Chapter 7

A few hours later, Sherlock sat on the sofa. The flames of the fire that he had lit earlier to protect the living room from the evening cool danced in the fireplace. The open case files lay scattered on the coffee table. He had already studied them thoroughly. Lestrade had brought the files over himself and had used the occasion to apologize once more for the behaviour of Sally Donovan. "Look, I am very deeply sorry." he had said as he had handed the files over. "I know Sally doesn't like you. But I just hadn't realized that she could be so cruel." He shrugged. "Never mind," had been Sherlock's brusque reply. He had taken the files and complimented the Detective Inspector out of the flat. "I need to concentrate! I will call you."

Actually, the solution should be obvious, he thought as he scanned the photographs of the crime scenes once more, but it always eluded his grasp. The crime scene photographer had captured the violated bedrooms from all possible angles. In particular, the places where the now missing jewels had been stored were documented by close-ups. Three of the four women had kept the jewelry in the wardrobe, one in the dresser. Sherlock was sure he had already seen the evidence for his theory, but his brain refused to connect his observations. This was frustrating. With a quick move he wiped the crime scene photos from the table. They sailed in between the two armchairs to the ground. He already had tried to discuss the problem with John, but the lack of his participation was not very helpful. This was one of the reasons why Sherlock rarely spoke with John. Just like the skull on the mantel piece John remained silent.

Annoyed, he ran his fingers through his dark curls and rubbed his face. His eyes fell on John. His memory of the afternoon at the crime scene flared up again. John had been standing for a while in the hallway of the Thomas family at his side, the hand on his shoulder. His grip felt good and familiar, as if he wanted to reassure Sherlock that Sally Donovan had not offended him. Her meanness had awakened a protective instinct in the Consulting Detective, of which he had no idea it existed. There in the hallway with John at his side he calmed down again. However, when he threw a glance at his friends face he was emotionless as ever. John's eyes drifted through the middle of nowhere.

Only after a while it occurred to Sherlock that they both would be able to stand there for an eternity. John would not move. So he had taken his friend's hand down and went into the living room to talk to Mrs. Thomas. The echo of John's hand had still burned on his shoulder.

Sherlock's thoughts drifted further away. In his head he opened the part of his mind, in which he had stored the memories of the John before the explosion. He extracted the pictures and overlapped them on the now silent man sitting in the armchair. He missed the talking and living John more with each passing day. In his mind he saw John opening the refrigerator and finding the head he had brought home from the morgue. John, who complained about one of his experiments that had destroyed some part of the interior. John, who stood in the doorway, stunned by the fact that he had to go to court, although he was not the graffiti artists. He could hear him yell, "Me, Sherlock, in court on Tuesday! They're giving me an ASBO!" Sherlock grinned, but then the grinning shifted into a mockery of a grin and ended up in a mask of distress. The missing sound of his friend's voice that was conjured up by his brain, made him cringe inside. He had so often called John an idiot that he couldn't count the numbers, but John had always added something clever to help with the solutions of their cases. Often enough it was John's voice that asked him to obey the rules of social etiquette. And sometimes it was just the sound of that voice, which reminded Sherlock of the fact that he was no longer alone and lonely. His best and only friend. The scenes of memory changed to John, who stood before him and confessed the shooting of the cabbie. The flashes of blue eyes as John chuckled at the crime scene. At the poolside the same eyes had looked trustingly and he had put his life in the hands of Sherlock and had accepted any decision that he would make. Live or die? John, always at his side, always ready to give everything, even his life. What would he do without John? He was frightened of this possibility.

Sherlock pulled his feet up on the sofa and leaned his head on his knees. His mind wandered on and continued with the nights after the explosion. Prior to that, John had had nightmares very rarely. Sherlock could hear him scream some nights when he wandered around the living room because he could not sleep. But that was at the very beginning when John had moved in. After a while the nightmares were seldom visitors of John's sleep. Since the third night after the hospital Sherlock no longer let John sleep alone. At first he had had his difficulties. His body was not used to these close contacts, did not want to be there. It had taken time to feel comfortable. But after a couple of nights Sherlock noticed that exactly this closeness felt good. He had always struggled with insomnia, but with John by his side it was more and more easy to relax. Even during the day he started to miss the contact, so he put his hand on John's shoulder, or his thigh, hooked on his arm as they took a walk, or just leaned his head against John, as they sat on the sofa together. Sherlock had not known what had been lacking from his life, but it dawned on him that it was his friend, who made him complete. Every evening when they went to bed he was overcome by the feeling that he had arrived home finally. The positive effect for John was that the doctor from the hospital had been right. The nightmares were indeed not completely gone, but their intensity had decreased. The intervals between the circles were getting longer and longer as time passed. Meanwhile, John dreamed only at the beginning of the night. When the dream began Sherlock laid a hand on his chest, on his heart and whispered to him that he would guard his sleep. "I won't leave you alone!" were his last words to John each night. Then, he could always feel the heartbeat slowing down and John drifting into peaceful realms of his subconscious.

And suddenly it clicked in his mind. John was more than a friend. They were both the halves of a whole. Together they formed a functioning unit. Without John, he was only a heartless working machine. John had shown him the door to another Sherlock. There was something deep inside him that wanted to emerge. The suppressed feelings which Sherlock had banned for many years, with John's help crawled slowly back to the surface of his being. Now with John unable to speak, he felt frozen in the process. Like a cork that was stuck halfway in a bottle of champagne, the pressure down below building up. It felt completely wrong. Sherlock knew he wanted the old healthy John, needed him so fiercely that it hurt.

And John, for whatever problems he had, Sherlock wished that he could tell him so they would work together to find a solution. Because he was sure that something had happened to John in the days before the explosion. Sherlock had noticed small changes in John's behavior in the previous days. He was nervous and jumpy, but also subdued and sad at the same time. Whenever John thought he had been distracted, he had studied Sherlock. Sherlock had felt the looks washing over his body. However, he had hoped that John would tell him. But no, quite the contrary, John had pulled away gradually as if Sherlock would cause him physical pain. He had never observed a similar behavior before. Just as he would be waiting for something special to happen John had moved around the flat cautiously. Like he expected something important to occur, but feared the result. As if he knew something Sherlock didn't. Should he call Mycroft and ask for John's monitoring protocols? No, bad idea. He would owe Mycroft for this favour.

Riddles he couldn't solve around him everywhere, he rose from the sofa and began to pace the living room up and down. In front of the fireplace he came to a halt and gazed into the dancing fire. After a few minutes he bent down with a sigh, and began to collect the scattered photos. One had landed right in front of John's left foot. Sherlock reached to grab the photo and looked up. The dancing flames conjured up the impression of affection on his friend's face. Just an illusion, Sherlock told himself. He closed his eyes and lowered his head. As he opened his eyes again his look fell on the photograph in his hand. Sherlock froze. With a silent "Oh", he stood up and dropped the photos again. He looked around for his cell phone and found it in his jacket, which he had thrown over the armrest of the sofa earlier. With one finger he pushed the second speed dial button.

"Lestrade, it is not a burglar. The criminal is preparing a series of murders. Yes, Lestrade, the killer has marked his future victims during the break-ins. We must act quickly if we want to prevent the first murder. We are on our way. It's the address of the second victim Mrs. Kyle."