Chapter 5
The skinny Time Lord led them to the other end of the city, weaving across several blocks, sometimes on main roads, more often in small, convoluted alleyways. They had walked for around twenty minutes when the Doctor stopped abruptly in front of a nondescript doorway. Without hesitating, he raised his hand and knocked twice. The building was tall and narrow, the third story having been tacked on after the first two were already built. The windows were dark, shrouded in what seemed an undue amount of ash. Put there to hide the interior, Sherlock thought.
"So, Doctor," the detective began. "You've been awfully quiet. Who are we here to meet?"
The Doctor was silent for a minute. Then, "His name is Hoid. And he usually—answers his door!" he said, banging on the wood again. This time it was answered by a man in his early thirties. He was tall for this world, around six foot, with pale blonde hair hanging around his ears. Sherlock's icy eyes swept over him, taking in the thick bags under his eyes, the bow to his knees, and the slight prune on the fingers of his right hand. Hasn't slept in two, three days, been sitting a lot, unusual for a man of his station. The wetness of his hand and nowhere else on his body . . . someone he cares about is sick.
The Doctor blinked. He had, apparently, been expecting someone else.
"We're, ah, here for Hoid. Is he—"
"He's upstairs." The man replied. His voice sounded as if it hadn't seen much use lately.
They stood motionless for a second as the man remained standing where he was, blocking the narrow doorway. "Ah, so can we . . . .?" The Doctor began awkwardly.
"Oh, yes." The man blinked and moved aside to let them through. He seemed disoriented, as if his thoughts had completely disconnected from one another, spinning uselessly in circles.
The Doctor led the way inside, Sherlock on his heels. As he passed the man in the door, he heard John ask the man his name in the kind, soothing tone he reserved for his patients. Once again it took the stranger a second to answer.
"Kelsier" he finally replied.
The interior of the building was filled with a strange smell. Must and mold, expected from a building as old as this, antiseptic, seems out of place in this time period, and something else, faintly, on the edge of the senses. What is that?
The Doctor and Sherlock vaulted up the stairs, John and Kelsier following at a slower pace. Reaching the small landing at the top, the Doctor knocked once, then opened the door without waiting. Instantly the unidentified smell grew stronger, as did the antiseptic.
The room was long, with four beds along the right wall. Three were currently occupied, the covers on the fourth almost entirely on the floor. Kelsier went immediately to the nearest bed and took a seat on the empty one beside it, reaching out to its occupant, a young woman with long dark hair. His wife, no, fiancée. A man in a grey shirt and a knee-length apron stood bending over the man in the farthest bed. The stranger appeared to be about average height, with grey-brown hair, and wrinkles that only appeared when he smiled. His nose was flat, but narrow, with eyes that slanted down on the outside. Unmistakably a physician.
"Ah, Doctor. Right on time, for once," he said with a smile. "And who are your companions? Don't believe I've met this batch."
The Doctor smiled hugely. He always got a kick out of introducing Sherlock, even if no one ever recognized the name. "Hoid, my friend," he began, confirming the stranger's identity, "it is my pleasure to introduce to you Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson."
Hoid's eyebrows lifted. "The Sherlock Holmes?" he crossed the length of the floor to stand directly in front of Sherlock. He stood there for a second, looking them over. Then he blinked twice and turned to the Doctor. "Where's the hat?"
John immediately busted up laughing. Sherlock sniffed. "I see you've heard of us."
"Yes." Said the Doctor, stifling his own laughter. "Anyone who's been to your world has." He stepped forward and shook Hoid's hand enthusiastically. "You're looking well! I like this face!"
"Glad someone does." Hoid replied dryly. "It's too . . . faded for my taste."
John was finally resurfacing from his fit. "So, wait, is he like you then?" he asked the Doctor. "Change his face and all?"
"You mean a Time Lord? No. Hoid is . . . one of a kind. Though he has traveled rather extensively."
"And you've been to Earth." Sherlock stated.
"As have you." Hoid replied sarcastically.
"Alright boys, play nice." The Doctor said, cutting in before things escalated. "Hoid, you said you needed my help, and I presume these sick individuals have something to do with it?"
"Brilliant deduction, Doctor." Sherlock murmured. John shushed him.
"Yes." Hoid said with a last glance at Sherlock. "There has been a small outbreak in the last several days of a rather unusual disease. Those affected first became feverish and nauseous, nothing outside of an ordinary flu. However, after a few days they become mentally disoriented, and they get a skin discoloration like nothing I've ever seen. Here," He led them to the last bed, the one he had been examining when they first came in. A man about John's age lay on the mattress, face flushed and streaked with sweat. His eyes were shut and his lips twitched as if he were about to speak. Creeping up the sides of his neck and face, following the path of the most prominent veins, was a dark reddish brown color, highlighted with bits of green and white. It appeared to be flaking off in places.
"Hm." The Doctor bent over and touched one of the worst places, over the man's jugular. The man flinched away from the contact. "It almost—"
Without warning, a series of bangs and a great CRASH echoed from the upstairs room, accompanied by what sounded vaguely like a human scream.
"What was that?" John asked, staring at the ceiling. Hoid ignored it, didn't even look up.
"But even with all that, I still thought it was just some weird disease, I could either cure it, or it would eventually blow over."
"But then?" Sherlock asked, still looking at the boards above him. As if on cue, another loud thump echoed through the building from the upstairs flat.
"Then that."
"But what is it?" John repeated, gripping his cane tightly.
"I'll show you. Come on."
Hoid walked across the room, leading them past the other two sick occupants, a teenage boy, and the woman Kelsier sat with.
The four men filed out onto the landing and up the stairs to the final floor. On the uppermost landing they found the door to the flat had been boarded shut, thick square nails driven through the wall from the outside. A small hinged window had been left cut through the top. Hoid stopped in front of the door and turned to face them.
"My first patient came to me about two weeks ago. It's through his case I've been able to find the others. So far they've all followed the exact same path of symptoms he did."
"Where is this patient now?" The Doctor asked, already knowing the answer.
"In here."
Hoid grabbed the handle of the small window and pulled it open.
A man's face was staring back at them.
He stood directly on the other side of the door, looking at them through the slot. His face was completely covered in the reddish discoloration, eyes were wider than should be possible. The veins in his eyes were silver, as were his pupils, which were dilated to the max.
The man raised his hands and slipped his fingers through the slot in the door. (John was reminded of Lord of the Rings, the first time Frodo sees Gollum in the caves, peeking through the metal bars, reflective eyes gleaming in that same unseeing way.)
"He always does this." Hoid said quietly. "We hear him breaking things and yelling, like he did when he turned yesterday. But whenever I come up he's just—standing there. Looking at me."
"Does he ever speak?" The Doctor asked, leaning closer to the little window than was probably safe.
"Never coherently." Hoid answered. "Usually just random words: crash, join, lightning . . . "
Slowly, the Doctor reached out a finger and touched one of the man's own. All of a sudden, the man thrust his whole hand through the window, trying to grab hold of the Doctor. When he did not succeed—the Time Lord leapt out of the way just in time—the man began clawing frantically at the wood of the door, trying to rip the obstruction away, yelling disjointedly.
Hoid jumped forward to wrestle the window closed. He leaned against the wall when he'd finished, breathing heavily. "He tried to rip my throat out yesterday." He panted.
"And if the others are following the same pattern . . . " The Doctor mused, thinking aloud.
"Exactly. That's when I decided to call for you. At the rate their progressing, if we don't fix this we'll have four of these maniacs on our hands by the end of the week."
"Is there any connection between the victims?" the Doctor asked.
"Nothing obvious. Three Tineyes, one Thug, one brother-sister pair . . . nothing that connects all of them."
"What's a Tineye?" John asked. Sherlock had been wondering the same thing.
"Someone who burns tin." The Doctor explained. "Heightens the senses. A Thug is pewter, which enhances physical strength. Nothing? Really? No overarching thread to all of them?"
"Not that I could see."
Sherlock was still looking at the window in the door. "Let me see him again." He said suddenly. "I need to check something."
"You sure, Sherlock?" John asked.
"Yes, John, I'm sure. Just open the door, I need to get a better look."
Hoid sighed and hesitantly opened the small window again.
It was exactly the same as before. The man's eyes gleaming out at them like a cat's in a mirror. After the same amount of time he slipped his fingers out over the door again.
"Excellent." Sherlock breathed and took a step closer.
"Sherlock—" John grabbed his arm, trying to keep him back. The detective easily shrugged him off and leaned even closer, eyes honing in on the man's twitching fingers. The discoloration apparently weakened the skin; it had already torn through and was bleeding in several places. The liquid appeared red, like normal human blood, except where it caught the light. The blood dripping from the man's fingers reflected silver, exactly the same as his eyes.
"Metal." Sherlock whispered.
"What?" Hoid asked.
"Get me a sample of this man's blood."
AN:
Oh gosh guys I'm so sorry this took forever to get posted. Finals. I blame finals.
If you haven't gathered, Scadriel is a world from a different book—Mistborn, by Brandon Sanderson. I'm trying really hard to make sure it still makes sense to anyone who hasn't read them though. You should read them, but that's beside the point.
Okay, so I got 0 messages about Sherlock's deduction. Conclusion, I'm not as smart as I thought. But here's the explanation: he knew that John had been ambushed in the graveyard by the man waiting behind the tree. He found Chloroform frozen on the grass—the man had spilled the bottle as he poured it out, leaving only enough to take John out for a short time. Therefore, he had to get John somewhere secure before he woke up—somewhere within 8-10 minutes, and where no one would hear him scream. Sherlock ran his mental map of the city and found an abandoned church that fit all the requirements. And that's where they went.
Anyway, things pick up a bit here, and even more so in the next chapter. Hope you are enjoying it!