Sherlock fandom.
Continuation of last Friday's prompt, as some of you asked for.
Extraterrestrial or an Illusion?
It takes a while to calm down. Johnâs screaming doesnât last that long, but his heart races like heâs run for hours. He looks down at the two phones in his right hand. One is his own, the other is Sherlockâs, and John has no idea how the latter got there. The text Sherlock sent him only minutes earlier and Johnâs reply are still visible on the screen when John taps it.
Someone in the hall. Come at once. Be careful. SH
In the hall. Where are you?
John does not believe in anything paranormal, but he canât explain this. The full moon still shines brightly, but John can see that clouds will soon obscure it. He shivers slightly from an unexpected chill, as if something cold just passed him.
Sherlock. Must find Sherlock.
He gazes at the stairs, takes a firmer grip on his gun, and ascends cautiously to the upper floor. No sounds from anywhere are heard. Apart from his pounding heart and his breathing.Â
When he reaches the landing, he hesitates.Â
Left, or right?
As he turns left, a sudden darkness sets in the corridor. The clouds have hidden the light from the moon effectively. John swallows hard, switches on his torch again, and walks to the first door, which is slightly ajar. He opens it carefully, and to his relief it makes no sound.
The room he enters is a nursery. All the toys are old, and some are even broken. A doll with half torn off hair, stares up at him with empty eye sockets. He turns around quickly with his gun raised. When he realises whatâs making the sound he reacted to, he feels the hair on his head stand up.Â
An antique rocking chair in a corner of the room is moving as if a person sits in it, but thereâs no one there apart from John. The windows are closed, so it cannot be explained by the wind causing the chair to rock back and forth. He makes a sweep around the room and decides to move on to the next door. The chair stops rocking once he reaches the threshold.
His pulse slows down after heâs searched the other rooms. Theyâre all empty. He turns to explore the rooms on the right side of the stairs. A bright light makes him gasp, before he understands that the clouds have moved away from the surface of the moon.
Full moon frenzy can make the most rational person a little unhinged.
He takes a deep breath and opens the first door. It creaks. A lot. John winces, but thereâs nothing for it. His determined steps carry him over the threshold and into a bathroom. In the corner is a large bathtub that stands on claw feet. On the floor is a wooden bucket. A big hole in the bottom tells him that it hasnât been used for decades. The cabinet on the other wall is open, its doors long since removed. All the shelves are grey with dust and in the upper corner is a fragile spiderâs web.
When he once again stands in the doorway, he freezes. The other three doors are all wide open. Before he entered the bathroom they were closed. His palms start to sweat again, and he almost loses the gun.
âFuck,â he mutters under his breath. âIf this is a trick, Sherlock, Iâm going to kill you with my bare hands!â
The house is still eerily quiet. He steals himself for an encounter with whatever this house is concealing. Two of the rooms are empty, but the third, and last one is not.
A gigantic four-poster bed is oddly enough placed in the middle of the room instead of by the wall. Itâs made of dark brown wood with twisted posts. John canât see if anyone is lying there, because all four sides are covered with velvet curtains in dark green, adorned with gilt embroidery.
Apart from the large furniture, the room is bare. He walks around the bed, trying to get a glimpse through an opening in the curtains. When he finally finds one, his heart skips several beats, and his gun slips out of his hand. His trembling fingers clutch the velvet curtain and shoves it aside. On the bed lies Sherlock, dressed in his suit and Belstaff. His face is lit up by the moonlight. He looks peaceful, but too pale for Johnâs liking. The lack of pulse does that to a person, he muses, before everything goes black.
To be continued...
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