"I'm telling you that there is no other connection!" John snapped. Lack of sleep always made him incredibly irritable. "I've double and tripled checked everything."
Sherlock scowled as he stared at the board. "You mean to tell me nothing besides Afghanistan connects these people?" he pressed.
"Why is that so hard to accept?" John inquired.
Frowning, Sherlock ordered, "Run it by me again."
"Our first victim, Mrs Davenport, was the mother of Samuel Davenport, who served in Afghanistan for a 6 month period, from June until January, last year. Our second victim, Mr Daniel Smith, was the brother-in-law of James Campbell, who has been in Afghanistan since October of last year. Our third victim, Mr William Brown, was a close friend of Michael Alden and was going to be his best man at Adlen's wedding next month. Alden served in Afghanistan for six months, returning to England in December of last year. The fourth victim was a Mrs Kate Cole, an ex-girlfriend and still close friend of Mr Roger Williams, who served in Afghanistan all last year. And then our final victim was a Mr Steven Toulon, who had recently returned from his year-long tour in Afghanistan two months ago," John repeated. "But all of the soldiers are from different parts of the country. They served at different times and in different places. None of them served together; they probably didn't even know each other."
Sherlock stared at the board longer. "There has to be something missing," he murmured to himself. "A hidden piece of the puzzle that would solve everything."
"How is the code coming along?" John inquired.
Quickly, Sherlock corrected, "Cipher."
"How is the cipher coming along?" John asked, knowing Sherlock would not answer until he fixed his previous question.
Sherlock answered, "It's not. The words aren't scrambled. I thought perhaps it was another book code, so I'm having some military manuals sent here. You know, ones that nearly everyone in the army would have."
"Why didn't you ask me for them?" John inquired curiously.
Not looking over, Sherlock replied, "Because you don't have them anymore."
"How could you possibly know something like that?" John asked, slightly baffled by Sherlock's insight once again.
Sherlock said, "You keep all your metals hidden in a box underneath your bed. Your uniform is shoved into the back of your closet where you cannot see it when you get dressed in the morning. You never speak about your time in Afghanistan. All this tells me that you don't like to think about Afghanistan more than you have to. Those books would remind you of your army days and bring back those memories, but unlike your personalised uniform or hard-earned metals, you can sell those books pretty easily or donate them somewhere. You got rid of them almost as soon as you were discharged from the army, am I correct?"
"Yes," John conceded, looking down at the documents in front of him. He checked his watch to see it was time for him to leave, and he was internally grateful. He needed to get away from Sherlock and his all-seeing mind. Rising to his feet, John headed over to grab his jumper.
"Where are you going?" Sherlock inquired.
John answered, "To meet up with Lieutenant-Colonel Clayworth. I promised to drink a beer or two with him in the pub. He wants to catch up."
"Oh. So you're going on – what do you call it again? – a date or something like that?" Sherlock clarified.
A surge of panic rushed through John as he heard the implication before he realised that Sherlock probably did not know what he was suggesting. What bothered him more was why he was panicking on the inside. He did not want Sherlock to get the wrong idea, just as he had wanted the first time he explained what a date was, but this time was different. He did not want Sherlock to falsely believe he was interested in anyone else. "No, no," he laughed, managing to play it off. "We're just going to be chatting and having a few drinks together."
"But you don't like to talk about Afghanistan," Sherlock pointed out.
This statement was true, but it made John feel uncomfortable. He was putting on his jumper when he answered, "That's correct, but I doubt we'll have much more to talk about besides that."
Without another word, John headed down the stairs. He exited the building, glanced both ways, and crossed the street without looking back. Of course he did not want to talk about Afghanistan. Who would want to talk about all senselessness of it all – the death, the fighting, the killing? The sleepless nights trying to save a man bound to die. The screams of pain made by the walking dead. The anticipation for any moment to be the very last. When John had returned to London, he had been planning to leave that all behind him. Unfortunately, his dreams had kept him from doing so for a long time. Only in the last three months had they nearly ceased. John was sure that after tonight they would re-emerge to haunt him.
The pub was just a couple blocks from the apartment. By the time John got there, Clayworth had already found a table had ordered his first beer. John forced a smile to his face as he headed over. "Evening, Lieutenant-Colonel," he greeted.
"Oh, come, we're not at work right now. Call me Andrew," Clayworth responded.
John nodded in acknowledgement. "Very well," he answered before motioning towards a waitress. She quickly walked over with a pen and pad in her hands. "I'll have whatever he's having," John said. Nodding, she hurried off to get him a his drink.
"Are you sure you want to have this?" Clayworth pressed. "You can order something else if you want."
John waved his hand, as if trying to wave off Clayworth's concerns. "I've never been selective when it came to my beer. No such thing as a bad beer here, is there?" he bluffed.
"I suppose not," Clayworth concurred, smiling. "Not after you're away for so long, anyway."
Of course, John had been lying through his teeth. He was relieved that Clayworth seemed oblivious to the lie. It was a nice change from Sherlock, who would have called him out in a second for it. The truth was that John did not care much for alcohol. He never had since his sister became such a heavy drinker. Tea, on the other hand, as something he was very particular about.
"When did you get back?" Clayworth inquired.
Shifting a bit, John answered, "Eight months ago, I believe."
"How did you manage to make it out before your time was up?" Clayworth queried.
John barely kept himself from grimacing. Of course Clayworth would not know about his injury. "I was shot," he said matter-of-factly. "So they discharged me with honours."
"I'm sorry to hear that, mate," Clayworth responded. "You were the best doctor we had on the field."
Forcing a laugh, John shook his head. "I was the only doctor out on the field for your brigade. You lot were so infuriating most of the time that the other doctors almost wanted to see you die out of spite."
Clayworth let out a booming laugh. "We couldn't help it, you know. We were all restless and wanting to go home," he said, trying to defend himself and his brigade.
"Here you are, sir," the waitress said as she placed a glass full of beer on the table.
Nodding, John murmured, "Thank you." He took a sip out of courtesy before setting the glass back down. "Enjoying London so far?"
"Very much so," Clayworth said with a nod. "It's a lot cooler here, thought."
John laughed as he heard this. "I remember when I first returned. I wore a jumper when it got below 21 degrees. It took a while to get used to the weather again, but I somehow managed," he stated, glad they had moved onto another topic.
"Very true. But I guess some things follow you home, no?" Clayworth replied. "Such as death. I cannot believe that someone was murdered at work today. Even at home, we cannot escape it." He paused a moment before asking, "Why were you there anyway? Do you work directly with the government now?"
Shaking his head frantically, John explained, "Do you remember the man I introduced you to today? Sherlock Holmes?"
"I do," Clayworth responded.
John continued, "He and I work together. He's more or less a private detective, although he would tell you different. And he's my flatmate."
"Oh. Are you two…" Clayworth let his voice trail purposefully.
Eyes widening, John quickly said, "No, no! We're just flatmates and colleagues. Nothing else."
"Not that there is anything wrong with it," Clayworth commented before taking another drink of beer.
John nodded slightly. "I know, but that doesn't change anything," he replied, feeling the need to also take a sip of beer.
Just as he reached for his beer, he felt his pocket vibrate. He reached in and grabbed his mobile to find an SMS from Sherlock. Sighing, he opened the message and read, "I need a pen. –SH."
"Sorry," John muttered as he went to send a reply. Quickly, John texted back, "Sherlock, I'm at the pub, remember? –JW."
Just as he went to place his mobile back in his pocket, he felt it vibrate again. He looked down and opened the message only to read, "Still? Didn't you leave hours ago? –SH."
John clenched his jaw. Sherlock could remember several alphabets, the 483 different types of tobacco, how the different dialects sound, but could not for the life of him remember when John left! "No. I left about 10 minutes ago. –JW."
"Your sister?" Clayworth inquired. He must have noticed the expression of frustration on John's face.
Looking up, John subconsciously hit send as he answered, "Surprisingly enough, no. It's Sherlock. He forgot I was out and was asking me to do something."
His mobile vibrated again. Swiftly, John opened the SMS and read, "Well, when are you getting back then? I really do need that pen. –SH."
"Sherlock? Your flatmate? What does he want from you?" Clayworth asked. "I mean, if you need to go then go. We can meet up some other time."
"No, no, no. It's nothing important, really," John answered. He quickly typed, "I don't know. Get your own bloody pen! –JW." As soon as the SMS was sent, he dropped the phone into his jumper pocket so he could no longer hear or feel the vibration.
Clayworth inquired, "How did you meet Mr Holmes?"
"Through a mutual acquaintance," John answered. Not wanting for the entire evening to be about his last eight months with Sherlock, John inquired, "Are you still dating that girl? What was her name? Lily? Lucy?"
"Lacy, actually. Lacy Peters. And no. Apparently, distance does not make the heart grow fonder," Clayworth explained.
Feeling awkward, John shifted uncomfortably and took a sip of beer. When he set it back down, he apologised, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bring up a sensitive subject."
"Oh, this happened months ago, John. Don't worry too much about it," Clayworth responded.
Nodding, John somehow managed to come up with a somewhat normal conversation. They talked about London, the differences between London and Afghanistan. They then branched into a couple memories of their service together. Although they had only worked together for two months, there was plenty of memories to go around. Both managed to stay far away from any painful memories, though. Each had a silent understanding of what the other did and did not want to talk about. By the end of the night, Clayworth had drank six beers to John's two. Clayworth motioned for the waitress.
"Checks, please," he asked. Nodding, she headed to the register to ring them up. Clayworth turned back to John and said, "Well, it's been a fun night. I'm glad we had a chance to catch up."
John agreed, "One of the most fun nights I've had in a while."
"We should meet up again sometime," Clayworth suggested. "Without Lacy, I don't have much to do with my evenings besides watch telly. It would be nice to get out a bit more, you know? Before they ship me off somewhere else, I mean."
John smiled and answered, "I understand completely." Suddenly, the waitress appeared by their table. She handed Clayworth a check and turned to walk away. "Miss!" John called out after her, making her stop dead in her tracks. "We're separate, actually."
"Oh, your check has already been paid for, sir," she responded.
Confused, John inquired, "By whom, may I ask?"
She paused and opened up her small notebook. After flipping a couple of pages, she answered, "By a Mr Holmes, sir."
"Sherlock!" John said under his breath.
Raising his eyebrows, Clayworth noted, "That was kind of your flatmate."
"No, it wasn't. Everything Sherlock does is for himself. He probably paid my bill so I would come back to the flat faster," he murmured darkly, reaching into his jumper pocket. He opened up his mobile and wrote, "If you keep doing things like paying for my drinks when you're not even here, people are going to start talking. –JW."
As John snapped his phone shut, Clayworth handed the waitress some money. "Then I will hear from you again soon?" he inquired as the waitress walked away.
Throwing on his jumper, John answered, "Of course. I still have your card." He pulled the card out of his pocket to prove his point. Earlier that night, Clayworth had given it to him so they could keep in contact.
"I look forward to it," Clayworth said as they both headed out the door. "Evening, John."
John called back, "Evening, Andrew."
With that, John glanced both ways and dashed across the street. As soon as he crossed, he felt his pocket vibrate. He quickly grabbed his mobile and opened the SMS. "What are you talking about? I didn't pay for your drinks. –SH."
John blinked a few times after reading that sentence. When the waitress said, "Mr Holmes," he had just assumed that Sherlock was behind it. But if it was not Sherlock, it had to be-
The phone in his hands began to ring. Blocked Number. Answering it, John said, "Mycroft, if you wanted to thank me, you could have just sent flowers."
"I figured this would be a more practical. Besides, you could always do with a bit of money, no? You only ordered two drinks tonight," Mycroft replied.
John curtly stated, "I'm not much of a drinker."
"No, I don't suppose you would be. Your sister more than makes up for the two of you," Mycroft noted nonchalantly.
Ignoring the comment, John said, "I'm assuming you called me for a reason?"
"I need an update, but Sherlock is ignoring my messages. I was rather hoping you would be able to inform me how the investigation is coming along," Mycroft explained.
John responded, "Last time I checked, we haven't made too much progress. We're still trying to definitively connect the victims. All we have is Afghanistan, but nothing beyond that."
"As soon as you learn something new, contact me," Mycroft ordered before the call went dead.
Rolling his eyes, John shook his head and dropped his mobile back into his pocket. The Holmes brothers were going to eventually drive him insane. He did not know how or when, but he knew it would happen. Subconsciously, he turned and opened the door to 221 Baker Street. Heading up the stairs, he heard Sherlock pacing the floor. So Sherlock hadn't made any progress since he left. Opening the door, John took off his jumper and folded it over his arm.
"Finally!" Sherlock exclaimed. "I couldn't find a pen. And what was this about paid drinks?"
John walked over to the desk, opened a drawer, and tossed Sherlock a pen. "Your brother paid for my drinks tonight. When the waitress said 'Mr Holmes,' though, I thought she was referring to you," he explained.
"Probably wanted to know what we have so far. I take it he has called you," Sherlock started to say before pausing and looking over at John in confusion. "Why would I ever pay for your drinks?"
Floundering to find a proper answer, John retorted, "I don't know, Sherlock. Maybe I had hoped that for the first time in your life you were expressing kindness towards someone. You know, a human emotion? I should have figured that no matter if it was your brother or you that there would have been a way for it to benefit you. Good night, Sherlock, and good luck." He turned on his heels to head to bed.
"Wait!" Sherlock called out. John hesitated. "You aren't going to help me?"
Laughing under his breath, John replied, "No, Sherlock, I'm going to go to bed. Because unlike you, I actually need sleep. Besides, you were solving cases before I helped, so I'm sure you can do it now without me staying up all night. Good night, Sherlock!"
Only silence answered him as he stalked off to his room. John took his time getting ready for bed. After he pulled a couple of all-nighters, he learned to appreciate his pre-sleeping habits. Laying down, he closed his eyes and relaxed completely in his bed. He drifted off into the abyss of sleep.
"Move, move, move!" a soldier called out as an explosion made the earth beneath them tremble. Earth and rocks sprayed over the group as they hunkered down behind the only shelter around: a tank. Adrenaline rushed through John's veins as he realised they were under attack. A blood-curdling scream sounded out, and John turned around to see a soldier clutching his leg. Quickly, another soldier grabbed him and pulled him behind their cover. As the others fired at their invisible enemy, John headed over to the wounded soldier. He forcibly removed the soldier's hand to find the bullet had hit the femoral artery. Blood was gushing from the wound, covering John's hands in seconds. Quickly, he grabbed his knife and cut off the trouser leg just above the injury. He tied it tightly just above the wound, knowing that if they could not get out of their soon then the future was not looking too bright for the soldier. A groan sounded out next to him, barely audible over the rain of bullets. Turning, John watched as another soldier fell to the ground. Blood stained sand in a second. He did not need to go over there to know the soldier was dead. The firing was getting closer. If they did not get in the tank and out of there, they were going to be pinned down. Another explosion went off just meters away from them, and John's ears began ringing because of it. Then John felt something hit him. Turning, he looked down and horror iced his blood. Sitting right next to him was a grenade.
Gasping for breath, John jerked awake in his bed. He panicked for a moment, falling out of his bed as he tried to find his gun. Once his senses came to, he tried to calm down. He was drenched in cold sweat, his adrenaline was still racing through him, his breath was ragged and heavy, and he was trembling violently. Looking over at the clock, John concentrated long enough to see it was almost three in the morning. He quickly changed out of his clothes before heading downstairs. Hopefully, Sherlock had either figured out what happened or was off somewhere else investigating. John did not want Sherlock to see him in this state. Everything was silent, so John emerged into the living room. Much to his dismay, Sherlock was still awake. He was laying on the sofa, clearly trying to think through the case.
"John?" Sherlock inquired.
After a moment's hesitation, John responded, "Yes, Sherlock?"
"I want a cup of tea," Sherlock said. These childish demands from Sherlock were nothing new to John. Without saying anything, he headed into the kitchen and opened up a cabinet. Grabbing the first tea he saw, John was startled when he heard, "No, not that one. Mrs Hudson gave me some tea for Christmas. Make that instead."
Searching through the cabinet, John found an unfamiliar tea – called Kava-Kava tea – and figured that must have been from Mrs Hudson. Out of habit, John brewed the tea and poured two cups. As soon as he poured the second cup, he realised his mistake. He had not been planning to drink tea, but he refused to just waste a cup of tea because of his mistake. Heading into the living room with the tray, he set it on the table in front of Sherlock. Sherlock promptly sat up, picked up a cup, and headed across the room. Sitting on the sofa, John looked at the board to see if Sherlock had figured out anything new.
"John, send Mycroft an SMS for me," Sherlock ordered.
John picked the mobile phone up off the coffee table. "What do you want it to say?" he asked.
"Tell my elder brother that I know he is keeping something from me, and if he doesn't tell me what it is soon, I am going to stop investigating," Sherlock said.
John paraphrased, making sure that it sounded somewhat polite. After sending the text, John set the mobile back on the table and picked up his cup of tea once more. He took a sip and relaxed back into the sofa and closed his eyes. Suddenly, he heard the violin. Opening an eye, he watched for a moment as Sherlock played it. As always, the music sounded wonderful. The song being played was soft, slow, and somewhat sad. John lost himself in the warmth and scent of the tea and the different, enchanting notes. Before he knew it, his eyes were heavy. John set his teacup and saucer on the table and shifted on the couch to make himself more comfortable. Breathing slowed, John was about to fall asleep when there was a light rapping on the door. He was too tired to stir, and he knew Sherlock would handle it. Probably poorly, but he would handle it. Sherlock stopped playing the violin as the door creaked open.
"Mycroft," Sherlock said curtly… coldly. "To what do I owe the honour?" he inquired sarcastically. John heard footsteps head towards him. They stopped right next to John, who did not give a rat's ass that Mycroft was in their flat right then; all he wanted to do was sleep. "Do not touch him. He's resting," Sherlock snarled.
There was a clinking of glass right in front of him, and it took John a moment to realize it was the lid of the teapot being placed back on the pot. "Kava-Kava tea. Good for anxiety, mild panic attacks, stress, and inducing deep sleep. Should I be concerned for my little brother?" The last question was asked mockingly.
"The tea was for John," Sherlock stated, dismissing him. John felt surprised as he heard this… and humiliated. Sherlock must have known he had a nightmare. But for once, he was tactful about it; he made it so John would not notice that he knew.
Mycroft said, "Ah… His posttraumatic stress disorder returning?" Sherlock did not respond. John could hear the violin bow whistling through the air. "Was he screaming?" Mycroft pressed.
"Why did you come here, Mycroft?" Sherlock inquired.
Mycroft chuckled. "I was answering your summons, dear brother. Now answer my question."
"What does it matter if he was screaming or not?" Sherlock snapped back.
There was a moment of silence between the two before Mycroft said, "So he was."
"What does it matter?" Sherlock spat out each word vehemently.
Mycroft murmured, "Quiet, Sherlock. You wouldn't want to wake the poor chap up, now would you? After all, he just fell back asleep." John could feel a pair of eyes watching him and remained perfectly still, not wanting to give himself away. "Pity, really. They say a soldier never truly recovers from PTSD. Those memories are always waiting in the shadows to re-emerge at a moment's notice."
"Enough about John. What are you keeping from me?" Sherlock snapped.
John could hear Mycroft turn away from him, and he subconsciously relaxed. "I'm not keeping anything from you, little brother. That was one of our conditions, was it not?"
"The only connection between the soldiers is Afghanistan. All five were in Afghanistan at the same time from October to November. Two months. What happened during those two months in Afghanistan? There has to be something that connects these soldiers," Sherlock reasoned aloud.
Mycroft replied, "As I said before, I am not keeping anything from you. And I cannot exactly have my people rooting around in our country's affairs in Afghanistan. It might draw unwanted attention."
"You really don't know anything?" Sherlock clarified, sounding slightly mystified.
Quickly, Mycroft answered, "Despite what you believe, little brother, I do only play a minor role in the government. I do not have the highest clearance, and I must abide by certain rules. Therefore, I do not have the information you need in regards to this. If you wish to know more about duty in Afghanistan, perhaps you should ask your flatmate about it. He could help you more than I." A moment of silence passed between the two brothers. "If that is all, I will be leaving. Good luck, Sherlock."
Sherlock said nothing in return. Instead, he began playing the violin once more. The sad, soft music filled the air, eventually drowning out Mycroft's distancing footsteps. Relaxing, John lost himself in the music once more. Before he knew it, sleep embraced his tired mind and body.
