Title: Scars that Remain
Author: Ana S.
Disclaimer: This story is based off concepts and characters that belong to Arthur Conan Doyle, Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat, BBC, Wes Craven, and New Line Cinema. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Rating: M
Summary: When a new student arrives at Bryton Secondary School in London, England, she brings with her an evil that consumes the school. A nightmare that no one can possibly hope to wake up from seizes the students, haunting their waking and sleeping moments. No one is spared from this living nightmare, certainly not Bryton's consulting detective, or his friends and family.
Author's Note: This story is a rewrite of a story I began a few months ago. I plan to make it much more exciting than the previous story could hope to be. Anyway, I hope you enjoy.
WARNING: GRAPHIC VIOLENCE/GORE
"You learned to run from what you feel, and that's why you have nightmares. To deny is to invite madness. To accept is to control."
― Megan Chance, the Spiritualist
Chapter One
Nancy hates being defined as an insomniac. An insomniac is someone who wishes to fall into Sleep's tight embrace, someone who does not see Sleep for what he really is, someone who wishes they could fall trance to Sleep's siren call into the dark, cold waters he loves to stalk. Nancy sees who he really is. Sleep is death. Sleep is cold and lonely and empty. Sleep hoards a multitude of horrors, willing to release any number of them onto anyone if he feels the need to. Sleep is a gateway drug to madness, happily waiting to pull you into its icy claws before ripping your mind to shreds and tossing you back into unforgiving reality.
No, insomniac is not the right word to define Nancy Thompson. Survivor. Nancy did not seek Sleep's grip, she fled from it, survived it. She ran far, far away where the cold fingers of Sleep would never attempt to harm her again, where Sleep and its demons would be forced to bide in the hell of Springwood while she resided safely in London. Not even Sleep's shadow, nor the claws of its demons stretched to London. Here, Nancy could be safe. Here, Nancy could dream. Her dreams would finally be freed of blood-red razor claws and sinister shadows and silhouettes stalking every corner. She no longer fears the shadows, for the shadows keep their distance. For good, it seems.
The girl shifts in her too-soft bed, hoping to find some degree of comfort. After living in London for two weeks, she would have hoped she'd be used to her aunt's too-soft mattresses. Nancy already moved beds three times but found no solace from the fluffy cushioning that seemed to want to suck her body into its feathered depths. Must be a European thing.
Nancy punches her pillow agitatedly, making it bleed feathers before resting her head on it again. The red clock on her nightstand blinks midnight at her. It seems as though the next day at school is going to be one she spends stumbling through before asking her cousin, Mary Morstan, if she can copy her homework. Mary would gripe a bit and lecture Nancy on getting a good night's sleep, but eventually, Mary would succumb and give Nancy the notes. Nancy never had to beg
(leave me alone oh god what did I do to you leave me alone just leave me alone)
too terribly hard.
Moonlight drifts through the opened curtains and stars dance in the sky. She loves to sleep with the window open. Too many nights did she spend wondering if she would ever see the stars again. The cool wind that breezes into the room comforts her and aides her in inching toward sleep for the first time tonight. She allows her striking blue eyes to close and she sifts through her sluggish thoughts listlessly. The random thoughts that come to her are soothing in their mundane nature: remember to get a dress for prom on Saturday, don't forget to do the science homework or else her pale-skinned lab partner will be pissed, wonder what's for breakfast tomorrow. Nancy missed these dull, mundane things to worry about. No longer does she have to be concerned about how many cups of coffee to make, how many Wake-Aid pills to take and when she can take more, how loud can the TV be at 3 o'clock in the morning without waking anyone,
(how many times I can watch my friends die without going crazy)
and how, in God's name, will she ever manage to get some damned sleep. Those thoughts are behind her, buried six feet deep in an unmarked grave to never be touched again. The excitement is over and it's time to embrace the norm. Nancy does so happily.
Repeating the thought until she feels warm and comforted, Nancy submits herself slowly into Sleep's arms.
/oOo\
"Shh, John! You're going to get us caught."
Mary's words are smothered by John Watson bringing his lips to hers. She makes no attempt to shove him away and instead intertwines her manicured fingernails into his blond hair. John wraps his arms around her waist and trace his mouth alone her collarbone. She tastes of cinnamon and smells of peppermint. It's an intoxicating and deadly combination, one that only fuels John's adoration for her. A small moaning sound escapes her throat and it's all John can do to not take her then and there. But, the two agreed that they would wait until after graduation. Two months away. John only hopes he can make it that long.
Graduation has been the last thing on Mary's mind, however, she's been revolving all her thoughts around prom this Saturday: the dress, the hair, the makeup, and whether or not she and John will win Prom King and Prom Queen. Though he'd never admit it to her, John hoped they didn't win. The attention didn't sound very alluring, it was bad enough when it was announced the two were nominated (no doubt by Harry, who probably thought it'd all be very funny to watch John squirm in the limelight). It looked as though the two were going to win, as none of the other nominees quite teed up. Sally Donovan had been nominated with her boyfriend, something-Anderson, as were Molly Sawyer and her new boyfriend, Jim. Sally and Something-Anderson were nice enough, but they didn't look together as nicely as Mary and John did, neither did Molly and Jim. It looked as though John would be forced to enter the limelight on Saturday.
God, Sherlock would get a kick out of that, he thinks as he watches Mary change into her pajamas. If he bothers to come, of course. Sherlock would probably rather spend the night with his brother than go to prom, where others would whisper about him and how he would be sitting in a corner alone and somehow managing to ignore all of them. John could never manage to do that and has no idea how Sherlock can stand having spent all of his years in school being forced to act as though people weren't pointing and whispering and laughing as you walked past, being forced to act as though you didn't give a rat's arse. Perhaps Sherlock didn't have to force it, perhaps it came naturally. John never could tell.
"Is Sherlock coming to prom?" Mary asks. Not for the first time, John wonders if she can read his mind.
He shakes his head and stands, going to her and wrapping his arms around her waist. "I seriously doubt it." He feels Mary relax.
"That's good," she says.
"Good?" She sounds a bit too relieved. Mary looks at him and bats her green eyes. For once, John does not feel like swimming inside them. (Good?)
"Well, you know, John, he just, he," she struggles a moment, waiting for John to forgive and forget, but he offers her no salvation, "he doesn't fit in, John, you know that. He's weird."
"He's my friend." John is surprised at how hard his voice is, surprised at how hard his heart is hammering inside his chest. What is wrong with me?
Mary wriggles free of him. "He's still weird and he's mean. You should have heard the things he was saying about Sally, it was just awful."
"Sally probably deserved it." Why am I so angry?
She bristles. "Sherlock Holmes is a fucking freak. I don't know why you chose to hang out with him. He doesn't have to be your pity case, John."
"Pity case?" His heart is racing now and his face feels hot. "I chose to hang around Sherlock because, unlike your friends, he's not a superficial, fake bastard. And if you just gave him a bloody chance, you would see that too." Before Mary can recover, John walks out of her room.
His hands are still shaking as he walks down the hallway. His ears are roaring so loudly that he barely notices the sounds of whimpering coming from Nancy's room. John looks at her light blue door. The whimpers get louder and she sounds like she's begging for help. She must be having another nightmare. Mary mentioned something to him about Nancy having sleep problems before moving in with her. John couldn't blame Nancy for having nightmares. After hearing what happened to her and her friends in Springwood, John is certain his dreams would be plagued every night as well.
Deciding to wake Nancy and free her of her nightmares, John opens the door. His sapphire eyes fall on Nancy's bed and his stomach feels as though it fell to his feet. Nancy is in her bed, sheets thrown about the room and clothes in tatters. Tears mix with blood on her face from where one of her eyes appears to have been gouged out. Her mouth is open in a scream, but only hoarse whimpers escape. John is frozen. He can't move. He can't think. He just stares at her as she extends a hand to him. He vaguely notes that three of her fingers are missing.
Before she can make another desperate whimper for help, Nancy's throat is ripped out and a horrid gurgle escapes her throat before she falls silent forever.