A/N: This is my first Sherlock fanfic, though I've written several Potters. I did a lot of research to try and make the voice sound authentically British, but I am, after all, a Texas girl, so apologies for the gaffes that may occur. Feedback of all sorts is greatly appreciated!

Oh, and "Joe Bloggs" is the British version of "John Doe," in case anyone was wondering why I chose that designation.

"Subject is Brenda Ferrars, Caucasian female, age 27, weight 59.8 kilograms, height 5 feet 8 inches."

That first bit of recording always gets me. People find that funny, say it should be the easiest part of my job, considering the rest of the post-mortem process. But there's something so heartless about it. A human being summed up in 10 seconds, reduced to a series of facts without a soul or scrap of reality to them. Cutting Brenda Ferrars open, learning exactly how she died, that part will feel more respectful to me. It's the part that reminds me that she did, indeed, live.

I pick up the scalpel and say, as always, "Sorry." It's my own little benediction, a sort of last apology from all of us left alive. Most people die deserving an apology. According to the police report, Brenda died in a domestic gone horribly wrong. She deserves a "sorry" from somebody.

"Don't zip up that bag!"

My scalpel very nearly lands in the incision I've just made. I whirl around, fumbling it into a position to strike.

"Who – oh!" I recognize the intruder, not that he's ever spoken to me directly. He's been haunting the labs lately. I've noticed. Him being in the labs, that is.

I can't remember his name, so I just smile and try not to stare while I think of it. He's wearing a close-tailored black suit with a black shirt underneath. Add that head of black curls and he looks like a raven that has grown uncomfortably tall and thin.

"You'd be quite dead if you tried to use that knife that way," he observes, strolling forward from the doorway.

"Sorry?" I'm so busy wracking my brain for a name that his words don't really make sense. It was an odd sort of name…

He walks right up to me and wraps his hand around mine. "Look. If your blade is held in a fist, you have to swing wide to get any kind of power behind it." He swings my arm toward his neck. I attempt to recoil, but he's already bobbed to the side and released my hand.

"I-I'm…" I'm not in the habit of using a post-mortem scalpel as a weapon. But that sounds silly to say, somehow. I could say I've got pepper spray, but I'm fairly certain it's still in my locker, tucked inside my purse. We'll stick with the scalpel.

He's already taken it from me and is demonstrating the proper handhold. "Now see how little movement you need?"

I blink and he's got the blade right at my carotid. "Oh!" I can feel the blush, but there's nothing I can do about it. If he mentions it, I'll blame it on adrenaline. Nerves. Something.

He flips the scalpel around in his hand and gives it back to me. "If you ever are attacked in here, go for one blow, then run. You'd stand a chance of outrunning an assailant. You're in training, at least."

His name thuds into place at about the same moment his comment does. "Mr. Holmes. Thank you, but how –"

"Call me Sherlock." he says, flashing a smile that feels practised, somehow, and brushing past me to the table. "And now for the body. You've completed the report?"

"N-no. I've only just started."

I can tell I've startled him because he goes completely still. Even the air seems to have frozen with him. I didn't realize until this instant that he'd been in constant motion since he walked in.

"Just started? But you've had the body at least 40 minutes."

"I had some clearing up to do before I started and –" I'm not sure why I feel so defensive, but I do. Like I should be apologizing for not having Brenda Ferrars sewn back up and ready to deliver to him.

"Never mind, I can do what I need before."

He's bending over the body, lifting a hand, tugging at a hair, examining her neck with a jeweler's lens. He's not one of those weirdos, I hope. He's examining her earlobe now. If it all wasn't quite so odd, I would have found my voice sooner.

"Actually, you aren't allowed to examine the bodies without a pass."

His only reply is to dash around to the feet.

I clear my throat and try again. "What are you doing, Mr. Holmes?"

He looks up, his eyes unfocused. They're such an odd colour. Too pale, most people would say. But interesting, somehow. "Sherlock. And at the moment, I'm ascertaining if there are any cuts or abrasions on the soles of her feet." Head down again.

"Why?"

And the head bobs back up. "Why? Because, Miss Hooper, a man's alibi depends on it."

I can't decide which part of his sentence to respond to first. "How did you know my name?"

"A better question would have been, 'how did you know I'm in training?'" He observes without looking up this time.

"Well, yes." I catch myself fidgeting with the scalpels on the tray and make myself stop.

"Your trainers." He steps back from Brenda Ferrars' feet and nods toward mine. "They're a new pair you've only started wearing in the last two weeks, but the bottoms are flecked with mud. Obviously not just for work, though you've tried to clean them for the mortuary. Fairly expensive brand, too. You aren't the type to spend lots of money on clothes. So these are a gift – either from a relative or a friend who wants you along for accountability on their own routine."

He pauses for a moment, squinting at me. "At a guess, I'd say friend, possibly flatmate. Someone you can easily meet up with for a run before work. Judging by the progressive amount and variance of the mud in the last five days, I'd say you've taken up new routes, either because you've both discovered you like the exercise, or possibly because the friend is lazy and you're not. Either way, the training will hold you in good stead if, indeed, you ever need to run away from someone."

I've half a mind to run away from him. "And the name?"

"Oh," he shrugs and bends back over the body. "I looked at the schedule to see who had Brenda Ferrars' post-mortem tonight."

"Right."

I didn't realize he'd noticed me so much. Should I be flattered? Frightened? Is he some sort of stalker or serial killer? He's right, after all, right down to the trainers from my cousin who's staying with me while she gets her feet under her. Jess never was much good at decisionmaking. But surely he's not too dangerous or security wouldn't let him in the labs. I catch myself staring at the top of his head and turn to arrange the scalpels and bone shears.

The doors to the mortuary burst open. Two policemen and they've got a body bag. I glance over at Sherlock, but he doesn't bother to look up. And I thought tonight was going to be a bit dull.

"Sorry, Molly, got an ugly one for you," grunts Officer Glenham. He's usually the one they send to deliver the bodies.

"Oh, quite alright. Just put him over here," I say, hurrying over to the second slab. "What's the official word?"

"Bad idea," Sherlock mutters.

We both turn to stare at him, but he's on to the left hand and doesn't seem likely to keep talking.

"Probably suicide, but the chief wants to be sure," Officer Glenham says, jerking his head at Sherlock with a quizzical look.

I shrug at him, not even a little bit certain of what I would say to explain. "I'll get you the report by noon tomorrow."

"Thanks, Molly." They both tip their hats and walk out.

"What was a bad idea?" I ask as soon as the door closes.

"Asking the police's opinion on a death." Sherlock says. He unfolds from his half-crouch by the slab and turns to me, so close that I have to tip my head back to meet his gaze. "They form opinions based on what they expect to see, and in turn tell coroners what they should expect to see. I estimate 50 murders since the new year were declared 'accidental' or 'suicide' when there was something far more sinister at play." He gestures toward the body on the slab. "Take a bit of advice and be thorough with that one."

"I really ought to finish with Brenda Ferrars," I protest, but not really.

"Much more efficient if you start on our Joe Bloggs over there. I'll likely be a while."

"Are you certain I won't disturb you?"

He quirks an eyebrow at that. Silly thing to ask. It's my shift in the mortuary, technically he's disturbing me, and we both know it. I try to laugh it off, but the most humiliating giggle of my life comes out instead.

"I've learned to tune out distractions," he says, and dives back to his work.

I get out the body block and unzip the bag. Officer Glenham was right. The poor fellow is ugly. Looks like he's gone through hell enough for two in his lifetime – all those scars on him. Drugs, probably. I check the scale and realize I've left my recorder over by Brenda. Well, right in front of Sherlock, who appears to be examining a tattoo on her right wrist. I try clearing my throat, but he's learned to tune out distractions.

"Excuse me," I mutter as I reach around him for the little machine. He doesn't even bother to shift out of my way.

I feel as if I ought to be offended by that. By this entire bizarre encounter. I even decide to tell him so, open my mouth to tell him off. But instead I find myself blushing again. Silly reaction to being ignored. Rather than flutter at his elbow anymore, I resolutely head back to the corpse who isn't fortunate enough to receive Sherlock Holmes' full attention.

"Subject is an unidentified male, Caucasian, approximate age late 50s, early 60s, weight 72.4 kilograms, height 6 feet 1 inch. Hair gray and thinning, particularly around the crown, moderate truncal hair, no beard."

I'm aware that I'm rambling a bit, not following my usual strict order of examination, but when I need to put it all down on paper, I'll be able to find it well enough. Behind me, I hear Sherlock let out a frustrated growl and let one of Brenda's limbs flop back onto the table. It's almost companionable, this. I haven't gotten to work with someone else in the mortuary in weeks, unless you count the dead.

Something on the corpse catches my attention. A geometric shape on the neck. Must be a birthmark, it's not quite perfect enough to have been on purpose. I raise the recorder again. "Skin discolored on right side of neck, mottled red mark, possible birthmark? In the shape of a square."

I can feel the air freeze again. Sherlock has stopped his bustling. I turn to face him, but he's just standing with his back to me, perfectly still.

"Say that again." His voice is tense, deeper than it has been.

"He's got a mottled spot on his neck. Almost a perfect square. Looks like a birthmark." In contrast, my voice seems to have gone up at least an octave.

He whirls around and nearly shoves me out of the way to get a look himself. I expect him to whip out the jeweler's lens and set about telling me why that's suspicious, but he doesn't. He just stares, barely blinking, till I realize I'm holding my breath because my lungs are starting to ache.

He shoves his hand in his jacket pocket and pulls out a mobile. "Don't touch him," he orders.

I step back from the body, laying down my recorder. "Shall I just go back to Brenda, then?"

"No!"

I can't help flinching when he shouts it. He sees it and seems to force his thumbs to stop their frenetic typing.

"There's no reason to be alarmed. I just… I need someone else to confirm this before you continue with the autopsy. Either of them."

He's forcing himself to be pleasant, or what he thinks pleasant is supposed to be. I can tell he's really not sure. He's also not really in a pleasant mood. His expression as he sends the text is positively livid. I'm reminded again of a gawky raven, only this one is about to peck someone's eyes out. I just hope it's not me.

He doesn't move once the text is sent. Just stands there staring at the man on the slab. I glance over at Brenda. He seems to have taken a skin scraping from that tattoo, and has her hair fanned out so the roots show the best. She was a bottle blonde, apparently. I'll have to mark that down in the report.

"Well then," I say, just because the silence in here is getting stifling. "Will it be a long wait? I could fetch us a cuppa, or some biscuits from the break room…"

His eyebrows knit at that. He's annoyed that I'm talking, or maybe he hates biscuits. I can't really tell, and I don't dare ask.

As it turns out, it's not a long wait. The door swing open again and another stranger walks in, though Sherlock apparently knows him, because he doesn't do anything except jerk his head toward the Joe Bloggs, jaw set.

The newcomer is also dressed in a suit, though his is an olive brown and he's got a tie – a perfectly knotted tie. For some reason, all I can think is that I'm surrounded by potentially dangerous men and corpses. Maybe I should reconsider agreeing to the night shift.

He takes his time walking over, and when he arrives on the opposite side of the table, he doesn't immediately greet either of us. He just stares down at the corpse, looking faintly surprised.

"You should have told me." Sherlock's voice is tight, perfectly controlled, but the accusation is vicious.

"I told you enough," says the man blandly.

He looks up from the dead man's face and gives me a smile. It's funny, but his smile has that same practised feel to it. No, not quite the same. This man knows exactly what pleasant is supposed to look like and has perfected it down to the dimple. Even funnier: I trust Sherlock's smile much more.

"Mycroft Holmes. And you are?"

He's holding out his hand in greeting. I take it and mumble my name, still attempting to divide my attention between the two strangers. Related, apparently, though they don't look much alike.

"Miss Hooper, a pleasure. I wonder, could you give us a moment alone?" He's asking politely, but it somehow feels like a threat, and Sherlock is frowning.

"There's no reason for her to go, Mycroft." Sherlock snaps.

"I can just step into the break room. Won't be a bit of trouble," I offer, even though I don't think leaving them alone with a body is allowed.

"Don't go," Sherlock says, never taking his eyes off Mycroft. He's doing it because Mycroft will find it annoying. You can practically see the thought floating around his head. "You haven't written up the details from either of them."

"I could just take the envelope and –"

"Everything you need is right here. We wouldn't want to inconvenience you any more than is absolutely necessary," Sherlock says.

They're both smiling those awful smiles at each other, and I'd honestly like nothing more than to duck out to the break room, or the loo, or the hallway, really. But Sherlock asked me to stay.

I take the envelope with the details of our Joe Bloggs and head over to an empty slab where I can spread them out to catalogue. I pull out a rather battered-looking Bremont watch that seems to have stopped and note the time on the form. I'm not going to eavesdrop, but they aren't whispering or anything.

"Died in a boating accident," Sherlock says.

"You were 11."

"It was still a lie."

"Mother agreed it would be best."

Brothers, then. I put the watch aside and pull out several receipts that look as if they've lived in his pockets for weeks.

"Mother always did listen to your advice, didn't she?"

Mycroft gives a little chuckle. "Honestly, Sherlock, I'm surprised you never realized. We weren't particularly clever as to the way it was done."

"Gave him a new identity. Wouldn't have been hard for you, even then, would it? Filled the urn with some other -" Sherlock breaks off. "Of course. Trafalgar."

"He was a big enough dog to give us the amount of ashes we needed, and the veterinary was pressuring us to put him down anyway, with that tumor."

"It was easier because I was away at school."

"Oh, infinitely."

Two half-used books of matches. The tab from a box of cigarettes. I can't see enough of the label to figure out which brand it is.

"You still ought to have told me."

"Tell an 11 year-old boy that his father would rather be shed of the family so he can shoot himself full of drugs without ruining the family name?"

I jump at the words, dropping the envelope on its open end. A handful of coins fall onto the slab in a terrible crash of silver. I grab for them, daring a glance over my shoulder. Both of them are staring at me. Neither of them looks even a little sad that they're apparently standing over their father's corpse.

"Sorry," I murmur, collecting the pile so I can count it.

"It isn't as if I didn't know," Sherlock says, his voice back to that tight rage. "I knew things weren't right, I knew Mother was unhappy."

"Yes," Mycroft lets that syllable hang in the air. "And I knew that you weren't ready to know why."

"So you just cut him loose?"

Mycroft laughs, and Sherlock slams a hand down onto the slab.

"No, not you," he says. "You didn't only know he was alive. You've been watching him all these years, haven't you?"

"Making sure he wasn't a menace to others," Mycroft acknowledges. "I may have bailed him out a few times over the years, but we never had contact, if that's what you're implying."

"Well, then," Sherlock says, dismissively. "Pleasant chat, Mycroft. I assume you'll give Miss Hooper all the information she needs? I have work to do."

"Have you noticed the fingernails?"

I can't help but turn around now. Sherlock has picked up his jeweler's lens and is looking again at the tattoo. He looks up at Mycroft and hisses, "Yes."

"Then I'm not sure why you're looking further –"

"Because I'm not as lazy as you."

Mycroft gathers himself and turns toward me. "Miss Hooper. I trust you understand the need to keep all you've heard in the strictest confidence. I'll send you all the information you need to complete your forms by email, and we may consider this matter settled."

I nod because I've no idea what else to do. He looks down at the corpse once more, gives it a nod of farewell, and heads toward the door. I think he's going to leave, but he stops with the door ajar.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock keeps his attention in the wrist. Mycroft sighs.

"Would it have made a difference? If I'd told you?"

Whatever he's referring to, it's enough to make Sherlock pause. He even turns round to look at his brother.

"I don't know."

Mycroft nods and continues through the door.

I step forward. "I'm so sorry. My father's just been diagnosed with cancer, so I know some what this feels like –"

"If you don't mind, I'd like to take these specimens back to the lab for analysis." He's collecting his little bags and petri dishes, not bothering to look at me.

"If you want, I can leave him here, let you come back…"

"No, that won't be necessary, thank you," he says.

I can't understand it. Not wanting to say goodbye. Even knowing what he'd done. Sherlock notices my face.

"I said my farewells to my father 18 years ago. I've no reason to do so again tonight."

He makes it sound so logical, so normal, that I catch myself nodding along.

"But it's –" My words don't get any farther before he's out the door, too.

I look down at Brenda Ferrars, unsure of what to do with myself. Didn't Sherlock say not to touch her?

As if in answer, he pops his head back in. "Go ahead with him. I'll need Brenda Ferrars again before you finish with her."

"Okay," I say, though I know he's not waiting for an answer.

Such a strange man. I'll have to ask round about him tomorrow, see if I let a lunatic run wild in the mortuary. I don't think that's it, though. Not truly.

I turn to the other slab, select a scalpel from the tray, and look down at the man whose own two sons just walked away from his body without a glance back.

"Sorry."