The Tale of Two Siblings (Fabrication #1)

Chapter 11: The Gun

Sherlock's face changed from a look of excitement to a look of confusion. He leaned closer and squinted at the screen. "How can it be in front of our house?" he asked in amazement and confusion.

I ran to the window that overlooked the street. I pulled back the curtain, part of me hoping the car wouldn't be there, even though that would throw our progress back almost to the beginning. Sure enough, there was a car parked in front of our flat, its lights on and exhaust coming out the exhaust pipe. It then occured to me. It was a cab, a taxi.

"Who do we trust if even though we don't know them?" Sherlock said, a glint in his eyes and a hint of a smile creeping onto his face.

The door opened again and Mrs. Hudson was standing behind it. She looked cautiously in and then at Sherlock. Behind her in the doorway, I caught a glimpse of a man standing behind her. He was old, but I couldn't see his face extremely well. I glanced a card hanging around his neck but I couldn't see what the card was for, it was too dark.

"Who passes unnoticed wherever they go?" he said. John looked extremely aggravated because he didn't know what was going on.

"Yes Sherlock, cab drivers, let's go!" I said.

"You're not going," Sherlock said to me, frowning.

"Haha you're funny, come on!" I said.

"No," said Sherlock. "This is too dangerous," he shook his head.

"You sound like Mycroft," I said. He frowned and walked out the door.

"Wait, where's he going?" asked John.

"He's stupid and he's going into the murderer's car with out me," I said.

"Shouldn't you stop him? Or somebody?" John said.

"He'll be fine," I said. "But I'm coming."

I grabbed my coat and rushed down the steps and out the door. Sherlock's cab had already taken off so I hailed one from the road. Fortunately that didn't take that long of a time. Now I had to figure out where he would go. I guessed the most simple solution would be to call him and ask.

I pulled out my phone and dialed his number. It rang once and he answered.

"What?" he hissed.

"Where are you going?" I asked. "And be quick, the cabbie is waiting," I said, glancing at the eyes that stared at me in the rear-veiw mirror from the front seat.

"If you must know we're going to the abandoned houses that the university used to use," he said. I knew he wanted me to come along.

"Okay thanks Sherlock," I said. I hung up.

"Can I go to the abandoned area of London University?" I asked.

"Yep," the cabbie said. He took off.

Within minutes we were there. I tossed the fare to the cabbie and jumped out of the door, almost tripping in the process. I regained my balance and took off in a sprint towards the two houses.

The houses were two stories and identical. They stood in the night, not quite sinister but not exactly innocent either. They were a middle form, somehow only existing. I walked up to them and I already knew which one Sherlock had gone into.

Some of the grass that had grown up between the cracks in the concrete were trampled. On the ground I noticed there was a single carpet fiber, a fiber I recognized as one of a car carpet. When I put my hand on the doorknob, the doorknob was still warm. That told me that Sherlock and the mystery cabbie must have stood there, not too long ago, one of their hands on the doorknob.

I silently pushed the door open and immediately heard voices. I quietly followed the voices. The halls in the house were long and dark. The only light was light that came from the streetlights through the windows. Down the hallway a ways a door was cracked open and a dull light flooded out into onto the floor. I stepped quietly down the hall and peeked through the door.

Inside the room was Sherlock and an older man. The man had white hair and a golfer's cap on his head. He looked sickly, as if too little skin was stretched out over too much bone. To my horror, he was pointing a gun at Sherlock. Sherlock had that stupid smirk of his on his face.

I pushed the door open quietly. Unfortunately, the door wasn't quiet and the hinges creaked noisily. Sherlock and the man looked around and both looked surprised.

"Enola, welcome," Sherlock said. "I was just explaining how this wasn't a real gun," he pointed a finger at the gun the man held in his hand.

"Would a fake gun do this?" the man said.

Everything that happened next seemed in slow motion even though it only happened in a matter of seconds. These pointed the gun at me and pulled the trigger. At almost exactly the same time, another show rang out. The window crashed and a force blew me backwards. I fell back and landed on the floor. I heard another thump and prayed to God that it wasn't Sherlock's body hitting the floor.

I felt warm and wet and I tried to sit up but daggers of cold pain seemed to run through my middle and I fell back to the floor. I heard footsteps and my brother's face was above me. He knelt down. I felt him lift me into his arms and onto his lap, cradling me like a child might a doll.

He took off his scarf and balled it up. He shoved it onto my wound. It felt like somebody was driving a metal pole through me but I was too weak to protest or make any noise at all. I turned my head to the floor and saw a puddle of dark liquid was beginning to pool around me, spreading with every second. I hazily realized the bullet must have passed right through me.

Sherlock picked me up. "We'll get you to the hospital," he said walking quickly Every step he took it was painful everywhere. I didn't have enough strength to keep my head up so my head just fell back over his arm.

The cool air brought me back. I was feeling so faint I felt physically light. I could feel Sherlock breathing against me. We had a stopped moving.

"Hey," I said weakly.

Sherlock gasped and bent down to see me in stillness.

"I really like you," I smiled at him. I remembered when we were children and I had been hiding and he had found me. His face had been at the same angle.

"You keep catching these bad people and have fun," I said. "And try and get along with Mycroft."

"Enola you aren't going to die," he said a tear running down his face.

I looked at the moon and it was very beautiful. It's white light flooded around me and soon I felt light like a feather.

The end.

Sherlock typed the last word of the story he had written in honor of his sister, his fallen soldier. The cursor blinked, waiting for more.

But there was no more.