Too Much, Too Fast

Part 2

by D.E. Lewis (Sherlockian221 at
This is a condensed version of the part 2 I was writing in my spare time. It took up ten pages, front and back, of notebook paper, and my teachers got mad at me for doing so.
Lestrade groaned. Every last part of her was in pain. The chaos of her surroundings. The noise was shoving its way into her. She couldn't stop it. It burned into her thoughts, her physical being. There was no real consiousness. Just feelings. A sudden paranoia of the unknown filled her. She groaned again and began to cry. Warm arms reached around her waist. She felt herself being carried. She felt safe, then nothing more.
Wolverine looked down at the lifeless woman in his arms. No matter what he did to change his views, he still saw his student as a little girl. Maybe it was the fact that he was probably older than the Professor. He didn't know. He didn't really remember his past. He set her into the X-Van, and he and Ororo drove away.
Holmes received a phone call. "Holmes, this is Gregson. Do you know where Lestrade is? She was supposed to have checked in an hour ago."
"No, I have not seen her since yesterday."
Gregson frowned. Holmes repressed the smile that was trying to push its way out at the flicker of worry that was on Gregson's face. "Well, if you do, tell her to report back. ASA immediately!" He hung up.
Holmes rubbed his wrist. His bones had been buzzing lately. Neither Watson or the Doctor had any explanation for it. He put his mind off it by mulling over recent events. The Irregulars had been living in some group home that they claimed was for certain medical conditions caused by their genetic structures. Morriarty wasn't up to anything for a change, and there were no new cases. Now Lestrade was missing. Could Morriatry be up to something?
There was a knock on the door. Watson allowed a young woman in. She was tall, with blond hair and piercing blue eyes. She sat down. "Mr. Holmes. My name is Nadia Arthurs. I have a very grave problem that I cannot have the police's help in." She was obviously trying to flatter him.
He shook it off. "Pray proceed, madam."
"Yes, certainly. My husband and I live on the outskirts of New London, on a rather secluded farm. Yesterday morning, I woke up to find my husband was gone, and a note left written on the wall telling me to come to a warehouse in the city, and not to bring the police. I did as asked, and when I got inside, a man told me that if I didn't do as told, my husband would die. That was this morning. Please, find my husband, and bring him back. I love him dearly, and wish no harm to come upon him."
Holmes promptly accepted the case, and Nadia handed him a scrap of paper. On it, there was obviously an address, which had to be that of the warehouse. The woman left. Holmes decided to go fight then.
"Watson, I will call back within two hours. I don't wish to jeopardize this man's safety with both of us going, so I will be going alone." He grabbed his hat and coat, and walked out the door. A few minutes later, he found himself at the warehouse, and a chill ran up his spine. He began wishing he had brought Watson. He shook it off, and slipped inside. The lights banged on. Three men, one with an old 20th Century hand gun, another with rope, and the third with a cloth, approached him. He tried to run back out the door, but the handgun went off, and a bullet ripped through his side. He fell to his knees, and the cloth was pressed against his face. It smelled odd. He felt too weak to fight it, and soon, he found himself in darkness. Calm, peaceful darkness.
Holmes eased back to consciousness, finding himself sitting on the floor in the middle of a room. There was one light, and it was focused directly overhead of him. His hands were tied behind him, and his side stung terribly.
A cold hard voice filled his senses. "You were very foolish, Sherlock Holmes." Not Moriarty. Too young to be him.
"What do you want with me?" Holmes asked weakly. The question was met with a sharp blow to the side of the head. Holmes was knocked to the ground.
"We don't need any more -- impurity in New London. We have enough of that already. That idiot child you love like a son, the freak in the hover-chair, he's one of the worst. But the city will notice if the son of a prominent technology woman turns up dead, so we're eliminating a freak like you first." He snapped his fingers. Two men came up on either side of Holmes, and dragged him to his feet. As he was staggering along, the man spoke again. "My father my brother." he said, and Holmes was dragged out of the room. He was taken to an attic-like room, and thrown to his knees. One of the men pulled out the hand-gun, and held it to Holmes' head. That's when he felt it. It was like the buzzing in his bones was draining out of him. The two men were blown against the wall, and the rope binding his hands snapped. Holmes ran. He tripped on the top stair, and rolled the rest of the way down. He jumped to his feet, and ran out a door, into an alley, where he met with blackness.

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