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Sherlock emerges from his Mind Palace to the echo of his name. He looks up to find Lestrade watching him expectantly.
"Well? Anything?"
He casts a look at the body hanging, limp, from the beam crossing the garage and then at the wheelchair abandoned by the door into the kitchen.
"Not sure," he says honestly. "Need to talk to the wife."
"Wait a minute."
Sherlock sighs, arranges his face into something like interest and waits for Lestrade to give him a lecture about proper conduct around grieving widows. Lestrade takes a long look at him, then gives his own sigh and waves him on.
"Go on then."
Sherlock gives him a solemn nod and turns for the door.
"Be nice," Lestrade warns as they enter the house.
They find the man’s wife in the living room, arms wrapped around herself, her face pale with shock. A man who wasn't here before is sitting next to her, rubbing her back. He has the same eyes, nose and hair as the woman - her brother, clearly. He rises to his feet as Sherlock enters, standing somewhat protectively by his sister.
"What’s happening?" he asks, frowning behind a smart pair of glasses.
Sherlock gives the brother an assessing glance, even as Lestrade answers. "Routine procedure, Mr...?"
"Charles Dawson. Clare's my sister."
"Of course. I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade and this is Sherlock Holmes. You live here as well, I understand?"
"While I'm looking for my own place, yes. I just moved back from Toronto."
"You’re a scientist of some sort," Sherlock pronounces, annoyed about his own inability to specify.
The brother - Charles - gives him the usual look of surprise, but it fades into a hesitant smile. "I'm a research scientist, specialising in cancer treatments."
Sherlock makes a humming noise, looking him over once more. He is surprised when Charles reciprocates, a quick sweep of the eyes from head to toe that makes Sherlock hesitate just slightly before he speaks up.
"Mrs. Irvine, how long did you leave your husband alone?"
Charles settles on the sofa beside her once more, a hand settling on her shoulder.
"It was only twenty minutes, half an hour at most," she says haltingly. "We were out of tea bags so I just popped to the shop. When I came back the house was quiet and then I..." she trawls off with a cut-off sob, one hand pressed to her mouth. Charles draws her close, his face pinched with sympathy.
"How would you describe his mental state?" Lestrade asks.
Mrs. Irvine frowns. "He was fine. I'm sure he was. I mean, now and then he used to get down about being a wheelchair, but that was normal for Freddie. Normal for anyone." Her expression hardens, her tone firm. "My husband wasn't suicidal."
"We're just trying to establish as many of the facts as we can," Lestrade reassures her soothingly.
"Look, it’s obvious, isn’t it?" Charles comments. "He couldn't have got himself up there to kill himself, could he?"
He looks straight at Sherlock, a challenge.
"Oh, I wouldn't say that," Sherlock says. There are a number of possibilities running through his mind, none of them fully-formed just yet. He tucks his hands in his pockets. "Well, I’m done here for now. Call me if you find anything new, Lestrade."
"Wait, Sherlock, where are you going?" Lestrade says with exasperation, even as Sherlock makes for the door.
Sherlock grins. "I have to visit a very special little girl."
*
Sherlock settles on the floor as tiny hands wrap around his and nine-month-old Phoebe Watson pulls herself to her feet, letting out a babble of excitement.
"Good girl," he says softly, before addressing his next comment over her shoulder. "She’ll be walking soon."
"God forbid," Mary says, coming back into the living room and setting a mug of steaming tea on the fireplace - well out of reach of grasping hands. "We won’t get a minute’s rest."
Sherlock hums absently, tightening his grip as Phoebe takes a few experimental steps.
"Case on?" Mary asks conversationally.
"Mmm. Possible murder. Could be suicide though."
Mary gives a vague hum of interest.
They fall into silence, both watching Phoebe. Sherlock never gets bored of watching her - always something new every day. He knows John worries about missing things while he’s at work.
"John working late again?"
"Yeah. Whoever invented late night clinics needs shooting."
Sherlock raises an eyebrow at her choice of words and she gives a slightly embarrassed shrug.
"Anyway, it’s extra money. We could use it, the rate this one goes through clothes."
She perches on the sofa beside them, her features softening as she watches Phoebe attempt to climb into Sherlock’s lap.
"I could always..." he starts hesitantly. Money is always a sore subject in the a Watson house.
"No," Mary says firmly, before he can even finish, but then she gives him a little smile. "I appreciate it, darling, I do, but we don’t need your money."
"Maybe you don’t, but my goddaughter does."
Phoebe has successfully crawled into his lap and is curling up against him.
"You already spoil her enough as it is, and that’s not even to mention the trust fund you keep sneakily topping up."
Sherlock shrugs. "I have a lot of money. Who better to spend it on?"
He presses a hand to Phoebe’s head where she rests sleepily against his chest, the warmth of her seeping into him.
"I think it’s about time someone went down for a little nap," Mary says, getting to her feet.
"I'll do it."
Sherlock stands easily with Phoebe in his arms and makes his way up the stairs to the nursery. She is already mostly asleep as he sets her down in her cot, and she snuffles and rolls onto her side, slipping her thumb into her mouth. He smiles softly and retreats, slipping away silently.
*
"So no other DNA found at the scene?" Sherlock asks Lestrade over the phone.
"None. We’ve found traces of Mr and Mrs Irvine, and her brother, but no unidentified samples."
Sherlock hums. It’s looking more and more like a suicide - but how on earth had a wheelchair-bound man got himself up that high?
"Find out more about his relationship with his wife."
"Am I digging for anything in particular?"
"The usual - arguments, disagreements."
"What will that prove?"
"I don't know yet."
"And what are you going to do?"
Sherlock considers for a moment. "Talk to the brother. Always useful to have an outsider's perspective."
"Alright, but don’t do anything that’ll get me in trouble, will you."
Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Send me the brother’s work address."
"Alright."
Sherlock hangs up and goes back to the experiment he had abandoned when his phone rang. The fingernail is starting to dissolve, but not as quickly as he’d expected. He makes a note, then - bored - pushes away from the table.
The flat is quiet, only a low murmur from the traffic outside wafting through the thin glass of the windows. For a moment, it’s utterly hateful, the emptiness pressing in on him.
The doorbell rings, interrupting his daze, and he listens as Mrs. Hudson opens it and familiar footsteps sound on the stairs.
Sherlock throws himself into a sprawl on the sofa, a poor show at nonchalance, just seconds before John reaches the first floor landing.
"John," he calls as John crosses the threshold. "Shouldn’t you be on your way home?"
"I am," John says. "Just thought I’d stop by."
There’s something in his voice, something off, and John should know better than to think he can fool Sherlock. Sherlock turns to look at him, then makes a noise of annoyance.
"Mary told you to pop by. I don’t know why, I'm absolutely fine."
"Well, gets a bit lonely by yourself sometimes, doesn't it?"
Sherlock turns to glare at his friend.
"I’m not lonely."
John holds up his hands in surrender. "Alright."
"I like living alone. It means I don’t have to suffer through inane chatter every five minutes."
He can practically hear John roll his eyes.
"What are you working on?" John asks. "Mary said you had a case."
"Barely a 5. Man found hanging in his garage."
"What’s the catch?"
"He used a wheelchair."
"Ah. Not suicide then."
Sherlock makes a non-committal noise. He’s still missing too many pieces of the puzzle.
"Want to talk me through it?"
Sherlock wouldn't have hesitated a few years ago, but then he thinks of Mary, and Phoebe, and he stops himself.
"Still too early. Need to talk to the brother-in-law tomorrow, see if I can get any further."
"Right."
"You should be getting home. It’s almost Phoebe’s bedtime."
"I know," John says with a mixture of annoyance and amusement.
"Send my love."
"I will. Goodnight, Sherlock."
John leaves and the flat falls silent once more. Sherlock takes out his violin and plays just to fill the void.
*
Charles Dawson meets him at the entrance to the University College London research facility, smiling as he shakes Sherlock’s hand.
"Mr. Holmes, how can I help?"
"I need to ask you a few questions about your sister’s relationship with her husband."
"I'll certainly try to help. Shall we grab a coffee? There’s a canteen just through here." He waves towards a set of double doors.
"Fine."
They settle with their coffees at a table next to the window, looking out onto a small landscaped garden.
"How would you describe their relationship?" Sherlock asks.
"Well, you know, they had their ups and downs just like every other couple."
"Any particular areas of friction?"
"I don’t think so. I mean, Clare doesn't really tell me the ins and outs of it. Not the kind of thing you share with your brother."
"No," Sherlock agrees with a slight sneer, before turning back to the topic at hand. "Any times when they almost split up?"
Charles purses his lips and takes his glasses off, pulling a cloth from his jacket pocket to clean them. "Now you mention it... Things were a bit rocky just before Freddie’s accident."
He slips his glasses back on, and Sherlock can’t help noting that he looks better with them than without, the sleek black lines accentuating his cheekbones.
"It was a car accident, yes?"
"Yes. Hit a patch of ice and went off the road." Charles shakes his head slightly, fiddling with his cup. "I think it brought them together, in a funny way."
"And that was two years ago? Nothing since then?"
"Not that I heard. I went to Toronto not long afterwards, so the only contact I had was by phone."
Sherlock hums. There’s something tickling at him, some half-formed vague impression that won’t coalesce.
"Do you think Freddie was killed?" Charles asks, drawing Sherlock back to the present. Unlike yesterday, he now sounds uncertain.
"Do you?" Sherlock asks in response.
Charles considers it. "I really don’t know. I don’t think he had any enemies and, I mean, who kills a disabled person?"
"Who indeed?"
They sip at their drinks in silence for a while. Sherlock really should get moving, but it’s nice to have someone aside from the skull to talk to.
"I have to admit," Charles starts hesitantly, his lips curving into an embarrassed smile, "I Googled you the other night."
"You did?"
"Well, it was obvious you weren't a policeman. I wondered what a civilian was doing working a police case."
"And what did your research tell you?"
"I found your website. I’m not sure you can call deduction a science."
"Oh, really?"
"It’s very intuitive, isn’t it? Science isn't like that."
"Surely research science has its leaps of faith?" Sherlock asks.
"What you’re saying is we both make it up as we go along?" Charles says with a warm smile.
Sherlock narrows his eyes, but cannot bring himself to an argument. His lips twitch with amusement and he tamps down on his smile.
"I should be going."
"I'd love to learn more," Charles remarks, leaning forward. "About the science of deduction. You know, one scientist to another." He smiles again.
"I’d be willing to prove you wrong," Sherlock comments.
"How about we do it over dinner?"
For a moment, Sherlock senses there is more to the offer than meets the eye but he shakes the feeling off. "I don’t eat when I’m on a case."
"Not at all?"
"Not if I can help it. It just slows me down."
Charles raises an eyebrow. "Now that’s just flying in the face of accepted science."
"Accepted by whom? I certainly don’t agree."
Charles laughs lightly. "Alright, we’ll save that debate for another day. How about coffee?"
"Come to 221b Baker Street and I’ll show you how the science of deduction works," Sherlock says impulsively.
"Alright, then. How are you fixed for tomorrow afternoon?"
"Tomorrow afternoon is fine."
"Good. I’ll see you then, Mr. Holmes." Charles rises to his feet, extending his hand.
"Sherlock."
"Sherlock," he echoes, his hand warm as it wraps around Sherlock’s. "You can call me Charlie."
*
Sherlock stretches out on the sofa, hands pressed together. Another day and he’s no closer to figuring out the mystery of Freddie Irvine’s death. Frustratingly, Lestrade’s interview with Mrs. Irvine revealed little that Sherlock hadn’t already learned from her brother. The accident was key, but how?
Sherlock lets out a growl of frustration and rolls to his feet, padding into the kitchen and drawing his dressing gown around him as he flicks the kettle on.
He prepares his tea, his thoughts going round and round. He pictures the scene once more, trying to figure out what he’s missed.
"Hello?" There’s a hesitant knock on the door of the flat, startling Sherlock from his reverie.
He heads into the living room, only to find Charlie at the door. "Sorry, your landlady let me up. Is now a bad time?"
His eyes flick over Sherlock’s pyjamas and gown, and Sherlock feels self-conscious. "I’ll just go and get dressed. Make yourself at home."
"Alright."
Charlie perches on the sofa and Sherlock retreats into his room, discarding his dressing gown and pyjamas and swapping them for trousers and a shirt.
When he returns to the living room, Charlie is poring over the bookshelves with interest. He looks up as Sherlock enters, an unfamiliar warmth in his expression as he takes Sherlock in once more.
"Tea?" Sherlock asks after a pause.
"Sure. Milk, no sugar, please."
Sherlock heads for the kitchen and Charlie follows him, eyeing the kitchen set-up with interest.
"What are you working on?"
"Comparison of effects of acid on nails."
"And? How's it coming along?" Charlie asks, and Sherlock remembers that he’s probably seen worse in the lab and so his lack of surprise is not unexpected.
"Still too early to tell."
"I hope you use safety equipment."
"I’m not an idiot."
"I never thought so."
Charlie leans against the table as Sherlock finishes the tea.
"Is it for a case?"
"No, just something to pass the time."
Sherlock hands a cup to Charlie and takes a sip of his own too-hot tea.
"So you do at least base some of what you do in conventional science?" Charlie asks, and Sherlock’s pretty sure he’s teasing.
"All of what I do is based on observation, which surely you’ll agree is the basis of all science."
"You’re quite easy to wind up, aren’t you?"
"No," Sherlock says indignantly.
Charlie smiles and sets down his mug. "Look, I should probably just put it out there now, so there’s no confusion. I had an ulterior motive in coming here."
"You did?"
Charlie flushes, ever so slightly. "I did. The thing is-"
He is cut off by the sound of the doorbell, and he gives an exaggerated sigh. "Typical."
They stand there for a minute, until the doorbell rings again.
"Your landlady was on her way out when she let me in."
"Oh."
Sherlock quickly steps around Charlie, still wondering what his ulterior motive could be as he skips down the stairs and throws open the front door. Mary starts in surprise, clutching Phoebe closer to her chest for just a fraction of a second.
"Hello," she says cheerfully when she recovers. "We were just in Oxford Street, but someone was starting to get a bit ratty so I thought we’d stop here for a break."
Sherlock narrows his eyes, but Mary just gives him a wide-eyed look of innocence.
"Plus these carriers are not as comfortable as they claim. Can we come in?" she asks, lips twitching with amusement.
Sherlock waves them in before he can think better of it. They head upstairs and Mary starts as they find Charlie sitting in an armchair, sipping at his drink.
"Oh, sorry, I didn’t realise you had a visitor, Sherlock. You should have said."
Charles gets to his feet, holding out his hand. "Charles Dawson."
"Mary Watson."
"And who’s this?" Charlie asks, smiling at Phoebe, who is curled up asleep in her carrier, her head resting against her mother’s chest.
"This is Phoebe."
"My goddaughter," Sherlock adds, regaining his wits.
"She’s lovely," Charlie coos, brushing a careful hand over Phoebe’s hair.
"Do you have children?" Mary asks, watching him closely.
"Oh no," Charlie says, "I’d love a daughter, but they don’t like giving babies to gays as it is, let alone single ones."
"Ah."
Sherlock gives Charlie his own piercing look, taking in this new information. Very subtle - Sherlock overlooked them before, but the signs of his homosexuality are now visible in his watch and jacket.
"How do you know Sherlock?" Mary asks pleasantly, lowering herself into a chair carefully, trying not to disturb Phoebe.
"I’m investigating the death of his brother-in-law," Sherlock explains before Charlie can even open his mouth.
"Oh. So sorry," Mary says.
"Thank you." Charlie sets down his cup. "Anyway, I should probably leave you to it."
He gets up, turning to Sherlock.
"Maybe we could catch up again some other time."
"My number’s on the website. Text me when you’d like to meet up."
Charlie’s mouth stretches into a smile as he holds Sherlock’s gaze. "I will."
"It was nice to meet you," Charlie says, turning to Mary.
"You too." Mary glances to Sherlock, her eyes twinkling with amusement.
"I’ll show you out," Sherlock offers.
They head downstairs, pausing at the door.
"It was good to see you again, Sherlock."
"It was?" Sherlock remarks, surprised.
"Yes," Charlie answers, his hand coming up to rest on Sherlock’s arm. "See you again soon."
Charlie withdraws and steps outside, giving a little wave before turning and heading towards the tube station. Sherlock shuts the door and heads back upstairs.
Mary grins as he settles in the chair opposite her.
"He seems nice."
"I suppose so," Sherlock says, shrugging. "He’s not a complete idiot."
Mary laughs lightly. "I don’t know about his taste in men though."
Sherlock raises an eyebrow in confusion.
"Oh come on, you don’t see it?"
"See what?"
"He clearly fancies you."
Sherlock starts in surprise, then frowns. "He's a client. Of sorts."
"A very cute one," Mary teases.
"I hadn't noticed."
"Liar."
He purses his lips. He’d noted that Charlie was attractive, in an objective sort of way, but hadn’t thought any more of it.
"What does he do?" Mary continues.
"He’s a research scientist."
"Sounds perfect for you," Mary says with a wink.
"I’m not- that is, I don’t-"
"I know," Mary interrupts, her expression softening, "But maybe it wouldn't hurt to have another friend."
*
It takes some work but Sherlock manages to get hold of Freddie Irvine’s medical records, particularly those relating to the accident. He spends hours poring over them, unsure what he’s looking for.
He’s lost in thought when his phone chimes to indicate a text message. He bends to scoop it up from the coffee table, unlocking the screen. It’s from an unfamiliar number.
If you like, you could come and see my research some time? I’ll show you how science is really done. Charlie
Sherlock snorts in amusement, turning to lay across the sofa, his phone on his chest. He doesn't know what to reply, and Mary’s comments have thrown him off. The last time someone flirted with him, it was Janine, and he had his own ulterior motive for encouraging her, pursuing her.
He hates uncertainty, and directness has always served him well in the past so he opens up a new message and begins to type.
When you said you had an ulterior motive, what did you mean? SH
He gets an answer within only a few minutes.
I thought you might have deduced it by now.
Sherlock frowns, before typing out his reply.
Need more data. SH
He taps his phone against his mouth as he waits for the reply - it isn't long in coming.
See you at UCL at six then.
Sherlock is going to protest, but he’s intrigued.
See you then. SH
He throws his phone away and returns to the medical notes. It’s no good though - the paper gives nothing away. He needs to speak to Freddie Irvine’s doctor.
*
Dr. Cathy Pritchard is nervous as soon as he sits down in one of the expensive chairs in her office. She twitches, and struggles to keep her composure.
"Dr. Pritchard, you’ve been Freddie Irvine’s doctor since his accident?"
"Yes."
"You knew him quite well then."
She blinks, hesitates a moment before replying. "I suppose so. As well as a doctor knows a regular patient."
"And Freddie’s condition - you saw no improvement over the two years?"
She swallows. "No. His spine was badly damaged in the accident. It’s very rare for anyone to recover after that."
"But it does happen? People do recover?" he pushes.
"Like I said, it’s very rare." She uncrosses then crosses her legs again, and her fingers play with her wedding ring.
"And Freddie wasn’t one of those rare lucky ones?"
"Obviously not," she says tightly.
Sherlock gives her one last long look, then slaps the table and pushes himself to his feet. "Well, thank you for your help, Dr. Pritchard."
She gets clumsily to her feet.
"Don’t worry, I’ll see myself out," he says with a fake smile.
He is barely out of the clinic before he fires a text off to Molly.
*
"What are we looking for?" Molly asks, pulling the sheet away to reveal the dead man’s back.
"Muscle wastage in the lower back."
Sherlock prods at the base of the spine.
"What do you think?" he asks Molly and she gives him a look of surprise before stepping forward and starting her own examination.
He waits patiently while she works, noting but then ignoring the vibration of his phone in his pocket.
"Well, the muscles are in surprisingly good condition given his, err, condition."
"Yes, I thought so too."
"He was having physiotherapy, so that may have helped."
"Oh, I'm sure it did," Sherlock crows, pulling out his phone. He has a text from Charlie but he dismisses it, flicking to his contacts and dialling Lestrade’s number.
"What?" Lestrade answers gruffly.
"I’ve caught you a murderer."
"What? Who?"
"Dr. Cathy Pritchard."
"Freddie Irvine’s doctor?"
"Amongst other things."
"What do you mean?"
"I’ll explain later. You’d best send someone over to Dr. Pritchard’s office - I might have spooked her."
"What did you do?" Lestrade growls, but then he gives short, sharp instructions to someone nearby.
"I want you in to explain now."
"I’m on my way."
*
There is very little for Sherlock to explain in the end. Dr Pritchard breaks down under questioning and admits it all - the affair which started very early on after Freddie’s accident, his miraculous recovery and decision to hide it from his wife to retain an excuse to see his lover, his promises - over and over - to leave his wife. Dr Pritchard knows all about lifting dead weights, it turns out, and after suffocating her lover, she strings him up from the roof for his wife to find.
It’s a tawdry tale, full of human passion and overblown sentiment - it leaves a nasty taste in the mouth. Lestrade sighs as the interview finally comes to a close and Dr Pritchard is lead away to the cells.
"How on earth am I going to tell his poor wife?" Lestrade says.
"She’ll be fine," Sherlock says, and Lestrade frowns at him.
"Sherlock-"
Sherlock holds up a hand to stop him. "She’s been looking for an excuse to leave him since before his accident. She’s in love with her fitness instructor."
"Oh God, I don’t know if that makes it better or worse. Come on, I’ll walk you out."
They head out of Scotland Yard, pausing at the door as Lestrade lights a cigarette.
"Want one?"
Sherlock shakes his head, shoving his hands in his pockets.
"What’ve you got on for the rest of the night then?" Lestrade asks, clearly stalling.
Sherlock makes an exclamation and then looks at his watch. It’s almost eight already, two hours after he was due to meet Charlie. He pulls out his phone and reads the message he ignored earlier.
Did I scare you off?
For some reason, his stomach drops. He feels guilty and something else - it almost feels like disappointment.
"I’ll come with you," he says to Lestrade.
"You will?"
"Of course. I wouldn't want you to take all the credit," he lies.
Lestrade huffs out a laugh. "Alright, but if you terrorise that poor woman, I will have your guts for garters."
"I wouldn't dare," Sherlock says with a smile.
Lestrade shakes his head and they head for the car.
*
Clare Irvine bursts into tears at the news, burying her head against her brother’s shoulder as the three men sit in awkward silence. She recovers admirably though, forcing the tears back and wiping her hands across her eyes.
"I’m relieved," she admits tearfully. "That’s such an awful thing to say, isn’t it?"
She looks to her brother.
"It doesn't seem like he was a very nice man," Sherlock offers, and she turns towards him.
"He wasn't. He was a bastard. But I loved him, once."
She lets out a little sob and Charlie hugs her close.
"I’m sorry I didn't tell you," she says to her brother.
"Hey now, I’m sorry I wasn't here for you."
"Curing cancer is much more important than your older sister’s messed-up marriage."
"Don’t be ridiculous."
He draws her in again, and she curls in close. He presses a kiss to her hair and when he looks up, his eyes meet Sherlock’s.
"We’ll leave you now, Mrs Irvine," Lestrade announces, already getting to his feet and giving Sherlock no choice but to follow. "I’m very sorry again."
"Thank you, Inspector. And thank you, Mr. Holmes."
Sherlock nods his head slightly, and locks eyes with Charlie once more. He wishes he could think of something appropriate to say.
"I’ll show you to the door," Charlie says.
Lestrade gets a call on his mobile just as they reach the door and hurries outside to answer it, leaving Sherlock lingering in the hallway.
"So you, err, got a bit waylaid earlier?" Charlie asks hopefully.
"Yes. Sorry."
"You solved the case, you don’t need to apologise. I think my sister will sleep easier, now she knows the truth."
Sherlock hums in vague agreement. Silence descends for several long moments.
"The offer still stands," Charlie finally says. "If you wanted to come and see my research some time."
Sherlock considers. "I’d like that."
"Maybe in a few days, when things have blown over."
"Of course."
"I’ll text you."
Sherlock smiles. "Okay."
"Goodbye for now, then. And thank you." He holds out his hand and Sherlock takes it, the hairs on the back of his hand standing on end.
"I’ll see you soon."
Charlie holds on for a little while longer, then draws his hand back. Sherlock turns and sets off towards Lestrade’s car, smiling.