We're so sorry for this late update! It's actually an interesting story. I wrote this chapter more than a month ago and I thought that I had put it up, only to discover yesterday that I hadn't. So...sorry. We hope you love this chapter!

Chapter 7:

{Sherlock}

It was once said that the world was a dangerous place. No one knew that more than Sherlock Holmes. With all of the many cases he had taken and crimes he had solved, he had learned enough about the world to know that no one was safe. There were killers, thieves, liars, and cheats. No one was safe. Not even an army officer. Not even a man who had sacrificed his mind, his home, and so much of his life for his countrymen.

Not even Cal Sullivan.

Or Arthur Pace.

Or Rupert Poulter.

In the end, despite what they may have deserved, they still wound up dead. With a belt wrapped around their neck. But why? That was the real question Sherlock had to ask himself. If he found out the answer to that question, then all other questions would be answered as well.

Sherlock ran his hands through his hair and ruffled it forward, making it even more unruly than it was before. He was pacing through the living room of Claire's flat. The aura was not nearly as soothing as his flat, but he had snidely insisted that she would never ever see the inside of his flat. Not even if hell were to freeze over.

Upon arriving at Scotland Yard, Sherlock had waited – very impatiently – for her to acquire the files she had so desperately needed. Then, he had gone to follow his lead while Claire had sat in the car reading the files. But the lead had turned out to be absolutely nothing. Which had left Sherlock incredibly moody and stumped...Sherlock was never stumped. Which, in turn, was how they had gotten back to Claire's flat so that Sherlock could pace.

"God, can you stop that?" Claire groaned as she reentered the living room.

Without looking at her, Sherlock asked, "Stop what?"

"The pacing?! It can't actually help."

Yes, it can, Sherlock thought with annoyance. He didn't reply, just rolled his eyes. But he did stop, if only to keep her from complaining further. He plopped down in the chair across from her and just stared at her.

"Why didn't you make me a cup?" He said in reference to the mug of coffee she was nursing in her hands.

"Same reason you didn't bring me any this mornin'," Clair retorted sharply. "Kitchen's right through there if you want to make yourself your own coffee."

Sherlock sat back and tented his fingers. "It's too far."

She rolled her eyes. "But you want some, so go get some."

"I would prefer to just sit...," he insisted stubbornly.

Claire grit her teeth in annoyance at his childishness and insolence. "O God, Sherlock. Get up off your lazy a-" She was cut off as Sherlock's mobile began to ring.

His deft and nimble fingers grabbed for it as fast as they could. "Molly, what do you have for me?" His voice was calm and dull, but Claire could see the tension building up in his stance.

"Sherlock? I well – I, uh, I found something rather interesting. Not interesting. It's more strange than anything. I think you'll like it."

"Can't you put it on speaker?" Claire whispered. Sherlock gave her a look that said she had better shut up or she would regret it. She just crossed her arms and huffed.

Sherlock nodded in mild appreciation. "Molly, don't waste time blabbing. What did you find?"

"Well, the autopsy reports came in and that's what's really very strange. Like, I just don't understand. It make no sense."

"That is why the Yard hires me. To solve these puzzles. Now please, Molly-"

"Mr. Sullivan didn't die from asphyxiation," Molly blurted out very fast. For a second, Sherlock didn't think that he had heard her right.

He scrunched up his eyebrows. "What?" Claire looked at him, puzzled, no doubt curious as to what was so wrong.

Molly took a deep breath and her voice squeaked just a bit when she spoke, as it always did when she got nervous that she had done something wrong. "I'm telling you, Sherlock. Cal Sullivan was strangled post-mortem."

"Then how did he die?" He shouted incredulously. This was certainly a twist.

"What's it?" Claire whispered again, only to be promptly shut up by that stare again.

"Well, Sherlock -" Molly began.

Sherlock groaned. "HOW did HE die?"

"In his bloodstream, there were found traces of pentobarbital. About 400 milligrams worth. And that's -"

"Enough to kill him within five minutes of dosage."

"Exactly," Molly agreed. "But the question is how was it administered?"

Sherlock grinned and then praised her. "Now, you're asking the right questions. Molly, I need you to reexamine every last inch of that man's body. Either it was administered through ingestion, or there was another way. Find it."

"Of course, Sher-" Before she could finish, Sherlock ended the call and stuffed his mobile back into his pocket. He was silent as he sat back down in the armchair, tented his fingers, and rested his chin on them. He could feel Claire's eyes burning holes in his forehead, but he didn't look up at her. He answered. "It wasn't death by asphyxiation. Cal Sullivan was given a lethal dose of pentobarbital."

Claire looked shocked when he finally raised his eyes to watch her expression. "What the hell is that all about?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well..." she began, "What's the purpose?"
Sherlock shrugged. "If you're referring to the fact that it really makes no sense why the killer would poison his victim, then make it look as if it were a strangulation, all the while it would be so easy to find the poison in the victim's bloodstream, well then I suppose that's what we need to find out."

"It just – it makes no sense -"

"Or does it?" Sherlock shot back as the gears in his brain started working double-time.

Claire's brows furrowed. "What do you mean?"

"Think, Claire," Sherlock said urgently. "Think because this really points to only one thing."

Claire thought and thought. "If he killed Cal through pentobarbital poisoning and then strangled him...the killer must have been trying to cover up something. There had to have been a secret."

"My guess is that," Sherlock interrupted, "This man is trying to hide his identity. If he tried to cover up the fact that he killed the man through pentobarbital, then that must mean his employment has access to such poison."

"Think he's a drug dealer?"

"No, it's gotta be something more than that. Something more obvious," Sherlock muttered, but he didn't sound as if he was judging her for her poor response. "Something with more of a basis than a drug dealer. Drug dealers can be hard to find. This man though...this man has to be in the system."

Claire shot straight up. "It's used for euthanization."

"What?"

"Pentobarbital is used to euthanize large animals."

Sherlock stood up too. "So, a veterinarian."
"You think it really could be?"

He shrugged. "Why not?"

"Oh my God," Claire seemed to believe their theory more and more as the seconds ticked by. "We might actually have found a lead." She reached into her pocket and grabbed her mobile to dial Lestrade, but she stopped midway in the action. She looked at Sherlock. "But..."

He raised a brow. "But...?"

"He's a veterinarian, so...a doctor of sorts. He would know, then, that our forensics team would be able to pick up traces of the dosage. What would be the point then of making it look like strangulation?"

"Good!" Sherlock shouted as he pointed at her. Claire jumped a bit. "Good, good, good GOOD!" He jumped up in the air as he began racing around the room. He clapped his hands together and smiled. "Oh, this is so good!"

She couldn't help but smile just a bit too. "Why?"

"Because, Claire! Oh, Claire! We've got him, he's given us enough evidence to really get him." Claire was more puzzled than ever now. She had barely even said anything and now he was jumping and shouting like a lunatic. "There's only one reason a trained doctor would make such a stupid mistake. It goes far deeper than distraction."

Her eyes widened as she realized what he was getting at. "Grief. This man is so grieved. Probably doesn't even care, much less was thinking straight." She grinned and then laughed. "Oh, we've got him, Sherlock! A grieving man and a vet. So, he lost someone in the war, and he thinks Cal, Arthur, and Rupert were a part of that. We've gotta call Lestrade." She began to dial, but her mobile began to ring instead. She looked at Sherlock and grinned. "Speaking of the devil." She pressed the button and held it to her ear. Now, it was Sherlock who had to sit and guess what was going on.

"Yah, Lestrade?"

"Claire, you'll never believe this," the detective's voice came through the phone, "I've been looking through these men's files, and doin' some research on the regiment they were in. And these men saw some heavy artillery."

"What do you mean?"

He sighed. "These men were the ones who were called in to do the dirty work of the military. Secret operations, spying, assassinations, undercover, infiltrations -"

"So these men came out pretty scarred, huh?"

"Lost a lot of men, too."

Claire nodded. "Lestrade, that's actually why I was just gonna call you."

"Got a lead?"

"A real big one, actually. Sherlock and I have come to the conclusion that the killer was a veterinarian...and a man who was in grief. I need you to see what the last assignment Cal Sullivan, Arthur Pace, and Rupert Poulter were on together, and then see who died. Cross-reference that with a list of their relatives."

Lestrade coughed. "And see if there are any veterinarians?"

"Nice 'n sharp, just how I like them, Detective. Yes. That man is our killer."

"Alright, getting to work now. I'll call ya when we get a hit."

Claire smiled. "Thank you, Detective." She hung up. Then, she turned to Sherlock. "Guess that's it."

Sherlock flashed her a grin and clapped his hands together. "Then, we're off!"

"Off where?" But, even before he offered an answer, she was grabbing her coat and swinging it over her shoulders.

"To Scotland Yard. Guarantee by the time we get there, Lestrade should have some answer. And it would be nice for that name to be given in person, eh?"

She chuckled as she grabbed her purse. "You sound as if this is as important as being dumped in person."

"No, Ms. Bennett," he opened the door and walked down the stairs, leaving Claire to follow behind. "It's more important. Much more important."

"I doubt it," she muttered behind him, much too quietly for him to hear. Besides, he was far too busy talking anyway to even hear her. Whether, he was talking to himself or to her, Claire didn't know. He was talking far too fast, it was almost incomprehensible.

Sherlock, per usual, didn't look as he began to cross the street. "It's so simple when you think about it though. A man grieved at the death of a family member, perhaps a girlfriend, maybe a sibling, father. He infiltrates them, perhaps befriends them, and then it happens. They're dead. Brilliant...not the actual crime...but the solving. Simply -"

Claire saw the danger, but the consulting detective didn't so much as notice. He just continued to walk, rambling on, too caught up in his thoughts to even consider the possibility that he was walking across a public street, in the middle of London, during the beginning of rush hour. Claire didn't have time to think, so she did the only thing she could do. She raced up to Sherlock and gave a him a great push before the car could hit him. But she wasn't fast enough. Just as she thought they were both safely out of harm's reach, the inside of the wheel caught her foot, sending her flying forwards onto the rough pavement below. A sharp pain shot through her ankle and up her leg. She yelped in pain when Sherlock tried to touch it.

"Let me look at it," he insisted.

"This isn't just a scrape, Sherlock. I need you to call 999."

Sherlock frowned. "For a sprained ankle?"

"It could be worse, Sherlock!" She cried out in exasperation. She was already in enough pain; she didn't need to argue with him right now.

"Guarantee it's a sprained ankle."

"And if it is, I'll pay you 10 pounds, just call 999 right now, dammit."

"Are you always this irritable?" He shot back, while whipping out his phone and doing as she said.

Claire answered between gritted teeth. "Only when I've probably crushed my ankle to save a bumbling oaf who can't even cross the street without invoking danger! Didn't your mother teach you to look both ways?!"

He shrugged. "Probably did. I had more important things to learn."

"Still believe that?" She retorted, but he didn't answer because he was answered by the operator on the other end of the line. "Yes, I have a woman hear who has," he looked down at Claire and smirked, "A sprained ankle. She needs to get to the hospital as soon as she can." He paused as the woman asked a question. "Nah, she's in pain, but she can bear it."

He watched in amusement as he could practically see the murderous thoughts swirling around in Claire's mind.