Short stories and novel excerpts, once described as "hopeless romanticism with a twist of dark dropped in the glass for flavor."
Thursday, November 21, 2013
Baker Street Club: Prologue
Holmes lit the paraffin oil in the lantern, illuminating the air in the cavern. Water dripped from the stalactites above ringing out a light, yet ominous tone throughout the space. The air was cold and tight, the breath from Holmes was the only other young movement. Ancient auras haunted every other corner. Holmes’ fingers gripped the handle on the lantern, bringing it up to the back of the cavern. Light shone throughout, but the back wall hid a secret and Holmes was much too eager to find it out.
A beep broke the silence, startling Holmes. “Holmes, come in, have you reached the destination?”
“Now is certainly not the time, Drew. By my calculations, I should come up to the wall in—”
“10.5 paces. It’s not rocket science.”
Holmes made an eye roll so drastic, a migraine would be sure to form. “Have I ever mentioned how troublesome it is to have two detectives in this god forsaken—”
Holmes paused and seconds passed, static interrupting the communication. “Holmes? Holmes, what is it? Holmes, do you copy?”
“For gods sake woman, will you shut your mouth for just a moment? I think I’m there.”
“By my calculations—”
“Well?” Holmes pulled up the lantern, the light of the lamp revealing the wall of the cavern. Rivulets of water threaded in between the stone, marked with a twinge of crimson. Their destination pooled by Holmes’ shoes. “Holmes? Your pulse has gone up significantly and your fear levels are climbing. What the hell do you see?”
Holmes stared at the writing on the wall, the marks of red gleaming fresh on the limestone. Streaks on the edges of the letters signified it was done by hand, someone tall and without remorse. “Drew…? There’s a message.”
“Pics or it didn't happen, ma’am,” she sang through the comm. Holmes dropped the hood from her jacket and brushed back the hair from her eyes for a better view. A large scar traced the side of her face, originating from the corner of her blue eye. She would have let out a sigh, if all of the breath hadn't escaped her lungs. She lifted up the comm on her wrist, taking a photo. Holmes walked the perimeter of the wall, taking mental pictures of her own. “Is that—”
“Has the good detective been stumped already? Yes, it is blood and it’s relatively fresh.” She touched the corner of an unforgiving word and watched as it seeped into her fingertips. She rubbed them together and brought them to her nose, her eyebrows flicking upward. “I would say no more than…2 or 3 hours old.” She took out her handkerchief and wiped the blood away, stuffing it back in her coat pocket.
“Holmes,” Drew’s voice was more serious now, a quake of sadness floating between the vowels. “Do you think it’s for us?”
“My dear Nancy, a grander statement could not have been made for anyone lesser than us.” She lifted the lantern again, reading the script in totality.
When one half ends, he shall rise again.
The comm was silent for much too long and Holmes knew that Drew had been spooked, even if she didn't want to admit it. “Drew? Let the others know I’m coming in. We’re in for a long night.”
“Yes, ma’am,” she muttered through the static. The comm went dead and Holmes finally took a deep breath. She took one last look before turning around, pulling the hood back up over her head and tightening the scarf around her neck. She stuffed one hand in her pocket and led the way with the leftover light in the other.
“Not today, John. Not today,” she whispered, her voice becoming lost as the seconds ticked away.