A/N: Okay, posting early this time to get the benefit of all the valuable critique you have to offer. Again, keep in mind, I'm no author, not trained just trying to spin an occasional tale. Hope to write something real someday, though if I can learn enough.
Johnlock shippers – this one goes out for you all.
Thanks for reading.
I couldn't fathom the source of this dreaded noise. This noise, this infernal tapping. Through the hours of the night. Tap, tap, tap. I couldn't sleep with such nuisance in the name of a simple tap. It has been 2 days now.
My friend, John Watson wasn't home, unfortunately - he was out and about with his new bride to Maryland.
United States, huh. Never really served my pleasantries, to anyone's surprise.
But then again, John had coupled up.
Officially.
They're willing to go anywhere, as long as they have 'each other' - the thought of it made me want to cringe.
Sentiments. The kind that's found on the losing side - he heard me say it, once or twice.
However, I couldn't do anything if it didn't make a difference for John.
Another tap.
That was gradually getting unpleasant.
As I grasped my covers, tossing them aside like a discarded efforts of slumber, I stretched my cooling limbs as I found my footing on the cold, wooden floor and messed up curls in the name of hair.
I had my night robe flared tightly on my hips as I moved towards the damned noise.
I stepped downstairs to the main gate, wiping my worn eyes.
That irksome noise got more intense by the minute.
"Mrs. Hudson?" I yelled my landlady's name, to my surprise, she didn't answer.
She /always/ answers.
Ignoring that fact that it had been about 3 AM in the morning, and out of decency, I made my way to ground-floor kitchen, which was simply connected to the main basement.
I slowly stepped down the staircase, towards the basement door, hoping that my footsteps would not bother anyone.
The sound of a snoring fellow inhabitant of the house rang behind me as I grasped the cold brass knob of the door. My breath was caught low in my chest. My blood pulsed in my ears. Not a sound came from the door before me. Not a rap or a tap. Nothing.
I took a good look at that door knob. No smudges, probably corroded, made a slow noise as I twisted - meaning nobody has been here, recently.
That's odd.
Air beyond the door was foul. Sour stench of mold and decay caressed my lungs, causing a reflexive gasp. There was a rustle deep in dead air before me.
I heard a slow movement at the bottom of the steps. My eyes could not make sense of the form below me, but a dread engulfed my soul.
I stepped into the darkness, slowly, descending into what seemed like hell itself, but I had to know. This bickering conscience wouldn't let me deny.
There was a dim light flickering in the corner of the concrete room. My feet cringed from the texture of the freeze abyss of a floor. I walked towards that light. My heart raced with fear. No, anticipation.
A hollow face stared into me as I came closer to the corner. That face, my face, stared back at me through the glass of the mirror. It was a mirror. I sighed.
A simple mirror with a small candle in front of it. I relaxed ever so slightly, taking a deep breath.
"What are you doing here?" a voice said as I glanced back in that mirror - and then back at the steps, expecting to see the stern face of my mysterious hostess.
Blackness. Nothing, and yet those word still rang in my ears.
There was a crackling laugh. It pierced deep into my soul. "You are a funny one, aren't you?" she spoke again.
Same old tapping had begun - again. Slowly, almost silent, like rain hitting a window in a spring hour. It was behind me - but not in that mirror now. My eyes slithered towards that noise again, trying to grasp it's origin - where did it come from?
It was my own face staring back at me, but it wasn't me. She echoed at my soul and yet, she was not me.
"What is all this?" I stuttered a bit as I succumbed to my energy that was, to my surprise, draining. She grinned an unwholesome grin as she curtsied.
"Why, I am you. Can't you see that? I am the you that leaves the shadows in your slumber." Her grin increased as she withdrew a lifeless head behind her. It was the lady of the house, ofcourse. The one from who I rented 221B, 4 years ago. Her face held the fear of her final moment.
"Mrs. Hudson? What have you done?!" I asked her, alarmingly.
"No. What have /you/ done, Sherlock?"
I glanced down at my hands, red with blood. What have I done?