Lestrade found Sherlock the next morning in the morgue at St. Bart's. Anderson wasn't in that day, so the place was devoid of the normal din of insults and potentially lethal chemical altercations.
"Heard we've got something we can identify."
Sherlock gestured to the three heads propped up on the table before him.
"Right, well, I'll go through the files and bring in a few likely…"
"No need," Sherlock said shortly. "Lionel Pine, Dorothy Mae Hopkins, Charles Bellows." Sherlock pointed to each in turn without looking up from his scribbling.
"Well, I'll go visit the families, then, have someone come down to claim the… bodies."
"Fine. I'm finished with them."
"No mummification or jars full of alcohol or boiling them in acid, Holmes?"
"No."
That was the response that gave Lestrade pause. Sherlock would usually have told him how moronic his suggestions would be, not catching the joke. He'd start a lecture on the scientific process of evidence-gathering and proper analysis of human remains. Maybe even go off on a rant about destroying vital evidence and how could Lestrade even suggest that as someone who "aspired" to be a detective.
Lestrade wasn't sure what to say now that the conversation had escaped normal parameters.
"So…" Lestrade looked around the room. "Where's that new husband of yours?"
"Home, I expect," Sherlock answered after nearly a minute.
"Well, I suppose running after you all day can exhaust any man."
Sherlock just stared at his pages of notes, not writing, not even seeing them as he rifled through them, possibly.
"So if you're done with the heads, why are you still at the morgue?"
"Lestrade, this is hardly the time for idle chatter. Don't you have families to notify?" Sherlock's voice was sharp.
"Is something wrong, Holmes? You seem…" Lestrade would have been hard-pressed to say that Sherlock was behaving worse than usual, but he was generally more manic and buoyant. Granted, this case had been dragging on, but Lestrade thought that the utter peculiarity would keep Sherlock vastly entertained.
"I'm fine." Sherlock stood and began gathering his papers together as Lestrade perched on a stool across the table from him.
"You and Watson have a little tiff already?"
"None of your business." Oh, that was full of bite.
"What did you say to him?" Lestrade asked, tone full of condescension and scold.
"Why do you automatically assume it was my fault?"
"Ah, so that is the problem!" Lestrade leaned his elbows on the table after checking that it was free of bodily fluids. "Watson seems like a good-natured man. And I've known you six years, Holmes."
Sherlock rolled up his papers and tucked them into one of the pockets of his greatcoat before settling it over his shoulders.
"Come on, what happened last night? I know there was a chase. Had Gregson from the night watch in my office when I got there this morning but he didn't tell me much."
Sherlock gave Lestrade his typical contemptuous look.
"Gregson was late, as usual."
"You're really going to make me drag it out of you, Holmes?"
"What do you want me to say? I don't understand why John is angry with me. I don't understand why he departed so suddenly for home after stopping a suspect from strangling me."
"So he saved your life. Great, what did you say immediately after that?"
"He did not save my life. I hadn't even lost consciousness yet."
"That's what you said to him?" Lestrade was using that Sherlock-is-an-idiot tone even though he was quite aware how much Sherlock hated it. Except this time Sherlock didn't react to it with the huff and stalking off like he usually did. Interesting.
"No." Sherlock sat down again, resigned to hashing out the night with Lestrade. Maybe it would be helpful. Sherlock could admit that he wasn't the best at understanding the people with whom he interacted personally. Something as intimate as marriage was certainly a conundrum. "Well, not right away."
Lestrade merely raised an eyebrow and waited.
"When we saw the man drop the bag off the edge of the bridge, I told John to fetch the bag and wait for me. Instead, he ran after me. I indicated he made the wrong choice."
Lestrade rubbed his face, ending with the palm of his hand over his mouth as if to keep from interrupted Sherlock to scold him. "Mm hmm," was all he uttered.
"It could have been lost, Lestrade, though clearly the culprit wants the clues to be found. The bag was tossed over the edge in such a way that it landed on the Westminster Stairs. By the time I returned for it, the contents had already been discovered and reported. It's vital to unraveling the mystery to have concrete identifications to our victims. It will help us narrow down the time and place of the disappearances, which may help us…"
"John Watson, Holmes. You're veering off topic."
Sherlock looked chagrinned.
"What was the last thing you said to him before he got angry?"
"He refused to listen to me regarding the sack. He kept repeating that I almost died, when I didn't. I told him not to worry so much because his provision in the case of my death was quite generous."
Lestrade closed his eyes to keep from rolling them heavenward when he heard this.
"I see," was all he could say for a few minutes. Then, "First, you should have thanked him. I realize that gratitude is not in your repertoire, but when someone saves your life, you thank them."
"Lestrade, as you say I am hardly the most gracious person; it would not have occurred to me to change my habit in that situation."
"That is another thing. You can't treat him like you treat everyone else. He's your husband, Sherlock. I realize you've barely just met, and Heaven knows you're a difficult, forthright man, but you're going to have to learn some amount of consideration if you wish to have a pleasant home."
"What do you mean?"
"You and Lord Sherrinford, for instance. Did you enjoy sharing a home with your brother?"
"I agreed to marry a virtual stranger to escape that household, Lestrade. Surely you're not actually asking that question."
"Do you wish to have that same antagonistic relationship with your husband?"
"Oh. Oh." The unpleasant possibilities apparently flooded Sherlock's head. "But I'm still not sure where I misspoke."
"You basically told him that he couldn't care less if you lived or died."
Sherlock turned his words around in his head. He supposed they could be interpreted that way.
"But we barely know each other. Why should he care? He married me for money; that's hardly a secret between us."
Lestrade just shook his head.
"Captain Watson is a good man. I believe he wants to be a good husband."
"You've barely met him."
"Do you have evidence to contradict me?"
Sherlock was silent.
"He admires you, Holmes. Enjoys your company, no? Stayed all night with you in a morgue without complaint?"
Sherlock gave a half-shrug, half-nod.
"You know what? Go home. Talk to your husband. Fix this. Apologize and thank him. And then, for Heaven's sake, shut your gob. I'll send a message if I get another letter at Bow Street."
"Lestrade..."
"Go, or I won't send you a message if I get another letter. I'll burn it instead."
"You wouldn't." Sherlock started out confident, but as Lestrade glared at him, his confidence faltered.
Jesus Christ on a cross, Lestrade thought, Sherlock Holmes might have just actually listened to me.