"… he's sleeping."
John drifted awake just enough to catch Sherlock's low tones reaching him from the living room. Through the small opening in the door he could hear two murmured voices – one Sherlock's, the other Mycroft's.
Of course Mycroft bloody knows, he thought, but without much rancour. It was hard to care over the aches that gripped his skull and chest and the fatigue that clung to his muscles. Sherlock had left a bottle of ibuprofen and a glass of water on the nightstand. John stared at it for a brief moment, debating, then shut his eyes. He could sleep through the headache and any movement would bring Sherlock, which would bring Mycroft.
He wasn't in the mood for his brother-in-law right now, so he burrowed deeper into the duvet and pillows and sank back into sleep.
He moved through half-formed dreams of Bastion and the field hospital, old friends now gone, the room at St. Thomas' and John Riley, the images mingling and confusing themselves until he roused himself enough to shake them away. He slipped into a deeper sleep, half aware of the pain in his head and ribs and the flat door shutting behind Mycroft when he eventually left. Footsteps in the hallway and the faint creak of floorboards announced Sherlock's quiet presence in the room, but John didn't let himself wake up fully, not until thirst and the pain in his head dragged him reluctantly back to consciousness.
He was alone again so he shuffled from under the covers, moving slowly to keep the worst of the pain at bay. Standing didn't make him dizzy – at least not more than he expected to be in his dehydrated and underfed state – so he padded barefoot into the living room.
Sherlock had been bent over his microscope but was up in a shot, crossing the room before John had the chance to take another step, and long, cool fingers enclosed his face, holding lightly but with a definite warning against moving. He bent to John's eye level, piercing grey eyes scouring, evaluating. The intensity was heady given his concussion.
Sherlock pursed his lips in something approaching a satisfied expression and steered him to the sofa, settling him down before examining his injuries, slim fingers moving through John's hair before pulling up his shirt and probing the tender bruises skilfully but clinically.
Pity, John thought vaguely, chuckling quietly to himself. The amusement made him feel better, chased away some of the fatigue.
"Tea and toast, I think," Sherlock declared and was back in the kitchen, the sounds of porcelain being knocked about making John wince. A few minutes later, he was being presented with tea – as always, too sweet but still welcome – and toast scraped with the barest amount of jam. John smiled at the fussing and sipped his tea gingerly.
"What did Mycroft want?" he asked as Sherlock resettled himself at his microscope.
"To be insufferable," Sherlock replied, focused on whatever unfortunate specimen was smeared across the glass plate beneath the lenses.
"His weekly appointment with you, then?" John asked, earning himself a twitch of the lips which was, for Sherlock, very nearly a smirk.
"He has the whole of the British government," Sherlock complained. "I can't understand why he doesn't harass them."
"Because the whole of the British government isn't his baby brother," John replied. "You are."
"More's the pity."
"He doesn't come without a reason," John pointed out, resisting the urge to roll his eyes, suspecting it would do nothing for his headache. Even if that reason is a thinly veiled excuse just to check up on you, he added silently. He sighed to himself; after last night, it was probably an excuse to check up on him, too. Something like this wouldn't escape Mycroft's notice.
"Mm," Sherlock said noncommittally and John waited, nibbling at the toast, letting the silence stretched out. A frown twitched across Sherlock's features – evidence he'd just realized he had more to say and hadn't said it.
"Yes, he had something for you."
"For me?" John repeated. Sherlock looked up with his best withering obvious expression.
"It's on the desk," his husband sniffed and John glanced to where a small, localized hurricane had apparently struck. Whatever it was that Mycroft had left for him, it wasn't immediately visible. He waited a moment to see if Sherlock would clarify any further. When that didn't happen, he started to push himself to his feet with only partly feigned reluctance.
Sherlock's head snapped up, eyes narrowing, and he was on his feet instantly, shooting John a reprimanding look. The doctor suppressed a smile, sinking back onto the sofa. He'd thought that would work.
"Here, if you're so eager to know," Sherlock snapped, extending a flash drive to him. John took it, raising his eyebrows questioningly.
"Well?" he asked when no explanation was forthcoming. "What is it?"
"No idea," Sherlock retorted, hovering in front of John as if to keep him from trying to stand again. The doctor fought down another wave of amusement.
"You didn't look?"
"Of course not," Sherlock sniffed, as though the idea of snooping into anyone else's business had never once crossed his mind. John let himself grin this time – gingerly. He'd probably ignored it just to piss Mycroft off. And possibly because of some misplaced idea that doing so was being kind to John while he was injured. The thought made him chuckle and Sherlock's eyes narrowed again.
"Whatever it is, it can wait," he said icily. John sighed.
"Mycroft isn't so good at waiting," he replied, neglecting to mention that Sherlock wasn't either.
"Your health is far more important."
"And looking at a computer screen is going to tax me into a relapse?" John asked, lips twitching into a wider smile.
"It could easily give you a headache."
"I already have a headache."
"Clearly."
"Mycroft wouldn't have dropped it off if he didn't think it was important."
"Mycroft thinks everything he does is important," Sherlock muttered, refocusing on the microscope. John let the silence settle again, studying the flash drive. Sherlock hadn't mentioned the fact that John had been attacked and beaten yesterday for information about Riley – he was almost emphatically not mentioning it. And he wasn't asking John to drop the case despite the obvious danger; a deep breath followed by a wince and hiss that made Sherlock raise his head was a good reminder of what he really faced with this investigation.
He sighed and Sherlock's expression pinched into a frown. With conscientious movements, his husband put away his equipment, stowing the mystery specimen carefully and covering the microscope before joining John on the sofa. John smiled faintly at the uncomfortable look on Sherlock's face; he'd never liked giving care in the aftermath of an injury or an illness, but he did at least try. Usually.
"It can probably wait a bit," John agreed. Sherlock pushed himself to his feet and disappeared into the bedroom, returning with the water and the ibuprofen and a pointed look. John took the pills before finishing his tea and toast. He was grateful Sherlock hadn't mentioned going to a hospital – Mycroft had probably tried to insist upon it, which meant the discussion was off the table unless John brought it up. But nothing was broken, even if he would be moving slowly for the next several days.
When Sherlock scooted to the other end of the sofa, John gave him a quizzical look, his unspoken question answered by the pillow Sherlock settled onto his lap.
"No," John said with a smile. "You'll get bored in ten minutes and probably just dump me on the floor."
Sherlock rolled his eyes and held up his phone.
"Stolen cameos. Antiques. I'm trying to trace their route; I suspect they'll turn up at auction in France or Italy. A circuitous route, of course, but it's a simple matter of finding the right starting point."
"Case from the website?"
"Mm," Sherlock agreed. John held out for a moment before relenting and settling down gingerly onto his back. He fell asleep to the sound of Sherlock tapping at his phone's screen and the feel of long fingers stroking carefully through his hair.
"Isn't this bloody city supposed to be infested with bloody cameras?"
"They're not much good when there's no light, sir."
And that's the truth of it, Lestrade thought. There were actually a number of strategically placed CCTV cameras guarding the entrances to the construction site – and somewhere, unseen, someone was probably very vigilantly manning them now that the police were there.
Hands in his pockets, he stared at one of them before exhaling a sigh in the frozen air. It was too damn cold to be standing around outside. Too damn close to Christmas to be watching the forensics experts and the coroner carefully disinter the body of a man some luckless construction work had stumbled upon just over an hour previous. Lestrade had questioned the man himself and had dismissed him almost immediately as a suspect. No one feigned distress at seeing a corpse that well. Still, his officers would have to follow up on it.
The cameras wouldn't provide any evidence, it seemed.
A little under a month ago – twenty-five days, to be exact – someone had managed to cut the power to the site in the middle of the night, disabling the security lights and effectively blinding the cameras.
And then, apparently, had carried a murdered man inside, buried him, and walked back, unconcerned, into London's winter streets.
"A month?" Lestrade asked and the coroner raised her head, meeting his eyes grimly.
"The cold weather's slowed decomposition and I can't say for sure until he's back in the lab, but given the temperature and the rate of decomp, he's been here three to four weeks."
Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose, withheld a sigh. Someone was going to have to tell this man's family. He thought of Helen and the kids and the tree surrounded by presents in their sitting room. He didn't let himself imagine what it would be like to have that taken away.
Merry bloody Christmas, he thought as the coroner and her team lifted the poor sod onto a stretcher.
The first file was black-and-white CCTV footage, three different angles, from an area of London that John didn't immediately recognize.
"Canton Street between Saracen and Upper N Streets," Sherlock said and John resisted the urge to roll his eyes.
He was surprised there were cameras at all – the area looked quiet and not particularly well-to-do, with a church evident in one view, what looked like a school in another, and a line of row houses in all three views. There were several cars parked on the street and but few pedestrians. The time stamp put it on the eighteenth of November in the early afternoon.
Nestled between Sherlock's knees, his back resting on his husband's chest and a blanket draped over him for warmth, John watched the apparently sleepy street. For a minute, nothing happened, then a water department van drove up and a metre reader climbed out, heading for one of the houses. John frowned gingerly. What was Mycroft getting at? Is this what passed for fun for him these days?
He was admitted to the house and emerged a few minutes later, pulling the zip of his uniform jacket up, head ducked and shoulders hunched, probably against the cold weather. The sky was low and the gloomy day was obvious despite the monochromatic footage.
The apparent star of the show made his way to the next house and disappeared again for a few minutes. Baffled, John watched him make his rounds. He could feel Sherlock's warm breath ghosting against the top of his head, brushing the tender and swollen bruises, but the sensation wasn't uncomfortable. John resisted the urge to shift or to ask what Sherlock had noticed that he hadn't. Mycroft had brought this for him, so presumably it had something to do with John Riley, but he had no idea what.
The metre reader was admitted to a final house – by a man this time, John noted, whereas the others at home had been women – and came back out a few minutes later, ambling down the drive back toward his van, fishing around for something in his coat. As close as he was to the nearest camera, it was difficult to get a good view of him even as he turned, pulling his phone from his pocket.
Oh yes, city employees making phone calls. Subversive behaviour. Definitely, John thought wryly. The man turned slightly and John stiffened in surprise, certain he'd taken a picture of the house. He frowned, leaning forward slightly, ignoring the warning pressure of Sherlock's fingertips on his shoulder. Was that Riley's house? But he'd said he had a flat – and that hadn't been Riley who had answered the door, nor was it anywhere near the area he'd been mostly seen and, presumably, lived.
The metre reader turned, slipping his phone back into his pocket, making for his van, and John just managed to swallow a gasp.
"That's him," he said as Riley moved into clearer view, properly facing the nearest camera now. It was shocking to see him uninjured – and shocking to see him dressed as a water department employee. No one John had interviewed had said anything about that – everyone had seen him with construction worker's gear.
He felt Sherlock nod against him and wondered briefly how long it had taken the detective to spot that. As John watched, Riley climbed into his van and drove away, the video ending almost as he was out of the frame. John didn't hesitate, but opened the next video file Mycroft had included.
This was better footage, clearer picture, better angles, early morning, three days after the previous video. The entrance to a construction site. Some kind of multi-story complex, John thought – flats or offices maybe. The surrounding street wasn't visible beyond glimpses of parked cars and pavement, but the workers coming in, having their IDs checked, were in plain view. Most of them were men, coming in ones and twos, congregating into slightly larger groups as they passed through the gate. John scanned the faces, tensing slightly when he saw a now familiar face. Riley, dressed in work clothing, a hard hat tucked under his arm, presented his identification. He spent a minute conversing with the guard and then was waved through.
"What?" he murmured to himself as the video ended. John twisted enough to see Sherlock's face; his husband didn't say anything but John read the expression easily enough. A man with known links to RIRA, who specialized in bombing, accessing private homes and construction sites.
It wasn't precisely enough to make him guilty of anything, John thought, but it certainly didn't make him look innocent.
"Sally."
Donovan looked up at Greg Lestrade standing in her doorway, tired and resigned. She waved him into a chair, concerned by the flatness of his tone, the way he was fixing his dark eyes on her.
"You heard about the body from the construction site?" he asked and she snorted faintly.
"Who hasn't?" Even if it hadn't been all over the news, coppers gossiped like school girls and the story had reached her quickly from someone she'd worked with in Homicide. "Found out who he is yet?"
"They're still working on the official ID," Lestrade replied and Donovan cocked a curious eyebrow. "But the cold weather worked with us this time. We ran his fingerprints. Guess where he was twelve years ago?"