Disclaimer – certainly not mine

Notes – set after Holmes' return from his three year hiatus. I would also like to point out that I am not attempting to write a ghost story, slash or a death fic here… also, my research is spotty at best.

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Given Holmes' distraction it was an easy matter to steer him into a passing cab and send us on our way home. Mrs Hudson would be waiting with our breakfast, and I for one was looking forward to settling in front of the fire. Traffic was heavy at this time of the morning, and by the time we reached our front door my lap had become a depository for one of Holmes new books, the till receipt stuck in as a haphazard bookmark.

He didn't surface from his reading until I unlocked our front door, looking about with a slight hint of surprise as if he still expected to be in the bookstore.

"Ah, you've rejoined us," I said in my driest tones, and he offered me a snort of laughter and slightly apologetic look. We hung our wet things downstairs and Mrs Hudson called to let us know that breakfast was on its way up.

"And what have your books told you?" I asked as we mounted the stairs.

"We are hunting for a man who is making zombies!" Holmes announced firmly, and I paused for a moment, sorting fact from dramatics. Holmes did so like his little jokes, though I had no doubt that there was some element of truth to his statement.

"Ah," I puffed at the top of the stairs, "Shall I fetch a butterfly net?"

Holmes laughter rewarded my sally, and he held the door open for me, concern glinting in his eyes that I very carefully didn't see. I dislike displaying my status as a cripple to the world, and it had been almost a year of hard work for me to regain the strength that my wounds had done their best to rob me of. That had been over a decade ago, and it was a battle that I was still struggling with, especially in weather such as this, or when I was beginning to sicken for something. My friend was a gentleman, and more importantly an observant and good man, and so nothing was said as I deposited myself in my habitual chair.

"Your humour is sharper than ever, Watson," Holmes settled opposite me, "But I feel that we shall need more than a butterfly net to resolve this case. What do you know of voodoo and zombies?"

"Only what I have read in the sensational press," I replied, "Nothing of the true practices or rituals of the cult. I believe I heard mention once of a straw doll used by a witch to torture a victim at long distances…"

"Irrelevant," Holmes waved the statement away, "We were speaking of zombies. According to the information from Gadwall's the ritual that occurred in the graveyard was the final step in the process of making a zombie, or in other words a witless and easily coerced slave."

"Perhaps you could give me the details, as I am hopelessly lost," I sighed. Mrs Hudson interrupted with our breakfast and Holmes shut the books before him hurriedly, shielding the diagrams from the patient woman's eyes. She gave him a very suspicious look but didn't say anything, leaving us to our breakfast quietly.

Despite the macabre topic, Holmes had a good appetite and attacked the food eagerly. As he often lost his appetite during the course of a case I did not complain about waiting for an answer, knowing that this may well be the last full meal he ate for the next few days. We retired to our armchairs with the last of the coffee and Holmes three tomes, and my friend lit his morning pipe with an air of abstraction, his thoughts already returning to the case.

"A zombie maker chooses a human with qualities that he requires – usually strength," Holmes said at last, his eyes glimmering in the smoke of his pipe, "In short, they administer a specially prepared concoction that so imbalances the mind of the victim that they lose their wits completely and become very impressionable. Through further applications of narcotics and ritual, the zombie maker impresses his will on the victim, gaining a slave that is unquestioning and ideally suited to rough labour."

"I see," I nodded, "And the burial?"

"Part of the ritual," Holmes replied, "And I have no doubt that it makes the drugs work all the more effective – the horror of confinement to a coffin in such circumstances would break the strongest of wills."

"Yes it would," I agreed with a shudder. Holmes gave me a concerned look, but I drained my teacup and sat up, "What is the next course of action?"

"I will be off, looking for the source of narcotics," Holmes replied firmly, "And I cannot take you with me old chap, and I will not be myself…"

That could only mean that he was going about in disguise, and into the dens of iniquity that crowded London. I nodded acceptance and asked if there was anything I might do in his absence.

"Lestrade will want to know what we've made of this," Holmes sighed, "And I think it might be best if he was told in person rather than by telegram."

"Indeed, if you send him a telegram to look for a man making zombies I believe he'd arrest you on the spot!" I smiled, "I shall go and see him this morning then and pass along your deductions. Provided he doesn't try to have me committed in your stead I'll meet you back here."

"I may be gone for most of the day," Holmes warned me, leaping to his feet and hurrying to his door, "Should you have any errands or such, do not hesitate to perform them. I don't anticipate any action taking place immediately."

"Which is why it would be best to be prepared for it," I called after him sardonically, rummaging in my drawer for my service revolver. Holmes laughed as Mrs Hudson came up to remove the breakfast plates and eyed the weapon I was checking with disfavour. She didn't like the danger that our cases sometimes brought to us, though it was more because she worried about us. She refrained from comment however and I gave her a cheerful smile when our eyes met. Holmes bounded out onto the landing from his second door, bellowing Mrs Hudson's name in his usual fashion. Our patient landlady rolled her eyes at me and I was hard pressed to maintain a straight face.

"Yes Mr Holmes?" she called sweetly, picking up her tray and stepping back smartly as Holmes threw the sitting room door open, consternation on his face.

"Allow me," my friend obviously changed his mind about whatever it was he'd been about to tell her to do, and took the tray, preceding her down the stairs. Mrs Hudson shook her head at me and closed the door behind herself. Not a moment too soon either as my laughter could no longer be contained.

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"Zombies," Lestrade's voice was dangerously flat, and there was a red flush that was slowly creeping up his neck, a sure sign that he was becoming quite angry.

"In a manner of speaking," I confirmed, "Men whose minds have been destroyed, reduced to the basest of intellects by a combination of drugs and what can only be described as torture. The practice is used overseas by devotees of voodoo, and that symbol upon the cross is tied in with the rituals our grave robbers have used."

The red flush receded as I assured the man opposite that we were dealing with facts and not flights of fancy. Lestrade sat back in his cramped office and sighed heavily, a frown on his face. The wall behind him bore a battered map of the city with various pins in it, and his desk was as always overflowing with files and bits of paper.

"This is a nasty business," he muttered, "How am I supposed to track down a voodoo cult in London? They won't exactly be advertising for members or victims in the agony columns."

"Holmes is looking for the supply of the narcotic used as we speak," I sighed, "And I would imagine that the number of people in London with the knowledge of the ritual and narcotic are small."

"Hmmm," Lestrade leaned forward again, "Perhaps I should ask that Thompson chap from E division, he had some connections with the religious nut fringe…"

"Perhaps," I agreed, remembering Thompson from a case I had worked with Lestrade during Holmes three year absence, "And there may be a link to the students you initially suspected as well, Lestrade. After all, it's the sort of fantastic thing irresponsible and bored young men would find …amusing."

"Just what I need," Lestrade groaned, "We've had our fair share of those cases, Doctor, and don't think I've forgotten we nearly lost you on the last one."

"That was a ghastly business," I agreed, though he didn't press the matter any further; we had never spoken of the events once we had both recovered, each of us bearing our own scars. The young men in question, and I use the term loosely, had been so arrogant that they had advertised in the agony columns, something that led to their eventual downfall.

"Well, I'll get onto Thompson and see what he has to say," Lestrade sighed, "And I assume you'll keep me up to date with Mr Holmes' movements? No point in imagining he'll do the job."

"I will, to the degree that I can," I ignored the slur on my friend's character, knowing that in this case it was justified. Holmes often treated cases where he worked with the Yard as competitions between himself and the official force, and could be very parsimonious with his information until the eleventh hour. This was quite naturally frustrating for the men trying to work with him, as they had to justify their arrests to a higher authority and the phrase 'because Mr Holmes said' just didn't have the cachet to do so.

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