The Body in the Tomb
I was trapped in a tomb once. Sounds much more dramatic and terrifying than the actual experience was, but it's a fitting way to begin this story. You see, while working for my PhD in Forensic Pathology I took some classes in Forensic Anthropology. Those classes included field work which meant shipping me out to a distant desert to handle ancient bones. It was fascinating... and hot, very hot. This part of my life, though small and insignificant to most, has been what I considered the most exciting part of my life thus far. I am also quite proud that Sherlock Holmes has never deduced this little detail. In fact, he has even gotten certain finer points blatantly wrong. Another point of pride for me.
On the day he and I met, he swept into the lab in all his self important glory, flipping about his coat and curls to ensure all focus was on him. His eyes took one swipe at me as Dr Stamford attempted to introduce me. I say attempted because he only got as far as 鉄herlock this is-before being summarily cut off.
"Doctor Molly Hooper, newest resident in the Pathology department. Graduated fourth in her class, not out of lacking intelligence, but out of lacking nerve. Her blatant inability to hold a scalpel, as evidenced by the cut across her inside palm, should have been a sign that she may not be ready for the big leagues yet, Mike. But I suppose she's mostly harmless, dresses like a matronly school girl, obvious sign of a raging inferiority complex, she'll listen to everything you say, and do everything you want, so in that regard she is an ideal employee if you want the paperwork finished. The emphasis on the final syllable echoed across the lab. 的f you'll be needing me, I'll be in the morgue."
"Yes, he's always like that"
That was the first time I heard Mike solemnly utter those words, but it most certainly was not the last. It took me two hours to get over the shock of being reduced to my most basic flaws, but after those two hours I realized his one mistake. Sherlock did eventually work with me, though he refused to allow me to use a scalpel in his presence for the first two months. I like to think that what he saw when I finally performed an autopsy in front of him was what started him down the road of trust we have developed since.
But back on point, that very first day, Sherlock Holmes was wrong. You see the cut across my hand was not nerves induced mishandling of a scalpel, but in fact nerves induced grappling onto the nearest surface. Said surface happened to be a sarcophagus holding a thirteen hundred year old Umayyad leader whose blade was still as sharp as the day it was hammered out. So not only was I trapped in a tomb as the sun was slowly setting, in a country I had just arrived in the week previous, but now I was bleeding profusely with my only companion, a dead man who, from the damage done to his right side, had led a spectacularly dubious and dangerous life, and ultimately death.
It was with those memories in mind, I climbed the stairway to 221B Baker Street.
"Ah Molly, have you brought me the gallbladder I requested?Sherlock asked before I even reached the door. His back was turned toward me, but it didn't surprise me anymore he knew who walked in.
"Ehm, no, not quite. But I do have something else for you."
"And what pray tell may that be?"
"A body's been found in a tomb."