Chapter 40

"Please, sir," the woman who had introduced herself as Margareth Fincher said. "At least have a sandwich. You've been here for hours and you haven't had a bite to eat."

Sherlock just grumbled and turned to face the wall. He had been placed in an interrogation room and several people had been in, trying to get him to talk. But he knew that if he gave them his name, Mycroft would be alerted the moment it was typed into a report. And he really did not want his brother anywhere near him. Not while that tantalising mysterious bundle was still hidden away under his coat. It was a good thing that the vandalism charge was so minor that there hadn't been cause to search him when he was brought in. The only reason he was still being kept here was his refusal to cooperate. His mind was racing. There had to be some way out of this without his name going on record.

"How about a cup of tea then?" she asked. Sherlock nodded and let out a sigh of relief when she left the room. If only they would turn off those damn cameras, so he could have a look at the bundle.

...

John was pacing the room. Sherlock wasn't answering his phone. This was how it had been before the Harris case that had broken Sherlock's arm. Only a good week left before the cast would finally be taken off, and Sherlock was gone again without so much as leaving a note, just creating a chance for the whole situation to repeat itself. "Pick up your bloody phone!" John yelled.

Mrs. Hudson knocked on the door. "Is something wrong, dear?" She pulled her dressing robe tighter around herself.

John sighed. "Have you seen Sherlock today?"

"No. I heard him walk down the stairs earlier, I think..."

"Damn it. He's off again. I really wonder if there will ever be a day when he gets how worried I become when he does this."

Mrs. Hudson patted his arm. "You know how he is, dear. He'll turn up again, alright. Just go to bed."

John sighed and shook his head. "No, I'm just going to call him as long as he doesn't pick up his phone. I hope it annoys him."

...

When Margareth returned with the tea, Sherlock was slumped forward, his head resting on his arms, which were folded on the table in front of him. At the sound of snoring, she smiled, quietly placed the cup of tea on the table at a safe distance, so he wouldn't accidentally knock it to the floor, and slipped out of the room again.

Around half past 4 in the morning, John threw his phone down with a groan and fell asleep, despite his worries. The exhaustion from the interrogation had simply become too much and he had already lain down while he was trying to make his calls. Still, he woke up early, and immediately made another call.

At half past six, Margareth woke Sherlock up with a fresh cup of tea. She tried to be gentle, but the moment she put her hand on his shoulder he sat up with a jerk, and almost struck out at her, before realising where he was.

"What... What time is it?" he asked sleepily.

"It's morning, dear," she said, looking at him with apparent concern.

"Fuck." Sherlock quickly dug his phone out his pocket, wondering why John hadn't called. Then he realised that he had turned off his phone when arriving at the abbey, and he had not remembered to turn it on.

Cursing some more, he quickly turned it on. Fifteen missed calls. Damn it!

He was just about to call, when the phone buzzed in his hand. He quickly answered it, knowing he was in for it.

"Sherlock! God, finally. Where the fuck are you?"

Sherlock cringed. "Charing Cross Police Station. Can you come and get me?"

John groaned. "What did you do?"

"Moved some stones..." Sherlock sighed. "In Westminster Abbey."

John sighed and tiredly rubbed his face. "What the hell, Sherlock?"

"I can't tell you about it now," Sherlock said, glancing at Margareth. "Please, just come and get me."

"Yeah, okay. You've got a lot to explain, Sherlock," John said before he hung up and quickly got dressed.

Sherlock stared at the phone. The tiredness and disappointment in John's voice were probably the most painful things he had ever had to endure. He hadn't thought about it when he left Baker Street. Not really. He knew John wanted him to take things easy until his arm was completely mended. He knew John wanted to be told where he went, so he wouldn't have to worry. But all that had mattered at the time, was solving the mystery.

If only he had thought to call John last night. Even after he'd been arrested there would still have been time before John returned to the flat. Instead, he had spent the night alone at Baker Street, not knowing what had happened. Could he ever forgive him for this?

"What the hell were you thinking?" John bristled as soon as he caught sight of Sherlock. "How many times have I asked you to let me know something when you're suddenly off? You hadn't slept or eaten for three days, and then you think it's a good idea to run off and wreck Westminster Abbey?"

Sherlock couldn't quite meet John's eyes. He was also keenly aware of Margareth Fincher and a couple of other police men and women watching them with expressions ranging from bemused to shocked.

"John," he muttered. "Can this wait?"

"No, this can't bloody wait. I've waited all night. Just a note, Sherlock. Just three words on a paper, could you spare me that much time for once?"

Someone in the room was definitely snickering. Sherlock glanced around, but everyone was managing to keep an almost straight face. "I'm sorry," he muttered, still not daring to face John directly. "Can we go home now?"

John sighed. "Yes. But this isn't the end of it, Sherlock."

"I know," Sherlock looked down and shuffled his feet a little. He reached out a tentative hand to John, not really knowing if it was okay to touch him at this time.

John ignored the hand for a moment. "Does he need to sign anything?" he asked Margareth, who was standing closest.

Margareth nodded and held out a form and pen, looking at them both with what seemed almost like pity. While Sherlock walked to a desk to sign, she stepped a little closer to John and said in a voice that was so low it was almost a whisper: "He fell asleep. When he woke up and realised the time, he felt really bad. Don't be too hard on him."

John nodded. "It's just not the first time that he does this to me," he answered in the same low voice.

...

They reached the cab that had been waiting in silence, but as soon as he had closed his door, John couldn't hold himself any longer. "What the fuck have you been doing? You were supposed to go to sleep as soon as you had solved that thing. You promised me."

"I would have," Sherlock retorted, feeling hurt and rejected. Surely John was overreacting. "But I had to go to the abbey to solve it. I had to get this." He pulled the bundle out from under his coat.

"If you just let me know something, I wouldn't have been worried sick all night. You're really never going to get it, are you? You just say something, but sometimes I wonder if you actually feel anything." John knew it was a painful thing to say to Sherlock, who had hardly heard anything else all his life, but he was so angry.

The words were almost like a physical blow and Sherlock just sat there for a moment staring at John, the bundle in his hand completely forgotten.

John didn't say anything more and just sat biting his lip, anger struggling with guilt and tension.

Sherlock turned and looked out the window. After a long moment, he let out a shaky breath and then glanced down at the cursed object that had led to all this. He might as well find out what it had all been about. Carefully he unwrapped the fragile ancient cloth.

Despite himself, John curiously looked at the thing in Sherlock's lap. It'd better be a proper mystery if it had asked so much of Sherlock's attention.

Sherlock's fingers almost shook as he uncovered an ancient, tattered, handwritten manuscript. He turned it over in his hand and then carefully turned a couple of pages. "It's a journal," he muttered.

"What about?" John asked. He needed to know if it was worth all this.

"I don't know," Sherlock frowned. "It's very old and the writing isn't very clear. I'll need to examine it closely." He turned a few more pages. "I think it's a young person. A student at Westminster. And something about 'the truth'."

John sighed. "That is what Fitzroy said. All this, and we still don't really know any more?"

"Don't worry," Sherlock said, eagerly turning another page. "I just need to get this home. I have the right chemicals to bring out the ink, and then we can scan it and I'll have it deciphered in less than a day." He reached out and took John's hand. "I'll even get some sleep, if you don't mind doing the scanning."

John sighed, looking at their hands. He didn't pull back. "Or perhaps we could both go to sleep and look at the journal later. It's not going to run away, is it?"

"I suppose not," Sherlock said with a sigh. "But don't you want to know what it's all been about?"

"To be honest, I couldn't care less, right at the moment. I've had a hell of a day and a night. I'll be much more interested after a good nap with you beside me," John said.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said, closing the journal. He put his arm around John's shoulder and pulled him closer. "I haven't exactly made things easier for you, have I?"

"No," John sighed, leaning against his chest. "I had really hoped you had learned to let me know where you are, after that thing with Harris. And that you wouldn't be so irresponsible to go out alone when you haven't slept or eaten in half a week. Sometimes it's like you don't actually realize that I love you and that it does matter what you do to yourself."

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said again. "But you know I can't help it. When I get caught up in a case, all I can focus on is solving it. We've been over this before. I'll do my best, but I can't change who I am. It has got nothing to do with me loving you or you loving me."

John just quietly kept sitting snuggled up to Sherlock. He was simply too tired. Of course he knew, and of course he didn't want to change Sherlock, but making him leave a quick note was hardly changing his whole character, was it? Perhaps they should discuss it another time while they weren't both exhausted, that would be safer. Reluctantly, John pushed himself up from Sherlock's chest when they arrived at the flat. For a moment he looked in his eyes and gave him a small smile before he got out.

Sherlock returned the smile, and clutching the journal to his chest, he followed John out of the cab. All the answers would be on those pages, but John was right. They could wait a little while. Right now it was more important to make things right between them again. While John unlocked the door, Sherlock leaned down and kissed his neck softly. "You're right," he whispered. "Let's get some sleep first. Together."

John smiled and leaned a little back against him, before he pushed the door open. He frowned as he heard voices up in their flat. He sent a questioning look to Sherlock, then walked upstairs.