Re-uploaded
John jumped over the fence and put his hands on his knees, panting heavily. "So did we loose them?" he asked. "Sherlock?" John turned around and didn't see the consulting detective. "Sherlock?!" He spun around frantically. Maybe his crime fighting partner had gotten ahead of him. He looked back and saw the wing of the angel statue (which apparently was NOT a statue) peeking out from behind the shed. John felt as if his heart dropped into his stomach.
John's heart pounded in he chest and he paced, thinking, trying to think of something. He slid to the ground and sat up against the fence. He was gone. Sherlock had been taken.
They had first heard of the case when a client came in, reporting her boyfriend had gone missing. Naturally, Sherlock found it boring and wouldn't take it. Then a week later, another client came, reporting his daughter – Margaret Hertentoff – had gone missing in the same spot. Still, fairly boring. Until, that is, he mentioned he found a grave in a graveyard near his house with his daughter's name on it. Apparently she had died in 1970 when she was 82. It could have been someone with the same name, but how many Hertentoff's have there been and are in the world? It was proven it wasn't an ancestor, and Sherlock found this interesting and took the case.
He and John went and examined the house. There was nothing quite out of the ordinary, but there was a statue of a crying angel. The next day, there was another disappearance by the name of Katie Vanderkenth. Her grave was also found in the same graveyard. Sherlock and John went to the house again and found that the angel statue had moved. After several minutes, Sherlock and John ended up running for their lives. Whenever they looked at the statue, it froze. Whenever they looked away, it chased after them.
Those events all led up to now. John didn't pay attention to the police. He hadn't even realized they'd shown up.
He was gone.
Sherlock was reported missing.
•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•
John couldn't sleep that night. When he managed to nod off dreams would haunt his sleep. Nightmares of moving angels and graveyards. He'd wake up in a cold sweat, but not remembering the dream that had scared him so. When John woke up at five thirty, he gave up hope.
John decided to search further into these stone angels. He went to his laptop and went to the search bar up in the corner. He typed in: Crying angel statues. John looked over the results on the first page, but nothing matched what he was looking for.
John deleted what was in the search and paused, cursor blinking. What was another word for crying? John thought for a moment before he came up with it. He typed in: Weeping angel statues. John found a YouTube video that seemed slightly promising. It was titled:
Weeping Angels. Don't Blink. The Doctor.
John clicked on the video and began to watch it. The video was of a man talking to the camera. He was going on about being able to communicate through it and knowing what was going on. Then he started blabbing rubbish about a transcript. John was about to turn it off when the man said something.
"Creatures from another world, only statues when you see them." John stopped and stared at the screen. Another world? Aliens? They had somehow followed him and Sherlock and this man said they were only statues when they were seen. It fit. John settled back into his chair and listened. "Lonely assassins, they used to be called. No one quite knows where they came from but they are as old as the universe, or very nearly. They have survived this long because they have the perfect defense system, they are quantum locked. They don't exist when they are being observed. The moment they are seen by any other living creature they freeze into rock. No choice, it's a fact of their biology. In the sight of any living thing they literally turn to stone. And you can't kill a stone. Of course a stone can't kill you either, but then you turn your head away. And you blink. And oh yes it can. That's why they cover their eyes. Their not weeping, they can't risk looking at each other. Their greatest asset is their greatest curse. They can never be seen. Loneliest creatures in the universe. And I'm sorry. I'm very, very sorry. But it's up to you now. Your life could depend on this. Don't blink, don't even blink. Blink and you're dead. They are fast, faster than you can believe. Don't turn your back, don't turn away, and don't blink. Good luck."
The screen went black and John was still. Obviously the video had been meant for someone else, but it still had helpful information nonetheless.
John snatched his coat then hurried out the door and down the stairs. Mrs. Hudson saw him on the way. "What's the hurry?" she asked tentatively. She'd heard the news about Sherlock the night previous.
"I have information about the disappearances Lestrade might want to hear." He opened the door and was about to walk out when Mrs. Hudson stopped him again.
"A man stopped by. He said he had a letter for you."
"I'll read it when I get back."
"He said it was very important. He said it had to do with Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson finished carefully. John stood stock still for a moment before turning around. "He said it was his grandfather's dying wish for you to receive it." Mrs. Hudson hurried and retrieved an envelope, giving it to John. He turned it over in his hands. It was old. Really old. But on the cover it had his name and the date, and that was most definitely Sherlock's hand writing. John immediately rushed up the stairs. "Didn't you need to visit the Detective Inspector about the case?" she called after him.
"Lestrade can wait fifteen minutes!"
•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•
Sherlock stared at the paper. For the first time in quite a long while, he had drawn a blank. He eventually scratched at the paper with the pencil.
Dear John.
He stared at it before crumpling it up and throwing it across the room. Sherlock rewrote the introduction differently.
Dear Doctor John Watson.
He looked over it for a moment before it joined the other paper in the corner of the room. Sherlock really ought to not be wasting paper like this. It wasn't the as easy to get as it was in the twenty-first century.
He tried again.
Doctor Watson.
Crumpled.
John Watson.
Torn up.
John.
Sherlock decided it was good enough.
•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•
John looked over the envelope. It was old. Really old. It looked as if it shouldn't be touched. He flipped it over and saw the address of the flat. Eventually he gained the courage to gently tear it open. He pulled out the letter and unfolded the tender paper.
•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•
Sherlock knocked on a door. He waited for a moment before it was answered. "Hello, can I help you with something?" The woman who had answered the door wore a large, fancy, dark blue dress.
"Yes, you are Mrs. Hertentoff I presume?"
"Indeed. And you are?"
"Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock reached into his coat pocket and took out the letter he had written. "This is very, very important and you must promise me you will do this." Mrs. Hertentoff waited for an explanation. "This letter needs to get to a friend of mine, and it is imperative that is does. I wouldn't expect you to understand, nor anyone else. I need you to keep this within your family. Pass it down through generations. Then on the day indicated on the front, have whoever is in possession of it at that time deliver it to the place on the back."
Mrs. Hertentoff was silent and her eyes flickered from Sherlock to the letter and back again. He placed the letter in her hands. She flipped it over to take a look at the back. "You want me to pass this on to my descendants for over one hundred years?" she asked, shocked.
"Yes," said Sherlock. "Although I may come back to get it. You need to do this. Please…And I never say please."
•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•
John grabbed a cup of tea and went into the living room. He didn't sit down, but stood by his chair and read the letter.
John.
It sounds improbable, but it's true. I've been sent back in time. 1912 to be precise. I'm still in London, but not anywhere modern day (for you) Baker Street is. I hope this letter has reached its destination. It is most likely that it has.
I plan on giving this letter to Mrs. Cassandra Hertentoff. Things may change if I find someone more trustworthy of the task. This is an ancestor of Margaret Hertentoff. Great grandmother to be exact. I will be giving her the letter because I can be assured they will stay in London until 2013 and this letter will reach you. As it has since you're reading it.
Those angels, John. Never go back to that house. The angels are the reason people disappeared. That's why Margaret died in 1970. The victims get sent back in time to live out their lives. You must think it's impossible, but once you've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains – however improbable – must be the truth. Time travel is possible. Just improbable. I've also come to the conclusion that the stone angels are not of Earth. Yes, John, aliens.
I'll be fine. I still have two world wars to trudge through (John leapt to his feet at this). Don't freak out like that, John, I'll be fine. More things about my life are probably in the envelope by the time you read this. It will explain how my life has gone.
Sincerely,
Sherlock Holmes
John stared at the letter. That strange man on the video was right. The statues –Weeping Angels – were aliens. But that wasn't what John was worried about. Sherlock was stuck. He was stuck in 1912. He was gone.
John peered in the envelope and spotted several pictures. He took them out as he fell into his chair. They seemed to be in chronological order. There was a black and white photo of Sherlock and a woman sitting next to each other. John raised an eyebrow and flipped it over. It had a scribbled note on the back. '1913 - Sherlock Holmes and Margaret Hertentoff.' John's eyes widened. In the lower right hand corner there was a note from Sherlock. 'Yes, it's the same woman who went missing. I managed to track her down.'
John put that picture at the back of the pile and looked at the next one. It was Sherlock in a uniform. Clearly military. John flipped it over and read the note from Sherlock. '1914 - Not that I wanted to.' John almost laughed.
He flipped to the next object, which was a pamphlet instead of a photo and took a look at it. He nearly choked on his tea. '1919 Wedding of Sherlock Holmes and Margaret Hertentoff.' John gaped and opened it, finding a not scribbled in ink. 'Don't. You. Say. A. Word.' This time John did laugh. And Sherlock had always said love was a weakness. Ha!
John looked at the next photo. Was…was Sherlock actually smiling? Wait…Margaret was holding a newborn child… John flipped it over in a hurry. '1921 - Sherlock Holmes, Margaret Holmes, and Adrian Holmes.' John couldn't pick his jaw up off of the floor. Not only had Sherlock gotten married, but he had kids?!
The next picture was of four people. There was a young boy sitting on Sherlock's knee, hair hopelessly messed up. Margaret sat next to him, a girl – younger than the boy – sat on her lap, arms around her mother's neck. John smiled and read the note on the back. '1931 - Sherlock Holmes, Margaret Holmes, Adrian Holmes, and Bridgette Holmes.' Then in Sherlock's writing at the bottom, it said: 'Adrian - age 10. Bridgette - age four.'
John sighed and came to the last photo. It was the only color photo, but still wasn't of the greatest quality. There was a boy sitting on a man's lap and the man was sitting next to a woman whom was obviously his wife. She was also noticeably baring a child. Next to them was another couple. They had no children with them, but the wife – like the first – was clearly pregnant. Behind them was a couple. It took John a split second to realize who the couple was, but he realized it quickly enough. He turned over the photo, treating it as if it were a precious artifact. '1963 - The Holmes family reunion. Sherlock Holmes, Margaret Holmes, Adrian Holmes, Alice Terri-Holmes, Vincent Holmes, Bridgett Holmes-Morstan, Alex Morstan.' John looked at the photo and the note over and over again. He then saw a small sentence scratched at the bottom. 'Goodbye, John.'
He hadn't noticed it, but when he felt a warm drop of water hit his hand, John realized he was crying. He put the pictures down and tried to rub the tears away. John leaned back in his chair and took several deep breaths. After a few minutes he perked up. He hurried down the stairs and found Mrs. Hudson. "Mrs. Hudson," he said, "did you catch his name?"
"Pardon?"
"The man who delivered the letter, did you happen to get his name?"
Mrs. Hudson paused before answering. "Yes, he said his name was Hamish Holmes. I asked if he was related to Sherlock but he only just shrugged." She walked back into her flat and John stood in the stairway, heart pounding, wheels in his head turning.
•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•
John paid the cabbie and stepped out of the vehicle. As the cab drove away, John paused, wondering if he should do it. He shook his head and walked into the cemetery. He searched for quite a while, but eventually found it. Margaret Hertentoff's headstone. He kneeled down to get a better look. Some brush was in the way and John broke away the branches to it could be fully seen. After Hertentoff it had - Holmes.
John looked around when his eyes landed on the stone next to it. He could have sworn it hadn't been there before. Then he remembered it had been there, but no one paid heed to it. He walked over and read the words etched on the stone.
Sherlock Holmes
Friend, husband, father
John fell to his knees and let the tears freely fall. Those angels, those darn angels! They'd thrown Sherlock away from his time! They'd kidnapped him! Sherlock had been kidnapped by angels in more way than one.