It had been eight days since the explosion and, if John hadn't known better, he'd have thought a second one had occurred in their flat. He was used to dealing with Sherlock's messes, particularly when the consulting detective was on a case. There had been times when he'd had to dig his chair out of if he wanted to use it and Sherlock would make pointed comments under his breath. Normally this just meant he needed John's help.
This time it was different. This time, John wasn't allowed to use his chair.
When he wanted to read or just relax, he took himself upstairs to the guest room, which was at least free of clutter pertaining to the case. It saved him from listening to Sherlock's relentless muttering and pacing as well. He offered to help as much as he could but he wasn't much use right now – as far as Sherlock was concerned, anyway. There had been a two day stretch where Sherlock hadn't spoken a word except a single grunt in response to John's enquiry about his health. And that hardly counted as a word. Work was interspersed with the typical violin playing – thankfully not while John was sleeping but he wondered if that would last – and talking to the skull.
Not that he didn't want Sherlock to find the killer, of course. He had from the beginning. John was acutely aware that he'd asked– no, he'd demanded that Sherlock take the Murray case in Edinburgh. He'd just never expected it to go this far and consume so much time.
Or consume so much of Sherlock.
He understood, he really did. Mycroft had been amazingly fortunate to have survived with such relatively minor injuries. But he was still in the hospital and under guard. John suspected he'd be released soon, although he wasn't sure how easy that would be. Because his right shoulder and arm had to be immobilized, he couldn't use crutches for his broken leg. John wondered how long Angela was planning on staying in London and if she was going to take care of Mycroft. Not that he couldn't hire a private nurse, John supposed.
The fact remained that Mycroft had been targeted by their killer and could very well have died. Sherlock had just lost one family member. He couldn't lose a second. And he wouldn't be defeated, not this time. It had been too much of a blow in Edinburgh.
But he was making no progress. Figuring out that the killer had served in the Canadian army was one thing – that narrowed it to thirty-five million people. John had checked on the military figures – almost seventy thousand active personnel, to say nothing of former soldiers.
Needle in a haystack, he thought, remembering Sherlock had said that in Edinburgh. What had seemed like a starting point a week ago now seemed tauntingly inadequate. John remembered how energized Sherlock had been when he'd deduced the killer's nationality. Now, he was just frustrated and exhausted.
They had no more information on the assassin and he hadn't so much as tripped anyone in the street in the past week. He had them where he wanted them and they were waiting. Waiting on his whims, Sherlock had said in April.
They were doing it again.
He could tell it was eating at Sherlock, this inability to uncover anything else combined with the killer's sudden silence. The detective spent every waking moment scouring the stacks of files and searching the Internet. The information Mycroft and Anthea had given him had been added to by the Speaker of the House, who had provided them with the names of all those who had been considered for the committee and everyone who had knowledge of it. Sherlock had thrown himself headlong into running down any possible leads he'd gleaned from that information and had come up against dead ends each time. John had the sense from what Sherlock had told him and the reading he'd done himself that this wasn't because someone was hiding something, but that the people involved in the committee weren't behind this.
Which meant someone else knew and they had no idea who it was.
That narrowed it down to the entirety of the British government.
Brilliant, piece of cake, really, John thought.
He managed to make Sherlock eat at least once a day but the energy that vibrated through the detective when he was sitting down for a meal probably cancelled out any calories he was consuming. He'd already lost weight – John had noticed but hadn't commented – and now he'd lost more. John put it at about six pounds. And still he didn't say anything. Whatever he said about it would be construed as criticism. Or just unnecessary data.
He slept alone again now, but not by choice this time. Sherlock was barely sleeping, only snatches here and there. John would occasionally find him passed out on the sofa and would tuck a blanket around him, unwilling to settle down with him again lest it wake him up. He didn't want to push his luck. The bed felt large and empty.
He felt lonely.
But what was he going to say? Please stop trying to find the man who tried to murder your brother?
So he slept alone, ignoring the noise coming from the rest of the flat with practiced ease. He still had to work, after all. The other doctors were sympathetic but he had patients and his colleagues couldn't take his workload indefinitely. They covered for him enough as it was.
He just wanted some peace and quiet. The normality that Sherlock had been so desperate to reclaim two weeks ago was eluding John now. He tried to remember when the last time that things had been really good. There were moments in late July that came to mind, and he'd thought they were good at the time, but when he looked back now, they were coloured with the knowledge that Sherlock had secretly been smoking.
That whole time. And John hadn't had any idea.
He'd scoured his memories, looking for some hint or sign, trying to figure out if he'd suspected anything, even deep down, even in passing. But there was nothing. He hadn't known because Sherlock had ensured that he hadn't known.
It had been Sam and Sandra's wedding, he realized. Four months since the last really good times. After that, there had always been something. The Murray case, Sibyl's death. John tried to remember that it hadn't been all bad, but it was hard from where he was standing. He was low on sleep himself and already in a bad mood from the problems he was having with Sherlock. Adding two murders and two attempted murders hadn't helped.
Something started to smell. He looked down and realized he was standing in front of the stove, stirring the pot of soup he'd been making for himself. His thoughts had run away on him and he'd just stood there, absently shifting the wooden spoon back and forth, until all of the broth had boiled away and the pot was gently smoking. With a muttered curse, John turned off the gas and pulled the pot away from the element, tossing the spoon in the sink. Any other time, this would have earned a question from Sherlock as to his well being, but John could see him at the desk, intent on some stack of files.
With a sigh, he put the pot in the sink as well and fetched another one. He pulled down a new tin of soup then stared at it.
Oh, to hell with this, he thought.
"I'm going out to get Chinese," he said, striding through the living room. "I'll be back in twenty minutes. What do you want?"
There was no reply and John spun.
"Sherlock!"
The detective raised his head, glancing over his shoulder with a mild scowl.
"Nothing, John, I'm working," he snapped.
"Yeah, well you need to eat, too. I'll just get the usual."
Sherlock gazed at him for a long moment, his expression cool, then gave a curt nod.
"Fine," he agreed and turned back to his work. His voice had been neutral – no hint of irritation that he was being forced to eat. Just a brief dismissal. John stared at the back of Sherlock's head for a moment, then sucked in a deep breath. He let himself out of the flat, shutting the door behind him a little louder than necessary.
"This makes no sense!"
John sighed and shut the door behind him. Sherlock was standing in front of the kitchen doors now and had rounded on him when John had come back in. His hair was dishevelled, curling in all directions, clear evidence that he'd been running his fingers through it in frustration. He looked paler than he should have, expression drawn around the edges.
"I know," John replied.
"Why? Why would he do this? He killed three people – that we know of – cleanly, without witnesses. He made sure they were dead. This doesn't fit his pattern. Two at once? And why Mycroft and McKinney at the same time? Why not any of the others? Is he working his way through the men first? But that makes no sense either! We know he had no qualms about killing a young girl."
John sighed again and went into the kitchen. He dished up the food, making sure to heap it onto Sherlock's plate, then held it out to the detective.
"Here," he said, keeping his voice calm despite the fact that he felt inclined to snap. He knew that was just frustration and low blood sugar, but Sherlock rehashing the same facts over and over wasn't helping. He'd been hearing the same analysis for a week now. "Please eat. For me."
It worked and John felt a twinge of guilt for knowing that it would work and using it. He knew Sherlock was carefully evaluating his actions with John now and John knew he was using that against him. But it was the only thing that would make him eat. Given how gaunt the detective looked, it was worth it. When this was over, it was going to be two weeks of fish and chips and milkshakes.
Sherlock took the food and ate it standing up, barely bothering to chew before he swallowed.
"Slow down," John said. "I may be a doctor but I don't want to have to do the Heimlich on you. It could break your ribs and land you in hospital."
Sherlock consented to eat a little more slowly but still polished off his large plate before John had got halfway through his food. The fact that he'd eaten it all told John how hungry he really was, how much he was ignoring his body's demands while trying to solve this case. With a sigh, the doctor took his husband's empty plate and put it in the sink. He leaned against the counter, finishing his own supper at a more sedate pace.
"Maybe whoever's giving him orders wanted him to do two at once," John said.
"But why?" Sherlock hissed. "Why change now? What do Mycroft and McKinney have in common?"
John just shook his head, poking a piece of broccoli with his fork. Sherlock had been asking that for a week as well and had chased down every possible lead, no matter how insignificant it had seemed. He'd come up with the same result each time. Nothing. Yes, Mycroft and McKinney knew many of the same people but that was not surprising. They were both well connected in the government. But none of those links panned out into anything substantial. But someone had decided to try to eliminate both of them at once. He had failed, but in the end, their killer had murdered twenty-seven people outright and put another thirteen in hospital.
Isn't that enough? he asked himself.
Sherlock stalked away again, pulling his phone out of his pocket as John finished eating. The doctor rinsed their dishes and put the leftovers in the fridge, thinking about ringing some old army mates and going for a pint. It might be nice to get out of the disaster zone he called his home.
When he stepped back into the living room he saw Sherlock standing utterly still, staring at his phone.
"What?" John asked immediately. "Did he text again?"
"No," Sherlock said in a distant voice. He paused, his eyes not leaving the phone's tiny screen. John waited, wondering if more was forthcoming. He was just about to ask when Sherlock said:
"Do you remember what Mycroft said McKinney was doing immediately before the blast?"
John frowned, tugging his lower lip between his teeth in concentration.
"Standing by the doors, wasn't he?"
"Standing by the doors on his phone."
John's frown deepened.
"Yeah, and?" he asked. "Mycroft was on his phone, too; he told you that the first time you talked to him. Because you and Anthea had been trying to call him."
"Yes," Sherlock replied, nodding slowly. He kept his eyes on his phone a moment longer then snapped his gaze up to John. "Why didn't William McKinney ever mention this?"
"Post-traumatic amnesia," John sighed. "Look, Sherlock, he was in a bomb blast. It's been a week. It's not surprising he wouldn't remember a detail like that. In fact, he and Mycroft remember a lot more than most people would have. The information you've got from them – it's really good for what happened to them."
"But not good enough," Sherlock replied. "Think, John. Mycroft remembered being on the phone."
"Yes, because it's what saved his life!"
"But who was McKinney on the phone with?"
"His wife?" John suggested.
"Yes, yes, I assumed so, too. And why not? They'd just been in a meeting in which their mobiles were all turned off and he had good reason to fear for his family. But in none of the statements she made did she indicate that she had spoken to him right before the blast."
"Maybe it slipped her mind."
"No! No, John, that kind of thing wouldn't be forgotten! Not if it was her husband! Would you forget a thing like that?"
John stared and Sherlock stopped short, his expression shifting from focused on the question to realising what he'd just said. John swallowed hard but made himself stay calm. Sherlock had been angry at him in Edinburgh for asking to him to think of how he'd feel if John had simply vanished. But this had been unintentional. Sherlock wasn't trying to guilt him, just make him think about the circumstances that surrounded the explosion.
"No, I don't think I would," John answered levelly.
Sherlock exhaled slowly then nodded sharply.
"Precisely. So to whom was he speaking?"
"An aide, another family member? Mistress?"
"It could be," Sherlock agreed.
"But you don't think so."
"He was standing right next to the doors, which made it easy for him to get out of the building immediately and run up the street. But still inside, where Mycroft would see him. John, our killer is not stupid; he managed to break into two alarmed homes and murder two grown men in the space of twenty-four hours. He could have simply shot Mycroft."
He paused and paced away a few steps, holding his phone between his palms and pressing his thumbs against his lips. Then he stood still for a long moment before turning back, his grey eyes brighter than John had seen in a week.
"But he didn't. He rigged an explosion that didn't detonate until after he'd sent me the words to his version of the rhyme. He left me figure it out first and gave me enough time to contact Mycroft. Because of that, Mycroft survived. So did McKinney. He had all of them right there, cut off from communication, but he focused on Mycroft and McKinney. And neither of them died."
"So you think McKinney set this up? He got himself injured in a bomb blast to deflect suspicion from himself?"
"I don't know," Sherlock said, unlocking his phone. "But Anthea can check his phone records for me. I strongly suspect in the moments before the explosion, we will find he was speaking to someone on a prepaid mobile."