"Here's a little taste of regret, and for the record, I am fine. And I try to build the nerve to put my feelings into words, but it never works." - "Wonderland" by I See Stars.

"Bloody hell, how did he possibly know about the note in her mouth. We checked the body over already!" Lestrade had a look on his face showing that he was purely amazed but that he could almost bite a nail in half from his crew's incompetence. Nothing stung a man's ego more than a snide look from the one and only Sherlock Holmes. This was... This was a bit different though, wasn't it?

"Maybe the freak put it there himself." Sergeant Sally Donovan stood beside her superior officer with her arms crossed tightly against her chest. There was a sad sort of malice lacing her voice. She had her gorgeous curly hair back in a tight ponytail, the light rain making it and her nerves a bit frazzled. She didn't know.

"Actually, there's really no way he could have." Anderson's voice was low behind her, almost solemn at the fact that she was wrong. The forensics scientist straightened his back and crossed his arms, matching Donovan. "This murder could have only happened near 24 hours ago. The damned bloodhound and his mate were on the other side of London, figuring out who was marking up the bank at the time; the bruising wouldn't allow for it."

Sally rubbed her forehead, seemingly annoyed with the world. "Right. Well, God be thankful for Sherlock Holmes then. Who else would have known that the victim wrote the name of their killer and put the paper in their mouth."

"Who indeed, Sally." The hat detective himself held a smug tone in his voice as he walked up to the three policemen.
John teetered on the tips of his toes with his hands in his pockets as he watched an array of emotions wash over the Detective Sergeant's face. There was a running pool between himself, Greg, and Mrs. Hudson as to when she was going to just haul off and slap Sherlock. Sherlock was seemingly not phased at how irritated she was, or just truly didn't care. John glanced back at the body, unsure of how he should feel. Was Sherlock upset?

"Ah, we do have a distinct problem, though," Sherlock started, an almost puzzled expression sweeping his eyes. The cold blue was almost warm liquid in excitement. "The note is a fake. someone broke the jaw during rigor mortis to place the note. From the blow to the side of the head, one would think they broke their jaw then, but the bruising as John pointed out earlier, is far too recent."

When Sherlock paused, everyone looked quite astonished. John was the one to speak up. He cleared his throat before speaking. "So the note was a set up then? That's almost ingenious."

Sherlock gave a twitched smile to his flatmate for a split second before nodding. "It seems to be so."

John could see the sparkle in Sherlock's eyes from this new case. It was beyond obvious, even in the poorly lit alley they were standing in. Was Sherlock faking it? Was he upset that she was gone? Surely there was some form of remorse rattling his chest. Glancing over to Lestrade and the rest, it was clear that they saw it too. Sally looked almost murderous.

"Aye, it'd be good for you to know that there is a dead person just over there. they had to die and you look like a boy coming home from boarding school for summer holiday."

The light drained and it was almost like a lever had been pulled. Sherlock's mask of indifference fell onto his face and he nodded. "You're right, for once. But why exactly, did she have to die? Find out properly who she knew that would want to do this, and who the person on this note is and call us. No no, better not. All of your voices are beyond shrill over the phone. Text. Text me."

Lestrade cleared his throat, an air of authority surrounding him. He was the head detective after all. "Sherlock, things are pretty heavy against you right now. People are going to talk. She was your ex girlfriend after all. Those bloody tabloids just stopped running those sex scandal stories."

Sherlock's face was cold and his mouth pressed into a hard line. He was trying to make it seem like he didn't care. He did though; it was obvious to John at least. His voice was deep, unruly calm. "I had nothing to do with this, Detective Inspector. She threw my name under the bus and tried to make a quick spot of cash. I didn't care then, and I don't care now. She served her purpose to me. This, this was a crime of passion. As a respect to what she thought we had together, I will find her killer. Maybe I just want this to be over with, but Janine didn't deserve this fate."

The three Yarders stood there in shocked silence; the bite in the hat detective's voice almost visibly stunning them. Flipping up his collar, Sherlock started to walk off. He threw a hand up to signal a goodbye and slowed his pace so that his short legged doctor could follow. John had a gentle bounce in his run as his shoes slapped against the wet pavement. "So where do we go from there, Sherlock? If the notes a fake, then what?"

"I don't know, John. I don't like not knowing." Sherlock's hands were stuffed into his coat pocket, his jaw tight in annoyance.

The doctor nodded and fell into his normal stride with his friend slightly leading the way. He pulled his jumper around himself just a bit tighter, the cold starting to break through the fabric. Sherlock glanced over at John and gave a slight nod of his head, moving to the edge of the walk way to flag down a cab. Sherlock didn't want his flatmate's shoulder to seize or the arthritis to flare on his account.

Sherlock stripped his wet wool overcoat from his frame and tossed it onto the coat rack beside the doorway. He felt annoyed and mildly tired but there was no point in laying down when there was a case on hand. John followed suit in marching up the steps and shedding layers. Sherlock watched although absent from the plane of reality.

Down to his trousers and a button down shirt, John looked up at Sherlock's still oddly penetrating gaze. The detective's eyes were glassy and his face softened; but if anyone other than John saw him this way, the doctor was sure the normal population would see scrutiny. Clearing his throat slightly, it was obvious how tired the older of the two was. "Right. I'm going to bed then. G'night Sherlock. Try and eat or get some form of rest. You can put Cluedo in my room if she really does start to bother you."

Sherlock nodded as he pressed into the comforting material of his favorite chair. He didn't know what to think. He had been so sure that Janine had been behind Moriarty's reappearance. Everything had fit so well... What could he of missed that gave her such a damned fate? In a momentary break, Sherlock watched John's retreating form, the ever familiar sound of the stairs following him.

It was beyond selfish to be happy to have John back home, so immersed in his life once more; Sherlock couldn't help it though. Everything had been going so well, things were so...back to how they had once been. It was truly comforting to the reclusive detective. It wasn't as if Sherlock was happy about John and Mary's crumbled marriage, so what did he really have to feel guilty for?

merroww.

Sherlock's brain almost went fuzzy at the distinct feline sound. His eyes darted around and he caught sight of the little animal at the doorway. The dark haired male felt his eyes dull at the way the cat walked through the living room. She was so bold, like she knew this was her rightful place to be. How loathsome.

He watched the cat moving through the maze of books and turned to focus on her. It would be bad manners to let his flatmate's cat get hurt on one of his experiments or any of the science equipment, right? The tuxedo fur cat was padding along as if his gaze didn't bother her in the slightest.

Sherlock's nose twitched and with a defeated sigh, he moved to the shared kitchen for a cup of late night tea. He had more pressing matters to worry about than a stupid animal ambling around the sitting room. Though there really were better things yet, maybe sleep just wasn't that bad of an idea.