We apologize that this took so long. We had a hard time with this chapter and didn't want to put it up until we knew that it was as ready as it ever would be. We hope that you enjoy it! And have a very happy Thanksgiving everyone!

Chapter 6

{Claire}

Claire had arrived home around noon after her breakfast with Sherlock on the insistence from the Detective Inspector that she rest before coming back to the Yard. And of course, she hadn't been happy… not at first.

The moment she had stepped through her front door, locked it, and thrown her coat down by the rack, she had stumbled to her living room and fallen asleep on the couch.

And now, that bout of much needed and much appreciated sleep was being interrupted by the most irritating buzzing.

Buzzzzzzz. Buzz, buzz, buzzzzzzzzz.

"SHUT UP!" She shouted, still half asleep, hurling a pillow blindly toward the front entryway. After another moment, blessedly, the buzzing stopped. When she concluded that she would no longer be interrupted if she went back to sleep, Claire sighed happily and snuggled back into the warm portion of the couch with her eyes still closed.

Just as she was in the throes of sleep once more, her mobile began to ring. Claire could hear it from where she lay and remembered after a moment of groggy hesitation that she had tossed her bag down with her coat upon entering her flat.

Groaning, Claire shoved her body into a sitting position and leaped up before storming toward the sound. She dug through her bag before she found her mobile, which she was strongly considering burning to a crisp, and hardly bothered to check the Caller ID before yanking it to her ear and answering.

"What?" She growled, and though she sounded as if she'd obviously been asleep, a lingering note of warning penetrated the air as the word left her mouth, letting the mystery caller know that she was in no mood to be trifled with.

"Where have you been?" Sherlock demanded, obviously aggravated. "I've been ringing your bell for the past fifteen minutes."

"Well, excuse me." Claire huffed, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. "Some of us need sleep."

"You're awake now." He said. "Open the door."

"Go home, Sherlock." Claire told him, eying the front door in annoyance. "Unless you have coffee and a bloody good excuse for knocking down my door hardly…" she checked the time swiftly, "three hours after I left you, then I'm not moving an inch."

Sherlock let out a long, overly-dramatic groan and Claire could just imagine him rolling his eyes and looking skyward, as if to ask the heavens why she was the curse of his existence. "Fine. Meds weren't for PTSD. And, yes. Coffee, extra cream and no sugar."

Claire hesitated for a moment. She had been planning on sending Sherlock home, no matter what he said. And she had every right to! She was exhausted, irritated, but now she was also curious.

So, she hung up the phone and walked to the door before opening it the tiniest crack to make sure Sherlock was where he said he was. When she discovered him standing toward the street, his back to her, she pulled the door open the rest of the way so as to catch his attention.

When he turned to her empty handed, Claire felt a scowl form on her face, screwing up her features in annoyance.

"You never had coffee, did you?"

"Of course not." Sherlock scoffed, breezing past her before she could react. "I'm not your errand boy."

"No, you're an arse." Claire muttered under her breath, closing the door behind him with a little more force than necessary. She didn't know what she had expected – maybe it had been that she was still so disoriented from her short nap that she had deluded herself into thinking that Sherlock was capable of being thoughtful.

Idiot.

Claire sighed and meandered back into the living room to find Sherlock settling into one of her armchairs, looking irritatingly at ease. Actually, he seemed more indifferent than anything and, to Claire, that was worse than anything.

"What do you think you're doing?" She asked him, crossing her arms over her chest in an attempt to keep herself from trying to yank him out of her chair.

"Sitting." Sherlock stated, blinking several times. "You should too."

Claire was burning; him telling her to sit down in her own home! Imagine! No invitation, no indication from Claire that she even wanted him to stay, and there he was lounging in her living room.

"Look, you've got about ten seconds to tell me what kind of meds were in that bottle before I kick you out. Got it?"

Sherlock hummed in the back of his throat, obviously happy to be irritating her for once. "Night terrors, treated by a medicine called Clonazepam." He told her after another moment of uneasy silence. "It's obvious that Mr. Sullivan lied to Ms. Smith. There is no effective way to treat PTSD, nothing that's known as of yet. And there was no psychiatrist, not a licensed one."

"Hurry it up." Claire ushered him, trying to maintain her severity, but her mind was reeling. She had doubted the medicine was manufactured specifically for those who suffered from PTSD, but Clonazepam was cutting it very close. PTSD was classified as a common anxiety disorder by anyone's standards – developing after exposure to a particularly traumatic event, such as warfare. Claire could see how easy it would be for Cal to lie to Olivia about his medicine. But why would he, if they were only for night terrors?

"The psychiatrist in question was, in fact, Mr. Arthur Pace. He was receiving proper treatment for his night terrors and slipping a good portion of his medication to Mr. Sullivan for a few extra pounds." Sherlock told her flatly. "It seems our victim was a junkie."

"A junkie…" Claire mused. "Then how was his name on the bottle? The label was in his name. Not Arthur's."

"Staged." The consulting detective fired off an answer with such speed that Claire wondered how he even had the time to think about it. "It was obvious to Mr. Sullivan that should he be caught taking medicine that was neither prescribed nor authorized to be in his possession, it could have been detrimental."

"No doubt." Claire agreed. "But why lie? Why not just call it what it was instead of telling his girlfriend that it was for PTSD?"

"I suspect that it was easier for her to swallow – a returning soldier consumed with anxiety to the point that he needed medicine to get him through the day. However, when I spoke to her for a second time and asked her about Mr. Sullivan's sleeping habits after returning, she made the comment that he never slept fitfully. He was always still – always calm. And that was before the medicine." Sherlock brought his hands together under his chin thoughtfully. "In fact, I doubt that this medicine has anything to do with the concrete value of this case. A junkie is a junkie. And a junkie receiving his fix from a friend… a friend who served with him in the Army, who stood by him when death was everywhere…"

"A suicide pact, maybe?" Claire blurted, beginning to pace.

"No. Too simple." Sherlock rose from the armchair and joined her in their roundabout, mechanical dance throughout the room, both of them too lost in thought to pay attention to the other.

After another moment of silence, gears still whirring in both their minds, the two detectives came to a stop and met each other's gaze.

"Three murders. All in the Army." Sherlock said, clasping his hands behind his back. "All strangulations of which were inflicted post mortem. All victims were reported to be friends. They were all connected. But how? Other than Mr. Pace and Mr. Sullivan meeting for their weekly 'appointments', none of the soldiers were in contact after returning home."

Claire's brows furrowed. "Wait, how do you know all of this?"

Sherlock's lips twitched, the makings of a smirk beginning to dance across them. "While you were sleeping, your friend came through with the files. I read them, retained them, and came to get you."

"D'you have them with you?"

"Didn't need them." He said and then tapped the side of his head. "It's all up here."

"Well, great for you, pal." Claire remarked dryly, her irritation back and stronger than ever. "But I'm no mind reader. And so I'm three steps behind in areas that I absolutely shouldn't be. So instead of trying to show off, how about you catch me up."

Sherlock sighed heavily, rolling his eyes at her before staring at her in a way that made her think that she was once again irritating him… which made her happier than it should have. "Get your things." He told her.

"Why?"

"For Heaven's sake, woman." Sherlock muttered, skirting past her without an explanation. "Do you question everything I say?"

Claire imitated his earlier gesture and rolled her eyes skyward, wondering how she had ever managed to fall this far. At least in her desk job, she'd had dreams – ambitions. Now that she had achieved them, they seemed more like burdens than anything that was ever capable of making her happy. Well, they would, if Sherlock weren't a part of the deal.

Sighing to herself, she followed Sherlock's order to get her things, though she did it whilst unceremoniously remarking on his eccentricities while he was still in earshot. When there was no protest coming from Sherlock, she realized that he was ignoring her and Claire couldn't figure out why that only made her angrier.

"Where are we going?"

"I am going to follow a lead." Sherlock remarked as she locked the door to her flat. "You may sit in the car until I have need of you."

"If this is your way of getting back at me for falling asleep, I'm not going to apologize for being human." Claire snapped, obviously ruffled. "And this is our case. Not yours. So stop being an arse and give me the files."

"I told you already, Ms. Bennett, that I didn't have them."

"Does it really look like I'm in the mood for your crock?" Claire knew she should calm down – that even though she had every right to be upset, it would only end up giving him more satisfaction. "If you don't have them, take me by base so that I can pick them up. It'll save me from talking to you on the way to 'follow your lead'."

Sherlock seemed to consider her words as they piled in a cab, Claire fuming while he was quiet and calculating. "Alright." He said finally. "I'll get you the files and you can stay out of my way."

"Or I could do my job and you could take me to get the files anyway." Claire suggested, her kindness being heavily exaggerated. "But, really, that's just a thought."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sunk down into the backseat, mumbling something that Claire didn't quite catch. She supposed she was grateful she didn't hear it, seeing as how she already wanted to strangle him.

This situation was already more than less than ideal, but Claire (though still incredibly irritated) was actually finding that she enjoyed Sherlock's company to a certain degree. Or maybe she was deluding herself so that she didn't run screaming back to her desk job. Claire knew one thing, however, and it was that she would never let someone as inconsequential as Sherlock Holmes get to her. He wouldn't stand in the way of her dreams, of her aspirations. No way.

Claire, glancing at Sherlock one last time before realizing that he was going to leave them sitting in the car with no destination while the meter was running, smirked. And without waiting for Sherlock's permission, she leaned toward the front seat.

"Scotland Yard, please."