How to Play a Game Called Murder

Chapter 52: Stormy Weather

It was three days before he moved. When he finally did, it was with the destructive force of a typhoon.

Sherlock showered and then dressed, taking extra care to look as normal possible with the noticeable dark circles under his eyes and shaking in his hands. He desperately wanted a cigarette and, after a moment's hesitation, nodded to himself. He retrieved one, then two more as an afterthought, and clattered down the stairs, ignoring the opening of Mrs. Hudson's door, and swiftly disappearing from the building, pulling his coat collar up as he went.

The detective caught a glimpse of a headline, a case baffling The Yard, as he sauntered down the street, puffing on the first cigarette. Perfect. He needed (not need, I don't need one I want one, I don't need anything, I'm perfectly fine) a distraction. He sauntered down the street a ways, determining whether he would speak to Lestrade first, or John. Both were likely to punch him, and he couldn't decide which would be angrier with him. Not that it mattered, it was none of their business what occurred between Sherlock and his (no, not mine) pathologist.

With his mind made up, he put out his cigarette and hailed a cab and gave directions to the Watson home. It would be harder for John to refuse to work with him if he showed up at his door and then the former army doctor could go ahead and punch the detective and get it out of his system.

Yes, perfect. Then we'll go together to see Lestrade and solve this case. And the next one, and the one after that. Everything will be perfect. Just the way I want it. The work. That's all that matters. Of course.

Sherlock realized that he was rambling to himself and tried to focus on the details of the case. It was simple really and he had almost all the information he needed to solve it from the brief glimpse of the article in the periodical.

He hopped out of the cab at John's house, forcing some energy into his steps as he strode up to the door. He gave three quick raps at the door, his usual form of announcing his arrival and waited, shifting back and forth on the balls of his feet.

After a moment, the door opened and he smiled at Mary, a false cheer that didn't reach his eyes. The eyes that subsequently widened the second before her small fist made contact with his nose. She packed some power in her tiny frame and that, coupled with the fact that he was caught off guard, had him reeling back a step or two and rubbing his face. He dabbed at it a moment and, satisfied that it wasn't bleeding, smirked at her, one brow raised.

"Is that all?" he asked, a cocky note in his otherwise smooth baritone voice.

"You just wait until my husband gets ahold of you," she threatened, shaking her pointer finger at him.

There was a faint wail from further inside the house and she turned abruptly, leaving Sherlock at the door, and disappeared into the other part of her home. He followed, not one to stay put for long, and resumed his shifting in the entryway to the kitchen, watching Mary deal with the crying Amanda. Nervous energy poured off of him in waves and after a moment, Mary sighed and picked up the baby, walking away towards the nursery and muttering darkly to her daughter about how much trouble Sherlock was in.

Finally, John appeared, silently stalking into the kitchen and pouring himself a cup of coffee. He didn't offer Sherlock one, a fact which irritated the detective.

"Come along, John, you can get coffee at The Yard, there's work to be done," he said, snippily, taking his hands out of his pockets and clapping them together before rubbing.

John stared at his friend over the far side of his mug as he drank deeply. Sherlock was starting to get antsy again when he finally deigned to speak.

"I don't know what work you've got on, but I'm not going anywhere," he replied coolly, looking down into his cup and grimacing, obviously having burned his tongue slightly.