Chapter Text
The army didn't know what to do with him, not anymore. That was why John was here, in Baskerville, little more than a glorified security guard. They'd be giving him an honourable discharge before long; he was sure of it. He'd take it, too, if only to avoid the pitying glances of the other soldiers. There was respect there, of course, but he was a surgeon who couldn't perform.
What use was he?
He tapped the cane on the floor, hating it for everything it represented. He couldn't fight, couldn't tend to the wounded – even walking properly was beyond him. He wasn't even fit for sentry duty on the gate: that needed fast responses. Instead, he was down here in a gleaming lab guarding… something.
He sighed, flipping his pass at the sensor by the door and stepping into the room, glaring at the huge tank that occupied one side of the chamber. It stood almost as tall as the ceiling, with a gantry leading up to the top so the scientists could get at it.
God knew what they were working on. Something to do with the plants, John supposed. There were several clumped around, providing a dense cover of kelp. It looked like an aquarium, but if there was anything living in there, John hadn't seen it.
Opening the door to the little surveillance room, he checked the screens with a jaundiced eye. They were the same as always, showing the lifeless laboratory from four different angles. Maybe when the scientists were here it was a bit more interesting, but they had gone home for the night. He was the only living soul in this place.
His leg twinged, pain rocketing down his thigh. He clenched his teeth, his grip white-knuckled as he waited for it to pass. It would go, it always did, leaving a horrid, gnawing stiffness in its wake. He hated it. Hated this. This boring, dreary, miserable excuse of an existence.
Nothing ever happened to him, and that was not about to change any time soon.
With a sigh, he eased himself into the uncomfortable chair, scratching a thumb through his eyebrow and bracing himself for the long night ahead. There wasn't much to do. He could watch the cameras or prowl the room, but there was nothing there of interest. The scientists locked their notes away on their computers, so he couldn't even be nosy. Not that he would. It was all top secret, and he didn't fancy losing his pension over an infraction like that. Not just to satisfy his curiosity.
A sudden noise tweaked John's ear: a clattering rattle. His gun was in his hand lightning-quick, his body moving with practiced grace. His tired eyes widened, the cobwebs of his weariness fading as he swept out of the room, clearing each corner, pointed and proficient.
It did not take him long to realise what had changed. A rock sat in the middle of the floor: not a small one, either. It was about the size of a brick, and water formed in a puddle beneath it.
Glancing towards the tank, John narrowed his eyes, reassessing the ripples and the wavering weeds. They kept it brightly lit: ocean shallows on a summer's day. It cast a weird, watery glow over the whole place, but there was still nothing in there. Besides, last he checked, fish weren't capable of throwing anything, least of all big stones. He supposed something like a dolphin could have done it. Maybe with its tail…?
He inched closer, a frown pleating his brow as he stared in confusion. Definitely not a dolphin. They might be clever mammals, but even they couldn't manage to write.
'Main camera control panel: Switch the two red leads over to the yellow sockets.'
'What the hell?' John's gun fell to his side as he tried to think of a plausible explanation for the words scored in the unforgiving surface. There had to be one, didn't there? Some of his workmates having a laugh, or something?
He glanced back at the tank, just in case it was some kind of trap – an effort to get him into range so another missile could be lobbed at his head – but everything remained benign.
Hesitantly, he crouched, picking up the stone and hefting it in his hand, checking there were no further instructions scratched on the reverse before he headed to the guardroom. He was being watched; he could feel that now. A heavy gaze drilled into his back, and he had to fight the urge to turn around. Whoever – or whatever – was doing this, it was well-hidden. Nor would it reveal itself, he supposed, not unless he followed the terse command.
Setting the rock down on the desk, he turned to the control panel. It was covered over, but no lock held the door shut. A quick check of the room showed there were no cameras watching him: a sign of negligence or trust, John couldn't be sure, but if it were the latter, he was about to break it.
Wetting his lips, he unplugged the red cables, moving them over to the yellow ports. He half-expected a shower of sparks, but something – some hardware – gave an obliging beep. The cameras still worked. The screens gleamed with the content of their suspicious gaze, but John knew the truth of it. What they saw was no longer the present moment, but a frozen, vacant instant.
Someone didn't want to be seen, and John's heart raced as he wondered what he'd let himself in for.
Too late to change his mind now.
He placed his gun back in its holster before bending down to grab the stone, turning it over to reveal a blank face. He didn't have a marker or anything, but a quick rummage in his pocket revealed his keys. The metal would hate it, but tough. As swiftly as he could, he hacked four letters into the stone, the white score marks angular and rough, but still legible.
'Done.'
He didn't trust himself to lob it. Knowing his luck, he'd smack it through the glass rather than up and over. The gantry chimed beneath his boots as he took the steps two at a time, only pausing when he got to the top.
The surface was a long way down. If he fell in, he would never get back out again. No emergency ladder hugged the tank's side. There were pumps and things: stuff to keep the water oxygenated. It smelled briny, too – not fresh.
With a grunt, John threw the rock, aiming for a little dune at the bottom of the tank. He winced as it landed with a loud splash, right on target. Immediately, he hurried back down the gantry, skidding to a breathless stop.
There was no sign of it.
Either he had misjudged where he'd aimed the bloody thing, or something had snatched it up before it hit the sandy floor.
Something fast.
Rubbing a hand over his face, John paused, his gaze strafing across the aquatic panorama in front of him. Had something moved? Some shadow shifted against the current?
A sudden flurry in the water made him jump back, his breath catching in his throat and locking there, because of everything he'd expected to see, it wasn't this.
He stared, screwing up his eyes before opening them again. The view didn't change. He must've fallen and hit his head. It was the only explanation. Maybe he lay flat on his face, unconscious at the bottom of the gantry, and this was all some kind of dream.
Even here, in Baskerville, there was no such thing as merfolk.
So why was one floating before him, watching him with a silver gaze that seemed to impale him with its scrutiny?
John swallowed, aware of the tension in his legs and the turn of his body. Instinct had him poised to sprint away from the glass. Yet he hadn't reached for his gun. That still gleamed in its holster on his hip, and even as the memory of its presence crossed his mind, he couldn't bring himself to tug it free. Not against an unarmed… creature? Man?
He kept looking, trying to find anything that might give this all away as an illusion or some sort of elaborate prank, but nothing sprung out at him. It didn't take long for him to dismiss his “knocked out and dreaming” theory, either. His imagination was all right, but there was no way his brain could come up with this kind of detail.
That long tail gleamed blue-black, the muscles underneath flexing as the man shifted, keeping himself upright with a few, idle motions. Broad horizontal flukes tipped it, not gauzy and delicate, but bold and sturdy, like that of a killer whale. Two pairs of smaller fins jutted along its length – some kind of stabilisers, maybe – or something to help him turn fast, like a shark.
At first, John thought he had the same, dense flesh as a dolphin, but when he inched closer, captivated by the way the light played across that skin, he saw them. Miniscule scales, far smaller than his littlest fingernail: drab and dull one minute, but a riot of iridescent blues the next.
There was no clear line between one and the other, no place where he stopped being some kind of fish and became a man. Instead, it was a gradual blend, his scales vanishing on his stomach just below his navel but continuing up his sides.
Even then, his human skin, pale in the eerie light of the tank, was interrupted by the faintest of silver stripes. A hand shifted, catching John's attention, and he saw the transparent webbing between each finger. It looked like gossamer, painfully delicate, though in this case John suspected appearances were deceiving.
Narrow slits parted on the side of the merman's neck and between his ribs: gills, John realised, frowning at the conflicting evidence between mammal and fish that marked the sight before him.
At last, he met that gaze, and if the rest of him was beautiful, it was nothing compared to those eyes. They fell on John with equal, if not greater intensity than his own scrutiny, and he shifted his weight, suddenly feeling awkward and clumsy.
Dark lashes moved, a slow, non-threatening blink, and John found himself repeating the gesture. Short hair drifted in the current, coiling in lazy tendrils as the merman cocked his head, the blade of his attention narrowing to a point before he gestured upwards with a single finger.
John nodded, message received loud and clear. This time, though, he took the steps a bit more slowly. The creature's otherness was not the only thing he had noticed. That body was lean and powerful. He had seen the way muscles bunched and shifted. It made a dozen old stories about drowned sailors bubble up in his mind.
Just because it looked half-human didn't mean it had any humanity in it.
He kept away from the edge of the pool, crouching down and leaning over, but braced to leap back if he had to. Now he knew why there was so much airspace between the water's surface and the tank's top. Something as strong as that could gather momentum in a short distance. The tank's high walls prevented the merman from getting out.
Yet he did not breach the surface quickly, as John half-feared. He moved with deliberate slowness, as if to avoid spooking him. He did not cling to the tank's sides, as a human might have done, desperate to preserve energy – he had no need, confident as he was in the water.
That said, he looked a bit too thin. There was something stark about him, as if too little flesh lay beneath his skin. John's mind raced, his biological expertise thrown into a flurry of questions, but before he could utter a word, the merman spoke.
'Afghanistan or Iraq?'
'W – what?' John blinked, not sure what surprised him more, the question itself, or the deep resonance of the man's voice. He hadn't been sure he would be able to talk at all. Instead, he found himself half-mesmerised, leaning forward against his own better judgement. 'What did you say?'
The merman rolled his eyes as if John were being tiresome. 'Which was it – Afghanistan or Iraq?'
'Afghanistan,' he said, the answer falling from his lips. 'Sorry, how did you – How did you know?'
'You're a combat soldier. It's obvious in everything from the way you walk to the manner in which you hold your gun; quick, competent and without question. You've been on the battlefield, and quite a bit too. You're tanned, suggesting you've been overseas, but it doesn't extend above your wrists. You've not been lying on a beach while you were away.'
John shook his head in slow disbelief, but the stranger wasn't done.
'You were invalided out, but they've not discharged you yet, mostly because of bureaucracy but partly because your CO has great sympathy for your situation. Instead, they put you here, which you hate. Your therapist thinks your limp is psychosomatic. She's right, I'm afraid.'
'How do you know I have a therapist?'
'You're a wounded soldier. Of course you have a therapist. I could tell you more if I could see your phone, but I have no doubt it will be locked away somewhere. Just like mine.'
'You have a phone?' John tilted his head, trying to figure that one out, but the merman gave him no time to dwell on it.
'You're bored out of your mind. Anyone can see it, but I might be able to help you with that.'
John's hand splayed against the gantry for balance as his breath stalled in his chest. 'How?'
'I need you to get me out of here.'
A huff of disbelieving laughter rose unbidden in John's throat. 'Are you mad?'
'Listen. I was investigating a case: a missing person, but I got caught. Help me out of this tank, give me half an hour, and I'll be just like you.'
John leaned back on his heels, his mind spinning. 'Like me?'
'Legs. Feet. Human, mostly.' Those eyes glimmered, and John realised there must be some kind of secondary eyelid, something to protect them from the salty water's bite. 'I can normally change in a handful of minutes, but it will take longer, now. I've been like this for weeks. They won't let me out.' The merman sneered, revealing some very sharp teeth. 'Which is probably just as well.'
'And how do I know you're not dangerous?' John asked. 'That you won't just kill me as soon as I get you out of that water?'
'You don't.' The merman shrugged, ripples dancing around him as he did so. 'But you'll still help. You need it. Adrenaline's the only thing that makes you feel alive anymore.'
Anyone else in his place might have sounded desperate, but to John he seemed nothing but confident. Rightly so, because he wasn't wrong. More than once, these past few weeks, John's gun had started to look like a tempting option: a way out.
'You said you were working on a case. Are you with the police?' John frowned. It didn't seem likely. Surely they would miss one of their own?
'I'm a Consulting Detective. I assist Scotland Yard when they're too stupid to figure it out, or too tied up in procedure to get results. If you help me, there won't be any repercussions. None that you're not already considering: an honourable discharge and a decent pension.'
John snorted, not believing it for a second. 'Yeah, right. I help you, and they just, what, let me go? Let you go?'
'Exactly.' He flicked his tail. The water frothed around him as he drifted closer, those full lips twisting in a quick grimace. 'My brother works in government. We'll need his help, unfortunately.'
'Which bit of government?'
'The bit no one likes to talk about.'
'Why can't he get you out himself?'
'Too risky. Besides, while he sees almost everything, I'm not sure he knows I'm in here. You can change that.'
John shifted his weight, easing the cramp that was trying to take root in his thigh. 'I've not said I'll help you yet,' he pointed out, his protest weak to his own ears.
A grin, wicked and more than a little wild, made John's heart surge in his chest. 'You will. Call any government switchboard and ask to speak to Mycroft Holmes. Do it from your mobile. They'll hang up on you, but he'll be in touch.'
A noise from the corridor broke the tranquillity. Immediately, John looked up, his fingers flicking to his gun as if he could – what – shoot a fellow soldier? All for a creature who, an hour ago, John would have sworn was nothing but a myth?
'Get down from the gantry,' the merman hissed. 'Put the cables in their original position. Go!'
'Wait, I don't even know your name!'
Silver eyes darted back in his direction, one eyebrow lifting as a smile caught in the curl of those full lips. 'Sherlock Holmes.'
'John. John Watson.'
A second later, Sherlock was gone, the surface of the pool barely rippling in the wake of his departure. John got to his feet, his gaze on the distant doorway as he strode down the steps to the laboratory floor, doing his best to look casual in case anyone crossed the threshold.
A lazy glance towards the tank showed it was as unremarkable as it had been when he'd first walked in. Sherlock had hidden himself away. It would be easy – too easy – for John to convince himself he had dreamt the whole thing.
Then he saw his cane.
It was propped against the corner of the desk where he had left it. The blasted thing, which had barely been out of his damn hand since he got back into the country stood, forgotten and irrelevant.
'Your therapist thinks your limp is psychosomatic. She's right, I'm afraid.'
His leg trembled, the pain threatening to return, but John pushed it away, sitting down quickly as he stared at the tank. Sherlock had been right. Not just about his limp, but about everything else. The way he held a gun, his sympathetic CO, the limits of his sun tan and the way that day-to-day life left him feeling empty.
He was right about something else, too. It wasn't the sensible thing to do, but John found that he didn't care. The army was done with him and, it turned out, he was done with the army. As soon as his shift was over, he would make the call.
He would help this stranger who saw him better than most. This man who belonged in the mythology books.
This “Sherlock Holmes”.