beyond the gravestones (sherlock/johnlock fanfic)

Chapter 17

Sherlock's eyes were burning. Hunger gnawed away at his insides, and he almost repented skipping dinner. John had tried to force him to eat, but he didn't want to stop working - not when he felt like he was finally on to something.

Together, John and Sherlock had tried every possible combination, unscrambled names, addresses, dates...nothing made sense. At some point, John had gotten up to check on Rosie, rejoined Sherlock on the floor, and then fallen asleep himself. He woke up now, looking disoriented and bleary. Sherlock snapped his eyes away. He didn't want John to think that he had watched him sleep.

"Did you figure it out?" John asked sleepily.

"Not yet."

"Hm." John pulled a few of Sherlock's sheets towards himself. "Have you tried the initials?"

Sherlock snatched the sheet out of John's hand and started scribbling.

James Oliver
Bertha Adams
Frank Evans

Sherlock frowned at it. "J O B A F E - doesn't make any sense. I could rearrange it, but - no. Didn't think so, Bertha wasn't murdered... let's try the names from the nameplates."

John had already drawn up the list.

Yardley Oliver
Upton Adams
Rachel Evans

"Y O U A R E - wow, we don't even have to rearrange this - " John said, "You are - what? What are we?"

"You, John Watson, are silver." he whispered.

"What?"

"You're the best conductor of light!" Sherlock declared, flouncing around the room. "Finally, finally something to work on!"

"Okay, but what does this actually tell us?"

"That we're on the right track. Someone's targeting us. The next two break-ins will complete this message."

John looked down at the sheet of paper. There was a prickly feeling at the back of his throat, but he swallowed his doubts and moved on.

***

The living room was a perfect mess. The papers and files from the previous night still lay scattered around the couch. Rosie's toys and clothes were everywhere. John looked around at the chaos and huffed, exasperated. He almost wished that he had accompanied Sherlock on his revisit of the crime scenes, but he was far too tired from his day at the clinic.

Harry had picked Rosie up a while ago, so he now had the flat to himself. He'd been looking forward to sitting down and sorting through his emotional baggage, but, well, he couldn't do it with the flat so messy. He started cleaning up, mentally cursing Sherlock. Does he live in the flat? Yes. Does he clean the flat? No.

He tripped over a small white shoe and started hunting for the other one. Rosie's shoes had a knack for ending up in the most unexpected places - wedged under the fridge, underneath a sofa cushion, once even jammed up the fireplace. He sometimes had a feeling Sherlock hid them just to exasperate him. Well, this shoe was nowhere to be found; he'd have to check Sherlock's room.

Entering Sherlock's room without him felt like a strange breach of privacy, although there were close to no personal effects in the room (and he slept there every night anyway). He bent down and fished around under the bed - if he has anything to hide, he won't be stupid enough to put it in such an obvious place. He didn't find the shoe, but his hand brushed against something papery. Against his better judgement, he pulled it out.