Sherlock Fic: A Confrontation of Demons - Part 1 of 6(?)
Title: A Confrontation of Demons (1/6?)
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC 2010)
Disclaimer: Not mine in any way at all.
Rating/Warnings: Gen or Squint, Mild R (Violence) Post 1.03, so spoilers.
Word Count: This part, 1100-ish.
Beta: dear_monday! \o/
A/N: For lovelokest, who won the help_pakistan auction in which I offered a 500 to 1000 word story (thank you for your donation to disaster relief) and who will be getting a lot more than advertised when this is all finished. Hope you don't mind?
Summary: It's 2:18 AM, do you know where your Sherlock is?
-
A Confrontation of Demons
~ Part 1 ~
by CaffieneKitty
-
His mind was slow, so slow, why was that? Disoriented, couldn't think, head hurt, clearly something was very wrong indeed.
Pain shot through Sherlock's shoulder as he was yanked off-balance and pulled along the foul muck of the tunnel floor.
Oh, yes. He was being dragged off to be beaten to death.
-
Sherlock's phone was ringing. It took three annoying 'tweedleedlee's for John to progress from Answer your bloody phone, Sherlock, to Who'd be calling Sherlock in the middle of the night? and finally to Wait. Why can I hear it so clearly from my bedroom?
John opened his eyes to find Sherlock's mobile phone on his bedside table, charge light flashing as it rang. It most certainly hadn't been there when he'd fallen asleep.
It rang one more time while John ground his sleep-deprived gears about why and how this was very wrong before picking it up.
The display read UNKNOWN NUMBER along with 'Jun 16 02:18'.
John sighed and answered. "Hello?"
"It's Mr. Holmes," said the caller. John couldn't tell if the voice was male or female, very young or very old; it was light and whispery, shaking. A loud vehicle passed in the background; the caller was at a pay phone. Sherlock probably could've identified the colour of the caller's eyes.
"No, it's not Mr. Holmes," said John, pinching the bridge of his nose. "It's just Mr. Holmes' phone. Mr. Holmes is probably asleep."
"He isn't. They've taken him."
"What?" John pushed himself up on one elbow. "Who has? Who's this?"
"They've taken Mr. Holmes, down into the dark," the voice said, strained.
"That's rubbish. He's just asleep. Hold on a minute and I'll get him."
"He's down in the dark. That's where they kill us."
A shock ran through John like icy water. He sat up. "Who is this?"
"Come. Please come." The caller sounded near to tears. "We only wanted help. We never wanted them to kill him too."
"Where. Tell me where you are. If this is some kind of sick joke, I swear-"
"They've taken him down into the dark. Silvertown. You can get in from the old railway tunnel. They took him from eighty-nine NW."
John scrabbled at his bedside table and found a pen and pad of paper right next to where Sherlock's phone had been. Too convenient not to have been deliberate. Sherlock, what are you doing? "Eighty-nine NW, tunnels under Silvertown," he repeated, writing the information down.
"Hurry. He won't last long in the dark. No one does."
"Meet me," John said, voice snapping out in a command. "Show me where he's gone."
"I can't. You'll see it. Please hurry!" The line went dead.
John thundered down the stairs, cursing, Sherlock's mobile still clutched in his hand. This is ridiculous. It's just a prank call, creepy feathery voice talking nonsense out of horror stories. Sherlock's here, he's got to be, phone and notepad aside. He's sleeping, or in the sitting room, or doing unspeakable things to the kitchen appliances. Of course he is.
Nothing in the darkened flat looked abnormally disturbed. The kitchen was empty except for the sealed jar of murky liquid and severed fingers that had been there all week. The walls of the sitting room were still covered in printouts of lunar phases, tidal charts and maps of London all scrawled on in multiple colours of felt pen. No Sherlock.
John tapped twice on Sherlock's bedroom door before opening it to find several things that weren't Sherlock and had no business in anyone's bedroom. He closed the door again quickly. The bathroom door was standing open, room empty.
Hang not waking Mrs. Hudson. "Sherlock!" John shouted. No response. Sherlock wasn't in the flat. John's pulse rate picked up.
Hold on, hold on, not going to let a creepy little voice in the night run away with my imagination. Maybe he just went for a walk or something. John sped down to the entryway. Sherlock's coat, scarf and shoes were in their usual places.
Something wasn't right. Actually, everything wasn't right, but this was a specific sort of not-rightness. John looked again. The pair of shabby old shoes he'd thought must have been Mrs. Hudson's gardening shoes were missing. Now that he thought about it, they were too big to ever fit Mrs. Hudson. And the building didn't really have a garden.
Sherlock's not here. He's in danger, and he didn't even tell me he had something on.
John ran back upstairs to pull on some trousers and a jumper, thumbing through the contacts on Sherlock's phone, landing on Lestrade. The phone rang twice before the Detective Inspector picked up.
"Do you have any idea what time it is, Sherlock?" Lestrade's voice was sleep-roughened and muzzy.
"It's me, Inspector, it's John Watson." He hopped on one foot, trying to pull his trousers on.
Lestrade groaned. "I'd've thought at least you'd have the sense-"
"Sherlock's disappeared."
"Not a crisis," mumbled Lestrade. "He'll turn up when he gets bored."
"He's not working on anything for Scotland Yard?" John shrugged a jumper on over his pyjama shirt.
"Nothing on my docket. I wouldn't worry Doctor, he does this sometimes, can't get hold of him for days-"
"No, this is different. He's gone and he left his mobile here, somewhere I'd hear it if it rang."
Fabric shifting. "...that's odd."
"It gets odder. Just got a call on his phone, someone saying-" ...a load of tripe about getting killed in the dark. Not helpful. John wedged the phone between his ear and shoulder, pulling his gun and a torch out of his bedside table. "Saying he's in danger, someone's got him. He needs help, Lestrade. I know it."
"Maybe just someone having a joke? The number's on that website of his."
John rattled back down the stairs. "This didn't sound like a joke. The person said he'd been taken in the tunnels under Silvertown. They'd asked him for help and didn't want him to be killed."
"...Silvertown?"
"I've got nothing at all, Lestrade, no proof, but Sherlock left his phone on my bedside table, with a notepad, like he expected someone would need to make the call they did, and I'd need to take notes about it." John pulled his jacket on in the entryway, awkwardly stuffing his gun and a torch in his pockets one-handed.
"You're certain he's not there?"
John glanced at Sherlock's big black coat, still hanging on the stair railing. "His coat's here, his shoes are here, his bloody phone's here, he's not. Something is very wrong. 999 won't be any help, and from what the caller said there's no time to waste."
Lestrade's voice had sharpened, fully awake. "Right. Okay. What do you want me to do?"
John stomped into his shoes without stopping to untie them, bending and pulling them on the rest of the way. "There's some kind of access off the old railway tunnel in Silvertown. They gave some sort of reference number, 89-NW. I'm going. If you could meet me there, I'd appreciate it."
Without waiting for an answer, John disconnected and stuffed Sherlock's phone into his pocket as well. He flung open the front door and ran flat out for the taxi rank on Marylebone Street.
-|-
(To Be Continued...)
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC 2010)
Disclaimer: Not mine in any way at all.
Rating/Warnings: Gen or Squint, Mild R (Violence) Post 1.03, so spoilers.
Word Count: This part, 1100-ish.
Beta: dear_monday! \o/
A/N: For lovelokest, who won the help_pakistan auction in which I offered a 500 to 1000 word story (thank you for your donation to disaster relief) and who will be getting a lot more than advertised when this is all finished. Hope you don't mind?
Summary: It's 2:18 AM, do you know where your Sherlock is?
-
A Confrontation of Demons
~ Part 1 ~
by CaffieneKitty
-
His mind was slow, so slow, why was that? Disoriented, couldn't think, head hurt, clearly something was very wrong indeed.
Pain shot through Sherlock's shoulder as he was yanked off-balance and pulled along the foul muck of the tunnel floor.
Oh, yes. He was being dragged off to be beaten to death.
-
Sherlock's phone was ringing. It took three annoying 'tweedleedlee's for John to progress from Answer your bloody phone, Sherlock, to Who'd be calling Sherlock in the middle of the night? and finally to Wait. Why can I hear it so clearly from my bedroom?
John opened his eyes to find Sherlock's mobile phone on his bedside table, charge light flashing as it rang. It most certainly hadn't been there when he'd fallen asleep.
It rang one more time while John ground his sleep-deprived gears about why and how this was very wrong before picking it up.
The display read UNKNOWN NUMBER along with 'Jun 16 02:18'.
John sighed and answered. "Hello?"
"It's Mr. Holmes," said the caller. John couldn't tell if the voice was male or female, very young or very old; it was light and whispery, shaking. A loud vehicle passed in the background; the caller was at a pay phone. Sherlock probably could've identified the colour of the caller's eyes.
"No, it's not Mr. Holmes," said John, pinching the bridge of his nose. "It's just Mr. Holmes' phone. Mr. Holmes is probably asleep."
"He isn't. They've taken him."
"What?" John pushed himself up on one elbow. "Who has? Who's this?"
"They've taken Mr. Holmes, down into the dark," the voice said, strained.
"That's rubbish. He's just asleep. Hold on a minute and I'll get him."
"He's down in the dark. That's where they kill us."
A shock ran through John like icy water. He sat up. "Who is this?"
"Come. Please come." The caller sounded near to tears. "We only wanted help. We never wanted them to kill him too."
"Where. Tell me where you are. If this is some kind of sick joke, I swear-"
"They've taken him down into the dark. Silvertown. You can get in from the old railway tunnel. They took him from eighty-nine NW."
John scrabbled at his bedside table and found a pen and pad of paper right next to where Sherlock's phone had been. Too convenient not to have been deliberate. Sherlock, what are you doing? "Eighty-nine NW, tunnels under Silvertown," he repeated, writing the information down.
"Hurry. He won't last long in the dark. No one does."
"Meet me," John said, voice snapping out in a command. "Show me where he's gone."
"I can't. You'll see it. Please hurry!" The line went dead.
John thundered down the stairs, cursing, Sherlock's mobile still clutched in his hand. This is ridiculous. It's just a prank call, creepy feathery voice talking nonsense out of horror stories. Sherlock's here, he's got to be, phone and notepad aside. He's sleeping, or in the sitting room, or doing unspeakable things to the kitchen appliances. Of course he is.
Nothing in the darkened flat looked abnormally disturbed. The kitchen was empty except for the sealed jar of murky liquid and severed fingers that had been there all week. The walls of the sitting room were still covered in printouts of lunar phases, tidal charts and maps of London all scrawled on in multiple colours of felt pen. No Sherlock.
John tapped twice on Sherlock's bedroom door before opening it to find several things that weren't Sherlock and had no business in anyone's bedroom. He closed the door again quickly. The bathroom door was standing open, room empty.
Hang not waking Mrs. Hudson. "Sherlock!" John shouted. No response. Sherlock wasn't in the flat. John's pulse rate picked up.
Hold on, hold on, not going to let a creepy little voice in the night run away with my imagination. Maybe he just went for a walk or something. John sped down to the entryway. Sherlock's coat, scarf and shoes were in their usual places.
Something wasn't right. Actually, everything wasn't right, but this was a specific sort of not-rightness. John looked again. The pair of shabby old shoes he'd thought must have been Mrs. Hudson's gardening shoes were missing. Now that he thought about it, they were too big to ever fit Mrs. Hudson. And the building didn't really have a garden.
Sherlock's not here. He's in danger, and he didn't even tell me he had something on.
John ran back upstairs to pull on some trousers and a jumper, thumbing through the contacts on Sherlock's phone, landing on Lestrade. The phone rang twice before the Detective Inspector picked up.
"Do you have any idea what time it is, Sherlock?" Lestrade's voice was sleep-roughened and muzzy.
"It's me, Inspector, it's John Watson." He hopped on one foot, trying to pull his trousers on.
Lestrade groaned. "I'd've thought at least you'd have the sense-"
"Sherlock's disappeared."
"Not a crisis," mumbled Lestrade. "He'll turn up when he gets bored."
"He's not working on anything for Scotland Yard?" John shrugged a jumper on over his pyjama shirt.
"Nothing on my docket. I wouldn't worry Doctor, he does this sometimes, can't get hold of him for days-"
"No, this is different. He's gone and he left his mobile here, somewhere I'd hear it if it rang."
Fabric shifting. "...that's odd."
"It gets odder. Just got a call on his phone, someone saying-" ...a load of tripe about getting killed in the dark. Not helpful. John wedged the phone between his ear and shoulder, pulling his gun and a torch out of his bedside table. "Saying he's in danger, someone's got him. He needs help, Lestrade. I know it."
"Maybe just someone having a joke? The number's on that website of his."
John rattled back down the stairs. "This didn't sound like a joke. The person said he'd been taken in the tunnels under Silvertown. They'd asked him for help and didn't want him to be killed."
"...Silvertown?"
"I've got nothing at all, Lestrade, no proof, but Sherlock left his phone on my bedside table, with a notepad, like he expected someone would need to make the call they did, and I'd need to take notes about it." John pulled his jacket on in the entryway, awkwardly stuffing his gun and a torch in his pockets one-handed.
"You're certain he's not there?"
John glanced at Sherlock's big black coat, still hanging on the stair railing. "His coat's here, his shoes are here, his bloody phone's here, he's not. Something is very wrong. 999 won't be any help, and from what the caller said there's no time to waste."
Lestrade's voice had sharpened, fully awake. "Right. Okay. What do you want me to do?"
John stomped into his shoes without stopping to untie them, bending and pulling them on the rest of the way. "There's some kind of access off the old railway tunnel in Silvertown. They gave some sort of reference number, 89-NW. I'm going. If you could meet me there, I'd appreciate it."
Without waiting for an answer, John disconnected and stuffed Sherlock's phone into his pocket as well. He flung open the front door and ran flat out for the taxi rank on Marylebone Street.
-|-
(To Be Continued...)