John was sure that the resplendent sight of Lord Sherrinford's gilded coach drew more than a few eyes as their driver pulled up outside the hospital near the morgue entrance. Sherlock neither noticed nor cared, and merely dismounted and left John and Lestrade to follow in his wake.
"I truly am sorry for interrupting your wedding day, Captain Watson," Lestrade said as they followed Sherlock inside. "I guess it will be something you'll become accustomed to, married to a Holmes."
"It's only been an hour, Lestrade, and it's interesting already."
Lestrade chuckled. "That's the spirit. So I'm guessing there is no honeymoon trip planned?"
"Can't imagine dragging Sherlock out of London right now, can you?"
"Mighty understanding of you."
"I've spent enough time away from England, anyway. I'd prefer to settle in. Just moving to London is enough of a change from Essex and a hell of a change from France."
Lestrade grunted in agreement and opened the morgue door for John, gesturing the gentleman inside ahead.
Sherlock stood at the table where a small body lay. The clothing had not yet been completely removed, but the body was flat on the table. Sherlock cautiously moved one of the limbs and, while it didn't flop loosely, it wasn't completely stiffened with rigor, either. John moved up behind his husband and laid a hand on his shoulder.
"Is it one of the boys you spoke to last night?" he asked in a low voice.
Sherlock did not precisely move away because John's hand was on his shoulder, but he did find that he needed to examine the body from another angle, one out of John's reach.
"His name is James, usually called Moss. His mother is Frannie Sue. She works on Fetcher Street in Whitechapel, but you will most likely find her at the Cock and Sow. No real point in finding her, Lestrade, she already knows."
Sherlock picked away at the roughly stitched shirt the boy was wearing. The sleeves of a much larger shirt had been folded back along his short, skinny arms and the cuffs fastened with black stitches near his shoulder. The excess fabric around his wrists was pinched with stitches. The too-wide collar was tethered closed with a bit of cording and the billowing fabric around his waist was wrapped around him more than twice. It helped keep him warm under a tattered jacket more loose thread than weave.
"How would she know?"
"The children, Lestrade, they're everywhere," Sherlock said impatiently. "The eyes and ears of this city. Find her, if you must, but she will have no facts to add. She's likely been soused since hearing of it."
Sherlock pulled up the boy's shirt and began examining the ribs that had been broken. John could see the breaks clearly through the thin layer of skin on the fragile-looking boy. His chest had been crushed; he'd had no chance. The boy could have been any age from five to ten, he thought. His height and weight were sleight, but often malnourished children ceased to grow. John reached for his mouth to see if any adult teeth had broken through yet or not. He wished he had a little more light. Even with the windows, the room was dank.
Sherlock began laying his forearm against the boy's chest in varying angles.
"Don't look at me like that, John. Mycroft will make both of us change anyway, just for having set foot in this place. Wouldn't want to bring the stench of inevitability to the party."
John hummed in response. Sherlock turned the body onto its stomach, easily shifting the small boy into the new position. Again he moved aside the shirt and coat, took in every detail with his sharp eyes, and rolled the body back again. When he finished his perusal he stood straight.
"What do you see, John?"
John examined the boy another few minutes and Sherlock seemed content to wait for his appraisal.
"The deceased is a young boy about seven or eight judging by the eruption of several adult teeth but missing others and no adult molars yet. He lived rough judging by the condition of his clothes and the thinness of his body. He rarely had enough to eat. Lack of pronounced rigor indicates he likely died within the last three or four hours, though I'd prefer to confirm that with a temperature reading. Cause of death: pneumothorax, given the cyanosis, spots of blood on the lips, and several compound fractures of the ribs."
"Is that all?"
"What else do you want me to say?"
"The most important thing! The cause!"
"Pneumothorax, as I said. His lung became punctured and, untreated, he eventually asphyxiated and died. It was a drawn out, painful, unnecessary death for a small boy, Sherlock."
"Exactly!"
"What?"
"He may have died only a few hours ago, but he was left to die by someone incapable of making his death quick and painless."
"What do you mean, Holmes?" Lestrade jumped in. He'd been observing the two men examining the corpse, each in their own particular way.
"Look at the fractures." Sherlock demonstrated by laying his arm against the boy's chest again. "They match the length and direction of a man's arm, in a way that suggests he was holding a struggling boy tight to him. Any accomplished murderer would have brained him against the cobbles or the brick of a building, or snapped his neck. But this murderer was clumsy, ham-handed even. He simply squeezed the boy until he stopped moving, dropped him and ran away. Bumbling oaf."
"That's ghastly, Sherlock."
Sherlock's feverish eyes rose to meet John's somewhat appalled ones.
"Not good?"
"Bit not good, yah."
Sherlock looked a bit flustered. "It would have been a kindness to the lad to have died more efficiently."
John was only slightly mollified by this turn of phrase.
"So we're looking for a rather inept killer, then?" Lestrade asked, clutching one wrist with the opposite hand behind his back and looking for the moment like a completely capable officer of law and order, even if Sherlock's pronouncement baffled him.
"Yes, at the very least." Sherlock rolled the body away from him, just a little, and closely examined the boy's collar, pinching a few stray hairs away with his gloved fingertips.
"Sherlock, we ought to be getting back soon. Your brother will become concerned."
"You mean angry, John. Try to speak accurately."
"Yes, Sherlock, angry," John humored him.
"I'll only be a few more minutes." Sherlock took his prizes to a microscope that faced a window. After a few moments of adjustments to the mirror and the lens, he spent some time in silence bent over the eyepiece. Shortly, though, he folded up the hairs in a piece of paper and stuck it in his inner pocket.
"Anything else, Sherlock?"
"Tall, my height at least, lumbering gait but not thickly built. Unkempt, but his clothing would be fine enough not to not leave behind stray fibers. There is a little bit of dried fluid on the back of the boy's neck, perhaps blood thinned with saliva, though with the variety of smells from the boy's lifestyle, death, and location in the morgue, it is difficult to pinpoint."
John looked at the spot on the boy's neck, drawn in by utter curiosity. There was a smudge of cleanliness, incongruous. The gloss over the spot was faintly pink.
"It could be the boy's own blood. He coughed into his hand, swiped the back of his neck," John suggested.
"There is no such evidence on either of his hands, John. Thus, our killer is either injured or ill. Our work is done here, John. Good day, Lestrade."
Sherlock quite abruptly swept out the door.
"Yeah, he's always like that. Go on, John, while he's of a mind. Enjoy your wedding day. I'll have a search around and send a message if I find anything more."
"Thank you, Mr. Lestrade. Would you care to stop by the house for a drink later?"
"Heavens, no. The place will be crawling with high-arsed toffs who look down on a man for having an occupation." Lestrade smiled, mollifying his words. "Thanks for the invitation, though, Captain Watson. Now, go before your husband convinces the coachman to drive along without you."
John lurched into the coach and was barely settled when Sherlock knocked on the roof to signal the driver.
"John," Sherlock breathed, his eyes alight. "Our killer is leaking." He illustrated this statement with one forefinger drawing across the base of his neck.
"Dear Lord, Sherlock, what does that mean?"
"I haven't the faintest idea! Isn't it wonderful?"