Cauldron-Born [SHERLOCK FANFIC]

The Postman

Following the detective’s heels, John piped up curiously. “So, who saw him attack her? Someone must’ve seen them.”

“I was thinking the same thing. Perhaps the witnesses have been disturbed out of their minds and won’t come out of their holes until they’ve recovered.” Sherlock pivoted on his heel and faced the curb, waiting for a cab to come by. It was a cool day, not one cold enough for Sherlock’s attire, but he didn’t feel completed without his scarf, jacket, and gloves.

Leaning towards his friend, John said, “You know, usually these cases have someone behind them—do you know who it might be this time?”

Chewing on his lip until he broke the thin, pink skin, Sherlock replied hastily. “I don’t think this one is of bad intentions; probably a chemical experiment gone wrong. If so, I’ll be after the creator. Then again, I hate thinking it revolves around a mad scientist—those stories are always so cliché.”

“Well, you once said that clichés are sometimes the best if you make them exciting enough.” John looked up at Sherlock and he made one of his eyebrows jumped. “It’s true.”

“I’m not denying,” Sherlock replied curtly. “Never mind what I’d said—I’m changing it now.”

From a few yards away, a black cab pulled by, whipping the edges of Sherlock’s coat up. The detective opened the car door and ducked in with John following suit. Once they were both inside, the cab sped away to the waiting address.

“221 Baker Street,” John directed, folding his hands in his lap. “Sherlock, tonight I’m having dinner with Alana—promise me you won’t be pesky and text me and all that. I’d really like to have alone time with her.”

Squinting his eyes, as if he didn’t understand ‘alone time with a loved one’, Sherlock poked his bottom lip out. “I give you two alone time.”

“Falling asleep together doesn’t count. And the last time we had a date, you whirled in and began talking about a pair of ferrets that had been given steroids to look like toy poodles. It was most annoying and Alana had been having a hard time and needed someone to talk to you.”

“Well, I needed someone to talk to, too,” Sherlock growled.

“Don’t be such a child,” John corrected. “Seriously, it’s like me barging in while you’re having a nice moment with Molly. By the way, where is she?”

“On holiday.”

“Aw, do you miss her?” John’s own heart tugged at the thought of Sherlock and Molly being separated.

Putting on an even more puzzled face, Sherlock asked in a high voice, “It’s not like she’s gone forever, John! I’m sure she’s coming back.”

“You really don’t care about relationships, do you? Don’t get angry, I’m just observing. It’s like, you only care if they’re life is on the line.”

Having a very fragile and arrogant soul, Sherlock quickly took John’s criticism personally and, without a word, reached over and opened John’s side of the door. With his other hand, he shoved him out onto the sidewalk. Sherlock had calculated the velocity, speed, and position before knocking his friend out, as he only meant to get rid of him, not to harm him.  

John rolled to his feet and watched in part confusion, part disgust as Sherock puttered away to the flat. Wiping off his plaid shirt and faux leather jacket, John made his way to the flat by himself. On his way, while passing an abandoned horse barn, John felt the hairs on his neck stand up straight, tickling his skin. John brushed his cheek with his shoulder and tried to ignore his warning, but when he saw a shadow blend in with his, he looked behind him and caught sight of the postman.

“Afternoon,” John greeted with a pleasant nod.

The postman looked up from underneath his dropping eyelids and made a crooked smile. “Afternoon, mate. You mind telling me where I can deliver these?”

Finding it an odd question, especially for a postman, John stopped and turned around. Looking at the parcels in the man’s hands, and then at his face, John replied cautiously, “Don’t think I can help you. Sorry.”

“Just point me out, and I’ll be on my way!” the stranger begged, walking up to John with a desperate expression. “Please.”

Sighing loudly, John grabbed the parcel from the man’s arms and read the address. Still keeping his eyes on the label, he stretched a hand out towards the east and directed uncertainty, “I believe it’s—,” before he could finish, he felt a sharp pain rush through his wrist. Looking up slowly, he saw a cubic chunk of flesh missing from his palm. “Oh God.” Throwing the parcel at the postman, John made a run for it.

The postman screamed and tore after John. Strategically, the famished postman rounded John up in the corner of an alley just several blocks from Baker Street. Panting heavily and shivering all over, John reached into his pocket from his phone. The postman, who looked like any other human with his sandy blonde hair, light hazel eyes, and not a sway in his step, held this frightening presence that was enough to make John crumple to his knees.

The postman covered John with his shadow and hummed deep in his throat. At first, John thought he was growling, but instead, the man was humming a lullaby. It was a strange melodic tone, one John hadn’t heard before. Pulling the phone from his ears, John listened closely, trying hard to figure the soft, purring noise. It was only once, but a fatal mistake. John squeezed his eyes shut in hope to identify the song better that way, but it was enough time for the postman to seize his face with his hand and throw him to the ground.

A triumphant yell came from the postman’s mouth as he began scraping John’s face with his nails. Maniacal laughter and cries of joy ripped from the mad man’s lungs. John, with much difficulty, dialed Sherlock’s number. He felt his flesh peel around his face and he could only think about the young girl he had seen earlier that day. Faceless. John waited for the dial tone and then he heard Sherlock’s phone ring. Except this time, instead of distant and in beeps, he heard the actual ring.

Like a shadow faster than light itself, a figure jumped into the fray and the flash of a scarf wrapped around the monster’s neck. “Run, John!” came the detective’s voice.

John jumped to his feet and limped out of the alleyway. He turned back once, just in time to see Sherlock grab the beast’s head in his hand and deliver a sharp twist. The head wobbled in dislocation, followed by a loud snap. The body sunk to the floor and lay dead at Sherlock’s feet. Looking up slowly, Sherlock panted, “You’re right. I only come in time to save my friend’s life.”

“Sorry, Sherlock. I didn’t mean it that way,” John apologized, leaning up against the concrete wall.

Shaking his scarf free from dirt, Sherlock hung it around his neck. “If anyone should be apologizing, it’s me. And, I’m so sorry you’re the one to always get the beatings out of my cases. Anyway, now we’ve got a man-eater and the girl. I’ll call Lestrade to pick up the body. Right now, I’ll get you back to Alana’s and have her clean up your face.”

Patting the swelling wounds, John asked, “You don’t think this is viral, do you?”

Sherlock remained silent. In a chilling whisper, he responded with a confident, “I don’t know.”