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."

,,,O,,, ,,,O,,,          ,,,O,,,
{_;_;_;_}  {_;_;_;_}  {_;_;_;_}
\_|_|_/     \_|_|_/     \_|_|_/

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."

"And his door was locked?" John asks.

"Bolted, chain locked, had a chair propped up against the handle. We had an awful time trying to get in here."

Sherlock looks around the room, pauses by the broken door, then moves on. "Who called you?"

"Friend. He wasn't answering calls, and he had said some strange things last night."

Lily avoids looking at the body, instead turning to the window. The building across the street is about to collapse. The only letter left on its little sign is 'M' or maybe 'N.' It's hard to see from this distance. "Like what?"

"He thought somebody was coming after him. Referenced a note but he never showed them anything. His friends thought he was just drunk; they could barely understand him. They were out gambling, said halfway through the night he just flipped like a switch."

"Gambling?" John says, brows raising.

"I've already sent his picture to the Holders. They didn't recognize him. He only had a few friends, no family we can find. He worked at a store down the street."

Sherlock crouches down next to the man's body. He fell off the chair he was sitting in when he died. Lily turns away and tries to breathe in anything but the smell. "I don't recognize him either." He stands and walks to the window. "Well, we know how he was killed."

"But where from?" Lestrade asks. "No one could get to the second floor of that building, it would collapse."

John shrugs. "Maybe he shot from the ground."

"It would've been an almost impossible angle," Sherlock replies. The man's chair wasn't in front of the window at all.

"Almost impossible," Lestrade says, looking down at the street. Yes, almost. So someone with skill. A trained assassin.

Sherlock pulls out his phone, presumably texting — maybe Mycroft. He's a well of information, not that he's been able to provide any for a while.

"And no one saw anything?" Lily asks.

Lestrade sighs. "Not a soul. Unless they're not talking. We've asked just about everyone in the building. They didn't hear or see anything."

"He was using a silencer," Sherlock observes.

"Probably."

"There won't be any clues in here. He was never in the room. We won't find anything unless he wants us to."

"So what do we do?"

"Estimate the time of death and keep our guards up."

"That's it?"

"It's all we can do. At least for now. This isn't a regular criminal, a simple murderer, this is someone Moriarty sent to get to me."

Lestrade pinches the bridge of his nose, thinking — or trying to. "Alright. If something happens, though, call me. Keep me in the loop."

"We will," John assures, and thankfully they then head to the street, where the smell of death isn't in the air. Sherlock hails a cab.

,,,O,,, ,,,O,,,          ,,,O,,,
{_;_;_;_}  {_;_;_;_}  {_;_;_;_}
\_|_|_/     \_|_|_/     \_|_|_/

When Lily arrives home, she heads out to the garden to water and pull up weeds. Everything is coming in nicely. She also does some laundry and hangs things up out there to dry. It's a beautiful day, despite this morning.

She's buzzing all day about her date with Sherlock tonight. A walk in the park is one thing, but dinner? That's much more serious. She hasn't been on a dinner date in a long time.

She walks past the mantle to head to the kitchen, catching the fairy castle in her peripheral. She shoots a text to Liam to update him.

'I think I finished the book. I sent it to the publisher last night. I'll send it to you and call you later to talk about it.'

He replies, '!!!!,' probably typing quickly so his boss doesn't see him on his phone. He runs that place like a military school.

She makes herself some lunch and sends Liam the book (to his personal email) and then sits down to read, trying to calm her nerves. "I wish it were seven right now," she says to herself, looking at the clock, despite the fact that she doesn't even know what she's wearing yet. She threw something on this morning to go to the crime scene, but she's going to have to go through her whole closet to find the perfect dress. She gets up to do so, just to get it off her mind.

She has plenty dresses she wears to work, though they don't feel right for a restaurant. There's a few formal gowns that she owns, but they feel too formal. Something in between.

Her eyes land on a purple one, long but not too formal, understated but pretty. She could go to an Italian restaurant in this.

She hangs it on the closet door, then goes to sit back down and tries to read.

But what about her shoes?

She hunts through her closet until she finds some that match, then goes back into the sitting room. Now she'll read.

She finished Les Miserables ages ago, now rereading Agnes Grey by Anne Brontë, the under-appreciated Brontë sister. It's a short book, but it's always fascinating and partly autobiographical, so it gives a nice glimpse into her life. It's also, in a way, romantic. Lily can't help but picture Edward Weston as Sherlock, even though their personalities aren't quite the same.

She's halfway through the book when the clock says five thirty. Lily, restless, decides she's going to go ahead and get ready. Music on, she heads to the bathroom to do her hair. The Monkees begin playing a very apt song for the situation.

"I'm like a toy balloon and someone cruel has cut the string. I'm drifting out of sight. My head's too light to find a thing. Oh baby, life is like a cartoon movie. Being with you makes it groovy. Everything you do is new to me. And do you feel it too?"

She sings softly as she messes with her curls, barely realizing the words coming out of her mouth.

"I can't believe my ears. You know I hear such crazy sounds. Each time I talk to you and walk with you I'm off the ground. Oh baby, love is great, you just can't top it. Got the ball, we mustn't drop it. Girl, there ain't a thing can stop it now."

Eventually, she moves on to her makeup, still singing except for when she applies her lipstick. The last song she listens to is by Stevie Nicks — If Anyone Falls. She sings it on the way to the sitting room after getting dressed. It's six thirty.

"If anyone falls in love. Somewhere in the twilight dream time. Somewhere in the back of your mind. If anyone falls-"

There's a knock at her door.

"Sherlock's early," she mutters, turning the music off and excitedly heading for the front door. But she stops when she notices a lily from the back garden and piece of paper on her kitchen table that weren't there before.

Why would he come in and leave a flower and a note and then... go back outside? She smiles to herself at the gesture anyway, then picks up the paper, reading the words that make her stomach drop.

It's about time we talked again, Lily. - M

Another knock on her door, louder, more insistent. It's not Sherlock. Several things connect in Lily's head at once. She runs for her office, grabs a pen, and starts to leave clues. Her door opens. There are footsteps on the stairs. Hopefully this is enough. Hopefully he will understand. Of course he will.

She leaves the note firmly on the table and runs up the stairs to meet the man coming after Sherlock, worried he'll take the note with them and Sherlock will have nothing to go on.