Three Days Earlier - Avalon Enterprises
Avalon Enterprises turned out to be a dingy-looking grey warehouse in Battersea – at least on the outside. Lestrade explained to me that the company fabricated materials for surgical implants, with specialty in plastics.
Plastic breast implants, specifically.
Where there's a market, there must be manufacturers, I guess.
Lestrade and Sherlock seemed convinced that the warehouse was a front for the hybrid experiments – and seeing as it had taken a full day for the Yard to get clearance to view even the outside of the building, I was beginning to believe them. I mean – what's so secretive about breasts, really?
The three of us sat shivering in Lestrade's squad car, waiting for the heater to kick in. The warehouse seemed quiet on the outside, but it was still very early. The sun wasn't out yet.
I glanced over at Sherlock. His leg bounced impatiently. I knew he wasn't happy with the situation.
Since yesterday, Lestrade had downright forbidden any of his team, including Sherlock and me, to go anywhere near the warehouse on our own. A DNA scan had been run on the corpse in the barrel, and it was determined sometime in the afternoon that the body belonged to a man who had disappeared from Battersea not a week ago. There had, in fact, been four disappearances in the past week.
Lestrade was just trying to be careful.
The heater finally kicked in, and after a few minutes, Sherlock stopped bouncing his leg.
"This would go about a thousand times faster if you would let me out of the car," he muttered, glowering.
"Sherlock Holmes, if you take one step out of this vehicle, I will arrest you myself," Lestrade replied, not lowering his binoculars. "I won't say that all the disappearances this week are related to Avalon. But look at the victims. Compare them for me, would you?"
Sherlock glared at the window. "All adult, all male, all Caucasian, all between thirty-five and forty-five years of age. All within a height of 1.8 to 1.9 meters. All between 75 and 80 kilograms. Happy?"
Lestrade smirked, eyes still never leaving the binoculars. "They all look like you, you idiot," he said. "It might not even be related at all. But I'm taking no chances. No such thing as a coincidence, in my world."
Jesus. I sank back against the seat. Greg was right. The corpse yesterday, he had been submerged in water. His skin wasn't right. But the others, in their photographs – I hadn't realized it until now, but Lestrade was completely right. They all looked, at least on the surface, a bit like Sherlock.
I wondered what it meant.
I snuck another look at my flatmate. He looked a bit like a caged animal himself, trapped in the back of the car.
"Why don't you just have John and I stay at home, then? If we're such a hindrance to your investigation," Sherlock bit back, his tone characteristically acidic.
"Because this will go much more quickly if I have your help. If I put you at Baker Street, you'll just be back here in half an hour anyway."
"Hm," Sherlock responded noncommittally.
I crossed my arms over my chest, preparing for a long morning. I was a bit relieved when, not five minutes later, a covered supply truck pulled up to the warehouse. The headlights shone like two small suns as the vehicle idled by the building.
"Here we are," Lestrade said. Sherlock sat up to get a better look.
The truck was grey, with no markings. It pulled up to a dock on the side of the warehouse. From our vantage point across the street, we could see two men climb out from either side. They walked into the warehouse, and a minute later, came out carrying a barrel between them. It looked just like the barrel we had seen in the Thames yesterday – dark grey, and with something white stamped on the side of it. From the way they were carrying it, it must have been fairly heavy.
They loaded it into the back of the truck, got back in, and backed the vehicle away from the warehouse. They drove off.
"Aren't you going to follow them?" Sherlock asked, sounding impatient.
"Yeah, give me a minute," Lestrade responded. He waited until the truck had turned the corner. Then he turned the key in the ignition and began to drive after them.
He kept about a block's worth of distance between us, and kept the headlights off. It was about four in the morning, and there weren't many people on the road.
"Are you sure this isn't just a supply run, or something like that?" I asked curiously.
Sherlock gave me his patented withering look. "It's four in the morning, John. Do you really expect somebody to be transporting fake plastic breasts at four in the morning?"
"Right," I said.
"They ship two barrels of plastics each day – one to Landauer, and one to Sorensen," Lestrade said, keeping his eyes on the truck ahead of us. "The first scheduled shipment isn't until noon. What do you think?"
I nodded. "Just wondering."
We followed the truck carefully around Battersea Park before coming to an abrupt stop. The truck had pulled in front of an apartment complex on the river, and the men were getting out once more.
Lestrade parked our vehicle, and Sherlock quickly opened his door to follow the men.
"Sherlock!" Lestrade hissed, but my friend was gone.
"Here we go," I said, and pulled myself out of the car to follow him.
He crouched behind a rubbish bin, and I got as near as I could, hiding behind a bench. I couldn't quite see the men from here, but I was close enough to hear them say something.
There was a chunk. There was a creak and a splash.
The men said a few more words. There was a pause, then the truck engine started. I waited until the truck was gone, then leapt up.
Sherlock was already at the spot the men were standing, prodding the ground with his foot.
"Did you see?" he asked me.
I shook my head. "No, but I heard. What was that splash?"
The squad car's lock chirped. Lestrade came running to meet us. "What did you see, Sherlock?" he asked.
"Morons," Sherlock muttered under his breath. He looked for all the world like a surly child.
"Hey, no call for that," I chided. "What was the splashing sound?" I asked again.
Sherlock sighed. He moved about a meter to the left, and tapped at the edge of the sidewalk with his foot. A decorative plant covered the brick just next to his shoe.
"It's a trap door," he explained, as if we were the children. He leaned down and moved the plant's leaves away from the brick. A grey padlock, the same color as the cement, lay on the walkway. "The splash you heard was an underground waterway – a small tributary into the river. Mostly rainwater and sewage from aboveground. Perfect for sweeping dead bodies out to sea."
He pointed left, at the river. "See there? That's where the tributary meets the water."
"My god," Lestrade said, looking more closely. "You're right."
"Of course I am. Now come on. I need to pick this lock so we can-"
"No! Nope," Lestrade cut in, straightening up to confront my friend. "We are calling this in like professionals. Understand?"
Sherlock stood. "Oh, come on," he whined. "The police are slow! It'll be half an hour at least before we can do anything about this with them. And by that time, who knows how far downstream the body will be!"
I cleared my throat. "How, um, how can we be sure that it was a body they were dumping? And not just garbage or something?"
Sherlock gave me a look.
"Who dumps garbage at four in the morning into a secret trapdoor that leads to the Thames?"
I raised my hands a little. "Okay. Fair point."
"So Avalon grafts the victims, stuffs them into barrels when they die, brings them here, and dumps the bodies," Lestrade said. "Christ."
"Yes, thank you for summarizing everything I've just said," Sherlock muttered drily. He straightened his shoulders and looked over the river. "It's too late to open the trap door; the barrel is probably in the main waterway by now," he said. "We need to hire a boat."
I scratched the back of my neck. "We could ask a fisherman? They might be out this early," I suggested.
"That's the spirit! Good thinking, John," Sherlock said. He bounded back in the direction of the squad car. "What are you two waiting for? Let's move!"
Lestrade and I shared a look. Then without another word, we followed Sherlock back to the vehicle.
It seemed we had some fishing to do.
Present
My eyes open slowly. There's a rustle of movement around me, and I sit up stiffly, disoriented. I'm on some sort of flat, cold surface. Sterile hallway. Nurses, rushing back and forth.
Hospital? I rub my eyes blearily.
And suddenly, in a rush, the events of last night flow back into my brain.
"Christ, Sherlock," I moan. I straighten up, my joints creaking. I must have dozed off on the hallway bench.
There's quite a commotion, I realize. The nurses, of course, are running in and out of Sherlock's room. Because it would be asking too much of the universe for them to be rushing into a different room, I suppose.
I stand, and grab the sleeve of one of the nurses. It's the same nurse from last night.
"Excuse me," I say, clearing my throat. "Could you tell me what's going on? Is he all right?"
The nurse – Malone, I remember – gives me a small smile. "He's fine, sir. He's just woken up. We're making sure he stays conscious. His scans, as far as we can tell, have all come up good. The blood is still flowing, somehow. Bit of a miracle, really." He flashes me a smile. "We think he'll be just fine."
He's awake. Oh, that's good news. That's the best news I've had all week.
"Can I- can I see him, do you think?"
"Oh, sure," Malone says. "In fact, I think he was asking for you. But… just remember, the legs… well." He shuffles on his feet for a moment. "It can just be a bit of a shock, is all."
"Yes, thanks," I say distractedly. Malone must not realize I was the one who found him in the first place. I've already seen the legs.
I take a few quick, shaky steps, and pass through the doorway into my friend's room.
Sherlock is laying propped up on a number of pillows. A crowd of doctors and nurses surround his lower half, shielding his new legs from view. His heart monitor is a bit quick, but the pulse is steady. I check the other screen, and his numbers all look good. I breathe out a sigh of relief.
Then I look at my friend's face.
"Oh, Sherlock," I say, moving over to the side of his bed. "Sherlock, Sherlock…"
His eyes fix on my face, and he looks at me a bit desperately. "John," he says softly.
I don't realize how tense my body has been until the moment I touch his cheek. I let out a sigh so deep I'm actually worried my legs will give out. I kneel beside Sherlock's bed and brush his hair off his forehead.
He looks… normal. You'd expect him to be totally changed, but no. The events of the past couple of days have just made him look a bit tired, is all. Same ivory skin, same unruly hair. Same mercury eyes. I drink in his face, not allowing my gaze to stray downward.
The nurses cluck and shuffle around me. I don't pay them any mind.
"Look at you," I say. "You're going to be just fine. You're going to be fine." I repeat it like a mantra, as if to reassure myself as well as him. I laugh, maybe just a tad hysterically. "You're fine, Sherlock."
He bats away my hand after a moment and gives me a withering look.
"What exactly, John Watson," he says, slowly and deliberately, "constitutes your definition of the word 'fine?'"
I smile. Back to his old self, just like that.
Still, a moment later, he finds my fingers once more, and gently twines our hands together. I don't say a word about it. I give his hand a light squeeze.
"It seems to me, doctor, that 'fine' is rather a perfect antonym for my current predicament," he says. I look up into his eyes. He's a shade pale.
I haven't even looked at his… at the legs yet. The nurses still surround his lower body like flies, providing an adequate screen – at least for now. I keep my eyes fixed on my friend's face. This way, it's almost easy to pretend like nothing has happened. Like any moment, he'll jump out of this bed and whisk us away to finish the case.
"How are you feeling?" I ask. "Any pain?"
He jiggles his free arm a little, showing me the intravenous tube. "They've got me on a half dose. Don't want to upset my new half, I understand."
So that explains why he's so coherent. He's speaking a bit slowly, but he's still obviously very aware of the situation.
"God, only a half dose? Really?" My forehead creases in frustration. "Sherlock, you must be in agony!"
He smirks, but the expression lacks its usual spark. His fingers tighten almost imperceptibly around mine. I get the feeling that's as close to a yes as I'm going to get.
"Oh, Sherlock," I breathe, saying his name again. Poor thing.
He shakes his head slowly. "Did Mycroft see me?" he asks, distracting both of us.
I hesitate for just a second. "Yeah, he – he did, Sherlock."
I catch myself continuing to say his name, over and over. Is that something I do now? Or did I always say his name so often? I frown. Is that important?
I blink once or twice. Mycroft. Right. "You know, he vomited when he saw," I said, the corner of my mouth pulling up into a small, tight grin. "Never thought I'd see the day your brother couldn't keep his composure."
Sherlock gives a satisfied nod, as if he's glad he's now got a leg up on his older brother. I chuckle softly.
"Don't worry, though," I say, giving his hand another squeeze. "The only people that know are me, Mycroft and Lestrade."
"Lestrade?" he asks, brow furrowing.
"Erm, yeah," I say, shifting slightly. "He saw, at the warehouse. You, er, passed out."
"Hm. Damn," he says, a bit casually, sinking a bit further back into the pillows.
His eyelids droop for a fraction of a second, and his fingers curl around mine. I return the gesture. I know he needs to rest, but for some reason, the thought of losing sight of his eyes frightens me.
"You all right?" I ask. The words are out of my mouth before I realize how stupid they sound.
He exhales. "Would you like me to say yes?"
I smile, a bit sad. "Fair point." I rub my thumb along his knuckles. I wonder if he needs the touch as much as I do.
We sit in silence for a few more minutes, him fighting to stay awake and me worrying he'll fall asleep. He blinks slowly.
"You need to rest," I say after a while. I try to bite back the grudging tone that accompanies the words. It isn't his fault he's exhausted, after all.
He glances at me for a moment, then nods with a yawn. "Sorry," he says, infinitely softly.
I raise my eyebrows, a tad surprised. "You're apologising?" I ask. "Don't be sorry. You're bushed."
He shakes his head, like I haven't quite understood his meaning. "Sorry for pulling you into all this," he clarifies.
I place my free hand on his shoulder. "Not your fault, Sherlock."
And it isn't. Not really. If it had to happen all over, I still would have gone with him. I realise with a start that I really do love this life we've created - the mad genius and the blogger.
"Go to sleep," I say gently, brushing my fingers over the soft skin of his collarbone. "I'll be here when you wake up. Just-" I stop for a moment, closing my eyes. I open them again, and look up at him beseechingly. "Just promise you will wake up, yeah?"
He watches me carefully, then nods, bringing our joined hands up to his face. Softly, like moths' wings, he brushes his lips against my knuckles.
"I promise," he whispers against my skin.
I shiver. "Good," I whisper back, as he releases my hand. "Good." His eyes drift shut.
I stand, knees popping, as the myriad hospital sounds wash over me once more. I turn toward the foot of the bed, meaning to find a blanket to cover my friend with.
My gaze settles on Sherlock's new legs instead.
Bile rises in my throat.
"Oh, god," I moan softly, and turn away.
It's a small victory, I think, that my stomach is made of sterner stuff than Mycroft's.