The large operating theater where the dissection would shortly take place teemed with richly dressed, educated gentlemen, young, hastily-dressed students, and a very few ladies of indeterminate occupation. The acoustic quality in the room was such that the multitude of voices created quite the din. Sherlock and John had handed their greatcoats to the porter and now milled around, Sherlock's eye to the attendees.
"Watson! John Watson!"
John turned, surprised to hear a voice acknowledging him. He'd become accustomed to being the stranger in the room.
"Stamford. Good God, man, how long has it been?"
"Long enough for me to get fat on a good wife's cooking," the man answered genially, patting a rounded belly. He eyed the man on John's arm with a bit of curiosity.
"Mike Stamford, let me introduce you to my husband, Mr. Sherlock Holmes."
"We've met a time or two, John. Stamford." Sherlock nodded his head at John's acquaintance then continued to scan the room.
"I just can't believe it. I mean, everyone in the hospital was talking about the announcement in the papers, but I didn't realize you were the John Watson that Holmes married." As if Stamford realized he'd said something a bit odd, he added a hearty, "Congratulations!"
"Thank you, Stamford." John wasn't quite sure how he felt about the entire hospital gossiping about his marriage, but his experiences in Sherlock's world perhaps made it a little understandable.
"I'd ask what brings you here, but of course it is the dissection this afternoon. You must come sit with me; I have some good seats reserved for my students."
"Sherlock, is that alright?"
Sherlock had only kept half an ear to the conversation. "What? Oh, that would be fine."
"Excellent. I have to round up a few stragglers from my class, but I'll be back before they start to collect you."
Stamford shook John's hand, didn't even offer to the oblivious Sherlock, and wandered off into the crowd.
"He trained with me here at Bart's," John explained.
"Obvious." Sherlock ushered John into another corner of the room and turned them so they could see the whole of it.
"Who, precisely, are we looking for, Sherlock? The kidnapper? The murderer? The resurrected man?"
"Someone usual, but unusual."
"That's helpful."
"It is unlikely that the procurer would attend a public dissection. He is likely a working man in the employ of another," Sherlock murmured, distracted by a new influx of people at the door. "Oh, fantastic," he groaned a moment later. "I suppose I should have expected this."
Not many women attended dissections, though not because they were forbidden from them. Some demonstrations were vastly more gore and morbid entertainment than science, and one notoriously grotesque event had even been credited with the death of a spectator from fear. Thus, the female population of an autopsy audience was generally limited to those who harbored scientific interest or bravely accompanied those who did.
But now Lady Irene Adler walked through the door as if this were a ball or musical entertainment, garnering attention from any man lucky enough to be close enough to the door to fawn all over her. She answered these fond greetings with a gracious and flirtatious smile.
"Goodness," John breathed, "She is quite the last person I would have expected to see here."
Sherlock didn't respond with anything other than a sub-vocal growl when the lady in question caught them with her eyes and excused herself from her admirers to make her way over to them.
"Lady Adler." John took her offered hand and bent over it politely. "Do you often attend the medical theater?"
"Captain Watson, I do hope marriage is treating you well." She withdrew her hand and offered it to Sherlock, who, as usual, glared at her hand as if the very delicate skin of it offended him. "Mr. Holmes." She did not take offense at his slight but smiled the wider at it. "To answer your question, Captain Watson, I do take interest in intellectual pursuits of all sorts. I find a keen and well-honed mind to be the most tantalizing of attributes." Her voice was all flirtation and seduction, leaving John at a loss for words momentarily.
"And yourself, Captain Watson? Does medical spectacle interest you, or are you here merely to accompany your husband."
"I was a surgeon in the army, Lady Adler. I believe the occasional autopsy may keep my skills sharp even as I'm not currently practicing."
"Ah, so you are in possession of a great amount of anatomical knowledge," Lady Adler purred, reaching over to touch her fingertips lightly to John's upper arm. "Your aptitude in such matters must be of great benefit to your husband."
"I believe he has found it useful on occasion," John replied stiffly, knowing quite what she was insinuating and refusing to be baited.
"Quite," Sherlock interjected as if he did not have a clue what 'insinuation' even meant, "John's medical knowledge has proven quite helpful on my latest case."
"Ah, a case, of course. Well, Captain Watson, if you ever grow tired of our Sherlock's predilection for puzzles, do call on me at Bond Street. I'm sure we could explore our common interests more in depth."
With a coquettish smile, Lady Adler departed, finding much more willing prey.
"Sherlock," John said in a tight voice, "I still cannot believe that woman is someone of your close acquaintance."
"You forget, John, that the association between ourselves is quite short and that there is much unshared history. It would be unwise to make assumptions at this juncture." Sherlock's voice was equally sharp.
"I do not forget." John might have added more but Sherlock interrupted.
"Besides, she is the harmless one, or relatively. Prepare to meet the arch-demon to her succubus."
John blinked at the sudden change. Sherlock scooped up John's hand again and held it to his elbow from where it had long since fallen away.
"Victor. Fancy seeing you here."
John couldn't decipher the tone of Sherlock's voice. Dead, perhaps, was the closest. Then the name Sherlock spoke filtered through his brain. This man was Victor. And Sherlock had called him a devil.
John, curious to understand how the young man in front of him could have earned such a pronouncement, unabashedly examined Victor Trevor as he approached. He was tall, taller than John, certainly, though not as tall as Sherlock. His lithe form reminded John of a rapier: strong, flexible, sharp. He had a headful of chestnut hair, fashionably swept forward, and pretty, delicate features. He wore fine clothes almost exorbitant in their cut and fabric and shoes so pristine one had to wonder if he'd worn them before today. Perhaps he discarded them daily.
"My dear Sherlock," the man said with much affection, maybe too much affection, "surely you wouldn't forget my unabashed obsession with human anatomy. I could not resist the afternoon diversion when Lady Adler suggested it. Your presence only makes the decision more apropos."
Placing hands on Sherlock's shoulders, the young gentleman known as Victor leaned forward and leaned forward. Sherlock cleared his throat and took a step back, face flaming at the public familiarity.
"Victor, this is my husband Doctor John Watson, formerly a captain with the 52nd Northumberland Fusilers." Sherlock's voice was firm, though his eyes flickered over the man facing him with a squint of suspicion. "John, Victor Trevor."
"Oh, of course, I've heard all about the little soldier. How do you do?"
John let Victor shake his hand, regarding him curiously. If Sherlock hadn't said otherwise, he would have thought this man somewhat a foolish dandy. His German accent was light, his voice was melodious and friendly, his smile was quick and bright.
"I understand you two met at University," John said, wondering what sort of response he'd get.
"Oh, so my reputation does precede me! Yes, Sherlock and I met after he quite thoroughly tongue-lashed a lecturer. We became close confidants within weeks. He was a regular fixture in my rooms, indulging in all sorts of experimentation."
John bristled a bit at the odd stressing of certain words by the young Baron. It could be a coincidence of accent, but it seemed likely it was otherwise. Perhaps he was prejudiced by Lady Adler's quite obvious innuendos.
"Our favorite course of study was anatomy. Sherlock respected how utterly thorough I was in my examinations." The slow burning smile this statement accompanied made a very lewd picture. "He also found my dabblings in chemistry intensely exciting. We both did."
Nope, not prejudiced. John felt very annoyed. How could his brilliant, upright husband have anything to do with this Victor Trevor? John understood loneliness, he really did, but honestly, these so-called friends of his were repellant. It didn't even help that Sherlock admitted that their associations were best left in the past.
"Of course, I understand now that our Sherlock has renounced all licentiousness for a much more ascetic lifestyle. And on the eve of his marriage, too. Pity, that, praying to God in bed rather than shouting for Him."
Shocked, John straightened his back and reigned in the impulse to brain Victor Trevor with his cane. He tried his best to hide it, to walk away from a leering Victor Trevor and a stone-silent Sherlock Holmes. A demon, indeed.
"If you will pardon me, I do believe Stamford is waving us over." John could only just force out the words, but not without showing his wounds. "Sherlock, do join us when you've finished speaking to your friend. Good day, Baron."
John shook Sherlock's hand from his, disengaging from his elbow, and leaned heavily on his cane as he sidled through the crowd and the tiered seating. He refused to look back at his husband and his… confidant. He knew his face was scorched red by the fires of Hell.