That night John was reading the paper while Sherlock tuned his violin. Greg and Mycroft had left hours ago, Mycroft appearing steady, but holding onto Greg’s hand and his umbrella with white knuckled intensity.
“How did it go?” Sherlock looked up as John spoke.
“Family is always difficult,” Sherlock quipped, but sighed and continued, “Mummy and Father are blaming themselves, Mycroft is fragile, and in pain, and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do to help him, because he’s always been the one who takes care of things.” John put down the paper and leaned forward.
“Greg said something to me today.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow, and John continued, “Sherlock, I think Greg is planning on killing your uncle.”
Sherlock stared at his flatmate for a few minutes, deep in thought.
“Alright,” he said finally, “what’s the plan?” John gaped at Sherlock.
“What are you talking about? Sherlock, he’s a police officer.”
“Yes,” Sherlock drawled. “And I am a celebrated criminal investigator, and you are a doctor. I think between the three of us we should be able to figure out a way to murder an out of shape old man with advanced stage lung cancer without it being noticed.”