If you recognize it, then I probably don't own it
Chapter 3
"Who's on forensics?" Sherlock asked, as soon as he strode into the house.
"Dr. Wyver, the forensic anthropologist." Lestrade said, blocking Sherlock from brushing past him, "You can't go up without coveralls."
Sherlock wrinkled his nose, in disgust. "No."
"Yes," Lestrade implored, "Dr. Wyver doesn't want any cross contamination."
Sherlock looked at Lestrade for the first time this day, Lestrade's normal clothes were obscured in the bloody plastic coverall. His plastic covered his arm was out in front of Sherlock, a physical barrier between Sherlock and the crime scene. Never before had anyone law enforcement officer imposed this much structure on the consulting detective. Though he'd never met the forensic anthropologist before. So the learning curve needed to be established.
"A particularly bloody crime scene, then?" He asked.
"It's not bloody, but there's a lot there, you'll see when you put the coveralls on." Lestrade handed Sherlock the coveralls. "Even the shoe covers, Sherlock. Dr. Wyver is very particular."
…
The last thing Sherlock expected to see in a crime scene was his flatmate. She was standing next to an older bald man with a clipboard, both in St. Barts Medico-Legal Lab jumpsuits.
"What are you doing here?" Sherlock demanded before he could stop himself.
"That's the new forensic anthologist intern; Victoria." Lestrade explained, "And the man next to her is Dr. Bill Wyver, behave around them. He's the best forensic anthropologist in this country."
"What are they doing here?" Sherlock demanded again.
"Deduce for yourself." Lestrade said.
Sherlock looked around the room: the skeleton was old and yellowed, partially concealed in rotten flesh, flies and maggots clung to it. No wonder why Dr. Wyver wanted to have bodies covered. This would be a forensics heavy investigation and if there was even one drop of dirt from Baker Street a murderer might go free. The wall next to the skeleton was covered in mold, and looked wet. The carpet was shag, and there might be some trace evidence. The furniture was uncovered, it was new and modern, like someone had just moved in.
Sherlock turned to Lestrade, "A recently acquired owner, in the tech industry, doing construction for an open concept flat, didn't know someone was murdered and buried in the walls."
"Yes, we know that." Lestrade agreed, "Anything on the skeleton."
Sherlock narrowed his eyes, he'd just started deducing when he was interrupted.
"Detective Lestrade," Rory said, "We're going to need to take everything to St. Barts."
"Everything?" Lestrade's brow furrowed.
"Yes, the wall that was banged through, the carpet, the furniture—" Rory started.
"The furniture?"
"We've already swabbed for bone dust, but we need to make sure no fragments got stuck in the fabric when the wall was demolished. We still don't have time of death, or an identification, if there was hair in the walls that's now on the couch… then we're out DNA." Dr. Wyver stated looking up from the clipboard. "I've already notified St. Barts and they're sending the team out."
"What have you got so far?" Lestrade asked.
"Well, Miss Braugher?" Dr. Wyver asked.
"Male, based on intact genitalia and pelvis. Caucasian based on brow ridge, and nose socket, but marrow tests will be done to confirm, and in his late twenties to early thirties.. A lot of childhood injuries on the shoulders, based on remodeling and scar tissue, athlete probably…maybe rowing?" She looked at Dr. Wyver who nodded, "And he either had scoliosis or, more likely, his back was broken in three places pre-mortem based on staining."
"Very good, Miss Braugher, go and swab the wall grate next to our victim, please, maybe we'll get lucky and the killer left his business card." Dr. Wyver said and then turned to Lestrade.
"It doesn't look good, Greg. It's been too long, the bottom half was preserved by insulation, but the top half… I don't know how many generations of flies and maggots there have been. Hopefully, our victim is had his fingerprints taken at one point or another."
Lestrade nodded, "Understood, Bill. This is Sherlock Holmes, he consults for us from time to time. Sherlock, this is Dr. Bill Wyver."
"Why does Scotland Yard need to consult on this case?" Dr. Wyver asked, "Surely, you have faith in me and my intern?"
"Yes, we do, but the nature of this case… we want all the help we can get."
"And what exactly do you consult on, Mr. Holmes?" Dr. Wyver addressed Sherlock for the first time.
...
"The Prosecution calls Forensic Scientist: Victoria Braugher to the stand." The barrister said. His white ruffled wig perched on his shinny bald head. Behind the thick wooden stand he didn't look intimidating, but the boom of his voice echoed across the crowded court room.
Rory stood up from the seat by Anderson and walked to the stand. As she had promised she was dressed modestly; wearing a cream button down blouse, blue trousers, and suede penny loafers. Her jewelry was modest too, just a delicate layered necklace. Anderson had been impressed with her court appropriate attire, he'd even said so.
"Rory," he'd said proudly when he saw her, "I've never seen you look so appropriate!"
But now walking up the aisle to take the stand, she wished she were in her old clothes. Clothes she felt comfortable in. She took her seat, swore the oath, and waited for the defense to start.
"Miss Braugher what is your role in this case." Mr. Worthington the defense's barrister started.
"I'm the assistant forensic anthropologist." She stated clearly.
"Not, your title." Mr. Worthington pulled at his wig. "What did you, specifically, do within this case?"
"I assisted the forensic anthropologist in the identification, skeletal restructuring, and murder weapon identification."
"But you're not the forensic anthropologist?" Mr. Worthington asked.
"Objection, relevance?" The Defense Barrister, Mr. Brimble directed at the judge.
"Let me rephrase." Mr. Worthington offered, when the judge nodded he continued. "Miss Braugher, you are a student?"
"Yes." She said. She desperately wanted to shake her leg, but doing that would indicate worry or anxiety. And the courtroom managers told her not to show any nervousness.
"But you were instrumental in the identification of the murder weapon?" Mr. Worthington asked.
"Yes." Rory supplied again. She wished she could elaborate, but the courtroom managers told her to only answer the questions she was asked, not more.
"And how did you do that?"
"Mr. Prevale," she indicated the indicted man sitting on the defense side, "attempted to burn the manufactures receipt for the weapon used. The receipt wasn't brunt and its particulates were still in his fireplace. Using various light refractions I was able to identify the shop he bought the murder weapon, as well as the specific style of hammer it was. The hammer in question was found at the crime scene where Dr. Wyver was able to test blood."
"And how do you know the blood belonged to the victim?"
"Blood spray pattern and DNA."
"Please elaborate." Mr. Worthington asked.
"When Mr. Prevale struck his wife, he hit her in such a way that the blood was only on the nose of the hammer. DNA from her hair was stuck in the handle of the hammer, compared to the marrow DNA I extracted. It was 99% positive."
"Meaning?"
"There is a 99% chance that Mrs. Prevale is the skeleton Sanitation found in sewers." She concluded.
…
"Oh man, that was a rush!" Rory told Anderson as they left the courthouse.
"What you mean?" He asked.
"One minute I wanted to throw up, the next minute was just pure science!" She concluded. "Coffee's? On me?"
"Oh, absolutely."
…
The lights flickered once, as the wind blew furiously though London. Hail the size tennis balls smashed cars below, rain fell at an angle, thunder crashed, and almost a second later lightening would strike. Frost painted the windows of every building and car. Even the air in the flat was cold, with Sherlock and Rory's breath visible every time they exhaled. It had been raining all day, and it didn't look like it would let up anytime soon.
"Are you sure the heat is on full blast?" Rory asked Sherlock again. She was wrapped in her comforter, sitting in John's chair.
"Yes." He said, he was hunched over his lap in his pajamas.
"This isn't one of your experiments? Or bullshit claims that the cold makes your brain function better?" she wrapped her blanket tighter around herself, unable to stop herself from shivering.
"Cold does help my brain function better." Sherlock replied, not looking up from his laptop. "But I am not working right now. So I turned on."
"What are you doing?" She asked, pushing some of her hair behind her ear. "If you're not working."
"Doesn't matter." He said, not removing his eyes from the screen.
The lights flickered once more.
"Whatever, I'm texting Mycroft that you're watching porn so he'll give us money to fix the heating." Rory said, reaching onto the coffee table for her phone.
"I am not watching porn." Sherlock said, "If you must know I am researching the history of the building the half skeleton was found in."
She shrugged, "That's not as catchy."
There was a flash of lighting, and a beep from Rory's phone.
"That Mycroft?"
"Yeah." Rory answered, then looked up and smiled, "He wants to know what kind."
"What kind of what?" Sherlock asked, his fingers flying on the keyboard.
Another peal of thunder, followed by lightening, and the sound of rain and hail crashing against the window.
"Porn! Sherlock keep up."
Sherlock stopped typing, and looked up at his roommate who was grinning wildly at him.
"So what are you into? Men or women?" She raised her eyebrow, a mischievous grin on her face
"That hardly matters." he frowned.
"So I can tell him whatever I want?" Rory licked her lips, in an effort to stop smiling. It didn't work.
"No." Sherlock said brusquely.
"So what are you into?" She giggled, "Are you kinky, Sherlock?"
"No." He said, clearly bored.
"So… you don't have a preference, and you're not kinky?" she clarified.
"I hardly see why that matters. Sex slows down my cognition and deductive reasoning skills. It has no bearing on my life, nor should it. I don't need sex to function." Sherlock said, returning to his laptop.
Rory licked her lips, "Sherlock, are you a virgin?"
"Virginity is merely a social construct."
Rory rolled her eyes, "Fine then. Have you partaken in the social ritual of having sex?"
Sherlock was still, "No."
"Have you ever wanted to?"
It was Sherlock's turn to roll his eyes, "It doesn't matter if I am interested in having sex. It slows down the regular person's ability to function on a normal basis. How do you think it would impact me? I am not the same as a regular man. I am smarter."
"Are you scared?"
"Sex doesn't alarm me." Sherlock said.
"How do you know?"
"It's simply masturbation with someone else." Sherlock locked eyes with Rory, "Why would I spend time working on someone else, when I know what to do for myself."
"Dirty boy," Rory chided with a giggle.
"Whatever you tell Mycroft at least be creative." He said dismissively turning back to his laptop once more.
The lights turned off as a roar of thunder shook the flat.
They waited in silence, for the lights to turn back on. When the room flickered back to lit, Rory let out a breath. The consulting detective turned to his flatmate, he watched as her shoulders lowered and her forehead smoothed.
"Tell Mycroft what?" She asked Sherlock.
"About my particular taste in pornography." Sherlock reminded as he watched Rory take a deep inhale with her nose, hold it for several seconds, and release through her mouth.
"Oh, yeah. That." She turned back to her phone. "What'cha think about dominatrix? Does that seem plausible?"
Something fluttered in the back of Sherlock's palace. Irene Adler. The dominatrix. The one from a few years ago. No, dominatrix did not seem plausible.
"Are you afraid of thunder and lightning, Rory?" Sherlock asked.
"No." she said, as thunder shook the flat and lightning flashed outside.
"Then why are you so anxious?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her.
"I'm not."
"They why are you doing a mindfulness breathing technique?"
"What do you know about mindfulness?"
"I have a lot of information stored in my mind palace." The lights flicked off.
"Good for you." She looked up at the lights.
Sherlock pressed his hands against his lips in the prayer position. "What did you say to Mycroft?"
"I told him you told me you were cold and he needed to fix the heat." She admitted. "He said he would send someone."
Sherlock closed his laptop. Unable to work with the power out, and the wifi gone with it.
He cross one leg over the other, "How long have you been afraid of the dark?"
She scoffed, "I'm not—I'm not afraid of the dark!"
Rory got to her feet, hitching her comforter above her feet so she could storm off.
…
"Sherlock?" Rory whispered in his ear, "Sherlock? Are you awake?"
"I am now," he growled.
"Well, scoot over." Rory ordered, crawling into the bed with Sherlock as he scooted to the other side. "You're right. I am scared of the dark."
Sherlock dragged his hands over his face. "So why are in my bed?"
"I don't want to be alone in the dark, okay?" She cuddled up to him, "It's cold. There are no lights anywhere in London. I just—can I sleep here tonight?"
"What does it being cold have anything to do with you sleeping in my bed?"
"Biologically speaking, the best way to stave off hypothermia isn't layers. It's shared body heat. So why don't we kill two birds with one stone?"
"The best way to conduct heat is through fiction." Sherlock corrected.
"So let's fuck." Rory said her lips dangerously close to Sherlock's ear. He could her even breathing as she curled up into him.
"I wasn't—I wasn't suggesting we engage in coitus."
"I know what you were suggesting."
…
"The blanket keeps slipping." Rory complained as she moved on top of Sherlock.
She stopped moving on top him to readjust the blanket on her shoulders. The sweat that had gathered on her collarbone, neck, and stomach went frigid every time the blanket slipped off her shoulders.
Sherlock was breathing heavy, his head had never felt emptier (in the way cocaine had never been able to), his hands on her hips as she straddled him. His Adams apple bobbed as he swallowed his gasp.
"Don't stop," he growled.
"I need you to get on top." She brushed her hair from one side to the other. "I can't keep going with the stupid blanket slipping."
"I don't—I don't—" Sherlock sputtered his brain trying to catch up.
"It'll be fine. I'll teach you."
Rory detached herself from Sherlock, and helped him enter her as they switched positions.
"Put your hands on either side of the mattress, and move your hips. If it's wrong I'll let you know."
Sherlock swallowed, as he moved in and out of Rory.
She let out a breathy whine, and he stilled.
"Keep going." She encouraged, and moved her hips to a new angle.
Sherlock moved his hips again, slower, careful not to put too much of his weight on her. Rory responded by moving with him, and moving her hands to his hips to encourage him to go faster.
They got a steady rhythm with Sherlock on top. With Rory's vocal and physical encouragement Sherlock came, and for the first time since he got sober; he felt euphoria.
…
When he woke in the morning she was gone. From his bed, from his room. The only evidence that she had slept in his room was the rumpled sheets that held her scent.
He got out of bed, and tried to remember when the last time he felt the way he did last night. When he was high, sure. But what about the last time he wasn't high. He couldn't remember. He wanted to try it again…if he would have the same reaction.
He walked out of his room to find her in John's chair highlighting her textbook.
"Power's back on," she said without looking up. "There's still hot water in the kettle, if you want to make some tea for yourself."
…
this story will have around 2 more chapters and be finished. Enjoy this chapter