All property is theft!


I can't believe this is how I'm going to die, in this filthy rat invested hole, trapped and terrified. I'm too young to die I know nothing of anything, of the world, of the myriad seasons of life. My eyes dart around the room desperate to escape my fate, and they rest on him, my world, my only friend. He looks so unconcerned, so relaxed, but his grey eyes are black with anger and locked on the man holding me.

I left University and the safety of England only a few months ago, fleeing with my friend from the murder charge that hung over his head. It had been mad and invigorating and I had loved every moment the freedom it had given me, he had given me. However this is where it is going to end, where my life is going to end, in the kitchen of a bar in Marrakech.

We had been following the man who is now holding me, for a couple of days. We know about his recreational chemistry, we are all recreational chemists in this room. I think he must be more scared of us, of my friend than I am of him. The smell of his rank sweat fills my nostrils, but doesn't block out the flat taste of stale cooking oil on my lips, or the overpowering fragrance of the rancid meat that lies all over this place.

They call this beast of a man Nicolai Guilote; it is a French pun on his favourite means of execution. This is of course how he is going to kill me, his huge right arm is wrapped around my neck, and his 12inch Victorinox Chef's Knife, which to my knowledge has taken 45 lives is pressed to my left jugular. His left arm is squeezed painfully around my ribs, and I am pressed into his massive chest, my thin body lifted easily off the floor. I think he will crush me to death, long before he takes my head from my shoulders.

I am blushing, my treacherous heart which normally beats so slowly is racing, my blood rushing to the place its most likely to spill from. His women the harpies who are currently standing behind my friend, laugh and point this out to him. He chuckles, whispering in my ear, asking if I'm enjoying this. They take my blushes for arousal that I might be turned on by the blatant erection pushing into my back. He shifts my body easily, rubbing himself against me. I want to be sick.

"Your friend is very pretty" Guilote tells my friend "I think she likes me, don't you think?"

I shift uncomfortably, trying to get away, but only succeed in bringing the knife closer into my fragile skin. I am pale and thin, I haven't eaten for so long, I haven't slept, and my body is rebelling against me. The money for this "case" would be worth my death to my friend. It would be worth anyone's death. We need this money, our flight; our on-going freedom needs this money. Bring down one cartel to the benefit of another, and the price is yours to ask.

Guilote has me as a final throw of the dice, what we asked of him was not excessive, go away, don't come back, and leave our client triumphant. However nobody gets as close to him as we have, and Guilote sees a simple solution to his problem, threaten me and the boy, my friend, will back off. He doesn't know my friend; he doesn't know how desperate we are for the money. I stifle a laugh when this thought runs through my head, if Guilote offered my friend enough money; we would have backed off anyway. We are mercenary, we are for hire, not cleaved to any person or idea, Guilote could have hired us and we would have run off like children looking for the next adventure, this isn't our fight.

I look into my friend's eyes, and I realise he is smiling; he either has a plan, or sees the ridiculous nature of the situation. I am a poor companion, I am not brilliant like him, and I think he would be better, leaner, and faster without me following him. I am always surprised he accepts my presence, for the last 3 years I have been his shadow, but for some reason I am tolerated unlike anyone else in his life. However when I look in those eyes, without his powers of deductive reasoning, I can't tell whether he wants Guilote to kill me or not. For a moment I am utterly terrified, but I know deep inside by the way my stomach is fluttering I am excited, and this is why I follow him.

The smell of the place and my situation is making me feel faint, and the blood in my ears is pounding and rushing. I seem to have been dangling in this man's arms for hours, although I know it to be seconds really. My friend is telling Guilote to let me go, but he receives a laugh in response, this stand-off in the heat of this rank kitchen is not what any of us expected, except possibly my friend. He's planned things like this before, where suddenly I find I am the sacrifice, left out of his plans, and fed to the lions. I look for clarification, but see only the darkness in my friend, the Harpies are chattering to him, telling him he will watch as I am beheaded and my body defiled. Then I see a reaction, small unnoticeable to strangers, but I know my friend and he is clenching his fists.

Whatever Guilote expects it is not this; my friend turns quickly opening the large double fridge behind the Harpies, braining them with the stainless steel doors. I have a moment to see what has happened, unbelieving the amount of blood, the shock in front of me before I feel a cold catch at my neck. The knife has hit home. There is a sharpness and then cold, but no real pain. I am dropped to the floor, and I hear rushed footsteps, and a gunshot. I think I am fine, that I have received a scratch from Guilote and nothing more. My eyes are swimming and I look up to reassure my friend, the laugh dies on my lips. He is not looking at the man he has just shot, but his dark shocked eyes are on me.

I put a shaking hand to my neck, hot and wet liquid is pooling at my neck. I bring my hand to my fuzzy eyes, they are wet with red, surely it can't be blood I'd be in pain if it was blood, I must have crashed into some tomato ketchup surely. I don't remember seeing any sauce, just raw meat, but still I don't seem to remember a lot. I feel ever so odd. My friend is there but his voice is coming as if I'm underwater he calls my name, but I find I can't answer him, all I can do is laugh, but I wonder why my laughter is bubbling, surely it shouldn't be bubbling?

I tell him I'm not well, my bladder is not my own, I am trying to vomit. Somehow everything is whirring around me, and then I am lifted, high off the floor. Maybe I have just died, am I going to heaven I wonder, the smell of the kitchen is receding, and I feel like I can feel the cooler air, throughout my body. Wherever I am it's soft and warm though and there is a soft warm thing at my neck, and pressure. I want to get away from the pressure, but when I fight, my friend shouts at me, and the pressure returns. I am swaying and my body is shaking, I feel like my friend and I are travelling together upwards. Maybe I am mistaken maybe we are both dead.

My friend's voice is sharp suddenly he is talking to someone, shouting in French. Then my sleeve is ripped from my shirt, and I want to protest I like this shirt, but I can't. I feel a pinch on the inside of my elbow, it's sharp and I try and bat it away, but I can't move my arms. I feel a burning running through me, and my body is slowing even more. I can't breathe, oh God I can't breathe, my eyes are shutting, but I can feel hundreds of little furry bodies pouring over me, squeaking and running. Oh God my neck, they'll get inside my neck, I'm going to die in the Ochre city, with mice inside my neck…


So yeah from my Lucy/Sherlock arc, I have mentioned in the past that she had her throat slit in a bar in Marrakech, so here is the story from her pov.

There will be another chapter at least.

Jas xx