So Put Your Armour On
The chase. The sound of his feet, the feel of his heartbeat against his temples and deep within his ears. His breath, rough in his chest, and the exhiliration of it, the promise of the fight. Eyes wide, pupils dilated, fixed upon a fish in a sea of fishes, a form in a crowd, so keen, so easy to spot, to track. In the end, it was all a game, just as promised. That was what the man had said, and he had been right.
Some games were simply played for so much higher stakes.
Distracted, perhaps, or focussed, something entirely unexpected went missed. Momentarily. Peripherally, he knew there was something going on, that the people milling around him were suddenly panicked. An explosion, perhaps; that would make sense, after all. But these were higher stakes, and this was nothing new. He could barely hear them above the rush of blood against his eardrums. His eyes, his whole attention, stayed locked onto the man trying desperately to escape him until the very last second. Until the ground shook so as to throw his footing, and the sound of screams around him, the startled bodies falling before and behind him, became obvious. Obtrusive. Suddenly, angrily, everything was changed. A new game. He was getting away. Whatever they'd done was working.
Enraged, and forcing himself calm, Sherlock's gaze flew around him, then forward again. The crowd was fleeing, as desperate as Sherlock and his man had been. Definitely an explosion, under the very ground, as though they were trying to rip the place itself apart. At what cost? Would he lose what he'd come after? Did they really want to risk that? A grimace crossed his face. and a growl freed itself from his lips as he scanned the people once more and realised he'd lost his target. No matter the rumbling and pitching around him, so loud it deafened him. Only a vessel, a transport. He would survive. Keeping up the chase became his only priority, the explosion or natural disaster or whatever it was would pass. This was his best opportunity, maybe his only opportunity, and he had to keep the upper hand.
Pitching forward, driving forward in a crowd flowing against him, he scanned them and rejected them each. Lost. No! He had lost him! That was impossible! He wouldn't let that be the case! No heed was given to the fact that everyone else was running the opposite direction, by god the man had gone this way, and so he would follow. Life or limb, he had so little left to lose and so much still to save, he wouldn't let this be the end. He was a fighter, even if he was the only one still around to know it, and he wouldn't just give up. Not for anything. Not for the sudden darkness that overcame his vision, rent and split by forks of white like lightning from all directions as he scrabbled, stumbled, the sounds becoming muffled as though he'd fallen underwater. Reality bending and cracking was no reason to panic. He was still on the right path. He knew it.
And then he knew quiet, and the sound of water, the soft murmur of unhurried passersby, and the gentle click of their steps. The scent of the plass, nothing changed, as though...
Swirling eyes shot open, shut tightly against sudden light, and then blinked a number of times, clearing his head as well as his vision. What had happened? Where was he? It was the place he had left, surely, but... Calm. Slowly, carefully, he forced his mind to calm, began to pick at every small detail. Head pounding, his vision was clear, his body unharmed, except that he still felt deafened. A deep breath ascertained that there were no internal injuries. Above him the sky was peppered with clouds, unassuming, around him people wandered on their paths, undisturbed. Beneath him the ground was warm, and with collected frustration he bit back the nausea of movement and sat up. One hand rose to press its heel into his forehead, and he took the time to scan his surroundings. Nothing amiss. But that was the problem. On its own, Sherlock's mind ticked back over the last few moments.
There had been an explosion.
People had panicked.
The ground had broken.
The sniper was lost.
The sky went dark.
He plummeted...
Where were the emergency crews? Why wasn't he in hospital? This was the same place he'd been, chasing his sniper through Cardiff, a mad dash through this very place. Yet nothing at all had changed. Nothing...
Not even the people.
The same exact faces and bodies he'd pushed through just moments ago were now eyeing him and dodging him as they went on their way. An impossibility, among a sea of improbabilities. Wherever he was, it was not where he had been.
Standing carefully, completely aware of his impaired equilibrium, Sherlock cast his gaze around him more thoroughly. Here and there were more signs of things amiss, tiny things, small impossibilities which he doubted anyone else would recognise. Contemplatively, his gaze slid up once more, and he wished for a moment that the intermittent white would be stars rather than clouds. Would his money work here? Was here even real, or perhaps some fallacy created by his mind, or the machinations of another? Storm-grey turned stony, a frown creasing his face as he considered the possibilities. There was only one way to find out.
First, to test his presence here. The simplest way would be by use of his card. Long strides took him to the nearest place to eat, his mind churning over any character he might choose to use while he was here. None for now, though, except to lighten his facade with a polite smile.
