Note: Thanks everyone for reviewing. So, here's Chapter Three. Mostly goes into the case.
Disclaimer: Belongs to Moffat/Gatiss etc., not mine.
As the train quickly passed through the grey but beautifully and intriguingly lit countryside, John looked at Sherlock. He didn't notice as he was staring out of the window. But his eyes didn't move, they were transfixed on some distant point. Obviously, he was not observing (or even enjoying) the beautiful little shacks in the small gardens that scurried away in the distance. He hadn't moved since they had passed Leicester and appeared to be in deep thought. He did that frequently when starting to investigate, but usually, after a while of thinking, he took notes or fumbled with his phone to hurriedly gather information when new ideas crossed his mind. Not this time, though. He just sat still, staring.
John had settled on his seat with a book and not minded his friend's immobility at first. But after one hour, he had started to look up often, just to make sure Sherlock was still breathing. No movement of the curled head, no edgy remark about John's concerned looks. That was new. He was studying his features with knitted brows. He looked the same way as he did when they were sitting at the breakfast table together. Something was bothering his friend and he had no idea what it was. Being his sociable and peace loving self, he decided not to enquire again but to keep the matter on the radar.
Instead, he quietly said, "Sherlock, we're almost there."
Sherlock did not move for another two minutes. Then, he suddenly turned his head towards John and nodded. A small but tormented smile on his lips. Sherlock has faked an emotion. He never does that to me. What is he hiding? John was really growing concerned now. Sherlock was absolutely not being himself. The smaller man almost forgot that he was still a bit angry with his friend because of the mean remarks about Molly in the morgue earlier. He really liked her. She was a kind and well-meaning person, despite her morbid job choice. And John had always thought that Sherlock liked her as well, even though he never showed affections towards the pathologist. That was understood. Sherlock generally did not show affections. Towards anyone. But, most of the times, he didn't seem to mind her company which, to go by Sherlock's measure, meant he liked her. His overly negative remark about Molly was just childish. Wait a second. Sherlock reacts like a grumpy teenager or even a stubborn 9 year old whenever things don't go the way he wants them to go. Is this his equivalent of pulling her hair in the schoolyard? He didn't get his attention and now he's punishing her?
"You're such a git." But why does it bother him that much?
"Why am I a git this time?"
"You know very well!"
"John, you're behaving like a wife again."
With that, the train became slower as it rolled into the station. The men started assembling their coats and little suitcases (they were to stay in Leeds overnight as they had to stop by four different funeral homes). Neither attempted to resume the conversation.
_.:0:._
When they arrived at the first funeral home an obese man, about 50 years of age, was waiting for them in front of a large window decorated with satin and flowers. He looked nervous. His dark suite was a little too small for him. With huge eyes he greeted them and ushered them into the house, looking around the street suspiciously as he did so.
The home was located in a quiet area some miles away from the town centre. The houses around seemed normal, not shabby but also not nice. Immensely uninteresting, Sherlock noticed.
"I am sorry to rush you, but I don't want to cause a fuss. If people notice the police and too many foreigners, they start talking. The business is all I've got, you know."
"Good evening, gentlemen", a voice from a corner of the room said, "thank you very much for coming so quickly. Lestrade said you had remarkable skills and that your specialty was cases like this. I'm Sergeant Cooper and this here", he waved in the direction of the miserable looking man, "is Howard Morgan, the owner of the funeral home. No papers have been informed about this matter, but they will find out sooner or later. We don't want some hysteria happening… you know how people can be…. Missing corpses and everything… Erm, which one of you…?" The Sergeant was a short man in his early forties. He had dark, neatly cut hair with some grey starting to spread.
"That'll be me, then", Sherlock interrupted him, "let's get to the point and go through everything of importance, I'm sure your mother is already waiting for you with dinner ready." An offended and questioning look shot to the small man's features.
"Uh… what?"
"You have been divorced recently and moved in with your mother as your ex-wife stayed in your house and you had nowhere else to go. Your mother has been doing your laundry and most of the cooking for you since you moved back in. I think you might be allergic to the new washing powder; it caused a rash on your neck. Tell her to try another one. You might say that you want to get your own flat as soon as possible, but in all honesty you have no such plans." The small man shot Sherlock a quick grim look but soon smiled.
"I'm sorry, he does that." John simply stated. "My name is John Watson, I am his… erm… advisor, I guess."
"Yeah, well. It's not that I haven't been warned about him. Let's go to the next room, shall we? The bodies had been brought in here before they disappeared. They were to be buried in the morning and the coffins have to be prepared a day before. Usually flowers and stuff…" The Sergeant clearly was not comfortable with the topic.
"Good, now Mr Morgan, is it?", Sherlock asked. The owner nodded. "Could you tell me everything you remember?" They made their way to the big, carpeted room. A lot of open coffins were scattered there. "But, first of all, everybody STOP", Sherlock yelled as soon as they had entered. The other men froze immediately.
"Why do we stop?", John asked through gritted teeth, afraid to move even his jaw.
"I see that everything is still in here, presumably how you have found it as you discovered the loss of the bodies", Sherlock said, addressing the owner. Without waiting for him to agree, he went on, "that is very good. How many people have entered the room and examined the coffins since then, and who were they? Just explain everything that happened as precisely as possible." Sherlock's eyes darted around the room, taking in every bit of information he could find, cataloguing it immediately.
"Well, there was me, of course and Mrs Gilligan. She was the one who turned up in the night and wanted to see her late husband a last time. She is a friend of the family, that's why I made an exception and let her in. And…"
"How old and how tall is Mrs Gilligan?"
"She's 72, rather short, why?"
Sherlock ignored the question. "Go on, who else was here?" Still, no one moved and the other three men gazed towards Sherlock. To someone overlooking the scene, it would have seemed very puzzling, but very amusing.
"After we discovered that Ed, her husband, wasn't there, I first thought we'd opened the wrong coffin, so I looked in another one. It was also empty. I couldn't remember having so many empty coffins in this room and grew suspicious. After opening all of them, I found that about two thirds of the bodies were missing. I tried to calm down Mrs Gilligan and called the police."
"How many people from the force were in here, Sergeant?"
"Erm, I guess…"
"Don't guess."
"Right," Cooper took a moment and counted in his head. "Three. Me, a young Constable called Mitchell and a crime scene specialist, who found absolutely nothing. That's one of the things, I wanted to…"
"Yes, later. How are this Mitchell and your specialist built?" He accentuated the word dismissively.
"Mitchell is about five foot nine and a sporty type. Miss Brown is five foot two and slim with rather long legs."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It's too soon after your divorce to ask her out. I'd give it another few weeks. Besides, she is not very good at her job. Has one of them been shot in the knee some time ago?"
"What? No. Why do you want to know all of this?"
Sherlock shook his head in disbelief, made a big wavy gesture and looked at John with wide-open eyes that seemed to say 'Can you believe them? Oh, people are so dull'.
"Don't you do the look on me, Sherlock. Just explain what this is about, will you? I kind of want to move. I think, my leg is about to cramp."
"The carpet!" Sherlock exclaimed. John started to understand but the other two men did not know what he meant.
"This is a carpet floor. The nice thing about carpets is the fact that it is easier to trace imprints on them. Your Miss Brown should have at least noticed the fact that there were too many. After the coffins had been rolled in on their carts there was some rummaging from you, Mr Morgan, presumably as you put the flowers on top of every coffin. Then, there are the prints of an old lady who isn't walking too steadily anymore, Mrs Gilligan, I suppose. She did not move around a lot. Your very small feet, Sergeant Cooper, are all over the place, as well as your Constable's and Miss Brown's. Although, she did not inspect the windows carefully. Don't bother to tell her, though. She won't find anything of interest there. They did not enter through the windows."
Cooper and Morgan stood in the room, still not daring to move their limbs, with open mouths. Both looked at the dark red of the carpet, trying to find the information Sherlock easily seemed to read off the floor.
"There are imprints of two more pairs of feet", Sherlock went on talking as he slid his phone out from inside his coat and took a few photos of the carpeted floor and the rest of the room. "One from a man, about six foot tall, shoe size nine and a half. He was shot in the knee approximately six months ago. The other, also male, is taller. At least six foot three and wears size eleven shoes."
"Pfff, well, yes, thanks. That's…. precise." Cooper managed to say.
"Yes. You can move now, by the way. That should be all for today. I'll be talking to you soon, Sergeant. Now, we need to go to our hotel where I shall think about a few things. Tomorrow, I want to see the other funeral homes. And, could you get me as much information about all of the bodies in this building as you can get? Not just the ones that have been stolen, all of them. A full picture is crucial. How old were they, what killed them, you get the idea."
Before the Sergeant could reply anything, Sherlock was out the door. John quickly bid his farewells and hurried after his friend.
"You're a show-off!" John remarked, a small smile on his face, as they got into the cab that had been waiting for them. Sherlock just nodded, grinning broadly. "This is going to be interesting. I'll have to run some ideas by you when we've arrived at the hotel. Now I need to think." With that, he leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes, drifting off into his mind palace.
_.:0:._
They hadn't spoken throughout the whole drive. Now, John was getting the suitcases out of the car and paid the cabdriver while Sherlock made his way to the door, clearly not intending to help his friend with their luggage.
"So what do you think about all this?" John inquired, breathing heavily, as he tried to keep up with the pace of the taller man (who, on top of that, did not have to carry the extra weight of the suitcases).
"Not yet. I'm still thinking. Why are you so slow?" Sherlock stopped right in front of the big door and looked around while he waited for John to catch up.
As they went through the door and made their way to the reception desk, where a young, friendly looking woman was waiting for them to come closer, John barked, "I would not be so slow if you would bother to carry your own stuff. I'm not your personal servant, you know? You absolutely never care to help me with such things."
"Your remarks are really becoming unnerving lately. For the last time, John, we are not married!" At this, the woman, who had heard them, looked at John commiseratively.
"Hello Miss. I booked two rooms, the name is Holmes", Sherlock said.
"Two? Erm,… yes of course", she said, looked onto a computer screen and nodded. "Here are your keys, Sir. The rooms are on the second floor on the left. Do you need…"
"No, thanks, that'll be all", Sherlock interrupted, taking one of the keys and finally grabbing his suitcase. Before he went towards a lift, he turned to John, "I'll talk to you later in the evening." Then he left him there with the receptionist.
As John picked up his key, she looked at him again with pitiful eyes. "They can be a handful sometimes, can't they? But, you know, no matter how badly my boyfriend and I fight, we try to never go to bed angry at one another."
"We're not… Jesus, never mind. Thanks for the keys."