Heterochromia Iridis

by JanineCh

Just another ordinary day collecting body parts from the morgue. At least that's what it should have been when Molly left early for once in over a month. She'd expected he would have left her alone and gone back to his routine, but a call from a pleading father led her back to 221B. Sherlock was never one for babysitting. Why start now? Why act like he cared at all?

1. Chapter 1: Just Another Day

Chapter 1: Just an Ordinary Day

Sherlock turned the pastry burner ever so slightly, cauterizing the vein that hung loosely off the severed eyeball he'd received from Molly just before the Euros incident. As he watched the pink flesh shrivel and turn charcoal, he mused about that meeting. Unlike any other day when he came for spare parts, Molly wasn't begrudging. Upon request, Molly immediately went to a small fridge she called the mini-morgue and pulled out two eyes, still fresh, in a plastic bag.

With little resistance in obtaining what he wanted, Sherlock frowned. There could have been any number of things wrong with Molly, ranging from euphoria to temporary insanity. However, he didn't question his good luck. He had gotten what he came for to lighten up his rather boring day. What did it matter that Molly was acting strangely?

As usual, he had taken what he asked for, complemented the part in her hair, she seemed to like that, and turned around letting his long coat flip like a cape. Just as he was about to exit, Molly said, "Heterochromia Iridis. The eyes are just like yours."

The eyes are just like yours.

The vein he had been so carefully cauterizing moments before was on fire. Now aware of the burning, Sherlock shut off the pastry burner and slightly shook the eyeball to snuff out the flame. He watched the iris of the eye as he shook it back and forth. The color shifted from a pale green to an icy blue. Just as Molly said, Heterochromia Irdis, the eye changed color depending on its angle to light. Molly Hooper paid more attention than he gave her credit for.

"Oh, for the love of sanity…Sherlock! Do I smell burning flesh?" John hollered, almost causing Sherlock to jump. He had promised John no more burning of body parts in the flat. With a flick of the wrist he threw the eye next to its partner and covered it with a newspaper. He turned on the pastry burner and started scorching something left on the counter. Just as John walked in, Sherlock—with his most innocent smile—said, "Muffin? Made it myself."