The overcast skies gave way to rain sometime around midnight and it drummed steadily on the windows, rattling against the glass. From outside, the murmur of traffic was muted and Sherlock couldn't hear the sound of John's breathing from the bedroom where he slept. Not that he could have anyway; the door was shut and John was not prone to snoring, but Sherlock noted it now and felt its absence.
The yellow light from the lamp pooled on the table and mixed with the blue-tinted illumination from his laptop's screen and John's, making the darkness outside the windows seem deeper. Sherlock sat pushed back from the desk, palms pressed together, fingertips resting on his chin, and stared at the open book in front of him. He'd had Anthea deliver a new copy of Grimm's Fairy Tales and had been researching nursery rhymes online.
Without any success whatsoever.
Sherlock gazed at the open book, not really seeing the spread pages with the colourful images and his own handwriting already dominating the margins, not noticing when John's laptop screen went dark to conserve power.
Where was he leading them?
And there was no doubt they were being led. The man behind the killer, this puppeteer, was pulling their strings – but whose? His or Mycroft's? Both?
Where did the stories fit in? The nursery rhymes from this time and last, the fairy tales, even the legend of the Greyfriar's Bobby. In Edinburgh the stories had led them places – but not all of them. Was this ridiculous rhyme supposed to lead him somewhere now?
He flicked a finger across his laptop's trackpad to keep the screensaver from activating and glared at the browser page. There were several variations on "Ring a-Ring o' Roses", including in other languages. He read the German version and looked at the Gaelic version before reading its translation.
But which one?
He closed his eyes, fixing the most common version in his mind. A ring of roses, yes, that had been drawn on the letter, the one that was now spread out on the table above the book. And Laurence had been pushed down the stairs – "we all fall down", as John had said.
But could it be that simple? Given the choices, should he choose the most common? If so, what did it mean? Was it leading them anywhere or was it simply taunting them?
What if it were the German version? He'd considered in Edinburgh that the killer might not be British – and several of the fairy tales he'd used were German in origin. But the story about the Greyfriar's dog was from Edinburgh itself. The crooked man rhyme was English. 'Little Red Riding Hood' could be traced back to France and Italy. There was no pattern – and none of it necessarily even suggested a European. He could be from anywhere; these stories were not uncommon or inaccessible. And Sherlock was certain the killer was only delivering the messages, not planning their content.
Where do you want us to go? he asked, opening his eyes again. The laptops and the book sat mutely in front of him, offering no answers. Sherlock had attempted to find some link to Murray but even if this were directed specifically at him, Mycroft had put guards on him immediately, before Sherlock had arrived at Laurence's flat. A quick argument with his brother had ensured the same security for Inspector Anna Anderson and her daughters in Edinburgh. They could take no chances.
He pushed himself to his feet, walking instinctively toward his violin before stopping short, tensing his muscles as he hauled himself back, eyes darting to the closed bedroom door. John was asleep. In the nearly seven years they'd been together, it had always been difficult to resist playing when John slept, sometimes more so than others. Now it seemed like sheer effort to distance himself from his instrument but, at the same time, part of him suddenly realized he could not stand to open it and see the small brass plaque with its heartfelt engraving from John.
Sherlock turned away, raking his hands through his hair.
They were being played, and not in the way Moriarty had played them, because Moriarty had wanted to draw Sherlock out and meet him. To encounter the enemy who was on his level.
Whoever was behind this didn't want to be found. He simply wanted to wreak havoc, to force them to chase him around uselessly.
Someone who knew how to elude Mycroft. The realization made him shudder.
He stalked back to the table, bent over the letter again, tried to tease some hint from its silent surface. It stayed resolutely the same.
The buzz from his phone startled him upright, the sound loud in the silence that permeated the flat, the same silence that seemed to have taken up residence over the course of the past week. Sherlock snatched up his mobile, unlocking it quickly, and a text message from a blocked number winked onto the screen.
You've got the words a bit wrong.
Sherlock stared at it a moment, then sucked in a breath and hit the reply button.
How so? he demanded, holding the phone between his taut fingers, waiting for a reply that did not come. He exhaled in a hiss and was crossing the flat before he knew it, pushing open the bedroom door, letting in a shaft of light that followed him from the living room.
John was asleep on his back and that very image stopped Sherlock in his tracks – since they had returned to sleeping in the same bed only a few days previous, John had slept on his right side each night – his back to Sherlock as a barrier. Now he lay on his back, his left arm curled onto his stomach, his right arm folded over his head, his face turned slightly toward the door.
Sherlock stayed frozen for a moment, everything inside of him urging him to put the phone down, to crawl in beside John, to take advantage of this. He took another deep breath and put the desire aside, crossing the room softly and swiftly, crouching down beside John.
"John," he whispered quietly.
The doctor stirred slightly, a soft sigh escaping his lips, but didn't awaken. Sherlock hesitated, then reached out with his right hand, resting it on John's chest above his heart, feeling the slow and steady pulse against his skin. He stared at his hand for a moment, then shook his head, refocusing.
"John," he said again, somewhat louder this time. "John, wake up."
John inhaled sharply and his muscles tensed. He reached up instinctively, curling his left hand over Sherlock's right, and Sherlock felt the cool kiss of metal from John's wedding ring against his skin. John half sat up, blinking and confused. Sherlock closed his eyes at the unexpected contact, pressing his lips together to keep them from trembling.
John's fingers tightened over his for a moment, then slid down, along the back of Sherlock's hand before dropping away to help push himself up. Sherlock removed his hand as well, opening his eyes again, meeting John's gaze.
"What is it?" John asked and there was genuine concern in his voice and none of the irritation at being woken that Sherlock had expected.
Sherlock extended the phone wordlessly and John took it, reading the message, his brown eyes widening in the near darkness.
"You have to call Mycroft," the doctor said, not even needing to ask who had sent the message. He put the phone back in Sherlock's palm, running his fingers over Sherlock's as he drew his hand away. Sherlock felt a faint shudder go through him and closed his eyes again.
"Sherlock," John said, patiently but firmly.
Sherlock snapped his eyes open, nodded, and called up his contact list. He thumbed through it for his brother's number, about to select it when his phone rang, startling both of them slightly with the unexpected sound.
Sherlock met John's eyes; the doctor had seen Mycroft's name light up on the screen.
"Mycroft," Sherlock answered, holding John's steady gaze. "He's just contacted me."
"And he's killed someone else," his brother replied, a sharp note in his otherwise overly patient voice.
"When?" Sherlock demanded.
"An hour ago," Mycroft replied.
"Text me the address. We're on our way." He hung up without preamble and pushed himself to his feet, John's eyes following him.
"Get up and get dressed, John. There's another victim."
John was tired but hadn't complained, although Sherlock could see clear regret at the loss of sleep with a full day at the clinic looming in front of him. He had cast one enquiring glance at the doctor in the cab but John had only given him a tight smile and a brief nod. In the pre-dawn darkness, with the raining easing up and the orange glow from the street lamps, John's features were cast in shadows, illuminated here and there with bright lines at the angles – his cheekbones, his nose, the line of his forehead in profile. The smile he'd given Sherlock had been delineated mostly by deeper shadows caused by the shifting of muscles.
Unsurprisingly, there was already a military police vehicle there and a sergeant and a corporal were establishing a perimeter around the house, moving with silent precision, speaking to each other only with gestures and nods. No lights were flashing, no attention was being drawn – at three-thirty in the morning, Mycroft was attempting discretion. There were no neighbours gathered around like there would have been if the Met had been called to investigate and a quick glance down the block with its darkened detached homes indicated most of the inhabitants were still safely asleep.
The sergeant examined their identification and let them pass. Sherlock saw John's gaze linger a moment. Did he miss this? Was he experiencing nostalgia or simply accessing memory? Sherlock couldn't tell and the realization made him suppress a growl – his attention was needed elsewhere.
Mycroft met them at the front door and Sherlock evaluated the house upon stepping in. A couple in their late fifties; married thirty to thirty-five years judging by the style of dress in the framed wedding photo that hung on the wall. Still married, given that the picture was still on display but a bit dusty – they were used to seeing it and used to giving it no thought. He thought suddenly of the framed wedding picture that sat in his flat on the small table beside the couch. How long had it been since they had cleaned it? He resolved to do so when he got home.
Three children, all adults now, and more photos in the corridor and in the stairwell going up to the first floor confirmed this. Two daughters and a son – the son was the middle child. Grandchildren from both daughters but not the son, although there was a framed photo of him on a small table in the corridor holding a tiny newborn baby – the first grandchild. Beside that a more recent picture of the couple with all of their grandchildren – a young boy, a toddler girl sitting on the man's lap, and a baby held by the woman.
A happy family by all appearances and perhaps appearances did not belie the truth here. The wife was not involved in this and nor were the children. He repressed a snort – not the grandchildren either, if only by virtue of their age. He glanced around again. The house well cared for: fresh paint on the walls within the last two years, clean carpets and floors, the oak banister had seen some dusting recently. A house that was well maintained and loved.
"Where?" he asked and Mycroft gestured up the stairs. From an unseen room Sherlock could hear the sound of someone crying. The wife was at home, then.
He took the pair of proffered gloves, snapping them on as he climbed the stairs. John was behind him, close enough that his presence was palpable. Sherlock ignored it, following Mycroft into the master bedroom.
The victim lay on his back, eyes open to the ceiling, blood soaked into the pillow and sheets and trailing down toward the floor. Not entirely congealed or dried. Mycroft had said an hour on the phone; his brother's assessment was probably correct. The victim was on one side of the king bed and the side closest to where they stood was untouched. The sheets were somewhat rumpled where the victim's movements in his sleep had disturbed them, but they hadn't been turned down.
"Where was the wife?" Sherlock asked.
"Just got back from Austria. One of the children lives there," Mycroft replied. "She's the one who found him."
"Who is he?"
"Arthur Kenton. Department of Environment, Food and Rural Affairs."
"Friend of James Murray's?"
Mycroft's hesitation was barely there but noticeable and Sherlock snapped his gaze to his brother.
"No," Mycroft replied.
"There's something you're not telling us," Sherlock said sharply. "Withholding information on a case like this, Mycroft? Do you wish me to make any progress or have you called me here simply because you think I might find this entertaining?"
Mycroft's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, displeasure flitting across his normally solicitous features.
"There is certain – sensitive information regarding this case that I've kept from you until now, yes. I'd rather hoped Laurence's murder was motivated by his friendship with Murray and his public denouncement of the refusal to delay the vote in April. This would have been far simpler for me– for all concerned."
"But it's not," Sherlock said.
"No," Mycroft said again, pursing his lips. He sighed and stepped fully into the room, shutting the door and then heading for the window.
"Leave it," Sherlock said.
"I cannot risk being overheard, Sherlock. I've had the place checked for listening devices but I won't have myself compromised by someone simply eavesdropping through the window."
"Then let me examine the scene first," Sherlock said. His brother stopped and gave a curt nod.
"John?" Sherlock asked and John stepped away from him, circling the bed carefully. He crouched down next to the body, eyes sweeping over it in an initial investigation. Sherlock joined him, evaluating the room, judging the distance from the open window to the bed, noting the footprints – one set heading toward the bed, still showing faint traces of dampness from the rain, another set overlying and obscuring the first, tinged with blood near the toes. Heavier marks than he would expect – not a heavy man; whoever did this needed to be agile enough to climb to get in through that window. Deep treads, so boots. Heavy-duty boots. Hiking or work boots.
An odd choice for breaking in, he thought.
"There was a security system panel on the wall near the door," Sherlock said. "Was it armed when the wife came home?"
"She says it was," Mycroft replied and Sherlock's eyes flickered to John, who was examining the victim's head carefully, fingers moving through the greying hair to better see the wounds. "She reset it when she let herself in."
"So our killer disabled it before entering then reset it after he left – possibly remotely."
"Yes. I've got Anthea checking with the security company to see if there were any external disruptions in the service."
"Assuming he doesn't know someone who works there who could have done it for him."
"Assuming that," Mycroft said, nodding.
"John?" Sherlock asked.
"Blunt force trauma to the skull," John replied. "An hour, an hour and a half ago. Looks like four or five good blows – whoever did this didn't pull back, didn't hesitate."
"He wouldn't," Sherlock agreed.
"Looks like something broad with an edge – not a hammer or the butt of a gun."
"May I?" Sherlock asked and John stood, stepping away. The detective pulled out his hand lens, smoothing one hand into Kenton's hair and pushed the strands aside with his thumb and index finger.
"Bits of white paint and… " He drew back carefully, pinching something carefully between his gloved thumb and finger. "A splinter of wood. Something broad with an edge made of wood and painted."
He glanced over his shoulder at John, who met his eyes squarely.
"A cricket bat," John replied.
"Precisely," Sherlock said, pushing himself to his feet.
"Is he a cricket player then?" John asked. "Those blows were certain – he'd have to be familiar with using it."
"He's a professional killer, John. Wielding a weapon like that, he probably only needed a few minutes to adjust to the weight and the grip before feeling comfortable enough with it to deliver blows like this. He may play cricket but I wouldn't count on it – not with his level of expertise. He's referencing the Murray case by using the bat."
Sherlock turned, indicating the tracks on the floor.
"He came in through the window after the security system had been disabled. No marks on the frame, nor is the screen ripped or broken, so he didn't a grappling hook, however, the tree outside is ideal for scaling and entering undetected. He took the time to remove the screen and replace it after leaving, which indicates he was confident in his work, quick but not rushed. He was wearing boots, something heavy, and given the size of the footprints – assuming he reflects the general trend and his foot length is approximately fifteen percent of his body height – he's five foot ten or five foot eleven. So, unless we're dealing with multiple men of the same height and skills, the same person who murdered Laurence."
He turned back to Mycroft.
"And now you need to tell us why."
Mycroft sighed and crossed the room, closing the window and then the drapes, blocking them from view. He turned back, displeasure colouring his features.
"You must understand what I'm about to tell you is highly classified. As of later today, expect your security clearances to be increased dramatically."
He paused again, as if hoping Sherlock would bow out and allow him to stop there. Sherlock kept his silence and John watched Mycroft carefully, waiting.
"Following the events in April leading to James Murray's absence from the vote and the recovery of Kelsi Murray's body, a committee was formed to investigate both the initial crime and the more recent circumstances in hopes of identifying why Murray was being targeted and to identify the responsible party. This sort of thing is not treated lightly, Sherlock. An MP has been harassed, threatened and a member of his family has been murdered in an attempt to bully him into compliance. This goes beyond pressure or even simple intimidation and has no place in a civilised society or in our government. Benjamin Laurence sat on this committee, as did Arthur Kenton. As do I."
Sherlock sucked in a deep breath.
"How many other people?" he demanded.
"Aside from myself, Laurence and Kenton, six."
"Then all of those people and their families are potentially at risk. You have to assign security to them, let them know of the threat."
"I've already done so – although we cannot risk telling the families of the committee members why they are potential targets. The nature of this committee must be kept classified in order for us to have any hope whatsoever of identifying the guilty party. He's been operating utterly unknown for a decade now, which suggests to me that he was well placed and influential in political circles ten years ago. He will only be more ensconced now."
"What about Kenton's wife, then? She didn't know?"
"No," Mycroft said, shaking his head. "James Murray doesn't even know, although he will later today."
"I need to talk to her, the wife," Sherlock said.
Mycroft sighed again.
"Downstairs," he replied, leading them from the room and back through the house.
Kenton was in the living room, curled up on the couch, still dressed in the clothing in which she'd been travelling. An abandoned suitcase resting near the archway in the corridor. She'd slipped off her high heels which lay on the carpet and had her legs drawn up onto the white leather, feet tucked under her knees. A box of tissues rested on the arm of the couch beside her and her cheeks were streaked both with tears and faint black lines from her mascara. She was approximately five years younger than Arthur Kenton had been, Sherlock judged – or time had been somewhat more lenient with her.
"Mrs. Kenton, we need to ask you some questions, if that's all right," Sherlock said gently. He caught John's look of surprise at his tone but ignored it – she was not a woman who would respond to confrontation right now.
With a deep, shaky breath, she managed to compose herself somewhat, dabbing her cheeks with a balled-up tissue, and nodded.
"Yes, yes of course," she replied.
"What time did you arrive home?"
"Just before two-thirty," she said. "I remember checking the clock in the cab, thinking I haven't been out this late in years."
"And you were coming straight from the airport?"
"Yes."
"Which one?"
"Heathrow."
"Quite a late flight, isn't it?"
"It wasn't meant to be, not this late anyway. We were delayed leaving Austria because of the weather here. Heavy rains, they said. And then the traffic was slow going because of the rain. I remember– I remember being surprised when I landed that we actually made it in one piece, that we hadn't skidded off the runway, because it was absolutely pouring."
Sherlock froze.
"It was pouring," he said softly.
"Yes," she replied, nodding. "I thought that Arthur would be happy for the rain– they'd be good for the flowers…"
Sherlock closed his eyes momentarily.
"Sherlock," Mycroft said in a warning tone.
He snapped his eyes back open.
"It was raining. Pouring in fact. Again! And he didn't have to write anything down this time, oh no. I suppose that probably dismayed him but– oh! So obvious."
"What is?" Mycroft demanded.
Sherlock jerked his head toward the hallway and stepped out, aware that Kenton was in no state to hear this, not wanting to risk his brother's ire by explaining it in front of her, if only because then Mycroft would be inclined to be more obtuse.
"Nursery rhymes again, Mycroft; he's communicating to us in stories. He has been this entire time and this is no different. It's raining, it's pouring, yes?"
Mycroft stared at him and John gave a small groan, pressing the heel of a hand to his forehead.
"You're bloody kidding," the doctor whispered.
"Not in the slightest," Sherlock said.
"And he went to bed and bumped his head and couldn't get up in the morning," John sighed.
"Precisely. Mycroft, I need the names of the other six committee members, their families, and anyone else who may possibly know if their involvement in this matter."
"I told you, no one knows but us."
"Really?" Sherlock said, cocking an eyebrow. "Does Anthea know?"
He saw his brother start to answer "well, of course" then stop himself before giving a curt, displeased nod.
"If Anthea knows, then others know," Sherlock said simply. "The list, Mycroft, by nine this morning. If you want me to have any hope of solving this, I need you to cooperate. This goes beyond a personal vengeance."
"You'll have it," Mycroft promised.
"Good. John, come on, let's go. I think we're done here."
John nodded, heading to the door, but Mycroft forestalled Sherlock.
"A word with my brother if you don't mind, John?" Mycroft asked. John cast a questioning glance at Sherlock who nodded. He saw the look of displeasure flash across John's face but the doctor stepped outside, shutting the door gently behind him, and Sherlock heard his footsteps retreating down the path.
"Sherlock," Mycroft said in a low voice. "I need you at your best on this. If you require someone other than John to assist you, you need only say so. I'm aware things have been rather strained between you two and given the degree of intimacy you normally share–"
Sherlock cut him off with a growl, anger flaring in him, tensing his muscles, tightening in his stomach.
"How dare you?" he hissed, his voice low and dangerous. "How dare you suggest that to me, Mycroft? How dare you presume that this is any of your business?"
"You're my brother. Of course it's my business."
"No, it most certainly is not! Nor are you welcome to make it your business based on what you evaluate from our actions during this case – which you asked me to take, I will remind you. I'm well aware that you thought John and I would last no longer than a year at best and so, what? Are you feeling vindicated now? Would it make you happy to be right?"
Mycroft rolled his eyes with a weary sigh.
"Of course not, Sherlock," he intoned. "You assume I'd take pleasure in seeing your relationship with John disintegrate?"
"I don't care in the slightest what you find pleasurable and what you don't," Sherlock retorted. "If you want me to work this case, you will allow me to choose with whom I work. And you will keep yourself out of my personal life and my relationship with John because it really, really does not concern you. The list, Mycroft. Five hours."
He yanked open the door and stepped out, shutting it again behind him harder than necessary so that John looked up from his position at the end of the walk, somewhat startled.
"Sherlock?" he asked as Sherlock strode toward him then past him, jaw set, eyes blazing.
"Come on, John," Sherlock snapped, giving an impatient gesture. He kept moving to put as much distance between himself and his brother as possible. "We're going home."