A/N: Okay, this is the first fan fiction I've scribbled in a while, so please be kind! The events in this story take place before the Reichenbach Fall, in a wintery period in London. Hope you enjoy!
Can you come to the Tower of London? This could be the hardest case you've ever had. GL.
That was usually how Sherlock Holmes was summoned these days. It seemed that since he'd solved the mystery in Austria that his attention was needed on a growing basis by Lestrade.
Not that he didn't mind of course.
He flipped his phone into his pocket and then grabbed the scarf which he had previously thrown onto his pet skull. Pausing momentarily to examine his reflection in the dusty old mirror which hung by the fireplace, he grimaced slightly.
"Now that does seem a tad vain Sherlock," John Watson smiled, his reflection appearing gracefully in the mirror. He was already dressed ready to go out. "Yeah, I heard the phone. Only Lestrade texts you these days. You really should socialise more,"
"If I spent time tweetering or Spacebooking or whatever it is students do when they're not in lectures then my brain will rot. Honestly, I have more important things to do than worry about how's ribbing me on Mybook," Sherlock replied, brushing past his friend on the way out.
From out of the ground floor apartment came Mrs. Hudson, who was looking slightly dishevelled and covered in flour. Sundays for her were devoted to baking cakes and the like. Not for solving murders.
"Tower of London. Shall we bring back a souvenir?" John asked politely whilst Sherlock peeped out of the window outside.
"I've been a few times you know. You two take care now okay? That Moriarty man may still be around," she advised, then returned to her baking.
Together the two men emerged blinking in a pale January sun. The streets were covered in a mild snow which had fallen a few days ago. Nobody had ventured out: it was still too soon after the holidays to return to work. Why serial killers couldn't do the same baffled Watson.
As they climbed into one of the several black cabs which adorned the city, they began discussing the possibilities.
"Lestrade didn't mention multiple murders," Sherlock said the second the taxi pulled away from Baker Street.
"Lestrade probably didn't say much at all. Could it have been Moriarty?" John replied, his attention focused to the dishwater grey sky above.
"Doubtful. My brother says Moriarty is currently in deep hiding abroad. Which could possibly mean a grave,"
As the two men quietly contemplated the events which had drawn them inconspicuously to James Moriarty, the taxi pulled up outside the Tower of London, where Greg Lestrade awaited them.
"There's a body for you to look at. Donovan doesn't want you anywhere near it, but I'm giving you ten minutes to impress us," Lestrade replied, looking rosier than normal.
"Thanks. By the way, I'd consider laying off the chocolates for a while Lestrade. Whilst they make great presents, they block the arteries and leave all sorts of stains on jackets," Sherlock grinned, then skipped towards the centre of operations.
Like a dragonfly drawn to a lamp, Sherlock danced straight towards the congregation of officers who were examining the cell beneath the Tower. He easily negotiated the narrow stairs: his hobnailed boots providing him with grip against the patches of dark ice. Watson struggled down after him, taking his time so as not to slip.
"Ah. There you are Freak. I was beginning to think that you'd rather watch the television or were recovering from a hangover. But then you're not a normal person are you," Sally Donovan sneered from the passage. Sherlock took one glance at her then entered the room she guarded.
And then poked his head back out.
"By the way Donovan, I do believe that you shouldn't be sneaking off duty with Anderson. There are marks on your police uniform which definitely aren't chocolate,"
Watson grinned as he past the sullen detective, and then joined his friend in the room.
What they were looking at was impossible.
So thought John Watson as he stood in the lowest cell in the Tower of London. If he held his breath, he could hear the sound of melted ice dripping into the sewer somewhere. But they weren't hear to examine sewers.
The room had been sealed off for over four hundred years. Nobody could possibly have entered it from any direction: there wasn't a chance in hell that you could have disassembled and then reassembled an entire wall. What's more, there wasn't an ounce of natural light to be had. The room itself was bare: there were no furnishings.
"This room was used by those who committed the worse type of treason. You would have been locked away without a fighting chance of survival," Holmes explained, his fingertips dancing across the grey stone walls.
"So how did he get there?" Watson asked, nodding at the body that lay in the centre of the room.
Sherlock re-examined the body he'd glanced as he entered. Male, probably in his mid twenties. Short dark hair. Fashionable clothes, probably chosen by a fashionable woman judging by the quality. Positioned to resemble a crucifix. Curious.
"This man was a martyr for a lost cause I think," Sherlock mumbled doubtfully, wishing he could have more time than the ten minutes allotted to him.
"Or maybe he was arranged that way for show. But how did he enter. Nobody has entered this room in four hundred years. I didn't know it existed!"
Holmes bent down and examined the man's right wrist. There was something about it which was bothering him. In the dim light his eyes were drawn to it: as though something blatantly obvious was screaming for discovery.
And then he noticed it.
"John, notice how the man's skin tone is lighter around his wrists than anywhere else. Which would imply that he was wearing something: something which was stolen. Could be a watch, but why would you just murder someone and then steal their watch." Sherlock sniffed the hand, breathing in the scent of leather.
"Shall we report this to Greg?" John asked, baffled as to how a perfectly healthy man had wound up in the catacombs of London… and as to why someone would steal something from him.
As they left they saw her. In the corner of their eyes stood a woman with long brown hair and a playful smile. She was dressed in desert camouflage gear, her right hand darting towards her left as the detectives turned to face her. In the blink of an eye she was gone however: leaving nothing but a wisp of thin smoke.
"What the hell was that?" John yelled as they retraced their steps up the steps. Sherlock plodded behind him for once, muttering something about ghosts.
And that was roughly when the earth began to shake.
Clinging for their lives on the handrails of the stairs, they tried to maintain their centres of gravity as the earth trembled mightily around them. From the ground level they heard screams as something horrific was unravelling above them.
"John, we haven't a moment to lose. We must discover what's happening on the surface!"
As they emerged from the Tower of London, they stared in wonder as Greg Lestrade shuffled towards them. He looked cautious: not trusting the ground he was on.
"Greg, tell me what's happened," Sherlock ordered, forgetting the body they had previously discovered. Bigger fish needed frying.
"Look for yourself. I think the answer should be fairly obvious!"
In unison, both Sherlock Holmes and John Watson examined the River Thames: which appeared to be the centre of whatever event was unfolding. Towards whatever the policemen were looking at lay.
And then they gasped.
Westminster Bridge had been graffitied with impossibly large black letters. A message that even the genius mind of Sherlock Holmes couldn't understand.
The tremor was felt far away by another brilliant mind as well, who was examining his console in response. Except that this man knew roughly what had caused the tremor. And he needed a closer look.
Loading up the news feeds by tracing the tremor back, he gasped as satellite pictures revealed the message on the Bridge in London. Then he swung into action, choosing to head there himself.
"Damn you River Song," he thought. "This better be important"