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Sherlock wandered the maze of halls of the Moriarty estate. The corridors seemed endless, stretching out before him like concrete limbs. He didn't know where he was going, but knew he had to keep walking. His shoulder hurt a lot, so much he could barely even hope to move it.
The lavish wall trim was haunting in the darkness of night. The adornments resembled raised skin left behind by scars, shapes severely deformed, like someone had taken a knife to the wall and left their mark.
Sherlock didn't let the shadows bother him, as unsettling as they were. The sound of his shoes against the floor was almost deafening in the quiet of night, but he kept walking. Days passed, or perhaps only seconds, sluggishly moving through the grains of sand in the hourglass.
He kept walking, moving through the labyrinth of corridors with ease. Suddenly, he halted, listening in on the silence. It spoke to him, mumbling words he didn't know he could understand. The house was calling to him. The rumbling in the walls pulled him forward, their wispy tentacles wrapping around his legs, leading him the best they could. The pressure in his joints was uncomfortable, but Sherlock let himself be ushered.
A door was fast approaching, dark wood and so tall it almost reached the ceiling. It was the door to the sitting room, a place Sherlock had been in occasionally. The stained glass windows parallel to the entrance were distorted, stretched upwards by invisible hands. Their reddish tint made it impossible to see outside. Sherlock was trapped.
He wondered if he was dreaming, but the ache on his shoulder felt so real. Sherlock looked down at his hand and counted his fingers - five on each hand, ten in total. The bump on his middle finger was still there. He turned his right one over and observed as the tendons moved when he flexed his digits.
Pushing the door open, he was shocked by how heavy it felt. For a house trying to pull him in, it sure felt like it didn't want him to enter. He moved forward, and right behind him, a wave of water rushed in. It hit his calves with impressive strength, and he stumbled. The door closed with a muted bang, trapping him inside with the dirtied water. He could see twigs and other debris floating around.
The sitting room was devoid of its usual furniture. Everything was gone, leaving the room completely vacant except for what awaited in the middle of the room.
Ruby red silk covered the mass across from him. Sherlock moved closer, the outsole of his dress shoes hitting something hard. He touched the fabric, feeling how soft it was. Against his pale hand, it almost looked like blood, and the slippery nature of the cloth made it behave like it, too. He pulled it off, coming face to face with a tall, marble-white statute.
It sat on a slightly raised platform, an overpowering presence that loomed over him like a superior. William looked back at him, a placid expression on his smooth, pale face. Not one wrinkle or blemish could be spotted as if he had been completely submerged in plaster - not one speck of pigment tainted the man.
A veil covered his hair, obstructing the soft locks Sherlock had once fantasised about running his fingers through. The headcovering grazed his cheeks as his head bent downwards. William wore a white tunic, and the folds of the fabric looked so real Sherlock almost wanted to reach out and touch them. It gathered at his neckline, the ruffles cascading down.
The water had soaked through his pants, chilling his bones. Sherlock looked at the face again, like he expected it to change into someone else's. It didn't. It was still his William. Maybe not quite his William.
Though his face looked peaceful, a look of contained sorrow marred his expression. It resembled William's face before the jump, the anguish so engraved on the skin of his face it looked like it bled from his pores.
Sherlock finally looked down, ready to inspect the other person. In William's arms was a man, lying limp over his knees. The person wore a three-piece suit, well-tailored and expensive-looking. The back of a limp hand touched the skirt of William's garment, fingers relaxed, corpse-like. Sherlock had to sidestep a little to see his face. He didn't know why, but he wasn't surprised to see William, soft strands falling backwards as his head hung limp.
The water touched his knees.
The saint held the sinner in his arms, carrying the weight of the other's misdeeds (and of his own loss). Those narrowed eyes gazed into his reflection, caressing those pale cheeks with one look. His hands were full, or else he would have touched him with them. Sherlock couldn't bear to look any longer.
He looked away, a grave mistake on his part, as the waters rose to his waist, so suddenly he could barely keep himself up. A crack from above made him look again. The first figure glared at him, eyes now large and bloodshot. It forced its own eyes open, so wide they looked like they were about to pop out of its skull. Red tears dirtied the marbled cheeks, running down its neck and chest to taint the other person.
Sherlock tried to step back, unease so overwhelming he felt like he was going to be sick. Those eyes stared at him, unblinking, filled with judgement - two vicious beasts attempting to escape their cage of bone.
Slowly, with a sickening sound, its mouth moved, opening to let out a deafening screech. Sherlock covered his ears to no avail.
"Why?" it asked.
"Why didn't you stop me?" it yelled.
Sherlock couldn't do anything as the current pinned him in place.
"Look at him," it ordered.
Sherlock obeyed. He gazed down at the dead man.
"Why didn't you stop him?" it demanded to know.
"I didn't know," Sherlock sobbed.
"I'm sorry, I didn't know," he repeated.
He knew his excuses fell on deaf ears, but he kept repeating them, as meaningless as they were, they were all he had to offer.
"This is your fault," it barked out.
The statute let out a final shriek before it burst into tiny little shards of stone. Those sharp pieces hit Sherlock with such force they lodged themselves in his skin, ripping the tissue aggressively. He could barely think about the pain on his face as the room filled with water.
Before he knew it, he was submerged, floating around with the algae that inhabited the river he was in. He couldn't see as the water was so brown it was practically pitch black around him.
Sherlock wanted it to end, to escape the burning sensation in his lungs and the pain in his shoulder. He opened his mouth, first to scream and then to swallow as much water as he could, hoping to die faster.
The walls whispered to him, though their cries were jumbled because of the stream, Sherlock heard them loud and clear.
"Why didn't you stop me?"