The Midnight Encounter
AN: Something I did for the Sherlocking Competition...! Hope you enjoy =D Criticsim is welcome.
998 words - just managed to stay within the 1000 limit...
The three men stood there place in the moonlight, their torches casting off a faint glow. Their conversation drifted warily through the air, unaware of being watched. From where Sherlock was hiding, watching the trio discuss their next ludicrous move, he was silently cursing himself. Why he hadn't brought John along, he didn't know, especially as these three burly men outnumbered him in number and physically.
Time passed by and Sherlock was bored. Bored of the cliché ideas the so-called-criminals created and of the absence of his… friend.
Yawning, he stumbled backwards from his awkward kneeling position, accidentally treading onto a twig, snapping it.
The conversation halted.
Sherlock froze.
Slowly, he shifted his gaze upwards, hoping the men hadn't heard his mistake. He was wrong; all of their attention was focused on where he was hiding, but luckily, they hadn't seen him - yet. Glaring down at the broken twig, Sherlock began to hastily back away from his hiding place. Stupid twig…
He glanced back at the men, who were motioning vaguely in his direction with the torches; when suddenly, an idea hit him! He sidestepped over a fallen branch, reaching out for the one just above his head and… he tripped. Right out in front of the criminals. This wasn't what he had planned. Choking back the annoyance, he smiled falsely at the trio, and ran.
Once Sherlock was sure that he had left an explicable gap between him and the men, he began to slow down to a jog. However, he knew they would soon catch up with him. He paused, glancing unsurely around the dimly lit park. Nothing was in sight. Cautiously, he began to make his way across the emptiness.
Halfway across the seemingly long path, he heard shouts from behind; the trio had finally caught up with him. He swivelled around, expecting them to be there, but they weren't. After letting out a long exasperated breath, he carried on walking.
With each step, the more nervous Sherlock became; which was unnatural, for him, anyway. Why had the men not shown themselves? What is it they- the ground gave way, and sent him tumbling into its darkness with a yelp.
He landed roughly, sprawled out across the limited space of the hole. The pain rushed through him, and he gasped. He tried to pull himself up, but he couldn't move. The night was getting more eventful by the minute…
He didn't know how long he'd been trapped down there, but it felt like ages, and with the added coldness, it felt like hell.
"Hello?" He called out hoarsely, but no one answered. He scrambled about for his phone, but he couldn't find it. Then he remembered; he left it at Baker Street… He had forgotten to pick it up! Damn it… If John was here… But he wasn't. He was with that damn Sarah again…
"Hello..?" He called out again, a little louder this time. He blinked as the sun began to lazily climb the skies, and unveil the silhouette of someone, no, three of them, stand around the top. Grinning manically… Oh… Holding shovels…
"Why, what 'ave we got 'ere then? Mr Moriarty would be pleased…" The tallest asked the others, waving his shovels about. That name again, Moriarty, who is he?
"What should we do, boss? Fetch him out? Or leave him?"
"Bury 'im…" Of course, how fortunate… Sherlock thought sarcastically, but made no hassle to move, as he knew it was pointless. It wasn't as if he'd actually get somewhere… So instead, he just watched them pile the heavy mud over his fragile and aching form, ignoring the little pleads which escaped from his mouth unknowingly. Oh, how he wished John was there with him… He'd sort them out, stop them burying him alive.
Everything was muted; he couldn't hear, he couldn't speak, he couldn't feel, or even see. All he could taste was the stale mud in his mouth. But nothing else. He couldn't even breathe… Time was ticking away, and he knew he was close as he was pulled into unconsciousness. But his mind never faltered.
Where was John?
His John…
He needed him…
Sociopath or not…
He needed him…
When John had arrived back at 221b, everything was quiet, and Sherlock wasn't to be seen. At first, he thought that he's just gone out, a case perhaps. But he had received no text. Nothing. But as he was just resting down with a cup of tea in his hands, he noticed Sherlock's phone abandoned on the desk. He never left without his phone.
Worried, he dialled Lestrade, who told him exactly where Sherlock was; on a case in Hyde Park. But that he hadn't called, or even appeared out of nowhere with his deductions. Thanking him, he hung up, and went to search for his flatmate.
No one was to be seen in Hyde Park once he arrived. It was completely empty, to John's dismay. But he wouldn't give up, as he knew Sherlock was somewhere. He just knew it. So he furthered his search even more, checking the ground for signs of… anything! A disturbance to symbolise a fight perhaps? Or… a shovel? That could only mean…
"Sherlock?" He called out, picking up the shovel, and checked the ground for any more clues. There! There's a strange patch there! He thought as ran over to the spot, Come on... Quickly! And he began to dig out, what hopefully, was his flatmate.
Frantic minutes passed, as he dug furiously at the ground. Never stopping. By the time he was about shovel deep, someone began to join him. He looked up momentarily, Lestrade. He grimaced, and focused back at the task on hand.
Not long after they uncovered an unconscious Sherlock, he was barely alive. But they had reached him just in time.
John stood next to Lestrade, watching the ambulance leave with his flatmate inside. Sighing, he could only think if one thing, I should have been there…