[I work with the phonetic alphabet everyday. The kind used by police and soldiers. They're words that represent letters so as to be unmistakable over a radio - eg. Alpha, Bravo, Charlie... No errors, no equivocations, no excuses. That's what made me think of Sherlock out in the world, staying dead, trying to destroy Moriarty's network. I usually wouldn't post chapters so short as this, but I promise they'll be regular, if you care to keep an eye. Hearts, as ever - Sal]
Alpha
The bloody dog keeps following. Black as oil, but its eyes catch the streetlight and burn. He's not even out of London yet and the bloody dog keeps following. It never gets close to him, but it's at his heels, following. Never barks, but it growls constantly, slavering. It tosses its head and flashes white teeth that look hungry, like they want his ankle between them, but it never gets close enough.
Holmes won't stop, won't try and get rid of it. Despite all appearances, it means him no harm. And in a way it seems almost meant to be there. Fits.
As he walks away from everything he's ever known, he's hiding everything. His face, his name, the very fact that he is alive, these were all buried with another man's body. And what has he now? Only a cold sort of a rage. It doesn't burn, doesn't bark loud and announce itself, but it's there, and all the stronger for it. It's the sort of rage that won't tear the world tooth and claw. No, rather it will dismantle it, slowly, carefully, remove every strut and support until it collapses.
And if that's all he has, if that's what he carries out into the world of the dead, then he should use it, and teach the dog to bite.