Before Falling yet After Drowning

Chapter Two

When John arrived home, arms full of Chinese takeout, all of the lights in the flat were off. Of course, he thought to himself. The one night when John was willing to stay up late Sherlock had gone to bed early. Was his goal in life to annoy John? Every other night he'd be up making a racket until John came out and yelled that he had to go to work the next day. Five times.

John stumbled into the kitchen, fingers searching in the dark for the light switch. The load of plastic containers in his arms crinkled and threatened to drop onto the floor. He walked into the living room, where there was at least some light from the windows peeking through. He turned to put the takeout onto the coffee table, when in the moonlight, something moved.

John's military instincts kicked in and he stood rigidly still, not daring to breathe. How could somebody have snuck into their apartment without Sherlock noticing? Unless...had they taken Sherlock? John dared a step closer, his feet barely making a whisper as he crept forward. There it was again! The movement. It was coming from the couch. John stayed silent, and then he heard it. Breathing. But it was slow. Was this person...asleep? And were they on his couch?

"Sherlock," John tried to shout, but it came out as more of a whisper. He was trained to well to not make noise.

"Sherlock," he tried again, more forcefully.

Still nothing. John's heart thudded in his ears. The smell of lo mein noodles drifted up to his nose. Where had Sherlock gone? And what was he to do about this stranger on the couch?

Suddenly there was a hand on his shoulder, and a groggy, slightly perturbed voice said, "What do you want, John?"

He nearly jumped a foot in the air. The food fumbled out of his hands, spilling onto the already-dirty floor. The scent of lo mein and spices intensified. John's heart was hammering in his chest.

He went to go flip the lights on when Sherlock put a hand on his shoulder. "Don't," he whispered loudly. "You'll wake him."

"Oh yeah," John turned to face Sherlock, eyes dripping with sarcasm as his shirt dripped with soy sauce. "I forgot to ask. Who the bloody hell is sleeping on our couch?"

"Why, the Doctor, of course," Sherlock replied, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"Yes, of course," John mimicked. "Listen, I want him out in the morning. You hear me?"

But Sherlock had already returned to his own agenda, scooping up his laptop from a nearby end-table and tucking it under his arm. He then disappeared into his room.

"Sherlock," John groaned.

He turned back to the mess on the floor. He tried to scoop some of the noodles back into the boxes, but it was quite difficult to do in the dark. He eventually gave up, and pushed off the floor to go to bed, trying to be silent. However, that plan didn't work out very well, as his shoulder smashed into the coffee table.

He fell back to the ground, his shoulder burning. He bit his tongue to keep from crying out. John waited to see if the man on the couch (there was no way he was going to call him 'the Doctor') had been woken, but it seemed he was still asleep. He began to mumble a bit, but it was just gibberish. He kept repeating the same words over and over again. "Amy. River. Don't blink. The book. Melody Melone. Don't go. No, Amy." And also some made-up word that sounded like 'tardis', whatever that was. Sherlock had definitely picked up a crazy.

John reached for the arm of the couch to hoist himself up, but accidentally ended up pulling on the man's jacket which he had taken off to sleep. It clattered to floor, and something skittered out of the pocket. He put the jacket back onto the edge of the couch and crawled into the kitchen, searching for whatever had fallen out.

When his hand finally rested around the objects, he was surprised to find they were not what he'd expected. One of them was a key, yet it was strangely warm. The other, which he'd first thought to be a revolver, was really an odd device with a light on one end. He had never seen one before.

The key began to grow hot in his hand, as did the other device. It began to vibrate. John knew his weapons, but he'd never seen the likes of this before. He picked up his findings and carried them into Sherlock's room for an analysis from the master.

When he walked through the door, Sherlock was intently focused on his laptop, fingers scurrying across the keyboard. "Hey," John said awkwardly. Sherlock looked up, his black hair disheveled. "Um, I was wondering if you could take a look at these for me."

He walked forward with the two items he had found, dropping them onto the bed. Sherlock's eyes narrowed, and his head tilted to the side. These were the signs that forewarned a puzzle that was hard for even him to solve. And that a brilliant deduction was soon to come.

"What are they?" Sherlock asked.

"Well," said John, pointing his finger accusingly. "They fell out of the pocket of your guest's jacket. So why don't you tell me."

"John, you can't just go poking about in other people's jackets," he murmured, trailing off as he picked up one of the items. The weird-looking one. The one that John couldn't even begin to understand.

Sherlock ran his thin fingers over it, looking at it curiously. "It's well worn. He held it a lot. Gripped it hard. Sweat on it. Which makes it seem like it's something very important, and something very dear to him. It's a bit lighter here, you can see from which end he held it."

"Any idea what it is?" John asked.

"And this," Sherlock exclaimed, reaching for the key. Evidently, he knew no more about it than John. "This key. Where does it lead to? Strangely warm, don't you think? Even if it had been in his pocket, no metal's this hot. And look, you can see that it's not the right size to fit in any of the flat's around here. Which brings me to another point; if he's homeless, why does he have a key?"

"Maybe for sentimental purposes," John suggested.

"No. This is different. Something's off here. Almost..." he trailed off.

"Almost what?"

"Alien."

John chuckled. "Seriously? Alien? You need to get some sleep, mate, 'cause there's no such thing as aliens. I know your space knowledge isn't completely existent, but trust me on this one. Cross my heart, he's human."

Sherlock gave a slight smile. "Heart."

John gave him a bizarre glare. "What?"

"Never mind. Now, what does this thing do?" He picked up the device again from where he'd placed it.

He felt along its edges until he found what he was looking for. A button. Triumphantly, he'd showed it off to John. "Well, go ahead then. Push it."

Sherlock obliged. The tip of the light began to glow a sudden and intense green, illuminating the room around them. It was a light, just as John had thought. But that was not all. It was giving off a shrill vibrating sound, almost like an insane robot computer. "What, so it's just a torch?" John asked. "A funny looking torch, huh?"

Sherlock was about to agree, when the device did something else. It unlocked the door to his bedroom, which slowly swung open. He shined the device into the darkness.

"Hello," a voice came from the blackness. "I belive that's mine."