InsaneJournal

Who: Irene Adler and Harry McGlade.
What: Quid Pro Quo, Clariiiiice.
When: Saturday afternoon.
Where: The morgue.
Rating: R for Harry being Harry.
Status: Complete!



Irene had a headache. She’d been working on the same autopsy for the better part of three hours, and it was because some dumbshit PI had fired about fifteen more shots than he ought to have, shredding the chest cavity instead of just incapacitating the perp. The reason she actually had a headache, though, was that she’d actually had a reason to call on Harry McGlade for his professional expertise. And as far as she could tell, he was still stuck in that poor woman’s body. Hopefully he wouldn’t be too insufferable.

McGlade arrived half an hour after he said he would, predictably late as usual. His chronic tardiness was its own form of punctuality. He was wearing the body he’d swapped into fairly well, blonde hair clean and shiny, pulled into a ponytail low on her head. The body was clad in a dark purple velvet tracksuit, the word ‘juicy’ emblazoned on her butt. Her flip flops were sparkly, toenails painted a light blue. “Rene!”

At least Irene had expected him to be late. “Hello, Harry. You actually look like you’re taking pretty good care of that body.” McGlade would never have looked so clean and well put together himself. “Thanks for coming; you’ll actually be some help to me on this one, I think.”

“Only because I have a newfound respect for showers,” Harry replied. Even in a different body, his smirk was lecherous. ‘What can I do you for?”

God. Irene rolled her eyes. “I wanted you here because one of your professional brethren really screwed me on an autopsy. I thought you could maybe pinpoint the type of gun - quicker than me bothering the ballistics guys - and maybe tell me if you know anyone stupid enough to shoot a fleeing perp fifteen times instead of twice to bring him down. It was a PI, we know that.”

“Oh, that’s probably Shakes.” Harry hopped up on one of the counters, sitting down and crossing his (her) legs while rifling through his (her) purse for a chocolate. “Were they a shitty, terrible grouping that’s a vague insult to the word grouping?”

“Far as I can tell.” When they were talking about business, Harry was less insufferable. “The chest cavity was shredded to hell. It looks to me like a .22 projectile, but at the same time, it’s some kind of weird bullet.” Irene managed to hold up one that she’d removed. “It’s some kind of weird wadcutter type thing that has a longer nose. Is that a .22?”

“Yeah, he uses a girl’s gun. We give him crap about it but he says it’s for his delicate fingers.” Harry rolled his eyes, laughing to himself. “I tried buying him a different gun at the most recent PI con, but noooo.”

“A .22 can clearly knock the hell out of someone,” Irene pointed out, sighing. “The cops are going to be looking for him, Harry. This poor bastard is dead and probably didn’t have to die.”

“That’s not the worst thing that could happen. Shakes wasn’t a good PI and he owes me money, the fucker.” Stretching, Harry pulled one of the woman’s legs close to his chest, grinning brightly. “God, this woman must’ve done yoga or something, she is bendy.”

Ew. “Someone asked me if it might be you, and I said you weren’t stupid enough to shoot him fifteen times. You’d shoot him twice.” Irene sighed. “Don’t take that as a declaration of love or some crap, but still.”

“Once. People bleed, it’s one of my favorite parts of them.” Harry grinned and offered Irene a bit of hard candy from his purse.

She shook her head no, turning back to the body. “Avert your eyes.” A PI who couldn’t sit through an autopsy was kind of a wuss, in Irene’s estimation, but she also didn’t want him to whine. “Fifteen bullets, going through the lungs, spleen, liver, large intestine, heart, and he hit the esophagus, though I have no idea how. You’d aim for the kneecap.”

Harry didn’t bother averting his eyes. He popped a Tootsie Pop into his mouth, leaning over her examination and pointing out the punctured spleen with gestures of said sucker before putting it back into his mouth. “Guessin’ by the amount of bile he hit the poor bastard there first. And nope, I aim for the gut. Odds are the person’ll live through it so I don’t get a murder beef.”

Well, that was refreshing. Irene actually laughed. “Most PIs I know are too wimpy to look at a cadaver. But yeah, I’m guessing it went spleen, liver, lungs. Beyond that, I can’t tell. Just irritated me. It’s not only, y’know, murder, but it’s also just an insult to shooting, grouping and law enforcement. As well as human life.”

“You’ve just described Shakey in a nutshell,” Harry smiled. He couldn’t help but watch her laugh, trying to ignore the fond feelings welling up. “Not really a fan of his, good riddance, I say. Besides, anyone who doesn’t use at least a .32 scares me.”

“I don’t know enough about guns themselves to say otherwise, but yeah, sorry, he’s gonna get slapped with the homicide.” Irene shook her head. “Better him than you, I guess?”

“I try not to shoot people when I’m at work. Too much hassle, not enough reward.” Harry shrugged to himself. “People who shoot people are the most incarcerated people in the world.”

“True. And no, I wouldn’t visit you in prison.” Irene made a face. “Well. I might in that body.” She didn’t think women’s prisons were much fun.

“Conjugals? Is that why we can never be, Rene? You’re a Sapphic sister?” Harry waggled his eyebrows.

“I meant I’d try to protect you, because frankly, you’d be bait. You’re not so bluff and manly when you have boobs.” Irene rolled her eyes.

“I barely have boobs, let’s be honest.” Harry lifted the top to reveal he wasn’t wearing a bra. “I mean, I’ve seen more.”

“Could you not flash me in public.” Irene sighed, turning away. “And just for the record, no, I’m not a lesbian, but there isn’t anything wrong with that.”

“This isn’t public, it’s your office.” He tugged his shirt down. “And I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with them, they’re just not as good as yours.”

“When did you ever see mine.” It wasn’t a question.

“When don’t I stare at them is a better question.” He waggled his eyebrows.

“I mean see them for real. Please tell me you’ve never seen me shirtless, Harry, because if you have I’ll call the cops.” Irene sighed.

“I’ve never seen you shirtless. I wish, but no.” He pouted. “But if you were looking for a cheap birthday gift, it’s a great idea.”

“Maybe if you singlehandedly get me promoted to Chief Medical Examiner.” Hell, she’d sleep with him, if he could do that.

“If I could do that, you already would be,” Harry sighed. “Stupid tenure. You deserve it more than that joker does.”

That was actually kind of sweet of him. “Well, I appreciate the vote of confidence.” Irene started to get back to her autopsy. “And honestly, I don’t have anything against Dr. Bascomb. Just ... I don’t know. I’m good.” And she was. Though she wouldn’t necessarily have said it in polite company.

“You would if you knew how much that asshole drinks.” He shrugged. “You’re better than he is.”

“Does he really?” Irene wasn’t all that surprised, but still, he did a good job at hiding it. “Well, maybe one day he’ll show up drunk on the stand or something.” She didn’t want anyone to be an alcoholic, obviously, but still. Sometimes shit just happened.

“I don’t think he’s an alkie or anything, mind, but good god, when they said work hard play hard, I think he took it to mean work ehn, drink all the things. ... okay, so maybe he’s an alkie. I’m trying to be nice in my middle age.” Harry sniffed the air when Irene started to examine stomach contents. “Steak? Damn, now I’m hungry.”

She couldn’t help but laugh at that. “I’ll say this, McGlade, you have the appropriately sick sense of humor for this job.”

“We’re all a little twisted,” he smiled. “At least, the interesting people are.”

“I’ll give you that.” Irene made a face. “Ew. Christ, your buddy couldn’t have left me an unpunctured stomach? It’s leaking.”

“Bet you five there really is steak in there.” Harry couldn’t resist a bet. “And he’s not my buddy. He’ll make super buddies in jail, though.”

“Oh, you’d win that bet.” Irene sighed, picking up a tiny bit of something and laying it carefully on a slide. “The homicide dick told me that this kid tried to brazen it out when he saw the shield, but then when he said the word ‘prison’ the kid took off sprinting. Your colleague was his backup, and I guess a skinny Asian college kid running at him made him panic.” This kind of waste of human life just irritated her.

“Yeah, Shakey’s not really known for his bravery. Hence the nickname.” Harry folded his legs underneath his body, watching Irene work. “Do you always have to do autopsies when you know how they died?”

“No.” Irene examined the bit of flesh under the microscope. “I got asked to do this one because it was police-involved. Usually, if a cop is involved in a situation where someone dies, they want an autopsy so we know everything that we possibly could.” She looked back at him. “Like with this one, they’re going to want to know which bullet killed him. Make sure everyone’s story washes.”

“That makes sense.” Harry liked when things made sense, but mostly he just wanted to stay around Irene. She smelled like flowers, and he could tell it was some fancy French brand that one of his ex-somethings had made him buy once.

Harry wasn’t being annoying today, and Irene was frankly suspicious. “Is that body making you less likely to proposition everyone you meet? Or are you just sick today?”

“Nah, I just figured you weren’t one for clams, so I figure I’ll bide my time and wait until I get the sausage back. If you know what I mean. If not, I can explain. I’ll draw for you.” He grinned, waggling his eyebrows again.

God. Same old McGlade. “Get out of here, Harry.”

“You smell nice, Irene.” He hopped off of the counter and lightly patted her on the shoulder. “Call me again when you need me for anything. Anything.”

Irene wasn’t entirely sure what to make of that, so she just said “Thanks,” before turning back to her microscope. She was grateful. She just didn’t know what else to say.