"Please, there's just one more thing," John Watson begged the unresponsive gravestone, "one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't. Be. Dead. Would you do that, just for me? Just stop it. Stop this."
Upon receiving no answer, John's head dropped to his chest in a silent sob; it was this action that caused the sweep of black suddenly flanking his reflection in the gravestone to go unobserved.
"No such thing as miracles, John, you know that," an all-too familiar voice came unexpectedly from behind him, "Only science that's ahead of the curve."
"Oh God, and now it's happened," John said with a laugh that teetered dangerously close to being a sob, "I've finally gone completely mad. I am actually hearing your voice now. My therapist is going to have a field day with this one."
According to the clock on Sherlock's bedside, it was 4:03 A.M. exactly when the screaming started. His eyes flew open, though otherwise he remained motionless, as his mind scanned the known particulars. Intruder? Potentially. Weapon? Advisable. Harpoon? Too hard to maneuver. Revolver? Satisfactory.
Sherlock swung swiftly out of bed, absently throwing on the dressing gown he had slung over the desk chair, retrieved the gun from his desk drawer, and padded silently into the hallway.
He could hear the screams more clearly now, and it took only a few seconds for Sherlock to realize that they were coming from the second floor. Oh God, John.( Read more...Collapse )
It starts with the siren. True, the blinding white light is an assault to his senses, but it is the siren which truly takes him back.
Ten. John begins his mental countdown the way his therapist taught him as he runs for the nearest access pad. Breathe, damn it, just breathe.
Nine. The words "ACCESS DENIED" pop onto the screen in angry, red letters. It's no good, his breathing is shallow and hurried now.
Eight. He frantically rams the card through several more times. Access is still denied. Come on, come on.
It was two hours into what had turned out to be a very pleasant walk before Nick and Monroe were able to make their excuses and separate from the rest of the group.
"At least take some lunch with you," Annie implored them, "Wouldn't want you boys getting hungry before you find us again."
"Thanks, Mom," Nick said teasingly, earning him a smack on the shoulder from Annie and a chuckle from David, in addition to a couple sandwiches and a container of potato salad.
"You're sure it's safe for you to be wandering around these woods by yourselves, Nick?" Marisa asked, glancing nervously around the woods surrounding them. "Mrs. Sims seemed to think there are wild animals out here."
"I'm sure Monroe will protect me, won't you, honey?" Nick asked, gazing adoringly at him, before remembering that the others would probably be wondering why he trusted an author of children's books to fight his battles. "He, uh, takes Krav Maga," Nick added quickly.
Nick was pulled from a deep sleep at eight the following morning by what his sleep-addled brain interpreted as the tinkling of a music box. "Mmm," he mumbled, turning over and reaching out for his partner, "Just five more minutes, Monroe."
To Nick's surprise, he did not come in contact with the blutbad's warm body, only the tangle of cool sheets. When his eyes flew open, they corroborated what his other senses had already told him: Monroe was gone.
"Monroe?" he shouted, glancing frantically around the room before hurling himself off the bed, "Monroe?" By the time Nick had searched the entire suite and found not only Monroe, but also Henry missing, a thousand terrible possibilities had flashed through his mind, all scored to the mechanical music of the strange, still jingling contraption.
What if Dorothy Vogel found out they were harboring Henry and taken them both? What if Mrs. Sims was a Ziegevolk and ensnared him with her charms? What if -( Read more...Collapse )
As he hurried to the next room to locate his wife, John Watson did his best to control his breathing and his hopes, both of which were threatening to spiral out of control.
"Mary," he said, his voice deceptively calm, "Try and remember, if you can. What did the postman look like?"
"John, dear, what ever is the matter?" Mary asked, looking at him with concern in her eyes.
"Please, Mary," he repeated, the fingers of his left hand beginning to tremble as they continued to clutch at the seemingly innocuous package.
"Well," she said slowly, making an effort to remember, "I suppose now that you come to mention it, he was a rather strange, little man. Quite tall, though you'd never know it by the terrible way that he stooped. And he had these vast, bushy whiskers completely covering his chin."( Read more...Collapse )