A faint knock at the door woke Sherlock. The sun was beating against the drawn curtains; it was an unusually sunny day for this time of year in London. A strong wind rattled the shutters just as Sherlock noted that there must be one to rid the city of the ever-hanging fog and smoke.
John slept on, oblivious to the sun and the visitor at the door. He was going to be sore and stiff when he awoke, having slept in the chair all night. He had his robe on and his feet propped up on the edge of Sherlock's bed. At some point, John had found a blanket as well, or Matthews had draped one over him. Despite his uncomfortable position, he was sleeping peacefully.
Sherlock wrapped himself in his clean sheet and went to the door to keep Matthews from rapping again and waking John. Matthews looked none the worse this morning for likely having been awake as late as John or later, ready to assist if needed or run any errand. Sherlock made a shushing gesture and stepped into the hall.
"Mr. Lestrade is downstairs, sir. He says it's more than urgent."
Sherlock ignored Matthews' surprised, "Sir! Your clothes, Mr. Holmes!" and flew down the two flights of stairs in nothing but his improvised toga.
Lestrade was in the public parlor waiting, pacing to be more precise. He wasn't taken aback by Sherlock's dishabille, but intensely worried.
"Did another note arrive?"
"That's not why I'm here, but yes." Lestrade handed Sherlock the folded and sealed sheet of paper. Sherlock wasted not a second before he broke the seal and read the contents.
The three I freed cannot tell tales.
You won't catch me before another ship sails.
"What does it say?"
Sherlock wordlessly handed over the paper. He glared at Lestrade when the runner snorted, but Lestrade was not amused.
"It's right, Holmes. We've found at least eight bodies this morning, torsos, vivisected. Lord Almighty, was that another whistle?" Lestrade rubbed his hand through his hair. "The watchmen are frantic this morning. It's one thing for a suicide or two to wash up, or a few frozen vagrants in the dead of winter, but this… this is…" Lestrade cut off.
"No time to waste, Lestrade. Where have they been finding the bodies?" Before Lestrade could respond, Sherlock called out the doorway, "Matthews, clothes!"
"Three were found on the stairs to the Thames, much like the others, and one was propped up against a receiving station, but no one saw anything until the watch walked by at the six o'clock mark. The others have been found in busy places. I've every constable and runner I can contact searching for witnesses, but it'll be hours before we have anything useful along that line."
"I hope your colleagues have been keeping detailed notes on which body was found when and where."
"We're doing our level best, Holmes, to keep everything in proper order."
"And the bodies are being transported to a central location?"
"Bart's. If we run out of slabs, there are surgical theaters." Sherlock nodded swiftly, finding relief that his mind seemed to be functioning properly this morning. He would have an immense amount of data to categorize today and he couldn't waste any more time on inconvenient bodily functions.
When Matthews appeared with a stack of clean clothing, Sherlock unwrapped his sheet and pulled the billowy shirt over his head and the drawers up over his bum with haste.
Seeing nothing he hadn't seen before dealing with Holmes, Lestrade exited the parlor calmly and stood in the hall.
"Oh, good morning, Dr. Watson."
Sherlock paused, almost flinched. He quite deliberately pulled on his trousers and focused on tucking his shirt in. Matthews fussed with his braces.
John made his way slowly down the steps. "Good morning, Mr. Lestrade. I take it there has been some progress in the case?"
"I'll let your husband fill you in on the way to Bart's. Sherlock will have need of your medical expertise, I imagine, with the sheer number of bodies turning up."
Sherlock swatted Matthews away from his neck cloth and tied it haphazardly himself while entering the hall.
"I will need to examine every body personally, Lestrade."
"Of course, Holmes. I'll make sure they're kept in state as much as possible. Gentlemen." Lestrade ducked his head in adieu and flew out the door, his coat tails flapping behind.
Sherlock was all aflutter, with Matthews following in his wake trying to finish dressing him.
"I must fetch some of my surgical equipment from upstairs. No, no, Matthews, I'll get them. It'll take longer to explain what I want." Sherlock lunged up half the staircase, but John shifted minutely to block his ascent further.
"How are you feeling this morning?"
"Fine, fine! Move aside! There's no time to waste. I'm sure evidence has been lost simply because I overslept."
Sherlock moved to the side, but John caught his face with his hands. Sherlock was still two steps below John, putting John a head higher than him for once. Those hands touched his neck, his face, his forehead, stroked his cheek. For a brief second, Sherlock enjoyed the warmth and comfort of those tender hands before jerking out of John's gaze and reach and retreating down one step.
"I'm fine, John! The drug has fully metabolized." He wouldn't look at John; his face flamed anyway.
"Very well, Sherlock. But if you feel the least bit odd or ill, tell me." John didn't quite look like he believed him, but he seemed satisfied enough with his brief examination.
"I will, John. Now let me pass. I've got to find the equipment I'll need to bring along to Bart's."
John shifted aside to let Sherlock bound by.
"When you're finished chasing after Sherlock, I'll be needing a change of clothes as well, Matthews."
"Yes, sir."
Sherlock was heading back down the stairs before John had crested the first floor landing.
"I have no time for your leg this morning, John, so you'll have to catch up."
John's voice was hollow as he responded, but Sherlock did not register the change as he pulled on his greatcoat at the foot of the stairs.
"Do you even wish for me to go to Bart's?"
"I need an assistant, John, or I may well throttle Anderson by the end of the day!"
Sherlock was out the door before John could say another word, leaving him behind yet again.