Hansel's Defiance~
For the One Who set me free, from myself~
Prologue~
The rain is falling in sheets outside, marching against the sleeping rooftops of London, like the spirits of fallen soldiers, and the wind pounds on the doors, and it howls, as if mourning for another Krystalnacht, and the fire is burning low in the hearth on Baker Street, and Sherlock Holmes is making his violin to sing, sadly to the rain, a dirge in passing, silver-green eyes staring into flames and nothing.
Ever faithful John Watson is sitting in his chair opposite him, pretending to update his blog , but he has nothing to write about now that he is no longer allowed to write about their adventures, as Sherlock is supposedly still dead and gone, and so the young army doctor is staring at his companion in wonderment. He is alive! He is sitting in his chair, brooding against the dimness of the room, his instrument weaving music in the air, like spider's spin idle webs, falling silent when his thoughts grow too deep, rising like flames do in a wind-woken fire every now and then.
And then against the marching of the rain there is a sound, of soft womanly footsteps, and heavy boots behind her...
"Come in, dear! Oh, can I make you some tea? Dreadful weather out there!" Mrs. Hudson's birdsong voice twittered into the room.
"You must have a fascinating problem, and a fatal one, to come to a dead man for it..." Sherlock said, and his voice was low like voices speaking out of the roots of the mountains, a voice like the very voice of the earth ,if time could speak its mind, or Abel's blood be understood ,by the ears of modern man.
The man looks up, eyes wide like a frightened owl, and a stroke of lighting tears the sky, like a blade through the canvas, and washes the room in white light, and the Detective smiles grimly, and motions with his hand, to the client's chair that has been seated before him already, as if he were expecting his guest...
The man, more so a boy, around 23 years old, sits down, and bows over his knees, staring in wonder at the man to whom he has come for help.
"This is my assistant, my doctor, and my dearest friend , John Watson. Anything you need to say, will be said in his presence with absolute assurance of its confidence." says the Detective, and the young man eyes John curiously. Sensing the boy's fear (not very many who encountered Sherlock before his Lazarus experience were actually calm in his presence) John smiles as kindly as he can.
"Hello." John musters, not sure what else to say.
"Now it appears our only question is to who you are..."says Sherlock, glancing the boy over only once. Once is all that it will take. John holds his breath, feeling sorry for the boy, but at the same time very eager to see his friend perform his magic once again.
"You're not yet 24 years old, were born into a wealthy Danish family, but you weren't raised by them...Hmm...no... you...and your sister, (yes the way you pressed your pants this morning suggests that you have a womanly influence, but not a woman's hand at work in your life)...you and your sister were raised together,...away from your family...This domestic exchange...was not in your best interests...no...your mother and father basically worshipped you. It was vengeance of the darkest kind, make the children pay for the sins of your...father...A jaded lover...a female captor...You were abducted at the age of 6, your sister age of 5, from your home in Denmark. You were taken to a remote location in the forests of Finland...that I can see from the specific conifer tree sap stains on your left trouser knee, a species indigenous to that area .You only recently escaped, haven't entirely altered your appearance or habits yet, your clothes are old, you still nervously search for every door way, sit in a stance like game animals do when they know their hunter is upon them...You 're on the run...yet you need to return ,because you promised your sister you would return for her. You learned of my recent involvement in the end of the Great Accomplice who had taken up with Loki's Gauntlet in Denmark, and you thought your safest gamble was to come to me...I am honored,...Hansel..."
John's jaw dropped, and he felt a chill pass over him as if there was a presence of haunting in this room. Hansel had gone white ,and his skin wrinkled like paper at the edges of his face...
"How...how can you know so much about me...I haven't yet said a word...?"
Sherlock chuckles, and the fire flickers about him.
"Know?! I didn't know anything about you at all, until you entered my living room! I merely observed you!..."
Mrs. Hudson reentered the room then, passing around tea cups on a silver tray that gleamed like star light in the dim room.
Sherlock took his tea with a nod of thanks. John nearly spilled his. Hansel did spill his ,just a bit, on his knee, and winced.
Taking a sip, Sherlock nodded and said, "So now that I know who you are, and you obviously know who I am,...and have been introduced to Doctor Watson, why don't you tell me the details I can't observe? As in your birth name? Hansel is an alias, one you don't like, but yet you go by because you know no different. Why don't you tell me why I can read your alias name ,that you attempted to rub out with a pen, on your recent hospitalization bracelet? Why don't you tell me more about your sister...and why you left her, and why your father's lover has held you hostage for the last 17 years in a hut made of hard candy and preserved ginger bread in the deep forest of Finland? I'm sure it's a fascinating story...wouldn't you say so ,John?"
John can't say anything, only stammers a soft, "Ahh-ummm-uhuh..." and nods, and Hansel shakes his head.
"Yes...I knew I made the right choice coming to you, Mr. Holmes...To answer your first question, my name is Peter Yeats. I am 23 years old, and I was raised in captivity by a woman whose identity is unclear to me, because my father loved her lavishly, spent half his fortune on her, and then broke off their engagement to marry for more money, when his company went bankrupt, and a wealthy baroness offered him an alternative lifestyle. That wealthy baroness was my mother...and she is dead. I'd say murdered, I saw it happen, but I was 6 years old, and couldn't prove it. Then we were taken..."
Sherlock clutches at his tea cup, as if he were watching a gripping movie.
"Go ahead, Mr. Yeats...I'm all ears..."