"So you're saying Dorset was poisoned." Lestrade leaned back in his desk chair and crossed his feet on the desk.

"In a manner of speaking, yes," said Sherlock. The detective had the flushed look of triumph about him, but it was quickly becoming contaminated by the frustration of being surrounded by idiots.

"And the poison was in the tofu, which, for some bizarre reason, Richardson put in cake?" Lestrade was used to wild theories, but this one just wasn't adding up to him. Yet.

"No, no, the poison was the tofu!" Sherlock jammed his hands into his hair, scrubbed furiously, and looked at John for help. John took his cue from there.

"We're working on the theory that Dorset was depressed, and that he'd gone to Richardson for help." John held up his hand to still Lestrade's protests. "I know, I know, there's nothing on his charts. We'll get to that." Lestrade nodded and settled back into his chair, ready for story time with Dr. Watson.

"If he was depressed, he'd be on anti-depressants. Some anti-depressants have deadly reactions with foods, so you have to be really careful about what you eat. Nothing cured or fermented – no wine, no beer, no aged cheese or smoked meats. Tofu's fermented, so it's right out too."

"And there was tofu in the cake... you're saying Richardson knew what Dorset was taking and put tofu in the cake to set off that fatal reaction?" asked Lestrade. John nodded. "Basically, yes."

"Well why the bloody hell couldn't you have just said that?" Lestrade huffed at Sherlock. The detective in question stopped his pacing and stared at Lestrade, mouth agape. "I did say that. That's exactly what I said."

Lestrade laughed. "No you didn't. You went off on this medical mumbo-jumbo rant about brain chemicals and Tylenol – " "Tyramine," muttered Sherlock. Lestrade waved his hand. "Whatever. Point is, that is most definitely not what you said."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and inhaled, ready for a splendid "Oh your tiny minds, however do they work?" rant, but John was quicker. "Alright, alright, it doesn't matter. The thing is, detective inspector, we know how Richardson did it now, so surely you can re-open the case." John planted himself in front of the DI's desk, arms crossed, frowning down at Lestrade as well as his height would allow him. It didn't do the trick.

"Well, no, I can't. It's a lovely theory," "It's not a theory! If anything it's a hypothesis, but we have significant supporting data," scoffed Sherlock, but Lestrade continued on as if he hadn't heard anything. "But it's not enough. According to his record, he's never even been to a psychiatrist, let alone been prescribed anti-depressants. I bend a lot of rules for your deductions, Sherlock, you know I do, but I can't bend here. The case is still closed." Lestrade looked at Sherlock. "Were any new evidence to come to light, of course, the case would be re-opened."

A slow smile spread over Sherlock's face as he looked back at the DI. "Of course. Well, Lestrade, John and I must be off – pressing engagement, simply can't be late – but I'm sure we'll be in touch. Come along, John." With that Sherlock swooped out of Lestrade's office and down the hall toward the lifts. John nodded his goodbye to Lestrade and hurried after Sherlock.

"So what's this pressing engagement of ours? I was under the daft impression that I might be able to finally sleep." John said as they stepped into the lift. John certainly hoped he would be able to sleep. He had pulled enough all-nighters in med school and Afghanistan, thank you very much, and now he was frankly too old for this shit.

"Hm?" said Sherlock, taking the thumbnail he had been worrying out of his mouth. "Oh yes, I suppose you can. 9:30 pm is probably considered an unacceptable time for an unexpected visit to the newly widowed. Isn't it? You'd know better than I; you're the one that fills your brain with these social niceties. No matter. We'll go in the morning." Sherlock smiled in a way that was more than a little maniacal. "After all, we want you looking your best!"

The lift emptied quickly.

oOo

The morning dawned bright and fresh and cliched. John sat at the table with his tea and toast, reading over the newspaper, while Sherlock drank his coffee and fiddled with John's laptop. Neither man looked up at the familiar "Yoo hoo!" of Mrs. Hudson.

"Oh hello boys! I haven't seen you about the past week. Been on a case, have you?" The not-housekeeper puttered about, putting the milk back in the fridge and wiping up Sherlock's spilled coffee grounds.

John nodded without looking up from his paper. "Yeah, with that dead solicitor that's been all over the news. His best mate killed him. With cake." John took a sip of his tea, acting as if what he had just said was perfectly normal breakfast conversation, because – at least in 221B – it was.

Mrs. Hudson hummed appreciatively as she put a piece of toast on a plate. "Well, that was creative of him. Must've gotten the recipe from Mrs. Turner." Mrs. Hudson dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper as she placed the toast in front of Sherlock. "Poor woman couldn't bake a pound cake to save her mother's life," she said from behind her hand. John just nodded.

Sherlock picked up the toast and munched on it absently as he scrolled through his Google search results. Dorset's widow, Jenny, had quite the public life. Of course, most of what Sherlock was finding was information he had deduced when he first met the woman in question, but there were a few things he hadn't known – such as the fact that she had previously been engaged to her husband's killer. Funny how she had failed to mention that. Sherlock shut the laptop with a snap. "Finish your breakfast, John. You're going to be late for your date."

Mrs. Hudson cooed. "Oooh, how exciting!"

A/N: Sorry for taking so long! Life got all life-y and then I couldn't write. But I know where this is going now and I'm going to have the next chapter up soon. As in "I'm going to upload this and go write the next chapter" soon. And thank you to everyone who has reviewed and alerted. You guys are awesome!