A/N: Not your typical Christmas holidays plot, and ongoing. -csf


8.

Sherlock's coat pockets are today a veritable apothecary, as he scoops out the hydrogen peroxide bottle and a couple of other unlabelled chemicals. He neatly lays out on the soggy moss surface of a broken garden table his pocket handkerchief, a silky affair with all the practicality of a dandy's treasured possession. The vials follow in a battalion line, the chemical onslaught soon to be unleashed over the contents of a recovered biscuits tin. And those contents are the sole reason why John has been taken aside by Lestrade, who is currently trying to distract the nauseated, shocked looking army doctor. Sentiment, Sherlock derides to the sound of dry retching.

He knows that habitually John would have the better stomach of the two. He does wonder briefly if the rhododendron roots might have clipped John's calloused hands in a poisonous revenge over the soil disturbance, but quickly dismisses the plant's worth in botanic toxins. No, clearly the tin, a small, squat and square box of some ferrous alloy that slowly has been rotting and rusting in the soil for as long as the Watsons have left town. In their wake they seemingly left a token, a time capsule of sinful belongings, a truly unique treasure trove of crime that John, in ordinary circumstances, would appreciate as much as Sherlock himself.

From the opening of the rusted lid, with some brute force persuasion, the detective has upped his care in handling the new evidence in the most reasonable scientific fashion. Or as close to scientific as he can, improvising in the field. Nitrile gloves and a cotton swab soon give way to another positive hydrogen peroxide test. Biological material still present on the surface analysed. Too bad the surface is a jagged edged circular saw, stained dark, deep red from blood and rust, all the way to the worn handle. The grandfather's initials are carved into the wood. A bit not good. The stanley knife is a bit crude as a choice, considering the variety of scalpels, lancets, and other sharp surgical instruments to which a doctor would have access. Effective, though, and Sherlock wouldn't have though John's grandfather to be less than a practical man. It was the jam jar that troubled John the most – and possibly the most traumatic element in the eclectic mix. An old strawberry jam jar according to the faded label, of all things, is now a clear receptacle holding a murky, greyish, spongy biological material. Not a gall bladder nor an appendix portion, the detective knows his human body parts, although he usually comes across them still attached to the rest of the corpse. Usually. There was that case of the Camden Road Ripper a few months back. Origin usually helps identify the parts' name, location and function. Sherlock doesn't quite mind playing Name That Body Part, but feels it's slightly unfair that the formalin suspension inside the jar seems to have affected both colour and texture, possibly even shrunk the human tissue, or compromised the integrity of its cells under the microscope.

Sherlock has been gently scrapping some waxy layer around the rim of the jar and under the rusty lid, to access the sample. He's about to twist the cap when a clear, decisive voice warns him:

'For the love of your science gods, don't open that until we know it's not going to kill you.'

Sherlock raises an eyebrow, smirks, and internally approves as even a distressed, exhausted and injured John Watson can never fail to stop Sherlock from recklessly pursuing a case lead in detriment of good sense.

'Do you expect it to jump from the jar and attack me in the face?'

'I'd pay to watch that', John bites back, sternly. A no-nonsense attitude etched to every sharp angle of his black jacket. 'I would instead be wary of catching an awful disease or being contaminated by some parasitic microbe, to name just a couple of dangers.'

'I'm wearing gloves and you're boring.'

John hisses under his breath, all righteousness building up inside him. He's worn out, pressured by ancient demons he's let run amok, not to mention absolutely ticked off that Sherlock could be this juvenile, careless and imbecilic... He controls himself by sheer willpower over matter, a vein twitching at his temple in tandem with his accelerated heartbeats.

'I sure don't expect it to be radioactive, explosive or instant freezing, but I still won't let you open that as if it were a jar of pickles.'

Sherlock puts his treasure down for a second, turning to face John Watson. He can see the anger bubbling at the surface, erupting like molten lava. What's Sherlock done now? John is so demanding, a total prima donna.

'Want a pair of gloves yourself, John?'

John's face opens to a wide grin. 'Thought you'd never ask! I'm the doctor here, shove over!'

Crisis averted, Sherlock scores himself a point for his home team. Just as a token protest, he reminds John:

'I've got the pocket microscope!'

'Who needs one? I can tell what it is by texture and shape, once I handle it.'

Sherlock is about to decry John's ability when he remembers that John was a doctor in a war torn country abroad. He probably has been tasked with piecing together far too scattered bits of army personnel to aid in their identification. Not his expertise, but at war John was a multitasker by necessity. Sherlock's gaze darkens at the many ghosts John carries from those days, how many names, faces and friends he's vowed to carry forever in him, to never forget, to never let go.

'If you think you can do it', the detective says aloof, already decisively twisting the rusty cap.

It doesn't explode, fizz, pop, or even deflate. The tissue lump just stays at the bottom or a murky solution in the jar.

John fishes out the grey amorphous sample with his blue nitrile gloved hand, a slimy treasure nesting in the glistening surface of his outstretched palm. It's the size of a lemon and it deflates somewhat as it emerges from the liquid world where it was kept adrift for decades. It's opaque, but there's an odd luminescence to the edges, as if the centre was more calcified and the edges roamed free like the jellied bodies of anaemones from an underwater world. The doctor feels it for a few seconds between thumb and palm, a squelching sound emanating from the putrid, smelly mass.

'I think I know what it is, yes. And I think I solved the case too.'

In the aftermath of a shocking twist - Sherlock is the case solver, not John! - the blond doctor suddenly springs to action, getting up, moving to walk off. The strong, quiet, long fingers and open palmed hand of the detective wraps possessively around John's sleeve, demanding attention.

'Just drop it, John.'

The doctor looks absolutely confused before looking down on his own hand and groaning out an 'Oh...'

There's little preamble before John follows through with the insightful advice, before dropping the smelly sample back in the jar with a wet splosh sound effect of its own, seemingly back into the depths of some underworld.

Time has been ticking by after John's quiet declaration. The doctor's voice is now eerily droned out, his gaze empty and vacant all of a sudden, as if the blond doctor was overlaying current reality with restored memories short-circuited back into his conscious mind. Sherlock feels oddly stunned, strangely out of tune with the cruel universe. John has solved the case? John has held a decaying mass of tissue and made sense of his grandfather's legacy? What dark sorcery is this?

'John', he says at last, keeping his voice controlled through great effort, it comes out as a low growl, 'do explain yourself.'

Lestrade cuts in, looking suspiciously green around the gills. 'Yeah, care to talk us through it, mate?'

John himself is still smiling, still looking like the weight of the world has momentarily lifted off his shoulders. He opens his mouth, closes it, and instead opts to say:

'Let's leave that here and return to that shed. I think I remember it all now.' And he snaps his gloves off, efficiently wrapping one inside the other with practised ease.

.

The child was mulling stubbornly over a jigsaw puzzle laid out on a threadbare carpet, its pieces radiating outwards over to the limits of the available surface, threatening to hide behind furniture legs and lost children slippers. It was very early in the morning at the weekend and the house was pleasantly asleep, cosy, despite a bit chilly with the summer coming to an end. Failing tree leaves, yellowed and dry, floated past the window, trailing in the winds, picking up speed, rushing headlong towards a storm. Inside the house with the yellow door, the blond boy was biting his lip, in a quirky trait he'd keep deep into adulthood, typical of when he levelled bravely with something he couldn't quite understand, couldn't quite foresee, but he sensed was brilliant in potential. He tensed up in sudden surprise, then hastened to chase yet another piece falling into place.

His fingers didn't quite reach the puzzle piece. A noise – a door banging against the wind – caught his attention instead.

John, the blond child, got up and followed that rhythmic sound of a door banging against the shed wall, in a pronouncement of bad weather. He kicked a slipper on his way to the front door, unlocked it and stepped outside barefooted onto the cold grass. His footsteps were light, and muffled by the grass that tickled between his toes. John didn't slow down. He had to close that door outside, to ensure the house remained asleep, a peaceful hideout for a boy trying to piece together that picture from the puzzle box.

The child turned the corner, his steps even and determined, a chill seeping through his pyjamas and making him cold. He couldn't back away now. A few more steps.

Like a taunting dream, his walk carried on for a long time, a full expedition to faraway lands It'd seem, but finally he was there, fighting a gust of wind and pushing back against the wooden shed door, making it return to its frame. The job was almost done when the child spotted a glint of light from inside the shed. Light bounced off some polished surface, angled from a whole in the corrugated ceiling, and edged off in a spectacular diffraction of colours. John smiled. Just a rainbow. A pronouncement of magic in the air.

John hauled the door shut after him, as he sneaked inside the shed. After a few moments his eyes had grown accustomed to the dimness around him and he could see the light had caught on a glass jar with a metal lid. It was one of several on the shelves, among a few cans of paint and some paintbrushes dipped in turpentine.

The boy was short for his age, his summertime's growth spurt not quite as good as to compensate for the head start the other boys in class had from him. Short, but industrious. He grabbed a stool and climbed with the ease of a little monkey, eyes glued onto the scintillating glass jar now returned to dullness. John stood up straighter, and reached out carefully, and grabbed hold of the jar, holding it against his pyjama shirt. He held on tight with one hand, locked it in his elbow and prepared to twist the lid—

Warm, safe, familiar hands sneaked under his armpits and hauled him off the stool and back onto the floor, to the grown-up's world. He swivelled around to hug his granddad, jar still in hand.

'Good morning, John. What a mischievous smile you've got so early in the morning!'

Strong, safe hands grabbed hold of the jar and slid it from his hold, returning the jar to the shelf.

'What is that, granddad?'

'You're a dissectologist, son. One day you'll find out.'

'What's that? A disse— direc—'

'A puzzle solver.'

'Is what you keep in those jars a puzzle?'

'In a way, I think it is. One day, John, you'll know. For now you're too young, let's get you back home. You've got a worrying knack for straying, son. I feel sorry for your wife one day, she'll worry sick over you.'

John shrugged, too young and too trusting to consider that one day those safe hands wouldn't be a short distance away to guide him and protect him again.

'Can we make breakfast together, granddad?'

'We sure can, son.'

.

A taller, much older and fully adult John Watson reassesses the dusty shed, with the paint cans lined up at regular intervals. There is no sign of those mysterious glass jars, like gruesome preserves collected at the end of summer to last through a harsh winter, they have long been removed. Taken away, most likely destroyed, but for that single sample buried in the garden, by the rhododendron plant. A neglected collection of murky background, or a serendipitous gift to brighten the shrub's flowers by enriching the soil with iron from rust. That's how Sherlock spotted it, John gets it at last, equally capable of deducing; if only after the fact and with considerable delay, but he too can deduce.

His grandfather's pronouncement wasn't very accurate; that puzzle on the living room's floor never got finished, the itch to seek puzzles still in John to this day.

A good puzzle solver, a quality dissectologist, would be more like the consulting detective himself.

Maybe Sherlock's the real deal, the man who'd defiantly refuse to look at the lid preview of a jigsaw puzzle. It'd bias his investigation.

'Here.' John picks out a lidless can from the rest displayed on a shelf. He gets his hand inside the can and retrieves a bulky, cold, lifeless something.

'That's a model gall bladder', Sherlock says at once, with authority.

John nods needlessly. Sherlock would know his body parts. Perhaps he's saying it to Lestrade, who looks absolutely confused at this point. They all look down at the gall bladder. A wooden piece from an anatomical puzzle, a part of an educational aid. John brushes his calloused thumb over the enamelled surface, the colour still bright but the paint now brittle, chipping away. 'There, do you see it? A tumourous growth. This is a diseased gall bladder. A visual study aid for medical students. And there's more. An enlarged venal cava, a spongy alveoli, there's all sorts of models, all built from real life models. My granddad was trying to help understand illnesses. No, not all illnesses. Sherlock, the cemetery! Those marked graves. They'll have passed from a common reason. Not family related, we can rule out a dominant genetic issue. Possibly an environmental cause, like heavy metal toxicity in the water, or a severe nutrient deficiency in their nutrition. Something that alerted Hamish, a retired doctor, that young boys across the country were in danger. I don't think anyone listened to him, not if he had to resort to stealing from graves to piece together evidence he preserved in formalin. Breaking out a preserved body part at a council meeting was not socially acceptable, so he created wooden models of his findings, something that could be handled and discussed more easily. Meanwhile he investigated, he put together all his puzzle pieces for whatever contamination killed those boys. Four at least, in this town, who knows how ever more in other towns before it became known, before he got persecuted for stealing from graves without permission, before all became another witch hunt elsewhere? He couldn't stop investigating, he had me in the house, and Harry too. He must have feared we could catch it too, whatever was doing this to those children. In a sense, I think he was doing it for me. That's why he kept it hidden from me. How do you tell a child that you're trying go investigate an illness that they can catch and that it can kill them before the end of the year?'

John's voice is but a mere whisper by the end of his long speech, emotion and emptiness marring his voice. He looks up to Sherlock and Lestrade, who handle the wooden pieces with careful attention.

'So what was it, John?' the detective inspector asks him.

'What was what?'

'The illness, John', Sherlock reminds him, metal grey eyes locked on deep, dark blue ones. 'Did Hamish finish his mission?'

John blinks slowly.

'I don't know. I don't remember that part.'

.

TBC