"When angels can no longer fly, they fall to their deaths..."
Four months after their first confrontation in the swimming hall, bored Sherlock Holmes is recontacted by none other than Jim Moriarty and forced into offering his consultations on a rath...
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Tuesday 24/08/2010,09:30 a.m.
The bustle of the city was unceasing as people breezily paraded on the frenetic streets in the wash of the morningtide, some stopping to watch the gruesome scene from afar. The accident had happened in a one-way street flanked by rows of newly painted and semi-old buildings that constituted a large part of London's eclectic cityscape, reflecting decades, even centuries of grand design and architecture. The sky was a mottle of golden grace and baby-blue optimism; a vast contrast to the sight of a tragic fatality dancing in the threads of a new day.
On arriving at the scene of the accident with John, Sherlock realised how exhausted he was, like wearing a heavy jacket that weighed a little too much. Too many deaths in such a short time, even for his taste. Some would say the Grim Reaper had, metaphorically, been sedulous to harvest its crop and recycle the organic matter to fix the hole in the universe.
Familiar phrases from the past were looping within Sherlock's mind verbatim, accompanied by the thrum of their dark shoes when they rounded the corner. People have died - that's what people DO!
Just the desolate sight of police cars that flew into their view was enough to release the breath John was holding, breaking the sombre quietness. It was his switch from reaction to reflection. Every time something like this happened it was as though a piece of him broke off, just like the fragment of what made John Watson that strong-willed and powerful soldier in Afghanistan slowly faded away to make more room for his doctor's identity. Still, none of that meant he grew weaker by the day. No, he just changed. People changed gradually and non-gradually, for the better or the worse. Especially those little changes that did not happen against the background of continuity were the hardest for Sherlock to understand and accept.
The duo spied an unmistakable cloud of black curls framing an unfriendly yet beautiful face and a greenish coat hanging over a familiar, lean figure. Sergeant Donovan was talking with another officer and mooning around near the yellow police tape that enclosed the venue, but looking up at the newcomers, she quit the conversation in an instant and approached them. Sherlock managed to process a shade of sadness in the concoction of her look before it steeled, caught in a negative spiral again.
"Lestrade said you would come," Donovan greeted, wading in the waters of condemnation as she raked her judgemental eyes over Sherlock. Her antagonism toward the genius was a ball of yarn, wound and wound around her own sense of mediocrity, impossible to disentangle.
Sherlock maintained an air of aloof politeness. "I heard there was a letter addressed to me."
"Well, true," Donovan nodded ahead of the unfolding scene of death and shrugged as if it all were yesterday's news. "But that doesn't mean you should stay any longer than necessary. We don't need your help to identify this as an accident." Her dark gaze lingered on John for a while, lustrous with an unsaid warning meant only for him to receive before she proceeded to lift the tape to let them pass.
