A/N: Hello to those of you who are actually reading this, and hugs all around! Sorry this was so long coming, I had a tad bit of writers block with this chapter, and had to deal with the harrowing ordeal of helping my best friend pack, to move across state. Not having her nearby has been a little hard for me, so I haven't been the happiest lately, so writing spurts were few and far between. However, I have obviously soldiered on long enough to deliver to you, chapter four. Please enjoy!
Down Once More
Chapter Four: Network of the Underground
Shan was a practical woman. She knew what she wanted, and how to get it. There were no alleys too crooked, or tasks too morbid for her to undertake; as long as there was a means to an end. She craved control, adored power and above all– knew how to weave the threads that would reward her, her hearts desires.
She was feared in the Underside. A whisper of the name, 'General Shan' was like hearing stories of the bogeyman. The inhabitants would cross themselves, and hope that her entourage –The Black Lotus– would kindly pass them by. Shan answered to no one, until the fateful day she met Jeff Hope.
The first time her mysterious, almond eyes clapped sight to the man, she instantly dismissed him as 'not worth her notice.'
She was lounged lazily upon a silk covered liter, with ornate pillows stuffed with goose down to support her supine figure. Men were demonstrating their power for her amusement, after all, Floating Markets were great places to pick up a few spare hands.
A willowy Spaniard, with olive skin and a shocking frizz of carrot colored hair grappled with a man with sable, weathered skin. The Spaniard was garbed in the brightest, most outlandish rags; a gypsy no doubt. His opponent, simply wore a brown, linen monk's robe. Veins corded in their necks, and biceps rippled with the effort to disarm the other. There was always a lot of sweat during these matches.
Shan wrinkled her nose in disgust.
With an air of boredom about her, she yawned; one of her pale hands dripping with gold and gems, lifting to cover her pink insides. The Spaniard crowed triumphantly like the preening cock he was, as his stiletto found purchase in the cavern of the monk's heart. It quivered with the remaining remnants of the man's heartbeats, and stilled; blood seeping out and edging toward the hay that littered the makeshift ring.
The man sauntered his way over to the very edge of the ring, and bowed before the General. "I have won! And there are none left who oppose me. With the humblest of intentions, I ask to join the Black Lotus." His voice was thickly accented, and nasal. Shan resisted the urge to wrinkle her nose again.
"Ye know, I really 'ate people who count all their chickens afore they 'atch."
Every one turned, and looked to the middle aged man who now stood in the center of the ring. Underneath his jaunty paper boy's hat, bright blue eyes twinkled with a sharpness Shan rarely found in the Underside. He had a sneer fixed to his face, and a tire iron swinging distractedly in his left hand.
"And who are you? Do you dare challenge me, even after I have proved my skills are most exemplary?" The Spaniard cried, aghast.
"Name's Jeff Hope, and I've come to show ya whot a real fight is like."
Shan's guardsmen looked to her, a silent question if they should intervene. She looked Jeff Hope up and down, and shrugged. "If they wish to honour me with death, then so be it." She declared, already growing disinterested. If the Spaniard won, then she had gained a fierce underling.
If the old man won, well– at least she had one more number to add to the ranks either way. She just hoped they didn't kill each other... then this would have all been a waste of time. She hated wasting time.
With a cocky smirk, and an over embellished bow, The Spaniard turned to face his newest opponent. "Any last wishes, sénor?" He mocked, twisting his blade out of the cooling heart it was wedged in to.
"Yeah, I gots one," Hope retorted, a sly grin creeping across his face. "For the love 'o Arch and Temple, stop talkin'; yer whinin' voice is givin' me a 'eadache."
The smirk fell on the Spaniards lips, and he scowled darkly. It was the only warning given, before he lunged.
For all his ponce, and cock-suredness, the Spaniard lost to Hope rather easily. Shan looked on in shock, as one moment the ginger haired man was stabbing for the stranger's throat– and the next, his brains were decorating the dirt floor. Hope shuddered with adrenaline, his tire iron dripping with Spanish blood.
After a brief respite, he turned his calculating blue eyes on Shan; a grotesque sneer hovering over his blood stained lips. He nodded, and made to walk forward– stopping only when Shan called out, "Who are you? And what do you want with me, ally of the Underside?"
Jeff Hope huffed out a laugh, and leveled General Shan with a patronizing look. "My... employer 'as 'eard tale of ya, miss. An' I'm sure it'd be in every un's best interest, if you joined us for a spot 'o tea."
A coy smile wrapped Shan's lips in a pleasant embrace. "And who, may I ask, is your employer?"
With that question, General Shan found herself entangled in the Spider's Web.
–
Shan flinched, their employer's ire quite transparent as he smashed a bottle of ink against the nearest wall. The man at his side's face was still impassive; the blank face of a wind up, toy soldier awaiting his next command to bring him to life.
"This," their employer's voice shook unevenly, "this is why I have trust issues. I ordered you two to bring me Sherlock Holmes, and what do you do? YOU FAIL!" His voice echoed, and roared with increased intensity; as it bounced around the wet, cavern walls.
"I tolds ya', we would 'o 'ad 'im, if'n it weren't fer that Upworlder's interferin'."
He rounded on Hope instantly; a hungry lion looking for a lamb. "See, I don't really find that to be much of an excuse," his voice was hushed to a gentle indifference. It was far more terrifying than the shouting.
Hope scowled, not meeting their employers blazing gaze. "Now, I want you to tell me why I should let the both of you live. And make the reason good. I'm not in the mood to be bored by insipid drivel..."
Shan and Hope shared a look, and the latter smiled. "Luckily fer you mate, we brought yer sniffer dog a lil' present." With a relaxed air, he tossed the muscular blond at their employer's side, an aluminum cane.
The man presented their boss the sleek, modern piece; a relic of London Above. "I see..." he voiced, quietly– turning the cane round and around in his hands. "Looks like fate is on your sides. Today, I don't get to kill you– now get a move on, go make daddy proud."
–
There was a twisting, pinching feeling in John's gut. Wind roared like a hurricane inside his head, and his eyes watered with an unexplained force. The world around them was blacker than pitch, and quite honestly John would have thought he was all alone, if not for the warm hand gripping his so tightly. He looked to the side, tried in vain to make out even the faintest outline of his companion through the dark.
It felt like they were falling from some great, unknowable height.
His palm grew slick with sweat; the fear and adrenaline spiking his emotions on some grand Richter scale of familiar sensation. John could feel his fingers starting to slip through the velvet soft gaps of Sherlock's hand.
"DON'T LET GO, UPWORLDER!" Sherlock bellowed, his nimble fingers scrabbling to reclaim the iron clad embrace they had held on John's.
John felt his body being pulled, tugged into the orbit of Sherlock's willowy frame. Their hands were still clasped together; a strong, warm limb encircled his waist as they continued to fall.
"Don't let go, hold fast to me..." Sherlock whispered, his moist breath fanning across John's cheek. He closed his eyes, and clung to his companion like he was a buoy; and John was a sailor, lost at sea.
A burst of dim light pierced the thin veil of John's eyelids, and he opened his eyes just in time– before they plummeted into murky water. The gritty silt caught in his eyelashes, and scraped against his eyes. His nose and mouth took on an influx of water, and it burned like fire. John couldn't breathe, was not prepared to hold his breath before the unexpected plunge. He scrabbled weakly at Sherlock's fluttering coat, the thick wool shrouding their bodies like some midnight cocoon.
Their feet hit bottom, and with the gathered momentum, Sherlock shoved up. The second John's head surfaced, he pulled in a grateful lung full of oxygen– sputtering, and coughing out the water that had managed to fill up his lungs. At his side, Sherlock seemed unperturbed, already wading one armed to shore. The other arm was still firmly embracing John.
Once he regained his faculties, John assisted Sherlock in wading to shore; and with in a few minutes, they were dragging their soaking wet bodies onto a cold, cement shoreline. Panting, and gasping slightly for air– John fell boneless to the roughly hewn floor. He looked forlornly at his water logged pack, internally mourning the loss of all their supplies.
At his side, Sherlock stood in one fluid, unbelievably graceful movement; even after their surprising ordeal. He ruffled his elegant fingers through his sopping wet curls, and pushed them into some semblance of order. And then, his cool, unwavering eyes locked with John's and the barest hint of a smile curled at the edges of Sherlock's lips.
John couldn't help the answering grin that danced like a sunbeam across his own shocked features.
After a brief respite, the two unlikely companions sifted glumly through their provisions; sorting them into piles of salvageable, and so far gone why should we even bother? Surprisingly, most of the food Mrs. Hudson packed survived the impromptu dip into the underground lake– but the tube map, a loaf of bread, and the matches were all hopelessly ruined.
"Well, glad the torch still works at least," John offered needlessly, if only to fill the awkward silence. He cleared his throat self consciously when Sherlock didn't respond, and averted his attention back to the task at hand.
The soft, rustling sounds became a static noise in the back ground as John carefully shoved the usable items back into his pack. With a final jerk at the drawstrings, John cinched up his bag and swung it up over his good shoulder; his gaze pulled like a lodestone back to Sherlock's bowed head– his curls springing back to life as they dried.
With a grunt of approval, Sherlock did up his pack and straightened; his laser focus piercing into John's skin like quicksilver daggers. "Are you ready, Upworlder?" He questioned curtly, an elegantly sculpted brow quirked upward to mirror his tone.
"As I'll ever be," John replied, adjusting the bag before he took off after Sherlock's impossibly long, confident strides.
–
They traveled in relative silence, as their wet clothes clung to damp skin, and all about made John utterly miserable. A semi-circle of pale gold, diffused light swept before them as they walked; the rays of the torch hardly a combatant against the all enveloping darkness of the underground. John shivered, and tugged his jacket closer, even if the soaking wet material did little to ward off the chill.
He soldiered on though, trailing behind Sherlock like an obedient stray chasing after an empty promise of scraps, and a warm bed. John opened his mouth to say some thing, but thought better of it, and snapped it shut with a soft huff. His 'companion' had already made it quite clear, that he wasn't the talking sort. Instead, John elected to keep his brewing questions to himself– at least until Sherlock made it apparent that he was willing to hold more than a monosyllabic conversation with him.
There was a slow, and gradual shift to their surroundings. Wet, dank walls gave way to warm, dry air; the faintest whisper of traffic winding with the wind. John perked up at that, the familiar sounds of London resonating with his weary being.
The maelstrom of shouting voices, honking horns and all around thrumming, city life beckoned to John like a dying man to absolution. Without thinking, he fell into the orbit of that metropolitan, siren's call.
He was dimly aware of the halo of light, gradually fading away; the soft sound of Sherlock's breathing drowned out by city sounds. With an impossibly relieved smile, John saw a dim spark of sunlight up ahead– his cautious pace steadily morphing into a slow run. I'm almost home, almost—
"UPWORLDER?!"
Like a thunderclap, Sherlock's deep, gravelly voice shattered the illusion. John started, the haze lifting from his mind– to reveal the teetering edge of a vast, endlessly dark precipice. And he was swaying dangerously close to falling over into that abyss; held fast to solid ground by the pale, elegant fingers that had a death-clutch on his jacket sleeve.
"Sh-sherlock?" His voice wavered out, small and frightened, and very confused.
A dark grimace morphed the man's angelic face, into a grim mask of rippling fire, and anger. With a fierce yank, Sherlock pulled John out of harms way, and into the willowy, ramrod straight safety of his chiseled chest.
"What the bloody hell were you thinking?" He barked out, pushing John further away from the looming edge.
John winced, feeling properly chastised by the indignant fury in Sherlock's tone. "I– I wasn't thinking... I just, I heard sounds from Above and I–" he cut himself off, already feeling incredibly stupid for his actions.
An exasperated, sad expression replaced the dark, brooding one Sherlock garnered; he shook his head, and turned. "Come Upworlder," he commanded, already heading back the way they had come. He need not look behind him, as Orpheus fearful of his Eurydice not following close behind.
–
John was quite positive that Sherlock had no idea where he was going. They wandered aimlessly through the dark, going deeper and deeper underground. He could only tell, because the air cloyed at his skin with a wet, frigid chill. His clothes had barely even dried...
There were times where Sherlock would suddenly halt in their progression, mutter darkly under his breath, and about face– taking them back the way they had been traveling for what felt like hours upon hours. John was tired, bitterly cold, and his feet were sore.
However, the moment John had finally decided to speak his mind– a flickering red and orange light bloomed into sudden existence up ahead. Of course, after the almost near death experience from earlier, he was a little leery of trusting his senses.
Sherlock turned to him, shocking John with the practically cheerful smile that wavered upon his cupids bow lips. "It took us long enough, but soon we can rest and sort a few things out," he declared, picking up his languid pace. John sighed, frowning because Sherlock was being enigmatic as ever; but rushed along after him none-the-less.
As they neared their mysterious destination, John could make out more details; the warm, hazy light of a fire sharpening the blurry edges of reality. A rusted, metal bin housed the crackling flames– dove-grey smoke gently billowing up into the dark recesses above. There was a man, crouched before the fire; hands held toward the flickering heat. He was hunched in on himself, but John could still tell the man was incredibly tall, and impossibly lean, just by the way his tattered blue hoodie swamped his scrawny frame.
"What caused you to move location so drastically?" Sherlock questioned, sauntering over to the man with an air of familiarity.
He looked up from his intense study of the flames, shock widening his deep set, sharp eyes. " 'ello Sherlock sire, fancy seein' you 'ere." The man smiled, a tad cheekily; his fingers curling further toward the fire. "An' to answer your question, I 'ad ta move– whot with those skulking little gnats buzzin' about." He looked to John then, just noticing his presence, and frowned.
"Oi, whot's with the Upworlder then?"
Sherlock vaguely gestured in John's general direction, and shrugged before supplying, "Fell through the cracks, attempting to save me from those 'buzzing little gnats'. So, I'm taking it upon myself to help him find his way back home." He finished his explanation with a little smile, an expression that looked utterly forced and alien on his features.
John offered a sheepish grin, ducking his head a bit as he said, "Just so."
The man thrust a fingerless gloved hand out and towards John. "Nice ta meet ya mate, name's Wiggins– but you can call me Wiggy, everyun' else does."
"No they don't," Sherlock drawled, swishing off his Belstaff and scarf to place them near the fire.
Wiggins scowled at him petulantly, before turning his attention back to John– who at this point moved forward to shake his hand. He leaned in, like a little school boy telling a treasured secret. "I'm his protege," he whispered proudly, a happy sparkle lighting up his tepid gaze.
"No... you aren't."
"I get all his stuff, once he kicks the bucket."
Sherlock sighed heavily, grimacing. "He's not even listening to me..." he muttered darkly, starting to disrobe. He shed his clothes with the ease and grace that he seemed to constantly exude, no amount of hesitancy, even before a relative stranger. Within moments, Sherlock was only in his eggplant colored pants, and curled joyfully toward the fire. "I'd suggest you do the same too, Upworlder– the last thing we need, is you catching your death of cold."
John could feel embarrassment heating the tips of his ears, and crawl toward his cheeks with an annoying swiftness. "Uh... I-I... erm," he spluttered, and cringed; hating how he sounded like a nervous teen again, faced with his first time in a boys locker room. "Y-yeah, you're probably right."
"Am right," Sherlock replied, not even looking toward John– opting instead to watch the dancing flames twist and writhe in intricate, unearthly patterns.
With a nod, John did as directed and slipped off his soggy green coat, and brown cardigan. Then, he toed off his black leather boots, and his sad excuse for socks... his discarded items of clothing a pitiful, wet heap on the floor. That was the easy part, now came the moment where things got a bit tricky.
With averted eyes, and a flush burning the tip of his nose, John pulled off his oatmeal colored Jumper and plain white undershirt. His fingers shook slightly as he undid his belt buckle, and slowly peeled the damp denim away from his legs. Left in only his red Y-fronts, John looked over to Wiggins and Sherlock slowly– throat closing uncomfortably when he noticed a certain pair of pale, effervescent eyes drinking in his near nudity curiously.
Sherlock's gaze roved over every inch of John's compact, sturdy frame; only stopping to linger on the star burst like scar on his left shoulder. John cleared his throat, trying to divert the man's attention back to a more comfortable place to look...
With a slight start, Sherlock finally looked away from his perusal of John's chest and returned focus back to his open, honest face. Wiggins had lost interest minutes ago, and had managed to wander off with out drawing any attention to his departure. John opened his mouth, to inquire where the man could have gone, when he returned; carrying a ratty looking blanket, and thin mat.
"In case you blokes need ta keep warm whilst your clothes dry," he simply stated, setting the things beside Sherlock, and resuming his fireside vigil.
Sherlock gratefully pulled the blanket over his trembling, pale shoulders; holding out the other end wordlessly to John. He swallowed thickly, knowing full well that it was just pure, logical survival tools– sharing body heat to keep warm. It still didn't make the prospect any less awkward...
There would be no sense arguing though. Normalcy was a luxury he no longer could afford, in this dark, subterranean world he found himself traversing. So John shuffled over, a little awkwardly, and settled in beside Sherlock; their clammy biceps brushing, and the opposite end of the blanket being tugged around his shoulders.
Almost instantly his skin began to warm, comfortable and pleasant– in a way that shamefully had him thinking of morning lie ins with ex-girlfriends, after nights filled with phenomenal sex. He had to remind himself that he was clad now in only his pants, and that a casual hard on would be widely frowned upon, current company notwithstanding.
"Bill, I need you to do a favor for me– if you can manage." Sherlock suddenly spoke, effectively distracting John from the inevitable boner he would have suffered, when he recalled his last girlfriend. She had such a glorious arse...
"Anythin' Sir, you just name it, and I'm yer man." Wiggins puffed up proudly, a wide smile revealing the wreckage of his teeth.
Sherlock clutched the blanket, and inadvertently John along with it, closer to his trembling frame as he replied, "I need you to figure out where the nearest Floating Market will occur. There is some one I need to find, and our best bet right now is to ask around there."
"No problem there boss, I already know that! Next Market is in ol' Big Ben, 'sposed to be rather low-key though, whot with everyun' gettin' ready for Remembrance Day."
"I guess that will have to do for now. We cannot afford to waste time being choosey, though I do have my reservations that the information we need shall be obtained there." Sherlock stated, a slightly distracted air to his tone; his intense gaze darkening with inner reflection.
John just silently followed along with the conversation, resigned to the fact that his fate was no longer in his hands. Not when he understood nothing of this world he was forced to tread.
They were all silent for a while, watching the fire dance. But necessities arose, like scrounging up a meager meal of slightly warmed, canned beans and granola bars supplied by Wiggins. After they ate, Sherlock suggested they scout out for some spare wood, so they could prop their clothes closer to the fire.
What they managed to scavenge, after almost an hour of searching, were a couple planks of rotting plywood that had been floating on the lake, and carried to the shoreline.
John settled the damp, slightly moldy wood against the metal bin, and strung their clothes up to dry. With a tired, satisfied smile, he returned to the spot where he and Sherlock had resided– the thin mat spread out, and temptingly waiting.
Wiggins was already curled upon the cold, slightly damp ground; his oversized hoodie clutched tightly around him like a makeshift blanket. He snuffled softly in his sleep, his haggard features slack, and peaceful.
"I'm surprised he can sleep like that, it's so bloody cold down here," John whispered, settling down next to Sherlock once more; who was sat with his knees drawn up to his bare chest, and a bit closer to the fire.
"It is not always cold, in our world. There are places that dance with light, and make you dizzy with wonder." A tiny, fond smile brightened up Sherlock's features, an obvious reminiscent quality to his hushed voice. It did not last long, before the unguarded joy, melted into some thing melancholic.
"But when we do not occupy those wondrous places, we learn to become accustomed to the chill, and the dark– we live with the fear, the constant upheaval of our lives." Sherlock's tone was grave, his cyan eyes far, far away. After a moment, he turned his attention back to John, "And I do not want you to suffer that life Upworlder, it is far more than your kind can bare."
John felt affronted, wanted to snap back that he had lived through a veritable hell and made it out relatively unscathed; but Sherlock looked to him with such agonizing pity, and sincerity. It made his throat close around his words, and he looked away.
"Get some sleep, Upworlder." Sherlock murmured, as he sightlessly gazed into the dark.
"Aren't you going to sleep too? I don't really mind, if we have to share the mat or blanket..."
A small, secretive kind of smile curled Sherlock's shapely mouth; the fire light casting his face into a wicked profile. "Don't worry about me," he eventually responded, "I'll be fine."
John opened his mouth, but thought better of it, recalling Mrs. Hudson's cryptic words about Sherlock not being quite like the commonwealth. Instead, he just shrugged and flopped gratefully onto the thin barrier of the mat; tugging the blanket as close to himself as was humanly possible. He watched the flickering light waver, and play across Sherlock's pale skin, that always seemed like it was glowing– like he was a fallen angel, trapped in mortal chains.
The thought made John chuckle sleepily, his eyelashes feathering across his cold cheeks. The last conscious thought that he was dimly aware of thinking, before he succumbed to sleep, was the the vague realization that even as the firelight cast its shadows upon Sherlock's skin, the man himself produced no shadow of his own.
E/N: thank you for reading. Please, please drop a review! I would really appreciate some type of feedback, good or bad. I just want to know how people feel about this story.