A/N: I was meant to finish in this plotline in this posting, but I'll presume you want more after this one.

Keep safe, keep strong. Stay kind. -csf


IV.

'So we're not returning to London yet', I surmise.

'No. Case.'

The laconic detective is too absorbed in his reasonings to answer with full sentences. It's always a good sign, although it can make for awkward one-sided conversations, particularly in public.

Once, on the Underground, I explicitly commented to Sherlock that he wasn't paying me the slightest attention. He hummed in the affirmative. Lost in the realm of his thoughts, he identified something in what I said that required an answer. Any answer. There were several flickering looks our way at that hum, the Underground having chosen that particular moment to be exceptionally quiet. The majority of the onlookers were openly mocking me. And so it kick started a new tradition, Sherlock has yet to catch up on. If he's too lost in his head, I start saying crazy things and insisting on answers from the genius. Laconic as they may be, they can at least amuse with hilarity the public audiences. So far, Sherlock has publicly confirmed he likes blueberry muffins, sometimes doesn't wear underwear, has a secret poison embedded in the straps of his deerstalker hat, and can play the violin whilst standing on his head.

Some of these confidences strayed out into the public domain like wildfire.

Sherlock has yet to understand how our front door steps once got littered with offerings of blueberry muffins from the fans.

I'm not about to explain to him the other side effects of the public gullibility, lest he starts exploring it for his own gain. Suffice to say anything that gives an edge of mystery and nonconformity to the detective only helps his image, as far as I can see it.

'So you're saying we'll stay until the case is solved... Not another night in Harry's van, is it?'

'No.'

'Good, I'll hold you to that. You better be paying attention this time... Not like that time you used potassium permanganate solution to wash your hair, honestly there are still some purple hues on those curly locks.'

All my own fabrication, I'm afraid. Although I wouldn't put it past my distracted scientist friend.

He hums again, not absorbing a single word of what I said.

I really should be honoured that he'd trust me this much to agree to just about anything I say without listening, shouldn't I?

Feels lonely, instead.

I pocket my hands to the very deep confines of the fabric, where the lint gathers to weigh my jacket down.

Something instantly snaps Sherlock out of his reverie, has he laser focuses his attention on me instead.

'What?' I ask, bewildered, in reaction.

He's suddenly looking through me, with that blank look he gets when he's studying rows of code on a laptop screen. He's winding back and reviewing what he missed. He frowns at the results.

I'm left to wonder what snapped him out of it in the first place. I wasn't saying anything!

'John, in our road trip are we allowed a small break so we can head to the local morgue?'

'Why, yes. It's your choice really, Sherlock.'

'Oh goody', he comments. 'Don't tell Molly, by the way, she would get jealous.'

.

Sat on a high stool at the corner of the local mortuary, I watch a feverish Sherlock clear a side desk of its contents, tossing them unceremoniously to the floor, drag the desk across the floor, and line it with the two available autopsy tables. The bewildered Pathologist and Assistant Pathologist watch in as much respectful awe as in fear of another tirade of disparaging comments on their level of work. That was the experienced consulting detective's passport into the forensic investigation. He quickly dispenses with the idea of nitrile gloves and picks the recovered grubby bones at an alarming speed, quickly settling them down in the correct skeletal position of the three victims, one to each flat surface, a champion might assemble a one thousand pieces jigsaw puzzle.

'Sherlock.' And I clear my throat to give him pause.

He stops immediately, out of loyalty, and checks in with me by means of a quick glance. He reads my mind and, with a brief nod, starts lecturing his way through his job.

'Jaw bone. Likely female, adult, all lower set of teeth still attached, good dental hygiene, going by the pattern of usage of the enamel surface a likely vegetarian. Nicotine stains in the front teeth, heavy smoker. Next, heel bone. Signs of multiple healed micro fractures. Possibly a high impact runner. Early signs of osteoporosis, possibly the victim was in their fifties, definitely not a professional sports person at all... John?'

I get up, receiving at the bone he tosses me casually. 'I agree', I say studying the classified structure. 'Slight deformation here, born out of years of stiletto heels usage, they really forced and unnatural posture on the foot arch, see? If you want to know a person, walk a mile in their shoes, they say', I comment, as he takes the heel bone back. He's interested.

'Would that be the stilettos or the running shoes, John?'

'Beats me, you're the detective.'

'How about that phalange on the table?' he asks me, pocketing the heel bone. Apparently his pocket is the temporary Maybe pile.

I'm about to comment on a specific genetic trait of the bone growth when the morgue's door bangs shut forcibly behind me, making me jump. We just lost our audience. Sherlock and I stare at each other and shrugged.

'You need to gather interest from the audience, Sherlock.'

He nearly whines. 'But it's three skeletons, John! How can I make skeletons even more interesting?'

'I don't know, just ask questions?' I venture.

'That's silly. They won't answer you. You're not the skeleton bones whisperer, John. I grant you're a fine doctor, but these poor folks are beyond even your expertise.'

I shake my head, disguising a smile.

Sherlock continues: 'As for the Pathologist and his assistant, I'm doing their job and if they don't love their job, they shouldn't be here! Why did they leave when they could learn from our combined wisdom?'

I shake my head; no idea, made. You're the new professor here.

Only it's not really going that well is it?

For once, I see real doubt in Sherlock about his future professional career alteration prospects.

'Never mind them, Sherlock, they're idiots', I gather, annoyed.

My friend grins openly.

.

'You're here on your own?'

I'm back at the local pub for some grub, while Sherlock follows some leads in the local police headquarters, when I see the same young woman waiting on the tables outside.

'You work several shifts', I notice.

'Rent', she retorts, as an explanation. 'Harry hasn't returned home yet', she tells me, a sadness marked in her words like a child who has lost her puppy.

'My friend is on the case', I assure her. 'He'll do all he can to find your boyfriend.'

'You're here alone', she notes again.

'You'd be surprised, against popular belief, we can function independently. And I will take him some food, he could do with a couple of square meals.'

She takes a seat across the wooden table, suddenly very familiar.

'There is talk in town you've found three dead bodies.'

I nod, yes. She reaches over the table between us with a rag, rubbing circles on the wood. I notice she wears several rings on her fingers, easily half a dozen in each hand, that sparkle under the sunny daylight.

I wonder what deductions Sherlock would make of the abundance of jewellery, when it's quite simple to me. They make her feel special while she cleans grubby tables.

'All old history, I assure you. None was your boyfriend Harry. You gave us a clear timeline as to his whereabouts before his disappearance.'

She nods, looking relieved. 'I wouldn't be able to forgive myself if Harry got murdered after I brought him here. He didn't want to come, at first.'

I give her my most sympathetic look while taking another sip of my pint. 'It's hard to step away from everything you know, sometimes.'

'Old habits are hard to break', she agrees, suddenly noticing her glittering hand between us and taking it away. 'Does Mr Holmes know where you are?'

I blink. What an odd question, an idée fixe in her mind.

'Yeah, I told him, but I doubt he'll have heard me, though. Sherlock can be—'

I stop short, blinking hard to try to dispel the haziness in my sight.

I pull my hands back, away from that half drunk pint.

The glass is shinning under the midday's sun, glistening in all colours. A firework display of optical effects, a colourful aura indicative of a minor stroke or a likely narcotic in my drink.

The rainbow colours glitter as the jewels in the waitress' rings.

I look up to the innocent, eager face in front of me. Shielding my stunned expression from the few other patrons leaving the pub.

'You drugged me.'

She smiles benignly. 'John, you're cleverer than you think. You were about to find out. I couldn't have you tell your detective friend, could I?'

I feel like I'm swaying in my seat. I look all around me. The other seats are empty. No cars or people passing by. Not good.

'Sherlock will come for me.'

'I hope he does. I'd hate to have to go to London to get him.'

'He'll find you out.'

'Will he? None of the others did. Maybe I forgot to mention Harry was a detective too? And before him, there was a policeman, from the homicide squad. Before that there was a fifty year old woman, she was actually the mother of my previous boyfriend...'

As she says this, she looks down on her jewel studded fingers. Mementos of her killings.

There are more skeletons out there, judging by numbers.

'Where's Harry?' I ask, harshly. It comes across thickly, as my voice is pasty.

Not my sister Harry. Another Harry. Who's Harry?

'He's in the cellar, in one of the empty beer drums. I need to wait get the forensic investigators to clear the woods, thanks to your meddling friend. Usually I chose a deserted spot and let the big birds feast. I take the clean bones afterwards. It's easy to dispose of someone when there's no one in sight for miles.'

'Those rock formations. You put the bones there, among the rocks.'

'I told you I grew up here. I know this land as the back of my hand.'

I'm swaying backwards, falling off the seat. She instantly grabs me by the jacket.

'Oh no, you don't! I'm not done with you yet, John.'

As a metaphorical darkness falls over me alone, I see her pickpocket my wallet remorselessly.

'That's so generous of you, John. It covers the pint and a new piece of jewellery for me. Think of it as a generous tip. It's always good to die with a kind gesture, don't you think?'

.

A hoodie is a poor substitute for a tailored coat, I decide, as I reach the local pub and fail repeatedly to flick up the garment around the collar. Must John subject me to a life of mediocrity? I huff, sure it's too much to bear, and the good doctor must be made aware of this at once.

I look around in the indoor area, having crossed the empty tables outside without seeing John. Someone has lit up the corner fireplace, there are a few plastered locals following the televised snooker championship, and absolutely no signs of John.

Great, has he got himself kidnapped again?

I hope not. I'm wanting to leave within the hour as soon as I find our killer. Surely John understands that?

I reach the counter where lazy stale pints in a tray waiting to be cleared. There's no one in sight, I might as well help myself to the taps if I wanted to be half as plastered as the locals. I doubt any of them is divising a scientific experiment on the Saccharomyces cerevisiae fermentation process.

Even John—

I stop with a cold chill down my spine. I saw something. I reach over to one of the glasses. Smudged fingerprints on the glass. Left handed, a small but manly hand, stubby fingers, broad grasp – decisive, familiar. I fetch my pocket magnifying lens. Smudged ridges and loops, and no database fingerprints to compare my findings. Too familiar. Calluses as blank spots in the mountainous landscape of grease residue on the polished glass surface. I can identify an airline pilot by the left thumb, a butcher's cleaver calluses are easy as child's play, and John's mixed pattern of doctor and soldier are unmistakable.

John.

The good doctor's thrifty mind would have him finish his two-thirds unexplored pint before leaving.

I raise the glass and sniff the stale beer.

The glass is dropped mechanically as my mind whirls trying to recognise the residue of narcotic. In the bitter tasting beverage it would be hard to discern unless you were looking for sabotage.

John. Someone's got John.

Not Moriarty. Which is good. And bad. Moriarty would have kept John alive to mess with me. This unknown person attacking my best friend may be more ill judged than a lonesome criminal mastermind.

No. Think, Sherlock Holmes. You can deduce who is behind this and how to find John.

Be quick, though. John is in grave danger.

.

TBC