The tension in the flat was palpable, the silence broken only by the quiet clink-clink-clink of John stirring his much-needed tea. The cream and sugar had been sufficiently blended about a minute ago, but still John stirred, hoping the repetitive movement would clear the anger from his head. So far, no luck.

"I still don't see what the problem is." Sherlock's voice cracked the stillness, and John gave up on calming down.

"The problem, Sherlock -" John managed to make Sherlock's name sound like a horrible insult. "The problem is that you just told a new father that his baby was, in fact, his best mate's baby. In front of 20 people."

"It's important information. I assumed he'd want to know. And I don't see how the amount of people in the room influences anything."

John sighed. No, of course he wouldn't. He was going to have to explain, wasn't he? Explain to his genius flatmate why gleefully destroying a marriage in front of a crowd of spectators was, to put it lightly, a bit not good. Again.

John was arranging his thoughts into a slightly less caustic form when Sherlock's phone pinged. Sherlock leapt up from the sofa, hurdled the coffee table, and promptly tripped on the mess of papers strewn about the living room. He had barely hit the floor before he bounced up again and snatched up his phone, ignoring John's laughter.

"Shut up, John. We have a case." Sherlock swooshed off to his room to get dressed, stepping over the hysterical form on the floor that was Dr John Watson.

...

It was one of the nicer crime scenes they had seen. To John, it was because of the sophistication of the flat, the expensive modern decor, the way you could almost smell money when you crossed the threshhold. To Sherlock, it was because of the stark white color palette, the plush carpet that held footprints almost as well as mud, and the overabundance of glass surfaces. It was a forensic wet dream.

The flat belonged to Dr. Anthony Richardson, psychiatrist, though at the moment, Dr. Richardson would have been much more convincing as a patient.

"We were having a coffee, talking about whether I should appeal, and then he said his head was killing him, so I went to get him some paracetamol, and when I came back he was having a seizure. I dialed 999, and he started to come round, but then he just collapsed again and when the paramedics got here it was too late and and oh god I just can't believe it!" Richardson was practically clinging to Sgt. Donovan, who had all but given up on getting the overwrought man to answer her questions coherently.

John and Sherlock joined Lestrade at the far end of the foyer, just outside the open door to the living room. Lestrade was leaning against the wall, watching Richardson. "Look at the poor bastard. He's an absolute wreck," said Lestrade.

"I'm assuming he and the victim were close?" asked John.

Lestrade pushed off from the wall and turned to face John and Sherlock. "Well, I don't know about using the word 'victim' just yet, but yeah, they were close. Him and Dorset - that's the deceased - go back about 6 years. Dorset was a fairly well-known solicitor, did mostly malpractice suits, defending doctors and whatnot. Won most of 'em, too. His last case was Richardson's - a family suing for wrongful death after their daughter committed suicide. Richardson lost the case and had his medical license revoked."

Sherlock hummed and then, apparently finished with his observation of the inconsolable psychiatrist, strode to the door of the living room, eyes roving, absorbing, cataloging, sorting data into relevant and irrelevant.

Almost rectangular room, roughly 9x6 meters, walls Parisian plaster, white. Doorway to foyer set at an angle to southern and western walls. Second doorway midway along southern wall, far western wall opens onto kitchen. High ceiling, eastern and northern walls all windows. Scattering of irrelevant paintings and vases and such. Carpet throughout, wool, white, irregularities in the pile indicating footfall or, in this case, body fall. Coffee table, rectangle, 1x1.5 meters, glass - excellent, prime surface for prints. Two sofas, each running parallel to the table's long sides, also white, suede - oh god, suede, this must be Christmas - disturbances in the grain - there, where each man sat, Richardson facing the door, Dorset with his back - and there, where Dorset fell. Dorset himself, on his back, dragged a short distance from the couch and sofas.

Sherlock stepped forward, knelt down next to the dead man.

35 - 40, 5' 11", about 175 pounds. Well-muscled, especially in arms, touch of calluses on his palms - from a racket? Yes, tennis. Expensive trousers, tan, and shirt, light blue. Gold wedding band, clean, also expensive. Three small coffee stains on his right thigh - must have spilled some while drinking. A trace of cake crumbs around the mouth - cake and coffee with Richardson, then.

"Can you give me a cause of death, John?" Sherlock asked, looking up. John joined him next to the body, checking the airway and pupils, sniffing the mouth, examining the skin for punctures. "Not asphyxiation, not any form of trauma," "Obviously," huffed Sherlock, but John ignored him and continued. "My guess is a heart attack or stroke, but I can't be sure until there's a proper post-mortem." Sherlock nodded his approval, then turned to Lestrade. "Has anyone touched anything?"

"Richardson was holding Dorset when the paramedics came in, but they dragged him off. They checked Dorset's vitals and confirmed that he was dead, then went to the foyer with Richardson and called us." Lestrade looked vaguely proud that his fellow civil servants had managed to not contaminate a crime scene. Sherlock crinkled his brow slightly, then strode off to the kitchen.

Square, 6x6 meters. Cream marble floor, black cabinets lining the north wall and south walls, cream granite worktop. Refridgerator on west wall, 1x2 meter island, also black with cream granite top. The usual kitchen appliance, all stainless steel. Fruit bowl, dish towel, accents - irrelevant. What's missing? Dishes. Dishes from coffee.

Sherlocked strode over to the sink, peering at it closely, running his hand over the basin. Dry. He stepped over to the dishwasher and opened it. A puff of steam wafted over his face as he reached in to touch the dishes. Warm. Condensation. Cycle not yet complete. Cycle length for this model: 1 hour, 45 minutes. Sherlock straightened. "When did the 999 call come in?" Lestrade flipped a page in his notebook and scanned the writing. "Uhhh... 5:36, ended at 5:41." "And when did the paramedics arrive?" Lestrade consulted his notes again. "5:46." Sherlock glanced at his watch. 7:13.

"I'll take the case."

...