Chapter 4: The Voice of the Blood
An hour or so later, Sherlock pushed open the door to an old factory out by the Thames. Drew a deep breath, as if this place were very familiar to him, filled with personal memory as well as history of the great English city in which it found itself. There was indeed recent memory in this place,memory of suffering. Sherlock had been tortured by the hands of criminal hosts, and ,unbeknownst to John, bore faintly the marks in his body, and more obviously in his mind, for the torment had been psychological. And continual; it was becoming an evening event, the meeting place for Sherlock and his opponents(who as of yet haven't made an official appearance in our narrative ,being as they appear only out of convienence, and the murder of Caroline Blackwood would be a matter of inconvenience for them, if, God forbid, the police were provided the proof it was they who performed it) And brutal; a sort of torment so brutal in fact, I cannot disclose it in this narrative. Brutal torment in the palace of his mind, of which he handed them the keys, and had agreed to play this game, to win it, to trap them in it, to rid London of their ilk. If he wins, they will kill him. If he loses, they will kill John. And John had been the motive of his agreement, love being the most vicious of motivators on earth. John had been the one for whom he had endured brutal afflictions, in the self -same room, that his dear schoolmate had brutally died. John had been the one for whom he had emptied himself, for whom he had sacrificed his soul, his eternity, all to this Emptiness, that would claim him, perhaps even across the dark waters of the River -That-Runs- Beyond-the- World , unless God Himself, and the Messiah His Son,(the Crucified, Who alone understood Sherlock's pain) intervened. Sherlock's lungs were heavy with the scent of the all too familiar room. He felt as though there were no tunnels filled with moonlight, nor Radiant-Gates-of-the Sun beyond the Vale of Eternity. If there were,then maybe he would not come into the Kingdom after all. But he vowed on the blood of Caroline Blackwood,that John would enter in. Caroline ,atleast, had believed.
"Here it is, John..." he said, and went, and stood in the crinsom stain, the river of her life that long ago ran dry,in the center of the room."This is where she died..."
John swallowed a lump the size of the gravestone her shallow grave was yet lacking, and whispered, "And why...did we come here?"
"To leave a message." Sherlock said,and laid the bloody piece of denim on top of Caroline's stain eternal, and then he pulled forth a note, scrawled in bold ink:
"Mirror ,mirror on the wall, blood will tell things after all. I know what you did, and I'm ready to prove it._Sherlock Holmes."
"Oh, God. Is this safe?"John moaned.
"This guarantees our 'll just have to trust me." he swallowed, and staired at the spot on the floor, like he could hear her talking. He lifted her skull, as if to let hollowed eyes see. "Look,...It's all been arranged...Only a little longer now!" he said to the hollow old skull.
"Will you not- explain to me what the devil is going on?!" John gasped, exasperated.
"Exactly, the devils are "going on" which is why we have to head to St. Giles...I said it once, I'll say it again,you're going to have to trust me..."
And again out the door he went,and John with a sense of dread, glanced once back at the bloodstain,having heard the whisper of her life too, and knew that if she believed, he must believe too...
