Thy memory be as a dwelling-place
For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh! then,
If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief,
Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts
Of tender joy wilt thou remember me
- William Wordsworth
The rain was ice cold on the back of John's neck and the fierce wind stung his cheeks and hands. He had been standing in the middle of a field for the past half an hour watching Sherlock stare at a tree.
He usually didn't mind waiting, he liked to see Sherlock at work, he enjoyed watching his eyes as they darted from one thing to another making connections and deductions that no one else seemed to be able to do. John had also noticed that Sherlock made little noises when he was thinking: little high pitched pops when he was pleased with something or low, deep throated grunts when he was irritated.
It was always euphoric being around Sherlock while he was on a case.
But as thirty minutes ticked into forty and the rain came down harder and colder and Sherlock had yet to stop looking at the tree that – to John – looked the same as the other five thousand trees that surrounded the area… John couldn't help but get slightly irritated.
"What's he doing?" Lestrade asked as he came to stand by John.
"He's looking at a tree."
"Why?"
"I have no idea."
"Hey Sherlock!" Lestrade shouted as he cupped his hands over his mouth in an attempt to help carry his voice through the howling wind, "You are aware that the dead body is over here?"
"There's nothing more I can learn from the body." Sherlock called back.
"You haven't even seen it." Lestrade shouted.
"I don't need to; it'll be identical to the others."
"But you_"
"Do you think that maybe you could cross the thirteen meters of land that separates us so that we can have this pointless conversation without shouting?"
Lestrade mumbled something under his breath before stomping across the sodden ground, "Come with me," he said to John, "if you're not there to stop me I'll end up hitting him."
"What makes you think that I'd stop you?" John asked as he pulled the lapels of his jacket tighter around him and followed Lestrade across the field.
Once they were standing a few feet away from Sherlock, Lestrade said,
"What's the significance of the tree?"
Sherlock was silent for a moment before he extended his hand and pressed a pale finger to the bark,
"Can you see it?" He asked, addressing his question to John.
John took a step closer and saw that, just to the right of Sherlock's finger, there was a set of initials carved into the tree.
"EW?" John read, "What does it stand for?"
"Elizabeth Wilson." Sherlock said as he traced the letters with the pad of his thumb.
"Who_?"
"She's the victim." Lestrade said, "How the hell did you see this Sherlock?"
"He carves the initials of the victim into something near the crime scene. I just had to open my eyes and look – a new concept to you inspector I'm sure."
Lestrade rolled his eyes before he turned and signalled for the forensic team to come over to the tree.
"Why does he do that?" John asked as he watch Sherlock staring at the initials, a small crease marring his brow.
"It's his signature isn't it?" Lestrade said it more as a statement than a question.
"That's one explanation. It's the wrong one but I'll give you points for trying."
"What is it then?" Lestrade asked between gritted teeth.
John watched as Sherlock's fingers traced the bark lethargically, almost like the way he strokes the strings of his violin when he's in deep thought.
"It's a message."
"To who?"
"To me."
"Why_?"
Sherlock suddenly snatched his hand away from the tree and stared at Lestrade,
"They only started to appear after I was asked to join the case. Considering your forensic team is made up of a selection of the finest idiots that have ever graced the police force, I had to go back to the previous crime scenes and examine them. No initials. The first ones appeared the week after you asked me to "help you out". The murder of Isabella Vorn."
Sherlock turned back to the tree and pressed his palms together underneath his chin. He stared at the carving, his eyes darting from side to side, seemingly seeing something that wasn't there.
"These initials are messages to me; he's trying to tell me something."
"Do you mean he's killing to impress you?" Lestrade asked almost outraged.
Sherlock snorted,
"This man is a sexually driven psychopath, he kills because he enjoys it. He would have killed women regardless but he specifically chose these women to send me a message. They differ in race, age and every other form of physical characteristic. Isabella Vorn was married, Eve Gilbert and Olivia Thompson were single, Theodora Hemp was engaged and Elizabeth Wilson was obviously gay."
"How…" Lestrade began but then waved off his own question, "Carry on."
"Every woman differs from the other in every possible way – except for the fact that they're all female – so the message has to be in their names." Sherlock stood silent for a few seconds, seemingly impervious to the pouring rain and ice cold wind.
The second he heard the forensic team approach he made a sound of disgust and stormed off.
"Sherlock," John called after him, "wait up."
He didn't and John was forced to practically sprint through the mud to keep up with the long legged strides of Sherlock Holmes.
John passed the tent where the dead woman lay naked and surrounded by wet leaves and grass. The bright white suits worn by the forensic team seemed out of place in this grey, bleak, colourless place.
The sky above them was almost black with heavy clouds and a brewing thunder storm. John watched the ends of Sherlock's coat flutter wildly in the wind, watched as it played violently with the strands of his hair.
"Sherlock." He called again and this time Sherlock stopped and turned to look at him, his face pale and impassive.
John took advantage of Sherlock's moment of stillness to jog over to him. When he finally reached him he saw that Sherlock looked more troubled than exhilarated – which wasn't normal when he was this embedded in a case. His eyes, although bright with thought, were narrowed and the crease in his brow had deepened.
"Are you alright?"
Sherlock stared past him for a moment, his mind lost in a place that John would never be able to reach.
"Something isn't right." Sherlock said at last, "I have this feeling that something isn't right. I'm on the cusp of something, of seeing the truth in blinding Technicolor but at the moment_" he slapped his palms together and pressed them beneath his chin again.
His black hair was plastered to his forehead and neck, an astonishing contrast to the ashen skin of his face.
John watched as a single droplet of water trickled down the column of Sherlock's throat and disappeared beneath his shirt.
"The names are clues; they're part of a picture, a puzzle, something so much bigger than simple murder but what I don't know. I don't know John." Sherlock repeated before his eyes finally found John's.
"This man is goading me, taunting me with fragmented pieces of the past. This is dangerous and usually that would excite me but it doesn't John, this frightens me."
His honestly startled John and he quickly realised that Sherlock was asking him for advice. Sherlock never asked anyone for advice, it wasn't in his nature. But John could see that beneath Sherlock's harsh stare there was a flicker of fear that he had never seen before.
The fact that Sherlock Holmes was frightened of something made John almost petrified.
"You'll work it out." John said, "You always do."
Sherlock just stood there staring at him,
"This feels different. This feels personal."
"Who would want to hurt you?"
At this Sherlock's lips finally twitched into a small semblance of a smile,
"I have a list – which seems to grow larger each year."
"That list might be smaller if you practiced being pleasant to people."
"I am pleasant to people." Sherlock said indignantly.
John nodded and then pointed towards the swarm of people scattered around the field,
"I'd bet good money that if you said hello to anyone of those people they'd punch you straight in the face."
"They're not people," Sherlock said as he looked at them with utter contempt, "they're rats, scurrying around in their invisible cages, completely oblivious to the fact that every second they're slipping closer to death, closer to being completely erased from the face of this Earth. And what would they have contributed? They do nothing but suck up oxygen."
John smiled slightly as he felt a sudden surge of fondness for Sherlock and his blatant disregard for the rest of the human race.
"Should we go home?"
"Why?" Sherlock asked perplexed.
"It's raining."
Sherlock's brow furrowed slightly and he turned his face up to the cloud blackened sky. After a few seconds he tilted his head back to earth, his face now drenched in droplets of rain,
"So it is."