Nocturne in Tempo Rubato
part elevenJohn let the hot water run over him, eyes closed to the spray as it beat down against his face, filling his head with a roar like white-noise to help drown out all the words and thoughts clamoring inside his skull. So much and too much, loud as the guilt he'd once nursed after the fall and just as insistent as it raged against his ribs. His heart hurt in every way but those clinically diagnosable. Water on his face was several steps away from drowning but he felt six feet under with his limbs pinned against ascension. It didn't make him want to leave the shower all the same. It didn't matter that he'd finished washing off the sweat and dirt long before. It helped to feel the warm wet pouring down on him, to hear it rumble and feel its tapping. He'd stay there forever if he could, hidden behind a thin plastic sheet of shadows, free to avoid everything else beyond in the sanctuary of the tub.
Not that Sherlock accepted any room in their flat as a sanctuary. Pacing in the small space, the detective had been a non-stop chatterbox on the details of his day and the puzzle left for the evening texted by an anonymous supplier--John himself. With Sherlock, the shower provided an entirely different and extremely necessary function. Behind the curtain he couldn't read John's face. With the water coming down, he might miss a nervous pause in his voice or take omission as a simple sign of not hearing him so well over the thunder of the spray. John had never tried to purposefully deceive Sherlock before. He feared he would prove as poor in the attempt as every other mere mortal--worse given how well they knew each other. If he failed, if somehow Moran found out he hadn't been able to keep this secret, people would die. He had no choice. Again. He held his breath and let the water break against his sinuses. For Queen and Country. For London. But, God, not for Moran.
"I still can't believe you slept through the crew Mrs. Hudson said were working on 221c. Must have been a right racket," Sherlock continued, somehow back to admonishing his friend for his absence and silence during one of the more exciting afternoons since his return. "Are you sure you're not ill? The phone is one thing but not hearing people in and out all afternoon?"
John tilted his head, letting his breath out quietly till the water pooling over his lip dripped to his toes. "Maybe I am coming down with something. I don't really feel that great."
Sherlock hummed in accession as he hopped to sit on the sink, his feet bouncing against the the cabinet doors to make them clang. "Well, perhaps it's better you stayed here, in that case. I'll need you tonight. The anonymous 'friend' supplied only the code for a bomb no one had even been aware of. The one at the station is still very much armed and ticking down to 1300 hours tomorrow. I'd like to say the use of military time is telling of our bomber but I think it's probably a manufacturer preset. Too many casualties from idiots forgetting to program it from am to pm."
"Any clues?"
"Apparently, though for the moment I fail to see the relevance. If the code for one is meant to be a clue for the other, we can assume there is a relationship, some kind of correlation between the bomb and its code. So what about that school's music room is related to 326e64?"
John didn't know. On the run and subsequent ride back to the flat he hadn't given much thought to anything other than beating Sherlock home. He'd succeeded by minutes, managing to strip down and toss his laundry in the bin with time still to wait for the water to warm before getting in and hearing the heavy foot falls on the steps. Now he was breathless with worry. If he hadn't told Sherlock enough, if some clue had been at the carpark, something seen or said that only he knew about that completed the puzzle, if he failed in that text in some way, he was going to cost the government hundreds of thousands of pounds in damages. Lives at the very least were not at stake but livelihoods were.
He was so tired.
"Directional?" he offered, pushing his hair off his forehead as he let the water beat against his chest.
"E meaning East? I see where you're going but no, the numbers don't appear to have any meaning in regards to an address, latitude, kilometers, bus routes, the underground or really any form of transportation or postal key." The way he spoke made it obvious he'd thought the same and had looked heavily into it. There was a familiar squeak from the sink area, John's open eyes spying the motions of Sherlock's dark silhouette. He was writing on the mirror, drawing in the fogged glass. "I wish I had more information on the concert bombing. Perhaps comparing data from the two will help with the third--like points on a graph."
John sighed loudly, almost a growl. He never did look over the information Sherlock had had sent to him. Things just kept getting better and better. He picked at the broken skin of his knuckles, imagining he could still feel the creak of ribs and the resistance of bone against them. Sherlock would notice. Clenching his jaw tight, John pulled back and punched the tile wall, pain rolling all the way up to his elbow as the blow spiked along his already sensitized nerves. He allowed himself to curse as he pulled his hand back, pink puddles dripping down the beige, patterned tile.
"John?"
"Just... frustrating," he forced, holding his hand to his mouth, biting down on the softer pad to halt the shout he still wanted to scream. No questions asked now. He hurt his hand in the shower.
".... Are you alright?"
"Ngn." It wasn't a word but it was still in both their vocabularies. John shook his hand out, his teeth marks leaving Stonehenge imprinted in his palm. He put his hand under the water, wincing at the sting of it as blood dripped from the cracks in his fist. Not broken but certainly worse off.
Sherlock was quiet for a moment, the shadow of him still in its perch. "It's just a structure, John," he offered.
"The school wasn't. There were kids in that school." There was no real need to say much more. The cost of being alive was becoming a very expensive tab and neither of them were fools enough to dismiss who was left to pay.
The detective shifted, his foot knocking the cabinet again, unintentional and quickly silenced. "You hurt yourself?"
"Don't worry about it."
"John-"
"It's fine. Just... I'm frustrated, I don't feel very good, I'm still tired, and there's no way I can sleep if we don't figure this out so... let's just keep at it. Not an address, not a direction, so what else?"
Sherlock slid down off the sink, walking closer to the shower curtain. For a moment, John was terrified his friend was about to pull the curtain back. He had nothing to hide physically anymore but one look at his face had John convinced he would cave. He needed the man to be a shadow while his mind was still raw as butchered beef. Imagining his eyes, indiscriminately discriminating in kaleidoscope greys, was almost enough to make him squirm. He'd know, he'd see, and he'd be the death of them all.
"Sh-Sherlock..."
"Influenza or food poisoning do you think?" he asked, standing still. "If it's the former, I'd prefer not to catch it. But you've been in the hot water for some time, probably to combat chills as well as relax sore muscles so from my knowledge it could be either."
John smiled just slightly to himself, leaving the skin on his knuckles alone. Shock was perhaps closer to the truth. But the flu would give him much needed distance. Sherlock was an unintentional saint for giving him an out but thanking him for it seemed wrong. "Flu, probably," he said, breathing deep of the steam. "Food tasted fine last night. I'll try not to infect you while you're working."
"I appreciate the effort." The detective stepped back from the curtain, trailing back away closer to the door. "I'll take care of the code in that case. You rest."
"Not possible with this on my mind." The water was growing cold, though. He'd have to turn it off soon or Sherlock would become suspicious. He rubbed his face, feeling fever in his mind in the way it distorted his thoughts and pulled at his eyelids. He couldn't afford sleep. At least it wasn't until the third consecutive day that one began hallucinating. Traditionally. "Too bad you can't just... Google to find the answer," John said, hand poised over the shower controls.
The quiet in response was somewhat surprising. He heard Sherlock take out his phone and type as he turned off the water, standing dripping and wet in the remaining moments of concealment.
"... it's hexadecimal for teal," Sherlock said at last, excitement coloring his deep voice as a chuckle worked its way into the fogged room. "John, you are outstanding!" he praised, strutting out of the room without pause as his laughter continued.
The silence of the bathroom gave a resounding all clear as John grabbed a towel and wrapped it around his waist, blinking in confusion but perhaps a little flushed from more than just the water. "What does teal have to do with a primary school?" he called out, but Sherlock was in their living room, too far to listen and too engaged to reply. John pulled on his dressing down and walked into his bedroom, sliding the door shut behind him.
No closed doors could block out the triumphant shout of "337264!" as the detective apparently found his answer, his following words much softer, more muffled through the space and doors between them though Lestrade and a repeat of the string of numbers gave John a clear picture of what he was doing. He was sure, then. He'd cracked it. John stared at the door for a few more moments, fearful to make a sound that would drown out the other's phone call least victory turn to defeat with his hopes still high. There was only a reprisal of a laugh--that laugh--the one that celebrated his own cleverness in tandem with relief. John loved that laugh.
He dressed himself in sleep clothes, hardly having pulled on his pants before Sherlock threw open his door with no manners or care. John cast him a very quick, reproachful look before turning his back to him as he finished dressing. He was more curious than upset and more worried than his nerves could take. In that quick glance he'd seen that elated, childlike rapture on his friend's face, though. Even plagued by guilt and fear, that smile made him brave. It gave him hope.
"So you going to tell me what I said that was so outstanding?" he asked, forcing strength behind his voice.
"Google!" Sherlock shouted, stepping closer and then, as though remembering, stepping back. His presence buzzed like electricity behind him as John stepped into knit sweats with the drawstring stuck knotted. "First search entry lists 326e64 as a hexadecimal value, values of color expressed in letter and number combinations much as binary expresses nearly everything in one's and zero's. And, like binary, you can use it as a cypher, each pair of numbers and letters no longer expressing color combinations but individual characters. Translate Hex to Text and 326e64 is '2nd'."
John felt the flutter of pride rising up in his chest, swelling with an awe only Sherlock could inspire. "The Royal Albert Hall was first, the school was second, and Oxford Circus was third."
"Exactly. Translate '3rd' into hexadecimal and you get 337264. I've phoned Lestrade. The underground should be back in business within the next few hours once they've cleared out all the explosive materials." His voice was rich with expectation. He knew he was the best but he'd be damned if he didn't hear it from John.
For his part, John did his best not to get carried away in hysterics. Sherlock was every bit the man he needed him to be with Moran no longer waiting in the wings but rather directing John's performance. He did his best to swallow the laugh though nothing could hide his delight. "Sherlock, you are... perfect. Seriously. I mean it. Perfect." He looked over his shoulder at him, tricked by relief into daring to find his radiant eyes. He was beside himself, wide-set grin pulling lines into his usually smooth and flawless face. No woman or man had ever looked more beautiful. "I could kiss you."
"Really rather you didn't. Whatever you're coming down with, I'll take my chances with the amount of exposure I received last night." He pushed his hands in his pockets, sizzling still like a firework waiting to go off.
John nodded, remembering his ruse, and took a wide path around him towards his bed. "Probably for the best... actually, now that this is all settled, I think I'm going to have another lie down."
Sherlock watched him, his excitement settling only slightly. "Right. Good. Fluids too. I'll go get you some water. Uh.. soup, perhaps? Or just sleep?"
"... You're going to make me dinner?"
"Not make, no. Heat up. Sure there's some soup in a tin in the cupboard."
John smiled a little, sitting down in the gap of the pulled back sheets. "Uh... sure. Soup'd be... brilliant, really."
Sherlock rocked back on his heals with a smile and strode back out of the room, the banging of pans in the kitchen letting the whole house know he was attempting domesticity. Attempting was perhaps a bit unfair. Sherlock was very capable, just extremely lazy. John was half certain the man could cook a four course meal of five star excellence if motivated enough to do so. Cooking was an applied science, after all. Sherlock only ever needed a push in the right direction to get the gears moving.
His bedroom so close to the kitchen, John could hear everything Sherlock did. He heard him open the tin, lite the burner, pour the soup into a pot, heard the scrape of the metal spoon as he stirred the liquid as it cooked. It was what he didn't hear after a while that worried him. When the stirring stopped and the boiling didn't, John rose up from his bed to peek into the kitchen. Sherlock still stood at the stove but the spoon no longer stirred. His head was resting against the cabinets, eyes closed.
"Sherlock?" John called quietly.
The detective did not move at all save to breathe in slow, even breaths. He was asleep. He'd hit the crash after the high mid stir, unable to deny sleep any longer after days of crawling over rubble, running to crime scenes and wracking his mind for answers. John didn't even care to consider the other forms of strain he'd been under. He was quiet as he came up beside him, turning the burner off as he pulled the spoon from Sherlock's hand and carefully leaned him into his arms to move him to the couch. The detective was a useless lump, offering no help whatsoever and completely undeterred from his rest.
"Thought you were going to take care of me this time," John muttered as he dragged him up against the cushions and grabbed the blanket off the back of his chair. He could hardly be mad at him. It was Sherlock; the thought really did matter more than the execution. His kisses his forehead, finding the impulse to press his lips to his skin simply unnecessary to deny. This was them, now. They were friends and sometimes, when the mood took them, they kissed.
He let his lips linger, willing his thoughts to travel through their skin and tell Sherlock everything he could not. About Moran. About a lot of things. Sherlock was not just a brilliant man, he was his brilliant man and he needed him to be more than brilliant, he needed him to be extraordinary.
On Monday, John intercepted a package at the airport. On Tuesday, he was making go-between phone calls using the stolen mobile. By Thursday he had orders to tail a man, sending Sherlock bogus messages to keep him out and away and as unknowing as possible. By Friday, John didn't bother explaining his actions to himself anymore. The threat of bombs and retaliation were unspoken and understood, no longer requiring proof.
Regardless of his good intentions, John was working for Moran now.