Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade shifted the car into park and turned the key. The engine quieted, but as he reached to open the door, a hand on his sleeve stopped him. Sally Donovan eyed him with one of her worried expressions.
"You're sure about this?"
They had worked together long enough for Greg to read the subtext. He's answering neither calls nor texts; something's wrong. Greg nodded. "I'm sure."
"He could be dead," Sally objected, but Greg was already out of the car and heading up the stairs into Sherlock Holmes' latest residence. Finding the door unlocked, he let himself in.
The flat was dark and quiet. Empty? Greg flicked the nearest light switch, revealing the mess that Sherlock always managed to make. Near the door stood two boxes, neatly taped and labeled. All that remained of yet another flatmate. Four and a half weeks had to be a record of some sort.
Every door in the flat gaped open, except one. Greg approached with caution. All was silent. Perhaps Sally had been right. Perhaps someone had finally decided to bash that incomparable brain in. One hand on his gun, Greg reached for the doorknob.
A muffled groan issued from within. "F'k sake, th' light," Sherlock complained, his voice filtered through a mountain of pillows.
"Sorry." Greg pushed the door open wider. "Are you hung over?"
One pallid hand flapped weakly over the edge of the bed. "I should be so-o lucky." Pushing one pillow slightly aside, Sherlock squinted out of the darkness. "Why are you in my flat?"
"You're not taking calls or answering texts."
"Obviously." The pillow dropped back into place.
Greg stuffed his hands into his pockets. "You're needed at a crime scene."
An unintelligible mutter rose from beneath the pillows.
"Evisceration," Greg continued, hoping to persuade. "Third in twelve hours. So come on. Get dressed, say yay crime, and let's get going."
Despite the best efforts of the Detective Inspector, it took him ten minutes to talk Sherlock out of bed, and another five to convince him to wear more than a dressing gown to a crime scene. At last they were off, Sherlock moping dramatically across the rear seat while Sally silently disapproved from the passenger side. Mercifully, the crime scene was not far.
Sherlock slouched out of the car and followed Greg past the yellow tape. He quickly fell behind, sometimes standing completely still with one eye closed. He tilted his head slightly, and then he was on the move again, observing. Greg handed him a pair of gloves.
The body was just inside the house, and Greg expected Sherlock to order Anderson away from it. Instead he pulled a sour face and strode toward the kitchen. He didn't tell anyone to shut up, move away, or feign intelligence. Coming to a standstill, Sherlock let out a noisy breath. Before Greg could ask what that meant, Sherlock seized the nearest waste bin and vomited into it.
"Oy!" Anderson howled in dismay. Greg spoke over him, despite taking an involuntary step backward.
"You sick or something?"
"Better now." Sherlock's sharp gaze darted around the house. He handed the bin off to the nearest person and pulled the gloves onto his hands.
"-contaminating evidence-"
"You're sure?" Greg persisted, watching Sherlock closely.
"-before he contaminates something-"
Sally took a more direct approach. "What's wrong with you?" she demanded.
"Aura," was Sherlock's brusque reply. "Make him stop that yapping so we can get this over with."
A half hour later, the police had a description of the suspect - tall, ginger, with fallen arches and running out of his asthma medication. Sherlock crossed the cordon, heading for the road, and Sally drew Greg aside.
"He's just playing up, right?" She wanted him to be.
Greg sighed. "Personally, I think that migraine with aura is one of the ten greatest miseries that nature inflicts on us." He studied Sherlock, who stood at the curb, eyes closed, one hand half-raised as though to hail a cab. "From the look of this one, it's on a level with death by abscessed tooth." Leaving Sally behind, Greg followed Sherlock.
"You won't get far that way."
Sherlock responded only by raising his hand a little higher. Greg took him by the shoulders and turned him to face down the street.
"There." By the way Sherlock slumped, he knew the man had seen the black sedan parked at the opposite curb. "I think they're watching to see that you don't skip a fare on accident."
"Has been done," Sherlock mumbled, apparently to himself.
Greg steered him away. "Come on. I'll drive you back. And when you feel better," he added, "you can tell me how you know about the asthma medication."