Chapter 11

Through the agony of stepping back into those four precious walls and talking to someone he could truly call a friend, the consulting detective ventured back to his main place of dwelling. One last night in the abandoned structure, while rain softly pattered against the remaining glass standing in its weak pane and all leaks had been sealed up during a heavy rain season in the first year after the Fall. In the three years, the small space had turned into a home, a place to return to instead of braving the bitter nights in the streets when he could avoid it. The retrieval of a suitable sleeping item and storage space was predictable, the luck of finding the particular musical instrument quite another feet, giving him the perfect opportunity to revert back to some fabric of reality in the symphony of notes.

Many in his position would speak of loneliness, an inability to speak to a trustworthy soul on a regular basis. He could, it just wasn't necessarily human. His harmonious tunes in the late evening, when no human ears were around to grow suspicious, attracted the ears of other creatures. The dark birds would abruptly stop their hoarse cries, flying through the cracked windows and perching on the beams in the ceiling, crows and blackbirds left to the floor as the lesser species in the crowd. The general mass of feathers was a usually lifeless crowd for him. It was the three who stood by his side when the notes ceased to play, who provided assistance with a single command. One mothered him to distraction, staying by his side as much as possible and pointing out danger wherever he went. The second provided an endless stream of annoyance, walking itself to an early grave if not proving its worth to him with daring speed, reckless turns and a sharp eye. The final being, naturally a personal favourite, was a fountain of specific knowledge with high relation to the detective's extreme condition, all trapped within the body of an extremely disgruntled raven.

A final night with three unusual companions, a last cigarette and the frosty dawn following too quickly. Sleep had not been fully achieved, he wasn't sure if it would truly cost him. A ripped sports bag, smothered with dirt to hide the brighter colours, made do to empty most of the contents of the storage box and other certain items round the shelter that he refused to leave behind, pieces of him left before life deteriorated into the current mess. One last look into the surroundings, rucksack slung over his shoulder and the larger bag firmly in his grip, his back turned on the old dwelling and faced his next path to a final destination.

Home.

Smoke was drifting in the air, Wisdom waiting at the midpoint between here and home and Protection was with his hidden bag of possessions. He was alone and heading towards Danger. Danger wasn't a small animal, a large animal; it was the same as everyone he passed in the street. Or Danger looked human. These humans were tainted with darkness, the makings of a realm many call hell.

These people were part of the web strung by him. The man Sherlock was trying to defeat. Sadly it wasn't the only web strung, but it needed to be extinguished first. Only then could he venture into the Spider's Nest. That was where the real beings of tainted darkness were, where Hell shone brightly in its destructive flames. The current web was based in London, and only London. It was a connection of people waiting at a simple call, text or even sign to perform tasks, some small as threats and beatings, others torture, hunting and assassination.

The web of assassins.

He walked with slightly hunched shoulders through the street, trying to appear without major purpose yet not arouse suspicion. It seemed a bit drastic, being on the other side of the city among abandoned streets and warehouses, the empty railroad nearby and a familiar darkened tramway not too far either. It could be where he could go if every other darkened corner proved to not hold what he sought. That would be his ally tonight, for despite the darkness hidden within these people, they too held refuge in light, they were men who used their eyes, and not all possessed enough darkness within them to see through it. He sometimes did when light seemed so far and an end so near. He would not need to now. A faint glow appeared in the distance, at the end of a wide alley between too ghostly warehouses, the windows shattered and cracked, brick crumbling and the metal fire escapes continuing to rust. A suitable escape route immediately, he could use the roofs to his advantage, able to disappear in the sky with a single leap ahead. He hid round the corner of the warehouse, staying in the shadows as much as possible to avoid being seen. Sherlock peeped round the corner to examine the scene.

A much wider alley than anticipated, the end blocked off by a high fence of wooden planks and mesh, barbed wire placed along the top by the alley's owners. Crates appeared to be munched at the end among a large dumpster and a large cage, a blanket over the top to hide whatever was inside. Past experience suggested a dog trained to attack. Five men in total, two as silhouettes with their backs to him, the other three with lit faces, all surrounding the barrel fire. To be sleeping this rough meant they were working, and could return to more fashionable and comfortable lifestyles in hotels with alcohol and women at their expense when the job was done. Large groups like this were rare. They all wore light yet thick clothes, the fire helping keep away the icy air and a murmur about them. A burst of laughter and one man throwing away a beer can. This was a nice sight; alcohol slowed the reaction time of any. These assassins, assaulters, whatever job they were currently on, needed to be rid of. They were the last standing, the last left, all others defeated over three long years. But those that survive the longest are either the weakest, or the best at their game.

"A delightful evening to die, don't you think?" Five faces shot round at him, but smirks were worn instead of scowling stares. Sherlock slowly strode over, cautious but confident. He couldn't look weak; it had cost him a month of agony with broken bone injuries in the past, another time near capture. He kept his hands behind his back, the two knives he owned hidden and assessed what he could in the light. But he let them speak first; conversation always took the targets by surprise, helping decipher who or what they were.

"That's a very peculiar thing to say about yourself," spoke the furthest away, hidden behind the flames of the barrel. He was tallest, but then that was only to Sherlock's height. They all possessed the hidden strength for hand-to-hand combat. Scarred faces, rough hands, hands automatically clenched into fists. The fire helped reveal the glint of metal on them, no guns in the group, instead large butchers' knives. The situation seemed a little more difficult now. "Let me guess, you're Sherlock Holmes?"

"It seems no-one needs a large IQ to recognise a hidden face," he remarked. The guns he hoped wouldn't be brought out must have been hidden in the boxes at the end of the alley. They were no doubt assassins, informed of him. Each had the tell-tale marks, rings around their eyes from looking through the scope at their victim, marks under the index finger from pressure on the trigger. If not for the barrel fire none of this would be seen. But then with his face hidden under the hood he could easily turn to the eyes that allowed visibility in the dark. "Out on work I see?"

"A higher voice asked for the death of a few members of Scotland Yard, but we were warned about you long ago. The dead bodies of 'colleagues' as it were. No killer. No motive. Some left unconscious long enough to be caught and arrested. Got to say, you did well to get rid of us. But then there will always be more of us. We're everywhere, we can come from anywhere in the world. It seems a bit excessive to just target us Londoners don't you think?" the leader went on. So they knew? A clear problem, but then they made no link to him, the real man he wanted to find after this.

"I always have my reasons. Now how would you like to end your lives? Through me or prison? Your choice entirely." There was shrill laughter from the men. They began backing behind the barrel fire, wanting Sherlock to move into the light, which he already had every intention to do. If it worked, the fear he could pummel into them with the help of light would give him an immediate advantage. The secret always gave fear first, never wonder.

"How about how you wish to die," spoke another assassin, already unsheathing his knife, the metal gleaming where it wasn't stained with red.

"I decided that long ago, but death is a strange thing, let me tell you." After speaking the truth, leaving confusion in their faces, he stepped into the real light of the fire, and that was when the fight started. A simple reveal of his now fully tainted body sent the men gasping and then roaring, the nearest two charging to kill such an unnatural being. The left charger was down with the two thrown knives embedding in his chest, the blood from his lungs and heart firing out several metres in front. The other was knocked round the head by a large black fist after Sherlock grabbed the attacker's head with both his gloved hands. He was unconscious, giving Sherlock a clean path to deal with the others. The commotion had alerted the canine in the cage, now writhing around and knocking at an unstable lock. Looking up, the other three were standing firm, the two either side of the leader holding knives, all sharing an infuriated glare. The leader simply stood. Sherlock couldn't spot a weapon on him at all, but then judging by the flecks of red on the side of his mouth, an inner warning cry alerted him that strength would be all he needed for a tough fight. The leader was Danger.

"You're gonna pay for that, you fucked up killer," spat the man on the right, a scar across his left temple, a key aiming point for attack. Sherlock stood again, walking over to retrieve his knives from the slowly dying man.

"Says you," he joked. The man on the left charged round the barrel as Sherlock knelt down to retrieve the throwing knives. He snapped out a leg and spun it round to trip him up, winding the man as he landed on his back, a cry escaping him from the thud. He kept both knives close as the other man ran round, the leader casually walking over. Two against one was always more fun; a third approaching would normally mean an absolute thrill of a fight, if not for who… What the leader was.

The black extension swiped behind him to knock the scarred man in the chest, so Sherlock could stand and kick him in the kneecaps before punching the scar. A groan of pain. The winded man was on his feet and a knife slashed Sherlock's arm, the blood warm on his skin. The hiss was replaced with a sharp biting of his lip, swinging his entire body round and grabbing the man's throat. Immediate choking, random swinging of the knife which caught Sherlock's collarbone and then he threw him at the wall in retaliation. Brick crumbled behind and Sherlock turned to face the scarred man and the leader. A knife was heading to his throat and the leader's face cast in a sudden shadow, his eyes an abyss with no light. Danger was getting too close.

Blocking out the crackling fire, the barking dog, the rattling cage, the choked man scrambling for the weapons box and the shouts of rage from the other man charging at him with the knife, he changed to eyes that saw in the darkness. Eyes that also showed how much a man deserved to die, especially if that man, like the leader, wasn't a man. He raised his left forearm to take the knife and knocked it away into the fire. Using his left hand the man's wrist was caught, and right hand grabbed his throat. The black extension, the fist at the top leading the way, slammed down at the man at a sharp angle. It caught the front of his neck, the rest of the extension helping bash the rest of his neck round, so much that it let out a horrific crack. Neck or collarbone, it didn't matter if he lived or not. He was done.

The leader froze for a second, regarding his opponent with the death of a colleague. A rage now fuelled him and with full force fists he punched Sherlock round the face. It hurt more than he had ever imagined, more than when previous assassins had punched him, more than when John punched him. But not as bad as when he punched him. Inhuman strength. The punch cut open his cheek. Panic shot through him, but he buried it and fought back, lunging at the leader with fists from all directions. The leader was hit square in the chest by two fists and two more sources of force, sending him flying back, tumbling over the cage and smashing a cargo box behind, bricks on top falling on his legs. A knife suddenly rushed past Sherlock's face, another digging into his forceful extensions of the body and a final knife slashing across his chest. The knife in the extension fell out when he whipped around, staring with a sudden rage at the attacker. The man was grabbing another knife from the supply box. Sherlock knocked the barrel fire over, the white hot coal pouring out and flying towards the man. He yelped, jumped away and then threw the last knife at Sherlock as he began moving forward, hidden in almost total darkness with the fire out. A lucky aim, as the knife dug into this right thigh. He yelled with pain and pulled it out. He stepped back before charging properly, jumping on the barrel, jumping again and pouncing on the attacker, using the knife to bury it in the middle of his chest. Blood poured, but not enough to suggest a punctured heart or lung as the man screamed in torment. Sherlock saved him some pain and knocked him out with several fists to the face. He turned to see where the leader was and a brick collided with his temple.

Sheer luck stopped him from being knocked out, but the blood pouring down the side of his face, much like that at the Fall, coated the side of his face and nearly seeped into his eye, which could have left him temporarily half blind. The leader raised the brick again, intent on smashing Sherlock's skull in, but he refused to let that happen. This assassin would die like the rest. He couldn't be arrested, not when he was Danger. He pushed him back with all strength he had and tried to pull the brick from his grip. The leader snarled, baring teeth with blood staining the canines. Animal blood?

With no time to deduce it, Sherlock pulled the red slab out of his hands and threw it at the leader's head. It hit, square in the centre, leaving a gushing dent in his forehead. But he stayed on two feet. The leader chuckled darkly, looking back at Sherlock with the eyes of Danger and made to dig all fingers in his throat and pull everything out of his neck. He didn't give him a second to try and get the satisfaction, grabbing the leader's possessed head and snapping it round, the body falling flat on the ground. All was over. Until the crashing registered and the snapping hound lunged at him.

Its jaws dug into his right shoulder, trying to break through the muscle and shoulder blade to leave him dying, but it had turned into a night of breaking necks. The hound suffered the same fate, with Sherlock able to defend himself just before his main muscles were all caught and ripped out by the powerful jaws. He kicked the body off him and hid the bodily extensions, now aching from taking his whole body landing on them, his backpack having been no help with its contents to protect his spine. The silence descended over the alley of the dead and soon to be arrested, if ever discovered in such an abandoned area.

Sherlock climbed to his feet with difficulty. The wounds were beginning to hurt, the pain finally coursing through his body. But he reminded himself he had felt worse pain, the ultimate pain and it became a distant feeling. The only concern he ever felt was blood loss, and even now it didn't seem to much a problem, the wounds wouldn't kill him, wouldn't weaken him. He was able to leave it all now, go to somewhere he could tend to them in peace and comfo-

A gunshot rang through his ears, a bullet zipping past his head. It was from above, and the clear sound meant a sniper. The red laser glared into his eyes for a second from the roof. Sherlock squinted as the man moved the sniper rifle away from his face. It wasn't part of the group, it wasn't Danger… It was…

'Get him you fool!' his mind screamed at him. His legs bolted for the fire escape as the assassin fled. Luck, sheer luck he would turn up. A different voice, the lifeless tone, the voices in his head told him it was meant to happen, like everything else in the universe. Nevertheless an opportunity that couldn't go amiss, for this man had more reason to die than all the assassins killed in the past three years at Sherlock's hands. He reached the top of the fire escape, daring not reveal the extensions in case of him. The assassin didn't run fast, he normally never had any need too. He caught up with him after jumping to the next roof, a hundred foot drop below. He through a remaining knife into the assassin's back, making him double over to his knees. Sherlock ran in front and grabbed collar, pulling him up to see the man's face, but having turned back to the normal eyes which couldn't appear into the darkness made it difficult. Memory helped reconstruct the assassin's face in the dark.

"Fancy seeing you here!" Sherlock spat, a memory flicking into his mind that nearly made him tremble with fury at the assassin. He couldn't help himself and stood back to kick the assassin in the chest before grabbing him again. "Now tell me where he is!" The assassin simply sniggered and Sherlock, despite trying to get the information he desperately wanted, not needed at the time, lost his calm. He beat the assassin till he had busted both lips and left a dark enough black eye.

"I came here to kill you," the assassin spoke when Sherlock stopped for a few seconds. Without warning, and a sudden strength, the assassin struck the other side of Sherlock's head, bruising the other temple with the butt of his sniper rifle. The tables turned and Sherlock was the one being gripped by the neck, the assassin leaving the rifle on the ground. "Not give you a single scrap of info."

Then the frenzy started; a payback that went way over its limit. Larger fists crashed into Sherlock's face, till half his face was black and blue, a larger black eye created than the one John gave him and his nose broken, the metallic taste of blood immediately flooding his mouth. The assassin stopped, stepping back to admire his work and deciding it wasn't enough. Sherlock wished that the look didn't remind him of two years back, when death was imminent and the ultimate pain was given to him. A heavy boot was crushed into his chest and both sides of his abdomen kicked. The boot aimed for his face, and instinct kicked in. Sherlock rolled out of the boot's flying course, stumbled to his feet and ran. His hood was caught and pulled back, but knowing that large hands would try to strangle him to death, he reached for the glinting metal on the floor. The assassin turned to watch him take his final breath during suffocation, but the metal slashed his face and the blood poured. Sherlock couldn't see the damage, but split second freedom to run from the loosened grip meant he must have left some major damage. He'd slashed a knife across a man's face, it had to be major.

This time he would be chased. The assassin grabbed the rifle and made to aim, storing the pain away and letting revenge fuel him. Sherlock jumped the gap and felt the bullet slash across the right of his abdomen. He ran further and jumped another gap. He glanced back. Now the assassin was chasing him. Where was the nearest roof to disappear? How far!?

It seemed the assassin could run. Of course he did. Victims may have never chased after him, but the police certainly did. Sherlock didn't know this area well; he'd only come here once. Knowledge of the roofs was beyond him and guessing was something he hated. If he didn't guess then surviving was out of the question. Very nearly had the assassin been chasing after him on the same roof, until Sherlock took a dive off the edge and jumped through an already cracked window of a warehouse. Lefts and rights, sharp turns, jumping stairs, and then the floorboards cracked beneath into the ground floor below, a couple of feet below. The ground shook his spine and the dust and debris made his wounds sting with the pain of intense heat and fresh ice. The assassins search for a safe route down gave him time to scramble to his feet and lose him in a maze of alleys. Hiding in the dark crevice of a wall on the outside of a warehouse through the maze allowed the chase to break.

The assassin cursed in rage and went off. Sherlock followed and saw him reveal a hidden motorbike not far from the group's alley and drove off.

Sherlock went in the opposite direction, thankfully towards Protection. It was there to greet him with panicked cries and a flurry of suggestions. All he could think of was shelter. Smoke informed him of the burnt remains of the dwelling, Wisdom telling him of the message and other symbols scratched into the surface. With weak legs, blurring vision and only the protection of the shadows, he made for home.

The street came into view. He exited the alley and stumbled across the street, his hand pressed against the pouring wound on his chest. He crashed into the door, his legs shaking underneath. He looked to open it. Locked. No key. With the foulest of swears muttered under his breath, he dug out a small gun from the bottom of his bag and shot the lock. Smashing his shoulder against it finally opened it, closing it wearily behind him. More stumbling, sliding against the wall up the stairs, darkness throughout the building. No-one around to help. He barged through the door and slammed it shut when Wisdom and Protection flew through, Smoke guarding the street outside. He collapsed to the floor, the blood dripping onto the carpet, he lent against the black armchair, lighting the fire to fight the cold stabbing at his bones.

The wreck he was gripped the gun and stared at the door. He waited, for the assassin, for a friend. It was clear who the gun was meant for. Whispers from downstairs. He smiled to himself, imaging the faces he would see when they all climbed the stairs. But his face screwed up at another searing rush of agony flowing through.

He could barely keep his eyes open, let alone speak, when he saw his best friend open the door.