"In The Cold Light of Truth"
While working on a case, Sherlock is injured and Lestrade is forced to reopen a cold case.
Not because it wasn't solved but because a murder was attempted and never investigated.
Spoilers for "The Adventure of The Illustrious Client" canon. As always, I do not own Sherlock and Co. That great honor is held by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the creative staff and actors of the BBC.
Dr. Mr. Holmes,
I do not usually resort to communicating with strangers, especially over the computer. One never knows who is really on the other end, do they? So easy to hide one's true identity, or so it seems to me. But I really do need your assistance for I can't imagine the police being any help at all. The man's crime has been refuted by a jury, but I very much do fear for my daughter's safety. If you would permit me to come around, at your convenience, of course.
Most sincerely yours,
de M.
John watched as his flat mate's fingers steepled together and pressed against his lips. (John couldn't bring himself to think of anything prayerful in the gesture except, perhaps, in the context of the mantis) as the clear hazel eyes rapidly scanned the screen before them.
"Something come up then?"
"It does hold a glimmer of interest"
Long graceful fingers spun the laptop around so that John could read the email for himself. When he was finished, he turned the machine back towards Sherlock who took it and started typing.
"Yes. I do believe this one merits an interview. Do you have any plans for tomorrow, say, in the afternoon? 4:30?"
"Eemm, no. I'm only scheduled for a half day."
"Excellent."
000
Sherlock spent the rest of the day stretched out on the sofa, laptop propped open on his abdomen, surfing the web. Something in the email had piqued his curiosity.
"Want I should order take out?"
"Not hungry."
"No no, no, no. You're not pulling that now."
"Pulling what?"
"That "I don't eat while on a case, it slows me down" thing. You can eat at least tonight."
"I do have a case."
"Sherlock, you haven't even seen the client yet...bloody hell. You've already started working on it."
"It has a couple of distinct points."
"It's not going to work. You don't officially start a case until you conclude an interview with a yes."
Sherlock's brow rippled into a frown. "Who decided that?"
"I did."
The young consulting detective turned his head in John's direction, eyes never leaving the computer screen. "Why would you? I can make up my own mind about such things, thank you very much."
"You can't just go fainting all over the place."
That got Sherlock's full attention with a scoffing roll of the eyes. "Oh please. Do stop exaggerating!"
"I'm not! You faint more then any one I know. As a doctor and, more importantly, your friend, I am going for food and you are having some supper. You're not going to start pushing yourself, yet"
Pale hands flew up to cover the hazel eyes with the palms. John watched the jaw clench and a strangled sound of frustration issued from pursed lips. But he wasn't about to back down.
"Oh...fine, then." One hand flipped at him in a shooing motion. "Go."
John snatched his jacket and fairly flew down the stairs and out the door. He thanked his lucky stars that there were restaurants on Baker Street or near to and Sherlock liked most of them. Knowing his flat mate's liking for chicken curry, he phoned ahead to order. With any luck at all it would be ready by the time he got there and little time would be lost. The last thing he wanted was to give Sherlock time to take a runner. As he had hoped, the food was ready and bagged. He paid, grabbed the order fairly running back up the street. But as he neared the front door of 221B he slowed. The clear sweet notes of a well played violin drifted softly in the evening air. All was well, until tomorrow.