Cauldron-Born [SHERLOCK FANFIC]

Meeting the Creator

An orchestra of mischief crescendo throughout a darkened room. The spotlight was made up of a flickering panel light and the instruments consisted of stifled breathing, the clinking of metal against glass, and then the accompanying of shuffling feet.   The morbid melody died down and a man, dressed in slacks, button-down shirt, and a pair of goggles, placed a basin down on the floor. His hairy forearm wiped away his sweat and his chest fell in exhaustion.

His eyes, soft and blue, looked up at a blinking computer monitor. The image playing was a ceiling view of Sherlock Holm’s flat.  Walking over to the screen, he dimmed the light and turned to a man sitting in a chair directly in front of it. Smirking, the man said teasingly, “Thank you for the use of your surveillances, Mr. Holmes.”

The man in the chair squirmed and attempted to mouth an insult through the masking tape, but couldn’t do so without having the trouble of breathing through his nose. The other man reached out and tore the tape off, slow enough to make the other man wriggle.

“I have a question, Mr. Holmes. I would like an answer, if you don’t mind.”

“For the last time, I am not Sherlock Holmes! For God’s sake, I’m Mycroft! Do I look like a Sherlock Holmes?” the older Holmes protested, stomping a foot in anger. “You’ve been spying on my younger brother for the last 24 hours: I would think you would see the difference in our…personalities.”

“Mr. Holmes, so far I’ve seen my son, a doctor, an extremely beautiful woman, and your brother pacing in a flat doing nothing! And without your help with installing audio, I can’t be sure, now can I?” the man, who was indeed Charlie’s father, growled and returned to whatever experiment he was conducting before speaking to Mycroft.

“Seriously, Professor Garner,” Mycroft began in his usual pinched voice, “You seem quite out of touch with the world if you suspect me to be the ‘great consulting detective.’”

“I’ve been in hiding, Mr. Holmes. Of course I’m not going to know everything. However, your previous deductions on myself and what I’m up to was just as perfect as when we were in Cambridge.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. It was quite true about his talent in deduction. Though he didn’t flaunt it as his younger brother so often did, the seven-year older brother was just as good, if not better. “Well, I did go to Cambridge, but it was before Sherlock attended. I can assure you I’ve never met you!”

“Whether you’re Sherlock Holmes or Mycroft, you still managed to help me locate my son.”

Groaning, Mycroft dropped his head. “You know I can charge you for abduction. I am in contact with the British Government.”   

“Listen, Mr. Holmes, I need you alive enough to help me get my son and, assuming you’re also a scientist, cure him before he dies of the poison leaking from his body.” Professor Garner scooted the basin he had placed on the ground underneath a ceiling leakage.

“Yes, but we also have to stop these flesh-eaters!” Mycroft reminded in a lowered voice. “We can’t have them running lose!”

“Well, I can’t stop them if I don’t have my son. And I won’t stop them until you bring my son to me, Mr. Holmes.”

Mycroft sighed again. “Well, I’m guessing my brother will try and find me…though, I think Peru will be the last place he looks!”

Chuckling, Professor Garner pulled up a chair and straddled it. Resting his arms on the back of the chair, he said, “Well, while we wait, you don’t think you could ring up your government friends and see if they can’t install an audio system in Baker Street as well as connect me with every possible security camera in London. I want eyes on my son at all times.”

“Sound a bit like an overly obsessed parent.”

Smiling, the professor said, “Well, he carries very important chemicals and I don’t want to lose them. If they can stop the bleeding, there may be a good chance I can get him back with enough chemicals left in him to continue my research.”

Widening his eyes, Mycroft gasped, “Are you using your boy as an experiment?”

“I would think you would understand the power of research and how important every specimen is!” Professor Garner snapped. “Whether he is my son or a rat, he’s only part of my work! If I think of him as family, I’ll never be able to achieve anything.”

In his sarcastic drawl, Mycroft said, “And what are you hoping to achieve besides chaos?”

“Well, Mr. Holmes, I hope to achieve a stronger sense of survival within humans. And before you say that it seems to be headed for disaster, I’ll have you know that mistakes happen—but I know how I’ll fix it. And I will fix it. I won’t fail.”

“This is just advice, but don’t put your faith in science. It’s unpredictable and changes constantly. This experiment won’t work—you’re destroying lives and doing quite the opposite in what you hope to achieve. All I see is that the whole of Britain will be overrun by flesh-eaters and they’re be no cure.”

Turning his head to Mycroft, the professor snarled through his teeth, “Then, oh mighty Sherlock Holmes, what do you suggest?”

“I suggest that you cure the boy and find a way to cure the sick—not produce more. It’s only going to spread, especially if it’s contact through the blood stream and saliva. I’ll only help you stop it, not continue it. And please, stop calling me Sherlock!”