Chapter 38

John felt completely, utterly bored. 24 hours had gone by since the last page had been printed, and now all Sherlock had been doing was pacing the room, glaring at the papers. Now and then he rearranged them, then shook his head, mumbling something like "of course not" and put them back, dashing to the table to take another note. The whole room was scattered with the pages, and all Sherlock had said to John in the time that had passed, was a shout when he had slightly moved one of the pages to avoid stepping on it as he went to the kitchen.

John just was useless. This was Sherlock doing his brainwork; after all there wasn't much that would help him in that. And yet, John knew he couldn't even go to the shop when the detective was in a state like this, because as soon as he got there, he would receive a text summoning him back, and then a whole rant from Sherlock about abandoning a case. So there he was, virtually locked up.

Trying to get Sherlock to eat or sleep had as much effect as talking to a wall, so John had just gone to his chair, brooding and eventually getting some sleep after all. Now all he wanted was to go out and stretch his legs, but even a little walk around the flat was not an option because of the papers everywhere. He wondered if Sherlock had even gotten any further with the code. As far as he had seen, he had tried a lot: changing the numbers into letters via different patterns, grouping the numbers. He kept scowling at the three pages which seemed different from the others as if they had harmed him personally.

John also wondered what would happen if it turned out that the code had never meant anything at all. Sherlock would never be able to let it go. He sighed and got up, so he could at least stretch his back.

"John, look at this," Sherlock said and gestured to the papers which were currently gathered in a number of small stacks. "The pages in each are spaced exactly two pages apart. But the gaps between the groups are seemingly random. And then there is this," he held up a page with 'XI' on it, "and those." He pointed to the three undeciphered pages, currently stapled to the wall. "If I can just figure out the significance of one of these, I believe the rest will make sense. But it keeps eluding me. Why groups of three? Why does one number stand alone? Why?" On the last word, he whirled towards John as if demanding that he supplied all the answers.

John frowned. "You can't expect me to find it out if you've been looking at it for a whole day with your genius mind... Perhaps I'll try to figure it out, and you can get some sleep meanwhile?" he tried.

Sherlock shot him a quick glare. "Don't be absurd, John." He looked back at the pages. "Why the last one?" he muttered. "Why nine?"

"Hmm, and you have ten groups of three digits," John mused. He didn't know what to make of it either, but he tried thinking about them for a while.

"Yes," Sherlock muttered. "Digits..." He looked at the pages. Then he gasped. "Sums! Of course. John, you are a genius." He gave John a quick kiss on the forehead, before grabbing the nearest stack of papers. He shuffled through them, jotted down four numbers on his notepad and tossed them carelessly aside before picking up the next stack.

John looked a bit surprised at Sherlock's gasp, but smiled. At least he had finally said something with which Sherlock could work. "Can I write something down or anything?"

At first Sherlock didn't appear to have heard him. Then he glanced at John and flashed him a brief smile. "Tea would be nice."

"Okay." Right, so he had become the tea boy. At least that meant Sherlock wouldn't get dehydrated. He decided to put some biscuits with his cup, so he would eat a little.

Sherlock had soon rifled through the pages and tossed them all to one side. Instead he was juggling a series of one digit numbers on his notepad.

John brought the tea, looking over Sherlock's shoulder. "Anything meaningful?"

"Not yet," Sherlock answered, frowning at the numbers, while he sipped his tea. "But at least it's a new way of looking at things."

John nodded, subtly shoving the biscuits under Sherlock's hands.

Sherlock pushed them away as he reached for the laptop and started on a new spreadsheet.

John looked at the biscuits with a slight look of despair and decided to leave them in case Sherlock would change his mind. Of course he knew better than to really believe that would happen, but he could only hope that one day Sherlock would start caring about his own health.

He decided it didn't mean that he had to starve to death too, and started making himself a sandwich.

Sherlock typed in some numbers, checked his notes again and then sighed. He got up from the chair, moved to the sofa and assumed his thinking-pose. Within moments he was completely withdrawn.

When John had eaten, he took a look at Sherlock's notepad again. Still, the numbers seemed completely random. Shrugging, he moved to his chair and put the telly on, on a low volume.

Eventually there were no interesting programs on anymore, and John was nodding off again. Looking at Sherlock, who was still far away in his mind palace on the sofa, he decided to go to bed. To his surprise, he wasn't woken up until morning, and even then, not by Sherlock.

Sherlock was lying on the sofa, scowling at the ceiling above him as if it were responsible for his current frustration.

"Good morning," John said as he came out of the bedroom, still doing the last buttons of his shirt. "Got any sleep?" He walked to Sherlock to give him a kiss.

Brushing John off, Sherlock sat up with a start. "Sleep?" he snarled. "How can I possibly sleep when this whole thing is being so amazingly infuriatingly stubbornly pointless?"

John stepped back. "It would probably do wonders for your mood though," he said, pulling up his eyebrows. "Breakfast?"

Sherlock whirled on him with an almost manic glare. "Breakfast?" he asked, his voice dripping with contempt. "Breakfast? Is that the best you can do?" He jumped to his feet and started pacing the room, kicking papers and other discarded objects out of his way.

John rolled his eyes. "Sherlock! Can you at least be a little reasonable and not molest the whole flat?"

"Reasonable?" Sherlock threw his hand in the air. "Yes, of course I can. Let's just forget this whole thing and have a nice jolly morning, shall we?" He had reached the wall where the indecipherable pages still hung. He reached out and tore them off the wall, crumbled them up one by one and tossed them across the room.

"Sherlock!" John ran towards him and caught his wrists. "Listen, you can't go on like this. It's driving you crazy. Just allow yourself to relax for five minutes. Just five minutes. That can't be a crime, can it?"

Sherlock groaned and for a brief moment leaned on John, closing his eyes. "I can't," he muttered. "Don't you see I can't? Not when I'm this close. I've almost got it, but something is missing. There is one piece of the puzzle that I simply cannot see."

John gently stroked his hair. "You'd probably see it more quickly after a break of a few minutes," he insisted quietly.

"Right," Sherlock sighed. "I'm going to take a shower," he said abruptly and pulled away.

"Okay." John decided against suggesting to accompany him. Sherlock absolutely didn't seem in the right mood. Still, he followed him to the bathroom. "Do you need anything?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Clean clothes, if you don't mind."

John brought him the clothes, then went back to the living room to straighten things up a bit. He picked up the crumpled pages and straightened them out on the table. The day before, he hadn't really paid attention to the three loose ends, since Sherlock seemed to have discarded them from his thinking. He frowned as he looked. Two of the pages just had a small word changing in the middle of the page, and the other had two marked words at the same height as the other pages, on the left and right side of the same line. If he just followed the same logic as was applied to the other words...

"Sherlock?" he said, walking into the bathroom with the papers. "Aren't they just dots and a dash? I mean, probably punctuation marks aren't much use between numbers, but perhaps they serve to separate them from each other in some way..."

Sherlock was washing the shampoo out of his hair, but stopped and stared at John. "What?"

"Those three pages. Probably you've already thought of this. I just thought I should share it in case you - hadn't."

Sherlock rushed from the shower and reached for the pages. "Let me see," he demanded.

John gave him the papers, then took a towel and wrapped it around Sherlock's shoulders. He didn't even seem to notice.

"Of course," he muttered. "Why didn't I see this?"

"Will this help you forward?" John asked hopefully. The sooner this was solved, the sooner Sherlock would live a little healthier again.

"It must," Sherlock said, bringing the papers into the living room. He checked the page numbers, scribbled a bit on his notepad and then drew in a long shuddering breath. "It can't be that simple," he muttered.

The phone rang.

"I'll get it. Put on some clothes," John said to Sherlock, before picking his phone up. His face fell almost immediately and an icy knot formed in his guts. By the time he finally put the phone down, he was leaning against a cupboard in shock. He swallowed. "Howard Fitzroy is dead."

Sherlock appeared in the door to the bedroom, halfway through buttoning his shirt. "Oh," he said. "What happened?"

"He- he was good, but..." John took a deep breath. "He went into septic shock. Apparently that kitchen knife had been infected with something, and he didn't make it because he had already lost so much blood. They were in time to give him antibiotics, but he was too weak and now he's dead. It's my fault, Sherlock."

Sherlock walked straight to John and placed his hands on his shoulders. He looked him straight in the eyes and said: "Under no circumstances, in any perceivable way, is this your fault."

John sighed and rested his face against Sherlock's shoulder for a moment. "The police thinks differently. I have to go to Blackpool, they want to question me."

"It's just a formality," Sherlock assured him. "Do... do you want me to come with you?" He glanced over at the notepad on the table.

John took his hand. "I know you don't want to. It's fine." He bit his lip. Yes, he would be fine, but would Sherlock? The other man looked tired and must be starving. "Just promise me that you will take care of yourself?"

"Of course I will," Sherlock promised and kissed John's forehead. "Don't worry about me. Everything will be fine."

John reached up and kissed his lips. It felt a little like he had to take his chance. "Okay. I'll go get my things then." He didn't let go of Sherlock's hand just yet.

Sherlock studied John for a moment. "You'll be fine too," he said and kissed John again.

"Let's hope," John said with a small smile. "I never wanted him to die."

"I know you didn't. And so will they. It will be obvious what happened." Sherlock kissed him softly. "They just need a more detailed statement, now that circumstances have changed. And if they give you any trouble, call Lestrade."

"Yeah, alright." John let go of him and went to get his bag.

"I'll be back as soon as I can," he promised Sherlock, who was already hunched over his laptop again, comparing something with the scribbles on his notebook.