A/N: Prompt at the end for this one. I did visualise our 2009 duo again … but as before, it is not to say our canon companions wouldn't do very much the same. :-)

Deadly Discernment

"You have deliberately sabotaged my marriage, Mister Holmes, and I expect full compensation for it," snapped Mr. Michael Mayhew, the flesh around his rotund neck quivering furiously as he spoke. The man standing in their living room was enormous, as short as he was wide. He frantically pressed at his damp forehead and cheeks with a handkerchief. He had refused the offer of a seat, choosing instead to bear down on Holmes from his meagre height.

Holmes was sat in his armchair. He squinted at Mr. Mayhew over his pipe as though he was giving the matter much of his thought. Watson was leaning against the side of the chair, his hands in his pockets, thinking it most likely that Holmes was deliberating about the method in which Mr. Mayhew had arrived at their door. Or a different case entirely, judging by the furrow in Holmes's brow that indicated his mind was elsewhere.

Holmes blinked, shook his head. "My apologies, Mr. Mayhew. I was contemplating a most curious puzzle. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

The main fair spluttered with indignation.

"Did you not hear what I said?!" he yelled.

"Ah, yes, Mrs. Mayhew," said Holmes, a note of admiration in his voice that made the flush on Mr. Mayhew's face turn several shades darker. "Remarkable woman, is she not? Or should I refer to her as Ms. Oakwell now?"

Mr. Mayhew made a scoffing noise that sounded nearer to choking. "You shall do no such thing! She is my wife and I will not–"

"Was your wife," Holmes corrected. "If memory serves, she made her intentions quite clear."

The man glared, beady eyes narrowing. "I hired you to investigate, Mr. Holmes, not to inter–"

Holmes cut him off was a sharp swipe of his hand.

"You hired me to investigate the loss of your property, Mr. Mayhew, a case I took purely because the method in which your items were liberated was most curious in itself." Holmes took a long draw of his pipe, regarded Mr. Mayhew carefully. "That it was your wife has no bearing on the events set in motion thereafter. I carried out what was requested of me."

"And dissolved my marriage and reputation in the process!"

Holmes shot him a look, his eyes glinting steel.

"I have done nothing of the sort. The outcome would have remained as such; your wife would have left you with or without my involvement. I do not hold responsibility over the actions of others."

It was clearly not what Mr. Mayhew wanted to hear. The man's eyes bulged as his mouth opened and closed, the anger pouring off him in thick, choking waves, palpable as it pushed into the very corners of the room.

"Goodbye, Mr. Mayhew," said Holmes on a sigh as he rose from his seat. "I sincerely hope our paths do not cross again."

He pointed a chubby finger at Holmes, took a bold stride into his personal space. "See here, you–"

Watson leaned forward, gripped the man's shoulder, said fast, "Now let's not–"

Mr. Mayhew swung to face him, dislodging Watson's hand. "How dare you!" he shouted. "Touching me with your diseased hands! What right have you?!"

Holmes snorted.

Watson felt the muscle twitch in his jaw. "You cannot–"

"You insult me, Doctor," the man snarled, his jowls wobbling heavily as he shook his head in evident disbelief. "That you deem it appropriate to address me without title and dare place a hand upon me ... the audacity!"

Watson took a slow step back, his hands fisting by his side. "I do apologise."

"As you should!" cried Mr. Mayhew, missing the sarcasm dripping through Watson's words as thick as honey. Holmes looked from one to the other, smoking diligently whilst his eyes betrayed his amusement.

"Sir," said Watson, clipped, "I suggest you calm yourself."

A thunderstorm of emotions rumbled across Mr. Mayhew's face, disbelief turning to anger turning to undiluted outrage. His skin shifted to a peculiar puce which sent Watson's senses on edge.

"CALM MYSELF?!" the man bellowed. "I shall have you know that I–" He stopped and gasped, sucked in his next breath that sounded like a squeak. Then he clutched his chest and crashed to the ground, his weighty bulk shuddering the floorboards. Watson was beside him in an instant, but he knew from the vacant gaze on Mr. Mayhew's face that the man was already dead.

/-/-/

Holmes was looking out of the window, watching the undertaker drive away with the body of Mr. Mayhew, when Watson came back into the room.

Watson walked over to join him. He felt neither remorse nor guilt and wondered if he should feel something for the man who had tormented his wife, the man who had screamed and insulted him to his face, the man whose heart couldn't handle the abuse it endured from its owner and had chosen inactivity as an alternative to keeping him alive.

Though in his defence, Mr. Mayhew was an atrocious figure of the highest order. He was scarcely worth Watson's concern. That Watson had rushed to his side the moment Mr. Mayhew collapsed soothed any apprehension he may have had about his character as both a medical man and a gentleman.

Holmes continued to stare out the window, smoking thoughtfully. He tutted, then said into the silence, "I shall not lose sleep over his passing."

Watson hummed in agreement.

"It seems those healing hands of yours have taken on a very sinister edge, Watson."

"How so?"

But Holmes ignored the question, continued, "It does not bode well for future clientele should they hear of what occurred today. Do you suppose it would be wise to move my own care into Doctor Mortimer's practice, to ensure I do not fall foul to the same fate as Mr. Mayhew?" He turned and his eyes met Watson's, a mischievous glint residing there that did nothing to tamper the Doctor's mood.

"That is not the least bit amusing, Holmes."

"Ah. So you hold no qualms possessing, as Mr. Mayhew so eloquently put, 'diseased hands'?"

Watson paused on the pretence of considering this. Then he smiled. He moved closer to Holmes, plucked the pipe from his friend's grip, opened the window and threw the object out. It landed in the middle of the road below.

He knew it was churlish, and Holmes only looked mildly put out. Yet Watson felt immensely pleased when the pipe was crushed seconds later by a passing hansom.

End

Prompt 14: From goodpenmanship – dead client.