The Devonshire Squires Chapter Eight:
"I agree."
Molly was looking over John's shoulder at the body of the man now known to be Alexander Robbs. The call from Lestrade identifying the body had come through only an hour ago. After getting her agreement that the man's neck was broken, John had just pointed out an unusual set of bruises on the dead man's chest. She poked at one of the bruises, checking the texture of the muscle underneath. "They don't look like the result of a fist; more like compression contusions."
John gave a little nod. "Thought so. Used to see them a lot on soldiers where CPR was used to keep their hearts beating." He had accompanied the body to the Bart's mortuary, almost out of habit. In his years of working with Sherlock, the pair of them had often taken this same path from crime scene to mortuary. John still remembered their first such occasion, when he had asked why it was so important for the consulting detective to examine the victim before the autopsy.
The taller man had looked across the body at John, with that little crease between his eyebrows- a look that John came to recognise as the surely-you-aren't-so-stupid look. "Obviously it's important to see the body in a neutral environment, before the pathologist mucks it about. Now I can concentrate on the facts without the distraction of the crime scene." Sherlock then became a whirl of motion, the pathologist standing aside, waiting until he was done before she started the autopsy.
This time, John was on his own. Sherlock had left the crime scene without even saying good-bye. He leaned over the body and lowered his head to just a couple of inches over the bruises. A little self-consciously, he sniffed. And then stood back upright quickly, a look of surprise on his face.
"What is it?" Molly asked, intrigued.
"A scent of something I recognise but can't immediately place." Unlike Sherlock, John didn't have a Mind Palace stuffed with a dictionary of scents and aromas. He had to work at it.
The Pathologist bent to take her own sniff.
"Oh, that's easy. It's the smell of the corn starch powder inside medical gloves."
John recognised it immediately once she said it. "Yep. And that's why I had to remember it. It's been a while since I've used them. GP gloves aren't powdered; the clinic doesn't cough up the extra to pay for them."
She nodded. "I have to use forensic gloves un-powdered, due to possible contamination." Then she looked down at the body. "Does the scent matter? Maybe the ambulance crew used them."
John shook his head. "Unlikely, the NHS tends to be careful on cost. My guess…" He stopped, and then corrected himself, "…my deduction is that there was a medical professional at the scene of the crime. Proper boxing matches have one on the scene, just in case. Sherlock thought it was a Fight Club, so it would make sense. When this poor guy died from the neck injury, someone was there to examine him- and maybe took off his gloves after the exam when he realised the guy was dead. That dropped the powder out of the glove."
That's when John thought about what Sherlock would do with this deduction. "Have you got a magnifying glass?"
She walked over to the autopsy counter and rummaged through the top drawer, and then a cupboard underneath.
Molly was slightly apologetic when she returned to the body, carrying not only the glass but also a forensic kit. "He always wanted one here, in case Anderson missed something. If he were here, the next thing he'd do is check for fingerprints from whoever checked on him once he'd fallen- they could be from before they realised the man was dead. That said, it could also be from afterwards, and there will be traces of corn flour on the print. We need to spray…"
"… and then use ultraviolet light," John said, finishing her sentence. "Great minds think alike."
She giggled. "He's trained us well, hasn't he?"
They got to work. Fifteen minutes later, they found it a print on the skin below his jaw, oils leaving their trace, no powder. "Probably trying to find a carotid pulse, thinking he was just knocked out," was John's verdict. Then he started to imagine the scene. "He probably remembered to put his gloves on to do CPR, but when he couldn't re-start the heart, he'd check why, and find the broken neck vertebrae. When the exam was over, he'd take his gloves off." He felt almost jubilant- the pieces were slotting together, and he knew that it would be important. If it was a medical professional, then it was more likely that the fingerprints would be somewhere on the system.
Molly carefully pressed the film to it and then closed the flap. "Could you bring me an evidence bag? Third drawer down," The pathologist used her elbow to point over to the counter.
After she dropped it in, he was just sealing the bag when Molly asked the question that he had been waiting for.
"Where is Sherlock then?"
He finished sticking the tape down before answering quietly, "I have no idea."
"You two haven't got back to it then?"
"Back to what?"
"To working together again, like before."
"Does it look like we are?" John hated the bitterness he heard in his own voice.
This provoked a sympathetic look from the Pathologist. "Well, he's not the same now. I don't know what happened to him while he was gone. Whatever it was changed him. Even I can tell that. "
"You've spoken with him recently then?" As soon as he heard that, he knew it sounded like he was jealous.
She shook her head. "No. Just after he got back, he did a strange thing- asked me along to one of Lestrade's cases. You probably read about it in the papers- the Whitechapel skeleton and the ripper hoax. He also took me to see the underground train spotter- that was before you got involved." She looked a little embarrassed. "He said it was his way of thanking me. But, really? I think he was missing you."
"Yeah, well, he should have thought about that for the two years I was missing him."
Molly frowned. She looked over at the body on the table. "I suppose I should get to work. But, I keep expecting him to walk in the door and tell me to stop before I ruin his fun. That's what it used to be for him. It makes me wonder what happened to take all the fun away." Then she shrugged. "But then, he wouldn't tell me anything."
"At least you knew that he was alive and that it was all a fake." There, he'd said it. The thing that had bothered him ever since he learned that Molly had been in on the plot from the beginning, knowing about and helping Sherlock fake his suicide.
"If he had told you, then you would have tried to stop him, or to go with him. And I don't think he was prepared to risk you doing that. Sherlock told me that he wasn't likely to come back, and that I'd never know where or when he'd been killed. It was far harder not knowing whether he might still be alive, or lying dead somewhere. You could grieve and move on. I couldn't. He spared you that."
His face must have betrayed his feelings. Molly looked crestfallen. "Please…don't hate him…or me, for that matter. He only told me because he needed me to sign the death certificate. He…" She ground to a halt and looked away.
"He… what?"
She looked back at him, her eyes now a little angry. "He used me, he always has. I let him do it, too. It's okay- it's all I can do for him. His whole life, people haven't trusted him. It's all he's ever wanted from me. He didn't think about what I would go through having to lie to people about it, watching you and the others grieve. He doesn't understand that sort of thing. He didn't know how much it would hurt me. I can forgive him that. He just trusted me not to tell anyone, and I chose to honour my promise. It was my choice, so don't hate him for it."
Having built up a head of steam, she kept going, "Maybe it was wrong. But when I asked why he wouldn't tell you, he said it was to protect you. Moriarty would kill you, or worse, use you to break him. And it would, you know, something happening to you. I don't think you understand what he thinks of you. I'm not sure you've ever understood that. I still can't get how you didn't see it those last months. He was so sad about the whole thing, about having to leave you in the dark, but you never seemed to see it."
John was shocked by the vehemence of her speech. Defensively, he snapped back, "Well, I can see what he's doing now; he's telling me that he wants nothing to do with me anymore."
He put the evidence bag down and stripped off his gloves. "I'm sorry, Molly. I shouldn't take it out on you; that's not fair. It's not your fault." Anger and resentment were a potent mix, and he found it hard to say anything more for a moment. She was watching him, waiting.
But, he wasn't the sort to talk about his feelings. His own family, being a doctor, and the army- he'd had to spend a lifetime keeping his emotions in check. He'd not really said anything of what he was feeling about Sherlock's return to Mary, so how could he say anything to Molly? But, she was still looking at him, waiting.
He drew breath. Softly, as if hardly being willing to admit it to himself, "it's just everyone expects me to be over the moon about his being back. Yes, of course, I am glad. I missed him more than he could ever imagine. You're right. He has no idea that people would care; it's just useless sentiment in his book. The only good thing about his lying to me is that it gave me a chance to find Mary. Without her love, I wouldn't have made it. But, he couldn't have known she would come along and rescue me. And I think that's why I am still angry with him."
To put an end to any further discussion, John pulled his phone out. "I need to call Lestrade and tell him that one of the people present at the murder was probably a medical professional, and to get someone over here to collect that fingerprint." He frowned at the phone, because there were no reception bars at all showing.
"You'll have to go upstairs. It's hopeless getting a signal down here." She turned away, picked up the electric bone cutter, and started to make the initial Y incision of the autopsy. Because her back was now turned, John didn't see the sadness in her eyes.