John awoke to the sound of a crash coming from the kitchen. He hurriedly slipped t-shirt over his head and went out into the living room. He saw Sherlock crouched on the kitchen floor, sweeping the shattered remains of a beaker into the dustpan. John hoped the beaker had been empty when it had hit the floor.

“Are you okay?” John asked, walking around the other side of the table to the fridge.

“Fine, fine,” Sherlock replied absently. He dumped the shards of glass into the bin and returned his attention to the microscope without another glance in John’s direction. John opened the fridge, and was relieved to find that it was completely devoid of body parts. But then again, he wasn’t surprised, because it had been awhile since Sherlock had had a case. John put the kettle on and made some toast. Once the toast was done, he placed one slice on a plate next to Sherlock, although he was fairly certain it wouldn’t be touched.

John wondered vaguely what Sherlock was working on before making his way into the living room to eat.

Once he finished eating, John went into the kitchen to do the dishes. He noticed that half of Sherlock’s toast was gone and decided to leave it there for the time being. He finished the dishes quickly and dried his hands. He was just about to leave the room to get dressed when the phone rang. Sherlock sighed and let it ring four times before picking it up.

“Yes?” said Sherlock, pausing to listen for a few seconds. “I already told you; the wife is lying. She only--” Sherlock’s eyebrows furrowed. “Is this a new case? Are you sure?” Another pause. “Fine.” Sherlock hung up.

“What?” John asked.

“That was Lestrade. They’ve found a body.”

John sighed.

“And this case piques your interest enough?” he asked.

Sherlock didn’t answer, and simply reached for his coat.

“Just let me get dressed and phone the clinic to let them know I won’t be in today.”

Five minutes later, John was back downstairs, dressed and stuffing his hands in his pockets. They headed outside, and Sherlock knotted his scarf around his neck before hailing a cab. Once they were seated in the backseat of the car and Sherlock had given the driver the address, John looked over at his mad genius and wondered what was going on, although he knew better than to ask.

The cab let them out in front of a pretty nondescript two-story building. The only thing remotely notable about it was the window-boxes on the ground-floor windows. They were overflowing with well-kept red impatiens. Sherlock examined the plants momentarily before approaching Lestrade, who was standing on the front stoop with his arms folded across his chest.

“She’s inside,” said Lestrade, turning and walking into the building. He led Sherlock and John down a short corridor to a doorway that was criss-crossed with crime scene tape. The three of them ducked under the tape and entered the flat labelled ‘1A.’ Lestrade stopped walking once they reached the sitting room. Two members of the crime scene unit were bent over, examining a figure lying in a reclining chair.

“Who’s the victim?” John asked, pulling on the pair of rubber gloves Lestrade had passed him.

“Agatha Bates, 63, lived alone in this flat with one cat. Molly is examining the cat, in case he bit or scratched the assailant. The victim’s daughter found the body. She had to be sedated and taken to St. Bart’s, so you won’t be able to talk to her until later, or possibly tomorrow,” said Lestrade.

“Cause of death?”

“Anaphylaxis.”

“Anaphylaxis? Then what makes you think this is a homicide?” John asked, glancing from Lestrade to Sherlock. He noticed a slight smirk tugging at the corners of Sherlock’s lips.

“Ms. Bates was severely allergic to walnuts according to her daughter, and we found one lodged, whole, in her trachea. And there’s also this,” Lestrade said, turning and stepping closer to the body, the two crime scene techs moving out of his way. He reached down with one gloved hand and shifted the neckline of Agatha’s blouse a little bit, revealing the number ‘2’ that had been carved into the skin near her her collarbone. Sherlock bent down to examine the cut with his magnifier.

“The cut was made post-mortem with a serrated blade ten to fifteen centimeters in length. Is there anything obviously missing from her kitchen? If the killer used one of her knives, the mark could have been an afterthought. But why a two?” Sherlock asked. Both John and Lestrade shrugged.

“This is the first case that’s come across my desk where the victim’s had a number carved into their skin,” said Lestrade.

“Why a two?” Sherlock muttered, seemingly to himself.

“There were no stray fingerprints, no signs of forced entry, so she might have known the person who killed her.”

“There’s also no defensive wounds,” said Sherlock. “If someone were trying to shove an object down your throat, to which you were very allergic, wouldn’t you attempt to prevent them from doing so? She must have been incapacitated in some way,” said Sherlock. He glanced down at the coffee table, at the pair of teacups sitting amidst the various gardening magazines scattered across its surface. “And something tells me you’ll find the answer to that little portion of the mystery in her teacup.”

He turned and left the room without another word. John sighed.

“I’ll ask Molly to send a copy of the autopsy report over as soon as it’s finished,” said Lestrade, scribbling something down on a notepad.

“What’s her daughter’s name?” John asked.

“Krista. Chances are she’s not lucid yet, though. It’s only been about an hour and a half,” said Lestrade, glancing at his watch. John nodded, figuring that everyone would be better off if he were the one to talk to Agatha’s daughter, as opposed to Sherlock.

John exited Agatha’s flat and took a cab back to Baker Street. Faced with the prospect of what could be several hours of downtime, John elected to open his notepad and flesh out what they knew so far. It wasn’t a whole lot, but he knew they had to start somewhere. He wondered vaguely where Sherlock was, before figuring he’d find out when he needed to John sat down at the table, cracked his knuckles, and started writing.

Sherlock walked impatiently from one end of the room to the other and back again. He was at the morgue at St. Bart’s, alternating between pacing and hovering over Molly’s shoulder as she began performing Agatha’s autopsy. Sherlock stopped pacing momentarily and took out his magnifier. He bent down to examine Agatha’s face, noting that both her tongue and throat were swollen, supporting Lestrade’s statement concerning her cause of death.

Molly placed her hand gently on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Go home, Sherlock,” she told him. “I’ll send the photos and report over as soon as I can.” Sherlock nodded, and turned to leave the morgue.

He had no intention of returning to Baker Street yet. Not when someone out there was being so morbidly interesting. Once Sherlock was outside, he hailed a cab and gave the driver Agatha’s address.

When the car pulled up outside Agatha’s building, he immediately noticed something was missing. The impatiens were gone. Sherlock approached the building and examined the now-empty window boxes, carefully stepping around the small heaps of dirt that littered the pavement beneath them. The soil inside each box itself was riddled with jagged divots where it seemed the plants had been torn out by the roots.

Sherlock scowled slightly. He couldn’t immediately fathom why someone would be so quick to remove Agatha’s plants, when rigor mortis hadn’t even completely set in yet. He pulled a small plastic container out of his pocket and bent down to scoop up a bit of the dirt from the pavement. As Sherlock straightened up, he pocketed the container and dusted off his hands before opening the door and stepping into the front corridor of Agatha’s building.

The door to Agatha’s flat was still covered with yellow crime scene tape. Sherlock tried the door and was agitated that it was locked. He stuffed his hands into his coat pockets and thought for a moment. An idea formed in his head.

Sherlock walked down to the door labelled ‘1C.’ He raised his hand, rapped his knuckles against the mottled grey wood of the door, and waited. A few seconds later, the door opened and Sherlock found himself face-to-face with a man he assumed was the landlord. Sherlock sniffed and rubbed at his eyes with one hand.

“I’m so sorry to bother you,” he began, “I was wondering if you could let me into Agatha Bates’ flat for a moment.” The landlord eyed him suspiciously. “I’m Jack, Krista’s husband,” Sherlock continued, offering the man his hand. “There was a book of photos Krista wanted to use for… for the funeral. I know she’d really appreciate it if you could help us out.”

The landlord continued to eye Sherlock for a few more seconds, and then stepped past him into the corridor, shutting his door behind him. He said nothing as he pulled a wad of keys out of his pocket and jiggled it around in his hand until he found the right one.

“Lock it again on your way out.” The landlord said, unlocking the door and turning to head back to his flat.

“Thank you so much,” said Sherlock.

The landlord made a noncommittal sound in his throat, and then he was gone.

Sherlock opened the door to Agatha’s flat, ducking under the police tape as he went. Particles of dust swirled in the rays of sunlight coming in through the windows, stirred by the draft accompanying Sherlock’s entry. He wasn’t quite sure what he was looking for, so he figured he would start with the chair in which she’d been found.

There was no indication that a woman had died there. Once the body had been taken to the morgue, someone had closed the recliner. Sherlock sighed. He’d been hoping to find something helpful in the exact place where she’d died. The two teacups were still sitting on the coffee table, one completely empty, the other still half full. He bent down to sniff at the liquid remaining in the cup. At first, there was only the scent of tea, but then he noticed a faint hint of what seemed like dish soap.

Dibenzoylmorphine.

Back at Baker Street, John was finished his third cup of tea and rereading his blog entry for what seemed like the fiftieth time. He placed the teacup in the saucer and glanced down at his watch. Enough time had passed that Krista should be lucid, assuming she hadn’t needed to be dosed a second time. John collected his jacket, wallet, keys before leaving the flat.

“Hi, I’d like to see Krista Bates, please” John said to the nurse behind the front desk at St. Bart’s. She gave him an appraising look.

“You family?” she asked.

“No, but-”

“Then I can’t help you,” the nurse said, interrupting him. John sighed and started rooting around in his jacket pockets. He produced one of the police badges Sherlock had nicked from Lestrade and showed it to the nurse.

“My apologies, Detective Inspector,” she said, still sounding suspicious. “She’s in room 413. Wear this.” She handed John a ‘visitor’ sticker, on which she’d quickly scrawled ‘Greg Lestrade 413.’

“Thank you,” he said, placing the sticker on the front of his jacket. He turned to walk towards the elevator. He felt a bit odd having Lestrade’s name plastered on his chest, but he’d been improvising, so he simply had to deal with it.

Once the elevator reached the fourth floor, John stepped out into the corridor, and started looking at the little plaques next to the doors with the room numbers emblazoned on them. He found room 413 down at the end of the wing. He knocked lightly on the door a few times, and waited. Through the frosted glass on the door, John saw a figure sit up from a horizontal position.

“Come in,” a voice answered, weakly.

John opened the door slowly and entered the room. Sitting cross-legged on the bed was a woman whom John could only assume was Krista. She was wearing a set of nurse’s scrubs that were too big for her, and it looked like she hadn’t slept. John figured, aside from the time spent under the influence of the sedative, she hadn’t. John crossed the room and offered her his hand.

“So sorry to bother you,” he began. “I’m John Watson.”

“Krista Bates. But I guess you knew that. Are you with the police?”

John chewed his lip for a second.

“Sort of,” he said, then quickly changed the subject. “Can you tell me what happened?”

“I don’t know. I went round her place earlier to pick up a book I had asked to borrow, and walked in to find her dead,” Krista replied, in little more than a whisper. As she had been speaking, John had pulled a small notepad out of one of his pockets to write down the things she was saying.

“Is there anyone you can think of who could have wanted to hurt your mother?”

“Nobody. She was a 63-year-old gardening enthusiast who was more interested in talking to her cat than most people.”

That definitely complicated things a bit. It would have been easier to find a lead if Agatha had an enemy of some kind. Although, John could hardly think what kind of enemies a woman her age could possibly have. He was drawn out of his thoughts when he realized that Krista was looking at him expectantly. She must have just asked him a question.

“Sorry, what?” John asked, a bit sheepishly.

“I asked whether you knew what happened to Jack,” said Krista, tucking a chunk of her hair behind her ear and avoiding John’s eyes.

“Jack?”

“Her cat.”

“Oh. The medical examiner--” he began.

“Medical examiner? He’s dead, too?!” Krista interjected, her voice rising in pitch.

“No no, he’s fine,” said John, raising his hands in an attempt at a calming gesture. “They just brought him in to take a look at him, in case he bit or scratched the person who killed your mother.”

“Oh, thank goodness! Would, um, would it be okay if I took him, once they finish with him, and once I get out of here?”

John smiled slightly at her.

“I see no reason why not,” he replied.

She actually smiled a little bit, too, as he said that.

John closed the notepad and placed it back in his pocket, along with the pen. He figured he should probably leave Krista alone to rest, and one glance out the window told him he’d been there longer than he thought. The sun was low in the sky, turning the clouds pink and casting long shadows. John rose from the chair and offered Krista his hand again.

“I won’t take up any more of your time,” he began. “Thanks for speaking with me.”

“Of course. I want to help find the person who killed my mother as much as I can.”

“Take good care of Jack,” said John, turning to leave the room.

The autopsy report that Molly had sent to Sherlock- along with the photos of the body and crime scene photos- confirmed his earlier suspicions. Molly had found traces of Dibenzoylmorphine in Agatha’s blood, and that it had been mixed in with her tea. There was no evidence that epinephrine had been administered, further supporting the classification of her death as a homicide. Of course, Sherlock had never doubted it, ever since Lestrade had described the way the reaction had been triggered.

Sherlock was comparing the Dibenzoylmorphine  found in Agatha’s blood with that in her tea, for the sake of thoroughness, when John walked in. Sherlock didn’t look up from his samples as John hung up his jacket and joined Sherlock in the kitchen.

“The daughter didn’t know anything useful,” John began.

“I can’t say I’m surprised,” Sherlock replied, glancing at John. “The body, however, has told us quite a bit.”

When Sherlock returned his attention to the samples and gave no indication that he was going to say more, John frowned slightly.

“Care to share with the class?” he asked, resisting a sudden urge to put his hands on his hips.

The next few minutes passed with Sherlock explaining the contents of Molly’s report, and the non-events that took place during his trip to Agatha’s flat. When he mentioned how he’d gained entrance to her flat, John furrowed his eyebrows.

“You… posed as her husband?” he asked, frowning slightly as an inexplicable jolt of annoyance passed through him.

“For less than three minutes. I did what I had to,” replied Sherlock, neglecting to mention that he hadn’t even found anything of substance in her flat, aside from the Dibenzoylmorphine , which had been along the lines of what he’d been expecting.

One week later, they weren't any closer to finding the identity of Agatha's killer. The crime scene and autopsy photos were tacked up around the mirror in the living room, along with notes scrawled on the scraps of paper. An envelope bearing Mycroft's handwriting had turned up, and Sherlock calmly impaled it with his switchblade, effectively pinning it to the wall next to one of the photos of the '2' that had been carved into Agatha's chest.

John tried his best to ignore the unpleasant sizzling noises and smells coming from the kitchen as he read the paper. The phone began to ring and the sizzling stopped immediately. John looked up from his paper as Sherlock came into the living room.

“Lestrade?” Sherlock began, and paused for a few seconds to listen. “Where?” Another pause. “Are you certain? Fine.”

“What's happened now?” John asked.

“They've found another body. It appears to be connected to our current case.”

“The old woman? How?” Sherlock didn't answer, just simply put on his coat and scarf before staring expectantly at John. John sighed, folded up his paper, put on his jacket, and followed Sherlock out the door.

Once they arrived at the address Sherlock had given the cabbie, John paid and they climbed out of the car. Lestrade was waiting for them outside another unremarkable building, although this one had three stories. Lestrade said nothing as he lead them up to the second floor. It was strangely dark in the corridor, and Sherlock noticed that the curtains on the only window were dingy and grey. Both John and Sherlock were perplexed to discover that water was trickling down the stairs. Lestrade opened the the door at the top of the stairs, and they found themselves in a small, sparsely-furnished flat. The hunter green carpets were saturated with water, and the wallpaper was beginning to peel in places near the baseboard.

“What's with the water?” John asked.

“In here,” said Lestrade, gesturing to a door on their left. As soon as they entered the room, John’s question was answered. They were in the bathroom. Floating in the tub was the body of a young woman. She was fully clothed, and there were bloody scratch marks on the wall and the edge of the tub.

Right as John was about to ask how this could be connected to their current case, Lestrade approached the tub. He bent down and gingerly brushed a strand of the girl's hair away from her face. The number '5' had been carved into her right cheek. Sherlock squatted next to Lestrade and examined the wound with his magnifier.

“Post-mortem. Ten-to-fifteen centimeter long, serrated blade. Same as the old woman,” said Sherlock.

“Agatha,” John corrected him. Sherlock ignored John's statement.

“She was drowned?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes, forcibly, as indicated by the marks on the walls,” Lestrade replied.

“Is all of the blood from her fingertips, or did she scratch her killer?” asked John.

“She must have scratched him. Her fingernails were cut post-mortem as well,” said Sherlock.

“How do you know that?”

“The polish on what remains of her nails is fresh. No woman cuts her nails to the quick just after getting them done.” Sherlock continued to examine the girl's hands, and the marks on the wall. John turned to Lestrade.

“Now that we know how she died; who is she?” he asked.

“Name's Mallory Jacobson. Nineteen. Lived here with her best friend, Megan Hill,” said Lestrade.

“Does Megan know?”

“I've been trying to phone her, but no answer.”

“Who found Mallory?”

“The bathtub leaked into the flat below, and the couple living down there informed the landlord. He came up to investigate and found the body.”

“Has anyone spoken to him?” John asked. He had a feeling he would soon be having another conversation similar to the one he'd had with Krista Bates.

Before Lestrade could answer, a police officer enter the foyer, lifting the yellow tape so that the young woman behind him could pass through the doorway.

“A crime scene?” John heard her ask. “What's happened?”

“Megan Hill?” Lestrade began. Megan ignored him, staring past John into the bathroom. Her eyes slowly widened, and John shifted imperceptibly, trying to block Mallory's body from view.

“Mal!” shouted Megan. She dashed forward and tried to get past John and into the bathroom. He grabbed her and took advantage of her split second of surprise to turn her around so she was facing the living room. She thumped John on the shoulder with her fist, and Sherlock gritted his teeth slightly as he saw John flinch.

“Finley, what were you thinking?” Lestrade asked the officer who had brought Megan in.

“Apologies sir. I thought they'd covered the body already,” the man answered. Lestrade shook his head and turned his attention back Megan.

Megan stopped trying to get past John. She buried her face in his jumper and cried, huge shuddering sobs that shook her entire frame. John awkwardly wrapped his arms around her.

Sherlock quickly grew impatient and began to examine the body again. If Mallory had scratched her attacker, there was a good chance that some of the blood on the wall was theirs. He stared momentarily at the number on her cheek, wondering what significance it bore.

Another thing that confused him was the killer's decision to change his MO.

“Why move from forced anaphylaxis to drowning?” Sherlock muttered to himself. He also had a feeling that the autopsy would find no Dibenzoylmorphine in Mallory's system; judging by the marks on the walls, Mallory had been conscious during her attack.

A few minutes later, Megan's sobs quieted and she slowly drew back from John. She turned and crossed the room to sit on the sofa. John sat down next to her.

“I'm sorry,” he said, Megan looked at him and pursed her lips.

“Thank you,” she replied.

“Are you up to answering a few questions?”

“Not really, but I have a feeling that later won't be any better.” John nodded and took out his notepad.

“When was the last time you spoke to Mallory?”

“This morning before I left for work,” Megan replied, staring intently at her shoes.

“Did anything seem off, as though something was wrong?” Megan shook her head.

“Mal was so proud of herself this morning. She'd aced a really difficult paper. Although , it was sort of odd that she didn't pick up my call around noon. We always talk on the phone during my lunch break, but today she didn't answer. I knew I should have come home for lunch today.” By her last sentence, Megan's voice had dropped to a whisper.

“Then you might have ended up the same way she did.”

“I'd be better off.”

“Don't say that. She would want you to go on.” John told her. He looked at the floor. He knew the feeling of wanting to die after losing a loved one. He pushed the thought from his mind and tried to focus on the matter at hand.

“She would but it's –“

“Hard. I know.” John's eyes flicked over to Sherlock, and then swiftly redirected the conversation. “Did she have any enemies? Or can you think of anyone who might have wanted to hurt her?”

“The only person I can think of is her step-brother, but I think you can count him out.”

“Why?”

“Last I heard, he was in America. In prison.”

“That would rule him out pretty effectively then. What about the rest of her family?” Megan wrung her hands.

“Mal was estranged from her parents. They, um... didn't approve of our relationship.” John frowned slightly.

“Could they possibly have disapproved so much that they might have wanted to hurt her?”

“No. If they were anything of the sort, I would be the one dead, not her,” said Megan. John nodded, jotting down the gist of everything she was saying. Then something occurred to him.

“Is there somewhere you can stay for awhile?” he asked. Forensics would have the flat sealed off for awhile, and John highly doubted that Megan wanted to stay in the place where her friend had died anytime soon.

“Yeah, my sister lives near here. Oh, she'll be devastated.” Megan barely finished her sentence before she was sobbing again. John looked down at his notepad, feeling slightly awkward again.

“Okay, I think that’s enough questions for now,” said John. “You go and stay with your sister. We’ll phone you if there are any developments.” Megan nodded, and got up from the sofa. Finley lifted the tape for her, and John could see that he was trying to speak to her, but she didn’t acknowledge him.

A half hour later, John and Sherlock were on their way back to Baker Street. At first John tried to relay everything Megan had said, but he soon realized that Sherlock was in one of his brooding moods, and clearly not paying attention. John considered saying something outrageous, both to confirm that he wasn’t listening, and to try to lighten the mood a little, but he thought better of it as the taxi pulled up outside 221B.

After dinner, John decided to sort through the mail that Mrs Hudson had collected for them while they were out earlier. One of the pieces of paper caught his attention. It was from his supervisor at the clinic:
 

John,

We’re due to be swamped tomorrow, and you absolutely

need to come in. The clinic’s been pretty short-handed on the days

you haven’t been in. Please confirm receipt of this message.

Sincerely,

Kate Lansing

John chewed his lip for a moment. Sherlock had intended for them to interview Mallory’s parents in the morning.

“Sherlock,” John began, looking over toward the kitchen, where Sherlock was examining the contents of a beaker he’d placed on the table.

“Hmm?” Sherlock responded, not taking his eyes off of the beaker.

“You’re going to have to deal with Mallory’s parents on your own. The clinic needs me tomorrow.”

“Fine, that’s fine,” said Sherlock, absently. Obviously not hearing a word that was said. John let out a breath, nodded and returned his attention to the rest of the mail before calling Kate to confirm that he would be in.

Once he completed that, John opened his notepad to a fresh page. He’d been leaving the detail about the numbers carved into the victims’ skin out of his entries, as that was the bit of information that the police had decided to keep out of all the public channels.

As John began to write he felt a fresh wave of sympathy for Megan, but did his best to push it from his mind. He thought it best not to get emotionally invested in the cases, however hard it might be. The entry about Mallory’s death was already turning out to be longer than the first bit he’d written about Agatha. But once he finished transcribing the overall gist of his notes onto the paper, John’s train of thought sort of fizzled out. He’d intended to add some of his own thoughts, but nothing of substance was coming to him. He looked over at Sherlock again.

“Would you care to hear what Megan said?” asked John.

“Megan?”

“Yes, Megan. The dead girl, Mallory, her living friend. Megan,” John snapped, a jolt of anger rising in his chest.

“I suppose.”

“You ‘suppose?’ Wouldn’t you think her input might be in the least bit helpful?”

“Why are you fixated on her?”

“Fix--? I’m not fixated on her. Her friend is dead, Sherlock!”

“The old woman is dead as well, and I don’t hear you snapping at me about her daughter.”

“I--” John began, and then stopped himself. He knew why he felt a bit of a connection to her. After the Fall, he’d been in the same situation, feeling completely alone and broken. It’s worse for Megan, though, he thought, because Mallory is actually gone. John took a deep breath.“Because I’ve been where Megan is right now.”

Sherlock seemed to consider John’s statement for a moment, then looked at the floor.

“John, I--”

“Don’t.”

“But--”

“Save it.” John shut his notepad on the kitchen table, before heading up to his bedroom.

Sherlock flinched slightly as he heard John’s bedroom door shut a little harder than necessary. It honestly hadn’t occurred to him how Megan’s situation might be similar to John’s after the Fall. Sherlock tried to get back to work, but he couldn’t seem to focus completely on the problems in front of him. He sighed, placing his hand down on top of John’s notepad. He'd done something 'Bit Not Good' once again.

He went upstairs as quietly as he could, and opened the door to John’s bedroom a few inches. John was lying on his back on the bed, seemingly asleep, as he didn’t react when the beam of light from the hallway fell across his face. Sherlock eased the door open a few more inches and slipped into the room. He quietly walked over to John’s bed and drew the blanket up over his still form.

“I’m so sorry, John,” he whispered. “You’ll never know how much.”

Sherlock turned and silently headed back downstairs. As his footsteps faded, John rolled over to face the door.

“I know…”

Sherlock was already hard at work when John came downstairs the next morning. He slipped his wallet and keys into his pockets as he entered the sitting room. His note book had been moved across the table and breakfast had been set out for him in its place.

“Don’t try to butter me up,” said John.

“You? Never. I did butter the toast, however,” Sherlock replied, fighting an urge to smile. John smiled, however, and walked over to the kitchen.

“You’re impossible,” he said.

John had to leave for work shortly after breakfast, so Sherlock was left alone in the flat. He was growing steadily more frustrated with himself. He wasn’t getting anywhere with Agatha’s case, and he was making equal progress with Mallory’s case. He wasn’t looking forward to making a visit to Mallory’s parents. They had already been notified of their daughter’s death, and Sherlock certainly didn’t envy whomever that responsibility had come down to. Sherlock didn’t think they would be doing a whole lot better a day later. Still, he needed to see whether they had any information that could possibly be helpful.

Sherlock put on his coat and pocketed John’s notepad before heading outside to hail a taxi.

The moment John entered the clinic, he understood why Kate had been so insistent that he come into work. The waiting room was nearly full. He walked over to the reception desk.

“Good morning, Marjorie,” he said to the woman behind the desk.

“‘Morning,” she replied, handing him a stack of manila folders. “These are your appointments for the morning, Doctor Watson.”

“Okay. Give me five minutes to get situated, and then you can send in… Betsy Carver,” said John, taking a peek into the folder at the top of the stack. Marjorie nodded, and John turned and headed down the corridor to his office. He opened the door, hanging his jacket on the hook affixed to the back. A small white envelope was leaning against the telephone on his desk, but just as he picked it up to examine it, a woman whom he could only assume was Betsy Carver entered his office.

As Sherlock read through the preliminary report about Mallory that had been sent over for, for the fourth time, he reluctantly admitted to himself that he was procrastinating. With the first case, he’d been a bit relieved to discover that John had taken it upon himself to talk to Agatha’s daughter. He didn’t relish the thought of visiting Mallory’s parents, especially since he’d read in John’s notes that they were estranged from their daughter. He also knew that he had very little choice in the matter, especially with John at work at the clinic. With one final glance at the paperwork, Sherlock set it down on the table, and put on his coat.

The address at which Sherlock exited the taxi was only a short distance from where Mallory had lived. He took John’s notepad out of his pocket and flipped through the pages. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed someone in the ground-floor flat looking out at him through the curtains. He tried to ignore them as he continued to scan John’s notes. It looked like Mallory’s parents were the ones who lived in the ground-floor flat. He could still feel the person’s eyes on him through the curtains. He pocketed John’s notepad and approached the front door. The door opened into a well-lit corridor with white walls and thick maroon carpet on the floor. Sherlock stopped at the first door on the left and knocked. Several long moments passed before he heard movement on the other side. The door opened a few inches.

“What?” the man behind the door asked, rudely.

“Are you Mallory Jacobson’s father?”

“Yeah, why?”

“I’ll need to ask you some questions.”

The man eyed Sherlock for a few seconds, and Sherlock could tell that he had been the one staring out through the curtains.

“Fine,” said Mallory’s father, stepping aside and opening the door, rather reluctantly, to allow Sherlock to walk past him into the flat. Sherlock walked through the small foyer into the living room and offered his hand to the woman seated in a nearby armchair.

“Sherlock Holmes,” he said, shaking hands with her before sitting down on the sofa.

“Gladys Jacobson,” she replied, smiling slightly at Sherlock until she realized her husband was looking at her. The smile faded from her face, and Sherlock could see what her eyes were red, and a bit puffy, and decided not to comment on it.

“And your name?” he asked Mallory’s father.

“Lou.”

“Well, Lou, would you care to join us?” Lou didn’t reply and turned to leave the room, his footsteps fading slowly as he retreated to some other room.

“Don’t mind him,” said Gladys. “He’s just…”

“Onto the subject of your daughter,” Sherlock said, as Gladys’ sentence trailed off at the end. She nodded and shifted slightly in her seat.

“Yes, I suppose we have to.”

“As I understand it, you were estranged from your daughter?” Sherlock asked. He momentarily considered taking John’s notepad out of his pocket, and taking notes. Not for himself, however, but because he knew it would be helpful to John later. He drew the notepad out of one pocket and began rifling through the others in search of a pen. He found one after a few seconds, flipped open the notepad, and looked up at Gladys expectantly. She avoided his eyes.

“That was Lou’s doing,” she answered softly. “He… didn’t approve of the friendship she had with Megan, which I thought was ridiculous. Megan is a lovely young woman. But Lou was having none of it. I disagreed with him, but I learned my lesson about openly doing so a long time ago,” said Gladys, unconsciously reaching up with one hand to run her fingers across her cheekbone.

“Could he possibly have been angry enough to do something drastic?”

“If he had, he wouldn’t have waited a year to do it. Mallory moved out last August.”

“Megan mentioned a stepbrother?”

“Yes. Lou’s son from his first marriage. Bit of a twat, he is, if you’ll pardon my language. But this couldn’t have anything to do with him. He’s locked up in California.”

“What was he incarcerated for?” Sherlock asked, jotting down the gist of what Gladys had just told him.

“Armed robbery.”

“Is there anyone you can think of who might have wanted to hurt her?”

“No one. She was- She was a good person,” said Gladys, barely managing to finish her sentence before bursting into tears. As soon as she began to cry, Lou strode back into the room, and placed a hand on her shoulder. Sherlock saw her flinch almost imperceptibly.

“I think it’s time for you to leave,” said Lou. Sherlock made eye contact with Gladys, who nodded slightly. He pursed his lips.

“Thanks for your time, Gladys,” he said, knowing it was the proper thing to do.

Sherlock sat wondering most of the taxi ride back to Baker Street. He felt like he should have phoned Lestrade, but at the same time, he knew there wasn’t a lot that could be done without proof of what he’d read between the lines in his discussion with Gladys.

When Sherlock opened the door to let himself into the flat, he wasn’t in the least bit surprised to discover that he was alone. He retrieved John’s notepad from his pocket and set it down on the kitchen table. Then, he began to pace the sitting room. He could see no easily-distinguishable connection between the two women. He wasn’t even sure such a connection existed. Not knowing frustrated him. Even with a vast wealth of knowledge at his disposal, he was completely devoid of any sort of inkling about where to begin looking for the killer. He stopped pacing and turned around as he heard the door behind him open. Mrs. Hudson was standing in the doorway, holding a thick manila envelope.

“This came for you, while you were out,” she told him.

“That’ll be the autopsy report, thank you,” he replied, accepting the envelope from her. Her eyes widened slightly at the word ‘autopsy,’ but she said nothing, and turned to head back to her flat, closing the door behind her.

Sherlock sat down across from John’s chair and opened the envelope, emptying its contents onto the surface of the table. Enclosed along with the report were two copies of each of the crime scene photos. One of each of them soon joined the others tacked up around the mirror. Sherlock stood before the wall with a pen, muttering to himself and making notes on his scraps of paper. The addition of the photos and report to his collection of evidence did nothing to shed light on either case. He ran his fingers through his hair.

“Who are you?” he murmured.

By the time John’s lunch hour rolled around, he’d all but forgotten about the envelope resting against the phone on his desk. He took a moment to massage his temples and attempt to clear his head before picking it up. It was a plain white envelope, with his first name written across the front in large, loopy script.

“Kate,” he said to himself, turning the envelope over in his hand and sliding his finger under the flap. He drew a folded piece of paper out of the envelope, failing to notice the second, smaller slip of paper that fluttered out to land on his lap. He set the envelope down on his desk and turned his attention to the folded piece of paper.

Kate Lansing cordially invites you to her 2nd annual Halloween party,

Friday the 31st of October at 8PM. Dinner will be served, so please

kindly return the enclosed reply slip with the number of people attending,

along with their names.

Costumes not required, but highly encouraged. Hope to see you there!

John smiled slightly to himself, and chuckled at the idea of asking Sherlock to accompany him to a party at his boss’ house. Still, he decided to ask when he got home. He glanced down and noticed the reply slip, which had landed in his lap. He picked it up and looked at it briefly, before placing it on his desk along with the invitation.

Number attending: _____________________

Name(s): _______________________________

              _______________________________

John thought for a moment and then fished a pen out of his drawer. He left the ‘number attending’ section blank for the time being and wrote his name where prompted. He would wait until he’d at least asked Sherlock before handing the slip back to Kate. He tucked both the invitation and the reply slip back into the envelope, and pushed his chair back from the desk. He knew he should get up and put the envelope in his jacket pocket, so he wouldn't lose it. His jacket was in its usual place on the hook on the back of the door. However, with his curiosity satisfied, he soon returned to his previous exasperated state. The distance from his chair to the door seemed to multiply. For a moment, he considered not even getting out of his chair and simply rolling it across the room. Then, his stomach growled, and he realized that he would have to get up to get something to eat. He sighed, and hoisted himself out of his chair, and slipped the envelope into his jacket on his way out.

The lunch hour was over far too quickly for John’s liking, and it seemed that his afternoon was going to be just as busy as his morning had been. He glanced at the stack of patient files still sitting on his desk and winced as he felt the beginnings of a headache gnawing at his skull.

After spending an hour puzzling over the information in front of him, Sherlock made the decision to return to Mallory’s flat, as he had done with the previous case. With any luck, someone from forensics might still be there, so he would have no issue gaining entry to the flat. He wasn’t sure what he would be looking for, but he preferred taking action to the equivalent of sitting on his hands.

Once Sherlock exited the cab at Mallory’s address, he paid the driver and made his way into the building. He met Lestrade on the stairs.

“What are you doing here?” Lestrade asked.

“Come to have another look at the crime scene. Would you mind?” said Sherlock, gesturing to the door. Lestrade said nothing and simply brushed past Sherlock to open the door. Sherlock stuck his hands into his coat pockets and followed Lestrade into the flat. Mallory’s body had long since been taken to the mortuary, but the water was still in the bathtub, and the blood still on the wall and tub. The blood tests hadn’t yet been completed when the reports had been sent over. However, Sherlock knew that all of the blood on the walls and tub belonged to Mallory, and that any trace of her killer had been eliminated with the clipping of her fingernails. The fact that her attacker had thought to cut her nails suggested experience, in the very least with the study of crime, but much more likely in the previous commission of similar offenses.

It didn’t take Sherlock long to realize he could glean no more information from Mallory’s flat than he had the first time around. Feeling a little discouraged and even more frustrated, Sherlock took a cab back to Baker Street. Once inside, he stripped off his coat and scarf and flopped down on the sofa. He was still staring at the wall of notes and photos when John finally returned.

“Please tell me you’ve had a more productive day that I have,” John said as he put the kettle on. “A ridiculous volume of patients, but none of them suffering anything more serious than a sinus infection.”

Sherlock made a noncommittal sound in his throat, but he sat up when John placed a cup of tea on the coffee table in front of him. Then John retreated to his armchair with his own cup. He glanced expectantly over at Sherlock.

“Would you care to share what Mallory’s parents said?” he asked.

“Her father said very little, he’s an abusive, bigoted brute,” Sherlock replied, and then proceeded to relay the entirety of his conversation with Gladys to John, along with what she hadn’t said. John absorbed the information without saying a word, although his expression darkened noticeably as Sherlock described Lou’s treatment of the women in his life.

“I have half a mind to go over there and knock him on his arse,” said John.

“It won’t do any good. I have no evidence to support my deductions about him, and I believe Gladys fears him too much to speak out against him explicitly.”

John frowned.

“You’re right,” he said. “And it’s a shame she couldn’t give us anything more to help us.”

“Indeed. This investigation is all but dead in the water, if you’ll pardon the expression,” said Sherlock, adding the last bit as he saw John’s frown deepen. Bit Not Good.

“And still no idea what the numbers are referring to?”

“No. And would you care to share what’s in your jacket pocket?”

“Jacket pocket?” John asked. He’d all but forgotten about the invitation. “Oh.”

He got up from his armchair, removed the envelope from his jacket pocket, and handed it to Sherlock before settling on the sofa next to him. Sherlock read the invitation quickly and glanced at the reply slip before putting both back into the envelope.

“You received this invitation today, and wrote your own name on the reply slip directly afterwards, but left the ‘number attending’ space blank, meaning you intended to ask me to accompany you,” said Sherlock.

“Well, yes,” said John, feeling a bit sheepish. “I don’t really fancy going alone.”

“You don’t fancy going at all, but she is your supervisor and you feel compelled to do so.”

John ignored the second observation.

“So, would you come with me?” John asked.

Sherlock thought for a moment, a slight smirk spread across his lips.

“On one condition.”

“And what would that be?”

“You go in your uniform.”

“What is with you and my bloody uniform?” asked John and quickly added. “Thank you.”

“Mhm,” Sherlock replied,

“You might not need to sleep, but I do. I’m going up to bed. Is there anything you need before I go?” Sherlock shook his head.

John’s footsteps faded up the stairs, Sherlock took a sip of his now-cold tea, curled himself into a ball on the sofa, and resumed staring at the photos on the wall.

The next morning, John was awake half an hour before his alarm even went off. He shut his eyes and pressed the heels of his hands against his closed lids. He hoped the day would be at least a little less hectic than the day before. After glancing again at the clock on his bedside table, John turned off his alarm and hauled himself out of bed. He took his time getting dressed and then headed downstairs.

Sherlock was still on the sofa where John had left him the previous night . Although, now he was sprawled out on his back, with one arm hanging off the edge. His eyes were closed, and his breathing deep and even. John was careful not to wake him as he made breakfast. He had no way of knowing when exactly Sherlock’s body had succumbed to exhaustion, and John figured he could use all the sleep he could get.

Once breakfast was finished, John put off waking Sherlock as long as he could, before finally making him a plate and carrying it into the sitting room. He shook Sherlock gently by the shoulder.

“Sherlock,” he said. The detective stirred slightly.

“What time is it?”

John glanced at his watch.

“Just after seven.”

Sherlock sat bolt upright on the sofa, his dressing gown slipping off his shoulders and pooling behind him.

“How long did you sleep?”

“Too long,” said Sherlock. He spotted the plate John had set down on the coffee table. “What’s that?”

“Breakfast.”

“I don’t need breakfast.”

“It’s been at least two days since you’ve eaten something.”

“John, I am perfectly--”

“Eat!” said John, a tiny bit of his command voice seeping into his tone. Sherlock said nothing, but took a bite of his toast.

Sherlock had almost eaten the entire piece of toast when the rang. John groaned at the interruption when Sherlock was actually eating something and quickly located the phone under a nearby pile of papers, and gave it over to Sherlock.

“Lestrade?” he began, and then paused to listen. “Really?” Another pause. “What makes you think it’s connected?”

John looked up and caught Sherlock’s eye before furrowing his eyebrows. Sherlock nodded.

Another one? John thought. Although, truth be told, he’d rather be on a case than at the clinic. He felt a slight pang of guilt as the realization occurred to him, but he couldn’t help it. He also realized that if another body had been found, he would have to call out of work. He sighed, knowing that Kate wasn’t going to like it, but murder and helping Sherlock trumps head colds.

“Fine. We’ll be there soon.” Sherlock hung up with Lestrade and looked over at John. “You’re going to have to--”

“I know,” said John, interrupting him. “I know.”

“Something wrong?”

“No.”

Sherlock studied him for a moment, unsure, but headed towards his bedroom. John heard him mutter something that sounded a lot like, ‘Putting on trousers is tedious.’ John chuckled, and picked up the phone and dialed the clinic.

“Hi, this is John Watson. Can I talk to Kate please?” he asked the person who picked up. After Sherlock’s return, John had explained to Kate that they sometimes assisted in police investigations and that it might periodically take him away from the clinic. At the time, she’d had no problem with it, but he could sense that she was starting to get frustrated. He knew he shouldn’t blame himself at all; he wasn’t the one committing the murders. But he still felt like he was letting her down every time he had to call out.

“Hello?” said Kate.

“Kate, it’s John. How are you?”

“Fine, thanks. Much less busy than yesterday.”

“Good. Uhm. Listen, I can’t come in today. Something’s come up,” John said, feeling a bit hesitant. He fiddled with a loose thread at the edge of one of his trouser pockets as he spoke.

She sighed.

“That’s… Okay. Someone will cover for you.”

“I’m sorry. It’s just--”

“It’s fine. Thanks for calling.”

She hung up.

John pursed his lips as Sherlock walked into the sitting room, tucking in his shirt.

“She’s angry,” said John.

“Well, she is one doctor short. Will they manage without you?”

“Yes. She said today is less hectic than yesterday.”

“Good. As you seem to have inferred, they’ve found another body. We’re meeting Lestrade at the scene.”

Sherlock put on his coat and scarf and walked out the door, leaving John to do the same.

The cab let them out in front of a tall office building, and they met Lestrade in the lobby. He looked pale and exhausted, as if he’d gotten about as much sleep as Sherlock had since the case began. He led them past the reception desk.

“Tell us about the victim,” Sherlock said, once they were in the elevator.

Lestrade ran his fingers through his hair.

“His name’s Thomas Isaac. Forty-one. He was a lawyer. Single. No family, according to his secretary.”

“Cause of death?”

“One gunshot wound to the forehead. Some form of a handgun.”

Just then, they stepped out into a small but nicely-furnished foyer. In front of them was a glass door, bearing the words,‘Thomas Isaac’ in bold black letters, with ‘attorney at law’ in smaller type underneath. Lestrade opened the door and gestured for John and Sherlock to enter before him. The door opened into what appeared to be some sort of common area between several offices. A row of chairs occupied the left wall, and seated in one of the chairs was a woman. She was dabbing at her eyes with a tissue and shaking her head in response to whatever question she had just been asked by the officer John recognized as Finley from the previous crime scene.

“I assume she’s the secretary,” said John.

“Yeah, her name is Vivian,” Lestrade replied. “She found the body.”

“Which office?” Sherlock asked.

“Go to the right here,” said Lestrade, gesturing with his hand. “And it’s the second door on the left.”

Sherlock walked through the doorway on the right, and John looked at Vivian, and then at Lestrade before following. Sherlock ducked under the yellow tape that had been strung across the doorway. The office was a decent size, but the number of filing cabinets that lined the walls as higher than the amount that would fit comfortably, giving the room a feeling of being overcrowded. Two members of the forensics team were examining Thomas’ body. At the time of his death, he’d been seated behind his desk with his left hand resting on its wooden surface. Sherlock stepped closer to the body and drew his magnifier out of his pocket. The wound was faintly star-shaped and very close to the exact middle of the forehead. Sherlock straightened up as something caught his eye. The number ‘1’ was etched into the back of Thomas’ left hand, but the item next to it, however, was what had attracted Sherlock’s attention.

Sitting on the desk near Thomas’ hand was a red apple. Sherlock eyed it for a moment, and then looked up at John, making a beckoning gesture with one hand, while putting his magnifier back in his pocket with the other. John rolled his eyes and passed Sherlock a rubber glove from the packet Lestrade offered him. A single bite had been taken out of the apple. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed fractionally, and he set the apple back down on the desk and began to examine the body again.

“The number was carved with the same blade as the other two. Serrated. Ten to fifteen centimeters in length. The cut was made post-mortem, just like the other two,” said Sherlock.

There was no exit wound, so the shot couldn’t have been fired from point-blank range. Sherlock walked around to the front of the desk and moved several paces away, counting as he went. John could tell he was deducing the distance the killer must have been standing away from Thomas when the gun was fired. Seemingly satisfied with his conclusion, Sherlock pulled out his pen, note book and scribbled a picture of the apple.

“You think it’s significant somehow?” John asked, peering at it.

“I’m not sure yet,” Sherlock replied.

“The gun will have been at the bottom of the Thames a long time ago,” said John. “And chances are, he’s used a drop gun, so trying to match the bullet to any other shooting will be useless.”

“No…”

“But--”

“Sorry, yes, that would be useless. But something else has just occurred to me,” said Sherlock.

He said nothing further for a long moment.

“And what might that be?” John asked.

“Jim Moriarty.”

“But Moriarty’s dead. You said he shot himself in the head.”

“So I thought, but this changes things,” said Sherlock, gesturing to the apple.

“Thomas was probably just eating it before he died. What makes you think it has anything to do with Jim Moriarty?”

“That’s possible, yes. The autopsy will clear that up for us. And this brings him to mind because the day he was acquitted he came round for a visit.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes. And while we were chatting he carved ‘IOU’ into an apple with a penknife. However, instead of actually carving the ‘O’ he took a bite out of the apple,” Sherlock explained.

“That doesn’t mean this has anything to do with him. I mean, he always had someone else pull the trigger for him, rather than killing anyone himself, right?”

“Yes.”

“So why, almost a year and a half after faking his death, if he did indeed fake it, would he suddenly start killing people personally? I mean, to shove a walnut down someone’s throat, or drown them in their bathtub, you’ve got to get pretty close to them, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” said Sherlock, heaving an exasperated sigh and rubbing his face with both hands. “I suppose you’re right.”

John stepped closer to him and made a gesture for Sherlock to look at him.

“You’ll figure this out. You're Sherlock bloody Holmes.”

Sherlock didn’t reply, but lowered his head again and then walked a slow lap around the desk, examining the scene as a whole. He couldn’t comprehend why the killer would suddenly move from close quarters methods of murdering his victims to a bullet that was likely fired from across the room.

Without another word, Sherlock turned and left the office. The doors had shut before John caught up. He swore under his breath before walking back through the door. He surmised he would have to talk to Vivian by himself, and wondered momentarily whether he was being punished for leaving Sherlock to deal with Mallory’s parents.

Probably, he thought, chewing on his lip for a moment.

“Where’s he gone?” asked Lestrade.

“I haven’t the faintest,” John replied with a sigh.

Lestrade frowned before turning to walk back into Thomas’ office, leaving John in the foyer with Vivian. He walked over and sat down beside her.

“Who’re you?” she asked.

“John Watson,” said John, shaking hands with her.

“Vivian Reyes. I’d say it was nice to meet you, but under the circumstances, it really isn’t.”

John wasn’t sure what to say to that, so he simply nodded.

“Would it be okay if I asked you a few questions?”

“I guess,” she said, after a few seconds’ deliberation.

John pulled his notepad out of his pocket along with a pen.

“Tell me about Thomas.”

“Well,” she began. “No wife, no kids. No family. He was alone. It’s a shame, really. He was a good man.”

“Is there anyone you can think of who could have wanted to hurt him?”

“No one.”

“What about any of his clients?”

“Thomas did corporate litigation. He wasn’t out defending criminals,” said Vivian. John paused for a moment to write down what she had said before continuing.

“What about visitors? Has anyone strange been round recently?”

“Sort of. There was a delivery man who came in three days ago with a package. He gave me the creeps.”

“What did he look like?”

“White, mid-thirties, chin-length blond hair.”

“Do you know what was in the package?”

“No, but I think--” Vivian paused mid-sentence as members of the forensics team brought a gurney out of the office, bearing a body. She sniffed, and pulled a tissue out of the box on the end table next to her.

John gave her a moment to compose herself, and looked down at his notes in the meantime. He felt bad that Thomas had no family, but the feeling was mixed with a tiny bit of relief that no one would need to receive the news that their husband, or son, or father, or brother had been murdered. He wondered if the delivery man factored into the situation at all, or if it was simply a coincidence. He couldn’t be sure.

After a minute or so, Vivian collected her tissues and got up to put them in the bin before sitting back down on her chair.

“I’m sorry,” she began. “I just…”

“No need to apologize,” John replied. “If you’re all right, we can finish this up.”

Vivian nodded.

“What was I saying?”

“The package.”

“Right. I think whatever was in that package upset him.”

“What makes you say that?”

“As soon as he opened it, I heard the jingling of keys, and then the locked drawer of his desk banging open, followed by the sound of something being tossed into the drawer. Then he slammed it shut and locked it again. I asked him about it, and he snapped at me.”

“And it was unusual for him to snap at you?”

“Yes. I can count on one hand the number of times he’s been cross with me, and I’ve been here about five years.”

“Hmm, that is odd,” John agreed. He skimmed his notes again quickly. Then he stood up and offered her his hand. “Thank you for speaking with me.”

She shook his hand and nodded.

“Find the person who did this.”

“We intend to.”

When John returned to Baker Street, Sherlock was nowhere to be found. He thought nothing of it, and simply hung up his jacket and made some tea.

He retrieved his notepad from his jacket pocket and flipped through the pages, noticing for the first time that Sherlock had taken notes during his conversation with Mallory’s parents. John smiled slightly. There was no way Sherlock had taken the notes for his own benefit; they were for John’s.

The sun was just setting on Baker Street when Sherlock returned. John was still sitting at the kitchen table. Sherlock thumped up the stairs and closed the door behind him with more force than was strictly necessary. He paid no mind to the way the picture frame hanging on the wall next to the door rattled, dangerously close to falling off. John looked over at Sherlock, concern etching itself in his features, but he said nothing. Sherlock would explain when he was good and ready.

Sherlock removed his coat and hung it up before flopping down in his chair, drawing his legs up underneath him. He spent several minutes eyeing the wall that bore the photos in silence. John closed his notepad and walked over to sit down in his own chair. He crossed his legs and looked at Sherlock expectantly.

“I’ve just come back from Bart's,” said Sherlock. “There’s been some kind of auto accident involving several vehicles, and it’ll be at least tomorrow morning before she’ll be able to get me the lawyer’s autopsy report.”

“Oh dear,” said John. “It must be serious if they’re making you wait.” Sherlock scowled at him. “What I meant was that these cases have been pretty close to the top of the priority list. Lestrade has been under some pretty heavy pressure to catch this guy, since he seemingly strikes at random. People are afraid, Sherlock.”

“As they should be. I’m still not closer to figuring anything out. The numbers are important; I’m just not sure how.”

“And you’re not going to like this. I got another message from Kate. She needs me to come in tomorrow, so I said I would.”

“What am I supposed to do while you’re at the clinic?”

John shrugged.

“Be nice to Molly and charm your way into finding out when the autopsy report will be ready?” John suggested, trying unsuccessfully to keep a straight face.

At some point between the time when John and Sherlock had discussed the invitation further and the morning John intended to return it, the envelope had been moved from the sofa. No doubt by Sherlock in a possible sabotage attempt. John spent a few minutes longer than he should have looking for it, skipping out on a chance to shave before leaving for work. Eventually he’d found it on the table in the sitting room. Once he’d located it, he picked up a pen and hurriedly filled out the reply slip before he talked himself out of attending.

 
 Number attending:         2         

 Name(s):       John Watson         

                    Sherlock Holmes   

Then, he stuffed it into his jacket pocket and hurried out the door.

Inwardly, John hoped it wasn’t going to be as hectic a day as Kate was predicting, even though he knew better. Kate had a knack for being able to predict, with decent accuracy, when they were going to be swamped.

The stack of folders John received when he arrived at the clinic was larger than the one he’d been given last time. He sighed and asked Marjorie to give him a few minutes to get situated before sending in the first patient. He had a feeling it was going to be a long day, and he wasn’t very eager to get started. A pang of guilt shot through him as the thought occurred to him. He didn’t actually dislike his work. He was helping people, which was the reason he’d wanted to become a doctor in the first place. Helping Sherlock was a far different matter.

A knock on his office door drew him out of his thoughts, and he settled himself behind his desk and answered.

“The report’s finished,” said Molly, not even looking up from her clipboard.  

She had been standing with her back to the door and all but felt Sherlock walk in. However the frustration radiating off of him was tangible, causing her to quickly turn around to gauge his current mood. He said nothing and meandered over to one of the autopsy tables, reaching for the corner of the white sheet that had been draped over the body.

“Sherlock? Are you okay?” Molly carefully called out to him. The last thing she needed was to further agitate and frustrate the detective.

Sherlock dropped the edge of the sheet and approached Molly who was now keeping the clipboard clutched tightly to her chest as if it could keep Sherlock from tearing her apart.

“Tell me about the lawyer,” he said.

“Fairly straightforward,” said Molly while she looked down at the clipboard. “Single gunshot wound to the head. The number was the only other mark on him.”

“What else?”

“Fairly good health, stomach was empty, and rigor mortis--”

“Stomach was empty…” Sherlock muttered to himself.

“Is that significant?” Molly asked, finally looking away from the clipboard to study Sherlock's face.

“I don’t know.”

Truthfully, he didn’t know. He was still at a loss. It seemed highly unlikely that the apple possessed any real importance. But at the same time, he couldn’t seem to dismiss it completely from his mind. There were several factors connected to the lawyer’s death that hadn’t come up in the previous cases. The apple was one of them, and the other was the strange delivery man whom the secretary had mentioned. While John had shared his and Vivian’s conversation with Sherlock it was immediately the delivery man had piqued Sherlock’s interest. It would make sense for the lawyer’s office to keep a log of deliveries, so Sherlock thought it might contain some useful information.

Sherlock turned and left the morgue, with Molly frantically calling after him about the reports. She stapled the pages together before setting the stapler back down on her desk with a bit more force than necessary. Sherlock had given her grief about the time it had taken to get the reports finished and then left without them. She set them aside and got back to work, muttering to herself. The things she did for him. And kept doing for him.

Once he was outside St. Bart’s, Sherlock hailed a cab and gave the driver the address of Thomas’ office. As the buildings sped by outside the cab's window, Sherlock couldn’t stop the wheels in his head from turning. It had been some time since he felt as dejected as he did then. He gritted his teeth as he remembered that the last time he’d felt so lost was just before he took the Fall. People were being murdered, and he was completely at a loss as to why, or by whom. Everyone doubted and gave up on him. History was repeating itself. His best efforts had thus far been for naught. It wouldn't be long before the doubt once again set in. He reached up with one hand to massage his temples as he felt the beginnings of a headache blossoming.

“Transport,” he muttered to himself.

“Sorry?” the cabbie asked.

“Nothing,” Sherlock replied, quickly realizing that they had pulled up in front of the lawyer’s office building while he’d been distracted. He paid the driver and exited. Then, he stood on the pavement for a moment, staring up at the building.

John rolled his shoulders, attempting to dispel the tension that had built up in him from sitting stiffly at his desk for far too long. The day seemed to be crawling by, regardless of how busy he was. He had been glad to discover that the stack of folders he’d received that morning contained the files of patients with whom he had a particularly good rapport. Therefore, even though he was already tired, he was in a pretty decent mood. He stood up for a moment, sighing as he stretched, and then glanced at his watch. His next patient was due for their appointment soon. The file at the top of the stack bore the name, ‘Colleen Kingston.’ He heard a knock at the door and settled down behind his desk again.

“Come in!” he called.

The door opened, and a woman walked in. She was older, and it occurred to John that she must be nearing seventy. He smiled slightly as she sat down across from him.

“Ms. Kingston,” he said amiably.

“Colleen, please,” she replied. “Doctor Watson, I’m pretty certain we have this exact exchange every time I come to see you.”

“You’re probably right. Now, what brings you in today?”

“I feel fine. I just need a refill of my blood pressure medication.”

“I’m glad. And it’s still working well for you, then?”

She nodded.

“Good, good,” he said, unlocking the drawer that held his prescription pad. He filled out the prescription and tore the slip off of the pad before handing it across the desk to her.

“Thank you,” she said, rising from the chair.

“You’re welcome. Have a good day,” he replied.

“You too!” Then, she left.

John took her folder from the top of the stack and moved it to the bottom. The file that was now at the top informed him that his next patient wasn’t due to arrive for a bit over an hour. He picked up the envelope in which he’d placed the reply slip, then crossed his office and stepped out.

Marjorie was on the phone when John approached her, so he slid the envelope into his trouser pocket and waited. He looked around the waiting room and noticed people focused on their conversations, or reading magazines; one woman was even knitting. Suddenly, he began to feel uneasy. Any one of the people in front of him could potentially be the killer’s next victim.

Or the killer, John’s brain supplied, unhelpfully. He pushed the thought from his mind, and turned back to face Marjorie, just as she hung up the phone. “Have you see Kate around?” he asked.

“She should be in her office right about now,” said Marjorie. “Would you like me to check?”

“No, that’s alright. I’ll just go to see her. Thanks.”

John spent the entirety of the walk toying with the corner of the envelope that stuck out of his pocket.

When he reached Kate's office, John noticed that the door the office was closed. He approached the door and knocked, but there was no answer. It was strangely quiet all around, but John paid no attention. He glanced at his watch, and decided to go to lunch, and try again afterwards.

The woman behind the reception desk on the first floor of Thomas’ office building barely glanced at Sherlock as he strode past her. He wondered whether Thomas’ regular assistant would be there, or if she’d stayed home, before reminding himself that whoever was there would likely be able to help him.

The office was strangely crowded, forcing Sherlock to edge past several groups of people on his way to the secretary’s desk. The woman seated behind the desk was not the same person he’d seen the previous day. She appeared to be deep in conversation with a grim-looking man in an ill-fitting suit. Sherlock approached the desk, but decided to move a few feet to the side after a woman from one of the groups stepped backwards onto his foot.

After a long moment, the woman behind the desk noticed Sherlock and gestured for him to come closer. She nodded in response to something the man said, and then turned her attention to Sherlock as the man left the room.

“Hi, can I help you?” she asked.

“I hope so,” he replied. “Sherlock Holmes. And you are?”

She smiled and held out her hand.

“Zoё. Are you here for the memorial?”

“For the mem- You’re having a memorial here? At the office?”

Zoё pursed her lips at Sherlock’s disbelieving face.

“It’s what he would want. And if you knew him you’d know that, so who are you?”

“Police. I need to ask you a few things.”

“I wasn’t in yesterday.”

“I know, but you’re here now.”

“What do you need?”

“Your coworker, Vivian, I think was her name, mentioned seeing a strange deliveryman here the other day, and that the package he brought upset Mr. Isaac. I need two things from you; a log of deliveries, and the key to Mr. Isaac’s locked desk drawer.”

“Sure thing,” said Zoё, pulling a spiral-bound hardback notebook from a drawer. She handed it across the desk to Sherlock and he began flipping through the pages. The top of each page was labelled neatly with the date and divided up into several columns; ‘delivery service,’ ‘delivered by,’ ‘time,’ ‘addressee,’ and ‘parcel signed for by.’ Sherlock continued to look through the notebook until he reached the date three days prior to the murder. He sighed as he realized that it was only partially filled out.

 Delivery Service  |  Delivered By  |  Time  | Addressee |  Signed For By: 

                                                    11:30  |   T. Isaac     | Vivian Reyes      

“Hmm,” he began. The writing in the first two spaces was completely illegible. “It looks like Ms. Reyes signed the log, and then passed the book to the deliveryman to fill in his name and the name of the delivery service. Shoddy bookkeeping, but I doubt she had any malicious intent.”

He passed the notebook back across the desk to Zoё, gesturing to the half-scribbled line on the page. Zoё took the log and examined it for a few seconds before her eyebrows knitted with concern.

“That’s very unusual. Almost all of our deliveries on that day of the week come from a particular courier service, and they keep meticulous records,” she said.

Sherlock digested the information, and then pulled out John’s note book and began writing.

“And the key for the desk drawer?” he asked.

Zoё placed the log back in her desk and began digging through the contents of the middle drawer. After a few seconds, she produced a small silver key dangling from a tattered lanyard. Sherlock took the key and entered Thomas’ office.

The bottom drawer was mostly empty, except for a few folders. Beneath them was a manila envelope. It was face down in the drawer but Sherlock knew it was the one he was looking for. ‘Thomas’ was scrawled across the front of the envelope in large capital letters, and Sherlock had a feeling it would be impossible to match the handwriting to its owner. There was only one thing inside the envelope. Sherlock slowly drew the photograph out of the envelope, and studied it for a moment. The photograph depicted a man- obviously a younger Thomas- standing hand in hand with a small girl, in front of a house. The girl appeared to be five or six, and bore a striking resemblance to Thomas.

She must be his daughter, Sherlock thought. “I was told Mr. Isaac had no family,” he said, passing the photo to Zoё.

“He didn’t, as far as I knew. But he really hated talking about himself, so none of us really knew a lot about his personal life.”

Instead of the pieces of the puzzle coming together and forming any semblance of an image, they were multiplying exponentially. The information Sherlock had received from Zoё had already taken up residence in its proper location in his mind palace, but that didn’t prevent it from creeping up into the forefront of his brain. It persisted in doing so for the entirety of his ride back to Baker Street.

John was nearly on his way out of the clinic for the day when he finally caught up with Kate. He’d nearly forgotten about the reply slip and was putting on his jacket to head home when the envelope fluttered out of his pocket and landed on the floor in front of him. He didn’t feel very much like trekking back upstairs, but the reply slip needed to get back to Kate. The little voice in the back of his mind chimed in with the reality that he couldn’t honestly be sure of the next time he would be in. He shook his head. He knew it wasn’t his fault, but that fact didn’t stop him from feeling guilty. He sighed and bent over to pick up the envelope.

He nearly collided with the person who was walking past him when he stood up and it took him a moment to realize that it was Kate.

“Are you okay, John?” she asked, concern etched into her face.

“Just a bit distracted is all,” he replied. Her eyes narrowed fractionally, but she remained silent. He held out the envelope. “I tried to bring this up to you earlier, but you weren’t around.”

“Ah, thank you. I was in a meeting for a lot of the day, unfortunately,” she said, sliding the envelope into her pocket. “I’ll see you then, if not before.”

“Indeed you will,” said John. “Take care.”

“You too.”

John found Sherlock seated at the table in the sitting room scribbling on sticky notes and frequently consulting John’s notepad. He was completely immersed in his task and didn’t notice John’s arrival. John crossed the sitting room and peered over Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Who’s that?” John asked, upon seeing the photo that Sherlock had found in Thomas’ desk.

“I believe that would be the lawyer’s daughter,” Sherlock replied without looking at John.

“Daughter? But I thought--”

“I did, too. But according to the assistant I spoke to today, none of them knew much about his personal life.”

“It’s got to be relevant, hasn’t it?”

“Could be. But if it is, why would he suddenly begin initiating contact with his victims prior to the murders?”

John made a noncommittal sound in his throat and crossed the sitting room to sit down in his chair. He wiped one hand down across his face, allowing a weary sigh to escape his lips. Without him even noticing, Sherlock had gotten up from the table and came to stand in front of him. 

“What’s wrong?” he asked quietly. Feeling it was the right thing to do in this type of situation.

“At the clinic today I kept looking at the people around me and thinking that any one of them could be the killer’s next victim, or even the killer. On top of that, I feel a bit guilty that I’ve been out so much recently.”

“None of this is your fault,” Sherlock said.

“I know,” said John, “Just like it is not yours.”

John settled further back down in his chair, and Sherlock returned to his seat at the table. They didn’t speak for several minutes, until John asked about the information Sherlock had gathered, aside from the photo.

“This guy’s MO is all over the place,” John muttered as he rose up from his seat. “Have you eaten today?”

Sherlock made a noise in the affirmative. John strode into the kitchen.

“John, I--”

“Sherlock!” John exclaimed. Lined up across the top shelf of the fridge were several apples, in various stages of decomposition. The apple that was furthest to the right of the bunch had deteriorated into a sickly brown lump, and had been placed in a beaker. The smell of rotting fruit reached John’s nose, and he slammed the fridge shut. He turned around and leaned his back against the door.

John woke up the next morning as soon as his alarm went off. He and Sherlock had drifted off to sleep. He rolled over to switch off his alarm as quickly and quietly as he could, taking care not to wake Sherlock who somehow was curled up in the chair in the corner of the room. The numbers of his clock told him that it was seven forty-five. They had only gone to sleep at some point after three, which John was already starting to feel was a mistake. Having to go into the clinic first thing on a Saturday morning was one of his least favorite things. And now he could conclude that ‘especially after being up half the night beforehand’ with the party and making sure Sherlock behaved was a valid addendum.

The stack of folders that Marjorie handed him seemed mercifully short to John. He bit back a yawn as he checked his watch, before inquiring whether she had enjoyed herself at the party.

“That I did. Kate outdid herself this year, I think. I never know she had that many friends. Did you and er-- what was his name?-- Sherlock have a good time?” Marjorie asked.

“I wasn’t expecting that many people either, honestly. When I got the invitation, I just kind of assumed it would just be people from the clinic. Guess I was wrong. But yes, we had a good time. Parties aren’t Sherlock's thing, but he had fun in his own unique way,” John replied, managing not to smirk as he said the last bit. He peeked at the file inside the folder at the top of the stack. “Okay. First patient’s due in at nine thirty. I’ll talk to you later, Marjorie.”

“All right, Doctor Watson, have a good one,” she replied.

“You too.”

When Sherlock awoke, he found himself alone. He wondered momentarily where John was, before spotting a sticky note stuck to the clock on the bedside table. On it, John had written; ‘Sherlock- had to go into the clinic today. I mentioned it last night, but I expect you’ve forgotten. I’ll be home round five. John.’ Sherlock plucked the note off of the clock, and eyed it for a few seconds.

Sherlock had just settled into his chair with a cup of tea when the doorbell rang. His eyes narrowed; he wasn’t expecting anyone. He placed John’s note on an end table and crossed his legs, before taking a sip of his tea. He heard the front door open, and Mrs. Hudson greeting the newcomer. Then he heard two sets of footsteps coming up the stairs. One, Mrs. Hudson’s, was familiar, the other belonging to their guest.

A man.

“Sherlock, dear, there’s a gentleman here to see you,” Mrs. Hudson said, after opening the door to the living room.

“Go away, Mrs Hudson! I’m on a case already,” Sherlock replied, gesturing to the wall he’d covered in photos and scraps of paper.

“Please, Mr. Holmes,” said the newcomer, stepping out from behind Mrs. Hudson. He was a young man, not even in his thirties, with sandy hair and brown eyes. “My name’s Evan Harris, and--”

“Come in, Mr. Harris,” said Sherlock, suddenly interested in the newcomer.

“Thank you,” Evan said as he turned to Mrs. Hudson.

“Not a problem. Sherlock, be nice and help the young man.” she replied, leaving the room and closing the door behind her.

Evan offered Sherlock his hand, but lowered it when Sherlock didn’t reciprocate. He felt awkward, and spent a moment staring at Sherlock’s wall of photos and notes, and avoiding his eyes.

“So, what can I help you with, Mr. Harris?” Sherlock asked, even though he already had a vague idea. Evan hadn’t stopped fiddling with his wedding band since he’d first spoke. Evan’s eyes traveled to John’s chair, and Sherlock gestured to the sofa. “Have a seat, and tell me about your wife.”

“My-- how?” Evan began, lowering himself onto the couch.

“I’m good at what I do, Mr. Harris.”

“Evan, please,” he replied, finally making eye contact with Sherlock.

“Evan.”

“Well, my wife’s name is Brittany, and she’s a primary school teacher. She’s been missing for two days. Neither me nor anyone else has seen hide nor hair of her since Thursday,” said Evan, reaching up to rotate his wedding ring again as he spoke.

Sherlock was very tempted to give the man the standard, ‘Your wife’s fed up with you and she’s run off’ explanation, but something wasn’t quite right. There was nothing he’d gathered that suggested Brittany had left Evan.

There had to be another explanation.

“Are you certain you’ve spoken with everyone?” Sherlock asked.

“Everyone except her parents, they--”

“Then it’s entirely possible she’s gone to spend some time with them, isn’t it?”

“I suppose, but--”

“I suggest you get in touch with them, before you worry too much.”

“That’s true. Thanks for your time, Mr. Holmes,” said Evan, getting up from the sofa.

Sherlock said nothing, having turned his attention to his notes. Once Evan had left, Sherlock reached for his teacup, only to find that its contents were cold. With a sigh, Sherlock placed the cup back on the table, and briefly contemplated reheating it, before he remembered that he’d moved his row of rotting apples onto the stove.

The second time the doorbell rang, Sherlock was far less surprised than he had been when Evan showed up. He assumed the person at the door would be Evan again, returning to with the news that his wife had, indeed been spending time with her parents. However, it was not Evan who accompanied Mrs. Hudson up the stairs, but a little girl. She appeared to be about eight. Sherlock immediately deduced that she had two older brothers, did well in school, and owned a cat. The girl seemed to have swiftly taken a liking to Mrs. Hudson, and chose to hide behind her, peering around her legs at Sherlock.

“Sherlock, this is Abby,” said Mrs. Hudson, gesturing to the girl. Sherlock stepped closer to her and bent down to the girl’s level, being careful not to scare her, resulting in Mrs Hudson scolding him in front of the child. How insulting.

“Your cat is just fine. One of your brothers took her with him when he left home. I’d just phone him and ask him why,” Sherlock said before rising to his feet. The little girl smiled weakly before Mrs Hudson took her back downstairs.

“You’re being strangely agreeable today,” Mrs. Hudson called up the stairs, after shutting the front door behind Abby. “Especially since you haven’t been in the best way, ever since they found that woman’s body. You’ve been running yourself ragged ever since. I hear you sometimes, beating yourself up about it. I really wish you weren't so hard on yourself. Any particular reason you seem better today? Not that I'm complaining, dear.” she continued, walking up the stairs towards him.

“No reason." Sherlock replied. As he said it, he realized it was true. Even in light of his frustration with himself and lack of headway on the case, being dragged to the party-- seeing John relaxing, having fun despite his reluctance to attend said party -- had lifted his spirits a tiny bit. He’d also been able to ease a little girl’s fears about the fate of her cat, as well as not having to be the bearer of the news that a man’s wife had left him, without doing anything 'Bit Not Good', so he was feeling quite proud of himself.

“Keep it up.” said Mrs. Hudson, reaching up to place a quick peck on Sherlock's cheek, which he endured without a complaint.

Somehow Sherlock knew that Lestrade was on the other end of the line-- when the rang the next morning. It was barely eight o’clock. Sherlock yawned, scrubbing at his eyes with one hand as he answered the call with the other.

“Lestrade?” Sherlock asked, suppressing another yawn.

“There’s been another one. It’s--” Lestrade began.

“The address,” Sherlock interrupted. He then ended the call and placed the phone back on his bedside table.

“Have they found another body?” John asked from Sherlock's doorway.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, slipping his night shirt up over his head and replacing it with a clean button-down. “A few streets over.”

“Did Lestrade say anything else?”

“No.” And with that, Sherlock left the room fully dressed before John had even realized.

The address that Sherlock received from Lestrade was close enough to Baker Street for them to walk.

“The flat where the body was found is unoccupied,” said Sherlock, stuffing his hands into his coat pockets.

“That’s odd,” John replied. “The first two victims were found in their homes and the third was found in his office. Why would he murder someone in an unoccupied flat? Unless they weren’t killed there. But , then , why would he murder someone and then move the body to an unoccupied flat?”

“I don’t know. Why has he done anything?”

“Good point.”

A few moments later, they arrived at the address. The entire building seemed to be vacant. It had definitely seen better days. The bricks were crumbling in places, and the mortar between them was significantly grayed. Lestrade was waiting on the front stoop. When he spotted John and Sherlock, he locked his mobile screen and slid it into his pocket. He looked a bit thinner and paler since they’d last seen him.

“Lestrade,” John began, concerned. “You need food. And sleep.”

“I know,” said Lestrade. “There’s just been no time.”

“There’s not going to be a you, either, if you don’t slow down a bit.”

“We just-- We’re getting nowhere. And--”

Sherlock brushed past Lestrade, interrupting him. His lips were pursed, and John could tell he was quite close to saying something he would probably regret.

“He’s been beating himself up over this whole thing,” John explained.

“I didn’t mean it as a sleight. I’m just frustrated.”

“We all are,” said John, placing his hand on Lestrade’s shoulder. “But you can’t blame yourself for this.”

“What am I supposed to tell the victims’ families?”

“That you’re working on it. That you’re doing the best you can. It might not be what they want to hear, but you and I both know it’s the truth.”

“You’re right,” Lestrade said, after a few seconds’ silence. “We are doing what we can. It seems like we’re spinning our wheels right now, but I believe in Sherlock, and I believe in you.” John smiled.

“We believe in you, too, Greg.”

“Right, that’s enough of the pity party. Victim’s name is Brittany Harris. Wallet was left in her purse, cash, ID, all there.”

“What did she do?” John asked.

“She was… a primary school teacher,” Lestrade replied, after consulting his notes.

“So that means it’s unlikely that anyone was out to get her. Just like the others.”

“Exactly.”

“What was the cause of death?”

“Exsanguination,” said Sherlock, joining John and Lestrade on the stoop once more.

“Then isn’t it possible it was a suicide? Depending on the wound patterns,” John replied.

“No. She’s tied to a chair, with her hands bound to its arms. Her wrists had been slit from the heels of her hands to the crooks of her arms. She also has the number eight carved into her left shoulder, and it was done post-mortem, with the same blade as the others,” Sherlock explained, not bothering to give John a chance to take out his notepad.

The information that Sherlock had given John filled up three pages in his notepad. He scanned the pages quickly, and his face fell. If the woman had been conscious during the attack, the pain would have been excruciating.

“Was she conscious?” John asked quietly.

“Sorry?”

“Was she conscious during her murder?”

“Doubtful. There was a puncture mark on the side of her neck. There’s no way to tell what she was injected with until she’s been to see Molly, although I suspect it was Dibenzoylmorphine, since we are dealing with the same perpetrator as the other murders,” said Sherlock. John made a few more notes and stepped past Sherlock into the corridor.

“I still want to examine her for myself,” John called over his shoulder. As he made his way down the corridor , it occurred to him that he hadn’t asked Lestrade which flat the crime had taken place in. Then he saw that the door at the end of the corridor was criss-crossed with yellow tape. The crime scene technicians looked up as John entered the room, returning to their tasks as they recognized him.

John asked one of the technicians for a pair of gloves, and pulled them on as he approached the chair to which Brittany was still tied. The carpet around the chair made an unpleasant squishing noise as John stepped on it. The edges of the wounds were jagged, as if they had been made with the same blade as the number. He circled the chair slowly, examining first the wounds, then the puncture mark, and then the number. Out of all the markings on the body, the number was the most perplexing. He still could not fathom what the meaning behind the numbers could be.

Another unpleasant thought occurred to John as he stood in the living room of the flat. It didn’t seem as though the killer was going to be giving up anytime soon, and they were no closer to apprehending him. John hadn’t been scheduled to be in the clinic that day, but he was due in at nine the next morning. He thought about Kate and felt guilty. She had given him a job and a purpose when his life was in shambles. And she deserved to have a doctor on her staff who wasn’t running off every other day to chase a murderer.

“Lestrade,” John began. “What family did she have?”

“A husband,” said Lestrade. “Evan. Evan Harris.”

“What did you say?” Sherlock demanded, his eyes widening.

“The husband’s name is Evan Harris.”

“Of course,” Sherlock whispered, looking away.

“What is it?” John asked.

“Evan Harris was in our flat yesterday, and he’d wanted me to help him find his wife, Brittany, who’d been missing for two days.”

“Sherlock,” said John, stepping forward to face the detective. “You couldn’t have known.”

“I should have. I told him she’d gone off to see her parents.”

“I’m sure she had. But you had no way of knowing that this was going to happen. Even you are not a fortune teller.”

“But--”

“But nothing. None of this is your fault. Look, I need to go talk to Kate, because I don’t feel right juggling the clinic and the investigations anymore. Then we can go talk to the husband together, okay?”

“Fine,” said Sherlock, trying to sound more confident than he actually was. John frowned.

“I can talk to her later. I’d feel bad leaving you alone right now.”

“John, I am fine . Go talk to her.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. I’m not a child.”

“Okay. I’ll see you back at the flat,” John said, still feeling conflicted. He stepped off the stoop to call himself a cab

“He’s right, you know,” said Lestrade. Sherlock didn’t reply and simply turned to walk back into the building.