Sherlock shoved the distractions of the room away. Studying the corpse, the observations began their customary habit of flooding his consciousness almost faster than he could speak. "Recently divorced, father of two, banker-no wait- an accountant, heavy weekend drinker, dead for threeish hours, killed by…" His deductions were interrupted by John's voice raised to the level of a near shout.
"Sherlock! Sherlock, aren't you going to answer that?"
Turning in annoyance, Sherlock scowled at John and snapped, "John, you know better than to distract me. Quit acting like Anderson and do something useful. Shut up and tell me what you make of this wound." About to turn back to the body, his mobile began signaling the arrival of text messages. Ignoring it, he took a deep breath and began to refocus.
Kneeling next to his friend, John discreetly whispered, "Uh, Sherlock, you might want to answer that. It's Molly."
"Molly?" parroted Sherlock sounding as if he had no idea who that was.
"Er, yeah mate, Molly. Your wife? She's been ringing and texting for the past ten minutes."
"It can't be Molly. She would not disturb while I'm on a case. We've an agreement." Sherlock looked offended that John would even suggest such a possibility. His mobile began ringing again.
"Yeah. Well unless you've two people in your contact list with the theme from Quincy as their ringtone, then it's Molly."
Sherlock stared at John as if he were speaking an unknown language. "Quincy? What? Who is that?" Now completely distracted from the task at hand, Sherlock impatiently pulled the phone from his pocket. It had already stopped ringing so he began reading the texts. Two seconds later, he was up and headed for the door, heedless of the evidence he was trampling over. "Come on, John. Stop dawdling. We're in a hurry."
Lestrade objected, "Oi, Sherlock, what about the body?"
Sherlock paused and without even bothering to turn around, prattled off, "Killed with a tire iron by his paramour. She's pregnant and wanted to marry. He told her he was going back to his wife. You'll find her at the Temperance Pub. She'll be the waitress with long blonde hair, five foot two with a bad case of acne. Hurry, John!"
As they whizzed through the streets narrowly missing pedestrians and running at least run red light, John asked, "Sherlock, mind telling me why the rush?" He'd tried to contain his curiosity but, other than promising the cabbie a tenner of they arrived at St. Bart's in under ten minutes, Sherlock had not said a word since they'd left the crime scene.
Instead of replying, Sherlock just handed his mobile over to John. Lost in his own thoughts, he muttered incoherently and drummed his fingers impatiently on his knee as John scrolled through the texts.
Sherlock-call me. M
Sherlock-This is Molly not Mycoft.
Sorry for any confusion. Mol
Something very interesting at morgue. Mol
Not answering your phone? Mol
Sherlock- does И.О. У. mean anything to you? Mol
"Well does it?"
Sherlock came back to the surroundings of the cab. "Does what?"
"Does it mean anything to you, Sherlock? And don't tell me it's obvious because it isn't or I wouldn't be asking."
"Oh yes, John. It means something very important indeed."
They arrived before John could ask for further clarification. Sherlock was out of the cab before it had even come to a complete stop. John fumbled for his wallet and pulled out the fare as well as the promised tenner. For once, John did not feel the usual flare of irritation at being left to pay. Sherlock was in a state unlike John had ever seen him in before. Practically throwing the money at the cabbie, John quickly sprinted towards the entrance trying to catch up to Sherlock. He reached him just as Sherlock was entering the autopsy room.
"Molly?" Sherlock called to the room at large. When he did not receive an immediate answer, he began noisily searching the room and bellowed, "Molly!"
Molly came rushing in through the back door. "Sherlock, please, I've a family in the other room waiting to claim their son. Your shouting is disturbing them," she softly chided.
Completely ignoring the admonishment, Sherlock demanded, "Where is it? Where is the message?"
Molly walked over to one of the stainless steel gurneys. As she unzipped the black body bag, she explained, "This is Sam Carlson. He's fifty years old and died in the hospital, presumably from kidney failure. I was about to start the autopsy when I noticed this." Molly pointed to a small tattoo of what appeared to be three letters above the heart area. As both men, leaned in to take a closer look, she continued on, "I wouldn't have thought anything of it but I've seen portions of it before on two other corpses this week. Always above the heart and in the same green ink. It made me curious."
The only sign Sherlock gave that he actually heard Molly was a slight nod. After a few minutes examining the body, Sherlock demanded, "The others. Where are the others?"
"Um, one of them, the first one, Jacob Welsh, was cremated yesterday but the other two are still here. I've brought them out for you to look at." As she walked between two gurneys, Molly gestured towards the one on her left, "This one is Stephen James. He died in his flat-cardiac arrest. Sixty-eight year old widower. No children or family to be found. He was the second one to come in with the tattoo, but as you can see, he only has one letter tattooed." Indicating the other gurney, she continued her recitation. "This is Charles Littlefield. Also only one letter. Died from a glioblastoma. He was only fifteen," her voice shook a bit as she revealed this bit of information.
Molly began nervously clicking her pen. She didn't want to admit her failure to Sherlock. Clearing her throat, she confessed, "I missed the tattoo on Charles when I first did the autopsy. Earlier today, when I began prepping him for his parents, I saw it and remembered the tattoo on Stephen. I thought it a bit odd but didn't make too much of it until I started working on Sam Carlson this afternoon."
John patted her gently on her shoulder. Molly was obviously distraught that she hadn't made the connection sooner. "Molly, give yourself a break. Working on such a young person isn't easy. It's no wonder you didn't see such an insignificant detail on Littelfield. "
"Turned out to not be so insignificant. Sentiment makes people blind," Sherlock observed as he examined the mark through his magnifying glass.
"Sherlock." Though John's voice remained level, it contained a definite warning.
Molly placed a hand on John's forearm. "It's okay, John. He's right, you know. I allowed myself to get so caught up in the tragedy of it that I only concentrated on the tumor and overlooked something important. Not very professional of me."
Sherlock looked up from the corpse long enough to shoot John an 'I told you so' look before returning to his inspection. "What about the cremated one? Why didn't that attract your attention?"
Molly went over to the desk in the corner and retrieved a file from the stack precariously piled there. "I didn't do the autopsy on Jacob Welsh. I was out ill that day. Dr. Broad was the pathologist on that case." At Sherlock's derisive snort, Molly insisted, "Dr. Broad is a skilled pathologist, Sherlock. Her notes are always thorough and detailed enough for anyone else to follow."
As Sherlock moved back to the body of Carlson, he muttered under his breath, "She's not you."
Ignoring the warm glow from his words, Molly continued with her explanation, "I've gone back through all the files from the past few weeks. That's how I found out about Jacob. There haven't been any other instances of tattoos on the chest besides these four." Molly rejoined Sherlock and John.
"This ink isn't mass produced. I'll need a cutting to test." He pulled a slim leather case from an inside pocket of his coat and opened it up. Withdrawing a scalpel, he asked, "May I?"
Both John and Molly registered surprised that Sherlock had even bothered to ask rather than just do as he pleased. Molly nodded her assent. "He has no one to claim him so it won't be an issue. I'll note it on the chart."
Sherlock carefully excised a small portion of skin and deposited it in a cellophane envelope. He placed the sample in his pocket and looked at the other two with a raise eyebrow.
"Sherlock, you're doing it again. Giving that look as if we should all know what's going on. All I can determine is that someone is using these poor blokes to send a message of some kind."
"And?"
John thought about it for a minute and added, "Whoever is doing this seems to be using bodies of opportunity as they all seem to have died from natural causes. That means it is unlikely the messages are related to them as individuals. The only thing connecting them is Molly. The bodies all came in on her shifts, except the first one and she was out sick that day or it would have been her doing that autopsy as well."
"But who would be sending me messages in Cyrillic?" Laughing at their surprised expressions, Molly admitted, "I learned a bit of Russian in college. I wanted to read the works of Dostoyevsky in the original language. The really odd thing is that I don't think whoever did this actually learned Russian. The message didn't really make any sense so I Google translated it into English. It's a bastardized form of I.O.U., I think."
"That is exactly what it's meant to convey. It's Moriarty playing his games again and sending a message to me."
Biting her lip, Molly tentatively asked, "Sherlock, is this related to how you know Moriarty is alive? I remember you saying 'I owe you' over and over again when you were working on the St. Aldate's kidnapping."
A note of admiration in his voice, Sherlock explained, "Yes, it is. Excellent observation and memory skills, Molly. I did not realize you remembered that. You could learn from her, John." As John's only reply was a rolling of his eyes, Sherlock continued, "He sent a telegram to our wedding reception with the same message. It had been Moriarty's own private little taunt to me in the week before our final showdown on the rooftop."
At the mention of that day, John paled a bit and began rubbing his temples as if a massive headache was beginning. "Jesus, Sherlock, are we back to that? I don't know if I can go through this again."
"Don't worry, John. This time I'll let you help him kill me," Sherlock quipped.
"Not funny, Sherlock. Besides, if you are even thinking of pulling a stunt like that again, I won't need Moriarty's help. I'll manage it all by myself." Both men chuckled at the dark humor.
"Um, guys, there's more. The reason the message intrigued me so much was because I've received it before. Last week, when Mary, Mrs. Hudson and I were having Chinese food, the fortunes in our fortune cookies consisted entirely of the letters I, O, and U. Didn't think much of at the time but with this happening…"
All traces of humor immediately vanished from Sherlock's demeanor and he began to gaze off into the distance without really seeing what was physically in front of him. John and Molly recognized it as Sherlock's method of processing this new information and synthesizing it with old information and quietly awaited his conclusion. It didn't take long. His voice low and intense, he muttered, "Molly, I've been a fool. I thought our marriage would help protect you. Instead, it's put you in the direct line of fire. Forgive me."
Both Molly and John stared at him in amazement for a moment before their faces began to reveal their hurt. John found his voice first. "Sherlock, you told me that you didn't…"
In a stricken voice, Molly cut across John's censure to inquire, "You lied to me when you said you wanted a companion and equal? Is this why you married me? Out of some misguided idea of you owing me and me needing protection?"
His voice fairly dripping with a combination of indignation and disdain, Sherlock objected, "No!"
"Which question are you answering, Sherlock?"
"No, I did not marry you out of a sense of obligation. Sociopath, you know? Not exactly given to worrying about social transactions. I married you because…" Sherlock's tirade stopped short. An odd expression across his face for a millisecond before he regrouped. "This doesn't matter now. Moriarty is back and he is targeting you. That could be distracting. Lestrade will have to put some men on you and you'll have to stick to the flat and here for now. Less ground to cover that way."
Hurt had morphed into anger. Molly shoved both of her fists into the pockets of her lab coat to prevent herself from hitting him. "Distracting? Sherlock, I am not going to hide. You're the consulting detective, find him. Meanwhile, I am going to live my life normally which includes going to the party tomorrow."
"Party?" His confusion was evident.
Through clenched teeth, Molly bit out, "Yes, party. At John and Mary's place. You promised you'd come but don't let that worry you. Lestrade and half the Met will be there so no need for you to be distracted over my safety." Molly closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "Now I have to go tell the Littlefield family that their son is ready to be released to them. John, I'll see you tomorrow. Sherlock, please leave before the family comes in." Without waiting for a reply, she left.
John waited for the door to close completely before breaking his recent silence. He knew better than to get in the middle of a fight between man and wife-no matter how unusual their marriage might be. He whistled softly and shook his head before observing, "You've really put your foot in it there, Sherlock."
His lip curling with derision, Sherlock drawled, "Because I forgot a party? There are more important things to worry about at the moment. I thought Molly was more sensible than this."
"Sherlock, the party is for Molly's birthday."
Comprehension dawned and Sherlock raised a brow. "Not good then?"
Unable to completely hide his glee at his friend's predicament, John chuckled, "Oh, very much not good, Sherlock. Look, I don't begin to understand the relationship between you and Molly, but I can tell you that you just hurt her very much. It's going to cost you some serious groveling."
Sherlock considered this for a moment before sniffing, "I don't do groveling, John."
Both men headed towards the exit. As they reached the door, Sherlock began to button his coat and then he paused for a moment. "Hypothetically speaking, how exactly does one grovel?"
A/N This story has really gotten away from me. I will be changing the rating to an M in the near future. Yes, there will be some romance but there will also be some serious aspects to the mystery which will require a higher rating. Next chapter should have some fun fluff.
Thank you to all who take the time to review.
