I'm back! Finally! With two chapters of Childish and a few more of Jim's on the way! :) Sorry about the break!
Sherlock descended the stairs slowly. At any moment Jim could emerge from the flat, and he wanted to be prepared. His apprehension had nothing at all to do with the fact that his flat mate might be a toddler, and that recognizing him as such would make an impossible situation real. At least, so he thought.
Each plodding footstep sounded like the drumming of a dirge. It was extremely off-putting and set Sherlock's steady nerves on edge. He stepped lighter.
Peering down the last flight of steps he saw the top of someone's strawberry blond head, and it took him all of a millisecond to deduce that before John's hair went prematurely silver, it must have been as light and colorful as any of the other toddlers he'd seen.
The little boy had his arms wrapped around the rung of the stairs and appeared to be clinging to the wood for dear salvation. Sherlock stepped quickly.
John gave a small cry of discomfort, and as Sherlock got closer he noticed the strong black hands wrapped around the small child's waist, pulling him forcibly from the rung he held onto so dearly. With a swift wrenching motion the little boy's fingers were ripped from the wooden rod and a shriek was torn from his lips.
Sherlock's pace became a drumroll downstairs, and he shouted "Hey!" by way of introduction.
Before he had reached the bottom, he knew what he would find; but knowing didn't make the scene any easier, or less frightening.
Dr. Genil had the appearance of an extremely tall man, though he was shorter than Sherlock; especially so since Sherlock stood a half dozen steps above him. He appeared to be very thin and almost frail although Sherlock could see bulges of rippling muscles pushing through his thin blue shirt. Overall he gave off a healthy light, like someone who eats well and exercises regularly, but his face was pale and shallow, pulled tight over his bones like the skin over a drum. He seemed to have a perpetual glitter in his cold black eyes, but if one went looking for it, it would not be there.
He looked like someone who would love nothing better than to talk out issues, with the mien of a politician, but the gun-shaped bulge in his pocket spoke differently.
In short, the real Dr. Genil was a very different sight from the person who had visited Baker Street the first time.
"Sherlock Holmes." The Doctor said with a voice which faintly resembled moths beating their dry wings. "We meet at last. I've missed you these past two times."
Sherlock glanced from Genil's face, to that of John; eating up the image of his flat mate as best he could manage. The shape of his skull, the color of his eyes; It was all John. For real, for true, for certain his friend had been turned into a toddler. More thought would be applied to that later.
"Yes." Sherlock droned. "Very clever of you to send your friend in your place."
"It was wasn't it?" Genil said musingly, adjusting John on his hip. John seemed to be in a trance, and rested his exhausted head on Genil's shoulder, fist in his mouth. "I was worried you'd see through the decoy."
"I did." Sherlock said stepping forward off the stairs. Dr. Genil stroked John's hair lovingly with his black gloved hand. Black gloves which are only ever used to conceal fingerprints.
"But I was still curious. Why would you hire a detective to look into a murder that you yourself committed? Pure swank? Pride? No. It had to be more than that… What then?"
Sherlock took another experimental step. Genil's free hand dropped until it was level with his pocket. Sherlock stopped.
"I'm afraid I have no answer to give you Mr. Holmes." Genil said. John blinked back tears, curling and uncurling the fist he was sucking on. He wanted down, but was too afraid to fight the man that held him.
"Then put the boy down." Sherlock tried, raising his arms cautiously, as one might try to calm a raging animal. "He has nothing to do with this, put him down."
Genil bounced John slightly on his hip and John made a forced coughing noise of discomfort. Genil renewed his grip around John's bare legs with his frightening black gloves grinning softly. His cold disregard of Sherlock's pleas chilled the wizened detective more than an open admonition would've.
"Just so that we're clear, are you sure it's murder?" Dr. Genil said levelly, eyes sparkling inexplicably. "I could just be a victim of circumstance?"
Sherlock was taken aback by this, until he saw the laughter just beneath the surface of the cold placid face. He was taunting his deductive skills, teasing his reputation, pretending he was like a Detective Inspector who was uncertain how to interpret the evidence.
Sherlock stepped forward; Genil stepped back.
"Yes I'm sure." He snipped unkindly.
"But you don't know who I've killed, Hm?" Genil said, still grinning.
To Sherlock, his open flaunting of the evidence that had yet to be collected was akin to flourishing a red flag in the presence of a bull, an expression of the barest pride and the most foolish folly.
"Willa Erdrich." He said stepping forward. Genil's hand snaked into his pocket, but he stepped away from the slowly advancing detective.
"My lovely assistant? Why would I do that?" he said. His constant smile, even when he was talking made it seem as though he were gnashing his teeth wolfishly and words happened to seep out.
"Perhaps because she was leaving you. Perhaps because she rejected your advances." Sherlock started to rattle off reasons, making a small advance of his own. Slowly, Genil was edging his way towards the door. He needed to drop John before he got there.
"More likely because she refused to back your research, or she refused to be a test subject."
Something small and almost noiseless clicked in Genil's pocket.
"Willie's on vacation." He said, the joy gone from his frozen smile. "She applied for it herself."
"Coincidentally, so have a lot of your former partners, Doctor." Sherlock took another bold step, eyes blazing with a frigid flame. "Very few, if any seem to return to work. That seems to be uncanny, doesn't it doctor?"
John kicked Genil's side with his bare feet, his distress evident, but the doctor squeezed his little body with furious force against his side until he was still. John gasped, terror in every tiny thought.
"Let the boy go." Sherlock said. It was not a plea, or a request, but a cold command: ignore at your own risk.
"Hah hah…so, just who've you told this little theory to?"
"Trying to diminish my deductions by subjugating them will not take away the truth in them." Sherlock said icily, stepping closer to Genil. This time he did not move. "Put the boy down."
John mumbled "Sharock" and stretched his arm out pleadingly. Genil took one semi step closer towards the door. He was close enough to grab the handle and fling the door open, but Sherlock was close enough to grab him and fling him.
Besides, he hadn't paid a visit to Baker Street to chat and abduct John Watson.
For a split second, his smile dropped into a scowl, but just as quickly as it had vanished it reemerged, leaving Sherlock half-wondering if he had imagined the scowl at all.
"…you are sharp Mr. Holmes, aren't you?" Genil said mock-casually. The gravity in his voice offset the conversational tone noticeably. John murmured "Sharock" again, quietly sobbing against Genil's shoulder.
"I'll tell you what; I have been short on test subjects." He corrected himself with a nod. "Short on volunteers."
Sherlock saw the gun trembling, the hand sliding into place in his pocket; saw the tightening of the grip around John's dangling legs. He knew what he would do.
"I could use someone to test the long-term effects of the drug."
John sobbed louder, as though he knew when he was being referred to..
"But I'll have you know I have nothing but kindness for my subjects. That and you'll never find Willie's body!"
The gun finally emerged into the light as Genil whipped it out of his pocket, but Sherlock had already bound across the gap between him and Genil and had wrapped one wiry hand around Genil's wrist.
With a mad roar Sherlock twisted Genil's wrist until it was leveled at the ceiling. The doctor fought with a surprising strength to return the aim of the gun to its initial course of Sherlock's head, but the detective pressed down hard on the doctor's wrist, hoping to squeeze just the right spot and loosen Genil's grip.
John screamed as the two man grappled on top of him, Sherlock's thin arm snaked around his body and seemed to be trying to either pull him free or tug Genil's arm loose, but all the little creature was aware of was the giant forms crushing the air out of him, the groaning, growling noise of a fight, and the impression of something trying to kill him.
Genil surprised Sherlock by dropping John, who fell screaming, sliding down the doctor's leg and smashing his head against the wall with a hallow thud. Sherlock flinched in horror watching the disaster unfold, hypnotized, giving Genil's free hand time to seize the detective's throat in a crushing grip, pushing Sherlock backwards and accidentally kicking John hard in the ribs with his pointed black shoe.
Sherlock broke the doctor's grip, smashing his arm with his open palm causing Genil to fire the gun into the sky, creating clouds of dust and a rain of plaster and that sent a shower of white powder into their hair. John covered his face with his hands, wrapping his arms around his ears and curling into a protective ball screaming with all of the breath he could muster in that small, small body. That small, battered body.
Genil took a few furious swipes at Sherlock's face with a tight fist while the detective blinked powder out of his eyes. His arm slipped and Genil, in a moment of pristine insight and animal aggression brought the butt of the gun crashing down into the detective's skull with a savage roar.
Genil had the briefest image of an asteroid colliding with the earth flash through his mind when his bludgeon made a cracking noise and the detective collapsed backward lifelessly, like a puppet whose strings had been cut.
Sherlock gazed upwards, his eyes absent and empty, mouth gaping in surprise; looking, even a little bit rueful at being stunned. Then his head lolled back and his eyes rolled into his head, eyelids hurriedly shutting on the bleak scene and taut facial muscles easing into the stupor of sleep. A trickle of blood just above his eye from where the gun had made impact made a craggily route into the detective's sugar frosted black hair.
John grabbed the sides of his face, as though fearful his hear would rip in two, and screamed. As a dam breaks, the flood of tears broke loose and John screamed while sobbing, sobbed while screaming, rocking back and forth; consumed with horror and fear.
Genil glanced over John blankly. He would have plenty of time to deal with the emotionally scarred child later, perhaps back at his lab where he could council the child over blood tests and urine samples. Right now, he had a job to do.
With calculated ease he raised the gun to where the fallen detective's heart still beat weakly. He shut one eye and aimed. A roll of footsteps upstairs suddenly brought the gun back to his pocket.
Someone was coming downstairs.
He swore quickly and loudly, groping for the door handle and without turning back he flung himself into the night.
Woo hoo! We finally meet the antagonist! This is such a big day for any story QvQ!