John paced slowly near the driver, who had not yet provided himself with a word in his own defense even as Sherlock and one of the constables asked him question after question. Sherlock wasn't as familiar to the constables this side of the Thames, although his reputation certainly did precede him. John was certain this was the only reason they'd been taken at their word. To a complete neophyte, it certainly would seem more likely that the two gentlemen had been interrupted in the process of abducting an innocent hackney driver. John was armed, after all, a fact he couldn't hide given the shot that had attracted the attention of the watch and the ball in the brain of the dog inside the warehouse.
Sherlock explained in a flat voice that the trussed-up man was the same man who had attacked him several nights previous. He left out that he had known precisely who the driver of their carriage was, but made much about the man's attack on and subsequent subdual by John. Around the point of the tale in which he'd been accosted by the guard dog, Sherlock stalked off and John took over to calmly explain the laboratory within the warehouse, the unknown chemicals, the morbid scent in the air.
A few minutes later, John caught a glimpse of Sherlock crouched down as if peering at the cobblestones, the tails of his jacket becoming dirtied with muck from the street. John wasn't sure if he ought to walk over there or allow Sherlock some well-deserved peace. In the end, he let him be and kept an eye on him in case his husband showed signs of the panic he'd experienced inside the warehouse.
John continued to pace, keeping an eye on Sherlock's still form as two more constables sauntered onto the scene. The marks on his temple and chin were finally beginning to ache, the exhilaration of the fight wearing away. Tomorrow morning, perhaps even tonight, he'd ache sharply. It was completely worth it. For the first time in a long time, he would deserve his aches and pains. He'd earned them, rather than had them thrust upon him. Perhaps he wouldn't feel so utterly glad about it in the morning, but for now he relished the twinges when he blotted the cut on his temple or bent the knee on his bad leg just a little too far.
A bold constable had fetched a lantern and went inside with his handkerchief folded over his nose and mouth, while others circled the building and opened boarded-up entrances at John's suggestion that the building be may need to be cleared of dangerous gases. The first constable, a young man with more brash than brawn, returned to the doorway requesting assistance and a crowbar or hook to pry open some suspicious crates.
Sherlock's head popped up as someone jogged past with a flat metal bar that might do the job. He abruptly stood and followed after those compelled to investigate.
When he walked past, John said, "Sherlock, perhaps we ought to leave this to the constabulary." What John really wanted to say was, Sherlock, you don't have to go back in there to prove anything to me, but he didn't.
"John, if you think I'm going to leave this investigation in the hands of untrained, uneducated louts, you are an unconscionable idiot." Sherlock ducked back into the warehouse.
John could see Sherlock pausing by the body of the dog through the door, but he could not see his face as he walked in a full circle around it, examining it in detail.
"You've got this, yes?" John said to the constable who had given up on trying to get the prisoner to speak and was now simply guarding him until such time as he could be transported away from the scene. John didn't wait for an answer but limped straight back into the warehouse himself.
In the light streaming from several doors, including one large enough to drive a wagon through, the dog on the floor was hardly the monstrous thing Sherlock had started to describe. It was a beefy thing, brindled, and low to the ground with a wide mouth and plenty of sharp teeth, bred to harry bulls at market. It had probably been a rather stalwart guard, but John could only wonder exactly what Sherlock had seen and heard as the beast loudly and aggressively advanced.
The temperature inside the building had dropped enough that John judged the air fit for human consumption. Besides, there was no way to know if Sherlock had ingested something from one of the vials on the worktop instead. As long as everyone, including Sherlock, kept a sane thought in their heads, John would deem it safe.
Two constables had made quick work of determining the contents of half a dozen boxes. The crates, the ones John could see lining the walls in stacks three or four high, were filled with bodies. Or, more accurately, body parts. The men grimly continued their work, undaunted, for they had many times seen corpses in their line of work and gossip brought increasingly lurid stories of the last days and weeks with their morbid discoveries. Sherlock glanced in each crate, no doubt filing away each revelation to later puzzle into a complete body.
A flurry of swearing deeper in the building sent Sherlock and several constables after the sound. John moved as quickly as he could after the other men, past a wall slapped up between roof supports, only to see a corpse smoking from a dozen contact points with bare wires, flailing, eyes rolling, tongue lolling and finally sitting up before disengaging several of the wires and thudding back onto its marble slab. It continued to twitch, but much less violently.
The vast machine spouting wires was familiar to John, though this one was much larger and housed half a dozen crackling, spinning wheels. It was like von Marum's electrostatic generator at the Professor's, though this improved machine may be capable of creating vastly more electricity than its predecessor. Everyone, even Sherlock, had stopped in gut-wrenching awe, jaws dropped open at the sparking, whirring machine.
"He must have recently been here!" Sherlock declared, recovering first. "This experiment could not have been abandoned long else the corpse would be nothing but char. John and I blocked off one exit with our arrival, but there must have been another which was not boarded over."
Sherlock dashed towards the back of the building.
"John, hurry, I have need of you!"
John trotted along after with one last glance at the hideous construction of wires and brass, spurred by the urgency in Sherlock's voice.
"John, look around, tell me what you see."
They emerged on a slightly busier street than Baskerville Road, but it was still mainly wagon traffic as opposed to foot. Few that passed would give a second look to the warehouse, much less investigate with any curiosity.
"I'm not sure what you want me to say, Sherlock," John hedged. He didn't see anything that Sherlock could not see. "No one is running away. There is another warehouse across the street, but the entrance on this street is closed…"
"No, John, you see but you do not observe," Sherlock huffed.
"Well, what should I be looking for?"
"Details, John. Our scientist likely escaped from this door within minutes of our arrival. Where would he go? Down the street? Into another building? Did he have a horse waiting? A carriage? I cannot trust my eyes right now." Sherlock sounded a bit frantic, prompting John to try his hardest.
"If I hit this door at a run and did not have a carriage waiting for me, I would want to get out of the line of sight as soon as possible. I'd go that way," John pointed down the street, "and down around that building to disappear from sight."
"Good, John. Useless, but good." Sherlock tapped his fingertips together and hummed.
"If you know better, Sherlock, then why did you ask?"
"I need your eyes, John, to confirm what I'm seeing." Sherlock tugged John a dozen feet. "Now, do tell me if you see this rut here, or this pile of droppings? Do you see it steaming?"
"Yes, Sherlock, so what?" The streets of London were covered with the stuff.
"Well, our scientist is clearly an educated man, and education takes wealth. A wealthy man, were he to enter this section of London at all, would certainly ensconce himself in a small carriage, perhaps one deliberately dilapidated to help conceal his identity. A phaeton would attract too much notice, but a simple chaise or curricle would suit his purposes. These ruts are freshly cut into the muck, and the manure is still steaming in the cold air from a recently present horse. Given the relative placement of these two clues, it was likely a single horse, not a pair, so a chaise. Clearly our quarry drove in that direction. It is useless to try and follow as he would easily blend in with the traffic heading towards London Bridge."
John saw all these things as Sherlock pointed them out, verified them even, but he'd never have drawn the conclusions that Sherlock wove around the facts.
"Astounding," he breathed. John imagined he saw Sherlock's lips nearly flutter into a smile, but he whipped around too soon.
"I don't believe the scientist meant for us to find him here, or he wouldn't have escaped. Quite intriguing. Has the driver said anything?"
"Not a word."
"Fascinating. I wonder if he can speak, or if such functions of the brain have been lost." Sherlock led John back inside the building to where the constables were still gaping at the massive contraption and the slightly twitching body attached to it. Sherlock darted around it for a minute and suddenly shut it down, much to the relief of the simple parish constables unused to such spectacle. Sherlock began to peer closely at the body and plucked away all the wires so as to absolutely confirm the failure of this experiment. He brought John in close to confirm that the heart did not beat within the chest. John checked the body with professionalism, though the condition of the body made it clear that he'd find no signs of life.
It surprisingly took less than an hour for the building to be flooded with constables and several runners from Bow Street, Lestrade included. Donovan, and a contingent of river police, stopped by to gawk, as well. Despite his fellows' toughened natures, Donovan was the only one to walk into the building and still have the gall left in his belly to open his bloody mouth.
"Mr. Holmes, did you get tired of your toys, or did you just wish for someone else to clean up after you?"
"Tiresome, Donovan, all my doing, not a real criminal, et cetera, how utterly blasé. Have you been unable to realize the truth by now? I'm amazed they make a hat for a skull so thick."
"Ah, I see, Holmes, you're showing off for that pretty husband of yours. Fresh and milk-fed, isn't he? Don't worry. Me and my men will be glad to make sure he's not lonely after you've been hauled to the top of the scaffold."
Though he knew that Donovan's remarks were just to provoke him and would never come to pass, Sherlock jerked towards him, his hands curled into fists. But John stepped up from behind him, unimposing with his gun in a constable's custody and his cane taking some of the weight of his steps.
"I've grappled with a dead man already once today, Mr. Donovan," John offered in a steely tone. "Care to make it two?"
Donovan raised an eyebrow and sneered at John, who was a head and a half shorter and considerably narrower.
"Don't worry, little man, I like my men to limp afterwards…"
Donovan wasn't expecting the blurry fist that connected with his nose, though he ought to have done considering how many times it had been broken before. The force was enough to send him to the ground. Before he could blink away the tears that blurred his vision, (he let the blood flow freely down his chin and onto his shirt,) Lestrade wedged himself between them.
"Sergeant Donovan, if you and your men are not going to be helpful, I believe you have patrols to return to. I've got enough to do without holding a rag to your face as if you were a snot-nosed brat. Get your arse back down to the docks and if you don't want blood in it, keep your mouth shut."
Donovan grumbled as he picked himself up, but did as he was told with little more than a glare in Sherlock and John's direction. John ignored it, wrapping his much-abused handkerchief around his bruised knuckles with enough of a smirk on his lips to make Donovan growl.
Morning turned to afternoon before the investigation turned methodical. Lestrade took control and sent one of his compatriots to track down the current owner of the building and two others to find and question any possible witnesses about any notable comings and goings on Baskerville Street. He ordered the local constables to take inventories, mark each crate with chalk indicating the contents, but to remove nothing. Here was as good a place as any to store the remains for now. Plus, despite calling upon half the constables of London (regular criminals were going to have a field day) he would like to keep this quiet as long as possible. Lestrade strode through the building with Sherlock and John, finally witnessing the failed experiment and the giant electrostatic generator.
He peered up at it with a certain mystification.
"What does it do?"
"It creates an electrical charge."
"Why?"
Sherlock was at odds to answer this. "Why? Because the human body, our very personal universe, demands investigation just like any other mystery. The amount of knowledge we lack in this field is mind-boggling. What we learn could extend our lives, cure infirmity and disease! Imagine if we could instill life in a fresh corpse by harnessing the mysteries of electricity. You could simply ask the murdered about their murderer." Sherlock sounded far too excited about this possibility for someone who would have far fewer puzzles to solve if this became the case.
"I believe some mysteries ought to stay just that, Holmes." Lestrade was looking at the body on the slab, the one that had ceased to twitch when Sherlock shut down the machine. "You were inside the building for a period of several minutes and didn't see anyone?"
"No." There was little else to say, and Sherlock's demeanor dampened with the change in subject. He'd informed John as the constables were arriving that he did not wish for them to know about the hallucinations, and John had kept to his word, being deliberately vague on the subject.
Lestrade grunted, peering at the corpse with narrowed eyes and a close lantern. Sherlock ignored him and stalked about taking in every bit of information he could. John tried to be helpful, looking for any sort of records the scientist might have kept, but found nothing of use.
"The experiments have been going on for some time," Sherlock began. "The man responsible is quite advanced in his work. He has improved upon the generator here, and here, compared to the Professor's model, do you remember, John? I wonder if the thickness or metallurgical content of the wires makes a difference; it must. I believe these augmentations may allow for a more intense burst of electricity…"
Lestrade interrupted him. "This is all very fascinating, but we need to know about the culprit. I haven't even gotten the final number of bodies yet, but this is likely the same man who has been leaving you gifts all over London and I'll like to put a stop to this!" His voice had risen quickly until he shouted the final three words.
Sherlock was unfazed and simply responded, "Yes." Then he began pointing out the marks in the sand-strewn floor that had not been trodden over by constables, blown into miniscule dunes by the crosswinds that cooled the enclosed air, nor made by Sherlock himself as he circled close to the machine.
"Two men, one with a slightly slurred step, which could be our driver – we really need to find a name to call him now that he's in custody – Lazarus might be appropriate, don't you think – and another with a smaller stride but very sure. The second is likely to be our murderer. Educated, wealthy or a quite industrious thief to procure all this equipment, particularly the marble. Perhaps we could trace the purchase of such an expensive item to further our investigation.
"The work surfaces are meticulously kept, but the sand on the floor is a bit of a surprise." Sherlock crouched and picked up a pinch, rubbing it between his fingers, let it drift to the floor. He touched his fingertip to his tongue, then spit. "Sand, but mixed with a generous amount of sodium bicarbonate. That indicates our scientist was working with acids and had either deployed the sodium bicarbonate over a spill or had prepared for such an eventuality well in advance.
"Lestrade, if your stomach is bothering you, you could do worse than to dissolve a pinch of the stuff into a glass of water and drink it."
Lestrade glared at the cause of his heartburn and stopped rubbing his fist into his chest.
"I think we would be better served by interrogating the man who brought you here, especially if you believe he's been walking around inside this building."
"Excellent! I also wish to administer a thorough exam…"
"Not you. You and Doctor Watson need to go home and leave this to me. You've already put yourselves in enough danger."
"Home? Now, when we're finally getting somewhere?"
"Yes, home. Your brother would have my head if I let something happen to you, and that's not just a figure of speech. I'd be served up on a platter like John the Baptist at the next Holmes family event."
Sherlock straightened up and looked at the slightly manic Lestrade calmly. "It would hardly be dangerous for me to attend Bow Street. It would also be invaluable for me to hear whatever information the man has firsthand. Thirdly, I would like to take some samples of the man's blood and tissues for analysis. He is the only successful resurrection completed by our mad scientist as far as we know and we need to take advantage of that fact to increase our knowledge."
"Holmes, absolutely not. Am I speaking the King's English? Are you listening? You will neither interrogate nor examine our prisoner. Furthermore, I will not allow you to torture or dissect a man in my custody whether you believe him to be some sort of resurrected monster or not."
"I don't need to dissect him completely, Lestrade. I simply need a few tissue samples. You would impede furthering scientific knowledge?"
"I'm impeding your rampant disregard for the prisoner's rights! Holmes, he's not dead! I've indulged your deductions thus far, but no longer!"
"Yes, he is! You see the instrument of his resurrection before you! The multitude of failed attempts to replicate him! If that isn't enough to convince you, look to the cut on his neck! There is no surviving that. And the wound shows no sign of healing. If you remove his shirt, I'm certain you'd see where a bullet struck him between the ribs the night he was strangling me. I'll wager that there's little more than a rough stitch or two to keep the wound from seeping vital fluids, not to mention the fact that he seems to be supremely unaffected by such a mortal wound…" Now they were both shouting at each other, attracting the curious and disapproving stares of half a dozen men.
"Holmes, he's walking around. He may even talk yet. He's not dead. You can have him when he's still and cold on a slab, but for now, I have to treat him like any other prisoner. I can't allow you to pick a man apart at the seams on a whim!"
"It's not a whim!" Sherlock had begun to seethe at the word "indulged," and his temper had passed white hot in forge terms. "I'm beginning to think that you don't want this solved at all, Lestrade!"
"Holmes, do try to understand. I believe you, I really do. But not all of my superiors feel that way and I don't want to be fired, transported, or hanged because I let you experiment on a man in my custody."
"Who is deceased! And your belief in the truth is irrelevant. The truth is the truth, whether simple minds can grasp it, or no!"
"Why can I never reason logically with you? No matter how right I am, no matter what argument I make, I just can't win! You don't even listen! I'm done with it, Sherlock Holmes. You can get the hell out of here while I sort out this mess without your interference for once!"
Sherlock opened his mouth to tell Lestrade exactly where he'd be without Sherlock's 'interference,' but John's voice halted his own.
"Sherlock." John wrapped a hand around Sherlock's elbow, around the front though, the wrong way, and his other hand stroked circles over his shoulder blade. "It's no use arguing. Mr. Lestrade cannot concede on this matter. We need to give him time to organize this mess. We'll go home to regroup and form a new plan of action given what we've found today. The resurrected man is going nowhere. I'm sure Lestrade will keep the man in custody for questioning, at the very least."
John's presence at his side did not calm Sherlock's ire, but it did incite him to tamp it down a little. His husband was right in that no amount of shouting at Lestrade would entice him to change his mind; he was as stubborn and obstinately contrary as Sherlock at times, even when he was wrong.