I shuddered. Creative murders were usually intriguing, but this was crossing the line into being frightening. Such a line was not often crossed in my mind, as not much ever fazed me, but this case was certainly different.

Clearing my throat, I turned around. "Right, good job, John. Detectives, look at this while I take care of more important things."

The two investigators moved in to take a closer look at the message, and John and I stepped away from the group. I tore off the plastic blue gloves and threw them onto one of the desks. "So? Shall we take it?"

John followed my example, taking off his gloves slowly, staring at them instead of turning his eyes toward me. Hesitant. "You mean the case?"

"No, I'm obviously talking about cocaine," I said sarcastically.

John looked at me in confusion.

"Of course I mean the case, John!"

He crossed his arms. "Frankly, I'm not so sure I want to."

Muscles relaxed, pupils dilated, open body language. I waved away his lie. "It's obvious that you're enjoying yourself here."

"You don't know that," said John.

"No," I corrected, "you don't know that. Accept that you're having fun; we haven't got all day. Just because it's a murder scene doesn't mean you have to act dark and depressed."

"That's what you usually do, though."

I smirked. "Exactly. And if we're ever going to work as a team, at least one of us needs to be moderately approachable. That's your job."

A small grin crept onto John's face. "Alright," he said quietly, "let's take this case."

I beamed. "Brilliant."

We returned to the detectives, who (predictably enough) had found nothing useful during our time away. Over the next thirty minutes, we collected enough samples and photographs to satisfy the so-called 'professionals,' and the corpse was taken away to a morgue, due for an autopsy later that week.

Before leaving, the female detective approached me uncertainly. "Sherlock... Right?"

I raised my eyebrows. "Whether or not you are right depends on your question, and you haven't asked any questions- besides, obviously, the one inquiring whether or not you're right. Therefore, I cannot know if you are correct or not."

Her face went pink, and she quickly cleared her throat. "Um, okay. Your name is Sherlock, right?"

"Obviously."

"I was wondering if you'd like to help us on this case." Avoiding eye contact. Embarrassed, probably because as an adult (though young, probably reasonably new to her job), she feels the need to ask me for assistance. "You've helped a lot here and... We really could use your help on this case."

"I suppose I wouldn't mind that, as long as John continues to help me."

"John?" She looked around, confused, until I pointed the blonde out to her. "Oh, right! Of course, he's welcome to help as well."

I nodded. "Alright, we'll help."

She smiled and handed me a small business card with her name on it: Lilly Withers. There was also a phone number printed beneath her name. "Great, I hope to hear from you soon, Sherlock."

I gave no response, and soon enough, she, along with the problematic cops, her investigator friend, the headmaster, and the corpse of Molly Hooper, was gone. John sat at one of the desks, staring at a wall. I carefully approached him, slipping quietly into the neighboring seat.

John made no movement for a moment before sighing quietly. "That was the scariest thing I've ever done."

"I'm sorry."

He slowly turned his head towards me. "It was also the most interesting thing I've ever done."

"...So would you do it again?"

He turned his head to stare at the wall again. "In a heartbeat."

Before he could slip back into what seemed to be an inaccessible state of deep contemplation, I stood and helped John to his feet. "Show's not over yet. Time to get some answers, don't you think?"

"Answers from whom?"

"Molly's family, of course."

Within ten minutes, we were out on the streets of London and almost to Molly's home. (Or, at least, it was where she resided before death. In death, does one's address change? Now there’s a Google search for you.)

John practically had to jog to keep up with my long paces, but he managed. "How do you know Molly's address?"

I held my mobile up, showing it to him. "The single perk of having an older brother working for the government."

"The weird one, right?"

"I'm afraid so."

Before John was able to question any further about Mycroft (and, I suspect, about the rest of my family), we found ourselves standing outside of Molly's family residence. It was a cheerily-yellow-painted townhouse. Without further ado, I knocked decisively on the front door.

 The woman who answered was a complete wreck. Her mousy brown hair looked like it hadn't been brushed in ages, her eyes were red and puffy, and she hadn't bothered to dress in anything presentable, wearing instead a pair of tattered red pajamas. She could only be Molly's mother.

I pushed past her into the house. "I suppose you've heard the news, then."

She sobbed from her position behind me, and John quietly muttered my name in warning. I proceeded into the home. I found the interior to be ridiculously tidy, as though the owners preferred to make it look like no one lived there at all. However, I couldn't complain: clutter is distracting.

Inside a small room off of a corridor, I came across the living room. It was small (as was the rest of the house) but comfortable enough. The room was nearly empty, excluding a television, a coffee table, two armchairs, and a sofa, upon which sat a crying mess of five people: a man who could only be Molly’s father, two teenage boys, and two young girls. The rest of Molly's family, no doubt.

I had only just taken a seat in one of the armchairs when John and Mrs. Hooper walked in. John silently took a seat in the remaining vacant armchair as Molly's mother sobbed her way towards the sniffling mess that resembled her family.

I pulled my mobile from my pocket and began recording with Voice Memos. "Alright. Shall we begin?"

"Sherlock," John muttered.

I raised my eyebrows, secretly happy to have an excuse to look at the boy. "Yes, John?"

"Don't you think we should...” His eyes drifted over to the inconsolable family. "...let them grieve? Just for a while?"

I crinkled my nose and waved away his idea. "Certainly not. The crime scene is fresh in our minds, and the pieces will be far easier to put together now than they will be in several hours." I turned towards the Hoopers. "Now, do any of you know of anyone who would ever want to hurt Molly?"

Mr. Hooper rubbed tears from his eyes. Though his arms were around his young daughters, his hands were clenched tightly into fists. Angry. "Why are you two in my house? You can't be older than, what, fifteen? Sixteen?"

"Seventeen, thank you," I replied coolly. "Now, back to the question-"

"Yes, my question," said the man, whose face was reddening at a worrying rate. "Why are you two in my house?"

John cleared his throat. "Sir, it's natural to be angry or upset after a loss but-"

"This has nothing to do with Molly! This is about you trespassers!"

I smirked. "This has everything to do with Molly. Anger is the second stage of grieving. You're clearly mad at Molly's murderer, at the school staff for not saving her, and especially at us, simply because we happen to be in your presence."

Mr. Hooper stood, as though about to attack, but his wife gave a short yelp and pulled him back onto the sofa. John looked very tense, though his hand quivered, as it usually did.

I smiled. "Now, Molly's enemies?"

This time, it was Mrs. Hooper who spoke, though continuing to whimper on occasion. "She doesn't have any... We just moved here, and she's such a friendly girl... There's no way that anyone could dislike her..."

John furrowed his brow. "I can't help but notice that you're speaking in the present-tense."

Mrs. Hooper responded with a wail, and one of her older sons wrapped his arms around her in a hug.

I moved on. "You mentioned having just moved here, what was the reason for the move?"

With both of his parents too overwhelmed by emotions, it was up to one of the older sons to speak. "Dad was just switching jobs, it wasn't a big deal. And I mean-" He leaned in and spoke quietly to me. "-Molly didn't have a lot of friends back in Northhamptonshire, but I'm sure she didn't have any enemies. Not that kind of girl, you know?"

I gave him a reassuring (though fake) smile and pressed 'stop' on the Voice Memo, quickly slipping my mobile into my pocket and standing. "Of course. I think we've got enough to go on at this point, thank you."

Without a second glance, I left, assuming that John would follow. He did, of course, but only after lingering for a few moments longer to see whether or not the grief-stricken family was going to show him out (obviously enough, they weren't in the right state to do so).

I closed the front door behind us as soon as John had caught up with me and we began to walk down the street. He raised his eyebrows. “‘Enough to go on?'"

I shook my head. "Definitely not. They can't help us now." I crinkled my nose. "Too many emotions in that room. They got in the way of everything."

John looked confused. "You say it like you don't have any at all."

I stopped walking and looked the blonde up and down. My heart was beating faster now, though I wished for convenience's sake that it would slow back down. "You'd be surprised, John Watson." I allowed myself to stare at him for a moment before continuing to walk. "So? Coffee?"

John stumbled for a moment before regaining his cool and catching up with me. "Um, yes, sure."

We reached the Attendant within ten minutes, and were soon perched side by side on barstools with steaming cups of tea. The cafe was almost completely empty, excluding a man hunched over his laptop (two kids and a wife at home, but having an affair with a man in Glasgow) and the same cat-crazy lady who I'd seen just days before at the small grocery store.

John took a sip of his tea. "So if that stop with the family didn't help at all-"

"I didn't say that."

He furrowed his brow. "But you said that it wasn't-"

I cut in. "-enough to go on, yes. However, that doesn't mean we haven't learned anything from that family." John gave me only a blank stare, so I continued. "We know that Molly's father, mother, and siblings all care for her, so it wasn't a lack of love in the family that drove any of them to do it. All of them seem mentally stable, so there isn't any psychopath to worry about- at least, not out of those six. Molly's family isn't wealthy but also isn't poor, so the murder was not based on any economic standings- the killer also didn't take anything expensive (earrings, necklaces, etcetera) off of the corpse, so we know that it wasn't a robbery. We presume that the murderer isn't poor. That rules out about 22% of suspects if we assume that the killer is from the UK, which we can: if Molly didn't have any enemies before she moved, she had no one to follow her here. Didn't help at all? I don't think so."

John stared at me for a moment, mouth agape, before turning back to his tea and taking a sip. "Brilliant," he mumbled. "Absolutely brilliant."

I couldn't help but smile. "We make a good team, John."

He held his tea up in cheers, and I gently clinked my mug to his. He took a swig. "I think we do too, Sherlock."

Hi! Striksette here. Author's notes aren't my forte, but I just really want to thank all of you for all of the support you've given this fic! I don't think I've ever been happier with anything I've written, and I want you guys to know that every vote and (especially!) comment just makes my day. Thank you so much!