How Sherlock and John Watson Got their Keyblades
"What are these things?!" yelled DI Dimmock as he and the other Yard officers fired upon the mass throng of shadowy creatures, their yellow eyes as lifeless and glazed as a wooden puppet's. The officer wasn't sure what was more disturbing: the wooden expressions on the beasts' faces or that fact that each and every one of them were wearing bearskins and red Grenadier uniforms, complete with the royal chipper shoulder pads, buttons, and bayonets.
The only difference in the demons' attire from being a complete facsimile of the Buckingham Guards' uniforms was the strange symbol of the back heart crossed out with a thorny "X".
An insult to the Queen and country, if there ever was one.
"Bloody hell, I don't know! Just keep firing!" yelled Lestrade as he reloaded his pistol, taking cover behind his BMW along with Sherlock.
Infuriatingly, Sherlock was not even taking precautionary cover behind the auto as he stood and stared, trying to deduce the strange anomalies assaulting England.
The Heartless literally defied every law of biology and physics Sherlock knew.
"Intriguing…" Sherlock couldn't help but whisper with troubled eyes, only to be furiously dragged down to the pavement by Lestrade as he tugged hard on Sherlock's Belstaff.
"Get down, you idiot!" growled Lestrade, fighting the urge to throttle Sherlock, "Where's John?! I can't see him!"
That got the consulting detective's attention as he realized he lost his partner…
"Bullets have no effect, sir!" Donovan reported on her police radio, her face grim though determined as she shot one Heartless directly into the forehead, only for it to stop and falter before dancing onwards madly with its weapon as if nothing has occurred.
"Try the heavy artillery! Use the tasers, the pepper spray, hell, use tear gas! Try everything!" Lestrade ordered.
It was starting to become grim.
Already, the entirety of Trafalgar Square was inundated with the alien invasion. It was as they were a swarm of ants, a tidal wave of black invaders, flocking over a sugar cube, swelling upon each other and multiplying by the minute. No matter how hard Londoners tried to fight back or flee, the Heartless stabbed, shot, and dogpiled any helpless victim they could reach, invading the South Africa House, Whitehall, and even defying gravity by running up the walls and scaffolds of Saint Martin-in-the-Fields.
The Heartless did not speak, did not falter, and yet they were completely effective in their murderous methods.
The air was filled with the screams and ringing of gunshots and laments of terror and death.
Yet, no blood spilled, no gruesome rending of flesh and bone, no corpses or physical evidence of the massacre as the stonework and Mall was laid bare.
Instead, numerous shining hearts from the victims peppered the sky above, like a Christmas tree strung with rosy lights, levitating higher once the Heartless ripped their quarries' life-forces before vanishing into oblivion. If Anthea had to guess, the number of casualties had to be in the hundreds already.
Lestrade would have broken down and cried for every tourist, Londoner, and officer he lost from this sudden attack if it could have helped.
KABOOM!
"What the hell?!" cried out an unnamed Detective Sergeant as the explosion rocked the National Gallery, actually causing bits of marble and stone to go flying out. Sherlock spotted the fleeting image of one of the Heartless combusting in a terrific detonation of flame, causing one of the pillars of the museum to crumble deafeningly. Sherlock's eyes widened as he narrowed down the possibilities of the exact type of explosive being used from the estimation of the decibel level of the ringing blast wave, the damage radius of the scorch marks and the resultant gap amid the museum's wall, and extensive damage that could crack pietra serena stonework in such a manner…
Sherlock's felt the blood chill in his veins as the realization hit him.
"Semtex…" Sherlock reported on Lestrade's walkie-talkie as a warning to the Met (and his brother), "Some of those things are wearing vests of Semtex!"
Indeed, more and more Heartless materialized within portals of shadows, completely appearing out of thin air, before jogging alongside the Buckingham Guard monstrosities. These new horrors were quicker, faster, sprinting towards various monuments and crowds of people before killing themselves as effective suicide bombers. They were more wraithlike, pointed ears and with gangly arms and legs like frog-like gremlins, wearing beige vests strapped across their torso's with blinking lights and duct-taped bricks of explosive across the fabric.
To say things got worse would have been a gross understatement.
"Wait! Vests of semtex?!" gasped Donovan, her eyes wide as she and every officer made the familiar connection.
"You don't think…" another constable asked, but so shocked, she was unable to continue the sentence. Sherlock's breathing was labored, his mind whirring so fast, he could barely see straight, pale-faced as he tried to assure himself that Moriarty was dead. Lestrade gave Sherlock a concerned look. Anderson turned to Anthea (who was beside him against the cover of Havelock's statue) in puzzlement.
"Can Mycroft confirm this?" Anderson asked as Anthea moved down five foot soldiers with her M4 submachine-gun, causing two to explode safely in the distance, far from any bystander. The look of self-doubting insecurity on the PA's face was not reassuring.
"We don't know," she decided to say at last. Anderson was quite sure he would have preferred it if she lied to him…
More and more explosions began to ring throughout the city of Westminster, invoking screams and cries of the civilians as the Yard did their best to stop the destruction from becoming graver.
"Oh God!" gasped Lestrade as he spotted one lone figure, on his hands and knees in the middle of the diminishing city square, transfixed and frozen.
"Doctor Watson is out there!" yelled out another Detective Sergeant as he finally used his billy club to forcefully bash a Buckingham demon in the head and shove him off his body before it could stab him.
Sherlock frantically scanned John's labored breathing in shuddering gasps, unwilling to crawl despite no apparent blood or injuries on his body, his forehead starting to bead with sweat, and the fact that John's left hand was tremoring madly, fingers unconsciously twitching against the concrete as he hacked with gritted teeth…
John couldn't help it. The flashbacks were too vivid, too powerful. The explosions reminded him of the searing heat from the roadside bombs that temporarily deafened the hearing in his right ear, the windy sands making the air dusty and difficult to breathe as he crawled amid wreckage and ducked gunfire to tend to his fallen comrades, the bullet ripping through the flesh and bone of his shoulder like wet paper, fracturing his soul and mind and sending bouts of crippling pain throughout his body.
The doctor was so disoriented in his PTSD that he didn't notice the one Heartless running directly at him, ready to detonate its payload.
"Shit!" Lestrade cursed before he realized too late what was going to happen as Sherlock dashed forward in the line of fire out in the open, too late for Lestrade to try and tackle him.
"Freak, what are you doing?!" screeched an outraged Sally, though one could not tell if she were angry and fearful as Anderson, Anthea, and a few Yard officers tried to shoot the Heartless before it could hit John. Unfortunately, the demon was too swift and evasive, effortlessly skirting past the bullets with ease before heading directly towards John Watson.
John didn't have any time to protest as he felt Sherlock tackle him towards the ground and shielded John with his own body, hugging him close.
"SHERLOCK!" cried out Lestrade, helpless to do anything but watch.
And all over the world, on various television networks as they showed the coverage of the massacre on every news broadcast from BBC to CNN to ANN7 to NHK World…
Mrs. Hudson covered her mouth with both of her hands with a sob.
Molly Hooper held her elbows so tightly, her fingernails dug into her skin.
Mike Stamford prayed, coffee mug overturned and forgotten as it dripped into his students' test papers.
Mycroft Holmes forced himself to watch on through the CCTV from his office.
"John…" whispered Sherlock in his blogger's ear as he instinctively hugged John close. As the Heartless was now less than a foot away…
"Sherlock?" John murmured out of his fugue state, dazed.
In that split second, John could only think how it wasn't so bad, dying this way. At least Sherlock wasn't going to leave him behind a second time, wasn't going to abandon him like Mary…
Just as the Heartless was about to explode...
Two nascent stars of light, one mysterious and dark, one pure and white, flickered between the two men before illuminating all of Trafalgar Square in a brilliant and dazzlingly surge of brightness.
Shhhhooooooooooommm!
"Augh! What is happening?! I can't see! Bloody hell! What's going on?! Sherlock! Doctor Watson!"
All whom were watching on their televisions, phones (and in Mycroft's case, the CCTV) were taken by complete surprise at the unexpected luminosity.
After several seconds of pulsating shadow and sun, the radiance finally subsided, allowing all of the people in the warzone and around the world to finally witness what had happened as Sherlock and John opened their eyes.
The Heartless had all vanished, fading and completely obliterated from the sudden glow that engulfed all of London temporarily. Except for the devastated monuments and piled cars, the smoking fires, and the various injured English citizens, officers, and paramedics mingling about, there were no traces of the deadly shadowy creatures.
"Wh-…where did that light come from?" Sally Donovan asked, rubbing her eyes and blinking to ensure she did become temporarily blind from the brightness. Anderson then gasped as he pointed with his hand at Sherlock and John Watson.
"LOOK!" Anderson cried as everyone in the square then honed on the two shining sources of illumination…
Meanwhile, John and Sherlock were sluggishly coming out of their stupor, blinking, only to realize that they weren't dead. Sherlock, in full protective mode, was lying atop of John, though thankfully, it wasn't crushingly unbearable with Sherlock's full weight on top of John's upper body. Despite the situation, both could rather admit that they were suddenly concentrating on the soothing warmth in their chests, feeling each other's rapid heartbeats against their ribcages like a baby bird's, with Sherlock reflexively embracing John's torso and tightly pressing it close against his. With flushed cheeks and shaky breaths, both opened their eyes only to look into each other's concerned faces, only inches apart.
John could have honestly wondered if he was in the afterlife…
Amazingly, Sherlock felt a bit of heat underneath his collar as he whispered softly, "Er, John? Are you…a bit…not good?"
John couldn't help but smile and giggle at the uncharacteristic awkwardness and clumsy inelegance as he pushed himself off the ground with Sherlock's help, trusting hands joined. Like a contagion, Sherlock couldn't help but crack a smile in return at the sound of John's inappropriate mirth, laugh lines marring his face but making it so humanly welcoming and vulnerable.
John then blinked at the weapon in Sherlock's hands, still outlined in halos of black colored light.
"Er…Sherlock?" John asked, "Did you grab that from our flat?"
"Actually, I was about to ask how long had you carried a sword?" Sherlock asked, truly taken aback as he gawped at the object in John's hand.
It was then that both John Watson and Sherlock Holmes realized that they were both equally in possession of the strangest and most beguiling weapons ever witnessed in Earth's history.
Sherlock was holding a beautiful black Keyblade, composed of an extraordinary metal, unlike any other the detective had ever studied from past experiments or science texts. Darker than obsidian yet pristine and flawless. Under the sun, Sherlock's Keyblade gleamed with a fine polish. The blade was tall, thin and elegant with Victorian swirls and tendrils dancing along the lower edges. And at the mouth of the Keyblade was a carved and flattened impression in the shape of a black honeybee, with wings and legs stretched out and complete with a large stinger and antenna. The detail of the hairy legs, antennae, and the veins in the bee's wings were breathtakingly exquisite. The cross-guard of the weapon was a perfect outline of a hexagon, like a honeycomb, with the grip of the weapon wrapped in soft, dark velvet that gave a luxurious feeling against Sherlock's callused palm. And the rainguard of the Keyblade was a dark, polished disc of marble stamped with the image of a magnifying glass. Hanging from the end of the Keyblade, attached to the black onyx pommel-stone, was a thin keychain. At the end of the fine chain was a metal mold in the shape of a deerstalker hat against the outline of a metal heart. Except oddly enough, the left side of the heart was filled with white.
John's Keyblade was a stark contrast. It was pale as the freshest snow, as beautiful as unadulterated marble and purer than the cleanest silver, without a scuff mark or a speck of dirt throughout the armament. The blade was actually in the form of a broadsword, complete with an impressive blade, fuller portions and a central ridge and point at the top. Yet at the mouth of the sword was a carved figure of a hedgehog, complete with the spiky hide, pointed nose, and beady eyes, proudly displaying on one side of the sword blade. The impression of the hedgehog had sparkling eyes that shone like diamonds, so lifelike and bright. Ironically, the weapon had a real cross-guard like any sword, except that it was composed of white metal precast and shaped as two Sig Sauer pistols, with the handles joined at rain-guard (stamped with a marble disc with the image of another roaring lion's head) and the mouths of the pistols pointing outwards. The grip of the Keyblade was well-worn leather, brown, tanned, but it felt so good in John's palm, as if it were made especially for him. And hanging from the end of the Keyblade, miraculously, were John's army dogs tags. But also with the tags and the fine chain of white was a white metal heart, the same exact design as the one on Sherlock's. Except that the right side of the heart was filled with black crystal.
Both John and Sherlock were at a complete loss of words as they ogled dumbly at these strange irregularities.
"Sherlock, when did you and John have…those things?" Lestrade asked as he broke the silence, staring bugged-eyed at the two weapons. Sherlock did not answer, frowning, as he rudely ignored the Detective Inspector while analyzing the strange apparatus and silently going over the possibilities of the significance of these peculiar weapons emerging immediately after the strange foray with the Heartless.
John, sighing at Sherlock's obliviousness, answered, "We have absolutely no idea. They just appeared."
"Are those…swords?" Dimmock asked, flummoxed.
"Actually, they look more like giant keys," commented another constable who was staring at the scene with incredulity. He wasn't the only one. Everyone at the scene (and at their televisions) were watching with rapt interest. Anthea sent a text on her phone to Mycroft who immediately responded back with a curt order.
Escort them out of the public eye. Now.
But before Anthea and the MI5 agents could act…
"Elementary, chaps. You are both correct. The strange objects that you see before you are called Keyblades," spoke out a small, refined voice, muted and almost as if uttered by a toddler.
"And it looks like we have found the two newest wielders," said another tiny voice, warm and genially polite.
Everyone turned towards the sources and stared, mouths dropping and eyes so wide, one could see the whites all around. Even Sherlock and John Watson were struck dumb at the scene. One constable even fainted due to the shock and the sudden sensation of blood rushing to his head.
Basil coughed resolutely before straightening out his deerstalker and offering out a minuscule hand towards DI Lestrade, announcing boldly, "Greetings, my good fellow. Detective Inspector, are you not? My name is Basil of Baker Street, and this is my partner, Major David Q. Dawson."
"Charmed," the mouse with the moustache smiled as he waved meekly.
No one spoke, although Anderson's eyes were sparkling with delight as he thought of how much of a tizzy this was going to bring towards the Empty Hearse Club's next meeting.
Anthea received another text instantly.
I see them. Observe and do not engage.
"With us is our current associate and guide for the Keyblades, the good chap whose shoulders we are currently riding on, the Captain of the Royal Guards of his Majesty, King Mickey of the Magical Kingdom: Captain Goofy."
"Aw shucks, Goofy'll do just fine. Pleased to meetcha," laughed the famous dog as he lowered his metal shield (with the emblem of Mickey Mouse) and offered out a pleasant and affable hand out to Lestrade.
John committed to memory of seeing a flabbergasted and baffled Sherlock, speechless and temporarily struck dumb, for the rest of his life. This along with seeing a talking, human-sized, anthropomorphic dog with two adequately-sized talking mice who just happened to be eerily similar to the famous Disney characters they depicted.
Sally Donovan, for once, was hyperventilating as she pressed her hands against her temple and repeated over and over, "I am not here. I am having a bad dream and being delusional. I will wake up and realize that this is not real. I am having a bloody nightmare. Or I'm drunk. I am delusional, and this is a bad dream…"
"…anyone want to take a picture?" whispered one civilian who was witnessing this, awestruck from the sidelines. Next to the tourist, one teenage girl was frantically texting this status update on her cell phone before she blinked.
"Bugger! Tumblr and Twitter both went duff! The bloody servers crashed!"
Goofy, with Basil and Dawson on his left and right shoulders (respectively) seemed confused at the fact that Lestrade (as well as everyone around them and the people watching this on the news) was gaping at him like a fish, one eyebrow twitching ever so slightly. Goofy cocked his head to the side.
"Gawrsh," Goofy said hesitantly, "Did I do it wrong? Do you people shake hands here as a way to say 'hello'?"
"Of course we do Goofy!" squealed Anderson excitedly (drawing a few rolled yes sin his direction), "But…if you're here, does that mean Donald and Mickey Mouse are real too?!"
Goofy looked pleased as he exclaimed, "Hyuck! You know about the King and Donald too?"
"Of course we do! You blokes are famous, the most recognized Disney characters in history!"
"…what is 'Disney'?"
Surprisingly, both Goofy and Sherlock asked the same question simultaneously.
All right, from said Goofy character, perhaps that was understandable.
But from said Consulting Detective…
Everyone, from John to Lestrade to each Met officer within hearing range slowly turned their gaze to Sherlock with various ranges of shock, wonder, and confused disdain. Even Anthea couldn't help but raise an eyebrow.
"Seriously?" was all Dimmock could ask in disbelief, not sure if perhaps Sherlock was being facetious.
Sherlock had the grace to look a bit embarrassed as he heatedly explained, "I may have deleted it, all right?!"