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When John comes home to find a corpse in their kitchen, he decides two things: one, he's not making dinner again; and two, Sherlock is absolutely to blame. Sherlock, of course, disagrees - insisting the intruder died of natural causes, "if one considers revenge a natural condition."
As forensics swarms 221B and Mrs. Hudson brings biscuits "for morale," the world's most brilliant detective and his exasperated doctor boyfriend must prove their innocence before Lestrade files it under "typical Holmesian chaos." Between domestic arguments, forensic tea breaks, and Anderson's idiotic theories, the case of Murder Most Domestic proves that crime really does begin at home.
But when the dust settles and the kettle whistles again, John realizes what Sherlock has known all along - home isn't the flat, the work, or even the thrill of deduction. It's the man beside him, alive, infuriating, and kissing him in the kitchen where it all began.