Chapter Two

I know this is a tad short, but the ending for this chapter was just too perfect.


If Sherlock could scream in frustration right now, he would. How do you not know a live body when you see one? True, the paralytic was inhibiting his heart beat somewhat, causing it to not pound at his pulse points like it should, but really? What idiot medical examiner did they have working for Scotland Yard?

Any real doctor would be able to tell that Sherlock was still alive. He still had a heart beat (albeit a faint one), he was still breathing (easily felt by placing a hand under the nose), his core body temperature had not decreased (which you could easily tell by placing a hand to his chest), and his pupils were not the fixed and dilated ones of a corpse (really, did they not teach you this?).

Luckily, Sherlock had the two best doctors in London for friends. Now, if one of them would just snap out of his shock and look.

John stood over by the wall, staring at Sherlock. The officer from before was now taking pictures of the supposed murder scene. The flashes were doing nothing to faze John; he only kept staring at him. And it was as though he wasn't staring at Sherlock, exactly. It was as though he was staring back through the years at another Sherlock.

"I'm a doctor, let me come through," said John, pushing his way past the crowd around Sherlock's body in front of St. Bart's. "Let me come through, please."

Some of the crowd tried to hold him back, but he pushed through them.

"No, he's my friend. He's my friend. Please."

He reached down to take hold of Sherlock's wrist, searching for a pulse. A woman peeled his fingers off as they pulled him away. As he reached towards his friend again, more medics arrived with a wheeled stretcher.

"Please, let me just…"

John slumped to the pavement as two people gently rolled Sherlock onto his back, revealing his blood-stained face and wide, staring eyes.

Four people lifted Sherlock's body onto the stretcher and then rapidly wheeled it away into the hospital. John stared after it, his face blank and uncomprehending.

"John," said Lestrade as he stepped over to him, "why don't you go home?"

"No," John told him as he firmly shook his head. "I'm not leaving him. Not this time."

John, this was not your fault! Sherlock wanted to shout at him.

Lestrade nodded, leaning back against the wall next to John. "It's strange, yeah?"

John frowned and finally looked away from Sherlock. "What's strange?"

Lestrade nodded his chin once in Sherlock's direction. John glanced at Sherlock and back to the inspector.

"After Moriarty, when we thought he was dead, and then…" said Lestrade. "It just doesn't…"

"Seem real," John finished, staring at Sherlock.

That's because it isn't! Sherlock silently shouted at his friend. Listen to that feeling! It's your instinct recognizing the signs of life! Don't let them take me away, John!

For at that very moment, the coroner was approaching with a black body bag.

Great, now I'll just suffocate on the way to the morgue. John!

"Have you told Molly?" asked John, still staring at his best friend.

"Yeah…" Lestrade sighed. "Somewhere in between the sobs, she said she would meet us at the hospital."

"Oh, God…" sighed John as Sherlock's heart clenched.

Oh, my God, Molly… Sherlock thought. What she must be going through…

"They finally found each other, and now…" said John, shaking his head sadly. "I've never seen him that happy before—" his voice was starting to waver, "and now, they'll never get to start a family and live—" he broke off as tears formed in his eyes. He took a harsh breath as he looked at Lestrade. "He's really gone this time, isn't he?"

Lestrade placed a hand on John's shoulder.

No, I'm not! Sherlock yelled in frustration. Open your eyes!

The coroner had stretched out the bag next to him and was starting to unzip it.

My God, they're really going to put me in that thing, thought Sherlock, beginning to feel the terror set in. And then they'll take me to the morgue and give me an autopsy…while I watch!

Just this morning, John had practically berated him for not sympathizing with the paralyzed victims. And now, he was about to get a front row seat to their horrific deaths.

How ironic… Sherlock grumbled as the coroner called someone over to help.

An officer squatted down above Sherlock's head as the coroner squatted at his feet.

No, not yet! Sherlock cried in his head. John needs to come back and—No!

Sherlock was suddenly lifted from the pavement and moved to the right before being set back down again. He could see John out of the corner of his eye holding a hand to his mouth as he watched. The edges of the body bag were being tugged out from under his feet and laid back over them.

John! Sherlock shouted again.

His arms were then lifted and placed inside the bag as the sound of a zipper was heard. The panic began to rise as his lower body was closed up in the body bag. For he knew that once he was in that body bag, he was gone for good.

For God's sake! Sherlock yelled. Someone!

The zipper stopped as they readjusted the flaps over him, giving him a moment's respite before it began moving again.

Please! Sherlock screamed, begging for the first time in his life.

John's brows furrowed before he closed his eyes and turned away.

You idiots! Sherlock shouted as the zipper closed over his face.

The darkness swept over him as he was closed in, and the dejection came with it. This was it. He had maybe fifteen minutes of air left, and the ride to St. Bart's was twenty.

Well, at least we'll finally get to use my empty coffin, he thought sarcastically.

Then, by some miracle—whether it be fate or God—the zipper got stuck. Sherlock's focus zeroed in on that tiny pinprick of light. Someone was tugging on the stubborn zipper.

"Just leave it," someone said. "Better stuck open than closed."

The zipper was then abandoned, and relief swept through Sherlock, who allowed hope to fill him. Maybe he would make it out of this after all.

"Alright, let's load him up," said the voice again. "It's off to the morgue with this guy."

Dread filled Sherlock at the word "morgue." Morgue meant autopsy…a live autopsy.

Out of the frying pan…and into the fire.


Is it just me, or do you hear Gandalf when reading that last line?