They had gathered in Hayter's sitting room. The windows were open to a fine summer evening. Acton was a good, old-fashioned gentleman, dressed appropriately in a linen suit and even had a hat to match. John noticed amused the look of appreciation he gave Sherlock upon entering.

"Now, where do we start? The post-it note?" Hayter begun eagerly.

"John?" Sherlock turned to him.

John was used to these spot checks, on place to determine whether he kept up. Often he didn't, but this was an easy one.

"The burglary at Acton's."

"Right, the burglary at Acton's. The library of an old house, an old man living alone, sleeping upstairs and all they took was worthless rubbish. Obviously they were after something specific. Mr. Acton, I believe you have a safe in your library?"

"Why, that's right, how did you know?"

Sherlock waved his hand impatiently. It was a simple deduction.

"The Cunninghams knew, too. They knew also about the legal document you obtained and put there, which would cost them half their estate."

"Indeed, we were to have a hearing next week, where the matter would've been settled based on a deed I was finally able to procure. I've based my claim on it, but the original was misplaced, so the matter remained unresolved."

"They were about to lose their land and house, which are the only things left of their wealth. Getting desperate, they concocted a burglary. But they were not able to find what they were looking for, despite turning the place over. Leaving in a hurry, they ended up grabbing what was closest at hand. Their so called haul told me at once that they were looking for something specific, not just anything of value."

"Ah," Hayter exclaimed, "that's what you were going to say on the first night! I must admit it stuck to my mind."

"Yes, John putting my well-being before your curiosity," Sherlock looked at John with tenderness. The message was so clear to John that he blushed faintly. It was like saying 'I love you' in company.

Hayter smiled to himself. What an extraordinary partner his friend had found, but clearly a loving one.

"Unfortunately, I couldn't inspect the scene at Acton's and frankly I put too much faith in the local police force... This time the criminals weren't that lucky. The door at Cunningham's was simply ludicrous. No one would bother giving it a beating like that, if they were trying to go in quietly. No, I knew at once that we were dealing with a cover-up. Then when I found out the route the assailant had taken I immediately noticed the tracks."

"But there were none! The ground was hard and dry!"

"Exactly. The ground was dry. But the ditch wasn't. Anyone jumping over that fence would've landed in it and left heavy prints on the brink. There were none. Clearly, the messieurs Cunningham were lying."

"The next interesting pointer was, of course, the infamous post-it note. Now, where do people use post-it-notes? At home or at work. No one sends a post-it-note. In this case it was evident, that Wasyli had gotten it from someone at home. They don't use post-it-notes on construction sites. So only two people could have written it, either the father or the son. The Inspector was good enough to scan me a copy. John, I believe it's been sent to your phone."

"Yeah, here it is."

John passed his phone around, so that everyone could take a look at the message:

'Don't tell him,

but I'll pay. Meet

you out back

11:45 pm'

"That doesn't make any sense," Hayter said exasperated.

"It makes every sense. Wasyli saw the men return from their nightly activities. Curious about the matter, he soon found the things they'd stolen. Instead of going to the police, he thought he'd make a bit of money. The Cunninghams, naturally, didn't want to pay. So they decided to kill him. And for that they needed Wasyli to die outside at a time when a burglary might be attempted. They would never even be suspected for a killing a surprised criminal would do. But how to get him to the right place at the right time? They lived together – people don't arrange meetings within the same household. They simply knock on doors, when they know the person is at home. It was quite cunning, really. The note suggests a rift between the father and son. One of them was ready to pay, the other wasn't. As you can see, the note is not signed."

"Well, surely Wasyli would know the handwriting," Hayter suggested.

"Yes, that would be a problem. If he knew, who wrote it, what would stop him from just bringing the matter up when they pump into each other at the fridge and demand payment there and then? Ah, these two were quite clever," Sherlock smiled satisfied with the challenge the case had posed.

"They wrote the note together. Clearly it isn't the work of a single hand. They had written it in turns, each man writing one letter after the other. Wasyli couldn't be sure, which one it was from. Did it look more like the father's or son's hand? Hard to tell. So, you see, he had to follow the instructions and couldn't bring it up before the time named."

"That's why you made them write down the hours," John understood.

"Precisely. To confirm my theory. And you thought I was losing it. Have a little faith, hon," he briefly stroked John's hand. "Now you see how the 1's in 11 are different. The other corresponds with the younger man's handwriting, the other with the father's."

"Ingenious, simply ingenious," Hayter admired Sherlock's deductions. "Why didn't they destroy the note? That wasn't very clever."

"They were supposed to, obviously. Young Alec was to do the deed, but he isn't the cool-nerved, hardened criminal he'd like to think. He needed to calm himself down a bit before actually pulling the trigger. Smokes too much pot, does young master Alec. Never was into the stuff myself. Dulls the mind. After shooting he took the paper from Wasyli's hand and put it in his pocket, but not being at his sharpest, and having just killed a man, forgot about it."

"Didn't the police inspect their clothing?"

"Pft, he only gave them his dressing gown, which he of course wasn't wearing at the time. A young man smoking weed in his dressing gown? No, this isn't a 19th century romantic novel with country gentlemen lounging about in their gowns. I spotted the jeans on top of a pile of clothes in his room and there it was, exactly as expected."

"Why, that's brilliant!"

"An amusing little puzzle, yes. Now, if the police would've treated it as a common domestic shooting, they would've been onto Alec in no time. But the burglary theory was swallowed hook, line, and sinker."

Sherlock never ceased to amaze John, who was beaming with pride and admiration. How he'd gotten so lucky, he'd never know. He wasn't one for public displays of affection, but still he took Sherlock's hand and pressed it on his lips.