The deductions in this chapter wouldn't be half as realistic without the rigid logic of my betas: Thank you, Snog and Science, thank you! Thanks for holding my hand, and telling me when something needs to be sacrificed, and helping me remember what direction I'm trying to go in. This chapter got away with me, too: it's quite long. As a reward, I am posting it with some lovely genie!Sherlock art by the talented MildredandBobbin. Go to my AO3 account to view the art (at the bottom).
Chapter 8: Sherlock Discovers a Niche (in the Morgue)
Barts is no more than a kilometer away. They walk companionably, John only leaning lightly on his cane, musing on how glad he is that they got off relatively lightly with Harry. Promising to go to a fancy dress night, though - he can't imagine what possessed him. Well. Actually, he can. He glances sideways at his companion, who is hungrily scrutinizing all the people and places that they pass. His eyes shine, his bearing is vibrant, and John feels somehow smug that he's able to give Sherlock this opportunity. He looks around with new eyes, himself, enjoying the life and the colors, all the movement and urgency a city of 13 million people has to offer.
The day would be gorgeous, but for the biting cold: unusually sunny for London in January, with a blue, blue sky. John has to keep pulling a tissue out of his pocket to wipe his nose, and his eyes water in the sharp air. Sherlock seems unaffected, perhaps because he is snuggled in his glamorous coat. John looks at it longingly out of the corner of his eye. His treacherous brain spins out a fantasy, in which Sherlock would suddenly turn around, grab him by the shoulders, and pluck him from the stream of humanity pounding the pavement. He'd hold John snug under his chin; pull him forcibly into the warmth within the wings of his coat, until only his eyes were free. John can almost feel the heat. Can almost smell the humid air within, redolent of skin and wool, coffee from his breath, and the faint residue of tobacco and incense that he'd come to associate with Sherlock.
He thought of tilting up his head, feeling the cool sharp line of Sherlock's jaw graze his temple. Sherlock looking down now, hands shifting under the warm coat, burrowing closer to John's skin; tight, perhaps, against his vest, hot palms and cold fingertips, spanning the width of his back across his shoulder blades. Sherlock would bend down a little more, rounding the spine John's hands were sculpting, and sultry breath would ghost across jaw and ear.
It would only take a minute turn of his head, and they would be mouth to mouth. Sherlock had nothing so vulgar as chapped lips, so they would be smooth against John's rough; warm, and mobile. With the barest twitch of muscle, a press of lips could become a kiss, undemanding, but not gentle. Focused and determined. John would rise to the balls of his feet, guided by Sherlock's hands on his back. Dragging up the front of Sherlock's body as he moved, the friction of their mouths creating the only hot point in the biting cold.
John's ears flush, and he comes abruptly back to himself at the crosswalk light across from Barts.
Sherlock gives him a sidelong lovat stare and raises an eyebrow. "Is that your wish?"
"Uh," inelegantly. "What?"
"Is that your wish? You've been wishing, inside your head. You're very easy to read, you know. You wish I would kiss you, perhaps warm you up at the same time." He quirks the corner of his mouth, expression a mixture of seduction and caustic tease. "I'm certain I can do both. But is that your wish? You have to be explicit."
"What? Christ. I-" John isn't cold anymore, seared instead by sudden mortification. He tightens his grip on his cane, balls his fist in his pocket and curls his toes, desperately waiting for the pedestrian signal to flash green. "No. No. I wasn't- What makes you think-. God. No. Fuck." He keeps his eyes on his feet, but can feel Sherlock's assessing gaze and knowing smirk.
The light changes, at last!, and John charges ahead, barely leaning on his cane at all, while Sherlock saunters in his wake. John doesn't look at him again until they are in the elevator heading for Mike's office.
"Mike is the guy who made me buy the lamp," he explains awkwardly.
"Yes, I was aware," Sherlock says simply. "I watched you buy it. An overweight man, known you since secondary school, getting a gift to celebrate 12 years with his wife." John shakes his head. Little bits of evidence are piling up to support the entirely improbable conclusion that Sherlock is exactly what he claims to be. The idea that a lunatic magician was lurking in the shadows of an antique shop, listening in on Mike and him, is almost as ludicrous as believing in genies. John shoves all these thoughts to the back of his mind.
"That's him," John agrees. "I thought we might say hello."
The wind up trailing Mike all over the hospital. They settle briefly in his lab, where he's setting up some grad students with PCR experiments. He explains DNA to an engrossed Sherlock, while John fidgets with beakers and smiles over them both. Sherlock demands a thorough tour of the lab, radiating fascination, pale eyes shining. Mike amiably obliges, finding slides for Sherlock to examine under the microscope, doing a little experiment with titration, separating several blood samples in the centrifuge. Sherlock devours it all, and his cheeks are tinted with passion when he finally turns back around, recalling that John's been in the room the whole time.
John grins at him. "Like it, do you?" he asks.
Sherlock immediately affects a repressive expression, as if unwilling to be caught excited and thus exposed. "It's quite absorbing," he admits stiffly.
Mike checks his watch. "I've got to get to the morgue," he says. He smiles his open, honest smile at Sherlock. "It was a real pleasure to meet you, Sherlock," he says, and offers his hand.
Sherlock stares at it blankly, and ignores it. "The morgue," he repeats. He waits expectantly.
Mikes grin widens. "Would you like a tour of that, too?"
Sherlock regally tips his head toward the door, evincing that yes, he'd like to wander around amongst the corpses for a while. John follows the pair, tall and fat, like Abbott and Costello, feeling both indulgent and overwhelmed.
Sherlock is... a mess of contradictions, and John can't wrap his head around them all. Is he actually a genie? It seems more and more likely that something supernatural is involved. He had faded entirely out of view multiple times, after all! The clothing, the cigarettes, the knowledge of what happened in the antiques shop, where John would swear he and Mike had been alone, save for the proprietor. Given these curious things. What if he can possibly accept it, and move on - then what? What does that mean about Sherlock? John metaphorically reels at the concept of being confined to a lamp for so long, decade after lonely decade, until centuries, possibly, had passed. To exist for no other purpose than to be used. To grant that single wish, and then, spent, be consigned back to the lamp.
Did he have no moral say in the wish? What if it ran counter to his principals? Well, John admits., morals do not seem to play a big role in Sherlock's personality so far. But purpose! Sherlock fairly exudes purpose. His walk is quick and certain, he had stalked around the lab as if it were designed solely for him. His interest in Mike's work, in scientific investigation is sincere and profound. How long has it been since he could express this facet of himself? Is it even a facet? What if it is the majority of his person? Repressed for decades, or even centuries. To continually catch glimpses of what he wishes to observe, but be 'put away' before he can ever get close enough to study it. It must be like living upstairs from a candy shop.
And not only that, not only is Sherlock accustomed to being consumed, for his ability to grant wishes, his own aspirations meaningless and unobtainable, but John is thinking of him in those same terms. Certainly, and to his shame, it has an overlarge sexual component. But even that, Sherlock interprets as a wish: John craves sexual gratification with me, that must be his wish. He shudders to think what that implies, for both of them, and blinks hard at the floor. He would keep his inappropriate lust fully under lock and key, he swears to himself. And, thinks a more distant part of his mind, What about when you do make a wish? And you lose him forever? What happens then?
John struggles with the conflicting desire to let Sherlock loose on the modern world, to let him fly and study and be free... and the darker, more heated inclination to keep him for himself. He can't even let that thought out enough to verbalize it.
"Oh! Hello!" exclaims a flustered young woman as they enter. "Mike, you brought some friends." She flutters while standing completely still, which is a good trick, and looks nervously from one to the other. Her eyes catch on Sherlock, and hang up there, her mouth dropping open a little while she drinks him in. He returns the look dispassionately, dismisses her, and begins to check out the room, heading immediately for the body laid out on the slab.
The gaping young woman turns her head to track him, having evidently entirely forgot about Mike and John. John frowns, and obeying an urge he doesn't want to name, steps forward, conveniently between Sherlock and her line of sight, and holds out his hand. "John Watson," he says. "And that is Sherlock. I hope we're not interrupting?"
Molly's lab coat is stained, and she's clutching nitrile gloves in her hand, and the corpse on the table is partially opened, so this is a reasonable question. John pulls his hand back, belatedly realizing she's just been preparing a cadaver. Molly jerks her attention from Sherlock and blushes fiercely red. "Oh, oh! No. I mean. I'm just doing an autopsy." She looks shyly over at Sherlock, whose nose is nearly pressed to the opened up sternum. "Would you like to watch?"
Sherlock straightens up immediately and without pause says, "Yes, very much so, thank you for the offer." He slips out of his overcoat with one of his subtle shimmies, and both John and Molly watch with poorly disguised fascination and longing.
Sherlock strides back over to the victim, folding his hands behind his back. He stands very straight, and seems incredibly tall, compared to the three others in the room. "Now," he says. "What exactly are you doing here?"
Molly stammers and stutters her way through an explanation (48 year old man, sudden, unexplained death, found in his bedroom by one of the house staff, the family has requested an autopsy to rule out unnatural causes).
Mike says, "I came down to see if it would be a good case for one of my lectures."
"Because," Molly inserts, "it's a mystery, see? We'll have to investigate the body and the lab results to determine the cause of death."
Sherlock is riveted. "All right then," he says. "Show me."
The three begin a macabre dance around the table. John contributes from time to time, but mostly he watches Sherlock glow; contemplates him, engaged and unfurling. He can sense the full force of Sherlock's focus and curiosity completely bypassing him, directed at the puzzle on the slab.
After two hours, most of the internal organs have been removed and placed in dishes on the counters around the walls; samples removed for testing; blood drawn and sent for the toxicology report. Sherlock flits around the room, to peruse the reports and peer at the parts they've removed from the body, examining everything under the microscope, John helps to set up slides and petri plates for the purpose, and explains what he can remember of autopsies and procedure. Occasionally, Sherlock's face lights up with a flashing (morbidly inappropriate, but nonetheless sincere) smile.
Molly scrounges up a hand lens for Sherlock, upon his request, and he moves around the body, wielding his magnifying glass with flare and dedication, inspecting fingers, hair, eyes, mouth, feet. Molly and Mike both treat him with fond amusement, as if he is a child prodigy, but John is taken with his intensity and captivation. Sherlock is not playing, he is driven: this is not simply a way to pass the afternoon.
Molly places a call to the Met to report their progress. Mike takes notes and photos. Sherlock begins to look through the clothing and personal effects in evidence bags on the bench. John goes up to the cafeteria to get coffees for everyone.
When John returns with the coffee, there's a new person in the room. He hesitates just inside the door, staring at the silver-haired stranger. Sherlock sees him there, and steps over to hold the door open for him. His eyes are on the other man. "He's a detective inspector, John. He investigates murders. It's interesting." Sherlock daintily lifts a coffee out of the tray John's holding. "I assume this one is for me? Yes? Thank you," and he swirls back to the group by the lab bench.
John makes his way there more slowly, reluctant to interrupt police business. He's intrigued. Although he'd studied here, done rounds and residency at Barts, he'd never autopsied a potential murder victim and then dealt with the police. He stands just outside the circle, hesitant. Sherlock darts a glance at him, steps back, and with no more than an adjustment of a foot and the twist of a shoulder, suddenly has John included in the conversation.
The detective inspector looks up and smiles. He seems tired, with shadows under warm brown eyes, but he holds out his hand. John puts his coffee into it, and the man looks surprised. "Oh," he says, "I was, erm, just going to introduce myself."
"Yes. Well. I'm Dr. Watson," it seems more valid to use his title, here in the morgue. "You're welcome to the coffee. I'm sure you need it more than me." He mentally slaps himself for saying that. He might as well have said, You look like shit, here's a pick-me-up before you drop.
The DI laughs. "Thanks, mate," he said. "I'm Greg Lestrade, DI." Mike takes the tray from John, who holds out his hand again. This time, they shake.
"Nice to meet you. Please call me John."
But Sherlock interrupts. "Let's get back to the victim, please, Lestrade," John grimaces at how his eagerness has made him brusque. "What will your next step be, in order to find the murderer?"
Lestrade says, "Well, it's not clear this is a murder. Sir Benjamin Sambourne-Reifferscheidt is an important man, and I was called in when he was found to rule out foul play. He had... many resources, and there are some who think the new wife was just a fortune-hunter. However, unless you find anything here, we'll write it off to natural causes." His fatigue speaks for him, shows his disdain of the hysterical rich, determined to place blame, who drag him from work he considers valid in order to chase after shadows.
Molly says, "There are some small bruises on the neck and wrists. Could be from anything. Well, actually, the ones on the neck are probably fingerprints. Um," she consults her clipboard of notes. "We also documented very faint evidence of hemorrhagic gastric mucosal necrosis, which could have numerous causes. We're waiting for the test results now."
Sherlock barely waits as long as is socially acceptable before protesting, "It is undoubtedly murder."
"I beg your pardon?" Lestrade is surprised.
Sherlock sweeps over to the table, and turns around, looking both frustrated and excited. His figure sways there, tall, lean and elegant, an easy focal point in the room. John doesn't want to look at anything else. Sherlock smirks a little; "what must it be like in your tiny little brains?" he questions rhetorically. John can see him gearing up for a production, and smiles as he leans back to rest against a lab bench. He wonders what amazing observations Sherlock is about to demonstrate now.
"Why don't you tell us what makes you think so," John prompts.
Lestrade looks angrily confused, but does Sherlock the courtesy of remaining silent, waiting for him to elucidate.
Sherlock wastes no time. "What we have here is a man in late middle age who was recently married." He reaches for the evidence bag on the side bench and holds out two rings. "See this one? A wedding ring. Not even scratched. Obviously new. Nothing inside. Now," he he holds the other up, hands impossibly fine compared to the thick heavy band between his fingers. "This, on the other hand, is at least 10 years old. You can see from the indentations on the corpse that he was accustomed to wearing it on his left-hand ring finger. The inscription inside reads "Mine Always. We may assume this is not a previous wife, since it's not a traditional wedding band. As a matter of fact, it's hand-hammered, unique, and shows great care and artistry... definitely made by a master craftsman. The dead man didn't make it himself, there are no burns or stains from a jeweler's studio on his hands. Possibly was made by a long-term lover."
"There's evidence that this man was with a lover immediately prior to his death. Look at this," he bends over the corpse and snaps open his borrowed magnifying glass over his jaw. He waves Lestrade over and points, "See this faint cut? And the tiny marks there? This man was shaved, very soon before his murder... by someone standing above and behind him. It is impossible to cut oneself at this angle: the slice is slanted from the chin towards the forehead." Sherlock demonstrates how the second party would have wielded the razor. Lestrade bends to look at the little marks, appearing mystified. Sherlock drums his fingers on the cool metal table. "But it was done with care, that's obvious. Again: a lover."
Sherlock doesn't give Lestrade more than 30 seconds to look before he hauls on the corpse and rolls it onto its side. "Look at his hair. It's stiff with creme, isn't it? So, clearly, he'd recently had a shower and shave. Now," he slides his hand upwards along the man's neck, until all five fingers are buried at an angle in his hair. "Feel this. Go on! You can put on gloves." He waits impatiently as Lestrade snaps on a pair. "The finger tunnels are marked with stiffness on the inside, very clear paths. There was a hand in this position for some time, as the creme stiffened, either supporting or holding down his head. The latter is more likely, as holding someone down is an easier position to maintain without shifting around."
John, watching Lestrade, begins to see the change of a convert come over his face, his initial vague impatience slowly replaced with dawning admiration and understanding. "All right, then," he says. "What else?"
"The fingerprint bruises," Sherlock says immediately. "See? Here on the neck." He folds his hand around the neck, and John comes closer, to hover with the others; there is the faintest pattern of red, four on one side and one on the other. "This was a very large hand, as large as my own. Six foot one or two, then. The index finger mark also has a smear of fine powder, such as is a byproduct of grinding and finishing metal. It reacts like silver in a simple test, supporting the theory that the lover is a jeweler."
"Amazing," John murmurs.
"The wife is a little thing," Lestrade inserts. Sherlock nods as if he'd already known that, and moves on.
"Look at the cuffs that were on his wrists." He reaches for the evidence bag again, and holds out two wide black bracelets made of braided leather decorated with worked metal rings, cut neatly through. "This is the work of the same artist as who made the ring, I'm sure, the designs on the loops here are characteristic. It's been worked together under heat, too: the metal is fused and the cuff could only be removed by destruction... there is no release. They had to be cut off. Now," he heads back to the corpse and lifts a wrist. "The bruising here is apparent only over the wrist bones, and is sharper at the front edge. The cuffs were being used as restraint, he was bound and pulling. Likely consensual: you can see he's worn these cuffs for years. The decorative rings along it have the advantage of being a good point to hook to a rope or slim chain. Also, from the scratching on the interior of the loops, you can see that they've been used repeatedly in this fashion. Bondage with some degree of ownership, then." He looks at Molly, "We haven't yet examined the anus, but I believe you'll find evidence of penetration, perhaps semen inside."
Lestrade looks considering, and Molly giggles in embarrassed shock. Mike is taking notes, as calmly as if it is a lecture, and John flushes a little at the factual way Sherlock mentions gay sex and bondage. Oh, god.
"Here. Under this fingernail," Sherlock lifts the left hand. "It seems to be cosmetic paint, to cover facial blemishes or some such. But look how dark it is. I deduce that the lover was male and also a Moor." He stops and corrects himself. "...Black."
"So what do we know?" He looks at Lestrade, eyebrows up. Lestrade cocks his head and waits. Sherlock can't stop for long, his observations are busting out at the seams. "We know this man has a long-term male lover, a Black, and we know he's recently married to a small woman. Immediately prior to his death, he had a shower and ritual shave, in the company of said lover, and probable sex. What do we need to know now?"
The pause is heavy. John says, since Sherlock seems to be waiting for an answer, "How he died?"
"Exactly," Sherlock smiles briefly at him, and whirls back around. "How did he die. I noticed two very faint bruises here," he touches the hinge of the man's jaw, "and here, on the other side. Someone forced his mouth open. Whether it was part of the sexual play or not, we cannot deduce. However, I can smell," he leaned down, prying open the dead man's mouth, and sniffing enthusiastically, "a faint residual odor of bitter almonds." he pulls off his glove and swipes his finger along the inside of the dead man's cheek, then touches it delicately to his tongue, "Yes, I can taste it -"
"Christ, Sherlock!" John interrupts, grabbing Sherlock's wrist and jerking his hand away from his face. "What the hell are you doing?"
Sherlock looks startled and confused. "Confirming my suspicion," he answers, but he sounds less haughty than uncertain.
"Not by tasting a blooming corpse, you're not," John says tightly. He drags Sherlock over to the emergency eyewash station and holds the lever down. "Rinse your mouth out right now."
"John. I couldn't possibly have ingested enough to -"
"No. Nope. Rinse. Right now." Sherlock darts a look back at the slab, where Lestrade, Molly and Mike are all standing in varying aspects of shock and disgust, back to John, whose face is set in angry lines. He rinses and spits a couple of times. "Fucking hell, Sherlock," John shakes his head and grabs a couple of paper towels from the dispenser. "There are other ways to test for cyanide, if that's what you're implying."
Sherlock wipes his mouth and dumps the towels in the bin. He gathers the dignity he'd just lost and goes back over to the table. "You can also see that the hue of the skin is quite pink," he says, as if nothing happened. But he flicks a quick, questioning look at John, who nods minutely, Go on, it's alright now. "I have noticed that in a cyanide poisoning before. I don't know why-"
Mike interjects that cyanide kills by inhibiting cells in the body from consuming oxygen, and thus leaving the blood supersaturated with it, even after death. Sherlock listens avidly, and nods when he's done.
He turns to Lestrade. "Anyone who works metals has cyanide around, so acquiring it wouldn't be a problem. After the 'tests' have confirmed that it's cyanide, all you need to do is find the jeweler lover. Perhaps he stands to benefit somehow by the death? An inheritance? Or perhaps it is pique that he's been replaced by a woman. Determining the motive is up to you."
There is an extended pause, almost a vacuum, when Sherlock stops the rapid-fire torrent of observations.
"That's fantastic," John murmurs.
Sherlock gives him a quick, bright look. "Do you know you say that out loud?"
John's stomach flutters, and his posture straightens in protest. "I'm sorry," he begins.
"It's ok. It's... fine."
"How do you know all this?" asks Lestrade. "Not that I'm saying you're right, but..."
Sherlock says, "It's obvious, isn't it? How can you you not see? Well, you see, but you do not observe. I simply observe."
Molly says, "He's right about the unusual pinkness of the skin. I should have noticed that." She looks up at Sherlock, who is standing at her shoulder, and her eyes are soft with hero worship. "It is an unusual side effect of cyanide. The toxicology report won't test for that, it isn't standard. But I'll call the lab and tell them to set that up." She gnaws on her lip, while Lestrade leans over the corpse and sniffs at its mouth. "I wouldn't have noticed some of this," she admits, gazing at Sherlock again. "You're amazing... what you do is... really incredible. I- You... You can come back any time." She turns back to Lestrade. "The hemorrhaging in the stomach lining would be consistent with cyanide."
Mike straightens up and puts away his notebook. "Good show, mate," is all he says, but he grins as he does. "You in forensic sciences? You ought to be, if not. This case will make for one interesting lecture, that's for sure. I'm glad you happened along. Let me buy you a pint sometime, eh?" He looks back at John, "You too, John. It's been too long."
When they leave, Molly tries to shake Sherlock's hand, and he again appears confused and annoyed by the gesture, Mike smiles genially, and Lestrade looks somewhat calculating. Sherlock has a bounce to his stride, as he flips on his coat and scarf, almost swaggering to the elevator. John has to take several quick steps to catch up to him.
"Have a good time, then?" he asks, pushing the elevator button and grinning up at the man standing next to him, virtually vibrating with excitement.
Sherlock looks at him, incandescent. "I had no idea," he says simply, and his eyes go out of focus, staring inwardly. "I had no idea."
And that's the last John gets out of him, throughout the brisk walk home.
*lovat = grey-green; blue-green
In addition to amazing beta and art skills, my betas have other talents. Snogandagrope is working on a piece called Checkpoint Charlie, which takes Sherlock and John out of London and plunks them in the French Quarter of New Orleans, an area she knows well. ScienceofObsession's current project is podfics, which, we have on good authority, are read in a bona fide 'voice of sex'. And MildredandBobbin is currently working on a lovely AU, involving medieval Johnlock and werewolves: The Beast of Baskerville. Go check them out!