A/N: The real plot line will soon pick up, sorry. - csf
3.
'Calcium carbonate.'
The chemical name is whispered in two hissed words that have Sherlock stunned by his conclusion over a test tube rack and John quickly flashing him a concerned look from over the back of his armchair.
'What did you say?'
'Chalk, John! Traces on several of the gnomes.'
'Oh.' Pause. 'Is that relevant, then?'
DI Lestrade is just coming in with some curry boxes as this exchange takes place. He's made himself a guest in 221B, mostly to watch over the shaky friendship and see it back on the mend, but frankly also because he's got little more waiting for him at home than uncounted lotus flowers on the frankly hideous wallpaper his ex-wife chose. Accordingly, Greg volunteered to get them all some takeaway. Sherlock just dismissively handed him a gold credit card and said something about door handles and potted plants for the best takeaways around. John helped him out with an actual establishment name and general directions. Which turned out to be a bit further than he had expected, so by the time the inspector was waiting on the food he had gathered that John and Sherlock were either biting each other's heads off or practising a new secret friendship handshake.
'The food might be a bit cold by now, why did you tell me to walk there, mate?'
John looks mildly confused at the packages. 'Where did you find this place?'
And, just like that, Greg's eyes narrow. He deduces John from the dirty blond hair to the tatty socks and finds no hint of deception. This is perhaps the first time that Greg cares to admit to himself that John lied to him too with those fake letters. Greg is not so confident on John's honesty anymore, it seems.
Sherlock glances up from his gnome-centered analysis and chips in: 'Smells alright to me, John. Coffee table?'
John smiles benignly. 'Yeah, better. No free room there. Come on, genius, you need to eat!'
Sherlock rolls his eyes. 'Inaccurate, but I can favour you by joining in this time,' he alleges.
John is stretching himself to reach the dishes to set up some simile of a dinner table at the coffee table, and Greg comes over to help. He's got his back turned, however, when the stack of plates comes crashing down on the linoleum floor.
John takes a step back, in a recoil, staring at the mess, going pale. Greg frowns, glances at the crockery shards and sees the edge of an envelope sticking out. Damn it, Sherlock!
John pulls himself together and immediately advances to clear up the mess. Broken plates and his unsent poison letter, that the detective planted among the crockery.
'Why don't we just use the cartons, John? Food is getting cold.'
'Yes... yes, let's.'
He pointedly does not look around towards Sherlock. Yet he recognises that letter. Knows who planted it there, who is studying his reaction. He might not fully get why, but he recognises the madness style to one of Sherlock's own.
Greg takes a deep breath. In his concern for John, Sherlock might actually come to do more harm if he's not careful.
The two idiots are much the same; ready to do the wrong thing for the right reasons. And all Greg has to distract them are bloody garden gnomes!
.
'Chalk. Do you mean someone wrote a message in chalk on a garden gnome and let it for someone else to find?'
Sherlock flashes a proud smile to John's nape, as unfortunately the doctor wasn't paying attention to his friend's smile. Greg notices this and his heart clenches. Those two communicate volumes in silences between them, but more often than not they miss each other's silent words.
'Precisely, John! Garden gnomes are useless bits of outdoor decor if you want to instantly devalue your property in the neighbourhood, hideously collected as three dimensional illustrations for childish narratives, but also fairly stable elements of design in those very gardens. Left outside overnight, no one expects them to be purloined, because, frankly, who would want one?'
John is manipulating one of the evidence gnomes and frowns. 'I don't know, it's kind of cute, isn't it? A protector for your garden. A cheeky sod too, with this grin. And you should have seen the huge collection this old man had, it was hard to pry this one out as evidence. He looked a bit bereft as we left his garden. Don't suppose we could return this one early, mate?'
'It's a doll, John. A creepy one at that.'
'What, no! Look at that cheeky smile!'
'John, I'm embarrassed for you.'
'Boys, cut it out!' Greg cuts in, fast. He ignores John's puppy eyes. 'Sherlock, walk us through it. You say someone scribbled a message in chalk on these gnomes and left it there for someone else to read?'
'Didn't I just say that, inspector?'
'What was the message? Why communicate through gnomes?'
'Convenience. They were local resources, almost every garden there had at least one, hardly anyone actually pays attention to them.'
'It doesn't look very frightening. Are you sure these gnomes are related to the dead man?'
Sherlock shrugs. 'It's dangerous to theorise without evidence. Has the fingerprint analysis return yet?'
'Nah, you know they are all overworked and overstretched. It isn't being seen as top priority, right now.'
'What if it is a gnome conspiracy, or a deflection from something more nefarious going on?'
'We'll have to wait to find out, I guess,' the inspector recognises. 'Are you alright there, John? You've gone very quiet.'
As Greg lays a hand on John's wrist, the doctor recoils as if he'd been chased by an electric current. He looks at Greg for a second, blinking, as if he had forgotten himself there and what he was going. He looks down on his curry and hastily pushes it back on the coffee table, looking a bit green. He hides his wrinkled face in his hands, taking measured breaths. Greg searches for an answer in Sherlock's face. He finds it in the deep concern of those grey eyes. Flashbacks, Sherlock had said. Just once, John had tried to fool them. Likely the doctor will try to hide this one as well, with some feeble excuse.
'I— I don't think the food is agreeing with me, give me a sec,' and just like that John shoots off, out of the living room and up the stairs to his room.
Sherlock fists a hand and presses his lips. Noticing the inspector is watching he says, through gritted teeth. 'That one doesn't count. I brought that one on by confronting John with one of those letters.' His alien eyes narrow. 'Does this mean they are connected? Those vile words brought up memories of his army service?'
'Mate, you better leave it, seriously. It's not a puzzle to be solved, it's John. Let him deal with it in his own time, you hear me?'
'I always hear, but do I ever listen?' Sherlock asks philosophically, looking towards the stairs.
.
'It's not just gnomes going walkabouts, there have been minor thefts going on. Small items, things that folks think they just misplaced here or there. Have you any of those glazed donuts left, by any chance?'
Early morning and both Sherlock and John had been silent at the kitchen table when Greg burst in with the fresh news. John quickly avails him a chair by dislodging Sherlock's textbooks from it, followed by offerings of donuts and coffee. He looks alright, Greg notices. Perhaps a bit pale, or a hint of sleepiness in his quiet demeanour this morning, but nothing serious to note and Greg is relieved by that. Up until now he hasn't quite realised how concerned he had been for John when he left these two last night. He vows to drop by more often.
Sherlock barely waits for Greg to sit down before he demands more information: 'What was stolen, when did it go missing, were the objects linked, they must be!'
'Nothing important, really. Biggest thing was a sterling silver bracelet from a bedside table. That was daring, I suppose. I'm only bringing this up because you like the oddities, right? The things that don't add up? Well, number 11 says a fire extinguisher got taken. That was the same night that number 23 said the antifreeze bottle the guy had left in the boot of his car was gone the next morning. Number 8 mentioned herbs infused extra virgin olive oil one afternoon they left their kitchen window open. Number 9 said all the wire brackets securing his wisteria were suddenly gone but he can't pinpoint the date. There's a couple more, just as wacky.'
Sherlock is smirking, amused at something only he can see.
'John, the map!'
'Hmm?'
The consulting detective glances and his expression softens. Making careful eye contact as if to a child, or a very sleepy person, he reiterates: 'I need a map of the cul-de-sac, John.'
'Oh. That's... easy. I made one. I bet you guessed that. You could have used your phone to— you're using your phone, Sherlock.'
'I'm comparing notes, John. The satellite view will give me the general houses layout, but your notes will tell me which gardens are crossable, that is invaluable to me!'
'Thanks, ugh, here, that's my notebook.'
'Trust a military man to know how to draw a decent map. Look, Lestrade, really look!'
Greg leaned in. 'What am I looking at?'
Sherlock huffed, impatient. 'Number 10 is at the back of number 23. And number 21 was for sale, you noticed that? While number 7...' he waits for John to complete:
'...was the old man with the gnome we were looking at yesterday.'
'The one with a hearing aid on one ear and no hearing at all on the other side.'
'Yes, how did you notice that, Sherlock?'
'I noticed you, John. You quickly took that into consideration. Anyone could see it.'
'Chandler didn't, and he was right next to me.'
'Correction, anyone with half a brain.'
John shook his head, amused.
Greg finally caught on. 'Only one house in that tiny area with the houses we mentioned didn't report any disturbances, number 10.'
'Exactly. And if I remember correctly number 10 was as far from 10 Downing Street as we could have it. In need of a new paintwork, unwashed windows, no cars on the driveway. A bit down on their luck, I would say. Enough for a husband to try to pawn his wife's jewellery without her knowledge; or could it be the other way around, her husband's jewellery? Either way, the thieving partner tried all sorts of methods of breaking into the lock, can you not see? No?'
John and Greg share empty looks.
'The carbon dioxide jet from the fire extinguisher and the antifreeze were both thought to make the lock metal brittle, but it didn't work, my guess is it didn't get inserted far enough into the mechanism. No guesses on what the jewellery owner thought of the state of the lock after that, but— The olive oil was to grease the lock, likely an early attempt to force the mechanism to yield to force. As to wire brackets...' Sherlock pulls a thin files case from his pocket '...this would do a better job to pick the lock. Or master keys, you can get those easily.'
John is smiling in usual awe. Lestrade feels he needs to give himself a head shake, but one thing he does not get: 'What's a safe lock got to do with garden gnomes?'
'Nothing. More than one crime can occur concomitantly you know, inspector?'
.
Greg was about to leave Baker Street when he realised he left his phone upstairs in 221B. He doubled back before heading to the Yard. He had plenty of time. Ever since his divorce he had too much time to spare. Even a nice long queue of traffic might deliver him early on the desk this morning, much like most mornings.
'You should rest a couple of hours, John. You had a rough night.'
'I'm fine... No, I really am. The sleeping tablets make me drowsy in the morning, tha'sall.'
It was a bit eerie to stand at the landing, hearing Sherlock and John's voices flowing through the negative space. He should leave, really, but, his phone?
'John, about the letters—'
'Sherlock, listen to me, none of this,' a big sigh interspersed the conversation, 'none is your fault in any way, get it?'
'John... What can I do?'
Quiet resignation, so unlike Sherlock's usual tone for dealing with the rest of the world.
'Nothing needed. It... takes time, get it?'
Sleeping pills, likely John had more nightmares, John is not the kind to resort to them easily.
'Alright.'
'Would you mind if I took the sofa? I rather the sofa to my bed, right now, but I can go upstairs if you like.'
'Sofa, John. I'll be right behind you. Got some gnome-related research to do at the desk, I trust I won't disturb you?'
'No, I... I'll enjoy the company.'
'Go, John. Sofa. I'll be right behind you. Let me just—'
A quiet, slim, single figure shows up at the kitchen door, holding out the DI's phone. Greg takes it with a dry gulp, guilty for being exposed eavesdropping.
It's not until he's outside Baker Street that he realises that Sherlock let him hear that private exchange between him and John. Sherlock's silent request for help in supporting John.
Greg knows he has deeply weaved himself into these two's interdependent friendship, and that he is determined to help if he can.
.
TBC
