Mrs. Hudson stared suspiciously as Sherlock consumed his second cup of tea. It might've been wise for Sherlock himself to be concerned, as John doubted it was beyond Mrs. Hudson to poison a drink with sleep aids, laxatives, ipecac, or some other highly inconvenient "addition" to her usual brew. Sherlock seemed unconcerned, however, and soon poured himself a third cup. John sipped idly at his first, but Mrs. Hudson paid him no mind.

"You've got to apologize," she warned. "I won't help you until you apologize for what you said about Jack."

Sherlock scoffed into his drink, spluttering as he spoke. "'Jack'? The best he could come up with was 'Jack'? That's really got to concern you, Mrs. Hudson." She narrowed her eyes, clearly not amused with the detective's antics.

"I'm not playing, Sherlock."

John remained quiet through the exchange, much preferring they weren't having it at all. He set his cup down, tired of pretending he was drink anything, and sat back in his chair; if they were going to pretend to be having a casual conversation, he'd at least get comfortable.

"What do you want from me then?" Sherlock pressed, setting his own cup down with a clank and staring right back at the landlady. "I can apologize but you know I'm right and so you know it doesn't mean anything."

"Oh, you really are awful, you know that? I can't imagine Molly will like that attitude forever, you'd best start working on it now." John winced as Mrs. Hudson spoke.

Throwing such a below-the-belt shot at Sherlock was quite out of character for the old woman, and he wasn't sure whether to be concerned or angry. On the one hand, it was absolutely unfair to make Sherlock feel any worse than he already did about his relationship with Molly. He'd been working very hard to be an adequate partner and to be a bit more human for the young woman who'd won his heart. At the same time, John knew Sherlock's jabs could be quite hurtful, even if they were aimed from a simple observation, and he really should be careful.

"Ms. Hooper is quite fine, thank you for your concern. Mrs. Hudson, the man you've been seeing has been lying to you and you're going to get yourself in a lot of trouble if you stay in with him. I can tell that you're planning on seeing him tonight, but not at home, and I'd like for you to take us where he asked you to pick him up. I can't let you get hurt," he added, as if as an afterthought. "He may very well be a murderer, Mrs. Hudson."

Mrs. Hudson gasped loudly, and it was John's turn to splutter, although he had the benefit of having already put down his cup. "Sherlock," he stammered, "you think that this 'Jack' is the murderer? He killed the professor?"

"He wasn't a professor, John, and yes I do." Sherlock leaned forward, planting his elbows on his knees and steepling his fingers.

"But how?" John didn't really expect an answer and wasn't disappointed when he didn't receive one to his satisfaction.

"I'm hoping," Sherlock suggested, eyeing Mrs. Hudson carefully, "that we can find out tonight."

John rolled his eyes and laughed once, a small harsh chuckle. "I meant how do you know, you dolt."

"Oh. But that's much less interesting."

The arranged meeting place between Mrs. Hudson and the man calling himself Jack Barrington was much worse than John might've imagined, if he'd had the imagination to give it a try. Within a few kilometers of the hospital where Mrs. Hudson had dropped the man off, the sultry alleyway provided little by means of disguise. The graffiti on the walls and the obviously in-use abandoned buildings, with their broken windows and littered doorways, were clear signs of the activity within. Sherlock and John crouched in the backseat of Mrs. Hudson's car, and John wondered idly if the man was just looking for a ride in the more literal sense. A pretty car seemed as valid an excuse as any for a fake relationship.

"Hello, Jack!" Mrs. Hudson called out the window, rolling it down far enough so that her voice carried but not so far as to allow access should one of those crazies, as she so fondly called them, suddenly try to reach inside. The man who responded to her call was familiar, and John recognized him as the one they'd seen outside the hospital earlier. As per usual, Sherlock was right.

He climbed inside the passenger seat and smiled coolly. Sherlock interrupted before he could speak, though, imitating Mrs. Hudson's friendly beckon: "Hello, Jack."

The man scrambled, desperately clutching at the door's handle, but Mrs. Hudson locked the doors and sped off. He knew better than to put up a fight when he was so desperately outnumbered, and simply put his hands against the car roof instead, demonstrating that he wasn't reaching for a weapon.

"I know you," he said, nodding at Sherlock, "I tried to buy your drugs."

"Yes, frankly awful price really, it's wo-"

"Sherlock." John's voice was a low warning to get to the point and Sherlock adjusted accordingly.

"Right, well, I want to know why you killed James August." Sherlock adjusted comfortably in his seat, making sure to present himself in the most intimidating light.

"I didn't kill nobody," Jack protested, grimacing uncomfortably.

"No, of course not, you only offered him something new, and he didn't know what methanol was, right?"

"Methanol," John mused, remembering Sherlock saying as much in the lab.

Jack sighed, eyeing his captors with a weary expression. "Alright, I did it, but I had good reason! The man was a maniac! Tried to sell me out, get me to give up all my profits. I've gotta feed myself!"

"I've no doubt that's true, he absolutely intended to harm you. But you're still not allowed to kill people." Sherlock almost sounded playful, teasing his catch as well as he could before they arrived at their destination. It hadn't been his idea, of course, but Mrs. Hudson insisted—if they were going to capture Jack, they were going to take him to Scotland Yard.

The man's confession was easy enough to obtain, particularly after Sherlock laid out his own deductions. "You'd been working the market here for a while, particularly targeting long-term care patients." He eyed Mrs. Hudson, who put a hand on her bad hip and gasped.

"My pain medicine," she squeaked, "you took my bloody pain medicine!"

"Yes, and he sold it. You were giving your profits to your boss but it wasn't enough and he demanded more. Said he'd come to town to collect it if you didn't do something about it. Of course, that's when you took action. You knew James was a tough man, you'd heard of his story. Broken hands, missing toes, the man had risen to his status through hard work and endurance, and he still had debts to pay. He wasn't a man to be messed with and you didn't want this to be traced back to you. You slipped him some methanol the day before, when he first confronted you, and by the time he came to us he was a dead man walking. It's no surprise he didn't plan on staying in town long, he was planning on being rid of you within two days."

"But why'd he come to us at all?" John asked.

"We were the threat," Sherlock replied simply, his eager eyes glowing with triumph. "He was coming under fire from the next higher up and owed a lot of money. He figured if we caught him then his hands would be clean but the job would be done and the contract on Jack would be paid to him. Easy enough."

"So you knew it wasn't a drug lord that killed him, because he was the drug lord himself?"

"Yep." He popped the 'P' obnoxiously, smiling a bit and glancing between John, Jack, and the others who had gathered to hear Sherlock's testimony. "I really didn't expect this to be so easy. And just in time for dinner!"

Adjusting his coat and tugging his collar erect, he smiled at his friends and pushed open the door, shooting off a text to Molly that likely read something much too simple for all the joy it brought the two lovebirds.

"It was Mrs. H's lover, I'll be there in ten. You're pretty. SH"