Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes © Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
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Part IV —
Ripples & Rustles
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The man stands on a rooftop—a rooftop like he died on—overlooking the empty streets of London. The sun rises behind him, drenching the polluted, ill smelling city in yellow.
He inhales the scent of the upcoming destruction. Lead in the air. Bombs in the offices, in the cars, in the cash registers. Hatred in his heart. He is an artist and the world is his stage.
He looks at his clock. 10:59. One of the busiest times in the day. He puts earplugs in his ear and clicks his iPod on. Like a conductor, he holds out his arms, ready to manage an orchestra.
The Ride of The Valkyries begins to play.
Moving his arms to the violins and trumpets, he spreads them out as the more intense part begins.
An office explodes.
(The music blocks out the screams.)
He moves his hands again with rhythmical, gentle motions. Yet there is cruelty in his little smile, pure malevolence of the bloodthirsty bliss of the situation. It isn't random. It's perfectly planned out. No more bloodshed than absolutely necessary. A master of the art would admire the cleanliness of it all.
The explosions go off one by one. Rarely in pairs. The people beneath scatter about. He does not mind them. In masses, they are unimportant. It is certain individuals he is after.
A list of names.
A list of those who betrayed him and—
His thoughts stop, whirl, and settle down.
"I will have my vengeance," he whispers. "I must."
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This one told a detail to the officials.
The woman isn't very important. But in the great scheme of things, everyone is worth something. She sits at her desk near the window, head filled with mundane things like what are we going to have for dinner and I should hire a new secretary.
And now she is over.
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This one delivered a message.
He is barely seventeen, riding a bike over to his job as a barista. Sweat makes the shirt stick to his back, but he still smiles. He's stayed on the good side of the law for two months now. "Good," he tells his mirror each morning, "You're doing good." The cash register explodes.
And now he is over.
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This one couldn't keep to himself.
He attended the last support group meeting two weeks ago. He feels it. It grows inside his chest, and whenever he closes his eyes he sees the man in a pool of blood and staring, black eyes.
And now he is over.
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This one watched when she shouldn't have.
Her almond eyes are always wide and unblinking. Shoulders, stiff. Angst finally pours out of her when she accepts coffee from a handsome co-worker. He tells her he's going to get some more sugar for her. He calls her sweet. And then he's gone.
And now she is over.
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This one was paid not to help.
It is a slow day. Not a lot of customers. A man passes her door less apartment and she lifts her skirt, invitingly. He gawks in repulsion. She is bloated with disease. One of them is called kindness. She collects stray animals. One of them has a strange stomach pain, and she soothes it, stroking its fur.
And now she is over.
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The list stretches on, but the result is the same.
Death, death, death.
Odd, how fickle they become. No longer individuals. Instead, burned, nameless bodies. A black blob of dead cells. They all crack into pieces of charred meat. Pieces of error.
'Almost like poetry,' the man on the roof thinks. He remembers their names. He will remember them always.
He clicks in a number on the phone. Without waiting for a response, he says, "I know who you are. And I want all the survivors in within three days. You'll know what I'm talking about. The sum will be unimaginable, even for your kin."
He clicks the phone off, and exhales.
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(At the exact same moment—)
Sherlock Holmes steps off the plane and inhales.
It rains heavily. Wet pavement. Underneath the private airport the ground cracks and swells, as if to welcome him and consume him and never let him go. You are mine, London says inside his head, and you will never quite leave. Sometimes he imagines London as a big head, and Sherlock Homes is just an idea that stuck.
Sherlock hasn't even got the time to reunite with London.
"Sherlock."
As to extract silent vengeance upon his brother, Sherlock sets his piercing eyes on him and drinks in all the faults. The wrinkled face. Worried too much. Always. Had them even when he was 18, the poor sod. The cane. Thinks it makes him cooler when in reality it makes him appear like a twat. The protruding pot belly. He always took five spoons of sugar, and no milk or lemon. Was it too fill up the sweetness he lacked in his life?
"Mycroft." Distaste colours his voice. He pulls the scarf tighter around his neck, as if to choke himself. "You are disturbing me. I need to breathe in—"
"Breathe later. There have been complications. Bombs. London."
Sherlock wants a cigarette. He knows Mycroft always carries them around, but is too prideful to ask. He is too prideful to ask to share Mycroft's umbrella, too.
"Where's John?"
"Bombs, Sherlock."
"Where. Is. John."
Mycroft sighs. "We still haven't found him. No traces. Most of our agents think he's finally found peace and moved out from that godforsaken apartment. To be alone, away from memories. To think, and heal."
"He wouldn't leave without telling me."
And then Mycroft is 17 and Sherlock is 10 again, bending down and smirking at him. He is so close that Sherlock can smell the coffee he had for breakfast.
"He thinks you're dead, darling brother. Dead. Buried. He saw you fall."
A phone rings.
"Excuse me, I need to take this." Mycroft smiles pleasantly as if nothing has happened, but it drops as soon he hears what the caller has to say. "Oh dear. They're killing the survivors."
"Who are?"
"A band of mercenaries. Whoever was behind the bombings want to make sure the intended victims stay victims. Dreadful business." He repeats the last phrase again and again, shaking his head.
Dreadful.
Business.
The last word strikes a cord in Sherlock.
"Where?"
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He arrives in an aftermath of chaos.
Dead bodies everywhere.
Ambulances stand there, abandoned, sirens still wailing. The area has been evacuated.
The bodyguard Mycroft forced him to bring is in his heels as soon as he enters the streets. Sherlock can't be bothered to remember his name. Jacob something. Bodyguards are like children; they should be seen, not heard. Mycroft brought him just to be a bastard, no doubt.
There is blood in the streets, running in-between the cracks. Little rivers of red. The corpses are pumped full of bullet holes. Whoever did this slaughter did so with calm precision. There are footprints in the blood, too close for them to have run. The mercenaries had walked with the knowledge that their targets would not escape.
Little by little, police cars arrive. Sherlock acted as a test. He's still alive.
He stands perfectly still while policemen enter the scene. They look for survivors. A forensic expert sits against an ambulance, coughing. He's pale. Losing blood. Stares in front of him, silent, as if unsure how to deal with the situation.
The police do not try to coax him out of the panicked state, instead silently focusing on his wounds. Sherlock isn't quite so... weak. Two bullets. Left knee. 'He'll live.'
He sits down beside the man. "Where did they go?"
"Mr. Holmes, have you seen the state of this man?""
"Mr. Officer, have you seen the state of the corpses? Those who did it are still out there. Now, Mr..." Noah Boyle, his name tag says, "Boyle, where. Did. They. Go."
A tremble goes through the man.
He raises a finger. Points to the big mansion on the left of them. It is a grand structure. Old and embrowned. The architecture speaks of the Victorian age. They all turn to it, and as on cue, a person on the second floor presses its gawking, pink face against the window.
Pink becomes red as the head explodes. A message.
The policemen hide behind their cars. The bodyguard, too.
"They're not out after you," Sherlock says calmly. "They have murdered no one who isn't directly involved." He finds a sleeping dart in the neck on another member of the health service.
He imagines entering an ambulance, pushing people aside and killing the person still on the operating table. Precise. Clean. Effective.
Sherlock heads for the building.
The bodyguard grabs his shoulder. "Your brother..." he trails off.
"Don't touch me," Sherlock hisses, and continues.
When he opens the mighty oak door, blood runs down the stairs.
(He is getting really sick of all the blood.)
Dust, everywhere. Golden in the rays of light.
He coughs.
More footprints. More corpses. Some clutch each other for comforts. Others lie in an indoor marble fountain under the stairwell, facing facedown in murky water.
One of them crawls towards him, legs blown off, and stretches out a hand for help. The expression is painted with despair. And then she's over.
Sherlock steps over her.
Have you missed me? London asks.
Sherlock thinks: I must become a machine.
He corrects himself: I am a machine.
The wind howls through the holes in the roof that the landlord ought to do something about. The floorboards creak above him and under him. He hears a scream and a gunshot, coming from the third floor. He hurries through the first and second floor (stepping over corpses) and onto the third.
"...failure. I did not request him to be here. I want him found and gone."
A pause.
"No, not like that. I need him alive."
Another pause. This one lasted.
And then there are men in the stairwell, looking at him. Spotting him. Raising their guns.
Sherlock falls back. He rolls across the floorboards, swirls of bullet holes following him, like insects in a pond.
(It evokes a childhood memory about pond skaters and how he used to rip their legs off, throw them away, and watch them get eaten by the others.)
An old leather chest becomes his cover. The gunshots light up the room, showing fanatic footprints, in the dust, mostly erased by Sherlock's wiggling. A gloved hand grabs his curls. Rheumy eyes squint, full of dirt and desperation. He sees a figure, standing above him.
And then he releases an atom bomb.
"John."
Once again, they meet on a battlefield.
Sherlock is reliant on faces to spot little truths.
John's head is covered in bandages. All that's visible is a single, narrowed eye and half his mouth. He stands completely still for a moment, Sherlock at his feet. A million possibilities run through Sherlock's mind. Is he taking this into his own hands? Revenge? Have they hurt him?
"Idiot," John hisses. His jaw is set so tight it seems like he's swallowed worlds. "You fucking... idiot."
Of all the things he could say to their first meeting, this is what he chooses.
"W—what?"
"You're not supposed to be here," John says. "You're not supposed to be alive."
He turns to men who were shooting at them, who have suddenly gone silent. John raises two guns and shoots them all without wasting bullets. Only an army man could have such accurate precision.
He does not spare a glance to their
"There's a man. The one who did all this. Is he...?"
John pauses. "No. But I won't rest until he is." He marches up to the third floor again.
Sherlock stretches out a hand. "Wait! Why are you doing this?"
On top of the stairs, John tilts his head to the side. "Revenge." He continues running. Sherlock follows, but the former army doctor is faster.
Instead, he finds a man. A mercenary. Dying.
(There is so much death, everywhere.)
"Who was the man you talked to? The first one?"
"There was more than one?" the man asks, smirking at Sherlock's delirium and bad shape.
"Don't mess with me. Tell me who that was."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Sherlock bends down in front of him. "We could do this the easy way. Or the hard way."
No answer.
Sherlock slams his body against the wall.
"Who was it?"
The man coughs.
Sherlock shakes him, livid. "Who?!"
"M—Mo—"
Too slow. He digs his fingers into the bullet wound, shortening the man's life span.
"Aaargh! Moran!"
Sherlock lets him go. He is wild eyed and trembling. "Moran," he says, as it it'd calm him. "Moran." It's a prayer. Or a curse.
Footsteps and raised voices approach from downstairs.
The dying man grabs the end of Sherlock's foot. He whispers something. Sherlock bends down to hear him. And what he says makes shivers run down Sherlock's spine.
"221B."
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221B.
Sherlock stands in front of the old apartment, unsure what he'll find.
He opens the door.