A/N: just a little more morgue grossness but bear with me! :)
"John, we should perform a full autopsy on at least one body. I'd like your assistance," Sherlock said from where he'd commandeered Anderson's desk in the corner.
"He's not here, freak." Anderson's snide voice grated on Sherlock's nerves. He was lucky the morgue attendant had kept quiet most of the day, sulking he'd been deemed extraneous when his own morgue was overflowing with bodies. "He and Lestrade went to get dinner like normal people."
Sherlock ignored Anderson, and soon after the man huffed and left, balling up his work smock and tossing it ineffectively at Sherlock. John had mentioned food. How long ago was it now? Shouldn't he and Lestrade be back? There was a case on, after all!
And the case, the case, how messy it was. Such a glut of murder. Nothing but the most superficial similarities between the victims – strong, healthy people who would be missed, taken right out of their daily lives. Sherlock wanted to talk to more of the families, pinpoint the places where they were last seen alive, find the connection between them all that made the murderer target them, collect them for his little spree. Had they all visited the same sweet shop, crossed the same street, worn a particular color of clothing? Or had it just all been happenstance? Everything seemed so random: the victims, the abduction locations, the dump sites. There had to be one miniscule piece that was missing. Sherlock wouldn't know it until he saw it, so he couldn't exactly look for it.
Five hands, four feet, three heads, and then eight bodies! Sherlock had initially postulated a countdown with the first three deposits, but this last day had breached the pattern. The initial delivery of hands had been followed at length by the feet, but the heads and torsos were discovered in a considerably shorter window. Had the killer gotten bored with waiting for Sherlock to catch up? Or had something else happened to make the killer change his methodology?
Sherlock was used to catching up to criminals fairly quickly. This one, though, seemed to leap ahead each time Sherlock nearly had his thoughts organized. He was falling further behind each day. That was infuriating. However, ire and exasperation would only serve to distract him.
Distractions… He had so many these days.
Sherlock took a sip from the cup of hot tea in his hand. Then he blinked. When had he been holding tea? A burst of laughter in the previously quiet room caught his attention. John and Lestrade were back. John. He must have slipped the cup directly into Sherlock's hand while all his attention was devoted to his thoughts. Sherlock took another sip, pushing aside the wrapped pasty also left nearby. Distraction.
John hovered over Lestrade, who had perched on a stool, rifling through a stack of papers six inches high. The files. He must have either fetched them from Bow Street, or, more likely, sent one of the other runners for them. Either way, he and John had their heads bent over the stack, obviously looking for the names Sherlock had mentioned earlier. John was standing too close to Lestrade, Sherlock thought, even as he berated himself for the bubble of emotion. He tamped it down to an innocuous annoyance.
"John, I need your assistance with an autopsy," Sherlock declared.
"Oh, of course." John clapped Lestrade on the shoulder before walking to a wall hung with hooks and borrowing a clean smock to cover his clothing. "Anyone in particular you want to start with?"
It wasn't likely to matter, so Sherlock chose a body at random and they started the meticulous dissection and documentation. He drew one of his thin leather gloves over his scratched hand, not wanting to irritate the wound with chemicals or filth from the body. Due for another trip to the glovers quite soon. Must tell John to remind me.
He and John worked well together, Sherlock noted an hour later. John made quick, deliberate, professional cuts into the body in front of him, as he would, and sometimes made observations on the quality of the organs or preservation from the point of view of someone who had seen this many times. Sherlock had spent time in anatomical studies, but he had nowhere near the medical and surgical experience John had.
The body had been cut open once before and stitched back together, as if the killer wanted to glory in his own handiwork. None of the internal organs had been damaged in any way, though the muscles of the abdominal wall had been removed to reveal what lay below and replaced. The initial cuts through the skin had allowed the body to be lain open completely and the interior observed as in a scholarly dissection.
Both he and John marveled at the expertise with which this had all been done. It really was quite amazing how the heart looked like it could beat at any moment, had there been any blood to circulate. The lungs were pink and fresh and ready to draw air. There was no scent of putrefaction at all and each organ was properly firm. Even the dismemberment was skilled; time had been taken, amazing dexterity had been implemented.
Sherlock drew samples from within the body, bits of tissue and several volumes of liquid. He would test these later, hopefully narrowing down the chemicals involved. He felt he could rule out the common arsenic salts just by the quality of the preservation, but further tests were certainly required.
"Sherlock?"
He'd been lost inside his own head again, watching John's steady hands closing up the body. The hour was late, by the insignificant glow of the lamps, yet John had no complaint about his leg, which must be aching. If anything, he seemed unsuitably cheerful. They'd gone over the body with detailed precision, but found nothing that was any help at all. Despite Sherlock's interest in it scientifically, this was not a case to be solved in the morgue.
"Sherlock? Did you want to examine another body?"
"No. We can extrapolate the condition of the rest from the results. It hasn't provided any clues beyond the initial visual examination. Not worth the time."
"Very well. So what's next?" John clipped off the end of the heavy thread and started tidying the area.
"Where's Lestrade?"
"He left nearly an hour ago; did you not notice?" John's face held humor, but none of the biting snideness of Anderson's similar comment. "It is long past supper. Speaking of which, you haven't eaten all day."
"Food slows me down," Sherlock replied mechanically, moving to gather his samples together into a leather case.
"Food fuels the body and brain, Sherlock. We'll go home and see if Mrs. Hudson has anything to tempt you. Really, that woman is a saint, putting up with you not appreciating her fine cooking."
"I do appreciate it. Just not when I've got a mystery to solve."
"Well, this mystery is too complex for you to deny yourself food for the duration. You will come home and eat. I will not require anything else from you for the rest of the night, not sociability, nor silence, nor sleep."
Sherlock agreed to John's terms before the doctor finished putting away their tools and cleaning up, taking great care that they scrubbed their hands, not knowing yet what sort of chemicals were involved in embalming the bodies. Sherlock disposed of his ruined glove.
John helped Sherlock into his greatcoat and then put on his own. Sherlock flagged down a hack with his usual aplomb. He directed the driver to take them to Baker Street and sat back against the bench observing John in the fluttering glow of passing gaslights.
John's sitting slightly angled on the bench so he can stretch his bad leg out without interfering with my leg room. His eyes are closed; he's weary. It has been a long day and John was up late last night taking care of me. He didn't complain, though, not once about being tired or pained, though he must be aching. He should go to bed when we get home.
I want to go to bed with him.
Alarmed by his own thoughts, Sherlock gasped. John stirred.
"Something the matter, Sherlock?" His voice was sleepy, relaxed, slightly concerned.
"No, no," Sherlock covered hastily. "I only just realized that we ought to visit Irene."
"Lady Adler? What on earth for?" John's voice changed, became more tight and clipped.
"She is known for her intellectual salons. Many men of learning cross her threshold. She may have heard something that will be of use, some bit of information she doesn't realize she holds."
"Oh, I suspect the lady knows exactly which bits of information are useful to others. She'll want you to play her game for them."
"Hmm, perhaps. If we surprise her, though, she may inadvertently reveal something."
"I should like to know what you think will surprise the lady. Though I suppose turning up in the late evening, when she is no doubt entertaining, and scented with eau de morgue might suitably qualify."
"We are not going now, John. Simply arriving may do so, particularly given our interactions the last few days. I shall think upon it."
The hack pulled up in front of their Baker Street home. Sherlock bounced out onto the cobbles. John didn't follow immediately.
"Sherlock," his voice said hesitantly from inside the dark recess of the cab.
"Yes, John? Oh, your leg. Here, let me assist you." Sherlock half-climbed back inside and let John put a hand on his shoulder for leverage and balance. It was awkward, but soon John was sighing at the foot of their steps.
"Will you make it up the stairs on your own?"
John paced back and forth a few minutes. Matthews stood at the open door patiently before John felt fit enough to attempt the steps up to their door. Sherlock couldn't help but linger a little too closely.
"You're threaten me with your cane like some ornery old codger, John."
"Stop hovering, then!"
"Swear you won't tumble down the stairs arse over teakettle and I will."
John started to laugh, but the burst of merriment gave him the energy to make it all the way to their private rooms on the first floor. Sherlock couldn't help but chuckle along with him, so diverting was the sound of John's laugh.
"Matthews, see if Mrs. Hudson can send up a small supper before Sherlock takes over the table again with his experiments."
"I have not had time to properly set up my laboratory space, John, and the light is better upstairs anyway," Sherlock defended.
"Heaven help the state of our sitting room," John said, chuckling again to show he wasn't truly piqued.
As it turned out, Mrs. Hudson had a lovely stew ready to serve almost immediately, so Sherlock set aside his case of samples forlornly and tucked into the small dinner table in the corner of their sitting room.
After a few hearty mouthfuls, John tore into the loaf of crusty bread between them.
"So you really believe Lady Adler will have some clue for us?"
"I could skulk around the scientific academies for days and learn less than I would spending an hour at Lady Adler's."
"No doubt," John muttered, sopping up some of his gravy with a hunk of bread.
"Should she be forthright," Sherlock continued, as if he hadn't heard.
"I don't like the idea of you going there."
"I told you, John, she is all taunt and tease, like a cat with a mouse."
"A cat will eventually bite the head off its prey, Sherlock."
But John eventually acquiesced, so long as Sherlock promised to not attend Lady Adler without him present. John stayed at the table long enough to be certain Sherlock kept his promise to eat then excused himself to bed. When he moved past Sherlock, John rested his hand on Sherlock's shoulder and squeezed gently.
"Goodnight, Sherlock."
Sherlock was too distracted by the pleasant sensation that thrilled up his neck at the touch to respond. If John thought that Sherlock was completely diverted by setting up his samples and beakers and test tubes, then that was acceptable.
Once John was gone, Sherlock let his hands fall into his lap and stared blindly at his equipment for more than a moment. His mind spun with thoughts that had nothing to do with the paraphernalia in front of him, nothing to do with the mystery. Instead they were muddled and all about John. He remembered the small kiss placed on the corner of John's mouth at their wedding ceremony, the gentle kisses he gave Sherlock that evening in the garden. Gave, without demanding anything. Sherlock wanted those sweet kisses again. And he wanted to respond properly to them this time.
Damnation! John was nothing but a complication, a vexation, an instrument of devilish temptation. Sherlock had sworn to hold himself to much higher standards than the common man and until John, it had almost been easy. John, all charm and kindness, John who eagerly enjoyed Sherlock's company, John… John, who just now, without even being present, seduced Sherlock from irritation and anger to soft sentimentality.
Sherlock sighed, defeated, and moved to set up his first experiment, one whose chemical reactions would take most of the night to develop. He very deliberately schooled his thoughts on his upcoming tasks, reciting each step loudly in his head to overpower any other thoughts.