Sherlock has a scalpel now, opening up the messy stitches on the bodies. I know better than anyone in this room the effect of unclean wounds and unsterilized tools. I can see, even from the wall of the room that they've been stitched up by armatures.
"John, take a look at the stitches before I take them out."
I step forward as summoned and take a close look at their job. "Well, they were armatures, I know that. They used a thick needle and this twine is just household stuff, fishing wire even. They've no doubt used a sewing needle not a stitching needle. They don't seem to have infection though, yet, but they have had the cuts for a little while, this one's closed up a bit." I take a breath because I notice something that I wish I hadn't. "They weren't under anaesthetic so they've been cut open while they were still feeling I'm guessing."
Sherlock has an eyebrow raised, "And how do you know that?"
I breathe again, dragging my eyes back to the stitches, "because they struggled. These marks," I wave my finger over the entry point of each stitch, "Are from violent pulling, not just a particularly rough tug from the stitcher, but from jerking of the whole body."
He's laughing his dry laugh, "Excellent John!"
He only laughs when I've done something idiotic, "What did I get wrong?" he'll probably say something along the lines of, 'it would be more efficient to tell you what you got right' followed closely by a 'nothing'.
"Everything, John, everything," he's laughing, sounding genuinely excited. I look up into his face, his smiling face. "I'm proud of you."
A curl falls over his eyes and I raise my hand to push it from his face. I catch myself before I can ruin my status of a straight man and place my hand on his shoulder, softly pushing him away.
Both Sherlock and I look to Molly for help, or at least I do, but she's just looking back at us grinning like her best dreams had come true. Dreams. I better mention it now before the subject changes again.
I look back up to him and take my hand from his shoulder. "Uhh Sherlock, Molly told me that you had a nightmare."
"I'll leave you two alone for a little bit. I have things to attend to," she stutters and rushes out of the room.
It feels like we're alone in the world again. "I did.""
"Do you want to tell me what it was about."
"No," he says but he doesn't turn away this time and keeps his eyes locked on mine.
"I can help you Sherlock, you just have to tell me." He doesn't look away but he doesn't speak either. "Fine, don't help yourself. I'm going."
I'm halfway out the door when he says, "I thought I lost you."
I jump at his voice "What?"
"Oh, you heard," he snaps in his impatient, whining puppy voice.
"I want you to repeat it, Sherlock," I reply more sternly.
"I thought I lost you," he repeats.
I step towards him, he does the same. "Lost as in how?" I ask taking another step.
"It doesn't matter now." He steps back this time, obviously changing his mind about entering into this conversation.
"It does matter, your room proved that and the fact that you never sleep."
"I'm afraid of the dreams."
And then it hit me, Sherlock was human. Sure, it seems silly but at times I couldn't be sure. At times he lacked everything that a human possessed, mostly feelings. He had a fear. No wonder he hardly ever sleeps.
And then another thought hits me and my eyes water in concern, "When was the last time you slept?"
"I sleep most nights."
I step forward and he steps back, bumping into the trolley with the first woman's body still in its bag on top of it. The trolled rolls a little as Sherlock take another step back.
"For how long?"
"For the last few nights, an hour."
"An hour!" I step forward and few paces and he mirrors my movements until he hits the back bench. "That's not enough, Sherlock, you know that."
"I'm done talking," he says and he tries to push past me but without thinking I pin him to the bench with my hands on each wrist. He struggles a little so I push my hips in towards his, pinning his whole body down.
"You're hurting me John," he whimpers.
I barely hear him through my quickening breath and I let myself gaze up into his face again. As look as my eyes lock with his perfect eyes I know it's a mistake. I jump back and apologise profusely.
"Quite alright, John. You're worried, I know." He says rubbing at his wrists and turning back to the bench to grab the scalpel again. "I'm going to open up this woman first," he says gesturing to the woman that we found two nights ago, "I'd like you to observe."
"I know how to stitch and unstitch," I say more grumpily than I'd intended to.
Sherlock ignores my comment completely, back to his emotionless state in a flash. There's a feeling in the pit of my stomach that feel like someone has stabbed me and then released a ferret into my stomach to run around and tickle my innards. I take a guess that it might be because I just saw Sherlock as a human, a real human with real emotions, and now he's a brick wall again.
He twirls the scalpel in his fingers to reposition it and leans down to pick at the first stitch. Not long and he's opened up the wound and pinned it open. I peer over as he scans his magnifying glass over it. It takes a swab from the table and rubs it around the open wound. While he looks at the sample under the microscope, I take a look at the wound.
It's pink, like any other wound and definitely fresh for it doesn't show any signs of healing. It's deep too, maybe even deeper than any wound I ever saw in war but not likely.
"The cut, contrasting to the stitching, it precision and neat," Sherlock announces.
"They knew what they were doing here," I say coming to my conclusion.
"No, they were careful."
I look into the wound again. "What makes you say that?"
"The incision point is more of a stab than an incision. It's much deeper than the rest of the wound indicating that they thrust the blade inwards and then slowly cut downwards. I also know they used a knife. It's obvious from the sewing needle and the slight jaggedness of the incision."
"Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why'd they cut into them?"
"Isn't it obvious?"
"Not to me." I invite him to wave his intelligence over me.
"They were getting something out, John. Something that needed to be taken out carefully." He grabs my arm and yanks me closer, "Look at the wound, not just the exposed flesh but everywhere."
He holds me tightly, forcing me closer. I look but only see what I saw before. "I don't understand."
He sighs and pulls me over to the woman we found this morning, "It's easier to see on this one," he growls.
I gaze at the scar but as far as I can see it's still the same shoddy stitching job.
Sherlock has lost his patience with me and he releases me from his grip.
"The women haven't been opened up just this once. There, just to the left of the stitching and the new incision and extending just above and below is an old scar. The old scars on both women have got to be a year old, if not more. And if I'm right, which I always am, this means that they were taking something valuable out."
"So the first time they put something into the flesh and now they've retrieved it. Some sort of safe keeping?"
"Well I actually have two conclusions as of now. The women were either, as you said, a hiding place to transport goods from one place to another. If not, it was a secret bond of a cult and in leaving it means the bond is broken and therefore removed. Either way, yes, it is a sort of safe keeping."
It's the first time Sherlock's mind has done a loop and come back to the original point that was made by someone that wasn't him. He concluded that I was right. This is new and strangely exciting.
3
