Diluted Blue

Book 1

'Sherlock'

Sherlock had only been shocked speechless three times in his life. The first two when he had been very young, one he can't remember so discounts as biased, the second had been when his father had slapped him after his first roll of deductions.

Sherlock had hit him back.

Let's say that didn't turn out well. Not well indeed.

The third time was what you just had witness to; an impossible explanation in impossible circumstances.

Sherlock Holmes was speechless for exactly six seconds. Then he snapped himself free from staring at the man (corpse, had to be!) and looked up to the sky, barely visible through the treetops. He could however see a few patches of cloudy, swirling darkness.

No aeroplanes, no helicopters, nothing! There was no parachute on the body, nor stuck in the treetops, so he fell from…nothing? Or a plane that crashed, and the wreckage was somewhere else?

He searched through his memory. Could that whistle have been the sound of an aeroplane, or a helicopter? Or perhaps a homemade flying contraption, that went wrong and threw its pilot to the ground?

That, however, did not explain the five foot deep crater that the man was lying motionless in. Sherlock knelt, touching the edges, and then curled his lip. The soil was warm; it was no old crater a prankster decided to try to fool him. This man made this crater, there was no doubt. It was no more than a few minutes old.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade was reduced to sharp whispers. "Sherlock, what is it?"

Sherlock didn't respond. He contemplated turning and walking away, but he did no such thing. He did the opposite, in fact, and slid down into the crater towards the man.

Here is a small note from your narrator: The man was not moving, true, but he was aware of everything around him. He was also unconscious.

When Sherlock got closer to the man, his breath caught in his throat, and he felt his eyes widen just slightly. This man was not dead. At a closer distance, Sherlock could see the small rising of his chest, as he lay on his side.

Lestrade, by this point, had appeared at the top of the crater. What he said was not surprising, but quite…passionate. Use your imagination here for what he said, for I will not write it here.

Sherlock glanced back up at him, with a small glare.

"Is he...alive?" the police officer managed in a mangled whisper.

Sherlock nodded once, and then reached out to the man, to feel his pulse. The moment his fingers touched his neck, the man awakened.

The world became a much different place the moment that man's eyes opened. It became a much more dangerous place, but at the same time, it became so much better.

His eyes snapped opened and he cried out, his voice sharp and clear and as piercing as a bullet. He jerked away, kicking out, scrambling, and he stared at Sherlock without blinking from his position on the other side of the crater. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then snapped it shut.

Sherlock found he couldn't look away from those eyes. Unlike him, he found himself losing his train of thought as he stared into those blue eyes. Watery, almost, he thought absently. Not clear and sharp, but a diluted kind of blue.

Lestrade had screamed, very un-police like when the man had suddenly awakened, and when he found the courage to scoot closer to the crater again, the man jerked his head to him, staring him down as well. He moved with startling, almost inhuman speed.

Sherlock had about seven seconds to look over the man, as he stared Lestrade down. He was a dirty blonde, tanned skin (that somehow shone in the moonlight, Sherlock wasn't sure how), broad shoulders and well developed shoulder muscles, and a puckering, fresh scar on his shoulder. He was otherwise unblemished, with his chest bare and tatters of his clothes hanging around his waist.

It was a white, silky fabric, singed at the edges and torn. He suspected it used to cross his chest and loop over one shoulder (most likely the left one, where his scar was) and was something like a toga.

By this point, the man jerked his head back at him and stared deep into his eyes, pinning him in place. The man opened his mouth thoughtfully, closed it, and then opened it again with determination.

Now, dear readers, are you able to think of what this man will say?

"Care…for a cup of tea?"

I hope not.

Lestrade squawked, his face showing every possible way of displaying shock, and stared at the man with his owlish eyes.

"A cup of tea?" he almost shrieked, and the man jerked his head to stare at him. "You're fantasizing about a cup of tea when you just fell from the sky?"

The man's innocent face screwed up, almost prettily. "What, not good?"

"Well," Sherlock said, "We at least know he's a Brit, Lestrade. Lestrade! Calm down, man!" He glared at the DI until he calmed slightly, then turned to the unnamed man.

"What's your name?"

This is a good point to mention that Sherlock was very disgruntled and surprised he could not deduce anymore than he had been in war, shot in the shoulder, and he would have temporary or permanent amnesia. This is what sparked a fire of an obsession to find out who this impossible man was.

The man frowned for a bit, seemed to chew on the words, and then looked Sherlock in the eye for a few moments before he said, "John Watson." A beat passed. "Doctor John Watson."

Lestrade finally seemed to remember he was a police officer. "Dr. Watson, can you remember anything?"

John hadn't let his body relax, and he jerked his head to Lestrade for a moment, blinked his pretty blue eyes, and then shook his head. "No. I'm sorry."

Lestrade said they should get him out of the crater, and Sherlock reached across to help John out. The moment Sherlock touched John, the older man screamed sharp and piercing. He jerked back, trying to put as much distance between them as possible.

"Don't touch me!" He screeched.

Sherlock stared at him, noticing that his skin was red where he had touched him. John stood up, staggered, and then scrabbled up the side of the crater. He then proceeded to twist his head to look at his back, eyes wide, and then he shook his head.

"You should go to the hospital, Dr. Watson," Lestrade said.

"No," John snapped. "No hospitals. And you can call me John."

"Come to our campsite, then," Sherlock said.

No, that little proposal was not because he was a friendly man who wanted to help another. It was because there was a living, breathing puzzle standing before him, and he wanted to solve it.

John would remain a puzzle for a long time, until a fateful night in early July.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. John did indeed stay at their campsite, explained he didn't remember much more than his name and that he didn't think he had a home. When they went to the station in the morning, John was staring wide-eyed at the buildings as they passed in the car, looking up at the sky and the towering buildings.

He always seemed to take short, wheezing breaths. He stood with his shoulders back, but walked almost uncomfortably. Like his legs constantly pained him. There was a reason for that, and Sherlock wanted to know, but John kept it to himself.

Running his name through the computer, they got military records, both for enrolling and release from a wound in the shoulder, a birth certificate and several charges on his sister, Harriet Watson, for drunk driving.

John had no recollection of any of this. He seemed confused and a little disoriented.

Even more so when Sherlock said: "Come to my flat, John."

Lestrade intervened immediately. Before, I had mentioned he had inadvertently saved Sherlock's life. Here, with the following argument, he was killing him.

"Sherlock, no. He can't live with you."

John blinked his eyes owlishly. "What?"

"Lestrade, I don't remember mentioning anything about him living with me. I said for him to come to my flat. Good day, Inspector. Come along, John."

Like a faithful puppy, John followed on Sherlock's heels. Though, I hasten to say, he is not anything remotely like a puppy. He is his own independent being; Sherlock's whetting stone, but a very strong and loyal man. He's more of an unleashed guard dog, standing next to his loyal friend, not master, following but nudging him in the right direction at times and keeping him in line.

"Where are we going?" John asked, shuffling awkwardly behind him as Sherlock seemed to summon a cab with his icy quicksilver eyes and a flick of his hand.

Sherlock looked at him, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He opened the door to the cab, and said to the cabbie as much to John, "221b Baker Street."

John blinked, smiled, and then climbed in after the consulting detective.

One last point to mention here: Dr. John Watson knew Sherlock Holmes. He knew he was a consulting detective and he knew where he lived. He knew Sherlock did want him to live with him, and he knew that Sherlock was going to decide for him. John was going to let him.

John was much more than he appeared. Much, much more.

Oi! Not much here, mostly explaining in this chapter. Not as interesting, I know, and certainly not as big of a cliffhanger as last time.

I am also aware that John seemed very stalker-like. And that is meant to be. It will be explained. Do not fear!

Yes, I know the campsite and station parts seemed rushed. Well, that was intentional. Sherlock doesn't bother to go into great detail about those parts, because it was dull to him and the interesting parts start happening once John goes to his flat.

I realized that this may not be as…story-telling like as the first chapter. I found out that that type of style is hard to right and duplicate. Excuse it if it seems…less epic and needy.

Still, I want your thoughts, ideas, criticism, and anything else that you can leave in a review.

Stay Happy,

Spirit