The taxi eventually pulled up by the hospital, and Sherlock simply threw the money asked for at the cabby and swiftly climbed out. John was left to apologise to the startled driver and got out of the car on his side.
"Sherlock! What have I told you about throwing things at people?" John said, and jogged a little to catch up with Sherlock, who was making good pace up to the front doors. John thought he heard Sherlock mumble an apology, and took it as an answer. He sighed and mused over how childish Sherlock could be sometimes.
They went inside and John was instantly hit by the clean, white, sterilised atmosphere of the hospital. As Sherlock headed straight past the reception desk for the stairs to the mortuary, the receptionist passively glanced up at Sherlock before looking back to the files on her desk. The staff here knew who he was, obviously.
Traipsing around the corridors and stairwells of the hospital could be rather confusing at times, but no doubt Sherlock had a very accurate map of the building laid out in his mind, and was following it accordingly.
Eventually, they came to a large metal door with numerous warning signs on it. As Sherlock was just about to turn the lever-like handle, the door seemingly opened by itself. On the other side stood Molly, somewhat surprised to see the detective on this side of the door. John smiled at her as her gaze passed over him, but it returned to Sherlock soon enough.
Before Molly could utter a word Sherlock was already off with his own sentence, "Molly, how many bodies have you had come into the mortuary since last week?" Sherlock wasn't even looking at Molly, but at the door behind her.
"Uh, well, three I think, but-" Molly started, but Sherlock interrupted her. "Great," he said with a false smile, "could I have a look at one or two?" He was now looking straight at Molly, who was struggling under his gaze. "Um, sorry- I would like to let you- but they're off limits now, if you had come yesterday-" she said, and yet again, Sherlock interrupted.
"Please, Molly?" he said, with the best puppy-dog face he could muster. John knew it was wrong of Sherlock to manipulate Molly like this, but sadly Sherlock had Molly Hooper wrapped around his little finger.
"Well, alright," she said, and turned around to heave open the still-unlocked door. On the other side, the cleanliness of the rest of the hospital turned into a battered grey. Inside there were three bodies on three of the five tables in the room, and Sherlock veered over to the closest one and examined the body before turning back to Molly.
"You couldn't do a really big favour for me and get a riding crop, could you?" he asked, accompanied with yet another false smile. Molly smiled back and nodded, taking the bait, before hurrying out of the room. John looked back at Sherlock as the door closed behind her.
"Do you enjoy manipulating her or do you just have no appreciation for other people?" John asked, looking at Sherlock hard.
"I simply use what I have to my advantage," Sherlock said, not looking up from where he was analysing the male body. "So you don't care about Molly at all?" Sherlock didn't give an answer, but John didn't need one. "Why are we even here?" John continued, because it seemed that Sherlock only wanted to come here to thrash some bodies about.
"It helps me think," Sherlock answered, and John sighed. Sherlock finally stood back from the body and looked to the door, still veiling his left cheek from the doctor's view.
"What is taking her so long?" Sherlock asked the door, and John just looked at him in disbelief.
"You know a riding crop isn't the easiest thing to find in a hospital, right?" John said, musing over how Sherlock always expected the world to revolve around him. John supposed he didn't really know any different with a brother like Mycroft. In fact, Sherlock rarely spoke of his childhood.
"I don't care-" Sherlock started with a raised voice, but then the door swung open and in stepped Molly, with a leather riding crop gripped in her hand. She oddly reminded John of The Woman, but he couldn't think why. When she swung the riding crop toward Sherlock for him to take, John swore he saw Sherlock flinch, just a little. Maybe he was thinking the same thing. He took it with another artificial smile and said thank you, then instantly started whipping the body, quite violently.
John watched Molly observe Sherlock do this, flinching at every strike of leather against skin. Finally, she'd had enough.
"Um, I think I'll just go now. Bye John," she said, looking at the army doctor. John nodded and smiled as a reply. "Bye Sherlock," she said, switching her gaze to the taller man and smiling. Sherlock seemed so engrossed in his method of thinking that he didn't seem to notice Molly. Or perhaps he did, but he couldn't be bothered to be nice to her. The girl's smile faltered a little and she quickly stepped out of the room, shutting the door behind her hurriedly.
Sherlock finished whipping the body with three stronger, elaborate lashes and stepped back, tugging at the collar of his coat to improve his state slightly. With an approving 'Hmph,' he looked up at John, who was looking around the room, seemingly contemplating something.
John couldn't help but notice the dull, almost depressing feel of the room, and wondered if it was just because there were three corpses on metal tables.
"So, this is where people go after they've died?" John asked, and couldn't decide whether he was asking himself or Sherlock, as it seemed quite an obvious question.
"Yes," Sherlock replied, caught up in his own line of thought. John paused before pressing his inquiry further.
"Don't you think it's a little sad?" John asked, "these were real people, and now they're just locked in a cold, grey room."
John didn't think Sherlock really understood what he was talking about, as it involved emotions and feelings, but Sherlock seemed to think about it. Eventually, he came out with; "They're dead, John; they're empty bodies. It doesn't matter what's done with the corpses now." John couldn't help cringe a little at the iciness of Sherlock's reply, and had to look away from him for a moment. He wondered if Sherlock would think differently if it was John lying on one of those tables.
Probably not.
John looked back at Sherlock slowly, who was already making his way to the door to leave. The army doctor watched as Sherlock attempted to heave open the heavy door, and fail.
"That's odd," Sherlock mumbled, and John understood he didn't expect a reply. Nevertheless, he walked over to Sherlock and stood next to him as he tried again.
"Here; let me try," John offered, and Sherlock –for once- obediently moved out of the way. John tensed his muscles as he grabbed the handle on the door and pulled. The door didn't budge. He tried again, before violently shaking the door handle back and forth and releasing it, stumbling backward.
"Molly's locked us in," Sherlock stated from behind him, as if blaming her. John rubbed the palms of his hands as they'd gone red from the friction on the handle.
"I doubt she did it on purpose," John reasoned. Molly had always been very sweet, and John knew she had a soft spot for Sherlock, so it was very unlikely that she did it on purpose. It was an accident.
Sherlock went up to the door and swiftly examined the crevice between the door and the doorjamb. He took out his pocket magnifying glass and looked up and down the dark gap. Sherlock made a sound of frustration and turned to John.
"Two deadbolt locks and a disc-tumbler lock, and they're locked from the outside," Sherlock concluded. John wasn't an expert locksmith, but he was pretty sure that wasn't good.
"I'm guessing we won't be getting out for a while, then?" Sherlock simply grunted in response and stalked away from the door, and headed over to one of the bodiless tables. John watched as he sat on it, pressed his palms together and brushed his lips with his fingers. John knew that pose. He doubted he would be talking for a while.
"Sherlock?" John asked wearily, blinking and rubbing his head. He realised with a start that he'd fallen asleep on one of the metal tables, and quickly checked his watch. He'd been asleep for five hours, at least. He blinked again and lifted his head a little to look around the room.
He was still in the morgue, and Sherlock was sitting at the end of the table with his back to him. As far as John was aware, he hadn't moved since he sat there five-and-a-bit hours ago.
"Sherlock?" he asked again, a bit embarrassed about the fact that his name was the first thing he'd said when he woke up. There was still no reply. He paused, wondering if he was deep in his Mind Palace, when he heard his flatmate speak.
"What time is it, John?" he asked placidly, as if they hadn't been trapped in a morgue with three dead people for more time than John felt comfortable with. Nevertheless, John need to answer.
"It's quarter past six," John informed him, reading his watch again. John knew that Sherlock had his own perfectly-functioning watch strapped to his own wrist, but no doubt he couldn't be bothered. Sherlock cocked his head slightly when John said this.
"In the morning or evening?" Sherlock asked. John felt a pang of worry; had he been asleep for longer? Neither of them had a digital watch, so he couldn't say. He didn't think so, but then again, he had been asleep, and there were no windows showing outside, so it was possible. John decided to be optimistic.
"In the evening," John said. Sherlock groaned a response, and seemingly zoned out again. John slid to the end of the table and perched next to Sherlock. He looked up into his vacant face, and, as presumed, he was staring straight ahead, with his fingers at his chin. John was pretty sure he hadn't moved.
And then John remembered something.
"Sherlock," John said, looking at him seriously. No response; not even an eye twitch or change in breathing pattern. "Sherlock!" The taller man's eyes moved to meet his. Sherlock mumbled a slightly irritated 'Mhmm,' showing he was listening.
John hesitated. "Why did you kiss me?"
That got his full attention. At first John didn't think he was going to answer; Sherlock just stared at him.
"I told you, it was an experiment," he said, and pushed himself from the table to go over to one of the bodies. Is Sherlock trying to avoid the question? he thought.
"Yeah, but, an experiment to prove what exactly?" John continued, unsure whether or not this was going to end well. From the angle he was standing, John couldn't see Sherlock's face, but he was pretty sure he flinched for a moment.
"Just to test the natural human correlation between…" Sherlock trailed off into a mumble, and John smirked as he started to realise something.
"Right," John said, going along with it. He moved over to Sherlock, acting as if he too was looking at the body. After a moment, he looked up at Sherlock. John was, as planned, standing to Sherlock's right; the side with Sherlock's injury. John subconsciously bit his lower lip as he saw the simple scarlet colour that covered Sherlock's cheekbone, with a central darker scar. As Sherlock turned to look at John, the army doctor sucked in some air.
"What is it, John?" Sherlock asked with a hint of fake annoyance in his voice. Frowning down at him, Sherlock turned slightly to face him. John realised he was staring at Sherlock quizzically, trying to figure out the ingenious man before him. John shook his head quickly to snap himself out of his rather awkward thought process of weird ideas.
"Um, nothing Sherlock," he replied hastily. John still thought - rather childishly - it was unfair that Sherlock always got to do these random things and then pass it off under an explanation of 'it was an experiment'.
Well. Two can play at that game.
Before fully understanding what he was doing, John pushed his lips to Sherlock's and kissed him. He found himself unable to pull away for a moment, and he swore he felt Sherlock smile against his lips. The army doctor pulled away, pretending to be annoyed (at what, John hadn't the faintest), and stalked off.
"Well well, I can't believe my eyes," said a lilting voice coming from the doorway. John and Sherlock both turned to see Moriarty leaning against the doorframe, wearing a very smug smirk, hands in the pockets of his suit jacket.
John cringed as he remembered that he'd left him by some bins, which he was sure Moriarty wasn't too happy about. The consulting criminal had his foot pressed against the base of the door, keeping it sufficiently open.
"Oh, my god," John mumbled, then raised his voice, "Do you follow us everywhere, or is it just coincidence?" He clenched his fists and stared in disbelief at the figure. Moriarty looked like he was pretending to think about his answer to the question.
"Oh, I don't follow both of you, just that one." He said, nodding his head at Sherlock, who rolled his eyes.
"If that's all, we'll be on our way," the taller man said, and promptly walked through the door, past Moriarty, who quite happily let him. John hesitated as Moriarty, with no one else in the room, looked at him.
The consulting criminal slowly crept into the room, and John frantically grabbed the closest object, which happened to be a chair, and crammed it inbetween the door and the doorjamb before the door succeeded in closing. He'd been stuck in that room for God-knows-how-long, and he wasn't going to risk being stuck in here for even longer with an unfriendly psychopath.
John was quick to notice that he now was at an advantage to Moriarty. He was closer to the exit. While Moriarty was in the middle of the room, John was now standing right next to the door.
"It's about time you two got together," Jim sneered, and John struggled to force himself to react neutrally. "How long have you liked eachother?" he said, and stuffed his hands in his pockets.
"He doesn't like me like that," John argued, not sure how long he could keep his cool. Moriarty laughed. Laughed. A horrible sound which seemed to echo around the room.
"But you like him? I'm right, aren't I?" Moriarty slowly paced up and down the room with his hands behind his back, which made John think of a lion hunting its prey. "You really need to be more careful about how you say things, John. 'He doesn't like me like that,' which suggests you do. Oh, I can't wait to tell him."
John instantly thought, I think he already knows, but he didn't say anything. He took in a deep breath, and decided to change the subject. "Well, this has been fun," which it hadn't, "but I ought to catch up with Sherlock." With which he leapt over the chair and kicked it out from being a doorstop with one swift movement. John turned quickly enough to see the heavy door swing shut smoothly, trapping Moriarty behind it. John couldn't help being a little pleased with himself.
John, after getting a bit lost in the network of corridors, found Sherlock sitting in the lobby, in his usual position of fingers steepled at the chin. The doctor was a little relieved that Sherlock had waited for him. "Sherlock!" John said as he ran over to him. Hearing his name had obviously worked well enough to jog him out of whatever he was doing. John never had any idea.
"Hmm?" Sherlock looked at him. "Oh, John. What took you so long?" John should've known that was coming.
"Um, I got held up by Jim." Sherlock's raised eyebrow told him to go on, but John didn't want to go into the details. "It's fine- I'm fine. Honestly." John flashed him a reassuring grin, which Sherlock seemed to take as a sign to change the subject.
"Well then, I suppose we can leave now, then." Sherlock said, and got up, adjusted his scarf, and headed toward the doors, with John at his heels.
"Sherlock! Wait!" a voice cried from behind them. Female, John thought as the pair turned again to see who was calling the detective's name.
It turned out to be Molly – no surprise there – who was hurrying towards them flailing a riding crop in the air, which made her look a little weird. "Oh, god…" John heard Sherlock mumble before he pasted his special Molly-smile on his face.
"Oh, hello Molly," he said with such a false enthusiasm John thought Molly had to notice. If she did, she didn't show it. The girl stopped right in front of Sherlock.
"Hi," Molly said with a slight squeak, but she coughed to get her voice back to sounding normal. "You, uh, left your riding crop in the morgue… I thought you might want it back." Molly extended the riding crop towards him, but Sherlock didn't move to take it.
"Molly, the riding crop isn't mine, it's the hospitals'." Sherlock said flatly, as if harshly correcting a seven year old.
"Oh, right. Well, um, sorry for wasting your time, I guess…" Molly mumbled, and her gaze fixed on the floor. While Molly wasn't watching him, Sherlock sighed, frustrated. John imagined it was hard for Sherlock to keep up being what-he-calls 'nice'.
"But thank you, Molly, I appreciate it." And Sherlock kissed Molly's cheek, which quickly turned pink. Molly looked up at Sherlock, eyes wide, and seemed unable to figure out what to say next.
"Right… Yeah, okay… I'll see you around, Sherlock, I suppose." With which she smiled at him, and didn't seem intent on leaving at all. John couldn't help but feel a little left out.
"Goodbye, Molly," Sherlock said, and turned on his heel and headed out the doors, which swung limply after him. John hesitated, checking Molly was okay, then headed out the same doors and followed Sherlock over the boundaries of the premises.
When he caught up to Sherlock, John couldn't help but notice the terrible scowl Sherlock was wearing on his face. John was going to ask what the matter, but Sherlock spoke first.
"I need to go visit my brother."