Title: The Quetzacoatl Project
Amnesty July Prompts : 1-10, not in numerical order
A/N: special, special thanks to gardnerhill for the use of the "Study in Crimson" pirate AU world! This is set in BBC!world, although AU because of one of the prompts.
4. Epistolary fic, post-it note style. Word count: 416
7 July 08: Serum Quetzalcoatl - Generation A, tray 2
Evaporation rate noted, uniformly 1-1.5 mm per sample. Serum tested for contamination, as trays 1 and 3-25 show no evaporation. Serum free of contamination. No appreciable change in effects in subjects post-evaporation.
1 Oct 08: Serum Quetzalcoatl – Generation D, tray 6
Evaporation rate noted, uniformly 1-1.5 mm per sample. Serum tested for contamination; no other trays showed evaporation. Serum free of contamination. No appreciable change in effects in subjects post-evaporation.
To: George B- From: H. Vargas 2 Oct 08 Subject: Project Quetzalcoatl Serum
Should we consider a different supplier of sample tubes? This is the second incident in three months of serum evaporation.
4 April 09: Serum Quetzalcoatl – Generation J, trays 10 and 24
Evaporation rate noted, uniformly 1-1.5 mm per sample. No evaporation appreciable in other sample trays. Serum tested for contamination; no contamination appreciated. Affected serum samples not used on subjects.
15 July 09: Serum Quetzalcoatl – Generation M, trays 1, 3-5, 17, 24-25
Evaporation rate noted, uniformly 1-1.5 mm per sample. No evaporation appreciable in other sample trays. Serum tested for contamination; no contamination appreciated. Affected serum samples not used on subjects.
To: George B- From: J. Zabulusky 15 July 09 Subject: Project Quetzalcoatl Serum
The span of evaporation is a concern. We may need to scrap Generation M entirely and go back to Generation L. History of evaporation through Quetzalcoatl evolution is concerning. I see in the history that we suspect the evaporation is due to the storage equipment. Have we switched suppliers yet?
26 Dec 09: Serum Quetzalcoatl – Generation O, trays 1-25
Evaporation rate noted, uniformly 1-1.5 mm per sample. No evaporation appreciable in other sample trays. Serum tested for contamination; no contamination appreciated. Nevertheless, no sample used on subject.
To: Amalthea - From: George B- 28 Dec 09 Subject: Project Quetzalcoatl Serum
While I am hesitant to involver upper management, it has come to my attention that the "Serum Quetzalcoatl" project may have been severely compromised. It is my belief that what has until now been documented as evaporation may in fact be theft. Please advise.
31 Jan 10: Serum Quetzalcoatl – Generation O-Alpha, trays 1-25
All samples missing. George B- notified.
To: Amalthea - From: George B- 31 Jan 10 Subject: Project Quetzalcoatl Serum Theft of Serum Quetzalcoatl confirmed; all samples of Generation O-Alpha, trays 1-25 are missing. Please advise.
To: Mycroft Holmes From: Amalthea - 2 Feb 10 Subject: Potential Level B crisis Documents enclosed
1. Begin your prompt fill with one of the following. Word count: 125
Mr. Mycroft Holmes was not appreciative of being roused from his slumber a full three and one-half minutes prior to his customary seven o'clock a.m. This was not just because he was punctual to a fault. It was also because the few, select staff members who had his contact information knew he was only to be contacted outside of hours for Level A, or possibly Level B, crises. And those always made for long days.
The call said the pertinent information had been emailed to him. Mycroft looked over the email and felt a quarter of a second of qualm. This crisis was more of a Level C but he was glad nevertheless to be told.
Project Quetzacoatl was the newest development in truth serums.
3. Pivotal plot point, aka The Road Less Traveled. Word Count: 150
4 April, 2010
Slowly John raised his hands. His revolver was hidden in the flat; theirs were trained on his chest.
"We will walk you out the door. You will draw no attention to yourself or us. You will enter the blue car parked in front. It will be on your right. You will leave your mobile here."
John sighed internally and obeyed. There went his hope of being tracked by GPS. He left 221 by the front door, armed gunmen at his heels. There were two blue cars parked; John went to the one parked in front of the other.
As he entered, however, he caught a glimpse of Mrs. Hudson, now swathed in an ugly green parka, being shoved into the other blue car. One of the gunmen aimed the revolver at John's face.
"She's got a date with Sherlock and the boss. You've got a date elsewhere."
2. Railway, white, snake, jump, sandwich. Word Count: 175
Whatever John expected to see once the hood was removed, it wasn't this: a room of with walls, containing a small table, a chair, a peanut butter sandwich, and a glass of white milk. Carrot curl garnishes snaked over the edge of the plate and tumbled off.
"Seriously?" he exclaimed before he could stop himself.
One of the gunmen smiled in such a way that John want to jump back and run. "Not my idea to feed you. But I hear it goes easier if you have a full stomach."
John looked at the gunman impassively. "I'm not hungry."
"Suit yourself."
There was a suddenly, burning pain in the side of his neck. John clutched at the area in time to feel a hypodermic pull away. The brickwork of the walls swam and bulged, the lines of mortar crisscrossing like railroad tracks.
"It's called Quetzacoatl," a voice said in his ear. "Newest truth serum out there but still experimental, shall we say. And now, John, I want you to answer a few questions for me."
9. Rhyme. (Warning: ultra-cracky and drugged!John) Word count: 100
"Why do you room with Sherlock Holmes?"
"Because he's got a lot of combs."
"He . . . what?"
"Cut. Cut, print, that's a wrap. Time for a nap!"
The interrogators exchanged an uneasy glance. "So you think you're going to lead us a dance?"
"Wheeeeeee!" John exclaimed, slumped over, smiling, and glassy-eyed.
One gunman looked decidedly unnerved. "Think his brain is fried?"
"It worked fine last month. It should be working now."
"Now . . . now . . ." John murmured. "How now, brown cow!"
The lead interrogator prevented John from falling forward and breaking his nose. "Give him another dose."
7. Playing in another sandbox – many thanks, gardnerhill, for use of the Pirate Universe! Warning: dream/halluncinatory fic and somewhat graphic torture. Word count: 300
The name "Holmes" echoed in his mind. They wanted to know about Sherlock . . . Shear-Lock . . .
No. Mustn't tell them anything. Nothing.
"Where is he, Doctor?"
Not one word.
"I promise you, Dr. Watson, you will tell me where he is or you will regret it."
Not one.
"Dear me, the Scotts can be such a difficult race," Admiral Moriarty reflected aloud. "Left hand to start with, I think. Spiders, hold him down. If the doctor can be made to see logic, there is no reason he should lose his main hand as well."
The pain was exquisite. The damned Admiral had plenty of experience removing fingernails and could do it both deftly and slowly. The thick iron blade slipped under the nail, forcibly separating it from the soft bed underneath, and levered upward. Blood poured out, like wine from an overly full skin.
"Where. Is. Shear-Lock. Holmes."
He howled out some Oriental obscenity, a garbled mess of a couple languages, but it conveyed its meaning clear enough. The Admiral put down the smeared blade and picked up a relatively delicate set of iron tongs. "Now, now, manners cost nothing, as the Scotsman said," Moriarty chastised mildly, and wrenched out the abused nail.
The hellish operation was performed four more times. His throat was raw from screaming, but not one syllable had contained anything that might lead the Admiral to the Baker's whereabouts. Moriarty merely shook his head in disappointment while he gasped and heaved from pain. "Such a pity. From what the cullies tell me, you are the best surgeon that ever sailed the Seven Seas. At least, you used to be."
Moriarty now brandished a heavy cleaver, the sort used in butchering, and brought it down into the main joint of John's left thumb.
8. Natural disaster and its consequences. Continuation of the dream/hallucination in the prior fic. Word Count: 265
Incredible pain washed over him, like a cold wave. Exactly like a cold wave. Then there was another. There was salt water in his eyes and salt water in his mouth. And then he was treading water frantically, desperately keeping his head above the waterline. How he had been swept off the ship into the ocean he didn't know and at this point it hardly mattered. What mattered was this: those threatening clouds with flickers of lightening and that wind chopping up the water's surface meant a hurricane was coming. And he was totally at its mercy.
The wind howled and shrieked until his ears rang with it and he was deaf to any other sound. Salt spray stung his eyes and he closed them, blinded. Then he felt himself lifting up and up and up. The wind died away and he could open his eyes again.
He was above a city, held aloft in the eye of the hurricane, looking down at the tight little rows of red-roofed homes. Nature's fury, water and wind, bore down on them. Before his eyes, they disappeared. Small dark blots appeared on the surface of the water; he cried out in grief when he realized they were bodies.
He stretched out his hands but they would not reach. How could he reach those poor people? How could he save them when he couldn't save himself? A groan escaped him.
And then he was being lowered and the hurricane condescended into a slim dark form bearing over him. "Easy, John," it said in a familiar voice. "You're safe now."
5. Actions speak louder than words; ergo, breaking someone's nose is a much more effective means of communicating than verbal riposte. Word count: 350
Sherlock was not having one of his better days. He'd failed to anticipate Mrs. Hudson's role as the most recent bomber victim. The confrontation with Jim Moriarty had ended with the mastermind escaping and a destroyed pool. Mrs. Hudson had gone into hysterics once she realized they had both survived. And then Mycroft told him that John had been kidnapped too but taken to a different location.
Clio or Calliope or whatever her name was – the names of Mycroft's minions weren't important enough to be saved to his harddrive – provided a car and coordinates. After that, she wisely stayed out of his way.
Sherlock slipped into the abandoned school, peripherally noted it was a pleasant change from abandoned warehouses and abandoned pools, and followed his ears. Somewhere, nearby, a man was screaming at the top of his lungs. Sherlock quickened his pace.
John was on the floor, the source of the ruckus. His fingertips were torn and bloodied, but not because of any torture. Before the detective's eyes, his friend tore at his own thumb, ripping open a new wound.
Right. That was enough of that. Whatever had been done to John, self-inflicted or otherwise, he needed medical care immediately. Which meant those pawns of Moriarty had to be dealt with first.
Normally, verbal riposte was Sherlock's weapon of choice; however, one could hard engage in a battle of wits when one's enemy was unarmed. They said actions spoke louder than words; this he found to be true when he broke the first minion's nose with his fist.
Calli – or whoever – was right behind him with a swarm of Mycroft-minions behind her. They proved more than a match for five gunmen, even armed gunmen.
Meanwhile, John continued to scream. His eyes were open but unfocused. The flailing hand Sherlock grabbed burned in his and even in his amateur way he could feel John's pulse thrumming away. Likely he'd been given some sort of hallucinogen.
Sherlock gently restrained John's hands and looked to Head Minion C-whatever. "Contact the nearest hospital. And make sure there's ice and towels in the car."
10. Alpha/Omega. Word count: 150
There was one thing to be said about Mycroft's choice of vehicle and that was roomy back seats. This was particularly handy when John took a turn for the worst.
Sherlock blamed himself. Yes, it had been a long day and no, he was not a doctor, but he should have realized what was happening far sooner than he did.
At first John merely twitched as one might in the throes of a dream. Then he shuddered violently and kept shaking. Every muscle tightened painfully. Aghast, Sherlock tried to lower John to the floor of the car but it wasn't easy to maneuver an unconscious body, let alone one that was trying to flail in a space about a meter squared.
Suddenly, the seizure ceased. So did Sherlock's heartbeat, until he confirmed that John was still breathing. Calli's eyes met his in the rear view mirror. "Drive faster," he ordered.
6. Gratuitous and shameless H/C/Schmoop. Word count: 331
Every muscle in John's body hurt. His throat ached. Each finger throbbed. His eyelids weighed a stone and half, easy. And he kept having snatches of dreams or memories that disappeared before they could solidify. A soldier ought to be stronger, but John was no longer a soldier and he was as far removed from his normal state of mind as he could be. He whimpered.
Immediately a hand covered his. "John," a familiar, comforting voice murmured. "You awake yet?"
"Sh'rl'k?"
"Yes." The hand tightened on his. "Do you remember anything?"
"Storm . . . hand . . ."
"You were hallucinating," Sherlock said softly. "They gave you a serum they had stolen from the government. It was still being tested, and its components were unstable. After a month or so it becomes a powerful hallucinogenic. They gave you a double dose of it. When we found you, you were screaming your throat raw and you'd torn your own hands open. And you had a grand mal seizure on the way to the hospital."
"How – long – "
"Almost four days. They kept you sedated until they were sure every trace of the serum was out of your system."
John groaned softly. On some level he understood everything Sherlock was telling him but he was beyond dealing with the implications. Neurologic damage, extensive bandaging, possibly even physiological therapy . . . no. Too much. Not now.
He must have spoken the last words aloud because Sherlock's hand drew back from his. "Yes, the rest can wait. Get some sleep, John."
John made a desperate noise that was half cry, half whimper, and blindly reached out for Sherlock. He didn't want to be alone. "Not now."
"Oh," said Sherlock in a peculiar tone. He said nothing when John seized his hands with both of his own, heedless of the bandages. He merely ran his thumbs gently, almost tenderly, over John's injured hands, for a good hour until John was able to fall asleep.