The chances of anything coming from Mars are a million to one, he said. But still, they come...
221B BAKER STREET
Molly Hooper rushed up the stairs of 221B Baker St and burst through the door of the flat at the top.
All was silent.
And dark.
It took a minute or two for her eyes to become accustomed to the gloom. Once they had, she was able to seek out the man she had come to find.
He sat slumped in his chair. It didn't take an expert to work out that Sherlock Holmes, the world's only Consulting Detective was in a drug-induced stupor, and had clearly been so for several days.
Usually so impeccably dressed, his standards dropped dramatically when high. And it wasn't just so that he could fit in with those who were more than willing to supply him with his next fix.
The more he used, the less he cared.
So in all likelihood he had no idea what had befallen the United Kingdom, and probably the rest of the world over the last 72 hours.
Molly made her way over to the comatose figure.
Standing over him she noted that his current ensemble included: runners with holes in them, baggie jeans that only remained on his slim hips with the aid of a piece of rope in lieu of a belt, a tight-fitting, old, dirty t-shirt, and instead of his usual belstaff he wore a cheap raincoat with a broken zip. His hair was greasy and probably hadn't been washed in a week. His upper lip, cheeks and chin were darkened by stubble.
It made him look rather piratical, Molly thought absently, before shaking herself out of her daydream.
Now was not the time.
"Sherlock," she called as loud as she dared.
There was no response.
She leant down and grabbed hold of his coat and began to shake him.
"Sherlock, Sherlock!"
There was still no response.
She tried to pull him to his feet. But even when conscious, this would have been difficult. Unconscious as he was, it was simply impossible. He was too heavy.
Molly chewed on her lower lip. What to do?
She risked raising her voice. "Sherlock, please. I need you to wake up."
Blearily Sherlock's eyes finally opened and he attempted to focus on her.
"Ah, Molly," he said in recognition. "What brings you here?"
Molly sighed with relief, but she was also exasperated as it was clear he had no idea what had befallen the Earth.
She attempted to pull him to his feet, but he refused to budge.
"We have to get out of here Sherlock," she said panic returning. "The Martian's are coming."
His response to her statement was not what she expected.
"Of course they are," he drawled, before yawning. "Wake me up when it's over." He then closed his eyes and returned to a state of oblivion.
"I don't have time for this," Molly muttered in irritation.
There was only one solution. Or to be more precise, Molly's hand connecting with Sherlock's cheek.
Slap.
No response.
Slap! Slap! Slap!
"Owwww," Sherlock yelped, instantly awake. He gave Molly his best puppy dog look as he rubbed his abused flesh. "What was that for?"
"Didn't you hear me? We have to get out of here, fast."
Sherlock took a deep breath before getting to his feet.
Looking down at his clearly distressed Pathologist, he gently placed his hands on her shoulders, doing his best to offer something that would pass as comfort.
When she looked up at him. It was clear she was waiting for either a plan of action or some assurance.
He chose to give her an explanation based on scientific fact.
"Molly," he began, his voice rough from lack of use. "Even if it were possible, given its climate and atmosphere, for Mars to sustain life-forms. Their ability to travel 35,000,000 miles to Earth, and to survive here, given the gravitational forces pressing down upon them, would make invasion simply imposs…"
Sherlock's logical deductions were interrupted by a rumble like thunder that caused the ground beneath their feet to tremble and shake uncontrollably. It was followed almost immediately by a deafening cry.
"UuulllaAAHHH!"