Captain of All These Men of Death

Chapter 3

2015

Phthiein

Sherlock tried to stifle another cough as he inspected the body of another suspected victim of the person that Scotland Yard had grimly nicknamed 'The Wandsworth Cannibal'. Failing, he turned his head away from the mess of human in front of him and coughed deeply into his hand. Lestrade walked over to him with a worried expression. "Sherlock, mate, that cough sounds nasty."

Sherlock simply chose to ignore him, and crouched down next to the victim. "Female, early twenties. Daughter of a Scottish loyalist. She earns a bit of money on the side as a private escort. She went clubbing last night" Sherlock lifted her wrist and turned it over, "but… didn't make it home. Travelled to London to study…" he leaned in closer to her face. "Radiography at St George's. She travelled on the tube after she came out from the club; I suspect the District and Circle Line based on the thickness of brake dust on her face and hands. Where is her bag and coat? She should have an Oyster card on her which you can trace."

Lestrade nodded, writing down the information. "We've got a bag. That's being looked into at the Yard." He waited for Sherlock to finish another long, deep bout of coughing, trying to hide his discomfort and worry. "There wasn't a coat, though."

"She was definitely wearing one," he said a little breathlessly, pointing out stray fibres of wool on the remnants of her clothes, "but she may have simply left it somewhere. People become forgetful under the influence of alcohol. The importance balances on whether she was wearing it on the Underground or not. I need you to check CCTV."

Lestrade nodded his assent. "Anything else?"

"Yes. She's a bulimia sufferer. Links in with the other victims."

"But they were both drug addicts."

"It's not the substance, it's the addict status that is significant. The others were addicted to putting things into their bodies; this one was addicted to preventing it. In other words, our killer uses these pressure points to influence their victims, which suggests either the victims all know our culprit, or they are smarter than we have so far given them credit for."

Sherlock pushed his mind away from flashbacks of Magnussen and stood. He looked to Lestrade before making to leave, retying his scarf. "I need the details I have asked for as soon as possible, please. If there's another victim, which I am in no doubt there will be, notify me immediately. I've got work to do in the meantime."

Lestrade placed a hand on his shoulder before he could go. "Sherlock, you look ill. Are you sure you're not coming down with something? I think it'd be a good idea to have a res-"

"I'm fine, Lestrade. I'm not unwell enough to have to pull from the case at hand."

"Sherlock, remember that incident a few years back in Greenwich when you almost fainted on top of the corpse?" The corner of Lestrade's mouth quirked when Sherlock resolutely looked away from the policeman, an indignant expression on his face. "Well, I do. Andersson had to run in and catch you. It turned out you'd caught the flu, yeah?"

"Why are you mentioning this?"

"Because I know you wouldn't pull from a case unless you physically couldn't move, and even then you'd somehow end up solving it."

Sherlock looked at Lestrade for a long moment. "I'm fine."

Lestrade let his hand fall from the sleuth's shoulder, and the detective walked away without a second glance. Lestrade tried to ignore the sounds of a deep, rattling cough echo through the building as the man left.

Sherlock hailed a cab and allowed himself to sink a little into the backrest as the taxi took him to the labs. If he was to be honest to himself, he wasn't feeling fantastic, and hadn't in a few days. He'd woken up suddenly, his body clammy with cold sweat, a dream clinging to the corners of his half awake state.

Slick, black oil drips from his veins; glutinous, sticky. He watches it as it runs down his white hands, his long, pianists fingers, his cleanly cut glassy fingernails. Viscose. It drips onto the floor, fleshy splatters on a high polished surface. His eyes follow the pitch, watch as it burns and corrodes deeper below him, bubbling, hissing, melting all it touches. He feels his body lurch; he knows what is to come. The acid bite thickness bears upon him until he can see little else but the thinning surface as it gives way, crumbles, bends, breaks, and he is plunged down down, blackness inside him. His lungs fill with writer's ink, his eyes weep tar as he falls, his breath is coal. His body hits water with a sharp slap, he is suspended for a moment, held on the plane between two deaths, and he sinks, cold eating away at him, the thick oil from his veins rising in perfect circles as he is drawn irrevocably into the ice filled maw of a man with a soul darker than all.

He hadn't had such a dream in a long time. Sherlock allowed himself a moment of analysis, his quick mind calculating possibilities as to why he had dreamt such. 'Perhaps… no. It's just a minor temperature and a cough.' He berated himself, then averted his mind back to more important things: tracing the identity of The Wandsworth Cannibal.

John's eyes wandered to the ceiling. He studied the large air vent above him, following the wide tube which snaked away from him to another end of the shop.

"What about this one?"

He turned towards his wife, who was standing next to a wooden cot, her hand on the banister.

"Um, yeah! Looks good."

Mary looked nonplussed. "You've said the same about the last three we looked at."

John shrugged. "I'm just not sure I see the point of us browsing so much. It's a small bed with four sides. As long as it does the job, why worry about what it looks like so much?"

"Because I want our daughter to grow up surrounded by beautiful things- oh, sod it. I don't really understand what all the fuss is about either. I'm only really doing it so I have something to talk about with the women at the ante-natal classes. I'd honestly get more intellectual stimulus talking to a sugar cube."

John couldn't help but smirk. "Well then, let's get this one," he gestured to the cot they were standing next to, "and then pretend we spent hours searching for the perfect one to match the curtains, while really going for some lunch."

"That," she said, walking over to him and taking his hand, "sounds like a plan."

The couple caught the eye of a sales assistant, bought a cot and arranged for it to be delivered. After John pocketed the receipt, the two walked arm in arm towards the escalator up to the top floor. They walked towards the food counter, joined the queue, and took a tray from the pile. A lady in a hair net smiled at them. "What can I get for you?"

Mary looked to John. "What would you like?" She asked.

"Um, I'll have the cottage pie, a cup of English Breakfast and a glass of tap water please." He said.

"And I'll have an egg and cress sandwich and a cup of the same." Mary added.

The woman nodded, handing the food across the counter, before filing the teapots and placing them on their trays when they reached the till. The couple found a table overlooking the interior of the department store, and sat down. As Mary stirred her tea, she looked across to her husband. He was gazing absently down at the other levels of the shop, watching people of various ages browsing everything from gloves to chandeliers. He jumped as she spoke. "You're worried."

"Worried?"

"About Sherlock." Mary could see she had hit the nail on the head when John's expression sagged. He dipped a fork into his pie, drawing the mashed potato back to release a puff of steam.

"I worry about him all the time."

"Yes, but now you have even more reason because he's ill."

"That cough sounded bad last time we saw him, and because he's Sherlock bloody Holmes he'll wait until its full blown pneumonia before even admitting he might be a little bit under the weather."

"Well," Mary said, lifting the sandwich to her mouth, "intervene. Go and see him. Take your bag and go. It's simple really."

John pondered for a moment, before smiling. "I suppose it is. Alright. I'll text him and arrange to meet him."

"Nah, just turn up. Then he won't have the chance to hide his symptoms." John didn't miss the evil gleam flashing through his wife's eyes. "I won't come," she said. "I don't want you nagging to me too."

John looked affronted. "I don't nag! I just… repeat myself a lot." Mary chuckled at him and John smirked. "Well, maybe I nag Sherlock. But he doesn't half deserve it. He went to a gang boss' party last month with the host's beloved daughter for a case, dumped her almost immediately, and then wondered why there were 3 members of the Yazuka waiting for him when he got home."

"Well we know who else he's done that with."

John looked up from his food. "Do you still speak to Janine?"

"Occasionally. Her cottage is lovely. She sent me some pictures."

There was a slight lull in the conversation as the two remembered the case which had revealed Mary's lie, and nearly driven them apart.

These are prepared words, Mary. Your past is your business, but your future is my privilege.

John broke the silence. "What are you up to tomorrow?"

"Nothing planned. You know, maternity leave is really boring."

John smiled. "Not long, now. Enjoy it while it lasts. I'll admit I'm not looking forward to looking after two babies at the same time - one newborn, and one severely overgrown." He smiled as Mary laughed. 'I'd rather be at home watching Jeremy Kyle and Flog It with you than telling patient after patient I can't give them anything for their colds."

"I should invite Sherlock over to watch with me sometimes when he's not on a case. I bet he'd be full of fun deductions."

John shook his head. "You don't even know the half of it. He practically shouts at the telly."

Mary's eyes lit up. "Brilliant! Why didn't I think of this sooner?"

John chuckled. "Because you've never been bored enough before. Have you finished?" He stood when she nodded. "Come on, let's go home. I want to visit Sherlock this evening. I think I'll take your advice and just turn up."

The early evening light cast a warm yellow glow across the streets of London, glancing off the tarmac and drawing heavy shadows from the trees and buildings. A wind had developed, and was pushing through streets, whipping clothes, hair, and stacks of the Evening Standard. Rush hour was in full swing. People filed into heaving tube stations, before joining the large crowds waiting at the top of temporarily closed escalators. Rustling newspapers and low chatter rippled through the tunnels, adding to the screeching crescendo of trains pulling into crammed platforms.

Sherlock paid the cabbie and stepped onto the pavement outside 221B Baker Street. His body ached from the day, and his diaphragm hurt from the deep coughs he had been unable to force down. Lestrade had informed him after he'd arrived at St Barts that the latest victim had indeed been wearing her coat when she'd travelled on the District and Circle, and was still wearing it at Wandsworth Station. The case had suddenly become boring - practically textbook, and Sherlock had lost interest. A text was all that was needed.

Interview her flatmate again. Mention the coat. SH.

He had abandoned the current case related experiment and continued with some of his own at St Barts - most notably, the one concerning the Wethers in his fridge. Though intriguing, the results had produced little more than what he had expected. 'God, I wish I could smoke,' he thought, ascending the steps to his flat and shedding his coat. He pulled open the fridge and eyed the animal, before turning towards the stairs. "Mrs Hudson!" he bellowed, waiting for the responding sounds of his Landlady.

Mrs Hudson stepped into the kitchen, spotting Sherlock standing at the fridge, idly holding the door open. He smiled briefly as she came closer. "Do you have any bin bags?" He said, gesturing towards the contents.

The long suffering Landlady peered into the fridge. "Oh my goodness!" Her hand flew to her mouth. "Sherlock! You've gone too far this time! What are you doing to my poor fridge?"

"Chilling a wethers, evidently. But I'm finished with it, so I need bin bags."

Mrs Hudson gawped between the ram and the detective for a moment, before sighing, defeated. "Yes, I'll bring up a roll. But just this once, mind. I'm not your housekeeper." She made for the stairs, but turned back at the sound of deep, chesty coughing. Sherlock was hunched over, one hand on his torso, another over his mouth as he coughed, his body jerking with the force. She took a step towards him. "Sher-"

Sherlock had lifted his hand from his chest. He waved her away, forcing out a strangled "bin bags," between coughs, before turning his back to her. She reluctantly descended the stairs, the echoes of Sherlock's deep coughs following after, and retrieved the roll from under the sink. By the time she had reached Sherlock again, his coughing had stopped, and he was sitting at the kitchen table.

She handed the bags to him, shutting the fridge door. "You look pale, and that cough is much worse. Are you sure you're alright?"

He sat up, defiantly. "I'm fine."

"Does John know?"

"Know what?"

Mrs Hudson sighed at him. "I'm not going to sit around listening to you coughing up your lungs much longer. If you don't call John soon, I will."

Sherlock sighed. He stood, strode into the living room, and dropped unceremoniously onto the sofa, gangly limbs askew.

"I'll make you a cup of tea, dear." The only reply the landlady received was a languid wave of his long hand. She put the kettle on.

The translation for this chapter is an archaic term used when someone is wasting away due to illness.

Has anyone guessed the illness yet? Shoot, and I'll reply with whether you got it correct :)
Sorry for the long delay. A holiday got in the way.

Thanks for reading!

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