Sherlock advent drabbles :D
Today's word is: World's end
John hadn't realised that anywhere in the UK could feel as remote as this. They hardly left the town more than half an hour ago, yet it feels as if civilization is only a distant memory.
He runs as fast as he can, thighs aching, ankles twisted and sore.
Rocks litter what path there is, dank and slippery with trails of water rushing downwards. On John's right is a humped mass of earth, lank vegetation catching at his elbows; on the left, the path tumbles away steeply, only a white noise of water rushing over stony shale to suggest what lies below.
Wind whips round John's ears.
Sherlock is up ahead somewhere, but John doesn't know where. The man they were trailing through the town centre had suddenly turned and dashed up a side street. Of course, they'd given chase. But this isn't London. The fells encroach on human habitation here, looming dark and dangerous in the sky. Before they knew it, the side street had turned into a dirt track and then that had shrunk to a stone path, climbing up up up, always up, the wind growing stronger as they gained height.
Neither of them are dressed for this sort of terrain, but Sherlock has the advantage of longer legs. Keeping their man in sight, he'd slipped and skidded and scrambled after him, stones crunching beneath his shoes. And no matter how hard John had tried to keep up, he'd gradually fallen behind.
For a while, John could see where Sherlock was going; the heel of a shoe, the tail of a coat, teasing the limits of his vision. But then the clouds had descended upon them with a frightening speed and suddenly everything was lost.
The thickening air is heavy and moist and cold as John drags himself through it. Anything more than a few feet away fades to white. There's nothing but Sherlock's footprints to go by, the noise of waterfalls and winds and treacherous terrain all around.
John keeps running though. Has to. They can't let this man go after all this time. Lives depend on it.
The path inclines sharply. John's shoes slip on mossy stones and he throws himself forwards, scrambling up on all fours, lungs burning in the bitter air. He strains to see where he's going, raindrops swirling past his skin and dancing in his eyes. Rocks skitter under his feet, tumbling down and away.
Suddenly, a gunshot up ahead echoes through the air with awful clarity.
John's heart clenches, dread ringing in his ears.
He runs like a man possessed.
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