Sherlock paced back and forth before the client sitting in the chair a meter away. He had his thinking face on as the client prattled away. John sat on the sofa listening intently to the client's story. The client was a young man, approximately 18 years old, with brown hair and brown eyes. His hair was short and messy and he smelt of high school. John had to assume that the client was meant to be taken seriously, but it was quite difficult to comprehend anything he was saying. He was speaking of urban legends and folk tales of old. Myths told by the locals of a factory. An old, abandoned factory that used to make dolls in the 80's. The stories spoke of people daring to go inside and never coming out.
"I don't do ghost stories," Sherlock spoke sternly. He had enough of this. He was officially bored of listening to the adolescent client and quite frankly, he found the whole thing just a bit ridiculous.
"Wait, that's not all!" the client said quickly. "Check the missing persons reports. I know some of the people who've gone missing. They went into that factory. Something is going on in there. If it's not haunted, then somebody's in there killing people!"
Sherlock stopped pacing. He turned on his heels and faced the client.
"Killing people?" Sherlock asked. A murder story. That sounded a bit more reasonable than the ghost stories the client was telling earlier. It also sounded more of importance than catching ghosts. This meant there was a person to be caught and Sherlock was more than happy to catch killers any day.
John smiled, looked at Sherlock and asked, "So, are we taking the case?"
"Oh, yes," Sherlock looked at John. "We will be taking this one."
The client left and moments later Sherlock put on his scarf. John knew that only meant Sherlock was about to put on his coat, so John stood up and grabbed his own. Sherlock put on his coat and opened the door as John was putting on his.
"Ready?" Sherlock asked in excitement. Murder was the only thing John knew that could get Sherlock so excited besides a new episode of Doctor Who.
"Ready as I'll ever be," John replied.
Sherlock went out the door and down a couple steps before he registered what John had just said. He stopped in his tracks and turned to look at him.
"You don't actually believe the place is haunted, do you?"
John shrugged. "I've never considered myself a skeptic, really."
Sherlock rolled his eyes very noticeably. "Really, John?"
"Well, okay. I don't really believe in ghosts. But when you hear so many stories as a child..." John trailed off suggestively.
Sherlock turned back around shaking his head and went down the other 15 steps. They walked out into the cold air and immediately John wished to be inside. Sherlock raised his arm to hail a cab as John wrapped his arms around himself. As a cab was pulling up to them, Sherlock looked at John.
"It can't really be haunted. There's obviously a murderer playing off the old stories. We've seen this before."
"Yes, I know. The hound," John remembered. "The Hounds of Baskerville" John had called it on his blog. Sherlock was right. This could very well be the same thing.
They got into the cab and headed for their destination. An outlying district of London which mostly relied on the industrial revolution in the past. The main attraction of the community was the factory right in the center of it. It had been closed many years ago but never demolished. Ivy climbed the walls of the building and the brick was starting to fall apart. As they arrived to the factory, Sherlock paid the cabbie and they both got out.
"Should we speak to the locals?" John asked.
"I think we know what the locals think of the factory."
John nodded in agreement. The locals would not be much help and John was sure that Sherlock was not going to listen to another word about ghosts.
"What about the families of the missing?" John suggested.
He watched Sherlock ponder the idea and then nod. They starting walking together towards the downtown area. The first family they spoke to was the family of a more recent victim. A young female adult with long blond hair and pale skin. She had gone with a few friends, a couple of boys and a girl her age. Only she dared to go into the factory. Her parents said that's the kind of person she was. A daredevil. John and Sherlock left the family and went to speak to her group of friends. They were all about 20, plus or minus two years. The girl was absolutely hysterical about the disappearance of her friend so John and Sherlock spoke solely to the two boys.
"Tell us about the factory that night. Anything strange about it?" John asked.
"You mean like..." One boy started.
"No, not ghosts. People," Sherlock interrupted. "Did you see any lights? Hear any footsteps? Anything?"
"Oh," the boy replied. "Well, not really. But we saw something kind of weird around the factory."
"Yes? What was it?" Sherlock leaned in very interested.
"It was an arm. But it wasn't human, really. I mean, there was blood. But it was definitely not a real arm."
Sherlock looked at John and they exchanged confused expressions.
"What- what do you mean?" John asked.
"It wasn't a real arm! It was made of plastic! Like a doll's arm. But there was blood. Real blood. I think."
"Well, it is a doll factory," Sherlock explained.
"It was no doll's arm," the other boy finally chimed in. "It was not the size of a doll arm. It was the size of a human arm."
The boy shivered as if a cold chill had run through him. John realized they were standing outside and began to shiver himself. It was cold out but he had forgotten about the weather listening to the boy's tale. A plastic arm with real blood. John pulled Sherlock aside, away from the boys and the hysterical girl.
"Sherlock," John whispered, "what if the missing people are being turned into dolls?"
"That's ridiculous," Sherlock whispered back. "That's not even possible."
"Well, how do you explain it, then?"
Sherlock sighed. "An old doll-maker who was upset that the factory closed and he lost his job so he's hiding out in the factory taking his anger out on anyone who dares to enter-"
"And he's making bloody, plastic body parts to scare off other potential victims? You really believe that's what this is?" asked John in disbelief.
"When you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be true."
John sighed. He's heard that one before. And it was a very reasonable explanation, for the given circumstances.
"Alright, ready to head to the factory, then?" Sherlock asked loudly. Still excited, John noticed.
One of the boys, suddenly looking bloody terrified, looked at Sherlock wildly.
"You've got to be careful, man. Don't go inside. You will not come out."
John was a bit unnerved by the boy's insistence. This boy was positively scared out of his wits and John was starting to think fear was contagious. John shivered again but this time it wasn't the cold. He and Sherlock began to walk back to the factory to look around but first Sherlock had to stop and pick up a few supplies. Gasoline, a matchbox, and Sherlock also insisted that he take John's gun.
"Are we going to burn the place down?" John asked curiously.
"Perhaps. It might also drive out the killer, if he's there. It's simply a last resort."
John shook his head. He was starting to think that Sherlock actually believed in the stories and felt he needed the gun in his hand for protection against something else. No, he didn't believe Sherlock when he called himself a skeptic. He remembered the way Sherlock looked just after he saw the hound, when he was starting to believe the stories and he was starting to look that way again, carrying the container of gasoline in his left hand and a gun in the right.
As they approached the factory, Sherlock put the gun in his pocket and began to search the grounds. John figured he was looking for blood, footprints, and plastic arms and began to search as well. It was starting to get dark as the two split their separate ways. John took out his torch and pointed it to the ground.
"Over here!" Sherlock shouted and John ran towards him.
John looked where Sherlock's torch was pointed and saw on the ground exactly what the boys had described. A long, plastic arm, surrounded by what looked like blood. Sherlock picked up the arm and offered it to John. He was a bit reluctant to take it at first but Sherlock shoved the arm into his hand. John felt the arm up and down and confirmed that the arm was not flesh. It was light like the arm of a mannequin or a doll. Inside, the hollow arm was coated with crimson. John sighed.
"I don't get it," he said quietly.
"Neither do I," Sherlock confessed.
Sherlock was bent over the blood. He dabbed his fingers in the substance and rubbed them together.
"It's still fresh."
"But the girl was missing two days. And the boys claimed they saw the blood themselves. Two days ago."
"I know that. It can't be real, then," Sherlock deduced.
He put his fingers to his lips and John really hoped he was not going to do what he thought he was going to do. Then Sherlock did. He licked the blood off his fingers and John had to look away.
"Nope. That's real blood," Sherlock gagged. John suppressed a laugh.
"How do you explain that, then?"
Sherlock shook his head.
"I have no idea."
"There's blood inside the arm, too," John pointed out.
Sherlock was spitting at the ground and wiping his fingers on his trousers. After he was completely sure that the blood was out of his mouth, Sherlock stood up straight and looked inside the plastic arm.
"The blood is dried up, though," Sherlock observed. "Why is the blood on the ground fresh?"
"The, uh, dew?" John suggested. "You know, keeping the blood all liquidy. Maybe."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow but said nothing about John's suggestion. Sherlock started walking towards the factory doors and John followed reluctantly. It was dark inside the factory, especially since the sun had set. Their torches did little to help light the interior but focused the light on the factory floor. Sherlock set the container of gasoline down by the entrance and began to walk around. John traveled a bit further into the factory away from Sherlock to look for more clues. Sherlock stayed near the entrance, searching the floor with utmost scrutiny.
Sherlock's torchlight fell upon another plastic body part a few meters left from the entrance. He bent down to look at the plastic limb and noticed it was a human leg, the right size and shape for a human but made of plastic. Sherlock picked it up and realized the leg was hollow. Inside was coated in dry blood just like the arm from outside the factory. Sherlock looked at the floor where he found the plastic limb and found fresh blood surrounding the area. He thought about John's explanation. It made sense for outside, but none at all inside the factory.
"Sherlock."
Sherlock turned around to look for John and saw the shadowy figure before him. He raised the torchlight to John's face.
"John?"
"Sherlock, I don't feel right."
Sherlock stood still in his spot. His hand started to shake but he couldn't take the light off of John's face. Exactly where John's left eye was meant to be was a sunken black hole. His eye socket was hollow and blood ran down the left side of his face. Sherlock began to back away slowly, never taking his eyes off of John. John cocked his head to the side in confusion and began to walk towards Sherlock.
"No, stop where you are," Sherlock said and John stopped in his place.
"What's wrong? Tell me, Sherlock," said John sternly.
Sherlock shook his head. "Nothing. Nothing's wrong."
Sherlock had backed up exactly where he wanted as he felt around with his feet. He felt the container of gasoline in front of him and kicked it towards John. He took the box of matches out of his pocket.
"Are we going to burn the place after all?" John asked curiously.
"Yes. We're going to have to," he replied.
Sherlock's heart was racing as John began to walk towards him. He had to do something. Sherlock put the box of matches back in his pocket and pulled out the gun instead. He pointed the gun at John and John stopped walking to stare at Sherlock with his one eye.
"Sherlock, what are you doing?"
"You're not John," said Sherlock. "You can't be. It's not possible."
"What? Why? What are you talking about?"
"You're missing an eye! John, can't you feel that?" Sherlock asked desperately.
"I..." John began. His eyebrows furrowed as he thought. "I can't feel anything."
Sherlock gaped at him. He switched the gun from his left hand to his right and held the torch in his left. John looked at his hands.
"I can't feel anything," John continued. "Not my eye or the cold. Do you think it's cold in here, Sherlock? I can't tell."
The gun in Sherlock's right hand shook then Sherlock realized it was his hand shaking. His body was betraying him again, showing his fear when he attempted to remain calm, cool, and collected.
"John," Sherlock spoke softly, "you were right. It's not a killer."
"So, it's a ghost?" asked John.
Sherlock's voice cracked as he spoke, "It's a curse."
John titled his head to the side, clearly confused.
"What are you talking about?"
Sherlock felt something wet on his cheeks and his vision began to blur. Suddenly, Sherlock realized that he was crying.
"Plastic. You're made of plastic," Sherlock sniffled. "They all are. Oh, God."
Sherlock took in a deep breath and steadied the hand holding the gun.
"You're not the real Watson. You're a plastic version of him," Sherlock said, mostly attempting to convince himself. It could not be the real Watson, of course. That would be impossible.
"Sherlock," John pleaded as his fate was starting to dawn on him. "Of course I am. I'm real. I'm human. I'm not plastic. Sherlock, please."
John started to walk towards him again and Sherlock pointed the gun threateningly. His whole body was still shaking, sweat was starting to stain his shirt. Sherlock felt his knees getting weak and knew he had to act fast, before his body started failing him. He inhaled deeply and blinked slowly. He stared at John, or rather the doll who looked like John.
"I can't let you leave."
Sherlock fired the gun and a second later he registered just where he hit him. John's eyes widened and his hands covered an area on his abdomen. Sherlock had hit him in the lower torso, blood dripped onto the floor and covered John's plastic hands. Quickly, Sherlock placed the gun in his pocket and pulled out the matchbox. He had to use his torch hand to get it open and strike a match but he managed. He took one last look at John who was now on the floor, lying in the spilled gasoline. Sherlock breathed deeply, threw the match down, and wiped the tears from his face with the back of his torch hand.
Sherlock ran outside and stopped when he was sure he was far enough away from the cursed factory. He bent over and placed his hands on his knees, attempting to catch his breath. After about half a minute of that, he stood back up straight. Sherlock's breath was caught in his throat as he took in his surroundings.
Sherlock had stood up straight just in time to notice he was surrounded by Dr. John H. Watson. All 20 of him.