*There is some homophobic slander in this chapter, though it does not mirror my opinions/beliefs nor behavior.


The soft clinking of silverware meeting china plates was the only sound that John wanted to hear, the only pleasant sound within the room. Unfortunately for him, there was one sound Mr. Oliver wanted to hear: his own voice, and he wasn't about to deny himself the pleasure.

"So, why do you think these people are necessary, again, dear? You think my life's in danger, hm? I don't see why, if there's such a great risk, that you should bring these two amateurs in to "save" me. And just where is your proof that they want me or my family dead? A few suicides?" Mr. Oliver snorted as he reached for his drink. "It's preposterous; I thought you were wiser than that, letting your imagination run away with you."

"A few suicides? Those were our friends, all of them. Don't you think that's odd?" The wife's voice trembled, her movements halted in favor of glaring at her husband.

"Not odd, not really. It must be difficult to try and cope with our success. Some people can't handle the strain."

John's desired silence finally arrived, though not through means he anticipated nor desired. Horror froze John and the wife; the husband continued eating, and Sherlock continued to analyze the couple before them. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, the silence was not long-lasting.

"You do not regret their deaths?" Sherlock asked.

The husband huffed. "That's not what I said. I said they weren't odd, not not regrettable. It is a shame that our children lost friends, as did my wife, but that's just how life is. It's best just to move on," Mr. Oliver replied, pointedly glaring at Mrs. Oliver. "It is not necessary to hire investigators."

"Where are your children now, Mr. Oliver?" Sherlock asked.

"Both of them are out of the house," Mrs. Oliver replied. "John and Jane are at university, Jane as a freshman and John as a junior. They-"

"Enough!" Mr. Oliver exclaimed. "I am done entertaining our nosy guests. They've done nothing but pry, and I won't stand for it! If you want to investigate something not worth investigating, don't waste my time too. I've got better things to do than listen to this nonsense."

"They're not amateurs; they're Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson. You should show them more respect. They just want to save your life!"

Sherlock scoffed softly and looked away from the couple, out the window, where the wind toyed with the leafy canopies of a large oak tree.

Mr. Oliver opened his mouth angrily, then snapped it shut after a strange pause. The anger melted into shock, then re-ignited into fury. "Holmes and Watson, you say?" His voice was smooth and controlled by the tethers of cold, dark rage.

"Yes. Holmes and Watson, the successful detectives that-"

"You mean to tell me that, not only have you wasted my time with your over-dramatic drivel, you invited the fags to snoop in our personal business?"

John clenched his hands into fists under the table, seething but unable to form his rage into coherent thoughts and arguments. He did the only thing he could think of; he reached his arm subtly out to the detective beside him and grabbed the detective's tremulous hand.

"I'm not quite sure exactly what you are more upset about," Sherlock spoke after a tense silence, his hand unresponsive in John's, "the fact that two men have a healthier, more satisfying relationship than you and your wife or your other women, or the fact that your situation is so terribly troubling that we are the only ones willing to assist your poisonous family."

"Get out!" Mr. Oliver stood from his seat, pointing frantically, feverishly, at the door. "Get the hell out of my house, and if you return, so help me, I'll-"

"Just leave," Mrs. Oliver ordered. As John moved to rise from his seat, she spoke again. "Don't bother returning; consider the case closed. If I find that you've made this visit public knowledge, either of you, I can assure you that you will be sorry."

Sherlock and John left the room without further conversation between them; the sounds of the married couple bickering, however, clung to their clothes and skin even as they reached the entrance. The doctor was thankful the wife hadn't escorted them to the door, as her presence was sure to elicit a more violent reaction. As it was, John could hardly force himself out of the house, the urge to go back and-

"What did you think, John?" Sherlock's voice, rather than interrupt his thoughts, served only to fuel the rage burning within him. With the interruption came his attention, and when the doctor's eyes caught the detective's tremors, painstakingly concealed but obvious all the same, it was everything he could do to not growl his response.

"What did I think? I thought that they were rude and foolish; I'd call them the murderers, except that seems to be something beneath them."

"It's not an invalid deduction, although yours seems to be fueled by emotion rather than logic." The detective's tremors evaporated quickly from his body, instilling doubts of their validity within the doctor. "They were overly defensive; obviously they are heavily involved in the suicides. We need to investigate them further. They definitely have something to hide."

John clenched his teeth but made no move to outright disagree with the detective. His thoughts refused to free themselves from the thorns of Sherlock's reaction. Doubt tugged his lingering anger childishly, incessantly.

"Are you alright?"

Sherlock's question took John by surprise. "I'm fine, are you alright?"

"Yes. Haven't been insulted so childishly in centuries, though."

"Not even from Mycroft?"

A bitter smile tugged at the detective's lips. "His insults have always been intelligent. Besides, it would be foolish for him to insult me for something he is too."

"Mycroft is gay?" John asked. It shouldn't have surprised him how quickly Sherlock could change subjects, shouldn't have aroused suspicion and empowered doubt; however, John broke personal "should-nots" like Sherlock broke criminal protocol, and it forced the strength of his trust to crumble and crack.

"Couldn't you tell? His levels of personal grooming far surpass normal standards."

"That's kind of normal for someone like him, though," John replied. "Image is-"

Sherlock interrupted John's sentence by halting suddenly as he rounded a corner, the doctor nearly slamming into his back. A crime scene contaminated a row of elegant flats on the road ahead of them, bright yellow caution tape sharply contrasting with death's presence blanketing the scene.

Simultaneously, they surged forward, toward the commotion, curiosity and dread savagely nipping at their heels. The bustle of officers allowed for welcome distraction; John focused more on the familiar faces (Anderson's irreverent and disparaging; Donovan's irritated but resigned) than the lingering hope beyond rationality that it was a scene unrelated to the string of suicides.

They arrived in the flat, and Sherlock immediately examined his surroundings while John called out for Lestrade.

The Detective Inspector emerged from the hallway, exhaustion staining his body. "She's in the bathroom," he explained. "Drowned herself. There's-"

A woman, sobbing wildly, trailed after Lestrade, garbled words bubbling from her quivering lips.

"This was her friend. I found her here with the body; she was the one who called."

"Jane Oliver?" Sherlock asked as he entered the bathroom.

The woman nodded vigorously and tried to calm herself while John followed the detective into the bathroom. The deceased rested gently on the tiled floor, soaked in bath water. No serious wounds pointed to a death other than intentional drowning; she was an averagely healthy woman from what the doctor could tell.

Rather than voice his deductions, Sherlock stared silently at the corpse before rising and swiftly exiting the room.

Unnerved by the detective's behavior, John stayed beside the woman on the floor a little longer, examining her sadly, wondering what caused him to hold his tongue. Often, he refrained from allowing others to see his deductions without the prodding of suspicion or disbelief, but Sherlock rarely obscured criminal deductions from the doctor.

John stood slowly, grimacing slightly from the fleeting pain that laced his movements, and exited the room. Jane's sobs trickled slowly into whimpers, her wretched gasps an uncomfortable contrast to the detective's cold voice.

"This is why I believe, Lestrade, that the Oliver family should be under severe investigation. I believe they are the key to solving the mystery of these deaths."