"So, we've got a dead body."

"Thank you for pointing out the obvious, Dr. Watson, now go and tell us how he died."

"Asphyxiation. Drunk, maybe? Passed out. Vomit, possibly, but I don't smell anything. Drugs? Dead maybe six hours."

"But you know what it is."

"What?"

"You read the Chronicle this morning. Big deal, you know. Two suicides under the same circumstances, looks a bit suspicious. Unrelated as far as we know. Just the two of them."

"Wait, so…this is one of them? A suicide?"

"Or a murder."

"We're thinking murder," cuts in Lestrade.

"Well, then—"

"Thank you, Dr. Watson, you're no longer needed, there's a BART train on its way back to the peninsula in a few minutes, you might as well hop on."

"Wait, Sherlock—"

"It's fine. I know you don't want to hang around." Before John could reply, Sherlock turned to the body and examined it, picking up hands, examining wedding rings, running his hands over the clothes. None of it made any sense to John, but evidently it did to Sherlock, who said, "It looks like he was recently divorced or widowed, but not married for long before that. Just got into town from Cleveland, although I have to give you some credit because you had already figured that out. Ah, Mormon, although that was trickier. Except he's recently left the church, who knows why?"

"You're not making this up, are you?" asked Lestrade in disbelief.

"How did you know about his marital status?" John wonders.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Of course not. I'd need quite an imagination. Look at the tan on his finger. He lived in Cleveland, and providing that he hasn't gone on vacation recently, the tan indicates that he hadn't been married long before being widowed or divorced—my money is on divorced—very recently."

John is at a loss. "The Mormonism?"

"The creases and general arrangement of his clothes suggest that at one time he wore a temple garment, as Mormons will. However, he has the smell of alcohol on him, and not strong alcohol either. Wine, so he was drinking socially."

"Wow," says John. "That's amazing."

"You might want to say that a bit more quietly."

"Sorry."

Sherlock blinks. "It's fine." He smirks. "So, now to tracking down the murderer." Lestrade motions to break in. It hasn't been confirmed that it's a murder yet. "That's important." He clasps his hands beneath his chin and closes his eyes. "There were footprints on the lawn. Two men, one of them approximately…my height, the other a few inches taller than John here." He opens his eyes, looks at the body. "That would be our dead man here. The murderer, then, has a long stride, as long as mine, and a proclivity for wearing wingtips. Also…"

Sherlock pivots and turns around, swings the door closed. Behind it there is the word "REVANCHE" in red paint.

"Jesus, how'd we miss that?" wonders Lestrade.

"Because you're an idiot," Sherlock snorts. Then he pauses "Don't take offense to that."

"I didn't." It's Lestrade's turn to snort. "At least once a day you call me that, and have I ever taken it personally?"

"I seem to recall the first time."

"Well, I'll give you that one."

"So, what is this? Not a last name, surely—"

"Revenge. French for revenge."

"Wait, so we're looking for an angry, tall Frenchman?" Lestrade takes another look at the writing. "Jesus, that's blood!"

"No, you're looking for a mild-mannered American of approximately average height. Ever heard of a red herring?" He cocks one eyebrow. John can't help but be appalled once again by his sheer awfulness. "The handwriting is distinctly American. There are clear signs. No, let me conduct my investigation. You conduct yours. And of course it's blood. What do you expect they'd use, acrylic paint?"

"But there aren't any wounds on the dead man."

"Conclude what you will."

"So that's it then?"

"I assume."


"You're a real asshole, has anyone ever told you that?" We're back in the car, headed back to Bryant Street. I realize, after a slight epiphany, that the man in the passenger seat is almost as much of an enigma to me as he was the day I moved in. I haven't learned much about him. He seems generally friendless, and I haven't met or heard him mention any relatives.

"They don't usually ever stop."

"That was really amazing, back there." And it was. Maybe he doesn't need any more praise, but I can't restrain myself. Maybe I'm just a sucker for cleverness. I've never met anyone like this, though, and I can't help but wonder if there are others just as clever and interesting of if he is one of a kind.

"No one else seems to think so." Oh, now he's pouting. This is a side I've never seen before: Sherlock, the brooding egomaniac. Well, maybe I have seen this side before, but not as magnified as it is now.

"Well, what do people usually think when you make those…"

"Deductions." I'm thankful to him for supplying the word. "It's not really so much about what they think as it is about what they say."

"Well, what do they say?"

"Fuck off."

I chuckle. "That's not really so—" I stop when I see his expression: shocked. "Okay, so it's bad. You're so brilliant it shouldn't matter."

"No, don't take this exit."

"See what I mean? You know this city back to front. You can read people like nobody else I've ever met. You can just look at people and know their life story and their innermost thoughts. Do you know anyone else who can do that?"

He mumbles something that sounds vaguely like my craw, but I can't make it out.

"Look, Sherlock, it's fine. Sulk like that." I roll my eyes, not really willing to put up with his crap, especially since it's still really early in the morning. "What time is it?"

"Six forty-five."

"God. We're going home, and we're going to bed, and we're eating something." I glance back at him. "You, too. You can't survive indefinitely on the air."

"I'm going to prove you wrong someday."

I laugh out loud, although internally I'm concerned. "You try that."

"No, I mean, in your conception that I'm the smartest person that's ever lived. There's someone you'll meet someday."

I chuckle again, sure that he's just being modest, although he's hardly the type to underrate his intelligence. "Okay."

"Here we are. 221b Bryant Street. Home sweet home."

"Please refrain from any further use of clichés in my presence," he says. Evidentially, all traces of modesty or humbleness have vanished from his person once again. "It upsets the digestion."

"Fine."


"I'm going for a walk." I look up from my novel and look around the apartment. There's nothing interesting going on at the moment. When he leaves I'll probably just pick up the violin again.

"I'll come with you."

"No!" it comes out very forcefully, and judging by his expression he didn't mean to shout it. He looks irritated. He's clutching his shoulder.

"Okay." I pick up the book again, then, having second thoughts, take my shoulder rest from a nearby end-table and pick up my violin. He leaves. The door slams. The dust in the air swirls. I watch him out the window as a black limousine pulls up to the front of the apartment and someone beckons him to get in.

I watch him refuse. I watch him panic at something—probably not a gun. That's not Mycroft's style. He gets in. Well. His return will be interesting.


The ride is quick and nondescript. I don't know San Francisco that well, so I have no idea where we're going. The driver seems to be ambling on, doubling back, going out of his way. Still, it takes less than twenty minutes for us to get where we're going—a parking garage. Someone holds the door for me.

Standing a few yards away is a man, taller than me, but a touch shorter than my roommate. His most striking feature is his nose, which looks as if it was perhaps broken at some point. It was reset well, though, and only a doctor could tell the difference. He rests against an umbrella, and his clothes are expensive. Opulent. The expression on his face is nearly unreadable, although I can sense some air of satisfaction intermingled with pride.

"John Hamish Watson," he says. There is no question mark. He consults a notebook. "Sorry, Dr. John Hamish Watson. Formerly of the United States Army. Invalidated. Issued a purple heart. This is you?"

"Ah, yes," I say, afraid to lie but also reluctant to tell this man that he's right.

"I understand that you've recently moved in with Sherlock Holmes."

"Is that really any of your business?"

"It's been three weeks and you still haven't moved out. I'm impressed."

I chuckle. "So I guess you know him."

"I'm a friend of his."

"A friend?"

"I suppose you know him too." He chuckles. It's unnerving. "Well, the closest thing he has to one, anyway." He glances up and down my person. "Except possibly for you," he adds, frowning.

"So what are you?"

"An enemy."

"A what?" To be honest, I'm not exactly surprised.

"At least as far as he's concerned. He doesn't trust me."

"So why have you brought me here? To intimidate me? Ask me to carry a message?"

"No. I'm here to make an offer. I'm willing to perhaps ease your way in the world if you'd be willing to supply me with certain information. You do live with him, after all. None of the requests I'd make would be enough to make him suspect you. Just to keep an eye on him."

"An eye on him? Are you sure it isn't more sinister than that?"

"Oh, you're moderately intelligent. I'm surprised."

I roll my eyes. "Thanks, but no thanks."

"Don't you want to hear a number?"

"I've heard enough."

He sighs. The buttons on his suit strain. "The car will take you back." He turns around, headed in no direction in particular.

"I suppose that's it, then?"

He stops and looks over his shoulder. The expression on his face is oddly reminiscent of Sherlock. Frankly, it chills my blood. "Is it?"