Dorm Rooms Are Boring

“They might have a car.” John remarked coming back down the narrow flight of stairs from the attic to Sherlock who was in the bathroom studying a pair of dirty boots intently. “There's only empty boxes and bags up there apart from one with car stuff in” he indicated with his thumb to the attic rooms.

Then John remembered what Sherlock had said about post and mail “Ooh, hang on, there might be a label on one of the boxes? A parcel label” he shocked himself for thinking of that.
John thought then that maybe he was learning something from Sherlock after all.

He got in trouble at home for thinking out loud but he was sure now that no matter if he got things wrong he should think out loud, at least when Sherlock was about.

"No, they don't." Sherlock told him without offering any explanation.

As he listened to John's findings he found a pair of heavy-duty gloves. The kind a builder wears, except this man was not a builder.

"Go and check the boxes." he replied curtly, watching his friend bound back up the stairs, "We're looking for a 'Kilmov' remember."

Sherlock picked up the gloves and circled back into the kitchen, doing a sweep of the messy kitchen table and the kitchen cupboards, but he found nothing of interest. Stuck for leads, he tried on the gloves carefully. The left was well worn between the thumb and fore-finger and stained with rust.
"Gardner?" he spoke out loud but under his breath.

"John?" he called, waiting impatiently for a reply from upstairs.

John ran up the narrow stairs to examine the boxes for labels. There was nothing, however, in the way of a parcel label. He wondered how Sherlock knew the men didn't have a car and decided to ask when his friend wasn't so occupied. He then heard Sherlock shouting for him and trotted down to the landing. "Hello?"

"You didn't find anything did you." Sherlock dismissed his friends search for an ID upstairs. This had to be Kilmov's house.

"He was a manual labourer of some kind, John. Everyday he came in with his boots on, thick in mud just like at the museum," Sherlock showed John the dusty collage of footprints in the hall and toed open the door to the bathroom, "and took them off here. And this isn't your average mud; it's full of humus- dead plant material- not the stuff you'd find on as building site."

Sherlock paced back into the kitchen, mind lurching into top gear as he thought out loud.

"So gardener. But there's the gloves!" he shouted, reaching for the pair that he'd left on the side.

"You'd expect a gardeners to be marked by thorns and branches, stained form where he's patted the soil down around seedlings, ripped where the secateurs have nicked his finger. These are almost spotless." arm outstretched he held them up to John's face.

"What job in the centre of London requires digging and mud but not a gardener... Think!" he shouted to himself, almost forgetting his friend was still in the room as he held his palms to his temples, desperate for a break through.

“No, there wasn't anything.” John answered Sherlock's question if he had found any ID for the Russian in the attic rooms quietly with an air of dejection.

He looked at the dirty footprints made by the smuggler's boots that Sherlock was pointing out to him in the hallway. That the murdered man might be a gardener was the first thing that came into John's mind when Sherlock mentioned mud with a high humus content. Not the average building site type of mud though. Not a gardener either Sherlock said waving the smuggler's gloves in front of John's face. John stepped back a pace, his face screwing up in irritation.

What manual labouring job in the centre of London requires digging mud but is not gardening? John hesitated to say anything while Sherlock was trying to think but his friend was looking desperate for an answer. “Groundsman, rugby or cricket grounds. Grass verge cleaner. Park attendant? Mows grass and digs muck out of ditches and tidies up somewhere but doesn't have anything to thorny to prune?” that was the best John could come up with.

"Possible, very possible, but he walks to and from work, so it must be close enough by. And besides, how many people in the centre of London have gardening jobs. He's being doing this for a year or two now, walking home every day, it must be something closer..."

As Sherlock swept around the flat he suddenly noticed a mobile he'd missed. It was under a pile of newspapers and dirty dishes which were stacked precariously on the counter.

"Blackberry Bold, only been out a few weeks." he muttered turning it over in his hands and powering it up. Just as the screen flickered into life, a car rumbled further down the road. It drew closer and suddenly in a sweep of headlights it turned into the houses messy front garden.

"John!" Sherlock shouted, ducking down so not to be seen through the window. The engine was turned off and there were a few hushed voices from outside and Sherlock suddenly realised want they were there for. Back door, he mouthed silently to John and the par swiftly made for the exit.

“There's a big place behind here, and the University, I bet that has grounds as well.” John offered watching Sherlock pull a phone from under a pile of clutter in the kitchen.

John beamed at his observant friend in admiration for his sharpness of sight. That phone was going to be really helpful if it belonged to one of culprits especially if it was Klimov's, John thought, as Sherlock turned the Blackberry on. Suddenly car headlights shone through the front windows illuminating the kitchen.

“Oh, Jesus!” John swore under his breath ducking down and shuffling quickly towards the back door. There was precious little in the way of bushes to hide behind and they would be seen from the side of the house if they crossed the garden. John didn't fancy hiding behind a bush near the house if anyone switched on the kitchen lights and lit up half the garden.

“Sherlock.” John whispered tugging his friends sleeve and knowing it would be the safest place to hide behind the high garden wall of the big house set off running up the narrow garden towards the wrought iron gate.

John dashed through the gate and dived to flatten himself against the 3 metre high brick wall breathing quickly from the sprint, his heart pounding wildly in his chest.

Sherlock followed in John's quake as they dashed out the house, feeling a little adrenaline surge through his veins. They both stood panting backs against the wall and Sherlock turned to look at John, flashing him a quick smile.
After they'd caught their breath Sherlock whispered the plan.

"I'm going to go around the front, see if they bring anything out that way. If you stay here and keep watch... text me." he said rushing off around the corner before John could protest.

It was clear to Sherlock why the men had chosen to come back here and it confirmed his suspicion that it was indeed Kilmov's house. Once back on the main street he ducked behind some dense bushes which separated Kilmov's front garden from next door. He settled down to keep a close watch on anything which came through the front door and listen in on the gangs conversation. He half-hoped they'd find the shield in there; it would save time and cause them to be caught red-handed. However taking them on would be difficult and the police predictably would be too slow to catch them. The other option was to call them now, but they'd scare away the search for the shield in the house and then they risked never finding it or convicting the criminals and smugglers involved.

No, it was best to wait and see what they found, although Sherlock had never been good at waiting.

“Bloody hell.” John whispered, unable to laugh for panting a little. Only half of it was to do with sprinting as he felt the rough brickwork against his back. It was utterly glorious, ridiculous and a little bit frightening all at the same time. He grinned back at Sherlock who was also pressing himself into the shadow of the wall.

He caught his breath while listening to Sherlock's plan. He wasn't surprised that Sherlock had a plan, he was such a fast thinker so...utterly...brilliant. He was only sorry that all he had to do now was wait and watch. He checked he had his phone and that nothing had fallen out of his pockets, everything was where it should be, as Sherlock skirted quickly around the corner and made for a position at the front of the house. It was how it should be that Sherlock should go, it made sense, his tall friend was quick on his feet and could get over higher obstacles than he could with ease.

Peering cautiously around the wall and down the garden to the back door John couldn't see anything but he could hear the men.

“What a... Kilm of .....d have dug his own grave.... little accident.” the deep male voice said, or so it sounded like to John. It was followed by louder raucous laughter. Kilmov not Kilm of. A grave digger! He hoped Sherlock had heard all of that properly, wherever his friend was. It made him feel anxious that he couldn't see where his best friend was. His chest felt tight just thinking that Sherlock could be in any danger.

Predictably Sherlock got bored of being a lookout rather quickly and instead set to work unlocking Kilmov's phone. There was a pass code which he cracked quickly by tilting the phone to the light and using the tell-tale grease smear on the screen. There was nothing happening at the front of the house so he set to work reading Kilmov's texts and emails, although it was soon apparent that he kept a separate email address and password protected inbox for any 'business' matters.
The gang cleared out after about 20 minutes, apparently finding nothing of interest, and left grumpily from the building, leaving the front door wide open and the place trashed. Amateurs, Sherlock smirked to himself.
When the coast was clear he emerged from his hiding place, scrolling down Kilmov's lists of contacts as he made his way to get John. It all looked pretty routine, a few friends who most likely weren't smuggling related, parents, aunt, and then 'work'. Tapping the the screen quickly Sherlock dialled 'work' and held the phone to his ear. The call went through quickly to answer phone and the crackling voice of a old women came through.
"Hello, you've reached St. Micheal's Parish Church, please leave a message and we'll get back to you as soon as possible."
Sherlock cocked an eyebrow in thought for a second in thought before shouting out loud.
"Yes! Oh it's so obvious!"
He rounded the street corner quickly, bumping into an excited but flustered looking John. He grabbed his friend by the shoulders and steered him away from the house before he could protest.
"I can't believe I didn't see it before John" he started as they strode up the street.

John watched the house from the shadows of his hiding place by the wall and after what seemed like an hour he saw lights going off then heard the men emerge from the building. When it had gone quiet John skirted round the wall and down the fence to clamber through it. He ran crouched across the garden then he stopped and listened for sounds behind the garden wall. It was all very quiet so he backed off a couple of yards to get a run at the wall and leaped up onto it. His side of the wall was not as tall as the far side so he was able to scale it and lie on his stomach then he dropped down onto the street. Glowing healthily with the exertion and excitement he straightened his jacket, swiped the grit off his front with a grimy hand and wiped his hands on his jeans and then set off at a trot to find Sherlock.

He met up with his friend turning the street corner and slightly collided with him. "Uh" John grunted then grinned. He wondered what the hell Sherlock was holding onto his shoulders for though. Then he found himself being wheeled around away from the house. “What?" he asked with avid interest as they walked briskly up the road. "What didn't you see before?”