In hindsight John really should have known better to think that he might make it through an entire date without interruption from Sherlock.
Death at dinner – Mycroft is dreadfully put out. Come at once. – SH
John's thumb hovered over the keys for a moment, assessing. On the one hand there was death, destruction, and the possibility of Sherlock attempting to maim his brother before dawn. On the other there was a date that so far had proved remarkably pleasant, and would hopefully end in a different sort of death altogether in the not too distant future. He hesitated.
What's happened?
He offered Jessica an apologetic smile over the candle, she was put out but not overly so – option number two was still a possibility for this evening.
Host keeled over before torturous rendition of Mozart could get underway. Seizure in front of guests – wife is terribly put out. Think's it's hereditary heart problem. – SH
John didn't bother to ask how Sherlock knew it wasn't, or if he was even sure – both questions would earn him the textual equivalent of an eye-roll, and probably an 'obvious' thrown in for good measure. Truthfully he'd been quite glad to avoid the event entirely, claiming his prearranged date with Jessica when Mycroft had come round and bullied Sherlock into a musicale at an old family friend's house – Lord and Lady Grey or something. John had stopped paying attention by that point, more entertained watching Sherlock attempt to perform the verbal gymnastics required to counter Mycroft (and failing miserably.)
But now there was intrigue and (knowing the circles Mycroft moved in) potential scandal and cover ups, and John loved those sorts of cases best of all. It was the equivalent of going to watch a good spy movie at the cinema these days – and god, when did he start thinking like Sherlock? He gave himself a mental shake and considered the options.
1) Apologise profusely, continue to flirt by candlelight, share a dessert and a taxi back to Jessica's place – resulting in a great shag and bliss all round.
2) Forgo dessert and the shag and catch up with Sherlock at a later point in the evening (probably after he'd already got himself neck deep in trouble.)
3) Finish date early, kiss goodbye to a second one, and get a taxi to where Sherlock, murder and intrigue were waiting.
His thought process took approximately ten seconds.
"Jessica I'm so sorry but something's come up – medical emergency." Of a sort. The very dead not much I can do now sort. Other than attempt to make sure that Sherlock didn't create some more medical emergencies in his wake of course.
John watched Jessica go through the five stages of Sherlock disrupted date denial – she was a lot quicker than Grace had been the week before – and within five minutes had paid and was out in a taxi. A small part of his brain pointed out that this wasn't healthy, that he was never going to settle down and find a nice woman if he kept letting Sherlock pull him away like this, and since when had the lure of a murder been enticing enough to pull him away from a woman before? He shook himself and shoved the thought deeper into the recesses of his mind –there would be plenty of time for a thorough psychological analysis when this latest case was over.
Lestrade was hovering on the doorstep when John pulled up, paid and trotted up to the front of the imposing townhouse. He cocked his head, spread his hands and gestured, obviously waiting for John to give him some sort of explanation, only to be met with a shrug. Sherlock it seemed had not been forthcoming with any more details for Greg than he had in his text to John, and from the crookedness of his tie and the distinct lack of a wedding band on Greg's hand it seemed John was not the only one who had been pulled away from other more pleasant activities on his Saturday night.
At that moment the front door swung open revealing Mycroft, looking dapper in a tuxedo and thoroughly put out at the sight of the both of them.
"Ah, Detective Inspector, John, I see you have come to attempt to corral my brother's enthusiasm for death and mayhem – he's upstairs at the moment, perhaps you could do something to prevent him causing any further distress to Lady Grey this evening?" A meaningful head tilt in John's direction accompanied this last part and John grimaced, he could well imagine Sherlock's lack of anything resembling tact or sympathy towards the recently bereaved.
Mycroft ushered them in, past wide eyed servants clearing the rooms and up to a well-appointed bedroom where the late Lord Grey was currently laid out. Next to the pallid complexion of the deceased Sherlock was positively vibrant, and for a moment John's breath caught in his throat at the sight. He'd left on his date long before Sherlock had deigned to ready himself for the evening and had missed the sight of Sherlock, always neat and smartly turned out, gleaming in the monochrome severity of the tuxedo. He'd undone the top of his collar and the bowtie hung loose around his neck, revealing a slice of flushed skin that carried up to his cheeks and made his eyes gleam. John's gaze caught in Sherlock's and he couldn't help his own smile rise up in response to such obvious excitement, no matter how inappropriate.
"John – knew you couldn't resist." He grinned impishly and John pursed his lips and refused to take the bait.
"What have we got then?" Lestrade moved closer to the bed and gave the body a cursory once over.
"Male, thirty nine, family history of heart problems, had a seizure just before the start of this evening's entertainments and lost consciousness in the foyer. He was moved up here before dying approximately thirty two minutes following the initial attack."
"So he had a heart condition – seems pretty self-explanatory to me." Lestrade did not look particularly impressed as the reasoning for his interrupted evening began to come out.
"Well luckily you have me, and I am telling you that there is more to Lord Grey's death than meets the eye."
There was a tense silence as Sherlock and Lestrade eyed each other over the body, before a woman's voice piped up from the corner."
"He's right." John turned, baffled. He hadn't even realised there was someone else in the room, let alone a young woman who could only be the late Lord's wife. She stood, twisting a handkerchief between her fingers, the only outward sign that anything was wrong. "Edward was worried, he mentioned letters, threatening letters. That was partly why we requested you attend this evening Mr Holmes, my husband wanted to speak with you regarding the correspondence he had been receiving."
"Letters? Where are they? I need to see them." Sherlock strode towards her, all thunder and intent now that there was a whiff of intrigue to back up his suspicions.
She stumbled back, legs folding her back into the seat as she toppled into it. "I don't know, he didn't show them to me. He was adamant that they weren't appropriate for a lady, but when he voiced his concerns and I mentioned the police he didn't wish to report it." She gave an apologetic grimace to Lestrade who seemed to have grown three inches and straightened his tie since Lady Grey had made her presence known, John noted with a smirk. "I mentioned you Mr Holmes, at which point he determined he would meet with you this evening following the musicale."
"We need to find the letters." Sherlock made for the door only to be stopped by Lestrade's gesture to the body.
"Can we try and focus on one thing at a time please?"
Sherlock paused, a grimace of displeasure wrinkling his face that he quickly smoothed out before turning back to the body.
"Uh, Lady Grey, perhaps it would be best if you weren't in the room for this part?" John moved closer to the bed to examine the body and conceal his grin as Greg solicitously took Lady Grey's arm and escorted her from the room, with a warning glare to Sherlock.
"Right, so what've we got?" John queried and watched Sherlock settle in. The next few minutes were a flurry of activity – Sherlock pulling information, facts and deductions from the room (adored luxury, sparse but will spend a truly obscene amount of money on unique items that lift him above the masses) and the suit (£3000 pounds, has an eye for fashion, knows what suits him, although doesn't know what suits his wife although he loves picking out her clothes. Lost weight though, a lot, recently, hanging a bit too loose, worried, stressed – financial difficulties? No too pedestrian. Combination of ill health, strain and the notes.) and the crease between the man's eyes (frowned a lot, staring at a computer screen most of the time.) John watched and marvelled and tried to bite his tongue as the words 'amazing' and 'fantastic' tripped past his tongue and lips and fell like stones to ripple blushes over Sherlock's skin.
He stepped back and gestured for John to conduct his own examination just as Lestrade slipped back into the room, slipping his mobile into his pocket as he went.
"The teams'll be here in about five minutes, I need anything you've got." Sherlock rattled off his findings at breakneck speed as John donned a pair of gloves and bent low over the body, sniffing slightly (glass of brandy, possibly two, the man was more jittery than he'd been letting on to his wife.) and checking the airways (no blockages, traces of vomit and scent of brandy) skin (no sign of cuts or abrasions or injection sites, but slight jaundiced colouring) clothes (no additional information, the man looked impeccable, ready for a night out.)
John stepped back, stripping off the gloves and tuning back into the conversation – Lestrade appeared to have abandoned his notebook as Sherlock continued his one man deducting routine.
" – will need to search through his study, the notes will have been most likely secreted there, possibly need to go through his computer records as well." Sherlock broke off abruptly and turned to John, cocking an eyebrow and waiting for the doctor's thoughts.
"Can't tell much without an autopsy. If it wasn't his heart then the most likely cause would be poison, possibly ingested through his brandy? I can't see any other way it could have gotten into his system. But that's just a guess, we need an autopsy and if I could have a proper look at him in the morgue I could probably tell you more."
Sherlock nodded sharply before turning back to Lestrade. "Find the bottle of brandy and his glass, they need to be taken in to be tested." He plucked John's gloves from his hand and dropped both pairs into the waste paper basket to his side. "In the mean time we shall start looking through his study and reconvene once the lab results are in – or we find anything more." He swept from the room leaving John to grimace at Lestrade, apologise and follow along.
Permission from the Lady of the house obtained, Sherlock and John made their way to the late Lord's study and began the search. Sherlock took charge of the sleek computer, sliding his way through security and into the heart of Lord Grey's personal accounts and files in a matter of minutes. John meanwhile planted himself on the floor and started methodically combing through the desk drawers. They were crammed full of paper, the impeccable neatness of the room not extending to the hidden confines of the desk, and he was quickly surrounded by ticket stubs and theatre programmes, betting slips, business cards and invitations – a map of the man's life laid out in events and evenings spent out. Sherlock glanced down at the growing pile of papers starting to overflow around them and scuffed a shoe through them idly.
"Bit of a social butterfly," he paused, eyebrows raising and scooped out a black card with the word 'Pandora' engraved in silver on one side. "And with some interesting extra curricular activities as well – his wife will be thrilled."
"Enjoying yourself then…" John commented dryly as he tried to cram the papers back into the now empty drawer.
"I was saved from an evening of poorly played music and tedium with people Mycroft insists I must 'make nice' with by a spectacularly timed murder, I couldn't have asked for a better evening." He shot John a dazzling grin and turned back to the computer. "Certainly a better evening than yours from the looks of things."
"What makes you say that?" John tried for nonchalance, thinking back to the stony look on Jessica's face as he'd made his excuses.
"You're here." Point Sherlock.
"Well apparently enthusiasm for murder is catching." Sherlock chuckled under his breath and John couldn't supress a smile as he shoved the first drawer back and started on the next one.
"Don't tell me I've corrupted you?!" John shot him a glare. "Does that mean you'll finally stop working at that ridiculous clinic now you've realised how much you prefer corpses to people?"
"I don't prefer corpses to people, that's a special talent reserved solely for you. No, I just enjoy the puzzles I suppose." Sherlock snorted and John thumped his shin. "And the clinic is not ridiculous."
"It is, it takes up far too much of your time."
"I'm not going to be at your beck and call twenty four seven Sherlock, I'd end up killing you by the end of the month."
"I'd like to see you try." Sherlock swiftly grabbed John's wrist as he reached to thump his leg again. "Now, now, surely you should be flattered – I can't stand most people."
In a strange way, John was. Not that he'd ever admit it to the idiot, his ego was hard enough to squeeze into most rooms as it was. His pulse thumped heavily against the fingertips still encircling his wrist, and he made the mistake of looking up. Sherlock was eyeing him speculatively and John hoped that his reasoning for continuing at the clinic wasn't daubed across his face for Sherlock to read.
He enjoyed the work, there was no doubt about that. It was good to put his training to use – he hadn't been lying when Sherlock had first asked him if he was any good, he was a damn good Doctor and he loved stretching skills that had been out of use for far too long since he came back from Afghanistan. And he was lucky Sarah liked him and had an idea about his work with Sherlock – he could honestly say that no other workplace would put up with his all too frequent case days, a sudden demand in a text and his patients would quickly be reassigned and John already running for a cab to Sherlock. Sherlock, Sherlock always to Sherlock. He called and John came running. The danger, the thrill, the adrenaline kick that came from feeling so, so alive. Watching the man work was like a drug, the chases and deductions more potent than cocaine. He was addicted, and the longer they spent together the further he fell. It was embarrassing, what had started as a burst of attraction and awe had been tempered like steel until it was a knife in his chest – impossible to ignore and felt keenly with every step taken at Sherlock's side. He had to have time away from the man – to keep his head, keep his sanity, and remind himself that Sherlock was married to his work, and ruining what they had now for the sake of misplaced desire was not something John ever intended on doing. No, it was fine. It was controllable. Just so long as he could escape the flat for a few hours each week, work, go on dates, and try to forget the heat that pooled inside at the end of a breathless chase when they crowded back into Baker Street, high and giddy and reckless and the moment pulling tight when their eyes caught.
The fingers on his wrist tightened imperceptibly, Sherlock's eyes narrowed in confusion, and John pulled back instinctively, offering a grin that felt false and awkward. Twisting away, his eyes raked the desk in front of him and the gaping hole where the desk drawer had sat.
"Hang on…" Sherlock released his wrist and John reached forward, groping in the darkness of the desk as he felt along the back – right there, yes, there had been an odd shape and John could feel the stiff block of folded paper wedged between the drawer runners. He tugged twice and it slipped free to be brought out into the lamplight. The letter.
He unfolded it, thick quality paper with cut and pasted words set in the centre.
"Let me not be ashamed, O Lord; for I have called upon Thee; let the wicked be ashamed, and let them be silent in the grave." Beneath that a crude pen drawing of a coffin and gravestone with the inscription Edward Grey. 1974 – 2013. Now he is silent.
He raised it for Sherlock to see and sat back on his heels – Lady Grey had been right, someone had wanted her husband dead, and had not only threatened him but followed through.
"Bingo." Sherlock breathed, looking positively delighted.