Josephine went to Mrs. Hudson, who was happy to take her in a pinch, and Tricia left before Sherlock could pin her down trying to sort out how many shades of blue scarves there were. John didn't blame her; she had her own plans already, and he knew he himself was trapped as it was. He regretted the lost day with his niece, but there would be others, and he knew there was no way Sherlock was letting him go, not now, not when he'd made a breakthrough.
Especially not one as interesting to him as this.
If Sherlock noticed Tricia leaving, he didn't say so, almost flying about the flat, opening files, reading them in snatches before shuffling them aside for different files, then pulling the photographs off of the map, setting each one down next to the scarves from its scene before leaning over the table, bracing himself on his long arms.
He frowned, moving the scarves here and there, then readjusting their positions, shaking his head.
"What is it?" John asked, having taken the only perch left on the arm of his chair, thinking about how nice it would be to have a pint of beer, only it was far too early in the morning. Perhaps a hot cuppa instead.
It was going to be a long day.
"Look at this," Sherlock insisted and John pushed himself to his feet, joining his husband at the table, frowning at the scarves.
"Which is it?" Sherlock asked, switching two of the scarves from the second murder places. John looked at the photograph, trying to see some difference between them, but couldn't.
"I think they're the same," he said.
"No," Sherlock contradicted. "But the order was lost when the scarves were removed." He pushed himself away suddenly, pacing while avoiding files without looking. John watched the abrupt motion carefully, keeping an eye for any hint of dizziness, but either Sherlock's head was not bothering him anymore or he was getting better at hiding it. Knowing Sherlock, it could be either one, and John didn't want to risk a sudden collapse because he'd been pushing himself too hard against a head injury, even if it had been over a week ago.
"I need someone else," Sherlock said suddenly and John frowned, actually feeling a stab of displeasure at that, then raising his eyebrows at himself. Sherlock was admitting to needing help and he was feeling slighted because he was normally that help?
"What do you mean?" he asked.
"Someone with a better eye for colour," Sherlock said. "Who does this for a living. The code is in the shades, John, but I can't break it if I'm not reading it correctly. I need someone who can see the distinctions that I can't."
John was about to ask who Sherlock had in mind – he'd long ago given up being surprised at who the consulting detective knew – but Sherlock held up a hand and John swallowed on the question, knowing that speaking now would only be interrupting.
"This isn't the whole message," he said, half speaking to himself, grey eyes focused on the scarves on the table, widening somewhat. "I need someone who can see the distinctions, yes, but it won't do much good until we get the whole message."
"How can you tell?" John demanded, wondering what Sherlock had picked up on now that everyone else had missed.
"Green, John. The green scarf."
"What about it?" John asked.
"What does green mean?" Sherlock prompted.
"Um, environmental?" John asked. "Reusable bags? Biodegradable cleaners? That sort of thing?"
"No," Sherlock said, shaking his head.
"Well, there's envy. Or money, I suppose, for Americans, right?"
"No, no, John!" Sherlock admonished and John cast about, trying to catch up. Endlessly trying to catch up, it seemed. Sherlock's eyes were on him now, boring into him, and John looked for some clue, some hint.
"Go," Sherlock said softly.
John started, glancing reflexively at the door, then back.
"What?" he asked.
"No, not you, John! Traffic lights! Green means go, start. The very first scarf tied to the very first set of victims was green. It's the beginning of his message, don't you see? The code is in blue, in the shades, but he's letting us know where he wants us to start! Presumably he'll let us know when it ends, too!"
"Why would he do that?" John asked.
"Because he wants someone to get the message, John! Where's my phone, I need to call Lestrade, there will be more than just these four–"
He cut himself off, turning away from John abruptly, looking toward the window, and John wondered what he'd thought he'd seen, or heard. Sherlock strode away, covering the distance in three strides and John joined him, only half surprised to see Lestrade stepping out of a police car, raising his eyes for a moment to meet their gazes through the window.
"It's only been a few days!" John said. "The last gap was two months!"
"Yes, but now he knows the cases have been put together," Sherlock replied. "And he wants his message to be received, John. He's hurrying against being caught, but also against not finishing in case he's found."
Sherlock crossed the flat again, pulling the door open, John right on his heels. Lestrade looked up from the stairwell, somewhat startled, his blue eyes bright in the dim lighting.
"Is the pattern different?" Sherlock demanded. "Is there a red scarf in this one?"
Lestrade stopped halfway up the stairs, and looked from Sherlock to John then back again.
"Now how the bloody hell did you know that?" he asked.
There was another difference, too, John noted, looking at the bodies. They were positioned the same way, back to back and both shot in the head, like the others had been. Their home had been broken into in a way that gave no clues as to how, and their neighbours had heard nothing, seen nothing, noticed nothing. The police had only been sent round to check on them when the woman, a dental hygienist, had failed to show up for work that day. Her husband was a free-lance writer, and worked from home, so his absence had not been noted by any co-workers.
John resisted the temptation to close their eyes as they stared blankly at opposite walls in their small dining room. The table against the wall was covered in a white cloth that hadn't been stained by blood splatter, because they'd both been shot in the kitchen.
John had asked if anyone thought the placement of bodies in different rooms meant anything, but Sherlock said he did not believe so, and Lestrade seemed to agree. So, what, the killer was moving them because he could? When he'd wondered this out loud, Sherlock had told him this was likely the case.
It was the message that was important, after all. Not the location.
This time, they were tied by only three scarves: a blue one at the head, a blue one in a different shade across the chest, and a red one at the waist.
Which Sherlock was currently running between gloved fingers, almost frowning, but not quite, his eyes glinting in that dangerous way that John was used to but had never at all liked.
He was on a high from dealing with someone who thought like him.
Someone who would think like him if Sherlock ever went off the deep end, John told himself. Which, despite it all, despite Donovan's sombre warning the very first day they'd met, Sherlock had never seemed quite inclined to do. And less so as time went on, even if Donovan wouldn't admit it.
This wasn't the first psychopath they'd dealt with, John reminded himself. Nor even the first since Moriarty had died, and this was not Moriarty. Important to keep that in mind, he insisted. Although he wasn't certain how significant of a distinction it was when someone was running loose murdering people to send a message. Because he could. Because it's what he did.
"Sergeant, what colour is this?" Sherlock asked abruptly, looking up at Sally Donovan, who was standing back, near the archway for the kitchen, half keeping an eye on the work going on in there. She had her arms crossed, and looked displeased when Sherlock spoke to her, but since she'd looked displeased anyway, John didn't think it was directed at the consulting detective. He wondered how bad things were with her and Anderson right now, because she uncrossed her arms and stepped toward Sherlock and the bodies without a single cutting comment.
"Not what colour everyone has said it is," Sherlock said, forestalling her answer. "What colour would you call it, on first impression?"
She hesitated a moment.
"Dark pink," she replied, as though admitting to some transgression. John blinked – he'd have called it red, although he supposed he could see what she meant – but Sherlock grinned widely.
"Brilliant!" he said. "Thank you!"
"Wait, you said green was the start, so red had to be the end," John said. "What is this, punctuation?"
"No, John," Sherlock snapped in a tone that told John it should be obvious – which, from Sherlock's point of view, it probably was. "If there were more to the message, he would have kept going with another blue one about their ankles, but he stopped here, with only three scarves, despite having tied the other victims with four. This is the end of the message."
"But then why pink? Dark pink?"
"What softens a message?" Sherlock asked, looking at John, who looked back, puzzled. The consulting detective gave an annoyed sigh and cast his grey eyes to Lestrade, who had been watching without comment. The DI frowned and shook his head and Sherlock shot back a frown of his own.
"No one?" he asked, almost pleading, and John wondered what it must be like, wanting someone to catch up once in awhile.
"A question?" Donovan said suddenly, blinking as though surprised she had spoken, surprised she'd made the connection.
Sherlock was on his feet in an instant, laughing, grasping her upper arms, startling her.
"Yes, yes!" he said. "Well done, Sergeant! He's not used red to end the message because it's not a statement, it's a question! He's asking us something!"
"But what?" Lestrade demanded.
Sherlock released Donovan, who looked a little shaken at the sudden and unexpected contact from Sherlock who had, as far as John knew, never so much as shaken her hand before. She rubbed her arms where he'd been gripping her and John hoped he hadn't been holding tight enough to bruise, then she shook her head ruefully.
"I haven't the faintest idea, not yet," Sherlock mused, crouching down next to the two bodies again, eyeing the scarves, not really seeing the victims anymore, John knew. He pushed himself to his feet again and John noticed this time when he made a brief fist with his right hand, because that was another way of displacing dizziness.
Blast, John thought. The idiot – he's overdoing it. But of course he was, because it was Sherlock, and there was no middle ground when it came to Sherlock.
"I'll need the scarves themselves, Lestrade, but for now…" he paused and withdrew his phone from his coat pocket and took three careful pictures, from different angles, then a close up of each scarf, to get the colour. "I need to go see someone."
"What?" Lestrade demanded. "Who?"
Sherlock ignored him, snapping off his gloves, heading for the door. He cast a brief glance over his shoulder, grey eyes bright, almost amused.
"Coming, John, or are you going to just stand there staring all day?"
"Mind telling me where we're going?" John asked as he buckled himself into the cab.
"Angelo's," Sherlock said, giving the driver the address, then looking out the window as they pulled into traffic.
"Angelo's?" John asked. "What, he's your expert?"
"Don't be ridiculous, John, he's probably less perceptive than you are when it comes to colour. I need someone better than I am, which means quite a degree of expertise, you know."
John let the slight about his colour vision go, in part because it was true. Sherlock had always had a better eye for colour than he had, which was part of the reason he was a snappier dresser.
"Tricia's obviously better than you," he said, just to get his own dig in. Sherlock shot him a look that was tinged with irritation.
"Yes, thank you for pointing that out," Sherlock said coolly. "I had not at all deduced that on my own, John."
John repressed a snicker and glanced out his window, then back just in time to see Sherlock wrap a hand around the yellow passenger handle on his side of the cab, tightening his fingers more than necessary if he were just holding onto it. His jaw clenched for a moment, then relaxed and his expression cleared again. John pretended not to have noticed, but it was the second dizzy spell that day, not a good sign.
He was glad they were going to Angelo's now, even if he didn't understand why, because he was going to strap Sherlock to a chair and threaten him with having Lestrade pull him off the case if the younger man didn't consent to eat something.
"So, what, your expert will be at Angelo's?"
"Unlikely but possible," Sherlock replied, his expression having returned to normal, his hold on the passenger handle having eased. "But he'll know where she is."
At this, John raised his eyebrows.
"Oh, come off it, John, you're worse than Mrs. Hudson and her ideas about everyone pairing off based on EastEnders! She's a regular there."
"Is she?" John asked. "So someone I'd know then?"
"No, she comes in during the day when you're at work."
"So someone you know?"
"Obviously not, or else I wouldn't have to ask Angelo about her. I saw her there for the first time the other day."
"And yet you know she's a regular?"
"She's an artist, John, and she had a favourite table that was stained with some marks from her pencils and her charcoals, and she had paid for her tea in exact change, stacked up very precisely, so she knows how much her tea is there and keeps enough on her at all times to pay for it."
"Ah," John said. Sherlock had probably figured out her entire life's history in the way she stacked her change and John half wondered if he'd be subjected to it. When this did not happen, John kept an even sharper eye on Sherlock, but the consulting detective seemed fine for the moment, insofar as John could tell. Although John now considered himself an expert in reading Sherlock's expressions, he could still seemed very much like a closed book written in a foreign language. Utterly incomprehensible, when he had a mind to be. And if he'd noticed John noticing the dizzy spells, he'd lock down.
They arrived and Sherlock paid the fare, then herded John out, hustling him into the small restaurant. Angelo grinned at both of them when they came in, going for two menus, but Sherlock waved that away.
"How's the head, Sherlock?" Angelo asked.
"Fine," Sherlock replied shortly. "That isn't important. The other day, there was a young woman here, an artist. I need to know where I can find her."
"Holly?" Angelo asked. "She's not in some kind of trouble, is she?"
She might be, if Sherlock finds her, John thought wryly, wondering if this young woman had any idea what was headed her way through a chance encounter in a diner. He'd have to make sure she was clear on what Sherlock wanted her to look at, because examining some scarves with dried blood stains was one thing, but pictures of the victims would be quite another. And Sherlock was not entirely used to the idea of dealing with people for whom a murder was disturbing, not interesting.
"Not at all," Sherlock said smoothly. "I'm in need of her services as an artist."
"Well, I know she works at the B&Q up in Cricklewood and she goes to school at the Chelsea College, but I don't know what her schedule is. She's usually in here Tuesdays, like last week when you were here."
"Can't wait until tomorrow," Sherlock said shortly. "We'll take a trip up to the B&Q." He paused, barely discernable, but John was already hyper aware and had years of experience listening to Sherlock. "If she's not there, they'll have her home address."
"No," John said and Sherlock gave him a surprised look. "Not until you've had something to eat."
"I don't eat when I'm working, John," Sherlock reminded him with a cocked eyebrow and a cool expression.
"But you will this time," John said. "Or I'll haul you to the hospital when you pass out – which you will at this rate – and have them admit you overnight for observation. That's the third time in the past hour you've had a dizzy spell, because you haven't eaten or slept in the past two days, at least not enough to count for anything, and you were clocked on the head last weekend."
"It wasn't last weekend, it was the weekend before," Sherlock pointed out.
John ignored this, turning to Angelo.
"Coffee, and um, lasagne. And bread. And, hmm, salad. In fact, make it two of everything. And some chips, for good measure."
"I despise lasagne," Sherlock said.
"No, you don't. You're just saying that to try and get out of it. Angelo, now, please, the sooner, the better. Sherlock, half an hour isn't going to kill you, nor is it going to stall out the case."
He grabbed Sherlock by the arms, clearly surprising the detective, who was used to manhandling John whenever he felt like John wasn't precisely where he wanted him to be, or standing precisely the way in which he wanted him to stand, but was unused to having it reciprocated. John ignored this altogether and steered Sherlock to a seat, moving quickly so that the younger man didn't have time to react and push back.
"Sit," he said forcefully, giving Sherlock a meaningful glare.
"I'd do it, Sherlock," Angelo tossed over his shoulder on his way to the kitchen, flashing a grin back at them.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes but sat with ill grace, giving John a glare for good measure.
"I'm not even hungry," he said, sitting with his back straight, keeping his coat on, as if this would somehow keep John from settling them in. John shrugged off his own jacket, shaking his head.
"And I'd not bother you about it if you hadn't taken that knock to the head last week," he said. "But you did, and you're just going to have to get used to the fact that I'm a doctor."
"That hardly comes as a surprise after four years, John," Sherlock pointed out.
"Good," John said as Angelo returned with their coffees and a basket of freshly fried chips. "Then it won't surprise you that we'll sit here until you eat a proper meal."
"It wasn't even as though it was a bad blow to the head," Sherlock muttered, picking up his coffee and sniffing it before adding two sugars to it.
"It left you unconscious for twenty seconds and you're still getting dizzy from it," John said. "And you don't remember it happening, so you're a poor judge of how bad it was. The more you argue, the longer this will take. Eat, because it's either that or I haul you home for six solid hours of sleep."
Sherlock stared at him, presumably to try and judge if he were serious, and John held his gaze, using all the resolve he'd developed in the army, particularly when dealing with drill sergeants and then later, with raw recruits. He cocked an eyebrow when Sherlock seemed unwilling to back down and the consulting detective finally huffed, pulling off his gloves and picking at the chips. John snagged a few for himself and met Sherlock's glare, watching as he ate, reluctantly, but at least he was eating something.
This would probably come back to haunt him, he knew, because Sherlock hated when John got around his defences like this, but at least it wouldn't mean an overnight in the hospital and Lestrade pulling him off the case for being a bleeding idiot.
And he knew Sherlock wouldn't let the case go, not when it had just become interesting, so for all the grumbling he did when Angelo brought their meals, at least he cleaned his plate.