What does it take to rule a country—to rule the world? The answer would be secrets and knowledge.
Everyone has a secret of his or her own, may it be big or small. But no matter how trivial a secret is: it still is a secret. And if you play your cards right, you can get whatever you want. Simple knowledge can turn into a life-changing weapon.
And whoever holds the secrets and knowledge of the world, holds the power—and rules the world.
.
She walked down the streets, not meeting anybody's eyes. She didn't need to raise her eyes; observe the people around her. Her eyes firmly planted on the ground as she weaved through the afternoon crowd on the sidewalks of London.
But nevertheless, she knew that the father of the boy in the Ice Cream Parlor had just returned from overseas work. She felt the delight of the boy, from earlier in the day, when he found his father home. She knew his mother cried too, that morning, from cheating on her husband who was working so hard. And the husband who thought of it only as tears of joy: fully trusting his wife.
The regret of an old man—crossing the street, and accidentally brushing past her—from running out of money for his children. It was cigarettes, she knew—even if he didn't brush past her with the lingering scent of tobacco, she would still know.
Whispers told her these things, the whispers told her everything. Even though she didn't want to hear them.
Everything, she heard everything, she knew everything, and she felt everything. But nobody in the world knew: that she knew.
.
She used to exploit what she knew, selling information. But she stopped, because she didn't want to do it anymore, she couldn't do it anymore. Months before, she caught her reflection in the mirror, looking like her ordinary self—dark eyes, dark hair, light skin—but something was different.
And she found herself asking, "How do you live as a fugitive?"
People were constantly seeking her, coming after her, and she couldn't take it anymore. She stopped being the information beacon.
She would never stop hearing the whispers; there was no way to silence them. But she wouldn't use them like this: they tortured her enough. They gave her enough burdens.
And that day, she packed her sentimental belongings and left America for London. She left that life; this would (hopefully) be the last time she would run away.
.
Whispers in the dark, they'd been there since she turned four. She never told her mother, or her father.
She feared that they would turn on her, and stop loving her. But she already knew that they didn't.
.
She had nightmares, where everything the whispers told her streamed into a river of secrets, a river of unbounded knowledge. And it flowed, and flowed, and flowed.
And it beckoned to her, to drown in that river of secrets.
.
When she woke, she didn't have any peace of mind, because she learned more. The voices rose from the waters of the rivers in her dreams.
She knew they were there, but she couldn't run, or hide. They were there, in every corner, just hiding—waiting for her.
Nobody was free from them: the whispers, the voices: the spies. Nobody was free. Even if the people couldn't hear the whispers of the spies, the spies could hear their whispers.
.
The man she met that day was one of the most eccentric men she'd ever met. Even if she already knew of many, many people. But still, meeting people was different from just knowing about them (even if she knew their whole life).
The man in question was a one, Sherlock Holmes. He was the closest to knowing her secret. No, he didn't know that she knew things. But he had his doubts about it.
She met him in a café, while she was taking her daily latte. Sherlock had been bored that day, John wasn't there, and wanted a coffee to quell the need for a cigarette.
Then he saw her. Saw her sitting in the corner of the café, responding to the actions of the people in the café without actually looking at them.
Like the seemingly happy couple a few tables from her. She shot the couple a sad glance of pity. But to a normal person, the couple would have looked perfect.
Then second, she gave an angry look at a girl who looked perfectly innocent. The girl was part of a gang that beat up others who were perfectly harmless but disobeyed the gang.
Sherlock wasn't stupid of course, he knew that the man was cheating on his wife and beating her up, from the bruise on the woman's wrist and neck, hidden with cheap concealer and her blouse.
As for the girl, she had smidgens of blood on a part of her pants and had the infamous symbol of one of the gangs in the area on a bracelet.
People weren't observant like he was. And he was dying, of boredom. So he decided to kill time and hopefully, have a nice conversation with someone less-stupid-than-the-rest-but-still-knew-less-than-him.
Oh, but he was wrong. She knew more: much, much more.
I SHOULDN'T BE HERE YOU KNOW? I should be cleaning my room, not starting a mini-series. This should have another one or two installments; I'm not dedicated (or good enough, dies*) to write a whole series.
So, tell me what you think? I bet you know the song that inspired this; there are parts of the song used throughout, and the description, too.
It's not a Sherlock/OC fic, just to tell you. You can look at it that way, but I wrote it as not a romance fic.
SHERLOCK IS SO HARD TO WRITE, GRRR. :| (I don't know how to be observant
hides* don't kill meee!)
That's why the next part isn't up yet, even if I have around another 600 words already…OH PLEEEEEEEASE REVIEW. I want ideas on what to improve and stuffies! PLEASE, I beg of youuu!
love always,
chi