It was true, neither Temperance Brennan nor Sherlock Holmes were trained law-enforcement professionals, but both had spent enough time around cops and criminals to know that the first suspect in a murder investigation is always the spouse. However, since neither they nor Watson nor Booth had any actual jurisdiction in these matters, nor any authority to get the victim's husband into an interrogation room yet (Booth was still trying to get hold of some friends who could pull some strings), they had to use clandestine means.

Mr. Trent Leonard arrived at the lab at the appointed time. He had been told that the remains of his wife had been found, and that they needed someone to do some identification, though on the phone, Molly Hooper had been very careful (via Sherlock's prodding) not to say specifically that he would be identifying the remains.

"Why not?" she had asked, immediately regretting the question.

Sherlock had stared at her deadpan for a few seconds in disbelief, then he'd said, "A five-second glance at the remains should give you that answer, Molly, and I'd wager that you are now regretting asking, so we'll just move on." There had been a pause, and then he'd added, "Plus, there is one other advantage to not discussing the state of the remains with the spouse."

All those listening, even Molly, had understood his meaning and nodded along.

And so, "Good morning Mr. Leonard," Molly said cordially when the victim's husband stepped inside. "I'm very sorry for your loss."

"Let's just get this over with, shall we?" he said, rather more annoyed than sombre.

She led him into a part of the lab where evidence was examined, though not human remains. The expensive MacArdle's plaid shirt was laid out on a chrome table, torn in a few places, rotted in others and soaked with blood. Beside it was a pair of trousers, also an expensive brand, in much the same state.

And in that room waited two pairs of razor-sharp, inscrutible eyes and two ridiculously judicious brains.

"Who are you lot?" Leonard asked.

"This is Temperance Brennan and I am Sherlock Holmes," the taller of the two said. "We are both working on your wife's case."

Leonard responded with an uncomfortable ":Oh, hello," and then began gazing at the clothing on the table.

"These are mine," he said. "Was my wife wearing them?"

"Yes," Brennan said. "Do you have any idea why she would do that?"

At the sound of her voice Leonard's eyes snapped to hers, and he said, "American? Really?" He looked now back and forth between Sherlock and Molly and said, "Can she do that?"

"I assure you she can, now answer the question Mr. Leonard," Sherlock said with absolutely no sensitivity nor attempt to hide the fact that Mr. Leonard was a suspect.

"Erm, no, I don't have any idea why she would have been wearing my clothes," he answered.

"These clothes are rather expensive," Brennan pointed out. "You must be quite affluent. What do you do for a living?"

"Landscaping," Sherlock told her, on Mr. Leonard's behalf.

"Yes, landscaping," Leonard confirmed.

"How did you know that?" Brennan whispered.

"Look at his shoes and trouser cuffs – blackened with dirt, but not just any dirt: potting soil. He spends a lot of time climbing around amongst plants that have been planted specifically, and not just in pots, but on the ground. But he can't be an amateur gardener, which you would see if you looked at his hands. They are not callused from manual labour, nor are his fingernails blackened by the same soil. His white dress shirt is crisply pressed and still white. So, climbing about in soil but never getting one's hands dirty, coupled with the means and inclination to purchase a single hideous plaid shirt at two hundred pounds a pop? Owns his own landscaping business."

Leonard stared at Sherlock with disbelief and a bit of fear.

"Honestly Dr. Brennan, how do you solve any crimes at all?" asked Sherlock.

"With access to the FBI database, we can find things out for certain without having to speculate based on the state of a person's pants," she told him, not happy.

"Trousers. You're in London now – pants are undergarments. Pay attention," he snapped.

"Excuse me," Mr. Leonard interjected. "Is this all you'll be needing from me?"

"Why do you assume this is all we need from you?" asked Sherlock, scrutinising the man.

"Er, I… what?" he asked.

"Answer the question, Mr. Leonard," Brennan demanded. "Or are you in a big hurry to leave?"

"As it happens, I do have other things to do," answered the man angrily. "You asked me here to identify some things – I've done that."

Sherlock and Brennan looked at each other, in the first sign of conspiratorial camaraderie they had shared since the Americans had arrived in London. They both knew, without asking, without sharing their thoughts, that they were thinking the same thing. Sometimes geniuses, even when their methods differ, can find themselves kindred in an unlikely moment.

They had him a bit on the ropes now, even if he didn't know it. And even Sherlock Holmes and Temperance Brennan had some inkling that they should tread lightly, if they wanted to keep him ignorant.

In theory, anyway. In execution, well…

"Time of death was determined as four months ago," Dr. Brennan said. "What was going on in your lives?"

"Well, I had just received a new, large contract which promised to bring in major cash," Leonard answered. "But that had nothing to do with Jessica."

"An account in Surrey?" asked Sherlock, unsubtly.

"As a matter of fact, Mr. Holmes," replied Leonard, irritated. "No. Not in Surrey."

"Was your wife having an affair, Mr. Leonard?" asked Brennan.

"What kind of a question is that?" Leonard shouted.

"A remarkably insightful and pertinent one, coming from a mere scientist," Sherlock pointed out to the man. "So give the nice lady your answer, if you please."

Leonard's jaw dropped at the tone of Sherlock's voice. "You… you people are insufferable."

"You're wearing a three-hundred-pound shirt with a four-pound aftershave. And we're the insufferable ones?" Sherlock asked. After a pause, he asked, "Were you the one having an affair?"

"And if so, did she know about it?" Brennan added.

"And I'd suggest you tell us the truth," from Sherlock. "We have ways of finding out."

"In the first place, there are your phone records," Brennan continued. "We can track your calls – frequency and length, we could even subpoena recordings, if there are any."

"Those records will give us times of calls and location of signals, and CCTV footage might show us precisely where you were when you made the calls, and your body language will speak volumes, Mr. Leonard," said Sherlock. "When people don't think they're being watched, they do the darndest things."

"We can have your home searched for evidence of another female presence, and have your bedsheets tested for bodily excretions from someone other than you or your wife," from Brennnan. "And even if they have been washed, my team at the Jeffersonian is very, very good. We have the most precise instruments for testing particulates, and possibly the best scientist in his field on the job there."

"We can also have your home observed," Sherlock threatened. "Your wife's belongings inspected, her handwriting analysed, her hairbrush looked at. Signs of stress and anger are very apparent, and you won't have even realised it."

Trent Leonard stood gaping at the two of them, absolutely at a loss. He certainly was not going to answer their questions, but he didn't know what the hell else to say! He had an idea that any threat would be met with bravado and that any mention of social decorum would be met with ignorance and more questions.

"I am not saying another word," he insisted. "This conversation, which should never have taken place to begin with, is over."

With that, the man turned on his heel and walked out of the lab through the door which he had used to enter.


What Brennan and Sherlock had missed was that during their ambush of Mr. Leonard, Molly Hooper had slipped out through a side door and gone into an office to use the phone.

"Dr. Watson?" she asked. "It's Molly. At the lab."

"Yes, Molly," Watson said. "What can I do for you?"

"Sherlock and Dr. Brennan are talking to Mr. Leonard now."

"Oh, that was quick. And?"

"They're putting him on the run," Molly said.

"How do you mean?"

"He's a suspect, that pretty much goes without saying, right?"

"Hang on, I'm going to put you on speaker so Agent Booth can hear." A click, and then, "Okay, say that again, Molly."

She took a deep breath. "Okay. The husband is almost certainly a suspect, yeah?"

"Yeah," said Booth. "The spouse is always the first person we look at."

"Well, I would say that there's a relatively good chance he did it, since Sherlock told me to call him and tell him to come in and identify some things," she explained, rather nervously. "And when he got here, he identified his own clothing which the victim had been wearing when the remains were found, but he did not ask why ne couldn't identify the remains themselves. Sherlock and Brennan laid that as a trap, to see if he'd ask. If he didn't…"

"…it meant that he might know that the remains were in no shape for identification," Booth finished. "They were seeing if he'd slip, and he did. Got it."

"Right," Molly said. "So, they're in there, and they're ambushing him from all sides. They're telling him about all the things they suspect and how they have their super-clever ways of finding out… it's like they can't help themselves! The two of them together… no subtlety whatsoever! They're like a couple of battering rams!"

"Well, you know our Sherlock," Watson said bitterly.

"Don't you see, they're going to make him clam up and get a lawyer! Or... they'll make him sue, and who could blame him? Dr. Watson, Sherlock needs a rescue, or he's going to make things worse."

"Okay," Watson said. "We're right next door at that diner. Is Mr. Leonard still there?"

Molly listened. Then she said, "It sounds like he just told them off and left!"


"Mr. Leonard, I presume," Watson said, striding in through the front lobby of the morgue, just as Trent Leonard was leaving in a huff. He was extending his hand for a shake, and didn't wait for the surprised man to reach out. He just took the hand and shook it.

Anyone watching would have been amazed at the utter forwardness and sprightly demeanour of the ordinarily reserved doctor.

"Y-yes," Leonard said. "Who are you, exactly?"

"I'm Dr. John Watson. I just received a call from one of my lab assistants – she was very concerned. I must apologise profusely on behalf of Mr. Holmes and Dr. Brennan," he said. "I heard they were rather unabashed with you."

"You could say that."

"Well, that is certainly not the policy of our establishment," Watson said. "We are not in the business of harrassing innocent men who have just lost their wives. So sorry to hear about that, sir."

"Thank you," Leonard said, still rather taken aback. "Who are those two, anyway?"

"They work here," Watson nodded, sighing, feigning exasperation. "Two of my best examiners – Dr. Brennan is one of our pathologists, on loan, if you will, from the Jeffersonian, and Holmes is a Ph.D. candidate. Brilliant in the lab, terrible with people. I keep telling them it is not their job to interrogate, but… you know how mad geniuses are. They get a bee in their bonnet and cannot let it go."

"Right."

"So please accept our apologies, Mr. Leonard," Watson said, this time holding out his hand for a firm shake, and waiting for the man to respond. "This will not happen again."

"Well, thank you, Dr. Watson," Leonard replied, shaking hands. "You do those two weirdos much credit."

John smiled.

When Trent Leonard was out of earshot, John ploughed through into the lab. He found Sherlock and Brennan with Molly. He hadn't heard what they'd been saying or doing, but Molly was in tears, Sherlock was standing with his fists clenched as though he'd been verbally machine-gunning her, and Brennan was frowning intensely.

Watson went to Molly and took her into a hug. "Okay, the two of you are not allowed to talk to people from now on."

"I can't believe she called you," Sherlock spat. "I'm not a child! I'm not a bloody simpleton! I save that designation for…"

"Sherlock, shut up! Look at what you've done!" Watson shot back, gesturing to the crying woman.

A pause ensued, in which John actually dared to hope that one of them, in Molly's words, the "battering rams," would have the wherewithal to apologise to the lovely Miss Hooper, but no such luck.

"Where's Booth?" asked Dr. Brennan.

"He's still at the diner next door," Watson said. "We thought it best if Mr. Leonard didn't see him for now."