The Lazarus Machine

Chapter 29

John was sure that the resplendent sight of Lord Sherrinford's gilded coach drew more than a few eyes as their driver pulled up outside the hospital near the morgue entrance.  Sherlock neither noticed nor cared, and merely dismounted and left John and Lestrade to follow in his wake.

"I truly am sorry for interrupting your wedding day, Captain Watson," Lestrade said as they followed Sherlock inside.  "I guess it will be something you'll become accustomed to, married to a Holmes."

"It's only been an hour, Lestrade, and it's interesting already."

Lestrade chuckled.  "That's the spirit.  So I'm guessing there is no honeymoon trip planned?"

"Can't imagine dragging Sherlock out of London right now, can you?"

"Mighty understanding of you."

"I've spent enough time away from England, anyway.  I'd prefer to settle in.  Just moving to London is enough of a change from Essex and a hell of a change from France."

Lestrade grunted in agreement and opened the morgue door for John, gesturing the gentleman inside ahead.

Sherlock stood at the table where a small body lay.  The clothing had not yet been completely removed, but the body was flat on the table.  Sherlock cautiously moved one of the limbs and, while it didn’t flop loosely, it wasn't completely stiffened with rigor, either.  John moved up behind his husband and laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Is it one of the boys you spoke to last night?" he asked in a low voice.

Sherlock did not precisely move away because John's hand was on his shoulder, but he did find that he needed to examine the body from another angle, one out of John's reach.

"His name is James, usually called Moss.  His mother is Frannie Sue.  She works on Fetcher Street in Whitechapel, but you will most likely find her at the Cock and Sow.  No real point in finding her, Lestrade, she already knows."

Sherlock picked away at the roughly stitched shirt the boy was wearing.  The sleeves of a much larger shirt had been folded back along his short, skinny arms and the cuffs fastened with black stitches near his shoulder.  The excess fabric around his wrists was pinched with stitches.  The too-wide collar was tethered closed with a bit of cording and the billowing fabric around his waist was wrapped around him more than twice.  It helped keep him warm under a tattered jacket more loose thread than weave.

"How would she know?"

"The children, Lestrade, they're everywhere," Sherlock said impatiently.  "The eyes and ears of this city.  Find her, if you must, but she will have no facts to add.  She's likely been soused since hearing of it."

Sherlock pulled up the boy's shirt and began examining the ribs that had been broken.  John could see the breaks clearly through the thin layer of skin on the fragile-looking boy.  His chest had been crushed; he'd had no chance.  The boy could have been any age from five to ten, he thought.  His height and weight were sleight, but often malnourished children ceased to grow.  John reached for his mouth to see if any adult teeth had broken through yet or not.  He wished he had a little more light.  Even with the windows, the room was dank.

Sherlock began laying his forearm against the boy's chest in varying angles.

"Don't look at me like that, John.  Mycroft will make both of us change anyway, just for having set foot in this place.  Wouldn't want to bring the stench of inevitability to the party."

John hummed in response.  Sherlock turned the body onto its stomach, easily shifting the small boy into the new position.  Again he moved aside the shirt and coat, took in every detail with his sharp eyes, and rolled the body back again.  When he finished his perusal he stood straight.