Sherlock and Watson take on a new case!
NOTICE FROM THE FOUNDATION RECORDS AND INFORMATION SECURITY ADMINISTRATION
Please note that a majority of information here was drawn directly from a paper document dating from the late 19th to early 20th century. Discrepancies with modern documents may be present.
The first page of SCP-8712-A-1, digitised.
Item #: SCP-8712
Object Class: Euclid
Special Containment Procedures: SCP-8712-A-1 is currently unavailable as part of transcription and digitisation efforts by RAISA for the Victorian Era archives. Following digitisation, both digital and physical copies can be requested from RAISA by any research personnel with Level 2 or higher security clearance. The remainder of SCP-8712-A are being tracked down through a combination of means, including the deployment of a web crawler network dedicated to flagging suspected mentions, and the deployment of MTF Chi-9 ("Page Turners") to search for SCP-8712-A instances at libraries and known book hotspots.
The status and location of SCP-8712-B is currently unknown.
Description: SCP-8712-A is a series of journals written in by POI-1930707, "Dr. John H. Watson", recounting his discovery of SCP-8712-B, and his involvement in Incident 8712-1, notably seeming to involve an anomalous GOI. SCP-8712-A-1 is one such journal, and the only one recovered to date. SCP-8712-A-1 was circumstantially recovered from the London Library by agents searching for background information on SCP-████. Cross-reference with similar journals published in British publication "The Strand Magazine" date SCP-8712-A to approximately 1895-1910.
Almost all knowledge of SCP-8712-B is currently based off SCP-8712-A. As such, SCP-8712-B's true nature and the extent to which SCP-8712-A is a reliable source of information is currently under debate. The general consensus is that SCP-8712-B, if it exists, is some anomalous object, likely sentient in nature, is a subject of worship of suspected GOI members, and requires consistent provision of organic material to function.
Addendum 1: The following is the extent of RAISA transcription efforts as of 1951-11-13.
CHAPTER I
The Scent Of The Case
THE STENCH OF BLOOD HIT my nose with force not unlike that of a pistol's recoil. It was certainly far from an unfamiliar sensation by now, considering my frequent choice of company and his more morbid dabblings, but the stinging of iron in my lungs nevertheless always had an intense unpleasantness about it. Sherlock had ordered a carriage to this area in a flurry, after receiving a letter describing what I saw to be a quite basic case, but which his mind clearly saw a greater enigma behind, a rare one which he saw as worthy of his wondrous talents.
"A cattle thief?" I had ejaculated with shock after he professed his intentions. "Surely such a case would not typically procure further attention from you! I've witnessed you disregard many of the sort before!"
"Indeed, you might think as much from a superficial reading of it," said he, refolding the letter in question and tucking it into an inner pocket of his coat. "But even a cursory examination deeper will unveil a most fascinating quandary indeed." He was already halfway out the front door and hailing for a cab at this point, so I endeavoured to hasten the wearing of my coat and hurry out after him.
"But what exactly is the quandary, then?" I questioned as I followed him onto the street, where a hansom had stopped for us. In my rush to keep up, I accidentally bumped into a man, who cursed at me through clenched teeth, several of which were missing. Though I apologised fervently, I heard him clacking them in anger as I boarded the carriage.
"Ponder on it for just a bit longer. I'm sure it'll become startlingly obvious once we're there." The answer did not satisfy me in the slightest, but I held my tongue, out of respect to Holmes.
It was only once he had given the driver an address unfamiliar to me that I deigned to ask: "Where are we even going, then? Is there anywhere for an investigation of an almost city-wide string of thefts to begin?" His face flashed with an expression I had seen often, of a man certain in his knowledge, and in his contemporaries' lack thereof. Factual though it may have been, I just as often found myself irked by it.
"Why, where else would one search for missing cattle? The butcher, dear Watson!"
Upon our arrival and alighting at our destination, I found myself following Sherlock into a butcher shop larger than any I had ever seen, surrounded by carcasses of all sorts being sliced up into bloody hunks of meat. In fact, the cobbles just outside the store illusorily shared bloodstains from many a murder scene I had seen. The flooring inside was no better, and the red had in fact lost all distinguishability, rather seeming like an old coat of paint. Should it have been revealed as fact that more slaughter took place here on a daily basis than in the whole of my time with the Army, I would not have been the least bit surprised.
"It's the biggest butchery in town," said Sherlock in response to my inner thoughts, which he had easily gleaned from my expressions. "They do need to earn their livelihood. And the people do need their meat."
He walked over to one of the many folk hacking apart at carcasses, a hulking man dressed simultaneously with a blood soaked apron and a most severe frown on his face, yet apparently filled with utmost focus on the task at hand, such that I could almost have mistaken him for a surgeon working a grievous injury. He towered over the men beside him, and though broad as the cow put before his knife, had an almost lanky physique by virtue of his immense height. At noticing the approach of my companion, however, his complexion lightened rapidly, and he set down his cleaver with a mighty crash to spread out his bloodied hands in greeting.
"Sherlock! My friend!" His voice was as hearty as it was thunderous as he clapped Holmes heavily on the back. Though hardly lacking in height himself, my companion came nearly two heads short of the elephantine man he had come to meet, and stumbled several paces at the impact.
Still, he gave a slight smile. "Hello again, Willis. This is my companion, Dr. Watson. Dr. Watson, Willis. He's quite the gentle giant, I assure you. He'd never hurt a fly." He introduced the two of us.
The man I now knew as Willis laughed bustily at this. I certainly would have failed to guess Sherlock's description from looking at him. He was in the midst of wiping his large hands on his apron. "The coppers sure didn' think it until Sherlock 'ere cleared my name an' got me out of their irons!"
"It was a trivial case, hardly anything to fret about," came the dismissive reply, but I could pick out the hints of satisfied vanity underlying Sherlock's tone.
"An' he's a right humble one too! He managed to find the actual crook from the colour of the mud on 'is shoes, if you can believe it!" He offered me his hand, and as soon as I took it, he shook my hand with such vigorous strength that an inkling of worry developed in my mind for the very costly prosthetic I was fortunate enough to have installed in my injured shoulder. It significantly eased the ache that often flared up in weary weather. "Any friend of Sherlock is a friend of mine! What do you lot need? I'm afraid I can' give much o' a discount for the meat. Business 'as been tough lately."
"That's not a matter of worry. We actually needed your help on a case." Sherlock furrowed his brows for a brief moment, as though pondering something unexpected. "So, even your business has been affected by this vegetarian fad, has it?"
"Quite right! You really are brilliant, Mr. Holmes. All these 'fashionable' an' 'kinder' recipe books being spread 'bout 'as caused a bit of a dip in customers. We 'ad to throw a good deal of meat out just the other day on account of it losin' it's freshness. But it's no worry, I expect the people will get tired of their greens and come turning back to meat soon 'nough!" He said it with such boisterous energy that it came across as certain fact to me, despite knowing nothing of this conflict of interest prior to this very conversation.
"That's all I need, then," said Sherlock simply, to some confusion on my part. I decided against questioning him, however, and we gave our thanks to the butcher before walking back out to the roads and hailing yet another carriage, this time back to our shared flat at 221B Baker Street.
Addendum 2: The following is the extent of RAISA transcription efforts as of 1951-11-17. This accounts for all directly relevant sections of SCP-8712-A-1. The remainder of SCP-8712-A-1 seems to be comprised of solely rough notes covering the same content, and has therefore been tagged low-priority for transcription.
CHAPTER II
The Chase's Development
Upon our return to the flat, Holmes quickly settled into the armchair he frequently conducted his interviews from, leaning back to stare into the nothingness with unfocused eyes, apparently gathering his thoughts. I awaited expectantly for several minutes for him to announce his verdict, as he often did, until annoyance began bubbling up. As impatience for an answer finally got the better of me, I found myself blurting out.
"So, what grand purpose hid behind our journey to the butcher's? You had said we were finding the missing cattle, and we uncovered nothing of the sort, yet here you are, lazing away without even speaking of the case again!"
Sherlock snapped back into focus at this, resting his gaze upon me. Eventually, he gave me a knowing smile, as though amused by my outburst.
"Oh, but we did find the missing cattle, my friend. Remember, if you will, the most basic axiom to my Science of Deduction: 'Eliminate the impossible, and whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth'. I have, in our brief conversation with Butcher Willis, conclusively eliminated a final impossibility, and with that, am left with only the truth behind the cattle abductions."
"And pray tell me what this truth is?"
"The truth, simply, is that this is no mere cattle thief we're dealing with here, Watson. Consider the possible motivations behind snatching cattle, as historically established. Revenge? No, too many victims, and too much variation to possibly link them, even for the most motivated criminal. Necessity? Why, even the most impoverished and starving family could quickly become wholesalers with the amount of meat provided by so much stolen livestock! 'In that case,' You may venture to ask, 'What if the cattle were being taken for their meat to be sold?'"
He paused here, and looked at me expectantly.
"They wouldn't find much luck," I realised, "Willis confirmed to you that the majority of people aren't in the market for meat."
"Precisely!" He exclaimed with much jubilation at my connection, despite it coming a great many paces behind his own. "I had heard of the spreading vegetarian desire to reduce animal cruelty from many of my peers and acquaintances who have joined the movement themselves before receiving the letter this morning, and so had theorised, before settling theory into bedrock axiom with our visit to a man who knows the business of meat. And so! That which is done is that which shall be done, as history will show, we are left with but the one motive for these thefts, which in its lonely nature, must be the truth."
As usual, I found myself enamored with the way he spun thoughts and processes far beyond me into a seemingly obvious chain of almost mathematical proof. I hung on his every word, waiting for his final conclusion that would be, as the Latins say, quod erat demonstrandum.
"A cult, Watson. With no care for conventional finance or necessity like other thieves, but rather stealing and sacrificing animals for their spiritual reasons."
I exclaimed in disbelief in spite of myself, suddenly taken aback by this over-dramatic statement, "Surely that seems far too extreme of a conclusion to reach over so few facts?"
"Oh, perhaps to you, but it seems a perfectly reasonable one to me. I am curious, however, what other explanation do you have in mind which fits with what we know?"
"Well…" I struggled more than I care to admit with his question, even though it was a fair one. If I objected to his claim, then surely I should have had a better idea in mind.
"What about the vegetarian movement you mentioned?" I proposed modestly, "Given their stance on animal welfare, surely they could well be the ones taking animals from what they deem to be cruel conditions and bringing them to better places."
Sherlock smiled and shook his head good-naturedly. "Ever the optimist you are, Watson. I do at times envy your simplicity. That does sound a great deal pleasant, and would certainly be a happier ending to this whole affair.
"Consider that vegetarians as a whole are a very moral people. To seek and pursue the protections of animals that so many others fail to consider beyond their plates would require as such, after all." He pulled out the letter from his coat and unfolded it, handing it to me. "Look at the third, seventh, and thirteenth thefts in the list. Cattle taken from struggling farmers, now robbed of their livelihood. I've assisted one of them with a case before, and I know as fact that he cared for his animals like they were his own children." The contents in the letter corroborated his words, and I had to admit that he managed to convince me, at least of the mistake in my proposal, as I was still stubborn and steadfast against the idea of something as senseless as a cult in London.
"There is no question, Watson. We are at odds with a cult. If not in name, then at least in behaviour, as sacrifice is the only motive still plausible for this thieving of animals. If you still have your doubts, then hear me on this: within the week, I expect that there will be a sudden spike in disappearances. Not only of animals, but people as well. If this comes to pass, it will be irrefutable proof, and you must accept my conclusion."
I felt no small amount of self assurance, preposterous and far-fetched as his condition was, so I agreed. "Very well, then. I am happy to agree to those terms. And in turn, you must, if no such thing occurs within the week, admit to me that you were wrong, and overzealous in your guess."
Sherlock smiled. "Our wager is made, then! We shall see who is correct."
It is with no embellishment that I write: as soon as he uttered those very words, a youthful messenger boy dishevelled in hair and clothing, barrelled through our flat door, declaring this:
"Sherlock! 's there a Mister Sherlock 'olmes 'ere? Inspector Lestrade of the police 's callin' for you! Says there's been four missin' persons just today!"
Addendum 3: On 1951-12-6, undercover personnel flagged SCP-8712-A-2 as a suspected anomalous entity in the New York Public Library Berg Collection. SCP-8712-A-2 was seized under the Anomalous Books Act and confirmed to be a genuine manuscript. MTF Chi-9's scope of search has been expanded to North American soil to reflect this discovery. Transcription of SCP-8712-A-2 is ongoing.
Addendum 4: The following is the extent of RAISA transcription efforts as of 1951-12-10:
CHAPTER III
A Further Escalation
Only a brief period came between his dramatic declaration and our boarding of a hansom, rattling down the London streets. The young boy had handed Sherlock a letter from Inspector Lestrade explaining the situation in greater detail before turning heel and running out the door again, ushered by our landlady. The very first line of the letter was a summons to the scene of the latest disappearance, and there we were headed as Sherlock laid into the back of the seat, deep in thought again. He had passed me the letter after his own lengthy read for me to read aloud, as he claimed to find it stimulating to his thoughts to hear the contents in my voice.
"My dear Mr. Holmes:
"I urgently request your presence at The Lamb & Flag, Covent Garden. Do make haste, if at all possible. There has been a series of unfortunate dealings in London as of late. Three people have been announced missing today, and as of just now, so has a fourth, from an alley beside the pub. I greatly suspect there is foul play at work tying them together, as there is slim possibility of such profound coincidence. The person in question is an adult man, having left his coterie of acquaintances for a brief moment. Signs of a struggle are present but few, so it is impressed upon me that a large and organised group is involved. Certain eyewitnesses have reported strange persons, some in hooded attire, present at the scene around the time. In the event you are unavailable, I will send further correspondence sharing my findings, and you can inquire for me at Scotland Yard if necessary.
"Yours very truly,
"G. Lestrade."
Sherlock hummed. "Not quite bad, but our good inspector has failed to see all the details. The connections to the livestock thefts, for one, though the telltale signs of cult machinations can already be identified in the letter he sent."
"However did you guess that this would occur?" I asked with some bitterness for having forfeited so quickly what seemed like a fail-safe bet.
"Guess? No such thing, Watson. I inferred, based on what clues were made available to me. I knew for certain, or at least very close to it, that some group was sacrificing animals, something most would term a cult. With a shorter and shorter span between each livestock theft recently [which you could also have seen from the letter], I knew that they must be requiring a greater and greater sacrifice. With the patterns of behaviour I've examined of every cult in the last century, this always progresses to one thing and one thing only. To meet the demands of their worshipped, they turn their knife onto their fellow Man. A stage after that is often turning their knife onto their fellow members, but we scarcely can afford the time for that while good citizens are being snatched. The hunt, Watson, is on."
"Wonderful!" I exclaimed, any sour feelings having been replaced with amazement as Sherlock explained his act of miraculous genius.
"Hardly so, my friend. It was a simple inference at most. But my eagerness to take on this case has been freshly ignited after laying out the facts once more.
"Driver, how much further to the address?"
"We're rolling up to the pub right now, sir," came the answer. He pointed it out. "Do you need me to wait on you?"
"Yes, that'll be very much appreciated, good fellow. A shilling for your troubles, and it'll be two if we're not back within the hour." Sherlock handed the man a silver disc before we disembarked
[…]
The next three pages appear to have been ripped out. SCP-8712-A-2 has been confirmed to be untampered with since its retrieval. The prevailing theory behind the missing pages is an attempt to hide something incriminating, but no conclusive evidence has been found to support this claim. Reconstruction of the events in these pages based on the rest of SCP-8712-A-2 is underway.
Addendum 5: The following is a summary of the consensus the SCP-8712 research team reached regarding the contents of the lost pages:
- Sherlock and Watson meet with Inspector Lestrade, at which point Sherlock requests the details of the other missing persons cases, particularly pertaining to their last known locations.
- Lestrade brings them to an alleyway nearby where a struggle seems to have happened. Sherlock examines the scene closely, giving special regard to the ground and dirt, though there are too many footprints to make out individual sets.
- They leave, and bump into a man with a prosthetic leg, knocking him over.
- After helping him up and apologising, they board the cab they had paid for.
Addendum 6: The following is the extent of RAISA transcription efforts as of 1951-12-16. Based on notes and a partially water-damaged contents page, this section was labelled "Chapter IV — In Search of a Warehouse". Certain sections have suffered moderate to severe water damage. Transcription of these sections are either approximate, based on contextual evidence, or omitted entirely in the case of uncertainty. In all cases, this is signified with the use of square brackets.
[…]
the dirt at the scene, the last known locations of each victim, the area of each livestock theft, and the necessary seclusion one would expect a murderous cult to seek put altogether, there are very few places within the confines of London for our search to extend. Add to that the sheer numerosity this group seems to have, and this is the only plausible location that fits all the facts," Sherlock reasoned out to me as our cab rattled over the London [cobbles to] […].
As we arrived, I observed the surrounding area through the carriage window. The building itself, a large warehouse, was fairly simple in its construction. Red brick walls were built up three floors high, bending sharply at the corners and with brief gaps for daylight, though by my rough estimate, about two thirds of the panes had been smashed in, likely by hooligans and gangs, of which there seemed to be many in this borough. The roof was typical and flat, with four short chimney-stacks at the corners, all of which seemed substantially weathered, only one of the four still having all its bricks intact. The soil was gray and sickly in appearance, as though the Earth had been poisoned and drained of life. I had almost failed to notice the incredible extent with which the pavement split and crack to reveal the ground beneath because of this oddity.
Once the hansom had rolled to a stop, I followed Sherlock in disembarking to approach one of the ground floor windows, a broken one. Peering through, we surveyed the inside. It was like many an abandoned industrial space, vast machines […] [disrepair] lined up in neat rows, any function they once had obscured by missing and looted components. This one differed in having a wide clearing in the center, clearly once filled with the large shelves that had since been shifted haphazardly to the side. This could have been innocuous on its lonesome, but there was a distinct lack of dust and cobwebs which informed me with certainty that some large group had been recently using this space illegally. A cult, if Sherlock was correct.
The man in question, having joined the dots with greater rate than I did, was already venturing to the door which was slightly ajar. I was quick on his heels, however, and soon caught up.
"Are we sure this is the wisest course of action — directly entering their […]? We've seen that they have the manpower necessary to […] [a] grown man," I asked.
"Indeed, Watson, but you fail to see neither the flurry of steps [and] kicked up soil of a hurried group nor the failure to lock up the place of people who have no more interest here. We've been sniffed out, and like rats, they've abandoned their lair," he answered, "I suspect one of their members must have overheard my giving of their address to our driver, and sent word for the rest to jump ship. Alas! We let a wonderful opportunity to capture one of them slip away from beneath our noses. All that is left for us now is to salvage this area for clues left behind in their haste."
Sherlock pushed open the door and entered, with me doing so moments after, having been stupefied by his words for a brief instant. He had already pulled out his large magnifying glass, stepping about the space much like he had done in the alley, stopping to examine at points which, to an untrained observer such as myself, seemed completely random. It was only after the better part of the hour watching his process that he paused, humming raised in pitch as though in questioning.
"Is there anything wrong?" I inquired.
"A peculiarity," said Holmes, "perhaps deserving of further investigation."
With a handkerchief, he picked up the object of interest, holding it up to the evening light streaming through the westernmost windows. It was a single brass cog, not unlike the ones still left in the machines here.
"It seems to be from the machines here," I said, "Where lies its peculiarity?"
"'Seems', Watson, has been the root of thousands of errors over the centuries, and perhaps in this decade alone. If you would humour me and view it with more care, you would notice that it is spotless, without a hint of tarnish on it, whereas the machines you mentioned are corroded and rusted through by many a rainy night blowing through these windows."
He was right, of course. Looking closer, I had to admit defeat to his superior observations. "It's new, then. Left behind by the cult," I surmised.
"Indeed. But what was their use for it? Worship, perhaps? Is this the symbol of their-"
With great suddenness, an abrupt movement and clattering from the piled-up shelves interrupted us. We paused to turn and watch, and as a figure hooded in a large fold of brown fabric rose from the mess, readied ourselves for a confrontation.
It was a man, of […] stature to Holmes, but broader in the shoulders and wider in the jaw. He startled at the sight of us, before pulling out a knife and brandishing it. Sherlock immediately stepped protectively in front of me, arms raised in one of his martial arts stances, one fist pulled back.
The mysterious man charged at us. Just before he could close the distance, Sherlock shifted forward, throwing something small and metallic (which I later realised to be the cog he had found) right into the forehead of our assaulter. His aim was true, and the object struck the man right in the forehead. He [staggered back] […] [unconscious]
[…]
[His entire chest was] a [mess] of gears and cogs, […]
[What] in the world is that?" I exclaimed, astonished.
For perhaps the first time, or so it felt, given the infrequency with which it happened, Sherlock seemed to be at a loss. He was speechless for several moments, before crouching down to scrutinize the man and his immense mechanical alterations.
"I can't be fully certain, I admit," said he, "It seems to be some form of technological wonder, far beyond anything I've read about. Doubtless the creator of this technology must be the subject of their worship."
At this moment, we heard a storm of footsteps from outside, thunderously loud in their quantity. Sherlock glanced up from his examination to me, and we shared a silent look of understanding. It must [have] […]. We rushed to a back door, as the steps sounded to be approaching the front, and quietly as we could whilst rushing, opened and shut it, sneaking out into the London streets again.
Addendum 7: The following is the extent of RAISA transcription efforts as of 1951-12-21. This accounts for all directly relevant sections of SCP-8712-A-2, under the same reasoning as SCP-8712-A-1.
CHAPTER V
Our Retreat Back To Safety
Sherlock brought us through a long and arduous process before returning to our flat, wanting to be entirely certain that we had thrown anybody who may have been in pursuit of our track by winding it so as to derail any attempt to follow. We ventured through a multitude of alleys and other shady paths. We finally stopped at an eating establishment of dubious character to have a brief dinner. It had been served by a gap-toothed man who glared at us for the duration of our stay, clacking his teeth constantly as he brought the food, putting me on nerves with how much it resembled the ticking from the man we had fought at the warehouse. More eerie was perhaps the odd way his face seemed vaguely familiar but fleeting, like a stranger I had seen before. I found myself tensely worrying about another ambush. Barely five minutes were available to eat before we departed at Sherlock's signal (he clarified later that he noticed a man watching us).
Upon our return, I fell almost straightway into my bed, weary with fatigue. I was lulled into sleep by Sherlock's violin-playing, a more favourable medium for his thinking than pacing, I would readily admit.
I was shaken from my slumber the next day by a sharp cry of pain from outside my door. Alarmed, I flustered with my drawer for several moments before recalling that my pistol was still in my coat from yesterday. Hand on the grip, I carefully entered the waiting room. To my relief, there was no one there but Sherlock, sitting on his armchair. He was gripping his stomach with a pained expression, however, so I quickly rushed to his aid, letting go of my gun.
"What's going on?" I asked.
"A stomach ache," he groaned, "perhaps induced by our dinner last night."
"Well, of course," I rebuked, somewhat annoyed, "You selected the most unsavoury dining establishment I've ever had the pleasure of visiting. Their standards of health were impressed upon me to a greater extent than those of food stalls and war rations. I expect you've got a stomach bug from their cuisine. Let me check for a fever, and I'll give you something for the pain."
Sherlock turned his head up, and I placed my hands on his forehead and neck. Slightly hot, but not excessively so.
"A mild fever," I diagnosed, "You'll need bedrest, while your body fights the infection."
"A mild fever? We're on the case, Watson. If not for the sake of it, then for the sake of the people, I am required to investig-"
He burst into a sudden coughing fit, startling me into withdrawing my hands. It continued without end for almost half a minute, and cemented my decision to make him rest. Once it had begun to ease, he transitioned into dry retching, shuddering his whole body as he did. I placed a hand on his back in an attempt to placate him, as I brought over a bucket.
"Try to breathe, Sherlock." He must have worked himself up, I thought. At least, until the heaving turned into vomiting. In one violent lurch, he regurgitated a large amount of half-digested food. Another one, and something fell into the bucket with a clattering noise.
Fortunately, this seemed to cause his fit to subside, and he now leaned back into his chair, composing himself. Curiosity piqued by the noise, I looked into the bucket, and saw a cog, almost identical to the one we had seen in the factory, but with a much smaller construction.
"Sherlock, if you can, look at this," I gaped.
"What is it?" He leaned forward, taking the hand I had offered to steady himself from his queasiness. He went silent for some moments. "How curious. Would it be rude to presume that you've never seen anything of the sort, doctor?"
"Not at all," I replied.
"Then I suppose I should have to take your suggestion of bedrest. It is clear that I'm unfit for the more physical aspects of detecting, and what help I could offer will be impeded by these strange happenings, which I will for once admit, lead a logical explanation to escape me." Another fit of coughs punctuated his sentence, relieved only after I had gotten warm tea to soothe his throat. I took a bottle half-filled with laudanum from the kitchen along the way and placed it upon the side table for his use.
"Perhaps I should take to the streets with this case," I suggested, noticing Sherlock's displeasured and anxious demeanor. "Where your deduction seems to fail now, perhaps a traditional detective's person-based investigation, which I know I can do, will find more luck and facilitate your abilities."
He furrowed his brows even deeper at this. "Are you certain? The risk is high, and I would not like to have you in danger on my behalf without my presence."
"You should not believe such nonsense as that. This is my own will, and though I am a medical man, I was a medical man with the Army, and it would be discharitable to see me as helpless in the face of threats."
Holmes chuckled good-humouredly. "Apologies, my friend, I had no intent in implying any incapability on your part. If this is your desire, I should not complain of it, but rather thank you for it."
With that general conclusion reached, and another round of pleasantries and well wishes, I took the time to ready myself before setting off to the streets of London.
My first destination, by instinct, had been to investigate in greater detail the bars near the disappearances, rather than their alleys. Practicality informed me that the cult would likely have one or two persons there to inform the rest of possible targets. Sherlock agreed with this train of thought, and so it was that I gave the same address as yesterday to the cab driver as I boarded his carriage.
Addendum 8: On 1952-01-18, a raid on a North American GOI-004 encampment uncovered SCP-8712-A-3, along with several other texts from various sources dating from the 15th century to the present day, apparently stored for the purposes of historical inquiry. SCP-8712-A-3 was found in poor quality, with severe water, fire, and mechanical damage. Due to conflicting testimonies, information regarding SCP-8712 gathered from interviews with GOI-004 members captured during the raid is to be considered unreliable and has therefore been excluded from this document. SCP-8712-A-3 has been confirmed to be a genuine manuscript. Transcription of SCP-8712-A-3 is ongoing.
Addendum 9: The following is the extent of RAISA transcription efforts as of 1952-01-27. This accounts for the entirety of SCP-8712-A-3 after significant restoration efforts. A request for the usage of experimental anomalous restoration techniques has been made and is currently under review.
[…]
Patiently, I watched the man for just under two hours. He never ate, never drank, and never sat. Any attempts from other patrons to socialise were responded to with a glare and a gruff rejection. All the while, a faint noise was emitted from his upper body, barely noticeable over the hubbub of the bar. With intent listening, however, I was eventually able to discern it as a clacking sound, or rather, it would be more accurate to term it as a ticking, not unlike that of the man Sherlock and I had encountered in the warehouse. They must share the same technology in their body, then, or at least something similar. A direct approach would certainly fail, considering the feats of strength I had witnessed it to be capable of.
I bode my time instead, taking more care than my target to avoid detection by placing an order for a plate of beef shank, which, after being served, I found to be overcooked and under-seasoned. It served my purposes, however, as I slowly picked away at it and engaged in the occasional idle chatter, all the while surreptitiously keeping an eye on him.
After another several more hours of waiting, he finally made a move. A pub worker ushered out of the front door a particularly rowdy drunk, who had been for some time harassing the other patrons, including myself. As I expected, my man walked out himself almost immediately after. I waited three beats after the door closed behind him before setting down my cutlery and getting up from my seat to follow.
My mark was strutting along the street after the drunkard, who was himself stumbling down the road, the few people out on the streets at this time walking wide arcs to avoid him and his loud ramblings. Though neither of the two turned to check their surroundings, I still made certain to keep my body out of view as much as was feasible, ducking behind corners and pedestrians with practiced subtlety.
[…] [as] chance would [have it,] […] [ducked] into in the very same alleyway Lestrade had called Sherlock to yesterday, and I knew with near utmost precision where the best areas to stay out of view were. There was a small nook in the wall, which I made my alcove. I could see almost the entirety of the alley whilst staying relatively hidden away myself.
I watched as […] [grabbed] the drunk by the wrist, wrenching his arm behind his back violently. The drunk opened his mouth as if to cry out in pain, but not a sound came out before a balled-up rag was stuffed into it as a crude gag. They struggled for a few seconds longer, until the drunk very suddenly went limp, and I heard a huff of amusement from his would-be abductor. No other men appeared, which was unexpected, but pleasantly so. Brief as their scuffle was, it afforded me sufficient distraction to creep up on my target. I pulled out my gun and pressed it to the back of his head, pulling back the cock with an audible click.
"Make any move other than ones I tell you to make, and I will fire my gun into your head," said I.
He tensed up almost immediately. He turned his head slightly, in an attempt to get a look at me, but I pushed my barrel into his head with some force to emphasize my point. He understood this time, and stilled. At the distance we were, I could now hear the ticking of his chest with distinct clarity, and I was more certain than ever.
"Drop the man you're holding, then stretch your arms out in front of you with your palms facing up."
He did as I instructed, and I checked for any weapons in his hands. There were none, but I noted with no small volume of shock that up to the wrist, his left hand had been replaced by an intricate mechanism, mimicking the movements of a typical flesh and blood hand with near perfect precision, as far as I could tell. It was a medical wonder in terms of prosthetic science, and some part of me was irked by how it had been abused by this mysterious group and not shared with the world at large.
"Now, answer my questions, and do not move anything but your mouth. What is your cult's motivation? Why have your group abducted so many animals and people?"
He spoke with a deep voice, almost raspy in its pitch, "The Cogwork Orthodoxy is no cult, Dr. John Watson." I blinked with surprise at my name coming from his mouth, but diligently kept my gun trained on his head as he continued.
"We worship the Mekhane, our god, and with the blessings of the Mekhane's stomach given to us, we digest the Flesh of unholy, sinful creatures into holy, blessed components to rebuild the Mekhane within ourselves. Each and every piece of Flesh in London will be converted into parts of the Mekhane. We have seen your attempts to stop us, and they have been nothing but futile. You and your partner, Sherlock Holmes, have failed to even scratch the surface of our Church. Kill me, and nothing will change. This is our mission. Our goal is divine, and we will persist towards it."
[…] [abruptly turned] […] [struck my] […]
Addendum 10: During the annual Normalcy Protection Special Relationship Summit on 1952-01-31, Her Majesty's Royal Foundation for the Study of Curiosities and Phantasmagoria disclosed the possession of several documents relating to SCP-8712 and Incident 8712-1. Negotiations are underway for the acquisition of these documents.