Periodic Tales
Chapter Thirty Six
Iron (Part One)
FE 26 55.845
The most common metal on earth, iron is a Group 8 element that is reactive to oxygen and water. Wrought iron has been made for thousands of years by smelting ore; cast iron needs blast furnace heat to purify the metal before it can be cast into moulds for shaping to suit industrial uses. As a result of this ability to take on new forms as needed, iron is the most widely used of all the metals, accounting for 95% of worldwide metal production.
When the door opened, Esther Cohen looked up, giving what she hoped would be seen as an encouraging smile. But Sherlock made no eye contact, so she couldn't be sure he saw it. The seventeen year old stood rather awkwardly just over the threshold looking down at the floor, as if uncertain whether to come any further.
"Come in and have a seat, Sherlock. Thank you for coming."
Hesitantly, he approached the chair that was opposite hers. Then he stood looking at it, somewhat suspiciously. Both chairs were simple, modern, and brightly patterned, as if to belie their therapeutic purpose. This was a therapy room at the north London Priory, and today was the first time that Sherlock had been willing to enter it. Yesterday he had spoken for the first time since coming to the clinic, and Esther was determined not to let him slip back into silence.
That said, she didn't want to talk at him, but rather with him. And that would need some patience. So, she waited as he considered the chair. After a pause of nearly half a minute of silent staring, he shifted the chair so that it was not directly opposite hers, but rather pulled further back and turned at an angle, facing more toward the window. Then he slowly lowered himself into the seat.
So, some considerable anxiety about this turning into a confrontation. Esther also realised he was making a very obvious statement about his reluctance to be there. Or perhaps it was his way of exercising some control? In either case, she didn't mind. To reassure him, she said, "Whatever makes you comfortable."
"What makes you think I could ever be comfortable here?" He was looking out the second floor window at the woods surrounding the North London clinic. The trees were now in full leaf and it was a glorious May spring day.
She was still surprised by the baritone. Apart from yesterday, the last time she'd really spoken with him, almost a year ago, his voice was still breaking, caught between boy and man. She took advantage of the fact that he wasn't looking at her to really look at him. That change was now mirrored in the body, too. He was no longer the child, but not quite the fully fledged young man- all angles- cheekbones and jaw taking a shape that would make him striking as an adult. He'd added at least an inch more in height and was starting to fill out, too. The past six weeks of drug detox and enforced feeding were beginning to show the benefits. Not that he would see it that way. She decided a peace-offering was necessary.
"What would make you more comfortable?" It was as good a place to start as any.
"Everything in this place is horrid. It's disgusting- the disinfectant in every room is so strong that it makes me nauseous. Sound? Well, maybe if they didn't use institutional fluorescent strip lighting, my head wouldn't be filled with incessant buzzing. And when it comes to sight…" He gestured to the wall mural behind Esther, "… the décor is childish and offensive- a bit like the people here.
This had been delivered in a rapid fire, don't-pause-for-breath cadence, and he still wouldn't look at her "What do you mean by that comment about the people? Are you talking about the patients or the carers?"
He snorted. "The idea of calling them 'carers'?- it's a joke. They are paid to look after inmates in a prison. It's impossible to feel comfortable in a prison. The only thing that would make it bearable is for you to open this door and say I am free to leave the clinic forever."
"I wish it were that easy, but we both know it isn't." She tried to make it sound sympathetic. Best to get started straight away on helping him see that the solution lay in setting achievable goals, rather than getting stuck in negative thinking. "So what do you think is a realistic alternative?"
He sighed, and turned his gaze away from the window and back to the floor. "Tell me what I have to say and promise to do to convince you, the other doctors and my brother that I am able to leave."
"It isn't about what you say or promise to do in the future. If it were that simple, then most people in here wouldn't be here. They would have talked their way out."
"So, this isn't the…talking thing? You've decided to go straight to ECT then?"
That shocked her. Sherlock had been given electro-convulsive therapy when he was ten and suffering from a depression that bordered on catatonia*. Before her time- she would not have approved of its use in a child on the Spectrum.
"No, of course not. That's a rather outdated approach used for acute depression. Do you feel acutely depressed?"
He shook his head, and then gave a wry smirk. "Not yet, but if this carries on for much longer, who knows? Anyway, isn't that what the antidepressants are for?"
"Actually, no. They are designed to help you with the anxiety. You aren't going to deny that you are anxious?"
That earned her the first direct look from him- and it was an accusatory glare. "Who is responsible for that, I wonder?"
"That's what we are here to talk about. How what you think creates the anxiety that leads you to do what you do, and how changing your thinking into something more positive can lead to being more in control of what you do. It's called cognitive behaviour therapy, by the way, not the "talking thing".
He had already looked away from her, letting his facial expression show that he was more than a little bored.
She tried again. "Therapy is designed to help you overcome negative thoughts- the things that make you anxious. I am here to help you get better. That shouldn't make you feel anxious. I'm on your side, Sherlock."
"If you were, then you'd tell me what you want to hear, how you want me to act, and then I can get out."
She smiled again. "It's not like that. If I told you what I expected to hear, then you'd tell it to me. And if I told you how to behave you'd even act it out perfectly. I know you. You are a consummate actor- it's what earned you the label of high functioning. So, we won't waste time playing that game."
Sherlock scowled, crossing his arms in front of his chest and slouching even more in the chair . "This is all pointless; you've decided along with my brother that I am never going to be allowed out."
He was still so volatile, going from petulance to anger and then onto despair in a few moments. Esther knew she had to let him release some of the pent-up energy or risk either a meltdown or a retreat back into the silence of depression. "No, I didn't say that. In fact, I've just said the opposite. The therapy is about helping you think differently about your behaviour, so you can control it better, in a way that allows you to be out there instead of in here."
He snapped back, "I am in control of my behaviour. You are making so many assumptions in that statement, nearly all of which are profoundly wrong…" He broke off, stood up abruptly and walked over to the window, putting a hand flat against the glass, as if using the sensation to ground himself.
"Then tell me what I am getting wrong, and why. Unless you explain what you are thinking, then I can't begin to understand or help you see things differently."
He didn't respond.
"Try, Sherlock; it's important."
There was no answer. In fact, his whole demeanour had changed to a sort of vacant presence, there in body but not in spirit. It was like he'd taken his mind off-line and out of the room. It was unnerving.
Esther decided that it was time to use the same stimulus she had used the very first time she had spoken to him, when he was eleven*. She knew she had to keep him intellectually curious, or he would shut down on her.
"I have something for you." She reached into her pocket and pulled out a lump of metal. She tossed it, shouting "Catch!"
Startled out of his reverie, Sherlock barely reacted in time, grabbed but missed as it landed on the window sill with a bounce and series of clanks. He picked it up and looked at it, puzzled. Turning the irregular piece of metal over in his long fingers, he brought it closer to his face, so he could scrutinise it more carefully. He held it up to the window, seeking out more light so he could really look at it.
"Know what it is?"
He was weighing the piece in his hand, rubbing his finger over it to get a sense of the density and texture. Then he tapped it against the metal of the window latch, listening intently to the sound it made. She was slightly startled when Sherlock first licked it, and then brought it up under his nose and sniffed.
"I'd need a magnet to be sure, but I think it's iron."
She smiled. "Yes, but not just any old iron. It's direct reduced iron."
"That explains the taste and scent of rust." He started to smirk, then a chuckle escaped. "Doctor Cohen. I underestimated your knowledge of chemistry. RDI iron- sponge iron- can be made into steel without the high temperatures needed in a blast furnace, which just happens to be fuelled by a form of coal called coke. Very droll."
"Sherlock, you are like that piece of metal. You don't need coke – or cocaine- to manufacture steel or cast yourself into whatever shape you want. Your beliefs about why you are here are like that lump of iron. You can make anything you want out of them. You just have to try."
The smile on his face faded. He put the lump of iron in his pocket. Heaving a sigh, he murmured as he looked out of the window, "That sounds like you are asking for an explanation."
"Yes, that is exactly what I am asking for. You are too intelligent to have simply fallen into this by mistake. So, tell me why."
He shook his head. "Too much. Too many things. It's hard to know where to begin."
She decided that a direct approach would be best- go to the place that he rarely wanted to talk about. "Tell me what you feel right now."
She saw him close his eyes, and take a deep breath.
"Anger doesn't even begin to define it. Incandescent rage might just…" He stopped. "A bit like a blast furnace."
"What are you angry about?"
He spun around and gestured wildly at the room, and then pointed at her. "This place, you, the others. My brother. You all assume you know what is best for me." His voice was almost shaking from the effort of controlling himself; his breath was ragged and almost gasping. "You're so wrong! You have no idea…"
Esther realised that Sherlock was in that place where anger was almost tipping over hitting something or crying. Fight or flight- both conflicted. The body's need to deal with the emotional overload in a socially acceptable way? Maybe, or the start of losing control. She didn't want to push him that far. Quietly, but firmly, she said, "Sherlock. Sit down, now. Tell me why you think I am wrong. I am listening."
For a moment, nothing happened. A visible shudder ran through his body, and she thought she'd lost him to a sensory storm. But, from somewhere he found the wherewithal to settle himself. After a few controlled breaths, he stalked away from the window and sank back down into the chair, putting his elbows on his knees. Holding his bowed head in his hands, the mass of dark wavy hair obscured his face as he kept his eyes on the floor. She accepted that; it was a way for him to limit the sensory inputs. When he fisted his hands in the curls and pulled, she knew he was using pain to regain his focus. She waited.
"Why are you even here?" It was said quietly but with a ferocity that startled.
"I'm here to help you. If you can understand why you are angry, then perhaps something can be done. If not, then we can work on channelling your anger into something more useful."
"That's what the clinic doctors are here for. Why you?"
Esther considered the perceptiveness of the question, and knew she had to answer honestly. "Because you and I have history. We don't have to start over. I know you, and you know me. That should give us something concrete to build on. I know what you've been through. I understand your sensory issues. You don't have to explain your family history to me. For a new person, all those things would be barriers to establishing a relationship of trust. You'd use those barriers to hide behind. But, you know I won't let you. You can trust me on that."
A flat monotone reply aimed at the floor, "You think I trust you."
"Do you have any reason not to trust me?"
He pushed himself back into a sitting position and looked at her briefly. "You hold at least one of the keys that keep me locked in here. Do you think I'm an idiot? I ask what you want from me, and instead of telling me, we're playing word games. And you still think I should trust you."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because together we can use that iron to make a key that will unlock the door to put you on the other side of it."
"Do you really believe that? My brother doesn't."
"How do you know? Talked to him recently, have you?"
He shook his head, "I don't need to. He put me in here in the first place, against my will, and wants to keep me here forever."
"He hasn't said that to you or to me, or to anyone. Quite the opposite, in fact. Instead of assuming the worst, it might be more helpful to see things from a different angle. Try to imagine another reason why he might have wanted to find you."
He snorted, sitting back in the chair now, his eyes conveying scorn. "Mycroft will dress it up. Being shut away in here, he can say I am safe. That means I can do him and his ambitions no harm. I told him to disown me; I will change my name- anything to get away. He says no, and locks me in here. Malice of forethought, Doctor Cohen, and he's made you his accomplice."
She kept her own body position open, neutral, rather than respond to his accusation. "Sherlock, use that brain of yours. If he wanted you in here for good, then he wouldn't have insisted on me being involved. He would have relied on you being unwilling to share with anyone else what I already know about you. Maybe you need to consider an alternative view, that he asked me to get involved so we could get you out of here faster than you would with a strange doctor. Stop making judgments like that when you don't have all the facts. If you don't take my word for it, then ask him yourself."
He shook his head, "I don't need to. To him, I'm a homeless junkie who is willing to resort to anything to maintain a drug habit. A deep embarrassment to him and the family name, a drag anchor on his promotion prospects because I am a security risk. He justifies this imprisonment as 'keeping me safe', but it's an excuse to lock me up unless I conform to his definition of what is acceptable behaviour."
He was clearly unable or unwilling to break free from the negative loop that made his brother into the villain. She tried again to break through. "Before you draw that conclusion, you have to ask him. That's only fair. In the meantime, it matters less what you think Mycroft's motivations are than what you think about yourself. Do you think you are a homeless junkie who can't be trusted to be independent? How would you prefer to describe what happened to you?"
"Before I ended up in here? I was living a life of my own design. It certainly doesn't fulfil his expectations of what I should do, but I don't care. It should be my choice, not his."
She had to try to break him free from the never-ending loop that brought him back to his brother. Esther decided to try to ground the discussion in something concrete. "Was it your choice to run away from Robert McGarry's when he died? Or was it just shock?"
He snorted. "Another example of your assumptions. Is that what people think? That somehow the finding him dead traumatised me? Shocked me into doing something crazy?" He shook his head. "The man died in his sleep. Not exactly earth shattering. At first, I thought it rather inconvenient of him, given that he was supposed to be driving me up to Cambridge. Then I realised that no one knew he was dead apart from me. It meant that for the first time in my life, I was not surrounded by people who were telling me what to do. I did not have to do what was expected of me."
"And what was that?"
"No doubt, Mycroft would have preferred me to call someone to 'rescue' me. And then they would put me back on the treadmill, heading off to university like a good little boy, doing what I was told to do."
"So, what made you think that wasn't the right thing to do?"
Very quietly, almost reverentially, Sherlock said, "I wasn't running away from something; I was running toward freedom."
"And how was that for you?"
He smirked. "Better than you can possibly imagine. That's what makes me so angry- you've all made assumptions about how awful it must have been." His face took on a disapproving scowl that was an almost perfect rendition of Mycroft. "Such a terrible thing, Sherlock; how could you fall so far as to become homeless and addicted to drugs?"
Sherlock's voice reverted to his own. "It wasn't like that at all. To start with, for the first time since I was two years old, I was drug free. For seven weeks I discovered what I was really like when not being force-fed drugs by doctors. No SSRIs, no benzos, no beta blockers, no...nothing. For the first time ever, far from being a drug addict, I was totally clean. It was quite revealing. A lot of what I had always been told was a product of my SPD and being on the Spectrum just disappeared. At worst, the symptoms were no worse than they had been when I was on drugs. I learned to cope."
Esther was shocked. She had assumed that his need to control the panic attacks, the social anxiety, the worst symptoms of his Sensory Processing Disorder would be the reason why he had turned to drugs- a self-medication alternative to what he had been given since childhood. She had also assumed that the need would push him very quickly into drug use- but that was clearly wrong- at least in his mind. She needed to probe this further- it sounded like Sherlock was actually applying CBT on his own without realising it.
"How? What did you do during those weeks when you were clean?"
He stretched, and then stood up. "I need to move. It helps." He started pacing, and then gestured at what he was doing. "This? It's part of it. I realised that keeping active and burning off energy helps. It also tires me out, meaning that I slept better than I had ever done in my life. The thing that was best? I wasn't anxious. Being homeless means I can avoid people, take them only when I am willing and able to. No one looks at you when you are homeless- which suited me just fine. It means I'm not stressed in the way I am when constantly surrounded by people telling me what to do. I enjoy it. Alone is what I am, it's what I prefer. The exhilaration of being in control of my environment for the first time ever? It's like magic. Don't feel up to talking? Don't have to- not for days, if it suited me. And it did, at first. I was free."
She noted his lapses in and out of the present tense. This was a freedom that had not relinquished its hold on him. She wanted to know more. "Did you sleep rough?"
He smirked. "I avoided the shelters, if that's what you mean- too many people, disgusting scents, sounds- all too much. But park benches and dossing down in doorways is for people who don't use their brain. I slept clean, dry and reasonably warm just by using my head to think of places that no one else would. My bolt holes suited me just fine."
Esther realised that was probably the reason why Mycroft and his team of private detectives had been unable to find him for six months. "What did you do to keep yourself occupied during the days? Weren't you bored?"
He shrugged. "At first, just surviving well was enough- finding places to sleep, food to eat and avoiding people all take time. Once I got those down to a routine, then I explored London and observed people. Endlessly entertaining- trying to deduce what people were doing and why. I was never bored."
"Were you lonely?"
He gave her a fleeting sideways glance, using peripheral vision, his face showing some confusion. "Why would I be?"
"Not knowing anyone familiar must have been…odd."
His face hardened. "You assume that the people I know are persons whose company I would seek by choice. I have never done so."
It would be all too tempting for her to diagnose an attachment disorder. If she had not known his childhood as well as she did, then it might have worked to stymie another psychiatrist. "Are you being truthful with that last comment? There was a time you walked half way across southern England to get to your brother at Eton*. You made a choice then. What happened to change that?"
He rolled his eyes. "I was nine years old, and scared my father was going to lock me away in an institution. I mistakenly thought back then that Mycroft would protect me. Half a lifetime later, and now he's the one who has locked me away. So, childish sentiment is proved wrong. Sentiment is pointless. I won't be fooled again."
She wasn't there to praise Mycroft, but she couldn't let Sherlock just erase another fact. "When you were eleven, Mycroft did get you out of an institution that your father had locked you into. Surely that speaks in his favour? Perhaps it would help to reassess his motivations- or at least give him a chance to explain his concerns now."
He didn't answer.
She decided to move the discussion on. "What changed? You say you were drug free but the toxicology report on you read like a pharmaceutical dictionary of banned substances."
He grimaced. "Well, I had to start interacting with people, didn't I? Not my choice, really; blame it on my brother, not me. When Mycroft started looking more aggressively for me, I couldn't go to a concert, a bookstore, not even a library without finding my photo had preceded me. So, because he wouldn't leave me be, I had to go further underground. Did that by dealing with people I didn't really want to deal with. The more I did that, the more anxiety. So, I started trying to find something that would help with that."
Esther nodded. Knowing Sherlock, she had assumed that self-medication was more at the root, rather than thrill seeking. "What worked?"
He shrugged. "Most didn't. Or, at least, didn't work any better than the stuff you lot have been force feeding me for years. There were only a few…" He drifted to a halt, as if the memory of drug taking had pushed out other thoughts. Esther knew this was dangerous territory, but she wanted to get things out on the table- make them topics he was willing to discuss. Without that, no progress would be possible. The blast furnace- it has to get hot enough to melt the ore.
"So, which ones, and why?"
There was a pause. Then, "it depended on what I needed. If I wanted to….to just stop, turn off the noise, then morphine or diamorphine." He shrugged, trying to make it nonchalant, and resumed pacing.
Heroin. She had been afraid of that. For someone prone to sensory processing disorder, it would be highly attractive. "And?"
"The best was cocaine. It was amazing."
This was a different tone of voice, one that whispered of addiction.
He continued, "I think I know now what it means to be normal, to be able to focus and concentrate, despite the stuff coming in. Not to be anxious around other people. To be able to talk and behave without having to think about it. No drug doctors have prescribed comes anywhere near it."
"Both cocaine and heroin can kill you. Both are illegal."
He shrugged again, this time with more conviction. "There is a difference between quantity and quality of life."
"It will be hard to convince people that you are able to leave here if your drug abuse is not stopped."
"Any and every excuse will be used against me." This was said with some resignation.
"Sherlock, the only one keeping you in here is you. If you are willing to work with me to consider alternatives, to be more constructive in your approach to what happens when you are outside, then I will swap that hunk of metal in your pocket for the key that will unlock the door."
He took the iron ore out of his pocket and turned to look at her again, really look at her, seeing her in a way that made her uncomfortable. But she withstood the intense scrutiny; he had to know that she was telling the truth.
Then he broke his gaze and looked at the fist that had formed around the metal in his hand. "You believe what you are saying. But, that's not enough. I need more data. Tell my brother I'd like to talk to him. Then we'll see if your trust in him is even remotely valid."
Esther smiled. Progress!
oOo
Author's note: - this is set immediately after the Study in Pink, so very early days!
Lestrade lifted the sheet away from the face of the body. It had been discovered by a vagrant who was cutting through the vacant lot on his way to the night shelter, whose staff had made the call. The shelter employee refused to identify the tramp, saying that he'd left almost as soon as he reported the body. Didn't want to get involved, and they saw no reason to keep him. So the police had no way to know if the tramp had moved or touched the body, no way to eliminate him as a possible suspect.
God help us from well-meaning care workers. They seemed more concerned about the homeless person than the dead body he'd found, which was lying spread-eagled in the open.
Now three hours later, the waste ground was crowded with police. A few temporary lights had been set up, run off of generators, but most of the constables were using torches to comb through the weeds and rubbish for anything as obvious as a murder weapon. They'd have to wait for daylight to get anything more useful.
Greg used his own torch to look more closely at the body. "Male, no ID, no wallet, no personal effects on the body. Dark skinned, so ethnic origins- Pakistani? Or Afghan? Hard to tell."
Sally snorted. "Even if you could tell, Guv, who's to know if he's British born, and immigrant or just a tourist?"
The DI continued, "There doesn't appear to be any blood evident or any blunt trauma injuries. Thirty-ish. The business suit and soft hands say office worker."
Sergeant Donovan nodded. "I agree- and that means we've both been spending too much time listening to the Freak."
The comment raised a snort of agreement from the Detective Inspector. "Don't knock it; being around that brain is bound to rub off on us eventually."
"You're both jumping to conclusions- just as he does. He's a bad influence on you both." The sour criticism emerged from the blue-suited forensic examiner, whose head was bent over a set of footprints that he was measuring, on the other side of the body from where Lestrade and Donovan were standing.
The DI's attention was caught; a taxi's headlights were approaching the yellow tape that blocked off the crime scene from the street, more than a hundred feet away. "Anderson, just keep at it, will you? We don't have long to wait to find out if we're right."
Sherlock exploded out of the cab's passenger door and started toward them without a backward glance. In the dim morning light, Greg could see another man lean forward from the back seat to hand the fare over to the cabbie. When the man exited the cab, the DI realised it was Sherlock's new flatmate, the doctor now quick marching to catch up with Sherlock just as he lifted the tape and came through the gap in the wooden fence.
Sally's snide comment cut across his thoughts. "Oh, look. He's brought his new flatmate again. That's weird. Second time in as many weeks. Think he's grooming the guy to be a disciple in his little death cult?"
"Put a sock in it, Sergeant. The new guy helped Sherlock solve the serial suicides. I don't care if he brings the Queen of Sheba with him, as long as he helps us find a murderer. Nor should you."
The PC guarding the perimeter did nothing to stop the two men; he'd been told that Sherlock was on his way. None of the other uniformed officers glanced up; they were slowly moving across the waste ground in a line, torches shining down to find evidence.
"The Freak and his minder. What are we doing involving civilians?" Anderson muttered, but kept his head down and focused on examining the footprints that he'd found beside the body.
As he came closer, Sherlock didn't look at either Sally or Greg, and it was as if Anderson didn't even exist. The young man's attention was focused solely on the body, as he snapped on his blue forensic gloves. Avoiding the footprints, he crouched down, not giving Anderson any option but to move aside. Watson came up to Lestrade a little awkwardly, as if unsure whether he was welcome or not.
Sally's arms crossed her arms, looking disapprovingly at her boss. "I see that his social skills have not improved, despite sharing a flat with a normal human being."
The doctor gave her a look that was half way between annoyed and cautious. "Good morning?"
Greg shook his head. "Not for this man, it isn't." In a louder voice, he called out, "Sherlock, I need a cause and time of death if you can manage it before the bloody ME gets here. He's held up somewhere in traffic, apparently. And any advice about a murder weapon, so I can tell the boys and girls searching the ground what they are actually looking for."
The doctor looked bemused. "What, just like that? You want a solution on a silver platter?"
"Give me a few minutes, Detective Inspector, and I just might be able to oblige." It was said in a cocksure baritone, as Sherlock juggled his pocket magnifier out of his pocket at the same time as switching on his mini-maglite torch.
Anderson muttered as he took another series of photographs, the flash letting off a stream of little explosions of bright light that made Sherlock flinch.
The Detective Inspector came closer to watch Sherlock pull the sheet further down and unbutton the dirty white shirt, to reveal a series of livid red marks near the neck and upper chest. The DI wasn't a pathologist, but even he knew a burn when he saw it. Some of the skin was actually charred and blackened, crispy and torn on the edges, as if it were burnt paper.
Greg leaned over Sherlock's shoulder and said quietly, "Going to make a habit of this, are you? Inviting other people onto my crime scenes?"
"Yes. Now shut up and let me work."
Greg noticed that the doctor wasn't put off by the conversation. As soon as he stepped back, Watson took his place, peering over Sherlock's shoulder who was using his pocket magnifier to look more closely.
"Fascinating."
Sherlock's curiosity was now fully engaged, to the point where Greg realised that the man didn't care that he was putting his knee down on the ground, soaking it with mud. It had rained heavily last night, and the patch of waste ground behind the wooden hoarding was a morass of wet rubbish and weeds.
Donovan stifled a snort, distracting Greg from the body.
"What?"
She sniggered. "Any minute now, he's going to say, 'It's not logical.' "
Lestrade groaned. "Been watching too many Star Trek reruns, Sergeant?"
Sherlock looked up at their exchange, looking confused. "I don't understand. For once, Sergeant Donovan is right. It isn't logical. Burns like these are highly unusual; wouldn't you agree, Doctor Watson?"
John moved over to the other side of the body so he could look more closely. He started to reach his left hand toward, and then stopped. Sherlock pulled a second pair of gloves out of his pocket and handed them over, saying quietly, "Next time, come prepared."
Watson pulled the gloves on with the speed that Greg would expect from a medical professional. A moment later he was probing the burns with a finger. "I've never seen burns like this."
Sally rolled her eyes. "Well, surprise, surprise; most doctors haven't seen murdered bodies."
Her sarcasm made Watson look up sharply. "I was an army trauma surgeon serving in Afghanistan. I've seen burns from high explosives and shrapnel that would turn your stomach, Sergeant. And more dead bodies than you've ever investigated, that's for sure."
Sherlock responded before Sally could. "These are not burns from an explosion."
"No." Watson turned back to the taller man, who had closed the pocket magnifier shut with a snap, taken his Maglite in his teeth, and was now fishing in his inside coat pocket for a soft leather roll of tools.
"May I?" The flatmate gently took the torch away from Sherlock and went over to the other side of the body, holding the torch to shine on the body. Greg watched as Sherlock withdrew a pair of tweezers, and reached into one of the wounds, pulling aside the blackened skin.
"OH!" It was an exclamation of surprise that made Greg lean in closer to see if he could identify what had startled Sherlock.
Very gently, Sherlock pulled something tiny out of the wound and held it to up in the light.
Lestrade saw an odd sort of droplet shaped form.
"Metal." This was breathed in a baritone tinged with an almost ecstatic awe.
"John, what does this look like to you?" Sherlock shoved it right in front of the doctor's nose.
"Um…don't know. It's sort of a squiggle, but with one end a bit bigger than the other?"
Lestrade snorted and pointedly opened a small plastic evidence bag. Almost reluctantly, Sherlock dropped it in, muttering "I need to get that to the lab at Barts; don't send it into that useless bunch of bureaucrats you call the Forensic Service."
"I heard that." Anderson's whine took on a belligerent quality. "Chain of custody, Holmes. You can't just play with the toys when they amuse you. We professionals have to run trials, you know, and your meddling compromises the evidence." He slapped his camera back into its case, and came closer to watch what Sherlock was doing, suspicion evident in his posture.
Sherlock did not deign to reply. He just bent over the body again, poking the tweezers into another wound, this one slightly longer, on the side of the neck. Depositing another blob of metal into a plastic bag of his own, he sniffed. "Lestrade, there is plenty of this to go around. In fact, prepare to be really surprised."
He glanced across the body. "What do you smell, John?"
"Charred flesh. Burnt blood." The doctor had a haunted look on his face. "It's something I've smelled before."
"Not quite. This time, it's not a war zone, and the murder weapon is not an armament." Sherlock took a firm hold of the body's jaw and opened the mouth, pushing the red and swollen lips back with his fingers.
"Eeuw- what's THAT?" Sally was now looking over Greg's shoulder and her disgust was mirrored on the face of the DI. Even the doctor looked startled.
Sherlock was the only one smiling, and the expression grew into one of positive delight as he peered at the grey metal which had filled the man's mouth, submerging his blackened teeth.
"That, Sergeant Donovan, is the murder weapon. Someone poured molten metal into his mouth and throat. If he was alive at the time, it would have been an excruciating death, burned and suffocated simultaneously. The heat of the molten metal would have eaten right through the oesophagus and entered his chest cavity. It would have vapourised blood, tissue and burned bone on its way. Quite remarkable."
John was nodding. "At least it would be quick. The damage to the heart would be fatal very fast …but, I don't understand why the lips weren't totally blackened, too."
Sherlock lifted one of the torn lips. "See that mark there?" John peered in.
"Oh…I get it."
Lestrade grunted, "Well, I don't, so explain it, Sherlock."
"A cheek retractor. The murderer used a medical device to keep the cheeks and lips free. He wanted to be able to close the mouth back over, once the molten iron cooled enough." Sherlock let go of the lip and contemplated the body thoughtfully.
"Molten metal? Poured down a man's throat? How would someone be able to do that? Why?" Lestrade tried but failed to keep the rising incredulity out of his voice. He'd seen a lot of horribly brutal murders, revenge killings where mutilation featured heavily- but this had to be one of the oddest he'd ever run across.
Sherlock did not reply, but leaned forward again, moving his attention onto the closed eyes. He used the tweezers again to grip the lid on the man's right eye. The four people watched in morbid fascination as the skin of the lid seemed to catch for a moment, and then opened.
There was a shocked silence. Instead of an eyeball, there was a metal orb in the socket.
"Bloody hell. What's that?" Letrade managed to keep his voice down, but the horror was still here.
Sherlock was positively beaming. "That, Detective Inspector, is cast iron- molten metal poured into a mould to leave us a message. All we have to do is figure out how to translate it." He sat back on his heels and then stood in one graceful movement. "Transport the body to Barts' mortuary. I have an entertaining day's work ahead." He snapped his gloves off and stuffed them into a pocket, before striding off to where the taxi was still waiting.
Five hours later, Lestrade found himself leaning across the mortuary table and arguing with Sherlock. "Slow down and explain it for me again. I'm not a blacksmith." He was really struggling to make sense of what he'd just been told.
Sherlock shifted his body weight, driven to movement by impatience. "The body has three different forms of iron. One- the eyeballs are cast iron- made elsewhere and then inserted after death, when the original equipment was removed by the murderer. Two- the burns were caused by molten iron. Initial chemical analysis I did upstairs in Stamford's lab shows it to be pig iron made in a blast furnace. But the really interesting discovery is his stomach contents- the third form." He whirled around, grabbed a metal autopsy organ dish and thrust it under Lestrade's nose.
The DI recoiled from the scent of bile and blood.
Sherlock smirked. "Don't be a wimp; you've seen worse on a Friday night pub floor." He poked with his gloved finger in the tray and then raised in triumph a grey lump. "Behold, sponge iron!"
"He had weird eating habits? What does that mean?"
Sherlock slapped the dish down on the autopsy table and walked away, muttering. "I am surrounded by idiots."
Molly Hooper was stripping off her gloves and giving Greg a smile of sympathy, but it was the new flatmate who came to his rescue. "Sherlock, just slow down. A little less science and a little more plain English, please."
"Really? How much more simple does it have to be?"
"Why does it matter that there are three forms of iron?"
Sherlock sighed, somewhat histrionically. "Sponge iron is direct reduced – produced using natural gas or gas from coal. You can make it in charcoal ovens or oxygen furnaces- think of a kiln, Lestrade. It's better than pig iron, especially when used to make cast iron or steel."
"That doesn't explain a bloody thing, Sherlock." Lestrade's temper was now sorely tested. He'd been up since the middle of the night on this case, and was no closer to figuring out who the victim was, who killed him or why.
Sherlock just threw his hands up in dismay. "It's obvious, Lestrade, to anyone with a grey cell."
"Alright, calm down you two." John stepped between the two men, trying to soothe ruffled feathers.
Sherlock stalked off, then stopped. Facing the wall, he let loose. "The man was killed by someone who understands iron manufacturing- most probably a skilled process metallurgist- and the fact that three different forms of iron were used is conclusive."
The DI looked askance. "Of what? Which of the three killed him? I need a cause of death, Sherlock, not to mention a why and a who."
"You really need an idiot's guide to the industrial revolution? Okay- here goes: pig iron is formed by melting iron with charcoal and limestone, under pressure. What results is iron with a very high carbon content- and that makes it brittle, but hot as hell when it's made. No one manufacturers it on its own, except as a stepping stone to the next stage. The fact that it is pig iron is important- part of the message. Refine this stuff further, and it becomes wrought iron, cast iron- or when it's blended with alloys- steel. You can make pig iron in a back garden DIY blast furnace. It's your murder weapon."
Lestrade puffed out his cheeks, trying to imagine the scene of a madman trying to pour molten metal on a back patio. "So, did the victim just sit there and let the murderer pour this stuff down his throat?"
"Of course not." Sherlock had turned and folded his arms across his chest. "Both Doctors Watson and Hooper agree with me that the autopsy shows he was either unconscious or dead when the metal was poured into his mouth. But there's more." He lifted the pan that contained two metal orbs. "These are cast iron- so two stages further on from pig iron, and these have been worked- and by a master craftsman."
He marched back over to the autopsy table. Withdrawing one of the metal eyeballs from the tray with the pathologist's tools, he held it up so Lestrade and John could see it. The eyeball was anatomically perfect, and the pupil, lens and iris were clearly evident.
Sherlock's appreciation was clear as he contemplated the eyeball. "Cast from life, I would say- which makes this the work of an artist rather than a backyard bodger."
"In your humble opinion," growled Lestrade.
Sherlock shot him a peeved look. "It takes skill to produce the original artwork, cast a mould and then pour metal. Just look- it's polished."
John was looking as puzzled as Lestrade felt. The short man's eyes followed Sherlock as he whirled away to continue pacing. John said tentatively, "So, you're saying that the murderer first feeds the victim iron pellets, then knocks him out, then pours the hot metal into his mouth, removes the guy's eyeballs and replaces them with a pair he made earlier?" The way he said it made it sound almost ridiculous, but this time Sherlock didn't reply with a caustic comment.
Lestrade just threw up his hands. "Why the bleeding hell would anyone go to such trouble?"
Sherlock kept pacing, his hands steepled under his chin, eyes unfocussed. He was muttering, "Come on, come on."
John was watching him. Behind Greg, Molly took photos of the body, the mouth and orbital sockets now empty of their metal.
When a few moments later the door of the mortuary opened, Sherlock's pacing suddenly altered course, and he rushed to the young woman who had come through. "At last! What took you so long?" He ripped the sheets of paper out of her hands, and spun away.
She was in her mid-twenties, wearing a white lab coat, and looked more than a little startled at Sherlock's behaviour, "Um… the last of the three samples was a bit tricky…" Then she caught sight of the body on the table. "What's that?!"
Sherlock was scanning the data on the first sheet. "The source of the samples."
Greg snapped, "Sherlock, I told you before that Doctor Stamford's not keen on you conning his graduate students into helping with your work. Just not on…" He had reached the poor woman's side and took her elbow to gently steer her away from the body, back towards the door and safety.
"You're the one who wanted the answers quickly. Not my problem." He tossed the first sheet over his shoulder, letting it flutter to the floor. The flatmate bent to scoop it up and then started reading. When the second sheet was flung away, he managed to catch it before it hit the floor.
Lestrade watched the pair of them. "Well?"
Watson looked up and shrugged his shoulders, then showed Greg the sheet. It was some sort of scientific analysis but he couldn't make any sense of the chemical formulae. Annoyed, he tried again. "Sherlock?!"
"Just wait." Sherlock was now on the fourth sheet.
The man was half way down the sixth sheet when the moment that Lestrade had been waiting for finally happened.
"OH!"
Sherlock flew to the PC on the desk at the back of the mortuary, nearly knocking the pathologist over. "Sorry, sorry. She blushed furiously as she stepped out of his way to let him rush by. Sherlock was already typing something into the browser at a blistering pace before she could utter her third "sorry."
"Chair."
In response to the peremptory baritone command, Molly grabbed the chair, sliding it over and Sherlock started sitting on it while it was still in motion, keeping his eyes fixed on the page of type that came up in response to his typing.
Lestrade exchanged glances with the doctor, who shrugged.
"YES!" It was a cry of triumph.
Sherlock turned to the three of them with a smirk. "The cast iron of the eyes is made by an American company, the pig iron is made in Iran, and the sponge iron in India. The three forms of iron say it all, Lestrade. The full chemical assays are the proof I needed. This is industrial warfare between Iran, India, and the USA. This poor foot soldier is just the latest casualty."
Greg closed his eyes in frustration.
Molly said in a small voice, "I don't understand."
The flatmate said quietly, "Sherlock, a little more translation is needed. Think of it in a way that explains it to people who don't have a chemistry degree."
Eyes still closed, Greg heard Sherlock sigh.
"Lestrade, just ask one of your minions to check the delegate list of the Fourth Annual International Iron and Steel Conference, taking place at the QEII Centre in Westminster. This is one of their delegates and he works at Zagros Steel Company- Iran's largest producer of pig iron. It's just been privatised, with 49% of the government's shares being offered for sale- and some European investors are slipping in the back way, hoping the Americans won't notice. That's despite it being under US sanctions against Iran that prohibit investing in the iron and steel industry."
Greg opened his eyes in disbelief. "I don't have the faintest idea why you could get that fact out of a bunch of chemical formulae, but let's say you're right. Hard to believe it, but if you are right, then what does it mean? Any ideas about the killer?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Obvious- the murderer is going to be another delegate, most likely working at JSPL, that's short for Jindal Steel & Power- an Indian company that just happens to be the owner of the world's largest coal-based sponge iron plant. JSPL has been rated as the second highest value creator in the world by the Boston Consulting Group- a real success story. But, my guess is that he'll have had help- the eyes tell you that. Look for an American delegate as an accomplice."
The three of them needed more than a few seconds to catch up with the content of what had just been said at breakneck speed, in a single breath.
"How the hell do you get from a couple of lumps of iron to all of that?!" Greg's frustration boiled over.
Sherlock reacted with a smirk of superiority. "Follow the money. American investors are pouring money into the Bombay stock market, snapping up shares in JSPL which has just set up a big iron foundry in Oman- across the Straits of Hormuz from Iran- backed by American money. This is an American sponsored killing."
His incredulity had been stretched to its limits. Greg whispered, "if you're just making this up…"
"Chemistry doesn't lie, Lestrade. The analysis shows the processes of manufacture- and the companies' product is traceable. This body is designed to leave a message. The stomach is full of India's product, feeding the American's appetite, the mouth is being stopped by the Iran's s own iron product and the eyes are the cast iron steel- it's the American saying to Iran "I see you!" trying to bust sanctions. I'll bet photos were taken and are being secretly circulated to the European delegates to the conference as a not very subtle warning. The iron is symbolic, Lestrade." He drew breath and then concluded, rather smugly, "think of this as gang-warfare on a global scale."
"Amazing."
Lestrade looked back at the doctor who had uttered the word. "Yep, sounds crazy enough to be true. We'll go round up the suspects." He headed out the door.
Sherlock picked up the eyeball. "I think I'm going to take one as a souvenir."
"Won't Anderson throw a fit?"
"That's part of the attraction." He slipped it into his pocket.
.