With a heavy sigh I turn my back on the window and its view over a rain soaked London and face the empty armchair on the other side of the room. At odd moments, especially early morning and late evening, I find myself missing Sherlock and wondering where the hell he has run off to this time. It has been two weeks since the dramatic scene outside Mycroft's house and nobody is any closer to working out what happened. One minute Sherlock was hovering in the sky with black wings outstretched (a cold shiver runs down my back at the memory) and the next there was nothing but empty sky.
Shaking my head I go into the kitchen to make a cup of tea, banging a mug down harder than is probably necessary on the counter. I can't believe Sherlock had kept this a secret from me. Sure it was huge and shocking news, but I would have accepted it eventually. That is what friends do after all. It hurts a little to think that he obviously didn't fully trust me. I clench my hands to stop them from shaking. It isn't like Engifted are even that unusual; London is full of them and we have helped more than a few in our time. I pause for a moment in pouring hot water into my mug as I am momentarily transported back to that moment when I had seen Sherlock take a life to protect me and Mycroft. Even now I am finding it hard to process what happened. I had never realised until that moment how much Sherlock actually cares about the people around him...I hang my head with a sigh. I wonder if I will ever see his face again.
Thankfully before I can sink much further into a black pit of despair there is a loud knock on the door. Oh good, Greg is here. I asked him to come and help me try to make at least a little sense out of what happened. After inviting him in I gesture for Greg to take a seat. He does so, leaving Sherlock's armchair empty. Unwillingly to sit in it I remain standing. "So, is there any news yet?" I ask him wearily. I am already beginning to give up hope of ever finding out anything. I am therefore surprised when Greg smiles and nods.
"You'll be pleased to know that there is." He says, pausing long enough to take a notebook from his jacket pocket and flip it open. "Over the past few days I have been receiving reports that several rather unusual and powerful Engifted have been spotted. Engifted that sound suspiciously similar to the legendary Elite. Only yesterday an Engifted with an identical description to Zephyr, the air Elite, was seen within the hills of the lake district." Throughout his explanation there is a happy grin on Greg's face.
I however am unable to see what he is getting so excited about. "Sorry but what has this got to do with Sherlock?"
Greg rolls his eyes, looking frustrated at my ignorance. "I've been looking over the stories and there are references to an Elite with powers almost identical to Sherlock's. I'm not sure of the exact connection yet but I am certain this could have something to do with his disappearance." He sounds so certain but I am going to need a little more convincing. It seems pretty weak and circumstantial in my opinion.
I shake my head. "I don't know Greg. It seems a little far-fetched to me." I reply, taking a sip of tea as I do so. Then from the corner of my eye I see movement over by the door. Now since I know Greg was alone it can only be an intruder. Muttering beneath my breath I turn to confront them. My words however die in my throat and a gasping choke escapes me.
Greg frowns at me before turning to look at what has shocked me so much. He freezes and his eyes noticeably widen. Even though it is utterly impossible Sherlock is standing in the flat and staring at the two of us with a deep sadness in his blue eyes. I am the first to react and go to rush over to him. A hand grips my arm tightly and yanks me back. "For God's sake Greg! It's Sherlock!" I cry, trying to free myself so I can rush to my friends side. What the hell is wrong with Greg? Doesn't he care that Sherlock is back? "Sherlock, where the bloody hell have you been? I've been so worried..." My voice trails away as a shiver of unease runs down my spine. In my joy at seeing Sherlock I overlooked a very important detail. I don't think this is the real Sherlock.
Looking closely I can clearly see that the Sherlock in front of me is rippling slightly; shifting imperceptibly between a perfectly healthy looking image to a terrifying blood stained one. I allow myself to be pulled backward to safety, knowing that Greg was right to hold me back. God only knows what would have happened if I had gone rushing in. The Sherlock image settles on the battered and bruised version of my friend. I have never heard of an Engifted having a power like this. Projecting illusions and hallucinations is supposed to be impossible... the image opens its mouth and I lean forward slightly, curious to find out what it might have to say.
Blood drips from between the image's shattered teeth and it winces slightly before it begins to speak. The breath catches in my chest. What the hell might have happened to have caused...I swallow hard before finishing the thought...such damage to Sherlock (if this is really his doing of course). "Help me." The image whispers in a cracked voice, reaching out pleadingly with broken, twisted fingers. "Please."
From behind me I hear the sound of the door opening. I wasn't expecting any other visitors and I exchange a glance with Greg. He doesn't look overly alarmed however which gives me an overwhelming clue as to the identity of the person who has just entered the flat. My suspicion is confirmed moments later by the familiar voice of Mycroft. "Sherlock?" He sounds shocked, which is understandable considering the state his brother is in.
The image tips it's head to one side. "Help me." It repeats. Behind it a pair of tattered wings unfold enough for us to see the savage tears in them. Tears prickle and threaten to fall and it takes quite an effort to force them back. Then, just as suddenly as it appeared, the image vanishes. In its wake is a small patch of blood staining the carpet.
Almost immediately my body begins to shake uncontrollably from the shock of what I have just seen and the air in the room feels as though it is suffocating me. Can that really have been Sherlock or was it just another Engifted playing a cruel trick? Whatever it is I need to get out of here for a while. I look up to find Greg watching me with some concern. Giving him a wobbly smile I head towards the corridor leading to Sherlock's bedroom. "I'll be back in a second. I just need to get some air." I tell them quietly, making sure to keep my face adverted so they can't see the tears streaming down my face.
Mycroft waited for the sound of the door closing before he turned to Lestrade with a sorrowful expression on his face. "He's taken Sherlock's disappearance hard hasn't he?" He said with a small shake of his head. Bending down he peered at the blood stain in an attempt to work out whether it was real or not. It looked alarmingly authentic from what he could tell. "I always wondered how close those two really were." He frowned when he noticed the look Lestrade was giving him. "Whatever is the matter?"
Lestrade gritted his teeth, determined not to swear too loudly at the guy he lived with. "You don't seem all that concerned that your brother was just standing right there!" He snapped, his eyes flashing with surprising anger considering how often he complained about Sherlock and his methods. He could hardly believe Mycroft's flippant attitude. It was like he didn't even care about... his train of thought faltered when he saw the anguish in Mycroft's eyes. He instantly felt guilty for doubting him. "I'm sorry, that was harsh of me. I imagine it was just as much of a shock for you." He said in apology, walking over to lay a comforting hand on Mycroft's arm.
Mycroft hung his head. "You're right Greg. I was acting a little cold." He sighed and slumped to the floor, burying his head in his hands. With a loud cracking sound ice spread across the floor in a fragile layer. Lestrade took a step back, knowing all too well what Mycroft was capable of when his emotions weren't fully under his control. "It was just such a shock to see my little brother looking like that.
Lestrade ran a hand through his thinning hair and glanced down at the blood stain that now sparkled beneath a dusting of snow. Though it seemed callous to ask he desperately wanted to know more about the image and what it could mean. He took a deep breath. "What was that anyway...that image? Could it be part of Sherlock's powers?" He asked.
Mycroft just about managed to stop himself from rolling his eyes. Sometimes he forgot how little Lestrade actually knew about the world of the Engifted. Not that he was really complaining. His world was brutal and vicious and he would rather his friends stay out of it. He sighed and melted the ice he had accidentally unleashed. It was a minor miracle he hadn't frozen Lestrade as well. "I wish it was Greg, oh God I really wish that was Sherlock. Manifestations such as that are a speciality of an Engifted known as the Nightmare." He looked up and met Lestrade's eye. There was an apprehensive look on the Policeman's face. Good, at least he had actually heard of the Engifted. Mycroft hadn't overly wanted to have to go into too much detail. Nightmare wasn't an Engifted you talked about lightly. "The Nightmare is famous for creating illusions designed to manipulate people's thoughts."
Lestrade sucked in a breath. There was a look of horror on his face. "But creating an image like that...that's messed up." His eyes widened when he noticed that Mycroft's hands were beginning to shake. Once again ice crept across the carpet, freezing everything in its path. "What's wrong?"
Mycroft let out a sigh. "I'm scared Greg. What if that wasn't an illusion at all?" He asked with a tinge of panic in his voice.
Lestrade had no answer for that. All he could hope was that Sherlock was somewhere safe and sound. The alternative was too horrible to contemplate.
Faraway from London in a place no human would ever be able to find Sherlock Holmes slumped against the bare concrete wall of his cell as much as the chains would allow him. He felt so tired, all his energy drained from that simple projection. Please dear God let it have worked. He didn't have the strength for another one. All he could now was pray John would see him and somehow work out what it was going on. It was a long shot but hope was the only thing Sherlock had left.
From out of the surrounding darkness there came a dark laugh. "Dear me Mr Holmes, I was expecting better from you. Did you not think I would notice you stealing part of my power to use yourself?" A pair of red eyes blinked open and glares with hatred at the broken figure before it. Slowly something began to form from the darkness. A vaguely human shape with draconic wings and darkness oozing from its stone like skin. When it smiled there was a bright glint of sharp silvery teeth. "It was a rather pathetic attempt too." Reaching out it ran a claw tip along Sherlock's cheekbone, leaving behind a thin trail of blood. Sherlock didn't even flinch, too exhausted for even that.
The dark creature, that which was known by the name Nightmare, gripped Sherlock's chin and forced his head up. "The sooner you give in to me the sooner the pain will stop." It hissed, the red eyes glowing brighter for a moment. Then, taking a deep breath, Nightmare blew a cloud of writhing darkness into Sherlock's face.
Even then Sherlock didn't cry out, despite the agonising pain tearing through him as the darkness ripped him apart from the inside. His eyes clouded over and he went limp, his mind turning inward to fight off the Nightmare's power.
A nasty smirk spread across the Nightmare's features as he released Sherlock and vanished back into the blackness he had come from. "Sweet dreams Mr Holmes."