Chapter Nine
Pages turned. Thousands of tabs were opened on internet browsers. Google searches were made. The infrequent sound of a key board clacking. The occasional groan from either Sherlock or John as yet another hopeful lead got away from them yet again. The one subject beyond Sherlock's reach. Well, that and the solar system. They'd been at work for almost an hour and still nothing. Most of the time Sherlock would at least find a half decent lead in the first five minutes of investigating and then continue to search it through the night. But today, nothing. On this case, barely anything. Sherlock was disheartened. It was rare that such a thing would happen, but it wasn't completely unheard off. John failed to keep up with occasional shout of character names or even seemingly random words coming from Sherlock's side of the room.
"Have you looked up the factory yet?" John asked, giving up on yet another useless website.
"No."
"Are you going to?"
"I don't know."
"Why?"
"BECAUSE I DON'T HAVE A CLUE THAT'S WHY!" Sherlock yelled across the room, throwing his book down (where he'd suddenly gotten a copy of Hamlet John had no idea) and pacing angrily back and forth across the living room, his heavy footsteps making a barely satisfying thud.
"I'll see if I can find it then." John said under his breath, "Do you know what the factory made? I'll do some searching."
"Chemicals." Sherlock huffed, folding his arms and turning to face the wall on the couch. Sulking.
John did a couple of quick searches (well, as quick as you can get when you type slowly) and managed to come across a website called derelict London. He clicked on the link and found the page for disused chemical factories, finally coming across the right one.
"There's not much you can say about it except that it went into disrepair after the Second World War." John said, unsure as to whether or no Sherlock was actually speaking. There was silence for a moment.
"Oh. OH. Oh!" You could almost hear the italics in Sherlock's voice, "Oh that's good. War crime John. War crimes. Google that!"
"There's quite a few. Oh there's one I did at school, king… King something or other."
"Lear John, Lear."
"What?"
"King Lear John."
"Yes that's it. His daughter, Cordelia was hung in her cell after Lear lost the battle against Cornwall. The factory's history is obviously representative of the lost in battle, after all, it closed just after World War Two. The hand cuffs show imprisonment and she was strangled and then hung because the killer knew it would be quicker. Maybe he was strapped for time of maybe he just didn't want to have to fight with her in order to get her into the noose. Erm… Am I missing anything Sherlock? Normally you would have stopped me by now." John trailed off, Sherlock was looking at him with an intense amount of pride on his face.
"Actually John, those points are all perfectly viable. Tomorrow we interrogate the neighbours I promise."
"Do we really want to question people on a Sunday?"
"At least we'll be fairly sure that they'll be in."
"Fair point Sherlock." John replied, yawning. "Jesus I'm tired. I think I'm just going to go to bed. Are you coming?"
"Maybe in a little bit." Sherlock replied flashing John a quick smile, "I'm not really tired yet. You know how cases get."
John nodded and headed upstairs to get ready for bed, he stripped of his clothes and slid into bed, not bothering with pyjamas or a shower, he was too tired. He lay down in bed, making sure to take Sherlock's pillow instead of his own so that he could smell his partner as he drifted off to sleep. Somewhere downstairs Sherlock had picked up his violin and had begun playing a slow, sweet tune, with long legato bowing and a soothing melody. John quickly identified this as what Sherlock called 'John's Lullaby." It was frequently played after and during John's nightmares in an attempt to soothe him. Though, now a days, as John's nightmares became less frequent the violin piece was more regularly heard when Sherlock was trying to be romantic on John's birthday and at Christmas. Of course, the piece also appeared on the occasional evening (such as now) when John was just tired. It was Sherlock's way wishing John goodnight when his mind was otherwise occupied. John also frequently requested that Sherlock played it for him in those rare quiet moments secretly loving the fact that Sherlock had written a piece especially for him.
Sherlock played a little louder, making sure that the notes carried from the thin metal strings on his violin up the stairs and danced towards John's ears. His hands brushed familiar well-worn wood, feeling he familiar grooves of consistent practice and playing, the spots where the varnish had worn away slightly or where hands and finger tips touched onto smooth wood, eroded gently over the years. The bow dragged carefully across the strings, occasionally slowing as he held the lower notes, the slight vibrato filling the air as the notes varied minutely, not even semi-tones apart. His long pale finger tips played an effortless and flowing game of twister across the strings touching for seconds on all of them, occasionally lingering for longer on a one over the other as a snippet of a scale was played. The way Sherlock played almost made the instrument seem alive and Sherlock's old teacher had often likened the instrument's bow to that of a beating heart, (Sherlock's mother had insisted on employing an experience violin enthusiast as Sherlock's teacher, insistent that if Sherlock was to learn how to play, he'd learn to play like a lover of the instrument). In the same way that a human heart keeps the body going and is often associated with controlling emotion the bow keeps the music alive and moving (and while it is possible to use pizzicato to keep the music going, it never flowed quite as well as slurred bowing) but it also controlled the emotion of the piece, ranging from quick upbeat happy notes to long slow tragic ones.
Once Sherlock was certain John was asleep he switched from tune to tune for a few hours, making sure to play the gentle, more serene ones in order to avoid waking John. The music slowed and intoxicated his mind, drowning out the loud rushing thoughts that were all too eager to keep him up at night, tossing and turning, trying to escape the constant babble of possibilities in a murder case or a the many qualities of keeping bees or how to cook pasta, open a champagne bottle correctly, ride a bike, swim, fish, the list could continue for hours. The violin cleared that. Once Sherlock was completely certain his mind had slowed enough he followed in John's now cold footsteps, up the stairs and towards the bedroom, ready to sink into the mattress under warm covers.