John Watson and Greg Lestrade sat side-by-side on the couch in 221B, tea mugs in hand and a casual conversation floating between them. They were playing their patronuses like a video game, a translucent raven swooped just out of reach of a large dog, the misty animals playfully jumping in and out of each other's reach. Sherlock was analyzing the blood sample at the kitchen table, his eyes glued to a microscope and a pen and paper pad levitating next to him, scratching down all his low mumblings and notes. "I don't think this is highly fair. Your raven can fly."
"So? Your dog can, too, if you want it to."
"Oh yeah!" Lestrade flicked his wrist, and the dog jumped up and ran across the air at the bird.
"Still can't catch me, though." John said, moving his wand quickly and pulling his bird just out of reach of the snapping jaws.
"Wanna bet?" Lestrade's dog tore off through the air and was right on the tail feathers of John's bird.
The raven dived and swirled through the air, passing right through Sherlock's head, a grunt of frustration coming from the professor and temporary detective, and flying out the other side to bank left quickly and fly under the table and back into the living room. "Sorry Sherlock!" John called, still focused on winning the game they had just made up. John gave Lestrade a hard push, and the dog disappeared. "Ha!"
"Cheater!" Lestrade pushed John back. John tackled him and the two grown men ended up wrestling their way across the living room floor like a couple of teenagers.
Sherlock rolled his eyes and said, "If you two are done being twelve, I think I have something."
"Really?" Lestrade said from the floor, he was pinned on his back, pushing against John's hands, which were trying to restrain him completely. "What do you think it is?"
In Lestrade's distracted state, John pushed down suddenly and the Head Auror's wrists landed on the wood floor. John had him pinned fully to the floor now. "I win!" He smirked.
Sherlock walked over and shoved John in the shoulder, and the Healer was caught off guard and rolled off and onto his back on the floor. "No, I do. Now," He pulled Lestrade off the floor and in the direction of the kitchen, "I think you'll want to see what I found."
John stood up and brushed himself off, going into the kitchen to see what the results were as well. Sherlock grabbed the notepad out of the air and started to read. "It wasn't poison or dark magic, that's for sure. But I found traces of different ingredients in her blood stream, so we're looking at a potion. It's in a strong concentration, so it wasn't mixed in with any food or drink, and by the state of the body, I'd say it was self-administered."
"Like, a suicide?" John asked, inching forward to look under the microscope.
"Either a suicide or a murder. The potion could have been given to her by someone she trusted, telling her it had some desirable effects. But, again, going by the state of her body, I'm going to say suicide. If it had been murder, she would've reached out and tried to grab her attacker or would have shown signs of surprise of struggle on the body. It looks to me like a self-administered potion for suicidal purposes."
"But why was she in a corridor? Why didn't she do it in her room or somewhere more secluded?" Lestrade asked, taking the notes Sherlock offered him.
Sherlock shrugged. "She was always a dramatic girl. Maybe it was more 'hollywood' this way."
"Cause a scene even in death." John mumbled.
"Exactly." Sherlock said, beginning to clean up the kitchen table. "So that's the end, I guess. Just a suicide."
An owl flew in through the open window in a hurried rush of black and white feathers. He landed on the coffee table, dropped his letter, and flew back out again. Lestrade went over and picked the letter up from the rug. He read it quickly and the color drained from his face. "There's been a second one. And this time, they left a note."
