"Dripping, echoes, concrete. What else?" Sherlock was muttering to himself, his head laying sideways over Greg's desk. As far as Sally could tell, he hadn't yet slept. The mind couldn't do nine days without sleep. He had to have slept, but whenever it had been, it hadn't been for long. The man's skin was yellowed and sickly. The skin under his eyes was dark and baggy, almost bruised, and the man had only gotten quieter, more caustic as the days dragged on. "Data, data, data. Without mud how can I make bricks?" he muttered to himself.
Nothing happened, the rest of that day. Sherlock did not eat. Sally stayed in the main room because Sherlock was there, wondering if the unstable genius even peed like a normal man. She left Philip watching him when she went to eat and always came back to find Sherlock in the same position, sitting in an office chair, staring at nothing. As far as she could tell, he stayed there all that day, into the night, staring at all their utterly useless 'clues'.
Midnight struck and Sally wondered if she was supposed to hold Sherlock's hand, help him through this somehow, but she'd never been particularly touchy and he definitely didn't seem the type. He didn't even seem to realize she was there.
8:00 AM hit finally, and Sally watched as Sherlock slowly dug his fingers through his hair. John was getting tortured now. The next letter. Lestrade came in and stood by the case board, staring at the pictures. The other officers trickled in, one by one, in total silence, waiting for the next photo that always came at nine.
~~/~~
The officers on the case all wandered idly about, without any work to continue the case and without the heart to declare it over.
They hadn't gotten a photograph that morning. A photograph came every day at nine o'clock, like clockwork, and it was going on ten now. Sherlock Holmes was staring into space, muttering to himself, looking like some kind of disturbing broken doll. John Watson was very likely dead, killed by blood loss, dehydration and shock, and Sally wondered if that was going to finally destroy Sherlock Holmes. Ironic, after all the genius had done to come back from the dead, he'd do it only to watch his partner die. His lover. Christ.
"Nine letters. Jesus," Greg said, sighing as he ran a finger over the picture of John's back, pinned up on the case board outside his office. Sally heard a rustling and turned her head, curious.
Sherlock was frozen, his fingers halfway to his mouth, his face slowly brightening like he was stuck halfway through a high. Or an orgasm. The whole room of Scotland Yard officers stopped to stare at him, hope rising steadily. Sherlock raised his hand, his fingers pressed against his skull as he thought.
The officers froze, one by one, as they noticed. All except Anderson who slowly, silently turned around to face the opposite wall.
Sally felt herself smile at him, who could not see her now.
He's a good man, she thought, a twinge of guilt pressing through her again. The man had a wife. She'd have to find a different colleague to fuck.
Lestrade slowly took his radio out, ready to make a call.
Please, please, come on, Sally thought, watching Sherlock Holmes stare at the case wall, his eyes darting back and forth in his skull. Let this be over now.
Suddenly Sherlock was all movement, taking out his phone and striding toward the door, typing into his phone even as he grabbed his coat.
"1750 West Hamington or 15 Tarington Street, London. Hamington is more likely. Get everyone!" Sherlock shouted as he ran out of the door.
Oh, thank god, Sally thought desperately as she ran for her vest, obeying Greg's shouted orders.
Sherlock was pacing back and forth in front of Lestrade's car as they got out of the building. Lestrade didn't pause from talking to EMS dispatch, just opened the door for them and Sally climbed inside, leaving Sherlock to the back of the car.
"Want to talk me through it?" Lestrade asked once he'd gotten off the radio and was on the road, lights on and sirens blaring around them.
"Nine letters. Not eight," Sherlock replied grimly. Greg waited before sighing.
"So?"
"John disappeared at roughly 7:00 AM according to when that man was killed in your old crime scene. The letters are always, always cut at 8:00, he told us that. So Moriarty's man only had forty five minutes to get John captured, transported, tied down, and woken up before 8:00 AM or we'd only have eight letters. Not nine," Sherlock replied tersely.
Ten, now, if we're lucky, Sally thought, deciding not to correct the man. John Watson was likely dead and Sherlock would hardly have forgotten.
"True. Ten," Sherlock said quietly into the silence that had followed his words.
Sherlock stayed absolutely still at the back of the car, his legs crossed. Sally watched in the rear-view mirror. Sherlock just didn't move right. It helped her feel slightly better about having accused him. She'd had all the evidence on her side and the man could be genuinely creepy. He didn't even look worried, with his best friend-maybe-lover likely getting tortured to death only a few miles away. If anything, he looked excited.
"He'll be okay," she said quietly, wondering how he'd react. He met her eyes sharply in the rear view mirror, looking confused.
"Why would you think that?" he asked, his eyebrows furrowed. Greg darted his eyes away from the road to flash her a worried glance and Sally sat back in her seat, giving up.
"We have no idea what we're facing here. We are to do perimeter control only while the force firearms unit performs the building search," Lestrade reminded the force over his radio as they approached the first address. It was a large, concrete building rising out of the middle of a shitty suburban area, next to what looked to be an illegal tire dumpsite. The place had large windows, bricked up on the bottom floors, boarded up above.
"An old factory?" Sally guessed as she gazed out the window. The place was already surrounded by cop cars, the blue lights flashing off of the building's tall concrete walls.
"Old mall," Sherlock replied quietly. "Construction was never finished but the parking garage was mostly completed. All underground. Sound would be impenetrable,"
He climbed out of the car slowly and Sally made sure to stand beside him, ready to grab the man if he tried to enter before the police force secured the area. To her surprise, Sherlock just stood there, almost completely still as the wind blew his coat back behind him. He pushed his hands into his sleeves and waited, by all appearances willing to stand there forever. He knew they were picking up a body, Sally realized, wincing. They had not gotten another photograph that morning. Moriarty's man for hire had messed up his torture, killed him too fast. John had probably been grateful for it.
We only needed one more day, Sally cursed, wanting to cry.
They watched as the special forces unit entered the building and waited. The place was too silent, even with the barking dog they could hear off in the distance.
~~/~~
Sherlock waited by the car to get word. He wouldn't gain anything from seeing John's bloated corpse but a time of death, and Molly would give him a more accurate one. Sally Donovan stood behind him, apparently having decided to keep him from doing something stupid, like running inside to get killed when there was nothing else productive he could do. She did not understand him.
He'd always been a thinking thing, always trying to puzzle out how people worked from afar, trying to decide why they did irrational things like committing suicide or getting killed running into a fire to save their dead cat. That had never made any sense. He'd spent a month, at nine years old, obsessing over it to no avail. And yet at 37 he'd figured it out without ever realizing it. He was being swamped with sentiment, like he'd gone weeks without food and couldn't think for hunger, except this was twice as debilitating. He needed to know John was alive and he had no idea what his brain would do if he wasn't.
"He wouldn't want you to kill yourself," Sally commented from behind him.
"Why would you think that?" He asked curiously, turning to her. Sentiment still made so much sense to other people; they were all just used to it, processed it in that effortless way they didn't process anything else. Sally blinked at him like he'd said something incomprehensible.
"He'll be dead," Sherlock clarified, "by definition unable to care." She was only silent for a moment, like there was some logical way to respond.
"Lestrade says it was like John Watson had died too, when you jumped. Didn't eat or sleep. Moved out but didn't bring any of his things. God knows what he was doing before Lestrade brought him his clothes. Spent all day at work. His boss, Susan? Sarah? Whatever her name, said she put him on file work, and he'd be there without speaking for days on end, until even the backlogged work was done. That's what brokenhearted people do. He loved you. He'd want you to live," she said.
Sherlock clamped his emotions down again.
It was irrelevant how John had felt, over a year before. He'd probably been dead for hours now.
~~/~~
A force officer came out of the building, back through the kicked-in door, and approached them finally, looking grim.
Sherlock still didn't move, even as the man shook his head at them.
Damn it, Sally thought, knowing the answer. John Watson had been a great man. She glanced at Sherlock's face and saw nothing but waiting curiosity.
"I'm sorry sir. We found a body," the man said and Sherlock sneered.
"That's meaningless. Which body," he growled.
After all this he still has hope? Sally thought, feeling ill.
Leave the man alone, Sherlock, the answer is obvious, she thought, but wondered if perhaps it wasn't to Sherlock, if Sherlock really hadn't gotten his answer yet. She didn't want to see him learn that John Watson was gone.
"He was hanging from the ceiling, sir," the officer informed them. Sally closed her eyes.
Christ. Too much detail.
"I'm sorry, officers," the man said, glancing curiously at Sherlock, obviously recognizing the man but clearly astute enough not to question him or his return from the dead.
Two men carrying a full body bag on a stretcher walked out of the building, heading for the ambulance. Sherlock strode for them.
Jesus, man, Sally wanted to say, but felt a palm settle over her shoulder, stopping her from following the man.
"Let him be," Lestrade ordered. "He needs evidence." His voice was calm but Sally could see how tense he was. Lestrade cared for Sherlock Holmes. This wasn't just about John Watson. It wasn't for her, either, she figured, wanting to collapse to the ground at the thought that they'd arrived only to pick up a body. Dr. John Watson, a damn good man. And more, Sherlock Holmes had lost his partner. Jesus.
Sherlock strode up to the special unit officers and tore open the body bag's zip before either of the men had time to react. Sally watched as the men jerked backward in surprise.
There was nothing in the world as disturbing as Sherlock tipping his head back on his neck and practically crowing with success at the image of a revealed body. The man leaped up in the air, a grin stretched across his face, showing no concern at all for the disgust evident on the officer's faces.
"Sherlock, what?" Lestrade asked as Sherlock strode back to them, his stride strong. A smile was stretched across his face, a creepy look for a man Sally had never seen smile about anything other than a case.
"That was not John. And he's been dead for over a day," Sherlock replied, pointing back at the corpse and pulling open the front car door. "Call the closest hospital. They have our missing person," he ordered.
Sally felt astonishment strike her and turned back to watch the emergency medical personnel load the leaden body bag into the ambulance. John had escaped? From here? She'd seen the pictures; how on earth..
Escaped and killed his tormentor, apparently.
Lestrade's eyes widened and he ran for the car. Sally followed, ignoring that Sherlock had taken her seat.
"Reports of human-inflicted injuries are always to be reported to the police," Lestrade cursed as they sped for the closest hospital, leaving the crime scene behind them. The sirens blared, lights flashing and reflecting off the cars around them.
"They likely were. You evidently have jurisdiction communication issues," Sherlock responded. Sally wanted to snark back, defend them; jurisdiction issues were difficult, but they'd spent twenty four hours almost certain John Watson was dead, and John Watson had spent twenty four hours in the hospital alone. Probably still dying. And from the tension still around Sherlock's eyes, the man knew it.
~~/~~