John wanted to believe that things were getting better. Sherlock seemed calmer, most of the time, and there hadn't been any "incidents" in weeks. He came to dinner once a week (unless a case intervened), and they usually ended up talking late into the night afterward, although John did notice that much of it had nothing to do with Sherlock's time away. Greg Lestrade was making an effort to stay involved as well, enticing Sherlock along on cases that weren't always, technically, exactly his in the finest sense of the word, even dragging him over to France for a week to consult with the Surete in Paris. And John had been astounded one evening to catch Sherlock playing online Scrabble with Mycroft, of all people. (In retrospect it did make sense—who else could they play against, after all?—but the idea of Mycroft actually voluntarily playing a game just boggled the mind).
There was something there, though, just under the surface, that disturbed John. Times when Sherlock would abruptly stop talking and leave the room, coming back 20 minutes later with no explanation; times when he saw Sherlock flinch bodily at sudden noises. John tried to tell himself it was all part of the healing process—it had taken him a long time to reintegrate himself after Afghanistan, after all, and Sherlock had only been home a little over 3 months. But in the past two weeks, those odd reactions seemed to be increasing rather than decreasing.
John had tried, at their last dinner together, to broach the subject—ask if Sherlock was struggling with something, if he could help. Sherlock shut him down completely, standing up and going into the kitchen to help Mary with the washing up. And of course that, in and of itself, was so out of character that John wasn't sure what to make of it.
He broke down and asked Mrs. Hudson finally—if she'd noticed anything, any change. "He's not sleeping much. I think he's been having nightmares—I heard him one night," she said reluctantly, as if she were telling tales out of school. "But he's been eating some—I've made sure of that." And John was certain she had—Mrs. Hudson was lethal with the baked goods, and was not above threatening to call Mellie Holmes if she had to. John tended to think of her as Sherlock's Backup Auxiliary Mum.
John observed, and worried, and Sherlock alternated between flitting about like a hummingbird on speed or lying corpse-like on his sofa for endless hours (John could hardly say "their" sofa these days, though his traitorous thoughts insisted on calling it that). Twice John had come up the stairs and found him sleeping soundly; that would have been a good thing under normal circumstances, especially since Mrs. Hudson had mentioned the nightmares. But Sherlock not waking up at John's moving around the flat was just unsettling. He'd never seen Sherlock sleep this heavily unless he was very ill or very exhausted.
John's concerns, in the end, had to take a back burner once the case of the vanishing girls popped up.
Aislinn Reid was the first. Tall, slender, red hair, intelligent by all accounts, and an excellent student. 19; a star sculptor at University of the Arts who was already getting noticed in the larger art world, with an upcoming solo show in two months. She had taken a call late one evening; her roommate said that the caller told her someone had damaged one of her pieces that was on display in one of the school buildings. She had left to go meet the caller (male—no other details), and not been seen again. No ransom note. Aislinn had no steady boyfriend, no known enemies, no especially bad habits (and certainly not drugs). Her caring parents had come from Yorkshire and were still camped out with distant relatives in London, hoping against hope after almost two months of nothing. The disappearance made a bit of a flurry in the press, but nothing exceptional; young girls go missing all the time, after all.
The second, two weeks later, was Melanie Downs. She was a short, curvy natural blond, 20, an Olympic hopeful in equestrian sports. Like Aislinn Reid, she was also a uni student, studying telecommunications at a technical institute in her off-seasons. She had been called by a trainer one evening, according to her (casual) boyfriend, and gone over to the barns to see about changing feed for one of her two horses. She never came home, nor did anyone at the barns that evening remember seeing her. Again, there was no ransom note, even though Melanie came from a very affluent background, and her parents broadcast an appeal on both the telly and the internet offering a substantial reward for information leading to her return.
The third girl was the one that ultimately secured Sherlock's full attention, but not, as it turned out, because of any special interest in the nature of the case itself. Nicolette Hardy was 19, wispy and dark-haired, with a delicate beauty that served her well in her chosen field—she was an elite student at the Royal Ballet School, and an odds-on favorite to be a star in another couple of years. She went missing one evening two weeks after Melanie—but no one knew it until after the fourth victim was reported, since she had supposedly boarded a train for a week-long dance seminar in Paris. No one knew, in fact, until she failed to come home from Paris, three days after the fourth victim was reported missing.
The third—actually the fourth-victim, though, was the one that really started the process of Sherlock's involvement, since that was the point at which Lestrade turned up at Baker Street asking for his help. Sherlock was reluctant, convinced that the girls had voluntarily left; Lestrade had finally enlisted John's help and brought him along to try and herd Sherlock onto the case.
"The latest is Andrea Aldridge," said Greg, dropping the files on the coffee table next to Sherlock. "Age 21. Maths genius; graduate student at the London School of Economics. Mum's Jamaican, Dad's Scottish. Tall, dark curly hair; beautiful girl, really." Sherlock rolled his eyes. John flipped through the photos and agreed with Lestrade; Andrea had the features of a world-class model, with caramel skin and striking green eyes. "Andrea was working on her doctoral defense, and had regular evening meetings with her advisor a couple of nights a week. According to her roommate, she had a call changing the date and time of her regular session to that evening. She went out about 8 and never came home. That was two days ago."
Sherlock frowned. "I will grant that three girls going missing in two months is unlikely to be coincidence, especially given that all of them were apparently stable individuals. The phone calls are interesting; how would the same person or persons have the private phone numbers of all three without knowing them all in some fashion? No known links between them, I presume? At least none that your marginally-efficient staff could establish?"
Greg resisted the urge to roll his eyes, but he did give a gusty, long-suffering sigh. "No, and that's why I'm here. It's certainly not for your charming personality, mate."
"Why should I waste my time being charming? You like me anyway," Sherlock smirked.
Greg didn't stay long, pointing out that someone had to get back to manage his "marginally-efficient staff". John thought about it, then picked up the files, carried them to the shared desks and starting spreading them out while Sherlock looked up what appeared to be random information about components of the girls' lives: maps of school campuses, schedules of dressage competitions, current trends in contemporary sculpture. John had the oddest feeling, though, that he was just going through the motions. He lacked that laser focus that was normally latched on as soon as they were engaged in a case.
John left about 10; Sherlock was locked in his Mind Palace on the sofa, and they had yet to make any real headway on the case. Tomorrow they planned to go to the Yard and review some of the interviews with family and friends, and then meet Mary back at 221B for dinner (since John suspected he and Sherlock would have little time for that kind of thing once the case really kicked into gear).
He met Sherlock at the Yard at noon, not surprised to see him striding back and forth impatiently on the pavement when he stepped out of the taxi. "We agreed to meet at 12," Sherlock snapped in an aggrieved tone. "It's now 12:08."
John raised his eyebrows in an "and your point is?" kind of way. "Sherlock, I don't think you've ever intentionally been on time for an appointment in your life. And you know what traffic is like between here and the surgery."
"Then you should have left earlier," Sherlock snarled, and swept into the building without looking back to see if John was coming.
Well, all righty then. This was going to be a pleasant afternoon.
The day turned out just about as John expected; Sherlock was by turns surly and bored, and itching for a fight, it seemed. John refused to give him one, and Lestrade certainly wasn't going down that road, so they both ignored the volleys of taunts, sneers and exaggerated sighs launched from their resident Prince of Petulance.
Part of Sherlock's frustration was well-founded, unfortunately. Even Greg had to admit that the investigating officers had done a poor job on some of the interviews—they hadn't even consistently asked the same questions, leading to glaring gaps that could only be filled through re-interviewing.
John and Sherlock were just about to leave the building to begin part of that process when Sally Donovan banged open the door to the conference room, an incident file in her hand. 'There's another one," she said grimly. "19-year-old ballet student. Missing almost 10 days now—we didn't know before, since she was assumed to be at a dance seminar in Paris. Was supposed to be home last night and never showed up. The family called the ballet offices in Paris and discovered that she never arrived." She slid a photo out of the slim folder and pinned it up to the board next to the others, while John reached for the report.
An odd sound behind made him look back at Sherlock. The man was stock still, his face suddenly chalk-white as he stared at the photo pinned to the board. And just as John opened his mouth to ask what was wrong, he spun on his heels and slammed out of the room, while Donovan and Lestrade gaped after him.
John hustled out of the room in his wake, just in time to see him disappear around the corner, phone to his ear. He had no trouble following, though, since he abruptly heard Sherlock semi-shouting. "You know exactly who this is," he said menacingly. "So get my brother on the fucking phone!"
John stood beside Sherlock, shocked at both the tone and the profanity. Sherlock just didn't do that—he wasn't really all that comfortable talking on the phone generally, finding it difficult to judge the correct tone of the conversation without being able to see the person involved. And he virtually never swore—that alone was an indicator of severe upset.
John could hear muffled noises from the other end, and suddenly heard what was recognizable as Mycroft's slightly nasal voice. He started to speak but was cut off by Sherlock. "Nicky is missing," he said bluntly, with more than a hint of unsteadiness. "Her name has come up in connection with several abductions of young girls that John and I are working on. I need to speak with Alistair and Alicia as soon as possible, in person preferably. Do you know if they're in London?" More indistinct sounds from the other end. Sherlock nodded. "Good, then. Text me when you've arranged it."
Two hours later (after a minimal explanation from Sherlock, which consisted entirely of a muttered "I know the family"), John found himself in one of Mycroft's luxurious cars, pulling up to an elegant townhouse in Belgravia. Mycroft wasn't with them, but Sherlock had mentioned that he would meet them here.
"Here", as it turned out, was the London home of Alistair Hardy, well-known philanthropist and minor peer. He was also Mycroft's oldest friend—they'd apparently known each other since they first started primary school and were neighbors at the Holmes family home in Surrey.
As they pulled up, the door swung open and Mycroft stepped out, accompanied by a handsome blond man and a tiny, dark-haired woman. As Sherlock opened the car door and emerged, the woman surged forward and grabbed him in a firm hug. "Oh, Locket!" she cried. "Thank you so much for coming!" Sherlock, to John's amazement, returned the hug, and then moved to the man and accepted his brief hug as well.
John turned to Mycroft, mildly stunned. "Locket?" he asked softly. Mycroft gave a thin smile. "Sherlock's childhood nickname was 'Lockie'. As a toddler Nicolette started calling him 'Locket' instead, and it stuck, at least with the Hardys." He watched as Sherlock and the Hardys headed into the house. "Alistair and I knew each other before Sherlock was born—he even helped change Sherlock's diapers a time or two. Alistair and Alicia married quite young; Nicolette was born when Sherlock was 14, and he earned extra money on his school holidays childminding her."
John was astounded at the idea of Sherlock minding a baby, minding any child, in fact. But these people had clearly known him all his life; he'd have to take Mycroft's word for it.
The ensuing conversation was unlike any other interview John had ever had—everyone in the room was intelligent, warm and concerned, asking the right questions and volunteering just the kind of information that would be truly useful. It was like being in an alternate dimension—Sherlock hardly had to ask any questions at all.
That, of course, didn't stop Sherlock from occasionally being abrasive, but Alicia was having none of that—a simple "Locket" under her breath brought him right to heel, while John silently marveled.
Unfortunately, her parents' wholehearted cooperation didn't generate any information that was likely to identify Nicolette's kidnappers. "We really had no idea," said Alistair, with a world of self-reproach in his voice. "She said she would be tied up until very late every evening, so we didn't think anything of it when we didn't hear from her during the week of the seminar. Alicia wanted to call her one evening and I talked her out of it," he said, his voice cracking.
"It's doubtful it would have made any difference had we known," Sherlock said dispassionately, but John noticed that he said it without the dismissive tone he would normally use for such a pronouncement. "The police have known about the other girls' abductions from the beginning; timing has not been critical."
Sherlock stood and began prowling in circles around the lounge; it was likely he simply couldn't bear to sit still any longer, and it hadn't escaped John's notice that he was exhibiting all his "tells" for emotional upheaval—fingers twitching rhythmically, lack of eye contact, jerky speech patterns. It was at times like these that John returned to his original assessment of Sherlock as somewhere on the autism spectrum; emotional stress made it harder for Sherlock to mask some of his atypical behaviors.
"There must be some commonality," he said tensely. "We're just missing it. What do all of these girls have in common, something that distinguishes them from all other girls of a similar age and appearance? They aren't targets of opportunity; someone actively searches them out, deceives them, calls them pretending to be someone else…"
Alicia abruptly interrupted. "Calls them? They were all called before they were taken?" she asked shakily.
Sherlock nodded and looked at her expectantly. She didn't disappoint.
"Nicky had a call the afternoon before she left," she said, looking to Alistair for confirmation. "Remember?" He nodded. "She said it was the booking director for the seminar, telling her they had changed her train reservation to be an hour earlier. She really had to hustle to finish everything on time," Alicia continued. "We dropped her off outside St. Pancras Station. She insisted we not wait," she said, and a tear suddenly tracked down her cheek. She caught Sherlock's hand as he made his twentieth round of the room. "We gave her to them, didn't we?" she wailed, and Sherlock looked helplessly at her husband, who strode over and bundled her firmly in his arms.
That was basically it for the interview—everyone seemed to recognize that they had gathered all of the information they could at this juncture, and it was pitifully little.
Mycroft stood with them on the pavement outside the house. "It's not enough, is it?" he said, already knowing the answer. "Of course not," Sherlock snapped, before stopping himself. "I'm…it's not their fault. You need to let them know that," he said fiercely, looking back at the door. Mycroft nodded, accepting the unspoken apology.
The ride back to Baker Street (without Mycroft, who stayed behind) was long and largely silent. Sherlock was worried; he wasn't able to embrace his typical detachment with this case, and it was clearly affecting him. John tried to speak to him twice and was ignored.
Finally, after a solid 10 minutes of silent brooding, Sherlock spoke. "Do you think they're dead?" he said suddenly, in a very small voice. "No," said John, in as reassuring a tone as possible. And he didn't think they were, actually. "They aren't random victims, you said it yourself. If this person was just pulling girls to murder, the bodies would be turning up. And none have."
Sherlock nodded. "That's true." He seemed to be saying it to himself as much as to John. And John was suddenly struck by how very difficult this must be for him—to know what he did about the terrible things people did to each other, to know that anything, anything, could be happening to a child he had known all her life.
It was a terrible evening. Sherlock ate nothing, and snarled at John when he tried to force tea, coffee, even cider down him. He looked obsessively at the files but learned nothing; flitted unceasingly in circles until John, in desperation, grabbed his hand and made him stop. "Look, you're exhausting yourself. Let's take a break. Go for a walk, go to a late dinner, go to Bart's. Just do something other than tearing yourself to shreds."
And Sherlock, in a move that shocked both of them, actually shouted at him. "There's nothing I can do!" They both froze momentarily at that anguished cry. Then Sherlock blinked, clearly not sure what had just happened. "I don't…sorry," he said much more quietly, ducking his head a bit.
"'S alright," said John, as calmly as he could.
In the end they both ended up staying awake most of the night. John couldn't leave Sherlock alone—if ever there was a danger night, this would be it. He texted Mary at 11 and told her; predictably she was both sympathetic and sensible. "See if you can get him started with his violin. You know that usually helps."
John took the suggestion, but in retrospect almost wished he hadn't. Sherlock picked up his instrument and spent the next two hours alternating between wild, frantic, almost atonal screeching and some of the saddest music John had ever heard. He wasn't sure which was worse, and if the music reflected what was going on in Sherlock's head…
Around 2am, John laid down on the couch, intending to just rest a bit; Sherlock had devolved into sitting huddled in his chair, plucking his violin aimlessly. John was terrified of going upstairs, afraid that if he left the room, Sherlock would leave the flat. Nothing he could find out there tonight would be good.
Something woke John just after 5. He jerked awake and looked frantically for Sherlock, giving a heartfelt sigh when he found him still in his chair. He was curled into a tight, defensive ball, and at some point exhaustion had overtaken him. His eyes were closed though he still looked far from relaxed. He didn't stir when John gently slipped the violin from his lax fingers and placed it carefully in its case. John quietly walked into Sherlock's bedroom and came back with the duvet, which he draped over the sleeping figure. Then he laid back down on the couch, covered himself with the tatty afghan and closed his eyes.
John woke again to frantic movement behind him, as Sherlock burst out of his chair and moved swiftly into a fighting stance. John looked over his shoulder to see Greg Lestrade standing in the doorway, mouth agape. "Sherlock?" Greg said hesitantly, afraid to make any sudden movement. "OK then?"
Sherlock was visibly shaken but regrouped quickly. "Of course," he snapped. "You - I thought…" he shook his head. "Nothing. Why are you here?"
"And good morning to you too, sunshine," said Greg snarkily. But then his face dropped; it was clear this wasn't good news. "I wanted to come and tell you myself, so I came here before heading to the scene." He paused. "We have a body."