Hours passed silently in the lab as House's fellows meticulously conducted test upon test. The only noises were clinks of petri dishes and feminine huffs of disapproval when each result came back negative. John helped the two with what he could, mostly translating Sherlock's eccentric notes, but he eventually retreated back to House's fishbowl of an office for a cuppa.
House lounged like a pro. He was twirling in his chair as he stared at the whiteboard with his cane propped beneath his chin. Symptoms pertaining to liver failure were written in his sloppy scrawl. House had already solved that puzzle, of course. He was completely emerged in this new murder case, tossing facts around internally.
John knew better than to interrupt him when he got like that so he typed slowly on his computer with avid concentration for twenty minutes. House absently wondered how someone who blogged constantly could only type with his two index fingers. It reminded him of a chicken pecking uselessly.
House got to his feet, limping over to refill his mug with lukewarm coffee.
"Can I hook my laptop up with your telly?" John inquired, glancing at the taciturn diagnostician out of the corner of his eye.
"Why?" House grunted, not caring one way or the other.
"Once your fellows come back we'll conference call Sherlock," The former soldier explained. "It's just past the three hour mark, there should be another body at Bart's. Lestrade would've brought it in himself, Sherlock promised that he wouldn't poke his nose around crime scenes without me."
John didn't wait for House's approval, he started pulling chords out of his bag and bringing them over to the outlet by the flatscreen. He squinted at the small ports on the side of the device before frowning down towards the American adaptors he'd purchased in London. Locating the correct one, he went to work.
"I'm surprised you know how to do that." House admitted, "I remember you and technology not having a mutually beneficial relationship."
John snorted, "True enough, I suppose. My mate Mike taught me the basics on this before I left. He knows all about tech stuff from teaching lectures."
Deft hands untangled long chords as he walked back to plug them into his computer. John's desktop background with the Bart's logo flashed on the television. Jiggling the mouse, he pulled up the hospital's wireless network effortlessly before opening his Skype and logging in.
Just as he finished entering his password, House's fellows wandered back into the office. Master and Thirteen sat on the opposite side of the table, facing away from the glass wall. Both were glaring at the reports in their hands as if they couldn't believe them.
"We couldn't really find anything that wasn't already in the notes." Thirteen admitted quietly after House cleared his throat.
"Oh, fantastic," House goaded. "How much help are you, then?"
"Greg, not helping." John scolded his friend sternly, earning startled glances from the female doctors when House stuck out his tongue childishly but otherwise acquiesced.
"So," John continued seamlessly, "What do we need to find out?"
Masters frowned. "Okay…"
They usually started through cases listing off what they already knew, not creating more questions. It went against House's diagnostic methods. But it was almost like her boss was allowing Dr. Watson to run the show. It would have been dreadfully amusing if it wasn't so shocking.
"Alexia's stable for now." Chase strode in and tossed his files onto the desk before pouring himself some coffee and hovering by the table. "I told her family they could be in the room to keep her company. We'll have to see if the hypertension escalates. If it wasn't a variceal hemorrhage and the bleeding in her liver was caused by a heart condition, the next step is surgery for a pacemaker."
"She wouldn't survive invasive surgery-" Thirteen objected but was quickly interrupted.
House quickly rattled off, "It was clearly Budd Chiari syndrome. The heart palpitations and hypertension looked like it was from the energy drinks. But too much salt? Kidneys go through the wringer, early onset cirrhosis exacerbated into acute BCS. She won't need a pacemaker. Her heart problems were a cause not a symptom. Now, can we go back to the more interesting zombie brain?"
It wasn't a question. John clicked the video and they all turned to examine the flatscreen. It looped the before and after scans of the most recent victim. A lobe of brain would appear and disappear. It was like a sick sideshow trick.
"What do we need to find out?" John repeated. "Injection site behind the ear. No signs of a struggle, which indicates sedation. No sexual assault, therefore, primary motive remains unclear. Then, the lobotomy."
His finger tapped on the glass desk, "What drugs could force the synapses into in-vitro artificial activity? What kind of treatment could keep the body, let alone the brain, alive in these conditions? Unsterilized environment at the crime scenes, we don't know what sort of set-up he has but the tools he used were surgical-grade. So, medical background."
Chase frowned, not sure what to think about this strange methodology. It was a mix of criminology and medicine. Oh, he mentally slapped himself, remembering reading that crazy blog. The Science of Deduction. Forcing himself to concentrate, he sat at the end of the desk beside Masters.
"The scans don't show any signs of cerebral hypoxia, meaning the brain never lost oxygen despite the transfer." Master added, eyes trained on the screen as she spoke carefully. It was obvious she was still coming to terms with the sheer cruelty of the situation.
"It's astonishing that no clots or swelling formed." Chase added.
"Perhaps the pain receptors are a way to keep the brain active and detract from swelling? Something imitating or affecting the myelin sheath?" Thirteen sounded unsure of herself.
"So, he injects the girls," John twined his hands on the desk in front of him, lips curled in distaste. "Then he opens their skull. He removes the portion of the brain he needs, and leaves the rest for Scotland Yard to find. Why would he leave so much evidence behind? Then he probably puts the organ into a container for transport, but what? Liquid would effectively cut off oxygen, electric jolts to the raw brain would cause clear damage on the scans."
"If you ignore the fact that this brain is incomplete and the synapses are firing too fast, on the surface it looks undamaged," Thirteen hummed. "Perhaps he temporarily freezes them?"
"The fusion between different lobes of brain is another angle to consider," House sighed. "Those scans make it seem like the opposing dendrites and axons are working seamlessly together. But the victims have different blood types. They should by their very nature reject foreign platelets. The blood is sufficiently oxygenized…"
"So, we have a clear case of a blood substitute being used." John agreed. "The substitute wouldn't be administered to the dead, only the host. It's probably being pumped into the host at regular intervals."
"The blood substitute would have to work with whatever drug they used for sedation." Masters piped in.
John smirked, "Which the murderer thinks is untraceable."
"'I love the brilliant ones, always so desperate to get caught'" House quoted, John's wane amusement at the remark not reaching clear blue eyes.
"The condition of the host body," Chase's accent was purposefully exaggerated. "It would require some sort of mechanical ventilation, forcing stable lung compressions. Ablation therapy for the heart, oropharyngeal airway keeping the muscles relaxed."
"What did the host start off with?" Thirteen asked, her thin lips pursed.
"It's hard to tell from the scans because he only shows down to the cervical curve." John replied, clicking so the full video played. "No time stamp, we don't know how long the original host went without her brain before the first lobe was weaved in."
"Spinal chord," House muttered to himself.
"What?" John asked, head cocked to the side.
"The spinal chord and brain stem are what the host kept." House's voice grew louder. "Then the frontal, parietal, temporal and occipital followed."
"So, how many victims before he considers the brain complete?" Masters voice was tinged with anguish. "If we want to go into individual sections remaining, I can list up to a dozen smaller areas in the brain he could add piece by piece."
The British doctor shook his head in negation, "Sherlock thinks three more."
"Three?" House echoed. "So, basal ganglia, thalamus and hypothalamus together with the cerebellum being the crowning chunk of gray matter."
His fellows flinched at the crude language. John didn't seem to notice, however. He was immune to callous declarations after being exposed to Sherlock for so many years. Though of course you would never hear the consulting detective refer to any body part as a 'chunk'.
"Let's get Sherlock on the line."
"Didn't you say it's like one in the morning there?" Chase inquired.
"Sherlock's not exactly known for keeping normal sleeping hours when a case in on."
Only House heard the sheer fondness laced in that statement.
"If the murderer kept his pattern," John continued, "the next body would've already been found by now and been transported to Bart's for autopsy."
Thirteen and Masters, despite the serious peculiarity of this situation, gave each other knowing and excited looks. Sherlock Holmes was, from the photos they'd seen, a very attractive man.
Chase saw their conspiring looks, scoffing, though he too was excited to meet the infamous detective. House ignored them all equally, twirling his cane around with a bored expression.
After adjusting the webcam so all of the doctors were in view, John typed in the number for Bart's morgue on his laptop. The line connected after a few rings. Molly Hooper's face appeared wearing an awkward grimace of a smile. Something was wrong.
"'Ello, John." She waved, glancing around at the other people on her screen.
"What's wrong?" John demanded in his Captain Watson tone, standing up with an immediate burst of adrenalin.
The three fellows stared up at the doctor in astonishment, not expecting this soft-spoken man to sound so authoritative.
Molly bit her lip, "Okay, sorry, just, um, don't freak out-"
"Molly!" John barked.
"Mycroft dropped by right after the call came from Detective Inspector Lestrade. They found the sixth victim by the banks of the Themes," Molly hurried to explain. "I don't know what he said but Sherlock left with him. He hasn't been answering his cell, I've tried."
John brought his hand to massage his temple as he fought blind panic.
"Hello, Molly," House cheerfully waved at her.
"Oh, Dr. House!" Molly's fingers nervously tucked a few strands of hair behind her ear. "You've been well?"
"Of course, and-" House was cut off by John's glare.
"Did Sherlock find anything before he left?"
"No, not that I know of. If he did he didn't say anything."
"Have you started on the new body?"
"Yes, I was just prepping for organ removal."
"Injection site the same?" House asked, curious.
"Yes. We have an ID, as well." Molly disappeared from the screen for a moment. "Her name is Fran Eisner, date of birth August 10, 1996."
"Can you tell which part of the brain was removed?"
Molly frowned, glancing over her shoulder at the corpse. "I haven't examined her much yet. The incision cuts from the side at an angle between the sphenoid to the temporal of the skull. It's her left brow on either side, across the back. From the looks of that I'd say thalamus or basal ganglia."
"Alright," John stated quietly. "Thanks for your help, Molly."
"Sorry," she repeated.
This British woman was very skittish, thought Chase, wondering why.
After disconnecting the call, John was immediately typing into his laptop. House instantly recognized the number and smirked. Mycroft Holmes would detest the very notion of a conference call.
The call connects after one ring with a mild, "Ah, John-"
"Cut the shite, Mycroft." John demands quietly, his temper flaring. "Where is he?"
Mycroft's delicate eyebrow quirked, frowning at the group of assembled medical professionals. He caught House's gaze for a moment, his face pointedly stoic and unreadable. House couldn't help but smirk back at the smarmy git.
"My brother was regrettably required for urgent business."
John's voice took on a ruthless edge, "And what business might that be?"
The elder Holmes sighed, looking very much put upon. He clearly did not want to say this in front of an audience.
"It would seem that… this current case might have ties with a former one."
His heart was beating rapidly, John almost had a panic attack until Mycroft added, "Obviously not James Moriarty, Dr. Watson. He remains in a grave. And you know very well which one."
"Than what-"
"I believe you called this particular case, 'The Devoutly Deranged.'"
House stiffened, "You mean that cult from Forest Hill?"
"Indeed, Dr. House."
John dropped back into his chair, dazed. "Well, fuck."
TBC.