a/n- So this chapter is devoted to a sherlolly author who made me smile last week with her story. I don;t think she reads my stuff but it was a hard week and she made it better. I think it's fairly obvious when you read it :)


3-

"So to recap, an autopsy is not an everyday occurrence but chiefly used during cases of sudden death, where a doctor is not able to write a death certificate, or when death is believed to result from an unnatural cause."

"Like murder?"

Molly looked over at the bright eyed student. "Yes, but also any case where there might have been diagnostic errors or the family has requested one. Those are the more likely reasons to do an autopsy. When a loved one dies, it's natural to want someone to blame, and so many families ask for an autopsy to be done. But statistically only between 8 and 24% of all autopsies find a mistake in treatment."

She glanced around at the sea of enthralled faces and bit back a smile. They all seemed so very young.

St. Barts was a teaching hospital and Mike had asked if she minded taking a class through basic morgue procedures and autopsy techniques. These students were all dealing with it quite well, although the boy in the orange striped top looked a little green when she had pulled out one of the corpses.

"So the first thing we do is an external examination, this usually tells us more than the actual autopsy itself. Once here we photograph it, noting the kind of clothes and their position on the body before they are removed. Next, any evidence such as residue, hairs, flakes of paint or other material is collected from the external surfaces of the body. All these help in identifying where the body was killed and what they were up to before they died. Even the smallest piece of evidence can be crucial. That's why we often use ultraviolet light to search body surfaces for any evidence not easily visible to the naked eye. Then we take samples of hair, nails and blood to send off for tests."

"How long does that usually take?" one girl with long brown hair and glasses had been busy taking notes all class and seemed very interested in the minutia of pathology.

Molly shrugged. "Depends on the case, depends on the backlog. Usually in minor cases, where we don't believe there is anything suspect, it can take up to a week. Murder cases, we try to have answers within 48 hours. Of course certain cases take priority." She gave a rueful smile at that. Not just certain cases. After Sherlock had stormed in and made three lab techs cry, they had agreed to give his cases priority, on the understanding that he never set foot in the lab again.

"So then, once the external evidence is collected, the body is removed from the bag, undressed, and any wounds are examined. The body is then cleaned, weighed, and measured in preparation for the internal examination." She gestured to the table where Mr. Ryan lay. "We make general observations about ethnicity, sex, age, hair colour and length, eye colour and other distinguishing features, like birthmarks, old scar tissue, moles, and tattoos. Here at Barts we have a voice activated recorder." She pointed up at the box above the corpse. "This allows us to have our hands free and still record our observations. Now-"

She stopped talking as the door to the lab swung open and her heart sank as the bane of her existence waltzed in.

"Molly, I need to see a body."

"Not now," she said through gritted teeth.

Sherlock didn't even spare her a glance. He reached for her desk, rifling through papers. "Yes, time is of the essence. I need to prove that it wasn't his wife, but his son, who killed him."

"He's dead, can't it wait an hour?"

"Nope, Lestrade is merrily dancing down the wrong path as we speak. Aha!" He held up a sheaf of papers. "Excellent. You've started the preliminary. White Caucasian male, forty-six, brown hair, brown eyes, over weight. Tattoo of eagle on lower back- bad choice I'd say. Inoculation scar on upper arm, broken fingers..." he started to mutter under his breath.

Molly sighed, looking at her fascinated students. "Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"Bit busy here."

For the first time Sherlock looked up and registered that there were ten teenagers in the room with him. He frowned. "Can't they go away?"

"No. This is a teaching hospital, Sherlock, I'm teaching."

"You're a pathologist, not a babysitter." He wrinkled his nose at them. "Besides only five of them have any interest in pursuing a career in medicine and none are particularly interested in working in the morgue. It's a waste of your time and theirs."

Molly rolled her eyes. "Even if they aren't going to work in the morgue, it's good to know what actually goes on in here." She sighed, realising that she wasn't going to get rid of him that easy. "Fine, the one you want is in drawer nine. I haven't done the autopsy yet so you'll have to make do with the external examination until I can get to it. Look all you like, just keep it down."

"Fine." He gave her a mutinous glare and stalked over to the drawer, somehow managing to pout and look angry at the same time.

Molly shook her head. "Sorry about that. Where were we?"

"V-voice activated recorder," one girl said, her eyes still on the detective.

"Right," Molly took a moment to gather her thoughts. "Also here we have specially altered autopsy tables that have a plastic block under the midsection of the corpse. This is also called a 'body brick'. Anyone have any idea why?"

The faces around her looked blank.

Sherlock scoffed.

Molly ignored him and continued. "The block is under the midsection in order to raise the torso, causing the arms and neck to fall backward while stretching and pushing the chest upward to make it easier to cut open. This gives us maximum exposure to the trunk." She gestured with her scalpel to the body in front of her.

"Molly, were there any threads stuck to the wound?"

Molly gritted her teeth. "The autopsy chart is on the end of the table marked with the subject's name, Sherlock."

"Asking you is easier."

"And more annoying," Molly rubbed her hand over her face in frustration. "Tiny fibres about half an inch long. I've sent them to the lab for analysis. Also several types of animal hair, hay and other grasses. All summarised in the report. Which I know you can read." She finished.

"Reading is boring, activity is the thing. See here," he flicked a glance up. "You."

The girl's eyes widened. "Me?"

"You appeared to be the only one listening to the good doctor. Come here."

The young girl shot Molly a worried look. Molly just shrugged.

She edged towards the table where the victim lay.

"Ye-s?"

"What do you see?"

The girl bit her lip and glanced at the body. "Um. Dead male, white...um Caucasian. That's the right way of saying it, isn't it?"

Sherlock nodded and that seemed to give her confidence.

"Late forties. Brown hair." She swallowed hard and leaned over, propping open one eye with her fingers. She shuddered and stepped back. "Brown eyes. Fat- uh... over weight. You said he has a tattoo on his lower back but I can't see that right now. Measles scar, bruise on shoulder, cuts... lacerations on forearm, damaged wrist and broken fingers?" she nibbled on her lip. "That's it."

"Which forearm?"

"Hmm?"

Sherlock tapped his fingers impatiently against the table. "Which forearm is injured?"

"The left."

"Yet we know the victim is right handed." Sherlock said. "Look at the indents on his fingers- used to holding a pen there. So why would a right handed man fend off his attacker with his left?"

"His attacker was coming from the left?"

"No."

"Oh," she deflated slightly.

"Look at the body again. You've already noted it."

The girl and now the rest of the class peered intently at the body.

"He couldn't." They swung around to peer at one of the taller boys. Molly had dismissed him as an athlete, doing the class for extra credit.

"His shoulder has been pulled out of its socket. Happened to me when I was playing rugby one time. I couldn't pass or do anything for days after they popped it back in. But the bruise looked just like that."

"Well observed," Sherlock said and motioned for the class to move closer. They all did and Molly grinned to herself, stepping into the office and switching the kettle on.

She could still hear Sherlock talking to his captive, and captivated, audience.

"So this man was attacked but had his shoulder dislocated so he couldn't fight off his attacker."

"D-does that mean there were two attackers?" the girl who had spoken first asked. She was a pretty Indian girl with very dark hair and a cute smile. "One to hold him back and one to attack the front."

"No." Sherlock pointed to the body. "If someone was holding him back them there would be pressure points on the both shoulder. It would be impossible to hold back a man of this size without leverage using just one arm."

"The wrist!" she said excitedly. "The bruises look like a circle. Was he tied up, tried to pull away and dislocated his shoulder."

Sherlock gave her a grin. "Oh yes. The burns on his wrist are from rope and the broken fingers where he was trying desperately to pull his hand out of the trap, thus dislocating his shoulder. But the angle of the wounds tell us so much more. Anyone?"

They all looked closer.

"The cuts are all on the upper forearm," a ginger haired boy said, "like the person who was attacking was taller?"

"Or he was on the ground." Added another. "Didn't Doctor Hooper say he'd got animal hair and hay on his trousers?"

"Excellent. You are not aware yet but the burns are old which means he was tied up for a while. Tied up and sitting down. Presumably on the floor. His attacker was above him."

"Are these knife wounds?"

"Yes."

The class went silent again and Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Statistically women are much less likely to premeditate murder and, when they do, favour methods such as poison. Men are stronger physically and this man was a good ten stone heavier than his wife. There is no way she would have been able to subdue him, keep him captive and exert enough force to cut through to bone." He turned the arm over, showing the class the white bone showing through the flesh.

The ginger boy turned green and hurried out of the room.

Sherlock sighed. "There goes another accountant."

"So the son did it?"

Sherlock's attention was captured by the Indian girl again.

"What is your name?" he asked curiously.

"Adi," she replied, "but my friends called me Mou."

"Well, 'Adi who is also Mou'," Sherlock said. "This man is Ronald Gilbert who owns a rather nice farm which does a roaring trade in illegal dog fighting. Not that Mr Gilbert was aware of this since it was his son's misdemeanour. Mr Gilbert was planning on selling the farm, not wanting to leave it to the feckless hands of his offspring and use the money to take his wife on a cruise. The son got wind of this and decided to off the old man thinking that the farm would fall to him as the next male. However, before he could implement his plan, he discovered that his father had left the farm to his wife. He abducted his father trying to force him to change the will. When Mr Gilbert refused, his son attacked him in a fit of rage, killing him and attempting to pin the blame on his mother. Easy."

"You can tell all that from some wounds and a bit of hay?" Adi said.

"Just as I can tell you do not wish to be a pathologist but a writer."

Her eyes widened. "Wha-"

"Excellent memory recall, especially for conversations which did not include you. Biro on your shirt and the clear indentations on your right hand where you hold a pen, added to the unmistakable outline of a notepad in your pocket. Your attention to minutia, the squint from the glare of a computer screen and the placement of your fingers, slightly bent and at right angles with your thumb, calluses on your lower palm from resting across the keyboard shows a hand well used to computers.

But your ability to follow the evidence to the logical conclusion is the real clincher. A good imagination, time at a keyboard and attention to detail. You, my dear, wish to be a writer."

"I do," Adi breathed out. "My dad wants me to be a doctor."

"He's wrong. As a doctor you would fade into the ranks of the mediocre but I deduce that you have the makings of a stellar author." Sherlock said firmly. "Ah, Molly!"

Molly held out a plastic cup complete with lid. "Now you've solved your crime and finished monopolizing my class, can I carry on?"

"Of course. Far be it from me to interfere with your job." He grabbed the cup and headed to the door. He paused and half turned. "I shall be watching your career with interest, Adi who is also Mou."

"O-kay," she stuttered as the door closed behind him.

She sagged against the table.

Molly came up behind her and patted her on the shoulder. "Don't worry, he affects us all like that."