Author's note: As you all might have figured out from my nearly three year absence, "Don't Ask Me" is currently on hold. I might continue if I find the time to get back into Psych and Burn Notice, but as of right now I'm fairly busy and obsessed with other things (Sherlock being one of them). I do want to say, however, that support throughout the years for that story has been wonderful and uplifting and I have appreciated every bit of it. Thank you all so much.
Also, I'm a filthy American, so comments on and criticism of my portrayal of Sherlock's Brit characters are both more than welcome.
Enjoy!
They descended, step by step, Lestrade at front. John felt the hairs on his neck stand up as they approached the bottom. Sherlock took in and analyzed the smell that greeted them- musky, mildewy, and grotesquely rotten around the edges.
The television next to the foot of the stairs was still on. A relic, decades old, with white-blue-black static sparking on its screen and the sound emanating from it a harsh buzz interspersed with eerie humanesque noises. The small and singular basement window was blocked by long-dead potted plants of various sizes and jars of things that had once been alive but now slept suspended in preservatives. The window and television served as the only light sources, the latter giving its surroundings a shifting, unstable glow and the former filtering midday sun through strange liquids and casting the shadows of small corpses about. A black velvet painting of a naked woman hung on the back wall. The room had the feel of a kitschy mausoleum, like that of the bloated corpse of a fifties housewife wearing rotting horn rimmed glasses and gaudy makeup.
John stood in the middle of the room and glanced around.
"Bit creepy, isn't it?"
Sherlock half-chuckled and Lestrade muttered a, "Yeah".
On the wall behind the television hung dust-encrusted records surrounding a small, framed, and grimy Elvis Presley photograph. Towards the center of the room and facing the TV was an old reclining chair with a corpse in it. Female, late thirties. She'd been dead for a couple of days and the pleasant and warm summer weather hadn't done her any favors. The death itself probably wasn't quick and it certainly wasn't painless. She'd been mauled. Partially dismembered. Possibly partially eaten.
Sherlock crouched and used a gloved hand to gently examine her fingernails.
John studied the low bookshelf in the corner. It was full of books on human and animal anatomy, various sciences, and the occult, with several volumes not in English and a couple in languages he didn't recognize. The bookshelf had a tacky multicolored lamp adorning it. John attempted to click it on. Nothing happened. He leaned a little closer and realized that while it was plugged in, it had no bulb.
"There's another one in the bathroom," said Lestrade, gesturing to a half-open door at the back of the room. "Haven't ID'd them yet due to shady leasing practices and missing purse and wallet but we'll have 'em soon enough through dental records."
John gently pushed the door open further and stepped in while Sherlock continued his examination. Bright, green-blue tile covered the floor and combination shower/bathtub wall and juxtaposed with the faded mustard yellow wallpaper and inky grime between the tiles. There was no shower curtain.
A yellowed and exposed bulb in a naked fixture protruded from the ceiling. Watson flicked the switch on. Luckily, this one actually worked. There was another body, as Lestrade had mentioned. It laid half on the floor, half draped over the side of the bathtub, with its face and middle ripped up. Male, around the same age, though it was difficult to tell from the state of his remains. The cabinet under the sink appeared to have been raided. Partially dried blood pooled near the drain and flecked a few places on the tile where it had sprayed. There was a human heart in the toilet.
Sherlock stepped in and carefully assessed the bathroom. Lestrade followed, though he didn't leave the doorway. Sherlock swung open the mirror, behind which stood a few rows of empty pill bottles. After examining them, he glanced down at the toilet.
"Our killer has a sense of humor, at least."
Lestrade groaned.
Sherlock ducked down and examined the sink cabinet. John, not sure of what to do with himself, leaned over the edge of the bathtub to get a closer look at the corpse.
Still bent down and studying but content to begin an assessment, Sherlock spoke.
"The killings appear to have been done by some sort of beast. There was a person accompanying it, though." He tapped the top of the sink from the inside. "Something was hidden right here. There are adhesive marks left from duct tape. No blood on the cleaning supplies thrown about, so the killer waited until the two were dead before searching."
Lestrade stepped in a little further. "Sherlock-"
"She physically put up a fight- there's caked flesh and blood under her fingernails, and I made out some defensive wounds despite the state of her body- but he didn't. Three scenarios right off the bat from that. It's possible he was attacked first, though it's obviously fairly unlikely that killer and companion could have just waltzed right by her unnoticed. If they somehow managed that, her proximity means that she would have at least come in to investigate the sound of flesh being torn up."
"Sherlock! We-"
"It's possible she was attacked first, but he certainly would have heard it. Maybe he was deaf and couldn't hear her or had some sort of other impairment or disability, on his own or due to the killer, but that doesn't seem likely for either of them. From the positions and state of the corpses, the most likely and most sinister scenario is that one of them knew that the other would be be attacked and let it-"
"Sherlock!"
Sherlock finished up his study of the cabinet's wooden paneling then looked up at Lestrade. "Hmm?"
"We know all that. Give us some credit."
"If you knew that," said John, "then why-"
"Why waste our time?" finished Sherlock.
"We mostly wanted your help on determining cause of death. None of us have been able to figure out which animal, er, which 'beast' did it. It's too early for any lab analysis, obviously, and we expect to know eventually, but we were stumped and wanted a hunch and a head start."
Sherlock stared at a patch of mold on the corner of the bathtub for a few seconds then abruptly stood up and turned to face Lestrade.
"No idea."
"Surely, you-"
"I mentioned that they appear to have been done by a beast. The ferocity and brute strength indicates an animal, obviously, but the claw and bite marks don't match anything I've previously encountered. The bite marks specifically are rather large and indicate the teeth of a carnivore but jaw shape itself is fairly humanoid. I'd suggest some kind of fake or staged attack, but, again, the sheer strength and violence of the inflicted wounds suggests otherwise."
Lestrade crossed his arms. "You've got nothing, then?"
"Samples from the woman's fingernails and elsewhere ought to be at least somewhat conclusive. I'd appreciate photographs of the wounds for further analysis and comparison later along with victim identities so I can investigate them and their relation to the eccentric décor. I'll also do some research of my own on the assortment of books they've got piled up. If I think of anything else, I'll keep in touch."
Lestrade glanced at John. John shrugged.
"Thanks for coming down, I, uh, guess. You two know the way out. Five minutes is up anyway."
Sherlock exited the bathroom, paused for a moment in front of the bookcase to take a couple of photos with his phone, and ascended the stairs. John followed.
Once they were in a cab and out of earshot, John turned to Sherlock, eyebrows raised.
"'Nothing'?"
"No fooling you, is there?" said Sherlock, putting away his phone in a shirt pocket after having spent a few minutes studying the photographs he'd taken (some of the books and some he'd snuck of the corpses beforehand).
"Let's have it, then!" said John after a decidedly smug pause of several seconds on Sherlock's part.
"Did you recognize the woman in the chair?"
"Maybe? Er, she looked familiar, but I wasn't sure."
"If her glasses and bone structure hadn't been mostly intact the job would've been much more difficult. Would have been even easier if she were wearing a white lab coat, though."
"You don't mean-"
"Yes, John. Baskerville."
"God. I was hoping we were rid of that place."
"Nope!" said Sherlock, almost smiling. "I'd venture to say that whatever was stolen out from under the sink might be related to her place of employment."
"And if it is you lied so that you could find out with minimal interference from Lestrade and any other members of the English government, correct?"
"Naturally."