John followed Sherlock as the detective marched straight into one of the smaller labs.
Dr. Stapleton looked up from a white rabbit that she was examining. "Oh, back again?" she said, placing her gloved hands on either side of the rabbit. "What's on your mind this time?"
"Murder, Dr. Stapleton," Sherlock answered. "Refined, cold-blooded murder." He flipped the light switch.
John wasn't even surprised to see that the rabbit was glowing a bright green in the dim light.
Sherlock flicked the lights back on. "Will you tell little Kirsty what happened to Bluebell or shall I?"
The woman sighed. "What do you want?"
"Can I borrow your microscope?" Sherlock asked.
Not even twenty minutes later, they were in another lab where Sherlock was studiously examining something he had pulled out of his coat pocket. While Sherlock was doing that, John managed to locate some tea. It was the lesser bagged sort, but it was better than nothing.
John glanced at his watch before groaning. It was barely after 3:30. How much more of this day could he handle? Maybe he should just meet up with Molly and whack some Heartless around. Yet he knew Sherlock preferred to have even a small audience once he made a grand discovery.
So, for at least forty-five minutes to an hour, John sat on a stool while Sherlock looked through the microscope, crushed something with a miniature hammer, dipped into his Mind Palace, and scribbled things down with markers.
"Are you sure you're okay?"
John jolted to awareness at Dr. Stapleton's question.
"You look very peaky," she said, a hint of motherliness in her demeanor.
"No," John assured her. "I'm alright."
"It was the GFP gene from a jellyfish," she offered randomly. "In case you're interested."
"What?" John asked before it properly clicked. "Oh, right the rabbits." This case had one too many twists to keep straight. Not including his mind's conjuring of Williams.
"Aequoria Victoria, if you really want to know," Dr. Stapleton said.
Curiosity overtook him. "Why?" he asked.
"Why not?" she returned. "We don't ask questions like that here. It isn't done."
John picked up the growing prickle of annoyance in Sherlock as Dr. Stapleton continued.
"There was a mix-up, anyway," she said. "My daughter ended up with one of the lab specimens, so poor Bluebell had to go."
John raised an eyebrow. A rather cruel, cavalier attitude. "Your compassion's overwhelming," he said.
"I know," she answered with the same sarcasm. "I hate myself sometimes."
Ignoring Sherlock's annoyance that seemed to be shifting into exasperation, John continued talking with Dr. Stapleton. "So, come on then. You can trust me. I'm a doctor. What else have you got hidden away up here?"
"Listen," Dr. Stapleton said, "if you can imagine it, someone is probably doing it somewhere. Of course they are."
"And cloning?" John asked.
"Yes, of course. Dolly the Sheep, remember?"
John nodded, recalling seeing and reading some medical reports. "Human cloning?" he asked, trying to gain an understanding of how she thought.
"Why not?" Dr. Stapleton asked.
"What about animals? Not sheep . . . big animals."
"Size isn't a problem," she assured, "not at all. The only limits are ethics and the law, and both those things can be . . . very flexible. But not here – not at Baskerville."
YOU ARE READING
The Question of Faith in Baskerville
Ficción GeneralIt's been nearly a year since John became a Christian. Sherlock studies his flatmate and his supposed change. It's merely a distraction between cases, and then a client offers not only an unusual case about a hound but the potential of the perfect t...
