Chapter Two: At the Clock Tower

John let go of the stone and looked around the flat. The fire that had been burning in the fireplace, the experiment that Sherlock was cooking on the Bunsen burner in the kitchen and even the hums and clicks of the different appliances around them had all stilled. The beating of John's heart thundered in his ears like a mighty war drum, and he could feel his breathing getting quieter - whether in was in slight shock as to the reality around him, or to subconsciously blend in with the environment, he wasn't entirely sure.

"Interesting when the world is quiet, isn't it?" John felt himself flinch at Sherlock's casual observation. His voice sounded amplified, as though it was being fed through to a speaker set at maximum volume.

"More like eerie," John replied as he got to his feet and followed Sherlock to the coatrack.

"According to Mycroft, we have maybe two hours to sort this whole thing out." They walked down the stairs to the front door.

"In other words, plenty of time," John said dryly.

"Exactly." When they walked outside 221B, John stopped to let someone pass him…and then remembered that the person in question couldn't actually move. His brain was being overwhelmed with so many different crazy sights in front of him: a cab in mid-motion of pulling away from the kerb, a couple locked in a kiss and a father tossing his curly-haired toddler up in the air. Literal snapshot moments preserved in real life; it was truly a remarkable sight.

"Here."

John looked to Sherlock's hand. "What's that?"

"A drink – or potion, if you want to call it that. It'll give us the ability to fly." John stared in utter disbelief at the bright blue liquid in the small bottle. "My great-grandmother needed to get to different places quickly as a healer, so she took to flying everywhere."

Slowly, John reached to take the vial and studied it against his hand. "And…no brooms required?" He felt Sherlock give him a droll stare.

"I won't even dignify that with a response," Sherlock said as he pulled another bottle from his pocket and, with a dramatic sweep, downed the liquid and wiped at his chin. "Well, go on," he said with a nudge to John. "Hurry up, we don't have much time."

Slowly, John opened the bottle and smelled the liquid, quickly pulling it back. "Smells awful."

"And it tastes like tar to boot. Drink."

Willing himself not to gag, he quickly drank the liquid and coughed, stuffing the vial in his pocket. He could feel it literally slide down his throat like thick goo and he swallowed hard as he could to clear his throat.

"Now, hop up," Sherlock said. John braced him and hopped off his feet, expecting to land right back on the ground…but he didn't. He stayed up and still, his body feeling as though all of the muscle, blood and bone that weighed him down had literally disappeared. But clumsily, he floated around and Sherlock had to hop up and grab his hand. To John's annoyance, Sherlock's body moved and floated around as though he had been flying since the day he was born.

"Stay close to me and don't let go of my hand."

John sighed. Well, at least people can't see us, so they won't have reason to talk. Together, they flew in the direction of Westminster Palace and toward Big Ben, which glowed like a beacon in the night. John blinked against the steady gust of wind blowing onto his face, willing his eyes to stop watering so that he could actually see. But thankfully, Sherlock seemed to know exactly where they were going and before long, they were landing on the highest balcony that went all around the tower. John took in the sight of lights decorating the London landscape below and they distantly reminded him of lightning bugs on a warm summer's night in the countryside. Sherlock -who was apparently not the slightest bit interested in the view- took a seat on the ground against a pillar.

"So…how exactly do we get this phantom to appear?" John asked as he turned around to find somewhere decently comfortable to sit.

"Your guess is as good as mine," Sherlock replied with a shrug.

"So the plan is to just sit here and hope that it shows up?"

"You make it sound as though I don't know what I'm doing."

"Well…yes. That's exactly what it's meant to sound like."

"John, trust me. It'll show up."

John sighed and grunted as he took a seat next to his friend, resting against the pillar behind him. "I've been meaning to ask you: how exactly can Big Ben chime thirteen times?" he asked after a few seconds of silence.

"The general belief is that some people hear a thirteenth chime because one of the quarter bells is hit twice in succession."

"In other words, it actually doesn't exist?"

"To some people," Sherlock said with a slight smile.

"But it actually does."

"To some people."

John threw up his hands and looked up at the night sky. The stars looked so tangible, as though he could've just reached out and plucked one away right from its spot. "Oi, how did you even know that the thirteenth strike was going to happen tonight? And don't say 'lucky guess' or whatever other rubbish you're thinking about trying to fool me with," John interrupted as Sherlock opened his mouth to answer.

"I used a magic square to calculate an estimated date-"

"Of course the square you used had to be magical. Because why use a regular square when it could be filled with magic?" John could feel his voice getting more hysterical with each uttered word. "Sherlock Holmes doesn't need regular ordinary squares anymore; he's a wizard, only magical squares will suit his purposes now-"

"Oh, for God's sake," Sherlock muttered with an eye roll. "Will you relax? It's a method that's commonly used in recreational mathematics. It's quite simple, really; Mr. MacGregor provided me with the approximate dates that the phantom appeared and I used a magic square to organize the numbers until they all equaled one number across and down the individual rows. The row of numbers that I came up with happen to coincide with today's date."

John blinked. "Really, is there anything about maths that you don't know?"

Sherlock chuckled. "It comes with the territory of having a mathematician as your mother."

"Of course it does." With a sigh, John relaxed back, ignoring the slight pangs of his body's protest against his position, and let the sounds of a still world lull him into a light sleep…

Sherlock's sudden jerk almost made John jump clean out of his skin.

"What, what?"

"There." Sherlock pointed toward a black shadow that was slowly, yet steadily approaching the clock tower, the gentle whoosh of its graceful gliding breaking the stillness around them. Though the light of the clock was bright, the shadow moved around in the darkness above them and John could feel the tiny hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. It flew in a circle, getting closer and closer with each completed circle of the tower. John's heart slammed painfully against his rib cage, his breathing speeding up with each inch that the shadow closed between them. Sherlock seemed to be trying his best to get a glimpse of what they were up against; his eyes got wider and wider as the shadow came closer. But it wasn't of any use; the darkness did an excellent job with hiding it. John jumped again, cursing under his breath. He could've sworn that something brushed up against his shoulder-

The shadow screeched to a halt and quickly flew away and down toward the ground.

"Come on." Sherlock got to feet, pulling John up with him and they both hopped to fly down and meet their opponent. There, in the bright face of the clock, the phantom simply floated.

And John felt his stomach drop.

Where there should've been a face, there was simply a hood with an opening into a black hole and where there should've been a body, there was darkness. The only thing distinguishable about its shape was the cloak that it donned; long and billowy, with tattered ends that gently moved with the rhythm of its hovering. John briefly looked to Sherlock, who was staring blankly at the sight before them.

"What do you make of it?" John said out of the corner of his mouth.

"I…I can't make anything."

"What do you mean you can't make anything?" John fiercely whispered. "You're bloody Sherlock Holmes; how can you sit there and say you don't know what to do?"

"Because I don't know what to do," Sherlock swallowed. "I've never seen anything like this before-"

The phantom suddenly flew toward them, and out of instinct, John pushed them apart so that it flew between them. He spun around in a circle, trying his damndest to sturdy himself again, but his body completely overrode the commands of his brain to stop. Through the chaos of motion, he heard Sherlock shout something like a phrase in the distance and a flash of blue briefly danced across his vision.

Ice. He was casting an ice spell.

John's body finally slowed down and he blinked to try and control the whirl of his mind. In the distance, Sherlock and the phantom shot around like rockets, flashes of red, yellow and blue shooting out from Sherlock's hands as he cast different spells to fend off the enemy. But the phantom was relentless and pursued him like a bloodhound, occasionally swiping out with its long and menacing claw-like hands to catch him.

I have to help.

John flapped his arms to start trying to swim his way toward them. The phantom righted itself and turned its sights on him. With a lightning fast motion, it pointed toward Big Ben and the clock's numbers lit up with little white orbs.

"What-" John looked down to his chest and squinted against the glow of the bright light.

"No!" Sherlock shouted, suddenly appearing next to him. "John, stop, don't move."

"What? Why-"

Sherlock looked between the clock and the glow of light coming from John's chest that was right on top of his heart. "You're under the Doom spell," he finally whispered, a look of pure horror on his face.

"What-" John panted, feeling as though he was suddenly sucking in smoke. "What are talking about?"

"You-" Sherlock swallowed. "You literally have ninety seconds to live."

John felt his stomach rise to his throat. "What the bloody hell do you mean?!"

"I…It's the worst time spell you can cast on someone; it's irreversible. There's nothing I can do-"

"Sherlock, no, you have to do something." John grabbed Sherlock's shirt, his grip suddenly feeling weak. "Think of something; use your mind palace!"

"I don't have time!" Sherlock looked to the phantom that was calmly floating in place and watching them. "The second we try to run, it'll be after us-"

John shook his head, trying to clear his vision of the dark spots that were quickly growing and blotting out Sherlock's face.

"What if we kill it- the phantom? What would happen if it disappeared?"

"The spell may lose its hold, but-"

"How do we kill it, Sherlock?" John interrupted, trying his best to sound calm.

"I don't know, I've been trying to figure that out-"

The phantom flew toward them again, and John felt the muscles of his arm burn like hellfire asit claws sink and drug their way through his arm. Through the haze of pain, he heard Sherlock cast another spell, leading the phantom away. John floated in paralyzing pain and tried his best to keep conscious - but he felt himself slipping away with each passing second. Suddenly, it was as if he was in Afghanistan all over again. The same feeling of hopelessness washed over him and he slowly felt himself drowning in his own fear. An old plea from his days in the midst of war slammed back to the front of his mind.

Please, God, let me live…

He opened his eyes and saw that the blank face of the phantom was right in front of him, so close that he could practically feel its ice-cold breath freezing his very lungs. It grabbed his shirt to keep him in place, and his body began to grow more slack as he felt the final countdown of his life begin.

Ten…nine…eight…

His body started to shut down limb by limb, organ by organ.

Seven…six…

The glow of light from his chest became brighter and brighter.

Five…four…three…

John took a last deep breath and fell the darkness enclose him for the last time.

"John! John! Wake up! John!"

John's ears rang with a shrill sound and he let out the breath that he was unknowingly holding. But his strength -at least what was left after his injury- was quickly returning, and he opened his eyes to see Sherlock practically touching noses with him.

"What happened?" John asked dumbly, blinking to try and make his vision refocus.

"I killed it while it was distracted with you." Sherlock helped John to float upright. Immediately, they looked to the clock face, which was back to its normal appearance. "Are you all right?" Sherlock frantically checked John over for any other injuries.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just my arm," he replied with a nod to his right arm. "I'll need some stitches for these, but I'll live."

Sherlock nodded curtly, his face regaining a hint of color.

"You're sure that the phantom's really dead?" John asked as Sherlock gently put his good arm around his shoulders.

"If it wasn't, you would be dead." They started to fly back toward 221B. It was in John's mind to further question what exactly happened while he was preoccupied with possibly dying, but he felt his eyelids drooping and with a sleepy smack of his lips, he fell into the abyss of unconsciousness.

John shot up from the couch, squinting at the assault of bright light on his face. A burning morning streamed through the windows as sounds of life outside the flat floated to his ears. Everything was…back to normal. He let out a sigh of relief and looked down to his arm, which was-

Completely and utterly fine.

John blinked in shock. "Sherlock!" he called, getting up and swaying slightly. "Sherlock!"

From down the hall came the familiar stride of his flatmate. "Ah, you're awake," Sherlock said simply.

"My arm-it's-" John looked to his arm. "It's fine."

"Did something happen to it?"

John stared. "What do you mean 'did something happen to it'? Yes, something bloody happened to it – it got slashed by a phantom…spirit, demon-thing outside of Big Ben! In midair!" He felt his nostrils flare as Sherlock quietly stirred his tea and shrugged.

"Sounds like you have a very vivid dream," he said finally.

"What?"

"And a very creative one, at that. Your middle brain must be getting quite a bit of use these days-"

"WHAT?"

"But your higher brain is obviously having a problem absorbing what happened-"

"Shut up," John snapped, storming out of the flat and up the stairs to his room, slamming the door behind him. A dream, he says; that was no bloody dream! John licked his lips and laughed softly to himself in aggravation. Sherlock was a master at mind games. This was just another one of those times; another one of his little schemes to make him look like an idiot. John sat down and examined his arm closer. There was absolutely no sign of trauma - his arm was in perfect working order. He searched his pockets for the vial from the night before and didn't find it. There was no evidence of anything happening that involved magic of any kind.

He sighed and looked to the ceiling.

Should I even waste my time in trying to figure out if I'm being tricked or not?

Well...even if it was a dream, it's still worth sharing, he reasoned. Maybe someone out there will get a right laugh out of it. Sitting down with his laptop, John opened up a new blog post page and started to type:

The Clock Tower Phantom

I know this is going to sound crazy, but just here me out on this one: so I came home from the shops after fighting with the chip and pin machine -and don't even get me started on what happened there- and Sherlock was with a client…

NOTE: This two-shot was heavily inspired by the level 'Neverland', specifically the area called 'Big Ben' from the video game Kingdom Hearts and by my favorite hidden boss within the game, Phantom.

Thanks for taking the time to read and I hope you enjoyed it (first time writing something like this)!

GeorgyannWayson