His mouth is full of cursing and deceit and fraud: under his tongue is mischief and vanity.

Psalm 10:7


April 26, 7:39 AM

Next morning saw us in a cab heading to the north side of London.

I looked out the window as we went, observing the way the city transformed herself as we flew through her. Like the sky would change from morning to noon to sunset, she would shed one set of characteristics, and take on other, each landscape telling a different story.

She changed from the heart of the city, full of people and skyscrapers and historical landmarks; to the slums, a place much darker and madder than most, but studded with a silent brave beauty belonging to all who daily face the darkest of mankind; to a nice isolated area of London, with polished side walks and fences around every tree.

Very nice, I thought as we pulled into a driveway and stopped about halfway up at Sherlock's command.

We exited the cab as Lestrade approached from a house that stunned me in sheer size. It must have been about five stories tall. It was a classic-looking house with red brick and white intricate window panes and shutters. It was surrounded by a perimeter of tall ash trees which were in turn bordered by a tall, fancy black cast-iron fence. The lawn was an unnatural green, and was embellished with a winding stone-cobbled drive that led up to the house.

Lestrade reached us, the ever-present pained expression etched onto his face.

"Where?" Sherlock demanded as soon as the inspector was in earshot. I narrowed my eyes at him a bit, but he ignored me.

"Behind the house," the DI responded, unfazed by his amateur colleague's curtness.

I greeted him with a friendly expression, and he shrugged, as if saying Sherlock's attitude didn't bother him.

I was hoping that he would fully explain the situation for me, but he simply led us around the house to the backyard. It was a nice area with a big, stained concrete porch that had many expensive luxuries and decorations embellishing it, all of them obviously hardly used, and clearly only there for aesthetics. But what we had come to see was a small, reddish brown stain close to the house. We made a beeline for it. Thankfully Anderson and his team had already cleared out, and Donovan was nowhere in sight, so I didn't have to worry about putting out any fires that Sherlock saw himself fit to start.

"What did the medical examiner say?" inquired my friend, and threw his coattails behind him before crouching over the area.

"The body was very damaged-" he ignored a derogatory snort from Sherlock that said, 'Obviously,' "-more so than it should have been. It looks like it fell about twenty metres when his room was only on the third floor. Also, there were signs of drug abuse, but the lab hasn't confirmed it yet," Lestrade explained.

We stood around for a little bit while Sherlock examined the stain with his pocket miscroscope, occasionally craning his neck to look upwards at the third-story window above us.

"What was the estimated time of death?" Sherlock asked.

"They put it at ten or eleven." answered Lestrade.

"Alright," Sherlock said, standing up, "take us inside."

Inside the house we were greeted by a dark and intricate room that sharply contrasted the outside of the house. In the middle of the room stood a man with his hands folded behind back and his head bowed in thought. He was tall and average in build. His face was unusually large in the forehead and jaw, making his facial features, and especially his deep-set eyes, look sunken. He looked up from the floor as we came in.

"Ah, Inspector Lestrade. Who might these two be?" he said, surveying me and my friend with a critical eye. His voice was like honey. Strong and smooth and sweet.

"Sherlock Holmes." said the owner of the name, examining the client with his analytical gaze.

"And John Watson." I put in. He merely glanced at me, clearly considering me unimportant. I've been told my presence isn't very impressive, outside of a military or medicinal situation. Sherlock, on the other hand, had enough presence to make the faint of heart weep.

True story.

"Sherlock, this is Edwin Cornwall, owner of the house." said Lestrade. Turning to Cornwall he said, "Answer all his questions, and try not to punch him, to the best of your ability," the DI advised with his usual Sherlock-is-kind-of-crazy-so-don't-blame-me-if-you-hate-him disclaimer.

"Of course, Inspector." Cornwall said, a bit dubiously. He eyed us, still unsure.

"Tell me everything that happened, down to the last detail, starting yesterday." Sherlock's eyes were a bit distant, yet focussed.

"Well..." Cornwall started hesitantly. Sherlock made a gesture that said, 'Get on with it!' The man has the patience of a five-year-old.

"Well, it was a typical day... I spent most of the day in my study. Then at around six o' clock or so there was a ring at the door. I went to see who it was, and it was my nephew, to my surprise -"

Sherlock made a gesture for him to stop for a moment and said, "Tell me about the nephew."

"Victor Savage," Cornwall replied, "he was twenty-four, or twenty-five. He's been doing drugs since his first secondary year. He dropped out soon after." The contempt and disgust in the man's tone told me everything I could possibly need to know about their relationship.

"My sister-in-law was always worried sick about him. I hadn't seen him since he was a boy." If that last bit was an attempt to seem concerned, it was a pitiful one. It seemed to me that the only reason this man had called the police is because he couldn't legally call animal control to haul away the body.

Sherlock nodded for him to continue, and I was sure he was reaching the same conclusions as I.

"Anyway, he came to me asking if he could stay here tonight and another favor he would name later. I granted him a room on the third floor, my usual guest room. After getting him settled, I asked him what his favor was. He said simply he needed money. He begged me to lend him £500. I naturally refused. I had a cousin once who asked my grandfather for money when he was in a similar predica-"

"Less about your deceased cousin, more about last night," Sherlock said, not quite snapping, but sounding impatient.

Cornwall looked at my friend in confusion. "How did you know he was-"

"It was painfully obvious. Now, you were saying?"

He looked at Sherlock a moment more in disbelief and incredulity before continuing. I hope I've gotten over that now, because it really does look ridiculous from the outside.

"Yes, well, anyway... He said he was in deep financial trouble and the only way he could get out is if I would lend him the money. After denying him this, I left him in a sorry state in his room and I went down to my study to - well - study. About an hour later I heard a racket on the other side of the house. I was getting up to investigate when a masked man burst through the door. He forced me in the closet and blocked it." Sherlock eyes's glinted with curiosity, but he didn't interrupt.

"From there all I heard was more noises that I'm sure was the sound of him burglaring my house. After it was quiet and I was sure he was gone I forced my way out of the closet. I looked, but they had gone. I went upstairs to check on Victor but when I got there..." He looked toward the floor in obvious distress. Sherlock nodded in understanding.

"And when did you call the police?" Sherlock asked.

"The security system automatically informed the authorities," Cornwall answered. Sherlock glanced to Lestrade for confirmation, and seemed satisfied with the answer.

Turning to Lestrade, he asked, "Why did you bring us here?"

Lestrade answered in a measured tone. "This gentleman is one of the officials over Baskerville." I shuddered a bit at the name. Sherlock didn't seem disturbed by the name, by contrast. His eyes lit up, and excitement ever so slightly adjusted his posture.

"He had some papers regarding it and the activities there in his safe." Lestrade continued. "When Mr. Cornwall went to check for them after looking into his nephew's room, they were gone. You were summoned to recover these papers."

So that's what this was all about. Baskerville.

Home of monsters.


A/N: Another chapter greatly improved by yours truly. See ya next chapter.