Sarah Gnezere, tall, majestic and incredibly snarky in her impatient Kenyan beauty sweeps past my desk, slapping down an A4 sheet absolutely jam-packed with typescript. I have neither the time nor the inclination to read it.

"Précis it for me Saz?"

"You`re kidding me Hooper? You too important to read your own memos now?"

My eyes (I have been told) are one of my most endearing features (`Molly Hooper is a Bush Baby` is written in marker pen in the men`s toilets, or so they say …) and I look up at the statuesque beauty in her lab coat and give her winsome – from both barrels.

"I`m painfully busy with Mr Mearson`s blood work – just give me the gist of it, lovely."

She rolls her eyes, but I know I`ve won.

"Just more directives on the Cordolium Virus. Guidelines and symptoms to look out for. Mike says no cases in UK yet, but we gotta be vigilant in our line of work, huh?"

"Symptoms?"

"Yellowing eyes; swelling in lips and tongue; hectic flush, and of course a hugely enlarged heart muscle – not much to go on, but got to report any bodies looking a bit – unusual."

I shake my head. This very morning I autopsied a gentleman who was hiding a condom full of coins in his rectum, but what would I know of `unusual`?

~x~

Tuesday 10th April

10.16 am

St. Bart`s Mortuary

Well, it`s happened. We are full. If I could put up a red carpet, rope and burly doorman at the entrance of the Morgue, he would most definitely be refusing admission, since we have no drawer unoccupied – no-one else is coming in. There has been no natural disaster, no explosion nor terror attack and we still have no epidemic of any kind, but the fact remains that our morgue runneth over, and there is no room at the inn.

What is making matters ever so slightly worse is the current staff shortage. Sarah has been struck down with horrendous toothache (eating Nutella with your finger straight from the jar will one day catch up with you) and the fabulous Joanne has been seconded (stolen) by Sanderson until he`s finished his cataloguing (which will be never, judging from previous observations and deductions – oh will you just listen to me …). Mike Stamford has been called away on a family emergency (if you are going to put your Houdini-like mother in law in a home, do pick one with adequate window locks and without an open door policy) and at least two pathologists from the second floor are attending a big, fabulous wedding (to which I have not received an invitation – good. Hate weddings).

So, you can surely see my problem. Chock full with the non-living; less full of the living, working and helping type of people. Autopsies and sampling (not to mention police reports and a shocking, swaying tower-block of filing) await a skeleton staff of two – myself and an Anatomical Pathological Technologist (APT) by the name of Glen who sucks mint imperials, wears Fair Isle and develops hives when speaking to women. As Tuesdays go, this looks like being one of the best ever.

The creaking of a trolley (the blue wheeled one – always squeaks) heralds the progress of Glen along the corridor, bringing me (I consult my clipboard) Mr George Whinstead – age 63, suspected anaphylaxis from ingestion of … lentils? Unlucky. Imagine avoiding them for sixty three years, only to succumb at your daughter`s wedding? Who serves lentils at a wedding anyway? Oh dear, what has happened to me? I used to have the appropriate degree of compassion, and now I have – well, I have … less. The doors bang open, zipped body bag presenting first, but instead of a diminutive, peppermint-breathed, itchy and blotchy APT pushing the trolley, I am left almost winded and gasping, as if all the air has been sucked from the room when I see that Mr Whinstead is being attended on his final journey by another … by a six foot, lanky, dark-haired, coat swishing ex-junkie; by a breaker of promises, a user of natures that are good, a chancer and a ne`er-do-well; by a beautifully ruined genius idiot who makes my armpits prickle in the unsexiest way you can imagine –

"Sherlock Holmes, what the hell are you doing in my lab?"

~x~

How very irritating.

The voice of John Watson (in my ear, at my side, in our flat, at a crime scene, for so many years) presents itself even in his absence (baby-related activities are clearly taking a heavy toll on his assistance with the work) and as Molly Hooper and myself circle the prone corpse of George Whinstead (murdered, almost positive), his words are resonating in my head and bouncing around my cerebellum:

"This was a bad idea, Sherlock. She is still angry with you. Ambushing her in her place of work won`t win you any favours. Leave it a while longer…"

I shake my head to rid it of Imaginary-John, earning myself a sharp look from the pony-tailed woman carrying the clipboard.

"So this is you, refusing to leave then? I can have you removed, Sherlock, like a – a – "

(Tattoo? Mole? Extraneous freckle? Is that what she sees? A melanoma, needing removal?)

" – like a trespasser. This isn't your workplace, it`s mine, and I have got quite a lot of work to do and not much help to do it."

"Bad idea, Sherlock, I told you …" Shut up, Imaginary-John! Shut up!

I already know she is over-worked and has not been sleeping well. Her mother is visiting and Molly does not like the lunches she makes for her daughter every day, but she won`t tell her. Molly has been getting off the bus two (three?) stops earlier in an attempt to `be healthy` by briskly walking the remainder of the journey. She re-applies her deodorant on arrival. Molly cares what people think about her, even people she doesn't like (like Sanderson and the unpleasant letch serving on the hot counter in the canteen – come to think of it, I may need to have a few words with him …). She has taken her cat to the vets this morning and is worried about him, since he hasn't been eating …

"Sherlock, I am serious and you aren't even listening. You have to go, before Glen comes back. We need to get started on Mr Whinstead`s autopsy."

"I am 97% certain he was murdered."

She forgets about her cat and stares at me; it is not a friendly stare, and I am a little a-feared of what her expression will be when I tell her I have sent Glen home.

"Bloody brilliant move, Sherlock."

Shut up, John.

~x~