I sit up gingerly, pushing the cool duvet towards the end of the bed, and swing my legs over the edge. The exhaustion hits me, and I groan softly, stretching, and scrub at my eyes so I can see the time clearly. 09.24 am. Damn. I swear softly, and rise to my feet, before padding around the bottom of the bed to the other side.
Carefully, I place my small, calloused hands on the sleeping lump in the bed and shake gently, murmuring a soft good morning. The lump rolls over, his blue-green eyes, the colour of dawn sun over the pale waves of the sea, staring blearily back at me over the duvet, which is still tucked tightly around his chin.
I smile, "Morning." I bend over and give him a quick peck on the cheek before pulling away reluctantly and sighing, "Okay. It's nearly half nine. We're due at St. Bartholomew's by ten, so you've got to get a move on, mister."
He smiles at me, a silent gesture full of guarded love, before mumbling a reply, "Yeah, yeah, whatever." He rolls over, burying his face in my pillow, and wafting a lazy arm at me, a clear indication of 'go away'.
"Sherlock!" I yell, laughing, and punch him playfully in the shoulder, "I swear to God, if we're late, Mr Holmes..." I leave the threat hanging, and slink out the door to make coffee before I dress.
Once the kettle is boiled, I pour water into the miss-matched mugs I've found, add a splash of milk, and carry them upstairs. I enter the bedroom and slam the coffee into the bedside table, beside where Sherlock is lying, having barely moved since I left.
"Coffee!" I yell, chuckling as he jumps at my voice and grumbles a fake-angry, "John!"
I ignore his protests and rip the duvet away, letting the cool air wash over his skin. Sherlock grumbles, and tucks himself tighter into a ball. I grin, and grab some clothes to take to the bathroom, before pausing at the door and turning back to him, "But you'd better be all dressed when I'm back out, okay? Or else there'll be trouble, you." He just laughs, but I hear him shift and rise as I enter the bathroom.
I shut the door behind me, still smiling at his adorable inability to function in the mornings, which remains a secret to all but me. To most, he's simply the reliable, ever-alert, ever-prepared consulting detective – the only one in the world – a job which, he'd hurriedly remind you, he invented.
I shake my head, and flip on the shower, not bothering to wait for it to heat up before I undress and climb in. I wash quickly and shave, then jump out and towel myself off, but despite my attempt at speed, it's still 9.40 by the time I'm done.
I'm just pulling my jeans on when there comes a knock on the door, and it eases open. I turn to see Sherlock entering, half-asleep, but fully dressed as I'd requested. He sees me and grins, his eyes trailing down my chest, leaving a tingle of heat.
I blush and turn away, pulling on a tee-shirt and he laughs. He shaves while I finish dressing, before mussing his curls artfully, and turning to me, his eyes beginning to clear as he shakes off the throw of slee
"So," He murmurs stepping closer to me, "it's only 9.46. And we don't need to be at Bart's until 10. My, oh my... So much time to fill," His voice is breathy, and he lowers his head towards mine as he speaks.
His lips touch to mine, soft and warm. A hand rests on my hip, and the other snakes up my back, cupping the back of my head, gently.
I gasp into his mouth as he deepens the kiss, his desperation evident. I press my lips against his harder, more passionately for a second, before pulling away reluctantly.
"Okay, okay! We could do this, I guess, but then," I glance at my wristwatch, "But then, we could also grab a taxi and actually arrive on time, rather than just leaving at 10." I say, a gentle jibe at Sherlock clear in my words. Again, despite what people think, Sherlock lacks any hint of punctuality, and our arrival is often heavily reliant on my ability to shove his gorgeous self out of the flat door.
Sherlock protests half-heartedly, knowing it to be true, but follows me out of the bathroom door and down the hall. I lock the flat behind us and pass by Mrs. Hudson as we head for the front door.
"Oh, off out, are we, boys? That's nice." She smiles. Sherlock moves briskly, barely pausing to return a smile as we go. I greet her, politely, and wish her a good day.
Sherlock calls to me from outside, where he's hailed a taxi and is waiting impatiently, "Murder, John! Come on! Won't wait forever while you natter to Mrs. Hudson." He tells me bluntly. I mock-grimace, and Mrs. Hudson smiles again, "Boys, oh boys...you never fail to make my day." She walks off chuckling to herself and I pass out the door, quietly bemused, heading to where Sherlock has now gotten into the cab and is already giving the driver directions.
I climb in, and Sherlock nods to the driver before turning to me, giving me a dirty look. "John. I'm not kidding. We've been through this, time over and over. It's most stupid of you! Things don't wait while you dally with niceties and such matters of unimportance." He frowns and turns back to face the front, glaring past the headrest to the rain-wet road.
I roll my eyes, pretending his words mean nothing, ignoring the tiny shards of pain ricocheting off my skin as he criticised me, and turn to the window.
It is just after 10 when the taxi pulls up outside of Bart's and Sherlock steps out, striding towards the hospital, leaving me to pay for the taxi and follow after him, tired and irritated.
A swoosh of cool air wraps around me as I step into the morgue, where Molly Hooper and Sherlock are stood, talking, gentle frowns clouding their features. I head over to them and Molly glances up, acknowledging me with a soft nod before returning to the conversation. I lean on the wall, waiting, while they finish up.
Once they do, Sherlock walks past me, barely even glancing in my direction as he heads to a metal table in the corner, covered in a white sheet. Molly hurries to catch up with him and I follow, slowly, as she pulls back the sheet to reveal the body from just below the shoulders.
Yes, I say body, but that may be a term I should use lightly. The face isn't much more than a bloody mess, mashed beyond recognition, the only parts untouched are the eyes; icy orbs staring spookily from the sea of blood. Even the hair has been shaved close, leaving it difficult to identify even the sex of the body without looking any further.
The rest of the victim isn't much better. A mass of black-blue bruises and startling vivid-red cuts, scars, and welts cover the visible skin, clear evidence of the pure agony that the person much have suffered before succumbing to death, and I say as much.
Sherlock turns to me for the first time, so he must have been more angry over the fact that I'd spoken to Mrs. Hudson than I'd expected, but he speaks only to correct me.
"Come on, John! I'd thought even you would know better than that." His disapproving frown is enough to make my heart wrench and I'm immediately defensive. I sigh at him and reluctantly step closer to the bloodied body.
"So... post-death, then. The cuts on the body were made after the victim died, as they've not bled as much as they would have otherwise." I lean towards the body further, "But the scars would indicate either that similar injuries had occurred... hmm... maybe 6-10 months before death, also." I wander slowly around the body to the head, feeling nauseous despite the fact I'd seen worse in the army and I gag. "The facial wounds... occurred before death though."
I turn quickly away from the corpse and bite back tears. I don't know why I'm suddenly so struck by the horror of the injuries, but somehow, the fact that the face was hurt so brutally whilst they were alive pains me.
Sherlock nods, mildly approving, before stepping forward to take my place, his eyes skipping over the body calculating. He looks at Molly, and she pulls the sheet to the ankles, before pulling it back to the waist after a few seconds.
"Female victim, aged early-20s. I'd estimate around 21. The scars are not from a previous incident, it would seem – they're much too close together and tidy, and from their positioning – mainly concentrated on the hips, upper thighs and wrists – I'd conclude that they're self-inflicted..." He says the last bit slowly, seemingly confused by the notion of someone hurting themselves. He shakes himself out of it and continues, "Anyhow. They're fairly old, I'd say just under a year, as John said, and there don't appear to be new ones. Perhaps a teen habit re-occurring, I'm not sure, but I've only been on the case a little while. Bruises range from 2 days to 2 weeks old, and the cuts from 2 days to 6 weeks so it has obviously been a long-term torture case...possibly rape."
I look away from the victim again. The woman's breasts are heavily bruised, as well as the tops of her hips and her stomach, suggesting she'd been kicked there numerous times throughout her ordeal and someone's hands had been less-than gently.
Sherlock recounts a few other details, mentioning the fact that due to the suspected rape it was likely a male suspect, and also the severity of the bruising and wounds. He then turns away and stands beside me, leaving Molly to recover the body with the cloth and join us.
I smile tentatively at her, "Okay. So, do we have a time of death?"
Molly nods, smiling, speaking fast, "Oh yes. Most likely within the last 36 hours. I'd say... around 5am yesterday morning, though it wasn't found until about 10."
That'd make sense. Lestrade called 221b last night about 9pm, telling us we had a rather 'gruesome' case, and Sherlock had immediately jumped on it, arranging to be here by 10am today. 12 hours was a pretty standard period for Scotland Yard to be giving up on a case and calling in Sherlock – especially when it involved murder, and was so damn unusual.
"Right. So. Location?" Sherlock asked, all business.
Molly winced. "Bins - Number 10, Downing Street."