Darkling, I Listen - Sherlock/John (Part 1b)
“Hello, this is Rogers and Davies Insurance Company, how can we help-ah, I see. Let me check the company directory here.”
The sound of leisurely typing. A pause.
“I’m sorry sir, but Ms. Harriet Watson hasn’t been in attendance at the office for the past few days. Are you a relative-?”
The long wail of the dial tone.
-
“Hi, you’ve reached the voice mail of John Watson. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you. Probably.”
Beep.
“John, it’s me. Clara. Harry was here the other night. She was... she was drunk, more than usual. She kept trying to come inside the house, muttering about voices in her mind. I was scared. She wanted me to come into the fog with her, whatever that meant, and when I didn’t open the door, she threw her bottle through the window and tried to break in! I called the police but by the time they showed up, she was gone. I just thought you might want to know-”
The shuffling of papers (contact information, a list of acquaintances that he thinks Harry might have had contact with, a list of places where she could have gone.) A mug smashes into pieces as it slips out of his fingers. He scrambles to the phone and puts it against his ear.
“John?” His former sister-in-law whispers on the other end of the line. Her voice is like a ghost come back to haunt him, a ghost of more hopeful times, when he had thought that Harry could be happy, that she could give up her vices.
She didn’t. And good, sweet Clara had had to pay the price with him.
He fights to keep his trembling hands still.
“Tell me everything you know, Clara. Did Harry really go into the fog?”
Several harsh breaths. It’s difficult to tell who is more terrified from the conversation and for what reason. Clara’s gift lets her know where the people she has met are at every moment of every day. She can give your coordinates exactly, better than any tracking device or satellite (but those never work in the fog, and John isn’t sure if Clara’s gift does.)
“...I don’t know, John...” she breathes, and he feels as if he’ll stop being right then, “but I think she did.”
The phone drops. He sinks to his knees, ignoring the spasm of pain that comes with his limp. He hears Clara’s tiny voice echoing through the emptiness of his flat, asking frantically if he’s alright, but that’s silly, because he’s anything but and...
He looks at the window, its glass now stained with condensation but unable to hide the picture of the black fog rising up beyond the buildings at the end of the street.
You can’t take away my sister away from me too, he thinks.
The fog seems to darken against the grey sky.
Then come inside, John.
-
He packs his pistol, puts it in a leather gun hoister that he kept from his army days, and several supplies of food, a medical kit, a few jumpers for warmth, a sleeping bag, rope, a knife, a compass (not that it would be of any use in a dead zone, but no one has returned alive to tell) and his phone. His bag is sturdy and will hold all the items as compactly as possible.
John is halfway down the stairs, cursing how his cane keeps bumping against his knee, when he almost bumps into Mrs. Turner. His landlady takes one look at him, before she ushers him to sit down at the sitting room, where she’s already made tea for two. Before he can protest, Mrs. Turner has shoved several biscuits into his hands and he can’t think of a polite way to refuse.
But Mrs. Turner has an iron grip on his wrist and there is an urgency to her movements that worries him.
“You’re going, aren’t you?”
John is unsure what to say.
“To the fog,” his landlady clarifies. “That’s where they all go eventually, people mad enough to live close to the dead zone’s borders. It speaks to them until they go insane or they surrender and walk into the black mist.”
His fingers crush the biscuits into broken pieces. “I’ve never heard of that before.”
Mrs. Turner’s gaze is all-knowing. “That’s because they don’t want you to know.”
His brow is wrinkled. “They? Who...?”
“The governments. Those in power. The witches. They’re all the same,” Mrs. Turner whispers.
John isn’t sure why he’s encouraging this, maybe because he’s lost his grip on reality or the fact that his landlady’s story rings true for the nightmares and strange obsession he has with the fog. But he has to know, more than he has to breathe.
“Does the fog whisper to you too?”
Her lips curve into a haunted shape that isn’t quite a smile anymore.
“It doesn’t want me... Not yet. I’m not interesting enough for it.... wasn’t then, and not now,” She hasn’t touched her tea yet, but she swirls her spoon into the liquid anyways. “I was there, in Old London, when the fog first came. It cast the city into complete darkness. People were screaming but I couldn’t tell if they were ten feet away or inches before me. There was no light. Electric lights simply didn’t work. I couldn’t see my hands in front of my face and then... then I was here, on the other side of the fog, along with hundreds of others. The fog didn’t want us. It said we were too boring for its game, and so it has been for the last few years.”
Her hands moved to grasp his tightly.
“You’re a good boy, John Watson. But heed my warning, if the fog wants you, and you walk in, there’s no coming out.”
-
The streets are empty of any other living presence. Only John, his cane and his backpack stand at the edge, where the road meets the smoky entrails of the great wall of mist. He looks back, only once, to survey the stained windows and broken rooftops, wondering what this section of the city must have looked like before the dead zone appeared. It was probably bustling with people and traffic, cabs winding in and out like blood cells on a circuit. Now it is a ghost town (the fog has taken all life from it.)
He turns his gaze back to the fog.
“Well then,” he says conversationally, “I suppose I should just invite myself in. Just going to pop in and find my sister Harry, and then leave, just so you know.”
It’s crazy, talking back to the black mist as if it is a person, but he feels that he has to. He can’t get rid of the strange feeling that perhaps the fog is staring back at him, that it watches him.
He should be trembling, shaking, and feeling anything right now. But John’s head is clear. He moves automatically, as if he is back in Afghanistan following orders when told to or reacting instinctively when he has to save a life.
There is no clear line to where the ‘wall’ begins, where New London becomes Dead London. Every step he takes feels ordinary, as if he is only walking through ordinary air. But he isn’t fooled. He can see how the area around him seems to darken. Slowly the mist gets thicker, blurring his vision further. The whispers in his head grow louder and more incoherent. Sometimes, John thinks that the fog is brushing against him softly.
Twenty steps in; John can still see New London behind him.
The next step, casts him in complete darkness.
-
It is exactly how Mrs. Turner had described the coming of the fog. He can see nothing, only black everywhere. The black has swallowed him whole, until the only proof John has that he is alive is the sound of his own breathing and the feel of his backpack still hung against his body.
Breathe Watson.
He keeps one hand outstretched in front of him in case he bumps into anything and takes medium sized steps that echo around him. The fog is silent for once, but he thinks, maybe, he can feel it shifting forward and back, like it is matching his own breaths. His other hand holds tightly to the cane.
For a long time, he walks. It seems like hours or forever. He isn’t sure. After a while, he thinks he might throw up his head and scream for something to happen, because he’s tired of walking blindly in the black.
“This is getting a bit ridiculous,” John speaks up. He hasn’t tired yet. They used to trek great distances when their caravan or trucks broke down, just to reach headquarters or a mission objective. “I heard that people appear out of Old London in pieces. I don’t think you tire them to death. I was expecting demons to pop up or something.”
He doesn’t expect an answer, which is why he is surprised when the black seems to lessen, so very slightly, so that John can see his hands are silhouettes against the grey. There seems to be the outline of trees, spread far apart from each other in the distance. The fog seems to vibrate around him, like the whirl of bees rushing angrily out of their smashed hive.
John takes out his gun with his free hand, aims it straight ahead, just in case.
The fog is chuckling at him, words swirling around him (“then let the games begin, John”) and then, he sees it.
Shadows, rushing out towards him, like fast brush strokes of ink in a Chinese painting. They resemble beasts of some sort, larger than any wolves John has ever seen. He can hear their snarls, more chilling than any of the wildlife he had encountered in the war.
Automatically, he shoots the first blurry creature, aiming for the heads in rapid succession.
The creatures let out pained yowls, worse than hearing his patients screaming in pain during an operation in the middle of battle. John doesn’t linger on that thought, only shoots again, feeling the familiar recoil of the gun as it shoots off its rounds in his hand. His left hand is shaky, he’s used to holding the pistol with both hands, but he needs the other for his cane and yet...
The creatures are getting closer, and John can see that they nearly tower over him. He hadn’t estimated their size well. One could probably swallow half of his small statue in one bite.
Despite this knowledge, John feels only a rush of adrenaline. He brings up his other hand to steady his hold on his gun and fires off more rounds, hitting each beast in the head, watching the shadows interplay with each other in various shades of grey.
Yet they keep storming towards him, even though John can see that their silhouettes are missing heads and limbs, the creatures are still pursuing him.
“Demons,” John whispers.
The fog is laughing.
He runs.
They are gaining ground. John can hear their heavy steps, the growls and hungry rasping. He hears loud howls, like wolves but more dissonant and unearthly. He isn’t sure which direction he’s going or if it’s the right way, but he needs to get away if only to create a new plan.
There’s the outline of a tall and bare tree in the distance. The branches are spread down and symmetrical, like an awkward step ladder that’s been broken into two and realigned on opposite sides. It’s perfect. John increases his speed, the thump-thump of his heart keeping record of his steps.
The fog is still laughing and the creatures are getting closer, closer, closer... he thinks that everything is returning to complete black again when the tree’s shadow begins to blur with the surrounding area and-
John stumbles, over something large and heavy. He nearly falls flat on his face but is able to regain his footing, out of breath. He looks around wildly, seeing only shadows and hearing the things that are after him.
“Who’s there?” John asks, though he knows he shouldn’t. His voice will only attract attention, direct those shadowy things closer to him.
He hears a pained whine by his feet. He drops to his knees instantly, though his self-preservation is screaming for him to keep running, that those creatures are going to eat him alive if he stops.
But he can’t abandon whatever he tripped over. It’s alive. And it’s hurt.
John is groping around on the ground when his hand brushes against something wet. He knows instantly that it is blood, and, alarmed, moves closer. He realizes that the blood is stuck against lines of fur and as his hands move upwards, he feels the outline of furry, sharp and pointed ears, a wet and velvety nose, sharp canine teeth...
Eyes are glowing when he meets its gaze. Intelligent, grey-blue eyes that do not leave his.
It’s a wolf, a large black wolf whose species and size John has never seen before. It is large enough that John could ride on its back if it were at full health. But it’s also large enough to snap John into two if it wanted to.
“Beautiful,” he whispers, in spite of the situation.
The wolf lets out a little whine, but he feels it lean closer to his touch.
He tries to find the wound again, so that he can heal it with his gift. Just as he attempts to find his focus, the snarls from earlier are louder than before. John jumps up. He keeps one hand on the wolf’s head and points his gun forward.
The goose bumps on his spine are tingling. John doesn’t need any light to know that they are surrounded. He can see the eerie, yellow eyes in the dark, staring at him in a circle. His blood is rushing in his veins; he cannot possibly defend himself from a dozen of these things at once. They will rip him apart.
He moves instinctively in front of the wolf, hoping to protect it from the other beasts. He can feel its gaze on him, like the wolf is eating him with its eyes. He fights back a shiver. Since he’s going to die, he will die trying to protect this animal, he will die fighting.
“Well?” John says to the shadowy creatures around them. “Come on then. Attack me.”
There is a hush, the moment when the fog stops laughing at him.
They leap for his throat from all sides. John throws himself over the wolf’s still body, tries to heal the canine’s wounds despite the fact that his gift has never worked when he is panicked (but please, god, let this work, let this being live) and he shoots blindly into the black.
-
“What are demons?” He remembers asking his father once, because his mother had relapsed into another bout of insanity. Gordon Watson hardly cared for much unless his wife was involved. John tried not be hurt by the indifference in his father’s gaze when he stared at him. It was the fault of the gift. He knew that.
Gordon answered things clinically, keeping his attention fixed on his drugged wife on the bed.
“Creatures of darkness. They came when the fog did. They’re often correlated with the fog phenomenon. It’s speculated that the fog is their natural breeding ground. Some hypothesize that the reason the dead zone exist is so that witches can summon the demons more easily to do their bidding.”
“Oh,” John had answered, pleased he could understand most of what his father had said. “Why do witches do that?”
“To curse people, to cause suffering.”
“But why?” John wrinkled his nose. He couldn’t understand how anyone could intentionally cause such things.
“It’s their nature. They don’t need a reason.”
-
He screams when he feels the creatures, several of them, claw at his front. It’s like being shot all over again, but all over his body and with more consciousness slipping away with skin. But before he can do anything, he is flipped over on the ground, the blood pooling in his wounds and slipping over.
There are pained growls and grunts. Something (or something) has jumped in front of him. John hears the sound of many bodies falling on the ground, the unmistakable ripping of flesh and squelching of blood. He holds himself still, squinting at the shadows and realize that there is only one left standing.
The wolf that had been by his feet is not there anymore. It is before him, eyes fixed on John’s next reaction. Apparently, his gift had worked. The wolf appears fully healed, if its confident strides have anything to do with it. It looks ferocious, the very picture of a demon from the storybooks he read to himself when his parents were slipping into madness.
He lets out a breath and begins to laugh, almost hysterically, but not quite. (His gift is working again. There is a beast in front of him, one that could tear him apart within seconds.) He can hardly believe it and he can’t look away from the wolf’s grey-blue orbs.
“You saved me.”
It has now inclined its head, as if John has done something very interesting. Then it rushes over to John, its teeth bared out in a low growl. He realizes that it is licking his wounds and when he tries to move, it barks at him with a sharp reprimand.
He slumps backwards, wheezing and wondering if he’s to die here in the fog after all. It is silent now, like a group of mourners when a coffin is buried. He hadn’t realized how nervous he’d been, caught up in the adrenaline of the moment and the thoughts of protectprotectprotect... He slowly raises his hand and brushes it against the wolf’s ears.
“Thank you...” He says weakly.
He blacks out.
Part 2