It is a letter from her. Old. Everything which reaches him from her is old, out of date, no longer relevant.
In his bedroom, Sherlock rips it open with an eager thumb. Scans it.
Another riddle. She enjoys these. He pretends not to.
This one gives him pause for a moment. He flings himself backwards onto his bed and stares at the ceiling. It is not her usual sort of puzzle. But he will solve it. He always does.
She might be dead by the time he finishes the riddle. Or already. Could have been dead for months, these letters and notes arriving from beyond the grave. He doesn't care. To him they are fresh and new, and if this one, or the next, is the last, well, he won't know, will never know.
Imagine her instead, living somewhere, wrecking lives and governments somewhere, creating havoc and breaking hearts. A much happier prospect.
John knocks at the door. "Are you ok? Want a cuppa?"
"No thanks."
John thinks he thinks she is on a witness protection programme somewhere in the States, except that John knows full well Sherlock was lying about accepting John's story about the protection thing, and that John was trying to tell him that she was dead. They each simply knew, in that silent way they have of understanding each other. It is a man thing. Saves needless discussion.
It is a them thing. He can't do it with anyone else. Usually it is him reading the minds, but John can read him too, perfectly clearly.
Irene's riddle this time is not a sexy teaser, the way they usually are. Generally her riddles resolve into lewd suggestions, which make them easier to solve, and provide a nostalgic chuckle.
This is more of a conundrum. He thinks she is telling him somewhere she has been, or will be, or wants to be. Or somewhere she wants him to be, perhaps. It would be like her sentimental attachment to him, to give him a puzzle about a place, simply to give herself the luxury of imagining him in that place.
**The well inside the pub inside the circle.**
It could be she has left a message at this place, which she could not send by post.
There are too many possibilities. He needs to identify the place.
"John! Can I borrow your laptop?"
"What's wrong with yours?"
"Too far away."
John appears in the doorway, carrying Sherlock's laptop. "Everything all right?"
He glances at the letter on the bed.
"Fine," says Sherlock. "Fancy a trip out tomorrow?"
"Sure," says John. "Where to?"
"Don't know yet. Might be overnight."
"Right-ho." John simply accepts this, as he does everything.
Sherlock takes the laptop off John with a grin. John rolls his eyes and claps Sherlock's shoulder.
On an impulse Sherlock touches John's hand as it lies on his shoulder. He rarely shows John any physical affection but at this moment is it the right thing to do. John gives him such a sweet smile in return that Sherlock is touched.
The moment lasts, and then Sherlock withdraws his hand, feeling the tingle where he touched John's skin.
"Night," says John softly, drawing the door shut behind him.
Sherlock drops back onto the bed, Irene's letter in his hand, wondering about wells and circles.
"Avebury," says Sherlock, slamming the Land Rover door. "The only village in Britain to be built inside a Neolithic stone circle."
It is mid afternoon and the sun is low, the temperature dropping away towards dark. The village is a couple of streets awkwardly arranged around the field pattern, itself arranged around sequences of large grey stones.
John has the map. "There's a path between stone markers that runs all the way from here to Stonehenge."
"Afficionados of stone circles favour this over the Stonehenge site because here you can actually walk right up to the stones," Sherlock says, pulling on his gloves. "There's the pub."
"What's this about?" John asks.
Sherlock smiles. "A riddle sent by an old acquaintance. Someone likes to set me little challenges, and occasionally I indulge them by solving the puzzle."
"Irene," says John immediately. He is not remotely surprised.
Sherlock makes a non committal noise. "The pub apparently has a well inside."
"Right. Then what?"
"I don't know. Could be anything, given the riddle setter. Come on."
The road winds around the Red Lion pub and past a walled field dotted with standing stones taller than a man. An enormous stone, reaching almost to the roof, stands beside the pub.
Sherlock looks up at the eaves of the pub. There are lots of lights, floodlights. Cameras too.
The pub is open for tea. They order Wiltshire cream tea - really? does every county have a cream tea now? and enjoy the roaring fire.
"The museum is shut," John says, reading from a tourist leaflet cheaply printed in blue paper. He helps himself to extra jam for his scone. "Renovation."
"They had a break in," Sherlock says vaguely. "The Trust that runs them won't let them reopen without additional security."
"How do you know that?"
"The museum building looks old but is just a faux medieval structure to meet planning regulations. It doesn't need renovation."
"Oh."
"Where's the well?" Sherlock asks the publican who comes to take their empty plates.
He points. Sherlock and John go down a couple of steps into another room, its floor uneven stone flags.
One of these flags has been replaced with a thick sheet of green glass. Sherlock stands on it, looks down.
Lit with coloured LEDs, a narrow well shaft drops into the earth. The water's surface is not visible, just many ferns and mosses thriving in the rough stone sides of the well.
Sherlock bends down, shines a small torch into the well. Raises his eyebrows, grimaces.
John crouches down and peers in. "This is it then."
"Yes." But what of the riddle? Sherlock frowns. He has been thinking it is something about safety, about protection. The well, the source of life, inside the old inn. The inn, and all the houses, inside the stone circle.
But now he knows it is something else.
They enjoy their cream teas and go out for a walk round the stones.
Sherlock says. "See you later," to the publican. He nods.
John looks quizzical.
"I've booked us in for tonight," Sherlock explains. "I want to think."
"Ok."
The standing stones are warm to the touch, despite the cold weather. They retain the sun's heat all through winter. Their surface is rough and flaky, and in places, marked with intricate swirling designs.
"It's an amazing place," John says. "Miles better than Stonehenge. No coach parties either."
Sherlock is silent. He knows why Irene brought him here. Another of her gestures. He understands the need, he thinks. Perhaps it is because she is as broken as he is, in her way.
A feeling of heaviness steals over him. He turns abruptly and says, "Let's get back inside. "
"I've taken pictures anyway," John says, gesturing with his phone.
"I might get an early night," Sherlock says as they trailed back across the rough, boggy grass to the road.
"What, you?"
"Just tired. You don't mind, do you?"
John stares at him in exaggerated disbelief. "You never ask me if I mind. It must be bad."
"Oh shut up."
"I am sure that with the aid of a bar, plus your promise to do the driving in the morning, I can entertain myself. "
They part. Sherlock feels John watching him as he climbs the pub stairs to their room.
He really does feel sleepy. When did he last sleep? He can't remember. Recently, anyway. It is fine. But perhaps he will actually undress and get into bed, just as a precaution.
He throws off his clothes, places John's overnight bag where John will spot it, and climbs into bed.
The well and the circle... all this protection. Oddly it does feel quite safe. Though this is more likely down to the high tech security he noted all around the pub, as if they had had a burglary problem lately.
Sherlock closes his eyes, sighs. Irene.
He is woken by John coming in, much later. Stumbling footsteps - had a couple of drinks, then. Scrabble as he opens the door and finds his way into the room in the dark. A pause, standing still, looking, presumably, at Sherlock in the bed. Then the predictable cursing.
Sherlock does not move. He tells himself this was childish and demonstrated nothing more than his own precarious state of mind. But still he has done it. Booked them a double instead of a twin. John is underimpressed.
He sighs and gets on with it, though. Sherlock hears jacket and shirt being removed, then belt, zip, trousers being placed on the chair with his own.
"Move over," mutters John, and scrambles under the covers. "Blimey, it's freezing, move up!"
Sherlock moves slowly as if still asleep. Feels warmth as John settles beside him.
John turns on his side, back to Sherlock. Sighs.
Faint smell of real ale, John's shower gel.
It had been a long time since he shared a bed with anyone, since he knew the comfort of a fellow human sleeping beside him, breathing, relaxed, warm, unguarded.
It is nice.
Sherlock stirs and turns his face towards John's back.
"You're awake, aren't you," says John calmly, only slightly slurred.
"Yes," Sherlock says.
John sighs heavily. "You booked us a double room."
It is another mind reading moment. "It was the option offered," Sherlock says, which is true. "Problem?"
John sighs again. "No." He obviously knows that Sherlock could have argued for a twin room, or imagine, two separate rooms, but didn't.
"You're weird, you know that, right? You are my best friend, but you are very odd sometimes. "
He reaches for Sherlock's hand and gives it a squeeze. Sherlock removes his hand, squashes up on his side of the bed.
There is silence for a moment, then John says, "I get nightmares."
Sherlock thinks of the circle of protection. "I know," he says.
Nothing else is said. John subsides into sleep and Sherlock closes his eyes too.
Irene was here. Also, she stole something - from the museum. Increased security after the event, almost her signature.
The something did not go far, however. It is taped to the inside of the well. A small stone bracelet, looks ancient.
A gift for him, but he does not want it. Also, if it is a Bronze Age artefact, as he suspects from the brief look at it that he managed, then putting it into the damp, algae rich environment of the well is sacrilege.
He does not want presents he has to jump through hoops for.
Just something freely given without question or expectation.
Sherlock lets his arm rest against John's warm back, and settles, ready in case of the nightmares.
They are inside the circle, and nothing can touch them tonight.