13. Panic
'Why is it snowing? It's April.'
'It's not snowing, John.'
'Then why is everything white?'
'Your eyes are adjusting to the light. You'll see my face in a few seconds.'
'I don't want to.'
Sherlock smiled as he looked down on his friend. The doctor looked very fragile and seemed even shorter than usual. John's dark blue eyes had trouble focusing. They looked at Sherlock for a second, then looked away, staring at the ceiling.
'How are you feeling?'
'Alright. Why?'
'Don't you remember what happened?'
John Watson frowned, still not wide awake. It took a while before he muttered, 'Moran shot the elephant thief. Set the warehouse on fire. I fell down.'
John's eyes shot up to Sherlock's face again and the detective was convinced that he could see him this time. He nodded.
'What happened after that?' John asked, suddenly alarmed. 'Are you alright? I… I…'
'I'm fine, John. I'm fine.' Sherlock ran a hand through John's hair, just to calm him down. 'The warehouse is no more, but there was enough proof left to show the police that we were innocent. Lestrade left the hospital, so he's taking over again. He obviously believes that Moriarty is not dead, and he'll support us in whatever choices we make. All there's left to do is wait for the next case.'
John studied Sherlock's face. He looked tired, as if he hadn't slept in days. But that couldn't be right, because Sherlock never looked tired even if he didn't get sleep. There was a permanent frown on his face as he eyed John.
'There's a scratch on your cheek,' John pointed out. Sherlock chuckled and nodded, 'I know John, you should see my arm though. Much worse.'
'What happened?'
'Nothing major.'
There was a short silence before John asked; 'How did I get here?'
'Ambulance.'
'I'm in the hospital? Jesus.'
'Don't worry, you'll be out soon enough,' Sherlock said with an encouraging smile on his face. For a few seconds his frown disappeared but it didn't take long for it to return.
'Sherlock…' John said, announcing that he was about to ask another question.
'Hmm?'
'How did I get in that ambulance?'
'There were some people who lifted you up and…'
'Sherlock. You know what I mean. You… You saved me.'
'Of course.'
John was still not entirely conscious and fell asleep soon after he had woken up. Sherlock waited by his side. He remembered the night before. He had been so terrified. He had genuinely believed that he was going to lose his John.
He had saved him from the burning warehouse, and that had been far from easy but Sherlock was glad to see that it had been worth it. His arm stung a little and he took his bandages of. The scratch was deep and hurt but he didn't mind the pain. His John was alright, and that was all that mattered.
Sherlock stayed by John's bedside for the rest of the day, not quite holding his hand, but touching it, nevertheless. He continued to stare at him, and for the people that didn't even read the papers, it was obvious there was something more going on between them than just friendship.
At the end of the day, John and Sherlock were told John could leave the hospital, as long as he'd slow down for a few days. His burns were minor, but the doctors wanted to keep him in for at least a few hours because Sherlock had brought him in unconscious.
Sherlock had difficulty admitting it, but he had been scared to death. When he had looked around and found John on the oily floor, the flames threatening to catch up with him, an unknown strength had suddenly taken over. He had rushed back, but fell down, like John on the slippery floor, cutting his arm on a sharp end of a Chinese statue. He didn't feel anything, though, he just wanted to get to John as fast as possible. He had picked John up with his amazing newfound strength, and run out as fast as he could.
Outside, he had put John down on the cold, wet floor and checked his pulse and his breathing. Everything seemed all right, except for a few burns on his arms. Sherlock didn't care much for those, for he was already hugging John's unconscious body tightly against him, breathing heavily and trying to keep in the tears that started to form in the corners of his eyes.
John was alright.
Knowing he had to get to the hospital fast, he had called an ambulance and the police – again, letting them know a case had been solved and there were wounded and dead.
The ambulance wouldn't let him on the same ride as John, at first. But Sherlock was persistent and worried, and eventually they let him sit next to John's stretcher. Sherlock hadn't left John's side the entire night and the following day.
'It was stupid, Sherlock, going to that warehouse without guns.'
They were home, at last, just sitting on the sofa. Neither of them fancied going out much, and besides, John needed to rest.
Sherlock still wouldn't leave John alone for more than one minute, but John didn't mind. It gave him a pleased feeling, the fact that Sherlock cared about him so dearly.
'It was. I can't believe I just forgot about it.' Sherlock was holding John, his good arm around his shoulders. 'If we hadn't forgotten them, we would've gotten out of there without any injuries. I shouldn't have been so stupid. You could have died…' Sherlock turned his head and faced John, his eyes full of worry and guilt.
'Sherlock, it's not your fault. I was just as stupid. I didn't bring my gun,' John said, trying to make Sherlock feel better. He didn't want Sherlock to feel responsible for the fire, or his visit to the hospital. 'Sherlock, you saved me. I owe you my life – don't feel guilty. I love you, you know that?'
Sherlock, who had been staring at John's mouth, switched his gaze to John's eyes. His eyes seemed to glow a little more. 'I love you, John,' he said softly. John hadn't heard his hoarse voice in a long time – at least a week. He smiled in response, leaning in a bit closer.
Sherlock couldn't hide a big smile, which made John's heart leap. Seeing Sherlock smile like that always seemed special, for he never laughed like that to anybody else. Their faces were now only an inch apart, their eyes fixed on each other. John closed them after a while, covering Sherlock's bigger hands with his.
Sherlock felt a tingling sensation where John's hands touched his and reached for his face, holding it, with John's hands still on them, and pulled his face closer. Closing his own eyes as he leaned forward, John could feel his pulse go faster. It always pleased him to know that Sherlock Holmes felt exactly the same as the "average" human being when it came down to love.
After waiting expectantly for a few seconds, John felt the soft touch of Sherlock's beautifully shaped lips brush against his. He loved that moment, it was always as if Sherlock was determined to do something – but wasn't sure how to do it. John always gave in completely, which made Sherlock more relaxed, as well, and he pressed his lips to John's with more urgency, pulling his head closer with his hands, running his hands through his hair, their upper bodies pressed together as if they were shaped for each other.
John always loved how Sherlock's lips were slightly parted, and he could feel every breath the consulting detective took become more and more eager.
It was then that the tall man gave himself up to John completely, kissing him with all his attention, no longer aware of other things in the room – or the world, for that matter. The only one there was John, and John was the only thing that mattered. It mattered that he was alive and well and in his arms, and he didn't care if the whole world made fun of them for being together or accepted it.
He was with his John, and he was never going to let him go.
John woke up on the sofa, which disoriented him, but then he realised they never made it to Sherlock's bedroom the night before. They were too tired – or rather, John was – and Sherlock had decided they sleep on the sofa again.
He found that Sherlock's coat was wrapped around him, but the detective was not beside him, as he usually was in the mornings. Instead, he was pacing around the flat, clearly agitated.
'What's wrong?' John asked, immediately getting up but winced as he felt his burns sting when he threw off Sherlock's coat. He rolled up his sleeves and looked at them. They didn't seem too bad, he thought, he had seen worse – much worse.
'He's given us a new case. He's been in our flat. Last night.' Sherlock's voice had a paranoid edge and his eyes had a haunted look about them.
'What? How did he get in? My God, we were on the sofa – '
'He left a note.' Sherlock turned around and waved his hand towards the television. It was turned on, which surprised John – Sherlock never turned the news on in the morning. His eyes went wide open when he realised Moriarty had turned it on, a note sticking next to it.
This is a funny one
John frowned, closing his eyes in desperation. It wasn't over yet.
'What's the case?' he asked reluctantly.
'It's all over the news,' Sherlock replied, still pacing frantically. 'He was here… While we were sleeping. He was here…'
John decided Sherlock needed some time alone and directed his eyes to the screen. Apparently, there had been another robbery – but this time, the stolen object wasn't in their flat.
Thank God, John thought.
He watched a bit longer and discovered that a rich family, living in central London, had been robbed. A safe had been opened, but the news didn't say anything about what had been taken. It only said it was highly valuable.
'They'll be consulting us, soon,' Sherlock said, his hands in his hair. 'We'll have to figure this one out. He will force it on us, make sure we don't get out of it.'
'What's he going to do, blame us again?' John said angrily. Anyone who could make Sherlock so upset was an enemy to him.
'No, he couldn't. The object isn't in our flat and telling the police we have it would be foolish – he'd only give himself away. No, he'll make us do it some other way. We can't take the risk.'
John shook his head in disbelief. The man was absolutely mad.
Sherlock kept on pacing, muttering random words to himself, tapping an odd rhythm with his fingers. His eyes seemed panicky, as if he'd just witnessed a horrible murder. John was worried – Moriarty was getting into his head again.
I own secrecy…
'No…' Sherlock moaned, breathing heavily, clearly panicking. 'Don't… get out. Get out, STOP IT, NOW!'
'Jesus,' John muttered under his breath, jumping at the sound of Sherlock's loud bellow. This isn't right, John thought. He got up and walked to Sherlock, putting his hands on the side of the tall man's face, forcing him to look him in the eye.
'This is not happening again, Sherlock.'
Nah, you talk big…
Sherlock moaned again, closing his eyes. 'Go away…'
'Sherlock, listen to me.'
I did tell you. But did you listen…?
John could feel Sherlock's body tense every few seconds, as if he was remembering certain things he couldn't cope with. He had experienced enough of these things in Afghanistan and it frightened him that Sherlock, the man he loved so much, succumbed to those same things.
'Sherlock, open your eyes, and that's an order!' John shouted, panicking himself. He didn't show it, though, for he knew Sherlock needed a stronger person to calm down.
Sherlock, frightened at the sound, opened his eyes, but had trouble focusing. John, still holding Sherlock's head, shook it a little bit to wake him up. This wasn't looking good.
'It's going to be all right.'
Sherlock didn't say anything. His vision blurred, but continued to stare at the shorter man. Looking at him seemed to calm him down a bit.
John put his arms around Sherlock and waited until Sherlock's fast, heavy breaths came more slowly and even. The consulting detective made no move to answer the doctor's hug, afraid any movement would set off his mind in its earlier chaotic state again. John didn't mind. He would stand there all day if he had to.
Sherlock tried to concentrate on John's warm body pressed to his. He tried to block out the image of Moriarty, sticking his knife into an apple, lying on the rooftop with wide-open eyes, grinning, satisfied.
He tried to think about John, giggling nervously, kissing him, running to every wounded person because it was his job to care for them. John, who would shoot everyone who ever threatened him, John, who had been crying at his grave.
After a few seconds his whole mind was filled with every memory he had of John. The love he felt for him was stronger than the fear he had of Jim Moriarty.
No longer caring if his mind would be affected by the thought of Moriarty, he finally put his arms around John, who was still hugging him, his head resting on his chest. Sherlock lowered his head, resting his forehead on John's shoulder. He closed his eyes and sighed deeply, and his whole body shivered.
John gently rubbed his back, knowing it all had to go out. Sherlock kept too much to himself, he realised. There were small outbursts of anger – and love – but he rarely had those same outbursts of sadness or paranoia. John felt Sherlock's hands grab the back of his jumper as another wave of anxiety rolled over him. Every muscle in Sherlock's body tensed as more images of Moriarty shot through his mind. John was caught in Sherlock's tense embrace, but he didn't care. He meant to be a comfort to him, someone to lean on.
It took quite a while for Sherlock to stop shivering, but eventually, John felt Sherlock's muscles relax and his breathing slow down.
'Thank you, John,' Sherlock whispered, turning his head to the left and pressing his lips to the spot in John's neck just below his ear. 'Thank you…'
Now it was John's turn to shiver, something that was caused by Sherlock's warm breath in his neck. 'There's no need to thank me,' he muttered back, relieved he had been able to calm Sherlock down. It had been frightening, even for him, and he had been scared Sherlock wouldn't be all right; they had just come back from a hospital.
'He knows it, John. He knows he's getting a reaction from me.' Sherlock's voice was soft, but John could hear it was higher than usual.
'Sherlock, let me tell you something. I think you're more scared of the idea of Moriarty, of what he can do, than Moriarty in person. Every single time you met him, eye to eye, you stayed calm and your mind didn't betray you. Now, you've found out that he's broken into our flat and left another note and you freak out like that. He doesn't mean to kill you – at least not now. Not when there are two more cases to solve. Not while I'm here.'
Sherlock pulled back a little, to be able to look John in the eyes. He frowned, considering the doctor's words. 'That might be true… Why didn't I see it before?'
'Because you're an idiot.'
Sherlock chuckled. 'Thank you, John,' he repeated. Then, he bent down once more and gave John a small kiss on the mouth.
John, who was expecting it, responded immediately and hugged Sherlock a little tighter. Sherlock was so… he couldn't explain; warm? There were no words for it. He was just Sherlock.
Sherlock wouldn't admit it – he didn't need to – but he was so grateful to have John in his life. After thinking he'd lose John, he had realised what he had done to him, having him believe he was dead. For months. He had only been worried for a few minutes.
Sherlock removed his hands from John's back and put them on his upper arms, instead. John moved his hands to Sherlock's waist, a warm feeling spreading from where he touched him. Sherlock let out a big sigh, his mouth only a hair's breadth from John's. John felt the warm gush of air and pulled Sherlock closer, not feeling the sting of his burns anymore.
They stood there, in the middle of the room, for what seemed like the rest of the day, just holding each other and kissing, muttering each other's name and "I love you"s.
Sherlock kept thanking John, which made the shorter man smile and kiss him even harder.
'Sherlock, stop thanking me…' John muttered against Sherlock's mouth.
'Then you should stop talking.' Sherlock moved as close to John as possible, kissing John with such force the doctor had to step backwards to stop himself from falling over. Grinning, he used his strength to push Sherlock back a little, causing him to take a step back.
'Oh, is that what's going on?' Sherlock muttered, a teasing smile playing around his lips, which were still pressed to John's.
It became a little competition – both men used their strength to push the other back, pressing their bodies to the other man's. They were enjoying it, until -
'Sherlock, John? There's a new case, we need – oh.' Detective inspector Greg Lestrade stood in the doorway, gaping at the scene which played in front of him. Neither Sherlock nor John had heard him, and they were still playing their little game, even though everyone who'd watch wouldn't say it was a game.
Lestrade didn't really know what to do, so he just coughed, looking around the hallway nervously.
This time, Sherlock and John did hear something, and they both looked towards the doorway, their arms still around each other.
'Oh, Lestrade. How are you feeling?' Sherlock said, clearing his throat. 'I'm sorry I haven't been able to visit you at the hospital. There were more pressing matters on my mind.'
Lestrade was still uncomfortable, but looked at the duo anyway. 'I'm fine, I feel great. I should thank you for saving me, by the way.'
'Greg, you thanked us a million times already!' John said, his scarlet cheeks already turning pink again. He didn't mind, when he actually thought about it. He assumed it must be weird, walking into two of your friends… doing something.
'Yeah, well, without you two, I would probably not be here today.'
Sherlock smiled, taking one arm off John and gestured towards a seat. 'Do you want some tea?'
Lestrade held up a Starbucks coffee cup, and nodded towards the front door. 'There's a new case. They asked for you specifically.'
Sherlock looked at John briefly, and a word of understanding passed between them. 'We'll be there right away. I assume it's about the robbery?' Sherlock asked, more out of politeness.
Lestrade nodded. 'So you'll come?'
'We'll be right behind. I've got to check something, first.' Sherlock walked over to the television, apparently no longer focusing on Lestrade.
John raised his eyebrows and told Lestrade not to wait for them. He knew from experience Sherlock always wanted to prepare for cases – especially if Moriarty had anything to do with this.
After Lestrade left, John went to stand behind the tall consulting detective, and put his right hand on his back.
'Are you ready?' he asked, making sure Sherlock wouldn't break down in front of Lestrade and some other cops.
Sherlock nodded, stuffing the note that stuck to the television in his chest pocket. 'It's important we keep these,' he said, patting his chest.
John nodded. The other note had proved to be a clue, as well.
'Let's go,' Sherlock said, smiling at John, a harsh, determined look in his eyes. If he was going to meet Moriarty, he was going to meet him halfway.
14. The Robbed Vault
They took a cab to the house – or rather, mansion – of the rich family, which was in central London, so it wasn't a very long ride. Sherlock took the time they had to explain what hadn't been on the news John had seen and what they might expect.
'The family's been robbed – on the news, they didn't say anything about what had been stolen. We won't know until we get there, but it is of great value. It was kept in the safe, which is located in the centre of the house, probably in the basement. We're going to have to take a look around the safe, obviously, but I think it would be wise to look around the entire house, as well. We can't take any risks with Moriarty.'
John nodded, taking in all the information with ease. Listening to Sherlock's captivating voice always made it easier.
'It's going to be a hard one. Even harder than the last. We had one other clue – because we knew what he had been doing in the Tower of London. The only thing we know about this robbery is that it probably refers to the Bank of England, which means – '
'That the next one will refer to Pentonville Prison,' John finished. 'Because this one has a safe, or a vault, which has been busted.'
Sherlock nodded. 'I'm afraid we don't have any more leads. We'll just have to wait and see.'
'And observe,' John said, looking sideways at the consulting detective, whose face was partly hidden by his turned up collar. The tall, handsome man chuckled, looking out the window, although his mind was on John and how he had been able to calm him down that morning.
He didn't really know what had happened. It was as if Moriarty had invaded his mind and he could think of nothing else. But John had been there, John had comforted him and had the patience to wait until he had pulled himself together. No, John had pulled him together. Sherlock was sure he wouldn't have been able to if John hadn't been there.
He moved his hand to the right, brushing over the small space between them, until he felt the soft skin of John's hand touching his. A bit tentatively, he lifted his long fingers and put them over John's, still looking through the window, but feeling the blood rise to his face nevertheless.
John did look around, smiling at Sherlock's pink cheeks. He had no intention of moving his hand away – Sherlock's touch made him feel warm inside.
Eventually, they had to let go, for they had arrived at their next crime scene.
'Tell us what happened,' Sherlock asked the owner of the house, a man called Mr Wilson. He was a short, morbidly obese man, but clearly rich. His suit was tailored and his shoes handmade, probably on order, Sherlock thought. His nails were manicured, and the few remaining hairs on his round head looked properly cared for.
They stood in the study, a relatively large, richly decorated room. Sherlock was inspecting every corner of the room, from the mantelpiece to the windows to underneath the sofa. John loved how Sherlock couldn't sit still, even if it meant it wasn't decent.
'My wife and I had gone out, you see, my business company had organised a dinner – '
'Boring,' Sherlock muttered. 'Skip to when you came home and found your safe empty.'
'I… of course,' Mr Wilson stammered, looking from John to Sherlock, who was now studying an address book, which he had found in a drawer of a cabinet at the end of the room, opposite the windows. 'Well, we got home – '
'Obviously,' Sherlock muttered.
' – and the front door was wide open. The house seemed alright, but we didn't dare go in, so we called the police. When they couldn't find anything, my wife suggested asking for you.'
'That's all?' John asked. 'You know nothing more?'
Mr Wilson shook his head, obviously shocked by Sherlock's behaviour.
'Okay…' John sighed. 'Thank you for your help, I think we'll go from here. I assume we can just walk around freely and investigate what we can?'
The man nodded, shot one last look at Sherlock and walked through the door, probably going to talk to some other policemen.
'Okay, Sherlock. I know you've got something.' John turned to face the other man, who was still looking through the little book, turning the pages with quick motions. 'I think Mr Wilson might know a little bit more. A door, left wide open? Unlikely, very… unlikely,' Sherlock said, tapping with his index finger on a certain page, obviously pleased about something. 'A robber who is so skilled he could break into a highly protected vault without leaving any traces the police can find wouldn't leave the front door wide open, unless…'
'Unless?'
'Unless he didn't go through that door. It would be a way to confuse the police, reducing their ability to consider other ways for him to get in. Then how did he get in…?'
'Sherlock, what have you found in that address book?' John asked, trying to get a closer look.
'On the day they had that dinner party – last night – Mr Wilson had an appointment with someone called Sebastian Moran.'
Sherlock held up the address book, in which a small piece of paper was stuck, on it a phone number and the initials S.M.
'How do you know those initials mean Sebastian Moran?' John asked.
'Because it is written with the same ink as our first note from Moriarty. We know Moran had been with him when they broke in and demolished our flat. I was so desperate that I took a sample from that ink, and started to examine it.' Sherlock took a deep breath and started explaining. 'You know that ink, these days, consists of water, colorants and some other things that can change depending on the type of ink one uses. But this ink was far more special and rare – no one even makes it these days. It was made and used in India since around four centuries before Christ. It was called masi, and it consisted of burnt bones, tar, pitch – which is a substance made out of plants, for example – and some other components. I found all of these in Moriarty's note and this,' Sherlock shook the little book again, 'looks exactly the same. I have to take a sample to be sure, but I'm quite sure.'
John, who had been listening with great interest, suddenly realised Sherlock did know a lot of things, and respected him for it.
'Are they referring to the last robbery, The Indian Elephant, as a case already? Because of the Indian ink? Sebastian Moran has got something to do with all this. Could he be the thief? Or some of his security guards?'
'Then why would Mr Wilson have an appointment with him? I think he planned that dinner to cause a bit of distraction for his wife, and maybe his colleagues. He couldn't have met him in person, because we saw Moran in that warehouse – ah…' Sherlock closed his eyes, a big grin spreading across his face. 'The phone. Look, the phone number. I'm willing to bet that's the phone that was linked to the email and the password – Moriarty probably changed it to 'fairytale' – and Moran came to fetch it so he could talk to Mr Wilson. Now, we need to figure out why they had to talk.'
'Let's take a look at the safe, first. Did Mr Wilson say anything about what was stolen?'
'No, but I'm sure Mrs Wilson will.'
They left the study and strode through the darkly lit hallways, which were decorated with paintings, and photos.
'I wonder why nothing else was taken,' John mused, looking around at all the expensive stuff hanging around.
'We won't know that until we figure out what was taken.'
The vault was located in the basement, which was just as expensive-looking. There were a few police men, and a few from the forensics department. Sherlock suppressed a moan when he saw Anderson.
'You here?' he sneered, glaring at the duo.
'I could ask you the same thing,' Sherlock said with raised eyebrows.
'We are looking for fingerprints and traces of DNA,' Anderson said, 'something that's useful.'
Sherlock just rolled his eyes and started walking towards a middle-aged woman, who was dressed in the same kind of clothes as her husband – expensive, tailor-made. 'Mrs Wilson,' Sherlock said. 'We would like to ask you a few questions, if you don't mind.'
'No, not at all,' she said.
'What was in the vault, what's been stolen?' Sherlock asked, waving his hands towards the open safe.
'Well, there was some money in it, a few heirlooms, handed over generation by generation…' Mrs Wilson frowned, trying to remember everything that had been there. 'But the most important thing – something we were terrified we would lose – was…' She paused, hesitating whether she should tell the two strange men. Eventually she sighed and said in a quiet voice, as if she didn't want anyone to hear her, 'A dagger.'
Sherlock's facial expression changed very fast. He looked up at the woman with a certain smile on his face. 'Why did you keep a dagger in your vault?' John asked.
Before Mrs Wilson could answer him, Sherlock had already taken over. 'Let me guess, it has been in your wealthy, proud family for many generations? Obviously. All families of your sort have one of these… objects. Tell me, how much was it worth?'
'You should see my husband for that,' Mrs Wilson muttered a little startled by Sherlock's sudden enthusiasm, 'He takes care of our finances. He'll be able to tell you the exact price. All I know is that it's worth a lot of money. Not very surprising, of course.'
'Not surprising? How?' Sherlock asked curiously.
'It was very old.'
Sherlock rolled his eyes, 'An old object isn't necessarily valuable. No, there's more.'
Mrs Wilson nodded, clearly impressed by Sherlock's small deduction. 'Rubies,' she whispered, 'embedded in its hilt.'
'Rubies, you say? You've made a thief very happy last night, Mrs Wilson!' Sherlock said, with a devious grin on his face.
Mrs Wilson shrieked a little at Sherlock's last words, then she burst out in tears. She buried her face in her hands and, with shaking shoulders, listened to Sherlock's next question.
'Tell me, how did security fail you? I assume such valuable objects were protected carefully?'
The woman shook her head and, still sobbing, she muttered a few unintelligible words. Sherlock, however, didn't seem to care at all and was about to ask his question again, hoping that this time he would get an answer, but John interrupted him. 'Why don't we go and interview Mr Wilson again, and leave Mrs Wilson alone for a few moments?'
Sherlock raised an eyebrow, 'B-b-but,' he mumbled confused, 'I wasn't done yet.'
The woman let out another cry and looked up at the duo. Tears were streaming down her face.
'Sherlock...' John whispered, 'Trust me, let's go.'
Sherlock and John left Mrs Wilson to her sadness (and to Anderson and his team of forensics). They decided to investigate the mansion, while looking for Mr Wilson. Sherlock was captivated by its size and made sarcastic comments about everything he thought was 'only suitable for people with too much money'. John was fascinated by the fact that there were no people in the mansion whatsoever. He had expected to run into a maid, or even a butler for that matter, but it appeared as if he and Sherlock were the only ones there. He knew they weren't, for Mr Wilson had to be around somewhere, but even after walking around for nearly twenty minutes, they still hadn't found him.
'You don't think he left, do you?' John asked Sherlock when they found themselves in a third, and also empty, tea room. Sherlock simply shook his head and walked towards one of the windows. He looked out over the massive gardens. There were a few police men walking across the grass, among them was Lestrade, clearly bossing them around. Sherlock shut his eyes and frowned. He was going over everything he had heard this morning again. 'Mr Wilson is clearly lying about something. Moran is part of it, obviously. They met up, or perhaps they only talked over the phone. That last would've been easier.'
'Perhaps Moran was blackmailing him?' John suggested, 'Maybe he threatened Mr Wilson that he would kill him if he didn't open the vault for him.'
'That doesn't make sense. Why would Wilson have Moran's phone number in his address book as if he meant to call him?'
John shrugged, Sherlock was on fire and once again, right about everything he said. John still had no idea how the man did it. Everything the detective said always made perfect sense, but John himself couldn't have come up with any of it. The doctor walked up Sherlock and leaned against him, his head resting on his shoulder. He looked up at Sherlock's face and saw the detectives lips curl into a small, but perfect, smile. He put his arm around John, and the two of them stood still for a while, staring at the police who were still wandering around the Wilsons' gardens. Sherlock, in the meanwhile, continued his deduction. 'We really need to speak to either one of the Wilsons again. Mr Wilson is clearly hiding information from us, and Mrs Wilson probably knows something as well. I highly doubt that she doesn't know about him dealing with Moran. But then again, she also doesn't know about the fact that he's cheating on her.'
'He's cheating on her? Sherlock, how did you…'
'Address book,' Sherlock replied curtly. John sighed, waiting for Sherlock to add 'obviously' to that last answer. The detective didn't, instead he looked down and John and smiled at him. It was no more than a sweet grin, but it made John feel warm and complete.
'That poor woman,' John muttered to himself.
'Yes, very sad indeed, given that's she is still stuck in the basement with Anderson,' Sherlock agreed. John chuckled.
The two men were no longer in the mansion, but were walking over the green grass of the Wilsons gardens. Even though they were in central London, to John it seemed as if they were in a small town outside the big city. There were no other houses inside, and there were no sounds of traffic.
Lestrade walked up to the duo as soon as they caught his eye. 'Anything interesting?' he asked them. Sherlock shook his head, 'Hardly anything so far. I'll let you know when we identify the thief.'
'I'd rather have you tell me all you know now.'
Sherlock sighed and shot a quick look at John before he said, 'You're going to need pen and paper for this.'
Lestrade didn't seem pleased, but listened to Sherlock's advice and called for Donovan to get him a piece of paper. When she returned, looking angry and offended, Lestrade fished a pen out the pocket on his jacket. 'Ready,' he said, meaning that Sherlock could start talking. Sherlock had an excited look on his face and, as practically always, he spoke incredibly fast. He told Lestrade no more than he had told John earlier.
'So he's cheating on her and she doesn't know?' The detective inspector repeated, while attempting to scribble down Sherlock's exact words.
'And do you really think he and Moran…' But Greg Lestrade didn't get to finish his sentence. Mrs Wilson came rushing out of her house, her tailored jacket flapping behind her. 'Oh, good!' she called out, 'You are still here!'
The three men all nodded in confirmation and Lestrade immediately stepped in front of Sherlock and John as to say he was the boss. 'Can we help you with anything?'
Mrs Wilson quickly introduced herself to Lestrade and then turned to Sherlock, which resulted in a bothered Lestrade. John suspected that he was annoyed by Sherlock taking over. Lestrade knew he needed him, though, so he would never complain, but the detective inspector sometimes missed being the most important person in the room. Or garden, really.
'I was a little upset just now, you may have noticed,' Mrs Wilson started.
Of course he noticed, John thought, don't be ridiculous.
'And I wanted to apologise for my sudden breakdown.'
John shot Sherlock a warning look to prevent him from saying 'apologies accepted.' Sherlock sighed and muttered, 'Oh, it's fine,' exaggerating the hand movements that came with the insincere words. John couldn't help but chuckle a bit.
'I couldn't think straight, but I believe that I am feeling better now, and I wish to help you as much as I can.'
Sherlock raised an eyebrow, then nodded. 'Very well,' he said, 'How well did you secure your vault?'
Mrs Wilson brought a trembling hand to her face, and stroked her hair out of her face as she put her hand on her forehead. She was thinking very hard, a bit too hard for Sherlock's liking. It didn't come natural and seemed quite forced, as if she was acting the concept of 'thinking' out. 'I'm afraid I don't know how the system works. My husband…' But Sherlock broke her off. 'Yes, your husband. Any idea where he may be?'
'You mean you can't find him? Oh, he does that a lot.'
'Does what a lot?' John asked, before Sherlock could open his mouth. This surprised Sherlock a bit and he gaped at John. He figured that John had found his interrogation too rude and had taken over because he had wanted a proper conversation.
'He just takes off at times, without saying anything. Last night even! His business company had arranged a dinner for us, and during the main course, he got up and left the table. We assumed he had gone to the bathroom, you know, to,' she hesitated and turned slightly red and figured that there was no need to finish that sentence. 'But the thing was, he returned twenty-five minutes later!'
'Wonder what he's been doing in there,' Lestrade muttered, so that only John could hear him. John giggled and whispered in return, 'Cheating on her, probably.'
Lestrade laughed out loud at this, so loud that Mrs Wilson and Sherlock both shot him an annoyed look. He shrugged and quickly looked away.
'But like I said, he takes off a lot without mentioning where he's going to me.'
'Any idea why?'
Mrs Wilson shook her head. 'I used to think he was cheating on me, and I still believe that's what he did. That's why I asked for a divorce. But, anyway, I don't think he was well… not last night.'
'Why not last night?' Sherlock asked.
'Because he took his phone and wallet out of his coat before he left the table.'
Sherlock nodded and then quickly thanked Mrs Wilson for her patience, before pulling John along over the green lawn. John shouted a quick goodbye to Lestrade, before giving in to Sherlock's tugging. 'Where are we headed?' John asked. Sherlock was in a hurry and started running, still holding John's hand. They ran through the busy streets of London and John was sure they knocked a few people over. They stopped running after they had turned another corner. 'Why aren't there any cabs when you need them?' Sherlock panted, scanning the block for black taxis. John, trying to catch his breath, shrugged. 'Where… are we… going…?'
'Lab,' Sherlock sighed, and then, finally, he spotted a cab.
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