Cauldron-Born [SHERLOCK FANFIC]

Turning the Tables

Garner thundered up to Sherlock’s room, jammed the key into the doorknob, and kicked the door open. Standing at the entrance, with his hands balled, he looked from one side of the room to the other. “Sherlock Holmes!” Garner shouted, his voice bouncing back off of the sallow walls. Tearing through the room and into the bathroom, Garner found his folly. There, the sink and its pipes had been ripped out. Peering into the hole, Garner saw the innards pulled and pushed aside for the long-legged detective to crawl through. Where he was now in the systems, was unpredictable.

Slamming a fist against the wall, Garner cursed to himself and pulled his head out. Tapping his chin, he rushed back down to the lab, which was a good run away. Feeling his heart beat against his chest in a furious beat, the professor pulled out his walkie-talkie and called in back-up, but in doing so, all he received were empty dial tones. Skidding to a stop, Garner reached out for the emergency button located at every end of a hall, but as his fingers grazed the handle, the lights and power went down.

The detective was up to something.

“Turn on the light, dammit, or I’ll shoot!” Garner bluffed. Indeed, the professor was a man of chemistry and science, but he was also a man easily afraid of his own imagination. Trailing his hand against the wall, he began backing away slowly, his eyes tracking the darkness.

“As you wish,” came the deep, mocking voice as the lights flickered back on. But as the white lights bloomed into a visual aid, Sherlock jumped down from the fixtures above and sent a flying fist at the professor, sending the man straight into the wall. Garner slumped to the ground unconscious. Sherlock smirked and turned around to Charlie, who he had freed. Looking at his watch, he said to Charlie, “You’ve got exactly seven minutes to find John and Alana. That’ll give me enough time to get a serum together.”

Charlie’s face became white at his solo duty. “Mr. Holmes, I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“Look for the signs, Charlie. Put yourself in the trail. Put yourself in your father’s shoes – where would you hide two people? By the way, be careful of the homemade graveyard in room #221.” Sherlock shrugged casually and made his way back to the lab, leaving Charlie on his own.

Squinting and blinking in confusion, the young man repeated, “Graveyard?” But seeing he had no more time to let his mind wander, he took off down the hall, searching for “the signs” and tracks. On his way down, he stumbled to a halt at the room cracked to his left. He found it interesting because not only was it an open invitation, but there was dirt dribbling out from under the door. Looking at his watch and giving himself thirty seconds, the boy threw the door open and saw, to his horror, mounds of dirt about six feet long, and seven inches tall. Swallowing, he entered the large room, dimly lit. With his feet, he carefully kicked the dirt away from one mound.

Charlie’s breath came out in surprise at the revelation of a dried face underneath the dirt. A tag was attached around the neck with the scribbled words, “failed,” and then the date of the experiment performed and the date on which the person died. Charlie uncovered several bodies, realizing the extent of his father’s insanity. On one of the last bodies, Charlie scuffed the dirt off, only to find the face not that of a stranger, but a gritty resemblance of someone he knew long ago.

“Mom?”

Sherlock swept his hands over the laboratory desks, searching for a specific serum. In his hand, he held a snap case of eight tubes lined up, each a certain chemical he would later mix to hopefully produce a cure.  However, he was one bottle short and time was running faster than he had predicted. He had tranquilized the guards with rubbing alcohol, giving himself ten minutes or less to fulfill his plan. When he came upon the last cabinet, he saw that it was locked. Throwing a hand in the air, Sherlock mumbled to himself, “Doesn’t anyone trust anyone anymore?” Placing the bottles down on the counter below him, Sherlock took a thread from one of his shirt’s buttons and made a small loop with it.

Carefully, and with steady fingers, the detective slipped the loop into the hole and slowly wiggled it around until it caught itself around something. Holding it still, Sherlock pulled another thread out from the bottom of his shirt and made another loop. He inserted it in beside his first loop and then, with his tongue stuck out from the corner of his mouth in concentration, he pulled the lock loose, opening the cabinet. Pumping his fist in a downward motion of victory, Sherlock opened the cabinet and began searching for the chemical.

“Found what you needed?” snarled a voice.

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock closed the cabinet and turned around. “Ah, Professor, you made it—,” Sherlock stopped in mid-sentence as he saw, on a chain, a ferocious flesh-eater.

Tsking, Garner cooed, “You should have let me injected you, you would’ve been able to fight against these monsters. You also should have let me have Charlie; I probably could’ve made a medication that would cure any infection or disease. You’re a man of science; you should have understood my intentions.” Garner toyed with the leash, electrocuting the monster whenever it tried to slash at its master. “Why do you always think you should fix something?”

“You release him on me, I will destroy these!” Sherlock held up the case, flashing it in front of Garner.

“You wouldn’t,” Garner dared.

“Watch me.”

The two men stared at each other, their eyes eating into each other’s souls. Sherlock saw an opening and threw the case across the room just as Garner released the zombie. As the zombie charged forward, Garner raced for the case. Sherlock went for neither, instead, he ran for the exit. Upon reaching his escape, Garner opened the case to find nothing.

“Damn you, Holmes!” Garner shouted, standing up to attack the detective.

Sherlock was prepared. He spun around and sent an electric shock into the professor’s chest. Throwing the weapon down, freeing his hands, he slammed the door shut on the zombie. When he had secured the door, he let out a huge sigh and patted his pockets. There, safely in the folds of his trousers, were all eight serums.