So, here it finally is. Sequel to Kiara (which, as you might have noticed, I have renamed to 'Kiara Moriarty - Shadows'). I can't promise you a reliable update schedule (wow like I ever had one) but I will do my very best to complete this story. It will not be as long as the first one (which from now on I will only refer to as Shadows) but I hope you'll like it anyways.

As said, it might take long because I am not really in the fandom any more. I still love the show and will watch it when the new episodes air, but I am not in the fandom (at least on tumblr) any more, for various reasons. So I might write them a little funny, or like Dean and Sam. If I do, I'm sorry, please tell me.

Anyway, enough talking, here's the first chapter of Ghostly.

14th of May, 2013

The shackles are open and the room is empty.

Moving hurts, but when I realise those two facts, I push myself up and bite down hard on my lip. I'm not sure whether the blood I taste is old or new.

The floor of the cell is cold and damp, and I am shivering, and not only because of blood-loss. Everything is confusing me, the room is spinning, and though I can hear shouts in the far distance, there's no sound closer than twenty meters or so. I have no idea what's going on. My hair is still wet, my throat still rough from choking and gagging up the water and my knee is still sending bursts of pain through my whole body every time I put weight on it, so the last session wasn't that long ago. So why am I alone here, no one watching me, taunting me, hurting me?

The sirens are very quiet, but after I hear them the first time, I don't loose their sound again. They are coming in my direction, and the tears of relief well up, no matter how hard I try to suppress them. I don't know whether it's Sherlock or Mycroft, or maybe Lestrade. I don't know whether it's the police. I don't even know whether this place, wherever it is, is their destination at all.

But still, hope is a treacherous thing, and my heart tells me again and again that it's them, that they found me, that it's finally over.

I wrap my arms around myself, hoping to keep myself minimally warm, even though I know how much more difficult will be for me to react quickly. On the other hand, the chances that I would be able to defend myself are low anyway.

That's when I hear the fire. It's quiet, not yet a roaring monster, but a low, threatening sound – coming closer, cracking, whispering, silently consuming whatever stands in its way. It's horribly close.

I stumble towards the door, mysteriously open, whilst real fear claws up my throat. Fire like that doesn't judge, doesn't care, it simply kills. Without mercy, without remorse.

The sirens are still too far away, and now only make me want to cry. Help so close but not able to help me.

Suddenly a memory overwhelms me. It's Mycroft, and Sherlock is next to me, but it's not in his study.
Sherlock and me are standing close to the door, looking with horror at Mycroft tied to that chair, head pulled back by Anthea's hand, back, arms and hands bleeding, shaken to the core at Anthea's betrayal, and still, still he pushes back with his hands when the knife is in the right position, right into her stomach.
It had been a situation in which we all could have died, in which he nearly had died, but he hadn't given up. He kept going, he fought back.

The memory gives me the strength to keep going, to force my feet to move. I leave bloody footprints behind, but I don't care. It's either this or lying down and giving up, and I can't do that.

Death has been a constant companion to me, throughout my whole life, though never really feared. It has been my way out, my light at the end of the tunnel after Father's death.
But now, now that it's so close and so easy and so damn simple that I don't want it. It was supposed to be my choice as soon as Moran was gone, but this isn't choice, and this isn't going to happen.

The smoke comes from the right corridor, so I take the left, bracing myself against the wall now and then, but never stopping.

Everything is deceptively silent, and then it's there. Huge, roaring red flames, behind me, to my left, to my right. Smoke is hurting my already rough throat even more. My eyes sting and the heat makes my skin itch.
My whole body hurts, but the thought of Mycroft keeps me going – if he could, so can I.
The heavy sob rips itself from my throat when I reach a room I recognize. It's close to the back end of the warehouse, and fairly open, the fire hasn't reached all the exits yet.

The heavy piece of stone or metal or wood crashes down on me and I fall to the floor. My head is hurting at the back where I can feel the rapidly swelling bruise, and everything around me seems to spin and turn.
A second, though smaller piece hits the floor a meter away from me, a piece of burning wood breaks down behind me.
Something heavy and hot smashes into my left leg, burning the skin of the back of my calf.
I can only groan in pain, my throat hurts too much and there isn't enough air in my lungs to scream.

Everything goes darker and then I see someone standing in front of me. It looks like Andy and David, and with a burst of guilt I realise that I haven't thought of them in ages.
Before I can do anything else, the black comes up and pulls me down.