Down Once More

Chapter Three: We have an Accord

A voice echoed all around, hushed to a whisper; like wind swaying the leaves of a tree. I strained my ears to listen, but no matter how hard I tried, the voice kept growing fainter and fainter... until it was naught but a half remembered dream. I went to move, to run after the retreating voice, but my legs would not heed me. Paralyzed, I looked around frantically; fear slowly creeping in.

All around me, shadows writhed and twisted into grotesque shapes; separated only by a thin pane of glass. Beyond the realm of me, and the other side, a silvery thread began to spin. It twirled and contorted, weaving into an iridescent tapestry. I began to realize, with increasing horror, that it was a web... and where webs resided, spiders were sure to follow.

The shadows began to convulse, dancing with an increasing frenzy behind the window. Then, the scuttling sound of too many legs bled through. A scream died in my throat, refusing to bubble past the terror already lodged there. My legs jerked, the muscles spasming in confusion as my fight or flight reflexes were forced to be ignored. No matter how I tried, I could not move!

The scuffling, clacking noises intensified; like a thousand spiders where all charging toward me at once. It crescendoed and pulsed, a mad chant made of nightmares and darkness. At the zenith of sound, eight beady eyes appeared, black and oily through the window. They blinked, one by one; and opened to reveal flat, obsidian orbs– all gazing hungrily at me.

The giant spider opened its great, gaping maw; venom dripping from its fangs as it rushed forward. I was frozen in fear, as the mighty fiend slammed its body against the window. The glass shattered. Diamond shards scattered to the air, and the shadows rushed in.

Before I could scream, the darkness took me—

John awoke with a violent shout, his heart hammering hard in his chest, his breathing wild, and frantic. He sat up, shaking and dimly aware that his clammy skin was drenched in sweat. As the blood-rush in his ears died down slowly, John picked out a trembling cry piercing the air. The wobbling vibrato of bow gliding over strings preluded the deep, aching pain the Violin expressed. It was an oddly old sort of melody, like a song that had been passed down through centuries of musical ingenuity.

With a start, John realized his lap was covered by the thick, wool Belstaff Sherlock had discarded earlier; a makeshift blanket to ward off the chill. The gesture was oddly touching, coming from a man who had brushed him aside with cool indifference not mere hours ago.

The room was still swathed in shadows, the only light coming from the dying embers of the fire. John's gaze was slowly drawn to the window, like a magnet finding its polar opposite to pull it along. The dark void still moved beyond the panes of glass; empty and as devoid of color as the black holes in space. Sherlock stood before the window, back to John–his neck a warm cradle for the Violin, his cheek pressed to it intimately, like an old lover. His other arm brought the bow so gracefully across the strings; and the sound it created made John practically tremble with emotion.

A powder blue, silk Kimono hung off of the willowy mans shoulders; the soft hue a decadent contrast to his lush, pale skin. John had a perfect view of Sherlock's creamy throat– those riotous, rich curls caressing high cheek bones as he swayed to the music he created. The melody shifted subtly– transforming from a melancholy yearning, into a tender movement; the shyness before a first kiss, John felt.

"Are you calm now?" Sherlock's baritone melded so seemlessly with the gentle vibrato; two halves of a musical whole. He didn't stop, did not turn to look at John as he continued to play his Violin at God knew what hour of the day it was. The preternatural darkness made it hard to gauge time in normal fashion. John looked absently to his wrist watch, and frowned. Odd... it seemed the battery had run dry, the clock face empty as the world beyond that window.

"Um, err... yeah. I-I'm fine now," John replied, distantly aware that he had been asked a question over his well being. "Night terrors, used to them by now."

"War does that to people..." was whispered by the enigmatic stranger so softly, John almost didn't catch it over the primal sob of the strings.

It was a statement John had to process for a good minute. "Wait a minu— how the hell do you know if I have seen combat, or not?" He paused, gave the stranger a peculiar look, before he trudged on. "If you really are, as you proclaimed, a 'denizen of a London Below' then where did you get that sort of information on me? I suppose a little birdy just told you."

The bow came to an abrupt stop; a staccato punctuation to John's statement. With a graceful poise not known to a simple man like John, Sherlock turned and regarded him with his ethereal gaze–the blue-green flashing like silver crescent moons against the dark. "I merely observed you. One does not live as long as I have, without gaining intimate knowledge regarding the human psyche and behavioral patterns."

Disbelief was written clear as a cloudless summer day upon John's open features, and he snorted derisively. "I highly doubt you actually figured that all out on your own."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed just a fraction, and he stepped closer; the powder blue silk fluttering about him like gentle waves lapping at the sandy beach of his bare ankles. "Skin tone can tell a lot about a person; and not just ethnicity, possible cultural back ground. For instance, what little patch of skin I saw of your chest when you slept was quite pale; but your face, your neck and hands are all kissed by a sun that glows far brighter than the one in our fair London.

"Then, there is the matter of posture. Even while sitting, your back stays ramrod straight– proud, and disciplined. You look directly into the eyes of those who speak to you, all the markings of a soldier. Now, take into consideration that upon waking up and during our first formal conversation, you revealed to me that you have 'seen far worse' than what we went through in the park."

Sherlock was pacing now, his eyes burning with a manic fire John could not quite comprehend, but found it oddly difficult to look away from. "Your left hand has an intermittent tremor, most likely due to the stress your body goes through since you were injured. And yes, the limp is obviously psychosomatic– otherwise you would not have easily wielded your cane for any thing other than an instrument with which to aid your mobile functions.

"Now my knowledge, admittedly broader than most in London Below, is still very limited in the workings of your world, but I ask you this– Afghanistan, or Iraq?"

John's head spun off its axis for a moment, the tizzying rounds of Sherlock's spit fire deductions hard to keep up with. Every one rang true though, and admittedly, John began to wonder if perhaps the man was telling the truth. Lies were never as elaborate as this... Sherlock even had methods to back up how he gleaned such knowledge by simply looking at him. "Afghanistan," John murmured, quietly; the subtlest admission that perhaps, he was starting to believe.

A small smile wavered at the very corner of Sherlock's heart shaped mouth. He did not say anything more, but in that smile John could tell, the man knew he had won.

–

After their whole heated debate was dealt with, Sherlock had resumed his concerto; his audience, a very bemused John and a cow skull hanging on the wall. Some pieces that he chose to play were vaguely familiar, and others didn't even sound like songs at all– more like random saws across the strings, with a bow that had a life of its own. It was weirdly comforting, John thought; this dark room a cocoon of flickering firelight, and gentle music.

Mrs. Hudson came trooping up the stairs eventually, drawn up by the sound of Sherlock's attempt at Bach. "John dear," she cooed, as if speaking to a beloved grandson, "I hope he didn't wake you? He tends to forget other people need to sleep..."

"No, I uh– I woke up on my own. Didn't even know he was playing, until I was properly awake."

She hummed her approval, and set about bustling around the kitchen. "There isn't much," she called out, her chipper voice cutting over the Violin with ease, "but I'll get you fed up, before you two take off."

"Ta," John replied. It all felt so... natural. What with Mrs. Hudson humming what sounded like All you Need is Love in the Kitchen, Sherlock eventually accompanying her, and John still sat upon the couch, wrapped up in a midnight colored Belstaff.

Time went on in that fashion; Mrs. Hudson starting up new songs, and Sherlock following along to the humming, and occasional singing. John surprised himself a few times, when he absently realized his own voice joined in. The clatter in the kitchen died down, and Mrs. Hudson came shuffling into the sitting room; carrying the same silver tray from last night. Three large, mismatched bowls were handed out, and John looked skeptically at the sluggish, brown contents that vaguely reminded him of stew.

Not wanting to seem rude, he sunk his spoon in, and cautiously sampled the broth. "Mm, that's really good. What's in it?" John questioned, tucking in much more confidently now.

Mrs. Hudson wouldn't quite meet John's eyes as she replied, "It's best that you not know, dearie." Well... that was reassuring John shivered; but pointedly ignored the way his stomach churned.

–

After they all had their fill of... stew, John decided to address the proverbial elephant in the room. He cleared his throat, and sweeped his gaze between his two hosts. "I'm... I'm not quite saying I fully believe you," his gaze stayed fixed upon Sherlock's bright cyan eyes now, "however, I'd have to be completely ignorant to not realize some thing about this place is definitely... off. I also have reason to believe that you both have little to gain, in lying to me about this whole ordeal. If.. if what all you say is true, that I've found my way into some subterranean version of London, that you may know of a way to get me back home and to my old life; how are we going to go about this?"

Sherlock was silent for a moment, obviously pondering his words before he spoke them. "There is... a woman, a woman highly revered in the Underside. She is the closest thing to what you'd refer to as a Queen, that we have. She, is the Lady Door– and she is gifted with a very significant power to open doors, or portals. Not just in London Below either, her powers can affect your world as well.

"In fact, this very place was a gift from her Grandfather to me; a sanctuary where I can be safe from those who wish me harm. However, the Lady Door is not who I need to seek out concerning you."

John's face crinkled with confusion. "Then why bring her up, if she can't help me?"

"She is only half of the solution. While the Lady Door could safely deliver you Above, that does not fix the predicament that you are in entirely– you'd still be invisible to all who reside Upside. No, who you need is her Companion, Richard Mayhew. A man, who once found himself in your very same situation."

"If this Richard bloke can help me, why is he still here then?" John snapped, regretting it almost instantly– Sherlock was only trying to help after all, and he knew it was wiser not to bite a hand that was willingly feeding him.

"He did find his way back, regained his old life... he decided to come back, and stay." The blue-green verdigris of Sherlock's eyes took on a misty, far away quality. He looked in that moment so... alone. "I... I do not pretend to understand his decision, but I suppose his motivations were founded in sentiment."

There was silence. "So... how are we to um, to find this Lady Door and her Companion?" John ventured hesitantly, after a few minutes; letting Sherlock have his quiet contemplation.

With a start, Sherlock came back to the present– a tiny frown creasing his brow. "Therein lies the problem, my dear Upworlder. Our Lady Door has been MIA these past eight months, hair nor hide of her even glimpsed down in the Underside. And that is why, we must go to the next Floating Market– because there just might be some one there who can help me track down the Marquis. If any one knows where she's secreted herself, it'll be him."

"Alright, I trust you to get me home," John nodded, ever the dutiful soldier as he held Sherlock's gaze. Sherlock returned it, with equal intensity rippling through his ever changing eyes.

Mrs. Hudson tittered happily to herself as she exclaimed, "It's so good to see you two finally getting on. I'll go pack you boy's some food for your little journey." Her rose petal smile was bright, and exuberant as she gathered up the dirty dishes and headed back to the kitchen.

Sherlock contemplated John for a while, making him feel a little unsettled to be the orbiting focus of the man's piercing gaze. After a time, he leaned in toward John and whispered, "While I promise to do everything in my power to get you home, I shall warn you now that this venture will not be easy. This is a dark, and twisted world we tread down here; and the further I force you to unravel the secrets of the Underside, the further it sucks you in. Not to mention, I have danger of my own to contend with... what with those two scuttling about after me. Now, do you still want to follow me, even knowing the dangers that lie ahead?"

"God yes, of course!" John exclaimed, voice a little raised in his excitement. "I don't want to stay trapped here forever... I– I want my life back. I want to wake up in my crap flat, and watch my two best friends fall in love. I want London back in my lungs."

A wry smile slid across Sherlock's lips, barely noticeable; and John would not have observed it, if he had not been leaning in so close to the man. "Then I shall deliver you home, safe and sound– come hell or high water."

A swelling feeling inflated John's chest all of a sudden; and it felt suspiciously like joy or maybe gratitude. This stranger owed him nothing, regardless of this situation being a result of both of their idiocy– and yet, he was going to risk leaving the quiet sanctuary of his home to help John reclaim his. He smiled at Sherlock, bright and unguarded, and was rewarded with the man's slightly baffled expression; as if he had never seen such a facial expression directed at him. A soft blush bloomed high upon Sherlock's ridiculously sharp cheekbones, and he looked away– clearly embarrassed.

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock suddenly called out, deep voice booming and slightly commanding. "Where's my skull?"

The woman in question popped her head from around the door frame. "I used it yesterday, to go visit my sister, I must have left it down in my living room." Sherlock grunted, and dashed up from his armchair in a sudden fit, to go storm down the stairs.

John chose to completely gloss over the bit about using a skull to visit relatives... his eyes inevitability seeking out the tarnished cow skull already on the wall. Must have a penchant for dead things John shivered at the thought. Not even a minute later, heavy footsteps bounded up the stairs and Sherlock reappeared, carrying a pristine white, human skull.

"Best not to ask questions, we need to pack," Sherlock tossed over his shoulder, already sweeping his way towards what John assumed to be his room.

With soreness of cramped muscles from sleeping on a couch, and sitting around for almost 24 hours, John finally chanced standing. He was a little wary, because his cane was not there to assist him and he still wasn't sure if his legs would hold without it. But he surprised himself, when all he felt was a dull twinge for only a moment, before he took a cautious step forward.

"Are you alright, dear?" Mrs. Hudson, ever the dotting mother figure, came shuffling in carrying two leather knapsacks, already stuffed with food, and miscellaneous items.

"Yeah... I'm fine. Just, getting used to walking with out my cane, got a bad leg even though I was shot in the shoulder."

"I'm sorry to hear that. Hopefully Sherlock won't run you ragged, he's very spirited when the mood strikes and forgets not all of us are immortals like him."

John stopped, mouth agape. It was one thing to feed him tales of some twisted Alice and Wonderland like place under the streets of London, but now they wanted him to believe that Immortals did exist, and that Sherlock Holmes was actually one of them? That was stretching John's ability to cope with insane notions just a bit...

"What do you mean by tha–" but John never got to finish his question, because Sherlock came bustling back in, clad in his clothes from the other day– only, now he had a royal blue, silk scarf wound around his marble column of a neck.

"Is that everything?" He rumbled, snatching his Belstaff off of the couch and tugged it on hastily.

"Yes, that should about cover all you'll need," Mrs. Hudson nodded, beaming up at the vibrating excitedness Sherlock practically exuded. "Promise me you'll come home in one piece Sherlock."

The man nodded. "I shall do my best, Mrs. Hudson– ever the bastion of my well-being."

She got a little misty eyed at that, and turned to John with a watery smile. "And I hope you get your life back in order, dearie. It was a pleasure meeting such a sweet Upworlder like yourself. It... it may seem a little silly, since I just met you and all but– I hope I never forget you, and that you will remember me." Mrs. Hudson's withered hands fumbled then at the Oleander flower pinned to her peach colored chemise, and she wordlessly handed it to John.

"Many years ago, I traveled to Wall and bought this with my hair. The lady told me, it would bring me happiness with the one I was to love. I found that person, and lost him long ago– so now, I hope that it brings you the same fortune, John."

She pushed the Oleander into his hands, and he was utterly surprised to find it cool to the touch and that it was spun from glass. "I can't take this–"

"Yes you can dear, I want you to have some thing to remember an old lady by. Now don't argue, and say 'thank you Mrs. Hudson'."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson." John murmured, his throat feeling strangely tight with emotion. He had only known her for less than a day, but he knew that her gentle and loving kindness would leave an indelible mark upon his heart. He tucked the glass flower into the inside pocket of his army green coat and gave the woman a heartfelt smile.

Sherlock cleared his throat, subtly grabbing their attention; a bored look in place, an obvious display of his distaste of sentiment. He shouldered one of the satchels, and nodded at John, indicating he do the same. When he did, Sherlock announced, "I need you to take my hand, and whatever happens Upworlder– don't. Let. Go."

John's clammy fingers sought out Sherlock's hand, warm and slightly rough. He squeezed it once, a reassuring gesture; though he wasn't sure which one of them he was trying to reassure...

Sherlock smirked, and then with his free hand raised the skull up, high above their heads. His deep voice rang out, but John could not understand the tongue in which he spoke the words. He looked to Sherlock, whose whole being seemed to glow with a radiant light that grew brighter, and brighter– until there was only darkness.

~T.B.C.~

The dream: is a reference to Richard, and how he constantly dreamed of the giant beast that roamed the Labyrinth; which was his destiny to slay. I wanted to add a bit of a creepy, nightmare element to John having a dream like that about the spider that controls the web.

Sherlock's Kimono: I just felt that a regular blue silk dressing gown would be too normal for the eclectic world of London Below. Remember, Male Kimono's are very different from female one's in Japan.

Afghanistan or Iraq?: Of course I'd have to add in such a quintessential Sherlock scene in some fashion. Sherlock has a fascination with London Above, and that's all I shall say on the matter for now, and so he knows some things about John's world.

All you need is love: Again, a glimpse into how the citizens Below get filtered snitbits from Above. I feel like Mrs. Hudson would love this song.

The Stew...: it had badger meat in it, don't ask how Mrs. Hudson got a hold of a badger.

Everything should be fairly explanitory. If not, just leave your questions in a PM or review.

Until next time lovelies, ta!