Sherlock Fic: Category Two; Chapter Four
The room is square, not big, maybe four paces each side. In the middle of it, accurate to the millimeter, lays the victim. A young man with an absolutely unappealing face, featureless. Leaving the room you would forget about his look in a few seconds. His eyes are open, the pupils blunt. Around his head a pool of dark viscous liquid molded, coagulated blood trickles into the porous wooden floor.
John, right besides Sherlock, leans against the wall, stares at the dead body; just a few inches separate his foot from the hand of the victim. His eyes run over the body, he tries to memorize every detail, but the victim is dressed in insignificance, grey, no abnormalities, no characteristics. Each time he averts his gaze and looks back again he reckons the body is a different, a new one.
Sherlock is dressed in his coat although they’re inside a building, it isn’t cold at all. John is wearing the beige jumper. Their sleeves are touching.
“What are we doing here, Sherlock?” asks John, a classic out of his infinite question repertoire.
“It’s a crime scene, John. This is what we’re doing; we visit crime scenes and find the murderer.” Sherlock draws up his knees a bit, want to hug his legs. A light jolt goes through Johns left arm. He tears his eyes away from the corpse, instantly forgetting how it looked like, looks down his arm. Around his wrist swings the metal ring of a handcuff, already left an imprint, raw skin that glints red and burns. He is bound up to Sherlock who looks down at his own handcuffed wrist, also surprised.
“Interesting” he whispers, carefully lifting his right arm, pulling Johns with him, lowers it. No more questions from John.
The room got no windows, John suddenly realizes, the same is true for doors. He wonders how they even entered, looks back at the dead body. The coagulated blood still seeps down, the dark wooden floor tiles are already swollen up, can’t take any more blood; the fluid grows darker, and then gets more translucent. It springs out of the ground, soaks the body, the grey clothes, reaches Johns shoes, then his trousers, he feels the cold water on his skin, soon it covers the whole floor. It’s rising.
Again a jolt in Johns left arm, Sherlock latches on to the wall, pressing himself against it, John follows. The water rises silently. His ankles are getting cold. Although the fluid still isn’t high enough, the victim’s body sinks into the wet darkness. When the young man’s face vanishes under the surface it is like he never existed.
Sherlock surveys the room, his eyes bob rapidly, searching for wrinkles in the wall, he strokes over the wallpaper with his free arm. He keeps his observations for himself, but maybe he doesn’t see anything at all. The water is clear but at the same time incredibly black. John can’t feel his legs which are under water completely now. He can’t make out the ground he is standing on. He moves his toes inside of his shoes but doesn’t feel it. His wrist hurts.
“Can you open it?” John asks. Sherlock gives the handcuff a tug, drawing John nearer, observing the closing mechanism and the links in the chain which connects the two iron rings, brushes over the metal, then over John’s wrist, traces the red burning scars, feels for his pulse and finds it, his tapping finger keeps in time with the beating. He looks up. His eyes, black water, see straight trough John, now very close to his face. Sherlock doesn’t breathe.
“No” Sherlock whispers, only after a few seconds it becomes clear to John that it is the answer to his question, Sherlock still fixedly watches him, right through him, in his head he probably combines possibilities. The water is up to his collarbone, he shivers.
Sherlock raises his free hand, at first John believes he wants to punch him, jerks, but then Sherlock blindfolds him with his hand, gets even closer, curls touch his forehead, resting there. Sherlocks fingers are cold. Silence. John doesn’t dare to move, waiting for something to happen, the hand lies cool on his face, Sherlock doesn’t speak nor breathe nor does anything at all.
But suddenly, when the silence is just beginning to hiss in Johns ears and the darkness is growing behind closes lids, a heavy hitch moves through his arm, the handcuff cuts deep into John’s flesh, Sherlocks free hand is pulled off Johns eyes, his body is tossed backwards into the water, creating waves, instantly sinking into the darkness. Brown curls frame a pale face, right under the surface. Sherlocks disembodied hand leaves bloody streaks; they swirl around the bright face before it vanishes into the deep. The handcuff dangles useless around John’s wrist, he is free, blood pulses out of the long cut across his artery, he tries to press a hand on it, but red liquid gushes through his fingers.
The water is rising; John squeezes himself against the wall, feels the cold right up to his chin, drifts right under the ceiling and then sinks. Shrouded by a red sea he runs out of breathe.
When he wakes up he is lying on the floor besides his bed, face down on the cool planks. It is eight weeks after Sherlocks fall. Tomorrow he will meet Julie. After that he won’t have these dreams again for quite a while.