Reichenbach Rising 6

It was infused with metal.

The man's blood was running thick with tin, the metal he had burned before he fell sick. Sherlock didn't have samples from the other three victims yet, but this one had told him quite a lot by itself.

He was sitting in the cellar of Hoid's building, where the man kept items that were too useful to get rid of, but too conspicuous to have in the open in this time and place, such as the microscope he was currently peering down. The thing was far more advanced than any that existed in his time, allowing him to see right into the molecular structure of the sample. John was upstairs with the Doctor, trying to piece together a timeline on the victims.

Somehow his body stopped burning the tin when he consciously told it to, Sherlock thought, and it built up in his blood stream to near toxic levels. But then what? He just went crazy? Last he'd checked, tin poisoning didn't have any behavioral implications.

Sherlock scrolled the list of symptoms in his head. Gastrointestinal cramps, vomiting, nausea, diarrhea . . . all describing the patients upstairs. But that still left the erratic behavior and the skin discoloration. He had several flakes of that as well, sitting beside the vial of blood. Turning sideways in his chair, Sherlock bent over the petri dish, inspecting the rusty flakes they'd pulled off the man's skin.

Wait . . . rust?

Sherlock spun quickly to the microscope and slide the flakes underneath. His wayward thought had been correct—the man's skin was rusted through. But how can human flesh rust? What could do that?

His thought train was interrupted by a small crash to his right. The tube of the man's blood had rolled over the edge of the table and shattered on the floor. Odd, he'd been sure he'd set it upright, and a good ways from the edge. He looked away from the mess. He'd already gotten what he needed from the sample anyway.

This rust . . .  it didn't make any kind of sense. The man's body was chalk full of tin, yes, but tin didn't rust, that was why it was so commonly used to preserve food. Maybe there was some kind of—

"Any luck?" The door across the table swung open, John's voice filling the room. Not waiting for the detective to respond, John continued. "Looks like the brother and sister got sick about the same time. Kelsier says his fiancé just couldn't get out of bed one morning and her brother collapsed later that day.  The other man was brought—" his voice cut off sharply " . . . Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"Sherlock, look at the floor." John's voice had gone hard and dangerous, like there was a snake in the room. Sherlock looked up from the microscope and froze. There was a snake in the room—sort of.

The small puddle of blood lay where the vial had fallen, but it no longer had the smooth, metallic texture that had caught his eye. About a foot away, a shining strip of liquid metal was moving across the floor. It couldn't have been more than three inches long, completely smooth from end to end, and slithering back and forth toward the back wall.

Sherlock thought very fast. Whatever this thing was, it had managed to move the glass vial. They would need something sturdier to contain it.

"John." He said, not taking his eyes off the undulating creature on the floor. "There's a wooden box on the shelf behind you. Throw it to me."

Sherlock watched the bright strip of metal's slow progress to escaping into the wall, listening as John dumped out the small box's contents and tossed it across the room. Catching it easily, the detective crept forward and crouched beside the thing. Slowly, carefully, he extended the box to hover over the metal snake, ready to slam it down in three . . . two . . .

One. The thing shot to the right just as Sherlock pressed the box down, shockingly fast. In the same motion the creature reared up, and Sherlock saw one end of the small metal body ripple, pushing outward into a row of razor teeth!

Sherlock leapt backward and the thing missed his thumb by inches, striking the box instead. Soundlessly, the metal snake curled back into a small pool of tin on the floor before elongating again, and disappearing into the crack between the floorboards.

" . . . what the hell was that?" John whispered, staring at the spot where it had vanished.

"The tin has some sort of mind of its own. If it even is tin." Sherlock jumped up off the floor and headed for the stairs. He dashed up the two flights to the long room where Hoid and the Doctor sat talking to Kelsier and his fiancé—what was her name again? Hoid had told them, he must have deleted it.

"Where did you buy the tin?" Sherlock asked, coming to a halt at the foot of her bed.

After a second passed with no response he tried again. "The metal you were burning? It's not tin, or at least it's corrupted, now where did you get it?!"

"Lash bought it, last week." She said, gesturing to her brother in the next bed. Mare, he suddenly remembered. That was her name.

In full stride now, the detective crossed to the brother's bedside and shook him roughly, ignoring Hoid's protest. "Last week, you bought some tin for you and your sister. It's corrupted; I think that's what's making you sick. Tell me, where did you get it?"

Lash took it in full stride, blinking up at Sherlock only twice before he answered, "I bought it from Raner, the coppercloud—he had a whole brick of it!" He said, voice hoarse.

"And where can I find him?" Sherlock shot back.

"His shop is in the Commercial district, two streets away from the Bronze Gate." Kelsier interrupted. "You think he poisoned them?"

"I don't know yet. I do know something is seriously wrong with that tin." He spun on his heel to brush past John, heading for the door. "Come on Doctor, we need to speak with this 'Raner' and quickly."

"Sherlock, hold up, you don't even know how to find this place, or that it's his fault!" the Doctor said, getting to his feet.

"The tin was corrupted and clearly this boy didn't do it. No connection to the other two victims, ergo, the corruption came from a source above them, we need to follow it up the chain."

"Why are you so sure it's corrupted anyway?" Hoid said. "If the alloy is off by even a hair the allomancer would feel it the second they started burning, we've all done it. But this—."

"Trust me, there was something in it." John interjected.

"Doctor, you said yourself, we need to solve this as fast as possible." Sherlock said, anxious to get moving.

"Yes, alright." The Doctor sighed. "Allons-y! Come on Kelsier, we'll need you to show us the way."

"But—"

"I'll sit with her, Kell." Hoid murmured. "She'll be alright."

With Kelsier lagging reluctantly behind, the Time Lord and the two Londoners hurried out onto the street. "This way" Kell grunted, turning to the right. As soon as he indicated a direction Sherlock broke into a sprint. John and the Doctor simultaneously bit back a sigh and followed his lead.

They were only running for a few seconds before John did a face-plant. His injured knee had collapsed under him as he ran, sending him flying into the pavement. The Doctor jerked around to help him up. John gasped in pain as he tried to put weight on the injured joint.

"I don't think you'll be able to keep up today John." The Doctor said gently. "Why don't you go back and wait with Hoid."

John looked from Sherlock to the Doctor and back, noting how fidgety Sherlock still was. Desperate for the thrill of the chase.

"Fine." He sighed. "But hurry back!" Sherlock smiled gratefully and bolted off down the road again, the others close behind. John held back a sigh as he watched his newly resurrected best friend run off into the fading sun and yet another adventure without him. Resigned, he turned and headed back to Hoid's.

It took them roughly 15 minutes to get to Raner's shop. It was surprisingly large for this section of the city, with two large windows in the front and a sign scrubbed unusually clean of ash. Kelsier walked up to the door and pulled on it without knocking. It was locked. Odd for it to be closed this time of day, the detective thought.

Sherlock's mobile buzzed but he ignored it. Not now John, I'm busy. The Doctor was sonic-ing the lock (Kelsier had already tried knocking) and soon they were inside.

"Raner!" Kelsier called out. "We need to speak with you!"

The front room was dark, windows obscured by the daily ash. Again, odd. Judging by the businesses they had passed on the way here, shops cleaned their windows first thing in the morning to make their wares visible and to let in light. Despite the semidarkness Sherlock could make out the outlines of shelves along the walls stocked with bags of what appeared to be flour, salt and other foodstuffs.

"I thought he sold metals." The Doctor asked.

"The Skaa class isn't supposed to know allomancy exists, let alone practice it or sell metals." Kelsier replied. "There has to be a legitimate business façade."

To the left of the counter was a closed door, and they could see light underneath. The Doctor knocked, then pushed it open. This room was brightly lit, an oil lamp burning in the corner. Floor to ceiling shelves here too, containing more wares.  

"Hello?" Kelsier called out. No answer.
Sherlock was crouched down, staring at the floor intently. The pattern in the spilled flour . . . he stood and began running his hands along the shelves, looking for a hinge, a latch, anything.

There. Locating a small handle on the underside of the lowest shelf, he grabbed it and pulled. The secret door swung back easily, indicating frequent use. Sherlock stepped around it and froze in his tracks.

One does not become a highly respected private detective without becoming accustomed to the sight of dead bodies. But finding a mutilated corpse where you are not expecting one is something that will startle anyone, even Sherlock Holmes.

"Raner." Kelsier said softly.

The dead shopkeeper lay face up on the floor of the hidden room, congealed blood in a pool around him. There were enormous bite marks on his arms and legs, and one massive puncture wound through his chest. Sherlock stepped into small room, carefully avoiding the blood, and began testing the rigor.

"He died sometime last night, after closing." Sherlock said, wishing for John. The doctor's superior medical knowledge could have given them a more specific time frame.

"What kind of animal could do this?" Kelsier wondered aloud. "And how did it get in here?"

Sherlock eyed the wounds on the man's torso and legs. At first glance they appeared to be bite marks, but he had seen a few maulings in his time at Barts, and these were far to clean to be normal bites. Perfectly conical, with no tearing or lacerations. Plus the stab wound in the chest. It was the same as the others, only larger, and what animal bit its prey, didn't tear back at the flesh, then stabbed it with one larger claw? No, this had been something else. Something he had seen once before, only smaller.

The Doctor stood on the other side of the body, tapping and pushing on what appeared to be a solid wall. "There's something behind here, Sherlock." He said over his shoulder.
The detective glanced up. "Second down, third right, then top row, fourth in." The Doctor tapped the correct panels, and with a click a long vertical drawer popped out near the corner.

"How did you know that was there?" Kelsier asked, astonished.

"There's always another secret." The Doctor said with a smile.

Searching the drawers they found that Raner was completely out of tin. Not a speck of it anywhere in the cabinet. "Maybe he sold it all." Kelsier suggested.

"No, Lash said he had a large brick of it. The tin shavings are sold in small vials, there's no way he could have gotten rid of it all within a week." Sherlock said, face and voice deadpan, thinking.

"Then it was stolen."

"Maybe." Sherlock acknowledged, hoping to shut him up.

"But who would steal corrupted tin?"

The detective suppressed a sigh, spinning to face his companions. "I don't know if it was taken or by who, but clearly there's nothing here for us. The only source for data we have is back at Hoid's infirmary, inside your fiancé and her brother. We need to go."

"What about Raner?"

Sherlock's mobile buzzed again. Forcing Kelsier's question on the Doctor, he picked up. "What, John?"

"You've got to get back here." John sounded terrible—out of breath, voice pinched by pain. "One of the victims is dead, Hoid's unconscious, I think he's got a concussion."

"What? What happened? Are you alright?"

"I'm fine, it's Hoid I'm—oh, he's coming around now. Hey, you're okay, just a bang on the head, maybe concussed. Sherlock, the man upstairs broke free, came down and—I can't explain it, you need to come back here."

"Alright John, just hang on, we're on our way." Sherlock hung up, already moving, leaving the Doctor and Kelsier to follow.

They ran through the streets of the city, kicking up small clouds of ash in their wake. Sherlock filling the Doctor in on the little he knew as they went. The return journey seemed much farther, but whether Sherlock took a wrong turn or his emotions were just clouding his brain again he could not tell. Finally, finally, the three men came skidding around the corner, Hoid's building coming into view. The front door hung open, hinges bent backwards.

Sherlock ducked through the empty opening and into the narrow hall, calling out for John. "Up here!" came the strained reply. They raced up the stairs three at a time until at last they reached the upper room.

The scene was rather shocking. The entire room was in chaos—furniture turned over, items scattered across the floor, even a section of wall torn away beside the window.  John and Hoid sat on the bed closest to the door, the former dabbing at a cut on the other man's forehead. John's bad leg was held straight out in front of him, swelling visible through the jeans. The far bed had been overturned, dumping the body of the Pewterarm, whose name Sherlock had never picked up, onto the floor. The other two beds were empty, covers stripped and shredded.

Sherlock crossed immediately to John. "What happened, are you alright?"

"Yes, we're fine, it's just—"

"What did you do to your leg?" The Doctor asked, crouching down beside him.

"I was running." John replied. "Sherlock, the other victims are gone."

"Gone? Where?"

"We don't know." Hoid cut in. "I was taking blood samples from the other three, when the man upstairs broke his door down. I tried to stop him but he grabbed my head and threw me into the wall."

"I was in here with Mare and her brother. All three of them started shaking, like they were having a seizure. Mare and Lash got up and left, but that one—" John gestured to the man at the end of the room, his face white "He just kept shaking. I left, I tried to follow them, and when I got back he was dead, like that."

Sherlock crossed the room to examine the man's body, while John continued his account.

"They weren't themselves, they were like the other man, the one upstairs. I tried to stop them, but they knocked me down too."

The man on the floor was like no corpse Sherlock had ever seen. He was twisted into a horrible position, arms bent backwards and legs curled up. There were great holes in his face and arms at places where the skin was thinnest, like the lips, and the joint of the elbow. The hairs on Sherlock's arms stood up as he realized what had happened. The living metal had ripped its way out of his body, tearing through where the rust had weakened the skin.

"Well we need to find them!" Kelsier was shouting. "Where did they go?!"

"If you will all just quiet down for a minute, we can—"

"You should have followed them!"

"Please, calm down!"

"You don't understand, you don't even—"

The mess of raised voices and Sherlock's thoughts were interrupted by a small crash, the tinkling of broken glass. All eyes turned to look.

The sample Hoid had taken from Mare had fallen from the table in the corner.

A small metal snake was shining across the floor.