Chapter 7: Doctor and a Soldier
Sherlock is stunned. Before he can answer, Lestrade interrupts. "Oi! Don't take all day." He hasn't heard any of this. Sherlock looks at John's ashen face and pushes him towards the steps of the loading dock. "Go. Sit. See what else you can figure out about yourself." And John does, feeling unsteady and slightly nauseous, as waves of knowledge crash over him.
"Your mate alright?" Lestrade asks quietly when Sherlock turns back to him.
"Nothing to concern you," Sherlock returns brusquely. He dismisses Lestrade and swarms over the corpse, examines every limb, every digit and extremity; smells hair, mouth, shoulder; picks over the clothes, hair and jewelry. He pulls his magnifier from his inside pocket and goes over it all again. Six minutes pass. Lestrade divides his attention between Sherlock and his strange companion, who is looking by turns ill and fascinated.
"Well? Have you got anything?" Lestrade prompts, as Sherlock rises from his crouch and steps back.
"Pshhht. If the Met weren't such a flock of blind and brainless sheep..." Sherlock trails off, condescending. But he's jittery with energy, and shoots a glance over at John on the stoop before he inhales deeply and begins.
"We are clearly looking at a young woman who was out on the town. A nightclub one presumes, rather than a pub, going by the smell of artificially generated fog: vanilla scented (ghastly, and certainly neither obscures nor compliments the odor of atomized mineral oil!), but still quite evident. Also, the faint residue of glycerine evenly distributed on only one side of her body indicates that the fog machine was situated to her right. But she doesn't smell of sweat, only alcohol, fog, cheap perfume and ambient cigarettes (she clearly isn't a smoker), so she wasn't dancing. Only sitting at the bar.
"Her watch is broken and stopped at 2:18. She left the club at closing call, and it was 18 minutes before the killer began to cut her up. There are no visible defensive wounds. No bruising across the forearms, no broken or chipped fingernails. And look at those fingernails! They are a full 3 centimeters long: at least one would have popped off if she'd tried to fight back.
"So. What does this mean? She was not coerced, but seduced. Look, the beginnings of love bites here on her neck. She thought she was going home with her companion from the bar. I can smell beer on her, overlaid with vodka mixed with cranberry. She started the evening alone, keeping budget by buying herself beer, which means the companion is a stranger to her. She was not a woman of means."
Lestrade looks at the mangled corpse in amazement. "What? How do you know she was poor?"
Sherlock frowns at him. "Obvious. Her right forefinger and thumb show traces of multiple polish colors along the upper edges of the nails, so she worked as a manicurist at a salon or spa. Not high income, that. The jewelry and clothing are cheap and well-used. Her most expensive item is the watch, doubtless a gift. The engraving on the back says "For J.A. 4evr [heart] W.M. 2010". So. The watch was from a long-term lover, which means she was cheating on him last night. He would have been buying her drinks from the outset, otherwise. It is marginally conceivable that the killer is her boyfriend, but the odds of that are astronomical, seeing as how she's the fifth victim in a series. However, W.M. should certainly be found and interviewed."
Sherlock has been striding back and forth with frenetic steps, whirling at the apex and darting back as he pauses and draws in a deep breath. John watches, engrossed, from his seat. Lestrade rocks back on his heels, both hands jammed into his pockets, following Sherlock with bright, attentive eyes. "That all you've got for me, then?" Lestrade prods.
Sherlock shakes his head. "Look at her shoes. Cheap, but recently bought. The heels are high enough that she'd totter around when walking, and wouldn't want to do much of it because it would hurt. The soles are barely scuffed and her toes are compressed and bruised, but not blistered. She hasn't been on her feet much tonight. That means she hasn't walked too far from where she hooked up with the killer. Or they took a cab. But only 18 minutes, remember? So we're not far from where they met."
John is no longer reeling under decades' worth of medical knowledge and experience. The information is still bubbling forth in his mind, but he's able to relegate it to background noise. He listens to Sherlock's unnervingly minute and accurate deductions. He stares, riveted, at Sherlock. "That's extraordinary! Absolutely fantastic," he says warmly. "All that from just looking at a blood-covered body for a few minutes?" He's incredulous. "Amazing."
Sherlock turns in surprise. "Really?" he asks, feeling quite proud.
"Oh. Yes. I'm quite sure no one else would be able to do that." John is firm in his admiration, even though he has no idea how he knows such a thing.
Sherlock basks in the compliment for a moment. "Well. It's really quite basic. I'm not doing anything you lot couldn't, if you'd only observe more closely."
Instead of taking offense at this, John nods his head and rises, moving forward to peer intently at the body, as if challenged. "Ok." But he all he sees is that there's too much blood for it not to be a vivisection.
"Can you deduce anything?" Sherlock asks, looming suddenly at his shoulder. John cocks his head up at him and twitches a wry face. "What? Something you've missed?"
Sherlock looks serious. "If you have medical knowledge..." he trails off, raising an expectant eyebrow.
John frowns down at the body.
"Well, the incision is textbook," he begins cautiously. Sherlock hums, and lifts one hand to John's shoulder, giving it irregular and (bizarre) little squeezes of excitement and support.
"It seems quite neat. Probably done with a proper scalpel. The ribs have been cut away with a bone saw, to allow for easier access. The intestines have been scooped out for the same reason," he tilts his head toward the disturbing pile of slightly congealed bloody entrails piled gruesomely at the body's side. "I can see that the heart, lungs and liver are missing. The stomach and intestines remain, obviously. I'd have to glove up and get my hands in there to determine more."
He looks at Sherlock to see if he'll scoff or admire. Those electrifying eyes widen, glow and then close in a slow blink. John gets another squeeze and Sherlock curls down until his lips are millimeters from John's ear.
"Very good, John," he breathes.
And John shivers.
Sherlock spins again to Lestrade. His face is glowing, and he keeps sneaking glances back at John. "The lack of struggle combined with the fact that the organs were excised while she was still alive would indicate heavy sedation. Have a comprehensive tox screen analysis. Also, find her purse. This will go more quickly if we know who she is. Check the area nightclubs and find the boyfriend that gave her the watch."
His glance darts back to John, who's looking more relaxed, and is intently watching Sherlock, but is still pale. There are gray bags under his eyes, he looks both tired and wound up. Sherlock isn't surprised, given the revelation that has occurred in the past fifteen minutes.
"I have to get John-. We're going home. Let me know when you've got the corpse on a slab. Alright, Lestrade?"
Lestrade nods. He's never seen Sherlock show concern for, or even a rudimentary social awareness of, another human being. He wonders again who this John fellow is. Sherlock had been talking to him, consulting him (without the insults), and even touching the man. "Go on," he says. "I'll call you in the morning." He nods at John. "Nice to meet you, John."
John inclines his head in response. "Mutual, Detective Inspector." He smiles, then, and the lines in his face break from something weary and worn to a bright, vivacious grin. "It's been a pleasure." Which is a strange thing to say in an alleyway with a half-emptied dead woman at their feet. Lestrade considers that perhaps John and Sherlock were made for each other.
When they get home, Sherlock flaps his hand toward the kitchen as he removes his coat. "Tea," he says. John obligingly heads for the kitchen and switches the kettle on. They settle into their chairs with their tea a few minutes later. Sherlock leans forward, elbows on his knees, and the mug clasped loosely in his hands.
"Tell me what you know about bodies, John. And how."
John stares down at his mug for a minute, inhaling the fragrant steam while he thinks. "I'm a doctor," he says slowly "I know it. There's my life, with you... And then there's this stuff in my head. Pouring into my brain. It's from a different place. All this information about anatomy and pathogens, trauma and pharmacology. I... I care for other humans, Sherlock. And I want to fix them when they're broken. That's something that I do. I can do." He rubs a hand across his face. "I don't understand. I have memories of... of doing it. I've sewn together men on the battlefield..." John shudders deeply, and a bit of his tea sloshes over. He sets the mug down and pulls out a tissue to wipe the spot off the floor. He looks worriedly at Sherlock. "What does this mean?"
Sherlock shakes his head. His eyes are fireworks of gray and blue, dazzling and obsessive. "You're just so interesting, John. I can't predict what you'll do next. What do you mean 'battlefield'?"
John stares at Sherlock, and his eyes are dark, so dark and blown they're nearly black. His face is still and frozen. "I'm a soldier?" But his voice doesn't rise at the end of the question. He's asking Sherlock to explain, not confirm.
"Huh." Sherlock releases a puff of air like a minor explosion. "It makes sense. More sense than being a doctor. I mean, you came from a camouflage egg. You've got weapons, and seem to know how to use them." He pauses for a minute. "John, can you dissociate from the knives? Put them down, or throw them?" As always, Sherlock is sidetracked with experimental questions.
John looks considering. He twitches his knives into place in his palms, and looks at a yellow smiley face painted on the wall over the sofa. "I'll aim over there?" Sherlock shrugs. He doesn't care where John aims, nothing in the flat is irreplaceable or sacrosanct.
Thwack! Thwack! The sounds of the knives sinking deep into the wall are so close together as to be almost one. Sherlock jolts up in his chair. There's a handle vibrating out of each yellow eye.
"You have excellent aim, John," Sherlock rumbles, very approving. John eyes crinkle, and his lips twitch. He twists his hands and the knives are once again clasped in his palms. He winks them out.
"Fascinating."
John smiles in response, but his face is tense and worried. "I'm a soldier," he repeats softly. "There's something about that..." He leans his head back and stares at the ceiling. "Something is... a bit not good."
After a prolonged silence, Sherlock stands up and walks over behind his stressed and tired John. He cards his hands through John's short hair, rubbing light circles against his temples, and the curve of bone behind his ear. Sherlock doesn't touch people as a general rule, but John is not a person. He's more like... Sherlock doesn't know what to call him. A pet, perhaps? No, too demeaning. He brooded the egg, was there when John hatched, helped him into the world. His hatchling. Sherlock feels attached to him just as much as John obviously feels attached to Sherlock. Sherlock decides not to name their relationship at this point. Certainly John is more than an experiment.
John closes his eyes and leans his head back into Sherlock's hands. The gentle massage continues, and soon John is asleep. Sherlock leaves him in his chair and throws himself on the sofa to think. He pyramids his hands under his chin and closes his eyes. How can John know he's a doctor. And a soldier. When he's less than a week old? Of course, how can any of this be happening. In a moment, Sherlock will stand up and start more notes in the lab book about John.
Sherlock carries him to the bed after a few hours, rather inelegantly, but John is so deeply asleep as to be almost unconscious, and so he doesn't stir. Tossing the blankets over him, Sherlock continues with his ruminations late into the night before slipping under the sheets with John. He rubs his nose in the short, tickling hair on John's head, and breathes in the warm, earthy smell of him. It makes Sherlock strangely happy to nestle here, in a bed he'd only previously designated for passing out when he was at the end of his rope. He pulls and prods at John until he's tugged the smaller man up to curl against his chest, spooning him. John is yielding, and slurs Sherlock with barely opened eyes before settling back into sleep. Sherlock bends his arms tightly around John's chest and follows him there.
They sleep late into the morning.