"John, do try not to cough," Sherlock said without looking away from the computer screen. He was going through some of the patient records, the legality of his actions questionable at best.

"I'm sorry, what?" John asked, puzzled. Sherlock didn't look away from the computer. At that moment, John felt an itch in this throat, he tried to swallow but it was still there. He attempted to cleared his throat as quietly as he could, which only made it worse, so he to muffled a cough in the sleeve of his jacket.

"Yes, that, exactly."

"You don't want me to cough?"

"It's annoying."

Just when John thought he knew what to expect from Sherlock, that madman always said something that threw him for a loop.

"I wasn't coughing," John said, holding back the urge to do just that. "Not before, I wasn't coughing before that last one." Then his chest betrayed him, feeling constricted, forcing him to cough again.

Sherlock turned away from the computer to give John a disapproving look.

"Are you serious right now?" John asked, incredulously. Before Sherlock could reply with a undoubtably snarky comment, the door to the lab swung open, and Molly came bustling in toward them.

Molly had been finishing the autopsy on Dr. Culver's body. Second, of course, to that of Sherlock. As expected, Sherlock's original deductions stood true, the doctor had died earlier that day right here at Bart's, from apparently a very bad case of pneumonia. His wife came home to find him passed out on their stairwell and took him to his place of work for emergency treatment. The pneumonia was abundant in his lungs by then, and there really isn't much anyone can do to fight a viral infection. Even though, the virus seemed incredibly strong in a supposedly health man. How the virus even could infect him was the very fact that puzzled Molly, since a typical, healthy immune system can easily feign off pneumonia.

"Any theories?" John asked, muffling another cough.

Sherlock glanced at him just a bit too long, causing John to clear his throat.

"Yes, eleven actually," he said, turning back to Molly. "Have you heard any news from other hospitals?"

"A few, nothing yet."

Molly seemed in unusually good spirits for a woman who just stumbled upon a possible murder case. But she had always been rather chipper.

"Are you going to clue me in to a few of your theories?"

"Yes." Sherlock made no effort to continue.

John glanced at Molly, who quickly attempted to look busy with a plethora of test tubes, dropping a couple on the floor. She winced as the glass shattered.

"Sorry," she squeaked.

"Okay, so is this definitely murder?" John inquired .

"Possible." Sherlock murmured as he scrolled some more on the computer.

"Serial killer? Someone after a doctor and his patience?"

No answer.

"How did the doctor get sick, though, that seems off."

"Poison, John." Sherlock interceded.

"So you did find traces of poison?" he asked. "I thought that was ruled out."

"When all other possibilities have been eliminated-"

"Yes, yes, got it, but you have proof, you have found the poison?"

"Yes."

"Which one?"

"Dioxin."

"Ah," John knew about the effects Dioxin had on Horne body. "Killer poisons his victims, but not to actually kill them, just weakens the victims, attacking their immune systems."

"Until any number of usually mild diseases comes along, and finishes the job," Sherlock finished. "Brilliant."

"Leaves a lot to chance, doesn't it?" John noted. "So, they were definitely all poisoned?"

"No time now, John, can't you see I'm busy?" He scrolled the wheel on the mouse, doing his best to look incredibly bored.

Molly gave John a sympathetic look, but made no other effort to fill him in. John hated it when Sherlock purposefully kept him out of the loop for whatever reason, but knew better than to press much further at the moment.

"Mary is waiting," he announced as he gathered his things and departed. Molly watched him leave, shooting Sherlock as disapproving glare which he ignored.

"You should be kinder to your friends," Molly lectured, pulling off her latex gloves, having a bit of trouble with the left one.

When Sherlock made no attempt to respond she continued to her work, she had other bodies to attend to today. Just then, Sherlock broke his gaze with the computer, stopping Molly with his eyes.

"You look rather nice today. Is that a new necklace? Really becomes you."

"Flirting? Aren't we past all that?" She held her ground, but her fingers betrayed her, unconsciously touching her necklace.

"Right, of course, my apologies, old habit," he stood up, turning his entire body toward Her.

"If you need a favor, you can just ask," she looked at him expectantly.

"I am asking," he countered. She narrowed her eyes in warning, until he added in a high pitched tone, "please?"

"Are you feeling okay? Is it about the other night?" she guessed. He looked down at her slightly, his eyes foreboding and serious; she realized that she had indeed hit the nail on the head, though that wasn't what he was initially requesting her to help with. Instinctively, she glanced around her shoulders. "You can tell me, er, if it's safe to talk?"

"Always assume it's never safe, not presently."

"Mycroft said anything yet?"

"He's keeping his distance."

"I take it you haven't told John."

"Not yet."

"So no one else knows?" She shouldn't feel so surprised that he naturally cut out his best friend from the important things. Had she really expected anything else from Sherlock?

"Wiggins, obviously," he replied. "But I would prefer no one else."

"I can keep a secret."

"I know."

"I'm sorry, got off topic, what is it you needed?"

Sherlock handed her a bundle of cloth, at first glance she gathered he wrapped one of his shirts around a small box. "I need you to teat this for me."

"Sherlock is acting strange." John immediately told Mary when he finally arrived home from Bart's.

"Is that supposed to be news, dear?" Mary asked, fixing the tea. Her phone buzzed with a new text.

"Mary, I wish you would let me do that," John chided his pregnant wife as she set the cups on the tray.

"Nonsense, John, I'm pregnant, not ill," she scooped out some sugar for her tea, adding only cream to John's. "I would go mad if I couldn't do even simple things because of my worried husband." Lifting the tray with one hand, she made her way to the front room to join him.

"There is definitely something he is not telling me," John sneered. "Wouldn't be the first time."

On her way to the sofa she stopped by the thermostat, turning the heater up a few degrees with her pinky.

"You make it too easy to keep things from you," she teased.

John glared at the woman who called herself Mary Watson.

"What? Too soon?" She laughed, cuddling up on the sofa. A chill swept over her, causing her to rub her arms. "Hand me that blanket, would you? I'm am completely frozen."

John tossed the blanket over to her, wiping the sweat off his brow with his other hand.

"I've been looking into that Doctor Culver, he is considered the best attending doctor to the ICU, groundbreaking research, really up and coming." John sat in his chair in Sherlock's flat. Mary had pushed him to get out of the house for a bit this morning, which usually meant go visit Sherlock.

"Hmm, yes." Sherlock did not look up from the Sunday paper.

"Dr. Smith and Dr. Culver often butted heads, nothing serious, just friendly competition, apparently," John mulled over his notes from the interviews from Friday.

"I wouldn't describe it as 'friendly'," Sherlock muttered, turning the page. "You've been interviewing them all wrong, John, you need to get the gossip, the uncensored version."

"Right, and how do you suggest I get that?"

"Do what I do."

"No, I'd rather not."

"Fine."

Sherlock sat for a while on silence, reading a short article about a pig who supposedly walked across the country of France to find the body of his owner who had been brutally murdered, when he folded over the top of the paper to peer at John.

"How has your health been recently?"

"Fine, I'm fine,"

Sherlock studied his friends face, reading the lie.

"Oh my God, Sherlock, what do you know?"

"It's probably nothing."

"No, it's never nothing with you, what did you find?"

"I can't show friendly concern for ones health?" Sherlock's eyes mimicked that of a puppy, causing John to sigh loudly.

"So, do you think Moriarty is still alive?" John changed the subject. When Sherlock did not immediately reply, John continued. "You doing that thing again."

"What thing?"

"That thing where you already solved the murder but you let it play out for your own self benefit. I've never seen you take this long on a case like this before. Either your deductive skills are slipping or this is part of the game."

"I don't pretend to have any idea what you are talking about," Sherlock looked at his watch. The door bell rang. "Ah, right on time."

"Are you expecting someone?"

"No, you are."

"No, I don't think I am."

"Sure you are," Sherlock opened the door just as a woman John had interviewed at the hospital came up the stairs.

"Hope I am not late?" she said.

"No, no, right on time," Sherlock guided her into the flat, having her sit on the couch. "Dr. Watson would like to follow up with you, from the other day."

John glared at Sherlock. "I'm sorry, I seem to have forgotten your name, miss...?"

"Angelina."

"Right. Can you give me a moment, please, Angelina?"

"Sure."

"Thank you." John smiled at their guest while ushering Sherlock just outside the door, dropping his voice to a low whisper. "Why do you insist upon making me conduct interviews, when clearly, you are not satisfied with my results?"

"Practice, John, you need it. So here you are. Besides I think you missed something key on this one."

"You already know what it is, why won't you just tell me?"

"Terribly busy, sorry," Sherlock tightened his scarf, "hate to walk out on you again, but pressing matters await. Please, do feel obliged to stay."

"Where are you going in such a rush, I thought you never left the flat for anything below a seven."

"The point?"

"This is hardly a six."

"Hmm, yes." Sherlock didn't say another word, shutting the door loudly to 221B Baker Street.

"Sorry about that, Angelina," John said, returning to the flat and taking a seat across from the woman. "You are a nurse at Bart's, right?"

The door knob jiggled. Molly had grown accustom to an on again off again roommate of sorts, though he did have a key. She noticed Toby seemed on edge, which immediately sent tingles up her spine as she slipped out of the bed as quietly as she could manage, pulling out the small six-shooter that Sherlock had insisted she keep on her at all times. Leaning against her bedroom door, she quieted her breathing to better listen for the intruder. The silence rang louder and louder in her mind. She gently turned the handle and gave the door a slight nudge. It swung open, revealing her empty front room. Her heart I. Her throat, she peered her head around the side of the door frame, and caught sight of a large figure sitting in her arm chair. She reacted instantly, drawing the gun out in front her, her finger on the trigger, ready to give it a squeeze.

"Good evening, Miss Hooper," greeted the shadow.

"Mycroft!" her heart pounded. "You gave me a fright." She dropped the gun to her side, breathing carefully in an attempt to bring down her racing heartbeat.

"Good to see my brother has armed you," he noted with familiar distaste in his voice.

Molly didn't respond, though she didn't put down the gun either.

"Ah, I see," he smirked, knowing the game. "Do pass along a message to my little brother, won't you?"

"You have his number," she retorted, her eyes followed the intruder as he nonchalantly stood up and strutted across her flat.

"I know what you and Sherlock are up to," he threatened. "And I don't like where things are headed. Consider this my first and only warning. Stop now, before someone, namely you, gets hurt."

"You know I can't do that," Molly blurted out a split second too quickly. She grimaced at her own haste.

"Oh, can't you?" Mycroft smirked, a playful glint in his eyes. "My brother is right, you can be incredibly useful at times. Perhaps an arrangement can be made?"

She opened her mouth to protest, however, an uncharacteristic thought occurred to her, changing her mind. "What sort of arrangement?"

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