Happy New Year! AND... Happy New Episodes of Sherlock!

"This is the cadaver." Lestrade says. Anderson is also back in. He can be so annoying. I roll my eyes, while he says nonsense. John pulls his overalls on and I keep my eyes fixed on him. Hilarious how people are struggling with such an outfit.

I put on my plastic gloves and I'm sitting next to the corpse on the ground. He looks scared. Although his face is covered with blood, I can see it. One arm is lopped off and I have to gag almost. I can't stand it, although I can usually. My immune system is compromised. Just because of John and Mrs. Hudson.

Lestrade didn't ask many questions about John. He is happy that I sometimes come outside and that I have companion. I wanted to say that he only stays a day, but I didn't get a word passed my lips. I would not think about his leaving. He cannot leave me.

***

So, this is what he says he does. Examining cadaveric.

It seems things are not much his care and he wants distraction from his boring life.

I'm wearing an overalls and he is walking with his long coat and his chic shoes through the pools of blood.

Carefully I touch the cadaver. He is badly neglected and tortured. During the war, I did not even see such cadavers. I look closer his eyes. Sherlock has more beautiful eyes and they are less bloody. From his look I infer especially fear. He wasn't already dead when he was tortured this way. I do not need to feel his pulse. He's been here a day. If he was still alive, he must have died of anaemia. A lot of anaemia.

***

"Suicide." Sherlock blabs. We are going home and we take no cab this time. It's his idea.

"What suicide?" I ask surprised. He walks closer to me and he tells me the following in a mysterious way:

"He. The cadaver. He tortured himself to death thereafter."

"Why would he do that?" Our shoulders touching. He takes a deep breath before he responds.

"The pain, John. The pain." Sherlock sighs. "He wanted to die. No matter what. He knew he should to die if he did this. Nothing is harder than the shock of the pain. Besides, he bled to death and that explains the fear in his eyes."

"Why suicide?" Sherlock takes distance. He stops walking and he looks in my eyes.

"Because of his name. Loeta Trolton."

'You're making fun of his name?" I throw my arms in the air and I look at his shoes. The blood covers his shoes.

"John, John, John, you have much to learn. I'm right, I feel, I know." He rushes away and it takes thirty seconds before I overtake him. Short legs are so clumsy. His long legs are so appealing.