This is, by far, my favourite collection of perspectives. I leave this to your judgement.
3.1
City of Neon Lights
-Blogger-
Shimmering surface of river Han faintly reflected the dancing lights of the living city. I felt like a stranger in the alien world when trudging through the crowded streets of South Korean Capital. Unknown symbols either rising upwards in positive green, or dashing down boards in alarming red, flashing images of products, firms, moulding and joining together in erratic fashion; I felt as if being enclosed in a spiralling kaleidoscope.
I felt uneasy in this outlandish environment, which reminded me of an advanced science fiction movie. I was gazing stupidly at people with hair in weird colours, in weird positions, arching to varying directions; their clothes equally as quizzing, from dark garnitures to shocking yellows, reds and blues. Everyone here was chatting in foreign language, through phones, Bluetooth or transmitters on the ears. Streets with neon lights, futuristic cars surely not from Europe. I was intrigued and scared at the same time- is this happening on the planet I was born- how come I had never known?
I was genuinely surprised at the response created by Sherlock towards this environment. He had shown minimal interest towards the eccentricities around him, and he wasn't indifferent, he was in another world, his world, somewhere beyond realms of my imagining. Neon lights and flashing images scan through his azure without much effect, with this unmoving gaze he reminds me of a shark. Concentrated and consumed in his aim, seemingly dormant, but calculative under the innocent mask, ready to strike, crush and kill as soon as the smell of blood goes down his nostrils.
"What are we doing here?" I ask him. He has to shake himself out of the trance to answer me.
"We are going to finish the unfinished business." Sherlock states, although his voice lacks any emotions; I can sense unsure turbulence and fear.
"I don't like it."
"It is necessary." He responds. "It's like playing a game with the devil, and you know that he had biased the dice."
Sherlock takes an unsure breathe in and we step onto the pedestal, the first level of hell. The Limbo.
3.2
Devil was waiting
-Detective-
Ladra companies held their base in new, innovative structure; made out of abstract shapes and clad with glass that reflected vivid colours of the outside world.
Its logo shone in the puddles, the shimmering image of a magpie holding a royal crown in its beak.
Just by looking at the structure of the building I knew that the blueprints shown on the plane were a fakery, they simply didn't match the overlay. Like had Moriarty suggested to us, we headed down the cargo dispatch site, the magazine doors were open and welcoming.
"There are the doors." John says hopefully as we spy the environment from the shady corners. He doesn't know that he's going into a trap; he still thinks it is just a spot check mission. I think that's good, he won't panic if anything goes wrong, and neither should I.
Only thing that distanced us from the entrance were the barbed wires set on a high fence.
Such a simple, yet effective protection, but I know that Moriarty wants us inside- that means there has to be a weak spot in the fence we could- here it is!
"John" I whisper, even when it is not required. The fence was clumsily forced open, area around it smelled of a female perfume- Moriarty's agent, unimportant. We carefully whisked inside, and then in a dynamic trot ran towards the opened magazine doors. Low, cold drizzle sprayed our heads and made our hair cling to our foreheads.
John took the gun out and clicked it ready- I should do too, but I don't think it is as required, especially when John is already handling that job.
I curse my vision when we get inside, my eyes haven't adjusted to the darkness yet, and it would require them quite a time to do so, due to the prolonged exposure to the neon glowing in the city.
Corridor we walk in is hollow, and metallic thuds of our footsteps echo loudly making me feel slightly claustrophobic. We're in a trap after all; Moriarty enclosed the rope around us, now we have to wait.
It is icy here; colder than the outside- are we near some sort of refrigerator- why would he need one? Steam comes out of our mouths like out of a locomotive, and my skin gained another hue of white.
"Do you feel cold?" Asks John, he's ten steps behind me.
"Very." I comment.
"A Cooling system?" He suggests.
"Possibly." Why haven't I thought about this before? But for what he would need a cooling system? Large amounts of energy? A thermal reaction?
I hear a hissing sound of closing doors- now our only escape route is sealed. The game begins.
Corners of the rectangular corridors illuminate with orange light, I feel like abroad of a futuristic spaceship; soft humming coming from the walls, pecks of steam escaping occasionally from the pipes, and swings of the temperature contributed to that. It's a quite interesting and inspirational environment; the problem is we aren't on our own.
Noise, two, distinctive and male, they speak English but it is heavily accented. Two individuals of varying ethnicities with knowledge of English: I store this information into a freshly created shelf.
"Hear it?" John gasps; his sense of sound is weaker than mine. I shush him with a gesture, he obeys immediately.
To our sight comes an outline of two bulky men, we have nowhere to run and nowhere to hide, which piles up nicely, as we don't plan either.
I scan the environment, it reminded me of London's homeless spots, but this one bathed in murky darkness, highlighting objects in toxic orange, an advantage for us.
There was empty glass of liquor, rolling on the floor, with cracked, ragged edges; ideal for a weapon in a scenario I am considering; a newspaper, yellowed by age; set of plastic bags and bottles, empty and scrubbed of food. It'll be quicker and more efficient to use that bottle rather than a gun. And there's still a knife in my pocket, just in case, the one I had whisked from that plane. Two men moved down, their heavy footsteps made stationary corridor almost bouncing.
Rough faces turn around; they know we are here and they know we are going to put on a fight, not as enormous idiots I had expected. I could hear low sound of a cocking gun, could smell their alcoholic breath, and could feel the warmth of their skin.
"Sherlock." Whimper.
Then the hell broke out. Two chunks of meat lured at us, grasped by collars and threw into the air as if we were rag-dolls. My weapon, the knife, spun out of grasp and cluttered on the floor. I swung my arm, aiming for the face, but the drunk was more conscious that I thought and ducked, throwing punch in my jaw along the way.
I staggered backwards, pulsing pain shivering down my body. Then another hit came, straight at the face, flooding my vision with abstract colours.
My eyes sealed shut from pain, couldn't forecast next collision. This time my abdomen received a punch and I found myself falling down.
My body slammed on the ground and mouth hit the ragged edge of forgotten spirit bottle. Glass like scalpel cut inside cracked lips.
I could hear John screaming, but it was cut short, and replaced with terrified gurgling sounds.
"John." I whisper, blood invades my mouth. Cold metal, shape I could recognise anywhere caught by grasp, and seemed to fuel me up with additional pang of energy.
I was already up, poised to strike. John caught by neck, swung his arms crazily and like fish opened and closed the gob to catch at least a bit of the air.
They were distracted by his suffocation, and were too slow to turn and see me lure with dagger at their back.
Blood, red as hell comes only out when I withdraw the blade. I catch John by skim of his vest and push away. When the second attacker lures I just swing the bottle from the ground and smash it on his face.
He falls down howling in pain; there's a number tattooed on his neck, it gives me an incentive to finish him off. With calculated kick I crack his head, the lifeless body clatters on the floor.
John holds finger above the trigger, he looks around but shouts and movement had already quietened.
"Did you just?" He asks me pointing at the now-corpse.
"Yes." I grasp the knife from the floor and clean it from the blood on clothes of the wounded one.
"May I-" John kneels towards the living attacker, as if attempting to heal him. My body is still rocketing with adrenaline and I am barely catching my words.
"Don't mind him-" I try to say. "They were all signed for an execution in China."
Less madmen the better, they were ordered for death anyway. I look at John for indication of how should I react. He looks mixed, but neither sad nor happy, I guess he was used now to the death.
We exchange brief looks-waiting won't get us anywhere, time to move on. And as if on command we ran.
3.3
Element Water
-Blogger-
This moment, this time.
Heart was pounding a battle march and adrenaline was thick in my blood. I was in my spirit, in my environment. Conflict was thick in the air and the time was ticking away. Sherlock knows where we are going- he has the entire map memorised- so I am left to not interrupt and follow.
We stop arrantly when being welcomed by a cold, metallic wall; the dead end. Doors behind us seal shut with a thud. I set my gun aside and look around. We are enclosed in an empty rectangle- nothing below and around us, above set of crates. I try to put some pressure on the further wall, searching for a secret entry or sealed set of doors, but it happens to be just a wall.
"Sherlock," I sigh with frustration and look at my comrade, who's now evaluating the trap carefully.
"It's a water tank!" He cries. A water tank, but where's the glass, and aren't those supposed to be filled with water.
"Jesus Christ." It is going to be filled with water, with us, God, that's not good, God that's awful. As if on command a low, slashing voice surround us- I took my time searching for a source, it came for something that looked like air vents.
"What is that noise?" I ask Sherlock, who's now thinking so sternly you can about hear it. Does he know that the water is coming? "Have you heard that noise?"
He's consumed in his thoughts, spinning around and mumbling gibberish under his nose. Water starts to pour out the vents, a puddle enlarges and I try to get away from it as if it was lethal lava. It is hard to do so, as after few seconds' entire room is in centimetres of water. I mutter Sherlock's name, but he's still wandering somewhere else. He's torn between bewilderment and fright, but I cannot be so certain in such faint light. I wonder how he does all this deducing- is there a set of magic, white letters collecting in his vision? I seriously don't care now, the water is over my waist level and Sherlock barely speaks, anytime soon I will have to swim to keep afloat.
I try my best not to panic; I am here with Sherlock, he knows what's going on, and I guess he'll react in last minute as he usually does so. It is irking, but I guess I am now used to it. Water is high now, almost as high as some of the Deep Ends in the children swimming pools. My companion finally breaks the silence with a set of uncontrollable laughter! This means one thing- he knows, he has a plan!
"Sherlock, stop playing those games!" I shriek irritated, the water is now occasionally attacking my gut, I won't stand here longer.
"John." He mutters surely, determination and clarity, he'll keep cold blooded during this mission- he won't show Moriarty he's a weakling, because I know he isn't. And it is just a spot check mission, no one is planning to face us, no one is expecting us to be here- so whatever the problem is- it is easy to crack. I guess it is so straight forward I could've solved it if I put my mind to it.
"I know what I am doing!" He states to me when our heads start to bang at creates above us. I know that he knows because he knows everything; but I am followed with silence, and this is slightly worrying.
"And that is?" I ask him. Water is so high now we'll be running out of air soon- I hope he stops showing off anytime soon.
"It's just a hallucinogen- We have been drugged- try to relax- when it washes down we are going to be safe and back in Mycroft's. Trust me." He says. It all makes sense- like the Baskerville case-we must've caught it from those mysterious leaks in the pipes. Nothing of it is real- it's just an illusion. Maybe that's why I am not worried as much. Does that mean that Sherlock is illusion as well?
"Are you real?" I want to ask him- but that sounded too cheesy- so I just mouthed the words out.
The water now climbs above us- it feels awfully real- we even get tricked to grasp for air between the crates. I have enough of it, this nightmare will finish as soon as I will accept it- so I just open mouth and wait for it to wash down. The problem is that it doesn't fade- it feels real- it is real.
I am drowning. I am dying.
And now, we are at the starting point.