On Friday morning, Sherlock woke up to finding a text from his brother:
Sherlock. Another text came in and I quote "18/7 855 Where it should've ended." Do you know what that means? Also why is he texting me? You're the one he wants to kill.
Sherlock got out of bed with phone in hand and walked to the living room, quickly replying, I don't know. Since you're my brother he probably thinks he's scaring you. That or he has the wrong number. I'll figure it what it means shortly. -SH. Sherlock flopped on his chair, studying the numbers on the text. "It looks like a time and date," he muttered to himself. "But what does-"
"Morning," a lazy voice greeted.
He raised his head to Molly, who had a tired smile on her face. "I didn't wake you did I?"
She drowsily shook her head with a tried smile.
The detective got up, tossed his phone on the table, walked up to her, placed his hands on her arms, and kissed her forehead. "Good morning, my dear."
Molly leaned into him, head on his chest, wrapping her arms around his body with her eyes closed with a satisfied smile on her face.
He smirked humorously as he gently placed his hands on her shoulders. "Molly."
"Hm?"
"Tonight is we find the mother. Hopefully."
"I know she muttered."
They both turned to the sleeping baby on the couch. It was much harder for them to take care of the infant than any of them thought, but once in a while Mary would come over with her own child to help out. It was going to odd without the child after five or so days, but they could have their lives back.
Molly looked up at him with love in her eyes. "I love you."
He looked at down at her with a loving smile. "I love you, too, Molly Hooper." He kissed her forehead and held the kiss., until his phone vibrated on the wooden table, making him go and grab it. It was another text from Mycroft asking if he solved it. He sent a quick, Not yet. -Sh.
"Who was it?"
"No one important," he simply answered. It wasn't a complete lie. He placed the phone back on the table and headed for the kitchen. "What some tea?"
"Yes, please."
Another text.
Sighing with annoyance, he marched over to the phone, picked it up, seeing that it was John who contacted him. Reading the quick text, he didn't need to reply, just ignoring it, then returned his way to the kitchen. Until a thought entered his mind, making hurry to his phone and send a quick text to his brother, then retuned to make tea.
"Are you alright?" Molly asked as she was sitting beside the baby.
He poked his head around the corner with a grin. "Fine." When he when back to the kitchen, he sighed to himself, not wanting to worry Molly. The numbers were certainly a time and date, but the message was something different. Where it should've ended. What does that mean? Where what should've ended? What was meant to end? As he beginning to boil the water in the kettle, his mind was trying to figure out of what it meant.
Ended. Ended.
What should have ended?
The date of the 18th in July meant nothing.
He stormed out of the kitchen to his chair. "Molly, take of the tea," he ordered. "I must think." He flopped on his favorite chair as his girlfriend did what she was told, and delved into his Mind Palace, going back to any July, 18th. Everything that came up with that date had nothing to do with anything that should have ended. Images of boring days and days of crime solving appeared before his eyes, but nothing that "should have ended". This month was June and the eighteenth of July was going to arrive in exactly nine days. It must be a random date. It had to be because it means nothing to him!
"The date is random," he whispered to himself, snapping his eyes open.
He got up, walked to his phone, and quickly texted his brother to inform him about the date and that it meant nothing.
Now on to part two.
Sitting back in his chair, he began to think of what "should have ended". Something that should have ended. It had to be something important. Something that may have ended, but didn't. What didn't end? Everything came to an end. There were unsolved cases, of course, but nothing that happened recently. Nothing that stood out. What should have ended? What? What? What?
"What did not end?" He suddenly cried out in frustration.
The baby began to cry.
Molly walked out of the kitchen to the crying child. "Sherlock," she hissed, taking the baby in her arms. She began to bounce him in her arms as the detective placed his face in his hands, trying to think.
At that moment, there was another text, making him growl with annoyance and retrieved his phone.
Sure enough in was Mycroft.
Change of plan: You are no longer the first one on his list. There has just been a murder with a note written in blood saying your name.
"Damn it!" He growled. He quickly texted his brother, but was interrupted by a phone call, making him answer. "What happened?" He coldly demanded as he lightly began to pace, not noticing Molly's concerned gaze as she took the crying baby to the bedroom.
"Whoever this is wants you dead."
"Obviously," he muttered. "Why did you tell me this and not Lestrade?"
"Because he isn't getting texts from a killer. Also your name does look eerie in blood."
He was about to head for his closet to get his clothes. "I'm on my-"
"Don't bother, Sherlock. You've got enough problems on your hands and I highly doubt that you want to worry Molly. You've got enough problems as it is."
Sherlock stopped in his tracks, becoming concern. "But they want to-"
"You just keep on this case with the child and leave the crimes scenes be. I'll let you know when anything comes up, little brother. Also the return number changes with every text."
"I can't just stand by and wait while people get killed," he hissed, starting to pace with frustration.
"I know. This will be very hard for you, won't it?" There was a hint of amusement in his voice. "Just stay on your case now and I'll keep in touch."
"Myc-"
"Good-bye."
The line went dead.
It was Friday night when John and Sherlock were getting ready to head out to the pub where the detective got the tip as Molly was going to stay home with the baby. Placing the photo of the child's mother in his coat pocket, the detective and his partner were hoping that she was going to be there at the given time. "Text me if anything comes up," Sherlock told his girlfriend as he was wrapping his usual dark-blue scarf around his neck. If all goes well, they'll be able to the bring the mother to the flat where her son will be waiting for her.
"I will," the pathologist replied with a curt nod. She walked up to him and kissed him. "Be safe."
He looked at her with confidence. "I always am."
Before Sherlock and John were about to walk out, she signaled to John to come over to her.
"I'll meet you downstairs," John told his friend, who carried on without him. He looked over at the girlfriend with concern as there was concern in her own eyes.
"I want you to keep an eye on Sherlock," she told him in a hushed voice. "His been getting text and calls from his brother and it seems like something bad is happening, but Sherlock won't tell me."
John knew that sounded strange. He gave her a serious nod. "I will," he promised. Then walked out the door with concern in his mind for his best friend.