Before Holmes Met Watson (FEATURED)

Day Twelve: AU

John awoke in a copse of trees. His limbs were heavy with exhaustion, and it was cold in the shadows of the heavy canopy. He shivered. His clothes were far too thin, and he didn't recognise them. They were rough and poorly constructed garments of an unfamiliar style. They seemed out of time. Or was he? He was freezing, but his shoulder burned. He touched the inflamed skin and flinched. He must have been bitten by some sort of insect, maybe even an adder. Perhaps the bite was poisonous. That might explain why he was so disorientated, why he couldn't remember how he'd come to this place.

Hadn't there been dust and sand and stone where he'd been last?

But this, this was a distinctly English wood.

John wondered how he knew that. He'd grown up in a cul-de-sac and had walked to school and played football on the green. There was a nice park. But there were no woods. There'd been a scout troop, but they didn't do much more than tie knots, sketch leaves and learn rudimentary first aid. There'd been a camping trip too. Hadn't there?

John stood with some difficulty. He was parched. He stumbled out of the copse and was relieved to find it was a bit warmer in the direct sunlight. There was a glimmer of something in the distance, a reflection.

Water.

Or a mirage. Or did that happen only in the desert?

He couldn't think properly. His shoulder was paining him so much he hadn't even realised his head was throbbing from the inside out.

It was further to the stream than John thought it would be, or perhaps he was so exhausted it took him longer than he'd expected to shamble his way towards it. When he got to the bank, he collapsed in relief. The water was rushing briskly past, and it was clear enough that John could see the silt and smooth rocks on the bottom. He took a drink. The water was cold and fresh tasting. Pure. He gulped gratefully, enjoying the feeling of the coolness spreading through his abdomen as his thirsty body greedily absorbed the refreshment. He splashed some water on his face, and it was bracingly invigorating.

As John stood, he could feel his mind come into focus. That was when he realised something was terribly wrong.

The wood was as silent as the grave.

There was nothing scurrying through the underbrush, no birds chirping, not even wind rustling through the leaves. It was as if he were in a film with the sound turned down. But there was no movement either. No animals' eyes glinting through the vegetation. The stillness was singularly sinister. The only thing that signified the possibility of life was the flowing of the stream.

John suddenly felt keenly how very alone he was. He had no idea where he was or how he'd got there. He had no idea how to get out. He decided to head downstream in the hope that he would come across some signs of life, of human civilization.

John walked for a long time sometimes stopping to drink. The pain in his shoulder was becoming unbearable. The skin was swollen and hot to the touch, so sensitive that the barest brush of his fingers was excruciating. He tore a strip from his shirt, dipped it in the stream and placed it gently over the affected area. He nearly wept at the relief of the cold water tamping down the heat and pain.

Soon John came to a clearing. There was a stump of an ancient tree in the middle. The surface had been shaved and sanded smooth by human tools. It had been the site of pagan rituals, John thought. He'd learnt a bit about it at school, but hadn't retained much. He walked to the stump and wondered if it had been an altar, what sacrifices had been made and to which deities. He reached down and touched the smooth wood.

The sky went dark. Storm clouds had covered the sun. John caught movement out of the corner of his eye.

There. West of where he was standing and partially hidden by the trees stood a man.

The man was tall and slender and dressed all in black. His wild hair was as dark as his garments. He was too far away for John to make out his features, but John could see that he was pale as mother of pearl. His hands and face seemed to glow in contrast to his dark clothes and hair. He was watching John, still and silent as the wood, and John knew that he'd seen the stranger only because the man had allowed it. John was frightened: of this man, of this strange, silent place, of the possibility that he might never find his way out.

"Hello," John called out more bravely than he felt. "I'm lost. Can you help me?"

The man stood without moving and watched John.

"Please," John shouted. "I'm hurt. I need medical attention."

The man turned sharply and began to walk. Thunder rolled in the distance. The storm would be upon them soon.

John started after the man. He somehow knew that if he remained in this clearing and allowed the storm to crash over him, he would never leave this place.

John followed the pale stranger for what felt like miles. The man's steady pace never wavered. The pain in John's shoulder was driving him mad. He felt he might do anything to stop it. He had tripped and fallen twice and had difficulty getting back up again. Both times the man stopped and waited, but he never offered John any assistance.

He's my guide, John realised. But I have to get out of here under my own power.

Their strange pursuit continued.

John lost sight of the man and began to panic. "Wait," he cried out. "Don't leave me!" And he mustered the energy to run and catch up. He came to a halt, stunned to find himself on the shoulder of an immaculately paved road that seemed to stretch to infinity in either direction. On the other side, the wood continued.

Should he follow the road or cross over into the wood?

Following the road in either direction will take me back to safety, John realised. That's why he brought me here.

The pale stranger.

He was of the wood.

Squaring his shoulders, John crossed the road.