The Lazarus Machine

Chapter 21

John followed Sherlock to a cab that he somehow managed to wave down even with an unpleasantly lumpy and stained burlap sack in his grasp.  To his surprise, Lestrade hopped up inside with them.

"So, Captain Watson, how long have you been home from the war?" he asked genially as the cab sprang forth towards the hospital.

"Since summer," John answered warily.  "My leg was injured during Quatre Bras.  I recuperated from fever at my brother's home in Essex."

"You must have fully recovered then, to chase around after this one."

John wasn't quite sure how to answer that.

"Much improved, thank you," he managed.

"So how long have you known Holmes?"

John glanced at Sherlock, but he was staring out of the window, thoughts completely obliterating the conversation happening only a foot away from him.

"We met a couple of weeks ago.  He and his brother visited me and mine at my brother's estate."

"Just about the time of the announcement in the papers then.  Couldn't see it being a love match, I suppose.  Congratulations, at any rate."  Lestrade's leaned back, pleased with John's startled look.

"It doesn’t take a genius, Lestrade, to read a newspaper announcement."  Sherlock's chill voice didn't put a damper on Lestrade's pleasure.  "And Donovan would offer condolences, but the prat isn't here."

"Oh, so you knew."

"Not for sure until you were introduced.  Never thought Holmes would marry.  Figured it must have been arranged when I saw the betrothal notice, or a grievous misprint."  The man laughed, but in a pleasant, amused way.  "I never expected to actually meet you, and certainly not at a crime scene.  Figured you'd two keep your paths as separate as possible.  That he'd keep you at home like a little wife."

"You're not as dull as I often suspect, Lestrade."

The man beamed at the offhanded praise from Sherlock Holmes.

"Except if you thought for a minute I'd simply obey Mycroft and be married without the spouse being in the least bit useful, you're more cracked than Donovan's left shoe."

John hadn't quite known Sherlock well enough to recognize the twisted, deformed nature of his praise, but Lestrade merely laughed again.

"A medical man, and a soldier.  You've done quite well for yourself, Holmes."

An hour later, John Watson found himself watching his fiancé examining a severed foot with a magnifying lens.  Lestrade had hopped out of the hired coach when it neared Bow Street, exchanging promises to keep the other informed, leaving John and Sherlock to travel the rest of the way to the morgue in silence.

"John, take notes," he had said.  Not, please, John, it will go faster and more efficiently if you take notes.  Still, John wrote down all the measurements and details Sherlock provided, rarely requiring him to repeat anything, and generally submitted in silence. 

"Amazing," he said once, unable to contain himself when Sherlock launched into the conclusion that none of these feet matched any of the hands.  It was simple enough to deduce that, because they were all left feet, there were at least four victims, or at least dismembered corpses, but Sherlock's tiny details provided very different pictures of the former owners than had been provided by the hands.

"See, John, look!"  Sherlock raced around the morgue, shoving Anderson into the slab where he was working in a fume three times more often than necessary.  "Honestly, Anderson, where did you put the jars?"