Sherlock - The Game Is On!

The Lying Detective- Four

Chapter Four

Third POV

"Stop. Wait!"

Faith stops to turn. Sherlock hurries down the stairs, his right hand braced against the wall. He stops at the bottom of the stairs. "Your life is not your own. Keep your hands off it, do you hear me?" She stares at him, looking confused. He points at her. "Off it. Off it."

"Sorry?" She limps back towards him. "What? What are you talking about?"

"Your skirt." He points to her skirt. "My skirt?" She questions. "Look at the hem of it! That's what I noticed. I'm..." He puts his hand to his face briefly. "Still catching up with my brain. It's terribly fast." He points to the bottom of her dress and takes a step closer to her, still bracing himself on the wall with the fingertips of his other hand. "Those markings. Do you see them?" She looks down. "You only get marks like that by trapping the hem of your skirt in a car door but they're on the left-hand side, so you weren't driving; you were in the passenger seat."

"I came in a taxi."

"There is no taxi waiting in the street outside. That's what I checked when I went to the window. And you've got all the way to the door and not made any move to phone for one, and look at you. You didn't even bring a coat, in this rain? Now, well, that might mean nothing, except for the angle of the scars on your left forearm; you know, under that sleeve that you keep pulling down."

Looking down, Faith reaches across and pulls her left sleeve down. "You never saw them."

"Sherlock, it's not self harm in the sense that you see." Michelle's voice tries to direct.

Shaking his head, ridden of her, he carries on: "No, I didn't, so thank you for confirming my hypothesis. Don't really need to check that the angle's consistent with self harm, do I?" He reaches towards her. She flinches back. "No."

"Then you can keep your scars. I want to see your handbag."

"Why?"

"It's too heavy. You said I was your last hope and now you're going out into the night with no plan on how you're getting home... And a gun." She lowers her head. He focuses in on her walking cane, which is black with a white band across the top of the handle and some curly patterning up its length.

He nods and sniffs sharply and has a brief flashback of John walking away from the house in Lauriston Gardens in 'A Study in Pink,' leaning heavily on his cane. Sherlock shakes the memory away, his face unhappy.

"Chips."

"Chips?" Faith questions. Sherlock takes a coat from the coat hooks on the wall and sighs as he hands it to her. She takes it. "You're suicidal. You're allowed chips, trust me. It's about the only perk."

"She's not suicidal, God damn it!"

He takes off his dressing gown and hangs it on a hook before taking hold of his greatcoat. Faith turns and walks out of the door. Sherlock closes his eyes and grimaces, bracing both hands against the wall.

"Sherlock?" Mrs Hudson comes up the hall from the direction of her flat as he straightens up, takes his coat from the hook and starts to put it on. "Are you going out?" She questions worriedly. "I think I remember the way." He points to the front door. "It's through there, isn't it?"

"Oh, you're in no state. Look at you."

"Yeah, well, I've got a friend with me, so..." He turns and heads for the open door. "What friend?"

"Bye!" He closes the door behind him and looks up into the pouring rain. "Oh! Michelle, I pray for you now, more than ever... Please wake up muffin."

Standing on the doorstep, Sherlock wraps his coat around him, then turns left and walks under the awning of Speedy's where Faith is waiting. "Come on." They head off into the rain...

Smith, wearing a suit and tie, looks directly into the camera. "I'm Culverton Smith, and in this election year I'll be voting..."

At what appears to be a formal reception of some kind, Mycroft; Wearing a suit and bow tie and holding his phone in one hand, walks out of a room and sighs silently at the person waiting for him. "For God's sake. I was talking to the prime minister."

"I am sorry, Mr Holmes. It's your brother." A man stated. Mycroft raises his eyebrows at him. "He's left his flat."

"Was it on fire?"

Smith, wearing a denim jacket with a handkerchief in the breast pocket and an open-necked pink shirt, looks on excitedly as an offscreen waiter ignites the contents of a wide flat metal dish beside his table in a restaurant. He grins quirkily into the camera, then laughs silently. "Even when I'm on the road, I still like quality food."