John nodded over the papers, his eye drawn back to the subject number. Something...
"That's yesterday's date," he said. "The subject numbers here. These are all dates. Greg, that missing persons case? What dates did those others disappear?" He passed the report to Greg, pointing out the other subject numbers.
"I'll have someone cross-reference these subject numbers with what we know on the missing persons files. Was this the only report, Anderson?" Greg asked without looking up.
"Only one we've found so far," Anderson answered. If he was going to say anything more, it was drowned out by an abrupt sneeze from Mycroft. John looked at him - Mycroft's eyes were bloodshot.
"Right. If we're going to look around, we need to do it now," Greg said. "Sally, you stay with Mister Holmes. John..."
John was already moving, remembering the layout of the flat where he'd grown up. The cellar had been off the kitchen, the door usually on the wall away from the windows overlooking the tiny patch of yard in the back of the house. But when he reached the kitchen, the only thing on that wall was the refrigerator.
"Did anyone move this?" he called, peering behind the machine.
"Not that I know of," Greg answered. "We can see behind it, John. There's no door."
John nodded, looking around again. "Right. No door. But there has to be a cellar. Where... Greg, is that a winch on the ceiling?"
"What?" Greg came over and looked up, then pulled out a pocket torch and used it to illuminate what was indeed a small winch dangling over their heads. "Why would he have a winch there?" He looked at John, and they both looked down at the floor. The tile under their feet was tattered and dirty, peeling at the corners. Without a word, they both knelt down, pulling at the tiles until they had revealed a trap door. Greg had to stand on a chair to reach the cable, and it took some searching to find the controls for the winch, but in a few minutes, they were swinging the trap door over to rest on the top of the refrigerator. John knelt next to the opening, and felt himself go cold at the smell rising from the darkness.
"Oh, dear God," Lestrade murmured.
"Idiots put bodies in the cellar," John repeated. He swallowed and looked up. "Get Mycroft. And some torches."
"Why do you need to get Mycroft?" Mycroft asked as he came into the kitchen, his voice nasal. "Oh. Nicely done, Doctor."
"That explains why he lived like this," Greg said. "The smell of the cats covers the smell of the bodies. Good thing you can't smell anything, My."
Sally arrived with torches, which revealed a ladder that led down into the cellar. Greg insisted on going first, and it was he who found the light-switch. John followed him, looking around at the large, empty space, and at the seven bodies laying in two rows. Slowly, feeling as if he were walking through treacle, John walked up one row and down the other. Sherlock wasn't here. Relieved, he returned to the ladder and watched as Anderson and his team moved towards the bodies.
"He's not here," he said quietly to Mycroft, and saw the taller man nod. "You should get out of here. Go get the antihistamines from Sally."
"No. Not yet. There is something..." Mycroft frowned, shaking his head. Then he sneezed violently, three times in a row. "Ah..."
"Mycroft, you're not going to be able to help until you get taken care of," John insisted. "Right now, I doubt you can see straight, let alone see what we're missing."
"Inspector?" John turned when he heard the odd note in Anderson's voice. The man was kneeling next to one of the bodies. "This..."
'What is it, Anderson?" Greg asked.
"This body... the brains are gone," Anderson answered. "The top of the head has been removed, and the brains are missing."
John fought back a surge of hysteria, thinking back to an old movie that involved screw-top heads. "I think that answers how Doctor Garrity was doing his research," he said. "How long has this been going on, I wonder?"
"And who were the controls?" Mycroft added. John winced, walking away and slowly pacing down the line of bodies once more. His footsteps echoed in the long, enclosed space. Halfway down the length, he stopped and looked back.
"Is it just me, or is this cellar enormous?" he asked out loud. His only answer was a sneeze from Mycroft. Scowling, he turned towards Mycroft, thinking to order the man out of the cat-infested house again. Then he stopped and looked around the cellar again. "Oh. Oh! Oh, you brilliant idiot. Mycroft, who owns the flat next door? The one on the end?"
Mycroft's jaw dropped, and for a moment, the resemblance to Sherlock was unmistakable. "Doctor! That's it!"
"What? What's it?" Greg demanded.
"Look, Greg!" John pointed towards the far wall. "How far away is that wall?"
Greg turned and frowned. "Twelve... maybe fifteen meters... the flat isn't that wide!"
"This cellar runs under both flats! I've heard of garrets like this, but never a cellar," John turned towards Mycroft, who was blinking and frowning over his mobile.
"Owner of record... Felicia Garrity-Hanson. Deceased," he said after a moment. "She and her mother were murdered by Gerrold Hanson, Felicia's husband."
"Doctor Garrity's daughter? And his wife?" John asked. Mycroft nodded before continuing.
"And naturally, when the daughter died, and the son-in-law went to prison, the flat went to the only living relative. Doctor?"
"We need to get in there. He hid the bodies here, but he did... whatever he did there. And that is where Sherlock is," John said, already moving towards the stairs on the far wall.
#
...restraints...can'tmove...can'tsee...can'tthink...hurts,everythinghurts...shaking...cold?No,notcold...sick...John...John,whereareyou?...helpme...