And for once I post on schedule. :D

John left grinning. He had it; for once he had it.

"You think it was the cat," Sherlock said behind him, and John slowed so he could turn to look at her.

"What? Yes. Yes, it must be. It's how they got the bacteria into her system. Its paws stink of disinfectant."

"Lovely idea," Sherlock said, and John's eyes narrowed, because Sherlock was agreeing with him.

"No," he protested. "He coated it onto the paws of her cat. It's a new pet! Bound to be a little jumpy around her, she gets scratched..."

"I thought of it the minute I saw the scratches on her arm," Sherlock interrupted, "But it's too random and too clever for the brother."

John shook his head. "He murdered his sister for the money."

Sherlock grinned. "Did he?"

John closed his eyes for a quick moment and then opened them, already resigned. "Didn't he?"

"No," Sherlock said simply. "It was revenge."

"Revenge? Who wanted revenge?" John's forehead furrowed as he thought back to the people in the case.

"Raoul. The houseboy," Sherlock replied. "Kenny Prince was the butt of his sister's jokes, week in, week out, a virtual bullying campaign - he fell out with her, had enough. It's all on the website."

"Which website?"

"Fan sites. Incredibly helpful. She threatened to disinherit Kenny, but Raoul had grown accustomed to a particular lifestyle. So..."

"No. Wait. Wait. Stop," John protested, putting out an arm to stop Sherlock as she strode forward. "What about the disinfectant, then? On the cat's claws?"

Sherlock looked at him with a small smile. "Raoul keeps a very clean house. You walked through the kitchen - did you note the state of the floor? Scrubbed shining. You smell of disinfectant now. No, the cat doesn't come into it."

John looked down and pulled up his jacket collar to sniff it.

"Raoul's internet records are interesting, though," Sherlock said, looking toward the main road and peering. "I hope we can get a cab from here."

John sighed.

Sherlock mostly ignored John the rest of the day, as he paced and counted hours and she typed furiously on her computer. John drank five cups of tea.

On his fifth cup he looked over at Sherlock's concentrated scowl and couldn't help but wonder what went through her head. Her ability to focus was incredible and he had a small moment of wishing he could process like that before remembering her mood between-cases and shuddering.

Sherlock was full of contradictory ideas - one moment she was acerbic and rude to Anderson, the next she was smiling as John made her take fake photos. Incompetence in some people was scorned but John's failure seemed to be a split-second concern and then forgotten immediately as she turned to other things.

And for that matter, he'd never seen her bring up someone's past failures to humiliate them. Sherlock was a very present person, he mused, and if something wasn't happening right now it seemed to get pushed to the side and nearly forgotten.

But not actually forgotten, he realized, smiling, because it might come up in a case and heaven forbid she not know which particular toxin belongs to which jellyfish.

"We've got to head to Scotland Yard," Sherlock said, standing and heading over to the printer, which she'd pulled out of her room and stuck under the coffee table. "I have to give this to Lestrade."

"Right," John said, and set down his tea. "We're at an hour left, Sherlock."

"I know," was all the detective said, and John closed his eyes for a split second before grabbing his coat.

"Raoul de Santos," was what Sherlock greeted Lestrade with, and the tired copper's eyes lit up as he saw her walk in the door, waving her folder of papers. He leaned forward to grab it and Sherlock handed it to him, using her now-free hands to gesture as she explained.

"Kenny Prince's houseboy. The second autopsy shows it wasn't tetanus in her system - it was botulinum toxin. We've been here before."

John looked up and said slowly, "Carl Powers."

Sherlock nodded at him and tsked disapprovingly. "Our bomber's repeated himself."

"So, how'd he do it?" Lestrade asked, leading the way to his office.

"Botox injection. The pinpricks all over her face?"

"Botox?" Lestrade repeated, as John took a quick breath of understanding.

"Botox is a diluted form of botulinum. Among other things, Raoul de Santos was employed to give Connie her regular facial injections. My contact at the Home Office gave me the complete records of Raoul's internet purchases. He's been bulk ordering Botox for months." Sherlock stopped walking and gestured at the folder in Lestrade's hands, and John felt himself smile, wondering what Mycroft would think of being called contact at the Home Office.

And then he blinked and let his face harden as he realized...

"...He bided his time, then upped the strength to a fatal dose," Sherlock was finishing, and Lestrade looked at the folder dubiously.

"You're sure about this?"

"I'm sure," Sherlock replied, and Lestrade frowned.

"My office," Lestrade nodded, and walked forward, but John grabbed Sherlock's arm.

"Sherlock. How long?"

"What?" she asked, and John let his eyes narrow and his lips thin into a line.

"How long have you known."

"Well, this one was quite simple, actually. And like I said, the bomber repeated himself. That was a mistake," she replied, and tried to follow Lestrade again, but John tightened his hold on her arm ever so slightly and she looked at him, stray curls in her face.

"No, but, Sherlock - the hostage - they've been there all this time."

Sherlock finally seemed to understand, and turned to face him directly, looking into his eyes.

"I knew I could save her," she said, seriously. "I also knew that the bomber had given us twelve hours. I solved the case quickly, and that gave me time to get on with other things. Don't you see? We're one up on him." She scanned his face quickly, and John let her arm go, following her into Lestrade's office and biting his lip frustratedly.