"Sherlock, I think of myself as a patient man... A kind man... A forgiving man." John spoke through gritted teeth and barely contained frustration as he walked in the room, carrying something at arm's length. "But every man has limits and you have reached mine."
"These little speeches of yours are so tedious, John." Sherlock mused, hands steepled under his chin, eyes closed as he lay on the sofa.
"Never mind tedious, Sherlock: what the HELL is this tray full of toenail clippings doing under my bed?"
"Fingernails."
"What difference does it make? They're NAILS, and they were under my bed!"
"It makes a lot of difference." Sherlock opened his eyes and sat up, clearly disgruntled by the rude interruption.
"I have exposed those clippings to various chemicals and external factors, to study the subsequent coloration and bear my discoveries in mind when studying people. As it is considerably more common to see a stranger's fingernails than it is to have a clear view of their toes, the natural conclusion is to start with fingernails and eventually move on to toenails later on."
"under my bed, Sherlock" John growled. "why were they UNDER MY BED?"
Sherlock blinked, surprised at such a silly question. Maybe John was already half asleep.
"Because the kitchen is no place for other people's fingernail clippings, John."
"Well then why not in your room?"
"Don't be ridiculous, that's revolting!"
"I am not keeping these things in..." They were interrupted by a knock on the door. With a sigh John went to open it and Lestrade strode into the room, fists clenched.
"Sherlock, I have no idea why you decided to refuse the case, but..."
"I'm not doing it." Sherlock closed his eyes and lay back down on the sofa.
"Sherlock."
"Go away, Lestrade. I am not interested."
"But it could be a serial killer, you love serial killer cases!"
"It is a serial killer, and you will take the case, Sherlock, without any tantrums, please." Mycroft stated calmly as he walked in. Lestrade took a step back in surprise, previously unaware of his presence. Sherlock kept his eyes shut and turned his back on them all, for good measure.
"Take the case, Sherlock. Two Ambassadors have been killed, we both know more will die if you do not help."
"Get your agents on it."
"They are, but your name has been mentioned by the news and...People feel safer if they know you are involved. We would rather the public continue to feel safe right now."
"I'm sure they'll cope."
"Sherlock, don't make me force you into this."
"As if you could force me to do anything, Mycroft."
"The scaffolding incident."
There was a tense pause. Sherlock opened his eyes and the two brothers glared at each other. John and Lestrade exchanged a glance, brows raised.
A moment later Sherlock jumped to his feet, strode out of the room and slammed the door behind him.
"Well, now that the matter is settled, I really must be off. Good night, John. Detective Inspector." Mycroft nodded, smiling slightly as he walked away.
Lestrade pondered for a moment. He turned to John, he opened his mouth to say something when suddenly he did a double-take and shut it again.
"John...Are those toenails?"
The bed was warm, comforting protection from the slight chill of the outside world.
The victim slept soundly, blissfully unaware of the predator as it silently pushed the bedroom door open.
With the stealth possessed only by those masters who need it to survive, he crept to the bed where she slumbered. The duvet puffed softly as he leaned over to admire the face of his prey.
Upon reaching his victim, he began to purr loudly, curling up in a ball under his prey's chin.
A hand lazily slid out from under the duvet and scratched the cat's head.
"Good morning, Toby." Molly murmured groggily.
"Meow." The feline languidly stretched, fully expecting a few minutes of morning cuddles before breakfast.
Molly checked the clock: Toby had woken her only fifteen minutes early today, that wasn't too bad. She nestled her face in his soft fur and rubbed his chin before reaching for her nightgown and getting out of bed.
The apartment was a bit small compared to the one she had in London, but it was the best she could find on such short notice. Not that she needed a lot of space, really, being on her own and everything...
She walked barefoot to the bathroom and had a shower; Toby stayed with her untill she started singing Dolly Parton "nine to five", at which point he deemed it best to leave. Once clean, dry and dressed, she went to the kitchen to make breakfast.
Molly put the kettle on, served his highness his meal, and turned on the radio. She sat down to a bowl of porridge with coconut sugar and poured the tea into her new, rather garish yellow mug... It was a pretty ugly thing, but there hadn't been anything better at the supermarket.
"...Although the police investigation is underway. The newly appointed Ambassador was killed yesterday afternoon..."
"No, he was murdered on Wednesday." Molly answered automatically.
"...and his body was found in Rochester Row, London."
"What?" Molly head snapped as she turned to stare at the small radio on the kitchen counter.
"..Making this the second murder of a British Ambassador in 2 days, the first being Ambassador Talen in Manchester, last Wednesday. Is this an exceptional coincidence, or are these the first attacks of a serial killer who targets diplomats? The police currently refuse to comment, however we have on good authority that the famous consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes, is on the case and will be flying to..."
The radio was swiftly turned off, and the tea was put back down on the table by unsteady, quivering hands.
.