Young Writers Society

II.

Sherlock stared at the phone in his hand, mystified. How had time flown by so quickly? Had he truly spent two hours on this trial-- this piece of the puzzle? Now he had even more set backs resting upon him like anvils on his shoulders.

First, there was his ankle that he needed to deal with, which would cause him immense trouble in many different areas. He would have to endure the pain of setting the fractured bone (or bones), by himself or otherwise. It would also sap time from the game. He wouldn't be able to run any more and he would most likely need an additional support, or a crutch.

Second, it was going to be time consuming to attempt to find that enigmatic laboratory that John spoke of. The spectrum was so broad. There were so many laboratories at the outskirts of London and singling out the correct one with so few leads would be next to impossible. He needed to take care of the most immediate problem first: his ankle.

Sherlock knew very well how to fix his ankle if one bone was broken. However, if more than three were broken, he would need help. It would simply be too painful even for him to survey the damage, much less fix the problem.

Slowly, Sherlock reached down to his ankle and began to pull back the fabric of his trousers. He hissed the moment that his fingers grazed his damaged joint. There were definitely more bones broken than three. Just upon looking over his now abnormally surfaced skin, he could tell quite plainly that some of the bones had shattered.

Now, Sherlock was faced with a problem. Should he wait for the approaching fire-engines to arrive so that they could tend to him? Should he call Molly? What would she know about fixing bones? She's a mortician. He could always try to solve the problem himself and cause more harm than good. The only sane option would be to wait, but Sherlock was on a strict time frame.

He pulled his phone from his pocket to check the timer. He had been on the ground thinking for over thirty minutes. Time flew when he thought calmly.

Where were those damn firemen?! Sherlock slowly laid back onto the asphalt, his body laying back onto the scorched ground. His eyes began to slide shut as the stress pulled him from consciousness. Slowly, beyond his will, his vision went black and it took his senses.

The firemen reached the building ruins within five minutes of Sherlock losing consciousness. Half of the men began to search through the rubble for any other survivors. They discovered the dismembered remains of another unidentifiable man scattered through the rocks and rubble. Sherlock was taken from the site and brought to the hospital. His ankle was inspected and reassembled.

When Sherlock awoke, the sun was nearing the edge of the western horizon. It was about eight o'clock. He glanced about himself for his coat- which had been removed from him and placed beside him in a chair. However, he was unable to reach for it as his foot was being held aloft by a sling that was attached to the ceiling, restraining any motions.

“Damn...” Sherlock growled and looked around once more for an emergency help button. He needed help. He needed John. He swivelled and slammed his hand against the button, unaware that each time that he pressed the button, it turned on a speaker at the secretary's desk, allowing his voice through. “He- me- urse- elp- e- nur!”

The secretary leaped from her comfortable office chair and she plucked up a random nurse to assess the trouble with Mr. Holmes.

“Nurse! Quickly! Help me!”The nurse came sprinting through the hallways toward the ward of the screaming man. “Help!”

The nurse burst into the room, prepared to help the man in any way possible. Sherlock was hanging off of his bed, supporting himself with his hands on the floor. His foot remained in the sling, twisted around so that his toes were facing the bed. He was leaning forward, attempting to reach his coat on the chair.

“I need my phone! I need to get out of here!” Sherlock cried out, his face beet red with anger and the blood that rushed to his head. Pain riveted his body and his face was beaded with sweat as he endured the pain of moving his ankle.

“Mr. Holmes!” The nurse cried out, diving forward and beginning to lift the man from the floor. “You need to lay down!”

“I need my phone!” Sherlock ordered, pushing himself from the floor and onto the bed once more. He sat back down and began to remove his ankle from the sling. “Get me crutches. I have to leave!”

“I can't, sir. You need to rest!” The nurse ordered, attempting to keep the thrashing detective to the bed. “You need to rest!”

“I. Can't.” Sherlock enunciated, his lips forming a thin, angry line. “A life depends on me right now. I. Need. My. Phone.” The nurse went stiff and nodded, turning and hurrying to his coat. She felt it wrong to dig through a patient's belongings, so she lifted it and set the dark coat beside him.

Furiously, he began to search through his coat almost as if he were a ravenous wolf devouring a fresh kill. The nurse half expected for scraps of cloth to begin to fly from that man's hands in his vicious pursuit or even for the man to begin to grow hair and sharp teeth, for his hands to grow into paws and for his nails to become claws.

Finally, the phone was produced from the coat, displaying a mere six hours remaining. His face grew pale and his steel blue eyes widened.

“Eleven hours?!” He cried out, nearly dropping the phone. “I've been unconscious for that long?!”

“In and out of consciousness.” The nurse corrected pursing her lips before turning to the door. She would return with crutches for him. “I'll return.” She told him before leaving.

Sherlock sat back staring at the timer. 10:58:42. He sighed heavily. He had so little time to find John that it infuriated him. For the first time, Sherlock had no will to find the culprit first or to solve the mystery first. If he found John, he would most likely find the culprit along with him.

He sighed and closed his eyes, allowing his mind to sprint into his Mind Palace. He needed to find where this laboratory, quickly. John had referred to the H.O.U.N.D., so he immediately began to search through the trade routes for any shipments of unknown or suspicious to the outskirts of the city. Two by two, the possibilities dropped like dead flies, first cancelling out any abandoned laboratories with no supply trucks travelling regularly within a mile. He also excluded all laboratories that were not receiving suspicious or unknown shipments. Finally, Sherlock had his sights narrowed down to two labs on the edge of the Thames.

Sherlock flailed slightly. “Get me loose! I know where to go!” The nurse jumped and cried out before complying and scrambling forward to unleash his leg from its sling. The nurse unclipped the sling and slowly lowered the detective's leg to the bed. She placed a hand against his chest to keep him from going wild. “I want you to use the crutches, all right?” She confirmed with him and refused to let up until he complied. Finally the detective let off a huff of a breath and nodded, defeated by this young woman. Once his leg was freed, he sat up and turned, placing his able foot on the floor, dangling his other.

The woman had left the room, a triumphant smile upon her delicate features. She left only to return five minutes later with a bottle of pain medication. She brought over the pain medication first and instructed Sherlock on when and how much to take, and also issued him the number for poison control, having been warned by Molly of his tendency for drug abuse.

“Thank you.” Sherlock told her, proud of himself in that aspect as John had taught him this: when it was appropriate to thank someone.

“You're welcome. Now, you'd better be on your way, Mr. Holmes.” The nurse told him, smiling as she stood and backed away from him.

Slowly, Sherlock brought himself to his feet, leaning his weight on the crutches that had been placed under him and his single good foot. He stabilized himself and he turned, beginning to hobble from the room as fast as possible. He would definitely need a cab now that he was disabled.

He sped from the building, explaining to the secretary that the bill should go out to Mycroft. He hurried out of St. Bart's, hailing a cab and climbing inside. Furiously, he ordered the cabbie, impatiently tapping his well foot, hoping for a swift trip. Along the way, he pulled out his phone to view the timer. A half-hour passed. At that moment, he ordered the cabbie faster.

Within the next five minutes, they arrived at an old white brick laboratory. The bricks had been nice, white and pretty once, but had been weathered by rain, time, and the Thames. They now appeared as limestone; pale, grey and cratered. Many dark windows lined the facility's walls, looking into empty, seemingly life devoid rooms. Sherlock thanked the cabbie, paid him and began to hobble toward the building. Ad he approached the building, the noise of a high pitched rumbling gradually grew in volume. The sound was menacing and cruel to Sherlock's ears and it began to aid in the formation of a pit in his stomach. What could make this sort of noise but a swarm of bees projected over speakers? He glanced up to the building and found two out of place looking speakers mounted at the roof of the laboratory.

He could recall years before when his and Mycroft's parents had yet to pass on. Sherlock had decided to study botany in the garden that his parents had begun to grow. Naturally, insects swarmed the plants at the noon hour that Sherlock had decided to study during. He was unaware of his allergy, so when he was stung, he disregarded it and returned to his studying. However, within the hour, he had collapsed with a high fever. Mycroft found him, a large rash overtaking his body.

In short, Sherlock had a large caution toward bees- or as normal people would say, a fear.

Sherlock approached the doors cautiously. He had already figured out what was to be expected from this challenge. He began to recognize this feeling as fear. His palms were cold, but sweat beaded over his body. His pulse was quickening and his body became more rigid as he neared the building, becoming more difficult to move. He was fighting against the instinct to flee.

Sherlock forced himself in through the doors and was instantly shrouded in a mysterious gas. He didn't even have time to hold his breath before the substance filled his lungs and caused him to hack and cough. Was this the same fog as used before during the H.O.U.N.D. Of Baskerville, something harmless, or something far worse than anything that he could have imagined?

Sherlock stumbled forward through the cloud and he continued to cough for a moment. Righting himself, he trudged along through the dimly lit corridor, seemingly drunk in his stupor.

The lights were faulty, flickering on and off, creating a sickeningly disorienting effect. The detective stumbled, eventually discarding his crutches as they were too much to manage. He limped through the hall, glancing to his feet now and again, noticing that it never looked as if he moved. The strobe caught his form whenever he hopped, making him look as he were levitating across the floor.

Sherlock altogether felt sick. The strobe lights struck at him and rolled his stomach uncomfortably, churning up butterflies that stirred and kicked up the detective's confidence and set him wild. This effect along with the droning of a bee swarm numbed Sherlock's brain and trapped him in a vortex of unease and fear. At the end of the hall was a closed door, illuminated by an aura of dim light at the seams.

After reaching the door, Sherlock reached for the handle and realized that his fingers were shaking. He cursed, frowning as he stared at his hand. With the glow at the seam of the door, the image of his hand was clear and his hand rattled the door handle. Why was he afraid?

Sherlock opened the door.

Before him was a black cloud of insects, hovering, bearing swords upon their bodies. He knew that he was hallucinating for he could see the vibrations that each wingbeat sent into the air. Still, he knew that this hallucination could be caused by drug or fear. The cloud of insects screamed out a horrible noise, a sound that struck Sherlock and made him wish that his ears would bleed just so that he had proof of the pain that it caused him. Very nearly, he screamed, the feeling of a searing hot knife piercing every inch of his skull.

His vision was blurred by the pain that the sound inflicted so that he was staring at the cloud through dark and doubled vision. Even so, he witnessed the swarm part for a moment to show a tablet, mounted upon a pedestal. The screen was black and Sherlock knew what this table held. He needed that tablet.

“Greetings Mr. Holmes.” A voice whispered, putting the accents on the wrong syllables as if they were saying the words backwards. The words were projected over speakers in the walls and ceiling at an incredible volume. It rattle the floor and stirred up the bees, vibrating the glass that separated Sherlock and the bees, and finally broke the dam for Sherlock. He shrieked, the most horrible sound being unleashed from his lips. The pain in his ears took so much from him. The sounds were well above harmful levels.

“Pain. I see that you're in pain. Good.” Sherlock couldn't even tell if the voice was male or female. The voice was distorted by a modulator and the pain. He closed his eyes and covered his ears, the noise still seeping through. He tried to focus on the noise that his muscles made' a slow rumbling sound like that if molten lava. That noise was far more pleasant that the rumbling noise from the speaker-- the amplified sound of thousands and thousands of bees all roaring. “Fear. I want fear. Give me fear!” The volume was increased, crippling the detective. This only made him scream louder, in agony. “GIVE ME FEAR!”

The pain made Sherlock want to cry-- a feat that no one would ever desire to witness. Yet, here the enigmatic, dynamic, stoic, fearless detective was, tears threatening to leak from his eyes. His head felt as if his brain were exploding within his skull. He was afraid. He was afraid that this trial would be the end of hi,. John would die if he quit now. John would die with him if he died.

“I'm afraid!” Sherlock bellowed before collapsing, his body crippled on the floor beneath his charred coat. His legs curled underneath him and his forehead was pressed to the floor, his sweat drenched hair swirling on the floor like damp brush tips. Sweat lubricated the tile flood and occasionally were inhaled accidentally. “GOD! I'M AFRAID!” It was a scream of frustration and defeat. He was only screaming to give the man what he wanted, nothing more. The words were a lie.

And like that, the pain receded and the volume was diminished. Silence filled the room, but Sherlock continued to silently writhe in pain as the noise remained in his ears. The writhing was more of a periodical tensing and squeezing his eyes shut more tightly, then he fell to slight relaxation. Gradually, the roar died and he calmed down, only left with a headache, a few stray tears and snot, both of which he kept to himself.

“You're afraid?” The voice whispered. It sounded proud of its accomplishment. It had Sherlock Holmes afraid!

“Good. I have a game for you. Before you is a swarm of bees. Separating you and the bees is a panel of glass. Prior to entering this room you were fumigated with a mist. At the beginning of the game, we will shatter the glass, stirring up the bees. The bees will attack. Are these harmless honey bees or are these deadly killer bees? Will you find that there are no bees at all? Will you find that you've been indeed drugged and that there was never a danger? Either way, you must face the fear. You must hurry to the tablet amidst the bees.” The voice concluded before the glass before Sherlock shattered and the man released a yelp as he stood.

Sherlock was weak and disoriented, pale and still choking back his tears. His vision was doubled as his eyes met the tablet (viewing two). Within seconds, black swarmed his vision, filling the room with a massive cloud of thunder, and rumbling.

Though he was sick to his stomach, Sherlock bolted, moving quickly through the swarm, feeling daggers pierce his skin- any bare skin that they could reach, the greatest open area being his face. The moment that the first bee pierced the back of his hand, hundreds upon thousands of bees returned to avenge the death of their comrade. Sherlock gritted his teeth at the first sting, yelped at the second and cried out at the third. He collected the tablet in his arms before sprinting as well as he could with his foot brace.

Finally, he was able to dive from the room, curling away from the door. Thankfully, the door closed after him, trapping him in the corridor of strobes where he was forced to crawl through. Along the way back to the door, he emptied his stomach in the hall, bathing the tile in putrid browns and greens. He dragged himself from the building, hearing horrible screams on the voice from before. The bees had leaked to the location of the owner of the voice and they had killed him.

Sherlock collapsed on the gravel outside, panting heavily. His vision was beginning to blur and dim as nausea began to set in.

“John...” He groaned, shaking slightly. He would only request help of John. He could only show weakness to John. “John... Help... J-John... I'm dying... John...”

Sherlock was dying. Three bees had stung him and he was deathly allergic to bee stings. He didn't have his epinephrine auto-injector because he hadn't had a fit since childhood. Now he was only a phone call away from losing everything- the game, his work, his life, John.

Now, the scene from his childhood was re-occurring, the site of the wounds beginning to swell and fester, turning purple and pink and blotchy. Sherlock's well hand reached into his pocket and he removed his phone. He struggled a great deal to dial the number for emergency on his phone with his sight coming in and out of focus, the lights of the city fading and brightening.

He could feel his body beginning to shut down, cold and darkness pouring over his system. His vision began to go dark, narrowing to a tunnel of darkness, sharpening the glare of the light like a focusing camera lens. The severity of the light made Sherlock's head burn and ache. The darkness began to close around the light and soon he was consumed by the darkness.