THE ALUMINIUM DERP


John glanced down at his watch. It was seven past six. Still too early to jump to the conclusion that he'd been stood up. The doctor pulled his sleeve back down and looked up at the waiter who had come refill his water glass. John smiled sheepishly.

And then he spotted her. Felicia Dannenbaum, the coffee shop barista he'd been unintentionally flirting with for more than a week now before finally deciding to go the extra mile and ask her out.

Or… No, that wasn't quite true, was it? Felicia had written her number on his coffee cup first. And then John called her up and asked her out on a proper date. Technicalities.

Regardless, that brought him to this moment. The start of their first date. They were at a little French restaurant. Not super fancy, but John had a glance at the menu already and considering the price range, it might as well have been. Felicia came inside and immediately took off her coat to reveal she was wearing a white blouse tucked into a tight, knee-length black skirt; the first thing John had seen her in beside her barista uniform.

She said something to the host (probably that she was meeting someone), and John waved an arm to get her attention. Smiling upon spotting him, Felicia strode over to the rounded booth the man had claimed and slid in opposite him.

"You made it," John began.

Felicia made a guilty sort of face. "Oh. Yeah. Sorry about that, a girlfriend dropped me off after work, and she was running late to pick me up."

"It's fine. You just got off?"

"Sort of," Felicia nodded. "Busy day. Not bad for having picked out an outfit this morning and stashed it behind the counter all day, huh?"

"No. No, not bad at all," laughed John. "You look absolutely beautiful."

Felicia smirked. "Shut up."

"I'm serious."

"Well, I suppose you don't look so bad yourself."

John smiled back. God, this was awkward. Was it? Did she think it was awkward? He sure hoped she didn't find it awkward. Should she? John cleared his throat and looked down at his menu. "Ah, they have some really… fancy sounding pasta dishes here," he commented.

"Yes," Felicia said, glancing down at her own menu. "Perhaps we should start with something to drink, though?"

"What? Oh. Yes. Right. Of course. Naturally."

Felicia snorted.

"What?"

"God, this isn't your first time, is it?" she asked.

John blinked back at her from across the table. "Of course not."

"Then stop acting like it," Felicia mused. "You're all… I don't know, nervous. It's putting me off."

"Sorry," John swallowed. "It's, um. It's just been a while. This first date thing, I mean. That's all. I'll get back into the groove of it soon enough, I'm sure."

"Planning on going on a lot more first dates soon?" Felicia asked. "So this is, what, a practice run?"

John stared back at her blankly.

"Kidding. Hopefully."

John forced a smile as Felicia flagged down a waiter coming by and ordered drinks for the both of them. Their drinks came quickly enough and the conversation was slow at first as they fished around for topics that didn't seem too personal but also weren't horrifically boring stereotypical small talk. Still many of them veered toward the latter of the two.

"So. Uh. Kids?"

"They're alright," the woman shrugged.

"I mean do you have any," John clarified.

Felicia sipped at her glass and then smacked her lips together. "Yes and no." John nodded

understandably. "I've got custody over two nephews," she explained. "Since my sister passed nearly six months ago."

"I'm so sorry," John gasped.

Felicia met his eyes, her face dead serious for all of two seconds before she choked on laughter. John looked understandably concerned by this. "Sorry, I just" - Felicia made to wipe away a tear where there was none - "I was joking. My sister isn't dead, she's just in prison. Held up a drug store."

"That's… really not that much better."

The woman shifted in her seat, trying to compose herself again. "You're right. I'm sorry. That wasn't appropriate. She… Yeah. That was bad. But her boys are wonderful. Eight and eleven. Fight a lot, drive me up the wall sometimes, but you know. Kids will be kids." Felicia took another drink from her glass. "And what about you? Are you a daddy?"

John smiled awkwardly. "No. But not unlike you, there are two kids in my life. Surprisingly."

"What relation?" Felicia asked with interest that seemed genuine enough.

"None whatsoever."

"Adopted?"

"Not… as such."

Felicia looked confused now.

"My neighbors," John finally explained. "Both… sixteen, I think? It's kind of an unusual situation. They're over… pretty much all of the time. Drive my flatmate and I up the wall most days, but for the life of us we can't seem to keep them away."

"They'll do that," Felicia agreed.

There was a buzz from John's trouser pocket. He hesitated, momentarily debating if he ought to answer the phone or not, before taking out the device and glancing down at the incoming text message in his lap. "Speaking of," he said.

It was from Emily, and simply said:

Please come pick me up

John turned his phone over in his lap. "She wants me to pick her up," he said.

"Is she in trouble?" Felicia asked, sounding worried.

What's wrong? John texted Emily back.

After a moment the cell phone buzzed again:

Dying

John sighed, looked away, and then replied with: Of…?

Boredom came the girl's response almost immediately, and followed by an entire block of distressed emojis and then some miscellaneous animals, symbols, and automobiles when she had apparently run out of those.

The doctor pursed his lips together and turned his phone over in his lap. "She's fine," he told Felicia.


"Oh, could I take this for you?"

"Oh, I'd be much obliged. Thank you."

"We'll be in compartment E."

"Yes."

"I thought it better to engage Mr. Paget after what happened in London. No doubt you're an efficient person but I don't think there's any need for a policeman."

"Policeman?"

"How long have you been in possession of the Star of Rhodesia, Lady Margaret?"

"Twenty-five years. You know, it may seem strange to you, but I've never actually seen it. I suppose there's no harm since we're paying you to guard it."

Emily was dying.

Not in the literal sense. Rather, in the sense that they weren't even half an hour into this Charing Cross Theatre performance and she was already so bored out of skull that she had half a mind to get up taxi back to Baker Street alone. But on the other hand, she was in a VIP seat, and that would probably be considered rude and not go unnoticed.

The play was Terror by Night, and the only reason she and Scottie were in attendance was because apparently it was a fairly new play and its lead, Detective Sidney Paget, was based heavily upon Sherlock. Evidently, the writer was a fan of John's blog (as was half of London by this point - seriously, the press constantly swarming around the family was getting to be a nuisance).

Scottie, on the other hand, was very much taken with the play. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd gone to one of these things, and he expected to hate it because of how crowded the little theater was. But Terror by Night, although not particularly exciting thus far, pleasantly surprised him. And he had to admit that there was something very ironic about it being based off of real life BBC's Sherlock but set in the world of Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes.

Emily had taken to texting John every few minutes. The phone's screen was bright amid the dimmed theater, and her behavior seemed to be greatly annoying just about every other audience member in the vicinity.

Sherlock, who was sitting to her right, had noticed this some time ago but waited to see if she would stop on her own. When she didn't, the detective finally reached over and plucked the pink phone out of her hands and tucked it away in his own coat pocket. Emily gasped and made a grab at it, but Sherlock blocked her attempt by crossing his legs in such a way that the pocket slid further out of Emily's reach.

From Sherlock's other side, Scottie looked over at the shuffling around in their seats, but quickly disregarded it and focused back in on the play.

"We will be as unobtrusive as possible."

"That will be a novelty from a policeman."

"Now, if you wouldn't mind telling us where our compartment is?"

Emily slouched back in her chair and stared forward unhappily for another minute or less. She then sat upright and pulled her program out from where she'd been sitting on it up until this point. The girl then attempted to entertain herself by folding parts of it back and forth until they were easily ripped. She cut out a small near-perfect square from the thicker front cover of the program and began folding that in her lap.

Sherlock glanced sidelong over at what she was doing. After a moment he decided that he didn't really care and proceeded to ignore it.

"The inspector's going to Scotland to fish for salmon. The season doesn't start for another month, but you wouldn't know that, would you?"

"Who says I'm going to fish for salmon?"

"Who?"

At this point Emily had managed to fold her square from the program into a cootie catcher, which she innocently opened and closed between her fingers as if it were a puppet.

"Him."

"Excuse me, please."

"Police."

"Police? Here? On the train?"

"Scotland Yard, I heard."

Sherlock's attention was pulled away from the stage yet again when he felt the cootie catcher pinch at his left earlobe. Without any hesitation the man snatched up the paper toy, crinkled it into a tight ball right in front of Emily, and then tossed it to the floor in front of himself.


"It was Albert, obviously," Sherlock shrugged and sipped at his wine glass.

Emily took a sip from her own and made a face.

"Obviously?" echoed Scottie. "How was it obvious? How was it obvious that he killed his own mother?"

The play was at its intermission now and the group had migrated over to the lobby, where free drinks were being handed out in celebration of opening night. It wasn't a great theater. Charing Cross had about the occupancy of a standard high school auditorium, and the seats and lighting were about of that quality as well. The arched doorways and brick walls gave the lobby a bit of a train station feel, and this space was shared with a line of stores and restaurants on the opposite wall of the tunnel. They were literally standing in a dimly lit tunnel. At the end of it were stairs leading right up to the Strand's sidewalk.

Still, Charing Cross was doing all in its power to attempt to paint the occasion as an elegant one. Not a black tie event in the least, but generally people were dressed up. Sherlock, of course, saw no reason to conform, but Emily had on a dress despite the cold and time of night and Scottie was at least wearing black and, for perhaps the first time since they'd all known each other, bothered to comb his hair.

Sherlock scoffed. "How was it obvious. The fact that they even tried to play it off as a mystery is a joke! It was all there, from the very first scene. You see-"

"Ah, spoilers!" Emily hissed.

Scottie raised an eyebrow. "Oh, so now you're interested in the play?"

"Just because I'd only been half watching through most of that act doesn't mean I want to have the rest ruined for me."

Sherlock glanced down at Scottie. "Do you not believe me that Albert killed Lady Margaret Chaplette, or?"

"Oh, for God's sake…" Emily rolled her eyes.

"Well I do now," huffed Scottie. "But until you claimed otherwise I could've sworn it was Jade!"

Sherlock had just taken another sip from his glass and very nearly choked on it at this remote. "The maid? Seriously?" he taunted. "What did she have to do with anything?"

"Oh, shut up!"

"Guys, it's just a play," Emily retorted. "Let's not get all worked up about it. Unless you want a repeat of what happened with Cluedo last week."

"The victim did it and I will stand by that answer," the detective shrugged.

"No, he didn't!" Scottie laughed, although there was a hint of annoyance in his voice. "That's not how the game works at all. There isn't a Mr. Body card, and therefore it's literally impossible for him to have committed suicide! Didn't you read the rules?"

Emily frowned. "You know, I didn't bring that up so we could get into this again…"

"I did, and the rules were wrong," insisted Sherlock.

"Wh… No! I will FIGHT you on this one!"

"Fight me? You can't even reach me."

Scottie furrowed his brows. "Come down here and we'll see about that!"

The light in front of the theater entrance dimmed further still and then returned to its full brightness three times, indicating that it was time for people to head back to their seats inside.

"Oh, beautiful timing," Emily breathed.

Without comment Sherlock downed the last of his wine and handed the glass off to someone who was not, in fact, an employee of Charing Cross.


Scottie leaned forward in his seat eagerly. The play's protagonist, Detective Sidney Paget, had just called the rest of the characters together to reveal whodunnit. Sherlock remained convinced that it was Albert, and Scottie realized that this was probably the case now, but still there was a part of him that was hoping it was someone else. If not to prove Sherlock wrong, then just to see him get all pissed off about the whole thing.

Both of the boys, whether they would admit it or not, were still a tad sore about that Cluedo game.

"Albert Caplette!" Sidney let out. "It was you who killed Lady Margaret."

There was a gasp from the other characters onstage as well as a fair number of audience members. Sherlock smirked knowingly at Scottie, who did his best to ignore the man's silent boasting as soon as he realized it was happening.

"I'm sorry?" Albert asked weakly.

"There's no sense in denying it, Albert," Sidney went on. "You said you had no interest in the Star of Rhodesia. And perhaps you didn't. Not at first, anyway. But that was before you learned its true value. The lengths at which your mother was willing to go through to protect it. And after everything you'd done for her, you started to think to yourself, what right did Lady Margaret have to such a precious jewel? Why shouldn't it go to you, who slaved away for most of your life attempting to support your family, not knowing that she possessed an item worth so much the entire time and did nothing with it?"

Albert shook his head profusely. "Good heavens, gentlemen, you are at perfect liberty to search my compartment or to search me! And if you find the diamond, I-"

"No, that won't be necessary. The Star of Rhodesia has not been stolen."

"What's that, Mr. Paget?" another man blinked in surprise.

"An imitation was stolen. I have the real one."

"YOU'VE got it?"

"My dear Carstairs," Sidney smiled, "surely you didn't think I would allow Lady Margaret to retain the genuine diamond. When I felt reasonably certain an attempt would be made to steal it, I have had it in my possession almost from the moment I boarded the train."

"Confound it, Mr. Paget, you had no right to do that!" huffed the man apparently called Carstairs. "This is a police matter. Come on, let me have it!"

"My job was to see that it wasn't stolen. It wasn't."

"I told you that I didn't steal the Star of Rhodesia!" Albert insisted.

"Perhaps not, but still, you made an attempt to nonetheless. And unfortunately for you, that means that your mother, Lady Margaret Chaplette, was killed for naught."

"How dare you accuse a man of killing his own mother!" hissed Albert. "You yourself admitted to possessing the Star of Rhodesia - how do we know you weren't the one who killed Lady Margaret! You're trying to frame me!"

"Calm yourself, Mr. Chaplette, there's no sense in throwing a fit," Sidney sighed. "The evidence of your crime is all there. I recovered the fake diamond. In your luggage."

"This is an outrage! You killed my mother and now you're trying to pin it on me! Pretending to guard the Star of Rhodesia for Lady Margaret was merely a ruse to take it for yourself! I won't let him get away with it! I won't!" Albert's voice had been steadily rising until he was shouting his lines, at which point all the other characters in the scene were trying to calm him and usher him back to his seat. Albert, who had hurt his ankle earlier in the play and was using a crutch to walk, swung the metal thing out to his side and then brought it down forcefully over Sidney's head.

It wasn't unlike a cartoon in the way that a loud, unrealistic sound effect went off at this moment. But the way in which Sidney fell to the stage floor was rather impressive. The other actors fell silent. More silent for longer than felt necessary. This was because an injury from the crutch had appeared on Sidney's temple, oozing blood rather quickly as the actor stared up at the ceiling with blank eyes. The blood was probably only visible from the first two rows or so, so most of the audience was understandably confused.

Emily held her breath for a moment before leaning over to Sherlock and whispering, "That was supposed to happen… right?"

Sherlock got up from his chair in place of answering her question and started to squeeze past people's legs across the row of seats. The previous quiet had been replaced now with anxious whispers throughout the theater. Those standing onstage watched as Sherlock came up the short stairwell toward them but made no move to stop the real detective from doing so.

"Oh my God," Scottie breathed. "Oh my God."

Emily scooted over into Sherlock's now vacant seat. "What is it?" she whispered to her friend. "Is he dead? Is that what's going on? Did we just see someone DIE?"

Scottie shushed Emily and pushed her face away from his.

Now Sherlock was kneeling beside the man who played Detective Sidney Paget, who hadn't budged an inch from where he'd hit the ground. The other actors had apparently turned off their microphones, because when Sherlock looked up at them and probably asked something, the things they said back to him weren't picked up by the audience.

A few people were standing now, hoping to get a better look at the scene but not daring to really get any closer to it. Finally a woman came out and announced to the crowd that due to "technical difficulties," the theater would have to be cleared out and closed temporarily.

Nobody was panicking in a super disruptive way, so that was good. As soon as this announcement had been made the volume doubled while people crowded the theater's aisles and ever so slowly filed out. They sounded concerned for the actor's well-being, of course, but no one was yet admitting that they thought the he had just been murdered onstage in front of all of them. One old lady was insisting that the incident had something to do with the "curse" and "the actors ought to have known better than to test it."

Scottie and Emily were the last two in their seats and waited until the theater was nearly emptied out before they had enough space to make their way to the stage. Sherlock, standing now, saw them coming toward him and attempted to cut the teens off at the top of the stairs.

"I need you to wait out in the lobby," the man said.

"Is he dead?" Scottie asked.

"Lobby," Sherlock repeated.

"He IS dead, isn't he?"

"LOBBY."

Emily had already turned around and was halfway down to the first level when Scottie reached and grabbed her upper arm, stopping her. He jerked the girl along with him and past Sherlock onstage. Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh but didn't put in near enough effort to prevent this behavior. Scottie pulled Emily up beside the body, and Emily made a whining noise in the back of her throat and tried to force herself to avoid looking directly at it.

"Yes, he is dead," Sherlock said, coming up from behind them. "I'm sure you all saw how it happened."

A woman who was not in period clothing but the kids recognized as the one who introduced the show was onstage along with the actors. "Mr. Holmes, are these kids with you?" she asked the detective. "Don't you think they should wait outside while the adults deal with this?"

"Oh, I couldn't agree more," Sherlock replied. "But that is a feat easier said than done."

"Hello," Scottie said with a half wave and his voice flat, "my name is Obi Wan Kenobi and I am an alcoholic."

"Hi Obi Wan," Emily said much, much deeper than her usual tone of voice.

Sherlock was about to say something harsh in regards to this exchange, probably, when he was interrupted by the man playing Albert, who stammered, "I-I don't understand!" He was still holding the murder weapon out in front of himself, trembling slightly. "We'd done this scene hundreds of times in rehearsals! I… I was supposed to hit the padding under his coat, I know, I know, but… but still, it's not easy to do, and I've missed before and… and even then Matthew said it didn't hurt at all!"

"He had marks on his arms from where you've missed in the past, I highly doubt it never hurt him."

"But it was rubber! It couldn't… I mean, it shouldn't have-"

Sherlock yanked the crutch from the actor's hand and inspected it. "Aluminium," he said, tapping at the metal with his nail. "Real aluminium. Not rubber. No way this could've been the same crutch you were using in rehearsal."

"Aluminium," Emily said slowly. "Ah-loo-MIN-ium…"

"Stop that," Scottie said flatly.

"Not the same crutch?" echoed the actor. "There's only ever been one crutch, I… How could this happen? Oh my God, I… I killed him, I… I don't understand… I KILLED him!" The man was breathing sporadically now. He started to sink, looking like he was attempting to have a seat but had possibly forgotten how, and was reaching out for something to cling on to. The woman who had played Lady Margaret was back onstage now and she put her arms around the man playing Albert and kept him in place.

Emily went to pull out her phone and start texting John again, but quickly remembered that she no longer had it. She scooted closer to Sherlock and retrieved the device from the man's pocket. He noticed, obviously, but didn't acknowledge it.

"Albert," Sherlock said, "where did you keep the prop crutch?"

"Wh… My name's William," the actor playing Albert said weakly.

"Nope, your name is Albert now," Scottie said. "Sorry but I don't make the rules."

Sherlock didn't seem to give a shit what the man was called. "Please answer the question," he instructed.

"Oh. Um. I kept it in my dressing room," William said.

"So then whoever swapped out the rubber aluminium crutch with the real aluminium one must have had access to your dressing room at the interval."

"You think someone switched them out?" William asked. "That… That someone did this? On purpose?"

"Well, that's assuming the crutch didn't change from rubber to aluminium of its own accord," Sherlock shot back in annoyance. "Yes, obviously someone swapped them out!"

"Okay, okay, don't yell," whimpered William.

"How do you know it happened at the intermission?" Emily inquired.

"Who had access to your dressing room at the interval?" Sherlock questioned William, talking over the tail end of Emily's question.

William seemed able to stand apart from Lady Margaret's actress now, but she looked ready to catch him again at any given moment. William scratched at his head. "Um… I, uh… Deborah, and, uh… Sarah, I think, Jonathan, and… Karen. Yes. Oh, also Matthew, but he's. Well. Anyway, they all had access to my dressing room. But. You don't think that… one of them? They wouldn't!"

"I regret to admit that I did not read through the playbill," Sherlock said. "Would you mind going through that list again and explaining who's who?"

"Oh, oh, of course. Um. Deborah, she's-"

"Deborah Challis, the director. Yes. Go on."

"Right. Sarah, Sarah… G… Growen…"

"Sarah Groenewegen," one actress said for him. "That's me. I played Sissy. And that's Jonathan Morris as Cedric and Karen Baldwin, who was Jade. Sidney Paget was played by Matthew Michael."

Sherlock pointed to each of the actors in turn. "Deborah Challis, director. Sarah Groenewegen, Sissy Hastings. Jonathan Morris, Cedric Hastings. Karen Baldwin, Jade. William, Albert Chaplette. And of course, Matthew Michael, Sidney Paget. Got it."

"How the FUCK does he retain all that?" Emily asked no one in particular. "I can't remember half the names of kids I've been in the same class as all year!"

"Allow me a moment to consult with my assistants," Sherlock said, much to the surprise of everyone in the vicinity.

"Shouldn't we call the police?" the director, Deborah, asked in astonishment. "I mean, considering…"

"Why hurry?" Sherlock blinked back. "He's not going anywhere."

"B… Matthew's dead!"

"Yes. He is," Sherlock replied slowly. "Now, would it be alright by you if I had a minute to figure out who's responsible?"

Deborah exchanged incredulous looks with her actors. Seemingly unconcerned, Sherlock went and had a seat at the edge of the stage and looked back at Scottie and Emily, patting at the space beside him. Wary at first, the teens came up to the edge and sat down next to the detective. They tucked their hands into the laps and dangled their legs and looked up at Sherlock expectantly.

"You value our input," Scottie beamed.

"Incorrect. I'm taking advantage of your company, not your ideas. Or the lack thereof."

Scottie's smile faded, but only just.

"As I've said already," Sherlock began, "I suspect one of those mentioned to have gone into William's dressing room at the interval and swapped out the prop crutch with the real one that killed Matthew. Which means that one of them will need to have smuggled it in in order to do so. Now, Emily, I believe that this is more your department. What can you tell me about Deborah's attire?"

Emily glanced over her shoulder at the director, who, along with the others, was silently watching them. "Uhhh. Well. She's rocking the skinny jeans. I personally wouldn't wear a shirt that pink, but with her hair color it's not all that bad. I probably would've finished the look off with brown combat boots, but…"

"Okay, but do you suspect that in what she's wearing now, Deborah was capable of smuggling in an aluminium crutch?"

"...no," Emily answered slowly.

Scottie raised an eyebrow. "What makes you so sure she didn't have a giant coat on earlier? We're in London. That's a thing people typically carry around with them when they go outside."

"Exactly. Unless it was, say, a peanut, Ms. Challis wouldn't have been capable of smuggling anything in unseen," Sherlock nodded. "And Matthew didn't die of a nut allergy."

Scottie frowned over at the consulting detective. "Seriously? Are my two cents worth nothing to you?"

"Nut allergy? I… think he's making an attempt at humor?" Emily said, searching Sherlock's face skeptically.

"I'm going to talk with Deborah in private," Sherlock announced. He stood up suddenly and went over to the woman.

"Good chat!" Emily shouted after the man. She and Scottie got to their feet again and trailed after him.

"Scottie, Emily, I want you to search out the prop crutch," Sherlock instructed as soon as they'd caught up with him again. "Perhaps its location will tell us more about who traded it out. Meanwhile I'll be with Deborah in her office."

"Aw, can't we interview people too?" Emily whined. "I'm so bad at scavenger hunts!"

"What are you talking about? It'll be fun!" Scottie insisted.

"Alright," Emily gave in. "You interrogate the cast, Scottie and I will be… backstage somewhere, probably, goofing around, definitely."

"I expect nothing less from you," Sherlock confessed.

Scottie and Emily dismissed themselves at the same time as Sherlock ushered Deborah away to the opposite end of the stage as they were headed. The remaining actors had broken into their own separate conversation, like about why no one was calling the police yet and if it was appropriate to just leave Matthew's body lying there (not that any one of them was up for moving it themselves even if they did have a better place for it to go).


Things were starting to go smoothly between John and Felicia. They shared a laugh about bad customer/patient stories over the course of their meal, and after the first hour agreed to split a dessert in an attempt to extend their time together.

Emily had given up texting John some time ago, which came as a relief because after the first ten minutes of nonstop vibrating John was about ready to shut off his phone altogether. It wasn't until a slice of chocolate mousse was being brought out with two tiny forks that the mobile buzzed once more. Enough time had passed that John was willing to take a bite of the cake and then check the incoming message from underneath the table.

Dude just got murdered at a murder mystery play - what are the odds!

The second text came in almost immediately after he'd looked:

No but really one of the actors died right in front of us. Sherlock doesn't think it was an accident. He hasn't asked for your help but you might want to get down here anyway.

"Work?" Felicia asked.

"What?"

John looked up at her. She was holding her own fork in her mouth even as she spoke.

"Oh, uh, possibly," John said. "I can probably get out of it though."

He quickly typed You're not in danger though? JW into the phone and sent it.

...probably not was Emily's response. And then, following it several seconds later: Can you come and help out anyway? along with a picture of a smiley face that had shut eyes and was baring its teeth. John had no idea what this meant and wasn't entirely sure he wanted to know.


To say that the kids got distracted in their search for the crutch was an understatement. Their first stop in the treasure hunt was the unlocked costume department: a room not unlike a warehouse filled with rows upon rows of clothing racks and stacked cardboard boxes and poorly lit with fluorescent lights. It was a guilty pleasure closet cosplayer's dream come true.

"Hurry up, I'm running out of hats to model!" Scottie called out. He was currently rocking a wide-brimmed hat with a pile of fake fruit, roses, and a wad of giant feathers on it. Scottie admired his reflection in a full length mirror from several different angles before tossing the monstrosity aside and trading it out for a 19th century British navy hat.

"Just a minute, I'm trying to fasten the… Oh! Got it!"

Scottie turned to see Emily stumble out from around a row of costume racks. She now had on an enormous mauve gown. The waistline was tight and it buttoned all the way up her top half from the front, while the entirety of her lower half and arms were lost in the fabric dome.

"Oh, Mr. Darcy," she began in a too-thick British accent, "I did not expect you to be stopping by at such a late hour. But since you're here, tell me: what do you think?" Emily gave a little twirl, showing off the gown, and nearly fell over in the motion.

"Madre de dios!" chuckled Scottie.

"What, too much? It's a tad difficult to walk and... breathe in, but it does quite flatter the figure and the color quite brings out my eyes, wouldn't you agree?"

Scottie shook his head, still smiling. "You could probably hide a person or two underneath that thing."

"Oh, most definitely," Emily agreed, never dropping her atrocious fake accent. "Would you like to see?"

Scottie made a face at her.

"Don't look at me like that. I've got on at least, like, twelve layers of fabric and these granny panty-looking things. I promise you won't see anything."

"...okay fine, let's do it."

Emily tried to start lifting the bottom portion of the costume, but before she could even get a good enough grip on the fabric Scottie was already halfway done army crawling beneath her.

"See?" Emily said. She had already completely lost track of where the boy was in the mess of fabric and widened her stance, hoping to not step on him.

"Oi! Miss, you can't be in here!" a stranger's voice suddenly bellowed. "This area isn't open to the public!"

It was a security guard who spoke. He was standing at the open doorway to the costume department and chances were hadn't seen Scottie at all.

"Oh, good sir, hello," Emily began weakly. Yes, fake British accent still very much a go. "Sorry. I didn't realize."

The guard frowned. "Yes, well. I'm going to have to ask you to take that off and leave the premises."

Emily gasped and pressed a hand to her mouth. "Sir! Are you ordering me to undress in front of you?"

Scottie snorted at this from underneath Emily's dress. She promptly kicked him to shut him up. Unhappy about that, Scottie elbowed her leg back.

"Wh…? What are you doing back here, anyway? Where are you parents?"

Emily glanced around awkwardly. "Well. I, uh…"

"Look, miss, I need you to come with me."

"I'm afraid I can't do that."

"Sorry?" the man squinted.

"I'm… pregnant," Emily lied.

"Excuse you?"

Scottie elbowed her harder.

"Ah, I just felt a kick!" Emily winced. "It's coming! The baby's coming!"

"Ma'am! Are you serious?"

"Yes!" Emily held out a desperate hand to him. "Please, take my hand!"

The poor security guard quite obviously had no clue what to make of this situation. He came forward, his face sort of scrunched up in a very much confused manner, but didn't actually take Emily's hand.

Scottie had no idea what Emily was doing. Clearly Emily didn't even know what she was doing. She kicked at Scottie again, hitting his butt with her heel now, and the boy suddenly tumbled out from beneath the poofy dress.

"What the fuck," the security guard yelled in alarm, jumping back.

"WAH!" Scottie shouted at the man, doing his best newborn baby impression, and then he leapt to his feet and sprinted out of the costume department.

"Oi!" the security guard called after him.

"Run, child of mine! Be free!" Emily sang.

"That's it, I'm taking you to see the director," growled the security guard.

"Oh? Am I to become an actress? Mother always said I have the face for it."

Without bothering to answer her, the guard took Emily firmly by her upper arm and began dragging her out of the room with him.

"H-Hey!" she gasped, struggling to keep up her accent. "That is no way to treat a lady!"


"Found her and a boy goofing off backstage in the costumes," the guard told Deborah. He had brought Emily to just outside the director's office, where she'd presumably finished up talking with Sherlock. Her eyes were red, as if she'd just been crying.

"Emily!" Sherlock snapped, balling his fists. "What the hell were you-" But then the detective cut himself short and seemed to calm down a great deal all at once. "Sorry. I tried to pretend to be shocked and appalled by that behavior, I really did," Sherlock confessed, "but the fact of the matter is I'm hardly surprised at all."

"Look, this is all a big misunderstanding, I'm sure," Emily said. She was finally using her usual voice again.

"Oh, great. And you're not even really British."

"Oh. Had you convinced, did I?" Emily sounded pleased with herself. "You should hear my Scottish: Merida, a preencess does noht put hair weap-ons on th' table! Och, but Mum! Et's jus' mah bow!"

"Thank you, Bill," Deborah told the security guard. "I've got it from here."

The guard nodded and took his leave. Emily rubbed at her arm where the man had been holding onto her. "Eat yer haggus, Fergus," she muttered.

"But really, dear, if you've got your normal clothes on underneath that dress, I'd really appreciate it if you stepped out of it and I'll happily take it back to costume department for you," Deborah said. "We don't even let our actors touch the elaborate period pieces unless they're assigned to them."

"I left my own dress back in the room," Emily sighed. "Don't worry, I'll take this back myself."

"Allow me to walk with you," Sherlock said. "Deborah, thank you for your time."

"Of course. I… I hope you figure out who did this to Matthew."

Sherlock took the crook of Emily's arm in his own and started back towards the costume department. As they walked Emily looked up at the older man distrustfully. "What's this about?"

"You're wearing a ballgown. It seemed appropriate."

"...I suppose. I'm sorry I lost Scottie."

"He'll be fine."

"So you spoke with the director?"

Sherlock nodded slowly.

"She was crying," Emily went on. "Understandably, of course. I was surprised she held out that long. And that the others weren't. I mean, they all knew the guy."

"She loved him," Sherlock explained.

"Oh?"

"But William didn't share her affections. She didn't admit so outright, but he knew, and he confronted her about it not all that long ago and expressed how he wasn't interested. Said he was seeing someone else, but wouldn't say who, just that Deborah knew her. Still, it does explain how a stage actor as awful and as big a drunk as he was managed to be cast."

"William was a drunk!" Emily gasped in disbelief.

"Couldn't you tell? During the tennis court scene he even fumbled his lines, and referred to Sissy as Sarah, the actress' name! Didn't you see all those bruises on the corpse's arms? Proof of how often the prop crutch had missed its mark in the past."

"He was wearing a long sleeved coat. So, no, I'll admit I didn't touch Matthew's freshly dead body to get a look at that."

"William's drunkenness was hardly news, at any rate."

They were at the costume department now. Sherlock stopped, spotting several of the play's actors huddled around stage right. "Excuse me," he told Emily and left her side in favor of theirs. "Ms. Baldwin, a word, please?"

Emily rolled her eyes and went to change back into her own considerably less exciting clothing.


After having ditched his partner in crime, Scottie continued his search for the prop crutch without anyone else to blame for his distractions. He was currently behind the stage, where several large stage pieces were being stored. Even in the dark, there was what he could tell was a large sofa that was blocking most of the walkway. Scottie stepped up onto its cushions and started to climb over the back of it but he paused, hearing voices.

There were two people nearby and coming closer. Scottie couldn't see them yet and doubted they'd be able to see him in there, but he ducked down into the couch to hide from them regardless.

"I've been trying to tell you he's bad news, right from the start!" a male was saying to whomever was with him. "He fuckin' bashed Matthew's head in, you saw 'im! If that doesn't make you realize then I don't know what will."

"You're unbelievable!" the other, a woman, retorted.

"But he was a total jackarse, especially to you!"

"That doesn't mean he'd intentionally kill a man! You saw how messed up he was after!"

"I'd be messed up after too if I killed someone, regardless of whether I meant to or not!" the man breathed. "He was the father of your unborn child, jackarse or otherwise. But that doesn't change the fact that he wasn't good for you, and that doesn't mean that you should keep defending him like this. Especially after... Well, he didn't treat you right, you know? The way he handled that situation… It was unfair. I wouldn't have done that to you."

There was a moment of silence in which the speaker assumedly went in for a kiss. Scottie's face contorted as an instinctual response to the smacking sound it made. The gesture, however, didn't seem to be appreciated because the boy then heard the girl push the offender off of her and partially into a thing of fake plants that rustled as soon as he hit them.

"I… For fuck's sake, Jonathan! Don't make this about YOU!"

"Sarah, please-"

"Matthew's dead, and William was involved whether he was the one actually behind the murder or just a pawn in someone else's scheme! Of course I'm gonna be worked up about it, but that doesn't mean that you can just… just swoop in and try to fix everything! I told you I needed space after William and I broke it off. Why can't you respect that?"

"But I've always been there for you! I won't flake out like William did, and you know it!" Jonathan begged. "Sarah, I love you. And we have chemistry together. Even when you're playing my sister on the stage, I can feel it, and I know you can too. William was a jerk. Even more so when he was drunk, which was always. I want to be with you, Sarah. I don't care if the baby's his."

Sarah scoffed. "You're the worst. You probably had William framed just because you thought then you'd have a chance at shagging me!"

"What? No! How could I possibly have anything to do with that? William killed Matthew, you saw it! He hit the guy's head, miles away from the padding and everything - no way that was an accident!"

"Well, that detective guy that's hanging around seems to think otherwise. You know, I hope he thinks you did it. Especially after you walked in on us during the interval today and started to go at it. Once he gets an earful of that, no way he won't think you're involved!"

"Wh… I was trying to protect you! You thought he was just gonna take you back, just like that? Make up for everything he'd done to you? I saw right through his bullshit! I wasn't going to let you put up with his behavior."

"He said he wanted to change!"

"Fuck, Sarah. Guys don't just change like that!"

Sarah scoffed. "Yeah, maybe. Like how you can't fucking… take a goddamn hint!"

"Sarah… Sarah, don't be like that."

"Oh my GOD! Jonathan, FUCK OFF!"

There was a bit of clanking about and Sarah, presumably, stormed out of the scene. Scottie continued to hold his breath.

So, did this meant that Sarah had a motive for wanting William arrested? If they were a thing and William ditched her after knocking her up… Well, framing someone for murder was a bit extreme as a form of revenge, especially considering the woman seemed to have no qualms with Matthew, and she seemed rather upset about his death. Perhaps she really did care about both of the men. Did that mean that Jonathan had attempted to frame William for murder instead? To get Sarah to turn on him?

Either case felt a bit like a bit of an overreaction to Scottie, but he'd had the urge to kill over less, so he tried not to judge.

Scottie hopped off the couch and circled back around the stage's backdrop. He quickly spotted Sherlock behind a side curtain. The detective was looming over Karen, the woman who had played Jade. She was about half his height, asian, and still wearing her French maid outfit, although the woman had since taken down her hair.

"Oh, there you are," Sherlock said, glancing up as Scottie approached them. "You just missed Emily."

Scottie stopped walked and looked at Karen, who he now saw was sniffling. He shot an accusatory look in Sherlock's direction in response to this. "Really? Can you not go on a single case without making a woman cry?"

"What?" Sherlock blinked. "Oh, no, that's not… She'd been having an affair with the victim Matthew. I imagine this isn't how she expected the relationship to end."

"Mm. And I just bumped into Jonathan and… Sarah? She played Sissy. That was Sarah, right? Well. In any case, Jonathan was trying to make a move on her, except that Sarah was having none of that shit since I guess she was seeing William until probably recently. Actually I'm pretty sure they were gonna hook up again at intermission. At least that's what it sounded like what they said happened. And then Jonathan came in and he and William started fighting."

"I remember that," Karen chimed in for the first time since Scottie got there. "We could hear them from down the hallway. Deborah, she came in to see what was the matter, and gave Jonathan an earful about it. She was worried that the audience could hear the fighting too."

"So at least Sarah and Jonathan were definitely in William's dressing room during the interval," Sherlock said.

The boy nodded. "Except William was in there at the same time as them so I don't know how easily either one of them could've swapped out the crutch without him noticing."

"If William's drunken stupor is anything to judge by, quite easily indeed."

"Oh, and I don't know if this is relevant, but also Sarah's pregnant with William's son, I guess, which I suppose could explain why William left her the first time."

"What?" Karen gasped gently. "Sarah's pregnant?"

"Oh. Um. Surprise?" Scottie made a little show of jazz hands.

Sherlock touched an index finger to his chin. "Sarah and Jonathan's characters both wore large overcoats at some point in the play," he thought aloud. "It likely wouldn't have been hard to smuggle in a real aluminium crutch underneath either of those. Especially since Sarah's was essentially a giant wad of faux fur."

Karen searched the detective's face. "You… You don't think that one of them did it?"

"I won't rule it out, but their motives just… don't seem convincing enough. I'll have to speak with them myself, of course. See if there's any more to their story than you picked up on. Karen. Leave us."

Karen didn't do anything right away, not even when Sherlock looked at her expectantly. When he shooed her off with a hand she apparently got the message and scurried further backstage without a word.

"Aw, I liked her," Scottie told Sherlock. "She seemed sweet."

"You didn't have to stand here trying to make out words between her onslaught of tears."

"That's adorable."

"Tedious, if anything."

Scottie made a show of rolling his eyes.

"What's taking your lady friend so long to change?" Sherlock asked suddenly.

"Lady friend?" Scottie echoed, wrinkling his nose at the phrasing.

Without explanation, Sherlock marched off towards the costume department once more, this time with Scottie bouncing after him. The man stopped in front of the room and put his hands over both door handles.

"Uh, maybe you should knock before you-"

Ignoring him entirely, Sherlock pushed them open and Scottie was relieved enough for all three of them to find that Emily had indeed finished changing before they got there. The holdup, apparently, was that was she was currently seated on the floor half buried by a mountain of fake food props.

"I thought I saw something that looked like the crutch," she whimpered and then hefted up a silver floor lamp by its long middle with one hand.

Sherlock didn't have a response to this. He simply left the room and Emily scrambled to her feet and caught up to him outside of it, leaving behind the mess for Deborah or whomever else to find and deal with.

"The facts:" Sherlock was saying to Scottie as soon as she got to them. "We have two suspects, Deborah the director and Karen who played Jade, who couldn't have smuggled the crutch in. Two suspects, Sarah who played Sissy and Jonathan who played Cedric, who could have smuggled the crutch in but who didn't appear to have a motive."

"Not a very strong motive, anyway," Scottie shrugged. "Okay, but seriously, these guys are right out of a soap opera or something, which totally would explain murder being a logical, albeit extreme, course of action. Deborah was in love with the sort-of-possibly murderer, William. He rejected her ass because instead he was doing the frickle frackle with Sarah. Except Sarah got pregnant, William I guess freaked and broke off their… whatever they had. Meanwhile Jonathan's got the hots for Sarah, but he's a total dick so I understand her repulsion with him. And then there's Karen, who was sleeping with Matthew, but I can't think of any reason for her to have wanted to harm him because Karen is a precious cinnamon roll, too pure for this world, that can do no wrong."

Scottie stopped talking just long enough for him to take a breath. "God, I can't believe I remembered all that. Straight people are disgusting. I think I'm gonna throw up."

"Fuck that's a lot of suspects and names and shit. Does anyone have a whiteboard? I feel like we could really benefit from a whiteboard right about now," Emily muttered. "Also I'm great with visual representations, so. You know. We're talking, like, a big diagram with caricatures of our actors. Oh! They've got a board up in the front - you know, with the headshots taped to it!"

Scottie eyed her. "How have you NOT gotten booted out of this theater yet?"

"Don't forget Matthew and William themselves," Sherlock chimed in.

Scottie turned his attention back to Sherlock and tapped at his lower lip with an index finger. "Well. Yeah. But I mean, we didn't go through all of this investigation just to prove that the murderer actually IS the murderer and it only happened because he's a big drunken idiot. Where's the fun in that?"

They were all quiet for some time.

And then Sherlock lifted his head with a blank stare. "The victim did it," he realized slowly.

"What, Cluedo again? Are we really going to get into this NOW?" Scottie frowned. "I will fight you. I will probably lose, but I will fight you nonetheless."

"No, the victim did it!" Sherlock repeated, louder now and jumping to his feet.

"I heard you the first time and saying it at twice the volume and with that much conviction doesn't change the fact that it's physically impossible for the outcome of the game to have been-"

"The victim! Matthew! He swapped out the prop crutch with a real one! That's how no one else could have done it!"

Scottie considered this quietly for a moment before he, too, let out an thoughtful "the victim did it."

"The victim did it!" Sherlock smiled inappropriately.

Scottie hopped up as well and bounced in place. "The victim did it!" he said.

Emily crossed her arms unhappily. "Oh. My God. Will you two SHUT THE FUCK UP before I get a migraine?"

Sherlock, who clearly had no such intentions, grabbed Emily's shoulders and let out yet another cheerful "The victim did it!"

"I HEARD YOU THE FIRST HOWEVER MANY TIMES."

"But wait," Scottie stopped jumping suddenly, "why did the victim do it?"

Sherlock let go of Emily and turned to face him. "Well. The victim didn't mean to die from it. He did mean to do it, though."

"So the victim accidentally did it?"

"I am not above kicking you in the shins," Emily told them both.

"As Sidney, Matthew wore a long overcoat, not dissimilar to mine, so he could have done it," Sherlock started to explain for her.

"What? So he committed suicide?"

"Mm, no, there are much easier ways - if you do want to do so dramatically live on stage. The thing is aluminium is actually quite light. There's no guarantee that a strike from an aluminium crutch would actually kill someone. But think about it. The bruises on Matthew's arm. William's unprofessional behaviour, the drinking, the affairs. Matthew had already complained to Deborah, the director, about William, but, because she was in love with William, she hadn't done anything about it. And that was it. Do you get it now?"

Emily made a face. "I'm… hearing you, and I see where the whole 'the victim did it' thing comes in, but…"

Now it was Scottie's turn to look annoyed. "Emily, look: Matthew didn't want to kill himself. He wanted to get William fired. He'd gone into William's dressing room with the real aluminum crutch hidden in his jacket and swapped them out. Either William wasn't there at the same time or, if he was, he was too distracted fucking around with Sarah or starting a brawl with Jonathan."

"Matthew's plan was for William," Sherlock continued for him, "as usual, to hit him with the crutch, not knowing that the rubber aluminium crutch was now a real aluminium crutch. He presumably hoped it would break his arm or cause enough damage that he could sue the theatre or Deborah and ensure that William was sacked. But William, perhaps because of the fight with Jonathan, was even more drunk than usual and swung the crutch too high, striking Matthew across the head and accidentally killing him."

Emily thought about this for probably longer than necessary before making a very obvious 'ohhhhh' face and ultimately agreeing, "So the victim did it."

Sherlock nodded, perhaps looking more pleased with himself than was necessary. "The victim did it."

"I'm gonna tell John about it," Emily said, phone already out and halfway finished typing the message, if Scottie knew her at all.

Sherlock plucked the phone from her grasp and announced that instead he was going to be the one to catch his flatmate up on the evening's events, and that perhaps once John was finished with whatever, he'd bring the story to Lestrade.

Emily made quite a show of slapping her hands back down at her sides.

"We never did find that prop crutch, though," Scottie sighed.

Emily shrugged. "I mean. It doesn't really matter now. That was probably just Sherlock's way of keeping us busy while he figured out what had happened for himself."

"Oh, I know. For sure. But like. I still feel like we were given all of one task, and we couldn't even do that right. You know?"

Glancing around the stage, Emily's eyes eventually fell on second level of the stage that went across the top of it like a catwalk with railings. A lot of the stage's lights were attached to the bottom of this.

"I mean," she started slowly, "technically we didn't get to searching the entire theater for it. Sherlock thinks he solved the case, but who can rule out the vitality of the prop crutch until we actually manage to locate it?"

Scottie followed her gaze up to the stage's ceiling. "Race you there," he said under his breath.

Pausing just long enough to make eye contact, the teens took off across the stage, giggling uncontrollably for unknown reasons. Sherlock had all but forgotten about them as he waited for John to pick up the other line.


John and Felicia had been walking side by side down the block, going nowhere in particular, when John's phone went off yet again. He apologized, took several steps away from Felicia as to not subject her to his taking the call, and then flipped the cell phone open violently.

"Emily! I told you to stop interrupting my date!" John hissed into the receiver right away. "Just WHAT is so important that you need to get me involved?"

"Oh. I didn't expect to get past your voicemail. Well, since you asked," came Sherlock's smooth reply on the other line. "I don't know what you picked up on already (it's to my understanding that Emily was rather rudely texting you throughout the entire first act), but we've been to see Terror by Night at some terrible little theater on the Strand. The play itself was mediocre but there was a murder! Live on stage!"

"Okay, so you accidentally got involved in another case. Why is this my problem?"

"Because, John, I haven't got time to tell the police what happened, so when you're finished having dinner or whatever it is with… Sarah? I need you to take this message to-"

"Sherlock." John interrupted. "Sherlock. Look at all the fucks I give right now. Please. Just look around you. Count them. There are none. Goodnight."

There was a moment of silence when John was on the verge of hanging up before: "J-John! Don't be like that, I need a favor!"

"What about Scottie and Emily? Aren't they with you?"

"Technically yes, but they apparently ran off when I went to go talk to someone right before I called and now I've lost track of them. Oh, wait, just kidding - I see them up in the rafters now. I... Oh gosh, what is that boy doing now? He better be careful up... Scottie! SCOTTIE! YOU GET DOWN FROM THERE RIGHT THIS INSTANT!

"Sherlock, I can't be worried about this right now…" John breathed.

"You're right. I know. He probably won't die from a fall at that height."

"Well now I'm starting to worry!"

"Anyway," the detective went on, "we've solved the case, so you don't need to worry about that bit. But listen carefully, because I'm going to tell you exactly what happened, and I need you to take that information to Lestrade. Don't worry, it's quite simple. Detective Sidney Paget, played by the actor Matthew-"

However, John hung up on Sherlock before he could even make much of a dent in his story. After a moment the mobile began to buzz again in John's hand, and the man blocked this call. Seconds later he received two texts from Sherlock:

Bad connection? SH

I'll leave it in a voicemail then, and you can share that with Lestrade. SH

Sighing, John shoved his cell phone into a back pocket and went back up to where Felicia was still waiting for him.

"Is everything alright?" the woman asked.

"Yeah. That was the flatmate. He just needed a favor."

"What kind of favor?"

"The kind that would require me to leave," answered John. And then, quickly, so as to not give the wrong idea: "Also the kind I'm not willing to do until much later."

He smiled at Felicia, and she smiled back and they continued walking.


Meanwhile, back at Charing Cross Theatre, Scottie really was currently dangling from a series of cords hanging off a light about the center of the stage.

"DON'T LET GO!" Emily cried out to him from where she was in the rafters.

"WHY THE FUCK WOULD I LET GO?!" choked Scottie.

"I... I don't know, that's just the most helpful advice I have right now!"

"WELL IT'S NOT VERY HELPFUL!"

Sherlock was standing some feet below Scottie, looking in that moment as if he were assessing whether he were more helpful where he was or if he could try to climb to Scottie in time. The former ended up being his only option, though, because seconds later the boy lost his grip on the bundle of cords and went falling downward. Emily let out a shriek and immediately pressed her hands over her mouth. Scottie managed to fall directly on top of Sherlock, knocking them both to the floor in the process.

The two yelped upon impact. Sherlock just got body slammed into the wooden stage by all of the boy's weight, whereas Scottie, although slightly more cushioned than he would've been, still had a fairly hard hit and landed partially on top of his wrist.

"FUCK! Ow, shit, mmm my wrist... My wrist is dying... I think I'm dying," he kept moaning, clinging to that hand with his other. Scottie rolled off of Sherlock onto the floor and faced the ceiling with tightly shut eyes.

The consulting detective sat upright and made to reach for Scottie's arm. "Let me see it…" Taking Scottie's wrist between his hands, Sherlock moved it around a bit and Scottie's eyes shot open with a pained gasp. "Well it's definitely not broken," decided Sherlock. "You may have sprained it."

"Oh, God, you're going to have to cut it off won't you?"

"Don't be melodramatic."

Scottie looked away and appeared to be forcing his own eyes to well up with tears. "I'll never write again…"

"No one's cutting anything off," Sherlock insisted.

"I'm too young to be an amputee!" the boy wailed back.

"Scottie."

"Oh no."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "...What now?"

"I see the light. It's warm, and... tinted blue and orange"

"Yes, those are stage lights. We are in a theater. They've always been there. In fact, that's what you fell from."

"I… I don't think I'm gonna make it."

"You're fine."

Scottie swallowed hard and met Sherlock's eyes. "It's okay, you don't have to lie to make it easier. I can handle the cold, hard truth."

"Scottie, you're fine."

"Emily is going to be so mad at me... We always said we'd go together in some really badass explosion or shoot out or something…"

Sherlock turned his head away. "For fuck's sake," he muttered softly.

"Now she'll be all alone in this cruel empty world... Sherlock. Please, tell her... Tell her it's not her fault. And that I wasn't kidding about that bet and even in the event of my death she still owes me five pounds."

"You can tell her yourself; you're going to be fine."

"And you!" the boy suddenly gasped. "Sherlock... Oh, Sherlock... You taught me so much about... not giving a fuck, and how siblings are the worst…"

"Look, this is all very touching, but-" Sherlock tried, but was interrupted when Scottie reached out and took Sherlock's face between his hands, pulling it slightly closer to himself. So evidently his wrist couldn't have been that damaged.

"Promise me that you'll shower and brush your teeth every day after I'm gone!" Scottie wheezed.

Frowning, Sherlock grabbed the boy's wrists and pushed them away. Just then Emily came running over from stage left, shouting "Scottie! Are you okay?!"

The boy turned his head away from her. "Emily! No, I didn't want you to see me like this!"

"He's fine," Sherlock informed her, "he's just being ridiculous. Please make this stop immediately."

Emily nodded. "On it." Then, without warning, she suddenly threw herself down upon Scottie as one might a bean bag chair.

"Emily," Sherlock warned.

"HEY!" Scottie gasped. "Excuse you, I am DYING here, that is RUDE!"

"Not unless I give you express permission you aren't," Emily told him matter-of-factly.

Scottie struggled to push Emily off of himself by any means necessary, but when some time passed and still she wouldn't budge, he sprawled out with his arms at his sides in defeat.

"So what now?" Emily asked Sherlock, evidently satisfied with this scenario. "Back to Baker Street?"

Scottie lifted his head slightly. "There's a dead guy still center stage. Aren't we waiting for someone to do something about that?"

"The police have been phoned and are assumedly on their way," Sherlock informed him. "But afterwards I was thinking we could get ice cream."

"Okay. I can get behind that."