The Baker's Detective

| The Case and the Laughter |

Sherlock stares at the pictures, documents, and the string connecting them on his wall, below the painted-on smiley face. He's standing in front of the couch, although he doesn't notice the piece of furniture; he's dead to the world, aside from his case.

The victim was obviously killed by blunt-force trauma, but the weapon used is something not even Molly Hooper can determine, and Sherlock is having a hard time himself. If he could just figure out the weapon, he'd be one step closer to catching the killer — though he already has his suspicions. But suspicions certainly aren't enough for arrests, at least in Sherlock's mind. It would be dreadfully embarrassing if he gave Lestrade the wrong guy.

"Figured it out yet?" John asks loud enough, standing with a cup of tea in his hand next to Sherlock, who is startled out of his reverie.

"No," Sherlock replies irritatedly. John hands him the cup, and Sherlock takes it, the warmth easing his indignation at being interrupted; he'd asked John to get it for him, after all. He's sure John grumbled the entire time he was making it, though.

"Careful, it's hot," John says, and Sherlock refuses to heed this warning. He drinks the tea, burning his mouth, but he refuses to spit it out, instead allowing himself a grimace when John's back is turned.

Sherlock turns back to the wall, looking at the details — the crime scene, locations, connections, possible suspects. Considering the woman was killed in her own home, it's very likely that the weapon was one of opportunity taken from the scene itself, but the killer left with it. Of course, the police have already looked to see if anything was missing from the house, but they can hardly tell; the woman was not only a professor of and expert on the Middle Ages, but she was a hoarder. The weapon could be practically anything.

Or, maybe not...

Sherlock looks at the list of strange items they know the woman owned, going through it, trying to remember what they are and what they look like. One of them is a very old and expensive chess piece that belongs to a larger set — that is accounted for. Another is a replica of the statues at the facade of St. Thomas Church, implying there's more than one.

"John," he says, "hand me my laptop."

"It's literally on the desk to your left. Closer to you," John replies irritatedly.

"John," Sherlock repeats, and he receives no reply for some moments.

He's about to sigh loudly and the get laptop himself when he hears, "Rosie, don't you dare." Sherlock turns, seeing Rosie about to grab his laptop off the desk, but her father's command stops her. "He can get it himself," John declares. "And it's probably too heavy for you anyway." Rosie looks at Sherlock, shrugs, and sits back down in floor, playing with her toys.

Sherlock then loudly sighs and grabs the laptop himself, putting it on the coffee table before he sits on the couch and Googles the statues. There are two, and he makes a clear note of what they look like, which he stores in his mind palace.

Then, in his mind, he walks through the crime scene, trying to pick out the replica statues in the midst of all the clutter. He sees one for sure, but he can't find the other one. It's a possibility it's somewhere else in the house and he could've missed it, but he can't be sure unless he goes down there to check. The wound, though, could potentially match the statue.

Sherlock stands and heads out the door. "Come on, John. We have to go to back to the crime scene."

"You're still in your pajamas," John reminds him calmly. Sherlock turns and walks back in, heading straight for his room wordlessly while Rosie giggles.

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After Sherlock dresses, he and John head downstairs to drop Rosie off at Mrs. Hudson's, and they notice that the door to 221C is open as they pass. They hear voices, including two male ones, which sound strained.

"Don't go down the stairs so fast!" one shouts, and then female laughter sounds from somewhere in the flat.

"I'm not!" the other male voice argues.

"Do you need me to come up and help you?" a female voice asks in an unimpressed tone.

"I'd gladly trade off with you, Raven, but there's no way that'll work," the first voice says.

John has knocked and Mrs. Hudson has answered the door by now, so Rosie runs in, calling back a, "Bye!" Sherlock tells Mrs. Hudson it most likely won't take too long, especially since he's calling in Lestrade to bring some officers to help search for the statue. John attempts to pay Mrs. Hudson, tells Rosie goodbye, Rosie is unmoved, and then Mrs. Hudson closes the door.

As they pass 221C again, they hear more voices and laughter.

"Pivot!" a female voice says, full of laughter — and not the one from earlier. "Pivot!"

"It is not stuck, okay?!" the first male voice from before says.

"I might be," the second male voice replies.

"That's it, I'm helping, whether there's room on the stairs or not," the other female voice — Raven — says.

"Lily and I will continue to be moral support," a third female voice says.

"Please don't hurt yourselves," the first female voice says, though it's still full of laughter.

Sherlock pauses for a moment, just outside the door, putting two and two together; there are only three female voices from what he can hear, and one of them is clearly a "Raven" and the other is decidedly not Lily, considering she used her name (it's highly unlikely there are two women named Lily in that flat right now). And, anyway, the first voice just sounds like a Lily — the laughter like a ringing of bells, the soft lilt in the voice, coupled with the sense of amusement in its background, adding to its charming affect, and then there's Rosie's description of the "flower" who "knows the fairies."

If a flower could speak, that is exactly what it would sound like.

"Sherlock?" John asks. "You gonna join me or...?"

Sherlock starts, following him out the door. "Yes. I was right behind you; you'd know, if you would've looked."

John rolls his eyes while Sherlock hails a cab. "What were you thinking of, anyway?" he asks.

"How'd you know I was thinking?" Sherlock replies with a frown.

John decides to let the opportunity for a zinger pass and says, "Your brows were furrowed. Something puzzling you?"

Sherlock shrugs with a small sigh as he opens the cab door for John. He looks back at the door, at the straightened knocker, then resists the urge to go fix it before climbing into the cab with his returned irritation. "A flower," he mutters, before putting it all from his mind.