"Anything?" Sherlock asked Watson a few hours later while Watson meticulously washed his hands.

Although autopsies were usually done robotically or using different types of imaging, Sherlock preferred the hands-on approach. Machines often missed small details that humans, who knew what they were looking for, saw immediately. He trusted Watson more than any complicated program or device.

"As you suspected, it's stress cardiomyopathy," Watson said.

He wiped the sweat from his eyebrows, tiredly as it had been a long time since he had done an autopsy by hand.

"A what?" Melrose asked, entering the quarters.

As Watson's annoyance at him was lost in fascination with the case, his response was much more civil than it would have otherwise been.

"It's also known as Broken Heart Syndrome, where the person's heart simply stops after experiencing too much stress," Watson said.

"You mean like a heart attack?" Melrose asked, hoping that he could file them as deaths of natural causes and restore peace to his home.

"Not exactly. A heart attack often happens because of a blockage in one of the coronary arteries," Watson said as he sat down to rest after having done two autopsies one after the other. "In the case of stress cardiomyopathy, people literally die from stress."

"What type of stress?" Melrose asked impatiently.

It was as if he failed to notice or didn't care that Watson was exhausted and that he needed a moment to rest.

"It can be anything from receiving bad news to having a big fright," Sherlock said, giving his boyfriend time to recuperate.

"Still, it means no one killed them, doesn't it?" Melrose asked hopefully.

"We don't know that for sure yet. Would you give us a moment?" Sherlock said, eager to get rid of the overly persistent guy.

The moment he left, Watson's shoulders sagged in relief.

"Thanks," Watson said. "I wasn't sure I would be able to keep up the calm guy charade for much longer."

"Of course, my love. I know how exhausted you get, mentally and physically, after every autopsy," Sherlock said, massaging Watson's shoulders.

"I forgot how much more demanding the real-life autopsies are," Watson said, sighing deeply.

As Sherlock managed to break all the knots in Watson's tight muscles, he started feeling much better and could once again focus on the task at hand.

"You were right. Both victims died of fright. There are no other possible explanations for how their hearts just stopped working," Watson said.

Sherlock nodded his head as if it was what he expected, and then he started pacing the room, deep in thought.

"Could it have been a coincidence?" Sherlock asked.

"If it were just one case, I would have said yes, but since we have two bodies with the same cause of death, I would say that the chances of it being a coincidence are minimal. People don't just go around randomly dying of fright. It happens, but it takes an enormous shock, positive or negative, to stop the heart," Watson said.

Sherlock nodded his head in confirmation and resumed his pacing. He did that often when he was putting all the pieces of a puzzle together. Therefore, Watson knew better than to interrupt him.

"Then, I guess I need to speak to commander Nevedre. We have a killer to catch," Sherlock said, already rushing out.

Watson felt compelled to follow him, knowing that the only way to learn what happened was at the grand theatrical revelation that Sherlock was about to give the commander.

The trip to his quarters was shorter than Watson anticipated, which was a relief for him as he hadn't yet fully recovered from the arduous task of cutting into a human being.

"Mr. Holmes, to what do I owe the honor? Have you found the killer?" Commander Nevedre asked, his light blue skin shimmering in the dim lights of his quarters.

"I am afraid so," Sherlock said.

"Shouldn't that be the good news, that you found the monster who did this?" Commander Nevedre asked.

"For some, it will be, but for others, not so much," Sherlock said cryptically.

"What does that even mean? Can you just for once speak plainly?" Nevedre said, annoyed.

Watson understood his frustration. However, he also knew that Sherlock didn't do what he did to annoy people. There was a method to his madness. Sherlock needed time to process and adequately word all he needed to say.

He was sure that Sherlock had found some incriminating evidence in the documents he was examining while Watson was doing the autopsies. Yet, he was not any better informed than Nevedre.

"Sir, if I may. It's always better to let him do things in his own time," Watson said before the commander's frustration could boil over.

"And who might you be?" Nevedre asked.

"My medical expert and the person who discovered the cause of death which eluded all your fancy machines and specialists," Sherlock said bitingly.

"And why should I trust this stranger?" Nevedre asked, redirecting his anger toward Watson.

"Because he is Doctor John Watson, a renowned professional in his field," Sherlock said with fire in his eyes. "He also happens to be my better half, so if you want to know who is going around killing your crew, you better show some respect for the love of my life."

Watson was stunned that Sherlock had lost control and that it happened because of him. It so rarely occurred that Watson often wondered if Sherlock had some supernatural ability to stay calm under pressure.

Nevedre swallowed hard, stunned by the passion in Sherlock's otherwise businesslike behavior. It made him realize that Sherlock held valuable information and that he needed to appease him as soon as possible to attain the said information.

"My apologies, as you can imagine, we are all a bit on edge these days," Nevedre said, addressing Watson.

"Apology accepted," Watson said good-naturedly.

Sherlock continued to scowl at the commander as if he was about to murder him with the power of his gaze alone. Thus, Watson approached him and gently took his hand in his own, in a rare gesture of public affection that Watson dared display.

"Sherlock, it's fine. Let's go back to the case. I am dying to learn what you found out," Watson said, smiling encouragingly at his boyfriend.

Immediately the ugly scowl melted away, and Sherlock was back to his old self.

"Alright, so Watson managed to confirm that they died from fear as I suspected," Sherlock said.

He dived into the explanation with the eagerness Watson knew so well and loved to see on his lover.

"How is that even possible?" Nevedre asked, confused. "I mean, what could scare two people on board this ship to death?"

"That is the question I have been asking myself too, and the answer is nothing," Sherlock said.

"Excuse me?" Nevedre asked, getting annoyed once again.

"Nothing on the ship made them die. Someone tampered with the Holodeck, making subroutines specifically targeting their fears," Sherlock said.

"But then that someone would have to know them rather well," Nevedre said.

"Exactly, that's why I asked for all those files. I wanted to know who had access to that information," Sherlock said.

"So, what did you find out?" Nevedre asked impatiently.

"The killer is your daughter," Sherlock said matter-of-factly.