~Saturday Night, 21:00~

Madame Cygne sobbed over the cold corpse of her son that hung from the topmost banister of the stairs.

"My baby boy!" she cried. "Oh god!"

The guests were all in shock, some crying, some tutting about what a shame it was that such a fine young lad decided to go out like this. Monsieur Orange was fanning the maid who was passed out on the floor.

All of the masks had been discarded on the floor.

John, Sherlock, and Mrs. Hudson stayed back in the study with Cora. Mrs. Hudson rubbed the girl's shoulders.

"I just... I don't know what to say..." Cora stammered.

John patted her hand.

"It's always difficult with suicide," Mrs. Hudson said. "Why he would choose today of all days to do it, though..."

"No!" Cora said, standing up. "It can't be suicide! Arthur would never do something so awful to the family!"

"She's right," Sherlock said from his spot in the room.

He had been sitting on one of the chairs, thinking.

The other three occupants looked confusedly at him.

"I am?" Cora asked.

"Yes," Sherlock said. "It couldn't have been suicide. And John can vouch for this conclusion."

He hopped up and grabbed John from the couch.

"Sherl-" John stumbled over his own two feet.

He was dragged by his flatmate back into the foyer, Cora and Mrs. Hudson close at their heels.

"Move, please! Everybody move!" Sherlock shouted.

"I think you've done enough!" Madame Rose said. "Oh, to think I ever fell for you!"

Both Sherlock and John stopped and cocked their heads.

"Never mind that," Sherlock said. "There's an actual murder to investigate!"

"Step away from my son!" Madame Cygne sobbed.

"John," Sherlock gestured.

With an eye roll, John stepped up to the body of Monsieur Bleu (or, more respectfully, Mr. Williams) and, using his pocket-knife, cut him down.

"Oh!" Madame Cygne (Mrs. Williams) cried.

Gently pushing her aside, John let Sherlock step over to the body.

"Mrs. Williams, if Sherlock says that there's been a murder, there's been a murder."

"'Sherlock'?" she questioned.

"That's Sherlock Holmes, and I'm John Watson. We specialise in this sort of thing."

"I've heard about you," the woman sniffed. "You write that blog that Cora's so fond of, yes?"

John nodded, a bit confused. One would think that with this woman's passion for crime, she would know about him and Sherlock.

"I'm sorry for your loss," he said.

"Tell that to Mr. Holmes!" Mrs. Williams cried out. "What is he doing?"

Looking down at Sherlock, John noticed that he was giving Mr. Williams's body a pat down.

"Detective stuff," John said.

Did this woman even read?

But then again, Sherlock's methods were a bit... unorthodox.

"Signs of a struggle, blood on the coat sleeve, chipped nails... all, except the latter, are all a bit strange for a suicide, don't you think?"

John nodded.

"Mind if I have a look?"

Sherlock stepped back.

John got down on the ground, taking a few minutes to look at the body.

"Hold on..." he said.

He cut away the rope remaining tied around the victim's neck.

"He was throttled," John said. "Look at the pattern of bruising around his neck."

"He hung himself! Of course he was throttled!" Mademoiselle Rouge said

"Manual throttling shows far more different signs than hanging. Sure, his neck is broken, which, if it had been a suicide given the height, would have immediately killed him. But he was dead long before the hanging." John squeezed the body's bicep. "His muscles are completely stiff. Rigor Mortis. He was rotting away upstairs while we were all in the kitchen. The hanging was simply a decoy," he said. "Death by strangulation. Not by hanging."

Sherlock grinned.

"Excellent diagnosis," he said.

The whole group gasped.

"Someone call the police!" Monsieur Vert cried out.

The butler came down the stairs in a hurry.

"Sacrebleu!" he exclaimed. "Le téléphone ne marche plus!"

"No one understands French here!" Mademoiselle Rouge shouted at him.

"The telephone does not work!" he said again.

"Did someone try a cellphone?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

Monsieur Orange lifted up his cell.

"No signal."

"Oh God! We're trapped here with a murderer!" Madame Rose cried. "I'm too young to die!"

"Really? Are you sure about that?" Rouge said snidely.

"Murder..." Cora whispered.

She walked over to Sherlock.

"Mr. Holmes, you're a detective. I realise that you barely know me, but please; find the killer."

"It's obvious to me," Monsieur Vert said. "The cook is the guilty one! She's the only one who isn't here!"

"Yes! It must be true!" Rose joined him.

"And what evidence do you have against her?" Cora asked. "Just that she happens to be absent?"

"Yes!" Rose and Vert shouted.

Suddenly, the maid began to wake up.

"Qu'est-ce que je fais par terre?"

Monsieur Orange worked on helping her up.

"Perhaps we should start with the cook," Sherlock said. "She hasn't committed the crime, but she probably saw something."

John nodded and stood up, immediately falling to his knees again.

"Ah! Damn," he cursed.

"Doctor Watson? Are you alright?" Cora asked, grabbing his arm.

John brushed her off.

"I'm fine, I'm fine. I just stood up too quickly."

Sherlock knitted his brow.

"That rarely happens."

John slowly pushed himself onto his feet.

"I'm fine. I promise."

As soon as he steadied himself he, Sherlock, and Cora went in search of the cook.

Mrs. Hudson faced the guests awkwardly.

"Why don't we all sit outside?" she proposed.

Monsieur Orange stood up with the maid.

"I think that's an excellent idea. We need to all clear our heads."

~Saturday Night, 21:30~

"Miss L?" Cora called.

"Where did you have her stationed for the party?" John asked.

"My bedroom."

The three of them approached the door, and Cora tried the handle.

"Damn. It's locked." She knocked on the door. "Miss L?"

There was no answer.

"Miss L!" she cried, her knocking becoming more frantic.

"Here," John said, pushing her aside.

With a heave, he rammed his shoulder against the doorframe once.

He groaned.

Twice.

"Fuck," he swore.

The third time, it gave way, sending John down onto the floor.

"Oh my God," Cora whispered.

On the bed lay the chef, a bullet hole lodged in her left temple. The gun had been carelessly thrown to the side.

"Jesus," John muttered. "Could someone help me up?"

Quickly, Sherlock helped John to his feet.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

"It looks like these guys don't fuck around when it comes to durability. Christ."

He rubbed his shoulder and his temples, surprised at the sudden emergence of a headache.

"How did we not hear the shot?" he asked.

"The killer could have easily muffled it with a pillow," Cora said. "Especially given the noise downstairs. Look at this!" She picked up a blue satin pillow and pointed to a bullet hole in the middle of it.

Sherlock nodded.

"You seem to be more attuned to criminology than your mother."

Cora shrugged.

"I like detective stories."

"The cook is dead. So what does that narrow it down to?" Sherlock pondered.

"Well, if it wasn't the butler, it was the maid," John snorted.

"No, she's far too frail," Sherlock said.

"It was a joke..."

"Ah."

Sherlock crossed his arms.

"You two: leave. I need some time to think."

Cora and John looked at each other with raised eyebrows and left the room, shutting the door behind them.

It was all quiet downstairs.

"Looks like everyone went outside," Cora said.

John nodded.

"I guess it's for the best."

He tripped on the floor and fell to his hands and knees.

"Oh!" Cora cried. "Are you alright?"

She knelt next to John.

"Yeah..." he said. "...no. I don't know."

"What do you mean?"

"I just... I just got really sick all of a sudden."

"That's not good," Cora said. "Would you like to lie down for a bit?"

"No. No..." John said, struggling to stand.

He fell back to the floor.

"What the hell-?"

"Alright. I'm sending you to bed," Cora said. "The last thing we need is another body. Come on."

She wrapped his arm around her shoulders and helped him into her mother's bedroom, gently laying him down.

"There you are," she said.

"I'm fine," John said.

"Sure, sure," Cora smirked. "You're a strong man who loses to no illness."

John sighed and closed his eyes.

"You know, you seem to be doing pretty well, considering that your brother just died."

Cora's smile disappeared.

"That's how I cope."

John lazily opened his lids to look at her.

"With loss?"

"With a lot of things."

"Give me an example."

She stayed quiet.

"You ought to rest now, Doctor Watson," she finally said. "Close your eyes."

Reluctantly, John obliged.