Tee-hee! Since I have some time before returning to work - another chapter.
Thank you, thank you to all of you lovely followers and favoriters and reviewers. You make my day.
Warnings: References to infant death later in this chapter. (Not John and Mary's.) But it is a little sad.
In this chapter, Jo references the following songs:
Make You Feel My Love by Bob Dylan, also sung by Adele
Blue Skiesby Irving Berlin
At Lastby Etta James.
Please excuse her obsession with jazz. :)
I do not own the lyrics to those songs or Sherlock. That honour belongs to writers more talented than I.
Thanks again for your support!
Chapter 25, In Which Love is a Shot Through the Heart
Stupid physiological response.
Sherlock began mentally listing the periodic table of elements and their most common isotopes to bring his heart rate down and to refocus his mind on the case. He reworked the figures he'd done at the crime scene for good measure. Confident that he was correct in his projections, he returned to analyze himself and his physiological responses with a critical minds-eye.
He could tell she'd noticed. For the first time, he found himself wishing that Molly Hooper was just a tad less observant.
Why would he be blushing?
She dismissed several scenarios in her mind, in which the flush in his cheeks was brought on by illness or anger (she was extremely familiar with the many forms of blushing, herself, after all), and came to the logical conclusion that he was blushing because of…something pleasant, and unfamiliar, to him. And Molly, knowing Sherlock as she did, could think of only a very few things that might be both pleasant and unfamiliar, to him.
Unless he was attracted to Fred the cabbie, or the policewoman at the crime scene (both highly unlikely scenarios), Molly could think of no one else beside herself who might elicit such a reaction.
The evidence was piling up around her. Still, she could not believe that she was coming to the correct conclusion. This was Sherlock Holmes. He did not love people in that way. He was not attracted to people. He was more often than not repulsed by them.
Apparently you're excluded from that, the voice in her head reminded her. Remember the hospital? Remember the lab?
And she blushed herself, pleasantly, at the thought of Sherlock, and her heart warmed considerably as she considered how far he'd come, and the cases they'd worked, and the experiments they'd done, and the unusual kindness and attention he'd treated her with the past few months. She realized that she was in great danger of falling completely in love with him again.
Still, she was determined not to make a fool of herself. She'd done that far too many times in the past, in her own humble opinion, and if Sherlock wanted…something, with her…well…he'd have to man up and breach the subject himself.
Molly snorted. Who was she kidding? If she wanted clarification, sooner or later she'd have to ask him herself. And that would require her to work up a lot of nerve.
For now…for now, though, she could be thankful for, and enjoy, his friendship.
Sherlock was relieved when she made no comment on his…slip, in the cab. She'd brightly asked him about something related to his knowledge of pre and post-mortem bruising, related to the case, and the resulting conversation filled the time until they arrived at the flat.
Interesting.
Even his embarrassment –usually an emotion that closed him off and made him snappish and rude - around her, could be turned into something relatively productive.
Caring…can be an advantage.
Sarah Jane answered the door on the first knock, her normally neat and prim appearance somewhat disheveled. Her hair was falling out of her braid in spots, and her pretty green button-down blouse was wrinkled. She looked a bit glassy-eyed.
When she saw Sherlock and Molly standing at the door, her face lit up with an almost hysterical relief. "Heh!" She exclaimed, unable to form coherent words for a full ten seconds.
The strange scent of something both sour and sweet was in the air, and Sherlock deduced that Josephine was baking a chocolate cake and overcooking…broccoli?
Molly wrinkled her nose, and the sound of Josephine's voice sang confidently through the flat.
"The winds of change are blowing wild and free – you ain't seen nothing like me yet…"
Sarah cringed, although Jo's voice was very pretty. She finally found her tongue, and kept her voice low as she talked with them. "I'm so, so glad you're here."
"I could make you happy, make your dreams come true…"
"Casey and Ian were sent out of country for a few weeks on assignment," Sarah continued to explain.
"There is nothing that I wouldn't do…"
"And before he leaves, Casey always does something…romantic for Jo." Sarah pulled a face, making her look more like the child she was and less like a tiny adult.
"Go to the ends of the Earth for you,"
"And one of the things he did was make her a CD…"
"To make you feel my love,"
"And she's going through her jazzy phase again," Sarah concluded, eyes wide with horror.
"To make you feel my love."
There was silence for the space of about five seconds, and then Jo began singing from her favourite spot in that particular song again. "I know you haven't made your mind up yet, but I would never do you wrong…"
Sarah rolled her eyes, and asked desperately, "What have you got for me? Please tell me you have something for me."
And Sherlock opened Molly's notebook to the page with details on the murder victim, and quickly and quietly explained that he needed the location of the sniper, and a digital reconstruction of the shooting. He relayed the figures he'd done in his head, and Sarah wrote them down quickly.
Jo had stopped singing suddenly, and realized for the first time that she and Sarah Jane were not alone in the flat. "Sarah? Who's at the door?" She asked, suspicious, while attempting to coax life and flavor back into the limp broccoli. It was a lost cause.
Sarah gave Sherlock and Molly a grateful glance – "Thank you," she said ardently – Sherlock was afraid she might have hugged him, had she not been in such a rush - and she snatched the notebook out of Sherlock's hands, and ran for her bedroom and locked the door behind her with an audible click. She may have even dragged a nightstand to the door to barricade it.
About the time Sarah made it to her room, Jo made it to the doorway of the flat. She had a smile on her face that quickly froze as she saw Molly and Sherlock at the door. Various expressions crossed her face in rapid succession – happiness, confusion, suspicion, anger – before her admirable self-control kicked in and she welcomed them in and shut the door behind them. "Hullo, Molly - "
She turned to them, and was interrupted by Sarah shouting from her room. "This will take me about fifteen minutes! Stay here!" A pause. "If you can take it!"
Jo's eyes narrowed slightly at Sherlock. "Hello," she said carefully, studying him intently. "And what exactly will take Sarah Jane fifteen minutes?"
Sherlock quickly deduced that she was a bit angry with him about something, although he could not seem to remember what it was. He and Molly both opened their mouths to explain about the sniper, when Jo held up her hands. "Wait, wait," she sighed.
There was silence for a moment as Josephine closed her eyes and frowned, thinking. She looked up, and smiled painfully at Sherlock. "I forgive you," she said sincerely.
Molly frowned in confusion, looking between the two of them.
Sherlock frowned, not sure what Jo was referring to.
Jo continued. "I've realized that you don't need someone to apologize to forgive them, and besides, Sarah's been over it for ages, anyways. She forgave you the second you texted her about those computer glasses – and yes, I know about that…but," she eyed him sharply, "I don't like it when someone hurts my little sister. So don't do it again."
Sherlock was about to ask what he shouldn't do again, but Molly's expression – confused and suspicious – made him think it best not to ask what he shouldn't do again. Apparently he should have remembered and been contrite about it. "I…won't," he said carefully. It wasn't quite said as a question, but it was still painfully obvious to the two women in the room he had no clue what he'd done.
Jo sighed again, defeated. "You have no clue, do you?"
"Actually…" he began, intending to begin explaining about the clue Sarah Jane was currently working on in her bedroom, but apparently Jo was uninterested in anything he had to say. The timer noting that her cake was finished baking sounded, and she ran to the kitchen to take it out to cool.
She went back to singing as she worked. "Blue skies, smilin' at me…nothin' but blue skies…do I see..." It sounded a bit as though she were trying to convince herself of the truth of the lyrics.
Molly bit back a smile. "You don't remember what you did, do you?" She whispered at him.
He shook his head. "As she so eloquently stated, I have no clue."
She shook her head as well, but she was still trying not to smile.
He turned to look at her curiously. "You're not…upset?" She had seemed so upset that night with his parents, and had prompted him to apologize then. It seemed logical that she would be upset over this social faux pas as well. Perhaps he was missing something, here.
Apparently, she'd been following his train of thought. She raised an eyebrow at him. "Did you drug Sarah Jane?"
"No!" He whispered vehemently. Surely he'd remember that.
She chuckled softly. "Then there are several reasons why I'm not…upset, Sherlock." She held up her fingers as she explained her reasons patiently, keeping her voice soft. Jo was still singing loudly. "First of all, you didn't put her in any danger, because Sarah and Jo wouldn't have allowed us into their home had you done that. So it was something you said or did or didn't do. As Jo said, Sarah's obviously forgiven you, so it couldn't have been too terrible. And Jo is her sister, and her guardian…being over-protective of Sarah Jane is in her job description. Plus, she's a bit emotional right now, with Casey gone. And it obviously happened ages ago, before…Jim. And she claims to have forgiven you, now, too, so - there's really no point in being upset over it. "
He grinned at her suddenly. "Exactly. I-"
"I didn't say you were right, exactly," Molly corrected quietly, smiling at him. "I just meant-"
"Done!" Sang Sarah from her room, and the sound of moving furniture that was slightly heavy for a now eight-year-old girl caused Jo to emerge from the kitchen with her hands crossed good-naturedly over her chest, waiting to see what brilliant thing her sister had done this time.
Twenty minutes later, after Molly had eaten some warm, still-unfrosted but still delicious chocolate cake with Jo while Sarah had explained to Sherlock, using her laptop and mathematical formulas neither Jo nor Molly quite understood, that the sniper had made his shot using thermal imaging from several blocks away, and had pinpointed the room he'd been in, Sherlock and Molly prepared to leave.
Molly smiled warmly at Jo as she took her plate to the sink. "Thanks for the help," she said softly. "Believe it or not, I think Sherlock enjoys her company."
Jo shook her head. "He just likes not having to explain things to her. But she loves helping him, so…I guess it's all right with me." She returned Molly's smile.
Sherlock nodded his thanks at Sarah as she finished her analysis, and called for Molly. The prepared to leave, and Sarah Jane bit her lip, eyeing her sister in the other room. "You know," she said cautiously, "I'd really have more of an idea about the accuracy of my findings if I could go - "
"NOT ON YOUR LIFE SARAH JANE CONNORS!" Jo yelled from the kitchen.
Sarah sighed, dejectedly. "Oh, well." She looked up at Sherlock hopefully.
He grinned at her. "I'll text you a photo." He and Molly made their way to the door.
Thank you, she mouthed gratefully as Jo began singing again.
"At last…my love has come along.
My lonely days are over…
And life is like song."
For once, everyone who heard her agreed whole-heartedly, albeit privately, with the hopeful sentiment behind her words.
The sniper was apparently a professional. All Sherlock could deduce from his perch was that he was an American, ex-military, mid-40s. He relayed the information to Lestrade (or, more accurately, Molly relayed his information to Lestrade), and they concluded their day of crime-solving with a quick dinner of fish and chips. Molly would have to be in early tomorrow to oversee the autopsy on the kidnapping murder victim (her cast was off, now, but she did have to wear a brace for one more week). Sherlock insisted she had to oversee it because this case had the potential to be the first case higher then a seven since Moriarty, and he wanted it done correctly. She smiled a self-satisfied, proud little smile, and Sherlock returned it, and before he could be reduced to blushing again he quickly hailed a cab for her and sent her on her way.
As she left, he took a few moments to allow his emotions to run their course, tingling and buzzing and lifting his mood until he felt buoyant once again, and turned that energy on concentrating on the sniper case.
The autopsy gave up no new information (besides the victim's identity – Kenneth Fredyll, suspected kidnapper, though it had never been proven – he'd kidnapped and killed between five and nine children, in his lifetime) and Sherlock silently attributed that to Molly's accurate deductions in the field. And so life returned to normal for two days, with Molly working and Sherlock looking for leads and staying up at all hours contemplating the man behind this most recent murder. He had asked Mycroft (he was biding his time, planning his childish revenge on his brother for the whole parent fiasco, but it wasn't ready, yet) if any kill order had been given on Mr. Fredyll, but none had. So, a vigilante killer, then. He'd researched the children suspected to have been kidnapped by Mr. Fredyll, but none had any connection to an ex-military American sniper.
And then another murder occurred.
He got the call from Lestrade at around 3 a.m. the third day after crime-solving with Molly. Buzzing with the thrill of the chase and the possibility for new clues, he prepared to call John. Molly was working the graveyard shift, tonight, which was good, because there was a chance she could see the body before leaving the morgue.
He texted John, who did not reply. This didn't phase Sherlock; he'd just stop by their flat on his way to the crime scene.
John was awoken from slumber by someone poking his cheek.
"Mmm," he groaned, swatting lazily, still half asleep.
Poke. Poke.
"You've taken long enough. Come on, John. The game is on! If you'd had your mobile on, you'd have known I was coming, and been ready. If you stay here any longer you'll wake Mary." A voice whispered loudly and accusingly in the darkness.
John inhaled sharply at the sound of Sherlock's voice, and frowned, keeping his eyes tightly shut. Maybe this was a dream. Maybe Sherlock would go away.
"Too late," Mary said hoarsely. "And Sherlock – you know, for a world-class detective you're terrible at sneaking into a bedroom undetected."
John heard the mild offense in Sherlock's reply. "Sneaking into your bedroom doesn't count…you're a first-class assassin and you sleep with one eye open!"
"Still, you probably should have-"
"Enough," John growled sleepily. "I'll not have my wife and my best friend discussing the best possible way to sneak into our bedroom." He did his best to rub the sleep from his eyes, then stretched and groaned again. "What time is it?"
"Three thirty-seven. A.M." Sherlock replied, poking him again. "Come on, John. Gavin is waiting for us at the crime scene. There's been another murder. He suspects it to be the sniper again!" His voice was rising in excitement.
"Shhhh," Mary hissed at him. "Madeline's asleep." She sat up abruptly, blinking. "John! It's three thirty-seven a.m. and Madeline is still asleep!" A smile broke out across her face, and she flopped back down into her pillow, content.
John smiled sleepily, his eyes still closed. "Mmm…"
Silence, for a moment, and then blinding light.
"Argh!" John protested, shielding his eyes. Mary had sensed it coming, and had wisely buried her face in her pillow, cocooned into the blankets.
"Might as well get up now, love. Check Madeline before you go," she mumbled sleepily, words muffled by the layers of fabric she was snuggled beneath.
John made a noncommittal noise that would have been a swear word had he been more coherent.
Suddenly, the cool fabric of a shirt and trousers hit him in the face, and he gave up and dragged himself out of bed to go crime-solving with Sherlock. He suppressed a sleepy grin as he changed in the loo. Never a dull moment.
Twenty minutes, quick check on the sleeping Maddie, and two coffees later, John and Sherlock arrived at the crime scene. This time, it was a flat in a normal, if slightly run-down neighborhood. People and emergency vehicles littered the street. The air was cool with the promise of warmer weather to come when the sun rose, and Sherlock immediately began taking in the clues around him.
"Woman, late thirties…hmm…nurse; married, recently had a child. Again, shot through the heart, between twelve and twenty-four hours ago." He noted the window, shattered, and took angles and blood spatter and the surrounding buildings into account.
He paused, thinking and muttering. "It does appear to have been the sniper, although I don't want to jump to conclusions. Motive. Motive. Lestrade?"
Greg looked up from his discussion with one of the other policemen on the scene. He walked over, rubbing his face.
Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back. "Tell me what you know of our victim."
Lestrade shook his head tiredly. "Helen Lowe. Thirty-eight years old. Married, though her husband works the night shift at a packaging plant on the other side of town, so he wasn't here. We notified him, he'll be arriving shortly. She's a nurse at a hospital down the street. Just had a baby about…a month ago."
"And the baby?" John asked, voice strained.
Greg's face fell. "Nowhere to be found."
John swore under his breath.
Sherlock looked sharply at Greg. "Nowhere to be found? The child isn't being watched by relatives or neighbors? The baby should have been here?"
"Yes. At least, that's what the husband said."
"Yes!" Shouted Sherlock, grinning maniacally, then frowned at everyone in the flat. "Out, out! You're all contaminating evidence! Out!" He turned to Greg seriously. "They all need to leave. Now."
Greg squinted at Sherlock. "It's four in the morning, so I'm inclined to do just about anything to wrap this up quickly. You better have a good reason for this, though."
Sherlock scoffed disdainfully at the Detective Inspector. "I always do."
Sherlock explained to Greg and John, the only two people allowed to remain in the flat, that the absence of the missing baby meant that the sniper had been here.
John frowned. "How d'you know someone else didn't just come in and take him?" He asked.
Sherlock smirked. "Because, John - " he froze for a moment, and then looking about the room, muttered – "Him. Yes. Him. Of course. Interesting. Oh, you poor, wicked woman!" He darted around the flat, searching, observing, and grinning like a madman.
John and Greg gave each other a knowing glance.
"Er, care to share with the class, Sherlock?" John asked pointedly.
"Isn't it obvious, John? She works in the maternity ward, yes?" He said, looking for confirmation from Lestrade, who nodded. Sherlock continued, "Mrs. Lowe gave birth to a boy a month ago. He died just a few days later. She's thirty-eight, so her biological clock was ticking, and you can see from both the nursery and the kitchen – note the placement of the bottles, and the mugs – avoidance - her husband was not keen on having a child in the first place. She knew that child was her only chance, and she'd lost it."
"Desperate, she snuck into the hospital and switched her dead infant with another in the maternity ward. I suspect she's the head nurse, there, yes? As I suspected. Easily switched, when you have access to the records. And the infants looked quite alike, at the time. However, note this picture," he gestured to a recently framed picture on a bookshelf in the sitting room, "unless her husband has a very prominent brow ridge, this child is obviously not her own. So she, too, is a kidnapper. Which means that this sniper is obviously after kidnappers, which betrays something of his past." He rubbed his hands together, pleased. "Since he came here for the child, he either intended to kidnap the child himself or to return the child to his rightful parents. Lestrade, a call to the hospital. Discover the couple who suffered the loss of a child last month, and if they have recently found a baby on their doorstep. If not, our sniper is also a kidnapper."
Lestrade nodded and left to make the call, and Sherlock paced the flat, eagerly cataloging new clues about this new challenge. John turned slowly on his heels, watching him hunt as though for Easter eggs.
"Y'know, you could try to contain your excitement that a baby has been kidnapped and a woman has died," he said somewhat angrily.
"Ah, but where is the 'fun' in that?" He paused briefly to send a mocking grin to John.
John frowned. "This isn't fun, Sherlock." Noting Sherlock incredulous expression, John clarified. "I mean...finding...all this out. It's not fun. Snipers and chases and...the like, sure...but...I just hope we're gone before the husband gets home," he muttered.
Sherlock dismissed him with a wave of his hand. "No need to talk to the husband, I've already gotten all I need there. No, what I find fascinating is this," he said, calling to John from the nursery. "Tell me what you think, John."
John arrived, looking around the small, shabby, but well-cared for room. Nothing seemed amiss. "Uh…doesn't look like the sniper was in here, Sherlock."
Sherlock paused and sighed. "You're not observing, John. Of course the sniper was in here. Look at the blanket," he said, gesturing to the crib, where there was clearly no blanket.
"There is no blanket, Sherlock," John snapped irritably.
"Exactly! No blanket! What else is missing, John?" He asked patiently, a smirk playing about his lips. "Come now, you should be better at this than I am. You have a child, after all."
John glared at him, then focused on the room. "Blanket missing. Um…so's…the…wait…" he left the room for a moment, and was back a minute later, a glimmer of triumph appearing on his face. "So's the nappy bag, and a bottle or two, and the small tin of formula, and…" he opened the drawers to the bureau, getting better as he went along. "…and a handful of onesies, here, and the baby's coat."
"And the stuffed rabbit," Sherlock added, finishing up, grinning at John. "And what conclusions can you draw about the missing items?"
John frowned. "That he's intending to…keep the child?"
Sherlock sighed, disappointed. "No."
John gave Sherlock his seriously-why-do-you-even-bother-asking-me face. "No?!"
"No," Sherlock corrected. "He wanted the child to have a few familiar items when it was returned to its rightful parents. He was being thoughtful, John."
"Thoughtful? A thoughtful murdering, kidnapping sniper." John snorted incredulously.
"Technically he was not kidnapping, he was rescuing the child from the kidnapper. Which means that he is not himself a kidnapper, but is acting the vigilante and taking justice into his own hands."
"I'll say," Lestrade said, perplexed, returning to the room. "You were right, Sherlock. The baby was given to Mr. and Mrs. George and Regina Ploughman. Said someone knocked on their door and rang their doorbell like a madman about eleven o'clock last night, and when they answered, there was the baby." He sighed. "I'm sending an officer over to take their statement and collect the child until we can confirm. Hopefully someone saw something that can help us catch this guy."
"Indeed," Sherlock mused, mind whirring with different scenarios.
Over the next two weeks, three more kidnappers were killed – shot through the heart. Some were alone, some were in public, but the case of the 'Mad Marksman' quickly caught the media's attention.
"Sir –sir! Detective Inspector – what do you have to say to the public regarding their safety? What precautions can people take to prevent being shot by this madman?"
It took Lestrade great restraint to avoid saying "Don't kidnap anyone."
Of course, the public shootings greatly concerned the Yard, and Lestrade pestered Sherlock regularly for updates on the case.
"Really, Graham, he's doing your job better than you are. I hardly see what the rush is. I'll let you know when I have a solid lead on our avenging assassin."
Greg had thrown his hands up in frustration. "The problem is that his punishment doesn't always fit the crime, Sherlock – and he's not a judge. He can't – he can't make the call to kill people…willy-nilly, like that. And he's shooting people in public now – what if he misses and kills someone who really is innocent? What then, Sherlock? Think about it, you sorry-" and an incoming phone call prevented Sherlock from hearing exactly what Greg though of his casual attitude towards the sniper.
Except his attitude was not as casual as it appeared. He knew that the sniper was most likely motivated by some twisted attempt at honorable revenge. He'd asked Mycroft to ask his contacts in the United States for information about any possible rogue snipers who may have had a family member kidnapped at a young age, or who may have kidnapped a child during war. And although he was no expert in psychology, he also knew that this vigilante could be dangerous, if he thought he was being sabotaged by the Yard or by a private consulting detective.
Which was why he no longer asked Molly to accompany him on cases, for the time being. Besides, her thumb was fully healed now, and she was back to working the morgue, and he needed her to tell him all she could about both the murder victims and their possible kidnapping victims. He needed her help, and in a display of sentiment that was becoming slightly more frequent, now, (although still leagues below the level most people showed), he told her so.
Molly had finished up her first full shift since beginning to work in the morgue again. She'd done three autopsies today – the first one on the latest sniper victim – and although she was glad to be back, she was tired. And her hand hurt. It was healed, but it was weak from disuse, and she flexed her sore muscles as she sat down in the canteen for a cup of tea before leaving for home. She doubted she could make it to the cab, she was so exhausted. Just a rest, for a few moments, she told herself.
She closed her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them, Sherlock was sitting in front of her.
"Oh!" she started. "Sorry…um. Hello, Sherlock," she greeted him warily, knowing that he was here for a reason, and that reason might be one she was not going to be excited about.
"Molly," he returned her greeting with a brief smile, and then leaned towards her. Noting the steaming liquid in her cup, he frowned. "You really should be drinking coffee. You look tired, and you'll need some caffeine if you're going to perform another autopsy."
Her face fell, and her shoulders sank, and she allowed her forehead to settle onto the table in front of her with a soft thunk. "Another autopsy?" Her voice was muffled from the both the table and her hair falling around her face.
Sherlock's brows puckered, puzzled. "Yes. Another victim. This one a young man, only twenty-seven years old, apparently kidnapped a little girl a year ago. Gunshot wound to the heart, but I need to know any other information about him you can give me. Also, I need you to confirm that the bullet fragments match the past bullets, as always."
She didn't move. Without lifting her head, she noticed Sherlock leaving, and she thought rather crabbily that she hoped he was safely in the morgue before he noticed she wasn't coming. That would give her time to escape.
No luck.
He returned a moment later, with coffee. "One and half creamers, three sugars," he announced, placing it in front of her. When she still didn't move, he poked her shoulder hesitantly. "Dr. Hooper?"
"Sherlock Holmes," she answered, finally sitting up straight again. "I'm tired."
Sherlock frowned, puzzled again. "You've only done three autopsies today. Your record is seven. Nowhere close. Are you ill?"
Molly snorted, and smiled at her coffee. Not exactly how she expected Sherlock bringing her coffee would be. Okay…it was exactly how she expected Sherlock bringing her coffee to be. Coffee, just the way she liked it, in exchange for an autopsy. And he had said he needed her. Very casually, like it was a fact. It would be nice if he wanted her as much as he needed her.
"No, Sherlock. I'm not ill. Just…tired. I need to get used to being on my feet again, and not on a stool checking over paperwork." She flexed her left hand stiffly, again, as she reached for the coffee in front of her. It was for a case, after all.
Sherlock, being Sherlock, noticed immediately that her hand was stiff and sore from over-use her first day back on the job. He frowned, and stopped her hand with his own. He needed the autopsy, and he needed her to do it. He'd just have to fix that hand for her.
So in one smooth move, he sat next to her, pulling a chair close, and began gently massaging her left hand with his own.
He noticed her frozen, staring once again at his hands holding hers, and he was reminded of sitting next to her in the hospital. The memory of that time brought some buoyancy back to his chest, but he had work to do. "Drink your coffee," he ordered, as he continued working on relaxing her stiff, sore hand.
"Drink your coffee," Sherlock ordered, causing her to breathe again. Right. Right. Coffee. Coffee and an autopsy.
She took a sip, and it was just right. He knew how she liked her coffee.
And his long fingers moved deftly, tugging gently at her knuckles, rubbing her palm firmly, giving special attention to that tiny web of skin between her fingers, calming her muscles and smoothing her skin and lighting a fire wherever he touched her.
It was over far too quickly. "…and your hand is adequately rested, now?" He was asking her.
"Hmm? Yes," she squeaked, then cleared her throat and repeated herself, in her normal, calm voice. "Yes. Thank you. I am…adequately rested now." She blinked rapidly, and commanded the blush in her cheeks to fade. It didn't work.
"Excellent. Finish your coffee. I'll meet you in the morgue." And he turned on his heel and left her there.
When she'd finished her coffee, she practically floated to the morgue.
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