The photograph shows two people, a man and a woman, lying back to back on a grey slate tiled floor, the man facing a set of dark varnished oak kitchen cupboards, the base of which is just visible in the frame. They are bound together by silk scarves. They are positioned so that the tops of their heads are in the same place, which is not difficult, since they are within a centimetre and a half of each other in terms of height. The scarves, which are all blue, bind them at the head, the chest, the waist, and the ankles.
The file indicates that they were moved after death, placed liked this once they had each been shot, the man in the chest, the woman in the back of the head. The bullet wounds have been fairly expertly cleaned so that there is little blood on the scarves binding their heads and chests. James Anderson, seventy-six, was a retired aviation engineer. His wife, Abbey Anderson, seventy-four, was a homemaker. Neither of them have any previous criminal records, nor have they any apparent enemies. They moved from London to the country after James Anderson retired. Both were active members of their local gardening community, as well as avid outdoor enthusiasts, and belonged to a local walking club for seniors. They were reported missing after neither could be reached by phone after failing to meet some friends for a scheduled dinner. The patrol officer who went to their house to check on them found them in the kitchen in the position shown in the photograph. The medical examiner estimates they died sometime between nine pm on Thursday evening and three am on Saturday morning.
The file also indicates no disturbance in the area, and none of the doors or windows have been forced, although the front door was unlocked, but shut when the officer arrived. The victims' friends indicate that they did not leave their doors unlocked, even when they were home. No suspicious or unidentified fingerprints were found at the scene. No reports of unusual activity or persons in the area were given, but the nearest neighbours are approximately one mile away, so it is unlikely that a gunshot would have been heard, or noticed if it had been heard. Small game hunting is common in this area, so gunfire is not often reported or noted. Both victims were shot in their living room.
No suspects were ever identified despite extensive questioning of local residents and visitors to the area by the police. As of July thirty-first, the case has officially gone cold.
(November)
Sherlock blinked, blinked again, then screwed his eyes shut, willing himself to wake up. Open, he told his eyes. Open. He managed to slit his eyes open, then closed them quickly, pressing a palm over them, wincing and not quite stifling the groan that slipped past his lips.
"Good, you're awake," a familiar voice said, softly.
"No," Sherlock whispered.
"Yes, you are," John said. "Open your eyes. I have some ibuprofen for you."
"My head hurts." Speaking in anything above a whisper seemed unwise, although he wasn't certain why. Where was he? Familiar feelings all around, underneath him, the mattress, on top of him, on either side, the covers, the pillow pressed against his left cheek, the smells, like John and warmth and himself. Their bed, he was in their bed. The light seemed unusually bright though and he kept his eyes covered until John's fingers wrapped around his hand, pulling it away.
"Come on, Sherlock," John said gently. "I know you don't want to, but you have to."
"No, I don't, you can't make me," Sherlock moaned. "I can sleep in if I want."
"It's already gone past eleven," John replied. He released Sherlock's hand and Sherlock raised it to his head, wanting to press it against his skull, to push back against the hammering that was coming from right inside his brain, that was squeezing his temples.
"No!" John said sharply, grasping his hand again, and Sherlock winced at the sound, screwing his eyes shut again. "Don't touch it! You have a concussion."
At this, Sherlock managed to blink himself awake fully and focus slowly on John, who was crouched in front of him, wearing one of his concerned doctor expressions, watching Sherlock carefully. Evaluating him. Sherlock did not like when he was subjected to that kind of analysis. That was his job, not John's.
"What?" Sherlock asked.
"Here," John said, moving to put the glass of water and the two pills he was holding on the bedside table. There was a ring on the wooden surface from where a glass had already been sitting sometime previous. "Come on, I'll help you sit up. Slowly."
Sherlock groaned at the renewed pounding in his head as John helped him shift from lying on his side to sitting up, leaning forward, propped against John's chest as the doctor shifted the pillows behind him. When they were covering the headboard enough to allow Sherlock to sit against them, John leaned him back carefully.
"Easy, easy," John said, when Sherlock tried to shift himself using his hands.
"I'm not a child," Sherlock scowled.
"No, but you do have a concussion and by the looks of all that wincing, a killer headache." He picked up the glass again and the two pills. "The hospital gave you a small supply of Percocet if you want that instead of ibuprofen?"
"Absolutely not," Sherlock muttered.
"Thought not," John said. "Come on, take these."
He put the pills in Sherlock's palm and the younger man took them, reaching vaguely for the glass, but John shook his head, raising it himself and titling it carefully against Sherlock's lips. Sherlock drained the glass, feeling dehydrated and sore, then leaned his head back, closing his eyes again.
"What happened?" he mumbled, concentrating on his breathing to help keep from concentrating on the pain in his head that seemed centered on the crown. He reached up, more slowly this time, and John didn't stop him. Gingerly, Sherlock touched the area that hurt the most and felt the pucker of stitched skin on his scalp, beneath his hair. At least they hadn't shaved any hair off, he realized.
"You were hit with a beer mug," John said.
Sherlock raised his head slightly, feeling off balance as he did so, as though his muscles were loose and unresponsive, and stared at John.
"Oh yes, very funny, John," he said, then bit his lip against a groan when John shifted on the bed.
"I'm not joking," John said, raising his eyebrows. "I know you don't remember, because I've explained this to you several times, and probably Sam did too, on the way to the hospital. I probably shouldn't waste my breath telling you again."
"I won't forget," Sherlock muttered darkly.
"Mmm-hmm," John agreed. "That's what you said all of last night, too."
"John!" Sherlock snapped, then winced at the ringing in his head this induced.
"All right, all right," John said and Sherlock gave him the best scowl he could muster without hurting his aching head all the more. "From what I understand, a couple of blokes started an argument about football that turned into an actual fight, which turned into more than a couple of blokes."
Sherlock stared at him.
"Are you suggesting I was in a pub fight?" he spat.
John laughed, but shook his head.
"No, I think just caught in the cross-fire. We were going to meet up with Sam for a pint after I got off work yesterday, but since we were running later hours, I was going to catch the two of you up. I was on my way, actually, when Sam rang me to tell me what had happened. It's all a bit disjointed, since you weren't precisely giving straight answers, between insisting on going home and playing matchmaker for Sam and Sandra –"
"What?" Sherlock demanded. John laughed again, brown eyes dancing.
"You remember Sandra Casey, one of the nurses you had after the crash?" Sherlock nodded gingerly. "Well, she was there last night, at the hospital, and you gave her Sam's card after he'd left and suggested in no uncertain terms that she ring him. I believe your exact reasoning to me, on the cab ride home was this:" he pressed his fisted hands together, then splayed his fingers quickly, pulling his hands apart. "Sparks!"
"I did not," Sherlock said.
John chuckled.
"You most certainly did. Then you subjected me to a ten-minute monologue about why stitching is an outdated and barbaric means of patching a person back up, when there are clearly more obvious choices for repairing damaged skin, like super glue. You even offered to remove your own stitches and show me."
Sherlock felt the top of his head again, very carefully, his fingertips brushing over the uneven ridges caused by small, neat stitches in his skin.
"I wouldn't have let you," John said. "I can tackle quite well, you know. And you were not exactly steady on your feet."
Sherlock didn't feel particularly steady right now. He had no memories of any of this. The last thing he recalled was reading through some files for Lestrade that afternoon – the previous afternoon now, it seemed. He did not like the idea that the greater part of a day had been snapped from his memory although he had moved through that time as per normal, and everyone he'd come into contact would remember, but he would not.
It was not a pleasant feeling.
"You'll be all right," John said, misreading his expression. "It may take a few days to feel your old self again, though."
Sherlock huffed. At least the ibuprofen was beginning to work. His headache seemed less clamorous now and John seemed more in focus.
"How long have I been sleeping?" he asked.
"Just over twelve hours," John said. "Do you think you could try getting up? You're in need of something to eat."
"I'm sure I can manage," Sherlock said and started to shuffle toward the edge of the bed, feeling irate that he was being treated like an invalid when all he'd taken was a knock on the head. He'd had worse.
"Not without me!" John snapped and slid himself under one of Sherlock's arms, gripping his hand, snaking his other arm around Sherlock's waist. "And slowly, you great idiot. If you do it all at once, you'll only pass out."
Sherlock's lips twitched in distaste but he didn't seem to have the strength to fight against John's slow pace. He pushed himself carefully to his feet, aware that John was watching him intently. The pain in his head flared a moment, then receded again when he set him jaw against it.
Everything went white.
"Sit down now," John commanded and Sherlock's legs obeyed. John pushed him forward so that his head hung between his knees. Sherlock focused on breathing until the whiteness faded and disappeared. He didn't feel nauseous, he noted, and wondered if this was good. He only felt dizzy.
"I'm cold," he complained, realizing it suddenly.
"You're pretty badly dehydrated," John said. "Hang on. Please don't try and stand up."
He felt John move away for a minute, then return, helping him sit up gently, then wrapping him in his dressing gown.
"I don't want this," Sherlock scowled. "I want yours. It's warmer."
"You can't have mine. It's in the laundry."
"Then fetch it out. It's not dirty anyway, you just washed it earlier this week."
"Yes, and it was fine until you threw up all over it last night," John replied. "I'm washing it a second time now for good measure."
Sherlock stared at the floor in front of him.
"Oh," he said.
"Come on, let's try again."
In the end, John managed to get him to the couch, where he lay Sherlock down, put on his bunny slippers, covered him with several blankets and manoeuvred the telly so it was visible from where Sherlock was lying. He popped in some Doctor Who, which Sherlock normally enjoyed, but the plots seemed unnecessarily convoluted and strange. And the picture seemed too bright. Everything seemed too bright, even the overcast November day outside. He closed his eyes but the sound from the telly and the faint scent of an expensive cologne – Mycroft's – kept him from falling asleep again.
"When was Mycroft here?" he muttered when John came back, bearing a cup of tea and a bowl of oatmeal.
"Earlier this morning," John replied. "He stayed awhile, but got bored watching you sleep and I got tired of him solving my crosswords upside down and backwards."
"That's my job," Sherlock said vaguely.
"Right," John said. "Come on, here you go." He passed off the mug and Sherlock took it, sipping it carefully. John pulled over a chair and was about to sit down when there was a knock on the door. Sherlock winced as the sound reverberated in his skull, making the headache, which had been fading, flare up again. John stood, putting the bowl down, and crossed the room to the door, opening it to admit Lestrade.
"John, give him the Percocet and tell him to go away," Sherlock muttered. "I've got nothing else illegal in the flat."
"I wouldn't believe that if you gave me a million quid," Lestrade commented, coming round the armchairs and evaluating Sherlock with his arms crossed, his blue eyes intent. Then he perched himself on the back of Sherlock's chair, which Sherlock found annoying.
"How about two?" Sherlock asked.
"Not even then. How's your head?"
"Hurts," Sherlock said shortly, sipping his tea. This, at least, was making him feel better. "You have a case for me?"
"Do I have – Do I have a case for you, Sherlock? Are you sodding insane? You were hit on the head with a beer mug and you've got a concussion! No, I do not have a case for you! Even if I did, I can't have a detective with a concussion on scene! Your judgement is impaired and you'd be a liability!"
"My judgement is just fine," Sherlock said. "If you don't have a case for me, why are you here?"
"Oh yes, far be it from me to be at all concerned that you took a well-aimed and quite heavy beer mug to the skull last night, hmm? Would you like to know how many officers it took to settle that brawl down? I can't even ask you what started it, since I doubt you'd remember, although from all the reports I've read – and believe me, I've read plenty today – it looks like you actually might be completely innocent here. No, I came to see if you wanted to press charges against the man who threw the glass and hit you."
Sherlock looked at Lestrade over the rim of his mug, which was slightly chipped, he noticed, and this was aggravating. Why didn't John take better care when doing the washing up?
"How can I press charges if I can't identify him?"
"Well, we have a few other witnesses and the man in question himself fessed up to it. He was quite upset, actually."
"Good," John said, with surprising venom in his voice.
"Unfortunately, not remorseful. He was angry he'd missed his actual target," Lestrade sighed. "He didn't quite seem to understand that hitting someone with a glass isn't a good idea, even if you're hitting the person you've meant to hit."
"I don't care," Sherlock replied. "John?"
"What do you think, Greg?"
"I don't think it matters – he was one of the key fighters, so he'll be looking at some charges anyway, and probably some minor time, or fines at very least, and maybe some community service. No one was seriously injured, thankfully, although there were some broken bones. Including one broken nose courtesy of our own Agent Mitchell."
John snorted, swallowing on laughter. Sherlock just wished Lestrade would leave. He was annoyed at having someone else in his space, especially when Lestrade insisted on talking about other people. It felt like his flat was filling up with strangers and he just wanted everyone to be gone but John.
"Then no," he said. Lestrade regarded him a moment, then nodded.
"Less paperwork for us, at any rate," he said. "But if you change your mind, let me know, because I'm sure I can come up with a few other creative charges to slap on him for you. That looks painful."
He nodded at the stitched cut that Sherlock could not, of course, see.
"It is," Sherlock replied shortly.
"All right, I'm off, you look like you could use some sleep anyhow. I'll ring in a few days, see how you're doing."
Sherlock managed a slow nod, to keep his head from hurting again, the headache having subsided to tolerable levels. John got up and let the DI out, then came back and picked up the bowl of cooling oatmeal, settling down and passing it to Sherlock.
"I don't want it. You do it." Sherlock grouched. John gave him a wry smile and shook his head.
"Feeling a bit out of sorts, aren't you?" he asked.
"No, I'm fine," Sherlock said.
"No, you're not," John replied easily. "You'll feel better with some food in you though. You'll be mood-swingy for a few days, Sherlock. It's normal."
"And that is not a word, John. Mood-swingy. I don't get mood-swingy."
"No, not you, never," John agreed. Sherlock gave him a glare and snatched the bowl from him, eating the bland and sticky oatmeal slowly, not at all wanting to admit the heat and weight of it did help him feel slightly less lightheaded.
"Shut off the telly, it's too bright," Sherlock sighed, then passed the bowl back when he was done, shifting, sitting up more, moving to swing his legs over the side the couch, but John was there in an instant, a hand on Sherlock's chest, a warning look in his brown eyes.
"You need to rest."
"Boring. I have work to do."
"Not today you don't," John said.
"John, I'm bored, I don't want to lie about all day."
"You've been up less than an hour, that hardly counts as all day, and you have a concussion. Tell you what, we'll both lie about and do nothing all day, how does that sound?"
Sherlock considered this briefly, then sighed, but felt better.
"All right," he agreed. John helped him shift on the couch so they were lying together, Sherlock mostly stretched out across John, both of them bundled under the blankets. It was nicer, he thought, to lie there with John than it was to do so alone, tracing vague patterns on John's shirt, feeling the twitch of muscles when he accidentally brushed a ticklish spot. It was pleasant to drift back to sleep, listening to the sound of John's heart beating slowly and strongly, smelling the familiar scent of sunshine, feeling the warmth of John's body against his. More pleasant still to drift back awake sometime later and find that John had kept his promise and was still there, lying about with him all day and doing nothing.