Sherlock was standing over the body of a dead man in one of the many portrait rooms in The National Gallery. Blood was on the floor, on the man's jacket, and all over his slit, muscly neck. Nevertheless, Sherlock hadn't even stooped down to examine the body before he began rolling his eyes and deciding that he should have gone to the hospital first.

When the plane landed only an hour earlier, Sherlock found himself remarkably calmer than he had been in the airport at Reykjavik. He seemed to have been able to get a handle on his emotions and cleared his mind of the conclusions that he had so rashly jumped to.

After stepping off the plane and into the organized maze that was London Heathrow Airport, they had been presented with two options: go to the hospital or go to the crime scene. Sherlock chose the latter, since Mycroft was still in surgery at the time, and they weren't admitting anyone in to see him. Although he didn't confess to this, he and Irene both knew that he wouldn't have wanted to go to the crime scene after seeing Mycroft. He most likely wouldn't have wanted to do anything after seeing Mycroft…except maybe go to hibernate in his mind palace.

But now, being here at the crime scene and discovering that the Scotland Yard was suffering from its usual case of chronic idiocy, Sherlock was regretting every effort put into having come here at all.

With a huff of exasperation and a roll of his agitated eyes, he remarked, "It's times like these when the Scotland Yard really outdoes themselves."

John was presently standing next to the detective; his lips pursed. He knew Sherlock's remark was probably not intended as a compliment.

Irene was on the floor, kneeling beside a pool of blood. She was studying the man's face with narrowed eyes and a furrowed brow. She smirked in amusement as she too deduced what her husband had done only seconds before. She looked at him to see if he understood; his eyes sharpened in recognition. Yes…he knew.

Anderson was present and was wearing his blue coat which covered every inch of body he had (apart from his head). He was looking almost celebratory at Sherlock's praise that they were "outdoing themselves."

John winced as he braced himself for verbal impact.

"In what way?" Anderson asked, his voice the same as always. He never failed to sound like a duck with a sinus infection.

"Always managing to outdo the level of stupidity it is known for," Sherlock huffed, his coat swishing behind him as he abruptly turned to the forensic scientist. "Anderson, you're on forensics, aren't you?"

Anderson looked as though Sherlock was staring through his clothing. He hesitated before meeting the detective's eye, but he knew it meant trouble. Irene cleared her throat rather loudly, and it sounded to everyone in the room that she was prompting him to speak.

"Yes…" Anderson quietly snarled.

"Then why have you failed to notice the presence of fake blood on the man's neck?"

Anderson was quiet for what seemed to be the most mortifying eternity of his career as Sherlock's punching bag.

"F-fake blood?" he stammered as he wrung his hands compulsively.

"Yes, Anderson. Fake blood."

There was silence across the room. Anderson had managed to embarrass himself yet again in front of Sherlock's genius.

"I'm afraid it's quite fake," Irene said. "But so is this…"

Retrieving a handkerchief from her pocket, she thoroughly wiped the dead man's face. What had been a fresh lifeless face moments before turned into the face of a corpse already beginning to rot with death. The white kerchief she had used was now stained with cosmetics, and Irene looked pleased with herself.

"This man has spent ages trying to freshen himself up. I ought to know; these cosmetics were applied only a few hours ago, it seems. It was a really well-done attempt to disguise the fact that he's been dead for a while. The way the lights don't gleam off his skin suggests that he's put on a bit of concealer. The light would be shining off his face, since the natural oils in the skin would make the forehead glossy. And the bits of dry skin clumped up around the hairline here and here suggest that he's been properly powdered pretty recently. Why would a dead man go to so much trouble? Well…remove the cosmetics, and we observe. He's been dead for quite some time."

"Indeed," Sherlock declared. "And given those deductions, this is definitely fake blood. This man's been dead for weeks. He's been livened up with a bit of color, as is evident from the state of my wife's handkerchief, but that's about all, really. The blood on his neck has been put there only recently. Very recently, I should think. That's why it's so red. If he was killed when I think he was, there shouldn't be any blood on him at all. At least, not such fresh blood. This didn't just happen…but it was made to look like it."

"And when exactly do you think he was killed?" Lestrade asked, sauntering up to the detective with his hands deep in his pockets. He was a little embarrassed at having once again been bested by Sherlock's arrogant wit.

"Two weeks ago," the detective responded. "You can already see bits of goo where maggots were picked off of his skin here and here," he said, pointing to the man's eyes and corners of his lips. "There's already an odor, concealed, it would seem, by baking soda and vinegar," he added, sniffing the man's face and wrinkling his nose inquisitively. "Most certainly baking soda and vinegar. Seems to me he's been dead since we found the man on Sterne street murdered on his doorstep. Maybe even a few days earlier. Same method, too. You see the lines around his neck? Strangulation first, then the knife." He paused a moment, biting his thumb. "But why? Why would they do that? Strangled first…and the strangulation marks look as old as the corpse. But the knife…the flesh has been cut only recently," he whispered to himself.

Abruptly, he continued, "Well, they're definitely linked." He stooped down to thrust his finger into the "blood" then licked it. He spat onto the floor. "Yes, it's definitely cosmetic blood."

"Well, if we've got the one who did the first murder in custody, doesn't that mean we have the murderer who killed his man?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock stopped to think. "Yes and no. Perhaps. Possibly. Has anyone gotten this man's name? Was there a…name tag of some kind on him when you found him? Any identification?" he asked, addressing the whole lot of the stupid police force.

"Yeah, there was an ID. We had it taken back for evidence though. But the name on it was 'John Wellington.' Early thirties—"

"No, no, no, no; go back," Sherlock cut in, holding his hand up and pausing to think. "You said his name is Wellington?"

"Yeah, John Wellington. Early thirties, diabetic—oh…" Lestrade stopped short. Sherlock rolled his eyes; had the realization only just come? Scotland Yard fellows…it was Syme and his companions come to life.

"This is the brother, then," Sherlock deduced. "I'm positive. This man is Arthur Wellington's brother who went missing. This is him. He was killed at exactly the same time as his brother…maybe earlier. Maybe Arthur knew of his brother's death and retaliation is what ended his life. Ohhh, Moriarty has set his pieces. This is about to get very interesting," Sherlock said, his lips spreading into a little grin as his eyes gleamed with a thirst for mind games.

"Sherlock," John said, clearing his throat and shooting the detective a warning glance.

Oh right. Smiling. Don't smile over dead bodies.

"And the significance of the spot in which he left the message proves it, doesn't it, Mr. Holmes?" Irene inquired, referencing Moriarty's strategy. She turned to the bloody message written on the wall beneath one of the paintings; the one word was simply "Congratulations."

"Yes, obviously," Sherlock said under his breath, addressing his wife. He was almost irritated that she had said it first. He'd probably noticed it first…probably. Nevertheless, he took this opportunity to elaborate for her.

"The message is written beneath the painting of the First Duke of Wellington. Again, Wellington. The two murders are definitely linked."

"Clever work, you two!" Lestrade chirped, admiring the pair as if they were a mural that he had just finished painting. Sherlock rolled his eyes whilst Irene flashed a flattered smile at Lestrade.

Anderson had since sunk into the shadows, fumbling with the gloves on his fingers and looking very ashamed. Good riddance, Sherlock thought to himself, chuckling.

"Got a wife now, have you, freak? That's not gonna end well…" Sally Donovan jeered, striding up to the couple with her hips relaxed, arms crossed, lips pursed, and her eyes roving over the both of them. Her Yorkshire accent was just as sharp and nauseating as usual.

"Oh, shove off," John groaned. "Since when have you cared about Sherlock's love life?"

"Since it looked like he didn't have one, that's when," Donovan replied, her annoyance triggered. Her eyebrows might as well have been deadweights; they were so narrowed it looked like they were trying to crush her eyeballs.

Sherlock almost gagged when John mentioned his "love life." Of all the things, John…why did you have to go and mention a "love life?" I don't have a love life, for God's sake. I'm married…there is a difference. Somewhere.

"Oh, grow up, Sally. I have bigger problems," Sherlock scolded, waving his hand at her and rolling his eyes. He had a brother in the hospital, and he needed to see him. He was trying to make this as quick as he could. But these idiots were wasting too much of his time.

"Yeah? Well I'm not the only one with problems," Donovan snapped in response, taking her hands from her chest and putting them on her hips. She laughed casually…with disgusting, unwarranted superiority.

"I don't think anyone asked you," Irene said, her calm voice disguising a substantial amount of venom boiling angrily beneath the surface. She eyed the woman with contempt. Donovan's glare made it look like she was daring Irene to come fight her. Sherlock checked himself; why was he feeling nervous?

"Well, it's not everyday freak decides he wants to marry someone, is it? And you know what I think? I don't know who's made more of a mistake. Him or you." Donovan had since taken a few steps closer, and Irene had done the same. Although Donovan was taller than her, the expression on Irene's face scarcely allowed anyone the permission to observe the difference in height. She could almost slap the woman.

"Oh, I pity you, then," Irene hissed. "You have no idea how lovely it is. If you knew just how well he kisses…well…you'd wish you were me. And I might add—"

"Alright, that's quite enough," Sherlock barked, embarrassed at the blatantly suggestive comment.

"No, I don't think so. I'm not quite finished, darling," Irene said. "I might add…well, never you mind that. But for future," she continued, addressing Donovan, "I would appreciate it if you would refrain from using derogatory terms to address my husband. For your sake, I suggest you address him with respect. Would you mind, dear girl?" she asked. Donovan scowled.

"And why would I care to listen to freak's wife?"

"Oh, I don't know. But I do know that there are most likely dozens of people who would be a bit…surprised if they knew you were still having an affair with er…Anderson, was it?" she said, directing her attention at Anderson who by this time was looking like a blown up pufferfish with eyes bulging out of his face.

She turned her gaze back to Donovan who was steaming with rage and mortification.

"I would put some stronger perfume on next time if I were you," Irene said, nearly winking at her. Donovan's hands had since rolled up into angry fists, and her agitation showed in the image of her bulging nose.

Lestrade's eyes were almost falling out of his face. Nearly everyone had stopped working to watch the two women show down.

"Are we clear, then?" Irene asked, her hands on her hips and staring (upwards) into Donovan's face.

Donovan's eyes widened for a moment, cleared her throat (which sounded a lot like gravel in a blender) and then spat, "Crystal."

"Much obliged, sergeant," Irene said, slowly letting her lips form a triumphant smile.

Sherlock coughed, unsuccessfully trying to stifle the smallest of laughs. Why was he smirking against his will?

"Well," he said. "We'd better be off." He turned to walk out of the gallery, confident his wife would follow. His face was beaming.

"I agree. Right behind you, darling," Irene said, throwing one last evil eye at Donovan before turning her back.

"John? You ready?" Sherlock asked, realizing that his friend wasn't behind him. John was still staring into some bottomless abyss; he looked in shock. But hearing Sherlock's voice seemed to bring him back to reality.

"Yeah, sorry, right; let's go," John said, walking swiftly beside Sherlock.

The detective, with Irene at his right and John at his left, strode out of the room and toward the elevators. John was smiling: this scenario was beginning to remind him of that one time when Mary had been alive; only this time, it was Sherlock and his wife solving cases with John. The only thing they lacked was a baby and a dog.

"Any news, though? About Mycroft? Just wondering if he's…pulled through?" Lestrade asked, jogging alongside them to catch up.

"None whatsoever," Sherlock said. "Lady Smallwood is at the hospital now; he's still in surgery, last we heard."

"Well, just give me an update when you can. It's all over the news, you know. England is in an uproar. Let me know, alright?" Lestrade asked, rubbing his wrinkled brow.

"Of course, Greg. We'll see you later," John said as they smashed through a pair of glass double doors and left Lestrade standing aimlessly behind.

Leaving the National Gallery, Sherlock, Irene, and John found themselves in the center of Trafalgar Square. Sherlock took out his mobile to call Lady Smallwood, but he had a new message:

Late to the game. Taking your time, are we? – JMx

"Ugh, shut uuup!" Sherlock seethed out loud, holding his phone in his hands.

John's eyebrows threaded together in worry. "What's wrong now, then?"

"Moriarty. He's just messaged me. This is exactly what he wanted. I told my brother we shouldn't have left the country. I leave and what happens? God have mercy."

Sherlock stopped speaking. John and Irene just stared at him apprehensively, like he was a bomb about to detonate. He shook his head as if clearing cobwebs out of his brain.

"We need to get to the hospital," he said, as if trying to erase the previous moment of spontaneous exasperation.

"I was…just about to say that," John said, and he hailed a cab that was just passing by.