by John Pirillo
The Constable drove the police wagon as fast as he could, but the roads were slick from sludge and half-frozen snow, causing them more than once to nearly strike a parked vehicle, or horse and buggy.
"We must go faster!" Sherlock urged, his eyes watching the road for signs of the vehicle they were chasing. It had too much of a head start he feared, but he wasn't going to give up, not this time. Not any time.
Images of his own beloved Watson dying and him helpless to prevent it kept emerging behind his thoughts, threatening to throttle his clarity. He kept pushing them back. His heart was pounding. The great Sherlock...he mused ironically...was in fear. Not of what he was facing in a criminal or a monster, but in the loss of someone dear to him.
He was still too young to marry, in his mind. Not having any real women motivate him in that direction probably didn't help any. Most women were put off by his intellect. Women of this age and in this world were catching up to men in equality, but alas, most were still wickedly in the dark ages when it came to developing their intellectual prowess.
Only the few of his group he had met seemed capable on the kind of level that a woman should be working upon...Lady Shareen, Madame Curie, Mrs. Hudson, even Queen Mary of Scots, though he had never had enough dealings with her on an intimate level to perceive the exact nature of her intellect -- she was surrounded by brilliant Lords and Ladies -- which had to reflect somewhat on her superior development of her mind.
He flushed all those thoughts out as the marks of the vehicle they pursued suddenly vanished. Not just a little, but utterly, as if the vehicle had flown straight up at some point.
"Stop the car!" Sherlock hollered.
Constable Evans slammed on the brakes a bit too hard and they veered sideways, glancing against a fire hydrant. A moment later its top sprouted a blossom of powerful spray that pounded skywards. It would only be a matter of minutes and the water would freeze the entire area to the point where no sane man or driver could stand or move without great danger.
He leaped from the car and rushed back about ten yards, and dropped to his knees in the sludge, gauging the last track he had found. It was growing fainter and fainter, as if fading from existence. But how was that possible? His great mind decided and he looked to Constable Evans who was behind him, but his mind on the disaster behind them.
"Leave the broken fire main to the city to worry about. You must return to 221B. There you will find Challenger and Conan. Have them go to this address."
He told Constable Evans and his eyebrows rose several inches in surprise, but he nodded, then back to the scene of the accident, jumped inside the soaking wet vehicle, slammed it into reverse, then spun it around and shot past him, accelerating as he drove on.
Sherlock stood up and looked at the building to his right. It stretched upwards in a thrust of great power and majesty.
Westminster Abbey's history stove back to the times of darkness in the Greater Britains, when it was plowing its way from under the dark hand of the Druid Overlords, a rough band of marauders made up of madmen from the North, linked to the ancient Viking traditions and strong believers of Ragnarök
The Druid Overlords had been the first to acknowledge the power of the church, using its central structure to launch both psychic and occult attacks against their enemies. Thousands had died from that time, until the great Arthur the First had risen from the Land of Cames and struck them all dead with his mighty sword, Excalibur, with the help of his mentor, Merlin the Risen. A great magician of exceeding power and one of a long line of great wizards who had risen to the office of Merlin.
Having struck the Druhish overlords a fatal blow by sword and power, they were thrust back into the arctic wasters, where a series of powerful wards and spells kept them entombed to this very day, only able to subsist, but never to move forward from those dark lands again.
Arthur...soon King Arthur the Noble, the Golden King...used the Abbey for his coronation and subsequent states of affair, before the church stepped in demanding that its darker origins be erased entirely and blessed with the sanctity of the Living God.
Arthur took his might twelve. The Council of Twelve Knights to Cames where they raised the city fortress, Camelot, a golden city for almost a thousand years, until the dark Morgana Le Fey and her hordes of sorcerers overwhelmed it through betrayal and crushed its beauty into the soil it had sprung from.
In the Greater Britains, however, Prince Westminster, an anointed knight left by Arthur to rule over the lands he had freed, was blessed as the new king and arose to make the church even more powerful and thus over the centuries the mighty church became a structure of such immensity and power...arcane, as well as physical...that no nation or prominence would dare to challenge the authority issuing from it.
A treasure house of paintings, stained glass, pavements, textiles and other artifacts, Westminster
Abbey is also the place where some of the most significant people in the nation's history are buried or commemorated. Taken as a whole the tombs and memorials comprise the most significant single collection of monumental sculpture anywhere in the Greater Britains, or the lands of the Europes.
And it was there that Sherlock had an appointment with destiny. He hefted his weapon and marched up the street that led to its massive gates, praying that he was not too late to avert a destiny he had witnessed once already...the lost of a true friend.