How to Play a Game Called Murder

Chapter 51: A Grave Miscalculation

He listened as her slow, tentative footsteps sounded on the stairs to 221B.

Sherlock closed his eyes, drinking in the sound that he'd been afraid of never hearing again. Molly was home. His brow furrowed; where was everyone else though? He was sure that John had told him they were going to accompany Molly back to Baker Street to make sure she made it alright. He peeked out the window just in time to see Mycroft's car round the bend of the street.

Hmm…

He turned his attention back to the doorway as Molly appeared, grimacing in pain and panting a bit. Sherlock dashed across the room, scooping her up in his arms and gently depositing her in John's old chair, before plopping down in his own.

He was nervous, afraid of what he knew he needed to tell her. So nervous, that he didn't take the time to properly look at her stricken face.

They were both silent for a moment, before Sherlock spoke.

"It occurs to me that you would want an explanation for my absence from your side during your recovery," he said, as if the idea was really just coming to him.

He took Molly's silence for an affirmative and launched into his carefully prepared speech.

"I apologize for my absence, I had some loose ends to tie up."

Liar.

He winced at his own internal voice berating him but plunged ahead.

"I feel that you will think that I owe you an apology which I will gladly give, after you hear me out."

She stopped him then, simply holding her hand up. Sherlock finally looked at her, really looked, and his eyes widened. She looked tired, but more than that, she looked defeated. It was then that Sherlock realized what a grave miscalculation he had made.

"Molly," he began, desperate to repair his horrendous mistake in not being by her side throughout her recovery.

"No, Sherlock," she stopped him, her voice quiet but strong.

She sighed, her body seeming to pull into itself, as she made herself even smaller than she normally was by pulling her legs up and absentmindedly rubbing the area where her wound was still healing.

"Do you know?" she whispered, not meeting his eyes. His brow furrowed, not following her train of thought. After a moment, she clarified, still in that small voice. "Do you know what he did to me?"

Sherlock's hands tightened on the arms of his chair, his knuckles turning white. He didn't know beyond the obvious. The fresh bruises that day on the rooftop told him some things but he wasn't privy to everything that she'd told the therapist, even though Mycroft had been in the room with them for some reason. He wasn't really sure he wanted to know.

She took a deep breath and spoke quickly. Sherlock got the impression that if she didn't get it all out at once, she wouldn't be able to, so he was silent as she spoke.

"When I left here, I went to the café. I needed to clear my head. Not long after I got there, Daniel walked in. He spotted me and came over and said that I looked a wreck and was I alright? I told him no but didn't explain anything and he offered to see me to my flat. I told him yes and he hailed a cab. I gave directions but the next thing I knew, the driver had looked back at me and it was him. Moran. I recognized the scar and I screamed, but Daniel put something over my face. I suppose it was a chloroformed cloth."

Sherlock hmm'ed his agreement with her, not bothering to mention that he already knew that part from when he met Moran in the underground carriage.