CHAPTER 2:
11:25 p.m., Thursday
They took the lift down to the mortuary, having seen Mike Stamford, who was just leaving; he told the pair they'd find Molly there, going over Miss Gramble's body.
Sherlock stepped into the lift. "Tell me, John: Did you see that dead woman while you were at your grandmother's grave?"
John sighed, jabbing the 'Door Close' button. "Really? You're basically asking me if I was checking under the bushes and looking in freshly-dug holes, looking for a dead, nude woman while trying to mourn at my gran's grave?"
The Consulting Detective ignored the exasperation in John's voice. Sherlock smirked self-importantly. "I would have."
John rolled his eyes. "Yeah, well… I'm not you."
"Yes, thank goodness for that," Sherlock murmured. John simply shook his head, trying not to grin.
"So… did you?"
Sherlock's brow arched. "You have to ask?"
"Jesus, Sherlock," John laughed, slightly disgusted. "Anyway, the two blokes who dug the grave were just finishing up when I arrived, so, there's no way the body was dumped at that time. Didn't you see them?"
"I did; they were driving the lorry into the utility building."
The door opened, and they stepped into the long, quiet hallway. It didn't matter how many times he'd been here, John found this place to be heavy with sadness. It was odd that someone as sweet and happy as Molly Hooper worked here, yet it didn't seem to affect her—but put Sherlock in the same room, and she became flustered, withdrawn.
Sherlock went in first, pushing open the door with his usual force… but he stopped so quickly, that John ran into him.
"What the hell?" John complained. When Sherlock didn't move, he peered around the taller man.
There was Molly, in her white lab coat, red jumper, and baggy tan pants. She had company—and his hand was on her waist.
John, moving into clear view, coughed and looked away. Sherlock, however, stood very still and stared—hard.
"OH!" Molly gasped, moving away from the man, her face turning red. She tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "Hello, John… Sherlock." She barely looked at him, but smiled warmly at John. "I've got Miss Gramble right here." She gestured to the body on the table.
"Ah," John said. "So, who's your, er, friend?"
"Jim," Sherlock said—too swiftly. John raised an eyebrow.
So did Jim, as he leaned back on the table behind him and Molly, amused.
Molly giggled. "This is Jim," she said, smiling at Jim, grasping his hand; he lifted it to his lips. This made Molly titter again. "He works upstairs in IT. We're having an 'office romance', I guess you could say."
"I wouldn't," Sherlock growled.
"Sherlock, no one was asking you," John said quickly, seeing Molly's face, as if Sherlock had just slapped her.
Molly quickly drew her hand away from Jim, who frowned slightly.
"No one ever does, despite my accuracy for being correct." Sherlock fixed his gaze on Molly now, who squirmed and turned away, pretending to straighten things behind her.
'Don't look at him.' Molly thought, as she fiddled with a box of latex gloves. 'What is he doing here anyway? I told him he wasn't allowed to be here!'
'That's technically not true,' said a small voice. 'You only threw him out that night. Admit it; you're glad to see him.'
'But he's rude!' Molly thought, indignantly.
'And clever—and handsome!' The tiny voice added.
'So, it's okay for a man to be utterly adorable and unbelievably smart, but treat me like dirt? Yes, that makes complete sense.'
'You've seen him when he thinks no one's looking,' the little voice said. 'He is capable of more than he shows. Don't give up on that. Sherlock's a great man; one day, if you're really lucky, he'll prove he's a good man.'
Molly's heart flipped over, and she sighed in frustration. She hated when that stupid voice was right.
"Molly… you okay?" Jim asked. She looked at him, and he reached up and brushed away a tear that she didn't even realize she'd shed.
"Wh-what?" She shook her head to clear the cobwebs. "Oh, yes. I was just… Well, I have many things on my mind. Have a lot to do this evening."
"It would get done faster without distractions." Sherlock said in a low voice. He was still standing near the door, like a sentinel. It was quite imposing.
'Clever, handsome, and rude, indeed.'
"Does this mean you'll be going to the lab, then?" Molly blurted, a little too quickly. She gasped as her right hand flew to her mouth. "Oh! I-I didn't… didn't mean…"
Sherlock's nostrils flared. "I will, as soon as I have some samples to take with me."
"Yes," Molly replied in a small voice. "I, um, have some here." She started shuffling through the paperwork behind her.
"And the one from last week's case?" Sherlock asked.
"Ye-yes."
Jim watched the exchange in silence, but he did reach out his left hand and stroke her right hand with his pinkie. This did not go unnoticed by a pair of narrowed blue eyes.
John frowned and cut in. "Tact, Sherlock…" he whispered. "Use it."
"What's the use of 'tact'?" Sherlock bit out in a low voice. "Truth is better."
"Yes," John sighed, "but there's no need to slay people with it."
"Now, boys…" Jim broke in, his voice admonishing lightly and his hand never leaving Molly's, while Sherlock's steely gaze still hadn't left Jim. "Bickering? Tsk-tsk." He grinned in amusement. Molly smiled slightly, but there was still a look of uncertainty lingering on her features.
John wondered if they were going to be asked to leave—again, in Sherlock's case.
Sherlock finally looked at Molly. Everyone was surprised at the speed in which the man's expression changed; it became less irritated, more intensely interested. Molly held his gaze, and her eyes widened with each passing second.
Jim's hand stilled, and slowly moved to his side. His grinned widened.
"Of course," Sherlock said smoothly, removing his scarf, his eyes still on the pathologist. "If you'll just excuse us," he said in a clipped tone, not looking at Jim, but certainly speaking to him, "Molly and I have some work to do."
Jim held up his hands. "Sure! I just popped down here for a minute to say hey, anyway." He looked at Molly. "See you tomorrow, then?"
Molly broke away from Sherlock's stare with a slight gasp. "Ye-yes. Half seven, right?"
Jim nodded, and patted Molly's shoulder. He also nodded at Sherlock, who dipped his chin very slightly in return. Jim then smiled at John. "It was so nice to meet you," he said, scooting around Sherlock and exiting the morgue.
Molly pointedly ignored Sherlock and moved away to retrieve her clipboard, which was hanging up on the other side of the room. She also washed her hands in the sink nearby.
"Well, that was… interesting." John said, amused.
"How so?" Sherlock asked, finally looking away from Molly.
"The temperature is usually cold in here," the doctor remarked casually, "but the moment we walked in, I could swear it dropped to damned frigid—then, just moments ago, I thought maybe I'd need to strip this jumper off, because it was almost like a sauna."
"Don't be ridiculous, John."
Molly returned at that moment, cleared her throat, stared down at her clipboard, and began talking about her findings: "Carrie Gramble. Sexual assault, burn marks, strangulation, stab wound, and facial trauma."
"Sexual assault?" John echoed grimly.
"Yes, " Molly said, mournfully. She reached out to touch the dead girl's forehead. "She had to endure too much before her end. It's sad."
Sherlock finally moved from his spot by the door and closer to the cadaver. "Tell me what you think about the cause of the facial wound."
Molly's eyes widened in surprise, and her mouth gaped open—which she quickly closed. Sherlock Holmes was asking her for information? Did the world end and no one tell her?
She cleared her throat, and began: "Well, it appears to be something short, round, smooth, and definitely made of wood, based on a few splinters I extracted," Molly said, business-like, still looking down. She didn't trust herself to look up at Sherlock. Maybe looking at John would be better? So, she lifted her gaze and looked at the doctor, who'd fixed his curious gaze upon her. "I've ruled out a cricket bat, because that's too wide and flat. It might be a—"
"Club—or a night stick," Sherlock interjected.
"Ye-es," Molly's glance slide sideways, at only for the barest of seconds. 'Don't look at him,' she thought. 'Don't look at him.' She swallowed the nervousness that started to rise, and turned her attention back to John. "The splinters I found were natural wood, so, it wouldn't be one of the types of night sticks most police or guards carry nowadays."
"I'd like to see those splinters, to compare the analysis results to my findings done at the flat," Sherlock said, holding out his hand expectantly.
"Ask…" John commanded in a low voice. Molly's eyes shifted between the two men, confusion crossing her features.
"I'd like to see those splinters," Sherlock repeated, this time his tone was a bit softer. "Please. May I?"
Molly nodded, and turned to the table along the wall, under the observation windows. In a covered petri dish, there were some wood flecks. She also passed the carpet fiber and skin sample from last week's case to Sherlock, who thanked her, albeit awkwardly.
"Miss Gramble's bruises were inflicted by the same club that damaged her face. The blade that pierced her heart, was quite lengthy-with a pointy tip, sharp edge, and a partially serrated mid-section. Not quite sure what would match that description, though."
"Ninja Long Blade," Sherlock offered.
"Oh. Oh, good," Molly made a note on the clipboard, then stopped and grimaced. "Oh! No, I don't mean 'good for her', because, no, that wasn't good. I meant 'good, glad we know that, now.'" She rattled off, before putting her hand on her forehead. "Oh… forget it."
'Tell me about the burns… please," Sherlock said; the last word sounding awkward to all.
Molly kept on going. "There were definitely two different causes for the burn marks. One of them was L&B cigarettes—two packs, at the very least. The other was a Cuban cigar—give or take three. Her hair was cut by the very knife that stabbed her. But she was dead before her head was smashed and heart stabbed, having been strangled. I need to run some tests on the fibers around her throat, but it looks like a simple cotton rope did the job."
John was listening to this with fascination. Typically, Sherlock was haughtily informing everyone of the who's, what's, where's, when's, why's, and how's, but he was remaining mostly silent and allowing Molly to provide the information?
Did he, John, blink for too long, missing the sneaky replacement of his friend? Or did Sherlock hit his head on the lift on his way down here? There were some strange things afoot.
"Many of her injuries are quite similar to Millicent MacGregor's, don't you agree?" Sherlock asked.
"Millicent MacGregor?" Molly repeated. "Was that the Queen Mary student missing for a while? Her funeral was today, correct?"
"Yes," Sherlock replied. He pulled out his mobile and tapped a few keys, before slipping it back into his pocket. "Odd, don't you think, how both girls have the same causes of death, similar trauma—and their features are the same? Even stranger still: Miss Gramble was found in Miss MacGregor's grave."
"Hang on," John interjected, "What are you implying? Serial killer?"
Molly mulled over this information, and nodded. "It fits, though. Maybe we should call Greg."
"It's all ready been taken care of."
oooooooooooooooo
A well-rested DI Greg Lestrade met the trio in the lab. He carried a large cup of coffee in one hand and a file folder under an arm. Sherlock was at the microscope, engrossed in the splinters, while Molly was prepping the carpet fiber, and both were waiting on the results from the stone Sherlock found in Miss Gramble's shoe.
John had been texting Jeanette, setting up another date.
"What's this about a serial killer?" Greg began, upon entering the room.
It took a few minutes, but Molly and Sherlock filled him in; the pathologist told him what she'd found, with the consulting detective interjecting occasionally. This seemed to bolster Molly's confidence. She brightened when Sherlock smiled and nodded his approval.
Greg whipped out his mobile and called Sally Donovan, and told her to set up interviews with the MacGregor and Gramble families; he wanted to find out what things they had in common. Maybe a handyman, or the girls rode the same tube lines, go to the same primary school… any lead is better than what they had now—nothing.
While he talked to Donovan, and John looked at the file folder of crime scene photographs Greg had brought with him, Sherlock turned to Molly—who had moved closer to Sherlock while they spoke to Lestrade, but to also set down a new slide for Sherlock to study—and asked: "Did you perform the autopsy on Miss MacGregor?"
"No, I-I did not," Molly stuttered.
"Pity." Sherlock frowned. "I was hoping to read the notes."
Molly's eyes focused on Sherlock's mouth. She licked her own lips, absently. "Oh. W-well, those sh-should be around here somewhere, since the death was, um, very recent."
Sherlock smiled. "Could I see them?
Molly nervously pushed stray strands of hair behind her ear. "Well, I don't know…"
"Hmm," Sherlock responded non-committedly. "So, Is that a new perfume you're wearing?"
"Oh, this?" She sniffed her hand. "It's just-just lemon soap. There's, er, a bar down in morgue, and up here in the, um … yeah, you can use it if you… toilet." Molly turned her face away for a moment, but John looked up and clearly saw the look of anguish there. Molly probably wanted the floor to open up and swallow her.
"Well, I must say it's definitely an improvement over the last scent that clung to you two days ago. What was that, anyway?"
"Chocolate. I mean, chocolate mint."
Sherlock's brow and nose wrinkled in disgust. "It was hideous. Don't use it again; it made your skin blotchy."
Molly nodded, her face bright red. She quickly turned around once more and pushed open the door to the supplies room.
"Coffee, too, Molly!" Sherlock called after her.
"Can't you give her a break?" John asked, shaking his head. "One minute you're a complete jackass, then, you're Mince Pie, then you're a berk. What gives, Sherlock?"
"John, don't involve yourself in this," was the flat reply.
"I will involve myself!" John growled. "I like Molly; she's nice. She makes coming here with you easier to deal with. So, take my advice for once, Sherlock: If you want something, then just ask her—or get it yourself." He ended with a hiss.
"I'm busy," Sherlock pouted, "and she wasn't actually doing anything."
"She runs this lab—and the morgue—and she's not your housekeeper!" John nearly shouted. "God, I sound like Mrs. Hudson," he sighed. "Just be kinder to Molly, Sherlock, will you?" John asked. "Her emotions seemed to have been all over the map tonight, thanks to you."
He received a blank look. "I complimented her soap."
"Wow, do you run hot and cold," John said unkindly. "What's gotten into you? No—no, don't tell me; I don't want to know, because—well, I just don't."
"John, stop over-dramatizing," Sherlock grumbled.
John threw his hands in the air. "My point, Sherlock, is that you can't toy with a woman like Molly. She'd probably kill you and cut you up into pieces so small, that no one will ever find you—and she'd get away with it."
"Molly would never do that." Sherlock said confidently.
"For the love of—" John sighed, rubbing his face with both hands. "Never mind," he snapped. "Forget it."
Lestrade, having hung up his phone several minutes previous, chuckled, clearly amused. There was always entertainment to be found whenever Sherlock and John argued—as long as it wasn't involving Lestrade, of course. If anyone would bother to ask his opinion, he'd say he agreed with John; Molly shouldn't be on the receiving of Sherlock's sharp words either. Molly Hooper was a nice girl, and it was obvious she liked Sherlock… well, obvious to everyone except Sherlock. For all his amazing wit, keen ability to observe the unnoticed, and quick thinking, Sherlock definitely did not see how badly Molly adored him. What a shame.
oooooooooooooooo
Molly wanted to kick herself for saying "toilet" to Sherlock. How embarrassing! Why couldn't she get a complete thought out of her mouth whenever he was around? She was perfectly fine any other time, but as soon as he entered the room, her mouth disconnected from her brain. It was ridiculous! She was a doctor, for goodness sake; she went to university, studied hard, and got top marks! She deals with the dead and their families every day! She shouldn't let some man—no matter how smart or gorgeous he is—get the best of her.
Still, some days, she wondered if she should just don a 'dunce' cap. Sherlock treated her as such. It wasn't too bad today, though. She was shocked that he allowed her to talk so much, telling Detective Lestrade what they knew.
But, sometimes, she wanted to punch Sherlock in the face for some of the things he said, but she just couldn't bring herself to do it. The verbal abuse likely to follow would cause her death. True, she died just a little each time he insulted her, and her heart always—always—hoped that would be the last time, but her brain knew better. Still, she cared about him, because despite his aversion to sentiment, Molly believed there was a good, warm-hearted man underneath the cold marble exterior that was afraid to let emotion get in the way.
Sherlock thought it was so horrible, and sometimes it was, but he had never learned to balance both his brilliance and his emotions together. He kept one locked away, allowing the other to shine, but this tipped the scale too much to one side, leaving him numb.
She had very rare glimpses in the past, in the way he treated his landlady, Mrs. Hudson. Molly had been to 221B Baker Street six times in the past, to bring body parts to Sherlock, and saw with her own eyes Sherlock's affection for the woman who was "not his housekeeper". Molly felt a little jealous when she witnessed Sherlock hug and kiss Mrs. Hudson. The way he smiled at her was wonderful, too; there was true joy there, albeit briefly.
Molly wanted to see that joy when he looked upon her, too. She wanted caresses, kisses, and so much more.
If Sherlock could be kind to the older woman, he could be kind to her, too, right? If Molly ran away, she might never get a chance to see the stone fall away to reveal the light inside, to see the scale balance properly. So, she stayed.
Unfortunately, while trying to chip away at his exterior, he was hammering down hers—and he was doing a better job. Which one of them would break down completely first?
Molly didn't want think about the answer that was so glaringly obvious.
Her pocket vibrated; she pulled her cell out from her lab coat pocket, and saw she'd had a text from Jim.
Everything's going to be all right. :) – Jim xo
The corners of her mouth lifted cheerlessly. Here was a perfectly nice guy, and she would lose out on being loved if she didn't make a better effort to be part of a relationship.
Any relationship is better than none, she thought, or a one-sided fantasy.
So, she texted back: I know. Can't wait to see you tomorrow. :) Molly xo
Almost immediately, her phone vibrated: Dream of me when you sleep. – Jim xo
Her reply: I will. – Molly xo
But she knew whom she'd really dream about. On impulse, she created a new text message: Dearest Sherlock, I dream of you every night—and wake crying every morning. What can this mean? Love, Molly xxx
She stared at it for a long minute, her finger hovering over "Send". But, Molly could never send this to him; he wouldn't understand—wouldn't care. So she saved it instead, adding to the growing collection of unsent texts to Sherlock Holmes.
