Myths, Tea and Gunshots

Chapter One - Who's Alice

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Yo, yo, yo! Guess who's a liar.

Anyways, here's a very later chapter one :)

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Alice wandered through the streets of London.

In another life, she knew where the street lamps' light would fall, which star would wink, and which car would honk.

They were only distant memories after she returned. Like, the memories of a dream whose pieces don't belong to the same puzzle.

It was all perfect when her eyes were closed, but after they opened her logic was no longer sensible.

Her dark hair blew behind her like secrets attempting to get free from their owner. The wind stroked her skin. It Brushed the strands out of her face.

She ventured down everchanging sidewalks. Street lamps outlined her face in a yellow glow.

The city was similar to a maze. She knew her destination, but not her path.

But, like any maze, she found her brightly coloured exit sign.

A black door loomed over her with the number 221 nailed to the wood. They had once been shiny, but over time the weather beat their fists against them.

She stood in front of the door for a moment. Her hands were tucked into the pocket of her red trench coat. The heels of her worn leather boots clicked together.

Night had touched the door. It wasn't fully black.

Green? Blue? Maybe it was black, and her mind was creating false images.

As she pondered her foolishness a light flickered on.

She thought it was him for a moment. That was until an older lady stepped in front of the glass.

Alice stepped into the shadows that promised to protect her. She took a few steps closer to the building. Her back pressed against the wall.

Cold sank through her coat and into her skin. The older lady was murmuring to herself.

Her voice drifted through the walls. It suffocated itself between the inside and the outside.

Alice fished out a wrinkled piece of paper from her pocket.

She held it so light spilled onto the writing. Her eyes had trouble reading the figures. As the shapes took their place, she retreated her hand. It was as if the light would burn her.

His address is,

221B Baker Street.

She found the building. Knowing that the older lady would question her she began to climb using the cracks in the brick.

Alice was intelligent.

Though, the untrained eye would never be able to see past her impulsiveness. It's what made her the secret that no one knew of.

The brick crumbled beneath her fingertips. It was like a biscuit after being left out for too long.

Anxiety rushed through her blood like a second pulse.

A friend once told her that everyone had two hearts. One to keep their body alive and one to keep their soul alive.

Alice's second heart might've morphed to do the task that her first heart couldn't. For her mind was much stronger than both hearts combined.

Before her doom would've caught her she caught the window sill. It held her up like the arm of another.

The glass was smeared with grime and covered with dirt.

She guessed that he would be awake. His eyes had been permanently tired since they first met.

Knocking three times, she waited.

No answer.

She knocked louder, four times.

The sound vibrated through the glass. Her palm began to slip. There was nothing to catch her if she fell.

She formed a fist and banged against the glass another three times. Her franticness being her last item to hold onto.

Another man answered. Not him.

He looked at her confused, his hand ran through his blond hair. It fell back into his face.

He opened his mouth like he was going to say something and then closed it. Turning he said something unhearable to someone unseeable.

Alice's patience was as thin as the pages in old books.

At the exact time before it would've been too late he opened the window. Her feet thudded against the hardwood floors.

"Who are you? Why are you here?" The man's face scrunched up.

"Oh, hey Alice," Sherlock said with a book in his hands.

"Am I the only one who doesn't know what's going on?"

"Yes." Both Sherlock and Alice said.

"John, since you're so confused, this is Alice, she's an old friend."

The man who Sherlock called John murmured something about how it was time for him to go to sleep and walked off.

She leaned against the side of the sofa picking up a cup of tea, holding the warmth between her hands.

"I see I'm not the only one who's been busy."