Caution: Implied drug use, depression, angsty-ness out the wazoo, eventual slash, and an american trying hard not to sound canadian.
Slight spoiler, but you won't get it unless you've seen Scandal in Belgravia. I do not own any of these characters in any way.
"Oh don't talk of love" the shadows purr
Murmuring me away from you
"Don't talk of worlds that never were
The end is all that's ever true
There's nothing you can ever say
Nothing you can ever do... "
Still every night I burn
Every night I scream your name
Every night I burn
Every night the dream's the same
Every night I burn
Waiting for my only friend
Every night I burn
Waiting for the world to end
The Cure; Burn
Chapter 2, The Sound of Nothing.
Sherlock woke to the sound of Nothing. It's a strange thing, the sound of Nothing. Every person hears it differently. Some say it sounds like birds chirping in spring, others say a television in the other room. Most of the time, Nothing is a welcome sound. For Sherlock, it was very unwelcome. To him, Nothing sounded like Everything, when Everything was not where it was supposed to be.
He heard John rummaging through the cabinets, complaining of inedible things mixing with edible things.
"Sherlock, why is there a jar of eyes sitting next to my jam?"
"It's for an experiment, John."
It was the sound of John's appraisal after Sherlock made a rather intricate deduction.
"That was brilliant. Just brilliant."
"Yes, it was, wasn't it?"
It was the sound of John yelling at him after he set the sofa on fire.
"How the hell did a flare gun end up going off in our flat?"
"That's unimportant. What matters is I know how she died."
It was the sound of John dragging his luggage out into the hall.
"I just can't deal with this anymore Sherlock. I'm moving in with Mary."
"Please don't leave, John."
It was the sound of the door slamming shut behind him, leaving Sherlock standing there, lost.
Sherlock opened his eyes slowly to the sun. He pushed himself up off the dirty ground at about the same moment he realized he was not, in fact, in his flat. He was in an alleyway presumably somewhere around the east side of town. In another moment, he assessed that he had no recollection of how he had gotten there.
Sherlock straighted himself up and brushed off as much muck as he could. He was cold and his cloths were slightly damp. What did he expect from passing out beside an Italian restaurant? He was not wearing his coat, which made him think he either took it off at home and left it there, or he lost it in the midst of his drug-induced adventures. His head was heavy and his mind was all fog as he stumbled out into the street. He squinted into the bright afternoon and began shuffling his was back to Baker street.
To his utter relief, when Sherlock got home Mrs. Hudson was nowhere to be found. Certainly, the woman would be a bit worried over him, but seeing him come back in this state would have sent her frantic. His dark hair was all tangled, his blue button-down shirt spattered with ash and what he presumed to be his own blood. The cut lip and sorrowful look on his face only added to the slow, dragging way he carried himself down the hall. He quickly made his way up the stairs into his flat and locked the door. He couldn't take the chance of her coming to check on him while he was cleaning up the mess he made last night.
He stood in the center of the room and looked around, piecing together what his memory had neglected to capture.
Observation:
Four glass beakers on the table, each filled with unknown viscous liquid of various colors. Papers set out beside them, very little notes taken. One beaker on it's side, amount of liquid contained, to small to spill.
Conclusion:
I started an experiment, but strikedid not finish /strike was interrupted.
Question:
What interrupted me?
Observation:
Mobile phone on the floor next to coat, also on the floor. Screen facing down.
Conclusion:
Left in a hurry.
Hypothesis:
I got a text or call from someone that was more important than the experiment.
Conclusion:
Need more information.
Possible moves:
call history and messages.
notes on experiment.
mysterious liquids.
Sherlock picked up the phone and moved towards the kitchen table. He picked up the fallen beaker and set it up right as he scrolled through his inbox for the last message received.
Received Jan. 6th, 5:00pm
From:Her royal Highness, Mycroft Holmes
The sixth?
Sherlock quickly left the menu and looked at the date in the corner of the screen;
January 7th, 2012
08:23am
I've lost two days. Two days, not one. Bad, this is very bad. Very, very...not good.
Sherlock tossed the device onto the table. He rubbed his face with his hands and sighed.
"I need a shower and a smoke." He spoke out loud to someone who wasn't there.
He smirked. "Oh Sherlock, you really shouldn't. It'll be difficult to run all over London chasing serial killers if you can't breath."
Sherlock started walking to his room for fresh cloths.
"Breathing is boring, John." He spoke in his own voice. He stopped by the mantel, frowning at his skull.
He sighed, "I'm going mad, aren't I?"
Needless to say, the skull did not respond.
Thanks for reading! Please review! It really helps me improve. I'll try to update on Friday's if I can.
I Love You All!
SOKO
