Let's get this epic author's note underway, shall we?
I don't quite know how to categorize this fiction. I consider it a horror-comedy, with elements of drama and mystery. Essentially, a histrionic case of the bi-polar feels. I started writing this story with the intention of making it a modern variation of the classic Greek myth, Orpheus and Eurydice. What it became, however, was a giant tangle of WHAT THE FUCKery mixed with my own take on the cosmic punchline. After that, shit just got weird. Much like this author's note.
That being written, read this story with a grain of salt. It delves heavily into dark subjects, such as suicide, depression, the occult, and, in some places, descriptive details about death. Definitely not a light read. I tried to keep Sherlock and John as in character as I could, despite this being a rather extreme AU. This isn't betaed or Brit-picked. Forgive any errors; I write for the shits and giggles, and not the proper placement of punctuation... as you'll probably notice.
Warnings overall: M/M, gore, violent imagery, language, dub-con, horror elements, moral ambiguity, AU, angst, paranormal themes, major character death, gallows humour.
Warnings for this chapter: gore, language, horror elements, slashy undertones, and violent imagery.
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock; I just borrow the characters and refuse to give them back. You know, like a thief.
Chapter the First
Dreams and Deductions
"If you live to be a hundred, I want to live to be a hundred minus one day so I never have to live without you."
― A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh
21st January
Ella told me to keep a blog detailing my thoughts about the world around me. She thinks it will help me to keep things in perspective. I'm not sure about all that. I suppose I'll give it the old university try. Happy now, Ella?
-J.W.
He sits in his chair, staring at the entry for an inappropriate amount of time, before saving it to his drafts.
It takes over an hour for him to decide on a name and URL for his blog. He goes with a rather straight forward title, The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson. Johnwatsonblog is, oddly enough, taken for a URL; though when he goes to view the blog, it is set to private. He settles for docjwatson and posts his first entry.
A day later, he has his first comment. To be honest, he's surprised anyone has read his blog at all. The comment comes up in an email alert, nestled between a rejection letter from St. Thomas' and some e-coupons.
Curious, he clicks on it.
You are a sick individual. Seek help. –S.H.
"Right." He says and deletes his blog.
It takes him just over a week of ball-busting (read: encouragement) from his therapist before he decides to re-open his blog. He would never admit this to Ella but the comment put him off quite a bit. He's slightly ashamed at how easily he was bullied out of posting, which fuels him to write another entry.
It's with no slight amount of trepidation that he posts it.
29 January
I ran into an old mate in the park today while finishing up a few errands. We talked for a bit, which was nice. I haven't seen Mike since we both attended Bart's as school lads. We grabbed some coffee and sat on a park bench for a spell.
He talked about his wife and children, and his career at Bart's; I mainly just listened. I wasn't feeling particularly chatty, you understand. He asked about my time in Afghanistan but didn't push when I wouldn't (couldn't, really) talk about it. I'd forgotten what an easy-going bloke Mike is. Great to get in touch again. Perhaps I'll ring him up and inquire after job openings later this week.
Anyway, Mike mentioned someone – I think a colleague of his-who was looking for a flat mate. Ella will probably have my head but I declined. I did consider it but thought it best if I waited until I have myself sorted. I just need a bit more time.
Mike and I parted ways, and I hope to meet up in the next few weeks for a bit of a get together. In the meantime, I'm still hunting for a job. If anyone out there knows of interim doctor work around the London area, e-mail me at Jwatson .uk .
I think that's everything. Is it too soon to judge the effects of blogging, Ella?
-J.W.
He sporadically checks his inbox throughout the week but it isn't until almost a week later that he gets anything noteworthy. He's managed to squeeze in a few job interviews in the following few days—one turns out to be a scam, the other sexist, and the last too hung up on his honourable discharge from the army to hold any sort of promise. It comes as a surprise when the latter emails him a job offer.
He fills out the relevant details and is just about to exit out of the browser when he notices the comment notification from his blog.
Yet another comment from S.H.
He clicks on the comment link, curious in spite of the dread in his stomach. His masochistic streak kicking in again.
I see you're continuing this farce. Very well. You leave me no choice but to deduce you. From your style of syntax, I can tell that you are a single man around forty years of age. By tracking your internet habits, I have ascertained that you are probably overweight, possibly homely, and decidedly jobless.
While your grammatical overtones suggest some form of higher education, you only managed a course or two before dropping out and joining a branch of the military. Your perfunctory manner of typing suggests army. Your age and time served in the military could be how you might have come to know the real John; I cannot begin to fathom how you became privy to other details.
Friend on the inside, perhaps? Computer hacker? No. You are far too small-minded for the latter. Definitely the former then. But the question is, why?
I also see that you have opted not to seek the help I so obligingly pointed out to you. Last warning, imposter: cease this nonsense or we will have the pleasure of meeting.-S.H.
His eyebrows shoot up at this and his stomach bubbles with anger. He's probably overreacting but really, this S.H. is mad. He's heard of comment wars and what have you but it's all far too ridiculous for him.
He blames his proclivity toward impulsiveness that has him opening up the pm box.
22:45: J.W. Is this a joke?
The reply is almost instantaneous.
22:46: THESCIENCEOFDEDUCTION I should pose that question at you, imposter. Do you get perverse delight in pretending to be someone you're not? Perhaps you have nothing else better to do than haunt the internet in hopes of getting my attention. That speaks volumes. Your father probably left when you were a child, imprinting a fear of abandonment. How pedestrian. –S.H.
He chooses to ignore the comment about his father.
10:47 pm: J.W. You certainly think highly of yourself. Have we met before? I have no idea why you chose my blog to harass, but piss off.
10: 49 pm: THESCIENCEOFDEDUCTION I have little patience for this. Are you going to cease this farce or am I going to have to force your hand? -S.H.
"Christ, who is this buffoon?" He asks his computer screen. It, of course, says nothing.
He hasn't the slightest idea what the tit is going on about but he'd like nothing more than to knock the cheeky little shit out- which is a bit sad considering it's just some bloke on the internet. Or at least he thinks it's a bloke. He pictures a great, fat man around his own age with a week's worth of beard and a food stained gaming t-shirt.
This is the last thing he's writing and then he's off to figure out how to use the blog's security system.
10:54 pm: J.W Force my hand? What are you going to do, angrily type at me? Maybe consider starting your meds again, before you go all Jack Nicholson on someone.
Feeling slightly vindicated, he doesn't wait for a response and instead powers down the laptop. He really ought to put up security measures if he plans on continuing this ridiculous blog; just, not right now. He's far too lazy at the moment. For now, he's off to shower, hit the head, and tuck in for the night.
_SHJWSHJWSHJW_
He's in the process of washing his hair when he hears his mobile ringing from the bedroom. He manages to answer it on the fifth ring, the phone nearly slipping a few times between his slickened fingers before he wrestles it to his ear. He hopes he doesn't electrocute himself in the process.
"Watson speaking." God, he hopes it's the job calling back. His bank statements are already in the red.
There's a faint clicking noise followed by the crackle of static.
"Hello? Is anyone there?"
There's more static and then someone exhales sharply.
He's just beginning to suggest ringing again when a man's voice fills the line, deep and posh-sounding. "Impossible."
He checks the caller id, which is showing up as Unknown, before responding. "Who is this?"
The line crackles.
"I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch that." He says, wondering if he should just hang up.
"John." The man replies, his voice thick with what sounds like longing.
He shifts, uncomfortable. "How can I help you, John?"
The line goes dead. A moment later, the screen lights up with a single text from Unknown.
23:18 pm: UNKNOWN johnstayawa
He stares at the gibberish on the screen a moment before tossing the mobile back on the motel's bed in exasperation.
He wonders what it is about him that draws the freaks.
_SHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJW_
He wakes up with a flinch, heart pounding and sweat cooling on his brow. The clock reads three a.m. The room is hotter than it should be in the dead of winter, which has him kicking his heavy quilt toward the end of the bed. He wonders what woke him.
An ambitious banging on the door not a moment later answers his question. He struggles out of bed and into his house slippers with some help from his cane. The banging gets louder as he's deciding on whether or not to grab his pistol.
"Just a moment!" He yells, quietly opening the desk drawer and checking the safety before shoving the gun into the elastic waist band of his pyjama bottoms.
The banging stops the moment he reaches the door. He presses his face against the door and peers through the peephole.
Nobody.
Between that and the prank call, he's a bit on edge. He double-checks the locks, which are secure, and is just about to make a few patrol-rounds around the room when the banging starts up again.
He rips the door open with a bit more force than necessary, poking his head out to look out into the dimly lit hallway. There's someone lying on the ground about 30 metres away, bundled up in several dirty layers of clothing. They appear as though they are passed out, which sadly isn't unusual for this building. That is what an army pension buys these days.
"Did you knock just now?" He asks.
The person doesn't answer.
"You okay?" He feels concerned in spite of his suspicion. He's almost all the way out of his motel room now, except for his cane jammed in to keep the door from closing and locking him out.
The person shifts one of their shoulders under the bundle of rags. He thinks he hears a soft whimper. He leaves his cane behind, cursing as it falls and the door slams shut anyway. He'll need to speak to the front desk later.
He works his way toward the figure, his leg trembling without the added support. The doctor in him won't let him feign ignorance and hole up in his room.
"Are you hurt?" He asks when he nears their still form.
No response.
No, wait. He sees a pale hand creeping out from under the rags, skin grubby and fingernails bitten to the quick. The person's fingers shake as he falls to his knees beside them.
"It's alright. I'm just going to check your pulse." He says in his confident Doctor Watson, M.D., voice. He grabs their wrist.
Or, at least, he thinks he does because what he touches feels nothing like flesh. Where skin and bone should be there's nothing but slick, gelatinous give. He yanks his own hand back quickly and a thin layer of what looks like their skin comes with him. It's clinging to his fingers. He gags and shakes it off with disgust, it sloughing onto the ground.
The figure makes a wet, burping noise, drawing his attention again, as the air fills with the stink of rotting vegetables. He barely registers the sudden wave of thick heat before the figure is pitching to its feet. Its clothing parts to reveal its face for the first time.
"Christ." He whispers. Whatever it is, it definitely isn't human.
Its mouth stretches wider and wider, jaw bones cracking and skin splitting until it resembles a cavernous black maw. And its eyes- He swallows heavily.
Empty sockets. He can just make out the dangling optic nerves; the glistening white of muscle and the sallow yellow of fatty tissues.
Its skin shines, slick and wax-like in the soft light. The soldier in him is unwilling to back down; the doctor in him is curious how it's still edging toward him when he's sure it can't see.
Its jaw cracks again and he notices the maggots wrestling their way onto its chin.
He scoots backward and quickly scrambles to his feet, not willing to be at such a disadvantage. He fumbles his pistol out from under his robes and aims it at the creature slowly lurching toward him. Although his heart is beating wildly, his hands have never been steadier.
"Get the fuck back!"
It doesn't listen.
The heat thickens. His clothes are starting to stick to his skin and it's getting hard to breathe.
It swipes at him and barely misses, its bone-thin fingers scraping the fabric of his house robe. He's dodging another attack when all of the lights burst and plunge the hallway into darkness.
He hurls himself to the side, clenching his jaw to keep from crying out when he lands on his bad shoulder. It's too dark. He needs some sort of light to form a plan of attack. If he had some sort of light…
Inspiration hits.
He aims the pistol blindly toward where he thinks the thing is and fires off a round. The muzzle flash lights up the hallway for a moment, illuminating the twisted face a scant few inches away from his.
He swears and fires again but the shot goes wide. He can almost taste its breath, sour and hot against his skin. The reek of rot is ripping open scabs and bleeding out unwanted memories; convincing his body that he's back in the war zone. His mind tells him he's in the middle of a raid gone wrong, surrounded by a heap of decomposing bodies; his intellect tells him otherwise.
He smothers harsh sobs for air with his free hand, not wanting to alert the creature. He manages to position his back against the wall and use the strength in his legs to push himself to his feet. His right leg aches in punishment.
The creature snuffles somewhere by his ear. He fights a childish urge to clench his eyes shut and hope it disappears. He fires his gun instead.
It must have connected this time because there's a soft groan and the thud of something heavy hitting the floor. Oxygen deprivation and adrenaline leave him shaking as the generator kicks in. The hallway lights slowly power back on.
He nearly shoots the man who materializes in front of him before catching himself. It's just an unaware bystander, probably.
He's thankful for the man's tall, lean outline which blocks the sight of the fallen creature. It isn't until there's a cool hand caressing his cheek that he lets the gun slip from his fingers. All sounds white out and he's hyper-focused on the hand moving from his cheek to thread long fingers through his hair. He buries his face in the expensive material of their coat with a sigh. He smells alive and reassuring; like cigarettes, detergent, and warm vitality. Human life.
He knows there's something wrong with him because he's practically molesting a strange man and can't bring himself to care.
He bunches the man's coat in his hands and then his knees are giving out. Sounds flicker in for a moment as those elegant hands hold him steady; a vaguely familiar voice murmurs his name.
Suddenly, he's sliding into the hot heat of the Afghanistan sun. There's a pistol in his hand again, and Mark, one of his good mates—didn't he die?—is pressed hip to thigh against him as they use the mass grave for cover.
Al Jhareed is shouting something in Farsi as they're being surrounded by hundreds of creatures- just like the one in the hallway.
The hallway!
"Shhh. I've got you."
_SHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJW_
His eyes fly open and he finds himself staring up at the ceiling in his motel room. His heart is pounding and there's sweat cooling on his brow.
He looks over at the clock. It's three a.m. His nose is filled with oddly comforting smell of tobacco.
He vaguely wonders what woke him. He feels a strange sense of déjà vu.
Someone is pounding on the door.
"Stop grabbing my coat so tightly; I need to lay you down. No, shush, John. I've got you. You're safe. No, I'm not leaving. Ssh."
He goes to put on his house robe and slippers before realizing with a start that he must have fallen asleep wearing them.
Maybe it's Harry at the door, stumbling drunk again. But no, wait. Isn't she in rehab? That can't be right, either. She was released from rehab back in December; it's January now. It could be her. Relapse?
The banging stops as he nears the door but before he can check the peephole, he hears someone scream outside, from on the street. Forgoing the door, he staggers toward the window and stills when he sees the vague outline of thriving pants on the edge of the footpath. There had been a good half a metre of snow when he went to bed last night. Surely plants couldn't thrive in the dead of winter.
Filing it away for later, his eyes scan the street for the source of the scream. There's no one there accept for a single cabbie, lit up with the motor running. Exhaust steams heavily in the air.
Probably waiting for someone then. He wonders if they saw who screamed.
He feels another jolt of déjà vu so strong that he thinks he feels nauseous.
"I don't know how much time I have, John, so just listen. You keep fading out. I- not there, John! Lean over here into the bin. That's right. Let it all out. I've got you."
He twists around; aiming to get his gun from his desk, but it's in his hand. How did it get there?
The room is gone and replaced with the length of the hallway. There's a figure slumped over, something dark oozing from the still form. The air reeks with the sharp tang of iron and salt, smells he's all too familiar with. His hand is steady on his pistol but his mind is screaming with blood lust.
He makes his way closer toward the form on the floor, the intense desire to know overriding the sharp crack of fear in his spine. When he reaches the person, he drops to his knees and reaches for their hand. Their skin is filthy and their nails are bitten down to the quick.
He takes their wrist in hand to feel for a pulse. The skin is cool to the touch and pulse still. Gun aimed at their head, he slowly reaches out and pulls back the cloth obscuring their face. Brown eyes stare blankly back at him. A thin trail of blood leaks from the corner of the man's mouth. His face is shadowed by a greasy lock of red hair.
"No, goddamnit! Stay awake, John! Look at m-"
He manages to make it to the side of the hallway before he passes out.
_SHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJW_
When he wakes up again, he is in his bed and the sun is filtering weakly through the dirty window. It's seven a.m. If the hot pull of terror still lingers in his gut, he chalks it up to another bad dream, and puts the kettle on.
The room smells of cigarettes.
When he powers up his laptop that morning, there are two messages waiting for him in his inbox. Both are from S.H.
He rolls his eyes and clicks on the first comment. Unsurprisingly, it's a little threatening and a lot creepy.
23:00: THESCIENCEOFDEDUCTION I will consider that your answer and act accordingly. Don't be surprised when I show up at your door to discuss your need to impersonate others. I have already deduced that you live in a motel in London, courtesy of your IP address. The specifics can be found out in due time. I shall see you soon, imposter. Postscript, if we are discussing my similarity to fictional characters, Victor Hoppe would be the far superior choice; I don't see myself hacking through doors. But who knows? The night is young.
He tries not to be amused. He even considers contacting law enforcement—an embarrassing afterthought, really—but decides against it.
Instead, he looks up Victor Hoppe and spends the next hour distracted by a forum debate over Shelley VS Brijs. Completely lost, he skims through the first translated chapters of Brijs' The Angel Maker but gives up on it when he decides he's starting to sympathize with his blog's harasser.
He makes another cup of tea before settling down to read the second comment. It's the most recent, sent at around six this morning.
6:09: THESCIENCEOFDEDUCTION I don't know how any of this is possible but at this point, I don't care. Stay in your motel room. Do as I say. Your safety depends on it. I apologize for the smoke and mirrors; your reality keeps filtering out important pieces of information. I can't come out and type that #% %%%%%%%%%%%
I believe I've made my point. This is one mystery you need to deduce on your own.
I will return for you shortly. I've padlocked your door from the inside. Should you need to get out, I left the key in the right upper hand drawer of your desk, beside your gun. Emergency only, John; a trip down to the grocers for milk does not count as one. –S.H.
His hand stills with the tea cup halfway to his lips. He re-reads the message and then once more for posterity's sake, before calmly setting the mug back on the counter.
Key. Padlock.
Right.
He limps toward his desk and yanks out the drawer, pushing aside his pistol and a few papers. His heart sinks when he sees the small silver key tucked away in the corner of the drawer. Picking it up, he reluctantly looks over at his door and sees the newly installed bolt and padlock set.
"Of all the psychos in London, I get the mechanically savvy one." He grumbles as he hip-checks the drawer closed. He drops the key on top of the desk and goes to grab his mobile from the bedside table. It isn't there. What is in its place is a small note, written in messy, sprawling loops:
(I have confiscated your mobile until we can have a proper chat. Stop panicking.)
He'll panic if he wants to.
He starts dressing himself in his standard attire- trousers, boots, and a knitted jumper- cursing when he belatedly realises they've all been sabotaged in some manner. Not only that but his wallet and motel key seem to have disappeared, with yet another note in their place:
(Relax.)
Whoever this person is, he owes him a new wardrobe.
He looks around.
He owes him a new wardrobe and a new cane. He steps over the twisted metal with as much dignity as he can muster and sits down on his bed.
There goes his plan of leaving the motel with any sort of self-esteem or quid.
Burying his head in his palms, he tries to calm himself. He can feel his body slipping into a worryingly familiar state of panic, which usually triggers his PTSD. He tries to remember the exercises Ella taught him but his mind blanks as it starts getting harder to breathe. It feels like breathing through a wet napkin. He forces his head down between his knees and inhales deeply until he feels his body starting to relax.
Thinking gradually becomes easier and he finally realises something.
The Science of Deduction- He's never bothered to look it up!
He staggers to his feet, still unsteady with nerves, and practically attacks his laptop in his haste to get to the search engine. When he types in The Science of Deduction, there are several hundred hits; a surprising amount of which are newspaper articles. He browses through a few of the more promising articles before deciding on one with a heading that reads, The Science of Deduction: How One Man Used Chemistry to Bring a Syndicate to its Knees.
He clicks on it and is immediately booted out of his web browser. He reopens the tab only to be redirected to an internet error message.
He sighs. "Lovely."
He restarts his modem and laptop, and lays his head down for a minute. He closes his eyes while he waits for them to boot back up again.
_SHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJW_
"I'm hardly surprised this room is your idea of hell." The man says, pivoting on one well-tailored heel to give the motel room a solid 360. His sniffs disdainfully at John's cane propped in the corner.
John clears his throat and picks a loose thread from his jumper, twining the excess round and round his pointer finger. He stifles the urge to apologize.
"Yes, well." He says instead, studiously avoiding the man's suddenly razor-sharp focus.
" You have no idea who I am." It isn't a question. The man sounds dismayed.
"No," John agrees. "Have we met before?"
"More times than you could know."
He's suddenly fascinated by the little ball of thread.
Something shatters on the wall behind his head and John starts, leaping out of his chair. He stares at the remains of a paperweight-disbelief momentarily suspending action - and back at the man. What the fuck?
"What the fuck!" He shouts, putting the chair in between him and the stranger. "Did you just throw a fucking bird at my head?"
he man looks unruffled, even having the audacity to brush an imaginary speck of lint from his Belstaff coat. "It was a goose, John. And don't be so dramatic."
" A goose? I'll give you a f-" He stops at the man's slightly raised eyebrow, takes a deep breath to calm himself, and tries again. "You know what? Just. Just get out. You're right about me having no idea who the hell you are. How did get in my room in the first place?"
T he man opens his mouth to respond.
" No," John cuts him off. "I don't care. Don't know why I asked."
He moves out from behind the chair. Limping toward the door, he opens it with a flourish to let the stranger out.
And immediately closes it again, pressing his back against the door; heart pounding.
He swears the man smirks. John could punch him.
"There's a brick wall. Why is there a brick wall there?"
"Which brings me to the reason I'm here, if you'll let me talk." The stranger says in a bored tone of voice, moving as if to step closer John. He stops when John involuntarily flinches.
John thinks he imagines the hurt that flashes in his pale eyes.
" I'm listening." He really is but suddenly, he can't seem to keep his eyes open. None of this seems important anymore. He's sure it can wait until-
Until-
He can't remember what he had been so thinking about.
Ugh, he's right knackered. It's too hard to concentrate and the man looks so comfortable; his coat more so. He wonders if the man would object terribly to John curling up against him. He bets the man smells wonderful.
The world's gone all funny and grey, fuzzy around the edges like an old photograph. The man is walking toward him, a pale hand reaching for him. He's so close, he can smell him. He smells gorgeous, as John thought he would.
"No, damnit!" The man is snarling, his voice slow and thick in John's head. "John, you need to stay awake! Stay with me! Please, I've only just found you aga-"
He drifts away to the sound of someone weeping.
_SHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJW_
He lifts his head up from the desk's hard surface. He must have snoozed off. He's been doing that quite a bit lately. He rubs the grit from his eyes and flinches when his fingers come back wet.
A clock chimes from outside, drawing his gaze involuntarily to the window. It's pitch black outside. He couldn't have had more than a ten minute nap.
He looks over at the digital clock and frowns. Three am.
Someone bangs on the door.
TBC
Notes: I realise this chapter is probably confusing in some areas. Hopefully, the next chapter should clear a few details up. Before I forget! The next chapter is going to be a bit more graphic than this one. If this one wasn't your cuppa, I'd steer clear.
Anywhoodlyhoo, I welcome any and all constructive criticism. Feel free to jot me down your thoughts, opinions, annoyances, etc.