When no reply comes from the Sherlock's room my concern goes from worried about his general health to oh my god he must be dying! What other reason can there be for Sherlock ignoring me? The cry of pain that had disturbed my sleep had been one of agony, so god only knows what must be happening in that room right at this moment. Sherlock is almost certaintly in no state to answer the door. With this in mind I take a step back and analyse the situation before me, trying to work out how best to break down the door without dislocating my shoulder. I also need to be prepared to fight. Sherlock might not be alone in there. Several more seconds of deliberation pass before I finally take a deep breath and bring my foot crashing down onto the wood below the handle. With a splintering crash the door flys open with enough force for it to rebound off the wall, almost hitting me in the face. I allow myself a ruthful smile at my stupidity as I throw out a hand to stop it. Breathing heavily I rush inside, not entirely sure what I am expecting. An empty room wasn't it.
I freeze and stare around the room in shock. There is blood everywhere; the ceiling, the walls, the bedsheets...it's like something out of a horror movie. The room is also freezing cold and it takes me a while to notice the window is wide open. Curious I hurry over and cautiously peer out towards the street. Nothing to see, but as I pull back inside I notice a scattering of black feathers on the floor. Bending down I pick up a few of them and am surprised by how soft they are. As well the feather is blacker than anything I have ever seen, almost as though it is absorbing light like a mini black hole. What the hell happened here? Confused I allow the feathers to slip between my fingers and slump back against the wall. I take a few deep breaths to calm myself. Judging from the clues left behind I can almost definatly say Sherlock has been kidnapped and is probably in a bad way if the blood is anything to go by. With aa heavy sigh I pick up one of the black feathers again and examine it closely, wondering what type of kidnapper would leave such a symbol behind. Flowers are quite popular and there one case I worked on with Sherlock where the guy was leaving behind origami black lotus' but I have never heard of feathers being left at a crime scene...my stomach gives an odd lurch at that thought. I never thought I would be this side of events. I am way out of my depth. I am going to need help, serious help, like Greg and the rest of the metropolitan police help. With a heavy heart I reach into my pocket and pull out my phone, hastily speed dialling a familiar number. Hopefully it won't be long before Greg arrives.
In the end it only takes Greg about fifteen minutes to arrive and I strongly suspect he broke several speed limits on his way here. "Thanks so much for coming Greg." I say from where I am hovering in the doorway and watching Greg and his team hard at work. "I didn't know who else to call." Behind me I am vaguely aware of Mrs Hudson standing a little further down the corridor, a worried look on her face as she hands out cups of tea to the policeman who are searching the rest of the flat for clues.
Greg briefly glances up from where he is examining the closest blood splatter and gives me a smile. "Sherlock has done so much for me over the years. Of course I had to come John when I heard what had happened." His voice trails off when his gaze falls upon the feathers by the window. His brows furrow and he picks one up, examining it closely. "John, tell me again exactly what happened here." Greg asks, looking up at me with a serious expression on his face. He looks troubled, as though he knows the meaning behind the feathers left behind. I feel my hands begin to shake and squeese my eyes shut, unable to look at the blood any longer. "John?" Greg prompts.
Swallowing hard I take a moment to compose myself. I am still a little in shock at finding myself on the other side of an investigation. Now I know how friends and family of victims feel... It is not an experience I want to repeat. Once I am sure my voice will not shake when I speak I clear my throat and explain again to Greg about the scream I had heard and the terrible silence that had followed it. Outside the sky is still dark and the majority of London is still sleeping. "I heard a scream of agony that woke me up. Naturally I rushed downstairs and tried to gain access to the room by breaking the door down. When I got inside this was what I was greeted with." I finish, gesturing towards the room and the blood splatters. The shaking in my hands has grown worse and I clench them into fists into try and stop it. It doesn't do any good because apparently Greg has noticed my distress. Standing he makes his way over to me but I wave him away and turn my attention to Mrs Hudson.
"Come on dear, a cup of tea and a sit down will do you good." Mrs Hudson says, placing a gentle hand on my arm and leading me away down the corridor. Policemen move to let us pass and give me sympathetic looks I try to ignore. Maybe she's right and a sit down will do moe good.
Lestrade watched John go with a melancholy expression before he headed back over to the window and kneels beside Anderson, who did not even bother to acknowledge his presence. Hmm rather rude, but then that was not out of character for the forensic scientist. He was often a little stand offish, especially at two in the morning when he would rather be sleeping. Lestrade stared at the blood splatter, his eyes burning with tiredness until he was forced to rub a hand across them, and cursed beneath his breath. The feathers could only mean one thing...an Engifted was involved in this crime. It would be an absolute nightmare trying to work out who exactly was behind the abduction (Lestrade's current theory as to what had happened). There were many, many Engifted in the world and there were at least several hundred currently living in the city of London. To top that off Black wings were the most unapproachable of Engifted and to anger one was basically the same as personally signing your own death warrent. Lestrade felt an icy shiver run down his spine. Dear god let Sherlock be okay. To take his mind off negative thoughts he turned to Anderson and leant in close. "So,what's the verdict so far?" Any idea on who the feathers might belong to?"
Anderson snorted loudly. "Isn't that more your area sir?" He replied sarcastically. "After all not all of us can be detectives." Carefully he scrapped up some of the blood and dropped it into a tube, screwing the lid on tightly. He also collected one of the feathers and held it up close to his eyes. As well as being black when you looked at it closely you could see the fine delicate edges of the feather. He started slightly when Lestrade cleared his throat and glared up at him. After a moment he relented with a sigh. "Sorry, I haven't been getting much sleep lately. In response to your question about the feather I won't know until I've got one back to the lab to analyse it. Even then it could take several days to work out the Engifted's identity."
Lestrade shook his head and ran a hand through his hair, causing it to stand on end. "Sherlock might not have several days." He said in a quiet voice. Aside from Anderson's shoulders tensing he should no other signs of caring. "Just got the tests done as quickly as you can. We owe John that much at least." He said, his voice gentle.
Anderson rolled his eyes and was about to retort when he saw the look on Lestrade's face. Pausing he quickly collected up his sample and headed towards the door, the rest of the forensic team following close behind him. He glanced over his shoulder. "I'll phone you as soon as I get any results." He said before continuing to walk away through 221B. As he headed through the living room he nodded at John curled up in Sherlock's black armchair and received a sad smile in return. Sure the detective might be irritating sometimes but he had no argument against John. For John Watson he would make the DNA tests his number one priority.
Even once he had heard the front door slam shut Lestrade continued to kneel on the floor and stare numbly at the blood splatter nearest him. Something violent had happened here judging by the amount of blood and he couldn't help but be concerned that something terrible had happened to Sherlock. Over the years he had worked alongside him he had grown fond of the consulting detective and even had come to consider him a friend. With a heavy sigh Lestrade straightened up and turned to stare out of the window. Somewhere out there in London's vastness was Sherlock; alone and probably injured... he was disturbed from his thoughts by one of his officers asking whether there was anything they could do. Lestrade jumped and spun round. "Put out a city wide search for Sherlock Holmes amongst both the human and the Engifted communities. If he's out there I want him found." He ordered before giving other people orders to search Sherlock's usual haunts. He would make sure that no stone was left unturned. Quickly the officers hurried to do as they were bid.
Once the officers were gone a jarring silence fell over the flat. Even the sounds of Mrs Hudson clattering with her tea tray were gone, goodness only knew where she had got to, and John was conpicuous by his absence. It made Lestrade feel a little lonely. Carefully, making sure to avoid the piles of books and sciencetific equipment scattered everywhere, he made his way through the kitchen and into the living area. Frankly it was miracle John put up living in this mess and god only knew how Sherlock managed to find anything halfway useful. Even the kitchen was full of random stuff, including several human fingers that Lestrade didn't want to know how they had got there or where they had come from.
In the end it didn't take him long to find John who was curled up in Sherlock's armchair and staring at the long black coat hung over the back of the door. A wave of sadness swept through Lestrade but he quickly shoved it aside. He knew John well enough to know that he didn't like other people feeling sorry for him. Poor John. He still hadn't totally recovered from Sherlock faking his suicide and simply disappearing for two years. Across the room the clock on the mantlepiece struck three. Lestrade groaned loudly and sank down into the chair opposite John. John turned to him with glazed eye but appeared not to really notice him. Lestrade meanwhile stifled a yawn. It was way too early (or late depending on your viewpoint) to be at a crime scene. Why couldn't criminals keep more sociable hours? He rubbed at his eyes and laid his head back on the soft, comfortable fabric of the chair. He already felt hopelessly out of his depth. Until he got the results of the DNA tests there was nothing he could really do.
Lestrade's eyes grew heavy. The chair was very comfortable and it would be at least an hour before Anderson phoned...He was on the verge of drifting off to sleep whe he was abruptly awoken by a shrill ringing sound. In his drowsy state it took him a while to work out his phone was ringing and it was several seconds before he could fish it from his pocket. "Hello, Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade speaking." He said, stifling another yawn. From the other end of the line came no reply, though Lestrade was able to hear faint shouting. Shaking the sleep away he sat up a little straighter. "Hello? Is anybody there?"
Greg! It's Mycroft!" The connection was a bad one and Lestrade could barely hear what Mycroft was saying. The volume also kept fading in and out.
Lestrade frowned and glanced over at John who was showing a little more interest in what was going on around him. He was watching Lestrade with some curiosity anyway and definatly perked up when he heard Mycroft's name. "To what do I owe this pleasure Mycroft? You do realise it's three in the morning right?" He asked, surprised to be hearing from the eldest Holmes Brother.
I'm sorry if I'm disturbing you Greg, but I need your help. How soon can you get to my house?" Usually for him Mycroft sounded harried and distracte, not at all like his usual calm, collected self. In the background the shouting was still audible and was occasionally punctuated by a worrying sounding screaming. "Please Greg! I don't know how much longer I can keep holding them off." He continued, a pleading tone in his voice that sent Lestrade reeling.
"Hold who off?" Lestrade demanded, half rising from his seat. Across the room John sat up and fixed Lestrade with a hard look. What the hell could Mycroft want at this time of night, he wondered. "Mycroft what the hell is going on?!" He half shouted, his voice taking on a panicked edge. He had a bad feeling about this and he felt a jolt when the connection grew so bad he feared he had lost him. "Mycroft? MYCROFT!" He was now out of his chair and anxiously pacing from side to side. What the hell was going on today? First Sherlock disappearing and now Mycroft phoning up and asking for help? The world had been turned on its head and Lestrade didn't know how to cope with it.
There was a long pause before Mycroft replied and Lestrade began to grow seriously concerned something had happened to him. Finally, though faint, he received an answer to his frantic questioning. "No time to explain Greg. Just get here as quick- HEY! YOU! NIGHTMARE! GET AWAY FROM MY BROTHER!" Mycroft suddenly bellowed loud enough to make Lestrade jump and let out a small shocked yelp. This was followed by a loud crash and the phone abruptly going dead.
Lestrade stared at the phone in shock for a long moment before shoving it back into his pocket. He was already running for the door. He, like everyone in the Metropolitan Police, had heard of Nightmare and knew all too well of his reputation. Vicious, cruel and utterly without mercy; he was one Engifted who was truely feared and hated by his own kind as well as humans. You did not want to meet Nightmare on a dark night (or anywhere at all really). He swore beneath his breath. Even at this time of the morning it would still take at least twenty minutes to make it across London to Mycroft's house and by the sound of that phone call twenty minutes would be too long.
Greg, what's going on?" John shouted from behind him, rising from his chair and reaching for his jacket. "Do you news about Sherlock?" He doesn't pause to let Lestrade speak and instead just carries on talking. "I have to come with you. You can't leave me behind!" He is babbling and his words are tumbling over themselves in his haste to get them out.
Lestrade winced. He had no idea how to answer John's questions, he wasn't even sure how much he knew about about the Engifted. But then on the other hand he couldn't outright lie either because John would be able to pick up on it (when you've been around Sherlock long enough to tend to pick up a few of his tricks) and anyway Lestrade felt the poor guy had already been through enough because of Sherlock. Telling him about the phone call couldn't hurt. Still he took a few sceonds to compose himself before he answered. "Mycroft just called to ask for my help, it sounded urgent. I don't know if Sherlock was there." A small lie wouldn't do any damage. Still, of course, John would insist on going with him...not that Lestrade disliked John's company (in fact they got on very well) but he wasn't sure what scene would greet their eyes when they reached the house. Predictably John is already pulling on his jacket and heading towards the door. "I don't know if you should come with me John. It could be dangerous." Lestrade replied, following John out of the door and locking it shut behind him. "From what I could hear it sounded kinda bad."
With his lips drawn back in the human equivilant of a snarl John rounded on Lestrade, his eyes flashing with anger, and grabbed his arm in an iron grip that made Lestrade wince. "Don't you dare tell me what I can and can not do." He hissed, ignoring Lestrade's protests. "I served as an army doctor in the Middle East, Greg. I have gone up against Engifted, hell I served side by side with many of them. I have almost been killed in a bomb blast and I've lost count of the times I have been in danger since I teamed up with Sherlock. I am coming with you and there is nothing you can do to stop me." With this final, pratically shouted utterance he released Lestrade and stormed down the stairs, his footsteps echoing loudly in the empty stairwell.
Lestrade groaned and followed, lagging behind a little so he could think and compose his thoughts. Well, that probably could have gone better. Down below the front door to 221B crashed open with a deafening bang, accompanied by some choice swear words from John. He would have to apologise to him later when everything was better. He hesitated for a second longer and then headed outside to where his patrol car was parked by the curb. John was waiting beside it, looking impatient and more than a little pissed off. Unlocking it and climbing in he started the engine and fired up the siren. Before he drove away he glanced over at John to find him pratically vibrating with all the nerves he was trying to keep at bay. "John, I'm sure Sherlock's fine. He's proven before he can look after himself." He didn't really expect to get a reply and therefore wasn't overly surprised when one wasn't forthcoming. Lestrade gnawed anxiously at his lip. Dear god, please don't let them be too late.
Lestrade and John arrived at Mycroft's house ten minutes later (Lestrade may have broken more than a few traffic laws) to find a scene of absolute and total chaos. The car screeched to a halt, both of them leaping out and running towards what was once a chain of terraced houses. Now the stone frontages were streaked with ash and pockmarked with huge, nasty looking gashes that still oozed smoke. Several of the houses were gone completly, leaving behind nothing but a gaping hole that stood out in the usually pristine neighbourhood. Up above, obscuring the orange drenched night sky, ominous clouds loom, streaks of lightning occasionally illuminating what was rest of the street. One flash of searing light briefly lit up the dark silhouette of a roughly humanoid figure and the vast pair of wings stretching out behind them. John stared, shocked by what he was seeing. He had only seen Engifted before on battlefields and never before out in the normal world.
Lestrade cursed and started running forward. He recognised those wings and knew he had to somehow make himself heard above all the noise of crashing thunder and howling wind. Breathing in deeply he let rip. "MYCROFT!" He bellowed. He could have sworn he saw one of the Engifted, the one lit up briefly by the lightning, pause for a second and glance in his direction. Lestrade didn't know what else he could do. Humans had no chance against Engifted, they would probably end up getting torn to peices. Before Lestrade could take another step forward an invisible force blasted him off his fee. He hit the road hard and went skidding backwards for several feet before he collided with a streetlamp and came to an abrupt halt.
"Lestrade!" John hurried to Lestrade's side and instantly began checking him over for injuries. Thankfully he seemed to be unharmed, just a little winded. "What the hell was that?"
Lestrade went to tell John that he had bloody clue but he could safetly assume it was an Engifted when a dark chuckle came from above them. Both of them flinched and looked around for the source of the noise. "Don't worry little humans, he just ran into one of my forcefields. Though technically it is his fault. He should not have tried to interfere in our fight." The voice was so loud it seemed to shake the very air itself and even the ground shook when the Engifted landed, his constantly rippling, almost invisible wings spread out behind him. Lestrade recognised him at once, it was the un-nerving grey eyes and the scarred face that gave it away. "You humans are always so annoying." The Engifted taunted, a smirk spreading across his face when John stepped in front of Lestrade and crossed his arms, glaring up at the creature hovering above them. "You're awfully brave for something so breakable little human." Up above them, still illuminated by dramatic flashes of lightning the fighting continued. There was a flash of brilliant blue light and ice creeps down the outside of one of the houses, steaming slightly in the warm night air. The Engifted glanced over in its direction and muttered beneath his breath. "Lucky for you humans I have no time to deal with you right now." He said, stretching out his wings in preparation for take off. Before he could even lift them the Engifted is struck by a stream of ice. The Engifted threw back his head and screamed as ice spread across his chest, effectively trapping his arms against his sides. "Stay out of this Iceman. This is none of your business." The Engifted forced out between gritted teeth.
"You attacked my friends Shockwave! Of course it's my bloody business!" The second Engifted growled, hovering in the air surrounded by a cloud of freezing cold air. John did a double take, unable to believe his eyes. Could that really be...no it was impossible. There was no way that could be Mycroft. Because if Mycroft was an Engifted then that meant...no, he couldn't even think about it right now.
The first Engifted, or as John now knew, Shockwave, laughed, despite the ice creeping down his legs and slowly inching up his neck. But even as John watched chunks of ice began to flake away as the air around Shockwave and his very body vibrated faster than the air could see. "Look at you getting all protective over humans Iceman. It's sort of sweet in a pathetic way." Without warning his expression darkened. "This would be so much easier if you would just give us what we want. No one would need to get hurt and this could all be over." Shockwave snarled, finally breaking free of the ice on his arms with an explosive blast.
In response Mycroft bared his teeth, the temperature of the air noticebly dropping at the same time. "You and I both know that is not going to happen. My little brother is not a commodity you can just take. He is an Engifted with his own free will." He retorted, staring Shockwave in the eye. John meanwhile started, his heart beating wildly. Sherlock was an Engifted...Sherlock wasn't human...Sherlock had never told him. Why hadn't he told him? They were friends right? And friends told each other secrets. John felt hurt Sherlock hadn't felt able to confide in him. He was distracted from his thoughts by a roar from Shockwave.
The Engifted now looked murderous, his eyes had even turned a deep, evil scarlet. "Oh really Iceman, how exactly do you plan to stop me?" He gloated. "There is nothing to stop me destroying you and your little human pets and taking Sherlock by force." Holding out his hands palm up Shockwave concentrated on drawing his power in preparation to break the fragile things before him. Mycroft tensed and hastily threw up an ice shield. It wouldn't hold for long and in reality he was only prolonging the inevitable. Still, he had to try though. The force Shockwave could throw out was powerful enough to tear through solid steel- it would have difficulty with fragile bodies made of bone and flesh. Shockwave began to glow a bright white which grew to almost unbearable levels before he finally unleashed a destructive wave of energy. Mycroft screwed his eyes shut. This was going to hurt.
Several seconds passed and when the pain Mycroft was expecting didn't come he cautiously opened his eyes. Shockwave was on his knees coughing up mouthfuls of scarlet blood that left him unable to breath. The Engifted clawed at his throat, making terrible, frantic gasping noises. Mycroft frowned, unable to understand what was happening. Slowly he searched their surroundings. It didn't take long for his gaze to settle on his little brother. A gasp escaped him. With his black wings fully open Sherlock looked truly demonic and even his face was twisted in a dark expression of anger. Mycroft shook his head, unable to believe what he was seeing. This wasn't like his little brother at all. Taking a shaky breath he took a step forward away from the protection of his ice shield. "SHERLOCK! Stop! You're going to kill him." He cried, pleading and begging with the one person he thought he knew so well. The surrounding air was crackling and vibrating in response to the incredible power flowing off Sherlock in great waves. Mycroft felt a shiver of unease run down his spine. So it really was true then...there was no such thing as a nice Blackwing.
A nasty smirk spread across Sherlock's face, twisting his expression further. "Why that is the point of this endeavour Brother mine. He did try to kill you after all." Sherlock said in reply, his voice devoid of any emotion. Behind him his black feathers rippled in the slight breeze drifting through the air. Holding out a hand tipped with long curved claws he made a tight fist. Shockwave let out a high pitched screech of agony and went limp, collasping lifeless into a pool of his own blood. His chest didn't move and Mycroft realised with a jolt of horror that he wasn't breathing. Both Lestrade and John have gone totally white and looked in absolute shock at what the person who they thought was their friends had just done. Trying not to be obvious about it Mycroft moved so he was in between Sherlock and the two humans cowering on the ground. Right now there was no way in hell he was taking any chances. Then without any warning and for no apparent reason Sherlock could work out the world, and everything in it, simply stopped.