Hello lovely reader! I wish to thank you from the bottom of my heart for attempting to read this tricky tale. Normally I shy away from writing fan fiction, however this story was plaguing my mind, refusing to let up. So, here is my chicken scratch, un-beta'd attempt. Please R&R.
Hugs and kisses and skittles too,
Robottko.
Disclaimer: My mother says that just because I believe I was Sir Arthur Conan Doyle in a past life does not mean I have full access to mess with his works.
Ch. 1
Florida State Penitentiary
in·sa·tia·ble
/inˈsāSHəbəl/
Adjective
(of an appetite or desire) Impossible to satisfy: "an insatiable hunger"
The man sat on a bed of snow white sheets, twiddling his thumbs idly. Though his expression was calm, an inner storm brewed deep inside of him, and the blackest part of his soul raged with a vile fury. He had made fruitless plans to escape this hellhole; wonderful fantasies of kidnapping his wife, destroying the man who put him here, and never seeing a prison again. But here he sits, waiting for his final fate, waiting for the guards to take him away and make him sleep forever.
The sounds of footsteps drawing near rips him from his reverie. Glowering at the sound, the man leans back against his bed, looking perfectly at ease.
"Jeremiah Hudson." A guard, Maxwell Johnson, says. His last and final greeting. Hudson sits up and smirks at Johnson.
"Present." His voice is just short of seething. "I don't suppose you're throwing a going away party for me?" The guards stood still, barely glancing at Hudson. "Thought not." Standing, Hudson walks to the door, holding out his arms for the shackles. "I'm really going to miss you all."
Shackled quickly, the guards lead Hudson down a long hallway, ignoring the jeers of the other prisoners.
Entering the cool, dark room at the end of the hall, Hudson is unsurprised to find a bed not unlike the bed that was in his cell. The only difference was the dark black restraints that cut across the white rather violently.
Beautiful Hudson thought. Poetic, a fine way to go.
Strapped quickly to the bed of black-and-white, Hudson sighed, the vile thoughts settling down into mere musings. As the needle pierces his skin, he thinks back again to his lovely wife, the beauty he left on Baker Street. I wonder if she thinks of me.
"Everyday." A deep voice responds. "Though not in the way you would hope."
Hudson's stomach drops out from underneath him, the pleasant thoughts of his wife dashed away by pure hatred. It's him, the creature that put him here. Struggling against the bonds that hold him down, Hudson tries desperately to get to the man. He wants to rip out his beautiful blue eyes.
"Tut tut, none of that." The voice says again. "No one can see me, you know, it's rather pointless."
"Delirium brought on by the drugs?" Hudson's voice is weak, but rough.
"Not at all." The voice is amused now, "They can't see me because I am death." With those words, a hand nearly as white as the sheets below him snakes across his vision. The hand, landing on his chest, feels ice cold. The cold seeps through his body, freezing his blood. "Enjoy hell, Mr. Hudson."
The doctors sighed as the heart rate monitor flat-lined, and started to clean up the execution room. Nobody watched as a tall, black haired man left the room, pulling a black leather glove over his too-pale hand. Nobody noticed the man in the long coat sweep through the prison, seemingly at ease with his surroundings. Nobody realized that death himself, an unwelcome visitor at the best of times, had left the prison, a smirk gracing his face. Nobody saw Sherlock Holmes.