CHAPTER 38: DROWNING YOUR SORROWS
St Bartholomew's Hospital - The morgue
Molly Hooper, a pathologist at St Barth's, is sitting in the morgue, sipping a murky coffee she has just bought from the derelict vending machines in the corridor. Anyone else would rather spend their break at the hospital canteen or the coffee shop if only to see the daylight again, take breaths of fresh air, and chat with other people. Other living people. But Molly likes the peace of that place; it's easier to relax when nobody is in a hurry.
No body, she mentally repeats and chuckles at her pun, when she hears a knock on the door. Before she has time to reply, a team of police officers march into the morgue carrying a body bag. She stares at the policemen delivering the corpse of a woman and parking it hastily on one of the mortuary tables. When she overcomes the shock of that unexpected visit, she asks about the identity of the deceased woman and the reason they delivered the body there.
The Detective Inspector in charge, whom she already met once when Sherlock was working on a case in which two bodies showed the same Chinese tattoo on their heels, gives her a worn-out look. She can't remember his name, though; she isn't good with names. He mutters something about the 'absurd request of the insane Mr Sherlock Holmes', then leaves unceremoniously.
Molly is left alone in the mortuary, gaping at the mention of that name. She needs no further information: if Sherlock chose St. Barth's, it means that he thinks he could use her expertise. It's time to prove herself.
She drops her half-drunk paper cup of coffee on the table and throws herself into her work.
"Hello Molly," Sherlock hurriedly addresses the pathologist, who is performing the autopsy on the body of the nun, half an hour later.
As he enters the room together with John, she timidly greets him, blushing slightly.
"Oh, hi. The police brought this cadaver here saying it was for you…" she begins to explain but corrects herself, stammering, "Well, not for you as a gift. That would be weird. What I meant is—"
"Any good so far?" Sherlock interrupts her babbling. He is circling the now naked body on the slab like a vulture as his eyes scan it from head to toe, while John shoots an apologetic smile at the poor pathologist.
The victim presents multiple bruises all over her body: Holmes studies the yellow and blue marks with a watchful eye. Before Molly can open her mouth to reply, he quickly intervenes, "She shows several post-mortem contusions inflicted with blind violence with an iron stick or something of the sort—the signs are unmistakable. The attacker didn't mean to cause damage, though: he knew she was already dead. He just wanted to hit her hard without cause."
"We might deduce that he was taking his anger out on her. Maybe we are dealing with deep-rooted revenge. It's a vicious crime, clearly personal; the killer must have really hated this nun," notices a female voice coming from the threshold.
All three people in the room turn their heads simultaneously to look at a panting woman leaning against the doorjamb. Giulia is catching her breath, showing that she has been running in the last few minutes.
Sherlock shoots a surprised look at her. How can she be there? She almost beat them to the hospital, even though he left her cuffed to the armchair in Baker Street. How is it possible?
Out of all the things he could ask her at that moment, he plays it cool and simply says, "Correct."
John, on the contrary, allows himself to show his surprise.
"Giulia, I thought you were too busy to join us."
"Oh, I freed myself." She glowers at Sherlock.
"But how could you be here in such a short time?" John asks again. The detective might be too prideful to ask the questions, but the doctor never shies away. After all, working with Sherlock over the years taught him one thing: if he wants to keep up with what is happening around him, he has to beg for an explanation. Frustrating business.
"I was running down the stairs to go look for a cab when I bumped into Mrs Hudson, who was going out to visit a friend. She offered to give me a lift in her sports car. On our way here, she ran three consecutive red lights. I won't lie; throughout the ride, I thought I was going to die. Finally, when she dropped me at the entrance of the hospital, I rushed here. I didn't want to miss a minute of this enlightening operation." She points at the body and wrinkles her nose at the smell of the room. That's a half-truth: she would have gladly avoided that gloomy trip to the morgue, but she didn't want to give Sherlock the satisfaction of cutting her out of the investigation. No matter how genuinely concerned about her safety he might have appeared in the flat, handcuffing her to the armchair was foul play.
"Should we try to link this nun to the past of Mr Moriarty and find out why he might have it in for her?" She suggests, drawing everyone's attention back to the autopsy.
Sherlock shakes his head. "No. You've just said it: the killer hated this nun. As I specified before, Moriarty is just the instigator—a sponsor, if you prefer. He must have chosen the assassin who carried out the homicide based on his history of hate and desire for vengeance. What is still a mystery, though, is the choice of the victim. Anything of any relevance, Molly?" He asks distractedly while staring at Giulia.
His gaze instinctively lingers on her wrist that he had rather impolitely cuffed to his armchair, and he frowns at the sight of excoriation all around it. Her delicate skin looks damaged both on the inside and the outside of her right wrist. As his stomach tightens in a clutch of guilt, he has a sudden revelation and turns around to inspect the body. He focuses on the victim's arms extended on the table: red-purple linear marks are visible on the top and sides of the wrists where abrasion and superficial cuts scratched the skin. He delicately lifts one arm and scrutinises the inside of the wrist: no signs of any kind—the skin is soft and untouched. He repeats the operation on the other arm, getting the same result. He nods thoughtfully, coming to his conclusions.
At that moment, he realises Molly has been talking the whole time about taking some samples off the victim, but he spaced out while chasing after his train of thought.
"What do you think about these ligature marks?" He interrupts her abruptly.
Molly looks taken aback for a second and walks closer to examine the body part in question.
"I've photographed those, but haven't had the time to delve deeper yet. At first sight, I'd say those bruises were caused when she was still alive; they lack the traditional yellowish-brown colour of post-mortem wounds. Maybe she was cuffed?" She postulates. Her voice always sounds uncertain when she submits her theories for Sherlock's attention.
"Not exactly. There are no ligature marks on the inside of her wrists. Had she had restraints on (such as handcuffs), she would show grazes and lacerations all around her wrists, and not only on the upper portion," he corrects her, yet his tone lacks his usual condescension. To some extent, he appreciates Molly's little contributions and values her intellect and professional opinion.
"I think her hands were tied to the armrests of a chair when she was drowned. Considering also the clues we gathered at the crime scene, I believe the killer must have used her rosary to keep the victim's neck extended while forcing water down her throat to choke her. She tried to wriggle away from the rope, causing herself the bruises and marks on the top of her wrists, whereas the inside of her forearms were both secured to some soft material covering the armrests thus leaving the skin unaffected by her jolt. Her squirming provoked deep cuts and scrapes on her skin, suggesting hopeless desperation: she was dying and writhing in agony," Sherlock sums up impossibly fast.
Then he walks closer to Giulia and whispers, "You might want to take care of your own right wrist. It looks a bit scratched." His tone resounded, gentle and truly concerned: he feels responsible for that small injury.
"You might want to refrain from handcuffing me next time," she shoots back with a sharp look.
He remains unperturbed and stares into her fiery eyes.
"You can pick a lock," he affirms as a fact. That's hardly a deduction. "How did you do that?"
She doesn't break eye contact and slowly raises her hand to the top of her head, pulling a pin out of her braided hair. His eyes glimmer with curiosity and realisation as he gazes at the pin. Oh, that was rather clever. She picked the lock of the handcuffs using a hairpin: an old method, still very effective. Although, it only explains the 'how' she did it. He is still intrigued about the 'why' she knew how to do that.
"Your old bodyguard taught you that, didn't he?" He immediately understands, recalling her talk about the training she received from her bodyguard; when Sherlock was in his hospital bed, she had come clean about that part of her life. He wonders what the nature of the relationship between the two of them was. She described her old bodyguard as her mentor, as someone who got too close—so she said. What happened between her and that reckless Icarus? Did he cross a line with her?
He hates that he sounds jealous inside his head: he is not. Jealousy is a senseless emotion; humans cannot own other humans. Why feel possessive then? And now, he is having an argument with himself inside his brain, he consciously realises.
"He did. It was part of the standard procedures I had to learn as the daughter of an Italian Consul abroad. Children of diplomats are sometimes trained to react to potential kidnapping situations. We are vulnerable since we can be used against our parents as leverage," she spits out in a mocking voice, hinting at Sherlock's offensive definition of her as leverage with Dimmock. Checkmate.
Sherlock bites down on his lower lip and focuses back on the corpse on the slab.
"As I underlined at the crime scene, nobody dies of strangulation without struggling to break free. This nun put up a fight, and I bet we will find intriguing evidence under her nails. Molly, did you have the chance to check her fingernails?"
She looks as if she was caught out and stutters, "N-not yet. Earlier I was telling you about the sample I took from—"
"That can wait." His lightning comment cuts her short for the third time, and she sighs, mortified.
He swabs professionally under the victim's nails and puts the residues on a Petri dish that he promptly positions under the microscope, adjusting the lens and zooming in.
"Fascinating," he mutters under his breath.
"What is?" Giulia draws closer to look at the object of his interest and inadvertently brushes against his arm. Sherlock flinches at that contact but doesn't recoil. He lifts his head up and finds himself a few inches from her face. He frowns when he hears his heartbeat growing faster in his chest; he perceives an unusual feeling of warmth creeping up his cheeks. Why is his body betraying him? Is he blushing now? Preposterous.
He whips his head around and diverts his full attention back to the scientific analysis, sinking his flushed face in the comforting shelter of the microscope.
"She has wooden splinters under her nails. The relevant detail, though, is the refined quality of the wood: red oak. I can spot something else: traces of velvet. These residues indicate that the victim must have been tied to a luxurious armchair when she was suffocated. She dug her nails deep into the armrests to squirm free of the death grip. Now, Molly, you can carry on with the autopsy," he says without even looking in her direction; he is already on his next task.
He takes the mysterious marble statue out of the bag and places it under UV light. Giulia observes his manoeuvrings. When he perceives her eyes on the back of his neck, he asks casually, as if that was as good a time as any for small talk, "How did you find us?"
Giulia smiles. She wondered when he would ask. She knows he has been dying to find out how she tracked them down.
"If you want to ditch me, maybe next time don't say out loud where you want the body delivered," she sniggers, recalling the request he had made to Dimmock at the riverbank.
"I never said I'd go straight to the hospital, though."
"You let it slip implicitly back at the flat when you told me you needed a better-equipped lab to analyse the shipped package. Knowing that you also would want to take a closer look at the corpse and wouldn't miss the autopsy for the world, I figured the lab in the hospital morgue would be a good fit for both tasks. I can connect the dots, you know?" She taunts him.
He arches a brow, impressed. Her quick wit never ceases to amaze him. It's not that he has a low opinion of her; he knows how smart and clever she is. Yet, he can't help but be intrigued by the way her mind works. Very few people surprise the Great Detective.
"You can," he confirms as he turns the figurine on all sides, then hisses, peeved, "But apparently I can't. Moriarty is rather good: no traces of any kind."
Molly looks perplexed at his fit of temper, then addresses the other more-human human being in the room.
"Eventful morning, was it?"
John nods, frustrated. "You can say that. In short, we don't know the identity of this body; possibly the most dangerous criminal mastermind of this century is trying to befriend Sherlock by throwing riddles at him, and we still have no idea what the motive for this murder could be. Why would someone strangle a person with the only purpose of choking her with water?"
"I don't know that, but I can say it wasn't water that I found in her airways—" the pathologist starts explaining but gets cut short by Sherlock yelling, "Shut up everybody! I need to go to my mind palace."
He brings his hands to his temples and squeezes his eyes shut, murmuring, "He must have signed the gift. He's too full of himself not to have done it. But how?"
"I hope you won't murder me for the interruption, but when you opened the package, you said that the wrapping paper had been purposely damped, then left to dry out. You even theorised that the liquid it was immersed into could be a message," Giulia recollects.
Sherlock snaps his eyes open and turns towards her.
"I did, didn't it? Sometimes, I can't keep up with my own brain; it's too fast." He deliberately skips any expression of gratitude for the prompt reminder. He fetches the wrapping paper that he brought with him in the plastic bag and rips it into small pieces, fiddling with some test tubes and chemicals until he gets the reaction he was expecting.
"I knew it."
John looks flummoxed; his friend shows him a test tube whose content is still bubbling, then says with a solemn look on his face, "Chlorinated water."
Something in John's mind immediately clicks, and he whispers eerily, "The swimming pool. Where it all started and where we left things off."
"Yes, but there is more," Sherlock adds, gazing at the phial with an enthralled expression. "Chlorine was Moriarty's obvious signature referring to our last encounter at the pool, but he added another chemical that has no apparent connection to our story or the case at hand: ethanol."
"I think it's indeed related to this case," Molly intervenes in a quivering voice, almost hesitant about interrupting Sherlock's reasoning process.
His head whips toward her. "How would you know?"
"That's what I was trying to tell before. What I've been trying to say since the very beginning, actually," Mollie remarks in a humble tone. She hates herself for not being confident enough to shut him up whenever he interrupts her. "This woman wasn't forced to gulp down water; that's not what I found in her lungs. It was wine," she says, showing them some vials containing a garnet red liquid.
"I guess it gives a whole new meaning to the expression drowning your sorrows," Sherlock makes an inappropriate joke while the other three people in the room simultaneously look daggers at him.
"Can you please behave like a grownup? Why was she suffocated with wine? Is this clue supposed to tell us more about the victim?" John interrogates him.
Holmes looks like he has just woken up from a trance. He steals a glance at the marble statue under the UV light and claps his hands.
"Oh, I have been so slow. The bunch of grapes, the wine... That's so obvious."
His phone pings with a text alert. He quickly texts back while John asks dryly, "Would you care to share the obviousness with us, mere mortals?"
"The wine isn't connected to the victim, but to the murderer. This is a game, and the choking was Moriarty's move—or at least, the way he made his puppet-killer strike. When he mailed to our flat the statue of a woman holding a bunch of grapes, he was trying to tell me to focus on the wine. That was the clue, but it isn't complete yet. I still need more details."
He takes a pen and jots down some lines on a piece of paper.
"Molly, can you please bring a sample of the wine you found on the body to this address? As quickly as possible, please. There's a killer on the loose. We need to go now." He slides the note to her across the table, then heads for the door.
"But what about the autopsy? I'm not done yet," Molly protests, kindly overlooking the tiny detail that she isn't, in fact, his assistant.
Sherlock gives her a serious look. "If the man behind all this is as clever as I think he is, nothing is random in this case. Even the wine that was used to kill this woman might tell us more than any part of the corpse. Trust me." He winks and leaves.
"Where are we going now?" John asks, following the detective towards the exit of the hospital.
"Lestrade has just joined our task force. He texted me that a convent reported their Mother Superior missing. She might be our Jane Doe," Sherlock explains, hailing a cab.
On their way to the convent, Giulia asks Sherlock, "What was that address you gave Molly? Are you sending the wine sample to a specialized lab?"
"Not quite. She's visiting one of the greatest sommeliers and most qualified wine experts in Europe. A few years ago, thanks to my deductions, I saved him from being the victim of fraud regarding a vineyard in France, and he owes me one ever since. I'm calling my favour in: I need more information on that uncommon murder weapon."
She processes all the information on the case and comments, "You said the wine is a clue linked to the actual killer, but if Moriarty was the instigator—his 'sponsor', why would he give you a lead on his henchman? Why would he want his accomplice to get caught?"
Sherlock shrugs. "Because he only cares about the game, having his fun, being entertained. It's just a chess match for him. And he is willing to sacrifice one of his pawns to win."
"Why would he play this game with you?" She asks again. This Moriarty guy sounds quite psychotic. The perfect match for an unconventional genius like the detective.
He looks out the window as his thoughts fly away.
"Because he is my nemesis: he is a consulting criminal."
"Consulting criminal, consulting detective, Army doctor, British government... Does any of you have a normal job, like a lawyer or teacher?" She jokes around.
Sherlock smirks. "Normal jobs are for people with no imagination."
Author's Note: I'd like to remind you that this fanfic is set before the Reichenbach Fall, so Moriarty is still alive (or should I say 'he is staying alive'?). As John said above, they saw him for the last time at the swimming pool. The Game is on.
When the cab pulls over, and they hop off, they stare at an old convent made of stonework and wood on the other side of the road. The building looks as if it has always been there since time immemorial. It's the timeless charm of ancient buildings; they convey a sense of security and stillness as if they were untouched by the hustle of the hectic life that goes by all around, barely grazing their eternal grandeur.
Sherlock glances around. His gaze hovers on a modern office building on his right. He cannot help but notice the sharp contrast between that fancy slender structure of steel and glass and the brick facade of the old convent, like a silent fight between centuries: the old story of progress versus tradition. He casts a glance at the emblem of the real estate development firm based in the futuristic building; their logo represents a mountain peeping out of the clouds, and he smiles to himself. After all, both the real estate firm and the convent reach for the sky: one seeking pious humility, the other out of lavish opulence.
The trio reaches the front iron gate of the convent, where several police officers are carrying out interviews with the nuns. Sherlock walks past them quickly, ignoring the mayhem, and heads straight towards a nun standing in the shade of an ivy-covered arcade.
"Aren't we supposed to work with the police?" John asks. He knows that no matter how high Sherlock thinks of himself, in the end, he is nothing more than a consultant.
"The police will waste time interrogating every occupant of the convent, while we only need a few minutes with one person," he replies enigmatically, walking on the cobblestones. "I struck a deal. We have five minutes to talk to the nun who first alerted the police about the disappearance of the Mother superior. Bonus: I can do that unsupervised." He smirks childishly.
Giulia arches a brow at him. "You mean Dimmock agreed to hand over the reins of the investigation to you?"
"No, but my other watchdog did: Lestrade interceded for me," he replies and introduces himself to the nun waiting for him. She smiles weakly and leads them along some corridors, showing them around.
After letting her briefly recall her phone call to Scotland Yard, Sherlock interrupts her chitchat and cuts to the chase.
"Sister Laura, do you have a photo of the convent's Mother superior?"
She gives him a silent nod and shows them a picture of a woman identical to the one they found by the riverside.
"It's her. I'm so sorry," John mumbles in a contrite tone, rubbing his neck awkwardly as the nun cries.
Sherlock clears his throat uncomfortably.
"My condolences, Sister. Now, we must proceed with the investigation to find her murderer, so it would be useful if you could tell us when and how you found out that the Mother superior was missing."
Giulia glowers at his tactlessness. The nun wipes away the tears and replies in a choked-up voice, "I noticed she didn't show up for lunch, which was unusual since she is always bustling about the kitchen and often provides the meals for all of us."
Sherlock flashes a conceited smile to them, hinting at his spot-on deductions about the victim's daily tasks at the convent.
"I just assumed maybe her interview with the journalist was taking more than expected. But when early in the afternoon, I didn't find her in the library, where she always was at that time of day, I figured something was off. I searched the whole convent, but there was no trace of her anywhere. I called the police because I feared something bad could have happened to her." She sobs.
"You mentioned an interview. What about it? I didn't think nuns had such an intense bond with the media," John points out.
"A reporter phoned the convent a few days ago, asking for an interview with the Mother superior. He was writing an article about the modern life of nuns in the 21st century and wanted to have some first-hand experience to include in his story. Our Mother superior was enthusiastic about it, so she arranged a meeting for early this morning. The journalist came to meet her, and she showed him around the place. I even bumped into the two of them while they were heading to the garden, deep in conversation."
"You saw him. Could you describe him?" Sherlock urges her.
"You don't think that he might have done such a horrible thing, do you? Could a murderer have walked down these hallways?" She instinctively makes the sign of the cross, shocked and repulsed.
"Possibly. But even if he were innocent, he was probably one of the last people to see her alive, so we must find him. Now, could you describe the journalist?" Sherlock repeats his question impatiently.
"A man in his late thirties or early forties, short black hair, dark eyes, maybe a dark shade of brown?" She tries her best to recall the details. "I remember noticing he looked so out of place here: he was way too elegant with his expensive suit and tie."
"Expensive suit and tie in a convent? That's not a standard attire for a journalist," Giulia comments in disbelief, and Sherlock smirks at her, remarking ironically, "Most of the columnists I know would be so overdressed only if they were on their way to collect a Pulitzer prize. I'd rather say he reminds me of someone." He looks suggestively at John, who locks eyes with him, nodding rigidly. Westwood: That brand will forever echo in his mind, sending shivers down his spine.
"Thank you, Sister Laura. One last question: do guests such as that reporter have to sign on a ledger or logbook or am I still living in medieval times?" Sherlock asks in a self-deprecating voice.
"As a matter of fact, we've kept that tradition here. It is right outside the entrance of the chapel," the nun confirms with a curt nod towards the end of the corridor.
"Thank you very much. Sorry for your loss." He simpers and takes long strides down the hallway.
"Mr Holmes, the Mother Superior was a truly good soul. Who would want to harm her?" Sister Laura shouts after him.
He doesn't even stop and mutters under his breath, "Probably Satan himself."
Giulia and John follow him until he comes to a halt in front of a bookstand. There is a book with an old cover engraved with a dove and cross; Sherlock immediately recognises the emblem of the convent that dominated the front gate as well. He browses through the pages until he reaches the last entry: J. M.
"It was him: Jim Moriarty." John reads over his shoulder. "But what about the other letters and numbers?"
Giulia looks at the book and smiles pensively, reading it out loud, "Mt 6:24. How pertinent. The letters stand for The Gospel according to Matthew. it helps categorise the author, while the numbers pinpoint a specific verse from that Gospel."
"How do you know that?" Sherlock stares at her in awe.
She gives him a tight-lipped smile. "I come from a Roman Catholic family. My parents were very religious." Her thoughts fly to her mother and father, and she shakes her head slightly to keep her focus on the matter at hand. "Let's see what hidden message your enemy left us," she says, stepping into the chapel.
She takes a Bible from a pew and flicks through the pages until she finds what she is looking for and reads aloud, "No one can serve two masters. Either you will hate the one and love the other, or you will be devoted to the one and despise the other. You cannot serve both God and money."
"I think the Christian meaning is quite clear: if you want to side with God, embrace poverty. But how is it supposed to lead us to the killer?" Sherlock knits his brows, perplexed.
Giulia steals a glance at the pages in front of her and smiles instinctively.
"I don't know that, but this chapter has always been my favourite part of the Gospel of Matthew: The Sermon on the Mount."
Sherlock freezes and turns to look at her with folded hands in front of his mouth—his signature praying position, which is even more appropriate inside a chapel.
"What did you just say?"
"I know it might sound weird that I have a favourite part of the Bible, but I thought I made it clear I am a believer."
"So am I, for I believe in the devil. And as the saying goes, the devil is in the details," he mumbles, walking away and heading for the main entrance.
John and Giulia follow him with quizzical expressions until they are all standing on the pavement in front of the modern office building on the opposite side of the road.
"You said Mount, and I remembered a very distinctive symbol," Sherlock explains, lifting a finger to point at the emblem of the real estate development firm representing a mountain rising above the clouds. When he first saw it, he had mentally judged it as a sign of boastful arrogance.
John remarks amused, "Speaking of religion, I guess that if the mountain will not come to Muhammad, then Muhammad must go to the mountain."
Author's note: I apologise for taking so long to update. I'd like to thank CallMeSama and mr. clever for their inspirational tips and insatiable desire to know more. I hope I am satisfying your curiosity about this story!
Let me know what you think!