So sorry about the wait for this chapter ;-; I had a huge writers block, lost track of time, and was just generally busy with exams. I'm sure you'll all recognise this, though I have worked on changing the plot from the original and I'm working on my own twists for the next chapter~ Beta'd by gbheart C:
Chapter 9 - A Study In Pink
John remembered that, when he was roughly seven years old, he wanted to go on a date with pretty Casey from his class. The idea was silly, and he didn't even know what a date was, so he dutifully went to Harry for her splendid advice, explaining the situation as best he could and smartly confirming that he no longer felt the opposite gender to be infectious.
Well, Johnny. She'd begun, adopting a wise and aged air. When you go on a date, you have to like the person you're going with, it'll be a bit awkward, and there's always some fancy food and drink. If you do well, and I know you will, she winked at him, then you get to shag 'em!
In hindsight, even as an innocent seven year old, he should've realised something was wrong when Harry simply avoided explaining what 'shag' meant, maniacally grinning as she did so. It was unfortunate for her that he ended up going to their mother and proudly announcing 'I'm going to shag Casey!' The exasperated lecture that Harry went through as a consequence of that was bitterly amusing, his memory of the situation blurred, but still fond, even now.
It was a peculiar memory, one he hadn't recalled for a while, but it seemed to ring true. Sherlock was attractive, even if his abrasive personality detracted from that slightly, and they had a certain aptitude for falling into awkward silences. Pasta and salad weren't exactly the 'fanciest' of dishes, but they were on the right track with the wine. He wasn't going to jump ahead of himself on the last part, though. The fact that Sherlock had so far ignored each time someone referred to them as a couple was bemusing. Sherlock was nothing if not opinionated and headstrong, so the silence was just plain odd.
He poked listlessly at his pasta, awaiting Sherlock's return from the bathroom like an abandoned puppy. He was getting free food because of the man, and it seemed rude to indulge himself without Sherlock.
Without really thinking about it, he turned to observing all of the other patrons in the restaurant, attempting to deconstruct various details of their beings and weave them together like Sherlock did. In a way, it was something he did as a doctor. He had to look at a patient and find all their symptoms, see if any of them correlated with past diseases, or something that could be inherited via genes, and then make his diagnoses. He found himself sinking into his doctor mind-set instead of the one he imagined Sherlock's to be, watching as a man took a small antihistamine tablet before digging into a dessert topped with nuts. What else was there about the man? He was dressed up slightly, inevitably balding, and currently grinning at what his friend was saying. There was a patch of creeping red on his neck, eczema that the antihistamine counteracted, but, even with all that, John couldn't loop any of these random facts into a viable explanation of who the man was.
Sherlock appeared at the back of the restaurant, catching his gaze on the man and swooping back down next to his ear, once he'd sat down. "Therapist: look at his tie and stance."
The tie, a solid light blue, told him barely anything at all. There was some sort of dirt smudged on it but nothing else truly noteworthy. The man's posture was equally devoid of anything for John to grab onto.
"It'll become clearer once the friend begins discussing his recent issues at work." Sherlock took a quick bite of his food, elaborating on his statement a moment later. "Watch for the way he moves from a casual and relaxed position to something more upright and impersonal. It's an ingrained behavioural move – one he hardly even registers anymore."
John waited, only having to take two sips from his wine before the man shifted. It was obvious, now that it had been pointed out to him. The man lost some of his loose carelessness from before, his actions seeming more neutral. On his own, if he had been observing the pair, then he would have thought nothing of the change. A tense topic, perhaps, nothing more. It simply wouldn't occur to him that the man's posture was a reflection of his work.
He turned back to Sherlock, grinning as he said, "That's bloody brilliant."
Sherlock regarded him blankly, lips tightening a fraction before he acknowledged John's praise with a delicate tilt of his head. John felt like he had to write the words down, immortalise them with paper and pen, before flashing the page every time Sherlock did something commendable. It wasn't his intention to stroke Sherlock's ego – the man knew he was intelligent and effectively utilised that – but he did want Sherlock to understand that John cared. The wary, defensive way Sherlock responded to praise was beginning to bother him. Sherlock didn't outright reject compliments, a stereotypical quality he was beginning to find in young teenage girls, but he didn't appear to take them in either.
He picked at his food.
"Do you ever go out with anyone?" John asked. It was apparent that Sherlock did not seem to have any friends outside of him, but he still wanted to know the exact scope of Sherlock's lack of socialising.
"I've taken Cranium out with me a few times, though that isn't what you're asking."
"I'm a fill in for a skull?" He demanded, amused beneath faux indignation. It wasn't difficult to imagine Sherlock in a public restaurant with Cranium, horrified patrons watching them. It did prove his theory that Sherlock had dabbled in the physical side of relationships, rather than the more intimate and emotional one, but that only brought his thoughts back to when Sherlock had stood over him, harshly saying 'I've never had sex with affection.'
He ignored that thought. People said stupid things when they were angry, and it wasn't hard to figure out that Sherlock treated sex with an experimental touch, the same that he'd extended to John a few times.
John went through some more of his pasta, pondering how to phrase his next line of questioning without coming across as too terse. Sherlock regarded him curiously before turning his gaze to outside the window, the passing traffic capturing him for only a moment.
"He assumes we're dating because I've never brought a living human with me here." Sherlock shrugged lightly, "Or a dead one. Necrophilia never has held my interest." John spluttered, food abruptly going the wrong way, but Sherlock ignored him. "I've also made it particularly clear that friendship is not something I partake in, so a date would be the next most logical conclusion to come to, especially once you factor in our body language."
He washed down the pasta he'd choked on with some wine, throat tight and uncomfortable. For what he feared wouldn't be the last time, he wondered if Sherlock had some sort of a filter for what he said. As perceptive as it was for Sherlock to have realised part of what he wanted to ask, it still wasn't the whole answer he was looking for.
Again, he cleared his throat. "You don't date, then?"
"What do you consider the necessary criteria to be?"
For a single, outlandish moment, he was tempted to use Harry's definition. Instead, he fell upon something a little less out there. "It's when two people who like each other go out and have fun."
Sherlock crinkled his brow, fingers tapping out a barely-there rhythm on the table, a physical sign that he was somewhat uncomfortable. "Vague description at best," he noted quietly. "I've never been in that exact scenario, though I have dined with two now-convicted murderers as a part of my work. Sharing a meal with a murderer is far less entertaining than would be expected." He took in John's surprised expression with delicate neutrality.
Slowly, John nodded, absorbing the fact that Sherlock had been that close to violent killers. Sherlock sounded like an awful mix between an adrenaline junkie, someone with a death wish, and an arrogant sod. He somehow doubted that Sherlock would have informed the police that he was going on a bloody date with a killer, instead relying on his own instinct and charm to keep him alive.
He realised Sherlock was waiting for him to speak, the rhythm of his fingers turning into an uneven drum.
"I thought you would've been the type to experiment."
Sherlock stared at him. "I experimented with sex. Relationships were too –"
"Affectionate?" John supplied.
"Time consuming, arduous, constant."
He wasn't sure if the lack of response to his supplication meant something. Did Sherlock agree with him, or had he intentionally not place 'affectionate' in his own list of reasons?
They lapsed into another one of their common silences, the background filled with the buzz of mutual chatter and cutlery clinking together. Sherlock seemed sort of lazy, when it came to social interaction that wasn't strictly necessary or beneficial. Generally, this was an area most people would excel in. People weren't utterly pointless – stupid, at times, yes – but it was natural to form relationships, particularly strong ones, throughout life.
As strange as it was for someone to often avoid relations with other people, it wasn't bad, he supposed. Some people avoided sex – others avoided large social gatherings. In truth, it was just because Sherlock seemed so comfortable with being isolated, yet simultaneously starved of contact and praise, that John felt the need to push at this. He'd seen the way Sherlock acted, and how that would alienate him in many situations, so maybe this was just something he'd never attempted due to previous shortcomings.
Or maybe John was just being hopeful based on minimal evidence. Either way, Sherlock wasn't going to break the silence.
He coughed and Sherlock's gaze flicked from the window to his face. It was a silent 'go on, you have my attention' gesture, but, whereas someone else might lean forward or turn their body, Sherlock stayed perfectly still. It made him look stiff and practised. If it weren't for the straight back and confidence etched into his every pore, he'd look like a frightened wild animal.
"It's fine if you don't do relationships."
"I know it's fine." Sherlock retorted, a hint of confusion marring his face.
Now that John considered it, the lack of bodily response from Sherlock also made him harder to read. He'd done the same thing when Anthea had appeared in their doorway, pushing the box of items inside with what could only be described as bored sass. By appearing callous and rigid, almost above it all, in a sense, Sherlock pushed himself away from others even further. It was somewhat the same thing the therapist did: burying any outwards response for the gift of stoicism.
"I'm just saying, it's all fine."
The composure broke and Sherlock shifted in his chair, uncharacteristically quiet at the words. Oddly enough, he hoped for Angelo to pop out suddenly and interrupt whatever had transpired, but instead it was the 'ding!' of Sherlock's phone.
It was peculiar, hearing only one side of a conversation and attempting to figure out what was being said. He could tell that they were being offered another case, which was blindingly obvious the moment Lestrade was mentioned. A brief grin flitted across Sherlock's face, followed by a quick command for the scene to be left exactly as it was.
The call ended without anything remotely like a goodbye from Sherlock, who already had his scarf bundled around his neck. "Come on, John." He said brightly, and bounded out.
John looked at the table setting, his own plate polished clean of food, while Sherlock's was still over half full. Angelo did say it was free, but it didn't feel right to leave without paying.
He left with a backwards glance, waiting for someone to call him out on his vice, but was only met with Sherlock's sudden presence by his side.
"Mycroft's car," Sherlock waved his hand in the direction they were walking. "Faster, and the driver won't feel apprehensive about coming so close to a crime scene."
The car was parked at the end of the street. He greeted the driver, but Sherlock ignored them, sitting with his body tilted towards the window, apparently lost in thought as he stared out over London. He waited a few minutes, hoping to not interrupt Sherlock if something as vital as possibly getting a killer off the streets was on his mind, but he did need to ask a few things. After all, John had work in the morning, and knew that if this ate considerably into the minimum seven hours of sleep he needed, then he'd look like utter shit tomorrow. It was hardly a confidence booster if the doctor looked worse than the patient - much like a personal trainer who was erring on the unhealthy side with their weight.
Plus, it just wasn't professional to fall asleep at work.
"Ask away," Sherlock drawled a minute later, beginning to text as he did so.
The question of why the driver knew where the crime scene was before him was on his lips, but he quickly put that down to Mycroft and his otherworldly knowledge of all things concerning Sherlock.
Other than that, what he really wanted to know was what the crime was about. He'd done his fair share of hospital rotations, visited the morgue, and watched plenty of terrible explicit medical drama, but that didn't mean that he was necessarily desensitised towards the dead. He was generally fine with the sight of blood, and he hadn't even squirmed when he'd seen someone with broken bone poking through skin, but there was a fine distinction between alive and dead that John couldn't ignore. He knew some cases the Yard took on were gory, but the possibility that he might be seeing one of those cases was unsettling in the extreme.
Sherlock was staring at him, as though he'd accidentally breathed life into his thoughts, perhaps through some unconscious action that displayed his fear without tact.
Slightly shakily he explained himself. "I'm nervous about the chance of dealing with a body."
Sherlock made an enlightened huff. "You fear having an intense response to a cadaver that has been attacked, as you have never been given the opportunity to see it in first person. As a doctor, it would also make sense for you to have an emotional response towards someone who has been through pain."
He nodded. Conversation, in part, was easier when the other person simply understood.
"That level of mutilation doesn't often occur, you'll find, unless you're dealing with a particularly vicious murderer. They've finally caught on that a copious quantity of blood tends to leave a solid trail of evidence and enquiries to follow through with."
John smiled uneasily. That was true, he supposed. People knew where major arteries were located, where to shove a knife to cause either blinding pain or death, but often seemed to miscalculate when it came to the sheer amount of blood that would flow from such a wound. In films, he was usually fronted with wounds that had so much blood spurting that it resembled a morbid fountain, or so little that he had to marvel at how false the rate of blood coagulation was.
Still, that didn't tell him if there was a body or not, nor, if there was a body, what state it would be in.
"What're you going to be investigating?"
"Fourth victim of the recent suicide killer," Sherlock murmured.
The niggling worry left him, replaced with a soft sort of sadness for the victims. He'd read about it in the papers, once or twice, but had assumed the killer had been caught after seeing no more articles. What sort of clues would someone like this leave behind? There had been three victims, last he'd heard, and yet the police had had no real luck pinning down any substantial leads. He had no doubts that Sherlock would find something the police had missed, but this was a serial killer, not a jilted lover. This case had a stronger undercurrent of danger – this was someone who felt no compunctions over killing again, and probably would if they weren't stopped.
Sherlock, naturally, seemed confident. He didn't appear to have the same internal struggle, but John couldn't be sure. The car pulled to a slow stop, and he willed his fear away. This was a great opportunity for him as a doctor, especially if he ever sought to further his career in medicine by going into trauma. Not everyone was given the chance to see a cadaver outside of a morgue.
Sherlock swept out of the car, and John followed, hoping that the killer hadn't gone through a wild epiphany where he decided to mutilate those he killed.
The scene looked semi-hectic, as police lights flashed in an uncoordinated cycle of bright light. A few officers scurried around, sticking to inside the perimeter and occasionally bring standard issue walkie-talkies to their lips. Lestrade and most of the other officers were already inside, trying to puzzle through what Sherlock knew was a fascinating mystery.
The lack of attention given to the perimeter made getting into the scene horrendously simple. If he felt like exerting more effort, which was pointless, he could sneak the entire way in without catching anyone's attention. John cast him a few uncertain glances, nervous about their unnoticed presence and the fact that he would be faced with a cadaver soon, but otherwise calmly confident.
A loud "Hey, Freak!" sounded, followed by the tell-tale slap of Donovan's heels clicking across the tarmac.
"Sally," he sighed, allowing his contempt and disdain at her presence be known. "We're here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade."
Instantly, she fired a succinct "why?" at him.
"I was invited."
"Why?"
"I think he wants me to take a look." He sarcastically snapped back.
Donovan raised her brows at him. "Well, you know what I think, don't you?"
When you do think, that is, he snapped internally, once more smelling an all too masculine deodorant on her. Just because Anderson's wife was away didn't mean that anyone else with sense wouldn't notice that the two of them were engaging in regular intercourse.
She sidestepped in front of them, blocking them before the doorway and pointedly looking at John. "And who's this?"
His retort, a spiteful jab at the sexual antics she'd participated in with Anderson, fell silent as John cut over him, lips pulled into a falsely placid smile. "Doctor John Watson. Would you prefer it if I wait out here, or can we just get on with it?"
John wasn't angry, not in the way he had been when he'd stormed out of 221B to visit his sister, but Donovan appeared to understand the finality of the words, letting them pass with a silent glare. He attempted to catch John's expression, to understand what exactly had caused him to stand against Donovan's petty attempts to halt them, but was met with a blank face and juxtaposing clenched fists.
He left it, for now. There would be plenty of opportunities to deconstruct the nuances of John's behaviour, now that they lived together. The case was his focal interest, and he wanted to rush into it and let it consume him, from the inside out, until it was solved and his mind decayed back into a viscid boredom.
Inside, the house had a thick, musty air, which complemented the decrepit feel nicely. Dust formed its own thin carpet along the floorboards, and mould was slowly creeping along damp corners. The staircase creaked urgently, and it only added more to the atmosphere. Fluorescent lighting highlighted all of these aspects, but gave him no clues as to who the killer was. All it told him was that whoever had caused these 'murder suicides' was well versed in the art of picking an abandoned area to leave a corpse, which wasn't too difficult a task if someone applied some general common sense, logic, and minor research.
The room on the left was already filled with forensic gear and equipment. Anderson stood there, face pinched and seething as he pointed at the set-up. "It's a crime scene; I don't want it contaminated."
Which was laughable, at best. Anderson would adore finding Sherlock's DNA on a body, especially if it was viable enough to frame him as a suspect. He brushed past Anderson, quickly taking a pair of latex gloves and snapping them on. Silently, he revelled in the feeling of the gloves pressing on his skin, in the implied meaning that he was finally going to have something to do, that the case was indeed consuming him. This freedom to be here, when previously he had never stepped foot on a crime scene during withdrawal, was gorgeous.
He impatiently waited for John to don his own gear before ascending the stairs, paying special attention to the steps and the lower section of the wall. There were no visible scuff marks, so the victim must have taken the stairs themselves. Why, though? What reason did the victims have to walk towards their own death? The newspaper reports had mentioned no suicidal tendencies from them, yet they didn't struggle in any way that left physical evidence.
Some sort of interference from the killer was a logical explanation, but that only opened up a whole new world of unanswered questions.
Lestrade met them at the second floor, tired eyes and stiff shoulders suggesting yet another lonely night spent on the sofa. He spared Sherlock a glance, awkward and tense, but Sherlock ignored him. Whatever petty ethics and morals dictated Lestrade's need to apologise for his mistrust in Sherlock's deductions was unneeded. The act of being allowed on such a delicate case was an adequate enough display of remorse.
"Upstairs," Lestrade sighed. "Her name's Jennifer Wilkins, according to her credit cards. We're running them now for contact details. Hasn't been here long - some kids found her." He paused, giving John a once over before deeming his presence at the scene acceptable. "I can give you two minutes max."
"May need more."
If the credit cards were left, then the crime wasn't motivated out of a need for identity or money. That whittled down the reasons for the killings significantly. There was no link to be made between the victims, at least not yet, but he had previously observed patterns where an obscure connection existed beneath layers of random events. He could admire a killer with this level of maintained effort in preserving their innocence, but senseless murder was nothing compared to a killer who strived to pick the perfect victim.
Next to him, John was flexing his fingers in a predictable pattern, his sudden nerves bleeding into unconscious physical actions. Maybe, once this was solved, it would be wise to indulge John with a few trips to the morgue. He'd have the opportunity to dissolve his fear and learn to identify time and cause of death with a smaller degree of inaccuracy.
"Just in here," Lestrade mumbled, pointing the way to a derelict room.
The most frustratingly prominent feature of the room was the woman's pink themed clothing, the intensity of the colour causing him to falter for a moment. The colour was so salient when compared to the faded greys framing her fallen body, like a beacon that kept continuously catching his attention. Pink – breast cancer, femininity, homosexuality, delirium tremens elephant euphemism, children, and the dianthus genus. An erratic burst of thought centred on one of the most obvious clues in the room. The colour was eye-catching, and the clothes in general were aesthetically pleasing and presentable. Too pretentious a colour for tame commerce-centred work, yet ideal for the rapid-paced media world.
On her right leg, spanning from the heel to the middle of her calf, he could see mud stains soaked into the sheer material of her stockings. The dirty solution had been picked up by the wheels of her suitcase and unintentionally deposited as evidence. Lestrade must have already had the suitcase removed to be searched, possibly as a test to see if Sherlock would notice. It seemed a bit above Lestrade to do so, but he was allied with Mycroft, so it wasn't too rash a leap to make. His brother undoubtedly wanted to know how much withdrawal was affecting with his ability to deduce a scene.
In a fit of annoyance, mostly at the fact that the suitcase had likely already been pawed through by some incompetent, he spitefully told the room's silent occupants to shut up.
Lestrade's head snapped up, eyes confused. "I didn't say anything."
The mere presence and existence of Lestrade meant that he was speaking, providing even more mindless background information for Sherlock to absorb. Sometimes it was helpful, but the buzz of second fight with his wife this month. She's becoming increasingly antsy about his constant work hours and will use it as an excuse for once he realises she is having an affair left an imprint inside his mind, as useless as his still-reeling thoughts on pink.
"You were thinking. It's annoying."
He stepped slowly towards the word carved into the ground, noting the small flakes of chipped nail polish lost in the gentle slopes of each letter. He could see that she was left-handed, though that didn't explain why she had written the word 'Rache'. Why write rache over revenge? Revenge in itself made no sense. There was no connection between the victims, nothing that implied a killer was working in a predictable, angry pattern.
Not only that, but why give rache a capital r, if it needed more effort to scratch into the floor? That said the word was a proper noun and required the capital. The only thing that fit the context was Rachel. The position of her hand – leaned past the e, as though she aimed to carve one final letter – supported this.
He knelt, running his hands down her coat. She'd been in rain recently but, upon inspecting her umbrella, it was clear that the rain had been coupled with strong winds. Her coat was too saturated to suggest that she'd quickly dashed through the rain, maybe to grab something or get into her taxi, so the wind must have made it impractical to use an umbrella at all. She was also meticulous with her appearance – the umbrella would only have been forgone if absolutely necessary.
They hadn't had that particular combination of weather in their area of London, though he would have to consult a site on today's weather patterns to be sure.
His pocket magnifying glass – one of his mother's better gifts – highlighted the clean gleam in her jewellery, except for the wedding ring, which had a duller quality than the rest. She prided herself in the effort put towards maintaining her other jewellery's clean standard, yet the wedding ring, which should hold the most importance, was dirty. There were standard scuffs in the metal, having cumulated from at least ten years of being worn, but that couldn't hide the fact that she was in an unhappy marriage.
It took one smooth tug to remove the ring and, not too surprisingly, the interior was polished smooth and clean from regular removal.
So, a serial adulteress, much like Lestrade's wife.
He grinned. Why had this woman been chosen? Serial killers needed a connection; it made the hunt of finding a victim more fun. For many killers, enjoying the process was more significant than the actual killing. The answer, tantalisingly out of his reach, was only half the fun too. The process of piecing irregular clues together finally made good use of his mind, finally gave him purpose. Perhaps it wasn't right to compare himself to his own findings on serial killers, but that was a link he could easily establish and confirm the presence of.
Now the only challenge was proving his deductions' worth. It wouldn't do to have another misunderstanding with Lestrade, even if it would be technically his own fault for consulting with a withdrawing addict. The result of this case would likely determine whether or not he'd be given more in the nearby future, and he knew he needed more. The steady wash of intellectual challenge and pleasure was heady. It wouldn't bode well for him if he was forced back into the clutches of 221B without any promise of detective work. It was borderline cruel to be stripped of his addictions and then offered a hit of something new and exciting.
A dependency on The Work was more manageable, anyway. The Work beckoned him with predictable cries of murder and theft, amongst other things, but that was something his mind found acceptable to heel to. Drugs stripped control from him entirely, the traumatic whispers of bliss and white noise eventually driving him to the pitiful state he was in now. John left him in a perpetual state of confusion where simple cause and effect reactions did not seem to apply, as a new set of rules were applied and constantly rewritten.
"Got anything?" Lestrade piped up hopefully.
For a moment, he was silent, revelling in the delicacy of the moment, of how his mind had sped up to understand the case, yet slowed down to let it be his primary focus. It wasn't often that he was so aware of his surroundings but so calm the same time.
It didn't last long, quickly replaced by that itch to hurdle through his deductions at a breakneck pace so he could find the next puzzle piece, but it gave him enough time to collect himself.
The dynamic between Sherlock and Greg was fascinating. While John knew that Sherlock disregarded most things that assisted in making the golden rules of social conduct, around Greg it was even more apparent. He fluctuated between being utterly still and suddenly whirling around, as did his speech. It was either pure silence or a weird sort of Q&A session between the pair. John almost felt like asking 'Have you ever thrown him out of a scene?' because honestly. Greg hardly even blinked an eye when Sherlock slammed the door on one of the other officers, a harsh comment slipping from him as he viciously scrolled on his phone.
It wasn't that Greg was letting Sherlock walk all over the scene, a domineering force that showed no signs of relenting any time soon, but more the sort of give-and-take where Sherlock had enough respect for Greg to speak with him, not just at him.
He'd forgotten his apprehension towards the body in the flurry of activity, initially feeling uneasy over how Greg and Sherlock would respond to each other after that mishap with the last case. There was a moment where Greg had edged closer to the detective, possibly to express remorse over his distrust, but Sherlock didn't deign to pay him any heed. It left Greg looking chastened but no longer nervous.
Sherlock didn't appear to notice the stunned silence left in his wake, as he conjured answers and information out of thin air. How could a couple of prods to the woman's coat and a look at her jewellery tell Sherlock that she'd come from Cardiff? He could tell she was fairly well off by her appearance, and could easily pick out that she was left-handed, but the rest was brand new information to him.
"Doctor Watson, what do you think?" Sherlock jumped in, tone professional and without inflection, startling him back into the present.
"Of the message?" Why ask for his opinion? He hadn't even known what rache meant before all this.
"Of the body – you're a medical man."
"No." Greg said firmly. "He's a GP, Sherlock. He isn't even trained in this field of –"
"You'd be surprised how wide a field of knowledge a GP can amass through their years of studying. Your team won't work with me either, due to my apparently unorthodox and unfounded methods."
John was stunned. Yes, he'd found an interest in studying things like rigor mortis at uni, but that didn't mean he had any idea how to conduct himself in this situation. He dealt with those who were ill and likely to benefit from his assistance, not the dead.
"I'm breaking every rule letting you in here –"
"Yes, because you need me."
A hush fell over the room, harsh and unforgiving, before softly Greg spoke. "Yes, I do. God help me." He left, ordering those outside the room to give them a few minutes.
Sherlock waved him apathetically towards the body, kneeling beside the head.
"The blind support is nice and all, but Greg's right when he said I haven't been trained in anything like this." He said, pursing his lips in a thoughtful manner, as he knelt opposite of Sherlock.
Christ, there was a body separating them. He felt his stomach turn and wondered if he was going to be nauseous, but the feeling settled into an unhappy whisper. Just a cadaver, really. Nothing to be afraid of.
"Consider this the beginning of your training."
The body, for no reason other than being lifeless, was horribly daunting. This wasn't a normal procedure where he'd ask a few questions, take out his stethoscope and then tell the patient to take a few deep breaths. He was being asked to find a cause of death, not something simple like bacteria running wild in someone's system. He couldn't exactly say 'Well, clearly she wasn't stabbed or shot, since there's no blood,' yet that was one of his primary thoughts.
"Smell her breath," Sherlock murmured, as Greg stepped back in. John was infinitely thankful for the small instruction.
He pushed the hair away from her face and leaned in, feeling oddly relieved when he caught the acrid stench of vomit. This he could work with. Anaphylaxis, seizures, drug overdose, food poisoning, and a few other things could easily cause this. Vomiting was a quick way for the body to purge itself of too much food, react to something unpleasant, and even indicate the presence of a virus in the body. It was easy enough to rule out anaphylaxis, seeing as there wasn't any abnormal swelling on her face and neck, and food poisoning just didn't make sense in the context of a killing.
Loosely, he held her wrist, inspecting for anything that could say she struggled or fought back. He'd been in enough trivial fights as a teenager to know how knuckles bruised and skin split from impact, but there was nothing of the sort on her dainty hand.
He sat back on his haunches. "Uh, asphyxiation, probably. She passed out and choked on her own vomit. Can't smell any alcohol on her – could've been a seizure, or possibly drugs."
There was no response on Sherlock's face at the mention of drugs, but he still looked. Instead, Sherlock stared at him, head cocked and lips brushing his fingers. Slightly belatedly John realised that having him look over the body was also an assessment of his skill. Sherlock knew how to identify these things – he would be a piss poor detective if he didn't – and yet it was John doing the analysis.
"Two minutes, Sherlock. I'll need anything you've got."
Like a stretched rubber band releasing its potential energy, Sherlock bounced up to his feet, hand outstretched and hovering over the body. The deductions, once vocalised and given their logical backbone, were a mixture of inventiveness, attentiveness, and slight madness. The connections between each fact and the truth were tenuous and fickle - John thought she could remove her wedding ring since her work was messy, but was then disproved by the fact that she didn't work with her hands. The perfect manicure glared in his face. No one with long nails worked in dirty conditions, the dirt would get beneath the nail and that was a potential health hazard. So obvious, now that he considered it.
"Clearly not one lover," Sherlock continued from his previous monologue, "she'd never sustain the fiction of being single over that amount of time, so more likely a string of them. Simple."
"That's brilliant," he uttered, almost missing that minute break in Sherlock's step.
Another prompt from Greg had Sherlock back on track, moving about and rapidly gesticulating when it was apparent they didn't understand. Sherlock, when put on a case, attacked it with the same single mindedness that came when he focussed on the violin or fell into the recesses of his mind. He wasn't angry when Sherlock bounded out of the room, almost flying down the staircase in his hurry, but he was a little miffed.
The shouting match between Sherlock and Greg, courtesy of the fact that Sherlock was a floor below them, ended with a particularly fierce shout of the word "PINK!" and an anticlimactic lack of movement from the police, as Sherlock ran out the building.
Knowing that Mycroft would be rather displeased if he didn't keep a watchful eye over the detective, he sent Sherlock a quick text.
(7:48pm) (John Watson) -
Please tell me you haven't just gone off to try and catch a killer
on your own.
(7:48pm) (Sherlock Holmes) -
Outside. Hurry up. Mycroft's people are going to babysit me if you
don't re-establish your presence. –SH
(7:48pm) (John Watson) -
2 minutes.
He ignored the looks he was being given, the borderline pity coming from Sally, and went back into the room with forensic equipment, slipping off the blue suit and gloves. The tingling in his fingers, a series of gentle pricks reminiscent of pins-and-needles, remained - a silent reminder that even though examining a body for the first time had been downright terrifying, it had also been a worthy rush of adrenaline. It was easy to remember the glide of cool skin against his own, of a cadaver that had shut down due to foreign bodies coursing through its system, and he felt grateful to be back out into the open, even when Sherlock promptly told him they had to go search some skips.
AN: Again, sorry for the wait. Thank you for continuing to support the story, though. I'll try my best to get the next chapter out as fast as I can :)