Hydrogenated castor oil? Even allowing for the most bohemian of eating habits, how would this have found its way onto Molly's bedding? She assures me she recalls changing her sheets yesterday morning, so a recent addition then. Not the kitchen cupboards… The microscope, although rudimentary, showed evidence of recognisable polymers, notably propylene glycol. Also, that distinctive scent, of lime blossom... Oh-
"Sherlock, you are rifling through my bathroom cabinets like Boots is having a two-for-one - just tell me what you`re looking for and I-"
"Where would you find propylene glycol and palm oil together, in a product? A product that smells of lime?"
I may have barked the question (tension, dehydration, excessive sheet-wearing) yet she answers immediately by putting a small hand across my own, frenetic scrabblings, and ceasing them.
"Hair gel," she says, and I widen my eyes in realisation.
"Lestrade's." I add, curiosity ignited.
~x~
The remnants coalesce in the bottom of the glass bowl like a yellowy-brown urine sample of dubious origin. Molly draws up a practised syringe and decants expertly into a sterilised ice-lolly mould (in lieu of a test tube). Sherlock removes a litmus strip from a pack (back of knicker draw, don't ask) and places it deep within the sample. They wait.
"In essence, it is like a pH test – only it doesn't react to the level of pH but rather to the process of pH change that takes place in the solution when GHB and the reagent used in the Smith's test react with each other," comments Molly Hooper, glancing at the kitchen clock above her cooker.
Sherlock nods, briefly. If he feels horror and disgust at the idea of gamma hydroxybutyric acid being involved in his party beverage, he shows no emotive reaction, only analytical design. GHB has neither taste nor colour, but the pH change would mean a green caste would taint the dregs of the punch they had found in the u-bend of the sink drain. The sample was undoubtedly contaminated, but Smith`s test was the only one available to people trapped in an ill-equipped London flat miles from the nearest laboratory, in particular when those people had decided they were on a mission. A mission for truth.
"A few moments Sherlock."
He nods, his trust apparent, and she feels a glow of warmth from that; a glow that does not flicker when the palest shade of viridian emerges from the lolly mould.
"It`s not a particularly strong dose," Molly Hooper physically cannot believe bad of people she cares about. "But it would have given the tequila an extra kick- Jesus!"
Sherlock Holmes glowers, staring down at the sample with little rancour but inherent curiosity. The single-minded tenacity of humanity never ceases to amaze him; people wanted him comatose and pliant and had succeeded in their design, despite his excellent brain and impressive reactive capacity. His list of suspects was growing exponentially, but several pieces were missing from the puzzle…
Motive.
This had happened. Why had it happened?
"Why have people drugged me and locked me inside your flat, Molly Hooper?"
He looks, deep and icelandic, searching and honest in his question, but Molly shakes her head incredulously, holding up the sample in its ridiculous receptacle.
"Sherlock Holmes, I rather think your question should be rephrased to ask, why have people drugged us and locked us into my flat?" Her finely arched brow rises in unspoken challenge, as Sherlock decides her (recently dried) black silk party top skims her pale shoulders and neck with a poignantly elegant punctuation that he would never be capable of expressing or sharing with her, and what a pity that was.
"Sherlock, you are quite the selfish git, " she remarks.
And he can only nod in acquiescence.
~x~
Isn't it obvious?
Her beeper rents the already well-populated air of the busy cafeteria at Bart's and Molly Hooper pushes away the clammy pasta, glad to have good reason.
"Aw, not again?" APT Joanne is polite, but resignedly robotic in her empathy. Too many lunches were guiltily snatched where death was the collateral and time was the currency.
She strides purposefully, but not manically (they'll still be dead when she's climbed a flight of stairs) and adjusts her white coat and lanyard, wondering what the urgency was that Sanderson or even Mike couldn't unzip the black bag on this occasion. She knew she was more than competent at the unravelling of a COD, but this wasn't CSI and no-one was indispensable. She passes two porters walking away from the doors of Lab two and catches their words on the air (almost like a gift)-
"Tall ones are always a `mare to get off the trolley…"
Molly walks more quickly. She sees Gregory Lestrade ahead in the distance, alongside Sally Donovan. They are going in her direction. This kind of coincidence makes her insides churny and her scalp prickly. She doesn`t wave.
The familiar flap of the doors serves only as slight reassurance as APT Sarah Gnezere looks up from her conversation with the two Yarders whilst Molly washes her hands and pulls on new gloves. Her hands are shaking- why?
Not only Sarah. Sally and Greg are also glancing over to her as she walks slowly across towards the brushed steel table where the black body bag is lain, only partially unzipped. Why are her legs feeling so weighted? Their eyes catch hers and Sarah fumbles over something she holds. She is next to the body. It`s long; she can see already as she nears the slab. The few matted tendrils of hair she can see are dark.
(Tall ones are always a `mare…)
God, why does she have this thumping in her chest? How many dead people have you seen now, Molly Hooper? How many corpses have (literally) slipped through your fingers? How many people have you eviscerated?
Feet are heavy. Dragging.
Sally`s brown eyes catch hers, are they… sympathetic?
Greg… he can`t quite meet her gaze.
Which is worse?
(Tall ones are always a `mare)
Seventy two days since he came back.
It's ok, it's fine. It`s my job.
Six feet away.
(why are my legs so heavy?)
Sarah`s bright green eyes crinkle in a sad little frown of sympathy and awkwardness (I know her, she's my friend) as she lifts her hand. She is gloved. She is holding something.
Greg, looking away.
Sally, looking down and shuffling her feet.
(Tall ones are always a `mare)
Four feet away.
Sarah lifts her hand…
It's ok, it's fine. It`s my- why did you call me? (Sanderson? Mike? Anyone?)
The clock is ticking. It's so very loud. Why is time so loud?
Seventy two days. Before that, he was dead for such a long time.
Glancing up, Molly sees a piece of fabric in Sarah's hand. The deepest cranberry. Amethyst. Silk mix. Gieves and Hawkes? No, Dolce. £300 at least. Clinically, callously cut from a corpse. In the hands of a morgue assistant as she watches Molly Hooper`s knees buckle and is helpless as the two detectives lunge forward to assist, to arrest her collapse as her legs give way.
Everything buzzes about Molly's head as strong hands buoy her up and fuss as she comes back to herself. She has never, ever fainted in the workplace. Not even an explosion of putrid offal from a submerged victim of a river boat disaster has turned her stomach, but today…
(Tall ones ...)
Seventy two days.
"What the hell?" (Greg) "Molly… Sally, what the hell…?!"
And all Molly Hooper can do is squeeze tight her eyes as she wills herself into consciousness and hears the deep, distraught words of Greg Lestrade as water is pressed to her lips.
"Molly, are you alright?" (Shuffling) Molly smells the faintest tang of Je Reviens… Sally Donovan ... "For God's sake, boss, move over!"
"But, the body- "
But Sally shushes him. Molly feels her hands, holding her pulse. Detective as doctor.
"It`s a haemophiliac stabbing victim Molly; an informant. It`s not … please open your eyes."
She can't open them, since her eyes have done her no favours today. Her head buzzes horribly.
(Seventy two days)
Shuffling and whispering. Greg:
"Molly, please… I'm so sorry... I didn't think …"
Sally, leaning close, the faintest of whispers: "It's not him. It's not Sherlock…"
Of course it isn`t.
Sherlock doesn't wear cufflinks.
Stupid cow.
~x~
Sherlock lies across the carpet of my bedroom floor, in a pose (and a shirt) that have fuelled many a fantasy in days gone by. My cuticle lens has rarely seen so much action (nails? I work inside corpses, for God's sake) as he pushes his pale, impassive and perfectly focused face into the depths of my mottled green berber. He also presents quite the view and challenges the thread strength of his bespoke tailoring to its very limits.
"Sorry again about the tumble dryer."
He continues in his scrutinies, but I do detect the faintest crinkle across that pale brow, so I know he's heard me.
"Shrinks just about every other thing I put in it."
I tilt my head and smile. in line with his view, as he adjusts his position slightly, tucking in his shirt tail and flicking open another button.
"I just hope you can still breathe-" Oh, goodness, the sternest of looks, but my smirk remains and we stare for just a moment until I take pity on him.
"Whatcha found then?" I ask, indulgently, and he sits up, lifting a slide from the carpet and reaching for my rubbish microscope. I could take a look first, but I'm busy watching Sherlock Holmes in that purple shirt.
Don't judge me.
~x~
Definitely seeds.
I look up from the lens to see impatient, coruscating eyes measuring my every move, my every reaction; searching my face as if thoughts and ideas could be leeched from my skin and hair. When Sherlock Holmes looks at you, you really get seen.
"...and?"
I shake my head. Maybe if they'd been part of someone's stomach contents?
"Can it be that you do not see?" He takes my place at the lens and the focus.
"The rounded casings, with the tiniest of dints at such regular intervals. Such a seed casing is extremely unusual in this part of the country; so rare for it to be in London at all."
I watch his long fingers reposition the slide again, bringing in a little more light and as he leans forward, a single lock of hair falls across his eye (my shampoo is clearly not his usual brand), and his perfect mouth curves slightly in concentration as a tiny whistle, a breath of air, escapes in a sigh.
"Attached to someone's clothes, perhaps? Like those burdock plants?"
I am rewarded with a glance of momentary consideration, then rejection (story of my life, I think) as he returns to the seeds.
"Unlikely to have travelled in clothing without the smallest hint of other fluff or fibres. No, these are rare, but not unknown in London. There are from a plant from the Balsam family; Polynesian Balsam to be precise, and it is only found in four (no, three) locations this side of the river. They are not wet, so were brought inside within the last twenty-four hours on someone's shoe."
"So, where?"
"The nearest, and most likely is a small patch of land in Houndsditch, off the Severant Road, adjacent to The Roman General public house, and -
I place my hand across his arm to stop him, since Mr A to Z would continue (even without access to WiFi) to give as precise a descriptor as was possible, but I know exactly where he means and exactly which crack den is right next to it … not to mention the druggie-ad hoc-chemist-slash-amateur poisoner, who lives there.
~x~