Here we go, new chapter. Enjoy!

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing! Evidently there was nothing of interest to Sherlock in his pile of possible cases. Greg stopped at the door to see Sherlock scuttling around and throwing papers this way and that. More papers than he should have been physically able to, unless he was an octopus.

"Bored?" Greg smirked as Sherlock's head popped up.

"What? Yes. Case?" Sherlock stood up where he was and looked at Greg hungrily.

Clothes are his usual style but more expensive so he's still living with Mycroft. Good. Hair and smile concurs. Ever so slight indication of a limp and he's put on weight but it's muscle which means either he's been working out more or… Ew. Sherlock screwed up his face.

"What?" Greg looked at his leg, where Sherlock had been looking. "What are you looking at and why are you giving me that face?"

"Do you have a case?" Sherlock rubbed the palm of his right hand with the thumb of his left.

"Yes." Greg turned sideways to let Sherlock passed as he put on his coat and the sleeve hit Greg in the face. "Bloody hell." He shook his head and gave his leg a last look before he followed the detective outside.

.

They pulled up outside of a block of flats on Sloane Street. As Sherlock closed the car door he looked to the blue plaque on the white stonework.

'London County Council

Sir Charles Wentworth

DILKE

1843 – 1911

Statesman and

Author

lived here'

Yes, so have hundreds of other people. What a ridiculous thing to commemorate, clearly designed to irritate and distract. I have an international reputation for thwarting criminals and I hope to never see my name on one. A blue circle outside of 221b Baker Street

'William Sherlock Scott

HOLMES

Consulting Detective

1977 – However long he managed to survive.'

Though I suppose that I cannot expect to live out my days at Baker Street. A blue plaque somewhere in England's countryside.

'William Sherlock Scott

HOLMES

Consulting Detective

and Bee Keeper

retired here

When John killed himself'

Stop. Sherlock pushed that thought to the back of his head looked up at the windows before ducking under the cordon and crossing over the road. He took a quick glance at the people who had gathered behind the cordons all around the outside of the flats. For want of a better plan the police had sectioned off the pavement and its side of the road, brought in officers to try and deal with the traffic (they had opened up a single far side lane and each side was alternating) and had assigned other officers specifically to ward away the press for the time being.

"Which one?" He half-shouted as Lestrade joined him and the man told Sherlock it was the corner window on the third floor. He didn't point or gesture so as not to alert the press. The three windows graduate down onto the pavement like a staircase. There is a ledge underneath the window which a little bit of the roof of the room below and the same can be said for the window underneath that. The second floor window has metal shutters over it, like mini versions of the gates you find in lifts in apartment blocks in America, older hotels or shafts in old warehouses. They're slightly open.

They crossed back over and entered number 76; there were various officers all looking around as well as, beside the lift, one officer standing talking to another man at the small desk. As they stepped over threshold Sherlock went into overdrive deducing everything and everyone in there.

Relatively new decoration – carpet, wallpaper, paintwork. Paintings are from local galleries. Female officer, single, twenty-six, dog owner, German Shepard, wanted to be in the army but… Medical not passed and that accounts for the gym obsession, slight lack of iron in diet. Male officer, thirty-one, gay, long-term relationship, faithful, boyfriend owns a cat that doesn't like him, addicted to online gambling. Sherlock looked to the back of the officer talking to the doorman. Approximately forty-five and probably opens his mouth more than he should considering his rank in respect to his age, just started using a new shampoo, relationship recently ended, all bets are on it having something to do with that big mouth of his, recovering from a knee injury while playing football and… Sherlock squinted to the man's left hand. Right-handed but… boxes south paw. Sherlock briefly smiled when he was caught looking by the officer as he turned around.

Greg nodded to him and the man walked away giving Sherlock one last glance. But Sherlock had shifted his attention to the doorman.

Slightly obese, re-hemmed trousers, the condition of the fabric indicate a lot of sitting down but his shoes indicate a lot of walking. Sherlock rounded behind Greg and the man as Greg spoke.

"And you are the doorman?" Greg gave Sherlock a sideways glance as the detective looked close at the doorman's left ear before passing behind him and looking at his hat.

Red marks inside ear from something being taken in and out regularly. Hat is removed a lot, probably when no one is around. Red mark in right ear too.

"Er..." The man looked to Sherlock but turned back to Greg when he didn't seem fazed. "Yes sir, Keith Roberts."

"And how long have you worked here, Mr Roberts?"

Sherlock looked over the various things on the top layer of the man's desk. Sign-in sheet. Top left corner, a small scrap of paper. Been ripped off by left-handed person. He scanned the list of names on the paper underneath. Only goes up to seven in the evening. Shift change. Seven small monitors. One for outside the door they had just entered. Sherlock glanced outside.

"Two years, sir."

Greg nodded and wrote it down, when he finished he didn't remove his pen from the page but he lifted his eyes to Sherlock as he looked outside. Greg turned to look but when he turned back Sherlock was looking back at the monitors.

Second shows this room from… Sherlock turned to look behind him at the camera. There. He turned back. Third shows inside the lift. Fourth alternates between the stairwell descending to the basement and the basement hallway which houses the staff that live there. Why on earth would you want to live where you work? Sherlock shook his head just a little. Fifth alternates between the first floor hallway, stairs leading to the second floor and the second floor hallway. The other two do the same for the third and fourth floors and then the five and sixth. The desk looks clean and presentable but… Sherlock bent down and pulled on one of the drawers. When it was locked he looked up to the doorman who was watching him nervously. Sherlock slowly looked back to the other drawers and found them open. Files. Banana. Sandwiches from home. Flask of coffee. Strong coffee judging by the drips that have escaped and dried on the rim. Crossword book. Chewed pen.

"And did you notice anything unusual last night at all?" Greg was ignoring Sherlock as he sensed he was getting about ready to speak.

"No sir, everything was quiet just like every night. Everyone who came through the door signed in and I recognised them all anyway."

"You didn't get up to go to the toilet?"

"My bathroom breaks are all recorded on the logs, sir." Sherlock quickly flipped to the logs and noted all the times. All that coffee is clearly taking its toll. He put the clipboard back down on the counter.

Lestrade nodded thoughtfully as he wrote it down and then sighed. "That's it? So, nothing unusual happened and no one unknown to you came through that door," Greg turned to his right a little and pointed behind himself before turning back, "and yet I have a dead body upstairs and a woman in hospital with a bullet in her head? And you didn't notice anything?"

The man stuttered for a response.

"What is in here?" Sherlock rattled the drawer to emphasise that it was locked and it got Greg's attention.

"Nothing, it's just my private things." The man shrugged clearly nervous.

"Open the drawer, Mr Roberts." Greg looked to the man seriously and he just hesitated. "Or we can force it open."

Sherlock sighed. "I'll save you time, Inspector." Sherlock looked the man up and down. "From your trousers, shoes, complexion…" Sherlock narrowed his eyes as a hint of a smirk appeared at the corner of the right side of his mouth. "You fell asleep."

The man spluttered. "I did not!" But his eyes gave him away. Guilt.

"My guess is a travel sewing kit, spare tie, caffeine tablets, chewing gum that focuses on whitening teeth, painkillers, nicotine patches and a Metro."

"How?" It was Greg that spoke since the man was clearly struck dumb.

"Mr Roberts, your trousers and shoes tell me that this is not your only job, which is not a choice you have taken; you need both jobs - your sandwiches and the hem of your trousers tell me that you are barely making ends meet. Your complexion tells me you are exhausted from it, there are marks of slight irritation in your ears – my guess is they are from ear plugs – so something makes it hard for you to sleep at night. I'll bet you've just had an unplanned baby. Also your choice of banana for slow-released energy and strong coffee are attempts to last longer on what little sleep you do manage, that's where the crossword book comes in, other than just to stave off boredom you try to keep your mind working and therefore awake. The marks above your ear are from where your hat rubs when you put it back on, you take it off at every opportunity because your lack of sleep mixed with the ways you try to keep yourself alert are what give you that sore head you have."

"So," Greg looked up to the right thinking back, "travel sewing kit and tie for keeping up appearances, caffeine tablets for an extra kick, chewing gum with whitening because of the strong coffee, painkillers for the headache… Nicotine patches and paper?"

The man looked from Sherlock to the Inspector and back again as his brain caught up.

"Nicotine patches because not only has the new addition to his family led to his rethinking his current attitude to his health – not to mention the unwelcome drain it has on his poor finances – but his jobs do not leave a lot of time for smoking." Sherlock picked up the pen tentatively and a little disgusted, by the nib end of it. "Chewed beyond belief."

"And…" The two detectives looked to the man as he stuttered. "And the paper?"

Greg looked to Sherlock and waited.

"You're struggling financially but you're exhausted so the one thing you do allow yourself is the bus to and from jobs, you pick up the paper in the morning to keep yourself occupied and awake and take it into work for the same reason. There is only so long you can do crosswords while jonesing for a cigarette before you get frustrated and give up so you need something else to do."

Nobody said anything for a few seconds before Lestrade raised his head a little. "What time did you nod off?"

The man sighed and rubbed his head. "Mrs Frank, 6d, came in at 9:37 and then I woke up when something was hit against the door at 10:14." Sherlock glanced to the clock on the wall opposite the man's chair and then looked at his own watch. Correct. So there was no way he could have the times wrong.

"Alright," Lestrade turned to the male officer that had originally been speaking to Mr Roberts, "get another statement from Mr Roberts here, the truth this time," he pointed his pen at the doorman who nodded guiltily, "get the contents of that drawer logged and all of the sign-in sheets." The officer nodded. He turned to the other officers. "Get the security cameras up, go through and find me between 9:37 and 10:14."

"On each one." Sherlock added and Lestrade nodded as the officers looked to him for confirmation. "Including the one inside the lift."

"Come on." Lestrade walked to the door that led to the stairs and stopped, turning around to look at Sherlock as he looked at the call button for the lift then put both palms on either side of the open doors, his thumbs on the inside across each hidden door. "Techs stopped it here this morning, no finger prints whatsoever."

Sherlock turned his head. "None?" Lestrade shook his head. Interesting. Sherlock turned back, and leaned in to look inside the shaft. Nothing of note. "Alright." He passed Greg, who was stood with the door to the stairwell open.

"You already have this figured out, haven't you?" Greg called after Sherlock as he followed him up the stairs. When he didn't get an answer he exhaled. "Of course you do. I should just retire now."

"Why would you want to do that?" Sherlock flicked his coat as he turned left sharply, looking at each of the cameras as he continued upwards.

"Because I will never be anything like the great Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock smirked. "I think my brother is very thankful for that, Inspector." Greg smiled a little just at the mention of Mycroft. Sherlock opened the door to the third story landing and held it open for Greg. "As am I."

Greg looked at Sherlock for a second. "When you talk like that I can't help but wonder if you're not back on the drugs." Greg walked away and Sherlock hesitated before glancing down at his right hand. Greg turned back to see Sherlock's face. "It's a joke Sherlock; a compliment from you always takes me by surprise and I never know how to respond." He gestured his head as Sherlock looked up to meet his gaze. "This way."

Sherlock followed slowly, looking along the doors and up to the cameras as he passed them to the corner flat. Numbered clockwise from where the lift and door to the stairwell opened the corner flat turned out to be 3d. They walked under the police tape around the door, Lestrade nodded to a female officer who stood beside it. Bored out of her mind by the look on her face. And hung-over.

Looking at the number Sherlock had to mentally repack all of the information he had on 3D as it came rushing at him. Stop. He closed his eyes and set it all back before opening them again. When he opened them Lestrade was looking at him. "What?"

"Everything alright?" Greg narrowed his eyes in slight worry as he pulled blue latex gloves on. The female officer turned a little trying not to make it obvious that she was watching.

"Fine. Just had to…" Sherlock waved his hands dismissively. "Sort some information." Lestrade nodded, the worry fading, since this was not a new thing to him. Sherlock bent over to look at the handle and then bent his knees to bring himself down to eye level. Wiped clean except one obvious pinky print… Sherlock squinted closer. One upside down pinky print and sideways thumb print. Hmm. Sherlock saw a right hand curl its fingers behind and under the door handle while the thumb was left extended out to the left, leaving those two obvious prints. "Who found them?"

Lestrade opened his notebook. "Uh, the cleaner, those were the only prints when we turned up and they are hers." Sherlock stood up and opened the door then crossed over the threshold. "The rooms are exactly how they left it." Sherlock looked around barely listening. Clean and well kept, good choice in cleaner then. Phone, note pad and mail on the table in the hall next to two sets of keys – one in the designated bowl and one on the wood. Wood slightly faded under that set. He leaned over it. Mr and Mrs Watson. Sherlock shook his head a little. Mr and Mrs Walton.

'Keep it together.'

I am trying, Mycroft!

He shook his head again and continued around the room. Lipstick open and on the floor below the mirror. Sherlock kneeled down to look at it properly. Esteé Lauder, shade… Rebellious Rose. Sherlock looked around at the other rooms.

"Which one is he in?" Lestrade motioned to the sitting room and they walked in. Sherlock looked around the room, nothing seemed out of place other than the body and a brown leather briefcase by the door. Fallen over or kicked over? Slight dent in the leather. Kicked. There was a small sign with a number '4' on it and a rule set out. Gun found there. He looked to the coffee table, slightly closer to the couch than it usually is. Lestrade walked around the back of the corner couch, which faced the coffee table and window, rather than being up against any corners, with the TV in the far corner. The man was lying on his back, his head was tilted upwards by the wall. Fell backwards without enough room to fall flat. Sherlock stepped over to the right side of the body and leaned over the chest. 32. Revolver. "Do people even use revolvers anymore?" Sherlock muttered it and Lestrade knew it wasn't a question to be answered.

Male. Married. About thirty-sev-

"James Walton," Sherlock shifted as, not only did Lestrade just interrupt him but the name… Stop! "thirty-seven years old, lived here for six years. They moved in before getting married four years ago. He was found like this, she was found here." Lestrade pointed to the cushion next to the corner one but on the side of the couch that lined up with where Greg was standing and Sherlock looked over before deciding to stand and walk over. "Mandy Walton," Sherlock paused again. Stop! "thirty-three, she was shot, by the same calibre, here." Sherlock looked up, he pointed to the top of his hairline on the right side of his forehead. Sherlock looked and then looked back to the cushion. "It looks like she'll survive but she hasn't woken up yet."

Sherlock nodded and looked around. So she was standing here when she was shot judging by the… Sherlock looked over the back of the couch. "How tall is she?" Lestrade opened his notepad as Sherlock walked forward to come to his side – now looking at the crime scene from where Lestrade had stood when they first walked in. He leaned over and just read over Greg's shoulder. Tabarom by Antonio Visconti. No, not on the pad - on Greg. "Bit woody, for you." When Greg turned and saw Sherlock sniff he grabbed his coat and smelled it.

"It's not mine, it's Mycroft's." Sherlock just looked at him. "I know, I haven't smelled it before either but he was wearing it this morning." His eyes went slightly out of focus as if he was thinking back.

"Something wrong?" 5"6. Sherlock finally read it and stood back to look over the sofa again. Blood pattern consistent with facing the doorway when she was shot. And there's that big obvious hole they haven't seen.

Greg paused. "Something's bothering him and it's not work because I can tell by the look on his face. This is different."

'And we both know what it is, don't we brother?'

He widened his eyes and shook himself back into the room. "Anyway… Thoughts?"

'Yet another one of your secrets I'm keeping for you. This time it really will end us, it'll be unfixable and it'll definitely be your fault, Sherlock.'

Sherlock closed his eyes slowly as he exhaled just a little knowing that he was right.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock opened his eyes again and realised. "Thoughts, yes!" He pointed to the man. "There's something in his right pocket, could you get it for me, Inspector?" Greg looked at him surprised at the respect he was getting. "I don't have gloves on."

Greg walked over the left of the body, kneeled down and searched in the man's trouser pocket, he fished out a pink envelope, crushed and folded in two without care. Greg stepped over the body to join Sherlock on the other side of the table and show him. He unfolded the envelope and the front read 'My Mandy.' Man's writing. Unrushed. Greg waited for a nod from Sherlock before turning it over and removing the card. It was a printed picture of a rose on the front that said 'I can't help it…' Greg opened it and it continued in print '…I kind of love you.' Then someone had written inside.

'Mandy, I know that right now we are really struggling to deal with it all but just know that eventually all of this will be worth it when it's over and we can be happy. Happy Valentine's Day. X'

Man's writing, again unrushed – same as the writing on the envelope. Sherlock shot back to when he had entered the door and looked at the mail. Next to the mail there had been a pad, beside the phone. It had scribbled on it 'Call garage on Mon'. Not same handwriting.

Sherlock looked around. "No one heard anything?"

Lestrade flipped over some pages in his notebook. "A Mr Scott, flat below, heard arguments and then a loud noise but put it down to the television or music. He said that the walls are thin so he can usually hear noise anyway but with it being Valentine's Day he thought they might have been turning up the volume so that he couldn't hear." Sherlock nodded and exited the living room, he quickly looked in the bathroom and then looked in the bedroom. Very clean. Rose petals scattered everywhere. Were arranged with care and then disturbed aggressively. Drawer slightly open. He walked over and looked inside. Fabric to wrap it in, bought for safety. Paranoid and probably emotionally abusive. As he turned around he saw a scuff mark on the leg of the table in the hall. High heeled shoe mark.

"Right…" Sherlock turned to Lestrade. "There was a third person."

"A third? Oh, alright mate?" Lestrade looked over Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock turned to see John. John. Captain John Watson, MD. John and Mary. Mary Elizabeth Watson. Mary Elizabeth Moriarty. Stop! John walked into the hallway of the flat smiling until he saw Sherlock staring at him then Greg looked.

"What?" John looked to Greg then back to Sherlock.

"Why are you here?" Why?! Why is he here?!

"I called him?" Greg looked confused but… Faking it. He's called him because I didn't.

"Well, you shouldn't have." Sherlock raised his eyebrow at Lestrade and walked further into the hallway putting all of the information in the right place.

"Oh right, got it all figured out then?" John looked through to the body on the floor in the living room.

"Yes." Sherlock stopped and tried to sort through everything but he couldn't separate the information from this scene and from what he knew. Even sentences he had previously heard were thrown at him, but not in the voice of the person he knew had said them. The sheer volume of information flooding him, bleeding out from his mind to his vision made him feel a little queasy so he closed his eyes.

James Watson. No, James Walton. Shot in Afghanistan. No, shot in his living room. By his wife's brother. No, by his wife's lover. His wife, Mary Walton. No, Mary Watson. Mary Moriarty. I have a debt to pay and I'll pay it eventually. Everyone's entitled to their own secrets. Secrets. You have one, don't you Sherlock? From John. Everyone knows except the two men standing in front of you right now. The two men who have the most faith in you in the world and all because the only man who has ever loved you for who you are, your brother, is keeping yet another one for you. When will you stop? When will you grow up? When will you grow up, Sherlock! Grow up, Sherlock!

All of a sudden Sherlock could see his father.

'When will you grow up, Sherlock? You are thirteen years old and you still take tantrums like a child!' He pulled Sherlock's hands away from his face as he leaned over his son. 'Look at me when I'm talking to you and stop crying! Crying like a child! Emotions are for children, Sherlock. Caring is not an advantage. It's just a dog!'

'Father?' Mycroft stood looking at his younger brother as his father turned to his eldest, his face as emotionless as his father's. 'They were very close…'

'Close?' He straightened up. Sherlock didn't dare lift his hands back to his eyes. 'How ridiculous. You get close to people, if you must, not animals. And you do not cry like an infant when it dies. Where does that get you?' Sherlock was struggling to stop his sobs. 'Answer me, Sherlock!' Sherlock tried but he couldn't. 'Mycroft, where does that get you?' There was a pause when Mr Holmes turned to look at Mycroft.

'Nowhere, Father.'

'Correct. You do not get involved. Being involved impairs your judgement… The cost is too high. Stop crying." He inhaled irritated. 'Stop!' Sherlock held his breath. His father's voice echoed throughout the dark office they were in. 'Mycroft, come on.' Mr Holmes took one last displeased look at Sherlock before walking out of the door.

Mycroft's face changed as his father left – it showed sadness. He walked over to his brother, fished in his right trouser pocket and kneeled down to Sherlock's level, he took out a blue silk handkerchief and moved it up to wipe his brother's cheek when he was screamed to a halt, the hanky millimetres from Sherlock's face.

'MYCROFT!'

Mycroft looked to his right a little as his Father's voice boomed down the hall. He turned back to Sherlock, put his left hand on his upper arm briefly and handed him the hanky with his right before standing back up and leaving to follow his Father. Sherlock slowly let himself breathe again.

"Sherlock!" Sherlock was shaken back into the present. "You alright?" Sherlock looked at John who moved his hand from the same spot of Sherlock's right upper arm to his shoulder, the hand he had used to rouse him for his memory. Sherlock turned his head to look at the hand. The ring. "Sherlock." John pointed to Sherlock's left cheek with his right index finger and lowered his left hand.

"You upset?" Greg fished in his pocket and held out a red silk handkerchief to Sherlock. Mycroft's.

Sherlock looked from the hanky to John and finally to Greg. He wiped his face with his hand. "Upset?" He scrunched up his face with the usual distaste as Greg stuffed the hanky back in his pocket. "I don't do upset. My brother is the one who has taken to emotions of late. Not me." He ignored Greg's knowing look as he pushed passed the detective and back into the sitting room.

'When you're hiding something, been sussed out… you insult someone, usually one of us.'

"You can leave now, John."

"No, I'll just listen then."

"Uh, my crime scene, remember? I called him." Greg looked up getting a little annoyed.

Sherlock paused. "Fine. Don't touch anything." John looked on, not showing any change in his face but clearly aware that Sherlock was giving him attitude. "This was an unplanned murder. Mrs Wat-Walton," Sherlock cleared his throat, John furrowed his brow a little and Greg looked from Sherlock to John. "She planned on leaving her husband and was having an affair. Her husband came home and found out so they laid in wait for the other man in here, when he arrived there was a scuffle and Mrs Walton was shot. After that, the other man had gained possession of the gun and shot the husband, possibly by accident. Then, thinking she was dead, he retreats trying to cover his tracks."

The two men just stood looking around the room for clues as to how he go there.

Sherlock stalked around trying to focus on the body and fuzz out everything else. Fuzz out John. "Um, judging by the set up in the bedroom she was expecting a Valentine's night but he's dressed as if he was at work."

"He could have just came home?" John spoke the voice of matrimony and it made Sherlock's teeth itch.

"Yes, but his briefcase was here," he pointed to it, "and the card we found in the husbands pocket says affair." He gestured to Lestrade who, being the only one wearing gloves held it open as John read it. "So he's gone to work, she's gotten ready. But he's left his briefcase, likely by accident, judging by the kick he gives it at some point. Anyway, he's back." Sherlock walked back into the hall with John and Greg following him. "He's walked in and put his keys on the table, there's a slight fade on the wood where he always puts them and she moves them to the bowl – she hasn't so there wasn't a period of time of peace after he walked in for her to do that."

He pointed to the open lipstick. "She's been standing in front of the mirror putting lipstick on and dropped it in surprise." Sherlock walked to the door and turned facing the bedroom, the bed was visible from there even if the door had been left open. "He's then saw the bedroom, gotten angry," Sherlock walked into the room as Greg and Lestrade watched, "and lashed out." He imitated the movement the husband probably used to scatter the petals everywhere. As he did his mind exchanged the rose petals for confetti and he was back at John's wedding.

'Er, just the bride and groom, please.'

'Sherlock.'

"Sherlock?" Sherlock shook his head as John said his name, both in his memory and reality.

"What? Yes, anyway he grabs his gun…" Sherlock turned towards the slightly open drawer, "the fact that he even has a revolver shows that he doesn't need it for regular criminal activity, he's had it for a long time and he's paranoid meaning he's more than likely an abusive partner." He imitated the gun with two fingers on his right hand. "Having followed him into the bedroom, when he turns with the gun she probably didn't know he had, she turns to run for the door that he's closed behind him. He follows her, he's quicker and he grabs her." Sherlock walked back towards Greg and John in the hallway pointing to the scuff mark on the table leg. "She tries to get out of his grasp, kicking out, but he's too strong and he doesn't try to stop her shouting because he knows the neighbour won't complain. Like he said, Greg, the man downstairs is used to noise from this flat. The husband forces her into the living room, she sits on the couch," the three men look in the door as Sherlock indicates the cushion with the blood, "he stands," Sherlock pointed to the body. "They argued, he was furious." He indicated the briefcase, kicked against the wall for no other obvious reason than for something to kick. Sherlock turned back towards the door, "The lover comes in, card in hand, he doesn't bring anything else because she would have to hide it from her husband but a card is easier to hide, stuff it in some files he wouldn't look at and it'll be fine."

"Why didn't the boyfriend run?" Greg looked to the door and then back to the living room. "He would have seen the husband and girlfriend in the living room if they left the door open and if they didn't then he would have seen the keys on the table?"

"They did leave the door open, which means he also saw the gun. The husband wouldn't aim it at him because there would be a chance to get away, no, he keeps it aimed at her to get him to come inside and close the door without a fight. He comes in, the husband spots the card, gets him to show him it – likely moving to here." Sherlock walks in and stands near the end of the coffee table and indicated with both of his open palmed hands pointing downwards. "He gets even angrier in finding out that it wasn't just sex but that she was going to leave him. He scrunches it and then, deciding he's taking control, pockets it and probably goes into some speech about how if he can't have her then no one can. He aims the gun properly…"

Sherlock aimed his improvised gun which was still his right hand, at where she would have been standing, now facing them both, and his mind broke off again.

'Oh, it's loaded, Sherlock.'

"Uh, uh…" Sherlock tried to push it back, Greg and John shared a look. "Uh, he aims the gun back at her and the boyfriend takes his chance. He struggles…" Sherlock looked at John who was standing closest to Sherlock, about where the wife's boyfriend would have been.

"What?" John just looked at the detective surprised.

"They struggled?" Sherlock gestured to himself not sure why he was doing this and then re-aimed his imaginary gun. Lestrade moved behind the couch to watch when John tried to grab the 'gun' and Sherlock directed the struggle. He pushed downwards on his arms and knocked his knee against the table. "The table gets knocked…"

'Yes, Captain. We are not your enemies! We were just…'

"…in the struggle then," Sherlock turned his wrist to point his hand upwards in the direction of where the wife had been standing, "the gun goes off." Keeping their positions but not moving Sherlock gestured his head to the bullet hole in the ceiling. "It hits her in the head at an upward angle and embeds itself in the cornice. Distracted by the wife falling back onto the couch, the lover gets the gun." Sherlock removed his hand and John pointed his 'gun' at Sherlock as the detective put his hands in the air.

'I could do it, you know?'

"When the husband tries to go to her, he steps in the way." John did as directed standing between Sherlock and the cushion. "I then go this way, probably shouting about how she was dead and blaming the boyfriend. He shoots." Sherlock stepped over the body and then indicated downwards as John lowered his arm just a little.

"Cold blood then." Greg exhaled popping the card into an evidence bag.

"My guess is that in the panic the gun just went off. " Sherlock looked to the husband's body. "Arguing and sweating. He panics thinking that she's dead, he drops the gun when the sudden realisation hits him. He knows what he's done…" Sherlock couldn't help but look at John. "He knows that it's all his fault, the fact that he didn't plan it this way doesn't matter, and he knows that all of the pain, hurt and blood is on his hands. A man lying dead… Because of him." Sherlock cleared his throat and looked away as John looked round. Neither of them noticed Greg watching.

"Why doesn't he check that she's alive?" Greg points to John without thinking as both men have bought the scene and their parts in it.

"For the same reason he doesn't phone the police – he's an idiot." They both looked at Sherlock confused. "And selfish."

"Sherlock, he wasn't thinking clearly." John spoke as Greg stood still confused.

"He doesn't phone the ambulance or police but thinks clear enough to wipe the door handle, inside the flat and out, closes the door, then he takes the lift down because that's the way he came up. Most people would run away from the scene with shock, he would run for the stairs and out the building but this one goes out the way he came to make sure he wipes all of the buttons and rips out the sign in sheet before running out." The two men looked a little defeated by Sherlock's logic. "He may not have been thinking as clearly as usual but his first thought was not his lover it was himself. Although, he did let the door slam on his way out which woke the doorman and therefore gave us a timeline."

"He signed in because he expected a Valentine's night, not to be confronted and become a murderer." Greg said in realisation. "So he grabbed the top sheet in haste." Sherlock nodded and walked out of the flat.

"And completely forgot about the cameras." John muttered as they walked through the flats doorway and back to the lift.

They got back into the lift, Sherlock stood with his hands clasped behind him and staring up at the ceiling ignoring John. John looked at Sherlock with narrowed eyes wondering why he was acting the way he was towards him. Greg however was processing everything Sherlock had told him, wondering how they had missed the bullet hole in the cornice and trying to ignore the tension in the shaft. [G] Something is going on with Mycroft and something is clearly going on with Sherlock. John doesn't appear to know what either. What secret are they keeping this time?

Greg sighed audibly, pulled off the glove from his right hand and rubbed the back of his neck. John looked at him as he stuffed it in his left pocket and leaned his left hand, still gloved, on the bar that ran along the three mirrored walls of the elevator. John looked at the hand.

"He's an idiot."

Sherlock and Greg, his hand still on his neck, looked to John as he then looked around smiling as if realising something.

"What?" Greg spoke assuming that Sherlock would just ignore John, the mood he was in.

"You said he walked in the door and signed in because he was expecting a Valentine's night with the woman he loves?" Sherlock nodded slightly. "Well, he'd be relaxed, probably even laugh to himself as the doorman slept. He'd come in here, card in one hand and look up, the way people do when they're going up in a lift. We all looked down when we walked in because we were going down. We were relaxed since we've practically solved it." John laughed a little, not mockingly but at the simplicity of something. [Back to S] What?

"I've practically solved it." Sherlock quipped trying to sound less than interested in what John was saying but he was. He was very interested. John has that look. He's found something, something that I am too clinical to see. Just like he always does. Sherlock's eyes were fixed on John laughing.

Sherlock could see John laughing as he walked back into his wedding reception followed by a confused Greg.

'What are you laughing at?' Mary was almost laughing herself. Mary.

"What are you laughing at?" Greg asked, still standing as he was, rubbing his neck like crazy. Sherlock shook back into the room as the door opened at ground level.

"Well, we're relaxed like he was?" Greg shook his head in question. "Well, ignore us two. Sherlock always stands like that and I stand like I did in the Army, old habits but look at you. Look at how you're standing." He indicated Greg's hand and Sherlock lifted his head in realisation.

"You're leaning on the bar."

Greg looked to his left hand, indeed curled around the bar. He looked up, press the 'stall' button that kept the shaft on the ground floor with his gloved hand and exited it into the small reception area.

"Oi," He grabbed the first officer who was the female from earlier, "when the lift was dusted did they dust the bar?"

"The bar, sir?"

Greg got annoyed. "The bar, the bar," he pointed and she looked as Sherlock and John walked out of it, "that runs along the inside?"

"I'm sorry, I don't know sir."

He grunted in frustration and walked behind the desk as Sherlock and John followed. The older officer, the big-mouthed one, was sitting in control of the cameras and Mr Roberts was standing behind him, having helped him to work it he had stood back and waited – the guilt still very evident on his face. And exhaustion.

"Show me the lift camera in the timeframe." The officer nodded and pointed to the third screen where the footage was ready, on pause, at the start of the timeframe; 9:37pm. "Forward." The image started forwarding. "Stop!" A man got into the lift and the officer paused it. Greg put the card, in its evidence bag, up next to the screen to compare.

"It's the same one." John smirked as he leaned over and Greg looked to him and smiled.

"Play it normally, I want to see what he does." The officer nodded and played it. The man pressed the button, laughed a little, looked up as he wiggled the card in his hand and his left hand disappeared behind his coat. "Pause that." He did so. Greg and John squinted at the screen. "I don't know…"

"No, me neither." John whispered also squinting at the image.

Sherlock sighed as he leaned over. "There." He pointed to the mirror behind him.

His hand was indeed, curled around the bar.

Greg straightened up and smiled before turning to the doorman. "Mr Roberts, recall seeing this man last night?"

Keith stepped forward and looked at the screen. "No." John and Greg huffed. "But…"

They all turned back. "But what?" Sherlock asked.

"That's Danny Moore." They looked at him again. "He's Mrs Walton's yoga man."

Sherlock exhaled a laugh through his nose. He smiled at John who laughed back. "Never trust the yoga man."

Greg watched and then turned to the female officer again. "Get Anderson back down here, tell him to dust that bar."

"Yes, sir."

"And tell him he's an incompetent idiot." Sherlock stated in all seriousness.

They all looked at him before Greg realised. "Yes, use those exact words, constable, and when he asks why tell him to go and look at the ceiling in the living room of the flat." John realised and then smiled a little. "Bloody big bullet hole and he missed it." Greg shook his head and left as the female officer tried to suppress her smile.

"Well that settles it." John muttered still smiling.

"Settles what?" Sherlock watched Greg leave thinking about the look on his face when Sherlock had mentioned Mycroft and then his eyes when the Inspector had expressed concern.

"Mary is never getting a yoga instructor." John walked after Greg.

Sherlock's smile fell. Mary.