Okay. Another long update time I'm afraid! This fic is drawing to a close now. I'm afraid this chapter is pretty short as I job writers block with it. Hope its okay.
When John woke Sherlock was lying on his back on the floor, one arm across his chest, and the other one stretched out across the floor and past his head. The detective's eyes were open, and flickering around the room, so John's brief fear that Sherlock had been assassinated was quelled.
"Finally awake, I see." drawled Sherlock, leaving a long pause between each word.
"Yes. What actually happened?"
"The police, of course. Thought we'd been kidnapped and were waiting for a ransom note." Sherlock snorted derisively.
It was about seven in the morning, according the clock that hung on the wall. But John had never completely trusted it since Sherlock decided to take it apart.
The detective suddenly jumped to his feet, and pulled his phone from his pocket. After a moment, he gave a angry huff.
"What?" asked John, rubbing his aching head tenderly.
"Lestrade. Told me to 'stop bloody texting in the middle of the night'." quoted Sherlock.
I did say it was a bit to early. Thought John.
"Anyway, we're to go down to the yard at noon." sniffed Sherlock, stowing his phone back in his jacket.
John nodded, and went to put the kettle on
At midday exactly, Sherlock strode into Scotland yard, John trotting behind him. He brushed past Sally without a word, and entered Lestrade's office.
"Ah Sherlock, good to se-"
"Have you got any information on the poison?" Sherlock asked briskly, cutting the detective inspector off.
"Oh... Uhm, yes we do. Apparently it was hemlock..."
"Cicuta douglasii, interesting." muttered Sherlock.
"And, it was administered in a large dosage, but not through an injection. The victims ate it." Lestrade continued.
"I want you to tell me when you find the next body." Sherlock snapped, bringing out his phone with a flourish.
"What! Hang on a moment. Whoever said you could give orders?"
"Do you want my help or not?" said Sherlock, eyes glued to the screen of his phone, tapping away.
Lestrade sighed.
"Fine, I'll call."
"Text if you please." said Sherlock, hurrying from the office.
John gave an apologetic smile, though he supposed that Lestrade was used to Sherlock by this time, and hurried after the detective.
"So d'you think they consciously took the hemlock?" asked John in the cab home.
He knew that Sherlock liked to bounce ideas around, and a question would often help kick start his brain.
"No. Obviously not. One was found in a place it would be impossible to force feed poison without being noticed. And the murderer would be foolish to let the victim go, if they were aware that the poison had been administered." Sherlock said quickly, only just pausing for breath.
John grunted as though that were obvious.
"So that tells us that the poison was probably in something people buy and eat."
"Or drink." said John.
"Indeed. And the murderer would have to see the victim, so as to know whether they were alone or not. So it would probably be a shop of some kind, where the person who made the food could tamper with it." Sherlock continued.
John tried his best to think of something, but he couldn't.
"It would have to be a small shop. One where there was only one person serving. The murderer. And it has to be easy to tell if somebody is going to eat, or drink it by themselves. So most food is ruled out... I suppose sandwich could be an option, but there all wrapped up these days. It's things that are made on the spot."
Sherlock frowned, obviously trying to figure the problem out. John didn't have a clue what the food could be. As far as he was concerned, Sherlock was talking gibberish.
"Most of the victims died really early in the morning." he pointed out.
Sherlock's frown deepened.
"What do you eat or drink early in the morning?" he demanded of the world in general.
"Tea and coffee." John said.
A slight hum from Sherlock, silver eyes unfocused and far away.
"Tea and coffee would be a likely candidate. Easy to make, easy to introduce poison to. And how many people share a cup of tea?" Sherlock mused aloud.
The he seemed to tense.
"Oh course. Simple." he breathed.
"What?"
"Driver. Turn round. We need to go to Heathrow." Sherlock barked.
The cabbie grumbled, as they were almost at Baker Street, but did as instructed.
Thirty minutes later, John had paid the cab driver and extortionate about of money, and then jobbed to catch up with Sherlock.
"Who do you think it is?" he asked a little breathlessly.
"Remember that coffee shop?"
John blanched.
"No? Really?"
Sherlock nodded.
"I believe so. We just have to check to see if the vendor has a license. It would be just like the police not to check..."
So they entered Heathrow, and headed straight to the small shop. Sherlock withdrew Lestrade's card with a flourish, and waved it before the shop owners face.
"Your licence, is you please." he demanded.
There was a moment of silence, while the vendor stood frozen. Then he reached under the counter, and drew out some papers. Sherlock raised his eye brows, and took the papers.
He flicked through them, then smirked.
"These a fake." he said.
The vendor gaze a snarl, and made to get away.
Sherlock made to stop him, and received a face full of coffee, while the owner fled across Heathrow. Spluttering and hissing in pain, Sherlock staggered back to be steadied by John.
"Quick, after him!" Sherlock shouted, tearing off after the coffee seller.
There was a stunned crowd who had watched the whole series of events. And they watched as John ran off after Sherlock, calling his name wildly. None of them got their coffee's.