Sherlock Holmes and John Watson by Wendy C. Fries

Author:Wendy C. Fries
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Sherlock Holmes, mystery, crime, british crime, sherlock holmes novels, sherlock holmes short fiction
ISBN: 9781780927213
Publisher: Andrews UK
Published: 2015-01-20T00:00:00+00:00

Expletive Blasphemy Obscenity

Royal London Hospital Mortuary – 2011

“Bloody fucking god damn fucking bloody buggering hell!”

A startled John Watson threw his clipboard at the wall, his pen at the ‘dead’ man on the body tray, and his own entire self against his nearby desk.

“Mother of a shitting dick-faced whore-headed god what the bloody mother fucking hell do you fucking think you’re doing?”

Lying on the metal body tray, Sherlock Holmes squinted up at the bright morgue lighting and made a baby-animal pained noise in the back of his throat. Instantly John Watson stopped swearing.

“Oh no, I’m so sorry. Did someone lock you in the fridge? Are you okay? God you must be freezing.”

Sherlock’s tearing eyes took their time adjusting to the blazing brightness.

“It’s all right, you’re okay, we’ll find out who did this, don’t cry.”

Right about then Sherlock decided that he was not at this time about to admit three things:

1) He had fallen asleep inside the mortuary refrigerator. 2) That he was in the mortuary refrigerator as part of an experiment. 3) That the man from whom he ‘borrowed’ the keys to the mortuary was technically no longer working at the Royal London hospital and, therefore, Sherlock had basically broken-and-entered.

Judging by the previous violent swearing of the man peering down at him, Sherlock smartly deduced that admitting to any of these things was not going to end well for him.

So instead of saying, “I’m light-blinded not weeping,” Sherlock Holmes acted his naked arse off. So to speak.

“Where am I?” he all but mewed, staring so unblinking at the lights overhead that his eyes positively streamed.

John plucked his pen off the not-dead man’s sheet-shrouded body, as if this were the thing currently offering him the greatest discomfort.

“You’re in the Royal London hospital mmm—” John’s never had to discuss with a corpse its unfortunate locale so he choked briefly, then ploughed on. “—mortuary. In the fridge.”

For a long second Sherlock did nothing much, then realised he should not be blasé about this intel. “The mortuary?” he squealed. “With the dead bodies?” (Excellent use of rising inflection.)

“Can you move? We should get you out of there.”

Now that he was awake, Sherlock was a lot colder than he’d been asleep. He indeed wished to remove himself from the chilly mortuary tray. Sherlock attempted to rise from the mortuary tray.

This was the point where Sherlock realised he sort of couldn’t, as the whole falling-asleep-inside-a-morgue-fridge-during-an-experiment thing had apparently left him as stiff as a day-old corpse. With a few grunts of effort and a doctorly hand on his elbow he at last managed but, in his distraction, he forgot to bring his sheet with him.

Then he belatedly did, covering most of his nakedness with a dramatic drape of cloth. But the damage was done. When he looked back at the doctor his skin washed cold with adrenaline and his heart ramped high.

He sees me.

Sherlock Holmes knows better than most that there are all kinds of seeing. Few have the time or inclination to see all the things that flash-flick by their eyes day-to-day.

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