A/N: hi guys!

Yes, I know I haven't uploaded a new chapter in far too long - there's no excuse and I'm sorry o⁓o

This chapter is also not that long, but I hope you like it anyway. Enjoy and thanks for (still) reading!

Lots of love,

- jawn

"You're already back?" called Mrs. Hudson.

She had opened her door immediately after the front door had fallen into the lock and was now leaning in the doorway with an astonished face and wearing an apron. Sherlock replied nothing and trudged absently up the steps. He had furrowed his brows in concentration and was muttering incomprehensible things to himself. Probably he hadn't even noticed that Mrs Hudson had said anything.

John shrugged and nodded.

What else could he say? He didn't know why himself.

She frowned in confusion, but then shook her head.

"Do you want Rosie back?"

Although she was visibly trying, she couldn't hide the hint of wistfulness that sounded in her voice and John twisted his lips into a smile. Sweet.

"No," he replied.

"You can keep her a bit longer - it's not that late."

And knowing his friend, Sherlock would probably turn the whole flat upside down today to get answers to his questions.

Instantly Mrs Hudson's expression lit up and she clapped her hands together.

"Perfect. Because I'm in the middle of making a delicious soup for the two of us. Would you like to join dinner?"

He declined gratefully and then turned towards the stairs as well, following Sherlock. Although he hadn't eaten since this morning, he felt strangely full. Maybe he should eat porridge more often, it would save him from exercising- not that he was going to do any.

When John opened the door to their flat, he almost tripped over a large pile of cloth lying in the hallway. Sherlock's coat. Of course. He sighed and picked it up to hang it next to his jacket.

"Listen," he said, walking towards the living room.

"A coat like that on the floor can cause quite a tripping-injury."

Sherlock sat in his armchair, his legs drawn up and his hands folded in front of his lips. When John stepped into the room, he released his gaze from the floor and looked at him with raised eyebrows.

"I doubt there's such a word as tripping-injury, Dr. Watson."

He jumped up from his chair.

"However, I don't doubt that these stick figures mean anything! The only question is what! What do these dancing stick figures mean? What is their sense?"

He groaned in frustration and John rubbed his forehead.

"I don't know," he replied, though it had probably been a rhetorical question.

"I mean, maybe they could just be arbitrarily chosen and mean nothing at all? You might think they were doodles by kids if they hadn't been sent as text messages."

"Yes, but that's the point!" exclaimed Sherlock and John winced slightly at the volume.

"They were sent as text messages! Those males don't exist as smiley faces on your keyboard, so someone must have specifically chosen them."

He ran a hand through his hair.

"Only by what scheme?"

John sighed again.

"Look, Sherlock. Let's just focus on what we know before we-"

"I know what I know!"

He turned and pulled his desk chair back with a jerk to settle on it.

"But I'm missing something, something..."

Sherlock leaned forward and stared at something lying on the desk top. John stood beside him to see what it was.

It was a sheet of paper, he noticed, with a series of males scrawled on it in pencil. John recognised them. They were the males from Carrie's photographs. One of them was circled and traced with a thick Sharpie. Below it, written just as thickly, was the letter "E".

It took him a moment to understand and then he raised his eyebrows.

"You decoded a male?" he asked, turning his gaze back to Sherlock, who seemed visibly lost in his thoughts. The incredulity of it resounded in every word of his question.

Sherlock screwed up his face and reluctantly averted his eyes from the piece of paper.

"What? Yes. I did. Obivously."

John stared at him.

"Are you serious?"

"Why wouldn't I be serious?"

He opened his mouth and raised his hands.

"How?"

Even though Sherlock's eyes had returned to the paper, John knew he was rolling his eyes.

"The males," he replied, pointing to the drawing.

"There are different ones in almost every message- But this one," he pointed to the circled one, "is in just about every message and was used the most often. Since 'E' is the most frequently used letter in English, and the sender obviously speaks English, this male must correspond to that letter. Simple."

"Yes. Simple," John muttered, then shook his head.

"When did you find out?"

"When I first saw the messages. When else?"

John swallowed his comment on that and changed the subject.

"But then at least we have something to start with. It's better than nothing, isn't it? I mean it's now," he glanced at his watch," almost seven o'clock and-"

"John, the perpetrator doesn't care if it's seven, eight o'clock or five in the morning and neither do I," Sherlock interrupted him gruffly.

"I have to think now and also at eight o'clock and maybe until five in the morning and you're not helping me with that right now. So do me a favour and eat the soup with Mrs Hudson and Rosie and leave me alone."

John blinked, momentarily surprised at his sharp tone, and hesitated for a moment before turning away, shaking his head, and trudging towards his room. Dumbass. He would not be eating soup with Mrs Hudson and his daughter. He wasn't hungry at all and he would probably just spoil their mood.

How could he have thought that Sherlock hadn't heard Mrs Hudson. Of course he had - he just didn't care.

・・・・・・・・・・・・

John yawned as he closed Rosie's bedroom door behind him. God, he was tired.

Rosie hadn't wanted a bedtime story tonight, as Mrs Hudson had already read one to her, and John was quite grateful for it at the moment- his whole body felt like lead.

He shuffled into the living room and sighed when he saw Sherlock.

By now it was close to midnight and he hadn't said anything, eaten anything, or generally even given any reaction. Instead, he was still sitting at his desk in the same position as he had been 4 hours ago.

John was still annoyed with him, but couldn't help but sit in his chair anyway. It was their case and even though Sherlock was the smarter of the two of them, John wanted...no, had to do his part too. He owed that to Carrie.

"Any news?" he asked, propping his chin on his hand.

No response, just silence.

He sighed again.

"Sherlock."

Still silence.

"All right," he muttered and heaved himself up again.

He would do his share of that tomorrow, then. He went to the fireplace and blew out the flickering candle that stood on it.

"Let me know if you need any help with anything."

"Why would I need your help?"

Surprised, John turned his head back to Sherlock and saw his doubtful expression, which he had turned away from the paper and was now turning towards him.

He shrugged.

"No idea," he answered and turned to walk towards his room.

"Good night."

"John," Sherlock called after him just before he turned the corner.

John turned around.

Sherlock was looking at him, though not as sceptically as he had been a moment ago. His hair looked almost black in the now dimly lit room.

"I'll let you know."

John nodded and turned away.

When he opened his door and stepped into his room it was so dark in there that John saw nothing at first and ran full tilt into the edge of his bed.

"God damn it," he cursed quietly and rubbed his thigh. That would make a nice bruise.

He flicked on the light from his bedside table and hesitated for a moment when he saw the picture on it. It was dusty and he hadn't looked at it for a while. When he lifted it up, though, he had to smile.  It showed him, Rosie, Mary and Sherlock on the day of her first birthday. Mary was standing next to him and he next to Sherlock. Rosie had Sherlock's much too big ear-hat on her head and he was holding her, smiling. Really smiling. Happy. It was a happy memory.

John blew once on the frame to get the dust off and then put it back down. He grabbed his pyjamas that were lying on the bed and went into the bathroom.

When he turned on the bright overhead light, he had to squint his eyes involuntarily and it took him a moment to get used to the brightness.

John closed the door and put his pyjamas on the small stool that stood next to the sink.

His own reflection stared back at him, silent and pale like the paper Sherlock had been staring at all evening. His skin looked even whiter from the glare, making the circles under his eyes stand out even more. His lips were dry and chapped from the cold temperatures and his forehead had unconsciously furrowed. Besides, he really ought to shave. But not today.

He squeezed the toothpaste onto his toothbrush and it was pleasant to have the sallow mouth taste on his tongue replaced by the peppermint.

After brushing his teeth and changing, he decided to check on Sherlock one last time before he went to sleep.

He peeked into the room. Of course the desk light was still on and of course Sherlock was still sitting with his eyes bent over the sheet of paper, concentrating.  The only thing that had changed was that he was now holding a mobile. John couldn't tell if it was his own or Juliet's, but he strongly suspected the latter- when they were on a case, Sherlock almost never used his, but always John's. Protection and data and stuff like that.

John sighed and went to his room.

After turning out the light and lying down, the warm blanket and soft mattress greeted his stiff body. The darkness and silence settled over him as much as the leaden tiredness and he closed his eyes.

The last thing on his mind was the question of what the second most frequently used letter in English was.