Thirty-Six Questions to Fall in Love

Sherlock's New High

Knock, knock, knock.

The sound rattled through his head. He hated it.

Not now, he pleaded. Please not now.

He refused to open his eyes. There was no legitimate reason for him to want to wake up, so why would he?

Sherlock was usually one to think that the universe revolved around him. From an overprotective brother to people who were one motion away from grovelling at his feet, he thought that it must just be a common interest of everyone to care about what he was doing, religiously following his every move and wanting his highest approval. However, in contrast with this belief and regardless of what Sherlock Holmes was doing, the world kept spinning on its axis. And, apparently, so did The New York Times, which he would come to discover in a few days' time. They'd give him something absolutely ridiculous; something so incredibly ludicrous that he'd have no choice but to turn it into an experiment.

But for now, he was too busy being woken up.

The sun rose lazily on the morning that Sherlock Holmes, lost in thought and so bored that he was almost on the verge of doing something dangerous, heard another nearly deafening knock at the door. He sat up and watched it expectantly, waiting for the person to announce themselves. He never got visitors, except for Mycroft and sometimes his parents, and he didn't care much for either. Although there was Lestrade. But he didn't come to visit. He came to do business, to get help, because Lestrade wasn't clever. But, besides them, Sherlock didn't have anybody else. He promised himself that he didn't mind, that that was how it should be.

Then, another knock.

He got up this time, still refusing to open the door. He was curious, but he knew better than to open it. Besides, his head was spinning and he felt as though he might be sick if he stood up. He'd been on a two-day drug binge and if it were his mother or Mycroft seeing him in shambles, he wouldn't hear the end of it. So he slowly rolled off the couch, now managing to stand upright - yet still a bit wobbly - hearing one more set of brisk knocks. Mycroft never knocked; he just walked right in, and Lestrade always just yelled, "Sherlock!" at the top of his lungs until he answered. So, naturally, Sherlock quickly deduced exactly who it was.

"What is it, Molly?" Sherlock groaned. He stumbled over to the door and turned the lock. "I told you not to come over when I was high." He carelessly pulled the door open, the handle rattling as he flung it back.

Neither of them bothered with a greeting. Hellos and How-Are-You-Doings were pointless to Sherlock, and so Molly had learned over the years to skip them entirely.

"It's just-" Molly paused, "Sherlock, they accepted your request. They told me that we had two hours to get down to the hospital and they were going to send down a corpse. I just... I thought I would come down and tell you." She looked fragile, breakable, her hair pulled back into a long, flowing ponytail, her thin lips painted bright red. The lipstick didn't do much enhancing, but Sherlock didn't have enough energy at the moment to insult her out loud.

"Oh," he said, a bit less irritated now. "Fine. Good."

Without another thought, Sherlock slammed the door in her face, not bothering to say goodbye. Being cordial was a waste of time.

"And Sherlock," Molly added almost desperately, opening the door again and peeping her head in. "There's a taxi waiting outside for you. Well, for us, actually..." She giggled nervously, her fingers wrapping around the side of the door as she spoke. "But they don't want to wait."

Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes back as he groaned. "I'll just meet you there," he decided. "I don't care much for your small talk, which I'm guessing there would be a lot of if I joined you. So I'll be in the morgue in precisely thirty-two minutes."

Molly pursed her lips. "I just really think that you should come now. The corpse might begin to-"

"Thirty-two minutes," Sherlock repeated again. He walked over to the door and began to shove her out, closing it and locking it before she had the chance to get back in.

♡

"How fresh?" Sherlock asked, not bothering to look up from the corpse. He was holding the body bag open enough to see part of the body, but he didn't want to expose it to too much oxygen as it might compromise his experiment.

"Just in," Molly told him with a hint of annoyance. She was still thinking about this morning and had even changed into her nice blouse today to impress Sherlock. But he didn't notice her, like always. "67, natural causes. Used to work here, I knew him. He was nice-"

"Very well, Molly, that will be all." Sherlock interrupted, not wanting to hear any more of her story, his head still pounding from his two-day drug binge.

"Oh-"

"We'll start with the riding crop." Sherlock smirked.

♡

After careful observation, Sherlock noted that no bruises appeared on the corpse. But darker areas of the hemorrhagic fluid accumulated beneath the skin. He decided to bring the samples to the lab for a more detailed analysis.

Molly appeared suddenly beside Sherlock. "So? How did it go?" She asked, practically bouncing in place.

"Livor mortis," Sherlock told her absently, still not bothering to look up from his work. She stood by him expectantly and he just dashed past her, hurrying on to the lab.

"Sherlock?" Molly asked, and he rolled his eyes and waited anxiously for her to let him leave. "I was wondering... If you'd like to have some coffee."

Sherlock closed his eyes, tired of this question, and turned to face Molly, giving her an exaggerated smile. "Black. Two sugars, please. I'll be upstairs," Sherlock ordered. And it wasn't like he didn't understand the question. He just took control of it.

"Oh- alright! I'll see you later, Sherlock," she called out, her new red lipstick still wet on her lips. But Sherlock was already too far away and couldn't hear.

As Sherlock arrived to the lab, he placed the flesh out on a Petri dish and squirted a few drops of chlorinated water on it. He was then slightly distracted as Mike Stamford walked in, an unknown man trailing behind him.

Sherlock, for once, looked up.