Chapter 2

Author Notes: This chapter features a famous character in Sherlock Holmes lore, one who hasn't been introduced in the Sherlock TV series yet. I played with his character a little bit. I promise he's not as boring as he seems in this chapter! Please review; I want to know how I'm doing so far.

P.S. Every subsequent chapter is named after a song of Long's album Porcelain.

Cautious as she is, Vernette enters the airy kitchen with eyes trained on her. She decides to dress simply, burrowing without permission in the wardrobe. Her unfastened hair pools down her back in sleek ringlets. This man (so it was) knows her clothing size. The knowledge frightens her.

Vernette flashes an Irene smile, giving a calculated look designed to make him at his ease. With studious grace she slides into an empty stool, placing her elbows on the marble counter with hands underneath her elfin chin.

"Morning. Did you fix me breakfast? I have to admit I'm starving."

"A natural statement, that, saying as you haven't had a meal in two days."

She can't stop a sharp gasp. Two days, and her mother hasn't found her yet? Irene, you're off your game. Vernette plucks an apple from the overflowing fruit bowl, all the while discreetly darting her eyes over every crevice. Stainless steel appliances. Cupboard door ajar with assorted boxes peeking out, implying overabundance of food, so this is not a temporary residence. Why bring her here?

"So…" she murmurs, finally looking into his crumpled eyes and willing every truth to emerge there, "I'm assuming this is a vendetta against my mother? I'm not here for ransom. Why should I be: you're already rich. And this isn't some random I'm-gonna-take-a-little-girl-out-of-her-home scheme. It took quite a bit of intelligence to procure me. And of course this has nothing to do with me at all. If you wanted me dead, I'd already be cold. I'm a pawn you're using against my mother. That's the only possible explanation." Vernette dimples her chin, anticipating a negative, but when none comes she smirks with the knowledge that she's right, at least partially.

He saunters toward a sliding door and opens it, a sharp whistle crackling through the dense forest cradling the mansion. A sleek dog bounds into the kitchen. Vernette grunts in distaste. Nothing is special about the dog, other than perhaps a glint of sentiment in her captor.

The man straightens, revealing khakis and a simple, blue button down shirt. His face under the close-clipped beard is overtly mischievous, with something more than average wit gleaming from the dark eyes. His sparse hair, speckled with gray, strings down to his shoulders where he has some, but other than that there's nothing remotely identifying about his appearance.

"You are everything we've been told you would be. Excepting that this is not concerning Irene at all. Oh, Irene…" he pours a steaming cup of coffee, "always the charmer. How is your dear mother?"

"Not very well, sorry," she gets out. "I think she's had a fright."

Vernette looks down at her apple. Her throat feels thick, suffocating her. She puts it back in the bowl.

"That's too bad. Anyway, we haven't had proper introductions. I'm Sebastian, associate of the late Jim Moriarty. I'm here to finish what he started."

"Moriarty? I've never heard of him."

"I'm not surprised. That was when you were just a baby, after all. My, weren't you cute!"

Oh my God. Vernette shrunk in her chair. He's been watching me all these years? Who is he?

"So how do I, this guy Moriarty, and my mother have to do with each other?"

"I told you this isn't about Irene,"

"Well it isn't about me!" she savagely cuts in. With a severe mental effort she constrains her rising frustration. "What do I have to do with it?"

"This, this is very complicated. It started before you were born, and I am sorry to have dragged you into it. It's not your fault. Yet this is how the cookie crumbled, you know? You take what you get. Anyway, Moriarty had this obsession with your dad—"

"My dad?"

"Can you quit interrupting! Yes, your father. Your mother worked for Moriarty, until she failed him. She had to run then. Your father didn't know nearly as much about Jim as Jim knew about your father. Moriarty died. Then your father did, or so we thought. Now we're trying to draw your father out, and we'll use you to do it."

"My father doesn't know I exist, and he obviously didn't care about my mother since they've never talked or anything since, well, since forever. If he does know about me, any leverage you think you have against him is nonexistent. Why would he do anything to protect two women he doesn't have the least interest in?"

Sebastian strokes the dog's ruddy fur. While appearing to ignore her, Vernette knows he's considering everything she's said; it maddens her that he makes no reply. She feels traces of tears welling in her eyes, and wills them painfully back inside her head, leaving her face hot and clammy. She hopes he won't notice.

A hint of silver glistens in the sink: a spoon. Vernette sidles away from Sebastian, her heart feeling like it's entangling her chest. Vernette never thought of herself as a potential murderer. Now, however, she accepts what she's about to do—

A smooth mask of apathy slides into place as Sebastian whips around. Her fingers wrestle the spoon into her back pocket. With measured nonchalance she folds her shirt over her bulging jeans, emitting a shaky breath as mingled thoughts struggle against each other: Can I really kill him? I don't want to be that person, I don't want to become heartless…soulless. Maybe there's another way. God, there has to be another way. What would Mom do? Vernette discreetly exits, deciding to bide her time.

Vernette fingers every crevice, every speck of her bedroom, doggedly determined to find an escape. The windows are, predictably, nailed shut. No amount of analysis reveals any possible way to leave. Desperately she presses a nail down, not really expecting the window to spring open, and with a rueful smile she flecks dust off the windowpane.

Even if the window miraculously opens, there's nothing Vernette can grab to safely descend. A pipe to the roof juts out above, and if she can make a ladder…but no, there are no materials useful for that purpose. Sebastian only provided her with one pair of clothes. Utterly exhausted, she leans against the armoire.

Vernette disinterestedly opens the top drawer, revealing a cache of expensive jewelry. Pearl necklaces, thick, silver chained bracelets and rings, emeralds glinting in the recesses.

Oh my God. Vernette sinks slowly to the ground with a necklace entangled in her hand. She laughs weakly, pressing it to her cheek, tears streaming down her face and splattering the carpet. The laugh grows stronger, assured, triumphant. She has her answer.

Vernette's clever fingers, riddled with dents, drop pearls of blood from the inner corners. Hidden in the closet, she hastily strings together the myriad of ornaments. A vivid recollection flashes into her mind: Irene, red nails darting between rings of pale green and red paper on Christmas, tape between her vibrant lips. Vernette, a chubby child with clusters of curls framing her cheeks, cuts the paper in jagged ribbons. She sighs. She had never missed her mother so much, not even during the drawling weeks of absence. I always knew I'd see her again. Now I have no guarantee.

Finally the work is done. A lump of metal, diamonds and gold tumbles over Vernette's lap. Every chain is formed three necklaces strong, in case one or two snap. Even now she doesn't believe it can hold her weight. I have to try. Vernette takes the chiseled spoon handle and twists the screws from the window. Heaving, she bursts it open, taking a second to breathe in the noxious London air curiously mixed with country pine. Now is the hard part. She flings the rope toward the pipe. First attempt: utter failure. She winces as it clatters against the side of the house. After many more unsuccessful attempts and cold sweat, the loop catches. She tugs it once. Secure.

Straddling the window frame, she mutters a silent prayer to the powers that be for her preservation. Maneuvering her body, she inches down the side of the house in miniscule leaps, tentatively looking up at the pipe. It groans slightly. She shivers. Finally she jumps, and soft mud squelches under her sneakers. Vernette resists the urge to vomit. With a sudden desire for vengeance she tears the chain and clenches as many necklaces as possible.

A sharp gasp echoes behind her. Vernette swivels slowly, terrified. A gardener, with slack jaw, pops his weathered eyes nearly out of his head. Vernette doesn't hesitate. She sprints frantically toward a break in the trees, tears flying, mingling with her streaming hair.