The Devil's Chord

Chapter Nineteen

Sherlock slid the mug of tea across the kitchen table over to Miss Walker. He'd have liked to pour it on her head, but sadly, doing so wasn't likely to improve her mood. Pity. It would have done wonders for his.

She scowled. “I don’t want your bloody awful tea.” Her angry stare shifted to the chain and padlock on the fridge door.

Good god. The woman was absolutely fixated on food.

Besides having to block her access to the fridge, Sherlock had also boxed up all edible pantry items and secured them in the garage. John had been ready to pitch a fit when he saw the empty cupboards, but he’d come around after Sherlock had explained his reasoning.

John walked in, too focused on the papers in his hand to realize anyone else was in the kitchen. Still reading, he removed a key from his pocket and slid it into the padlock.

Miss Walker let out an angry huff, rather like an incensed bull.

John’s gaze jerked up to meet hers. “Oh. Hullo.”

“You bloody traitor." If looks could kill, John Watson would have been eviscerated on the spot.

The once brave army doctor blanched. “Erm, I’ll just come back later.”

“This is abuse,” she yelled, her face a mottled pink.

John scurried out the door.

Coward.

Sherlock stared at Miss Walker over his steepled hands. “Why can’t you just cooperate and set aside this persistent obsession with food? There are people who fast for a month at a time. A few more days won’t kill you.”

The blazing look she sent him was far worse than the one she’d bestowed on John.

Sherlock would have been drawn, quartered, and burned.

Then perhaps eaten.

“If we’re going to stay on schedule, we’ll need to keep working.”

She stood up, jaw clenched.

“What are you doing?” he asked, dropping his hands.

“I'm taking a break,” she snarled, then marched out.

A minute later, the double doors to the library slammed shut.

Perhaps a break was in order.

John poked his head into the kitchen, expression wary.

“It’s safe,” Sherlock said, drumming his fingers across the table. “For the moment.” He wouldn't be surprised if she returned with the massive dictionary and bludgeoned them both to death.

His friend fidgeted, still holding the sheaf of papers in his hand.

“Have you found anything?” Sherlock asked.

John pursed his lips. “I’ve spent the last 48 hours reading through years of love letters between Rebecca and her beloved Eddie. Nothing odd so far, though I do feel like I'm invading her privacy.”

Sherlock grimaced. He’d rather instruct Miss Walker than put himself through such sickly sentiment. “Ms. Frost's not around to care. Besides, you should be thrilled. Those letters could provide you with excellent fodder for your next love poem to Abigail.”

His friend flushed. “How many times have I told you to stay away from my laptop?”

Sherlock spread his hands. “Choose something better than ‘In Arduis Fidelis’ as your password and I’ll comply.” How porous was the man’s brain that he had to use the motto scrolled across his Royal Army Medical Corps mug?