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Chapter 2

Sherlock stared down at the body. It was the girl who had jumped from the rooftop. Her skin was pure white with death, but he had closed her eyes out of respect. Her face was very angular and sharp; high cheek bones, beautiful and refined features. He had ordered her body to be moved to the morgue. He had to examine her body if he was to figure out why she committed suicide so easily. Just looking at her naked body, he could tell she was abused in some fashion. Ugly, white scars littered her flesh. Some were long and deep, while others were short and faint. His brow furrowed upon closer inspection; the scars were too precise and tidy to be by any average person, but by someone with medical experience by the looks of it… a doctor perhaps?

"What on earth are you doing?" Watson inquired suddenly. Sherlock looked up sharply and gave him a pointed look.

"Figuring it out." He stated simply.

"Figuring what out? It was a suicide, not a murder."

"I know that, but something isn't quite right about it." Watson gave him a look that clearly said 'do tell' with raised eyebrows. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Remember how she panicked when she saw us? Why would she do that if she didn't even know who we were? She was panicking and everything became a threat. The violence she showed was fuelled by said panic. She couldn't have possibly been so scared of a pair of men she didn't know, that she committed suicide right in front of them." To be honest none of that made sense in Watsons mind.

"So… you brought her body to the morgue. Why?"

"Because her body might be able to tell us what she can't." Sherlock motioned for the doctor to put on a pair of latex gloves. The consulting detective gestured to a particularly long scar from her hip to just under her breasts. "This is a very old scar, along with the others on her body I can tell she has been abused. Now tell me, Doctor, do they look like they were done by the average person?" Watson studied the scars and sighed.

"They look to me like surgical scars after an operation." He said.

"Yes, but she is young, only around 19, so it is highly unlikely she would have so many operations in her lifespan. It just doesn't happen."

"How can you be sure she was abused though?"

"Look closely Watson, it isn't that difficult!" Sherlock exclaimed. Her gently grabbed her wrist and over turned it. Her wrists were red raw and bruised heavily. They also had numerous cuts along them, new ones.

"Looks like the work of tight handcuffs. These cuts also look like they were self-harm…" Watson trailed off.

"And?" Sherlock egged him on. Watson frowned and continued to look at her wrists.

"Oh my God…" He murmured. There was thousands of tiny, barely noticeable puncture marks along her wrists, shoulders and even her stomach. They were the work of numerous injections.

"Finally, you caught up." Sherlock said.

"It still doesn't make any sense… Was she some kind of drug addict?"

"Might well be, still haven't had the results of the test back. If I could only have seen her face when she was alive I would have been able to tell."

"Mind if I take a look?" Watson asked. Sherlock smirked, he had been waiting for him to ask that. Sherlock gestured for him to proceed.

Watson checked everything he could- her pupils, her DNA and anything of that sort.

"She most certainly wasn't under the influence from what I can tell." He said, sighing.

"I need to think." Sherlock groaned, pushing the drawer into the metal face of the morgue.

"Aren't you going to put her in a body bag?" Watson asked.

"When Molly graces us with her presence with it in her possession." He answered, slight sarcasm slipping into his voice.

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The girl felt cold. She opened her blurry eyes and blinked. The air was almost stagnant with a tense atmosphere. A strange smell reached her nose and she began to gain her senses back. She couldn't move. She was in such a small, confined area; it felt like she was in a coffin. She tried to keep her breathing steady while she lifted her hands to touch cold, hard metal. It was all around her and there was no way out. Then she began to panic. Her breathing picked up and soon she was hyperventilating. The walls were closing in on her; she needed to get out.

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Sherlock and Watson were just about to leave the room, when they heard breathing. It was fast and erratic. They gave each other a look of confusion. Re-entering the room, they tried to find the source. There was no one else in the room other than them right? They didn't see or hear anyone else come in. Could it be one of the… bodies? No, that was an absurd idea. They were just dead bodies. Dead as in not breathing. It wasn't until they both heard a big, loud bang from one of the drawers that they began to rethink that theory.

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The girl hit and kicked within the metal coffin, trying to escape without much success. She thrashed violently, tears spilling down her cheeks. Her throat constricted and she screamed. She shrieked hysterically, calling for help.

"Get me out! Please! Let me out!" She cried, hoping desperately that someone would hear her.

The metal coffin was suffocating her. Everything she did made it only become worse and worse with every breath she took.

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Sherlock and Watson heard the screaming, it was a woman. They instantly pulled open one of the drawers and the screaming became louder. They jumped back in shock as the body rolled onto the floor and hit the tiles with a slap. The person looked up with stormy grey eyes and scurried into the corner of the room, completely naked with nothing covering her body and huddled her legs to her bare chest. Her auburn hair fell like curtains over her knees and back. Her shoulders shook as she cried quietly. Watson glanced at Sherlock and if Sherlock's stoic expression was anything to go by, he was thinking very hard. Watson was actually the first to react by kneeling down by the girl, not so close as to startle her.

"Are you okay, Miss?" He asked tentatively. She ignored him and continued to hug her legs closer to her body.

"Miss?" He braved an attempt to lay a comforting hand on her shoulder, but it didn't go as planned. She shrieked and pushed him away from her and into Sherlock. They both stumbled backwards while she pushed past them. Sherlock pulled Watson to his feet quickly and they turned to look at the woman. She was holding a surgery knife-a large scalpel-and had it pointed at them. Watson raised his hands and watched her cautiously. Her eyes were wild and her muscles rigid. She was still very much naked, but her long, waist length hair fell over her shoulders and covered her breasts from view.

"Miss, put that down." Watson said.

"I don't know what use a scalpel would be against two grown men." Sherlock stated angrily. The woman froze. It was the same man she met on the rooftops…. When she jumped… She was meant to be dead. Why didn't she die? How did she get in a hospital? Did they bring her there? No, it wasn't a hospital… it was a morgue. So she did die. But… how could… she was still… alive?

"Lestrade, no!" Watson's loud shout broke her from her little reverie and she spun around quickly, only to be met with the end of a gun. She felt a sharp pain in her shoulder, before her vision faded out and she blacked out.

Sherlock and Watson watched as her eyes roll into the back of her head and she collapsed into a heap on the floor. Watson looked at Sherlock, whose eyes held a strange anger and frustration. He had never seen Sherlock look like that over something like this. Well, Lestrade did just shoot a girl with a tranquiliser dart.

"Why did you do that?" He asked calmly.

"She wasn't going to calm down Holmes, use your imagination."

"It was completely unorthodox."

"When did you ever care for unorthodox?"

"He has a point." Both men looked at Watson. He just shrugged and went to check the girl's vital signs. They were fine.

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Watson felt a pang of guilt as a group of medic hauled her onto the back of an ambulance. It was getting dark and the two detectives were still arguing behind him; neither of them noticed the ambulance drive off towards the hospital.

"Sherlock, we are going to the hospital." He stated and moved to hail a cab, but his dark haired companion beat him to it, climbing into the first cab that came his way. In the cab, they sat in silence. Sherlock could tell Watson wanted to say something, but every time he went to say it, he stopped himself.

"If you want to say something John, do say it." He said, breaking the silence.

"How could she be alive?" He said, "I pronounced her dead myself."

To his surprise, Sherlock stayed silent.

~~~~~A/N~~~~~

Second chapter completed, enjoy and remember to review, follow or favourite this story. I need the support, thank you!