Down Once More

Chapter 2: London Below

There was darkness, quiet and absolute. It covered John in its all encompassing blanket; a shroud woven of blissful ignorance and nothingness. Through the dark haze, however; a small pin-prick of golden light shone through– like a solitary star, struggling to be seen against the murky, indigo sky.

A woman's voice, hushed in a gentle murmur, caressed his senses; tugging him further toward the light. The more he drug himself out of the confusing quagmire of unconsciousness, the more he became aware of the dull throbbing pain that bounced around his skull.

"—lock, what have you got yourself into this time? It's all well and good, going around and attracting all sorts of trouble for yourself, but to involve one of the Upworlder's! Poor lad... frightful head wound that is. Though, I'm sure once he wakes, he'll wish he hadn't." The woman's warm, slightly stern voice held notes of unmistakable remorse at the end– John still not fully able to comprehend where he was, who he was with, or why his head hurt so damn much.

Another voice responded, full of gravel and grit, and obviously incensed. "I had no other choice! If I had left him there, they would have killed him– and I... I could not bring myself to abandon him to that fate, even if it would have proven far kinder to do so."

John could barely follow the course of the whispered conversation– even though he desperately tried to tie the threads together into a cohesive tapestry of thought, and reason. With a pained groan, he jerked his head up, only to realize too late how stupid that decision had been. His vision swam when he opened his eyes, and the pounding pressure in his head only intensified– he was almost positive he was going to be sick...

"Oh dear, he looks pale as death!" The woman exclaimed in what John could only describe as caring exasperation. His skewed eyesight made it seem like she was teetering toward him in some oddly performed sort of dance, and John chuckled to himself at the absurdity of it all. "Sherlock," she trailed off, apparent concern lacing her tone. "How hard did that dastard hit the poor sod? He seems a bit knoddy in the head..."

John's focus finally aligned itself, and he squinted up at the old woman hovering above him. Her hair was shortly cropped, and ashy brown. She had pale skin, with freckles and wrinkles aplenty dotting her flesh like lines across a tube map. Warm, sepia eyes studied him, and her lips wavered some where between a smile and some thing else decidedly sad.

"Where– w-where am I?" John questioned haltingly— the words difficult to grasp and intone. It was rather hard to speak, when thoughts melted away like snowflakes upon warm skin.

Gentle fingers prodded at the side of his head, and with a sharp hiss of pain, John jerked away from the feather light touch. "Don't worry dear," the old lady crooned, too much sadness and regret gnawing away at the warmth in her gaze. "Just stay still, and I'll go fetch some thing for that nasty bump you've got there." John nodded absently, trying to remember if she had answered his question or not. She smiled shakily, and tottered off God knows where.

John wanted to close his eyes, and go back to sleep; maybe wake up in his single bed, shaken from another nightmare that had felt far too real...

The light rumble of a man clearing his throat shattered what little illusion of normalcy he had tried to conjure. John's attention was instantly pulled to the source of the noise. He wished, too late, that he would not have looked.

With out a doubt, the younger man leaning casually against the door frame that seemed to lead into a kitchen, was the same one he had met in the park.

He was tall, and lean; with alabaster skin, that seemed to glow in the murky light. The man's face was sharp, and almost alien in its ethereal uniqueness. Cheekbones sculpted keenly, of the finest milky marble– lips so perfectly crafted, they could have belonged to Eros himself. He had thick, riotous curls that, beneath all the grease and grime, were the rich shade of dark chocolate. However, John recalled that the stranger's eyes were his most enchanting feature of all; ever changing eyes, that had captured a tropical sea within their crystalline depths.

All-in-all, the man was exquisite– and it made John feel intensely uncomfortable. Men like himself, did not simply associate with Greek Gods come to life on a regular basis.

"I told you to run, you know... you really should have listened." The man's deep, silky voice startled him after so many minutes spent in silence, as they studied one another. John cradled his heavy head upon one open palm, and gave the stranger a wry smile.

" 's alright, I've suffered through far worse than this." John absentmindedly touched his left shoulder, right over the spider-web of scar tissue he knew that lay beneath the bulky layers of his clothing. The man's gaze followed his movement, and he frowned; an expression that John could not name, flitting across his aristocratic face.

He pushed off of the door frame, and strode over to John– all elegantly long limbs, and cat-like grace. John was rather startled though, when the man knelt down before his prone position on the couch; a calloused thumb rubbing briefly below his right eye. The man seemed to study his features curiously for a moment– that familiar look of pity haunting his gaze. "I really do wish you would have run..." the words were whispered now, in a kind of tone one would expect from a person offering their condolences at a funeral.

John's temper was dangerously spiking toward the realm of 'not good'. "Why the hell do you keep saying that? It's not like they mortally wounded me or anything– I should be fine, if I take it easy for a few days."

Quick as a whip, and tone flat now the man replied, "I'm afraid you do not have that kind of luxury any longer, Upworlder."

That phrase... John thought to himself, his brow knitting itself together as he racked his muddled mind– he had heard it before. "That... that Asian woman, Shan was it? She called me that as well... what does it mean? Why am I being treated as if... as if I died or some thing?"

The man's cyan eyes roved back and forth, and he bit his plump lower lip harshly; until the blood drained, and the healthy pink color dissolved into a pasty white. He seemed to wage a war with himself, and John realized then, that maybe he had landed himself some where far out of his depth. "Oh God," John murmured, "please tell me I didn't get involved in some thing I shouldn't..."

"I'm afraid to inform you, that you have– though I'm sure what I am about to tell you, is a truth far beyond the realm of possibility that you once perceived." The man paused, seemed to wait for John to butt in with questions or accusations– when he merely nodded, indicating the stranger to continue, he smiled slightly to himself.

The man cocked his head to the side, and seemed to contemplate his words, before he spoke. "Have you ever walked the London streets, minding your own businesses, thinking about that homeless person you just passed and how, maybe, you should have given them some thing? So, you turn around, loose change at the ready– only to find that they are no where to be seen. You probably stand there for a few moments, looking foolish as you crane your neck around in search of the poor soul in need of your pocket change; but then you shrug, and move on with your day– and you don't think on it again, until the next time."

"Well, um yeah–" John replied, looking rather confused. "I mean, haven't we all? Still, I fail to see what this has to do with me..."

"Oh, it has every thing to do with you," the stranger exclaimed, an odd and excited sort of fire rippling through his intense gaze. "You see, these are the people who have fallen through the cracks– the forgotten. They are the residents of a London that no one remembers, a London Below.

"Beneath the city, in the sewers and abandoned railways– in the deep, dark crevices of this metropolis; there exists another world. A world where impossible and fantastical things are the norm, where ancient civilizations co-mingle with the modern age. A world, that you now belong to."

John regarded the stranger, taking in the serious angles of his face– the diamond hardness of his unwavering gaze. He wanted so desperately to believe that this man wasn't crazy, or being an utter cock by teasing him with some outlandish story... but, what he had just said, about another world existing below London— why, it was complete bollocks!

"Look," he gave the man a no-nonsense scowl, "if this is some clotheads idea of a joke, I will admit, it's in poor taste. Did Greg put you up to this, or was it Mike?"

The man sighed, his lips pursing in agitation as he looked away. "Fine," he snapped at John, "you can choose not to believe me. Whole lot of good it will do you, once you try to make your way back home. If you even make it that far, and I seriously doubt you will, there will be nothing waiting for you. The moment you chose to help me when those two attacked, you sealed your fate.

"Now, you belong to the Underside– you no longer exist in the world Above. You can obviously decide not to believe me, but right now I am all you have; and I for one, intend to find a way to fix this."

"Stop this," John barked out, glowering at the man kneeled before him. "This is going too far– I don't know what's going on, or why you won't just give up this silly charade; but I've had enough. Now, you're going to tell me who you are, and why you're doing this– or so help me God, I will hurt you..."

The stranger scoffed at John, a sneer curling at the edge of his mouth. "I would really like to see you try, Upworlder." He stood then, and peered down at John with an expression filled with flinty ice, and contempt. "I will give you fair warning though, even among those who reside Below, I am old beyond measure– I have seen hundred's of your life times, and I've spent my time learning all I can about both our worlds. And some of that knowledge includes how to kill some one, merely by pinching them in the right place."

They were at an impasse, a stale mate laden with petulant scowls and intense glaring. "Oh for pity's sake," the gentle, admonishing tone came from the older woman who had tittered around John only minutes before. "Sherlock, the poor lad's had quite the scare– leave him be for now, and we'll get this all sorted as soon as we take care of that nasty bump, and have had a spot of tea." She came tottering back into the room, carrying a stone basin, a white linen, and a clay pot.

It was then John really observed his unwitting hostess, really observed her that is– and saw what she was wearing. Her petite frame was draped in a deep plum colored chiton that fell in graceful folds down to her ankles. A pair of sensible black heels and sheer stockings adorned her lower half– the mixture of ancient and modern so absurd that it was charming. She had minimal make up on, and only a few adornments. A pair of pearl drop earrings, golden bangles on one arm, and a white oleander fastened at her shoulder, to keep the chiton in place.

"Don't worry dearie," she hummed, setting the stone basin at John's feet with some difficulty, "I'll get you all patched up in a jiffy." She sat down on the couch next to him, and soaked the linen in the water; and he watched as the steam curled upward indicating the water to be warm. With a motherly tenderness, she pressed the wet cloth to John's head, and slowly cleaned away the caked on blood that had dried there.

It stung a bit, and he fought the urge to pull away. The woman carried on though, muttering to herself about irresponsible behaviour and repercussions; and she shot the lanky man at her side a stern scowl. John tried to ignore the fact that the insufferable stranger actually looked sheepish when the woman lectured him with all the authority of a beloved mother. "Um– that's an interesting pendant you have." He exclaimed, not really knowing what else to say after every thing.

"Oh, this old thing? I've had it for years– got it at a Floating Market when I was younger. The woman who sold it to me had me pay with my long, beautiful tresses of hair– never have been able to grow it back... I'm quite sure she actually came from over The Wall, but that's another story entirely."

"Ah, right..." John mumbled, none of the woman's words making any sense to him what so ever. After that, there was silence as the woman wiped up the last of the blood. She then dipped her fingers into the clay pot, and brought them back out; coated in a viscous honey colored paste. Before John could ask her what the hell it was, she smoothed the mixture softly over his head wound.

The relief he felt was almost instantaneous! A cool, tingling sensation spread across his skin– a refreshing balm that soothed the ache. "There," she said after she was done, "you'll be right as rain in no time. Earl Grey or Peppermint?" She stood, gathering all her things and smiled warmly at John.

"Ah, erm– Earl Grey?" She had a brusqueness to her that left John in a tizzy.

The woman nodded, and made her way toward the kitchen– calling over her shoulder before she could pop out of sight, "And dearie, you can call me Mrs. Hudson– every one else seems to at any rate."

John just nodded weakly in return, all of the excitement and turmoil of the last few hours, draining him. The strange man at his side followed Mrs. Hudson into the kitchen after a few awkward moments spent in silence; and shortly after, John could catch smatterings of a whispered conversation between them. He tuned most of it out, only catching snitbits; some thing about a Door and how to find it.

Being all alone in the room gave him some time, and some thing to do– so he studied it with an ambivalent eye. The lighting in the place was murky at best; candles lit, and gas lamps sputtering to hang onto life interspersed through out the room. A few feet away from the couch that John still occupied, an old sort of coffee table sat; covered with yellowed news papers faded from age–the ink practically smudged away on some. Battered, dog eared novels, and the occasional empty tea cup that had gathered a fine layer of dust.

There were an obscene amount of bookshelves, crammed to about bursting with novels, encyclopedias, any manner of informational guides it seemed. Across the way sat two armchairs. One a washed out red, that was plush looking for how ancient it seemed, and the other a slate blue; very sheik and modern. Just beyond the two arm chairs, a crackling fire danced behind a cast iron grate, the mantle above a deep chocolate brown wood. All sorts of odd knick-knacks rested on the mantle, a veritable treasure trove of bizarre possessions; right down to the the jewel encrusted dagger that was stabbed into the surface what looked like in repeated fashions and different locations, on account of all the random gouges in the wood.

Parallel to the armchairs, there was a shabby dining set that seated four– with only three chairs around it, and a work desk was shoe-horned in some where behind. A cow skull hung up on the wall above the desk, the bone tarnished a macabre brown color from age; and oddly enough, there were a big pair of 80's style head phones slung over the top of the skulls cranium. To the left, a full length window stretched upwards– giving view to total, pitch black nothingness. It was, quite honestly the most normal, out of place thing in the entire room.

Even more strange than the wallpaper bedecking the walls, all of varied patterns and styles, the weathering speaking of different eras when it had been applied. The lone window was adorned with the drabbest, most boring curtains John had ever seen– but the ominous blackness that creeped behind the panes of glass terrified him. Simply put, it unnerved him because it was so unnatural.

"Here we are," Mrs. Hudson said, setting a tarnished silver tray upon the newspapers on the coffee table. Three tea cups and saucers, a tea pot, and a bowl of sugar were placed carefully upon the tray. "Sorry there isn't any cream– rather rare to come by stuff like that down here, even for us."

"No– um, no it's fine really." John quickly supplied, not wanting the woman to feel bad, especially after all the kindness, and hospitality she had already given him. His attention was pulled away from her, however; by the lanky stranger dragging the red chair over to the table– and then, quite abruptly he moved over to where John was, and shoved his outstretched legs off of the couch, and sat beside him.

The man, completely ignorant of his rather rude behaviour, started spooning sugar into one of the tea cups; the faint clinking of a spoon knocking against china as he stirred his tea, ringing in the silence. "Might as well sit down Mrs. Hudson, after all the trouble of me moving that here for you. This conversation will most likely take quite some time, and I shall need your assistance translating what I'll have to say in terms that this narrow minded Upworlder might understand."

Offended, John opened his mouth to retort quite loudly; but Mrs. Hudson beat him to it. "Sherlock Holmes, you watch your tongue! You were just as responsible for getting the lad mixed up in all this, as he was. I don't want to hear you speak like that to him again, do you hear me?"

Sherlock, John finally gathered, was the man's name– and an odd name it was, but he chose not to dwell too much on that. He dwelled instead, upon how the mans teeth sunk into his pillowy bottom lip– biting back a response, and merely grunted while looking away shamefully. Mrs. Hudson gave Sherlock one last stern scowl, before her face brightened as she turned her attention to John. "Make sure to drink your tea, before it goes cold dear."

And so, John did just that.

–

The three of them had sat in silence for a while, each one deep in their own contemplations, and tea. Mrs. Hudson was the first to break the metaphorical ice. "So, before we begin with this whole mess– might I ask you your name, dear?"

"Um, yeah... of course," John blinked owlishly, because he had entangled himself so deep in thought, and with watching the wispy tendrils of steam curl through intricate waltzes; he almost forgot where he was. "John– John Watson, if you wanted to know in full."

"That's a lovely name," Mrs. Hudson beamed, and Sherlock snorted derisively; seeming to grow tired of niceties. He was sprawled out quite sinuously, his long midnight colored coat discarded at some point; leaving him in a royal purple shirt, that had ruffled lace edging his throat and wrist cuffs. His lanky legs were covered in dark leather breeches, the kind you might find on some swashbuckling pirate of yore, but his shoes looked like plain, black square toed loafers. So, John's face screwed up in thought; Belstaff, Edwardian style shirt, pirate trousers, and average modern day gentleman shoes... either these two people were eccentric stage actors, or they were off their heads. He seriously hoped it was the former...

After they were all acquainted, Mrs. Hudson began in a calm, motherly fashion to tell John just how royally buggered he was. She spoke of how the inhabitants of London Below co-habitated this city with the one's who lived Above. How their two world's touched, and mingled, but stayed separate. That whenever one of the Upworlder's became aware of one of them, usually they forgot about it within mere minutes; but, on rare occasions they would get drawn in too deep– and that's when they fell through the cracks, becoming one with the Underside.

She talked about it all with such sincerity, that it almost made John believe her. That there really was a fantastical realm lurking below the world he knew so intimately. In the end though, he shook his head and made it clear that he did not buy into this ludicrous tale; no matter how well crafted it was.

Mrs. Hudson gazed at him with absolute pity in her eyes, but nodded and left it at that; getting up with a bit of difficulty, and made her way towards a door not far from the right side of the couch. "I'll leave you to think it over, dear. Get some rest, you'll need it for the days to come." With that, she left, making her way down a set of stairs it sounded like, and into another room; a door shutting softly in the distance.

Sherlock sat and stared at him for quite some time after she left; his cyan eyes observing John with an excruciating amount of intensity. Then, it seemed like he had found exactly what he was looking for in the lines of John's weary features; for he stood abruptly and announced, "Sooner or later you will believe. For now, I leave you to your ignorance."

He brushed about after that, blowing out candles and shutting off the gas lamps; until only the fire that writhed behind cast iron bars illuminated the room. Sherlock gave John one last resigned sort of grimace, before he disappeared into his own room most likely.

It left John, cold and alone on a stranger's couch, in a room with a window that looked out onto nothing; and for the first time since he was a young boy, he prayed. He prayed that when he awoke, he would be home– and as boring as it was, and utterly devoid of real happiness– he would never take his life for granted again.

E/N:

Mrs. Hudson's Oleandar pendant: if you're a Neil Gaiman fan, then you might recognize this subtle nod to Stardust. I find it rather plausible that these worlds could exist in the same universe, so I took some more creative license.

I hope you enjoyed this chapter! See you all soon. :)