Chapter 1: The Garish Sun.
'What… is it'?
John felt a smug smile creep onto his face.
He had surprised Sherlock Holmes.
'It', he began, slowly and deliberately, 'is a t-shirt'. Sherlock held the thing in front and away from him, as if it were some kind of new, alien creature.
'A… t-shirt', he repeated, very, very confusedly.
John didn't quite understand what was wrong with it. It was a medium, navy, v-neck shirt with metallic silver stitches. It was just a shirt. Why was that so surprising?
Sherlock seemed to snap himself out of it and slowly and meticulously folded the thing on the table, refusing to meet John's eyes.
'What'? John demanded, his brows knitting together. The curly haired brunette looked up and smiled erroneously.
'Nothing. It's lovely, thankyou'.
'What's wrong with it'?
'Nothing… it is…'
'What? What is it Sherlock'?
'Well… it's a t-shirt'!
'Yes'.
Sherlock ran a hair through his hair and looked at the shirt as if it were some kind of bomb, he chewed his lip. 'It's a t-shirt John! Do you ever see me wear a t-shirt'? He suddenly snapped, 'do you ever wear t-shirts'?
John frowned and looked down at his sweater. 'I guess I must sometimes… but why is that a bad thing'?
Sherlock resigned, smiling and wrapping the shirt back up and placing it next to the scull on the mantle.
'You know what'? He quipped, smiling a tight lipped smile, 'it doesn't matter. I didn't get you what you wanted either, I suppose it's fair'.
John felt slightly hurt by the comment but still agreed, looking hesitantly at the large Peruvian hunting knife on the table.
'Yeah…' he grumbled, returning to his laptop.
A few hours later Sherlock's ancient landline rang, the sound echoing dissonantly through the dark apartment.
John had retired to the upstairs room but Sherlock – being Sherlock – was still lying on the couch, wide awake in the darkness.
'Landline…' he murmured solicitously, 'landline…'?
He lay there for a few moments more and the line went dead as the caller hung up, then started up a brief few seconds later.
Ring…ring…ring…ring…hang-up…ring…ring…ring…ring…hang-up…
He thought for a moment about who might ring the landline.
Only three people knew of the fabled landline of 221B. John Watson, Mycroft Holmes and… the third.
Sherlock though for a moment. Naturally it couldn't be John, a. he was asleep and b. Watson wasn't so inconsiderate to ring while Sherlock was… catatonic.
It couldn't be Mycroft as he had another route-canal, he'd never call.
So it had to be…
Sherlock swallowed the strange lump in his throat and picked up the phone shakily, pressing his ear to the receiver.
'Hello'? He croaked, his voice breaking.
'Sherlock Holmes', the man on the other end of the line laughed, 'how have you been'?
'Fine. How did you get this number'?
'Oh, such enmity Sherlock. I'm hurt'.
There was a groan somewhere in the apartment and then the sound of heavy footsteps. John was awake.
'What do you want'? Sherlock hissed hurriedly.
The cold laugh at the end of the line was malevolent enough to – in a very uncommon occasion – send a chill up Sherlock's spine.
The man breathed into the receiver for a few moments before beginning again hoarsely and vindictively.
'Take him and cut him out in little stars…'
Sherlock felt the hand he held his phone in go numb, along with the rest of his body from head to toe.
John rushed into the room, not entirely aware of Sherlock's nocturnal activities but fairly sure they didn't involve mysterious late night phone calls.
'And he will make the face of heaven so fine…'
Sherlock looked to John pleadingly and it made the good doctor's stomach drop. Who was speaking to him?
'Is it him'? John demanded, 'Sherlock? Is it him'?
Sherlock ran a hand through his head and nodded slowly, gesturing to his mobile. John quickly dashed to it and started dialing.
'That all the world will be in love with the night…'
Sherlock could hear John speaking hurriedly to Lastrade, muttering half finished sentences about the landline and Sherlock and the need to trace the call.
Sherlock listened intently as the caller laughed the last line of the poem.
He hung up and then – to John's surprise – threw the phone at the wall.
It lay broken on the floor and sparked, then died.
'Never mind', John muttered, hanging up and placing the mobile in his pyjama pocket.
Sherlock paced up and down the room, his dressing gown hanging off one shoulder and his usually pale eyes burning darkly like twin blue coals in his head.
'Sherlock', John snapped, bringing the edgy man back to reality.
'What did he say'?
Sherlock muttered something under his breath. 'Pay no heed to the garish… sun…sun'.
Sherlock paced the room, pulling discarded bits of clothing and toiletries in to travel bag that seemed to have materialised from no where. He even pulled the blue Christmas shirt into a bag along with a pair of ownerless jeans, John's sneakers and a Moroccan fez.
He looked like he was running away.
Or running to something…
Watson looked at his friend apprehensively, realising now that he was scared. Sherlock Holmes was scared. Oh hell…
'Sherlock? Sherlock what did he say'?
'Son'.
'Sorry? What'?
Sherlock turned to John, a look of earnestness on his face.
'John', he croaked, his voice breaking.
John suddenly felt very, very fearful as he realised there were tears pricking behind Sherlock's eyes.
'I think…' he breathed, his voice rattling as an angry sob tried to escape, 'I think James Moriarty just…'
John winced at the name.
'What do you think – know – he did? What's wrong Sherlock'?
'I thing he just… I think Moriarty just…' he took a deep breath
'I think he just killed my father'.
