A/N: So this last week, I had about half a page of what happened before they entered the building, and then about seven or eight pages after they got out of the building, but I had no idea what happened INSIDE the building. Zip. So it's not like I haven't been writing, nor wanting to update, but I just had this gaping hole I could not fill. I think it helped that today I finally had a day off and didn't have to run and do anything, and my brain finally decided to work :) So here this chapter is, and I've most of the next two done as well, so I ought to be able to update at least once before the weekend and likely again during.
My whole point being: thanks for hanging in there with me! I appreciate it! :)
Judging by the wind's direction and the smell, they were just west of Messrs. Potts' Vinegar Works, towards London Bridge, and the grounds of Barclay's Brewery began just north. They'd practically driven past Bow Street and had crossed the Thames at Blackfriar's. There was little traffic on this particular street in the midst of a workday, mostly wagons carting barrels and burly drivers one street over.
"Where are we?" John hissed as Sherlock balanced him as he stepped from the carriage.
"Bankside, Baskerville Road," Sherlock replied. "If all else fails, High Street is in that direction and will take you to London Bridge." He said this in a low voice, keeping his eyes on the driver descending from his perch. The man clambered deliberately, carefully, as if he wasn't quite sure of his step or grip, and wouldn't trust the strength of his limbs with a leap. Sherlock's keen eyes noted the black-stitched cut on the base of the neck, visible as the man wore neither scarf nor cravat and seemed to be depending on a worn hat pulled too far down and his upturned coat collar for protection from the chill. If he even felt it, of course. If a bullet to the chest had not bothered him, a brisk wind was unlikely to cause discomfort.
John had his gun out, but it was still half-cocked and pointed to the ground, tucked behind a fold of his greatcoat. He was watching their driver as well, ready at any moment to raise his gun in defense of Sherlock and himself. Sherlock was certain from the way John's eyes focused on the man's head that any close range shot he fired into the man would not be an inefficacious body shot. He was curious to know if a lead ball to the brain would work, actually, but this was hardly the time for that experiment.
Sherlock kept one tenth of his attention on the driver, but he seemed neither inclined to speak nor attack so Sherlock examined their whereabouts. The long, low building behind them was clearly in use (brass handle on the nearest door, unpolished in a mottled fashion, shiny where hands touched it regularly), though the several residential buildings across the narrow street were clearly unoccupied, (an utter lack of laundry on the lines strung haphazardly across the alley taking advantage of the clear, breezy day; also several of these lines had rotted through and fallen proved that the buildings had been unoccupied for some time).
"This building, then?" Sherlock gestured to it. Their driver, still silent, gestured towards the door with a twitch of his carriage whip. There was a very interesting humming noise emanating from within that drew Sherlock forward without prodding. "Come, John."
John didn't hesitate, but swung his cane along and kept a wary eye on the driver who followed them to the door. Several things assaulted the intrepid pair as the door opened: a smell both foetid and chemical, an utter miasma of stenches both human and manufactured; radiating heat as from a thousand bodies working in a confined space; and a thrilling buzz of static in the air that made their fine hairs stand up and crackle like miniscule lightning rods.
Despite this, there was no real sense of people within the building.
Sherlock took several curiosity-driven steps forward; John hovered near the door, using the minimal amount of light that penetrated the vast building to survey their surroundings. Sherlock darted to a nearby table and began to survey the equipment it held: blackened glassware, tongs, thick needles sharp enough to pierce leather, a cold, empty oil burner, long coils of copper tubing. Several flasks and vials contained liquids of various colors and viscosities; six jars contained powders. The floor gritted under their shoes from a thin layer of sand.
"Stay by the door for now, John."
John shifted as little as possible, mostly sidestepping out of the light from the doorway and up against the opened door. He turned slightly so he could watch Sherlock examining the marks on in the sand on the floor and, without turning his head completely, see the driver hovering a few feet away in the street.
Sherlock, satisfied with what he'd gleaned from the marks on the floor, started opening flasks and very delicately sniffing their contents. He did not touch the vial that clearly contained a chunk of white phosphorus and water, nor did he do more with the powders than examine the way they shifted within the glass. It wouldn't do to cause an unknown reaction in a foreign lab. Still, he slipped a stoppered vial with a thick red liquid into one of his pockets, and a few other unknown items became secreted about his person.
Minutes later, with the majority of the contents of the table stored away in his pockets or in his head, and Sherlock moved on to explore other things. He had yet to ascertain the source of the heat and the humming breeze of static. A light would have been useful here, but Sherlock considered what gasses an open flame might trigger; the smells inside were too strong to discern if anything in the air was particularly flammable. Hopefully John wouldn't have to fire his gun and prove or disprove the presence of something ignitable within the air.
Sherlock crept deeper into the warehouse, further from the light at the door. Any windows or openings the building had once had for light and ventilation had been closed up tightly. The hot air closed in on Sherlock as his surroundings darkened and the light that remained took on a faint blue tone. That blue light had an edge to it, as if its source was hidden behind a wall. Sherlock moved in that direction, hearing a distinct whir mottled with stops and jumps.
A sudden change to the quality of the light made Sherlock pause and look back. There didn't seem to be a rectangle of light behind him anymore. There were a few glowing specks here and there, possibly the phosphorus that had been on the table and perhaps a few cracks in the brick or boarded-over windows.
"John," he hissed. Nothing but silence and darkness. "John?" he called, just a little louder this time. It was unlikely there was anyone in the building to hear him, and the driver already knew they were there. Still, there was no response. Surely if John were in trouble, he would have shouted. Sherlock wasn't that far away; he would have heard a fight. But if something had happened, a surprise attack he hadn't time to defend himself against, he'd be unable to respond.
The blue light brightened ahead of him and Sherlock wavered between going forward and going back. John. A pit of dread opened in his belly and Sherlock sucked in a tortured breath.
The sense of uneasiness trebled, and Sherlock had decided to move back to the door to find John and fetch a proper lantern when a faint growl overpowered the electric hum. Sherlock began to back away from the blue glow slowly, but it brightened as if approaching him. The growl escalated into a quick, snapping bark.
Sherlock's heart began pounding and his eyes opened so wide it ached. His vision was becoming accustomed to the darkness and the blue glow, but he blinked around in a panic looking for something he could not see. Be calm, be rational, he scolded himself, but soon that part of his brain disappeared and he felt like nothing more than a scared, shivering mess. He'd faced worse things in his life; why should a dog and a dark room make him quiver like a child in the dark?
The barking continued until it seemed to echo all around Sherlock, as if Sherlock and the dog were trapped in a tight metal box, the sound reverberating against the walls until there was nothing but the dog, a hundred dogs, a thousand dogs clamoring with foam and bloodlust.
Sherlock had no weapon except for a knife, and he pulled it out now even though the last place he wanted to be was close enough to large angry dog to use a four inch blade. And then he saw it. It was huge, monstrous, with shaggy fur so black it glowed blue, eyes flecked with spectral marsh lights. It barked so vigorously that it drooled drops of acid that glowed like phosphorus and sizzled when they hit the floor.
Sherlock's throat closed tight with fear; he breathed through his nose with shallow, whistling gasps. He stumbled backwards, trying not to fall against tables or stools, barely noticing the cages and crates as the creature stalked forward towards him, swinging that massive head and baring row after row of serrated teeth the like of which Sherlock had only seen once hanging on the wall of a tavern frequented by sailors. Great white jaws seemed to jump closer and closer to him, far ahead of the beast that stalked him. Sherlock couldn't turn to run; he couldn't remove his eyes from that snapping jaw, that horror-inducing creature whose hot breath already surrounded him.
He had to have backed up far enough to be at the door, to run into John, but there was just nothing but endless space for that beast to hunt him. It had toyed with him so far, but soon it would spring, ripping into him, hopefully snapping his neck with those massive jaws before shredding his body into bloody chunks. Yes, that was the only thing to hope for anymore, that he'd die quickly rather than in sumptuous agony.
Then there was a bright white light followed by a deafening bang. After that, all light seemed extinguished, including the beast's glow. Nothing but panicked whimpers escaped Sherlock's throat and his hand clenched even tighter around the handle of his knife as he twisted his head back and forth dizzyingly fast trying to see something, anything.
More white light blinded him and he threw up an arm over his eyes with the pain of it.
"Sherlock, Sherlock, are you hurt? Sherlock, please say something."
The voice slowly infiltrated Sherlock's ears; he realized he'd been hearing it for a while but it had entered his ears only as a useless buzz, jolts in the constant static thrum.
"John?"
"Thank God, Sherlock." Steady fingers peeled his fingers from the handle of the knife. "Come outside. You need some air." Sherlock allowed himself to be led out into fragrant London. His throat loosened and he swallowed great gulps of tangy, yeasty air. The sky was too bright and the buildings wavered and frowned like great stone heads glaring at him and deciding whether he would be good to eat.
"What happened to you in there? I was calling and calling."
"I… I don't know, John. I was investigating the humming sound and this blue light. Then I panicked. And a giant hound was chasing me."
"That Bull and Terrier? Vicious bastards, they can be…"
"A Bull and Terrier? But it was massive." Sherlock gestured with his hands before he realized he was describing a dog the size of a horse. He let his hands fall to his sides, then over his face, pressing against his eyes. "I must have inhaled some sort of chemical that invoked hallucination." He tried to recollect precisely what he saw, but it was wall tinged with panic and confusion.
John clapped a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, trying to be of comfort. Sherlock jerked away and began pacing.
"I need to think, John!" Thinking was harder than it ever was; Sherlock's mind still felt muddled and in complete disarray. It was as if he was searching through the rubble of a collapsed building. Fine, he'd start with his body. Taking deep breaths of brisk air, Sherlock cleared his mind and eventually the stuttering palpitations of his heart began to ease. When he felt a bit more calm and in control, he opened his eyes and carefully examined the world around them.
The buildings were neither looming, nor staring at him with empty eyes, an all-around good sign. He was slow to come back to himself, to realize that their driver, their guide into this hellhole, was hog-tied just inside the door of the warehouse, squirming and grunting but unable to break the hold of… rope and John's neck cloth. John was watching him carefully, but he was just John, a capable soldier, a warrior medic even now applying a clean handkerchief to the cut near his temple without wince or complaint. John's collar was undone and he showed signs of a scuffle: dirt marring the fabric of his coat, a trickle of blood just before his ear, a red mark on his chin that would likely bruise brilliantly by morning.
"John, are you well?" Surely the intense alarm he was feeling was some after-effect.
"I'm fine, Sherlock," his husband replied breezily. He might have grinned, even, but his face sobered when Sherlock said, "So tell me how you subdued the driver while I was inside uselessly crumbling into a pathetic wretch."
John frowned, leaning on his cane for a moment before answering.
"The driver tried to shove me aside and slam the door. I managed to subdue him, but it was a close thing. He doesn't seem to feel pain, even when kneed in the jewels. Once I'd stunned him for a moment, I got his arms wrapped up in my cravat and things went much easier after that. I found a bit of rope and finished wrapping his legs. Just then, I heard the barking, saw you backing away from the dog, and shot it." John shrugged like it was no big feat, that he hadn't bested a man who'd overcome Sherlock or saved Sherlock from a living nightmare. "So, now what do we do?"
Shouts echoed a block away and soon thick-soled boots thundered down the cobbled street.
"Apparently we wait for the police to arrive and tread all over every useful bit of evidence."