Chapter II- IN WHICH STUFF HAPPENS BUT NOBODY KNOWS WHAT
When the two men entered the restaurant with their stormy atmosphere mixture of embarrassment, arrogance, curiosity and intelligence, all condensed and put under a perfect curtain woven of fabrics of normality and common emotions found at an upper class restaurant, they had no problem getting to the seating which Mycroft had set up for them. He had been amused that his little brother with his rebellious attitude was working within the "strict" rules of the police force, to solve a case that hadn't even been proven bloody. Sherlock had been practically growling after his remarks about his growing boredom and desperation for entertainment, that to the passerby, seemed like a simple concerned high-class stranger striking up a chat with an old friend, but to the Holmes Brothers, was nothing less than a brass-knuckled punch to the younger one's high functioning-ego. John had the terrible misfortune of witnessing the gruesome aftermath battle of wit and words that would leave the poor doctor's head spinning for days.
"What exactly are we looking for?" John hissed at Sherlock from around a menu, as they settled down at the table in the back.
"Suspicious activity and mysterious persons" the man sniffed, not really paying attention but more of focusing on a specific item the menu offered, which we will never know because at that moment, he glanced over his shoulder and snapped the menu shut.
"what can I get for you?" The waiter spoke with a bit of southern accent, (not the American kind, for all you who assumed that, remember they are in London) that made Sherlock look up at his clean-shaven face before answering.
"I'll take a water" He said swiftly, still deducing the location of this particular specimen in his life's place of origin. John have him a look that said something along the lines of stop being so rude, but it went unnoticed, so he just blinked exasperatedly and ordered his meal.
"We have a viewer." Sherlock coughed into his fist, sparing a look at John, and breaking his pondering posture of unconsciously leaning slightly back to look down at his fellow conversation holder, and appear superior. This posture of raised eyebrows, folded hands and legs, and intensely focused eyes, did nothing to disturb the other man's confidence however. He had become immune to such things after living with the strange man for what seemed like an eternity. The veteran shifted uncomfortably in his seat when he heard this, however.
~€.€~
"Thank you." John nodded to the waiter when the food arrived. Sherlock simply sipped his water in a dignified way.
"Follow me" he muttered between his teeth, so as to not show emotion or reveal any tells to the follower. He shrank out of his seat and headed towards the bathrooms. John purposely looked bored for a minute, then followed the pale man. When he arrived in the dimly lit hallway with the two doors with the little figures on them to signify which bathroom was which.
Sherlock stood at the end of the long, nicely decorated hall, staring at a mirror. It truly was a piece of art straight from a museum or even from an ancient culture's place of religion. It was framed in a swirling silver design of bands that swarmed like waves and curled like fire. It was a broiling mass of what might appear to be dragons, but the next moment was plumes of smoke. It shimmered temptingly in the pale, gold lighting, with all the allure of a diamond in a display case, but it was more magnificent. It was frozen and perfectly still, yet it appeared to hold a thousand moving images at once. Scratch that, there were millions.
"My god." John muttered in complete amazement that shown on his face.
"Seems so indeed" the consulting detective replied in a barely-there voice that had a little echo. "I don't recognize it from anywhere" he said, searching his mind palace for a hint or a clue.
"it's amazing" John whispered.
"What were even here for?" Sherlock suddenly said shaking his head in confusion. He never forgot something without deleting it. He turned his head towards John and saw his dark eyes glazed over. "What are you doing?" He asked in a small, weak voice that seemed to feebly wobble through the air, not reaching John's ears. The doctor reached out a hand towards the shimmering glass. "Stop!" Sherlock tried but he felt so insignificant and small in the now wide open hall of towering, dark wallpapered walls and the chandelier light swinging slowly above his head. All of his instincts were blaring red alerts and screaming at him from the corners of his mind palace, but he couldn't quite access it. Like the grand doors were locked.
"Interesting." A quiet voice laughed behind him, but the sociopath's head was spinning and he couldn't turn. Male, uhhh... Secondhand smoker...distance behind me? I have no idea. He stared only at the slow motion hand of the closest thing he had ever had to a friend, as his mind went blurry and slow.
"John, please stop!" His voice came out clearly this time, but the veteran couldn't hear him from the other side of the veil of almost hypnosis that covered him. In desperation he grabbed the man's arm, just as his finger touched the glass. John's face turned towards him at the last second with confusion so thick it practically flowed through his veins.
"Sherlock?" He muttered like it hurt to talk, "what's happening?"
"I don't know, John." He spoke and it hit him like a semi truck. He didn't know. But he had no time to ponder this terrifying thought of reality, because he was hit with a sudden wave of darkness and nausea that buried him in grains of tiredness and drowned him in sleep.