"You're just letting him go?" John asked when his flatmate returned from the interrogation.

Sherlock hung his coat on the back of the door. "Moriarty was involved. I don't have time to waste with people like that if he's back."

John shrugged. "Suit yourself." Then he left Sherlock to his experiments – or whatever it was he was doing in the kitchen – and went upstairs, only to return a minute later.

"So she's not dead?"

"Sorry?"

"Irene. She's just texted you through my phone. She wants to have dinner and discuss a case… You're taking cases from her?"

"She gives tips. Much more interesting than anything Scotland Yard comes up with."

John nodded. He glanced down at a day-old paper and scanned the front page, but, finding nothing of interest, dropped it back onto the coffee table. "Right, then. 'Night." He turned around and headed for his bedroom. Sherlock waited until he was halfway up the stairs before replying to the text.

Busy. Case?

He sat down and drummed his fingers on the table until the next message came through.

River Thames, near Big Ben. Headless man, tux, bottle of wine. Interested?

And that was all it took. He was still putting his scarf on when he stepped into the first cab he saw. "Big Ben," he told the cabbie.

The small canoe was right where she'd said it would be, dragged onto the shore by the clock tower. It had only been moved an hour or two ago, judging by the drag marks leading from the water. Wooden canoe, no distinctive markings whatsoever. Not a trace of blood or a struggle, either – he was already dead when he went into the boat. Custom-made Italian tuxedo, designer, silk tie, custom leather shoes – not the victim's clothes, though; he was a teacher (primary school). Murderer dressed him up, then. Oh – and a Rolex. New model, just released a week ago. Someone's got money. Wealthy murderer trying to show off, apparently. Only problem remaining was cause of death – clearly not decapitation; his heart had stopped beating by the time his head was removed. Clean cut, straight edges, no extra rips or tears – something like a sword, then. Long blade, no serrations. Still not cause of death, though. Only other visible injury was a small puncture wound in the inside of his right elbow. Anomalous, so definitely not drugs. Right arm of a right handed man, though? Someone else was injecting the drug – or not. The hole reminded Sherlock of the ones left after giving blood. He was drained? Explained the paleness of the corpse, at least. Then there was the wine tucked under the man's left arm. Sealed bottle. 1961 Château Palmer. Not exactly cheap. Murderer knew their wine. Probably had a nice collection at home, too, especially if they were just giving that bottle to a dead man.

So: very affluent, very arrogant man with at least minimal medical knowledge and access to fine wines as well as a variety of blades.

All this was done in a matter of minutes. A quick text to Lestrade and Scotland Yard was preparing for a long night. Anderson was the first one to arrive, with the others trailing a few minutes behind.

"Well," Anderson started as he snapped on his gloves. "Looks like you're the leading suspect."

Sherlock pretended to look over the body again, even though he really had no need to – he just didn't want to face Anderson and have a proper conversation. "Alright, you've got me. I was bored, so I kidnapped a teacher, drained his blood, chopped off his head, dressed him up, left him in a canoe, and then called you to admire my handwork because I'm just that arrogant," he answered, voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Was that a confession? I'm sure we could at least put you in a holding cell overnight for that."

"Sorry, haven't got the time for that. Unlike some people, I'm going to be solving a murder." He brushed past Anderson just as the rest of the crew made an appearance. "Do try not to contaminate the evidence," he called over his shoulder. Then, to the DI, "All yours. Text me when you've got lab results." Sherlock paused mid-stride. "On second thought, don't… Just let me run the tests myself after you move the body." And just like that, the consulting detective was gone, leaving Lestrade and his team to try to learn half as much from the scene as he had.

It was only a few miles back home, and the weather wasn't too miserable, so the detective opted to walk – that, and he had a call to make. He held the phone to his ear and waited for someone to pick up, which they did, and on the first ring.

"What's keeping you up?" After all, one could very nearly set their clocks by Mycroft's schedule, and it said he was fast asleep at two in the morning.

"Poland. You?"

"Moriarty. I think. How's your wine cellar looking?"

"Planning a romantic dinner, are we?"

Sherlock ignored his brother's comment and went on. "1961 Chateau Palmer – how easily could one get their hands on it?"

"Well, it's not the cheapest one out there, but for a few thousand pounds, easily enough."

Sherlock nodded and ran across a street, angering more than one driver in the process. "Sorry, sorry," he called back. "Next question: import and ownership of swords."

"Swords?"

"Old samurai swords, specifically."

"Oh, please tell me this is for a case and not some ridiculous experiment of yours."

"There was a body on the river."

Mycroft sighed and had to think for a moment before answering. "Legally, it would have to be in a museum or private collection, and those are all on file."

"Well, that simplifies things." Sherlock hung up without any sort of goodbye – a waste of time, he thought, especially when it was Mycroft – and went the rest of the way in silence, mind racing ahead in the case.

He found John back in the kitchen, mug in hand, when he reached the flat. "What are you up for?"

"I woke up and you weren't here. I got worried," John answered, looking down at his drink.

"Oh, don't start with that. Can't imagine worrying about me would do you any good."

"Last I checked, you had this nasty habit of running off into life-threatening situations without a second thought, so, yeah, I'm going to worry about you." He finished his drink and set the mug down. "Goodnight. Try to get some sleep tonight; the case will still be there in six hours."

Sherlock smirked. As if he could even think of sleep after that crime scene. "Goodnight, John." The doctor went up to bed, the detective sat down to think, and everything was back to normal at Baker Street.