They found the Cunninghams in an upstairs sitting room watching TV.
"Did you find a box of matches from the man's hotel then? Case solved?" Alec sneered at Sherlock, who simply ignored him unceremoniously.
"These things take time, Mr. Cunningham," Forrester explained on his behalf.
"No doubt, if even the legendary Sherlock Holmes can't find any clues,"
"Now, now, we do have one thing to go on…" the Inspector begun, when suddenly Sherlock wavered, his face twisting in pain, almost tripping over if not for John, who caught him at the last moment.
John, in near shock himself from the sudden deterioration of Sherlock's strength, put his arm around his waist.
"I got you, luv," he urged guiding Sherlock's arm over his shoulder and half-carrying him to the nearest seat. How could he be so careless? He should have stopped Sherlock. He was barely out of the woods and John had let him get excited over a case, let him bounce about outside, when he should've known it was too early. Some doctor he was – only interested in chasing criminals.
But it was much worse being the kind of lover who couldn't be trusted to look after his partner. He was just as stupid as Sherlock thought, John reproached himself sharply.
Sherlock lay back in the chair for some minutes, breathing heavily as he recovered himself. Hayter fetched a glass of water on John's orders. John briefly examined Sherlock, took his pulse, felt the temperature, placed his ear on his chest, but could hear nor see anything alarming. Just a fit of fatigue, not unexpected. If only John weren't so negligent, they would be quietly settled in bed reading, or taking an unhurried stroll in the park. He should have absolutely forbidden this investigation. They shouldn't both get carried away with cases in this way. It was irresponsible of him.
"I'm sorry, I'm recovering from a severe illness as John'll tell you. These things will happen, nothing to worry about," Sherlock explained.
"Should I get someone to drive you back?" Forrester offered. John leaped at the suggestion, but Sherlock declined sternly:
"No, no. Since I'm here, I might as well get a few more facts on the case."
The eyes of others were on John apparently waiting for his approval. After a brief hesitation, John caved in, as usual. He didn't dare interfere with Sherlock's marriage. But they would talk about this.
"Fine, what is it?" John complied unhappily.
"It seems utterly brainless that anyone would try to enter a house, where the occupants are still awake and moving about. You had the lights still on, didn't you?"
"Yes," Mr. Cunningham confirmed, "The hall up here was lit as well as the stairs and you had a light on downstairs, didn't you, Alec?"
His son agreed.
"See. There must be a reason for the burglar's insolence. John, pen and paper, please." John handed the items to the Cunninghams as Sherlock signalled.
"Could you both write down the exact times you've gone to bed in the last week?"
"Sure, if that'll help," the older man sought assurance from the Inspector, who nodded dubiously.
They set down to scribbling and soon handed over their lists of hours. Sherlock examined them briefly.
"So at around the same time as yesterday? Well, it was worth a try," he concluded.
Alec Cunningham didn't even bother trying to hide his contempt anymore:
"We could have told you that! No need for the writing exercise."
He had a point. John grimaced as he saw Sherlock's evident embarrassment in making such an elementary mistake in his methodology. He was not alright, clearly not in his best form.
"No, you're right of course," Sherlock admitted.
John hoped they would leave. Sherlock had to understand that he was not fine.
But the detective continued with his questions: "I would like to make sure of one more thing. Are you certain that nothing was taken? That the burglar was caught entering, not leaving?"
"Why, of course! We would have noticed if something was missing and the place would have been turned over," Mr. Cunningham said.
"Perhaps. But keep in mind that at Acton's they only took strange odds and ends. You might not notice a ball of twine gone missing."
They had to admit Sherlock was right.
"Why don't we have a look to see if anything's awry? Start with the upstairs here, easiest to have a look in your bedrooms first, isn't it?" Sherlock sprung up. John was surprised to see the familiar glint in his eyes again.
The Cunninghams agreed grumbling. They went first to the son's room. It faced the back of the house. The room was messy, clothes left lying on chairs and magazines on the floor.
Alec went over his possessions and Sherlock prompted him to look in the closet too.
"Everything's here."
"And the state of the room is all his own doing," the father pointed out, "We have a lady coming over to tidy the place up once a week, but I've told her not to bother here. If a grown man can't keep his room neat, it isn't anybody else's worry either."
His son wheezed annoyed. There are things you need to put up with, if you choose to live with your father, John noticed satisfied. He didn't like the snot's attitude.
"Moving on," Sherlock was quickly out the door and pulled John with him before the others could follow. They entered Mr. Cunningham's room, where Sherlock proceeded to tip over a small table with a houseplant on it. The pot broke and dirt spread all over. John was astonished, but had no time to recover as the others came in.
"Now look what you've done, John," Sherlock tut-tutted, "a fine mess on the carpet."
John, red faced, stooped to clean the clutter with the help of others. The pieces of the pot had spread out wide.
"Sorry 'bout that," John apologised. Sherlock must have his reasons… if he was alright. If he wasn't, well, there were worse and more dangerous things that crafty mind could think of.
"No worries," Mr. Cunningham said.
They were all trying to be of use in the crowded space, when Alec suddenly exclaimed:
"Where's he gone to?"
"Who?"
"Holmes, where the hell has he ran to? Come on, dad."
They rushed out of the room, leaving the Inspector, the Colonel, and John staring at each other puzzled.
"I hear he's a genius and all, but maybe I shouldn't have disturbed you this morning. I'm starting to think he's not right in the head," Forrester said.
There was nothing to say as John was wondering the same thing.
"John!" they suddenly heard Sherlock scream a few doors down. It sent a chilling shudder over John. Sherlock. He dashed madly to Alec's room, where sounds of struggle were coming from. Sherlock's cries were sinking down into a hoarse, inarticulate shouting.
The two Cunninghams were bent over him, Alec clutching his throat with both hands, while the elder was wringing his right wrist. For a split second John thought about reaching for his gun, which he now habitually kept with him, as he felt a murderous rage taking over him. But Hayter and Forrester were right behind him and in an instant the three of them had freed Sherlock.
He staggered to his feet, pale and exhausted.
"Inspector, here are your burglars and murderers," Sherlock announced.
"What on earth?" Forrester was stunned.
"They broke into their neighbour Acton's house, murdered their lodger Wasyli, and, yes, here's the rest of the note, which they were trying to wrestle off me. I found it in Alec's pocket." He gave the Inspector a crumbled slip of yellow paper. "Find his stash and you'll find the gun. The carpet in his room is loose near the window, I'd look under the floorboards there."
The Inspector was unable to speak.
"Give me a call, if you need anything more. It has been positively invigorating," Sherlock said pleasantly ready to leave.
Mr. Cunningham was sobbing, his head buried in his hands, in a way, that suggested the police would get any details they needed from him.