"I didn't know you could wear color."

Holmes scowled and pulled his hat lower down his face. "You will pay for this."

"Come now, surely the great Sherlock Holmes would uphold his word."

Holmes refused to answer and instead stared out the cab's window in silent protest. Honestly, Watson couldn't understand why he hated this particular suit—cream looked good on him, and for once such a color was distinctive enough that Watson couldn't possibly confuse him with anyone else. There had been far too many times where they'd gotten separated when some bloke decided to wear something exactly like Holmes's suit. It didn't help that that get-up was far too common.

"You look handsome in that suit, either way."

Watson glimpsed Holmes smile briefly before smothering it into a half-hearted frown.

Soon they pulled up to a small, quaint house surrounded by a few police officers. The place, bathed in the setting sun's rays, seems oddly surreal, like a dollhouse placed in the middle of a muddy puddle, despite the fact that it hadn't rained. It didn't belong here; perhaps it would look better in the blazing daylight, but in this foggy haze it seemed more abandoned than lived-in.

One of the officers came up to them as they stepped out.

"I'm sorry, gentlemen, but this is a crime scene, I can't let you go any further." He looked like a young Yarder; a junior officer, perhaps. "Are you looking for someone?"

"We're here by Ms Hall's request. Is she here?" Watson said.

"Wait here a moment, sirs." The lad came up to the house and spoke with a woman, who followed him back to them. The lady took Watson's hands with a smile.

"I'm so glad you came, doctor, Mr Holmes."

The lady let them into the house, but Holmes stopped at the threshold as if captivated by something on the ground. Both Watson and the lady respectfully waited as he took a few steps down, then wandered about the garden.

"I suppose he's looking for footsteps?" The lady clapped a hand to her cheek. "But oh! The police might've stamped over any he could use."

"Perhaps, but trust Holmes. He has his methods."

The lady nodded, but there was the slight tension in her shoulders. "Perhaps," she repeated, and her voice sounded somewhat familiar, though Watson still cannot pin down the name. This was their client, yes? Or not? What was her name? Hall, Ms Hall—

"Is Ms Hall well?"

The lady frowned and flushed a slight pink. "Yes, I am quite better now, doctor."

Watson lost his ability to speak for a moment and his face flooded with warmth. Of course—dark hair, tanned skin—he cursed himself mentally.

"Your timing is impeccable—I'd only just arrived when that officer told me you had arrived." Ms Hall didn't seem to notice his discomfort. "…but I earnestly hope you will not have to make me see… him again."

Holmes returned, an annoyed look on his face.

"What have you found?" Watson asked, blowing off the heat.

"Those police have completely trampled over the place. I can't make out heel or boot here at all. But it has not been quite a fruitless endeavor." Holmes caught Watson's gaze. "Say, Watson, you're…"

Watson braced for the remark on his face he's sure to receive, but much to his relief and surprise Holmes dropped the topic, a flash of something flitting across his face. He turned instead to Ms Hall with a quiet smile. "We will see the crime scene now."

A staircase rose from the center, and there was hardly any space for the living room. Two hallways rounded either side on the first floor, with what looked like the dining hall on the right and a closed room on the left. It seemed cosy enough, as if the home itself did not know that a death had happened within its halls.

There was a little hubbub upstairs, where a man was arguing with an officer, his hands waving around in wide sweeps. He looked no more than 25 and, much to Watson's chagrin, wore a cream-colored suit. "What do you mean I can't see him? He was my friend too, for heaven's sake!"

Ms Hall waved at him, and he looked down. All of a sudden he stopped. "Addie? Is that you?"

"David!" Ms Hall started up the stairs, but the man took the stairs two at a time, all anger draining from his face.

The two embraced so tightly they rumpled each other's clothes, but they didn't seem to mind this in the least.

"Addie, oh Addie, are you all right?" the man said as they parted. "I'm so sorry."

Ms Hall murmured something under her breath and shook her head. "David, this is Mr Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson. Gentlemen, this is my older brother, David Hall."

David Hall is an imposing figure, about the same height as Holmes and slightly leaner. His hair is unslicked, his clothes a bright cream that seemed to blur his angles all the more. He took each of their hands and shook them with an admirable strength.

The similarity of their clothing did not slip past Holmes, who smiled amusedly as he took David's hand.

"A happy coincidence, is it not?" David chuckled. "A pleasure to meet you both, Mr Holmes, Dr Watson. I've read plenty of your work, doctor, thanks to Addie."

Watson shot Holmes a self-satisfied grin.

"I suppose you're here to investigate poor Robert's death?"

"Yes, I called them here for that. But what are you doing here?" Ms Hall asked. "Surely news couldn't have gone out so fast!"

"No, no, no one told me anything. I was going to visit Robert anyways today, lend him some money and, well. Arrived to this. I was afraid for a while that something had happened to you too." He smiled. "You can imagine my relief that you were fine."

"You did not come here earlier, by any chance?" Holmes interjected, and David started a little.

"No, not at all. Just now."

"Ah. Ms Hall?"

Ms Hall, after promising David she would return, led us up to the bedroom directly right from the stairs, and spoke to the officer in charge. The officer took one look at them and opened the door, an admiring look on his face, and immediately told the rest of the men to let Holmes and Watson do as they please.

Ms Hall turned back to us. "Now, if you will excuse me, gentlemen, I will be with my brother downstairs."

It was only natural that she be hesitant to return to a crime scene, especially one of someone she is so close to, but Holmes quickly caught her arm. "Please do not leave yet; I would like to ask you and your brother a few more questions."

"But David has nothing to do with this."

"It can be useful to have different perspectives on a crime," Watson said. "We are not blaming him of anything, we assure you."

This seemed to satisfy Ms Hall and, with a curtsy, she descended the stairs. Only when she had left completely does Holmes enter the room.

It was a nice enough bedroom, one slightly more pleasant than the ones they'd become accustomed to. In the corner there was a desk, papers scattered and blotted on its surface, and the bed was still made.

The body of a man lay beside the bed, gun in right hand and head twisted in the opposite direction. Dark blood pooled under his head, staining his pale hair near-black, blank eyes staring into nowhere.

Holmes wandered about the room, completely skipping the body, and examined everything—the window, the bed, the desk and its drawers. He took a moment staring at the papers on the table before he sifted through the drawers and took out what seemed to be documents. He stuffed these into his suit.

Watson gave him a look.

Holmes pointedly ignored him and picked something off of the ground, stuffing it into his suit as well. Watson rolled his eyes and instead turned his attention to the body.

Holmes turned to the fireplace, dug around in the ashes, and picked out a few stubs before finally returning to Watson's side.

"Are you quite satisfied raiding our client yet?"

"He is dead, Watson, it isn't as if he will need these things anymore."

"We can get in trouble for harboring evidence, do you know that?"

"Pish posh, if I were to be caught for a crime, it would not be something this petty. Oh, very well, we are only borrowing it."

"Oh yes, of course!"

Holmes cringed as he knelt by the body. "Oh, don't look at me like that—see here, what do you observe about the body?"

Watson knelt down beside him and gave the man a once-over. "He is dead, Holmes."

"Watson!"

Watson stifled a smile. "It all seems rather straightforward, Holmes. He died 4-6 hours ago, and…" Watson turned the corpse's head and gestured to the wound. "He died from that."

"And?" Holmes gazed expectantly at him.

"There's no other wounds. He died almost instantly."

"And?"

Watson followed where Holmes was pointing and his mouth pops into an inaudible 'oh.' "The wound!"

Holmes made a gun with his right hand and tried several angles to press it to his left temple—uncomfortable at best, impossible at worst. "See? And here, I found these in the room." He showed Watson the stubs. "You've read my monograph on cigars, yes? Well, this one is quite the expensive brand, and you cannot get this in England at all."

"Are you implying—"

"Not only that, I have found these under the bed." He revealed a pair of cufflinks, a shiny silver with the emblem of a small snake on it. "Very pretty craftsmanship—also quite expensive."

"So whoever killed Walker must be of great wealth, and not from England."

Holmes smiled. "I have my own theories on the subject, but I will not tell you now. On the other hand, I would like to talk to our client and her brother now." He stepped out and Watson followed, but he stopped by the hallway, in thought. "What do you think of this all, Watson?"

"Well, Holmes, to me it seems like a murder framed as a suicide. Rather clumsily done, I admit—leaving cigar ash and cufflinks."

"Indeed. Quite lazy…" Holmes hummed in an unconvinced tone, a slight frown on his face. In a far lower voice so that Watson could barely hear it he added, "Something quite wrong about it all."

Before Watson could ask him anything, he had already started down the stairs, leaving Watson and his now aching leg to catch up.