Chapter Two
This is always the worst part of a new case. The waiting. John has come to dread it almost as much as Sherlock, though for a very different reason.
To the detective waiting is agonizingly boring, driving him to pacing the flat for hours at a time, his mind too intently focused on the facts to pass the time like a normal human being. He can't eat, he can't sleep, he can't play violin, watch the telly, or read... He can only agonize over every wasted second.
Which leads to the reason John hates waiting. Sherlock, bless his confused little soul, is a right dick when he gets in these moods. He'll snap over any little noise, any movement, any infraction in his focus. So while they wait for the lab results to get back on the skin scraping taken from the corpse, they have no more leads to follow. Meaning 221 Baker Street is in utter lock down mode. Mrs. Hudson doesn't leave her flat and John is secluded to his old room, sighing, sipping tea, and reading because any other activity would be too loud, thus too "distracting". He doesn't even dare call Mary to let her know why he rushed out that morning, of course she would be at work by now even if he could.
Finally, after three hours of tense, dragging silence, John hears the ping of his friend's phone through the floorboards. A moment later, there's the bang of Sherlock's door and John grabs his coat. The game is back on.
"What is it?" John asks, rushing to catch up to Sherlock, who has almost gotten to the front door already.
"Necrotizing Fasciitis!" Sherlock calls back.
"What?"
Suddenly the detective stops in his tracks, grabbing John by the shoulders. His eyes are glowing again and he can barely contain his excitement. "Necrotizing Fasciitis, John! Flesh eating bacteria! Oh this is wonderful!"
They hail a cab at the curb and slide into the first one that stops.
"Flesh eating bacteria?" John shudders at the thought. "That's what caused the body to be so badly decomposed?"
"Precisely. And not just any flesh eating bacteria, the newest species they've discovered. I read about it last week.
"So what does this mean in regards to our killer?"
"It means I was right. The murderer is a professional, someone obsessed with collecting data and experimentation. I thought they were a doctor but perhaps I was wrong. True, they have access to paralytic drugs but they are also someone who has access to brand new strands of extremely rare bacteria. They clearly work in a lab, some sort of institution."
John is nodding along, for once he's able to follow Sherlock's train of thought. "So a scientist, then?"
"Perhaps. As soon as we reach our destination, I'll be able to prove my theory."
"And...where are we going?"
Sherlock smirks. "University."
The cab drops them off outside of a prestigious school made of rustic red brick and high, arched windows. The sidewalks are bustling with students, all chatting away, oblivious that a killer walks among them. John follows Sherlock up the concrete steps to the lobby, where a receptionist's desk is placed tactfully amid gleaming marble and bright, white chandeliers.
The secretary is a cheerful looking girl no older than nineteen, with bobbed brown hair and freckled cheeks. "Good afternoon, gentlemen," she greets merrily. "Is there something I can help you with?"
"Ah, yes I hope so," Sherlock says, suddenly all charm and smiles. "I was hoping you could direct me to room 31C..."
The receptionist hums, tapping her fingers across the keyboard of her computer. A moment later, her happy face darkens. "Um, I'm sorry, sir. Room 31C is currently occupied, no visitors allowed."
"Oh that's alright," he assures her, the smile never leaving his face. "I'm not looking to go in. A friend of mine is working in that lab. He left his phone in my flat and I was just hoping to return it."
"Ahh..." The secretary hesitates, looking him up and down with suspicious brown eyes. "Well...I suppose if you just waited outside the classroom, that wouldn't be a problem."
Sherlock brightens. "Thank you, dear. Now, if you could just tell me where it is...?"
"Down that hall, take a right, 31C is the fourth door on your left." Sherlock thanks her again and he hustles off down the hall the girl indicated, John in tow. As soon as they're alone, Watson edges closer to his friend and asks in a whisper,
"Couldn't you have just looked at a map of the school?"
"Yes of course I could, but I wasn't really looking for directions to the classroom. My true intentions were to find out how tight the security was around that lab. See, she initially directed me away which means the computer showed that room as off limits to visitors. However, upon simply asking nicely, she allowed me access. As I suspected, the security isn't nearly as tight as it should be."
"So..."
"So any professor here could have easily gained access to the bacteria."
"Why a professor?"
"See the doors on the labs," Sherlock prompts, motioning to the thick, wooden doors lining the science wing. "There are key card locks on all of them. Students wouldn't have access but a professor would. All they would need is a decent excuse for going in."
John whistles, shaking his head. "You know, Sherlock, you'd have made one hell of a soldier."
The detective snickers. "While I appreciate the sentiment, John, military work never did suit me. Simply taking orders...so mindless. Ah...no offense."
"None taken."
The next door on their left is marked with a black 31C. Sherlock pulls John beside him and they lean against the wall, facing each other as if they're engaged in some fascinating conversation. However, Sherlock has his phone out and is scrolling rapidly through-what looks like-an online newspaper.
"Four people have been given full access to the bacteria," the detective whispers. "One professor and his three more promising students. They've been assigned to studying, growing, and graphing the tendencies, uses, and lifespans of the bacteria." He holds up his phone for John to see and, surely enough, everything he said is written in black and white on the website. "I knew I read about it somewhere."
"So you think one of those five people is the killer?"
"It's possible, though as I said, security is extremely lax..."
"And what exactly are we waiting for?"
"A word with our 'friend'..." Before John gets a chance to ask what he means, the door to the classroom opens and a young student strides out, wearing a white lab coat, rubber gloves, and safety goggles. Sherlock doesn't move to talk to them, however. Instead, he quickly grabs the door knob and pulls it open before it can close. John follows him inside, but Sherlock stops on the thresh hold.
There is a small crowd of students standing around a lab station, bent over their work. A professor stands beside them, keeping vigil over the precious bacteria. No one notices them yet and Sherlock obviously takes full advantage of the moment. John can almost see the wheels turning in his head as his icy blue eyes fly about the classroom, absorbing every bit of information to be gathered on the students and professor.
Eventually, the teacher spots them and goes rigid. "Excuse me!" he barks. "You're not allowed in here!"
"No, no, it's none of you..." Sherlock mutters, oblivious to the professor's impending fury.
"Excuse me! Gentlemen!"
Finally, Holmes looks up, eyebrows raised in surprise at the lab-coated man stomping toward them. "Oh I'm sorry, wrong room," he says, stopping the teacher in his tracks. "I'm looking for a professor who works out of this lab."
"That would be me."
"No, no, you're not him. He, erm, or she occasionally works here. This isn't their room but they come and go as they please. Was possibly here...this morning? Around nine?"
The professor blinks, glancing back in disbelief at his stunned students. "Who are you?"
"Name's Sherlock Holmes, nice to meet you. Now, this other teacher?"
"Um...there's...only one other professor with regular access to this particular lab...friend of mine. By the name of Grady."
"Ahh, yes! That was the name, thank you. Um, where could I find him?"
"Room 37D, just down the hall."
"Thank you. And sorry for the intrusion. Come along, John." Sherlock all but drags him out of the room, face alight, looking immensly pleased with himself.
"What was that all about?" John asks as they all but run down the hall to the next classroom. "How'd you know it wasn't any of them? And all that about the other professor being there at nine?"
"None of them fit the profile," Sherlock states. "Two of the students have just come back from holiday. They're darkly tanned and one of them had a picture phone on their work station, the other some kind of scrap book. The third student is simply too sloppy and careless. Remember the crime scene? No physical evidence left behind. That girl had ketchup on her lab coat and her desk was a disaster."
"And the professor?"
"Too busy having an affair." Room 37D is unlocked, the door propped open and inviting. Sherlock breezes in as if he's been there a dozen times, glancing about as a slow grin spreads across his face. "This is it, John," he whispers. "This man, this Grady, he's our killer."
"What? How..."
"Look, just look! It's so obvious! The posters!"
Posters? John turns around, spotting a handful of small laminated posters taped to the wall above the teacher's desk. X-Files, CSI, Forensic Files... John smirks. "A fan of crime shows, I see."
"Precisely! And look," he takes John to a bookshelf along the wall, pulling a random volume and holding it out. "Anatomy."
"So he's teaches medicine."
"Dr. Grady, you scoundrel..." Sherlock chuckles, shoving the book back into its spot. "But just teaching medicine isn't enough...where did you get the paralytics?"
"Um, can I help you?" The voice is enough to make John jump. He and Sherlock whirl around to find a skinny, greying, mousy-looking man standing in the doorway. His face is framed with glasses and he's wearing a sweater vest and tan slacks. The ID card pinned to his belt identifies him as a professor for the university.
Sherlock steps forward, holding out his hand. "Sherlock Holmes," he introduces himself. "And you must be Dr. Grady."
"Yes, that's right..." The doctor shakes Sherlock's hand suspiciously, glancing at John.
"Doctor John Watson," he says, shaking the man's hand as well.
"Dr. Grady, please excuse this unorthodox meeting but we have a bit an...unusual request to make of you. See, my friend here, Dr. Watson, is considering attending this lovely university however, he's from out of town. We were just chatting to a friend of yours and according to him, you happen to know of a local clinic that allows professors to work evening shifts...?"
Dr. Grady visibly relaxes. Chuckling he nods his head. "Ah, yes. You must have been taking to Dr. Rogers. Yes, I work there in the evenings every so often for a bit of extra cash. Lovely clinic, very flexible schedules, especially for students."
John smiles and plays along. "So what do you do there, if you don't mind me asking?"
"Anesthesiologist," Grady says and John suppresses a grin. "I could put in a word for you, if you like?"
"Yes, that'd be wonderful, thank you."
Sherlock smiles and glances at his watch. "Well, excuse us, Doctor. We have to fly."
"Yes, nice meeting you. And I do hope to see you at the clinic, Dr. Watson."
"Same to you, Dr. Grady." They breeze out the door, natural as can be. "Nice guy," John mutters.
"Yes, shame he's a murderer."
"So where do we go from here?"
Sherlock doesn't answer at first. When John looks, he finds his friend back on his phone, scrolling down, down, down... Eventually, he tosses the mobile to John, who finds the GPS open with a little orange flag blinking at an address a few blocks down the street. "You're going on a housecall, Doctor."
