Chapter Two

Jane Doe didn't flinch when the scalpel went in. She didn't flinch when the power saw went through her skull. Jane Doe would never feel anything again, but she must have felt pain when her torturer made that incision in her leg. A very regular incision about the size of a letterbox, running the length of the inner thigh. The blood vessels around the edge had been cauterised. It had been stitched together at one point, but then opened up again close to the time of death. It had all the hallmarks of a surgery but nothing had been removed. Her stomach contents turned up nothing. She'd tested positive for Hep B, but there was no hepatocellular damage. There were signs of recent sexual activity, so maybe they had a fetishist on their hands. Maybe it was another serial killer.

Or maybe it was a serial unlicensed cosmetic surgeon.

The young woman had walked into the minor injuries department seventy-two hours ago and dropped dead in the waiting room before even being triaged. When the alarming incision had been discovered, the coroner had been called and a postmortem ordered. She was of Eastern European origin. She had no identification. The incision hadn't killed her, so what had?

"Molly, can I have a word in my office? Five minutes, alright?" Mike Stamford poked his head around the door.

"Yeah, sure. Just let me get cleaned up here." Molly plopped the brain she was holding into a metal bowl. "My Jane Doe's not going anywhere."

Mike smiled and disappeared.

Great. When Mike put on that forced 'everything's alright' smile, she knew something was up. Probably the new head of department, snooping through the paperwork, had found some discrepancies and attributed them to - You know who.

She knocked on Mike's office door.

"Come in."

"You wanted a word." Molly was greeted with the sight of Mike sitting uncomfortably at his desk. Lawrence Barnett, the new head of the pathology department, was rifling through the filing cabinet.

"I'm sorry, Mol-" Mike had barely uttered, when Barnett spoke over him.

"I'll get straight to the point, Miss Hooper; I run a tight ship." The man's thin lips pressed together, suppressing his irritation for the sake of professionalism. "I want you to know that I have a reputation for being a tough nut. If people gossip about me behind my back, well, that's a good thing. I'm not here to make friends. I fully intend to tighten up the sloppy practices that have been going on around here, for some time I can gather. Maybe even years. That includes you bringing unauthorised persons into this workplace. I won't stand for any more visits from your boyfriends, including this so called consulting detective of yours. I will not tolerate - "

"He's not my boyfriend," Molly blurted out. She shot an accusing look at Mike. He must have dropped her in it to save his own skin, but it was Mike who first let Sherlock in all those years ago, when he was posing as Lestrade to investigate a suspicious death. He had an ID badge and everything, Mike had pointed out at the time.

"What?" Barnett's eyes narrowed.

"He's not my boyfriend." Molly held his attention, refusing to be intimidated by this man who hadn't made any attempt to integrate or ingratiate himself with the workforce.

"Even so, he's not welcome in this department, or even this hospital. I don't care if he's famous. I don't care if he helps the police. Do I make myself clear?"

"Abundantly clear."

"And for the record, your continued association with this character reflects badly on your career."

"Well, I'm not sure if it's any of your business who's company I keep outside office hours."

Her phone beeped.

"Is it customary around here to perform postmortems with your phone in your pocket, Miss Hooper?"

"You're absolutely right. And no more boyfriends. Got it."

"You can consider this a verbal warning. I really don't want to end up taking disciplinary action."

"If that's all, I have a postmortem to finish."

"Very well." Barnett dismissed her.

When she was safely back in the hallway she glanced at her phone.

I NEED YOU. SH.

Good God, no need to shout.

Mary dumped the crusts back on her plate and picked up the Daily Mail.

"Such a waste," her husband reached for them.

"Never been big on crusts."

"But crumpets are all crust," he protested, "you just nibble it into a crust shape, look."

The TV blared out the latest headlines, "... a matter of life and death. Are A and E departments overstretched? Figures suggest that admissions have gone up thirty one percent in the last two years. In other news, the import-export industry was rocked today by the resignation of Netherlands Sumatra company CEO Robert Jarvis, over an apparent row over a hostile takeover bid. If the takeover goes ahead, shareholders sta - "

John reached over the kitchen counter and turned it off. "Business as usual in the big smoke."

"Go on." Mary tossed he head toward the front door.

"What?" John feigned innocence.

"You're bored. Go and see Sherlock."

"Was I doing a look?" John frowned.

"You were doing the look."

"But what about you? We were going to go for a walk."

"We've been taking walks for three weeks now and every single moment of them you've been distracted. Look, I've come to terms with the fact that you were married to him long before you met me. I can tell when you're itching to get out there and do something reckless. You're just as addicted as him."

"I was not married to Sherlock."

"You know his pin number, for heaven's sake."

"I suppose that's not really healthy."

"Go. I'll just hang around here and-"

"Thanks. You're perfect," he hooked his coat rather too quickly.

"- eat."

"Do you know your phone is stuck on capitals?" she called as she negotiated the stairs of 221b.

"Molly. Good. I need a favour."

"Is it ever anything else?" she muttered before she got within earshot. She didn't mean it cruelly; it was just good old-fashioned good-natured resignation, really. When she entered the kitchen he was tinkering with some murky beige liquid. "Um, I'm not stealing any more pancreatic fluids."

"What?" Sherlock flicked a test tube."Oh. No, it's not that, it's… It's actually a bit embarrassing." He finally looked up from the experiment.

"What's wrong?" She hung her jacket absently on one of the dining chairs. "You're not sick, are you?"

"Oh, no... No, I'm not sick. No, it's something that's been bothering me for quite some time. It needs someone with experience."

"What about John?"

"No, no, no. John won't do. It has to be you." His hands went to his collar and began to fiddle with the button. "Would you... Molly, would you say that we were... close? I mean, what people usually mean when they say close, that is to say - "

"Normal people?"

"Yes," he said a little more decisively, "what normal people would call close."

They stared at each other for an awkward few seconds, which to Molly felt like a geological age. She wasn't sure if 'close' was something that would ever apply to the relationship between Sherlock Holmes and normal people. He hadn't taken his eyes off her the whole time and his hands worked on the buttons, systematically, the technicality of the action belying the emotional turmoil she'd suddenly been plunged into.

Oh, my God. Is he undressing? Molly took a step back, confused, her chin retreating unattractively into her neck. She never knew quite what to expect on these visits, when she was summoned to Baker Street. One day it was suturing a knife wound, lest hospital attention jeopardise the case; the next is was 'would you like to solve crimes?', and not, unfortunately, dinner.

"Once I get an idea in my head to do something, I'm afraid I just can't let it go." Sherlock flung the shirt aside.

Really scaring me now. He was standing shirtless in front of her, but she shouldn't, daren't, let her eyes drop to his chest. She looked at his face instead, but it was a picture of pure vulnerability, the expression somehow more naked and exposing than his torso.

"I have to know what it's like." He reached for her.

She squeezed her eyes shut. Oh, God.

He handed her his phone.

Huh? She looked down at the phone and then back up at the shirtless man in front of her. "What - what did you want me to do?"

"Take a picture of my back."

"Ohhhhhhhhh… that makes a lot more sense."

"Why, what did you think I wanted you to do?" and then he answered his own question, "you thought I wanted – wanted us to - "

"Oh, God, NO - " she breathed.

"Molly - "

"Not that it would be a bad thing, I mean - "

"Molly - "

"It's not that I've totally ruled it out - "

"Molly - "

"I just didn't mean to imply - "

"Molly, you're engaged, and while I know some people might think that means absolutely nothing to me - "

"I didn't mean to say 'no' quite so emphatically - "

"All I wanted was your professional opinion."

"All I meant to say was, if you were actually asking - "

"Maybe you should stop trying to explain - "

"When you said experienced - "

"We are not talking about this now - "

"I would be the ideal person to, you know… if you'd never… done it."

"Okay, apparently we are talking about this, though I'll never know how we got to this point in the first place, seeing as it's diametrically opposed to my original intention." There was a touch of amusement curling his lip. "What makes you think I'd never 'done it', as you so eloquently put?"

"Because you're always going on about women not being your thing - "

And then he sighed with the look of a long-suffering head-teacher, correcting the misconceptions of a young charge. "Molly Hooper, is it not absolutely inconceivable that an attractive, educated man of independent means would not have intimate carnal knowledge of a woman?"

That doesn't tell me anything, that just asks another question. "But you - "

"The photos, Molly."

A headache began to form behind her eyes. It was no use. Sherlock always left her exasperated. There was nothing left to say.

He perched on a kitchen stool, like some mythical creature, and hung his head.

Then she saw what all the fuss was about. Their disagreement was quickly forgotten when she was confronted with his wounds. A gasp of compassion caught in her throat. A pattern of sores and welts striated the pale waxy skin stretched over his ribs. A light, almost-imperceptible-unless-you-looked-this-closely, smattering of freckles over his shoulders were eclipsed by angry scars. Some were only grazes - if there was such a thing as 'only a graze' when you were being dragged backward over glass and rocks. Some were shallow, some were deeper, but some were almost to the bone.

Oh, my poor darling.

There was that familiar flinch inside as she tried to suppress the desire to reach out and touch, to embrace him even. But you'll never know, will you? This was a medical examination by a professional, that was all. And then it occurred to her that she'd never be more than a commodity. He'd never look at her the way she wanted him to, they'd always be at cross purposes, and what hurt the most was that he had no idea what a thing like this did to her.

She took in the contours of his chest, the pectoralis major and the well-defined abdominals, and below that, the beginnings of the dark, silky hair that promised more below his belt. The muscles of his arms, deltoid, biceps, brachioradialis, lean yet toned, the source of his almost preternatural strength, were tense and ready for action as always.

"Right," she said, "how are we going to - "

"Just," he gestured round to his own back, "you know - "

"The sides and then - "

"Whatever you think is best."

"Okay," she began to take the pictures, getting every angle, compiling a forensic portfolio for him. After a while she said, "Moriarty's associates did this to you?"

"What makes you think that?"

"They're more than six months old, so it must have happened while you were away." She snapped away. There was only silence from Sherlock's side, so she added, "they tortured you, didn't they?"

"I didn't want John to know."

"I understand, Sherlock, but you really should have told him."

More pictures.

"Tell him what? I know I've left it too long - "

"You mean you haven't looked at your own back for nearly a year?"

"But I'm ready now. I have to know what I look like now." He turned his head like an owl. A very elegant, humanoid owl.

Yes, she could understand that; a disfigurement like this could really affect someone's sense of identity. And as Sherlock, he had to analyse it, get his head round it. Was it wrong that she thought it was rather sweet, that he hadn't been ready to look until now? All of a sudden he looked so young and so fragile, so, so broken, and not just his body either. He looked almost normal, like any other person, looking at her like that. If Sherlock could be hurt, what hope was there for the rest of us?

"You couldn't just look in a mirror?" she said, to break the tension.

"That would only give me a mirror image."

"You could set up a system of mirrors so the image is turned around," she glanced at the mirror on the mantle.

"Why would I go to all that effort, when I can just call you?" He actually looked a bit miffed at the suggestion.

"Anyway, here you go." She handed him back the phone, suppressing expletives.

"Thank you."

There was an uncomfortable silence while he perused the images, dark locks hanging down over his forehead. She couldn't tell what he thought. If he didn't like what he saw, he would never have shown it.

"So how are things going with Tom?"

That took her by surprise. "Yeah, uh, things are... going great."

"No, they're not," Sherlock said tediously, turning the phone to landscape mode.

"Why ask then? If you're trying to-"

"I'm just trying to be a good friend."

"And that's what friends do, is it? You're branching out into social convention now?"

"You had a fight, didn't you?"

"How could you possibly know that? Or shouldn't I ask?"

"Your eyes are red." Sherlock didn't even look up from his phone. "Not red enough that you've been crying recently, but red enough. It was last night, perhaps. You keep fiddling with your ring, like you're not sure it should be there. Also you're spending your lunch break taking naked photos of me. Not to mention the unequivocal sex invite."

"Oh, you just had to go and ruin it, didn't you? Why do you always have to lash out the moment someone - "

"Maybe it's for the best." He finally looked up, "he was extraordinarily dull. I mean, who goes around telling people their name is 'Tom'? That's not even a real name. State educated, holidays in Benidorm, watches Jeremy Kyle, eats 'Super-noodles' – whatever that is. Completely devoid of character. A real mummy's boy. And not very intelligent either. Meat dagger? Come on, really?"

The uncomfortable atmosphere gave way to her fully formed fury; how dare he invite her here to help and then proceed to tear down her relationship. Even if he did think he was doing her a favour. Oh, we've been here before, haven't we? Well, two can play at this game. "You tell people you're a sociopath, but I don't think it's pathological at all." She was shaking now, unused to speaking her mind or even standing up for herself. She'd said it; she'd actually said what she really thought of him. It was exhilarating, liberating. He used to be so untouchable, on his ivory pedestal, and she'd worshipped him. Sherlock calls and I come running. But not any more. This is the last straw. "I think you choose to be like that. You made your mind up a long time ago, never to let anyone in. What happened to you, to make you push away everyone who ever loved you?"

"I don't 'push away everyone who ever loved me'."

"What about your brother? What about Irene? That was real, wasn't it? You had your chance, why would you throw it away?"

"You don't know what you're getting into, Molly." He wasn't just incredulous now, his voice deepened and his face was clouded with a real anger that frightened her to her core. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Something traumatic happened to you. People don't just wake up one day and decide to fight crime."

"People don't just wake up one day and decide to become pathologists either."

"Look, Sherlock, I know you're unhappy, but why can't you let anyone else be happy?"

"STOP IT. STOP IT, NOW."

Molly's lower lip trembled. A tear stabbed at the corner of her eye.

"Actually," he growled, gentler now, pointing to the door, "I think you'd better just go. Thank you for your professional help, but this is over now."

She fled, passing John on the way out, not stopping to greet him.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

"Ask your best friend," Molly sniffed, not looking back.

On the way to the tube, she paused. Damn, in her fluster, she'd forgotten to tell him about the Jane Doe.