The flat had been transformed into a makeshift evidence impound and John had to watch where he stepped, and despaired of any available surfaces. He had to shift through files just to find his laptop, and this simple search had earned him a pretty severe reprimand about destroying some mysterious system Sherlock had set out for himself. When John had pointed out that there seemed to be no pattern to the way things were laid out, he'd apparently warranted a you're-an-idiot glare, which Sherlock usually didn't reserve for him, and then John had listened to a muttered diatribe about how John really couldn't be expected to understand genius when it was at work and that he never upset John's things. This latter bit was largely true, if only because John didn't make messes like this.
"Where are you going?" Sherlock snapped at him when John tried to take himself upstairs, to get out of the detective's way. He understood the grouching had nothing to do with him personally, that Sherlock was trying to concentrate after a week's dry spell, both in terms of cases and not feeling at all himself. It was part of the high sometimes, John knew, but it probably also meant Sherlock was trying very hard not to be distracted by John's presence.
"Thought you might need some space to work," John said.
"You're not going anywhere," Sherlock informed him. "I need you."
"What do you need me to do to?" John asked. He'd examined the bodies at the scene, and looked over the photographs in the electronic files sent from the Sheffield police department. They were still waiting on files, both electronic and paper, from the other two cases, as well as the physical evidence from the first three. But there wasn't much he could do as a doctor with photographs that the medical examiners on the other cases hadn't already done.
"Sit," Sherlock said, pointing at John's chair, which he liberated from under a map of England that had been draped over it. John sat down, bemused, as Sherlock glanced about the flat, then found some pushpins from the kitchen and tacked the map to the wall. He stood in front of him for a few minutes, glaring at it as though it would shout answers at him if he just gave it a stern enough look, then turned back to John.
"Well?" he asked.
"Well what, Sherlock?" John asked in reply.
"Are you just going to sit there?"
"You're the one who told me to sit here," John pointed out.
Sherlock huffed at him and picked up a book from the coffee table, one that John had been reading, and tossed it at him.
"How do you expect me to work when you're sitting there staring inanely at me?" he snapped.
"I was going to go upstairs and leave you be," John pointed out.
"No, you need to stay down here," Sherlock insisted. John raised his eyebrows but didn't get a reply, so he sighed and opened his book to the marked page, curling up into the chair. Sherlock gave him a look that was an unlikely mixture of pleased and disapproving, then plopped himself down at the table, opening several files and spreading them out in front of him. John cast a quick eye over the top his book, but Sherlock was concentrating on the files now.
Some time later, the buzzer distracted both of them and John hurried downstairs to admit the police officers who came bearing boxes of files, directing them up to the flat. Sherlock ignored them altogether and John had them put the boxes down next to the table. He was surprised how quickly this had happened, and wondered how many people were now working on this, and what it meant that Greg Lestrade had got them access to the actual evidence so soon.
He thanked the officers who were acting as couriers and they left. John followed them downstairs, locking the door behind them, then returned to the flat, absently but curiously pulling up the lid on the top box, peering inside.
Sherlock was beside him in a flash, pushing the lid back down and steering John back toward his chair, settling him into it. John gave up, picking up his book again, and turning back to it. He didn't quite think it was fair that Sherlock immediately opened one of the evidence boxes and began pulling out more files, as well as actual physical evidence. But he kept that to himself, because this was, after all, Sherlock's job.
The consulting detective buzzed about the flat, setting things out, rifling through papers, pulling out photos and affixing them to the mirror, scribbling things down on sheets of paper that soon turned into small piles of their own. He pulled out his violin at one point and John knew better than to move or speak then, and kept reading. He was playing something with which John was not familiar, but cut himself off in mid-note, carefully putting the instrument away – he never failed to do this, no matter how distracted he was – and stationed himself in front of the mirror, eyes darting over something.
John pushed himself up then, padding into the kitchen, and filled the kettle, plugging it in and getting out the tea supplies from the cupboard, fishing about for his favourite mug, which had been buried in the back when Sherlock had haphazardly put away the dishes the night before.
He started when he turned, because Sherlock standing right behind him, moving in that eerily silent way he could do, when he wanted to.
"I need a pen," he said.
John swallowed on the sudden jump of his heart at being taken off guard and shook his head.
"Then why don't you get one?" he asked.
"You know where they are," Sherlock replied. John sighed, but it was no use pointing out that Sherlock also knew full well where the pens were. He went back into the living room and rooted around a small drawer, pulling one out, passing it over his shoulder.
"No, a felt-tip pen," Sherlock said. John sighed again and found a Sharpie and gave it to his husband, who snatched it, then snagged the shoulder of John's shirt, dragging him to the map that was pinned to the wall. He positioned John beside him – John had long grown used to Sherlock's tendency to manipulate him bodily while working – and then frowned again at the map, making four quick circles on it.
"Sheffield, Codnor, Bicester, and London," he said, tapping the pen against his lips. "What about them?"
"Moving south," John said.
"Yes," Sherlock agreed. "But from where? And why?" He moved quickly, drawing a line down the M1 from near Sheffield to London.
"Bicester is closer to the M40," John pointed out.
"Yes," Sherlock agreed, then tapped the pen to his lips again, wrong end up, absently and unknowingly leaving a small black mark on the middle of his bottom lip that made John smile. "What if it's not south then? What if it's north? What if London is the base?"
"Then what?" John asked. "What does that tell us?"
"Nothing it wouldn't the other way, except perhaps that he lives here," Sherlock replied.
"Doesn't really narrow it down," John said.
"No," Sherlock agreed, slitting his eyes at the map, catching his lower lip between his teeth for a moment. John had the impulse to wipe away the black mark with his own lips, but knew Sherlock wouldn't appreciate that right now, since it would derail his train of thought.
Sherlock handed the pen back to John and pulled four of the grim photographs from the mirror, taping them to the map next to their respective locations.
"Why green?" Sherlock asked.
"Sorry?"
"Why the green scarf? All the others are blue, why is this one green?" he pointed to the picture of the first couple.
"Maybe that's all he had on him?"
"No, no, no," Sherlock said, casting John a dry look. "Think, John! This was planned – all of these were staged to look precisely the same, or almost precisely the same! This is not an inexperienced killer! This one," he jabbed a long finger at the photo from the Sheffield case, "Is in no way his first killing, maybe just the first with this pattern."
"Why would he pick up a new pattern?" John asked.
"He's getting bolder. He's a serial killer. He's been doing this for some time, I'd say at least a decade, since he's so comfortable with it. He's changing his routine – he wants something new."
He's bored, John thought, feeling a chill go down his spine. He'd had his fill of bored killers with Moriarty.
"No," Sherlock said without at all looking at him or indicating how he'd noted the repressed shiver. "Because he's not getting sloppy. He wants to be noticed, but this isn't boredom. It's something else. He's after something."
"What?" John sighed rhetorically.
"Don't know," Sherlock replied, shortly.
"You said he's not getting sloppy, but look, the second couple, the man was shot in the chest. All of the others were shot in the head."
Sherlock nodded. John knew that he had already noted this.
"Can't control for everything, although he's doing a fine job at managing almost every variable. The victim tried to defend himself or his wife, perhaps. He's not deviating from the pattern because he wants to, but out of necessity. He's gone back to it in all of the others. He was accounting for the unexpected, and he did it right. How many people do you know who can make a chest shot that accurate?"
"Um, well, quite a lot," John replied.
Sherlock glanced at him, then flashed him a quick smile, the black Sharpie dot still on his lips.
"Ha, yes, of course," he said. John sighed and licked his thumb, holding it up.
"You've got pen on your lip," he said and Sherlock suffered him wiping it off, or at least rubbing it out enough it wasn't immediately noticeable, but then it looked more like a bruise. John sighed, unable to determine which was better. It would probably fade by the morning though, given Sherlock's tendency to chew on his lower lip while working.
"Yes, yes," his husband said, losing his patience and batting John's hand away. "Most people do not know a lot of shooters who could make that shot. Right where the heart is, not where they think the heart should be."
"So, what? A cop? A soldier?"
"Or just practiced," Sherlock replied. "He's a serial killer, John. Very likely a psychopath."
"Oh, lovely," John sighed, crossing his arms.
"Well, most serial killers are. It's not really a hobby picked up by the majority of the population."
"True," John said. Sherlock stepped toward the map and John realized his tea water had probably boiled by now. He went back into the kitchen and checked to make sure it was still hot enough, then filled a mug and dropped his tea bag in.
"Tea, Sherlock?" he called.
When he received no reply, he fixed a second cup for good measure and gave it to Sherlock, who took it and held it while still studying the map, then kept hold of it when he crossed the room to examine the rest of the photos affixed to the mirror, but did not drink it. John wasn't really surprised, and settled himself back into his chair, to wait to have ideas bounced off of him again.
He drank his own tea and read, and the afternoon faded into evening. John reheated some leftovers for himself, then pointedly left a plate for Sherlock, who had immersed himself in the files and surrounded himself with scrawled notes. Sherlock ate a single bite of the reheated pasta, made a face, then shoved it aside, nearly tipping it onto the floor. John rescued it quickly and binned it, not wanting to reheat it a second time. He fought a losing battle with Sherlock's tendency not to eat while working, although if it got really dire, and a case dragged on too long, he could usually convince the detective that a small meal would be better than collapsing due to low blood sugar.
He did the washing up and left the dishes in the drainer with no hope whatsoever that Sherlock would take the hint and replace them once they'd dried. John returned to the living room to find Sherlock pacing, twitching his fingers the way he did when he was playing the violin in his mind. As though realizing that he was doing this when John noticed it, he got out his violin again and the flat was filled with music once more.
John vaguely wanted to remove himself, maybe ring Tricia and go for a pint, or just wander out for a walk by himself, but he knew how that would go over if Sherlock wasn't even letting him go read upstairs. He focused on his book, not really noticing when the music stopped, but certainly noticing when Sherlock plucked the novel from his fingers, setting it aside, and sank down onto the chair with him, straddling him. John tried not to read too much into it when Sherlock cupped his face and gazed at him intently. It was an expression that served one purpose when Sherlock wasn't on a case, but when he was, it was a different story. Still, he had a hard time convincing his body of this fact, and it didn't help when Sherlock kissed him, lightly at first, then deeply.
John reined himself in, because he knew this wasn't going anywhere, not with Sherlock working, and this was just another way for the detective to help himself think, although it didn't do wonders for John's cognitive capabilities. It was still welcome, though, and he kissed back, settling his hands on Sherlock's hips, taking what he could.
"Brilliant," Sherlock said, pulling away from him suddenly, eyeing him closely. "We're going out."
"We are? Don't you think it's an odd time for a date?"
"Wouldn't Saturday evening be a typical time for a date?" Sherlock asked by way of reply.
"Except you're in the middle of a case."
"You can hardly evaluate it as the middle if we've just started and we don't know how long it will take," Sherlock said. "Besides, we're not going on a date. We're going to the last place Aswad and Clayworth went on a date, Thursday night. But, you will have to change, I'm afraid. Put on that white short-sleeved shirt."
"Why that one?" John asked.
"I like you in white," Sherlock replied, kissing him again, then releasing him. "Well, don't just sit there, John! Come on! We've got work to do!"
"Why here?" John asked as they slipped into the small pub, which was dimly lit and comfortably crowded, not so much that they could not get a table in a corner, where Sherlock could perch on the high bar chair and watch the other patrons.
"I told you, this is the last place they came," Sherlock said, shrugging off his coat, draping it carelessly over the back of the chair. "What do you want to drink?"
"Now you're buying me a drink?" John asked.
"You are my date," Sherlock pointed out, to which John grinned.
"Just beer, whatever they've got on tap."
Sherlock disappeared toward the bar, although John could see him shouldering his way easily through the crowd, using his height and his total lack of concern for other people as leverage to move through the bodies. A few minutes later, he was back with a pint for John and something for himself.
"Drinking on a case, that's a first for you," John commented.
"I don't plan on drinking it," Sherlock replied, moving his chair closer to John's. "But appearances are important."
"Do you think he'll be here?" John asked.
"Doubtful," Sherlock replied. "But possibly. He's hunting for his victims, John. All of them were active in something, which put them somewhere they could be noticed. All of them had hobbies that they did as couples. This," he nodded to the small band that was setting up on the stage at the front of the bar, "was Aswad and Clayworth's hobby."
John reflected that this seemed like a much more normal hobby than the one he and Sherlock shared, which involved chasing down murderers and solving complex criminal puzzles. He wondered, for a moment, what it would be like to have a typical hobby, but couldn't quite put that image and Sherlock together in his mind.
"Don't be daft, we have other hobbies," Sherlock said, reading his mind again.
"Shagging is not a hobby, Sherlock," John said with a roll of his eyes. Sherlock sipped his drink, only a tiny sip, John noticed. He snaked an arm around the back of John's chair, resting it on the chair itself, but absently and lightly stroking John's back with his fingertips.
"Why not?" Sherlock asked. "It's something we do on a regular basis and that we both enjoy. It seems to me this is the very definition of a shared hobby."
John only sighed, picking up his beer and taking a draught. He cast his eyes over the other patrons, most of whom seemed to be in their thirties, but there was a range there, he could tell. He wondered what Sherlock was seeing, then was distracted from that thought when Sherlock's hand settled on his neck and he was pulled in for a kiss.
"What're you doing?" John murmured against his lips. "Not that I'm complaining."
"Keeping an eye on who's not watching us," Sherlock replied.
John frowned.
"What?"
"All of the victims were couples, but heterosexual couples, John. I'm trying to ascertain if anyone is dismissing us as unimportant."
"Why would he even come back here?" John asked, but Sherlock kissed him again, then released him, leaving John wishing there wasn't a case, because it was actually nice to be out with his husband on a date.
"If we're very lucky, and he is from London, perhaps we've stumbled upon his home turf," Sherlock said. "He's decreasing the time between each murder, John. Four months to two and a half to two. I suspect he's been hunting between each murder, trying to find his perfect victims."
"But how are they linked?" John asked.
"Still working on that," Sherlock replied, playing idly with John's hair, his face turned toward John's, but his grey eyes not quite meeting John's gaze, although it would look that way from a distance. "But the decrease in time probably means he's looking more intently. Blast, no one is not paying us undue attention."
It was a strange thing to say, John thought. He'd become used to the looks he and Sherlock got in public, although he suspected a lot of those looks had to do with how Sherlock behaved, especially when he was working. Most people weren't as inobservant as Sherlock thought, and John had seen a lot of people noticing the matching wedding bands, which were an unusual design. But normally he did not have to say anything or even give a warning glare, and in this crowd, it seemed Sherlock was right, and most people did not seem to be noticing them.
"Relax, John," Sherlock ordered, his hand returning to rest on the back of John's neck, massaging lightly. "Drink your beer. Enjoy the music."
Don't worry at all about the serial killer you're hunting, John thought.
"You're not looking for him, I am," Sherlock said and John gave up trying to figure out how his thoughts were so readable that evening. "So let me worry about it."
"Fine," John said, leaning his head back slightly into Sherlock's hand. Having got what he wanted from John, Sherlock smiled, took another small sip of his drink, and returned his attention to the crowd, listening with half an ear to the band and watching for those who were not watching them.