In The Wake of Night
Night had fallen hours ago and all of London's inhabitants were safely tucked away in their homes. Beds comfortable and warm, offering protection from the bitter temperature outside. A light but steady rain had begun, thoroughly saturating every surface.
The occasional taxi breaking the stillness for a moment. With delicate stars above, the sleepy city put off an air of calm and peacefulness. London's citizens were all quietly dreaming—except one.
A certain consulting detective held no acceptance for ideal hours of sleep. Though this night was different, it posed much more danger. Tonight was life or death, no cause for laughter. For the detective, tonight was tinted with fear and an underlying sense of urgency.
Sherlock leapt over a wooden crate, it toppled over, crashing and disturbing the quiet. His breaths came out in short puffs as he raced through London's alleys, the only evidence of his passing were the echoes of his pounding footsteps on the cobblestones. The cold air ripped through his lungs, burning the back of his throat.
As Sherlock sailed across the empty street, the ever-present black coat billowed out behind him. The rain had made the ground slick, and as the detective rounded a corner he skidded and halted so as not to completely fall over. Propelling himself forward once again, he pushed his body, ignoring the pain.
Another turn and down another street. The detective didn't know exactly where he was headed, and this fact greatly bothered him, but still he ran.
Sherlock wasn't paying attention to his feet; he had eyes only for up ahead, scanning for the only thing he truly couldn't live without. So it was no wonder that the next moment he was sent sprawling on the wet ground, skinning his hands and tearing the designer material of his clothes.
Sherlock looked up from his position on the ground and his speeding heart skipped a few beats. His eyes wide and for an impossibly long second, the detective stopped breathing altogether.
"John."