Chapter 7

Alarm Bells Don't Ring

"Can you give me an idea of the angle we're going for with this one or will you leave me to improvise again?" John asked. Sherlock only smirked.

"Right. I suppose that would be asking a lot." John muttered matter-of-factly and he picked up his pace, matching Sherlock's long strides with two of his own.

"If you must know, we are interviewing him as members of Scotland Yard. He's not connected to the Church that Jason attended, nor to his family so it has a small chance of getting out to them that Jason was murdered and I believe the risk is worthwhile because we will get cleaner results if we are direct with him."

"Right. Good. I'd rather work under an illegal fraudulent identity than repeat what we did yesterday." John said.

"You realize you're letting it bother you far more than it actually does purely from an illogical fear of being seen blurring the lines of your sexuality, even if it was for the purpose of a case." Sherlock spat. "Honestly, if I didn't know you there's a strong possibility I wouldn't have been able to deduce the difference in your increased heart rate, gently quaking fingers and maidenly blush between enjoyment or extreme discomfort. Thankfully, our host, who knows nothing about your strong sense of heterosexuality, saw it as the former rather than the latter. If there is a next time, try to remember that it is me you are dealing with and make a little effort to act the part."

"Maidenly blush?" John repeated, outraged. It had been extreme discomfort he'd felt, hadn't it? "You caught me off guard and I didn't know how to react. I'm not like you; I have a harder time switching into roll playing mode on a dime, especially in a situation like that."

They had come to a halt on the sidewalk's edge, surrounded by an empty looking neighborhood where the buildings spoke of wealth and well to do dwellers. John crossed his arms and gave Sherlock the look that he could clearly read as John's 'I Am So Done' face. Sherlock remained stubborn.

"Well, if you're done chastising me for incompetently informing you of my intentions, invading your personal space and not caring that you apparently suffered minor emotional trauma from the situation I suggest that we carry on. We are at our destination."

John lowered his head, pinched the bridge of his nose and took a breath. "You always have to have the last word." He muttered before looking up. "For the record I am not traumatized and you know it, you're just being a prat, I was only annoyed and I told you it was fine, Sherlock. I'm not even sure now exactly how this even got brought up again."

Sherlock opened his mouth and John jumped to stop him before he could start. "No, no, you don't need to_ This conversation is dead, buried and rotting. Let's go."

"Whatever you say, my dear Doctor Watson."

"Sherlock." John growled. Sherlock flipped his coat collar up dramatically and took a long stride forward.

"So, we need gauge William's reaction to Jason's death. Chances are he has not heard yet. One of the easiest ways to eliminate a suspect or pin a murderer is to be the first to inform them of the death and observe their reaction. The majority of people cannot fake it correctly. Even pure psychopaths will display at least two if not more of the obvious, incriminating tells. I have observed it all countless times. It is difficult for them to falsify the intense caliber of grief and emotions that one who is truly devastated by a loss would feel."

"Yes okay, you've explained all that before." John said. He knew a few of the 'tells' that Sherlock was referring to but lacked the intense observational skills it took to pick out the subtle actions that gave even the best liars away. He had seen Sherlock completely dismantle a murderer based on what he called a "very slightly overreacted" display of grief. If John's intuition wasn't as reliable as he always found it to be he may have been fooled into thinking that the man was truly devastated. However, his gut feeling told him the man was guilty. He couldn't pick out exactly why the way Sherlock could, see through it in a heartbeat purely by observing.

"If he hasn't heard the bad news, try to be delicate in breaking it to him." John asked.

"How do you mean?" Sherlock replied.

"Well you're not exactly tactful. You have a tendency to be insensitive at best and completely offensive at worst."

Sherlock frowned.

"It_ It might just be easier if I did it." John said and reached up to give the knocker a few firms taps.

William Benford was a short, fairly trim man with hazel eyes and long ashy locks that looked as though it had once been a brilliant chestnut brown, before age began to take hold. Now it was nearly consumed with grey. He wore an expensive looking cashmere sweater and nicely tailored jeans. Sherlock and John introduced themselves. Sherlock briefly displayed Lestrade's D.I. identification and were invited inside to a bright, spacious apartment.

They were seated in the living area which was barren of both a tea table and a lamp stand. Instead, there were two large wooden crates on either side of the posh recliner where William sat. On one there was a fancy stained brass antique lamp and other the other a tea tray that sat sadly with a cold forgotten breakfast arranged upon it.

Sherlock noticed briefly that there were four square indentations in the carpet in front of the sofa where he and John sat, indicated that not long ago some other piece of furniture had rested. John was a bit bewildered when Mr. Benford inquired if they had any news concerning the furniture but quickly realized that sitting before them was apparently another victim of Lestrade's Furniture Burglar. Sherlock quickly explained that the furniture was not what they were there to discuss.

They witnessed the man's turn of confusion at their presence and then sat quietly through his true shock and despair when John delivered the news. Sherlock was poor at displaying sympathy and did his best to wait patiently for John to calm and sooth the man until he was able to speak properly. Finally, after an awkward, long embrace that John had originally intended to be a sympathetic pat on the back the man took a deep breath and left momentarily to find a handkerchief to blow his nose.

"Christ, the bloody weird things I've got to do sometimes…" John said quietly to Sherlock as he stretched his sleeve over his hand and used it to wipe away the bodily fluids of sorrow left on his shoulder from the grieving man's embrace.

"You would avoid being used as a handkerchief-slash-commiseration apparatus if you would only display less compassion verbally and more inhospitable body language. I certainly wouldn't have put up with that and he certainly wouldn't have tried it." Sherlock drawled back.

John gave him a withering look. "Yes, of course he wouldn't because you've got a great, dodgy wall around you that gives people the feeling like they would be better off trying to receive condolences from an unpinned hand grenade."

"They would be right." Sherlock retorted quickly.

Mr. Benford returned, seating himself across from them.

"How did you know to come to me?" He asked them quietly, his voice shaking. "As far as I'm aware, no one that Jason knows has any notion that I exist and even if they did they certainly wouldn't know that I mean anything to him. There's no other way you would be here though if you weren't aware of our relationship. Who was it who knew about us?"

"No one." Sherlock replied. "I observed the brand new, unopened greenhouse humidifier hidden in the closet of his study that was obviously an anniversary gift but based on the kitchen calendar it was nowhere near the time of the McKinney's anniversary. It was obviously a gift otherwise it would have been enthusiastically installed upon delivery, it was not close to his birthday and an expensive present like that is not gifted on a whim. People don't often spend hundreds of dollars themselves on a piece of equipment only to let it sit around. As thoughtful as it was, he had actually replaced his old humidifier with the latest model a week prior to receiving your gift which is in fact a bit out of date. Of course he didn't mention it because he didn't want to hurt your feelings."

John cringed at the bluntness of Sherlock's words, watching William's crestfallen face begin to tear up again. Sherlock continued, unfazed.

"Due to the circumstances of the investigation Mr. McKinney's emails were also examined which is how your name was discovered. Though he made every effort to be secretive, his password was eventually deduced from the contents of his shoe cabinet. He would never write it down, seeing as his faith and reputation did not resonate with the nature of his actions when it came to his fidelity. However, Earl McKinney was long aware that his husband was having an affair. He remains unaware of whom it was with."

Mr. Benford sniffled into his handkerchief, looking dazed.

"I can't imagine anyone who would want him dead. He was ill all last week though. First he said it was just a head cold. Then he said it must be the flu. I've never known him to be sick before. He called he said not to worry and that once the fever broke it was nothing that he couldn't sweat out with a good run. He was a determined man. He left a note under my door a few nights ago to say he was missing me too much to stay away and that he had taken the opportunity to come when his husband was at work.. It was very late. I happened to be away for the night." He said finally. John asked if he could have a look at the note and Mr. Benford told him it was pinned to the fridge, right down the hall.

"I would rather you didn't take it, please." He said. John nodded as he walked away.

"I'll take a photograph." He said.

"You can't think of anyone who didn't like him? Anyone who held a grudge against him? Anyone who would benefit from his death?" Sherlock pressed.

"His family loved him. I loved him. Everyone at his congregation loved him. He was respected and admired. Always receiving little odd thank you notes and occasionally little gifts for his work at the church. His minister even imported him a box of his favorite tea after he spent a weekend of handing out bibles and fliers at Harrods. He was well looked after."

Upon entering the room, John caught the look Sherlock threw him and understood. "Would you happen to know the name of his minister?" He asked.

"Her first name is Bianca. I don't know if I ever knew her last name."

"Can you tell us how long ago she gifted him that tea?"

Mr. Benford frowned. "I'm not sure. Possibly two weeks ago, maybe less than that. All I remember is him mentioning he was overstocked with it now and it didn't retain its potency for more than a few weeks. He meant to leave it at his sister's house, so that he could have it when he visited her. He went there almost every day."

"Oh." Sherlock said. He rose from his seat without another word of explanation.

"You're not leaving are you?" Mr. Benford cried as Sherlock bee lined for the door. "Will you tell me if you have a suspect? You haven't told me how he was killed!"

John explained quickly. "I'm sorry, at this point in the investigation it's important that the information you want stays confidential. We will keep you posted if anything important comes up. If you speak to anyone about this matter, keep it to yourself that his death was anything other than natural. If it gets out that he was murdered, the killer may flee and we may lose our chance to arrest and convict him or her. If you loved him, keep this to yourself so that we have the chance to bring him justice and know that you have the single best detective in the world working on your case." John grabbed his jacket off the coat rack and stepped to the front door, which Sherlock had left hanging open in his rush to continue.

Mr. Benford swallowed heavily and nodded. "Thank you."

"We are sorry for your loss. Just for safety purposes, keep your doors locked." John added and as Mr. Benford opened his mouth to speak, John closed the door on him. He threw his jacket on, adjusted the collar and turned to hurry after Sherlock. Instead he ran square into him, hard. Sherlock grabbed his shoulders to steady them both.

"Bloody hell, I thought you'd be halfway across town by now." John said, staring up into his face. Sherlock let his hands fall, bushing the sides of John's arms as they dropped. They were incredibly close, separated only by inches of thin, chilled air.

"I might have been but I thought I should wait. I know you like to give people_ closure? Is that it?"

John grinned quickly. "Yes, as wonderfully dramatic as it is to sweep wordlessly out the door, it's better not to leave the people you're investigating with a dozen questions. Doesn't mean you have to answer them, just give them a good reason not to be so curious that they ask others."

"Fair enough… Do you really think I'm the best detective in the world?"

John huffed a laugh and ducked his head. "Of course I do, Sherlock." He glanced back up and felt his stomach flutter when he saw his friend was unable to contain an almost shy smile. Warmth poured from his eyes. John's face was starting to grow hot. He stepped back, putting a good food of distance between them and stuffed his hands in his jacket pocket. "Where are we off to now?"

In a flash the signature look of intense concentration sparked back in Sherlock's eyes and they began to walk, heading out of the neighborhood and onto a main street.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "We need to return to Martha Alistair's home. I knew it was the tea. It didn't occur to me to look there."

"Do you think the killer was out to frame her?" John asked as he waved down a cab. He gave the driver the address climbed in as Sherlock spoke.

"No, there is no way that the killer could have predicted that he would leave it at his sister's house. In fact, the killer most likely intended for him to have it three times a day, following his routine. He was supposed to die slowly but not that slowly. It could have easily all gone wrong. When I asked his sister the last time she saw him, it was on Thursday evening. That dose was the catalyst for the start of his imminent organ failure. It was all that his body could take of the acetaminophen. He did not realize he was dying until the numbness caused by the drugs started to wear off that night. Once he began to feel it happening, which must have been on his walk home from Benford's, the adrenaline caused the pain to escalate fairly quickly, sobering him up. He got himself to the hospital nearest to Mr. Benford's home which happened to be St. Bart's. Even if he hadn't panicked and given himself a stroke he would have died anyways."

"That's an awful way to die." John said, shaking his head.

"It was too sloppy to be true. There are so many better ways to have done it. This was so obvious, using acetaminophen and heroin, two drugs that would show on the toxicity screening and point directly to murder. Had he not died of a stroke, he would have had the chance to talk to the nurses. He could have said something that would have pointed to the gift giver, Miss. Bianca. Only a colossal idiot would do that. The death was made to look like a murder disguised as an accident."

John furrowed his eyebrows. "Sorry, what?"

"The killer has set it all up to frame Miss. Bianca for the murder. It doesn't matter if the death was sloppy, it was supposed to be. Unless she really is a colossal idiot. I'm not ruling it out but with the current circumstances it's unlikely."

Their visit to Martha Alistair's house was brief. As it turned out, the old woman had gone to see her brother in law, leaving the house dark and locked. John searched the outside bins as Sherlock scanned the house. Among the garbage, John discovered two used tea bags with the Kumbacha label on them. He bagged them quickly and went up to buzz the door.

"Sherlock! I've got a couple, have you found anything?" He called through the buzzer. There was no reply. A moment later, he heard a loud crash on the side of the house and came around the corner to the consulting detective picking himself up off the ground. Two of the bins were tipped and garbage was spilled across the concrete.

"What are you doing?" John asked quizzically.

Sherlock glanced around, looking wild. He reached both hands up and ruffled his hair as he spoke. "There's an alarm and I've set it off, we'd best be going."

"What_ How? I don't hear anything." John sputtered as they took off running down the alley. He followed Sherlock over two fences and around the back of another building. Just before reaching the street Sherlock stopped short, putting a hand up that John ran into as he skidded to a halt.

"Pause for a moment." Sherlock muttered. A second later a police car passed, heading towards Mrs. Alistair's home. As it turned the corner, Sherlock and John stepped out onto the street.

"Most house alarms are silent, so as not to startle away a burglar before the police have a chance to get there." Sherlock said. His face was flushed.

John chuckled. "How'd you know you tripped the alarm?"

Sherlock grimaced. "It was a reasonable conclusion once I noticed that there was an alarm. I had been in the house for exactly two minutes and if the alarm was set, I had exactly two more minutes until an officer would be at the house. I happened to be up-stairs at the time. The control panel is in the upper bedroom and I believe the monitors are hidden in the dining room, kitchen and hallway."

"Why'd you go out the window?"

"Precautionary measure." Sherlock looked embarrassed. "On the off chance I miscalculated the timing. I wasn't keen potentially meeting the police halfway down the stairs. I heard the doorbell buzz and it could only be you or a metropolitan officer. Botched the fall though, I slipped."

John laughed outright. "How many times have you actually been caught breaking and entering?"

Sherlock chuckled. "Perhaps once or twice, but not in a very long time."

As they journeyed back to the flat, Sherlock revealed the half full container of Kumbacha tea that he'd found set on the kitchen counter as well a small card that was still taped to the side of the box.

"Another reason I believe that Miss. Bianca is being set up." Sherlock said, pointing to the card.

"What, you don't think she wrote it?" John asked, leaning closer to squint at the writing. He glanced up to look at Sherlock while he spoke.

"I think she did write it. I don't think she delivered it. I think it was tampered with."

John nodded, leaning away. "You really believe this woman was being set up then."

Sherlock cocked his head. "Riddle me this. What killer would attach a hand written note to the murder weapon? Really John, of course she was being set up. Isn't it obvious?"

"I suppose when you put it like that, though I wouldn't think our Detective Inspector would see it that way." John provided.

Sherlock nodded. "Exactly. I've had a hunch from the start that this case would require delicacy, hence why Lestrade is not involved at the moment. She wrote the card, gave the box and card to someone to deliver it and on the way they poisoned the tea and attached the note to ensure that if the box was found, the evidence would point back to her."

John noticed Sherlock's hand, rested beside his thigh on the seat in between them. His fingers were tapping restlessly. For a fleeting moment, John had the urge to reach out and still them. Quick as it had come, the feeling was gone and John looked up -to his embarrassment- to see Sherlock's piercing, inquisitive stare leveled at him. Thankfully, John was able to avoid any line of question that Sherlock may have been about to ask as the cabbie pulled up to the curb.

What was he thinking? John wondered at the idea for a moment. It wasn't the first time something of that sort had crossed his mind. Once he had briefly considered reaching out to run a hand through his friend's hair as he sat puzzling endlessly over one of the Yard's cold cases. John had stopped himself. Another time he had caught himself reaching out to put an arm around Sherlock when he was frustrated with Mycroft to the point of being actually upset. He'd converted it into an awkward pat on the back. John thought that he seemed to have an innate desire to comfort and instill peace in his friend when he found him restlessness and full of angst. It was a reasonable thought.

Sherlock had been about to open his mouth and ask John what was on his mind when the cabbie pulled up to the curb. His flat mate had been staring down at the empty seat between with a gentle, pondering expression and suddenly seemed to come to his senses. In fact, if Sherlock wasn't mistaken and he usually wasn't, he thought that he'd caught a hint of embarrassment from John when they made eye contact. Sherlock realized vaguely that the seat wasn't actually empty and that John was actually watching the frantic metronome of Sherlock's fingers. Unsure of how to respond to the observation, he was grateful when the car came to a stop.

As the proceeded upstairs to the chilly, dormant flat, Sherlock wondered, not for the first time about the status of their relationship and what boundaries stood between them. It was moments like these that made him unsure. A few months prior to this, Sherlock had been frequently dreaming about John being kidnapped by Jim Moriarty. There had been times when John would enter his bedroom and use gentle words to sooth him out of near hysteria as he surfaced into the waking reality once more. More than once, -out of what Sherlock assumed was embarrassment- John had confirmed that Sherlock had specifically called for him.

A few times it had been John's voice, speaking slowly and calmly –"Sherlock, I'm here. I'm alive. Everything's fine. You're safe, I'm safe, it's all fine."- that had brought him to wake. When this happened Sherlock struggled to find the words to express his gratitude.

When John asked, Sherlock blamed the dreams on a subconscious fear of facing Jim Moriarty. He wasn't sure how to admit that though Moriarty was a large part of the dreams, the terror that he felt was centered on the fact that John's life was in danger and Sherlock was potentially helpless to save him. Sometimes when he awoke, sweating, cold and fearful he felt almost let down when John wasn't there.

Sometimes John would hear Sherlock call out in the night and not go to him, solely because of fear. What fear? That Sherlock would reject his comfort? Or that he would accept it? When he did venture down stairs, he stayed only long enough for Sherlock to wake. He resisted the urge to reach out to him. He merely reminded Sherlock that everything was fine and allowed him to confirm it before returning to his room.

Sometimes, when the screams were particularly bad, John resisted the urge to go to Sherlock because he was afraid that if he saw him in that kind of pain, he wouldn't be able to hold himself back. He was unsure and afraid of how the emotion would affect him or how he would react. It devastated him to hear it from the room below. He didn't know what he would do if he actually physically saw Sherlock in that much pain and fear.

"John?" Sherlock asked, shattering through the veil of John's thoughts and making him start.

"Mmm?" He replied, trying to recall what he'd been pondering. Sherlock was standing beside him, holding notepad in one hand and a vial of amber colored liquid in the other.

"Tomorrow morning I plan on attending the service at Delmar's. You're welcome to come, it would seem more convincing than if I attended alone_ though I understand if you would prefer not to." Sherlock says.

"Oh, right." John pondered the hesitance in Sherlock's voice and suddenly understands. It would require them to act as a couple once more. Earl McKinney would most likely be present.

John furrowed his brow, thinking about it. "It would probably seem a bit off if I weren't with you."

Sherlock gave a curt nod. "My thoughts exactly." With that, he turned and sauntered back to the kitchen, seating himself in front of his microscope.

John appreciated that Sherlock hadn't pushed it. The remainder of the night was quiet and John braced himself for the act he would take part in the following morning. What would he do to play the part of Sherlock's lover? What had he done before that caused Earl McKinney to believe that he loved Sherlock and that Sherlock loved him? It had surely gotten the man to open up about his own relationship with his husband. John hadn't done anything differently, as far as he knew. Vaguely it dawned on him that it was late and he was obviously over thinking it.