Chapter Seven: Back on the Job

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John could not have been more ecstatic to receive Irene's call than if she'd told him he'd won the lottery. His enthusiasm was dampened somewhat by Sherlock's surly disposition. It appeared as if John was not yet forgiven.

"So, ah, any new ideas about the case?"

"Hard to know, isn't it, since we haven't spoken with Lestrade yet," Sherlock said acidly.

John found this a little much to bear. He'd been well within his rights to move out; there was no need for Sherlock to carry a grudge. "Since when have you relied on Lestrade for ideas?"

Sherlock cast him an annoyed glance. "I have thirty-seven ideas regarding this case, actually. I'd just rather keep them to myself at the moment."

"That's a first."

They walked the rest of the way to Scotland Yard in silence.

Irene Adler hung up on Lestrade and sauntered downstairs to 221A. It was just like Sherlock to take off before she'd even left the apartment, let alone been introduced to the landlady. Luckily, Irene was a woman well accustomed to making her own introductions.

"Hello. You must be Mrs Hudson."

Mrs Hudson was an older woman with sassy short hair and a gentle voice. "Why, hello. Who might you be?"

"I'm Irene Adler," said Irene, using her best meet-the-landlady voice. "I'm an old friend of Sherlock's."

Mrs Hudson raised her eyebrows in disbelief.

"And John's," added Irene hastily.

This seemed to be more what Mrs Hudson expected. "Oh, you'll have to come in and tell me all about it, dear. I've just put the kettle on."

Greg Lestrade set down his mobile and stared blankly at the donut he'd been eating before the call. The woman had reportedly phoned just to warn him that Sherlock was on his way to Scotland Yard. Not that he didn't appreciate the warning, but it was a strange call. He hadn't thought Sherlock knew any women outside of work. Heck, he hadn't thought Sherlock knew anyone outside of work.

Except John Watson, of course.

But when John and Sherlock arrived, it was all too clear that the two were in the middle of some sort of disagreement. John looked positively close to tears, and Sherlock was even more stony-faced than usual.

I don't want to know, thought Lestrade tiredly. I'm just glad Sherlock's back on the case after his three-day break. Maybe we'll finally start making headway. Though of course I've also requested that other consultant…

He cleared his throat. "Another body's turned up. I've managed to keep this one away from the papers. It was found on the riverbank like the others, in an overcoat with rats and so on."

"May I take a look?" asked Sherlock with exaggerated politeness.

Lestrade sighed and headed for the morgue. Here we go again.

Sherlock surveyed the body with something approaching on good humor. Irene was back in town, John looked gratifyingly penitent, and there was a serial killer on the loose.

"We've left the body as it was," said Lestrade.

"Except that you moved it to the morgue," snapped Sherlock. Secretly, he was delighted not to return to the grey and rainy streets of London, but it wouldn't do to let Lestrade know.

As it was, Lestrade barely reacted to Sherlock's scolding tone. "It was discovered this morning, just south of Pont 37."

"A woman in her mid-thirties, killed by a blow to the back of the head," said John. "Two, maybe three days dead."

"Four," said Molly Hooper, dressed in her usual lab coat. "The water slowed the decay." She smiled at Sherlock, a smile that most men would no doubt classify as 'pretty'. "Glad to see you back, Sherlock."

Sherlock did not dignify her comment with a response, choosing instead to direct his scrutiny to the body. The tang of decomposition was in the air and most details of the face and hair were unrecognizable, but the woman was dressed in an overcoat, just like the others. Gingerly, he opened a pocket. It was empty save for a few rat droppings.

"The rats ran off when we retrieved the body," said Lestrade, apologetically.

Sherlock glowered at him and examined the coat. It was long and dark. Identical to the coat he was wearing now, in fact, and nearly as clean. "The coat, Lestrade."

"Huh?"

God, the man was clueless. "Was the coat wet?"

"Ah, no. No, it was not. Neither were the rats."

Placed on the body this morning, then, after the previous night's rain. But who would place a coat with live rats in its pockets on a dead body?

"Any new additions to the missing-persons report from four days ago?"

"We're in London, Sherlock," said Anderson. "The missing-persons report is miles long." But Sherlock wasn't listening. An old body, dressed in a new coat. A coat just like his. Had a murder been committed at all? Why on earth—

"Knock, knock." A woman's voice, not one he recognized. Certainly not Irene's, though it had the same dry lilt, as if the speaker was just one step ahead of the rest of the world. Impatiently, he shook his head and stared at the body. But "Hello, John," said the woman, and at that Sherlock had to turn around.

She was a tall woman, dark-haired, who doubtless fulfilled the narrow requirements for most men to deem her "beautiful." He narrowed his eyes. Nonsmoker, no pets, orphaned, one sibling. Estranged from said sibling. Expensive clothing, cheap shoes. Avid texter. Plays piano and violin. No perfume, minimal makeup, same brand of lipstick as Irene. Works as a—hmm, now there's a puzzle.

But all of this, as it sped through Sherlock's mind, was eclipsed by one thing: John knew this woman, and he did not.

He cast a glance at John, who was visibly shaken. Was John… infatuated with her? "Hello, Drew," John said. Aha, so this was the roommate, then. Sherlock glanced back at the woman. Drew. Of course. Not a gender-specific name. No way John could have known. Nevertheless, Sherlock's stomach tightened. No one would be accusing John of homosexuality now, rooming with a woman like that.

At his side, John was still stammering. "Drew… What, ah, brings you to the morgue this fine morning?"

Drew gave him more of a smile than the comment really merited and turned her piercing gaze on Sherlock. "Oh, just dropping by to see the star performer."

"Hello, Ms Sanselle," said Lestrade, extending a hand with just a hair too much eagerness. Were all men so obvious with their infatuations?

"Hello, Detective Inspector," said the woman named Drew Sanselle. "You called?"

Hey guys! I have a fandom question. Is the organization Lestrade works for in the BBC canon still Scotland Yard, as in the original ACD stories?