Chapter Four: The Beginning Of The End

"So what did you think?" I ask as I walk back in the room.

Sherlock is curled up on his chair staring intently at the wall and John is reading the paper.

"Well we'll need to do an autopsy to make sure what the cause of the death was, but Sherlock thinks that it was-"

"Cyanide. In the form of a powder. The question is why would the victims take it," Sherlock declared.

"We should go back," I suggest. The other two nod in agreement and grab their coats.

When we arrived at the platform, there is police tape strung like spider webs between the columns. Sherlock ducks under it, and holds it up for me.

"Freak's here," I hear Donovan yell. Interesting.

"Hello Donovan. Spent the night with Anderson again did you?" Sherlock said as he swept past her.

"Hello. Lovely to meet you," the sarcasm dripping from my voice is thick. "You might want to stop ordering Chinese takeaway. You're putting on a bit of weight."

And then we were inside the carriage. Donovan followed us, choking on her own words from fury.

"Ah Sherlock nice to see you. Who is this?"

"Lestrade, this is Darcy. She's a colleague." Sherlock jumped into the carriage without giving it another thought.

"Sorry Sherlock, I can't let you bring two of them in here. It's against the rules," he said whilst putting up a hand to stop me.

"You might want to ask your wife to stop making you lasagne. You clearly don't like it and I'm afraid that the running's not working." Lestrade turned to me with a shocked look on his face.

"Oh god, you're like him. Well go on in then, but you only have two minutes." With that he turned back to his radio.

"How did you do that?" whispered John. My eyes scanned through the carriage, taking in the necessary details.

"Simple. His handkerchief was sticking out of his pocket with old lasagne stains. They varied in colour and thickness - so different lasagnes. Clearly his wife was cooking for him, no one with a handkerchief would get take away lasagne. And his belt was one hole less than what it normally is."

"Brilliant," John breathed. I sent him a small smile before Sherlock runs up to me like a lost puppy.

"Can you see it?" He asked me, grabbing my arm and taking you over to the seat. My eyes caught the crumpled paper easily enough. I pick it up and look over it.

"An empty salt packet. That's how the poison was administered," I mused.

"Anything else?" asks Sherlock. My eyes rake over the scene once again, and it's there. A tiny detail that I wouldn't have seen before. In the corner of the chair is a tiny piece of paper, balled up and shoved into the crease. Sherlock reaches forward and unravels it. It's a receipt for 'The Four Elements Café.'

The café is close to Baker Street, and looks like an overall nice place. We get a table and I browse the menu. Each corner of a page has a little illustration of an element on it. My place is set completely in red, Sherlock's is in white and John's is in green.

"They take their name quite seriously," remarks John, looking at our element themed everything.

However Sherlock doesn't hear, as he is not so subtly stuffing the salt packets into his coat pockets. I raise an eyebrow in amusement.

"Looking for your next fix Sherlock?" He doesn't appreciate my jibe and continues stuffing his pockets until they're full. A waitress comes over and takes our orders. Before long she returns, with a cups of tea for all. I 'm just about to rip open my sugar packet but just before I do Sherlock takes it.

"Oh come on now I can't even have sugar in my tea?"

"You can't be too careful," he shrugs, putting it into his pocket as well. John rolls his eyes at our antics. I take a sip of my tea, and drain it in one go. What? I needed tea. At the bottom is a damp piece of paper. Strange. I pull it out and dissect it. The ink has run but the message is still clear. 'Meet me out the back.'

"It's the waitress," I say. The other two look at me.

"If you don't believe me then follow me," I say, scraping back my chair and heading towards the back door.