Chapter 2

John smiled softly at the slightly sulky way Sherlock nibbled on his toast on the cab ride over. Dark hair skimming the wrinkled brow just above the distant glaze to his normally piercing eyes, he looked like a cat that had just been forced into a bath. It shouldn't be possible for a grown man in a sulk to border so treacherously on adorable, but somehow Sherlock managed it. Then again, he supposed Sherlock managed all sorts of things that shouldn't be possible. John was far from minding. He had been pretty much since Day One.

The younger man fastidiously brushed a tumble of crumbs off his coat lapels, and John clamped down on his smirk before the detective noticed. He was well aware that his thoughts strayed a bit past the mere friendship line, but it was just another in the series of thoughts that he was happy to keep in his own head. At least his friend was eating.

As Sherlock had whirled toward the door, all greatcoat and thrill-of-the-hunt, John had insisted he take some toast with him. Lord knows, the detective wouldn't be eating anything for a while if this case got complicated, and John needed to get food into him where he could. Just before they left was always his last chance before the man was consumed by the case—and consumed nothing else for the duration. Sherlock had objected of course, but begrudgingly allowed it as John pushed them out the door.

"Hypocrite," Sherlock had muttered with a reluctant smile as they'd got in the cab. "Where's your toast then?"

John had just smiled back cheekily. "I'll eat later on a case. Unlike some people. Eat your toast, Sherlock."

Sherlock had given a grumpful hmph at that and slouched into the seat before munching on his toast. John had considered it a victory.

His smiled faded into a sigh. He wished he could say as much for last night.

Harry's rant last night had been even less sensical than normal. She'd been missing Clara, said that Clara was seeing someone else. She'd been convinced that she could buy back her ex's affections, and no matter how many times John had explained that that wasn't true, that she'd been the one to leave Clara, that Clara had a right to move on and had, she'd just called him an idiot and told him he was wrong. Eventually, her winding rant had swung into requests for money to put toward her plan, and she'd been frustrated and furious with him when he'd refused.

"Well, what good are you then? Bloody hell, John, at least dad gave us money after he split. What good are you?"

John let out a wavering breath at the memory of his sister's voice, but the sigh ended in a cough. He rubbed his brow line. What good was he? Not much, it seemed, that was for sure.

By the time he looked back up, the toast was gone, and Sherlock was studying him intently. His face was very serious, brow creased even more than before, but the previously distant look had disappeared from the now piercing eyes. As usual, John felt a bit like one of his specimens under a microscope. "Are you all right?" the detective asked after a moment.

John blinked and tilted his head. "Yes, of course I am. Why wouldn't I be?"

Sherlock's gaze didn't waver. "Your sister." The name was pitched neutrally, as though the word were distasteful. Still, through the hint of disdain, John thought he could see slight frown lines—worry?—around Sherlock's eyes. Was Sherlock… worried about him?

After the initial surprise, John shook his head. Of course Sherlock knew about Harry's call last night. The man seemed to know everything. The blunt invasion into his thoughts by anyone else would have angered him, but Sherlock? By now he was used to it. To tell the truth, he was even a bit warmed that Sherlock bothered to notice.

Of course, talking about Harry was still awkward as hell. Not only did John not like to talk about her as a rule, but he'd known since that night after the hospital that his friend didn't like her. He could understand that, but Harry was still a part of him. So Sherlock disliking her so strongly… it stung unexpectedly. "Yeah," he sighed. "Harry."

Sherlock nodded, and John could practically see the gears whirring as he tried to think of something appropriate to say in response, perhaps even something comforting. The younger man shifted uncomfortably as clearly nothing came to mind.

John thought he loved him a little for trying though. The detective very rarely made an effort to be situationally appropriate, and a part of him was touched by the attempt. He smiled, even though he knew the gesture didn't reach his eyes. "It's fine, Sherlock. Don't worry about it. It's… fine."

It wasn't fine. He could see from Sherlock's face that he knew it wasn't fine, but the detective didn't push it. John was grateful when they finally pulled up at the address Lestrade had given them. When Sherlock got out, his focus had moved solely on to the case before them.

With a wince from a twinge of pain in his bloody leg, John paid the cabbie and eased himself out after Sherlock. The leg just hadn't been the same since the Pool—what were the odds he'd hurt the same one?—but at least it wasn't nearly as bad as it had been. The slight pain, along with the few lingering cold symptoms, were more a nuisance than anything. Nothing he couldn't handle. Certainly nothing worth staying home for and missing a case. He tried to following his consulting detective's example and focus on the task at hand.

The blue house was, as usual for the crime scenes they were invited to, cordoned off from the rest of the street. Sherlock's long legs had already carried him halfway to the yellow tape by the time John caught up. They ducked under together with practiced ease. As they approached the house, however, Sherlock veered off abruptly to examine the area around the front and sides of the place, leaving John to appear that he had arrived at the crime scene alone. John shook his head with a wry smile. Typical Sherlock. Police workers bustled in and out of the open front door, not paying John the least bit of attention. His phone buzzed and he looked down. Text from Harry. He ignored it.

With a long-suffering sigh, John crossed his arms and waited for his friend to return from his examination. It wouldn't be long. It never was. But he always felt a bit pathetic waiting there for Sherlock to return as obediently as if the detective had commanded, "Stay!" in that imperious voice of his. He told himself not to be ridiculous—the thought was more a product of Moriarty's lies than anything, and he knew it. Still, the feeling lingered somewhere in the pit of his stomach and mixed with the sour feeling from his conversation with Harry last night to form something insidious and ten times worse than either feeling alone. John swallowed quickly and urged Sherlock silently to hurry up.

It was, of course, at that moment that Sally Donovan caught sight of him and stopped midsentence. As she tapped her companion and Anderson turned around, John groaned internally. He really wasn't in the mood to deal with these two today. On a good day, they could be tolerable—Sally could even be almost pleasant—but today was not a good day. On seeing the horrified and disgusted expressions on their faces, he decided that he'd very much like to just knock their petty heads together and walk past in peace. Just once. It would certainly save everyone the normal melodrama—and Sherlock their insults. If they called him "freak" one more time, he swore… But instead, he smiled weakly and looked away, hoping that would be the end of it.

No such luck.

Anderson's sallow face pinched weirdly, wide eyes immediately crinkling in what John supposed was despair. "Oh, no," the big-nosed man moaned. "If you're here, then that means…"

John glared at him, crossing his arms in what he hoped was a clear warning to shut the hell up about what exactly that "meant." He almost smiled as the forensics specialist floundered, but Sally was not so easily intimidated. Anderson may be an idiot, but it was Sally's blatant disregard for the fact that Sherlock had feelings that cut the detective the most, and John knew it. Sally Donovan was no idiot and he suspected that under most other circumstances, she wasn't even a horrible person—and that made her condemnation of Sherlock all the worse.

She just scowled as, sure enough, Sherlock came around the corner to stand next to John. An eye roll worthy of any self-respecting teenager followed from Sally, and John's own glare deepened in response. "Of course. John Watson tags along wherever the frea—"

"Don't," John cut her off sharply, voice quiet but intense. Both mouths shut immediately and four Yarder eyes widened. With a flash of vindictive pleasure, he smiled briefly before taking the momentarily stunned Sherlock by the elbow and easing him inside the house.

"I… thank you," Sherlock said uncomfortably as he regained some of his composure.

John didn't respond for a moment, just glowered straight ahead. "Yeah, well…" He sighed and his eyes met Sherlock's before his mouth turned up in a small smile. Blue eyes watched him, confused and curious and undeniably grateful. He felt his anger soften even as his resolve steeled. Whatever Sherlock was, John thought, he was no freak, and people clearly needed to be told that every now and again. He made a silent promise to not let those kinds of comments slide anymore. They'd obviously been allowed too long as it was.

This thought was rewarded by a slight softening of Sherlock's eyes as his friend smiled in return. John's smile widened. "Did you see their faces?" he asked before they both dissolved into laughter. It fel so good to laugh it hurt, and they just stood like that for a moment before starting at the sound of Lestrade's relieved voice ahead of them. They laughed again.

"Ah, Sherlock, good," Lestrade called, giving them an odd look before clearly deciding he didnmt want to know. The two looked toward him as he beckoned them on impatiently. Sherlock immediately perked up and bounded after him as he led them into the next room. On to the case, then. John followed at their heels. They stood in the kitchen as they stared at the scene of the crime the next room over. "They were discovered by the daughter's husband an hour ago when he came off his night shift," Lestrade said, motioning toward the bodies.

The sight that greeted them was one John would never quite get used to, he decided. The sitting room would have been lovely, well-lit and well-furnished, were it not for the two dead bodies sprawled on the floor by the sofas. The white-haired mother and her graying daughter were contorted as though in pain, and the look of betrayed confusion on the old woman's face was enough to make John cold. The idea that anyone could deliberately do this… John felt the happy feeling in his stomach froma moment ago wither and die.

Sherlock, however, took one look at the scene and smirked in that way of his that always made John's heart and stomach swap places. The consulting detective gave a sly sidelong glance at the detective inspector. "You think it was the daughter, don't you?"

Lestrade shrugged. "Well, it is a possibility. Not uncommon in cases where a child is a caretaker of an elderly parent, unfortunately. Even a murder-suicide isn't unheard of. And the daughter's got the bloody bottle of her mother's heart pills in her hand, for God's sake."

"As usual, you're only seeing the obvious possibility."

Lestrade sighed in exasperation. "Well, all right then, who was it?"

"Need more data!" Sherlock trilled, shooting John that smirk again. John couldn't help the smile on his own face as he watched Sherlock swoop around the scene and do what he did best. The privilege of being able to watch him was worth the gruesome crime scenes and dealing with Donovan and Anderson and the wary glances from the other Yarders and his sister's disapproval. He ignored a new text from Harry as his phone buzzed in his pocket again. If he'd ever belonged anyway, it was here, by Sherlock's side. Moriarty be damned.

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Sherlock peered and plucked and prodded and probed for several minutes before he was fairly convinced of the killer's relationship to her two victims. Friend of the family turned daughter's husband's mistress. Hardly interesting or original. To his surprise, however, he didn't feel the crushing disappointment he expected at being so easily bored by the case. He caught sight of the soft, admiring smile John so often wore while Sherlock was working, and he couldn't help returning it crookedly.

The sour expression on Anderson's face only made the smile widen. Still pouting from John's scolding, was he? One of the few positive effects of John's interactions with Harry was that they made him even more protective of Sherlock than usual. Sometimes it was a bit tiresome, but most of the time, like today, it yielded priceless results. He idly wished it were possible that Anderson's face would get stuck that way. The thought was immensely amusing, but he let it go as he focused again on the case.

"John?" Sherlock beckoned.

The doctor bent down to examine the bodies in that gentle way of his, leaning back a moment later with a thoughtful expression. "Definitely poisoned…" he began slowly. "Bottle of digoxin in the daughter's hand, which could have been used. Conditions of the bodies consistent with digoxin toxicity. But…"

This was Sherlock's favorite part of John's examinations, when John discovered something the police had missed. He felt a small swell of pride. "But?"

"But…" He looked up at Lestrade for approval, and the detective inspector waved him on. With that, John used his gloved hands to carefully remove the bottle of pills from the daughter's hand. He studied it briefly, looked inside at the two pills they could see through the plastic. "But the number of pills left is consistent with the refill date and the dosage indicated on the bottle. The daughter could have been ferreting pills away to use as poison, but if she was, she didn't take any out of this bottle. Why wouldn't she have just used all the pills? So… why have this bottle in her hand when she died if she didn't use any of the pills in it?"

Sherlock smiled. "Good, John. Conclusion?"

"The… daughter didn't kill her mother?" John suggested, hesitant as always. "Someone else killed them and placed the bottle in the daughter's hand to make it look like she'd done it?"

"Excellent!" Sherlock crowed and leapt to his feet. "It wasn't the daughter—obvious. Plates for three in the kitchen, mugs for three in the sink along with the teapot. Mugs and teapot washed out, but not the plates. Why? The killer was trying to erase the evidence. Something was in the tea—foxglove, if I had to guess. Has a distinct odor and also leads to digoxin toxicity, since it's the plant from which the drug is derived. But why hide the evidence if there's no fear of accountability since you plan to kill yourself anyway? The daughter's not the murderer, then.

"No signs of a struggle and they were familiar enough to be having tea with the murderer, and without using the more formal china in the cupboard. They even let her make the tea, apparently, so friend of the family. Not the husband, since he left for work earlier than the ill-fated tea party and they wouldn't have bothered with any formality at all, had he been the third person. Indentations on the sofas and position of the bodies where they fell suggest that the murderer was seated closer to the daughter, so the daughter's friend then, most likely. Woman, going by the scent of her perfume and footprints leading toward and away from the scene, both inside and outside.

"But there are also clear indications of unhappiness in the daughter's marriage—unpolished rings, remember—and her appearance is run-down, not well kept up at all. She feels no need to impress her husband, or anyone else for that matter. No affair on her part, but also no romance for some time in her own marriage either. No, mostly likely, she's dedicated the majority of her time to caring for her mother, who only moved in a few months ago. So—strained marriage, discontented and distracted wife, and let's not forget the fact that the same perfume is found on several of the husband's jackets and fairly prominently in the room he obviously uses as his office. An affair with the daughter's friend, then. Daughter's friend then kills mother and daughter, thus eliminating them from the equation and claiming the husband for herself. Find the husband's mistress, Lestrade, and you've found your murderer. Simple."

John grinned at him again in a way that all but screamed, "Amazing!" and Sherlock felt his chest tighten, just a little.

Perhaps Thai, Sherlock thought suddenly, ignoring Lestrade as he began speaking. Now that this case was over, he could really go for some tom kha kai. And John did so love that noodle dish he always got when they went out for Thai. John coughed again, and Sherlock frowned. Then again, perhaps the doctor would be better served by some soup as well, for his cold. Perhaps the Thai restaurant down the street from that bakery they'd gone to the other day…

"Sir! Sir, we found it on the back of the front door when we closed it…"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and snapped back to attention as Sally Donovan hurried up to Lestrade. What did she want now? He was moments away from rolling his eyes when he spotted the evidence bag in her hand. Inside was a… note? No, no—that wasn't right. Couldn't be. Nothing about this case had indicated a note… Barely taking notice of the concerned look John was sending him, Sherlock clenched his gloved hands and reached Lestrade's side in two impatient steps.

The detective inspector looked at the note and offered it to Sherlock with a shrug of obvious confusion. "Some sort of code?" he suggested.

Sherlock frowned at him for a moment before glancing down at the paper in the clear plastic bag.

~AM I THrIlled YOu'Re heRe!

3

Written on plain computer paper, no indications of origin—no clue there. Felt-tipped pen, most likely a Sharpie—again, nothing extraordinary. Fairly pedestrian, actually. Handwriting that of one person: male, right-handed, perhaps around thirty years old, confident—no, arrogant, obviously in a position of power and proud of it… Not the murderer. The husband? No, obviously not. Who, then? Perhaps the message would tell.

Am I thrilled you're here? Well, that was one possible message, but obviously it was a code—and not even a complex one at that. The capitalized letters were no doubt a scrambled version of the intended message, along with the punctuation. There was no other reason for the prominent curved hyphen-like mark at the beginning of the note. A symbol to separate a signature from the rest of the hidden message, perhaps? The prominence of the 'M' was significant, surely, likely meaning that one of the words began with the letter. The first letter in the name of the signature, if the confidence of the strokes were anything to go by. So, perhaps to work backwards from the name?

Mary? No, not male. No male first names were evident in the capitalized letters.

Last names? May? Mayo? Mayor? No, no, no… He snarled. It was right in front of his face—he knew it, he could feel it, but why couldn't he—Oh.

Suddenly, the lock clicked and fell open in Sherlock's mind and he felt a little thrill. Then the blood rushed from his face as the message became mockingly clear.

HI! ~MORIARTY

3

Moriarty. The heart. The note was for him. But how had Moriarty known he would be here…? He latched onto John's arm in a rush of panic. Tightening his grip, he tugged at John and ignored the small noise of confused protest as he pulled him around the house. There must have been something he'd missed, a clue, some detail, something

"Sherlock?" he heard John ask in concern, but he was too busy looking over the bodies again to acknowledge him. Digoxin toxicity from foxglove tea. The husband's mistress, the wife's friend. He was right. He knew he was right, so why was Moriarty leaving his mark on this case? Was he trying to call his attention to something? He gripped John a little tighter. Was it a warning? The heart… Burn the heart out of you…

"Sherlock!"

The sharp voice finally broke his concentration and he looked up in surprise at John's worried face. Worried and… slightly pained. The doctor was holding his arm stiffly, and Sherlock followed the arm to find the source of his friend's pain until his eyes rested on his own hand. He released John immediately with a brief look of apology before straightening and composing himself.

"Well, what the hell was all that?" Lestrade demanded, eyes wide.

Sherlock coolly picked a bit of imaginary lint off his coat. "I was merely ascertaining something."

"What, that Watson's arm is still attached to the rest of his body?" Anderson sniped.

With a withering look in Anderson's direction, Sherlock handed the note back to Lestrade. "It's from Moriarty."

John immediately tensed. "Sherlock…"

"All it says is 'Hi' and his name, but it's definitely him."

Still gaping, Lestrade glanced at John before fixing his gaze on Sherlock. "Bloody hell… Are you sure?"

"Positive."

His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he pulled it out absently, thoughts still running along the puzzle of Moriarty's note. It took a moment for him to recognize that the text was from an unknown number, but when he did he knew instantly who the message was from. He opened it.

Nice to know I still have the ability to make your heart skip a beat, my dear. I'm touched! And how is dear John? ~M

Sherlock barely had a moment to panic again before the next text came in, the first disappearing.

You're going to destroy him, you know. I'll barely even have to do a thing. All I do is just plant a few little seeds… I do love a garden.

Seeds? Garden? Was there a hidden message there, some sort of clue? Sherlock watched as this message too disappeared from his phone, and he didn't bother wondering how Moriarty had done the seemingly impossible. He snuck a glance of at the very pale John who was looking anxiously at his own phone. When he held out his hand for John's phone, the man handed it over without a word, obviously bewildered by the message he'd received. Sherlock read it.

Oh, we're going to have so much fun. : )

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A/N – Well, here I am, trying to tackle this story again. I've had a lot going on since I dropped this story, but I'm hoping to pick it up again (obviously AU at this point). Don't hate me if updates are few and far between for a while I try to get back into the swing of things! Thanks for reading, and reviews are loved and cuddled like kittens!