Chapter 6: Cold Bodies

"Sherlock!"

Molly Hooper leapt out of her chair as Sherlock strode through the doors of the morgue. Her heels clicked as she ran across the tiled floors and the white lab coat flew out behind her, revealing glimpses of a pale pink floral dress that matched her lipstick. Before he could stop her, she had him in a hug, arms wrapped tightly around his waist. She buried her face in his chest, releasing a deep sigh of relief.

Sherlock's body tensed under her embrace. His arms hovered awkwardly over his sides, unsure of what the appropriate course of action would be. He hadn't expected such a reaction from the mortician, much less the sudden physical contact, and he found himself unprepared. Looking down, he saw that the loose strands of Molly's sandy hair escaping from the ponytail holder was clinging to his dark shirt; no doubt some would remain even after she released him. If she released him.

"I'm so glad you're alright," she murmured, lifting her head to look into his stiff face. He was obviously uncomfortable with the hugging, but she didn't care. For the past three days, her job had been absolute hell; bodies had been coming in non-stop since the police arrived at the site of the explosion. The injuries on the corpses were brutal: bits of concrete and glass embedded within the skin, crushed bones, contorted limbs. It was overwhelming. But when she heard that Sherlock had been involved in the explosion…the worst part of the first day was the fear that Sherlock would be on one of those metal beds. Even when word had gotten down to her that he was in the Emergency Ward in a coma, the fear persisted relentlessly. It was only when his breathing figure filled her doorway that her heart relaxed. Of course Sherlock would never know the turmoil his condition caused her, but he was alive and that was enough for her.

"Yes, I am perfectly fine, as you can see." Sherlock studied Molly's small face. She looked tired, dark circles plaguing her wide eyes. She was also pale, much paler than usual. Her bright smile shrunk as she scanned the bandage on his forehead, hidden under the dark curls. His head flinched away as she reached up towards it, a worried expression overtaking her.

"Sherlock…"

"Erm, Molly," a voice called out behind Sherlock. "Do you two mind moving over a bit? You're blocking the doorway…"

John held out his hand, waving around the blocking bodies and causing Molly to gasp slightly as she hopped back. "Oh, sorry…"

Sherlock relaxed instantly after his release, pushing past her and going further into the morgue. Molly could feel herself blushing slightly as three other men entered the room.

"Hi," John nodded gratefully, touching her shoulder lightly before returning his attention to Sherlock.

"Hello, Molly," Lestrade greeted with a tired smile. He was always fond of the pathologist; she was a sweet girl, always bright and kind and patient. He could only imagine the amount of stress she had been under since the explosion. "How are you holding up?"

"I'm alright," she replied. "How's the search going?"

"We're still pulling out bodies from the wreck, but I think we got most of them."

"That's a relief."

"Oh," John interrupted momentarily, motioning towards a stern man in a suit. "Molly, this is Mycroft, Sherlock's—"

"Brother," Mycroft completed with a vague smile, holding a hand out towards her. "I've heard quite a bit about you, Miss Hooper. It's nice to finally meet you."

"Oh, yes," she said, shaking his hand loosely. She had heard once that Sherlock had a brother, and Sherlock had brought up the name once while he was in hiding, but other than that he was just a shadow. He seemed to be a vague man, but she could tell there was something very powerful about him. It was just the way he carried himself: straight and upright, yet casual. Those were the people to be the most afraid of; those who were so confident in their own powers and abilities that it was second nature.

"I believe you have done quite a bit for Sherlock, especially during those three years," Mycroft continued. Of course they all knew which three years he was referring to, and she found her heart sinking slightly at the reference. She still felt guilty about lying to all those people: John was heartbroken, utterly heartbroken, and she couldn't console him in the least. Lestrade kept the appearance of strength in front of everyone else, but there were days he was visiting the morgue for cases that Molly could see he missed him. John and Lestrade had forgiven her for keeping Sherlock's condition a secret, but she couldn't help but still feel bad. No doubt Mycroft felt the grief of losing his brother; he was just another person who had to suffer under her silence.

Mycroft noticed how Molly's eyes fell slightly; unlike his brother, he could somewhat detect emotions. So he continued, "I cannot thank you enough for taking care of him."

"Oh, no, absolutely." She gave a meager smile; she understood what the man was trying to say. An awkward silence followed, the flow of conversation halting momentarily.

"Um," Molly stuttered slightly, still embarrassed at her display of affection in front of all the other men, "is there a particular body you're here to see?"

"Yeah," Lestrade began, flipping through his notebook. "Body 37: female with—"

"Brown hair, brown eyes, birthmark on upper neck; teal skirt, white shirt; canvas shoes," Sherlock interrupted impatiently, still wandering through the rows of bodies on silver trays.

"—er, that," Lestrade completed with a sigh. There was never any use trying when Sherlock was around. It was hard to believe he was suffering from amnesia when he went off like that.

"Body 37," she mumbled under her breath, her heels clicking underneath her as she returned to her desk and searched through a scattered mass of papers. That description was familiar to her, and as she pulled out the file she knew why.

"Last one in that first row," she called out, watching as Sherlock shifted directions. John, Lestrade, and Mycroft followed, surrounding the opposite side of the tray as Sherlock lifted the white tarp away from the head.

The body was that of a brutally beaten girl. Her dark hair was filled with white dust, bits of concrete and rubble tangled within the strands. The pale skin of her arms glowed in the artificial lights of the morgue, only serving to contrast the deep purpling bruises that covered her forearms. Along the deep collar of her shirt, more blotches of discoloration stained her bony clavicle. Up on her neck, the small circular birthmark was divided by a thin cut. There were cuts scattered all along her arms and upper chest, even on her colorless face. In death, the girl's face had a somber beauty: dark lashes and purplish bowed lips against the white skin, her eyes closed and her jaw relaxed in a calm expression. The gash exposed on her left temple added a severe perspective to her soft visage, the skin still lifted slightly away from the wound. As Sherlock removed the rest of the tarp, her legs revealed the same afflictions: bruises and cuts lining the limbs that showed from under the tattered teal skirt. Just like Cinderella, one of the canvas shoes had slipped off her foot, probably buried under the wreckage.

There was a moment of silence as the group took in the broken body in front of them. None of them had anything to say. John had seen cases like these before: soldiers who had been caught under collapsing homes and buildings during a raid. Most of the time the soldiers could escape with one or two crushed limbs; those wholly immersed by the wreckage were lucky if they were pulled out alive. But those were trained soldiers; this was a young girl…Lestrade could only give a restrained sigh; he had been pulling bodies out for the past two days. Well, not him personally, but he watched as the paramedics and bomb squad unearthed body after body. It was never-ending. And to watch as nervous families identified the bodies on-site…it was terrible, absolutely terrible. Mycroft glanced over the body with an austere face, his eyes cold and his mouth in a severe line.

Sherlock remained on the other side of the body, scanning it up and down. His face went blank, falling into deadpan, as the memories of her ran through his mind. It was a vivid picture, even the things he couldn't see in the body lying in front of him. Those dark eyes, filled with urgency and fear: he could still see them. He could still hear her voice, lingering through the ringing dust.

What are you doing? You need to get out of here! Let me go!

It wasn't supposed to go like this; nobody was supposed to get hurt.

The group watched with curiosity as Sherlock reached out and grabbed her wrist, his hand easily able to wrap itself around it. She was cold; her whole body was cold. He studied the body again, confirming one last thing: this was most definitely a real body. So how had he seen—

"Well?" Lestrade said quietly, breaking the solemn silence. "Is that her? The Claireborne-girl?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied abruptly, dropping the wrist. "Alice Claireborne."

"Is that her name?" Molly asked from behind them. As they turned to face her, she took a deep breath, trying to calm her public speaking nerves. "It's just that, erm, she's one of the only bodies that hasn't been claimed yet. Most of the bodies that were brought down here were identified rather quickly; those carrying an id badge for work had their names written on them, and those without the badges were claimed the next day by family members. A lot of employers have been down here to identify anyone without identification or nearby family, which makes my job a lot easier. Not that I'm happy about that at all, just—"

"Moving on," Sherlock cut her off.

"But 37…there's was no identification on her body, not even a driver's license. Nobody's recognized her. I've been checking the Missing Persons notice from the Yard; nobody's looking for her either. I almost put Jane Doe on her form. Sherlock, did you know her?"

"Briefly." Sherlock began to pace back and forth, but stopped abruptly and shot a look towards Molly. "Cause of death?"

Her forehead clenched slightly as she scanned through her file. Sherlock almost never asked her for the cause of death; he preferred to do his own autopsies when it came to important cases. Most of the time he could simply look and know the cause. The fact that he was asking her…that's when it hit her; there was something wrong. The worried gazes from John, Lestrade, and Mycroft weren't directed at the body anymore, but to Sherlock; more specifically, Sherlock's forehead.

"I wasn't going to do a full examination because, well, we know how most of these people passed," she said slowly, switching her gaze between Sherlock and his concerned entourage. "But if she didn't die from blunt trauma to the head, I would say asphyxiation under the concrete. Do you want me to do an autopsy?"

"Will it tell us anything about the girl?" Lestrade asked.

"I thought you knew her," Molly countered, turning to Sherlock with mild concern in her eyes.

"Briefly," Sherlock repeated with mild annoyance.

"Briefly how?"

"Briefly as in we met when she was running into the north building that collapsed on top of her."

"Oh," Molly sighed, pulling a hand up to her mouth with minor distress. "Then, what's so special about her?"

They all waited for Sherlock to answer, but he didn't. He simply stared at the girl's body, his eyes darting up and down the thin corpse. He was looking for something, anything, that would spur his thought process, spark the things he knew he knew. Searching through his mind, he sought out the deductions he had made when he had first grasped her wrist and pulled her to a stop. But there was always a wall, a mental block that prevented him from fully remembering.

Who are you?

Sherlock was very careful not to let the irritation show on his face. The frustration was beginning to mount as his thoughts diverted. Why can't I access anything? I know this; I know everything about her. I knew it the moment I saw her…why can't I see it? And if there's a dead body in front of me, how did Alice Claireborne visit me last night? I felt her; she was there, she was real. If it wasn't her, who was it? Who would have known about our encounter? Argh, this is—

"Sherlock," John's voice quietly pulled him back to reality. Although John couldn't see past the blank expression, he knew something was bothering Sherlock. So, with a doctor's instincts, he had made his way around the gurney and placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

"I keep telling you," John whispered, "you need rest. Come on; let's go. You can deal with this later."

Sherlock nodded silently, taking on a new taciturnity as he strode across the morgue, out the door, and down the hall. He needed to get out; he needed to think, to reorganize his thoughts, and there was really only one place to do that properly.

Molly was left with John, Lestrade, and Mycroft, each of them watching Sherlock's figure until he turned left at the end of the hall. There was a collective sigh, a momentary release of tension as they slipped into unconscious habits of stress. Molly drew her hand to her mouth again, absent-mindedly biting her lip. Lestrade ran a hand through his greying hair while John raised his right hand to rub his temple. Only Mycroft remained physically composed, leaving his gaze on the Claireborne's bruised body. In the silence, they listened to the second hand of the clock tick mechanically, leaving each of them with an unsettled feeling.

"John," Molly began quietly, looking at his creased face. He looked uneasy, his dark eyes somewhat faded. As he turned to face her, she could see the apprehension; he already knew what she was going to ask. "Sherlock…is he alright? Is he really alright?"

"I, erm, I think so," said John, a weak smile forming on his lips, trying to remain reassuring. "He just needs some time, that's all. He did just get out of a coma yesterday…"

"What do you want me to do with the body until then?" she asked, lifting the white tarp off the floor and placing it over the torso of the cadaver.

"Keep it," Lestrade spoke, giving Molly a shrug. "Keep it for as long as you can; Sherlock said it's important, so it's important. If anybody comes to identify it, call me; I'll be right over. John," he turned, "if I need you or Sherlock, I can find you at your flat, yeah?"

"Yeah," John coughed in reply. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to make sure Sherlock is actually getting into a cab. Thanks for letting us see the body, Molly."

"No problem," she chirped, trying to lighten the tone of the room.

"Let me know if you need anything, John," Mycroft articulated carefully. "And Detective Inspector, if you would keep me updated on the investigation." Lestrade murmured something of agreement as John nodded gratefully before leaving the morgue, Lestrade following close behind.

Mycroft stayed, remaining by the corpse. His eyes never left the pale face and the dark mass of hair. Molly observed him from afar; she could see the genetic resemblance between him and Sherlock, but she noticed he was far more reserved than his brother. The artificial lights of the morgue cast harsh shadows down his face, hollowing his cheeks. His dark eyes were cast down; cold, but still carrying some sort of burden.

"Erm," Molly began uncomfortably, "I know we've only just met, but…did you know her?"

Mycroft glanced at her blankly, looking her over. So this was the girl who had saved Sherlock after his fall… he could see why his brother had gone to her. She was easy to trust; so willing to help, so willing to care. Almost his exact opposite.

Molly felt herself blush under his gaze. "I'm sorry if I'm prying," she stuttered, "it's just that, well, when family members come to identify their loved ones, there's this…reaction that happens. I don't know to explain it but, I just see it. It's that moment before they express grief or denial or sadness; just the shock of recognition. I don't know how else to explain it, just, I thought I saw…never mind; I'm prying."

With that, she went back to her desk, cleaning up the piles of papers that had been scattered over the surface. She always did that; telling people what she saw in them was not always the best of ideas. Feeling somewhat ridiculous for her forward nature, she tried her best to distract herself. It was working too, until something broke her focus.

"I didn't know her at all."

There was something in his voice as he said that that gave her chills. As Molly turned around to face Mycroft, though, he was already out the door, leaving her alone with Alice Claireborne and all the other victims of the explosion.