The Lost One (WhoLock Short Story)

(Sherlock's POV: )

Crash!

My eyes shot open and looked immediately to John. The box he was holding had slipped out of his hands and fell onto the floor, scattering random items everywhere. He cursed and bent down to the floor, picking the box up and beginning to sort through the items. I closed my eyes again.

"You really should be more careful, John." I reasoned.

"Well if you would bl**dy help me, Mr. I Take The Precaution Of A Short Friend." He answered snappily.

"A good coat and a short friend, John." I corrected. He sighed heavily. I opened an eye, looking at him to see if he would retort. He just continued to go through the items. "What are you doing, anyway?" I asked. He sighed again.

"Spring cleaning. I am sorting through all the useless rubbish you have in here." He explained. At that I jumped up, taking long quick strides to the closet where he was. I looked over the spilled items.

Stethoscope

Empty photo frames

Spyglass

Microscope slides

Empty unused envelopes

Eighteenth-century fountain pens

Pen ink

A box of bandages

Random coins

A gold pocket watch

Several old books

Random slips of paper

Old journals/diaries

"See anything you like?" John asked sarcastically. I glared at him.

"Where did you get this box?" I questioned, narrowing my eyes as I scanned over the items again.

"Just up on the top shelf of the closet." He shrugged.

"Well these all just happen to be old family heirlooms." I lied. "I would appreciate it if you didn't throw them out."

"I thought you didn't care for family." He assumed. I scoffed.

"Old family I actually enjoy being around... As much as I can anyway." I replied. He picked up one of the old journals and began flipping through it. I sighed and picked up the spyglass, setting it on the island. When I turned back, John was standing up glaring at me.

"Is this real?" He asked, holding open the book for me to see and pointing at a signature on the bottom of a page. I glanced at it. It was Beethoven's signature, or Beethoven's name.

"I would assume so." I replied. He gave me a dry, sarcastic look.

"An 'old family heirloom' that is Beethoven's signature under a personal message to..." He squinted at the sprawled handwriting. "...Stephenson Holmes?"

"Apparently."

"You're telling me that one of your family members from the eighteen hundreds was personal friends with Beethoven?" He demanded. It was my turn to shrug.

"Apparently." I repeated, getting tired of his pointless questions. "Your family goes back to the eighteenth century too, John. It's no surprise that mine does. And obviously one of my relations was friends with the famous composer Beethoven. And I happen to have the message." I reasoned. He shook his head in exasperation and turned back to the mess on the floor. I did the same and I couldn't help but notice that he had grabbed the stethoscope. I smiled and then, for some reason, the gold pocket watch caught my eye. It hadn't before. I squatted down and slowly reached out to pick it up. In my ears an inaudible whispering noise played.

"John. Can you hear that?" I asked.

"Hmm?" He looked at me from the box, had finally refilled it. I didn't look up from the watch. "Hear what?" He asked. I looked up and snapped out of it, thinking the watch insignificant. Why wouldn't I? It was just a watch.

"Never mind." I replied, getting up and putting it in my pocket. He shrugged and continued his trivial project of cleaning. I sat back down in my chair, steeping my fingers once again.

Later that night...

John was asleep in his bed. I was in the living room. The fire was blazing beside me as I sat in my chair, in the exact same position I was in when John spilled the box. It was 1:38 AM exactly when I pulled it out.

Once again, it entrapped me with its strange calling. I flipped it over and stared at the strange symbol on the back. Suddenly, amongst all the whispering, I heard something.

"Time war..." It hissed. My eyes narrowed and I listened for anything more, but noting was understandable. I just stared at it for I don't know how long. The next thing I knew, John was shaking my shoulder.

"Sherlock. Sherlock!" He called. I looked up from the watch, making me lose almost all thought of it. I got up and followed John into the kitchen, setting it on the mantelpiece as I did.

And it sat there silently, waiting patiently, and keeping watch, until the time was right for the Lost One to come out of his shell. Until the right time...

Okay, an idea just popped into my head after I was thinking about some mini-comic I saw. So here it is. Enjoy, vote and comment, fun peoples!! =)