Chapter One
"How many times, Sherlock?" Dr. John Watson shouted as they filed out of the bank's front door. "Keep your bloody opinions to yourself!"
"Since when do I care what other people think?" Sherlock Holmes bit back as he leisurely followed John down the sidewalk. "If she didn't want people to know, she shouldn't have been flaunting it about."
"The only person who would think she was 'flaunting' it is you!" exclaimed John as they walked next to each other towards Baker Street. "No one else would notice those things. Couldn't you keep it to yourself, or at least wait until it's just you and me?"
"Why?" asked Sherlock. "I don't care what people think of me."
"I know you don't care what people think of you," muttered John as he rubbed irritatingly at his brow. "You never do. But you're going to end up putting people off of calling you for cases."
"We still caught the forger for them," Sherlock brushed off. "What do they have to complain about?"
John shook his head as he sighed. "Why do I even bother?"
"I've been wondering that same thing for years," muttered Sherlock.
John rolled his eyes even as he huffed out a fond chuckle, turning his thoughts towards what the title for this case would be.
They had just wrapped up a case involving a bank employee forging checks ("This is ridiculous, John! Barely even a two!"). Thanks to Sherlock having put Moriarty's fake return to rest, the two of them were more popular than ever, even John. People were calling, emailing and stopping by Baker Street for cases left and right. It was getting to the point where John had the opportunity to temporarily quit his practice so he could be with Mary and their new daughter Rachel more often. Of course, he didn't plan on quitting indefinitely; there was a reason why he had worked so hard to become a doctor. But with Sherlock's multitude of cases bringing in plenty of income for the both of them, he had decided to take a paternity leave, of sorts.
Not to mention, they were getting called a lot more often by Scotland Yard and Sherlock's brother Mycroft. In gratitude for ridding England of the threat of Moriarty (even if it hadn't technically been him), the British government had gifted Sherlock with a special license employing him as a consulting detective in Her Majesty's service, thus allowing him to remain in the country.
A lot of the time, Sherlock went on cases by himself so John could be with his family. However, John did try to tag along on as many as he could, often at Mary's insistence. And surprisingly, he found that Sherlock was making sure these days that they did, indeed, get paid. John suspected that it was so he could work with Sherlock instead of at his medical practice, but John felt grateful all the same.
"Chinese?" asked Sherlock.
John cleared his head with a shake as he looked over at Sherlock. "Sure."
"Good," said Sherlock, stepping away from him.
John stopped and glanced over to see that they had come to a stop in front of a Chinese restaurant, and Sherlock was holding the door open. John shook his head and chuckled before heading inside. It was rare that Sherlock would join him for a meal, not without pulling John away from his half-finished meal. John was going to enjoy it while he could.
Turns out, he didn't get to enjoy it for very long.
Sherlock placed his fork down onto his half-finished plate as he pulled out his ringing phone. He swiped a thumb across the screen and raised it to his ear. "Sherlock Holmes."
John began shoveling in a few more bites in an attempt to finish his meal before Sherlock jumped out of his chair.
"Where?" asked Sherlock as he reached behind himself for his coat and scarf on the back of his chair. "Be there in ten minutes." He hung up as he stood and headed for the door, throwing his coat on as he went.
John managed one last mouthful as he threw some money down on the table before jumping up and hurrying after Sherlock, pulling his own coat on. Sherlock strode over to the roadway as he flipped his collar up, raising his arm.
"Taxi!" Sherlock called, tying his scarf around his neck.
He and John climbed into the cab when it pulled up.
"351 Church Street," Sherlock announced to the cab, and they were off.
"So?" asked John as he typed a text to Mary about the new case.
"Dead body," Sherlock explained. "Man found in an abandoned block of flats. No sign of struggle or injuries. According to forensics, he just dropped dead, possibly poisoned."
"So…just wait for the autopsy results," commented John. "Why do they need you?"
"The victim was found with a tape recorder in his hand," said Sherlock.
"And?" asked John.
"And my name was on it," said Sherlock.
"Seriously?" asked John.
"Apparently," said Sherlock.
Within ten minutes, they were pulling up to the police tap and getting out of the cab, John once again tossing money to the driver. They were escorted inside, where Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade stood waiting for them.
"The tape?" Sherlock asked instantly as he put some gloves on.
Greg held it out in his own glove-covered hand as John helped himself to some gloves as well. Sherlock gingerly grabbed hold of the recorder, turning it over in his hands as his eyes darted all over it. He then rewound the tape and pressed play.
There were muffled thumps and clicks and other noises that sounded like the recorder was being man-handled. There were a couple coughs and some ragged breathing before a gruff voice began speaking.
"Call…S-Sherlock…" a man's voice forced out before a loud clang echoed from the speaker. There was a weak groan, and then there was silence.
Sherlock stopped the tape and handed it back. "So, poisoned."
Greg led them down the hallway towards the last flat. "Yeah. Obviously murder, but we can't find any sign of the killer. If I didn't know any better, I'd say suicide, except—"
"Except a suicide wouldn't ask for a detective," finished Sherlock as they stepped into the room.
Greg stepped aside as Sherlock's eyes darted this way and that, taking in the whole room, before focusing on the dead man lying in the middle of the floor. He was lying on his side, one hand stretched out in front of him.
Sherlock stepped up to the body, crouching down and starting his observations. He examined the head and throat, narrowing his eyes as he pulled the man's collar away from his neck. "You weren't wrong about murder."
John and Greg leaned closer to see a small red spot just over his carotid artery, as though he was stabbed with a needle.
"John…" said Sherlock, continuing to look for clues.
John stepped over to the other side of the body, kneeling down to examine him. He peered closely at the man's face, examining his eyes. He then moved on to his hands and chest, frowning at the pinkish tinge to the man's skin. "Been dead about twelve hours. It was a very fast-acting poison, but one which didn't leave many visible signs behind, such as—"
Sherlock suddenly leaned over the victim's face and inhaled long and loud at the victim's mouth.
"—as vomiting or rashes and burns," continued John after staring at Sherlock for a moment. "There are only a rare few poisons that are instant killers and undetectable, like—"
"Cyanide," Sherlock interrupted.
John nodded as he frowned. "For example."
"Cyanide can oftentimes leave the smell of bitter almonds on the breath, though it is usually difficult to detect," Sherlock explained. "Accompanied with the unusually pink tinge of the skin—"
"Because cyanide prevents the oxygen in the blood from getting to the body's cells," finished John.
"Exactly," said Sherlock, moving on to examine the man's left hand. "Someone didn't want us to find out how he was killed right away. They were hoping for the time it took to perform an autopsy. So, who were you?" He switched over to the man's right hand. "What would you be needed to bide time for?"
"You think maybe he was working with someone?" asked John.
"Most definitely…" said Sherlock, his voice trailing off as he stared at the man's hand. "At least three of them."
"Three?" asked Greg.
"Obviously…" muttered Sherlock as he set the man's hand down and dug in his coat, pulling out a penknife. He picked the man's hand up again and scraped at the underside of his fingernails. He then stared at the little white flecks that were now stuck to the tip of the knife as he set the hand down again.
"What's that?" asked John.
Sherlock pulled his magnifying glass out, popping it open and gazing down at the white flecks. After a moment, he came up with the answer. "Paint."
Sherlock's head suddenly shot up as his eyes widened slightly in thought. He quickly glanced over to his left at a perfectly plain piece of white wall. Pocketing the knife, he stood and dashed over to the wall, moving the magnifier along the wall and up and down it.
John stood as they watched the detective examine the wall. "Sherlock?"
Sherlock ignored him as he came to a stop, staring through his magnifier for a moment before pocketing it. He knelt and ran his hand along the floor where it met the wall. He stood once more and began knocking on the wall in various places.
John glanced back at Greg, who shot his eyebrows up in question. John shrugged before looking back at Sherlock, who had stopped and was knocking on one specific spot. He gave a smirk and reached over to a seemingly normal stretch of the wall, flipping a hidden latch. A hidden panel in the wall sprang open, and Sherlock pulled it open, glancing back at them.
"This should give us some answers," said Sherlock, turning and heading through the doorway.
Greg followed after him with John right behind him. The three of them headed down a narrow staircase hidden behind the wall before emerging in a basement. Greg was able to locate a light switch in the dim light and flipped it on.
John's jaw dropped along with Greg's as they took in what was in front of them. "Holy…"
Maps, front pages of newspapers and pictures were displayed on all the walls. Notes were written all over everything. A set of blueprints was spread over the table in the center of the room. And the blueprints detailed what obviously was a bomb.
"Well, Inspector…" muttered Sherlock, "I believe this homicide has just been upgraded to a terrorist plot."
