John put his hands on his hips, looked down at Sherlock, and demanded, "What?" He didn't bother with details for the question.
"A brilliant researcher and dynamic public speaker … reduced to that," Sherlock murmured, still ensnared by the thought of the woman in the wheelchair, who had watched, silent and immobile, as the machines that kept her breathing were deliberately turned off.
"A hint of compassion for a murder victim finally stirring in your heart?" John said skeptically.
"Of course not," Sherlock snapped. "And it wasn't murder, it was euthanasia."
"She might have felt otherwise!" John replied hotly.
"And how would anyone know?" Sherlock growled back. "She had the dementia too. Her … mind … was … gone! And … it could happen … to … anyone. There's simply nothing to be done about it," he finished quietly, looking away in distress.
Abruptly John understood. That agile mind and lithe, elegant body was just as much at risk as the murder victim's had been … as much as the famous astrophysicist's had been. Intelligence was clearly no defense – terrifying territory for Sherlock.
"Wrong," John said suddenly, getting up. He rummaged in the cleaning cupboard and then in the freezer. "There is something to be done."
Sherlock watched curiously, and then asked, "What are you going to do with that bucket?"