He`s not high, at least.
John Watson has called by on several errands and always goes out of his way to mention how Sherlock is `off the sauce` and how `focused` he is on his work. This certainly seems true as I see him positively vibrating in his desire to examine the body and (probably) prove just how right he is. Again. He looks tired and drawn I notice, as I pretend not to look, and pretend to hate him. Dark circles beneath those eyes, which themselves aren't as bright and pervasive as usual, and those cheekbones are waxen, pale and too close to the surface.
"You need to get down with the nutrition now John has left, Sherlock. You`ll waste away like one of those Victorian heroines on your chaise longue."
I cannot keep the snark out of my voice, and it cheapens my words, making them spiteful and childish. I am spiteful and childish. And embarrassed.
But he doesn't appear to hear me and is holding the wrist of a dead man – my dead man, actually.
"Look, lividity around here – " he points. " – and here. Ligatures. I believe – " clear eyes look up and lock onto mine and my treacherous heart decides it will leap in my chest " – that Mr Whinstead was restrained at his daughter`s wedding venue and force fed the lentils or pulses that induced anaphylaxis. His Epipen was found on his person, untouched."
"Why would someone do that?"
He is running his fingers along the hairline and behind the ears of the body and I suddenly see the faint scarring of a facelift and botox needle marks.
"Wealthy man, younger wife, new lover – turgid and predictable, but a tale as old as time." He zips the bag and takes out his mobile, immediately and rapidly texting with long, white fingers. Suddenly, Sherlock Holmes finishes, snaps shut his phone and sexually assaults me with his eyes again, this time with a sudden smile for added reverberations.
"I must thank you for allowing me this access, Molly Hooper."
"You didn't really leave me much choice. You just kind of swoop in and – have your way with – everything …" I put the clipboard down, since all the fight seems to have gone out of me and I`m just a wee bit tired. This sparring; this cold shouldering – it`s just exhausting and as I look up at him again, I see an uncertain look pass across his face and I know he feels the weight of it too.
"It – it`s ok, Sherlock. I`m ok now. I`m not angry with you now. Not anymore."
He inclines his head, as if assessing a rare type of lichen on the north-facing side of a yew tree (I speak from experience here) and appears to make some kind of decision before speaking.
"Molly, please listen before making any erroneous choices which you will undoubtedly later regret – would you like my assistance in the lab today? I have no other cases and am avoiding visitations by small infants and broody landladies. You will appreciate that I never offer to do anything unless I absolutely wish to do it."
~x~
As I snap on latex gloves and prepare to assume some serious penance in assisting Molly Hooper for the day (Lestrade and his decapitated art dealer can just wait, as can Mycroft`s Cabinet leak) I give a little inward smirk in the general direction of Imaginary-John Watson:
"See, I knew it would work. Ye of little faith, John Watson - shame on you for your lack of belief in my methods and application of them."
Annoyingly, Imaginary-John seems fated to have the last word once more:
"You aren't out of the woods yet, mate. Don't count your chickens, and always remember that a stitch in time saves nine."
Damn him, and damn that he knows how much I loathe euphemistic mixed metaphors with an almost murderous passion.
~x~
Tuesday 10th April
4.45pm
St. Bart`s Mortuary
It was less than twenty minutes into the first episode of `Autopsies With Detectives` that I was rather disgruntled to realise that Sherlock Holmes would have made a bloody good pathologist. I insisted on doing the incisions (and decisions!) myself, but I could see he was almost as deft and sure as any medic or even surgeon I had ever worked alongside. His chemistry was also aggravatingly adept and extremely intuitive. He was a natural.
"These slides, Molly – I have arranged them in order of speed of reaction to aid analysis – I do hope that is satisfactory."
"Molly, I have taken the liberty of re-calibrating the main centrifuge. Whoever used it last (I am surmising it was Sanderson judging by the ham-fisted, simian-style adjustments) did not allow for the increase in water pressure when the machine is full. Idiot."
"I have completed the skin samples and drafted my findings. I assume you would care to write them up yourself. If not, I have no issue in transcribing them."
After several hours of this almost surreal behaviour, I decide that Sherlock Holmes and I need to have a little chat. I consider shutting myself in the stock cupboard whilst I do it, so he can`t affect my focus with the sheer power of his eyes and cheekbones, but reject this notion due to the theories he would undoubtedly postulate to explain my behaviour. For whatever bizarre reason, this day I am the boss of Sherlock, and I need to retain that higher power for as long as possible. I simply cannot run the risk of applying extra lipstick and running out for his coffee – old habits can sometimes die hard.
"Sherlock, can you tell me what is going on here?"
"You are suturing a chest cavity with adequate skill and precision. I am making notes and about to fetch us coffee – "
"Stop it."
"I don't understand. Is my note-making inadequate? Or do you fear my lack of skill in coffee-brewing?"
I cut the final stitch and pull off my gloves, throwing them into the pedal bin.
"I really do appreciate your help, Sherlock. We have made excellent progress today – more than I could have hoped to have made with Glen, or with anyone really. It – it just isn't – usual."
"Usual?"
"You don't do this kind of thing. Giving up your time in such a – a selfless manner," I stumble, since his wide-eyed innocence has given way to a more familiar smirk.
"Are you hinting I am selfish, Molly Hooper?"
"We – ell … it wouldn't be beyond the realms of my experience anyway …" The smirk widens.
"You are suspicious of my motives? You think I will require a quid pro quo?"
"Has been known, Sherlock …"
"Isn`t it obvious, Molly?"
My face is suddenly and mortifyingly aflame – it is burning, I can`t even tell you –
"Well – "
He steps forward and I feel the air displace around me and a tremor start in my left knee (how can you smell like that in a place like this – how is it allowed?)
"I`m saying sorry, Molly Hooper." He is looking down at me and I am close enough to see a purple thread poking out from the third button down on his shirt – he should really get onto that. "You trusted me and I let you down. I did not like it when you stopped being my friend. I did not care for the withdrawal of – you."
A tap drips and the refrigeration unit hums into the silence of the afternoon and the highly charged ions bashing around this moment in time. My heart hammers (traitor) in my ears and he fills up the light above my head and it feels like we are the only ones left alive in a post-apocalyptic world (which, in a way, we are).
"Sherlock – "
And the shrill squeal of the internal phone rents the air like a thousand birds rising from a lake, and he starts harshly, like I`ve slapped him all over again.
~x~
A/N: Thank you to all who are following/have favourite and taken the time to review - it is always great to hear what people think. :)
Guest: I loved the points you made about use of language - it was really helpful to read and I do appreciate your observations (always trying to get better!)
More to come (what was that phone call about? Clue: a bit not good.)