Present
"Sherlock?" I ask softly, shifting my torch to my left hand to push open the door to the laboratory. The power's gone out during the raid, and the room is quite dark. Shards of shattered equipment litter the tiled floor.
Even so, it takes me only a minute to find my friend, huddled against a wall, on his knees. I pass the torch's light over his frame.
"Sherlock!" I shout. I rush toward his side. "Are you-"
"Don't look at me, John," he hisses, recoiling. His body shifts closer to the wall.
I falter about a meter away from him. The torchlight catches his bent neck and slumped shoulders.
"But why-"
"I said don't look at me!"
I am taken aback by the urgent tone in his voice. My legs freeze in place. Slowly, I move the torchlight so it is shining beside him, instead of on him.
"Are- are you hurt?" I ask, concern lacing my voice.
He lets out a bitter laugh, near hysterical.
"You could say that." He attempts his usual nonchalance, and fails.
My jaw tenses. "Sherlock, if you're hurt, then I need to look at you."
I can just make out his silvery eyes, glinting at me in the darkness. The Yard's sirens wail faintly outside. The moment is long, and he takes his time answering.
"I suppose it's inevitable at some point, isn't it?"
I take another cautionary step toward him. "It's me or them, Sher," I say softly. I know how much he hates showing weakness in front of others.
But he's obviously hurt. Badly.
The closer I get, the more apparent it is. I can just make out his right arm, gripping the closet doorframe beside him. His hand is shaking.
"Might as well get it over with then, doctor," he says through gritted teeth.
I take one more step, and am able to kneel beside him. "Where does it hurt?" I ask him, trying my hardest to keep my emotions out of my voice. I have to be a doctor now. I can't let me feelings cloud my judgment. I shine the torch just under his face and he gives me the most ghastly grin.
"Try lower."
I swallow, and move the torchlight down toward his stomach.
And that's when I see it.
Hair.
Well, not it isn't hair exactly. It's more like… fur. Blood seeps through it, where it meets his skin just below his bellybutton.
I breathe in through my nostrils as I realize the implications.
"Oh, they didn't…" I murmur.
Sherlock slumps. "They did."
"Sherlock…" I mutter.
I'm suddenly filled with anger. My veins burn with it. The torch begins to shake in my hands. I can sense my friend watching me intently, but I don't care.
"Those bastards!" I yell, standing suddenly. I kick the table next to us, sending a tray of glass vials flying. I breathe heavily, and let the torch drop to the floor.
"John," Sherlock says softly. I feel his hand brush against my ankle.
And just as suddenly as the anger had stricken me, it is gone. I kneel beside my best friend once more, and place my hand on his arm.
My throat struggles against a barrage of questions.
"Is it- how did-"
He shushes me with a look.
"It's permanent," he says softly. Clinically. "And, judging by the results of previous experiments, it's terminal."
Many people would wonder how he could pronounce his own death sentence so unfeelingly. But I see it. A flicker in his eye. A tremor in his arm.
Sherlock Holmes is terrified.
"God," I mutter, and pull his thin frame into my arms. "I won't let it come to that, you know," I whisper. I reach up and put a hand on the back of his head. "I won't lose you."
He sucks in a breath. "I know, John."
We stay like that for a number of minutes, the quiet wrapping around us.
Then Holmes' mobile rings.
"Jesus," I mutter, nearly jumping out of my skin.
"That will be Lestrade," he says softly.
He instinctively reaches to his waist to pull the phone from his pocket. His fingers brush fur instead. The phone continues to ring, somewhere to our left.
"Oh, John," he says, voice cracking as his fingers feel his new set of legs. "I think I might be sick."
Four Days Earlier – The Mermaid
They found the body in an airtight barrel floating on the Thames. At least, it had been an airtight barrel - until somebody had opened it to remove the bricks.
Sherlock had jumped up immediately when the DI had called, yelling something about nines and rushing us out of the flat with the use of numerous expletives. We threw some money at the cabbie, and in about six minutes had arrived at what was probably the most security-laced crime scene I had ever set foot on.
The consulting detective buzzed off to the riverside, ready to do what he did best. I hung behind, looking to Detective Inspector Lestrade for any ideas as to what we were up against.
"Glad you two were able to get here so quickly," Lestrade said, watching my erratic flatmate zip here and there, asking questions and observing.
"Well, whatever you told him, he said it was a nine." I crossed my arms over my chest.
"A nine? Jesus." He shook his head. "Doctor Watson, this is an eleven at least. Maybe a twelve."
"Really?" I raised an eyebrow, looking over to the barrel. "Why do you say that?"
But before he could answer, Sherlock grabbed me roughly by the arm and dragged me over to the body. "Look, John!" he exclaimed.
"Yeah, I'm looking," I replied. I wrinkled my nose. Eau de Thames hadn't exactly worked wonders for the poor vic's smell.
The man was curled tightly into the barrel, skin white and pruned. He was naked but for a pair of – admittedly tacky – Halloween style feathered wings tied to his back. There was something about him, though. Something about those wings.
The barrel itself was dark grey, and had a murky logo on it stenciled in white block lettering. Avalon Enterprises. I filed the name away in the back of my head for later.
Something was still bothering me about the corpse in the barrel.
"Hang on," I muttered, looking more closely. "Are those wings…"
"They've been grafted onto his back. He's one of the first of a series of human-animal hybrids we've seen in the city. Except this one… this one has a complete set."
"Wait. You're telling me someone has been killing people, then sewing animal bits onto them?"
Sherlock fixed me with a look.
"Take that; reverse the order."
"Oh god. This poor bloke was grafted while he was still alive?"
"Yes," my flatmate said, eyes gleaming.
I swear, here was the only person in the world who could legitimately get excited over torture.
"Don't you see, John?" he carried on, oblivious to my disbelief. "Somebody, somewhere, is performing an experiment. They're creating people who are half man, half beast."
"And this makes you happy because-?"
Sherlock, predictably, ignored me.
"It's a mermaid, John."
Present
Sherlock, contrary to his statement, is not sick.
Sherlock faints.
"Jesus," I breathe again, hurriedly catching his torso in my arms. I mutter a soft "all right," perhaps as reassurance, and draw my friend close to my body. I pick my torch up from where it lies on the floor, and try to angle it so I can see better.
I'm still processing what I am seeing when light begins to flicker around me.
"John!"
"Over here!" I call, and Lestrade and his team rush over. Their torchlight joins my own, and there is a collective murmuring as the team sees what I see.
"Shit," Lestrade curses, kicking at the dust around his feet. "Shit!"
I ignore him.
"Ambulance, stat. Tell them to have blood ready for transfusion," I say. "And call Mycroft."
Lestrade snaps into action and nods, pulling out his mobile. He covers the receiver with his hand.
"What do I tell them about…" he gestures vaguely toward Sherlock's legs.
I pause, then shake my head. "Just tell them to have the blood on arrival."
I brush Sherlock's hair out of his eyes. "Don't you worry," I whisper, though he likely can't hear me. "You're going to be just fine."
I continue to whisper to my friend - perhaps for my own sanity - for the next eight minutes until the ambulance arrives. Sherlock is moved into the vehicle and, thanks to Mycroft's quick work, fitted with a pack of blood already labeled "Holmes, S." I breathe a sigh of relief.
Lestrade tells me that he and Mycroft will meet us at the hospital. I nod, and climb into the back of the ambulance with my friend. The doors close, and we begin our journey.
Sherlock is covered in a garish orange blanket. An oxygen mask covers his face. He looks so pale. It's surreal – almost funny. Sherlock is already one of the palest people I know. I study his face carefully.
We arrive at Bart's in minutes. Sherlock is wheeled out on a gurney, and I follow him into the building, legs running on autopilot.
They get him into intensive care. I am relegated to the hallway. There is a window looking into his room, however, and for the first time, I can truly study the damage that has been done.
"Oh, Sherlock," I breathe, one of my hands trailing against the cool doorframe.
His legs are a mess. In the light, you can see immediately that his legs – his human legs – have been amputated and rather hastily replaced by what look like deer legs. I find myself wondering about anatomy. What about femoral arteries? Can his blood actually flow through those legs? Have my cautionary measures been in vain?
My hands are shaking. In my periphery, I can see a figure – I think it's Mycroft – walking toward me. He joins me at the window, and after a few moments places a hand on my shoulder. At first, I think that the touch is meant to comfort me. But - no – I look over, and Mycroft's face is decidedly green.
I snap into doctor mode.
"Right," I say, turning him with a gentle touch and steering him toward a cold metal bench. "Only one of you is allowed to be ill at a time."
He nods, swallowing, and sits. I grab a waste bin two doorways down, bring it over, and set it in front of him as a preemptive measure. He breathes through his nose for a few moments.
Then he is sick.
I look away. It seems wrong to watch. Mycroft, who is normally the epitome of calm, retches two or three times. Then he is silent.
"You all right?" I ask, sitting beside him.
He wipes his lips with his sleeve, nodding.
"Thank you, Doctor Watson," he eventually whispers. As smoothly as he can, he pushes the waste bin to the side. "How is he?"
I smirk. "You saw him."
He nods. "And you've spoken with him."
I sigh. "He's…" I search for the right word. "I think he's afraid. He didn't expect…" I trail off.
"No, he never does," Mycroft says, sitting up a little straighter. Some of the color has returned to his face. "My little brother has a great capacity for idiocy in these situations."
I smile, just a bit. It's almost good to hear Mycroft being dickish. It brings a sense of normalcy to the situation.
I'm about to respond when the nurse in charge of Sherlock comes out.
"Mr. Holmes?" he addresses Mycroft. He ignores me rather pointedly. I don't blame him. It's difficult to shoo away visitors who aren't family to the patient. I should know.
Mycroft stands, straightening his collar. He wipes away imaginary traces of vomit with an almost imperceptible sweep of his fingers. "Yes?"
"Your brother is stable. However, his condition…" the nurse trails off, unsure.
"Yes?" he says again. Anyone who didn't live with a Holmes would not have been able to detect the hint of panic in his voice.
The nurse looks down. "The lower body has been fully severed at the bottom of the abdominal aorta – something called translumbar amputation. It has been replaced with what appears to be the lower body of a… of a deer."
A flash of annoyance crosses Mycroft's face. "Yes, I can see that. Is the damage reparable?"
The nurse cowers. "Well… you see… we believe that the deer's body is actually staunching the blood flow." The nurse looks up. "If we amputate, he will die."
Mycroft deflates.
The nurse continues, a bit tentatively. "Sir, your brother… he may remain like this permanently."
Mycroft's nostrils flare. "My brother will not stay like this."
The nurse looks at him uneasily. He shifts his weight. "It's the only way, sir – at least for now."
"Plenty of people live without legs." I study Mycroft's face carefully. Sherlock's brother has very little capacity for patience when it comes to the welfare of his sibling.
"Yes, but," the nurse says, trying his hardest to make Mycroft understand.
I take in a deep breath. I know what's coming. I've seen it before, in the sands of Afghanistan. A leg is just a leg, but the whole lower body? I put a hand on Mycroft's arm. He's surprisingly warm.
"We could perform a hemicorporectomy – removing the lower body from the pelvis down," the nurse continues, forcing himself to meet Holmes' eyes. "However, it's an extremely traumatic procedure, and, well. It's already been done to him once in the past twenty-four hours."
There's a moment of silence. The older Holmes takes a moment to regroup. "Will he… will he be able to walk?"
"We aren't sure yet. We're running scans now to see if the new – if the deer's femoral arteries are properly connected to the abdominal aorta. If they aren't aligned… we aren't sure he'll even survive."
Mycroft nods, and steps back toward the bench. He gestures toward me.
"This is John Watson. He is Sherlock's doctor. You are to inform both of us of any change in Sherlock's condition." With that, he sinks back onto the bench.
The nurse nods, and seems to look at me for the first time. He extends a hand.
"Rupert Malone," he says, introducing himself. I shake his hand, nodding. "I'll keep you posted."
He walks back into the ICU, and I sit by Mycroft once more.
I get the feeling that we're in for a long night.