The Hunted Detective Part ΙΙ

Green Monsters in the Library

1992,

Dear Journal,

It has been a while since I have written in your old pages. Ten years to be exact. What once were the idiotic squiggles of a six year old are now the fine literature of a sixteen year old teenager. Anyway, to the point. Mycroft's never home and all I have is you and Stanley. Oh, well. I guess it's better than nothing. Yet, sometimes I wonder where I would be if I had gone with that madman in his box. I wonder now if maybe he wasn't just some sick murderer. Maybe he had been telling the truth. If he had…then I wish I could see him again and take up his offer. I can't take being alone any longer.

-SH

Sherlock walked down the silent halls of the Holmes manor, shoes clopping all the way. He had finished his studies, practiced his violin, and annoyed everyone working in the large manor. Now he was bored and when he was bored a few shots taken to the wall seemed to be one of the greatest cures. First he would have to retrieve the guns from the secret compartment in the library. That would be simple enough. Then he could steal some paint from the workers and paint himself a target. Oh, what fun! He could just picture his brother's face when he returned. Serves him right for being gone all the time. What was so special about his job? It's not like he's ruling all of Britain! He could show his face at home once and a while. Sherlock stopped in his tracks, clutching his fists to his sides. Where did that come from? Since when did he even care about his brother? It was good that he was away. He couldn't annoy Sherlock or make him do studies and other tedious things. With a sigh Sherlock continued walking, till he came to the big doors leading to the library. His long fingers paused at the handle, noticing that the doors were open just a crack. Sherlock frowned, staring at the door for a moment, but quickly shook his head. Was he really bored enough to deduce a door? Really? Is this what it has come to? He pressed against the doors, letting them fling open dramatically. He took a step in, slipping on something wet and sticky the very second his foot collided with the ground. He let out a surprised shriek, hands flying up to try and catch himself, but he just landed hard against his back. Sherlock gasped as his head smack roughly against the hard wood floor.

"What the hell-"Sherlock broke off, glancing at the substance beneath him. His heart galloped at the sight of red liquid surrounding his pale form. Eyes widening, he jumped away from the pool of blood, leaning against the door. His head spun at the quick movement, but he ignored it. Dizziness was not his problem at this very second. Lying on the floor was Stanley. The old man's white hair and black suit were stained in the horrid liquid, but he was still alive. "Stanley…"

"Master Sherlock, run!" Stanley yelped, reaching a hand out towards the teenager. Sherlock frowned at his dying butler. He was too shocked to move. Wh…what happened? Had someone broken in? How could that happen? This manor had the greatest protection in all of London! "Master, Please!" Stanley choked out.

"Yes, little master, run away…lead us to our prey," hissed something from the shadows of the room. Sherlock's eyes popped up, his breath catching in his throat at the sight before him. A large green creature with dark eyes and huge claws stood in the light now. in its horrible claws was one of the maids, weeping in terror. The creature turned his head to the side, smiling at Sherlock cruelly before squeezing the maid's neck, crushing her instantly. Sherlock let out a cry as his maid crumpled to the floor dead. His eyes flew back up to the creature who had committed the crime.

"W…what are you?" Sherlock stuttered for maybe the first time in his life. Fear was actually visible through his well-built mask. The creature laughed at boy.

"We are the Slitheen and you my lad are next!" Sherlock's world instantly shattered at those words. We? Sherlock's eyes flew around to where another two creatures standing over the kitchen servants. The creature lunged at Sherlock, but he jumped out of the way, running out of the library and down the hall. He cried out in terror, throwing everything he could in order to slow down the monsters. Finally, he came to his room and locked the doors shut behind him. Not wasting a single second, he typed in his brothers number, praying that Mycroft would pick up just this once.

"I'm sorry; I cannot come to the phone right now. Please leave a message after the beep-"

"MYCROFT!" Sherlock screamed into the phone, tears building in his eyes. "Please, Brother, just pick up the damn phone! Stanley…he…he's been hurt and Miss Cleveland….OH GOD! Mycroft, she's dead! It killed her right in front of me!" Sherlock let out a horrified sob, shivering in the corner of the room as he stared down the door leading to his hiding spot. "It's coming for me, Mye! Please, help me! It's going to kill me!" Sherlock pleaded, dropping the phone and burying his face into his hands. The image of the rose maze popped up behind his eyes then. The Doctor was smiling at him, rambling off coordinates at high speed. Sherlock's head popped up from his hands and a hand pulled the small journal from the inside pocket of his coat. He flipped it open, reading his six year old self's handwriting carefully.

August 2, 1992 at Speedy's café 5:15

Sherlock bolted from where he was, pulling on his coat and yanking the window leading to the outside open. He stared down, knowing very well that jumping from his window was much higher then the three in the yard. He was on the third floor of the manor, but what other choice did he have.

BANG!

Sherlock flinched as the Slitheens slapped their fists into his door, trying to push it down. There was no time to waste. He needed The Doctor. If he was anything like he showed himself to be the last time they met then he was Sherlock's only hope of survival. With that, Sherlock took in a deep breath and jumped just as the door burst open.

Dear Journal,

I'm going to find him. I must come to his call.