Sherlock and the Little People
By Doctor Napalm
Chapter 3
The morgue was chilly as usual when Molly and Sherlock entered. Billy was examining the contents of a small white box on the counter and turned around. "Everything's ready for the autopsy, Doctor Hooper," he said. "The x-rays are on the desk and his personal belongings are in this box," motioning with his hand at the box he had been looking in.
Molly picked up the x-rays and glanced at the body on the stainless steel table. It had been removed from the black body bag and was now covered with a clean white sheet.
Sherlock walked to the table and pulled back the sheet. "A midget! I suspected as much from your recent penchant for using diminutive words. And what makes you think this little person is of interest to me?"
"Take a look at his clothing," Molly said as she flipped through the x-rays.
Sherlock reached into the box and pulled out the green jacket. "Slightly interesting, I suppose," he said as he turned it inside out and examined it carefully. "Hand tailored velvet, very well made, high quality, certainly not a cheap garment." Placing the jacket back in the box, he pulled out the matching cap. "A fine piece of workmanship," he continued. "This is a professionally tailored suit, not a cheap off-the rack costume." Sherlock poked around at the rest of Mister Kavanagh's belongings and pulled out a small leather drawstring bag.
"The x-rays show massive blunt force to the back of the head," Molly offered, "most likely cause of death, I'd say."
Untying the strings of the bag, Sherlock popped it open and sneezed as he got an unexpected puff of golden-colored dust in his nostrils. "What the…!" he exclaimed and shook his head.
Molly turned her head towards him. "Are you all right?" she asked.
"I'm not sure," he muttered as he blinked his eyes and looked inside the pouch. "Some sort of superstitious talisman..." Sherlock staggered and braced himself with his hand on the counter before his legs buckled and he slid to the cold tile floor.
ɸ
Sherlock kept his eyes closed as he slowly regained consciousness. He moaned lightly as he moved his head slightly. His muscles ached. He suddenly realized a moment of disorientation. Where was he? What happened? He snapped his eyes wide open and sat up in the bed. "Where am I?"
"You're in a private room at Bart's," said Dr. John Watson, who was sitting in a chair across the room. "You passed out after getting a snoot full of pixie dust of some kind."
"The autopsy!" Sherlock exclaimed and fell back onto the pillow as his aching muscles screamed from the sudden movement.
"Yes, that's right. Molly says you opened a leprechaun's amulet that was some sort of homeopathic pepper spray. It knocked you for a loop."
"There's no such thing as leprechauns," Sherlock snorted as he stared at the ceiling tiles. "How long…"
"Two days."
"I've been sleeping for two days?"
"Yes."
"What else?"
John shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "I believe I'll let Molly fill you in on the details," he said as he took his mobile out of his pocket and dialed her number.
"He's awake," he said when Molly answered.
John turned off the phone and put it back in his pocket. "She should be here momentarily."
"I feel like someone has beaten me all over," Sherlock muttered.
"Sore muscles?" asked John.
"Yes. Stiff and sore, I could use a cigarette to calm my nerves."
"Sorry, chap, hospital and all…no smoking. I don't think the nicotine would be all that good for your system right now anyway."
Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed. He wanted to get out of bed but his aching muscles convinced him it would be best to remain still for a while.
Molly entered the room a few minutes later. "The sleeper wakes!" she said cheerfully. "How are you feeling?"
"Terrible, I ache all over," replied Sherlock. "What happened?"
"You opened a little leather bag and hit the floor like a sack of potatoes. I called a crash team and they got you to a room immediately. All your vital signs have been normal except that you've been in a light coma until now."
"What else?"
Molly glanced at John who shook his head no.
"Um, nothing else except…" Molly paused.
"Except what?"
"You're green," she whispered.
"I'm what!?"
"Your skin has turned green. I'm sure that…"
Sherlock sat up in bed again and stuck his hand in front of his face.
"I'm sure it's just temporary, " Molly said.
Green! His hand was green! "Mirror! Give me a mirror!" he exclaimed.
Molly opened the top drawer of the bedside table, took out a small hand mirror, and timidly handed it to Sherlock.
"I look like a stalk of asparagus!" he cried as he examined his reflection. "All over?" he asked.
"I'm afraid so," Molly nodded, taking a step back.
"I'm turning into a bloody frog!" he screamed, turning his head back and forth, looking in the mirror. "Ballocks…"
"The press is having fun with it," chimed in John cheerfully.
"What?"
"You don't think the world famous consulting detective turning green could be kept quiet, do you? Someone on the staff must have leaked the info," John said as he held up a tabloid newspaper.
On the cover page was the picture he hated most, the one with the deerstalker cap…except they had Photoshopped his face bright green. Underneath, in gigantic bold capital letters, it screamed, "SHAMROCK HOLMES?"
"Double ballocks!" he said and fell back in the bed again.