Author's Note: Okay, so I was sitting in bed, and it had been snowing all day here in England, so I had to write something about the lovely stuff… pointless as it is. It's just so… gorgeous to look at and watch out of your window, that the urge to write a one-shot was too strong as I walked home from watching Donnie Darko at a friend's! So here it goes… let me know what you think… (Note: this fic was typed out whilst listening to Annie Lennox's 'In The West' from ROTK)
It was growing late in the day when the first white flakes began to fall, light and airy and eerily beautiful against the London backdrop of the late nineteenth century. Lights slowly began to flicker out as men, women and children started to settle down for the night in the comfort of their own homes. The clouds overhead were heavy with snow, and showed no signs of letting up anytime soon… at least not for a few hours.
The scout on the rooftop of a block of flats turned his youthful face up to the soft downpour, and closed his green eyes with a delicate sigh. It had been a long, tedious day of reconnaissance, and the scout for one could feel his own bed calling to him.
The snow started to settle on everything in sight. The rooftops soon started to glow with the first layers, and the flakes brought a wan smile to the young face as they fell slowly and steadily. They even started to latch to his long black jacket, and began to coat his tousled blonde locks atop his head.
By the end of the night he would be chilled to the bone… but damn it was beautiful. The curling of chimney smoke was forgotten; the distant clattering of industry gone to his ears, and Special Agent Tom Sawyer of the American Secret Service saw London for what it really was for the first time.
This was a home… perhaps not his home, but a place where many felt their hearts truly resided, and they felt they really belonged. Tom Sawyer happened to know one such man – admittedly an invisible man – who thought in such a way. At least… Tom assumed he did.
Rodney Skinner, self-proclaimed 'gentleman thief' always spoke in an oddly high manner when it came to London… and for Skinner, that was impressive by itself.
Doctor Henry Jekyll always seemed comforted by the sight of the closed in streets of cobble and stone, the hansom cabs and drivers… but he always seemed keen to avoid the back streets and anywhere he thought prostitutes might lurk. The American could not blame him… though Jekyll had his own reasons.
Sighing, Tom hefted his modified – not to mention prized – Winchester rifle in his cool hand once again, and watched his breath curl away from him visibly. Oddly, he smiled, despite their reasons for being in London at all. They – 'they' being the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen – had been called to track down a kidnapper… some madman had made off with a politician's daughter. Tom felt a little guilty for forgetting the names, and then cast another glance across the streets in his line of sight for any kind of suspicious activity. Nothing.
As he settled back into his lonely scouting, his mind wandered: Missouri and the Mississippi; Becky Thatcher laughing, and her beautiful blonde hair; Huckleberry Finn's ever-mischievous ways until his death; the Phantom meeting his justified end at Tom's hands; the funeral of Allan Quatermain.
Tom frowned deeply and mournfully. In the space of a year, he had lost his best friend and his newfound mentor… both of which had been like family to him. Now they were both gone, and Tom knew he would never stop blaming himself. No matter how many times he was told he had done all he could and that things played out a certain way for a reason… he would always carry that burden of knowing his involvement.
But for once, as he thought about his fallen companions, Tom felt no lump of sorrow in his throat… no sad tears in his eyes. Something stopped the grief from overwhelming him. He puzzled on this for a while before the answer came to him.
The snow…
It was just so beautiful. The way it coated everything in its pure unmarred way, sheets of white buildings to cover up the pain, sorrow and misery of such a busy city. Normally, he would call London an eyesore… ugly… but not now. Not when it looked like this. It looked almost innocent.
And that was enough to carry away a substantial amount of the regret and melancholy, serving to remind Tom that Huckleberry Finn and Allan Quatermain had both died to save him… thinking him worthy of rescue. That was enough to bring another wan, lopsided smile to the American's face.
When the sound of collective fluttering carried to him from across the rooftop, he turned without panic, recognising the cause at once. It was Mrs. Wilhelmina Harker, her bats having provided her means to quickly traverse the distance.
"Agent Sawyer," she greeted him, regarding him with sea blue eyes, her auburn tresses flowing around her face and becoming dotted with white. "We have located young Miss Davenport. She is unharmed, and we have the culprit in custody. Our work here is done."
Tom smiled and nodded, unnecessarily cocking and spinning his rifle one-handed using the finger lever. He looked around at the city, and sighed.
"If it's okay with you, Mrs. Harker," he began quietly, "I think I'll just stay up here a little while longer."
Mina – as she sometimes preferred to be called – furrowed her delicate brow, and tilted her head to one side. "Is everything all right?"
Tom laughed, almost inaudibly, and nodded again. "Yeah." He smiled at her warmly. "Everything's fine."
She considered him for a moment, before she finally said, "Very well. We will regroup at the Nautilus in one hour." And with that, Mina Harker disappeared in a swarm of bats, and vanished into the darkness that closed in all around.
Shouldering his Winchester and laying it across the back of his neck, Tom positioned his hands to drape over the weapon casually, turning back to gaze out at the peaceful sight once again, snow falling thicker now.
Tom Sawyer smiled, truly at ease for the first time in months.