The smell of 5% acetic acid confirms his knowledge that the room is empty. Harrison has gone for his meal break.

While Harrison simply rubbed his chin at Sherlocks declaration of his intentions, and never intrudes upon his musings, it eases his mind to know that the man is not present.

Harrison made a simple stipulation upon learning of the consulting detective's motives.

"Use the Mopec heavy duty bag. That one? With the handles. No one really uses it unless we have a rush."

Sherlock uses the eight body walk-in refrigerator unit in the back corner. It allows him to enter and leave almost unnoticed.

It is not very often that Sherlock uses this method to quite his mind. Usually, a three-patch application will suffice. But the streets this week have been filled with a wave of insufferable tourists.

Tourists are like nails on a chalk-board. Like biting sand.

Sadly, the refrigeration unit is not in working order. But, the buzz of fluorescent lights and the throat like hum of the bank of filled units are enough. Locking the wheels of a cadaver carrier and placing the heavy, blue, bag upon its surface Sherlock readies himself.

Hearing the biting tear of the zip moving to the base of the bag brings a warmth to Sherlocks being that he only indulges in on rare occasions. Climbing into the bag and raising the zip to the top of his head, closing off all light, only increases the warmth that he feels. It is as if he has stepped into a hot, natural spring.

"She said he comes here whenever it's a homeless person." Donovan's voice is strained, she had a night planned. Finding Sherlock Holmes was not on her list.

"Well obviously he's not here." Lestrade rubs the back of his neck. He is tired, frustrated and rather annoyed at Sherlock.

"You know he never leaves the flat without his mobile." John is worried. The only worried one in the entire room.

"Yes, and he also likes to flit off and ignore people. God know's what he does." Donovan shivers. Despite her own need to appear strong to herself and others, morgues simply wig her out. "Who's covering this place tonight?"

Lestrade walks up to the green-topped desk that faces the front entry doors. Three manga's, a candy bar and a bag of jelly babies are scattered upon its surface. "Harrison."

Donovan pulls a face.

"Let's just wait for the man, ask him if he's seen him." John's hand twitches slightly.

Donovan decides that, nerves be damned, she will wander the floors of the room.

Spying a table with a blue body bag upon it, she leaps upon the indiscretion of leaving a body unattended. Harrison, to her, is worse than the morgue. He has beady little eyes, foul breath, and stares openly at her chest. He licked his lips once while his eyes raked over her body. She never forgot that.

"Well, well." Donovan smiles and crosses her arms.

Lestrade and John wander towards the grinning woman. Both believing that Sherlock is perhaps leaning against the wall soaking in the conversation. Lestrade will give the man a knowing look. John however, decides that he will ignore Sherlock. Perhaps all night.

The sight of a simple cadaver table with a bag upon it is not what either man is expecting.

"What are you so smug about?" Lestrade declares, knowing full well what has made the woman before him smile like a cat who has caught a mouse.

John walks up to the table. He is disgusted that someone would leave a body in the corner of a room. Forgotten. The body was once a living being, and deserves more respect. Leaning over to move the table to a refrigerator, John leaps back as the bag twitches.

Every semblance of the army doctor, of the stoic strong man that could confront death. Every fiber of a grown man that can stare down death, blood, guts. Every single piece of Doctor Watson flees from John. He turns, grabs a small table lamp and begins to pummel the body bag.

Donovan shrieks. Donovan shrieks and flings herself upon the desk.

Lestrade curses loudly, grabs another lamp, and runs towards John. Both men raise their arms above them. Both men let out husky yells. Both mens minds are, for some unfathomable reason, possessed by images of shuffling zombies.

The body bag. In defiance of all natural law, twists and lands on the floor.

Lestrade drops his lamp, all color fades from his face. He is a fixed point. Donovan begins to hyperventilate, her bladder, mercifully nearly empty, lets loose.

John, in an instant of bizarre insight, in a moment of shocking clarity, stalks over to the blue, upright and steady bag. He tears down the zip.

Sherlock Holmes. The impassive face of Sherlock Holmes stares out, blue bag gathering at his feet. The only thing that betrays the almost senseless beating he received is a series of deep, hitching breaths.

"You are the most revolting man. I-I just. Ewww." Donovan shakes her hands as if to dry them. She lowers herself to the floor and stalks towards Sherlock. "What the hell?!"

Lestrade has to hold back a laugh. He also has to swallow very hard to keep the bile from rising into his mouth. "Really Sherlock. That was just.." Lestrade shakes his head. He really needs something to either settle his stomach or allow it to expel the vomit that is crying for release. The cold sweat that has popped out all over his body makes him shiver slightly. He's actually glad of this, he can complain of cold. Not fear. Or disgust.

John just stares. He knows that he will never discuss this with his therapist. And he will never mention it again to Sherlock. However, he now has one more place where he can find the man he has decided to room with.

"You're still holding the lamp John." Sherlock winks