==Chapter 2==

A Second Hiatus

I always marvel at the humans' ability to keep going. They always manage to stagger on even with tears streaming down their faces.

– Markus Zusak, The Book Thief

Beth and Sherlock reached Newhaven without any major mishaps, their sole sighting of a pterosaur being far out across the Channel. Once in town, Beth headed directly for The Blue Raven, the inn at which Tom Johnstone could be reached. At the door, she paused and turned to Sherlock.

"Okay, gonna leave a message here for a friend—with any luck, he's not currently on the other side of the Channel. And if he is..." She shrugged, more lightly than she felt. "Guess we'll just have to get another ride." Taking a deep breath, she pushed the door open and stepped inside, threading her way around the tables to the bar.

The bartender approached her. "What'll it be, then?"

"Rot-gut, half pint," she replied in an Estuary accent she'd spent several weeks practicing. She couldn't risk having anything stronger than a light beer right now. When the bartender handed her the mug, she said, "Don't s'pose yew've seen John Carpenter lately?"

"Might've done. What yer want with 'im?" The barman's hand withdrew – the drink was now on the house.

"Nothin' special," she said, "jus' got some extra lumber for 'im."

"Fine, I'll tell 'im."

Beth nodded her thanks and set to work on her beer. She did need it.

Waiting impatiently in the biting wind a few doors away, Holmes was relieved to see Beth finally re-emerge from the tavern and head for the docks. He followed at a discreet distance until she signalled him from a side street, only rejoining her after a quick glance around to make certain he hadn't been followed himself. "So, this friend of yours, who is he?"

"Ever heard of Tom Johnstone? " Beth murmured.

Holmes's eyebrows raised. "I have indeed." So this was how she and the boys had been getting to France! "But what is the Hampshire Smuggler doing this far south?"

Both of them were startled by a grating voice coming suddenly from the shadows, "Might ask the same o' you, old chum."

Beth recognised the voice, but that didn't stop her from whipping out her revolver and aiming in the direction of it.

Sam Dawson, Johnstone's first mate, emerged from the gloom with two more crewmen behind him, weapons held ready. "Ben, lad..." the smuggler tutted, shaking his head regretfully, "thought you had that cove tailin' you. Never would've pegged you as a snitch..."

Beth's eyes widened, Dawson's accusation startling her out of her teenage boy's voice into something higher-pitched. "What?!" Cursing inwardly, she recovered and said, "No, he's a friend! And we both need Johnstone's help—there's no double-crossing going on here, I swear!"

Dawson snorted. "Oh, friend, is it? Well, yer friend's got 'China Street pig' stamped all over 'im!"

One of his men grinned nastily, sending Beth's heart pounding. "Reckon it goes right the way through, Sam? Stick o' rock, like?"

"'Ow 'bout we 'ave a york?" the third one chimed in.

As the trio advanced, Holmes slipped his hand into his coat and drew the knife he'd kept hidden until now, bracing himself. "You may do your worst with me, gentlemen," he said, quiet voice belying his hammering pulse – the odds seemed fairly good that he was about to find out what colour his innards were; "but you will not touch the boy. Ben, get out of here."

Beth shook her head and raised her revolver, touched by his protectiveness. "We've been over this already." She wasn't leaving him, no matter how dangerous it got.

A familiar baritone sounded quietly from behind them: "Wait on, men." Beth breathed a sigh of relief as Johnstone came into view, as handsome and self-assured as ever. The man might lack scruples as far as the law was concerned, but she trusted his good sense and judgment, particularly since he protected the secret of her gender. As he drew closer, he looked Beth and Sherlock over with interest. "We meet again, lad."

She smiled faintly at him.

Holmes lowered his knife only a fraction, swearing silently – Beth trusting the smuggler enough to relax her guard was no reason for him to do the same. He'd thought that living under constant surveillance at Torchwood would keep him in training, but this was the second time in as many minutes that a cut-throat had gotten close enough for an ambush!

Dawson didn't appear any less suspicious, either. "Cap'n, the boy was leadin' this..."

Johnstone interrupted, looking amused. "Never seen an exciseman with a bowsprit like that –" sharp blue eyes took in the detective's profile; "and take a york at his mawleys!" Holmes bristled further at the audible tone of contempt as the captain gestured at his hands, hands which had admittedly been sheltered from all but tobacco stains for the last nine months. "This cove never saw a proper day's strap in his life!" Johnstone turned back to Beth, head tilted thoughtfully. "Well, now... I know smuggling flash culls is good business, but aren't you two tracking the wrong way?"

Beth shook her head wearily. "The insane thing is that it'll be safer for us on the Continent. Are you headed that way soon?"

Johnstone's eyes narrowed. "Got someone on your tail?" He was clearly wondering if transporting them would be more trouble than it was worth.

"Indeed, Captain," Holmes answered gravely, "powerful enemies who would like nothing more than to see both of us behind bars – or worse. We're not denying it's a greater risk... but at the very least, worth considering." Johnstone was essentially a mercenary, but there was no guarantee he'd accept a higher offer, and to make an outright assumption of that sort would be a grave insult.

Johnstone looked thoughtful; Beth silently begged him to accept. She didn't have time to try to hunt down the Lestrades who were in the mooncursing business themselves. Their twenty-four hours were running out, and she wanted them on French soil before the end of it.

Shaking his head, Johnstone turned to Beth. "Lad, I hope you know what you're doing!"

"Trust me," she said solemnly, "I do."

He nodded, and she was hard pressed not to breathe a sigh of relief. "Let's be off, then."

James Moriarty was in the midst of plotting out Elizabeth Lestrade's future when a knock sounded on his office door, followed by Moran's voice: "Professor?"

"Come in, Colonel," Moriarty called.

Moran strode in, not troubling to conceal his satisfaction. "Sir, I have the latest report on Holmes and the girl. They were last seen in a tavern in Newhaven. "

Moriarty arched an eyebrow. "Then it would seem they are hardly exercising caution. Curious." Holmes was acting downright recklessly... "Do take a seat, Moran. " He waited for Moran to do just that, then laced his finger together and continued. "I have been working out the details of our… recovery… operation. First of all, you and Jones will go together; and this is by no means an insult to your talents, Colonel—it is simply a matter of practicality. There can be no room for error."

The gleam in Moran's eyes swiftly turned from relish to resentment; he'd seen enough of Jones at work to at least respect the man's abilities, but still...! "Yes, sir."

Moriarty almost hesitated before continuing: he knew exactly what his lieutenant's response would be, and he did not look forward to the inevitable disagreement. "And I want both our fugitives alive, unharmed, unmolested—yes, Colonel, even Holmes. Watson was Holmes's breaking point; Holmes will be Miss Lestrade's."

The Colonel's lips tightened before answering carefully, "Forgive me, Professor... but you seem to have left me... us almost no room to operate. Our two fugitives are unlikely to surrender, voluntarily or not, without some form of physical persuasion." Which he would be only too happy to provide.

What Moriarty sensed of Moran's thoughts made him reply a bit more acidly than he otherwise would have. "Surely, Colonel, there are ways of recovering them without injuring them."

"There are indeed, sir, but you have to understand I still can't give you any guarantees." Moran's tone turned innocent. "After all, Professor, you were prepared to give Holmes his head and allow him the chance to outwit you..." If Moriarty wanted certainties, perhaps he should be the one to go after them!

The Professor's eyes narrowed at the unspoken message; surely Moran understood why he could not retrieve Holmes and Elizabeth personally. "Clearly, a mistake I shall not make again. And I will still appreciate your caution, especially with the girl." He knew what Moran was capable of doing to the unfortunate women he wanted to bed, and Elizabeth could not be allowed to come to harm, not now.

Moran's jaw tightened, resentment deepening at being told how to do his job by a man who spent all day pulling other people's strings – it wouldn't hurt Moriarty to get his hands dirty for a change. "Of course, sir."

Moriarty sighed; he never enjoyed rocky relations with his right-hand. "Moran, do understand that I still hold your abilities in the highest regard. I believe you will not have any great difficulty in recovering Holmes and Lestrade; the girl, especially, is exhausted and will not be able to continue for very much longer." He had sensed that the poor child had been expecting victory, on the last leg of her endurance, and that the enforced change of plans had been disheartening.

The Colonel's eyes narrowed. "So they'll be looking for a place to hole up – and preferably in a climate where heads stay on shoulders." France was therefore unlikely, most of the Continent, come to that... "I wonder..." A grin began to spread across his face – the irony of the thing was marvellous. "Didn't Switzerland close her borders when the rest of Europe started getting restless?" He snorted. "As if anyone else would even try invading them!" Never mind all the mountain ranges, it was common knowledge nowadays that the country was as riddled as its cheeses with bunkers and tunnels. Even Bonaparte had finally worked out that any attempt at conquest there would be suicide.

The Professor smiled and nodded. "Yes, she did, and I would venture to say that she is currently the second safest nation in the world." He couldn't begrudge Switzerland that status, either—she had earned it.

Moran hummed in agreement. "Would you be good enough to provide a couple of diplomatic passports, Professor? If they cross any borders ahead of us, I'd rather not have to negotiate with the patrols as well."

"But of course." Fortunately, Torchwood had acquired good relations by now with all reigning governments in Europe... not that all of said governments knew that they were dealing with a British organisation. "They can be ready within the hour. Is there anything else you wish to take with you?"

"If the lab team have improved the paralytic serum since its latest field test." The girl had clearly been having trouble breathing when they'd last met – the Torchwood scientists had been working to negate that effect of the drug since its creation – and Moran couldn't afford to have it happen again.

Moriarty nodded. "I believe they have. Will that be all?"

"I believe so. If you'll excuse me, Professor, I should go and confer with my esteemed colleague."

Moriarty's eyes narrowed—none but those who knew the Colonel well would have detected the hint of sarcasm. However, he could not simply allow Moran to handle the operation however he wished; Moriarty did not even want to speculate how Moran would have chosen to catch the pair alone. "Very well. I hope to see the four of you reasonably soon." The Professor smiled faintly. "Good hunting."

"Thank you, sir." Moran rose and left, closing the door behind him with exaggerated care.

One of the great ironies of Holmes's early career was discovering that extreme peril often went hand in hand with extreme boredom – and this Channel crossing very soon proved itself a classic example. Once his and Beth's blindfolds were removed, it took the detective all of ten minutes to deduce the personal lives of every single oarsman, though he took care not to attempt the same with Johnstone at the helm, leaving Holmes with nothing to do except sit and stare out over the heaving water into the perpetual grey light of the false dawn. No horizon could be seen yet, making him very thankful that his last meal had been so long ago – he'd never liked sea travel at the best of times, although the motion of the boat was pleasantly lulling just now. If he could have fallen asleep sitting upright, he would gladly have done so, but every time his eyes closed, icy spray kept hitting him in the face and snapping him awake.

Beth, for her part, decided that she could do with a nap. She smiled tiredly at Johnstone and said, "I think I'm going to catch a few winks." He nodded and smiled back, and she blushed—there was just something about that particular smile that made her feel... she wasn't sure what. Sherlock had certainly never smiled at her like that. When Sherlock looked at her, she was positive he saw only a girl; when Johnstone looked at her, she rather thought he saw a woman, and she liked that.

But her conflicting emotions were not going to keep her awake. She wound her way around the boat to find the driest, softest spot, and ended up on a group of sacks that weren't so hard that they'd prevent her from sleeping. "This'll do..."

Well, thank heaven for small mercies, Holmes thought grimly – Beth would have a much harder time making a fool of herself while sleeping, he hoped. Unconsciously making sheep's eyes at a man who clearly had more than one paramour already... could only end... in disaster...

He jumped as Johnstone elbowed him in the ribs. "God's sake, you chub, find a berth before you keel over!" The smuggler nodded over at Beth with a knowing grin. "Plenty of room next to the boy there." He saw Holmes's expression and sighed. "And here I thought one was slightly less bird-witted than the rest..."

Holmes gave Johnstone a haughty stare, but then reluctantly conceded the point and made his way over to where Beth was still trying to get comfortable.

She looked up as she continued to adjust her claimed space. Oh good, she was hoping he'd take the opportunity to get some rest. "Hey. "

He nodded stiffly. "I don't suppose..." he began, then trailed off, cheeks scarlet, at a loss to even phrase the question – even their time together at Baker Street hadn't been this awkward!

"Right, hold on…" Beth tried to shift the sacks around further to create more space for him, but they were too heavy to move very far. "It's okay, I don't take up much room." She blushed hard—sheesh, awkward.

Trying to look as if he hadn't noticed, Holmes steeled himself and crawled forward. "Well, perhaps with, ah, backs together would be best." Fighting together in such close quarters wouldn't have bothered him, but this...

She shrugged and curled up into a ball, tucking in her limbs. It was her normal state in sleeping these days, after spending enough 'nights' out in the damp cold of London streets.

Relieved by her practical attitude, he lay down next to her cautiously and pulled his coat tighter around himself, head pillowed on his arm.

"Are you okay?" she murmured. She wasn't sure why she asked... except that he probably wasn't okay, and she wanted to help.

Holmes sighed wearily, although still tense from the contact – under normal circumstances, this sort of sleeping arrangement would be highly compromising. "Perfectly, thank you for asking..." He closed his eyes and tried to slow his breathing, hoping she'd get the message.

She hummed softly in response, half asleep already. "'Night..."

"Good night..." Holmes was tired enough that he had to make an effort to use her alias; "Ben." He couldn't deny that she'd more than earned the rest. It suddenly occurred to him as he drifted towards sleep that he hadn't actually thanked her for... well, anything... although right now – cold, bone-weary and ravenously hungry – he wasn't even sure if he wanted to.

"Sorry to disturb you again, Professor."

James Moriarty arched an eyebrow at his lieutenant. "You are back far sooner than I'd hoped you'd be."

"Yes, sir..." Moran tried not to look smug; "but I believe you'll find this item most interesting. " He took the Lestrade girl's phone from his coat pocket and set it on the desk.

Moriarty eyed the phone with undisguised interest—to his knowledge, there were only two such phones in the world at this time and the other he had in his own pocket, which made this one... "I take it this is Miss Lestrade's telephone? "

"Yes, sir. The girl must have lost it during our last... encounter." Moran hoped that Moriarty would be too intrigued to wonder just when he'd acquired it. "If I may make so bold, Professor – the phone itself isn't nearly as interesting as what it contains. "

Moriarty raised both eyebrows expectantly. "Then, pray, enlighten me."

"The girl was keeping a journal of sorts on that device." The Colonel smirked – he'd already gained many priceless insights into the mind of his quarry. "I imagine it should make for enthralling reading. "

Moriarty's eyes widened ever so slightly; such information on his future protégé would be invaluable. Nevertheless, he managed to keep his tone even as he replied, "Enthralling indeed. Thank you, Colonel. "

"Not at all, Professor." Even with an unwelcome hanger-on, this hunt should be most satisfying.

Ria: Can you tell I love Regency-era slang? Researching the language Johnstone and his crew would have used was lots of fun. Speaking of Johnstone... *smirks* Sheesh, Holmes, jealous much?

Sky: Ah yes, that was perf. And it's great to see Johnstone back; I love him. Ahhh, Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock... And poor Beth. It must be so hard, being in the same close quarters with, well, her love and her crush.

Oh, and did anyone else find Moran reading Beth's journal to be honestly terrifying? I mean, the thought of Moriarty doing it is scary, too, but I think there's something just as scary and probably more disturbing about Moran doing it.

Stay tuned for next chapter, and a certain long-awaited reunion... =)