Jon, having given the duty of running the samples over to Dr. Huxley, made his way to his office. The pristine white walls were decorated with his degrees and images of places he had travelled to. Every so often, there would be a picture of Lahela sitting on a beach or smiling in front of some national monument. Two mahogany bookcases, one taller than the other, stood next to each other against the wall behind Jon's desk. On the opposite wall was a large cork board with two laptops sitting on a smaller desk beneath it.

Jon walked over to the cork board where he began to quickly unattach papers that dealt with the study he had been working on. Jon had inadvertently discovered a mixture of chemicals that had seemed to exterminate, or at least retard, the spread of cancer cells. Ever since, he had dedicated his spare time to the creation and development of a drug that he hoped could be the permanent cure for all types of cancer.

Setting the papers in a folder, which he placed in the top drawer of a small filing cabinet beneath the desk, he grabbed a notepad and began to violently write. He scribbled 'DEATH' in thick black marker and pinned the paper to the top center of his board. He wrote on three other papers, which read 'CULTURE', 'LAHELA', and 'PROJECT _________', pinned them to the board, and attached each individual pin to the one at the top using string.

Jon stepped back and put his hands on his hips. "Where to begin?" he asked as he looked at the board. After a few seconds of contemplation, he removed his hands from his hips and pointed at the piece of paper the read 'LAHELA'. "You."

Jon went over to his desk, took the picture of his wife from its frame, and tacked it to the board next to the paper. He took a step back and steepled his hands in front of his lips. He tapped his index fingers together as he said, beneath his breath, "Alright, let's start with Krokodil."

Jon sat down in front of the two laptops and began to search through the hospital database on drugs. Every so often, he wrote down a statistic or chemical equation onto a notepad he had in front of him. 

"This doesn't make sense," Jon said as he stood up and ran his fingers through his hair.  "Desomorphine is like heroin.  Lahela shouldn't have....unless."  Jon went over to one of the laptops and began to search through his wife's file.  Suddenly, he stopped scrolling and began to read a report.

"I should have known," Jon said to himself as he put his hands above his head and began to walk around his office.  "I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN!"  Jon took his arm and swept everything off of his desk in frustration.  "I'm a doctor for Christ's sake.  How could I have been so blind?!"

Jon turned around to find Dr. Huxley standing in the doorway.  "Oh, what are you doing here?" Jon asked.

"I just came to tell you that I finished running those samples," Dr. Huxley said sheepishly.  "I'll leave if you want."

"No, no, no," Jon said as sat down on a small sofa and placed a thumb on his cheek and two fingers above his eyebrow, "Stay.  It's better that I talk to someone than to myself."

"Had a row with your desk, did you?" Dr. Huxley chuckled as he walked into the office.

Jon gave him a look.  "I could fire you," he said, "if I wanted."

"Okay....Then, what are you working on?" Dr. Huxley asked as he walked over to the laptops, unfazed by the bipolar attitude Jon had toward him.

"New project," Jon answered.

"But what happened to the cancer research?" Dr. Huxley inquired as he began to read the board.  "What is all of this?"

Jon gestured toward the filing cabinet.  "Cancer research is over there.  This," he said as he stood up, "is my new project."

Jon, who was smiling and had his arms outstretched, turned to Dr. Huxley and grabbed his shoulders.  "Think, Drew.  Why bother with life when you can study death?"

"Jon, something happened to you in that crash," Dr. Huxley said, concerned.

"Oh. You. Are. Brilliant!" Jon said.  "Of course something happened to me during that crash.   I survived."

"Yes, and I'm glad you did," Dr. Huxley said.  "But, Jon, something's wrong with you."

"Oh, nothing's wrong.  I just got inspired, that's all," Jon said.  "Drew, when I opened my eyes and saw that I lived through that crash, I wanted to die.  You know that.  Then you gave me that speech about making the most out of my second chance.  That's when I got thinking.  Why not death?  You told me that my life was spared for a reason.  What if that reason was to study death?  Considering that Lahela died, and now I almost did, it seems fairly obvious a topic to research."

"Is it, though?  Jon, this isn't what I was talking about," Dr. Huxley explained.  "I meant for you to continue your cancer research so that you could prevent  death.  Not cause it."

"Knock, knock!" Geneva Braddock, DNS, walked into Jon's office.  "I just heard about the crash.  Are you alright?"

"Yes, I'm fine," Jon answered without turning around.

"What's going on here?" Geneva asked.

Jon walked over to Geneva and placed his hands on her shoulders, much like he had done to Dr. Huxley.  He kissed her on the cheek and said, "Brilliance, Geneva, brilliance."

Geneva looked at Dr. Huxley.  "Is he alright?  He's never done this before."

"Just like I said before, I'm fine," Jon said.  "Come here, I need your help."

"With what?" Geneva asked.

"I want you and Drew to tell me what is wrong here," Jon said as he showed them the laptop displaying the file on Lahela.

"According to the report, she overdosed on desomorphine,"Geneva said.

"But that doesn't make sense, at least not for the wound or the time frame," Dr. Huxley said.  "Desomorphine, also known as 'Krokodil', is like heroin.  Unless she was an addict, the necrosis should not have developed that quickly."

"Precisely what I was thinking," Jon interjected.  "and if she were and addict, I would have been able to tell."

"I had a cousin in Russia who died from complications from using Krokodil, or desomorphine," Geneva admitted.  "It's nasty stuff.  His teeth rotted.  He had severe necrosis.  His brain was destroyed, too.  If Lahela was a user, these signs would have shown."

"Exactly," Jon said.  "I didn't realise it at the time, because I was living in a fog, but none of those signs were present."

"Do you know what happened to her?" Dr. Huxley asked.

Geneva gave Dr. Huxley an incredulous look.  "Why would you ask that?"

"No, it's a perfectly reasonable question," Jon said, "Unfortunately, I can't say that I do.  All I can tell you is what I remember.  Everything else is unknown to me."

"Do you remember what the police report said?"  Geneva asked.

"I have it on my computer," Jon said.

Geneva walked over to where the laptop was sitting and began to read through the police report.  "This report doesn't make much sense, either," she said.

"How so?" Dr. Huxley asked.

"There are inconsistencies with what would be expected," Jon stated, "For instance..." He walked over to the laptop and pointed at an image.  "The progression of the necrosis is exponentially more than I would have expected.  Unless Lahela was injected with a rather substantial amount of the drug, this wound should not be that large."

"This is why you want to conduct that study," Dr. Huxley stated.  "To figure out what exactly happened to your wife."

"Oh, you are clever," Jon stated.  "That is exactly why I am developing this study.  I essentially have everything worked out in my head: the variables, constants, and whatnot.  It just needs a name."

"Can we know what you are thinking?" Geneva asked.

"Look at the board," Jon stated.  "While we were talking, I managed to organise more information under each of the subheadings."

Geneva and Dr. Huxley both turned back to the tack board.  The once blank canvas was now strewn with papers, some with diagrams and some with words.

"And you did this all while we were talking?" Dr. Huxley asked.

"Yes," Jon replied.

"Well," Geneva started, "If I were you, I would name the project after something you enjoy, but also include a slight reference that only a few people will understand."

Jon stood for a moment and rested his chin on his thumb in thought.  After some time, he spoke.

"I got it," Jon said as he clapped his hands together.  "You both have heard of the Sherlock Holmes  stories, correct?"

"Yes," Geneva and Dr. Huxley answered in unison.

"And you have at least seen one episode of Sherlock?" he prompted.

"Yeah," they answered.

"James Moriarty."

"Okay." Geneva stated.

"Don't you get it?" Jon asked. "Moriarty."

"Get what?  His name is Moriarty and yours is Mortis.  Big deal." Dr. Huxley interjected.

"No," Jon stopped him.  "The word 'Moriarty' in Latin translates to 'to die is an art'.  I consider my work to be my art and, since I'm conducting a study on death, what would be a more appropriate name?"

Jon went over to his desk and grabbed a permanent marker, whereupon he wrote 'Moriarty' in the blank space following 'Project'.  He stepped back and looked at the board.

"Project Moriarty," he said, "I like the sound of that."