Now that John has fallen back asleep, Sherlock can admit that he was right. He's clean and dry and it feels lovely. His head still hurts but it's already feeling much better and after letting John fuss over it for an eternity, he is certain it really is nothing. The fresh bandage feels reassuring; he always likes the way John patches him up.

Sherlock leans back against the headboard and turns his attention back to the laptop balanced on his knees. Once he knew what he was looking for, it wasn't difficult to determine when Alex was in the VSO and narrow down a list of wanted AWOL's who deserted within a one-year window. From there, he made a few simple deductions and scanned through some photographs and there he was. Aaron Delgado of Columbus, Ohio, last seen at Forward Operating Base in Khost province; presumed missing following an insurgent attack and later determined AWOL.

The mobile pings a text alert; he extracts it from its absurd Humvee of a waterproof case and reads the message from Dimmock.

We've had men at every station on the way and he's stayed on the train. Ready for him at Kings. Wish you were here!

Sherlock glares at the phone and sets it on the bedside table, then turns his glare on John, snoring lightly next to him, curled up on his side and facing the wall. He pokes him in the back, twice. John grunts and flinches but doesn't wake up.

Sherlock sighs and looks again at the photo, sitting on the bedside table next to him. Something is not right. For the millionth time, he wishes he had the hands here. It's not fair, to tease him with this picture and give him nothing else. Something about the man's thumb bothers him, and he needs to touch it, feel the line of it, turn it around in three dimensions.

He lets out a noise of frustration, somewhere between a growl and a curse, and puts the picture back on the table.

Alex Cushing's Facebook page again. The modern age really is wonderful, with so many options for narcissistic twits to throw pictures of themselves into the winds like so much confetti. It's a good time to be a consulting detective. Sherlock looks for a picture of Daniel and Jason, and then it finally happens. The click. His eyes widen and he gasps through parted lips, oh.

John wakes up with a start. Sherlock has made seventeen louder noises than that gasp in the last half hour, but none of them mattered; this is the one that wakes him up. He rolls over and sits up, eyes fixed on Sherlock to determine whether he should jump out of bed and throw on some clothes, reach for his gun, or lie down and go back to sleep.

"What, what is it?"

"I've solved it."

"Yeah, you did before, didn't you?"

"No. Look." Sherlock swivels the laptop so John can see it. "Look at Jason's right hand." He clicks through several pictures, showing Jason's hand in a variety of positions: waving, holding a pint, holding a spatula, grasping Alex's shoulder, resting on her waist. "Now Daniel's." Daniel's hand in a playful fist, holding a rugby ball, holding a water bottle, gripping the strap of his backpack, resting on a table. "His right thumb. It's got a little crook in it, you see? You wouldn't notice it unless you compare all the pictures and see it never straightens out all the way in any position."

"You're right, now that you point it out. I've seen loads of those. It's a common rugby injury."

"Ruby's not a very popular pastime in Columbus, Ohio."

"I don't follow you."

Sherlock places the photo on top of the laptop.

"Oh. Sherlock, how long till he reaches Kings Cross?"

"Twelve minutes."

Aaron Delgado, pseudonym Jason Franco, is the murderer. Beecher is the vic. Pic to come.
SH

He pulls Alex's Facebook page up on his phone, quickly finds a close-up of Jason, copies the link into a text, and hits send.

What? You sure?

Sherlock blinks at the phone and decides not to dignify Dimmock's question with a response. He drops it ceremoniously on the floor, closes his laptop and sets it on the bedside table, and leans back on the headboard with a sigh. It's done. Everything fits. In this moment, everything is smooth and calm and humming in harmony.

"Do they have him?"

"Not yet." He's set it all up for Dimmock and at this point, if Delgado gets away, he deserves to.

"Dimmock." John shakes his head. "When we get back you've got to see how you can help Lestrade." John yawns and rubs his eyes. "Wonder if he'll confess… He left Aaron Delgado behind to become Jason Franco, and then he killed Alex and Daniel and framed Daniel for Jason Franco's murder to become… I guess we'll never know who he would've become."

"Very nice, John. Very profound."

"You going to sleep now?"

"No. I'd like to get back to London as soon as possible. Early train."

"Agreed. But I'd like to sleep a bit more till then. Turn off the light, will you?"

John lies down and curls up in his former position. Sherlock turns off the light, then stretches out on his side, facing the back of John's neck. It's silent. Non-responsive. The moment of perfect calm and harmony has passed and now he feels itchy and unfinished.

"Sherlock, what's wrong? Are you pouting?"

Sherlock huffs indignantly. "I'm not pouting. Why would I be pouting?"

"Because I haven't told you you're brilliant. Of course you are. You've wrapped up this case beautifully. The bit with the thumb was incredible. And you have to tell me later how you found him in Sheepscar. You're a marvel, Sherlock. Now go to sleep."

Sherlock smiles in spite of himself, happy that John's still facing the other way. The tinge of sarcasm in John's voice is exactly the right amount. He wriggles down into the blankets and resumes his examination of the back of John's neck. It's a familiar view, and many times it's been the last thing he saw before he went to sleep. He can't sleep yet. But now that his eyes have adjusted to the dark, he can consider the layers of sunburn on that neck, time John's breath (sleep pattern number two), and calculate the curve of John's left ear.