Veranda stared out at the passing London streets with empty eyes. She knew what was coming next and although she realized it was necessary, she still wanted no part of it. They were on their way to the morgue so she could positively identify the bodies of her friends. Sherlock had assured her the pathologist was a kind young woman and that she would make it as painless as possible for her, but she wasn't that concerned about having to be around corpses. Death was the logical conclusion of life, after all. She'd never been bothered about bodies, cemeteries or any of the funereal contortions that people got themselves into.
What she was upset about was trying to figure out which face to put on. She didn't have to fake being sad, because she was. She was almost beside herself with grief, but she still had to be careful. She was feeling abandoned, adrift and very, very sorry for herself. It was that sort of self-pity that she had to be careful to hide. She was supposed to be bereaved for the ending of someone else's life, not for how it disrupted her own. She didn't understand it...they were dead! Why would they care? She'd figured out, quite early on, to keep that attitude to herself. She would always remember how you could have heard a pin drop in the church during her Grandmother's memorial service after she had said those very words. Oops.
So she sat, tears alternately welling-up and being blinked back, while she plotted how to convey an appropriate level of misery without going into garment-rending hysterics or being accused of acting like a heartless bastard.
Sherlock was watching her carefully while carefully not appearing to watch her. She was going to start crying any minute now and he didn't know exactly how he ought to react. He never cried from genuine emotion...only to manipulate people in certain situations. She, on the other hand, appeared to be overwhelmed and the stress was going to leak out through her tear ducts. He thought he should probably start with appearing sympathetic, but he rather ran out of ideas after that.
"You are lactose-intolerant."
"Huh?" Veranda gaped at Sherlock in disbelief.
"You are lactose-intolerant, arachnophobic and you have a cat. You are ambidextrous, a life-long non-smoker and you do not like the color orange."
She rubbed her eyes tiredly. "Not now Sherlock. And my cat died six months ago, so you're not bowling a 300."
"Your jumper has cat fur on it."
"You've obviously never had a cat. I'm still picking out hairs from cats that died 20 years ago."
"Because you own 20 year-old pieces of clothing."
"You figured that out already. Going back over old ground doesn't get you more points."
"Veranda..."
"Hmm?"
"I don't know how to say this without possibly making a bad situation worse..."
"When did that ever stop you?"
"Yes. Precisely. You are exceedingly easy to distract for a person in your situation. One might think that you are not as emotionally distraught as would be considered...seemly."
Now she was grinding the heels of both hands into her eye sockets. "Oh, God. Sherlock! Just stop already! If I told you I was a fraud, would that make you happy? Would it shut you up? Because I will do whatever it takes if you will just leave me alone. I'm in a bad place right now and I don't need you, or anyone, telling me whether I am sufficiently 'emotionally distraught' or not!"
"That's...that's not what I meant. I just wanted you to know that...it's fine. It's all fine. I will never judge you."
She stared up at him with both palms pressed against the sides of her face and could find nothing to say that seemed remotely appropriate. It was one of the kindest things anyone had ever said to her and she had no eloquent words to express her gratitude.
"Thank you, Sherlock."
"You're welcome, Veranda." He looked somberly out the window and said nothing else until the cab pulled up outside St. Bart's Hospital.
Veranda had to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other as she and Sherlock walked down to the basement of the hospital. The conversation during the taxi ride had taken more out of her than she thought. Now she felt a bit faint and was concerned she might throw up.
As they entered through the double doors of the morgue, they were greeted by the pathologist who Sherlock introduced as Molly Hooper. She was a youngish woman, perhaps in her early thirties, and struck Veranda as always trying to fold in on herself. She was thin-lipped with her mousy brown hair pulled back in a sloppy ponytail and a white lab coat worn open over a very loudly patterned and unattractive sweater.
She would have still been a couple inches shorter than Veranda, even if she hadn't been slouching. She wanted to tell the poor girl to stand up straight and carry herself better. Her first impression was a bit pathetic and unprofessional. It didn't help at all that she was obviously completely gaga for Sherlock. Veranda couldn't really blame her, but it was still sad to see. Between the two of them they still didn't have half-a-chance with the distinguished Mr. Holmes.
Her warm brown eyes were filled compassion as she shook Veranda's hand and said, "I am so sorry for what happened. I've cleaned everyone up so there shouldn't be any blood at all. Slit throats are very messy." She blinked rapidly a couple times and looked sharply from side to side. "Perhaps I shouldn't have..."
Veranda cut her off. "No. Let's just...get this over with. Shall we?"
"OK!" Molly all but chirped and Sherlock rolled his eyes. She led them over to six body bags lined up on rolling tables along the far wall. She unzipped the first one and Veranda couldn't swallow her stricken gasp.
"That's...that's Morgan. Morgan Carlsson. Oh, Morgan." Morgan was actually several years younger than Veranda, but she was the motherly type and had always treated her like an adopted daughter. The searing agony of seeing her lifeless husk was like losing her own mom all over again. She began trembling and wheezing and the world started to go grey at the edges. She squeezed her eyes shut and began making a 'no, no' gesture as she took a quick step back. Unfortunately, that was where Sherlock had decided to observe from so she collided with him. He caught her by the shoulders before she could crumple to the floor.
"Are you going to be all right?" Sherlock staggered a bit under her weight as he tried to find enough purchase to prevent her sliding out of her leather coat and onto the cold, wet tiles. Neither of them were paying any heed to Molly so they didn't see the angst written on her face as she watched her crush manhandle another woman.
"I'm fine. I'll be fine. Just let me...fine. I'm OK." She regained her footing, took a deep, centering breath and pulled her shoulders up. Then she yanked them forward and out of Sherlock's hands. He retreated without remark and Molly's eyes lit up. She zipped up Morgan's bag and dashed around to the next table.
One by one, Veranda identified Marc, Gerry, Carl, Viktoria and Elliot. By the end she looked as cadaverous as the bodies she was standing over, but she was still on her feet. She felt triumphant for that small victory. She signed whatever papers Molly shoved in front of her without reading anything. Her hand had such a tremor that she doubted it would qualify as her legal signature anyway.
As they turned to leave, Veranda wobbled slightly when the world tilted on its axis and she put her hands out for balance. Sherlock sighed impatiently and put his arm around her waist so he could both hold her up and direct her out of the morgue. He called over his shoulder, "Thank you, Molly."
Veranda mewled piteously and didn't immediately notice Sherlock's attempt at chivalry.
They left Molly standing with her arms limply at her sides, deflated and dejected, staring disconsolately after them as the doors swung shut.
Out in the hallway, Veranda continued to be woozy and unsteady on her feet. Sherlock was afraid to let go of her for fear she would collapse, but he really wished there was a bench somewhere he could sit her down on. After a couple of minutes and much head-shaking and eye-rubbing, she appeared to regain her senses.
"Le' go. I'm fine."
"You neither look nor sound 'fine'."
"Don't matter. Le' go a me."
"Not until I'm certain you won't end up in a heap on the floor."
"People gonna star' staring."
"We're the only ones down here."
"If'n Molly walks out that door, girl's gone kill me. So le' go." Veranda was wriggling somewhat insistently.
Sherlock tightened his grip around her in case she lost her dubious coordination during her pointless carrying-on. "What has Molly to do with any of this?"
"Oh, man...you don' know? Poor girl's got it bad for you. Like, really bad."
"I am not...unaware...of her attraction to me. It has caused some awkward moments in the past. It is in her best interests that I do not encourage her...romantic aspirations. Anyway, I believe you suffer from much the same malady as she."
There was a strangled cough from the woman he held firmly beside him.
"I see everything. I simply chose to not react to most of it. I am not a nice man, Veranda. I would leave you scarred and broken and I would probably kill Molly. It isn't worth it, so put it out of your mind."
Veranda suddenly had a bit of righteous anger to help focus her mind. "Women have their own agency. You give yourself too much credit, kid."
"Please don't patronise me. I have someone to do that already."
"Who?"
"My older brother."
"Oh, God. Is he anything like you?"
"In some ways...he is worse."
"Are your parents still alive?"
"Yes."
"Wow. That is some karmic retribution right there."
"I don't believe in such things."
"I keep an open mind. 'There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.'"
"Hamlet."
"I'm Danish. I can't help it."
"You're American."
"Danish-American...4th generation. So sue me. Now please. Let go!"
They walked up to the courtyard and sat on a bench to people-watch until Veranda was convinced she wasn't imminently going to become physically ill.
"Why do the cops hate you so badly?" She was watching the pigeons more than the people milling around.
"Come again?"
"That Donovan gal acted like she would rather shoot you in the head and throw your body in the Thames than have to talk to you civilly. Actually, she might enjoy dancing on your grave. Why?" God, I hate pigeons.
"There is some bad blood between us."
"Why do I doubt she's the only one?" And people.
"She's not."
"What do you do that you piss off the cops? Are you a criminal lawyer? An exposé writer?" Arsenic.
He gave her a sidelong glance. "I'm a consulting detective. The world's only."
"I think I understand your magnetic personality, now." Maybe strychnine.
"What?"
"You have a gravitational field around you. And it's because your massive ego is crammed into such a small space that it's like a white dwarf." No, definitely arsenic.
Sherlock wrinkled his nose up. "As I was saying, I am a consulting detective and I am, unfortunately for the police force, much better at their jobs than they are."
"Whoa, dude. I think you're in danger of collapsing into a singularity." For Sherlock.
"You are not funny."
"Neither are you." Mounds of the stuff.
"Scotland Yard make themselves look stupid and I help them."
"Is that your modifier dangling there deliberately or are you just happy to see me?" Perhaps a garrote.
"You are not funny."
"Oh, I'm having a blast. I haven't gotten to be this mean to anyone in years. It's refreshing. I forgot how pleasant a bare-knuckled brawl with an asshole can be." Or a gun.
"I believe I preferred you when you were grieving."
"Oh, this is me in mourning. If I were OK, then you would know." All three...that's the ticket.
"How?"
"Because I would be outta here faster than you could say 'bumbershoot cummerbund'." There's no kill like over-kill.
"You cannot leave."
"Oh, Alex. I'll take 'Watch Me' for a thousand." That Donovan woman would be so jealous.
"You could test the patience of Job." Sherlock was rubbing his hand over his eyes.
"I could make St. Francis of Assisi want to kick babies. In all fairness...you can too." They might award me a medal.
He started massaging his temples. He was getting a headache. He never got headaches. "We must establish a détente and agree to a peace accord."
"Why? Besides the obvious fact that we bring out the worst in each other when we quit trying to be cordial? I think we've hit our resonant frequency. Think of the destruction we could wreak! Come with me and we'll annihilate everything. We'll blow this joint to Kingdom Come on sheer attitude power." Dammit.
"So you agree?"
"Abso-frickin'-lutely. Truce." She held out her hand and they shook on their non-aggression pact. Spoilsport.
"Now, pray tell me. Why can't I leave? I'm packed. All I have to do is go get my stuff and I'll walk out of your life forever. What part of that doesn't sound brilliant?" Maybe I could smother him in his sleep...
"Because we are, in the unfortunate style of cheap and tawdry sitcoms the world over...stuck with each other. I gave my word to...the British government...that I would keep you alive and that is my only job presently. I always perform my duties to the best of my abilities, so I will be looking out for you until such time as I am relieved by my superior." He was proud there were only two half-truths in his statement.
"Why you? Why stick me with a 'consulting detective'? What does that even mean? If it's that important I stay alive, why not get me a proper bodyguard?" ...who isn't a mouthy brat.
"Sometimes a situation calls for using unofficial channels. I am as unofficial as can be had."
"I still don't get it. What does the 'British government' want with me?" What's his brother like?
"You will have to trust me."
"I think I liked you better when you were being an asshole." My life sucks.