The three men shared a hack again on the way to the morgue, reminding John of his recent wedding day: Lestrade pleasant and chatty; Sherlock distantly in thought; London passing outside the window, bustling with life. John wished for a moment alone with Sherlock so they could talk about what Donovan had said. Of course, Sherlock would likely deny all importance of the insult and his uncharacteristic reaction to it and stride away if possible. All in all, having the conversation entirely in John's head would be about as effective.
Instead, John merely patted Sherlock's arm.
"What is it, John? I'm thinking."
"Nothing, Sherlock." John was glad the darkness inside the carriage hid his blush. "Just checking to make sure you were still with us."
"Where else would I be?"
"It wouldn't be the first time you jumped from a moving carriage and ran down a suspect you just happened to pass by on the street," Lestrade supplied, his grin nearly audible.
"The door to the carriage has not opened, Lestrade. Surely even you can observe that. Now stop interrupting my thoughts with such trifling inanities."
The hack rolled up to the morgue entrance of Bart's. Sherlock hopped out with his usual energy and left John and Lestrade to bring up the rear. John passed a coin to the driver. He'd plenty of coin, thanks to Petrina and her astounding ability to partner him at cards.
By the time Lestrade and John had arrived at the door, Sherlock was already coming back out.
"Suicide," he said with a certain dismissal.
"Are you sure?" Lestrade asked.
John hid a smile. It was unlikely that Lestrade doubted Sherlock's verdict, but Sherlock did seem to gain satisfaction from listing off his deductions to an audience, for he puffed up when he began to explain.
"Young woman, maybe all of twenty. Her dress has had panels added to the sides yet she does not currently need the full expansion. I'd estimate she gave birth less than a month ago. Likely she has left the infant with a sympathetic sister because the father of the babe was disinterested in making any formal arrangements or offer. She might have ended her life sooner, but she thought that the man would change his mind upon seeing the child. He did not. Thus she filled her pockets with stones and either jumped off Westminster Bridge, or, given the quick current, walked into the river at some other upstream point. No real point in dallying. Her identity will become known shortly; she was not in the water long enough before discovery to disguise her appearance with bloating. Not your division, Lestrade. Dimmock was either deliberately wasting your time, or he's too dull to see what is in front of him. Care for a drink?"
Sherlock was already striding down the street, making quite a distance between them with those long legs of his.
"The Fortune of War is that way," John said as he and Lestrade exchanged looks. The revelation made them both follow Holmes with just a little bit more haste.
There was very little special about that public house on Pye Corner except that its very location so close to St. Bartholomew's Hospital made it a convenient location for surgeons and resurrection men to meet. John had never been there himself, though he'd spent a short time completing his surgeon's training at Bart's before he entered the army medical corps. The pub and its traditions were whispered about in the hospital halls, however. Several of the surgery lecturers were known to have a steady stream of incoming bodies for their students to observe and occasionally practice on, despite the law.
The only legally available corpses were convicts sentenced to hanging and dissection and those sentences were becoming quite rare in comparison to rising demand by medical colleges. John considered the practice of stealing the dead from their rightful resting places despicable, but a necessary evil. After all, one shouldn't be cutting for the first time into a living patient. He couldn't avoid the practice, as it was so pervasive, but he understood it.
Sherlock paced outside the public house when they caught up to him.
"Something the matter?"
"Corbeau is working. He won't be helpful."
"What did you say to him?" Lestrade asked with an eye roll.
"I needed some leverage and may have threatened to tell some of the resurrectionists exactly how much he was skimming off their profits. It wouldn't have been a threat at all if he hadn't been lying to them about it."
"Mr. Lestrade and I can go in," John volunteered. "What should we look for?"
Sherlock didn't answer him, just paced back and forth along the short side of the building.
"You burned a bridge, Holmes," Lestrade scolded. "This is what happens when you don't think before you speak."
"I always think before I speak, Lestrade." Sherlock flung his hands out in irritation. "The information was well worth Corbeau's current and future hatred at the time. Unfortunately, that situation is long past and we need his cooperation now."
"Sherlock, just tell me what you need." John placed his hand on Sherlock's arm. Sherlock stared at it until John pulled it away.
"Ideally? I'd ask Corbeau to send someone with experience in fulfilling special requests around my direction. Also, if there was anyone rather new to the trade, someone unusual. And a hot toddy would be spectacular, if I thought he wouldn't poison me."
"What address should I give?" John slightly rumpled his clothing, pulling at the knot in his neck cloth to loosen it as if he'd been fighting with it all day.
"Ours would be fine." Sherlock gave John a rather mystified look. "He won't recognize the address."
"Fine. Coming Lestrade?" John gave a wide smile to the other man and held open the door for him.
John and Lestrade ducked into the Fortune of War. It was moderately busy, but there were a couple seats near the bar. The pub landlord looked John and Lestrade over from behind the bar. A few of the men around the room did the same before turning back to their pints.
"What can I do for you gentlemen?" Having taken his stock of them, the landlord clearly didn't think they were there for a drink. Lestrade and John swaggered up to the bar, taking a couple of seats closer to the landlord's suspicious glare.
"Just stepped out of lectures at Bart's," John lied smoothly, affecting an Edinburgh accent. "Doctor Knox told me once this was a friendly place for surgeons to unwind at the end of a long day. Worked with him at the Brussels Military Hospital last year." John lifted his cane to demonstrate his point.
Lestrade kept his mouth shut and his truncheon tucked carefully beneath his coat. He had no idea what John had in mind, but Lord knows he was a patient man.
"Knox sent you by, you say?"
"Aye," John agreed, still mysteriously Scottish. "Watson's the name. Taking some lectures up at Bart's before I head into private practice. This bloke's Doctor Russell."
"Corbeau. Couple of pints?"
John slid a generous coin across the smooth wooden bar. "That would take the sting out of hours observing in the theater." Two dark glasses slid back shortly.
John gave Lestrade his bright, jovial grin at being accepted; Lestrade just raised an eyebrow in return and sipped the ale he was served.
"So what do you suppose Himself was doing here that he got in trouble with the publican?" Lestrade said conversationally when Corbeau walked away to pull a few drinks for a table in the corner.
"He wasn't working with you?"
"He never mentioned this place. Then again, that doesn't mean 'no.' I try not to ask too much about his methods; makes him stroppy."
John chuckled, twisting around in his seat to view more of the patrons. He hoped he looked like he was just propping up his bad leg with the bar rail.
"Plus, more often than not, I'd prefer not to know how he gets his results or where he goes for them." Lestrade looked like he finally remembered the reputation of this place and glared at his ale as if it were tainted.
"It's fine." John grinned again, taking a swig of his own brew. His eyes began to lightly glance over each patron, thinking Sherlock would certainly have quite a field day deducing the occupation and status of each one. There were a couple of tired-looking but well-dressed men who were certainly the type to be medical men from Bart's, though John didn't remember them from his time there. Several men were burlier, laboring class, and they sat together at a long table with occasional companionable laughter. A few friendly women livened up their party. Two fairly young men, barely in University if John was any judge, sat nervously in a corner, emptying their glasses faster than was good for them.
"So how's it going, anyway, sharing bed and board with Himself?" Lestrade carefully avoided using the name Holmes, just in case Corbeau would happen to overhear. "Oh, er, if that's too personal, just tell me to shut it. Too nosy for me own good."
"I suppose you're allowed to be nosy. I'd still be in a strop myself if it weren't for you."
"So he did apologize? I'll have to ask Lord Sherrinford about having the Regent make today a national holiday."
"He mentioned that it was, and would likely be, a rare occurrence. He also told me you put him up to it. Thank you for that."
"Purely selfish motivations, I assure you. Can't have him sulking over you when he's working on a messy case like this." Lestrade winked at John to show he wasn't entirely serious and tossed back half of his drink. "I've known him a while. Can't say I've entirely figured him out, but there's a balance between letting him do what he wants and telling him what's right. You seem to be doing better than anyone expected."
John nodded absently, still sipping his ale.
Lestrade veered off the topic and tried to come up with a more innocuous topic. When their drinks had dwindled, Corbeau swung by and inquired if they desired another. John accepted, with another generous coin.
Corbeau narrowed his eyes at his unfamiliar customers.
"If you're fattening me up for the kill, gentlemen, I'd rather you dropped a sovereign on the table and had out with it."
"With information at that premium, sir, it is a wonder you are not retired in a nice country house by now," Lestrade muttered.
Corbeau bit the coin John passed over, examined it, and tucked it into a pocket. He leaned against the bar on thick forearms.
"That price doesn't include taking your insolence. Now get on with it."
John cast a quelling look at Lestrade and leaned in to make his inquiry more private.
"I've a certain expertise I'm expected to demonstrate next week. I need a subject for my lecture, but I have a requirement that may make it a bit of a challenge."
"At the Fortune of War, you take what's brought in, no questions," Corbeau answered dismissively.
"My reputation in this field would be worth the generous finder's fee I'm offering. Certainly there is someone you know who might be willing to do a little legwork in order to gain the loyalty of a wealthy patron. Someone new, perhaps, willing to go some distance to secure a stable future?"
Corbeau sized John and Lestrade up again. Lestrade passed for an average man, but John's clothes were new and very fine, expertly attended to despite his attempts to appear slightly disheveled. He'd so far handed over several coins with absolutely no haggling or question of price.
"Thought you were off to private practice, sir?" Corbeau squinted his small dark eyes even further.
"One must keep infrequently used skills sharp, as well as train assistants. I also have designs on the Royal Society."
More of that bird-eyed gaze. "In that case, I suppose I might know someone, at that."
"Excellent. I'm currently staying at Doctor Russell's home on Baker Street. Two-twenty-one. Send this friend of yours around to that address."
"Might take a couple nights. He's not exactly a regular."
"The sooner, the better, Mr. Corbeau. Any evening this week shall do fine."
Corbeau gave them a curt nod and stalked off. It didn't appear that he'd gone to pour them another draft for their coin, and neither John nor Lestrade really wanted another anyway.