Chapter One

I tried to be as medically accurate as possible, but if it's not perfect, I don't really care. Just pretend it's accurate.

And, yes, I know the saying is "out of sight, out of mind," but because of what the story is about, I switched it around.


Sherlock Holmes sat at his usual bench in the lab of St. Bart's Hospital, inspecting the samples at the microscope. New Scotland Yard had given him this case this morning, and identifying the clues in the soil sample was key to the whole thing. The only problem was that this final compound was eluding him.

"What are you?" Sherlock muttered in frustration as he grabbed another slide and placed it on the microscope. "Molly, pass the barium chloride."

After a moment of no response, he glanced up to see that he was alone in the lab.

Ah, yes, they went for coffee.

Sherlock stood and moved to the cabinet along the wall, retrieving the barium chloride himself. He was still getting used to being left alone more and more in the morgue and lab, courtesy of the access badge Bart's had finally granted him.

Lots of things had changed in his favor the last several months. St. Bart's Hospital now allowed him unlimited access to their facilities—so long as he reported all chemicals and supplies used to pathologist Dr. Molly Hooper. Scotland Yard had given him his own badge proclaiming him a Consulting Detective in their employ. A publishing company offered his former flatmate Dr. John Watson a hefty sum to write a biography of their lives and cases. His brother Mycroft had practically dragged him to his knighting ceremony, insisting that this time, the Queen wouldn't take "no" for an answer (although, Sherlock still refused to let anyone call him "Sir Sherlock Holmes"). Apparently, people are grateful when you rid their country of a criminal mastermind back from the dead—even if said mastermind had only turned out to be Sherlock's criminally insane sister Eurus.

It had been a year since that horrible day at Sherrinford. John and his daughter Rosie had moved back into 221B Baker Street not long after until they could find a place of their own close by. John and Sherlock had agreed that it was best to be close to Baker Street so Mrs. Hudson could babysit when they got called away on cases. Sherlock had immediately set to work and, a few months later, was able to surprise John one morning with a remodeled, cleaned and furnished 221C. John had been speechless, insisting that it was too much, but Sherlock merely told him to think of it as a "thank you" for everything John had done and been through for him over the years. John had accepted and moved straight in, although he was apt to hang around the sitting room of 221B more often than his own.

Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan was even being civil with him. Well…at least she tried to be civil; some habits ran too deep. But after the story of Eurus and Victor Trevor had eventually slipped its way through the Yard, it was only natural that the officers found it possible to put up with Sherlock's eccentric behavior and manners now that they knew the reason for them. Donovan had even quit calling him "Freak."

It didn't seem possible to have this much in his life going well, especially now that—

"Ah!" exclaimed Sherlock. "Yes!"

"You got it?"

Sherlock glanced up to see that John and Molly had entered while he had been engrossed in his musings and investigation.

"It was the baker," Sherlock told them, springing up from his seat. "It was right in front of us the whole time!" He tore over to a bench, pulling his greatcoat on and wrapping his scarf around his neck.

John downed the last of his coffee and tossed the cup in the trash. "See you later, Molly."

"Come on, John!" Sherlock urged as he tore out the door. "He could be destroying evidence as we speak!"

John followed after Sherlock, who made it halfway down the hall before abruptly turning back around and heading for the lab again. He stepped through the doors and over to Molly, framing her face in his hands and giving her a kiss.

"Enjoy your medical conference," Sherlock told her. "I'll miss you."

Molly gave him another kiss. "I'll be home in a week."

"I know, a whole week," Sherlock mock-whined, giving her another kiss.

"I'll miss you, too," Molly told him.

Sherlock smiled down at her, just holding her in his arms.

"Sherlock," said Molly.

"Hmm?" asked Sherlock.

"The baker," said Molly.

Sherlock's eyes sharpened as his brows shot up. "The baker!" He turned towards the doors. "John!" He burst through them to find John leaning against the corridor wall, his arms crossed and a smirk in place.

John followed after Sherlock as they hurried off to solve the case.


Sherlock stood at the window of the sitting room in 221B Baker Street, playing his violin. Molly had boarded her flight an hour ago, and Sherlock hadn't seen her for seven hours now. Usually, he did just fine going all day without seeing her while she was at work, because he knew he only had to occupy his frenetic mind for another six, three, two hours before he saw her again. Now, he knew she wouldn't be home for a week. For whatever reason, he found that Molly's presence was able to calm his mind in a way that no drug had ever been able to. It was probably something to do with being in a "relationship," or some other such nonsense. Whatever the reason, it just gave him one more reason to love Molly.

Sherlock lowered his bow, passed it over to his left hand at the neck of the violin, picked up a pencil to jot down a couple more notes and took the bow back into his right hand.

"Composing?"

Sherlock set his bow to the strings as he answered John. "Yes."

"It sounds very different," said John.

"It's for a special occasion," Sherlock told him.

"Oh, really?" asked John, thinking back to the last time Sherlock had composed a song for a special occasion: his wedding. He felt a pang in his heart at the thought of Mary, his late wife.

"Yes," said Sherlock, jotting down several more notes.

John waited for a moment, but nothing more was said. "What's the occasion?"

Sherlock tapped his sheet music with his pencil and then set it down. "See for yourself." He picked his bow back up and started playing.

John stepped forward, looking down at the paper on the stand. There was no title, but there was a cypher written across the top of the page. According to the cypher, each note corresponded to a different letter of the alphabet. The only part of the song that seemed to be written with any finality was the bottom line, so John took a moment to match those notes to the cypher. When he got to the end, he frowned and tried again.

That can't be right.

But, sure enough, when John got to the end, the last line of the song still spelled out: Will you marry me.

John looked over at Sherlock, staring at him for a moment. "This is a marriage proposal."

"Yes," said Sherlock without breaking rhythm.

"You're asking Molly to marry you," stated John.

"Obviously," muttered Sherlock.

"You're asking Molly to marry you…with a musical cypher," said John.

Sherlock paused and glanced over at him, an uncertain look on his face. "Not good?"

John shook his head. "No, no, it's…good, actually. It suits you. And something tells me Molly will love it."

Sherlock nodded and went back to playing before jotting a few more notes down.

"Do you have a ring yet?" asked John, stepping over to sit down in his armchair.

"That was something I was hoping my best man could help me with," said Sherlock, turning to look at John. "Relationships aren't exactly my area."

"You want me to be best man?" asked John.

Sherlock shrugged. "How many best friends do you think I have?"

John chuckled, shaking his head. "That's true. Thanks, mate. When did you want to go for rings?"

"Tomorrow," said Sherlock, turning back to his music.

"Perfect," said John just as a knock sounded at the door.

Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade took a step inside the open doorway. "Am I interrupting?"

"Always," muttered Sherlock as he made another note on the sheet.

John waved his hand at Sherlock as he stood. "Ignore him. He's…thinking." He approached the inspector. "What can we do for you?"

Lestrade held up the file in his hand. "Got a case for you."

"Later," grumbled Sherlock, putting his bow back to the strings. "This is important."

Lestrade's brows came together over his eyes. "More important than a case?" He looked to John for answers.

"For once, yes," said John. "It's complicated. But maybe we can pry him away?" He gave the inspector an encouraging nod to Sherlock.

Lestrade looked back at the detective. "We really need your help on this one."

"Don't you always?" muttered Sherlock, laying his bow aside to scratch a few more notes onto the page.

"It's murder," said Lestrade. "And we can't get one bit of evidence from the scene."

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he turned towards them. "You never can."

"Come on, you can take a break," John told him. "I mean, it would be a shame if the Queen were to find out that the consulting detective she knighted weren't doing his job."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John before setting the violin and bow on his armchair. "This is why I always turned down knighthoods." He stomped through towards his bedroom.

Lestrade gestured towards the music stand. "So…more important than a case?"

John smiled and walked over to the stand, taking the music sheet and tucking it under Sherlock's laptop. "You'll find out in a week, I imagine."

"Oh, come on," groaned Lestrade.

"Sorry," laughed John.

Sherlock came back into the room, his dressing gown replaced by his suit jacket. He grabbed his coat and scarf. "Let's get this over with."

He led them out down the stairs towards this "no evidence whatsoever" crime scene. The Yard does love to exaggerate their ineptness, don't they?


Sherlock stared down at the body, his eyes striving to draw some clue from it, but he couldn't see anything. It seemed as though Lestrade was not being incompetent; there was literally no evidence.

"This is impossible…" muttered Sherlock, turning to take in the entire room.

"I told you," said Lestrade by the door.

"You always say that," Sherlock bit off. "This is…" he gestured around at the room and the body. "Every bit of evidence has been either cleaned up or obscured. This was done by a professional. It's as though I killed this woman."

Donovan paused and looked up at him in interest.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh, let's not go down that road again, Donovan." He knelt on one side of the body. "John."

John stepped over and knelt on the other side of the woman, beginning his examination.

"The killer must be either an officer or forensic technician," said Sherlock, going over the body once more with his pocket magnifier. "Someone who knew exactly what clues would be found that would lead back to him." He straightened up, staring into the room in thought. "Or perhaps which clues I would find." He started looking around the room once again with narrowed eyes.

"You're saying the killer figured we would call you and knew the kind of clues you'd pick up on?" asked Lestrade.

"Exactly…" muttered Sherlock, still looking around. "A murderer with intellect." He smirked. "Finally."

"You know, we have come up against intelligent murderers before," John reminded him as he looked up from his examination. "Moriarty, Magnussen, Culverton Smith, Eurus. Maybe don't look quite so happy about it, yeah?"

"Magnussen never killed anyone," Sherlock replied.

"He as good as," said John, glancing pointedly down towards Sherlock's chest, where he had been shot in the course of taking down Magnussen.

"What have you found?" asked Sherlock.

John glanced up at him with a sigh. "Nothing."

"Nothing?" asked Sherlock, brows raised.

"Not one single physical clue," said John. "I can't find anything wrong with her. Unless she had a sudden heart attack—which her physical appearance does not suggest at all—it's as if she just dropped dead."

"We'll have to wait for the autopsy," muttered Sherlock. "Do you have time of death, at least?"

"Based on the level of rigor mortis and lividity, I'd put it at some time between five and seven hours ago," answered John.

Sherlock stood and immediately turned to Lestrade. "Don't let anyone near this case unless they have an alibi for that time."

Lestrade nodded. "I'll seal this building off." He headed out the door.

"What, no 'Get out. You're a suspect'?" asked Donovan.

"Don't be ridiculous," muttered Sherlock, meticulously searching the room yet again. "A crime scene like this would have required far more intelligence than you're capable of."

John closed his eyes before looking up at Donovan. "He doesn't mean that you're stupid." He immediately shot Sherlock a glare as the other turned to him to protest that statement. "He doesn't." He looked back at Donovan. "He just means that this killer has a very above-average intelligence."

Sherlock, who had gone back to his search, was now groaning in frustration. "There's nothing here!"

"Should we tell them to take the body for the autopsy, then?" asked John.

Sherlock stared down at the body, thinking. He then waved a hand dismissively. "Very well."


After Lestrade had confirmed that they had alibis for the time of death, the two forensic technicians were allowed to load the body in a bag, Sherlock watching closely the whole time for anything that might show itself. He then examined the space where the body had lain but could find no more clues there either. Altogether, it was the longest Sherlock had ever spent at an actual crime scene.

The two of them were now back at Baker Street, John watching from his armchair as Sherlock flitted about in one of his dressing gowns in front of the wall full of photographs he had confiscated from the crime scene.

"It doesn't make any sense," said Sherlock. "How could the killer have left no evidence? Even cleaning up a scene should leave clues. There's nothing here!"

"Has Lestrade come up with any suspects?" asked John.

Sherlock pulled his mobile out and waved it in his hand as he spoke. "Of the officers not on duty at the time, only five had solid alibis with witnesses."

"Well, that's something," said John.

"Leaving eighteen to investigate," said Sherlock. "Not to mention any private individual with the necessary skill set not employed by Scotland Yard. It could be anyone! This case is so aimless!"

John breathed out a long-suffering sigh. "Well, shall we get started, then? At least eliminate some police officers?"

Sherlock sighed. "Very well." He headed off to his room to trade his dressing gown for a jacket.


Lestrade followed Sherlock towards a block of flats, John right beside him. "Brian Spinner. Says he was at the movies."

They came to a stop at the door, and Sherlock rang the bell.

"Ninth time's the charm, right?" muttered John beside Lestrade.

The speaker next to the door burst to life. "Yes?"

"Brian, it's Greg," said Lestrade.

"Oh, right, come on in," said Brian's voice.

The door buzzed, and Sherlock opened it, leading the three of them inside. They reached the correct flat and knocked.

Brian opened the door and ushered them inside. "Hey, Sherlock, John. Good to see you."

"You, too," said John, stepping over to the sofa with Lestrade and sitting down.

Sherlock, meanwhile, was moving around the room, taking in whatever clues he could find.

Photograph of Spinner and an older woman on the mantel.

She shares the same pointed nose and shape of the jaw. Family member, most likely mother. Displays photo of himself and his mother in the sitting room. Fond of her.

Shelves of books containing mostly history and classic literature.

An intellectual. A large collection of Dickens, Hemingway and Austen. Prefers romanticized stories. History books about the Titanic, Alan Turing, Princess Diana. Nothing that would suggest murderous tendencies.

Flattened cushion on armchair, white hairs matted down on it.

Owns a cat. Pet owners are statistically less likely to meticulously plan out a murder to this degree.

Layer of dust on mantel. Crumbs and smudges on the dining table.

Doesn't clean very well or—more likely—doesn't care how clean his flat is. If it's the former, he's less likely to be the killer.

Crinkled ticket stubs on the table by the door next to keys and a wallet. Credit card number on ticket receipt matches credit card in wallet.

Confirmed. Spinner was at the movies. Not the murderer.

Sherlock began to turn to tell John and Lestrade this when another thought halted him.

What if he only wanted you to see this?

Sherlock frowned and looked back at the clues he had found. It was true; if this criminal was intelligent enough to clean up the clues at a crime scene, he would be intelligent enough to leave them as well. He could very well have planted every bit of evidence Sherlock was seeing.

Sherlock gave his head a little shake. No. Stop it. You've already deduced he isn't the killer.

But have you?

If the killer was as intelligent as Moriarty, then why couldn't he lay a false trail? The photo on the mantel looked to be a fairly recent one. It could have been taken as he planned it all out. He could have purchased the movie ticket and snuck back out to kill the victim. Perhaps he had been dirtying the flat for several days to make it appear that he couldn't clean. He read a lot, which meant he was intelligent. Perhaps he was smart enough to pull it off.

But how could I know for sure? Sherlock stared down at the dust on the mantel, momentarily lost. If this man is able to leave clues whenever and however he wants, how can I possibly—

"Sherlock."

Sherlock startled slightly, turning quickly towards the room as he yanked himself from his thoughts. John Lestrade and Spinner were all looking at him expectantly.

"Got anything?" asked Lestrade.

Sherlock's brows drew together as he looked back at the bookshelf and mantel. What the hell just happened?

His thoughts had begun to careen off, throwing up a bunch of "what-if" questions. He never asked, "what if?" He always trusted the evidence and his deductions, because 99.99% of the time, they were correct. Why was his mind suddenly doubting itself?

"Sherlock?" came John's concerned tone.

Sherlock pulled in a breath as he turned to them once again, plastering on a smile for Spinner's benefit. "Well, I think I've got all I need. John." He strode towards the door and walked out onto the landing, moving several paces down the hall before stopping and placing his palms together in front of him to think.

What is it? What is it? What?!

"Sherlock," said John from behind him. "You didn't say any of your deductions like you did with the last eight suspects we've looked at. Is something wrong?"

"Is Spinner the killer?" asked Lestrade.

Sherlock let out a long breath. "I don't know."

There was a stunned silence in the hallway after that sentence.

"What?" John finally asked.

Sherlock lowered his hands and turned towards them. "I don't know."

"What do you mean you don't know?" asked John.

"It occurred to me: what if the killer is not only cleaning up clues but leaving them as well?" said Sherlock. "What if he's leaving evidence to prove his innocence, or to make someone else look guilty? How can we trust anything we find? What if we rule out a suspect because of an apparent alibi, but it's all just a smokescreen?"

"Hey," said John, stepping towards him a little with his hands out. He frowned at him. "What is this? You never second-guess yourself like this."

Sherlock took a breath, running his fingers through his hair. "I don't know. Maybe it's the lack of evidence. My Work runs on evidence."

"Or maybe this killer's level of intelligence reminds you of someone," said John. "Like Eurus."

Sherlock's mind flinched at the idea as he frowned incredulously at John. "So, my mind is doubting itself by association? Ridiculous." He immediately turned and left the building.

It had to be the lack of evidence. He had never had a crime completely void of clues, and it was leaving him reeling. That was it; of course it was. He tried to ignore the gut instinct nagging at him, saying that something was wrong. He had never relied on gut instinct—horrible method of decision making—but had always trusted his mind.

But then again, hadn't he himself once said that instinct was simply data processed too fast for the conscious mind to comprehend?