"What the hell is this?"
Sherlock's tiny wife looked up from the naked, bloated body she had been working on the operating table at the center of the gallery. Her smock was covered with blood and other fluids.
"It is an examination," she said simply.
His lips pulled tightly. He glowered sideways at Lestrade.
"Do not look at me!" the Chief exclaimed, "I meant to have you come take a look at this but you were not at home. Mrs. Holmes-"
Sherlock cleared his throat. "Doctor!"
"Excuse me, Dr. Holmes insisted on dissecting the corpse."
Sherlock stomped into the room with John at his back. His anger tempered slightly with Molly's disapproving glower. He coughed.
"But it is not just any corpse, is it?"
His wife's indignant expression faltered. A glimmer of fear rippled underneath her skin. He leaned closer and gazed into her rounded eyes.
"Why did you not wait for me?" he asked softly. "This could have been postponed until I returned."
She chewed her lip. "When the Chief told me who they thought they found, I-I had to see for myself."
Sherlock looked down at the decomposing man retrieved from the Fraser. Despite his grotesque, rotting appearance, what was left of his face was recognizable.
"Thomas Woodley."
He glanced back up. Molly dipped her head.
"Y-Yes, his death was made to look like a suicide."
"'Made to look'?" Sherlock repeated.
Molly reached a gloved hand for something on the table. She shook it out and raised it for everyone to see. Pinched between her fingers was the corner of a creased photo they had all seen before. It was the very same image of Sherlock that had been used to lure her from England. Only this time, someone had scrawled the words, 'You owe me' across his face.
Molly's voice quavered. "I found this . . . in his stomach."