It's very tempting to chuck Reynolds into one of the cold chambers and lock him away until Molly gets back. I'll need to see some identification.' There is a hint of a smirk pulling at his thin mouth, and it takes every ounce of Sherlock's will power to remain calm. 'But I can't just allow anybody access to one of my patients. 'I'm sorry, Inspector,' Dr Reynolds says in a soft, unctuous tone. 'He's with me,' Lestrade says, and he steps towards the slab, which this morning is playing host to a black body bag containing the cadaver of a 32 year old male. 'Dr Reynolds.' He looks at Sherlock with a narrowed gaze, beady eyes assessing him. Sherlock files the information away and turns back to the intruder. 'Fire on an industrial estate is the only thing I've heard,' he says, his voice low. Sherlock looks towards Lestrade and raises a questioning eyebrow. There's been some sort of incident up there.' 'Manchester,' the man replies with a shrug. 'Scotland Yard,' Lestrade says, sidestepping Sherlock and flashing his badge. 'I might ask you the same question,' the man says, and he steps forward, his nose scrunched in disapproval. His trousers are expensive, but too long in the leg, and there are large folds of pinstriped fabric collecting around his ankles. His cropped hair has outgrown its last cut, and is littered with strands of grey.

It's something of a shock to see a man, standing there in her place. If you're reading this in the future, then I hope your new life on Mars with King Kanye is working out real good. I hope this can provide a few minutes of respite from the unrelenting faecal storm that is taking over pretty much all media right now.

A/N: I started writing this on the day that the orange b-hole was announced as the next president.

Higher calibre