Dangerous Expectations

A/N: Quick note to all readers, this is NOT the sequel to Devil's Obsession. This is something completely new, and something I'm planning on updating according to reader response. I'm still working on that sequel, but I thought this might be a nice side project to work on in the mean time. Who knows, maybe this will serve as some inspiration for that sequel. I don't want to give anything away, so read on and there will be some more notes at the end. Enjoy!

Chapter One – The Hunt

This wasn't the familiar burn of exertion. It was something worse, something that engulfed every conceivable limb and appendage, something that was threatening to debilitate rather than exhilarate. There was nothing thrilling about this. It was all too terrifying and real. Being cornered and chased like an animal for slaughter, across countless borders of countries and provinces, forgetting rest and foregoing the essentials that any man or animal would need to keep going. Sheer will and determination shouldn't last this long.

It was the fear that kept the fire lit under him. Fear that they would win, like they had with the others. So he kept running, kept pushing himself past limits he didn't think he could surpass. He wasn't fighting for the world's right to peace anymore. He was fighting for his own life, for his basic right to live. Peace wasn't part of the deal. He'd damned it to hell along with his friends and family, with one shot. It wasn't the first time that he wondered how it had all gone wrong, how a man could survive something like that, just get up and walk away, make the world a miserable place like he'd never had a chance at dying.

He had missed.

But by how much? By a hair's length? More? He would never know because the more important part was that he failed despite all the training and encouragement. The very idea of a world war resting on the shoulders of one man, of said man's steady hand and sharp eye, was unfathomable…impossible to even consider. And yet, that above all else held the most truth, the most tangible understanding he could turn to when things started going wrong. The failure was absolute and unforgiving. They fought, lost, and paid a costly price for it all, a world war aside. He could still see their faces, hear their screams, his own mixed in with the fear, hatred, and confusion, crying out in wordless questions to how man could fall so far from sanity and human decency.

Human.

Did he even know what that meant anymore?

No. Not for a very long time. Not since the day they'd been hunted down and caged. Tortured. Used. And killed.

Running wasn't a hard thing to do in light of everything and everyone he'd left behind. He'd been given a chance. A precious one. And for months, close to a year even, he made good on that gift. In those early days he'd been happy simply to gaze on the sun and blue skies, to breathe fresh air. The very first day the clouds cleared and reminded him of what he spent months trying to remember was, in a single word, joyous.

…but only for a little while.

Maybe it was that stubborn American will that the League always teased him on, or maybe it was his own shape and form of revenge for his fallen comrades that kept him going. He'd never really know because it wasn't important. The important thing now was keeping them from winning, not making the League's sacrifices for the world and for him in vain. The caveat for that motivation was harsh. He laid down to it every night, waking in fits of delusion or panic at how real his mind made them, even after all this time.

Skinner.

Jekyll.

Nemo.

Mina.

Sleep was the emaciated one, not him. Not Tom sawyer. Tom Sawyer couldn't even say with confidence that he was Tom Sawyer anymore either. He certainly didn't look it, but part of him really didn't mind the messy moustache and goatee that grew in. What he did mind were the hollow spaces in his face and chest. They made too many people stare. They gave him away too easily. They forced him to run south where he could blend in easier, hide for just a little longer before going on the move yet again.

No man's land.

Across deserts.

Through forests.

Jungles.

Past herds of animals that wouldn't have minded to prey on the little meat left on his thin body. But in the end maybe that was the problem. They knew he didn't have much to offer, that he'd been marked by another more territorial animal than they. Perhaps he stank of death more than they could stomach. It almost made him sick that even animals such as the ones he saw roaming the dry plains refused to grant him the mercy of disappearing, of finding some end to an endless journey that had no destination.

He tripped and fell to his knees, panting, feeling dizzy and at the edge of his reserves. He looked up. He was outside a village.

The village.

The very same one.

How could that be?

Why? Why here? Not here. Anywhere but here.

Voices. His head whipped around and could barely see a thing through the haze. But he didn't chance it. The adrenaline pulled him up and he continued on. Started at a jog and ending into a full out sprint when he heard people running behind him. Not just any people. Men with heavy iron plated boots. He'd been too slow. They caught up to him somehow between the river and here. He had never stopped since then but he was too slow.

He ducked between a couple of houses, zigzagged and looped around to the other side of the small village in hopes of throwing them off…and found himself standing in the middle of the graveyard. He couldn't help but stop, even if his heart was screaming for him not to.

…was it still there?

Yes. Just a few feet to the left.

Tom closed his eyes and breathed easier through his bleeding and chapped lips. Why did he finally feel at home? What was this familiar feeling? It had a name…

Peace.

Yes, he'd heard that somewhere before. A long time ago. From the man who went before him, whom Tom idolized, who he would have and should have protected with his own life, who he helped bury…right there.

Allan.

What would he give to fix it? To fix it all? To bring them back. Give up his own life if it meant keeping Moriarty from ruining it all.

Anything.

Feet behind him. He could feel his pupils dilate, another bead of sweat fall, but he whirled around regardless of his chances. He managed to set off one bullet before being knocked off his feet. Maybe it was the full force of the pain itself that sent him flying to the dirt instead of the bullet. It had to be because all he could feel when he fell was it explode into something more. He opened his mouth to scream and even that sounded tired and weak.

…exhaling was a terrible effort, as if this were somehow the personified bodily feeling of giving up. He coughed at the dust in the air. He was hot. Sweating. But was that from the pain or the relentless sun beating down on him now that he could no longer run from it? He looked up at the not so blue sky. The clouds. The sun…

It was clear.

Clearer than what he remembered seeing in a long time.

No smoke. No smog. No stench of war and blood.

His eyes watered and stung.

Ached.

But he didn't dare let them close. And he also didn't let himself listen to the voices calling him home, down to Missouri. It's been too long…far too long.

Was this how things were going to end? Here in a desert on the other side of the world? So far from home and everything he'd come to know since he left home in the first place? Was this what Huck felt all that time ago, when he was the one who lay dying, bleeding to death? Did he freeze from the blood loss? He couldn't stop shivering. Tom remembered that. But Huck had bled out in the cold damp of London. Here in the heat of Africa the coming cold felt rather nice.

Refreshing.

Deceptively comforting.

He breathed and coughed, droplets of blood painting his lips. He remembered. They couldn't win. They wouldn't. Not yet.

A shadow stood over him, pointed a gun at him but didn't shoot. Through the bright rays of sunlight Tom squinted and stared up at his attacker. And was disappointed to see that it wasn't Moriarty. One of his lackeys. Trained to maim and capture, not kill.

"Bloody little nuisance."

Tom rested his head for just a moment and then reared up and spat a big wad of spit and blood at the man. It took a lot out of him, but the sound of the man's sudden disgust and backtrack made it worth it. Maybe they'd give him a little courtesy now and put him out of his misery.

"Don't touch him," someone shouted. Someone familiar. Chillingly so.

Another shadow over him.

"Finally," Moriarty said with a smile. "After all this bloody time I can be done with you."

Tom kept his eyes open and strained to keep any pain free from his face.

"I have never been a patient man. But this…this I chose to wait for. The moment I stand over you and say 'You've lost.' Worth every second."

The shot to the leg surprised him, made Tom cry out from the shock of the impact rather than the pain itself.

"You have lost, boy. Thought you were bloody clever leading us on a God damned chase across the continent, didn't you?"

Another shot, in the arm.

"Now, my little American, you will die. Like every single one of your predecessors who thought they could outwit James Moriarty."

More shots, all in his chest. Now he was voicing the pain as loud as he could, with complete abandon. Some things were just too hard to fight.

"Leave him. I don't want it to be quick."

And then they left him. Left him for the crows that circled above. On soaked earth that just wouldn't let him lie still. Tilting and spinning…like that crazy ride in Nemo's car…or when they were sinking after the…why were they sinking? He couldn't remember.


He kicked a pile of dirt with his iron plated feet and glanced hatefully over to the boy in the graveyard who he should have shot outright. The only solace he had was in James' reassurance that letting the boy bleed to death would, in fact, be a quite painful and miserable fate. But that didn't mean he liked waiting for the whelp to croak. He turned to look back and check if the boy were still breathing, and to his surprise, the boy had somehow turned himself over and was crawling.

"God damn it," he hissed to himself.

Crawling through the dirt. Crawling away like a little bloody coward. He'd certainly make an end of that. The boy needed to be taught a lesson after the disrespect he showed earlier. If the other bullets weren't enough then he would make sure that this one spoke volumes. He took one step forward, keen on getting his payback that James took from him for his own selfish purposes, and fell under a blow from behind.


It would have been easier to drag himself through grass than dirt. With grass there was something planted in the earth that gave him leverage to pull and haul his tired body forward. Here there was nothing, like grasping at an intangible ghost of what should still be there. Tom did manage a few feet closer to his goal, but had to stop when he felt the darkness pressing in. Instead, he settled for staring up at what would have been the foot of Allan's grave. He reached out, dragged a hand along the ground with a cross between a grunt and a whimper, and touched the ground as reverently as he could.

"Sorry," he whispered. "Ssso…sorry."

It was all that he had the strength to say. His last words. He had vowed a long time ago never to regret a thing in his lifetime. And here he was, at the grave of a dear friend and mentor he never fully appreciated, with an apology passing through his lips. It stung, deep in his heart to know that he'd never get an answer, that he would die alone in this world after all. He couldn't feel much now, so he figured death was close.

A warm hand settled on his back. He wanted to cry out, wanted to scream at those evil men for not letting him be, even in these last moments on this plain of existence. But the hand was comforting. And the accompanying voice spoke in a soft and hushed tone that was soothing. Next thing he knew there were hands under his arms and he was being lifted. The sudden change brought a flare up of the pain and he moaned aloud. When he was able to open his eyes next, he was lying right next to Allan's grave, in someone's lap, with the person leaning over him and shielding him from the sun.

"You save his life," the shaman asked.

"No," Tom choked. He felt confused. His emotions swirled and made his head heavy. But the more they piled on the less he felt them, the less he understood them as if he were watching from outside of his body in a numb state of awareness. Emotions were…what?

"You save his life." A statement. No. He remembered that. He didn't, no matter how much he wanted to. He did want to, didn't he? Where was his gun? Moriarty was getting away. And with his vision tunneling in, it made it harder to listen and focus. He wanted to sleep. How would he ever stop him dead now if that's all his body wanted him to do?

"I…I…wanted…wish…could've…"

"You go. Wake and see. No bonds. No bonds."

"'llan…Alla-"

"Africa lets live. You release him. Let live."

Let live…you go…save his life…

Then, nothing.


The old shaman sighed at the sight of the young convulsing man cradled in his lap and held up a hand, fingers outstretched above the face. Instantly, the boy stopped shaking. His hand descended and wiped the tears that fell free from the boy's eyes. He rubbed the salty liquid between his fingers and dug his hand into the dirt that had sunk into the grave next to them. He grabbed a handful of it and smeared it onto the boy's bloody face and chest, working it steadily into a mud like paste with the blood and tears as the liquid. With words under his breath, he clutched the side of the young head and pulled it up.

Eyelids flickered sprung back. The once green, now grayed eyes lost what color remained and left white behind. The bony jaw fell slack for one final gasp of breath. And before it could escape, the shaman closed the boy's mouth and nose, laying a hand over them. The wind came then, gentle at first, tossing branches and dirty locks of the boy's hair. But in no time at all the wind turned fierce under a cloudless sky. The light from the sun intensified and the heat bore down on them. It blinded them from civilization, from frightened mothers and children whose husbands and fathers cowered in fear. With the boy still in his lap, the old shaman reached up to the light and waited. His eyes never watered under the intensity of the sun. And the heat did not burn him.


A/N: If you're still unsure, yes this is a time-travelling fic (my first one too…eek). I just want everyone to understand that this will in no way shape or form be a retelling of the movie word for word with my inserts put in casually here and there. My aim here is to be as original as I can, because, obviously, if something changes, then a lot of other things have the capability and probability to change too. I'll admit there will be some key plot scenes or things that I will keep just because I can't bear to be rid of them, but I'll put a new twist on it when they pop up so you'd hardly be able to tell. So, with all that said and done, this is obviously just the first chapter but…what did you think? Review for your humble writer :)

-Rainsaber