A/N: somewhat gross case-related stuff in this chapter. Also, trivia tidbits! While various forms of corpse preservation existed in this time period, modern embalming techniques were only developed around the time of the American Civil War. Interestingly, the "father of American embalming" was named Thomas Holmes (b. 1817) Also the Royal Humane Society set up "receiving stations" along the Thames and other bodies of water to help revive victims of drowning (whether intentional or unintentional). The attendants were trained in various forms of resuscitation.
When John arrived at the morgue at St. Bart's hospital less than a half hour behind Sherlock, he was surprised by the crush of people in the morgue itself, in the hall, bustling back and forth outside. What he wasn't surprised by was Sherlock's bellow for every unnecessary personage to immediately exit the room so he could think.
John hated that this made him hesitate about going in. Yesterday, last night, had been a disaster. John had been able to put aside Sherlock's blunt rejection of him due to medical necessity and common decency, but in the daylight, he felt awkward. Sherlock had made himself clear. And this morning on the stairs, Sherlock didn't even want John touching him long enough to check his temperature, much less the bruising on his neck from being strangled.
John wasn't sure quite what Sherlock wanted him to be. He seemed amiable enough to John's company, had spent whole days taking him around Town. John would even go so far as to say that they seemed very well suited for each other. But Sherlock judged him wanting in some way, and that grieved John more than he wanted to admit.
Really, John, you're too damn sensitive where Sherlock is concerned, he scolded himself. What happened to patience and learning where you two fit in each other's lives? You haven't even been married a week yet. He needed to try and be happy providing assistance and companionship if that was all Sherlock wanted. Just be near him, just care for him. Be his friend.
And maybe one day your heart will stop jumping at the sound of Sherlock's voice or the sight of his lips.
John took a deep breath, straightened his back, and pushed against the tide of people exiting the morgue. Lestrade had said something about a quantity of bodies, and Sherlock had acquiesced that he would need an assistant. There was no time for this self-pity and wallowing. No time for longing and whinging.
John stood to one side of the door, watching for Sherlock's head to bob above all the others. Once again, his voice made him known before the sight of him emerged.
He was in a proper flurry, in his element, dashing from slab to slab and several wheeled tables which had been commandeered to hold extra and various dismembered pieces of smaller dimension. The tails of his coat flared out behind him as he rushed about the room. His dark curls, not properly tamed before he left the house, were charmingly unruly from the rough night and the morning breeze.
"John, excellent, you're finally here. Start a file for each body; interview the watchmen standing by each slab and take special note of where each body was found and in what position. Note the compass direction as well when you make a sketch."
John hadn't even realized Sherlock noticed him entering the room, but he shed his greatcoat and began his assigned task, relieved that Sherlock apparently welcomed his presence. He found sheets of paper and ink on the desk where he'd napped a few nights before their wedding. He progressed to the nearest slab, where the watchman present looked the youngest and most uneasy, and started his notes.
The man had simply been doing his rounds without any alert called or distress from the few people out in the wee hours.
"It were quiet, sir, like usual in the stillness of the morn. I almost wouldn't have noticed the body except that it was set right in the glow of a gaslight." He answered John's questions succinctly, quite professional for one so youthful, but John noted he kept his eyes specifically on either John or the far wall and never on any of the bodies in the room. "On its... his back. South, mainly, towards the river. Well, the river bends, don't it, so pointed towards the Thames, but not towards the nearest bank of it."
John also took note of anything else that came to mind, including the man's name and address, time on the job and whether this was his normal shift and beat. He took rudimentary notes on each body to connect it to the watchman and location, so even if the papers got confused later, they could be properly sorted. He moved on to the next watchman, and the next, and the room gradually began to clear.
The constant work cleared John's mind, much like surgery after surgery often made him forget about the bloody battle raging less than a mile away.
Even as the number of people in the room dwindled, the room still seemed awfully crowded with even just the bodies present, not considering the morgue staff, himself, Sherlock, and Lestrade. Sherlock was moving from body to body, sometimes prodding lightly with gloved hands or moving the odd still-attached limb, still working through his cursory examinations. Lestrade was doing his best to coordinate everyone and kept running to the hallway and back, taking reports and talking quite seriously to the occasional government official.
"John, are you done yet?" came Sherlock's imperious voice over the conversation with the last of the watchmen.
"Nearly. Just want to get this last sketch verified before I send Mr. Abbey on his way."
"Well, hurry, then, and we'll get started examining the bodies."
John nodded, turning back to the watchman and his notes. He made a few changes to the position of the body in his sketch, propped up as it was against the receiving station near the Thames, then thanked the watchman for his time and dismissed him to speak to Lestrade on his way out.
"So, John, shall we go through the bodies chronologically as to when they were found, geographically north to south, or east to west, or just take the nearest slab and have a go?" Sherlock winked at John cheekily, any residual ill humour from the night before long faded. The gesture prompted John to smile in return.
"Oh, let's go chronologically." John shuffled the papers in his hands and led Sherlock to a particular slab. Sherlock brought along a lamp, though the sun still lit the room sufficiently. "Three-forty-five, Salisbury Square."
"Not far from Blackfriar's Bridge." Sherlock hummed, glancing at the map Lestrade had tacked to the wall. The runner had marked the location of each body with a T-pin. Sherlock nodded sharply once he had apparently fixed in his memory the particular body with its mark on the map.
John hastened to show Sherlock the sketch he had drawn of the body's position relative to nearby landmarks and compass directions. Sherlock scanned through the report and then began to examine the body itself.
Like the others that had been found that morning, the body was removed of both clothing and extremities. In most cases like this, if there had been any other cases like this, unless the victim had some particular scar or birthmark, the body would go unidentified.
"Seven distinct skin discolorations on the ribs, back and left thigh. One scar on right hip, barely visible, consistent with a fall as a child off a short wall or lower limb of a tree. No other wounds, no scarring from disease, slight excess weight carried mostly around the waist, firm musculature otherwise." John took careful note of each observation. Sherlock bent close to examine a few tiny puncture marks along the neck tissue.
"Does the body smell unusual to either of you?" he asked, frowning.
Lestrade raised his eyebrow in a manner that said he was trying his best not to smell anything. But John leaned forward to take the barest whiff. Those unused to the smells in the morgue were typically relieved by camphor or other strong unguent rubbed beneath the nose, but none of the men, even those watchmen who were ill at ease, had requested such a thing. Wait, camphor…
"Sherlock, have you noticed that Anderson has not offered us any camphor for the smell?"
"It is unlikely that he'd offer to do so, John, as he resents my intrusion on a normal day, much less under such extraordinary circumstances. Besides, it is unnecessary." Sherlock gave John a questioning look, as if the doctor was admitting he needed such a thing.
"With a roomful of bodies whose time of death has yet to be determined, though they were found hours ago, in places all around the city and some by the Thames? Even If they all died in the last twenty-four hours, which seems unlikely due to the extent of the pure butchery the bodies have undergone, there would be more than a faint chemical smell emanating from them."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow, sniffed again, then resolutely and methodically sniffed each body in turn.
"Clever John," muttered, his face closing down as he added the new information to all that which was swirling around in his brain. "I would be interested to know the formula used to so thoroughly embalm the victims."
"Could be Ruysch's liquor balsamicum preservative, or something similar," John suggested.
"He took his formula to the grave eighty-four years ago, John, and his methods were not widely copied. And I'm not even certain that his results were quite so pristine," Sherlock argued, but his tone and smile indicated he was surprised and more than pleased with his husband's knowledge. John flushed and ducked his head. "We shall have to take further samples to see if we can isolate the preservative."
"Is it similar to the scent of the man from the other night?"
Sherlock considered, sniffing again and rolling the scent around in his memory.
"There are a few notes of similarity, but I suspect this formula was created for a different intent. Still, such a master of mortuary chemistry! There is only the slimmest chance that the two formulas are unrelated."
Sherlock bent over the body again, examining all the raw edges in detail. John scratched out notes as quickly as he could, trying to keep up with Sherlock's quick and incessant deductions.
"This quality of preservation calls into question my deductions about the hands and feet we recovered. I had thought they had been removed close in time, but it now seems entirely possible that each victim could have been killed quite close to the date of abduction. Between the cool weather and this excellent preservative, these corpses could remain in state for weeks or perhaps months, if not longer." Sherlock gestured for John to assist him and the two of them rolled the body on the slab to its side. "I also believe we can make a reasonable deduction of identity, at least of this particular body."
"Really? That's amazing!" John blurted out. Sherlock lifted his head for a mere moment. "Sorry, do go on."
"It's fine." Sherlock shook himself and resumed. "I believe this man to be Liam O'Malley. Lestrade, you'll have to check the files in your office; I believe I initially set this one aside as I did not believe any of the limbs we found belonged to him, but this scar is mentioned in the missing person's report."
Lestrade noted the name in a small notebook with a stub of pencil.
"Next!" Sherlock looked at John expectantly. John flipped through his papers and led Sherlock to a female body.
"Four twenty-five. Guilford Street near the Foundling Hospital. Shoulders oriented towards the north. This particular location is on regular patrol, so it's certain that the body appeared within an hour of being found."
"Were any of the other timeframes pinpointed so precisely?"
"No, this was the only one that was directly in the regular path of the watch. The ones not along the Thames were in trafficked areas. The body at the receiving station was the penultimate discovery; the man on duty heard nothing to signal its arrival and only happened upon it when he went out for a piss."
"Probably slept through the night sound as a child rather than keeping watch. South end of the Waterloo Bridge?"
John confirmed this with a nod.
They continued this way through the morning and well past the noon hour, going through each of the bodies in turn. John continued to be astounded at Sherlock's ability to connect the subtlest markings with the files he'd read in Lestrade's office several days past. Lestrade had a great deal of work ahead of him, between informing the families and interviewing each again about the last days of their loved ones.
"It is unfortunate that the time of disposal cannot be properly pinpointed. However, we must expect a logical progression through the city. Lestrade, have your men keep their ears out for descriptions of a wagon or other conveyance travelling in an east-to-west manner between these points. That would be the most logical progression, given the discovery times and the methods of the watch."
All three men knew that little would likely come of that. A wagon going through the streets of London, even in the middle of the night, would bring little attention to itself.
"What is unusual is why these victims were chosen," Sherlock mused. "They were people that would be missed; in many cases, almost immediately. If one was looking for test subjects and did not want to be discovered, there are legions of beggars on the streets. Few would be missed, and those that were would have no family of means able to search for them.
"Also, the dumping of the bodies stretched over miles, all over Town, with no connection between them. Why not just dispose of them all at once? What is the pattern here, the meaning?"
"Were the bodies found near where they were taken, by any chance?"
"Hmm, no," Sherlock answered after reorganizing the information in his head.
"Whoever it is clearly wants to be discovered, or is playing some kind of game of terror with the city. After today, there will be no keeping the news from the papers. Too many witnesses," Lestrade sighed. He was not looking forward to the panic this case would bring by the evening editions.
"What? Be discovered and surely hanged for the crime?"
"Be legend. Prove his genius," John said.
Lestrade snorted. "You know all about showing off, Sherlock. That motivation cannot come as a surprise."
Sherlock gave Lestrade a most disgusted look, distracted from his glare only when John patted his arm.
"I think it's time for a break, Sherlock. Man cannot live on crimes and puzzles alone."
"Do not bastardize proverbs, John, to excuse your stomach."
John did not take this personally; after all, his stomach had been distracting him an hour now. He smiled and patted Sherlock's shoulder.
"Shall I bring something back for you?"
"I don't eat when I'm working. But do take a break. Your leg must be paining you."
"Some tea, at least, Sherlock."
Sherlock hummed a non-response and moved to another slab. He carefully extracted a sample from the body and brought it to a microscope near the window.
John took the cold-shoulder with grace and left the room with Lestrade.
Lestrade nudged John in the hallway. "Well done in there, even if Himself won't acknowledge it. But just so you know, I've never once known him to trust the questioning of witnesses to another person. Not even myself."
John isn't quite sure how to answer that at first. Had Sherlock paid him a veiled compliment in trusting him? "Perhaps he was just overwhelmed by the sheer amount of information to be collected that he was forced to delegate."
"If you feel the need to believe that, Dr. Watson, go ahead. But I suspect something else entirely."