A/N: I haven't done this in a while, so my apologies for lack of updates etc. But this story is probably going to contain many characters that I have made up, but I am waiting for tonight's episode, 'His Last Vow', to see where this will go, so for now, I hope you enjoy. :)
Silence is a rare thing. To achieve silence, complete and utter silence, it ultimately must mean that everything comes to an end. So to describe this place as silent would be inaccurate. Fairly silent though, that would describe the rare situation at hand. The street lights still flicker occasionally, and there is a slight buzz of noise from the insects that inhabit the surrounding forest. The road, however, is silent. Not a single vehicle moves along it, or a single soul, except that of Sherlock's, but that is a matter of opinion.
Sherlock is a high-functioning sociopath, not a psychopath, but people often regard them to be the same. Not everyone is educated in the behaviour of humans, and not everyone has had the pleasure of getting to know Mr Holmes as much as they need to for fair and honest judgement. He is often rude and obnoxious, dismissive of the virtuous, unaware of the beautiful and uncomprehending in the face of the happy. To most, he appears to be an asshole, a cold-hearted asshole. So to say he has a soul is a hard thing.
A pure soul is something associated with warmth and compassion, someone who endures through pain, someone who is beyond the reach of the ordinary. But a soul is also something that makes someone human. It may be tainted, it may not be, but it is always a matter of opinion. There is no evil, and there is no good; only the ways of nature. Good and evil are judgements made based on a moral compass, but everyone's compass is slightly different. Some are old and fragile, whilst some are plain and new. Others may be covered, and the journey is hard to follow, but ultimately, a moral compass is no more accurate than the knowledge of the sea. We can only see so much, and understand so little. There is more to be discovered, but it is secret, and secrets are hard to uncover.
But back to the matter at hand. The weather is calm. There is no breeze, only the stifling humidity that comes from these places. Sherlock's footsteps are quiet, but here, in this fairly silent place, they echo across the grounds. They are unsettling footsteps and in the darkness, they only seem to grow louder. His steps are even, however, at a calm, constant pace. Nothing causes him worry or doubt as he walks. He is just simply there, unfazed by the eeriness of his surroundings.
To the left, there is a trail that leads into the woods. Calmly, he walks down it, following the path, the echo of his footsteps becoming lost in the trees. There is still no breeze, but there is a chill in the air. A coldness has begun to creep in, causing him to move his hands to his collar and put it up. He continues to walk, placing his hands in his pockets. There is nothing but silence. The buzz of the insects has slowly faded, and there are no streams to be heard. Everything has come to a standstill, even Sherlock.
His eyes are closed as he begins a second journey, a journey through his mind. When he opens his eyes, he does not see the darkness of the forest, but the warm glow of a fire. He is in the left drawing room in the north wing of his little palace. Beside him, in another armchair sits a familiar face.
"Hello sexy."
Sherlock ignores the voice and looks into the hearth. This room is a room locked full of memories, memories of those he has come to care for over the years. The voice in the armchair changes.
"That was… brilliant!"
Sherlock smiled. The memories seemed so distant, but even if he wanted to, he could not stay. He got up and left the room, and walked along the lonely corridor. On the walls, there were several pictures. There were pictures of past crime scenes, and places of importance. As he came to the end of the hallway, he stopped in front of one. It was a picture of a cottage like building. It was surrounded by a lake and vegetable patches. There was something wrong with it though, and as he looked closely, as he stroked the painting, the details became clear once more.
In the window of the cottage, there was a boy smiling, but behind him was the faint outline of a body, hung and tortured. The boy's lips were red, as if he was wearing lipstick, but Sherlock knew that it was no lipstick. As he moved his way across the picture, he saw the father of the boy, just at the corner of the house. Although he could not see it here, he remembered the scene very well. His father had taken a lead role in the crime, and over six years of the boy's life, they had, together, kidnapped, and slaughtered over twenty people, of all ages and genders. Many of the bodies were never recovered, and no one could say how many people had been murdered, not even Sherlock. But as he scanned the picture, he saw something new. A little message per say, whispering to him. The letter he had received somewhat earlier today had been right.
He opened his eyes and continued to walk. It was not long before the building he had just seen in his mind, loomed over him. It was old and fragile. The roof sagged, and there was no vegetable patch. The place reeked of death but this did not faze Sherlock at all. He walked towards the front door. Crime tape still remained there. No one had been successful in selling this place. It had a history no one could bear.
He tore the tape away, and walked inside. He followed the directions that had been given to him in the letter. Slowly, ever so carefully, he walked up the rotting stairs, stopping on the one fifth from the top. He turned and faced a little ledge, which was under the stairs to the attic. He took out a torch from his pocket, and faced the light opposite his eyes. From years of rotting, it was easy to see what had so easily been missed. No one was looking for it as no one knew they existed in the first place. Sherlock reached out and grabbed what lay before him. The rot and damp had started to eat away at them, but he knew he could recover the information from them; after all, the only person who could have possibly sent him the letter was the only person who knew about them. The past was about to become uncovered, but why? Something much bigger was going to happen, and it was going to happen soon. He could feel it in his bones. It was time to go say hello to the man who was once a boy, and start this enthralling journey of murder and mystery.