It's not so bad when I see dead bodies here and there, but when 20 of them are lined up side by side on the gravel by the waterfront I admit it - I see shadows of Afghanistan. As the onsite doctor I had to scan down the row of heads, checking carotids, pupils, rigidity. Rigor mortis tells its own story. Which is fortunate, in my case, because the corpses cannot. I did this often, in uncomfortable excess, but nonetheless it made me an expert in certain parts of medical forensics.

Which is why I am now frustrated that I'm unable to tease out the story behind these corpses. They've soaked in the water for too long, sure, but there is something else that doesn't feel right. The odd thing is that some parts of the bodies are incredibly well-preserved while the rest are already decomposing. I go over the reported story: Bodies were washed up and found ashore. Locals called the neighborhood police. More bodies kept appearing, so the case inevitably ended up in Lestrade's division. Lestrade couldn't put his finger on this. So here we are.

"Anything, doctor?" Anderson's voice. Now that's something sure to bring the dead back to life.

"Not yet, I'm afraid," not bothering to make eye contact with him as I rise from my stooped position (no point in checking these carotids and pupils). "The bodies are preserved enough to run some tests but there's nothing more I can do at this point. We need to work out the rest at St. Bart's. Where's Sherlock?"

Anderson throws a disgusted glance behind him where Sherlock is collecting some water from the estuary into vials. He raises the filled vials above his head and squints as he stirs them. I walk up to him and realize he's muttering under his breath. "... sedimentation atypical. This soil is deeper down. Bodies weren't just washed up passively by the currents nor did they all drown at the same time, but you were going to tell me that."

"In fact, I was indeed -"

"Yes yes, but you've noticed that the bodies are abnormally well-preserved to different degrees, so we're thinking either they all drowned separately on separate occasions in these waters - possible but unlikely - or someone drowned them and planted them here for us to find. Which explains the disturbance of the deeper soil layers - from when the perpetrator pushed the corpses into the ground to ensure they don't just bob away, but disturbing the sediment layers in the process. And then there's the odd stiffness of the bodies -"

"But, rigor mortis - "

"But, you ask, isn't rigor mortis a normal feature of the post-mortem body? Yes, of course you know that. But the faces are bloated, the chests expanded, and the joints too stiff, much stiffer than plain old rigor mortis. So the question is, how did they die? We know certain poisons can lock muscles in place - succinylcholine in certain people, dopamine blockers - which could've been administered intravenously before storing the bodies in water for their skin to start decomposing..."

I can only stare and wait for the ultimate conclusion - the punchline - because there is no point in trying to follow his deductions. But he abruptly stops talking and furrows his brows. Then he shakes his head and mutters, "No, there's something else." His eyes graze the horizon and land on mine. He does this sometimes, just rest his gaze somewhere while he thinks. I've learned that when you look into his eyes, he isn't necessarily really looking back at you. You just happen to be there, just to transiently hold his gaze for him, just as if you were to hold his cup of tea for a bit, or his phone, or just whatever he asks you to hold while he does something more important. I don't think it matters who takes on that role.

So I don't bother to look away. He wouldn't realize we're making eye contact anyways.

And just as suddenly as he stopped talking, he now smiles, tightens his scarf, and walks off. "Lestrade!" he gestures to the addressed, "I need one of these bodies in a bag in a cab to 221B. We're taking one home for a midnight snack."

Lestrade and Anderson share a confused look. I can't say I expected that either.

"For what?" Anderson asks.

"You're still here, Anderson?"

"Sherlock, seriously?" I catch up to him, eyeing the bodies on the gravel. "We can't store a whole body in the fridge, it's too small for that."

"John, don't be silly. Of course not."

I let out a sigh of relief.

"That's why I'll have to cut it up into smaller pieces, take out the main organs, slice up the heart - the heart often reveals the pathology - and of course there's the brain. Can't miss that." He rubs his hands together and I can't tell if I imagined him chuckling. Who am I kidding? Of course he just chuckled. "Lestrade, did you call the cab yet?"

Poor Greg is holding his phone in his hand like he doesn't know what to do with it.

"I'll call for one," I offered.

Sherlock has glided over to the row of bodies. Somebody has already handed him a body-sized bag, which he now holds in one hand, his other on his hip. I wonder if in some alternate universe where Sherlock does the groceries, if that's what he'd look like trying to pick out the freshest eggplant from the pile.

I can't get that image out of my head the entire ride back. Maybe it's a subconscious way to avoid thinking about the corpse in the back trunk that we'll soon haul up into the flat. What will Mrs. Hudson say?

And that's when I remember the robot. It's still lying there by the window, completely naked. I never had the chance to get rid of it, as Sherlock had asked. Not that I had the chance to. What has 221B come to?

"Sherlock."

"Mm?"

"You do realize we don't have much space for two extra deadweights. Not unless we leave one on the kitchen table, which I will not agree to, by the way."

"It won't be just the bodies, John. You forget the space I'll need for a thorough exploratory dissection, so I'll want a large hard surface to put the corpse on, but bigger than our kitchen table, and an enclosed space to contain the fumes."

"Where do we have this space?!"

He turns to me and, this time, actually sees me. Slowly, he leans in, close, too close. My own face looks back at me from the curvature of his cornea - I look ugly, distorted, bloated. He's smiling. "Your bedroom, of course. We'll just place a board on your bed and the corpse can lie on top of that."

"That will not do, Sherlock."

"Of course it will."

"No, it will not!" I burst out shouting. The cab driver glances at us through the rearview mirror but keeps quiet. Wise choice. He can't hear what we're saying but if one is loud enough he can. I restrain my voice. "You have to think about others, Sherlock. Where will John sleep? How will John feel about a decomposing body on his bed? In fact, maybe John should've been told about the robot too before thinking that he witnessed his friend getting shot in the head!"

"Is John done referring to himself in the third person?"

"I'm serious!" We're back on Baker St. I hand the bills to the driver and we get out, quick to remove the big black bag from the trunk. "I don't understand why we can't just bring it to St. Barts."

"Insomnia. I'm bored at night."

"So you play with the corpse at night? Fine. But what about me? I don't have insomnia. I need to sleep!"

"That's why you'll sleep in my bed. Now hold the bag, I need to open the door."

**The plot thickens and 221B is getting crowded! What does Sherlock have in mind? How will John make sense of his conflicting feelings about the case and Sherlock's approach? And what will happen to the broken robot still lying there in the living room? Stay tuned for the next installment of "The New Tenant at 221B"!**