The Black Bag
Part Two: Concession
Her favors would be more tiresome than finding a new Pathologist. He'd just find a new one, a less tiresome one.
That proved much harder than he'd thought. The blood woman that worked in the morgue was insistent on him staying away from her. He had tried to explain that she could leave, he didn't really need her there for the information he needed, but she had seemed even less inclined to help after that. When he had asked the male coworker if he could procure a foot for testing the man had been most insistent to ask for papers. Which of course Sherlock did not have. So he'd gone home to get laughed at again by John.
"Honestly, Sherlock, I think what she's doing will be good for you." John looks him over. "It won't work, but it'll be good for you."
Everyone seems to know exactly what she's trying to accomplish except for him. The thought is even more unsettling than her conviction that she had somehow bested him. Reading was not more important than getting fatally wounded. There was no logic in that statement. Then why do you feel deficient, Sherlock? He sneers at himself and John gives him a strange look.
"What?"
"Just go ask her. Cases are slow. You'll be out of your mind." John is pointing at the door, a grin twitching at his mouth.
Sherlock hates the twitch in his hand. Especially hates the knowing snort John gives when he grabs his coat. "I'm only going because everyone in Bart's is incompetent."
"Molly, please tell me you have an interesting severed foot." But it's not Molly. It's her male co-worker again. Loosened collar, sweat lining his forehead. Breath smells lightly of alcohol. Nauseating. Pale face, dilated eyes. Drunkard. "I can't wait until they fire you. Where's Molly?"
"What are you, her boyfriend or something?"
"Do you live in a rock? Do you not read the papers or watch the telly or open your eyes on the way to work?" Sherlock sees the man is lost on him. "I will repeat, slowly this time. Where's Molly?"
"Break room." Furrowed brows, tense shoulders. Protective. He rolls his eyes and leaves the man to stew.
She's sipping a tea, munching on a rice cake. She's on one of those ridiculous diets again.
"Severed foot, rotted finger, infected eyeball, I don't care. I'm bored out of my mind." Eyes wide, mouth paused open. Close, licks lip. Nervous.
"Hello." She's being obtuse, ignoring his blatant request.
"Anything remotely interesting, please." Hands swipe across her shirt, biting lips. Eyes close. She's processing. Back jumps minutely. Success.
"I do have a hand that might interest you. Larval development two days after we brought it in." Larval development hardly counts as interesting. "It was in a hot car for days. For all intents and purposes, it's unusual." He considers his options. Nothing or larval development.
"I'll take it." John won't be particularly happy about the addition, but he could be surprised.
"Don't forget, you'll owe me a favor."
"I did you a favor last time."
"I never said just one." Narrowed eyes. Resolute. Again.
"Of course not." He thinks to resist the eye roll only after she's already witness it. Closing his eyes. "What do you want this time?"
"I'll figure it out when I get there." She's trying to be cryptic. One read over, and he realizes that no, she's not. She really doesn't know.
She gives him his specimen and leaves.
He only just returns to Baker Street when his phone lights up, messages zooming in from Lestrade. He waits until his phone is done buzzing before he opens them. Multiple messages usually meant something fascinating. And he'd counted 6 vibrations.
Sherlock, you'll want to see this. – L
This is definitely your kind of case, Sherlock. –L
Girl; Alive. Metal collar, head wound. –L
The messages continued in that vein. "John, we've got a case!" He could hear the rhythmic thunk of footsteps down stairs. He didn't have to look back to know John was following him.
By the time he reaches the station, the place is practically buzzing with noise. Phones are ringing, officers rush around desks, the fluorescents make a ghastly noise above it all. Lestrade pokes his head out from an interrogation room, expecting. He didn't look right. Usually hints of Sherlock's excitement were shared around the edges of Lestrade's face. This time he was simply stressed. This one would be truly interesting.
Sherlock strode into the room, John on his heels. He heard John's curse before he finished his deductions.
Dirt everywhere: arms, legs, hands, face. Strong smell of lye soap. Hair combed. Make up applied under grime. Victim was kept clean in her prison. Baggy clothes, borrowed. Donovan's. Bruises over vitals. Cut's in uncomfortable places. Non-fatal, Deep lacerations on the forearm, nearly healed. Captive for months. Tearstained cheeks, red rimmed eyes. Clearly has spent hours crying. Arms defensive, shoulders hunched. She's been psychologically—
"Sherlock!" John's face is aghast, and he realizes he's been rattling off at the mouth. She's fascinating. Absolutely fascinating. She's also sobbing like a child, but fascinating none the less.
"I'll deal with you later. Just, observe, or whatever it is you like to do. Quietly. Over there." The chair they shove him in is too small for his long legs. He tries to listen to the droll conversation, but Lestrade is asking all the wrong questions.
"When you left, was it excessively bright?" She nods. She's refusing his gaze. He's terrified her. Good, she'll be honest. "Was it hot or cold?"
"Warm."
Lestrade is glaring at him. "Basement, then. Shadowy, cold, soundproof. You escaped through a hatch?"
"Y-yes. How did you?" The fear lighting her eyes says enough.
"And you never really saw your attacker." He looks her over, again. Confirms. "Get a toxicity screen run, quickly. The drugs are possibly already out of her system. Did you run here?"
"I ran until I found a home." He's annoyed. Loss of evidence.
"You should have walked. Or waited." He's texting already. "The drugs will be gone. Run a test anyway." He may be surprised.
Molly:
I need your help with a case. –S
He's already backing out of the room. Between his deductions and her limited answers, he's gotten all the information he can. Fascinating, fascinating. Clearly from a suburban home. Would the basement be documented? Data, Data, Data. Bart's is never far away. He had felt the buzzing in his pocket on his way over. Molly would be there. He has to ensure he's the first to receive results. And he'll need her help for experimenting.
She doesn't disappoint. When he opens the door she's standing with her hands on her hips, clearly not dressed for work. Another date; couldn't have been promising. She's here after all.
"Intriguing case, Molly. I need—"
"What's her name?" She already knows. Lestrade must have text her. She's interrupting him again. Damn woman.
"Irrelevant."
"Her name, Sherlock." Eyes fixed on her microscope. Nothing in the clip. Lip biting. Fingers fiddling with the dial. Such obvious nervous habits.
"I don't have her name. It's—"
"Irrelevant? Not if you want any of the results."
"Stop it." He's hissing through his teeth. Furrowed brow. Pouted lip. Finally, she looks at him.
"What?"
"Stop interrupting. It's rude." She laughs at him, a full, unhindered laugh.
"You do it all the time." He doesn't comment. "It stands. Learn her name." He walks away. "You can't ask John, either. He won't tell you anything."
Of course.
He doesn't have to see the way she collapses back onto her stool, exhausted from facing against his presence. He had to admit, he respected her for succeeding.
He spends the next few hours looking through John's blog to see if he's mentioned the woman yet. Nothing. Lestrade didn't mention her name in the messages. He sits in his mind palace, trying to pay attention where he hadn't before. That was the problem with brains. They don't retain unless told. Her name simply wasn't in there.
Lestrade:
What was the girl's name? –S
The answer was quick.
Molly told me what she did. I can't say. –L
He rubbed his eyes. This was frustrating. He wanted those results. After a few more hours of devising a hundred ways to get the information, his phone buzzed again. Molly.
Just go ask her. –MH
Of course. Ever obvious Molly. He doesn't want to ask the woman. She was terrified of his display earlier. She didn't trust anyone but the police. She would cry. She would probably call the law on him. He needed a clever cover, a way in. Slowly, a smile spreads.
Come with? –S
Ok. –MH