Sherlock Holmes and The Incredible Hulk
by Mary Christmas (unicorn_76010 at lycos.com)
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!!
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
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
"It was," the receptionist responded in a bored tone, "But they
moved it up to today hoping that reporter wouldnít find out about it."
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
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
"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
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
(To be continued....)
On to part 2!
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