A Message in Las
Chapter 4
Sherlock heard the door click open downstairs and he snapped out of his thoughts. He stretched his neck and shoulders before sitting up, listening to the rhythmic tump tump of John's shoed feet ascending the stairs to the living quarters of 221B Baker Street. He vaguely remembered John saying he was going out… or something like that. It didn't matter. John entered the living room, straightening the ends of his knitted jumper over his jeans. He smiled at Sherlock as the sleuth quickly scanned him. Japanese, no, Korean food. Looks more drained than before - Harry. He paid for dinner again and got the bus halfway back before walking the rest of the way.
"You okay?" John asked. Sherlock nodded, watching him move into the kitchen. Speaking at the moment was unnecessary. "Harry is fine; thanks for asking by the way." John said from the kitchen, turning on the tap and filling a plastic washing up bowl with hot water. "Have you eaten or drunk anything since I left?"
"No, Harry isn't fine, because you walked home. Food is not necessary at the moment." Sherlock said, as he stood and hopped on top of the sofa set against the wall, in front of the map. "Set of hands found here," he prodded a finger firmly onto the paper, "are the property of a shop owner in Harlow, name of Basir Sahaa." He pointed to another position on the map. "Mycroft's associate Richard Nance's hands were found here, and these ones," He jabbed his index finger, "are the ones we found today, property of a Miss Leah Reed."
John didn't even bother asking how Sherlock knew he had walked home, or how that coincided with the wellbeing of Harry (who indeed, wasn't fine, but he knew Sherlock didn't actually care), instead choosing to quietly continue washing up the mugs and cutlery while Sherlock deduced out loud. It was, as John had quite aptly coined, time to be a skull. The time to tell Sherlock the interesting information he learned from Harry would come at a later point. Sherlock continued his liturgy regardless.
"I still can't seem to find a tangible correlation between the people who've been found. They are completely unrelated, they have never met, they don't hail from the same area. They all have different religions, ethnicities, and professions. I don't understand…" he jumped down from the sofa and began to almost feverishly pace the room, hands running through his hair, his silk dressing gown swishing behind him each time he turned in the small space. "I don't understand! I must be missing something. Why would a person, assuming it is one person and not a group which is only slightly statistically less likely, go to all the trouble of hacking off people's hands, tying them to only one species of tree in places specifically picked to be in security camera blind spots, and then hide the leftovers and modify the crime scene so they are completely untraceable if the victims weren't linked somehow?"
John took the advantage of a pause for breath in Sherlock's monologue to interject. "How do you know these people are dead? You're describing them as leftovers!."
Sherlock waved away John's comment as he turned to look at John at the sink. "I had Molly look at the nature of the severs at the morgue. They were cut slowly with something blunt as I suspected, suggesting that the victim was either killed beforehand, or died of huge blood loss afterwards." He looked thoughtful for a moment. "I suppose one could cauterise the wound, but even so it is unlikely. The people in this case are just collateral, after all. It would just be extra hassle to not dispatch them." Sherlock returned to his quick pacing and John shuddered at the coldness in his tone. John couldn't help but remember another case involving live bait, and Sherlock's reaction then, too. "Not much cop, this caring lark."
'Still,' John thought, 'that's just how he is. He cares when it matters.' John shook his head and returned to the sink, where he emptied the washing bowl and grabbed a stripy tea towel with which he proceeded to dry the tableware.
Sherlock flopped heavily into his armchair and spread himself over it like a tall, bony blanket. John soon joined him, two cups of tea with a custard cream each in tow. He nudged Sherlock with his foot after he had settled. Sherlock snapped his head up, spotted the tea being proffered to him and took it, before eyeing up the biscuit and dunking it into the hot drink. As he chewed, he watched John, who had switched the television onto what sounded like a WWII documentary. Sherlock took another sip of the tea and finished off his biscuit, still watching John. John soon cracked under the intense gaze Sherlock was giving him.
"What, Sherlock?"
"Harry told you something at dinner this evening." John raised an inquisitive eyebrow at the dark haired man, before nodding and turning the television down a few notches. He replaced the remote on his armrest next to his saucer and untouched biscuit, and noticing Sherlock give it a sidelong glance, smirked and handed the item to the man, who dunked it silently in his tea.
Sherlock piped up again as he chewed. "Well, seeing as you walked halfway home instead of staying on the bus it must be bothering you."
"How- you know, I don't want to know."
Sherlock smirked. John sighed. "It's not just that. Harry's on the drink again…" Sherlock stayed silent, watching the man sitting opposite him. "I worry about her." He finally finished.
"You worry about everyone, John."
"Only because I have to! If I didn't worry about you, the next case wouldn't involve you, it would be you."
Sherlock looked affronted. "I can actually survive alone, you know."
"I think mine and your versions of 'survival' are very different." John replied swiftly. Sherlock opened, and then closed, his mouth. John let his victory hang for a moment before he broke the silence.
"Harry did also tell me something though." John said. "She knew the girl we found. That Leah Reed. She was Harry's Ex girlfriend. They broke up when Harry found she had a long term boyfriend and was expecting twins. She was distraught. I spent the evening comforting her." John's voice faltered. "This is the worst thing that could happen for her, emotionally."
Sherlock nodded, his chin now resting atop his interlaced fingers. He noted the frown lines marring John's face. Despite not quite understanding why they were there, he let the silence mull before continuing. "This is the closest link we've uncovered yet. That's two people who are associated with our families - your sister, and my brother. But still, why? There must be something more, something I'm missing."
John finished off his tea and put the empty mug back on his saucer. He sank into his armchair with a strained sigh. "Well, as much as I don't want to admit it, it sounds like whoever this is is targeting us, and closing in quickly."
"Well, that was obvious from the start. Why else would someone cut '221B' into the ones found outside of our house?" Sherlock shrugged frustratedly. "There isn't enough to trace a culprit yet, only work out their motives. We are going to have to wait for another set of hands tomorrow."
John grimaced and hummed in agreement before looking at his watch. "Blimey, it's one in the morning. I'm going to bed. Goodnight, Sherlock."
Sherlock simply grunted in reply.
The next morning John was pleased to find Sherlock absent from the lounge when he entered. 'Good, he slept,' he thought as he turned towards the deserted kitchen, slippered feet making a smooth shuff shuff noise over the polished floorboards. Last night John had resolved to slip him a sleeping tablet if he still hadn't at least taken a nap.
He boiled the kettle, the roar of the induction heater filling the space as he opened the bread bin and took out a slice of thick brown bread. He popped it into the toaster and pressed down the foot just as the door of Sherlock's bedroom opened and the tall, skinny man emerged, hair ruffled from sleep.
"Morning," John said. Sherlock smiled briefly at him before grabbing two mugs from the cupboard and dropping a teabag into one, and some instant coffee into the other. He filled them and slid the tea towards John, taking the coffee for himself. John spread his toast with marmalade and then joined Sherlock in the living room. He eyed his dark haired companion.
"What?"
"Lestrade didn't text all night, and hasn't this morning either. No hands - that's odd." Sherlock was studying his phone screen, brow furrowed.
John frowned, before turning on the television. The BBC 6 O'Clock News was in full swing, but the main story was about the Prime Minister, not another finding. "Nothing on the news," he said.
Sherlock slung his phone aside, frustrated. "Damn!"
"Maybe the attacker likes a lie-in on Fridays?" John suggested, and Sherlock gave him a withering look.
"This is highly illogical. It breaks the pattern."
"Maybe there wasn't supposed to be a pattern? Maybe they really have been random attacks?"
"No, there's definitely something deeper than just random attacks. They're working too hard for that. No, this is a message. It's a game."
John left his friend thinking and went to get dressed, emerging from his bedroom a few minutes later to find Sherlock had moved to the sofa and was now lying on his back, staring at the ceiling. John leaned over the man until he was in Sherlock's view. "We accept clients today, don't forget. Hadn't you better go and get dressed?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes as he sighed, before swinging himself up and away, narrowly missing head butting John in the process. A few minutes later he had repositioned himself back on the sofa, now fully dressed. John left him to it, and busied himself in attempting to tidy a little before the first client showed up. Soon enough, a harrowed businesswoman rang the doorbell, and the men assumed their positions in the living room in order to listen to her story and consider accepting the case.
Hours later, after a slow but steady stream of clients were interviewed, declared boring or solved on the spot by Sherlock before being politely and apologetically ushered out by John, the men were finally free again. No texts from Lestrade had been received by either of the men, and Sherlock had become increasingly agitated throughout the day, at one point even declaring they were to go out and look for the hands themselves, which was quickly placated by John on the account that London is 600 square miles wide.
By 5pm, Sherlock was pacing furiously again, and John was afraid that he would burn a hole in the floor and end up in Mrs Hudson's flat below.
"Sherlock, stop, please. Just watching you is frustrating me."
Sherlock looked incredulously at John, before redoubling his pace so that his body was almost a blur.
"Oh, come on, you're just doing this to spite me now." John said exasperatedly. "Look, I'm going to meet Arthur again tonight. Do you want to come with me?"
Sherlock threw himself into his chair so violently it moved backwards a few inches. "You don't really want me there," he retorted quickly.
"I do if it'll burn off some of that energy, Sherlock. Anyway, it might be good to get you meeting more people who aren't violent criminals."
Sherlock smirked, but shook his head. "No, you go. I don't do normal people."
John stood to leave. "You know, you might actually find some of these 'normal' people interesting if you actually took the time to get to know them before insulting their intellect, education and upbringing in the same sentence."
Sherlock simply blinked at him. "But that's boring."
John shook his head. "I'll be going now. I'm tired so I won't be back incredibly late; I'll bring back some Chinese for dinner, okay?"
Sherlock nodded, and John grabbed his coat from the stand, before leaving the flat. John didn't tell Sherlock the real reason he wasn't staying out late - he was worried that this evening might become a danger night.
Sherlock soon became bored in the empty flat and resumed his pacing, before grabbing his violin, attempting to play, and then discarding the precious instrument almost as soon as he picked it up. He wandered into the kitchen, stared at the experiment spread across the table, opened and closed the fridge, boiled the kettle, grabbed his skull, and then resumed his original position in his armchair.
He stared at John's empty chair with its Union Jack cushion, its tea stain on the right armrest, and its slightly fluffy edge where people brushed past it regularly. It had moved to the left slightly at some point, and had snagged the rug underneath it. A pile of the past few day's newspapers sat on the side table. As Sherlock absently read the topmost headline upside-down, his phone buzzed. He jumped up and grabbed it, immediately opening it as he noticed it was from Lestrade:
Just found another pair of hands in Grace's Rd, Camberwell.
Come ASAP. We already know the identity.
GL
Without stopping to think, Sherlock jumped up, grabbed his overclothes from the coat rack and scurried down the stairs, wrapping the long blue scarf around his neck as he stepped into the dark iciness of a winter night in London. He hailed a taxi, directed the driver, and hopped in.
John slid into the cubicle at the bustling East End bar with his brimming pint. One of his oldest friends was smiling at him across the table. "I still can't quite believe you're here, Art," John said.
"It is a little strange still, I'll agree with you there."
"I mean, we've now seen each other more times this week than we have in the last 5 years. Is this really only the second time I've seen you since we served together?"
Arthur nodded and took a drink from his pint. He was a stocky man, with short, greying hair and silver stubble. He looked much older than his years. He held himself tightly, his back straight, his long time service in the army having conditioned him to do so at all times. "Do you remember the day you were shot?"
John's face twisted. "How can I forget that? That's gonna stay with me for all my life."
Arthur smiled sympathetically and took another drink. "I remember, too. It still feels like it was yesterday or something. I was transferred after that, and you were discharged. Still, we survived in one piece."
John nodded and lifted his pint. "To being bloody stubborn in the face of danger." Their glasses clinked together in the noisy pub.
Sherlock paid the driver and hopped out of the cab just next to the scene of the crime. He grinned impishly at Donovan, before ducking under the police tape and striding towards Lestrade who was overseeing the investigation. Lestrade scanned him as he walked over. "No John?" He asked.
Sherlock shook his head. "He's meeting an old friend. He left before you texted." Lestrade nodded and the two walked towards the crime scene. A tree of heaven at the end of a line of terraced houses bore the latest set of hands. They were fresh; semi congealed blood ran down the cold palms and dripped onto the curb below. Sherlock produced his little magnifying glass and began to inspect them.
Lestrade piped up. "We've already done a fingerprint analysis on these ones, and they came up instantly. They're from a man called Jake Dollison. He served in Afghanistan and recently came back from his last deployment in Helmand Provence. He was awarded the Military Cross for gallantry a few weeks ago." Lestrade shook his head. "What kind of twisted bastard kills a man who fought for Queen and Country?"
Sherlock looked at Lestrade. "All kinds of people." He returned to the hands. "This man was a chain smoker, single, suffered from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. He-" Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks. Lestrade marked his expression.
"You okay, Sherlock?" Sherlock didn't reply, instead pocketing his magnifying glass and pulling out his phone. He navigated quickly and pressed the phone to his ear, his face drawn. "Sherlock, what's going on?" Lestrade asked, worried now.
"John isn't answering."
"You said he was at a pub with his old mate, didn't you?"
Sherlock turned to Lestrade. "I know the link. It's John."
Lestrade looked incredulous. "You think John's doing this?"
"No, you imbecile! John is the link! John is what connects these!" He gestured wildly at the dripping appendages in front of them. "I think John is in danger, right now."
Lestrade immediately jumped into action, bundling into his police car with Sherlock and speeding, sirens ablaze, through the rush hour traffic and congestion to Baker Street. Each time Sherlock called John, a little spark of hope would erupt inside of him, and each time he failed to answer, it would die like a candle being extinguished. As soon as they arrived Sherlock practically ran up the steps to 221B and quickly scanned the room. There was no immediate change present, so he stopped and listened, holding out a hand to silence Lestrade as he came up the stairs into the flat.
The place was completely empty, and silent as a grave.