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As the cab that carried John away turned a corner and vanished from sight, Sherlock moved his gaze toward the brick building behind him. With a sigh, he walked up to the door of the flat; it was covered in crawling ivy. He observed the twists and turns of the plant for a moment as he tried to clear his mind of the conversation that had taken place in the cab. Finally, he rang the doorbell and stood back on his heels, waiting. The air carried a frigid chill and, each time he exhaled, puffs of mist escaped his mouth and tickled his face.

Soon, he heard light footsteps approaching from within the flat and he was not surprised when, moments later, a woman opened the door. His eyes moved from the top of her head to the tips of her toes in a matter of seconds. She was slender but her muscles were long, lean, and strong. Her shoulder-length hair was down, but specks of hairspray around her scalp and an indent in her auburn waves indicated that it had recently been styled up and away from the face. Her knees and feet were turned out, her toenails were bruised, and her toes were covered in blisters. Ballet dancer - obvious. The detective's lips turned up in a smirk.

"May I help you?" the dancer asked.

"Elizabeth?"

The auburn-haired woman nodded before repeating her original question, her eyes digesting the detective's face with wonder.

Sherlock smiled cordially. "I'm here about Xavier Smithe. It's my understanding he used to live here."

At these words, the poor woman looked utterly bewildered. "Yes, he did, but I'm afraid I haven't seen him in two years."

Sherlock moved forward a step before saying gently, "Xavier disappeared two years ago because he was murdered."

Elizabeth turned horribly pale at that, and her small hands moved to her chest in distress.

The consulting detective glanced at her hands before giving her a sympathetic look, his eyes melting softly. "I am working with New Scotland Yard right now - "

"You - " Elizabeth interrupted in a shaky voice. " - you're Sherlock Holmes, aren't you? People come to you with a mystery that needs solving, and you figure it out. I saw you on the telly, and I thought you looked so much like Xavier. "

Sherlock flinched inwardly at that statement and, since the woman knew who he was (with John's idiotic blog spiking the media's curiosity, the detective was really getting far too much unwanted attention), he dropped his mask of cordiality. His face took on a look of impatience and austerity as he said in a hard voice, "Yes. Now I am rather tired of standing in the cold, so let me in and we will discuss Xavier from there. "

Elizabeth watched him with big eyes before moving away from the door and, with a brisk step, the curly-haired man entered the warmth of the flat.

A few minutes later, he and Elizabeth were sitting across from one another in the living room. A healthy fire crackled in the hearth nearby.

Silent tears were tumbling down the woman's face, and Sherlock found himself eerily comforted by her show of care and sadness for the deceased man. It was a refreshing change from the seeming indifference that had plagued the victim thus far.

The detective leaned in, and said in a voice far more quiet and tender than usual, "You loved Xavier."

Elizabeth laughed through her tears. "Yes, I did...once." There was a long pause as the woman looked pathetically at her hands. "Have you ever been in love, Mr. Holmes?"

It was difficult to throw the detective off-guard, but that question certainly did. Sherlock sat up and cleared his throat, surprised to find that his heart was beginning to speed up. "No," he responded quickly.

Elizabeth gave a sad smile and shook her head. "Well then, perhaps you won't understand what I mean when I say that love can make you foolish."

Sherlock's expression became sharp and indignant then. "No, I understand completely. Love is an unstable emotion that gets in the way of reason - "

The woman half-chuckled, half-groaned as she interrupted. "You sound so much like Xavier. God, I adored him. But when I told him that, he practically sneered at me. He kept on saying that anyone who loved was an idiot, that love made people act irrationally. He was insulting and snide and conceited and I could tell that I annoyed him. He spent most of his time in his room...he really did not want to be around me...but...but still I was foolish enough to keep on loving him. I couldn't help it. He was so brilliant. His mind...it...it dazzled me...it intrigued me. He was so smart and he was so cruel."

More tears tumbled down her cheeks and Sherlock looked away, suddenly uneasy. Where he had once thought the warmth of the fire comforting, he now found it unbearably hot.

He glanced around the small flat, his eyes falling on tables, chairs, a bookshelf. The kitchen and the living area were really one big room, and off to the side was a narrow hallway.

At the corner of the living room was a baby grand piano. The instrument had been treated with the finest of care; it was spotless, save for an area by the music stand where a dull circle shaped like the bottom of a cup had stained the wood. The piano was also quite dusty, indicating that it had not been touched in awhile.

Then his gaze fell to the floor of the living room. It was wooden and freshly polished; beautiful and unscratched save for two areas by a queen-sized bed where the floor dipped in barely noticeable circles and the colour of the wood was slightly lighter. The queen-sized bed was unmade, the comforter in a messy pile at the edge of the mattress.

Next, he looked down the hallway to find that there were two more rooms in the flat: a bathroom and, behind that, a bedroom.

When the detective's gaze flickered back to the dancer's face, she had wiped her tears and was breathing steadier.

"The piano belonged to Xavier," Sherlock said, voice low.

"Yes," Elizabeth replied. "About a month after he disappeared, I sold his things...my job doesn't pay well and I need all the help I can get. But I couldn't bear to part with the piano. He played it so beautifully...and he seemed almost human in those moments. I loved listening to Ryan and him create music together." A cheerful nostalgic look was now on her face.

"Ryan?" the detective asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes, Ryan. I've known him for many years. He is an accompanist for my ballet classes, that's how we met...he plays the flute. Xavier didn't have friends, really, but he tolerated Ryan more than he did most people."

"Ryan is also your current flatmate, and your boyfriend," Sherlock said matter-of-factly.

Elizabeth looked surprised, mildly amused, and slightly horrified. "The telly wasn't lying, you really are freakishly bright. How did you guess?"

"I didn't guess, I observed," the detective drawled. "You said yourself that your job does not pay well and that you need all the financial aid you can get, so it only makes sense that you would find a new flatmate once it was evident Xavier was not returning. The books on your bookshelf are predominantly relating to the flute - books about flute music, the history of the flute, and the world's best flute players - so your flatmate is obviously a flautist. Ryan it is, then. Secondly, the queen-sized bed in the corner. There are dips made by bodies on both sides of the mattress, so two people have clearly been sleeping in it. You said earlier that Xavier kept to his room and, since there is only one bedroom in this flat, the bedroom was his, while you slept out here - obviously. This is your bed, then, and so the dips in the bed were made by you and a lover. Thirdly, the floor has been recently polished so it is easy to see where dirt has been made by foot traffic. There has been foot traffic through this area and to the bathroom, but there is no dirt going back towards the bedroom which would indicate that your flatmate has not been returning to their room. Why? It is your flatmate who has been sharing your bed."

"Yes," the woman whispered in awe. "Yes...yes, you're right. Ryan and I started dating about a month before Xavier disappeared, though Ryan came by the flat for several months before then to meet with Xavier. Ryan was always into the sciences, but he was dreadfully intimidated by them at the same time. When he heard that my flatmate was a science professor, he immediately wanted to meet him. And when Xavier heard that Ryan was a musician, he was equally intrigued. They made a deal. Ryan would teach Xavier to play the flute, and Xavier would take Ryan to the university lab to show him experiments. Every Sunday evening, Ryan would come over to teach Xavier. They would always end their lesson by putting on a little show for me, Xavier playing the piano and Ryan playing the flute...it was very lovely. Xavier really liked to show off, you know? And then, every Monday, Xavier took Ryan to the lab at the university and they did experiments. They weren't friends, really, but Xavier loved music and so he tolerated Ryan," Elizabeth said in a slightly flustered voice.

Sherlock stood, then, and moved to the piano. "Here," he pointed at the circular stain on the wood. "What is this from? A cup?"

"Yes, Xavier used to drink a cup of chocolate milk when he played the piano. He said it stimulated his brain," Elizabeth answered with a soft smile.

"Where'd he get the chocolate milk?"

"I made it for him with milk and powder," Elizabeth said, looking slightly embarrassed. "He was lactose intolerant so we had to buy special milk. It didn't come in chocolate, only in white, so I always bought chocolate powder and mixed it in. He was too lazy to make it himself, but I knew how much he liked it. I'd always make it for him whenever I heard him playing." After a pause, "At first, it really bothered Ryan that I took the effort to do it, but eventually he didn't seem to mind anymore."

Sherlock was pacing the room now. "Did anyone else drink this chocolate powder?"

"No, just Xavier. But it lasts a very long time, it has a very long shelf life, so I kept some. I figured if we had guests come over, I could make them hot cocoa or something...not that we ever have had guests but - "

"So you still have some of the powder?" the detective asked sharply.

"Yes."

"May I take it, please?"

Elizabeth looked puzzled by the question, but she nodded. "Sure. I really don't have anymore use for it. Here, let me get it for you."

She rose from her chair and walked over to a kitchen cupboard where she promptly pulled down a metal container. As soon as she handed the container to the detective, he opened the lid and peered at the contents with glowing eyes as he asked, "Didn't you think it strange when Xavier disappeared?"

"Not really." Elizabeth sat back down in her chair. "He was always very solitary and I knew that he had accepted a job overseas so...you know...I just assumed that he had moved and didn't want to bother transporting all of his goods. He wasn't really the type to say good bye - "

Sherlock interrupted her. "How soon after Xavier's disappearance did Ryan move in?"

"When it was obvious that Xavier wasn't coming back, so after about a month. I couldn't manage the rent on my own and we were dating, so it made sense."

The detective's fingers were once again steepled under his chin. "What did Ryan say about Xavier's disappearance?"

"Not much. He was sad the trips to the lab had to end, but he knew that Xavier was a solitary type of person so I guess he wasn't surprised that I didn't receive a good bye," Elizabeth said somewhat forlornly.

"May I speak with Ryan?"

Elizabeth shook her head. "I'm afraid that he is out of town until tomorrow afternoon..."

"Ah, how convenient," Sherlock muttered, watching the woman in front of him with an intense stare. "What's his last name?"

"Jones," she replied.

Sherlock continued to watch her. "Judging by the state of your hands, you shoot a gun on a regular basis."

"Yes," Elizabeth said truthfully, blushing slightly. "I go to the shooting range. I find it helps my concentration skills, and being able to concentrate is key as a dancer. I actually got Ryan into it too. He goes with me now, he finds it relaxing."

"I see," Sherlock replied, a small smile flashing across his plump lips.

The woman before him had a silly grin on her face now. "He's really a wonderful guy, Ryan. I am so much happier now that I am with him. He told me that he had initially been afraid to say he was interested in me because of how much I adored Xavier." She giggled foolishly and sadly. "I wasted all those months lusting for someone who would never want to be with me...and...I just wish that Ryan had told me how he felt sooner." She looked up at Sherlock with eager eyes then. "I know you say you have never been in love, Mr. Holmes but, if you ever do fall in love with someone, please don't hesitate to tell them. You may say that love makes us act irrationally, and maybe it does. But it is the most wonderful feeling to be in love. So if you ever find that you are, you need to tell that special someone because...you don't want to lose them...you don't want them to find someone else..."

Sherlock pulled at the collar of his shirt. The heat of the fire was horridly unpleasant. It felt like it was practically burning through his clothing. His skin itched and ached and throbbed, his clothing ripped into his flesh painfully, and his throat was pasty and dry. He coughed heavily and, when he inhaled next, it felt like his tonsils were collapsing. He stood quickly, lunged at his scarf and coat, and was at the door in a matter of seconds. He barely turned to the auburn-haired girl as he croaked out a frantic, "I need to go now."

And then he was gone.


As soon as Sherlock returned to 221B Baker Street, he dumped his unworn scarf and coat on the floor and rushed into his room. His palms were seeped in sweat, and he struggled desperately to unbutton his shirt and to wiggle his legs out of his trousers and pants. He was caked in a sticky, sickening sweat from head to toe and, once he discarded his clothes and saw his pale, clammy reflection, he knew he had to take a shower.

When the lukewarm water hit his skin, he practically purred in relief. He reached for a bar of soap and rapidly scrubbed his pale arms and legs - but, though the mixture of soap and water ripped the sweat from his body and cleansed his skin, his mind was still in a panic. And this was a panic that the healing powers of water could not clean.

His mind was racing, reeling, in overdrive. And not because of the case. Not at all. Frankly, he considered the case to be basically solved. He was 99.9% positive of who the murderer was, and he was 99.9% positive of how and why the murder had occurred - but, of course, he had to be 100% certain. And it would be very simple, really, to gain that extra 0.1%. The final steps would be 1) to visit the local shooting range to study the bullets of the guns and 2) to go to St. Bart's, compare the bullets from the guns at the shooting range to the bullet embedded in the victim's neck, test the victim's body for radium poisoning, and examine the chocolate powder retrieved at Elizabeth's flat. All of that could be achieved in a matter of hours and that is precisely where Sherlock's mind should have been.

But, instead, the detective's mind was absorbed with a very different thought, and that thought was Dr. John Watson. Sherlock kept hearing John's words in the cab. But I mean the soul of a person...The soul of a person cannot be read in a skull. Sherlock kept seeing John's face: the deep wrinkles on his forehead, the tender fire that burned in his eyes, the softness of his hair. John, John, John.

With a moan, Sherlock jumped out of the shower, dried himself in a fury, threw the towel violently on the bathroom floor, and ran back to his room. He pulled on his night clothes hastily and, in his mad state, he completely and utterly forgot that he really should wear pants underneath his trousers. In fact, he was in such a fluster that he could barely pull his cotton trousers up his legs and, as he flew from his room, they hung precariously low and loose on his hips.

His eyes were smouldering blue, green, gold, and grey, and they were focused on only one thing: the skull on the mantelpiece. He gritted his teeth as he grabbed at it and then he was flopping into a kitchen chair, hands caressing the bone, trousers sliding down with his mind as he slipped into the depths of his mental palace.

If you ever do fall in love with someone, please don't hesitate to tell them. You don't want to lose them. You don't want them to find someone else.

Love is an unstable emotion that gets in the way of reason.

Love can make you foolish.

I will not make the mistake of caring. Don't you see that it is a disadvantage?