Okay, so writing deductions out is kind of fun. Go figure.
"So." Sherlock Holmes was generally a man of many words, mostly the ones you needed a dictionary for, and after finding out you immediately wanted to punch the stuffing out of him. But while sitting on the beige couch in his best friend's new, spacious flat, the only word he could get out consisted of two letters and had little meaning. He brushed imaginary lint off his black trousers and then pressed the palms of his hands together, touching his fingertips to his lips.
"Yes." John Watson seemed to be having the same communication issues. He was sitting directly across from Sherlock in a flowery armchair, his fingers fidgeting with the upholstery.
"It's quite a nice place. Very roomy and…all." Sherlock scanned the living room. Boxes were scattered everywhere, only halfway unpacked. The furniture was modest, consisting almost entirely of what John and Mary could find for cheap at estate sales and IKEA. Pictures leaned against the walls, waiting to be hung, and keepsakes—dust collectors, in Sherlock's opinion—lay in an unorganized heap atop the fireplace mantle. The telly was originally a stolen item, and a litter of puppies had been birthed on the edge of the area rug approximately two years previous, but Sherlock decided this wasn't the best moment to tell John.
"Oh yes, it's very nice. Good deal too. We're lucky to have it."
Of course you are. The man who lived here before was a drug dealer and only broke the lease because he had to flee the country. Sherlock sniffed the air again. Mainly marijuana. Hmm. "And how is Mary?" He asked instead of mentioning this.
"She's lovely! The baby's healthy, and everything is progressing on schedule."
Sherlock's gaze alighted on the bags underneath John's slate-blue eyes and the growing number of grays in his sandy hair. Yes, but she's been getting an increasing amount of late-night cravings and sending you out to pick up whatever she's keen for. You haven't slept in ages, but you love her so you haven't said anything. Odd things, emotions.
"How is good old 221B?"
"Boring as usual. Mrs. Hudson had the refrigerator replaced with a smaller one so I can't store severed body parts in there anymore. I ordered a deep freezer this morning."
"I'm sure she'll be thrilled when she finds out about that." John laughed. "Have you had any interesting cases lately?"
"Nothing worth mentioning, no. The clever criminals must be on holiday." On holiday in England, that is.
"I'm sorry I haven't been able to pop in and help. Been a bit distracted by the moving process."
"Don't worry about it, John. I've, er…I've actually had a bit of help with some of them."
"Oh? From who?"
Sherlock coughed. His palms were sweating slightly. "Molly."
"Ah. Good. Well. She's a phenomenal pathologist. I'm sure she's a rather helpful assistant."
"You don't mind?"
"What? No, no! I'm glad you've found someone else. You seem happy." John cracked a reassuring smile.
Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief. He considered telling him about the blog Molly was writing detailing the cases she'd accompanied him on, but once again made up his mind that it could wait.
The front door suddenly opened, and Mary entered the flat, her arms laden with brown paper bags. John instantly leapt up and rushed to her aid.
"I told you I'm perfectly okay with taking care of the shopping, Mary. Those bags are far too heavy," he said, taking the groceries from her.
"Just so you can get into a row with the checkout machine again? I think I can handle this one, John." Mary's blue eyes sparkled with mirth. She stretched out her back, nevertheless relieved that her burden had been removed. "So, did you two have your little talk about seeing other people—I mean, about Molly assisting?"
Sherlock glanced in the direction of the kitchen. It appeared John was out of earshot. "Just finished. He took it rather well."
"He approves of Molly. If it was anyone else he would probably be up in arms."
Sherlock spent most of the morning with John and Mary, discussing old cases, the neighbors, and the state of the country. It wasn't until after a wholesome lunch prepared by Mary that Sherlock finally said his goodbyes and headed back to Baker Street in a taxi. Mrs. Hudson met him at the door.
"How did it go?" She asked.
"Ah, so Mary has been keeping you up to date as well." Sherlock rolled his eyes and loosed his scarf. "It was fine, the Watsons are disgustingly happy with their new life, and I could do with a warm cup of tea if you don't mind."
"For the hundredth time I am not your housekeeper, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson reprimanded. "Oh by the way, there's a client waiting for you in my kitchen. I was going to let her into your flat, but the door won't open."
"New deadbolt. Not everyone you let into my flat is a saint, Mrs. Hudson."
"Mr. Carrington seemed like such a nice man."
"Until he made off with my priceless collection of Andamanese poison darts."
"I was a little disappointed when they were recovered. Nasty things to have lying around the flat."
Sherlock started up the steps. "You can send the client up as soon as you're done counting your silverware," he said over his shoulder.
The client was a woman in her mid-thirties, with short ginger hair and green eyes. She introduced herself as Joanne Davis.
"You're Cardiff born, correct? Lived there for most of your adolescence. But then you moved to America," Sherlock deduced.
The woman looked amazed. "Yes! How did you know?"
"The accent, for starters. Clearly Welsh; Cardiff was just a guess. And then there's your mobile. When you pulled it out to silence it, I saw that your carrier is Verizon, a company based in New Jersey. So you must have spent a good while in the U.S. to invest in an American service."
Joanne chuckled. "I knew you were good, but witnessing it in person is just brilliant."
A proud smile flickered over Sherlock's face. He noted that she was dressed all in black, and that she was fiddling with her wedding ring. "Does this case have anything to do with your deceased husband, Mrs. Davis?"
"Right again, Mr. Holmes. My husband, Wyatt Davis, was an investigative reporter for the Cumberland Chronicle, a newspaper in Nashville, Tennessee. Five months ago, Wyatt became suspicious that his employer and CEO of the paper, Oscar Bliss, was involved with the black market and began looking into his business affairs. Two months ago, my husband went on a solo hike and was found dead." Joanne's eyes welled up with tears. "The police said he accidentally fell off a cliff."
"But you don't think that's what really happened. You think Bliss had him killed."
Joanne nodded. "My husband loved hiking. He was always very careful, and he knew that trail like the back of his hand. There's no way he could have just walked off that cliff. I tried to tell the police that, but there's no evidence to prove otherwise, and I can't get any American private investigators interested. But then a week ago, I saw you on the news, and read both Dr. John Watson and Molly Hooper's blogs. I know it's a bit of a commute, but I figured it was worth a try. I'll pay your way; whatever it takes."
Sherlock already had his phone out and was scrolling through information regarding Oscar Bliss. The internet had quite a lot to say about the wealthy businessman, and little of it was good. His lip curled. "Save your pounds, Mrs. Davis. My assistant and I will be happy to take the case."