Chapter 15

It was all a blur for him, Sherlock chasing after a shadow and then being thrown through a door, dealing with the fifth captive's screams and everything coming to a halt a few seconds later. John helped the young woman to an officer that rushed up the stairs at the sight of the trembling girl, leading her away. He barely got a chance to check how Sherlock was when he and Lestrade lifted him up. The shadow John had now presumed to be the killer packed a punch to be able to send Sherlock through the door, some splinters were still hanging off Sherlock's hood and trousers. Officers on the ground below were looking at the open front door and then looking towards Sherlock, all confused, some even thinking him to be the suspect.

Then he took off, jumped from the high landing, sprinting through the gap in the crowd of police. They just stumbled out the way. Everyone had lost focused in seeing the dead man standing on the landing above, almost the perfect scene of a ghost movie. John clenched his fists to refocus, and when Lestrade finished barking orders, telling them to pursue the first man, the killer, everyone finally delved into action, including John.

With Lestrade right behind, they ran out the front door and into the dark street, only lit by the flashing blue and red of the police cars and the faint lights of the high street down the road. He couldn't see either of the men anywhere. Donovan was rushing towards them, pointing up the road into the black void of the rest of the street, when a new pair of lights burst into view. Out of nowhere Sherlock appeared, or at least John assumed that for a second.

A deep blue car streamed past, swerving a little in an attempt to run over the darkened figure, only catching his side, but sending Sherlock to the ground still. There was a loud grunt before a scramble to his feet and running across the street into darkness. Donovan was shouting at Lestrade for answers who gave them to her the best he could, trying to keep her calm, but John went ahead to follow the sight of the car, as Sherlock was now nowhere to be seen, eaten up the shadows of the alleys. The car was nearing the main street making a lot of distance between escape and arrest.

"JOHN!" The voice came from above, and then he saw the silhouette against the starry sky and knew Sherlock was once again was taking to the roofs. The bickering officers looked in his direction as well and he pointed towards the killer's escape route. A few quick instructions were exchanged, and before he knew it John was in a car with Lestrade, Donovan left to deal with orders to the remaining officers, the engine started and the chase begun.

...

Foolish seconds stalling left him at a huge disadvantage in terms of distance between him and Danger. If he had jumped straight after the killer he could have jumped him quicker, stopped him from running out into the street. By the time Sherlock made it out into the street, Donovan had been shoved away and he presumed the killer's direction would be towards the bustling main street. Oh how wrong he was. The killer had taken the other turn, and when he saw the headlights flare up, he turned. He tried to grab the car door handle as it drove past, to drag Danger out and make him pay for what he did. It seemed the murderous frenzy had consumed the man when he turned the car to crash into him and send him flying down the street. Luckily he moved in time, but only to save himself from death once more.

The bruises ached before he even hit the ground, breaking stitches on his abdomen and leaving him nearly crying out in pain. But the adrenaline of the situation was, to his greatest wishes, finally kicking in, and with a new source of energy, scrambled to his feet and took off for the alley opposite the house. The shouts of Donovan and Lestrade echoing through the narrow passing as he found the broken fire escape made him grin, the utter confusion in the officer's voice a strange delight. Basking in the questions and wonder of people would have to wait, hunting Danger came first.

Smoke called from above and he replied with orders to follow the killer. Protection and Wisdom were a few roofs away and called for Wisdom to find a point ahead for Smoke to head to, and for Protection to follow his friends, when he sent them on the trail of course. He ran to the edge, looking at the beaten down street below and saw John standing in the middle, looking round in confusion.

"JOHN!" Three faces looked up at him. He pointed towards the street. "Follow him before we lose him completely!"

"How are we going to know where's going!?" Lestrade called back.

"John, your phone!" he shouted back, pulling the recharged phone from his pocket and waving it once above his head for John to notice before running of to start a rough chase. He clutched the communication device in his hand, starting a sprint along the uneven surfaces, jumping the gaps and looking up to see Smoke's direction. When he heard the engine starting at the crime scene, he jumped one gap, grabbing onto a window ledge and climbing the slightly higher surface of the first main street building. Ahead horns were already blaring and shouts of terrified and angered people echoed ahead. The killer was certainly a reckless driver. He'd left a clear path of bashing through the traffic and crowds ahead, luckily no-one majorly hurt. The gap parted further when the lights of the police car broke through from the dark street. But through the colour and bright lights of the main street, Sherlock spotted Smoke darting just above the chaos and he began covering more distance. Protection was visible above the crowd as well, but just ahead of the police car, certain John and Lestrade were making their way through the late night scene.

Wisdom appeared just ahead, alerting him of the safest spot to fight Danger. He knew the street Wisdom spoke of, planning the route he had to make Danger follow. Exit the main street on the third right, emptier streets, longer distance between streets, make sure he goes left on the T-junction, take another right, get to the dark and abandoned street, crash into…

Focus on the path ahead became a sole concentration, making he could avoid all major obstructions in his planned route, hoping Smoke would have the effect of leading Danger to the crash site Wisdom had suggested. Smoke could become a good or bad omen in the killer's eyes. Either would do to take some control of his path. For now there was no chance of control as he continued ploughing through the traffic. Sherlock's path was easier to navigate that the streets, but it didn't counteract the difference in speed or his sprinting and the cars acceleration. The first right turning had just gone, which Sherlock had to expose himself in making the several metres wide jump. Exposure wasn't jumping down into a crowd of people who might recognise his face under the hood; it was seeing the curse on him. The second right was almost directly afterwards, two buildings separating them. More exposure in the jump across and up the side of the building, and he ran while looking at Smoke's progress. Staying to the left of the killer's vehicle, the same way the car was edging towards. Wisdom had noticed before he could request passing on the message, and Smoke was told to change sides. By the time Smoke was on the right of the vehicle and making the turn, the car swerved out of the main street and into the quitter one.

Sherlock had three buildings to sprint across, to keep up, when his phone lit up and John's name became clear.

"Where's he gone!?" The distressed voice was crackly from the strange signal up high, but Sherlock slowed down a bit, already realising what he had to do to keep up. The police car had lost distance in the sea of people and must have lost sight. Lestrade and John were now dependent on him. "Sherlock!"

"The upcoming right turn, then follow the street down, his path will be clear soon," he directed. Wisdom informed him Protection was still with them and knew of the path they were trying to navigate. Exposure was the key to keeping up and he couldn't let the others know of it. "If in doubt, follow knowledge!"

"What the hell is that supposed to mean!?" John and Lestrade barked through the speaker. John had to know by now; he'd sent so many out to follow him. Too late, he was on the stretch of the last roof, the police car was nearing the turning and he couldn't let them know. The phone was turned off, buried in his pocket and he summoned what he could of balance. Like all aspects of life, despite the diverse curse he had, there was a science to it. Balance, wind, air, timing, above all was personal strength.

The jump was made and the ground would have to wait to claim him again.

Wisdom took to his side and the street starting becoming a blur. A silhouette of black was either side of him, Wisdom slightly ahead, Protection much further with the backlights of the killer's stolen car. The chase was becoming interesting with every second of cold wind slicing at his face. People still lined the streets, but their eyes had no time to focus the shadow streaming past in the middle of the street above cars and the light of streetlamps. It seemed the killer hadn't noticed either. There was no indicated increase in speed due to him, nor a sudden hit of the brakes in anger or utter disbelief in his form.

The killer was following Smoke, imagining it to be the positive omen it wasn't, not for Danger at least. Danger was being pursued and hadn't noticed its hunter nearing ever closer. Smoke changed sides and Sherlock had just enough time to manoeuvre the sharp left, nearly crashing into a roof while the killer had finished skidding round the left corner and was restarting acceleration down the right. The back right light was smashed on the corner. An extreme change in scenery, at least what could be scene of it.

The blackened street was a void with the lights of a quiet street ahead, otherwise in a blurring perpetual darkness around him. The killer had thought he'd found his escape, his headlights illuminating the way. His speed was reaching ridiculous levels. No word of Protection nearby. He had to get the plan right or the killer might actually make it out. Danger couldn't escape. Then the headlights reached the middle of the street and… Nothing.

Wisdom had spoken of an empty truck waiting for its driver to return, but it had gone. Wisdom was already cursing at itself, but there was another plan. That other plan was known as improvisation. The first idea was dangerous, as all, but it would ensure a certain stop to progress. He gained speed as best he could, heading up to a better height, the horrid shadow in the car's windscreen disappearing. No pursuer. Then the killer could be heard screaming with rage and alarm when something completely obscured in the darkness, blocking out the light of the street ahead, crushed the front of the car, destroying the engine underneath, breaking the headlights in a tiny explosion on each one, igniting flames almost instantly, and with the strange weight bursting the tyres before disappearing towards the sky, the car flipped.

Turning, tumbling, glass sent flying, and ending with a small tilt and crashing to the ground on all four warped tyres, smoke and a few flames flickering out the bonnet.

Sherlock stood in the dark of the street, the fire lighting up the area, the closed down businesses and locked up shops, the only living beings present where him and Danger, the murderer. The curse was hidden, the police sirens growing and the killer emerging from the wreckage infuriated and battered. Smoke and Wisdom fled to meet Protection. Knives were retrieved from within his sleeves and he waited for the fight to begin. The killer's face was obscured for a few simple seconds, Sherlock waiting to see the knotted face of anger look up at him with eyes of Danger. No reaction, just heavy breathing from both them recovering, Sherlock the chase and the killer the crash. The flames crackled and the smoke rose in the air, unaffected by the light wind, concealing the stars above.

Then he raised his head, and instead of eyes of Danger, the deranged eyes of the murderer lit up as he laughed.

...

When the main street came into view it was like the chase after Sherlock all over again. Making their way through the crowd was a hell, but when the killer disappeared from the streets did John resort to calling Sherlock who was undeniable ahead. With the speaker phone on and the call supposedly answered, John didn't bother with checking it was Sherlock.

"Where's he gone!?" he yelled down the phone, noticing Lestrade screwing up his eyes to make out every person and drive through the traffic while listening the call. There was static in the call, John sure it was because Sherlock was running. The lack of reply quickly grew agitating. "Sherlock!"

"The upcoming right turn, then follow the street down, his path will be clear soon," his static voice directed through the phone. There was a break, which John didn't like. At that point he noticed an increase of ravens in his sight, from none to one, directly in front of the car to the right. He didn't want to pay attention to it, but it was so strange being there, in fact familiar. The pause grew too long, and just as John went to get Sherlock's attention again did he speak. "If in doubt, follow knowledge!"

"What the hell is that supposed to mean!?" John exclaimed alongside Lestrade, their anger flaring up in the dire chase. The phone cut off and while John hissed in frustration, scowling at the bird ahead, Lestrade was cursing at the top of his voice to get through the crowd for the next right turning. It was lucky they got through, bus halting just in time to stop a horrid collision. John tried to look ahead with Lestrade to spot the car, but all John kept noticing was the blasted, distracting raven leading the way.

Leading the way, the raven they were following. Ravens meant something to John. Of course Sherlock would know the symbolism, but they were following it he didn't understand. Follow knowledge. They had to follow the raven.

He made to instruct Lestrade to follow the black-feathered bird but he halted himself, knowing how ridiculous it would sound. Instead he kept all eyes on the bird and the route ahead, looking for any signs of changing direction. For now it was solid acceleration down the street. In the quieter street, nothing could be seen ahead, not the car they were trying to pursue anyway. The looks of late-night wonders assured them they were heading the right direction. Then John saw the raven move to the left as a T-junction came ahead. But it looked at John, directly into his eyes. Something wasn't right. Lestrade made the intention to turn right, but he stopped him as the sight of smoke and a faint sound crashing erupted ahead.

"Stop the car!" he bellowed and the brakes slammed down, nearly sending them both through the front of the car. The sirens were still going, the red and blue flashing and the car cutting over the pavement corner. The radio suddenly roared with voices trying to grab the detective inspector's attention and he made to reach.

"Sir, the team is heading in your direction; we need to know where you are!" Donovan cried through the radio. Lestrade was about to reply but looked at John first, who was staring at the raven perched ahead, looking down the street on the next right turning. He knew it, he recognised it. One of the three perching outside the window earlier, clean feathers and a sleek shape. The orange glow on its dark feathers indicated fire.

"The killer's crashed on the street down there," he pointed, speaking as quickly as he could. "Sherlock's probably there and the street needs to be blocked off before the killer runs off!"

"I'm not even going to ask how you know all that," Lestrade muttered in scepticism under his breath, reporting to the troubled officer of the street ahead, ordering police cars to meet him at his exact location and to take a longer route round the other end of the street, all officers armed and completely informed of who they were arresting. It was literally seconds later that replies were coming through with positions and cars began meeting up with them. When it seemed enough were present, they sped round the corner and blocked of the scene.

By the time they'd parked in the line, John was already standing out the car and staring the scene. A brutal fight, not one Sherlock was winning. Flames beginning to envelope the car completely, smoke nearly obscuring the lights of the cars opposite. Donovan and Lestrade were shouting near and far, guns being raised and John standing between two cars, trying to stop himself from ripping the killer away from Sherlock. Just when things couldn't seem to get any worse, there was a frozen moment between the killer and Sherlock, before a blur of actions from himself, Sherlock, the killer and then the gunshot reverberating through the street.

...

Laughter? Of all things laughter!? The utter insanity dwelling in them did lead to strange actions and responses in certain situations, but with Sherlock ready to defeat Danger, why would it laugh? Senseless, psychotic laughter. A blink of eyes and Danger showing itself. Sherlock took a step forward.

"Goodness me, you're good. I would absolutely love to know how the hell you pulled that off," the murdered cooed, laughing between sentences. The deep voice mixed with the psychotic tone played havoc with Sherlock's confidence. What if he was misjudging Danger's power? What if he was nearby without thinking? He stopped his fingers trembling by placing them against the cold surface of the still-bloody knives hidden under his sleeve behind his wrists.

"I have no idea what you're talking about, I didn't see what triggered your crash," he lied, trying to sound genuine in the late of the night. The killer laughed again, swaying a little. Was he mocking him?

"Utter bollocks. I know it was you; in fact it would answer a lot of things. Like how you were seeing in the house, in the darkness with those particular eyes…" Danger mockingly stretched the eyelids of one of its eyes, showing the darkened feature of sight.

"Speaking of questions, I'd like to ask you a few!" Sherlock's interruption stopped the laughter, leaving Danger confused and an opening for him. He jumped him, taking several long steps forward and pushing Danger into the side of the car, the flames beginning to crawl towards the interior through the cracked windshield. "Why did you kill those people?" He hissed the question at the expressionless killer.

"Bit of fun, really." The laughter erupted again and Sherlock retightened his grip on the collar of Danger's coat. His nose twitched violently at the stench of blood and death on him. Danger left its arm limply by its sides, grinning endlessly at Sherlock. Killing for fun had occurred in the past, but the horrid way they'd been killed, how many victims there were. An anger of the need to protect swelled up in him when the killer spoke again. "Or was it because I saw them at your grave? I can't remember…" Sherlock hit him against the side of the car again.

"Are you working for him?" Sherlock hissed, spitting at the killer's face. No change in expression, just the dark, glinting eyes.

"You know I am, and let me tell you. He's more than just pissed off." Danger changed its approach and a well-aimed punch collided with the bullet wound on Sherlock's abdomen. He grunted in pain as his grip on the collar loosened. The killer grabbed his head and punched him to the ground. If only he wasn't still weak from the assassins beating would he be able to fight back immediately, would he have already retaliated. Instead he found himself still on the ground when the killer was looming, cracking his knuckles ready to beat Sherlock to death, something he would be very glad to hear.

Rolling away from the attack and getting to his feet, waiting for Danger to make a move afterwards. There was a final burst of the psychotic laughter, before a charge, right fist raised. Sherlock side-stepped out of the way, grabbing Danger's wrist and viciously twisting it until it noisily snapped, leaving the skin turning red and purple. The murdered cried in agony and made to hook Sherlock with his left, but was sent to the ground when he stepped round and slammed his foot into the back of his kneecap. He watched Danger deal with the pain, curled up on the ground. Surely it wasn't that easy?

He turned his back to check for any signs of Protection. The beady eyes greeted him and the alternating colours of the siren were not too far now.

Two hands clamped around his neck, large palms and fingers attempting to dig into his skin, a sudden shortage of breath and trying to prize the fingers away. Breaking Danger's wrist hadn't been enough. He dug a knife into the back of Danger's right hand, adding to the pain. He was released from the strangulation, but his next aimed punch never came to be. He had enraged Danger and not weakened him enough at the same time. This version of Danger must have been around for a long time, the strength possessed was much more than the leader. Sherlock was thrown through the air and his back colliding with the brick wall, dust crumbling into his shoulders as he sunk to the ground and numb legs, his vision fading for a few seconds as Danger made its way across the street. He was thrown across the bloody street! He tried to put his knives in palm to be thrown, but Danger had already clamped around his collar and lifted him again. Two punches to the stomach, leaving Sherlock wanting to empty his stomach, the bruising making his skin feel like searing leather.

The air was rushing past him again and he panicked when his ears heard the crashing and cracking beneath him, worried it was his spine deteriorating underneath him. No, it was the already cracked windscreen of the car, sinking under his weight and the cracks growing bigger. Flames grew in front of him and the coughing started when he saw the pillar of smoke swirling up around him. But he could see the flashing blue and red through the smoke and darkness. Danger's capture was nearing. But Sherlock's life was on the line for now.

"Ready to give yourself up?" Danger called through the flames as Sherlock stumbled off the car, meaning to continue the fight. He tried to walk but his legs were still unstable beneath him. The left knuckles of Danger collided with his face, the stitches on his cheek snapping and blood beginning to drip from the wound that had been so close to healing completely. It knocked Sherlock back, the smoke and stars above him, pain caused by the assassin and Danger now slicing through his body. As the sound of multiple sirens began to grow, Danger loomed over him once again. Instead of a punch being aimed and leaving an open for Sherlock to regain his feet, a large foot began crushing his right shoulder, the heel digging into the bite marks.

Crying out in pure agony, feeling the blood warm his skin as it poured out, re-staining the jacket and the curse creating extra pain. The laughter rose again, Danger looking down at him with darkened eyes.

"Death will be happy to claim you again, you'll finally see him in Hell," Danger said, the words flowing out like they had been practised over and over, Danger waiting for this moment to come.

Death. Death couldn't come now, death had been delayed at all costs, and death wasn't going to take him now or ever. Death would never have him! Sherlock cut off his cries, letting the agony build up inside him, gritting his teeth in concentration in a matter of feeble seconds as he raised one of his hands. Danger paid no interest, believing it to be an attempt to push away his foot. A yell of shock when the knife dug into his ankle and the blood poured out.

As the police cars began coming into view at both ends of the street, Sherlock felt another wave of adrenaline begin to course through his body. He collected himself, rising to his feet, and grabbing the killer's shoulders. It was his turn to cause pain. He pushed Danger's head through the glass of a back seat window in the car, the heat of the flames scorching them both. The flames had claimed the front of the car and were making their way through the windshield and lighting up the interior. With the glass scathing the killer's face, he dragged him back out and let out a frenzy of his own, built up from several months of anger and hatred, pain and questions. Danger was slowly brought to his knees with every fist to the face, the occasional blow to the stomach and a kick to the chest. It seemed the fight was Sherlock's.

Each end of the street was blocked off with about three or four vehicles each, a wall of flashing lights lighting up the scene alongside the fire. At that point, with officers exiting the cars and orders being exchanged through radios and shouting, he left the killer alone and stepped back. No-one approached, they didn't know if it was safe or not yet. It seemed safe, Danger was on his knees, crawling towards the car to try and pull himself to his feet. Sherlock had no care; he would just beat him down yet again. Instead he wanted to ask his own questions before the police dragged him away.

"How does he know I'm alive?" Sherlock barked over the flames and sirens, only for the killer to hear, who was gripping the door, broken glass digging into his palms. There was a silence. "What are his plans!?" He began moving forward to interrogate the killer quickly.

"You destroyed his killing network, you weren't exactly subtle," the killer growled, making Sherlock stop and consider for a second. Danger was right; he had killed a large amount of people in the past three years. But they deserved to die, needed to die. The lack of reply to the second question, the one he desperately needed an answer to was aggravating.

"What are his plans!?" He grabbed the shoulder of Danger just as he reached into the car. His answer would not be given, not with the point of the gun aiming straight between in his eyes. His grip on the second and last knife tightened a little more. Danger smiled as Sherlock backed off.

"Foolish little Sherlock, not as great as he once was." More mockery, childish mockery. He stopped when he was an equal distance between the killer and the line of officers behind him. He could hear the shouts from Lestrade and Donovan, and he immediately wondered where John was. He prayed to the voices that he did nothing to try and help him. It would not lead to any good. The killer started a circling motion, the gun cocked at an angle, trying to pick where he wanted to shoot Sherlock to end his life.

"Why would you have such an interest in him still? You see he never told me why he had it out for you, just that I had to kill you as painfully as possible when the opportunity appeared," Danger said, taking Sherlock by surprise as they slowly circled each other.

"He handed me over to death's jaws. That sort of act doesn't fade easily," he answered, hoping that the crowd of officers with raised guns weren't hearing this. The killer stopped. The inferno heated Sherlock's back horridly fast, making him sweat under the layers of clothing. Danger grinned insanely and lowered the gun a little. He was silent, frozen. And then he whispered a few simple words that only Sherlock could hear.

"He'll be coming for you, and death will be your only escape." The anger that suddenly hit Sherlock was unexplainable, but it made him charge nonetheless. He didn't want to use the knife; he wanted to beat the killer, Danger, senseless with his own fists. Danger took the first few blows, but suddenly clamped a single hand around Sherlock's neck, squeezing the life from his lungs and keeping him away at arm's length with the gun aimed at his head. His vision began turning white, his fingers uselessly scraping against Danger's arm. Then, with only the empty warning of Lestrade's protests, the killer was knocked and Sherlock falling to the ground spluttering and gasping for air. He could hear the struggle before he looked up.

The killer was given Sherlock's friend a nasty beating round the face, John's bottom lip just starting to bleed as he was pushed back into the barricade of cars, Lestrade pulling him back as well. Donovan and Lestrade held raised guns at the killer either side of John, attempting another stand-off with him. Danger, now hidden from normal eyes, placed pressure on the trigger with no thought and Sherlock reduced his wanted scream to a shout. John fell from sight behind a car door and he threw his final knife straight into the killer's back. There was a cry of pain, and with resentment fuelling every fragment of his body and soul, Sherlock would not limit himself to defeating Danger.

As police officers scrambled about to call ambulances, check on John and begin closing in on the killer, Sherlock did his best to subdue him by any means. Violence was the only way. He twisted the killer's left wrist to knock away the gun, kicking in towards one police officer and pulling the killer's arm back so he couldn't move it. He kicked the back of both kneecaps to get him to the ground.

He let out three forceful punches onto the killer's shoulders before two police officers appeared beside him and each grabbed the lower arms of the killer, dragging him away. He kicked and struggled when he was on his feet, literally being dragged away towards the newly arrived police van. Sherlock, blocking out all sounds the best he could, tried to head towards where John was meant to be, unable to see the damage for now. Lestrade waved his hand in objection if him stepping any closer. He would have continued on to make sure his best friend was still breathing, feeling the horrid void in his chest re-growing, but another force came into action to stop him. He let sound refill his ears as two officers shouted in alarm at him to watch out.

There was the unmistakeable cry of fury and the wish for him to die as Danger raced up behind him. The void disappeared, turning into an burning rage which filled Sherlock's face, reflecting in his eyes and with one swift motion, he spun round and with hidden force, kicked Danger straight in the chest. Danger rushed through the air and crashed into the side of the flaming car, leaving a dent in the metal. Danger was now knocked out, having possibly died within the killer's body. Sherlock grinned for merely a second, before the sudden depletion in all energy his body possessed vanished, and as his vision darkened, he dropped to his knees, seeing the officers' faces surrounding him just as his memory failed to record the darkened next few moments.

No sirens, just running engines and flashing lights, the conversation between officers on the other side of the street, unable to eavesdrop. Sherlock watched his exhaled breath swirl in white wisps in front of him, occasionally glancing up at the crisp white stars in the sky now that the smoke and fire had been put out. He pulled the bright orange blanked tighter around his shoulders as he sat in the back of the ambulance.

"You're an absolute idiot." He laughed as John sat next to him on the steps, completely unharmed. "How could you not tell it was filled with rubber bullets?" Sherlock huffed, but it was ruined with a smile straight afterwards.

"It's been a while. I'll be back in form soon." John shook his head and watched the scene with him. After a happy silence between them and observing the officers walking about, two standing outside the back of the van in fear the still unconscious murderer might break out again. Lestrade finished talking to Donovan a few metres away and headed towards them.

"Everything sorted?" John asked and Lestrade looked around, seeming to try and spot a problem.

"Pretty much, dramatic first case with Sherlock back, I have to say." Lestrade seemed more in shock than amusement when he saw Sherlock happily gripping the shock blanket. Though he quickly figured out like John, that it was probably the warmest blanket Sherlock had gotten hold of in a while. He tried not to snigger at their unnecessary care. "What to the medics say about the hit?" He looked at John who lightly knocked his left shoulder two times to show he was okay.

"Perfectly fine, just a few bruises near my old scar. Nothing major, though they said that I might want to take some painkillers the next morning," John answered. There was some laughter between them, leaving a smile on Sherlock's face as they were at a crime scene. The rare times, similar to many of the good memories.

"Right, I'll see you two soon. Tell me when you'll be back properly for cases," Lestrade said, nodding his head and turning away. There was another silence, Sherlock checking again that the two throwing knives Lestrade had sneakily handed him were still in his pocket.

"We should probably head back home," John announced to him and stood ready to leave. Sherlock was a little slower, standing on his feet but still holding the blanket over his shoulders. John looked at him, waiting for Sherlock to do something he couldn't figure out.

"What?" he asked innocently.

"Leave that here, you'll look like a fool." Knowing that home was ahead and much warmer surroundings, his left the bright blanket on the ambulance step. They headed for the quiet street ahead, hoping to hale down a cab for a quick return home. This was the proper return home. Sherlock's undying smile was sure.

...

In death, friendship can be born. The truth is rising like the darkened dead and the dead refuses to fall back. The web I know is collapsing and soon I will no longer be a ghost to you. War is soon to consume this world, and you will be part of it, for the voices have spoken…

...

If he thinks that he will walk into this fight, he is doing so blind. He is right to think it a Nest, but he is oblivious to how much danger shall surround him with the first step. We do not sleep, we do not rest, and we do not fall short of combatants. Hell is what we are. Blood is what we seek.

The sight of both consuming London is what we desire. Seeing him burn in the centre is what I wish.

...

END BOOK 1.