It's three in the morning when John limps his way down the stairs: his nightmares are back, not as bad as they were years ago but enough to keep him awake most of the nights, forcing him to random naps during the day. Once in the dark and cold kitchen, he leans against the counter, thumping his head on the shelf above the kettle.
- Nightmares are back?
- Yes. – John sighs.
The doctor isn't startled by Sherlock's voice coming from the couch: since Mary's death, two weeks ago, John gotten into the habit of wander around the flat at night and Sherlock never questioned him, until now.
- What can I do for you?
- You can start by telling me what you've gathered so far.
- Are you sure you want to know?
John walks to the living room with a mug of steaming tea in his hand and flops down on the detective's chair.
- I can't live like this.
Sherlock stands up and walks to the desk, his blue dressing gown flowing around him while he turns and hands John a thick folder.
- Toxicology report. Highly dosage of Xylazine. It's a powerful sedative, usually given to horses and combined with atropine to reduce the possible fatal effects to the heart. There are no formal records about the consequences that it might have on a human heart, but you can imagine. On animals it may cause bradycardia and if not treated it can easily lead to death.
John is flipping through the pages, his right hand pressed against his mouth.
- The stabbing didn't kill her, it was post-mortem, the wound was fairly clean and there wasn't that much blood around it.
Sherlock points to the folder in John's hand and sighs.
- That killed her. And I'm certain she even used a muscle relaxant before injecting the drug.
- She?
- Yes. About that, John…
- What? What's wrong?
- I think she knew the killer. There's no signs of forced entry, no signs of struggle and most of all there were two clean mugs on the sink. I gave them to Molly, hoping to find traces of DNA but they were practically sterilized. Nothing.
The doctor stands up and starts pacing around the room.
- What about her friends?
- No, no, that's impossible. I knew them, and it makes no sense. The killer wanted to get to you and they know nothing about you. There's no motive and they all had an alibi. She was supposed to have dinner with them but she decided to stay home, and wait for…me to come home. She hadn't that many friends and the one she had were all in the same place. No, that's impossible.
He stops in the middle of the room: his voice started cracking at the end and he gulps loudly, pressing his palms against his eyes; Sherlock gets closer to him, placing a hand on the his shoulder and squeezing lightly.
- We can do this another time, there's no rush. You need to rest.
John stays still for a couple of minutes, his heart pulsing in his throat and ears, then he slip out of Sherlock's grip and walks to the fridge, pushing it to the side and crouching down to grab something behind it.
- Are those-?
- Yes. Lighter, please.
Sherlock gapes at him, a little confused but with a smuggish look on his face.
- Seriously?
- Yes, lighter. Now.
John opens the packet and takes out a cigarette, handing it to Sherlock.
- Light it.
- Why?
- I don't like the first drag. Take a couple and then give it to me.
Sherlock smiles and brings the cigarette to his mouth: the flame lights up the darkness casting a bright glow on the detective's face for a second. He breathes out the smoke from his mouth, dropping his head back with a sigh.
- You do realize what this means, right?
- Yeah, I hope you're happy.
- I surely am.
John snatches the cigarette from Sherlock's hand and takes a deep and long drag, closing his eyes.
- I didn't know you smoke.
- The Great Sherlock Holmes missed a spot. I'll treasure this moment. – John chuckled while sitting on the couch – I started in Afghanistan, I stopped when I came home. This seems a good reason to start again.
The detective leans against the desk with his arms crossed, eyeing the packet of cigarettes that John left on his chair, while the latter rests his head on the back of the couch, eyes closed again.
- Don't even think about it. We'll share. Tell me more.
Sherlock clears his throat.
- Do you know if Mary used to get massages?
- No. If she did, she never mentioned it to me. Why?
He looks up and stretches his arm towards Sherlock, who grabs the cigarette with his fingertips.
- Her skin was moisturized. The smell…it was strangely familiar but I can't figure out what it was. Then I noticed four marks on the carpet forming a rectangular shape.
- A massage table.
- Exactly.
Sherlock blows little rings of smoke into the air while John lets out a whimper, leaning forward and resting his elbow on his knees while tugging at his hair.
- So. She knew her, she probably met her multiple times before that night. She is – or she's pretending to be – a masseuse, so she can get closer to the victim, who trusts her and relaxes under her touch, giving her plenty of time to drug them. A light pinch on her skin to administer some sort of anesthetic before drugging her and…
- Causing her heart to stop. Yes. I'm waiting, John.
- For what?
- For another victim. She's clearly making a point and she wanted to get my attention with Mary. Now she has it and she knows I'm waiting for more. I don't have enough to pursue a lead, what can we do? Plant surveillance on every massage parlor in London? If we're lucky, because she could easily be a freelancer, she could do this on her spare time. We have nothing. I have nothing.
The doctor stands up and takes the cigarette from Sherlock's hand again: another long drag before throwing it inside his mug.
- Hey!
- No more. Tomorrow.
John grabs the packet and walks to the stairs leading to his room; he stops and turns to Sherlock.
- Thanks.
- Don't mention it. – He looks at the mug and grimaces - And we have to buy some ashtrays.
Am I taking it too slow? I don't want to rush it. I still don't know what I'm doing (and apparently I'm obsessed with the two of them smoking). Thoughts? Criticism? Lottery numbers?