Chapter Text
The thick fog clung to London like a second skin. The smell of the Thames was mixed with the stench of the smoke from the factories. The buildings were blackened with soot, and the space between cobbles was thick with manure not yet washed away by the rain. The streets were awash with noise- shouting and talking and the clatter of horse carts and trolleys.
To Sherlock Holmes, it was beautiful. It was home, it was the fair lady London, the only lover he needed, with her mysteries and allure. She was a living creature, a changeable beauty who's every street he'd memorized. From the tips of the tower to the steamy sewers, he knew her. She was his home.
He'd spent a profitable evening at the pub, gathering information for his current case. A man's wife had lied about her origins- common and boring- but he'd needed to make rent. And the more he questioned, the deeper the rabbit hole got- no one knew of her before last year. Not even a whisper. Her parents could not be tracked and she had no bank account or identifying marks. A common case gone unusual, his favorite kind.
Outside of murder, of course. Murder was always interesting.
As dawn broke over the city, its light starting to burn off the fog, he made his way down to the docks. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw- something. A flash. Something that hadn't been there before, a gap between two buildings wide enough for a man to slip through- but the thick red brick had connected the two homes just hours before.
He slipped between the two buildings, unable to ignore his curiosity. A thin walkway led into a triangular green courtyard, which was lush with grass and bushes and even trees- an anomaly at this time of year, an impossibility in the thick smog of London town. He stepped down, searching the grass line for signs of recent planting- perhaps it was sod, grown elsewhere and transplanted- but upon stepping onto the grass, the world went quiet.
No noise. No shouting, no hum of humanity. Sherlock couldn't hear the heartbeat of the factories or the cadence of the streets. It was like going deaf, and he went very still. Two, three, four deep breaths and he'd reassured himself it was just soundproofing. Very good soundproofing, but just technology. A path led away from the street, further in between the buildings, and he followed it, striding along with his coat spread out behind him.
Approximately two hundred feet from the center of the garden, there was a building that had not been there before. It sticks out like a sore thumb against the brick of London, yellow stone walls more like the pictures he's seen of India. Sherlock approaches carefully, ignoring the thick wooden door and stepping off the path to look through a low, smudged window.
A figure stood there, dressed in a cloak with the hood drawn over his head. He seemed like a hunchback, and he could tell the man was shorter than average from the way the cloak dragged the ground as he moved through the room. The room was something of a printing press, Sherlock believes, frown creasing his face. There were flickers of lights coming from boxlike machines, like cash registers from shops, all brass and flashing, buttons waiting to be pressed.
Three more cloaked figures joined the first man, and They stood over a board. It looked like a chessboard, but it was difficult to tell from this distance. A map hung on the wall, and the four figures stood over it. Likely a secret society, not uncommon in London, but Sherlock had never heard of a society able to keep a garden so lush or with the resources to have such a space-
Curiouser and curiouser. Moving away from the window, he glanced at the brass plate by the door:
THE OLD FORT
MASTERS OF THE REAL AND ANCIENT GAME
Making a mental note to investigate further once he'd wrapped up his current case, he turned to head out of the courtyard the way he'd came- only to come face to with Them. They had their cloaks drawn up high, shadow covering most of their faces, and then Sherlock only knew darkness.
~*~
When he awoke, he wasn't certain of how much time had passed. He was sitting up, a solid wall behind him, and the figures were once again in front of their chessboard, carefully moving pieces again. Closing his eyes quickly, he listened.
“Another random factor,” The shortest of the cloaked figures sounded annoyed- a bit like Mycroft sounded most of the time, actually.
Another cloaked figure said, “We best deal with him before we go on, then. We can't afford another corpse at this stage in the game, it would draw too much attention and throw off our business in the west end. We could use another random, though...”
There was a quiet hum to the air, like the factories had, only much quieter. He could almost write it off as background noise, but it was too steady. Too insistant.
“The risk adds to the fun, though! I think we'd best discard this one to the Bounder circuits- but let's check first, eh?” Sherlock looked out from under his eyelashes, careful to keep his eyes mostly closed. All four figures were bent over one of the cash registers, and it was spewing forth paper at an alarming rate. They appeared to read it over before turning their attention to chessboard again- from his new position on the floor, Sherlock could see it was the size of four standard boards put together, and he can see it flickering, as if with candle light.
“Play is quite delicate now, isn't it?” Said the first one, looking at the tallest of the figures.
“Yes, it is- if he was on your side, it would bring the revolution closer, but I can't afford the unrest right now. I'm going to claim unfair hazard- let's discard him. Agreed?” The fourth figure stood in front of the map, carefully tracing along France's border with a finger. Beneath his hand, lights sparked on the map. Sherlock felt his eyes widen, and then forced them closed. After two, three, four beats of his pounding heart, he peeked again.
The second came back and looked at the map, “We could scrub all memory of him- go back over his family.”
“Oh no!” Said the third, “We can't afford to lose his brother, not at this stage of play.”
“Quite right. The government would fall, and none of us can afford it. Plus, it would be against the rules of discard- the anchor, you know.” The fourth finally speaks up, shaking his head.
“But we could scrub with a corpse-”
“No!” Snapped the third, “I've already claimed unfair hazard. Your only option is to discard him.”
“Let's make sure the bounder circuit isn't overloaded, and then we'll wake him.” The first nodded, and went to a different cash register and began to type furiously. And then the entire room just... opened up. Like a Faberge egg, almost, or the curtains at a play but-
Once, Sherlock had been to a house of mirrors. You could sit looking into one mirror, and see through it into the mirror behind you, over and over and over until it blurs into the distance. The image would distort and twist, based on the quality of the glass used or the angles used. It was a bit like that, seeing this exact room over and over and over again. Like a dozen windows lined up. He can't help his eyes from going wide now, and he doesn't bother to close them again. This was impossible, but-
There were hundreds of Them. Men in cloaks, faces cast in shadow, with their machines laid out in front of them. He had a sinking feeling that they could all see him, though they all flickered like a candle flame, and blurred like a mirror.
“Your attention, for a moment?” The first figure spoke from right beside Sherlock, “We are about to make a discard. Can everyone confirm that there is still room on the Bounds?”
He swallowed hard as one of the far away figures responded, its voice distant, “Computing.”
The fourth of Sherlock's Them, the one still in the room with him, looks down and whispers to his companions that Sherlock is awake, but no one makes a move to quiet him. He doesn't move, trying to figure out how they're managing the optical illusion, and how best to avoid becoming a corpse.
“What is the reason for the discard?” This voice is nearer, and Sherlock is fairly certain it's coming from one of the figures on the left- one that flickers less, more like the steady glow of gaslight.
The second of his Them answers, “I've claimed unfair hazard. Scrubbing him would ruin my play, and leaving him a corpse would disrupt this turn.”
There's murmering- half voices Sherlock can't quite hear- before the nearer voice replies, “That seems adequate.”
Almost immediately, the first far away figure reponds, “The Bounds have room for four more discards. Do we find the reason sufficient?”
For a moment, it's almost like being in parliment. Voices all around him, some quiet and others raised, murmers and shouts and people hearing out their arguments. After what feels like an eternity, the faraway voice returns with, “Reason sufficient. However!” Silence falls, and Sherlock is surprised to find he's holding his breath, “Rule seventy-two thousand now comes into play. The final three discards must be made with extreme caution.”
And with that... it all faded away, and Sherlock was left in room with just his Them, who are now all staring at him. He can feel their eyes, rather than see them, and he stands on shaky legs, pulling his coat tightly around him, “I-” He starts, but the second interupts him. One of Them has his hands on a handle of some kind, right next to the board.
“You are now a discard,” He said, speaking over Sherlock's protests, “We have no further use for you in play. You are free to walk the Bounds as you please, but it will be against the rules for you to enter play in any world. To ensure you keep this rule, you will be transferred to another field of play every time a move ends in the field where you are. The rules also state that you are allowed to return Home if you can. If you succeed in returning Home, then you may enter play again in the normal manner.”
Sherlock at him, trying to make sense of the man. He didn't look like just a cloaked figure anymore- he was blurry, and his hand was thick and gnarled, ending in claws. From under the hood of his cloak, Sherlock can almost see a rat's nose and whiskers- but- “Wait a minute! What's all this, then? What are the rules? Who made them?! TELL ME.” He bellows, looking from one to the other.
All four of Them stared at him like he was an ant, demanding to know why he was about to be stepped on. He tried again, “You've no right to do this- at least explain!”
On the word explain, They pulled the lever.
And suddenly, he was somewhere else entirely.