Title: Sustain II: Refrain (2/3)
Authors: MaybeAmanda and onemillionnine
Rating: NC17/Adult
Dramatis Personae: Sherlock, John, Molly, Sarah, Lestrade, Mycroft, OMCs, OFCs
Pairings: Sherlock/Molly, John/Sarah
Word count: Total 22,000 This part: ~6,600
Summary: He could fix this.
Warnings: Consensual sex, off-screen violence, disturbing themes.
Beta: Courtesy of the lovely and talented what_alchemy
BritPicking. Courtesy of the vivacious and voluptuous non_canonical
Disclaimer: Son of fanfic of fanfic. Not ours, not really theirs, either. BBC, Moffat, Gatiss, ACD, PBS, Cumberbatch, Freeman, etc, etc. No money being made on this side.
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Molly stood in the mortuary, surprisingly pleased to be back at work, even if it was just for the day.
"Who was she, then?" Bill Redmond asked. Bill was a good few years older than Molly, tallish, and a touch stout, with blond hair that was receding at a steady pace. Born in Yorkshire, he'd married a Welsh woman he met at uni and then followed her home. He'd worked in Wales for most of his career, he'd told Molly, someplace with a lot of L's and a dearth of vowels. Freshly divorced, he'd come to Barts, technically filling in during her maternity leave, but with Dr. Gupta set to retire, he was likely to be staying on.
"No one seems to know," Molly said. She pulled her hair back into a pony tail, then snapped on her gloves.
"Oh," Redmond said. "I just wondered if you knew her, or if someone close to you did."
Molly shook her head. "No. She died at the surgery of, well, friends of mine work there," she said. That was true, now, she supposed. John and Sarah were her son's godparents. John was definitely more Sherlock's friend than hers, but she and Sarah got on well enough. That made them friends, right? "She wasn't really in their care, she'd more or less just collapsed on the doorstep. But they were quite upset by, um, by the circumstances, and asked if I'd have a look in."
"Ah," he said. "I thought, maybe that's why you'd offered to simply assist, so you wouldn't be the primary on this."
"Oh, no, not really," Molly said. "My understanding is that she was an addict and died of an overdose, or you know, effects of prolonged drug use. I just didn't want you to think I was pushing my way into your mortuary."
"It's hardly my mortuary," he said, grinning. He gestured to the sheet-covered slab. "And yeah, I gave her the once-over. Her arms are a mess, and she weighs about six stone dripping wet and tied to a five stone anchor. Do you want me to do this with you, then? Because I could just as easily get started on the other three I've got scheduled for the morning."
"Why don't you do that?" she said. "There's no need for two of us on this."
"Perfect. That'll save loads of time," Redmond said, heading for the door. "I'll be in Room Six if you should need me for anything."
Molly finished her preparations, and stretched, psyching herself up for a minimum of three hours on her feet. She was a bit out of practice.
People who wrote books and made telly programs glamourising pathologists often forgot the first real step in any autopsy; a thorough examination of the corpse's outward appearance. She pulled back the sheet and looked over the body. "Okay, let's see what you have to tell me," she said, just before she switched on the microphone on the recorder. She'd made a habit of it, of talking to her 'patients,' even if they were 'pre-lost,' as Sherlock had said. Even dead, they were still people, still deserving of respect and consideration. It was wrong to treat them like objects, like broken things, instead.
Molly worked in comparative silence, speaking aloud only to record her observations. The girl was, as John had said, very young, perhaps no more than fifteen or sixteen, and x-rays of her teeth and long bones might help determine that more accurately. Bill had been right, too; the girl was so, so thin, especially for someone who had given birth not a two full days before. Malnutrition was very likely, but whether it was long-term or short-term would have to be established.
Molly thought briefly of this woman's baby. Sherlock had suggested to John that Sarah was already - how had he phrased it? - 'unreasonably attached' - and John hadn't tried to deny it. Sarah had mentioned that she and John had been trying for a baby for months, from the minute they'd returned from Africa, more or less. So far, they hadn't had any luck, and were reaching the point of seeking medical intervention and considering other options.
Then, to have such a tiny child, with the odds stacked so high against him, almost dropped in her lap like this - poor Sarah. And, judging by the enthusiastic way John had taken to Eddie, she wondered if perhaps he wasn't a little 'unreasonably attached' too.
Oh, now that was strange. The girl had collapsed veins and tracks like any long-time addict, but not nearly as many as Molly would have expected. And, really, she was, except for the thinness, the healthiest-looking junkie Molly had seen in her career.
Which was interesting. Very interesting.
It might mean nothing. It might mean something.
She switched off the microphone, pulled off one glove, and fired off a text to Sherlock.
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When they reached the Arches, Sherlock pulled out his torch before John was even out of the cab. Even in daylight, it was dark, dank, the natural habitat of vermin, human and otherwise. This was a long shot, because the denizens of such an area would be out trying to scrape together enough for a fix of one kind or another during the day. Anyone left behind was either too sick to 'work' or thoroughly played-out. Still, a lead was a lead.
Nests of newspapers, shopping trolleys, cardboard boxes, and plastic shop bags filled the corners and crannies; the detritus one would expect at a makeshift campsite of this type. A rat or two, some mangy, diseased cats. No 'Bunny,' though.
"Bit empty down here," John said. "Usually someone's about."
"Good weather," Sherlock said. "Perhaps they're sunbathing."
"Day at the seaside," John said. "Of course."
Likely a clue to this Bunny's daytime hangout could be found in his sleeping place. It was slightly more challenging to suss out in this near darkness, but only a few of the areas were of a size to be used by more than single sleepers.
He could hear John's distinctive footsteps come to a halt behind him. "Sherlock," John muttered.
Sherlock shone the light against the wall. Ah, there was large one; newspapers, syringes, and a McDonald's wrapper. The odds were even that it was theirs. He bent down to get a closer look, the map of Vauxhall unfolding in his mind -
John's voice buzzed in the background, calling his name.
Locations for procuring and shooting heroin buzzed through his brain, prioritised by ease of access from the Arches. Turn right or left? This park or that convenient alleyway? Which would be more likely if Bunny thought his girl had gone to score?
"Sherlock!"
Sherlock studied the filthy shoeprints on the concrete, evidence of three days of rain. He was reasonably sure he had isolated the victim's, but thus far, Bunny's were harder to pick out from the rest.
"Bloody hell, Sherlock, would you just turn round?"
What did he want?
Sherlock turned. John was shining his own torch on the wall behind Sherlock. Blood and brains were splattered all over it.
"Oh."
"I think that could be a clue," John said. "Christ, what a mess."
The corpse, partly concealed by a flattened cardboard box, was missing much of the right side of its head, and what was left was a mass of dried blood, maggots. Sherlock sniffed once, twice, and observed. Male, young, and thin. Under torchlight, he could see B U N N Y tattooed in crooked letters across the knuckles of the left hand. The line was the wrong thickness, not to mention colour, for the needle-and-India-ink method, too crude even for a beginning prison tattoo artist. There was no tattoo Sherlock had seen worse than a boys' reformatory tattoo, performed with a sharpened bit of wire from some random piece of machinery and the scraped-together ink from a broken biro.
At least this one was spelled correctly. So few of them were.
"Guess this is him, yeah?"
"Seems promising, yes."
John was crouched beside the body, poking at the skin of the boy's arm with his gloved hand. "Shot to the head, obviously, close range, handgun of some sort. I'm guessing death occurred in the last twenty-four to forty-eight hours, probably closer to forty-eight, given the maggots."
"Fits the timeline," Sherlock agreed. He slipped his torch in his pocket, pulled out his phone. He took a picture of Bunny's shattered head and tattoo, then sent them and a text to Lestrade:
GOOD NEWS: FOUND JOHN'S DEAD GIRL'S LOVER.
BAD NEWS: SOMEONE BLEW HIS HEAD OFF.
VAUXHALL ARCHES. NOW.
SH
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"This one, I know," Lestrade said, not quite twenty minutes later. The forensics team swarmed around the scene, setting up lights and cameras, collecting samples and photographing the remains. "Charles 'Bunny' O'Hare," Lestrade read from the display on his phone. "Shoplifting, petty theft, loitering, some other minor charges."
"Drugs?" Sherlock asked.
"None," Lestrade said. "Which, judging by the state of his arms, just means he hadn't been caught at it. Seems he's only been in London a few months."
Sherlock whirled round to face Lestrade. "He was in care several years. Where?"
"How could you tell?" Lestrade asked.
Sherlock simply glared.
"Right, I'm an idiot, ta," Lestrade said. He poked at his own mobile. "Seems your Bunny here was a Brummie boy."
"The boy was obviously a chronic run-away, but his last group home should hold some clue. Which was it?" Sherlock demanded.
"I can do you one better than that. I've got the name of his Care Leaving Counsellor. Bunny here was about to age-out of the system when he ran," Lestrade said. "This information is confidential, of course, so I'm Sorry but I can't give it to either of you." Even as he said that, Lestrade hit the send button, forwarding the information to both Sherlock and John. Both phones pinged, almost simultaneously.
"Of course you can't," John said. "That would be completely unprofessional."
Texting away as usual, Sherlock simply ignored them.
"What do you reckon?" John asked, gesturing to the crime scene.
"Who knows? Territory, drugs, someone wanted his trainers - "
"Yeah, but a gun?" John asked. "A knife's more common in this sort of situation, isn't it? Guns are difficult to get."
Still texting, Sherlock snorted.
John shot Sherlock a look that was half annoyance and half alarm, but which Lestrade chose to ignore, just as he ignored so many other things.
"The scene's a mess, and a couple of days old, at least. I doubt there's much for forensics to find in the way of trace," Lestrade continued. He shot Sherlock a look that contained equal portions of envy and irritation. "Still have to look for it, of course, because we're, you know, the professionals."
"Indeed you are," Sherlock said, attention still on his mobile. "Oh!" Clearly satisfied with some bit of information his phone had offered up, Sherlock turned to him. "Good day, Lestrade," he said and headed back the way they'd come.
"Where are you going?" John called to Sherlock's back.
"'We' are going to Euston Station," Sherlock said without pausing, his voice echoing in the cavernous space. "We've a train to catch."
As usual, John had to race to catch up.
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Sherlock spent the first hour of the train trip staring out the window, greeting any attempt John made at conversation with non-committal grunts. After the third try, John found a discarded newspaper tucked under the seat and chose to concentrate on that, instead.
John had known bringing this 'case' to Sherlock would be risky. He'd expected a lecture on over-involvement, sentimentality, self-aggrandisement, lack of professionalism - any charge Sherlock could level that would make John feel a fool and make it clear the job was beneath Sherlock's towering intellect. Instead, Molly had told Sherlock he was going to do it, and wonder of wonders, he was doing it.
Sherlock insisted Molly was not his girlfriend - still - but she obviously had influence over the man. Quite a bit of influence, really. John would have to thank her properly for her help - both in getting Sherlock involved, and in volunteering to look in on the autopsy personally - when Sherlock was nowhere within earshot.
Sherlock snapped alive a short while later when his phone chirped. In the blink of an eye, he went from pensive to engaged, his thumbs and eyes both blazing.
"What's that?" John asked. He thought he had about a fifty-fifty chance of getting a reply.
"Molly," Sherlock said, eyes still on his phone.
John looked at his watch. Half eleven. If she was finished already, it probably meant there'd been little outside of the ordinary for her to find. "Are they finished?" John asked.
"She's conducting the autopsy herself, and I'd say she's about half done, judging by her remarks." He scrolled through screen after screen. "She's simply discovered a few things she thought that I should - oh."
"Well?" John asked.
"Well what?" Sherlock said, scowling.
"What did she find?"
"Oh. Among other things, it appears the victim had given birth at least twice before she had 'your' baby -" Sherlock said.
John winced. "First off, it's not my baby -"
"You know what I mean," Sherlock said, his eyes only flicking up to meet John's for an instant.
"And that girl can't have been more than sixteen," John pointed out.
"Which makes her previous pregnancies more noteworthy, don't you think?" Sherlock handed John his phone. "The uterus in question."
That was a uterus, all right; over all, he noted, the tissue looked healthy. And there, across the midsection, was the ropey line of a healed caesarean scar. The telltale thickness said it had been used more than once.
"Did neither you nor Sarah notice the incision scar?" Sherlock asked, contempt overlaying his words.
No, they hadn't. They'd been in such a hurry, first with the dying girl, then the surprise baby, then the fractious ambulance crew. It had all been unexpected, panicked, almost surreal.
John didn't know how many truly critical situations Sherlock had been in, situations where it fell to him to take the actions, to make the decisions, that meant life-or-death, not for himself, but for others. The way he behaved - his personal recklessness, his cavalier attitude concerning the safety of others, and his general disregard for humans as a class - John felt the answer was probably not very many. Towering bloody intellect aside, Sherlock couldn't really understand what it was like.
So John just shook his head. "Someone, somewhere must have record of her, then," he said, handing Sherlock's mobile back.
"One would think," Sherlock said. But he didn't sound convinced.
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"Detective Inspector Lestrade, Scotland Yard," Sherlock said, flashing Lestrade's stolen warrant card. He'd shaved a bit of the posh off his accent, changed his body language just enough so that he looked and sounded like someone trying to do an impression of Sherlock Holmes, and missing by mere inches. "This is Sergeant Donovan," he went on, giving John a nod. "You're Mr. Samadezadeh?"
The man in question stood and nodded. His desk was piled high with papers and folders. "Yes."
Sherlock reached across the desk and gave Bunny O'Hare's Care Leaving Counsellor a firm policeman's handshake. "We're here about Charles O'Hare, Mr. Samadezadeh."
"Call me Sam," he said. "The boys all do. He's in London? Bloody hell." He gestured for them to sit, then sighed and seated himself. "I don't know what that boy's done now, but Bunny needs treatment, not jail time. He's a good lad, and he's been clean almost two years."
"Sorry to have to inform you, sir," John said, "but Charles was found dead this morning."
Samadezadeh leaned back in his chair, his face a mask of shock. "Oh shit. What happened? Drugs?"
"He was shot," Sherlock said. "In the face. At very close range. We're not certain of the circumstances, and there aren't any suspects at the moment, but we're trying to discern exactly what happened."
"Yes, of course," he said. "Shit. Anything I can do to help."
Sherlock spoke. "He arrived in London approximately six weeks ago, three weeks before he was due to age out of the system, am I correct?"
Samadezadeh nodded. "Yeah, yeah. Shot, really? Shit."
"Really," John said.
Sherlock asked, "Do you have any idea why he was so anxious to get away that he couldn't wait those last three weeks?"
"No, not a clue," Samadezadeh said. "I was completely surprised. Honestly, Inspector, I thought some harm had come to him. He was looking forward to getting out, being on his own, and if he'd just stayed those last few weeks -" He shook his head.
John made a show of flipping through the pages in his notebook. "And his girlfriend, what can you tell us about her, sir?"
"If he had a girlfriend, it's news to me," Samadezadeh said. "Never mentioned anyone. He wasn't really close to any of the other boys here, but you could ask round. Oh, you know, maybe he met her at his job."
"He had a job?" John asked.
"Yeah, 'course. Clients are supposed to have a job and flat when they leave the system," Samadezadeh said. "Bunny had the job and was to go look at a flat not too long before he disappeared."
"Where did he work?" John asked.
"The Djepelgesh Palace, over on Bridge Road."
"Excuse me? How do you spell-"
Samadezadeh called up the information on his computer, gave John the spelling, address, and the name of the manager. "It's a bit of a dump, really, and the food, well, if you like that sort of thing, I guess." He shrugged. "Bunny helped in the kitchen, peeling veg, washing up, did deliveries for them on his bicycle. They seemed to like him well enough, always gave good reports, said he was a good worker. You could try -"
"Yes, we'll do that." Sherlock stood and turned to leave. "Come along, Sergeant."
"Don't you want to speak to any of the other boys?" Samadezadeh asked.
"Guess not." John stood hastily, extending his hand for a quick shake. "Though we may be back. Thank you for your help. We'll be in touch. And, ah, we're sorry for you loss."
"Yeah," Samadezadeh said. "Yeah, me too."
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"So what's going on, 'Detective Inspector'?" John asked when they were out on the street.
Sherlock's lips quirked, his attention on his mobile. "Not entirely sure. We're short a few facts."
John scratched the back of his neck. "Yeah, like all of them. Aren't we going to speak to the other, um, clients here?"
Sherlock shook his head. "Little point."
"They might know about the girl."
"Why would they?"
John shrugged. "Dunno. You've got a girlfriend, you brag to your mates."
Sherlock's brows rose. "Yes, I'm sure 'you' do. But Samadezadeh said he wasn't particularly close to anyone here. Since Bunny spent all his time either here or at his place of employment, he very likely met this girl at or through his job. I think we'll have better luck talking to his employer."
"Right, yes, of course," John agreed. "That makes sen-"
He was interrupted by the pinging of Sherlock's mobile. Sherlock looked at the screen, frowning.
"What's that?" John asked.
"Subcutaneous chip?" Sherlock sounded perplexed.
"What?"
Sherlock extended his phone. John read:
FOUND SOMETHING INTERESTING. SUBCUTANEOUS CHIP IN GIRL'S LEFT BUTTOCK. LIKE PETS?
IT BLEW UP. A BIT.
Molly
"It blew up 'a bit'?" John asked, alarmed. "Oh God, is Molly all right?"
Sherlock frowned at him. "She's texted me about it, ergo - " he said, then began rapid-fire texting. His expression went from blank - Sherlock's preferred mode of expressing just about anything - to infinitesimally less blank when a reply came.
"It was in the sink when it exploded. Five small pieces. She was alone. No one was injured."
"Why did -"
"There."
"There what, Sherlock?"
"There, I've asked her to save the pieces. Evidence, obviously," Sherlock said. His tone made it clear he was thinking what he usually thought - that John was an idiot. He began texting again, a different number, this time.
"Lestrade?" John asked.
Sherlock shook his head. "Mycroft. The Yard will just muck this - oh for-"
"Problem?" John asked.
Several texts were sent and exchanged. Sherlock sighed. "My brother is an arse of the first order," he said finally, his thumbs working double-time even as his mobile pinged with yet another incoming text.
"No news there, then."
"Oh!"
"What now?"
"Molly is telling me - telling 'me' - that she could lose her license for this." He turned to John. "Does she really think I am not aware of that fact?"
John looked at him. Sometimes, it was hard to separate Sherlock acting like a clueless git from Sherlock actually being a clueless git. He suspected this was a case of the latter, or at least, he hoped it was. He shook his head. "She's reminding you, you berk."
"Why? Why would I need, or want, a reminder? What business is that of mine?" Sherlock closed his eyes, exhaled harshly in that way that John found all too familiar. "She isn't stupid, so why?"
Yeah, John thought, so why? Talking to Sherlock about anything he deemed unimportant was like talking to a stubborn, deaf wall, and Sherlock deemed so very many things unimportant. Had Molly really not worked that out yet?
Since the day he'd found out about Sherlock's 'arrangement' with Molly, John had been waiting for it to collapse. It was going to - that much was obvious to anyone who could be bothered to look. And when the end came, it would not be with a whimper, but with a bang. A very, very loud bang.
Sherlock, of course, would shrug it off in a day or two, because that's what Sherlock did. In a few weeks, he'd delete it all, emerge no worse for the wear. From then on it would be 'Molly who?' if he acknowledged her existence at all.
As far as Molly was concerned, well, it was unkind, probably, and uncharitable, but there was a possibility she actually deserved what she'd get, if for no other reason than for being foolish enough to buy whatever it was Sherlock had been selling in the first place. Sherlock had used, abused, manipulated, and humiliated her for years, and infatuated or not, she should have known better. She did know better. What was that saying about smart women and foolish choices?
But Eddie - John could admit, at least to himself, that he worried about his godson. No child deserved to have to live through the complete, fucking, inevitable mess that would follow. Something so epic could not help but leave scars. At least young children were resilient and blessedly forgetful. If everyone - especially Eddie - were lucky, the end would come sooner rather than later.
Sherlock looked at him, and apparently didn't like what he saw.
Oh fuck. Sherlock was a mind-reader, and John was the worst friend ever.
"Chechen," Sherlock barked out suddenly, turned on his heel, and marched away.
John ran to catch up. "What? Chechen?"
"Djepelgesh is a Chechen delicacy - and I use the term 'delicacy' quite loosely."
"Okay."
"It's a dough-y potato-y thing," Sherlock rattled off.
"Right," John said. "Yes. Okay. So?"
Without answering, Sherlock pulled out his phone again and ducked into an odd little shop, a place that appeared to specialise in knives and/or knife sharpening, John guessed, given the sign. John made to follow him, but Sherlock held up his hand, signaling for John to wait. He came out not a full minute later, scowling at his phone, then resumed his quick pace.
All John heard of the telephone conversation was, "No, I'm not. I'm asking you as a favor. To me. All right, to John, then. You bloody well 'do' owe him. You have the resources and the - yes, yes, fine, that's fine, but don't be unnecessarily rude. Oh, of course I remember. Is this 'International Remind Sherlock of Things He's Well Aware of Day'? Of course I remember her birthday, she's my mother, too!"
Mycroft, then. John could ask, but he didn't imagine he would get a straight answer. And it probably wasn't worth trying.
Sherlock stopped abruptly, switched off his phone, and turned on him. "She isn't stupid," Sherlock said.
"Who?" John asked. "Your mother?"
"My mother?" Sherlock shook his head as if he were trying to dislodge an idiot from his brain. "What in the world has she got to do with this?"
"You said 'she,' and you were talking to Mycroft, and - did you mean Molly? No, of course she isn't stupid. I never said - "
"But you do think it, John. You think it all the time."
"But I don't -"
"Stop it," Sherlock ordered.
"Right." John licked his lips, nervously. "Right, sorry, I'm sorry- "
Sherlock shoved his hands in his jacket pockets and resumed walking. "Oh, shut up, John."
"Right. Yes. Shutting up."
John shut up.
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If an afterlife existed, Mycroft Holmes was reasonably certain he had secured his place in it. He'd roused himself from reasonably pressing matters of state to personally help his little bother, entirely out of the kindness of his heart and the depths of his familial loyalty.
That, and because every other word out of Sherlock's mouth lately was a plea to be allowed unrestricted access to his trust fund. His lab equipment was outdated. He had unexpected expenses. His son needed...things. On and on and on Sherlock went.
Forget the fact that, if he would only take Mycroft up on one of his many offers of work befitting an adult, Sherlock would not only have no problem making ends meet, but he would have access to all the state-of-the-art equipment his depraved little heart desired.
It was only because Sherlock deigned not simply to text, but to follow up with an actual telephone call, and had asked rather nicely - nicely for Sherlock, at any rate - that Mycroft had chosen to grant Sherlock's wish. That, and Sherlock's reminder that John had done him a good turn or two, and that this was an easy way to repay that debt.
The begging hadn't hurt, either.
Mycroft opened the door to the mortuary, and was nearly knocked down by the smell. Ghastly, as putrefaction always was, sickly sweet and nauseating. His lip curled in distaste, which was more than he liked to give away, but one's body occasionally made its own choices.
"Oh. Mycroft. Um, hello."
There, at the far end of the room, suited up from head to toe like a blood-spattered apiarist, was Dr. Hooper. No longer the scattered little waif he'd met all those months ago, she was standing over a naked female body, the subject's ribs splayed and the top of its head removed.
"Dr. Hooper," he greeted her. "I am here at Sherlock's request, although I must say, he was somewhat vague as to why he needed me here so quickly."
Dr. Hooper covered the body, set down the tool she was holding - some sort of electrical saw - and pulled off her blood-speckled face shield. She tugged off her gloves one by one, giving him a long, hard look as she did so.
Dr. Hooper didn't like him. This, of course, was not news.
"He told me you'd be coming," she said.
"You mean, he warned you," Mycroft said.
Dr. Hooper said nothing.
Mycroft was the master of his façade. Under no circumstances was he dropping it before his brother's - paramour, he supposed. The paramour who despised him.
"Dr. Hooper, no, Molly, you are the mother of Sherlock's child, and therefore my nephew's mother, my daughters' cousin's mother, and ever shall be. The fact that Sherlock and I are brothers is rather permanent, as well. Therefore, you and I are stuck, in some capacity, with one another. I realise we did not get off to the best of starts, and I take full responsibility for that -"
"You ought to," she said.
He nodded once. "And I do. At any rate, wouldn't it be best if we were to find a way to get along, for the sake of all concerned?"
Her mouth set in a hard line, Molly gave him a long, appraising look, and suddenly he understood what his brother saw in her: a woman who opened people's heads with gardening tools while half-eaten biscuits and a tepid cup of tea sat not ten feet away was right up Sherlock's alley. He refused, however, to imagine sexual congress between the two of them. Completely and utterly refused.
"Yes, fine," Molly said at last, the tension in her spine easing somewhat, although she was still on her guard. "I've bagged the chips-"
"Chips?" Mycroft asked. "Sherlock led me to believe there was only one, and that it had been damaged by some self-destruct mechanism."
"When I texted him, there was only the one," she said. She led him to the work top by the scrub sink, where two small zip-top bags waited. "This one, the one that blew up, was situated in the lower left quadrant of her right buttock, but I found this one in her left arm-pit after I sent that text."
"I see. Are there more?" Mycroft asked.
"X-rays say no," Molly said. "I think it might be exposure to air that triggers the destruct reaction, but then, that doesn't explain why the second one is still intact, does it?"
"No, it does not," Mycroft agreed. There were five miniscule shards of twisted metal in the first bag, and a whole implant, approximately 5 to 6 millimeters in length, in the other. Both looked very much like those used in pets, but they were far larger, and far less sophisticated, than those implanted in top operatives. And those which were implanted in spies - when those blew up, Mycroft knew first-hand - they blew up spectacularly. "Perhaps the self-destruct mechanism in this one was simply faulty."
"Yes, perhaps," she agreed quietly.
"And you haven't alerted Sherlock to this. Why?" he asked.
She looked away. "I don't want to, um, to disturb him."
That was odd, Mycroft thought. Perhaps Sherlock had snapped at her?
Good lord, what was wrong with him? Of course Sherlock had snapped at her - that was what Sherlock did.
"Well, thank you, -" he began.
"I'm not - this isn't," she interrupted, then took a deep breath. "Mycroft, these are evidence in an investigation, possibly a homicide investigation," she blurted out.
Mycroft nodded. "Yes, I am aware of that."
"They - this - this should be turned over to the police," she continued. "I - I could lose my license for this."
"That won't happen, Dr Hooper," Mycroft said, surprised that she was concerned. How many times had she served as an accomplice to Sherlock's less-than-legal activities, not a few of which had involved cadavers being reduced to their component parts?
"Yes, but - but if you have them, if someone finds out you have them, you could be in trouble as well. Um."
Mycroft felt himself grin. She was worried about Mycroft having difficulties over this? How utterly adorable. He wondered, vaguely, how she thought he earned his living. "You can trust me in this matter," he assured. "Neither of us shall have any difficulty as a result of your helping with this inquiry. Nor will Sherlock or Dr. Watson. I give you my word."
She nodded. "Sherlock said that, and I - I do trust Sherlock."
That, history suggested, was probably an ill-advised position to take, Mycroft supposed, but there was nothing to be gained from arguing the point. "Naturally."
"And he, he trusts you," she finished, sounding more perplexed than anything.
"As can you," he said.
Molly seemed to consider this. Then, apparently having made up her mind, she nodded. "Yes. All right. Yes. Oh. There's something else, something interesting, maybe pertinent," she said. She waved in the general direction of the corpse. "I can show you, if you don't mind. Um. Some people do."
"Show me," he said with all the imperiousness he could muster.
Molly put on a fresh pair of gloves, re-situated her splatter guard. "See here?" She pointed. "The victim's vocal chords were cut, surgically, a number of years ago, I'd say. She would have been a - a very young girl, no more than ten, perhaps eleven."
"That is, indeed, interesting," Mycroft said. "Is there some medical reason why such a procedure would be carried out?"
Molly shook her head, flipped up the guard. "No. None. It was done to this girl for the same reason vets do it to yappy dogs."
"To ensure permanent silence," Mycroft supplied.
Molly nodded.
"I see." Mycroft wondered just what in the hell Sherlock had stumbled into this time. "Well, thank you for your help and co-operation with this. I will be in touch." He walked to the door, then turned. "And do contact Sherlock immediately - immediately, Dr. Hooper, - and let him know about the rest of your findings. I can assure you, however vexed he may have seemed, he'll welcome the interruption if it means fresh data."
Molly nodded. "Yes, of course, you're right. I probably should, yes."
Feeling magnanimous, Mycroft added, "And don't tell him you made me aware of this information before you told him. You know how he can be. Good day, Dr. Hooper."
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As Mr. Samadezadeh had hinted, and Sherlock had expected, the Djepelgesh Palace was anything but palatial. 'Cramped,' 'dingy,' and 'dodgy' were more apt descriptors, and while he wouldn't have minded taking swabs of every surface in the place and discovering what wondrously toxic horrors they held, Sherlock certainly was not about to suggest anyone eat off any of them.
Personal interviews, Sherlock knew, were often the least efficient method of gathering information, particularly if the interviewee was less than cooperative, or, for circumstantial reasons, less than likely to be forthcoming. Nonetheless, he spoke with Bunny's former employer and fellow employees, and sent John, with whom he was annoyed and whose fault this entire matter was anyway, to sift through the skip.
"Anything of value?" Sherlock asked half an hour later when he returned to the alley.
John climbed up on something and peeked out over the rim. "Define 'of value,'" he said. "What am I even looking for?"
Sherlock shrugged. "Cash, coins, jewellery."
John raised one eyebrow and it was all Sherlock could do not to grin.
"Nothing like that, I'm afraid," John said. "I can tell you this skip hasn't been emptied since Saturday, and that they go through an awful lot of potatoes."
"'Awful' being the operative word," Sherlock said, his lip curling slightly. "Oh, do climb out of there," he said, offering a hand, then thinking better of it. "You smell of - well, let's just say you smell and leave it at that, shall we?"
"Yeah, let's do that." John swung his leg out of the skip and landed easily on the ground next to it. "Any luck inside?"
"Some. I spoke to the manager and the cook," Sherlock said. "Bunny was a good lad, hard working, et cetera et cetera, the usual unhelpful drivel. I obtained a copy of his time sheet for the last month he was here, a list of his usual deliveries, most of which appear to be offices or factories. The local Chechen community is small, but not small enough, I'm afraid."
"Right." John brushed something that had once, perhaps, been edible from his trouser leg. "Did they know anything about the girl?"
Sherlock shook his head. "Not much. They knew he had met someone, and they suspect she worked at one of his usual delivery spots, but that seems to have been mainly speculation."
"Right." John's brow creased in thought. "Sherlock, what's going on here?"
Sherlock had no immediate answer for that. What John had presented as a simple case of 'name the dead addict' had turned into -
Into something else. Something far more complicated. Something, he now suspected, far more sinister.
"I am not entirely -" Sherlock began.
He was interrupted by the sound of bicycle tires crunching pebbles and heading toward them.
"I dropped my keys at the weekend while roaring drunk," Sherlock said quietly, knowing John would understand. "Do help me look for them."
John, used to this routine, immediately began 'searching' for the imaginary keys.
A young man on beat-up green bicycle pulled to a stop by the back door. Sherlock observed that he had a full, sealed carrier bag stamped with the Djepelgesh Palace logo, that he carried into the café with him.
The screen door banged shut and the sound of raised voices followed - Sherlock recognized the manager and the cook yelling at each other and, presumably, the delivery boy. Less than a minute later, the boy, clearly disgusted and not a little upset, emerged again, and swung the carrier bag into the skip with grim determination, paying Sherlock and John, and their cover story, no attention at all. He remounted his bike and took off in a spray of gravel.
John and Sherlock looked at one another.
"Must be that sort of alley," John said.
"Judging by the used condoms and puddles of dried vomit, I'd say you're right."
John's expression froze. "Oh. He just threw a full order in there, didn't he?" he asked.
"Appears so, yes. Why?"
John shook his head. "Nothing. It's nothing."
But Sherlock knew that expression. For all he failed to observe, John still caught more than most people. And he had remarkably good instincts. "It's clearly not nothing," Sherlock said. "Now, what is it?"
John was hauling himself back up into the skip. "I just -" he said before his head disappeared.
"You just what?" Sherlock stood on tiptoe, peering inside. The contents looked every bit as appetizing as they smelled, which was not at all.
John dug through the rubbish. "I noticed before, there were three full bags of food in here, like the one that boy just chucked in," he said. "I didn't think anything of it, but, yeah, here. Bit of an address on this receipt, this one's a mess, but there're a few letters, and yes, this one, it's not smeared too badly." He ripped these off their respective carriers bag, then compared them. "4689 Denton Road. Same address on all three, probably on that fourth one, too."
"And that was one of Bunny's usual deliveries," Sherlock said, taking the receipts from John. "Three lunch specials, everyday, covered by credit card. Standing order."
"Doesn't look like it's standing anymore, though, does it?"
"No, it doesn't," Sherlock agreed. He thumbed his phone. "Google says it's a small factory in a more or less deserted industrial park, 6 point 3 miles to the north."
"Reckon it's worth a look?"
"At this point, yes, I believe so." It was another long shot, but it was all they appeared to have. He tucked his phone back into his pocket.
John was still in the skip, his arms folded, his chin resting on his forearms as if he were waiting for Sherlock to tell him a story. Why? Sherlock would never understand this man's mind, never.
"Oh for God's sake, John, quit playing in the rubbish. We've an appointment."
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