Everything is ashes; our hopes, our aspirations, the most carefully laid plans and our lives. So fragile, so easily destroyed as if everything we ever wanted or planned for was less than nothing. Such conceit, such contempt – they died so easily and for what? Masculine pride, vanity and because they were unwilling to lose, I have lost everything.
It's become the benchmark of my life – lost love, lost hope, and lost freedom – no more. Never again the pretty pliant plaything, malleable, biddable, that ended with a gun shot. My suffering has not been in vain, the things I know, the things I've seen will set me free. All of us are born in blood; I am reborn in blood and fire and before I die, I will leave rack and ruin to those that deserve it most.
The course of my life has been set since I was a young girl, since that warm April afternoon when he slid his arm around my shoulders and branded his kiss to my temple. Never had I felt that warm, that loved and I clung to it as if he was the sun, the moon, and the heavens all combined. There was this intensity in him even then and I knew that I would do anything for him.
You'd think him mad, perhaps at the end he was but he was my sunny boy. Strong arms, quick laugh and quicker wits, never once with him did I feel stupid or plain or boring even when the rest of my world screamed those things at me. My mother, harpy that she was, would spew abuse and threats as vile as they came but none of it mattered to me. I was marking time, counting the days and as soon as the law said I could leave, I ran and I never looked back at the pile of shite that was my past. From the moment he placed his arm around me to that last moment when he took his own life, he made me special and I will never forget that.
Don't you dare feel pity for me. Life was very good; there's shite in everyone's life from time to time but that can be endured. My life will be brilliant again, depend on it.
oOoOoOoO
Viscount Stafford de Redcliffe, Frederick 'Freddie' Stratford Canning, gazed at his current mistress and grinned like a giddy schoolboy. Seated in the back corner of the Quail and Hound Inn's highly touted restaurant, they were hidden far from the windows and the prying eyes of passersby.
There was no doubt that had they been visible to the general public, they would have attracted significant attention. Physically, he wasn't much to look at; he was of middling height, his hair – what little remained - was a non-descript brown and his appreciation of fine food and drink had led to a slight paunch which completely ruined the line of his bespoke suits. Not that it mattered; he had the money to have new suits made to flatter his growing stomach. His personal stature had risen with his father's passing the previous year. He'd gone from being little more than a thirty-four year old divorce, saddled with a brand new wife his father had chosen with him working a middle management job in the family's property holdings to being the Viscount and responsible his family's holding. There was a lot of it to maintain; his family had extensive property holdings, a very successful horse breeding program and investments that he was still trying to sort out.
Going out discreetly was becoming more of a challenge considering who his mistress was; her star was on the rise and she was increasingly of Tabloid interest. An up-and-coming fashion model, she had a bright smile, glorious auburn hair and legs that went on for miles which made her the darling of several fashion houses. That was more than he could say for the wife that his father had saddled him with, something he would never have agreed to had he realized how soon his father would leave this world. His wife was a nice enough woman, if your tastes ran to loyal and faithful but devoid of any beauty or social aspiration. She was frighteningly dull, and to date, barren like the first.
To make matters worse, his wife was an incredibly devote Catholic – her sole advantage was an inheritance that was only a few million quid less than his own. In this instance, her faith had proven a bit of a blessing – she'd left England for Portugal, hoping that a trip to some shrine would magically cure their fertility woes. Her departure equated to unlimited freedom; he finally had time to do all his favourite things and he chuckled to himself. He loved this restaurant, it wasn't sufficiently fashionable enough for his wife's tastes but they served an ossobuco that was to die for, succulent veal shank in a savory wine and tomato sauce served with a polenta gremolata that made him salivate. He reached for the fine linen napkins the restaurant favoured, wiping at his mouth, it was ridiculous how much his mouth was watering despite having consumed half his portion of veal. He took another sip of the restaurant's extraordinary tea, leaned back in his seat and listened to his mistress prattle on about dress sizes and how they'd let just about anyone walk a runway in Milan.
Midsentence, she stopped and stared at him, her eyes wide with shock. "Freddie," she said tartly, "wipe your face, you look ghastly!" His heart racing, he picked up his napkin, wiped his mouth and was startled to see that the napkin was completely sodden. As he stared at it, his hands began to tremble and then shake violently before his entire body began to spasm and he fell to the floor. His mouth opened and closed as he struggled on the floor, vaguely hearing his mistress scream for help as a vicious seizure slammed through his body and his vision faded.
As last meals went, his was divine.
oOoOoOo
An ex-lover had once remarked that Johanna's capacity for gossip was second only to her capacity for shopping. If power shopping ever became a sport, Lady Johanna Hungerford-Powderham de Courtenay was a contender for a gold medal.
Striding through the confines of Harrod's, Johanna and her three closest friends did their level best to bolster the economy of London. Each scuttled towards the next shop after loading Johanna's poor driver with a variety of shopping bags, determined to find the perfect purchase before the end of the afternoon. She'd already purchased several outfits for her upcoming trip to Florence to see her current beau; all she needed to do now was acquire a few pairs of shoes as well and she simply adored Jimmy Choo's.
As her friends moved from shop to shop, she pled exhaustion and took a moment to stop at her favourite beverage boutique. Ordering a large chai latte, she studied her reflection in the large mirror-like plate glass windows as she wished once again for two extra inches of height. Keeping up with her leggy friends was a challenge, she felt practically elfin in comparison given she barely hit a scant 153 centimeters and no amount of heel could augment that when your friends were wearing them as well. If she lacked height, she had something that each of her friends coveted, a perfect porcelain English rose complexion and a shade of white blonde hair that never needed excessive maintenance to achieve.
Though she had a reputation for overindulging, she actually espoused an epicurean philosophy taught to her by her Nan, the Dowager Countess Hungerford – moderation in all things. Well, everything other than shopping. She was convinced that shopping was a divine right. Glancing at the calorie laden latte in her hand, she sighed, drank down half and tossed the remainder into a rubbish bin before striding out of the store towards where her friends were waiting. She took approximately ten steps before a spasm sent her sprawling to the floor, her feet beating a tattoo on the polished tile.
oOoOoOo
Andrew Warren was a study of misery and by all appearances it was his mission in life to spread that misery as far and wide as possible. His personal assistant (the third this year) was currently brewing him a kettle of tea while he sat hunched in his office and sorted through demo tapes. A hopeless workaholic, over the years he'd found, groomed and created a succession of pop groups. He managed every facet of their careers for as long as he could and over the years had amassed a considerable fortune. The money seemed to bring him no joy; it was merely a way of keeping score.
None of that fortune or his multitude of business contacts could effectively deal with his current crisis, a particularly violent stomach bug that had been plaguing him for the last few days. Being ill upset him, he was rarely ever ill – he simply had no time for it. Like every single one of the groups that he worked with, he made certain to maintain his physique. A minimum of one hour a day in his personal gym had helped him keep his body trim if not slender, and he felt that he looked like a man in his thirties rather than a man newly in his forties. The tabloids speculated that his never ending rotation of young pretty girlfriends kept him young. They never lasted long, as bright green eyes hid a vicious temper and an attitude towards women that was hardly gentile.
Scattering the demo tapes, he hunched forward, his face cupped in his hands as he prayed to whoever was listening for the pain of his massive headache to ease. Worse, he was certain that he could hear the overly sweet tones of the current Queen of Britpop singing throughout the house even though his assistant, his cook and his housekeeper had assured him that there was no music playing.
His assistant entered the room bearing a massive mug of tea and then quickly fled the room. He drank down the contents, grimacing at the overly sweet tea as tremors swept through his body. Leaning back in his chair, he grit his teeth as another tremor swept through him and silently cursed whoever had given him this influenza. Leaning back in his chair, he closed his eyes as a violent spasm swept through him and as he flailed, he swept countless demo tapes to the floor followed swiftly by his body.
oOoOoOo
Molly studied the three bodies that had been wheeled into the pathology lab at some point over the last four hours. Each of the individuals set out before her was notable in some manner, they had no obvious links between them and yet Molly was certain that their deaths were related.
The chances of having three high profile individuals in the morgue at once was slim; that they all experienced similar symptoms which at the outside mimicked heart failure simply raised the 'odd' flag higher. She hadn't been surprised when Mike Stamford had called her in to take a look at the bodies; she'd been scheduled to be off but she really didn't mind. This was important. Each of her patients was incredibly wealthy, notorious in some manner and each had complained of chest pains and had suffered convulsions.
Ordinarily at this point, she'd pick up her mobile and contact Sherlock but that wasn't an option at the moment. London's consulting detective was currently under house arrest while the British Government decided if the removal of James Moriarty equated to debt paid or not. She was as certain that they would need him to solve this, as certain as she was that the evidence would show that these three individuals had not died of heart failure.
Squaring her shoulders, she searched out one name amongst her contacts and waited as her mobile dialled. When he answered the phone, she said simply, "Greg, you're going to want to contact Mycroft and collect Sherlock – I have three high profiles here and all appear to have died from similar symptoms and you know what Sherlock says about coincidences."
Greg Lestrade sighed heavily before responding, "The Universe is rarely so lazy, yeah?" There was a pause, "You're sure? What am I saying? Of course you are."
Notes: Special thanks go to HeayPuckett and MizJoely who provide invaluable input. HP is my chief cheerleader and encourages me to let the plot bunnies go. I owe MizJoely for helping me wrangle the proper 'villain' for this story - here's hoping it proves to be as good as it sounded in my head. Thank you so much, ladies.