The Baker's Detective

| The Victim and the Note |

He actually slept last night, with nothing more to do but wait for whoever Moriarty sent from the beyond the grave. That and Lily practically consume his thoughts. He almost feels guilty for being excited about their second date. Almost.

Sherlock gets up while John is making breakfast. He passes Sherlock his phone, open to text messages with Harriet. She's sent pictures of Rosie from yesterday, playing with trains, eating spaghetti (her favorite), taking a nap with Harriet's dog, Dalek. It's a large dog, a mix of golden retriever and something else Sherlock can't remember.

"What kind of dog is that again?"

John hums. "Golden retriever and greyhound, I think. Harriet said he's the calmest dog in the world, and he adores Rosie. He follows her around everywhere."

Sherlock sets the phone on the counter and starts making tea. "Maybe we should get a dog."

John laughs. "And put it where? Have you seen this place?"

"It's not as bad as it used to be."

"It's bad enough. A dog would be so cramped in here."

"Well, we'd take him on walks all the time. He could even go on cases with us. We did that once."

"How about you and Lily discuss the issue when you get married."

Sherlock stops, kettle still in his hand on the way to the stove. The idea had never crossed his mind — he's sure it would be strange if it did at this point — and it almost scares him. But not quite. He's never envisioned himself getting married, despite how wonderful his parents make it seem. "You think we're going to get married?"

"Huh?" John says. "Oh, I was just joking around. You might. I don't know. Best to give that decision time. You've only been on one date."

"Yes..."

Sherlock Holmes, married? In a few years, that would be a sight to see. Mycroft would lose his mind, but he would still come to the wedding. He'd be miserable, especially if Sherlock saw to it in the planning. He smiles to himself and pours his tea.

His phone starts buzzing in his robe pocket, and he grabs it. Lestrade.

"Hello?"

"A man was killed in a completely locked room last night. We need you to come down here," Lestrade says.

Sherlock sighs, leaning against the counter. "Really, Graham? I'm assuming there's a window in the room?"

"Yes, but-"

"There, case solved."

"Sherlock, the victim's name was Robert Adair."

Sherlock's heart drops. "I'll be right there."

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Quiet anxiety fills the cab. Lily is sitting between Sherlock and John, trying not to fidget too much. Sherlock caught her as she was going out to the garden, and she hoped her plants would be fine without water for a couple hours as Sherlock explained this is "Robert's" next move. And this time, it's murder.

James Barkley did die, but it was of a heart attack. "Robert" knew about his bad health and certainly counted on it, but he had plausible deniability. This time, someone has been shot. Unless he was involved in the killing of William Kirwan, although Sherlock said he doubted it, as contained as that all was. And the Hayters never mentioned a third person.

The cab stops on a sparse street, police surrounding a tall building of shoddy flats. The victim lived on the third floor. His window is open.

Lestrade leads them up to the crime scene. "One shot, in the head. Died instantly."