Greg Lestrade watched his men examine the backyard, sifting through piles of dirt and uprooted plants. A few them dug around with spades, stopping every now and then to shake their heads at him.
"It's been smelling weird for a few days." Nicholas informed him, wrapping his hands around a cup of tea. "At first I thought a cat had crawled in and died, but with everything strange that's been happening, I thought it might be a good idea to tell you."
"Did the gardener notice anything?"
"No. I sent him off the day she died, then packed up and went to my brother's for a bit. I couldn't…"
Lestrade nodded in understanding. One of his men poked at a patch with his spade, raised his eyebrows and called the others over. Nicholas and Lestrade stepped closer to watch them dig. The stench intensified, and Lestrade was tempted to cover his nose with his shirt. To his horror, he could now see a human hand poking out of the dirt. Slowly, painfully, they unearthed an arm, a torso, a leg, a face, until an entire dead body could be hoisted out of the dirt and laid out on level ground.
Nicholas gave a low groan of horror and stepped away. His grip on the cup loosened, and it fell to the ground. Hot tea scalded Lestrade's shoes as he caught Nicholas before he could fall, mouth open in a silent scream.
The decomposing body was unmistakably Nicholas' daughter.
"Dear God." John muttered, bending over the stretcher. "This has to stop. They'll be sending fingers in the mail next."
"That could be a substantial lead." Sherlock commented.
"No, that would be horrifying." John said. "Okay - she's been dead for about a week. Buried for, I'd say, not more than four days."
"So she was buried before the break-in. Lestrade, where was her body stored?"
"St Bart's morgue."
"And Nicholas hasn't started planning the funeral yet?"
"No, he hasn't."
Sherlock nodded curtly and turned around, grabbing John's arm and leading him to the gate. They hailed a cab, and Sherlock quickly directed the cabbie to St Bart's.
"We're going to visit the morgue." he said under his breath.
"Why?"
"They can't just wheel a body out of the hospital, John. A morgue employee would have to sign some forms first, one copy of which would be kept in the morgue. In all probability, the forms would've been destroyed by now, but it's worth a chance. It's quite late, nobody will be there. We'll just nip in and snoop around."
"You could ask Lestrade to look into that officially."
"It'll take too long. If we don't find anything today, that's what I'll do. Come along. Be quick, and don't make too much noise."
They got out of the cab, Sherlock barely stopping to pay the driver, and shot off at a brisk walk through the solemn corridors of St Bart's. To Sherlock's relief, the morgue wing was practically deserted. The stark white light cast eerie shadows on the walls, and although dead bodies didn't bother them by day, there was something distinctly unnerving about being so close to them now. Sherlock and John paused at the door to the morgue.
"I thought I heard something." John whispered. "Did you?"
"Yes. Don't worry about it. If we get caught, I'll find an excuse."
"Like what?" John asked, stooping to pick the lock.
"There's a supply closet five paces down this hall."
"You know...it's weird joking about stuff like that now that we're actually a couple."
Sherlock leaned down to whisper in his ear, lips ghosting past his earlobe. "Who says I'm joking? If you can pick that lock quickly enough…"
John nearly dropped his pin. Fortunately for him, the lock clicked open and they pushed through the door. He switched on the light, and Sherlock's gaze settled on a chest of drawers.
"Arranged by date, but not alphabetically."
"We haven't even opened it yet."
Sherlock just shrugged, and they started sifting through the piles of forms from a few days ago.
"Why don't you just ask Molly for help?" John asked.
"It would feel immoral, after everything that happened."
"Since when do you care about morality?"
Sherlock bit his lip. "I don't. But I've put her through enough, don't you think?"
"Again, love, that wasn't your fault. It was Eurus."
"I know. It's just - I thought I really didn't have a choice. And then Molly made me say it right in front of you, and that was even worse, and I -"
Sherlock paused, and John turned to face him, cocking an eyebrow questioningly. Sherlock took a deep breath and started again.
"The first time that I said it...I wanted it to be real. And I wanted it to be you."
He made eye contact with John for a moment, then quickly looked away, fumbling through the forms. You've said too much, his brain said, but then John wrapped his arms around his waist and kissed the back of his neck, and he relaxed again.
"Is that the only part of me you can reach without standing on tiptoe?" he asked.
"I love you too, you stupid git." John said, releasing him and turning back to the forms. They sorted in silence for a while, but it was boring work, and it wasn't long before John spoke again.
"Molly wasn't too surprised when I told her about us. I mean, Lestrade told her a few hours before I did, but I didn't expect her to be so...together. She was very mature about it."
"Yes, she's always known how I feel about you."
"How?"
"I accidentally showed her a picture of the Vitruvian Man with your face stuck on it."
"The Vitruvian Man...the Ideal Man." John smiled. "You really are something else. Okay, I'm tired of this - they clearly destroyed the form. Shall we leave?"
"No, I've got it." Sherlock said quietly.
John peered at the form, skimming over the customary details - name, date of discharge, cause of death...everything was consistent with what they'd found so far.
At the bottom of the form was the unmistakable scrawl of Molly Hooper.
Their heads whipped up at the sound of footsteps. John made to hide, but Sherlock grabbed his arm to stop him, mouth set in a firm line. John looked at him questioningly, but he just put a finger to his lips, eyes fixed on the door. The footsteps paused for a moment, then picked up speed, and Molly ran in. When she caught sight of them, her face paled.
"I locked this room. What are you two doing here?"
"What are you doing here?"
"I work here."
"What is this, Molly?" Sherlock asked, holding up the form.
Molly took it from him, speechless. "It can't be. I destroyed this."
"Then clearly someone took a copy and planted it here for our benefit. Why did you sign this sheet?"
"That's not my signature." she said, but Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"Molly, don't lie, you are mediocre at it." he said. "This is your signature, and when you signed this, you knew full well the body wasn't going to a funeral home."
Her lip trembled, and she took a deep breath. "It's no use, is it? You're going to squeeze it out of me anyway."
"Yes, so could you cut to the chase and save us some time?" Sherlock asked coldly.
She turned to John. "Do you remember dropping Rosie off at my house a few days ago?"
"Yes."
"So - it was midnight, and I couldn't sleep. The doorbell rang. Rosie was asleep, so I left her alone in my bedroom for a moment, just to go answer the door. When I came back, she wasn't there anymore."
John grabbed the countertop for support and took deep, steadying breaths. "You - you lost my daughter?"
Molly looked aghast. "I'm sorry, John. I left her alone for a minute. There was nobody at the door, so I looked around a little. When I came back, I thought she had just woken up and wandered off. I searched the entire house, but I couldn't find her. What I did find was a note, telling me to go to the morgue if I wanted to find her, and tell nobody."
Sherlock threw his hands up in exasperation. "'Tell nobody' means tell Sherlock Holmes! Always tell Sherlock Holmes! When will people understand this?"
"So you went to the morgue." John prompted.
"So I went to the morgue, but everything was dark and silent, until these two men stepped out of the shadows. I couldn't even see their faces - it was too dark and they were covered. Both of them were armed, and one of them had Rosie. They'd drugged her."
"They drugged my daughter? Why, those little -"
"Hush, John." Sherlock said, then turned to Molly. "I assume they asked you to sign those forms and release the body in exchange for Rosie."
"Yes." she said. "They held a gun to her head - and mine - and made me sign them. I'm sorry. There was nothing else I could do. It was a choice between a stranger's dead body and Rosie's life. The same way you had to choose between a false love confession and my life. I'm sorry I blamed you for that. You were right. There's really no choice there."
They stood in silence, Molly looking at them pleadingly, Sherlock staring at John, John staring at the form. John finally broke the silence, and he sounded surprisingly calm when he spoke.
"Look, Molly, while I understand that this put you in a difficult position...you should've told us. This involved my daughter getting kidnapped and drugged. You saw me two days after this. How could you not tell me?"
"They told me not to." Molly said in a small voice. "I'm not like you two. I'm not used to dealing with a situation like this. I really am sorry."
"Just promise me you'll tell us in the future." John said.
"I will."
Sherlock asked her a few customary questions about the time of the kidnapping, what the men looked like and other such details, and then they both turned to go, leaving Molly to lock up. John stumbled along, not really paying attention to anything in his path. The warm feeling from a few minutes ago had fled, leaving only a cold, dull sense of fear in its wake. When they stepped out into the moonlight, he grabbed Sherlock's arm and turned him around.
"We have to stop this." he said. "Anything could've happened to Rosie. Please, tell me you know what to do, because I'm out of my depth here."
Sherlock just nodded curtly, shook off John's hand and hailed a cab. The ride back home was eerily silent. Sherlock simply ignored John's attempts at conversation, not even looking at him, gaze fixed on the window. When they pulled up at Baker Street, he stormed out and was halfway up the stairs by the time John had paid the cabbie. John made towards Mrs Hudson's room to pick up Rosie, but Sherlock called to him from the stairs.
"Stop." he said. "Just come upstairs. I need to talk to you alone."
John was starting to get distinctly worried now. This was typical post-case Sherlock behaviour, but there was something unnaturally hard in his voice. He followed Sherlock into their flat, and was positive he saw him square his shoulders before he turned around.
"You and Rosie need to leave." he said tonelessly, his face a mask.
"Wha - why?"
"You can't stay here anymore."
"Sherlock." John's head was spinning. "Sherlock, wait. Did I do something wrong?"
"Please leave."
I should've seen this coming, John thought. Was I really naive enough to believe that I meant this much to Sherlock Holmes?
"Well, where the hell do you expect me to go? I've already sold my house."
"Go to Harry's for the night and come back to take your things tomorrow. I'll be out. I'm sure Mrs Hudson can somehow adjust this month's rent."
"So - what about us? Everything that we've been through, and the last three weeks...does all of that mean nothing to you?"
For a brisk moment, something flitted across Sherlock's face. Pain. "It means the world to me, John, which is why I need you to leave. Get away from Baker Street and far, far away from me, do you understand?"
"No." John said stoutly, "I don't understand. You - you can't just tell me to leave. We're a couple! We stay, we talk!"
"Well, I'm a lousy boyfriend." he said, then turned on his heel and stalked off to his room. John followed him, determined not to leave without finding out why.
"No, you're not! Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes! Come back here. Don't you dare slam the door in my face!"
"Oh, for God's sake!" Sherlock said, turning around in the doorway and drawing himself up to his full height. "Will you stop following me around like some sort of half-witted dog?"
He regretted the words as soon as he said them, but they had the desired effect. John flinched and stepped back, and Sherlock was tempted to reach out and apologize, but he had to hold his ground. He couldn't give in to emotions right now.
"John, I've made a terrible mistake. Mycroft was right. Caring is not an advantage." he said monotonically. John wouldn't fall for it, but it was the only thing he could think of.
"No. Jesus." John ran a hand through his hair, frustrated, letting some of the anger and hurt slip into his voice. "I know you, and I know you don't think that's true, not one bit. Just - tell me what I did, and I'll fix it, I swear."
Sherlock had expected him to storm out in a temper, not to stay and fight for him. For a moment, his resolve weakened, and he wondered if he could really give up the best thing that had ever happened to him. But then he thought of Rosie, drugged and kidnapped, and John in a hospital room with a scar on his forehead, and swallowed.
I wonder if hearts make a sound when they break, he thought. I suppose I'm about to find out.
So he did the only logical thing: he turned around, slammed the door, and locked himself inside his room.