Chapter 6

Ruse Of A Relationship

The sun was peaking over the slated London rooftops by the time they pulled up to the house.

"What exactly are we going to say to them Sherlock?" John asked.

"Not them. Only one other person lives here. Most likely we're not going to say anything right now. We're just taking a look around."

"How do you know no one's home?"

Sherlock gave the door a few hard raps. When no one answered he went around to the side fence and lifted the rust laden latch. John followed close behind. The side yard was a mess of overgrown plants and extended into a spacious back yard with a large greenhouse off to the left hand side. John caught his foot on the side of an empty wooden crate as he came around the corner and nearly fell. As he stumbled, Sherlock reached out to steady him.

"Thanks" John said, steadying himself. Sherlock didn't seem to hear him. He was staring at the label on the crate. It read Hemming's Produce.

"What is it?" John asked. Sherlock shook his head. The hurried onto the porch and John watched as Sherlock fiddled with the door. He heard a soft click. They were inside in moments and John followed behind as Sherlock ghosted through the house, cataloging information.

He checked the fridge, the cupboards and the trash. He inspected the bathroom, taking quick samples of anything that would be used daily. He checked the medicine cabinet, finding herbal supplements but no medication bottles at all. They were about to journey up stairs when John heard the crackle of a car slowing across gravel.

"Sherlock! The resident is home!" He called in a hushed voice. He hurried towards the back door and a quick glance back told him that Sherlock was right on his tail. As they were leaving Sherlock swiped a paper bag off the counter and opened the fridge.

"Are you nicking groceries?" John asked in disbelief, eyebrows furrowing.

"I'm bagging groceries." He muttered as he loaded it up with an assortment of home grown fruits and vegetables. He set it on the counter beside the fridge. John furrowed his brow in confusion. They heard the front door click.

"Step lively John." Sherlock said, hurrying out the back.

As quickly and silently as they had arrived they were gone; across the yard, past the greenhouse and over the fence as the resident entered the home.

"Sometimes I feel as if I'm getting far too comfortable with breaking and entering. I blame you." John confided to Sherlock as they started walking. Sherlock grinned wildly.

"We have a moment to kill. So, what were you able to deduce from that little excursion?" He asked, stopped at the street corner.

John thought for a moment. "You were right about the gardening. Also about being close to his family. He certainly has a lot of pictures of his brother, even more than his wife."

Sherlock's face went blank for a moment "Oh!" and then he was snorting back a laugh.

"What? If you're going to make fun every time you ask me what I think_"

"No, John. You're brilliant, thank you for calling that to my attention. Never mind it. I'm sorry, continue please." Sherlock's expression instantly changed from laughing to serious, as if John couldn't see right through him. He huffed quietly.

"Okay. Fine. They have a cat. That cat recently had a trip to the vet. McKinney's wife gets on him about tracking dirt in from the garden but he does it often anyways."

"Good, very good John." Sherlock commended. John sensed sarcasm.

"Right. Hm." John sighed. "They are very well off financially. No one owns those kinds of natural, herbal products and shops at high end grocery stores and buys paper towels like that if they're not."

Sherlock gave a quick sideways nod. "Mmm, that's a start. Come on, he's had a moment to get settled and put the tea on. Let's go have a word. Follow my lead." They turned the corner, walked back up the steps and knocked on the front door. A paunchy gentleman in his sixties opened it, wearing a white collar button up, blue trousers and a utility belt. Sherlock put on his best false cheer and stepped up to shake the man's hand.

"Hello, you must be Earl McKinney? I'm Sherlock Holmes, this is John Watson," He smiled. "We're friends of Jason's from church." John gave him a quick sideways look.

Earl frowned. "Haven't seen you there before."

"Last week was the first service we attended; he said you were at the vet." Sherlock smiled and removed something from his coat pocket. John saw that he'd nicked one of the church fliers from the late Jason McKinney's pocket. "A week or so before that he gave me this."

"Oh, right." The man said, staring down at the pamphlet. "I was at the vet, wasn't I? What can I do you both?"

Sherlock feigned surprised. "Oh, I'm so sorry. You see, after the service Jason talked a bit about his gardening and offered to help us out with a bag of the fresh produce he's grown. We've been in a tight spot financially. He told us to come over this morning, I thought he'd be here or would have told you."

"Oh, oh of course. Please, come in. Yes he does that often. Forgets to tell me these things, I mean. He's actually been out for a terrible long time now that I think about it..." Earl waved them inside. John and Sherlock took up the plush velvet loveseat by the window while he went into the kitchen. John glanced at Sherlock, who was removing his gloves and stuffing them into a coat pocket.

"I don't know how I feel about this Sherlock." He whispered, leaning to speak in his friend's ear. Morally, pretending that a man was alive to his loved ones when you knew they actually weren't didn't strike John as something that was alright to do.

"Complain to me about it later." Sherlock whispered back. His warm breath tickled the side of John's neck he was so close. Just then, Earl came back out carrying the bag Sherlock had filled scarcely ten minutes before.

"He left it out where I could find it at least; didn't bother to leave as much as a bloody note though." He seemed disgruntled as he set down a kettle and three cups at the table and took his seat in the recliner across from them.

"Alright?" Sherlock asked, a look of utmost concern on his face.

The old man sighed. "You know, he's been rather ill actually. I've been out at a bible retreat for the week. Got home yesterday morning and he was abed all day. Wouldn't eat when I tried to feed him up. I left for work in the evening and he didn't so much as say goodbye. I get home this morning and he's gone, hasn't left a note. Our relationship isn't nearly as close as it once was but Iknow when he's not right. He was fine when I left but he hasn't been fine since I've come back from that trip. I know it. We've been married for twenty three years for God's sake."

John's head darted up from his teacup. "Married? For twenty three years?" He asked as his eyebrows rose. He wanted to kick Sherlock when he saw the corners of his mouth give the slightest twitch. It never ceased to amaze John how Sherlock could get people to open up when he wanted to but now he felt like an idiot. He had thought there were more pictures of Jason McKinney's brother than of his wife, however now it seemed like it was more pictures of his husband than of his sister.

"Twenty three years is a lifetime. I can hardly imagine." Sherlock said to Earl so sincerely that John almost believed him.

The old gentleman sighed, shadows overtaking his eyes. He blinked it away and put on a smile. "And how long has it been for you two?" He asked, nodding between John and Sherlock. John opened his mouth but Sherlock spoke first. He needed the man to open up and he needed to give him a reason to. To him, it was logical and spoke it without another thought.

"Almost two years. I daresay I've never been happier in my life." He replied, radiating warmth from his smile.

John barely had time to think –HangOnWhatAreYouDoing- before Sherlock reached an arm around his waist and pulling him close. Sherlock felt John's shoulders stiffen and watched the blood rush to his face. All John could manage was a short smile and nod. He was powerfully aware of the feeling of their legs now pressed together, the body heat between them and the firm but gentle grip that Sherlock held him in.

Earl instantly smiled but his eyes were sad. He sighed. "Oh, I miss it. The youth, the affection, the energy that you both take for granted so much. Jason's one for keeping healthy and staying strong. I'm afraid I just can't keep up with him. Often I feel that it's what has been driving us apart." He paused. "Sorry to bother you with all this. The ramblings of an old man."

"No, please, go on. It's no trouble at all." Sherlock said, releasing John from his hold and leaning forwards towards the man. John breathed out loudly. Sherlock glanced at him. John had a fixed look on his face. Had he been holding his breath? Sherlock wondered.

"It's just that he's been very distant lately and I've been worried. Always off on his bike to some event, helping with the church, meeting people. He's so active. I don't sleep at night, so I work grave yard shifts at the used car lot down the street, watching the cameras to keep myself occupied in my old age. When I get home I muddle about for a bit but he's often gone. The only place we really have seen each other lately is at the congregation on Sundays. That's where he spends most of his time, at the church. Then he comes home, drinks his god awful health tea and goes to bed before I have much of a chance to see him."

Sherlock nodded. His eyes brightened. "You can't mean this tea?" He asked, lifting his cup.

Earl shook his head. "That bloody awful Kumbacha tea. He imports it fresh. Drinks it three times a day and swears it will keep him young forever. I can't tolerate the stuff."

"May I use your restroom?" Sherlock asked suddenly.

"Through the kitchen, down the hall and it's on your left."

John watched as Sherlock swept out of the room. There was silence. John fidgeted awkwardly.

"You're a lovely couple. Are you both planning on coming back to worship this weekend?" Earl asked, staring at John.

"Thank you. I don't know if we are, haven't talked to Sherlock about it yet." John said stiffly. He glanced down at the empty seat beside him and picked up the Church pamphlet that Sherlock had left there. Obviously on purpose, John thought. Across the top it said "Delmar's Chapel" and below that "The Lord Loves All" in boldface letters. Oh hullo. It's a congregation for anyone. Straights, Gays, transsexuals, stereotyped ethnicities, it's a non-discriminatory Church. Well that's good I suppose. John thought as he flicked through the pamphlet. He glanced back up to find Earl still staring at him.

"I understand how you feel." The old man said.

"Sorry?" John asked.

"When I first met Jason it was very hard for me to open up and be myself with him around company. It was that way for a long time. Before Jason, I had a type. It was blond, bubbly and female. After I met him, everything changed and it took a long time to accept that in myself. I can see it in you too, how you hesitate. I can also see the bond you have with each other. That's a beautiful thing, love. I do miss it." He said.

The blood drained from John's face as he forced a smile. What a situation. He honestly had no idea how to respond and could really only focus on the loud pounding that was clouding his ears. Then Sherlock was back.

"We'd best be off. Oh, Mr. McKinney, I was wondering…" Sherlock paused, putting on his best look of genuine curiosity. "I've heard that the church helps families in need and they receive donations from Hemming's Produce. Is that right?"

John frowned, wondering what Sherlock was on about.

"Yes, that's right. I believe it's Hemming's, anyways… Jason brings home the empty crates to hold his vegetables when he takes them to sell. If you'll be needing it, I'd be happy to speak to our minister for you. I could introduce you. She'd add you to her chart and you'd get a bag or two of canned goods, dairy product and vegetables every week on Mondays."

Sherlock smiled sweetly. "We may just have to take you up on that, thank you."

With that, gave John a quick nod, indicating that it was time to go. The moments that followed were vague. Sherlock was shaking Earl's hand. John was shaking his hand. He picked up the bag of groceries. They were out the door, through the gate and looking for a cab to pick them up. John was having a difficult time thinking. They were in the cab, heading back to Baker Street. Inside, Mrs. Hudson happily accepted the groceries and prattled about something that John didn't hear. They went upstairs.

"What the hell Sherlock?" John said as soon as the door closed.

"Hmm?" Sherlock replied, removing his coat and throwing himself down on the couch. He opened his laptop.

"You couldn't have warned me?"

Sherlock didn't even glance up. "For god's sake John, you really need to work on your improvising skills. You played your part terribly."

John sputtered. "I,_ What? No, I was just saying if you're going to pull something like that maybe can you just let me in on it next time."

"I'm saying that I was testing how fast you could adjust to playing an uncomfortable roll in an unpredictable situation and you need to work on your game face. Problem?" Sherlock glanced up from the screen and John saw that he was completely serious.

"Testing? Testing." He repeated loudly. His tone was noticeably offended. "No. You know what. It's fine. Whatever. Just get on with it then. Explain what all that was about."

Sherlock was focused on the glowing screen, completely unfazed by John's irate attitude. "Jason McKinney, a man in his late sixties, was having an affair. It was as plain as the nose on your face."

"What? An affair? How did you sponge that up?" John scratched the back of his head. Sherlock's eyes snapped up to meet his.

"Spongewhat?" He said, squinting.

"Sponge that up. You know, a sponge soaks things up. So do you. Never mind."

"John, Information is neither dirt nor a water based solution and my brain is not cellulose wood fibers or foamed plastic polymers." He said, unamused. "Do shut up for a bit, I need to think."

"Think? You're not going to explain to me_ you know what. You are a spectacular dick. I'm going out." John announced, turning towards the door.

"Going? Going where?" Sherlock asked, looking up again in bewilderment.

John ran a hand through his hair. "For a walk, I suppose." He turned and left.

Sherlock stared back down at his laptop. He quickly reviewed the situation at hand. Time passed as his thoughts became reality. He got up and began to pace, losing himself inside. The room was too messy; it was making it harder to think. The clutter was causing noise in his brain. He ventured to his room. Worse. The kitchen was unbearable at the moment.

He continued to wander through the house until he found a tidy space where his thoughts could be freed. His mind cleared. He focused. The clarity and speed at which his mind had the ability to function at enabled him to reach calculations that normal people could only obtain through extreme mental dedication with all the information laid in front of them physically.

He boggled at how ordinary people could spend hours staring at answers that were in front of their faces and not even realize it. As he reviewed the encounter with Earl McKinney his mind wandered back to the redness in John's face, the stiffness in his shoulders and the fixed, blank expression he wore as Sherlock played the part of his romantic partner. Briefly, it occurred to him that it may have been rude not to have informed John when he realized that the Jason and Earl were gay and the attended a church that was mainly populated by couples of that nature. Whatever. His mind went back to the situation at hand. Glancing up, Sherlock realized that by now the family had been informed of Jason's death. It was nearly six in the evening.

"Could you put the kettle on?" Sherlock called. There was no answer. John had left hours ago. Sherlock pulled out his phone and absent mindedly sent a text.

:Where are you? I need you. -SH

A moment later his phone buzzed.

You need me for… -JW

For help with some experiments. Also, to put on tea. –SH

There was no reply for several minutes before Sherlock texted again.

Please? -SH

Sherlock heard footsteps on the stairway. He heard John walking about the flat, looking for him. A few moments later John's footsteps tromped up the next flight of stairs. He walked through the door and frowned at Sherlock, who was lying on his back across the edge of John's bed, legs crossed and arms supporting his head.

"You weren't far." Sherlock said.

"Actually I was down stairs helping Ms. Hudson fix the pantry. Why are you in my bedroom?"

"I needed to think. Put the kettle on?" Sherlock asked. He pulled a small box out of his pocket and threw it at John.

"Why in my bedroom? What's this then?" He held up the box.

"That is Kumbacha tea. I nicked it out of McKinney's kitchen before we left. Your bedroom is currently the only quiet, tidy spot in the flat. I needed to focus my mind and the clutter was causing an unbearable noise that I couldn't get around."

"You could have just cleaned. That's what normal people do when it's messy. You think that he was being poisoned with this?" John asked.

"Could be. If it's as disgusting as we were lead to believe it could have easily masked the taste of the drugs."

John put the kettle on. Sherlock sat up on the couch.

"We need to interview the late Mr. McKinney's boyfriend. He was having an affair. We also need to interview his sister."

"Why his boyfriend?" John asked.

"To find out what he was really like. That was a secret romance. If we can get him to open up about it we will most likely find other things out that his family was unaware of."

"You know who it is?"

"After a bit of research, yes. His name is William Benford, fifty four years old. He lives in a flat near Postman's Park, which happens to be a stone's throw from St. Barts."

"Right. So he was either coming or leaving Benford's house when he died. We should probably visit the church too." John said. "If he was that involved in it they'll probably make room to have a memorial for him this Sunday."

Sherlock nodded. "Good, yes. When is Sunday?"

"You don't know the days of the week?" John said flatly.

"I don't keep track unless it matters."

"It's Friday."

"Good. Perfect. We'll give the family a night to rest and time for the word of the death to get around and interview the sister and boyfriend in the morning. Shall we?"

John nodded.

"We haven't anything else we're working on and sometimes timing is crucial to the development of a case. At the moment, we can't see a motive. That will become distinctly more apparent after the news has had time to get around."

"The most obvious motive is inheritance? John asked.

"Of course," Sherlock replied. "The obvious is that he was killed by a family member to gain his inheritance. He's obviously wealthy. Based on the way he was killed however I'm not entirely certain yet about the family. Not good to jump to conclusions John. In fact, I'm not sure it was even about his inheritance."

John frowned, waiting for Sherlock to explain.

"What do you mean?" He asked. "Why else would he be killed?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I have a theory."

"Which is what? And what were you on about when you asked the name of the company delivering the donated produce?" John asked. Sherlock ignored him and returned to the topic of the murder.

"To keep anyone from being suspicious the death would need to look like natural causes. This death did not look anywhere near like natural causes. Only an idiot would believe that he had purposefully ingested that much Tylenol and heroin. Do you understand?"

"Not really." John said. "You're saying the killer didn't want it to look like an accident? He wants to be caught?"

"It would appear so. Or else it was a poorly, obviously plotted murder."

"Maybe the killer is just that stupid."

"A person who was expecting money wouldn't risk killing someone close to them unless they were sure they would get away with it but this was so downright obviously a murder that it must have been meant to be seen as one. A framing, possibly? What we don't know is what he was leaving to whom. That is what we need to find out."

"Might be downright obviously a murder to you. If you hadn't been on it, it might have passed unnoticed." John reminded him.

"No, the cause of death would have been brought up to Earl. He would have known something was amiss and put in a request for an investigation."

The kettle was boiling and Sherlock had John begin helping him with some tests to determine if there were drugs or anything unusual in the teabags. After about a half an hour of setting up the equipment and an hour of trying, the results came up negative for everything that Sherlock could think to test for. When they were sure it was safe it was decided that the tea should be tasted personally. John refused to taste it if Sherlock would not also. They each leaned into their cups, taking a hesitant sip before running to the sink to spat it back out.

"That is god awful." John said, hunched over the sink. He spat again, rinsed his mouth and went to put a new kettle on for their Earl Gray.

"The aftertaste is worse. Like vinegar." Sherlock was making a face into his cup. He sniffed it again and shook his head. When Sherlock looked up he saw John watching him from across the kitchen. The corners of Sherlock's mouth began to twitch and they broke into a fit of giggles.

They proceeded to test the shampoo, conditioner, soap and toothpaste samples that Sherlock had collected from the bathroom. It was a long, tedious process.

As the last results showed negative Sherlock groaned in frustration and over-armed his safety goggles across the room.

"There are still a lot of options." John told Sherlock.

"No, there are not." He practically yelled. "I would have been astounded if there had been anything in the bathroom supplies anyways."

"Why's that?" John asked. "It's happened before."

"Yes, in an instance where more than was person was being poisoned." Sherlock rolled his eyes, thinking of the case that John had named 'The Speckled Blonde'.

"In this instance, the only target was Jason McKinney. The killer needed to be able to poison him in a way that wouldn't harm anybody else. The only possible option for poisoning only him would be the tea because from what his husband said, he drinks it constantly and no one else does."

"For good reason." John muttered.

"This should lead me to think that it was his husband who killed him. He has the motive. Jason was having an affair that that he knew about."

John frowned. "And why do you think he knew?"

"It was obvious. All the mention of being young and in love, it was nostalgic and strained. Also the attention he paid to us when I_" Sherlock paused, his cheeks turning faintly pink. "Well, you know."

"Yeah, it's fine." John said, looking away. He feels his stomach tighten and tries to put it out of his mind. Somehow, when he was alone on his walk earlier that day he realized that the memory kept creeping up on him. The details had been turning through his mind on repeat until he'd realize he was thinking about it and become irate all over again. He scuffed the ground with his shoe.

"He was looking at our romance with longing. The way he talked about growing distant, his mannerisms and body language when he was talking to us. He was jealous of our ruse of a relationship." Sherlock continued.

"Right. So he had the motive. He also most likely has a decent bit of inheritance coming to him, after being married for twenty three years. Maybe he realized he would never live to see it because of Jason's spectacular elderly health."

"Yes. It's a possibility." Sherlock was thoughtful. He seated himself at the end of his chair, leaning forward to rest his chin over slightly trembling knuckles. John could tell that he was alive with energy. The firelight glinted off Sherlock's dark curls, sparked in his eyes and cast shadows over his pale, marble face.

"You said it should lead you to think that he is the killer. Why did you say should?" John took the seat opposite of him, saucer in hand and took a tentative sip off his steaming cup.

"He's old. He's unmotivated. He's lonely enough that he treats us, complete strangers, as if we were old friends. He's growing steadily senile. He complains often but he's more content than he thinks he is. He's not an angry man, in fact he's very accepting. He has accepted that his husband who he loves was having an affair. He was able to reason that it is because he is no longer fit for the romance and lifestyle that his husband craved and allow him that happiness. Why, I cannot fathom. Also, did you notice, while he complained about the Jason McKinney not leaving a note of his departure that he still fluffed the pillows on his recliner and set the newspaper on the table beside it for him to read when he returned? Those are not behaviors of a man who knows that his husband is either dead or dying. He was expecting him to come home."

"Amazing." John grinned.

"Because of these observations I do not believe that Mr. McKinney is the culprit. Perhaps one of his children though. I hope to gather information about them from the sister tomorrow."

"Shall I order take-away then?" John asked.

"Just ask them to_"

"Put the chicken in a separate box from the Chow Mein. I know."

Sherlock glanced over, almost smiling.

"Sherlock," John said, breaking through Sherlock's wall of thought. "It'll to take them a half an hour to get here with the food. In the meantime we need to pick up. This mess is out of control." John said, sweeping his hand out in a disgusted gesture to their cluttered surroundings. "I can't have you hiding out in my bedroom every time you need to think."

Sherlock's voice was obnoxiously innocent and made John cross his arms as he spoke. "It's going to take them forty six minutes to get here actually. You have to calculate prep time, who is on shift, how busy it is on a Friday night and what the traffic is like from the shop to Baker Street at this hour."

The look John gave him was sour. He continued to stare until Sherlock sighed.

"Oh all right." He snapped, rising to his feet. He began to clear the table.

After dinner they spent the rest of the quiet evening watching crap telly and working side by side on their computers. John would choose horrible reality shows and mystery flicks just for the amusement of watching Sherlock kick the ground with his heel and yell in frustration at the people when he took a moment to watch. Sherlock poked fun at John's blog, reading over his shoulder as he wrote. John ignored a call from his sister. Mrs. Hudson came up to spend a while with them, hinting about Mrs. Turner's complaints about the noise from their flat and asking if John would help her fix up her cabinets more in the morning. Eventually he retired to bed.

The next morning Mrs. Hudson brought up hot biscuits, left over sausage pieces and made a kettle. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen but John had already showered, shaved and was in the process of organizing their case files while he waited for his friend's return. Mrs. Hudson bustled around, pouring the tea and leaving a jar of Marmite beside him with a knife.

She commented that before John moved in Sherlock wouldn't clean until the mess was absolute chaos and he couldn't stand it any longer. She said that she could always tell when he'd done cleaning by the way he meticulously organized his work equipment. John peered into the kitchen, confused. Sherlock has done only cleaned a single counter and part of the table in the entire time that it had taken for their dinner to arrive. Now every counter top was cleared and scrubbed, every piece of lab equipment put away, not a single jar of strange unmentionable substance was left out.

John thought that Sherlock must have run out of case work and gotten bored, to do all that and really wasn't surprised that Sherlock hadn't slept. Glancing at the time, he was startled that he had lain in bed so late. John explained some of the details of their current case to Mrs. Hudson as she pattered around, absent mindedly dusting and straightening.

Not long after he had moved in Mrs. Hudson came to the conclusion that she enjoyed John as a tenant, approved of Sherlock's choice in a partner and was very happy for them. She smiled thinking about it as John animatedly explained Sherlock's deductions. He had just been about to mention how Sherlock had omitted the information about Mr. McKinney being gay and ask what Mrs. Hudson thought of all that when the door banged open.

"Speak of the devil." John muttered to her, smiling as her eyes crinkled with mirth.

"Sherlock, you've done a lovely job in the kitchen!" She praised as he whisked into the room, alive with electric energy.

"Hm? Yes I know, thank you Mrs. Hudson." He threw off his coat and tossed a folder into John's lap.

"I take it you've been busy?" He said, putting away the newspaper and picking up the folder.

"Up all night. I needed to gain a lot of information this morning and to do so it was necessary to convince Martha Alistair, Jason's sister, that I knew him personally. So, I went to the trouble of visiting the house again while Earl McKinney was out in the night. He'd gone to stand vigil at the chapel, mourning his husband's death. Old fashioned tradition, but useful in this case because I was able to help myself to all the information I needed to be convincing."

John opened his mouth to speak but Mrs. Hudson cut him off.

"Sherlock!" She gasped. "That's a bit insensitive, don't you reckon?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Not when you're out to catch a killer, Mrs. Hudson. Remember, I have an apparently noble reason for needing to commit petty crimes such as breaking and entering.

"I hope you haven't nicked anything." John said as he opened the file. He squinted down at the photos. "Sherlock… How the hell did you do this?" He held up a photograph of what he was sure was Sherlock posing beside Jason McKinney outside the farmer's market where he sold his produce.

"Yes thank you John, rub it in, I know did a terrible job. I was pressed for time to return the original photos to the house before McKinney came home. Anyone with the barest photo shopping skills could tell that it was a fake. Thankfully, his sister is old and could not tell the difference in the slightest. He's quite a bit younger in this photograph so I was easily able to convince her that I had known him for years. She opened up quite a bit and I found much of the information that I needed, though I had to be exhaustingly patient through her ruddy, sentimental grieving."

John shook his head. He certainly couldn't tell that it was a fake, though he decided not to admit it. He couldn't tell if Sherlock was serious about thinking it was a terrible job or if he was fishing for compliments. Really, was there anything that the man couldn't do?

Mrs. Hudson was having none of it. She scolded Sherlock lightly and made it clear that she needed to leave the room before she heard any more.

"Yes, well. I now know that Earl McKinney is getting the house and enough of the family fortune to keep him comfortable for his remaining days. The children are all getting fair portions and the sister got a bit. What's interesting is that the bloody church is who Jason left the majority to, over a three hundred thousand pounds. It's intended to go out to needy families and all that. None of the family is really getting enough to kill for. None of them have outstanding debts that would require them to receive their inheritance this soon and it would appear that they all cared deeply for their father."

"So, you don't have a suspect then?" John asked. "Have you talked to Lestrade about any of this? Because I feel like he should know."

"Why is that?" Sherlock asked.

"Well, we haven't exactly been employed to help with this case Sherlock. By the police or by the victim or anyone he knows."

"I'm trying to save him the trouble of getting all worked up over it. You know he's been busy failing to catch that dammed furniture burglar_"

John chuckled. There was a series of odd burglaries that was going on which Sherlock refused to help with, attacking the very frustrated Lestrade with a thesaurus of words that all either meant stupid or boring because no one was being killed. The burglar was somehow entering populated homes in the middle of the night, getting past locks and alarms of all kinds and getting away with expensive, sometimes large pieces of furniture without the family so much as waking up.

"At any rate, he's that going on and at the moment we don't need him for anything. I told Molly that I would fill him in when it became necessary. It took a bit of persuading but she's gone along with it. It will be like a Christmas present to him when we've solved it and we can avoid dealing with him and his team in the meantime."

John couldn't help it as another laugh bubbled up in his throat. "I don't know that Lestrade will see it that way Sherlock, you should at least text him."

"That would spoil the fun. Are you ready to go? We must speak with William Benford."

"Hang on, you've been home barely five minutes. Sit down and eat, just a few bites Sherlock. You can't keep running on fumes." John pushed a plate towards him. Sherlock rolled his eyes, lifted a biscuit off the plate, topped it with sausage and stuffed it in his mouth.

"Happy?" He said thickly through the mouthful.

John watched him trying to chew the enormous bite.

"Fair enough."