"Where are we going, Sherlock?"

"George's."

John sighed. "So I guess you're taking an interest now?"

Sherlock looked down at him, slightly irritated. "Yes, John. Do keep up."

John nodded, embarrassed. "Right."

He assumed they were headed to the work place of Mallory St. Claire. That was the only location they hadn't searched yet, and that was probably where the muffins had come from in the first place. They continued their journey on foot, and eventually made it to a quarantined restaurant on a city corner. The lights at the entrance were off, but the sign above them still read "George's" in bright, fluorescent colors, as though it was still trying to attract business, even though the restaurant was obviously closed, what with a countless number of police cruisers parked out front and two security guards watching the front entrance. John and Sherlock both wound their way through crowds of slightly agitated officials and made their way to the door of the restaurant, where several scared looking employees stood shivering. Sherlock fished his magnifying glass out of his pocket and stooped at the kids' feet, occasionally running his hands through the dirt around the door, or sniffing at a shoe, but mostly just observing. Content with the information, he stood slowly and stared at the frightened employees, making them all take a step back.

"Which one of you brought in the muffins?"

The kids all shook their heads and craned their necks trying to see who might raise their hand or claim responsibility, heads hung in shame. Eventually a scrawny boy of about 18 stepped forward. He trembled as he spoke.

"Um, sir? None of us brought those muffins in. I found them on the counter with a note addressed to all of us: Enjoy. Th-that was it. Do you think they might have been tainted?"

"Yes." The boy blinked.

"Did two boys about your age come in and have a few before leaving?"

They all nodded.

"How many did they each eat?"

The boy spoke for the group again.

"Um, about 8 or 9 each. Maybe a bit more, maybe a bit less. I didn't really keep track. They were Mallory's friends. She always brings people in."

Sherlock nodded.

"If any of you experience any fatal complications, please let me know. It may benefit the case greatly."

The boy looked pale. As did the rest of the group of employees.

"Mmm. Anderson, this boy is going to need a blanket now."

Then Sherlock strode through the door, leaving John with a group of terrified teenagers to deal with.

"I'm sure you'll be fine. If it were a lethal enough dose, you would all be dead by now, right? That's obviously not the case."

It didn't seem to lift their spirits much, so John just sighed, hesitantly patted one on the shoulder, and continued on his way. The restaurant had obviously just been quarantined, as there were plates of food still on the tables and the whole room smelled of pasta. There were several counters and tables everywhere, even a small bar in the corner. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. John poked his head around into the kitchen and found Sherlock and Lestrade at a counter examining a plate of half-eaten muffins. Sherlock picked one up with his thumb and forefinger and placed it in a plastic bag he had ready.

"That's all I needed."

"I shouldn't even let you in here," Lestrade grumbled under his breath.

"But you need me, Lestrade," Sherlock said absentmindedly as he held the plastic bag up to the light. Lestrade's face twisted into a strained expression as he watched Sherlock putter around the room, bag clasped in hand.

"Yeah. I do."

Sherlock turned the bag this way and that, trying to get a good view of the muffin, but little was achieved in doing so. He threaded his fingers through his hair and sighed loudly –finally giving up for the time being— and stopped in the middle of the floor, eyes still fixed on the muffin bag.

"Mmm… Come on, John. Molly probably needs some company."

He turned to the door and made his way out into the cluster of people that were crowding at the entrance, and John sighed. He glanced over his shoulder at Lestrade, who was shaking his head in confusion. John, too, was confused, but he made his way through the crowd of people as well, on the heels of his consulting detective. He eventually made it through the throng of people, gasping in relief, as though he had been running out of air. Sherlock had hailed a cab by then and he stepped inside, not even waiting for John.

"Sherlock!" He tried to make his voice reach the insufferable prick, but his cry was lost in the wind.

He tried flagging the cab down as it pulled away, but he was too late, and he was left standing on the side of the road, cursing at the wind. The bastard. He grumbled under his breath and hailed his own cab, sitting in silence as it made its way through traffic. He should be used to it by now, chasing after Sherlock. God knows he did it enough already. He sighed and dragged his hand through his hair, not entirely content with the situation. The cab ride was a little more than silent, and even though the driver tried to make conversation, John just wasn't in the mood. When the ride was over, John was sure the driver was more than happy to be rid of the antisocial blogger.

The hospital was still cold, still quiet, still full of sick people, and as he was led down a long hallway that he had never seen before, he couldn't help but shudder at all the dead bodies stored away, just a floor down. His little tour finally ended at a door with Molly's name inscribed on the front, and as he opened this new door, he couldn't help but notice the size improvement. The staff room hadn't really been meant for the whole staff at once, and they were often packed in tightly, trying to find a place to –at least— stand for the duration of their lunch break; but this new office of Molly's was the size of the staff room and then some. Molly was sitting at a small table in the center of the room, bent over what appeared to be a late lunch.

"Very nice, Molly. Congratulations on your promotion."

Molly jumped slightly in her chair, and as she turned to the door, John saw her bend to pick up a napkin she had dropped in her fright. She sighed in relief when she saw John's face in the doorway and she smiled widely at him. He glanced around the room, surveying her new desk and city view as she approached, her smile growing wider as she saw where he was looking.

"Thank you, John. I just moved in yesterday. Isn't it nice?"

"Very much so."

He paused.

"Have you seen Sherlock around?"

"You might want to check the morgue. That's where he always is, isn't it?"

John nodded and turned back to the sterile looking hallways, but was stopped by Molly as she grabbed at his arm.

"Um, I know it's none of my business but, is something going on between you and Sherlock? He came by yesterday, around noon, and he seemed a bit upset. And it wasn't just from his experiments. It was a different kind of upset this time. I couldn't really tell what was going on, so I thought maybe you did?"

John shook his head. There wasn't really anything that he could think of that would make Sherlock so visibly upset.

"No, not really. Yesterday, you said? He didn't have a case then. He was probably bored, Molly. Nothing to worry about."

He smiled what he hoped was a reassuring smile, but she didn't seem too reassured.

"Wasn't that the day you had lunch with Lucy?"

John nodded, not completely sure what that had to do with Sherlock being upset.

"Maybe he was... jealous?"

John almost laughed. "Sherlock jealous? God forbid!"

Molly shook her head and clicked her tongue scoldingly.

"I'm serious, John."

He sighed.

"Molly, Sherlock is married to his work. There's no way he would be jealous. Even if he were, which he's not, Lucy is quite taken. So, sorry, but your theory has been debunked."

He chuckled under his breath and gave her an apologetic look. It was Molly's turn to sigh this time.

"Take him to dinner at least, John. I hear there's a new restaurant open down on 5th avenue. It sounds nice."

John considered her request for a moment, and then finally nodded at her. "Sure, Molly. I'll take Sherlock to dinner." John rolled his eyes.

If the bastard would eat, of course. He had gotten way too skinny over the course of the past few cases. Molly smiled and set down the napkin she had been holding to cross over to her desk and grab a sleek binder from the top drawer. She held it out to John as he turned back to the artificially lit hallways.

"Here you are. The toxicology report finally came in. Lestrade told me to give it to you."

John nodded at her and glanced at the report before heading out into the hallway. Molly didn't try to stop him this time, and he continued on his way, through the lobby and down a flight of stairs, all the way to the morgue. Sherlock was, indeed, there, pacing up and down the room, obviously more than anxious to get the report back. John held out the binder as Sherlock passed him for the second or third time. "Here you are, Sherlock. Molly sends her love."

Sherlock snatched the binder from his hands and skimmed through it, eyes wandering all over the page as he tried to pinpoint that one bit of information that would prove that he was right. He flipped through the whole report several times, his hands running through his hair. "Where are you? What killed you...?"

He went on like this for several minutes, and John just stood to the side and watched. Eventually, Sherlock had exhausted the report one too many times. He threw the binder onto a nearby table in disgust and sat back in a chair that was placed against a desk, fingers resting on lips. John sighed and ran his hand over his face.

"I assume the report said nothing?"

Sherlock stood up a bit too quickly and resumed his pacing, occasionally stopping to gesture at John as he continued his ranting. "Nothing. There has to be something, and yet there's not, John!"

He sighed and placed his fingers against his lips in his 'thinking' position again.

"The victims were obviously poisoned, and the poison was self-administered. Lestrade has it published that it was a suicide. But you and I know that it's not. Now, what is the killer's motive behind all this, John? It has to be here somewhere."

He continued muttering quietly to himself and, since John had nothing of importance to add, he made his way over to the table where the black binder had been tossed aside and scanned it himself. The only thing of relevance that had been detected were traces of the heroin they had been taking. And like he had determined, not nearly enough for a fatal dose. Sherlock was right. There wasn't a single thing here.

"What could it be John?"

Sherlock had stopped his pacing and turned to face the doctor, an obvious look of pure frustration etched on his face. John shook his head, just as exasperated, and handed Sherlock the binder, as if that might help them both with their problem. Sherlock sighed and sat back down, still quite frustrated. John, with nothing else to do, made his way across the room and poked Sherlock on the shoulder, finally deciding to take Molly up on her offer. "Um.. Sherlock?"

Sherlock, eyes closed, waved John away with one hand. John rolled his eyes and moved to where he stood right in front of Sherlock, feet spread apart. There was no use backing down now.

"Sherlock? I thought we could go out for dinner some time?"

Sherlock opened one eye and peered at John, his brows knit in confusion. "Is this really that important right now, John?"

John cringed and tried to avert his eyes, hoping that if he did, this conversation could be avoided. He realized, only now, that this wasn't exactly the most opportune time to wonder about dinner arrangements.

"Not necessarily, Sherlock. Just thought I should mention it."

Sherlock nodded and closed his eye, returning to his mind palace. "Now. Go away, John."

John nodded in response, as if Sherlock could actually see him with his eyes closed. He shook himself and then turned away, his back facing Sherlock, face probably a bright shade of crimson. He wandered around a bit as Sherlock sat thinking, and eventually, he could stand the silence no longer.

"Sherlock I-"

He was interrupted by a soft buzz in Sherlock's pocket. The detective fished his phone out of his pocket and held it up to his ear, eyes still closed. He nodded slowly as a soft blur of words sounded from the phone, probably Lestrade updating Sherlock on the status of the bomb. Suddenly, Sherlock's eyes shot open and he jumped up from his chair, the phone still against his ear.

"Say that again!" He paused. "Say that again! What you said before!"

A rush of words spurted from the receiver, and Sherlock rushed to the door, only pausing to nod at the person on the other end, and then snap his phone shut and shove it back in his pocket.

"Come along, John."

He didn't even glance back at John as he spoke and then he was out the door and down the hallway. John sighed. Why did this always happen?

"Wait, Sherlock. What just happened?"

"Drugs happened, John! Lestrade found a stash of them in Josh and David's work place. Apparently, these kids had quite the drug addiction. Now this is exciting, John! Now we have a motive!"

John looked up at Sherlock as they strode down the hallway, and he chuckled at the look of pure joy that was on his face. It was absurd, out-of-place, and so very Sherlock. John couldn't help but smile, too. Sherlock's excitement was infectious.

Lestrade was pacing up and down the room –trying really hard not to bump into chairs and tables as he did so— waiting for John and Sherlock to walk through the double doors of Chesterton's, and when they finally did, he simply had to point and follow after them both. Sherlock stood over the pile of plastic bags and boxes of drugs at the back of the shop, and he giggled. "Oh… This is fantastic! No wonder the killer was out to get these kids." He clapped his hands like a child and turned to John, a huge grin plastered on his face.

"Wait. What?" John blinked and furrowed his brow in confusion.

"A motive, John." Sherlock grabbed John by the shoulders and shook him. "A motive!"

John nodded. "Yeah. You've mentioned that before. What is it?"

Sherlock stopped for a few seconds and stared at the rest of the people in the room, Lestrade and John, each in turn, as he tried to pass some unforeseen knowledge to them, as if he expected them to know it. He shook his head slightly, and Lestrade shrugged. Finally, Sherlock found his gaze back at John, who was still looking at him quite expectantly, waiting for an answer.

"Don't you see it?"

John groaned and ran his hand across his face. "Obviously we don't, Sherlock! Please enlighten us with your plethora of knowledge."

Sherlock blinked and straightened up a bit before clearing his throat and beginning with his deductions.

"Well, let's assume that this," he gestured at the plastic bags lining the floor, "was not just a drug addiction –though that might be plausible— but a business."

Lestrade, from his post at the back of the room, stepped forward a bit and raised his voice, so as to reach Sherlock with his feedback. "What? Like a drug dealership?" Sherlock sighed.

"Yes. A drug dealership." He cleared his throat again and cast a pointed look at Lestrade.

"These children obviously had to be very business-savvy to hold such a momentous drug stash here, and sell it without being caught. So, judging by the size of this stash, I think it would be safe to say that they also had quite few customers come by."

John nodded. The pieces were indeed coming together now.

"So the murderer was a customer. What exactly happened, though? What about the bomb that was placed here? Were they just not fans of the service that was given? What happened, Sherlock?"

"I have a few ideas as to what happened, so don't worry too much; and I assume the bomb and the killings are connected, so that's taken care of, but I refuse to give a final verdict without all the facts lining up. So, we shall see what time reveals."

Lestrade pursed his lips and looked up from his silent state of listening. "So, what now?"

Sherlock nodded and ran his hands through his hair. "Indeed. What now?"

He paced for a few minutes, as both Lestrade and John stared solemnly at the consulting detective. Suddenly, he jerked his head up and faced them, his eyes bright and arms outstretched.

"I assume you have an idea?"

"Indeed, John." He smiled. "I suppose dinner reservations might be a bit hard to come by at this time of day." He smirked at Lestrade, and John furrowed his brow in confusion. He glanced back at Lestrade, who also seemed equally as confused.

"Wait. Sorry, what's happening?"

Sherlock spun on his heels to face John, a huge smirk plastered on his face.

"That's me accepting your request. We're going to dinner."

John blinked and shook himself. He wondered if he should ask why, but he decided that he would find out sooner or later. Instead, he asked a seemingly better question.

"Where?"

Sherlock's smile grew wider and he pressed his fingers to his lips.

"Here. Chesterton's Local Bar."