The walk home.
And now, a few paragraphs composed while standing in a queue at Caribou.
"Merry Christmas, Mycroft."
The outside air forced the thin blue steam of cigarette smoke back in his face as he pushed open the door. He heard the soft tones of a mobile being dialled, and the click of the call answered on the first ring. Did they really think the death of a woman he barely knew would be enough?
Apparently.
He was not looking forward to rearranging everything they would rifle through to find what they were looking for and which would not be there.
He chose to walk home, pausing for a pack of cigarettes and a flimsy plastic lighter. He lit up a second cigarette and his pace slowed. A third brought him to a full stop. He stared at the neon lights of a shop on the other side of the street. Red. Red like her lipstick. A smudge of red against his white sheet. Red like the wrapping of the package, bound in black cord. Red red. Molly Hooper. Red, like blood. Blood, a glossy red pearl welling up as a needle, fine as a hair, was withdrawn from his arm.
"Stop," he said aloud.
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