{Collaborative fic with my brother, Professor of Time xoxo}
Though the station bustled with humanity thronging here and there, all seeming to either be shouting to a significant other far away through their mobile or rattling on to a companion in a needlessly loud voice, one man sat silent and oblivious on a bench. His watch marked the time as 3:38, two minutes ahead of schedule. He mildly wondered if John would be true to his word in coming to fetch him as he sat, absorbed in his own thoughts.
A few short moments later, another man began bumping clumsily into the bustling crowd.
"Sorry- Sorry! Excuse me, have you seen a tall man in a coat, quiet, sort of-"
He was cut off by the stranger pointing to the south end of the station before hastily moving away, continuing his phone conversation.
"Thank you!" the man called out before starting toward the indicated direction.
Sherlock's quick gaze picked out the figure hurrying his way. Short, blond, walked with a limp... Most certainly him. Wondering more about him was not in his nature, since he knew all he needed to know already and could know basically everything else with a few long looks, but he was slightly curious about what sort of man would begin a flatshare with HIM. Especially since John Watson knew next to nothing about him at all. Perhaps it was better that way...
John quickly limped over to Sherlock, stopping a short distance away.
"Sherlock!" he called out. The strange detective continued to examine him, makng John feel like a bug under a microscope. "Are you ready?"
Wordlessly, Sherlock arose, and looked down at the shorter man. "Why are you early? There's no way you could have known the train's schedule unless you are just one of those overly punctual people. Either that or you've set your watch wrong. He peered at is own watch, and then cracked a brief grin. "Home then? Oh, actually, I need to stop by the morgue, unless you object."
John raised his brow at the odd request, but said nothing but a curt, "Alright," before falling in a lopsided step with Sherlock. "And for your information, I'm early because you're my flatmate. If anything happened to you, I'd be stuck with the rent." He smiled slightly at his own joke, then began chattering about his day to break the silence.
Sherlock seemed to not even hear John as he prattled on and on, instead looking out the window of the cab which they hired and clambered in to, his fingers idly going to and fro over the rough wool of his coat, his mind rebelling against the idleness into which it was forced. He hoped there would be someone fresh at the mortuary, preferably something sinister, something beyond the usual death-of-natural-causes.
He broke into John's monologue and said abruptly, "I am beginning to think of taking up smoking again. You're a doctor - what do you have to say? Nevermind, I know, but say it anyway. I need to argue with someone to keep me awake." He exhaled through his nose, sheer boredom tapping a headache into the base of his neck.
John was startled by the sudden admission, actually opening and closing his mouth silently. "Well, um, I wouldn't advise it- the things it can do to your health, after all, and how hard it is to quit- I used to smoke myself, stopped during the war-" At this, he began to subconsciously rub his knee, babbling about how hard it had been on him- "So no, I don't think-"
Sherlock grinned as they pulled into the Morgue's parking lot. "Oh. We're here," John stated, still surprised at Sherlock's revelation of something personal.
Leaping from the cab, Sherlock strode up the steps of the mortuary and yanked open one of the doors, mercifully holding it for John to amble through. "I thought soldiers began smoking in the service, not quit," he murmured. "Stress relief is never more needed than a man at war."
John limped past Sherlock, nodding in agreement. "Most of us did. One of my patients, however, started smoking much earlier. He died and I was asked to do an autopsy. His lungs were shrunken and black. It was one of the most disgusting things I had ever seen. That was early on in my service, though... I've seen worse by now." He halted in front of the double doors that led to the lab. "Well? Shall we?"
Sherlock regarded John dubiously as he described his experiences with autopsies. "Well, glad to know you won't be shocked," he said in a glib way, pushing through the doors and entering the lab. "Hello, Molly," he greeted the girl, hardly looking her direction. "Anyone new since Friday?"
Molly blushed and looked away, busying herself with her nails. "Wh-What? What do you-" She stopped when she saw the businesslike look on Sherlock's face. "Oh. Bodies. Yes, a few. Would you like to see them?" She looked at John, the blush fading slightly. "Who's your friend?"
"Retired army doctor, Afghanistan, new flat mate," Sherlock replied briskly. "But I haven't got all day, so who's the most intersting one?"
Molly walked to the doors, opening them and leading them to a gurney in the center of the room. "His name is Andrew Lewis. He's 24, and he was found face down in the Thames. But the interesting bit," she said as she lifted back the cover, "is his hands."
John glanced at the man's hands- or rather, hand. Andrew's left hand had been sawed off. On his wrist was a crudely tooled tattoo of a skull being stabbed. His right hand was a bloody mess. It was clear he had been subject to torture; each and every one of his fingernails had been ripped out, and several puncture wounds covered the raw flesh.
"Okay," John said quietly, "Never seen THAT before."
"How long ago was he brought in?" Sherlock asked. "Can't have been in the water for more than an hour- the blood is still fresh, and the skin doesn't show signs if bloating." He retrieved a tiny dish from his pocket and took a small sample of the blood, sniffing it as he did so. "That's not right," he muttered. "Prognosis, doctor?" A slight smile played around the edges of his mouth as he photographed the tattoo and proceeded to examine the victim's neck. "Oh- and Molly- what articles if clothing, if any? Describe exactly please, or better yet, show me."
"He was found about an hour ago," Molly replied. "They thought he'd only been in the water for twenty minutes or so."
John walked over to the body, beginning to examine it as Sherlock had instructed him.
"Well," he said, "He's obviously been tortured, look at his hand. You wouldn't get that from the kitchen." He frowned for a moment while he thought. "What confuses me," he continued after a moment, "Is how he died. It doesn't look like he lost enogh blood to die that way, and there doesn't seem to be another wound. What do YOU think?"
"Have you had a look at his lungs, Molly?" Sherlock asked. "John, really. Face down in the Thames and you can't think how he died. Do you ever get a headache from that level of ignorance? I would."
Molly piped up. "Actually, I haven't. Would you like me to?"
Sherlock compressed his lips. "Yes, please. Now, if you don't mind directing me to his clothing..." He looked quickly around the room and sighted them in a sodden pile upon the nearby examining table. "Here we are." He crossed the room in two quick strides and spread the wet garments out: a button-down shirt, a light jacket of polyurethane, trousers of an old-fashioned style two sizes too big for the body, socks, new, and -
"Shoes, does he have any shoes?" Sherlock called.
Molly replied calmly. "No, he was found without any. Why?"
John walked over to the detective, curious. "Does it matter?"
"Of course it matters," Sherlock snapped.
Molly paled at his anger. "I-I'm sorry, I didn't think -"
"It is, quite possibly, the most important bit of information we have, other than the discovery of the missing hand..." He ran a hand over his mouth, eyeing the blood stains on the left cuff of the shirt. Narrowing his eyes, he looked closer. "He was not wearing this shirt when the hand was cut off - see?" He pointed. "The blood is drug down the entirity of the sleeve. And the trousers are clearly not his. No belt, either." A line appeared between his brows. "I suppose finding the hand is out of the question..." he mused.
"You think he was kidnapped?" John interrupted.
Sherlock slapped his hands together. "Finally! Clothing not his own, shoes probably contained some sort of compromise, either in time to put them back in after removing his original clothing, or mud, which gives everything away. John, see if I'm right about the lungs, you being a lung expert and all."He grabbed Molly by the shoulders and spun her around, saying:
"I'm going to phone Lestrade and tell him to have his team search the area where he was found. Once we have his original clothing, we can start arresting people." And he dashed out the door.
John began the autopsy with the help of Molly, reaching the lungs quickly. "Let's see what he has to say, then, shall we?"
Twenty minutes later, John was on the phone with Sherlock. "We found a good deal of water in his lungs, enough to confirm that he drowned. How's the search for his clothes?"
The wind whipping by the mouthpiece of the phone clamped to Sherlock's ear sent a wave of static crackles over the wireless. "Just where they should- rather, shouldn't be," Sherlock vociferated over the wind, managing to sound quite elated. "Have almost absolute proof that he was thrown from a ferry, or other boat of some kind. Getting intel on today's river traffic now."
"Getting intel- Where are you? On top of a boat?" John was confused by the detective. A man had been murdered, and yet he sounded ecstatic, as though he lived for it. Which, John supposed, he did. How else could he afford the rent? Sighing and shaking off the train of thought, he interrupted Sherlocks explanation of exactly why he was on the prow of a sailboat in the river.
"Should I meet you?" John asked.
"We're coming in in just a few minutes," Sherlock replied. "Lucky for us a recreational yachtsman with an expired tag agreed to exchange favors with the detective inspector. Meet me at the Waterloo Pier. Tell Molly not to disturb anything while you're gone." Then he hung up.
After relaying Sherlock's message to Molly, John found himself standing on the pier waiting. "Sherlock," he said as the detective approached, "Did you find anything?"
His brows were drawn together, his mouth pursed in thought, a far cry to his joyousness a mere ten minutes ago. "It doesn't make sense," he muttered. "Why would someone torture a man, then throw him from a boat? He clearly wasn't dead when he hit the water- why not kill him first? There has to be a particular reason they wanted him DROWNED..." Sherlock seemed to see John for the first time. "Oh, hello."
"Sherlock... About what you just said. Maybe they wanted to send a message?"
"Message..." Sherlock stared at John. "Message to whom? Scotland Yard? River Patrol? They would have no way of knowing who would pull him out, or even if they would." Suddenly his eyes lot up. "Oh!" he exclaimed. "Stupid! He wasn't thrown from the boat at all..." Before John could say anything, Sherlock raced up toward the pier.
"Sher- Sherlock!" John cursed and began to chase after the odd detective. "What do you mean he wasn't thrown from the boat?!"
Sherlock ran along the sidewalk, halting and leaning his lanky frame far over the railing, peering into the river below. "He was thrown from the bridge. Nothing small enough was on the river today, and there are no gaps in the patrol. Brilliant..." He began inspecting the railing. "And we should be finding some blood about... here." He stopped short and squatted to peer at the tiny dark splotches on the pavement.
John gaped at him. "That's... That's absolutely amazing. How did you-?"
Sherlock lowered himself to his stomach on the asphalt, sniffing at the stains. "Cocaine. I knew it. Drugged, tortured, and thrown from a bridge. But who? Why?" He seemed unaware that he was still lying on the ground as he lost himself in thought. The roar of an approaching bus didn't seem to even penetrate his senses.
"Sherlock, the tattoo? Did you connect anything to it? It might have been a calling card of sorts."
Sherlock picked himself up just as the bus sped by, and regarded John with a strange look. "Did you photograph it?"
John pulled out his phone, tapping into his gallery and showing Sherlock. "You didn't?"
"I did, but I don't feel like getting my phone out, it's in my trouser pocket." He indicated that the huge problem was the presence of his overcoat.
Peering at the screen, Sherlock turned it upside down and sideways, but didn't seem to see what he wanted. "I didn't give it much attention. Do you think it's recent? Clearly a shoddy do-it-yourself kind of job."
"It certainly LOOKS recent, the skin around it is inflamed. See?" John pointed out the redness around the edges of the skull. "A shoddy, do-it-yourself job, yes- except that he appears to have been left handed. The right hand wasn't calloused in any way, like it hadn't been used as often, and his left arm was somewhat more muscular. That indicates the likelihood that he used his left arm more often. Surely you noticed?" John was surprised to think that he had noticed something before Sherlock.
"Left-handed... of course," he muttered. "Call a cab, we need to head back to the morgue. I want to look at his legs. By the way, how could you tell his right hand wasn't calloused if it was such a mess? Sorry, just wondering if you're as credible as you seem."
After the cab had arrived, John began to explain how he recognized the lack of callouses in the midst of the wounds. "If you look closely at his hand, you'll see the most obvious thing: the nails and stabs. There are cuts all across the hands, but they all appear to be recent. Now, look at his palms. Do you see where the skin looks a little darker? Look at my hands, they have the same marks. I suppose I drew on things I knew rather than completely diagnosing the situation," he said sheepishly.
Sherlock regarded the doctor with a curious expression on his face. "Very good," he said at last, "Except the tattoo still isn't explained. Think!" he exclaimed, causing their cabbie to jump, and look nervously back over his shoulder. Sherlock pressed his hands to his head and sat in silence for a moment before suddenly pulling out a soggy ticket stub from his pocket and passing it to John.
"He was supposed to be on this flight that left yesterday morning from Dublin. Something doesn't add up. According to police records he has no friends or relations. Nobody has no friends or relations, don't be idiotic.. Someone didn't want him on this flight.."
"Who was he?" John asked. "What did he do for a living?" He glanced at the soaked ticket before handing it back to Sherlock.
"That's why I want to have a look at his legs - cricket player. Found his phone in the pocket of his original clothing, and it was filled with pictures of Graeme Pollock, Brian Lara, and publicities of Sir Gary Sobers. All left-handed batsmen. He's was a student at Queen's, suspected to be there on scholarship, and the dates on his ticket correspond with the dates for the Dublin ODI no. 3409." Sherlock clambered from the cab and leapt up the steps to the morgue, still talking rapidly.
"The drugging may have something to do with that. It would look to be simply foul play in sports, but no, I think it was more. Think about what we have. Andrew Lewis, 24 years old, left-handed, death by drowning, clothing not his own. Not just drowning, first tortured, drugged - actually drugged, then tortured - thrown from the Waterloo Pier. Not in water more than 20 minutes before he's fished out and we find he planned to fly to Dublin, thus cricket player. Student, clearly, from his age, the only university offering cricket scholarships this late in the semester is Queen's. Both his parents died earlier this year, from records, no friends, colleagues Keiran Conaway, Sam Hartis, and Mitchell Lowe, from phone contacts."
Sherlock paused a moment to take a breath, and then concluded, examining the body closely, "Quick-thinking, if he's a batsman, but nervous temperament, look at his chewed lip. You can see he's depressed by his instep and had childhood health issues: appendectomy scar, tonsils removed. He's clearly trying to prove himself to someone, because records at Queen's indicate that his grades were steadily rising. He would have graduated in the spring. Now - who is he trying to impress? Once we know that, we can know to start looking for the murderer. I suspect they are one and the same."
"I see," John replied. "But before we do that..." He looked at Sherlock, eyes wide. "How in the WORLD did you know that?"
Sherlock stared at John. "Are you deaf? It's all so obvious! So who is he trying to impress... Not his father, he is dead, stastically more likely he is trying to impress a girl, but there are no girl's names in his contact list..." He trailed off. "Could Sam be a girl?"
A quick check revealed this to be a dead end. The picture on Sam Hartis' myspace account showed a young man with long black hair in a ponytail, but definitely a man. "Black Sam Bellamy..." Sherlock muttered. "53 ships, died at age 28. Let's have a look at that tattoo again."
John pulled out his cell again, pulling up the image. "Who's Black Sam Bellamy?" he inquired.
"Pirate, killed in the 1800's. But it could be some sort of revival..." Sherlock pressed his hands together in thought.
Just then, Molly walked in to the room. "Oh, you're back -" she began, but Sherlock cut her off. "Shut up. Thinking."