Implied/Suspected Suicide, Suicidal Ideations, and Apparent Major Character Death found in this story. I don't think any of it is higher than a movie PG, but I also know that different people have different triggers. If you are interested in reading but are wary because of my tags, shoot me a pm. It'll ping my email, and I'll answer whatever as soon as I see it. I just don't want to give spoilers in the notes.

Happy reading :)

"It is amazing that Mycroft puts up with you."

He huffed a faint laugh. "We have discussed this already."

"And you seem to think he does not have a choice," I finished. "I beg to differ. One of these days, you might find yourself at an end of his tolerance."

He braced me when a strong gust of wind tried to knock me off balance, failing to smother amusement with irritation. We had met Mycroft at his rooms to give him the rest of the details related to Holmes' most recent case—one that Mycroft had given us. Once the business was completed, Holmes had spent much of the time making a nuisance of himself, as usual. What was not as usual was his stubborn determination to disappear towards Mycroft's bedroom. He repeatedly refused to tell me why.

"Mycroft gained a tolerance for me years ago," he retorted. "He would never have survived my teenage years otherwise."

"After you moved in with him?"

He nodded. He had mentioned once before that he had moved in with his brother at about eleven or twelve, but he had yet to confirm the cause. I had my own suspicion, of course.

"He taught me the finer points of deduction," he said instead of explaining now, "but that also meant not murdering me when I borrowed his term paper the night before it was due."

"And promptly destroyed it, I'm sure," I answered dryly. I could easily see my friend doing something like that. "I stand by my statement. It is amazing that Mycroft puts up with you."

Holmes merely scowled. He had "borrowed" then ruined something of mine more than once. In the earlier years, I had several times entertained the idea of finding other lodgings because of it, but Holmes had always somehow made it up to me before I could more than consider the idea. I had grown used to his antics over the years and no longer thought a ruined book worth moving over, but that did not mean I enjoyed when he pulled something like that. I had an ongoing campaign to teach him something about respecting others' property.

It had truly only worked with my library—and that partially. I would keep trying.

"Do you have plans for today?"

The wind knocked a bin over, sending it clattering down the street with bone-jarring racket, and I smothered a jump. His hand tightened slightly on my arm, but he made no comment, thankfully. He did not need to know that the same heat that had partially eased the near-constant pain in my scars had also brought decades-old memories to the fore.

"My indices need updating," he answered once sure I was steady. "Birmingham Press sent me some back copies of newspapers, and I still need to outline the relevant articles."

I suppressed a smile, reading more into his reply than he said. Holmes had never gotten the Birmingham papers before, but my uncle lived in Birmingham. With Edward's increasingly frequent visits, my friend must have decided it worthwhile to track local events in that semi-neighboring town just as he did in London's many boroughs.

Silence fell as we turned onto the next street, and he redirected our steps on seeing several Yarders holding a crowd away from a small house. More Yarders swarmed the premises, and we wandered closer as I picked Lestrade out of the crowd.

"Hello, Doctor," he said when we reached the front of the press, never glancing up from the notebook he held. "Mr. Holmes."

"Lestrade," I returned with a nod. I glanced at the small residence behind him. "What happened here?"

He finished scribbling, then waved us inside.

"Suicide," he answered once well away from the onlookers. "Sir Robert Chadwick, age fifty-one. Stabbed himself last night."

"Suicide?" I repeated. "That does not match what the world knows of his character."

Lestrade merely shrugged. "I do not follow politics, but this is very obviously a suicide. We were not planning to call you for that reason."

He led us into a back room, apparently Sir Chadwick's office, and I stopped near the door as Holmes slowly moved toward the desk against the far wall. Sir Chadwick had slumped back into his chair, an expression of absolute misery on his face rather than the pain I would have expected. A stream of blood had traveled from the dagger in his chest to puddle on the floor, and his hand still held the pommel in place.

"Time of death?" Holmes asked, his keen gaze scanning the room.

Lestrade turned back a page in his book.

"Late last night," he answered, "just before midnight. The maid mentioned an old friend visited for supper, but she said Sir Chadwick was perfectly fine, though a bit quiet, when she brought his nightly cup of tea a few minutes after the visitor left."

"Hmm."

He made no other answer, kneeling briefly to peer at something at the base of the desk. He stood quickly enough and turned his attention to what remained of Sir Chadwick.

"Watson."

He waved me forward, and I traced his footsteps to stand next to the chair.

"What do you make of this?" he asked, pointing to a spot on the dead man's arm.

I found nothing at first, but a closer look detected a tiny pinprick above his elbow, barely big enough to scab.

"Any number of things could cause such a small scrape, Holmes. You know that."

"That is not a scrape."

I looked again. "It is a small hole," I agreed. "What do you make of it?"

He resumed his study of the area without comment, and an "aha" carried a moment later.

"Do you have a pair of forceps?"

I had not brought my bag with us, but I did have a pair of tweezers in my pocket. He used them to dig in a section of carpet.

"Lestrade! Did you close the window when you arrived?"

Lestrade shook his head, moving to stand beside me. "The maid did, however. She came in early this morning, and she closed the window before she realized he was not asleep."

"I do not believe this is a suicide," Holmes announced. He displayed the small piece of metal held in the tweezers.

Lestrade refrained from rolling his eyes, but even I could see that he wanted to. "He obviously held the weapon that killed him, Mr. Holmes. That is the definition of suicide."

"This is not a suicide," Holmes insisted. The metal disappeared into his handkerchief, my handkerchief, and a scrap of paper taken from Sir Chadwick's desk. He returned the tweezers as he continued, "Watson is right. Sir Chadwick was at the height of his career and would never have considered suicide even if he had not been. Give me time, Lestrade. I can prove this is a murder."

Lestrade made no attempt to hide his irritation, but he had worked with Holmes for too long to disregard his words. The notebook slipped into a pocket.

"Very well. I will slow it down as much as I can, but you will not have long. You know the superintendent prefers to hurry suicides. The family never wants a drawn-out scandal."

Murder was less of a scandal than suicide, but Holmes did not voice as much. "Twenty-four hours. I can have an update for you by tomorrow morning."

Lestrade nodded, and Holmes studied the rest of the room for only a few more minutes before he strode towards the door. I exchanged a farewell with Lestrade and followed.

"What can I do?"

"Go back to Mycroft," he answered. "He will be at his office by now. Ask him to give you everything related to the Andra case in 1893. I will meet you back at the flat."

The Andra case? 1893?!

He darted through the crowds before I could ask, my surprise at the date passing unheeded, and I stared after him for a long moment before I forced myself to start walking.

Andra was an Indian name. I knew Holmes had spent some time in that varied country during the years I had thought him dead, but he had never referenced this case even during the evening devoted to comparing his travels with my own.

One of the memories I had been fighting off tried to push its way forward. I firmly shoved it away. I could remember that I had been there without losing myself in the memory, no matter how much England's current heat wave reminded me of that place, and I forced my mind back to my questions. What in India could have contributed to a suicide in London? If Sir Chadwick had ever been there, the press did not know about it, and his position had made the rest of his past extremely public.

That was something else that did not make sense, and I used the tangent to pull my memories away from India. Sir Chadwick had carried the highest title a man his age could attain in the Ministry of Defense. A distant relative of the royal family, he had started as secretary years ago and quickly gained attention for his eye for detail. For all appearances, he had accomplished everything he wanted, which combined with his character to make suicide extremely unlikely. He fluctuated between politely subdued and happily boisterous, but his was a small pendulum. He never swung too far in either direction like a true suicide risk often did.

So while suicide was certainly possible, it was so unlikely as to be the last thing the police should consider, which explained Holmes' insistence. An attack of some sort would make much more sense—however little idea I had of how it could have occurred—but for all that he had an elevated governmental position, Chadwick did not seem to have any enemies. He usually stayed on the sidelines, working in the shadows far too often for any good to come of removing him. His death would merely spark a reshuffling in Whitehall for a week or two until someone else could be temporarily assigned to the position. Why would someone murder him?

Holmes would tell me soon enough, I was sure, but I still used the debate to focus my thoughts as I hurried toward Mycroft's workplace.

An unexpected case with a bit of a twist. Sounds like right up Holmes' alley. Hope you enjoyed! Don't forget to review, and thanks to those who reviewed Kitchen Mischief :)