Chapter One

Things have been abnormally quiet today at 221B Baker Street, or so Mrs. Hudson told John when she called. Said Sherlock hasn't made a noise all morning, or all day yesterday, won't answer the door even for tea. John thumps up the steps to his friend's flat after having left poor Mary mid-breakfast, rapping on the door with his knuckles with the landlady in toe.

"Sherlock?" he calls out, calm as can be. "You in there?"

Silence.

"See? Oh, John, he never locks up...you don't think something's wrong, do you?"

Frowning, John leans in close and presses his ear to the door. He can't hear anything on the other side. Mrs. Hudson assures him the door is locked but he tries to the knob anyhow. It rattles stiffly in his hand. "Do you have your key, Mrs. Hudson?"

"Um, no, I've never had to use it...save for letting you lot in when you first bought the place... Don't quite know where I put it after that."

John sighs and pulls his old key from his pocket, suddenly glad that he decided to hang onto it. He unlocks the door and pushes it open.

The flat is dark, not a single light on anywhere. For a moment, John is certain Sherlock must be out. But upon closer inspection there, sitting Indian style on the floor of the living room, head inclined in meditation, is Sherlock. Dressed in his pajamas, barefoot, eyes closed. Mrs. Hudson huffs in irritation and plants her hands on her hips.

"Ohhh Sherlock! I do so hate it when he does this! And what'd he have to lock the door for? Scared me nearly to death!"

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Hudson, I'll have a word with him," John says as the landlady stomps back downstairs, hearing the whistle of her tea kettle. Letting the door click shut behind him, John sighs, rubs the back of his neck and pads into the room. Sherlock doesn't move, doesn't acknowledge his presence in the slightest. But of course John is used to this by now and he dutifully ignores it. "You know, Sherlock, you can be a real cock sometimes. What'd you have to lock the door for if you weren't planning on answering?"

Surprisingly, he gets a reply. "Obviously, it was to encourage potential visitors to go away. Evidently it did not work." Sherlock suddenly jumps to his feet and strides over to his violin, sweeping it into his hands and drawing the bow along the strings in a cheery note. "Anyhow, it's good of you to drop by, John. We'll need to get going soon."

John frowns, raising his eyebrows. "Going? I'm sorry, going where?"

"Of course we can't go until Mrs. Hudson brings the tea. That'd be rude, wouldn't it?" He looks genuinely contemplative, wondering if it would indeed be rude to walk out before the tea was brought.

"Mrs. Hudson isn't bringing tea," John assures him. "She's furious with you."

"Yes she is."

"Anyway, going where? Exactly? Do you have a new case?"

"Not yet..." Sherlock says, setting down his violin and going to the door. He opens it to reveal Mrs. Hudson carrying a tray with tea cups and biscuits. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson." He takes the tray and sets it down on the table, giving her a peck on the cheek.

The landlady bristles slightly but smiles at him. "Don't think you're off the hook, Sherlock. I just happen to know you haven't eaten since yesterday, must be famished. You're not the only one who can make deductions, you know."

Sherlock smirks at her, sipping his tea. "It wasn't exactly a far leap to make, seeing as how the only thing I keep in my kitchen is my experiments and I haven't left the flat in nearly two days. But you are improving, my dear."

John thanks Mrs. Hudson when she hands him his cup. "Sherlock?" he prompts. "The case?"

"Ohh! You've got a new case, have you?"

"Not yet," he tells them. "But soon. Any moment now, I expect."

John frowns. "What does that mean?"

The detective sighs wearily as if it's such a hindrance to have to explain and motions toward the window. "Three police cars passed yesterday afternoon headed eastbound out of London and never came back through. Two more passed this morning at 80 kph, slightly above the speed limit for Baker Street, indicating they were in a rush but no sirens and no lights. Not an emergency, then, just eager. Likely a relief for the officers who had to stay at the crime scene overnight while their frankly incompetent forensics team went over the evidence."

John blinks and glances at Mrs. Hudson. "And...what does that have to do with us?"

"Must be so dull in your mind... Tell me, John, how often do you think police stay overnight at a crime scene? Not very often, correct? Usually, they collect the evidence, take their little photographs, bag the body, and go home. So what does it mean when three teams of police have to stay overnight, then request additional help so they can go home?"

"Um...I don't know. Maybe they're having trouble collecting the evidence?"

"Precisely! For them to have had to stay for so long, it indicates they are way out of their league on this one. And who do they call when they're out of their league?"

"Ah." Now he understands. "You're a cocky bastard, you know that?"

Sherlock snickers and sets down his cup of tea, moments before his phone beeps. Picking it up off the table, he grins at the screen and tosses it to John. "It would appear the game is on." The detective sweeps down the hall to his room, presumabely to get dressed.

John can't help but chuckle at the text message displayed on the screen.

Need your help.

- Lestrade

The address of the crime scene is attached but John hasn't the faintest where it is. He's never heard of the road name. Tapping it into the GPS on his phone, he whistles. The address is on the extreme edge of London, barely inside the city. No wonder he's never heard of it.

The door to Sherlock's room bangs open and he strides out, trench coat sweeping behind him. "Got the address, John?"

"Got it."

"Alright, let's go."

The boys brush past Mrs. Hudson who chuckles and shuts the door behind them, disappearing into her flat with her cup of tea and biscuit.

They take a taxi to the crime scene: an old, cracked road running alongside a patch of gnarled, winter-weathered trees. Streams of brown run off patches of muddy snow on the street, the grass that grows up through the cracks is wilted and dead. The sky is grey and a light, powdery snow falls from the clouds.

As Sherlock said, five police cruisers in total sit alongside the road, lights flashing, yellow tape streaming between them. A handful of weary-eyed officers stand huddled together, their breath puffing out in white clouds, hands red and shaking as they sip coffee from paper cups. Donovan is among them and looking as miserable as ever.

"Morning, Freak," she greets dully. "Lestrade's over there, been waitin' for you."

"Thank you, Sally," Sherlock says. "Give me five minutes and you lot can go home."

"Five minutes? Wow, even my ex isn't that quick..."

John snorts, fighting a grin, and grabs Sherlock's elbow when he stops and gives Donovan a confused look. "Never mind, Sherlock. Come on." As a rule, John isn't one of Donovan's biggest fans-mainly thanks to her bigotry concerning Sherlock-but he has to admit...that was good.

Thankfully, before Sherlock gets a chance to ask what that was all about, they reach the body and his focus redirects instantaneously. As if drawn in by a magnet.

"Christ..." John mutters, turning his head. Even to an army doctor so used to seeing severed limbs and revealed grey matter, this is revolting.

"Fascinating," Sherlock says, a bit too cheerfully. He kneels down beside it and John grabs his shoulder.

"God, Sherlock, don't get close."

The body is more gore than human at this point. So badly decomposed that bone, muscle tissue, even organs are perfectly visible. The left eye is gone entirely and the jaw is just tendon and coagulated blood. And even though it's entirely nude, it's almost hard to tell the gender. Though John would venture male, just by the shape of the abdomen.

Or...what's left of it.

But Sherlock doesn't seem bothered in the least. If anything, his eyes are glimmering with excitement at such a twisted case. Sometimes John does wonder about him...

"Just found it yesterday," Lestrade informs them, walking over with shoulders sagging. The inspector is pale and greenish. He's one of the only officers without a coffee and John is fairly certain he wouldn't be able to stomach it even if he had some. "Seemed like it was right up your alley...thought I'd call you in."

Sherlock doesn't look away from the mutilated corpse, tilting his head when he asks, "Is that the only reason you brought me here?"

Lestrade sighs and rubs his eyes. "No, you arrogant prick, so let me give you a quick rundown, yeah? Body was discovered by a couple driving down this road yesterday afternoon. It's not a particularly busy road but no vehicle passing by before the time of 4:30 recalls seeing anything out of the ordinary. Anderson estimates he's been dead two to three months by the rate of decomposition. As you can probably see, there's a very startling lack of physical evidence. No hairs, fibers, fingerprints, tire tracks, footprints, anything to connect us to the killer. There's just nothing."

Sherlock has knelt back down again and is hovering over the body with his magnifying glass, too absorbed to converse with the inspector.

So John steps in. "Have you identified him yet?"

Lestrade pauses, seems to pale even further if it's possible, and stuffs his hands in his pockets. "Uh, yeah, that's where things get...well, Sherlock-ish."

That seems to draw the detective's attention. "Who is he?"

"Name's Samuel Green, 29 years, reported missing...48 hours ago."

Sherlock visibly freezes and John swears, raking a hand through his hair.

"How's that possible!" the doctor demands. "Look at it..." Both Lestrade and John glance down at Sherlock, hoping for an answer, but he's stood up, grinning ear to ear.

"John," he says. "Is it Christmas?"

"Sherlock, a man is dead."

"Well yes, I think we can all agree on that."

"Well do you have any ideas yet of how this could have happened to a man who's been dead for only two days!"

Sherlock brushes the dirty from his jacket front and paces away, searching the ground, the trees, even the sky for evidence. He talks while he looks. "It's obvious something helped the decomposition process along a bit, possibly a corrosive substance of some kind but for now that's only speculation. I like facts, so let's talk about the facts."

"Agreed," Lestrade says, tailing along behind him.

"As you stated, George-"

"-Greg."

"-there is a surprising lack of physical evidence. No hairs, fingerprints, fibers. Now this is unlikely but not impossible, per se. What does this tell us about our murderer? It tells us he or she is relatively intelligent and somewhat experienced in the criminal field."

"So you're saying our murderer has a criminal past?"

"Possibly. They may also just be a fanatic of crime shows on the telly. Jumping to conclusions can be very dangerous so stay with me, yeah? Now, the body itself is fairly interesting." He leads them back to the corpse, apparently satisfied that everything else in the surrounding area is boring. "Twenty-nine years old, you said?"

Lestrade nods.

"This, gentlemen, is a man in his prime. Yet look his stomach."

John would rather not.

"Beer belly, and a rather large one at that. Indicating a rather good possibility of alcoholism and an unhappy marriage. Lestrade, if you could get Anderson to share the same air space with me for just a moment, I would absolutely love a blood sample to be taken, thank you. Oh, and a skin scraping. Now, what actually killed our friend here, that's the question. Body is too badly decomposed to know for certain, though I suspect it will become clearer once the blood and skin samples come back. I've learned everything I can from the corpse. John, let's go."

John listens to his friend's machine gun questioning to no one in particular and watches him pace back and forth, eyes alight, looking happier than he's been in weeks. He follows him past the yellow tape, ignoring Anderson and Donovan's death glares. "Where are we going?"

"We're going to pay Mrs. Green a visit."

"Mrs. Green? How do you know he was married? And unhappily, if I remember correctly."

"Wedding ring, John."

"He wasn't wearing any wedding ring."

"No but the skin of his left ring finger wasn't as badly decayed as the rest of the hand, meaning it had some kind of protection against whatever corroded him. Width and size of the remaining flesh matches a wedding band. As far as unhappy marriages go, he's a 29 year old married man with a beer belly. Not a far reach."

Mrs. Natalie Green lives nearly in the center of London in a high rise flat miles from where her husband's body was discovered. She's already in tears by the time John and Sherlock arrive, already mourning her loss. Still, she lets them in, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief.

"Are you really police?" she asks, voice cracking. "I mean no offense but you don't look it."

Sherlock is already busy doing his thing-in this case poking through a mourning widow's personal belongings-so John steps up once again to explain things. Like an actual human being.

"Yes, ma'am. I'm Dr. Watson, this is Sherlock Holmes. He's a detective currently working to find out what happened to your husband."

Mrs. Green nods, wiping at her streaming mascara. "I'll do everything I can to help. Is there anything in particular you need?"

Sherlock is gone from the room entirely, slipped out when they were talking. John decides to pretend that's to be expected and tries his best to ignore how uncomfortable Mrs. Green looks at having a stranger tearing through her house.

"Um, yes. I know this is a difficult time but if you could just answer some questions for me, that would be very helpful." She nods. They sit across from each other in upholstered arm chairs in the front room, Mrs. Green sniveling and John flipping through his notebook. "Alright, when was the last time you saw your husband?"

"Two nights ago," she says. "We'd just finished our supper when some friends of his called and invited him out to the pub. He wasn't going to go but they insisted, like always. My poor Sam..."

John scribbles it all down, giving Mrs. Green a chance to collect herself again. "And which pub did he go to?"

"Same one as always. Nice little place around the corner, called the Doyle Club."

"And how many friends were with him?"

"Five, same friends he always goes with. University friends."

"Can you remember their names? Any way we could contact them?" Mrs. Green lists off the names, even a few addresses and John writes them all down to give to the Scotland Yard. "What do you do for a living, if you don't mind me asking."

"I'm a preschool teacher," she says. "Though you wouldn't be able to tell by this place. Sam was always the bread winner..." she hiccups a suppressed sob and wipes her eyes. "He always took care of me..."

Just then, Sherlock breezes back into the room and proclaims it's time to go. He's out the door in the very next breath and John jumps to his feet, thanks Mrs. Green for her help, apologizes again for her loss, and hustles out to the curb where Sherlock has hailed a cab. They slide in and the taxi rolls into the street.

"Well that was a waste of time," Sherlock mumbles, scrolling through his mobile.

"So...she's not our killer?"

"No."

John sighs in relief. Poor lady. At least they managed to clear her name so she won't be bothered by the police. "How do you know?"

"Because I was wrong about their unhappy marriage. Did you see all those photographs? Happy couple. Plus, he was the bread winner. Doesn't make sense for a woman to kill her source of income. I checked their insurance policies, nothing big enough to murder over. Her hobbies are gardening and baking, nothing violent, never watches the telly, prefers to read. Read what? Romances, mostly. Not a single mystery or crime novel to be seen. She doesn't fit our profile so she can't be the killer." Sherlock's phone dings and he smiles. "This, this on the other hand, is quite interesting."

"What is it?"

"Results of the blood sample just came back. Blood-alcohol level is high so he was drunk but not nearly high enough to knock him unconscious. However, there is something else in his blood. He was drugged. A paralytic drug."

"So...the killer cornered him somewhere on his way home from the pub, drugged him, and then killed him."

"Not quite..." Sherlock's thumbs are a blur over the screen of his mobile. Internet browsers opening and closing, pages changing almost faster than John's eye can follow. "Here. This is the drug used to paralyze him." He flashes the screen at John for a moment. "Succinylcholine, a neuromuscular paralytic, AKA our murder weapon."

John balks. "How can you possibly know that?"

"It's a neuromuscular paralytic, John. You're a doctor, you know what that is."

"Yes, it's a...kind of anesthesia. Used in surgery, stops the patient from being able to thrash about and cause internal damage during the operation."

"Exactly. Now, we couldn't see a clear cause of death on the body. At the time, we all assumed it was because the body was too badly decayed for us to see it. However, the real reason was this: there is no stab wound, bruise, broken bone or the like. This man suffocated because he was under the influence of a muscular-paralytic, thus couldn't breathe. He had no life support and he choked under the weight of his own rib cage."

"Jesus."

Sherlock grins out the window of the taxi. "No, John, I can almost assure you God had no hand in this. This was the work of a professional. Someone with access to neuromuscular paralytics with an obsession for forensics."

"So, not a criminal past then."

"No, John. You of all people should know...doctors can't have a criminal past."