It's Not A Game Anymore

Chapter six

John isn't quite sure what's happening. One minute, Sherlock is pulling his phone out of his pocket and the next, he's throwing it against the wall with such force, it splinters into shards of plastic and glass.

Connor lets out a little cry of alarm and John automatically shields his face, despite the fact that the mobile was thrown in the complete opposite direction.

"Sherlock, what the hell?" John yells as Greg appears in the doorway.

"All right?" he asks, brows raised in concern, and John shakes his head, eyes wide as he watches Sherlock's manic pacing.

"Do me a favor and take him?"

"What?" Greg asks, but John is already depositing Connor into Greg's accepting arms.

"Just take him for a sec."

Greg nods and John tries to ignore Connor's cries for him as they disappear back into the bar. The boy's whimpers make something sharp and awful twist deep in his chest. But he can't deal with that right now. Not when Sherlock is practically tearing his hair out and muttering to himself like he's trying to perform an exorcism.

"Sherlock – "

"It doesn't make sense!" he yells, spinning and nearly backhanding John in the process.

"Whoa, hey," John murmurs, palms held out in what he hopes is a placating manner. "Sherlock, what's going on?"

"It's not her," he practically sneers.

"Who, Mia? Yeah I thought that was fairly obvious." John inches closer and loosely wraps his fingers around Sherlock's wrist. "I meant what the hell happened with the phone."

Sherlock kicks a wayward piece of plastic as if it had done him a personal wrong, but doesn't yank his arm away. It's something.

"It was a text," he murmurs. "From the killer I presume."

John's heartbeat kicks up a notch and if his grip tightens, Sherlock doesn't say anything. "What? How'd they get your number? What'd they say?"

Sherlock shrugs. It looks misplaced next to his genius, yet makes him seem unbearably young and vulnerable.

"Just said, 'Wrong."

'Sher – " The name dies on his lips, barely a breath of exhalation. Sherlock hates being wrong. "Look, maybe we are. It happens more than you think," he says quietly, afraid that if he raises his voice any higher, Sherlock will shatter just like that phone. John himself is feeling rather fragile at the moment. God knows they've been wrong. So, so many times.

Moriarty. Magnussen.

Mary.

"Maybe we are," he repeats and his voice breaks, remembering too many overlooked clues that led to so many nearly prevented losses. "You're not omniscient. No one is."

Sherlock blinks at him but there's a sudden hardness behind his eyes – a sharp edge John has seen on many occasions right as Sherlock utters something disdainful like, "Oh John, I envy you." John hates the look and resents it even more now.

A throat clears behind them and John grasps onto the excuse to ignore Sherlock for a moment. Greg stands there with Connor, who immediately reaches out for John the minute the boy claps eyes on him.

"Hello, love," John murmurs as he reaches forward and takes him. Connor glares at him as if to say I can't believe you left me with him.

"All good here?" Greg asks and neither man answers, which he supposes is answer enough. "Look, Ms. Alexander mentioned a local couple who's also been receiving notes. Said they live on the edge of town by the water. Donovan's following up with local law enforcement, but it checks out. The couple had filed a complaint that they'd received written threats."