The gloomy, muted shade of the afternoon was fading into deeper, evening greys as the sun was setting. The rain was finally relenting its battery of the tiny, institutional windows of the morgue and the sounds of urban business as usual were returning as London realized the storm was lessening. Sirens blared in the distance, cars honked at each other on the slick black roads, doors opened and closed and shoes began squeaking down the hallway towards the laboratory. Detective Inspector Lestrade enters with a serious look on his face.
Sherlock remains laying on the floor, using his coat as a pillow, staring at the fluorescent light above him. An open laptop sits by his right arm, which he closes and pushes under the table beside him.
"Sherlock, we need you now. I got you a cab, it's waiting for you on the street. Murder-suicide, happened about an hour ago. Anderson and Donovan are on the crime scene now but we're not sure what's going on."
"I'm busy."
Lestrade walks through the lab and stands over Sherlock, who stares blankly past him. "What on earth are you doing?"
"Every 11 seconds precisely, the lights all falter slightly, not enough to notice unless you stare at them for a few minutes, which I have. Molly said she called an electrician and I expected him to arrive here approximately 5 hours ago assuming he was on time, two hours ago were he behind schedule."
"Sherlock, you're not seri-"
"As to why I have been waiting here, I had to be sure he wouldn't touch anything important."
Lestrade takes off his jacket and places it on the table. "Five hours?"
"Yes, yes, five hours. John is at home with Mary, she's been put on bed rest and he wants to 'be with her'. Marriage, it's… Odd. Two overly sentimental beings sewing themselves together for what they believe will be the rest of their lives but will likely end with affairs and abandonment. Anyway, Molly is here, though she did fail to retrieve me my mobile, it was ringing earlier but I left it on the counter above me. If I am not mistaken, and I hardly am, it is still there."
Lestrade looks around and sees Molly's lab coat hanging on the coat rack by the door, next to Sherlock's scarf.
"Sherlock, I don't think she's here…"
"Oh, damn you."
Sherlock pulls up his sleeves to reveal a number of nicotine patches, which he pulls off and throws onto the floor behind him. He rises slowly, massaging his temples upon reaching an upright position. Making eye contact with Lestrade for the first time, he seems slightly puzzled.
"Why on earth are you wet, Lestrade?"
"It's been raining, Sherlock. Since noon."
"I didn't notice. Or care, I don't understand why you concern yourself with things as unimportant as the weather. Unless, of course, the weather has anything to do with that murder-suicide you were so blandly talking about a few moments ago. Now, given the fact that Molly isn't here, would you kindly retrieve me my mobile?"
"You can bloody well get it yourself, Sherlock!"
"Just hand me my mobile, Lestrade."
Lestrade lets out a grunt of frustration and reaches for the phone on the counter directly in front of the both of them and sets it in Sherlock's open hand less than gently. Sherlock presses a few buttons and reaches his voicemail.
The mobile begins to play back a raspy, cockney voice.
'Ello, it's Stan, the electrician. I'm 'fraid I won't be able to come, seeing as the rain's coming down 'ard today. If you could ring me b'fore the morrow we could set us up another time. My 'pologies, Mr. Holmes, good day t'ya.'
Sherlock maintains a stoic expression in spite of the intense frustration within. He deletes the message, sets the phone back on the counter, and begins massaging his temples again.
Lestrade, however, audibly laughs at Sherlock and speaks out in ridicule.
"You've got to be kidding me! All bloody day and you've been waiting here for nothing! Look, I'm going down to the taxi, and you're coming with me. You obviously have nothing to do."
"I am busy, George."
"GREG," Lestrade corrects.
"Greg, George, Gina, whatever, I am busy."
"With what, Sherlock?"
Sherlock hesitates. "I…"
"Fine, do what you like. Crime of the year, they're calling this one. Man pushed from a 5th story window, woman shot herself in the head… But don't mind that, I'll just leave you to whatever you're doing."
Sherlock lays back down on the floor, closes his eyes, and crosses his hands over his chest. Lestrade, furious with Sherlock, picks his coat up and heads towards the door.
"Oh, Lestrade? One more thing?"
"What the hell do you want Sherlock?!"
"Could you kindly hand me my mobile?"
Lestrade marches across the lab, picks up Sherlock's phone, and throws it at the wall, shattering its screen and sending its battery flying.
"Get it yourself, Sherlock," declares Lestrade as he storms out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
Sherlock reaches for the nicotine patches on the floor around him, replacing them on his forearms. He pulls the laptop back out, opens the lid, and presses play on his screen. The muted surveillance footage of the lab begins running, and Molly is in view, looking through a microscope, writing things down, walking across the room. Sherlock and John enter on the video, but he accelerates the tape until Molly is alone again, watches her carry on for a while, then sighs.
"Lestrade, what do emotionally burdened humans do when they fall in love?"
There was no answer.