AN: hey there folks and sorry for the late update, school has been stressful and my anxiety issues don't really help much either; but never mind!
It doesn't take Sherlock by surprise when a loud blare from a car overclouds his anxiety-stricken blabbering.
"That must be Mycroft," Sherlock says, his weird way of farewell. He puts on his coat, heads out of the room when he feels a hand on his shoulder. It's Mary.
"We're coming with you," she insists, which irritates the consulting detective further because he spent the last two minutes talking the couple out of it.
"No you are not," he huffs childishly and storms out before anyone can even blink.
He rushes into the car, slams the door shut and orders the driver to speed off before John can even set foot outside. The driver complies, more than obedient, as they speed through town; even pass a few red lights.
"I thought he was dead?" Mycroft's voice appears from the front of the car.
"As did I," Sherlock answers lowly.
"So we've been fooled then," Mycroft muses, bitterness more than apparent in his tone; he loathes being beaten, or even being made a fool out of.
Sherlock's silence only confirms it.
"What's going on now?" he manages to say after moments of silence.
"A lot of his men took refuge around her block, they probably planned this beforehand. Scotland Yard are already there, but, apparently, people who have set foot into her flat are yet to come out." Mycroft explains. "The last person entered three minutes ago,"
The driver slows down when they arrive at the street, probably because of the sheer amount of people fleeing; or the blaring sirens that slightly muffle the gunshots with the overall noise pollution.
"Why have you slowed down?" Mycroft asks obnoxiously.
"Uh…I th-think I ran over somebody," the driver confesses unusually.
"No you did not; they were already dead; along with the other ones lying before us. Drive!"
"But, they could still be-"
Sherlock cuts the needless arguing from his mind, gets out of the car and sprints against the overbearing crowd. He pushes past the flock of police officers, the startled civilians and sprints up the staircase to the second floor
There's a crowd of police officers, but he still manages to lock eyes with Lestrade; whose eyes slightly give way to relief when seeing Sherlock.
"There's no sign of her," he begins. "But then again, we wouldn't really know since the people that entered haven't even come out yet."
"You have a message," Donovan comes from nowhere, points to the door that leads to Molly's flat.
SHERLOCK HOLMES ONLY is smeared in red liquid. Presumably blood; but he doesn't want to consider whose it is.
"I guess I go in then," he concludes nonchalantly, even though every fibre of his being ripples with anxiety.
"You can't be serious," Donovan sighs, but he simply ignores her and walks in. he hears footsteps behind him and notices Lestrade. They take a few steps in, back to back, absorb every piece of information they can possibly find.
The whole flat is in disarray. But with the way things are thrown around, the place seems more like a robbery crime scene. Aside from the broken flower pot, there doesn't appear to be very many signs of assault. The gun on the kitchen table isn't even used.
A series of deductions assault the consulting criminal. Sheets of paper, scraps from books, clothing, broken glass, fur; they all lay haphazardly on the floor.
Wait a minute, fur?
Sherlock approaches it cautiously; gingerly pulls out a finger to get a feel out of it.
"Oh my God," he lets out uncharacteristically, even Lestrade picks up something is wrong.
It's a paw. Sherlock's touching a paw. Gently he sweeps the dirt away and uncovers a cat. His eyes are gouged out and replaced with a pool of ever-growing crimson.
Sherlock's mind palace barely acknowledges the mess before his eyes; or could it be that it's refusing to process it?
"What is it?" Lestrade asks.
"Nothing," Sherlock dismisses, scoops the blind cat in his arms. Alive or not, that cat needs proper treatment.
The atmosphere in the room shifts to one more ominous, even the faint sound of the clock startles the two of them every now and then.
Wait … the whole house is in a complete mess but the clocks are completely unscathed?
That's when it hits him.
"Greyson, we've got to get out here now!" he barks, grabs Lestrade by one arm as carries Toby on his shoulder as he dashes out.
And just in time to see the apartment deteriorate into a thousand shades of red.
AN: man, this chapter was so hard to write, but now it's out of the way hurray! Not gonna lie, I did rush this chapter. I guess I should put out that updates will be less frequent because school, ew yuck, and my mental health is just… a complete mess right now sorry :(