jjpor | Fic: The Descent of Man [Sherlock]

Fic: The Descent of Man, Pt. 3

(I hadn’t forgotten about this one, honest! I’ve already edited the previous parts because I’ve realised that Trevor Bennett’s phone was unlikely to still be in his pocket if Lestrade really had “pulled his phone records” as formerly claimed…Now, Lestrade somehow “checked his email” instead…)

Title: The Descent of Man
Part: 3 of 4
Characters: Sherlock, John, Mrs Hudson, DI Lestrade, DS Donovan, Anderson, Mycroft Holmes, "Anthea"
Rating/Warnings: Gen. Some sex references and mild swearing. Discussion of gruesome violence. Scientific testing on animals.
Word count: 12,200 approx. (so far)
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.

The Personal Blog of

Dr. John H. Watson

7^th March

The Descent of Man, Part 3

Sorry for not updating in a few days, was out on another case with Sherlock. He’s a busy man. I’d blog about that one, but I’m still halfway through this, and in any case I don’t think the world’s ready for the story of the footballer, the butter and the aluminium crutch.

It also meant I missed my appointment with Dr Thompson, which may or may not have been a bad thing. Sorry, Dr Thompson, but I was trying to prevent a major international incident while simultaneously proving I was innocent of massive financial fraud. Well, Sherlock was. I was just following him around and helping out with the rough stuff.

So, where was I? Edith Morphy. She stood behind the animal house watching us apprehensively. I’d have watched us apprehensively too if I was her. She wiped her eyes with a soggy piece of tissue but seemed determined not to cry any more in front of us. In fact, she looked at Sherlock like he’d just run over her cat (or maybe Roy the dog). A lot of people look at him like that, it has to be said, but most of them actually know him. Sherlock, of course, was completely oblivious to the visual daggers flying towards him.

“I haven’t got any money,” she began. I realised that the accent I couldn’t quite place was actually a soft Irish lilt, but the main thing I could hear in her voice was anger.

“I don’t want your money,” Sherlock replied dismissively.

“You’re trying to blackmail me, right?” she asked, sharply. “That’s why you sent me that text. From Trev’s phone too – that’s just sick!”

“You’re trying to blackmail her?” I asked, aghast, because while it seemed like a wild accusation, with Sherlock you can never take anything for granted.

“No, I’m not trying to blackmail her,” he scoffed.

“There are policemen right inside there,” she said, nodding at the door. “All I have to do is tell them…”

“You won’t do that, Edith,” he replied. “If you did, they’d just want to know why I was talking to you, and if I told them the truth, which I probably would in the circumstances, DI Lestrade would start fancying you for Trevor’s murder. And none of us want that, now do we? What group do you belong to, Edith? ALF, SHAC, ARM, ALB?”

Her face was suddenly white, anger and tears replaced for the moment by stark shock: “How did you find out?”

“I had a suspicion when I saw your photo on Trevor’s phone just now,” he answered, “but seeing you in person only confirms it.”

“Confirms what?” I asked, failing to follow his line of reasoning, which was nothing new.

“You’re the expert when it comes to women, John,” he went on. “Wouldn’t you say Edith is a little bit out of Trevor’s league?”

“You bastard,” she spat. I nearly agreed with her.

“That’s not very scientific,” I said, with what I still think was admirable restraint, Sherlock, if you’re reading this (of course you’re reading this – you bloody Google yourself. Yes, I caught you doing it that time, remember?).

“True, though,” he shrugged. “Come on, John, Trevor was the sort of person who thinks wearing deodorant and brushing your hair counts as making an effort. How could he hope to – I believe the vernacular term is “pull” – a woman like Edith?” He turned back to her. She was shaking with rage, too furious to speak. “Three things, Edith: The first thing is your shoes, they’re plastic.” He looked down at them. “Which doesn’t clinch it, I’ll admit, but in combination with the other data... The second thing,” he went on, “is the tie you bought for Trevor.”

“How did you know I bought him a tie?” she gasped.

“The same way I know everything else about you,” he retorted. “The internet is a wonderful thing,” he told me, conversationally. “You can buy ties on it, you know.”

“I know,” I murmured, wishing he’d stop, just stop. He’s a genius, and my life suddenly means something again now that I’m his sidekick, assistant, colleague, friend, whatever you want to call it, but Edith was right. He can be a bastard when he wants to be.

“It took me a while,” he told her, “but that tie had a very distinctive pattern. Eventually I found the website you’d bought it from, a website raising funds for an American animal rights charity. Don’t you think that’s strange, John?” he asked me. “Somebody who works in a place like this donating money to animal rights groups?”

“Yeah,” I said, starting to see what he was getting at, still thinking he could have been a bit more tactful, but tact isn’t his thing, is it?

“And the third thing,” he told Edith, “is this.” He pulled half a dozen assorted lipsticks from his coat pocket. “This one?” he wondered, holding one up in front of Edith’s face. “Too red.” He threw it over his shoulder and tried another: “This one? Not red enough…” He tried yet another one and allowed himself a satisfied smile: “Ah, yes… So, Edith, you work in an animal testing laboratory yet you wear plastic shoes, support animal rights charities and use lipstick that is, and I quote, “guaranteed non-animal-tested”.” He gave her a frown of mock-puzzlement: “You even give your unfortunate doomed-to-be-dead test subjects nice little names, like “Roy”. It could be your guilty conscience, I suppose,” he mused, “or it could just be rank hypocrisy, but I’m suspecting there’s more to it than that.”

“Piss off,” she told him, venomously.

“You’d be surprised how many people say that to me, Edith. Or possibly not. You’re not here to smash the place up or turn the animals loose, because you’ve had ample time to do that already. So, you’re here undercover. Gathering information perhaps?”

“Edith,” I said, reaching into my pocket for a tissue. “Edith, it’s all right,” I murmured, handing it to her.

“No it’s not,” she said, wiping her eyes. “He’s dead. And it’s my fault.”

“It’s not your fault,” I told her, reaching out to put a hand on her arm. I hesitated when I saw Sherlock rolling his eyes in scorn. “I’m John,” I told her, “and this is Sherlock. He’s a…well, a detective, sort of.” She looked up in sudden fear. “No, no, not police,” I insisted. “Trevor came to him for help, about…well…”

“About Paul,” she said, softly. “We were talking about it, how he needed help. I didn’t know Trev was going to…” She looked at me: “How much did he tell you?”

“Enough.” I said. “We’re just trying to help, so if Sherlock upset you he didn’t mean to. He can’t help it, he’s a…”

“A knob-head,” she said.

“Yeah, a bit of a knob-head,” I conceded.

“I am standing right here, you know,” said Sherlock. “It isn’t going to take even Anderson all day to fingerprint that chimp, so can we get a move on and look at Roy the dog, please?”

“You want to look at Roy?” she asked, in puzzlement.

“Yes,” he insisted. “Roy.”

“The conditions they house these animals in are appalling,” Edith said as she took us inside. I found myself agreeing with her. The main room was little more than a concrete-floored shed with rows of wire mesh kennels down either side. Through the reinforced glass window in the far door, I caught a glimpse of Lestrade and Anderson, no doubt wondering how to go about getting forensic traces from a chimpanzee without getting their faces bitten off. The dogs started barking as soon as Edith entered.

“That’s Roy,” she said, indicating a nondescript mongrel in the nearest cage on the left. “The chimps are through there,” she said, nodding at the far door. “They’re better housed, but how would you like to live your life in a cage?”

“Wouldn’t be much fun,” I agreed, thinking that the way Sherlock was carrying on I might soon be finding out what it was like at first hand.

“That’s why I’m here.” Edith lowered her voice to a near-whisper: “Break-ins and vandalism do no good in the long run. These companies all have insurance policies. And targeting staff just makes us look like nutters, turns the guy in the street right off, but…if people just knew…”

“So, you’ve been gathering evidence,” Sherlock surmised, crouching down beside the door to Roy’s cage. “That would also explain why you slept with Trevor.”

“That’s not why,” she told us, very quietly, slumping back against the door. “I wouldn’t do that, not even for the movement. And I wouldn’t do it to Trev. Trev and me, it wasn’t like that,” she insisted wretchedly, tears starting to flow again. “He was funny and sweet and…it wasn’t like that.”

“Then what about you and Dr Presbury?” Sherlock asked impassively. “Was that “like that”?”

“What are you…?” For a few moments Edith’s mouth just opened and closed like a goldfish.

“Good boy,” Sherlock told Roy, with absolute insincerity, holding his fingers to the cage door, letting the dog lick them through the wire mesh. “Isn’t he a friendly dog, John? Good dog, Roy…”

“Is it true?” I asked Edith, in what I hoped was a non-judgmental tone of voice. “You and Dr Presbury…?”

“How does he…?” she asked, nodding at Sherlock, looking genuinely scared.

“He just…” I shrugged. “He’s…really…clever?”

“Careful John, you’ll make me blush.” Sherlock stood up again and rounded on Edith: “I was only fifty percent sure after seeing Dr Presbury’s reaction when I mentioned your name to him. Your reaction just now increased that to one hundred percent.” He looked at me, sardonically: “You see, John, it’s all about the poker face, or the lack of same. You funny little people, I can read you like books sometimes.”

For someone with little or no empathy for his fellow humans, Sherlock can be surprisingly astute about emotions when he wants to be. It’s just another game to him, I think, an intellectual exercise. I think he knows after long years of study and observation, that “x” reaction from someone means they’re feeling “y”, but he doesn’t necessarily know what “y” feels like or why it’s inappropriate for him to goad them about it.

“Dr Presbury…Paul…since you ask, no, it wasn’t like that either,” Edith protested. “It wasn’t…” She glanced at the door again, worried that Lestrade or somebody would come walking in at any moment. “I came here expecting to hate him, for what he was doing…but…apart from the animals, he was a nice guy, a bit lonely I think…and, and one night he asked me to go for a drink, and…”

“And one thing just led to another?” Sherlock sneered.

“Sort of…” She looked down at the floor, pausing for a long moment before continuing. “He couldn’t…We went back to my place and…we tried, but Paul couldn’t…”

Sherlock just looked at her, eyebrows raised in mystification: “Yes?” I knew what she meant, just from the way she said it, even if it eluded boy genius. I wondered if he’d ever… Well, in Sherlock’s case I wouldn’t be surprised if it turned out he never had, if you know what I mean.

“He couldn’t…” I felt a sort of vague male embarrassment, me the medical professional for crying out loud. “He… I don’t think he could,” I coughed; “you know, perform.”

“Ah.” Sherlock nodded. “I see. Well, it’s not uncommon in men his age. “ He looked at Edith again: “So did you just cuddle or something? Did you tell him that was just as good?”

“Why are you so cruel?” she asked him, choking up again. Excellent question.

“Hello!” he said, so patronisingly I could have punched him. “High-functioning sociopath! And when did this…encounter take place?”

“About a month ago,” she murmured, still looking at the floor. “No, longer than that… Maybe two months.”

“And this was before you started your relationship with Trevor?” He didn’t wait for an answer: “Of course it was; deodorant, and that tie was brand new…” He looked around the room for a moment and then turned back to her: “You think Paul killed Trevor, don’t you?”

“I…I don’t…know…”

“Of course you do. I think he killed him too. I even think I know why he killed him, but the question is…how…?”

“Don’t you think we’d better tell Lestrade?” I asked. “Let him take care of it? I mean, if he really did beat Trevor to death with his bare hands,” and I heard Edith give another gasp of anguish as I said this, making me hate myself for my insensitivity, “then his DNA’ll be all over him, and vice versa. It’s surely only a matter of time before Lestrade catches him anyway, even if he is wasting time on chimps…”

“You’re right,” said Sherlock, actually sounding worried for a second. “We might not have very long at all…”

“What do you mean?” I asked, nonplussed by his concern.

“We might not have very long to find out what really happened here before Lestrade goes arresting Presbury for Trevor’s murder.”

“Well, won’t that be the best outcome?” I asked. “Even you say he’d have the right man.” Sherlock glanced at me despairingly:

“Yes, John, but Lestrade would be arresting the right man for the wrong reasons, because he acted a bit funny and had Trevor’s blood on him! No deduction, no observation involved! I need to know exactly what happened and why and whether my theories are correct. If the police go interfering we may never know all the details!”

And I realised he was telling the truth – he needed to solve this, and not just because it was an amusing game, or because it would confirm his high opinion of his own intellect. He needed it, the way other people need, well, things. The way people like Trevor and Edith find they need each other, despite being on opposite sides of the fence politically. And that, if you think about it, is kind of shocking and kind of sad. It’d be easy to start feeling sorry for Sherlock, except he doesn’t realise he has anything for other people to feel sorry about.

“Edith,” he said, decisively. “I want you to do something for me. I’ll text you later with the details. John and I need to make some further enquiries. You should probably go and help Anderson with that chimp before something horrible happens to him. And whatever you do,” he told her, “don’t breathe a word to Lestrade about suspecting Presbury. The Inspector doesn’t get to know all the facts until I’m ready for him to know.”

“But…” She looked at the door again. “Shouldn’t he…?”

“No, he shouldn’t. And before you go telling him anything, bear in mind how it will look when your involvement with the protestors comes out. You’d be in the frame yourself. And don’t think Lestrade wouldn’t think you were a suspect just because it’s blindingly obvious you didn’t do it. He is only a policeman, after all.”

“Great, Sherlock,” I said when we were outside, walking towards the entrance gate and leaving Lestrade and the other police behind. “Not only do you go trampling all over a woman who lost her boyfriend only this morning – found her boyfriend with his head smashed in, mind you – but then you go blackmailing her into going along with one of your schemes! Brilliant!”

“Please, John,” he replied, disgustedly. “Spare me the moralising. You want to find out what happened in that laboratory last night as much as I do.”

“I…” I sighed as we passed the security checkpoint and started down the road outside, looking for a cab. “Yeah,” I admitted eventually. “I suppose I do.”

“Of course you do.” Sherlock glanced up at the tall fence running along the side of the road. “Yes, interesting,” he commented. I glanced up too and saw that from where we were standing it was a straight line straight across the carpark to Trevor’s lab, and to the animal house beyond. “Very interesting…”

It was then that the long official-looking car pulled up beside us, a Jag, no less, with gleaming dark blue paintwork and tinted windows. They must have been waiting down the road for us to come out. One of the windows gently slid open.

“Oh, hi Anthea,” I managed (it’s not her real name, btw). “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Oh no, not her…” Sherlock groaned in annoyance. “Tell him I’m busy.”

“We’re all busy, Sherlock,” said the smiling young woman in the back of the car.

“I don’t suppose you just happened to be in the neighbourhood?” I asked hopefully. “No?”

“No,” she answered without looking up from her Blackberry. “Get in, boys.”

“And where are we going?” Sherlock asked bitterly when we were both in the spacious backseat with “Anthea”, heading for some undisclosed location. “His secret volcano base?”

“Just sit back and enjoy the ride,” she told him, eyes on her emails.

“Still, er…” I tried to look like a fellow professional as I smiled back at her. “Still doing that, er, secret agent thing, then?”

“No, I decided to pack it in and become an estate agent instead.” She waited for a moment before sparing me an amused glance: “Joke, John.”

“Oh.” I managed a fake laugh and she sort of smiled and shook her head as she got back to her work. I considered that a result for my masculine charms. I find setting my expectations low means I’ll never be disappointed.

Yeah, I probably should have mentioned this bloke before. I’ve been a bit wary because, well, he’s probably not the sort of man you should get on the wrong side of. I don’t want to reveal too much, but Sherlock has this, I don’t know what the right term is, this contact? Friend? No, talk about suspension of disbelief… Associate? I can’t say more than that. We’ll just call him “M”. Yeah, like in James Bond. That’ll do.

Right, so “M”’s a well-connected sort of guy. He does things for the government, shall we say. And for other governments, as required. And he has a sense of the theatrical, it has to be said. To give you an impression of the sort of person he is, he had his car bring us to this abandoned warehouse down by the river, where he was waiting in his pinstripe suit. With his umbrella. And quite possibly a carnation in his buttonhole. Seriously, all he needed was the bowler hat and he’d be John Steed.

“Good morning Sherlock, Dr Watson,” he greeted us with an infuriating smirk.

“I’m busy, “M”,” Sherlock snapped. “Speaking of which, haven’t you got anything better to do than pretending to be a spy?”

“I am currently “on the clock”,” as they say,” “M” drawled, picking at the dank concrete floor with the tip of his umbrella as if he was fascinated by it. “In fact, Sherlock, quite apart from the fact that you’ve been ignoring my texts, I wanted to speak to you about this unfortunate business at Camford Pharmaceuticals.”

“Oh, really?” Sherlock’s sarcastic tone could have blistered paint. It just made “Anthea” smile more broadly. She was lurking behind “M”, playing the henchwoman.

“Yes,” “M” replied, looking at us directly for the first time. “Detective Inspector Lestrade is very shortly going to receive a call from the Security Service…”

“MI5?” I blinked.

“…the Security Service, advising him that they and Special Branch will be taking over the case, all files and evidence to be turned over, usual drill. So, Sherlock, I just thought I’d better make sure you understood that the matter is closed. Your efforts are no longer required.” He beamed at us: “Isn’t that marvellous news? You’ll have time to catch up on your daytime TV.”

“Tell that to the man with his head thinly spread across his laboratory floor,” said Sherlock.

“Are you actually trying to convince me that you have a burning desire to bring a poor unfortunate’s killer to justice?” “M” sounded sceptical. “There will be other puzzles, Sherlock, but this one is not for you.”

“What’s Paul Presbury doing for the Ministry of Defence?” I asked, quietly, thinking of Sherlock’s point before about the military having no interest in a cure for Alzheimer’s.

“And why would I know that?” “M” asked me, deadpan.

“Knowing things is your business,” I pointed out. That made him smirk even more. He and Sherlock are so alike sometimes.

“Something very important, Dr Watson,” he assured me, “something that could save the lives of numerous British soldiers. In places like Afghanistan.” Trying to push my buttons, the smooth-talking bastard.

“I don’t care how important it is,” I replied. “It doesn’t get him a free pass for murder.” “M”’s smug expression suggested that in some cases, doing important work for the government got you exactly that.

“Who is H. Lowenstein?” Sherlock asked suddenly. “From Berlin?” For a moment – just a moment – “M”’’s face fell. He recovered quickly, though.

“I said this puzzle is not for you, Sherlock,” he said, softly. “Please pay attention for once in your life.” He paused, playing with the umbrella again. “Will I see you on Sunday?” he asked, circumspectly. “It has been a while since you came over.”

“I’m washing my hair,” Sherlock replied. “M” sighed:

“Drop them off somewhere near Baker Street,” he told “Anthea”, already turning on his heel and stalking off into the shadows, “but not too near. The walk will do them both good.”

That’ll do for now, I think. The next part, the final part, will take some writing, just to do it all justice and because, well, because it’s absolutely flipping insane if you must know. Anyway, Mrs Hudson’s shouting up the stairs about something and Sherlock’s pretending he can’t hear her, so I suppose I’d better go and see what’s happening. I’ll hopefully get this all done and dusted sometime over the next couple of days. And if I don’t, well maybe it’s because THEY’ve got me.

I’m not joking about that, you know. Seriously.

8 comments

I’m slightly disappointed in you, John. I thought we’d discussed disclosure. I could get your blog account rescinded, I suppose, but I’d rather thrash this out in another of our enjoyable little chats. Be seeing you. Oh, and is Sherlock eating properly? He looked terribly thin when last I saw him. Cheekbones sticking out.

“M”. 7 March 10:27

“M” (and I won’t make any cutting remarks about arch pseudonyms), do HM Government have any idea that you’re using their computers to surf the web during office hours? Tut, tut. And I’ll thank you to confine your concerns to your own diet. I thought you were looking a little broad across the beam the other day.

Sherlock Holmes 7 March 17:21

Um, guys, could you two please conduct your family spats somewhere other than on my blog? Please?

John Watson 7 March 19:03

John, as you’re obviously there now can you pass me the TV remote? I don’t want to watch Britain’s Got Talent.

Sherlock Holmes 7 March 19:07

Get it yourself. It’s two feet away from you. And why did you type that? I’m only in the next room!

John Watson 7 March 19:09

It’s such an effort to shout sometimes.

Sherlock Holmes 7 March 19:10

John, please either answer your phone or call me now.

E Thompson 7 March 20:17

John, I’m serious. Call me.