The Progression of Feelings

by seasidewriter1

Ana isn't sure what to expect when moving into 221b with John and Sherlock. Sherlock isn't sure of having a woman share his flat with him. But, soon the two find that both see the other as equally interesting as she joins the famous duo on their adventures. But what happens when Ana and Sherlock begin to realize they have feelings for each other? Will they admit it? *Sherlock/OC*

37. Thirty-Six: Of Love and Murder

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock (the show or the original works by A.C.D.) or any of the characters; I only own my OC Ana.

VERY IMPORTANT FOREWORD/WARNING:There is mentions of a shooting in public in this chapter. As this chapter centers around this fictional event, if you wish to stray away from this topic, I would recommend only reading the first portion of this particular installment, just up to the end of Sherlock's speech in the pub or opt not to read the chapter.

36. Of Love and Murder

There was no one more excited for Ana and Sherlock's first date than John Watson. He had spent months feeling vaguely tortured by their inability to act on their feelings; so when his flatmates had mentioned that they were going out to lunch, he practically shouted in joy. He had actually started to think that he would have to follow up on the promise he'd made himself about locking the two in the room to properly sort things out. Their more intimate reactions never escalated beyond a brief touch or a stolen moment in the kitchen, but it was enough to signal a change in dynamic, even if it was only slight. John had a sneaking suspicion that Sherlock was still testing the waters and that Ana was letting him set the pace. They were stepping into a territory that the consulting detective was not personally versed in, and he was sure that––no matter how much Sherlock would deny it––he was likely quite nervous.

This was evidenced by the fact that, not but a few days prior, Sherlock had asked what it was he should do if he were to ask Ana on a proper date. A proper first date. John had told him, with a smile and an encouraging pat on the shoulder, to take her out for lunch somewhere nice. Have a good meal, a couple of drinks, and just enjoy being in each other's company. The consulting detective had then inquired of all the nuances of conversation topics and whether the type or location of the pub mattered, rattling off a list of questions that left John chuckling. He'd told Sherlock that there was little advice to give. That everything involving or relating to dating was subjective; it depended on what he felt was right regarding the afternoon out. With that being said, Sherlock disappeared into the reaches of both his own mind and the internet, intently not talking to anyone for the rest of the day.

John's attention was drawn away from his latest book when Ana swept into the living room, looking positively lovely. She was dressed in a beautiful floral patterned dress, reflective of all the flowers starting to bloom across the city. The outfit was relatively simple, but perfect nonetheless, especially considering the nature of the outing she was about to embark on. She had tried not to let on how nervous she had been at the prospect of the date, for Sherlock's benefit, John was sure. But John had spied her rifling through her closet and dresser, sifting through outfit after outfit. He had not-so-slyly suggested a nice summery dress would be the way to go, as spring was finally spreading through the city. It made him smile to know that both his friends cared for each other enough to be so legitimately concerned about their outing. Beaming, John shut his book and rose to his feet.

"You look beautiful, Ana," he complimented. Ana's cheeks turned a shade pinker at the compliment.

"Thank you, John."

"So, where is it you're going?"

"A nice little pub called the…" Ana trailed off, brows pinching together as she attempted to recall the name, "Galahad's, I think. It's somewhere near Covent Garden, a small-ish family run place." A smile spread across her lips, and she reached up to tuck a strand of loosely curled hair behind her ear. She looked around the room, brows furrowing again when she, surely, noticed the lack of Sherlock's presence. She jutted her thumb over her shoulder, gesturing to the hallway just through the kitchen. "Has Sherlock not left his room?"

John shook his head and sighed gently through his nose. Sherlock had, in fact, not left his room since breakfast had ended. Without a word, he had swept into the solitude of his room, not completely shutting his door as was typical for him. "No. He hasn't. I'll just… go see what's going on."

The doctor knocked on the door twice before pushing it open, ducking inside. He was greeted with a state of near chaos. It reminded John of whenever Sherlock was trying to pick out a disguise for a case: there were shirts haphazardly tossed here-and-there, his closet doors were thrown open wide, and drawers in his dresser were pulled open, having clearly been rifled through. Sherlock was stood at the foot of his bed, hands on his hips as he seriously contemplated a row of suit jackets sprawled out across the mattress. There were also two ties lying across his pillows, two articles of clothing that John hadn't known Sherlock owned. He appeared only half-dressed, wearing a white button-down shirt that hung open and untucked. John arched both brows in a vaguely tired manner.

"Have you been standing in here for the last hour contemplating your choice of jacket?" John deadpanned, pursing his lips once he'd finished speaking. Sherlock sighed heavily and reached up to ruffle his curls, the crease between his brows remaining fixed. John took that reaction as a yes. He pinched the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb, taking a moment before raising his chin and gesturing to a shirt hanging in his closet.

"The purple one," was all he said. Sherlock's head whipped upward, eyes narrowing in mild confusion.

"What?"

"The purple shirt, wear it; Ana always likes it when you wear it."

Sherlock turned towards the closet, considered the piece of clothing, and then shed the plain white shirt he was wearing. "Yes, I suppose she does," he reasoned, sounding thoughtful. Undoubtedly, he was taking stalk of Ana's reaction every time he wore that certain shade of purple. He swiftly donned the new article of clothing, buttoned it up and tucked it in, and then snatched an appropriate black suit jacket to slip on over it. He did up the button and tugged it down at the hem, making sure it was wrinkle and crease free. "I don't need––" He was reaching towards one of the ties, but John shook his head in a vehement manner.

"No, no tie," John dismissed. Sherlock nodded, a calculating look on his face.

"Too formal," he agreed, almost sounding self-admonishing. He rolled his neck and cleared his throat, smoothing both hands over his stomach. John smiled, not needing to be a consulting detective to deduce the fact that Sherlock was nervous. He slipped into the room and reached out to place a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, giving it a solid pat. The two shared a quiet look.

"It's going to be fine," John placated. "Just do what you think is right and it will go perfectly." Sherlock nodded appreciatively and the corner of his mouth twitched upwards briefly. John's smile grew and he nodded towards the open door, through which was the living room. "Ana looks lovely, Sherlock." After a pause, John patted his shoulder again. "That's something you should probably mention, by the way. I suggest not keeping her waiting much longer."

Sherlock's face scrunched up at the mention of Ana, his hands pausing in their sweep along the front of his jacket. "Ana's been waiting? How long?"

"About a minute now. She's only just finished getting ready," John mentioned, shrugging his shoulders. Sherlock pulled a face and finished fixing both his lapels and his collar; once he seemed to be satisfied his outfit was in order, the consulting detective swept from the room. John was quick to follow, but not so quick that he would be at Sherlock's heels. He realized he felt as though he was a parent sending their child off to the school formal; he wanted everything to go right for them, but dared not interfere for fear of ruining their day.

Seating himself in his chair, smiling at Ana as he passed, John carefully positioned himself so he could watch the impending interaction. He decided that should it turn too sharply in the wrong direction, the doctor would attempt to salvage the conversation. Sherlock stopped just outside of the kitchen doorway, staring at Ana with an unreadable look forming on his face. His eyes slipped over Ana's form from the top of her head to the tips of her toes, dutifully taking in each detail, no matter how small. Ana reached up to tuck hair behind her ear, a smile appearing on her face as the quiet stretched on just a little too long.

"Hello, Sherlock," she said, breaking the silence easily. Sherlock cleared his throat and bobbed his head in a nod.

"Good afternoon, Ana," he replied. John rolled his eyes, and covered a sigh with his hand, something which drew Sherlock's attention. John not-so-discreetly eyed Ana's dress, eyes wide and imploring. Sherlock's brows twitched upwards as though to say 'oh, yes.' "You look lovely. Though, I would have picked a different dress for you."

John sighed audibly this time, not bothering to hide his discontent with the way conversation had already turned. Ana cocked her head to the side, brows scrunching together before she looked down at the dress she'd decided to wear. She slid her hands over the printed fabric, fingers splayed out across the cotton. Sherlock clasped both hands behind his back, clearly waiting for someone to speak.

"What's wrong with the dress?" Ana inquired, raising her head. Her brows were pinched and her lips were parted gently, creating a rather endearing look of confusion. Sherlock blinked at this before retracting one hand from its clasped position so he might point to her choice of clothing.

"The, uh, the general background color for the print of the dress is white. While it doesn't clash with your fair complexion, other colors such as purple, red, or green would suit you better," Sherlock was quick to inform. John pursed his lips, crunched his brows together, and considered what had just been said. What he thought had been an inadvertent insult had actually been one of Sherlock's very uniquely given compliment. "But, you truly do look lovely, Ana."

With a smile, Ana reached out and picked a piece of lint off the shoulder of Sherlock's suit jacket. "You don't look half bad yourself."

"Alright, you two, save the flirting for later," John said as he hauled himself out of his chair. "You'll probably want to beat the lunch rush, so I suggest hailing a cab as soon as possible."

Clearly believing John's words to be a thinly veiled push to have Sherlock be the gentleman and hail a cab, said consulting detective quickly spun towards the door, snatched his outerwear and proclaimed he was going to do just that. Ana was left laughing under her breath as she pulled her coat off its hook. John offered to hold her purse while she did so, allowing her a moment to do up the buttons attached to the tan fabric. With Sherlock's dress comment lingering at the forefront of his mind, John realized that, no matter how well the date could go, it could also go in a terrifically horrible direction as well. Handing Ana her purse back, and following her to the top of the stairs, John gave her a little nod.

"Should anything… happen… and you want to escape or need someone to smack Sherlock 'round the head, just give a call," John prompted, crossing his arms over his chest.

Ana beamed at him over her shoulder as she hit the landing. "I'll be sure to keep that in mind," she laughed. "Have a good afternoon, John."

"And you as well, Ana."

Ana trotted down the steps carefully, wary that she was actually wearing heels for a change. It was a rare occurrence for Ana to wear heels, as the all the cases never quite allowed her to wear them. Running in heels was doable, yes, but highly uncomfortable. She reached up to pull her hair out from under the collar of her coat, making sure the curled strands were free from restraint. When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she took a moment to stop at the hall mirror and check to make sure everything was in order. One of her fingers swept a stray bit of rosy lipstick from under her lip, and then rose rub away a fleck of mascara that had stuck to her cheek. Ana stood back a step and gazed at her reflection, sucking in a breath that was meant to calm her increasingly rattled nerves. It was just Sherlock, she tried to tell herself; she gnawed on her lip as her brain reassigned the emphasis of the sentence: it was just Sherlock. Consulting detective and genius. Ana shook her head and exhaled slowly, again reassigning the emphasis. It was just Sherlock. Her flatmate and friend, the man she'd fancied for quite sometime, and the man who, to her surprise and joy, returned those feelings. There was reasonable cause to feel nervous, but not overly so, she decided.

Sherlock was stood at the curb of the street, having hailed a cab he demanded wait. Ana smiled as she approached, earning a small quirk of the lips in return; he then tugged the back door open and proffered her a hand, silently insisting he help her get into the vehicle. Smiling a little wider, Ana placed her hand into Sherlock's and let him assist her. The cab pulled into the street once Sherlock had given the address, the meter having already been running in the time it had been waiting for Ana to arrive. The conversation centered on why it was Ana so rarely wore dressy shoes such as the high heels she was wearing. It conjured images of Ana running through narrow side streets, teetering dangerously as she rounded corners and avoided getting hit by cars and other pedestrians. Sherlock also reminded her of the fact that she had worn heels on a case before, the 'Blind Banker' as John had named it. Her first case with the boys of 221b. The memories drew a smile to her face, recalling all the strange, exciting, and heart-pounding moments.

Galahad's was set on narrow street that didn't see much traffic unless it was rush hour. As Sherlock had mentioned, it was small but it was charming. The front was decorated with hanging planters of blooming flowers, which displayed varying bright colors. The name of the pub was displayed in large gold letters, and the sign that protruded over the door displayed the painted image of Sir Galahad, one of the Knights of the Round Table. Above the image was the name of a pub franchise that Ana didn't recognize––Greenwoods. Sherlock assisted Ana in getting out of the cab, which she had paid for, and led her towards the door. The pub interior was homey and small, with purposefully mismatched chairs and ebony tables. The furniture was likely bought at antique stores or estate sales, Ana thought, as they made the establishment seem much older than it was. Sherlock and Ana opted for a small table set to the side of the bar, which would excuse them from the lunch rush when it surely started. There were a handful of other patrons, seated here and there enjoying a couple of pints and munching on pub food; the chatter was quiet but present, and, all-in-all, the setting was perfect.

"Allow me," Sherlock insisted, drawing Ana's chair away from the table. With a smile, Ana thanked him, shed her coat, and seated herself. Sherlock cleared his throat as he sat, a small crease forming between his brow. Ana could tell that he was nervous. It was evident in the way he tugged at the hems of his jacket, how he re-read the first page of the menu three times, and how he kept throwing glances at her face to analyse her expression. She knew for a fact that he deduced when he was thrown off his game, as it gave him something familiar to return to. Sherlock had eagerly insisted on placing their meal and drink orders, sweeping towards the bar once they had made their decisions. Ana smiled and curled her fingers so her nails lodged in a deep scratch that had been scraped into the tabletop. Her nerves had calmed some, having realized that Sherlock Holmes, the great detective was just as nervous as she was––though he had done a wonderfully marvelous job of masking it.

Sherlock returned shortly with two pints, one of which he settled down before Ana, and the other remained clenched in his grasp. Ana was sipping at the beer when Sherlock sat down and started to speak.

"Ana, I believe that I must elaborate more on what it was I had said in regards to what happened in Baskerville," he said, meeting her gaze straight-on. Ana's brows pinched together, attempting to draw up which conversation he was referring to.

"What, about putting sugar in our coffee thinking it was drugged?" she asked. The flatmates had, indeed, had a conversation about Sherlock potentially drugging them; and how they wanted to know if he'd ever tried to do it before. The consulting detective monotonously replied with 'no comment,' and swept out of the room. Sherlock shook his head, brows pinching together, which made it seem like whatever he was trying to say was very difficult.

"I'm referring to the comment I made after we…" He trailed off, gesturing vaguely to his lips. Ana's face relaxed and she nodded in understanding. "My previous explanation was still clouded by the events which we were speaking on, and I didn't explain it to its full potential."

"Sherlock, you really don't––"

"Yes, Ana, I do. As many are well aware, I am a very intelligent and knowledgeable person. It's also no secret that I tend to inform people of their wrong assumptions, facts, and beliefs; for lack of a better phrase, I teach the masses that they are not nearly as intelligent as they like to believe they are. It's very rare that anyone should teach me anything. Yet… you came into my life and taught me emotion is, perhaps, not as abhorrent as I have been believing it to be. It has… benefits that I had not believed to exist. Such as it allows one to have a better understanding of human interactions, which rather comes in handy whilst investigating. When you attend a case, Ana, you throw yourself into it completely. You absorb everything that you are surrounded by and follow instincts that only your emotional literacy can alert you to. I admire that, as it is something I have never been able to do. Perhaps that is what sparked the attraction I feel towards you; you've shown me a side to crime-solving––of life, I suppose––I have never delved into before," Sherlock reasoned, gesticulating with his hands from time-to-time.

Ana had leaned her cheek against her fist, watching the consulting detective intently while he spoke. "Sherlock––"

"I haven't finished." Sherlock arched both brows and Ana, surprised, gestured to him.

"Oh, alright. Please, continue."

"I was urged to look at attraction through a scientific lense, so that's what I did. I root my life in logic, so I looked at it as such. The science of attraction has always been clear to me, I just never thought to apply it to myself. When I did… I realized that there was one consistent instigator since day one. You. Emotions, to me, are illogical. So I ignored the facts that I had found and cast them aside in hopes of keeping my life as it was before you entered it. The events at Baskerville put me in a state of mind that allowed me to see that it would be illogical to ignore the facts any longer. So, when I say you were never just a friend, it's the truth. I may not have recognized it as soon as I should have, but it was always true. You are… a teacher. A lover of life. Someone I could have never hoped to have the good fortune to know. Yet, here we are."

A big speech was not something typically done on a first date. Those were done farther down the line, often reserved for anniversaries or taking the next step to a longer, more permanent relationship. Ana had not expected to receive the clearly thought-out and well-reasoned speech that Sherlock had just given. He had spoken so smoothly and so easily––on a subject known to give him pause––that Ana wondered if he had practiced and committed his words to memory as not to trip over his words. It was one of the biggest compliments to be told that she had taught Sherlock Holmes something. Smiling brightly, Ana placed her hand palm-up on the table, welcoming his own. Slowly, Sherlock withdrew his hand from where it rested on his knee, and brought it to rest atop Ana's. She curled her fingers to hold his hand loosely. Sherlock's fingers twitched slightly to reciprocate the hold, one corner of his mouth twitching upwards. Ana was about to reply when the mood of the whole pub shifted suddenly.

A gunshot rang out loudly, startling all the patrons and employees of Galahad's. Sherlock's hand tightened around Ana's as he tugged her out of her seat and under their table. He had wound an arm around her shoulders protectively, dragging her as close to him as possible in preparation to shield her if necessary. A second shot rang out through the frightened screaming that had overtaken the pub. Ana had instinctively hidden her gaze in Sherlock's shoulder, and her hands had grabbed hold of his lapels. She had become used to the sound of close gunfire since moving into 221b, but most of the time, it was heard on the case and generally expected to happen at one point or another. When it was totally and utterly unexpected, however, it was horrifying. It made one's heart pound and allowed fear to run rampantly through the body. After a minute or two, in which no more gunfire was heard, someone in the next room over screamed. Sherlock launched out of his hiding spot and, instinctively, Ana closely followed. The two cut through the main dining area and into the private dining room just to the left of the bar.

A woman with a loose, dirtied chef's coat slung over her arm stood in the doorway, hands clasped to her mouth in horror and her eyes wide and watery. Ana looked from the distressed woman to the gruesome sight that lay before them. A single person occupied the small dining room. He was seated at a table meant for two, and his head had been aggressively thrown backwards. The blood spatter against the wall behind him paired with the wound towards the top of his forehead, and the gunfire from just moments before, painted a clear picture of what happened. Two halves of Ana's brain warred against each other; one groaned and sighed about how this would only happen to her. The other immediately went into investigation mode, eyes flickering around the room sharply. Sherlock spun around to face the small, gathering crowd behind them and flung up both hands.

"No one leaves, not till you're spoken to! And, for god's sake, do not enter this room under any circumstances!" He pointed to the red-haired chef in the doorway. She was pale, clearly distraught, and looked to be beginning to hyperventilate. "Someone get this woman a glass of water and, possibly, a paper bag to breathe into." A concerned patron swept the woman aside, talking softly to her as they moved.

"I'm calling the police!" someone in the crowd piped up hysterically. Sherlock waved a hand through the air wildly, turning back to the brand new crime scene laid out before him.

"They're idiots, they won't help! We on the other hand…" Sherlock placed his hand in the middle of Ana's back and ushered her into the room. Ana opened her mouth to say something about calling Lestrade, as this was definitely his division and would end up arriving in a matter of minutes, anyway, but Sherlock cut her off. "Ana, what's wrong with this picture?"

"I-I'm sorry?" she asked, turning to look up at her date. Sherlock returned the look and arched both brows. The look in his blue eyes was expectant and prompting, as though he thought that she should already know precisely what to do in the situation they had been so rudely shoved into.

"The crime scene. What's wrong with it? I want you to investigate." Ana blanched at the idea. She had an idea of how to properly lead an investigation, but she'd never been prompted to actively do so. Her experience in the field, whilst attended cases with Sherlock, always rendered Ana more of an assistant than the one taking the lead. The fact that she was being prompted to take the lead made her stomach tighten nervously. When it appeared that she was going to protest, Sherlock's hand slipped slightly lower to sit in the dip of her spine. Leaning down so their noses nearly touched, Sherlock's gaze turned somewhat playful, a dreadful juxtaposition to the scene before them. It was one of those looks that was hard to turn away from. It cemented the one in its path to the ground and kept them staring till prompted otherwise. "Be me."

Ana blinked and quickly turned her attention to the room in front of her. She slowly took a few more steps into the room and was immediately hit with the overpowering smell of blood. Her nose crinkled and her brows pinched, the metallic tang of the scent nearly causing her to gag. In all of the investigations she had done with Sherlock, there had never been so much blood in one place. Briefly, she held the back of her wrist up to her nose and took a critical scan of the room. The action drew her attention to her bare hands, which sparked a warning light in the back of her night. Investigating a crime-scene without something to cover one's hands was one of the biggest no-no's of investigation; it would compromise evidence and make everything all the more complicated.

"Can I borrow your gloves?" Ana asked Sherlock over her shoulder. The consulting detective swept forward, proffered a set of latex gloves. Ana accepted them and gave them an odd look, having expected that he was going to give her the leather gloves he always had on him. While pulling the thin latex over her hands, Ana cocked an eyebrow. "Do you always keep a spare set of gloves on you?"

"Yes, just in case a situation like this arises," Sherlock confirmed. Briefly forgetting the corpse mere feet away, Ana smirked up at him with a bit of cheek.

"In case a murder occurs whilst you're on a date?"

"N-no, not like that. I mean to say––"

"I know what you mean, Sherlock, I'm just teasing," Ana assured, her smirk forming a small smile. She watched Sherlock's lips twitch slightly at the corners, but he then gestured her forward, urging her to start her investigation.

Ana stepped towards the body and eyed the leather bag that sat at his feet. Dropping into a crouch, she pulled the bag towards her and fished around for something once her fingers found purchase on a small rectangular object, Ana withdrew a wallet. She flipped it open and started to search through the cards. "The victim's name is…" She withdrew a driver's license and started to read the information off of it. "Victor. Victor Trenton, forty-five years of age…" She pushed the license back into the wallet and replaced it inside the bag. Sherlock crouched down beside her, having also donned a set of latex gloves, and he started to rifle through the bag's contents. Taking it as a sign to move on, Ana rose to her full height, smoothed out her skirt, and turned her attention to the victim.

There was a singular wound in his forehead. Her eyes flickered to the blood spattering against the wall behind the body. It was, quite obviously, classified as gunshot spatter––the forward gunshot spatter from the back of the head. The back spatter from the head wound appeared to have dripped downwards, the mist-like droplets having stained the edge of the table and the plate of oysters atop it. Ana eyed the blood on the wall, which was slowly dripping along its surface, and pursed her lips. She crouched down and, inhaling deeply to brace herself, she took to observing the gaping exit wound at the back of Victor's head. Ana's eyes danced from the wound to the blood spatter. Remaining crouched, Ana rubbed at her neck and gave a critical look back to the moments leading up to the discovery of the body.

Everything in the pub had been business as usual––orders were taken and received smoothly, patrons chattered idly, and employees went about their work. There had been no indicators that things were going to go so terribly downhill. No shouting or calls for help had prefaced the gunfire; all of the screaming had come from the pub-goers once the shots had been fired. Ana's brows slowly pinched together. The gunfire. The gunfire––two shots had been fired…

"The gunshots…" Ana murmured, slowly straightening up. "There were two of them but there's only one wound. The bullet that caused said wound is accounted for, so where's the second? The one that caused the head wound is there." Ana pointed to a hole in the bloodied wall. "But the second bullet is unaccounted for." Turning her head in Sherlock's direction, she saw him beaming at her. "That's what's wrong with the picture."

"Precisely. The second bullet pierced this," Sherlock turned and pointed to the pub window, through the pane of which was a bullet hole, "window. That leads me to believe that our killer wanted us to think that the gunfire had come from outside."

"Which it clearly didn't, as there would have to be two holes to account for the amount of gunfire. Perhaps the killer thought that the pane would shatter and no one would be able to tell; maybe it was a… panicked after-thought," Ana suggested, eyes slipping from the window to Sherlock. He shuffled a couple of steps closer and cocked his head to the side; when their eyes met, Sherlock cocked a prompting brow.

"What does that also suggest?" Sherlock inquired. Ana nodded to the right, towards the door to the rest of the pub.

"The killer is likely still here––slipped through the french doors at the back of the room to sneak into the dining area or the kitchens."

"Anything else?"

"Uh…" Ana turned on her heel and narrowed her eyes at the bloody scene. "The… wound and blood spatter suggest the shooter was standing close. At least the length of the table away, maybe a little bit farther back."

"Exactly one foot away from the table to hide themselves from the view of the doorway," Sherlock corrected, placing both hands on Ana's shoulders. He pulled her back a foot so she was standing right where he suggested the killer had been. Sherlock stepped away, hands lingering momentarily on her shoulders, and approached the corpse. "Now it's my turn. The victim is a businessman, fairly wealthy, too––his wallet is an Ettinger design that is typically valued at two-hundred pounds. Judging by the papers found in his bag, he is affiliated with Greenwood's, the brand-new pub franchise that is partnered with this pub. He's high-up on their work roster, such is why he can afford such an expensive wallet. His clear career success would be incentive enough for someone to kill––jealousy, the possibility to move up the ladder to take his place, those sorts of trivial things. Money could be another motive, as he obviously has it…" Sherlock pointed to the man's right hand, which sat limply on the edge of the table. "The callouses on the heels of his palm suggests he does most of his work on the computer, but has done less so recently; the callouses are softer and less pronounced than they once were. The computer he works at is probably in his home, as there is no laptop in his bag––and if he was going to be heading to an office he would be wearing a tie and a better jacket. We'll need to visit his flat to get a look at his files, see if there's anything we can glean from that."

"The fact he removed his jacket suggests he was here to meet someone he knows," Ana tossed in, interrupting his deduction. It was something she had never done before, as she knew better than to interrupt the great detective. The look of surprise on his face was priceless. Both his brows had crunched together, his eyes were wide, and his mouth was open with a word halfway tripped out of it. Sirens could be heard wailing in the distance, getting closer with every passing second.

"Beg pardon?" Sherlock asked, clearly thrown from being interrupted. Ana pointed to the fact his suit jacket had been removed and draped over the back of his chair. There were thick rivers of blood staining the grey fabric, which had been half jarred off the seat.

"Many people like to appear less formal with people that they know––if he were here on business he wouldn't have removed the jacket. Or, perhaps, he was here for business and pleasure, to see someone he knew whilst also being here on a small work matter," Ana offered. Sherlock's mouth snapped shut and he turned to regard the jacketless body slouched beside him. Ana watched his eyes dance over the corpse and she felt a sense of pride well up in her stomach; she had caught onto something before he had. "And, if I might suggest who…" She pointed to the doorway. "The chef. She had taken off her work coat, too, and the level of distress she was in could suggest that they knew one another."

"A very astute observation."

"Thank you."

"Shall we speak with her?" Sherlock clasped both gloved hands behind his back, gazing at Ana with expectant eyes and arched brows. Ana turned towards the door and spotted the woman in question seated at the bar with her head in her hands. Decency said to leave the woman to calm down. Even if she didn't know the victim, she had walked in to see a man with a hole in his head.

"Shouldn't we wait till––"

"No time, Lestrade's almost here," Sherlock denied.

"Lestrade is here!" voiced the Detective Inspector. Both 221b residents spun around and found him standing in the doorway, arms held akimbo. His expression was scrunched up into one of disbelief, eyes narrowed, mouth dropped wide open.

"How?" he demanded to know, throwing a hand out in their direction. "How did you get here before we did? How did you know that any of this was happening?"

"We were having lunch," Sherlock deadpanned, clearly displeased regarding the Detective Inspector's premature arrival. Lestrade strode over to them, waving his hands about in a clear loss of words. With a huffed sigh, Sherlock snapped off his gloves. "Here. We were having lunch here and then a man got shot, it wasn't as though we were listening to a police scanner and decided to steal your crime scene."

Lestrade stole a couple glances over his shoulder, clearly searching for something or someone. "Where's John?"

"He's back at Baker Street," Ana replied, removing her gloves. The Detective Inspector narrowed his eyes at them and Ana quirked a brow at his inquisitive look. The hand that had been poised to wave at the private dining room whipped back around to point directly at Ana.

"You're having lunch just the two of you? Dressed all nice… nice locale––disregarding the corpse…" Lestrade appeared to be making his own deductions, the gears in his head almost visibly turning as he pieced all the evidence together. Beside her, Sherlock tensed when Lestrade's eyes flew wide. "Are you on a date!?"

The whole of the investigation team that had flooded into the pub seemed to freeze and turn towards them. Some people's heads whipped around so quickly Ana feared they would get whiplash. Sherlock rolled his eyes heavily and clasped both hands behind his back. Ana smile brightly at the Detective Inspector and nodded her head, trying to pretend that what felt like half of Scotland Yard was not staring at them.

"Yes, we are."

"Oh, bloody hell––an investigation for a date? What's romantic about standing over a dead body?" Lestrade's disbelieving gaze was directed right at Sherlock; the look was accompanied with a shake of the head, almost as a silent reprimand. Sherlock's expression smoothed into a dangerously calm mask and Ana decided it was probably best to intervene before anything went too terribly wrong.

"The investigation wasn't the date. We were just having lunch when that poor man was shot."

"I take it you couldn't resist and started investigating? What am I saying, of course you started––it's not in your nature to just… let us take the case on alone for a change." The Detective Inspector's nose was pinched between two of his fingers. He then scratched at the back of his head, sighed, and waggled his head from side to side. "If there's no use in fighting it, it's best to just give in. So, what is it you've got so far?" Lestrade placed both hands on his hips, which pushed back his coat. The look that he flicked between the two of them was expectant, clearly waiting to be given a barrage of information.

Ana felt Sherlock's hand make contact with her back, a subtle but meaningful gesture. After wringing her hands nervously, Ana held her chin a fraction higher and allowed her face to slip into a composed look of professionalism.

"Anyone here can tell you that there were two shots fired. But, in examining the body, we discovered only one wound and can only account for one bullet. It would seem that the second shot was made in that window to make it appear as though the shooter had killed Mr. Trenton from outside. The blood spatter and angle suggests that the shooter was inside, no more than a foot or so from the end of the table. We think it's likely the shooter is still in the building in a very Cluedo sort of situation," Ana explained, gesturing to the relevant subjects of conversation.

While she had been speaking, Anderson and his team had shuffled into the room. He had narrowed his eyes in Ana and Sherlock's general direction before he set to work. Lestrade was bobbing his head in a nod slowly, rubbing at his chin as he considered the corpse.

"We'll give it all a look and see if your findings line-up. We'll give you a call when we've finished––"

"And now we'll be doing interviews," Sherlock said, walking towards the door. Lestrade's face went slack and he jabbed a finger at the taller man.

"Sherlock––"

"Good day, Inspector."

Ana followed Sherlock with rushed steps. He was clearly making for the chef seated at the bar; Aan overtook Sherlock and shot him a warning look over her shoulder as they approached the bar. She cautiously slipped up beside the distressed woman, setting her hand atop the bar in order to silently grab her attention.

"Excuse me," Ana said gently, leaning forward against the bar. The woman started and glanced at Ana from the corner of her eye, which was red from being abused by tears. "My name's Ana Stuart, I just wanted to make sure you were okay."

"I-I'm…" the woman stuttered. "Oh, god…" A hand flew to her mouth and her eyes scrunched shut. Behind herself, Ana could hear Sherlock sigh impatiently and just as she was about to tell him off under her breath, he spoke.

"Please, do try and overcome your shock quickly, we don't have much time before unadulterated idiocy arrives," Sherlock said in a rapid deadpan. Ana shut her own eyes reached up to rub the spot between both eyebrows. When they reopened, she noted that the woman was staring at them wide-eyed and confused, a couple of tears slowly rolling along her cheeks.

"I-I beg your p-pardon…?"

"What he means to say, is that we're in the business of solving crimes and would appreciate if you could answer a question or two. Only if you feel you're able to do so," Ana placated with a gentle smile. She heard Sherlock's mouth snap open, so she flung a hand back to smack his abdomen in order to silence him. The chef sniffed and wiped at her eyes using the back of her trembling hand. She bobbed her head and curled both arms around her midsection, which made her appear smaller. "What's your name, first of all?"

"R-Rita. Rita Friedman."

"Did you know Victor, Rita?"

"H-He's a friend. He works f-for Greenwood's and he s-stops by as often as he can." She raised both hands to her face to mop her tears from her cheeks, before she started to worry her ring finger. "M-my husband o-owns the pub, a-and Victor always makes sure w-we're offered new products as s-soon as they're available…" Rita stuttered, her diaphragm spasming in order to replace all the breath she'd lost whilst crying. "W-we've been w-working on new menu items, recently, s-so he's been c-coming 'round a l-lot." She waved at her throat and scrunched her eyes up in what appeared to be embarrassment. "I-I'm s-sorry, it's j-just a l-little hard to… to b-breathe…"

"It's fine, you've been through alot," Ana reassured. Cocking her head to the side and resting an elbow on the bar top, Ana met Rita's glassy eyed gaze. "Is there any reason that Victor would be targeted?" Rita shook her head, eyes sliding down to rest on the sticky wood of the bar.

"H-he is––was… an a-amazing man. I mean, I–I guess someone at the company c-could be jealous of h-how hardworking he is, b-but I can't see anyone having a p-personal vendetta out against him."

"Did you see anything when you entered the room? Anyone?" Sherlock inquired, stepping up to Ana's shoulder. Rita shook her head, eyes again falling shut.

"No. All I saw was V-Victor and all that blood…"

"Rita!" A man strode in through a door just behind the bar, eyeing the woman at the bar in stricken confusion. He was wearing a long, tan trench coat and he held a bag from YO! Sushi in one hand. Said bag was quick set aside as he rounded the bar and took Rita by the shoulders. It seemed he had avoided police lines by slipping in through the back. "Is what the lads in the kitchen say true? Is Victor…?" She nodded and a choked sob passed between her lips; the man tutted and drew her to his chest, a hand clasped against the nape of her neck. Rita remained limp in his grasp, not even reaching out to return his embrace.

"I presume that you are Mrs. Friedman's husband?" Sherlock inquired, clasping both hands behind his back. The man stared at them from over Rita's head. "I'm Sherlock Holmes and––"

"The Sherlock Holmes?" he demanded in awe. "Bloody hell, you work fast, don't you? I'm Hector Friedman and, yes, I'm Rita's husband."

"We were just asking her some questions regarding Mr. Trenton," Ana mentioned. Hector's eyes immediately shot to Ana, then flickered between her and Sherlock for a moment.

"You must be Anabel Stuart. Forgive me, I'm a fan of Dr. Watson's blog. Is he here as well?"

"No, he is not," Sherlock said, accentuating the 't' in 'not.' "Now, if you would please begin to be helpful––"

"Your wife mentioned you were friends with Mr. Trenton?" Ana interjected.

"Um, yes, I am––we are. We met when we decided to open Galahad's, he proposed we partner with Greenwood's. It was one of the best decisions we've made; not only has business been good, but we gained a friend from it. Victor stops by all the time to see how things are, get suggestions, give them… he even samples all of our new menu items and lets us know how what he thinks. The man was truly a godsend, I… can't imagine anyone who would want to hurt him," Hector explained. "Though… I think I should mention that in more recent days I thought he looked rather unsettled. Wasn't talking quite right––muddled up his words and put in letters where they didn't belong. When I asked him about it, he brushed it off by saying he was feeling a bit ill. It could be nothing but, as Dr. Watson's blog displays, all the details matter."

Sherlock's lips twitched at the mention of the blog and Ana quickly thanked them for their time and pulled the consulting detective away from the couple. They continued on to interview the workers in the kitchen to see if anyone had ducked through the back, and spoke to the patrons who had been closest to the private dining room. When they had finished with interviews, they did a search of the back alley; as Sherlock had suspected, there were no signs of anyone trying to make a quick escape. When Ana and Sherlock worked their way around to the front of the pub they were met with another familiar face. John had just shoved money at a cabbie, muttering something about keeping the change. His lips pursed pursed, his brows were drawn together, and he was looking more than just mildly unamused. Ana wondered whether or not it was the news or Lestrade who had tipped him off that something had happened; she decided the former was more likely.

"I'm going to see if the cab can take us to the man's flat," Ana mentioned, approaching the cab that John had just stepped out of. As she passed John by, he said something quickly, and she waved a hand through the air dismissively. When their flatmate approached Sherlock, both of the consulting detective's brows arched and a hand swept through the air towards the pub door.

"Ah, John, excellent. I'm sure that Lestrade would appreciate your help in examining the––"

"The hell is this? You're supposed to be on a date! This–this isn't how dates work, Sherlock!" John exclaimed, jabbing an accusatory fingers at Galahad's. Sherlock's mouth dropped open and his brows creased in one of the most offended looks to ever cross his face.

"Why is it that everyone seems to think that I orchestrated this? It's not as though I hired a shooter to kill a man in the middle of our date just so we could investigate the murder," Sherlock replied. He then fixed the way his collar was sitting––popping it up much to John's visible ire––and sniffed. "It was an unexpected perk."

"Unexpected p––murder is an unexpected perk? Jesus Christ, Sherlock! You should've just… just let Lestrade take this one. You still can! Just walk away and leave it be, a-and maybe even salvage your afternoon," John suggested. After taking a couple deep breaths, a disbelieving laugh passed through his lips. "How is it that I am the one that's the most upset your date has been ruined?"

"That's the thing, John, it hasn't been ruined," Sherlock said, an excited gleam in his eyes. "It's been improved. This is giving Ana ample opportunity to exercise skills she hasn't been able to fully utilize before. If you hadn't noticed, she doesn't seem terribly upset with the way the afternoon has turned." They both turned to see Ana still conversing with cabbie, who was gesticulating wildly as he spoke. She was just bobbing her head while keeping one hand at the nape of her neck to prevent hair from falling into her face. Sherlock's lips quirked to the side slightly as they watched on.

"Oh, my god, you're really enjoying this far too much than you should be…" John sighed and moved towards the pub door, a resigned hand flung up into the air. Sherlock turned to watch him walk by, an eyebrow raised cheekily. John stopped at the door and turned on his heel, hands splayed out through the air. "How do you not know who did it already? This seems like it would be pretty cut and dry."

"I… have my suspicions."

John's pinched expression smoothed out as a though visibly occurred to him. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, which then pursed momentarily before they parted in allowance for him to speak. "You know who did it. And you aren't going to say because you want Ana to figure it out, 'cause you're getting off on this."

"The specifics of the crime still need clarification and it would be imprudent to make the accusation now," Sherlock deflected, having seemingly decided to ignore John's final comment. "Do make sure Lestrade doesn't muck things up too terribly."

John shoved both hands into his jacket pockets and disappeared side, muttering under his breath as he went. With a smirk crawling across his face, Sherlock turned to look at Ana, who had ducked under the crime scene tape. She jerked her head towards the cab, which was pulling away from the curb without a passenger inside.

"He said that because the police will be blocking the street off, there'll be detours and traffic will get diverted; it would take us thirty to forty minutes to get to the block of flats. If we took the Tube it would be, at most, twenty minutes." She pulled a card holder out of her pocket, which was decorated in a vintage map of London. "Hope you brought your Oyster Card."

"Of course I did. Shall we?" Sherlock inquired, gesturing along the pavement. The two ducked under the tape, and started to make their way towards the nearest Tube station. Against Ana's better judgement, she felt giddy. It was the sort of vaguely morbid excitement. She wondered if that was how Sherlock felt every time Lestrade came to the door with a new case. Unbeknownst to her, a smile had risen to her face, a bright look that typically did not grace the face of someone who just left a crime scene.

"Is it wrong that I feel… excited?" Ana asked Sherlock as they walked. When he didn't respond immediately, Ana turned to look at her flatmate, who was beaming an impossibly large smile. He turned to stare down at her with eyes that twinkled in the grey daylight. The two were unwittingly walking in sync, neither of them worried about whether or not their toes might catch on a crack in the pavement. With a wink, Sherlock turned his head to face forward, raising his chin in a manner that could have been considered proud.

"Not at all––welcome to my world."

OOOO

Victor Trenton's flat was, simply put, modern. The walls were white, the furniture was minimalistic, and what art was on the walls would be considered abstract. The floors were spotless, the throw blanket on the sofa was neatly folded, and the remotes for various electronics were placed in order of diminishing size. It almost looked as if he lived in a show room straight out of IKEA. But, despite the impeccable styling and cleanliness, it didn't smell like cleaning liquids. It smelled vaguely of laundry detergent and cologne, with just a faint smell of leather that permeated off the black sofa. Having stopped at a Boots on the way over, both Ana and Sherlock had once again donned sets of latex gloves; they had even gone the extra mile and had covered their feet in disposable shower caps as not to compromise any evidence potentially littered across on the floor. Victor's landlord seemed rather perturbed that anyone with an affiliation with the police wanted to go through his tennant's things. It was mentioned that Victor was a rather amiable man who never caused any trouble, as he always either spent large amounts of time away from his flat, or spent long periods of time within it. Before leaving, the landlord mentioned that Victor was a good man, as though trying to deter them from convicting him of a crime he didn't commit.

Sherlock made a bee-line for the laptop placed at a glass-topped desk by a set of windows, snapping on his latex gloves as he moved. Ana, however, took notice of something out of place on the coffee table. Her gloved fingers reached out and gently took hold of a plastic bottle that sat atop the frosted glass tabletop. It was a medication––antacids. After reading over the brand name and description of the medicine, Ana popped the lid open. Most of the bottle was gone, leaving behind seven or so pills. Also tossed down on the knee high table was a packet of spearmint gum, which was mostly empty. The other items on the coffee table seemed fairly typical––a channel guide for his chosen television provider, a half drunk glass of water, some coasters, and a narrow black table runner. With a slight rattle, Ana thoughtful set the gum and antacid bottle back down, chewing on her bottom lip in consideration.

Whilst Sherlock worked on deducing Victor's password, Ana continued a perusal of the flat. The kitchen was just as clean and orderly as the sitting room, with nothing out of the ordinary immediately jumping to attention. The bedroom appeared to be in the same vein, but Ana took to diving in deep for details. She searched through his drawers and closet, only to find the man had a knack for organization. Sifting through the laundry, though, she came across a grey night shirt at the top of the pile, the front of which was stained with a splotch down the chest. The area that had been stained was stiff but textureless. Ana shut her eyes and grimaced, knowing that she would regret making the decision she was about to carry out. She raised the shirt to her nose and sniffed at the stained fabric. It smelled acrid. Bitter and sharp and unpleasantly tangy in a way that made the dark haired woman gag. Depositing the shirt back into the hamper, Ana swallowed the bitter taste that had gathered in the back of her mouth. Then she paused. Her eyes flickered back to the stain on the shirt and then she licked her lips, tasting what little bit of bile that had risen into her mouth. She sifted through the hamper for a couple of moments, finding a few similarly stained pieces of clothing deeper in the pile.

"Lovely…" she sighed, shutting the closet and moving into the ensuite bathroom. She'd just gone and both touched and sniffed some bloke's dried vomit. It was like the first year of uni all over again; except, at that time, it had been unintentional and she had been avoiding stepping in it in the first place. It explained the antacid on the coffee table, though. After abandoning her search through the closet, Ana moved into the ensuite bathroom. Again, nothing much seemed out of place. It was almost disconcertingly spotless and continued the black-and-white theme the rest of the flat carried. The edge of the sink was decorated by a marble toothbrush holder, in which sat two of said objects; one of which appeared more used than the others. The cabinet behind the mirror yielded not much of interest either––mouthwash, toothpaste, condoms, various medicines, and some dental floss.

"Ana!" called Sherlock from the other room. When Ana swept into proper earshot, the consulting detective shot a glance at her over his shoulder. "Did you find anything?"

"Nothing too weird. Though it does appear Mr. Friedman's suspicion of Victor being sick was right. There's a mostly empty bottle of antacid pills on the coffee table and some vomit stained clothes in the laundry," Ana mentioned, approaching Sherlock. She braced one hand against the back of the chair and one against the edge of the desk, so she was leaning over his shoulder. "I take you called me in because you found something?"

"That I did." Sherlock cast her a glance as he turned the laptop towards her. Ana narrowed her eyes as she read the small lettering smattered across the screen. It was an email from Rita, who explained that one of the chefs, named Marco, was not particularly thrilled with the idea of adding more seafood to the menu. It was mentioned that he believed it would take away quality from other dishes because they would have to worry about preparing the food correctly.

"Another potential suspect, then?"

"Possibly. But it would seem…" Sherlock clicked out of the email window and allowed Ana to see the full extent of Victor's inbox, "that the majority of the emails he receives are from Rita Friedman. He's gone and made her a partner of Greenwood's; he's really quite fond of her."

There was a tone in Sherlock's voice that made Ana quickly turn her attention to him rather than the screen. It was clear he thought there was a bit more than 'fondness' between the two, having stressed the word with accentuating the 'f' and drawing out the word a bit longer than typical. She searched his profile for a moment, trying to see if any bit of his expression betrayed his thought process. When he proved to be stoic as ever, Ana crinkled her nose and browline. "You think that they were having an affair."

Sherlock turned his head so they were practically nose-to-nose, with Ana having the height advantage from standing over him. Their eyes met and then danced across the other's face, the two very nearly seeming to forget that they were in the middle of a case. With their eyes meeting again, Sherlock nodded and narrowed his gaze with the intensity of his thought process.

"The emails are sent to and from different addresses. Their personal and their business. As expected, all business emails are laced with formal greetings and titles, and deal with the relations between Greenwoods and Galahad's. The personal emails, however, are distinctly informal with the use of some sickening terms of endearment, and deal with their more… personal relations and meetings," Sherlock explained. Ana straightened up some, breaking eye-contact as she turned back towards the bathroom.

"There were two toothbrushes in the bathroom. One of them was noticeably more used in the other; I figured that he had just forgotten to throw out the old one, but… if he and Rita are having an affair… it would only make sense if she kept a toothbrush here in case she spent the night. That's why she was so upset at the pub… not only did she lose a friend, she lost a lover," Ana reasoned out, leaning her weight on the hand braced on the back of Sherlock's chair. Both her brows twitched upwards as she recalled something else. "It would also explain the box of condoms behind the mirror in the bathroom."

"Naturally," Sherlock replied, turning his attention back to the screen.

"So, if they were having an affair, that would only make Hector the most reasonable choice for murderer, correct?" Sherlock hummed in response. It was a very non-committal sound, distracted or uninterested as he stared out the window just behind the desk. Ana eyed the laptop before she snatched it up and moved over to the sofa, seating herself on the leather upholstery. "Maybe there's an email from Rita that details Hector finding out about their affair… maybe he went a bit mad and she warned him… like a bad American soap-opera…"

A couple of quiet minutes went by as Ana scrolled through emails and Sherlock retreated into his Mind Palace. Many of their personal emails did, indeed, detail plans to meet at inconspicuous times, or for Rita to come and stay the weekend whenever Hector visited family or friends outside of the city. Some of them were a bit risque and were thus skipped over, but one from about a month prior caught her attention. Ana read over her twice, face scrunching together as her eyes drank in the words lining the screen.

"Sherlock… did you read this?" she asked. Sherlock acknowledged her with a slight turn of his head, which she took as answer enough. "'My dear, I write this with guilt weighing on my shoulders, and it sits more heavily than it sat last week. I fear that I've lied to you. I haven't been feeling all too well these past couple of weeks––months, really––and it turns out that all that smoking I did has come back to haunt me. Hector doesn't know; he doesn't know anything, still, it seems. That poor, silly man… But I thought that you deserved to know. Because it seems that the world wishes to tear apart everything that we've striven to do together, by taking me from you. And it isn't fair. Not to you. Not to me. Not to us. There's more I want to say, but, I feel as though it would be better said in person. Let's meet as soon as possible; tonight, maybe? Hector will be out drinking with friends. I write to you with all my love. Rita.'" Ana looked up and over to Sherlock, who had pivoted the chair around in order to face her. Her heart was beating fast and her face was locked in a look of sympathy. "She's dying, Sherlock."

"Yes… it would seem so…" Sherlock murmured, steepling his hands up by his mouth. Ana rested her chin atop her fist, which was curled beneath the thin layer of latex. She reread the email a fourth time. Then a fifth. Just before she could comment on a peculiar wording choice, Sherlock's phone buzzed. His hand shot into his pocket and he extracted the mobile that had been sitting in wait there. It was up to his ear after a quick glance at the caller ID, a seemingly pleased gleam rising to his eyes. "John."

"Put it on speaker!" Ana urged, gesturing at the phone with her hand. After a roll of the eyes Sherlock pulled the phone away from his ear and clicked a particular button, which brought their flatmate's voice flowing into the room.

"––the report on Victor's body's just been finished," John said, having been brought in mid-sentence. "The bullet was, quite obviously, what killed him. But, it turns out, that there was something else in his system that might have already been working towards that goal. There was saxitoxin in his system, as well as neosaxiton and gonyautoxins. Those are all toxins that are typically found in victims of––"

"Paralytic shellfish poisoning," Sherlock quickly finished. There was a slight hum of static as John remained silent on the other end of the phone.

"I should have figured you would have known. Even something as bizarre as that…" the doctor sighed. Sherlock's brows pulled together and his eyes narrowed and danced around as though he was reading something written in the air right in front of his eyes. Ana inquisitively cocked her head to the side waiting for him to speak.

"It's a type of food poisoning gained from ingesting shellfish––like scallops, mussels or clams––that isn't cooked properly. The symptoms of this particular type of shellfish poisoning include nausea, parethesias, loss of coordination, speech defects…" Sherlock's eyes flicked sideways to meet Ana's with a sharp gleam in them, "and vomiting." Ana felt her facial muscles fall lax. Hector had mentioned that Victor had been mucking up his words as of late; and it was clear by what she found in the laundry that he'd been having trouble with his stomach.

"There was loads of it in his system; it's honestly surprising he hadn't dropped dead by now. We think he was being slowly poisoned over a period of time, given to him in minor doses."

"I think it's fairly clear where Mr. Trenton has been ingesting said poison."

"What, Galahad's?"

"Your astute observations never cease to amaze me, John," Sherlock deadpanned, face emotionless. There was a tutting sound on the other end of the line, a clear sign that John very much wanted to retaliate with some sort of response but was stopping himself from doing so. Ana set the laptop aside and leaned forward against the arm of the sofa. She splayed her hands out through the air as confusion creased her brow; while the evidence pointed to Rita, it wouldn't make sense if it was her. She was so in love with Victor that it wouldn't have made sense for her to murder him.

"But Rita's the head chef. Why would she serve someone she cares for––loves, even––food that was under-cooked? It's her job to make sure every dish that leaves the kitchen is cooked to perfection," Ana said.

"A-am I on speaker?"

"Ana, what was on Victor's plate at the time he died?" Sherlock suddenly asked, eyes gleaming sharply. Expectantly. Ana stuttered and tried to remember what had, in fact, been placed on the dead man's plate. She recalled the blood-spattered porcelain plate and the greenery used as garnishes in the center of it. Atop those garnishes were shells––oysters. Apparently her remembrance was apparent on her face, for Sherlock continued speaking. "What wasn't on the menu?" Ana didn't need to rack her brain for that particular question. Her eyes drifted from the laptop to Sherlock's with a cold sense of dread settling in her stomach. Pieces of the grizzly puzzle were beginning to fit into place.

"Oysters."

"It's Rita's job to be in charge of potential new dishes to add to the menu; and, being partners with one of the heads of Greenwood's, she had the authority to suggest items for the franchise. She suggests more seafood, Greenwood's agrees, and she start experimenting with the dish until she gets it right," Sherlock began to deduce.

"And since Victor not only works for Greenwood's, but is also her lover… he would have only been happy to taste-test her new dishes till she got them right. The food wouldn't have gone out under-cooked unless she allowed it to go out that way…"

"B-but why would she kill him? And why… shoot him if she was already poisoning him? Why not let him drop dead? I know I'm behind on all this, as Sherlock's exiled me to Bart's, but you haven't mentioned a reason," John voiced after his period of silence. Sherlock looked to Ana expectantly, clearly waiting for her to make the conclusion. The pressure fell on her all at once. It was like breathing in cement and having it gradually solidify in her lungs and make them heavy. Her mind didn't work quick-as-a-whip like Sherlock's. She had to sit back and think, slowly put the pieces together until the correct picture came into view.

Ana eyed the email again, rereading the sentences that had caught her attention. 'It seems that the world wishes to tear apart everything that we've striven to do together, by taking me from you. And it isn't fair. Not to you. Not to me. Not to us.' Ana mulled over the words, gnawing on the inside of her cheek as she tried to fit herself into the mindset of the devastated woman she had met in the pub. Love, in some capacity, had to play into it somehow. John brought up a good point––if Rita had been poisoning Victor, why would she have shot him and not let the poison take its course? Blame it on some lower-stationed chef who let the food leave the kitchen without her approval? Both hands flew to her eyes and a sigh escaped her lips.

"This is all very Shakespearian, isn't it?" The words had left her lips before they even fully registered in her head. When they did, both hands dropped away and she sat forward sharply. "Shakespearian…" Initially, her mind jumped to Hamlet and the poisoning of the king by Claudius. Maybe love didn't have anything to do with it; maybe she wanted to take a position of power and change the world before she passed away. But she had been clearly devastated––heartbroken––when she had 'discovered' Victor's body. Those who were power hungry rarely seemed all that hurt when they forcefully claimed their newly stolen power. A different story came to mind, then. Two lovers who loved each other so much, that when one died, the other had to die with them. It felt like ice water had flushed through her body. The shooting had been a distraction, a means of putting the police off the case so Rita could carry out the last half of a plan that no one else knew she had prepared. "Oh, no… Oh, no, no, no…" Ana leaned out dangerously over the sofa arm and snatched Sherlock's phone from his hand. She held it up at mouth-level and stabilized herself so she didn't teeter off the sofa. "John, did Lestrade let everyone leave Galahad's?"

"Yeah, 'bout half an hour ago. Said that if anyone needed to be talked to, they'd get called in," John replied, sounding vaguely confused. Ana pressed the heel of her palm into her eye, grunting in frustration. She reached down and ripped the shower caps off her shoes, letting the heels click against the polished flooring. It felt like a giant timer had suddenly started to tick down, limiting the time they had to finish the case without an extra dose of tragedy infecting the situation.

"I-I need you to call Greg and have him get us the Friedman's address."

"Oh, they live just down the road from Galahad's––red door, gold knocker, got a lion statue at the foot of the stairs."

Without so much of a second thought, Ana hung-up on John and tossed the mobile back to Sherlock, who caught it so deftly it would seem he'd been expecting it to be hurled at him. She locked gazes with Sherlock while snapping off her latex gloves, eyes wide and wild. It felt like they were fighting against Moriarty and his bombs again; it was like standing in the art gallery waiting for the consulting detective to give the correct answer as the little boy gave a count down to his death, which thankfully never came. Sherlock oh-so-calmly rose to his feet, removed his own gloves, and went about adjusting his collar. His expression spoke wonders––he had purposefully been holding back what he knew in hopes of Ana figuring it out herself. For a moment Ana considered yelling at him, because if he had come to the same conclusion she had, he knew that everything was very time sensitive. She tucked hair behind her ears and fixed him with a look that was unwavering and, perhaps, just a bit angry. As they made for the door, Ana extracted her own mobile and pulled up Lestrade's contact.

"You've worked it out, then," Sherlock stated.

"Yes! I have! And if we don't go now, then we won't have to worry about making a second arrest––we'll have to worry about a second body bag."

OOOO

Lestrade, John, and a number of other officers appeared outside of the Friedman residence just as Sherlock and Ana came jogging down the street. Hector stood at the door John had mentioned, with a confused look on his face. He was shaking his head before he gestured down the road to the pub, which was sectioned off with yellow police tape. Lestrade's shoulder's slumped and his head cocked to the side in a tell-tale movement of exasperation. The detective inspector turned on his heel and shoved a hand in the direction of Galahad's.

"She's gone back to the pub! Set up a perimeter and, remember, she could be armed!" Lestrade called out. While he trotted down the stairs, he caught sight of the two jogging down the pavement and then thrust a finger at them. There was a stern look plastered across his face and a warning in his eyes. Ana slowed to a stop, grabbing onto Sherlock's arm as she wobbled in her heels. "Stay out of this! Both of you! This is where your influence ends and mine takes over!"

"Greg, Mrs. Friedman––" Ana began to plead, a hand extended. Lestrade leveled her with the most stern look he'd ever fixed her with; typically those stern looks were reserved for Sherlock and whatever outlandish suggestion or comment he was made. Ana's eyes widened a fraction as a finger was raised to accentuate Lestrade's stern request.

"No. It's time for you to step back. You've figured out the killer, and that's fantastic. But this situation has become dangerous, you said it yourself over the phone. The last thing we need is for either you, John, or Sherlock to get shot, so stand back, please," Lestrade stated firmly before jogging towards the pub down the street. Ana curled the fingers of her outstretched hand into a fist and mashed her lips together firmly in frustration.

"––Mrs. Friedman is going to pull a Juliet…" she finally finished under her breath. The words had rushed out in a hiss of air. John, who had likely been told by Lestrade to stand down earlier, shuffled over, brows drawn low over his eyes. He was staring straight at Ana, who had shoved her hands back into her coat pockets, watching as Scotland Yard went trotting down the pavement.

"I'm sorry, she's what?" the doctor asked. Ana sighed and jerked her chin in the direction of Galahad's, feeling the frustration mar her expression something fierce.

"Rita, she's… she's going to try and end her own life now that she's killed Victor. If they go through all the typical and maneuvers that they're trained to do, they probably won't get to her in time."

While she was talking, Sherlock had wandered to the end of the block, adjusting his scarf as he went. Ana wanted to demand to know how he was remaining so calm and composed, but then reminded herself of who she would be asking. Sherlock had made concealing emotion an artform. He turned back towards his flatmates and pointed down the narrow street that divided the block on which Galahad's sat and the one that the Friedman residence was located.

"Then shall we make sure Scotland Yard actually has a suspect to interview by the end of all this by bypassing their procedures?" Sherlock inquired lightly. For the first time in the last hour or so, Ana felt her lips quirk into a little smile, one that was almost immediately mirrored on Sherlock's.

"I think we shall."

The Baker Street trio made their way to the back alley just behind the pub, which had yet to be cased by the Yard. Just as they slipped through the back door, Ana removed her shoes and set them aside, well aware that the sharp staccato clicking of the heels would draw attention to them fairly quickly. The kitchen was dark, and what ambient light was there gleamed gently off the stainless steel furnishings in the room. Water droplets dripped from the faucet head in the corner, creating a steady pattering sound that broke what silence had settled around them. A few plates of food were still resting where they had been being prepared, the chefs likely having been ushered out of the pub quite quickly by Lestrade's men. Said man could be heard faintly, making it clear that they had gotten inside just before the Yard made their move. It felt like they had stepped into a horror movie of some sort. They were remaining completely silent, listening for any signs of Rita Friedman. A floorboard above their head creaked. A sob, muffled by its distance from the trio, could be heard. Ana flung a hand upwards and let the back of it rest gently against Sherlock's chest. She then gestured to the far right of the room, where a staircase ascended to the top floor of the pub. From the corner of her eye, she saw Sherlock nod, and saw John mimic the action. Ana found herself instinctively taking the lead, stepping on her toes for fear that her footsteps would make too much sound.

Climbing the stairs was a difficult task. The stairs were old and prone to creaking, so each step was taken carefully and quickly retracted when the squeal of wood started to pierce the air. Ana took it upon herself to go up two at a time, quickly shifting her weight from bare foot to bare foot in hopes of ascending to the second floor as swift as possible. Each time she got closer to the top, her heart started to beat that much faster. The situation was unpredictable and there was no telling what they would be walking into. They didn't know how unstable Rita was. They didn't know what she was armed with, or if she was armed at all.

When Ana crested the top of the stairs, she spotted a blood spattered chef's coat tossed haphazardly over a scarred wooden table. It would seem that the upper floor was a dining room meant for larger party functions. A bar was situated just off to the side, dark and unused. A smattering of larger tables were cast to the edges of the room, leaving a large space in the middle of the floor empty. Rita was pacing across that space, one hand clamped over her mouth, and one hand curled around a gun. Her red hair was in a complete disarray, and her cheeks were flushed bright pink. The hand that clutched the gun would twitch upwards every now and then, as though she was preparing to place it to the side of her head. Just as Ana's foot made contact with the flooring, it creaked and groaned something awful. Rita's attention snapped towards Ana, who immediately froze in place, eyes locking with Rita's. The gun immediately snapped upwards and became trained on the dark haired woman at the top of the stairs. Ana felt a hand grip her hip, giving a slight tug backwards. It was a protective gesture, one that she opted to ignore for the time being.

"Stand back!" Rita exclaimed tearily, a thumb twitching for the safety. When Ana didn't make an immediate move, the gun's safety was promptly switched up and Rita lurched a step forward. The hand on Ana's hip clutched at her coat and tugged, and that time, she did step back, her heels brushing the top of the stairs. Both her hands flew up to display her compliance with the situation.

"Alright, Rita, I'm standing back. We're standing back. We've got no weapons… we're not the Yard…" The gun slowly began to lower, shaking in her hand dangerously as it moved. Ana's eyes danced between the weapon and the woman wielding it, carefully tracking her movements as she spoke. "But we do know what you've done… that you've killed Victor. You did it because you're dying; and because you love him very much. So in love, in fact, that you couldn't picture a world or a life where either of you were separated from the other. So you started to poison him, hoping that his life would come to an end shortly before or shortly after your own passing." Rita had lowered the gun completely, watching Ana with a tear stained face. As she spoke, Ana had very cautiously started to walk towards the heartbroken woman. She would stop every now and then, whenever it seemed like Rita would raise the gun again. Sherlock and John seemed to keep themselves stationed on the stairs, but a similar creak that had given away Ana's position had sounded, which gave her the impression Sherlock was ready to leap into action if need be. "But you got some news from your doctor, didn't you? News that you didn't have as much time as you thought you did. You didn't want to see Victor go through the pain of losing you, and you don't want to go through the pain of dying as slow as you have been. The choice seemed clear to you: that you should just end it all, for both of you, immediately."

Ana came to a stop a couple of feet away from Rita, hands still raised, still eyeing the gun in the woman's hand. Rita stared at her with wide eyes and a trembling chin. Then, suddenly, she started to smile and she started to laugh. Both matched in their rueful nature, and Ana felt a bewildered expression replace the gentle, sympathetic one that had previously been in place.

"I-I didn't end it bec-cause I couldn't watch him be in pain, o-or because I'm already in pain. H-he would b-be nothing without me! I put Greenwood's on the map for him, w-with my dishes… my suggestions… he… he… his life would have amounted to nothing without me here… I did him a favor," she laughed tearily. "But now I can continue to improve his life… I can make sure that h-he remains successful in a place where we can both be w-without pain… or suffering…" Her expression darkened somewhat and the gun was raised sharply, its sights once again trained on Ana. "And I'm not going to let anyone get in the way."

Ana's arms drooped a few inches and she glanced over her shoulder; Sherlock was frozen at the top of the stairs, eyes locked on the two women in the center of the room. John was stood a couple steps below him, watching from the side with his hands thrown up towards his shoulders. Slowly, Ana returned her gaze to Rita and offered a sad little smile. "I know what it's like to be in love," she said, lowering her voice to a whisper. Her smile grew a fraction before falling just that much again. "You would do anything for them––to keep them safe, to keep them happy… and you hope that they would do the same for you. Sometimes that hope turns into presumption… and you presumed that Victor would give his life to be with you for the rest of eternity. But, Rita… you should have given him the option to carry on your living legacy… I'm sure he would have been honored to do that for you."

Rita's conviction seemed to waver, as though that thought hadn't occurred to her at all when considering her plan. Her gun arm dropped a couple of inches and the look on her face became distant. Tears gathered in her eyes and started to well over, creating new tear tracks over her pink cheeks. She began to murmur 'oh, god' over and over again, soon followed by a mantra that consisted of 'Victor' and other variations of his name. Ana caught the start of the movement before Rita probably even processed what she was doing. The chef's elbow bent and brought the gun up and towards her own head; Ana's hand shot forward, time seeming to slow down around her. Her fingers curled around Rita's wrist as she lunged a step forward and shoved the woman's hand upwards. There was a loud bang as the gun went off, the bullet whizzing into the ceiling above them. A rain of plaster came down over their heads as a click echoed through the room. Rita had pulled the trigger a second time, betraying the fact that the gun's magazine was empty. Ana stood there with her eyes clenched shut, head ducked, and her body tense as she forced Rita's hand aloft and kept it there. After a moment, Rita started to slump, her nimble fingered hand going slack around the gun. It fell with a clatter, skittering across the floor noisily; outside, voices could be heard shouting, as Lestrade ordered his men inside. Rita slumped forward, a sob passing through her lips through a flecking of spittal. Ana released Rita's wrist, which allowed the woman to drop her arms loosely around her shoulders. She started to sob into Ana's shoulder, sagging towards the floor in her devastation. Ana placed both of her hands against the woman's back, patting it soothingly as Scotland Yard came tromping up the steps. Lestrade looked less than thrilled at the company in the room, but stepped forward and produced a set of handcuffs that were destined for Rita's wrists.

OOOO

Sherlock assisted Ana in getting out of the cab, holding her hand to make sure she kept her balance as she extracted herself from its interior. They were stood just outside Speedy's, where they'd decided to spend the remainder of their afternoon, as it was both convenient for them and they were assured to get a good meal. The warm, homey interior welcomed them as they swept inside, and they were seated in a cozy corner at the back of the café. Ana quickly sorted out her hair in one of the mirrors lining the walls before sitting down, draping her coat over the back of the chair. Sherlock seemed somewhat more at ease than he had when they'd first arrived at Galahad's; there was less fidgeting and more of a comfortable look. Maybe it was the change in scenery, or maybe it was because they'd already been this portion of the date before. Whatever it was, it made a smile come to life on Ana's lips as she took a quick glance over the menu.

"You did well during the case," Sherlock mentioned as he picked up his own menu, eyes scanning the familiar meal options. "Though, our conclusions on the matter did differ some. Yours was a bit more… idealistic. Mine was…"

"A bit closer to the truth?" Ana offered when he trailed off, smirking at him. His brows twitched upward and she laughed lightly, setting the menu aside. Her chin dropped to rest atop her clasped hands as she smiled directly at the man sat across from her. "But what can I say? I'm a bit of a romantic." Sherlock hummed while one corner of his mouth rose to form half a smile. They shared a look that was given from under Sherlock's lashes; he smile grew a fraction before he glanced back down at the piece of laminated cardstock in his hand. "Though, I do wish you'd mentioned that the situation was more time sensitive than you were making it seem."

"I was confident you would come to the conclusion in time. If the unlikely had occurred and you were terribly off the mark I would have said something," Sherlock assured, waggling a couple of fingers through the air. His brows then creased and he set the menu down on the table. "What is it that you usually get?" Ana leaned forward across the table, quickly scanned the items on the paper, and then pointed. "Fantastic."

Instead of sitting back, Ana remained half leaned over the table, one of her legs propped up on the seat of the chair. Looking back over the day's events, despite the dramatic turn it had taken, made her smile. She thought of how nervous Sherlock had been at the start of it all, thought of all the little smiles and touches and fleeting moments. It had all been interspersed with the stress and intrigue of solving the case, but it still managed to feel normal. Ana placed a hand atop Sherlock's, gaze fixated on his face.

"Despite the unorthodox turn it took, I have very much enjoyed this date. I almost feel guilty saying that, as we were solving someone's murder the whole while, but…" She trailed off and laughed, dropping her gaze for a second. When it returned, Sherlock was staring at her, eyes directed upwards a fraction, as the table had given her a slight height advantage. There was a cheeky sort of gleam in his eyes, which only intensified when he smiled.

"Again… welcome to my world." It had come out quiet and a little gruff. Ana felt her cheeks flush, and she wet her suddenly dry lips. With a smile pulling across her face, she leaned forward and kissed him. It was their first kiss in a genuinely public place, where at least four or five other people could witness the display of affection. She felt Sherlock place his hand against the side of her arm, something Ana realized that he did when he wasn't quite sure of what to do. Ana drew out of the kiss and, just as she moved in to give a quick second one, he met her halfway. Sherlock's hand slid upwards to rest on the curve of her shoulder, his fingers dancing across her bare skin. A shiver ran up Ana's back and she inhaled sharply at the sensation. The hand that had been resting atop his inched forward to lightly pinch Sherlock's lapel. Her fingers itched to grasp onto the fabric harder, pull him closer, but had to consciously remind herself that they were in Speedy's, not in their flat; and that, perhaps, it wasn't quite time to be so forward.

When the kiss broke, Sherlock's hand slipped back along her arm, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. He took hold of her hand tightly and raised it to his mouth, just barely brushing his lips against the backs of her knuckles. Ana felt her pulse jump and her cheeks fall victim to another blush. She was sure that Sherlock was starting to catalogue ways to make her blush or smile or want to grab him by the front of his shirt to snog him senseless. And, if the smirk that crawled across his face was evidence to anything, it was that her suspicion was right. It was oh-so very right.

Afterword: I am very sorry for not updating this until now. At first it was delayed because I had just moved back to the States, then I had some major writer's block, and then with all of the gun-related violence, I felt as though it would be insensitive to post this chapter, as it focuses on a gun related crime. This chapter was just, in general, very difficult to write, as I tried to make and write my own case, and I don't know if I'm all that happy with how it turned out. But I felt like this is the slight disaster that would be Ana and Sherlock's first date. Of course it would be ruined by a crime/case. It only makes sense. I'll also give a big shout out to my friend Kate, who sat down and helped me come up with the case premise!

Long Awaited Review Replies!

Skylar Winchester: I think Sherlock's getting to the point of calling themselves a couple slowly but surely––but we might not see him refer to Ana as his 'girlfriend' for a while to come. The concept and word is foreign to him when it's in reference to his own life. And, yes, Reichenbach crawls ever closer… and, oh, do I have such heartbreaking plans… I hope you stick around to read them! But, first, we'll get a lot of Analock cuteness; I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Thanks for waiting!

Pkpopi: I'm glad that you've been enjoying the story; and I hope you're excited for this very late update. Thanks again, and thank you for waiting!

Cinder Fall 39: I'm very happy that you enjoyed the previous chapter, and hope that this one was up to par, even though I think it feels a bit sloppy here and there. Thanks again; and thank you for waiting!

iPage: I can only assume the 'oh no' was in reference to Moriarty: if that's the case––oh no, indeed! He's just gotta go and muck everything up, doesn't he? I hope you enjoyed the new chapter! Thanks again and thank you for your patience!

The Redshirt who Lived: Thank you! I debated for the better part of an hour whether not to write the deductive process or not; and I figured, 'hey, it's a challenge, and I haven't focused on Sherlock for a while, so let's do it.' I hope you enjoyed the new chapter! Thanks again for your lovely review and your patience!

Guest: I have always planned to have Moriarty play a key role in this story, and I'm glad that his creepy little look around were nerve wracking. I have the whole of the final scenes of Reichenbach actually written out; they've been written for the better part of two years, actually. They're going to undergo some serious editing, but don't you worry, it'll be just as emotional as I'm sure you're thinking it'll be. I have a pension for making really emotional scenes, and I just love writing them. I hope you enjoyed the chapter; and thank you, again, and your patience was appreciated!

Connie Hooper: I'm sorry that the update has come so late, but I'm very flattered that you took the time to read all thirty-five chapters and their varying quality and length. I hope that you enjoyed the chapter! Thanks again! And thank you for waiting!

lol: I get what you're saying with the 'Sherlock explains his emotions from last chapter.' When you actually reviewed saying that, I went back, re-read it, and realized it wasn't what I had wanted it to be. Initially, the scene was supposed to be markedly different, but I realized that it was a really old idea that didn't fit the characters. So, I decided to remedy the kinda shitty explanation in this chapter, so I hope that I made up for it! And, this whole chapter was an original concoction, so I hope you enjoyed reading it. Thanks again for your patience and your dedication to reading!

AkatsukiShizu3: I love thickening plots and twisting them and all that jazz. It's a lot of fun and I'm glad you're enjoying reading it; I hope you enjoyed the update! Thanks again for the review and for waiting so long for the chapter!

Alexmae: I again apologize for the long gap between updates. Life just has a habit for getting in the way. I'm really happy the slow burn romance worked well and that Ana's still fitting into the world nicely; I hope that you enjoyed the new chapter! Thanks again for waiting so nicely!

Momochan77: I'm glad you're enjoying Ana! I have a deep seated love for this story, and, next to my Capt. America fic, it's my most planned out story. I love fitting Ana into the plots and finding ways to give her her own little moments to make it really seem like she's part of the world. I hope you've enjoyed the chapter! Thanks again for waiting!

BoAI: Your review made me smile like the idiot I am; I'm very, very, very happy you've enjoyed reading the story so much! And I plan on updating more than I have been to help the time till Season 4 be more bearable. And, oh, do I want season 4 so I can make more plans for this story! I hope that you enjoyed the chapter! And, thank you for being so lovely and for waiting so patiently!

And thank you for those who have added this story to their favorite/follows; it means a lot!

I really do plan on updating better. These past couple of months have just been generally tough. I also blame: Critical Role for being too fantastic to function and re-sparking my love of D&D, as well as Stranger Things, which took over my life for a whole of two days. But, I find myself really itching to write again, and my inspiration has come back to me, so expect more pretty soon. Again, thank you all for waiting and being patient and lovely! I hope that you had fun reading my brief dip into trying to write a murder mystery (and, yikes, it didn't go so well xD); hope to see you all in the next chapter!

~Mary