1- Dead.

It was cold.

Cold enough to freeze the balls off the proverbial brass monkey. The kind of deeply penetrating cold that sucked out and crushed any tiny spark of warmth omitted from the surroundings. The kind of cold that not even a woolly jumper and cup of tea could fix.

It was the cold she felt first. It spread from the top of her neck in small waves down to the very end of her spine, pressing against her flesh like thousands of tiny barbed needles, prickling and snagging her skin as it went. The hairs on her arms rose and fell limply in response.

Scents came next- Sharp, metallic and clinical, with hints of expensive aftershave and anti-dandruff shampoo stirring on a slight draft. There was rubber too, and something dry but somehow sweet. Hot plastic?

Her surroundings were mainly metallic, she concluded, from actual metal and...yes, there was blood involved too.

This realisation was accompanied by taste. Saliva flooded into her mouth along with the sting of bile at her throat and the horrible iron of blood on her tongue.

Her ears began to ring. Air whooshed past the drums, moving the cilia hairs, pulling down with them the sounds of a too-high air conditioner and the gentle hum of electricity. A tap dripped. Somewhere in the distance two rumbles- one slightly deeper than the other- conversed in a mishmash of vibration. The harsh rattle of breath startled her until she recognised it as her own.

Of course. With smell there had to be an accompanying inhale and exhale. In. Out. In. Out. Lungs filling with air.

In her chest, another major organ frantically began pumping. Baboom. Baboom.

Bright light infiltrated the gap under her eyelids. She watched as blood started to trickle through the membranes again, turning orange and then red.

The distant rumble became more distinct. Voices. Male.

"…you go- two sugars, no milk."

"Thank you."

Pause.

"Shouldn't you wear a proper gown if you're doing that stuff?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Ridiculous? It's hygiene. And involves dry cleaning bills that we can't afford."

"Mrs. Hudson can deal with it."

"I'm not sure that sponging intestine-remnants from fine wool is really part of her job description, Sherlock."

"Isn't it?"

Irritable sigh. Mutter. "Fine, fine. You know best."

The clink of a clay-based substance lowered onto a metal surface. Slow thuds of footsteps and a pause nearby.

Her heart- yes, it was named a heart, she recalled- began to beat a little faster. The prickling at her neck grew more pronounced. She was sure that this meant something, her body was telling her, telling her that she had to do something…

Another clink. Metal on metal. An instrument turning over in it's case. The footsteps continued.

"So," It was the second male voice, closer, clearer now. "I'll start with the pericardial cut…"

Her heart beat faster.

A sudden sharp pain burned in her upper abdomen.

With a great gust of breath and strangled cry, she sat up, gasping, knocking away the long, white fingers that had stabbed her, simultaneously shielding her eyes from the glare of the metal workbench and surrounding cabinets, utensils, white lino floor…

"WHAT THE-THE FUCK FUCKINGHELLTHEFUCKWHAT?"

A figure in beige rushed towards her, the very picture of bewilderment- right down to his wide eyes, his slack jaw and wild, jerking hand movements. He hit his companion around the back of the head, then apologised, then stared, too shocked to dare look away from the living dead girl.

The living dead girl looked down at her naked body with a frown, curiously lowering her hands to touch the spreading warmth of the red wound above her belly button. She pressed against the flow and watched it bloom between her fingers.

Raising her head to look at the two startled men by her slab-side, she swallowed, trembling. She licked her dry lips, a small, weak "oh" escaping her as- for the second time in the last 48 hours- she surrendered herself to the gathering darkness.