How to Play a Game Called Murder

Chapter 54: The Inevitable

The slam of the downstairs door, rattling the windows with its force, announced John's arrival.

Sherlock straightened in his chair with a sigh. He'd hoped the former army doctor wouldn't come, that he wouldn't think anything was amiss until it was too late to make a scene over it.

The detective had showered, and dressed in all black, from his button up, to his suit, to his shoes. The Belstaff lay on the couch, draped across a medium sized suitcase, along with Sherlock's favorite blue scarf. Next to it lay the smaller, identical one he'd purchased for Molly.

He looked down at his phone, checking the time.

Not long now.

John clattered up the stairs, breathlessly entering the flat at a run. He stopped short and eyed his best friend, glancing at the couch and taking in the baggage. His eyes widened at the confirmation of his fears and his jaw clenched in fury.

This time, he did punch Sherlock, who braced himself for the impact and didn't say a word, merely rubbing the abused area. A text alert lit up Sherlock's phone and both men froze, staring at each other; John with a bit of desperation and Sherlock with defeat.

Sherlock recovered first, walking to the couch slowly, with none of his usual manic energy. He took his time, running his fingers over the two scarves that lay on top of the luggage before asking.

"Who told you?" he asked, standing in front of his bag, looking down at it, and his hands, blankly.

John cleared his throat, and watched the detective carefully as he replied.

"Wiggins. He showed up at the house saying that you'd gone off your rocker and that I didn't have a lot of time to get over here and talk some sense into your stubborn arse."

It was obvious that John was quoting Wiggins verbatim and Sherlock snorted, somewhat amused, even amidst the depressing situation they faced.

"He would." The detective's mouth quirked up for a brief moment; Wiggins hadn't even been told what was going on. Sherlock had to admit; the man had the gift for deduction.

"You, you can't." John's voice broke. "You can't go. You don't have to now, you were pardoned for dealing with Moran." His tone was pleading, and he stared down at his hands which were entwined in front of him.

It was true; Sherlock had been fully pardoned for the murder of Charles Augustus Magnussen following the events on Bart's rooftop. It hadn't really mattered to him in the face of everything else that had occurred though.

Sherlock turned, giving a shuddering sigh.

"What's the point in staying?" he asked, his voice weary and his eyes blank. "She's gone. She left me and I'll never get her back."

John's fists clenched. "No, no Sherlock, we need you. She needs you. She'll come back, just wait, just wait. She loves you. You know she does. Molly's loved you as long as I've known you, probably a lot longer."

Sherlock shook his head slowly and picked up his bag, along with the Belstaff and scarves, and moved towards the door, but John blocked his path.

"It's only six months, John." He kept his voice from wavering, protecting his friend from the truth. He didn't count on John's next words.

"Sherlock, don't. Don't throw everything you've built for yourself away." He looked down. "I know. I talked to Mycroft."

Sherlock's head shot up and his jaw clenched. He'd specifically told his older brother that he didn't want anyone to know what the inevitable outcome of his mission would be. He cursed inwardly. Now John would be almost impossible to get rid of.