Chapter 8

John was startled from sleep when his phone went off with a text. Sleep was a foreign idea. The curtains on his windows were drawn, but John could still make out the light trying to break through to wake him. He'd planned to sleep all day until his night shift, but this text just ruined it. Night shift. John didn't know how he'd pulled the short straw on that one. Long shifts, too, roughly twelve straight hours each. He slept during the day and spent his few free days at the police station with Sherlock's box of evidence.

Five hours into a planned seven to nine hour sleep, John groaned as his dreamless sleep was shattered. He rolled over to grab his phone from his side table but then remembered he'd sent a message to Sherlock before falling asleep. He rolled back over to find his phone on the bed where he'd just smashed it with his chest. Phones were sturdy, though, and it would take more than someone lying on it for a second to kill it.

The text was from Sherlock, obviously. John never got messages from anyone else, except sometimes from Mycroft. The older Holmes seemed to prefer calling people, though, so texts were generally just from Sherlock.

'Do you know what this weekend brings? SH' it read.

John rubbed his eyes to wake them up and checked the date. He blinked blearily as his fingers tried to find buttons to form a reply.

'The 14th,' he sent back. Before he could properly close his eyes again, the phone was ringing.

'February 14th to be exact. SH,' Sherlock sent back. John took a deep breath. He'd known what month. He knew what day it was. He'd been trying not to think on it. Valentine's Day didn't mean much when you weren't actually dating anyone, and even less when that person you weren't dating wasn't anywhere near you.

'Happy Valentine's Day,' John sent back even though there were still two days until the lover's day was officially upon them. He hoped the messages would leave him be long enough to sleep some more, but he should have known better.

'I'm flattered. SH.'

John didn't reply. He read it and then rolled over to put his face well into the pillow, his phone still held in his hand. He gripped it tight and kept his eyes firmly shut. Even if he wanted to celebrate Valentine's Day with Sherlock, he couldn't. Sherlock was dead in the present and there was no way to send a gift back in time. Anyway, he shouldn't be thinking about Sherlock and Valentine's Day anyway. It wasn't as if they were dating. They'd known each other for just shy of three months and only over the phone... except for that one kissing incident which now seemed to stand out brightly in John's mind. He wished he could remember everything with more clarity, like the sound of Sherlock's voice saying his name or how long they were making out. He really wished he could remember the feel of Sherlock's hands on him, but it was all clouded by alcohol and time.

Interrupting his thoughts again, John's phone sounded loudly despite being half covered.

'Where The Bard leaves his car, the martyred saint waits to give you a gift. SH'

"What?" John asked aloud, wondering if it was just his tired brain that refused to let him understand what had just been sent to him.

'Or he should be waiting. SH,' Sherlock sent almost immediately after. 'But if he's not, then expect a message at least. SH'

John was still trying to figure out what to say when the third one came in. 'You can never tell where people will be in a year, after all. SH.'

'Sherlock, what on Earth are you talking about?' John sent back before another message could come through.

'Prove you're clever. Follow the clues. If you get it right by the 14th, you'll have earned the prize. SH'

'This is called baiting,' John said.

'And this is the part where you bite. SH'

John couldn't help the chuckle and blush combination that finally got him out of bed. He was getting presentable for going out, and not until he pulled on his shoes did he realize he had no idea where he was going. John shook his head, kicked off his shoes, and went to his computer to decipher the message.

Had he always been this accommodating to games and flirtation? Well he'd never had this much fun with such things before. Rubbing his eyes one last time, John cleared his throat and began to search. He hoped this game didn't end too soon. He liked it.


The Bard.

John had instantly noticed the capitalization in the middle of the riddle. A quick search on Google made this part obviously clear. The Bard - William Shakespeare. There were other things, game references and general dictionary definitions, but since a good deal of the results had come back with Shakespeare, John decided to go with that. Okay, what's next?

Where The Bard leaves his car. Well that was a bit odd. The first time John had tried to register to that part of the message, he'd read it as saying 'where The Bard parks his car', not 'leaves his car.' That got John thinking. Perhaps the riddle had something to do with a park.

The first step was to figure out where in London Shakespeare would matter. That was also easy enough to find. The Globe Theater was just over the river... sort of. John hadn't been the best English student, but he knew what the Globe Theater was.

"Where the Bard leaves his car...," John mumbled as he brought up information about parks near the Globe Theater. Looking up 'parks' got him hotels. It also got him some car parks, which John wrote down just in case, but he still liked his idea of a park better.

Trying to find entertainment near the theater just made John frustrated and he switched to Google Maps after about forty five fruitless minutes. There was a spot of green past the Millennium Bridge. Photos of the area proved that it was indeed a relaxing park area for people to enjoy. John wrote that down as well and decided to spend the remainder of his day before work trying to find the martyred saint.

Who's the martyred saint, you ask? John figured that one out first. It was Valentine's Day in two days. Saint Valentine, for who the holiday was named, was martyred for not renouncing his faith. Now John didn't honestly believe Sherlock had found some statue of St. Valentine to leave a gift at. As far as John was thinking, all that half of the message referred to was that there was a Valentine's Day gift at the end of this rainbow.

He couldn't help the pitter patter of his heart as the taxi drove him across town. He'd just been thinking Valentine's Day was useless with a person in the past, but it seemed Sherlock did not think it useless to celebrate the day with someone in the future. John felt honored, humbled; he felt flattered. Sherlock was honestly giving him a gift? For Valentine's Day?

"Thank you," John said and paid the cabbie. He hopped out and looked around him. He had to walk a little ways to get to the little Bankside Gallery park, which is what John had decided to call it since it was nestled between the two sections of the Bankside Gallery and he'd never been there and didn't know any other name for it. Couples were all over the place, probably celebrating Valentine's Day already because perhaps their schedules wouldn't match up on the right day. Graffiti decorated some of the surrounding buildings, large works of art that looked like people.

For a minute, John just stood on the edge of the grass, waiting for someone to show up with a gift. When nothing happened, he figured Sherlock must have hidden it somewhere in the area... but it was an open field with a few trees surrounded by a thin group of very skinny trees. Where was Sherlock supposed to hide it?

John walked to each tree in the open area, but there was no gift or message of any kind. He scanned the thin trees, not daring to think he could maneuver around them to check in between them all. Then he walked the edge of the park, looking for a hiding spot in one of the surrounding buildings. It would have to be a place where no one would disturb it for a year. John found nothing. He felt his chest deflate as he stood at the back of the small park and looked out toward the river. Sherlock wouldn't have buried it in the ground. For one, that was illegal. For two, he would have no way of guarantying John would be able to find it or that someone wouldn't be sitting on it.

It was a lost cause. John checked his watch. He had three hours until work. Letting out a heavy sigh, he went to hail a new taxi. He would try that car park tomorrow. If that didn't work out, it would be back to square one.

...So back to square one it was. Work had dragged on for ever, and John had been exhausted by the time it was over. However, he'd still gone straight from work to the student accommodation car park on Great Suffolk Street. His glee may have been dampened by his failure the day before, but John was certain this was the only place the gift could be besides the park. And yet after a half an hour of searching the area, John had found nothing. Square one.

His pocket vibrated. 'How far have you gotten with the riddle? SH'

John sighed. 'Nowhere. I thought I had it, but not anymore.'

His phone began to ring. John took a deep breath and put it to his ear.

"Sorry, Sherlock. I'm out of ideas," he said.

"Well don't empty the bin yet. What were you thinking?" Sherlock asked. He sounded a little groggy, as though he'd just woken up. John checked his watch. Ten a.m. Damn he wished he could sleep in that late.

"Well The Bard is obviously Shakespeare," John began.

"Obviously," Sherlock agreed. A high whistling sound alerted John to the creation of tea.

"And I thought the other half might reference a park, but I already went to the closest park to the Globe, and I didn't find anything. So now I'm at a car park, and I haven't found anything here either. So I must have read it wrong," John finished, putting his hand on his hip and breathing out fog.

"Nonsense. You may be average, John, but you're not as dim as people think," Sherlock said, and John didn't know if he should be insulted. There was pause on Sherlock's end. "Sorry. Seems to be someone at the door. Keep looking for your park and I'll call you later."

He didn't even wait for a conformation before he hung up. John shivered in the wintery air and didn't move for a few moments. Sherlock said he was right about the Globe and the park... but it was the wrong park?

John sighed and pulled the phone from his ear. He brought up his navigation app and typed in 'park.' As he typed, it gave him nearby areas he might mean. After just that word, John looked at his list of options. The very top one made him pause.

"Park street?" he asked aloud and clicked it. It was close, so he'd be fine walking. It was like just following one road that kept changing names. Before he even got to where his GPS was leading him, he found the directions saying 'turn onto park street'. John laughed ironically. "Stupid GPSs," he muttered.

So he was there, but now there was one question. What did Park Street have to do with Shakespeare? John slipped his phone into his pocket and began to walk down the street. He checked every sign, even the graffiti, for any reference to Shakespeare. He didn't think Sherlock would be mean enough to have his clues hint to Shakespeare written on the wall, but it was always a possibility.

John stopped walking. A road crossed Park Street here. On one side it said Emerson Street. On the other it said New Globe Walk. John checked a map in his head and looked down New Globe Walk. The Globe Theater was down that way. Park Street marked the beginning of the road that took you to the Globe. He turned his head to the left and let out a breathy laugh that brought up more fog. A parking lot, enclosed by a concrete wall, marked the corner of Emerson and Park.

"Where the Bard leaves his car," John chuckled and stepped forward to go around the corner toward the entrance of the parking area.

Again he stopped. On the corner was graffiti. At first John was going to ignore it. It was written smaller than most graffiti text he'd seen and there were hearts around it that were bleeding. What made him stop and read it was that the bottom was signed with SH, like a letter, and the graffiti was tagged with the name Raz. John knew too well who both signatures meant. SH was Sherlock Holmes. Raz was the poor kid in jail for the shooting. The graffiti, upon closer reading, was a hodgepodge of lines from Shakespeare with two words written in odd yellow to stand them apart from the quoted lines. How witty.

"I pray you, do not fall in love with me," it read, and John felt his chest contract.

"For I am falser than bows made in wine.

For Love is like a child,

That longs for everything it can come by.

Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind,

And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.

The stroke of death is as a lovers pinch, Which hurts and is desired.

Love goes by haps; some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps.

But the course of true love never did run smooth."

John pressed his lips together. It was a love poem that seemed discouraging at first but ended in hope? John had only known Sherlock for three months. Were all these lines of love truly meant for him?

A woman, who had been standing under the blue windows across the street, now grabbed John's upper arm. John turned to her and saw she was homeless by the state of her clothes. She had muddy blonde hair and sunken eyes. Yet she blew bubble gum as though she looked like everyone else. John opened his mouth to ask what she wanted, but then she was holding out a manila envelope addressed to J.H.W.

"Um, thank you," John said as he took the envelope. The woman blew a large bubble, looking him over, then she turned and walked away without a word. Wrinkling his nose, John turned the envelope over in his hands.

It didn't looked tampered with. In fact it looked sealed for a war. He pried open the lip and found a slightly smaller envelope inside. Sherlock must have really wanted to hide the contents from his messenger because this one was also closed with the force of gorilla glue. John grunted as he forced open this one too, not feeling guilty at all about the horrid appearance of the envelopes when he was done. If Sherlock had wanted them open cleanly, he should have sealed them easier.

Finally John was able to reach in and pull out the contents. When he saw them, he had to put a hand to his mouth to stop any unnecessary noises escaping. Inside the envelopes had been three large photographs of Sherlock. They weren't of crime scenes. They were just of Sherlock. He looked a bit off, trying to figure out what one was supposed to do in photographs, and he wasn't smiling in any of them. Still, they were of Sherlock. He wasn't wearing the big coat he'd worn in the crime scene photos. He was wearing a black suit jacket, black slacks, and a purple collared shirt. In the third photo, he'd lost his jacket somewhere. They were like photos someone might put in a portfolio only without the professional back drop.

"'He's a bit camera shy."

"I'll be wary of cameras as well."

"Aw, don't do that. It's the only photograph I have of you."

John rubbed at his eyes and took a sniffled breath. Sherlock had taken photos of himself just for John. It took several deep breaths to get control of his emotions then, but he managed it. He slipped the photos back into the envelopes and pulled out his phone. With a tap of the screen, he took a photo of the graffiti Sherlock had Raz put up.

"Oh, Happy Valentine's Day indeed," he said, shaking his head in the wonder of it. He opened a text message, not waiting for Sherlock to call back.

'Thank you so much,' he wrote. 'This was really great.'

And though Sherlock was supposed to be busy, he sent back a reply quickly. John hailed a taxi going toward the Globe before he answered it.

'The bait was tasty, then? SH' it asked.

John chuckled and pat the envelopes in the seat next to him. 'Very,' he sent back.

'Then I shall have to go fishing more often. SH'

And John really couldn't argue with that.


Preview, Chapter 9:

John took out the street photos and looked at them, as he'd done several times before. Somehow having photos of Sherlock at home made ignoring him in the photos that much easier. He let his eyes scan the photos and focus on just the crowd. There was another man. Each time he looked just a little different, but it was definitely the same guy at every scene.

"My God," Lestrade exclaimed. "He was always there. I never noticed."

"I killed her and he left me to the judges," Ian whispered.

"I just need to know who he is or how you contacted him," John said.

"But then why-?" John asked. The other man cut him off, dark and very serious.

"Sherlock Holmes," he said. "I've already killed him once, but because of you, he just won't die."

February was barely over when the joy of Sherlock's photos was ripped from him. Or, more precisely, burned from him. Nothing would be the same then.