Hopkins:
On the surface, I remained calm. Cold, even. Expressionless. It was the only thing I could do, trapped as I was between cold horror and searing anger, both warring for dominance and neither conducive to resolving the events at hand. I had to remain calm. I had to do my job.
"A-awake?" My voice crackled in my ears like dry leaves. "How do you figure that, Mr. Holmes?"
"Not much point in doing all this on an unresponsive form," he answered almost offhandedly. He had been unerringly calm since the moment he'd walked in, as if this were of no more consequence then the usual thefts and disappearances he dealt with, and for a moment I wondered if he just didn't have feelings, if he just faked them when they were necessary. Or maybe he'd lost them over the falls, traded his emotions for his life like in some strange fairy story.
"She's a prostitute from the Chiswick docks," he had continued, heedless of my inner turmoil. "Our man is a little taller than me, with a shuffling stride, and large hands - see the bruising on her neck and wrists - probably wide shoulders and strong arms. The nails suggest he's a carpenter by trade, and armed with a short, rather dull knife. That ought to give you a good start."
I nodded. "Yes, it should. Thank you, sir." I didn't ask if he was taking the case. I half-hoped that he wouldn't.
He must have sensed it, somehow, but he was having none of it. "You will, of course, send the coroner's report on as soon as possible?" It was hardly a question.
"Of course, sir."
"Good. I think we've gleaned all that we can from here. What say we see how your tramp is faring?"
He swept out of the room, the doctor trailing behind with an apologetic glance as he passed me. I ignored it, turning my attention to the constable who was looking rather the worse for wear after that conversation. "Mitchell, get the others and see her out of here."
The constable was only too eager to take his leave from the room, if only for a few minutes, leaving me alone with the body. I crouched beside her. So gentle was her expression that I could almost mistake her for sleeping, were it not for the terrible slashes that I was trying not to look at. Gingerly I reached out and smoothed a stray lock of hair back behind her ear, the way she used to. Had it really been six years?
"I'll get him, Molly," I assured her. "I'll get the bastard. Don't you worry none about that."
Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson, Stanley Hopkins, and company do not belong to me.
The astute reader probably recognizes some elements from bemj11's stories. I make no secret that her interpretation of the Inspectors has seriously influenced my own. If you haven't read her stuff yet, you should go do so now.