Chapter 2

Lestrade was waiting for them outside the Starshine Speakeasy when they pulled up in a cab, having driven on ahead. It was just as well he did, as the place was entirely unremarkable from the outside, identifiable only by several police cars parked along the street. It seemed that, just like the underground bars of the past, this place was the epitome of exclusiveness.

"So, what made you change your mind?" John had asked while they were in the cab.

"Swing," answered Sherlock shortly, as if it were the most natural response in the world. John mulled this over, sensing that even if he were to ask what he meant by that, the answer would bring him no closer to understanding.

"Isn't that basically jazz?"

"Don't be such a philistine," snapped Sherlock. "Swing has a sense of humour." John fought the urge to scoff out loud. Sherlock, calling him a philistine? The man who had been surprised to learn that the earth went around the sun? He shook his head to himself, and lapsed into silence for the rest of the ride.

True to its name, the speakeasy lay down a narrow flight of stairs, which opened out into a spacious but cellar-like room with a low ceiling. It was decorated with glossy wood paneling, faux-stone pillars, and comfortable looking sofas and armchairs. It was surprisingly brightly lit, but fairy lights strung up over the bar and bulbs made to look like lanterns hanging from the ceiling hinted that this wasn't exactly par for the course here.

The place was quiet, although the remnants of a busy evening were still scattered around the place. Empty glasses littered the bar and large barrels that served as tables. It was far from empty of people though - there were two stricken-looking women standing by the bar, engaged in conversation with a uniformed police officer, and a few waistcoat-clad bar staff milling around, clearly longing to go home. At the far end was a low stage, decked out with red drapes and more fairy lights, where several unusual looking people huddled together, dressed in a curious mix of what looked like 1920s costume and whatever they could find from the local thrift shop. Judging by the jumble of cables and instrument cases around them, they must have been the musicians.

What had caught Sherlock's eye, however, lay in the centre of it all. The large man from Lestrade's photo, sprawled on his back on the floor.

"That's Mrs Dalton, the wife, and the daughter." Lestrade leaned in, deliberately cutting in front of the detective, and gestured to the two women who were still answering police officer's questions. "Er, listen, they've had a rough night, so maybe it's best if you get their story from Officer Finch…" he finished the last of his sentence to John, as Sherlock was already striding over to them.

" Hello, Mrs Dalton, " he said, and John winced. Lestrade mirrored his expression. They followed him over, not wishing to inflict him on anyone alone. "I have a few questions about your husband," Sherlock was saying. "Late husband," he corrected himself. "Can you tell me what happened?"

"I already told the police," Mrs Dalton explained. Her voice trembled, and her daughter, a young lady wearing copious amounts of mascara, laid a comforting hand on her arm.

"I know," said Sherlock, surprisingly gently. He could be nice when it suited him, which wasn't often. "But I need as much information from you as you can remember. Try to remember every detail, no matter how small."

"Well, we were halfway through our drinks when he fell out of his chair," Mrs Dalton dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. "He was clutching his stomach, shouting in pain… it was in the middle of a song," she gestured to the stage, where the musicians were watching, their expressions inscrutable. "So no one else noticed until… until it was too late!"

"Fascinating," breathed Sherlock, earning a glare from the tearful woman.

"Excuse me?"

"I'm done here," was all he said in response, spinning on his heel. "Come and help me inspect the body," he ordered John. Mrs Dalton blinked in outraged indignation.

"If you don't mind," she said, "I'd rather you waited for-"

"John's a doctor," Sherlock interrupted, clapping John on the shoulder before pulling him away before he could protest, or worse, agree with the wife's protests. Not to be deterred, she followed them, her voice rising in pitch as she turned on Lestrade.

"Are you really going to let them do this?"

"He's very good at his job, and it's best for everyone involved if we let him do it," Lestrade told her placatingly. The look the bereaved shot at Sherlock said a lot more, none of it complimentary.

"Come and sit down," said her daughter gently, steering her over to a couch a few feet away, which they both sank into.

"You are the worst," John snapped as he joined Sherlock by the body, keeping his voice down to a hiss so the remaining Daltons would not hear him. Sherlock stared back at him for several long seconds, considering this.

"Nah," he said, before going back to examining Mr. Dalton's shirt sleeves.

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John almost knocked his cup of tea off his desk as a loud grinding sound from the next room snapped him back to the present. The walls of the flat were not particularly thick, and it wasn't unusual for Sherlock to disturb him with all manner of strange noises, but he didn't generally do it quite so violently .

He threw open his bedroom door and rounded the corner to find the kitchen in a shambles. Fruit peelings littered the counter top, and the cupboards hung open as if someone had ransacked them, their contents piled up on every surface. In the middle of the mess, of course, stood Sherlock, wrestling with the blender and wearing John's apron, a pair of rubber gloves, and protective goggles.

"What the hell are you doing?!" The doctor exploded, his voice lost over the sound of the over-filled blender trying desperately to do its job.

"WHAT?" Sherlock shouted back.

"I SAID, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" John bellowed over the appliance's death throes. He sighed at his flatmate's blank expression and strode over to the wall socket, yanking the plug out and finally putting the blender out of its misery. "What in god's name , " he repeated in the quiet that followed, "are you trying to do, apart from demolish the kitchen?"

"Making a smoothie," Sherlock sniffed. He pulled off the lid of the blender and peered at the greenish goop inside. "Turning Vitamin C into its easiest form to intake quickly."

"And why the marigolds?" John asked, gesturing to Sherlock's gloved hands.

"Oh, for the chillis."

"You put chillis," said John, "in a smoothie."

"Chillis, bananas, oranges, kiwifruit, kale and a handful of these, " he held the supplements up and shook them, "for an extra boost." He paused to take in John's frown. "Want some?"

Although he graciously refused the offer of Sherlock's 'Vitamin C Special', John took the opportunity to make himself a cup of tea (with the only clean mug he could find). They sat opposite one another in the living room in their usual chairs, John with his tea and Sherlock slurping down his green concoction with some paracetamol for good measure.

His culinary venture having roused him from his pity party on the couch, Sherlock looked a lot better already. His eyes and nose were still red, but that may just have been the chillis. John felt another spark of sympathy - before remembering the state of the kitchen, which extinguished it flatly.

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John and Sherlock finished their inspection of Mr. Dalton's body with quiet efficiency, barely swapping a word. Sherlock was the first to straighten up. When he asked John for his thoughts, the doctor pursed his lips.

"His fingers are wrinkled," he pointed out. "Dehydration?"

"Not unusual for someone in a drinking establishment," said Sherlock, although he didn't seem convinced. "Mrs Dalton is awfully upset. Excessively so, considering their marriage was on the rocks," he remarked a moment later, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to say.

"And how do you know that?"

"His tie." Sherlock gestured to the Mr Dalton's front, where his tie hung limply to the side. It had indeed been knotted by unskilled hands, judging by how uneven it was. "It's a shambles - his wife pays attention to small details, see the way she's colour co-ordinated her nails and her dress? She didn't help him tie that." He rattled all this off as if reciting from a checklist in his head. Hell, maybe he was. He produced the man's phone and held it out. It was quarter past eleven already, John noted with an inward groan. He'd be falling asleep at work tomorrow. Again. "His phone wallpaper is of his car , not his wife or daughter," Sherlock said, snapping him back to attention. "What does that say to you?"

"Alright, fine , maybe you're right." John lowered his voice. "What's your point?"

"Mrs Dalton is acting. She's not really distraught. Why would she be?"

"Yes, why would someone grieve the loss of the person they were married to for years, even if they had grown apart?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes, and the two men regarded each other silently over the body of Mr Dalton for several long moments.

"Is this one of those Normal People Things again?" he asked.

"Yes, Sherlock. This is one of those Normal People Things."

"Ah." Sherlock abruptly got to his feet. "Lestrade!" he called across the room, and the weary-looking inspector looked up from his conversation with the police officer who had been questioning the Daltons earlier.

"Found anything?"

"Yes. I need to speak with- why are they still here?" he interrupted himself, his head whipping round so fast that Lestrade drew back, as if to avoid being sliced open by the man's cheekbones. Or maybe it was just the sudden change in tone. God, John was tired. They were looking over at the musicians, who were still standing around looking like Italian mobsters that had been on a shopping spree at Oxfam. The group stared blankly back as they realised they were being talked about.

"Don't you want to question them?" Lestrade said innocently. "They were singing about murder at the time. Seems a bit suspicious."

"Very funny. Why are they really here?"

"We're not going anywhere until we get paid!" said one of the band members hotly. She cut a striking figure in a sequinned dress and red hair piled on top of her head. "We're professionals, and Hartley's trying to stiff us!" It didn't take Sherlock's powers of deduction to work out that she was the frontwoman for the band. She certainly seemed to be the spokesperson.

"That seems to be going well for you. Speaking of the bar owner," Sherlock turned smoothly back to Lestrade. "Where is he?"

"Sergeant Donovan's talking to him in his office. She'll be done soon." At the mention of the Sergeant's name, Sherlock made a noise of displeasure in the back of his throat, then spun on his heel, heading for the front door.

"Tell him not to go anywhere," he said over his shoulder, not missing a beat.

"Where are you going?" Lestrade called after him, but if he was expecting an answer, he must have been disappointed.

"Er, Sherlock." John hurried to keep up with the detective's long strides. "Where are you going?"

"Smoke break."

" What?" They climbed the stairs and stepped out onto the chilly street. It had started to drizzle, and Sherlock set off at a brisk pace, clearly with some destination already in mind. John's suspicions were confirmed when he ducked under the awning of a kebab shop and pulled a dented packet of cigarettes from his coat pocket. Seeing it was almost empty, he made a face but said nothing as he lit up and took a long drag while John looked on in dismay.

"So you've started smoking again?" he said, his tone incredulous.

"Obviously," came the flat reply. John opened his mouth to reproach him, and then snapped it shut again. Sherlock was an adult, he decided, and could make his own terrible life choices. But he didn't have to be happy about it. He was a doctor, damn it. He settled for sending a judgemental glare his friend's way, while Sherlock finished his cigarette, diligently avoiding his gaze by studying the row of parked cars along the roadside.

"You know, those things will give you cancer," said John as they strolled back towards the door to the speakeasy.

"Boring," came Sherlock's dismissive reply.

"And they'll stain your teeth."

" Boring. " Sherlock disappeared into the doorway and began to descend the stairs once more.

"And Molly Hooper thinks men who smoke are extremely sexy!" John said, with a touch of desperation, following close behind. He thought he saw Sherlock's head turn almost imperceptibly towards him.

"You're making that up," he said, although John fancied he detected a shadow of doubt in the other man's voice.

"No, it's true," he insisted. "She told me."

They almost collided with Sergeant Donovan, who was on her way up the stairs. She stepped aside to let them pass - not that she had much choice, with Sherlock bearing down on her like a particularly aggressive variety of beanpole.

"Hartley's all yours," she said curtly as he passed. "Freak," she added as she resumed her climb, just loud enough for the two men to hear her. John bit his tongue. He often engaged in good natured (and sometimes not-so-good natured) ribbing of Sherlock as often as anyone, but that was a word he refused under any circumstance to use. Sherlock gave no indication he had heard her, although John knew fully well he had better hearing than any man he'd ever met. Even if it was selective.

Mr Hartley, the owner of Starshine Speakeasy, turned out to be a tall man with an impressive old-fashioned moustache. He didn't look old but his hair had already gone grey. He greeted them tiredly, which made his southern American drawl sound even lazier. It was as if the man had been born for the role as an underground, prohibition-era barkeeper.

"If it's all the same, boys, you should be questioning those joes over there," he said, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder at the band. The frontwoman glared daggers at the back of his head, hands planted on her hips. "'Specially the broad in the shiny getup, you dig?" Sherlock was visibly irritated at Hartley's butchering of the English language, and John bit back a smile. Yes, it was going to be a long night, but at least it promised to be an entertaining one.

"And what," said Sherlock, through gritted teeth, "Makes you say that?"

"They been acting all suspicious since they got here. And now they won't leave, even though I said I'd pay the money into their account tomorrow. I'm not exactly rolling in long greens here. Everyone's carrying plastic these days."

"We AGREED on cash!" snapped the sequinned woman, her voice carrying easily across the empty bar. Definitely a vocalist.

"How long have you known the Daltons?" Sherlock demanded. The question apparently took the bartender by surprise, as for a second his eyes almost bulged out of his head. He immediately composed himself, but he seemed to realise he'd given himself away.

"How'd ya guess?" he said, trying to play it cool. Mrs Dalton was watching him intently from her seat nearby.

"I never guess. Answer the question," said Sherlock, his eyes boring into the bar owner's.

"Uh, a few months, I guess…" Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

"Don't lie to me," he sounded insulted that someone would even try to deceive him. "The top darts scores are engraved on a plaque right next to the bar. T. Dalton - Terence Dalton, is listed there in 2009. He's been a regular of yours for a long time, hasn't he?" He was doing that quick-fire barrage of data again, and Mr Hartley, who wasn't accustomed to it, shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. All eyes were on him. John almost felt sorry for the man.

Almost.