There was a patrol car in front of Roland Sandford's small house and two bored uniformed officers keeping an eye on the morbidly fascinated neighbours and the media people who were still hanging about. These latter swarmed Lestrade when he arrived with Sherlock, but the consulting detective ignored them, clattering up the short set of stairs to the front door and stopping just outside the entrance. He fished a pair of latex gloves he'd taken from the morgue from his pocket and put them on, taking care not to snag the left glove on his wedding ring. It had taken Sherlock about a day of practice to learn to do this properly, and John had caught him at it with a baffled look, until Sherlock explained that he was not going to be found taking the ring on and off. He wasn't bothered if John did so for work, he said, but he would prefer not to. The following day, he'd been the one to catch John practicing with the gloves, although the doctor seemed much more adapt at it, possibly because he didn't over-think the action.
Sandford's own wedding ring had a polished inner surface, but only in the middle of said surface. He twisted it a lot, but didn't remove it. A worrier or someone who was distracted about something – difficult to tell, perhaps both. It was dirty enough to indicate it hadn't been cleaned on a regular basis, at least not for several years. This was another thing Sherlock avoided – once a month, he'd taken John to the jewellers where he'd purchased the rings and had them both cleaned, until John got tired of making the trek and bought Sherlock a small cleaning kit of their own. Sherlock collected the rings every month still and cleaned them. It was important, he had told John, who seemed to accept that.
Sherlock stepped inside, not consenting to suit up. He was out of Amanda's territory now, and would be damned if he gave way to Anderson about anything. A CSU tech he vaguely recognized was inside the house, dusting for fingerprints, and they nodded to each other as Sherlock stepped into the livingroom. She gave his bruises and bite marks a curious look, but didn't comment, turning back to her work. It was nice, Sherlock thought, when at least one person didn't consider his personal life to be any of their business.
His grey eyes swept the scene, such as it was. It was not difficult to identify the chair in which Sandford had been sitting when he'd been shot, since there was drying blood from the bullet wound on the mildly offensive floral upholstery. The chair in which Sandford had died was matched by a second one and a small loveseat arranged around a low oak coffee table, all contained on an off-white area rug in the middle of the sitting room. Facing him was a fireplace with a faux marble mantle, covered in framed photographs and two candles, mostly burnt down, but dust covered, so not used in awhile. Sherlock avoided the carpet, so as not to disturb any footprints, and crossed the room to the mantle, running an eye over the photographs. Sandford and a woman in almost all of them, so his wife. He glanced about the livingroom again, which was neat and clean, but there was a thin layer of dust on most of the surfaces – this room was cleaned on a regular basis, but not by Sandford himself. So his wife wasn't here, but the pictures still were, so he hadn't left her. Nor had she left him; the dust on the picture frames was undisturbed by recent fingerprints, so Sandford had not been picking them up to gaze at them. If she'd left him, he would have been mooning about, selecting a favourite photo to stare at, probably in collaboration with a bottle of wine, or rum. Sherlock recalled the corpse in the morgue. No, probably vodka for him, he decided. So the wife was away, but not somewhere that troubled Sandford, since he hadn't kept up the cleaning, so probably business, which wouldn't be for long, and would be routine.
He didn't glance back when Anderson came in and harangued him about being out of a suit. Sherlock walked around the back of the area rug, on the patch of hardwood between the chairs and the mantle and stopped behind the chair in which Sandford had died. He evaluated the carpet quickly, then frowned.
The carpet was clean of footprints right where there should have been a set from the shooter. It was a mess of others, of course, the police and paramedics who had been on scene. But there were recent vacuum marks as well, underneath that. The killer had stopped to vacuum away his presence? He crouched down, examining the coffee table and the end table that sat beside Sandford's chair. Both clean, and except for some blood and gunshot residue. No coffee cup marks or dust, but the rest of the surfaces in the livingroom were dusty. So the killer had cleaned this up, too.
He chewed absently on his lower lip, then reminded himself, for the second time that day now, not do that.
He went into the kitchen and opened the dishwasher, pulling out the top rack. The dishes were clean, and all of the glassware and porcelain were dry, but not the plastic storage containers. Sherlock pressed his right wrist carefully to the top of one glass, and it was cool, so it had been several hours since the dishwasher had completed its cycle, but it hadn't been opened, because the plasticware hadn't been given a proper chance to dry. Sandford's time of death had been between ten the previous and midnight, so either he had done this before he died, or the killer had.
Sherlock went back into the livingroom, easily sidestepping the CSU woman, Clara, he recalled, and headed back for the front door. He pulled it open, glancing at the inner edge, then twisted the deadbolt, which swung out easily. Sherlock closed the door again and tried the deadbolt now, with the same results. No scratches on the door, nor round the chain on the inside surface of the door, so Sandford had unlocked it and admitted however killed him. Someone he knew and trusted then, so maybe the wife? No, too obvious, and why drug him and not just shoot him?
He opened the door to see Lestrade coming up the stairs, looking harassed.
"Where's the wife?" he asked.
"On her way back from Glasgow," the inspector replied.
Sherlock nodded, barring access, and chewed on his lower lip.
"Merde!" he cursed, pressing his wrist against his lip again. "I need John."
Lestrade sighed and arched an eyebrow.
"I really don't need to know about that," he said.
Sherlock gave him a glare.
"I need someone I can work with," he snapped. "You have a much bigger problem than just the murder here."
Lestrade looked surprised.
"What?" he hissed, pushing his way into the house to escape the ears and boom mikes of the media people. Sherlock shut the door to keep them out as well. Anderson was still hovering, looking displeased.
"This was a hit," Sherlock said. "Not just a murder. So the person you're looking for is a professional."
"Merde!" Lestrade echoed Sherlock's earlier sentiment, looking haggard. "Are you certain?"
"The killer drugged Sandford, then shot him, then cleaned up very effectively after himself, but didn't bother to hide the body or anything pertaining the actual shooting – there's blood and gun residue on the tables, but nothing else. The bullet wound was direct and clean and dead center of the forehead, so whoever shot him was trained and experienced. They wanted you to find him dead, because this was just a job. No passion, no anger – this wasn't personal."
"But why?" Lestrade asked, looking resigned.
"Don't know, not yet," the consulting detective replied. "Can you go round and fetch John? I'll need his help."
"I'm not your errand boy," Lestrade growled.
Sherlock checked his watch, ignoring the comment.
"He's on right now, but by the time you got there, he'd be finishing. Early Friday for him, and he had an evening clinic last week, so even earlier this Friday. However, if you don't want me to get anything else done…"
"Fine," Lestrade snapped. "But you'd better have this resolved by the end of the day, then."
Sherlock shrugged noncommittally and waited until Lestrade reached for the door again before returning to the livingroom. He settled into Sandford's chair and glanced around, establishing where the shooter would have been based on the distance of the gun, the location of the shot, and the angle of the entry wound.
No, he was too tall.
"Anderson, sit," he ordered.
"Not a chance," the other man said.
"Clara?" Sherlock asked, rolling his eyes at Anderson, who sneered in return.
The tech came out of the kitchen, with an expression that said she was having no real success with her fingerprint search.
"No, too short," Sherlock said. "You're about his height, Anderson. Sit."
Grumbling, Anderson sat with bad grace and Sherlock stepped a meter away from him, evaluating him carefully, ignoring the angry expression on his face. He raised his right hand, aiming two fingers at the other man, then frowned, shaking his head.
"No, that's wrong," he said. "The angle is too sharp."
He lowered his arm, trying to adjust his aim so that he could mimic the position of the gun based on the bullet wound.
Still too tall.
He bent his knees, ignoring Anderson's growing displeasure, until he thought he had it right, but it was still difficult to tell.
"Clara, come here," he said and she appeared from the kitchen again, circling the carpet and stepping up next to him. Sherlock adjusted her position, raising her right arm, then her left, then her right again, deciding the shooter had been right handed.
"Almost," he said. "How tall are you?"
"One-sixty," she replied.
"So we're looking for someone between one sixty-three and one sixty-eight," Sherlock said. "Short for a man, but that would explain why he needed to incapacitate Sandford before shooting him. Sandford was one eighty-three, one eighty-four, not strong by the looks of him, but tall enough that he could put up a fight against someone that shooter's size."
"But how would he have gotten Sandford to sit still long enough to drug him?" Anderson asked.
"Something in his drink or food," Sherlock replied. "Which is why the dishwasher's been run and the tables have been cleaned before he was shot. We need to check the garbages for bottles and food, not that there will be anything, of course. He wasn't sloppy at anything else."
"I'll get some more teams in," Anderson sighed, pushing himself from the chair.
"Good, you do that," Sherlock muttered. "I'm going to check upstairs."
"For what?"
"For some indication as to why Sandford was the target of a hit."
Greg Lestrade found his way to John Watson's surgery – it was the first time he'd ever been to the clinic, although he had sent officers over before, when John had been attacked by Moriarty in the spring. It felt like a lifetime ago, especially now that the madman was dead.
There were still patients in the waiting area when he arrived, and it was still early enough in the day that no one was panicked about not making their appointment due to the inevitable delays doctors seemed to experience. Lestrade approached the reception desk and flashed his badge.
"Doctor Watson still here?" he asked.
"Yes," the receptionist answered, looking surprised. "He's in his office, getting ready to leave, I think. Everything all right?"
"What? Oh yes, he's needed to consult on a case. Can you point me to his office?"
The young woman obliged and Lestrade made his way down the hall. John's office door was slightly ajar, and he could hear the doctor moving about inside, so he rapped lightly on the frame and pushed the door inward with his fingertips.
"John?" he enquired and John spun, obviously startled. Lestrade was momentarily taken aback by the expression on the doctor's face – he hadn't realized he'd disturbed John so abruptly, but the mild surprise turned to immediate concern when John went white and gripped the edge of his desk.
"John!" Lestrade said, stepping inside, circling the desk quickly as the doctor sank into his chair, knuckles going white against the edge of his desk. "Do you need another doctor? What is it?"
He saw John's jaw muscles working and the jumping of a vein in his temple. Lestrade was disconcerted – he hadn't seen John like this in quite some time.
"Oh, Lord," he realized. "No, everything is fine. Himself needs your assistance on a case."
John stared at Lestrade a moment, then released his hold on his desk, dropping his head into his hands and letting out an abrupt sigh. Before the inspector could say anything else, John reached out without looking and grabbed his mobile, ringing a number. A moment later, Lestrade could hear Sherlock's voice faintly on the other end of the line, launching into some description of whatever he was working on at the moment in Sandford's house.
"Right bloody genius, aren't you?" John yelled, cutting his husband off, the suddenness and severity making Lestrade draw back. "What the sodding hell is your problem, Sherlock? What the hell were you thinking? No, don't answer that! Were you even bloody thinking? Maybe you should try it sometime, since you seem to hold it in such high regard!"
There was a pause as John drew a breath and Lestrade could hear Sherlock's voice again.
"What do I mean? What do I mean? You bloody useless bloody idiot! You sent Greg round to get me without ringing me on today of all days?" There was another pause, and John's nostrils flared. "How did you think I'd react? Of course I thought there was a problem!"
Lestrade could hear Sherlock admonishing John to calm down and thought the doctor needed to heed that advice. For a moment, John seemed balanced on a knife's edge, then sucked in a deep breath and, with difficulty, reasserted control over himself. Lestrade had seen others who were well-trained do that, police officers and army officers alike. He knew how much time and energy had to go into learning to do something like that.
Especially when trying to do so in the face of Sherlock Holmes.
John cut off the call while Sherlock was in mid-sentence and tossed the phone back on the desk, glaring at it as though it had offended him. Then he rubbed his eyes, the ring on his left hand catching the overhead fluorescent lights. He looked more tired than normal, Lestrade noted, but then, given the bruises Sherlock was sporting today, perhaps that wasn't a surprise. Lestrade then wished he hadn't thought that last bit.
"Sorry," John muttered. "I just-" He cut himself off, as though he wasn't sure how to finish his thought.
"I still need you there," Lestrade said plainly. "I need Sherlock to solve this, and he wants you. I don't need to put up with his sulks today."
"What is it? The case, I mean," John sighed.
"Hit," Lestrade replied tersely and saw John's expression change. "Yes. That's why I can't deal with the sulks."
John was silent for a moment, then stood, shedding his lab coat.
"Right," he muttered, his expression dark.
"I need him to work," Lestrade stressed.
"I'll let him," John replied, snagging his coat. "Just as soon as I've given him a piece of my mind."
John stalked into the Sandford house, ignoring the small crowd outside, but snapping on a pair of gloves almost instinctively. There were officers inside, but he ignored them as well, eyes focusing on Sherlock, who was waiting for him. John's eyes darted over the bruises on his husband's neck and the swollen lower lip, which seemed to have been bleeding again, and wondered if he had actually done all of that. It seemed ages ago, and he was too livid to imagine wanting to do anything pleasurable to Sherlock at the moment.
Before he could say anything, Sherlock snagged his wrist, cast a look at Lestrade over John's shoulder, and towed John through the house, out the back door and into the small garden. It wasn't much in the way of privacy, but it was better than inside the house or out front, with the reporters for company. He stopped them near the edge of the house, where the view from the windows would be more difficult, although John was well aware that the neighbours could probably see them.
Again, before he could speak, Sherlock raised his own gloved hands to John's face, grey eyes meeting brown.
"John, I am sorry," he said quickly and softly. "No, I did not think about it. I had no idea it was bothering you this much until you started sleep walking last night."
At this, John was startled.
"I was sleep walking? Why didn't you tell me?"
A faint smile tugged on Sherlock's lips.
"Didn't really give me the chance this morning, did you?" he replied. His eyes flickered over John's face, drinking in details John was certain no one else would ever have seen. "Why didn't you tell me you were having nightmares about it?"
John sighed, closing his eyes, feeling his anger drain away, leaving only fatigue in its place, along with the lingering fear that had been haunting him the past few days.
"I always have nightmares," he replied, opening his eyes.
"Yes, I know," Sherlock said. "That doesn't mean you need to stop telling me. Especially now, if it's really bothering you." He paused again, his eyes still locked on John's. "It's been a year, John. Today or tomorrow or yesterday, it doesn't matter. It isn't going to happen again."
"I know that, Sherlock," John sighed. "But not everyone is as rational as you."
"What are you dreaming?" Sherlock asked.
John sighed again, closing his eyes again, dropping his head slightly.
"No, tell me," Sherlock pressed.
"That it's you in the morgue when Greg comes to fetch me," John said in a tired voice. "Or you on the bridge instead of Sam. Or Moriarty shooting you, instead of the other way around."
He felt Sherlock's thumbs stroking the skin beside his left eye gently.
"Those things didn't happen."
"I know they didn't happen, Sherlock," he said. "But that's how dreams are."
"John."
"Mmm?"
"Look at me."
Reluctantly, John opened his eyes again, raising them to meet Sherlock's.
"I am not going anywhere," he said. "I am not dying because I've been hit by a delivery truck. I am not falling off a bridge. I am not being shot. I am not in the morgue. I'm right here. And I will stay right here. I have absolutely no intention of missing out on the rest of my life with you."
John managed a small smile and saw it reflected in Sherlock's eyes. His husband moved his right hand to John's chin, tilting his head upward slightly and leaning down to kiss him gently. John kissed back, feeling Sherlock's swollen lower lip and the slight tremble in it that told him that the bruise was tender at the contact. They stayed that way for several minutes in the cold January air, then drew apart, resting their foreheads together. John bundled his hands into his pockets, wishing he had something more than latex gloves on.
"Now," Sherlock said with a faint smile. "I really do need your help on this case."