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The Road Less Travelled By

A Sherlock fanfiction

Sherlock is the property of Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and The BBC.

This story is purely for entertainment – please do not get offended

Enjoy…

Part XXI

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The gun fired.

Molly jumped at the sudden sound. She had not expected John to fire, assuming him to be calling Smith's bluff. How wrong she was. She should have known from the hard gleam in his eyes and firm stance in his body that he was not bluffing. This John Watson that stood before her now was not the John Watson that she knew. No, this was the deep-rooted solider that resided in John's heart. This was the solider that, whenever Molly curiously enquired, would smile gently and change the conversation. Molly understood though. She knew the importance of protecting oneself against the world. It was human nature in its rawest form.

Molly stole a glance towards Sherlock. He was indifferent to John. Obviously, Molly deduced, Sherlock was familiar with the solider, comfortable with his presence and contingent of his wills. He was not afraid to rely on John, holding no hesitations as they worked in complete harmony, complementing each other perfectly. He accepted John Watson fully, while the other fully accepted Sherlock Holmes. Each was the yin to the other's yang.

Smith turned his head, staring intently at the splintered hole in the doorframe just inches from his head. His dark glasses concealed the expression that crossed over his vision and his body language remained perfectly collected. He smirked.

"You missed," he mocked confidently, the cockiest of smiles tugging his lips upwards.

"Oh?"

Smith could not do anything to stop the tensing of his facial muscles as he turned his head fully to examine the damage, rough splints surrounding the hole. He saw no other damage. Smith lowered his arm, the base of the bat touching the ground.

"You're no threat," he sniggered, tapping the bat on the floor.

John smiled. "Just because I'm the one holding the gun, doesn't automatically make me the threat."

Before Smith had the chance to respond to John's cryptic remark, strong hands latched tightly around his wrist, dislodging the bat from his loosened grip. His arm was twisted, forced firmly behind his back, shoulders burning. A body stood behind him.

"Lowering your guard in a room full of people? Does television not teach you anything?" Sherlock spoke into Smith's ear, pulling his arm tighter.

Smith groaned as he collided with the ground, the impact causing the glasses to fly from his face.

"I assume you know why we are here, Mr Smith?" Sherlock asked, crossing his arms.

Smith placed his hands firmly on the ground before pushing himself up, legs swinging underneath his body as he jumped to his feet, retrieving his glasses in the process. Once standing, he tidied himself: tucking his shirt in, straightening his collar and brushing down his trousers.

"Oh, I certainly know why you're here, Mr Holmes…" he smiled, placing the glasses back on his face. "…Dr Watson."

John's brows knitted together as he regarded Smith with a confused expression. "Wait – so you know who we are?"

"I live in a suburban palace," he smiled, gesturing to their current surrounding, "Not under a rock."

"Right … viral blog…"

"I suppose you want an explanation of some kind? Unless, of course, you have come to give me an explanation of my actions?"

Sherlock did not answer right away. While it was true that he did know Smith's motive and reasoning – it was painstakingly obvious after all – he wanted to hear it for himself, partly to quench his own curiosity and partly to provide Molly with a small sense of closure.

He watched Smith, observing every gesture and each movement. His calm behaviour did not strike Sherlock as odd. No, he struck Sherlock as someone who had nothing to lose. The evidence was surrounding them. Every item in the house was materialistic. No memorabilia, asides from that one photograph, which indicated estranged family – more than likely his choice. House (not home) filed with classic 'boy's toys' – no solid female presence or relation in at least ten years. Meticulous about appearance – dresses for self. Self-employed – freelance interior decorator, considerable experience. A materialistic being in every sense of the word.

Nothing to lose, but everything to gain. That had been his thought after that first murder and was more than likely the same thought currently circulating his mind at present. Overconfidence was his main downfall … that, and the unforeseen involvement of Molly Hooper.

"I suppose you know about Diana's pearls?" Smith asked, casually throwing himself down onto the sofa, crossing his legs and resting his outstretched arms on the back. He looked at each person. Sherlock, a grimace plastered across his face, arms at his sides. John, standing rigid beside the door, eyes locked with his own, arms crossed, gun loaded and at the ready. Finally, a female he did not recognise, eyes cast down, brown hair bunched up and hands balled into fists.

"Obviously," Sherlock replied.

"Then you obviously know their value."

Sherlock sighed, thrusting his hands into his pockets, directing a condescending glare towards Smith. "I would advise against wasting my time."

Smith grinned. "Then I don't need to go into detail then – a summary should suffice.

"We acquired the pearls during a holiday in Blackpool – the seven of us. We had no idea that these were genuine at the time … they just looked like cheap tat, which I assume you agree with? Anyway, I found out a few days after we purchased the bangles. The kid who sold them too us explained everything. His father was an accomplice to the robbery and the kid stole them, looking to get some fast cash. He was obviously scared shitless, begging for the bangles back. I said no, of course."

"No wasn't the only thing you said, was it?" Sherlock inquired, voice deep, taking a step to the side.

Smith sucked a breath of air through his teeth and over his tongue, making an audibly squeaking noise. "Nope. I couldn't have him running back to daddy now, could I? He was met with a unfortunate end – tram accident. Tragic really…"

"How very convenient."

"Very. I didn't tell the others – why should I? I let it die down for a few months but I was constantly thinking about it. In the end, I decided to take action. I told one of the lads everything and asked for his bangle. Obviously, you know the answer. No. Apparently it was a Christmas present for his sister so he was reluctant to part with it. His death was an accident, you know…"

John faltered, unlocking his arms, striding forward. "How on earth can you accidently strike someone down and then inject cyanide after their death?"

"You tell me – you're a doctor after all…" Smith grinned, leaning forward, looking over his glasses to meet John's angered expression.

"What is your connection to Dr Green?" Sherlock asked.

"No real connection. I found out he has a mountain of debt and agreed to help him out when the time came."

"Blackmail."

"No, it was just a matter of convenience. Luck was on my side – well, until it was revealed that Cale didn't commit suicide. Foul play and suspicious cause of death, they said. I honestly thought I was screwed over then – even prepared myself to be brought in."

Smith pushed himself from the sofa, removing his glasses fully and balancing them on top of his head. Sliding his hands in his pockets, he walked around the room, broad smile cracking his features. "The case was shelved though. I took that as a sign – I could get away with murder…"

Molly sucked in a breath, shoulders trembling. How could he speak so casually of her brother? How could he be so callous? "So you decided to play God then? Taking life into your own hands – dealing out the cards of death at your own discretion?"

"Oh, this kitten has claws," Smith laughed gleefully. He had actually forgotten all about the female that accompanied the other two, especially as she had failed to make an impression, vocally at least. He walked, an energetic hop present in his step, towards Molly and reached out, ruffling her hair and caressing her cheek.

His right arm was roughly grabbed and he felt himself being dragged to the side. "Don't be so pretentious," Sherlock scowled furiously, brows wrinkled in displeasure.

"All right – chill out!"

Sherlock grabbed the front of Smith's shirt and drew him close enough to hiss vehemently in his face. "I mean it – don't try my patience."

Smith merely nodded. Sherlock forced him away, watching with a satisfied glint in his eyes as he tripped and fell back onto the sofa.

"I believe it is now my turn to speak," he said shooting a quick look in John's direction. The other was seething, swallowing his anger and resentment as best he could, leaning with his shoulder pressed firmly against the door. He tore away, turning his full attention back to Smith. "Your plan was flawed because you still don't have the genuine pearls, despite having acquired all the bracelets, do you? If you had been as meticulous with your crime as you are with your appearance, you would have noticed that the bracelet you acquired from Caleb Hooper was different."

Smith sat forward, eyes wide, mouth open ajar. "What do you mean?"

Sherlock pulled the bracelet from his pocket, holding it. "Each contained ten black pearls. Each woven with black twine. Each attached with a golden clasp. How did you fail to notice that the bracelet you stole contained nine navy beads, was woven with matching twine and did not contain a golden clasp?"

Smith faltered, biting his lower lip.

"You, obviously, underestimated Caleb Hooper. He purchased a replacement bracelet, leaving the evidential receipt in a journal, and hid the original. He was prepared. He was also fully aware that he contained the original pearls, which he did, eventually, leave to his younger sister. He bested you, Mr Smith. This," he said, turning the bracelet over, "is the genuine pearl bracelet that originally belonged to Princess Diana."

"That's…"

"This now belongs to Molly Hooper," he said softly, taking Molly's hand and placing the bracelet in the palm.

Smith stood up. "Molly? Cale's little sister Molly?"

"The very same," Molly smirked, closing her fingers tightly around the bracelet. All this time … she had no idea…

Smith looked around anxiously, flexing his fingers. He breathed heavily. He could not lose – not now he was so close…

Furiously, he jumped from his place and snatched the bracelet from Molly's grip, pushing her to the ground, not looking back as she collided with the table edge, groaning in pain.

He ran out the door.

John dashed forward, only to be pushed back as Sherlock hurried past him. "Stay here with Molly, John. Under no circumstances are you to leave this room – do you understand?"

"Sherlock, I don't-"

"Just do it!" Sherlock shouted back, leaving the house to pursue Smith.

"God damn it!" John exclaimed, violently, clenching his right fist as he rushed forward and fell to his knees, gently taking Molly's head in his hands, lifting her head to meet his vision.

To be continued...

I didn't realise that it had been nearly two weeks since I uploaded. I've been busy - working all Easter Weekend on regular pay ... I envy all those who get paid extra for working bank holidays. Ah well.

Well, I decided to add a 'little' angry Sherlock into the mix because there so wasn't enough of that in the series. I pray that there is more in series 3 - maybe something could happen to Molly or John and Sherlock can then go all psycho on the current baddies ass XD Oh yeh.

Also, something bad has happened. John x Molly, which I am now dubbing Johnolly (coz Jolly sounds silly), has become my Sherlock OTP . I wouldn't mind but I only originally stuck them together to be act as a catalyst for Sherlock. Come back to me beloved Sherlolly pairing - don't become second best.

Anyway, I'm certain the next chapter won't take as long.

As always, thank you to me lovely reviews and those who fave/alert the story - love you :D