"Forest Hill cult?" Chase was fairly certain he'd never heard that name before. Glancing at Thirteen and Masters, it was obvious they hadn't either.
Mycroft Holmes frowned, really just the slightest twinge of his lower lip. House thought the expression made him look severely constipated. He knew the frown equally grated on John's nerves by the pointed way the former soldier cleared his throat at his soon-to-be brother-in-law.
"Sherlock will be in touch with you soon, John." The eloquent voice said primly, giving a cursory glance at the younger doctors before his eyes rested back on House. The taciturn diagnostician lifted his chin, a challenging glower making him look downright feral.
Mycroft hummed rhetorically, "I'm sure with the assistance of the inimitable Doctor Gregory House, this case is as good as solved?"
The flatscreen defaulted back to John's desktop background. Just as soon as the call ended, John was pacing the length of the glass table with a sobering efficiency.
"And who the hell was that?" Thirteen asked, unnerved by the sheer absurdity of this situation. She'd known that working with House would be crazy at the best of times and utterly terrifying at the worst, but this was an altogether different breed of insanity.
"He sounded really ominous." Masters added nervously.
John's words were muffled by his fist covering his mouth, he was clearly miles away, "It's quite a long story."
House's expression could almost be mistaken for empathy, "What are you gonna do?"
John met House's eyes and paused his pacing, "I don't know. I need some air- I should try to call Sherlock." He jerked his chin in the direction of the fellows. "You wanna tell them about Forest Hill?"
"If I must," House attempted a frankly insulting British accent, trying to get a chuckle out of his friend. "Though I shan't enjoy it."
John nodded with a humorless smile before exiting the office. He didn't glance back, his cell phone was already clutched tightly in his hand and against his ear.
"So… Who was that guy, then?" Chase repeated Thirteen's question.
"Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's elder brother." House muttered, chewing on his thumb as he stared at the flatscreen for a long moment.
"And the cult?" Masters squeaky voice was noticeably apprehensive.
House propped the cane on the arm of his chair, dropped his hands to his knees and glared towards his ducklings. He was feeling slightly defeated. House wasn't sure how much personal information he would be required to reveal from the telling of this story. He parsed his words with extreme care.
"While I was," He wrinkled his nose in disgust. "Couch surfing at Sherlock and John's pad in London, there was this. . . case. It started off as something pretty fraud, embezzlement, bribery, that kind of thing."
"But," His voice dipped an octave lower. "It got pretty bad."
House gnawed on his chapped lip, spinning from side to side in his chair.
"So this group called Forest Hill cult was eventually found to be responsible for the fraud and embezzlement. The top leaders were taken into custody. From what I remember, a few of the main dudes involved managed to have their sentences reduced to barely a slap on the wrist. That was way back before forensic science really took off, it was in the early 90s… Or was it in the late 80's?" House frowned.
"I'm telling this wrong. I'll start from the beginning."
The room was silent as the eldest doctor paused, gathering up his thoughts.
"So, once upon a time, there was a group of religious fanatics in a place called Forest Hill. The premise of the cult was basically contrived by a crazy French women during a drug-induced binge in the 70's. It's central tenants had to do with combining all religions to find the older source of god."
House smirked, effortlessly getting on a tangent. "Sherlock used to always call the group a cult, but the media always called it a 'new-age religion.' Irked the hell out of John with that one, lemme tell you. Sherlock loved to point out that the only reason people believe through blind faith in the Judeo-Christian monotheistic religions" his voice lilted to a British pout, "is because evidently its followers are desensitized to how insanely reprehensible and illogical their own special brand of wishful thinking is. Morals, indeed!"
The three fellows stared at their boss, not sure what to say. They'd never heard House talk like, but it was the almost affectionate way his countenance shifted that caught them each off guard. Dr. House really did seem to admire and respect Sherlock Holmes.
House eventually chortled, "So, back to this cult. A bunch of bullshit, really, but unsurprising that it gained followers. The rest, ladies and gents, is Scientology and Cargo Cult history."
"Okay. So. This cult." Thirteen hedged. "It's probably behind the murders?"
"If that's what Mycroft suspects, then it's true." House confirmed.
"What does, um," Masters hesitated. "the elder Holmes, do exactly? Is he with the police?"
"He didn't look like a cop," Thirteen objected.
House snorted caustically. "That man is practically the British government."
"That doesn't even make sense," Chase was not in the mood for jokes. "Back on topic. What does this cult's involvement tell us? Get to the damn point."
"The religion of the victims needs to be carefully parsed over." House reasoned, leaning forward to snag John's laptop.
"But first, some more riveting backstory,"
He quickly accessed Scotland Yard's database, entering Greg Lestrade's information and hoping the detective inspector hadn't changed his password. House smirked when he was allowed access. How useful the negligence of the Yard's finest could be. House was certain Sherlock longed to taunt Lestrade with numerous scathing remarks about the kind of man working for the police force who never changed his username and password on a regular basis. It was such an amateur move.
House typed in the name of the leader, the spelling long-since memorized. The fellows watched wordlessly as police records popped up, one by one. Clicking to the most recent file, a mug shot and some general information are quickly scanned by the group of doctors.
"Okay, so here is the main guy that got away. Alec Pellisier," House said the name with obvious distaste.
"Criminal record a mile long, everything from auto theft to petty drinking charges to beating up ex-girlfriends. Really cool guy. He was the son of crazy French lady, took up her mantle after she did a cool-aid binge with cleaning solutions. She dies in…" House pulls of a certificate of death with a color photo. "1987."
The French lady looks perfectly respectable. Masters tries not to stare into the black-and-white grin watching her from the flatscreen.
"The cult, which was around twelve thousand strong back then, goes quiet. Fast forward to 1991. An agent for the Yard discovers a paper trail of forged currency spanning nine countries and the tell-tale signs of bribery to three bank reps. Not enough evidence though, so the case is reluctantly closed. Then in 1996, suddenly you have a dozen bank accounts completely sucked dry."
Bank record flashed on the screen, showing hundreds of the thousands of misplaced pounds.
Thirteen frowns, trying to forge a link between embezzlement and murder/lobotomy.
House brings up another account, this one baring the name Amery Kellen. "So, 1996 is when Pellisier is arrested and convicted alongside a bunch of his mates. He serves five years in prison. Out on good behavior sponsored by, surprise surprise, a religious program. But, he's meticulously monitored and on strict probation. So he doesn't make a peep."
House opens a couple newspaper clippings on the screen.
"June, 2001. Bank statements surface to the public that show the accounts from '96 were all owned by former members of the Forest Hill cult. The British paparazzi had a field day with this, but international news didn't cover the story much.
"And then at the end of 2002, seven of the nine top leaders of the cult, two of which were in maximum security detainment facilities, disappear. Poof! Nada, nothing. No body, no trace. That guy, Kellen, was one of felon fugitives along with this lady," a photo of a middle-aged women with graying hair appears on the screen. She has the hardened unforgiving traits of a longtime inmate. "Margery Elliott."
Several other missing persons reports show up on the screen. "So, seven people disappear in 2002. Pellisier is still where they left him. The remaining original leader died of cancer or something equally boring."
House brings Pellisier's photo along with Kellen and Elliott's up again, side by side, rugged mugshots glaring eerily at them. The other four are small thumbnails below.
"The bank, of course, freezes the assets. Combined it was worth a couple hundred million pounds. So, the bank accounts which were apparently empty anyway from the embezzlement, get frozen, wiped off the map from any investigation. All the leaders vanish into the ether. Sherlock became slightly involved in November of 2012, a decade later. But, he was mostly solving the cold-case disappearances because he was on a bored tangent, not because there were any new details. Then bam, January 2013."
Masters gasps audibly in the quiet of the room, Thirteens face wrinkled with disgust. Chase remains expressionless as he reads the chilling report stamped confidential. Next to the report a gruesome photo is almost too horrible to look at.
The photo on the screen shows a group of six people in an odd pentagram-slash-cross formation. They are absolutely gutted, their dried-out intestines marking a circle and tied off together with crude stakes in the ground.
House grunts, "Six victims turn up in Forest Hill, on the original estate of the Pellisier family."
"And I'm guessing a few of them were the missing people?" Thirteen whispers.
"All six." House nods grimly. "So from top-to-bottom we have victims of varying backgrounds. They all ended up in the clan somehow but they had no connecting social backgrounds etcetera."
Chase forces himself to squint at the faces. They are barely recognizable as human let alone people. The extensive mutilation obscures a lot of details.
"So, whose missing?"
"Elliott and Kellen." Masters breathes.
House is surprised she was the one to notice first. "Correct. Good 'ol Alec Pellisier is top and center."
His body is strewn in a different position than the others. His thin arms have slivers of bone visible, it's as if he's reaching for the sky. He's also the only victim missing the cap of his skull. Chase can't tell if his brain isn't showing because of the angle of the photo or if it's missing entirely.
House clicks through a slide-show of graphic photographs. Yep. Brain entirely missing. Chase pushes his lukewarm coffee mug away, his stomach lurching at the images.
"Not so pretty." House closes the folder, typing in another name.
This time he types in Holmes, Sherlock. The date on the folder reads January 6, 2013.
"Sherlock was pleased as punch this case came just in time for his birthday." House comments absently.
He knows what goes unspoken. That December prior was when his entire life went to hell in a hand basket. When he'd lost everything and forcibly got clean following his stint in rehab. Masters wasn't around, but Chase and Thirteen were. House was already residing in London during Christmas and New Years. It had been a cheerless holiday for all parties involved.
"So," House pushed on. "This case lasts almost until March of that year. Eventually Sherlock and John chase down Elliott and Kellen in Ireland. Both of them died during the confrontation."
Thirteen gasps, "Both? How did they die?"
"Bullet to the brain." House pauses, knowing this will be hard for his ducklings to believe. "And before you ask, John Hamish Watson on both counts."
Masters' delicate jaw drops, "Dr. Watson?"
"Veteran." Chase murmurs.
"John names the case the Devoutly Deranged on his blog. Thus closing the stain on history known as the Forest Hill cult."
"Until now." The Australian doctor looks a lot overwhelmed. It's a rare expression on him, House thinks.
So he echoes for a suitably dramatic affect, "Until now."
"Jeepers," Masters hands lace on her lap, she stares blankly at her reflection on the table.
"So, let's look into the religions of the most recent victims?" Thirteen eventually suggests.
Chase scoffs, "No, I'd leave that to them. We are here as doctors."
House smirks approvingly, "Exactly- we should get back to-"
His phone rings, cutting him off. House frowns at the ring-tone, glancing down at the screen before scoffing in irritation.
"You know John is freaking out-" House snapped.
A voice on the other end cuts him off. House listens for a long minute.
"Fine, yea- but still-" pause, "What, are you goddamn kidding me? NO!"
Another pause, House is scowling. "No, I won't. Grow some big boy panties and deal with your problems."
House's clench shut as he snarls, "No shit, Sherlock!"
The fellows awkwardly side-glance at each other in somewhat surprised amusement. That was a colloquialism they never thought they'd hear aimed at the person it was named after.
"John is gonna freak the-fuck-out no matter what- No… yes! He'll probably get on the next damn flight- You know what? You're the fuckin' wanker for calling me first!"
Wilson walks into House screaming at his phone, his fellows staring at him with a mixture of awe and consternation. The Oncologist peered at the screen of mug shots. What kind of case was House into, this time?
And what was with the British doctor he'd just seen doing looming in the front entry? The poor guy had been glaring at the sunset with his phone clutched tightly against his ear, looking about to cry from frustration.
"Sherlock, this is your shit to deal with. Talk to John. Not me." House accentuated each pause "I won't cover for you, no way. Learned my lesson over a year ago, you got it?"
House swiped at his phone with his thumb, chucking the device back on the table. He leaned his head back, exhaling with an aura of exasperation.
"I am surrounded by morons."
"Hey, I resent that," Wilson demurred as he proper the door with his elbow, cocking his head to the side as he stared quizzically at his friend.
"Oh, hey Wilson," House says absently until he spots what his friend is holding.
"Is that Asian Fuji Kitchen?" House yelps, getting to his feet with a belated grimace when his leg twinges.
Wilson grins, his easy and friendly expression well received by the younger doctors.
"Figured this would be a late night. I'm heading home, but I know you four will forget about eating, so…"
Chase jumps to his feet, eagerly relieving Wilson of his greasy Chinese burden. He'd dives into the crumpled paper bag. Chase had been the exact opposite of hungry not even five minutes before, but the delightful aroma made his stomach grumble audibly.
"I saw your British friend in the lobby when I went to pay the delivery guy," Wilson said, crossing his arms while the doctors tore head-long into the cartons of takeout with cheap wooden chopsticks.
"Yeah?" House grunted, gnawing at an egg roll like he'd not eaten in a year.
Wilson snorted, knowing that House wasn't listening to a word he said. The food stole his attention, and Wilson could live with that. As long as House was eating something besides aspirin and coffee, he was happy.
"Okay, well, I'll see you later?"
House smiled gratefully up at him. Wilson's feet glued to the floor despite himself.
It was a barely unreadable expression, if you weren't looking for it. But this was House's tentative affectionate smile.
The exact one Wilson prized so highly. It made his head go a little fuzzy.
"Thanks for the food, Wilson." House snarked. "Go home and rest up, pretty princess. Bald kids to save and all that, you know?"
Wilson heard the unspoken thank you.
"When I get in tomorrow you have to fill me in on this new case of yours, okay?"
"Deal," House mumbled through a mouthful of food.
Just as Wilson turned to leave, a frazzled John Watson strode back in. Wilson gave Dr. Watson a supportive smile.
"Ordered Chinese, hope your not vegetarian."
"Hell no! Ta," John groaned in clear appreciation. "I could eat week-old leftovers that might've been contaminated by questionable goo, at this point!"
Wilson frowned, "Um,"
"Oh," John was already diving for a set of chopsticks. "Ignore me. Thanks very much for the meal, yeah?"
Wilson mulled over the strange statement during most of his drive home. What sort of man had to deal with questionable goo in their fridge, really?
TBC.