When John woke, the haunting strains of the violin had long since ceased to drift through his door. He felt rested, though a glance at the clock on his mantle showed it was still early afternoon. After he rang the bell for Matthews, he shuffled to the cold tea tray left by the fireplace. The tea was long past being drinkable, but there was nothing wrong with the breads and sweets.
Matthews arrived promptly to help John dress, though he could have done so himself since he wasn't planning on leaving the house. Matthews helped him into a long pair of trousers, fresh muslin shirt, soft leather shoes, and one of the thick sweaters knitted for him by Mrs. Phillips instead of a waistcoat. The wool felt warm and comforting.
Before Matthews swept away with the forgotten tea tray, John requested that a cold meal be served in the sitting room. He'd gone to bed hungry, not having so much as tea the night before, and hadn't been in the mood to request anything special from Mrs. Hudson in the night.
"And ask Mr. Holmes if he would care to join me, if he can be separated from his laboratory."
"Mr. Holmes is currently in the sitting room, sir. I believe he has taken over the small dining table for his experiments."
If Matthews hadn't said so, the smell of the sitting room would have immediately given Sherlock away.
"Feeling improved, John?" Sherlock didn't lift his head from the dropper and test tube in his hands.
"Much, thank you. You know, you have a perfectly good lab downstairs, Sherlock."
"But there's no room for you there until I have the time to organize everything and I need for you to read while I work."
"Anything in particular?"
"De viribus electricitatis in motu musculari commentarius by Luigi Galvani. Should be on the bottom right shelf, fourth book from the end." Sherlock tentatively sniffed his concoction.
"Should I open a window or shall I trust you not to poison yourself?"
"I work out all the chemical combinations on paper, first, before mixing them together. I am not working with completely unknown chemicals. I shall not inadvertently kill us both."
"I hope I may trust you on that." John found the book in question and brought it with him to the chair by the fireplace, one facing Sherlock's direction. He settled himself, cane hung on the chair's arm, bad leg elevated on a faded hassock near the fire. "Might I ask why Galvani is on the last shelf?"
"Purchased it yesterday." Sherlock added a drop of something new to his test tube, observed the results, jotted down a note.
"You haven't had time to place it properly in your organizational system?" John gestured to the multitudes of books that had appeared on the shelving the morning before.
"It is properly placed. I shelve chronologically."
"Chronologically? By publication date?" That would make it a challenge to find anything, but it made John grin.
"By date of interest. I wished to refresh myself on Galvani's theories of biology and electrochemistry. It has only become relevant recently."
"How, precisely, is it relevant?"
"He made certain conclusions about animal electricity that Alessandro Volta disproved; however, I seem to remember something about an electrical fluid in the studies. What if one could create this electrical fluid and inject it into a body?"
"Is that what you think this mystery liquid is? An electrical fluid of some sort?" John had come across some of Galvani's experiments during his schooling, and of course the medical students found great delight in the ghoulish application of electricity to frogs and other simple creatures that populated the anatomy lab, but the full detail of his theories was unfamiliar.
"I will not guess, no, but it is one of several working theories."
"And that means that the man who attacked you is filled with this electrical fluid instead of blood?"
"Electrical fluid, or perhaps some sort of preservative."
"Sherlock, what are you saying? That this man who attacked you, that this creature, was resurrected from the dead, or is an artificial construct of a man?"
"A homunculus, perhaps, named by Paracelsus, and created by someone for a purpose I cannot say. Really, John, you do surprise me. I had thought to have to explain a lot more of this to you." Sherlock turned to him, looking more than pleased. "You are certainly not as dull as the masses."
"It's impossible, Sherlock! Alchemists have been trying to create life for centuries. None have ever been successful!"
"Not impossible, John. When we have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth."
"That's crazy, Sherlock. There is a man, a real man, killing people and leaving their bodies all over London. A crazed, sick, evil man, but a normal man. What you're suggesting is the impossible notion, that which should be eliminated."
"What we have, John, is a collection of body parts meant to be grafted onto another body." Sherlock jumped up and delivered a sheaf of notes he'd taken the night before while examining the heads. "You noted the excess skin yourself. On the heads, not only was there excess skin but there were stitch marks on both the skin and in the musculature that would support the head. Foolish, in my opinion, to remove the head completely since the spine is such a delicate and complex part of a man, but there you have it."
"Sherlock…" John paged through the notes where Sherlock had carefully marked the location of each hole piercing the skin.
"I'm not saying that our scientist-cum-necromancer was completely successful." Sherlock returned to his seat and added two test tubes rather haphazardly into a larger flask.
"But you are saying exactly that if you think the man you saw last night is filled with electrical fluid."
"And the result is apparently a mix of mental deficiency, loss of fine motor skills, and homicidal tendencies." Sherlock sniffed at his concoction again and sighed, setting it aside as a failure. "Read aloud please."
John opened the book and glanced down at the first page.
"It's in Italian, Sherlock."
"Of course it is. With a first name like Luigi, do you expect the book to be written in German?"
John rolled his eyes. "But I do not speak Italian."
"You speak Latin and, most probably, at least some French. I think you can make do with those and an enthusiastic accent. Besides, I'm not asking you to translate. Simply read."
John chuckled to himself at the ridiculousness of the request, but started his awkward recitation of the syllables on the page.
By the time Matthews returned to light the lamps and remove John's supper tray, Sherlock had become frustrated with his rack of improper formulations. He tossed his scrupulous notes aside on the floor. He scraped a mark on his coat, sniffing it carefully before announcing that Matthews could certainly take it to be cleaned now; there was nothing more to be done.
"Pace back and forth, just here, John."
"Beg pardon?" John had been sitting, bad leg on a stool and warm near the fireplace. He'd been excused from Galvani's writings half an hour ago and had begun to read through the pile of newspapers Sherlock had delivered. His cane was hung against the arm of his chair.
"Why, Sherlock." His husband rolled his eyes, but answered.
"I need to observe something."
When it became clear Sherlock wasn't going to further elaborate on his demand, John heaved himself out of the chair with the aid of his cane and paced in the six foot area Sherlock indicated. Sherlock's eyes focused intently on him for a few minutes, but then they glazed over and he bounced out of his chair.
"Oh!" he declared suddenly. "Oh! If the man who dumped the body parts is a construct, then he was possibly one of the missing persons in Lestrade's files. Matthews! I must dress and go to Bow Street at once! If I can re-sort the possibilities, I might be able to identify our murderer!"
John still thought the idea of a resurrected man ridiculous, but Sherlock's enthusiasm warmed him. Sherlock shot up the stairs to his bedroom, Matthews following briskly but in a much less flurried manner. Matthews clipped down the steps a few minutes later, following Sherlock's loud, "Dress John, too! That jumper is positively pedestrian, even for Bow Street!"