The rays of light fall through the leaves,
They ignite and burn and bleach the grass beneath.
Light makes things clear,
Banishes the darkness away,
Lays bare the truths of the newly born day.
- Anon
John hadn't been able to return to sleep after Sherlock had passed out. He had simply sat in his armchair drinking countless cups of tea while watching the sun rise through the curtains.
When the room had grown light enough he had tried to read some of the things that Sherlock had written on the sticky notes, but the tense, bunched up letters - which were interspersed randomly with numbers and symbols – had made his brain hurt.
At around five he had settled on re-reading the entries on his blog and scrolling through the pages of comments that fans had left. But before long the words seemed to merge into one and John found himself just staring blankly at the screen.
He had often wondered how it was possible for Sherlock to see the things that he did, how easily he could read people and places, almost as if he was reading the answers off a page. He wondered if it was painful to see so much when all around you appeared to be comparatively blind. John sometimes wondered if he himself annoyed Sherlock with his trite observations and genial contentment with life.
He didn't understand why they worked so well together or why Sherlock – who was constantly either elated or sinking into a chronic depression – generally seemed to find John's company pleasant.
John placed his head on Sherlock's desk and breathed in the smell of the cleaning fluids that Mrs Hudson used.
He had been questioning these things on an increasingly frequent basis and he hated it. He hated how he could feel something inside of him slowly being changed and morphed into something that he was too afraid to look at. It felt as if a knot had been looped around his internal organs and every day it grew a little tighter until the tightness had become an uncomfortable ache.
John turned his head on the desk and stared at the clock. It was seven-forty-five and he had put it off long enough. He sighed, dug into the pocket of his dressing gown and dialled Mycroft's number.
"I'm assuming this call has something to do with Sherlock." Mycroft said as way of a greeting.
"Good morning Mycroft."
"You don't have to bother with pleasantries, at this point in our relationship they have been rendered redundant."
John sighed, the acerbic nature that the brothers shared was only endearing in the younger Holmes.
"I need your help, Sherlock has gotten himself involved with_"
"Why are you whispering?"
"Sherlock's asleep."
Mycroft was silent for a moment,
"I see." Mycroft said and John could almost hear him smirking.
"What? No! No I don't... we didn't... he's just..." John took a deep breath, "I had to drug him. He's become obsessed with a case."
"That seems common place for Sherlock."
"I wouldn't be calling if it wasn't important."
Mycroft sighed,
"What's he done?"
John's gaze travelled across the room and alighted on the sleeping form of Sherlock Holmes. He hadn't moved all night and John, being irrationally worried that he'd had an adverse reaction to the drug, had periodically gotten up to check his pulse.
Sherlock looked peaceful at the moment and although dark rings still marred the skin beneath his eyes, his pale complexion looked almost human in the glow of the morning sun.
"He's attracted the attention of a sadistic serial killer." John said in answer to Mycroft's question
"And exactly why is this a problem? It sounds more like a treat for Sherlock."
John stood up and began pacing quietly,
"He's become obsessed, he's not been sleeping or eating, he's turned our living room into a giant mind map and I had to peel fourteen nicotine patches off his arm – which frankly defies the laws of science because he should have overdosed." John rubbed his brow in frustration, "He thinks that the women were killed because they link to some of our past cases. He's been connecting everything with sticky notes and fucking wool." John said as he kicked one of the offending balls of wool across the room.
"He's done all of this before." Mycroft said.
"This is different."
"How so?"
John cast a glance in Sherlock's direction to make sure that he was still sound asleep before he said, "He's been talking about Irene."
Mycroft was silent for so long that John had to check that the call hadn't disconnected,
"Irene Adler is dead." Mycroft said at last, "I have both a physical identification and a DNA match to prove it."
"I know, but Sherlock thinks that she's alive somewhere in America, happily living out her life, tying up men and whipping them into submission. If he probes into it anymore he'll find out that she's dead – that I lied to him – and I don't know how that'll affect him."
"What, the fact that she's dead or the fact that you lied to him?"
John sighed,
"Both. Look Mycroft, I'm worried about him and I don't... I'm not sure how to help him."
There was a knock at the door and John snapped his head in the direction of the hallway. Mrs Hudson would get it – she was usually up by this time.
"Are you still there?" John asked.
"Of course, now let me in."
"Pardon."
"I'm at the door."
John stopped mid-step and turned the phone around to stare at it incredulously,
"How..." he began before putting the phone back to his ear and continuing, "How the hell did you get here so fast? I can't have been speaking to you for more than ten minutes."
"Experience has taught me that, when it comes to Sherlock, it's best to nip the problem in the proverbial bud before it gets a chance to turn malignant. Now are you going to let me or would you prefer for us to continue having this conversation over the phone?"
"I... I'll be there in a minute." John said before he disconnected the call and padded down the stairs.
The early morning air was cold and the bright burst of sunlight stung John's eyes. He had to shield his face before he could clearly see the outline of Mycroft Holmes standing at the doorstep.
"Good morning John." Mycroft said with a tight lipped smile.
John was sure that Mycroft had a sort of symbiotic relationship with his suits, almost as if he was some sort of beetle type creature and the suit was his exoskeleton. John wondered if he slept in it.
"Are you going to invite me in?"
John nodded and walked away from the door, allowing Mycroft to follow him up the stairs.
Once John re-entered the front room he saw that Sherlock was sitting up, half of his hair plastered to his face, his eyes still distant with his recent sleep. He rubbed his eyes and then blinked at John as the events of last night began to seep back into his memory. He opened his mouth and looked as if he was about to say something when he spotted Mycroft standing in the hallway.
"What is he doing here?" Sherlock asked as he narrowed his eyes at John.
"I'm just popping by," Mycroft said as he pushed pass John and entered the front room, "I see that you decided to redecorate." Mycroft said as he cast a disinterested eye over the walls.
"You called him." Sherlock said accusatorily, "Was it because of the nicotine patches or the bottles of urine?"
"The_ What urine?"
Sherlock ignored him by turning his attention back to Mycroft,
"I don't need your help; I'm on the verge of solving this case."
"Really?" Mycroft said as he unbuttoned the single button that fastened the lapels of his suit jacket together and sat down in the chair opposite John's, "Because John thinks that you're on the verge of a mental breakdown."
"John is mistaken."
"I don't think that he is." Mycroft said as he stared analytically at his brother's face.
They had seemingly entered a staring competition because neither brother had blinked or broken eye contact for at least a minute.
"Should I put the kettle on?" John asked, hoping to dispel some of the tension.
"Why?" Sherlock asked as he finally turned his attention to John, "Is there something else you wish to drug me with?"
"Have you been using again?" Mycroft asked before John could say anything.
Sherlock's head snapped towards his brother,
"Of course I haven't."
"You have that look in your eye, the one you only get when you've been shooting up."
"John_"
"I'm not talking about the Diazepam, I'm talking about cocaine."
Sherlock stood up and wrenched the coat off his back. He turned his bare arms up to the light and slapped the insides of his elbows,
"See, no track marks."
"You have other veins."
Sherlock's nostrils flared and his hands flew to the waistband of his pyjama trousers_
"WOW!" John said, effectively stopping Sherlock's disrobing process, "Boys, let's not do... whatever it is that you're doing. I'll take a blood sample later today and we'll get Molly to analyse it."
"I am not using drugs." Sherlock hissed as he enveloped himself in the crocheted blanket and sat himself down heavily on the sofa.
Mycroft kept his eyes trained on Sherlock for a few moments longer before he turned his attention back to the pictures on the wall.
"John tells me that you've been reviewing your past cases to try and solve this one, what are your thoughts?"
"I will not narrate something that you already know, don't treat me like a child."
"Then don't act like one."
"Boys." John warned again, his eyes flickering around the room to check that there were no sharp objects to hand.
Mycroft sighed and brushed an invisible piece of fluff from his jacket,
"John also tells me that you've been talking about Irene Adler."
Both John and Sherlock became very still.
"I think that it's time to tell you the truth about that particular case." Mycroft continued, seemingly impervious to the two men's obvious discomfort. Mycroft stared impassively at Sherlock for a second before he said,
"She's dead."
John's eyes bore into the side of Sherlock's face searching for any signs of emotion. There was none to be found.
"Dead?" Sherlock asked, his voice clipped and cool.
"Yes, she was beheaded in Pakistan just a little over a year ago. I didn't think that the knowledge of this would benefit you so I told John that she entered into an American witness protection programme."
Sherlock stared blankly back at Mycroft and although his face was impassive, John could see a muscle twitching violently in Sherlock's jaw.
"Does this help you with your case?" Mycroft asked.
Sherlock's eyes shifted from his brother towards the far wall. He was silent for a long time but slowly John watched as blood began to colour Sherlock's cheeks and his eyes started to flicker rapidly from one photograph to another. He appeared almost shocked, as if someone had slapped him across the face.
"What is it?" John asked.
Sherlock stood slowly, the blanket slipping from his shoulders – now completely forgotten. Sherlock moved closer to the wall, seemingly mesmerised by something.
"Sherlock_"
"How did I miss this?" Sherlock whispered as he pressed his finger against the photograph of the first victim.
"Miss what?"
"Objectivism, my objectivism has been compromised." Sherlock said as he suddenly ripped the photograph of Isabella Vorn off the wall, "Seventeen hours spent researching geographical patterns," this statement was followed by the tearing down of several of the maps and, with them, dozens of sticky notes.
"Six days cataloguing past cases," more sticky notes were torn down, "a week cross referencing seven years of collective data and all I had to do was look at the only clue that he has been leaving me!" Sherlock practically roared as he torn down the final remnants of the photographs on the wall.
Torn pieces of paper and notes and photographs covered the floor like a layer of dead leaves. The ripped fragments of the dead women's photographed faces intertwined with one another, mismatched pieces of noses and eyes and lips lay amongst the multicoloured sticky notes.
The room was quiet, the silence only broken by the sound of Sherlock's breathing and the rustling of torn paper as he paced across the room.
"What are you talking about?" John asked as he watched Sherlock pace through the piles of paper.
Sherlock's eyes flickered to John's, his body becoming still, "The initials, they're not messages on their own – they need to be put together." Sherlock said and he made a show of interlinking his fingers as if to further convey his point.
John's eyes shifted to Mycroft – who was staring at his brother in complete bemusement.
"Sherlock_"
"Oh for goodness sake!" Sherlock hissed as he strode over to his desk, grabbed a piece of paper and a pen and began to violently carve something into the page, "It's not the chronology of the murders but the chronology of the cases that they link to." He finished writing and thrust the paper at John.
"Isabella Vorn, Eve Gilbert, Olivia Thompson, Theodora Hemp, Elizabeth Wilson, Onika Martins and Annie Normans_ these women, in that order, spell out the message that he was trying to send me."
John looked from Sherlock's face to the piece of paper that he had thrust into his hand. Written on the yellow page were the women's initials, arranged to spell out the sentence:
I'VE GOT THE WOMAN
Slowly John looked up from the page to Sherlock, who was staring at him with an almost crazed look in his eyes; his cheeks flushed bright red with blood.
"This is what he's been trying to tell me." Sherlock said, "He has her John, this serial killer has Irene Adler."