For the One and Only time

Part 2

Eddard Abney was dumped, on a dumpster, a block away from John Watson's condo. The area was already marked off when Sherlock arrived, fluorescent yellow tape setting the perimeter of the rubbish site. Several officers in white masks milled about, many of them crowded around the corpse. Lestrade stood nearby, mindlessly listening to a report while surveying the repellent scene. His detective coat whipped in the wind as he tucked in his hands to retain some warmth.

"Sherlock!" He shouted, beckoning the detective over. He gestured towards the dumpster. "What do you make of that?"

"Nothing yet, it is a capital mistake to theorise before you have all the facts inspector." Sherlock answered, and made his way across the pavement to Abney's body before pulling out his microscope and examining the deceased. He studied the man in detail, like a dog would a hostile beast, for a solid ten minutes. Despite the growing darkness, Sherlock continued to survey the surroundings and annoy every constable on site with his eccentric manners. Finally, after the sun had long sank below the horizon and all of London was basking in twinkling street lights, the detective returned to DI Lestrade, and began his analysis.

"Eddard Abney was murdered by a professional, that much is certain. He was holding the pistol, but this is a clear mislead as the bullet went through his forehead and the calibre does not match. No signs of struggle, a trained killer then who knows the way to a quick death. Such a killer would not leave any fingerprints on the weapon, much to your dismay." Sherlock chuckled bitterly at Lestrade's grim expression before reaching his dark conclusion. "Eddard Abney was only a prop to call me back to London."

The inspector absorbed the information for a few seconds.

"Sherlock, what have you done? Where did you really go while all of London mourned over your fake body?" He inquired roughly, angry at the need for the death of an innocent man to attract Sherlock's attention from god knows where.

However, the detective did not hear him. He froze, staring down the street lined with white halos, eyes unseeing. He stood against the frosty wind, oblivious to the inspector waiting for him to emerge from his reverie. Beads of perspiration formed along his dark curls despite the razor like air slicing through his coat. The detective suddenly staggered back, reeling. His eyes glazed over as he turned to the DI, from the wind or a thought Lestrade did not know. All he saw was, for the one and only time, the great Sherlock Holmes was paralysed.

Sherlock Holmes spent that night in St Bart's. The hospital was deserted; the only light in the never ending darkness sourced from his brightly illuminated laboratory. He immersed himself in chemical experiments, measuring, burning, pouring, boiling until the room was full of white smoke and only then did he take a break to open the windows before resuming his work. He worked tirelessly throughout the night and well past dawn. By the time Molly arrived to start work, he had prepared several flasks of embalming fluid and several more cloudy mixtures of an unknown nature.

"Morning Sherlock!" Molly cast her eyes towards the bench. "Wow, you've finished your share for the week." Her feeble attempt at humour resulted in no reaction from the detective who continued meddling with his experiments.

Suddenly, a shape flitted past the window, dimming the room for a fraction of a second.

"I need to go Molly." Sherlock spoke in a harsh tone, his eyes shot up to the ceiling of the lab as if tracing the shadow, turning constantly, tuned to the softest of sounds. He shone with a bright, tense energy that vibrated throughout his slim body. Molly was awestruck by his alert figure yet terrified at the same time for Sherlock's life. Too soon, she tried to convince herself, for him to be in any danger after such a swift return to London.

After a few agonizing moments, she broke the silence.

"What's happening, Sherlock?" Molly breathed, her voice trapped in her sound box.

"I need to go Molly." The detective spoke tentatively, his demeanour no longer of nervous excitement but of a relaxed calmness, as if he has been waiting for this moment all his life. Slowly, he turned to Molly and looked her dead in the eye.

"I need you to promise me something." Molly could see the fearful urgency behind his steady irises.

"Anything." She managed a terrified whisper.

"I need you to..." Sherlock leaned in and suddenly pecked her on the forehead.

"Finish three more flasks of embalming fluid today." He suddenly broke into a grin, his seriousness dissipating just as quickly as it came.

"Oh my gosh Sherlock. You had me there." Molly laughed in relief as she watched the great detective wrap his coat around his thin frame.

"I'll be up on the roof for a smoke. You can use the flasks from my experiments." Sherlock said, retreating from of the room. Molly turned to the bench once again, more than happy to work on the task Sherlock had directed after his playful scare. She looked around for extra flasks to start, absent-mindedly counting the ones Sherlock had filled. He had used six in total, three with finished embalming fluid. She whistled a tune whilst pouring out his three strange chemical mixtures into the sink and washing them.

She froze. Three units of embalming fluid. As a pathologist driven by Sherlock's precision, Molly knew off by heart that three flasks is the amount needed for a regular adult corpse. With a heavy heart, she did the maths in her head while the cold water streamed past her fingers. Since her laboratory made versions of embalming fluid that cannot last beyond the next day, she needed to use them all before tomorrow. Sherlock of course, with his active engagement in the crimes of London, never joked about his prediction of corpse numbers. Molly closed her eyes.

There would be two more bodies ready by tomorrow for her to treat.

~~~

Sherlock climbed the dark stairway steadily, mind whirling. He had already locked the doors to his laboratory, in case they decided to attack Molly. He deemed himself ready enough to take the truth, no matter how much it tore him up inside.

I must not show weakness, he repeated again and again for each step he took. Moriarty's ringtone had haunted him when he ran the disc over his own laptop. The BeeGee's song taunted him through the speakers, reminding him of his uselessness.

You couldn't even keep him safe, it seemed to say.

Despite himself, tears swirled in his eyes and blurred his vision as he neared the roof.

I must not show weakness. Thud.

He must not die. Thud.

Please.

Sherlock stood behind the metal door. He could feel the frosty gale attacking him through the cracks around the door frame, stinging his tear filled eyes. With an incredible effort he steadied his voice, swallowing non-existent moisture. He gripped the cold metal bar.

Please.

With one stroke, Sherlock pushed through the doors of fate.