Remedy
part eightMr. Grangerford grabbed his double barrel Boss & Co. from its case in the den and stormed with heavy steps towards the manor's front door. John had expected a certain degree of rash behavior in the news of their daughter's fate but nothing which would excuse the shotgun leveled at Sherlock's chest as the detective did his best to bar the man's way.
John grabbed at Mr. Grangerford's bicep, not wanting to fight over the weapon but certainly keen to dissuade him from its use. "It won't do any good!" he shouted, fingers curling in on the pleat of the man's ivory button down.
"He's killed her," the father stated with a calmness in his furry that was far more frightening than hysteria.
John pulled at his arm again, free hand resting against the cool metal of the double barrels. "No one said this had anything to do with the vicar. You have absolutely no proof--you can't just run off killing people because you're upset."
From the other room, the sounds of Hillary's distressed moans carried like a child's cry, her face hidden in her hands as her body curled in around her heaving chest. Breakfast laid mostly untouched around her save for the fall of tears on the sunny egg's yoke. Sherlock had done just fine in telling them--there was no fault in sympathy either could judge by. But they were parents. Sophie was still just a girl, really--never to mature now into a woman. Hopes, expectations, anything left after the world went to hell was degraded only further in the coming loss of life. John felt for them, he truly did, but not so much as to ignore the gun or the murderous intent in the old man's eyes.
Sherlock was at home with a gun pointed at him. A liquorish stick would have carried the same response from him as it bobbed before his chest. "You do have reason to fear the vicar, Mr. Grangerford, but it is not in the spread of illness," he said, eyes level with the other man's to command his full attention. "If he finds out about Sophie, your entire family could end up in a fear-fueled purge. If you're going to save your family, you're going to have to sit down and listen to me."
Grangerford's face was red, his eyes growing bloodshot as the tension in his jaw forced his temples to expand. "And just who are you to tell me what I should do?"
"I'm the most brilliant man this side of the Arc project," the least modest man in the world replied.
John nodded along, the mood hardly befitting humility as an invisible clock ticked down. "If anyone can save the rest of your family, it's him. Trust me, he's amazing." He carefully pushed down against the double barrels, trailing the weapon's sight down Sherlock's chest towards the wall to his left as the father's rage for one seemed to slowly melt into concern for the remaining. "Let's just put the gun down and hear him out, okay?" John advised.
With nearly glacial movement, Mr. Grangerford sided his weapon and took a far less aggressive stance away from the doors. The tension of grief still gripped tight to his shoulders like hooks tethered to his flesh from the far corners of the room. But the gun was down now. Madness was at the very least a few breaths further from the next heartbeat. John looked back at the weeping mother who had in her own presence of mind quieted in her husband's detainment. What had been a quiet room, then suddenly a violent storm, was again a den of almost-silence in which to impregnate sound advise and reason instead.
John fidgeted with the remaining adrenalin that had surged in Grangerford's emotional explosion as he found himself a place to stand and listen as mediator. In some sick fashion he was enjoying this--not the situation but certainly the thrill. Best not to do the smile. Best to remember and to not meet Sherlock's stare or else they might both find some shared moment of relief in finding themselves back on solid footing--in their element once again. John stood at ease with his head held high while Sherlock could be seen out the corner of his eye taking center stage along an expensive looking rug.
"This won't be a difficult course of action but it will take cooperation," he began, ignoring Hillary for now as she wiped her eyes, keeping her husband as his prime focus of attention. "Sophie has to be believed to have left as explanation of her sudden disappearance but with her community ties that is unlikely. To that effect, she has to be taken against her will for anyone to believe in this story. You live far enough on the edge of town for it to be believed someone came in through the woods and took her while she walked. A few added details should flesh it out enough to make it believable."
"Such as?" the older man challenged.
Sherlock smiled just slightly. "There's a small chance queries will be made or a search party fashioned. Which means we can't dispose of her body on-sight or else it might be discovered. Believing you would just let your daughter be taken is also stretching the imagination. Your diabetes makes you unsuited to the pursuit and Buck is far too young but there is no reason for anyone not to believe that I myself have gone to try and rescue her. John can speak very highly of my detective skills as he has already proven capable of doing. I shall take Sophie into the woods and as far from Newton Magna as possible before seeing that she is taken care of. I can hide far better than anyone can hunt me so no recourse you take will hamper my own progress. After a fair amount of time, I will return with a story that is respectful without trivial drama and you will request, of course, that the parameter of the village be better guarded to ensure nothing like this happens again. Questions?"
Grangerford shook his head, not nearly as impressed as perhaps the quick plan deserved, while John bit at the inside of his cheeks, annoyance brewing in his gut as it seemed Sherlock had taken not one word he'd said and committed it to memory let alone taken it to heart. Sherlock caught his gaze, though, and in response dug in his pocket until the flat of his mobile was brought to light against the palm of his hand, the black rectangle powered off but certainly present. "I won't be out of contact, of course. I turned it on long enough to check the area's reception. Not optimal but reasonably reliable. Should anything develop outside the parameters of my deductions, we can coordinate a response."
"And you're going alone because...?"
"Because if you and I both disappear, John, it will look far more like we took Mr. Grangerford for a fool than that we leapt at the opportunity to assist in reclaiming his daughter," he clarified, with far too much sense behind his words. "Being let back in Newton Magna once all is done could become an issue which would be best contested if one of us stayed behind. It's the most effective means of assisting the family without a complete forfeiture of our own safety."
John liked to think that Mr. Grangerford came to trust Sherlock in that blatant admission that their plot was not entirely altruistic. He was a man of action not unlike John or Sherlock themselves. His heavy nod of permission came with a grunt as he laid his shotgun on the dinning room table to the disturbance of glassware and half-folded napkins. They would do it their way--Sherlock's way. They would do it the smart way that didn't end in needless bloodshed and tears. Just the customary amount for a family dealing with plague.
"I'll get you some supplies packed. Make sure you have what you need to stay safe." John said, pausing as he passed to give Hillary's soft mews a moment's sympathy. "She's in the kitchen. You can speak to her if you like. Just.. whatever you do, don't touch her," he offered, and the quick nod of her muted head gave him thanks for the consideration. John looked once more to Mr. Grangerford who's hand floated just above his wife's shoulder. They needed time alone just as John needed time to help pack. He ignored the rising sentiments and hurried towards his study, happy at least to have Sherlock on his heels rather than requiring to be pulled away.
He did not want him to go alone. And Sherlock knew that. John had considered his quiet acceptance in the kitchen to mean he understood but wondered now if it was closer to a simple bid for time as his mind worked out what had to be done against what John would rather be told. That was too often the case. Nothing, not even Sherlock's own safety, came above his logical deductions. And like so many times before, John could not think of a better way to handle things.
Sherlock leaned down close to John's ear as they walked, his body pressed to John's side as he leaned in to whisper. "I need for you to pack me anything you can to treat the sores on her body. Keeping out infection in paramount to her survival."
John knew he'd heard him but somehow the English language failed to communicate the things he expected to hear. "Her--What? Sherlo--"
"There is every reason to believe the virus has been inactive in her system for weeks which could have prepared her system for the fight." Sherlock had his elbow in his firm grip, almost dragging John towards the study he had already been walking towards willingly. "Give me the strongest antibiotics you can, pain killers, anything you can think of that will alleviate symptoms and encourage leukocytes."
John stumbled to walk with Sherlock so close to him, his steps crossing into John's own until they were tucked away with the door closed behind them. "You're going to experiment on a living person?" John asked, not actually surprised in the slightest.
Sherlock nodded as he moved to the desk, arms braced against the expensive wood as his mind churned out thoughts somewhere near the levels of mania that John had missed. "Nothing I wouldn't subject myself to. Think about it, John. A vaccination is nothing more than the administration of an inactivated pathogen and that is exactly what it seems we're looking at here--a subject with prolonged exposure to an inactive pathogen despite the fact that it is now active. Are you willing to sentence her to death if there is even the slightest possibility she could survive this?"
Oh, but he was a bastard to give John hope again. And John loved him a little bit for it. "You'll need a lot more in the ways of protection, then," he said, opening a drawer of salves and pills to remind himself of his stock and availability. Not much but it would have to be enough. They'd make it be enough. "Go grab some garbage bags--they'll make a decent enough poncho at any rate. I'll get gloves and the rest of it for you."
Sherlock smiled, his face alight with the granting of John's permission, the bestowal of his approval. John was the doctor, after all. If he was willing to put faith into Sherlock's idea, then there was something more to it than wishful thinking. Maybe. So much was mere speculation and coincidences grasped onto like fact in the absence of all but faith in Sherlock's mind. His eyes continued smiling even after his lips grew tired of the drawing their peaks. "I'm sorry you can't come with me," he said, producing his phone once more. "I'll steal a charger. Keep my mobile on at all times. Call me whenever you need or want. It won't be inopportune."
"And if you get sick?"
The detective frowned, the question one he perhaps hoped wouldn't be asked despite its obviousness. He'd foretold a week till he himself succumbed to the virus and propositions like that were not easily forgotten. "If I return with Sophie, it is my hope that the Grangerfords will allow me to be in your care here while I recover as well. If Sophie dies... I'll use what I have left in the way of supplies to care for myself and remain in hiding."
John pursed his lips, brows heavy over his dark blue eyes. "You're not doing it alone. Okay? That's not what I told myself would happen."
"Then I hope not to make a liar out of you, John. But if I can't save Sophie, it will be for the best that I stay away for my own safety as well as yours. Regardless, we'll be in touch. One way or another, I promise you will have answers, John. I will not let my fate be a mystery to you."
John nodded, finding some comfort in modern convenience at least, though his heart felt heavy and stomach sour. It was far from ideal but then so was everything else. He could argue with their lack of options but not in Sherlock's logic. "We'd better make sure you've got everything you need to nurse her to health, then. Or else I'm going to come find you. And you can't stop me."
Sherlock offered no argument to the resolute soldier. Instead he left to scavenge the manor's stores for bags and other plastic wears that could be re-purposed for medical supplies while John took out a small duffel from which many of his bottles had originated and began packing away the strongest prescriptions he had for Sherlock's purposes along with thermometers and other instruments to diagnose and follow up. He scribbled a few notes as he did so, making sure Sherlock had the best of instructions based on what John knew of the symptoms to come for Sophie Grangerford. He packed more than enough to last the handful of days the disease was supposed to span until proven fatal--more than enough for Sherlock's own use should it come to that. Enough to save and enough to kill. His hand paused with mild tremors as he failed to write the instructions for the mercy cocktail provided for in quantities for not one but two. There was no right way to word "take these if you want to bring on death" that didn't in some way grant permission for murder or suicide. So much for the Hippocratic Oath indeed. A random overdose was far from merciful, though, and he had the knowledge to ensure that death was a relief and not simply further suffering. So he took a steady breath and wrote down the instructions as plainly as he would a prescription for administering cold medicine. "To ensure death," he began, and continued in bold writing until the close of: "Recommended to be taken in the presence of a doctor. You don't get to go without saying goodbye." and with added foresight: "Txts don't count."
It was funny in ways that weren't at all funny. Gallows humor. He signed the note "Yours, John" and taped it to one of the bottles in the duffel before zipping it closed on a thick, metal slide that sounded more like a modern guillotine descending to a quick stop. Best not to think about it least it become all consuming. Best to ignore everything outside the realm of his influence. They were all at the edge of madness--some more at home with it than others. At least in ignorance there was survival and a careful blind eye to the monsters both without and within.
"Dad? Mum?"
John looked up towards the closed door of the study, hearing Buck on the stairs as he came down late for breakfast with slow, halting steps towards the landing.
"Dad, why are there people coming up the drive with torches?"
John's blood froze as his body moved him towards the window, pulling back the cloth of the drapes to see the torch-bearing crowd in their slow march with a man in black vestments to lead them.
"Shepherdson!" Grangerford shouted with the thunder of footsteps, a blur in John's vision as a hand ripped him from the window in time with the slam of the front door. John stared wide eyed at a very pissed off Sherlock Holmes who took the duffel in his free hand as he pulled John quickly to follow.
"What's happened?!" John shouted, not in the least bit uninterested in following Sherlock's path. They walked through the hall where Grangerford's curses and shouts sounded as though they came from within rather than echoed from his stance on the porch. They broke through the kitchen door where, kneeling on the tiled floor, both Hillary and Sophie sat with eyes closed and a prayer murmured between them, the restrains forgone along with hopes to heal as a discarded cellphone rested on floor between them. John had several words for them but none which he had a change to utter as Sherlock pulled him through the back door where the jeep had been kept parked since they'd arrived. John jogged towards the passenger side as Sherlock opened the driver's, the sound of a shotgun firing sending the birds in the trees into the sky.
John ducked out of habit, looking around to be sure neither were under attach as another round broke through the air. "Jesus!" he shouted, imagining Grangerford taking shots at the villagers with his double barrel Boss & Co..
Sherlock said nothing, too furious it seemed from the set of his jaw to say a word as he put the vehicle into drive before John had the time to so much as close his door. John cursed him but said nothing else as he strapped himself in in accordance to Sherlock's haste.
They skidded around the corner of the house along the loose pebbles of the drive and made a break down the grass to swerve around the line of the fire-wielding faithful. John was sure they were going to run someone over. He looked out towards the house where he'd heard Grangerford making his last stand only to see the splatter of blood against the door and a faceless corpse on the ground. Beside it was one much younger with most of its head missing though it held tight to its father's defenses. The Grangerford's hadn't been the only one's to bring weapons. As Sherlock raced through the lawn, John watched sparks fly off the side of the armored, military-grade jeep as a line of men aimed their hunting rifles at them and fired with the intent to kill. John leaned forward, covering his head as Sherlock remained sat upright, his intense gaze focused only on the approaching turn which swerved them onto the main road where the shots continued to bounce off their bumper.
Sherlock took the residential streets at highway speeds, a few mailboxes missing and deep tread marks driven into the grassways on corners as they bolted past every silent road to break through the village barriers with only a narrow miss to the man stationed at their makeshift gates.
There were no words. John took deep breaths, casting a glance through the jeep to check for broken glass as he tried to slowly pace his mind through the events which had taken such a quick turn for the worse. In the seat beside him was the duffel of medicine and in the vehicle little else but the two of them and the clothes on their backs added to their supplies. It seemed as though they'd lost everything in the hasty upheaval save for their lives and each other.
Through the mirrors John could see the smoke already rising above the trees in effigy to the Grangerfords and the village of Newton Magna's newest ashen plot.