John and Sherlock caught a cab to the scene of the first murder. The twenty minute long ride proved to be a painfully uncomfortable experience for both men as they stared out opposite windows, watching the rain drizzle onto the London streets.
John pretended not to notice the furtive glances coming from Sherlock's direction. John himself was resisting the urge to look over, to see if he liked the shorter hair Sherlock was sporting these days or if he was wearing the purple dress shirt that he'd always liked. All he wanted to do was move a bit closer, but he had lost his opportunity when he chose to sit as far as possible upon first entering the cab. Because of this John managed to set the tone for the rest of the day. One of barely-there civility.
The car pulled up in front of a house blocked off by police tape. John walked ahead to greet the officer who was standing guard near the front door. Sherlock followed close behind, his eyes on John's back. As always trying to read him, trying to decide what he should say next and what topics to stay clear of.
When they entered the house, John stood off to the side, casually observing his surroundings as Sherlock got to work.
John had not realized before that moment how much he missed watching Sherlock work. It was fascinating and the expressions of whoever was watching, in this case the officer who followed them into the house, usually added to the experience. The officer watched, baffled as Sherlock got down on all floors to examine the scuff marks on the wooden floors.
After getting a proper sniff, Sherlock stood up suddenly, startling the officer who was not used to such methods of investigation. He shuffled over to the windows on the opposite side of the room, checking the locks on the window before proceeding to the bathroom where the murder had occurred.
John watched silently with his eyes fixed on Sherlock now that he had the opportunity to get a good look at him without interruption. It seemed Sherlock didn't change as much as John thought. His mannerisms were familiar, the way he immersed himself in a case and shut out the rest of the world. It seemed he lost more weight, if that were even possible, making John worry. He never did know how to keep a balanced diet.
As John went after Sherlock, he noticed that books had been overturned in the next room, as if someone had been sorting through them.
"Excuse me officer, is it alright to touch these?" John asked gesturing towards the books.
The officer nodded, "Yes sir, photos have already been taken of everything."
As John began picking through the books, he noticed most of them were on grammar, one in particular caught his eye. A book about shorthand. Suddenly, John remembered something from the case file.
"Sherlock!"
A loud sound came from the direction of the bathroom, as if something was dropped. A moment later, Sherlock appeared in the doorway with a forced calm about him.
It was the first time in a long while that John had said Sherlock's name directly.
"Did you – yes?" There was something in the look Sherlock gave John, something similar to hope. However John did not look up, he simply held out the book for Sherlock's inspection. The hope slid from Sherlock's eyes as he grabbed the book from John's hand.
He studied it for a moment before the realization suddenly clicked. The symbols that were drawn on the victim's bodies were not ancient symbols or a different language, but a form of shorthand.
The killer was trying to spell out a message.