A/N: This is the ninth instalment of a series that begins with After the Fall, available on my profile. Feel free to proceed with this one, but do be aware that it is a series 3 AU, set nearly two years after Sherlock's return, and a lot's happened in the previous eight fics.

The dead girl lay face-down in the summer foliage, her purple dress unfurled like the petals on a violet. Once they turned her over, John thought grimly, they'd probably find very little left of her face. Severndroog Castle loomed above, and preliminary analysis of the scene suggested she'd fallen from one of its windows.

"Looks like she's been here a while... probably fell sometime yesterday evening, or early this morning. And I can tell you who she is," Lestrade said dolefully.

Sherlock, down on his haunches beside the body, looked up at him. "Oh, yes?"

"Yeah. Celeste Biondi," he said. "Fifteen or sixteen years old. She's... she was Matthew's... girl... person, I suppose." He shook his head.

"His 'girl-person'?" John blinked. In the five or ten seconds he'd devoted to analysing Matthew Lestrade, he'd come to the unformed assumption that in terms of romantic inclinations, he was "like Sherlock". Greg had complained on a few occasions that Hayley's love-life was aging him prematurely, but he'd not, so far as John knew, ever said a word about Matthew's.

"Well, she came around at the house a lot, but I don't think he was planning on marrying her. Shit. Poor kid – what a way to go." Lestrade pointed vaguely at her. "And then there's that," he went on.

That was the grubby scrap of paper on the girl's back, and a brief note scrawled on it with a wide-nibbed pen and black ink:

She should have died hereafter

It was viciously stabbed through by a dull, metallic object, and smeared with rust-coloured stains. John looked it over carefully. "That's one hell of a nail," he mused. "And it's driven right into the flesh. Jesus, he'd have had to have used a hammer or something to do it..." He hovered over the wound, making an effort not to touch it.

"Before death?" Lestrade asked him.

"Doubt it." John tilted his head to see it better. "A nail like that would plug the wound a bit, but if she was alive when he did it, I think it'd bleed more than this. What's the note mean?" He looked across at Sherlock, confidently awaiting an answer.

"Well," Sherlock said. "It's – "

"It's a quote from Macbeth," another voice broke in.

Sherlock shot to his feet and whirled around to see Sally Donovan standing nearby, both hands shoved in her jeans pockets. He gave her an annoyed, quizzical look.

"Well, you're not the only person who knows things, Genius," she said, grinning. "And you're also not the only person who has a Google app on your phone."

Donovan's tone had drifted to the slightly more pleasant toward Sherlock Holmes in the nineteen months since his return to the land of the living, though she'd apparently swapped Freak for a disdainful Genius. She seemed in a better mood than usual this afternoon, despite the corpse in front of her; it was her first shift since arriving back from her three-week honeymoon. Strictly speaking, Sally Donovan was now Sally Mukherjee, but Lestrade had taken one look at her married surname and asked if he could use her maiden name at work. She'd readily agreed. Lestrade had bellowed "Donovan" at her so much over the past nine years that neither of them could imagine him addressing her as anything else.

"So what is this place, anyway?" John asked, by way of distracting Sherlock and Donovan from getting into a battle of egos. "Didn't expect a castle to be out here."

"Severndroog Castle," Sherlock announced. "Privately built in 1784. It was boarded up in 1988 and became derelict, but a restoration project began last year." He glanced up. "And there are no windows open up there," he added.

"There's a couple broken, though," Lestrade replied, looking up as well. He pointed. "Right in the middle of restorations, too. God, I hate vandals..." He glanced at Sherlock, who was looking disdainfully at him. "What?"

"She couldn't possibly have squeezed herself out of the gap in those broken windows," Sherlock said. "Even if someone were to force her, she'd be covered head to toe in lacerations and broken glass. No. She fell from elsewhere."

"You mean, she fell from the roof," John said dully.

"Yes, from the battlements."

"Do you think she was pushed?"

Sherlock glanced down at the dead girl again. "No," he said. "The angle, projection and positioning of the body are all wrong for someone who was pushed. But there are plenty of ways to compel a person to step off a roof without pushing them."

For a few seconds, there was little sound but the purring breeze in the trees above and the crunch of gravel under boots as Lestrade's team took stock of their newest case.

"What are you thinking, Sherlock?" Lestrade finally asked him.

Sherlock removed his gloves with a snap. "Well, provided you're right about her identity, we've been given a helpful shortcut," he said. "As for the perpetrator, I'd say you're looking for an attractive male between the ages of fifteen and thirty. Clean-cut, middle or upper working class, educated, articulate, and pleasant-smelling, so he was probably a non-smoker."

"Okay, I know my lines. What are you basing all that on?" Lestrade asked him wearily.

But for once, Sherlock seemed reluctant to elaborate and was already walking away, toward one of the squad cars. "You'll know when you see the forensic report," he said, without looking back. "Though I'm surprised you haven't observed it."

"So are you going to tell me what Greg and I should have seen?" John asked as they arrived at the Watson residence nearly an hour later. The car was in the driveway but, John noted gratefully as he fished the keys out of his pocket, Molly had remembered to lock the front door. So far, the case against Ross Harding hadn't compelled them to leave London, but the word bitch had been scratched into their car door ten days before while it had been in the hospital carpark.

"Not seen," Sherlock corrected him as they came into the hall. "Observed."

"Observed what?"

"You'll know when the report comes in."

"Fine, we'll do it your way again," John muttered. They'd reached the kitchen by this time, and he leaned over to fill the kettle. "You'll stay for tea, then?"

John had posed it like a question, but it was more of an order. Sherlock had already agreed, since Mrs. Hudson's death three months before, to eat dinner with John and Molly at least twice a week. Sherlock grunted in assent; leaving him to make coffee, John went upstairs.

He found Charlie in her crib, babbling away to Freddie, her toy mouse. Molly was fast asleep on the bed, still in her blouse, skirt and stockings. An elaborate get-up, for her. Earlier that day, she'd testified at a panel hearing on the case against Professor Ross Harding, something that had been looming over her for the past two weeks.

The evening was warm and she was sprawled out on the coverlet, her skirt crumpled and one arm brought up to her forehead, like a child's. He sat down on the mattress and gently nudged her awake. "Hey, we're home," he said. "Everything okay?"

"Yes... oh, yes," she said blearily, struggling to sit up. She put her hands against her forehead for a second. "Just... tired."

"Sorry to wake you, but you'll never sleep tonight. How'd it all go today?"

"Um, okay," she said, tweaking her stockings uncomfortably. "I mean, Professor Harding wasn't there, so that was all right. And the panel people were nice... but they asked me a lot of things I couldn't answer. They kept getting sneaky and asking me the same question five different ways to see if I'd change my story. At least, I think that's what they were doing."

John looked unimpressed. "Anyone would think you were the one under investigation."

"I am, in a way. Mycroft said. He said if they think I'm just making this up..."

"You didn't make up the fact that the authorities found Berrimer's specimen vaults full of organs they have no paper-trail for," John reminded her.

"No, I suppose not." She brushed her heavy cascade of hair away from her face and rubbed her eyes blearily. "Oh, Mel called this afternoon, too," she said, in more upbeat tones. "She wants me to be one of her bridesmaids. She's having Hayley as her maid of honour, but Greg's a bit upset at the idea of her organising a hen night, so she wants me to do it."

"So they've finally set a date?"

"New Year's Eve, like we all thought." She looked doubtful, but John smothered a smile.

"And did you tell her that you'll be the size of a house by then?" he asked. "The last thing you'll want to do is organise pole-dancing classes."

"Oh, I couldn't tell her yet," Molly protested. "And I thought you'd want to tell Sherlock first."

They'd told Charlie first, though, more than a month before, when John had taped a handwritten note to her crib:

EVICTION NOTICE

Dear Miss Watson,

Due to the arrival of a new tenant, you are hereby ordered to vacate this crib by no later than February 25th.

Love,

Mummy and Daddy,

Watson Family Planning Department.

By this time Charlie was loudly voicing her protests at being confined to said crib. John took her out and changed her while Molly went to the bathroom to splash her face; they reached the living room together, where John set Charlie on her chubby bare feet in the doorway. She tottered toward Sherlock for a few unsteady steps, then lost her balance and pitched forward, planting her palms onto the floor to steady herself. John set her upright again, and this time she made it to the sofa where Sherlock sat, fiddling with his phone and apparently not paying her the slightest bit of attention.

"She always walks to you," John remarked. "Never does it to me."

"I make her walk," Sherlock said loftily. "You two get up and cater to her every whim whenever she points at something."

"I won't point out the fifty million flaws in what you just said." John glanced at Molly, then cleared his throat and sat down in the armchair. "Um, Sherlock," he said in lower tones. "We've got some news, actually."

"Yes, Molly's pregnant," Sherlock said distractedly. He was still concentrating on his phone. "That's been obvious for nearly two months. The pre-natal vitamins that have suddenly appeared at eye-level in the pantry and the ultrasound scans very badly hidden under Molly's handbag on the kitchen counter were particular giveaways. The only real mystery is why you didn't decide to blurt out the news at Charlie's birthday party."

This had been nearly three weeks before. Sherlock had reluctantly attended, though he'd made sure to tell everyone that first-birthday parties were ridiculous, self-congratulatory indulgences. Boring.

Another significant glance passed between the Watsons. "Well," Molly said. "Yes, it was pretty difficult, keeping the news when we had a house full of people. But we sort of thought you should know first, before we told Harry and Greg and Mel and... well, everyone."

"You've not seen them?" John ventured. "The scans, I mean."

"Mmmmm... not interested."

John got up and retrieved the envelope. He took one out and handed it to Sherlock.

"No. Really not interested."

"You should probably look, Sherlock," Molly said, nodding.

Sherlock huffed, but he lifted the scan and examined it in the evening light filtering in from the kitchen windows. And then, for perhaps the first time in his life, he nearly choked on his own observation. "What the hell is that?!" he demanded.

"That's exactly what I said," John put in over Molly's fit of giggling, taking it back and sliding it into the envelope again. "That's twins, due in the last week of February... don't look at me like that. They run on the mother's side... okay, fine, we'll talk about the case now." He slapped the scan down on the kitchen counter and threw himself wearily onto the sofa. "So," he said, glancing at Charlie who was standing by Sherlock's chair, clinging to it to support her wobbly legs. "A sixteen-year-old girl is found dead after falling from the turret of a castle undergoing restoration. And she had a quote from Shakespeare on her back. Either of you got a theory? Because I'm all out."

Sherlock stared blankly into space for a few seconds, then shook his head as if he'd just woken up. "Uh, the uh, quote literally nailed into her is suggestive, as is the fact that Lestrade knew her," he said quickly.

"Suggestive of what?" Molly asked.

"Of the nine million people in London, the murder victim just happens to be Matthew Lestrade's girlfriend?"

"'Girl-person'," John reminded him. "From the sounds of things, it's a different thing to having a girlfriend. And even one in nine million is still a chance, right? Statistically?"

"You are a rubbish statistician." Sherlock looked over at Molly again. "You're actually serious, though? Twins?"

"Thanks for being so stand-up about this one, Jake," Lestrade mumbled once they'd pulled up in the driveway, in-gear, engine idling. "I called ahead and told Mel what's happened. She's on hand, but I've got no idea how he's going to react. You know he can be a bit..." He floundered for a second. "Well, you know. A bit odd."

"It's fine, sir."

"Don't give him any more details than I do, okay? He doesn't need to know it was gruesome."

Dyer gave his superior officer a brief, almost timid glance. On the job, disagreeing with the boss was so welcome it was almost a requirement for being on Lestrade's team. But this was different. The dead kid had been his son's friend. "Sir," he hesitated. "Can I just say something?"

"You're not on duty. Which means you don't have to call me sir, either."

"So if someone came and told me that Hayley had been murdered..." He looked away and swallowed. "I'd ask how it happened. They always do, don't they? The families. First thing, right off the bat, before it's even sunk in."

Lestrade twisted the engine off and pulled the keys out of the ignition. "Yeah, point," he conceded wearily. "But look, just... if anyone needs to tell him the details, I'll do it."

They found Matthew sitting at the dining-room table. He was sketching an oriental dragon motif onto A3 paper; the pencil was clutched awkwardly in his oversized, sunburned hand, but the lines flowing from it were delicate and laid with precision. He laid down his work and looked up as they entered, which didn't always happen. "Hi," he said.

"Hi, um." Lestrade stopped in the archway that connected the kitchen and the dining room. Behind him, he could hear Melissa pottering around, boiling the kettle and keeping a close eye on things. "Matty," he said, pulling up a chair beside his son and sitting down. Jake remained standing in the archway, as if guarding the exit. "There's something we need to tell you."

He mentally flinched. Telegraphing bad news by using phrases like "there's something we need to tell you" or "we have bad news" went against his training and thirty years of experience as the bearer of bad news. There was never a nice way to say it, and there was no point in drawing it out.

Matthew was looking earnestly at him, waiting for the axe to fall.

"Your friend, Celeste," he said at last. "I'm sorry, Matty. She's been killed."

Something sparked up and then burned out in Matthew's eyes, as if two wires had touched. "What?" he blurted out. "Oh, shit, when? How?"

Lestrade opened his mouth to respond, but was interrupted when his phone suddenly rang.

"For God's sake," he growled, fishing it out of his jacket pocket. Donovan. He turned and threw the phone to Jake, who caught it with all the skill of a field cricketer. "Answer that. Take a message."

Jake wandered out into the kitchen, and Lestrade turned back to Matthew. In the space of only a few seconds, his face had gone grey. "What happened to her?" he croaked.

"We're not sure yet. But it looks like she fell from Severndroog Castle sometime last night."

Matthew's gaze bounced wildly off the carpet, the tablecloth, the windows behind his father. Lestrade closed his fingers around his wrist. "Matthew," he said. "I need you to look at me, mate."

Matthew screwed his eyes shut for a few seconds, then opened them again and looked up. He withdrew his hand and scrubbed it over his face.

"I'm sorry," Lestrade said. "I know – "

"But... no, Dad." Matthew shook his head. "I left her there last night. And she was fine then -"

"You what?" Lestrade clutched his wrist again. "Wait a second. You were there with Celeste at the castle last night?"

"Yeah." Matthew shrank back against the back of his chair. "We –"

"Sir - "

"Jake, I am in the middle of something," Lestrade snarled over his shoulder. "It can bloody wait!"

"It really can't, sir."

Lestrade stopped. Jake had just called him sir, again, twice. Squeezing Matthew's shoulder, he got up and followed Jake out into the hall. "Make it quick!"

"Sir," Jake said wretchedly. "That was Donovan. The preliminary forensics are in."

"And?"

"It was the fall that killed her. And, um. They found signs of recent sexual activity."