Edinburgh, Scotland
Gravel skittered beneath heavy steps, shattering the stillness of the graveyard. Voices bellowed a name, but received no answer. The searchers moved on. Time crept by. The damp fog thickened. Silence returned and, after a while, a lithe figure rose like a wraith from behind a weathered tombstone.
Ears strained against the quiet, listening but the world remained silent. A puff of warm breath condensed in the cold air, and blue eyes followed its path as it swirled upward, merging with fog. A gloved hand rose and the eyes lowered to the dimly lit screen of the phone it held. Fingers danced across its surface.
Doctor secured.
A moment passed, and then another. There was no reply. The fingers hesitated, hovering above the screen before adding:
Be careful.
The phone was returned to the pocket, along with the hand against the chill. Keep to the plan. With one last backward glance, Irene vanished into the swirling fog.
Beneath Greyfriar's Kirkyard, Edinburgh
Of all the scenarios John had considered since learning of Moriarty's doppelganger, he could state with all honesty that this had not been one of them. Trapped…in a crypt…beneath one of the oldest graveyards in the city…by a ghost. Irene Adler was alive. Truthfully, the fact was not all that surprising. The woman had more lives than a cat, and the resiliency of a cockroach. Of course there was a possibility that Irene was dead and the woman he had followed was another imposter.
Then again, as far as he knew, there were only three people who knew of the phrase she had sent to his phone. And the third was dead.
I'm not dead, let's have dinner.
No. He was willing to bet that it was, in fact, Irene Adler.
…and he'd literally fallen right into her trap.
A shuddered gasp rattled through the dark, followed by a sneeze, and a loud groan. He had no idea how far he'd fallen, but the distance had been enough to drive the air from his lungs. He'd landed on something somewhat soft, and then bounced sideways into a hard surface, and was at the moment lying on his side wedged between a hard cold surface and something a bit softer, which smelled strongly of mildew and rubber.
He pressed against it and a scuffing sound grated in his ear as it yielded beneath his touch. He half slid, half collapsed into the vacated space, lying on his back against the hard dirt floor, staring up into the dark as he concentrated on the simple act of drawing air into his burning lungs. Anger simmered beneath the ache, growing stronger with each breath as he berated himself for his stupidity.
He wondered who Irene was working for. Worst case scenario: the person who had orchestrated the attack on Lestrade. Someone Mycroft considered a threat. John frowned as he considered a second option. Or what if she was working for Mycroft Holmes. He had been the one who had delivered the news of her death. Perhaps the bit about her relocation to America had been the real truth after all. What better asset than one believed to be dead? But why go through the trouble of trapping him? In a crypt?
He pressed a hand into the darkness above him and, when he felt nothing but empty space, cautiously eased upright. A hand rose to probe at a tender spot on the back his skull where it had struck the wall. He slumped back against the cool stone and slipped his free hand into the pocket of his coat. His phone was intact and seemed unharmed, the faint light adding to the eeriness. The signal was dead, inhibited by the rock he was encased in. He used the light to find his satchel, locating it a short distance away. And a bright light replaced the faint glow as he located his torch. Its warm light soothed his raw nerves a small bit as he returned the phone to his pocket and took stock of his prison.
The vault was larger than he had expected, though not by much. Box like, with dimensions of roughly three meters on all sides, it was large for a crypt. Not that he'd had much experience with crypts. There was no coffin, or evidence that there had ever been one. Curious fact, but one in which he found a measure of relief. He may be a doctor and had seen more than his fair share of death, but he didn't relish sharing a confined space with a corpse. A battered looking air mattress, the softness he'd landed on, was the only other object in the small room. John played his light on the ceiling directly above it. The position of the mattress suggested premeditation…and that his captors had not intended that he be injured, at least for the time being.
The light played along the walls, lined with dark slabs of slate rock like the ceiling, carefully cut and fitted into place. John frowned as he played the light along the seams in the rock above his head, where he had entered. It looked as if it were sealed tight and built to withstand the ages, and the frown deepened as he considered an uneasy thought. A cautious breath found the air a bit musty and stale, but not thin. At least he wouldn't suffocate. With a grunt, he pushed to his feet. There had to be some way out of this box.
Sooner or later someone would return for him, and when they did, he intended to be long gone.
Old Town, Edinburgh
No one took notice of the tall thin man in the battered overcoat as he wove his way through the crowded pub and slipped through a door in the rear. He moved down an old stone passage to the cellar, ducking into the shadows behind a tall stack of crates as footsteps echoed from the room beyond. They passed, continuing up the stairs to the main floor. There was a loud blast of music and laughter as the door opened, and then muffled as it closed.
The man moved deeper into the room, to the tall wine rack built into the rear wall. A long pale hand reached out and pressed against a small catch hidden behind a dust coated bottle. A low grinding echoed loudly as the rack moved away from the wall to reveal a narrow passage cut into the stone. He slipped inside, fingers dragging against the catch. The wall slid closed and the rack returned to its place with a muffled clink glass, hiding the passage…and the smear of red against the dark stone.
Beneath Greyfriar's Kirkyard, Edinburgh
A shower of dirt and dust rained down from the ceiling as John lay on the floor of the crypt, surrounded by the remnants of the air mattress. His ears rung, his eyes watered and his head ached. His elusive target gleamed at him in the light cast from his torch, as if mocking him. A small lever looking object cut into the ceiling above and just out of arms reach, despite the few added inches provided by a very unstable air mattress. Perhaps he shouldn't have jumped. It had seemed like a good idea at the time.
The resulting noise had been loud enough to wake the dead. He dismissed the thought before it had a chance to take hold. He had enough to deal with without adding ghosts. Not that he believed in spirits, he was a scientist after all. However it was basic psychology that if someone convinced themselves that there was such a thing as pink elephants, it was only a matter of time before they would actually begin to see them. John picked himself up with a grunt and attempted to brush the worst of the dirt from his clothes and hair. It was of little use with the amount which still remained suspended in the air.
He gave up with a sigh and retrieved his torch. His hand tightened around the small cylinder as the beam focused on the wall before him and he noticed something he hadn't during his earlier search. The air near the wall was free of dust. He bent and gathered a handful of dirt, releasing it in a slow steady stream near the wall. His nerves tinged with excitement as he watched the finer particles drifted toward the wall, and vanished into it. Fingertips ran along the seam cut into the cold stone, and paused as they brushed a stone that protruded a small bit further than the rest of the wall.
He pressed it and it gave, but nothing changed. He stepped back, tracing the beam of the torch along the wall. A frown gave way to a triumphant grin as he found a second stone, like the first. Holding the torch with his teeth, John pressed the stones simultaneously. A grinding sound, like stone against stone, rumbled through the small space. John stepped back as the wall slid away to reveal a dark passage beyond. The thin beam failed to penetrate the darkness more than a few meters beyond.
He retrieved his satchel and, securing the strap across his chest, left the crypt behind.
The tunnel stretched out in a single direction, angling downward with a gentle incline. The sides were narrow but the ceiling high enough that he didn't have to mind his head. The dust on the floor had been disturbed recently, likely by whoever had placed the mattress in the crypt. He shifted the light further down the passage and set out, following the tracks. Rough hewn stone walls gave way to passages lined with carefully placed cobbles, much like the buildings of Old Town. He continued on for several minutes, as the dirt floor gave way to stone and the footprints vanished.
Several more minutes passed and the beam from his torch reflected off stone. On reaching it, he found the passage branched to either side. Nearly identical, the passages continued to stretch beyond the reach of his light. The floors were clean of footprints. Making a choice, and hoping that he'd chosen correctly as he didn't relish the thought of wandering beneath the earth for all eternity, he set out to the right after carefully marking the stone at the passage in the case that he needed to retrace his steps.
After a while the ground began to slant downward on a gentle slope, and John stumbled as his foot caught against something. The light illuminated a paving stone, and another. The passage ahead was littered with them, some connect and others cast aside as if it had once been part of a road of some sort. There were tunnels that ran beneath the city, parts that had at one time been open to the sky. Edinburgh was an old city, and like most old cities, much of it was built on top of its past, swept with plague, burned by fire, torn down by progress and buried as life above continued forward. A few served as tourist attractions, a glimpse of the past combined with a bit of a thrill for those not faint of heart. However, most remained lost and forgotten. There were no openings cut into the walls, only the road, still it felt as if he were walking over someone's grave.
The cobbles gave way to rough hewn rock and the floor smoothed beneath his feet. He trudged on…and on…and on. Time crept by. The flicker of the light played with his eyes, and his mind. The tunnel seemed to wind on forever and fear began to weave into his thoughts. What if he were lost? What if he should have chosen the other passage? Should he turn around? The light reflected off stone in the distance and he hurried forward…only to come to a stop a few meters further at a wall. A dead end. He'd chosen wrong. A skittering sound echoed from behind him, sending his heart into his throat.
John doused the light and pressed against the side of the passage as his eyes strained against the darkness, blood thundering in his ears. Just as he'd managed to convince himself that he was hearing things, he heard the sound again. A faint glow came from the passage, like a disembodied wisp of light. There were legends of such things, will-o-the-wisps and fairies, tales his grandmother used to frighten him and his sister into minding when they were young. It was easy to believe in such things when trapped as he was. None of the stories ever turned out well for the unfortunate wanderer crossed paths with the creatures.
A voice murmured in the dark and a chill ran through him. The glow drew closer and whispered came again. This time he frowned.
"John?"
A hand shot out and the light went out as the lantern clattered against the stone floor. A startled cry echoed through the dark, followed by a pained grunt, and a light snapped on, shining into the face of a very flesh and blood human.
"Hello, Doctor. Did you miss me?"
Dark circles colored her fair skin beneath her eyes. She smiled, and the lines faded from her face as her mask slipped into place. Despite her position, pinned against the wall by a very angry John Watson, the red lips twisted upward in a smirk.
"Like the plague." He released her, moving to block the passage. "Who are you working for? What do you want with me?"
The smirk faded as her face grew serious. "I was sent to help. By a friend."
"Mycroft Holmes?"
A smile was her only reply. She retrieved her lantern, but left it dark, holding a finger to her lips. John watched warily as she pressed against a light colored stone on the wall where the passage ended. It moved inward, another door. The sound of voices came from the other side, and she signaled him to douse his light. The voices faded and she eased the door open, it gave with surprisingly little effort in comparison to the others John had encountered. He followed as she slipped through. It opened into a large cave type of room, well maintained with electric torches set into the wall every few meters…and a rather wicked assortment of medieval torture devices, the floor beneath them stained with dark puddles.
"Oi, you!"
John spun toward the sound, blood pounding in his ears, to find a figure in a dark cloak standing at the mouth of the tunnel.
"I said no wandering off!"
"Sorry, it won't happen again." came a nervous giggle at his elbow.
Irene wove her arm through his, tucking against his side as she tugged him toward the man. And they rounded the corner to find a cluster of tourist waiting in various states, ranging from nervous excitement to utter boredom. The cloaked figure took his place at the front of the line.
"Stay close and you might survive." A disembodied voice mocked.
An underground tour. John snorted. It was a horror tour. Dungeons, torture chambers, ghost tours…he'd seen the advertisements. All over the city.
They followed the group for several minutes, until the corridor branched off and Irene pulled him into a darkened side passage, releasing his hand as she slid hers along the wall. There was another click and section of the wall slid away.
Once they were safely entombed on the other side, John asked. "How did you know about these passages?"
Irene smiled over her shoulder. "A friend. Handy bit of information, don't you think?"
John frowned. The new tunnel was as dingy and musty as the one which lead from the crypt. He sneezed.
"Where are we going?" He asked.
"Some place safe."
She moved forward and he followed. The passage moved uphill, a sharper angle this time, and the dirt littered with cobblestones, and old street perhaps. John hoped that this one led to the surface. He'd had enough of dark spaces, musty air and ghosts, real or imagine.
"John, there is something you should know." Irene began quietly, almost hesitantly. She paused and turned to face him. "Something you need to know."
"Can it wait until we get out?"
A shuffle sounded from the corridor at the top of the hill, and his eyes caught a glimpse of movement, a shadow. His mouth slacked open as his wide eyes took in a tall figure in a battered black coat. The lantern in the specters hand casting an unearthly glow.
"Where have you been?"
He tore his eyes from the man, shifting to Irene in surprise as she spoke.
"You can see him too?" He croaked.
She nodded. "Yes, John."
Her words were careful, as if spoken to a frightened child or a spooked horse. His eyes returned to the man and found him closer, the combined light of the lanterns catching the sharp…and familiar features… The thin mouth opened.
"John."
For the first time in his life, John Watson, former army doctor, felt like fainting…and he might have had the man before him not beat him to it.
He found himself in an uncomfortable heap on the cobblestone, clutching his unconscious…and very much ALIVE…best friend.
A/N: Still alive, sorry for the delay. More to come