Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter XXVI - Consilium Discouri

Artwork by @-GrandLarceny-.

~~~~~~

-Millie-

~~~~~~

"Tea for Millie, latte for John," says Molly, passing the polystyrene cups over one by one. "Coffee, black, two sugars." She licks her lips, nervous as she hands Sherlock his beverage.

"Are you sure we can drink in here?" asks John, looking down at the corpse on the slab. "Isn't it a little...unhygienic?"

Molly shakes her head, smiling with a wan, wistful sadness that seems habitual to her of late. "People don't visit the forensic pathology department very often, and the bodies don't mind – as long as you don't make a mess."

Sherlock balances his coffee on the edge of the slab and rolls up his shirt sleeves, adjusting his silicon gloves with an emphasised snap. I watch his wrists as he works, slim and white and ridged with gossamer scars of different shapes and depth; the familiar speckling of faded pinpricks, the occasional gash, the two, horizontal slits running across the blue veins under his skin. I can't help but wonder how he remains so nonchalant about it all – I keep my scars well hidden to prevent unwanted conversation.

He pulls back the sterile sheet. I look down at the woman lying on her back. She can only be in her mid-twenties, pretty in a waifish, ethereal sort of way with skin verging on translucent and dark, dark eyelashes. Her hair is damp and – more perplexingly still – there is no apparent injury or indication of the cause of death: no excessive bruising, no gaping wound, no swelling around the head or neck.

Sherlock scans her and nods, seemingly assured.

"What is it?"

He points to the gathering of little scabs at her neck. "She was given an overdose."

"Cocaine," mutters Molly, under her breath. She blinks, realising that she has our full attention. "I ran a test on a blood sample."

"So she overdosed," says John, sipping from his latte and wincing at the temperature. "I'm not sure how that makes a crime scene-"

"It was administered with force. Blood around entry points. Ruptured vein," says Sherlock,  to the thumb-sized smear of rusted liquid around the pinpricks.

"That's all?"

Sherlock is examining the small bruises on her arms and chest and throat: he reaches out, presses his fingers to the same places, readjusts his stance – and realises that he is leaning flat over her chest. He straightens up, removes the sheet and examines the rest of her unmoving body with no shame or subtlety, to Molly's red-faced horror.

Sherlock removes his gloves. "Mark her down as a sexual assault victim."

"But you just said she was-"

"She was drugged, certainly. Assaulted during the comatose state preceding death." Sherlock balls the gloves in his hand. "And quite possibly afterwards, too."

John wrinkles his nose in disgust. "After death?"

"She's been kept for a while. Frozen, by the looks of things. We haven't had a necrophilia case before."

"Don't sound so excited."

"Not appropriate?"

"Not at all."

"Fine. Coffee," says Sherlock, imperiously. I roll my eyes and hold the coffee cup to his lips. He sips, nods, and frowns at the woman, then, to our well-founded discomfort, bends down to her neck and inhales deeply.