London. Midnight. On the Hunt.

[winchester_lost]

Dean shut and locked the doors to his Impala, and then was following after Sherlock without a word. It was an easy rhythm they were starting to fall into, strangely comfortable, despite the friction, hints of challenge. Normal people usually had to be taken by the hand, but Sherlock almost seemed to know the steps as if he lived them as well. It

Comments

[sherlock_please]

"She does indeed," Sherlock replied, glancing at the small labels and pulling the larger drawer out labeled with the date of death they were looking for, and marked 'Doe, John.' The drawer slid open in a long, smooth motion, slowing as it neared the end of its tracks, and the body inside pale and bare.

There were marks, like some animal had attacked the lower torso, where the liver would, or should, be. It was the only wound on the body aside from the neat Y incision from the autopsy. The jagged wound looked, from what Sherlock knew of dead bodies, to have been inflicted while the man was still alive. It likely contributed to his death. Sherlock glanced at the file by the feet, and gestured to it so that Dean would pick it up. Sherlock was, it seemed, forgetting that Dean was not John. John would have done this, relayed to him the important notes from the autopsy while he took a closer look, and then, depending on the case and the complexity, they would switch and get another angle on the whole thing.

Sherlock moved to the head and leaned closer. There was a significant amount of bruising in strange patterns. There was clearly a struggle of some kind.