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The tepid sunlight drifted lower and lower through the heavy front room curtains of 221B Baker Street as Dr. John Watson collapsed into his familiar chair, exhausted after spending the majority of the day chasing his flat mate in search of answers to an unsolvable suicide.
“It should have been straightforward.” John thought as he opened a new tab on his laptop and began to record their adventures in another of his numerous blog entries. “Jilted Lover Leaps Off Ardaleigh” splashed across the morning headlines as the media devoured the ‘Woman finds husband with a lover and jumps from the biggest monument available to death in the Thames below’ sob story that allowed the reporters to gravely shake their coiffed heads and harp on the dangers of emotional instability and pressure on professional women in the modern age before flipping to the latest shiny weight loss program.
And that’s all it should have been. A heartbreaking, but easy suicide. But “Nothing’s ever easy where Sherlock’s involved.” John grumbled recalling the events of that morning.
Sherlock had barged into his room at promptly 6:00 AM and rudely yanked the covers off John’s drowsy form announcing, “We have a case. Lestrade wants us to look at the corpse of the Burkett woman before the family takes the body. I told him we’d be there in approximately 10 minutes.”
“Sherlock.” John grunted reminding himself to discuss space boundaries with the curly haired detective when the opportunity arose, “You can go by yourself and let me know if there’s anything later. I was really planning on-“
“Oh but Lestrade wants you too John,” Sherlock said as he opened the curtains to the weak morning sun “He thinks your medical expertise might be of value. Besides, I find your presence… illuminating.” He decided, settling on the vague adjective.
“What do you mean illuminating?” John questioned curiously pushing himself into an upright position against the headboard of the bed, “You’re the one who always figures everything out, I’m just along for the ride.”
“John. You have your merits.” Sherlock admonished, “You are the conduit to case work, even though I provide the spark to their resolution.” Pep talk complete, Sherlock exited the room as John added “occasional modesty” to the mental laundry list of topics to discuss with the lanky Consulting Detective and trudged his way over to the wardrobe to select suitable clothing for a day of attempting to follow his partner’s deductions.
“Aren’t you finished yet?” Sherlock complained after a minute poking his head around the door frame, “Lestrade says this one’s not entirely typical.”
“We’re clueless.” Lestrade informed the pair as they exited their black cab at a side entrance of St. Barts’ hospital “I mean, Ardaleigh bridge, it’s always buzzing, even at night. Nobody saw a thing! Nothing around where she jumped, her clothes were useless when we pulled her out.” The greying detective huffed in frustration, his breath condensing in front of his face in the early morning light. “In fact the really only defining- never mind. You’ll see soon enough.” He finished entering into the cold, sterile atmosphere of the morgue.
“I’m sure we will Detective Inspector.” Sherlock remarked offhandedly, scanning the familiar setting of stainless steel tables and sharp instruments, “We’re more than capable of handling the remains of another posh executive. Additionally, Molly I believe, is more than adequate to answer any necessary points. In the meantime, why don’t you head home? It’s been hmm, four nights since you’ve had more than I’d estimate 4 hours sleep, ill-advised levels of caffeine intake, and quite visible strain lines along with the ink rubbed into your hand show the copious paperwork you’ve been attempting to slog through. I say attempting as your thoughts are still obviously on your wife who’s moved on to meeting with the—“
“Shut it Sherlock.” John interrupted and turned to face the now obviously flagging detective who was supporting himself against the frosted glass door that opened out into the hallway. “He’s right though, you do look a bit worn out mate. Take a cab and get some sleep. The grotty forms will wait.”
“But you don’t understand. God knows I don’t either, but what we found--“he pointed to the figure lying on the examination table under a white sheet, “Isn’t normal. Besides, if I don’t do the forms they get left and-“Lestrade trailed off visibly drooping now.
“Greyson.” Sherlock called “Go home. Rest. You’re no good to me this way. I will summon the idiot if I am forced.”
“Anderson doesn’t take orders from you Sherlock.” Lestrade scoffed rolling his eyes.
“Would you like to test that assumption Detective Inspector?” the Consulting Detective questioned, miraculously pulling Greg’s sleek, department issued mobile from the pocket of his dark coat and began scrolling through contacts with his index finger.
“Sherlock you win. Don’t nick my stuff.” Lestrade complained holding out a callused palm to collect the device, sighing in relief as it was returned to him without any scorching texts shown down the “send all” avenue. “I won’t be far. If you find anything-“
“Yes yes, text immediately so you can confirm. Though you shouldn’t bother Galen. Nothing I’ll discover needs confirmation. Really, I don’t see why you need our precious time on this one. All the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put Burkett back together again and all that. Gravity’s a rather simple concept.” Sherlock finished and strode towards the corpse.
“Sorry.” John apologized, “We’ll let you know.” And followed behind to inspect the victim whose covering Sherlock had immediately yanked away and let slide to the floor with seemingly no concern for the modesty of the deceased woman. “Molly?” John called “Are you in?”
“Of course she is.” Sherlock mumbled absorbed in his inspection at the same moment that the desired special registrar emerged through the swinging tan doors connecting to the lab, clutching a stack of manila file folders, and copper blonde ponytail swinging in tempo with her eager trot towards the partners, faltering slightly as she viewed her “patient” in a slightly altered state of nudity than she’d been left.
Sherlock smirked at Molly’s discomfort as she turned away from the nude body, “I-I don’t mind, “ she stammered, “It’s more of a hospital regulation ‘dignity in death’ kind of thing, but if you need her uncovered I suppose it’s fine.” Taking her hands, John tugged her away from the discomfiting scene towards the set of body lockers on the opposite wall. “Melanie Reanna Burkett. CEO of Lueur cosmetics. Consistently some of the highest selling stocks on the LSE for over three years, sales through the roof, and no scandals at all.” John recounted the research he’d done before leaving the flat to become better acquainted with the body on the table behind them. “Always poised, well spoken, and beautiful. But was she 48 like they said? That’s a 30 year old, tops.” He commented gesturing at the body.
“Tinted moisturizer and eyeliner are wonderful masks on their own John, think of what a woman can do to her appearance with an entire cosmetics arsenal at hand. And Molly, that particular tidbit came out of case research and experimentation, not from any personal relationship; just to spare you the endless wondering.” Sherlock stated running his index finger along the sharp part in Burkett’s flawlessly dyed blonde strands.
“I wasn’t thinking that.” Molly protested, blushing.
“Yes you were.” Sherlock confirmed “The hitch from your regular breathing pattern-“
“But isn’t all the glitter and luxe enough even if the husband isn’t?” John cut in, “Is billionaire land without a boy on your arm unacceptable or something? Why suicide if you have everything otherwise?”
“Big industries and those who lead them are incredibly shallow, people do ridiculous things in the name of sentiment John.” Sherlock informed him, “Including making the decision that life isn’t worth living without “the one” instead of just finding the lookalike of that intended love interest. Finding a substitute isn’t hard, statistically there are 7 others on the planet that closely resemble the un-reciprocating target of affection.”
“Where’d you learn that? Twitter?” John responded noticing the dubiousness of the information. Sherlock, as per usual, declined to answer verbally but his eyes flicked downward in an atypical, almost embarrassed manner.
A few minutes later, John was pulled from hazy daydreams of the night out he had planned with Jean for the following week by Sherlock angrily throwing a graduated cylinder to the floor where it shattered into thousands of crystalline fragments. “Where’s her ring? The wedding ring! The infatuated never take them off!” he shouted.
“Sherlock, they did say she’d been laying in the water for probably a good four hours before they reached her. Maybe it got lost downstream.” John rationalized, attempting to avoid the majority of the shards now littering the morgue’s white tiles as he approached the corpse, “Whatever else you think you should be finding was either nonexistent from the beginning, washed away, or you just haven’t found it yet.”
”John.” Sherlock corrected haughtily, “I do not ‘miss things’ as you are no doubt implying. Only dull cases allow for the tedium that results in errors, thus we don’t take them. Yet, the only vaguely interesting about dear old Melanie at the moment is these funny little markings,” and pointed with an index finger to a spot below the Lueur executive’s carotid artery.
Leaning over, John viewed the identical oozing slash marks on the executive’s throat; each were approximately 2 inches long and most curiously of all, shaded brilliant hues of cerulean and emerald that shimmered a bit even under the flat florescent lighting. “This can’t be. Nope. Not happening.” John murmured scrubbing a hand across his eyes.
“What do you think?” Sherlock questioned looking up from his mobile with a tone expressing that he already knew the entirely impossible answer, but wished confirmation. “Sherlock. Those gashes aren’t an injury. I think they’re gills.”
******************************************************
“And that was as far as we got.” John recalled, exhaling noisily in exasperation recalling the rest of the day's events. Half an hour and three other broken pieces of lab equipment later, the Consulting Detective had strode out of Bart’s mortuary, and hailed a cab throwing something about “You take the next one.” over his shoulder into the grey afternoon. Upon arriving at Baker Street, John found his flat mate curled upon the couch facing the wall.
“It’ll be alright Sherlock,” John assured the almost certainly pouting detective, “You’re brilliant, and even if Burkett doesn’t get solved it’s not a big deal.” The lanky form on the couch didn’t even twitch. “Anyone else I could talk to then? A brick wall maybe?” John had rolled his eyes and settled in for a quiet evening, Sherlock’s brooding was the prime environment for concentrating on clinic paperwork and reviewing new drug studies from the reports that seemed to fall by the wayside in the constant assistance of his friend.
Yet between the lines of medical jargon on the computer screen, concerns about the case remained. “I know he’s good, and he damn well knows he’s good. But it bothers him when stuff like this comes up.” John thought. “Makes him think he’s not good enough, or God forbid like everyone else. Like everyone’s about to unmask his deductions as just a magic—“ At that moment John became distracted by Sherlock pulling out a Beretta 92 handgun which he proceeded to use to fire three rounds into the wall, accentuating the already present smiley face.
“Sherlock not again!” John roared. “What will Mrs. Hudson say? Didn’t I confiscate that thing after the first time you pulled this!?”
“Bored. And guessing your code to the desk safe was too temptingly simple. Do try to make the digits more interesting than Harry’s birthday next time. “ Sherlock replied lackadaisically before shooting an additional two bullets into the already greatly abused surface.
“Stop it!” John shouted tackling the larger man on the sofa, “This is totally irresponsible!”
“Responsibility. Dull.” Sherlock commented as he waved the Beretta out of reach.
“Sherlock. You’re. Acting. Like. A. Child.” John grunted, straining for the gun “Just--“and was interrupted by the surprise of a set of cool, thin fingers suddenly covering his lips.
“Shut up!” Sherlock hissed, removing his hand from his partner’s face once John had quieted. “Listen. It’s whooshing.” As they both turned to locate the origin of the distinct wheezing noise, a fierce wind picked up, knocking many of Sherlock’s files and precariously balanced petri dishes into a muddle on the floor, accompanied by the materialization of a deep blue police box on the carpet between the two chairs in front of the tiled fireplace.
John glanced at Sherlock as the odd object solidified. The detective’s eyes were carefully scanning every inch of the grained surface for any hint as to how such a thing could appear out of thin air. He could practically see the smoke coming out of Sherlock’s ears as his brain whizzed about for a solution to the puzzle in front of them. As Sherlock worked, John quickly scrambled off his torso realizing the position he’d maintained from the gun fight would compromise their chances against an unfriendly intruder, just as the weathered door of the blue police box creaked open.
A man in a navy blue suit emerged, looking about the room in interest while adjusting his eyeglasses before he noticed Sherlock, whose head was cocked in fascination, and a wary John eyeing him from the floor. “Ah! Hello! Oh. Sorry about that. So sorry.” He smiled sheepishly upon noticing the detritus of the former experimentation surrounding his contraption.
“What is that? “ Sherlock questioned, his gaze feverishly jumping between the stranger and the big blue machine in an attempt at comprehension.
“That.” The man said, gesturing with the enthusiasm of a circus ringmaster, “Is the TARDIS. Time and Relative Dimension in Space, and my transportation. Well, not entirely, the Underground can be quite nice at times, met a wonderful group of Foamasi down there in 1987. I’m the Doctor by the way.”
John’s forehead crinkled in confusion. “I’m sorry, Doctor Who?”
. “Doctor. Just the Doctor.” The man reiterated.
“How did you get in here?” John persisted, “Showing up in someone’s, you can’t just-“
“Yeah, he tends to do that.” Another voice piped up as a redheaded woman stepped out of the TARDIS to stand beside the Doctor. “Donna Noble by the way since you didn’t ask. Hello Dr. Watson.”
“Chiswick from the grating accent.” Sherlock mumbled, noticing the newest arrival. “Some sort of office position, but not a high ranking one based on the low expense of her wardrobe and-“
“There’s no way you could’ve known that. If Celene’s called you I swear she’s gonna hear it later. If you want to talk about accents you can shove the bloody posh thing you’ve got going on up your--” Donna flared angrily, launching herself toward the still reclined detective.
“Charming.” He remarked, indifferent to her rage.
“What? Donna! He just does that. It’s alright.” The Doctor soothed pulling her backwards before she could finish her tirade. “Anyway.” He continued glancing pointedly at his companion, “That’s not why we’re here. Sherlock. The Burkett case is a little more complicated than I believe you’d anticipated?”
“Please.” Sherlock scoffed “There’s at least 9 separate scenarios I’ve anticipated that may resolve the suicide to be explored in the coming 48 hours.”
“Ah. But it wasn’t a typical suicide. Not entirely. Something you haven’t seen before.” The Doctor interjected shifting his weight between his red Conversed feet, “Melanie Burkett was upset over her husbands’ erm, indiscretion, but hadn’t really planned on jumping until she went for a stroll on the waterfront.”
“Yes Doctor, the odds of humans coming across the romantically moronic solution of jumping from a bridge when they see said bridge increases by approximately 74.3%.” Sherlock stated sardonically.
“No you don’t understand!” The Doctor insisted, “The section of the Thames where she jumped is infested with Raxiraen.”
“Raxiraen.” John said incredulously. “What's that? New action figure for kids or something?”
“No not at all! The Raxiraen are an aquatic species that thrive off sorrow and pain as an energy source.” The Doctor exclaimed, projecting an image of a green, Sprite-like creature onto the wall with a buzzing device that looked curiously like a glowing screwdriver. “Especially human pain now that they’ve found it. So raw, potent, just delicious for some you realize. Similar to the Vashta Nerada finding human transport-”
“Oi, Spaceman, that library stop was no picnic. Stay on track if you please.” Donna warned.
“Right, right, sorry.” He muttered, “Even though the Raxiraen use the suffering of others, they do have some conscience, so after they’ve tapped in on a decent amount of the subject’s pain, they’ll try to initiate them into the group.”
“Raxiraen society. She jumped to join the new species.” Sherlock clarified, fingers tented in thought. “Her wedding ring was missing. Why would they care about the ring?”
“Societal initiation. Exactly! The ring was a personal effect; a tangible object related to the suffering helps them increase the energy collected from the individual.” The Doctor rambled as he ran his fingers through his mocha brown hair in excitement, causing it to stick up at strange angles, lending to his overall aura of chaotic disarray. “But being a submarine community, trying to join means that some uhm, alterations occur on initiates that human systems just aren’t meant to take.”
“The gills. Clever adaptation.” Sherlock realized. “Pity it fails. Why do you need us Doctor? You seem to have matters firmly in hand.”
“Wait. Could more people get hurt by these things?” John asked urgently, his caregiving instincts activated.
“Erm. Yeah. That’s why we’re here. The Raxiraen need to be evacuated from the area before someone else follows Melanie’s path. We’ll load them onto the TARDIS but it’ll attract too much attention just appearing; the waterfront needs to be cleared and I don’t have the authority to do that.”
“I told him we should just set an explosion.” Donna added. “But of course he’s against the National Terrorism route.” The corner of Sherlock’s mouth raised with a hint of a smile at the thought of destruction.
“Along with the added police presence afterwards I suppose. Not particularly in anyone’s favor. How long do you need?” He questioned rising quickly and reaching for his dark pea coat.
“Only an hour or two.” The Doctor informed.
“John. Mobile.” Sherlock demanded, and John, sighing at the all too familiar routine tossed his own cell phone across the room to Sherlock’s waiting palm. With fingers flying over the phone’s screen, Sherlock started down the stairs without a second glance.
“Allons-y!” The Doctor proclaimed following a few footsteps behind as the pair quickly fell out of sight.
“I’m assuming he does that a lot? The bolting off on ‘some plan nobody understands but him’ thing?” Donna asked brushing her light auburn bangs out of her vision.
“How did you guess?” John laughed as he felt about for his keys in his pockets.
“Mine does too. Typical for blokes like them. Awful lot of running with the Doctor. I mean, coming to you two isn’t typical, most of the time he thinks he can do everything himself. Thinks he doesn’t need anyone, but he’s wrong. Keeps you dizzy trying to keep up sometimes though.” Donna explained “Best thing to do is just follow and see what happens. But anyways, c’mon Hobbit!” She cried shifting from honest confession to teasing in less than a second yanking John across the room in her wake. "Let’s follow Curly and have an adventure!”
“Curly? Sherlock isn’t going to like that one. But Hobbit? That’s the best you could come up with?” John fired back over Donna’s laughter as they trundled down the Baker Street steps into the darkening evening.