Fic: The Descent of Man [Sherlock]
Fic: The Descent of Man, Pt 2b
Had to split this part across two posts because it was too long to fit in one. Thanks, livejournal!
Title: The Descent of Man
Part: 2 of 3?
Characters: Sherlock, John, Mrs Hudson, DI Lestrade, DS Donovan, Anderson (so far)
Rating/Warnings: Gen. Some mild swearing. Discussion of gruesome violence. Scientific testing on animals.
Word count: 8,200 approx. (Pts 1 and 2)
Summary: This one was weird even by Sherlock's standards. And if you've been reading this blog, you'll know that's weird. X-Files weird.
Disclaimer: Sherlock was created for the BBC by Stephen Moffat and Mark Gatiss, based on stories and characters created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I do not own any of this and am making no profit from it.
Sherlock and I were alone. Two civilians left alone at a crime scene. That was a bit irresponsible of the police, don’t you think?
“A chimpanzee killed him?” I looked down at Trevor’s remains: “Bloody hell.”
“No, of course the chimpanzee didn’t kill him,” Sherlock said, irritably, “as Sergeant Donovan will quickly discover if she looks at the CCTV footage. A murderous great ape couldn’t cross that car park outside the cameras catching it. Besides, Trevor here looks too good.”
“Too good?” He looked like somebody had taken a sledgehammer to him!
“A chimp would have torn his arms off or eaten his face, that kind of thing. Don’t you watch the Discovery Channel?”
“No,” I said, “and neither do you. Then what did kill him? I assume you think it was a person?”
“It’s interesting, don’t you think, that this killing took place in the very early hours of February twenty-third?” He crouched again and took hold of Trevor’s wrist for a second: “Yes, skin lividity, body temperature and rigor all suggest he died between midnight and two. Anderson isn’t a complete incompetent after all.”
“I’ll have to tell him you said that,” I said.
“Don’t you dare. We may as well call the date of death February twenty-second.” From his jacket pocket, he produced a single latex surgical glove. “When did the previous so-called break-in occur?”
“Oh, hang on,” I said, trying to remember. “I’ll tell you in a minute…”
“February thirteenth,” he continued, instantly. “Nine days before Trevor came to see me and later died. And Roy the dog bit Dr Presbury on February fourth, which was nine days before that… Nine days between incidents, John. What does that suggest?”
“A coincidence?” I suggested, failing to see the link between a dog biting someone and somebody else getting his head smashed to a pulp.
“Where you see coincidence, John, I see connections…” He snapped the glove onto his right hand.
“What are you doing?” I almost yelled, but then remembered the police just outside the door. I don’t know if I should really say this, in case Sherlock gets in trouble, but if he does it’ll teach him. He was only going through the dead bloke’s pockets!
“I’m looking for evidence.” He had Trevor’s phone in his hand. “And pursuing a lead…”
“What lead? Have you seen something here that tells you what happened, that you haven’t told Lestrade?”
“Not necessarily.” He was texting - texting! - somebody using Trevor Bennett’s phone! While the guy was lying two feet away from him with no head! When he’d finished, he put the phone back where he’d found it, but then shoved his hand underneath the body, rummaging around.
“Not necessarily?” I asked, staring guiltily at the door, expecting someone to walk in at any moment and catch us.
“Not until now.” He rolled Trevor a little to one side so that I could see what he’d found. On the floor beneath Trevor’s body, invisible without moving him, was a padded envelope, smeared with blood. Fed Ex. “From Germany,” said Sherlock, indicating the markings. “Just like the other one Trevor mentioned.” He managed to get his hand inside it without having to move Trevor any more. “Empty,” he grumbled. “Or maybe not quite…” He stood and let Trevor fall back into place, a slightly bloody sheet of white paper in his gloved hand.
“What’s that?”
“A sales invoice,” he frowned. “Addressed to Dr Paul Presbury, from an H. Lowenstein, Berlin. Presbury owes Lowenstein two thousand pounds, but it doesn’t say why, or indeed who Lowenstein might be…” He dropped the invoice into his pocket, along with the rubber glove.
“You can’t do that!” I protested.
“Well, I just have, suggesting that in fact I can.”
“It’s evidence!”
“Come on, John, we’ve got an appointment to keep, but we need to do a couple of things first.” He made for the door, leaving poor dead Trevor Bennett forgotten behind him.
“An appointment?”
“Yes, I just arranged it using Trevor’s phone. He had the number, of course.” We left the lab, Sherlock nodding amiably at the coppers in the corridor and walking away for the all the world like somebody who hadn’t just stolen vital evidence from a murder scene. Being a sociopath has its advantages, I guess. “Here’s a thought,” he said as we were descending the stairs to the first floor. “Last night Trevor implied that Presbury’s work for Camford is being done in partnership with another organisation.”
“Yeah, the MoD or somebody, judging by how cagey he seemed.”
“And yet, Presbury’s supposed to be working on a cure for Alzheimer’s,” Sherlock pointed out. “Why would the MoD be interested in that? What are the military applications?” Instead of continuing downstairs, he stopped at the first floor and pushed open the stairwell door.
“Where are we going now?” I asked, a bit apprehensive to be honest, because following Sherlock unquestioningly is an excellent way, I find, of getting in deep trouble.
“Just a flying visit to Dr Presbury. I saw the sign in reception; his office is down here somewhere, I think.” It was a narrow, carpeted corridor lined with doors, all with the same electronic locks as the lab upstairs. “I would have lifted Trevor’s pass,” Sherlock said as we went along the passage, “but as I told Lestrade, it’s traceable.” He stopped before a door marked “P. Presbury”. “Here we are.” He knocked.
“Who is that?” It was a gruff man’s voice, muffled by the door.
“DI Lestrade,” said Sherlock in an outrageous cockney accent sounding nothing like the real Lestrade. “Here to see Dr Presbury.”
“Wait.” There was a sound of somebody moving about, and the door suddenly opened from within. “Yes?” Presbury was an average-sized man, maybe putting on a bit of weight in his later years. Apart from that, Trevor had been right; he didn’t look sixty-one. His thinning hair was dark grey, nearly black, and he wasn’t bad-looking either.
Not that I know what good-looking men look like.
Not that there’s anything wrong with a man knowing what good-looking men look like.
But I don’t.
I’ll shut up now.
“Yeah, Dr Presbury,” Sherlock went on in the same ridiculous accent, “I’m DI Lestrade and this is DS Donovan. We were just hoping…”
“You’re not Lestrade!” Presbury barked, face darkening from well-scrubbed pink to worrying purple with startling speed. “I spoke to him before! Who are you really, and what do you want?”
“How did that happen, Dr Presbury?” Sherlock asked in his own voice, pointing at Presbury’s right hand, which was heavily bandaged.
“A dog bit me,” the scientist confirmed. “Occupational hazard. Now, get out!” He really yelled this last part, little flecks of spit on his lower lip. I was thinking I could probably take him in a fight, but that wouldn’t go down too well with Lestrade, would it?
“It must have been a terrible shock to discover what had happened to Trevor,” said Sherlock placidly. That seemed to strike a chord. Presbury subsided slightly, voice quietening:
“Trevor…he…” He blinked in obvious confusion, stepping back from the door. Sherlock took the opportunity to step forward. “I received a call shortly after eight saying that Trevor was…I got here around nine.” He blinked again. “I can’t believe what…”
“Nine?” Sherlock was peering over Presbury’s shoulder, at the disorganised desk under the window behind him. “In London traffic?”
“I walked,” he answered. “I don’t live far from here.”
“Good.” Sherlock looked Presbury up and down and smiled to himself: “Convenient. Now, about Edith Morphy…” For whatever reason, that set Presbury off again. Suddenly his face returned to its purple shade as he advanced on us once more:
“I thought I told you to get out of here! Trevor Bennett is dead, and all you can do is stand around asking puerile questions! Out! Out, before I call for those policemen upstairs! Now!”
“Don’t worry,” I said, as Sherlock beat a hasty retreat and I hurried after him. “We’re going!”
“And what did you make of that?” Sherlock asked when we reached the car park.
“He’s a bit volatile, isn’t he? Maybe dangerously unstable. And when he wasn’t angry, he seemed out of it, confused.” I looked at him: “You think he did it, don’t you?”
“If he did,” Sherlock answered, “how did he climb to that window? How did he shatter Trevor Bennett’s skull with his bare hands? Data, John; I need more data!” He looked around again before turning back to me: “Do me a favour.”
“Another one?”
“There’s a works canteen over there. I saw it on the way in. Go and see what they’re serving. If they have a special, find out what it is. And the same for yesterday too. Then meet me around the back of the animal building in ten minutes.”
“Around the back of the animal building?”
“In ten minutes!”
To cut a long story short (Countdown’s on Channel 4 in a minute), the Camford Pharmaceuticals canteen’s special that day was chicken curry and rice. The day before, it had been moussaka, of all things. I haven’t had moussaka in years. When I met Sherlock at the back of the animal house, he sort of laughed and went “Moussaka! Of course!” It does make sense eventually, honest.
Well, as much sense as any part of this story.
I was still trying to make sense of it when a woman emerged from the back door of the building, glancing around nervously. Late twenties, maybe; mousy hair, white lab coat over jumper and jeans (I’m sure Sherlock immediately knew her mother’s maiden name and what she’d had for breakfast). She’d been crying recently. Even I could see that, and I didn’t blame her. I can’t even imagine what it was like for her to find Trevor like that.
I could have, at one time, before Afghanistan burned it out of me.
“Good morning, Edith,” said Sherlock.
“I got your text,” said the young woman who had been Trevor Bennett’s girlfriend until sometime between midnight and two that morning.
That’s it for now (and not just because I want to marry that new girl on Countdown). This whole case just leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I’ve been dreaming about chimpanzees and smashed heads. Maybe Dr Thompson’s right, that telling it all makes it easier to live with somehow. Next part to follow soonish.
Last edited by John Watson 2 March 14:44
9 comments
Oh, what a great story! A bit gruesome, though, LOL! :-D I didn’t know you wrote fiction, John. I think you should think about getting this published. Only I don’t think you should name the characters after yourself and Sherlock - that’s what they call a “Mary Sue”! I learned about that online. Do you know if Sherlock’s going to be coming to the lab today? Or tomorrow, maybe? I’m on night shift all week, so if he wanted to drop by this evening, that would be fine.
Molly Hooper 2 March 16:45
John, you left out the best part! What happened to that great story you told me about chatting up those two dinner ladies in the canteen? It was so droll and made you look like such a witty, debonair ladies’ man! I’m sure they really enjoyed your inept attempts at sexual harassment!
Sherlock Holmes 2 March 17:02
Chatting up dinner ladies, eh? Naughty, naughty boy! Mate, alright for a swift half tonight? I’m buying. And a chat too - you sound like you need it.
Bill Murray 2 March 17:38
@Bill, sure thing, this violin is doing my head in. Text you in a min. @Sherlock, was that sarcasm by any chance?
John Watson 2 March 18:13
Oh yes it definitely was. And I’d like to see your attempt at impersonating Lestrade. Also, don’t do that thing with the “at” symbols. It’s distracting.
Sherlock Holmes 2 March 18:21
It’s hard to tell when you’re being sarcastic sometimes because you hardly ever are. Ever.
John Watson 2 March 18:26
Sherlock, did you get my text?
Molly Hooper 2 March 18:47
John, please call me. I think your phone is switched off. I know your next session isn’t until Wednesday, but reading the above I think we need to talk.
E Thompson 2 March 20:12
Herr Professor Lowenstein issues sales invoices for his product in his own name? How incautious. I shall have to send somebody to have a word with him.
Anonymous 3 March 00:30
Had to split this part across two posts because it was too long to fit in one. Thanks, livejournal!
Title: The Descent of Man
Part: 2 of 3?
Characters: Sherlock, John, Mrs Hudson, DI Lestrade, DS Donovan, Anderson (so far)
Rating/Warnings: Gen. Some mild swearing. Discussion of gruesome violence. Scientific testing on animals.
Word count: 8,200 approx. (Pts 1 and 2)
Summary: This one was weird even by Sherlock's standards. And if you've been reading this blog, you'll know that's weird. X-Files weird.
Disclaimer: Sherlock was created for the BBC by Stephen Moffat and Mark Gatiss, based on stories and characters created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I do not own any of this and am making no profit from it.
Sherlock and I were alone. Two civilians left alone at a crime scene. That was a bit irresponsible of the police, don’t you think?
“A chimpanzee killed him?” I looked down at Trevor’s remains: “Bloody hell.”
“No, of course the chimpanzee didn’t kill him,” Sherlock said, irritably, “as Sergeant Donovan will quickly discover if she looks at the CCTV footage. A murderous great ape couldn’t cross that car park outside the cameras catching it. Besides, Trevor here looks too good.”
“Too good?” He looked like somebody had taken a sledgehammer to him!
“A chimp would have torn his arms off or eaten his face, that kind of thing. Don’t you watch the Discovery Channel?”
“No,” I said, “and neither do you. Then what did kill him? I assume you think it was a person?”
“It’s interesting, don’t you think, that this killing took place in the very early hours of February twenty-third?” He crouched again and took hold of Trevor’s wrist for a second: “Yes, skin lividity, body temperature and rigor all suggest he died between midnight and two. Anderson isn’t a complete incompetent after all.”
“I’ll have to tell him you said that,” I said.
“Don’t you dare. We may as well call the date of death February twenty-second.” From his jacket pocket, he produced a single latex surgical glove. “When did the previous so-called break-in occur?”
“Oh, hang on,” I said, trying to remember. “I’ll tell you in a minute…”
“February thirteenth,” he continued, instantly. “Nine days before Trevor came to see me and later died. And Roy the dog bit Dr Presbury on February fourth, which was nine days before that… Nine days between incidents, John. What does that suggest?”
“A coincidence?” I suggested, failing to see the link between a dog biting someone and somebody else getting his head smashed to a pulp.
“Where you see coincidence, John, I see connections…” He snapped the glove onto his right hand.
“What are you doing?” I almost yelled, but then remembered the police just outside the door. I don’t know if I should really say this, in case Sherlock gets in trouble, but if he does it’ll teach him. He was only going through the dead bloke’s pockets!
“I’m looking for evidence.” He had Trevor’s phone in his hand. “And pursuing a lead…”
“What lead? Have you seen something here that tells you what happened, that you haven’t told Lestrade?”
“Not necessarily.” He was texting - texting! - somebody using Trevor Bennett’s phone! While the guy was lying two feet away from him with no head! When he’d finished, he put the phone back where he’d found it, but then shoved his hand underneath the body, rummaging around.
“Not necessarily?” I asked, staring guiltily at the door, expecting someone to walk in at any moment and catch us.
“Not until now.” He rolled Trevor a little to one side so that I could see what he’d found. On the floor beneath Trevor’s body, invisible without moving him, was a padded envelope, smeared with blood. Fed Ex. “From Germany,” said Sherlock, indicating the markings. “Just like the other one Trevor mentioned.” He managed to get his hand inside it without having to move Trevor any more. “Empty,” he grumbled. “Or maybe not quite…” He stood and let Trevor fall back into place, a slightly bloody sheet of white paper in his gloved hand.
“What’s that?”
“A sales invoice,” he frowned. “Addressed to Dr Paul Presbury, from an H. Lowenstein, Berlin. Presbury owes Lowenstein two thousand pounds, but it doesn’t say why, or indeed who Lowenstein might be…” He dropped the invoice into his pocket, along with the rubber glove.
“You can’t do that!” I protested.
“Well, I just have, suggesting that in fact I can.”
“It’s evidence!”
“Come on, John, we’ve got an appointment to keep, but we need to do a couple of things first.” He made for the door, leaving poor dead Trevor Bennett forgotten behind him.
“An appointment?”
“Yes, I just arranged it using Trevor’s phone. He had the number, of course.” We left the lab, Sherlock nodding amiably at the coppers in the corridor and walking away for the all the world like somebody who hadn’t just stolen vital evidence from a murder scene. Being a sociopath has its advantages, I guess. “Here’s a thought,” he said as we were descending the stairs to the first floor. “Last night Trevor implied that Presbury’s work for Camford is being done in partnership with another organisation.”
“Yeah, the MoD or somebody, judging by how cagey he seemed.”
“And yet, Presbury’s supposed to be working on a cure for Alzheimer’s,” Sherlock pointed out. “Why would the MoD be interested in that? What are the military applications?” Instead of continuing downstairs, he stopped at the first floor and pushed open the stairwell door.
“Where are we going now?” I asked, a bit apprehensive to be honest, because following Sherlock unquestioningly is an excellent way, I find, of getting in deep trouble.
“Just a flying visit to Dr Presbury. I saw the sign in reception; his office is down here somewhere, I think.” It was a narrow, carpeted corridor lined with doors, all with the same electronic locks as the lab upstairs. “I would have lifted Trevor’s pass,” Sherlock said as we went along the passage, “but as I told Lestrade, it’s traceable.” He stopped before a door marked “P. Presbury”. “Here we are.” He knocked.
“Who is that?” It was a gruff man’s voice, muffled by the door.
“DI Lestrade,” said Sherlock in an outrageous cockney accent sounding nothing like the real Lestrade. “Here to see Dr Presbury.”
“Wait.” There was a sound of somebody moving about, and the door suddenly opened from within. “Yes?” Presbury was an average-sized man, maybe putting on a bit of weight in his later years. Apart from that, Trevor had been right; he didn’t look sixty-one. His thinning hair was dark grey, nearly black, and he wasn’t bad-looking either.
Not that I know what good-looking men look like.
Not that there’s anything wrong with a man knowing what good-looking men look like.
But I don’t.
I’ll shut up now.
“Yeah, Dr Presbury,” Sherlock went on in the same ridiculous accent, “I’m DI Lestrade and this is DS Donovan. We were just hoping…”
“You’re not Lestrade!” Presbury barked, face darkening from well-scrubbed pink to worrying purple with startling speed. “I spoke to him before! Who are you really, and what do you want?”
“How did that happen, Dr Presbury?” Sherlock asked in his own voice, pointing at Presbury’s right hand, which was heavily bandaged.
“A dog bit me,” the scientist confirmed. “Occupational hazard. Now, get out!” He really yelled this last part, little flecks of spit on his lower lip. I was thinking I could probably take him in a fight, but that wouldn’t go down too well with Lestrade, would it?
“It must have been a terrible shock to discover what had happened to Trevor,” said Sherlock placidly. That seemed to strike a chord. Presbury subsided slightly, voice quietening:
“Trevor…he…” He blinked in obvious confusion, stepping back from the door. Sherlock took the opportunity to step forward. “I received a call shortly after eight saying that Trevor was…I got here around nine.” He blinked again. “I can’t believe what…”
“Nine?” Sherlock was peering over Presbury’s shoulder, at the disorganised desk under the window behind him. “In London traffic?”
“I walked,” he answered. “I don’t live far from here.”
“Good.” Sherlock looked Presbury up and down and smiled to himself: “Convenient. Now, about Edith Morphy…” For whatever reason, that set Presbury off again. Suddenly his face returned to its purple shade as he advanced on us once more:
“I thought I told you to get out of here! Trevor Bennett is dead, and all you can do is stand around asking puerile questions! Out! Out, before I call for those policemen upstairs! Now!”
“Don’t worry,” I said, as Sherlock beat a hasty retreat and I hurried after him. “We’re going!”
“And what did you make of that?” Sherlock asked when we reached the car park.
“He’s a bit volatile, isn’t he? Maybe dangerously unstable. And when he wasn’t angry, he seemed out of it, confused.” I looked at him: “You think he did it, don’t you?”
“If he did,” Sherlock answered, “how did he climb to that window? How did he shatter Trevor Bennett’s skull with his bare hands? Data, John; I need more data!” He looked around again before turning back to me: “Do me a favour.”
“Another one?”
“There’s a works canteen over there. I saw it on the way in. Go and see what they’re serving. If they have a special, find out what it is. And the same for yesterday too. Then meet me around the back of the animal building in ten minutes.”
“Around the back of the animal building?”
“In ten minutes!”
To cut a long story short (Countdown’s on Channel 4 in a minute), the Camford Pharmaceuticals canteen’s special that day was chicken curry and rice. The day before, it had been moussaka, of all things. I haven’t had moussaka in years. When I met Sherlock at the back of the animal house, he sort of laughed and went “Moussaka! Of course!” It does make sense eventually, honest.
Well, as much sense as any part of this story.
I was still trying to make sense of it when a woman emerged from the back door of the building, glancing around nervously. Late twenties, maybe; mousy hair, white lab coat over jumper and jeans (I’m sure Sherlock immediately knew her mother’s maiden name and what she’d had for breakfast). She’d been crying recently. Even I could see that, and I didn’t blame her. I can’t even imagine what it was like for her to find Trevor like that.
I could have, at one time, before Afghanistan burned it out of me.
“Good morning, Edith,” said Sherlock.
“I got your text,” said the young woman who had been Trevor Bennett’s girlfriend until sometime between midnight and two that morning.
That’s it for now (and not just because I want to marry that new girl on Countdown). This whole case just leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I’ve been dreaming about chimpanzees and smashed heads. Maybe Dr Thompson’s right, that telling it all makes it easier to live with somehow. Next part to follow soonish.
Last edited by John Watson 2 March 14:44
9 comments
Oh, what a great story! A bit gruesome, though, LOL! :-D I didn’t know you wrote fiction, John. I think you should think about getting this published. Only I don’t think you should name the characters after yourself and Sherlock - that’s what they call a “Mary Sue”! I learned about that online. Do you know if Sherlock’s going to be coming to the lab today? Or tomorrow, maybe? I’m on night shift all week, so if he wanted to drop by this evening, that would be fine.
Molly Hooper 2 March 16:45
John, you left out the best part! What happened to that great story you told me about chatting up those two dinner ladies in the canteen? It was so droll and made you look like such a witty, debonair ladies’ man! I’m sure they really enjoyed your inept attempts at sexual harassment!
Sherlock Holmes 2 March 17:02
Chatting up dinner ladies, eh? Naughty, naughty boy! Mate, alright for a swift half tonight? I’m buying. And a chat too - you sound like you need it.
Bill Murray 2 March 17:38
@Bill, sure thing, this violin is doing my head in. Text you in a min. @Sherlock, was that sarcasm by any chance?
John Watson 2 March 18:13
Oh yes it definitely was. And I’d like to see your attempt at impersonating Lestrade. Also, don’t do that thing with the “at” symbols. It’s distracting.
Sherlock Holmes 2 March 18:21
It’s hard to tell when you’re being sarcastic sometimes because you hardly ever are. Ever.
John Watson 2 March 18:26
Sherlock, did you get my text?
Molly Hooper 2 March 18:47
John, please call me. I think your phone is switched off. I know your next session isn’t until Wednesday, but reading the above I think we need to talk.
E Thompson 2 March 20:12
Herr Professor Lowenstein issues sales invoices for his product in his own name? How incautious. I shall have to send somebody to have a word with him.
Anonymous 3 March 00:30