Chapter Two

Sherlock stood at the counter, his fingers fidgeting rapidly in front of him. "I don't like this. We shouldn't be here."

John turned towards him. "Look, you yourself said there was nothing to go on for now, so we might as well get this done. After all, this case could take all week."

Sherlock considered this for a moment before nodding. "Right. Which one should I get, then?"

John looked down at the jewelry in the glass counter in front of them. "Do what I did: which one can you picture her face when you propose?"

Sherlock looked over at him with narrowed eyes.

"Right, stupid question for you," muttered John. "Erm…I guess, get the one that will look best on her. Match her skin tone or something."

Sherlock frowned at him. "Match her skin tone?"

"I don't know," said John, waving his hands. "Just take a look until you feel you have the right one. This is a decision you have to make with your heart, not your head."

A perfect solution, considering he wasn't too sure about his head at the moment. Ever since yesterday evening, his mind had not stopped second-guessing itself. It was maddening. And he was starting to get distracted by random thoughts. Stupid no-clue crime scene.

Sherlock made his way around the store, inspecting each ring he saw. Most of them looked perfectly lovely, but nothing jumped out at him. This one here had a diamond the size of a marble—too extravagant for Molly's simple tastes. This one had stones covering almost every inch of the band—Molly would never be comfortable wearing something so expensive. This one was nothing but a gold band—Molly deserved more than just a band.

Sherlock's eyes darted back to the corner of the case he was standing in front of. Seated in one of the slots in the display was a silver band with a diamond in the center with one yellow sapphire on each side of it. Those yellow stones brought forth the image of Molly in a sunny yellow dress with a yellow bow in her hair as she danced with their friends at John's wedding reception. Molly with a yellow flower pinned in her hair as she helped Sherlock in the lab. Molly with a yellow blouse that she had bought on a whim and how she brightened when Sherlock had told her she was beautiful. Molly and how her smile always lit up the room like a ray of sunshine.

Sherlock looked up at the sales associate looking through her inventory some distance away. "I'd like to see this one."

The woman walked over as Sherlock gestured to the ring for her. She unlocked the case and pulled the ring out, handing it over. "A 1.53 carat cushion-cut yellow sapphire set between two 0.09 carat brilliant-cut diamonds. The ring is hand-crafted in 925 sterling silver and plated with Rhodium to keep the shine and prevent tarnish."

Sherlock looked down at the ring in his fingers, a warmth spreading in his chest that he had come to associate with Molly. "I'll take it." He handed the ring back so the woman could ring him up.

"Nice choice," John told him. "It suits her."

"No," said Sherlock, watching the jeweler place the ring in a velvet box. "It completes her."

John rolled his eyes. "And you called me the romantic."

Sherlock and John made their way down the street, the shop having only been a few streets over from Baker Street.

John inspected the ring in its box. "She's really going to love this. You proposing when she gets back?" He closed the box and handed it back into Sherlock's waiting hand.

"Taking her to dinner after her flight," Sherlock told him.

"And she has no clue?" asked John.

Sherlock gave him a pointed look. "Unlike some people, I can keep a secret."

"Hey, I can keep a secret," John came back, offended. "I never told anyone you were back from the dead."

"No, you only screamed it to the whole shop," said Sherlock.

"That was your fault for not warning me you were back before you showed up," John told him.

"And lose the element of surprise?" said Sherlock with a smirk. "That was half the fun."

"I never told you Irene Adler was dead, even though she really wasn't," said John.

"Oh, please, it was written all over your face and tone of voice," Sherlock shot back.

"You never got me to tell you my middle name," said John.

"But you left your birth certificate easily acceptable to a determined individual," said Sherlock.

"Oh, come on!" said John. "All of those are either your fault or could only be solved by you. They don't count."

"On the contrary," said Sherlock. "You can only truly keep a secret if you can keep it from me. So far, you are not quite up to par."

"Oh, I beg to differ," said John.

Sherlock glanced over to see a mischievous smirk on his friend's face. "What's that supposed to mean?"

John looked over at him with wide, innocent eyes.

"What is it?" asked Sherlock, intrigued. "What don't I know?"

"Oh, but then I would be a horrible secret-keeper," said John with a smug smile. "We wouldn't want that."

"Fine, you excel at keeping secrets," said Sherlock. "What is it?"

John stopped and turned to face him, obviously enjoying the moment. "My family is distantly related to the Royal Family."

Sherlock was fairly certain his jaw had dropped. How, with Mycroft's connections in the government and in Buckingham, had he never come across this information? It was obvious he himself didn't know; he never would have crudely "kidnapped" John all those times if he knew John was connected to the Queen, however indirectly.

"Not by blood," John told him. "One of their distant cousins is married to one of my distant cousins. Only for the last ten years or so."

"And now, you've just given that secret away," Sherlock told him.

"Well, I didn't want to miss the look on your face," said John, heading off once more. "That was half the fun."

Sherlock caught up to him. "Does anyone know?"

"There was a bit of press after the wedding, but I guess the bride wasn't as prominent a member of the Royal Family for them to care for very long," John told him.

Sherlock cocked his head slightly in approval. "Well, I have to say, John. You've done the impossible. Well done." He stopped after a moment when he realized John was no longer with him. He turned to see John several paces back, frowning at him.

"What did you say?" asked John.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the dramatics. "You don't have to look so shocked. I am capable of a compliment."

"No, Sherlock, I'm serious," said John, stepping closer. "What did you say?"

Sherlock frowned. "Well done."

John shook his head. "No, you didn't. You said, 'Pass the biscuits.'"

Sherlock's frown deepened. "No, I didn't."

"Trust me, you did," said John, narrowing his eyes as he went into doctor mode. "When was the last time you slept?"

"Two nights ago," Sherlock told him.

John slowly shook his head. "You've gone longer before… Any strange symptoms?"

"For God's sake, I'm fine!" said Sherlock, turning and storming off. "I'm distracted, not sick! Impossible crime scene, remember?"

John caught up to him. "Still, maybe you should get a few hours' sleep."

Sherlock's phone began ringing, and John groaned next to him.

Sherlock pulled his phone out, answering it. "Lestrade."

"Hey, can you come down to the Yard?" said Lestrade.

Sherlock weaved towards the street, raising his other hand to hail a cab. "On our way." He hung up as they got into the taxi that had pulled up.

"What have you found?" asked Sherlock as he stepped into Lestrade's office.

"The results came back from the autopsy," said Lestrade, tossing a file in front of them on his desk. "Poison. Which means our murderer didn't necessarily have to be there when the victim died."

John sighed. "There goes everyone's alibis."

"What kind of poison?" asked Sherlock.

"Prolixin," said Lestrade.

Sherlock frowned. "An antipsychotic. Must have been giving it to the victim for weeks."

"Antipsychotics can kill?" said Lestrade.

"You can overdose on anything given the right amount," said Sherlock. "The victim would have been shut up in that room."

"Why?" asked Lestrade.

"To prevent hospitalization," explained Sherlock. "Antipsychotics, when given to healthy individuals, can cause psychosis, especially in large doses."

"Actually, antipsychotics have been known to cause psychosis sometimes," said John.

Sherlock's head snapped over to him with a frown. "That's what I just said."

John narrowed his eyes. "You said, 'To poison him with another drug to cause psychosis.'"

Sherlock closed his eyes in frustration. What was wrong with John? He knew exactly what he had said, and it certainly wasn't that!

Moriarty could—

The bugs are—

—he's here to—

Watch for—

You can't—

STOP IT! Sherlock inwardly yelled as he shook his head. He looked up at John. "The walls!"

John's frown increased. "What walls?"

Sherlock's gaze fell to the floor. Why did I say that? "I don't know."

"What's going on?" asked Lestrade.

Shaking his head in exasperation, John looked at Lestrade. "He just needs sleep, which he refuses to admit."

"I am fine," Sherlock snapped.

"Sherlock, you're starting to confuse yourself!" said John. "Just go home and get some sleep. You know you're no good to the case like this."

It was a sign of how tired or exhausted or whatever he was that John's idea didn't immediately repulse him. He stared at John for a moment before looking at Lestrade. "Our suspect is most likely a medical professional, possibly with a background in forensics." He then turned and headed out of Scotland Yard.

Sherlock startled awake, his breath coming in sharp gasps. He looked all around the room he was in until he recognized his bedroom. He released his breath as he collapsed back onto the mattress. After a moment, he raised his head and held it in front of himself, watching the tremors shake it. He let his hand fall to the blankets.

It had been a long time since he'd had a nightmare. This one had featured a half-burned Moriarty and a decaying Eurus holding Molly down as they drowned her and then cut her beating heart out of her chest as she screamed. Usually, his dreams were more lucid, but this one had been more disjointed and fantastical.

What's happening to me?

Knowing he wouldn't be able to get back to sleep, Sherlock snatched his dressing gown from the foot of the bed and pulled it on, striding out his door to the sitting room. Might as well do something productive.

He picked up his violin and began the process of writing his proposal song, trying to say everything in his music. And finally, he was reaching the last stanza.

"How long have you been up?"

Sherlock turned to see John in the doorway, coffee in hand. "John?" He glanced back at the windows to see daylight. "What time is it?"

"Seven," John replied, sitting in his armchair. "Did you even sleep at all?"

Sherlock hesitated a moment. "Nightmare." He played a few more notes and jotted them down.

"Do you feel better this morning?" asked John.

"I believe so," said Sherlock.

"Good," said John. "Had me worried a bit there." He took another sip of coffee and put it on the table next to his chair. "I'm going to check on Rosie. She should be waking up soon." He stood and left the flat, heading down the stairs.

Sherlock jotted down the last few notes and played through the piece on the violin. It was really quite beautiful.

"Look at the violin."

"I never had a best friend."

"The next one isn't going to be so easy."

"If you want to speak to the girl again, earn yourself some phone time!"

"You don't want me to drown another one of your pets, do you?"

"I that am lost, oh, who will find me—"

"Shut up!" hissed Sherlock as his hands went to his head, covering his ears to block out Eurus' voice.

After a moment, his mind quieted, and he lowered his hands. He had let go of the violin and bow when he had grabbed his head, and they lay on the floor, the violin cracked along the lower bout.

"Damn," Sherlock muttered, crouching to pick up the violin. He would have to get it fixed before Molly came home. At least he had gotten her song composed.

What in the hell is wrong with me?

Because it was clear now that something was indeed wrong. And if he wasn't careful, he would get taken to a hospital, where the stupid doctors would diagnose him with some mental disease and ship him off to a psych ward. No, no, that would never do. He would have to figure this out himself. It couldn't be a coincidence that he was investigating a murder by antipsychotic and then his mind starts losing itself. There was something going on here. He just couldn't figure it out.

"Oh, what happened?" asked Mrs. Hudson as she stepped in with the morning tea.

"Slipped," said Sherlock, setting the violin on his armchair and retrieving the bow to place next to it.

He took his cup of tea from Mrs. Hudson, determined to hide whatever was wrong with him.