Annnnnd here we have chapter two. I respect the Sherlock writers even more now, because damn, writing deductions is *hard*.

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This should be obvious, but I don't own any of these characters. If only.

"You really think it was murder, then? He couldn't have just had a heart attack or stroke like John said?" Lestrade looked at Sherlock hopefully, which was probably inappropriate for a DI.

"I don't think; I know," Sherlock said curtly. "Am I correct in assuming that Richardson is still present?" Lestrade nodded distractedly and waved in the direction of the foyer with his left hand, running the right over his face with a sigh. Great. Another high-profile death that the Chief Inspector would want closed right away, before they managed to screw up their press relations even more. Another seemingly open-and-shut case that Lestrade would have to fight to keep open. Why couldn't important people just die naturally? It seemed rather showy of them, insisting on a sensational death.

John followed Sherlock into the foyer. Richardson was seated on the steps, much calmer than before. He had the ubiquitous shock blanket draped around his shoulders and was sipping a cup of tea. Richardson looked up as John and Sherlock approached, glancing between the two, as if trying to ascertain why these two – obviously not public servants – were here, and why the tall, angular man was looking at him like that, like an art critic appraising a newly discovered Rembrandt.

Sherlock paused for fraction of a second, choosing an approach – sympathetic or aggressive? Polite or harsh? Familiar or clinical? Direct or circuitous? – then, having made his choice, walked in front of Richardson, looming over him. "Dr. Richardson," Sherlock said by way of opening, placing emphasis on the first word. "Psychiatrist, yes?"

Richardson nodded, swallowed. He rose to his feet, clearly uncomfortable with the severe height dichotomy Sherlock had created. Not the right tack, then. Sherlock gentled his face and stepped back. He needed Richardson calm.

"DI Lestrade tells me you and Dorset were close?" Richardson nodded again and spoke for the first time. "We met about six years ago, though work. He needed an expert witness for a wrongful death case. He kept coming to me for advice on psychiatric cases, and eventually we became mates."

"And he defended you when you were charged with malpractice?" Sherlock prompted. Richardson met Sherlock's eye, blinking rapidly. "Yes. He did a wonderful job, best I could have hoped for." Sherlock's eyes narrowed slightly. "So you don't blame him at all for the loss of your license?"

Richardson look like he'd been slapped. "What? Of course not! He was my best mate! How the hell could you think –" Sensing they were about to lose Richardson to another fit of agitation, John stepped forward and put a calming hand on the man's arm. "No, no, we don't think that. We just have to ask these questions. I'm sure you can understand," he said soothingly. Richardson looked back at Sherlock, who nodded his agreement. Richardson deflated, swallowing hard as he wrapped his arms around himself and stared at the ground. "Of course, of course," he murmured.

John glanced at Sherlock, who nodded slightly. Best let John take this one – he did better with the emotional ones. Bedside manner and all that.

"Dr. Richardson? I don't think I introduced myself properly. I'm John. I'm working with The Yard to figure out why this happened to your friend. Can you tell me what happened?" John's voice was soft, gentle, and Richardson relaxed under it. Sherlock was reminded briefly of mother calming a child.

"Tim – that's his first name – came round to talk about appealing my case. We were sitting in the living room, having a coffee. He said his head was killing him, so I went to get him some paracetamol. When I got back he was on the ground having a seizure. I called 999, and he came round for a bit, but then he collapsed again, and by the time the paramedics arrive it was too late."

"Did he have any medical conditions? Epilepsy, heart disease?" John asked, still gentle, comforting. Richardson shook his head. "And you attempted to resuscitate him, correct?" interjected Sherlock, matching John's tone. "Yes, I tried to resuscitate him," replied Richardson, looking again at Sherlock.

"One more question, Dr. Richardson, before we go: Did Mr. Dorset consume anything besides coffee while he was here?" Sherlock voice had lost its softness, and he was studying Richardson again, eyes once more sharp and expectant.

Richardson looked up and met Sherlock's eyes steadily, pausing slightly. "No, just the coffee. He had just the coffee."

Sherlock lifted his head slightly, rocking back onto his heels. "I see," he murmured, then turned sharply on his heel and strode out the door of the flat, leaving John to thank the psychiatrist, awkwardly pat his arm, and offer some trite condolence before hurrying after Sherlock.

…

Sherlock was standing impatiently beside a cab when John caught up with him. John was starting to wonder if Sherlock had some sort of bat signal for cabbies – come at once, Sherlock Holmes is on the move. Either that or the cabbies had learned to follow him for a sure fare. Probably a more likely answer.

"Where to now? Bart's?" asked John as he slid into the cab next to Sherlock and shut the door. "No, I think Molly can handle the autopsy. I've told her to run a full tox screen, as well as tests for any other medications, and to save the stomach contents for me. While we're waiting, we may as well go see Dorset's widow," said Sherlock distractedly as the cab pulled away from Richardson's building.

John and Sherlock sat in silence for a few minutes, each absorbed in thought. Sherlock, obviously, was thinking about the case, sorting through information, calculating probabilities, running and re-running possible scenarios. John, too, was thinking about the case, but he was more focused on why Sherlock had taken it. To John it seemed to be an unfortunate but perfectly natural death. Sherlock was clearly suspicious of Richardson, but again, why? John was certain he was missing something vital. He was tempted to ask Sherlock, but decided against it. It would be nice to work this one out on his own, and besides, he knew better than to interrupt Sherlock when the detective was this deep in thought.

John's train of thought was derailed by Sherlock's voice. "The dishes, John. It was the dishes." He sounded mildly condescending, which, for Sherlock, was a compliment.

"The what now?" John wasn't following. So much for working it out on his own. Oh well; maybe next time. Sherlock gave John his patented how-does-your-brain-work look, tempered slightly by his I-get-to-show-off-now smile, and launched a rapid volley of deductions.

"They were having coffee when Dorset fell ill – Richardson said that specifically, once to Donovan and once to us. But there were no dishes in the living room. There were, however, half-washed dishes in the dishwasher – two mugs, two salad plates, one dinner plate, two teaspoons, two forks, and one cake server. All the dishes they would have used." Sherlock was building up steam, rattling off facts like a machine gun does bullets.

"But Richardson said they just had coffee," interrupted John, earning an annoyed look from Sherlock.

"Really, John, I expect better of you by now. Did you not observe the cake crumbs on Dorset's mouth? Of course they had cake – a cake which had mysteriously disappeared by the arrival of the paramedics. And then there's the dishwasher!" Sherlock was excited now, thrilling in the chance to show off.

"That dishwasher has a cycle time of one hour, 45 minutes, and is started by a circular dial that moves as the cycle progresses. If we compensate for the five degrees placed between the labeled start of the cycle and the labeled end, the dial must travel at a rate of 3.38 degrees per minute. When I opened the dishwasher, the dial had traveled approximately 300 degrees from the marked start, meaning the cycle had been running for 89 minutes. I opened the dishwasher at 7:13, which places the starting time at 5:44 – three minutes after Richardson got off the phone with 999 and two minutes before the paramedics arrive. Now why would a man, upon seeing his 'best mate' collapse, leave his friend to wash the dishes? Hardly the normal response."

"And then there's his pathetic attempts at deception when we spoke to him – don't look at me like you're surprised, it was obvious! He told us the exact same story he told Donovan, with almost the exact same words, when you asked what happened. He repeated my words back to me exactly when I asked him if he had attempted to revive Dorset, but you saw the body, the ribcage is perfectly intact, so either Richardson didn't know how to perform CPR – unlikely, given that the man's a doctor – or he didn't attempt to revive Dorset at all. The rapid blinking, the dilated pupils, the slightly delayed response when he told us Dorset had only had coffee, the overblown anger when asked if he blamed Dorset for losing the lawsuit, repeatedly looking down and left – universal sign of shame and guilt, John, learn that – all these things, when taken together, give the clear indication that Richardson was lying."

"'But Sherlock," the detective mimicked, his voice sing-song, "he was in shock! His best friend had died!' No, John, he was not in shock; he was doing an impression of shock – unfortunately, not a good one. People in shock don't look at you when they're in shock; they look through you. The thousand-yard stare, they call it. Richardson, on the other hand, made direct eye contact when telling me about his resuscitation attempt and the coffee – checking to make sure I was believing him. Another hallmark of deception, though contrary to popular opinion – which is a gold star on a hypothesis in its own right, I've found. No, Richardson was lying alright, and when we add in the business with the dishwasher, there's only one plausible conclusion: Richardson poisoned Dorset."

And John once again gave up on deducing the answer to any question more complicated than whether or not the milk was spoiled.