Hello to the few people who read this. :/ I'm very bored, so I decided to type.
Caution; drug usage is introduced in this chapter. Anyone sensitive to that subject may not want to read. I don't want to upset you or anything. :(
Mycroft's home - well, one of the several that he owned - was near the center of London and quite massive. As the two flatmates approached, John felt what seemed to be excitement inside his stomach. He felt like a child who was given a brand new toy. Living in a mansion? Now we're talking. They stepped inside to be greeted by Mycroft Holmes, who sipped on a beverage. "Hello Sherlock, John." He eyed his younger brother suspiciously, able to tell that his balance was off. Sherlock blinked rapidly and looked around the immense room. "We're only here temporarily," he quickly replied.
"Quite right, then," Mycroft smiled his unfriendly smile. "This way, please."
They crossed through the living room and turned down a hallway on the right, bordered with a fine polished wood. Mycroft stopped in the middle of the hallway. Two bedrooms rested across from each other. "Pick whichever you would like," he offered, "and then we'll continue the rest of the tour."
"I don't need a tour," Sherlock insisted, tossing his back into the room on the left. "I know your tastes, so I already know where everything is."
"Um," John popped into the conversation, "I don't, so..."
"Really, John? Isn't it simple?" Sherlock led the men back into the living room, where he observed his surroundings with keen eyes. "Down to the next hallway on the left leads to the kitchen, quite obviously. Not only can you smell the cooking from that general direction but crumbs lay on the floor, possibly from a dropped meal. Being that the kitchen is located there then quite clearly, the dining room is down that hallway as well. Across from there, of course, is the media room, more than likely occupied by a flat screen television and some cozy chairs. Mycroft rarely has time for entertainment and therefore rarely visits this room, which is obvious by the unusual cleanliness of the carpet that lay before the hallway. All other areas look different. Then on the right are stairs that lead up to the second floor which, quite clearly, has a pool -"
"Okay, Sherlock," John muttered. "You can quit showing off now."
"Oh come on," Sherlock grinned. "I love irritating my big brother. It is most amusing." He glared at Mycroft, stared right into him. He sighed in reply. "If you need anything, the two of you, I'll be in my office, which -"
"Is on the far right hallway, take the second left," Sherlock interrupted with a smirk. Mycroft muttered a "correct" and went exactly where Sherlock deduced that he would.
Later that evening, John sat alone in his room, thinking about everything that was to supposedly happen in just a few months.
Why Smith Tank? Why would I be there, and why would Moriarty and Sherlock be there? We've never been to that place, not that I'm aware of. So why were we there? He shook his head and decided to check on Sherlock.
He moved to Sherlock's door and knocked gently. "Sherlock? Are you in here?" He knocked again, but there was no response. "Sherlock?" He opened the door and peered in. Sherlock's room was a bit similar to his own, except the furniture was arranged differently and the walls were painted with a light blue rather than gold. At the left side of the room, Sherlock sat at a small, wooden desk, where his Macbook was set. At least he brought that. His eyes were shut tight, and he didn't seem to notice John's arrival.
His bloodshot eyes shot open, and his pulse and breathing seemed louder than normal. He turned to see John staring at him curiously. "John," he gasped.
"Are you alright?" John noticed that Sherlock held his arm tightly in the tender spot above his elbow. "What did you do?"
"Th-the link," Sherlock muttered, his voice shaking terribly. "I did some research. The future can be..." He closed his eyes, fighting a gag rising inside him. He opened his eyes again. "The future can be changed."
"How do you mean?" John approached Sherlock, who eyed him as if he were a strange insect of no identity. "I mean," Sherlock answered, his voice rising, "it doesn't matter if you have a flash forward because the future can change. You can change it y-yourself, and Moriarty plans to do that to Mrs. Hudson..." His fight against gagging failed, and he choked. John bent down next to him. "Sherlock? What's happening?"
Sherlock stood from the chair and looked around him. The colors on the walls and carpet and on John faded into grey and white. "God," he muttered. "I shouldn't have done that..."
John blinked. "What? What did you do?"
Sherlock felt his legs begin to shake and he pointed to the bed. John led him there and noticed a small bottle and needle already lying there. With steady fingers he picked them up. "No. You didn't."
"I shouldn't have, rather." Sherlock sat on the bed and lied on his back, staring at the dull colored ceiling. "Maybe I forgot that I haven't even recovered from the incident we dealt with not long ago, but in a panic, I..." He swallowed rough. "John, I know you believe that love and care are both foreign to my being but I can assure you that your thoughts are incorrect. Of course I care that Mrs. Hudson is in danger, quite possibly dead. This is what I expect as of now, seeing how Moriarty's next step involves picking away at us until we're nothing. He started with her, my greatest friend next to you." He rubbed his red eyes and let out an irritated breath.
"Sherlock..." John, without thinking, lied next to him, staring at him intently. "She may not be dead. Like she said, she had a flash forward."
"Indeed she did," Sherlock responded softly, "but so did a man in America."
"There was a man," he began, "who lived in Los Angeles, I believe. He had a flash forward. In this dream, he received a phone call, where some official informed him that a woman and two kids he truly cared about in the flash forward were killed, and in the dream, he continually blamed himself for the incident. He must have been connected to it." Sherlock inhaled deeply, letting the air cool his burning lungs before he continued. "In reality, he didn't know the woman or children just yet, but they meant everything to him in the flash forward. He wanted to prevent having them killed, however it was done. Yesterday, this man wrote a letter for that woman to find, and after so, he jumped off a building and died. He killed himself, John. He's dead, forever..." He looked at John. "He changed the future. That woman will still be alive in six months, but that man, that brave man who, himself, had a flash forward, will not be. As far as we can tell, this future for us is written, but more importantly is that it can be rewritten."
A thought crept into his brain, and he grabbed John's hand suddenly. "Despite the grave possibility of losing Mrs. Hudson, I am pleased about this. Maybe I can save you."
"I won't die," John answered, smiling. "You would never let me, anyway."
Sherlock laughed. "True." His head throbbed gently. "I am sorry for my cocaine usage. It's only what I use when I have neither a case nor cigarette, or when my heart is broken."
"I thought you said you didn't have a heart."
"Quite right," he aired. "I know that's not true, though. If I didn't have one, why would Moriarty want to burn one out of me so badly?"
They continued to lay together, barely speaking. It was most peaceful, a thing John rarely got to experience. Even better, he was with Sherlock. Nothing could be better.
At dinner, Sherlock was still mildly high but managed to control it. However, he didn't bother controlling his raging appetite, noticing that he hadn't eaten since he had an apple the other day.
"So," Mycroft began, sipping on his wine. "Would you like to tell me-"
"Oh, God." Sherlock groaned, returning his fork to his plate. "Must you pester me about my own life?"
"Well, little brother, you never tell me what happens to you on your own, so how else can I know?"
"Maybe I don't tell you because you pester me."
"I only pester you because you don't tell me!"
"Okay, okay," John interrupted, shaking his head. "No need to argue over something like this. Mycroft, what do you want to know?"
"Well, I was curious about Sherlock's flash forward, and perhaps your own," he responded officially. "Perhaps I may know something and can help you out."
John, sitting next to Sherlock, leaned towards him. "He makes a good point," he whispered. "I mean, he can't help with mine, but who knows?"
Sherlock nodded in defeat. "I was in some strange building I've never been to, and I found a body, and I went to another room with Moriarty and that's all you need to know." He smiled satisfactorily and bit into another biscuit.
"And John?" Mycroft questioned. John just smiled. "The building Sherlock was in was Smith Tank, and old abandoned -"
"What?" Sherlock asked. "How do you know that? Even I didn't know that and you weren't even there."
"Lestrade told me. He was there, remember?"
"Then why didn't you say something?"
"I didn't think it was very relevant. It would be different if people still worked in the building, but apparently it was closed down."
"No matter, John!" Sherlock stood up and grabbed the half-eaten biscuit. "Thank you for dinner, brother dear. Tomorrow, I will investigate this building and see what I can find. John, although you were not there, I would like you to join me." Biting off his biscuit, he headed to his room, John following on his heels. Sherlock swallowed the biscuit and declared, "I'd be lost without my blogger."
Voila, some stuff is happening. Aren't they so very sweet. XD Review, my darlings, and expect an update fairly soon! :)