Okay, so I was persuaded (it wasn't hard to do really!) to write a sequel to Russian Roulette by Jack63kids. Protesting that I have a busy week ahead, I then put aside all thoughts about the stuff I'm supposed to be doing and…well, here is the first chapter – I hope you like it, and if you do – review please, it helps me write more!
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Sherlock characters (Wish John was mine though!) – Thanks to all the actors, writers, etc etc that make the original series so worth writing about!
The small figure hurried, hunched against the November wind, along the Victoria Embankment towards Temple Pier. Pulling her too thin coat around her emaciated frame she checked over her shoulder for what was possibly the hundredth time. As she passed under Waterloo Bridge her journey was watched by a pair of eyes that peered out from a pile of rags and cardboard. A head of greasy blond hair turned slowly to follow her progress, and as she moved away the rags and cardboard stirred, and a slender woman stood up and turned away towards the Embankment Gardens and the cabbies coffee bar under the railway bridge at Charing Cross station.
Back on the Embankment a large figure stepped out of the shadow into the failing light, silhouetted against the river wall, an anonymous shadow in the London night. "You made the delivery? You have the money?" There was no warmth to be found in that harsh, accented voice. With a sniff the girl nodded, dug into her pocket and handed over a tatty package. In exchange she received a smaller package, about the size of a matchbox, and her eyes lit up. With a happy smile she closed her fist around her bounty and retraced her steps. When she looked around again the street was empty, but she didn't care, she had what she needed!
xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo xoxo
The sharp blue eyes scanned the comings and goings under the railway bridge, looking for one particular person. She hadn't been there long when she spotted him, his familiar military cut blond hair, the black jacket and jeans that were now his standard uniform. Despite wearing warm woollen gloves he had his hands thrust deep into his pockets, and his collar was turned up against the cold.
"Doc!"
He looked in the direction of the voice, smiled a genuinely warm smile and hurried over to join her.
"Kallie" his eyes scanned her, looking for tell-tale signs of illness. "How are you? Have you eaten today?"
"One question at a time Doc," she laughed "Yeah I'm good – won't say no to a bacon buttie though!" John Watson's smile broadened "Wait here." And he moved swiftly over to the coffee bar.
A short while later, with a bacon sandwich inside her and her hands wrapped around a warm mug of very sweet tea, Kallie was telling John everything she knew about the new 'gang' recruiting homeless kids. It wasn't a pretty tale, but she was fairly certain that none of the network had become mixed up with them.
"This latest one though, Doc, I swear she can't be more than fifteen!" Kallie shook her head "I tried to warn her but she ran like a startled hare!"
"Do you know where she is now?"
"She was headed up the Embankment – she'll be long gone now."
"Thank you Kallie. If you see her again, try to get her to talk to you, see if you can persuade her to listen." For a moment John stared absent-mindedly at the girl's blue tinged fingers before suddenly pulling his gloves off and handing them over to her. "Here, have these. Can't have your fingers dropping off with frostbite can we?" he smiled again as she acquiesced.
Inside the gloves was tucked a twenty pound note. She felt it as she slid her hands into the already warm material, and looked at John with a questioning frown.
"Yeah, I know you don't like to take food and money Kallie, but this cold spell isn't going to break anytime soon, and I'd rather know you can at least get yourself and the others a hot drink or some food." He shoved his hands into his pockets. "I'm headed back to Baker Street now; if you hear anything else you know how to reach us."
She nodded and John gave her a brief wave before turning away and hailing a cab. As he looked back she had already melted away into the crowd.
xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo
Fear drove her steps faster back along the embankment, further now, she wanted safety, she wanted somewhere away from the night-time crowds. Up and over Waterloo Bridge, not stopping until she reached a secluded area of Jubilee Park almost hidden under the bridge carrying the railway away to South London.
With shaking fingers she pulled her drug paraphernalia out of her jeans pocket. She had remembered to visit the needle exchange earlier in the day, in anticipation of tonight's fix. Her man had been generous. Too often the promised supply was barely enough to dull the pain of living alone on the streets, but Micha had delivered, and there was enough here to ensure she wouldn't care how cold it was, or how empty her belly. She sat down and prepared for oblivion.
Midnight saw her laughing, swaying along the road, grinning maniacally at the passers-by who were trying to avoid brushing against her. In the distance she heard a song, up-tempo and happy. She knew this song, loved it even. It made her think of time when life was so much easier, and she started to sing along, tears streaming down her face in total contrast to the joy of the lyrics.
One am found her lying on the parapet of Westminster Bridge, still singing but this time a haunting song of her own imagining. Her thin arms were extended towards the stars, as if she would reach up and capture them for her own pleasure and amusement. Giggling quietly, she laced her fingers together and looked through them, trying to frame a star between each lattice. Talking to them as if they were her children this child of the streets went unnoticed, unloved, even the stars were cold towards her. Slowly the arms returned to her sides, the songs and the laughter faded, pale lids closed over eyes that were too huge for the elfin face.
Nobody saw the convulsions that shook the pitiful frame still lying on the wall over the river, nobody heard the choking, gasping breaths, and as the body succumbed to the icy embrace of the Thames no one was there to mourn the child who was dead before the waters closed over her head.