Author's note: Good morning! :)

I'm up when even the Sun is still asleep, so excuse any typos, mistakes, etc. - my proof-reading skills decided to stay in bed this morning.

Just one thing - something is messing with my text, so I can't include the right symbols in it, more precisely, the double-drawn arrow that was found on Victim 8. This arrow will be important, so in places where you just see "=", please imagine two arrow heads drawn next to it, one after another, on the right side of the "=" sign.

Enjoy!


Chapter 6: Speaking a dead language


John doesn't wait for Sherlock's response, so he doesn't catch the moment when Sherlock finally lifts his head to look at the doorway, which, just moments ago, hosted the angry army doctor. John doesn't hear Sherlock's retort, because Sherlock never actually speaks the words. But, I promised to tell them to you, nonetheless.

(Why would you need me...)

'No reason at all' – Sherlock hears the words that were directed at him through a chemical haze, some months ago. His tongue already moves to cast them out, spit them at John the same way John spit Sherlock's words at him, but his flatmate is already gone by the time Sherlock opens his mouth, bitter words settling in it like aspirin dust, and the detective is left wondering whether he would have really said them if John stayed long enough to hear them.

The words are almost like a reflex, a twitch of finger when pricked by a needle – a response of an agitated (wounded) animal, because doesn't John know, can't he see? Sherlock is angry with John for bringing up the infernal subject again, and disrupting what was otherwise a very enjoyable case. He is angry with John for being able to rile up him so. More than anything, he is angry with himself for allowing himself to feel agitated. For allowing himself to feel anything that is not related to or contributing to the solution of the case.

He is angry at John for not asking the right questions. Why does he care about who Sherlock doesn't care for? How does he expect that to make things better, when he should be asking about who and what Sherlock does care for; about whose opinion he values, instead of worrying about irrelevant opinions of irrelevant people. Because, if John had only remembered to ask those questions, the answer to all of them would have been 'You'.

On second thought, perhaps Sherlock isn't really angry at John for asking the wrong questions. Perhaps he is just relieved.

No reason at all – what a lie that would have been. Now it will never be, and just like caring can't resurrect the dead, dwelling over unsaid words can't resurrect the conversation of which they were supposed to be a part, so Sherlock clears his mind of them and turns back to the make-shift laboratory constructed on the kitchen table.

"What are you saying..?" he mumbles over the microscope, speaking to no one in particular, forcing his attention back to the case at hand. He still has a killer to unveil, and that must always come first, because it's a time-ticking puzzle in which the pieces get deformed if they are not tended to immediately.

He goes through the list of possible patterns again. It is obvious chemistry plays some kind of role in the whole conundrum, so he starts there.

Elements get their symbols from Latin or, at times, Greek words from which they draw their names. Sherlock looks at the list again. The only exceptions among the elements listed are nickel and erbium, both of which derive their names from Germanic languages – exception: meaningful? Possibly. Revisit later.

Fe O Al Ni N Er S Mg O Rb Na

Ferrum, oxys...all the way to natrium. But what do they mean? Sherlock lists the known uses of each of the elements, and then of their combinations. Alloys, salts, solutions – nothing jumps out as meaningful. There must be something, a pattern to serve as a message, None of this is arbitrary, not with this killer. This killer is smart, they are clever and...Oh.

He is clever, he uses weaknesses as shields, turns everything around. Error to advantage, clever to simple.

Oh. Stupid. Not ferrum. Iron. Not natrium. Sodium.

Iron, oxygen, hydrogen, aluminium, nickel, erbium, sulphur, magnesium, oxygen, rubidium, sodium.

Now what? There are several possible ways to use these names to send a message, each as probable as the next. Simple elimination, then. But where to start?

In order not to repeat his mistake, Sherlock starts with the most obvious and least clever option. He doesn't really think it could be that simple. It really couldn't, could it?

Well...Sherlock Holmes lives to see himself being wrong two times in as many minutes, because in this case, simple really does do it.

Iron
Oxygen
Aluminium
Nickel
Nitrogen
Erbium
Sulphur
Magnesium
Oxygen
Rubidium
Sodium

IOANNESMORS...wait, there was something else. The card with the unusual arrow he found on the eighth victim. Presumably, the arrow is intended as a part of the message.

IOANNES = MORS

Oh. Clever...it's the other way around – the names of the elements must be read in English, but the message itself is in Latin and Greek. Oh, very clever – making it less clever and counting on Sherlock's inborn need for things to be smart.

Sherlock can feel the thrumming of excited blood in his ears. He is loving this, a challenge, something imaginative. He was never really the one for riddles, but still, he has to admit to being thoroughly pleased by the amount of detail and precision invested in these murders. The symbolic elements might be somewhat exaggerated, for Sherlock's taste, but the challenge is invigorating.

Mors – Latin. Obvious – death.

Ioannes – name, biblical Greek: religious element? Hardly, the rest of the MO is science-related, with no biblical references. Still...purposefully so? Religious element: viable option to keep in mind. Rarely used any more...Ioannes – modern versions: (use of Greek and Latin in the message – start with Modern Greek and Romanic languages. Logical.) Yannis (Greek), Ioan (Romanian), Yann (Breton), Xoán (Galician), Jean (French)...Jean...Modern English – John.

John.

JOHN = DEATH

Not brilliant. Not clever. Wrong. So very, very wrong. And utterly unacceptable.

Sherlock's excitement quickly turns sour with trepidation. He snatches his phone out of his pocket and calls John, not surprised when the line rings out several times, with no answer. There are two options – either John is ignoring him, still angry, or he cannot answer. Either way, it's not good, so Sherlock dials Lestrade.

"Sherlock? You are calling me? What happened, your thumbs fell off and you couldn't text?"

"Has John been to see you?"

The DI's voice quickly loses its joking tone in the face of Sherlock's rather tense one.

"Um, yeah, 'bout some hour and twenty minutes ago. Brought the report I asked for. I thought he'd be home by now."

"I assume from your answer he is no longer with you."

"Yeah...why? Isn't he with you? What's going on, Sherlock?"

"He hasn't finished. That's why he left another clue. He hasn't finished yet."

"Who? John? Finished what?"

"No!" Sherlock's growl of frustration seems to send shivers down the line "The killer, the Round-the-clock killer. He isn't done yet. There is going to be another victim if we don't stop him."

"Another? And what does that have to do with John?"

Sometimes, Sherlock wonders how people don't accidentally choke on their own asinity.

"It's going to be John."

"Are you sure?"

Oh, for the love of –

"Of course I'm sure! He left me a message saying so. Now stop wasting time asking redundant questions, and send your hoard of incompetent officers out to search!"

"And where exactly am I supposed to send them to? You are not giving me much to work with here!"

"I haven't worked out precisely where yet, so send them to all the previous crime scenes until I do."

"Fine, I'll do that. Listen, Sherlock...we'll find him, ok?"

"I'll call when I figure it out."

Sherlock hangs up, leaving Lestrade's not-quite-rhetorical question unanswered. He is just about to dispose of his phone when it comes to life with a buzz, one that indicates a text. When John's name flashes on the screen, he feels a surge of ridiculous relief that feels very much like running very fast – light and dizzy and exhilarating.

Let me tell you something about surges: they always precede the crash. They are a small part of a greater motion, one that never ceases. Rolling and swelling and crashing and swirling. Feet on concrete, blood in vessels, electrons around nuclei, cogs in a clock. Always in motion.

So, the faith of Sherlock's surge is rather predictable – it crashes and dissolves, like it never existed in the first place, dragging him under, as he opens the text, and reads the message sent from what is definitely John's number, constituted of what are definitely not John's words. For once, Sherlock is not at all thrilled to have his assumptions confirmed, as he stares at the screen.

Two words stare back: Tick-tock.


Thank you for reading! See you on Saturday :)