How to Play a Game Called Murder

Chapter 55: Reconciliation

Sherlock scrambled up as the car flew around a corner and he fell back against the door. Bracing himself better, he watched as Molly rolled to the other side of the car and slipped into a seatbelt being held open by an older man, with greying hair.

Sherlock eyed him for a brief moment, then nodded cordially, and smiled slightly when it was returned. The detective turned his attention back to the small woman and scanned her. She'd lost weight, (six? No seven pounds) in the two weeks and three days since he'd last seen her. There were still circles under her eyes, more prominent now, indicating long periods of little to no sleep. Her skin was paler as well, and Sherlock wondered if she'd been eating well. Coupled with the weight loss, it didn't appear that she'd been taking care of herself.

Her hair was parted on the side and neatly done up in a plait that started above her left ear and wound around her head to just below the right on and was tied off and left in a ponytail to drape over her right shoulder. She wore no makeup, and smelled faintly of vanilla hand soap or lotion, like what was used in public bathrooms. Her clothes were atypical for her, no baggy trousers or loose flowy tops. She was dressed smartly in a fitted pair of black pants that were tucked into thigh high black boots, and sported a plain aqua blue v-neck tee shirt, under a crème colored leather moto jacket that hung open.

Sherlock thought she looked good enough to eat, though he would've thought that even if she'd been wearing a potato sack.

The man clicked Molly's seatbelt shut and gave her a fatherly pat on the hand before turning to bark orders to the driver, who instantly gave another sharp turn, making Sherlock flail out, slamming on hand onto the window and the other onto the seat next to him for leverage.

Molly giggled softly and the man next to her beamed at her, then jerked his head in Sherlock's direction.

"Best get that seatbelt on if ya don't want to feel like ya've been shaken like a can of sody pop by the time we get there."

American? Heavy drawl. Who is this man?

Sherlock took a moment to examine him more thoroughly. He was a deep tan, from being out in the sun often, in a hot climate. There was a line across his forehead, indicating he wore a hat while outside, possibly a cowboy hat. Texan maybe? Judging from the accent, though it was definitely southwest-ish United States. His hands were large and calloused, and Sherlock could hear the dried skin catching as the man rubbed his hands together.

As if anticipating the thoughts, or perhaps reading Sherlock's furrowed brow as he clicked his seatbelt closed, the man patted Molly's hand again, before reaching out to offer his own to Sherlock.

"Pat Travers," he said by way of introduction. "I've been keeping an eye on Missy here since she barged in on your brother during a meeting we was having."

Sherlock's lips curled up slightly. The man must be irreplaceable indeed if Mycroft was willing to commit to an entire conversation with grammar that horrible..

Travers smiled down at Molly, who was staring into her lap, where her hands were twisting nervously together.

"She was spittin' and hissin' at him for lettin' you go off all half-cocked and let me tell you, she gave him a good dressin' down." He laughed loudly as Molly's face flushed. "Ah, he needed it though. He just stood there gapin' at 'er like a fish outta water for a minute then asked me if I fancied a sightseein' tour of Eastern Europe."

"And you came to get me," Sherlock supplied, eyeing the man again.

Former military, special ops. Intelligence agent as well. Specialization in extractions and… guard?