"Death is in the Air"

A/N: For any of you who have seen Psych, I'll admit I lifted this storyline directly from the episode of the same name, and Sherlock-ified it. Just for clarification, this is NOT a crossover fic, just a borrowed storyline from another show. For those of you familiar with this episode, you'll notice I split up the roles to separate people where it seemed appropriate (for example, you'll see the part of Gus being performed by Mycroft, Lestrade and John in some areas, and the part of Detective Lassiter being played by Lestrade, Anderson, and Donovan).

This is also my first attempt at a fanfiction (of any kind!) so constructive criticism is welcomed.

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"Ok, Sherlock, I'm off!"

John picked up his wallet from the mantel as he called to his flatmate, who was peering into a microscope. Sherlock sneered as he passed.

"I hope your lunch date is not that hopeless woman from forensics. What was her name? Rhonda? Rita?"

"Rachel. And she's not hopeless, Sherlock. She's a perfectly lovely woman."

"Her ears are enormous. She looks like a cab with the doors open."

John rolled his eyes at his friend. Just once, could he find something not-hateful to say about his dates? It would be a lovely change, but John wasn't hopeful.

"She does not, and don't go blowing up the flat while I'm gone."

John scampered down the stairs and flung open the door to 221b Baker Street, nearly bowling over a tall man who was seconds away from ringing the doorbell.

"Oh sorry about tha—Oh, god…" John waved a hand in front of his face. The man on the doorstep exuded a smell of alcohol so strong, it could almost be seen with the naked eye. He was sweating nervously, and squinted his eyes against the weak London sunlight.

"Oh, no it's alright, it's alright." the man said, more than a bit nervously. His bloodshot eyes darted into the open doorway behind John. "Er… I'm looking for Sherlock Holmes. Is this the right address?"

John sighed, "Yes, this is the right place. Come on in, he's upstairs." It looked like he wouldn't make that lunch date after all.

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The lanky, dark-haired man introduced himself as Donny Leiberman. Donny seemed like a nervous man to begin with, but in his current state, he was downright jumpy. His eyes darted around as he made himself slightly-less uncomfortable in his chair.

Sherlock was reluctantly pried away from his experiment at the prospect of a new case, but wrinkled his nose as he approached the prospective client. He swept his icy gaze over the man squirming in his seat and sniffed distastefully.

"What did you lose?" The question was more accusation than inquiry.

Donny blinked up at the detective, uncomprehending. "Excuse me? How did you—"

John rolled his eyes in his best here-we-go fashion as Sherlock started in on Donny.

"Your clothes are badly rumpled, two days worn at least. It doesn't take a genius to pick up the stench of alcohol positively rolling off of you, so sometime last night you went out and drank copiously, Obvious. There are no traces of blood on your clothes or shoes, and you didn't bring anything with you that would be a weapon of some sort so there's no reason to suspect violence of any kind. There is the outline of a passport in your pocket, so you've been traveling abroad, but if you were missing a traveling companion you would have brought something with you that belonged to them, or at least those would have been the first words out of your mouth. Besides, you're single and haven't spoken to your parents or siblings in ages, so you're traveling alone anyway. The only other reason someone would come to private detective instead of the police is if something is missing or stolen, and given how nervous you are, I suspect you'd like to keep its loss quiet. Given that you were drinking last night and came in yesterday, with the intention of leaving today, I imagine you are a courier of some kind, and when you were drunk whatever you were carrying was either left behind or stolen and now you want me to help you find it."

Donny continued to blink owlishly up at him, as if he couldn't really process what he'd heard. Sherlock, impatient with the amount of idiocy before him prompted, "Am I wrong?"

"No…no, you're exactly right, Wow." Donny shook his head lightly and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief he fished out of his pocket. "So can you help me?"

"Well you haven't answered my question." Sherlock fixed him with a don't-bore-me glare.

Donny shifted anxiously. "It was a portable cooler from a laboratory called Genutech. I picked it up yesterday afternoon, and was supposed to be on a flight to the States this morning, but when I woke up, it was gone. I was so smashed last night, the whole evening is a blur—I have no idea where it could have gone!"

John leaned in and glanced at Sherlock, then at their client. "Donny… it's very important you tell us what was in that cooler."

Donny shifted again, looking desperately between the detective and the doctor. "You have to know, if I'd known what I was carrying at the time, I would never have—"

"What. Was in. The cooler?" Sherlock demanded icily.

Donny stared at the wall past Sherlock, refusing to meet either of their eyes. He cleared his throat, and swallowed a few times before responding. "The… Thornburg virus?"

John leaned back in his seat with an anxious groan. "Oh, Donny…" he breathed, voice full of concern and exasperation. Sherlock looked between them blankly. He set his eyes on his flatmate questioningly. "The what?" he asked.

John shook his head. "The Thornburg virus. I read about it in a medical journal recently. It's very rare…"

Sherlock noted the tone in his voice. "Not good, I imagine?"

"Very much not good."

Donny nodded, miserably. "It normally targets victims in Africa. A few companies here and in the US are doing research and developing a cure for it. I was going to contact the police, or the HPA, but I thought if we found it first—"

"You mean if I found it." Sherlock interjected.

Donny hesitated, then nodded agreeably. "Yes, right. Then, nobody has to be the wiser. If this gets out I could be in serious trouble."

"Well, if the virus gets out quite a lot of people will be in serious trouble." John replied, ever the concerned doctor. "Was there anything else taken besides the cooler?"

Donny nodded again. "Yes, my heirloom gold watch, given to me by my father."

Sherlock steepled his hands under his chin, "If someone were to come into contact with the sample, what would happen to them?"

Donny knitted his brow together in thought. "If they were to actually open the vial in the cooler? Well, Thornburg spreads very quickly once its introduced into the system. The infected person would develop symptoms like headaches, weakness, bleeding—sometimes from the eyes."

John pinched the bridge of his nose, nodding knowingly. "And the virus is quite fatal. From first signs of symptoms to death can take as little as eighteen or even twelve hours, depending on the person."

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by his mobile bleeping. He fished it out of his pocket and glanced at the screen. "Lestrade," he said to John before hitting the answer key. "Sherlock Holmes."

"Sherlock, are you busy? We've just had a death at the Tesco's just down the way from your flat. Kind of a weird one. Young woman, seems healthy enough, but she's got blood dripping from her eyes. It's probably just a drug overdose, according to the employees she was a bit wobbly on her feet before she collapsed, but since it's so close I thought you might pop down and have a look."

Sherlock shot John a glance before replying. "Of course, we'll be right down. And Lestrade, don't let anyone go too near the body until we get there, just in case."

Sherlock hung up the phone and looked at Donny, then stood up, straightening his jacket. "It appears we'll be taking the case."