How to Play a Game Called Murder

Chapter 53: Finality

"No! Get out!"

Sherlock dodged a book that came flying towards his head, and sniffed, blood trickling down from his nose onto his lips. He licked unconsciously, and darted his eyes about, making sure there were no other projectiles headed his way.

Lestrade had seen him coming and fairly ran towards the detective, throwing punches right and left, landing quite a few Sherlock tried to escape without causing any harm to the irate Detective Inspector. He had no desire to fight the man, especially in his place of work, which was obviously crawling with officers. He finally escaped as Anderson, of all people, broke in and shouted for Donovan to help him hold back Lestrade. Sherlock saw the conflict in her, but her concern for her boss overrode her desire to see Sherlock thoroughly beaten, so she also stepped in, holding onto one of Greg's arms, and whispering soothing things to the enraged man.

Sherlock readjusted his coat, sniffing again and smirked.

"So no cases?" he asked, ducking as another book flew at him.

"GET OUT!"

Ah well, Sherlock thought, walking out of the building. It was hardly a six.

He could take a few of the cases that were filling his inbox. Yes, that would be a nice change of pace.

Mid-afternoon on the third day, and he was at rope's end.

Sherlock growled in frustration as Wiggins AGAIN pointed out the most obvious thing that the detective was missing. It was their fourth case of the day, and the fourth case solved by the former junkie. The one who WASN'T the world's only consulting detective.

What the bloody hell is wrong with me?

So far, there had been eighteen cases, of which, Sherlock had solved a total of five without the help of his temporary assistant. In fact, Sherlock hadn't added anything to a majority of the cases, leaving Wiggins to solve them on his own. At any other time, Sherlock would have been grudgingly impressed by the other man. As it was, the detective was finding it irritating beyond all measure. He just couldn't collect his thoughts. All his knowledge was evading his grasp and all too often he found himself completely derailed by a sudden flash of warm brown eyes or flushed ivory skin.

It was distracting and worrying and, above all, painful.

Sherlock watched as his client left the flat, teary eyed with the knowledge that her daughter had not, in fact, been kidnapped, but had run away to elope in America with her much older boyfriend. Sherlock gave it two months before she was back, shamed and with an addition to the family.

The tall man sprang up from his chair, pacing the sitting room of 221B, as he attempted to collect his scattered mind palace. Honestly, it was getting ridiculous. The first case, he excused, but after that, even bloody Anderson would have been able to put the pieces together. It certainly should have been child's play for the great Sherlock Holmes. Instead, he was being shown up by an ingrate freshly off the streets. It was humiliating, even if no one else was there to see it.

Thank the powers that be that no one is here to see this.

Wiggins' voice broke through Sherlock's erratic thoughts.

"Trouble with the missus then?" he said nonchalantly, digging at a bit of mud on his filthy shoes with his equally dirty thumbnail.

Sherlock shot him a sharp glare, annoyed that the man was finally saying something. He'd hoped that after the first day of no mention of Molly that Wiggins would let the sleeping dog lie. It seemed that wasn't the case.

"That is none of your concern," Sherlock replied curtly, his voice dripping with acid.

Wiggins made a noise in the back of his throat that sounded like assent and gave a sage nod.