Note to readers: As pointed out to me by the lovely olivetrees, you should never pour chemicals down a sink in a lab! That just goes to show how much attention I paid in Chemistry!
Three days later or perhaps more – he always lost track of the time – the door slammed downstairs and Sherlock's mind blankly immediately. Footsteps sounded on the stairs and he concentrated on those. Lestrade quickly appeared around the door, as the detective had known he would. Without un-crouching, Sherlock picked up the ritual and tossed it towards the inspector.
"Directions." He said.
"What?"
"They're directions."
"Directions to what?"
"We'll have to find out."
Sherlock hopped up, grabbing his coat and leaving a rather confused Lestrade to follow him downstairs and out of the door.
Meet us at Sussex House for case conclusion.
SH
He sent the text as he got into a cab and received a reply only a minute later.
Sex has gone to your head. You're even more arrogant than normal.
The detective couldn't help but laugh. John had the crudest sense of humour. He and Lestrade met the army doctor at the end of Sussex House drive and together the three of them walked up towards the house.
"See that stump there." Sherlock pointed out.
"You asked about it when we were here before." John said. "It was struck by lightning and they had to cut it down – Musgrave said ten years ago."
"Precisely. It was an elm tree." Sherlock pulled out the ritual, "Where was the shadow? Under the elm. That elm, to be exact. I also asked for its height before it had been cut down. Sixty-four feet. Now if we use some basic trigonometry and allow for a typical tree growth over approximately four hundred years and the angle at which the sun would be at 'over the oak'…" The detective trailed off, tossing the paper into his roommate's hand as he led them from the gravel onto the grass.
"Where was the sun? Over the oak." John quoted.
Sherlock lined himself up with the stump of the elm and the oak behind it. He turned immediately and paced in the direction of Sussex House. John and Lestrade hurried after him as they realised what he was doing. The detective halted only inches away from the wall of the house and his shoe displaced a small stone ornament. He bent to the ground and lifted it.
"Excellent!" He cried, pointing to two rings of dust near where it had sat, "See that? Someone has recently knocked this same statue in the same way that I did. Why else would a statue this close to the wall be moved?"
"Great, Sherlock," Lestrade said, almost mockingly, "But now what?"
"I told you, didn't I – we follow the directions. North by ten and by ten, east by five and by five, south by two and by two, west by one and by one. John do you have a compass?"
"Um, yeah. I have one on my phone." The army doctor replied, tossing his mobile to Sherlock.
They followed the instructions set forwards by the Musgrave ritual. Sherlock was becoming more and more excited with every step they took and his face dropped when the instructions ended and they were left in the doorway of one of the store rooms.
"That can't be right." He muttered as John and Lestrade entered the room to look about, "There must be some kind of error."
"Sherlock." John said.
"No, no. These stones are cemented down."
"Sherlock. Here."
"Shut up, John. I'm thinking. Maybe the compass was wrong-"
"Sherlock, for Christ's sake! There's a loose one over here."
The detective bounded over and threw himself at once onto the floor. He tried desperately to pull it up but it was far too heavy.
"Well, don't just stand there. Help me lift this!" Together, the three of them heaved the huge stone up. Lestrade grabbed a nearby wedge and thrust it under. Immediately they were hit by the stench of death. Sherlock pointed to a body collapsed on top of a wooden chest, "Richard Brunton, Sir Reginald Musgrave's butler."
"Where do you think the girl is? Rachel Howells, the maid." Lestrade asked, an hour and a half later as they watched the man's body being lifted into an ambulance.
"Gone. Long gone." Sherlock answered.
"Was she an accomplice?"
"Of course she was. She was the one who helped Brunton lift the stone. The wedge, the one that you used, must have fallen – or perhaps she knocked it purposefully – and, being unable to lift it again herself, she fled. She left him to suffocate."
"What was in the box? You looked, didn't you?" John asked, "It must have been something valuable or he wouldn't have gone to so much trouble."
"The crown jewels." Sherlock replied with a small smile. John's jaw dropped.
"You're kidding?"
"King Charles I's crown jewels, actually."
"How did he know?"
"Oh, I assume he was an enthusiast. He suspected the Musgrave Ritual meant more than just a petty family tradition and he struck gold."
"And the girl?"
"We'll never know."
Sherlock sat pensive in his chair, his fingers pressed together and rested beneath his chin. He turned his thoughts to his encounter with Molly. His plan had been to kiss her and give her his promise of payment for her toils. Clearly, that had gone to pot.
Why?
She had reciprocated the kiss eagerly and with a lot more passion than he had expected from the mousey pathologist he was used to, and from then on his mind had been a little preoccupied with his situation. He could have stopped it, had he wanted to, but he hadn't. Sherlock's frown creased further.
Why?
An increased level of vasopressin along with the mandatory testosterone was the most likely explanation for that anomaly. He was led to believe that it was entirely normal. He shook his head. That was a poor explanation, but it was the only theory he had.
A sudden thought hit him. Did he even consider it an experiment anymore, was that the problem? Sentiment? Attachment? Actual love?
Sherlock Holmes was clueless.
John was watching him again. Why was he always watching? Sherlock sighed and spoke without turning from his laptop.
"Something's bothering you." John pretended to look surprised.
"What?"
"Spit it out." Sherlock snapped.
"You haven't called Molly yet, have you?"
"I'm busy." John snorted.
"Sherlock, you're on the internet. Don't you think that you could spend your time a little better?"
"And how do you suggest I do that?" Sherlock answered dispassionately.
"Call her. Ask her out. Anything." The army doctor suggested.
The detective only hummed his agreement. John shook his head in annoyance.
"I give up. Suit yourself." He muttered, stalking off to his room. Sherlock didn't feel guilty. He knew what he was doing now. Or at least he thought he did. He scrolled down the internet website he had up. Tickets – two. Evening matinee.
He knew what he was doing. He hoped.
Note to readers: Unfortunately, this will be it for a few days as I have literally no time to sleep this weekend and well as two essays to write. My friend Ellie and I are going up to London tomorrow to visit MOTHERFUCKING NORTH GOWER STREET, where they film "Sherlock"! I am vibrating with excitement, quite literally! Expect cheesey tourist photos.