In the shadows of London Sherlock skulked from streetlamp to streetlamp, hurtling through the curtains of darkness. In the swirling froth of his mind, the shadows became poisonous. Each darkened corner held some new terror, some new adversary waiting to surprise him, assault him, or kill him.
He was the only man Jim Moriarty had ever confessed to. He knew that when Jim said Mann was dead, his word was as good as a body. Now Sherlock was the only man in possession of compromising knowledge about the supposed Napoleon of Crime. He was a liability, a potential risk. More so than even when he was emptily hypothesizing about his criminal empire.
Which certainly did not bode well for him alone on a deserted street at night.
As he jumped from light to light, carefully avoiding alleyways, various quiet shortcuts and blank spaces between CCTV cameras, it struck Sherlock that he was a dead man.
There was no escaping the influence of Jim if his hypothesis were correct. He was too dangerous to let live. A detective who frequently works with Scotland Yard with connections in government could only be a cancerous tumor once latched onto the scent of a massive criminal organization.
Why then, as he approached closer and closer to his destination, why wasn't he already flailing on the sidewalk with a bullet snaking through his heart? Was there actually going to be a confrontation? Would they really let him meet with Moriarty again?
He became paranoid about possible followers as he passed a small spy-store, complete with blinking red lights and small, nearly invisible cameras capturing his image as he blithely crossed their path. Who was to say that Moriarty hadn't used his influence to manipulate one of those same cameras for his own private surveillance? Surely it would be easy for him to hack into the closed circuit system of the store. After all he'd managed to completely twist the secure hospital system around his finger without detection. He checked behind him mutely, still observing the same clear absence of people that had been so unnerving earlier. The street he was on was entirely devoid of life.
He decided to take a small chance and indulge himself in hopping over to the next street. He looked left and right. No one was around.
He began beating his wings: up, and then down with a furious power, displacing as much wind as possible with heavy, purposeful strokes. He felt his heart start to pump furiously, the exhilarating response to prolonged exercise. He slowly sped up his flapping to keep in time with his heart, he knew that was the key to ascension.
And then, when he deemed the push of the wind to be strong enough to hold him off the ground, Sherlock leapt into the air, pulling his legs up beneath him and gliding momentarily on the wind before paddling his way up on the London breeze, his massive wings capturing and utilizing the gentle draft which wafted vaguely through the city, propelling him higher and higher into the twinkling, hazy sky.
His wings became a blur. Sweat collected on his forehead and he panted furiously to keep up with the new demand for oxygen. If he couldn't increase the power, he wouldn't be able to lift himself over the small building that separated the street he'd been on from the one he needed to go to. He pushed himself a bit harder, giving the extra effort needed to carefully maneuver up and over the roof. His legs hung lazily for a moment before adroitly beginning their job as rudder, steering his body in much the same way a bird uses its tail to control its gliding.
His wings arched into two white parachutes. They were no longer needed to soar up and above; now they merely helped him gently float back to earth, and hopefully not attract the attention of any flying scouts from Scotland Yard.
The curious sensation of catching and holding a draft of air under his delicate feathers tickled Sherlock to smiling. The wind melted off of his downy feathers and left his aching, excited wings feeling more whole, more together than they had felt in several weeks.
He drifted lazily down and landed hard on his feet. He shook off the shock and walked blithely away, projecting as calm and unassuming a demeanor he could manage while trying to hide the exhilarated smile that tugged at his lips.
God, flying was such a rush!
The building was in sight. It was not another hundred meters to the front door. At every step he expected a hand at his throat, or to hear the familiar pop of a firearm being shot at long range.
At every step nothing came. The street was crossed without a single car careening upon him at a maddening speed, trying to flatten him, or indeed any car at all. The streets were still, silent and dead. Sherlock Holmes felt he had passed over into a dead world.
He pushed on the handle of the door. It swung open effortlessly, as though to usher him onward into the blackness. He paused, giving Jim one last chance to strike him down. Nothing came. He flapped his great wings determinedly, blowing his hair away from his face in a frigid gust of air and sped through the door, letting it slam shut in his wake.
Why did it take me so long to update this? I'll tell you: I've written most of the rest of the confrontation and it is LONG!
Here's a hint to the rest of this confrontation: I'm sitting on my bed with an open copy of The Complete Works of Shakespeare, The Complete One Volume WWII guide, and Beowulf. If that doesn't make everything crystal clear, I can't help you.