Blood in the Punch
In which there is foul play, decent food, and murder
Not many things could sway the great Sherlock Holmes. The exceptions were cats, bad food poisoning, and,
"Put it on, already," Lana stood at the door, holding the tux as though she could melt it through the wood and onto Sherlock's body through sheer force of will. Mycroft had dropped the tux off days before, and ever since then, 'it' as the suit was being affectionately called, had inspired within Sherlock the utmost revulsion. He had been dodging it all week, coming up with excuse after excuse to avoid looking at 'it' for as long as possible. But despite countless efforts to get rid of the object of his distaste (including setting fire to it, setting angry cats on it, and trying to sell it off to his homeless network for new lab equipment), it had stayed ever present thanks to John and Lana's pure desire to both go to the party and (though they would never freely admit it) see Sherlock in a tuxedo with full tails and a matching blue shirt.
Personally, I think it was because neither of them really wanted to deal with Mycroft if Sherlock refused to make an appearance. The measures Mycroft would likely go to ensure his little brother's attendance didn't even deserve thinking about.
Sherlock stuck his head out of his bedroom door, looking slightly bleary-eyed despite the fact that it was now five in the afternoon.
"Why do we have to do this?" he whined, "Everyone there hates me anyway."
Days before, Sherlock had somehow gotten hold of the full guest list, and, upon discovering that not only would Anderson, Donovan AND Molly would be attending but also a whole array of people he had recently insulted in various ways, immediately lost all interest in attending and began viewing the party with a growing feeling of fear, revulsion and general distaste.
"Because Mycroft invited us and you said you would go so we're going." Lana responded, holding 'it' just out of Sherlock's line of reach.
"Life would be no fun if I didn't lie to my brother."
"Sherlock, suit, now."
The head retreated with a groan. Lana turned to John, who was watching from the chair, halfway through updating his blog.
She set 'it' down on the kitchen table and sighed in defeat before addressing John.
"Try and talk some sense into him, will you? Mycroft's been texting me all day. How did he even get my number?"
"You get used to it," said John, a veteran of these situations and probably much more adept at handling Sherlock than Sherlock's mildly violent and very confused girlfriend. With a smile, he snapped the laptop shut and took Lana by the shoulders. "You go ahead and get changed. I'll talk to him."
"So you'll force him into it?"
"Maybe."
Lana grinned and kissed him on the cheek. "Thanks John, you're a saint. And by the way," she added as she headed downstairs, "you look great."
John blushed good-naturedly and straightened his tie. Personally, he thought that the suit- which he hadn't worn since Harry and Clara's wedding- looked ridiculous, but it was black and formal and worked with the tie. So, encouraged by Lana's words, John stepped into Sherlock's room, with 'it' in tow.
Sherlock was sprawled across his bed like a downed bat, his face mashed into the pillows as he let out a muffled groan. "There's nothing out there for me, John. Nothing worth wasting my time on and certainly nothing worth looking stupid for."
"It's not a death sentence, Sherlock; it's a party. Three hours of some food, dancing, and acting civil. Is that really so bad?"
"You're enjoying this."
"Honestly, it seems like the only reason you care is because you know you're going to have to face Mycroft in that suit he's making you wear."
"Piss off."
"I thought that was your job." John responded, keeping his face set as he dropped the tux at the edge of the bed. "What would you rather have happen; go to the party and give Mycroft the satisfaction of knowing you behaved, or stay here and give Mycroft the satisfaction of dragging you out of here and making you come?"
There was a moment's contemplative silence.
"Oh, give it here, then."
John smiled in victory as he headed for the door.
"And wipe that stupid grin off your face." Sherlock commanded as John stepped out into the hallway.
"Twenty minutes, Sherlock, and then we're leaving." John called behind him. "Don't break anything."
"No promises."
….
Twenty minutes later
"I look like a corpse."
Sherlock was pulling at every piece of the tux he could get his fingers around, trying to keep as much of the material as possible off of his skin. It was like the shirt was made of live fire ants. John honestly couldn't see what the all the fuss was about; Sherlock wore silk shirts all the time, and had plenty that he considered his personal favorites anyway.
John supposed it was because the tux was from Mycroft.
The best part was the fact that Sherlock actually looked good. Mycroft- or else Anthea, or Holly, or whatever her name was today- had good taste. The blue shirt was a nice contrast to Sherlock's pale skin and black jacket. He looked like a well-groomed angel of death. Or demon.
Or something.
Anyway, John was stuffing his revolver into his jacket and making sure it wasn't leaving too big a bulge in his side when Lana came in.
Her hair was out of its usual ponytail; it cascaded down her back in a deep brown waterfall, straight and shiny. She was wearing dangling earrings, a silver locket, and a tiny, intricate bracelet that wound around her wrist like a tiny snake. She was also smiling; a combination of nerves and enjoyment, as though she was buoyed by the four-inch heels on her feet and the effect she had produced.
And of course, the dress.
We had to save the dress for last, of course.
It was a blue, backless, one shoulder evening gown with a swishing skirt that swept the floor and a shape that accented her body in all the right places.
And, while neither of them will ever admit it freely, both the boys stopped what they were doing and turned to stare. And not a quick glance kind of stare.
A jaw-on-the-floor, eyes-falling-out-of-their-heads, incapable-of-stopping STARE.
"Stop it, you two," Lana muttered, turning red in the neck and pink around the ears.
John recovered first. "You look great."
She smiled in embarrassment, then turned on her heel and waltzed down the stairs. "Come on then, boys; let's get this over with."
The front door of 221B shut behind her, leaving a stunned silence in her wake. Then there was a grabbing of coats and gloves and the boys were tripping over themselves trying to get out the door.
None of them knew what to expect as they clambered into the waiting car.
If they had known, they all would have packed more than a pistol.
….
The manor was huge.
It loomed out of the darkness like a hulking giant, a mass of grey stone with four stories, soaring arches and windows ablaze with light. It was a huge beast; mouth wide with glowing eyes and a gaping mouth of a door.
Sarah, John and Lana all looked at each other and immediately made a decision; stick together, or we all get swallowed up.
As the car pulled up in the gravel drive and then purred to a stop, the driver turned and addressed them all like children at a school dance. "Right, back at midnight. Call me if yah gonna be later, y'hear? I ain't waitin' for no one."
"Of course, Greagor. Thank you." Sherlock replied as he opened the door, allowing everyone to clamber out.
The door shut with terrifying finality, and the car disappeared into the night.
"Cheerful bloke," John muttered. "Where'd you find him?"
"Owes me a favor," Sherlock replied as he adjusted his jacket for the fiftieth time.
"Ready?" asked Sarah, tightening her grip on John's arm.
"Not even close," Lana replied as they climbed the stairs to the entrance, where a pair of men stood, waiting to admit them into Mycroft's clutches.
The hall was enormous, full of well-dressed guests, waiters and softly playing music. A huge chandelier hung from the vaulted ceiling, keeping a bright and watchful eye on the dancers and merry-makers as they swept around the room. A huge marble staircase dominated the center of the back wall, leading to the upper floors. On one side of the stairs was a set of double doors that led to the dining room; on the other was an open, well-lit bar. A live band was on its own little pedestal against the right wall. All along the side and front walls were floor to ceiling gilded windows, giving a spectacular view of the night outside and the outer lawns.
It was like being stuck in a glass cage.
Lana calmly handed off her coat and stepped deeper into the room, drinking in as much as she could without making it obvious she was staring. It took all of her willpower not to look at the man who walked beside her; she could already feel the eyes swiveling to Sherlock. And then to her.
Of course they all knew she was with him. OF COURSE. They were all bloody Heartlock followers.
Damn Mycroft and his fancy parties full of gossip.
"This is Mycroft's idea of simple?" she breathed, unable to stop her eyes from wandering from one guest to the next. Mycroft certainly got around; already she had picked out a handful of actors, a few politicians and two celebrity chefs (she had no idea why Mycroft had invited chefs; unless this was all for show. Which, knowing Mycroft, it probably was.)
"He's always been far too showy," Sherlock replied, staring straight ahead and humming tunelessly under his breath.
"I'll give him that. I mean, look at this place!"
"Tacky."
"Behave," John muttered, appearing on Sherlock's other side as they stepped to the edge of the dance floor. "It's only a few hours."
Mycroft, wearing a full-tailed tux and a loud violet shirt, broke away from his previous conversation and strode toward them. "Well now," he said, his face full of something that wasn't quite pleasure. "I'm surprised you found time in your busy schedule to attend my get-together, little brother."
Sherlock kept his face expressionless. "Did I have a choice?"
"Did you?" asked Mycroft, giving him The Look. The You-And-I-Both-Know-Better look.
Sherlock grunted and looked away as John stepped forward to fill the gap of silence. "Good evening, Mycroft."
"Dr. Watson, Miss Heart, it's a pleasure to see you again," Mycroft responded, acknowledging them both and blocking Sherlock out of the conversation entirely as he continued, "I hope my brother hasn't been too much trouble? He can be such a handful at events like this. On the other hand, Sherlock hasn't had much of a taste for my socials since the Christmas party two years ago, when he set fire to the-"
"That's enough, Mycroft." Sherlock growled through gritted teeth.
Lana detected danger and took up the conversation where John left off. "You have a lovely home, Mr. Holmes."
"Please, my dear, I think I've made it clear before; call me Mycroft. Any, ah, companion of my brother's should know me on a first-name basis only."
At this, Sherlock simply strode off toward the open bar to sulk. Lana and Mycroft watched him leave; one with annoyance, the other with amusement.
"My apologizes, Miss Heart; it would appear my brother's sociopathic nature has taken hold for now." Mycroft made a curt bow and offered his hand as the music shifted pace to medium waltz. "May I have the pleasure?"
It didn't quite sound like a question; more like a command.
"Er, of course," she replied, taking his hand and glancing in Sherlock's direction as Mycroft led her onto the dance floor.
Lana wasn't sure why she was so surprised that Mycroft was actually a good dancer. After all, the Holmes boys could do anything, right? She looked behind her to see John dancing with Sarah- well, Sarah was doing most of the dancing, pulling John along with her. John was watching her with raised eyebrows. Lana threw him a look over Mycroft's shoulder and went to focusing on maneuvering in the heels she was beginning to regret wearing.
"So, tell me Miss Heart- "
"Please, Mycroft, call me Lana. Any brother of my- what was it? Companion? - should know me on a first name basis only."
Mycroft raised an eyebrow with what was almost an impressed look on his usually quite pompous face. "I can see Sherlock's appeal; you really are much savvier than he gives you credit for." He led her into a turn. "I wanted to make you aware of the position you are in should you continue interacting with him."
"Meaning?"
"That in Sherlock's world, everything- love included- is a battle field and a calculation. And as I'm sure you're aware, Sherlock likes to stay in control of his own battles."
"I'm well aware." Lana responded, not entirely sure where this conversation was going.
"So I'm sure you are also well aware that Sherlock keeps plenty to himself in order to stay in control."
"I wouldn't say he tells me everything," Lana said, "but Sherlock has his own business and I have mine."
"I'm sure," Mycroft sniffed, "but what I'm trying to offer you, Lana, is a chance to put your reporter skills to the test, along with a reasonable sum of money to ease your ways here in Britain."
"In exchange for?"
"Information," Mycroft said with a grin.
Lana couldn't believe what she was hearing. How many people want me to be a mole for them?
"I only ask you to let me know what he's up to now and again. Nothing you'd feel…uncomfortable sharing."
Lana turned red.
"I'd of course make it worth your while-"
"I'm sorry Mycroft, but I'm going to have to politely decline." Lana didn't even bother letting him finish. This was hitting far too close to her last encounter with someone who wanted information about her boyfriend.
Mycroft's expression didn't change, but the look in his eyes made the temperature drop about ten degrees.
"Now, Miss Heart, just how loyal are you willing to be to this man?"
"I've faced death for him, sir, and it left me with scars that will never fully heal. I'd say I'm pretty damn loyal to him." She released his shoulder as the song came to an end. "Good evening, Mr. Holmes."
"Until next time, Miss Heart." Mycroft called after her.
Lana slid out of the throng surrounding the dance floor toward the open bar. Sherlock was no longer there- Lana suspected he had found a corner to sulk in for the rest of the evening- but the liquor was free, so she ordered a martini and surveyed the crowd with a polite interest.
The martini was almost gone when John walked up, looking genuinely concerned.
"I saw you talking to Mycroft; are you ok?"
"Yeah, of course, I'm fine."
"What did he want?"
"Same as what he wanted from you; he wanted me to spy on Sherlock for him." Lana took another sip and glanced around. "Where's Sarah?"
"She went to the Loo." John glanced around as though planning his escape. "How much longer should we keep this up?"
"We'll stay through dinner and then make a decision," she decided. "At least that way there's free food, and knowing these people it's bound to be…"
But exactly what it was bound to be was lost as something caught Lana's eye. John watched as her eyes grew to the size of saucers and she generally began to have a small panic attack right there against the counter of the bar.
"Are you ok?"
Lana seemed to be having trouble forming actual words, but finally managed to choke out what had caused her to nearly keel over with excitement.
"Holy shit," she breathed. "It's Vixen."
John turned to follow her gaze; Lana was staring at a young girl who couldn't be more than 21 or 22. She was medium height, with thin features and a reclusive demeanor. John thought she looked like a willow tree; as though one blow would cause her to bend with it. She had the face John associated with the quiet, nerdy girls who hid in the romance section of the library.
At least, that's what he would have thought if it weren't for the rest of her.
Vixen's hair was raven black with the ends died bright red and orange; it looked like a wildfire. She wore a black corset with a red skirt that puffed out to just past her knees. Below that were night black high-heeled combat boots. She looked like she escaped from a graphic novel or something. (John had never actually READ any manga, although he had opened a copy of Deathnote when he was 19 and bored and hoping for decent porn-instead all he got was a picture of Misa Amane in all her gothic Lolita glory.)
John stared at the girl for a little longer, but then looked back at Lana who was staring at Vixen like she had seen Jesus.
"Friend of yours?"
"I wish," Lana murmured, taking an extra large gulp of martini and slamming the empty glass back onto the counter with trembling hands. "She's one of my favorite music artists! I love her work! I can't believe she's here, I-"
"Okay, I get it. Let's move on before you get us thrown out." John said quickly, guiding Lana away from her musical idol.
"I'm sure Sherlock would love that. Where did he even end up?" Lana replied, watching a crowd of guests obscure Vixen from view. With a sad sigh, she and John headed off into the crowd.
As they passed around a group of already tipsy guests, they spotted Sherlock.
Lana choked on her laughter. Sherlock was backed against the wall, surrounded by three scantily dressed models. All of them were trying their best to get his attention- and all of them, Lana was pleased to notice, were failing miserably.
After about two minutes of suppressing laughter as Lana and John watched Sherlock attempt to fight off the small swarm of girls who were following him around, Lana took pity on him. Pausing only to fix her hair and straighten her dress, she marched up to the corner in which Sherlock had been trapped.
"Sherlock, hon where's that dance you promised me?" Lana cooed, reaching between the models to pull Sherlock out of his little prison and into her arms. With her eyes on the models (all of whom were seething with both anger and- much to Lana's delight- jealousy), she took a firmer hold on his arm and guided him away from his attackers.
"Thank God you showed up; trying to get rid of them was horrible- they were both stupid and deaf. I say that we get out of here as fast as possible before- wait, where are you going?"
It was in that moment, when the horror of what had just occurred was wearing off, that Sherlock realized that Lana was not pulling him toward the door, but was in fact dragging him onto the dance floor.
"I just saved your sanity," Lana informed him, "and there is no way you're getting away that easily."
The music settled into a song Lana didn't recognize as Sherlock rolled him eyes and took her waist. "Fine."
They moved with the music, Sherlock guiding her over the stone with the slightest touch. All feeling left her feet and it felt as though they glided over the floor as her partner led her into dips and turns, avoiding the other dancers as they worked their way across the edge of the dance floor. Lana felt she had chosen well; the song, a light Latin tune, had the pulse of a waltz and all the passion of a tango. The steps weren't hard and she let Sherlock lead her across the floor in a passionate- and showy- display. Lana caught sight of John, staring opened-mouthed at the pair of them, so clearly they must have been doing something somewhat impressive.
"I didn't know you could dance," Lana said as Sherlock pulled her closer, pressing the two of them together.
"I never said I couldn't dance," Sherlock replied, sliding her into a dip, "I just choose not to."
The music ended, and with a loud creak, the doors to the dining room were thrown open and the guests moved forward in a tidal wave, carrying Lana, Sherlock, John and Sarah into the huge dining hall. There were waiters and columns and several long tables set with candles, decorations and enough food to feed an army.
"Tacky," Sherlock muttered again. Lana squeezed his arm.
The laughter and light chatter died down as the guests settled in. Despite Lana's reporter savvy with high society, she found herself at a loss for words. (Five spoons? Who on earth needed five spoons?)
At least the food was good. Lana ate lightly but enjoyed everything; Mycroft may be a pompous, overstuffed walrus, but at least he knew good food.
Sarah ate moderately, and John ate what he could without drawing attention to himself.
Sherlock, true to form, wasn't eating at all. Instead, he pooled all of his energy into making deductions about every single party guest down their table, feeding a string of information into Lana's ear.
"Having an affair… bankrupt… engaged… dying of stomach cancer… needs money…"
"Shut up." Lana muttered, pushing Sherlock's mouth away from her ear and trying to focus on her plate.
Mycroft, at the head of the table to their right, suddenly stood. As though on command, all of the guests stopped what they were doing and turned to face him.
Everyone that is, except for Sherlock, who was attempting to use two of the five spoons as spy equipment.
"I'd like to thank you all for coming this evening," Mycroft said in his usual, slightly bored tone. Beside him, Anthea- or Holly or whatever her name was- was texting and only half paying attention.
Mycroft coughed delicately and continued. "I'd also like to invite some of my coworkers up to my study to discuss some business, but it's my deepest wish," (liar) "that everyone enjoys the rest of the party. Thank you."
The guests, taking that as their signal to leave the dining room, stood and moved as a solid mass back into the main hall, once again pulling the Flatmates and Sarah along with them. After many bumped elbows and "pardon me's", they found themselves at the foot of the grand staircase. The last of Mycroft's coworkers were swaggering up the steps, looking quite pleased with themselves at being invited this far into the lion's den.
Sherlock rubbed his hands in anticipation. "This is what I've been waiting for all night."
"A display of your brother's finest ass-kissing abilities?" Lana asked.
"Exactly." Sherlock straightened his jacket and proceeded to waltz up the steps. "I'll be back before midnight; don't wait up!"
John, Sarah and Lana exchanged looks.
"Wanna dance?" John asked awkwardly, reaching for her hand. Sarah looked painfully at Lana.
"Oh, go on," she said, and watched sadly as her friends danced off together. Then, putting on her fakest smile, and still nursing her broken heart, Lana planted herself at the foot of the stairs to watch the course of the party.
….
The meeting was rubbish.
It was facts and figures Sherlock had no interest in, and some foreign cigars that, instead of fulfilling his nicotine craving, only made him cough.
Oh, the ass-kissing had happened, and it had been hilarious, and Sherlock had had a great laugh at his older brother's expense.
But now it was just the facts and figures and cigars that made him cough.
And he kept thinking of Lana. Of how he'd rather be somewhere else with Lana.
About how damn attractive she was in her dress.
To hell with this. To hell with crouching outside his brother's study like a rat.
He was going to find Lana and they were going to get out of here and go somewhere else.
When it came to snap decisions or any decision at all really, Sherlock was often a little fuzzy on the details. So, being careful not to make the floorboards creak, Sherlock edged his way out of the hallway and then broke into a run, heading back towards the main hall.
He broke the top of the stairway in full sprint, gazing out at the sea of guests.
And one lone island of a girl. A girl, leaning against the banister. A girl, in a very pretty blue dress.
Lana turned at the sound of his footsteps, and in an instant their eyes met.
Ok, stop. Hold everything. Think of the most romantic couple you've ever seen. Think of the passion-filled looks that are just OOZING with true love. And cheese.
Now throw all that out the window.
Because whatever couple you were just imagining, they had nothing on these two.
They didn't speak. They didn't need to. No words were necessary as Lana met him halfway up the stairs, as Sherlock took her hands in his, as they both started climbing back up the staircase.
It was like they hoped that if they climbed high enough, they would find a way to get somewhere else. Anywhere but here.
Adrenaline pushed them to a light jog as they rushed down the carpeted halls; like their dance before, Sherlock was steering, Lana was following, trying to keep up, until the door to a room was thrown open and the two of them hurried inside. Sherlock slammed the door behind them, throwing them into pitch black.
Lana turned on the spot trying to see as Sherlock groped for a light switch. "Are we safe?" she asked.
The lights snapped on as Sherlock turned to face her. "I think so."
Lana turned, and something dropped out of her stomach. She and Sherlock were standing at the edge of a huge, dimly-lit guest bedroom. The small chandelier hung from the ceiling, turning the blue carpet black. The walls were plain and undecorated, save for a mirror that hung on the side wall. There was a nightstand, a chest of drawers, and vanity pushed in the corner.
And the bed. I'll leave that to your imagination. It was big; it was white, blah, blah, blah.
And honestly, they could have been in a supply closet for all they cared. As long as it was somewhere else.
….
Keep this in mind. The room wasn't soundproof. It was never designed to be soundproof. And there were plenty of rooms all down the corridor exactly like it in its design.
So if you were making a lot of noise, you can bet someone was likely to here you.
This was less of bad news for our romantic couple and more of bad news for our murderer.
Yes, murderer. You heard me correctly. Keep your shirt on, I'm getting to that.
Lana stepped forward, closing the little space that was still between them, and in the same movement began to make short work of the buttons on Sherlock's shirt. (Damn it you two, I said keep the shirts ON- what should I have expected? Those two never listen. They just go off on their own, don't they?) Despite the fact that his heart rate had skyrocketed, Sherlock could still appreciate his observations as Lana worked her way down his chest, exposing a torso of pale white skin. He had watched her cradle a pistol with as equal grace as when she cradled her laptop.
And with that observation, Sherlock Holmes reached the conclusion that she was perhaps the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
Lana, in the process of removing the four inch death traps that passed for footwear, had broken the one rule you should always follow whether you are solving crimes with or snogging the face of Sherlock Holmes; do not lose focus. So, caught off guard by his sudden movement, she was thrown off balance and suddenly tackled onto the bed as Sherlock took control of the situation. She found herself gazing up at him, once again with her hair flying across her face, and smiled at the thought this was not unlike their first meeting; this was all instinct and survival and do or die. Sherlock reached out and brushed the hair from her face, staring at her with a look that went right through her soul, and leaned down and caught Lana's mouth with his own. Again caught off guard, she struggled for air, and then let the abyss claim her as she sank beneath reason and questions and into the deep dark world that was Sherlock.
It was odd to him; how natural this felt at this point. Under normal circumstances, he would be making every observation he could, thinking and processing and generally would end up a million miles away. But now, when he was with Lana, when she was running one hand through his hair and keeping the other arm around his waist, the last thing Sherlock wanted to do was think.
And that was when the screaming started.
Despite the fact Sherlock was trying his hardest NOT to think, it still took him only 2.4 seconds to react (yes, he counted). He and Lana both instinctively focused on their surroundings and turned toward the wall, where the screams of pain and horror were seeping through the walls like fresh blood through a shirt; effortlessly.
The moment was over as quickly as it had begun. Sherlock rolled off of Lana and pulled her to her feet, dragging her behind him as they dove for the door and wrenched it open.
The jacket and the heels were left behind in the dim light of the bedroom: the only remaining sign of the last few minutes.
Two steps down the hallway. One right turn.
One heavy shoulder thrown against the door as the screams choked to a sickening stop.
The door gave easily, and they tumbled into the room.
And then it was Lana's turn to scream.
The window was thrown wide open, the cold air whistling through the room with an ominous moan.
And a body lay against the foot of the bed, tied to the leg with strips of duct tape. Blood coursed from an open wound in her neck, dripping down onto the carpet, tracing red lines down her black hair.
It was Vixen.
Up next-The Aftermath
In which there are deductions, a radio and a ripped dress.
Summer is awesome. Just saying.
So, I'm in Cali, visiting relatives. And sleeping in my aunt's back bedroom. At least she's got a nice backyard.
But that has nothing to do with the fanfiction.
Anyway, it feels good to be back online. I feel like I've been writing really slowly, and so I figured that now would be as good a time as any to kick-start myself into production.
The only problem is that during the summer, my productivity drops to about zero. I find myself in no position to do much besides consuming ramen, swimming and 'surfing the internet like an attention-deficit squirrel on PCP'.
But I really want to write this next chapter, because I love Panic! at the Disco and I feel like Lana would like them and Sherlock would…well… be Sherlock about it. I keep getting equally horrifying and hilarious images of Sherlock dancing to P!ATD every time I hear their music.
Which pretty much means that 60% of my time on my iPod is spent laughing my head off.
(Sherlock, put the gun down. It's true and it's funny and you know it.)
Anyway, I figured I might as well give them an actual case to solve. They haven't really done that yet, so I figured this would be the best time as any.
And what better way to interrupt Sherlock and Lana's kissing session than a little bit of murder? (Yes, you two, I planned that. Don't give me those looks.) I also might bring back Moriarty for a little bit, but I feel like I should get this case out of the way first.
Hope you enjoy!
Jay