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“'Jigsaw Killer,'” Sherlock rumbled. “What an asinine name.”
“Yeah,” said John, in a studiously neutral tone, looking straight ahead at the passing traffic. “His crime scenes are nothing like the movies.”
From the corner of his eye, John caught the glance that Sherlock cast in his direction, compounded of equal parts annoyance, curiosity, desire to ask what John was on about, and staunch refusal to admit that yet another pop culture reference had passed him by. John kept his expression innocent, for all that he was chortling inside.
Sherlock snorted, wordlessly dismissing both John's comment and feigned innocence, and hailed a cab. John followed him in without the faintest clue where they might be headed next; Sherlock had checked something on his phone and given a satisfied little “Ha!” at what he'd found, but he hadn't yet shared the results with John.
All the same, just about the last thing John had expected Sherlock to tell their cabbie was, “The Royal Observatory.”
“Why there?” John couldn't help asking when they were underway. He doubted Sherlock had developed a sudden, overwhelming interest in the cosmos at large.
“Because the Underground experienced an unusual number of delays this morning,” was the response, followed by the intensely-focused silence that meant Sherlock was Thinking and not to be disturbed by questions from mere mortals.
John sighed and sat back for the duration of the drive to Greenwich, hoping all would be made clear in time.
Once they arrived, Sherlock made a beeline for the Meridian Courtyard, paying for his and John's day passes with an air of impatient distraction. Once inside, he paced with great concentration along the steel-and-bronze line set in the cobblestones to mark the Prime Meridian until coming to an abrupt halt at the point where Kuala Lumpur's name was set in the adjoining terazzo. He turned to face north and west, in the direction of Canary Wharf, and then went completely still as only a vampire can, becoming a tall, lean statue in a long, expensive coat.
He earned more than a few glances from passing tourists, in their individual quests to have friends and relatives take snaps of them standing with one foot in each hemisphere, but the other patrons might have been passing gnats for all the attention Sherlock gave them. John smiled nervously at the more persistent starers and shoved his hands into his pockets, trying not to feel embarrassed and conspicuous.
After what felt like an hour but was really only fifteen minutes or so, John asked in an undertone, “So. How's it going with the, er, deducing? If that's what this is? Finding anything interesting?”
“The current is . . . rough today,” Sherlock answered, distantly. “Even for moondark.”
A shiver ran down John's spine. Moondark. He could still feel it in his bones, even though the crest of it had passed last night.
“You think the killings are connected with the moon's phase, then?” he asked.
Sherlock was wearing his sunglasses against the midday sunlight, but John could sense pale eyes flickering in his direction. “The first killing took place at moondark,” Sherlock said. “Then, a month later, we have a second dead body disassembled and reassembled in an utterly nonsensical, but similar, fashion. Unlike your friend Goldfinger, I believe only two clear instances are necessary to discount circumstance and move directly ahead to enemy action.”
“He's not my friend,” John objected. “But what does that have to do with us standing here?” Getting stared at by all and sundry?
“Because both crime scenes were set on the same ley line,” a familiar voice said from behind them and John twitched in surprise. Sherlock merely said, “Lestrade,” without turning, his tone somewhere between observation and greeting. Like Sherlock, Lestrade was staring abstractedly in the direction of Canary Wharf, as if there were something to be seen through the haze and distance.
John blinked at the DI in confusion. Ley lines were everywhere, he knew: paths along which natural forces ran like water in a streambed, usually dotted with major geographic and architectural features (though whether through cause or effect was unclear). Ley lines been a popular study subject back at the turn of the twentieth century, but had fallen from favor as being a relatively uninteresting natural phenomenon, too subtle, ubiquitous and unpredictable to be of any practical use, meriting just half a dull, highly-technical chapter in John's Theoretical Magic textbook back at Uni. He certainly wouldn't have expected a police Inspector to mention ley lines in relation to a series of murders.
“So you noticed the connection?” Sherlock asked. “I'm impressed. I wouldn't have expected it of you.”
Lestrade took the blatant insult in stride; he'd known Sherlock for years and had developed an immunity, John supposed. “I may have been born five minutes before midnight,” Lestrade said, dryly, “but I can recognize a Straight Track when I'm standing on it. Add the Underground into the equation and there's really only one place to come.”
John, feeling increasingly lost and frustrated, interjected, “Since when is this 'Let's Talk In Code Day'?” he asked, aiming the question equally at both his companions. “What am I missing, here?”
“The Dragon's Tail,” Lestrade said, and John seriously considered screaming in frustration. Fortunately, Lestrade continued on, “It's a warped line, one of the Dark Tracks. Intersects with the Prime Meridian here and passes through the Isle of Dogs in that direction.” He gestured towards the distant towers across the water.
“Warped,” John said, sorting through the terminology he'd learned long years ago. “Entropic, you mean?” A river of malignant energy, John's old textbook knowledge supplied a definition. Capable of contributing to the disruption of order on both the physical and metaphysical planes.
Lestrade nodded, still focused on the distant skyline. “This one tends to play havoc with the Underground when it's experiencing a surge.”
Ah. Now the fascination with train schedules made sense. Of a sort. But still . . .
“Bit of a stretch, isn't it?” John asked. “I mean, the murders definitely seem to have an occult connection, but ley lines are about as obscure as it gets.”
“Hardly that obscure if both Lestrade and I are here,” Sherlock pointed out.
John had to concede that point. “That's another thing – why here?”
“There's always a big node where a line crosses something as major as the Prime Meridian. It's the best place to come for diagnostic purposes,” Lestrade said.
“Diagnostic? I thought this was magic, not Star Trek.”
That earned a rumbling chuckle from Sherlock (something John filed away for later, Interesting: he got that one . . .), followed by a frustrated sigh. “What it's not is working. There aren't any specifics to be had.” Sherlock sounded as if the forces of nature were being unforthcoming just to spite him.
Lestrade shook his head. “Nothing but the disturbance.”
In the Force, John couldn't help thinking, but bit his tongue. There was a limit as to how many pop culture references he could make per day day before Sherlock started in with snide remarks about John's IQ – more than usual, anyway.
Sherlock let out an under-his-breath hiss of annoyance; several nearby tourists shuddered and then looked around, confused by their own instinctive reactions. John noticed, but was relieved when none of them seemed to recognize Sherlock as the source of their discomfort. “Worthless,” Sherlock announced. “We're just wasting time.”
“Dunno about that. Negative information's still information, in a way,” Lestrade said, stretching and looking around the courtyard. “And it might be worth listening a bit longer, see if anything new shows up in the current.”
“By all means, continue on with your oh-so-productive investigation. John and I are off to gather actual data,” Sherlock said in the acidic tone of voice John expected would get his partner punched someday.
Lestrade nodded amiably. “I trust you'll let me know what you find.” He sounded pleasant enough, but John caught a suggestion of potential fake drug busts lurking under his words.
“Of course,” John said with a smile, cutting off whatever Sherlock had been about to say.
When they were out of Lestrade's hearing, John couldn't help asking Sherlock, “Since when can you see ley lines?” He was starting to expect off-the-wall occult powers from Lestrade but it was disconcerting having them manifest in his flatmate.
“Since I'm a vampire,” Sherlock said. “Part of the package apparently.”
“Apparently?” John thought he knew a fair bit about vampires, having worked with them (and patched them up, more than once) in the Army, but Sherlock had just admitted to a vampiric ability John had never even heard of . . . and he didn't seem to care.
“It's never been of interest until now,” Sherlock said, sounding bored.
“What else can you do that isn't interesting?”'
Sherlock shrugged. “I don't waste hard drive space on useless things.”
They reached the pavement and Sherlock hailed yet another cab, leaving John with two concerns. The first was that he'd need to re-juggle the budget if there were too many more cab rides this month, on top of the twenty quid it had cost them to access the Meridian Courtyard; the second was that if Sherlock kept refusing to get on top of exactly who – and what – he was, someday his willful ignorance would bite him on the arse.
And if it doesn't, John thought, frustrated, then I probably will.