As the Starling Says Volume Two

Chapter Two


Before the hour was up, John and Sherlock were stopped at the main entrance of St. Bart's hospital. Sherlock led the way through the Emergency station, directly into the canteen. When he stopped at a vacant table and pulled out a chair, he was met with nonplussed looks from both John and Louisa.

"We're waiting for Lestrade and his team to clear out." Sherlock told them, gaze lingering on Louisa. "At the moment Lestrade is proving himself to be rather fervent in his sudden love for 'protocol' as he so dubs it; I think it would be best if he didn't know you were here."

"Agreed," She pulled a chair out across from him without further prompt, and John followed suit soon enough.

For nearly fifteen minutes silence prevailed, before Louisa abruptly stood. "Do either of you want anything?" She didn't bother turning her eyes to Sherlock, whose tapas takeout was currently freezing in the back seat of their car.

"You realise it's not even been two hours since your last meal, of course." Sherlock stated.

"I'm not going for food, I'm going for coffee."

"Well, coffee I'll take." Louisa rolled her eyes, but ventured on without comment.

John and Sherlock passed the time she was away in utter silence; and even once she returned no one seemed able to think of a thing to say. A little over half an hour passed, during which Louisa pulled out her mobile and unwound a pair of earbuds, turning on her favourite playlist of the moment. She leaned far back into her uncomfortable plastic chair and crossed her arms over her chest. Her gaze settled on the table top, her brow molded into a set of concentration that made her look almost angry. She closed her eyes for nearly ten minutes at one point, and John was convinced she'd fallen asleep until they abruptly opened again, still full of focus.

That was that for another fifteen minutes, until his phone rang. He looked at the name which flashed across his screen, then at Sherlock. He caught Louisa's attention by standing, and she pulled out one of her earbuds. "It's Mary, I'll be back."

"If we're not here when you return, look for us in the morgue." Sherlock instructed, familiar by now with the abominable length of John's phone calls with the ever-verbose Miss Morstan.

John pointed the phone at Sherlock. "Ta," he said, before answering the call. "Please tell me Mrs. Shanahan screamed at you again; I love those stories…"

Louisa, who still had her left earbud wrapped around her finger, smiled at John's retreating figure. "That's really quite lovely, isn't it?"

Sherlock graced her with a shrewd glance. "Funny…"

"What's funny?"

"You don't strike me as the sentimental type; at least, not where romance is concerned." She wanted to ask for more clarification, he could see it in her face… but she wasn't going to, he could see that as well. "You've never had a boyfriend after all, have you?"

"No, I've never had a boyfriend," Louisa grimaced at the final word, hating the sound of it. "Please don't bother explaining to me how it is you know that; I'll assume it was through god-like omnipotence, the likes of which my small mind cannot fathom anyway."

"You've never had a boyfriend, you sneer at the very mention of it, and you've not one true friend in all the world." Said Sherlock, his eyes alight. "I'm curious to know how one such as you comes to decide something she disdains is 'lovely'."

"Just because I've never had a relationship with someone doesn't mean I disdain the idea of it. I dislike the idea of having a boyfriend, yes; a boyfriend is something a girl should have and leave behind in primary school. The dating game is childish, and still, after all this time, it remains a completely archaic process in its roots. I'm of the mind that I'll never date; I won't even date the man that I'll marry, if I should ever meet him. We'll introduce ourselves, we'll become friends, and we'll just… never stop being friends. He'll only have to throw me a shift from time to time and I'll be happy. Hopefully I'll be lucky enough to end up with someone who quite likes a shift, and it'll be a nice win-win." She added thoughtfully. She was gearing up to continue, but she was stalled by something she saw in his face. "I think I've baffled you," she said keenly, and completely unbothered. "I don't know why you're surprised. You saw my bookshelf, didn't you? I'm a lover of stories, Sherlock; a masterpiece romance has wormed its way more than once into my heart, and as such I believe in love."

"Is that how you'll earn your living, then?" Sherlock questioned, somewhat harshly. "You'll pen a list of smut titles about damsels in distress and gallant young men?"

"Sometimes the conclusions you leap to are amusing," she said, a small smile ghosting her features. Though it was immensely difficult to tell, Sherlock was sure he detected a hint of hurt feelings. "I couldn't begin to tell you what genre the stories I've written abide by; are there elements of romance in each? Yes, because romance is humanity, Sherlock. Just as death, murder, and jealousy are. I plan to tell the truth in my writing; that is my only goal."

"And have you never considered the possibility that you play at being so human?" Holmes went on, itching to get back to his original point. "At times I wonder about it myself; there is an illusion you create - are you aware that you're doing it?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Louisa said, and in her mind she was currently being honest.

"How many friends do you have?"

"Three that I'm close with."

"That's a lie," Sherlock said readily, and Louisa felt a pull in her chest, realising a moment later that it had been her heart.

"Why would I lie about that?"

"I really don't know," Sherlock shook his head, his expression rather benign. "That's precisely what I wonder about; do you know that you're lying? D'you really believe those people are your friends?"

"Sherlock, your twisted language is really starting to get on my nerves," Louisa warned, her jaw clenching. "Say what you mean and be done with it."

The final question was there, at the tip of his tongue, wanting only a single prompt from his brain to topple off. He wanted to ask her, he really did. He really did – that one question that would make her eyes widen and her cheeks flush, that would make her realise she couldn't hide anything from him for very long.

Yet at the last moment he inhaled the question, nailing it shut inside where it belonged; there was a way to get answers from Louisa, but this wasn't it.

It was precisely that insatiable curiosity to know whether he was right or wrong that kept him from digging it all out of her. Normally people gave away buckets of information, when irritated to the right temperature; but in this case he was sure that if he toed over the line, she would close up, and it might be possible that he would never know then… He couldn't say that Louisa seemed to be the grudge-holding type, but she had a temper which she kept buried, a temper that might finally rear its full head at the wrong time, if Sherlock said the wrong thing. She would be difficult to manipulate.

"You know, I think I'll let it go," he said. He picked up his coffee, though it was verging on lukewarm. "Thank you for the coffee."

"Are you letting it go because you want to bring it up at a better time?" She asked, one brow arched.

"I'm letting it go because I don't fancy the idea of starting an argument."

"Please," she scoffed. She adjusted her position in her chair, sitting upright. "Let's just be honest with each other for a moment, yeah? I'd like to give you some genuine advice."

He set his cup on the table and waited.

"You're right to let it go, you're right to abort what is, frankly, a horrendous attempt at learning about me. I mean, I would call your technique cross-examination, if half your questions weren't completely rhetoric or unclear. What I find sad is that this method has obviously worked for you in the past, since it's become like instinct to you." Holmes sighed.

"Is the advice somewhere in sight?"

"I'm getting there," she said reproachfully, but as she went on her tone became calm once more. "I don't know how much you were able to figure out about me; I'd like to say it can't be much, but that's wishful thinking. So, I am forced to imagine it's rather easy for you to gather that I don't open up to people easily, that I don't tell people personal things about my life, my family." She broke off to stare at him, expecting some sort of acknowledgement.

He looked vaguely disgruntled as he said, "Yes, it was one point amongst many."

"The fact is, people never ask. I'm simply not the sort to volunteer information about myself. I'm more of a listener. I like to ask questions, and others like to be asked questions." She reached for her coffee and pulled the lid off the top. He was almost inclined to believe her, having just said something very similar to Watson before the journey here (people really don't ask, do they?)… But his doubt was insistent. "If you ask me, Sherlock, I may very well tell you. But things like time and place matter. For instance, I would much rather spend my time before entering a morgue listening to soothing music, instead of battling against your inadvertent antagonism."

"The only thing I've done is ask you questions," Sherlock said, brows meeting in confusion.

"No, Sherlock, what you did was much more backwards." She laughed. "You presented me with three facts about my personality, which I then had to argue against. Then you asked me questions which were worded as though aimed at yourself. However, you do receive some redeeming points: you realised your tactics were misguided and immediately backtracked. I only hope that I can be of service to you in your future endeavours towards friendship."

She took a small sip of her coffee, a smile still tilting her lips.

"You think my goal is friendship?"

"Why else would you want to know personal information about me?"

"Curiosity."

"I'm not a case, Sherlock; you're curious about me because we get on well. As well as we can, anyway…" she pursed her lips, remembering that she spent more time being flustered by him than finding leisure in his company. "You let me come with you today, and I see no reason why you shouldn't let me again. Or, at least, fill me in about these interesting stories you casually experience. I've put a little thought into it and I've decided that I want to like you, Sherlock. I really want to be part of this insane dimension you've put together. It's not as though I'll get in your way. I have no expectations of you; I just want to follow along and occasionally insert myself into your conversations with John. And I think you know all of this, and you're okay with it. So, why shouldn't we be friends?"

He was frozen so long that Louisa had to stop herself from waving a hand in front of his face to check for signs of cognition. She did call his name though, eventually followed by, "Have you been hacked? Or is this one of those silent seizures?"

His eyelashes fluttered as he blinked rapidly, and then he looked at her as though surprised to find her there. Slowly recollection seemed to flood in, and like rubble falling from the bed of a lorry the words tumbled from his mouth. "Louisa, I feel myself bound to tell you that I consider myself married to my work, and while I'm flattered by your interest, I am incapable of returning it."

"Have I propositioned you?" She cried, cheeks flaming.

"Have… Haven't you?"

"Not unless I blacked out and my body was taken over by a dormant alternate personality." Louisa said, shedding her coat in response to the warmth vibrating along her skin. "Christ, Sherlock, what could I have possibly said to make you think I was coming on to you?"

"Well, you first mentioned that your ideal romantic attachment would be started with an introduction, followed by friendship." Sherlock reflected quickly upon his own logic, coming up with no holes. "With that in mind there appeared to be added meaning to your proposal of us becoming friends."

"I also said I'd prefer whoever that person is to be relatively keen on romantic attachment," Louisa pointed out, and now that her embarrassment had cooled she could grasp the humour in the whole thing. "I can see where you got the idea… But trust me Sherlock, I have no intentions of trying to seduce you. You and I are strictly platonic, you never have to worry about that."

"Fair enough," Holmes muttered distractedly; he pulled his mobile from his pocket as it chimed. "It's Molly. Lestrade and the rest have gone, we can carry on now."

Neither of them spared another word as they stood simultaneously from their seats. Sherlock led the way out of the canteen through two wide, swinging doors that reminded Louisa of leaving the server's alley at the Red Light. There was a certain confidence to Sherlock's step that hinted he thought of St. Bart's as "his turf". It was sort of an endearing way to see him.

With each turn they took, however, a certain anxiety began to blossom as gooseflesh at the back of Louisa's neck; she'd always detested hospitals for the same reasons most people detested hospitals – for the sickly sanitised smell, the stark white paint, the hollow click-clacking sound made from shoes hitting overly-polished linoleum. In response her paranoia popped its head up for another round, reminding her that she might actually be in some serious trouble if she were caught here. Sherlock gave off the impression that he could deal easily enough with any conflict that may arise, but how much protection could he actually give her; when he was just as much a civilian as she, in all but reputation and renown?

She was gifted with a small dart of relief, pricking a hole in that balloon swelling in her belly; some part of her must have expected to find a room full of people clamoring to get a look at the body upon entering the morgue (despite the fact that Sherlock had told her everyone had gone) but aside from the late Izzy Ervin there was only a woman; She had long hair with a coppery sheen plaited straight down her back, and a face full of soft features.

Actually, having another woman around was a little comforting. Too many men typically meant a lot of extraneous ego, which was rarely a good thing, in Louisa's experience.

Once inside Sherlock swept towards the examination table occupied by Ervin's corpse, while Louisa loitered at the door. The plastic and body bag had been disposed of, but he was still dressed. Sherlock looked almost delighted, clearly having expected to find him scoured.

"Greg wanted to make sure you got a look at his clothes, with as little tampering as possible. He said he'd be in touch." The woman, who Louisa assumed was Molly, smiled. "I told you he still trusts you."

"Enough of that," Sherlock pulled off his Belstaff and draped it unceremoniously over a cart of incisive tools. He pulled another trolley towards him, this one bare. Molly turned her head, peripheral caught by the sight of Louisa.

She left the examination table and approached with another smile. "Are you lost?" She asked. "If you're an intern, you're rather far from where you should be."

"Oh, no I'm not an intern," Louisa said hurriedly.

"May I ask your name?"

"Louisa Daly," Sherlock swopped down upon them out of nowhere; a great, agitated bat. He gestured towards the woman now. "Louisa, this is Molly Hooper. Louisa is a waitress; Molly loves cats and possesses abysmal taste in men. Can we proceed, now that the sodding niceties have been dispensed with?"

Sherlock felt a muscle twitch in his cheek and realised he'd clenched his teeth rather hard. He relaxed his jaw, features relaxing with it. Molly looked a little alarmed; but Louisa looked defiant, and for a long moment they just stared at each other. He could feel her trying to assess him, which only aggravated him further; she shouldn't bother wondering why he was upset, she should simply correct her behaviour.

"People are going to wonder why I'm with you, Sherlock." She told him, appearing stern now that she reckoned she'd found him out. "No sense in biting off heads, just because you haven't got a good answer for them."

"I didn't mean to offend," Molly interjected, her voice soft as the coo of a dove's next to Louisa's curtness.

"You haven't," Louisa told her, still glaring at the detective. "Sherlock's forgotten his manners again, which happens a lot."

Molly started as John came through the door; he'd entered casually enough, but with the tension in the room he may has well barreled through wielding a scythe.

"Haven't been without me long, I hope." He said, before catching the awkward huddle Sherlock, Louisa and Molly had made not far from the door he entered through. "You've not even started?"

"We're starting now," Sherlock broke the small circle as he went back to the cart he'd commandeered. He unfurled the black canvas bag and selected from it a fresh pair of gloves, his magnifying glass, a small torch, and (in a moment that reminded Louisa of uncapping various stages of a Russian nesting-doll) another, smaller black roll-out; this one was rather like the bag Louisa kept for the set of watercolour brushes stored at home, but rather than crafted wood and sable, gleaming metal instruments were strapped inside. He rolled the larger bag back into submission and quickly went to stuff it back into the pocket of his Belstaff.

John and Molly jumped back into their original paces with alacrity; Molly stood next to Sherlock, looking so ready that Louisa imagined she was only waiting around in case the detective needed something. John pulled off his black jacket, leaving his notepad in its pocket. Louisa was glad he did, interested to see what sort of procedure John would take towards the body. She was the last to join the group, hovering over gradually as her curiosity overcame her apprehension. She stopped beyond Watson, however, as he borrowed Sherlock's thin torch and set to moving the mangled lid of Ervin's right eye for a better view into the crater beneath.

After a moment the doctor held out his hand, and with only a momentary glance in his general direction, Holmes knew what he wanted, and handed it over: a pair of forceps with micro-fine tips, which John then used to improve his view under Ervin's right eye lid.

"He looked like he was trapped in a spider-web when they brought him in," Molly spoke offhandedly, but the eyes that watched Sherlock were highly interested. "I can't figure out why they go through all the trouble to wrap the victim's body this way."

"It's all about the presentation, isn't it?" Sherlock responded, inclining his head to Louisa, who was pleasantly surprised that he would give her any credit at all. When Molly's brows twitched with an obvious lack of knowledge, Sherlock went on with very little patience. "The plastic serves no purpose – it has no function, and as you've just pointed out; the act of wrapping the body would add a fair bit of time to what was already an extremely thorough and arduous procedure. Therefore, one is able – or should be able – to infer the effort was purely for visual impact."

"But why? What was the message?"

Sherlock sighed through his nostrils, looking put-upon. He looked at Louisa now, jerking a thumb in Molly's direction as if to say, "take care of that, will you?"

Hooper switched her gaze from Sherlock to Louisa, who did not miss the crestfallen arch through her eyes. She explained quickly, convinced that Molly had only asked to start a conversation with the detective. Sherlock found nothing to add until the conclusion of her synopsis to Molly. "… In truth it's looking more and more like Ervin was involved in some sort of… cult. I don't really like that word, it doesn't fit, but it's the closest term I can think of to define it; the details are still so unclear. Douglas was involved with them, too, but I don't believe these two particular men actually knew each other. The only thing they have in common is they each defied the rules of this 'cult' and their punishments were death. Well, that and they both got on the wrong side of someone we know as the Fashionable Bloke."

Sherlock, who'd been in the act of turning out the lapels of Ervin's suit, halted and looked up.

"You think Antoine Douglas knew the fashionable bloke?"

"Well… yeah."

"How can you tell?"

"D'you disagree with me, Sherlock?" she asked. "'Cos if you do, then it would probably be a less irritating experience for me if you made your point first."

"I haven't said I disagree, have I?" he countered, straightening up from over the examination table. "I simply want to know what leads you to this intuition."

"Not now," she said.

"We're working-" he began hotly, and she groaned with frustration.

"Sherlock, it's nearly three o'clock and I've still got a half-day's worth of course work to finish by noon tomorrow. I plan to be in my bed by nine o'clock, and if I am not… I swear, you will pay."

Sherlock's mouth pulled a little, and he cast John a look that – astoundingly enough – implied that all his current sufferings were somehow Watson's fault. John rolled his eyes but nevertheless returned to his mission, moving his target from Izzy's right eye to his left. Then Holmes muttered something that was probably offensive and sulky under his breath, and from there all was quiet for a long moment. Once she was satisfied with the production taking place, Louisa dove back into the conversation with Molly, speaking even more quickly than she had before so as not to miss her chance to catch a glimpse of Ervin's clothes before Sherlock wanted them removed.

She explained what she and Holmes had learned from the short interview with Anna Kruz, and all the solid conjecture that had risen from it, painting a clearer picture of the fashionable bloke for Molly's benefit.

"Is that all, then?" Molly asked, clearly attempting to maintain an amiable manner, which Louisa could appreciate.

"That's all I can think of," Louisa shrugged. "Any questions?"

"None," Molly smiled, once again revealing long dimples that made her considerably more attractive.

Feeling positive, Louisa joined the party at the examination table.

Watson gave a friendly tilt of the chin as greeting as she drew up on his left side, and he shuffled over a little to his right to make room for her. Sherlock, finished now with scanning the underside of Ervin's tie, lay it back as it had been, face exposed. It was a navy-blue tie, subtle, miniscule dots the colour of rust evenly dispersed over it; it was ugly. The body itself was positioned as though Ervin had died in his preparations for being shot out of a giant cannon; his palms were flat against the sides of either of his upper thighs, his legs locked together from having stiffened after being wrapped in all that plastic. Sherlock began to break the rigor in Ervin's arms (which really was not a very pleasant thing to watch or listen to), flexing his muscles.

"He's still got his tie clip," Louisa leaned over, wanting to touch it, perhaps take it off, if she would be allowed; Sherlock had let her look at the body in the first place, let her pour over it. Then she remembered the gloves, her fingers curling back into her hand.

She looked up and around, preferring not to disturb Sherlock; she knew he had several gloves still tucked into that canvas bag of his, but he'd just gotten settled into his routine. Molly seemed to have vanished, until Louisa located her at a clunky old computer near the doors, typing into a pre-drafted chart. So, she decided to wait, hoping that if she was patient Sherlock would want her to see something and he would hand a pair over.

She stared hard at the spot on the top of his head, where the natural part of his hair swirled to an end, wishing that she'd been near him when he started his own examination; he might've given them to her instinctually, as he had for John. Then, Sherlock's eyes suddenly clapped onto hers and she jumped, a nearly inaudible squeak shocked out of her.

"Molly has my coat," he told her, expressionless and toneless. His eyes fell back to the body without another word.

Louisa looked to the pathologist, still perched on the stool situated in front of her workspace. Sure enough, Disappointed was draped over the spot to her left, waiting to be collected.

He left it on the cart, Louisa thought, but as she ventured over to where Molly sat Louisa reckoned she must have stolen over and picked the coat up, unnoticed by Louisa as her attention had been fixed to the crown of Sherlock's head. She might've just wanted to be nice, she reasoned. Getting it out of his way, and all that.

"Molly?" The pathologist started even more violently than Louisa had just moments ago.

"Oh, sorry," Molly said, features relaxing once she'd whirled around and identified Louisa. "I didn't hear you come up. Unfamiliar voices always spook me when I'm in here."

"Yeah, with the dead people and such," Louisa gestured to the wall of hatches, marked with the names of the corpses inside them as she bobbed her head. "I get it."

"Did Sherlock need something?" Molly asked, and just the way she said his name solidified every thought Louisa had had concerning Hopper's esteem for Holmes since she entered the morgue.

Still, though, Hooper hit the point home with the dejected appearance that followed Louisa's response, "I just need his coat for a moment." Molly's gloom was well-concealed, but Louisa had spent many years analysing the endless array of emotions the human visage could betray. Hooper's lips (already naturally turned down at the corners) pressed and bowed deeper, that same dimple flickering in her right cheek. That was all, but somehow the feeling expressed was strong, and Louisa found herself genuinely feeling badly for a woman she knew next to nothing about.

Before the moment was even up Molly had brightened once more, and she quickly picked up the Belstaff and handed it to Louisa. "Of course,"

"Thanks," and as Molly was clearly gearing up to turn around Louisa added, "hang on, I won't be keeping it."

Hooper waited with a pleasant expression glued to her face as Louisa reached into Sherlock's left pocket and pulled out the canvas bag. She produced the gloves quickly, deciding to borrow the second magnifying glass she found in the first section she'd poked in; this one was clearly very rarely used, compared to the one Sherlock preferred. It was probably only included in this bag as an emergency back-up, so Louisa didn't feel too nervous about using it.

As she replaced the bag and held out the coat for Molly, Louisa said, "Aren't you going to take a look?"

"No, when he's here I rarely do. I look at whatever he finds." Molly folded the coat over her arm, and placed it back into its spot next to her. "He gets insufferable when he feels crowded."

"You're right; I've seen him at it." Louisa agreed, and Molly smiled again, this time with a little more substance behind it. "Thanks again."

Molly nodded and now she turned back to her computer monitor without Louisa stopping her.

Back to all the action, Louisa found Watson shining his torch into Iskandar's ear canals, Sherlock now bracing his hands under the knee and over the calf to manipulate the muscles of Ervin's right leg.

Louisa pulled on her gloves and huddled once more next to John. She reached for the tie clip, mentally preparing herself for an outraged cry from Sherlock, for her to cease all action. She slid the clip from the hideous fabric of Ervin's tie and held it up in her latex-clad palm without a single protestation announced.

It was an ordinary tie clip – plain, actually – a thin, straight bar of flattened gold. She wondered why Douglas had had his tie clip nicked when the killer saw fit to let Izzy keep his… And, of course, there was only one answer to that question.

She slid the clip back onto the tie, knowing of no other place she could put it. Though, as she turned her eyes about the room in the quest for some official-looking bag or bin, she spotted a box of medium-sized gloves bolted to the side of a counter not even a metre behind where she stood. All that bother for nothing, she thought, smiling at her own idiocy.

Then she busied herself with lifting the cuff of Ervin's left sleeve, latching on to the recollection of what Holmes had told her the second time they'd met, when she pretty much forced conversation out of him.

Evidence of a watch, regularly worn.

Upon sight Louisa marveled at how hairy Ervin was, in placed he hadn't habitually groomed. The third joint of four fingers on each hand were swept with a covering of hair thick enough to double as doll's toupees, should Iskandar have wanted to enter that market; and the long, fine hairs exposed, curling just above his wrist, promised a monstrous forearm. If he'd worn a watch on that wrist every day, surely the hair would have been worn away at least a little, or else the strands would forever be caught in the band of said watch; then again, the balance of probability leant more in favour of Ervin being a right-handed man.

She leaned awkwardly over the victim's waist to reach his other hand, hardly disappointed; she'd only taken a look at the left first so she might have something to compare the right with – though, by the amount of hair on that one alone, comparison proved to have been unnecessary.

Louisa smiled when she shimmied the cuff of Ervin's shirt and jacket as far up on his right arm as she could get it. The line of his wrist was as smooth as though hair had never grown there, and an obvious difference of skin tone was evenly defined as well.

"What do you think?"

Louisa's attention snapped to Sherlock, smile still faintly showing. "I think we need to find his tie clip." She responded.

Sherlock never returned her smile, not with her staring at him as though she expected him to, but his eyes did radiate something. "I would have to agree."

"But… the tie clip's just there." John looked up from the ears, pointing to the gold strip upon Ervin's tie. "You were just holding it, Louisa."

"Not that one, clearly." Holmes straightened and began to speak so quickly that Louisa had trouble keeping up. "Douglas was found with his tie clip and watch missing, remember? He obviously wasn't robbed, as his cash was left snug in his wallet, his mobile still in his breast pocket; which means the people who took care of his body had enough reason to believe the items they took to be substantial clues which could lead to them. As has already been outlined for you, the similarities between Douglas state of death and Ervin's are too stark to ignore, so one is left to think along the lines of questioning the differences between them. Ervin has a tie clip, and no watch, though he obviously wore one every day, and as he managed to keep up enough appearance when he'd been caught, one can assume that he would not have suddenly changed his mind about wearing one. As we know the watch was taken, we also know the watch was a clue, something worth confiscating. He still wears his tie clip, however. So what does this tell you?"

John had no sooner opened his mouth to respond than Sherlock swept over him, impatient already. "It tells you that if Ervin and Douglas both had in their possessions a watch which could give us vital knowledge, then they also both possessed a tie clip of equal threat to the killers anonymity. But, the killer doesn't have Ervin's tie clip, as he was not, apparently, wearing it when they took him. In simplified terms, somewhere in Iskandar Ervin's home or regular dwellings, there is a tie ornament floating round which can potentially tell us everything."

"Well the killer will be looking for it too, won't he?" Watson broke in, having stopped midway through a second look at Ervin's eyes. "And he's got a team who cleaned the body, so he'd bound to have some help in the search."

"It's just as likely that they've not found it yet," Louisa responded quickly, hoping to keep Sherlock buoyed; she could tell he was content, as of yet, following what little of the obscured trail he could, but she also strongly sensed that motivation was severely lacking in Sherlock's mind, and she wanted to preserve what she could. "We've still got a good shot."

She cast a glance at Sherlock, and John, always the dedicated friend, seemed to cotton on. "Of course," he agreed earnestly. "We'll have to take a trip back to Liverpool then, eh, Sherlock?"

"There's no getting around it," Sherlock nodded, though he still looked slightly reinvigorated. "What do you make of the rest of him?"

"Well I had a good peek at the eyes and I reckon you're right; definitely done by someone with very little experience in this area."

"What makes you say that, though?" Louisa asked, and John moved more to his right again, this time giving her his spot to the left of Izzy's head altogether. He handed her the torch.

"Shine that in the left eye," John instructed. Louisa did as he said, missing the affronted frown which developed over Sherlock's visage as he watched her slide open the magnifying glass she hadn't asked to take. "This one is clearly more damaged, and that's partly due to the fact that the hand performing the incisions was uncertain. The reluctance is evident in the several slashes you can see through the rector inferius, several other places as well; usually, when you see cuts or tears through skin that vary so greatly in depth and damage, yet still remain shallow, it comes from a person who might be forcing themselves to do the work. If you look at the right eye, there's almost no damage to the surrounding tissue, aside from the places where the tool used was pushed through the cut out the eye, which can't be helped. By the time he got to the right eye, he'd grown accustomed to what he was doing."

On instinct John tossed a glance towards Sherlock, who was looking at him with another of his barely-visible smiles. "Very good, John."

Trying very hard not to feel like a delighted hound at his master's praise, John merely grinned and addressed Louisa once more. "Can you see what I'm talking about?"

"I do," she murmured, internally marveling at the specific brand of intelligence puzzles like Ervin and his death required for solving.

Louisa mainly watched from there, attempting to absorb the movements of Sherlock and John, to mentally jot down their manoeuvres. She wished at one point to someday see the pair at it with a body that hadn't been so completely cleansed.

After many minutes Holmes finally straightened and snapped his magnifier shut with an aggravated grimace that came from nowhere. He bellowed for Molly's assistance with disrobing Ervin and she shuffled over quickly.

"I'll need you to clear out, then."

"Why?"

"Because, I won't take away his modesty by letting you lot watch me undress him."

"You will remember that this man callously murdered a teenage girl he may or may not have hired to engage in lewd sexual activity…"

John took a hearty snort, and when all eyes turned to him he chuckled. "Sorry… it's just that I hardly ever hear you say the word 'sex'."

"I didn't say 'sex', John, I said 'sexual'." Sherlock replied icily, and John erupted into another snort, this one sounding a bit painful.

Molly was clearly fighting back a smile, but she strove to call Sherlock's attention back to her. "I work by a code, all are equal in death, and they have a claim to equal respect."

"A code."

"Well, it's more of a personal code, really," Molly allowed begrudgingly. "But I take it seriously."

"This has never been a problem-"

"For cryin' out loud, Sherlock!" Louisa said crossly. "You can't examine him in the act of being undressed anyway, so what does it matter? Stop wasting time and clear out; we'll go too. All the cool kids are doing it." He lifted his brows at her. "Don't ya want to be cool, Sherlock?"

"I'll stay, thank you," his head swiveled forward imperiously.

"It'll hardly go any faster if you watch."

"It might,"

"What are you, some kind of per-" John hemmed once, sensing the storm.

"Sherlock," he said gruffly. "I'll give you a cigarette."

Sherlock's eyes slid into John's as though they were the only two in the room, reminding the doctor of a child prepared to be bribed into an unwanted nap for the right sweetie.

"You haven't got any," he challenged, and Watson immediately responded by pulling what looked like nothing more than a ball of aluminium wrap from his pocket. As he worked the ball open, Louisa spotted two cigarettes cradled within.

"I never know when I might need to encourage you,"

"Clever disguise," Holmes remarked, looking impressed with John for the second time that afternoon. He held out his hand and Watson began to back away slowly, waving the sheet out in front of him like it was bait for a crocodile. Sherlock followed with his shoulders held tight, probably hoping to preserve the dignity that had abandoned him the moment he started walking.

John waited until Sherlock was safely out of doors before he drew one of the cigarettes from the foil and held it out to the detective, who plucked it from his fingers greedily.

"Come on, lighter," he grumbled harshly, hand gesticulating with the demand. John nearly fumbled the thing in his haste, and once Sherlock had it he flicked it, lit the end of his beloved, and took a long, passionate drag. He exhaled a column of smoke upwards into the air, a look of relaxation spreading over his face that was so dramatic and immediate he might have actually taken a hit from a choice spliff.

Sherlock peered at John after a moment as he tapped the butt of the cigarette, knocking off nonexistent ash. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Watson. I was doing well."

"I saw you nip downstairs near twelve last night, Sherlock." John returned affably. "Do we have to pay off the stores again?"

"You won't be able to; seems no one can resist selling to a dead man revived." Sherlock shrugged as Louisa, who'd only been half-listening with little interest, lifted her eyes from the pavement she was idly kicking. "I've already warned them that you'll try."

Doctor Watson and Holmes began to bicker from there, and it became transparent that they wouldn't touch upon Sherlock's comment again. Louisa wondered, though… Dead man revived, what did that mean? She wanted to ask, but that would have meant interrupting; in which case Sherlock would never consent to actually answering her question.

She was thankful when, once Sherlock had finished smoking; they all seemed to want to be back indoors. They only waited a short time in the corridor for Molly to crack open the door and permit them back into the lab.

Looking over a naked Iskandar Ervin was almost as quickly done as looking over his clothes had been. Watson was finished before anyone else, stepping away from the body with a puzzled and dissatisfied expression as Holmes remained bent at the waist, muttering about signs of captivity.

Without his clothes, Ervin was as horrifying a sight as he probably should have been initially to Louisa; she knew about the stages of rigor mortis, of livor mortis – had a smattering of facts held in her brain as to the effects of the latter on the human body – but seeing it in flesh and reality was obscene. Ervin was only exposed to her from the belly button down, but the discoloration of his skin was something disgusting to behold. Bright blue, and yet terribly red. The entire front of his body, chest to navel, was that horrible purple.

Before she could swim too far down the channel of morbidity, Sherlock called her attention back into their surroundings. "You alluded to possessing a certain grasp on the stages of hypostasis," he stated, and it was a few awkward moments before Louisa realised he was waiting for affirmation.

"A small, limited grasp."

"What does the appearance of hypostasis in this body tell you?"

"That he was continuously positioned on his back, though he was moved at least once before lividity was fixed. You can tell by the disturbance in what is otherwise an evenly distributed discoloration," she pointed to a streak of paleness through all the purple, near the right external oblique. "We know he had to have been moved twice, though: once into the room they cleaned his body in, again to the vehicle they drove to leave him on the A1. Also," she pressed a finger to Ervin's left pectoral. The skin beneath her touch lightened by a fraction, but the moment she took her finger away the blood seeped back into place. "pressure put upon areas of lividity still produces a very faint blanching in colour. Normally this would tell us he's not been dead more than eight, nine hours, but common sense says he must have been out on that road for at least six. So, you were probably right, about the body being cleaned in a room kept very cold. Either that, or he was killed around three this morning, which seems very unlikely."

"I was definitely right," Was all Holmes said, before peeling off his gloves.

"Is that all then?" Louisa questioned, unable to believe it.

Instead of responding to her question Holmes snapped, "Hardly anything here, when you really look at it." Frustration clenched his jaw. "We could know all there is to know about the method, the motivation, but the most imperative secrets still remain."

He tossed the gloves onto the cart that had previously held his coat. His manner had become incredibly irate in such a short period of time that Louisa felt befuddled.

"Isn't there more to look at?" She repeated.

"He's clean; the rest can be handled by someone else, I don't care." Sherlock made as though to reach into the pocket of the coat he wasn't wearing, but before he could even suffer the subsequent agitation Molly Hooper was at his side with the Belstaff draped over her arm.

For a moment Sherlock appeared a little surprised, but then he seemed to grow calmer as Hooper grinned up at him in that timid way she had.

"Thank you," he said softly, and the moment was so out-of-character with everything she'd seen from Holmes so far, that Louisa knew she would think of it again later on.

"No trouble," Molly returned, tone equally soft.

Once outside they walked a ways to where the cab was stationed, still waiting to conclude its transport of John, Louisa and Sherlock. They grouped into the backseat the same way they had twice before – with Louisa in the middle; this happened because Sherlock always jumped in first, and John always wanted Louisa to go next as befitting his status as a Gentleman of London. Or, at least Louisa assumed Watson's motives were pure. There was always the chance he simply wanted to avoid the discomfort of the middle seat himself.

"Baker Street, please." Sherlock said to the driver.

"You're not going to drop me first?" Louisa cried. The paradox she was currently living in involved her hatred of being stifled between two bodies (Holmes and Watson) in a closed space, and the hatred of being alone in a cab (even if this driver did happen to be of the chummy variety). At that moment, evidently, Louisa had made up her mind that the former was a more preferable state.

"Why would I do that," Holmes drawled carelessly. "When that would mean tacking on another twenty-three minutes to my ride?"

"Oh, well when you put it that way," she scowled, folding her arms over her chest. She shimmied her shoulders into the seat with a huff, and in that position she remained until the car rolled smoothly next to the kerb beyond the front step of 221.

Sherlock made to exit the car without another word, but John stopped him. "I think I'll head to Mary's," he said.

"Isn't she working?"

"Yeah, but she'll be done in a couple of hours. I'd be heading over there soon anyway, I reckon since I'm already in the cab…"

"Can't argue with logic, can you?" Sherlock's mouth tilted in a half smile, and with that he'd gone.

"We can go round to yours first," John told Louisa, who's gaze lingered for a moment through the window of the door Sherlock shut behind him (she was thinking there'd been something quite sad in that half-smile of his) before turning to the doctor. "I've got some time to kill."

"I appreciate it," She said, smiling. She gave the driver her address and as the car began to move once more a silence settled. Intermittently Louisa poked furtive glances in John's direction until he finally felt them and looked over at her, a sanguine note softening his features.

"You're in a good mood," she observed.

"Yeah," John chuckled. "I am. It's been a while since I was out like this… I suppose I missed it more than I thought I had."

"Working with Sherlock – is that what you do for a living?" She'd heard him mention having an office once or twice before, but she found people tended to say more when editing preconceived notions.

"No, I've been running my own practice for a little over a year now." John said. "Well, it's not just my practice, my girlfriend and I started it together. And, to be honest, she does most of the maintaining."

"How did you two meet?"

"I was working with a small office – one of the doctors had a child and decided to dedicate her time to raising him. Mary came with all the necessary qualifications, and it only took perhaps… I dunno, two weeks? A fortnight, at most, to fall madly for her. We clicked so well together that starting our own practice seemed like the only rational thing to do."

The fondness in his tone was so evident that Louisa's smile grew.

"What about you and Sherlock?" John questioned now.

"You already know how we met," Louisa reminded him. "He made my best friend cry."

"Yes, I remember. I meant, how is it you two came to know each other so well?"

"I wouldn't say we know each other well," Louisa began. "I think he just… wonders about me; at least, that's what I gather from what he's said. He's curious, and I allow him to be because, to be honest, this is all so interesting. I'm sure I don't need to tell you the appeal of hanging around a man like Sherlock Holmes."

"No, I understand that bit." John paused, apparently reflecting before he went on. "I only… It's just – the fact that you're here means something."

"Well, I have no idea what that could be," Louisa answered honestly, feeling self-conscious all of a sudden.

John seemed to sense her budding discomfort, if his following words were any indication. "I'm not sorry that you came along today, really. In fact, you appear to have been helpful. I only meant that Sherlock doesn't just take to people, he never has. Aside from his blood relatives there are four people in the world who can say they get on well with him, and in all the years I've known him, he's not made a single new acquaintance."

Can't forget about Irene Adler, John's thoughts dutifully reminded him, but Adler's shaky… relationship? with Sherlock was irrelevant to the point he was so far failing to make.

"What I'm trying to say," he laughed airily at himself. "Is that this sort of thing – allowing someone to come along on a case – has never happened. He's banished more people from his company than I can count, so I wonder how this… developed." He finished lamely, but Louisa was looking at him very intently.

"Your concern for him runs deep," she said. "You take quite an active role in his life."

John smiled tightly, aware of how he must have been coming across to such a young girl. "He's been through a lot. I apologise if I'm overstepping-"

"Why should you?" Louisa interrupted seriously. "Never apologise for being a good friend, John. I actually find it admirable, the way you watch out for him."

"I wouldn't say I'm watching out for him in this instance," John amended, choosing his words carefully. "It's not as though I think his getting to know you will bring about any negative ramifications; it's more that I'm trying to get a proper read on his current state of mind. He hasn't been himself lately. I'm not insinuating you're a threat," John repeated earnestly. "but with Sherlock's track record, unusual behaviour is not a good sign."

"Actually, I think I know what you mean. He seems off to me as well, but I really couldn't say how, as we truly don't know each other at all." She pulled her coat from her shoulders, the heat from the car's ventilation bringing her closer to sweating. "We've had nothing more than a series of conversations, and the majority of each one has centred on this case, on Antoine's case. He needed my help that night I came to your flat, needed me to put a name to Ervin so that we could have some hope of finding him, and I suppose that, through being thrown together so often, he just got used to me.

"He understands how interested I am in seeing how this case pans out, in learning from him in general, and I think he wants to see how far my ability to contribute anything towards solving it reaches, so I doubt that this aspect of his behaviour is something that should concern you. One thing I take as hard fact is that curiosity is Sherlock's bread and butter."

"It sounds as though you believe there's another aspect I should be worried about," John said.

"Yes, but again, I couldn't tell you what that is… I just have a feeling that he's missing something, like a single candle amongst many has been blown out in his head." John's lips pulled into a frown so deep that Louisa patted the hand which rested on the seat next to him soothingly. "Don't stress yourself, John. Anyone can tell that Sherlock is a far cry from an average sort of lad, but I haven't seen anything particularly rash or reckless in his manner. He just needs stimulation, I think." After pondering for a few beats she added, "And a healthier, more regular diet."

John eyed her, suddenly looking very analytical. "You keep saying you don't know him all that well, but you've collected a fair bit of insight."

Louisa smiled again, her eyes fixing upon the window past John's head. "I grew up with someone very much like him."

"Who was that?" John asked, finding that her smile was infectious.

"My father. In many ways they could be the exact same person. But Sherlock is smarter, my father is warmer, and they look nothing alike." She sighed deeply. "They're both insanely introverted, brilliant, and live with a destructive hero complex. One could say that navigating my father's moods gave me practice."

The conversation lasted until the cab stopped in front of 133 Pelcourt Street, and it was such a pleasant experience that Louisa was quite sad to see it finished. John asked about her studies, he asked about her opinion of London, and he did so with such interest that Louisa was sure she could feel the friendship being forged as she was carried home. Before getting out of the car Louisa forced the driver to take a twenty pound tip, insisted that he keep her book of Sudoku puzzles, and wished him a good night. The parting with John was just as amicable; they even shook hands.

The moment she let herself into her flat Louisa brewed a strong Earl Grey and went to the sitting room floor to surround herself in a ring of school texts, working feverishly. She didn't finish until after ten, but she couldn't hold Holmes accountable for that; concentrating for longer than fifteen minutes at a time was apparently an impossibility, making progress slow and murky as her mind.

As she climbed between her sheets – the clock reading near eleven by the time she'd cleared the mess in front of the sofa and showered – she decided that she wasn't at all sorry for her spastic attention span; her brain was buzzing from all the excitement of the day, a sensation she hadn't experienced for a painfully long time.

She was glad she had gone, and as she drifted off to sleep she hoped Sherlock would bring her along again.


Author`s Note: I`d initially intended to post this chapter on Tuesday, following the pattern of my previous two updates; but, editing this one turned out to be more complicated than I thought it would be, and I`m pretty sure I still missed a few spelling errors or mistakes.

Other than that though, I`m pretty satisfied with how the story is flowing as of yet; the only thing I remain uncertain about is whether the mystery aspect is intriguing. Just, let me know if it`s any good. I`d like to hear it :)

Thanks,

Emily