Author's note: Yes, I know I said there wouldn't be a new update till Monday, but I changed my mind, and decided (for rather mundane reasons I'm sure are of no interest to anyone, really) to update every day from now till the story is done. I'm sooooo changable like that :P So, here's chapter 8...
Enjoy! :)
Chapter 8: A darkness distinctly different
I could tell you about how John gets to the storage unit – about how he leaves the flat to go to the Yard and return the case files to Lestrade, and is then offered a ride back home by someone to whom he has been kind, on several occasions. I could tell you about his confusion when that person takes a wrong turn, and then another, and then another, and with each John feels more and more as if the wrong turns are deliberate. I could tell you all of this, but I prefer to skip the boring parts. Also, if I told you too much, it would spoil the story.
There are other things I could tell you about, instead – the feeling John gets when his suspicion grows into a conviction; the feeling when he realises what the conviction means; the darkness that comes over him after the fourth "wrong" turn, just as he twists his head to try and catch the name of the street (just in case he might need to text someone the location). In fact, I think I will tell you about the darkness, seeing as it might come in handy for comparison, later on.
This darkness feels like vertigo, like a concussion. It feels like an oil stain is flowing through John's blood vessels, muddying his mind in the process. He feels as if he is falling in several directions as one, running on quick-sand. There are echoes of words in his head, intelligible and startlingly sonorous.
When John comes to, he feels light-headed and heavy-limbed. There is a delicate chill binding his wrists together and cutting sharply into the gentle skin that covers them. It takes John a moment to sort out all the sensory input, which clashes around and into him in a dizzying vortex, but when he does, he realises the reason why his limbs feel too heavy and pulling is because he is suspended, like a clock pendulum, from the ceiling of a small , poorly-lit space. The toes of his shoes hang only a few centimetres above the floor, yet it is enough for gravity to do its work, exerting stress on joints of John's arms as his upper extremities keep being pulled at and forced to endure his body's weight. The slight swaying is not helping the vertigo, which still paints the world with unnatural swirls of colour, as his eyes prove reluctant in their cooperation.
John blinks – once, twice – letting out a quiet groan, as he tries to bring the blobs of various shades that lie below and around him, into focus. Just as he manages to make out the now-familiar shape of iron shavings and a metal container, he hears a voice coming from behind.
"Glad to see you're awake, good doctor."
A figure steps into his line of vision, staying on the outskirts of the circle that has been formed around John. A full set of various elements – all twelve, used in previous murders. John lifts his eyes from the ground and meets the gaze of the young forensic technician who has offered to give him a ride back from the Yard. Camden...Clarence...something with a C...The young tech who was there when the first victim was found. Come to think of it now, he was there on all crime scenes – well, of course he was, it's his job, John can almost hear Sherlock's tone, the one he uses when people are being obvious or stupid. He was always so inconspicuous, just quietly performing his duties; no one ever really paid him any attention, except when – oh. Except when Sherlock picked on him.
"Why?" John manages to croak out, his tongue seemingly too big for his mouth. Clemence! That's the man's name. John knew it was something unusual.
"Why? Well, I'm glad you're awake because I want to tell you about some things."
John shakes his head, regretting the movement instantly.
"No, why-?"
"Oh, you mean, why all this? Isn't it obvious?" The man's voice is still the same one he uses at crimes scenes – calm, friendly. It unsettles John more than any open sign of malice or aggression ever could. He strains to speak, knowing that he is buying time by keeping up the conversation.
"Revenge?"
"Revenge? Why would I want revenge?" Clemence sounds genuinely confused. John doesn't know whether it's the drug, but he can't help the feeling that this whole mess is getting more and more surreal, by the minute.
"Because of what Sherlock did, how he treated you. For the humiliation and –"
"Oh, no, no" The homicidal technician laughs an easy laugh, as if he and John just solved a misunderstanding regarding some mundane issue. "On the contrary, I would have been disappointed if he hadn't done so. Really, a man of his calibre should not have to put up with inadequacy. Besides, I was counting on it. That's why I mishandled the evidence."
John's face contorts, half with pain and half with confusion.
"Do you really think I've done that accidentally? Do you think I would have been able to manage all this, but mucked up a simple crime scene procedure? Good doctor, I see you are still somewhat out of sorts. I needed Mr. Holmes to believe I was as incompetent as everyone else, knowing that would serve as my greatest alibi and cover. Who would ever suspect an idiot?"
Hiding in plain sight. Sherlock would be thrilled.
"Why then?"
Clemence looks at John with somewhat resembling disappointment.
"Why, time, of course."
"Time?"
"Yes, time. We cannot control our own, can't slow it down or speed it up, or stop it. But we can stop the time of others. Isn't it marvellous? Being able to control time like that? It seems to be always moving, so who would not revel in the opportunity to stop perpetual motion? I stopped all of their times. And now, now I will stop yours, which is a whole new level, seeing as it will serve a double cause."
"And why is that?"
"Well, you see, my father was a clockmaker. Fascinating things, clocks. They are a perfect structure, an assembly of tiny pieces put together in a way that makes them more than just their sum. It makes them tick. They are precise, intricate, always moving, each with their own share of time. Humans are like clocks. A bunch of tiny pieces that need to be put in a certain way to tick. And Sherlock Holmes is like the most exquisite clock – precise, high-functioning.
Funny thing is, for such intricate machines, it doesn't take much to stop clocks. All you need to do is remove a key piece, the thing that makes them tick. It is such power, stopping a clock like that. I wanted to study him, see what he was made of – but I needed to stop him first, in order to deconstruct him. If I stopped his time by killing him, it would be like smashing a fine Swiss clock – blasphemy, really. No, I wanted to pick him to pieces, so I removed the key piece that made him tick – or, I plan to very soon. And here you are."
John listens, trying to make some sense of all the metaphoric gibberish coming out of the tech's mouth. He can deal with crimes of passion, or crimes of greed. Those are understandable, common – but this doesn't seem to be one of those crimes.
"Why do you need to study him?"
"Because it's fascinating, good doctor. And after a while, a man wishes to know the mechanics that drive such fascinating constructs." The man says this as if it's the most obvious thing in the world, and John knows he can't talk his way out of this. There is no common sense, no healthy logic behind any of this, just twisted illusions and sick fascination. He wishes his brain was still addled enough for him not to know what comes next. He tries battling against his shackles, but only manages to sway a bit more violently.
"You are mad." John is proud at the fact that his voice holds none of the dread he feels.
"Other doctors have called me that, before. But, no. Not mad – just curious. Well, I can't have you yelling while I deal with my preparations. I find loud noises in small spaces rather unpleasant. Seeing as I can't rely on you not to make any, I'm afraid I will have to intervene. Time is up, I'm afraid. Good night, good doctor."
As he feels darkness claiming him once again, John thinks of what he once told Sherlock – that he didn't have to imagine what his last words would be, were he faced with death. He expects the same words to settle him into the impending darkness, but the words never come. John doesn't pray or beg. He doesn't recite quiet psalms, or offer bargains for his life. In fact, what crosses his mind this time, aren't words, at all, but an image. It's an image of a face.
He thinks of Sherlock – Sherlock with his quick-silver tongue and inappropriate excitement. Sherlock with his dark definitions of "interesting". Sherlock, who solves crimes, when he could be so easily committing them, instead. He thinks of Sherlock, who doesn't care for propriety or empathy for strangers, but who cares about puzzles and solutions, and chooses to aim that care at bringing closure to the very people he doesn't empathise with. In the end, John thinks, maybe it doesn't matter that Sherlock refuses to care about some things, because he cares enough about other ones, and at the end of the day, he still sides with the good guys.
John tries to think some more, about Sherlock, who cares enough to know that Mrs. Hudson likes when he wipes his shoes on the mat before entering her kitchen, and cares enough to know John well enough to be able to guess all his passwords. He tries to think about Sherlock, who cares enough to debate the same subject of caring, over and over.
John tries to think about all of this, but he fails as he is once again enveloped by darkness. Just before the world is lost to John (or is it the world that loses John?), he thinks he hears a voice yelling his name. It's as far as he gets with thinking – a phantom voice and its ambiguous existence – and then there's nothing.
This is a new darkness, the same one I found myself in when you joined me in this story. It is different than the first one I've told you about. This one is silent and still, empty. It is nothing like falling or running. It doesn't feel like much, really. I am stranded in it, with clocks and chemistry and caring, left to contemplate stories, and happiness-that-no-longer-is, and thirteen victims instead of the predicted twelve.
If I had to assign it a feeling, I guess this darkness would feel like the number thirteen.
See you tomorrow! :)
