London's bitter wind pulled at the jackets and overcoats of the pedestrians on her streets. They hunched over, hoping to minimize the winter air's impact as it hurtled through the corridors of buildings. Small bits of trash flew up into private whirlwinds and the buildings sang with the sound of passing air currents. People busied themselves getting from somewhere to somewhere else. So no one noticed the man who stood and watched.
He stood in an alcove across the street from his target, a slight shelter at best. His scarf wrapped tight around his throat and his coat danced in the wind. He was watching, had been watching, and would continue watching for some time had she not interrupted him. It was Thursday, after all.
"Get in the cab, Mr. Holmes," she said. It was not a request. A black taxi stood just feet away, its door slightly ajar, having been pushed back almost shut by the wind. With a sigh and a last look towards the building, he entered the cab and she followed. She gave directions to the driver. The ride was quick and silent, ending at a cafe. She paid the cabbie and they went in, her leading, him following.
She stopped by the counter, ordering soup and bread, and paid for it. After, they moved to a table. She positioned herself with her back to the wall and gestured for him to join her as she kept an eye out to the other customers and to the front door.
Bright fluorescent lights lit the place with an occasional flicker. The tables were chipped formica, the seats metal with patched red vinyl. It was not an establishment he'd normally patronize. He sat with excessive care, waiting for her to open the conversation. Instead, she sat and waited, scanning the place with narrowed eyes.
A large bowl of soup and a basket of bread soon made their appearance. "Eat," she said.
"I'm not hungry."
She shrugged. That wasn't a consideration. "Eat," she repeated. She nodded towards the bowl.
After a moment, he sighed. "Tedious," he said, rolling his eyes, but he began to eat.
"Do you need cash?" she asked. She reached into her purse and pulled out a folded collection of pound notes. She placed them on the table. After a moment, he picked them up and secreted them away in his coat. "Thank you," he said.
"He nearly saw you today," she said.
"No, he didn't." His tone brooked no argument.
"You are not to be seen by him until you finish your...business."
"Indeed, no." Another spoonful of soup. "Any word on Colonel Moran?"
"We're still tracking him. A few hits in Hungary, but nothing firm yet. When we have a solid lead, I'll let you know." She turned back to watching the restaurant and its occupants.
"I hardly see how kidnapping me and forcing me to ingest this..." A pause. "'Foodstuff', serves any meaningful purpose."
"It's for John," she said, the only answer that he'd accept.
Satisfied that there were no immediate threats, she stood and put on her coat. "Finish your soup, Mr. Holmes. Try to eat at least one meal a day until I see you next Thursday? You might also consider regular sleep."
Good luck with the plumber's appointment this afternoon, Miss Morstan."
"Thank you," she said. It annoyed him how she never reacted to his deductions. "Until Thursday?"
"Until Thursday. And give my best to Mycroft."
"Of course," she said, nodding, and then left.