Sherlock Holmes and The Incredible Hulk

Part 1

by Mary Christmas (unicorn_76010 at lycos.com)
6/26/04

General Disclaimer

A/N: Right, so I kind of hate Sci-Fi right now. Why? Because it made me watch the Incredible Hulk for the last week. Okay so it didnít exactly make me. I do have free will after all. I think. Anyway, I got this really great (or not so great depending on your point of view) idea. And so this story was born. Itís the 1970ís version of the Hulk, with that annoying, yet surprisingly cute reporter dude. I just -- you know, used my artistic license and pretended that everything happened in the 22nd century instead of the twentieth. Oh yes, and for those of you who have actually seen it, it takes place right before the funeral. Okay, now that Iíve rambled on and on and on and on -- hereís the first chapter!!

Chapter One

Beth Lestrade adjusted the trim on the collar of her new-age trench coat as she waited outside her apartment for a cab. It was constantly getting in her mouth. How on earth did Holmes stand that Inverness -- which was considerably bulkier -- of his? Of course, everything was exponentially more irritating to her this morning. The fact that she had called the taxi company only ten minutes ago and they still hadnít arrived, that it was raining and that she had to go on this trip at all rankled.

She palmed open her wrist com and scanned through the messages until she found the one she was looking for. Not that she needed to have bothered. She knew it by memory now.

Ms. Beth Lestrade, it is my unpleasant duty to inform you that your brother, Doctor David Bruce Banner has been killed. The funeral will take place on Thursday, September 11.

Thank you for using InstaGram Messaging. With InstaGram Messaging you get all the convenience without all the hassle.

That was it. No explanations. She glared at the offending thing. Surely someone could have sent her a more personal message. Then she sighed. Of course they wouldnít have wanted to do that, and she could understand their reluctance. She knew she wasnít really angry with them, Davidís colleagues, but she needed something to take her anger out on. And since he was dead, she couldnít very well focus it on the cause. No, that wasnít fair, either.

Besides, she didnít even know the cause of his death. She was just assuming that he had finally given up after his wifeís death nearly a year ago. David had always felt guilty over that, insisting that he should have been able to save her, that people did it all the time. That was when he started his research, and when the two of them drifted apart.

Sherlock Holmes, however, had always said not to base conclusions on assumptions. And David wasnít really the suicidal type. Gung ho, yes. But not suicidal. So, Beth Lestrade was going not only for Davidís funeral, but to find out exactly what had happened.

"Holmesíll be so proud of me," she muttered sarcastically just as the cab pulled up.

She hopped inside and instructed the driver to take her to the airport. Normally, sheíd have taken her cruiser but this time she didnít want her badge to get in the way. People nowadays told more to a citizen than to a cop.

Watson hummed softly to himself as he baked. He so enjoyed cooking. It was one of his few pleasures, besides writing and accompanying Holmes on a case. Being a robot, there were certain things he couldnít experience, but he never let that stop him. While his programming told him that he had once been different, he couldnít actually remember anything of that time, "Before Holmes", as Lestrade liked to call it.

"Something certainly smells delightful, Watson," Holmesí familiar voice rang out from the doorway of the kitchen, "Tell the Irregulars when they get here to meet me at the First Multi-National Bank of New London. I have something for them to do."

Watson turned to face the detective, unable to keep the surprise from his tone. "But Holmes, how did you know? They werenít supposed to be here this afternoon. Wiggins only called twenty minutes ago and you were out."

Holmes smirked. "Simple, Watson. You only bake that particular type of biscuit when the Irregulars are over because Deidre is allergic to almost everything else."

Watson couldnít help but blush. It was rather absurdly simple. "Yes, well, Iíll be sure to tell them. I suppose that was Inspector Lestrade who just called?"

"No," And Holmes, inexplicably, pouted. "Apparently sheís on family leave. It was Inspector Hawkins."

"I see, I do hope sheís all right."

"Well, of course she is," Holmes muttered rather irritably. "Now Iíve got to go. Who knows how those bumbling idiots from the Yard have ruined any good evidence." And with that he stalked out.

Watson watched him leave and shook his head. While he knew from the journals of his predecessor that Holmes could behave in such a manner, he hadnít really noticed much of that since the detective had accepted him as thinking and feeling being rather than a machine. He shrugged and continued his preparations. The kids would be there soon, and he suspected theyíd need all the sustenance they could get.

Lestrade muttered under her breath as she waited for Doctor Ben-Something-Or-Other to come out and speak with her. It wasnít surprising that she hadnít heard of him, given that she hadnít spoken with her brother for nearly a year, but that he hadnít known of her until someone tried to locate family and friends of the deceased hurt. A lot. Especially since this man was supposedly a good friend of Davidís. And of Elena Marx, the other scientist who had been killed.

Murdered. That much she had gotten, only it was from some sensationalist reporter who claimed that it was a big green monster that had done the deed. So, she wasnít even sure if that was the truth. It seemed more like it was an accident to her. The lab had exploded. That tended to happen when dangerous chemicals were mixed. She needed to talk to this Ben guy, find out what he knew, what he thought had happened. What her brother and Doctor Marx had been working on at the time....

"Iím sorry, Miss Lestrade," the snotty receptionist at the desk finally said, "But heís at his friend's funeral right now, youíll have to come back some other time."

Lestrade blinked. Just how many people had died that this guy knew? "I thought David Bannerís funeral was supposed to be for the eleventh."

"It was," the receptionist responded in a bored tone, "But they moved it up to today hoping that reporter wouldnít find out about it."

"Zed!"

Lestrade ran out of the building and, luckily enough, grabbed a cab that was waiting just out front.

"Sorry, lady, but....Oh youíre Bannerís sister. Lestade or something?"

Lestrade glared at the sleazy reporter. "Lestrade. What the zed do you want?"

"I just found out that...."

"I donít care. Look, driver, could you take us to the cemetery. That way Mister McDonald here can get his wonderful story about a dead guyís sister mourning."

"Itís McGee." The guy had the nerve to look hurt. "And I wanted to go to the funeral so I could question...."

"Their friend about what experiments they were working on when the accident happened," Lestrade finished for him, disgusted.

McGee sighed. "I told you, it wasnít an accident. I saw that, that...Thing. It was carrying Dr. Marx when it came out of the building. We found her dead a little ways away in the woods. She had been crushed to death."

Lestrade frowned. He hadnít told her that before. "And no one ever found my brotherís body?"

The reporter hesitated before nodding. "Right. I truly am sorry for your loss. But I am a reporter and...."

"And the story is the most important thing. Fine." Lestrade fell silent and gazed out the window, brooding. She still wasnít sure. Something didnít add up, but she was mostly going on gut instinct.

"I already know what Banner and Marx were working on," McGee said softly.

"What?"

"I was snooping around," he shrugged lightly, "And I overheard them talking. That hulking Thing was a result of one their experiments. And they were terrified of it. It had crushed a titanium metal chamber. I saw the results myself. It must have escaped, because they were afraid it might return. They were talking about moving their research to another location."

"I...see...." Lestrade turned back to the window. It certainly made sense, and the cop in her told her to let it rest at that and go after the thing McGee said he had seen. However, something still didnít seem right. Like why hadnít her brotherís body been found? And if the Hulk, as McGee called it, had carried it off, then why hadnít Elena Marxís? She shook her head, and wished suddenly that Holmes were here. Heíd be able to make some sense of it all.

When they had landed at the burial site, Lestrade stood off by herself while McGee spoke with Dr. Ben. She really wanted to speak with him herself, but she could wait. She walked over to stand just behind a tree that overlooked the graves when McGee and Ben left, and leaned back against it. David had always been there for her. Even though he was only her step-brother, he cared about her, and for her even when his mother and her father had died in an accident.

And now he too, was gone.

The rustle of grass nearby interrupted her maudlin thoughts. Probably someone else David or Dr. Marx knew, she thought. Still, she couldnít help but be curious and peeked around the tree and received a shock.

It was David. She fought the urge to jump out and grab him by the coat and shake him senseless, and instead watched him. He stood looking at the side-by-side graves, a look of immeasurable sadness, weariness and determination all warring for dominance on his face. Then he turned and began walking away.

Being who she was, and what she was, Beth decided to follow him.

(To be continued....)


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