Chapter Three
No clue how tall Sherlock (Benedict) really is, but the ACD stories say that he is "rather over six feet tall," so I guessed.
The ride to the morgue had been silent and dull and not at all long enough. Before Sherlock knew it, they had come to a stop and were unloading him from the coroner's van. He was wheeled on the stretcher through a doorway into what must have been the hospital, if the sudden increase in light shining through the small hole in the body bag was anything to go by. He was wheeled through the hallways before the stretcher banged into the swinging double doors that led into the morgue.
In a sudden burst of clarity, Sherlock realized that he had one last hope: Molly. He didn't know how he could have forgotten that. They were bringing him into the morgue, where the pathologist on duty would perform the examination and autopsy. It would take only a moment for Molly to recognize the signs.
Sherlock felt relief sweep through him. Now, everything will be sorted. Molly will be able to tell I'm still alive.
"You got one," said a voice close by—probably the coroner that had wheeled him in.
"Autopsy?" said a male voice from somewhere in the room.
Sherlock's eyes widened—or, they tried to—at the voice. He knew that voice; he hated that voice. It was Molly's new incompetent fellow pathologist. But he wasn't supposed to be here; it was Tuesday. Molly always worked on Tuesdays.
And with a sense of dread, Sherlock suddenly recalled Molly telling him yesterday that she would be taking the day off for her birthday. And he should have remembered that, considering the birthday gift he had planned for her.
Now, he was stuck with this idiot. But no matter how inept he was, he was still a doctor. He would surely be able to tell he was alive.
"All right, I'll leave you to it," said the coroner. "Have fun."
Wait, what?
"Very funny," said the pathologist—what was his name again?
His stretcher was wheeled to somewhere else in the room and eased to a stop. The zipper was then pulled quickly down on the body bag, and Sherlock had to endure another blinding eye ache that he could do nothing about.
The pathologist sighed somewhere above him. "Sherlock Holmes."
Sherlock's eyes finally adjusted to find the man leaning over him and staring closely at his face. The man's eyes narrowed in what looked like contemplation.
That's it, he thought. You can do it.
"What a pickle you've landed in, huh, mate?" said the man, shaking his head.
Oh, you've figured it out! Bless you, you—
"Well, let's get started, Mr. Holmes," said the pathologist, unzipping the rest of the bag.
—complete and utter dimwit!
The man—
Eric? Edmund?
—slid his hands under his shoulders and pulled upwards, causing Sherlock's head to flop back on his neck and giving him the perfect view of his name badge.
Ah, yes. Edward. What an annoyingly common name.
Edward strained as he pulled Sherlock's torso onto the examination table, setting him down none too gently and huffing out a breath. "Maybe I should have gotten him to stay and help."
Obviously, since you're a complete idiot!
Edward then moved to Sherlock's feet and pulled them onto the table. Once he had Sherlock steady, he moved the stretcher over to the wall.
"Okay, now to get the personals out of the way," said Edward as he walked back over. "Can't very well do an autopsy like that."
Oh, perfect. Now, the imbecile gets to strip me. How wonderful.
Edward took hold of Sherlock's arm, tugging the sleeve of his Belstaff and trying to pull it off of his arm. Finally, he turned Sherlock onto his side to get the sleeve off his arm and shoulder. And what came into Sherlock's view drove his impending embarrassment right out of his mind.
Lots and lots of shiny…
Sharp…
Autopsy tools.
John followed Greg into the hospital, blindly following the inspector as he led them down towards the morgue. He still didn't understand how this had happened. He had only seen Sherlock this morning; the man had been perfectly okay. He was always so clever at besting the criminals. How had one of them gotten the drop on Sherlock Holmes?
John should have gone with him. His wife Mary had called and told him that their daughter Emma had come down with a small cold. Sherlock had dismissed him with a wave of his hand, and John had gladly left him to his lab work. Now, he wished he had never left. If he had been there, none of this would have happened.
As Greg led him into the small waiting area outside the hallway to the morgue, John looked up, somehow not surprised to see Mycroft Holmes waiting there for them.
Mycroft nodded solemnly at them. "Dr. Watson…Inspector."
"Mycroft…" said John, stepping towards him a little. He awkwardly shifted his feet. "I'm, erm…sorry for your loss."
"Thank you," said Mycroft quietly.
"How are your parents handling it?" asked John.
Mycroft paused for a moment before speaking. "Not well. I think they had been hoping Sherlock would finally grace them with grandchildren before…it happened."
John nodded as his eyes began to well up again. He blinked back the tears as he walked over to take a seat and wait for Molly, while the other two men moved over to the corner to talk.
The double doors at the end of the room swung open, and Edward Shapely the new pathologist walked in, carrying a box in his arms. "Dr. Watson?"
John detoured from his way to the seat and stepped over to him.
"Hey, John," said Edward gravely. "So sorry for your loss."
John nodded, unable to say anything in response.
Edward held the box up a little. "These are Sherlock's personal effects. I, erm…think that he would want you and Dr. Hooper to have them."
John glanced down at the Belstaff coat folded on top in the box, tears brimming in his eyes again. He nodded again as he looked up at Edward. "Thanks." He reached forward and took the box from him.
Edward nodded awkwardly for a moment. "Well, I, er…I better get back to…"
"Right…" said John, turning and heading towards his seat as he stared absently at the box.
Sherlock lay on the examination table, waiting for whatever would happen next. Edward had left five minutes ago with the box of his clothes and accessories, leaving him lying naked on the table. Thankfully, for whatever reason, Edward had left a white sheet draped over his body in some stupid attempt at modesty. What use giving modesty to an allegedly dead person was, he had no clue. Must be one of those sentiment things he didn't understand.
In any case, his things were now being given to whatever friends and family were in the waiting room. And whoever decided to go through them would find his gift for Molly. Depending on who was out there at the moment, it would either be John or Molly.
Well, that's not exactly the way I wanted it to happen, but…
Then again, if it was Molly that opened that gift, then maybe she would come running in to cry over his body, and he would be saved.
Edward burst back through the morgue doors, striding over towards him and snapping on a pair of gloves. "Okay, then…Shall we?"
No, we shan't, thank you very much.
Edward reached up to the microphone hanging down above the table, switching it on. "Victim is male, late thirties, approximately five feet eleven inches—"
I'm six foot four, you moron!
"—black hair, hazel eyes—"
Heterochromic!
"—and has a lean body structure." Edward then moved closer, gripping Sherlock's face in his hands. "Victim's pupils are fixed and constricted, indicating head trauma—"
Oh, dear Lord, you really are a complete idiot.
"—sustained shortly before death." Edward peeled the sheet back to his waist and poked one of his gloved fingers to the old wound on his abdomen. "Victim has a scar on his right upper quadrant—"
Epigastric quadrant.
"—most likely caused by some kind of knife."
It was a bullet, you incompetent—
Edward grasped Sherlock's arms next, looking closely at them. "Victim has multiple scars on the insides of his elbows, caused by syringe injections."
Oh, what do you know? He finally got one right.
"Victim likely had blood work done frequently at one point," said Edward, putting Sherlock's arm down and moving on.
Oh, just do the autopsy already and put me out of my misery.
John pulled the coat out of the box, holding it for a moment before setting it down on the seat next to him. He then shifted the suit and shoes to the side before coming to the personal items. Sherlock's mobile phone was on the top, sitting next to his watch and a box of nicotine patches.
The last item made John laugh unexpectedly. All that time, he had been on Sherlock for his smoking; that the detective would end up with lung cancer one day if he wasn't careful. The laugh faded away as tears cropped up again.
If only… John thought miserably.
Greg sat down next to John, who looked up at him.
"To think, I was so worried he would be done in by his drug or smoking habits," said John, looking back down at the box. "I never really thought seriously about him getting—" He broke off as his throat threatened to choke him up.
"Yeah…" said Greg, staring at the box as well.
John's eyes welled up again, and he blinked back the tears, his eyes straying from the nicotine patches. As his vision came back into focus, he frowned. "What…"
Greg looked up at him. "What?"
John reached forward, pushing the mobile aside and grasping the item he had seen. He pulled it out of the box and held it up in front of them.
"Oh, my God…" said Greg, staring at it as well. "He was going to…"
John looked over at Greg before looking down at the small velvet box he held in his hand. He slowly reached his other hand up and pulled the lid open, revealing a small silver band with three diamonds on top of it.
John's breath caught in his throat as fresh grief rolled over him. "He was going to propose to Molly…"