Prompting Part XXIX

[sherlockbbc_fic]

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Fill: At Right Angles (2a/?)

[anonymous]

Joan didn’t see Sherlock again for another several days, and when she did it was entirely by accident-on his part, at least. She was fairly sure he’d gone out of his way to stay away from her up until then.

She’d skipped lunch that day, and by the time three o’clock rolled around she was starving. She popped into the canteen for tea (sadly decaffeinated) and a sandwich, then doubled back for a few jammy dodgers. She munched on it happily as she walked down the hall back to the morgue, savoring the raspberry filling. It was odd: she generally hated sweets. But over the past few weeks, she’d found herself hungering for pudding at nearly every meal. Food cravings were something you always heard expectant mothers whinge about, so much so that Joan had sometimes thought the descriptions of midnight fridge raids and bizarre food combinations (olives and cheesecake? Really?) were overblown. Now she knew better. The notion made her heart beat a little faster.

With a sigh, she shifted her thoughts in a safer direction. Her mind was already on the next cadaver waiting to be processed as she pushed open the door to the lab.

She froze.

The cadaver in question was already set up on the nearer of the two post mortem tables, its torso neatly covered in a white cloth. A dissecting bench had been pulled over and arranged nearby, with the proper implements laid out in readiness. The ventilator fans were whirring. Everything was perfectly in order for the autopsy, which was fine-except that Joan hadn’t done any of it.

“What are you doing?” She glared at the tall, skinny man standing poised over the body.

Sherlock’s eyebrows contracted into a scowl. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“You’re the one who’s not supposed to be here,” Joan retorted, striding towards him. “I work here, remember?”

“Molly always leaves early on Thursdays,” he said, sounding almost sulky.

“Yeah, well, I’m not Molly,” Joan snapped. She stopped just short of him, reaching forward to pluck a sterile facemask from the box on the counter. She tossed one in his direction. “Put this on. I haven’t processed her yet, so I don’t have a cause of death. Could be contagious.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “It’s obvious that she died of some kind of overdose. Just look at her fingernails.”

Joan narrowed her eyes at him, still holding out the mask. “Until I’ve confirmed the cause of death, you have to wear a mask. It’s hospital procedure.”

He grumbled, but took the mask from her. “Happy?” he asked in a muffled voice once the mask was in place.

Joan snapped her own mask into place. “Overjoyed.”