Welcome to Silent Hill - Cleo2010 (2025)

Chapter 1: Chapter One: Welcome to Silent Hill

Chapter Text

The scenery is quite remarkable in its own way if you only plan on admiring it once. It’s far from London and the air feels far too clean for my liking but the mountains and lakes weren’t altogether unappealing to the eye. Just dull. Once you’ve seen one mountain you’ve seen them all. It doesn’t take much imagination to imagine them green, rocky or snow-capped. Not particularly useful to remember them beyond using them as geographical reference points. What kind of tedious idiot would want to walk up them as a hobby let alone take endless photographs?

“Why d’you even want t’go there? Godforsaken place.” The cabbie mumbled the last words and it wasn’t the first time I’d heard the term ‘godforsaken’ in conjunction with my current destination. Others terms like ‘ghost town’ and ‘haunted’ had been prevalent too. Complete hogwash, of course but it amused the simple minded locals. “Silent Hill ‘tisnt a tourist destination.” It was the aging taxi drivers fifth attempt at making conversation. The absence of family photos and a wedding ring suggested a lonely man, probably gotten as far as being engaged a few decades ago but no further. Gambling problem, horses. He’s barely washed or groomed, he has no reason to bother.

“I’m looking for someone.”

“Who? Dead wife?”

“No one you know.”

“Well shouldn’t take you long, t’place is a ghost town, not a soul lives there.”

“Good.” I want to cut the conversation dead, I’m not interested. None of it helps and he knows little more than gossip about the town. He is of no use to me.

It’s been thirty-one hours and thirty-eight minutes since he was taken. A text and accompanying photo from John’s mobile was sent to me seven hours and thirty-eight minutes ago to mark twenty-four hours since he was snatched after a bogus home visit. John, bound at the wrists, ankles and mouth laying on his side one a bare concrete floor. No obvious blood or injuries but even thinking about the picture made my heart rate pick up unnecessarily. There was little I could deduce from the photograph alone other than his eyes were open and looking straight into the camera. He was defiant. Alive. Alive is what mattered.

I’d memorised the text after the first read through.

We’ve gone on an impromptu holiday!

Come join us in Silent Hill!

It’ll be everything you’ve ever imagined and worse!

Love, Jim and John!

Silent Hill. An old tourist town until forty years ago when a series of occurrences took place causing the town to be evacuated. Something to do with unstable ground and sinkholes. I’d questioned Mycroft who of course would have easy access to the ‘real’ reason the town has been left to decompose but he was belligerently obtuse and not worth the single calorie of energy it took to text. If it had been something truly harmful Mycroft would have stepped in by now. He couldn’t have his little brother growing an extra limb as useful as it might be, it would upset mummy.

It’s getting darker, much too dark for the evening this time of year and the weather is closing in. There hadn’t been fog before but now it’s surrounding the car.

“Right friend, this is, uh, as far as I go, I’m afraid.”

“But we’re not there yet!” Useless, absolutely useless!

“Look, there’s the sign ‘Welcome t’Silent Hill’” he pointed, “but the fog, it never leaves, I can’t drive through it. That and the sink’oles.”

“Use your lights man, a day has already passed! It’s not like you’ve got anyone waiting for you at home!” This imbecile is ruled by ridiculous hocus pocus while John is certainly in need of aid! Why else would I be here if it wasn’t important, surely he could figure that much out? John Watson was worth twenty of him.

“Sorry, listen, I’ll give you ‘alf off if you get out ‘ere and walk t’rest of the way, ok?” His voice was shaking as well as his stubby hands. Even being in close proximity to the town was tearing his nerves to shreds. Pathetic really, how fear can rule people.

“Fine.” I thrust some notes into his palm and got out. He tore away before I’d barely had time to close the door leaving me standing in the middle of the road. If John was here he could kill him for me, maybe with his bare hands. That thought made me glad. “Coward.” There was little time to waste cursing at the incompetent fool so I tightened my scarf against the chill in the air and head into the town. I had to find John as quickly as possible. There had been no deadline, no threat, no deal to be done. Just an instruction to come. Moriarty was hiding in this town and he had John. Again.

It wouldn’t be long before further instruction arrived. Moriarty had gotten me here; he’ll want to control my movements the best he can and have me walk through his little traps. Having a whole deserted town to play with actually sounds like fun. Like a ghost house but infinitely less dreary and predictable. Oh what a clever mind could do with a town at their disposal and a rat to run through the maze! Unfortunately for me, I’m the rat. Fortunately for John, I’m the rat.

The rat will have to be smarter than the scientist.

The fog was getting thicker still, blocking out some of the late evening sunlight but I can feel myself descending step by step into the town. It was built by the mountainside and the faint breeze blowing off Toluca Lake. This would be much more fun if the image of John didn’t keep flickering at the front of my mind. There was nothing else to be learnt from the photograph, it wasn’t useful anymore but still I kept thinking about unhelpful things. Was John scared? Would he try to escape? Was he depending on me to find him? Would Moriarty hurt him? Did he trust me enough to find him? These were unproductive thoughts and I half wished I’d brought my skull along so I had someone with which to converse. I’d left in such a hurry when the text arrived I’d not packed a bag, just grabbed my coat, my mobile and a box of nicotine patches for emergency thinking.

Step, step, step, step.

My footsteps had begun to echo. Buildings, mostly grey. I’d reached the town, the high street, not residential like a usual town layout. A florist. A twee cafe. A gift shop. I tested the door belonging to an old pharmacy; the lock appeared to be broken. All the shops were boarded up and decaying, their signs weathered and peeling, they’d long lost their colour and vibrancy. The fog had lifted a little, revealing more shops and wide empty roads, much wider than the usual old towns in England.

I slowed my pace, scanning broken windows and rooftops for signs of Moriarty or his minions. My arrival could not have gone unnoticed. The town was completely empty, barely a weed grew in the pavement or the noise from a squat or two. It was too quiet, not even the tweet of a bird. Cars were parked but abandoned, their owners long since gone but probably dead after whatever disaster actually happened here. Apart from the general neglect, the town looks for all intents and purposes absolutely fine.

That would be apart from the massive hole in the ground.

The road just stopped and a muddy cavern lay in its place. The shops either side were unharmed but now the doors opened directly into a huge gaping abyss. I edge a little closer, testing the stability of the ground. The hole spanned twenty five meters forward and another thirty-five deep. A sheer drop, not survivable without debilitating injuries or probable death. Maybe a collapsed mine shaft or the sink hole story wasn’t the utter rubbish I’d postulated. Another quick scan to make sure I was alone and I head down the only street available.

Step, step, step, step.

Steady, slow paces in the middle of the road, gives me the opportunity to spot my attackers when they come out of their hiding spots. They couldn’t shoot accurately in this fog, they’d have to get closer and that plays in my favour. Hand to hand combat was always most exhilarating. John will enjoy hearing about it later over tea.

Step, step, step, step.

With each step I could feel the tension building in my every cell, that one thought thrumming through my entire body. Get John back. He was here somewhere in this town and I don’t have the faintest idea where to begin. So many hiding places. Buildings and sewers not to mention possibly and underground network of mine shafts. He could have had weeks to prepare unnoticed. Where are you Moriarty? Text me. Play the game. Where am I supposed to be?

Wait. Footsteps, not my own. New data. I stop. Think, listen. One person. Ahead of me, street to the right. Running. Lots of clothing, rustling, metallic. Closer. Closer. Closer. I step behind a car out of sight to watch who is coming.

The figure running out of the fog, five foot seven in full desert army kit. John. Unmistakable. I smile just to be seeing him again. He stops running and darts behind a car but on my side so I can see him. Breathing heavy, gun clasped in his hands, he's looking side to side and his lips are moving but I can’t hear what he’s saying. There’s no one to talk to but his head is turned like he’s speaking to someone. Hold back, need more data. I scan the area before approaching, despite not seeing anything it wasn’t safe yet.

John’s scurrying to the next car along so I mirror his movements unnoticed. He’s still looking around, peering over the bonnet of the car before slumping back down. The only view he could possibly see is of a graffiti covered wall shielding a car park. Think. Drugged. Moriarty had given him a hallucinogen. John was back in Afghanistan. The gun was likely loaded. Clever, John wouldn’t do well having shot me to death, even if he believed I was the enemy at the time. He’s over-dramatic in that way.

There was one situation in which John wouldn’t shoot him.

“Help! I’m hurt! I need a medic!” I stood and let myself be seen and I clutched at my leg while waving an arm. I tried to be convincing as I could for all the lack of blood. I threw in a pained cry for good measure.

“God man! Get down! Can’t you see we’re in a bloody warzone?” He shouted louder than necessary, like he was yelling over the sounds of gunfire and mortar shells. “How bad?”

“Really bad, broken, maybe severed an artery.” I shout back, I needed to have a time sensitive injury. He hasn’t recognised me or been perturbed by my coat and scarf ensemble opposed to fatigues. The hallucinogen had taken care of that detail.

“Ok, I’m coming to you, hold on.” Of course he’d risk his life to help, whether he believed I was friend or foe. He appeared to give instructions to his imaginary cohorts and took one last peek over his shoulder. Once he was over it wouldn’t take much to incapacitate him, well, John would put up a fight but the rock I’ve just acquired would help. I’m sure he’ll forgive me once his headache passes and he’s drunk the requisite amount of tea and whichever painkillers he fancied. Probably should pay for dinner too. John had readied himself and started to run, crouched close to the ground.

Boom.

The explosion was huge enough to knock me backwards on to my back. The car John had been sheltering behind burst violently into flame. Gelignite, efficient and powerful blast. John was thrown off to the side somewhere, I can’t see him. I try to call out to him but the air has been knocked out of my lungs. He was too close, too close not to be badly hurt, maybe dead. I feel sick for some reason. Please not dead, I can’t have failed this early. Did I miss something? Was I too focused on seeing him alive? Please, no, this can’t have happened, I can’t go back to how it was before. I don’t want to go back. I can’t.

His body was thrown like a ragdoll but I was blinded before I saw him land. He can’t have gone far, he wasn’t upright, the angle was shallow but he’ll have hit the ground at quite a speed. He can’t die like this, not an explosion, we beat that one. He beat Afghanistan too. What happened to your fucking creativity, Moriarty?

“John!” I scramble to my feet but I stumble and end up with my legs crossed and my hand holding me somewhat bent over but upright. I feel the glass crunch beneath my shoes and prick into my palm. I’m still off steady and my ears ringing so loud I can’t think but I try to right myself. “John!” My legs won't work properly, or maybe it’s my ears, but I stagger in the direction John was thrown.

The acrid smell of burnt fuel and metallic iron fills the air along with dust from the explosion that I have to force from my lungs repeatedly. I can smell the blood but it’s not my own. “John!” I could hardly hear my own voice, let alone a reply. “I’m coming, it’s Sherlock, ok? I’m coming. I can’t hear but I’m coming.” More steps and it’s getting easier to walk now. I can sort of hear the blackened car still burning through the ringing. “John, you’re ok, where are you?” I see him, I see him on the ground. “I’ve got you. I’m here.”

Chapter 2: The Streets of Silent Hill

Chapter Text

His body is folded into the ground, legs and arms bent at awkward angles, broken and bloodied, his face pressed into the ground. His back is nothing but raw flesh, no uniform, I can see a rib. It’s too white amongst the red. His chest isn’t moving. “No.” Stop this now, John. “No, no, no. You are not dead.” The words come out like an instruction, an order.

I crouch down on my knee and get closer, turning his face towards me. The right side is rubbed raw from the road but the rest of his face is relatively unblemished but blank. He’s never looked blank before. I could list a thousand expressions and leave a thousand unsaid but he’d never looked like this. “John Watson.” His name sounds empty without him here to hear it. Pointless. He’s looking at me but he isn’t. “I’m...” I stroke his untouched cheek; he shaved five hours ago, only the barest hint of stubble. He’s dead. Moriarty killed him and made sure I there to watch but why here? Why all this way just to blow him up in the first ten minutes. John. “Bloody, fuck.”

I badly need to kill someone.

Something isn’t right. His skin is darker and more tanned than when he was taken, more like when they first met. I pull down the neckline of his t-shirt. Tan line. Sun bed perhaps? I sniff. Too much blood in my head but his skin doesn’t smell like tanning lotion. I check his wrists for a tan line there but I find he’s holding something. I gently ease it out of his hand, not that he would appreciate my being gentle but it seemed right somehow. The object weighed heavily in my hand. Ten centimetres by ten centimetres square and a centimetre deep. Made from some sort of green stone, malachite most likely looking at the whorls but that’s from my knowledge of jewellery, not geology. It has the image of a soldier carved into it, one that looks like John in a three quarter profile. Fitting as malachite has been used to represent fidelity, loyalty, practicality and responsibility.

Moriarty wanted me to have this but why?

I put the odd talisman in my pocket for further inspection later and look around for a shop with a low broken window. I want to put him somewhere safe until I’ve dealt with his killer. Oh the joy I will have skinning Moriarty alive, gutting him slowly and pulling out his entrails for him to watch as I run them through with a thousand needles all the while ensuring he can’t escape into a blacked-out oblivion. There will be no mercy.

John deserves better than to be left in the street where it was too cold, he always preferred the heat. He deserved better than to die in the street too but I guess that can’t be helped now. I have to move him.

Nothing would be that easy though.

A dot of red light on John’s unbreathing chest. Then another, and another, and another. None of them steady, they were hovering, weaving, darting, probably over my back too. I stand and turn slowly but there was no deduction or thought process that could ever have led me to the sight before me. I was expecting to see nothing but the opposite red dots through the fog on the rooftops but this ten foot abomination towering over me was not what I anticipated. Bio-engineering, now we’re talking Moriarty. It makes me quirk up a sly smile.

The rather vile smelling behemoth stood stock still. The red lasers embedded in its skin were the only thing to twitch. It had the shape of a human, or at least just under twice the size of the average male and it was made of flesh but no ordinary flesh. Its arms were made, quite literally, of arms. Dozens of them bound together with tape made of what appears to be skin. Its legs were the same, calves, thighs and knees haphazardly strapped together with the occasional laser sight inexpertly sewn into a limb. The beast looks powerful and muscular even though the muscles were technically in separate body parts. The torso looked lumpy and squashed as different abdomens of various races were pushed against each other to form the solidity of this... monster. It had no genitalia to speak of though the build suggested it was modelled on a male for strength. The face, if you could call it that, was enough to turn the stomach of any man. The lips made of six individual pairs, male and female, each one stretched tight like it was going to split. The nose was filled with six pairs of nostrils breathing hot steamy air but it had no eyes and no ears, just painfully stretched strips of skin over divots in its skull.

It was still and so was I. It must sense movement. Probably with the laser sights.

The lights were dancing over my chest, obviously trying to discern whether my breathing was from an enemy or the swaying of an inanimate object in the breeze. My coat would hide some of the movement but not enough to elude the creature for long. I need to get John somewhere safe, Moriarty could take him again and I can’t let that happen, he should be with me. The monster still loomed. No amount of thinking will make it possible. I could try and loop back but there’s no way I could out run this thing enough to have time to carry John anywhere safe. I have to leave him behind.

I promise I’ll come back for you; I won’t leave you here.

Speed is the only weapon at my disposal. John’s gun had been blown off to some unknown quarter and there would be little time to get a head start if the monster could move as silently and swiftly as I suspect he can. There’s a street to my right, he won’t be able to follow me through a small enough space if I can find one in time. I am the rat, this is the maze. Ready.

Run.

I was right, it is swift. And strong. But far from silent, not at this speed. The ground was shaking with each heavy stride and he was sweeping cars out of the way with its fists, smashing them into the buildings with almighty cries and wails of furious agony. My ears are working well enough to hear the shattering of glass and the crunching of metal on concrete. Each car destroyed sent another infusion of adrenaline to charge me, keep my feet pounding as hard as they could to escape.

“Oh, not good.” Another one, right in front of me, pulling one of his arms back slowly to pitch a car in my direction. Look left. Alley. A curiously lit neon sign Heaven’s Night, run. I hear the car miss me by a meter, closer than I’d have liked but good enough. The alley smells faintly of stale rubbish and it’s sealed off with a chain link fence, too high to climb without the monsters catching up. Door.

There’s a heavy metal security door that’s not been boarded up, the back way to Heaven’s Night. Hand on the handle, it’s unlocked but stuck. It should give with a few good shoulder shoves. “Open, open, open.” A quick glance, the two monsters side by side cast a shadow so dark the alley is completely black bar the dozens of red dots skittering along the bare brick walls. They’re bearing down, wailing so loud it hurts my ears, both right arms drawn back and aimed at me.

One more shove and the door gives. I slip inside slam the door shut but it buckles right in front of me forcing my back against the wall in some dingy corridor. I close my eyes tight out of reflex, anticipating the door to hit me but it holds. I scramble away before the next blow hits but it never comes. There’s no movement for them, nothing to target. Obviously they don’t have the capacity of thought to know where I went; they are merely creatures of instinct. Fascinating. I should try and kill one for study. I laugh at the sheer absurdity of taking on of those beasts down myself.

I slump against the wall and look to my right, remembering another time I laughed like this, riding the endorphin drenched elation of escape. John was with me, laughing too, we’d not known each other long but I felt a sense of kinship I hadn’t experienced before. So rare. An aberration in all honesty. Unlikely to be repeated. Times like those stood out like shining stars in my memory. It was different from the thrill of outsmarting a serial killer or solving a case, those shone differently, more like medals or trophies, little victories to be admired briefly but gather dust until the next one is won. John was something else entirely, a different itch in my brain being so satisfyingly scratched.

I must have stopped laughing at some point and I find myself crouched down, holding my head in my hands and I don’t remember how I became curled up. I still don’t want to move, I can’t just yet. I see him again, torn apart, blank and silent. John was different. He mattered more than other people. I don’t really understand why, he could be foolish, emotional, dense, but he did. That was over now, there would be nothing new to reflect on or remember. No more conversations, no more running through the streets together, no more laughter and giggling, no more of his oddly calming presence, no more stars. He mattered and now he’s gone. Another dead body in a long line of dead bodies. This one was different though. This body mattered to me.

So this is what a burnt out heart feels like.

Chapter 3: Heaven's Night

Chapter Text

I open my eyes. I must have gotten dust in them at some point because they’re watering profusely. I’m in some filthy corridor. Worn posters featuring barely dressed women hanging from poles line each wall. I’m in a gentleman’s club of sorts. The blond girl with pink tipped hair in the poster opposite me has the standard ‘come to bed’ look about her as she arches her back against the pole like she’s in the throes of ecstasy. All common and dull, the standard fodder to arouse the average unimaginative heterosexual male.

I drag myself to my feet and collect my thoughts. I need information on recent laboratory equipment purchases. My phone has no signal. Predictable. I dust off my coat and trousers, I do hate it when they get needlessly dirty and it’s early in the day. It’s mostly debris from the explosion but I look smart enough. I would not become a dishevelled wreck for the man I’m about to murder in a most hideous manner. Surely John wouldn’t approve but I am the one having to live with his absence. That choice is mine and I choose bloody, furious, untempered revenge. I don’t care if anyone finds Moriarty’s body; I’ll carve mine and John’s name into his flesh while he screams.

I adjust my collar and straighten up. First to find him. No contact from Moriarty but he wanted me to find this place. The sign was lit. Electricity. No one powers a dead town so this was where I am meant to be. I walk through the corridor; most of the doors are inaccessible. One opens to a fairly useless store room filled with headless mannequins another to an old kitchen with an empty fridge. The heavy door at the end was open, the handle having been recently removed judging by the recent scratch marks.

Progress.

I listen closely, no sound. John is dead. No. Don’t think about that. Focus. I press lightly on the door, listening, smelling, looking. The vile stench of those monsters having finally cleared from my head meant I could smell the old tobacco smoke, the vague hint of oil and aftershave and the alcohol that had long permeated the thread bare carpeting. I enter and find the room in darkness but for one light. A spotlight on the central pole. I’m being guided. Or led.

I walk between the dusty tables and chairs, set out like they were just waiting for their sexually incontinent patrons, some still with stained cardboard coasters and half filled ashtrays. The room is pink in colour, that much I can tell and a bar lines the back of the room with its optics still hanging. I approach the stage, grubby, unused, no signs that anyone has tread these sticky boards for some time. It’s shaped to have three runways, like the prongs of a trident, with a pole at each end. I see an object resting at the bottom of the lit central pole that has been placed there with care. A handheld FM/AM radio.

“Pick me up, Sherlock.” A too familiar voice crackles from the speaker. It’s tinny but recognisable. “This is a gentleman’s club after all, can’t let the girls have all the fun.” He sang.

This will be the last game.

“You understand when I find you I’m going to kill you.” A test. Can he hear me?

“Yes, yes I’m sure it’ll be great fun if you do manage to find me.” He brushed off my threat like I’d hoped. “Any ideas? I promise I won’t move from the edge of my seat!”

“Laboratory.” That monster could only have come from an experiment gone horribly wrong or disgustingly right. Moriarty would have it protected, safe guarded, samples close to hand. He’d be there, in its heart.

“Wrong! Oh, to have the opportunity to quote you at your most eloquent. You’ll figure it out, I’m sure, you rarely disappoint me Sherlock.”

I am not wrong based on my data. The hallucinogen, the creatures, both suggest an advanced research facility. It was likely the reason this place was evacuated, much like Raccoon City in the US. “Then give me a clue.” Play with me.

“Have you seen John yet?”

“You know I have.” He’ll have been watching, he wouldn’t want to miss a single moment. If this place was mine, I wouldn’t.

“Ooh! What did you see? Tell me everything!”

“Found him. Sent him in a taxi home.”

“Oh Sherlock, why lie to me?” He pouted, revelling in his role in this little play. He won’t enjoy the part I have planned; the third act is always the most interesting.

“You know what happened.”

“If I knew, why would I ask?”

“Because you want to hear me say it.”

“Well, that’s very true but it’s not the only reason. Tell me, why a laboratory? Silent Hill isn’t exactly state of the art but it has other... unique qualities.”

“The abominations that chased me here.”

“What did they look like?” He asked eagerly.

“Ten foot monsters made of human body parts and human flesh. You know the ones; you added the lasers just for me, a little reminder of the pool.”

“Oh how glorious!”

“Impressive, you must have had help creating such things.”

“They were created by one of the best minds I know.”

“Who?”

“You’ll work that out too. Don’t want to give the game away too soon! So what became of Johnny Boy? Did the monsters kill him? Tear him apart?”

I don’t reply. He knows how John died. I won’t give him the satisfaction of hearing me say the words.

“Don’t be dull Sherlock, I really, really want to know how you made him die.”

He’s trying to make me feel responsible for John’s death. It won’t work. There was little else to be gained from this. “Go away now, I’m busy.”

I drop the radio to the floor intent on stamping it into tiny pieces.

“Oh, keep hold of the radio; it’s more useful than you think. Ta ta.”

The radio gave way to static as lights illuminated area behind the curtain that lined the back of the stage. A staggering silhouette of a slim yet well endowed woman appeared, walking from the right side to the centre. The static is crackling loudly so I try to fiddle with the volume but it changes nothing. Infuriating piece of equipment.

“Hello? Are you injured?” Her walk suggested an injury to her hip and shoulder down one side, her head was jerking around, she was disorientated. I climb up on the stage. “Hello? I need information.”

Four long fingers with equally long red nails curled around the centre parting of the curtain and pulls back. Sequin thong and nothing else over her ravaged, cut and blood stained skin. Her breasts, obviously artificial but cut too creating flaps of skin that were ruby red on one side and alabaster on the other. Too much make up that smeared due to the twitching, bright red lips and chin, black kohl eyes and peachy cheeks. Long blonde hair that’s mostly synthetic. She’s still advancing towards me, her head twitching more unnaturally now, speeding up. It’s unsettling to watch, it looks painful. Unnatural.

Another experiment.

She lunges forward, gets a painted nail to my cheek but not enough to break the skin. A quick jump back and I leap from the stage. I’m regretting the wisdom of not bringing a weapon after anticipating it being removed anyway. She’s following quickly, arms flailing and for the first time I see that her lips are drawn on, she has no mouth. Discomfiting, like she’s trapped. I grab a nearby wooden chair, sometimes a problem requires a blunt solution, and take a swing, knocking her almost naked body to the floor at my feet.

“You have to do better than that my dear girl.”

Apparently she could as her nails dug into my ankle and writhed on the floor, her legs kicking wildly. She wasn’t in her right mind. She’s just a creation of a madman, she’s not a person. I hit her again. She’s still writhing, her nails drawing blood. I hit again and again and again, I don’t have to stop, she’s just a thing, I can keep going until she’s dead. I can let go. The only sound in the room is my heavy breathing and my grunts of exertion as I repeatedly raise and swing the chair down on to her head. Another brutal hit and the chair begins to break but I keep beating her until only the leg of the chair remains. She’s still wriggling and kicking and she won't release her grip. She’s tough but she was built to be tough. This is better than I could have imagined.

There’s more movement on the stage, a redhead and a brunette. “Oh yes, some more, I like!” I take the leg of the chair, broken to form a perfectly sharp shard and push it roughly into the back of the blonde’s neck. C3 and C4 part with the entrancing sound of tearing cartilage and the wood severs her spinal cord. Her grip releases and one jerk later, she stills. The two other so-called women looked identical to the dead blonde on the floor as they held on to poles on either side of the stage. Cut flesh, lurid coloured g-strings and erratic movements.

“I need another chair.”

The girls took that as their cue to attack. The brunette was closest, she jumped at me, feet first but I swung another chair timed perfectly to knock her of course and to the ground. I swing the chair back to catch the red head sneaking up behind me but she’s smarter, she blocks the blow and takes a swing at my face. “Ow.” Another cut to the cheek, a little deeper this time but nothing terribly troubling. She’s my favourite so far, much more balletic and poised, her head twitching less than the other two.

I charge forward with the legs of the chair, slamming the red head backwards with such force she can’t compensate. I get her on the ground and stamp on her face. I see the anguish in her green eyes but I kick, trying to snap her neck before the brunette gets to her feet. Too late. Another chair to hand, I lean my weight on the one the redhead is trapped under and take a swing at the running brunette sending her violently sideways over a table to the floor again.

My favourite is scrabbling and shredding the legs of the chair with her nails. She’s come to enough to defend herself so I stomp on both her hands and listen to the bones break. Her body stiffens and shakes, she feels pain. “Interesting.” It only takes another two forceful kicks to the head before she’s dead. “Pity.”

I carry the chair that was pinning my most recent victim to the floor and take my final pleasure. She’s squirming like the others did, unnatural movement, frantic and jerky. Her nails are trying to get purchase. I hit and watch her brown eyes register the pain. One broken ulna. Another hit, more pain. I see it, I don’t hear it. She’s engineered, she’s Moriarty’s tool, she’s part of the machine that killed John. I throw the chair away, it’s not gratifying. Her nails are too dangerous to get close so I resort to kicking again. So much more immediate than a makeshift weapon. Her head is twitching violently and snapping sideways with every blow. My shoe connects with her temple and I see the moment her tense neck slackens. She’s limp and very much dead.

Exhilarating!

“That, was fun! Yes!” My heart is pounding in the most delightful way and I wish it wasn’t over already. I look at the three bodies and punch the air in triumph! “Some more of those wouldn’t go amiss.” How excellent. The rush was ten times better than evading the beasts outside. “Oh I did like that.” I sigh, still catching my breath. I wonder what else he has in store. I’m going to need more than a room full of chairs for future encounters.

This was surely a warm up, no real threat to my well being. My cheek isn’t badly hurt; John will insist on tetanus yet again... yes, well, he would have. My leg has fairly deep punctures but they’re not bleeding too badly, nothing that pulling up my socks can’t handle. All in all, I came off rather well.

I pull the chair leg out of the blonde and roll her over to take a closer look. “No mouth but everything else appears to be there. How did this thing eat? Did it speak or communicate in any way?” The absence of a mouth shouldn’t be so disconcerting but somehow it was undeniably troubling. Did it have thoughts it wanted to say or was it trapped in its own mind? Killing her probably did her a favour. Her arms feature track marks and puncture wounds where she wasn’t cut. “Intravenous feeding. Obvious.”Open cuts and sores everywhere, some clearly infected. The cuts open the skin in an ellipsis shape, it looks almost intentional. “Mostly human but she’s not by any stretch of the imagination.” The blood is pooling so I step back. There’s nothing else to learn without cutting her open and now is not the time. I shall collect her when I leave.

That was so much more satisfying than the morgue and if it’s a person I have to stop before I kill them. I’m a high functioning sociopath, not a psychopath. That and I promised Lestrade I’d be more careful with suspects. Beating someone to death isn’t that much of an accomplishment anyway; stupid people do it every day. Oh but here! Here I can do what I please to Moriarty’s petri dish soldiers. That will tie me over until I get my hands on him, maybe I’ll get some ideas, inspire my creativity.

I still owe John.

Chapter 4: The Church

Chapter Text

I leave through the front doors after a quick inspection of the coat area that turned up nothing of any use. It was darker outside but still enough to see a fair distance through the unrelenting fog. I hear the paper rustling before I see it sitting on top of a car bonnet in the small Heaven’s Night car park, weighted down with a torch and sheathed knife. I recognise the handwriting though I haven’t seen that distinctive cursive flourish for many years.

Sherlock,

Don’t fret, things may not be as they seem. The town was home to a cult known as The Order. They had a special interest in birthing god and bringing forth paradise for their believers. Fond of a spot of ritual sacrifice. Maybe the church should be your first port of call. MH

I don’t care how things may seem; John is dead, finding Moriarty is all that matters. “I don’t fret, I have never in my life, fret.” I don’t know how the history of this place is important but it may have some relevance to my enemy so I file it away for now. Moriarty didn’t strike me as the religious type by any measure but exploiting it for his own end was right up his street.

I turn the knife in my hand. A ten inch Bowie knife, carbon steel blade, rosewood handle suited to my grip. Adequate. I check the torch. Light and powerful, shaped to clip inside my breast pocket leaving my hands free. Functional. “You could have at least given me a gun. You have the full force of Her Majesty’s Armed Forces at your disposal, not one measly handgun to go spare? Maybe even a grenade or two? I like grenades.”

P.S. Don’t complain about the knife, it will suit your purposes best for now.

I snort. He’s not seen the towering patchwork monsters, I’m sure this piddly little butter knife will bring it to its knees. A map would have been useful too but not a necessity. I had target. That was more than when I left the doors of the seedy club. I fasten the sheath to my belt and adjust the torch. It’s not dark enough to worry about switching it on yet, it’s only dusk and I have impeccable night vision.

For now, it’s time to climb.

It was only a short dash across the road to one of those vulgar advertising hoardings. Heaven forbid you should be able to walk ten feet without being reminded what useless little trinket you could possibly spend your earned, mostly likely borrowed, cash to make your life more fulfilled. Even John was derisive of such idiocy.

A quick hop up the stanchions gets me a good thirty five feet off the ground, enough for my current purposes. I can’t see far beyond the expected, housing and more shops, a hospital stands out but there it is: a steeple. Five minutes’ walk maximum though I suspect I’ll have reason to run.

Happily, I see no patchwork monsters but avoiding one in the dark would be child’s play considering they’re lit up like Piccadilly Circus. Oh. But those... or rather, that, might be trickier. It’s indistinct but the silhouette is clear, I have something else to play with on my way and this one looks like an earlier test. It hadn’t gone to plan but it would be serviceable. How fun. I was hoping he’d have more than one beast up his sleeve.

Time to get a closer look.

No reason to take a longer route to avoid the creature, I want a closer look. It’s easy to sidle up behind a couple of parked cars with its back turned. It was shorter than the other monster, a little over six feet tall, the shape of a stocky male if for one noticeable abnormality. An equally tall if skinnier and withered male growing out of the abdomen of the other. I couldn’t see it clearly though. Both were hairless as far as I could tell. The primary male was wearing some form of clothing, black cloth crudely made. The withered creature was nude and exposed. The posture of the primary suggests it had one hand cradling the withered thing to its shoulder while holding something its right hand.

I need a better look. I inch forward along the cars when my radio picks up static. Damn. It won’t turn off. It detects the creatures. Moriarty said it would be useful. Great, it’s too sensitive for me to be stealthy but not sensitive enough for early detection. Range, six meters.

It has tensed. It hears the faint static. This one is more aware. It turns and crosses one leg over the other and leans on the object it was holding. Hmm. Umbrella. Sort of. This one had been milled from metal, heavier, a weapon. Moriarty obviously liked the symbolism, how quaint.

The creature had more of a face, contorted down one side like the flesh had been burnt with acid or other corrosive liquid which made little sense in the context that this thing was created. He had only one good eye and was staring straight at me. The emaciated thing, he was stroking it, he seemed to care until his grip moved to its long neck and began to squeeze. It made choking noises and tried to struggle with its skeletal arms but was too weak to overcome. It scratched and thrashed but it didn’t even shift them from the tip of the umbrella on which they were balanced.

It was enthralling. He was showing me something, intimidation definitely but so much more too. Control. He was in control of the weaker ones life. When the withered thing almost gave up its fight for life he released his grip, not once looking at the creature growing from his torso. It wheezed in great gulps of air and turned to me. Two piercing blue eyes not unlike my own stared accusingly at me, like I was responsible for his plight.

Weight shift. He’s going to use the umbrella, ready the knife in hand and prepare to run. Killing it would have to be a second option, I can’t risk injury until Moriarty is taken care of and John has been quite successfully and painfully avenged. I don’t really care what happens to me after that. It’s swings, I duck. It roars for the first time and lunges again. A quick side step and a slash at the creature flailing from his stomach. Blood. “Amazing!” It burns, the ground is bubbling up. The knife is unharmed but no bloody use if this is the result! No choice but to run. Left at the end of the road then second right until I see the steeple. Simple.

It’s in pursuit but slower than me. I turn to see the dominant painfully twisting the neck of his brother and it spits. “Oh no you don’t, I like this coat and my skin.” I dodge behind a car and hear the metal sizzle. Keep running. Look back. Weave. More acid. More roaring. The creature is furious but isn’t capable of language. For the first time I’m nervous, acid burns would be a serious problem not to mention excruciatingly painful. I’d prefer the umbrella and a broken bone.

My wish was almost granted when I mistimed a swerve and found the umbrella sweeping my feet off the ground. “Oof.” I land uncomfortably on my wrist but it’s not hurt. I’m on my side and the thing is bearing down on me, twisting the weaker one with a crushing grip on its neck to face me. I stick the knife into the side of its knee and pull it out quickly. Both of them let out a shriek of pain but thankfully no acid. It’s enough of a distraction to get back on to my feet and run again.

“That was a close one!” Piped up a voice through the crackling static. “Burn, baby, burn!”

“All under control. Do shut up now, trying not to die.” My attempt at smug was more successful than I thought I was capable. He’s watching me through cameras as well as what he can hear.

I’m aiming for the second right but it would have been forced anyway as I came across another gaping hole. I see the steeple clearly; an emblem is lit on top, not the usual cross but some sort of seal. It’s nestled between other businesses like incidental architecture, not given much thought. I’m still being pursued and my heart sinks a little when a red dotted patchwork creature stumbles out of a side street ahead of me. “Curses. Think.”

I can’t stop running; the double creature isn’t letting up. Damn, the patchwork beast has sensed me and is moving. I change direction so I have the occasional car and tree as cover but it’ll be of little use. It’s not far to the church but I hear the crash of a car being swept out of the way again and the sizzle of yet more acid behind my heels. I have to be fast enough. I look behind to check the distance. “Oh my...” I really could do with John now. Four of the double men, chasing me like a pack, all identical and spitting. Where the hell did they come from?

I see the front door of the church, please let it be open, I don’t stand a chance. My hand on the handle...

...it opens.

Chapter 5: The Church of The Order

Chapter Text

The static ceases. Does that mean I’m safe? I cough, my lungs feel raw from the running even though it wasn’t that far, the acid must have irritated. I’ve survived again but it felt close this time, too close for comfort. Four of those double mutants, a knife would be futile against them. How could something like that even exist, it defied natural law! I need a damn gun Mycroft, I curse to myself. I want to shout it aloud but I don’t want Moriarty to hear my plight. “Childs play.” I say, still a little out of breath. “Try harder.”

No reply. I’m satisfied.

I’m in an entrance way, built thirty years after the main construction of the church by the style of brickwork. The windows are letting in the slightest amount of light through the grime on the panes of glass. It’s enough to see a note pinned to the interior door. No supplies this time.

Sherlock,

You’re in greater danger than I anticipated. This is not a place of science or natural law, Silent Hill is beyond what either of us could understand. I’m going to track down someone with experience of these matters, Heather Mason aka Cheryl Mason but I fear I already know her fate and that of her daughter. If you cross over into the Otherworld I can’t help you there. Gather as much information as you can, it will help you progress. Please do be careful and think of John.

MH

As much contempt I have for my brother he’s no fool and wouldn’t impart useless information to me. This is troubling. Not a place of science? So far this has been nothing but a parade of scientific accomplishments and mis-accomplishments! I pace as I think, I don’t have enough hard data to require a nicotine patch, only possibilities. What can I deduce if natural law is no longer a factor? Should I anticipate a flying unicorn being ridden by a sentient can of baked beans inside the church?

The occult history here is perhaps not the cultish nonsense people are led to believe but there are limits. Ritual sacrifice and birthing god? Moriarty wouldn’t believe in such things without seeing it with his own eyes. It’s surely not possible.

The Otherworld? Crossing over? Am I to die here or is there some physical boundary I might cross in the town? “Too many questions and not enough answers, Mycroft. Try to be less vague and useless.” I doubt thinking of John will help me in any way, shape or form, he’s dead and of little use other than to distract me from my task. I shall think of him later though, when I’m hurting his killer beyond known imagination. That is when I’ll think of him.

I push the doors through to the main body of the church. Candles are lit. Yes, I’m supposed to be here. It’s more spacious than it looked from outside but then I was distracted by running for my life. There are wall hangings and painting opposed to windows featuring scenes not a part of any mainstream religion. Fire was a running theme as well as pictures of hell and of their vision of paradise. One graphic oil painting showed a young girl, no more than seven years of age, lain on an altar while a fire burnt around her. Shadowy, hooded figures looked on, reverent in prayer. The picture looked around forty years old.

I walk down the nave between the wooden pews and see I’m not alone; a figure sits on the cloth covered altar with his back to me, his head hung. Broad shoulders suggests a male, he’s only wearing a thin white t-shirt. Two large candelabras flank his either side.

I ready my knife, likely this is another of Moriarty’s little treats, science or demon. No static but there’s at least eight meters between us. I take out the radio and set it down, hoping that my dear tormentor doesn’t choose this moment to get chatty. I sneak closer, my footsteps silent despite the cavernous building and tile floor. Five meters, I can see his chest slowly rising and falling with each breath. He smells... like home. Like 221B Baker Street.

Curious touch.

I raise my knife ready to grab him with one arm around the neck and stab him in the chest if he’s one of them. I want to see inside, there could be something to learn. He lifts his head and turns his whole body to face me, still sitting on the altar.

“Don’t come any closer, Sherlock.”

“John!” My heart soars. I resist the urge to embrace him and inhale that scent of home as deep as I can into my lungs. He looks awful, pale and gaunt. His clothes are grubby. He has a rubber tube tourniquet around the bicep of his right arm and a syringe in his left. He looks ready to give in, he’s a broken man. This doesn’t make the slightest bit of sense; this can’t really be him as much as I want it to be. It’s just not possible. He looks like... but I’m not sure. I want it to be him.

“Nice to see you haven’t forgotten me already.” He mutters with bitterness.

Like I could ever forget, that would make life much easier. “What’s going on? Is the table rigged? Are you hurt?”

“This was your relief of choice wasn’t it, Sherlock?” He raises the syringe and narrows his eyes on the clear liquid inside. “Seven percent. Cocaine.”

I never told him that I favoured that solution. It’s not him. I have to ignore him. Think. Need data. I walk back and pick up the radio and bring it towards John. “No static, yes, of course.” One possibility excluded, now we’re getting somewhere.

“Are you high?” He asks in his usual exasperated way when he can’t keep up but his teeth are gritted, he’s tense.

“You weren’t drugged. I’ve been drugged. It’s the only possible explanation!” Epiphany! I clap my hand together in joy and it startles John. “That’s why he wanted to know what I saw! That’s why he said the monsters were created by one of the best people he knew. It’s me!” I pick up the radio. “What am I on, Moriarty? Modified LSD? White Claudia?” No reply. “SPEAK!” I growl with frustration.

“Sherlock, what are you blathering on about?” Said John wearily.

“Don’t you see! You’re not real John! Maybe I’m in this church but you, the notes, the monsters outside, you dying, it’s all a hallucination. None of it is real.”

“Sherlock... you’re bleeding.”

“Probably did it myself.”

“How do you know I’m not real?”

“Isn’t it obvious!” How can my own imagination be so stupid? “Because you’re not an addict. I am.”

“Yeah.” He snorted. “Only the great Sherlock Holmes could be too brilliant to tolerate his own humanity that he needs to turn to drugs. Everyone else’s problems are so insignificant; they’re nothing like yours are they Sherlock.” He scoffed, his words dripping with sarcasm and bitterness. He’s different from John, his sweetness is missing. “You’re so sure I’m not real, aren’t you? That I wouldn’t do stick this in me.” He’s blinking at a faster rate and looking away, he’s on the edge of tears.

“Certain.”

“I come from a family of addicts, Sherlock. When Harry and I went to school the door would barely close behind us before mum opened her first bottle of wine. I’d walk home at lunch time a make sure she was ok, that she hadn’t fallen over and hurt herself. When she started mixing drinks I’d usually find her passed out. I’d turn her on her side so she didn’t choke if she threw-up.”

“That was wise.” I’d deduced one of his parents was a likely alcoholic, Harry started young, likely she drank with her mother as she got older.

“Dad didn’t care, Mum was easier to get on with when she was drunk and he’d drink too, never enough to risk his job though. Always enough to keep up appearances.” He chuckled darkly and desperately. “Why would I be any different?”

“You took responsibility, you took the role of parent because you saw right from wrong even from a young age, most likely because of experiences you had when taken to the doctors. You were a sickly child, probably due to neglect but no one really picked up on how bad things were considering you came from a middle class family. You admired the doctors though; they cared for people and did good, in your young naive eyes anyhow. That’s why you wouldn’t do it now; the moral framework you’ve built for yourself wouldn’t let you.”

“And it’s that simple.”

“Yes.”

“My moral framework that let me kill a man wouldn’t let me swipe a bottle of morphine from A&E?”

“Yes, John but this conversation is rather pointless. I need to figure out what to do next.”

“What about you, should I give you the needle instead?” He offers it to me and I turn away. “Go ahead. Your life is much more of a burden than mine.” He sneers. “I’ve have the peace of my quiet little mind to live with when yours is too overwhelmingly complex and noisy for me to comprehend. You poor sod.”

“I’m clean now.”

“You’re weak, just like the rest of us.” He spat. John wouldn’t speak this way, it’s almost enough to make me flinch. He’s not John. “You didn’t use because you’re special Sherlock, it’s because you’re like the rest of us. There was no higher purpose for you to get off your face, probably just lashing out at your brother and ‘mummy’ because it wasn’t that they didn’t pay any attention to you. The attention wasn’t enough.”

I try to block out what he’s saying, I’m being distracted. John wouldn’t say such things. There’s so much I don’t understand. I can’t make this make sense. I don’t know what’s real and what isn’t. I don’t know how to wake up from something that already feels real. I press on the cut on my face and hiss with the pain. It feels real. Ignore what he’s saying, you’re missing something.

There’s too much conflicting information, drugs are the only thing that makes sense but what would Moriarty gain? Why take John and lead me here only to put me in a drugged up illusion he can’t fully observe. He could have done that anywhere. John needn’t have been a part of this game. “What am I missing?”

“Are you even listening to me, Sherlock?”

“Not particularly.” I’m pacing in front of the altar, my footsteps ringing out too loudly but I have to move to think.

“Still arrogant as ever. You already know I’ve got a weak mind, the psychosomatic pain, the PTSD.”

“Your leg wasn’t a weakness, you were misdiagnosed. Anyhow, I fixed that.” I wave away his latest attempt to engage me. I look at the pictures, ceremony, ritual, rites of passage, all very typical of cults but nothing to give me a clue. Familiar themes of reward and punishment, worship and virtue run throughout. Females are given high priority. What is this place? Why won’t Moriarty speak to me?

“Still convinced I’m not real?”

“Yes, John, as much as it pains me and makes me want to cry.” I snark, I’d wish he’d stop talking. The real John may be in that road still. If those mutant things found him he’d be burnt to nothing. There may be nothing left to take home. Focus, nine candles in each candelabra, brass, simplistic but ornate. Rectangular table, white cloth with green hand-embroidered edging of no obvious significance. What don’t I know!

“What if this solution is the answer to everything?” John cocks his head slightly and this time I’m listening. “Could be the cure or your release. You’re going mad Sherlock, this puzzle has you beaten. You don’t even know where you are. This syringe is your friend, you’ve relied on it before, it helped you cure the curse of your own intellect. Your boredom. You need this to survive just like I do, just like Harry needs the drink. Just like my mum needed any bottle she could get her hands on.”

“I don’t need it.” I need you, the real you and I need to figure this out.

“Whatever you say. I think I need this, I need to stop.” He sighs.

He can’t inject. I’ve bounced ideas off John before, I should use him now. He’s not a distraction, he’s a tool.

“What’s in the syringe?”

“I’ve already told you. Seven percent. I didn’t do it myself though, could be anything really. What else did you like? Morphine?”

That revelation made me nervous. I’d use the morphine when I couldn’t stop thinking. John could be injecting himself with anything. “What do you think is happening, John?”

“I don’t know, I’m about to stick this needle in my vein so I’m looking forward to that. I wasn’t that keen on sharing anyway.” He lines up the needle and begins to puncture his skin.

“You’re not going to do that.” I reach out but he pulls away.

“And why not?”

“Because you’re not like me and you’re not like the others. You’re different. You always have been.” I’m losing my patience, I should have grabbed the syringe away from him ages ago but it didn’t seem worth worrying about at the time.

“Different? That’s the only reason I shouldn’t push the plunger right now?”

“Yes, and it’s good enough.”

“No, Sherlock. It’s not.”

He plunged the needle in hard, instantly finding a vein. Something’s wrong, we’re both shaking. A siren is wailing nearby, my head hurts so badly I want to vomit. Oh god.

“What-what’s happening, John?”

John’s lain back on the altar convulsing, eyes rolled back and moaning. The church is transforming in front of my eyes, the clean walls look like they’re bleeding dark red blood, the floor that was tile is now rusted metal grating. “I don’t understand how you are doing this- Gah.” Another bolt of pain and I crumple to the floor still shaking, everything in me hurts. I need to get to John, I don’t care what’s real, I need him to be ok.

Not again.

He’s seizing violently, his arm muscles tense, the veins growing and bulging out of his mottling skin. He’s not as thin, his whole body is changing, mutating. He’s shouting out loud enough to be heard over the siren.

“Help! Sherlock, help me, please! Make it stop! Make it-” He can only scream as a new wave of agony strikes.

I can do nothing to stop it, I have nothing. “John!” The pain hits me too and I can’t hold back any more, I throw up what little bile is in my stomach but it just drips through the grating into the darkness below.

Suddenly the pain stops, so does the siren. John’s stopped convulsing to but the static... the static has returned.

Chapter 6: Otherworld

Chapter Text

“Welcome to the Otherworld, my darling.” Cooed Moriarty. “I can see you clearly now. I’ll explain more when you’re taken care of another John Watson. Your brain really must be spinning, I’ve got you stumped! Cheerio!” The voice disappeared leaving only static.

...things might not be as they seem... ritual sacrifice... greater danger... not a place of science or natural law... cross over... Otherworld... gather as much information as you can... think of John...

The room is darker now the candles have been extinguished; I turn on the torch for the first time. The walls are covered in blood, muck and rust, the smell of iron and copper lingers in the air and catches at the back of my throat. The pictures remain but are somehow more vivid and fresh, like the fire around the young girl is real enough to crackle. The pews have vanished.

I don’t know how but I’m somewhere else. If I’m not hallucinating then this world lays underneath our own, I’ve crossed a boundary beyond the physical. Alternate or parallel universes aren’t out of the realms of possibility I guess, it has never been worth remembering such hypothetical’s. Somehow, this world lies under our own. I must check on John.

“John? Are you ok?”

I approach the altar cautiously, the light of my torch illuminating parts of him at a time. He’s changed too, veins on his arms, neck and legs bulge and pulsate, his skin has a jaundice tone. His clothing is stained brown with old blood and red with fresh. I don’t know whose, possibly his own. The syringe and tourniquet are missing. He’s still John though, I still see him.

We’re alone but the crackle of static remains.

He’s one of them now. I don’t think I can do what needs to be done.

I run to the front of the church but the door is sealed, metal plate and no handle, nothing to pry open with my knife. I slam my fist on it for good measure. I can’t stay here, I can’t fight him. I notice the room is getting lighter. I turn and see the candles that were once out spontaneously sparking back to life. First the ones closest to me then down the church towards where John lay on the altar. One after another burst into life. The final series of candles light either side of John, the nine that stood in the candelabras. I swallow hard and pull out my knife.

There has to be another way but...

John, or what used to be John, or maybe never was John... well, whatever he is, he’s sat up on the blood stained altar and looking straight at me. Fist balled at his sides, deciding his method of attack. Mycroft was right; the knife will suit my purposes best for now. I have to cut John, bleed the veins until he’s too weak to move. I know that’s what I have to do but I can’t, I surely can’t. Still I grip the knife like it’s my only hope in the room.

“What are you waiting for, Sherlock?” Chided Moriarty, more menacing than before. “Would you like me to play some suitably dramatic music, something classical tickle your fancy?”

“Where am I?”

“I told you! You’re in the Otherworld, quite fetching isn’t it?”

“It’s not to my taste.” I take a few steps forward; I don’t want to risk getting pinned against the metal door. “Where’s John?”

“He’s out on the street, he’s right there with you, he’s. In. Your. Head.” He spat each word with venom before laughing.

Time for talking was over. The mutated version of John charged forward. He anticipated my evasive move and pushed me backwards to the floor. “Damn.” Of course he would have to be smarter than the others; he might have some of John’s army training to fall back on. I roll to avoid his follow up stamp to my stomach and scramble to my feet.

“You enjoyed the girls so much, I saw the glee on your face while you snuffed out their lives, why so troubled now? He’s just like them. A monster.”

I don’t reply. I need to focus or I’m going to get myself killed. The veins on his arm look most vulnerable but it’ll be the neck vein that’ll bleed the most. The veins only bulge for a few centimetres, I have to be accurate. The mutant John makes another charge, crouching down to ram into my stomach like a rugby player. I’m forced backwards into the wall with much greater force than I thought possible and I’m winded but I make several cuts to his back, hoping on the off chance I might have hit something.

The being growls and staggers back. Droplets of blood spatter on the grating. No acid, that’s quite a relief. He looks at me again, pure hate on his face, almost unrecognisable as the man I share a flat and my beloved work with. I’m still trying to draw air back into my lungs when I decide to go on the offensive, darting forwards and making one long slash down the length of his dominant left arm. He gets in a punch though, the side of my head.

I stumble away to gather myself but he’s on me again, his bleeding forearm pressing against my neck. Can’t breathe. The blood is hot, trickling down my chest and soaking my coat and formally white shirt. He’s growling again, baring his teeth, angry at my audacity to attack. I lift my knife to take my chance at his neck but he pins it against the wall, his strength superior to my own. He smiles. He’s not John, I see nothing of him in that cruel smile.

That makes this easier, I can kill this thing.

I try to move my head enough to bite, I’ll rip out that jugular with my teeth if it gets this monster off me but he only presses harder, cutting off my oxygen completely. I kick and while the other creatures were absent of their reproductive organs this one wasn’t. I make good contact with his most delicate organs and he weakens enough for me to fold one leg in between us and push him away. I launch in, the bowie knife cuts easily across one of the veins on his right arm, spurting blood, my deepest hit yet.

“You cut me.”

He spoke. Just like John. Oh god.

“You- you cut me. Why did you do that?”

I can’t speak. I can’t move. I can barely breathe again for fear of what might be happening. No, no, no, no, no.

“I’m bleeding.” He closes his eyes and five seconds pass. What have I done? Mycroft told me to think of John, have I made a mistake? My hand is shaking and my legs feel weak. When he opens them again he smiles, that cruel smile as before. “Well then, I guess I’ll just have to kill you. You’re not a very nice man.”

He grabs my wrist that holds the knife and drags me toward the altar. I’m off my feet, he’s stronger than ever and I can’t struggle free. I’ll surely have his hand print around my wrist for weeks, if not imprinted on my bones.

“John? No, you’re not him, he’s somewhere else.” I try and scratch his arm but it doesn’t affect him. “Let me go!” He twists my arm and I drop the knife.

Oh no.

He lifts me up like a ragdoll and deposits me on the altar. His hands wrap around my throat. I claw at them but I can’t even pry up a finger. I can’t breathe. “You’re a worthless addict.” He hisses. “I am stronger than you. You’re weak.” He removes one of his hands but it’s not enough to breathe. He holds another syringe in front of my face. “I can make you happy. This is what you want? Every day you think about this.”

I shake my head. I don’t. I don’t want it. Not since John.

“Come on Sherlock, I’m a doctor, I see the signs. I fought my urges, you gave into yours.”

I grab the hand that holds the needle and force it into his neck and depress the plunger. His releases his grip and I drink oxygen like wine. It hurts and burns in a beautiful way. The knife lies on the grating. I make a grab for it and face the fraud in front of me. The syringe thrown aside, he’s staggering, it’s fairly easy the make the quick cut, the jugular bursting like a sausage in a frying pan, the artery under pressure. The blood sprays profusely and he cries out, trying to stop the bleeding with his hands.

I make another few slashes at the obvious, still throbbing vessels. The words ‘I’m sorry’ are on the tip of my tongue, I don’t know why, it’s not really John but it’s his face I see in shock and pain. I’m hurting him. He stumbles back away from the altar, stopping only when he hits the wall. I see the panic, he’s... frightened, worried, and fearful of his impending death. His mouth moves like he’s trying to form words but nothing comes out, I don’t think I could bear to hear his voice. He slumps down, his breathing erratic and difficult.

I’m watching him die.

His limbs slacken, he can’t hold them to his neck any longer, he’s too weak. He takes his last breath and the rust and blood covered wall behind him begins to bubble and dissolve. John slumps backwards into the void, a tunnel. Silence. The static has ceased. I approach his corpse for the second time today. A nightmare repeating over and over. His hand, he’s holding something.

Another talisman.

Chapter 7: Otherworld Tunnel

Chapter Text

I clean the knife the best I can on my shirt, staining it with the creature’s blood, not John’s, that thing wasn’t John, and sheath it once again. He looks blank again but I remind myself, it’s not John. It’s not John. He looks like him but it’s not really John. Blood pools beneath him, the side of his neck gapes open but no longer bleeds.

It’s not John.

I focus on the task, staring at his corpse isn’t getting me any closer. I take the tablet; this time hexagon shaped and made of red jasper. Amusing, jasper is often used by crystal healers as an aid to overcome addiction. Complete nonsense of course but relevant in the symbolic sense. John’s image is carved again, miserable and weak. I pull out the other one for comparison. Same tooling, excellent craftsmanship, smooth excellent quality stone. His likeness is impeccable. The reverse sides are smooth, polished but blank. One soldier, one addict. No, not an addict, I’m the addict, he’s got the susceptibility, the flaw, but he doesn’t succumb. Yes, he needs the excitement, the danger; the thrill of the chase, adrenaline is his drug. He’d sooner cripple himself with his own mind, with psychosomatic pain than stick a needle in his arm for some fun or oblivion.

The sounds of overwrought sobs fill the silence. The radio. “Oh poor Johnny, murdered by his best friend, the man he trusted most in the entire, whole wide world. A man he would have sacrificed his life for. A man he killed for.”

“That wasn’t John.” I say briskly not to be drawn into the fallacy. “You said you’d explain this place. Explain.”

“I did, didn’t I?” He replied teasingly. “Why don’t you get walking down that lovely tunnel there and I’ll tell you a few tales.”

“Fine.” I stepped over the fake John’s lifeless body and into the darkened tunnel. The walls were smooth, dark red again but it wasn’t blood. It was supported by periodic beams like the ones first used in mine shafts. It was long enough not to be able to see the end. I have little choice but to follow the maze, I’m still the rat. “Go on, enlighten me.”

“Let me start by telling you how wrong you are, how feeble your deductions have been because frankly, even with the help of your irritating scrote of a brother, you are completely lost. I really was expecting more but then, even I doubted her power at first, I doubted how truly special Silent Hill could be.”

I bit my tongue and let him show off; it would be a small price to pay for learning more about this place. I could take the blows to my ego. I’d be getting the last word.

“LSD, Sherlock? Pur-leeese! I’ve got far more style than that and so have you. Nice coat by the way, I do hope John’s blood will wash out, and your shirt too, it’s completely soaked, isn’t it? You’ll never feel clean again.”

I flinch when I sense something in the wall on my left hand side but when I shine my torch there’s nothing there. I carry on.

“Jumpy, aren’t we?” He laughs. “You’re hers now Sherlock, your hate nourishes her, makes her strong. This world is her creation but you are her muse.”

“Heather Mason? Cheryl.”

“Oh no, she wasn’t useful anymore, not to my clients. You’ve done some research then? I’m a little less disappointed, knew you wouldn’t let me down. Then again, it was enough to see you battle with yourself for that short time before you decided to cut John anyway. Oh your face when he spoke! “You cut me.” He mimicked John. “Aww, sad face.”

“Her daughter then?” I jump again, this time I do see something on my right before it melts back into the wall. I pull out my knife even without the warning static. I pick up my pace, the tunnel is descending slowly.

“Ooh, you just can’t help it, so edgy, where’s your composure? Well I guess the only person who could ever truly rattle you would be yourself. She sheds light on your shadows and brings them to life.”

This world created by a young girl but I’m her muse. It’s not possible but... “This place is a physical manifestation of my mind?”

“Bingo!” He cries joyfully. “And a little of hers too but then she’s the one pulling the strings, you don't have any control. I wonder what she’s got in store for you next. I hope I feature; I’m a little insulted it’s all been about John but then I know how much you love your pet. Sweet puppy.”

“So he’s alive, he’s with you.”

“I’ve already told you where he is.”

In my head. This town is part of my mind now. He’s here. He’s alive. In some form or another.

“Freak.”

I hear the voice in the tunnel but I’m too late to see where it came from. I tighten my grip on the knife and keep walking.

“You’re dealing with occult forces, my friend. Power like you could never imagine, beyond anything you’ve ever known. I hope you’re up to it.”

“Of course I am, don’t you remember who I am?”

“Oh I could never forget, my soulmate. I want to learn about you Sherlock, every little detail. Now I get to see inside your head, that stunning mind of yours. One day I’ll look inside your chest, see your heart beating right in front of me. I’ll burn that too, I’ll coat it in petrol and set a match to it. Oh it’ll be a beautiful sight.”

“Psychopath.” A voice from behind. Distorted, female.

“I should probably let you enjoy the rest of your walk; from the looks of it you’ve got quite a way to go. Tell me Sherlock, and be honest, I want us to have a relationship based on trust and mutual respect. Are you having fun?”

“Buckets.”

“Oh I am pleased! See you around, sweet cheeks!”

I stand still and shine my torch so it lights a length of the wall. “Weirdo.” A male voice and distortion in the wall. “Sick.” Another distortion, a bulge appearing and disappearing back into the surface. Intriguing. I touch the wall and give it a knock, it’s solid but then I’m not dealing with physics as I know them anymore. I’m building a completely new database for Silent Hill, a new set of rules. I’m not sure whether to believe Moriarty but it doesn’t change the fact that I need to keep going.

“Freak.” A face. A face pushing out of the wall like the dark red surface is a mask before sinking back. It doesn’t seem to be able to harm me but I won’t test whether it can bite. I start to walk again, slowly, scanning the walls that seem closer than they were before. The faces are appearing more rapidly, their voices different each time stretched, strained, rough.

“Murderer.” Left side. “Freak.” Again. Right side. “Friendless.” Left side. “Loner.” Left side. “Hated.” Right side. “Nutter.” Right side. Quicker now. I speed up, no sense in prolonging this experience, I’m in no danger. “Virgin.” Right. “Freak.” Left. “Freak.” Right. “Freak.”

The insults were coming thick and fast, the faces rising and falling out of the wall just as quickly their voices over lapping. Different shaped faces, some I think I might recognise from the Yard, the one that keeps saying freak is most certainly Sally Donovan. Anderson is surely one of them too but I barely like looking at his face when I’m working, he’s hideously vile.

“Idiot. Heartless. Junkie.” They continue. “Fraud. Unlovable. Kept.” They are just words. Just words. I don’t care. “Madman. Weak. Deviant.” Just words.

They are words I’ve heard before, they’ve never hurt, I don’t let them hurt. Maybe on occasion I’ve felt... no, I don’t let them hurt. I don’t need people to like me, I don’t need their approval and their respect means little when they’re so painfully ignorant. All I need is my work and John. And John.

Oh.

I’ve never needed a person before. The realisation is quite startling. Mycroft is good and well but I could survive without him, I’d prefer it in fact but he occasionally points me in the direction of a decent puzzle or two. John quickly became a part of my life, a cog in my machine; I wouldn’t function so well without him.

“Ugly. Cruel. Psycho.”

Block out the words, think about John. I know the moment it happened, he killed a man for me and it hardly ruffled a feather. Seeing John stand behind the police tape so composed and waiting for me. He was the most interesting and fascinating person in the world in that moment. A crack shot, morally grey but at the same time an upstanding British citizen, a soldier, a doctor, first do no harm. He was a conundrum, mine to keep and solve.

“Stupid. Spoilt. Worthless.”

My hand is beginning to hurt and I look down to see my nails digging into the skin of my palm from holding the knife so tight. My wrist throbs from where the monster had squeezed. The voices still speak, pushing out of the wall like it hurts but still one word said with spite, hate, distain, disgust, I could go on. I don’t know how to fight against this; I don’t know how it might work, that I’m somehow part of the fabric of Silent Hill and the Otherworld now. I want to stop the noise, I can’t think with so much noise and taunting. The tunnel seems endless and I’m still descending. The smell of damp is starting to leech through. I need to get out of here, I need quiet to think, I can’t think! I can’t think!

“Arrogant. Pathetic. Dimwit.”

Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up. I chime with each quick footstep. My torch catching the side of a face every now and then but I look straight into the blackness.

“Robot. Callous. Repulsive.”

Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up.

“Wretch. Cokehead. Arsehole.”

Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up.

“Freak, Freak, Freak.”

“SHUT UP!” I slash at one of the nameless faces from eye across its nose to its chin. It screams and splits. Watery blood starts spilling out at a torrent. It’s pooling at my feet, thicker than water but not whole blood. I need to move now.

Fast.

I start running, the bloody water soaking my shoes but I soon get ahead of the tide. The faces have stopped speaking but now scream, ear piercing screeches and cries. Stretching out of the wall, trying to bite but missing. I couldn’t hear any warning static even if I wanted the aid. The water is picking up pace again, my feet splashing in the water. I look over my shoulder and a wall of blood is heading towards me. “Oh, that’s not good at all.”

I find some energy from somewhere, another jolt of adrenaline and sprint again. The screams are drowning but still painful, ringing in my head. My legs are screaming just as much, wanting to trip beneath me which would mean certain death. The water is beating me, the rushing closer my foot stumbles but doesn’t bring me to the floor. No, I won’t fall, I won’t fail. John’s here somewhere, I have to find him. It can’t end like this I’d rather die at Moriarty’s hand than because I couldn’t take a few scathing words.

I’m descending fast which is making it more difficult to keep my balance but I can make longer strides and more progress. Progress is good. The faces are protruding, mouths wide to scream but no more words, no more taunts. I’d lashed out, quite literally, now I was being punished. The air feels worse, it’s more effort to breathe, the water is still rushing behind me. I have to keep going, death is the only other option but god, how much further? Keep going, keep going, don’t fall, don’t fall, John wouldn’t fall.

Door.

A clear Perspex door with a large cast iron handle. A few more strides and it’s in my grasp, how many times am I going to plead that the lock will function to save my life, one sharp tug down and towards me and it opens. I slam it behind me in time to see the blood hit with force and fill the tunnel to the top. I catch my breath and watch the last of the screaming faces drown with a little joy.

“Close one, huh?” Moriarty remarked conversationally through the radio. “Freak.” He spits.

“Piss off.” I manage to choke out, my lungs burning, my sides aching. He laughs and then I’m alone again.

Blissful silence.

Chapter 8: John

Chapter Text

“Nuughh.” God I think I’m going to be sick. “Uuuunngh.” I feel like shit. What the hell happened?

I force my eyes open and find I’m already sat upright in the corner of a foreign room that’s too blurry to see properly. Smells weird too, can’t place it but I’ve smelt it before. What happened? “Oh, fuck.” Moriarty. I touch my neck where I felt the needle pierce my skin. My last memory is of a home visit. The injection site is not tender at all so I must have been out a while this time around, enough for it to heal. Drugged and kidnapped, seems like nothing ever changes, just the variety of ways to knock me unconscious. “Bastard.”

I rub my eyes in an attempt to clear my vision and take a few deep breaths. I need to get out of here but I’m probably being watched if I’m alone. At least Sherlock has probably realised I’m missing if he hasn’t already been told. Wouldn’t be a proper Moriarty kidnapping if he wasn’t making Sherlock dance to his tune.

I’m wearing the same blue shirt and trousers I wore to work but the tie I was wearing is missing, so’s my belt. I have my shoes but these are rubbish for running, they’re not that comfortable to walk in let alone run. It’s a weird life when you decide to always wear shoes appropriate for kidnapping situations in the future.

I take another look around; the room is lit by a small lamp beside a bed casting a soft glow around the small room. “Oh god.” A bed with a small body on it. A child. Burnt to a crisp. That would explain the weird smell. Burnt flesh, I remember it too well.

I climb unsteadily to my feet and see that it’s a hospital bed. I’m in a windowless hospital room. Cupboards, a refrigerator, drawers and a sink. Standard layout for a long stay room but it’s not a specialist burn unit. Of course, she doesn’t need treatment anymore. It not a hospital I’m familiar with, everything seemed a little battered, old and tired. Maybe I’m in a disused hospital.

There are no monitors on the dead child. I think she’s a girl from her build. There’s a small blanket across her middle but otherwise she’s bare. God, she can’t be more than seven or eight years old and a slight little thing. Her skin blackened, red flesh where it’s dried and cracked like mud after a fortnight of no rain in August. Some of the clothing she was wearing is burnt into her skin in patches. Her whole body has full thickness burns including her face. I’ve seen burns like this before but never on someone so young and so small. She must have been in the fire for a while before she was rescued. How she made it as far as the hospital and not the morgue was a miracle. Probably not one she would have liked to have lived through.

“Poor thing.” I place my hand near her head, too wary to touch. “Oh fuck me!” Her eyes opened. I jump back and clasp a hand to my chest to calm my racing heart. Fuck, fuck, fuck. She’s alive; no one could survive that, no one. How is that possible? Take a deep breath and approach carefully. I must have imagined it. Two bright eyes stare back. “Sorry, you gave me quite a start.” I say calmly. She’s alive. Her blue eyes are clearly pained. How could they be untouched from the fire? “Can you speak?”

She parts her burnt lips. I hear a wheezing squeak and other sounds but nothing discernable.

“It’s fine, don’t try to say anything. I’m going to get help, ok?” I see the fear in her eyes and I try not to reflect them in my own. Even her eyelashes have been burnt away. “I’ll be right back; I won’t even leave the room if I can shout for someone.” I wish I could touch her hand to reassure her but I give her my best smile instead. She closes her eyes again.

I get to the thick metal door to find it locked. Hospitals don’t have doors like this. My stomach sinks and I feel sick again. Moriarty you fucking sadist. I bang hard. “Is anyone there?” nothing. “She’s alive in here! I need help, she needs help!” I kick the door as hard as I can; aiming to the side of the lock but it’s not giving in the slightest. Another kick. Nothing. It’s like... we’ve been welded inside. Trapped. “Let’s us out you-” I look to the corners of the room. No cameras, not even a vent. Do we have oxygen in here? We must. “Come on! At least let the girl out, you can do what the hell you like with me!” I kick the door again even though it’s pointless. “You always fucking do.” I say to the steel door. I rest my head on it and try to think. The cool metal feels good.

God, did he burn her too? Could he do it in some way that she didn’t die? Is that even possible? She’s a little girl, she didn’t deserve this. She should be at school playing Tig and learning about Kings and Queens, she shouldn’t be here. The poor thing didn’t even have any treatment or pain management, she could die any second. How could you find a vein for blood and fluids? People with burns that bad aren’t supposed to be alive to help. “She’s just a child you utter tosser!” I press my ear against the door. Either there’s nothing on the other side or it’s too thick to hear. Either way, I’m in here and I’ve got to do something.

I go straight to the cupboards and the refrigerator. I smile when I see they’re stocked with medical supplies. Small mercy. I’ll be able to do something. I return to the child’s bedside, her eyes are open again. “Sorry for swearing.” I try to keep relaxed; it usually passes down to the patient. “I’m going to help you ok? I’m a doctor; my name is John, John Watson.”

“Huh-” She tries to say. Help perhaps? No, her name.

“Your name begins with H?” I ask. She blinks firmly even though it looks painful. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

“Nuh.” Comes the next sound.

“Huh-nuh, Hannah?” I guess, hoping I’m right, save her from talking. She can’t move her lips to form words; the sound is coming from her damaged larynx. She blinks firmly just the only again. “Hi Hannah.” I smile. “I’m going to see what we’ve got here, are you in pain?”

She blinks once.

“Ok, I’ll see what I can do about that first.” I can only provide palliative care, mostly pain control. With burns like this her low blood volume should be fatal, let alone the damage to her internal organs, her lungs in particular. How do you treat someone with injuries so bad they shouldn’t be alive in the first place? Even if I gave her fluids, could I catheterise her? Are her kidneys even functioning? This isn’t possible. “There are people coming to help us so don’t worry. They’re the best.” He’s the best. I turn when I hear her speak painfully again.

“Kill. Me.”

Chapter 9: Somewhere yet to be known...

Chapter Text

I sit on a nearby chair in what looks like an office with one door minus the one I came through which I don’t intend on using again. The bare light bulb illuminates the room enough to be able to conserve the batteries in my torch. No blood on the walls, just bare concrete. Hopefully this is a good sign but I can’t be sure. There’s very little to be sure about in this place.

I take off my coat to dry out a little before I slip off my shoes and wring the blood out of my socks; my hands were already covered with the blood from the John-like monster, a little more barely matters. I don’t know if I fancy washing my hands in this place. I’m getting used to blood stained hands, I really shouldn’t.

I glance at the door I came through to check the blood hasn’t leaked through from the tunnel to see the door isn’t see-through anymore. It’s a plain wooden door painted black. I decide not to check if it opens, I’ll check the other one first. I’ve avoided being drowned once in the last five minutes; let’s not invite my death if it’s at all possible.

I dress my feet again, they’re decidedly uncomfortable but walking around barefoot would be a worse option. I look around the room and first check a fridge in the corner. I leave a bloody handprint on the handle. A knotted mess of blood stained barbed wire fills the inside. “Curious, did I inspire that or was it an original creation? Dull.” I bemoan the lack of creativity but the seed is planted. Is that perhaps John’s blood too? Too many variables don’t think about the blood. Too much blood. The smell of it is everywhere.

I search the desk; the paperwork suggests I’m in a prison. I’d descended quite a way; I’m perhaps under the lake. A prison built under a lake, I guess that would circumvent planning issues in an area of outstanding natural beauty. I’ve never heard of such a place. I keep rifling through the documents and the desk. I open the bottom drawer, much larger than the others to find a package labelled with my name. Mycroft’s writing.

I’ve left the Otherworld.

Relief washes over me. I unwrap the brown paper packaging and open the box. A large pack of alcohol wipes, antiseptic cream, some plasters, a fresh pair of socks, a small mirror, some sort of health bar and an energy drink. All that’s missing is the requisite shock blanket. “Thank you.”

I change my socks and set to work cleaning my hands before handling the note that lies on top. I’m filled with unfamiliar gratitude towards my brother. Mycroft must have some way of seeing what I’ve been doing even if he can’t contact me in the Otherworld. Maybe through the same means that Moriarty is watching. I didn’t realise how alone I felt in the Otherworld. I hope John doesn’t feel alone and that he knows I’m coming. He must.

I will always come for him and he’ll always come for me.

I set to work cleaning myself up and assessing my injuries. I’m on to my twentieth saturated wipe before I even begin to feel clean. My face and hands look decent and I tend to the cuts from the harlots in Heaven’s Night with antiseptic and I use a few plasters on the deeper cuts around my ankles. I don’t typically bother but I don’t know how long I’m to be here and an infection could be incapacitating. John usually tends to my wounds; hopefully I won’t receive too many more.

My clothing is in quite a state. My formally white shirt is dark red with blood down the front. It has dried somewhat but it’s sticky and clings to my bloodstained skin. It’s uncomfortable but I’ll have to live with that for now. I just wish the scent of blood would leave me. All blood smells the same but this was John’s, created or not, it was still something of him that had no business being on my skin.

I’m as clean as I can be so I pull out the note while forcing the food and drink down, I can’t risk flagging physically and at least it’s a new smell. I haven’t eaten or slept since John failed to return home from work. I should keep my strength up and not rely solely on adrenaline.

Sherlock,

Welcome back from the Otherworld. I trust Moriarty explained a few things to you and I can confirm that what he speaks is true. Everything you see is real, it’s not an illusion. I believe the female he speaks of is a child, Hannah Mason, seven. We found her mother murdered in her flat, all rather grisly. I believe that Moriarty was hired to help track and find her so they could perform a ritual of sorts. She has the power to take the darkest parts of your psyche and make them flesh and bone, to torment you in your own personal hell. You understand now why you’re in greater danger than most. Please Sherlock, keep your head and think of John.

MH

Ritual. The child in the painting surrounded by fire. The cultists surrounding her. The reverent attitude to flame and fire. It must fall short of sacrifice for the girl is now imbued with certain supernatural abilities. The fire is representative, not literal. I decide to think aloud for Moriarty’s benefit. “You were hired by The Order to abduct Hannah Mason and kill her mother, Heather also known as Cheryl Mason. She was a previous sacrifice but she escaped or was rescued before the ritual was performed. Now her daughter is key. The ritual was performed successfully and now you’re getting your fee. It’s all about me. How flattering.”

I hear clapping over the radio. “Yes, yes, yes! You got it almost all right, I won’t quibble. I’ve waited yeeeears for this Sherlock, fucking years!”

Possibly seven. “Now I’m here.”

“And it’s better than I could ever have hoped. It’s almost arousing. Hell, not even almost.” He leers. I can picture his face, it disgusts me.

I prefer to end this conversation quickly, I can’t waste time. “I must be going, I’m sure there’s something on the other side of door just waiting to eviscerate me.”

“I do hope so, Sherlock.” His voice half grunts. “Don’t die too soon, premature death always ruins the fun. I’ll be watching and do tell your brother to naff off and stop interfering. He’s not part of our game.”

“Mycroft does as he pleases.”

“Yes, I guess you do need extra help, not good on your own, John and your brother. You’d have little idea what was going on without your big bro’.”

“I’d be fine but I’m not fool enough to pass up on what’s given.” I would be fine, Mycroft changes little. Nothing will stop me getting to Moriarty.

“Cheater.” He snarls and the slight background noise disappears and the room is silent again. I put thought of him aside.

I check the back of the note to make sure I didn’t miss anything. No mention of my current location or new weaponry. “A gun Mycroft, I need a gun.” I can’t rely on this knife forever, not if I stumble across those acidic beings again. I sigh and straighten up. Very well, onwards we go.

I slip on my decidedly damp with blood coat, adjust the torch in the breast pocket and load myself up with my supplies. I may not need them but John might when I find him. Mycroft didn’t mention whether he was dead or alive. Incompetence abounds once again. He suggests only to ‘think of John’. Who knows what state he’s in, unarmed in this hell. Or rather my hell. I can only hope that thinking kindly of him means this place will treat him better if he isn’t locked up somewhere safe.

I must find him.

I listen at the door before leaving and everything seems quiet. I crack open the door and listen for static. Nothing. We may have left the Otherworld but this world is also tainted by its touch. More barbed wire blocking doorways. I inspect the first door, looking past the thick tangle of wire. “Well that’s unpleasant.” The limbs of various domesticated animals are torn and hanging in the wire, still moving even with their entrails hanging out, often hung between the wires like garlands. Cats, dogs, rabbits, mostly domesticated animals but I believe I see a fox too, hard to tell.

The next room is similar but... human. My stomach drops and the food I’ve just eaten threatens to rise up. “Oh god. Mummy.” My first instinct is to pull at the wires and reach her but I look closer. She’s not moving, clearly dead, eyes cloudy. Mummy. She’s been gutted, her insides caught and hanging off the barbed wire knots. No, this isn’t real, not in the sense that her death is permanent. It is just for my benefit. “Good try.” She’s wearing her favourite necklace, one her father brought back from a trip to Egypt. It’s spattered with blood now. So much blood. It’s not real, it’s not real, Mycroft keeps her out of harm’s way, she’s not here. “Mycroft, check on mother.” I hope Mycroft can hear and understands that mother is to be mentioned in the next note. I turn away.

“Sherlock?” Mummy’s voice, so warm, familiar. “My little darling.”

I look back. She hasn’t moved. She’s dead. Or her likeness is dead. Tricks of the mind. I won’t lose my sanity to this place. I look away and keep progressing down the corridor. I can hear one of her soft lullabies she used to sing to me when I was ill but it’s nothing but trickery. Nothing but trickery.

“Little Sherlock, little Sherlock. My sweet little boy.” The further I walk, the weaker the song becomes. “You’re so special, you’re so clever and you’re my sweet little boy...” I was nine when I last heard her sing that song. I had a bad reaction to a vaccination, a high fever and the shakes. She sang that to me while she damped down my forehead with a flannel. I’d tried to resist, to tell her not to treat me like a baby but she kissed my cheek and carried on. I let her.

I keep walking until I can’t hear her singing anymore. The corridor is long, I turn down a corner and see other doorways ahead of me. I’m probably going to see John soon. I’ve seen him blown up and cut to death at my own hand. Torn apart on barbed wire seems a likely torment. I prepare myself. Perhaps I should see Donovan or Anderson, that would be fun.

It’s cramped in the hallway; we’re in the back rooms used by the wardens, not the main prison where the corridors would be wider to accommodate escorts. Another room to my right is full of nameless limbs and body parts piled high behind a wall of wire. One leg is covered in bruises from a riding crop, very distinctive. A tribute to my bodily experimentation I presume.

Harmless.

Another room sealed off by a much neater cross hatch of wire holds an antique wing back chair. Dark green, well worn but well maintained. I recognise it, it’s my fathers. Mycroft and I were never allowed to sit in it because surely we’d ruin the fabric with our sticky fingers and rough housing. I could faintly smell his Gold Block pipe tobacco and smoke from the fire place.

I’m not sure what the intention is, the room is empty, plain and clean and so is the chair. Maybe a more emotional response was expected. I have memories of corporal punishment that he’d administer from the chair; my father wielding his belt. Brown leather, good quality. Painful. Such matters aren’t worth thinking about now I’m an adult, let alone getting upset. I’ve taken worse beatings since then without being concerned, at least a couple of them I probably had coming. My father was a good man, set in his ways but I respected him. He’s been dead many years now.

Despite my curiosity I move on. I can hear the next room a few meters away, odd sound, something or perhaps lots of small somethings moving around. It slowly comes into view through the sparse barbed wire that blocks the doorway. No static so I just observe. Hundreds of large beetles swarm over a stinking corpse on the floor, writhing like the body has moving black flesh. The smell is quite ghastly. I stagger back and put a hand over my mouth and nose. The insects are like nothing I’ve seen, not a genuine species, a creation of this place. They are eating the flesh off the unknown corpses’ bones. I move on quickly, I don’t want them to consider me dessert, my skin prickles at the thought. Eaten alive, not pleasant.

I only give a cursory glance to the next room some meters away from the flesh eating beetles. It’s my father’s chair again this time wrapped in barbed wire. I need to make quicker progress and not wander round like I’m at The National Gallery. I may only be here once but I’m here to retrieve John, it could take me days to search this place.

What if I never leave?

My life would be a constant search for John, trapped in this hell. Year upon year, no hope, no escape. No matter. I may have sealed my own fate but I would take my chances if it meant bringing John back to Baker Street. Dead or alive.

The doorways end but the corridor continues, widening slightly. I see door ahead of me, once again I’m being led through the maze like a rat. I think of what’s to come. Would I have to kill John again? Or watch him die? I feel the talismans that I collected from the two versions of John to remind myself that they’re not real. I have them for a reason. I expect I shall end up with quite a collection. What deeds shall I commit to obtain them? I will John know when I see him, be able to look me in the eye and know what I’ve seen and what I’ve done. Will I even recognise him when I see him? I guess I’ll find out. No sense in asking stupid questions, just absorb facts and interpret them correctly. Stop being so maudlin, it doesn’t suit you.

I reach the large steel door. No choice but to follow the route. Think of John.

Chapter 10: The Prison

Chapter Text

I enter a small room and the lock clicks shut of its own accord. I see another door on the opposite wall but I already know it’s locked. I’m not alone. I find a man strapped to a metal chair, brown hair, early forties, naked, but very much alive and relatively unharmed. It’s not John, I don’t recognise him. He’s bound at the wrists, ankles and waist with brass cuffs that are built into the chair leaving little room for movement. The chair is bolted securely to the ground.

Impossible to escape.

He looks at me with desperate, begging yet fearful eyes but doesn’t speak, his veneered teeth gritted. He’s rocking back and forth, pulling at his restraints because I’m not moving, I stand and observe. It’s a small windowless room with two tables lining one end of the room covered in various implements and equipment laid out in an orderly fashion. Written on the bare concrete wall, in blood by the looks of it, are my instructions. Beautiful cursive writing, feminine.

This man is going to die, that is known. By what means is not. Kill him without leaving a trace and the door will open. The room is filling with gas. This man is going to die, that is known. Are you going to die with him?

A puzzle. A challenge. How interesting. A pleasant change of pace. It even makes me smile just a little. I test both doors, they are locked securely but the handles look as old as the prison. I walk to the solitary vent behind the bound man. I feel the breeze, it is quite fast but odourless. I estimate from the size of the room and the panicked breathing of the man in the chair that I have approximately seven minutes.

“Please calm down, you’re wasting oxygen.”

He still makes no sound, his lips moving rapidly so I can’t read them and thrashes even more. I stand over him, intimidating him into stillness. Slowly he stops silently jabbering and opens his mouth. I tilt his mouth up toward the light with a firm grip on his cheeks. No tongue. It has been cut out. Quite clumsily too, he was probably conscious when it happened and resisted. “I expect your larynx has been damaged also?”

I release him and he nods twice.

“We have approximately seven minutes, eight if you remain calm. Will you stay calm?”

He nods again, stills, but doesn’t relax.

“Good. You’re very lucky I’m here.” I smile, this will be amusing. “Let’s see what we have.”

The table is covered with a multitude of items I could use to kill the man and save my own life and therefore John’s. He’s the reason I’m here. “A poker, thin but it would leave a mark even if I slipped it behind your eye and pierced your brain, it would need to be much thinner not to leave a trace. Might even pop your eyeball and that vitreous fluid is a bugger to dry clean. I had to pay extra back in December.” I pick up the poker and run my finger down the length of steel. It’s in poor condition and very old. Rusted and brittle. “Not even worth taking with me.”

The man begins to struggle again. It’s futile.

“You said you’d be calm, please settle.” I say sternly and he stills and a tear runs down his cheek and he manages a gargled sob from his throat. A common response to a seemingly hopeless situation. I’ve little time for hysterics. I turn my attention back to the table.

“I see. Some chemicals and a few swabs of material. You should be familiar with these considering you work with chemicals regularly.” The skin on his hands is marred with old chemical burns. “Ether, bleach, lye, oh, I’ve use for lye but not for you, Speechless Man. I’m saving that for someone special.” Moriarty. I slip it into my pocket.

“Does your wife mind that you’re here?” I check his left hand with a quick glance over my shoulder. “Oh, she doesn’t, she left you six months ago.” His tan-line is faded but not completely gone. “Why are you here? I don’t recognise you.” Much of what I’ve seen so far has had some relevance but this man is different. “Hmm, you smoke to handle stress.” Nicotine stained fingers, right handed. “The stress you brought on yourself, the reason your wife left you. Yes, she left you, didn’t she?” I look over my shoulder again and he nods. “Your fault.” I state. He nods. “You feel like you deserve to die for what you did?” He looks away, tears rolling down his cheeks. His lips are moving again, this time I can read them. Spare me, please, spare me God, spare me, I’m sorry, spare me. He’s still crying, his bottom lip giving way to quivers. “You’re a member of The Order, the cult that resides here.”

He nods weakly, still not looking at me. He sniffs; it’s the most noise he can make except for strangled noises from his throat and lungs. I don’t rule out that I’ve helped create him but he may be the first ‘real’ person I’ve met.

“You were imprisoned. I am to be your executioner.”

He hangs his head and nods. He’s giving up.

“Your fate is in my hands, Speechless Man.” I turn back to the tables, I already know what I’m going to do but a plan B would be rather useful in case time runs short. Whatever the man did it is not my concern.

I look over the other items and lift each for inspection. A syringe, much like the one fake-John was holding earlier. Empty this time. I could use it to administer the chemicals in some fatal fashion but it smacks of cliché. “This would leave a mark but I could always remove an eye and replace it again. I enjoy creativity and, how handy, a spoon.” I lift the silver implement so he can see.

He cries a little more, the choked noises coming faster and I can sense his frantic movements, his shaking of his head. He’s almost hyperventilating. Perhaps I shouldn’t have mentioned the spoon.

“Do calm down, I’m thinking and you’re distracting me. I have a friend to find. He’s much more important than you and much nicer than myself. He’d sacrifice himself for you even though he’s never met you. Technically he already has when he was in Afghanistan though that’s more symbolic it still means something, his actions. You after all were here committing whatever misdeeds that landed you in that chair.”

He’s still breathing rapidly but thrashing less.

“He wouldn’t want me to kill you in his name even if there’s a chance you’re some figment of my sociopathic psyche.” I check that the radio is still working; a green light at the side is lit. “No static though. That’s good for you.” But there wasn’t any with John at first. This man could turn on me also with one switch to the Otherworld. “I guess we’ll see on that one but there’s no alternative when it comes to finding my friend. I will find him at any cost.”

Back to the table. A lead pipe, surely not of much use for an undetectable killing but I suspect it will have its use. It was obviously put here for a reason. The Speechless Man chokes out several irritating sobs. “If you’re going to cry please do so quietly.”

Long pieces of electrical wiring and electrical tape. “Oh, electrocution from the light socket, it would leave burn marks, maybe I could hide them in your throat or stomach? I could knock you unconscious using the ether. Make access easier.” I slip the electrical tape into my pocket as well, they’re starting to bulge. I could do with finding a rucksack or satchel.

“Clothes pegs? Hmm, guess those could be for my own amusement, along with the riding crop. You know I once had a man convicted of murder based on an experiment where I flogged a corpse. That was the day I met John. A good day.”

A length of rope. Useless to me, I drop it back to the table. “It is difficult to deduce much about a man when he’s devoid of his clothing and mannerisms. You’re a glasses wearer, have been since a child. You broke your left index finger five, no six, years ago. All incidental information. Useless to me much like that rope.”

The captive begins to cough, yes, it’s getting a little difficult to breathe. “The air quality is declining faster than I expected. Let’s get this show on the road shall we?” The man in the chair shakes his head violently and pulls against his cuffs again. “The syringe will come in handy I think but first...” I pick up the lead pipe and in one swift move bring it violently down on the door handle. It comes away with ease, the door swings open and fresh air floods the room.

The man looks startled but relieved. “Yes, John wouldn’t want me to kill you.” Think of John, Mycroft had told me. “Moriarty won’t be getting his master class, not on you anyhow. It’s really not my style anyhow.” I plan to use the syringe to pick the locks but first I need something in return. I lean down so I’m eye to eye with the Speechless Man. “When I find some paper and a pen you will sit and write everything you know about this place. Understand?” He nods vigorously, grateful and smiling. “I will kill you if you lie to me. Your God isn’t fond of you; don’t make me an enemy of me too.”

I work on the lock on each metal cuff, his right hand first when his body jerks and I’m jolted backwards by a sudden muffled explosion and thick wetness. I look up. “Oh, fuck.”

His head exploded.

I’m covered in brain, blood and bone. There’s nothing left of his skull. “No, I beat you.” I throw the syringe across the room. “You should have fitted a new door! It’s not my fault I’m not a sheep from your flock who follows your rules! You gave me a lead pipe for godsake! What did you expect me to do?” I’m not sure if I’m speaking to the child or to Moriarty, I think it may well be the former. This is her work, her puzzle.

I wipe the debris from my face and hair the best I can. The man’s headless corpse slumps in the chair, his brain stem pointing upwards. No one appears to be listening to my complaints. “Well, that’s certainly a detectable cause of death now.” I sense movement behind me. I turn and see more writing appearing on the wall like it is being written by an invisible pen filled with blood. I wait fascinated as the words appear.

The man was going to die, this was always known.

Yes, it was indeed the girl. “You could have warned me it would be messy.”

The static picks up again and soon I’m no longer alone. A new monster stands in the doorway. Looks like this lead pipe will be useful again.

Chapter 11: Hospital room... somewhere

Chapter Text

I have no idea how long I’ve been in here and I’ve not heard a sound beyond Hannah and myself. I’ve managed to administer an oral painkiller that shouldn’t depress her breathing which is still weak. The inside of her mouth is relatively unharmed though her nasal hairs are burnt away so she has inhaled hot smoke, maybe even flames. Her ears too, there are signs that she was engulfed in flames. I still don’t understand how but she’s here, she’s alive. It’s incredible.

Her eyes are less frightened now as she drifts in and out of sleep. Occasionally she sighs or makes a distressed little cry. I’ve heard the name ‘Lisa’ a couple of times. I remind myself to ask later; perhaps she’s a friend, someone she’d be happy to think about even if she can’t speak. ‘Mum’ or ‘Mummy’ is another clear word.

I try not to dwell but there’s little else to do than take in everything within the confines of the space. Focusing on Hannah is something to do, she needs someone and it’s going to be me. She needs me. I think I need her to need me a little too. Focusing on her is keeping me from going stir crazy. I don’t want to think about meeting the same fate as Hannah if this is what Moriarty is capable of.

“Muh...” She sighs, her eyes open briefly but they’re unseeing and she sleeps again. I snap to attention at her every move thinking she might be frightened when she wakes.

I slump in a chair at her bedside again now I’m sure she’s asleep. I’m at a bit of a loss what to do. After I gave her the first dose she asked for more. Not because she wanted to ease the pain but because she wants to die to escape it. It’s a fucked up world when a child can look you in the eye and plead for you to end her life. I considered whether it would be kinder to let her go sooner rather than later. Everything I know about human physiology and natural law tells me this girl should be dead already. If I decided to let her pass away, maybe I’d be killing her rather than hastening the inevitable? If it were me, I couldn’t live like this, I’d want to die.

Shit. What the hell has Moriarty done? I shouldn’t expect more from a man who’d put a bomb vest on a child, everyone is fair game. If anyone is to die today, it will be him at my fucking hand. Or shoe. Or whatever I can get my hands on. He can’t be left to hurt another person. This has to be the last time.

At least the drugs in my system have worn off completely now and the nausea has passed. The only reminder of my abduction is the pain in both my shoulders from where I was tied up though I don’t remember being bound. I know what it feels like from experience. I must have been like that for hours. My left shoulder is killing me so I took a couple of ibuprofen using water from the sink. Other than that I’m ready to incapacitate the next unfortunate bugger who walks in here and get Hannah and me somewhere safe. As much as I trust Sherlock to find us, Moriarty won’t make it easy. If I can get us out of here myself, I will.

“Juh!”

I stand immediately so she can see me, so she’s not alone. Who knows how long she was here by herself or while I was unconscious on the floor. She’s awake this time.

“Hey, I’m right here, Hannah.” I speak softly. Asking her if she’s ok is redundant. The pain relief should still be in effect.

“Muh.”

“Just relax as much as you can, ok, it’ll hurt less.” I need to keep her distracted until she tires again. “I’m going to ask you some questions but only speak if it doesn’t hurt too much.”

She blinks once for me. Twice means no.

“How old are you? You can blink if you can’t speak.”

“Seh.”

“Seven?”

She blinks once. Her eyes are the most vivid shade of azure blue. Not like Sherlock’s, much richer and more lively for a girl who’s so sad.

“Where are your parents?” I might be bringing up bad memories but if someone else is looking for us it could help.

“Muh.”It’s hard to make out as she can’t move her lips but I can guess from the context. Her eyes look so sad, I know before she says it, she’s dead. If she still had functioning tear ducts she’d be crying.

“Mum.” I finish for her.

“Deh.”

“Dead.” I knew. I bloody knew.

She blinks once. Long and slow.

“I’m sorry. Was it in the fire?”

Two blinks. I’m surprised but the fire could have been secondary or maybe she died before this happened.

“Muh, stuh.”

“Muster? Moriarty?” Had to be that fucker.

Two blinks.

“Do you know who Moriarty is?”

Two blinks.

“He’s my height, white, dark hair, early thirties, quite boyish looking. He’s... not nice though he might pretend to be.”

Two blinks. That’s a good thing I guess but Moriarty doesn’t like to get his hands dirty, he’ll have sent someone but it would have been on his say so.

“But you know who killed your mum?”

One blink again.

“Moh, stuh.” She looks frightened, she’s trembling.

“Mobster?”

“Moh, stuh.” She repeats, trying to be clearer but failing. It sounds the same to me. I don’t understand.

“Moh, stuh. A name?”

“Grrr.” She’s getting frustrated and her eyes flush with pain.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, I’ll figure it out. Shame Sherlock isn’t here; he’d figure it out in a heartbeat.”

She looks quizzically at me, makes a change from the pained and sorrowful look that had no business shadowing her face. She’s breathing heavily and it hurts, I consider more pain relief but it would be pushing the limit in a girl her size. I figure talking might help pass her conscious time, who knows how long Moriarty will keep us in here.

“You’ll like him. Sherlock Holmes, the world’s only consulting detective. He’s truly amazing Hannah, no one else in the world quite like him. He’s my flatmate and he solves murders and mysteries that the police can’t. He can deduce information about people just by looking at them once and he uses that to bring bad men to justice, put them in prison.” I smile fondly and think of the first time we met. “The first time he looked at me he asked me whether I was posted to Afghanistan or Iraq because he could tell I used to be in the army. He’d noticed my tan lines, how I stood, I had a cane back then because I was injured and sent home.”

“How?”

“Heard that clearly.” I smile. Talking seems to be taking her mind off things. “I was a doctor in the army but I’m a civilian now. Last year I got shot behind enemy lines. My shoulder. I had to hide for a while in the shell of an old building while our lads and the Taliban fought it out. I was there for two days with one of my squad mates Paul. He was hurt too, much worse.” Shot in the abdomen, died slowly, painfully and I could do nothing but basic care. “We won the town after a long fight and they got us out of there. My shoulder got infected though, I had to take the bullet out myself and I didn’t have germ-free equipment.”

“Puh?”

I wasn’t going to mention him again. “Paul? He made it the two days but he died when they operated on him. It was a serious injury. He was a good soldier, a good friend. He always wanted to be a soldier since he was a little boy. He understood how his life could end early but he didn’t want to be anything else other than a soldier. It was who he was. It was who I was.” I remember how lost I felt after Afghanistan. I pull back those thoughts; I’m be going over the head of someone so young. “I fight different battles now, with Sherlock and not just the ones I have with the Tesco chip pin machine.” She’s drifting again but I’m sure I see a smile. “Have a sleep and when you next wake up I’ll tell you more about Sherlock. He’ll find us, I promise.”

Her eyes gently drift shut and her stuttering breathing begins to calm. At least when she’s sleeping she’s not in pain. I’ll ask her about Lisa next time.

I sit back in the chair and blow out a long breath to relax again. It’s been a while since I thought about those two long days and nights with Paul. The nightmares had been less frequent and it was more about the fire fight beforehand, getting separated and dragging Paul bleeding into the nearest shelter. I thought it was just temporary but the rest of the squad was forced back leaving us behind. I did the best I could but I’d gotten shot just before I could get into cover. I only had basic medical supplies on me, it was enough to get him back to camp but I knew it would never be enough to see him home once septicaemia set in. It was only a matter of time before I was in the same condition and sure enough, the infection began to run rampant and I was praying for my life again. I was luckier than Paul, they got the infection under control. I didn’t feel luckier, I was sent home.

Paul didn’t want to be invalided home. It was die here or on to the next battle but never home with a medical certificate. He said he’d rather bleed out on the rubble covered floor that was once someone’s home than go back to England and watch this on sodding BBC News 24. He asked me to promise that he’d recover or I should help him die. He had a wife back home; he had no business wanting to die when he had someone waiting for him, someone who’d love him no matter what. I came home to no one.

Hearing Hannah ask was much worse. Because with Hannah, I actually wonder if it’s the right thing to do. I look at her face and picture what she might have looked like before the fire. I think pale skin, those bright blue eyes so friendly and lively, showing that spark of intelligence and joy of being a child, I have no idea what colour her hair was. Not a patch remains. She’s slim, maybe she took ballet classes or played netball.

“Muhn stuh.” I say aloud, trying to figure out what she meant. “Muhn...ster. Mon...ster. Monster.” She thinks a monster killed her mother. Oh god. Moriarty intended for Hannah to believe that. She’d never be able to identify her mother’s killer and be too scared to remember. I feel like kicking the door a few more times, how dare he scar her inside and out.

“Juh!” She’s breathing rapidly. Frightened.

“Right here, sweetheart. It’s ok, you’re not alone. I’m right here.”

“Muhn.”

“Monster. I worked it out.”

She blinks once and I see the smile in her eyes.

“Nightmares?”

Blinks again. I can see that she’s crying with her eyes despite the lack of tears.

“Muhm, me.” He voice breaks painful and she winces, it hurts.

“Don’t speak, Hannah, it’s ok, you’ve been through so much and you’re so very, very brave. I know your mummy would be so proud of you. She’ll be watching over you, people who die never stray far from the people they love.” I’m not sure how much I believe what I saying but it’s comforting and it’s the best I can do. “Maybe I’m here to protect you; she made sure you weren’t alone.”

“Kill.”

“No. Give it more time, Sherlock will find us and I’ll go with you to a proper hospital. There’s a reason you’re still alive.” I’m sure of it, Moriarty’s done something I don’t understand but there’s got to be a reason she’s alive.

“Plee.” Her voice breaks.

“Hang in there, lemme see if I can give you something that will make the dreams go away, so you can sleep safely.” I rifle in the drawers and wipe away a tear. I can’t let this overwhelm me, she’s so young, she just wants her mum to hold her and tell her everything will be ok and that bastard took it all away. I don’t know how to make this better other than to help her have a black, oblivious sleep. She saw her own mother die at the hands of something she knows only as a monster and has been near burnt to death herself. Who would want to call time on a life after that? “I found something.”

She opens her mouth for me like before and I drop the liquid under her tongue. “This will help; it shouldn’t take long for you to fall asleep again without dreaming. I’ve used it myself once or twice when I first got back. I kept having nightmares about the war, that fight where I got shot. Funnily enough I miss it, I miss being out there but I have a purpose again now.” Sherlock, solving crimes, kicking the shit out of Moriarty and this girl. “I’m going to save you, Hannah.”

“Fye. Er.” Her voice sounds tight, like she’s crying, weeping even. Monsters and fire, what kind of hell has she been through? “Fye. Er.” She whimpers again.

“No more fire now. I’m here; just don’t give up, not yet.”

She’s fallen sound asleep but I don’t move, if she opens her eyes again, I want her to be able to see me.

Chapter 12: The Prison

Chapter Text

Damn, I thought I had this under control. What were three muscular but faceless and featureless men has quickly turned into six and each takes several swings of the pipe to put down. I’ve already partially decapitated three but now I’m getting quickly overwhelmed. This hallway isn’t big enough to move around and get a good series of swings going. “Oh piss off will you!” I shout while poking two of them in the stomach, forcing them backwards so I can get another good swing in. It’s no use, there’s too many, I have to run. “Damn you.”

I have no idea where I’m going, running through open doors and collapsed walls as the path of least resistance hoping the static will relent or I can find a door to barricade. Another leaps out of an alcove and crashes my head against the concrete wall. “Get off!” I grab my knife and stick it in his neck before pulling it out just as fast. He falls to the ground bleeding and I set off again. My adrenaline is relentlessly flowing, my heart pounding so hard it aches.

This place is riddled with the faceless men. The only sounds are the ones I make or their heavy footsteps. No growls or screams. Their faces are smooth, no noses, no hair, nipples, navels or reproductive organs. Just well defined muscle and aggression.

Powerful men but ultimately impotent.

Another one stumbles out of a room ahead of me, blocking my path but one is easy. One swing of the pipe and he falls. His body should hold up the others for a few seconds. I can hear their running footsteps but they are clumsy if strong. I have to keep moving, think of something and get safe. I’m losing track of where I am in the building. It’s a labyrinth.

I round a corner. Dead end, oh god. Wait, no. Doors set flush with the wall. Hidden by a symbol I don’t recognise... or do I? It’s a mark of some sort, a seal. Must relate to the cult. Seems as good a sign as any other, I’ve been led this far and the men are still coming. I can’t turn back, there’s too many of them now. Don’t fancy my chances.

Where’s the handle, where’s the handle? They are still coming but my fingers find a depression. “Yes. Oh...” One of them gets a fist full of my hair and drags me backwards. I don’t have enough purchase on the door to hold on. Knife again, they’re starting to swarm as I slash rather wildly but I manage to scramble away and back to the door. The pipe comes in handy again; they’re packed tight so a good shove sends the first few backwards.

Please be enough time.

Yes, I open the door and get inside. I can seal myself inside, there’s a bolt, thick as my arm. It takes some effort but it soon slides across. I hear them thud at the door, hammering with their fists but it doesn’t budge. They soon give up and the static stops. “Thank god for that.” I snigger at the irony. What god could they want to birth here? I’ll take pleasure in my blasphemy from now on.

I look around; hopefully I haven’t sealed myself in a dead end but that’s workable. I’m in the cell block now. A large room lined with cells stacked three high with their walkways precariously dangling and half fallen down. The stair case has completely collapsed. It’s damp, water dripping from the ceiling making puddles on the old beds and mattresses scattered about in the open space in the middle. It reeks of mould and mildew but it makes a nice change from the constant stench of blood.

“Sherlock?” Comes a hissed whisper that’s still loud enough to hear.

John.

“Sherlock, is that you?”

I still don’t reply. I take out my knife but keep it concealed before taking a few quiet steps out from the alcove of the doorway. There he is, in one of the lower cells.

John.

“Sherlock!” He waves and looks around cautiously, obviously aware that he’s not in a safe place. This is good. I take a few more steps towards him. He looks quite horrified at my bloodied appearance. “Oh my god Sherlock, are you hurt? What was all that banging? Come here, let me look at you.” He waves his arm to speed up my steady progress towards him. “Any of this blood yours? What the hell have you been up to? Jesus.”

I ignore his fussing as I’m close enough to properly assess him. Deprived of his clothes but unharmed and clean, at least from what I can see. All his scars and blemishes are as I remember both current and correct. In particular is the messy web of scarring on his shoulder created by the infection and necrotic tissue from his bullet wound. I stop out of arms reach. The concern on his face is too familiar, too John. Lips pursed, forehead creased, crow’s feet at his narrowed, worried eyes. Could this be him? Moriarty would surely keep him securely locked away, I need to discover more, it’s too soon to tell.

“Sherlock?” John’s clearly confused by my silence and distance. “What’s going on? We need to get out of here, I’m locked in.” He pulls on the rusty bars to make his point. I was well aware he wasn’t in there through choice.

“Are you really him?” On the surface it’s a stupid question to ask, but I’m more interested in his reaction. It would be useful to discover how self-aware a potentially false John might be. The earlier John’s didn’t seem to understand where they were or why they were here.

“Really who?”

“John Watson.”

“Of course, who else would I be?” He scoffs and furrows his eyebrows. His mannerisms are very much consistent with John. My heart rate picks up a little, the treacherous little bastard it can be, so influenced by idiotic hope. “Did you hit your head when you got those scratches?” He points to my face, I’m surprised he can see them; my face feels tight from all the drying blood. I should clean up again soon.

“I’ve already met two others who look like John Watson, you are the third.”

“Ok...” he says a little disbelievingly and scratches at his eyebrow, “did they claim to be me too? The real me.”

“One died before it had the chance and it became glaringly apparent that the other one wasn’t real either.” I didn’t want to elaborate at this point, the situation was confusing enough.

“Ok, hmmm. Well, I feel real, does that count?” He looks hopeful for a second before furrowing his brow again. So expressive and far from blank. “I’m happy to see you, relieved, I wasn’t sure if I’d ever see you again. I remember things, about us.” He reaches out through the bars and strokes my uncut cheek with the back of his fingers. I don’t remember moving closer, being in John’s personal space is something I find happens unconsciously sometimes. “I missed you.”

I look away and break the contact. That’s not something he’d do. He’s not John, he’s... another part of me. There’s one way to confirm right now if it’s here before he inevitably dies. I pull out one of the talismans. “Do you have anything like this?”

“Yeah, I think I’ve seen something like that in the desk, give me a second.” He bends over rather gratuitously so I assess my surroundings again. The cell is locked tight; the bars are rusted but structurally sound. There’s a control room at the other end of the area, I might be able to free him if this place has power beyond the lighting circuits. Maybe I can save this John. I came close to beating whatever Hannah Mason has become last time; I could do it this time. Leaving him here to rot isn’t an option, I’d rather face the Otherworld again or another transformed John. At least this one stands a chance. “Here, is this useful?”

I take the talisman. “Yes.” Turquoise by the looks of it. Symbolic of protection from harm and a link to the spiritual world, it can also represent friendship. Carved is a picture of John again, reminiscent of the Vitruvian Man but more sexual, less diagrammatic. Yes, this is consistent with this manifestation but not completely with the stone chosen. Interpretations are flexible though, it fits enough to be within a reasonable margin of error.

“What does it mean? That’s me on the tablet.”

I have the talisman in advance; it’s not required that he die for me to obtain it. This is good news. “It means you’re not real but that I will save you.” I put it in my pocket with the others. John hardly believes me but I didn’t expect him to, not initially.

“Ok, so it’s a good news bad news kinda thing.” He huffs a wry laugh and rubs his face. I smile a little just to see a John mannerism. I could almost believe it was him. Almost.

“Yes, that’s one way of putting it.”

“I know you’re brilliant at this kind of thing but I’m hoping this is one of those times you’re wrong. You never claimed to be perfect, just better than everyone else.” He’s looking for my reaction, I must admit I’m enjoying his assessment. It’s tactical, he’s gathering intelligence and drawing his own conclusions.

I think I might get on better with this John better than the others.

“Quite.”

“I feel real.”

“That is rather the point, you do exist just not in the same sense that most of us come into being. You are mine and Hannah Mason’s creation, a combination of our psyches facilitated by this town. Silent Hill.”

“Well that’s just lovely.” He sighs and slumps his head against the bars with a low thunk and looks at me a little mournfully. “What does that even mean? You think we’re in a dream, your dream?”

“Not a dream, we’re both quite conscious. More like a nightmare come to life but more complex. Hannah Mason, or whatever resides in her, moulds this world to create things that I might find troubling or disturbing. Parts of myself I’d rather ignore.”

“What disturbs the soul of one Sherlock Holmes? Not sure if I want to know considering I’m here right now, I’m going to end up as a head in a fridge aren’t I?”

He’s probably right, maybe not on the specific location of his head but he’s correct that it might not end well. The odds are not in my favour or his. “I intend on taking you with me. You could be useful. You have memories, John’s memories.”

“Because I’m John.” He says resolutely but with his head still against the bars. I move closer still, maybe to be of some comfort. He’s much more like John; it feels natural to want to be near.

“In some sense you are.”

He looks up and stares at me, I’m not sure what he’s trying to accomplish or work out in his mind but I can’t speak, I just let him look. “Right. Are we getting to the ‘you save me’ bit? Not that I’m a damsel in distress but I’m rather stuck and I’ve been on my own for... a long time.”

“You don’t remember?” Interesting.

“Uh no, no I don’t.” He rubs the back of his neck nervously which stretches his body and draws attention to his bare chest, stomach and... no. Just listen to what he’s saying, keep eye contact. “I remember waking up on that mattress and I was thinking about you, how you were going to come for me and how I couldn’t wait to see you again, about how I feel about you.” He looks at me again, more intensely, I feel like I shouldn’t see that face, it’s not really John. “God Sherlock, can we... I just need...”

I must stop this. “You must be cold. Here, wear this.” I slip off my coat, it’s in a rather sorry state and I’m currently standing in a blood stained shirt. “It’s, um, a little soiled.” My offer is diminished further when a clot of blood slides to the floor like a slug.

“I’ll do without but thanks.”

“Yes, um, well, it’s the thought that counts right? That’s what people say, right?” I throw it on a nearby mattress. Maybe it’ll dry out a bit more and I don’t need my supplies currently.

“Well,” John begins and gestures to himself, “it’s nothing you haven’t seen before, is it?”

Yes, I have seen John nude on occasion but I feel this John has a different interpretation. “John...”

“Sherlock, I trust you.” He cuts me off bluntly. “I think that maybe something’s confusing you because you’re talking about things that can’t possibly be true but I know you want to get me out of here safely. It’s not as if you’re saying I’m a zombie and planning to decapitate me. I know you’ll believe me eventually and until then we’ll just work towards the goal of getting the hell out of here. I’m John, your John.”

He’s not my John. “I have all the data I need. The other Johns had tablets too; you appear to represent different facets of John’s personality combined with various nuances of mine. My weaknesses, my fears.”

My wants.

“You think I’m something bad? So what do I represent?”

“I haven’t worked it out yet.” I lie.

“Yes you have. You’re just not telling me.”

I don’t reply, I just smile a little. He’s not stupid at all.

“I’m real and I won’t harm you. Touch.” He reaches out for me but I take a few steps back. At once what felt natural feels at once wrong again. “Come on. I’m not going to do anything to you.” He looks hurt at my sudden distance but I know there’s a danger if my guard drops. “I’d never hurt you, Sherlock. Never.”

“The previous John tried.”

“Oh. Right. I’m sorry.” It’s heartfelt. “The blood?”

“Some is his; I had a chance to wipe most of it off. There are other creations here that don’t look like you. I also had to escape a tunnel filling with blood-like liquid.” I don’t mention the Speechless Man, it might unsettle John. False John. He’s not John.

“So it’s not been a boring rescue mission.” He laughs a little despairingly. “Right in your element.”

“Not as much as you’d think.”

“Guess it’ll be much better when I’m with you, at least I can shoot straight.” I see his hidden smile as he teases me.

“You were trained by the military.” I retort. I’m not that bad.

“Mrs Hudson is a better shot than you.”

“Well you should see me with this pipe.”

“And the knife? You’ve not put it away; still worried I’m going to eat your brain?”

“You have expressed an interest in it before.” I slip the knife away. John’s not armed and he’s trapped, it’s excessive.

“Admiration, not gastronomic interest. Much prefer you thinking aloud.” He smiles again and I feel myself return it without thinking. I’m flirting with him, it’s quite ridiculous. It must stop.

“Let’s get to the saving you part, control room I think.”

“There’s an electrical box next to my cell too, might be something to look at, the others don’t have them. I tried to have a look but I couldn’t reach.”

I see it to the right of John. “It’s locked. I’ll check that room.”

“Thank you Sherlock. For coming.”

I’m not sure how to respond, I’m not technically here for him but the real John. My journey continues after releasing him. I give a polite nod and head into the control room. I welcome the distraction; we’ve spent for too much time talking. Electrical panels and a large throw switch line one wall of the small room. The throw switch is labelled ‘emergency door release’. Excellent. I lift it and watch John through the observation window. “Try the door!” I shout.

I watch him tug fruitlessly at the bars. “Nope.”

There’s power to the display but I’m missing something, perhaps that box next to John’s cell... yes. I check the rest of the room I’m in and find a wooden box on the wall marked ‘KEYS’. I open it to find one solitary steel key the right size for the lock. I rush back and unlock the box.

“You found the key, excellent.” He beams proudly.

“It was in a box mounted on the wall marked ‘KEYS’, not exactly a great feat.”

“Would’ve stumped Anderson.”

I laugh and see him smiling, leaning casually against the bars. It’s familiar, wonderfully familiar. I turn the key in the lock it’s stiff but it finally turns. “Oh.”

Another puzzle.

“Broken I suppose. Can you fix it?”

“It’s more complicated than that. Good job I decided to bring the electrical tape with me, I wouldn’t want to fight my way back for it.” I retrieve the tape from my coat, roll up my sleeves and set to work.

“Is that a handprint on your wrist? Christ, Sherlock.”

I look at the arm that the drug addled John had dragged me by, it was quite distinct, each of his fingers could be seen clearly in purples, blues, blacks, greens and yellows. “No broken bones. I’m fine.”

“Let me see.”

“I’m fine.”

“Let. Me. See.” He repeated emphatically.

“I prefer my doctors to be dressed.”

“Don’t be a wanker.”

“You possess quite a bedside manner. I’m completely convinced of your competence.” I retort sarcastically.

“Then let me show you the ‘doctor’s foot up your arse’ technique, I’m sure you’ll be impressed.” We both laugh a little. “I may be illegitimate to you but I still know there are eight carpel bones in the human wrist.”

“A child knows that.”

“Sherlock, stop being a stubborn arse and let me quickly examine your hand.” He says tersely, I’ve heard that tone before. He won’t give up.

I thrust out my left arm towards him petulantly and although I appear to be examining the contents of the box my eyes are firmly on John. His eyes are completely focused as he palpates and moves my hand, it’s pleasing to watch as well to feel. “Agh.” I hiss.

“Sorry, think you might have some ligament damage, nothing permanent but you might need physio at some point. Did whoever did this twist your arm too?”

“Yes.”

“Similar sized hands to mine. His hand print is so clear.” He wraps his hand lightly around my wrist; it feels much nicer than the other John but still unwelcome. “It was me, wasn’t it? Another me.” He strokes the insides of my fingers. It’s not a medical touch but affectionate, like he wants to rid me of the memory of someone with his face causing me pain. I savour it for a second before pulling away.

The examination is over.

“Well deduced considering how obvious it was.” I take my hand back, hopefully there will be painkillers in Mycroft’s next package, it’s rather sore but nothing I can’t block out. “That was a waste of my time.”

“I was right to be worried about you.” As usual he ignores my jibe. “I always do though; sometimes I think I can will you to stay in one piece.”

“Yes, let’s get on, shall we?” I brush aside his sentiment though a part of me appreciates his kindness. It’s rather foreign in this place. It’s time to focus on the wire box and get this John out of this place.

Think.

Chapter 13: Toluca Lake Prison

Chapter Text

The puzzle looks obvious enough. Clean and technologically modern unlike the building, this is certainly a new addition. A prison like this wouldn’t have electrically operated locks. Keys were the height of technology back then.

“Ok. What do you see?” Asks John, leaning against the near wall with his head against the bars and looking at me. Quite adoringly actually. I don’t mind.

“Wires. Five down one side, six down the other. The sides are designated. Motive and Murder. There are tags on each of the wires.” I pick up one and read aloud. “‘The battered housewife can’t take another hit...’. There’s a button next to each wire on the motive side.” A screen lights up above the wires showing the picture of the battered housewife after a nasty beating. Her right eye swollen shut, cut lip, bruised cheek. I press the button again and a person who is obviously her husband appears, he’s the victim of a murder. One more press and the screen falls blank. Fascinating. Another tag reads ‘Boundary hedge dispute descends...’

I glance at the tags on the opposing wires. “I have to deduce how each murder was committed based on pictures and one half-sentence. Hot iron, strangulation, tampered car, poisoned milk, stabbing, or electrocution. One is a red herring, I have one possibility too many.”

“So you pair them up, it powers the door and you get me out of here?”

“That’s the general plan. It’s not the first puzzle I’ve encountered here, this seems fairly rudimentary.”

“Good for me, I guess.” He shrugs; he senses there’s a catch too. “So what motives do we have?”

I quickly read through the half-sentences. “Battered housewife, boundary dispute, life insurance money, mistress murders the wife and jealous of a new partner’s child.”

“Lovely.” He puffs his cheeks. “Ok, well the wife would have poisoned the milk, right?” John begins.

“Wrong.” I sigh. Good job John’s not responsible for getting himself out.

“Go on then.” He challenges. I always accept.

“The wife hit him with a hot iron, most likely to the face. I’ve had the benefit of seeing a picture of the husband, immaculately groomed, starched shirt, works in The City most likely from the quality of material and use of luxury products. Tie pin from Dipples. She was ironing one of his shirts when he lashed out at her again.”

“How can you be sure? She could have poisoned the milk anytime, she’d have access to household chemicals and she’d be in charge of cooking for him. Means, motive, opportunity.”

“The boundary dispute resulted in the poisoned milk. Semi rural area, they still have milk delivered each morning with foil lids. One of the men is clearly a vet, obvious from the curved scar on his forehead. He’d have access to a syringe and flavourless and odourless toxic compounds. Household chemicals are designed to be foul-tasting to prevent accidental ingestion, she’d never be able to hide it, she drinks milk too, she’d have to break a routine of years. The clue said she couldn’t take another hit, she snapped, poisoning is planned. Good try though. For an amateur.” He snorts but it’s in good humour.

I twist the respective wires together. All of the motive wires are red while the methods of the murders are different colours. I join the housewife to a grey wire and the boundary dispute to black. I rip the wire tape with my teeth and wrap it securely around the exposed flex. Done.

I look over at John who’s beaming at me. “God Sherlock, amazing.” He reaches through and gives my arm a tender squeeze and leaves it there. “Incredible.” He sighs happily. I’ve imagined he would look at me like that sometimes. The child knows this, I can hide nothing. It’s a new way of toying with me, showing me what I can’t have.

What I’ve tried not to want.

“You don’t usually touch me as much.” I stare at his hands which he slowly pulls away. I could take advantage but I don’t, that may well be the trap, the temptation that leads to my destruction. Or perhaps his. “The genuine John doesn’t.”

“We touch all the time.” He says confused.

“You may have some... false memories. We’ll discuss it later. Now quiet while I look at the murderer and victim from the life insurance case.” I have little intention of discussing it later, at least not honestly. He’s my creation again, this time what I want him to be. No one is supposed to know but surely Mycroft knows now and Moriarty seemed to know I cared about John before I did. He’ll be enjoying this, John a naked temptation clearly under the impression we’re closer than we are, sealed away but surrounded by mattresses. If I open this door, I could have John, I could experience him as I’ve imagined. I won’t. It wouldn’t be enough anyway.

“But-”

“John. Please.” I glare, chastising him into silence.

“Fine.” He sulks, folding his arms and leaning against the wall next to me. He looks strangely appealing, the way he rests his body, easy, natural but not relaxed. He’s always ready for something to happen, like he’s always got his finger on the trigger. There’s so much more of the John I know in this manifestation.

Eyes back on the device. A few clicks is all it takes to work out that the insurance money was obtained after tampering with a car, the husband a mechanic, this was simply too easy, hardly a challenge. I tape them, red to yellow.

“You worked the life insurance one? Tell me? I love to hear how you did it.”

“I believe even you could have worked that one out.”

“Tampered car?”

“Yes. Painfully obvious.”

“There. I’m more clever than a cucumber.”

“I know you’re no fool.”

“Just not a patch on you.” He clarifies sarcastically but jovially.

“Is anyone?” I smirk.

“Mycroft.” He retorts with a rather impish look in his eye.

“Genetics unfortunately. He’s not without his uses.”

“You’d run short of arch enemies.”

“I doubt I’ll ever run short of those.” I take a sideways glance at John, he’s becoming... aroused. He shifts uneasily and clears his throat. He’s forgotten how exposed he is both physically and how I can read him.

“So what’s next?” John gestures to the box of wires.

I read from the tag. “The young mistress doesn’t want to share her toy anymore...”

“Options left?”

“Electrocution, stabbing, strangulation.”

“What do you think?”

“She’s young, fairly uneducated but clever in other ways. I doubt electrocution; this is a crime of passion, fury, possession. Stabbing most likely, couldn’t rely on strength for strangulation and to subdue the wife. She’d fight for her life.”

“Excellent. So we’re left with electrocution and strangulation for the final clue.”

“The heart of a mother is to be his and his alone.”

“Christ. That’s unpleasant.”

“The child is barely three. A boy.” I study him. A happy child.

“What do you think the killer did? Threw something in the bath with him?”

“I doubt the mother would have given him such a responsibility, certainly not alone. He strangled the child, probably while he slept. A type of man who’d kill a child is a coward by nature.”

“I don’t understand someone who could ever harm a child. Who could do such a thing?”

“I could give you a list.” Moriarty and the members of The Order to start.

“Please be kidding.” I give him a quick narrowed glance. “God. So are these cases you’ve had before?”

“I rarely deal with such trivialities. Even a run of the mill detective could handle these without breaking a sweat.”

“So electrocution is the odd one out?”

“It would seem that way, yes.” I run through all the options again. There is definitely nowhere for the last wire to be connected. I connect up the last two wires, red and green. Green, envy. “This wasn’t as fun as the last one. Thought it would be more challenging. At least worthy of one nicotine patch.”

“Are you sure you’ve got them right? Maybe the cases are more complicated because they aren’t obvious.”

“I’m right, I know I am. It would be arbitrary otherwise.”

“I trust you.”

“Good. I’ll go flip the switch.”

John grabs my dried sleeve and I look at him curiously. Doesn’t he want to get out? “Wait. Um, before you go.” He drags me so I stand in front of him and pulls me closer against the bars. I could resist but I don’t feel in danger. He’s no threat to me. “I know you think I’m not real but I’m made of skin and bone and I love you, that’s what I know. That’s real.” I try to pull away but I’m still stunned by his declaration and his hands holding my arms. I shouldn’t be hearing those words; it’s just another type of torment. I’m not meant to hear those words, they were never meant for me.“Just stay a second. Can I at least hug you before you flip anything? I don’t trust this place. Please?”

“John doesn’t love me.”

“I do.”

“You’re not John!” I shout, why won’t he stop this! I try to pull away again but he’s got me tight. Maybe I just don’t want to pull away yet.

“Yes I am! God Sherlock,” He grabs my bloodstained hand and forces it to his face, holding it there firmly. So warm, my hand swamps the side of his face slightly, my index finger resting under a blue eye, my thumb next to his mouth. I shouldn’t let this happen but I am. “Maybe, just maybe, I’m not exactly the same John you met at Bart’s but I remember that day as if it was my own, I knew that I was meeting someone exceptional.” He tilts his head and softly kisses the tip of my thumb. It’s exquisite. “By the end of the day I knew we’d be together, that we’d make each other’s lives better and happier. I know all this. We could still be us, be what you want, what I remember.”

“Exactly.” I mutter, I hope Moriarty doesn’t hear.

“What?”

I jerk my hand away much to John’s obvious pain. I still feel him on my fingers. “You remember it that way because that’s what I wished you’d felt.” I speak like the words mean nothing. I loathe saying it aloud so that Moriarty will hear but this thing needs to understand. No, he’s more than a mere thing, bile rises in my throat to think of him that way, but he isn’t genuine, I can’t forget that fact. “John... the genuine John, he doesn’t feel that way. We share a house, a laugh, he’s my friend and we’re close, very close. But it’s never more than that and it never will be. I’m fine with these circumstances; I value what we have very much. I’m perfectly happy and will continue to be happy; it’s not an issue.”

“Sherlock, I’m sorry but-” This John is just a reflection of me, of one of my not-so-hidden desires.

“I can get you out. We’ll get out of here. Let’s just leave it at that, shall we.” I untangle myself from his grip, unfurling his clenched fingers.

“I do love you.”

“I wish you’d understand.”

“I wish you would.”

“Fair enough.” We’re at loggerheads, at least it’s amenable.

John sighs in defeat. “Am I at least your favourite John-a-like?”

“Yes. By far.”

“I’ll take that.” He touches my blood spattered face one last time and this time I don’t turn away but accept it passively. A soft caress down my temple and cheek before he cups my jaw and strokes my cheek with him thumb. He looks defeated again but he has no clue as to that I’ll remember that touch until my dying day. “Look, you better spring me from this cell before I declare my undying love for you again. You might end up leaving me here.”

“I wouldn’t leave you behind, John.”

“You wouldn’t leave the real John behind, you mean.” He knows. He understands he’s not naturally formed. He’s accepted it as fact.

He’s not expendable though.

“It’s irrelevant. I’m getting you out and I’m going to make sure you stay in one piece too.” Maybe he could be his own person, maybe things could be different. Maybe we could make a life together... preposterous thought but I still can't shake it from my mind. It’s tempting. The world could take two John’s, if he could survive outside of the town of course. I’m sure the other John wouldn’t begrudge him his existence. It could be workable. “I could do with some help with the monsters around here anyway and you’re not terrible company.”

“A glowing review.” He remarks sardonically.

“From me it’s quite exemplary.” I pull out my knife. “Take this.”

“Are you that worried?” He doesn’t take it.

“I’m better with the pipe and I want to prepare for every eventuality. I doubt we’ll be alone for much longer, might as well take it now.”

“Yeah. Sound sensible.” He takes the knife, his touch lingers slightly. “Good knife, Sheffield?”

“Of course. Gift from Mycroft.”

“Very nice.” He runs his finger along the flat edge of the blade. It’s rather unclean. “You’ve used it a lot.”

“Yes.”

“Ok.” He nods and we stare at each other again. There’s little else to say to delay testing my deduction abilities. “Sherlock if I’m what you want then...” He clears his throat and touches my forearm. “...you can kiss-”

“Don’t move, I’ll be right back.” I walk as briskly as I can to the control room and away from the rest of his sentence. I can’t. I want to, but I can’t. Maybe... no, I just can’t. Not right now.

I get to the control room and close the door to behind me. It’s a little bit of breathing space. There are more lights lit this time, a good sign. I’m fully expecting company once I free him but we’ll fight them together. I can deal with John later.

Now, it’s time to flip the switch.

Chapter 14: The Prison

Chapter Text

I watch John through the window again. I see him stand away from the bars; no contact with metal is advisable. If the door doesn’t open automatically I’ll cover my pipe with my coat and open it with that, no need to take unnecessary risks. He looks a little nervous but resolute, knife in hand. I’ve never seen him use one, he favours the gun if he has a choice but it suits him aesthetically. A picture of survival, naked, armed with a knife, muscle and his mind. Rather striking. “Ready when you are, Sherlock.”

This John loves me.

Those words are the worst thing I’ll ever hear but they’ll forever be the best words John will ever say to me. Of course, the real John will never know. I can live with that secret. I’ll be living with many from this place. Another one barely matters. I keep my eyes firmly on John as I grab the thick handle of the switch. I have the pipe to hand. “Flipping the switch now.”

One swift movement from top to bottom and the switch moves with a clang.

His body collapses with an agonising scream to the ground. “NO!” I flip the switch back but he’s still down, convulsing. Electrocution, oh god no, no, no. I drop my pipe and run as fast as I can back to the box and rip out the wires. “Ah bugger.” Sparks fly and a sharp shock whips violently up my arm but it cuts the power and John’s naked body falls still. He’s unconscious. “John, oh god, John!” The cell door is still locked tight. I drop to the floor and reach for him through the bars. “John? John, please no, please.” I beg. I plead. “Please. You can’t...” I pull his limp arm through the bars and feel for a pulse. “No, no, no, no, no.”

I can’t, not again, not again.

I pull on his arm and drag him closer and start compressions through the bars. “Come on, come on John, please, please.” I can’t get through to breathe for him. Blue lips, side of his face scorched with electrical burns from when he hit the ground. I see tiny metal threads woven through the concrete floor, I don’t remember them, I would’ve seen. He’d have felt them. They weren’t there. We both knew to stay away from the metal, we knew it wasn’t safe.

I try to breathe for him anyway, keeping his head tilted and his airway open as possible before pumping his heart again. “Come on, come on. Please breathe, please breathe.” My throat is tight, hard to breathe myself but I manage to force more oxygen inside him. His chest rises and falls with each mouthful of air before I compress his chest again. “Please, John, please.” One of his ribs snaps. Then another on the other side. “For godsake John.” Please, please, please.

I pinch his nose and breathe again. I won’t give up, I won’t. “No, you can breathe, please.” Still no pulse. More compressions. Am I doing them right? I’m not directly over him. John, so blank. Not again, not again. Please, god, let him live. Please let him live.

I feel another rib give completely. No. There’s nothing, nothing. He’s not... he’s not going to wake. Oh god. Oh god. No. He’s.... “John.”

I stop.

No, this isn’t right. It isn’t fucking right. “FUCK!” I won’t leave him in there. I stand and grab a broken metal bed slat and bellow as I slam it into the bars. The sound of reverberating metal rings out and echoes around the cavernous building. I hit again and again, the bars aren’t giving but I don’t stop, I’m screaming and roaring with every blow, “NO!” I’ll get him out, I’ll get John out. “YOU FUCKING CUNT, MORIARTY, I’LL FUCKING BOIL YOU ALIVE.” John’s not staying here; no fucking way does he belong here.

This John was mine.

I crash the bar against the door again but it’s bouncing back fruitlessly, twisting in my grip and sending waves of pain through my wrist, through my whole body. All I know is that I’m still trying to break through, still trying to get to him. I keep going, the noise is building, every creature must know I’m here but I’ll kill them all. I’ll kill them all and I’ll enjoy their deaths. I swing the bar again a strike with everything I have, “GAH!” The bar bounces violently backwards.

It hurts. Hurts too much.

“AAAAAAGGGGHHHHH!” I throw the bar away as hard as I can. It hits a cell on the second floor and crashes to the ground. Clanging and bouncing until it’s silent again. No static, no taunts, no more John.

I should have known.

I drop to my knees again by John. His scream still echoes in my head, I’ll never be rid of the sound. “I’m so sorry. I’m so... I should’ve... I’m sorry.” I hold the hand I’d pulled through the bars and place it in mine. Limp but still warm. That’s where the talisman would have been. I pull it from my pocket, I feel like smashing... “Oh... oh.” I got it wrong again. Not turquoise. A fleck on lint drifted in front of me and then suddenly changed its course and clung to the stone. Hemimophrite. It has one unique property; it holds a minute electrical charge created when it’s first formed in the earth.

There was no way to save him. His fate was known. I can’t save any of them. It doesn’t matter how smart I am. They’ll die, he’ll always die.

I keep hold of his hand, using my other to squeeze it around me to give him false life. He wanted to give me what I wanted; maybe I should have given him what he wanted too. If only once. I feel like I should cover him. Maybe I can return here later, give him a proper burial, that was important to him though I’m hardly sentimental about such activities, he’s still...

The radio crackles to life, not with static, but with the last voice I wanted to hear. “Oh John, please! Please don’t die! Wah, wah, wah, boo hoo, hoo.” He mocks. “Please don’t die again. Please don’t let me have murdered you horribly again. Nooooo!” He laughs. He giggles, even.

I stay silent. I shouldn’t have let him see me like that. I’m tired, I lost focus, it won’t happen again. I remain unmoved.

“You were more upset about poor John than seeing your own mother gutted and strung about like tinsel. This wasn’t anymore real... was it? Oops, perhaps it was this time!”

“It wasn’t.”

“How do you know? How can you truly be sure?”

Again, I stay silent. I won’t say it aloud.

“Oh! I know! Because he looooved you! Should be more careful with your pets, you’ve gotten far too attached. You’d be better off if he really was dead. I could help you out there, could be just the two of us again. That’s how it’s meant to be, after all.”

“No, thank you.” I’ll kill Moriarty. I’ll bring him back to life so I can kill him again. Over and over and over. Twenty times for every John Watson.

“Shame. Tell me, what was it like for the first time you had your lips against John’s for him to be dead? So lifeless but then he’d never return your affection anyway. Maybe he’d return mine? I know where he is, I could have my wicked way with him right now.”

I don‘t rise to the bait, I just hate him a little more. This place smells damper, mouldier than ever. “Where next?”

“You could’ve fucked him, Sherlock. Bent him right over and fucked him dry. Right. Through. The. Bars.” He grunts with each word. “He’d have bled and loved it. You like the blood don’t you? You’d just love to see John’s blood dripping from your cock, wouldn’t you? Such a pretty sight.”

I keep my expression blank though my insides coil with disgust. “Where next?” I repeat.

“I think our girl will decide. Tell me Sherlock, how much do you hate me?”

With all my being.

“Come on, I feel it but I want to hear it. Just like before when you were screaming, you called me a cunt. Dirty mouth you have there.”

I still have John’s hand in mine. Able to touch but forever locked away from me, the John I want there to see but never to be mine. A metaphor come to life. It’s time to let it go. I place his hand on his chest, retrieve the knife he still holds tight and collect my coat. I’m no closer to Moriarty sitting here. “Well I must dash.”

“She’s wonderful isn’t she? God. You have created such a beautiful playground and after that display, oh it’s going to get so much better.” He laughs before spitting his next words. “Hate me, Sherlock.” he seethes. “Hate me with everything you have. Cunt.”

He’s gone.

Time to move on. I take a final look at John and freeze. He’s not alone. A towering masked man stands over his discoloured and bruised body. He’s dressed like the robed cultists in the paintings. “He was never going to live, fool. You can’t win here.” He draws a metal rod from behind his back with two thin cables attached; I already know it’s electrified. Even if John had avoided the trap, this being would have come for him. He would still have been trapped. He would have fought but he would have lost.

“Who are you?”

“Does it matter?” He drawls slowly, his voice gravelly.

“Might do, won’t know until you tell me.”

“I’m every man you’ve ever loathed.”

“How dull.”

“You don’t get to win.”

“I will.”

“You cannot defeat God.”

“I’ve defeated worse. I’ve defeated better.”

The masked man laughs and raises his metal rod above John’s stomach, its end sharpened to a point. I can hear the hum of electricity. I cannot stop this. “Beg for him.”

“No.”

“Very well.” He plunges the rod into his stomach until it hits the concrete. John sucks in gasping breath and opens his eyes in shock. Alive. He turns to look at me, lifting a shaking hand to reach out through the bars. Tears fill his eyes. “Help.” Oh god, he’s impaled and alive. This can’t be.

“You’ve made your point. Stop.”

The masked man laughs and twists the shaft. John screams as his body is wracked with thousands of volt of excruciating painful electricity, burning him from inside out.

“SHERLOCK!”

“JOHN!” I rush to him. “AAGGHH.” I drop to the floor in sudden excruciating pain, just like the time in the church but worse. So much worse. “Nnnnghhh.” Pain. Sirens. The Otherworld is coming. I cradle my head and block my ears but it does nothing. I see John; screaming and writhing as the masked man holds the rod inside him. His body jerks, his blood begins to pool around him, flowing around the rusted metal bars. “John...” I croak out but everything hurts.

The sirens are getting louder, drowning out John’s screams. Too loud, too loud. A symbol flashes before my eyes, red on black. The same seal on this room. Sirens. Pain. The dark is coming.

“Mycroft... help me stop this. Help me... kill God.”

Chapter 15: Hospital room... somewhere

Chapter Text

Gunfire. Ambush. Get down. Get down! Cover. Pinned down. Flanking. Fuck. Burnt out car. Paul. Paul. No, you utter wanker, get down. Shit. Gut shot. Screaming. Gunfire. Mortar. No reinforcements. Get Paul. Shelter. Safety. Mortar. Flanking. Paul. Heavy. Gunfire. Pain. Help. Pain. Help. Pain...

“NNNGGGHHH!”

Shit, shit, I fell asleep. “Hannah, Hannah stop moving. Where does it hurt?” Oh god, she’s thrashing about. Her skin can’t take the movement; it’s tearing and cracking, blood’s leaking on to the table. She’ll kill herself like this.

“NNNNNNN.” She’s trying to curl up, abdominal pain. Gut shot. I can’t hold her down, I’ll do more damage, oh god.

“Stay still, stay still, I’ll get you something.” I grab the significantly more powerful painkiller I’d prepared earlier when her sleep became more fitful. It sits next to a pair of syringes I’d prepared for anyone entering the room. “Open wide, this will help. I promise.”

“HATE!” Her lips crack as she shouts at me and cries out in pain.

She can’t stay like this. I open her mouth as carefully as I can and force half the liquid down. “Swallow, sweetheart, no more pain, no more pain.” She swallows. Once, twice, three times. “Shh, it’s ok now, it’s ok.” Her mouth has torn at the corner, blood trickles down her cheek. Maybe I should give her the rest...

She’s moving around less, it’s starting to work. “Hate.” She mutters. “Hate. You.”

“Shush, it’s ok, it’s going to get better now.” I say softly but over the sound of her agonised groans. She hates me for not killing her, I understand. I’d hate me too. “Sleep, Hannah, don’t fight it, I’ll be right here all the time.”

“I..ree..mem...”

“Shh, just sleep. Just sleep.”

It’s a struggle but she finally gives in and sleeps. I don’t know how she woke from the other dosage, it was enough to keep a fully grown male out for at least few hours. It was borderline dangerous to give her that much. Still she woke.

I keep my eyes on her chest, she’s barely breathing due to the amount of pain relief I’ve given her. At least she’s breathing enough to keep her alive. She hurt herself pretty badly when she thrashed around. I move around her body to check her open wounds. Luckily the bleeding has slowed and clotted, her dramatically slow heart rate and low blood pressure would help. I take some dressings I don’t plan on using to clean up as well as I can but I risk cracking and tearing her skin with each touch. Some of it flakes off into my hand leaving sub dermal flesh exposed, ripe for infection. “God Hannah, I’m so sorry.” I mop up the bed and leave it there, it’s the best I can do. She can’t go on like this.

If she stops breathing, I won’t revive her.

She can’t last much longer, she’s slowly dying and painfully too. I could help her. There’s plenty of morphine in stock, it would suppress her breathing to the point of it stopping, help her pass peacefully. She’s suffering so much. She can’t wake screaming again, there’s no chance of a meaningful recovery and no one here to say goodbye other than me. It’s time.

I fill a syringe full of morphine. I can inject it straight into her heart, she can’t feel anything right now. It will be painless. I’ve never done this intentionally before; the decision has always been taken out of my hands. It’s just an enhanced Liverpool Technique, palliative care to ease the end. Fuck that, this is a mercy killing because Hannah needs mercy. Moriarty showed her none. I don’t even know her surname but someone will. She must have a father somewhere, grandparents maybe? They wouldn’t want her to suffer just so they get a chance to say goodbye. I trust Sherlock to do all he can but we may never get out of here. Hannah can’t suffer indefinitely.

“Ok.” I stand over her, morphine in hand. Her chest is hardly moving, she barely needs my help. “You’re so brave Hannah, I’m glad we met. I wish I could have done more.” I hope her seven years were mostly happy. “Go be with your mum now; I’m sure she’s waiting for you.” A swallow the lump in my throat and steady my hand over her heart. She’s so small, she didn’t deserve this end.

I push the needle through her skin at angle between her ribs. She doesn’t flinch. I keep pressing until the needle is in place. I depress the plunger and empty the morphine into her heart. It shouldn’t take long. I pull out the empty needle and set it down. I clear a few tears away so I can see her. I count her breaths, there’s more time between each one. Eight, nine... ten... ...eleven... nothing. Still nothing. I double check with a stethoscope for one minute and check her pupils. She’s gone. “Bye, Hannah.”

I force back the tears. There’s a chance Moriarty is watching and I won’t let him see me weak. He’s probably filmed this, I may go to prison. I don’t care; it’s all just part of the game for him. The overdose was best for Hannah. I hardly knew her, I didn’t know what her favourite food was or if she liked cats over dogs but she was special. I don’t know how, but she had a presence, a fire inside her. She had to have something strong about her to have survived as long as she did. If she had been my daughter, I would have been proud.

I should cover her up; there was a spare sheet in one of the cupboards. I grab one and cover her from head to toe. The action makes her death feel so final. I swallow hard again, I’m alone now.

Hopefully Sherlock is close, there’s not much I can do to help myself unless someone comes in. I might be able to lure one in if I shout that Hannah has died. I pocket a syringe and bang on the door as hard as I can. It feels thicker than before, strange, I must remember it differently. “She’s dead.” I yell. “Remember the child you burnt to a crisp, the child whose mother you murdered? Remember her?” I kick the door a few times, it barely echoes. “You belong in hell, Moriarty. I’ll put you there.” I kick again and then listen. No one is coming. He wants me in here with her, first to watch her suffer then to sit with her body.

I slump back in the chair at her bedside. I wonder what Sherlock would have done or whether he’d approve. He’d see little sense in allowing her to suffer but I don’t know if he’s ever purposefully taken a life before. It’s not something that gets easier or worse, each time is different. In Afghanistan I’ve killed knowingly, seen their eyes before pulling the trigger. I’ve probably killed without even knowing, just a stray bullet catching the enemy. It’s war, it’s what you do, I didn’t often think twice. I killed, I healed. That’s the life of an active soldier and doctor.

I came back home and killed again and again. Shooting the cabbie was simple enough, I wasn’t under threat, not like in Afghanistan, but didn’t have a doubt that I was going to kill him if I had to. I don’t regret it, it had to be done. Again I killed to protect Sarah, Sherlock too. That’s what I do, I kill to protect others, that’s the only similarity between the lives I’ve taken.

Except when killing Hannah, helping Hannah, there wasn’t anyone to save, no one to protect. This was different. I’ve been asked before, I’ve considered it before, but I’ve gone through with it. I didn’t know if I could. In the end, it was easy. It was right. Yes, Sherlock would have approved. I don’t know why that matters, but somehow it’s comforting. He’d say something that would make this seem like just another occurrence in a long series of improbable events and we’d move on. He’d make it feel right.

Wait, I hear something. Chanting? I get up to press my ear against the door but I actually hear less that way. “Hello? Is someone there?” I can’t make out what they are saying, must be a dozen voices chanting as one. I rush to each wall and listen, still nothing. I grab the stethoscope and try that.

“... Samael... take us to paradise... come forth... let hate feed you... oh holy... Samael... paradise... come forth...”

“HEY! I’M TRAPPED IN HERE, LET ME OUT! THERE’S A GIRL WITH ME!” I need them to hear, I need to get out. I pick up my chair and bang it into the wall. It doesn’t even leave a mark. I try a few more times for good measure.

Stethoscope again. “...hate feed you, make you strong... oh holy mother... protect us...” They didn’t even break step. Their voices keep droning on.

“I NEED HELP IN HERE! PLEASE! LET ME OUT!”

“...take us to paradise...”

“What the hell is this place, Moriarty? I know you’re watching you tosser.” Mind games maybe? Wouldn’t put it passed him just to toy with my mind, there had to be a reason he put me in here with Hannah. The chanting continues. Maybe it’s a cult? Are they the ones that burnt Hannah? Some god awful make believe ritual?

Whoever they are I need to get their attention I pick up the chair and slam it into the wall again, as hard as I can. The chair buckles but the wall is still unharmed. How strange. I run my hand over the wall where I hit. It feels like plaster, it should have dented or marked the paint at the very least. I must be wrong, it’s something else made to look like plaster and paint. Whatever it is it’s fucked my chair now.

I pace, I hate not being able to do anything like a god damn fucking damsel in distress. They’re getting louder now; I can hear them without using the stethoscope. “...Samael... holy mother...”

My stomach starts to sink. If this is some kind of cult, if they burnt Hannah, then they might come for me next. I pace faster, “...let paradise come forth...” their chants are haunting. God Sherlock you better find me soon because I don’t want to end up like Hannah. If I do, I hope you’ll do the right thing. I trust him with my life; I’d trust him with my death too. I should probably write a note, maybe Sherlock will find it if the worst happens. At least he’ll know what I want if I can’t tell him though he probably knows already. I pace a little more and search for something I could use as a pen. “...take us to paradise, cleanse us...”

“OI! SHUT UP WILL YOU!” Maddening noise, they better not keep it up for too long. At least as long as they’re chanting away they aren’t coming in here. Maybe now Hannah has passed they need me? Shit. It wasn’t fair to let Hannah suffer just to give Sherlock more time to find me but I really, really don’t fancy being burnt alive. Shit, shit, shit. I keep one hand on the syringe in my pocket; it could be my only hope. If they come, I’ll fight, I won’t go quietly. There’s always a second option on how to use the syringe.

Bugger. There’s no pen here, no substitute either. “Damn them.” Enough morphine to kill myself ten times over but no sodding pen.

“...let hate feed you, make you strong...”

Still louder, maybe there are more of them too. Something is going to happen soon, I feel like I’m running out of time. Probably just Moriarty playing with me. Wait. Something... something moved under the sheet. I really need to relax, I’m going stir crazy, I need to do something useful like straighten out the chair...

“HUUUUUUUUH”

“Oh bloody Christ!” Hannah sucks in a breath so deep the sheet clings to the inside of her mouth, suffocating her. “Oh my god...” I pull back the sheet and two blue frightened eyes stare right at me as she gasps for breath. She was dead. She hasn’t taken a breath in twenty minutes. I wasn’t wrong. She was gone. I slowly approach her side, something is very, very wrong. “Hannah.”

She looks at me terrified, still wheezing. “Si. Lent. Hill.”

Chapter 16: Otherworld

Chapter Text

I wake face down, cold. I move my aching head and the ground scrapes my cheek. The surface is different, tarmac. I’m outside, in the road. It’s dark. No moon, no stars. The darkness is thicker in the Otherworld, it’s more than the absence of light, it’s like the dark has the same consistency as the fog. “John?” No reply. I’m still gaining my bearings, I don’t know how I got here but it’s not important. I try to get up but as I set my hands down I find I’m holding something. A handgun with a note wrapped around the grip. About bloody time. I switch on my torch for a closer look. Semi automatic, Browning, 13-round capacity, fully loaded. John’s favoured type of gun, I’ve used it before. This will do. I unravel the piece of paper and read the note.

Hosp

He didn’t have much time to get this to me, the note is scrawled messily, Mycroft’s handwriting is rarely nothing but impeccable. No word on mummy, next note hopefully, the gun more than makes up for the lack of information. Hosp. Hospital. Right. I stand and sway a little, my head feels like it’s swimming and crashing against the inside of my skull. Must keep searching. Forget what happened in the prison, it couldn’t be helped. I won’t forget him, but I have to keep going. John. He’s here, somewhere.

I stand and see if I’ve been put somewhere I recognise but this is the Otherworld, nothing will be as it seems. I cast my torch over the shop fronts. They’re all covered in opaque plastic. The darkened street lights are wrapped too. No cars here. I go to find something to climb to find the hospital when I see that one of the shop fronts has a message painted across it. I cast the torch through the darkness and illuminate a single sentence on the plastic, ‘Alessa Gillespie was the first’. Who is Alessa Gillespie? First what? Data, this is good. Now I need context.

Static.

I turn slowly. Another of the acid filled conjoined monsters stand before me, both faces leering, waiting to see who makes the first move. Clever. The standing man strokes the face of his withered twin. I don’t have to run this time. I raise the gun and fire, the 9mm bullet rips through the standing man’s eye socket and he falls to the ground. The emaciated sibling spits weakly doesn’t die but another bullet in his bald skull soon halts the trickle of acid. Yes, the tide has turned. Eleven bullets left.

Static remains.

I look around for a potential threat; my torch isn’t strong enough to illuminate much at a time. I beam of light cuts through the thick shadow. I eventually see the source of the static. Two sources... three. All alike but different to what I’ve seen before. Deformed men covered in necrotic, infected flesh. I can smell their skin rotting, the puss and dying tissue. I should be able to dispatch them... where’s my... bugger, I dropped my pipe. Idiot.

Limited ammunition. I still have my knife but I’d have to get close. I don’t want to run, it would be too easy to get overwhelmed, I can kill them close up but I don’t know what the cost might be to take these on. Oh you’re kidding me. Two lumbering laser dotted beasts appear in the distance. Who knows how many bullets it would take to put one of those things down and I don’t know how long it will be before Mycroft can rearm me. The necrotic creatures are still standing, swaying and gurgling grotesquely. I take two easy steps back to put some distance between us but they snap to attention.

Run.

I run in the direction that didn’t have monsters, who knows if it’s in the direction of the hospital or not. Those rotting monsters run quickly, as fast as me, I’ve no choice but to use the gun. I turn and fire one round, catching the closest one in the stomach. I aimed for the chest but a hit is a hit. Ten bullets. He falls screaming and gurgling, the other two screamed as well but keep running. Luckily the laser sighted beings didn’t join in with the hunt.

The street continues to be covered in plastic but there’s flickering brightness up ahead. I run towards it and hear another scream, this time familiar in a way I wish it wasn’t.

John.

I have to find the source of the scream but I can’t do it while I’m being chased. I grab my knife and let the two foul smelling monsters catch up with me. One swings and I duck, plunging the knife into its stomach. The other I slash at, cutting its flailing hands before I lunge and dig the knife into its chest twice, slipping the blade between his ribs. It falls beside the other and falls silent. The infected puss on their skin covers my hand and itches horribly. I rapidly pull out a couple of antiseptic wipes and remove the viscous liquid as fast as I can. My skin is raw underneath; I must keep an eye on it in case it worsens.

Another yell, John again. I turn right down a wide street and see that the light is coming from behind a plastic sheet spread across the wide road. It must be fifty feet high, supported by scaffolding. I see two enlarged silhouettes, one clearly John the other a robed man, maybe the one from the prison. I run with my knife in hand to cut the plastic but I’m still a hundred meters away at least. I might not get there in time.

“No! Please don’t!” John pleads. I’m too late. The robed man swings an axe and beheads him. He laughs, it was the man from the prison. Not real, not real, not real. I reach the plastic and cut through it as quickly as I can, there might be a talisman to collect. The sheet cuts smoothly.

“Oh, god.” The shapes that represented the executioner and John dissolve into a mass of scurrying cockroach-like insects. No talisman. “Ah, bloody hell.” I stomp as best as I can, they crunch beneath my feet. The ground is clear, nothing to collect, I’m sure. Why not? I run before they find their way up my trouser legs because they look like they bite. The rest of the street is clear; I just have to hope it’s in the vague direction of the hospital. What I’d give for a half decent map.

Static. I slow down. Two dogs feast on a corpse on the pavement. They are manifestations too, wrapped in brown leather belts. I edge round slowly not wishing to interrupt their meal.

Another message scrawled on the plastic in large letters above the dogs. ‘Cheryl Mason was the second’. Interesting. Two females. More information. God or Hannah Mason is communicating with me.

“Second what? I need answers.” I ask aloud hoping I’ll find something scrawled somewhere that’s less cryptic. A roar in the distance breaks me from my thoughts and I move swiftly away, I don’t want the dogs to spot me. I move quickly down the street, scanning the plastic on both sides as I go before I find a house. A house free from plastic. Worth investigating. Static picks up again as I get closer, damn, another acid creature. I could make it to the front door and get inside if it’s open but if it’s not, I’ll probably end up with a back covered in acid. Ten bullets left, I’ll be down to eight. Ok, one bullet in the primary, stab the weakling in the head.

The thing raises its umbrella and throws it at me like a javelin. “Ah, damn.” It catches me on the right arm painfully, so much heavier than it looks. I shoot, aiming for the head and miss. Another shot and I don’t miss. It drops backward to the ground so I pull out my knife intent on stabbing the twin through the eye. It’s coughing this time but releasing no acid. I can’t take the risk, I stab it anyway. Eight bullets.

At least the static has stopped for now. I turn my attention back to the house. The green wooden door has message carved into it, ‘Your answers’. The door is unlocked.

I enter into a small entrance way with a staircase upstairs. Fairly normal looking, no bloodied walls or plastic, dated wallpaper, worn carpeting. One coat and one pair of women’s shoes are prepared neatly beside the door. I hear gentle sobbing from one of the downstairs room. No static on the radio but I walk slowly towards the noise, through one of the two door in this hallway.

It leads to a living room filled with comfortable furniture, well stocked bookcases and photographs. The windows are so dark it’s impossible to see outside, we’re sealed off from the Otherworld. One old, leather bound book lies in shreds on the floor, pages torn and ripped with furious anger. I see a familiar picture on one of the scrunched up pages. A girl on an altar surrounded by fire and robed people. It’s a text belonging to The Order. I should take it before I leave.

An elderly woman sits in an oversized arm chair with a tissue at her face, crying. White curly hair and a wizened face covered by skin made thin from years in the sun. Four empty packets of medication sit on the side table next to an almost empty glass of sweet sherry.

“Are you here for me?” she croaks. “It’s too late, I’ll be gone soon. Don’t waste your time.” She finishes bitterly with a dismissive wave of her hand.

“I’m not from The Order.” I believe that’s what she wants to hear.

“Oh... who are you then?” She stops her crying and assesses my appearance. She doesn’t seem concerned about the considerable amount of blood. I doubt her sanity.

“I’m looking for answers. I’m looking for someone.” I try to appear as non-threatening as possible, concerned and worried. I keep my voice soft.

“A child?”

“Yes.” Not exactly but she’s the vessel, I must find her if I’m going to end this. She may well be the key to finding John. “A man too, his name is John.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know of a John.”

I expected as much. “But you know of the child.”

“Yes, it’s been done now.” She says dreamily. I look at the packets of different types of prescription strength painkillers and antidepressants. There’s a different name on each packet. She’s gathered these.

I turn on the worried parent act in hopes of sparking her guilt enough to share something I can use. “What do you mean done? I’m her father, I-I have to find her.” It’s easy to throw a few tears and make my eyes glassy. I was promised answers but I’ll have to work for them.

“Don’t lie to me child.” She says with a sly grin. “She has no father. Who are you?”

Interesting. She’s no fool despite being under the influence of a significant amount of medication. I drop the act immediately and blink away the tears. “Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective. Who are you?”

“Doesn’t matter anymore.”

“You’ve taken those pills, you’re dying.”

“Yes. Yes I am.” She replies with a slight quiver of her bottom lip. She’s been hurried into this position, she would rather take her own life than be murdered.

I have limited time, I need to get answers to relevant, useful questions. “Where is the child?”

“I don’t know, I was only present for the ritual. We did it again, what a wonderful feat.”

“What ritual?”

“Don’t you know?” Her eyes lit up. “We birthed God from fire!” She beams, suddenly filled with reverent awe. “She is coming, it will work this time and oh, she will bring paradise to us.” She smiles and clasps her hands over her heart, tissue still in hand.

The ritual from the painting. “You burned the child. You sacrificed her?”

“Oh she’s alive, it’s vital that she survive or the ritual will have failed. Oh the poor sweet thing, cried out for her mother the whole time but she must suffer, she must hate. Only those who know great suffering can provide great kindness. One is a reflection of the other. She’s so fortunate. She will be the mother of God!” She laughs with joy. “What an honour!”

The fire is symbolic perhaps, or she’s only afflicted with minor burns. I need to understand this ritual. The book might help. “How can I stop this?”

“Why would you want to do that? Don’t you want to bask in God’s great paradise? She’s so close, she’ll be here soon, paradise is almost upon us. Of course, you’re not a believer are you? You’ll be left to burn here, mired in the chaos of this wretched world.”

I choose not to answer. “Hate is part of the ritual, hate births God too?” Is this why I’m being toyed with in such a way, why Moriarty encourages me to loathe him? Am I part of the ritual, the process to birth God?

“Of course, dear. I’m getting tired now, it’s soon time.”

This is valuable but I’m not sure how to react yet. To hate less when I’ll still kill Moriarty as slowly as I can the moment I lay my hands on him. I don’t know how to hate less; I just hate those who deserve to be hated. I can hardly forgive Moriarty for his ‘sins and trespasses’. Address that later, focus on Hannah Mason. “Could the child be in the hospital?”

“I don’t know,” she sighs; she’s starting to slur a little too, “she can’t die from her burns, there’s no reason to take her there. I really must...” Her eyes are beginning to droop.

I need more. “Who are Cheryl Mason and Alessa Gillespie?” I speak louder, trying to keep her with me as long as possible.

“Oh, Alessa was the first.”

“First what? Who was she?”

“She was to be the mother of God, the first.”

“It failed.”

“Somewhat. But then Cheryl was brought to us and we had another chance. Alessa and Cheryl were one and the same but it went horribly wrong again. I’m tired now, I must sleep.”

“Keep talking. How were they the same? What went wrong?”

“After the first failure we realised that together they could birth God. Cheryl was created during the failed ritual, born out of Alessa’s love. Seven years later she was returned to us but with her adoptive father, Harry. The girls were reunited but Harry, the heathen,” she spat, “stopped God from being born. Instead, a child was created, Alessa and Cheryl remade and reborn.”

“Reincarnated? As an infant?”

“If you’d like to phrase it that way.” She threw away her tissue and pulled another from the sleeve of her cardigan. “Harry took the child.” she spat. “She was ours, not his. We were her family but he took her, hid her from us.”

“Who was the child?”

“Harry called her Heather, she carried god inside her, her spirit.”

Heather Mason, Hannah’s mother. Her other pseudonym was Cheryl. Of course, she was Cheryl too, a life started afresh. She must have had her memories to have taken her name. How odd to have been raised by the same father twice. Did she have Alessa’s memories too? Fascinating, I’m finally getting ahead of this town. Ahead of the child and the god she carries within her. How did God come to be inside Hannah? When her mother died? “Heather Mason has been murdered.”

“Yes, I’m afraid so. She had her chance years ago so we sent for her daughter. She’d never give up the child willingly, she’d never stop. Her child bears God now, deep inside her, part of her very being.”

“You wanted to birth god through Heather? She was the third.”

“Yes. It was an unfortunate incident seven years ago. She’d forgotten who she was but we soon reminded her. We killed Harry, left him for her to find and she soon remembered. She came to us filled with hate but she rejected her role, rejected God. Insolent child corrupted by that disgusting father of hers. When she left though, she was pregnant. Our efforts weren’t for naught. We won’t be swayed from our task.”

“Hannah Mason was that child.” That is why she has no father. That’s how God moved from Heather to Hannah. This has been going on for decades.

“Yes dear... now, I really must...” She turns to curl up against the wingback of the chair.

“No! How did Heather reject God? How did she stop it?”

“Can’t stop it.” The old woman’s eyes began to close. I shake her awake. I need more answers.

“Do you know who Jim Moriarty is? Where I can find him?”

“Sorry dear, doesn’t ring a bell...”

Come on, I need more. Think. “Why? Why did you choose to die?”

“Because... they took my grandson...and cut out his tongue... because he tried to stop them.”

Chapter 17: The Borden Street House

Chapter Text

The old woman died. I got what information I could from her. I tied her to the chair with the remains of the electrical tape in case she had any ideas about transforming. While this place is different, I’m not taking a single unnecessary risk. John from the prison briefly flits into my mind when handling the tape, him leaning against the bars, watching as I joined the wires. Watching with... I chase the thought away, I can’t let my mind slip, I can’t remember how it felt, it’s pointless. He might as well have been a dream, I’ve dreamt of John before, he was no more tangible.

Why do I forget?

With the woman secured I search the house. There appears to be something useful hanging inside the hallway cupboard. A black brown satchel. She won’t be needing this anymore. I transfer what I have into the leather bag and head to the kitchen. There’s no food, even the fridge is empty but I’m not that hungry anyway. I would have liked to be prepared but I’m just glad to see a fridge devoid of blood and barbed wire. Everything is comfortingly normal and untainted.

I head upstairs and find an ensuite bathroom. I can clean myself up somewhat in the sink and tend to any injuries. I’m feeling sore all over but somehow it’s satisfying, something to push me, to keep me sharp. I push on a bruise in my scalp just to feel the hurt. Maybe I’m still riding the adrenaline.

It’s the first time in a while that I’ve taken the time to look at my own reflection. Hair matted with blood, splotches, spatter and rivulets of dried blood making patterns over my face and neck. I look like one of those hellish incarnations. The blood has washed away under my eyes a little and created streaks down my cheeks. I didn’t get beyond glassy eyes with the woman downstairs. I must have cried at some point, maybe while I was unconscious. I never cry, not unless I choose to do it for other purposes. I don’t cry.

I check a cut I feel inside my mouth and find I’ve chipped one of my back teeth. I don’t remember that either, maybe when my face hit the wall in the prison but it could have happened at any time. I’m fortunate that most of my injuries are superficial. I’m looking forward to drawing a deep bath and staying there for a day when we return to Baker Street.

And we will.

I can’t stay here long but I might as well take the opportunity to clean and assess my injuries while I can. I unbutton my shirt and find my chest stained red with blood but the bruises still show through. A purple line across my collar bone and throat has bloomed since my confrontation with the John from the church. His hate-filled face still clear in my memory, the fear I’d felt when I cut him. I was still so ignorant.

I check my right arm where the umbrella hit. Remarkably it didn’t break the skin but the bruise feels deep and could affect my aim. It’s difficult to flex without it hurting. I hadn’t seen one of those creatures since I learned the true nature of this place. The umbrella, the suit like clothing, the blue eyes on the withered thing, they aren’t Moriarty’s touches, they’re mine. Mycroft the stronger, the controller, me the weaker, his pawn. I think back to the first time I saw them, the choking, a display of how my life is in my brother’s hands. He could kill me if he chose. God is taunting me, how quaint. I’ll think nothing more of it.

It underestimates me.

I open the cupboard under the sink and find some paracetamol. I take three and set aside the rest of the packet for my satchel. The rest of the medicine deals with coughs, colds and stomach upsets, nothing of use to me or John.

I soak a flannel and set to work on my face and body, changing the water in the sink repeatedly. I don’t feel secure enough to take a shower; I need to be able to hear. As the flannel does its work the blood stains on my face are replaced with bruises and scrapes. I didn’t notice how badly swollen my jaw was, it’s sore to the touch and purple, green and yellow. I stroke across the first cuts I sustained in Heaven’s Night. They remind me of how far I’ve come and how long this day has been. I could do with a shave too but ablutions can wait.

I fill the sink and wash my hair. I feel bone chips falling out and think of the Speechless Man and his grandmother. His sin was that he tried to stop the ritual. If only I knew how he tried to stop them. I should have used my time with him more fruitfully, I didn’t understand his relevance, I was too focused on the puzzle. I won’t waste any more opportunities. My hair is mostly free of blood now and the towel comes away clean. I feel better too, the paracetamol must be working though I feel a little sick taking them on an empty stomach.

“Well don’t you look pretty?” The radio coos.

“I do try, Jim.”

“Bit battered, aren’t you?” He says jovially, like a cheeky child. “Ouchy.”

“Interesting old woman downstairs, we had an enlightening conversation.” I say as I finish drying off my chest and slip on my shirt. It’s stiff with blood but dry. It will do.

“Ah yes, it’s was sweet listening to your little history lesson but can you come out and play now?”

“When I’m good and ready, I have some reading to do first.”

“God Sherlock, you’re so BORING! There’s not a section in there called ‘how to kill god, all her minions and the pesky little fucker who kidnapped the man you love and then watched as you completely lost your sanity’. They would need a snappier title though.”

“Knowledge is power.”

“Power is fucking power, Sherlock.” he yells with venom, “Your knowledge didn’t save sexy naked John did it?”

“The game was rigged.”

“Because she holds the power. Sooner you learn that lesson the better, my friend.”

“Why don’t you come out and play too?” Worth asking, he’ll decline but I feel finally like I’m gaining an advantage. Mycroft can work with the information too.

“Aww, wish I could but I’m busy you know, criminal empires don’t run themselves! I still have time for my hobby, Sherlock-Watching. I absolutely love those infected creatures, do you fear your body being weakened by disease? That magnificent mind of yours trapped while your body betrays you? It would be torture for you if you were to become paralysed. Totally aware but unable to talk, unable to move, trapped inside your own mind.” He finished with a rough whisper before laughing joyfully. “Come out to play, come out to play!”

“Homework first.” I leave the bathroom and shut the door making sure I get the last word. I’ll collect the radio before I leave, right now I need silence.

I settle on the old woman’s bed, I feel safer upstairs and it’s remarkably comfortable. On the bedside table is a picture of a large family in a silver frame. It’s a summer scene, the women in dresses, the children in sun hats while the men wear their cricket whites. I take a closer look and recognise one of the men with a young child in his arms, The Speechless Man. The picture was taken recently. I return it to the bedside, it’s not important.

I pull the book I collected down stairs out of my satchel. The green leather is worn, well used and shiny from years of oily fingers and constant use. The seal I recognised in the prison is emblazoned in rose-gold leaf on the front. The same one on the door in the prison, the same one that flashed before my eyes as I fell unconscious to the sound of John wailing in agony. It was probably the same as the seal on top of the church though I didn’t get a good look at that considering I was being chased at the time.

It has no title but the seal makes it clear that it’s holy to those who recognise the symbol. I turn over the first page. The seal again, this time in red like I’ve seen it before with a label, Halo of the Sun. I’ve seen elements of it before, like many symbols it’s an amalgamation of different icons and cultures, but as a whole it is new. The theme repeats in each of the symbols they’ve borrowed, God, omnipotence, omniscience, immortality, resurrection and rebirth.

I leaf through to one of the chapters about birthing God. It’s poorly written, the author making too much of an effort to seem reverent and poetic, but it’s translatable into something reasonably coherent. It seems that there were other attempts before Alessa Gillespie but they were much less successful, mostly resulting in death or psychosis. God was intangible before Alessa but now she exists across both our world and the Otherworld not fully formed. Spiritually foetal would be a reasonable way of describing her. They’ve already achieved much in forty years but their efforts will be foiled again. They don’t detail what went wrong directly but understand that a potential mother must be at least seven years of age and healthy. They obviously waited for Hannah Mason; Moriarty may have been on standby for years. The old woman knew that Heather Mason left Silent Hill pregnant, they’ve known that this day has been coming.

There’s much about fire, unfaltering devotion and worship, paradise and chaos and order but nothing of practical use. It’s interesting that the Otherworld is holy to them; these people are a bit off to say the least. I scan what I can of the book but there’s little clue as to where they might keep the child or John. I’ve already visited the church, I don’t know if I can return there. Mycroft wants me to go to the hospital so I shall continue. There appears to be a natural path throughout the worlds, I’ll find my way there somehow.

I pack the book into my satchel for safe keeping, it might be useful later. I search the rest of the house. I need to replace my pipe with something, perhaps something from a tool box or... ah! “Oh this will do nicely.” In the bottom of a built in wardrobe in the one of the guest bedrooms is a cricket bat. I pick it up and practice swinging it a few times. More cumbersome and heavy but the blow will be more debilitating. I’m now convinced by the existence of this dire sport. Maybe this belonged to the Speechless Man?

It’s time to retrieve the radio.

I’m charged up and ready to go. I pick up the radio. “I’m coming out to play.” I couldn’t stay here much longer anyway. It’s been a haven, but I can’t rest or sleep until I’ve found John. Moriarty doesn’t reply but I have no doubt he is watching. I’m dressed, packed up and armed. I have the cricket bat to hand, the gun missing its holster rests in my now empty coat pocket and the knife is sheathed at my waist. Torch on.

I’m prepared.

I check on the old woman on my way out. She’s exactly as I left her. I should probably cut her free but I don’t. She can stay like that. I reach the front door to find another message scratched into the wood, ‘Hannah Mason is the last’.

“I’m afraid not.”

I go to open the door but I stop and pull out the book again. I find a couple of passages on paradise. ...leaving behind a world drenched in chaos and hate for the unbelievers... paradise for the worthy, the devout, the true believers... let our prophets torment those who fail to see God’s great glory... the world shall fall, a new order emerge... her beasts shall roam free... paradise of her blood and cleansing fire...

Moriarty must be able to stop this; he would not let the world fall to this god and the Otherworld. He would never concede his power, the life he’s created for himself. He cannot be relying on me to stop her. He’s waiting to see how far I get before pulling the plug. He must have control. He must. But still...

I stuff the book back once more and head outside.

The static returns immediately as two putrid monsters sprint towards me out of the dark. I use my height advantage on the steps and ready my swing. I’m looking forward to this. I wait for the perfect moment as they move closer together... swing. “Ha! Oh!” They both fall sideways, the sides of their faces bursting open to reveal yet more infected and maggot ridden flesh. “Oh god.” The smell is vile and I retch. Thank goodness I didn’t eat. They’re still wriggling so I take the bat to them a few more times; they crumble, burst and flake into chunks, the infection destroying the integrity of their bones, muscle and skin. The static finally fades after a couple more blows to the chest each. I can see their diseased and blackened hearts, they aren’t beating any more.

“Oh that’s quite disgusting.” I mutter as I walk away into the darkness and soon the static is back. More of the wretched things running towards me. The bat is dripping with their gunk and spatters as I swing, once for the first, back again for the second and a jab in the stomach for the third. I hear wailing in the distance but I ignore it and concentrate on the three monsters that haven’t fallen as easily as the other two. I whack a couple around the legs; one falls screaming with its shin poking through his fetid skin. I can take a few steps back and attack the one remaining, turning the bat so the side hits its neck with a crack. It’s dead before it hits the ground.

And willow on leather was supposed to be a lovely sound.

I see to the two on the ground, each one that dies is a step closer to John, I keep reminding myself like a mantra, to steel my resolve. Hannah Mason will not be the last, John will come home and I will kill Moriarty anyway possible. As I beat the last ones I’m aware that Moriarty’s ability to stop this may well be his insurance policy. I can’t hurt him or kill him until God has been stopped. I need to find a way to stop her myself.

“Oh for the love of all that is damned.” Laser dots. “Fine, you wouldn’t be so bloody tall if I hadn’t been so thorough with my experiments.” I set off in the opposite direction to the monster, the same way I’d been heading before the house. I wonder what it would have been like to fight side by side with John from the prison. Would it have been different? Would he have protected me more? The real John killed for me before he really knew me. I would have thought that was a sign of love. He told me to run at the swimming pool. How do I distinguish an act of love when John already has done so much? The idiot has little self preservation, it’s confusing. The point is moot however, I hope never to see the John from the prison for fear he’ll die painfully again. This time I’m equipped to put him out of his misery, there’s no need for him to scream like he did.

More static and a single dog bounds towards me covered in leather belts that are a part of its skin, salivating black liquid. One swing of the cricket bat and a pained yelp soon puts the dog down. Its teeth are huge, its jaw designed to lock when it has caught its prey. I can’t be caught by one of these; I won’t get away with just scrapes and bruises.

I run again to the end of the road. The road to the left is blocked with metal grating that stretches across the street. I turn right and jog until a figure emerges in the darkness.

The Masked Man.

He’s unarmed this time and the static is silent. I put my hand into my pocket, grip the butt of the gun and raise it in front of me. I’ll enjoy killing him in John’s name. The John from the prison.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you. Of course, I want you to shoot me.” He bellows, his voice rumbling in the empty street, almost echoing off the plastic.

“It would be my pleasure.” I hold back. I have to be smarter, “You’re in the mood to have an extra hole in your head today?”

“Did you enjoy what I did to your beloved? Penetrating him like I did.”

My finger twitches on the trigger.

“You did that. You made him suffer. Your hate created me. Made me smart, made me strong. I wouldn’t exist if it weren’t for you. I’m so much better than these other mindless drones. I’m like nothing before.”

“Is there a point to this conversation or can I get on and just kill you?”

“Well you can shoot me now or I can summon up my own John Watson and make you watch him suffer some more. I could break every bone in his body one by one or perhaps I’ll just break him, how might I do that? How could I degrade him to the point where he’d probably beg for me to just kill him?” He laughs and rubs himself through the billowing robe.

I pull the trigger.

The bullet rips through his shoulder and he staggers back but doesn’t fall. Seven bullets left. I couldn’t see his expression anyway but his body language is completely masked too. He raises a hand to his left shoulder. I missed his heart. I pull the trigger again, catching him under his right clavicle. The kick back of the gun sends bolts of pain through my wrists and arms. I ignore it. Six bullets. He’s weak; I could use the knife now.

“Yes!” He bellows. “Yes! It’s happening!” He crouches down on one knee and the ground begins to vibrate. Church bells ring from the west. This is troubling.

“What are you doing?”

He doesn’t reply, he’s just a form covered in dark cloth, head bowed, body shuddering. I keep on my feet and watch him. I can’t aim to shoot, I can’t waste a bullet. He’s transforming, the robe shifting and changing shape, straining as he grows bigger and bigger until the extent of his transformation becomes all too clear.

The robe rips and tears, unveiling his demonic wings, skin not feathers, a span of at least six metres. Impressive. He stands tall. The robe is in tatters around his waist, his body broad and strong. His plain grey mask still covers his face but I can see his short brown hair. A red tattoo of the Halo of the Sun is emblazoned across his chest. The shaking stops but the static crackles loudly.

I really shouldn’t have shot him.

I keep my gun trained on him but dart my eyes about for other sources of the static. With a leap and a flap of his wings he takes to the air, hovering high above. No way can I shoot him from here. That could very well make things worse.

“Play.” He roars from above.

I look around again. I’m being approached by infected creatures, four of them, more deformed than the others, more infected, stronger perhaps. They are joined by one of the acid things and three of the slower, twitching, nude women from the club a blonde, brunette and pink haired this time. I turn to run away but the road is blocked ahead of me, rusted metal grating, the seal in the centre of the cross hatch. Think. Fight. I need to take out the acidic being first, take the acid and that damn umbrella it’s cockily leaning on out of the equation.

I run back and give myself a good angle on the bald standing creature, its nude twin being forcefully grabbed and twisted. I aim carefully, I want a clean head shot on the suited one, I’ll deal with its brother afterwards. I still have time before the first putrid thing reaches me. Squeeze the trigger.

Five bullets.

Hit. The chin. Good enough. I grab my cricket bat one handed and swing at the two foul smelling men who broke into a sprint at the sound of the gun. The blow isn’t as good with one hand but it knocks them both off balance long enough for me to shove the gun in my pocket and start smashing the face of the bat into them. They burst open, spreading maggots over the ground but it took much more effort this time despite their more rotting appearance. Two disgusting things down, two to go. I need to finish off the acid spitting thing first. It’s down but still spilling its burning bile, the skinny runt being controlled by its carrier from its prone position on the ground.

I rush over, taking a slight detour to lure the oncoming monsters in the wrong direction, before dashing to my target. I walk into the significant down draft from the wings and hear the Masked Man’s laughter when I stumble, turning my ankle. Arse.

By the time I reach the spitting creature it’s aimed at me, the stronger stroking the head of the weaker, encouraging him. I refuse to waste another bullet, so I grab the knife and throw that, hoping that luck will help it along or at least distract it. The blade sinks into the runt’s back and it howls. No acid. It sounds like me. I make my move and clobber it as hard as I can, almost ripping him away from his brother’s body. I take another swing only to be dragged backwards, the women scratching at my clothes and skin. They’ve got a hold of my satchel too, the drawback of having a bag.

I smell the acid on the floor. I have to keep on my feet.

“Piss off, I’m not bloody interested!” I try to shrug them off, throwing elbows and my cricket bat thankful that the wool of my coat is shielding me from the depth of their scratches. They drag me back into a puddle of acid; I smell the soles of my shoes burn. I grab the blonde by the hair and shove her to the ground, face down in the bubbling liquid. She has no mouth to scream. Instead she twitches manically at my feet while I shake off the brunette and the neon pink women and step out of the acid before I have no shoes left to protect me.

I push the girls to the ground with the bat and hack at the dying brothers like I had an axe. Oh how useful one of those would be! The stronger takes a weak swing with his umbrella but it’s too heavy for him in his condition. He scowls, he may not speak but I hear him clearly. I’m not the weaker one this time. I make the final blow without another thought and retrieve my knife carefully. There’s little time for care though, I smell the two remaining diseased beasts and the two girls are upright.

I make space, I have to take them one at a time, avoiding the down draft, damn it, he’s moving above me and making this difficult. I try to make a run but he’s forcing his wings to try and knock me off balance. I feel a flash of rage and want to fire my gun but I’ve already used too many bullets. I manage to get into a position where the girls are lagging behind, heads twitching as they try to orientate themselves. Just me and the two rotting... I see something out of the corner of my eye.

“Ooof.” Ah, damn. I’m on my back, one of them on top of me. There was nothing there. “No! Get off!” I drop the bat and grab its wrists, it’s trying to reach my face and I’m losing my grip as the puss and diseased skin itches and burns. It hurts, last time it just itched. It can’t touch my face, it can’t. It’s heavy, I can’t throw it off. I can’t reach my knife. “No, no!” The other kneels down and raises its hand. Oh god, no. I thrash as hard as I can, shaking my head side to side, twisting the wrists until my hands start sinking into to the skin that’s dropping away in clumps. “NO!” I can’t get away. I close my mouth and eyes tight as it drags a puss slimed hand over my face. I scream with my mouth still closed. It sears. Hurts.

I’ll be blinded.

The weight over my body leaves suddenly. I scramble away somewhere, I hope for a few seconds of safety. I scrape off what I can from my face with my hands and open my bag and search for the wipes blindly. My hands are shaking. I keep moving backwards, they could take me whenever they wanted now. I’ll be dead then, I’ll have failed. Can’t die here, not in the Otherworld. Wipes. I get rid of the foul smelling ooze, concentrating on my eyes. I need to see again. I throw the used one away and take another, I take my knife out with my other hand, I’m too vulnerable, I’m waiting to be jumped on again.

No time, no time.

I blink my eyes open, it hurts but I see shapes. Blurred but there, enough to try and keep surviving. The diseased things have the girls on the floor, they were fighting over me. The cricket bat lays unattended. I slowly walk over, my face still burns and feels swollen, my hands are so sore I hope I can grip it properly.

The Masked Man above still hovers. I can’t see him, my eyes struggling with the dark. Soon enough I find the bat. It hurts to pick it up but if I can just kill these two I’ll be closer to this being over. I vaguely see that they’re still attacking the girls so I creep up behind and hit. I miss. Depth perception affected. They’ve seen me. I move closer and swing again, flailing but I make the connection. I have no choice but to keep them at distance.

One falls, I use my foot to stomp on his face that bursts. “Finally.” The last one is easy enough but my blows are weaker, my eyesight clouded by reflexive tears as well as the injury. I’m fighting a scarred and necrotic blur. I miss him and hit the metal grating, the bat splinters. At least it’s sharp. I drive the thick splinter of wood that remains into its ribs and it falls. Static gone.

Beautiful silence.

I’m breathless but it’s never that simple. A pained roar from above and the winged Masked Man drops from the sky. I fumble for my gun and point it at him still shaking but he’s not attacking. He’s crouched down, wings spread. Weakness. Gun away, knife out. I do my best to find my way to his back and hack at where his wings meet his spine. I’m making good progress until I hit bone. He roars and I’m thrown backward when he soars into the sky again. I can barely see him, too blurred. I can’t shoot; hitting him would be a matter of luck.

Red dots. “Oh come on.” I sigh. Two sets. How am I going to kill them? At least I can see them easily enough as I can see the lasers but my cricket bat can’t do much surely. Nowhere to hide. They lumber towards me and I still have no plan. I take my gun out and aim at one of them. It’s a big enough target if I aim for the cluster of red dots. I pull the trigger three times. Two bullets. It roars loud enough to make me feel like my ear drums are going to tear so I cover my ears. Blind and deaf would mean my end.

The dots fall. Almost.

I shoot again. It tumbles completely, the dots disappearing. One bullet, one monster. It’s not enough. Think. I need to get behind it. I can barely see, I can only just see what my torch shines on, I can barely tell the front from the back of the creature. What do I do? A broken bat, gun, knife.

Umbrella.

I walk briskly to the dead conjoined abomination of my own mind.

“Sherlock?”

What? A whisper. John? No, get the umbrella, deal with that later. I can’t deal with that now. I don’t know where it’s coming from. Survive first.

“Sherlock.”

No. I-I can’t.

Umbrella. I can’t take a hit from the monster, it’ll crush me, massive internal injuries, I’ll die while the Masked Man laughs. Where is the umbrella? Where is it? It’s too dark, the ground is dark, it blends in. The monster is coming faster after sensing my movement. I sweep my torch over the area, the best way to see through the fog of my eyes. There! Glint of metal. I pick it up; it’s heavy, very heavy. I can do this. “Oh!” It’s already upon me, fist raised and barrelling towards my body. I charge forward with the pointed end of the umbrella and drive it through its torso.

It roars and falls forward, almost crushing me. I cover my ears again and move backwards as much as I can. It slips to the ground, the dots fading. “Please be over.” I mumble to myself, blinking to try and clear my eyes but nothing changes. Please don’t be permanent. I can’t function like this. God, I hurt.

The ground shakes again, what now? Oh, the Masked Man is back on the ground. Keep going, don’t give up. Don’t give up. I stumble over, pulling out my knife until I’m standing behind him. He’s wheezing, getting weaker. I hack at the bone, digging the knife into his skin to find the joint. It’s taking too long. I take the gun, one bullet. I press it against where his right wing meets his body and fire.

No bullets.

He growls and soars upwards again. One wing hanging, he’s flying erratically. I feel blood drops falling from the sky like rain. It’s almost soothing on my sore skin. He's wailing, he’s hurt. Good. With a reverberating scream he flies fast at the metal grating, bursting through it and leaving a twisted hole.

Barking.

I find some energy from somewhere and start to run. The hole is my only route. I climb through, I hear the dogs barking, growling and salivating. It’s a pack chasing me down. I keep running as fast as I can. I have no idea where, I see nothing, even the light is just fading to nothing in the dark. I keep moving, I must keep running, I can’t take them all on, not half blind.

“Oh...” my foot lands on nothing, a hole in the ground. Too much pace. “Ah, no!"

I'm falling.

Chapter 18: Hospital room... somewhere

Chapter Text

The chanting stopped a little while ago but I still hear the drone in my damn head. I’m doing circuits around Hannah’s bed, I can’t stay still, she was dead. Dead. I keep checking her, heart beating and she’s breathing better than before. Impossible. She fell asleep shortly after she spoke. I thought she was dying again but she just drifted off to sleep. It’s incredible. Unbelievable. I’m not sure I believe it, it’s not possible. Am I hallucinating? What the hell did they inject me with? I-I must be hallucinating. I must.

I puff out my cheeks, I’ve come to that conclusion dozens of times but I just can’t convince myself. I can’t ignore Hannah; I can’t pretend she’s a figment of my imagination. I just have to keep going and pounce on the first thing that walks through that door. Sherlock will figure this out or I’ll get myself to a proper hospital. A selfish part of me doesn’t want Hannah to be a hallucination. Of course I wouldn’t want a child to really have gone through everything Hannah has endured but at the same time, I want to have really known her. I want to be in my right mind. I check her heart and breathing again. Both strong. Unbelievable.

What she said, Silent Hill. It’s a town and it sounds familiar. I think my grandparents went there on holiday once, somewhere north, I don’t really remember. I wish I could, it seemed important to her.

“No. Plee.” She’s beginning to stir, I wait at her bedside. She’s alive. I must have made a mistake, maybe the morphine isn’t really morphine, I’m trusting Moriarty of all people. Maybe it was some drug that mimics death, lets the heart beat just enough to survive. That sounds more likely. “Get away.” Her voice cracks with fear, so scared.

Nightmare. I have to wake her before she starts moving around, she needs to feel safe. It’s the least I can do; I can chase the dreams away. “Hannah. Hannah wake up sweetheart, you’re safe, you’re with me.”

“Juh?” Her blue eyes flutter open, such a contrast to the black and red skin. She really is alive. This can’t be right but I’m staring at the evidence.

“That’s me. How do you feel?” I try to smile, keep her calm and relaxed, she’s hyperventilating.

“Have. Get. Out.” She tries to lift her arms, so frightened. I hold my arms out, not touching her for fear that her skin will crack and bleed.

“Don’t move, ok?” I say as steadily as I can. “I have a plan but I can’t open the door, I have to wait. I won’t let anything happen to you, I promise.” I’ll do anything I can to keep that promise. “Just relax, you’re safe with me.” God I hope so.

“Escape.” The desperation in her voice breaks my heart.

“We will, remember people are coming to find us.” I feel so bloody useless. So inadequate waiting to be rescued. There’s so little I can do. I feel like an invalid again. “Do you remember what happened?”

“Si. Lent Hill.”

“Ok.” She doesn’t remember that for all intents and purposes she was clinically dead. She doesn’t know it was me who was responsible. Probably for the best. We can forget that ever happened. “Is that where you live?”

“No. We there.”

“We’re in Silent Hill? How do you know?”

“I see. Burn me. Burn us.” She’s breathless, forcing out words as clearly as she can but the burns are restricting her. I think I’m getting better at understanding her.

Was she burnt in Silent Hill? Why here? “Speak slower, I’m listening, take some big breaths. Who’s us?”

“A. Lessa. Long. Time. Go. Bad people.” Her voice quivers and shakes with every word.

“It’s ok. Are you talking about the people who were chanting?”

Her eyes widen with fear and she shakes her head. “Get out, bad people!” She struggles again and moans in pain, a few patches of blood appear on her arms and neck. “Must. Go!”

“Shhh, it’s ok, it’s ok, you’ll hurt yourself moving like that. Calm, it’s ok, it’s ok.” She stills as I hover my hands above her, I can’t touch, it would make things worse. “It’s just a matter of time; we’ll get out of here. Are they the ones who hurt you?”

“Yeah. Hurt mummy, ‘lessa, other girls.” She puffs out. “Long time. Ago. Before me. I remember. I see them. I don’t... know why...”

“They’ve done this before.” Of course they have. Of course they bloody have.

“Help, get out.”

“I can’t. I can’t get us out yet.” I’m useless until someone comes in. I hope it’s just a matter of time, I can be patient. I need to distract her. “What’s your surname, Hannah?”

“Mason.”

Hannah Mason, something to go on. “Who’s Lisa? You say her name in your sleep.”

“Nurse. Kind.” She almost smiles.

“You had someone here before me?” I hadn’t thought about that. How long has she been in this state? What happened to Lisa? Did she get out?

“No. ‘Lessa.”

“Alessa’s nurse. Who’s Alessa?”

“They think. We. Special.”

“How so? Is she here too?”

“We. Must. Burn.” She winces harshly and chokes out a cry. “Oww.”

“It’s ok, let’s not talk about this anymore, maybe sleep some more?”

She blinks twice for no and tries to catch her breath; she’s been talking too much.

“Ok, well how about I tell you a story? Something to take your mind off everything.”

She blinks once for yes and gingerly lifts her hand, placing it on mine. It feels crusted and dry and she could easily start to bleed but I keep my hand still and grin a little. I feel like I’m doing something good for her finally. Good for me too. I’m smiling.

“M’scared. Somethin’ bad. Happenin’. To me.”

“I know this is all a bit scary but we’ll be ok, we’ve got people we can rely on and you can count on me.”

She blinks once.

So much has happened to her and these other girls too. She said something happened to ‘Alessa’ a long time ago but she knew she’d been burnt, it doesn’t make sense. I don’t know how much I should question her; she’s suffered enough for one lifetime. Her imagination may be running away from her, who knows how her brain is being affected. Just keep her calm, the more worked up she is the more pain. Distract her.

“Right. Let’s have a story,” something that doesn’t involve dead bodies, “oh, this is a good one. A few weeks ago Sherlock and I were called in to investigate a series of jewellery shop break-ins. At first it looked like just your run of the mill thugs but someone else was pulling the strings and the police couldn’t figure out who. The thugs were getting most of the jewellery but the man in charge, the boss; he was looking for something precious, something with a special history. There was this legend about three gems, a ruby, a sapphire and an emerald that was once worn by a Grand Duchess in Russia. She was like a princess. The stones were placed in a tiara and from the day it was made to the day it was stolen her family had great luck and power. People thought that it must have special powers and the princess was said to wear it even when she was sleeping. That’s how it was stolen, right off her head while she slept. She was an old lady by then. No one knew what happened to it.”

Hannah lay peacefully holding my hand. I settled in the wonky chair leaning forward on the bed. It’s good to see her calm, chase away everything that’s happened just for a little while.

“Every few years or so there claims to be a sighting. Someone dies of old age and they find it in a deposit box in Switzerland but it always disappears again. Then last year there’s a rumour that the stones were separated and placed in three identical pendants and the tiara melted for scrap. So Sherlock and I wanted to find the person who was sending out these thugs to rob jewellery shops trying to find the three pieces. Sherlock likes these old puzzles no one else can solve. The weapons had been provided by the man we were looking for and they were handmade, sledgehammers and guns. Sherlock knew exactly where they had come from by looking at the marks, craftsmanship, the wood used, the technology used because that’s his talent. We knew they’d come from Moldova.”

I yawn, I’m getting tired I’ll have to walk around again soon, I don’t want to drop off again. I think whatever they gave me is still having an effect. I need to stay alert; I need to be quicker than them.

“Sleep?”

“I’m ok, just missing a cup of tea. So, the thing with Moldova is you can’t go there without special permission and an invite so we worked out that it was a Moldovan citizen. A quick check of the flights since before the robberies began gave us a list of names which we could narrow down by looking at their credit card usage. We had two names and two passport photos. Sherlock could tell just from their faces which one was the boss. One of them was squinting slightly because he used to work where they made the guns and that had damaged his eyesight. He could even tell from how one of his shoulders was lower than the other meant he had a limp from when he was a child. The other guy was an accountant and I have no idea how Sherlock worked that out but apparently it was obvious. We caught up with the jewellery thief at a grubby hotel and he was limping just as Sherlock said. He also had two out of the three pendants.”

“Wow.”

“I know! Incredible.”

“Where other?”

“Don’t know, it hasn’t been found yet, might never find it. Do you want to know what happened to the robbers?”

“Yeah.”

“They were breaking in to another place while we were arresting the boss and an old granny beat them with her handbag.”

Hannah laughed. It was a strange huffy noise that barely lasted a second but it was a laugh, plain as day. A laugh.

“She kept them busy while the police came, some other people helped but not until this granny whacked them around the head. They had their sledgehammers and everything. She’s either completely bonkers or brave.”

“Both.”

“Yeah, I think she should do it as a job, Super Gran. She could wear a knitted cape.”

She laughs again, just a brief moment of happiness before falling sad again. “Mummy fight monsters. Fight Si Hill. Fight for me.”

She tried to stop them taking her, Hannah saw. “I bet she did.” I nod. Not much more I can say. That’s what a good mother would do, fight to the death.

“Mummy told me, ‘Close eyes baby bunny.’, but I didn’t.”

She saw what they did. “I...”

“Stab her.” She cries.

“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry you saw.”

She can barely cry in her condition, no tears will come. Instead she chokes and splutters, her nose runs a little. I just sit a little closer and let her cry.

I’m not sure how much time passed before she stopped. I dab at her nose so it doesn’t sting or transfer infection. She watches me quietly until I sit again. “Do y-you. Love p-people?” She stutters.

“Do I love? Um, well yes, I love my sister. She’s difficult but she’s family, all the family I have. Well, unless you count Sherlock.”

“You love Sh’lock?”

“Well, um,” I half laugh, “he’s my closest friend and flatmate. It’s not your normal arrangement what with the chasing criminals and the experiments he does but normal never really suited either of us. I trust him and that’s no mean feat for me. He’s a better man than most people realise. I don’t have a doubt he’s going through hell to find me and I’d go through the same hell for him. We care about each other a lot. It’s more than a friendship really. I don’t know what you’d call it. It’s good though, whatever it is.”

“Love ‘im?”

“Ha, well, maybe like a brother. A really annoying, clever, moody brother.”

“Mummy say, love important.” She says slowly to get the words out. “Never hate. Never.”

“That’s good advice.” I wish it was that simple.

“Only, love Mummy. No love now.”

“You don’t have any other family? Friends?”

She blinks twice for no. “Move a lot.”

“I’m sorry. You’re not alone though. You have me now.” She does.

“I know.” She half smiles before looking away. “I hate.”

“Yes. I would guess you do. That’s ok, I hate some people too.”

“Who?”

“Moriarty. He’s a very bad person.” That’s barely the start of it; hate is too good for him. “I hate the people who hurt you. I’ll make them pay Hannah, any way I can, they won’t get away with this, I promise.” She deserves her revenge but it’ll never be enough.

“Hate them too. Hate monsters. Hate God.”

“Yeah, I understand tha- Hannah?” Oh shit. Her eyes have rolled back and she’s convulsing. I have to roll her, she could choke but her skin... shit. She’s got to be rolled on her side to give her the anticonvulsant anyway. I touch her as little as possible, using the sheet to reduce the friction and any tearing. “Oh Christ.” There’s a circular mark on her back, shapes and symbols, they fucking branded her.

I administer the diazepam and the fitting soon stops. Her eyes open. “You’re ok, you fainted but you’re just fine.” I see spots of blood seeping through the sheet. She’s far from fine, she’ll never be fine. There’s really little coming back from this but she’s alive. I still can’t get my head around it. They burnt her and branded her.

“You have to. Stop me. M’bad too now.” She slurs her words, drowsy from the drug.

“You’re a good girl Hannah, so strong, brave and kind. You’re not bad at all. Hating doesn’t make you a bad person.”

“Bad inside me. I feel it.”

“No, you’re just confused; you’ve had a lot of medicine.”

“I feel her. She’s coming, she... hates.”

“Who Hannah?”

“God. Stop her like granddad did, like mummy. Stop her with the medicine. Plee.”

What does she mean? Does she want me to kill her again? She’s begging me for something and I haven’t a clue. “Hannah I... I tried to help you.”

“No. Aglo. You need aglo- somethin’. Get it!” She shouts. I don’t know what she’s talking about and it’s only frustrating her more.

“What’s aglo?”

“Muh me had some. Stop God. Stop me. Please.”

“Hannah, you’re a little delirious but the medicine will help with that.” She’s making no sense; we’ll just have to ride it out. I should take her temperature, might be an infection setting in. I grab an oral thermometer . “Open wide.”

“NO!” She yells through gritted teeth.

“I won’t hurt you, I promise.”

“I’m- I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.” She starts to cry again. She’s shaking with fear. “Sorry.”

“You got nothing to be sorry for.” What... my vision has turned red... I touch my eyes, they’re wet. Blood. I’m bleeding. Oh god.

“I did that t’Lisa too. I’m sorry. I’m so soh ree.” She sobs and tries to lift her hand to my face.

“It’s- it’s not your f-fault.” Oh fuck, what’s happening. Fuck, fuck, fuck. More blood trickling down my face.

“It is! Stop me!”

“I can’t Hannah.” I rush to the sink grabbing a handful of swabs on the way. Shit, where is it coming from, it stings but doesn’t hurt, I’m just bleeding from behind my eyes. Not good, not good. Fuck, oh god. “I’m fine, I’ll be fine, doesn’t hurt. Just a side effect of whatever knocked me out when I was first in here.” Shit, shit, shit, am I bleeding internally too? I am not clotting? Fuck.

“My fault, my fault, my fault.” She repeats, sobbing.

“It’s not, anyway, I’d forgive you, I forgive you.” I’m supposed to protect her. What’s happening? I keep mopping it up. Closing my eyes doesn’t help.

“Forgive me?”

“Yeah, of course.” Whoa... dizzy, need to sit... too late. Try to grab on to sink but I can’t grip it properly. “Ow.” Floor hard, banged my elbow. “I’m ok, Hannah...”

“Juh?”

So tired, sleep. “Forgive you.” Oh, I see butterflies...

Chapter 19: The Hole

Chapter Text

...I’m made of skin and bone and I love you...

“John? Ow...” Opening my eyes hurts, feels odd too. Oh god, I remember. My mouth tastes like blood, I think my nose bled. I rub under my nose, it’s dry. Stopped. That’s good. “My head...” God, what’s that noise? I’m moving. Downwards. Metal grating under my face. I’m in a lift or on a lift, I can’t tell. I roll on to my back, I ache. There’s no static and I’m not ready to get up yet. It’s dark. Oh.

Oh god. Dark.

Torch, is it on? Is it on? Where is it? No, no, no, no, please don’t let me be blind. I grapple around on my knees, I find my bat, that’s good, that’s good but still near to bloody useless if I can’t see where to stick the damned thing.

The metal clanging sounds are even louder now, I don’t know if that’s due to my hearing improving after my run in with the body parts fiends or if it’s louder on its own. Hearing is good, hearing is a sense, I need my senses. Now I need to see. My hands find something, the book. It’s fallen out of my satchel which... is nearby. Yes, progress. Still the torch to find. I try to be systematic, I’m still descending. Don’t panic, stay calm, find the torch. Damn, blinking hurts, my skin is so sore. John would know what to use. I need to find him and I can’t find him blind.

I finally locate the torch, it rolled into a corner. I lay on my back still holding it to my chest. I still see nothing. I feel with my fingers. It’s intact. Please let it be off or broken inside. Please let it be switched off or broken inside. I flip the switch.

Light.

“Oh thank you. Yes, thank you, thank you, thank you!” I hold a beaten hand in front of my face. Still a bit blurred but ok, I can live with some blurred edges, nothing that can’t be healed I’m sure. I’m fine. I survived. I survived.

Ok, I have my sight now where the hell am I? I cast the torch around the sides: dirt. I’m descending down a shaft of sorts, not shored up very well, one good rainstorm and it would cave in. I climb unsteadily to my feet. I’m on a metal platform; it’s sliding down rails on each side of the shaft. I shine the torch straight up. The light disappears into nothing. I shine it downwards. Nothing again. How deep am I? How deep am I going?

I sit down again. My legs are too exhausted to stand right now. I touch my face; it’s swollen and puffy where the creature touched it, raised like a blister. I wonder if I’m scarred. I take out another wipe to make sure every remnant has gone. I crave showers, baths, soap, pumice, flannels and steam. This measly wipe will suffice. I feel a few scratches elsewhere but I can’t see well enough so I leave them for now. Too tired, will rest while I have no choice. The lift rumbles on.

“Where am I going?”

Silence.

“Come on, not even a little clue for your old friend? After all I’ve done for you, after all you’ve seen, I’ve put on such a good show for you.”

Still silence.

“Fine then. Hope you’ve choked on your own tongue.” I sulk and consider throwing the radio into the wall. Exhaustion stops me.

Am I still in the Otherworld? Oh god, am I going back to the prison? I’d sooner go back to the church or back to the exploding car now I know it’s not really John. Is his body still lying there in the street? The one that held the first tablet. Three talismans in my bag. I put them in the zip up pocket for safety, they have to be important, everything has meaning. Those pieces of stone have to count for something. I daren’t take them out, there’s not much more to learn from them anyway, I’d most likely drop them with these stupid sore hands.

Still descending. I should do something productive. I stand and put my hand on the wall at my feet and let it rise. “One, two, three.” I let it get as high as my head. Ok, six feet every three seconds that means I’m descending one hundred and twenty feet a minute. Mine shaft. Has to be a mine shaft. My head is starting to clear though I wouldn’t be surprised if I vomited from the concussion, I fell quite a distance. I’m not entirely sure why I’m not injured more than I am? I don’t really remember hitting the metal.

Light, I see the faint glow of light beneath me. I stand, bat ready, torch in pocket and bag secure. No static, not yet at least. Lower and lower still. The eerie warm glow reveals more of my surroundings: red dirt, and rusted metal beneath my feet. My eyes aren’t as bad as I first thought, I can see some detail. This is good. Not great. Good.

A tunnel comes into view. Flesh coloured. I see the source of the light, the walls are covered in slightly luminescent eyes of different sizes, their irises flesh coloured too. They move and follow my descent as the lift settles to a halt. They blink out of sync, watching me. No static. The wall looks like skin, I don’t particularly want to touch. Eyes from the size of a fifty pence piece to a dinner plate look on but not in pairs. I remind myself that static warns for danger and not to lash out this time, I’m in no fit state to sprint this time.

I see the tunnel isn’t empty. A wheelchair.

It’s old fashioned, at least forty years old looking at the grubby condition. There appear to be scratches on the pads of the arm rests, interesting. Someone struggled in this chair. I approach carefully. The eyes follow me. I move back and forth. They follow. I dip down and up again. They follow. Ok. I walk off the platform. The ground feels odd beneath my feet. Everything is quiet but for the sound of the eyes collectively blinking making an odd, slightly wet, noise. I see the wheelchair has items on its seat. Supplies. I breathe a sigh of relief to see a note from my brother. He’s written in bigger words and with less flourishes but it’s still a struggle to read.

Sherlock,

You are free of the Otherworld but Silent Hill is now further tainted by her touch, be careful. The information you have collected has been most useful, we hope to have something for you soon. We have the same goals dear brother. In the mean time find some ammunition and other supplies. You are making progress but do try to be more careful. You have me frightfully worried about your physical and mental well being. I believe that Doctor John Watson is still alive and his presence is being screened from us. Do not get attached to these aberrations, they are merely figments designed to torment you, do not let them.

Mummy is quite fine. She misses you and hopes you’ll visit on your way home. I have tabs on most of your acquaintances, they are all accounted for, do not worry. I am doing what I can from my end. It appears that there are no remaining survivors of the Mason family to question but I am hopeful that we may stop this.

Think of John.

MH

P.S. Please eat the food. I’ll provide you with more when I can.

Damn him. Most of that was useless to me. I don’t need his concern, I’m doing fine. I’m not dead am I? Most people would be by now; they would have died several times over. Idiot. I scrunch up and throw the useless piece of paper aside. The eyes stay on me, not the sudden movement of the paper, interesting to know.

At least Mummy is ok. I wouldn’t put it past Moriarty to have thrown in something real to keep me off balance. He’d have no qualms about committing such acts. It infuriates me that Mycroft cannot be certain about John; he might as well have said nothing at all.

Never mind. Stuff. Two more magazines, excellent. Twenty six bullets. I reload immediately and leave the empty magazine behind. No sense in carrying it. It joins Mycroft’s note on the floor. Littering Silent Hill, my greatest rebellion. There are high strength painkillers, a cereal bar and an energy drink. I keep the food, I’m still worried I might be sick but I down half the drink with a couple of pills and save the rest for later or possibly John, he may be dehydrated. I’ll save some of the painkillers for him too.

The eyes continue to look on.

One last item. I can tell from the shape of the small bottle that they are eye drops. My eyes are certainly in no shape to read the instructions. I put three drops in each eye for good measure and pack them away.

Nothing more to collect or use. Time to move on. My eyes feel slightly better already. The eye drops must have a mild anaesthetic, useful. Hopefully my vision will clear too. I assess the tunnel as best as I can. It seems to stretch quite a way, continually lined with blinking eyes. It looks claustrophobic due to the eyes bulging from the walls.

No sense dawdling, it’s better than being on the streets. I set off under the gaze of the eyes as they silently and curiously watch. There are ones on the ceiling too. My footsteps barely echo off the strange skin-like flooring. I gingerly bend down, the eyes following my every movement, and touch the floor. It is indeed hairless skin. Not too cold to the touch either.

I continue down the tunnel, being careful with my steps. Cutting one of the faces in the last tunnel didn’t work out too well for me; I don’t want to make the same mistake accidently. I examine some of the larger eyes as I pass them. Their flesh coloured irises are detailed, a multitude of flesh tones mimicking the multitude of shades found in ‘real’ eyes. The white of their eyes cast a soft light which highlight their vessels and capillaries. I shine my torch over the eyes, watching as their pupils react to the light. Fascinating. I switch off the torch, visibility is fairly good, no need to drain the batteries. Their eyes are devoid of eyelashes but appear to have tear ducts. Curious. I keep walking.

The passageway stretches on. I think about what these eyes mean. My movements are often monitored by friend and foe alike. My brother and his infernal cameras, assassins, Moriarty and a dozen other scrotes. I’m watched with an eagle eye at crime scenes, people looking for a tell that it might have been me this time. Bloody Donovan and her wretched cohorts. Lestrade looks on for signs of insobriety. I’m being observed as I make my way through Silent Hill and the Otherworld.

Watched. Always watched.

I see a gap in the wall ahead on my left. I slow my movements and listen. As I get closer I notice the eyes are closing. Closer still and not only are the eyes shut, but stitched with frayed hessian rope criss-crossing from top to bottom lid. The rope would rub painfully against its eyes. The gap comes into view, a glass window but it is dark behind. I touch the glass and the room behind it is illuminated.

John.

He’s bound on a board on the left side of a small plain concrete room, tilted back slightly. Arms outstretched, legs apart and tied down. He’s frightened but stoical, pulling at the ropes until his skin is red raw. It’s the same hessian rope used on the larger eyes. He cannot move. A large chest sits at the back of the room. John’s wearing the same clothes from the picture Moriarty sent me, the clothes he wore to work minus the tie. They are clean, he’s unharmed. Is this him? He’s certainly not been here the entire time; he’d be in much worse condition. It could be him.

I bang on the glass. “JOHN!” I bang again. “JOHN!” He doesn’t hear.

A door to the right opens. “Oh god.” It’s me. I’m wearing what I am now minus the coat with my sleeves rolled up. Clean and not a stitch out of place, immaculate. I bang again. “JOHN, that’s not me!” I smash the butt of the gun into the glass again and again. It won’t break. It doesn’t even give or shake. The tunnel stretches on; I don’t know how to get in. This can’t be good. My likeness is certainly not there to give him a hug.

I watch. Maybe I’ll learn something that will help. Observe. Be useful.

“Oh god, Sherlock am I glad to see you. Untie me.” John says relieved.

“I shan’t be doing that, John.” My other self says. So cold. This isn’t going to be pleasant.

“What? Why?” He asks, confused. I need to get in. “You really should let me in on the plan, Sherlock.”

I watch myself pull out a knife. The same knife I have at my side. I reach for it, it’s still there, he’s got a copy. He is a copy. He’s going to use the knife. I bang on the glass again. “NO! NO DON’T! STOP!” I try kicking the glass to no effect. “JOHN, HE’S NOT REAL!”

“Sherlock... no, you wouldn’t.” John shakes his head, his eyes on the blade. He’s trying to work out what’s happening, trying to explain why I’m doing such a thing.

“You always were slow to catch on, quicker than most but still painfully slow.” The fraudulent Sherlock untucks John’s shirt and rubs a smudge mark on the knife with the material. “Of course I would!” He spits.

“No Sherlock, you don’t want to do this.”

“I rather think I do.” My other self stops polishing the knife but stays close, towering over him. He runs the flat edge of the blade against John’s cheek. He turns away but he can’t escape. The blade continues down his neck to the top of his shirt. “This is who I am, I can’t fight it. You should have seen sooner. It’s your own fault.”

“I-I trust you.”

“Still not using the past tense? What do I have to do to break your trust?” He slices off the button at his throat and John tries to jerk backwards. He’s breathing fast, he’s panicking.

“JOHN, THAT’S NOT ME, PLEASE!” What do I do? I have to stop this. I have to stop this now. I don’t want him to fear me.

“It’s still not too late, you can let me go, I’ll move out, forget this ever happened.” He’s bargaining. It won’t work.

“You know what that would be?” The fake cuts another button, letting it fall to the floor.

“No. What?” John replies slightly sardonically.

“Have a guess?”

John sighs. “The right thing to do?”

“Ha! You still amuse me John!” He laughs and cuts another button, pushing the fabric aside with the tip of the blade. He thinks I’m doing this to him. Baring him. “It would be boring.”

“Sherlock, please, just don’t ok. No more.”

“You really thought I was different didn’t you?”

“Yes. You are. You’re not Him.” Him? Moriarty?

“Yes I am. Everyone thinks so. They’ve all been waiting for the first body to show up. Shame they’ll never find yours.” More buttons fall.

“Damnit Sherlock, has nothing we've been through effected you in the slightest?”

“I have no heart.”

“You do, I’ve seen it Sherlock. You’re a good man.” He believes his words.

“Empathy is easy to emulate. For godsake John, I can cry on command! You think looking sad and saying a few comforting words is a stretch?”

“I know you Sherlock, you’re not Him, you’re different.”

“By the time I’m satisfied you’ll know exactly who I am.” He slices off the last of the buttons and sets to work cutting down the sleeves.

I take out my gun, stand at an angle to the glass and cover one of my ears. I fire. “Bugger.” The glass didn’t break; there isn’t even a mark where the bullet hit. The sound in the small space was deafening, my ears are ringing. Is it worth another bullet? Probably not but I try regardless. Again, nothing but ringing ears and two wasted bullets. Twenty four left, plenty. I bang on the glass some more. “JOHN DAMMIT, I’M HERE!” So futile. Utterly, utterly futile.

“So how is this going to go?” John asks. He won’t give me the satisfaction of watching him crumble. I know what I’m capable of though. I know of the deeds my mind could conjure up. Oh John, I’m so sorry. It would never be you.

Never you.

“Thought I’d just have some fun.” He says while ridding John of the last of his shirt and casts it to the floor. “Do you still trust me?”

“Yes.” He says stubbornly, still believing the best of the imposter. You can trust me, the real me. That’s not me. I take out my knife and scratch at the glass. It’s impenetrable, I can’t mark it.

“You’re making this so much better for me.” The Sherlock steps almost flush to his body, ringing the knife around a nipple softly enough not to break the skin. At least not yet. I watch now. “I did try to be a better man but this is my nature. I can help it no more than He can.”

“Yes you can. Since when have you let anything beat you?”

“Appealing to my pride, John? What a simple creature you are.”

“You’re different, don’t do this.” He pleads.

The Sherlock smiles and turns his attention to John’s chest. He traces a shape with the tip of the knife before pressing harder, slicing into the skin of his pectoral muscle. John bites his lips together, refusing to scream. I can’t tell if his eyes are watering but I’m sure they are, I’ve seen John in pain before.

Too often.

“STOP!” My shouting is pointless, I want to scream. I want to rip out my own heart but that’s what got me here in the first place, that I want and could do such a thing. Let me through that glass and I’d kill my likeness. I’d tear him apart.

I see he’s cut a square into John's flesh, inch and a half each side. Rivulets of blood make their way down John’s torso, superficial really. It’s not too deep. He cuts again, removing the chunk of skin. He holds it up and admires. “Look John.”

“Why would want to do this to me, I cared Sherlock, I cared about you.”

“Stop talking.” The imposter squeezes his jaw open painfully and shoves the flesh inside. My god, that’s- that’s something I thought about doing to Moriarty after the pool incident. He deserves it though, John doesn’t. John struggles, tries to spit it out but a large hand is clamped over his mouth and nose. “Swallow or I’ll wait until you pass out and we can try again.”

I can’t watch this. I can’t, I can’t. I run as fast as my still sore ankle will let me. Maybe if I get away it’ll stop, maybe they don’t exist if I’m not there to watch. No. Another window. I slow down and approach little by little. It’s them, just as before. John’s still refusing to eat his own flesh, his eyes bulging defiantly as his oxygen depletes.

His familiar torturer adds another incentive. He runs the knife lightly down the length of his arm, letting it cut at intervals until he reaches John’s balled up fist. He pushes the knife between his fingers and into his palm until I know he’s hit the wood. John screams without air. The imposter smiles.

I wouldn’t- I wouldn’t do this. Not to John anyway. Maybe that’s the point. I could do that.

I run again, I have to get into that room but I see yet another window. There they are. The hand has been removed from John’s face, his head is hung and he’s gasping for breath. “You have no fucking idea how good you had it.” He grinds out between ragged heaves, blood in his teeth and gums. He ate his own flesh. “Don’t think you didn’t have a fucking choice. You chose to do this.”

I watch on as my mirror image roughly grabs John’s injured hand forcing a scream which he tries to suppress. He slides the knife under his thumb nail and lifts it clean off in one fluid movement. That’s probably the least painful thing that will happen to him.

I run again.

Another window and he’s slicing off John’s trousers. I keep going. There must be an end to this tunnel but I know I could last hours, even days, causing pain and suffering. I could do it all. I run past the next window but see myself punching John in the ribs out of the corner of my eye. The next window I see myself pushing thick needles under his kneecaps. He’s screaming, teeth gritted, trying to hold it in but the knife is jammed through his foot, slicing through muscle and tendons. All non-fatal wounds. That large chest is open but I can’t see its contents. A torture chest.

I run and run.

The next window approaches. I have to stop running now, I don’t know why I bothered in the first place, I can’t escape this I can’t get inside. There’s no fight or flight, I have to endure. John’s completely nude now with wounds I must have missed. His cheek bone is fractured; the ear closest to me hangs off the side of his head. This Sherlock hasn’t taken his time, he wants it all, every fantasy he’s ever wanted to bestow upon his enemies. Every fantasy I’ve had. I wanted to cut off the ear of William Thornbridge when I was just nine years old for whispering nonsense about me, saying I was a mummy’s boy and that my father hated me. Here it is. My bitter revenge on the person I hold dearest.

The image of me is tracing his fingers through John’s tears, at least the tears I imagine are there, my vision isn’t perfect but I know him. John tries to jerk his head away but he’s held tight, the knife perilously close to his eye. Still prideful. I stand and watch as the man I recognise as myself murmurs something into John’s good ear that makes him thrash. The false Sherlock drops to his knees and starts cutting around John’s naval. I shake my head, I know what’s coming.

He’s going to skin John. Skin him alive.

Think! Help him, help him! I pace in front of the window, never taking my eyes off the scene in front of me. John’s face, so pained. Each flex of his legs sends more and more agony through his body that he can’t escape.

“This will be fun John, like being back at med school but you’re the cadaver. I’ve got adrenaline nearby, I don’t think I need to explain why.”

So he can’t pass out. I watch John, he won’t beg, he’ll never beg. I see the resignation in his eyes, he knows his fate. I watch on. I watch. I... watch.

Eyes.

It’s a puzzle.

I still have the knife in my hand. I find one of the larger eyes opposite the window and start cutting.

“What are you doing?” I hear myself say. I look over my shoulder; he’s looking right at me through the window. I’m doing the right thing. I don’t reply and keep cutting the rope until the eye is open. It doesn’t follow me; it’s watching the other Sherlock. I should have seen this sooner.

“Stop that! I’ll rip out his insides right now! You know I will!”

I ignore him still and hack at the next eye. It comes free, on to another. I hear John scream but I don’t look, I need to open as many eyes as possible. I can help him.

“You’ll end up doing this eventually, it’s what you are, you’re capable of this cruelty.” I hear my voice shout.

“I’m capable, yes, but I choose whether to act on it.”

“You wait until you find Him!” He seethes, he knows he’s losing.

“I guess I’ll have that choice.” John was right, I make the choice. I’ve chosen to hurt before, I know I’m capable. I’ll still do it, there’s no grand lesson to learn here, I still have my plans for Moriarty. But never John.

Never John.

“You won’t be able to stop. One day you’ll look at him and wonder what he’ll look like with your thumbs pressing into his eyes until they pop.”

“I’ll choose not to do it.” I cut one of the smaller eyes free and hear the glass shatter. I turn and see my double laying in the window, a shard of bloody glass clean through his middle. He hangs lifelessly, blood pooling on the skin floor. Fair enough. John is still tied to the board. I climb through the window with care and begin to cut John’s stabbed hand free. His stomach is bleeding profusely. He’s been stabbed. There’s too much blood. I have to stop that. I try with one of my hands but the blood still flows, seeping through my fingers.

“I’ll get you free; we’ll use my coat to stop the bleeding.” It won’t stop. I’ll make it stop. He won’t die.

“Knew I could trust you.” John mumbles with a half smile, I think his jaw is broken.

“Always, John.”

“I have something for you.” He nods towards the hand I haven’t freed. A talisman.

“You’re not real either.” I’m only half disappointed; it had taken me far too long to work out what to do, he’s badly injured. He won’t die, I won’t let him.

“Sorry, Sherlock.”

“I won though, you can come with me, help me find John, stop God, I can keep you safe.” Please come with me.

“I know you would but you don’t really get to win.”

“I saved you.” I won. I bloody won this one.

“We should say goodbye. It’s ok; I understand why I’m here.”

“Why are you here? If you’re expecting me to learn some moral lesson then you’re sorely mistaken.”

“Goodbye Sherlock, thanks.” He smiles fondly. Even battered like he is, he still smiles. I’m not interested in farewells.

“I won’t say goodbye.” I want more answers, more time. He has to come with me. John shakes as his eyes roll backwards. Oh god, he’s dying. “John, don’t-.” He gasps a final death rattle and slumps, three limbs still attached to the board. Damn. I lift his face as gently as I can even though he can’t feel pain now, so blank. I still won’t say goodbye. I press my fingers to his pulse. Nothing. “Damn you, John.” I sigh, resting my forehead against his for a moment.

He feels so far away.

I take the talisman from his hand and quickly examine it. It’s obviously jade. A stone of heaven no less. Ying and yang and link between worlds, how apt. Even more so, the stone this time is double sided. On one side John is dead, mutilated. The other, wounded but alive.

Life and death.

I put the talisman in the zip up pocket with the others and cut him free. I remove the needles and lay him down on the floor where there isn’t much blood. I use his torn clothing to cover him. It’s a little bit of a bodge but John would prefer it this way. He’d want me to treat his likenesses well. At least the ones that don’t try to kill me.

I have a talisman now it’s time to see if this tunnel has an end. I step out and immediately see a set of double doors surrounded by the benign, blinking eyes, all of them unstitched. Above the doors is a sign:

‘BROOKHAVEN HOSPITAL’

Chapter 20: Rosewater Park

Chapter Text

I feel the warm, rose scented breeze on my face. It’s beautiful and peaceful. I feel safe. I think my eyes are closed, yes, yes they are closed. I crack them open and find myself sitting on a bench overlooking a picturesque lake surrounded by lush green hills that roll right into the water. The lake is still, not even a row boat disturbs the glassy surface. I don’t quite remember why I’m here but it’s stunning.

This spot is deserted, I’m alone. I’m wearing white cotton clothes I don’t remember owning but they feel good, I won’t complain. The sky is clear blue and the sun feels warm on my skin. Butterflies of different colours flutter about in the roses that are planted in beds all around me, climbing up pergolas to make fragrant arches. Pinks, white and yellows all around, everything in bloom. I take a deep breath of the fresh, sweet smelling air. Perfect. I could sit here all day quite happily. It’s like the world has stopped, nothing else matters.

I stay and sit where it’s calm, barely thinking, barely breathing until I hear the sound of children playing. I’m not alone anymore. I get up to look. The gravel crunches beneath my bare feet as I make my way through the rose arches towards the sounds of girls giggling and laughing. I see three of them dancing and playing around a picnic table on the grass while another sits at the table drawing. All four of them have the same dark brown hair, pale skin and pretty blue dresses in different styles. The child that sits at the table is surrounded by jars, each holding a different butterfly, she’s sketching them.

“John!” One of the girls cries out happily and runs towards me, her long brown hair flowing behind her. Yes, my name is John. She wraps her arms tight around me and squeezes, burying her head into my stomach. I put my hand on her head and hug her back. Do I know this child? “Do you want to come play? I want you to meet my friends!”

“Um, who are you?” I feel as if I should know. She looks up at me and smiles, her blue eyes are utterly amazing. I’ve seen them before. “Hannah?”

“See, you remember!”

“I do.” She was burnt and I was there caring for her. She should have been dead. What’s going on? Why aren’t I still looking after her, protecting her? I touch my face and look at my fingers, no blood. “Hannah, why are we here? Where are we?”

“We’re in Rosewater Park, isn’t it beautiful? Mummy used to take me to the park all the time no matter where we lived but my favourites were always ones near lakes and rivers, I love water. Mummy said I should have been a fish!” She giggles and holds my hand. This is what she looked like before the fire. So happy, full of energy and spirit. “Come meet my friends.”

“Wait.” I crouch down on one knee and look at her. I want to remember her just as she is. Long brown hair to her elbows, light freckles across her nose and cheeks, a heart shaped face like a pixie and a bruise on her skinny shin that every seven year old invariably has. She’s smiling. A happy child.

She cocks her head curiously and rolls her eyes. “Come on silly, I’m not the Mona Lisa, I’m just me.”

“That’s pretty special to me.” I smile. This is right; this is how she should be.

“Come on! I want you to meet them while we still have time!” She drags me towards the picnic table. Two of the girls that were dancing and chasing each other are holding hands and spinning in circles. Both of them look a little like Hannah except one girl has straight shoulder length hair and the other has curls. “Cheryl, Heather, stop spinnin’ you crazies!”

“What?” Says the girl with curly hair. “Who’s he?” She’s got more attitude than Hannah; she looks ready for a fight. She’s wearing worn out trainers with her knee length blue dress, it fits.

“John, he’s the man I’ve been telling you all about, he’s gonna help.”

“Yeah?” She looks me up and down before smirking mischievously at Hannah. “But can he fight the moooonsters, raaaar!” She chases Hannah around my legs and tickles her. It’s lovely to watch Hannah so happy. She has friends.

“Stop Hev! Stooooop!” She laughs as she clings to my leg with one arm and tries to swat Heather away with the other.

“Say I’m the queen!” Heather demands playfully.

“Never!”

I laugh and try not topple over as they play. “Help me Cheryl!” Heather calls to her playmate. Cheryl smiles shyly and shakes her head. She doesn’t want to get too close to me. It’s good she’s wary of strangers.

“Aww, come on Cheryl, join in! She must declare me queen!”

“I’m ok, I’ll play with Alessa.” Says Cheryl, meekly but politely.

Alessa. Hannah spoke about her. She’s the girl at the table. She was burnt too. I turn to watch her concentrating on drawing her butterflies. She looks sadder than the other girls, much more serious too. Hannah’s still giggling from the tickling and clinging to my leg.

“You’re the queen! You’re the queen!” She finally yells.

“Good, ha, ha, ha!” Laughs Heather who helps Hannah to her feet. “I am the queen of the park. Wanna go paddle?”

“Gonna see Alessa first.”

“Watch out, she’s grumpy.” Heather mutters. “You know what she’s like.”

“Yeah, she’ll be alright.” She grabs my hand again and pulls me towards the girl drawing. Cheryl sits swinging her bare feet and humming a tune. “You’ll wanna meet Alessa, she’s important.”

“I do want to meet her. How is she important?”

“You’ll see.” She grins as we reach the picnic table. “Hey ‘Lessa.”

“My name is Alessa, not ‘Lessa.” She replies without breaking her focus on the butterfly. I see what she’s drawn, all the parts of the butterfly’s body labelled correctly and she’s written the Latin name neatly at the top of the page. More than just a drawing.

“Yeah, yeah, don’t get your knickers in a twist just ‘cause you had to go to school.”

“Don’t you like school?” I ask as I sit down. I look at the butterflies and wonder if Sherlock would know its Latin name or whether that’s pointless information.

“Everyone hates me there.” She takes a new piece of paper and starts drawing something afresh, pressing hard into the paper. “I don’t care though, I hate them too.” She grumbles.

“You must never hate, Alessa!” Hannah squeezes in next to me on the bench. I move over to give her space but she still sits tight, holding on to my arm.

“I do and I don’t care.” Alessa says firmly. Cheryl leans across and gives the girl a peck on the cheek. She begrudgingly half smiles and keeps drawing. I recognise what she’s drawing, I’ve seen it before. It’s the same as the brand on Hannah’s back.

“What are you drawing?”

“Dunno, just shapes. I hate it, doesn’t look right. Prefer my butterflies.”

“Shouldn’t hate.” Hannah mutters under her breath, obviously tired of telling her.

“Do you love too?” I ask the child. Hannah had asked me the same question, it seemed important somehow.

“Me? I loved Mum but she... she didn’t love me back. She let them hurt me. I hate her now.” She finishes with gritted teeth. I know what they did. Her mother let them burn her. No wonder she hates her. Poor child. It’s the gravest betrayal.

“You don’t need to hate anymore.” Hannah says softly. “John’s here now, he’s going to help us.”

“How?” I ask. “What do you need help with?” I feel five steps behind. Hannah points towards a copse of trees not too far away. Four figures stand in the shadows of the trees; one is taller than the others. They look darkened, blackened even. Burnt? It’s hard to tell at this distance. “Who are they?”

“Us. Parts of us. We’re all the same really, we’re all mothers.”

“Mothers? How can you be mothers, you’re just children.”

“Seven is the right age. We’re not having babies or anything, not really. We are mothers to God. I don’t like her though, she hates, she makes people unhappy, makes them cry. She made Sherlock cry.”

“What? Why? What happened to Sherlock?” What could possibly make him cry?

“God’s not being very nice to him.”

“I don’t understand, what you’re saying isn’t possible. God’s just an idea.” My head is starting to hurt and I just hope Sherlock is ok. I watch as several butterflies land on the table. Cheryl lays her palm flat and a colourful butterfly moves from the table to her palm. She smiles softly and so does Alessa before laying her head on her shoulder. They look like sisters. This is all so odd, I don’t understand.

“It’s all possible in Silent Hill. She’s not like the God’s you know, she’s different. God is special here. It’s a very special place.”

“You spoke about Silent Hill in the hospital.”

“Rosewater Park is there, the hospital too. Sherlock’s in Silent Hill, he’s looking for us, he’s trying to help too but it’s hard. There are monsters.”

“Like the monsters you saw?”

“A little, but different. Those were mummy’s monsters, Sherlock has his own.”

“Is he ok?” How can she know this? Monsters? What is this place? I rub my forehead to try and ease the ache. Please let Sherlock be ok.

“He hates a lot but he loves twice as much as he hates so it’s ok. He’s got a chance.”

“Sherlock loves?”

“Yup.” Hannah holds on to the table and tips her head back so her long hair touches the grass below. “You have to help too.”

“How? Will it help Sherlock as well?”

“You have to make me a promise.” She says from her odd position.

I think I know what she’s asking of me. “I can’t kill you, Hannah.”

“Oh I know, I can’t die now, I’m too far gone.” She replies far too casually for a child of her years.

“Then what do you need? I’ll do it if it helps you.”

“You have to force god back, no matter what she looks like. She’s good at hiding. You have to chase her out of her hiding place.” She looks at me, still hanging upside down. “You’ll know what to do when the time comes, you’re a good person.”

“Am I?” I’m not so sure. “I’ve hurt people, Hannah.”

“You heal them too. You’re kind. You’ve proven that to me, you can do the right thing even if it’s hard. Remember you gave me too much medicine, you were kind.” She flips her head up; her hair is messy as she giggles through the rush of blood leaving her head. She knows what I did. “We’re running out of time. You’ll have to trust me John Watson, you’re a good man, so is your friend. We’re not looking for saints to save us.”

“Well I’m definitely not a saint. So what now? Do I take you back to the hospital?”

“We’re still there.”

“I’m dreaming? This feels so real.”

“You’re not dreaming, you’re right here with me in the park and you’re right with me in the hospital too.” Somehow, that makes sense to me, I’m starting to understand. She hugs me tight. “I love you, thank you for everything you’ve done and what you’re going to do. You’re the best.”

“I’ll try not to let you down.”

“Hannah, they’re coming!” Shouts Heather as she runs from the lake where she was paddling. All four of them turn to look at the four figures approaching out of the shadows. Cheryl clings to Alessa’s side.

“It’s time for you to wake up now.” Hannah says to me, her hand touching my face. It’s not dry and cracked this time, soft as it should be.

“I am awake. I woke up sitting on that bench.”

“The Hannah in the hospital will be frightened when you wake, she won’t remember. She’s so sorry she made you bleed but you forgave her, you’re a good man.”

“She did that?”

“Yes. She’s powerful but she doesn’t really understand, she doesn’t remember everything yet, just bits and pieces. You’ll save her from God.”

“What are you?”

“I’m just me. They are me too, a part of me. I remember them.”

“What-”

“Hannah, come on, we have to run!” says Heather, tugging on Hannah’s arm.

“I can protect you.” I’ll get rid of whatever’s coming.

“Not from them you can’t.” Replies Heather.

“Time to wake up, John. Remember your promise.”

“I’ll stop God.”

I wake peacefully, still feeling calm from the park. I’m on my side on the floor under the sink. I hear crying. “Hannah, I’m fine, I’m ok, I’m ok.” I try to sit up against the wall, there’s a pool of blood where my face was laying. I pull myself up by holding on to the sink. “Don’t cry, I’m fine, I just had a little sleep.”

“John!”

“Coming.” I’m still disorientated, the air is stuffy in here compared to the park, but I get myself standing and make my way to Hannah.

“Oh, sorry.” She sobs; her mouth is more cracked than before. I remember how she looked before the fire. So happy, she’s changed forever now, she didn’t deserve this.

“Shhh, I’m sorry for leaving you alone but I’m here again now.” She still looks scared. “Oh, my face, yes, I’ll wash that off in a second.” I smile, trying to reassure her I’m ok. It’s starting to make sense now. “Your mummy used to take you to the park, you love the ones near water the most, she said you should have been a fish, didn’t she?”

Hannah’s crying eased as she looked at me quite baffled and confused. “Yeah.”

“I met you when I was dreaming, you told me that.”

“How?”

“I really don’t know, but I know what I’ve got to do to help you, I just don’t know how. Maybe something to do with that aglo stuff you talked about. This place, Silent Hill, it really is special, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, you understand?”

“I do. I’m going to stop God.”

Chapter 21: Brookhaven Hospital

Chapter Text

The heavy double doors click shut behind me. Another loud click. Locked. No going back. There was no reason to go back anyway, John’s body is resting and I, or rather my copy, can hang for eternity. I stopped him, John suffered no longer. I stopped him. John may have been fated to die in that room, but not at my hand. I stopped the assault. Watching him die doesn’t get easier. It never will.

Keep progressing. It’s pitch black so I flick on my torch and scan the area. Machinery clangs and clanks somewhere in the building. It’s rhythmic and unrelenting. Makes me think of pistons, hammers and mechanical forces that would crush skin and bone. I’m not fond of it, it’s oppressive.

I keep my torch moving, I’m in some sort of dusty old boiler room that’s no longer in use. A fridge lies on its side in the corner stained with rodent droppings. A large sign on the crumbling wall reads ‘Level 221 Basement’. Either God has a sense of humour or I am two hundred and twenty one floors below the ground. Not your average hospital but I expected no less. I’m alone, thankfully, except for the blasted noise. I move through the boiler room to find a door way out of here, stirring up the dust under my feet.

“You sick, sick bastard.” The radio pipes up. “Tut, tut, tut.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment coming from you.” I reply absently. I find a door but it’s locked or broken. I keep looking, weaving through the various boilers and pipes. They are cold.

“You certainly should, my dear. I think I could have seen worse from you, the fun was only just getting started! You’re capable of such hideous, vile, inhumanity.” He drew out each word. “It was so sexy! I was so flattered that I got a mention; I assume I’m, ‘Him’. I’d be so disappointed if you had eyes for some other sadistic fucker.”

“I lose track, so many sadists to choose from.” Of course it’s him, we both know it. I’ve met my fair share, but he’s one of a kind.

“Funny. Tell me, why’d you have to stop? John’s pretty when he’s scared. I’m sure all the PTSD makes it even sweeter; he’s already broken a little. I loved seeing him so proud yet terrified to his very core, betrayed by the man he trusts so.” He sings. “I’m sure you could have made him beg for your mercy but you don’t really have any, do you? Not when you hate, you enjoy the pain.”

“I won, I stopped it.”

“Then he died right in front of you. You really can’t do anything right here, can you? You’ll never be smart enough; you’ll never be strong enough.”

This topic bores me. “How many more of these talismans do I need?”

“I really don’t know! We could be here months, even years. That’s fine by me by the way. I want to dig deeper, I want to see every corner of you turned inside out. I want to see how long it takes before you break and then we’ll keep going and going and going.”

“You’ll be waiting a long time. I don’t break.”

“You’re cracking already, you’re not as sharp, so emotional, that was always going to be your end. I know you Sherlock.” It almost sounds like a threat. Another door, it’s broken or blocked on the other side. Keep going.

“Then you know I won’t stop.” Months, years, if that’s what it takes. It won’t though, he underestimates me.

“Of course you won’t! This is better than I ever could have hoped for. How cruel you are to your very own heart.” My heart: John. I try to picture him back at Baker Street typing horrendously slowly on his laptop but the image soon changes, an ear hanging, bruises on his face, blood dripping from his hand on to the keys. I climb up over some pipes blocking my way. Just keep going. Don‘t think. “You’ll just burn it over and over and over and over and over. You hurt him, cause... him... pain.” He struggles out in mock agony. “Will you hear him scream when you sleep?”

Worse, I hear him tell me he loves me. I’m sure the screaming will come too. The former is much, much worse.

“I sleep like a log.” I find another door; this one opens into another darkened hallway. Good, progress. Maintenance rooms, I suspect, generators and store rooms. The noise bangs on however.

“What can I look forward to, huh? When you finally find me. Are you going to make me cannibalise myself too? Yummy.”

“I wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise.” I’ll feed his spleen to him perhaps; cut it out while he’s still conscious. No. God, if that had happened to John. My stomach turns, it rarely does but I feel like throwing up. Maybe I should eat something soon. Focus. I’m in corridor, hospital trolleys line the hallway, the ones used in morgues, stainless steel. One has a body on it covered in a dirty white sheet. No static but I need to investigate and make sure it’s safe. I can’t turn my back on anything here. I approach cautiously, knife at the ready. I wish Moriarty would shut up.

“You can give me a teaser, so far you’re going to gut me and boil me alive, what else? Do tell. You’ve been carrying that lye around for a while, were you going to blind me?”

Yes. I was going to pour it on to his entrails too, burn him from the inside out, burn him because he wants to burn me. “Boring.”

“Oh really! Show me Sherlock, let me see on John. Let me see you burn your own heart. I want you to have fun. You deserve to be spoilt.”

Spoilt. Ruined. Broken.

I ignore him for the time being as I near the body under the sheet. Still no static but I’m vigilant. A few more steps closer. The body is large, over six feet, quite broad but not overweight. Hefty. I grab the corner of the sheet between finger and thumb and begin to lift it slowly... a face appears.

“BOO!”

“Fuck.” I jump and drop the sheet. Moriarty’s laughing at me. My heart is pounding. “Cheap ghost house tricks? Thought better of you.”

“So jumpy! Oh this is so much fun. Classic!”

I resist the urge to hurl abuse though a thousand disgusting curses rest on the tip of my tongue. They’ll be heard one day. I have this body to attend to first. I lift the sheet back again, this time quicker, ready to kill... oh. I recognise the body. It’s not John. The familiar man died screaming, his face contorted, horrified. His skin is slightly petrified, ashy and dry.

He’s my father.

I uncover him completely. He looks the same age he was when he died, fifty-five. Hair greyed and receded, rounded face but not fat, neatly trimmed grey beard, a reddened nose from broken veins and grey eyes like mine staring emptily at the ceiling. I can smell his tobacco; the scent is impregnated into his skin.

His chest is open with a ‘Y-shaped’ autopsy incision. I look inside, all his organs are still there, slightly blackened, all except his heart. The arteries lay loose and unattached. He’s wearing brown tweed trousers and the brown belt he favoured, the belt I was often punished with. Even Mycroft felt his wrath, the supposed, ‘good child’. Still, the small amount of time we did spend together when I was home from boarding school was often well spent; he taught me how to properly dissect mammals and reptiles when I was six. It’s one of my preferred and more useful childhood memories. We had little time for each other as adults, I was the constant disappointment and then he was dead.

I cover my father with the sheet and advance down the corridor, testing the dusty doors as I go. So far they’re all locked.

“Anyone you know?” Moriarty asks with about as much sincerity a man like him is capable of.

“No.”

“Liar, liar pants on fire. Johnny Boy will pay for that.”

“Are you still under the illusion I won’t find you?” John’s with Moriarty? Find him, find them. I don’t know whether to believe him. If Mycroft could find me but not John or Moriarty then they could be together. I have to find them all anyway. Hannah Mason, John and Jim Moriarty.

“That’s mainly because you won’t find me, I’m very good at being hidden when I want to be, you’ve only ever seen my face when I’ve wanted you to.”

It’s true. “I’m sure you’ll be sick of the sight of me soon.”

“Not possible, you’re just too entertaining.”

I finally find a door that opens. I adjust my grip on the knife, my hand sore but manageable. The door swings open to reveal a small storage space. Monsters? Nurses? The radio is silent. Two mildly deformed women in gratuitously tight nurse’s uniforms stand completely still. They aren’t breathing but that’s not necessarily an indication of whether they are dead or not. Their limbs are bent awkwardly, a knife in each of their right hands. Dangerous. These creatures have faces, scarred, but facial features none the less. Hair tied up and fixed with old fashioned hats too. Nurses from when the town was still thriving.

I scan the room, it’s mostly empty but for a few old stains on the wall and two boxes from a medical company, they might be of use. I put the knife away and hold my splintered bat instead. I step inside the room slowly, the nurses don’t react. Another step. The boxes sit behind them. I need to walk in the space between; I can do it without touching them if I move sideways. Another half step closer and I can smell them, they’re perfumed with something unpleasant, the stench feels like it’s winding into my skull. I turn sideways and start to slowly make my way between them an inch at a time. I’m directly between them now, half way. The one I’m facing twitches the muscle of her left eye. They’re alive. I hold still and don’t breathe while trying to be aware of the one I have my back to as well. Easy, easy.

“Giiirls! Juicy man meat right here!”

The utter bastard. Crackling static. I thrust my elbow backwards into the nurse behind me pushing her backward. The female in front slashes her knife towards my stomach. I dodge back and stab the cricket bat towards her but she dodges too. No slouch.

“Come on ladies, have your wicked way with him!” Moriarty cries over the static and the grinding noise.

I have to keep them both in front of me but it means cornering myself against the back wall. I do it anyway. I can take care of these without the gun even if they are armed. They both stagger forward in the small space, slashing rather wildly. I use the bat to block a couple of blows before stabbing at their vulnerable abdomens. I get a good stab wound into one, she garbles out some noise of pain before slashing again. I swing the bat, not as effective now that it’s broken but one falls to the floor, the other bumps into the wall. I focus on the one on the ground, a quick couple of stomps to the neck and I think she’s dead.

“One down Sherlock! Well done you!”

“Could do this with one hand tied behind my back.” I retort while switching back to my knife. She makes a dash and grabs the front of my coat with her free hand. I stab her in the neck and pull out the blade. The arterial spray coats the opposite wall and she falls to the floor. No more static but the clanging and thumping of machines still continue. “Easy.”

“Just a taster my dear, just a little taste. Byeeee! Try not to dieee.”

Good, he’s gone. I drag a nurse out of my way and open the boxes. “Agh, god.” Several rats are feasting on what looks like the face of another nurse. It’s not so much the sight, I’ve seen worse, than the smell. Highly unpleasant. I close up the box and leave them to it. The second box I open more gingerly but I’m pleasantly surprised. Bandages and dressings in paper packets. They look old but I grab a handful and shove them in my bag.

I turn my attention back to the nurses on the floor. I want their knives. I try to pull one from the nurse whose neck I broke but it won’t come loose. On closer inspection I see the knife has no handle, it’s a part of her hand. Useless to me. I check the other one just to make sure and she’s the same. Fascinating, they’re armed but there’s no way to turn that to my advantage, not unless I cut off their hands and that wouldn’t be practical or easy to wield. Far too floppy.

I leave the room and close the door firmly behind me. I quickly wipe something off the skin of my neck, feels like an insect but it’s not. Wet. Blood. I was cut during the fight, I didn’t feel it. The strong painkillers perhaps? I trace the blood to its source, a small cut on my neck. Superficial but close to my jugular. I poke it. It hurts. That’s a good sign.

Pain is a sense I need too.

Next door has no handle. Another door, it gives a little, the door is blocked. It won’t open enough for me to see inside. I give it a shove but whatever is blocking it is heavy. I close it tight, I’ll return if I need to. The next door opens smoothly. I check for nurses and static but there are none. The room feels darker than the one with the nurses, thicker. I shine my torch inside. “I want back-up batteries, Mycroft.” I’d be in trouble without light. There’s nothing of concern in the room, just a series of five, neatly spaced, fabric mannequins, each with a ‘Y-incision’. Curious.

A closer look is warranted.

The beige dress mannequins sit upon metal stands from the hips upwards, complete with smooth heads. I examine the inside of the first mannequin. It’s empty, I can see the wire frame that the fabric is stretched across. The second and third are also empty. The fourth contains a box. “Oooh, lovely.” Shotgun shells. Granted, I have no shotgun but maybe Mycroft can provide me with one. Did he place these here? I reach in and grab them, “Oh, sh-” The material folds back, clamping tight around my hand, squeezing. I try to pull out but I’m stuck, it’s starting to hurt. The fabric is starting to weave itself together, like it’s healing around me, amazing but not good. I slide my knife in, careful not to cut my arm. I hiss with the pain, it’s crushing my forearm. I start to saw at the material, the fabric is burrowing into my skin, cutting in. It’s going to hurt but I cut roughly and tug my arm free. “Aggh. Bloody hell.” The sleeve of my coat and jacket are left behind.

I have the shells.

I inspect my arm. Hard to see with just the torch but my eyes are functional enough. There’s a thin cut around the circumference of my arm where the material began to burrow into my forearm. Not too much bleeding, a mere trickle but the cut pulls with each flex. I should have used my left hand to grab the shells. I stand in the corridor against the wall and use some of the dressings and bandages along with a quick antiseptic wipe. The mysterious material would have kept going until it had hit bone or cut off my arm.

Bandage secure. I return to the dark room and check the closed up mannequin. There’s a circle of blood on its middle that belongs to me but other than that it looks unharmed. I eye up the fifth from distance, it also has contents but none of immediate interest. It’s full of empty syringes and covered in red dried globules, blood I assume though I’m not sure, there’s too much blood in the air anyway to smell and I’m not reaching inside this time. Perhaps I can get something to use later but I doubt they are of interest, just a reminder of my injecting history. I never shared needles though, I was never that stupid.

The room is of no further use, I have the shells.

The clanging of machinery feels like it has picked up pace slightly, more insistent, less ignorable. Like white noise crowding my thoughts. I try the next door to find it frustratingly locked though there’s no keyhole. On the opposite side of the corridor is a lift. Excellent. I press the button, no response. A key hole with ‘POWER’ written above sits next to the button. Unusual, out of place. There’s a key somewhere.

A treasure hunt of sorts.

Bugger. It’s probably with those needles.

First, check the other rooms. There are five single doors remaining and a pair of double doors at the top on the opposite side. The next door opens, it’s full of drip stands and empty saline bags scattered on the floor. A shelf in the corner is stacked high with bedpans, some cleaner than others. I’d rather not investigate them. There’s a slight odour of bleach. Nothing worth taking as yet but one of the drip stands might come in handy with the needles; I don’t want to risk losing something useful inside the mannequin.

The next two doors have broken locks and a good shove won’t shift them. The third, however, opens. The room is larger than the others, it would encompass the two previously broken doors but there’s no sign of the other side of the doors, just worn concrete. In the corner is a patch of white tiles. They cover a patch on the floor and the two walls but only three feet high. The tiles are stark white and clean compared to the dust and debris covering the rest of the floor.

Resting on the tiles is a wicker bassinette.

I let the door close behind me and while the mechanical ker-thump of machinery blissfully halts it’s replaced, or perhaps letting me hear, the sound of an infant crying. I walk quietly, aware that this could be a distraction. I consider leaving the radio behind in case Moriarty pipes up again but I can’t risk it being taken or destroyed. The bassinette is facing away from me, the hood hiding its contents. The infant continues to cry. More quiet steps closer, checking over my shoulder, sweeping my torch across the floor for footprints and disturbed dust. Nothing.

I reach the tiles and peer inside the Moses-style basket. The crying stops abruptly mid scream like a hand has been clamped over a tiny mouth. The bassinette is empty but for a mattress covered in a pink fitted sheet. A baby girl’s bed. I use my knife to lift the mattress but find nothing but the wicker bottom. I flip it over, still nothing untoward other than its odd presence. I was rather expecting to be confronted by some deformed demon child trying to end my days or possibly the key to the lift.

This is disconcerting.

There must be further significance but I’ve no time to muse. I leave and the noisy machinery fills my ears again. The empty cradle still nags in the back of my mind. Shotgun shells, mannequins, syringes, basic medical equipment, autopsies, rats, nurses, they’re all so disparate, no obvious link other than the hospital but that hardly explains the mannequins, shotgun shells and bassinette.

Another two locked doors, a relief actually. Now only the double doors remain unchecked. From its position I expect a larger room so I prepare my gun. Eleven bullets in the magazine, twenty four bullets total. I open the door slowly, leading with the Browning in my hand but I don’t enter. I hear the slick movement of something inside, like several people chewing with nothing in their mouths. No static. Whatever is making that noise must be more than six metres away. Good, more information on the room size. I listen again but there’s nothing else to learn, I can’t discern numbers but there are certainly more than a few for that amount of noise.

I crack open the door further with my torch facing downward so it doesn’t give me away. The room is lit so I turn off the torch. It’s a mortuary. I see one wall lined with cold chambers, grimy from age. I also see a couple of trolleys, empty but stained and rusted. I crack open the other door to see the other side. Sinks and more trolleys, this time with body bags lying upon them. I can hear the slick noise louder now, unusual sound. I can’t place it but it’s loud, I can hear it over the bloody chundering machines.

Time to step inside, I can thin out the numbers with my gun then conserve ammunition once I know what I’m dealing with. It’s a simple plan but sometimes brute force and ignorance is all it takes. I take a deep breath to steady my aim, blink my eyes to keep them as clear as possible and enter.

Right.

No actual creatures. The wall that was obscured from my view is a seething mass of vine-like tentacles. Smooth and skinless, I can see the muscle tissue contract and flex as they slip and slide over each other. Different widths ranging from the circumference of my finger to the circumference of my forearm. The lengths must vary too but the tentacles emerge from holes in the back wall, I can’t see where they originate. They are tightly packed but reach only a couple of feet from the wall as if behind an invisible wall. I’m at least five meters away with no static but I don’t trust them.

There’s something in the middle of the writhing mess.

A couple of steps closer, the tentacles don’t seem worried by my presence but I still tuck the gun in my pocket and switch to the knife again. Held aloft and being cradled by the tentacles is a single human heart.

This is a puzzle.

I need that heart. I walk to the sinks near the body bags that lay on the morgue trolleys. My radio picks up static and the bags begin wriggle. I could stab them as they are but I have a better idea. An experiment of sorts. I unzip the top of one of the bags to reveal a rotting flesh monster. It squirms and tries to reach to me but its arms are still stuck inside. I move down to its feet and slowly push the trolley towards the wall of tentacles.

Oh perfect.

The tentacles react when the monster is within fifty centimetres range. The ones closest break their formation, whipping and slithering through the air and inside the body bag until they have a good grip on the struggling creature. They pull him free, holding him up by his arms and legs as the tips of the tentacles push and force their way into his torso. The monster still struggles but his body is disintegrating. This is happening far too quickly.

Wrong abomination.

I check the heart, there’s a decrease in the amount of tentacles passing the heart around. It bobs up and down between the various moving lengths but never really moving from its central position. I know what I have to do.

I walk back to the room with the bassinette and collect it. I visit another room and collect three drip stands on wheel. Last room to visit is the one with the dead nurses. I chuck a bundle of bandages into the Moses basket and take everything back to the morgue. The necrotic flesh monster has come apart, its limbs and insides bobbing as the tentacles continually move. Good, they still enjoy once the thing is dead. The one in the bag still squirms but he’s no threat currently.

I have the materials I need for this part of the puzzle. The drip stands are inserted into a five pronged wheel base for stability and manoeuvrability. I take one of the stands out leaving just the wheel base and use the bandages to tie the wheels to the bottom of the basket by looping the material through the handles. I have to keep the top of the bassinette open. I test how secure it feels and how easily it moves. Lovely.

I take the other drip stand off its base but I have no use for the wheels. The tops of the stands are T-shaped and curved, ready for various bags to be hung. I use more bandages to attach each one to either side of the handles. They are secure yet manoeuvrable, I can steer it from a distance of over a meter, should be good enough.

Now I need decent bait.

I take one of the empty trolleys and push it to the first room with the nurses. These should withstand the assault much longer. I lift up each deceptively heavy body and deposit it on the steel surface. They look like they are cuddling, very odd sight. I wheel them back to the morgue and to the second trolley.

Before they become food I need to assemble my plan B. I cut off the arm of one of the nurses at the elbow, the one holding the knife. Her anatomy is normal. I use both plasters and bandages to attach it to the third drip stand I collected. It’s firm. I quickly test it on the tentacles, giving one that is holding the heart a good cut and withdrawing quickly as they make a grab for fresh meat. The cut tentacle quickly retracts into the wall but is almost immediately replaced; the heart isn’t at risk of falling. Useful to know. I’ll have to be quick.

Time to prepare my lure. I take one of the women and transfer her across. I secure them both with some more bandages to slow their progress as tentacle dinner and give me more time.

I tie one more length of bandage to the handle of the cradle and to my wrist. I’m ready to do this now. I use the drip stand rods to push the bassinette close so it’s almost beneath the heart. It’s ignored like the trolley and bag were. Excellent. I line up the nurse’s bodies either side of the heart and ready the bagged monster too.

This should work.

I push the first nurse towards the wall of tentacles and they are immediately attracted and struggle to get to her through the strips of bandages. I quickly push the other nurse and the rotting creature towards the wall. More tentacles leave the heart. It’s working.

“Good.” There’s space to push the basket underneath the heart now. “Come on, come on.” I have to move fast. There’s three tentacles left holding the heart. It’s moving wildly, I need to time this just right. It moves right, then left. As it moves across my target area again I attack. In one sweep of the knife I cut two tentacles, one more sweep down and I cut the last.

The heart drops into the bassinette.

“Yes!” A quick tug on my wrist brings the basket to me at pace before the wriggling mass can retrieve it. The tentacles grab the makeshift knife so I let go, it’s no loss to me, I have what I want. The nurses are run through with tentacles now but the necrotic thing is almost gone, its blackened organs being passed around. The tentacles seem to be in frenzy, they don’t matter to me now.

I take the heart. It’s cold to the touch. I know where it has to go.

Chapter 22: 221 Basement Level - Brookhaven Hospital

Chapter Text

I return to the top of the long hallway and to the man who is the facsimile of my late father. One body missing a heart, one consulting detective with a spare, a match made in hell. My father’s heart in my hands while mine is currently being hidden from me. If only I could keep him safe inside my chest. Always close. Like a real heart, if he stops beating, I die.

I arrive back at the corpse and reveal him once again. Eyes open, forever screaming. I lay two strips of gauze across his chest and carefully lower the heart like a coffin into the ground. I don’t want to risk a repeat of the mannequin. I remove the gauze but nothing happens. Ah, it’s back to front, silly error. I flip it over with the handle of my knife and suddenly the severed ventricles snap back together like the mannequin did. I remove the knife fast. The heart fills and begins to beat. Slow at first, then a steady sixty beats a minute.

He blinks.

“Father?” I ask calmly but his horrified expression remains. Of course he’s not real; I’ve seen his real corpse before and after his embalming. He died of a sudden heart attack. The heart continues to beat, I feel like touching it to see if it has warmed up. Nothing else is happening, I’m missing something. Ah, the puzzle isn’t complete. I fold the flaps created by the autopsy and watch it heal together, the dry skin knitting without leaving a scar.

He blinks again.

“It’s Sherlock.” I try again. I doubt it would make much difference if he knew it was a family member who was standing over him, he didn’t have much affection for his insolent, drug addled son. I’ve become something different now. Something better. I have little hope he’ll become an ally, not here.

He wheezes in a breath of air into his rasping lungs but he still looks like he’s screaming for his life. “Father.” I repeat. “Can you hear me?” I tighten my grip on the knife. “Father?”

He seizes suddenly and shakes. I stand back and watch, ready to attack if required. My father will probably not arise in the best mood if he isn’t to die immediately. A black mark appears on his skin over his heart before it blisters and burns away. His heart is aflame, yellow tendrils of heat lick upwards out of his chest cavity. He stops shaking and falls limp. I step closer and look at the burnt hole where his heart had been.

A key.

It’s still too dangerous to place my hand inside. I take out my wire cutters and a couple of plasters which I wrap around the cutting edges so they have more purchase. I reach in the small distance and grab the small silver key and slowly pull it out. As soon as it’s clear from the chest I seize it. A dry hand seizes my wrist in return; my faux-father is awake and squeezing tight. He’s not screaming anymore, his face more like how I remembered but still deathly pale and desiccated. A faint static crackles. I take the key with my free hand and put it in my pocket so it is secure and try to pull away. I have no time for this nonsense.

“What have I told you about stealing you petty thief?” His voice is just as I remember, booming, authoritative and deep. It’s jarring to hear it again after a decade, real or not.

“Get off or I’ll stab you.” Why haven’t I done that already? I take out my knife but he releases me and pushes me away with force. He swings down his legs and takes off his belt. One fluid move, takes merely seconds. I can’t get close enough to stab him now. There’s no point in this, I have the key for the lift. Still, I pull out my gun. I walk backwards toward my exit; I won’t turn my back on him.

“Running away?” He menaces as he paces slowly towards me, folding the belt in two and smacking it against his crusted palm. I used to be fascinated by the act, the ritual before each spanking intended to serve as a psychological punishment as much as a physical one. If Mycroft and I were deemed to both be worthy of punishment we were told to watch the other. He was always more affected, I thought of other things.

I still refuse to engage, I’m half way to the lift, I’ll just leave him behind. I’m well aware of my father’s disappointment, surely enhanced by this damned town, it hardly bears repeating. I raise the gun; a shot to the head and brain stem would be preferred considering he has no heart. I can still see inside him, a black charred hole where his heart once rested.

“Cat got your tongue, son? Are you afraid of me?”

“Hardly. You’re a fiction.”

“Speaking in riddles again, your brother was always smarter.”

“But he was fat.”

“Ha! He was fat and you were a skinny runt. Almost had a proper son out of the pair of you.”

“Quite.” I study him, he moves like my father, same heavy gait, upright and proper, his presence always was imposing. He used it to his advantage, to bend others to his will. It worked. It never failed to impress me. I keep my steady backwards pace, eyes on his weapon. The strip of leather I can withstand, the buckle would be more dangerous.

“Been a long time hasn’t it, boy?”

“Not really, you’re a creation of this town. My father is nothing but bones now.”

He laughs. “Look at you.” He spits with disgust. “What you’ve become. You’re a bloody woofter. You’re disgusting. You’re not my son. My son is no limp wristed poof.”

I pick up my pace a little and he matches me stride for stride. He would never speak out like this; his disapproval of whatever I was doing was written on his face, displayed by his indifference and cold distance. These are the words I have imagined he would have thought but never said aloud. I care little. My father never knew of my preferences but then when he was alive neither did I. I’d never been interested in romantic relationships. I’m still not. If I can’t have John then I won’t have anyone. No point. I don’t care what my father thinks. He’s dead, he’s not here.

“That mincing doctor? That weeping invalid? I’d take my belt to him, beat some decency into him. Some respect for our armed forces.” He booms with a practice swing of his belt.

My finger twitches on the trigger but I suppress the urge. Ignore, ignore, ignore. I learnt to hold my tongue around my father, Mummy didn’t appreciate me making things worse on purpose. She’d cry. I won’t make it worse this time. It would be bad for John.

“Good job you won’t ever be a father, that’s what’s good about your kind, you don’t breed.”

“So I gather. I did learn something from you after all.” My father, the keen biologist. Darwin was his greatest hero.

“You wouldn’t be good enough. You need to be a leader, a provider, a protector. Tell me, how well are you doing, protecting that doctor of yours?”

He’s trying to exploit me. We protect each other the best we can. “I’m not his father.” I’m three steps away from the lift, it feels like the hallway is longer than before, I wasn’t keeping track.

“Pathetic. I did everything for you. A nice home, I sent you away to the best schools, I tried to make you strong. Oh I know you’re smart, you liked to let everyone know, you even fancied yourself smarter than me boy.”

“Yes.” I spy the key slot out of the corner of my eye. I put the gun away and put my hand on the bat to block any attempt to stop me. I take out the key but keep my focus on the belt.

“You’re not leaving.”

“I’d invite you along but you haven’t been very pleasant.” I can’t get the key in and he’s palming the belt. I need to look but it would give him an opportunity. I have to shoot him. Hand back on the gun.

“Don’t even think it.” He warns.

“I’m not thinking, I’m doing.” I fire off two shots. Nine clip, twenty-two total. The two bullets rip through his nose and cheek. He stumbles back, the static still hisses. I get the key in the slot and turn. The lift button lights up. Power. Closer to John. I push it.

Father’s angry, that I remember all too well. “You’ll be punished for that.”

The lift has come to life with the sound of scraping metal and gears. Unfortunately, it’s not at my level; it’s on its way down to me. More time with this duplicate. The static gets louder. It’s not just the two of us anymore but I can’t see who’s approaching or from which direction.

“Yes, I’m sure you’ll try.” I shoot again, this time the stomach. Eight and twenty-one. He staggers again giving me a chance to sight the other monsters. Behind me in the direction of the morgue... oh for the love of bloody hell.

The nurses.

The ones I’d tried to feed to the monster. They weren’t eating, they were reproducing. The nurses stagger towards me, each with five long tentacles whipping and squirming out of their bodies. Their once pale skin is reddened and torn. The tentacles seem more powerful out of their confines, so fast they could cut. I have no idea how close the lift is to arriving, I don’t want to be too far away but they’re approaching fast. A quick check on my father: he’s upright but bleeding black, fetid blood. I swing the bat and follow it with a kick to the ground. “Stay down if you know what’s good for you.”

“No good druggie, infected rent boy.” He flails his belt buckle first. I stab the bat at his wrist but I miss three times and take a nasty blow to my scalp. Wasting time, stupid.

“Yes, yes, I’m sure I’m terrible.” I reply bitterly. He spouts something else about me being a disappointment but I have the women to dispose of. Gun trained on the nurses, they’d gotten closer than I would have liked. One of the tentacles whips towards me, grabbing for the gun. No.

Fire. Fire. Fire. Fire.

Two bullets in each. Five and seventeen. Wait, no, four and seventeen. Bugger, I’m going through these too quickly. One of the nurses is down on her back, tentacles still whipping and curling, trying to grasp something to right itself. The other approaches. One of the deceptively long tendrils tries to trip me, it hits my calf hard enough to bruise, probably broken the skin. “Agh, ow, shit.” It’s the same leg I was hobbling on before. I’m losing this.

I need to get away. I can’t shoot again; I have to back down the corridor away from them and the lift too. I give the father-like monster a kick with my bad leg to keep him down but he hits me with the buckle of the belt as I pass, stinging at my legs. “Stop it.” This is bad; I’m away from my exit and less mobile. Knife? Gun? Bat? Shit. It’s getting too loud. The lift, the machines, the static, my bloody father.

“You’ll never save him, you’ll fail.” My father seethes as he drags himself across the floor, black blood oozing from his cheek and chest with each word.

“I’ve proved you wrong before. Many times.” He’s not him, stop arguing. “Shut up.” Where’s the damn lift? How can I get back without wasting more bullets?

“He doesn’t want you, he won’t ever love you. You’re odd, you’re disturbed, no one could love you. Me, your mother, we tried, you made it so difficult.” He’s on his feet; the women are just ten feet away. Think. “Why couldn’t you be more like your brother?”

“Shut. Up.”

I need to get back to the lift, I shouldn’t have moved away. Too cramped, think.

The last voice I want to hear crackles over the static. “You’re in trouble Sherlock, tactical error there.”

“I’ll be fine.” I need to lure the women away to get past them but the larger room is behind them, I’ve only got the cramped store room, the mannequin room and the room the nurses were in. I wouldn’t be able to dodge around them.

A lure. Bait. I have bait.

I run closer to where my father lies, using my sudden burst of speed and change of direction to catch him off guard. I grab him by the arms and drag him backwards, I take a few rough hits from the tentacles but the blood on the floor makes it easier to slide him and get out of range.

“Unhand me!” He does his best to hit me with the buckle of the belt. “You’re not my son.”

“I’m saving you from them.” I lie.

“You are?”

“Liar, liar pants on fire. Again.” Moriarty sings. “You’re sacrificing your own father for your pet.”

For John.

My father continues to struggle so I punch him a couple of times to daze him, how I imagined turning the belt on him when I was younger. This isn’t the same, this is purely for utility, I wouldn’t hit him if he’d let me take him. He’s still trying to shrug me off; he’s more resilient than anything I’ve encountered before. I drag him as far as the mannequin room and haul him inside. I prop open the door with one of the empty busts. My father is kicking out, hitting my back with the buckle. Welts upon bruises, upon cuts, I feel like mince meat.

I need to neutralise that weapon.

I quickly check outside, the tentacle nurses are following and the lift is still on its way down. I have time. I grab another mannequin and swing it at the flailing arm that wields the belt. Miss. One more try and my aim is better. Like I hoped the flaps of material clamp down like a venus fly trap. My father growls with fury and tries to free himself. I take the last empty one, as he tries to push it away I capture his other arm. He cries out again, grimacing and trying to pull himself free.

“What are you doing? Get these off me!” The pain is starting to overwhelm his anger.

I start to walk away; I’ll hide in another room until they find him.

“Sherlock!” He shouts after me. It’s the first time he’s used my name. “Don’t leave me like this, AAAGGGHHHH! Oh god help me! It’s cutting in! They’re going to cut off my arms! Please! Don’t leave me like this!”

I turn and leave. He shouts after me but the nurses are upon me. “Damn.” They knock me backwards as I try to stagger out of their range.

“SHERLOCK!” My father’s pain is becoming excruciating. I get to my feet but a tentacle wraps around my waist and slams me into a wall before releasing me and letting me fall to the floor. That hurt. I’ve left a smear of blood on the wall. Crawling is undignified but I have to get away. I scramble to the room that I found the nurses in and pull myself up by the door handle. One of the nurses has spotted my bait. Hopefully the other will follow too. I hide inside and brace myself against the door. My father’s screams become more frantic and desperate. They’ve found him.

It’s too loud.

I rest my head in my hands, so tired now. My back hurts where it presses against the door. I can already picture the purple welts blooming; my clothing would have protected me from most of the cuts. I must be quite colourful by now. I check my leg quickly. It looks a mess: cuts from Heaven’s Night, black and purple bruises, swelling, a gash from the tentacle. I take a dressing and cover it, it’s too tight but I don’t care, I just want to close my eyes for a little while. That doesn’t help me escape the noise. I clamp my hands over my ears, a little respite but no escape.

John in his uniform, explosions, John and the tourniquet, “you cut me”, John undressed, shaking, John bound, pain, John blank. Dead.

Maybe closing my eyes isn’t the best idea but it’s hard to open them again. Been awake so long, too long. Won’t sleep until I find him. Must find him.

The screaming has stopped.

It’s time to go out. Climbing to my feet is an effort. I should sit a little longer but I don’t want to miss the lift. Keep going, keep going.

Think of John.

I hobble outside in time to hear the lift ping to signal its arrival. I pick up pace to catch it, only seeing a glimpse of my father. The nurses are knelt on either side of him, their tentacles burrowing inside his torso. Breeding. The frozen scream has returned, he looks like when I first found him but this time I am responsible. I notice the stumps of his arms; the mannequins did what I had feared for myself. The man was a creation, no different to anything else here. My father died a long time ago.

I rush to the lift and round the alcove. “Oh, bugger.” It wasn’t empty. Two nurses of the non-tentacle type stand in the cage-like lift. I almost run right into them, I’m lucky not to get a knife in the liver and kidneys. Stupid. Um, bat? Knife? Um, bat, yes. They stagger out, knives swiping fast. I jab and swing, missing and hitting. One goes down but she’s still waving the knife around. Bat in the stomach quick, the splintered wood working in my favour. I pull it out and blood erupts and spits from her abdominal cavity. Good, dead.

The other one lurches towards me, I grab her wrist before it sinks into my shoulder and twist it until I hear the snap of bone and cartilage. I push her backwards into the lift. The floor is cage-like too; her slim, long legs slip through the bars leaving her upper body vulnerable. I follow her in with a swing of the bat, aiming for her neck. The contact is good. No static. I’ve got her. The doors snap shut behind me and another set of bars slide down with a clang.

We’re heading upwards.

Chapter 23: Brookhaven Hospital Lift

Chapter Text

The lift is reminiscent of the prison cell John was held inside. This time there are bars on all six sides. I stand carefully on the bars making sure I don’t let a leg fall through. The nurse lies backwards with her legs still dangling as we move slowly upwards. There’s no panel of numbers to press, nothing but metal. The shaft is considerably bigger than the lift; I could reach out my arm and still not touch the sides. There’s the occasional red light bulb but other than that the main source of light is from my torch. The lift rocks and swings. I hold on tight.

We’re disappearing from the insistent thundering of machines leaving me with just the sound of the lift ascending. Time to rest again. I crouch down but that aches even more than standing. Some sadistic corner of my mind conjured up this bloody lift because some bloody carpeting or even a pillow wouldn’t go amiss. John better be here.

Hopefully I’m heading to the main part of the hospital, I certainly don’t want to work my way through all two hundred and twenty-one floors. I could be in this lift for an hour and get out on level negative two hundred and twenty. I almost laugh. Almost.

“Sherlock.”

“John!” John’s voice. I pull myself up and shine the torch against the walls and pull at the bars. I check all four sides of the shaft, using the nurse to stand on. I’m making it swing in my haste. “John!” Am I meant to jump off? Have I missed him? “John, where are you?”

“Help me.” He sounds frightened. Don’t be frightened.

“I am, I’m here, where are you? I can’t see you.” Nothing but muddy walls and red lights. Where is he? Where is he? Above me? Below me? “John, keep talking.”

“Sherlock, help me.”

“Describe where you are?” This is wrong, there’s nowhere for his voice to come from, this is wrong.

“Help me, Sherlock.”

It’s a distraction. It’s- “Oh-”

Tentacles.

With a rush the nurse is skewered through her middle, a thick red skinless length holding her aloft in the centre of the cage, waving her back and forth hypnotically. Other tentacles shoot around the sides of the lift, there must be dozens filling the tunnel. I’m exposed and trapped, there’s nowhere to hide. I look up, no sign of getting out of here soon but we’re still moving upwards. Survive, just survive.

The tentacle holding the nurse curls and wraps around the middle of her limp body leaving her arms and legs dangling. It swings the body towards me, there’s nowhere to dodge, I hold an arm up and let it hit me. I hold on to the bars with my other arm to keep my feet from falling through, it’ll snap my tibia like a twig if I’m not careful. I find my feet and brace myself before it hits me with the nurse again, knocking the wind out of me.

With one arm linked around the bars I swing and jab the bat and try to wound it. Another tentacle shoots through the bars and twists it out of my grasp. “NO!” It turns it against me, jabbing it fast towards my chest. I duck down to avoid it and I hear it splintering against the tunnel wall due to the speed it was carrying. It’s gone. I grab my knife and take a swipe at the tentacle that destroyed my cricket bat but it hardly does anything, this one is too thick. I try to stand but another hit with the nurse slams me down on my front, another hit then again, harder still. It’s aiming for my chest, trying to crush my ribs. I can’t breathe.

I can’t- I don’t think I can keep up with this.

I feel the slide of a tentacle around my waist, I grab at it but it’s too late, it lifts me up. It’s going to finish me. Gun. How many bullets left? Don’t remember, four, five? Should’ve reloaded, I had time. It draws me upright and holds me tight against the bars. I struggle and stab with the knife in one hand and hold the gun in my other. This skinless muscle is thinner, the bowie knife is more effective but other vines are invading the space, searching for my wrists like it can smell my sweat.

If they capture my wrists I’m dead. I won’t find John.

I shoot the gun at the ones snaking through the air, two shots miss, one hits. Not good enough. Useless. Fight. More stabbing, I cut wildly. “No!” I saw at the tentacle holding me and I drop. No great victory as two more grab at my ankles, wrapping tight. “No, get off, let me go!” Please, let go.

I fire again at the tentacle holding the nurse, one more shot then repeated clicks, oh god. No time to put it away, no time to reload. Hold it tight, don’t let go. Knife again, I have to cut myself free. One makes a move for my chest, the tip of the tentacle feeling needle sharp. “Agh, no, god no!” I stab at it repeatedly until it retreats. It’s cut me. Keep surviving, keep surviving, still moving up, still moving up.

The tentacles around my ankles drag me forwards on my back, dragging me over the bars, trying to pull me through the bars. I take yet another blow from the nurse; I can only protect myself so much as she’s slammed into my middle. It hurts, I keep fighting. I try to curl up and slash at more of the twisting lengths as they make another attempt for my wrists. Too many. Too dark. I have no tactics, I slash at what I can, every second I can live is a second closer to the top.

“Fuck.” Wrist. My wrist holding the gun. Get free. Cut. Get free. Get free. Get free. Cut, cut, cut. No, no, no. Keep hold of the gun. It’s pulling me about, side to side. I bend my legs so it can’t pull me through but it’s twisting, trying to throw me around. The cage is swinging and making it harder to aim my blade. “Stop!” Another one comes for my knife. Keep it away. “NO!” The knife sinks into the thick muscle and it retreats. Good, good, now get my hand free.

We’ve stopped.

I look around while still stabbing at the tentacle around my wrist. Why have we stopped? It’s dark, red lights, mud, hundreds of feet beneath me, there’s nowhere to go. There’s no exit. “No, no, no. Keep moving! Up!” Oh this is not good, not good at all.

Cut, cut, cut. Wrist free. Good. I hack at the thin coils around my ankles, freeing one after another. Yes, good, yes. I have to get out, I have to get out. Why isn’t it moving? The nurse is swinging again and I dive to the other side and hang on. I jerk on the bars. “MOVE! DAMN YOU! MOVE!” I dive out of the way again as the nurse smashes where I was standing. There’s nowhere to run, nowhere to go. Tentacle again, across my chest like a seatbelt pulling me backwards until I hit the bars. “NO!” They’re coming for me, they’ve regrouped. So dark. Stomach, I feel the spike of pain as one tries to wriggle inside me, it’ll make me one of them. Got to stop it. Stab, stab, stab. I must stop the penetration.

Cut, hack, stab.

Don’t die, don’t you dare die, John needs you. Tentacle around my neck. Stab, keep cutting, keep cutting. It retreats from my middle but I’m bleeding. No air, no air. Another burrowing into my thigh. Need air first, ignore pain. Cut, cut, cut. It winds tighter, two complete loops around my neck. Squeezing. Don’t die, don’t, I’m sorry John, I’m so sorry. I’m trying; I don’t think I can do this. I’m sorry.

“I think this might be it, Sherlock.”

Moriarty. I don’t want to listen. Blue dots in front of my eyes, searing pain in my leg, I feel like my neck will break before I asphyxiate. Keep cutting, keep struggling, don’t give up.

“Should have taken care of them in the morgue, that lye would have worked wonders, shame you saved it for me.”

Mistake. Hand weaker now, keep cutting, slice. I try to hit away an attempt to grab my knife with my hand that holds the gun but it’s soon tangled and pinned back against the bars. The length cutting off my oxygen moves and winds around my throat, I can’t cut through a length before it moves again. Three loops force my chin up. Don’t give up. I can barely see, lungs hurt. Oh god...

“I’ll send your regards to John; he’ll be my pet now.”

He is alive.

“I’m not very nice to my pets though. Killed my puppy when I was five then cooked him in the oven. Wanted to make hot dogs.”

Sorry John. Sorry John. Sorry John.

“I’m going to hurt him Sherlock, I’m going to make him suffer so much more than you are now. He’d beg for this death, this is almost kind compared to what I could do.”

Sorry. Sorry...

One last cut, I plunge it in so deep I feel it cut into my own skin of my throat. Last pain. Last fight. I failed.

Air.

The pressure around my neck unwinds and I choke on oxygen, it’s too thick, too good, my lungs burn with its need. I can barely expand them due to the thing constricting my chest but I’m breathing, I’m breathing.

“Oooh! The show goes on! Should never have doubted you, forgive me friend?”

“Fuck you.” I rasp out with renewed purpose and a spluttering cough. I use the knife to dig out the thing in my thigh. Oh that feels good to get rid of finally. Damage is done but no more. Fight.

“How rude, I was apologising.”

We’re moving again. Yes! Yes, yes, yes!

“On the up again, power cuts are a pain, aren’t they? Probably shouldn’t play with these buttons.”

I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him. “You’re here.” My voice is still raw. I thrash, kicking at whatever comes close. Wrist now, get free again, get out.

“No, don’t be silly!”

The thing holding me loosens and then tightens fast, slamming me into the bars.

“You look like you’re having fun; shall I stop the lift again?”

“No, I’m bored of this; I want something-” I get slammed into the bars again but I’m making progress on my wrist, “-new to fight.” Cut, cut, cut. Don’t stop the lift again, I can’t last, he must know I can’t last.

“Something new? We’ll see if you survive this first.”

I will. I will. “Oof.” Another slam and a squeeze, I’m at risk of suffocating again. I hack and slash at the bind to my chest, kicking my legs so they can’t get purchase. Don’t panic, almost there, I have to be close now. “How much further?” I grunt as I keep stabbing and jerking away from their touch.

“Oooh, about another ten minutes? Maybe twenty? You think you can hold on that long?”

He’s lying. Worth asking.

There’s a sudden give, I’m free. Won’t last long, there’s nowhere to go and the nurse is still crashing about and being flung at me. I’m darting from side to side, slipping on the bars from the nurse’s blood. Actually, some of it’s mine; it’s running down my leg. I need to get out of here. “Ow, buggering hell.” I’m slammed against the bars and down on the floor again. One of the nurse’s arms has become severed and fallen down into the darkness below.

I get back up, legs falling through briefly but I’m up, I’m up. Slowing down, we’re slowing. “Come on Jim, you don’t want me to die here.”

“Of course not, but you might. That’s what makes this fun!”

We come to a halt, the bars slide upward. There’s a small platform and then I can see a well lit hospital corridor, I can smell the antiseptic. The cage is swinging; I’ll have to time my jump or fall to my death. I make a dash but the tentacles are faster. One wraps around my leg, winding all the way up to my painful thigh, and pulls the cage away from the platform.

“Get off, get off!” I repeat as I stab and try to cut myself free. Don’t let the doors close, please.

“This will be a close one!”

“I’ll make it.”

“Hmm... it’s fifty-fifty from what I see. How about I flip a coin?”

I keep cutting but I can’t get a good rhythm going with having to bat off other attempts to grab me. I check my exit. Oh god, they’re closing. Slowly, but I’m running out of time.

“Uh oh friend, best get moving!”

Oh shit, oh fuck. Cut, cut, cut. Closing still. I’m getting there. The sinews are giving way, I can do this I tug my leg and it’s coming free. One more effort and it’s weak enough to unwind. The cage slams back towards the platform and I make the leap out of the box. The door is closing fast. I scramble and slide sideways through the gap. It shuts behind me, cutting the tip off of a tentacle that tried to follow me.

Silence.

I can’t stand up anymore. My knees give way and I’m on the carpet. What kind of hospital has carpeting? For whatever reason it’s appreciated, it’s sort of warm. Rest. Eyes closed. All I can hear is my own laboured breathing. No static, no metal, no taunts. I got out. I bloody got out. I can almost feel every individual injury throbbing. Even the soles of my feet hurt. Still...

I got out.

Chapter 24: Hospital room... somewhere

Chapter Text

Bollocking hell. There’s nothing here. I’ve looked at every bottle twice, every pill, I’ve pulled the cabinets apart, I’ve looked at every single piece of medical equipment and there’s nothing here that I didn’t already know about. Ok, I have a proper inventory in my head and I’ve already prepared defensive measures. There’s nothing here to use proactively even knowing what I’m dealing with. I’ve had another go at the walls; I can’t scratch them or dig us out of here, it’s like it’s got a film over it, when I touch there’s the slightest bit of distance and it feels odd. I don’t know how, all I know is that it’s completely impenetrable. The door handle doesn’t move in the slightest and the door is sealed tight, not even a draft. I can’t even remove the bloody light socket though the light switch works. Moriarty’s excelled himself this time and there’s sod all I can do about it.

I’m surprised he hasn’t dropped by or tried to talk to me. He’d love to flounce around like a twat while I try not to punch his face in. He couldn’t bloody resist talking at the pool through that bloody earpiece. He enjoyed describing exactly what would happen to me in the milliseconds after the vest detonated. He doesn’t seem the type to pass up a chance to gloat and show off. Bit like Sherlock in that way, always needing an audience. Good thing with Sherlock is that I don’t worry about waking up one day to find myself strapped down while he dissects my balls or something equally sick and twisted. Moriarty’s just as smart as Sherlock but with even less impulse control. Now he’s playing with gods.

I stand up and look at the organised mess I’ve made. I don’t know what to do. I’m supposed to be helping, I’m supposed to be stopping whatever unholy thing is happening to Hannah and I don’t know what to do. How on earth do I force god back? Chase her out of her hiding place? Hannah said I’d know what to do but I don’t, I really don’t. Fuck everything, fuck Moriarty and fuck his stupid fucking game. I want to claw my way out of here, the air feels stale, it’s too hot in here, I hate this, I fucking hate this! If I don’t stop this all hell will break loose. Literally. I’m hyperventilating, my fists are clenched. I sit on the floor for a moment to regroup, I’m losing my temper. I’ve been cooped up far too long, I’m starving and tired. I’m only drinking water, my blood sugar is low, I could never go as long as Sherlock without eating. I tried to clean the blood off my shirt but the sink is too small, I look horrendous but my face is clean. It was scaring Hannah. She still feels responsible for what happened. It wasn’t her fault; it was the god inside her.

Hannah’s been sleeping for the last hour and I was hoping to have a plan for when she woke up. Algo? I’ve never heard of such a drug and I can’t even tell what it’s based on, I’ve got a wide enough background in chemistry to know if it’s a derivative of something more common. Might be a herb or plant concoction, must be something outside western medicine, something with significance to the cult. It has to have some special properties but they didn’t cover god vanquishing and exorcism during my medical training. Bloody Silent Hill.

At least Hannah’s sleeping peacefully, no nightmares for now. She’s immortal now. The Hannah I met in the park told me she was too far gone, that’s why the overdose didn’t kill her. If I stop the god, what happens to Hannah? There had to be a reason she didn’t die in the fire, if I remove it, I’ll lose her surely. She won’t be immortal anymore. I can’t undo what’s happened but maybe this god could heal her. For all that’s happening, a miracle performing God isn’t that much of a stretch.

I want to take her back to London where I can look after her full time whatever happens. I can find a new place for the two of us, Sherlock will understand even if he belittles my sense of responsibility to her. Maybe he’ll surprise me. I’ll be able to afford a place of our own, just. Harry will have to support herself from now on, I can’t subsidise her destruction anymore. Maybe if I cut off the money she’ll finally take responsibility for her own life, maybe if she met Hannah she’d have a reason to stay sober. She’s always wanted a stable family and she always used mum and dad as an excuse to drink it away. Whether Hannah is still burnt or not, she won’t be alone after this, she has a home with me. There has to be a way for us all to escape in one piece, I just haven’t worked it out yet.

Sherlock will work something out. He probably already knows why he’s here and what he’s got to do. He’ll swoop in here with all the answers with hardly a scratch on him. I’m not so sure about the lack of scratches though. Every time I think back to what Hannah said in the park my chest gets tight, that god awful dread that he’s not ok. He cried. Shite. He’s in trouble, whether he’s handling it or not, he’s in trouble. I should be there with him, stopping the bloody cult not trapped in here being useless to Sherlock and Hannah.

Fuck, I shouldn’t have gotten myself taken in the first place. Anything that happens to Sherlock I might as well have done myself. I knew Moriarty was still a threat, I knew what he promised, I was there when he threatened to burn the heart out of Sherlock. I knew that he meant me. I still didn’t leave and I still wouldn’t. I must be mad.

Did he really cry though? He could have been acting; he could be quite convincing, very real tears swelling in his eyes and falling with a perfectly timed blink. A flair for the dramatic indeed. Hannah could have been easily fooled. I asked him once what he thought about to make himself cry but he never really answered. Maybe he didn’t even need to think, maybe it was just practice. Sherlock would love that much control over his body, if he could cry as easily as he could smile. I can’t picture him crying, not for real, he’s just not wired that way.

Would be nice to talk to him, to get a snarky text telling me how tedious this little adventure is and how we’d had more fun that time we got stuck in a skip for twelve hours during a stakeout. I want a note to slide under that door with everything I need to do with the initials ‘SH’ at the bottom. Maybe with a little tally of how many times I’ve saved his arse and how many times he’s saved mine. I’m still ahead though, but he’s always been more reckless, trusting me to be there at the right moment. So far I have been there when he’s needed me, this time he’s on his own. It’s not as if Moriarty would tolerate him bringing half the Met with him. He wants Sherlock on his own.

There’s way too many questions and too much uncertainty, I hate not knowing what’s going on. What monsters are out there? Did he at least bring my gun? He’s a crap shot but it would be better than nothing. Is he really hurt? What if he... no, don’t think about that, he’ll make it, he’ll find us and we’ll stop this together like we always do and then we’ll eat. There’s no alternative.

My hand is trembling, shit, stop that. I hold it tight to my stomach and take some deep breaths, I can’t lose it now. It’s tiredness, lack of movement, lack of a plan, worry. When haven’t I worried about the silly sod? Hannah said he’ll be fine but how much can I trust that Sherlock ‘loves twice as much as he hates’? I don’t understand how that is supposed to help him but Hannah knows things, she sees things, she can see this place... I could make her see it again. Oh Jesus, that’s what I’m meant to do, isn’t it? The answer isn’t in here, it’s out there and Hannah’s the only way out.

I stand up and watch over her small sleeping body, her nose whistling with each breath. At least that’s been a good way of keeping an ear out for one of her stats while I’ve been searching for something useful. She’s not due to wake up for another hour when she’ll need more pain medication. So fragile and small. A mother of god.

I’m going to have to kill her again.

Chapter 25: Brookhaven Hospital

Chapter Text

Come on. Open your eyes. You’ve been here too long. You can’t fall asleep. Open them. You can’t lie on the floor anymore. It’s dangerous. You almost died, you almost left John here alone, open your eyes.

Ceiling tiles.

I still have the gun and my knife in each hand. The bat is destroyed, just a pile of splinters at the bottom of that shaft. I sit myself up, everything hurts, it's hard to hold back a groan of discomfort. Think. Defence. Reload the gun. The empty clip slides out, I’ll keep it just in case I find more bullets. I slide a fresh clip into the butt, I feel more secure from the moment I hear it click into place. Thirteen bullets, none left over. I must ration them more wisely. My eyes feel gritty, I'm tired. I pull out my nicotine patches. It’s hard to find a clear piece of skin but I find one on my stomach amongst the bruising from various creatures, the ones the tentacles gave me are just starting to blossom. I’ll put another patch on in an hour or two, I need to keep going, I won’t be defeated. My defeat is John's life lost. I'd be more convincing if I wasn't yawning. Time to see where I am.

I roll over and climb to my feet. It feels like a long way up and takes far too much energy. “Agh.” Leg, painful. I have a quick look at where the tentacle had torn through my trousers and dug in. The wound is seeping blood, it’s wider and deeper than I thought, I’ve lost a chunk of muscle. It’s certainly at risk of infection, perhaps I can find supplies to clean it properly, it’s well beyond an antiseptic wipe. It will definitely scar if I live long enough for it to heal. I can live with the legacy as long as I succeed. This is going to slow me down, it hurts to bear weight, I’ll be limping. I need to cover it but not right now. I need to find somewhere that’s secure.

A quick scan of the area reminds me that a couple of inches of tentacle lay by my feet. The doors cut cleanly, I’m lucky I wasn’t caught. It seems quiet, I have time for a quick experiment. I take out the lye and sprinkle a small amount on top. The small muscle reacts, wriggling and flexing, it was still alive. Interesting. Moriarty was a fool, if he hadn’t told me about the lye I might have left this, maybe it would have grown, spread and become a threat. It didn’t cause static on its own, I wouldn’t have known. The small amount of tentacle stops wriggling after twenty-two seconds.

It’s dead.

Enough fun, time to assess my new surroundings. I’m not in a basement anymore, misty morning light is streaming through the windows but they are too frosted and unclean to see outside. I’ve been here through the night and I've been awake at least forty-eight hours. I've done well over three days before now but never under this much strain. The strain is showing. Day light is pleasing though.

I’m in an area meant for patients. Magnolia walls, green and red patterned carpet and a general smell of cleanliness. The carpeting is still out of place, perhaps this is a GP surgery within a larger hospital but that’s highly uncommon, especially for the era. There are two sets of double doors, one set closed, I check to find them locked. The sign above reads: Staff, Patients and Authorised Persons Only. I'll find a way through later.

Another set of doors opposite are propped open revealing a rundown waiting area. I walk through disguising my limp the best I can, wary for static. There’s a reception desk to the right hand side but I examine the waiting area first. Low wooden chairs with well worn seats make a perfunctory U-shaped waiting area. In the centre stands a battered coffee table with a few ancient editions of Readers Digest and a child’s toy, a lurid pink rabbit in dungarees, resting on top. I pick up one of the magazines; it dates back from 1973, only twenty-five pence. I’d say this place has been abandoned for decades but there’s a suspicious lack of dust and a perfectly healthy rubber tree plant in the corner. New perhaps, hard to tell, no dust on the leaves, I sink my finger into the dirt, the compost is dry for the first half inch. Someone watered this in the last two days. Maybe Moriarty has been through here. Perhaps The Order are maintaining this place. Am I getting closer to them?

I throw the magazine back on the table next to that garish toy and turn my attention to the reception. It’s old fashioned like everything else, wood clad rather than glass, paint and tile. The door to the reception area is locked so I climb carefully over the desk. I leave a streak of half dried blood on the clean beech wood surface. I won’t be able to hide my presence here but I should be more careful not to be so obvious. There’s a filing cabinet but I check the desk first. Everything appears to be in order if dated, there’s a type writer opposed to a computer and a carved wooden pot from a souvenir shop with pens and paper clips inside. I pick up the pot, it reads: Silent Hill, it’s a Special Place! Indeed, I'll raze it to the ground.

There’s an empty picture frame behind where the pot sat, the picture has been removed hurriedly and the back wasn’t replaced. Another smaller frame lies face down beside it, I pick it up to find the glass has been broken, most certainly on purpose, it's been smashed on something. It’s not a picture, it’s a passage from a religious text.

I don’t recognise the passage from any mainstream religion. I check the reference against the book I have from the old woman. There it is, the receptionist was a member of The Order. A satisfying discovery. Of course, demanding that a woman’s virginity remains intact before her wedding day isn’t an original idea but cults are rarely original. Forbidding masturbation is practically cliché. I also doubt her purity was intact when she broke this frame; her body was certainly unguarded from the touch of a man.

I start pulling out the drawers. Success, the top one is useful to me, a pile of keys sit next to a tube of Avon lipstick and an Avon branded nail file. Seems even hell has an Avon lady. I check the lipstick to see if it has been used recently, the reddish fuchsia shade has been used messily, only the remnants remain in the plastic holder. The keys look promising, there’s a small square-ish one that looks like it might open the file cabinet. I check the other drawers, nothing but faded sheets of paper, old prescriptions and a retirement card that was never filled in. There’s a torn note on a small square of paper, I find enough of the pieces to discover our impure receptionist was invited to the Lakeview Hotel, room #120. Forbidden love, secret liaisons, how it must have seemed so exciting to a sheltered girl. Enough of work place gossip, it takes me no closer to John.

Filing cabinet.

There’s a door beside the cabinet with a plaque reading: Office, but I ignore that for now. I need to learn what I can; I need an advantage in my weakened state. I’ve gotten this far, I'm not failing now. I check the filing cabinet is in fact locked. It is. The smallest key slips into the lock and turns easily. Empty. Second drawer, empty too. Third has a few files, blank admission and discharge forms, visitor authorisation forms, holiday request forms and other typical office papers. Useless to me. I'd give it a kick in frustration but I don't have the spare energy.

There’s still the back office but in all likelihood they’ve taken everything of importance, including patient files. The back office door is locked so I cycle through the keys, my fingers clumsy but in the end effective as the lock turns. There are many more filing cabinets in here as well as a small sitting area and kitchenette and a notice board. Again, it’s clean; another potted plant that feels like it was watered at the same time as the other one.

Filing cabinets first. The key works again and this time there’s an abundance of files. “Excellent.” I pluck out a random one labelled: Smith, J. L and scan through.

...paranoid delusions... self harm... eight previous suicide attempts... violent to staff... psychosis... recommended therapy: ECT... solitary confinement... prognosis is poor... childhood trauma... mother murdered by father... long term stay...

Brookhaven is a psychiatric hospital, most likely for privately paying residents. Explains the carpeting. I pull out another two files to confirm my suspicions. One a mother obviously suffering from post-natal depression as a voluntary admission and a former city worker suffering some sort of breakdown. I have a look at files from the other drawers, some are out patients, recurrent cases and supposedly successfully cured patients. I check the files for surnames I’ve heard of, Gillespie and Mason. I even check for Moriarty but I suspect that to be a pseudonym. Nothing. Holmes and Watson, nothing as well. Good.

I look over the notice board before moving on to the last cabinet. A name immediately stands out, a note signed, Nurse V. Gillespie.

To the day nurses,

We’ve had trouble with #312 again. We caught him hiding more drugs but again he denies dealing and claims it’s self protection. We’ve had maintenance search his room again and we found more of the red liquid. I’ve disposed of it again and informed Dr Kaufmann. #312 has been sedated and placed in solitary. Ignore the bruises, they were ‘self inflicted’. He’s been filling the heads of the others with falsehoods and disgusting lies, I’ve recommended he remain separated until his procedure.

May She give us strength,

Nurse V. Gillespie.

I put the note in my bag and return to the drawer for current patients. It’s a lead, it may lead to nothing but it’s all I’ve got. V. Gillespie was a part of The Order as well as the majority of the other staff. Patient #312 was on the wrong side of the cult. This red liquid could be useful to me. I need to know more.

I hobble back to the filing cabinet. I start at ‘A’ and flip open each file checking the room number. The hospital didn’t look more than five storeys high from the glimpse I got when I left Heaven’s Night. Shouldn’t take too long to find the room provided I can fight off whatever this place holds and keep out of the Otherworld. I’ve reached the ‘F’ section and keep looking. They have wards too, double rooms as well as private, they could support upwards of fifty in patients at a time.

“Ah ha!” I pull out #312.

Name: Greene, Ian

DOB: 13/09/50 (Age: 22)

Admission: 02/03/73

Doctor: Kaufmann, M

Diagnosis: Mental collapse triggered by the death of his wife and child during childbirth. Paranoia, violent outbursts, insanity.

Admission Notes: Admitted with authorisation from his parents after attempt to burn down Silent Hill Church. The matter has not been taken to court and damages settled by the Greene family, they wish for the matter to be handled discretely. He blames our beloved god for the death of his wife and child. He chose the one year anniversary of their deaths to attempt the despicable act. No history of instability or family insanity. He is obsessed with the blasphemous idea of killing god. Dangerous, violent, unable to reason and deeply disturbed. Warning, he's also charismatic, able to persuade others and may be dangerous in groups. His ideas cannot be allowed to spread or doubt cast into vulnerable minds. Advise single room and supervised socialisation.

He's been disowned by his family though Ian's indefinite stay shall be paid for. The Greene’s are well known and very respected in the town, owners of the butchers on Bachmann. They are a decent, church going family very much appalled by his actions, he was to follow in his father's footsteps but that charge now passes to his younger brother. Greene must stay at this hospital, all requests for transfer to be denied.

Recommended Treatment: Psychotherapy, high dose Lithium, ECT to control dissent and heresy.

I flip through the dozens of pages of therapy notes and ECT treatments, they are abridged versions, more detailed documents are probably in Kaufmann's office. The electroconvulsive sessions are most fascinating, they were giving him far too high voltage which surely would have stopped his heart but that has not been recorded if it did happen. The pain would have been significant. He’s been beaten several times by the nursing staff. It has been blamed on self harm or other patients but the periods of ‘self harm’ typically occur after an attempt to enlist help for his cause or an especially acidic diatribe against god. Still no name for this liquid. They are careful about what they write. It is confirmed: Brookhaven was run by The Order.

The last page seals the fate of patient #312. His procedure was a prefrontal lobotomy. There are no more pages. Either the town was evacuated or he didn’t survive. He could well have been in the morgue. I remember reading about lobotomies when I first started boarding school in a book I stole from the library after they told me it wasn't 'age appropriate'. I remember all too well seeing the diagrams of a metal rod like an ice pick, an orbitoclast, that was slipped under the eye lid and past the eye until it reached the brain. I remember thinking how haphazard the whole procedure seemed, it was pot luck whether the orbitoclast severed the correct connections, rather unscientific. It was quite horrific by any standard, often leaving the patient brain damaged. Doctors would perform the procedure in their offices. I keep that file in my bag too. I know where I’m aiming for. Hopefully the stairs are usable; I’m not keen on using a lift again.

The notice board has little else of use, a poster for a retirement barbeque, a schedule, an instructional poster on how to deal with choking and another passage from their holy book.

Worship, piety, metal rods and jolts of electricity apparently. John from the prison flashes briefly to the front of my mind, his face with his burnt cheek before I smother the thought yet again. The electricity, the metal rod impaling... Now is not the time to remember. Focus. Fire and electricity are recurring themes.

Two different ways to burn.

I check the 20:1 reference to make sure and I find it in the book, word for word. It's troubling, I don’t want to find John here, the potential risk to his health and sanity is far too high. I’d rather fight my way to another location. I can do that, I can keep going as long as necessary. I can.

I have a look in the kitchen cupboards but they are mostly empty except for a couple of boxes of tea and coffee, all in packaging from the seventies. I open the fridge and find a small package and a note written in the same larger letters like before. Mycroft.

Sherlock,

It’s going to be more difficult to supply you with items from now on, the channels I’m using aren’t as plentiful anymore and I have to be more discreet. Several of my efforts have been blocked. This is a good sign in some respects but you will have less support. They’ve protected this building, with good reason I expect. Search everywhere you can.

I’ve located a possible source of a serum that might be useful to you somewhere inside the hospital but I’m yet to pin point the exact location. It’s called 'Algaophotis'. If I can supply you with some from outside of the town I shall but it is difficult to synthesise on short notice as I’m sure you will appreciate. I’ll have further instruction how to use it soon.

If you meet anyone from The Order you have carte blanche to do as you require, they are considered enemies of the state. Do confirm your target without a doubt before taking action, I’m still yet to locate John but I believe he’s still alive, Moriarty told you as much. The child and Moriarty are still hidden also.

Take some time to patch yourself up before continuing, your situation can only deteriorate and your opposition will only become more sophisticated. You are doing well all things considered but be mindful not to fall for simple tricks. You are exhausted and must rest at some point.

Keep a keen eye out for my notes, they may be less obvious.

MH

Piss off, simple tricks, all his monsters would look like cakes and sausages and he would've have gorged himself to death in the first hour. At least carte blanche is finally something useful from my dear brother. More useful still, could patient #312’s red liquid be aglaophotis? I’ve not heard of such a compound before, I know of thousands. I check the book I took from the old woman’s house but there’s not a workable index, it would take me hours to read. I check some possible sections but I can’t waste time, I need the serum first before it becomes relevant. I could ask Moriarty a few probing questions but I need to keep this to myself for the time being.

This may be my advantage.

I check the package. One more clip of bullets, more food and drink, caffeine pills. I take a couple of those immediately with the drink. Much better than food. There are some up to date medical supplies, including saline and liquid antiseptic for my leg and some butterfly stitches for elsewhere. I should use more eye drops too, my eyes hurt but the exhaustion won't be helping.

There are two doors to this room, where I came from and an exit that would lead behind those locked doors from the corridor. I push two of the chairs under the handles to protect myself and lock the one I came through. I do need to tend to my new wounds but there will be no resting, not while John is still somewhere unknown. It’s not an option I’m happy to consider but he’s most likely in the Otherworld if Mycroft still cannot locate him. It's the only place Mycroft can't see me. My worst fear for John realised. I would quite happily be proven wrong but I fear not. If my demons come to life weren’t enough, John has far too many of his own.

I need to sort myself out, I don't want to take the time but I've already been here much longer than I intended and I may have much longer to last. I take out everything I need, undo my trousers to expose the wound and sit on the chair. Moriarty will pipe up-

“Whoooo, sexy Sherlock,” he hollers, “show me more, stud.” He finishes with a sickening purr. My jaw tightens but I ignore him, knew he couldn't resist. I place a dressing under the wound with one hand and pour some of the saline into the gash. I successfully muffle the noise of pain, I should have taken more painkillers but I want some for John if he needs them. “Ooh, that looks nasty my dear, need a hug?”

Time for the antiseptic, this will sting... agh, damn that really does bloody hurt. I ball up my fist and focus on the pain in my hand, my finger nails digging into the already damaged, puffy skin. Oh bloody hell, stings. Fading. The pain in my leg is calming down now and I realise Moriarty has been talking.

“...because that’s the point, isn’t it? A very wise philosopher once said, ‘the trick to life is not to get too attached to it.’ It’s true; you’re awfully attached to your life and the life of your dear Johnny Wonny. Life would be sooo much easier if you lived it without fear.” His voice darkens. “That’s what I do, I fear no one, Sherlock. I fear nothing.”

“Everyone fears something. You should fear me.” He will.

“You know I’m the exception, I’m not attached to this life but I’m making the most of it.”

“Are you feeling suicidal? I can help you with that, Jim.”

Moriarty laughs a little too loudly, the speaker on the radio vibrates making his laughter shake. “I thought after the whole lift fiasco you’d lose your sense of humour!”

Some more saline, it hurts less and I can see the damage more clearly, the wound is smooth inside, there’s nothing to close together, it has eaten part of me. It will heal but the scarring will be significant. I need to dry it and cover it with a couple of the larger dressings. The more I can strap it up the better. I can’t show the pain but I can’t stop the sheen of sweat on my skin, might have to take one of those pain killers. Hurts.

“I’m getting booo-red, Sherlock Holmes. Why don't you scream a bit? Don’t make me make my own entertainment.” The lights flash on and off to prove his point. “You know who suffers when I get bored with you.”

John.

“I’m not going to get much further in this state. Go clean your teeth like a good little megalomaniac and get some sleep; you’ve been up all night.”

“I’ve got the stamina, haven’t you?”

“Plenty.” Though I’ve been stifling a yawn. The caffeine will kick in soon, another few minutes.

“Bored, bored, bored.”

“Shut up.” I have spent enough time here; the bandages feel fine on my leg.

“Temper.” The radio falls completely silent. I can only hope it’s a bluff and he hasn’t sought John.

I unwrap one of the food bars and eat as much of it as I can while I dress myself again. Time to get moving. The other cuts can wait; I can’t see the welts on my back anyway. I pack my things away, take out the eye drops and give myself another dose. The skin on my face is still sore from my encounter with the necrotic creatures. I pull my bottom eyelid down and let a few drops fall. The skin feels thinner. My eyes feel acceptable but I still don’t have the clarity I should. It has to do for now.

As I move the chair from the door that should lead behind the closed doors I see something on the wall that will be more than a little useful.

A map.

I take it down carefully; it’s stapled to the wall so I use my knife to pry up each metal staple. The map is rather large, showing four floors and a roof space. The basement floors do not feature. I cut the paper into sections so each floor is on a more manageable sized piece of paper. I check for room #312, it’s located at the far end of a hallway on the third floor opposite the ‘special treatment rooms’ which by the size of them are four individual solitary confinement cells. The first floor deals mostly with new admissions, doctor’s offices and administration. The second and third floors hold rooms for patients with a dining room on the second floor. The fourth floor is purely treatment, no rooms. The electroconvulsive therapy room and surgery are located there, that is where Mr Ian Greene, our patient #312 met his likely end.

I’ll explore this floor before heading straight for room #312. I have to be vigilant for further instruction from my brother, for all I know the aglaophotis may have some ceremonial use that I will have to follow; I can’t just splash it around and hope for the best. I'm starting to feel the effects of the caffeine, it feels good, I feel alive, I feel good even, I'm ready to explore again. They were strong, very strong. The painkillers and food must be working too. Yes, let’s keep going. Keep going.

I need to find John before there’s nothing to find.

I put the map away after memorising this floor. First stop, the offices, I want to investigate Dr Kaufmann, the doctor who dealt with #312. I need to know if he’s still a threat to John. I step out into the hallway behind those closed doors. A foot in front of the doors are metal bars much like a prison but painted cream. Clean, freshly painted perhaps. There’s no way through, opening the double doors would have been useless. It’s a reminder, this place is still touched by god for all its cleanliness. Ha, cleanliness is next to godliness. The welcoming carpet is long gone too, I can feel the cold floor tiles through the soles of my shoes.

Before the doctor’s offices are the men's and ladies toilets. Worth checking, I don’t want any surprises of the hideous, murdering kind. I’m walking a little easier now I'm properly cleaned and strapped up, my new acquired limp is far less inhibiting. I do feel rather good. I step inside the ladies first, no static, just the squeak of my shoes on the tiles. It smells stale in here, no windows and a couple of flickering light bulbs illuminate the space. Another plant sits in the corner, this time a healthy looking ficus. Four sinks line the wall with one large mirror above them. There are words written on the mirror, on first glance it looks like blood but on closer inspection I find that it is lipstick, the same colour as the receptionist’s.

I loved him, forgive me god, this heart is weak

It looks like she wanted to write more but it’s clear from the way the words trail off she ran out of lipstick. I touch the lipstick with my fingers, it’s certainly not forty years old, it could have been written just minutes ago, it’s still tacky. Still, a high oil content typical of older lipsticks would keep it from drying for a long time, possibly years. Impossible to tell, worth experimenting with when I'm home. When we're home.

One of the cubical doors creeks open behind me and a soft static fills the silence. I don’t turn around though every fibre of me wants to whirl round and thump what's behind me. Instead, I lift my eyes to focus on the mirror. It’s something new. A pale, underweight woman, partially wrapped in a strait jacket, one arm free and hanging loose at her side. The jacket is wrapped with a belt buckle between her legs but she’s wearing no underwear or trousers. She’s swaying slightly, a trickle of blood running from her nose but not threatening as yet. She’s not human, she’s a creation.

I will kill her.

I begin to turn and reach slowly for my knife, still watching her in the mirror, when she lets out a sob. She starts to cry, her shoulders shaking and tears running down her face. She sounds like a person, bereft, I’ve heard crying like that before, usually outside of crime scenes. I’m half way around; I change my view point from the mirror to look at her directly. My hand is nearly on the knife, I can’t risk a sudden movement though I feel like charging her down and beating her head against the porcelain toilet. That will be the caffeine and nicotine in my system. Feels good, feels wonderful.

Still crying, she tips her head back. Oh... her... oh, with each sob her nose bleeds more, something is being forced down her nasal passages. A few more sobs later and I can see what it is. Her brain. A lobe each side. She's the embodiment of the lobotomies performed here and the minds lost. I'd rather be dead than lose my mind, my ability to think, it's who I am.

More sobs and more of her brain appears, her nose stretching unnaturally but not tearing. She hasn’t moved from the cubicle but she braces herself in the doorway as she continues to cry. I’ll cut the brain, she should be easy enough to kill now I've seen her party piece. My knife... isn’t there. Did I drop it?

“Sherlock, are you ok?”

“Mycroft.” He’s standing next to the monster with no apparent fear. Four piece suit, well groomed and drowned in that god awful aftershave. Makes me feel sick, John hated it too, he used to open up the windows after he left. John doesn't wear fragrance, he just smells like John. I take a few steps to the side, deeper into the room but Mycroft follows to stand in front of me. “How did you get here?” Those channels he referred to in his note?

“I have my methods.” He smiles somewhat patronisingly like the question was either redundant or the answer was far too complex for me to understand.

No, he can’t have gotten here, he can’t just appear out of thin air. He’s not real. The monster, it’s gone, where’s my knife? No gun. There's still static. What’s going on? “What’s happening?” My heart is palpitating. "What's going on?! Tell me!"

“Calm down dear brother, it’ll be over soon. I’m here to help you.”

“NO!” I jam my forearm against his throat and push him against the wall. He still looks calm if a little disgruntled. Those damn eyes, so bloody cold, they weren’t always like that. “What are you?”

“I’m your brother Sherlock. This place you’ve created has driven you even more insane!” He pushes me towards the corner right by the plant. It’ll do. I pick it up and swing the ceramic pot at his head. He tries to block but he’s off balance. “Don’t Sherlock; I’m trying to help you. You need psychiatric help. You have for decades now.”

“You’re not real; even then you probably had this coming.” I push him over and have to pull myself free, he won’t let go. He’s not hurting me; he’s just trying to restrain me.

“None of this is real! John’s not real! He never has been!” He pleads, he’s not fighting back, he’s trying to reason with me. That’s a form of attack, it must be.

“Is that your best effort? Pitiful.” I extricate myself from his hands and laugh. Easy. He slides away from me against one of the doors, his hands up in a conciliatory gesture.

“You lost your mind, Sherlock. Remember what happened? Remember the bomb, Sherlock? You couldn’t cope, you killed all those children, all those people.” He tries to stand up but I kick him in the shin and give him another bash with the heavy pot but I didn’t get the swing right.

I know what he’s referring to. The bomb didn’t explode, I didn’t arm it, I was just practicing. Weekends boarding at St Pauls were boring and I barely slept anyway. I had to keep myself occupied; I was only fourteen after all. Mycroft didn’t know what I had been up to, he was always off doing something to better his position. He had to make the right friends. “I’ve killed no one, not by my own hand. Surprising, isn’t it? You think I'd have enough bodies to fill Kew Gardens.” Of course I’m not including the monsters and the people whose deaths I’ve not prevented or facilitated. They don’t count, not right now.

“Oh, dear brother,” He begins and then is forced to shield himself from my kicking. I'll end his sorry little life. “Stop! Stop, Sherlock! I just want to help you. You were better when you made John up!”

“Do shut up and let me kill you.” It’s the best way of stopping this. There were two beings in this room, me and the monster. There still are two. The radio crackles on.

“He was helping you. You would solve all these cases in your own world to make up for what you did. Thirty two children and five teachers Sherlock, thirty seven lives. There was too much blood on your hands for someone so young, so sensitive. It drove you mad.”

I swing the pot again, this time it connects with the side of his face and breaks, spraying compost everywhere among sharp shards of ceramic.

I wake on the floor, the monster dead beside me. She’s holding an orbitoclast.

This could prove to be a problem.

Chapter 26: Brookhaven Hospital - Floor One

Chapter Text

I stand quickly and vomit into the sink. My hands are shaking a little. Probably a side effect of whatever happened, whatever was used to make me hallucinate, an airborne chemical I suspect. I hold tight to edge of the bowl, still dizzy but happy. I killed it, I'm still alive. My knife is back at my side, the gun sits heavy in my pocket. All is well.

This new development is more than a little troubling. Seeing Mycroft is one thing, seeing John would be another. I'm already struggling to tell him apart in this madness. My stomach clenches at the thought and I feel like throwing up again. Perhaps this is why Mycroft insisted I confirm my targets before shooting; he knew what was to come. "Idiot Mycroft, why do you have to be so bloody cryptic. Get me a bloody shotgun, can't be that hard." Rapid dispatch of these creatures is essential. I have to destroy the brain. I didn’t hallucinate fully until it was exposed, it must be the source of the hallucinogen.

I leave the monster covered in compost, a chunk of its brain sheared away by the plant pot. It was enough to kill it. Attacking Mycroft with a plant pot, won’t that be a lovely story to tell at Christmas. John will find that amusing, he'll smile and giggle, it'll be lovely.

I straighten up in the hallway before pushing open the door of the men’s toilets. The smell of faeces is overwhelming. If I hadn’t been sick before I certainly would now. The smell is joined with the sound of static. Knife in hand, I enter. The layout is the mirror image of the ladies but filthy, the mirror is obscured with filth and each sink is blocked with matter I don’t want to investigate and the urinals are caked in waste. Each of the cubical doors are closed.

One by one I push them open with my bad leg.

The static reaches a louder pitch as I stand outside the third door of six. Adjusting my grip on the knife I push it open. I'm ready for it. It’s not a brain thing, one of the nurses is half stripped by a monstrous version of a doctor, a twitching hump on his back and his hands holding her against the dirty partition. The smell of semen has overwhelmed the smell of faeces. Preferable but still unpleasant. They haven’t seen me, the doctor’s hands are exploring his struggling nurse, her bra has been pulled down and her uniform is bunched up around her waist. She’s not wearing underwear and doesn’t appear to be consenting from her struggling.

I’ve caught them by surprise and I don't need or want to observe. I want them dead. I lash out at the hump on his back, digging and twisting in the knife before putting some distance between us. It’s gristly and tough but the blade is sharp enough to penetrate. He garbles out some protest, just a noise and staggers out of the stall. I punch him as hard as I can and stab him again, catching him in the neck. Good, very good! Yes!

He slumps face down on the ground, exposing that twitching hump. I kneel down and keep stabbing, stabbing, stabbing. It stops moving but I stab several times more for good measure, my adrenaline taking over. The pills Mycroft sent me are impressive, I could keep this up all day. I stop, I'm panting.

The doctor is dead.

The nurse has been standing in front of the disgusting blocked toilet the entire time. I wait for her to make a move, planning to counter then attack but still she stands. For a moment I wonder if she’s more sentient than I had first assumed, perhaps she is thankful for my interruption then she charges with her knife. She’s easy to dispatch, one cut with the blade and I can easily grab her hair, crashing her head repeatedly into a broken sink until finally the static ceases. A piece of porcelain pierced her eye.

I check the final cubicles I hadn’t gotten to, ready to fight again. Each one is more vile than the last, urine, faeces, various bodily fluids combined with the mould, fungus and other microbes that have grown over time. I need to get out of here before I start retching, there’s nothing of use here unless I’m in short supply of shit. I dash out and gulp the clean air in the hallway like it could clean the stench out of my lungs. It’s the kind of smell that’s sticky, clings inside and out. Coughing doesn’t help but it happens as a matter of reflex. The nausea won't shift.

Perhaps there will be a window I can open in Kaufmann’s office. It would be good to know my surroundings if I have to travel outside again. I press ahead to the first doctor's office. The office has the name Dr Phillip Harper written on a brass plaque. I try the handle but it’s locked or broken. None of the keys fit either. I move on, I’m more interested in patient #312’s doctor. The room beside Harper’s belongs to Dr Michael Kaufmann.

The door is open.

This room has not been cleaned like the others. A thick layer of dust and cobwebs cover everything and opening the door has stirred it up, making me cough again. Under the dust it’s obvious this was an expensively adorned room. Leather sofas at one end of the room for therapy sessions, a large oak desk at the other. Oak bookcases, original oil paintings of local scenes on the walls and plush carpeting even after all these years.

I walk quickly to the desk, my first target. My eye is caught by something just as interesting, the open door of a safe inside one of the bookcases. I peer inside; it’s empty but smells odd. I use my torch to see more clearly. There’s a red stain that shows through the dust but it’s not blood, it’s rather peculiar. A workable theory is that #312’s red liquid was stored here at some point but has since exchanged hands or been destroyed. I can only hope they didn’t find every sample.

Beside the desk is a metal waste paper bin. It’s blackened, dusty ashes lay at the bottom. I have a poke around. I believe I know what became of his personal files before I've had a chance to look in the cabinets.

I move on to the desk, stepping through cobwebs of spiders long dead. There’s a typewriter on the desk with one sheet of paper inside but it’s blank. I pick up a tarnished silver frame and wipe it clean with the side of my hand. There's a yellowed photograph of whom I expect is Dr Kaufmann. He's with his wife, two teenage children and two sets of parents. I estimate he’s around fifty years old, healthy and not unattractive. His wife is blonde and well dressed; the children who are both boys are the spitting image of their father. It’s a typical family scene, terribly idyllic.

The desk isn’t locked as I expected, the first drawer stiffly opens with a little persuasion, and reveals nothing but three very out of date condoms. It seems Dr Kaufmann was providing a wide variety of therapy. Could be an affair with a female patient or one of the staff though the receptionist seems to be the most likely candidate. I check the other drawers for a piece of paper with Kaufmann’s handwriting. It's a reminder to meet Dr Harper for golf. It matches the note in the receptionist’s desk. It is confirmed, she loved him but I doubt the love was returned. He had a picture of his wife in plain sight, he would never leave her.

There’s nothing in the rest of the desk until I open the small drawer in the centre. It's not an easy task but the drawer eventually eases free. I find some expensive pens in leather cases and a solitary note.

A/O: Dr Kaufmann

Subject: Alessa Gillespie

Dahlia Gillespie would like to know if you could visit this evening. Alessa was pushed over at school and might have broken her wrist. She’d like you to check.

Personally I think Dahlia did it. There’s something wrong with that child, she’s not normal.

Wendy x

Interesting. Kaufmann appears to have been Alessa’s doctor and I now know the name of her mother. The receptionist also has a name, Wendy, but that is of little significance. I keep the note.

I open the filing cabinet, the lock has been forcibly removed. Kaufmann didn’t burn his own documents. Perhaps a falling out between him and The Order? Or maybe he was evacuated before certain details were taken care of? Many possibilities. The cabinets are predictably empty but the back office had all the information I require for the short term. I notice that there’s a distinct absence of religious paraphernalia in the office. It could have been removed when the files were destroyed but considering Kaufmann’s affair he was probably less devout than most of the other cultists.

My investigations here are done. I consult my map, I can't quite remember the layout, sign of exhaustion though I feel wide awake. There’s an exam room across the hallway, I shall check there next. Having the map is quite a comfort, having minor knowledge about the environments behind each door is useable data.

Back to the hallway, it’s still quiet, only my staccato footsteps to be heard. The door to the exam room gives and I immediately hear the static. I have enough bullets, I take out the gun, I’ll only fire if it’s a hallucination inducing thing. I step inside, the tile floor is wet and slippery and I almost lose my footing but I aim my gun at the source of the static.

The brain is already showing.

I fire off a shot but it’s gone. No one is here. With the bang of the gun the room turns to nothing but blank white space. No door, no anything. My hands are empty, my clothes... are gone too. I’m uninjured and clean too. There’s nothing to fight, nothing to interact with. I'm stuck in nothingness but I still hear the radio static. The noise is my lifeline, my connection to what is real. I throw my arms around, trying to make contact with something; the monster has to be here. I hit the walls, so featureless and frictionless, it’s almost like they are made of light. I’d be more fascinated if I wasn’t probably laying on the floor with some creature trying to root around in my frontal lobes. I struggle as if I was fighting it off and cover my eyes. I don't need my sight anyway. Keep moving, it’s here, it has to be here somewhere.

I feel it.

My hand connected with something. I follow it, one hand still over my eyes, the other flailing, hoping to find it again before it’s too late. A pull on my other wrist, I lash out, hitting nothing and something at the same time. The pull is gone. I want it back, I want something to fight. “Come on, try me, I'm ready for you.” I can't risk peeking, covering my eyes might be the only reason I'm not a jibbering wreck already. Where is it? Where is it? The pull again, this time my fingers. I tear at the air in front of me viciously, trying to get at the brain that I know is showing. I feel something briefly, only a brush, but I hit at the space in front of me until I almost knock myself off my feet.

Mustn't look. Behind me, elbow back, then a punch. Nothing. Am I winning or dying? Firm hand on my wrist, I lash out, grabbing and tearing at the air as if it’s flesh. I feel it, I squeeze and pull.

It’s over. Something's wrong, I can't see properly.

I touch my face. Oh god, the orbitoclast tip is under my eyelid and on top of my eye. Oh fucking hell, oh god, oh god, please, not my mind, not my brain. I pull it out slowly, it feels so cold, I feel like my eye could pop. It comes free. It hadn't got too far but enough to have drawn blood. My eyesight returns to how it was immediately if a little red tinted. My hands shake still, that was far too close, just as close as the tentacles but I was far less aware. How near was the tip to my brain? How close was I to losing everything I am?

I shove the orbitoclast in my bag this time. I'm still in the room I entered. I'm laying on a wet damp floor with a dead thing on my legs, it had been straddling me. I unclench the fist I’d been defending myself with; it holds a generous portion of brain matter. I never got to my gun.

I shove the thing off me, it’s a skinny male in a half torn strait jacket this time but they don't need to be strong, they are quite capable of defending themselves. Fascinating form of attack, much more dangerous than the acid beings and much more insidious. With it finally off me I get back up. The pain in my body feels unfamiliar again, the tightness in my muscles. I feel sick again, there’s a small sink but I vomit less this time, nothing left to throw up. “Toothbrush, toothpaste and an antiemetic, Mycroft.” I ask aloud while taking a quick sip of an energy drink, “Water too.” I’m not using the water from these sinks; I saw the men’s toilets. Dysentery is an unpleasant way to die.

I finally have time to assess the room properly. Everything is damp, water drips from the ceiling and pools on the floor. In the centre of the room is an examination bed covered in mildew. There’s medical equipment on moveable trays, I pick one up, it’s so brittle and rusted it crumbles and breaks. Where's the water coming from? I have a quick look through the cupboards to find most of them empty, a door comes away in my hand but it reveals something useful: six more shotgun shells unaffected by the damp. Still no shotgun. There’s nothing else useful. I leave.

Map again, visitor room next. It’s quite large, if there are more than one of those hallucination inducing designs I would be in more than a little trouble. I might skip it for now, explore some other rooms and return to the larger one later. There’s another lift, an option even less appetising than the visitor’s room, and a pharmacy.

That’s my next target.

I slip back out into the hallway, it’s still quiet, and walk past the visitors room. There’s no telling whether the door opens or not. I keep going and approach the lift. I needn’t have worried about having to use the blasted thing. One of the doors is halfway open and has slipped out of its runner leaving it at an odd angle. There’s no lift behind the door, just a cold draft. The lift buttons aren’t lit and look dirty, whoever has cleaned this place hasn’t bothered with them. It's a good sign that it's out of order but I still leave the buttons alone. It's not worth the risk.

The gap is still troubling. I try to shift the door back into place but it's stuck solid. I need to block it but not arm any potential tentacles. It's a different shaft to the one I arrived through but I'm not taking a single chance. Back to reception and the rubber tree plant. It's not too heavy to lift and carry back to the gap. I settle it down, take out my lye and cover as much of it as I can as well as some of the floor. If the tentacles make a grab for it, it'll hurt. I won't make it easy for them. I've still got plenty of lye left for the lifts on the other levels.

And Moriarty.

I've prepared as much as I can without destroying the plant too quickly, it should last a few hours, I hope to be rid of this place by then. Further up the corridor is the pharmacy. It’s bolted with two sets of locks. I doubt the receptionist’s keys will open it, she wouldn't have been authorised. Still I try the most likely shaped keys, pushing them into the upper most lock and attempting to turn them. The last possible key slides inside, it turns. Wonderful, but why would the receptionist have a key? I work on the second lock and the second key I try works.

Before I open the door I rifle through my bag for one of the larger dressings and cover my mouth and nose and tie it to my face with the attached bandage. It might buy me a few precious seconds, I’ve probably already alerted whatever is inside with my lock fumbling. If indeed there is anything at all.

I push the handle down and open the door. No static. I pull down my makeshift mask around my neck. There’s resistance against the door but easily cleared out of the way. The room is dark, I switch on my torch. The room is two inches deep with pills. All shapes, sizes and colours, they tumble towards me like a miniature landslide. I pick a few different ones to have a closer look, lithium, chlorpromazine, oh they were still using LSD in their therapy sessions and one that could be several different oral sedatives, I can’t tell from the markings.

I force my way inside. The room was formerly split in two with a partition separating the shelves that were once filled with medication and the nurse or doctor requesting them. Standard practice. The partition is smashed through the middle leaving a splintered hole behind. I make my way through to the back section, wading through the pills that seem to get deeper the further inside I go. They’re halfway up my shin now. I can feel some of the capsules popping under my feet.

Hanging on the wall in the back section is a cross-stitched passage;

The passage is surrounded by flowers, peonies I believe. I cross reference once again to find the exact passage. Another hangs beside it, created by the same hand. It seems to be a verse from a hymn;

Stitched in all four corners is a crude version of the Halo of the Sun. I press on to where the empty shelves sit, hopefully I will find something from Mycroft, this seems like a likely location. I collect some scissors and a couple of scalpels still in their sterile packaging. I don’t trust their sterility but they could come in useful. There are a few sets of bandages but I don’t need any more. The pills I ignore.

One more set of shelves to explore. I wade through the pills but I find something under my feet. Gun out, ready to fire. I consider firing for good measure but I need to know what I'm shooting at. I dig through the pills with my foot and expose a leg, female, wearing ripped tights. Not John at the least. I move around quickly and move the pills away from where I extrapolate her face might be. A woman, no more than twenty-three, reddish fuchsia lipstick. It's the receptionist. Her mouth is stuffed full of pills, a white foam clings around her mouth. She's dead. This is why she had the key for the pharmacy.

I put a bullet in her skull to make sure she won't get up again.

My ears are still ringing as I check the last shelf. I collect a stethoscope, might be useful in the future, never know. I wade through the pills to the door and back out into the corridor. Static. I fire the gun at the shadowy figure. I see the nurses hat, a feminine figure, she's a threat to me. She falls simply to the ground, the static stops. Eleven and twenty-four, I must continue to keep count. The tremor in my hands has settled somewhat, should disappear soon. Move on, next room is maintenance.

I jog to it, it's not far, just by the dead nurse. Mask up. The door is locked, I try the keys, the first one I choose works. I've used almost all of them now. Finger ready on the trigger I open the door wide, no slow approach this time. No need for the mask. The room is empty but for one item lit by a singular bulb that hangs low enough to hover in the centre of the room.

A crowbar.

Resting on top is a note. It's poorly written, the letters crudely printed on a screwed up scrap of paper.

DUNT NO WHY THEY HATE HIM, NICE ENOUF, JUST NEEDS SUM CUMFORT. LOST HIS WIFE AND BABY, ENOUF TO DRIVE A MAN MAD. HE GAVE ME THE RED STUFF, SAVE ME EFFURT OF LOOKING, GAVE HIM SUM FLOWERS FROM GARDEN. WANTID THEM FOR HIS WIFE AND BABY, TO REMEBER. HE'S ALRITE.

He's writing about patient #312. Excellent, more information and a sympathiser, albeit a barely literate one. I put the note with the others in my bag and collect the crowbar. I give it a few swings, it's little on the thin side but it's good to have a melee weapon again, I couldn't rely on fortuitous plant pots forever as fun as they might be.

Only one more door to check before the staircase. The hallway is still clear so I make my way quickly to a double set of doors with a sign above them: Brookhaven Garden. The doors are chained together, there doesn't seem to be a padlock, it's just one continuous loop of chain. Certainly beyond my means to break. The doors are half glass so I try to peer through the grime. I see the vague outline of purply and red flowers growing on vines, covering the small enclosed courtyard. I can't identify them. Using the crowbar I take a swing at the glass but it just bounces off. I try I few more times, using as much of my revitalised energy as I can but to no avail. "Damn you."

I should go to the stairs but I still haven't checked the visitor's room. I hesitate but jog down there anyway. I don't want to face a room so large but it's necessary. What if there's more than one of the brain creatures? It's hardly a fair fight, it's practically biological warfare. I stand outside the door. There's nothing to learn just by looking at it, it's just like the others. No cleaner, no dirtier.

Stethoscope! I should have thought of this before, shame on me. I put it against the door, it won't rule out the abominations but I might hear something shuffling around or crying. I hold my breath to listen, it's silent. Most of the monsters have stood still before attacking, only reacting to my presence but it was worth a try. I have to go inside, I have to check. I really don't want to, but I have to see inside. Gun ready, focus, open the door.

It's blocked.

I breathe a huge sigh of relief. It's completely jammed. If my luck continues the door to the stairs will open and I won't have to deal with the lift shaft. I don't want to see those tentacles ever again. Back to the door labelled 'Stairs' and it opens, another wave of relief followed quickly by a third as I bound up the stairs two at a time with no static. I should slow down, I could be hurting myself without knowing but the energy burst is thrilling, my fears about not being able to last the distance have subsided completely. I have plenty of those caffeine pills to last me through another day with no sleep and plenty of patches too. It'sgoodit'sgoodit'sgood.

Up two flights and I'm on the second level. The door however is blocked with steel bars, I can't reach the handle. It doesn't matter, I need the third floor, I need to find #312. Up more stairs until the third floor. I could go higher to the fourth and possibly the roof but I have this task to complete first. The door is open and I'm immediately greeted with the sight of a humpback doctor and two knife wielding nurses.

Time to test the crowbar.

It works beautifully, the sharp teeth dig into the hump of the doctor, sending him quickly to his knees. He's soon flat on his face. It's particularly handy for dragging the nurses to the ground once the teeth have dug into their skin, the length of the weapon keeping me out of stabbing range. I dispatch all three with barely a scratch. I laugh as I catch my breath, I'm getting better at this.

I check my map, I've yet to memorise the third floor. Day room first, it's huge but I should check while I still have the will and energy to fight. Not that I would give up, but I was struggling, becoming sluggish. I'm not now. Far from it. The day room door is situated around the corner but the hallway is blocked by another set of cream painted metal bars. They are widely spaced but I won't fit. I test the bars but they hold solid. I shouldn't be in a rush to break through anyhow, larger the room, greater the danger. Only one room is cut off by the bars, it's no great loss.

Next room is a storage room. It's not too far away, right next to the door that leads to a long corridor lined with the bedrooms and other facilities like toilets and showers. It's only small, worth examining before I head to #312. The door to the store room opens silently. It's a cramped space so I leave the door open behind me and switch on the torch for extra light. The shelves that line the walls are packed with clothing for the residents, cream cotton trousers and tunics as well as towelling slippers and basic cotton socks. One section, however, holds neatly folded strait jackets. I examine one, they look as good as the day they arrived, a little use but the leather straps are still stiff. They all come with a strap that threads between the legs to stop the patient wriggling out of them. All sizes are here, even a particularly large one. I rifle through them for anything hidden but there's nothing.

I need to get to #312 before I look at the other rooms. I shut the door on the storeroom and leave for the bedroom section. I feel the excitement, the anticipation that there might be a solution, something to use against this twisted world.

Shit.

I see the length of the bedroom hallway, the rooms lined down the left side, to find I can only access half of them. More bloody bars block the way. #312 is on the other side. I run to the bars and test them, shake them, try to shift them. Stupid things. Fine, I'll find a way. I enter the room next to them.

#306

The room is like a prison cell. Metal door with a sliding hatch so the occupants can be viewed from the outside. The windows are almost obscured by the thickness of the bars, they only allow a little light to filter through but enough to see the room without draining the batteries in my torch. A single room containing a damp mattress, a tiny bedside table and small desk. Nowhere for clothing and no chair. Missing or never here?

The walls are plastered in A4 sheets of paper covered with pencil drawings, some sprawling over several sheets. Animals, nude people and inanimate objects are drawn with incredible detail but all of them are bound somehow. Tape, ropes, flowing ribbons that weave through the air, twisted wire and metal, everything is subject to some form of bondage. Most of the animals and humans are gagged but I'm yet to find one blindfolded.

The binds on the men and women can be elaborate, akin to Kinbaku Japanese rope bondage. The artist has a wonderful ability to draw the human body in various positions, some of them rather extreme but none impossible. The artist had experience with bondage, ropes in particular.

I take a closer look at a series of men, three sketches, each one more elaborate than the last. The first shows a man propped on his knees, shoulders and head resting on the undrawn surface, his arms drawn together between his spread legs and tied to his ankles with ribbons that lead to the next sketch. The man he's drawn is slim, tall, the inward curve of his back long, lithe and flexible. His face is strained, like he's been in that vulnerable position for some time.

The ribbons gag the next man before wrapping around his thick neck. This man is more muscular, more stout and older too, more weathered. He's lying down on his back. The ribbon binds his arms together so they draw his shoulders together and lay down his front. The ribbons starts from the top of his biceps and coils to his wrists before wrapping around his hips, looping around the base of his penis. His knees are drawn up and his calves are tied to his thighs, ankles together but knees fallen apart to expose his wrapped privates.

The single length of ribbon weaves on to a third, arms tied painfully behind his back, twisted and bent upward so his hands could ruffle his own hair. The ribbon is knotted rather than just wrapped, encaging his arms before drawing his legs so sharply backwards his back bows. This position looks designed to be painful. Whether the artist intended for the man to enjoy his fate, to find pleasure in the pain, is unknown. The sadist is always in need of a masochist.

I wonder if I've become Moriarty's masochist.

The animals depicted are varied, everything from kittens to cows, snakes to elephants. The elephant is especially intriguing, it's truck is bound into a trumpeting S-shape and all four of its legs are drawn together so it would topple. He's drawn taped up chairs, trees and bicycles. Nothing is bound to each other, everything is individual apart from the series that are threaded together but still apart. Curious.

I explore his room, the drawers are filled with long lengths of hemp rope. I take some and loop it into a manageable circle of rope before finding space for it in my overstuffed bag. There's nothing else, just rope. I took the longest length.

I need to break through to #307. I move the bed away from the wall and remove some of the pictures. I'm careful, I'm not sure why, but as troubled as the mind was that drew these they are accomplished. I take my crowbar and set to work, hitting the wall as hard as I can. The plaster begins to crumble, I can dig in a pull away the plaster board and see the studwork. The crowbar is ideal. More hits and more plaster falls at my feet. Keep going, keep hitting, break through. I've hit metal. It's not studwork, the bars extend through the wall. I give it another few hits with frustration. "Stupid bloody thing." I need to find another route.

Back out into the corridor. I'm still furious, it should have worked. I try the door for #305 but it won't open. Better luck with #304 I open it up and almost get caught out, the floor is missing, I can see straight into room #204 and a bit of #203, the wall is torn down between them. There's someone down there but I can only see the back of them. No static. I crouch down for a better look, checking for the lobotomy creatures. A man. Light blue shirt, navy trousers, the same clothes John wore to work.

Please, please, please.

He's searching frantically through the drawers and rifling through the contents while muttering to himself, I can't hear what he's saying. He's doing what he should to get out or at least trying. It's normal behaviour but I'm well aware of hope and my weakness for such a thing. I watch, hoping to learn more, to see his face, to confirm that I've found him. His clothes are fairly clean, a little grubby and marked but he's been here a long time. I'm smiling, I shouldn't be but it's the closest I've come. I hold the radio to my ear to check for the slightest hint of static. None. I have to be sure.

"John?"

Chapter 27: Brookhaven Hospital - Floor Three

Chapter Text

His head snaps around fast to look up at me. He's on alert but he soon smiles with relief if still a little nervous. Blood on his front, I can't see a wound and he's not visibly armed. Is the blood his? Is he hurt?

"Sherlock!" He darts beneath me, still smiling and anxiously running his fingers through his hair and over his face. "Sherlock! Sherlock! Oh my god!" Enough stubble growth for the time frame he's been missing, fairly gaunt looking but I must look the same, he's probably eaten less than myself and gotten just as little sleep. I still can't tell where the blood came from.

"Are you ok?" Seems reasonable enough to ask even if he's not John. Those clothes, he was still buttoning up that shirt as he left late for work with some toast in his mouth.

"Yeah, well, sort of, been better, been worse, probably going to be worse soon though, much worse, much, much worse, I've got to be heading back-"

I interrupt him, he's rambling on. "Move that mattress so I can jump down without breaking my leg." I need a closer look at him, I can't tell anything from up here, I just want to get down, get moving. He's rocking between his feet, clearly agitated. It's not like him. Typically, he stands still, calm, all that nervous energy channelled and coiled, ready for decisive action.

This isn't like John at all.

"Yeah, yeah, sure, I'll do that." He's muttering again and using far too many words. It might be the exhaustion but I've seen him on his last legs before, in particular when the adrenaline has died down and the danger has passed. He's usually quieter and his mind wanders to thoughts of food or sleep, whatever he craves most. Sometimes sex too, he usually takes out his phone and flicks through his contacts looking for a likely candidate on those occasions. I ignore those times and think of other things, work, experiments and... work. "I'm running out of ideas Sherlock, I'm not good enough, things are getting bad, I-I need your help."

I jump down and my ankles twinges but before I'm even on my feet he's dragging me forward and towards one of the doors. "Wait, John," he looks annoyed that I've pulled him back but he can at least wait for me to stand upright. Either way, I have to find out who he really is, there's something off about him. Very off. "Do you have anything for me?" He looks at me like I'm mad. "A talisman made of stone."

He huffs at me, "No time, Sherlock!" his bloodied hand grabs my arm and I flinch with the pain, "Sorry." Why didn't he notice the bandage? It's exposed, I lost half of my shirt and coat sleeve in that possessed mannequin. "Just follow me, I'll explain everything in the ward, you've got to come now, time's running out, it's running out, it's running out!" His words are running together and he's repeating himself. It's hard to believe such nonsense would spew from John's mouth.

"You don't have a talisman then?"

"For godsake! I don't have anything, alright!" He shouts at me then smiles some sort of half apology. His eyes are darting about, he's still fidgeting and fiddling with his shirt cuffs. "Help me, please, I can't explain here."

"Fine." I begin to follow but I need to discover more. This man cannot be him, that is for sure. "Where's the blood from, are you hurt?" I whisper as we rush through the corridor, this John has little concern as to what might be lurking around the next corner whereas my - the real - John, certainly would be. I get another quick look at his shirt front when he turns to check I'm following. The blood pattern is odd, indiscernible, confusing, I can't make sense of it.

"No, no, I'm fine, it's not mine, well it is, sort of, but I'm not injured. Just keep up will you, you can be Sherlock in a minute." Interesting, John sometimes accuses me of 'being Sherlock' when he can't articulate what exactly I've done wrong, he usually means it in jest rather than true annoyance.

I can hear him muttering and mumbling under his breath but I can't make out full sentences. Maybe something about acute abdominal pain and something happening again, he's repeating himself over and over. This isn't John, he's quite- the realisation strikes me as painfully obvious: he's quite mad. Damn it to hell. At least his falseness was easy to see this time, I've just got to work out whether there's a talisman to obtain and how to get it. He's my next puzzle, I'm sure of it. I continue to follow with one hand on my gun. I'm aware of every alternative, a mentally unstable John will be unpredictable and potentially highly disturbed.

Just please don't let the answer be a lobotomy.

I can barely cope with the thought of slipping the metal orbitoclast past one of his expressive blue eyes, sinking it deep until I reach the point where everything that makes him John Watson is kept. But of course this man isn't John Watson, there's no sane John to reclaim, it would be a pointless exercise. But my witnessing his pointless suffering has often been the point.

He leads me to the double doors of the ward, skipping various rooms on the way including more of the second floor bedrooms, showers and bathrooms. No time to check them now, I have to follow this mad John. I've kept track of where we've been, the layout is similar to the third floor. He pushes open a pair of double doors and rushes to one of the beds. The ward is full, eight beds, each with an adult person covered in a sheet. They are all dead apart from one.

I follow John to the bed with a man curled on his side and facing away from us. He's in pain, his breathing laboured. He's wearing a fresh gown but his bed isn't particularly clean. The ward as a whole is grubby, musty, unclean. The floor feels tacky under my feet. The tiles are coated in a layer of filth, the windows fogged with dirt. I haven't been able to see outside yet.

"Roll on your back, I need to, um, check you again! Yes, that will help, maybe operate, yes, I need to look inside. Look inside, look inside, look inside." He keeps repeating under his breath. I stand back and observe, hopefully I can figure out what I'm supposed to be doing.

The man rolls over, grimacing in obvious pain. "Think I'll decline thanks, I barely trust you with your own hands let alone a scalpel."

The man is John.

The comment about the blood makes more sense now, it does belong to him in one form. There's no obvious source from this John but there are the other beds. Do they look like John too? Their heights fit. I could check but I wish to observe for now, I could miss something important. Two of them in the same room, it's quite incredible to see them together. The same but so different. The doctor is behaving more oddly by the moment, looking less and less like the John I know by the second. Twitchy, disorganised and uncoordinated. John's mental health juxtaposed to his physical wellbeing. Both ailing, both fragile.

"I'll do what I have to do to save you, I must, I must, I must, I must." He rambles on, repeating over and over. I feel uncomfortable watching him like this, such a state. Still, once I deal with him I may well have another talisman and I'll be one step closer to where I'm really meant to be. He still cares though, he's still a doctor.

"Considering the other beds you haven't exactly got a sterling record." The John on the bed winces in pain as the so-called doctor palpates his stomach. "For god's sake, you're not going to learn anything more! There's nothing you can do!" He snaps before noticing my quiet presence. "Sherlock." He sounds surprised and almost smiles, so much more like John, perhaps it's him. He's got the same stubble too, the same tired expression. "Hello."

"Do you-"

"Shut up!" The mad doctor cuts me off, blathering idiot, how dare he bear John's likeness. "Shut up! I have to operate, I must operate!" He drags a tray on wheels, takes it to the cupboard and begins to noisily fill it with dirty equipment and stained medical implements. Metal dishes and scalpels fall to the floor making an awful racket.

"Sherlock, don't let him open me up." The John on the bed says calmly. "There's nothing to be done let alone the fact he's bloody barking."

"Do you have a talisman?"

"Oh, oh that." He winces again, panting as another sharp pain wracks through his middle. I look away, I don't want to watch him like that, real or not. Worse than seeing him mentally enfeebled. I've seen him in pain far too much since arriving here. "Sorry, um, yeah, one of us does. Not sure who. Might be me."

Not real but probably for the best considering the state he's in. I wouldn't know how to help him, my biological knowledge is excellent but I'm no doctor. "Us?"

"Yeah, the others, they're like me. Well, they look like me. They died differently though. That's what he told me anyway."

My hypothesis was correct, they're all John. The room feels more crowded than it did before, that confirmation feels like a heavy weight in my head. Have I shown up too late, should I have been here hours ago? I wasted too much time laying down, fixing myself up when I could have been here saving them or working out what to do. I still don't know what I'm supposed to be doing. Am I supposed to save him?

We're soon interrupted by a scalpel wielding John looking more deranged than ever. "Right! Let's get to it shall we? Yes, yes, yes."

"No, you can't operate. You'll kill him." I speak calmly, trying not to agitate him.

"He's dying anyway! If I can see inside, see inside, inside the inside, I can save myself!"

Save himself? "You're dying too."

"Yes! I've got to stop it, there are no more beds! I'm telling you, I'm next, I'm next!" He starts pacing up and down the aisle between the beds, shoes squeaking on the floor with each step. "I'm, I'm like a cat, nine lives, only eight beds, eight beds only, I'm next, I'm going to die, I've run out of chances, I can't fix it, I can't save myself, I'm going to die Sherlock, I'm going to die."

"You're not real, it doesn't matter." Though I still loathe those words hiding in John's voice. I wish he'd just shut up. Why make him like this?

"It doesn't matter? It doesn't matter!" He lifts the tray of equipment and hauls it across the room. The metal clangs and bounces, if anything is close by they would have surely heard. I've still got my hand on the gun. "This wouldn't be bloody happening if it weren't for you! You selfish idiot!"

"I'm quite aware of my role but that doesn't make you any less of a figment of my unconscious mind."

"A what? You've bloody lost it Sherlock!" He's one to talk. "THIS is the price we pay!"

"Pay for what?" I'm losing my patience with him.

The John on the bed suddenly howls with pain. Awful noise, he's hurting. "See!" The mad John shouts. "YOUR FAULT!" He rushes to one of the other beds and pulls back the sheet. "He was the first! Cirrhosis, look at his liver! You did that! Made me drink!" John had operated that time. Did he have anaesthetic? Maybe he waited until he was dead. I could look at the incision but I stay put, I don't want to cause another outburst until I've figured out what I'm supposed to do. I need to check the dead, find the talisman. "You can't stop it, you can't protect me, I'm going to DIE and it'll be your fault. Your BLOODY fault Sherlock!" I meet the eyes of the John in the bed, he's relaxed again now the pain has passed but looks more than a little concerned.

"Why don't you find some more supplies." I say soothingly. "I'll stay here and do what I can. We'll sort this whole mess out."

Mad John's demeanour changes again, his aggressive stance melting into something more genial. "Brilliant idea! As always! Yes, I'll find something, something to help." His smile fades and he looks much sadder and somewhat more recognisable as the man I know. "I don't want to die Sherlock, I want to live. I'm not done living yet."

"I know." But you're not real, you're not really alive. "You're sure you don't have a talisman for me, there's nothing in your pockets?"

"No, they're empty, all empty, all empty, all empty. I feel empty too, empty inside."

I need him gone, he's no use to me like this. "You better be going."

He nods and runs off out into the corridor without another word. The door clicks behind him. I dash to it and pull on the handle, it's locked. I bang on the door a few times and shout but there's nothing. "You've locked the door!" Or someone has, there's two higher powers to contend with. None of the keys will fit. I try to slip my crowbar into the gap but the doors won't give. This should work but it must be locked some other way, unsurprising but frustrating. "Come back!" I shout fruitlessly. I don't know if that John will ever return, I doubt he'd survive one encounter with a monster. I can cope with this development, it doesn't serve Moriarty to keep me cooped up for too long even if god chooses otherwise. I can find a way out soon, maybe through the ceiling or out the window. First I have to find the talisman.

"We're locked in?" Asks the John from his bed.

"Yes. Obviously, I wasn't shouting for fun." I respond a little bitterly.

"Well, thanks for not letting him try to open me up." He smiles with more than a little discomfort. "Didn't fancy that."

He's so much more like John should be, it's unsettling. Mustn't get attached. "What's wrong with you?" The words sound cold, they even feel cold to speak.

"Cancer, at least I think. Intestinal from where he was having a poke. I've not been around long but I'm still a doctor."

"You're aware."

"Hard not to be." He shrugs. I don't completely understand. "What are you doing here?"

"Trying to find John, the real one. Do you know where he is?"

"Sorry, gah." He folds up in pain again, huffing air through his nose. He's looking paler than he was, much so. A minute passes, I just watch him, the sweat breaking out on his brow, teeth gritted together, the pain I've seen before. I can't get used to it, I can't stop caring when it's John's face. I miss him, I'm growing weary of being alone and relying on letters from Mycroft, my only link to the outside world. He'll think me a weak fool if I fail.

"Is there... can I do anything?"

"I'm fine. Well, fine except for the dying that is." He makes a stupid quip just as I'd expect from John when he's trying to hide his fear. Please God don't let me die. I should be doing something, I can't just stand by and watch him die passively.

There's a cloth and a sink nearby. The water runs clear so I dampen the flannel. I settle on the edge of the bed at John's hip and wipe his brow. "Better?"

"Much." He rolls on to his side again, that seems to suit him better.

"Can't you think of something, you're a doctor." There must be something if he'd just think. Some rule that is bent by the physics of this hellish world. A rule that bends to my advantage.

"Being a doctor doesn't give you a free pass on cancer. It should do. Sorry."

"But the fact that you exist at all is quite reasonable?"

"I don't make the rules."

"And I don't get to win." I finish.

"Pretty much."

Data, need more data. It's no use complaining that the dice are weighted when you have to roll them anyway. John places his hand on my knee, it had been jiggling and rocking the bed, I hadn't noticed. I stop and he returns his hand back to gently cradling his middle. I'm glad, I don't want him to touch me. Answers, I need answers. "Why did he say it was my fault?"

"Oh, well I would have thought it was obvious." He grins even though he's starting to shiver from the fever. I wipe his face down again and try not to look at him too closely. It was easier dealing with the other fake though it was unpleasant to see John in such a state of mental deterioration. I could help John's psychosomatic pain but this is very different. I felt like god being able to cure his leg with such ease, to see John light up at the sight of his redundant cane, to know that his life had changed for the better after meeting me. At least I was a benevolent god to my chosen one but there's only so much protection I can provide. Only so many answers. Now here he is sick and dying. I can't fight disease and I can't stop something that's inside him. This is what it's all about, I'm powerless and so is John. It doesn't matter how excellent of a doctor he is or how clever I am, he's just flesh and blood.

"Are you going to enlighten me then? You can show off."

"Maybe, but I can't be very dramatic from here." He adjusts himself but there's no position that's comfortable. His lips have no colour, he's looking listless too. He's getting worse rapidly. He's slipping away from me and not moving an inch. But he's not real. His leg rests along my back, I move away a little. "You alright? You look rough as hell."

"Interesting choice of words."

"Fine line between hell and paradise. Maybe they overlap. Who can tell the difference when love can hurt more than hate. When people will rip each other to shreds over simple words that are supposed to be good, words that are supposed to mean something. Who can tell the difference when cancer grows inside good people."

I agree with the last statement but I'm hardly going to acknowledge it. John winces again and grunts, smothering another urge to cry out. Why can't I cure him? "You don't have long, tell me what you know." I wipe his brow again and the sweat on his top lip. His lips are so pale they fade into his pallid skin. I pat down his neck too, it's covered in beads of sweat.

"This, all of them... it's the price we pay. Fuck." He curls up again, legs touching me but this time I don't move, I just keep the cool cloth on his head and wait for it to pass. I try to let my eyes glaze over but he's too present to ignore. He catches his breath, "It's the price we pay." He repeats.

"For what?"

"For you." He replies with softness.

"Why? How is cirrhosis my fault? Your cancer? The others?" It doesn't make sense. I've only just witnessed John suffering directly at my own false hand, how could I hurt him like this?

"I think you know why, after all this is all about you. We die for you."

"But why sickness? I'm more likely to get him murdered! I can't stop cancer, I can't heal a liver!"

"You already... know why. The reason is here."

"If I knew why I wouldn't be asking!" I snarl. "Stop being so bloody cryptic!" John gives me a look to suggest I calm down. I begrudgingly settle down. I need to know more, not win the argument. "You -he- could leave. I'm not forcing him to stay. He's still got free will, it would even be sensible." I don't want him to leave. Ever.

"Leaving... it isn't... an option." We're getting close now, he knows it too. "Mind staying? Rather not do this on my own... if I've got a choice. You make a good nurse."

"I'm here because I need information."

"But I don't have... anything else. Will you still stay?" The pain in his voice is all too evident now, there's little respite for him.

No, it's a waste of time. I should be checking the other bodies already. "Yes."

"Thanks."

"What happened to the others?" Maybe I can learn something that will help, that will save him? What about the aglaophotis? I'm locked in still, I can't find it. Think. Think.

"Don't know... you ok?" He askes between stifled breaths. He's trying to stay relaxed but it hurts. Dying slowly hurts. I have to come up with something.

"You've already asked about me." Will he last long enough for me to escape and find it? Would it be a waste? Surely I need to use it against god, against the burnt child.

"Yeah, but your pupils are huge and you're sweating a lot."

"Eyes are probably a side effect of one of the monsters I was fighting, damaged them a bit, I've been using eye drops for the pain. Don't know why I'm sweating, caffeine and nicotine most likely, thrown up a bit too. Must be that."

"Chatty too."

"Sleep deprivation and stimulants. I haven't slept since John was taken almost two days ago." Two days too long.

"Sure you haven't taken anything else?"

Damn him. Once an addict, always an addict in Silent Hill. I'd hope that real John would have more faith in me by now. "If you're alluding to my past-"

"No, it's just what if... never mind."

"You can trust me, I told you -him- I'm clean now and I meant it. I wouldn't take anything, not intentionally. If you can just get that into your thick skull it would be appreciated."

It's just nicotine and caffeine, Mycroft wouldn't... but Moriarty would. Did he contaminate the pills? It's not cocaine, I'd know in an instant as it's been so long. My demeanour is a result of strong caffeine mixed with the patch, I'm sure of it. Yes my mood perked up a bit too but I had more energy and my situation improved, I had reason to feel more confident. It's a possibility that I'm on something other than what I believe, Mycroft said his channels were being interfered with. It might make sense. Moriarty the snake. The mood change, the energy, sweating, my shaking hands, my atypical verbosity, the increased focus.

Amphetamines.

"If you say so." He doesn't believe me and I don't know why I wish he did. If I'm drugged it's not my fault, not my doing. I can't trust the packages from now on. Mycroft, for all his power over me, wouldn't risk my relapse. He'd aided my discreet detox and released some finances from our trust to start again. I'd gotten out of control, I see that now, I had no purpose. I know it was him who orchestrated my fortuitous meeting with Lestrade. I hated Mycroft at the time but I understand why he did what he did. Granted I was still dabbling in a few chemicals post-treatment, mostly homemade to avoid what Mycroft so superiorly referred to as 'the culture', but moving into Baker Street, that was the end. John became my reason to keep clean, properly clean.

For all of my mistrust of my brother, he wouldn't betray my sobriety.

Moriarty doesn't want me to slow down, he doesn't want me to stop. He knew I needed a boost. Crude but obviously his handiwork. I wouldn't be surprised if he'd partaken of something himself. He wouldn't want to miss a moment. I've been sitting still for too long, I want to walk around but John curls up on himself again. I can tell he's trying not to cry out, biting his lips together. "God, hurts... so much."

I don't want to discuss the pills anymore, I can think about them later, it's a good opportunity to change topic. "I have pain medication." There must be more I can do. Why do I have to lose every time? I managed to stop the torture, can't I stop this?

"On lots. Don't waste it. Dead soon."

"No. Here, take them." Maybe it will speed things up. Neither god or Moriarty are familiar with the concept of mercy. I can show them.

"Sherlock, I'll be dead before I metab- fuck-" he's almost crying now and clutching at his distended stomach, the cancer is growing fast, "don't leave me." He grabs my hand and brings it to his stomach. I can feel the tumours. How can he bare for me to touch them? I can barely stand touching them. I want to pull away but he wants me here.

"I won't, I'm not going anywhere." I wait for the pain to subside again and for his breathing to settle. He's in so much pain. There's another option. "Do you want me to help you die?" My voice catches, I don't want to but if he doesn't want to linger I would. I'd help him. He'd do the same for me.

"You think you could?"

"Yes. If you wanted me to. I-I have a gun." I stutter. Not exactly convincing. "Or I could find something here. Overdose."

"No, I wouldn't do that... to you." He squeezes the hand he's still holding against his still growing middle.

"I think it would be what I'd be doing to you."

"It really, really wouldn't." I don't argue with him, I'm relieved. "Talk, say something."

"I've met others like you, copies of John. One of them tried to kill me." The one that taunted me for my drug use. I'm behind the game again even though I know so much more now. If I'd brought some aglaophotis with me would it have helped? I should have done more research about the town, I didn't believe Mycroft's tale about sinkholes but I was too eager to get here, to see for myself, to reclaim John. Mycroft thought the danger the cult posed had passed but it was only dormant.

"I've thought about it." He grinds out as jokingly as a dying man can, there's hardly a respite from the pain now. I keep dampening his forehead, infection, he's burning up, septicaemia most likely, the cancer is tearing him up inside. Of course it wouldn't behave like a normal cancer, progress that would take months has probably occurred since he was first formed. His stomach is so much bigger and growing, the malignant cells are multiplying inside him rapidly. He looks like he could burst open. Don't. Die before that happens. I'll help him then, that would be too much.

"Undoubtedly. Seems I bring that out in people."

"What will... you do about the good doctor?"

"That madman? He won't last long out there with no weaponry."

"You'll let him die too?"

"I'm not letting anyone die," I snap, "I can't help the inevitable."

"But you want to."

"Of course I do!" I snap again. "Surely the fact you exist at all is a testament to that. I can't will you not to die, I can't protect you something attacking you from within." I'm looking at him now, not just looking but seeing him. Isn't that the definition of insanity, repeating the same action over and over and expecting different results? Expecting that this fake will live if you want it enough. He's going to die but it's just a play, just something to break me. Still I look at him and all I see is John.

"But... you want to. You're still trying. I can see you thinking, trying to... solve me."

"Trying to save you." I correct. But then perhaps solve is more accurate, he could be a puzzle.

"Chest hurts, can't breathe. Diaphragm."

The tumours are stopping him from inhaling. "I know." He's beginning to look frightened. He's going to suffocate.

"We choose to die for you."

"You shouldn't." This is ridiculous, why? Why do that? "You're too bloody stupid, too bloody loyal, let down by your selfish parents and selfish sister, all that army brainwashing, always looking for a greater cause when it's all just pointless. None of it matters, I'm just killing time, John. The cases, the satisfaction of winning, being the smartest man in the room, it's all just stuff to keep me busy, why die over that? It's my choice, why make it yours?"

He blinks, he's finding it hard to see, the lack of oxygen. "You've... been a... good... friend... goodbye... Sherlock."

"No, I won't say goodbye, just hang on a bit longer. Just a little longer." Why? Why let him suffer? I take the cloth away and just rest my hand on his face, his skin is clammy and cool. "You don't need to die for me. Why would I want you to?" He can't speak, he can barely breathe. "It's the price you pay, I know, but nothing I give you is worth your life. Nothing I give him is worth his." I correct myself again but it matters little. John looks at me with pitiful, pained eyes, his forehead feels like a mess of wrinkles under my hand as his face screws up in agony.

He's shaking, can't breathe, must feel like drowning. I could shoot him, make it quick, but I can't, I can't do that. He grabs out and reaches for my other hand. "John, it's ok, I'm still here." Everyone dies alone in the end, I can't follow him. He's not my John to follow anyway.

Breaths, short and sharp, gasping, pain, knees pulled up but not far, his middle is so swollen he looks lumpy and pregnant. "Shhh, it's ok." I hold tight to his hand as he begins to lose consciousness from the lack of oxygen. His eyes flash open, pure fear, "I'm right here, just let go, it's alright." It's not but there's no alternative. His hand loses its grip on mine and his once pained expression fades to blankness. No more breathing but no more pain. I wait for a minute. His heart stops.

He's gone.

I close his eyes for him but I don't cover him. Is this how it will be one day? John dying with me by his bedside? No, it'll be someone else mopping his brow, taking care of him and lending him comfort. A wife and maybe a child or two. I picture sons though it would be impossible to know. They would be his family. I'll be relegated to visitors hours, a friend at best. I'll still be there, of course I will. That's if he's not killed on a case first. If he ever has the chance to grow old and die of some hideous disease.

I need to walk around a little, burn off some excess energy and think. I'm surrounded by bodies but I have a job to do, a job to do for a John who is still alive somewhere in this damned town. I roll the recently deceased John on to his back. I can see the outline of the tumours through his stretched, distended skin. I remove part of his front fastening gown to see his stomach. Silver lines have appeared when the skin stretched far too quickly. I touch carefully even though I can't hurt him now, he looks ready to burst. The lumps feel hard and unyielding, I've felt them before on other corpses but they feel different knowing that these belong to John, they are his malignant cells. I hate them.

I give his body a good look for a talisman but find nothing of course there is another place I could check but I don't want to think about that yet. I have to check the others first. Seven other beds.

Seven other Johns.

I check the John that died from cirrhosis, his yellowed and blood shot eyes are still open. I close them. Looking at his face is pointless. He looks odd due to the abundance of spider veins. Perhaps his sister will look like this one day. I check his hands. They're still yellow and he has Muehrcke's lines on his nails, symptom of cirrhosis. I wonder how quickly his disease progressed, whether he suffered from alcohol induced psychosis too considering our location. I examine the incision, it's a clean enough cut but longer than it needs to be. I peer inside, what should be smooth and dark pink liver is enlarged, rough, spotted with nodules of fibrous scar tissue and mottled in shades of pale pink, black and yellow. I think of Harry again, John knows what is in store for her one day. She'll never change.

There is a box of latex gloves by the sink where I'd dampened the cloth. I need to look inside him, perhaps the talisman is under the diseased liver. I grab a few extra pairs and shove them in my pockets in case this isn't my first expedition into John's body. I make a fatal error in looking at his face again and my stomach rolls. I wonder if I'll feel this way when I look at him after all this is over, whether I'll be able to tell him apart from all the others. He's far too vulnerable laying spread out, too much blood where it shouldn't be.

I lower the corner of the sheet into the wound first to make sure it doesn't close up. No reaction. When I go to reach inside I'm shaking again. It's not John, it's not really him. He's just a corpse, a cadaver. Everyone is the same on the inside anyway, he's not biologically special and neither am I. Yes, he's got unique scars and he looks different on the outside but when it comes down to vital organs we're all just fleshy machines. Of course every machine eventually breaks no matter how well built, how well looked after, how well cared for. Come on. I'm still hovering with my hands over him.

Do it.

Hands in, oh god not good, cold and wrong. Just find the talisman, this is beyond the hundredth time you've touched a liver in any state, just feel around, find what you're looking for and get out. Cool, I slide my hand around, the other organs are slick and healthy as my hand explores deeper. I see John's face, has it moved? He looks different, eyes open, didn't I close them? It's like he knows, like he's horrified. Oh god. Nothing, I can't feel anything that shouldn't be there. Just stop, no use. I pull my hand out and pull off the gloves as quick as I can and stand away. I'm breathing too fast, calm down, calm down. This one doesn't have the tablet.

Cover him up, move on to the next. I pull the sheet back. This one is on dialysis. Eye closed, blank faced, pale. No incisions but I'm reminded that I'm surrounded by filthy scalpels and I have some reasonably clean ones in my bag. The option to look at his kidneys is open to me. I check his hands and notice the small amount of urea crystals on his skin. He had chronic kidney disease. It was probably his heart that failed him in the end. Nothing in his hands or under his body. I feel his kidneys while my hands are under him but I feel nothing to suggest there could be a talisman inside. I won't open him up, at least not yet. I lay him back. Eyes open and staring at the ceiling. Hmm.

Next one, tracheotomy and a chest tube. There could be many explanations for why John took that course of action. I pull out the stoma in his throat, it's been well placed if hurried, John's skill hasn't declined like his mental state. "Still there, Jim?" I could do with the distraction, I need my perspective, I need to stop thinking these superfluous, sentimental thoughts. No reply from Moriarty and no sign of a talisman. I take out the tube in his left side and have look. Nothing out of the ordinary. "You drugged me, couldn't risk me falling asleep? Was it a gift after your stunt with the lift? Or maybe an apology for being-" Eyes open again, they were closed. He's looking at me again, blank-faced but focused.

Move on.

Next one. I pull back the sheet and shrink away to look at one of the frosted windows to the ward. I imagine the sunshine, crisp air, birds, grass, trees, peace, calm, serenity, mountains, anywhere, anywhere but here. I turn back. This John has wasted away, skin on bone, no muscle he looks... awful. I can barely look, what's the bloody symbolism behind this? How could this be because he wants to stay by me? Should I slap a government warning on myself: 'Hanging Round Sherlock Holmes Could Seriously Damage Your Health'? If the aim is to stoke my hate it's working.

This isn't my fault, this is a parade of death. My knowledge of the human anatomy showing me all the ways John could be destroyed while I watch impotently. If I had gotten here earlier would I have been made to see him die like this? All of them? Eyes open and cloudy, staring blankly at me. His bony hands are empty. This is a death I would fear for us both.

I can't, I can't touch him.

Why won't Moriarty speak, it would make this easier, a distraction, it barely takes three brain cells to find something if you've got a finite area to search. Bastard has me on amphetamines and I took them willingly. I've taken them before but I preferred cocaine, it felt purer and more sharp, speed was dull by comparison. "Aren't you going to gloat that you drugged me?" No reply. Is he sleeping? Distracted? With John? No. I'm pacing again, focus, I need to do this. I need to look closer at the body, beyond his shrivelled, grey hands.

Fine, I'm a coward, I'll check the others first. I'm cautious when I pull back the next sheet. John number six of eight. "God." Head shaven, skull cut, brain exposed in a diamond shape. Even still, it's not as bad as the one before. I check his hands first, the rest of his body seems untouched. I pat him down, feeling for the talisman I know is here. It must be here. Nothing.

I take a closer look at his head. His eyes have rolled back, I can only see the whites. The portion of skull removed is far in excess of what would have been required. I put on the gloves and probe the blood that has clotted and collected between his two lobes. Nothing again. I'm not prepared to delve deeper yet. I take off the gloves... eyes. They've rolled back. He's looking at me. He's still dead.

Keep going.

Number seven lies by the window, I can tell already what became of him. The shape of the body is wrong and a large pool of blood has congealed beneath the bed. I slowly pull back the sheet regardless. He's... he just a torso. His arms and legs are bloodied stumps. There are bloodstained leather straps on this bed, his legs and arms were tied down at one point. His eyes are open but I don't bother to close them, they'll only open like the others. Was he conscious? What if he was real? The lung injury, the brain, either of those could have been John. Where are his limbs? Were they diseased? What if... what if that mad fake John made a mistake, what if this one was real, is that why Moriarty stopped talking, what if I was too slow, whatifIcouldhavesavedhimwhatifIfailedhimwhatifhesufferedwhatifheshoutedformebutInevercame? No. Stop, stop this now. Damn bloody speed, it has me racing away on foolish mental tangents. "Enjoying this?" Speak to me. Play with me.

I reach out and touch him, I have to roll him in case it's under his back. His body feels wrong, even more useless than being dead. John would never have wanted to live like this, like a sentient brain in a jar requiring constant care. Having a limp made him feel inadequate enough, made him feel incompetent. I'm as gentle as I can as I look beneath him. The sheets are stained with copious amounts of dried blood which hadn't made it to the floor. This happened between ten to twelve hours ago, this has been happening since I first arrived. There's nothing there again so I lay him down.

As he settles again a single tear rolls down his cheek. John. I take out my stethoscope and listen for a heartbeat. Silence. He's dead. How did the doctor have as little blood on him as he did? Maybe he covered himself. There's a medical waste bin nearby. I open it and find blood soaked medical equipment and a couple screwed up plastic aprons covered in blood. I have a look through, nothing useful and no talisman.

I still have one bed left.

I dread what I'm about to see but I do it anyway. Sheet back. Oh, I should have predicted. He's laid open much like my father had been, with his heart exposed. Rather than an autopsy incision his ribs have been sawn in half and spread with the correct equipment. His heart is still. Another pair of gloves and I feel inside. It would be the perfect symbolic place to hide another tablet, hidden under the heart of my supposed heart. The heart I cannot possess. There's nothing. No, it must be here, keep feeling. I grope around, feeling behind his lungs. No, come on, it's here, it's here, it must be. "Come on." If this doesn't work I'm going to have to start cutting them open, getting to the injured organs, I have to search everywhere. Useless. I remove my hands, I don't know why but I stroke his heart gently, from right atrium to left ventricle. I should have expected it when his eyes shift to look at me. "Sorry." I'm not sure what I'm apologising for, I felt caught.

I'm going to have to start cutting. Wait. No, not yet. "There's one more to check."

The door clicks loudly. It's unlocked. I take off the gloves as I run to the door. I have to find the doctor, dead or alive. He was wrong, he must have it! I pull open the door. "John!" He's there! Alive. I dart towards him. "AAGGHHNN." Pain, in my head. Sirens. "No. No, no, no." I fall to the floor again, my knees hit the floor hard. Hurts. Too loud. "No, no, no." Not the Otherworld, not again. I try to hold on to consciousness, the amphetamines keeping me going but exposing me to the pain searing at the base of my skull through to my eyes. Keep watching, don't close your eyes.

"I'm next Sherlock, he's going to get me next!" John shouts before running away.

He? I try to shout back but my words are swallowed by the siren. I see the world changing, becoming darker, the walls fading to metal, the iron taste in my mouth, I see through the walls, the hanging bodies in cages, the rats feasting, the pink rabbit I saw downstairs hanging from a noose... too much pain now... sirens...

Chapter 28: Otherworld

Chapter Text

I kept conscious, barely, but I did. The sirens have died down and I'm in the Otherworld again. On my own. The pain in my head is beginning to fade, I can think again. It's dark but not pitch black. The clanging I heard in the basement is back but much more threatening. The basement would be unbearable now. Too loud, too oppressive, no room in my head to think.

I stand up and switch on my torch. The bulb flickers to life, I still haven't gotten fresh batteries and the light doesn't look as strong anymore. The wall I saw fade to grating is in clear focus now. The bodies and torso's sit in cages behind the grating suspended on rusted metal chains. I take a closer look at the one closest to me. A large man, tall, broad-chested. He's nude and laid squashed on his side with the rats running along him. There's a jagged scar from his chin to his chest, visible despite the damage done to his body by the rodents and gods knows what else. I know this man, he was responsible for a series of LSD related deaths. His victims were all improbable targets, old women, middle class mothers, a school child and two university professors. He sold stationary supplies from a market stall in Clapham. He held back specially contaminated envelopes and chose his victims then waited to see if their experience made it into the papers. No one remembered his face, they only remembered the scar, he always had it on display.

I thread the straight end of my crowbar through the grating, the rats stop biting and squeal in protest. I use the teeth to drag across the scar, the rats are squeaking even louder, ear piercing and unnatural but I manage to find the scar is fake just like I discovered. I pull the crow bar out and the squealing mercifully stops. That had been a good case, at least a year before I met John.

I check my map, I'm looking at what would have been the housekeeping store room. There's no door now but there's no room either, just this channel holding the bodies. I walk and take a look at a few more, I recognise them all, some held vertically, some horizontal, some crouched and squashed and others are stretched out. I caught them all. Extortionists, murderers, thieves, arms dealers, rapists, kidnappers, home invaders, arsonists, abusers. They all hang here in my morbid hall of fame.

Only some of the walls have become metal grating, the others have remained solid but dark, bloodied, filthy and rusted. Most of the lights are broken, only one that is half hanging from the ceiling shows a flicker of life casting my shadow in strobe. I hold the crowbar a little tighter, I feel more than a little uneasy and the amphetamines aren't helping.

I walk back to the ward, I fear the awakening of eight murderous John's but the door has vanished. All that remains in the faint seam where the wall was plastered. It looks like it has been blocked up for years. I give the wall a rap with my knuckles. Solid. It's probably for the best though I feel an odd sense of claustrophobia as if I were on the wrong side of this wall.

I should make my way to #312, even in the Otherworld it's my best bet. Static. Oh god, crying. Gun out. Where is it, where is it? I don't see anything. Has it got me? Is it already too late? I run and check around the corner of the odd shaped hallway, never minding the noise my feet make on the metal. There! The dining room is missing a door. It's standing in the darkness weeping. I shoot three times, the brain isn't exposed yet, I might be in time. One of my shots misses but the creature falls backwards, its one free arm grabbing on to nothing. There's still static but it's not moving, I put another two bullets into its head, aiming for the bridge of its nose.

It has to die.

"Nughg." A blow to my back knocks me sideways to the floor. Doctor, bigger than the other ones, at least a foot taller and much more muscular, his white coat blood stained. I missed him in my haste to remove the hallucination risk. I lean back and take a clean shot at his face and the static ceases immediately. He's staggered and fallen backward into the hallway. "Ah, damn." That really hurt, right kidney. I think my faux-father left a welt there too. Perhaps I'm lucky he didn't hit higher and break a rib but it's still painful to right myself. I check the magazine, five bullets, eighteen in total.

I try to walk off some of the pain and search for anything helpful. The dining room is quite large but the patients would still have to eat in sittings. Most of the chairs are missing but the tables remain albeit caked in filth. A place is set at one of the tables, a plate with a knife and fork on the correct sides. Nothing special apart from the fact that they are perfectly clean. Not worth taking with me.

I walk through to the kitchen, the door has been removed and there's a long serving hatch where the guests of this facility would line up to receive food. Another knife would be handy, a spare in case I lose mine. The kitchen is much like the rest, rusted and bloodied. Large chunks of unbutchered meat lay on the kitchen surfaces. The shape of the hunks of meat are suspiciously human but not quite discernable without further examination. I don't have time. I walk around the central island, checking drawers as I go. Most are empty but for more chunks of flesh. There's another fridge, I open it slowly. There are words scrawled on the inside.

There's so much food walking around but they won't let me eat.

Cannibal. They had a cannibal here. Rare but not unheard of. I've examined a few case files from around Europe, some prefer to butcher their 'meat' and eat it like a meal but some will eviscerate the corpse like a wild animal leaving quite interesting teeth marks. I identified a man from a list of suspects for German police once due to the shape of his nose affecting the angle in which he bit the flesh.

Footsteps, behind me, dining room.

I duck down behind the island and creep along to the door I came through. My damaged thigh sends a jagged pain right through me but I just about muffle a shout by biting my lips together. I taste blood. I'd forgotten about my leg. I adjust my position so it's stretched out and not bent. Hopefully it's not bleeding again.

I can hear someone moving around in the dining room, heavy steps, male, breathing laboured, overweight, wide gait. Not John. I don't need to see the man to know that. The orbitoclast beings have all been skinny and anaemic looking, this one is different.

There's no other way out, I'll have to wait for the monster to leave again. I prepare my knife in case he comes to the kitchen, I wouldn't have time and space to swing the crowbar. I wait and listen, I need to see and assess what I'm dealing with but it's too risky. He's walking away, I have a quick look and I see the back of him. Dressed in the cotton clothing I saw on floor three and he's huge, very overweight. I saw a larger strait jacket in one of the storage cupboards, it was meant for him. He's a patient.

He looks human, no static. Killing him wouldn't be ideal, even in the Otherworld. As much as Mycroft has been my 'get out of jail free' card, murder is much more difficult to negate. He may not be a member of the Order.

He's left the room, time to make my move and get into another room or, ideally, back to the staircase. Maybe the stairs are unblocked in this world and I can get back to floor three. I move swiftly, there's now a tall glass at the table setting, polished and clean.

He's the cannibal and I'm food.

I turn off my torch and rush to the door but I don't walk through yet, I stand at the side and peek through. The flickering light is illuminating him. He's dragging the dead corpse of the doctor I shot. There's a door on the left of the hallway which should keep me out of his line of sight, it's another day room. I creep behind him, slowly peeling my feet off the grating and setting them down as he tugs the creature along the ground. It's slow going but he's not moving fast either, he looks close to a heart attack from the effort.

He's quite grotesque, folds upon folds of fat, even on the back of his close shaven head. Black hair and white skin that hasn't seen much sunlight in years. His clothing is stretched around his girth, almost bursting at the seams. He's taller than me too, six foot four minimally. He's breathing heavily and huffing, slurping drool from his wide open mouth and sweating. He smells foul. He's also decidedly human.

I keep out of his eye line but I'm at risk of being seen as he drags the doctor but the door is in touching distance now, the noisiest part of my journey but he's making so much noise by himself I should be able to open the door with little trouble. In theory. One more step and I can reach the handle. I tighten my grip on the bowie knife. I push the handle down, it's stuck or locked, the door won't open. There's a keyhole but I don't think I could get the keys without being noticed. I try the handle again and try to force the door.

The rats begin to squeal.

They've alerted him, all of them squeaking in alarm. I need another option. There's no other doors this side of the mammoth man other than the dining room and there's little I can do there but kill him if he chooses to attack. He drops the arm of the corpse. I could finish him now, cut his throat from behind but he may not be a threat, he may be happy to continue with that monster. It's freshly killed after all. He turns quickly, saliva flies from his mouth. His face is as bloated as the rest of him, his cheeks look ready to overwhelm his mouth and eyes. He looks young, twenty five perhaps.

"Take the corpse, I won't stop you." I try to be accommodating but he only smiles and licks his lips. More saliva dribbles down his chin and on to his top. "No meat on me, too skinny." I raise my knife in warning but he's not looking at the blade, only at me.

I need to get past him, he's planning a move. He's still grinning, eyes black with arousal and excitement.

"You look yummy." He says in almost a childlike voice despite the baritone. He's preparing and planning, he thinks I'm cornered, he's got time to play with.

The rats aren't helping me think with their screeching but it's clear I have to attack first. I have the strength, I have the energy. I swap the knife into my left hand as I stride forward. My fist connects with his podgy nose and he wails in pain. He's distracted enough for me to push past him and run down towards the door to the stair case. The rats are making enough of a racket now to drown out the machines and my ear drums hurt. I get to the door but it won't give. The cannibal is bearing down on me. I rush to the door that I know was open in the real world, the door to the corridor lined with bedrooms.

I get my hand on the door but he's caught up to me. He slams his body into me, crushing me against the door with his full weight. I feel his saliva on my neck, he's going to bite. I jab to knife backwards, digging it into his leg but there's not a chance I've hit his femoral artery, it's barely a scratch to him. It hurt though, he pushes me into the door again with his squashy, sweaty hands and staggers back.

"Owwww, owwww," He cries, again like a child, but I ignore it, get through the door and slam it shut behind me. He pounds on the door, wailing and shouting about how I hurt him, how he's hungry. This corridor is darker still, I keep my weight on the door and turn on my torch, I need to barricade this door. If I can't I'm going to have to kill him. There's nothing close by, nothing to help.

The door is starting to give. "Go eat the thing on the floor, be a good boy." I shout sarcastically, I need to think of something. The banging abates. "Go be good, finish everything on your plate." I continue, his mind is childlike, he's responding to me like I'm a parent or similar authority figure.

"I'm hungry."

"There's food waiting for you, in the dining room. There's a good boy, clean your plate."

"Ok." I hear quietly and the banging stops completely. I could open the door to check but I don't want to perk up his interest again. That could have been worse. I'm left with just the sound of clanging machines. The door I'm leaning against has a key hole, I try some of my keys and successfully lock myself in. He would be strong enough to break the lock but it would buy me some time.

I wipe the saliva off my neck, it's almost more disgusting than the blood, warm and thick. I need to get back upstairs, I can use my rope if the gap between floors still exist. I need to be on the third floor.

The bedroom wing is much like the real world apart from the metal grating on the floor and the dark, rusted walls. I should check as many rooms as I can, I might find some supplies and I still have mad John unaccounted for as well as the real John who may be here, trapped in this world. I can still hear the machines.

The door to #201 and #202 won't open but #203 gives way. Static immediately, there's a nurse in the cramped space. The knife she holds seems trifling now, a few swings of the crowbar takes her down and the static is gone. She crumples to the floor, jaw broken and her head awkwardly resting against a shared bedside table between the two single beds. A cockroach scurries up her arm, up her face and into her open mouth. Unpleasant. The room is only slightly bigger than the single rooms. The grey walls, however, are most interesting, enough to make me smile at the sight of them. They are riddled with pockmarks from a shotgun.

The gun is in here.

I lift the mattresses first, "Agh, get off." Cockroaches everywhere, dozens of them. I brush them off, stamp my feet and squash as many of them as I can. Ugh, under my trousers too, I wrap my hands around my knees to stop them getting any higher and shake them out. Horrid things. I tuck my cuffs into my socks for now, I need to keep them where I can see them, preferably dead. "Agh!" I swipe one off my neck, I'm starting to hate them, pernicious creatures.

Nothing under the beds, I can see through the springs to the floor so I try the drawers. Nothing again, a shotgun wouldn't fit anyway. The mattresses. I lift them both up and there's a definite weight difference between them, the one from the right side bed being the heavier. I set it back down on its bed and take out my knife, cutting down the middle. "Oh no."

Cockroaches erupt and spill out. I hesitate, they're climbing all over me but I saw the shotgun. I reach out and grab it but hundreds climb up my arm and all over me. I stumble back to the door, eyes closed now as they cover my face, they scratch crawl under my shirt, all over me, all over, god, horrible, get off, get off.

I crush the ones on my back against the door and roll, trying to shuck them off at the same time. Get off, get off, get off. I can't breathe, too many of them, swarming everywhere. Stay calm. I find the door handle and open it, maybe they'll disperse in more space. I stumble out into the corridor and squash more of them against the walls and try to get them off my mouth and nose so I can breathe. They smell awful, choking me, I undo my shirt and get more of them off me, stamping my feet, killing as many as I can. Get off, get off me, too many, everywhere, get off!

A bell chimes, a huge resounding dong like a church bell. They scurry away into nooks and crannies in the walls, down through the grating and into the darkness below. They're gone, all of them. I can breathe again. That- that was unpleasant. I can still feel them on my skin as I button myself up and pull my trousers out of my socks. The smell lingers too, my shirt is a mixture of blood and the insides of cockroaches. Disgusting.

The bell hasn't rung again, just the one toll. There wouldn't be one in the hospital but perhaps it came from the church but the church is at least half a mile away, it sounded closer. I can't rule out something here in the hospital, something of significance to the cult. Bells are typically rung at a time of worship or other importance such as holy days and ceremonies like weddings and funerals. Mycroft gave me permission to kill members of The Order, perhaps I'm close to them.

I brush another imaginary cockroach from my arm. I think I'll be doing that for a few more minutes yet, my skin ultra sensitive to touch in preparation for further danger. It was worth it though, I have the shotgun. I dropped it when I made it outside room #203. I pick it up to examine. It's unloaded, the barrel has been sawn off which should make it easier to carry, the butt has a hook where I can attach it to my waist band. Very handy. It only takes two rounds at a time, reloading will be time consuming but it's much more powerful than my other weapons. I empty one lot of shells into my pocket for easy reach and put two in the chambers.

Cockroach on my face? "Get off!" No, strand of hair. I must stop. They've gone. I need to calm down. Something about that bell made them leave but I won't second guess, there's little I can do about the bell but I sense I'm running low on time. The insects have gone and I wasn't at risk of dying, it was just highly unpleasant. I brush my arms down again, I hate this place.

I must keep moving, standing here isn't helpful and doesn't get me closer to leaving. #204 is locked but #205 opens. No static and no cockroaches. The bedroom is devoid of furniture but not empty. The back wall is lined with three corpses hung by chains around their wrists against metal grating all marked with the Halo of the Sun. They are hung like pictures. Their insides are exposed, their flesh cut away from clavicle to hip bone but somehow their organs remain in place. I recognise all three of them.

Greg Lestrade, Sally Donovan and Bloody Anderson.

Sally Donovan sits in the middle, with Lestrade on the left and Anderson on my right. Her heart slowly twitches and begins to beat, her lungs fill with air. Her appendix is missing, she had it removed shortly after I first had the misfortune to meet her. Her internal organs seem healthy and show no signs of disease like the John's had. It's like looking at a working anatomical model.

"Ugh freak, if you're gonna spill your load do it over there. Pervert."

I take a swift step back. She's alert, her face is hard as usual, she's in no pain. She rolls her eyes at me, "You getting off on this? This is the kinda thing that get people like you going, psychopaths, nut jobs."

"Sociopath."

She laughs derisively at me, a far too familiar sound. "Pull the other one freak, you can't even do that right. Pathetic. John would be better off without you. We all would."

"People would be dead without me." I can see her swallow, her lungs expanding as she speaks, incredible.

"Like you care about them. You only care about the work, you only care about being right, you only care about being smart. Oh, wait, you 'care' about John apparently." She laughs again, dry and mocking. She doesn't understand. "You want him to look like me? All cut open so you can have a good poke around? You don't care about him, you don't like anyone. You just want to play with him."

The shotgun at my side feels heavier than ever. It's like the corridor of faces again. Her voice, her distain. "Why are you here?"

"Because of you, we all suffer because of you." Spite, even hanging like she is she speaks with spite. It's returned, everything she gives me I return.

"Freak." Anderson has roused. The shotgun is doubly tempting now. "Come to ruin more lives? Or are you looking for a hit?"

Tedious. "Where's John?"

"Why would I know? You probably know, probably buried him somewhere. You're going to kill him eventually, if you're lucky it'll be an accident but then I'll make sure you pay for it no matter what happens. You belong in prison, the public should be protected from people like you."

"I'm sure you'll try." I scowl. "But if any harm came to John I'd find the person responsible within the day."

"Look Sally, he's being 'noble', he's trying to act like a real boy."

"Weirdo. He'd be nothing without his brother protecting him. Left on his own he was just a druggie. Are you high right now?"

I don't answer.

"Look at you," Donovan smiles, she'd be crossing her arms and resting on her hip if she could, that typical pose when she's feeling particularly cocky, "eyes blown out, looking a right state, what are you on?"

"Coke, meth, heroine, E, speed?" Anderson presses.

"I was drugged."

They both laugh now, the chains jangle. Why am I still here, this is just a distraction and Lestrade is still silent, the one person here who would actually hold a small amount of belief in me. Well, at least while I'm useful to him. John seems to think it's more than that but it's academic. I don't care what either of these two imbeciles think anyway, real or not.

"Drugged! Not your fault then? Of course not, never your fault is it?" Donovan fake pouts and laughs.

"I'll find your stash eventually, you can't hide, we'll keep coming for you."

"Nothing to find." Not anymore. They would have never found it anyway, not if I didn't want that outcome.

Movement in the corner of my eye, Lestrade's heart is beginning to twitch, he's going to wake. He's always been my buffer between those two. They remind me of school sometimes, the bullies. I'm not a child anymore.

Anderson's starting up again. "Do you think he'll rescue John this time?" he says to Donovan but looking at me. "I think he'll find him burnt to a crisp, all this fire symbolism, obvious."

"That hasn't happened yet, has it? John's copped it so many ways, blown up, overdosed, stabbed, electrocuted, tortured, had all his limbs hacked off while he screamed. Sherlock's scared, look at him. Gonna piss your pants there, freak?"

Burning does seem likely, Moriarty would want that, so would the cult. I need to push that from my mind. "What do you want from me?"

"You ready to be a good man, Sherlock?" Asks Lestrade, a look of concern on his face, eyebrows furrowed. Donovan and Anderson snigger to themselves.

"Is that what this is about, another test of my morality?" Goodness, hate, chaos and order all wrapped up with me.

"Isn't life a test of your morality?"

"Wisdom doesn't suit you Lestrade, stick with facts."

Donovan sneers, "Can't keep up?"

"Shut up, Sally." Lestrade scolds. "This is your chance, this place, the whole of Silent Hill. You have to be a good man. For John, for the girl, the mother."

"I didn't know I was a bad one."

"Not bad Sherlock, just indifferent. You miss the point."

"I do what I do well, why does any of this matter?" It's the results that matter, who I am is nothing to them. "I solve cases, I help you and your stupid little team make cases that you couldn't solve in twenty years! I am what I am! Why do I have to change?"

"Because you can be more, you could be happier too." He stops mid-pep talk and scrutinises me. "Are you high Sherlock? You promised me, you promised!" He's angry, I'm bored.

"I was unknowingly drugged, Moriarty spiked the caffeine pills." I'm cold, indifferent. I see his face, he doesn't know whether to believe me. Always watching, waiting for me to disappoint. Would John believe me? "I'm telling the truth."

"We'll see I guess."

"You'll see when I capture Moriarty."

"No Sherlock, we'll see when you need to take more because this time you know what's really in them. Supposedly."

"I won't take anymore."

"Then why are you still carrying them?" Sneers Anderson, that smug smile slithering across his face.

I take the pills out of my bag and set them down on the floor in front of Lestrade. "Now do you believe me or am I still disappointing you in some way? Should I find a wife, buy a house in the countryside and have a couple of children? Will I meet your expectations then?"

"Good man, Sherlock. You made the right choice."

"That's all he has to do?" Scoffs Donovan. "He's probably pocketed some or he'll get more. He's not to be trusted, Lestrade."

"I trust him. Cockroaches are coming Sherlock, run to the top of the hallway, you'll know which one to pick."

"What? What do you mean? I have to get to the third floor, I have to find room #312."

"Run."

"Not fair." I hear them, must be thousands of them. I rush out of the door and run to the end of the corridor as instructed. The two end rooms are missing, the corridor opens to form a T-shape. Three ladders and four hatches in the ceiling. There's a fourth ladder but it's broken, twisted and unusable. They're below the solitary confinement cells. I look behind me, the cockroaches cover all four walls and are headed my way. Pick one, Lestrade said I'd know which one but I-

The one on the left.

I climb and twist open the red valve on the hatch. It opens easily, I can lift it up and climb into the room, closing it behind me. A couple of cockroaches get through but I take care of them with my foot. The ladder was assigned to Lestrade somehow. I don't understand why he was there, he was too good to me. Too good for the Otherworld.

I was right about my location, I'm in a dirty padded cell but the door has been broken away. I'm back on the third floor, #312 is just metres away now. I need to get there, I need to get out of this world and I need to figure out how to use the aglaophotis.

No.

More crying. Handgun, I need to save my ammunition for the shotgun. I rush out, the crying is coming from behind one of the other solitary cell doors, one of the hallucinogen creatures would have been waiting for me. There's no static though.

"Why didn't you come for me?"

I'm wrong.

"John!" I tug on the door handle but it's stuck solid. "John, can you open the door?" Stupid question, if he could he would have by now.

"I thought you'd come for me, how could you leave me here? I would have come for you." He sobs, John's crying like I've never known him to, like he's broken.

"I'm here, I've come for you, I'm going to get you out." I try to find purchase on the door with the crowbar but the gap is too small. Does he have air in there? I have to get him out.

"I can't take it anymore, I don't have anyone, no one needs me." He's crying less now, he sounds spent and empty. He can't cry any more.

"I need you. John, speak to me, can you hear me?" I check the doors either side but neither will open. I need to get in there.

"I'm so alone, it hurts, everything hurts, it's never going to get better, I can't live like this. I can't do it anymore."

No. "Stop it! Listen to me, I'm going to get you out, you're not alone, you'll never be alone, never again." Even if it's not him, he can't do this. "Do you have a talisman?"

"I thought Sherlock would come. The nightmares, he's in them now but he never comes, I need him and he never comes. I scream and I shout and he never comes." He grits out the last words, angry at me, disappointed.

"Do you have anything with you? John, can you hear me? I need you to listen, I'm here, I'm just on the other side of this door."

"Everyone would be better off."

"No. Don't. Please don't." I have to get in, I have to stop him. Get inside, get inside, get inside. Think of something.

"Goodbye."

"No, NO! JOHN!"

Gunshot.

I hear the thud. He was standing. The door unlocks and swings open of its own accord. I ready myself for the sight of John, he'll have chosen to put the gun under his chin to destroy the brain stem. I know what to expect, I've seen it before.

The room is empty but the blood spatter is still there. I was hearing voices again. I step inside to take a closer look and I know in an instant that I've made a mistake. The door closes behind me. I scrabble at the door but the stiff padding stops me and it's shut tight. The hatch was a fake too, not even a seam.

I'm trapped, no way out.

"Uh oh! Quite the fuck up there my dear Sherlocky."

Moriarty. "Long time no hear, did you shut the door?" It would be best if he did, he'll let me out eventually. He gets bored.

"Doesn't matter who. How long do you think you'll last in this room all on your own before you go mad?"

"I'll die before then."

"I'm a bit cross with you, you've hurt my feelings." He fakes a cry to make his point. I use my knife to cut through the padded walls revealing steel sheets. I keep going, maybe there's something here and at least it's something to do.

"I plan on hurting more than your feelings."

"You thought I drugged you? I wouldn't be so crass. No my love, that was all your big brother's doing. If I was going to do it I'd have used coke, really, really good coke. Coke that would make you come with delight, Sherlock."

"He wouldn't." He wouldn't. It's a trick.

Voices. Many of them. They're singing, chanting.

“... Samael... take us to paradise... come forth... let hate feed you... oh holy... Samael... paradise... come forth...”

"Oooh, things are happening!"

"What things?" I grit out. I'm already being to feel my breath getting short, a reaction to being closed in, trapped, no light, no air. I bang on the door.

"LET ME OUT!"

“...take us to paradise, cleanse us... let hate make you strong...”

Chanting, ritual. The Order. "You need to stop them, Moriarty."

"All in good time Sherlock, all in good time. First, I have a proposition."

Chapter 29: Hospital room... somewhere

Chapter Text

"No, don't, please don't! Please!"

"Chain her, on her back."

"No, stop! Mummy! Help me! Someone help me! No! Stop! Mummy! I want my mummy! You killed her! I want her back! Please! Don't! Let me go!"

"Burn her, burn her now."

"No! No! Don't, don't put me on the fire, no! Stop it! Mummy! Mummy! NOOOOO!"

"John? John!" I need you, where are you? I'm scared, where is he, where is he? No, no, no, don't be gone, don't be gone.

"Right here, Hannah, don't worry, I'm never far away." John's still here. I hate the nightmares, it's like it's happening all over again. "I was just fiddling with the door again. Do you feel any pain?"

John's my guardian angel, he's got really kind eyes. Mummy said there were good angels, maybe she sent him to look after me. If I ever have a daddy, I'd want him to be like John. He said I have him now and that I'm not alone. Maybe I can live with him when we escape, he can make me better. Mummy would be happy, she would have liked John. He's been in the army which means he can fight and he's a doctor which means he's kind and really, really smart. Maybe if he had been my dad they wouldn't have taken me, maybe he would have helped mummy fight and they wouldn't have stabbed...

"Hannah? Any pain?"

"No. Don't feel."

"You don't feel anything?"

He looks worried, no pain must be bad. Be brave, mummy said be brave. "No."

"No worries, it just means your pain medication is still working so I don't need to top you up."

He's lying. I can tell. It's bad. She's coming soon. We're running out of time. "Ok."

"Hannah, I need to talk to you about something important."

He's found something, he must have, he said he'd figure it out and he's really clever. "Ok." Ow, smiling hurts. I wish I didn't feel anything when I moved, it's only ok if I'm still. I hate being still.

"I think I've worked out what we're supposed to do next and it's something I need to ask you to do." I blink once, I'll do it. "Don't speak yet or blink yes to anything because I need to explain first." He takes a deep breath, this isn't good. "Remember when you saw where we were? I want to do that again. I know what was special about the first time it happened and I can make it happen again."

He's looking all worried and rubbing his hand over his face. "What?"

"I was trying to help you, I gave you too much medicine when you were asleep and you... you died. You were gone for a long time and then you woke up again, you came back to life. Whatever is inside you, god, she won't let you die."

I asked John to kill me and he did what I wanted. He tried to help me die so I could be with mummy, so it wouldn't hurt anymore. I saw Silent Hill because I was dead, I was flying like an angel. Is that what being dead is really like or is it because it's special here? I was dead, really dead.

"If I make you fall asleep and then give you too much medicine, you might be able to see Silent Hill again, maybe you can find Sherlock and speak to him and tell him where to find us. Maybe we can find some aglo-whatsit or find out how to get out. I think this is the answer. What I need to ask you is whether you want to try. I won't force you."

"Kill me again?" What if I don't wake up, what if I die this time? What if the bad inside does something? What if god comes out?

"For a little while, yes. But you'll be awake in a way, like you were before when you saw the town. At least I think so. But you can't really die, it would be like a special sleep and you'll wake up again and I'll be right here all the time. I'm sure this is what we're supposed to do. When I saw you in Rosewater Park you said I had to be brave enough to do the right thing but I think it's going to be you that has to be the brave one."

"It help?"

"Yes, it'll help very much."

I want to help. John will be here, he won't let anything happen to me. I wasn't hurt when I could see Silent Hill but it was scary. I don't want to go to the school though, the school is horrible. Alessa hated school, they were so mean to her there, they'd hit her and make her cry. Her mummy never helped her, she only cared about the church and stupid god. "Ok."

"Could you choose what to see? Move around?"

Sort of, I wanted to find John again, I was scared but I recognised where we were, I remembered things, I remembered the girls and their memories, it was too much all at once. They didn't like Silent Hill, we were frightened. "Kinda. I thought... 'bout you, see hospital, I 'member it, 'Lessa 'member." If I know what's happening this time maybe I can do it. I won't be scared this time. "I try."

"Maybe if you think about Sherlock you can find him? Do you think that might work?"

"Yeah." John's clever, he knows what to do.

"Ok, well he's really tall, about six feet and he's slim too. He's got black hair that's curly and a bit long, it covers his ears. He's got really pale blue eyes shaped like a cat and far apart, he's got pale white skin and high cheek bones. He shaves but if he's been looking for us for a while he might have stubble by now. His beard doesn't grow as fast as mine, blimey mine's really starting to itch." John scratches his chin and pulls a funny face, mummy used to pull funny faces all the time to make me giggle.

I hope I can do what John says, I don't know what high cheek bones means but it sounds like Sherlock looks weird, eyes like a cat and far apart? He's probably really funny looking. John likes him though, they are best friends like me and mummy were.

"He's got quite a deep voice, quite posh too but not too much, just well spoken. He usually wears a really smart looking suit but no tie, he hates ties. He wears a really smart coat too, black and long and a dark blue scarf."

"Ok. He's... weird." Weird name too, Sherlock should be a surname not a first name. I bet his parents were weird too.

John laughs, I like his laugh. "Yeah, some people think he looks a bit odd but he's unique, really striking actually. Hopefully you'll see him soon." He looks serious again. "If you see him try to talk to him, tell him I'm in the hospital with you. He'll want proof you know me so tell him..." He's thinking of something, maybe they had a password when they were solving crimes. "Tell him it's his turn to buy dinner and I want to eat Persian no matter what he says about chickpeas."

"Persian... food?"

"Yeah, he says chickpeas are only good for using as pea shooters." John smiles before he's serious again. "You'll need to tell him about stopping god, answer his questions as best as you can, he'll probably have a lot of them and he'll probably tell you things we don't know either."

"Ok." God is bad, get her and stop her with the aglo. I can tell him that.

"There's someone else you could look for, he might have the red stuff you talked about."

Oh no, the bad people.

"I don't want to you find the people who hurt you but the man behind everything, the man I said I hated. Jim Moriarty. He'll be in control of everything, if we can find him we might be able to stop god. This is all just a game to him, he'll want a way to stop things when he's ready."

I look away, I don't want John to see me not being brave.

"Hannah, you don't have to, Sherlock's the most important."

I have to help, we need the red stuff that Mummy and Granddad used to stop god, to make her go away. If she comes, terrible things will happen. "No... I will."

"No, it's too dangerous, just find Sherlock, he'll know what to do."

"Morry - what he... look like?" I need to know to think about him. John hates him, he's done very bad things.

"Hannah-"

"Tell me." I mean it John, tell me. I want to help, I can do it, trust me. "Tell... me."

He's thinking, I think he'll tell me. "My height, brown hair that's a little shorter than mine and it's been styled and looks expensive. I've only seen him twice, sometimes he wears disguises but he's probably wearing a suit, I think he likes to copy Sherlock. He might have glasses, I don't know. He's got white skin, brown eyes and he changes his accent so don't rely on that. He talks like he's a little bit crazy and over the top, he... he likes to play with people, he doesn't care like most people, he's a psychopath. He's criminally insane and very, very clever."

Oh, oh no. I'm only seven! I can't talk to him!

"I know it's scary, you don't have to go anywhere near him. Sherlock's the most important."

I'll do it, I have to. I'll try to find Sherlock first. "Who else?"

"No one else, just Sherlock, the aglo or Moriarty. If that fails try to find us again, maybe I've missed something. See if you can interact with things."

"Ok. When?"

"We need to do it soon but when you're ready."

I might get scared if I don't do it now, like going to the dentist. "Now."

John nods. "Okay." He picks up the sleeping drops. "This will make you sleep first so you won't be awake when I give you the overdose, you won't feel anything and it won't hurt. Try to remember everything you can about what you see, hear, smell-"

"Smell?"

"I know," he's smiling again, "but any little thing can help, every detail, clothing, expressions, words, the rooms and places you'll go, sometimes it can be the smallest thing that solves a case. You have to be a detective for me."

Being a detective sounds really cool. I can do this, just remember everything. I wish I had my sketchbook so I could write things down or draw pictures of what I see. I can't draw now, my fingers are all burnt up. "De-tec-tive Hannah."

"Yep, that's you sweetheart."

I like it when he calls me sweetheart, he's a bit like a dad because dad's say things like that. I was friends with a girl in Cornwall for a year before we had to move again, her dad used to call her sweet pea. "How long be dead?"

"You were gone about twenty minutes last time. You'll still be alive though, in some respect."

Twenty minutes? That's a long time, a really long time to not be breathing or anything. Wouldn't my brain go wrong? People get brain damage like that. God's so stupid, she's ruined everything, she ruins everything for everyone. If I help John get her out, we'll be ok then. "I'm ready."

"You can change your mind." He looks more nervous than me, he's nibbling on his lip. He'll make it bleed.

"I find Sherlock. He help." John wouldn't ask if there was anything else he could do. I have to do this. I might not see him again. "If I... really die... thank you."

"You're not going to die Hannah, I wouldn't do this if that were a risk." He's stern but not cross. "When you come back you might be a bit disorientated and confused but that will pass but you will come back. I promise."

"Believe you." Accidents happen though. I won't blame John, he's trying to help me.

"Good, right, I'll be here the whole time."

I open my mouth, it tastes horrible. Don't be scared, don't be scared, get to Silent Hill, find Sherlock. "John...." Getting sleepy.

"It's ok, go be a detective, I'll be right here when you get back. Try to remember everything, look at everything."

This might be it. So tired... bye John.

Chapter 30: Silent Hill...

Chapter Text

Oh... it worked! It worked! I can see the town! I'm on the mountain. Am I standing or floating? Feels really, really weird. My hands, they're all glowy but they aren't burnt and horrible anymore. This is so crazy, can I move? Little bit but it's not easy, it's like I'm in space and there's no gravity. I'm not burnt here, I'm not really me but look at my skin, I'm normal again. Amazing!

Ok, you have a job to do, close your eyes and think about Sherlock. He's John friend, they are like brothers, really tall and weird looking like a cat-

"Hannah Mason, my child."

No, no, wake up, wake up now. It's her, it's god! "Leave me alone!" I can't see her, she just here, everywhere. I can't run away. John!

"You're looking for Sherlock Holmes, I can help you." I thought she'd sound older, she sounds like a grown up but not like an old lady. She's bad though, I know she's bad. Don't trust her.

"You won't help me, you hate me, you hate everyone!" I need to get away, I need to get off this mountain and find Sherlock. Tall, thin, nice suit, bit posh, curly hair, maybe he smiles when he and John solve cases. No, she's still here, "Get away from me, get out of me!" Don't cry, don't cry.

"Child calm yourself, I'll show you where Sherlock Holmes is but I need you to find a man for me first."

"Go away, I'll do it by myself." Angry, be angry, then you won't cry.

"You can't."

"Why not?" Stupid, stupid god.

"I'm hiding him from you." She sounds so pleased with herself. If I could see her I'd kick her in the shin. I did that once to a mean girl, mummy had to see the teacher but I'd do it again to god. "Do what I ask of you and I'll let you see him, I'll let you talk to him." She sounds so calm, like she's asking me for tea and biscuits.

I might have to do what she says but, "I don't want to go to the school."

"He's at the Lakeview Hotel. He's protected himself, I can't get there, but you can. We're separate at the moment, you can pass through the protection."

I have to do what she says, if I can talk to Sherlock he can rescue us. It might be worth it. "How can I believe you? Why don't you just let us go?"

"You'll have to trust me, you have no choice. This man is much more of a danger than Sherlock Holmes, he's killed people, lots of them. I want to see inside his room, I want to know what he's doing, how he's stopping me."

"Did he burn me?"

"No, he's not one of them, but he helped. His name is James Moriarty."

The man who John hates, he's a very bad man, insane. "Can he hurt me?"

"No, he won't even be able to see you, you'll be my spy."

"You want me to hate him, I can feel you're happy when I hate, you feel strong."

"I just need you to look for now, I need your eyes. He killed one of my priestesses. That made me angry with him."

"Good. I won't do it." It will make everything worse, John won't be happy but I have to find Sherlock. He'll be disappointed if I don't.

"You don't have to follow my order but if you don't I'll send you to the school. Remember when they broke Alessa's arm?" She says calmly but she's enjoying it, she likes making me remember Alessa's memories, she was sad a lot. She loved her butterflies, I like them too. But I remember when she broke her arm.

"The teacher did it." Mrs Smithson twisted her arm when dragging her to the headmaster's office and she broke it. She was so angry, she called her a witch and a demon.

"The teasing and the hitting, I'll send you there child, you'll remember everything, you'll feel everything all over again. Do as I ask and I'll lead you to Sherlock Holmes. Baby Bunny."

No! "Don't you ever call me that." I hate her, I hate her so much. Only mummy calls me that, it's my special name, no one else calls me that. Ever.

"Make your choice."

I can't go back to Midwich, I can see the top of the school from here. I hate that place, makes me feel sick just thinking about it. I don't want to help her but she'll make me go there. "Ok, I'll do it but you have to let me talk to Sherlock afterwards." I don't trust her, Sherlock will try to stop her but I can't go to school. I have to. Maybe I can find something out about Moriarty that will help John too, I can be a double agent.

"Good child, over by the river, a big white building. It's a holy place. Come with me."

I can move easily now, fast and sweeping over the town like I have wings but smoother, like floating. I can see the church, it makes me shiver and feel cold. I can see the hospital too, there's a point in it that glows like the hospital has a heart, that's John, he's safe, looks like we're up high. No wait, details, um, one, two, three, four floors up, I'll tell Sherlock when I get to talk to him, he can find us and open the door. We'll be rescued!

We cross the park where John said he'd seen me and the way I looked before. He'd seen the girls too, I feel them now, Alessa, Cheryl and Mummy. I feel mum with me, I wish I could speak to her, I wish I could see her one more time and hear her voice. I miss her so much. I feel her when I'm here all glowy, she loves me.

"Don't be sad child, hate the people who murdered your mother, you'll get your revenge."

"No, I won't hate." But I do, I do hate them, I hate them all and the monsters too. "Will there be monsters at the hotel?"

"No monsters, he's protected from everything I can do."

We're over the lake now, I see the hotel. It's a big white building with fancy gardens. There are some balconies on some rooms but not on others. The place looks old and like it isn't looked after anymore. There are some piers too for rowboats, mum used to take me rowing and she'd let me use one of the paddles but we'd always end up going in circles laughing. We'd find a quiet secret spot and eat a picnic. There's a car park but no cars. Details, I have to remember everything.

We go inside, I can feel my feet on the floor. "Go up the stairs, room #204, don't open the door, just walk through it. He won't be able to see or hear you. Look at everything, I'll see what you see."

"What do you look like?"

"Like a nightmare. Go now, I'm losing patience with you, child. Two-oh-four."

I hope John can get rid of her forever, she mustn't hurt anyone else. I walk up the stairs, it feels funny to walk, like I'm too light to stay on the ground but I see a sign that tells me to go left through some doors. I put my hand on them to open them but it goes straight through. "Oh!" I try again, I'm like a ghost but that would make sense since I'm dead in the hospital. Kinda dead. I run through, it feels weird.

I see #201, it has a picture of a flower painted on it. Looks like a red poppy. The even numbers are on the opposite side of the hallway, first #202 which has a rose on it and then #204 but I don't know that flower, it looks like a rose but it has lots and lots of petals. The bad man is inside. I have to go in, John's depending on me and I might run out of time. I run through and I'm in the room.

He's here alone and the room has loads of stuff in it. Lots of small tellies but all of them are all broken and showing grey fuzz. There's other stuff too but there's the man. He's sat on the floor, there's a red circle painted on the floor around him and lots of big candles that look like they've been burning for ages and ages because they're all drippy. The circle has lots of shapes and symbols around it, it's on the walls too, big ones, little ones, everywhere, even on the back of the door. All in red paint. I've seen it before, it was on the walls of the place where they burned us, the girls have seen it too, mummy has seen it, it made her head hurt. It's a bad symbol.

There's no bed but I think there used to be one because the carpet is a different colour. I can see Moriarty's face, he doesn't look nasty but I know he is. He's wearing a suit like John said, a black one with a black shirt. He's got his eyes closed and he's sitting in front of a radio. There's something in his hand that he's playing with, I can't quite... he holds it up to the light from the big window, that's it! A syringe full of red stuff! That's the aglo we need! Aglo... oh I know what it is... aglo... photis! Aglaophotis! I try to reach out and touch it but the circle stops me, it's like there's an invisible wall around him.

"Things like happiness, joy, love, they're all so intangible and impermanent." He's talking but not to me. He doesn't have one of those bluetooth things in his ear either. Maybe the radio is a walkie-talkie? "The only things that truly last and never change are pain, Sherlock," Sherlock! Where is he? He's talking to Sherlock! "Pain and suffering and agony and misery, that's what it's all about." He sounds happy, he's just like them, all the horrible church people. "You and I know how to beat the laws of this pathetic world and it's so beautifully simple: you take your pleasure from the pain. Then, the pleasure and happiness never ends. Beautiful, isn't it?" John was right, he's a bad man. He's smiling but he's still got his eyes closed.

"The only pain I'd take pleasure in right now is yours." That must be Sherlock's voice on the radio, John said he had a deep posh voice. They're talking to each other. Maybe he'll say where he is? He sounds ok, he's cross but he doesn't sound like he's hurt. I'd be cross if someone took John from me and made me fight monsters.

"See, you know how!" he's smiling and looks excited, "It's no more than the boring idiots deserve. The more of you I see the more I know that we could achieve amazing things together, we could reshape the world and then crush it, just for fun. Just. Because. We. Can." He looks scarier now. I don't like being so close, what if he sees me? "We have a problem though, don't we? Your pet, your love."

He's got Sherlock's pets too? Moriarty is even mean to animals. "I'll find him, you know I will, you'd be disappointed if I didn't."

"How right you are, such a clever boy." He's really weird, talking differently all the time. "Destroy it before it destroys you. You're withering away, you're becoming less and less of the man you could be, he's a parasite, find him and kill him. Kill him dead. Then find me Sherlock, come be with me instead. Let's play with the world, show me how clever you are. Promise I won't kill you!" Ugh, he's crazy. Don't believe him, Sherlock. "We can start with your brother, I know how you loathe him, he's held you back, used you, he only helped you to serve his own needs, he even installed a moral conscience into your flat."

"He played no role in that."

"He's tried to tame you, make you his pet and domesticate you. I'll let you run wild, the world will be our grand experiment. I have the resources, I have everything you need. You just need to let go of your 'conscience'."

"You pose an interesting prospect but I'd rather rot in here and lobotomise myself. Sorry Jim." Ha! You tell him Sherlock! I like him but what's a lobotomise? Must remember, John will know. Lobotomise. Lobotomise. Lobotomise.

"You disappoint me again. I had such high hopes. Hasn't Silent Hill shown you your one weakness over and over and over and over?"

"He's not a weakness." Who does he mean? What's Silent Hill shown him? So much to remember.

"What would you have said if I'd asked you before you said those words 'Afghanistan or Iraq?' hmm? Oh Molly told me all about how you two met, was the talk of Bart's. If I had beaten the cripple to it, you would have jumped at the chance, I'm everything you want!"

"Don't beg, it's unbecoming."

The man laughs. "Truth doesn't sit well and yet you ignore it." He sighs dramatically and slumps even though Sherlock can't see him. "If I can't have you working for me that means you're against me, that means I have to go back to the old plan. You remember the old plan, don't you?"

"Yes, yes, all very tedious. Go on, let's play some more, let me out."

He's stuck somewhere too. God must have done it, put him in a hiding place so I couldn't find him on my own. Where could he be? I'll have a look around the room, be a detective, maybe I'm missing things just watching Moriarty talk. There's a desk with a laptop but the screen saver is on. I can't touch it even if I concentrate.

"Not in charge of that. How's your leg? You'll be limping like your pet." Oh no, he hurt his pet.

"Who's chanting?"

"You know who's chanting, don't ask stupid questions."

I can't hear chanting, I can't get closer to the radio either. Moriarty isn't cross though, he's almost teasing him. I keep looking around, there's three small televisions on a table and one on the floor but they're broken and don't show proper pictures. There's an empty plate of food with the crusts from some sandwiches and a big bottle of water without a label on it that's almost empty.

Nothing else... oh, there's a notebook and a pen. His handwriting is really, really bad and he's drawn horrible pictures too. One is a doodle of a man in a cage being strangled by vines. He's got curly hair, maybe it's Sherlock. There's another one of a man who looks like John and he's dead on the ground. I don't like them at all. There are words too, scribbled, 'inferiority complex', 'bullied', 'pretty plaything', 'Sherlock + Jim'. That last one is really weird, it's like he's got a crush or something. I wish I could take it and show John but I can't grab it.

Anything else? No clothes but he might be sleeping in another room that's got a bed in it. We've been here so long, he can't have stayed awake all the time and his clothes look clean. He must have washed too. That's the kind of stuff detectives look for isn't it?

"I'm free to kill anyone from The Order if they pose a threat."

"Me too, already topped one of them. I killed the bitch for you my lovely. She wanted you to die and tried to tell me that my time playing was over. I don't like being told what to do so I shot her in the head."

He murdered someone, one of the bad people but he has a gun, he might kill John and Sherlock's pet too. Oh, the priestess god told me about, that's who he must have shot. "One less for me to worry about. They're getting ready."

"Exciting isn't it!"

There's nothing really here, I don't know what god wants but if I don't see something important she might not take me to Sherlock and he might stay stuck. Maybe the symbols on the walls are important. I touch one and trace the shape with my finger. "What? Did I?" I've made it glow too, the light is spreading across all the symbols. All of them are glowing red. "Oh no." There's sirens, they're really loud and he's covering his ears but I don't need to, they don't hurt me. He's upset and angry.

"NO!" Moriarty is standing up, he's out of the circle. He takes a phone out of his pocket but I don't think it's working. "No, no, fuck, fucking hell."

He's grabbing his laptop and he's got a gun but it's too late, everything's changing. He's saying lots of bad words. "J-John? I need to come b-back now. Please?" I whisper. Help me, I want to come back now. "Help." He's looking around, all the walls are changing to metal and everything is getting dark and red and really, really scary. I did this, just like I made John bleed, I did this. "I wanna see Sherlock now."

Moriarty is breaking everything, pushing it on the floor and stamping on it but he's taking the notebook. What's that? Scraping noise, something is coming, it's sounds big and scary, oh no. I hide in the corner by the window, it's coming for him, I know it is. It might try to get me like the monsters that got mummy.

"Thank you, child."

"Sh-sherlock now." Please, take me away. The bit of the floor and the walls around me hasn't changed but everything else has. He's muttering to himself but I can't hear over the sirens, his face is all screwed up. He runs towards me, oh no! Don't hurt me! He stops though and picks up the radio, he still can't see me. He's going to run away soon, he's getting everything he needs.

"You got more than we bargained for, this man isn't a problem for either of us now. It's a gift, you get no more. He can't escape."

"Y-you said I could see Sherlock!"

"Are you really surprised old soul? You go back now."

"N-no, you promised!"

"I promised nothing. James Moriarty will pay for his sins, that's more than your guardian could have prayed for. Stop complaining."

No! I'm not going to be able to tell Sherlock where we are! "I HATE YOU!"

"Good."

I'm fading away, I'm going back or maybe I'm really dying this time. Moriarty is trying to run away. I can see him in the corridor because the wall has lots of little holes in it like wire. He's... frightened, he's seen something, the scraping. It's a monster! I can't see very well but there's a big knife... really big knife, he's dragging it... Moriarty's running scared now. Am I dying? I feel like I'm dying. "John, John don't let me die yet."

Chanting... I hear chanting.

Chapter 31: Hospital room... somewhere

Chapter Text

...guide us and protect us... into paradise... we will worship...

Fifteen minutes and not a single heartbeat. For all intents and purposes, she's dead. The chanting began after a minute, just like last time. It was a bit of a relief to hear them start up again actually, bunch of wankers. Still, the more it follows the previous overdose, the better. The bell earlier was odd, the one that woke Hannah, but it's not tolled again. Time feels like it's running short, something feels like it has changed. Maybe I'm getting paranoid and a touch stir crazy from being locked up. Still no heartbeat.

...bring god forth, lead us to paradise...

I don't doubt she'll come back. Ok, I'm terrified and sick to my stomach but this will work. I'm not moving this stethoscope from her chest because I want to hear the first sign she's back. And she will come back. She will. "Right here, Hannah." I keep talking to her. Maybe she can hear me or sense my presence. If there's a chance it will make a difference I might as well try. I don't want her to be scared. "You're doing brilliantly." I wish it could be me in her place, what have I sent her into? It has to be worth it, this has to be the right thing to do. I was so sure.

...let hate feed you...

Hate. Yeah, I hate you people for what you've done. I don't even know what has happened to Sherlock but I know that if they could do this to a little girl they are capable of anything. Just give me one chance and I... no, focus on Hannah, hate will only make this worse and you care about her. She's probably with Sherlock now. He'll have tested her, asked leading questions and tried to catch her in a lie but he'll believe her eventually. Maybe he'll even like her too, he's always been good with children we've had to question, he doesn't patronise them. Surprised me the first time but then he's always full of surprises.

Sherlock must have found out why he's here and what Moriarty is up to. If Sherlock's alive. I swallow hard, I really need to stop thinking about that because it's going to drive me mad and having a nervous breakdown right now wouldn't be the best. I can't get it out of my head though. Christ, I could have sent her to find a corpse when she's been through enough. Please be alive Sherlock, if not for Hannah's sake then mine. I don't want to leave here without you, nothing would be the same without you.

There's no plan B if this doesn't work. It's been at least sixteen minutes now. I thought time went slowly when Paul and I were separated or when I was wearing the bomb vest or when Harry got drunk and fell off that bridge and broke her leg in Cornwall when she was fifteen. That was in the days before mobile phones. I really shouldn't have so many examples, I can think of loads and only some of them are since meeting Sherlock, the man who sees only one assassination attempt as a slow month. Maybe I should get a calmer hobby but if I end up adopting Hannah then life really will be different. Good different. Adopting, it should scare me more but I want to, she should be with me.

Hannah should wake soon. I tried to give her the same amount so I could judge the amount of time. Please wake, Hannah. She's just a child, it was too much to ask of her but if we've got a chance of leaving here together then this is it. I have to trust that she can't be hurt even if she could be frightened. "Good girl, Hannah. Almost there, you'll be back soon." She's still lifeless and getting cold. I put an extra sheet over her but her skin is too delicate for much more.

"...oh Holy Mother... bring forth paradise... bathe us in your wisdom... kindness... paradise..."

They're getting louder, good sign. I want to walk around and pace but she'd been so frightened the last time she'd woken I don't want to risk moving. I have to be the first thing she sees when she wakes. There's all kinds of hell out there not to mention the place they burnt her, the monsters that killed her mum and have been sent for Sherlock. Sherlock. "I'm still here, I'm waiting for you, everything is going to plan." Wake up, please wake up now. Just hold it together, John.

Heatbeat. There, I heard it.

She sucks in a violent breath just like last time. "Hannah! Hannah, you're ok, you're ok, welcome back, sweetheart." I pull off my stethoscope and try to look as calm and normal as possible. "You're ok, you're back."

She looks at me, gasping for air but trying to speak. "Sher-lock... a-live."

He's alive! Alive. It worked. He's out there somewhere. "You spoke to him?" She's still struggling, I shouldn't be asking questions yet. "Just take a minute, catch your breath." He's alive, I'd prepared for the worst, I didn't realise how much. He still might be hurt but alive is something to work with. Sherlock wouldn't go down without a fight, especially not when it came to Moriarty. He's alive, bloody alive.

"God. Morry. Promise." She pants.

"Slow, calm down, I'm going to ask you questions and we'll go step by step. You can shorten their names and make this easy for you." I take a deep breath myself and hold it, I let it out slowly and she copies me. "Good, that's brilliant. Just relax ok, let your body adjust and catch up, we can spare a couple of minutes." She relaxes and the panic and shock to her system subsides slowly. I listen to her heart just to check. She'll be tired out soon, her body must have released a massive amount of adrenaline to kick start her heart, it's still racing like she's sprinted a mile. She seems calm enough now to try asking questions. She must have found Sherlock, maybe spoken to him. Maybe he can tell me what to do now. "Do you feel ready?" She blinks once for me. Priorities. "The first thing I'm going to ask you is if you're ok?"

She blinks once.

"Good. Are you tired?"

She blinks twice while taking another shuddering breath, she can't breathe too deeply, her skin won't stretch anymore.

“...hate feed you, make you strong... oh holy mother... protect us...”

"Chan-ting!"

She's startled, she's probably heard them before, maybe when they did this to her. I thought living with Afghanistan was grim, I thought my childhood was a mess. At least I had the chance to grow up. I'm getting morose, I need to pull myself together. "It'll stop soon, that happened last time. Nothing to worry about, they won't come in." I'll deal with them if they do.

"Sher-lock, he's... here!" She's trying to smile, her eyes look bright too, happy.

"You saw him here? In the hospital?"

"He can hear... chanting."

He's here, close enough to hear them. Why hasn't he come in yet? How can she know? Evidence, circumstances, she could be mistaken, it might not be the same chanting or it could be a recording or a trick. Wouldn't put it past the sods or bloody Moriarty. "Let's start from the beginning, ok?"

"He save us!"

"We'll see, I need to know all the facts first, Moriarty knows how to play tricks on people." She's so excited, I don't want to squash her hope but we can't rely on anything we don't know one hundred percent.

"He horrid."

"I know. Wait, you saw him?" Shit, he might have hurt her, upset her, he's capable of anything, what have I done? Stay calm, don't upset her even more. If he's laid a finger on her... more than he's already responsible for.

"God made me. Said only I could. He hide from god. Said if...I go... she let..."

"Breathe, we've got time." I can't make sense of what she's saying, it's too fragmented. "Breathe, Hannah."

"...let me see... Sherlock. She hide him."

Slow, step by step. "You saw god?"

"Hear. No see."

"Right. And she told you if you went to see Moriarty then she'd show you where she was hiding Sherlock?" One blink. "Sherlock's locked up like us?" Is he expecting me to find him? I can't let her see how worried I am.

"Not like us. God hiding him from me."

"Right." Good, very good if that's true, then Sherlock should be free now that Hannah is back but if god can stop him so easily why would she let him reach us? We're going to try and stop her, it doesn't make sense. Sherlock's a risk to her.

"Four, we on four."

"Four floors up?"

"Yeah, saw you glowing. From outside." If I can get a message to Sherlock I've got something narrowed down for him. I can't send Hannah out again though, I don't know how much damage I'm doing. If he's already here then it's only a matter of time anyway, he'll search everywhere. Could he be that close? Would I even know if he banged on the door? He could walk in at any moment but so could a cultist. Keep questioning Hannah, think of what to do after you've got all the information. I'm so tired and hungry I'm getting scattered and all over the place.

"I was glowing?" One blink. "That's nice I guess, I bet I'd look good glowing." Things must have looked different, maybe Hannah could see souls? I didn't believe there were such things as souls. It's not important right now, if you've learnt anything from Sherlock it's to ask the right questions or lots of them. You need to find out what Moriarty did or said to Hannah. Don't get angry, be calm and do as much damage control as you can. I was the one who sent her into the lion's den, even if god forced our hand, this wasn't going to be simple. "So you went to speak to Moriarty?"

"Spy. No see me."

Thank goodness, just thank fuck, shit, ok, she was alright. Concentrate. "He didn't hurt you?" Two blinks, two beautiful, purposeful blinks. "Good," my voice caught, got too wound up, I need to calm down, "so where is he?"

"Hotel. Lakeview."

Got him. Lakeview Hotel, it'll be on the Lake. I'll get Hannah safe somewhere and that's it, I'll end the game. Sherlock and I will do it together.

"White, big, old, docks."

"Details. Well done, I'll find it, no trouble now." Docks, it must be directly on the lake. So proud of her, she's concentrating so hard, she paid attention. "Did god go with you?"

"To bottom stairs. Then me on own. Morry stop her."

That's why god sent her. He's found a way to protect himself. "Where did you go?"

"Two-oh-four. Flower on door. Petals. Lots."

She got the room number too. I'm coming for you, Moriarty. "You're showing Sherlock up, you're a great detective."

"Big room. Broken TVs." She carries on, she's remembering everything as she saw it. She doesn't need distracting, she needs me to keep her on track while it's still fresh. Got a little Sherlock about her.

"Anyone else there with Moriarty?"

"No."

"Good, that's great." The snipers can't be far away though. He wouldn't do this without several contingency plans and back up. He's no fool. "Did he-"

"Aglo. He had aglao-photis."

"Aglaophotis. That's the name of the drug?" Never heard of it but I didn't expect I would.

"Yeah. Needle."

It has to be injected. It'll have to be Hannah's heart again. I need to get it first. We're getting somewhere now, a new plan and options. "Brilliant Hannah, brilliant. What was he doing? Close your eyes, it'll help you remember."

Hannah closes her eyes. Her eyelid cracks a little and bleeds but she doesn't seem to notice. "Sat on floor in symbol. Red symbol. Circle with candles. Long time burning." I see her wince at saying the word burning, I give her a moment to collect herself. I think I need a second too and stare at the sink, how could someone do this? I wonder if the symbol is anything like the one of Hannah's back? "Eyes closed, used radio, talk Sherlock. I hear Sherlock."

"How did he sound?" Be ok Sherlock, you bloody owe it to me to not get yourself injured when I can't do a sodding thing about it. Be ok.

"He was... rude."

"Ha!" Oh god. Oh he was rude! Goddamn fucking rude. He's ok, he's ok.

"You cry?"

"No, no not cry just really, really relieved." Overwhelmed. Relieved. Elated. Happy. Ecstatic. "Tell me everything you can remember; what they said, and try to tell me in order the best you can so you won't miss anything."

"Um, Morry want Sherlock to be bad like him."

"Sherlock said no I take it?"

"Said he would lobot... lob..."

"Lobotomise? Lobotomy?"

"Yeah."

Why would Sherlock say that specifically? Weird thing to say. "Hannah, do you know if this hospital is a special one?"

She looks confused by the question.

"Is it for people who are mentally ill? Or was there a hospital like that in Silent Hill?" We could be in two separate wings or even separate hospitals.

"Um, maybe. Alessa came here but she... was put in basement. With Lisa. Doctor come to house sometimes. Alessa get hurt by people. Could be special."

"Did it have ambulances outside? Or anything that you'd see in a normal hospital?"

"No ambu-lances."

Good, I think. "Go back to the conservation, what happened when Sherlock said no."

"Morry disappointed. Oh, he got Sherlock pet!" Hannah almost shouted like she'd just remembered. "He hurt it, hurt it leg."

"He said the pet has a limp?"

"Yeah, Sherlock say he find it, he won't stop."

Never doubted it for a second. "It's ok, Sherlock hasn't got a pet. That's what Moriarty calls me sometimes. I used to limp but I'm ok now, I hardly ever limp now." Sherlock put paid to that.

Hannah stops talking to take in what Moriarty actually meant, it must change what she heard. She must have been picturing a dog or a cat perhaps. I think Sherlock would prefer something more unique and less run of the mill, some endangered spider or some weird Amazonian giant centipede. Normality, what I'd do to be home and find something disgusting and unidentifiable in the sink. Think I'm home sick.

Knowing Sherlock's potentially close by is... indescribable. Sherlock's coming and I have Moriarty's location. We'll do this, we'll get the aglaophotis and solve everything. This is going to work out. He's just got to get here without too many problems slowing him down. "What else did they say?"

"Sherlock hurt leg."

Problem. "How bad?"

"Limp."

"I'll see to it when he gets here, he can still walk so it's not a break. He'll be ok." Could be anything from a nasty bruise to blood loss. I'll be ready for anything, I've fixed him up with fewer supplies. I couldn't expect him to have been fighting off whatever 'monsters' are after him without picking up a knock or two. He'll be fine, I'll make sure of it. He'll be fine. "What else can you tell me?"

"Morry tell Sherlock to kill brother and you."

"Don't worry, Sherlock wouldn't harm either of us though he probably wouldn't mind a fist fight with his brother sometimes."

"Morry kill lady. The Order."

"He killed someone from The Order?"

"Yeah."

"Ok, that's useful information." One down. Moriarty's running things by the sounds of it. Wonder what Sherlock made of it, he could probably deduce why it happened. "Did Sherlock say anything about that?"

"Um... I don't..." Hannah opens her eyes, they're a bit bloodshot now.

"It's ok if you don't remember." She heard a lot, it's too much to expect her to remember everything. "Anything else you remember?"

"Notebook, I see drawing, you dead."

"He's not very nice. Sorry you had to see that but it wasn't real. I'm not going anywhere." Moriarty is just sitting there doodling away while overseeing all of this. He's insane, utterly barking mad. Did I expect anything less? The world won't miss him when he's gone.

"I... I did bad thing again. I made a monster come." Her bottom lip quivers.

"What do you mean?"

"I touch symbol on wall. Sirens and everything change. Scary. Dark. Metal. Morry swore."

"That's ok, he's a bad person. It doesn't matter if a monster comes for him." As long as she didn't accidently send something after Sherlock. She's not exactly in control of what she can do.

"God happy, she say my guardian... have revenge."

Hannah's guardian? "Me? She meant me."

"She say he can't escape."

"Did she kill him? Or did the monster do it?" What about the drug? We need that to stop her. Giving me my 'revenge' has probably just killed our chance to stop her.

"He run away. Monster have big knife. Big as you." Hannah's eyes are starting to close again, she's exhausted. "Scary. I was scared."

"You're safe now, nothing to be afraid of." I should stop, she's so tired but there's more I need to know. "Did you see Sherlock then?" I need to know everything about Sherlock. Does he know what happened?

"God lie. No Sherlock. Come back here."

Knew she wouldn't keep her promise. "Anything else important? Anything?"

"Sherlock here. He'll find us. He love more than he hate."

"Did god say that?" Her eyes have closed. She said that before, in the garden. What does it mean? "Hannah? Hannah, sweetheart." No use. I won't wake her, she's so tired I couldn't rely on what she said anyway. I just hope I got enough out of her.

God got to Moriarty. He won't be in the hotel anymore which means the aglaophotis is gone with him. Maybe he'll have the sense to use it himself and stop this bloody nightmare but in all likelihood she's just destroyed something meant to stop her. It might not matter if Sherlock can find us, there might be nothing he can do. She's beaten us to it.

Whatever happens. Come find us, Sherlock. Fourth floor.

Chapter 32: Brookhaven Hospital - Solitary Confinement, Third Floor

Chapter Text

Moriarty's gone again. I keep cutting at the walls, could sit down if I wanted to but I'm far too twitchy, this small space is maddening. Too enclosed. Too claustrophobic. I keep thinking the walls are closing in on me. I check them, I make sure my arms stretch the same amount each time and I double check the door hasn't opened. They aren't closing in. It's still too small.

I keep myself occupied to keep from thinking about my position, to keep from thinking about this day. I must be close now, Moriarty played his hand and it failed miserably. He wasn't surprised. He was disappointed. If he had started the game earlier or just shown his face sooner, the outcome may certainly have been different. I might have considered his offer, fleetingly, but considered it none the less. He's gone too far, that's for certain, but he's done so much, part of me wants to know more. There's so much I don't know. I was never able to watch a magic trick without working out how it was done.

And Moriarty is a man of many, many tricks.

I've stripped three of the walls of their padding and set to work on the floor. I've found nothing but sheets of metal behind the padding. I'm unaware whether this is standard in solitary confinement cells of this era or whether it is to purposefully entrap me. Trapped. Either way, cutting the material is something to do. Something to stop me thinking. I don't want to think anymore. I don't want to talk. It was hard enough to keep my responses to Moriarty as clipped as possible, to stop spewing a diatribe of threats and hatred. To stop describing exactly how much pain I'd like to visit upon him and how much I would enjoy it. Cut, cut, cut.

...the Chosen Ones... devout... we will follow you...

The blood didn't stain the floor, the spatter was focused on the right wall, he was standing when he shot...himself. But he didn't. He didn't shoot himself. I cut away the bloodied padding first, half hoping for a talisman but half not wanting to see the blood anymore. It's hidden now, crumpled in the corner which makes the room smaller but I don't want to see the pattern, it tells me too much. Trajectory, angle of his head, muzzle placement, barrel angle. I don't want to see anymore blood. There's too much blood here.

That gunshot. He would have never heard it, dead before the sound reached his ears. I know John has thought about taking his own life. I've seen the flash of distance in his eyes, the reliving of a memory when suicide is mentioned on a case. His sympathy lies with the victim not just because of his nature but because he understands, he empathises from experience. I made my deduction and moved on but I'd been wrong about the time frame of his life when he considered suicide. The obvious and most likely scenario being when he was first invalided from the army but I was wrong.

He was just a child, a teenager.

It was obvious during the case of a fifteen year old boy, his parents faked a murder to cover up his suicide because they feared they would be blamed and would lose their daughter. I'd sent him on several fools errands to limit his contact with the situation, I think it had been appreciated despite his anger when he realised what I had been doing. We've never spoken about it, there's no need, I won't allow him to feel that hopeless and alone again.

...oh Holy Mother... bring forth paradise... bathe us in your wisdom... kindness... paradise...

The chanting is getting louder. It's ominous but the machines have stopped which is pleasing, at least for my sanity. I check the walls and the door again. Nothing's changed. The chanting is on a similar theme as I'd expect with an attempt to birth a god. There's no new information but I'm running out of time, I need to grab the aglaophotis and follow the sound of the chanting. It's the best weapon I can use against them, they fear it. I could trade it for John, Moriarty can take care of god if needs be. John is my priority.

...hate feed you, make you strong... oh holy mother... protect us...

So repetitive, monotonous, foreboding. I peel back some more of the padding, it's a mess in here. Nothing there. Not that I really expected something. Hope, I was hoping, hope is pointless but it's something to do that isn't thinking about John or gunshots, or electrocution, or car bombs, or cancer or... cut more. The door now. Quiet. I need to get out of here. It's no use, I can still hear John's bereft crying in my head. I once again let myself care about his distress, false as it was. Caring doesn't help change the situation. It joins the cacophony of screams, yells and calling of my name that I keep forcing down. He was never inside, I knew but I still tried to stop it. It's like holding back the tide, it can't be done. I could see his face, I could picture the tears and the moment he made the decision to pull the trigger.

The moment he decided I wasn't coming.

It still crosses my mind that the things John could see here could very well reduce him to that state. How long could he stand it? This is ridiculous, Silent Hill is reflecting my fears and I'm letting it get to me. This place, it's... powerful. I've been more alone than I thought, no Mycroft watching over me. Everything is an illusion. John won't buckle under the strain, he won't. He knows I'm coming for him, he knows I'll get there in time. I'm too closed in, keep doing something, rip it free, find a way out. They can't keep you here forever.

Check the walls, are they closer? No, it's ok, maybe... no, it's fine. Door still closed. The knife cuts easily and I can see the edge of the door frame. I keep cutting and the padding peels away from the metal. Something new. There's a message scratched into the smooth surface. The handwriting matches the writing on the door in the old woman's house. It's a message from god.

You're free to go now.

I push on the door and it swings open freely. It had been locked just moments before, I've been checking. Constantly checking. Whatever she's decided: I'm out. I'm out of that room. Why is a question I can't currently answer but I'll take advantage of my freedom, make sure that it is an error on her part. Time is running out. Onwards. Room #312. I'm not coming all this way to be five minutes late... wait, no Otherworld. The walls are normal again, no machines either, it's quiet. Not only that, a note, a fresh magazine of bullets and another bar of food rests upon a battered wheelchair.

I should ignore it, make my way to #312, it's on the other side of the door that's barely four feet away but I'm curious as to what Moriarty has written. I didn't believe his denial, drugging me is exactly what he'd do, his explanation that he'd use cocaine was pitiful. I'll do without the bullets and I won't eat the food. I'm not in the mood to eat and I still have energy and strength, even if it's amphetamine induced. The letters and gifts have been another facet of the game, something to make this more interesting and more competitive. The handwriting still matches Mycroft's but it's not beyond Moriarty to produce a compelling forgery. I've been fooled but his 'help' has mostly been to my advantage.

Sherlock,

Trust these notes and the supplies. They are genuine. I took you shopping in Harrods when you were seven years old to buy a present for father's birthday. You hid from me, I spent two hours looking for you and almost called the police but they would have had no more luck than myself. I lured you out by telling one of the shop attendants that you were developmentally disabled and made them announce it over the emergency tannoy so other shoppers would look for you. It wasn't so much as a lure as a way to enrage you. It worked and you pushed me into a model Ferris wheel, tipping it on to the floor. We were removed and ended up buying father a tiepin from a nearby jewellers. You spent the rest of the money on pick and mix which we shared on the tube home. We took too long getting back. I remember the belt too Sherlock, we both took it that night. I tried to persuade father it was my fault and that I'd lost track of time but I failed. You were listening at the door as I tried but it only earned me more punishment. Only I would know that story.

I gave you amphetamines, medical grade and perfectly safe provided you didn't take more than six at a time which even you wouldn't risk. I asked you to eat, I asked you to rest but you were never going to heed my advice. I watched helplessly as you were almost choked to death. That knife was perfectly adequate to cut through the tentacles but you were too weak. You almost died and if I had not acted accordingly you would have not lasted much longer. I cannot allow you to die dear brother. Your death would certainly ensure the demise of John and perhaps a much worse fate for us all. I feel you care more for his life than your own but they are intrinsically linked, he cannot survive without your help. I did not tell you so you would take them unknowingly, your new leaf is still unblemished and you are not responsible.

Find the aglaophotis serum, we are having difficulties synthesising the compound. We have also been unable to discern the cause of the hallucinations you've been experiencing. Be careful.

The time is coming, move quickly and trust me, even if you cannot forgive me. John needs you alive.

MH

Moriarty was telling me the truth. The story is legitimate though why he chose that particular tale I do not know. This letter is genuine. He betrayed me, he drugged me, he's the reason my heart is beating that little bit too fast. He's right, I was going to die and John would have died as a result. I wasn't going to rest and I wasn't going to listen. He gave me a way to take them without it being my fault or my decision.

"I won't forgive you." It wasn't his choice to make. It's no more than he deserves. Moriarty must have enjoyed the betrayal and my humiliation that I'm once again controlled by a man sat behind a desk. I'll deal with my 'brother' later.

...Samael guide us...

I stuff the bullets and food in the bag. Thirty one bullets now. Very useful. The news about the serum is more worrying, I cannot depend on an outside source. I stuff the note away too, I don't want anyone else to see it. I try to push through the door to the bedrooms but it won't give. I've no time for more of this nonsense! Why does everything have to be so difficult? "Grrr, damn you!" Keypad, by the door. Four of the buttons look more worn than the others. Two, three, five and eight. Don't waste time on frustration.

I push a variation of the four, cycling through the combinations as quickly as I can. The beeping is incessant but I keep going, it shouldn't take too long provided my assumption about the four numbers used are correct. Still the red light glows. More combinations, methodical and systematic. Beep-beep-beep-beep. Red light. Beep-beep-beep-beep. Red light. Beep-beep-beep-beep. Green light! The door opens and the chanting is a little louder still. It's coming from above me. The fourth floor or maybe the roof.

Room #312.

There it is. No time to waste hoping the door is open, only one way to find out. Don't make this difficult too. Hand on the handle and down. It's open and there's no static. I get inside, this is it. I'm in Ian Greene's room. I can barely hear the chanting in here, too muffled to discern the words. Inventory: One single bed and mattress, one bedside cabinet, a desk and one wooden chair. The room is tiled halfway up
the wall and the rest is painted a depressing shade of grey. There's one small, filthy barred window casting a bleak shaft of light where I stand.

I look through the desk first, checking the underside of the drawers too as well as the back. He had to hide things. Nothing. The legs don't turn either, everything sounds solid when I tap it. I have to be thorough. I check the bedside table next and find a photograph of Ian Greene and his wife tucked into the underside of the bottom drawer, out of sight. They are standing outside a hotel, the sign reads 'The Lakeview
Hotel'. They look happy with their arms wrapped around each other and natural smiles. Their clothes are old fashioned, the style of his suit and her long flowing multicoloured dress fitting for the sixties era. She's showing, maybe five months pregnant. I'll keep hold of the photograph for now, I want to investigate his death when we're back home, I want to know what they did here. I keep searching the drawers until my eye is caught by a frame hanging above the bed. A passage is written in untidy cross stitch.

This man despised The Order, he would never have kept this plaque above his bed while hiding the image of his late pregnant wife. He was either forced or this isn't what it seems. I take it off the wall, there's nothing unusual. I check the passage.

For god shall not be defeated by no man or
no force. No evil could ever threaten her power.

It doesn't match. Why doesn't it match? The fake passage refers to sleep, that explains its placement, it would seem legitimate, he could be seen to be making an effort to reform. The real passage however talks about the destruction of god. It can be beaten, Greene knew how. The aglaophotis. But why use the wrong numbers, why direct someone to that passage? What would it serve? A message to others that would be similarly minded perhaps? Think, he's hiding something here. Think.

Tiles.

I pull the bed away from the wall and kneel down. I count across seven tiles and up four on the same wall that the plaque hung. I slide my knife into the gap. The tile comes away. Excellent. I set it down and shine my torch inside. There's a vial inside a small cavity.

I pull it out but... no. No, it's empty. Just the faintest trace of red at the bottom. It won't be enough, it's dried too, completely useless to me. No, no, no. I don't... I don't know what to do now. I needed it. It was my bargaining chip.

...take us to paradise, cleanse us...

There's one small chance. I count four across and seven up. I try the knife again and smile, the tile is loose again. Please, just enough, I need enough to stop this. I can't rely on Moriarty, I need to dictate how this ends. It can't be left in his hands. The Order is already trying to stop him by ending his fun with mine and John's lives. I set the tile down beside the other and look inside. There's a piece of paper.

I saw the file too Sherlock, you didn't think I'd leave it for you, did you?

Kisses, your biggest fan xoxo

That... Him. Fuck.

No, no there must be something here, there has to be! I run my knife along each line of grouting but nothing gives. Nothing. What do I do now? Do I have to rely on Mycroft synthesising some? It might not even be possible. I have no idea where Moriarty is or whether he will indeed know to stop this. He's killed one of them, they want him out of the way so they can complete their task. This is out of control.

...let hate feed you...

The chanting, I'll follow the chanting.

I might not have what I need, and what they want, but they could be a mean to an ends. They might have a role to fulfil of their own and I can certainly make it bloody difficult. I have a shotgun now, I can make things really bloody difficult. I'll get John back by any means necessary. This isn't what Lestrade wanted, these won't be the actions of a good man. I needed that aglaophotis. I have to do something.

I leave the room in disarray and head back out into the corridor. Static. No, damn you! Brain. Too late, too late.

"Well I won't beat around the bush, your experiences in Silent Hill and chemical exposure have caused considerable damage to your brain."

I'm in Kaufmann's office, sat in the chair opposite the man himself just as he looked in the photograph on his desk. I still have all of my belongings and the static still crackles. I take out my gun, finger on the trigger. He doesn't react to my threat, looking up with my file on the table like I'm an ordinary patient. The room is like it would have been forty years ago, clean and organised.

"I'm afraid that something you were exposed to has triggered the mental deterioration you've been experiencing recently. It will only get worse."

"What's wrong with me?" Curiosity, I can spare a few seconds.

"I'm afraid it's Alzheimer's." I pull the trigger. I'm back in the hallway on the floor. The creature beside me is thinner than the others, perhaps that's why he was less powerful. He holds an orbitoclast but his fingers seem far too fragile, too weak. I wasn't at too much of a risk. I pick myself up again. The hallucination was weak but it was another fear of mine, that I should succumb to such a disease. Many people fear that future, it's a rational concern. To lose one's mind, to forget those you love... I needn't worry, they are hardly oracles of the future. I feel sick again, but less so.

My mind is perfectly fine and will remain so. No doubt Mycroft will insist on a battery of tests by his people and John will agree. I will require medical attention at some point but scars will be the soul legacy of this place. I love you.

And maybe one particular encounter will haunt me.

I give the feeble creature a good kick as I get moving again and make my way past the rooms. I want to get upstairs, I'm bored of searching, I have to act. Oh, I forgot about the bars blocking my way. I could wend my way back the way I came, back down through the hatch to the second floor and try to climb back up through room #203 and #204. I have the rope. It's the most likely route, from the third floor I should be able to access the fourth floor from there. Doubling back is my best bet.

I set off.

The hatch in the bottom of the solitary cell doesn't exist anymore but the floor is missing allowing me to lower myself down without injury. If I need to return to the third floor this way I can use the wheelchair to stand on. I have options. I run down the corridor, it looks very different to the Otherworld, the rooms have returned as normal. I stand outside #204. The Ward. I could check but there's no good reason to deviate from this path. In fact there are eight very good reasons not to check on them. John's not in there, the real John doesn't need me sentimental and distracted. I carry on.

I open the door and assess a way to climb up. It shouldn't be too difficult. I move a desk under the hole, I might not even require my rope. I'm a little short, I grab the mattress and put that on the desk too. With a little jump I can get enough purchase on my stomach and drag myself up. "Nnugh." That hurt, too much strain on this beaten body. I wouldn't have had the strength without the drugs. That's still an academic point.

...come forth... take us to paradise... let hate feed you...

Louder still, I'm heading the right way. It spurs me on, a new target, a new objective. I'm no longer at a dead end. I'll find success without the aglaophotis. Stand up, almost there. My body is beginning to hurt more and more, I'll need more medication to numb the pain. It's a short jog to the staircase which is thankfully still open. Almost there. Close now, I have to be.

Static, crying, please not now.

I can't see it, I can't tell if it's above me or below me? Run upstairs, get away from it, just get away and on to the fourth-

I'm in water, over my face, arm around my neck, something's trying to drown me. I thrash, grab at the arm, get off me!

"Sherlock, Sherlock, calm down it's just me."

"John?" We're in the sea but the water tastes like chlorine, the swell is bashing against both of our faces, I can't see any land. "Where are we, what's going on?" He lets go of my chin and I turn so we're holding on to each other's arms and using our feet to tread water. I don't understand.

"Moriarty t-threw us over board." He chatters, teeth clattering together as a wave rises up his chin. I'm cold, we're both shivering. "He knocked you out, I thought... I thought he k-killed you."

"What- what's that noise?" So confused, brain slow, effect of concussion? Hit head. Moriarty. John.

"I don't hear anything. Sherlock, just keep your head above water, concentrate ok, we'll be found."

"It sounds like static." That's important. Why is it important? "I don't understand, I don't remember how we got here."

"It's ok." He looks sad, troubled. He squeezes my arms and half smiles. He's wonderful, he's just wonderful. Why are we here? "Just hold on to me." Something's really, really wrong.

"I hear static, why do I hear static?" I'm panicking again, I should be remembering something. "John, why do I hear static? There's a reason!" It's important, really important. "Help me think!"

"Calm down, relax, it's ok." He pulls himself closer, wrapping an arm around my shoulder and holding my face still. I'm going to miss him, why am I going to miss him when we're both going to drown. Why do I feel like I already do? "I'm right here, you're just coming round funny, disorientation happens sometimes. You're ok." He strokes my face but it's not helping. I want him to keep doing it though, I need to think and John helps me think.

"S-static. Danger." Something's wrong, I'm not remembering. "Are you, are you ok?"

"D-do you think he knew?"

"Knew what?"

"That I always feared I'd die of drowning. Rather get shot again in all honesty. One good thing about Afghanistan, no water."

"Fear. You fear drowning. Static. This doesn't make-" Important, why is it important?! You're letting John down. Remember! Remember!

"Sherlock, please. Calm down for me." He says quietly, bringing me closer still, rubbing my back, keeping us afloat. Our legs rub against each other as we keep bobbing among the waves. I could entwine myself in him now and just let the chemically tasting sea take us. The waves are getting bigger, more stormy, the sky is darker. The water splashes against our faces, trying to overwhelm us. He fears drowning. That's important.

"I won't let you drown." This isn't right. I'm doing something wrong.

"Thanks." He goes to say something else but instead an expression of sadness and strain passes across his face. More waves, it's getting worse. "Glad you're here in a way. Rather you were safe at home but..." A wave cuts him off. "Yeah." He finishes, he doesn't need to say.

"John-" Remember Sherlock. Put the pieces together. Static. Static. Danger. Dying... I'm dying. I'm dying. Stop dying. Silent Hill. I
look at John, blue, shivering lips like my own. I hold my hand in front of his face and try to squeeze, rip, hit. Get the brain, stop the brain. That's it!

"What are you doing?"

"This isn't real. You're not real. I can't get back, I'm being lobotomised, I'm probably dying." The words come out in a manic rush like I've completely lost my mind. This is the worst one yet. Why did this one have to be John? The two of us alone, he's scared of drowning. Mycroft was easier, it was so much more obvious. I've had enough, there won't even be a talisman for this. "John, I'm so, sorry. I'm sorry." He's the source of the static. I can't stop him. Not real, not real. I have to, I have to, there's no choice. This is a hallucination.

"Why? Look, it's just the concussion sending you a little off, just hold on, someone might find us. Mycroft might have a helicopter searching, you got a message to him, didn't you?"

I have to do this. I have no choice. "I'm already trying to find you." I wrap one hand around his throat and one on his shoulder, fear flashes across his face but I push down, submerging him under the water before he can protest. I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry.

He's struggling, hands scratching at my face and hands, he's trying to struggle free, kicking and thrashing. I hold him down, trying not to go under myself. I'm sorry, oh god I'm drowning him, he's so scared, he trusted me. I squeeze tighter around his neck with numb fingers. "Sorry, sorry." Don't be too late, think of John, think of John, the real John. He's still fighting me, it will be hurting now, he knows he's going to die like this. I adjust continuously to keep him down, I want to let him up but it would kill us both. Think of John, think of John, think of John. He pulls me under too but I fight my way back up. "Stop it, please, I'm sorry." He's slowing, his hands grabbing at the front of my shirt, pleading for me to stop. He's just a monster. I squeeze as tight as I can, finding a little extra strength. "Sorry."

I wake on my back, hands around the throat of the monster. It's dead, neck snapped. I throw it to one side and sit up. I push myself into the corner of the stairwell as quick as I can and draw my knees into myself. I'm perfectly dry, I was never in the sea and neither was John but I drowned him. I drowned John, I put my hand around his throat and pushed him down. I can't... it's too much, it's too much. I can't breathe, panic, too much. I'm going to be sick, this is too much, too much.

John.

I close my eyes, I want to be away from this place just for a moment. I picture us arriving home together, the rasp of metal against the inner working of the lock as the key slides in. The scent of our flat, that indistinguishable smell that belongs to us, that lingers in our clothes and on our skin. The sounds of shoes being toed off and the muffled scuff of socks on floorboards. He stretches and rolls his shoulder with a slight breathy grunt. We collapse together on the sofa, plush material, softness and company. My shoulder rests against his, reminding me even between blinks he's still there. He's home. He's safe.

John's seen to my wounds, I'm doctored, stitched, salved and bandaged together by his hand and now I can take care of him. He's tired but we made it home. Tea, I smell tea in two steaming mugs, John's preferred choice and the blue one he always used for me because it's slightly larger than the others. Too hot to drink. We just sit. He breathes in and out, life and air. He's home. He's safe.

That's enough, I'm calm again. He's not getting home and safe without me. I slowly open my eyes. I'm still in this grey staircase but I can keep going. There's no choice anyway. I need to be on the fourth floor. I pull myself up using the handrail above me and steady myself. I don't think I'm going to be sick but I'm still a little unsteady. I feel like I was in the sea for hours, holding on to John endlessly. There's only one more flight of stairs left between me and the fourth floor.

I need this door to be open.

Before I see if it's open I read the sign beside the door. This floor was for treatment, this is where Ian Greene underwent electroconvulsive therapy. There's also a surgery and recovery rooms. This is where they would have used insulin shock therapy too. I test the handle slowly to see if it will give and open for me. It does.

The layout is different up here, it's more open, no corridors. I'm not alone. My eyes follow a trail of blood on the floor. I see the back on a monstrous man, his wings damaged and hanging, half destroyed and useless now. I did that. I did that with my knife and gun. The
Masked Man has returned.

He turns slowly. Handgun or shotgun for him? Depends on my range, we're enclosed, the shotgun might just be perfect. I'll destroy him.

My stomach sinks when I see that he's holding someone to his chest by their throat. Clasping them so the man faces outwards. It's John. I can't tell, is he the mad John I met earlier or is this really him? He's frightened but trying to hide his fear, keep calm and still. I meet his eyes, I can't tell, he's too still. The blood pattern on his shirt has changed but he may have been in contact with more. I don't know. I don't know.

The Masked Man speaks, "How much do you hate me now?"

Chapter 33: Brookhaven Hospital - Floor Four

Chapter Text

"How much do you hate me now?"

The Masked Man's powerful body dwarfs John, making him look smaller and more fragile by comparison. He's pale and quiet. Cowed. I want to speak to him but I know that the murdering monster behind the mask won't let me and trying would only make things worse. I give John a slow nod, enough to tell him I'll get him out of this whoever he may be. I'll try.

"I found-" John tries to speak but the Masked Man adjusts his grip on his throat, cutting his words short like I had expected. Frustrating. He was stupid to even try but what did he find? My every fibre wants to help him and find out what he was trying to tell me but I hold back. The muscular being hoists him higher, forcing him on to tiptoes. John has to tip his head back so he can breathe. He struggles a little, he's barely getting enough air. He is trying to say something but it won't come out, the constriction around his neck is too tight. I can't see anything in his hands or pockets but it's impossible to know for certain.

"You've wept on your knees like a bullied child, a broken man, you're losing. You won't last long enough."

Long enough. "I'm close." The hallucinations were getting worse, the last one, the last one especially. God's trying her hardest, she will fail. "She's trying to stop me." She won't succeed, not now.

"She's toying with you. I want to have my fun now."

I stand still but ready to grab my handgun. I can't shoot while I still might hit John. We're here for a reason, he's here to stop me. I need more time to think, I need to get John out of his hands if that's even possible. Every death, every scream and every word I've heard in John's voice sits like poison in my body, draining and eating me from the inside out. Like I'm dying slowly. The drowning, that was her most fiendish attempt yet. I can't lose, I'm almost there. I need to keep it together. "What do you want?"

...take us to paradise, cleanse us...

He tightens his grip, John chokes and splutters. Stop. "I'm getting exactly what I want." He lifts John clear off the floor. John grabs at the hand choking him but it's futile, the monster is far too strong. He wants my hatred. It's working. "You see your boy struggling, I'm hurting him, killing him slowly. Are you still not going to beg for his life? Is he not deserving?"

It would be pointless, even if I got down on my knees and pleaded for all I'm worth. If it had any chance of working I would, I would beg for him to spare John's life. But he won't. "Would you let him go if I did?" I ask the question regardless, I need more time and though John's struggling and kicking his legs he's still taking in some air. The Masked Man lets him gasp a breath every now and then; prolonging his agony.

"No, but it's more amusing if you beg."

John's grabbing at the hand around his throat but for no gain, not even a stolen breath. "I'm not here for your amusement." John's panicking, that wasn't the response he was hoping for but I know what he's going to do, there was only one possible outcome the moment I saw them. He's going to kill John.

"I'll make my own then."

"John!" I can't react quick enough, he throws John like a ragdoll into the wall of the toilets. John shouts but his cry stops as his body violently crumples into the wall, limbs and body crunching and deforming. He falls limp to the ground, unmoving, unconscious, bleeding. Dead? I don't know. I can't risk drawing attention to him. The wall is dented, I can almost see through it, the pipes and struts are visible.

It's time to attack. I take out my gun but the Masked Man drops his shoulder and charges towards me, his broken and useless wings dragging behind but he's still fast and heavy. I dive to the side, roll and stand again, it hurts but I'm on my feet. He didn't stop and hit the wall, denting it, almost breaking through the plaster and splintering the wooden studs, I can see into the dirty surgery.

He's vulnerable. I move back and shoot, catching him in the shoulder. He growls in pain, the wound pouring blood. Success. Two more shots but he's anticipated my trajectory, he steps and swings his arm, "NO!" My handgun flies from my hands towards where John lies. Escape. No time to ready my shotgun, I run for space, the corridor doesn't feel as big as it did before now that we're fighting in it.

I need my handgun but for now I need to keep the Masked Man away from John on the off chance he's still alive. I'm sure his chest is moving, can hope move his chest in and out? I draw the Masked Man into the corner, waiting for him to drop his shoulder and charge again.

I dive.

He roars as he hits the wall again, creating a cloud of plaster dust. I'm on the move again, I want to draw him towards the small ward then perhaps I can make him charge through the outside wall, with his wings destroyed he'd fall four storeys and die. Hopefully. It would save my ammunition. Nothing is assured and fortune has not favoured me.

...come forth... take us to paradise... let hate feed you...

Keep moving, kill him, finish him, for all that he's done. A manifestation of my hate. I wait in front of the wall, my eyes on the Masked Man as he finishes extracting himself. A chunk of wall comes away with him revealing the electroconvulsive therapy room. The site of patient #312's demise. His murder.

Shoulder drop, the Masked Man is coming, I'm ready. Heavy footsteps, the floor shakes as he runs. I twist out of the way, leaving it as late as I can so he can't change course. I don't have the luxury of making a mistake. He hits the wall heavier than ever. The dust is filling the stale air now, making me cough, sticking to my clothes and skin. I get into position again, hoping this works. Then I can get to John, he hasn't moved but still I hope that he knows it's best to play dead. The real John would know to do just that. At least until I needed his help.

Trust me enough, John.

The Masked Man is coming, panting and snorting like a bull, I take pleasure in his frustration, I take enormous pleasure that I'm the source of his frustration. "Come." I demand and he's all too willing. Shoulder down, the distance is short. I jump away, falling to the ground and scrambling to my feet. Damn. This floor doesn't follow the map, the wall isn't an outside one.

...Samael guide us with your faith...

He charges again but I'm not ready. I dodge away and run to another wall. I need a new plan. He slams into the electroconvulsive therapy room again, this time breaking through, falling to his knees. I check the false wall from a distance, the one that was supposed to lead outside. There's no door, there's no obvious way through. I can't see inside, the hole is too small. New plan. I need him to break through for me.

I lead him back toward the ward, he charges like the animal he is, hitting a fresh part of the wall this time with a guttural grunt. I run to the false wall, it's made of studwork, not brick. I memorised the layout, this shouldn't be here. I need him to knock through. "Come on then, toro toro!"

His grey mask is covered in dust but undamaged, I dislike not being able to see his eyes, read his expression, I'm left only with his body to signify his next move. Is he going to charge? He's standing, fists clenched but not prepared to run. Don't change tactic now. Provoke him. I raise and fire my shotgun, I want his attention, his mind cannot be allowed to wander to John. Even if I've lost this John too, his corpse isn't his to play with.

The Masked Man staggers backwards, slumping into the hole he just made. I don't want him dead, I want him angry. I want him to hate me just as much as I hate him. He roars again, the buckshot has peppered his chest but not made a scratch on that smooth, grey mask. Shoulder drop.

He's coming.

The ground shakes again. I dive out of the way, landing heavy on my sore wrists this time but I can get upright, I have to stay upright. I stumble away towards the ECT room, I need the space if he charges again but I see he's tangled in the wall, ripping away the wood and sheets of plaster. I can see behind it now, there's another shorter corridor and something black inside, swirling like thick fog or smoke. I've seen nothing like it so far, it's incredible, entrancing. I'm sure I see the Halo of the Sun form only to vanish again.

...oh Holy Mother... bring forth paradise and bathe us in your wisdom, embrace us with your kindness, lead us to paradise...

No more time to examine my new curiosity, the hateful thing is charging once more. I rush away, I need to destroy him, make him suffer, perhaps the black cloud is important or - no, no I know what I need to do. Or at least what I want to do. I let him come towards me once more, I could shoot him but I need that second cartridge for an emergency and I won't have time to reload safely.

I set off running and climb through the hole in the wall and into the ECT room. It's dirty and dusty, I find the control panel and the power button. It works. Oh yes, it works. I set it to the highest charge and prepare the probes. I plug in the cords with clamps on the end, designed to hold wet sponges, imprecise and unscientific but perfect for me. I don't have much time, he'll come for me again. I move away to a safer corner and wait for him.

He killed my John with electricity. Twice. Now he'll meet the same fate.

I hear and feel him slam into the wall outside, he got his aim correct. The wall buckles and bulges, one more hit and he'll be through. I stay where I am, hoping he'll charge again. It's unnerving not being able to see John in my peripheral vision, I feel like I've left him alone but I'll be there soon.

The machine is still charging but it must be close. I take two gauze pads from my satchel and dampen them with some of the isotonic drink. They will be my conductors. He slams into the wall again, the wood cracks and splits in two, allowing his body through. He's tangled in the debris. Time to move. I grab two of the long electrodes and clamp the gauze pads. He's bearing down on me. Holding them as safely as I can I press the button to activate the current and make contact.

Yes.

He screams and shakes, he can't pull away, he has no control over his body. He falls to the ground and I don't abate, I have ten seconds of charge, it has to be enough, he has to feel the same pain John did. His scream is deep, agonised, excruciating, pain. "You made him feel this. You'll suffer like he did."

He's still convulsing and screaming. I'm close enough to see that his mask is sunken into his face, it's a part of him. The charge fails and he stops convulsing. He's still breathing. Not dead. I rush back to the control panel and begin the charge again.

I stand over his body, shotgun trained on his chest. I can't risk him rising again. I fire. His body jumps with the force of the hit, but still he's not dead. "Do you want to beg for your life?"

"You won't win." His voice is hoarse, I made it hoarse. "She will come. You'll suffer for eternity at her hand."

"Sounds like fun."

"You can't save him." He coughs blood, his mask spatters with a fine mist. He tries to sit up but he can't, he's too weak.

"I can. I will." The charge is ready. "But first." I walk back to the panel, activate the charge and return, ready to finish him, a scream I'll gladly remember over and over.

"Sherlock!" John clings to the hole in the wall, arm outstretched and fires. Over and over, filling the Masked Man with bullets. Top of his head and his heart. A single bullet shatters the mask and he drops, his body withers and shrivels into a dried, desiccated corpse. I step back, I see the shard of wood fall from the Masked Man's hand, he was going to stab me. I hadn't seen. I was too intent on making him suffer.

"John, John stop. He's dead." One of his arms is obviously broken, he's shooting with his right but at this range his accuracy is infallible.

The gun clicks empty, once, twice, three times. "I killed him, I killed him, I k-killed him for you. It had to be me, it had to be me, it had to be me, it couldn't be you, it had to be me, it had to be me." He repeats as he slides to the floor, his gun wielding arm falling limp at his side. He swallows and coughs, wracked with pain from his broken ribs. I stand and watch. I'm losing him again. I can't move. "Did I save you?"

"Yes. Yes, I think you did." He's a mess, injured beyond anyone's capabilities, even John's.

"Spare you, spare you from revenge, over and over and over, forever and ever, ever." He mumbles, not to me, he's drifting.

"You saved me from torturing him. Eternally." Potentially. I should have been a better man. I needed John again. I needed John to guide me from my hate. Lestrade warned me, he told me this was my chance to prove myself a better man. I throw away the electrodes and crouch down at his side. "I can't save you."

"Don't think you were supposed to, makes more sense this way, I was confused before. I got him though. I got him, I got him. For you. I got him for you." His eyes slide shut. "I have, I have..." The words drift away.

...come forth... take us to paradise... let hate feed you...

I knew it was coming. "Thank you." He's a mess, half of his face is shattered, his skull in pieces, blood everywhere and probably more inside his chest and abdomen cavity. How did he move let alone fire the gun? "I didn't notice the wood, you saved me again. You died because of me. Mad as a hatter and you still save me."

I take my gun from his hand and slip in a fresh clip. He didn't have to use all of these, but considering I should be impaled right now I can hardly complain about his economy. I lay him down and put his hands on his chest. Of course. He's holding a talisman. I take the odd shaped tablet. The chanting stops.

Silence.

I examine the newest tablet, this must be what he found, he knew I wanted one. It's a trapezium of sorts. John as a doctor, a balance of his ability to heal and his own fragile mortality, his intelligence and delicate mind. It's black, onyx. Represents mastery of your own fate yet his fate was already known.

I put it safely in my bag and set his hands on his chest once more. Hmm. There's something in his chest pocket, it feels like - I reach in and pull it out. He wasn't talking about the talisman. This, this is what he found. A vial of thick red liquid. He thought this was his cure. I tip it sideways and read the label.

Sherlock needs this more than you. Find him. MH

Mycroft got some to John, a way of avoiding Moriarty and The Order. Was this in Silent Hill or did he finally manage to synthesise some? The vial looks old but that's no indication, likely Mycroft would have disguised it somehow to make it blend in. The details don't matter for now, I have it.

I have the aglaophotis.

I've no time to mourn the loss of another John, I can use this, rescue the one that truly counts. Moriarty wasn't expecting me to have this, he made sure I didn't. "I'm in control now, Jim." He'll have seen it.

"Hel-... Sher-..." He's not coming through properly. I give the radio a tap, perhaps the batteries are failing. "Oh god... -lock don't... don't lea... no!"

"Moriarty?" He sounds different. Afraid. He's a talented actor though. Convincing, I'd expect nothing less.

"No... ind me... monsters... can't... AAAAGHHHH!" The radio cuts off his scream with a sharp fizzing pop.

"Moriarty? What have you done?"

Nothing. Probably a trick. I'm close to something. He doesn't matter now.

All I need is John.

I make my way through the debris and towards the secret room behind the wall. I rip away some of the plaster to make the hole big enough to step through. There a short length of corridor that's in keeping with the hospital but this wasn't marked on the map. Providence has lead me here, not luck, I'm meant to be here. The cloud isn't silent, it's almost... breathing, very lightly, softly, like someone sleeping. It's more disturbing than it should be, eerie, unsettling, much like everything in this place. I step carefully closer, I fear what I cannot see within it. No static. I'm where I'm supposed to be again, I'm not in the Otherworld, no time for childish fear. I have a gun and the capacity to - the capacity to do things I didn't think I was capable of, things I'll never speak of again. Another step closer and... it's dissipating. The swirling cloud begins to thin, becoming more transparent and weak. One last showing of the Halo of the Sun and it's gone. Silence, no breath and something new has been revealed.

A door.

Yes. Yes this is it! "I'm here, I was close." The door is ornate and complex, inlayed with stone and intricate gold with other set gemstones that would suit any opulent wealthy religion. I run my fingers over it, reassuring myself that it's real, that each carefully tooled pattern and symbol was real there because more important than the lavish decoration is five empty indentations. Each indentation was formed in the colour and shape of a corresponding talisman I carry with me. They surround a pentagon-shaped talisman already situated in the centre. I take a closer look, both John and I are carved into lapis lazuli, a stone for friendship. We're looking at each other fondly, I look happier than I ever remember being before I met John. He's brought every aspect of life into sharp focus in a way that cocaine never could. The good and the bad enhanced by the sheer acceptance of him into my life and under my skin. Is it even worth it? Yes.

I trace my fingers further down the door. Below the spaces for the talismans is an inscription in brass that has been carefully inlaid into the wood. The flowing script is one I recognise. It belongs to Her.

Here hides your truth. My truth, the talismans, his unknown fate. Is John behind this door? Do I have the power to protect him, the real John, separate from this hell, from my psyche. Who else could the artless poem refer? Mycroft said John was being shielded, the Halo of the Sun cloud and this door is consistent with what he told me. It must, it must be him.

I look over the poem again. My fate. My fate is to get John out of here alive, to stop God and finish off Moriarty once and for all. Then John can live a happy life without that demented psychopath trying to make him his plaything. Even if it's without me. He'll be looked after, I've made arrangements and Mycroft will keep watch. My fate doesn't matter anymore, if I'm to die here, then so be it.

I'll be the better man this time.

My heart is still racing though, it could be John, the real him, the whole being. I knock on the door with my fist but it's so thick I doubt anyone on the other side could hear. This could be the last puzzle.

I take out the first talisman I collected, the square piece of green malachite I took from the hand of the soldier. The talisman fits perfectly. I reach for the next one, the hexagon made of Jasper from the addict in the church. Again, it fits into place, I couldn't remove it even if I wanted, it's stuck tight. It doesn't matter why, I need to place them all. I take out the hemimorphite. A piece of dust from the bag clings to corner from the static charge the stone hold. I rub it away with the pad of my thumb.

My John.

I situate it quickly, it's not the time to dwell. Two more to go. I take out the jade talisman next, the double sided piece from the John whose torture I ceased. Not before it was too late. One side shows him alive, the other, dead and mutilated. I check the depression in the jade slot. It's an inverted version of John mutilated, that means John alive and well will be facing outward like the others, hopefully the preferred option. It fits in without a problem.

One more to go, the onyx trapezium from the John who lies dead and alone in the room behind me. I want this to be over now, to know how this is going to end, to have John safe and to leave. I need this to be over, exhaustion, both psychical and mental cannot be warded off forever. The hope is irresistible when the fear of another hallucination, of another monster and of the Otherworld hovers over my shoulder at every turn. Placing this last piece could bring the Otherworld forth, am I ready? I have no choice, I've had few choices since the moment I got that text. No use procrastinating, this last piece will complete the puzzle. I raise it to the depression and it slots in easily.

Click.

Chapter 34: The Talisman Door

Chapter Text

The door is unlocked. No sirens, no static. Knife, if John's in there he might not be alone. If. If. If. I need to know and I have little time to stare at this door, I must have drawn the attention of The Order and it can't be long before the static crackles again. I can't squander this lull in their attention.

Time to go in.

I open it swiftly, no static but a burnt corpse, no, it's her - arm around my neck, I thrust back the knife but my wrist is caught and twisted, hurts, syringe drops to the floor, pressure on my shoulder, I'm down, no, no, not now, I can't keep up with the attack, knee in my back, ribs, I cry out in pain -

"Sherlock?"

That voice. Sixth time. Last time. "John?"

Have I found him? The hope is so acute to be painful. Here hides your truth, In every guise. Every guise, every incarnation. The fragments united, the real John, the true version of him. My truth, my John. As much mine as he'll ever be.

He releases my arm and gets up off my back. I grunt, something hurts, broken rib I suspect. I expect him to help me to my feet but he instead he prevents the door from latching closed by covering the latch with a dressing and tying it to the handles with the integrated gauze strips. He's planned for this, thought ahead. "Hannah, it's Sherlock, we're fine, it's fine." Hannah Mason, he's been with the child, he's tended at the bedside to god all this time. I roll over and try to drag myself to my feet when John finally helps me up. He was very effective at incapacitating me, ready to defend himself. I can always trust him to fight to the death. I've broken the seal, I'm here, I must be here, this must be him. "Bloody hell am I glad to see you, Jesus Christ, are you-"

Blood on his shirt, just like the mad doctor but the patterns - some belongs to the child but not all. He's- he's not been safe. "You're injured," I need to find the injury, I need to find the source of the blood, I grab at his shirt, "let me see, where are you hurt?" He can't die, no, I won't let him, his fate is mine. He's fighting me, "How bad is it? Let me look!" Stop fighting me, I can help, let me help you, you're the only one I can help.

"Sherlock!" He shouts at me and grabs my wrists so tight it hurts and I have to stop struggling. He loosens his grip quickly upon noticing my pain. "I'm fine."

Lie.

"No you're not bloody fine! Explain the blood, explain it!" Keep looking, keep looking, help him. I have some of his shirt buttons undone, the blood had soaked through to his skin but I can't tell where it came from, maybe his mouth? Has he vomited blood? It could be internal injuries, he could be dying. "Impact, internal bleeding, blood loss, poisons, anticoagulants."

"Sherlock, Sherlock I'm fine, I'm perfectly fine. I've been cooped up in here the whole time, no one's laid a finger on me. We need to get you looked at."

"No, no, whose blood is this?" Blood stains on the carpet lead from the child's bed to the sink. He collapsed underneath it, the blood has pooled and soaked in. It happened many hours ago. Too much blood. "Is it yours? Tell me!"

"Yes, it's mine but I'm not hurt and I'm not in any immediate danger," Lies, lies, lies! "I'm just hungry and we need to stop what's going on and get the three of us out of here. I'm a doctor, I'm capable of giving myself a clean bill of health. I'm ok, Sherlock, I'm ok."

I nod numbly and catch my breath, I'm hyperventilating, I feel dizzy and stumble to the side but John's there to catch me. He always catches me. He's ok, he's ok. "Let's get you sat down." I think John's knee found one of the nastier cuts given to me by my faux-father's belt, I feel the warmth of fresh blood begin to trickle down the small of my back. John guides me to a chair at the child's bedside. It rocks, it's been damaged and bent back into shape.

"I'm fine." Watch him, I have to know the second anything happens. He never explained. He asks me to trust in so much of what he says, he asks so much of me.

"A picture of health." John's sarcasm is quite comforting. I need to calm myself, the John I met in the ward was able to diagnose that I'm under the influence of amphetamines, I don't want it to be revealed again. "Are these chemical burns on your face? Can you see ok?"

"Mycroft provided me with eye drops, my vision is adequate." For seeing him over and over am I finally seeing the John I said goodbye to the morning he was taken? Am I seeing him complete and absent of the distortion my mind lent his aberrations. I can't stop staring at him as he examines my face. The door tells me it's him but she threatens to crush my hope. He is my hope.

"Hannah, meet Sherlock, Sherlock this is-"

"Hannah Mason, mother of god." She's indeed alive, only her dark blue eyes are untouched from the flames. I see now why the Speechless Man tried to prevent her fate. It's a horrific sight, only the presence of god sustains her. I have the means to prevent god's birth but it will likely cost her life. John must surely know that her time left is short. She almost smiles, as grim as her burnt lips can manage. I nod to her knowing full well my tormentress grows inside her.

"Good, thought you might know." He nods dourly but there's so much more for him to learn; the laws that rule this world. "Let me see your back." John lifts my heavy bag off my aching shoulder and tries to take off my coat.

"I don't know how much time we have before we're discovered, I broke the seal on your room. There's no time for doctoring."

John collects the knife off the floor. "Hold on to this then. I need to look at your back."

"No." I look again at the blood on his shirt. She can get to him, he's not safe.

"Yes." John's stomach rumbles loudly, of course he's not eaten, his blood sugar will be low and coupled with the blood loss he must be struggling. I should have noticed sooner, the blood distracted me.

"I have food." I dig out a couple of cereal bars and force one into John's hand. "Eat."

"You don't have to tell me, I'm starving. You eat too." He unwraps and eats half the bar at once and hands me the other half. I bite some of it, I've had trouble keeping food down since my first trip to the Otherworld, still I obey him. He's eating, that's all that matters.

He gestures for me to undress and despite my reservations I relent. It's actually a little more difficult to take a deep breath since John's little manoeuvre, I'm going to need my ribs strapped up if there are more monstrosities to face. "Fine, radio static should warn us of any approaching creatures."

"Your monsters." The child says from her bed. Her speech is disjointed due to the burns to her mouth but I understand.

"My monsters." I confirm, she's aware of how this place operates, interesting. I try to unbutton my shirt but the burns on my fingers are preventing me. Good enough to pull a trigger though.

"Let me." John takes over. We have no time for me to argue though I would like to very much. I try not to think about other times I've imagined him undressing me, he's doing this in his capacity as a doctor and friend. It's almost a reflex to long for him. "So there are proper monsters out there?" I nod. "How is it happening?"

"The monsters are forged from god's hate and the object of her affection's psyche. I don't know how or why, this place is beyond science and anything I've encountered before now."

"Wait, her affection meaning your mind, your thoughts?"

"Yes."

He puffs out his cheeks as he takes that in. "Guessing you weren't attacked by a horde of fluffy rabbits and puppies then."

"There were dogs... probably best to have this discussion without company." I think of the child. Even if she's not long for this world there's no reason to distress her. I don't wish for god to witness my weaknesses laid bare for John's inspection though it may be unavoidable.

"Yeah, good idea." He pauses to look at me, not to examine but meet my eyes. "It's good to see you, Sherlock." His words are soft and heartfelt, it only takes one look at me to know he might never have seen me again.

"You too." My words hardly seem enough. His gaze is discomforting now. "No time to dawdle, John."

"Yes, right." He clears his throat and goes to touch my hands but he doesn't for fear of hurting me. He notices the bruise on my wrist too, the one the second John gave me in the church, the one he unintentionally squeezed. "Your hands are a mess, you touched what was on your face."

I have to explain some of my condition though I rather think some ignorance on John's part would be best. "I faced a creature with necrotic flesh, it touched me and left a residue which caused the burn-like injuries. It's nothing that won't heal."

"Among everything else. Cuts, bruises, someone tried to choke you. Again." John slips off my shirt revealing the injuries to my chest. He covers his mouth aghast and quickly scratches at his stubble like it was itching. I try to remain passive, I don't look at him. I'd have kept going for him. "You really have been through hell to find me."

"You would have done the same."

"Yes, I would have but you actually did, you have to let me look at you properly when we're out of here. Maybe even IV antibiotics, god knows what you've been exposed to." John walks round and assesses my back. I can tell by looking at the child's face that John is once again horrified at my condition. He must have noticed her reaction and responded as she smiles and relaxes again. He's bonded with her, I see the adoration in the child's eyes.

Doctor and a soldier, healer and protector.

I need to address the child, "We will stop god." I begin, I need her trust and I intend to deliver on that promise. I wince as John tends to my back with antiseptic. He should just strap me up, we've no time for this but to sit in John's care is blissful. His fate is in my hands but for now I'll rest in his. Who knows what I am to face next. The Order and Moriarty remain.

"I know, you stop her." She speaks disjointedly, forming words is difficult with such burns. Her lip trembles as if she's about to cry. "S-sorry, Sherlock."

"Sorry for what?"

"The monsters, they hurt you. Bad. I made John's eyes bleed. It was accident. Sorry. Sorry."

"You-" John cuts me off.

"Shhh," John soothes but he's looking at me, pressing me not to question her, pressing me to keep my anger in check. I want an explanation. How could she make him bleed? His eyes bled? "Hannah, it wasn't you, you're not responsible for any of this. Was she, Sherlock?" He adds pointedly.

I glare back at him, he cannot expect me to accept this. His eyes appear fine now and he's had no trouble examining me but it's not enough, this child is dangerous. John won't tell me a thing until I meet his demand to reassure Ms Mason. "John is quite right, neither you or the others before you were responsible for anything that has occurred. It is god and The Order's doing." I have the aglaophotis, she won't be a threat for too much longer.

John returns his attentions to my back and I'm still without answers. "The Order are the people who were chanting." John confirms. He's learned much from his time spent here.

"They are the cult that reside here."

"And the others before Hannah? You mean Alessa, Cheryl and Heather?"

"You know of them?"

"I met them in Rosewater Park, here, in Silent Hill. Well, in one way or another. It was bit like a dream, but real. I was here but there too, it really happened. I sound mad."

Hallucination perhaps? God has the power to control what is seen, no reason she couldn't have shown him her past lives in whatever context pleased her. It doesn't make his experience less informative. "Not mad at all, Silent Hill is-"

"Special." He finishes dryly. He knows. "Hannah was there, she told me I had to stop god and that I'd know what to do even if it was hard. I think I've been doing that so far, at least I hope-"

"I don't doubt it for a moment." He would do whatever he could. "Just strap up my ribs, I'm surprised we haven't been interrupted yet. They must know I have you."

"Alright. John winds the bandage around me while I take a couple of painkillers. "Listen, we need to find something called aglaophotis, Moriarty has some but he's moved on from the Lakeview hotel, I don't know where."

Moriarty. "You knew where he was?" It's a starting point.

"Hannah found him in a similar way I went to the park. She was very brave and quite the detective."

The child speaks again, her mouth dry. "God make me spy on him, I touched the symbol and monsters came."

"Did you hear sirens?"

"Yeah."

She broke through his protection. No wonder he hasn't spoken up upon my arrival here, in this room. Moriarty wasn't pretending, his fear was real. He's one of god's playthings now. I could almost laugh, wonderful! If only I was there to see what hell lies in store for him, how I'd enjoy taunting him over a radio as his worse fears and secret desires are laid bare. He has fears, I heard him, he was afraid. I should have been less sceptical and enjoyed it. That's what he wanted after all, for me to take pleasure in suffering. "Moriarty is in the Otherworld, a world that lies under this one. I trust he'll be having a bad time of it, if he's still alive."

John secures the bandage with lengths of tape, might be useful to take that with us. "Don't put your shirt on yet, I want to cover that open wound on your stomach, it could bleed again." He kneels between my legs and dabs at the wound. I grind my teeth, it feels deeply unpleasant. I twitch suddenly at the feel of an insect but it was just the edge of the bed sheet brushing against my arm. "You ok?"

"Fine."

"Is this Otherworld where the monsters are?"

"It's where the monstrosities are at their strongest but they inhabit this world too." I turn to the child once more, she could be useful to me. I can use god to my advantage, plan tactically. "I need you to look outside for me, I want to find The Order."

"I can't unless..."

"Unless what?" Neither John or the child answers. "Unless what, John?"

"She can't see outside unless she's clinically dead."

How could John know... oh, he killed her. A mercy killing obviously, the child was likely in worse condition when he was first put here. He discovered the ability by accident, most likely through overdose... Oh... oh no, no, no. "Is that how you went to the park?" John died, he died here in this room. No, no, no. The blood, he died.

She killed him.

"No, Sherlock relax, I- just passed out for a bit. I didn't wake like Hannah did."

"But how can you know!" I- I have to stand, I need to move. No, no, no. "How can you possibly know, you were busy swanning about in a park being dead!" He can't know, that cursed god killed him to prove a point. I lost him without even knowing, while mourning his fakes, I'm a fool, bloody stupid, blind fool. He's the only one that ever mattered. I chased illusions like trying to catch shadows yet I continue to mourn the one John who hurt the most. I mourn him despite the real John standing before me because he differed in only one respect. Just one.

"I wasn't dead!" John tries to still me, warm hands on my beaten arms but there's no way he can touch me without finding a bruise. I can't shrug him off, he's touching me and it weakens my resolve, my mind is tricked, taking his attention for affection. Crushed. My hope barely rises before it's crushed. "It doesn't matter now, I'm alive-" I put two fingers to his pulse and step close enough to feel him breathe. He's warm and his pulse is beating more rapidly than it should but he's alive. A minute amount of blood has crusted where his top lip meets skin. I should have kissed him in the prison, it was my only chance, I'll never know. I tried to breathe life into a love that was never meant to be while my reality beats against my fingers. "See, I'm not dead so will you sit back down and let me finish." I don't want to take my fingers away, I want to maintain the touch but I retreat slowly and sit back down in the chair.

I need to distract myself, my thoughts are becoming addled with John and I can't think clearly but for him. Think, we need to progress. I need to save him. "How many times did Hannah go outside?"

"Twice."

Once was the discovery, once planned.

John won't look up at me as he tends to the tentacle wound on my stomach. It's deeper than I realised but nothing compared to my leg which still throbs. I can tell John's trying to work out what could have caused such a smooth, inverted cone-shaped injury. He'd never guess. He'll hopefully never find out, he can't follow me, it's likely a foolish choice but I can't risk him. "We need to get you somewhere safe, John, the shops in town were fairly empty."

"Sorry, what?"

"You have to leave John, it's far too dangerous and I have experience with what's out there. They are my demons, not yours. You'll be safer away from here." Away from me.

"You must be joking! You're exhausted and I'm not entirely sure how you're still walking around considering the state you're in." He lowers his voice. "For fucks sake, you've been... I saw your back, you were tied down and beaten with a belt." Wrong, the bruises were from the elevator incident though they occurred close enough together to make it look like the scenario he's formulated. "I'm the best chance you have of surviving this."

He's probably right. "It's not negotiable." It doesn't matter if he's right.

"Damn right it's not bloody negotiable, I'm staying with you." He hisses but forever the doctor he covers my stomach wound with gauze and tapes it in place.

"No, you're not, John."

"Give me one bloody good reason why?"

"I don't need a reason." Just shut up, John, if you know what's good for you.

"You bloody well do! You're not facing another monster alone, not without a sodding good reason which you don't have so I'm bloody going-"

Stop fighting me! "You're the one I can't afford to lose." I could never make him understand. I'll never make him understand how he's different to everyone else, how I need him to be alive even if I'm dead.

"What?"

"Just do as I say."

"No, explain what you mean, Sherlock." I avoid eye contact and stare at the walls. "Tell me or I swear to whoever I will do this on my own." He fumbles with something in his pocket. His only weapon, sedatives most likely. He must have collected the syringe off the floor when he returned my knife. I stare him right in the eyes, damn him, he's not bluffing.

I lean down to his eye level, I'm tired of being played with, I'm tired of having my hand forced. If he wants to know, he can. "My worst nightmare, the darkest part of my psyche, my own personal hell, is not the monsters, it's not tunnels of skin and a thousand eyes, it's you."

His face falls, confusion, horror, shock. "Sherlock?"

"I've watched you die, John, over and over, even at my own hand. I wasn't the victim of torture, at least not in the way you think, but I've watched you scream as you were cut, stabbed, hit, needles under your kneecaps, self-cannibalised." John swallows hard and looks away. "I know the smell of your skin after electrical burns. The taste of your blood." I can picture the burns now, the shape they took on his naked form, the blood from the electrical rod, him screaming my name in agony. It's only a taste of his suffering, suffering I have to protect him from. "I've tried to save each and every one of you but I never could, I was never allowed to, god made sure of it. All of those facsimiles were doomed to their fate and I was witness to it all. There's only one of you."

"You cried for me."

Does it really surprise you, John? Why can't you see? Why can't you open your eyes and see how you make me suffer? Have I not done enough to show you? Why don't you see that my heart grows and beats for you? And why do you say those words as if you want me to lie to you? Why am I going to do as you wish? "I have not cried."

"Hannah said-"

"She was misled. You're the only one I can save, you're the John... you're the one met that day in Bart's, the real one, your fate isn't sealed."

"Since when did you believe in fate?" His words sound hollow but in Silent Hill there is such a thing, he might just believe in fate himself.

"Since the third incarnation of you died." The prison ...I’m made of skin and bone and I love you...

"How many have there been? I don't even know how long I've been here, no windows."

"Academic. They weren't really you, you're here now and I'm getting you out alive."

"There's more at stake here than just us if god is born and we've both got a better chance of surviving and destroying whatever we need to if we take it on together. You need me, I'm fresh and you might have noticed I'm not a bad shot."

"I've had practice."

"Mrs Hudson is a better shot than you." The words strike me. I've heard them before. Exactly the same. "I owe it to Hannah and I'm a part of this too, the girls need us both, not martyrs or saints, us."

Damn him and his logic and his bloody meaning. God's arrival would jeopardise more than just John's life. I'll have failed if she comes to be. It doesn't help that the longer I'm still the more tired I feel. I'm not strong enough to last too much longer. I need him. I hate that fact but I need him. "Fine, you can come along. I can better protect you if you're close."

"Yeah, I'm a right damsel-"

Static.

"We've run out of time." I throw on my coat, no time for the shirt, grab my bag and lean as hard as I can against the door. "Here, aglaophotis, inject this into the child." My body jolts as something on the other side begins to pound.

"You have some?"

"Quickly." John takes it but he's struggling with what I'm asking. He knows she probably won't survive. There's no time for goodbye. "John, you have to do this now."

"I need to sedate her first."

"No time, John!" I jolt again, the static is louder than ever, a hoard is gathering, her final army. "Hurry, I can't hold them forever." The door gives and a tentacle sneaks through. No you don't you poky bastard. I stamp on it as hard as I can and it retreats.

"Christ." The sight of what might be outside of the door spurs him into action. John fills the syringe and I watch him stand over the child. "Sherlock had the aglaophotis, it's time."

"S-stop her. They're coming." She's trying not to cry.

"We'll stop her. Close your eyes Hannah sweetheart, this won't hurt."

"It's ok, will I see mummy?"

"I- I expect so, yes." John can promise her nothing, perhaps there is life after death in this world but his words are false comfort.

I can't keep holding the monsters back, it'll only take one swipe of a tentacle to knock the serum from his hand. I adjust my weight so I can try and remove the dressing John put to stop the door from latching but I'm fighting a losing battle, the door keeps cracking open and I have to force it closed again. The skinny arm of a nurse slips through, she meets my blade in the crook of her elbow. "John!"

He nods and sets the needle above her heart. Of course, no vein. He hesitates for a moment but pushes the needle in. The child whimpers and her hands raise in pain. "Shhh, it's ok, almost done." It's hurting her and I see John suffering as he pushes more of the liquid into her heart until the syringe is empty.

He pulls the needle out quickly. Let it have been enough, Mycroft. "Hannah-" The child seizes and screams something unworldly and everything begins to shake and roar. It was enough.

I reach out, "John!" I need him by me now, we can't be separated.

He staggers towards me and leans against the door. I'm sure that I see the red dot of a laser as the door cracks open and shut again. Everything's out there. "Oh god, what have I done, Sherlock, what the hell have I done?"

She's beginning to transform, the cracks of her skin shine darkness, not light as she grows in size, overwhelming the bed. "The right thing." Sirens. God is coming. "Hold on to me, John. Do not let go." I take my handgun, put it in his hand and shove my spare clips in his trouser pocket. Hurts just like before but I have to keep alert. Keep aware through the pain.

"What's happening?" John has to shout over the agonising screams and roaring while both of us fight to keep the door closed.

"Otherworld." The pain tears inside my skull but I try to focus on keeping my weight against the door. We're outnumbered and overwhelmed.

"Oh, fuck. Nnnggh, hurts." John slumps against me, holding on to my arm and burying his head in my sleeve. He growls with the pain. I still can't escape his pain.

"You might lose consciousness, I'm right here, I won't leave you." The child, or whatever she now is, still writhes and screams, the dark flashing and moving as the cracks of her skin shift like it is alive.

"Sherlock... I can't..."

"It's ok, I've got you." I keep John propped up as his body gives into the pain. "John." The darkness fills the room and everything falls away into nothing... "John?"

Chapter 35: Otherworld, Brookhaven Hospital Roof

Chapter Text

"JOHN!"

Ok, yep, that's my name. Uuuughh, what happened? I passed out, god it hurt, that bloody hurt. Did I hit my head? Better move, got to wake up, get up. Someone's shaking me, eyes so heavy.

"John, you need to wake up! NOW!"

More shaking, ow, slapping my face, bloody hell, Sherlock. "Sherlock, fuck off, what-" No, I remember, open my eyes - Jesus Christ, flames all around us, like bloody walls, metal on the floor, fucking hell that siren knocked me about. "Where are we? Where's Hannah?" For gods- I get myself up before Sherlock does himself another injury trying to carry me over his shoulder.

"Hospital roof, I don't know what became of the child." He's speaking so fast, I've just got to take in what I can. God it's so fucking dark and cold here even with the fire. "Listen to everything I'm about to say." He puts a crowbar in my right hand and a gun in my left, there's blood over both. "Twenty-six bullets, ration them, use the crowbar when you can, follow my instructions, don't lose sight of me-" Sherlock's radio static goes off again, "No time, get ready. Do not run off, do not get separated, do you understand, John?"

"Yes, yes!" It's time to get stuck in with whatever Sherlock's been dealing with.

"Do you understand?" He barks at me. "I'm not accidently shooting you after all this."

Ok, I get it. The other versions of me, he needs to tell me apart. "I understand." I can't get my head around what he said about these other people who looked like me. Did I have to kill me? Did I try to kill him? He tells me the worst things possible but really he told me fuck all, I don't know what happened.

Sherlock's scanning the flames and the whole area frantically, he's on alert in a way I've never seen him. He's on edge, tightly wound, nervous. I'm looking too, I'm ready to fight. As ready as I'll ever be. Christ, we're on a roof in some hell version of Silent Hill about to fight a horde of Sherlock's demons and I have no idea what I've done to Hannah. I think I killed her, oh fuck, I think I forced god out of her and she's gone. I didn't even say goodbye, there was no time. Wait, I see something, "Sherlock."

Coming out of the flames, something human but it's got something growing out of its stomach.

"John, headshots, two. Don't let it get close, the runt spits acid."

Tattered suit and that walk, it's even got an umbrella. "Fucking hell, is that Mycroft?"

"Don't start."

I raise the gun and take a second to get it right, Sherlock's got me covered. Aim, squeeze, done. Whatever it is falls to the ground dead. One side of his face was scarred, Mycroft's got a lot more than two faces in reality. Two barely scratch the surface.

"Get the other. The conjoined thing."

God, it's disgusting but it looks like...

"JOHN, SHOOT IT!"

Aim, squeeze, done. Fuck, those eyes, that was Sherlock, that shrivelled thing, it was him. "Sher- oh jesus!" Two half naked women with long nail like stiletto blades. That's where Sherlock got those cuts, I thought they came from an animal. Right, think that's a reason to shoot them both.

"No." Sherlock stops me from aiming. "Crowbar. Take the one on the left." Sherlock's already off and slams the butt of his shotgun into her face. I'm just behind, swinging to connect with her temple hard enough to knock her down. "Watch your ankles." Sherlock's on his knees with his knife stuck into his woman's neck and then does the same to mine. "MOVE!"

I run right and turn, Sherlock rolls onto his back and blasts his shotgun into the chest of some fucking perverted looking nurse with a knife. I've got to sharpen up, it's a bloody warzone. "Thanks for that." I need Sherlock on his feet, he takes my hand and I pull him up. He pulls a pained face, I don't think there's an inch of him that doesn't hurt. "You alright?"

"Did she touch you?" He grabs my shoulders tight, eyes manic and locked on me.

"No, Sherlock, I'm fine."

"Good, good." He reloads while he's got the chance. He's squinting his eyes, he's having trouble seeing in the low light. I need to watch him, he's going to miss things. Probably hasn't slept either.

There's still static so there could be more things out there. Sherlock's looking around now, the adrenaline's kicked in. I take another look at the women we killed, they've not got mouths, just smeared lipstick. I feel like I'm going to be seeing things that Sherlock wouldn't want me to see. He's exposed. "What else are we dealing-"

Sniper. God no. I grab Sherlock's coat and pull him out of the way. Where are they? "John, no, it's-" He gestures behind me.

Jesus fucking hell. Laser sights and... it's made of what? Body parts? It's fucking huge. "What do we do?" Sherlock's just staring at it. "Sherlock, what do you want me to do?"

"Shotgun. Keep watch."

"Sherlock!" Bloody idiot is running for a closer shot. If one of those arms hit him... I keep my gun up, I can shoot from here, not much bloody good it'll do to something that size. Red dots everywhere, fucking Moriarty. Sherlock moves like he's dealt with them before, darting one way, then the other. It's swinging at him and missing. Just shoot it, for godsake, it's too dangerous.

Something behind- shit, crowbar, ah fuck, fuck! Nurse, bloody hell. Keep hitting, ugh, the twitching. Shotgun blast. Sherlock? Quick look, the laser thing isn't down. Shit, my leg. "Agh! Get off!" Fuck, get off, get off. Crowbar's fucking useful.

"Are you ok?" Sherlock's grabbing me before I can even speak, feeling for injuries, he's been on his own for too much of this. What the hell has this place done to him?

"Yeah, no harm done." Think she cut my leg a bit, not too bad. I can't check or Sherlock will really go off on one. The big thing is on the ground, I didn't hear a second blast. The red dots have gone out. "Is that your monster or mine?"

"Interesting. Hadn't considered the alternative."

We were both in that one. Things changed for us both after that. "Sherlock, the static's stopped."

"Stay alert. They don't all give off static."

"We have to get off the roof." I need to find Hannah. Or whatever Hannah is now. God's still out there.

"No exit, we're here to do something, I don't know what yet."

Far end of the roof, the flames are parting. Get ready. Two massive arms appear over the edge of the building and the monster pulls itself onto the roof. Long skinny legs, malformed torso, emaciated, burnt. Must be fifteen feet tall. It has her face... Hannah. That's god now. Oh I'm so sorry, I'm so, so sorry, I didn't think it would happen like this. I thought it would be like an exorcism. Her skin is moving like it was before but some bits are see through. As the gaps move I can see inside her, muscle, lungs, veins and arteries. It's not right, it's not fucking right.

"We forced god out too soon, she's not fully mature."

"And Hannah?"

"I'm sorry, John."

We didn't have time, no, think about that later. "Right, so how do we kill it?" That's what I'm supposed to do, stop god, kill her. That's all Hannah wanted.

"Look for a weak point, vulnerability."

"The see-through bits."

"Good enough start."

She raises a fist, "Sherlock, watch out!" She slams it on the ground, the metal moves like a wave towards us, no way to out run it. "Ah, shit!" I'm down, fuck hard. God, she's on the move towards us.

"John, take this, trip her up." Sherlock throws me the end of a length of rope, clever bastard, he's got everything in that bag. "Run now!"

We both sprint, one either side of her, need to get her mid shin and fast. Shit, shit, fists again, just run, we can do this. Grip tight on the rope, we've got her round the legs - duck! Bloody hell, felt the breeze on me from that swing. Sherlock's ok. Sherlock and I run and across each other, wrapping both legs. She's flailing around but losing her balance. "Watch the arms!"

We both tug sharply, "That's it!"

She falls to her hands and knees and everything shakes. Those markings on her back, Hannah had the same ones. They're glowing dimly. Sherlock raises his shotgun. I have to shoot too. Sorry, sorry. We both fire together - oh shit - she breaks free and runs to the other edge of the roof, jumping through the flames. She's gone. "Was - was that it?" More static. "No then."

"Move to the centre. She'll be back."

It's a good idea, more time to react to what's coming. Before we even get into position we're set upon again, naked muscle men with no privates. Like demonic Action Men dolls. Too many to take out with the crowbar alone, Sherlock's using his shotgun too, hitting and firing. It's tricky to keep up with the horde. I wipe my hand on my trousers, hard to grip the crowbar from all the blood.

No time to reload, there's another thing coming through the fire. Sliding through the fire. Oh you have to be kidding me.

"John, I've not seen that before."

Giant snake, markings like an adder, it opens its mouth and god, it's full of bits of dead people. Can't believe it, fucking Harry and her ghost story, I was five when she scared me half to death with the giant, people eating snake that hid in the garden next door. Ah shit, it's coming for us. We're both shooting, screw rationing bullets, I want it dead.

It falls limp and shrivels. My heart is pounding something awful, I'm a bloody grown man now, I shouldn't be any more scared of that than everything else. "That one was mine."

"Snakes, John?"

"Harry's fault. Sorry." What the hell am I going to see if she can get to memories like that? "God's in my head now too. Brilliant, bloody brilliant."

"John?"

"What? Where?" I don't see anything.

"No, you're rubbing your leg."

Shit. No, no, no, not the bloody time. I got past that. "Cramp." More monsters, more things to kill. "Got company." They look like doctors. Me? They don't look like me.

"They're not you."

Of course he knew what I was thinking. "Well at least you've always been in my head. Tactics?"

"Knock them down then destroy the hump on their backs. We're going through ammo too quickly."

"Lovely." It's easy enough until one of them punches me in the face. "Ah, fuck." I'm ready to hit back when Sherlock's on it, stabbing like a madman until it's on the floor and he's stabbing the twitching hump. "Sherlock, it's dead, it's dead."

He stops, out of breath, staring at the relative mince meat he's made of the doctor. It takes another moment but he gets to his feet. "You're bleeding, John."

I wipe it up a bit with my cuff. It's just a small cut, enough to set Sherlock off though. "Well I've got to catch up with you."

"Shut up, don't say that." He snaps. Right, dodgy topic.

We both hear the growls before we see them. They're coming from different directions. Dogs. I swing at the one jumping for my face, "Oh fucking hell!" They're coming from everywhere.

"AGH, no!" Sherlock's down, two of them on him.

"Sherlock!" Kick the one off his face and crowbar the other. I grab his hand and pull him up fast before swinging like a wild thing again, no bloody time to make it good, they're coming too fast. I get one in the neck, another, what four, to go? Oh god, another couple of nurses too.

"Get the nurses, John."

"Dogs first." I shout back. I get another one as it goes for my leg. "Shit." One on my back. "Sher-AAAGGGHHHH!" Teeth. Getitoffgetitoffgetitoff. Sherlock does something to get it off me, thank you, thank you. I scramble up and shoot the other two until the gun clicks empty. Dogs are down. "Reloading."

Sherlock points his gun at the nurses staggering towards us but he's pulling my shirt away to check the bite wound. Throbs like a bugger. "Flesh wound." His voice and hands are shaking. "N-not life threatening."

"Used to be a dog person."

"Stay back, I'll take the nurses out."

I can bloody do this. "Don't be a prick, Sherlock. Take the one on the right." I move in and get in a blow before Sherlock's finished protesting. Best connection yet, dead before she hits the ground. Yes, yes. Rushing now.

"JOHN! Shoot the head, shoot the brain do it, do it NOW!" Sherlock's panicking and pointing at something in a strait jacket. "NOW!" He's trying to reload but his eyes roll back and he's collapsed.

I aim and shoot, bloody hell, its brain is coming out of its nose. I shoot, it falls back, enough for me to get to Sherlock. Oh god be ok, be ok. "Sherlock, Sherlock." Pulse rapid but strong, I put my ear to his chest, he's breathing shallow, broken ribs won't help that. Don't panic, John. "Sherlock, wake up." Static still, I keep checking around but I can't see anything. I rub my knuckles on his sternum, it's not working. "Bloody wake up, Sherlock, please." Don't think I can do this on my own.

He's struggling but still unconscious, no fever. "Don't, not that, please." He sobs. "I'm begging now. Not again." He's afraid, crying. "Let me have him. Let me, please."

"Sherlock it's not real, wake up." Please, please wake up. Where have you gone? Come back. I turn and see the thing on the floor, it's still moving. I get another shot in. "Sherlock, I'm here, you have me."

He rolls over and throws up. "John." I keep an eye out and rub his back. "Damn it, was hoping to keep that down." He wipes the tears from his eyes and I look for monsters so not to see it. Half naked girl again, blonde with pink ends to her hair.

"Take a moment. Just got to kill something."

"No, I'll, I'll do it."

Too late, I'm already at her. She takes a swipe with those finger nails, but it leaves her side open for a sharp stab and a punch. I kneel down and grab her head before twisting sharply. Dead. I'm getting the hang of this now.

"Good work, John." Sherlock straightens his coat that's got one third of a sleeve missing. Probably something to do with the bandage on his forearm. He strikes a strange figure covered in blood with no shirt. I'm just happy to see him on his feet again. The static is gone. "She's coming back." We run back to where we left the rope. "Same again."

"What happened? With the brain thing?"

"Hallucination. I could still hear the static, I knew it wasn't real." Really?

"What- what did you see?" Do I even want to know what could make Sherlock sound like that? Was it me? Did he beg for my life?

"Penguins."

I almost laugh. Almost.

"Here we go." The fire parts again, same end she disappeared. Why does it have to have Hannah's face? "She's changed." Less transparency, she's more muscular too, stronger.

We know what's coming. She slams down her fist again, the waves are bigger, the bodies of everything we've killed go flying like hell's version of a bouncy castle. I crouch down to keep from getting thrown but it's unstoppable.

"Run, John, now." We charge forward, attempting to do the same manoeuvre. She slams again, knocking us both back. I hit the back of my head, shit, I'm bleeding but conscious. Oh god, can't see Sherlock.

"SHERLOCK!"

"Here!" He'd flown backwards quite a way. I need to get to him. "No, keep going, keep going."

Damn it, I run towards god and Sherlock's hobbling as fast as he can. She screams, shit's that's something awful, hurts like hell. Just keep going, ignore it, keep going, keep going. We finally get round her, dodging everything she's throwing at us and wrap the rope. "Pull!" She's down again, she's stopped screaming. "Shoot, John."

"Wait, no." I push his gun down. "No, no, this isn't what we're supposed to do." The markings on her back, clearer than ever, the markings are glowing strongly, her body is improving. She's growing.

"We've not got time to debate this."

"Hate makes her stronger, Sherlock." He opens his mouth but he doesn't argue. Something makes sense to him, maybe everything. He loves more than he hates. If we don't shoot her, what am I supposed to do? I kneel down and touch her leg... she screams again. This is it. The burnt skin is healing under my hand. This is what I'm supposed to do, she won't stay in this body. I won't let her. I put a second hand on her.

"John, John stop it!" He pulls my hands away and she breaks free, kicking us both out of the way. Fuck, got it in the chest, knocked the air out of me. "Why..." can't breathe, "why'd... you stop me? It was working." Bloody infuriating man.

He touches my face with his fingers and holds them out to me. Fresh dripping blood. "Your eyes."

I was bleeding, it didn't hurt at all, I was just a little light headed. "I think I'm supposed to though."

"But why you?" He shouts, flaps his arms and paces. "I touched her. Nothing. It should be me, she knows my fate." He's raging, I don't understand.

"She knows what about your fate?"

"Crush my rising hope." He mutters like that's the foulest string of swearwords he can think up. "No time to explain, more coming."

I wish I believed he was talking nonsense but it all means something, especially here. What does Sherlock believe is going to happen to him? To us? So many bloody questions.

Another two humanlike monsters emerge from the fire. "Not mine, John."

"Yeah, I see that." Desert fatigues. She's found Afghanistan. One of them is missing an arm, but instead of bleeding he's leaving a trail of sand from his shoulder. The other shot in the gut. Paul. Shit. "Got to shoot, unknown quantity."

"Wait." Sherlock steps closer to them but the gut shot one spits sand in his face. NO. I shoot, both of them, clear in the head and neck.

Jesus, Sherlock's staggering about. "You ok? Stay still, head up." I look in his bag and pull out a drink. I pour it over his face, and clear his eyes the best I can. "Sherlock, say something."

"Injured soldiers for the army doctor, you think she would be more creative."

"Really unimaginative, honest-to-god laziness." I really need to stop using god in turns of phrase, what with having met her and all. Not a fan. "The one with the stomach wound."

"Yes, I recognised him." I'd shown Sherlock photographs one night. The only time we really talked about why I was invalided home apart from what he worked out for himself. "You killed him."

"I killed that thing. Wasn't Paul. Can you see?" I can see another Mycroft monster in the distance with one of the laser sighted fuckers. Shit, no time to take a breath.

"Well enough."

"Drink the rest." He doesn't argue and finishes the bottle fast. "Come, get the laser sighter, I've got the umbrella wanker."

He nods and we set off in opposite directions to draw them apart from each other. This may be new for us but we still know what to do without having to say, basics.

"Come on then Mr British Government." I taunt, he's still too close to Sherlock, it could spit if I piss it off. The Mycroft, god that's really bloody eerie, grabs the 'thing's' head which whines in a way that makes my stomach turn. I'm not calling it Sherlock, and shit, it's spitting right at me. I can move back out of the way but bloody hell look at the metal sizzling. Sherlock's out of the way now and I'm going to shoot the spitting thing first this time, that's the danger.

Aim, squeeze, fuck, missed the head, got Mycroft in the chest. Again. It falls limp. Better. He's only got that bloody umbrella now. "Oh shi-" He's faster than I thought he would be. I fire off a couple of shots, catch him but he's swinging that umbrella- "AAAGGHH!" I'm down. Fuck, my arm, don't be broken, don't be broken. "Shit, shit, shit." Right handed, I fire off a couple and get him down. "Mother-mmpphph." That hurts.

I see Sherlock, he's done with the laser monster and he's got two nurses on him now. Nurses with tentacles? Shit, that's how he got the stomach wound. I get up and I'm running, he's gotten too far away. He's wrestling with one, I get the butt of my gun to the back of her head.

"About bloody time." He deals with that while I beat the shit out of the other one.

"What the hell happened to them?" Sherlock's got a fresh cut on his chest, fairly shallow, I should have made him put his shirt back on, it would have been some protection.

"Accidently bred a tentacle monster. Keep watch." Sherlock takes a bottle out of his bag and sprinkles the contents on the bodies. The tentacles start wriggling, they weren't dead at all. "Lye."

"Of course lye kills tentacles." He's done with them but I need a second to check my arm. "Watch out for a moment." I have a poke at my bicep, painful but I think I'm ok.

"You're injured."

"Sodding umbrella was harder than it looked. Not broken though, going to be one hell of a bruise." More naked men, enough for us to handle though. Blood spatters and sprays, almost getting slippery. Every second here puts Sherlock's condition into context.

"I should have warned you. Sorry." Sherlock punctuates that sentence with a decently impressive punch to the face of one of the men. We're back to back now but I know what he's doing.

I wish he'd stop apologising. "Sherlock, everything's trying to kill us, of course it wasn't going to be an ordinary umbrella, I'm pretty sure the real one isn't that normal either." Crowbar in the stomach.

"It's a sword." Another spray of blood from Sherlock's knife in a jugular vein.

"Bollocks!" Temple blow, perfectly timed.

"Nuclear codes." Sherlock, elbow, kick, stamp to the neck.

"More likely." Another one, punch, upper cut, neck snap.

"Cake."

"Ha!" New creature, disgusting.

"John, careful, don't get near it."

The thing is diseased from head to toe with bits falling off. I've seen wounds like that, my shoulder hadn't looked too different at its worse but this is all over their bodies. It's wandering off somewhere, it hasn't seen us. "Ugh, he smells rank."

"Had that on my face."

"Thought you smelt awful."

"That and the dead cockroaches."

"Cockroaches?" I hate creepy crawlies, I'd vote for extinction of cockroaches, spiders, ants the lot of them. The thing has noticed us now. "You want a head shot."

"No, I thought you could make it a cup of tea, of course I want you to bloody shoot it!"

I shoot, takes a couple to put it down. Feels like a waste. "I could have had a go with the crowbar. I've got range."

"You might have to."

More of them climb through the fire. Five. Not enough ammunition. We need to do this quick or we're going to get seriously outnumbered. "Right, plan?"

"Left to right and stay close, they work together."

"Brilliant. Monsters on a team building weekend." I start off ahead of Sherlock, he doesn't need any more exposure to whatever they're made of. "Don't let them flank." I let one lunge for me, ugh, it's properly horrible, what the hell does it mean to Sherlock? Easy to move and get the crowbar into its ribs, oh god the thing is just disintegrating.

"Careful, weapons can get stuck." Sherlock slams his shotgun butt into its head. Think that did the trick but it takes my crowbar with it.

"Yep. Got that." I twist it free and join Sherlock on the next one. "Sherlock." They're starting to circle. Sherlock pushes two of them back while I take on the next. I've got the technique now, stick it in and twist out, maximum damage. Got that one in the chest.

Sherlock's got one on the floor and using his foot to finish it off. Leaves the last one for me. God, it's making a choking sound, I think they're rotten all the way through. Time it right, don't touch it. Now. I swing but it dodges, grabs my arm with the crowbar. Oh god. I twist and put the gun to its head and squeeze. "Ah fuck!" That might have been a mistake. I exploded its head.

I flick off what I can feel starting to burn and Sherlock's helping in the sense that he's got his hands all over me in a tornado of kindness. "Sherlock, sort yourself out." Burns in patches, not too bad.

"I had my back to you. You got off lightly, the hands of the creatures are obviously worse." Sherlock grabs me and cuts at my sleeve until it ends up on the floor. "Not gotten to the skin yet." The radio has stopped again, we've only got a minute before she's back. I've got to touch her, I'll be fine.

"Is that how you lost your sleeve?"

"Possessed mannequin."

"Possessed... You have to tell me everything one day."

"You can't touch her-" She's back, not far. This is my only chance. I drop my weapons.

"Sorry, forgive me." Run.

"DON'T JOHN!"

I need to get there both she slams her fist again. Run, run, run. "Oh god." Too late, she's going to hit me.

"JOHN!"

She - she's hasn't. I put my hands out to protect myself, I'm touching her, she's stopped mid-punch, her fist just above me. My hands look tiny but touching her has stopped her. "Stay back, Sherlock." I see him standing, bereft. If he moves me she could crush me. I'm bleeding, I can feel it this time, taste it even. Sorry you have to watch this, Sherlock.

This time I can see her face, Hannah's face. She's crying, she trying to move. She can shift and wriggle a bit but I can keep up. She's weeping now, I'm hurting her. Her knees weaken and she drops hard enough to make the ground shake. I have to keep going. I move one hand at a time along her arm until I can touch her face.

She screams.

I want to pull away but I can't, I can't stop, stay here, don't hate. Hand on my shoulder. "Sherlock, don't-" I shout but he's not pulling me away. I look at him. Oh, he's - he's bleeding too but it's hurting him. No, Sherlock don't do this for me. "Stop, let me, I can do this! I have to."

"Shut up." He grits out. "Fate. My hands."

She's still screaming but her face is healing more and more, skin smooth and cold as porcelain. She's trying to pull her face away but she can't, the fight is leaving her body. She opens her eyes, such sadness but it's Hannah, I know it's her. "It's ok, Hannah, I'm so sorry." Oh god, something's happening, I can't move my hands. "Sherlock let go. LET GO OF ME NOW!" He squeezes tighter, with me to the end.

White light, everywhere.

Silence. I can move but I'm... nowhere. "SHERLOCK." Where am I? "SHERLOCK!" Sweet smell, like roses. The park, I'm in the park. The white disappears in a flash, I'm where the girls were playing. "HANNAH? SHERLOCK?" What happened, oh god, did we stop her? Did I die? Shit, fuck, shit, fuck.

"John Watson?"

A blonde woman in her mid twenties, she looks familiar. "Heather Mason?"

"You remembered me." She smiles.

"Hannah's the spitting image of you."

"Thanks, she is a cutie. Come sit, we don't have long."

We sit on the bench. It's so quiet, I can only just hear the water. So peaceful here. "Did we stop her?"

"You did exactly what we wanted, everything you could."

"Was it enough?"

"I thought you might want to say goodbye. I know how much you care about, Hannah. Thank you for looking after her. I tried so hard to stop them taking her, I knew they'd come eventually. I tried, I really did. They just kept coming." She turns away to look at the lake and compose herself. She'd fought to the death. "Thank you, for making her laugh and feel safe."

"She's a lovely girl, I would have called her my own if I had the chance."

"I know. She would have said yes. You'll make a good father." She turns and waves over Hannah, she's been hiding behind the big oak tree. She's healthy and in the same blue dress as last time. Didn't think I'd ever see her again.

"John!" She flings herself into my arms, luckily nothing hurts here. I hold her tight, she's still here. "You did it! You did it!"

I need to look at her, she's more full of life than ever. "I'm so sorry I hurt you."

"You hurt god not me." She squeezes me tight again. "You won't forget me will you?"

"Not in a million years."

"Good." She giggles, absolutely infectious. I wish Sherlock could have seen her.

"Where's Sherlock? Is he ok?"

"He's alright, he needs looking after and a bath." Hannah holds her nose and makes a face. I snigger, I shouldn't really. "Sherlock was funny looking."

I laugh, I laugh against every urge I have to cry right now. "You're going to be ok here? What happens to you now?"

"Dunno." She shrugs. "We'll be alright, I'm back with mum."

Heather strokes Hannah on the head. "Say goodbye sweetie, John has to go back now, Sherlock's awake and he's very worried."

It's not enough time. "You- you take care and... you've changed everything, Hannah, you changed me." I'll never be the same and it's not for the worse.

"I'll miss you." She hugs me again and I feel her chest shudder as she cries. I want to remember her like this, before The Order got to her.

"I'll miss you too."

Heather speaks again. "He's got to go now, Sherlock needs him."

"He-"

"No Hannah, not our place." Heather's stern. What was she going to say about Sherlock?

She rolls her eyes. "Fine." She mutters not at all sincerely.

"You have to go back now." She's getting agitated now. "Your friend is..."

"Ok, I'll go." Sherlock's waiting but I need one last look at Hannah. I sweep her hair behind her ear so I can see her face one more time. "Goodbye, Hannah."

"Goodbye." Her lip trembles but she's trying to be brave, my brave Hannah.

She's gone...

Chapter 36: Brookhaven Hospital Roof

Chapter Text

John's dead.

John's dead.

John's dead.

John's dead.

The Otherworld is gone and John is dead. He won't be alone. I'll stay with him, sat at his side, until we are found. I couldn't do it. I didn't protect him. I failed. He died because of me. I don't bother to wipe away the tears. I've cried for you now, John, are you happy? These tears are yours.

This gun, his gun, empty. Useless. I throw it violently over the edge of the building. The shotgun, empty too, I sling it aside as hard as I can, it rattles and skitters across the concrete roof. I have the knife. It's not time yet. I have to take him home, make sure he's properly taken care of and his affairs are in order, he would have wanted that.

Why? Why you? Crushed my rising hope.

Helicopters. Whatever was shielding the town is gone, Mycroft's men will round up The Order and try to track down Moriarty. He'll offer me some time with those he captures but murder won't be permitted, not much point in seeing them.

I brave another look at him, there won't be many more opportunities. He doesn't look any different from the others that died. Blank, vacant eyed, motionless. I felt him die under my hands. She lied. She was either going to kill him at her own hand or watch him die as he stopped her, he was never mine and he'll never be mine. Of course she knew my fate, it was the same fate as all along: to watch John die.

"HUUUUUUUUH!"

John.

He's looking right at me as he coughs and gasps for air. I'm sat with my knees drawn up and strewn with tears, he's struggling to catch his breath but I can't react. Alive. No. No, I've gone mad. I must have gone mad. This isn't happening.

"Sher-Sherlock! Oh shit... that was..."

I shake my head. He was dead. I tried, I tried everything to bring him back, I begged for him to come back.

"Don't- it's fine." He's still gasping, struggling to speak and failing to sit up. He blinks his eyes hard like he can't see properly yet. I'm shaking, this isn't happening, god's gone, there's no possible way for him to be alive. "Ok, I might - I might have been a little bit dead that time."

"J-John." I can't speak, just a husk. Don't joke about this.

"Saying goodbye... in the park... Hannah's with her mum." He rubs his chest, trying to breathe deeply. "Jesus." Between the kick from god and my desperate compressions he'll be hurting.

The dead don't hurt.

"You ok?"

Am I ok? "You- you died." I choke out. Can't control the emotion in my voice. "I saw, I felt you die." I almost sound angry as I grit out each word. Anger is preferable to the unremitting grief that gripped me. I could hit him, hit him for leaving me behind.

He sits up, that cut on his cheek is bleeding again, a rivulet runs to his jaw. He wipes it with a shaking hand.

The dead don't bleed.

"I'm sorry, I'm ok, they sent me back, everything's fine."

No. He doesn't get to do this, he can't destroy me and tell me everything's fine. It's not fine. It's far from fine. "John-" The anger breaks and I can't help the sorrow rising up in my throat as I cry again. I lost him, he was gone. "You were dead, I held you, you were dead, you were dead, you were dead."

I saw, I felt, dead, I dragged him, god crumpled, screamed, shook, everything shook, the world collapsed and I held him, so limp, I spoke, said it would be ok, told him he was stupid, brave, wonderful, she broke apart, light within shining, searing, burning my eyes, John, all I wanted to see was John, blood on his face, his, mine, our demon's, dead, she screams, the metal buckles, the flames rage, let them take us, together, I'm ready. She bursts. The Otherworld vanishes. The roof, grey, daylight, fog, death. John. Mouth to mouth, chest compressions, no bars, I weep, the pain, fight it, not working, not working, don't leave me, you're the one I can't lose, you're everything, I need you, I love you. I love you.

I'm not sure how long it's been when I come to my senses. John sat directly opposite me with his forehead resting against mine. One of his hands strokes the back of my head while the other holds my fingers against the pulse at his throat. It's perfect. "We lived."

"We did." He replies quietly. "We survived Silent Hill. God's gone." His voice, I never thought I'd here it again. He's close enough for me to feel him speak. I don't want him to move, I want to stay like this. "Strong pulse."

"Yes." I feel it, steady, strong, eighty beats a minute. He'll never have a chance to defy death again but he'll chase it none the less. "For someone who seems content to be alive you seem intent to find a cause to die for." I want to be your cause to stay alive for. "You're not expendable."

"I'm not looking for a cause." He protests quietly but he's still thinking, reflecting.

"You touched her, you bled for her."

"We couldn't let god be born, we'd have both died for nothing and probably a lot of other people too. It was me or everything."

"For Queen and country." Bitterness drips from every word.

"And you." He squeezes the back of my neck softly, somewhere it doesn't hurt. "You're right up there with the Queen."

The smile on my lips betrays me. "You're an idiot." Fearless and wonderful. "But you solved the last puzzle." Hate made her stronger, John was the key, his kindness, his bond with the child.

"You would have gotten there eventually, some people are slower with these things."

The dead don't smile.

"Don't make me regret giving half a damn about you." I could never regret it.

"I'd have been a bloody wreck too, you know, if it had been you." I close my eyes and absorb his sincerity. He wouldn't have felt like this. He strokes the back of my head again and I wish I could let him melt into me, have him with me constantly. "Seriously Sherlock, I'd have fucking lost it. Believe me."

I believe you.

It's time to move on. "But you were busy swanning about in a park being dead." Oh the bliss of making that joke, for it to be me that can still make him laugh.

The dead don't laugh.

"Feel better yet?"

I've collected myself again. Trust John to anchor me once more, to bring me back from the brink. "Shower, food, sleep, that order."

"Home then."

"I've never heard a better idea in my life. Mycroft will have a car waiting at the top of town."

"They can't drive here?"

"You'll see."

Having him even an inch away feels wrong but it's a familiar feeling. We help each other up, our muscles have seized from our stillness in the cold. I take a moment to look him over. His bite wound is weeping profusely. "Stand still." He lets me unbutton his shirt and expose the wound. I see the teeth marks, they missed his jugular by millimetres. It will scar, a reminder of our final battle. It was good to fight with him, a distraction but we worked well together. The creatures were easier to cope with, though the hallucination I could have done without, why did it have to take me back there? I clean the wound as well as I can with the last remaining antiseptic wipes and put my last dressing across it. Out of sight, never out of mind.

Ping.

We both turn to see a lift has arrived. It's normal in appearance but a lift wasn't marked on the map and it wasn't present in the Otherworld. I don't trust it.

"After you, Mr Holmes?"

"No."

"No?"

"No lifts."

"Ok, stairs then."

I see a metal fire escape on the outside of the building, that feels safest. "This way."

"Gimme your bag. Save your ribs and everything else."

It's a decent idea. He takes my bag and slings it over his shoulder before following. We stand at the edge of the building. The town is still draped in fog allowing us only small glimpses of its landmarks. The church stands out, the Halo of the Sun upon the spire breaks the skyline. "So this is where I've been the whole time?"

"Looks harmless, doesn't it?"

"A little more harmless now."

We make our way down in silence, it feels like a long time since I've had my feet on solid ground. The gravel crunches reassuringly beneath my feet. The hospital gardens are overgrown but not untended, this place has seen activity. It feels like early morning, the air is crisp and fresher than before. I check again that John's still with me. He's there.

"What about Moriarty and The Order?"

"Mycroft's men are in now, they can take care of them." For now I want to return to Baker Street with John, I need to eat, sleep and heal. "That's if Moriarty survived the Otherworld. Without someone supplying him he wouldn't have lasted long." If he's taken his last breath, I hope it was my face he saw. A thousand of my faces. Maybe mine and John's, it should be our victory.

"Was someone supplying you?"

"Mycroft." We've left the hospital grounds and turn in the direction of the church and the way I first entered the town. Two sets of footsteps echo in the empty streets this time. I came for John and I have him.

"That was nice of him."

I grunt. The drugs he tricked me into taking are wearing off, it could only have exacerbated my... low mood on the roof. The fatigue is creeping in, I need to sleep soon.

"He'll take that as a thank you." John's scanning our surroundings, it's all much the same to me now. We're alone, that's what matters. We defeated god. "We should probably get our stories straight."

"About what?"

"I assume there are certain things you'd prefer Mycroft not to know about."

"He's been able to observe me through the same methods as Moriarty. Only the Otherworld and my hallucinations were out of bounds to him."

"So he's seen..."

"The monster I made of him?" Of us. The brothers. "Yes, but Mycroft will hardly care. We can leave out your manifestations if you'd prefer, he won't have seen them."

"No, that's ok. I'm surprised mine weren't... worse."

John has seen his share of horrors, only some of them in the army. I've seen, I've noticed his reactions to certain cases and certain topics of conversation. She could have exposed his every nightmare from his earliest memory to the last victim we failed to reach in time. "She was only warming up. She started slowly with me too, it took her some time to dig as deep as she wanted." Of course John was easy to find. "Harry made up the snake to frighten you."

"Yeah, I was only five when she spun me that one, the joys of having an older sibling." He quirks a wry smile in my direction. I know it well. "You're welcome to tell her off if you like. It would be a sodding pleasure."

"I was thinking of thanking her."

"What for?"

"Her pitiful imagination only mustered up a slightly large snake. At seven I could have formulated a much more deadly and trickier creature to kill." I've never been fond of snakes though.

"Shit." John curses like he's made some fantastic revelation. "It was my fault. Harry was seven, I was thinking about her at Hannah's age and what we'd get up to. That's how it knew, because I'd been trying to remember."

"Seems likely." He'll have told Hannah about Afghanistan too, simple tales I expect but enough to alert god of the violence he witnessed there. Enough to create the sand-bleeding men we saw. They were not as I expected. I knew upon seeing the snake that a soldier would likely appear but they weren't the dismembered horror I was expecting. Agonised faces, dirt but not blood and sand, spitting and flowing sand. John fired his gun just a second after they blinded me, I had intended to take care of them for him but not anticipated that defence.

We round another corner, I'd gotten quite deep into the town. Some of my journey was underground so I lost my bearings.

"We were closer back then - whoa, what the hell happened here?" A sinkhole comes into view out of the fog. John speeds up to have a good look but I'm too tired to keep up. "Jesus, it's massive."

This one must span fifty metres. "Sinkhole. Or our government's attempts to render the town uninhabitable, makes no difference. We have to turn here." It should take us in the direction of Heaven's Night. I'm not taking the route by the church even if this way is a little longer.

"And that explains why we're not getting picked up."

We walk on a little further, my pace slowing even more as my leg begins to ache. John slows too, he doesn't ask tedious questions regarding my well being, my injuries are apparent. There will be no stopping until we're clear of the town. We pass a sign to Rosewater Park. John's eyes linger for a moment but we keep going.

We're stopped by another sinkhole but as we start down the next road it's soon apparent this world hasn't completely returned to normal.

"Sherlock, that's our flat."

And only our flat.

Mrs Hudson's and the roof are absent, only what belongs to us breaks the gap in the old Victorian terrace. The building is set on scaffolding wrapped with torn sheets of opaque plastic. A metal staircase leads to our front door. We walk slowly closer and I'm already regretting discarding our firearms.

"Do you hear that?"

"A baby." It's crying. Familiar. "I heard one in the hospital but it was a trick, the crib was empty."

"Let's have a look then." John's on his way to the stairs and I duly follow, I won't let him see me flagging and if I protest he'll go in alone. Infuriating man.

As we climb the stairs my anger builds. This is our home, it has no place here, the danger was supposed to have passed. John leads the way. The underside of the flat shows the joists and dangling soundproofing. We reach our front door, it's identical even to the smallest detail, every scratch and scrape. There's no static from my radio and the child still screams. "Careful." I whisper rather redundantly, of course he's going to be careful.

John nods and opens the door. The sound of the crying is suddenly louder, it's coming from the living room. We walk slowly through, everything is how we left it that morning, even John's mud covered trainers sit in a plastic bag by the kitchen door ready to be scrubbed. It smells like home too, of sanctuary and comfort. It's not, it's a distortion.

We get to the living room, the same Moses basket I used in the hospital sits on the coffee table but this time it's not empty. There rests a newborn infant covered by a pink blanket screaming at the top of her lungs. There's a note pinned to the hood. "Mycroft." John paces as I read, he scratches the back of his head and winces as he catches a cut. Alive.

Dear Sherlock,

So the cycle begins again. Assure John that the child will be placed with appropriate guardians, she will be well protected and cared for. I have arranged a rented house near Windermere as you will both require rest. It's stocked with all of the necessary medical and food supplies you both need to recuperate as I assume you'll resist a hospital admission. You can head back to London in the next day or two at your leisure. Before you make an undoubtedly polite request, all documents we have on Silent Hill will be waiting at Baker Street for your inspection upon your return.

Make your way to the main road. I look forward to seeing you again, brother.

MH

"So?" John asks. I've been staring at the piece of paper for a while.

"We didn't kill god, we began the cycle again."

"You... you mean this is Hannah?"

"The child is her own person, but Hannah, Heather Mason, Cheryl Mason and Alessa Gillespie are a part of her. So is god." The child is still screaming and whatever John has attempted to calm her hasn't worked. The infant, the next mother of god.

"Bloody hell, look, um, try and entertain her for a moment, I'm going to wash my hands so I can pick her up."

My mind fills with the gruesome possibilities for this most basic task. Blood out of the taps, worse acid, insects, sand filling the flat, no escape. John turns the tap, it's just water, this is fine, it's fine, all fine.

Back to the child. She's here for a reason, everything has happened for a reason even if that reason is to test my sanity. First, make it stop screaming. Ok, um, "Hello, please stop that." I nudge the basket with my knee to make it rock but that does the sum total of absolutely nothing. In fact I think she's getting louder. New stimulus. I grab something off the mantle and hold it out to her. "There, there." I push it against her hand and she grabs tight, reflex. She's calming. I can do this. "There, there, that's better, little one." God will be dormant for some time, for now she's just a normal baby. As normal as she'll ever be. "Good girl."

As her face relaxes I can see her features more clearly. Dark hair with a slight curl, thick for a child so young. Large blue eyes but so were Hannah Mason's they'll likely stay that colour. Oval face, large-ish nose not unlike John's. Very like John's. Oh. Could she be his? His hands were on god when we separated it from Hannah Mason. It's plausible that his DNA contributed to the child, there's not a wealth of reliable data on spontaneously reincarnated children. She is a striking child, beautiful even.

"Sherlock!" John's scolding me.

"What?"

"The skull? Really?"

The child is holding on to the eye socket with one hand and using her other hand to hit the jaw. She's quite content. "She's stopped crying hasn't she?"

He concedes, the quiet is pleasant. "So what do we do?"

A plan forms perfectly in my mind. "She's going to need a name. I can call Mrs Hudson and arrange for us to expand into the attic space for a little extra rent. She'll be delighted, it'll be impossible to get rid of her but she'll be useful for free babysitting, perhaps some occasional housekeeping."

"You'll let me bring the baby home?"

"It shouldn't be a problem. Cornelia Holmes-Watson."

"Wait... Holmes-Watson?" John's incredulous, I expected that reaction. He'd already formulated a plan while washing his hands. One without me.

"Or Watson-Holmes. The Holmes will ensure doors are opened for her, the Watson will ensure they aren't slammed in her face again."

"Us, together, raise a child?"

"Yes." This is the perfect opportunity for John to make a fresh start and I can't let that happen. Raising a child isn't beyond my capabilities and it will mostly likely be fun with John. I have to keep John, even if he meets someone else, the child will bind us. She'll have to compete.

"This isn't a decision you can make in an instant, Sherlock, this is massive, life changing stuff here."

"You already made the decision, you were going to adopt Hannah Mason." It was obvious, the child was an orphan and John had taken the role as her protector.

"We're not calling her Cornelia and I had time to think about that."

"And I need less time to think, naturally. Elspeth." She's special, a mother of god, we're her only hope of finishing off god forever. We can make sure she's the last, we can make sure she survives past her seventh birthday.

She's a puzzle, the greatest puzzle.

"Not Elspeth." He sighs. "Sherlock," he rubs his eyes, so many nervous habits fluttering to the surface but I can wear him down, "we can't go in to this lightly. What will you do about cases? Boredom? Fingers in the fridge and chemical experiments? People trying to kill us? What do you think about discipline, schooling, childcare, vaccinations, religion, diet! There's so much, I don't even know where to start."

"I'll pick cases with negligible risk to our lives, how can I be bored with a child, I'll put a lab in the basement along with anything else that isn't food and as for killers I'll kill them first. I don't agree with corporal punishment, she'll have private schooling but no boarding, childcare will be you, me and Mrs Hudson, yes to vaccinations, no religion and I do think that we should feed the child."

John doesn't appear to disagree with any of my answers but he's still resisting. Convincing him to embark on this endeavour with me will be no easy task, I've not presented myself as fatherly material before. It was never my intention to become one.

"We live a dangerous life."

"We used to, now we have one of tedious monotony and middle class competitive parenting don't we, Ophelia."

"No, but better." John takes a deep breath and strokes the cheek of the child with the back of his fingers. "Any one would say she had your eyes, they're beautiful. Isn't that right, Julia." I look more closely. My eyes? I was still touching John when god left Hannah Mason's distorted body. It would be too good to even hope that she might be ours. Ours. My heart's racing. "So Julia?"

"Ugh, common." I take a breath and focus on our conversation, we need to have her DNA tested before I get carried away. No child of mine will be called Julia. God, Julie would be even worse, she'd end up with some dire boyfriend called Darren who drives a modded Renault Clio and works in Asda. "I'm ready and willing to do this. Mycroft can sort out the paperwork and a child is more likely to flourish in a two parent household."

"I can't believe I'm considering this." He gives the child a quick look over, she's only wearing a cloth napkin under her blanket. She appears healthy. Skinny with a rounded belly, no umbilical cord but she has a belly button that sticks out. I wonder if John had one at that age, he doesn't now. "Ten fingers and toes, no umbilical though."

"I noticed."

John lets her grab his finger, that smile, he's fallen for her already. "You really think you can give up risking your life for fun?"

"I will if you will. She's the greatest challenge yet, John."

"It's not over. They're going to come after her. If it's not The Order someone will come."

"And we've got seven years to stop them." We'll do it this time, we'll need more than aglaophotis. Something must stop god.

"We need to talk more about this."

"Of course." He's breaking, he's willing to do this with me.

"Come on, let's get moving before she gets hungry or needs changing. It's weird being in here and not home. Emily."

"Boring."

John tries to take the skull from her but she's not letting go. That's my girl. "She can't have a poncy name Sherlock, there's got to be a middle ground."

"Poppy."

"That's the name of a cat. Abigail."

I go to discount it immediately but... Yes, I like that. "Acceptable."

"Seriously?"

"I believe we've just made our first parenting decision."

"Abigail Holmes-Watson." He says with a smile. "What do you think of that, Abbie? Acceptable?"

"Abigail." I correct. Shortened names. No.

"Oh yeah, this is going to be fun." John says wryly while taking one of the handles. I take the other and we carefully make our way outside. "Heather Mason knew she was here, she said I will make a good father, not that I would one day. She bloody knew I'd take her."

"Lucky you weren't female or we wouldn't have found out until you began vomiting in the mornings and started eating twiglets."

"It would have to take an immaculate conception to make me eat twiglets."

We walk on, gazing occasionally at the girl between us still playing with the skull, her first toy. She looks like an Abigail, some names are better suited than others. I've never been so acutely aware of how a baby needs an adult to survive, to meet her every basic need, to raise her and guide her. John will know what to do and I can prepare myself with the relevant reading material, I won't fail. People do this every day, I intend on doing it well. She's alert even though her ability to focus in limited, perhaps I can teach her, she'll need to be challenged.

"I don't want... No alcohol. Not in the house and no getting drunk, not in front of Abbie. Ever."

John's upbringing, not surprising. "Agreed." It's not a sacrifice. I'm guessing the 'no illegal substances' goes unspoken but then John's the only person who really believes I've stopped. "No secret deals with Mycroft, we talk and make decisions together. He'll plan to divide and conquer."

"Are you lecturing me on the merits of honesty and communication? This from the man who went out to get milk and returned five days later from Syria and Jordan telling me that there was a queue?"

"I had the milk."

"Yeah, well Abbie isn't going to get away with that and neither will you."

"I'm a reformed character."

"Actions speak louder than words, for both of us, this is going to change everything."

"Change can be a good thing. Meeting you changed everything." It was also the same day I first heard Moriarty's name. Perhaps fate has played a role in my life before I stepped into this cursed town.

We move on to the street where I saw John in his fatigues. John surveys the scene, the car remains though it has burnt itself out, the windows are still shattered. John is gone, only blood stains on the tarmac leave any indication he was there. "Car bomb?" John asks.

"Yes." How do I tell him? I don't, not yet. "I met the first monster here, one of the 'lasersighters' as you called them."

"Jesus, what did you do?"

"I ran like my hair was on fire."

John laughs but stops mid flow, looking over my shoulder. "That your scarf in the tree?" It appears so. We set Abigail down, she's happy holding on to the skull and chewing on her fist.

I turn my attention back to the tree in question. A length of blue material is caught on one of the lower branches of a birch tree. I unhook it, though lifting my arms up hurts. It's mine, I hadn't noticed I'd lost it. It's untouched, no dust, no blood. "Must have come off during the explosion."

"Is that your blood over there then?"

He'll trust me more if I tell him the truth. There's far too much blood there for it to have been me. "No. That's yours."

John drops his head and nods.

"Would you prefer if I didn't tell you?"

"You saw me get blown up?"

"Yes."

"Did you know it wasn't me at the time?"

"No. I didn't."

"God, Sherlock."

"It's over now." Having John here makes those memories less painful. Some of them anyway. "A new beginning." I kneel down and wrap the scarf so it covers Abigail's head and hands, the blanket isn't terribly thick and I don't want her to get cold. That's what a father does, yes?

"First present from her dad." John beams. I did the right thing then.

"She'll grow into it." Look at her, she's perfect, so much of John in her. I see it more and more. I look forward to her first smile. Life will change, I'll still have cases, but it will be worth it. "Not far now."

We walk up a slight incline to where the taxi dropped me off. Two black cars are waiting, one for John and myself, one for Abigail. We won't be separated. The driver opens the passenger door and surprisingly Mycroft steps out. No umbrella today. He's not here for me, he must have needed proximity to Silent Hill to intervene and send my supplies. He followed me up here.

"Ah, brother." His face wrinkles slightly, we're none too fragrant. "Dr Watson, it's good to see you both after such trials and tribulations. There are fresh clothes and somewhere to dispose your soiled items in the car for you."

John kneels down and carefully picks up Abigail. He keeps her wrapped up and the scarf over her head with purpose. John looks happy. "We'd like you to meet someone, Abigail Holmes-Watson."

Mycroft looks horrified for a beat before glaring at me. I relish it, I'm sure he had two parents lined up, nannies, a place in boarding school when she turns five. No child of mine will be sent away to be raised by strangers. "You wish to adopt the child? Both of you?"

"Yes." I interject before John can give him a reason to stop us. "You said you'd handle the necessary paperwork."

"Sherlock," he begins tersely, "I assure you she will be taken care of. Your household is not appropriate for a child. Your lifestyle is not appropriate."

John speaks up, "I know it sounds mad-"

"Quite, quite mad."

"We found her in our flat, sort of, we're meant to have her and we want her."

"Why don't you take a seat in the car, Doctor Watson, there's a baby seat for the infant."

"Her name is Abigail, Uncle Mykie." Oh how he rankles at the shortening of his name. John smothers a snigger too.

"Give him a chance." There's not a hint of pleading in John's voice.

"Should I give him a chance when he accidently leaves her in the back of a cab because he notices something pivotal for a case due to how the sunlight reflects off a shop window? Or how about when he forgets to feed her? Or maybe when he loses his temper and decides to tell her a few home truths about why the girl at school doesn't like her? How many chances am I supposed to give him?"

"You haven't given him one yet." John stands at my side and holds Abigail protectively.

"Excuse us, Doctor Watson." Mycroft sets his most smarmy smirk and he's not even attempting to hide his contempt.

John silently confirms that I'm happy to speak with Mycroft alone and takes her to the car.

The car door barely clicks shut before Mycroft starts. "So if you can't be the centre of John's world you think you can use the child to keep him forever in your orbit."

"It's none of your concern."

"You're asking me to sanction your madness that makes this very much my concern, dear brother."

"This benefits you too, having this to hold over my head, I'll work for you provided you pay me, I have a family to support now." He has much to hold against me, I doubt I'll be able to say no for many years. He knows how I feel about John.

"People like us don't have families, Sherlock."

"People like you, perhaps. I can be a good man, a good father." At least I'll try.

"I suppose it's my fault, I thought John would be a good influence on you. Silent Hill would have been easier had Moriarty and The Order not had John as their ultimate weapon in their hands and in your heart."

"At least I have a heart to be burnt out."

That stung him. It would serve me better not to alienate him until I have the required paperwork. I need him. "Don't confuse my disapproval with lack of care Sherlock, I've done much to protect you, not just with my aid but the level of information recorded. I don't assume you'd appreciate footage of the prison being passed around?"

"This is about more than reputation, yours or mine." I may not want anyone to see me there, but Mycroft equally doesn't want to be associated with my trials. He must think me weak, pathetic, vulnerable. I used to envy his detachment but he'll never know how I feel, he'll never understand.

"Tell me Sherlock, why did you choose the name 'Abigail'?"

"I didn't, it was John's choice. Why do you want to know?"

"Do you know the meaning?" I give him a withering stare, of course I don't. "It means 'father's joy'."

"Fitting."

Mycroft paces, he's making his decision. "I sanction fostering, if you can prove yourselves competent for six months then we'll make things more permanent."

A thank you is tempting, I stay silent. He's expecting me to fail, for John to decide to raise Abigail alone.

"You might not keep her for longer than seven years, you do understand that?"

"Of course I do. But we will stop god this time. Heather Mason survived her visit here, as long as Abigail isn't burned we have the chance to save her." The thought of that happening is unpleasant, more than unpleasant, the stakes are high.

"We'll need that book you collected from the old woman's house."

"Once I'm finished with it." Not only to read it but to test it, I need to know everything it has to tell me.

"Fine. Did you come across anything that mentioned Flauros in the Otherworld?"

"No. What is it?"

"We don't know, it might be nothing or it could be the key to everything." Flauros. Another compound like Aglaophotis perhaps? "Change your clothes Sherlock and have a rest, the house is almost an hour's drive away."

"Thank you."

"What for?"

"For some things that you did. And are going to do." This is painful but he requires it, it will make my life easier. "You're an uncle."

"So I am. Return to John, we'll agree to the finer points later."

Finer points. Tests, experiments, investigation into what she is. She won't leave our sight. "Moriarty? The Order?"

"We've rounded up some of their congregation and discovered the body of a Priestess in the Lakeview Hotel. We've been unable to locate James Moriarty as of yet."

"Has he escaped?"

"We have the surrounded area secure and maps of the mines, we're confident of tracking him down."

"Hannah Mason broke his protection, he was taken to the Otherworld while I was in solitary confinement."

"Ah, this changes things, I must go. Six months, Sherlock, try not to mess this up, maybe there is redemption for you yet." Mycroft walks away into the second car without a backward glance.

Some anonymous man puts her crib in the boot. "Skull." I hold out my hand and he hands it over. Abigail will want her toy. Returning to the car reunites me with the sight of Abigail in her car seat on the opposite side to John. She's content holding on to my scarf, I set the skull next to her. Morbid, perhaps, but it's only bone. I settle in my seat next to John. John who is currently shirtless. I look, I always look. New details this time, some permanent, some that can be washed away or healed. Bruises are starting to bloom over his chest. "So, did you convince him or do I need to patch him up?"

"Six months fostering then adoption." I leave out my probation, John will always be good enough.

"Bloody hell, we're actually going to do this." John slips on a sweatshirt Mycroft has provided, he's less distracting now. It gives me a chance to dispose of my coat and trousers in a black bin bag while John coos over Abigail. "Did he say anything else?" Ugh, sportswear. At least it will be comfortable. John's trying to discreetly look at the parts of me he didn't see. The bandage around my thigh is soaked through. I don't have anything fresh to wrap it yet.

"They're rounding up The Order, Moriarty is still a loose end."

John tips his head back. "Fuck."

"No swearing in front of Abigail."

John's laugh is despairing. "He's still out there."

"Mycroft saw fit to make a quick exit after I told him about Moriarty's trip to the Otherworld. Abigail might not have been the only gift Hannah left behind."

"But you don't know for certain."

"No."

"He's a slippery shi-, devil."

"Better." I yawn. The car engine starts. We're leaving. I take one sideways glance out of the window. Seven years to stop this happening again. If we have to return here, we'll be more prepared, we'll bring our own army. "Think I might take that sleep now."

John grabs a towel from the pile of clothes we were provided. "Lay your head here, the roads are too bendy for sleeping upright and it would be ridiculous for you to smack your head on the window at this point."

It's too tempting an offer to turn down. I gingerly settle myself on his lap and close my eyes, I feel boneless and ready to succumb to sleep already. John rests a hand on my shoulder to steady me and unsticks my blood stained hair from my forehead. "That ok? Doesn't hurt?"

"Blissful but I think I could sleep in a rock tumbler right now." John keeps playing with my hair, bending the strands and flaking away the blood while in idle thought. He has many unanswered questions. I have my own. "Does Flauros mean anything to you?"

"Flauros? No, should it?"

"I don't know. Mycroft mentioned it. I took a book from a house, their bible, it might be mentioned in there." We bump along the road, John holds me gently so I'm not jostled. I could drive back to London like this, no bed could be this wonderful.

"Shall I have a look?"

"As long as I don't have to move, you're incredibly comfortable." Maybe I can use this as an excuse to do it again one day, lay in his lap while we watch awful television with the subtitles on while Abigail sleeps.

John roots around in my bag that he placed at his feet. With John leaning over me I should feel trapped but it's nice, I try to sink deeper. "You collected some weird stuff here."

"No more strange than usual."

"It's terrible how true that is. Got it."

He recognises the symbol embossed on the front. "It's called the Halo of the Sun."

"What does it mean?"

"We'll find out, there's a lot more to discover."

"I'll have a look for Flauros, you rest."

I rest but I don't close my eyes yet. I watch Abigail and make myself aware of John breathing. He rests the book so he can still keep me steady as we make our way to Windermere. Abigail, our daughter. I won't fail. I can be a father, a better one than my own. Lestrade told me I missed the point, that I was indifferent, I won't be indifferent about her. I don't know what I'm doing but I'll try.

"Sherlock..."

John's body has tensed. "Hmmph?" What has he read?

"Hannah told me something the first time I went to the park, she said that you love twice as much as you hate."

No, I won't have this taken away from me now. "It means that I'm different to Moriarty. God was pitting us against each other, apparently I'm a little bit nicer." Don't question me John, don't.

"Are you, I mean, do you love people?"

I pick the lesser of two evils if I want to keep the three of us together. "Yes."

"Who?"

Distract. "If you're worried I don't have the capacity to show affection to Abigail I already think she's adorable, look at her John." Her eyes are closing slowly but she's fighting sleep. She looks even smaller and more fragile in that seat, it swamps her.

"She better sleep more than you."

"I'll be awake to be with her."

That seems to satisfy John or at least keep his next comment at bay. "You sleep, I'll wake you when we get there."

I take one last look at Abigail who's given up and fallen asleep. John keeps playing with my hair, only stopping to turn a page. I make myself a little more comfortable, breathing in the scent of John and finally let my eyes shut.

Sleep comes quickly.

Chapter 37: Epilogue

Chapter Text

Sherlock

Abigail fell asleep half an hour ago. It's my turn to have her tonight. I should let her sleep in her bassinette but it's peaceful holding her and I'm not ready to sleep yet. The fire is still giving off warmth and we're both comfortable. She fits nicely in the crook of my arm leaving my other to flip through yet another file on The Order. It's good to have her home where she belongs.

Our daughter.

It's been confirmed. Mycroft had someone collect a DNA sample from the little one shortly after we arrived at the Lake District house though I slept while they took a swab. John and I agreed we wouldn't allow them to take blood. Not yet, not until we've done our own tests and can discover what Mycroft might want to do. She's not to undergo anything invasive. Mycroft brought the results to us the next evening. He had little option but to tell us the truth and it's well within my capacity to get my own tests done without Mycroft knowing who or where handled them. I've had them confirmed since just to be certain. The results were identical as I hoped. Abigail is ours, flesh and blood.

We learned more than we expected from the secondary testing. Heather and Harry Mason's DNA were on file after their respective murders and were found to be related to her but not in traditional lineage sense, something much more complex and worth investigating. I hope it might tell us more about how we might use aglaophotis to our advantage again. It's unfortunate the DNA database is so young, we might have been led to The Order via Dahlia Gillespie. Her paper trail is almost non-existent, only a death certificate was issued without a body after she had been presumed dead for ten years. The same for Dr Kaufmann and a young nurse John believes Alessa knew, a Lisa Garland. Mycroft had the files delivered to Baker Street which I'm still working my way through. There's still so much we don't know, especially regarding past and present members of The Order. Whatever Abigail's genetic history all that matters is that she binds us. John and I are a family regardless of anything. This is more than I could have ever hoped. I will be a better man for us. I won't be indifferent to this gift. I've never wanted a child but she's different, she's mine.

It feels like a year has passed since those two and a half days John was missing. After leaving Silent Hill I'd slept in John's lap until we reached the country house. We'd found it well stocked with medical equipment, baby supplies and fresh clothes for us all. Well, John had, I'd managed a short shower before fighting off John's doctorly inclinations and retiring to bed for a much needed dreamless sleep. Sleep has not been so easy since that night and not because of four to six hourly feeding. If anything I appreciate the little one's company during the darkest hours, she doesn't appear to mind my talking, singing or the terrible television.

I slept for over sixteen hours that first night. When I woke at the sound of the front door bell it was the next morning. I found myself smelling heavily of antiseptic, bandaged up with an intravenous drip in my arm. John had done well not to wake me but I expect he snuck a sedative into the drip. Even with the unexpected sleep, getting out of bed had been close to impossible, every muscle had seized and my bones ached to the marrow. I could have stayed in bed, John had said as much, but I have to be a part of everything, I need to be indispensible to him. I can't let John doubt my sincerity.

Mycroft had arrived to give us the news of Abigail's parentage personally. He had obviously spent the night close to the town where his men had been searching and collecting information. He delivered the news with little pomp, handing over the paperwork to myself with a curt 'congratulations'. It was one of the most joyful moments of my life. I hadn't expected my feelings for Abigail to alter but as she lay cradled in John's arms it felt incredible to know that I was a part of her. Perhaps it was the relief that John and I are bound in some form, I'd still be as committed regardless of bloodlines, but she's more than I could ever have dreamed. She's broken every natural law to exist and she's mine. I suspect that it may have softened Mycroft somewhat, his proffering of a Stieff's teddy bear as her first gift from her uncle. Undoubtedly he still believes I'm an unfit parent but he'll want to keep in John's good graces if not mine. Whatever he thinks, Abigail is a Holmes and she'll make a fine one.

John's reaction to the news had been... disconcerting but I should have anticipated more shock on his behalf. He put on a good front but the moment Mycroft left he went for a walk with Abigail claiming his ribs were seizing up. He returned a few hours later with a cake from the shops and a pair of booties that looked like bees on Abigail's feet. We never really talked about why he left, I was too cowardly to press him for fear that he'd talk himself to the conclusion that we shouldn't do this together. He left with Abigail once and he can take her again. Next time they might not come home.

He must feel trapped, the decision put beyond him because I have the same claim. I know this isn't what he expected from his life. I'm quite aware that while this turn of events exceeds my wildest expectations it will always be a compromise for John. I'm not his mate. I'm not his wife. We're a family by circumstance and fortune but it won't be enough in the long run while his bed remains empty. Even if he decides to commit to the short term, it'll always be a fragile arrangement.

I pull one of Abigail's sleeves up again, she keeps losing her left hand inside. I've dressed her in babygro that's a little too big. It's fine when she's stretched out but she bundles her limbs together when she sleeps like she's in a cocoon. She's wearing one Mrs Hudson bought as a gift. Pastel pink with white cuffs and a matching pink hat, typical fare for night time but as she was going to be in her car seat for three hours I selected something she'd be comfortable wearing.

Lestrade had offered to drive Mrs Hudson to see us once we moved to a house closer to London while the flat was being adapted. Neither John nor I wanted to stay any longer in the Lake District and the renovations were to take two to three weeks. Mrs Hudson arrived with enough basic clothes to see her through until Christmas including two dresses she considered 'pretty'. Hideously frilly monstrosities but John seemed to like them. There's no accounting for taste, he's already bought her two hideous knitted cardigans that she'll have to grow to fit.

After dinner we sat Mrs Hudson and Lestrade down and explained the potted highlights of our time in Silent Hill. I'd already begun my research into the history of The Order but I revealed little of my experience. They know about Abigail's unusual birth and her history as well as her potential future. They took much of it in their stride, a few scoffs from Lestrade at first but John's nod seemed to assure him that I hadn't 'hit my head on a Stephen King novel'. As much as I'd prefer to leave them in the dark for their own protection, Abigail needs as many watchful eyes looking over her as possible. Should anything happen to John or I, she needs people she can trust and possibly to raise her. Lestrade would do better than my brother who would palm her off on to an anonymous nanny until she turned eighteen. Mycroft will do his bit from afar, it's where he's most useful.

John and I have discussed matters of making a will and other parenting concerns but little of the two days we were separated. He knows of the talismans but only the barest of information, sanitised but horrific enough that he won't press me again. John blanched most at the ones I found in the hospital beds, visibly paling and looking away. I thought it would have been the John I tortured but he hardly batted an eyelid. Instead he just stared at me, his face pinched yet thoughtful. Should I be humbled by his trust or appalled at his blind faith that I'll never succumb? There's one John he's unaware of. I fabricated the events of the prison, told him I met a John representing friendship and told him he was killed by the Masked Man. My time there isn't to be shared.

I fidget in my chair, sitting for too long still brings back old aches to go with the ones that never seem to leave. I'm healing slower than I'd like but the inevitable infection in my leg and four days spent in hospital has set me back. I would have resisted admission but my sudden fever left me delirious and requiring an ambulance in the middle of the night. Apparently John found me collapsed in the kitchen muttering about how the fridges in Silent Hill lacked milk. My ramblings could have been worse, if anything John might have made that up but has chosen to ignore it for my sake. The infection had taken hold quickly and required more aggressive treatment.

John spent every day with me while I was an inpatient, making sure I held and fed Abigail while he drilled me on childcare. He was trying to confirm to himself that he wasn't being irresponsible or even mildly insane in considering entering into this childrearing venture with me was a good idea. I know Mycroft has been whispering in his ear but John has the good sense to tell him to piss off. He'll think it over though, the doubt won't just vanish. At least I wasn't deprived of spending time with the little one as John was concerned about us not bonding. Apart from her delightful habit of aiming when she vomits, we get on famously.

It troubles me that I'm still a question mark in John's eyes. He didn't often leave us alone and he would wait for a nurse to be in the room before going to the bathroom. Even now, I feel his eyes watching me, his mind not completely settled on our future. Things will be going swimmingly when he suddenly quietens and withdraws into his own thoughts. The observation is exhausting but I have no choice but to endure despite the temptation to snap and tell him to make up his bloody mind. I've never been this unsure on which is the right course of action to take, I've never worried about how much I have to lose before.

Here I hold the reason I endure. She's grown remarkably since my admission into hospital, stronger and more alert each day. One of the nurses brought me a childcare book which I tried to read during the nights to stay awake but my body kept giving way to sleep. The nightmares began in there. The smell of the hospital, the white coats, the noises of distress by the other patients combined with John's absence at night. I didn't feel safe. I've not been able to shake the dreams since. I had hoped they'd stop once I was home but if anything, they're worse.

I stretch out my leg slowly, it seizes up quickly. Fortunately the wound the tentacle created in the Brookhaven lift was narrow enough not to consider muscle grafts but it's unlikely to fully recover or stop aching. My limp is quite pronounced but I refuse to use a stick. Ever. My other injuries are healing slowly. The bruises have faded to a variety of yellows and greens, the cuts have scabbed over and my ribs can bear holding Abigail while standing up.

My leg hasn't been the worst problem. My face and hands are still developing painful blisters from the necrotic attack. I have cream to ward off infection and numb the soreness but I expect it will scar despite John's assurances to give it time. It's easy to see the diagonal path the monster's hand took across my face and the skin left untouched. The small blisters around my eyes hurt the most, preventing me from wearing my new contact lenses. The damage to my eyes won't be recoverable, not even with laser surgery. Until I'm healed I have to wear these damn glasses. Idiotic, thick rimmed things. I look ridiculous, or worse, like some chartered accountant. John's smirking wasn't appreciated, neither was his new nickname of 'the speccy detective'.

John got off more lightly when it came to his injuries. The bite wound on his neck has been troublesome but is finally beginning to heal. He developed a few blisters on his wrist and face after he rather spectacularly blew the head off one of the necrotic monsters, but they've since fully recovered. The worst bruises affected his ribs and chest but he was far more sensible than myself and took more time to rest when we weren't doing something for Abigail. Apart from the bags under his eyes he could be a picture of health. Fatherhood suits him. His time in Silent Hill was easier to resolve than my own.

John has told me almost everything about his time with Hannah Mason and their out of body sojourns around town. My anger boiled as I thought of him laying dead and bleeding under that disgusting sink but it wasn't without an eventual purpose. They'd intended for him to hate, not show mercy. They'd expected him to swear blind revenge, not think. They'd intended for him to fail, not defeat them. John had used that brain of his while I'd have unloaded every bullet into God and made her stronger. That would have killed us both and ended the world. I wasn't without my uses, John would have been outnumbered and lacking knowledge of the monsters had I not been there. We had to defeat her together, that was our true fate.

Even with John's experience of Silent Hill the town still perplexes me. I feel like I've barely scratched the surface. So much of what I experienced was unique to myself leaving me with little concrete information. I failed to find any members of The Order beyond that low level old woman and I didn't exactly have an opportunity to chat with the Speechless Man. It's even unfortunate that Moriarty is believed to have been killed shortly after Hannah Mason's visit. His body hasn't been found but there may be no remains outside of the Otherworld. There's no access to the Otherworld either. Mycroft's hasn't fully revealed his means of observing me in the town though I expect some form of ritual was performed. I'll find out though. We need to know every detail for Abigail's sake.

John and I were both itching to return home after twelve days in rented accommodation. The changes had been completed to both of our satisfaction. Abigail's room is quite lovely and light and with enough room as she grows up. It's only been a few days but there's baby paraphernalia cropping up everywhere. The change hasn't been as acute as I had prepared myself for, if anything, returning to life as it was before would have been more challenging. Silent Hill has changed us both, it's been handy to start something afresh.

Now life is... it's so gloriously normal. I feel less haunted. Not just by Silent Hill, but the... discomforting feelings it brought to the surface. I have been able to tamp it down once more but take what extra I've been given of John's attention and time. It's easy to fall into our usual rapport, to snark and snipe and know neither of us mean it. Our friendship has not been harmed for all John knows about the others. I know he's keen to press me on some aspects but he'll get no more than I've said already. It's done now. Over. It's a comfort just to know that my life is somewhat predictable again. Switching on the kettle won't herald the Otherworld, just a cup of tea or a warm bottle for the little one. If only I could keep the nightmares at bay.

"Abbiecakes still awake?" John stands bleary eyed at the door with an empty glass of water. He goes to scratch his bite mark but pulls his hand away. He's better disciplined than I.

"She's sleeping, I'm not tired."

John comes and perches himself on the arm of the chair and looks lovingly down at Abigail. So close. Ignore. "Still having trouble?"

Of course John is well aware of my difficulties with nightmares. When one wakes up shouting in the middle of the night it does rather draw attention. Twice John has had to wake me as I've struggled to fight him off. The first occasion I woke and shoved my hands under his t-shirt trying to stop the imaginary bleeding. John has thankfully not mentioned it again though his silent brooding made me worry once more that I have a strike against me. Mental instability would be a significantly sized strike. I usually wake myself before I make too much noise but I find myself fighting the bed sheets as I come to, drenched in sweat and gasping for breath. The dreams are different, sometimes I relive it, sometimes they're new and we're back there. The latter are becoming worse, it appears I can torture myself without god's help.

I've dozed off with John in the room before and not been affected but I can hardly sleep on the floor on his bedroom like I'm irrevocably damaged by some awful emotional trauma. I can overcome this, I just have to forget, push it down until it's barely a whisper of a memory. I've done it before. I can divorce myself from feeling. Deleting is impossible but I can block out what happened.

"I'm fine... it's getting better." Yes, the less I sleep the less I dream. Now drop the subject.

"I remember telling myself that."

"I'm not you."

"Heaven forbid, the world can't handle more than... fuck, sorry."

If I couldn't feel the embarrassment radiating off John in waves I might be annoyed. If I didn't have to watch my every move I might push him off the arm of the sofa. I hold my tongue and my elbow. He's the right John, the only John that ever meaningfully existed. Intact, sane and alive. "For a man with larger than average feet you do manage to wedge them both quite firmly in your mouth."

"Yeah, um, Christ." John rubs at his forehead, still cringing. At least he forgets.

"Get your water and go to bed, you'll be up with Abigail tomorrow and I'll be wishing a sleepless night on you if that makes you feel better." It's the most affable I can be, I'm not giving John an excuse to hold anything against me.

"Little bit, actually." John yawns. "Do you want anything from the kitchen?"

"Any of Mrs Hudson's cake left?" She had prepared some home cooked meals and various treats for our first few days home to save us the ordeal of a supermarket. "The strawberry sponge one."

"I'll get you a slice."

Normality. I just wish I didn't feel like in the blink of an eye it might all be taken away from me.

John

Sherlock must have spun some kind of voodoo because I'm getting the sleepless night he wanted, even if he was only joking. Fuck, I was so stupid. I don't think Sherlock's slept since my stupid offhand comment but then having the memories brought up again wasn't exactly going to guarantee a good sleep. If anything it would guarantee the nightmares would be worse than ever if personal experience counts for anything. I haven't been able to stop thinking about Silent Hill but every time I speak to Sherlock I try so hard to pretend it never happened that I make it so much worse. Christ, everything Sherlock went through. For me. Because he... because he loves me.

I don't know what to do.

On the roof of the hospital, I thought he'd lost it. I'd never seen anyone like that, let alone Sherlock. Just bereft, I was bloody terrified he wouldn't be the same again. God, a world without Sherlock in it. It wasn't just the physical strain, I saw the evidence later when I'd drugged him to the eyeballs and took care of as much of him as I could, it was me. I was the final straw that broke Sherlock. He saw me die over and over, all for those damn talismans so he could save me. Bloody me. Then he lost me, he felt me die right under his hands and it broke him. What the hell am I supposed to do with that? What could I ever give him in return for the hell he went through for me. For us.

Abbie. We have a baby. A gorgeous, bright, healthy but won't stay asleep little baby with our genes. Another chance for Hannah. I swear sometimes when I look at Abbie I see Hannah, something about those blue eyes. Maybe it's wishful thinking that she's not too far away. You'd think after everything that had happened it shouldn't be so weird that we have a child but it's a lot to get your head around. Two unattached men suddenly thrown into parenthood. Two men like us. It's not like I don't love this though, I feel like I've got a purpose greater than just having a kid. What we're doing for Abbie, for all the other girls and Heather before her, we're going to stop this. This is a case like no other.

If anything the weirdest thing is that Sherlock is actually shaping up to be quite the dad. He's set his mind to the task like he would do any problem worth solving, with utter determination and bloody mindedness. The bloody equations working out the nutritional information on the baby milk, the healthiest paint to use in her bedroom and the educational benefits of playing her classical music. He's good with her. Brilliant even. Not that I didn't think he wouldn't be, but it's not like they are at their most interesting at this age. It's all feeding, keeping them clean and trying not to leave them somewhere. Not that I don't love her, but they do get more fun when they're more aware.

Sherlock's taken to it like a duck to water though hopefully he'll relax a little. He's constantly trying to prove himself as if Mycroft was watching his every move. Well, he could very well be. It was hilarious forcing Sherlock to change his first dirty nappy, I don't know how he thought he was going to get away with not doing that one. I should have filmed it for posterity, 'Look Abbie, not only did your Daddy fight an evil god for you...'

Damn, there it is again. Silent Hill. I wish I could forget, for Sherlock's sake but it's there in the back of my mind constantly. I know there's so much he hasn't told me, I'd listen if he ever wanted to, but I'm probably the last person he'd want to talk to. Last after Mycroft. But from what Uncle Mycroft said to me he knows enough. 'Sherlock went through hell for you, Doctor Watson, yet somehow it's still not over. Do think wisely about your future. Both of yours.' Arse.

Fuck. But he's right isn't he? When he told us she was ours, god Sherlock looked so happy. Restrained but if you knew him you'd know that Sherlock was thrilled beyond belief, like the pieces of a case had just come together just as he'd hoped. I was happy too once the first panic wore off. I have a daughter, a biological one, but Sherlock was just over the moon. But that's the problem, this is all he thinks he can ever have. He'd never leave me or us even if he does crack on occasion and takes a week or two to immerse himself in a case. No, he'll just be in a situation where he'll never truly have what he wants. Who he wants. I can't imagine living like that, it wouldn't be enough.

I hadn't known. I mean, it's not as if the thought hadn't fleetingly, when we first met... no, I can't. I just... can't. Fuck. I just don't know what to do. I feel like I'm the one torturing him now. I did it by accident in Silent Hill and now everyday he's making do with what I give him. I can't stop thinking about it now, could I do it? Could I give him more? John Watson, a man who's longest relationship lasted a year and half and ended up with a telly being thrown out of a fifth storey flat window at two in the morning? Sherlock's been the longest I've ever lived with someone without hating them, I don't ever want to get like that. We have Abbie to think about and I'm not dragging her through that mess. As if it isn't going to be tricky enough having two dads and no mother, she doesn't need her parents at each other's throats. And with our temperaments we bloody would be. Plus, Sherlock has Mycroft, no matter what his brother said, if Sherlock wanted to disappear with Abbie, Mycroft wouldn't say no. I don't really believe he'd do that, but I really don't know what he'd do if I accidently hurt him.

I can hardly imagine what Sherlock would want from me. Open affection? Shared beds and bank accounts? Sex? I can picture the affection part easily, if anything I've been holding back since Silent Hill because I'm so bloody aware of how he feels. It could go wrong, so badly wrong and then we'd lose what we have and I don't think I'm willing to do that.

We can do this as friends. We can raise Abbie properly, better than my parents did anyway, keep her safe and happy. I called Harry but she was drunk off her face. I know how wrong it can go when parents are selfish, we've got to protect Abbie from everything we can. Sherlock's willing, I've already seen him looking at child sized violins, we can bloody do a good job of this together. We need to keep things as they are and think of Abbie. Maybe if we'd done something before, maybe if I'd worked it out sooner it might have happened for us but I didn't. We missed the boat. I just wish I didn't feel so horrible about it.

Sherlock's coping as well as he can with everything. There's always going to be reminders of what happened. The night Sherlock was taken into hospital I found him collapsed on the bathroom floor in just his pyjama bottoms quietly pleading for me not to die, that he won't say goodbye, that he won. Over and over, despite my assurances that I was there and alive and that he had won. As he was loaded into the ambulance and grabbed my hand with his blistered one and told me I'd die because of him. I told him I was alive because of him but he wasn't lucid enough to understand. I decided not to tell him, he's chosen how much he wants me to know even if I'm desperate to know and understand more.

It's been bothering me since we were in the car leaving Silent Hill. Everything that happened was symbolic, it all meant something. The first of my copies to die, was killed by an exploding car. Does Sherlock fear IED's as much as I do? You treat enough IED victims you know you'd prefer to get shot. One of the bodies Sherlock saw in the hospital, the one without arms and legs, I used to fear losing a limb more than anything. If god works as we think it does, why didn't I get shot in the crossfire? Why wasn't I shot trying to save Sherlock, something he could easily blame himself for? Maybe it all links back to the bomb jacket. It was the first time Sherlock thought I was going to die. Granted he would have been killed too but maybe the fear and the memory created something new? Still, why not a suicide bomber in that case? Maybe I should know better than to second guess god's methods but it doesn't make sense. It's going to have to stay that way because I can't talk over Sherlock's worst fears with him. I won't make him relive any more of that damn hell he went through for me.

What's that... Sherlock's crashing about in the kitchen. He cannot wake Abbie, I've only just gotten her down again. I sneak quietly downstairs to tell him to keep it down. "Sherlock..." I whisper but god, he's trembling, he looks at me for a brief second and turns away, he's shaken. Haunted. "Bad one?" I remember how bad the nightmares could get, how real they could feel, how the fear could grip you and not let go. I want to touch him on the shoulder but that's probably the last thing he wants. "Sherlock?"

He still won't look at me, clutching at the work surface to keep from shaking. "Yes. Go away."

Not happening. "What happened?"

"Leave me be, I'm fine."

I see it, the drops of red landing between his feet even in the dark. "You're bleeding."

"I caught a scab, I can take care of it. Where are the plasters?"

The blood pool is growing fast. "You'll need more than that. Come on, let me sort you out, last thing we need is you back in hospital with another infection. Stomach?"

"Yes." That'll be the shallower tentacle wound. Hardly the worst one. How he didn't break a limb I don't know. Maybe god wanted to keep him going, keep him weak but able to fight her monstrosities. As if it wasn't bad enough being Moriarty's plaything.

"Right, well that tea towel you're holding isn't exactly sanitary so go pop yourself on the sofa, I'll get my stuff. See if we can get you patched up before Ab's starts screaming the house down again."

I don't give Sherlock a chance to say no, there's a way of handling him when he needs medical attention and usually sweeping him along with the agenda and not giving him an option works if he doesn't make an escape. Sedating him is the next best thing. I grab my case from under the stairs and find Sherlock with a fresh tea towel trying to keep from bleeding all over sofa. He's still again but I can see he's off balance. As cold as his eyes look there's a shadow of fear beneath, what he relived isn't too far away. He loves more than he hates. I want to be able to do this, to put him back together physically or mentally, but I keep hearing Mycroft's voice in my head. Am I healing or hurting? What is really stopping me from-

"Don't just stand there, John."

Shit, I've been staring. "Uh yeah, sorry. Tired. Uh, lay back, let's have a look." I pull up the coffee table to perch on and have a look where Sherlock's lifted his stained t-shirt. The bruises have almost faded now but he's still yellowy-green in spots. He's down to one dressing on his shoulder but he's going to need one on his stomach again. Sherlock looks away and stares at the back of the sofa as I begin to clean him up. "It's not too bad, you've ripped off most of the scab but it's actually healing nicely. Not that you won't have a half decent scar afterwards."

"I'm well aware. Can we do this without the commentary." It's not a question.

"Yeah." It's a simple enough job, he's scratched himself too. Maybe reliving the tentacle attack? I don't know what happened. Was I there, or one of me? Perhaps that's why he doesn't want to speak to me. He doesn't want to hear my voice because I'm just a reminder of his bloody torture at god's hands. I clean him best I can, the blood has trickled below his waistband but he can deal with that later. "Does it hurt?" Sherlock's fists are balled up tight. I could just touch his hand to calm him, it only would take a moment but I can't do it. I just... can't. "I have some ibuprofen."

"No. It's... the smell."

The blood. When he told me his story there always seemed to be a lot of blood about, Christ, he almost drowned in the stuff in some tunnel. No wonder it makes his stomach turn. "I'll keep some mints in my kit, something to take the smell away if it happens again. I'm almost done." He's so tense, I can't leave him like this. I used to hate waking alone but then I had gotten used to sleeping with other people around me. "I couldn't sleep, fancy keeping me company for a bit?"

"Very subtle, John." I swear I almost see a twitch of a smile but it's gone so quickly I probably imagined it.

"Wasn't a lie though, I can't switch off tonight." I keep thinking about you. Sherlock doesn't stop looking at the back of the sofa. Maybe it's best that he's not around me after these nightmares. I can't provide that comfort he needs, if anything I'm likely to trigger another. God, I'm doing him more harm than good but what else can I do? I'm not leaving, it would hurt us both. "The offer's open, if you want. We don't have to talk. God knows talking was the last thing I wanted to do with the PTSD."

"I don't have that." He snaps without bothering to look at me.

"Not the disorder, no," honestly, it's too soon to tell, "but you've been through a trauma, Sherlock. It takes a while to process and come to terms with."

"Do you charge for such high quality advice? Time's a healer, top stuff."

"Doesn't take a psychologist to diagnose passive aggression there." Sherlock gives me a bitter snort, at least that's a little more like himself. "If you want to talk-"

"I don't. Are you done?"

"Yeah." He's shut off again, I'm not going to get anywhere. "You might want a wash. I'll take care of the kitchen floor."

"Thank you." There's nothing in those words, just coldness. Maybe he'll grow to despise me for making him suffer like this one day. Maybe he won't love more than he hates.

"Sherlock, I just want to help-"

"Then never have met me."

He limps quickly away without looking back. Oh fuck. He slams the bathroom door. "Please don't wake... shit." Abbie's up.

~~~*~~~

It doesn't take too long to rock Abbie to sleep again. I can hear Sherlock in the bathroom, I think he's pacing. He's had a shower but he's still in there, his footsteps odd because of his bad leg. I wouldn't be surprised to hear him leave for a walk to be honest. Or maybe more than that. I've left the door open so I can see him walk by but I doubt I'll get much out of him for a few days if I even see him at all. I'm surprised he hasn't had one of his spells before now to be honest. Maybe it'll be different with Abbie around, hopefully he won't freeze her out too. He can be pissed off with me, I shouldn't have pressed, I know better than that, I just feel so useless.

I didn't want anything to change, I wanted to see the same old Sherlock but I don't. I can't even give him that. All I see is his pain and I'm doing nothing but making it worse. Would it really be that hard to try? I never used to be scared of touching him but now I'm worried about sending the wrong signals. Our friendship is as intense as any friendship I've made on duty but there's something else, Sherlock's a volatile force of nature and he's incredible but, fuck, if that doesn't sound like a recipe for disaster. I just don't know if I can return how he feels. Fuck that, I'm scared that once I let myself think that way I'll return how he feels tenfold and we'll just implode. We could destroy everything. This is insane, I'm driving myself mad turning this over. I just want to do the right thing, is that so fucking bad?

I need to sleep and maybe take Abbie out somewhere tomorrow, get some exercise and some time away from the flat to not think. "Come on, sleepy head." Time to try and put her back in her cot thing, "Down you go, missy." Uh, no. "Shhh, alright, my bed it is then." Seems like with the slightest move she's going to fuss so I might as well make myself comfortable.

"Did I wake her?"

Sherlock's standing rather sheepishly at the door. He's got some fresh pyjama bottoms on and the blood has been washed off. The t-shirt is gone, rinsed out in the sink I expect, and he hasn't bothered with a new one. Anything to get rid of the smell. "Yes."

"Let me take her. You sleep." I can't imagine Sherlock's going to get anymore sleep tonight. He's running on fumes already, the shadows under his eyes darkening each day. Silent Hill won't let him go and the nightmare rolls on, bloody Mycroft.

"We're ok, seems she's in a cuddly mood. You ok?"

"It's Abigail too, in the dreams, not just you. I can't save either of you."

Oh, Sherlock. How did anyone think you were heartless? "You did though. You saved me and we saved her." He hardly believes a word, pulling faces like I'm a bloody idiot. I was the one he couldn't lose and he didn't. "Come on, lay next to us." I shift a bit to the side to make space. No reason for him to spend the night alone.

Sherlock closes the door behind him but hesitates. He grabs one of my pillows and sits on the floor instead. I move a bit closer, too much distance seems weird. He's close enough to touch from here but of course I'm too much of a coward to do that.

"If you knew what I did there you'd leave. You've still not decided to stay."

"What? Of course I'm staying, I wouldn't leave you both." Shit, I didn't think I'd have to say it emphatically, we've been making all these plans, I thought it was a given.

"You'll take her with you."

"No. She's yours too and I'm... I'm really happy here." I am. I really don't know about Sherlock though. "You'll always have me and Abbie. If anything, I worry that..." Fuck what am I saying? "I worry that you're not happy. Not as much as you could be."

"I see you thinking, you don't think I'll be a good parent. Of course you wouldn't, no one does. I am trying."

"And you're shaping up better than most. You're sober for starters." Nice, setting the bar low, that'll make him feel better. Fuck, I can't say anything right. "You're brilliant at this so far and Christ, it's not like I'm father of the year. I've killed people, not just in uniform either."

"I've killed you."

"No, you killed monsters and illusions. You knew what you were doing. Don't torture yourself Sherlock. No more than you already have. I don't worry about that."

"We were in the sea, nothing for miles but I could hear static. I put my hand around your throat and pushed you under the water until you drowned."

Holy fucking hell. "For a talisman?" I've not heard this story before.

"No, a hallucination. I looked into your eyes and then I murdered you. I'm capable of that."

"So am I. We're all capable of evil things, Sherlock. The fact that's it upsetting you so much is a good sign you're not actually going to kill me."

"I'd never-"

"You don't need to say."

"But I did. I've killed you. I watched as I, another me, tortured you. Another you." His words are as tangled and tired as his mind. His head resting in his hands, his elbows propped up on his bent knees. I'm not used to seeing him like this but if I offer him the bed again he'll refuse. "Things I've imagined in the past were the things he did to you."

Sherlock told me about that puzzle and the eyes. It sounded more like what I imagined Moriarty would do if he ever wanted to make a right mess of me. He had some gear laid out while he was waiting to meet Sherlock at the pool. Knives and needles, my worst nightmare from that point on. Sherlock must know what I'd hate the most too but I can't stop thinking that god used me too. Sherlock would never believe my theory.

All that matters is that I trust Sherlock. He's nothing like Moriarty. Yes, they are both brilliant, but one's a misunderstood genius and the other is a fucking short-arse psychopath. "It was a puzzle though, like the others, one big fucked up game where it didn't matter if you lost every battle, the war was the only thing that mattered. There's nothing you could have done there to make me scared of you. Nothing." He tilts his head away enough so I can't see his face, I have no idea if he believes me. Touch him, come on John, don't be such a fucking coward. Just stroke his hair, just give him that. "You did what you had to do, you fought a god and you won." My hand hovers but... no.

"You're not going to leave then?"

"No." I'm emphatic. "Seriously Sherlock, I'm happy. I mean, it takes some getting used to, every now and then it dawns on me that I have a child, a proper human life not to try and screw up or, I don't know, accidently sit on." Sherlock sniggers slightly, I can almost see some of the tension drain out of him. So that's what's been bothering him, that I'd scoop up Abbie and leave. Maybe we'll be alright now, we should have talked ages ago. We need to talk more about the immediate future, make Sherlock feel secure in some things at the very least.

"I'll make sure you don't sit on her. Or roll on her in the night, you should put her in her bassinette."

"She's alright here for a little longer." I don't want to let go of her yet.

"That's good then. Right." Sherlock's starting to get up but... I'm not done. I put my hand gently on his shoulder to stop him rising.

"Are you happy? You didn't answer before."

"Of course."

Right here, I could just leave this conversation right here and never worry again. "Are you sure? I- will this, be enough for you?"

"Enough how?"

"I don't know, to make you happy, to fulfil you, being here... friends with me. Won't you want... a different life... maybe someone... eventually."

"No, I won't want anyone else."

Else.

Jesus. Does he even realise what he said? I'm-I'm just me, some washed up army doctor with a low boredom threshold who's been living vicariously through his roommate for the past year and a half. What the hell could he want in me? He's making a mistake, he'll snap out of it. He must, I'm not worth any of it. Everything he's been through, would I have done the same? I look at Sherlock almost curled up on the floor, picking at one of the blisters on his hand. Would I go through what he did for me? Yeah, I probably would. Definitely would. "Sherlock." Fuck, dry mouth, that came out weird. "You know, when we first met I sort of..." Oh fuck it, just finish the sentence. "... I thought that we'd end up together. Not quite like this mind, but, but like this, sort of, but more. Ok, that made no sense." God I'm making a hash of this, why can't I just tell him how I feel?

Sherlock turns his head slowly, eyeing me up more than a little sceptically. The tiredness seems to have disappeared, he's thinking at a mile a minute. I think I've got his full attention. "What are you trying to say?"

It's now or never. Either I'm about to make the best decision of my life or by far the worst and it'll be all three of us that pay for it. It's Sherlock though, I want this now. I want him to lay here in this bed with me and Abbie and we'll make a proper family. Say it. "That first day we met in Barts, I thought you were exceptional." Sherlock's eyes narrow and his eyebrows furrow, I've just got to plough on. "I was sure we'd end up together, in some way or another, just... we make each other happy and everything's been... better since I met you. I still think that you're amazing and if you-" Sherlock stands up fast and backs up against my desk, knocking it into the wall sending Abbie's monitor to the floor. "Sherlock?" He looks terrified, panicked, frightened even. "Sherlock, what's wrong? What did I say?"

"No. No, it's not possible." He shakes his head, his eyes lost in rapid thought. "No, no, no."

Oh god, I've triggered something. "Talk to me, it's alright." A flashback perhaps? "You're home and you're safe. We can just forget I said anything." He looks at me with new eyes, like he despises me. Shit, shit, shit. How did it go so wrong so fast? "Sherlock, look why don't we go downstairs and talk. We can sort this all out." I need him away from Abigail. Oh god.

"Give Abigail to me."

No way, not like this. I have no idea what's going on. "She's fine here. Come on, sit down."

"No." Sherlock grabs her bassinet from its stand and puts it on the end of the bed. "Put her in there. Slowly. Is-is she even real?"

He thinks... oh fuck. "Yes, we're both real." I don't want to put her down but I can't risk agitating him and she'll be best off out of the way. I lay her gently down and move so I'm sat next to her. Sherlock... he could do anything right now. "Silent Hill is over, god's dormant. We did it."

"Who are you? Are you him from the prison?"

I can't... I don't know what to say. Sherlock looks ready to fight me to the fucking death. He'd never hurt me, but he'd hurt one of them, he'll kill them if he was sure. He has killed them. I should have gotten him help before this, I should have seen something like this happening, I'm the biggest trigger he's got. Mycroft never saw the Otherworld, worse happened there and he's told me so little. I can tell from the way he's standing, he's ready to attack me once he's gotten confirmation. I don't know what will set him off. Fuck, I don't know what to do! What the hell happened in the prison that he didn't tell me?

"SPEAK!" He hisses, his face contorting into something hurt and hideous.

"I-I'm the real John, you got the right one, Sherlock." I try to keep calm, my voice steady but I know I stuttered. "It's over, I promise you it's over."

"He insisted he was real too. Damn you." He's scowling at me. "I had a clue before, twice now you've said his words, twice!" He's speaking too quickly. "Worse aim than Mrs Hudson, for godsake! She put you behind the door and I fell for it like the pathetic idiot I am. I left John behind, I left him to rot because I'm blinded by my own, my own stupidity." His voice catches at the end and I see he hates himself for it.

"I'm right here, Sherlock. I'm in this room, we made Abigail together and we're both safe and alive because of you." Believe me, please believe me. "The others were like me, surely they'd speak like me? You know me, Sherlock, better than anyone. You'd know what I'd say. I'm bound to say something like one of them did."

"Exceptional." He sneers the word like it's something awful and I don't understand why. "You called me exceptional. That's not your word, it's his." He spits but I see the pain. "Crushed my rising hope."

He lied to me about the prison, he must have. I'm missing something huge. "It's my word too, Sherlock and it's my word that counts, Sherlock I meant what I was saying, I-"

"Don't you dare, don't you dare speak those words and don't you dare talk of a life together." Shit, he's going to hit me, I raise my arms but he pauses, backs down and sits on the edge of my desk. He can't bring himself to punch me, not yet. That's probably a good sign but we're a long way from ok. "Where is John? Is he dead? Did I even leave? Did I fail?" He's defeated, sure that I'm dead somewhere in that town.

"You didn't fail, Sherlock, you succeeded. You're not there anymore." I go to get up, maybe if I can reach out-

"Sit down." His hand moves to my desk drawer... fuck. Fucking Christ. My gun.

"Alright. Just- I'm sitting ok." I lower myself again. Abbie can't stay in this room any longer. "We should give Abbie to Mrs Hudson for a bit, just while we sort this out."

"No, I want her in my sight. Move away from her."

I shift up the bed slightly. I'm still in reach of her but we shouldn't be doing this anywhere near her. Can I trust Sherlock not to hurt her even if he decides to shoot me or kick my head in? Shit, I don't know. I'm not in the hospital room anymore but I'm clueless. I'm right here and I have no idea how to save him from this nightmare. I have to save him from Silent Hill this time. I'm right about the others, I know it, they weren't just from Sherlock's head, they were bits of me too. I need to get him to work it out. He's the only person he'll believe. "How do you know god didn't use me to make them more real? She could get to me and use it against you without you noticing, to taunt you. Maybe she wanted to be more realistic and threw in some extras too."

"You were behind a seal."

"Her seal. Think about it." Please, please believe me. Please let me be right about this. What happened in the damn bloody prison?

"No. No, I won't be fooled." He's working out his next move, probably deciding if he needs to return to the town.

"The IED, Sherlock, that was my worst fear. I couldn't stand the thought of waking up with missing arms or legs, I've witnessed enough people go through that." His face twitches, he must be remembering the torso in the hospital. "If it had been yours why wasn't I shot?"

"Afghanistan, IEDs, the bomb jacket, take your pick."

Not so fast. "I had snipers on me." Sherlock concedes the stalemate with a nod and a grimace. "Fine then, the... torture." Could be a mistake bringing this up but I've got to make my case. I think my life might depend on it. "The needles and knives. Moriarty kept me in a room with them while we waiting for you at the pool so I'd behave. Believe me, I bloody behaved."

"John would have told me."

"No I wouldn't." Don't stop seeing me as John, please. "He wasn't doing it for me alone, it was another jab at you, showing you what he could have done if he chose. If I didn't tell you then he didn't win that one. It was no skin off my nose."

He stands up and paces a little, never taking his eyes off me or moving out of arms reach of the drawer that holds my gun. My loaded gun. "Your mother drank after you left for school."

He's testing me. "Yeah." Right, keep talking, maybe he'll hear what he wants to hear. "It was pretty um, bad. Worse for Harry but I tried to keep her out of it. You see how well that plan worked. I used to pop back at lunch time to check on her, especially when she got into spirits too, I'd make sure she was on her side so she wouldn't throw up- Sherlock?" He's gone, darting out of the room and down the stairs. I put Abbie in her cradle, grab the other half of her monitor and follow him. I want to hold her so badly but leaving her safe in my room is best. "Sherlock, wait, please."

He's in his room, he pulls a suitcase out from under the bed and starts throwing things into it.

"I'll leave immediately. Text me when I can collect the rest of my items, you won't have to see me again. I'll make sure you and Abigail are well provided for financially, anything else you need you can contact Mycroft."

"So you believe I'm real then? I'm John?"

"Yes."

Thank fuck for that. "Then stop this now. It was just a misunderstanding." I try to grab his hands and turn him to me but he pushes me back into the wall. "Sherlock, don't be a prick."

"I was going to shoot you!"

"You could have grabbed the gun immediately but you didn't."

"Not in front of Abigail." Saying her name hurts. He's giving her up. I want to stop him from packing again but I can't make him any more aggressive than he already is. He's really going to leave if I don't do something.

"Sherlock, things like this were going to happen. You were in a world of no rules, no sodding natural laws to tell you which way was up or down. We fought a god for Christ's sake! We weren't going to come back and play happy families like nothing has happened and nothing has changed because it has, Sherlock, everything has changed. You, me, our whole lives." Maybe it's time I realised that too.

"Exactly, I'm not safe, I'm unstable, I have to leave." His hands are shaking as he grabs various papers from his bedside table and shoves them in the zip up lid space.

I have to keep him, I can't lose him. If he walks out that door I'll never see him again. "What I was saying before, can-can we talk about that? Or in the morning, just-just don't go."

"I'll keep working on the case, you'll be informed of my progress."

"Sherlock, just bloody stop!" I grab the suitcase handle and pull it away and to the floor, chucking everything out at the same time.

"JOHN!" He's fighting the urge to hit me again and stupidly I grab his arms tight. He tries to jerk free but I'm cruel and I can see I'm touching old bruises. He can't leave, I won't let him leave.

"Just calm down a second." Please, please don't go, please. "Listen to me."

"Let me go." He's so tired, he can't barely fight me anymore. His head has dropped to stare at the carpet behind me. I'm holding him up as much as I'm keeping him still.

"I meant what I said before. I want more, Sherlock, I want you to have more." Sherlock winces like the words hurt. They probably do. "Look at me." Sherlock turns his head but not upwards. "Look." I guide his chin and his eyes follow, I've not seen eyes like those since the hospital roof, he's barely got anything left. "I'm not making any big promises, let's just see."

"No, you don't want this, it doesn't make sense."

"Well maybe if you hadn't blown me out of the water at Angelo's we wouldn't be in this mess." I try for a small smile. "You were doing the hope crushing then. Pretty effectively too."

Sherlock sags in my arms and stumbles backwards to the bed. "I don't think I'm very well."

"You will be, in time." Ok, he's staying, that's all I needed right now. "Come on, up with you." I pull Sherlock to his feet, wrap an arm around his waist and pull one of his arms over my shoulder so I can guide him back upstairs. It's the most I've touched him without treating him, feels good actually. Really, really good. "You can sleep in my bed tonight, Abbie can wake us both." I don't want him too far away, I'm not risking him talking himself into leaving and sneaking out. I can't let him go now.

"I don't dream when you're there."

I can't help myself from smiling and holding him a little tighter. I've been so stupid, three weeks I could have been doing this, keeping the dreams away. "Then I guess we should make this permanent."

I take Sherlock's silence as tacit agreement and somehow we make it to my room without falling over or me crumpling under his ever increasing weight. I set Sherlock down on the bed next to Abbie's crib. She's awake but content, chewing on her foot after kicking off her covers.

Sherlock strokes her cheek; to think he might have stayed away. He can never leave. "I'm going to ruin her."

"I won't let you. I'm pretty sure you won't let me either." I pick up her bassinette and set it on her stand. Sherlock makes a defeated figure so I drop to my knees in front of him and take his face in my hands, careful of his blisters. "We're going to do this Sherlock, we're going to raise her together and we're going to do a damn good job of it."

"I don't share your optimism."

"You're too bloody tired to be optimistic." I kiss his forehead as tenderly as I can. I want to give him nothing but gentleness and from the broken, shaking sigh he releases I think that's what he needs too. "Let's get into bed, Abbie's going to be yelling for a snack in an hour and I want to try and get some sleep before then." I doubt I'll sleep but Sherlock needs sleep more than anything.

Like his limbs are three times as heavy as normal Sherlock climbs under the covers and I follow. I'm not really sure what to do now but I lay facing him and take his hand. "Alright?"

"The others, I thought I understood them. They're different now."

"More data I guess."

"Will I ever make sense of it? I have to, I'll go mad... I won't cope well."

"Maybe not everything, but enough to make peace with it. This won't be the end of you, you're too bloody obstinate for starters."

There a little half smile in there somewhere and at least he's not rejecting it out right. Instead he's looking at our hands. I give him a squeeze just so he knows he's not imagining this. "I'm not going anywhere." I'm not. Bloody hell I'm holding Sherlock's hand in my bed and I'm not going anywhere. I'm bloody terrified but this is right.

"I don't want your pity."

"No pity, Sherlock, I knew from day one. I knew. I just didn't think I had a hope."

Sherlock looks up from our hands and finally there's a spark of the old Sherlock there. "You have a hope."

Yeah I do. Sherlock loves more than he hates.