short of miraculous that she'd survived the trip to the hospital, having lost so much blood. She'd flat lined once, on the operating table, but oddly, had come back on her own, much in the way Sherlock had when he was shot by Mary.

That alone gave the detective much to ponder.

"Tell me."

Sherlock gave John a withering look. "Really? Right now you want to know? Can't this wait?"

John looked at the bed. The small woman on it was still fast asleep, she had been under sedation for several hours now, ever since the surgery that saved her life, to give her body time to accept or reject the donated artery.

"All we have is time right now, Sherlock."

He cringed as soon as the words left his mouth, obviously rethinking them, especially since his best friend's face clearly said what they both knew. That there might not be much time at all. If Molly's body rejected the donated artery, she would develop an infection that, in her fragile state, could easily kill her, even with antibiotics.

Sherlock sighed, his usually ramrod-straight posture now almost non-existent as he slouched in the chair closest to his pathologist.

"Alright, what do you want to know?" he asked, turning to face the former army doctor.

John thought a minute before replying. "I guess you should start with the serial killings."

Sherlock's mind raced through the details of each body, his brain overwhelming him with information until he thought he would burst. His eyes flitted to Molly, unconsciously seeking comfort from her, even though she was unable to give more than her presence at the moment. Even that helped ease the rush of thoughts through his mind.

He momentarily forgot that John was in the room as he stared at her. Molly's soft pink lips were parted slightly and her dark lashes made shadows against her ivory skin. Sherlock wondered how he had ever been able to ignore her. He knew he would be acutely aware of her for the rest of his life. Even if she wasn't in it.

When Sherlock didn't reply, John tried another tactic.

"So Moriarty and Moran set all this up right after you tried to solve Carl Powers' murder?" he asked.

Sherlock came back to reality with a start and began spouting off his answer almost robotically.

"I assume so," replied the detective, a world weary expression on his face. "Though," he added, "it wasn't set into motion until the night I met Lestrade," he paused, "and Molly."

John sucked in a breath, hating to ask the next question, but needing an answer to calm his own worries. "Do you think they intended for you to love her?" he inquired of his best friend.

Sherlock gave him the patented 'don't be an idiot, John,' look and shook his head. "Of course not. No one could have foreseen that, not even me. No, they just gave me a person who was easy to manipulate."

John started to protest but Sherlock stopped him.

"Don't give me that, you and I both know she's easy manipulated." He looked down at the petite woman, still sleeping in the hospital bed. "It's only because she's too good to people. They take advantage of her sweetness."

He and John sighed at the same time.

"They gave me someone I could use, knowing I'd have no problem doing it if it meant I could solve cases faster. They knew that I would appeal to her, possibly from observation of her, possibly from reading in between the lines of her personal files."

John was quiet for a moment, pondering the new information. Sherlock's gaze went back to Molly, lamenting how fragile she looked, her skin mottled with bruises and cuts. He was sure he'd never be rid of the guilt he carried for her condition.

"So all this time they've been setting you up, for what? To die?" John's brow was furrowed, the pieces obviously not adding up for him.

"No, John. To fall. Death was merely a side effect. They wanted to build up someone who could rival them, play games with me, then defeat me. It just so happened that forcing me to commit suicide ended up part of the plan."

"But they underestimated Molly," John elaborated and Sherlock nodded his agreement.

"Yes, they underestimated her. Which is why she was attacked that day in the morgue. That would have been the end of it for her, even when he didn't succeed in killing her if I hadn't been foolish enough to show affection for her. Moran saw how I'd allowed my feelings to cloud my judgement and changed the original plan. If I hadn't fallen in love, she wouldn't have been involved. She wouldn't be here."

Sherlock's voice broke on the last sentence and he buried his face in his hands.

"Don't blame yourself, Sherlock. It isn't your fault those psychopaths took an interest in you because you're brilliant." There was no flattery in John's tone when it said it. To him, and many others, Sherlock's brilliance was a simple fact.

"Sherlock, she wouldn't, won't," he corrected himself, "want you to blame yourself for this."

"Of course she won't, John," Sherlock snorted, his voice dripping with irony. "We've already established that her personality dictates that she let people walk all over her."

"Not people, Sherlock. You. She's not half so accommodating for anyone else. She does it for you."

Sherlock's expression was pained. "Then don't you think I've taken advantage of her enough?" he asked in a quiet voice.

John shook his head violently. "Don't you dare, Sherlock. Don't you dare abandon her now out of some false sense of chivalry."

"Don't you get it, John? As long as I do this, as long as I am the consulting detective, I'll have enemies. I can't watch her all the time. Someone will get through. Someone will take her and I can't be the cause of that. Not again."

John stood, and crouched down in front of Sherlock, getting directly eye level with the detective.

"Sherlock, don't throw away the best thing that has ever happened to you." John pleaded with his friend. "She needs you. And you need her."

Sherlock shook his head half-heartedly, unable to admit that he did in fact, need Molly Hooper. He supposed that he had indeed grown, now that it seemed he was putting Molly before his own selfish needs. Yes, he needed her, but she didn't need him. She was far stronger than he was and much better off without his stupidity in her life.

"Really, Sherlock?" John asked in an exasperated tone, mindful to keep his voice somewhat low, even though Molly was highly unlikely to react to shouting, even right next to her bed. "You pick now of all times to grow a conscience?!"

"You know she's better off without me!" Sherlock snapped back.

"Of course she is," John agreed calmly. "But there's no going back now. If you end this it will destroy both of you."

With that, John got up from his crouching position and exited the room, leaving Sherlock to his watchful vigil over Molly Hooper's still form.