Author's note: This is my second fanfiction. A lot of thought and effort went into writing this and I'm really proud of it, so I hope you guys like it! I will be posting more chapters soon :3 If you haven't already, please read my first fanfiction the Doctors and the Darkness
Thanks for reading, it means a lot to me.
Chapter 1: The Night Goes On
It was raining when Sherlock found the envelope. It was also a Monday. Rain and Mondays don't seem to mix well; the combination is an ultimate source of gloom and sadness. Sherlock was walking back home from Scotland Yard and he was beginning to catch the same insidious 'under the weather' feeling that many already had. The sky was lead grey and frosted in lumps of clouds. London was shrouded in heavy fog and crowded with sullen-faced people arriving home after a hard day of work. Another thing that bothered Sherlock was the lack of anything unusual. There had been absolutely no cases today; not even one crime. Lestrade had called Sherlock into Scotland Yard with a case concerning a robbery but it was written off as a misunderstanding. Sherlock had been itching for something to happen all day and finally, something had.
Something was stuck to his shoe.
Yes, it wasn't very exciting at first; Just a normal envelope; it was large, blue, stationary just from the post office across the road with 'The Doctor' written in small, neat handwriting with a Papermate biro across the front. He could have just left it lying there to soak up the rain in the street; it didn't belong to him after all. But, on the other hand, there was something very intriguing about this envelope. For one, when he picked it up, it was very heavy. Sherlock could see there was no letter in it, yet it was bulging with many contents inside. You can't even send a letter that heavy…it's impossible. Why not send it in a package? Secondly why would someone address a person as 'The Doctor'? Doctor of what, exactly? Physics? Chemistry? Medicine? Sherlock shrugged, picking the damp envelope off the pavement and crumpling it into his pocket. It wasn't much…but if he was lucky, it might be something at least slightly interesting.
As he was walking back to 221b Bakers Street, he stopped to make some deductions. Deductions kept him from getting too bored; it was a way of life. It was late; 9:00pm in the evening in fact-there wasn't many people around. Squinting, he could just make out three people running in his direction. They looked interesting. As the trio came closer, Sherlock saw that one of them was a tall floppy haired man. Quite young. Dressed like an old science professor with a maroon bowtie and a tweed jacket that probably belonged to his granddad. Looked clever…maths nerd, probably. The second was a young woman with long ginger hair that clung to her face in the rain and the third was a young man with a prominent nose and a coat too big for him. They looked like they were in a hurry and since the bus stop was quite near by; they were most probably trying to catch the bus. If he were correct, they would all trip and fall in exactly ten seconds. How could he tell?
10
There was a leaflet for a Chinese takeaway lying directly in front of Nose.
9
Bowtie's right shoelace was undone.
8
Nose would clumsily slip on the rain sodden leaflet, stumble back and tread on Bowtie's shoelace.
7
Judging by the bizarre, awkward way that Bowtie was running; he would fall backwards at a ninety-degree angle.
6
Bowtie would grab Ginger's hand in attempt to stop himself falling…and fail.
5
Bowtie would fall onto Ginger
4
Nose would fall onto Bowtie
3
And they'd all fall into that great big puddle.
2
Right
1
Now.
Sherlock stood watching as his prediction unravelled. They were like dominoes knocking into each other. If John were here right now, he'd probably make a silly remark like, 'Amazing!' or 'Mind-blowing!' But it was quite obvious to Sherlock, really. He was merely noticing things.
Sherlock walked away as he saw a lady helping them to their feet. There was nothing else interesting going on.
Back in 221b, John had yet to arrive back from work. That was also something that Sherlock was missing.
John.
John had been busy with work lately and Sherlock had been solving crimes by himself for the time being. John would arrive home late at night and as a result; in the mornings he was moody and lethargic. This was supposed to be the last day of John's 'course' though. Sherlock didn't see the point of John's 'course' but if finishing it meant that he would stop being so boring and dull, then Sherlock looked forward to it.
With nothing else to do, Sherlock placed the envelope on the table, sliced it open carefully and emptied its contents. Inside there were some very strange things.
Two silver keys tied to a string. Sherlock was sure that they would fit no lock, as the teeth were so intricate. The string was of that used to tie on a parcel, long enough so that you could hang it around your neck. Why anybody would want to wear their keys around their neck, Sherlock hadn't the faintest idea. He held it up and then sniffed it. Felt like it was made of metal, but not any metal that Sherlock was familiar with. At this moment, Sherlock was convinced that they must be costume prop keys. He moved them to one side.
Shoving his hand into the envelope once more, Sherlock pulled out a pocket watch. It looked to be made of a similar material that the keys were made of. Also looked old. Victorian-esque. A fob watch. Sherlock turned it over in his hands, wiping his finger over the strange circular engravings. He could not, for the life of him, read them. It looked a bit like an old ancient language…or maybe it meant nothing at all. He moved his fingers to the clasp and attempted to pull it open. It wouldn't budge. He ran a knife along the edge. It still wouldn't open. Losing interest, Sherlock stuffed it in his pocket, along with the keys. Sherlock pulled the last object out of the envelope. He couldn't properly distinguish what it was. As far as Sherlock was concerned, it was a brass novelty futuristic pen with a green LED screwed on top of it. That wouldn't explain why there were 'claws' on it though. The funny shaped metal claws (or maybe they were prongs?) encircled the green light. Sherlock picked it up and lightly knocked it against the table. It was solid. It definitely wasn't hollow enough to fit any electronics or mechanisms inside of it. Just a useless chunk of metal. Sherlock thought, sighing. He was about to toss it to the ground when he noticed a button. A button so miniscule, only he would notice it. It was positioned to the side of the metal pen and it was beckoning for him to press it. What harm could it do? He pressed it.
The door exploded.
It was about 1am when John returned. Sherlock was slouched in his armchair, eyes closed, with his hands clasped thoughtfully together. Sherlock could hear John trudging through the front door, cursing and entering the living room. He could also feel John glaring at him. Sherlock didn't look up.
"The door" John said, standing, arms crossed in the doorway.
"What about it?"
"It's gone."
"Yes"
"The bathroom door, Sherlock. It's blown to bits."
"Yes."
"You blew it to bits."
"Yes."
"With one of your stupid experiments."
Sherlock shifted a bit in his chair and opened one eye at John. "There were some…complications."
"Complications?"
"This." Sherlock dug his hand into his pocket and brought out the peculiar brass pen thing. "What is that?" John questioned, arching an eyebrow.
"I'm thinking." Sherlock replied lazily. John took the thing from Sherlock and held it up to the light. It looked dangerous-or suspicious at least. Suddenly, the brass pen thing extended, made a high-pitched buzzing noise and lit up green. The television turned on. "So…it's a TV remote?" John asked, clearly unimpressed. Sherlock got up from the armchair and began pacing around the table. "That's the thing, John. It's not a TV remote. It's solid all the way through. There must be some sort of microelectronics inside of it. I pressed a button on it, and the door just exploded."
"That's your excuse?"
"It's not an excuse John! Look, let me show you." Sherlock snapped. He snatched the thing out of John's hand and aimed it at where the bathroom door hand once been. He fiddled about with it first and then pressed the button.
Nothing happened.
He pressed it again and again, but still there was no effect. Sherlock frowned, shook it and held it to his ear. "Ugh…it's not working…" he groaned. "Well what do you expect it to do? Make the door magically reappear?" John retorted. Sherlock gave John a Look. One that clearly had the words 'shut up' written all over it. "It did something before. That little light's supposed to come on and it should make that funny buzzing noise." Sherlock hit the thing against the table and pressed the button again.
Nothing happened.
Frustrated and angry, Sherlock threw the pen-like thing across the room. It hit the shelf and let off multiple sparks, catching the Union Jack sofa cushions on fire. John gaped. Sherlock's expression didn't change. He stood, watching the flames flicker and slowly burn through the denim fabric on the cushions whilst John struggled to put it out with a damp tea towel.
After the fire was no more, John turned to face Sherlock. There were bags under his eyes; suggesting he only had about 4 hours sleep a day and had been staring at his laptop screen for too long. There were stress lines on his face. "I want you to get rid of that thing." John said, chest heaving, "Throw it way, take it to St Bart's for testing-I don't care. Just get it well away from here."
Sherlock went over to pick up the thing. His grip tightened on it. The envelope was the most exciting thing that had happened to him all week; he didn't want it to be over just yet. "John! This could be the start of a very interesting case!" exclaimed Sherlock; he jumped up and down like a hyperactive child. John narrowed his eyes at him. "I don't think you get it, Sherlock. I don't want a case." He growled, "I don't want one! I want you to do something constructive for once, I want to come home from work, have cup of tea, go to bed and I want YOU to stop giving me stress!"
Sherlock huffed, plopping back down into his armchair. This was not the John he was used to. He had obviously been brainwashed by the boring business people to become more normal like them. Sometimes Sherlock didn't understand normal people. They were always getting stressed for no reason and were too wrapped up in technology, relationships and…ordinary stuff. "So you don't like solving crimes anymore? You don't want to? Should I go and leave you to do your ordinary things? Is that what you want?" John paused, his eyes widened, "No-I mean…no…I've just come back from work, it's the middle of the night, shouldn't you be asleep?" he asked, quickly changing the subject. Sherlock pursed his lips. "I don't need sleep. I need to think."
"Well why don't you 'think' somewhere else?"
"Fine."
"Fine."
"Fine."
Sherlock got up, taking his coat and scarf from the cupboard. He shuffled it on, turned the collar up and wrapped the scarf around this neck. "Where are you going?" John questioned, suddenly regretting what he had last said. He didn't want Sherlock to go outside. The streets of London were dangerous-especially at night. "Out." Sherlock replied sharply, padding out of the living room and to the front door. "Somewhere where I can think." He walked out of the door and slammed it behind him.
John opened his mouth and closed it again.
Sherlock stepped out into the dark London night. The cold scratched at his face, making his nose turn bright red and his hands feel numb. He could see small foggy clouds in the air every time he breathed out. It was so cold, Sherlock considered turning back around, but instead, he walked on. A very mean looking Doberman pinscher bared its teeth and growled at Sherlock as he passed. A chain around the dog's neck connected to a pole was the only thing that stopped it from tearing him to shreds. Sherlock treaded blindly in the streets for a while, bumping into a few drunks along the way. They shouted obscenities and spat at him. Sherlock finally stopped in front of a streetlight. He took the long piece of metal out of his pocket. It felt warm in the palm of his hand. He then pointed it at the streetlight.
This is stupid, so stupid. Why the hell am I doing this? I must look strange pointing a lump of metal at a streetlight. But still…when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth, right? Right?
Maybe not under these circumstances. He must have gone mental; believing that a stupid pen had magical powers. Sherlock closed his eyes and pressed the button.
Turn the light off. Turn the light off. Turn it off…
When he opened his eyes again, the streetlight had indeed been turned off and the whole road was nearly completely pitch black. Sherlock flicked the thing. It extended. He pressed the button again; it's claws opened, it made a soft buzzing noise and the lights turned on again. Sherlock grinned.
Lights on.
Lights off.
Lights on.
Lights off.
It didn't make any sense, but at the same time, it was extraordinary. Sherlock began to think that maybe this thing, whatever it was, might be a new classified technology. Something that hadn't yet been released to the public. Maybe, just maybe, this 'Doctor' was a doctor of science and robotics. Sherlock suddenly felt that he should never have picked up the envelope in the first place. It was in the wrong hands. But then again, finders, keepers they say…
Sherlock shivered. He knew where he was…he always did. However, he didn't know where he was going. He was wondering the streets aimlessly just to prove a stubborn point to John.
John.
Just the thought of his friend made him feel angry and upset. Emotions annoyed him. He wished they had an on and off button. They would creep up on you and drug you with good feelings that only lasted a short while and then torture you with horrible, wretched feelings that lasted for days on end. Sherlock was feeling wretched right now. He had lied to John. He wanted sleep. He needed it. To be truthful, he wanted nothing more right now, than to curl up on the sofa with a warm fire lit in the fireplace and to drift off into deep, well-needed sleep.
He was going to go back home.
He slid the metal object back into his pocket and turned to walk back to 221b until-
Someone grabbed him by the wrist. Someone strong. Sherlock thrashed about, twisting and turning and searching his coat for his revolver. But to his dismay, he had left it back at Bakers Street. Sherlock was restrained and in a weak position. He only managed to get a glimpse of his attacker but that was enough to make him yelp in fear. He saw a tall humanoid monster. It was wearing a formal charcoal suit and tie. Its face was that of an alien-a distorted grey coloured face, wrinkled skin and hollow eyes. It had three long fingers on each hand, like the talons of an eagle grasping it's prey. It made a low gurgling sound, like a mixture between a rattlesnake hissing and a lion growling. A snion. Sherlock couldn't believe what he was seeing. This creature was so menacing and nightmare-like and yet, it was right there in front of him. He saw it with his own eyes.
And then he forgot.
He was struggling; he didn't even know why he was struggling anymore. He squirmed and tried to wriggle free, but by the time he saw the syringe, it was too late. As it was inserted into his left hand, a chilling sensation shot up his body and the whole world was spinning. He was released but there was no point in it, he could not see where his was going.
Mycroft appeared out of nowhere and laughed at him. 'Stop talking in circles Sherlock. Stop talking in circles' you look silly, I look silly. Go away Mycroft. Go away. Leave me alone. I want to be alone.
He felt like he was falling for ages, but he knew he wasn't because he heard the THUMP as he hit the ground.
Why are the trees walking? Trees don't walk. Or maybe they do. They're going to hurt me, John. They're going to hurt me. Everything hurts. Somebody help me.
His head was aching and it felt like he had broken something, but that didn't matter now. What mattered, was the creature. He could see it again. How could he ever have forgotten it? It opened its mouth and leaned over Sherlock. "Sssssleeep", it whispered in its oddly soothing snake-like voice.
No. I won't.
I want to watch the stars. The stars are moving just like I used to say. Told you. I used to sing about them.
The stars, the stars go by,
across the inky midnight sky,
a silent lonely lullaby,
Goodbye.
I think that's how it went. They're like abcdefg. No. Not like that. Hellowhytonohelpgofinefunsleepfgwuegfw3oeyg. Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease. Why am I different? I don't want to be different anymore. It's okay to be different Sherlock; every living thing differs from another. The rings on the trunk of every tree all differ from each other and so do the stripes on every bumblebee. It's what makes everyone special. oegertrheutfgsdhtifrhdffiurdhtfrt4e8tuerutherythffgyhrphffhrdpyhrphpthpdhfhgihhifjkrhggihgirgg g Am I special? I love bumble bees. They go bzzzzzzzzz. They go woof. I had a bumblebee that went woof. I don't have friends though edugho4ghhgli gwdhtwpeyg w-hrwughwgphphhigpwhpgwetq8qwp pjnjqkf oiwjdjs
Agregeqr4q5yqth8r98yf308hr879h0ruieruioerwiuohqweoipuqriurqw89u0g0fg808ueiuoerwiuoherwuihrewyf536cryuewrihjeriuhruhdf87hoeyutcf
I don't want to sleep. Don't make me. I want to be alone. Don't make me. The game is on. The game is gone. I don't need sleep. Go away joohhhg.
Leave me alone
Leave me
Leave.