"Go on, then. I'm expecting a new load of files. I've not got enough men free to go through all I've got already to put names to bodies. If I find something of interest, I'll find you." Lestrade said this mostly to John, since Sherlock had fastened up his coat and opened the door at his first word.
"I do not envy you the task of all this paperwork, Lestrade," John said as he stood from his chair to follow his husband out the door.
"Be careful, you two."
"I'll make certain he takes care," John said before dashing after his husband. Sherlock was already down the hall.
Sherlock led John quickly down Bow Street, dodging over to Catherine Street so they could catch a carriage headed east along the Strand. The morning traffic along the Strand, however, made the drive between Bow Street and Bart's nearly as long had they walked. Sherlock vacillated between vehement impatience for everyone to move aside for his conveyance and a heavy, dreadful silence.
"Perhaps I could speak to Lestrade about collecting some samples, nothing harmful or debilitating," John suggested during one of these silences.
"Useless," Sherlock intoned, waving a hand.
"I know Lestrade objected to it when you demanded the same, but perhaps as a physician, and a man of calmer temperament, he'd be more inclined to oblige. A proper sample of that fluid may be helpful."
"A sample of that fluid would be chemically fascinating, a singular puzzle all of its own to test my mind, but it would be entirely academic at this point. After all, I suspect you would not wish for me to replicate these experiments."
"No, of course not, but wouldn't knowing the composition of the fluid…?"
"Not at this point." Sherlock's tone made this final.
They sat in silence for a few moments before John tried changing the subject.
"Are you looking for some particular clue on the bodies?"
"I loathe being wrong. But in this case, I hope I am."
Aside from that cryptic comment, though, he ignored John's inquiry. John looked at him for long moments, with varying expressions on his face, but no longer tried to engage Sherlock in conversation.
The carriage had rumbled past Fleet prison and was turning towards Old Bailey when a muffled sort of boom travelled to them in the wind. A second followed close after, a slightly longer rumble.
"That wasn't thunder. Cannon?" John asked, glancing out the window. The people they passed had either ignored the presumed distant thunder or were glancing about in search of a cause.
"No, not a cannon," Sherlock answered, absently gazing out the window at nothing in particular. "An explosion. A warehouse on the Thames, perhaps, or one of the ships." Sherlock abruptly thrust open the door and stuck his head out.
"Sherlock, what are you doing? Sit down before you fall out and get trampled." John clapped a hand on Sherlock's flank and then grabbed hold of his coattail.
"I would not have fallen, John," Sherlock replied sulkily as he plopped back into the seat opposite John. "I was just trying to ascertain the origin of the blast. It could not have been further downriver than the London Docks or the West India Docks, and even despite the favorable direction of the wind, it would have to be quite a violent conflagration for the report to travel this far. I imagine there will be broadsides fluttering through the streets about it by tea."
"Yes, I imagine," John agreed pensively. He was now the one to thicken the silence between them, keeping his thoughts to himself while Sherlock fidgeted in his seat.
Their hack, having turned north, passed Newgate, and eventually rocked to a halt near the West Smithfield hospital. "Come along, John." Sherlock burst from the carriage door and dove towards the building, coat flapping like a flock of ravens released from a cage. John hurried to pay the driver and limped sprightly after his husband.
Sherlock had already drawn back the sheet covering the nearest body when Anderson unnecessarily elbowed past John in the doorway. The man was muttering to himself, but John decided to pay him no mind.
"Is there anything I can help you with, Sherlock? What are we looking for?"
"There's a pattern." Sherlock did not sound pleased at this discovery, however. His tone turned particularly scathing. "I can't believe I didn't recognize it. I was too overwhelmed, too distracted. I had to be told. It was a simply unforgivable mistake."
"What sort of pattern?" John stepped forward and leaned over the body to peer at the black threads, but he saw nothing.
"Here, and here, see? You said there was something odd about the spacing between the sutures, though they themselves were executed with finesse. The spacing is a code, a cipher."
"Can you decipher it?"
"Of course." But this was not Sherlock's usual 'of course' laced with droll exasperation. He sounded almost ill at ease. "I simply have to note the measurements and see what I have to work with," he continued, with a little more conviction.
"And you got all this from raphe? That's positively brilliant, Sherlock." John beamed at his husband.
"It's not, John!" Sherlock shouted, flinging his hands into the air and stomping a few feet away. "I had to be told. That is why the markings on the man at Bow Street were so fresh. I wasn't seeing it. I wasn't understanding! Whoever this is had to tell me where to look. I've been so blind, so distracted!"
John took a step back and spoke quietly. "Just tell me what I can do to help, Sherlock."
"You can leave me alone to take the measurements so I don't make another stupid mistake, or miss something right in front of my eyes!"
John swallowed, but the bitter hurt wouldn't go down. I'm not a hindrance, he wanted to say. I've helped. And that wasn't a lie. Sherlock himself had admitted that there were elements of the case he might not have seen were it not for John's expertise. Many times, Sherlock may have been hurt or taken down an entirely different path were it not for John's interference. But John knew that Sherlock had been saddled with him, that he had been thrust into the man's life without much consideration as to his opinion. And while he seemed, at times, to enjoy John's presence, he obviously resented it as well.
Clearly there was a need for a little time apart. Sherlock needed to be alone to think, to work.
"I… I suppose I shall go upstairs and see if Stamford is around. To apologize for running out on him at the autopsy. Perhaps go to the pub. Um, well, as long as it's not the one on Pye Corner." John ducked out the door before Sherlock could respond, though in his mind's eye, he saw Sherlock swirling back around to his work, unconcerned. Relieved, even. John let himself have a moment to compose himself, swallowing to ease the tightness in his throat and giving the heat in his face some time to dissipate.
When he could breathe comfortably again, John stopped an orderly walking past with an armload of sheeting and asked where he might find Doctor Stamford. He followed the directions to one of the wards where Stamford was trailing medical students like a mother duck. Stamford caught a glimpse of him.
"Watson, good to see you." The man hurried over and shook John's hand longer than necessary. "I was hoping we'd get to catch up a little more the other day." It was clear Stamford wanted to ask exactly what had drawn John away from the autopsy in such a rush, but that he'd also been scolded for being nosy one too many times.
"I do apologize for rushing out like that. But you've met my husband. When he gets an idea, there is little stopping him from running towards it full-tilt."
"Well, that is for certain, yes, sir. So, did his revelation solve some great mystery?" Stamford released John's hand but drew him along in his quick pace down the hall.
"Soon, I hope. He is in the morgue now, checking on some clue. I thought I'd take the time to see if you were free…"
"So sorry." Stamford gestured to the students behind him. "I'm off this very minute to the London Docks. We got word of an explosion."
"Yes, Sherlock and I heard it on our way here, and he said it must be the London Docks or West India." John shouldn't have been surprised in the least that Sherlock had been dead-on in his supposition, but the man's mind never failed to amaze him.
"One of the warehouses has collapsed. No time like the present to teach the desperate art of triage and emergency medicine. Just here long enough to collect some supplies."
John straightened up at the news. "Did you need another hand?" he immediately offered, knowing the medical students were as likely to be a hindrance as a help in the battle for saving lives in an extreme situation.
"If you're up for it, I could use all the hands I can get. Not sure what we'll find when we make it down there, but I imagine it will be quite shocking to the more inexperienced fellows." John nodded. His own first experiences seeing bodies torn apart by cannon and blades were very different than seeing an autopsy, and many medical students fainted seeing just that.
"Where shall I meet you? I must tell Sherlock where I'm going."
"South east side of the building. I'll make sure to collect some extra supplies for you."
"I'll be there shortly." John glanced about and hurried back the way he came. When he poked his head into the morgue, Anderson again pushed past him on his way out. John shoved back slightly, making Anderson bruise his shoulder against the doorframe. Weasel.
Sherlock was bent over a body, muttering numbers under his breath.
"Sherlock, I need you to listen to me for a minute."
When Sherlock, predictably, did not respond, John moved so he was standing on the other side of the body. He reached out and grabbed Sherlock's wrist, lifting the fingers from where they fluttered along the edge of the wound like the spaces were piano keys.
"Is this interruption necessary, John?"
"I shall make this short. You were right about the explosion on the London Docks. I'm headed there now with Stamford and some of his medical students to offer my help with the wounded. I'm not certain how late I will be, but I will see you at home when the situation is under control."
"Is that all?" Sherlock twisted his wrist around in John's hand, freeing himself.
"Yes, I suppose it is." John left the room and moved as quickly as he could to the wagon that would take Stamford and the other young men down to the Thames. There was no time to sulk that Sherlock didn't seem to care if John was halfway across the room or halfway across the city. John shoved aside the feeling that Sherlock may not have noticed he was even missing for hours. He wasn't needed for Sherlock to decipher that code; he was needed elsewhere, however, with great immediacy.