Chapter 39
As soon as John was out the door, Sherlock went to the laptop. He already knew what the numbers meant, but he still felt the need to make sure. It just couldn't be this simple. Could it?
It only took a moment to confirm it, and everything fit so well that there was no denying it. John had been right. The last three pages had indeed been a kind of punctuation, and once fitted in between the numbers, it all became clear: 51.4686 and -0.1619.The latitude and longitude of a location, right here in London, one of the few sites where something still remained from the time the books were printed: Westminster Abbey.
But what did it mean? He launched into a thorough research of the history of the place, both factual and rumoured, and soon he was completely engrossed.
...
Most of the time, John was staring out the window during the 2,5 hours in the train to Blackpool. He couldn't concentrate on reading, and he didn't want to disturb Sherlock too much by texting him. There wasn't much he could say anyway, and he couldn't keep nagging about the other man having to sleep. Apparently the detective had had some kind of breakthrough in the code, but he was too busy to explain himself properly to John, so the latter just sat worrying and defending himself against guilty thoughts about Fitzroy's death.
Several hours later, he was sitting in a small, dull room in the Blackpool police office, waiting and trying to convince himself that everything was alright. He had been calm. Everything should be alright. They had to believe him that he wasn't a murderer, that it had been to defend himself, that he had never had the intention to kill Mr. Fitzroy. No, they hadn't broken into his house. Fitzroy had let them in, and they had gone through to the back, but never to hurt the older man. They had just wanted to locate the book so they had evidence that Fitzroy had indeed stolen it from Ian's uncle, and then – well, they would probably have called the police at that point? Only, the way everything turned out, Fitzroy himself had called the police. And then he had attacked them with a knife. No, that wasn't the most logical way for things to go, but the man had been a little mad, hadn't he? He did attack them. John was only lucky that Ian had pushed him out of the way. Surely Ian would confirm that story? Well, it wasn't a story. It was the truth. No, the broken glass had not been an act of violence, it had been an accident. It kept going on and on, and they kept giving him the feeling that they didn't believe a thing of what he was saying. If they held him there for a little longer, he would start to believe himself that he had planned to kill Fitzroy for months.
The thing was that John's sense of guilt didn't help him. In a way, he did feel like he was a murderer. And he had the feeling that the police sensed that, too; only they drew the wrong conclusions from it.
They had allowed him a little break from all the questions now. And a cup of coffee to bring his nerves even more on edge. Owning a gun, killing a man; no-one who knew. He had never felt very guilty about that; the cabbie had only been a danger for society and himself, and he had tried to kill Sherlock. But one accident with a knife, because an old fool threw himself on it, and here he was. He sighed. At least he was allowed to use his phone. He really needed to hear Sherlock after these hours of being tortured by questions.
…
Sherlock was in the middle of deciphering a medieval German text, thinking he really needed to brush up on some of his languages, when his phone rang. He sighed heavily as he picked it up. "What?"
"Eh, hi, Sherlock. They've given me a little break. I hope I didn't wake you up?" John said.
Sherlock just snorted, and made a note as to the possible double meaning of a phrase.
"Okay, so you're still busy with that code. Right. Ehm. I have the feeling the police doesn't really believe me." It sounded a little ridiculous, but he needed Sherlock, just for one minute.
"That's because they're idiots," Sherlock said. "It was an accident. It doesn't even rate as self-defence. Surely they can see that."
"I'm not sure," John sighed. "So, did you get any further with the punctuation thing?" He was glad to think of something else for a moment.
"Yes, I think I've almost got it worked out. But I don't want to bother you with all that now. I can tell you about it when you get home."
"I don't mind. It's good to not think of Fitzroy for a while. Did you eat?"
"Yes," Sherlock lied. "I'll probably take a nap as soon as I'm done with these final details." He was beginning to grow impatient. It was difficult making notes with his right hand as the cast was so restricting. He really needed to get John off the phone.
"Okay, I'm glad to hear that. I love you. Hopefully they don't keep me here for too long..." John said.
"I love you too," Sherlock said. "Come home as soon as you can. And don't worry. They'll see you were not responsible for what happened."
"Okay. I have to go now, they'll call me in again in a minute. Bye, Sherlock."
...
Another hour later, Sherlock got up from the laptop, and pausing only to grab his coat and scarf, he was out the door. He hailed a cab and spent the ride continuing his research, narrowing his eyes to decipher the small writing on the screen of his phone. As an afterthought, he placed a call to the chapter office, requesting permission to search the building for 'historical clues' needed for a supposed research paper on the history of the Benedictine order.
The permission was granted and upon arrival he was shown to the buildings that once served as home to the monks of the abbey. By then, he knew the name of the man behind the Abscondita in Aperto, though the books had never been assigned to any particular author. The monk, Bruder Joseph, had travelled from Germany to London in the early 13th century, and had been allowed to take up residence at the abbey despite belonging to a different, more obscure order.
According to the journal of another monk at the time, Joseph had spent a considerable part of his time not devoted to worship or writing, teaching at the neighbouring school, where he had struck up close friendships with several of the students. So close, that it had apparently led to the need for a disciplinary caution at one point, resulting in Joseph leaving the abbey and travelling to Warwick, which was where he, anonymously, had the books printed.
Sherlock spent almost an hour studying the ancient records of the monastery before locating the chambers that had once belonged to Joseph, and then another thirty minutes convincing the man showing him around the place, to leave him alone in the room.
Once that was achieved, it was a small matter locating the hiding place, which was almost too cliché, being located behind two loose stones in the wall in the corner of the room. Careful not to make any noise, he loosened the stones, which had not been touched for many centuries, and finally sat with a small bundle of ancient cloth wrapped around a small flat object.
He just had time to hide it underneath his coat, before the door behind him was opened and an outraged cry made him jump to his feet.
...
Ah. So the police really didn't believe John. They were increasingly treating him like a criminal. Perhaps it was time to follow Sherlock's advice and call Greg, but first he wanted to talk to Sherlock again. It seemed years ago since he had left home, not hours. The beeping went to voicemail. Oh, fantastic. Where was he? Had he finally gone to sleep? Somehow, John found that hard to believe – although, perhaps he had solved the puzzle and then there was no reason to be awake anymore. It would have been nice if he had sent a text then, though, just so John would have known that he didn't need to try to get in touch.
Lestrade, then. He pushed his number and was immediately greeted, but not by the voice he had expected. Frowning, he looked at his phone to make sure he hadn't pushed one of the numbers beneath Lestrade's.
"Mycroft? What are you doing on Greg's phone?"
"That is of no matter to you, John. Is everything alright?"
"Yes," he answered defensively, then considered his options. "That is, not entirely," he admitted. "I was calling Greg for help. They still believe I killed Fitzroy on purpose, here in Blackpool."
"Does it really matter so much whether a death was on purpose or not? The result is the same," Mycroft's smooth voice sounded.
John went pale. "You're really not helping, Mycroft."
"Oh, believe me, I am. They're getting a phone call right now. In five minutes you'll be let go."
John sighed. "Thank you." Even though this meant that he owed Mycroft, all he could feel was relief. Somehow, the police interrogations were a lot more stressful than shooting someone.
...
Sherlock refused to speak. He would not even give his name to the policemen who picked him up and charged him with vandalism. All his focus was on the little bundle hidden against his chest, how he could keep it concealed and what could possibly be inside it.
...
Mycroft had kept his word. Less than 15 minutes later, John's ordeal was over and he could go, if only he would stay at the Blackpool police's disposal by phone.
Only when he went out, did he remember to wonder why Mycroft had got Lestrade's phone anyway, but he decided it didn't matter. At least he wasn't confronted all the time with the fact that he had killed a more or less innocent man anymore.
He tried calling Sherlock again, but without success.
John was just in time to catch his train home. He felt relieved. Perhaps, if Sherlock was indeed asleep now, they could just cuddle during the night and have a good morning shag and go back to normal life. Well, normal for them, of course. He decided to take a nap.
It was late when John finally arrived at the flat. It was dark and quiet, so then probably Sherlock was indeed resting. Good. He had a quick shower, put on his pyjama pants and went to bed. Only it turned out that Sherlock wasn't there. John frowned, then decided to look in his own bedroom. It was always possible that for some reason Sherlock had gone there... but no. Oh god. He took his phone and called him.
