Disclaimer: Not mine, blah, blah, Sherlock belongs to BBC and Moffat, yadda yadda yadda

Notes: A glimpse of Sherlock's version of London and some mention of what happened between Sherlock and Moriarty which is to be further elaborated in a future chapter.

Chapter Two: Stranger and Stranger

A part of him had always known that the metallic birds were dangerous. They left too many sounds, bangs and crashes that made Harry cry and left him trembling in the cradle of his mother's arms. The noise was enough to shake the walls and bits of plaster would fall from the ceiling and coat them with white dust. There had been days when the explosions almost seemed as if they would never end. They would sit in the darkness of the bunker, wrapped in moldy sheets while they ate their meager food supplies. His mother had been lost, even then, jumping or letting out a small shriek every time a particularly strong blast made the world shake.

"What is it?" Harry asked him, clutching his sleeve when more plaster fell. She was six and he was seven but you would think that the age gap was bigger from the way John handled himself. He didn't really know when he had stopped being a kid. He felt as if he had been an adult since his birth.

"It's a party," he had replied, taking her hand in his. He knew the truth, of course. He spent more time outside than Harry and he had seen the aftermath. He and the other neighborhood kids had once watched authorities pull the charred bodies out of the wreckage. Sometimes the body could not even be identified as a body. John had looked at the remains with an odd fascination. If they could still be identified they would be buried or thrown in a mass grave, depending on their social status. And if not they would be burned again until all that remained was ash.

John thought the whole ideal darkly amusing.

That was before the war, though. That was before John had to deal with a few charred bodies himself. It wasn't so funny when he was the one running away from those black monsters, stopping abruptly whenever he saw someone get caught by the disaster.

Too much blood. Too much violence.

Memories invaded his mind even when he was awake. His deportation didn't stop his mindset that danger was just lurking around the corner. His hands itched for a gun and every now and then he would look over his shoulder, searching for an enemy. This was all fine if it weren't for the crucial mistake he'd made. He seldom looked up.

The falling bomb was not that last thing that happened in his dream. The red of the sky had given way to blue, ice blue, the kind that was associated with hypothermic cold. And then a smile, a flash of white teeth, and all of a sudden the dream was broken and John opened his eyes. He didn't scream, though.

The dream was fading quickly and by the time he was fully conscious, John could only remember a blur of colors. It was strange. He knew, of course, that most people tended to forget their dreams upon waking, but he had never been part of that group., His dreams were always vivid and they would stay with him for the rest of the day unless something strange happened and forced it to the back of his mind. Also, he had not woken once in the middle of the night. He felt fully rested for the first time in years.

The second thing his mind registered was his surroundings. He was in a bed but it was not the cold narrow one where he slept in his shared flat with Harry. This one was soft and large enough to accommodate five fully-grown men. It smelled, strangely, of fresh grass. It was a scent he hadn't smelled in a long time, and for a moment, he buried his nose in the sheets, hoping it would never go away.

Something soft brushed against his face and he looked up, his eyes widening when he saw the room.

It was a circular room, large but seemingly not because of all the things inside. There were tall, crooked shelves filled with books in different sizes. There were chests in the middle of the room, sitting on a thick rug with intricate designs. Plants hung from the ceiling, waxy leaves drooping low enough to touch the floor. But what amazed him the most were the pieces of paper fluttering about. They flitted like small birds, never alighting. John could see words on them, flashing different colors of ink: hound, liberty, in, rache.

He felt something tickle his neck. One of the scraps of paper had lodged itself in his collar. John pulled it off and saw that it hadn't been torn off. It was a small page from a notebook. John opened it carefully and saw a message.

Follow Logos –SH

Logos. Greek, he remembered. He had seen that word in one of the old medical books he'd been forced to read during training. It meant 'thought'. But what did that mean? And who was SH?

And where the hell was he?

The note was fighting in his hand. John relaxed his grip and watched as it flew away and fell in what he guessed was a wastebasket.

Logos. John pursed his lips. Where was he? What was this place? He looked up and watched the papers fly by, wondering if there would be another note explaining his whereabouts and how he ended up here.

He remembered nothing at all of last night but something big had definitely happened. Had he gotten drunk and stumbled in someone's house by mistake? That was something he knew he would have done years ago but not now. John sighed. He had to get back home. Harry needed him. She'd worry if he didn't get back before lunch.

John scooted over the side of the bed. It was higher than he'd anticipated; his feet were dangling an inch over the floor. John searched for his cane but it wasn't there. He must have left it then, though that wouldn't explain how he was able to walk. Worry about that later, he thought as he focused himself on finding a replacement. It was too cluttered to pick just one object.

He would just have to risk it.

John rested his good foot on the floor first, holding onto the headboard with his left hand. He stood on his toes then dropped down, bracing himself for the tremors that would run up his leg. None came.

Oh, he thought. That was strange. Much stranger than this odd place. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, testing it. It worked perfectly.

The knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. Instinct made him grab his right forearm. There was a reason why he always wore jumpers. Deftly hidden in the sleeve of the material was a thin blade, small enough to use without being seen. It was something he had not learned from the army. He had learned it when he was a boy and running around, stealing things for his mother and sister. One of his companions had taught him this right after he nearly got beaten up by a storeowner. Everywhere is a battlefield, Johnny, the kid had said. You always have to be ready.

Silently, he crossed the room, skillfully avoiding papers and drooping leaves. The knocking became even louder and when John finally reached it, he heard a strange thump after each one, as if the person behind it was dribbling a ball. John clenched his teeth, and slowly, carefully, turned the knob. The door swung open.

"Fuck!" He leaped back in fright, knife and composure forgotten as he stared, open-mouthed, at the thing. It was a human skull and to John's horror, it was jumping up and down. Its teeth chattered when it landed on the floor with a soft thump. 'This is wrong," John muttered under his breath, paralyzed to the spot. The skull was still jumping and it took John a few moments to realize that it was beckoning him to come out.

He shook his head. Maybe he had fallen hard and hit his head. Or maybe he was already dead and this was someone's bizarre idea of his ideal heaven. John pinched himself to see if he could wake up again. It hurt.

Follow Logos. The words repeated themselves in his mind. This was Logos, that was clear. John frowned at the skull. It was now rolling on the floor and looking at John with its holes for eyes. It almost seemed to be pleading.

Maybe he'd gone mad.

John felt for the knife again, the sharp edge of it reassuring him. He had a knife and he felt rested. His leg and shoulder were miraculously not bothering him. If worse came to worst he could always defend himself.

The skull seemed pleased by his decision to step out. It was rolling down the narrow hallway, stopping every time John paused to look at something. He saw mirrors with no reflections of anything. He passed by a painting of a pirate ship that was actually moving. The water sloshed out of the frame and seeped into the carpeting. John rested a hand on it and drew back his fingers which smelled faintly of the sea.

The hallways ended and a set of stairs appeared. John gripped the railing tightly and followed Logos down. The skull simply dropped down the steps. John wondered briefly if it was hurting itself. He dismissed the thought. Skulls couldn't hurt themselves. Skulls shouldn't even be moving in the first place!

Logos clicked at him before rolling down another hallway. John entered it and found what appeared to be a living room.

Like the rest of the house, it wasn't normal. There were even more bookshelves and every surface was piled high with glass vials and smoking beakers filled with bright liquids. The whole place smelled like sweet smoke which reminded John of the cannabis some of the injured men in the army were permitted to take. Only beneath this smell was the stench of rot, faint but still detectable to John's nose. Perhaps this was Logos' rotting body.

Click, click, the skull went and John found himself being ushered to a gray chair in front of a fireplace. As soon as he sat down, a fire lit itself. The sweet smell faded slightly and the temperature rose until John was feeling warm and contented.

Stop it, Watson. You aren't here to have a relaxing vacation.

But where was he?

He sighed in frustration and rubbed the back of his neck. He couldn't remember anything! It was as if someone had taken a chunk of memory out of his brain. No, that wasn't right. It was there. Hidden but there. He closed his eyes and tried to think but nothing came.

He sank back in the chair. It really was a comfortable chair. Nice and soft but not enough that he would feel like he was drowning. Absent-mindedly, he traced patterns on the arm. Nice, but filthy. It looked as someone had coated it with charcoal—

Oh.

John lifted his hands to his face. His skin was blackened. Not burned. He was covered in soot. He looked at his clothes which were in the same state as his hands. He was absolutely filthy. That was wrong. London wasn't free from grime and the bathwater turned grey after you'd been out for a day but this was ridiculous. It looked as if he'd been hit by a bomb.

Oh.

John's eyes widened. He remembered.

The woman on the floor could barely be recognized as a person. Her skin had turned dry and leathery, stretching over bones which suddenly seemed too sharp without the muscles and fat between them. Her eyes were wide open, her stare glassy. A smile played on her lips but it wasn't beatific. It was a ghastly grin that showed all of her teeth, rotting and smelling strongly of decay. The structure of her facial bones told him that she had been aesthetically appealing before it found her. Now the only thing that was truly lovely about her was her hair, long and golden and fanned beneath her head to make it look like a halo.

He knelt down. The smell was horrid, even for him, but worse scents had invaded his nostrils before. Deduce, he told himself as he scanned the body for anything that would lead them to something. The pearls around her neck and the flashy wedding ring on her finger suggested wealth but the clothes didn't match. Her dress was cheap and old. She was to be married, then, to a rich young man who doted on her. He looked at her legs. He could see scars there, paler than the greyish-blue hue of her skin. Abused, grew up in an orphanage, maybe. He could read the story of her life but it wasn't what he was searching for. He needed the details that would lead him to what had ended it.

'Nightwalker?" Lestrade asked, interrupting his thought process, much to his annoyance.

Nightwalker. Giant black creatures that hunted during the night, blending in the shadows. Weakness: light.

Lestrade, you idiot.

"Obviously not. The attack's recent. You can tell by the smell of her."

'I can only smell rot."

"If it had happened in the night, there wouldn't even be a body to look at." He stood up, making Lestrade jump back lest he knock him over. "This one's new."

As soon as the words left his mouth, an uneasy murmur ran through the members of Scotland Yard. Their anxiety was palpable in the air and he could already taste it, sharp and tangy, the perfect meal. Lestrade saw his face and gave him a warning glance. Not here, he was saying. Not where we actually need to feel this way.

"How would you know?" The speaker was a new member. He peered over Donovan's shoulder and stared at him warily. Recently graduated, eager to impress, only child, attentive parents. The young man looked at Lestrade when he didn't answer.

"He's one of them," Anderson spat as he passed by. "One hell of a freak."

He'd been called worse.

"No acting like immature brats during a crime scene!" Lestrade shouted, his voice loud enough to drown out his retaliation. The DI sighed. The shadows beneath his eyes were darker and judging from the way his hands kept shaking he'd had too much caffeine to make up for the lack of sleep. Sherlock wondered briefly how it felt to have your body give up. His last experience of exhaustion was when he was seven and he had deleted the memory of sleep some time later.

"New curfew until we find out what's prowling London at the moment. Most aren't stupid enough to break the rules during times like these but some are stubborn so we're going to have to double our number of lookouts." He turned to his people who muttered amongst themselves before they finally nodded. Lestrade turned to Sherlock. "Are you coming?"

"Moriarty's not going to make another one. I've handled enough cases to know his routines. This one's just a test-run. Tomorrow night there will be another attack."

"And what of the prototype?" Lestrade looked at the woman's corpse which was now being whisked away to the morgue. "There's only one monster running about right now but that doesn't mean it won't kill again."

"Make all the defenses you know. One of them's bound to work. Moriarty's originality has been dwindling for the past six weeks. He's being quite dull, really."

Anger. Bitter and spicy, one of the emotions he disliked ingesting. It was always a sudden rush, never heeding his permission for it to be consumed. He glared at Lestrade who was mirroring his expression. "This isn't a game, Sherlock," he hissed, eyes narrowed. His fists were clenched. Lestrade really was tired. He was usually more composed than this. "People can really die, you know, and you're just…you're being totally—"

"Heartless?"

Embarrassment. Such a weird flavor. Sherlock wrinkled his nose. It always made him lose his appetite. Lestrade's reaction hung in the air, ready to be consumed but Sherlock didn't take it. He wasn't too hungry, anyway.

"I didn't mean…I wasn't…," Lestrade stammered. The tips of his ears had gone pink and Sherlock could smell the sweat forming on his palms.

"You should know that twenty-one years of not possessing it has given me enough time to not feel any form of discomfort when one of you imbeciles reliably informs me that I don't have one? No, not reliable as you only point out the obvious. There are actually pros to what you dub as my predicament. I can cross planes for one thing and my body is only transport. Sentimentality does not obscure my thoughts. I do not regret giving my heart away to Moriarty."

"He took it."

Sherlock shook his head. "I traded it for something better. Anyway, it's gone. Moriarty probably ate it as soon as he got his hands on it."

Lestrade sighed. "I don't think it was worth it."

"That's because you never think."

He turned away before Lestrade's anger could reach him again.

Of course it was worth it. He had only been seven when he did the trade but even then, he already knew that if hadn't gone through with it, he would have killed himself to avoid the sheer boredom of his surroundings. What he did regret, however, was how he'd panicked just as Moriarty was pulling his heart out. In an instant, Sherlock's heart was sitting in Moriarty's palm, a small part of it still remaining inside his body. And Moriarty had opened his eyes for the first time in his life, the blank expression on his face fading away until he was smiling back at Sherlock malevolently.

He never did tell anyone that Moriarty happened because of him.

But even though the trade had gone wrong, the important bit for him was still there. He was able to surpass Mycroft's skill and enter into the one place that no man had ever gone through since the Separation: Common London.

And he had been able to bring back not just something, but someone from that place. He had done the unthinkable.

Mycroft would kill him.

Sherlock checked his watch as he entered the cab that immediately stopped before him. It was already ten in the morning, meaning he'd left the Common in his home for sixteen hours. He was most likely awake now. He knew that Commons slept longer than their kind (or rather, Lestrade's kind) but he was probably awake by now. And hungry. What did they eat, anyway? He had spent nearly two days roaming Common London, entering people's homes without being noticed, but they didn't seem to eat very much. Or perhaps that was because there wasn't much to eat.

221 was quiet (Mrs. Hudson was visiting her sister) but Sherlock already knew that the stranger was up. He could smell him. Loss, panic, fear, worry. Bitter tastes that scorched his throat when consumed with little control. The man was a tumult of emotions and for a moment, Sherlock was glad that he couldn't eat any of the man's feelings. Commons' reactions had a stronger taste than those of their kind which was why Sherlock preferred to feed in Common London than here.

The door swung open at his touch. The thumping at his feet told him Logos was greeting him but Sherlock barely paid attention to his pet. His eyes were on the man who was sitting in one of the chairs at the fireplace. He had jumped up at the sound of the door opening and was now looking at him wildly, a knife in his hands.

Dull.

"Don't waste your time," he said as he took off his coat. Notes flew out of the pockets and made their way to his room, the one the man had slept in. He'd covered the sheets with grime, no doubt. Not that it mattered. Sherlock himself never even used that bed. "You cannot hurt me. I am quicker than you, undoubtedly much more intelligent, and I can predict all your actions. For instance, you will obediently slide that knife back up your sleeve, sit down once more, and ask me who I am and where you are."

As he predicted, the man did everything he said he would. "Sherlock Holmes," he answered, pushing Logos aside as he took a seat in the chair opposite the man. "And you are in London. Our London. I took you from Common London when you showed signs that you could see and interact with me, something that has never happened before.

"Common London is your London," he continued when the man did not say anything. "Bombs, war, hunger. Not much different from our version of London when it comes to danger. Our war is different though. You fight for territories and power. We fight to free ourselves from the monster called Moriarty. Your enemies are guns and airships that drop bombs that cause explosions. Our main enemy is Moriarty but as he does not show his face we fight his creations, lesser monsters who kill people for his enjoyment."

He stopped and looked at the man who seemed to be struggling with words. Sherlock remembered the woman he had fed from last night. Under all that soot, he looked every bit his mother's son. Young, fair enough to look upon, very expressive eyes. There was something about them that almost seemed familiar but Sherlock pushed that thought away. He'd never met anyone—or anything for that matter—with dark blue eyes.

"My mother…" the man finally said. He looked at Sherlock, his face lost. "The bomb fell in the asylum, didn't it?"

"It did. You're the only one who survived. And you wouldn't have if I hadn't taken you."

"I'm dreaming," the man muttered. He was now shaking his head. "Or I'm dead. There's no way this is happening. There's a fucking skull jumping around for one thing and there are paper planes that are really acting like paper planes! This is crazy!"

Anger, denial, desperation. Sherlock stared at the man. You know she's dead. You didn't have to see it all. You know how those bombs work.

You know this is all real.

All of a sudden, a low grumbling broke the silence that followed the man's outburst.

Hunger.

"Follow Logos, he'll lead you to the bathroom. We will continue this conversation once you've eaten. It will be difficult for you to understand if you pass out due to starvation." The man opened his mouth to say something else but he cut him off with a look. "Do as I say."

Wordlessly, the man followed the skull out. Sherlock stood there for a moment before he rushed to Mrs. Hudson's flat. There would be food there and if the man couldn't eat any of it, well, he could always make a quick trip to Common London and back.

The whistling interrupted his thoughts. Sherlock froze, his arms full of foodstuff when he recognized the tune and associated it with the person who was contacting him. Mycroft.

Ignore it, he said to himself. But the paper seemed to have read his thoughts. The parchment slid out of his pocket and unfolded itself before him. Sherlock backed away, enough to be able to read what was written on it.

You are in big trouble Sherlock Holmes. Return your recent find to where it came from this instance –MH

Sherlock scowled. Damn him. Lestrade had been handing him too many cases for him to pay attention to 221B. Mycroft had no doubt learned that his mind had been elsewhere and had taken the opportunity to bug Sherlock's flat for the nineteenth time that year.

Balancing the food in one arm, he reached out and stroked the parchment. Mycroft's words faded and were replaced by Sherlock's message.

I will not do as you say –SH

There was a pause. Sherlock's message stayed there for exactly ten seconds before it was wiped away. The black ink Mycroft had used was now replaced with a bleeding red that dripped off the paper and onto the floor.

I'm going to make sure you do –MH

My name is John Hamish Watson. I was a former army doctor. I have a sister named Harriet and I live in London. My mother just died.

Fuck. His hand slipped off the picture, smearing the d so that the letters blurred together. The pen he'd found dropped on the floor, falling in the puddle of strange shampoos he'd created when he dropped the bottles. John banged the back of his head on the wall behind him. "Shit," he whispered. The swear words calmed him. It was something he had learned in the army, when they were running away from the enemies. Shit, fuck, bitch, arse, wanker. They would say them under their breaths like it was a prayer then shout them at the top of their lungs when victory arrived.

His mother was dead, he was in god-knows-where, and he had almost forgotten about his family. There was something about this place that wiped away his memory. He was glad that he kept his picture with him at all times. The edges were burned and it was creased slightly but other than that it was fine. John had stared at his young, happy face for a few beats before he grabbed the pen from the clutter on the bathroom counter and began to write on the back of it frantically. He had to remember who he was. He had to get back.

There was a knocking on the door again. The thumps that followed each knock told him it was Logos calling him, not that strange man Sherlock Holmes. He had been in the bathroom for nearly an hour. He'd spent the first ten minutes looking around him, wondering what had just happened, had spent the next five figuring out what knobs where to be turned (there were so many of them), the next thirty soaking in the tub, and then the rest of the time panicking and wondering how he was to get out of here. Defending himself from that Sherlock bloke wouldn't be easy. John didn't want to admit it but he was absolutely frightened of the guy. He wasn't normal for one thing—what kind of person had skin as pale as his?—and even though he was skinny and looked undernourished he seemed to possess some unearthly strength. One look at those colorless eyes and John knew that this man could kill him without even lifting a finger.

Everything was seriously messed up.

He stood there for a while until the knocking became more insistent. John bit his lip. There was no use hiding in the bathroom. You're a soldier, he reminded himself. You can handle this.

He quickly dressed in the clothes that had been laid out for him which consisted of a loose shirt and black trousers. John did not know what to do with his dirty clothes but he didn't have the heart to throw them away. In the end, he folded them and placed them on the counter.

Sherlock was sitting in his chair when he came back. An array of food was laid out on the coffee table. But as tempting as they were, John's attention had been captured by another man. This one was standing at Sherlock's side. He was tall and round-faced, dressed in a grey suit that John knew was expensive with just one glance. A black umbrella hung at the crook of his elbow which did not at all seem out of place in his possession. The man was smiling, Sherlock was not. In fact he seemed to be seething.

"Mycroft Holmes," the man introduced. "Sherlock's older brother."

"The bane of my existence," Sherlock corrected.

Mycroft ignored him. Instead he offered his hand to John who hesitantly took it. Mycroft's handshake was gentle but firm, a sign that he was making John comfortable but still showing him that he was in charge.

"And you are?"

"John Watson."

'Right, John. Pleasure to meet you." He smiled again. The smile wasn't entirely pleasant and John could sense a warning there. "I'm afraid our meeting will be short however. My brother has made a mistake and he will take you home this instance."

One of the small beakers at the table burst, scattering glass and a vibrant orange liquid that seemed to be acid. Mycroft clicked his tongue when the toe of his shoe began to hiss. Sherlock smiled.