Chapter: 10
Well I feel very ashamed of myself. It has been months since I've updated this. I doubt anyone is reading it except for PrincessPo. But if by some chance someone does see this, you guys should check out this awesome story, "The Anniversary" written by master 'sassin. It's their first one and just a downright awesome Teen Titans one-shot, so please show them some love.
(And if master 'sassin sees this...well, you never said I couldn't brag about your stuff)
Oh also for the record, I know how Sherlock survived the jump.
He's a 300 year old superhuman, duh.
I just couldn't resist.
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or BBC.
Well I will just continue on with where it left off.
Last time on How He Lives: John and Bailey were on their way to meet Sherlock.
John looked around at the familiar streets. If Sherlock was this close to home why didn't he just come see him himself? Why the secrecy?
That's because this isn't Sherlock you're meeting. A strict voice in his head reminded him.
"Where are we going?" John asked Bailey, once more. Bailey looked over his shoulder at the shorter man then forward once more.
"We are almost there," was his reply as they rounded the corner.
Pfft. That's what he said a block ago. John thought grumpily.
He didn't like the waiting. If this was a trap, and he was positive it was, he wanted it to end, and end soon. This walking was killing his feet.
But it'll be worth it to see Sherlock. A happy thought passed by his mind.
But you aren't going to see Sherlock. Sherlock is dead. The strict voice rang.
The latter was correct. No matter how much he wished it, Sherlock was dead. He was never going to see his show-off of a best friend again, and strangely a small part of him took pride in this knowledge. For it meant that Sherlock was truly gone. There had been no lies between the two friends. No secrets. No betrayal. It meant that Sherlock had faith in John and had been his friend till the end.
Oh how wrong he was.
"Just another block," Bailey said raggedly throwing John out of his thoughts. John saw a glimpse of the other's face. That soldier's look once again fell over his face, making the twenty year old look older than he really was. What could have given him that look? He looks far too young to have been to war and back again to start a career as a detective. Then again he looked far too young to be a detective at all.
"How old are you?" John asked.
"Twenty," Bailey responded nonchalantly, keeping his pace. John nodded.
"How'd you get to be a big shot detective at twenty?" John asked incredulously.
Bailey stopped walking and turned to face him over his shoulder.
"I have my ways," Bailey responded with a tone that told John to drop the subject, and then continued walking. John rolled his eyes, but followed him.
At the end of the block, a rusty warehouse that looked to have been abandoned for as long as Bailey had been alive stood. The two men stopped.
"Are you trying to tell me Sherlock as been hiding out here?" John asked with an unbelieving eyebrow raise.
"Bailey didn't respond. He only opened the door and walked into the dim building. John, reluctantly followed, griping the handle of the weapon he had so well hidden in his pocket.
The building was basically one large room where, John presumed, the actual factory work had been done. It would have been completely dark if not for the upper windows that resided just below the twenty foot ceiling and allowed the natural sunlight to stream through the broken, brown windows. Tables and chairs littered the open area, but nothing else, other than papers and boxes, could be seen.
There were a few doors sparsely scattered around the room, but John didn't care where they led. His mind jumped from looking for the people who were going to ambush him, to a door opening at the top of a small platform in the corner of the room. From that door a man slowly descended the steps and entered onto the floor.
John's eyes went wide and froze there. His hand fell from his pocket to his side in an instant. All thoughts, all voices drained from his head. He couldn't move. His mouth hung slack with every foot that lowered onto the next step. All he could do is stare at the man in the white blazer, carrying a jar full of what seemed to be eyeballs, as he approached the two visitors.
"Ah, Bailey," the man began as he descended off the last step and approached them. He did not look up from the jar as he spoke. Something peculiar about the eyes must haven been intriguing him, but whatever it was a mystery. "I trust you are prepared to bring-"
The man stopped dead in his tracks when he spotted Bailey's companion. It seemed as though his face went just as blank as John's. The look of any emotion escaped his pale features when he noticed the short doctor staring wide-eyed at the ghost of what he should be. The jar crashed onto the concrete at their feet, but no one even noticed. Even Bailey looked withdrawn when he realized what he had done by bringing John in.
"John," Sherlock whispered taken aback.
"I need a chair," John said promptly before crashing, inelegantly onto a box, his facial features never faltering.
"John I can explain," Sherlock stated, but John was already lost in a single thought.
Sherlock is alive.
Sherlock's not dead.
That complete idiot!
I think this story will be wrapping up soon so yeah, maybe another three chapters at most. Thanks if you actually read it :)