Ha-Ha

The sun was the devil incarnate and its sharp pitchfork rays dug into John's eyeballs and pierced the back of her aching brain. She jerked her head back, cursing the open window and the nausea that sprung from moving four inches. Her head thunked to the ground and she swore aloud. Her pillow had apparently become Sherlock's thigh. Hopefully she did not drool. Her mouth was completely dry and tasted like hair. She pulled her blonde locks away from her face and sputtered.

Water. She found it next to Sherlock's head. She was still out cold, not having moved since she crashed the night before. The phone buzzed on the other side of her, vibrating against the wood. John did not remember turning the sound down but decided she would not bother to look a gift horse in the mouth.

She flicked the phone up and saw the caller ID read Do Not Answer, Joan!

"Hello?" John grumbled, sipped on her water and leaned her head against the side of the glass.

"Good morning, Joan," Mycroft answered, far too jovial for whatever ungodly hour it happened to be. "I do hope you are not feeling too under the weather."

"Couldn't be feeling better," John gruffed. "What do you want?"

Mycroft was unfazed. "It seems the body of one Arnold M. Haywire has been moved."

"Arnold who now?" John took another sip of water and promptly rested her head back across Sherlock's stomach, ignoring Sherlock's grumblings.

"Ah," Mycroft continued. "I see. You may have been too intoxicated to remember. Sherlock received a call this morning from DI Lestrade about a-"

"Murder victim!" John flinched at how loud she yelped.

Sherlock muttered, "Shut up," and rolled to her side, throwing John's aching head to the floor once again.

"Yes," Mycroft said, his cocky little smirk heard loud and clear. "Very good. His body has been moved."

"Alright," John mumbled. Sherlock's arm was waving behind her, looking for something. John pushed the glass of water at her until she took it. "Thanks."

"You misunderstand me." Mycroft was starting to lose his immeasurable political patience. "I nor the DI authorized such a movement. It seems we have a third, unknown player."

John groaned. She could only take so much melodrama on a regular basis, but for the love of god, not with a hangover. "Not Moriarty, please."

Sherlock perked up at the name, flopped to face John, and reached for the phone. John handed it over, pillowed her arms and burrowed into the crook of her elbow.

"Cakey," Sherlock answered, not even bothering to elaborate the insult as usual. "Text only. Your voice will drive me to drastic self medicating measures." She slapped the phone on the ground and groaned. John joined her.

"What did we- did we post something on the blog last night?" John asked the floor.

Sherlock mumbled and shoved John's arm. "Can't. Murder. Priority."

"Ugh," John agreed.

After a large helping of water for the two of them, painkillers, and forced slices of toast and butter, they made their way out the door while Sherlock checked her phone for the details and filled John in. "Arnold Haywire. Age 37. Death by bullet through the head."

"Someone could put one through my head, right now," John grumbled over her to-go cup of coffee.

Sherlock hummed in agreement. "Found in the attic of a house owned by the Millers."

"What makes this interesting?" John complained.

"It wasn't his house," Sherlock huffed. "Nor of a relative or friend. Opposite side of town from his home. Random house."

"Robbery gone wrong?"

"Hm."

John tossed her head back against the seat cushion of the taxi, closed her eyes, and willed her strong stomach to stay strong until they arrived.

Lestrade was waiting for them at the house, his cynical smile promising hours of torturous pain. "Good morning, sunshines. Sleep well, did you?"

"Fuck off," John grumbled.

"We don't work for you, Lestrade." Sherlock growled, her eyes taking in the suburban house and those neighboring it. "We are allowed to get drunk when we want."

"You may not work for me," Lestrade said, louder than necessary. "But I'm the only one that will work with you. So how about canning the attitude and solving a murder, alright?"

Sherlock muttered something about donuts in Lestrade's hair but John could not quite find it in herself to ask her to stop being rude. If rude got them through this quicker, then may everyone cry that day.

Lestrade looked at her oddly and then muttered, "Nice necklace," around a smirk.

John frowned and touched her neck. There was something lacey there. She reached back with one hand and undid the clasp to find the sex club choker dangling from her fingers. How the hell did that get back around her neck? And why the hell did Sherlock not say something before they left the flat?

She tucked it into her pocket and slowly made her way up the stairs.

The attic was just like any other attic, according to John. There were old things and not so old things and cobwebs. So many cobwebs. She did not particularly like spiders after the incident with the camel spider and her pillowcase. Given her mood, she could not promise not pulling out her illegal gun in front of all of the cops taking pictures. The furry little things would probably make great target practice.

The spiders. Anderson was not on scene.

"Here," Lestrade pointed to the pool of blood glistening in the sunlight pouring out of the small windows. There was a lot of it, some smeared towards the attic's exit. "We had a car on the street but no one saw anyone dragging the body out. Everything else is the same. Nothing missing. The Millers were gone. They left to stay with family yesterday. We got their statements last night."

"Useful as ever," Sherlock huffed.

Lestrade looked at John, waiting for her to say something, but she just lifted her coffee and sipped. Sherlock poked her nose around the blood without much zest and quickly moved to the bloodied items surrounding the missing body.

"Younger brunette woman is the killer." Sherlock spouted off facts in a huff, none of her usual grandiose available for show. "Most likely an ex or a business partner. Both. They work at a pawn shop. Check the local area."

"Brilliant," John saluted without much gusto.

Sherlock smiled for the first time that morning, small but there. "I haven't even explained how-"

"Don't care," John said. "You are amazing. I already know it. Don't need to hear it now."

"Later," Sherlock agreed readily.

Lestrade crossed his arms, looking annoyed and confused. "Alright, I get the woman part because of the blood spatters and relation to height and probable relationship because of the location and statistics."

"And the bracelet," Sherlock mumbled, clearly pained. "And the hair dye. Even Anderson will be able to pick hairs out of blood."

"We can only fucking hope," John muttered into her cup.

Lestrade ignored them. "But how do you know she and Haywire were together at a pawn shop? And how are they related to the people living here? The family said they didn't know the guy at all."

"The chest," Sherlock explained. Lestrade's gaze fell to her dipping, unbuttoned neckline and she huffed, "The treasure chest." She pointed to a box in the corner. "The lock's been cut. Any valuables would have been in there."

"So she committed murder and robbed the place. How do you know she works for the pawn shop?"

"For the love of- Look!" Sherlock gestured wildly, making John dizzy. "There are things that are missing. Not just the items from the lock box, but paintings and a picture frame. Look at the dust, for god's sake! How would she know what was valuable and what was not? Most would take what they could carry. She had a very keen eye."

Lestrade huffed, "How do you know-"

"The bracelet!" Sherlock grumbled and swept to the floor, coming up with a silver and black leather bracelet tucked between her shirt sleeve to prevent fingerprints. "It was featured in the newspaper Thursday. Last article on page seven? Am I the only one that pays attention to anything?!"

John simply smiled and let her rant on. Today was just not the day to argue.

Lestrade looked to John with pleading eyes but clearly realized he was on his own. He sighed. "I see the bracelet. I see it's for a woman. What else about it?"

"It was won in an auction by a local pawn shop when they bid on a storage unit that was repossessed. They sighted this bracelet as a rare find because of its antique value. Why keep it when it could be sold for a large sum of money? Our murderer and victim were obviously here for the items in the attic. She continued to rob the Millers even after the gun went off. Does that sound like someone desperate for cash to you? She was not the one that decided to keep the bracelet. She wanted the money. It was a gift from someone else at the shop. That would be Haywire, here with her for the items. That, plus the keen eye, equals pawn shop worker in a relationship with a co-worker. I say ex because they no doubt fought over money and, oh, there is the fact that she shot him in the back of the skull!"

Everyone looked to the pool of blood on the floor.

"You mean like Storage Wars?" John asked into the looming silence, and immediately regretted it.

"What?!" Sherlock snapped.

"It's a TV show." John shrugged. "They buy units and pawn the stuff inside."

Sherlock was aghast. "What load of absolute pedestrian rubbish are you feeding to your poor deprived brain? Is this something Morgan-"

"Martin."

"-makes you watch?"

"Mrs. Hudson, actually," John said. "It's kind of like the one you liked with the-"

"John!" Sherlock yelled, causing them both to flinch. Right, that was supposed to be a secret. Of course, John had already taken a photo of her watching daytime telly and sent it to Lestrade, but Sherlock did not need to know that.

"Sorry," John mumbled.

"Family said nothing was taken," Lestrade muttered, crossing his arms and looking around. He was too used to Sherlock to be surprised by her outbursts and was skilled at returning to the task at hand.

"Then they are either lying or stupid," Sherlock snapped. "We can only pray you'll be able to figure out which since I apparently have to provide the dead man's CV when you have his name already."

"Maybe the dead body threw them off," John suggested lightly.

"Right," Lestrade huffed and turned back to Sherlock. "You don't remember the name of the pawn shop?"

"Do I have to do everything?!" Sherlock cried and threw the bracelet at Lestrade's face. He was barely able to catch it in between his forearm and chest. "It was only listed as a local shop. Anonymity for the sake of future bids. Look it up yourself!"

"Okay, alright. No need to fall into a strop." Lestrade held up his hands and pointed at the door. "So who took the body and where is it?"

"At least two men were here." Sherlock held up a hand before Lestrade could ask a follow up. "Footprints, DI. Seriously. Do I need to point out the actual bloody bloody footprints to you?"

Lestrade's eyes narrowed. It was about then that John caught on to his small smirk as well.

Sherlock could overestimate the stupidity of everyone around her on a daily basis but the DI had been working this case for hours and had the victim's name. Of course he already knew the name of the pawn shop. He probably already had a suspect in mind. He did not need half these explanations.

The closest copper snapping photos snorted behind their camera.

John glared.

This was payback for Sherlock hanging up on him. Payback on them both.

Bastard.

Sherlock threw up her hands, spun in a circle, and pointed to not-so-random spots of blood on the ground, "Shoe size, trainers, weight, build. You can all do it yourself. Obviously two men, one large, one not. Find the body and we'll find who took it. Ask the family what was taken. I'm not theorizing before all the data is collected. Strap a collar on Donovan, get some sniffer dogs. I'm not psychic!"

Sherlock pushed past them both and down the stairs, not bothering to wait for John to catch up.

John was still scowling at Lestrade and muttered, "Greg."

Lestrade's smile broke free and he nodded once. "John."

The rest of the squad finally broke free in a large cacophony of chuckles and John marched out of the room.

Sherlock was at the end of the driveway, glaring.

John looked between her and the curb and back again, "What's wrong?"

Sherlock turned to her, eyes full of rage, as if John were gutting her for the answer with that simple question. "The cab!"

"What about it?"

"It's gone!"

"Yes, I see that!"

"I told that idiot to wait!"

John glared at the empty street and cursed. When she turned back towards the house, Sherlock put a hand out and stopped her from taking a single step.

"No," Sherlock grumbled. "I am not riding with one of them. I'm calling a cab."

John huffed and sat on the ground, clutching her coffee with both hands.

"What-" Sherlock pulled her phone away and growled at it. "The call won't connect."

"Maybe-"

"Maybe you should shut up." Sherlock started to pace and John shrugged. Not the day.

Within the minute, Sherlock's phone pulsed. Sherlock groaned again and sank next to John, stealing her coffee and sipping, her entire body crinkling with revulsion at the taste. "Mycroft is coming. Found the body."

"Where?" John happily took her coffee back, thanking god Sherlock did not throw it into the street.

"Ha-Ha Road."

John blanched and spun to her. "I'm sorry?"

"Moriarty has an odd sense of humor. Sometimes I really hate her."

"I always hate her."

A black car spun up soon after and took them to Ha-Ha Road where the body of Arnold Haywire was found.

The body in the grass told a very different story than the crime scene suggested. The man was stripped to nothing, his chest mangled and his body defaced. Moriarty's goons had cut out the man's heart and moved it into his hands across his chest, held together with a slender wooden stake that pierced straight through his body. Decorating that stake was his penis, chopped off and tied against the wood with a shining red bow. Across his chest in bright red lipstick, almost indistinguishable through the blood, read: I miss you!

"Looks like someone misses you," John unhelpfully mumbled under her breath.

All the people in Mycroft's unit were giving them space, the lads a bit more than the rest when they saw the mutilation technique, even knowing it was post mortem.

"I can get nothing from this and she knows it," Sherlock huffed, toeing the man's elbow with her shoe. "She stripped all the important evidence."

"She only wants to give you the message."

"That she can make me dance, even on a day when I am extremely hungover," Sherlock grunted and grabbed her temples, rubbing harshly.

"Let's go home," John suggested. "You saw all you needed to see. We'll figure it out when we feel better, alright?"

Sherlock kicked the dead man's leg and sent the penis wiggling. John stifled a smile and nudged the man's foot back with her shoe. She waved down the nearest of Mycroft's workers and pushed Sherlock back to the black car to go home and hopefully nap for a year.