Fic: The Descent of Man [Sherlock]
Fic: The Descent of Man, Pt. 4b
Split over two posts due to Livejournal restrictions - the epic conclusion!
Title: The Descent of Man
Part: 4 of 4
Characters: Sherlock, John, Mrs Hudson, DI Lestrade, DS Donovan, Anderson, Mycroft Holmes, "Anthea"
Rating/Warnings: Gen. Some mild swearing. Discussion of gruesome violence. Scientific testing on animals.
Word count: approx. 17,900 (total)
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.
“Maybe,” he answered, “maybe not. Maybe he’d heard rumours that Lowenstein had discovered something unusual in the course of his work for the East German government. There’s no proof I can see in his office, anyway. We should have tried breaking into his house… Of course,” he continued, “as with any untrialled treatment, there are side effects…”
“The anger issues,” I nodded. “Made him snappy with people, made him trash his own lab that time…made him kill Trevor in a jealous rage? I don’t know why it’d make Roy attack him, though; maybe he hurt him when he was working on him.”
“Perhaps he smells different now,” Sherlock suggested as we exited into the carpark, careful to keep close to the side of the building. “And the biggest side effect of all, of course, the unnatural strength and agility he must have needed to kill Trevor the way he did.”
“You’re talking science fiction,” I told him. “There’s no drug that can do that, not overnight.”
“No drug known to the medical mainstream.” He paused, looking up at the smashed window high above our heads. Somebody had nailed boards over it since we were last here. “Trevor came back here last night to poke around for evidence. Maybe he broke into Presbury’s office the same way we did.”
“And then Presbury came and killed him?”
“Yes. And we know he was out most of the night doing so, because of the moussaka, yesterday’s special from the works canteen.”
“What?”
“Yes, those tiny stains on the front of his shirt when I spoke to him today - that distinctive shade of orange. He was still wearing yesterday’s clothes because he’d been out all night bashing heads in and breaking the locks on the chimp cages.”
“What about blood?” I asked. “If he was still wearing the same clothes he had on last night, shouldn’t he have been covered in it?”
“Maybe he was,” Sherlock replied. “He could have been sprayed with microscopic droplets. Anderson would have detected them if he’d got around to testing him.”
“Except that you had him testing that chimp,” I pointed out. Sherlock did not seem concerned by this. “Why did he let the chimp out?” I wondered.
“To divert the blame? Distract the police?” Sherlock looked at me: “John, the man just climbed up a building and killed somebody with his bare hands while under the influence of drugs unknown to medical science. Why would he do just about anything?”
I frowned, looking up at the building again. Another thought occurred to me: “And how did he know Trevor was here, to be able to come and kill him?”
“Excellent question.” Sherlock looked up too. “I suppose that in his state of drug-induced paranoia he could have suspected that Trevor might start sniffing about for clues. If he was really paranoid he could have set up some sort of surveillance…”
“Sherlock,” I said.
“He said he didn’t live far away, and under the influence of this drug he might be able to get here very quickly indeed…”
“Sherlock,” I repeated, more loudly.
“Yes, John?”
“There was a webcam on the desk.” I swallowed, hard, feeling that adrenaline rush coming back strong and clear. “Did you notice whether it was switched on?”
“They have a light that comes on when they’re transmitting,” he replied, which didn’t actually answer the question.
“And could you tinker with that?” I wondered aloud. “You know, so that you could have it switched on without the light showing?”
“Probably,” he admitted.
I nodded slowly, and said the first thing that came to mind: “Oh shit.”
“Yes,” he agreed. And then the fence started rattling behind us. “John,” said Sherlock, calmly under the circumstances. “Don’t panic now, John…” The fence rattled again, accompanied by a shrieking cry. A human voice, I realised, the hairs standing up at the back of my neck beneath the ski mask and hoodie, but not a human sound. “Don’t panic,” Sherlock said again, which was probably about as close as he got to panicking himself.
“Do you think maybe we should run now?” I asked, reaching for my gun.
“Oh yes,” he agreed. We ran. We ran as if our lives depended on it, and let’s face it they probably did. Behind us, the thing hit the ground with another shriek. I didn’t dare stop and see what it was, even though I knew already. The crosshatched plastic grip of the gun stuck firmly to the rubber glove I was wearing, but the inside of the glove was wet with sweat. I could hear the thing’s breathing, thick and rapid, coming in little grunts as it chased us down, getting closer and closer even as we legged it across the tarmac of the carpark, CCTV cameras forgotten in our flight.
As I ran, I could hear my own voice, like it was coming from somewhere far away: “Ohshitohshitohshitohshitohshitohshit…” The beast chasing me just grunted and panted, scrabbling across the tarmac on all four limbs.
“John!” Sherlock carded the door of the animal block, yanked it open, dragged me bodily inside. The instant the door closed, the thing hit it from the other side, hard enough to make it shake. We were already running down the tiled corridor towards the next door. To our right, a row of thick mesh doors stood unlocked and open, the animals they had confined already gone.
Beyond the far door, I could hear Roy and the other dogs going mad, barking and snarling wildly. They could smell it, the thing chasing us. They knew what it was, something wrong and unnatural. I heard the outer door crash open even as we reached the inner one, terror and excitement fighting for control of me as Sherlock opened the inner door in the very nick of time and we half-fell through into the kennels beyond.
“What’s going on?” Edith asked as she saw us slam the door shut again and throw ourselves against it, as if we could stop the thing already pounding upon it from the other side.
“We…we’ve got company,” Sherlock told her, with nice understatement I thought.
Actually, at the time I thought “please God let this door hold. I don’t want to die the same way Trevor Bennett did!” But you get the idea.
“What is that?” Edith asked, eyes wide and white with fear.
“Let’s get out of here,” Sherlock suggested. You can tell he’s a genius, can’t you?
The thing on the other side of the door slammed against it again, and I felt it nearly give. Sherlock was already retreating towards the rear exit. Not a bad idea, I decided, following him.
“Tom and Asim have taken the chimps to the van,” Edith told him, unlocking another of the dog cages with her keys.
“What van?” Sherlock asked.
“We’re stealing a van too,” she announced, casually. “We can bluff our way out of the main gate.”
“We won’t make it to the main gate,” I informed her, dry-mouthed, turning towards the door again as it shuddered once more. I saw the fist, bandaged and bloodied, beating against the little security-glass window from the outside, hard enough to crack it. “That thing’ll catch us before we get halfway.”
“Sherlock, help me with the dogs.” She gave him a handful of leads. The dogs continued to bark and yelp and whine deafeningly all around us, unfortunately not loudly enough to drown out the shrieks and shouts of the beast at the door.
“I don’t do dogs,” he sniffed.
“Sherlock!” I half-screamed. “Get the dogs and get out! You and Edith! Go!” I turned back to the door, raising the gun in a two handed shooting stance, taking careful aim.
“John, don’t be stupid,” he sighed.
“This is a Browning L9A1 semiautomatic pistol,” I replied through gritted teeth. “Thirteen rounds in the clip; I reckon I can unload all of them in a couple of seconds. At this range, even without aiming, that…creature is going to take about half of those in the head and torso before it can reach me from the doorway. I like those odds.”
“John…”
“Go!” The door shuddered again, chips of glass flying from the window. The beast let out a howl of what I could only describe as bloodlust.
“Come on!” Edith opened the back door and she and Sherlock began trying to drag the unruly, noisy pack of dogs through it. I just concentrated on the door, breathing deeply and evenly, finger tightening on the trigger as the door continued to shudder and rattle.
And then it flew open. I mean, literally flew off its hinges. Edith gasped in pure terror, Sherlock shouted something I didn’t quite make out. The dogs went even crazier than they already were, yapping and growling and pulling at their leads.
The thing - the thing that had been Dr Paul Presbury - came through the doorway on all fours, walking on knuckles and feet just like a great ape, bloody to the elbows where he’d smashed his hands to pieces breaking open the doors but seemingly impervious to pain. His - its? - face was a twisted mask of deep purple flesh, literally frothing at the mouth, teeth bared and eyes glittering. He shrieked again and my blood ran cold.
I froze.
I pointed the gun straight at his head, ready to shoot, and I just froze.
I was so scared.
So bloody scared I couldn’t move. I’ve never felt like that, not even in Afghanistan, but that…thing in front of me. I’m not a religious man, but that thing was evil. Manmade, but evil all the same.
“John,” said Sherlock, and he sounded as scared as I felt. Even Sherlock was bricking it - that’s how frightening this man, this thing, this man-thing, was.
Presbury rose fully to his feet, bloody hands raised like claws, legs tensing as he prepared to spring at me, grinning maniacally as he prepared to kill again.
“Jesus,” I said. And I even think I meant it, in that moment. I was about to die, after all.
And then there came a particularly loud yelp from right behind me, the sound of something snapping.
“No, Roy!” Edith cried out. “Don’t!”
Roy the dog sprang past me, snarling furiously, and hit Presbury straight in the throat, teeth first. They went rolling together, over and over back out into the corridor, man and dog locked together in what I can only describe as a death struggle. Suddenly I could move again. I ran after them, pistol at the ready, hearing Sherlock and Edith following close behind me. By the time we caught up to them, it was over.
“Roy?” Edith said faintly. Roy looked up at us, wagging his tail, muzzle smeared with thick red blood. Presbury murmured something indistinctly, more blood gushing from his torn neck, quickly slowing to a trickle then stopping altogether. He was dead before I even managed to crouch beside him, taking his pulse with one hand while keeping the gun pressed to his temple with the other, just in case. I closed his eyes and straightened up. Behind me, I could hear Edith throwing up. I didn’t blame her.
“What did he say?” I wondered. I hadn’t quite made out the words.
Sherlock answered immediately, his voice flat and calm: “He said, “Edith, I love you.””
“Bloody hell,” said Edith and puked again, loudly.
And that’s the story. You don’t have to believe it, and sometimes I’m not really sure I believe it myself. For instance, I can’t believe there have been no legal repercussions. I probably should feel reluctant to blog about it, but quite apart from the fact that it sounds like a made-up story, I’m starting to think that if we were looking at any legal trouble over our involvement, we would have heard about it by now. “M”, of course, said that the case had been taken off Lestrade and given to MI5 and Special Branch. And they, it would seem, just wanted the whole thing forgotten, because we never heard anything official about Presbury’s death or the removal of the animals from the lab.
As for Edith - which isn’t really the name we knew her by, by the way, which in turn was not, I strongly suspect, her real name - she was as good as her word. She and her friends disappeared along with the animals. I hope she and Roy are happy somewhere, one step ahead of the law.
The last word belongs to Sherlock, of course. He always has the last word, even if he has to steal it.
We were sitting in Baker Street a couple of days after the Camford incident, and I happened to mention Presbury’s last words again. To be honest, even though I didn’t hear them clearly at the time, I can’t get them out of my head.
“He did all of that,” I said, “to himself and to others, for love. Or so he told himself.”
“Or so he told himself,” Sherlock murmured, flexing his forearm after applying another patch.
“Well, you know what they say,” I continued. “Love makes fools out of us all.”
Sherlock just gave me a withering sort of look: “Speak for yourself, John.”
11 comments
John, please call me. Reading the above I think we need to talk more than ever. Please call - I’m very concerned about your wellbeing.
E Thompson 8 March 09.13
Oh, what a horrible story! I mean, it was very good, but that ending! I suppose I’m not really into that sort of thing, but I’m sure that other people might like it. So, are you planning on becoming a professional author, John? I still think I’d change the names of the characters, though. Have you seen Sherlock around? I’ve tried calling and texting him, and he hasn’t been to the lab lately. D:
Molly Hooper 8 March 10.46
John, are you alright? Don’t you think you need to see that doctor of yours?
Harry Watson 8 March 12.37
Mate, do you need to talk again? I’ll be in the Railway Arms after eight tonight, so you know…
Bill Murray 8 March 14.14
John, John, John. I said keep me honest, not embark upon a full-blown character assassination! Do you think you could have made me appear any more clueless and ineffectual in this last part? And as for the action movie machismo you managed to inject into your own role in the affair…
Sherlock Holmes 8 March 17.22
If the shoe fits…
John Watson 8 March 18.02
And what does that mean? I’m not interested in “looking good” for the sort of proles who read this pap, just in making sure the online account bears at least a passing similarity to the real events of the case.
Sherlock Holmes 8 March 18.10
Poor little you. @Bill: Railway Arms it is, the sooner the better.
John Watson 8 March 18.23
Oh, running away to the pub are we?
Sherlock Holmes 8 March 18.30
Get a room you two.
Harry Watson 8 March 19.04
A fascinating tale, if a little hard to believe. I look forward to discussing this one in person with you, Sherlock. Oh, and don’t worry about Herr Professor Lowenstein. His indiscretions were quite intolerable. He won’t be troubling anybody anymore. See you soon. “Ta-ta” for now!
Anonymous 9 March 01:22