Painting Murders - (A Sherlock fanfic)

Blackout (Everly's POV)

"I don't think there's anyone home." I stomped my feet as John rang the doorbell of Mr Kavon's house for what could only have been the fiftieth time. I looked out onto the empty street and shivered.

I'd never been to Vauxhall and there was something about Ebbisham Drive that was making me nervous.

John stood back and frowned, "Well where could he have gone?"

"I don't know? Murderers probably have lives too." I shrugged, kicking some gravel that was littered across Mr Kavon's doorstep back into the messy and overgrown flowerbed.

"You're assuming he's the murderer." John said looking down at me.

I shrugged again, "Guess so."

"What's wrong?" John asked nudging me in a friendly way. I'd taken a liking to John. He wasn't the kind of person who I'd have expected to tolerate Sherlock, not the kind of person to loyally stand by his side - but he had. And I thought that was a rare quality, especially since he was able to hide so well his impulse to punch Sherlock in the face sometimes. But we all got that feeling.

I sighed, "To be honest, John, I'm really scared." I said feeling me insides tighten and my lip quiver. I hadn't stopped thinking about Mycroft. Now every car that pasted, I flinched away from in fear; every person who walked by I had to do a double take on just in case they were wearing an earpiece and I needed to run.

John put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed it reassuringly, "Everything will be fine." He said but I saw the doubt flicker in his eyes.

I tried to smile back then sank down and sat on the door step of the house.

"So what do we do now?" I asked, changing the subject, putting my head in my hands, pouting slightly.

John tried the door again before shrugging, "I guess we hope Sherlock has the right guy and we're just here chasing up a dead end." He said solemnly.

I sighed, "Well, I might as well keep breaking the law." I said getting to my feet and walking up to the garden fence that was sectioning the front garden from the back.

"What are you doing?" John asked as I grabbed the top of the fence which was a fair bit higher than me.

"Well the front windows have the curtains closed and we can't see inside, so maybe there are some windows to look though at the back of the house." I said, scrambling for a good footing and hauling myself up to the top of the fence.

"Is this trespassing or housebreaking?" John asked me, looking up at where I was perched at the top of the fence.

"Uh, well it's not housebreaking because I thought you actually had to go into the house for that." I said before jumping down on the other side.

"Just keep watch." I said though the fence to John.

"Yeah well you just keep talking to me." He said, "Because Sherlock never does when he does crazy things like this."

"Will do." I noted with a smile as I stepped carefully through overgrown grass and bits of broken tiles and bricks.

"It's a mess." I said and heard John chuckle faintly.

The back garden was paved with slabs but weeds grew up through parts and cracks in the stones. Around the sides of the garden, grass and small hedges were over grown and wild, giving the whole garden an unkept and tatty feeling. I watched my footing, careful not to trip and twist my ankle.

Inside was a mess too; pots everywhere, food wrappers lying around and smashed cupboards. Violent drinker, I thought to myself as I took note of the empty beer bottles. I then caught sight of something that looked completely out of place hung on the wall of the kitchen. It was a canvas with a painting of a London bus on it.

I frowned at it . . . a feeling that I had I seen it before somewhere crept over me.

I shook my head then scrambled back over the fence and dropped down to where John was waiting.

"Anything?" He asked.

"Yeah, he's a pretty bad drinker but there's a canvas on the wall that I think I've seen before." I wondered, rattling my brain for some recollection of where the canvas was from. I brushed my hands down on my jeans and admired a small rip in my jacket cuff where it had caught slightly on the fence.

"So really all we've got on Mr Kavon is that he drinks." John summed up in short, turning in a small circle and making his way down the path to the street.

I nodded then stopped, "Say that again."

John frowned, "He's a drinker."

"No, no. Say what you said, exactly." I said, my brain making fragile but necessary links.

"All we've got on Mr Kavon is that he drinks," John recited slowly.

"Kavon." I said the name slowly, "Quick, I need some paper!"

John looked at me startled then rummaged through his pockets and found a scrap of paper that looked like a shopping list and a small pencil and passed them to me.

I wrote out the name, then once again: K. A. V. O. N.

"Kavon, Kavon," I mumbled then it hit me.

"Kavon . . . Novak." I said.

"What?" John asked looking at me like I was a complicated riddle he was trying desperately to solve.

"Kavon is Novak backwards. Novak was the name of the stall on the market where I saw the same canvas that is hung in the kitchen." I spluttered.

"L.Novak's fine art!"

John thought for a moment, "L . . . as in L for Leigh?"

"Yes!" I blurted, "He talked to me. I said something about starting a business and he replied that it was hard in this day and age." I stopped dead.

"Hard to get money to start up a business . . . a decorating business . . . oh my God; wall paint, matt emulsion." I mumbled, "Oh John, I had a conversation with a murderer!"