Opening
3:20 a.m.
The two inhabitants of 221B were only just settling into bed. Despite this, both were still squirming with energy left unspent. The tallest had their limbs tangled with their partner's, practically soldering them to the bed. Their partner didn't seem to mind.
"Are you sure you don't mind?" one asked the second. The second only hummed and clicked their tongue before forming an answer.
"I still love you, no matter what you are," they murmured. "Of course I don't mind. I think you are amazing."
The first seemed satisfied and kissed them goodnight, snuggling close and closing their eyes. The second followed their example, and soon a soft peace settled in the flat.
Slowly, the first opened their eyes and pried away from the second. He pressed his lips against his partner's forehead and took a shuddering breath. Holding out an object- a long, wooden wand with an intricately-designed handle- he took one last despairing look at his partner.
"Obliviate."
"Hurry, John, the trail will go cold- have you been listening at all to me?" Sherlock demanded, running about the room looking for God-knows-what. John stumbled out of Sherlock's room sleepily. He'd slept for a long while. Longer than normal.
Sherlock paused in the middle of his search to stare at John. He seemed to be watching him for something with that unnerving gaze of his.
John felt slightly uncomfortable under his best friend's stare and fidgeted. "What?"
"Nothing… Nothing, doesn't matter," Sherlock hummed. He ran out the door, leaving the poor doctor dazed and confused in the kitchen.
A man was walking home alone when he noted the fogginess of the streets. His partner had gone home without him again. Unwilling to deal with any unpredictable accidents in the dense fog, he took the Tube home instead. It should have been the emptiness of the underground that first tipped him off that something definitely wasn't right. As the train departed, a feeling of cold dread washed over him.
The man let out a small gasp, his head light and heavy. He didn't feel too well. As his head lolled to the side, he noticed that something was very not good in his compartment.
The fog from outside seemed to leak into the train from the outside. The temperature seemed to drop. He let out a small whimper and forced himself out of his seat and out the door the moment they opened at Baker Street station. He cried out for help, but the station was deserted. The train left without him, and the station was silent.
But it wasn't peaceful. The man struggled to stand but fell again. He gasped, crawling for the stairs. He cried out again, his shouts reaching deaf ears. He pawed at the tile floor.
The feeling of dread intensified, and he turned to lie on his back, defeated. He felt drunk and useless, lying to accept his fate. What he hadn't accounted for was the dense fog to overwhelm him, and the feeling that something was tugging sharply at his very soul.
Memories resurfaced in his mind. This was no flashback of his entire life, however. No, these were terrible memories. He whimpered.
Gunshots. People shouting. Getting beaten up. Finally, the last memory seemed to force its way into his mind.
I'm standing over a grave. I can read the familiar name: Sherlock Holmes. I know that the man I gave my heart to will be gone to me forever. Forgive me… I'm so sorry, I never meant to fail you like I did… I'm so sorry, wait for me, please-
The memory seemed to fade, like everything else. The man let out a final sigh, and the tugging feeling intensified until he felt an internal pop, and a glowing light pierced his vision.
And then the feeling of dread disappeared. He was hollow. He didn't feel a thing. The body that lay spiritually broken on the floor took a shuddering breath, staring at nothing at all.
A loud crack interrupted the deafening silence. A voice shouted something unintelligible. Lights began to fill the room in pulses. The small glowing light that had appeared first began to fade back into the man's body. He took a gasping breath and coughed, the feeling of dread returning but fading all at once. He felt like he was about to vomit.
He could hear the new voice call out his name, but he didn't listen. His body felt too light. He closed his eyes.
But not before he noticed the small little bee made of light wandering on the tile by his face.
End of Opening
Author's note: I should mention that italicized scenes in the beginning or end of the chapters are indefinite moments in the story's timeline. They could have happened in the past or the future, but will eventually be explained in further chapters.
For all those confused, I will explain myself:
This opening is meant to be vague. Very, VERY vague. The rest of the story will be in detail, I promise.
During this chapter, I attempted to write in the Muggle's point of view. The fog is a Dementor, and the bee is a Patronus (there are a swarm of bees surrounding the victim; he only saw the one). The cracking sound is a wizard Apparating into the station to protect the victim.
If you are confused why I didn't blatantly describe the Dementor, it is because in the books, Muggles aren't supposed to be able to see them. They notice the fog and feel dread, but like most magical creatures, they cannot see the creature itself.
The Dementor had almost succeeded in a Dementor's Kiss. The victim's soul was literally sucked out of their body before their savior arrived.
I apologize for the confusion.