Okay I love Sherlock. This is post-Reichenbach but I won't be covering any of how Sherlock got back and this is wing!fic. Today will be a character extraordinarily under-mentioned considering how amazing he is. For all Sherlock geeks: 'serious' and 'resting places' are the clues.

I don't own Sherlock (sobs), it all belongs to Conan Doyle and the BBC!

Happy reading!

"John!"

Aforementioned doctor sighed deeply and stomped down the stairs wearing only a t-shirt and sleeping shorts. When Sherlock finally stopped yelling at him and took notice that he was actually in the room, he pulled a disgruntled face at John's current attire.

"Get your coat, John, we have a case!" It never ceased to amaze John how Sherlock could be so tall and so clever, yet still act like a five-year-old offered ice-cream.

"Sherlock..."

"-just texted and there's a dead woman in a locked room, apparently died from alcohol poisoning-"

"Sherlock..."

"-need to get there quickly, before Anderson contaminates everything he touches-"

"Sherlock!"

"For goodness sakes', John, what?" Sherlock shouted back, exasperated. "You haven't got your coat on, or your shoes: how do you expect to go out?"

John sighed and resisted the temptation to smack his flatmate one. "Sherlock, nothing ever escapes your notice, so why have you not realised that I'm in my pyjamas?"

"Don't just stand there and tell me that then!" Sherlock was really getting agitated now. John figured it was like withdrawal: it had been weeks since their last interesting case and he was itching to get out. He growled something unsavoury under his breath and stomped back upstairs to get the clothes he had folded over his desk chair not twenty minutes ago.

He had a feeling it would be a long night.

Sherlock hopped out of the cab, long coat flapping wildly like some daemonic bat with John left to pay the cab (nothing had changed there) and follow him out, looking like the bland anti-climatic assistant in the brown woolly jumper and plain jeans that he was. Only one or two of the constables and sergeants under the DI here could tell he had his favoured Browning in his jacket pocket. Of course, they knew it didn't technically exist, courtesy of Mycroft and his influence as the government.

The murder of the day, as Sherlock had once poetically put it to him, had occurred in a third floor flat of a building on Culworth Street, just over five minutes from 221B. Sergeant Donovan had filled them in as they walked to the doors. The woman, Lillia Cherenkova, was a first generation British school teacher who'd recently retired and divorced from her husband of ten years, Rob Brightby. She'd taken her parents' Russian name back and made sure it went onto her bank cards. She hadn't turned up to a coffee morning with two of her friends and they'd reported her missing a day later when they hadn't had an apology text.

John breathed a sigh of relief when he noticed Lestrade walking out of the building sporting a lovely-looking black eye. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Really, Lestrade, and I thought your brain was slow," he drawled, making to poke the bruise with one long index finger, which was roughly batted away.

"No cracks about being old, if you don't mind," he barked, clearly not having a good day, if the bruise was anything to go by. "You know about the victim?"

"Donovan told us a pitifully small amount but then you never have very much to go on, do you? And when did you and Anderson break it off?" he asked suddenly, turning to Donovan, who blushed slightly.

"Last month," she replied stiffly. "I'm sure I told John, who definitely told you."

"Why should I care about your dull little affairs?" Sherlock retorted. "Now then: dead lady."

"Sixty-six-year-old Lillia Chenekova. Parents were Russian but she was born in Brighton. Taught history up until three years ago when she had a hip replacement, which forced her to retire. Married twice and broke up with her more recent husband last year: he moved to Glasgow and took most of the money, except her pension. Didn't meet her friends yesterday, found dead about three hours ago." As always, Lestrade's memory astounded John, not like he'd say that in front of Sherlock, who would then rip the poor DI to shreds with his superiority: something else that hadn't changed.

"Cause of death?"

"At the moment, it's unclear but forensics reckon it's alcohol poisoning, which is why I called you in."

"Which is because?"

"Her records show she's allergic to ethanol."

John frowned. "Why does that matter?"

"Ethanol is the alcohol in alcoholic beverages, John, you have it at least twice a week," Sherlock told him condescendingly . "And it's not an allergy, Lestrade, it's called being alcohol-intolerant. Sixty-six, she'd know she was alcohol-intolerant, so obviously she didn't drink it herself. Any needle marks?"

Lestrade sighed. "Another problem: she was diabetic and an ex-addict, so we can't tell one shot from another. Timings from the autopsy might tell us but we won't get the results until tomorrow at the earliest."

"Let me see the body," Sherlock promptly demanded, then frowned. "Something the matter? Besides having a dull little brain and a black eye, obviously."

John just stood and stared. Sergeant Donovan joined in. Because Sherlock had just actively inquired after someone's well-being. A fiver discreetly changed hands among the ranks of the constables.

John was also surprised it had taken Sherlock so long to notice: Lestrade had been wincing and frowning uncomfortably since they'd arrived. It had been the first thing he himself had spotted, after the black eye and yellow police tape.

"Fine, to both," Lestrade grumbled, though it was obvious to everyone that he was lying. But then everyone knew Lestrade was more likely to treat something with a plaster and a cup of coffee (or something stronger if it was the end of a case)than actually seek medical advice. Sherlock frowned, knowing he was being lied to but, oddly, he dropped it and his gesture all but ordered Lestrade to lead the way, regardless of his health worries.

Like with all council flat buildings in London, the lift was terminally broken, so they had to run up six flights of stairs to the third floor. Lillia Chenekova's door had been lock-picked and was standing wide open. Two people in blue suits were already poking round but the body itself hadn't been touched. Luckily for Sherlock's IQ, neither was Anderson. The forensics guy handed all three latex gloves and went back to his work without a word.

The dead woman was sat in the armchair, looking like she had sat down and lent her head back after a long day doing a job she had left three years ago. Her hair was obviously dyed, such a vivid red wasn't natural even at Donovan's age, and she wore reading glasses frequently. Her dress sense was shocking even for such an old lady and she favoured purple over pretty much every other colour in the spectrum.

John was still looking around when Sherlock announced "Ex-husband!" like he'd just won the lottery.

Lestrade looked suitably baffled. "Alright, how'd you work this one out?" he asked, knowing Sherlock would tell him anyway but by asking it presented the illusion that the DI was in control still.

Sherlock sighed deeply. Once he might have remarked on how slow everyone else was compared to him but after a row with John about feeling belittled and feelings, he repressed the obvious urge and just got on with it.

"Drinks' cabinet is empty aside from one bottle, meant for two but half empty: only one person drank. Probably recent, the cork's still next to it and it smells fresh. The killer put it back where she could see it, as a reminder of her intolerance. One small sofa and one chair, lumps are present from when two people would have sat on the sofa together but she is sat in the chair, indicating a preference to be detached, and the sofa cushions have been moved, very recently. The dust layer gives it away," he added when he caught John's open mouth out of the corner of his eye. "so, the drink which she wouldn't buy and someone sitting down and disturbing her ordered home both point to someone visiting. The visitor put the drink down on the coffee table, ignoring the coaster, trying to aggravate her: this house is spotless, OCD I'm guessing but can't be certain without psychological records and even then it might not be on there, so the drink creates a ring on the table, which she didn't clean up: she was already dead. So someone who knew her well then, knew her idiosyncrasies very well, enough to know exactly how to annoy her.

"She left her husband: her ring is in the ashtray. He smoked, she didn't, it hasn't been used recently. The ring she threw there, it dented the metal, and she just forgot or ignored it. So it didn't end well then. Door wasn't forced, so it was locked. Bet none of you spotted this." In his hand was a key, most likely the key for the door. "He had a key, never handed it back and used it to make it look like a locked-door murder, or possibly a suicide. Slight bruising on her left wrist and right foot: hand-shaped and foot-shaped. He pinned her down and with her hip and general small stature, she couldn't throw him off. Minute tear in the shirt she's wearing: it was an injection, probably of concentrated alcohol, directly into the bloodstream. She insulin-dependent diabetic, so she'd inject her thigh, most likely, and she's right handed, yet the tear is on her right arm: doubt she'd commit suicide with her weaker hand. Conclusion: jealous ex-husband who feels hard-done-by, even though he took everything, heavy drinker from the alcohol he brought and the dust patterns in the cupboard which show where lots of bottles used to stand and she wouldn't clean it because she doesn't care about that, so he kills her knowing her biggest weakness, probably for the life insurance money to fund his drinking habits and debt."

"Amazing."

"You're doing it again."

"Sorry."

"Give this to forensics, get the fingerprints. That's your man." This was directed at Lestrade, who held out a plastic bag that Sherlock dropped the key into. He then promptly pocketed it and rubbed his shoulder gingerly, like he'd pulled a muscle. Sherlock frowned deeply, pulling the DI's hand away from the area and feeling it through his jacket and shirt, and maybe vest considering the temperature though somehow John doubted Lestrade was really a 'vests' kind of bloke.

"Get off me, Sherlock!" John watched curiously: it was rare that the gruff but good-tempered man ever lost his cool, even with Sherlock who annoyed the crap out of everyone. Lestrade jerked his shoulders out of Sherlock's long hands and glared daggers at the man.

"It's bothering you again, isn't it?" It wasn't a question.

"I could be wrong but I think that's none of your business." John was sure that was what he'd said to Mycroft when they'd first met. Sherlock matched his glare for a few moments then sighed in the way that long-suffering do.

"Whatever you say, Lestrade. I've caught your murderer and you're refusing to admit you need a few days off or you're going to wear yourself out and training a new DI will be far too much hassle, so can we go?" Sherlock asked irritably. Lestrade just waved them away and strode out of the flat to talk to Donovan, who was patiently waiting for him.

It was only later, when John was typing up the case on his blog, that he realised exactly how out-of-sorts the detective had been.

"Sherlock?" he shouted through, when said consulting detective was currently engaged in an experiment involving lithium, hydrochloric acid and fire. John had decided against asking.

"Little bit busy!" Sherlock shouted back, though the latter half of his reply was drowned out by a large bang and copious amounts of smoke, from which Sherlock emerged, gasping and coughing and with the sleeves of his jacket slightly blackened. "Okay, not busy now, ask your question before I get bored and decide it isn't worth my time. Is Doctor Who on tonight?" John just rolled his eyes at his flatmate.

"It's Saturday, Sherlock, yes it's on tonight. And what was that about, with Greg at the Russian woman's flat?"

After a few minutes, John turned around just to see if Sherlock was paying attention. As it turned out, he wasn't.

"She-"

"Don't bother asking me if I heard your question because I did. Don't then ask why I didn't reply because of course I know the answer. Unfortunately for your insatiable curiosity, it isn't my answer to give. And before you ask what I mean by that, I mean Lestrade asked me to keep it a secret and I told him I would." And with that, John didn't get a word out of him for the rest of the night.

Anyone who reads any of my pieces will know that I am appallingly slow at updating. I'm sorry, I just have a lot on my plate. I actually have a pretty thorough plan for this and I should be able to post the next chapter within the week. No promises though.

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jack-damian