A/N: This chapter is really short, I know. But this is my first time, so comments and reviews would be greatly appreciated!
In the beating heart of London. Cars and people bustled on by. Lights opened up the cloudy night.
John was standing, armed with arms crossed, at the door of 221b. Concerned. Livid, really.
He had been waiting for nearly two hours, outside in the freezing London air for that smart arse Holmes. That complete and utter bastard, John thought, Where is he? When Sherlock gets here, I swear I will send him back to his grave. Sherlock was supposedly out on his own mission, and had told John to wait for him outside for God knows what. The army doctor's breathe was visible as he puffed out air.
Oh how the news will destroy him.
Sherlock, on the other hand, was not breathing London air. Rather the air of a criminal.
He was underground in a long, narrow passageway. Sherlock had been investigating a case of a series of murders that had taken lifes of people that had all been last seen at the airport. Most of victims were foreign and young. Innocent and unknowing. All had taken a devastating drug that causes all sorts of hallucinations.
Eerie and cold as it was, he kept walking, slowly, mind clicking and whirring like a machine with all possible outcomes of this situation. Many footprints of various sizes had scuffed the dusty floor, and most of the footprints had shown signs of jogging, as judging by their strides. No signs of blood anywhere, so death had not taken place here. Dim, tired lights hung above. Wheels of the victims' suitcases had marked the floor, a runway leading the unaware to their permanent destination.
Sherlock continued forth, feet turning as the hall did. When at last, at the end of this little stroll, a door appeared. Sherlock laid his pale fingers onto the dirty, rusty doorknob. Slowly, the door creaked. Sherlock stepped in the circular room, greeted by bloody, dead bodies lying on the ground. Men, women, and the suitcases were still, the floor covered in red. His shoes rippled the large pool of blood as he walked to the center of the room. He observed and screened the place, head turning and tilting as well as the rest of his body. A smirk crept on the detective's face.
"Well, this is most certainly going to be interesting."
A voice from the direction of the door rang out. Sherlock's head turned, only to see a familiar man in Westwood. The smirk died.
"Oh really? The same goes for me as well. Haven't seen you since the falling 'incident'. That was a bit of a blur wasn't it, with the gun and the blood and the snipers. Never mind that now. How's John?"