You really don't have to know anything about Neverwhere to read this-it's John's POV and he has no idea what's happening, so you'll be right with him :). Neverwhere spoilers abound, though! Also: London Below is fairly violent. So, trigger warnings for violence, and for a casual attitude toward violence (John and Sherlock laugh at inappropriate things, and the inhabitants of London Below don't particularly care when other people die).
This story is COMPLETE, at 4 very long chapters. I'll post the next one next week.
Uh, pairing-wise, this is pretty ambiguous. You can't doubt that John and Sherlock love and need each other, but they could be super close friends/family-by-choice or together. At one point they fall asleep in the same bed because they're just too exhausted to even think about it, and they do a lot of worrying about each other. So, read it how you like!
Disclaimer: These are sort of going out of style, aren't they? BUT I'M AN OLD-TIMER, so I'm doing one! None of these characters belong to me. London Below is Neil Gaiman's, and modern-day-TV-Sherlock belongs to the BBC.
BELOW
It started, as these things do, with a case.
"It isn't right, Mr. Holmes," Mrs. Worth kept whispering, over and over. She wrung her hands together. "I—I think I've been drugged, or I'm going mad, or something—"
"We'll find your husband," John had assured her, knowing by the gleam in Sherlock's eye that they would take this case. "Don't worry."
Mr. Worth had been a husband of thirty years and the father of one child, who was grown now, and had apparently moved to Australia. The strange thing about this case, however, was that Mrs. Worth, distraught, had found that she could not remember her husband's first name, much less what he looked like. Her son, in Australia, seemed utterly unconcerned.
What made Sherlock take the case, in the end, was a photograph of the missing husband, for some reason. John had thought the photo unremarkable, just a bloke and his wife, but Sherlock had taken one look and he'd grinned, and John had known.
"So?" John asked after he closed the door on their new client, apparently.
"So!" Sherlock leaped to his feet. "I'm going to catch him this time!"
"Er, who?" John asked. He lifted his own coat off the hook as soon as Sherlock whirled toward the door to get his.
"Whoever this is! I've seen this before, John, only it is usually among the homeless."
"You've seen it before?" This was intriguing. A case Sherlock had been unable to solve in the past? It happened, but rarely.
"Yes." He clattered down the stairs, John hard on his heels. Mrs. Worth had already made it out the door, but Sherlock pulled John along in the opposite direction once they got out onto the street. "Sometimes they turn up again, sometimes they don't. Frequently the missing family member is homeless and then stays that way even after I've found them, for reasons I can't discern."
John frowned. "Everyone has their reasons for leaving home, Sherlock."
"Yes, but they are consistently nonsensical and difficult to remember for their inanity."
"Sherlock," John scolded. No reason was inane if it led to homelessness.
"You'll see," Sherlock continued doggedly. "We'll find him within the hour, I guarantee it, but she won't care. She won't even notice. And then you'll forget, as soon as we're done, and then I will forget the details, even if I want to remember them, even if I place them somewhere perfectly obvious. I've seen it before; it's maddening."
"Sherlock, that's absurd," John protested.
"No, it's not," he insisted. "You'll see."
.
.
"Worth?" John asked the next day, looking at a note he'd left himself by his computer. "Did we have a client by the name of Worth?"
Sherlock made a furious noise from where he was sprawled on the couch. He threw the Union Jack pillow at John. "We did!" he said angrily. "See? Didn't I tell you that you would forget?"
John blinked at him. "Forget what?"
.
.
It took John a day to notice that the flat was quiet.
Well, not quite. Quiet was the wrong word, really. There were cars rattling down on the street below, trash disposal and various things. People yelled on the pavement, loud and angry. It was really rather noisy, all things considered, but it was also, somehow, quiet.
It took him another day to think, too quiet? He spent nearly an hour looking for his laptop, that afternoon. Somehow it had ended up wedged under the cushions of the couch. He swore as he hunted for it, and someone was yelling, yelling, yelling in a constant din that gave him the worst headache. Someone next door must have left a radio on as well, for that night angry violin music turned his dreams strange and frightening.
It took another day to wonder why he felt so lonely. Where had his flatmate gone? He'd—he'd had a flatmate, hadn't he? Yes, yes of course he had, why else would there be a spleen in the microwave? Obviously the flatmate had put it there, he thought triumphantly as he binned it.
Someone shouted about that, later, but John couldn't quite recall who.
The next day, he made tea in the kettle and poured two cups of it. He drank one and cooked his breakfast while working on the second one. His flatmate made a dismayed noise at one point, and said something about it, sort of plaintively. The place was awfully quiet, and he felt like he was missing something, so he called Sarah to ask if there was any work available at the surgery.
Someone kept talking at him while he was on the phone. It was really quite distracting. Had he left the telly on too loud? No, it was off. Though the racket, John heard Sarah say that they were not short staffed that day, but they were on the weekend, if he'd like to come in then, and John had readily agreed.
When he hung up, he wondered how he'd been filling his days. Locum work was sporadic at best. Had he really watched that much crap telly? Restless, he reached for his wallet and keys and headed out. Someone kept on calling his name. They were almost out of milk.
Hang on.
He stopped at the foot of the stairs. No. He was almost out of milk, what was this they business? Was he starting to include the skull? He'd been living on his own too long, it seemed. He should put an ad in the paper for a flatmate.
No. No, that wasn't right either. The skull didn't belong to John, did it? Why would he have a skull? He had a flatmate, didn't he? The flatmate owned the skull. Yes, there was a noise behind him, a clatter and quite a lot of shouting. It sounded rather panicky, actually. He made to take a step down the hall to the front door.
Something felt wrong. His knee wobbled. John frowned at it, testing it by leaning on it. Odd. He took another step.
The leg gave out on him entirely, and he yelped as he fell to the ground. "What—?" he hissed furiously. His leg hadn't given him trouble since—since—
—since after he moved from his old bedsit to Baker Street. It was psychosomatic. He'd worked through it with Ella. It had been years. Why was it giving out on him now?
And worse than before at that! He staggered to his feet, leaning heavily on the bannister of the stairs.
No. Not the bannister. Those were hands gripping his elbow, long and thin and warm. John looked into pale eyes that were wide and frightened. "John?"
John blinked. Something inside him cracked as he stared into those eyes. Another crack, and a shudder. "John, please," begged his flatmate, who had a name and who existed, damn it, who loved John in a way that was almost frightening for all that it was usually impossible to see—
Another crack, and another, and like a thawing waterfall it all suddenly rushed back. John's wobbly knee firmed and he turned fully, gripped that wrist and gasped. "Sherlock!"
Sherlock made a choked noise. "Don't—don't do that again," he blurted. He was shaking. "I don't know what I did, but I'm sorry, so sorry, won't do it again, just tell me what it is and call everyone else off! I can't stand this, John, please make it stop!"
"Sherlock, what?" John asked. He took Sherlock's other wrist with his hand. His flatmate's pulse was positively hammering. He looked near tears.
"I don't know how you got Mycroft in on it," he continued, frantic, "But that's the only explanation. Unless he engineered it? That's the only way to explain the cabbies, but not you, John, you would never do something this cruel and Lestrade is a stretch but maybe Mycroft blackmailed him—"
John squeezed his wrists to halt the frenzied flow of words. "Sherlock, what are you talking about?"
Sherlock jerked away. "This! All of this! Stop it, you must stop!"
"Alright, easy," John said. "Sherlock, I honestly have no idea what you're talking about." But he did. There was something— "Hold on," he mumbled. "Where have you been for the past four days?"
"Right here!" It was almost a wail. "I've been shouting at you! I've been right here! You, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Mycroft—even the cabbies won't stop for me, even the people on the street are part of this sadistic game. I would expect it of Anderson and Donovan, but not you, John. You must tell Mycroft to stop or I shall—I shall do something we will all regret."
John stared at him. "It was like," he said slowly, "I knew you were there but I couldn't see you. I—I heard you shouting and it just, just didn't matter." He put his hand on his head. "Christ, what is wrong with me?"
"Don't be absurd John," Sherlock snapped. "Stop playing this game, you must end it—"
"This has to do with the Worth case, doesn't it?" John said thoughtfully.
Sherlock blinked at him. "Worth? That was days ago."
John stared at him. "And I couldn't remember it," he murmured. "We found him though, didn't we?"
"Ravenscourt station," Sherlock scowled. "He said his cat died and he couldn't bear it. His cat."
"That's… pretty inane actually," John said. "No wonder I forgot."
"Not inane. It's moronic! Even you could see that. And anyway, you would have written it up. Man lives on the street because of a dead cat, John? It's absurd. You would have put it on your blog!"
"I would have, wouldn't I?" John asked. "Why did I forget then?"
"You actually forgot?" Sherlock demanded. "It wasn't a cruel game?"
"No!" John grabbed his wrists again and squeezed. "No, Sherlock. I wouldn't play a game like that on you. It really was like I couldn't see you. I…I forgot you like I forgot Worth. How could I have forgotten you? You?"
"I don't know," Sherlock replied, though he seemed to relax, "I'm rather memorable."
John barked a laugh. "Yeah. Yeah, you are. Listen, I'm going to ask Mrs. Hudson about it, alright? You said she couldn't see you either?"
"She could see me," Sherlock said. He stayed close after John let go of his wrists, hovering as if worried John would start ignoring him again. "Just like you could see me. She just ignored me."
"That's not like her," John murmured.
"It's not like any of you!" Sherlock bit. "It's childish and cruel!"
"And not intentional. Sherlock, I'm sorry. I don't know what happened."
"Maybe Mycroft drugged you," Sherlock muttered rebelliously. He still stood close to John's side as he knocked on Mrs. Hudson's door.
"Mrs. Hudson?" called John. There was movement inside the flat, but she did not come to the door. Sherlock started fidgeting next to him. "Mrs. Hudson?" Now John was worried. Was something wrong? "Hang on," John told Sherlock after a few long moments of waiting for her to open the door. "I think we have a spare key upstairs."
Sherlock sighed, dug into his pocket, and handed it to John. He blinked. "Er?"
"I did try to speak with her too, you know," Sherlock said dryly. "I tried this very thing."
"Well, she hasn't been ignoring me," John growled, and put the key in the lock. "Mrs. Hudson?" he asked, opening the door.
She was walking back to her chair in the front room. There was something silly on the television, and as John watched she sat back into her chair, a cup of tea in her hand. "Mrs. Hudson?" John asked again, but there was no response. A creeping, uncomfortable feeling of something utterly wrong with the situation made the hairs on the back of his neck rise. Sherlock stood so close that their shoulders were touching.
"See?" he said, and then bellowed sharply, "Mrs. Hudson!" in a tone he would never take with their landlady. John opened his mouth to scold him, but paused when he realized Mrs. Hudson did not react. She didn't even flinch. The creeping wrong feeling trailed down his spine like fingers.
John frowned. He walked into the room and then stood between Mrs. Hudson and the television. Sherlock slipped through the doorway and then hovered there, just inside, watching John with huge eyes. "Mrs. Hudson?" John asked yet again.
Their landlady did nothing but lean slightly to one side to see the television, and turn up the volume.
"No, hang on." John knelt in front of her, put his hands on her knees and tried to catch her eye. "It's like she can't see me at all," he said, perplexed. He looked back to Sherlock, who had drifted closer to the chair.
"I thought I was going mad," Sherlock confided, quietly. He looked very unnerved.
John reached forward and gently shook her shoulders. "Mrs. Hudson!" he tried again. She flinched back, and for a second he thought he'd got a reaction out of her. But all she did was look down at her tea, which John had inadvertently sloshed when he shook her.
"Oh dear," she sighed. "These wretched old hands." She got up, neatly avoiding tripping over John, and went to the kitchen to get something to mop up the spill. John watched her go, nearly gaping.
"It's no use, John," Sherlock said. He swallowed nervously when John didn't say anything. "You can still see me." It was more of a request for reassurance than anything else.
"Of course I can," John replied immediately. Some of the tension left Sherlock's shoulders. "And you can still see me."
"Yes," Sherlock affirmed, and he didn't even comment on how obvious that was. "And the maddening thing is that she can see you too!" he added. "She steps around you, not on you. She moved when you shook her; she felt the shake." They watched Mrs. Hudson wander back to her chair with a napkin.
Sherlock deliberately got in her way, but she walked around him as if he were a piece of furniture. He shot John a helpless look.
"And I was doing this too," John murmured thoughtfully, standing. "No wonder you thought you were going mad."
Sherlock gravitated toward John, standing just a little too close. He was definitely unnerved. "It was the same with Lestrade," he said. "Donovan, Anderson. I would address people on the street, and they would merely walk around me. I even went to Mycroft's office—I walked, because the cabbies wouldn't stop for me, and—"
"You didn't take the tube?" John asked.
Sherlock shook his head slowly. "I— it's foolish," he said.
John pursed his lip. "Sherlock. This is foolish." He waved a hand at Mrs. Hudson, happily watching telly and ignoring them, her mess cleaned.
"Worth," he slowly. "The other day, before this nonsense. He was under the impression that there was a beast in the gap."
"The—gap?" John blinked at him, not sure what he was talking about.
"Between the train and the platform, John," Sherlock explained irritably. "It was nonsense, of course, but—" he hesitated before plowing on, "These disappearance cases. I've seen them—the people don't come back. Sometimes I find them. And they're frightened of the strangest things. I've heard about the beast in the gap before. I've always thought it was preposterous, but this is preposterous, and—" his voice trailed.
"Better safe than sorry?" John finished with a wry smile. "That's not like you."
"Things were bad enough," Sherlock gritted. "And anyway, I wanted to see if I could get anyone on the street to notice me."
"None of them did."
Sherlock shook his head. "Nor Mycroft. So I—I came home."
"To shout at me," John smiled warmly.
"To shout at you," Sherlock confirmed with a faint smile, but it faded. "Though it seems I've condemned you to the same—whatever this is," he added, frustrated and guilty.
John squeezed his arm. "I'm glad you did," he said sincerely. "The flat was awfully quiet, when I didn't notice you."
"I was yelling at you almost constantly," Sherlock muttered. "It's not my fault you're entirely unobservant."
"Still quiet." John grinned. "C'mon. Let me get my gun, and we'll see about this gap monster. And Worth. Maybe he'll be able to see us."
Sherlock spared one more look over his shoulder at Mrs. Hudson. John tugged him along. "Come on."
"Yes," Sherlock sighed, and followed John back up to their flat.
.
.
John…. had a hunch.
John didn't often have hunches, because Sherlock discouraged them. He always wanted evidence, facts, and gut feelings were not something he approved of, generally. But John did have a sense of danger that Sherlock trusted, and his danger senses were, as they say, tingling.
Sherlock frowned at him when John came down the stairs from his room, holding a half-filled knapsack.
"I was thinking about getting myself a flatmate this morning," John told him. Sherlock made a choked sound. "Mrs. Hudson will want tenants." John squeezed Sherlock's arm as he walked by, buckling a holster to his waist.
Sherlock blinked at that. "She—" he started indignantly, but interrupted himself, frown deepening. "That would be a sensible deduction, John." He sounded surprised, which was a little insulting, actually.
"Anyway, I'm packing," John continued, scowling. Sherlock scoffed at his obvious statement, but John kept talking. "An extra jumper for me and you, no complaining. Socks." Sherlock made a face, since John had inevitably interrupted his index. "Ammunition," John continued, heedless, "Two bottles for water. First aid. Pocket knife. Er, we don't have many nonperishables that would be convenient for backpacking."
"Tesco's," Sherlock said. He was eyeing his violin. "Protein bars, if you must. And we're hardly backpacking John; it's London."
"Yes, I must. I have a bad feeling about this," John said, and Sherlock huffed derisively. He did, however, pack up his violin. "Sherlock—" John started.
"Oh, hush. I have a few bolt holes scattered across the city," he said. "They're stocked with supplies, too, and they're abandoned. They've always been abandoned. I'm not taking this with me; I'm hiding it. There's a compartment in of one of the buildings along the way. If Mrs. Hudson may rent the place as you say, I would rather this not leave my possession." He shoved his magnifying glass, a box of nitrile gloves and one of evidence bags into John's pack. John didn't comment. "Everything else can be replaced."
"Are there places to sleep in these bolt holes of yours?" John asked. "The kit has a space blanket, but—"
"Yes," Sherlock said. "It's fine." It was early spring yet, still chilly enough for coats, but warming. They'd have this thing solved long before winter, John thought.
They left 221B rather reluctantly. Mrs. Hudson had seemed engrossed in her program, so maybe if they solved this matter quickly, she wouldn't have long enough to acquire new tenants. Somehow, though, John thought this was unlikely to be that quickly solved.
They made their way to the Baker Street Underground station. Sherlock had been right: there was a building with a bolt hole along the way. He pulled up one of the floorboards right in front of at least three tenants, though no one saw him. In went the violin, and he sighed reluctantly as he packed it away. "There," he mumbled, turning back to John. "To the station, then."
John rather liked the Baker Street station, despite its absurd crowds. It was conveniently close to home and it was a relief after a long day at the surgery, or running about the city. The place was filthy, dingy and old, tiled brown and white in some places and boasting a wooden platform in others and confusing as all get out.
According to Sherlock, it was not only the oldest, but also had the most underground platforms of any station in its network. Circle line, which they wanted, was even down a long curving corridor that was bloody impossible to find, if you didn't know where it was. Tourists, visiting either because the place was historic or because they were on their way to Madam Tussauds, got lost constantly and John had given more directions there to perplexed people with maps than he could count. He felt safe in that station—not that he was particularly anxious about underground stations, but more that it meant the end of traveling. It was confusing and he understood it. He knew his way around because it was home; it was his.
There were people coming and going when they arrived there, of course, and Sherlock scowled in irritation and shoved his way through toward the escalators. John followed him doggedly, and he even apologized politely to the huge group of American tourists. This was despite the fact that they were loitering around the entrance, which was the worst thing anyone could do at a busy underground stop and John hated that, and the fact that they couldn't even really see him anyway.
Sherlock had stopped short at the head of the escalator. Not really paying attention, John almost slammed into his back. "Sherlock?" John peered around his shoulder. "Oh," he murmured.
He could see now why Sherlock had walked to Mycroft's office, never mind that it was on the other side of the city. The image before him hurt his eyes. He blinked, blinked again. Shook his head. It stayed the same.
The tourists going into and coming out of the station were placidly riding the escalator. They were talking and laughing, and rising up out of the station unharmed. The thing was, John knew they were riding an escalator. He knew it because he rode that escalator very frequently, and there they were, going up and down without a care in the world.
Except it wasn't an escalator. Not really. Superimposed on the image he knew so well it was almost second nature, was something different. It was like waking up and finding a dog's paw where a hand should be. There were stairs.
They seemed to be made of iron, thin and rusting and terribly unsafe. The railing on either side was crumbling away into decay, and, though John knew down to his bones that the station was well lit, the stairs descended into darkness, and a musty, coal-like smell fogged up from below. "That's—" John said.
"Wrong, it's wrong," snarled Sherlock, as if the stairs were a personal insult.
He was frightened.
The great Sherlock Holmes, who ran down murderers and laughed gleefully at John's side, was frightened. He was scared like he'd been in Baskerville, scared and furious about it.
Well, John reasoned, he could hardly blame him. Not only had Sherlock spent four days being ignored by absolutely everyone for no discernable reason, but then this happened. It was entirely illogical. Poor Sherlock. He was kind of having a bad week.
John snorted.
"What?" spat Sherlock.
"Nah," John grinned, "S'just. Disappearing escalator. It's mad."
Sherlock looked at him, then at the not-escalator. John followed his eyes. It still wasn't an escalator. The giggles slipped out. He heard Sherlock chuckle next to him. "Definitely madder than usual," he offered, and John erupted into full on laughter.
"Come on," Sherlock urged him, smiling now. He edged his way toward the stairs.
"They don't look very sound," John murmured.
"The tourists aren't falling through," Sherlock said reasonably. "Besides, you and I have used this very station hundreds of time. We've ridden those escalators."
John shifted uncertainty. "Yeah, but I'm getting the feeling that those rules don't apply to us anymore."
"Don't be preposterous, John," Sherlock snapped. He stepped onto the stairs, where the down escalator should be. Nothing happened, and he raised an eyebrow to John, who joined him.
It was very dark down there, John thought as they descended, and though the tourists were moving cheerfully as if on escalators, the stairs were quite stationary. "Impossible," Sherlock kept muttering in irritation, and John rather agreed. It was frankly giving him a headache, and he was just looking down for were to put his foot next when something gave a very alarming creeeek.
Sherlock froze.
Then there was a very loud snap! The stair John had been standing on suddenly bucked under his feet. Sherlock whirled to catch him, but then the whole thing groaned, swayed, and they both scrabbled to stand upright, get to the next step down, something, but the staircase crumbled away.
Down they fell, into the darkness.
.
.
"Sherlock Holmes!" crowed a woman's voice, creaky and old, right out of a horror movie. "Oh, I've been waiting for you."
John groaned.
He was—hot. Uncomfortably so, enough to feel more than a little queasy. His head was killing him, and he could feel Sherlock's back snugged up against his own. Their hands were bound behind them. Lightly, he tapped Sherlock's wrist. Three dashes, dash dot dash. OK? Sherlock tapped back, the same pattern. He was fine.
John let out another breath. God, it was really, really hot. And sort of yeasty, which would be nice if he weren't tied up and boiling. It smelt bready, spices and cooked meat. Almost like Angelo's kitchen, those few times John had been back there, though that kitchen was never so hot. When he peeked open his eyes, just a little, he saw that he was facing a row of fire, blue-bottomed like a gas element on a stovetop. It curved like a gas element, too, surrounding them. Some feet behind the flames, there was a stone wall. The fire was warming the place unbearably.
"I kept on saying, I said you'd slip through," the old woman was continuing with ragged excitement. John couldn't see her—she was on the other side, facing Sherlock, presumably, and out of his line of sight. "Spent so much time on the edges of things, you did. Had my eye on you for years. Not enough meat on your bones, of course, but your heart should be delicious. And you brought a friend!"
Hold on. Sherlock's heart? Like hell! John clenched his knuckles, pulling lightly, testing the restraints. They were twine, the sort you'd tie a chicken with. He frowned, took a breath. His gun was still in his holster. Who in their right mind tied a man up but left him his gun?
"It seems you have me at a disadvantage," Sherlock said, low and calm. He was tapping John's wrist lightly, but it wasn't Morse. John settled, and got a swipe of a thumb as a reward.
The woman cackled. "Oh, listen to you! A disadvantage. Well of course you're at a disadvantage, sweetheart. I'm going to eat you."
John stiffened. Sherlock tapped his wrist again. He relaxed. Sherlock clearly had a plan. "Then perhaps I would like to know the name of my killer," he said evenly.
The woman laughed and laughed. "So you can leave behind a clue? Ha!"
John watched from under his lashes, still pretending to be unconscious. The old lady was walking around them, now, he could hear it as her voice and footsteps got nearer. Sherlock was tapping his wrists, stay put, so John stayed, but he watched her when she came into his field of vision.
He sucked in a breath when he saw her, which gave the game away entirely. It had been a reflex, though, not intentional. She was wrong, wrong like the staircase going down to the Baker Street station. She wasn't proportional somehow, but it wasn't… it wasn't medical. John was a doctor; he didn't flinch at bodies. Skin ailments, bone structure, genetic quirks affecting size and shape – he'd seen his fair amount, one time or another. People were people and that was the end of it.
She wasn't people. He knew it to his marrow. He couldn't quite put his finger how he knew it, but he did. Her eyes seemed to glow, and her arms hung just a little too low, her teeth just a little too sharp. Her dress, long and Victorian and utterly incongruous, was tattered and filthy. It had, perhaps, once been blue. Now it was gray, stained and blotched in places, the ends of the skirt trailing in disgusting black rags. She paced along the edges, the ring of fire between her and John. "Leave all the clues you want. You're in the Underground, dear," she crooned, and her strange eyes locked with John's. "No one cares whether you live or die."
"The Underground," John heard Sherlock whisper to himself. His thumb swiped John's hand again. Easy. "You still have yet to tell me your name," he added. She grinned her sharp teeth, staring right into John's eyes.
"Oh, your friend's going to be tasty too," she cooed. "So much conviction, such loyalty. He'll make an excellent pie."
Wait, what? I'm going to be in a pie?
An absurd notion struck John. "Baker Street Tube station," he said slowly. Hysteria boiled in his gut. It was so bloody hot here.
"You're a baker," Sherlock said, and now he sounded amused.
"The Baker, dear," cooed the old woman. "You can call me Bonny."
"Short for 'Marylebone,' no doubt," Sherlock murmured, and John choked on a giggle. Oh, god this was mad, it was completely mad!
"They said you were clever," the old woman hissed. "Your brain will make a lovely cake."
John burst out laughing. "Brain cake?" he demanded, "Seriously?"
"I beg your pardon?" Bonny the Baker of Baker Street had just become the most absurd thing John had ever seen, and he'd been running with Sherlock Holmes for years, so that was saying something. John cackled.
"Happy birthday!" John gasped, giggling, "Have some brains! You're mental!"
Sherlock laughed with him, and John really hoped this wasn't Sherlock's plan, because laughing at crazy people who wanted to eat them was a horrible plan, but he just couldn't seem to stop.
"Sherlock scones?" John gasped.
"Whole Wheat Watson?" Sherlock shot back, and John howled.
The woman gave a furious snarl. "You shan't be laughing from my dinner plate!" she spat. John only laughed harder, because that was weak.
She screeched then, lifted a knife and flung herself through the flames. John's laughter died, but he was ready for the attack. He kicked out at her shins and she lost her balance, stumbling so her petticoats swished back through the fire. The knife slashed down, carving a line from beneath his ear down to his collarbone, but John didn't care. He kicked again, but she leaped back with a furious bellow, more agile than any old lady ought to be. She went to strike again but Sherlock, still tied to John, lunged to one side. Her knife point scraped against the ground. She rose to stand again, but then gasped.
"Fire," Sherlock snarled, and John thought for one absurd moment Sherlock meant his gun, which was doable but would require some wriggling to get, but the old lady screamed, drawing his attention.
The tatters of her dress had caught when she raced through the ring of fire in fury. They caught quite quickly, actually, and her dress was going up like tissue paper. She shrieked and twisted, flailing and howling. John gaped. He hadn't expected that at all.
"John, the knife," Sherlock hissed.
"Right," John mumbled, and squirmed and squirmed and managed to get it with a foot, dragged it closer to them, inched forward. Sherlock wriggled to grasp it, and then cut their bonds.
"Come on," he said, and pulled John quickly toward the ring of fire. It was so hot in the ring, but John looked back at the screaming, writhing mas that had once been a murderous old lady. It was not that he felt bad—she'd wanted to eat Sherlock's heart— but it was still a gruesome death. "Quickly," Sherlock added, and pulled at John's sleeve.
John watched him leap nimbly over the flames and then mimicked the motion.
For a moment the heat was unbearable, but then he reached the other side.
Cool air rushed against John's face and he gasped in relief. It had been hot in the ring, but he hadn't quite realized how hot. Sherlock was standing before him, and he whirled, hands on John's shoulders.
"Are you alright?" he asked. "She cut you." The second was a growl, and he glared over John's shoulder at the screaming mass of something in the fire circle. John looked up at him and smiled wryly.
"Never mind me," he said, "Are you alright? You're flushed." Carefully, he touched his friend's cheek, which was radiating heat. He wasn't burned – they hadn't been in there for long enough, and even the leap through the fire had been very fast – but he was certainly warm, maybe a little too warm. John could feel the heat rolling off his own body in waves. It was glorious.
Sherlock scowled. "So are you," he said darkly and nodded over John's shoulder. "It was a cooker. The fire. The heat stays inside. Why? Why does the heat stay inside?"
John gaped at the ring of fire. The old lady was nearly cinders by now, and quite dead. "How did you know she would burn, Sherlock?"
"Her dress," he replied absently. "The ends were soaked and tattered from what must be exhaust and leaking oil from the train above us, in the station. The fabric was thin and worn and stained from chemicals, of which I imagined some must be flammable, and if not, the fabric certainly was, as was the oil on the ends. It was hot in the oven, hotter than we knew because the temperature was rising slowly—"
"So she'd catch fire better," John finished. "She was going to roast us like boiling a frog," he added, horrified.
Sherlock nodded shortly. "I didn't expect her to go up that quickly; I just imagined she'd drop her knife, which we could use."
"Oh god," John managed. "She wanted to eat us."
"And make cakes from my brain, apparently," Sherlock said. John choked on a snigger, and then Sherlock giggled breathlessly, and they were off again, laughing so hard they couldn't breathe.
"Oh god, oh god Christ that was mad," John gasped as he recovered himself. "Absolutely mad!"
Sherlock huffed then, and his giggles turned to a strange smile. "Sherlock?" John asked after a moment.
His smile twisted oddly at John, as though unsure whether he was pleased or alarmed. "She could see us, though," Sherlock said lowly. John stared at him, amusement abruptly gone. "Why could she see us?"
"You're right. I don't know."
"We're in the Underground, she said," he murmured. "That she was waiting for me to slip through. Slip through what?"
"Of course we're in the Underground," John said, "We're below the Baker Street Station."
Sherlock shook his head and started to pace. "No, no, she didn't mean the tube. She spoke like we'd somehow fallen into the Underground, as if it were a, a hole or a well—a separate place. That she'd been waiting, that I liked the edges of things. Edges of things, what did she mean by edges? Edges, edges, falling off edges—?"
"Edges," John murmured, a little uncomfortable with the idea of Sherlock on an edge again. "Sherlock?"
"Mm?" He didn't halt his pacing.
"You told me once that the homeless live on the edges of society," John said slowly.
Sherlock's eyes widened. "The HOMELESS!" he cried. "Of course! It all goes back to Worth! John, you're brilliant!"
John blinked at him. "I am?"
"Yes! The homeless that don't come back. Some are memorable, some are not. Worth is not memorable."
"We're not memorable," John said, thoughtfully. He could see there was a connection, though he wasn't quite sure yet what that connection might be.
"She wasn't either," Sherlock insisted, talking faster. He waved an arm at the dead woman. "Don't you see? You and I communicate, but we cannot communicate with anyone—memorable. She never could have got away with slaughtering people and eating their hearts, not in the real world—she had clearly done it many times—her dress, the state of her shoes! Just look at this place—without at least me noticing. But if she wasn't memorable, I never would have noticed before."
"That's brilliant," John said. "So you think there are—are two kinds of people, in London. Memorable and not memorable, and the two can't communicate with each other."
Sherlock nodded. "Yes. Must be. Otherwise I, at least, would have noticed something like that," he waved at the still cheerfully burning ring of fire, "happening beneath the Baker Street Station. Right under my nose!" The last was indignant.
"She would have fed on the homeless—people not memorable," he continued. "People on the edges of things, people between the two worlds." He paced. "Enough connection to the homeless and I slipped—" he made a strange motion with his hand, apparently illustrating slipping. "From memory. And you." Now he turned to John, guiltily. "I pulled you down with me. John—"
"No place else I'd rather be," John told him firmly. "So you stop that right now."
Sherlock looked at him sadly for a moment before shaking his head. "We should find that bag you packed," he said. "Bonny the Baker," he scoffed over the name, "will have kept it. You should put some antiseptic on that cut."
"I should have some water. We should both drink something," John sighed. "If we get back, er, topside, I can get us some more—we don't have much."
Sherlock waved him off. "It isn't life threatening," he scoffed.
"Sherlock, we were almost cooked. We're both overheated," John scolded, and then looked around. "Where do you think she'd have put our things?"
"Mm." Sherlock walked a little to the left, giving the still burning fire a wide berth. John followed him.
The wall John had been facing was quite barren, but on the other side of the fire there was a grimy, dilapidated mattress, surrounded by piles and piles of filth. It was stained in places, covered in crumbs. Bonny the Baker liked to eat in bed, and wasn't that a horrifying thought. At its foot was John's bag, pulled open. The first aid kit was strewn about amongst the filth in piles, as were the protein bars. Both jumpers had made it to the grimy mattress, and the water bottles had been flung away. The socks had made it to her bed too, though the ammunition had stayed at the bottom of the bag. Sherlock made an annoyed sound when it became apparent that she'd opened his box of nitrile gloves, but at least his magnifier wasn't cracked.
They repacked everything, though Sherlock exclaimed in disgust at the jumpers and socks that had been in that woman's bed. Still, John knew from experience that you didn't throw away your extra socks while on the road, so long as they were still usable. And the jumpers were important, too. After inspection, neither had bugs or mites or anything, so back into the bag they went.
"Here," Sherlock said as he recollected the first aid kit. Much of it was luckily packed in sterile baggies, so it was still useful, despite being piled with the various scrap against the wall by the bed. He pulled out a packet of antiseptic wipes and one of the nitrile gloves that hadn't been strewn about the floor.
"Sherlock, I'm fine," John protested weakly, but Sherlock wouldn't hear it
"We're underground," Sherlock insisted. "It's filthy here." He was right, of course, so John submitted. He pulled out one of the cold compresses, though, and cracked it, applying it as best he could to Sherlock's overwarm face while he cleaned the wound and bandaged John up. The wound wasn't deep, and didn't need stitches.
He huffed and scowled and protested as John saw to his flushed face, but John was having none of it. Sherlock retaliated by reaching for the other cold compress, but John caught his hand.
"Probably a bad idea," John said. "We should save it." He cracked open one of their water bottles and took a sip. It was cool, and felt wonderful. He hadn't realized how thirsty he was. The following wave of nausea let him know how overheated he was, but he made himself drink more.
"Then give me that one," Sherlock snapped.
It took a fairly long time, with only one compress. They were both overheated, but no burns and nothing too bad. They'd been lucky.
"Now what?" John asked. Sherlock was holding the compress to John's wrists, bruised from the twine and over warmed from the cooker. The cold dispelled the nausea. He'd sipped at the water when John had insisted, but put it aside.
"We find Worth," Sherlock said. "We need more data."
John nodded. "How do we get out of here?" he asked, looking around.
Sherlock gave him a dry look. He gestured.
The great room with the oven was circular. Gray bricks made up the walls, and they went darker black with grime and soot near the oven, and near the bed. The bricks went straight up, as though they were sitting at the bottom of a well. But there was a door to one side, with dingy, gray peeling paint.
"Oh," John said. "You think that actually goes somewhere? I, er, didn't bring a torch," he added, feeling silly. Of course they would need torches. How could he have possibly overlooked that? Stupid. Had they been packing for wilderness, John would have brought one. He had overlooked it in the face of being in London, and having a little penlight on his keys, which was useful for finding a keyhole or something small, but not walking in darkness for god knew how long. Stupid! What else could he have forgotten?
Berating himself, John went to open the door. It groaned in protest. On the other side, as he had predicted, was darkness.
Sherlock strolled up to John's side. In his hand, he was holding two iron and glass lanterns. The candles inside were lit and burning cheerfully.
They looked old and impossibly beaten up. A square box with a hinged door, the lanterns had one iron side and two iron corners, and all were rusting terribly. The other three sides were made of fogged and sooty glass. The handles on both were rough circles of iron sprouting from bottom of the iron side of the ungainly thing, and then twining around a strange, chimney-shaped structure on the top, likely used to keep the fire on the candle inside oxygenated.
"What," John said, "The hell."
"I have a penlight, but that won't do much. We don't have real torches. Here." Sherlock deposited a box of matches and six more candles into John's knapsack. "Shall we?"
John took the other lantern. "Yeah, sure. I'd say it can't get any madder than that," he jerked his thumb over his shoulder, indicating the Baker, "but I imagine it's about to, isn't it?"
Sherlock grinned at him and led the way.
.
.
The tunnel did not seem to end. It was made of brick, like a sewage system, sloping in a round curve up and over their heads. Sherlock had to duck a little, but John was fine. It wasn't filthy or stinking, though, so it wasn't quite a sewer. Their lanterns lit a feeble circle of light, which constantly bounced and swayed with their footsteps. Somewhere, something was dripping.
Suddenly the light and shadows swayed more. John blinked as Sherlock ducked to one side, crouching at the foot of the wall and pulling out his magnifier.
"Anything interesting?" John asked.
"Mmm," said Sherlock. "It seems that the Baker wasn't the only one to use these corridors."
"Oh?" John asked. He looked off into the dark distance, tensing. "You think she had an accomplice?"
"No. Rats." Sherlock frowned.
"Rats?" John asked.
"Big ones. Skittering on the ground. Look here—and here. Dropping breadcrumbs. Stealing. Odd."
John gave a nervous laugh. "That's what rats do, right? Steal food."
"No," Sherlock murmured, "No. These tracks go two and from the Baker. She was eating humans, John, and there were bones of pigeons and cats and dogs amongst her filth. Yet these rats came and went. They came and went with food, which means they went through the door and inside her—room." He made a disdainful noise. "Why didn't she eat the rats, John?"
"Because rats are filthy?" John asked dubiously.
"No," Sherlock murmured. "Pigeons are filthy. Stray cats and dogs—most people have an aversion to eating them. They're pets. People don't eat pets."
"People don't eat people, either," John pointed out wryly.
"Yes, and she broke these taboos, but not a rat. Why?"
"Diseases?" John asked, but Sherlock waved him off.
"She'd be at risk for diseases by eating strays, do keep up. And humans, too. Living underground, not picky about what she eats—except rats."
"I dunno, Sherlock," John shrugged. He crouched down beside his friend to see the footprints. There were scuff marks by the walls, and indeed breadcrumbs.
"Squeak."
Both John and Sherlock turned.
As if summoned by their words, a huge black rat stood on its hind legs and stared at them. It wasn't the size of a cat, but it was a near thing. The crooked whiskers twitched, and its eyes shined in the light of their lanterns. John opened his mouth to shoo it away, but Sherlock gripped his arm, and he stilled.
"Hello," said Sherlock, eyes narrowed. John turned to stare at him.
"Are you mad?"
"Hush, John," Sherlock hissed. "I'm afraid the Baker is dead," he informed it, cautiously. It jerked back, is if shocked, and released a string of squeals.
"Oh," breathed Sherlock. A slow, triumphant grin was curling his lip. John had clearly missed something here. Sherlock added, "I'm terribly sorry. In our defense, she was trying to eat us. Here." He dug into John's knapsack. John yelped at him, but Sherlock held him steady and pulled out a protein bar. He opened it, and then offered it to the rat. "I hope that makes up for the trouble."
John stared. Sherlock had finally gone mad. "Sherlock, that's our food supply," he said.
"Hush," Sherlock told him firmly. "Don't mind him," he smiled at the rat, shamming normal, "Bit dim." He held out the opened protein bar.
"Hey!"
The rat approached, and John tried not to cringe, but it didn't jump on them or anything. It pulled the protein bar out of its wrapper with its teeth and then put it on the ground, regarding it. It nibbled thoughtfully, turned to Sherlock and nodded.
It nodded. John reversed his attitude – it wasn't Sherlock who'd gone crazy. "I've gone mad," he said to no one in particular. Sherlock squeezed his arm.
"I'm glad," he told the rat with a big smile. "We'd best be off."
"Squeak," said the rat. Protein bar in tow, it scampered off into the darkness.
"Sherlock," John said, "What just happened?"
"They're sentient," Sherlock breathed in wonder.
"What? The rats? Are you insane?"
"Yes. Yes of course they're sentient, John, didn't you see the way it asked us what we were doing here?" he continued with glee.
"Listen, I don't know where you heard that but—"
"No, no, no, stop being thick, John. The Baker didn't eat them, and it wasn't because of disease. Why? Why eat people and pigeons and cats but not rats? It squeaked at us when it saw us – a prey animal would slip past. So it wasn't frightened, and when I told it the Baker was dead – an experiment, you see – it reacted with shock."
"So... you apologized," John mumbled.
"They must have had some kind of arrangement, of course."
"You do realize that you've jumped from being invisible and the Baker of Baker Street to talking animals, right?"
"This whole experience is absurd, John, I have simply accepted it—you ought to do the same," Sherlock huffed. "Besides, it didn't talk."
"Rats doesn't talk, sir," said a small voice in the darkness. John leaped to his feet, Sherlock close behind.
There was a boy standing in the middle of the hall. He was very small and very grimy, and he was chewing on half the protein bar. His clothes were more hole than cloth, nearly rags hanging off one shoulder, and he had a cap on his head like something out of a Dickens novel. He could not have been more than eight, and perched on his bare shoulder, eating the other half of the protein bar, was the rat. "That's why they have Ratspeakers. Are you new?"
"I'm sorry—Ratspeakers?" John blurted. Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"Yes! Yes we are new, thank you. Could you tell us where we are?"
"C'n do more'n that," said the boy. "Mr. Shorttail says you're gracious an' polite. He says we'll give you a safe place to bed down a night, since you was nice about the Baker and gave us a snack. S'a pity, though, cos she sold us all our pies," he murmured wistfully. "But," he added when the rat on his shoulder squeaked as if scolding him, "You can't be blamed, if she were goin' to eat you."
"Um," John pointed out, "There were people in the pies."
"Course. They were our people, mostly. Mr. Shorttail was goin' to trade me for a month's worth of cat pies, but, well, that din't work out, seein' as she's dead'n all." The boy shrugged, as if that didn't really mean much.
John opened his mouth. He closed his mouth. He looked helplessly at Sherlock, whose face had gone a little blank.
"Please tell Mr. Shorttail that he is gracious to offer, but if we could beg a different kindness, it may be more useful. Could you tell us where we are?" Sherlock looked utterly composed, as if calling a rat that was going to sacrifice a small boy to a monster gracious was a perfectly normal activity. He squeezed John's arm again, and John kept quiet.
The boy licked his lips nervously. "Yes. But you shouldn't stay here long, sir. You're standin' near the entrance of the Underside line," the last was whispered, a little frightened.
"And what's the Underside line?" Sherlock asked, a little peevishly. John had never heard of such a thing.
"The only line that don't owe fealty to the Earl at Earl's Court," the boy explained, still hushed. John stifled a shocked laugh. An Earl? What? "It passes between the Undersides, sir, but if you get too close you have to ride it. Their fair is very steep." He swallowed and looked down. "Best avoid it if you can, sir."
"We were hoping to get to Ravenscourt," Sherlock told him.
"You got coin?" the boy said.
"Sorry?" John asked.
"Coin," the boy repeated. "Somethin' shiny for the Raven. He don't like visitors, 'nless they got somethin' shiny for him."
"This is completely mental," John said to no one in particular.
Sherlock made an irritated sound. "A raven at Ravenscourt," he muttered irascibly, as if the disregard to logic were a personal insult.
The boy scratched his nose. "You really are new. This is London Below. It's all like that, and everything wants to eat you. The rats take in newcomers, if you swear fealty. They look after us."
Sherlock's lips spread in a slow grin. "Is that right? I think we'll manage. Thank you for the information. Come along, John." He tugged John's arm again, pulling him past the boy.
"If you make it," the boy added, "The next Floating Market's in three days. It's in Berkley Square. Maybe I'll see you there."
"What's your name?" John asked him.
"Wiggins, sir. And you?"
"Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock said was they strode down the hall, "And he's John Watson. Goodbye."
The boy took off his hat and waved it. He watched them walk off like fools, their lights fading into the distance. Any idiot knew that these walls had corridors in them, and that to walk this particular tunnel in the open was as good as a death sentence.
"Too bad they're goin' to die," he told Mr. Shorttail. "They might've been awfully useful."
It's few and far between that survives Below, the rat replied kindly, Best not to get attached. Come along, now, boy. We should get back to the nest.
.
.