Tick, tick, tick.
The large wall clock had its hands positioned at ten and two; Ten-ten, it read. Sherlock had never cared to bother with time before but, now, his attention was fixed to the clock. However, his attention wasn't on the time itself but the way the clock moved. The ticks grew farther apart as he listened and the pace slowed, like that of a tired metronome slowly approaching rest. His fingers tapped at the arms of his chair as he witnessed time slow, trying to place why the clock would be slowing down.
It did not run on batteries.
It was a clockwork clock that the Detective's father had given him before his disappearance. Mycroft had been twelve and able to remember more of the day than his kid brother, but Sherlock was only five. All that he could remember of the man was that he was a good man, a tall man, with a long brown coat and the last words he'd spoken to his sons.
"When the clock stops, I will be back. I promise you that."
Sherlock sat without moving as the last few motions of the clock came to a stop; the ancient gift halting a second before Ten-eleven. His eyes danced to his cell phone beside him, then back to the clock and then to the flat door. Silence.
The only thing that could be heard was the tapping of Sherlock's fingertips, strumming, against the coarse fabric of his arm chair as he waited. "There is no way…" The detective thought to himself, eyes moving back to the clock on the wall. "Mother told me that he'd left this earth long ago. Why am I acting like a small child about this situation?" Downstairs the front door creaks open, the heavy soles of a man stepping into the hallway. Sherlock sits up straight in his chair, trying to keep himself composed.
The footsteps begin up the stairs; there's a three second pause between each step that has Sherlock rubbing his palms against the arms of his chair. Step…Step…Step. Nails scratch against upholstered arm rests as the steps grow louder, more hesitant now. The suspense was killing him; the footsteps drew closer now, taking their time and Sherlock stood to his feet to pace across the floor. His heart rate was elevated, why?
Sherlock paused in place as the footsteps neared the flat door, turning to face his visitor with an unreadable look taking his features – his shaggy hair unkempt.
John entered the flat then, arms bracing a large grocery bag. The moment their eyes met the doctor stopped in place, offering his flat-mate a look of confusion. "Expecting someone?"
Sherlock's eyes narrowed, turning back to collapse in his arm chair. "No. Must you be so loud when you walk up the stairs?"
John's winced at the comment, face growing annoyed as he walked into the kitchen. "In a bit of a mood today, are you? I picked up some food since you don't appear to be on a proper case-"
"And what makes you assume I don't have a case?" Sherlock pressed his palms together, holding his hands up to his lips. "Just because one is confined to their flat does not entail that they are without entertainment."
John begins to put away the groceries, laughing under his breath. "You're really in a mood today. I might just keep my distance if snapping is all you'll do."
Sherlock isn't paying John any attention though; he's looking to his cell phone with a quirked brow. He picks it up and inspects the time on the screen before setting the item back on the table beside his arm chair.
"John, may I see your phone?"
John sighs, stopping his activities to look at Sherlock. "Again, Sherlock? Are you going to text another stranger from my phone?"
Sherlock hops to his feet, glancing at the clockwork clock as he passes into the kitchen. He stops a few feet away from John, extending his hand to his flat-mate. "No, this is more important."
John looks at Sherlock and takes a deep breath, gaze dropping to the floor before he lifts it back to the taller man.
"Alright. If you promise not to look through my personal things," John tugs his cell phone from his pocket and hands it to the detective. "It's embarrassing."
"No one's interested in the type of porn you watch. This is of greater importance." Sherlock takes the phone and turns it to John, showing him the time. At first, the shorter man tilts his head in confusion and narrows his eyes as if to inspect the screen for dust. Sherlock holds the phone closer to his face. "The time, John. The time."
"It's Ten-ten. What about it?"
Sherlock hands the phone back to the man. "It's been Ten-ten for seven and a half minutes now."
John breathes a laugh, leaning against the countertop as he shakes his head at Sherlock. "Right," He turns back to the groceries lying about the counter. "Your brother is right, you've gone absolutely mad. Perhaps we should-"
"Nevermind what Mycroft has said! Time has stopped, John. Time has stopped at exactly ten minutes past ten a.m. and there's no way it's possible. It's as if someone has stopped every clock." Sherlock's face was serious and John knew he wasn't joking around now; The Doctor opened a cabinet and pulled a kettle out from within, setting it on the counter.
"Earl Grey, then?" He asked, the detective now trudging about the kitchen floor in thought.
"Please. Black with two sugars would be best. I have to call Mycroft."
Mycroft Holmes had been sitting behind his desk since nearly seven that morning, taking visits from people that were in need of his assistance. A "public service" as he would call it. The tea Anthea had fetched for him was now turning cold, the steam from the cup turning translucent in the air. He sat reclined in his large desk chair, looking out one of the windows of his office in thought until his break was interrupted. A knock came from the office door and the man turned toward it, straightening his tie and hair quickly as he sat up straight. Appearance was important, after all.
"Enter." Mycroft called, clearing his throat.
Anthea entered, her professional style of dress contradicting the worried expression upon her face. It was unusual for Mycroft to see his secretary like this, the woman of steel, and he found himself worried as well.
"What is it, Anthea?"
Anthea had a cell phone clenched in her palm, handing it across the desk to her employer. "It's…your brother. He says it's urgent."
Mycroft took the cell phone slowly from the woman, lifting it to his ear with a false grin. "Hello, Sherlock. Finally out of your clandestine phase, I see."
Anthea snatched the tea cup from Mycroft's desk. "I'll make you a fresh cup." Mycroft mouths 'Thank you'.
"Mycroft, have you looked at the time lately?" Sherlock's voice seems distressed and that is new to his brother; hastily the man looks at the time.
"It's ten minutes past ten. But you didn't call to ask me the time, after all, you do have that large clock." Mycroft inspects his fingernails as he sits back in his chair again. "What is it, now? Have you found yourself capable of asking for help?"
Sherlock grumbles on the other line. "It's been ten minutes past ten for thirteen minutes now, or have you not noticed this?"
Mycroft perks up in his seat, trying to register what has been said to him. "Are you insinuating that time has stopped?"
"Not insinuating. Time has stopped, Mycroft. The clock has stopped."
Mycroft looks to the clock on his wall, the second hand entirely frozen. No ticks to be heard. "Time cannot just stop, Sherlock. That's-"
"Impossible? Yes. Father's wall clock stopped this morning and, now, time itself appears to be frozen." The words throw the older man into a memory of their father. The look on the man's face when he said he'd be leaving them. Mycroft hand felt abandoned by the man – as if their father hadn't wanted them and was leaving for something better. The Government official had never recovered from it.
Anthea enters with another cup of tea, stopping in place when she notices Mycroft's expression. Slowly the woman backs out of the office to give him a minute. There is silence.
"Mycroft?"
Mycroft withdraws from his disoriented state, snapping into reality again. "Ah, yes. The clock has stopped. I'll look into everything I possibly can and let you know if I find anything. But, Sherlock, I must ask you one thing…"
"I'm not one for favors."
"If he returns, I'll be the first to know." Mycroft's fingers tapped at the edge of his large, oak desk as he spoke.
"Of course."
With that the two hung up their respective phones and Mycroft's office returned to silence for a few moments. Suddenly there was another knock at the man's door – Anthea returning with tea – and behind her stood a man in a blue suit with brown pinstripes, his brown hair sticking up as if to defy gravity.
"This man is here to see you, sir. He has a pass from Foreign Affairs." Anthea set the cup before Mycroft, offering him a worried smile. "I thought it best to allow him in."
Mycroft offered the man a business smile, waving him toward his desk. The man was familiar, so much so that it nearly made the Business man nauseous; In the right light the suited man almost looked like Mycroft's father, but that had been so long ago that he wasn't sure if it was true.
"Thank you, Anthea. Take the rest of the day off."