Screaming Silence
Book 1
'Sherlock'
Other notable events happened in June, such as Sherlock occasionally catching John's eyes flare that gorgeous (gorgeous? Really, Sherlock? But no matter how he patronized himself, he couldn't think of a better word) electric blue and then fade to the normal blue of his watery eyes. He also once found him on the roof of their rooms, staring up at the night sky, and sat with him for most of the night. One other time, he caught sight of his bare back and saw it was as unblemished as the rest of his body—besides that war scar on his shoulder—which was unlikely for a veteran of war.
But other than rare occurrences such as that, June passed flawlessly and with only one more case, but that was fine, because Sherlock had John to keep his mind working.
He never thought of using cocaine or heroin, and when he was struck by the thought he hadn't craved the drugs for over a month shocked him. No withdrawal symptoms, no cravings, no fresh puncture marks anywhere on his body, in case he was somehow getting the drug into his system while he slept (unlikely but knowing him it wouldn't be too surprising), anything. It was like his craving vanished overnight.
It was July when everything changed. A delicious case, with a professional stunt artist killing one of his rivals for a part in a movie, and Sherlock relished both the challenge of the mind and of the body. He was no stunt artist, but he was confident that he could keep up with him.
John, by this point, had turned up the air conditioning so it was near freezing in their flat, not able to bear the thick, warm air. He also had been working his legs more and was able to keep up somewhat with Sherlock's fleet footed steps.
When Sherlock tracked the suspect down to a tall, underused building in central London, he dragged John along. Not that John didn't want to go, but he had literally grabbed him from his seat on the armchair and didn't let go of the back of his new jumper till they were on the street. He hadn't even had time to grab his jacket.
With the cab crawling towards the location, Sherlock was unusually quiet for being on a case. By this point, he was usually ranting on about one aspect of the case or another, or something different entirely, such as concert violinists in town or the different types of ashes made by certain cigarettes and cigars.
But he was silent, and that should have been warning enough he was anticipating something very bad or very boring.
Personally, I don't know which would be worse, to Sherlock Holmes. He is a complex being and his mind is even more cryptic.
Saying this, I continue on here: when John and Sherlock arrived two blocks from the location and walked to the building. Ordinary, in every way, but distinguished by the knowledge that a murderer lay behind its solid brick walls.
Sherlock entered through a bashed in window in the back, opening the door for John and pulling out a torch from the swirling blackness of his coat. The building was eerie, foreboding, with limp boxes on tables and strewn randomly around the ground, papers tossed to the ground and adding to the entire picture of disorganized, hurried abandonment and anger.
With the beam of the torch gliding on the walls and over empty tables and bashed counters, the silence only seemed to intensify with the limited vision the light offered them. The papers didn't stir, the walls still creaked, but the silence only grew with their ragged breathing and soft footsteps. Somehow, as the eerie sounds grew louder around them, making their hearts beat faster and their palms grow sweaty, the silence that pounded on their ears only grew louder.
John almost felt compelled to tell Sherlock the silence was screaming at them, but the silence stole the words from his lips and whispered to him not to break it.
Sherlock led the way, footsteps measured and quiet, his breathing just the same, and he slipped through slack jaw doors and stepped over fallen chairs and debris, and the torch light seemed dim and flickering, not reassuring as it should have been.
He heard John behind him, shuffling in the unique way that was his and breathing his wheezy breaths, and he was disconcerted by the sudden irrational urge to stop, reach back and take his hand. He did not, however, and slowly kept walking through the dying building.
They reached what should have been the lobby, and was only met with more loose papers and forgotten, useless artifacts that collected year's worth of dust. The said dust that was also recently stirred, lingering and dancing in the air, coating their lungs and slowly sinking to the ground.
Sherlock paused to study the ground, then leaned to John and put his lips near the older man's ear. "He's been here," he breathed, no louder than his exhaling breaths before. "See the footprints in the dust? He's gone upstairs—take your gun out, safety off, I think."
John nodded and took the gun Sherlock had handed him before he entered the place, staring at it for a moment before finding the safety and switching it off. He nodded once again to Sherlock, and they started up the old stairs.
Sherlock knew this place used to be a family owned business, owned by an American family that was forced to flee for unknown reasons and never inhabited since. He briefly considered the suspect to be of that family, but then dismissed the theory; he most likely chose this place because he knows there wouldn't be anyone in the building.
They slipped up the stairs, floor after floor, Sherlock following the nearly invisible footsteps in the layer of dust at their feet, John following the dim shape of Sherlock and the dimming light of the torch slipping from walls to floor and back to walls.
Each step up, each floor they approached, met and left behind made the hearts in their chests beat faster, made fear slowly creep under their skins and sit in their hearts. Each quiet breath stole the next one in their lungs; each flick of the eyes hid a demon from their view and formed another one in the corner of their eyes.
Up and up they climbed, the darkness squeezing in the corners of their eyes, suffocating, the silence of the weary building crushing their ears and the warm, dry air only made their trigger fingers grow slick with sweat.
John wiped his hand on his jeans, trying to calm.
Sherlock slowed before the next floor, checking for the tell tale signs of a man.
The torch flickered and died.
A murderer hid in the darkness, outrunning his guilt.
Thunder rolled in above the city's head.
Sherlock heard the murderer before the suspect was aware. He stopped, held his breath, tightened his hold on the gun. John did the same. Both heard the ragged breathing of a desperate man.
The detective stepped around a wall, standing valiantly between them, and aimed his gun at the man standing over a table and clutching his hair. The suspect, Derrick Frank, instantly turned, fell to the ground and ran.
A stunt artist he was, and he managed to sprint into a connecting room and force a window open. Sherlock fired, but missed as he climbed out of the window and scrambled upwards to the roof.
"He's heading for the roof, John!" Sherlock cried, bounding back to the stairs and ascending them three at a time. John followed at a more reasonable speed, wheezing breaths tearing his throat.
Sherlock, spiraling in an adrenaline high, thought nothing of the rusting lock holding the grate above a ladder to get to the roof. He shot the lock clean off and scrabbled up the rusting ladder, barely waiting to call John in the right direction. As if the good doctor could have missed the clear slice of a gunshot.
John had a hard time on the ladder. The cold, rainy night air hit his face and he breathed it in, forcing himself up onto the slick roof top.
What he saw was this:
Two figures outlined by the light of the stars and moon, grappling near the edge of the roof. The taller had a hand in the other's hair, the other on a wrist clutching his throat. The smaller of the two had the hand on the throat, other holding the handgun away from his general being.
John had only five seconds to stand from the trap door, tighten his hand on his gun, and start his awkward run towards the pair. But he only got a few steps closer and the smaller twisted violently to the side, his knees hitting the lip of the roof and making him reel backwards.
The grip on the pale throat did not lessen—it might have even tightened—as he teetered on the very edge of death, then fell victim to its tempting call. Both went over and vanished into the dark, suffocating blackness.
John screamed Sherlock's name, ran to the edge of the roof and watched his friend fall.
Sherlock did not yell as he went over. He only pulled away from the murderer's poisoned hands and fell with his arms spread and his coat slapping around his legs. He flipped, turned, rotated and twisted in the air and only glimpsed a third figure falling towards him.
He heard the sound of another object, or man, falling towards him and as he flipped up to face the fleeing building, he caught sight of a wooly jumper, outstretched hands and a cape of ivory.
Sherlock felt warm arms encircle him, heard comforting voice in his ear, saw nothing as his eyes closed against the painful air, and felt his legs entangle with the man falling with him. His hands filled with soft woolen jumper, and he clutched onto him like he was his only lifeline.
It was selfish of him to pull John down with him, but he wasn't about to let him go.
Only they didn't continue falling. The voice once again spoke in his ear and the stinging air stopped slapping his face for a blissful moment.
"Hold on!"
Then they were up vertical, a powerful force fighting against gravity launching both of them away from the Earth and up towards the swirling sky.
Mwhaha! And so ends Book 1!
I'm cruel. Yes I am. And I will be even crueler the next book, which shall start with the story of how John really fell. Then his thoughts through the events Sherlock vaguely sketched for us, in his own 'romanticized' words. I know I would be annoyed if anyone did this to me, but believe me, it would be more confusing I think if John just explained everything and answered Sherlock's questions.
After all, us mortals do enjoy 'romanticized' versions of events more than scientific versions, for a story like this at least. John has to speak to us in his own words, and that means from the beginning. Do try to fantasize how Sherlock will react to John's mysterious powers, yes?
There are probably mistakes in here. Excuse them if there are, but point them out so I can feel embarrassed. *sweet smile*
Tell me what you think! Please! Now I'm reduced to begging. Thanks. But please review! I don't know if I'm just rambling or what!
I do tend to ramble a lot though…
Stay Happy,
Spirit
(I wrote Sherlock there first. Almost didn't catch it. Somehow, I find that acceptable.)