Day Eight:

The money. There always seemed to be more money coming from Mary. And John didn't trust that. She seemed kind, innocent… and yet he knew better than to trust her now. He had made many mistakes in his life, and he was not about to make another one.

"That man, there, look at him," someone whispered from behind John. The ex-soldier turned around quickly and glanced around for who had spoken. A woman was furrowing her brows, muttering gently to a man that John assumed to be her husband. She was tall with a slim figure; her large hazel eyes were locked on John.

"Can I help you?" John asked tersely.

"Are you Dr John Watson?" she asked, stepping away from her husband and pulling her purse off of her shoulder. John nodded, raising his eyebrows and reaching for a gun that was not strapped to his waist. Another woman he couldn't trust, another threat... That was all he saw in her. His soldier's instincts kicked in easily.

Her 'husband'- he doubted the title now after seeing the way they stood around each other- was strong, obviously. Under his tight t-shirt his muscles bulged. The way the man carried himself proved he was dangerous- he held himself forward, aggressively, and his hands were held tightly behind him, a soldier's stance. He had a large scar tracing from his forehead, over one of his eyes, and across his cheek. John did not like the look of him. Or the woman either. She was deceivingly helpless-looking, with her carefully curled hair and her nails unpolished, but carefully trimmed.

"Yes," he said, watching them both intently.

"My boss told me to give you a little something." She pulled out package from her purse. It was wrapped in a plastic bag. John took it, glaring her down the whole time.

"What is it?" he asked, not sparing a glance at it.

"It's a little gift, don't question it." Her smile was gone, replaced by a hollow, toothy grin. She was not longer comely, but predatory. "Come along, Basher," she said to the man, taking his arm and shrugging her purse back onto her shoulder.

John watched as the two left. He knew that Moriarty had sent them; he knew that he was being baited. He didn't care. He opened the bag with trepidation, half-expecting it to be dangerous or worse, a note mocking his failed attempts to locate the consulting detective.

Instead, there was a single syringe inside of the bag. It was not filled with anything, and it seemed to have been entirely unused. John looked up quickly.

He was about to call out, to demand that the two explain what the syringe meant, but the man and woman were gone. There was no one around, though. The two had disappeared into thin air, it seemed. John clenched his free hand into a fist and snarled to himself. Damn Moriarty, he thought, raging internally. He couldn't trust anyone. He pulled his backpack off of his shoulders and put the package into it. John stared ahead at the way the 'couple' had left, shaking his head at himself angrily.


The child scampered around quickly, listening and seeing too much. He had small eyes that made him looked much like a mouse and small hands that made their way into pockets with ease. He had a grimy twenty dollar bill clutched in his hands as he darted about, watching for tourists who weren't paying close attention to their wallets and purses. Within minutes, he had a wallet and another twenty dollar bill, but he looked unhappy. His eyes were darting around, looking for a specific person.

He was listening too, listening carefully. There were at least six different languages flying around, but the boy was not concerned about it all that much; he was listening for a name. He had been paid to find Sherlock Holmes, and he was intent on doing so. There were people everywhere, noises everywhere, but the child was used to it.

He ran through back-streets and alleyways, past restaurants and bars, around animals and homes, completely unnoticed. He was an urchin, a nobody. Tourists pities him, locals sneered at him… He was a nobody, and the alleyways were his home. The alleyways were where he heard the name. The name was so strange, so foreign.

A woman was speaking it, purring it. She had a plastic bag in her hand and was talking to someone around a corner. The small boy moved, trying to get a look at the person she was addressing, but didn't see more than a shadow. A tall shadow. The woman held out the bag, raising her eyebrows. "I brought you your supplies, Mr Holmes, I hope you're okay with it." A gloved hand took the bag. In a British accent, the man replied,

"Yes, it'll do. Thank you, Clarice." The man then disappeared into the shadows. The boy retreated backward, hoping that the woman would not come his way. There was no sound in the night other than the chirping of cicadas and the crunching sound of boots from the deserted main road. The boy watched a man in a jacket began walking away, sweeping into the night at a quick pace.

The boy knew what he had to do. He had to find the man that gave him the money. He had found Sherlock Holmes. He walked through the night, not even thinking about what was going on around him. He was aware, yes, but he knew the area so well that he hardly even had to spare time to consider what was going on around him. The hotel near where he had met the short Englishman was in the tourist district, not too far from where he was.

The lights were actually turned on around the hotels in an attempt to make the city look safer. The boy enjoyed the area because the newcomers were so comfortable where they thought they were safe. They looked away from their children and their money, thinking that all would be okay. The boy knew better. The tourist district was one of the worst places to be simply because tourists were so clueless and thoroughly convinced that they were untouchable.

And standing outside a hotel, wearing a sweater in a conglomerate of ungodly colours was the man that had given the boy the money. The boy walked up to him, glancing around warily for others.
"You came back," John noticed, surprised. The boy nodded and pulled out the twenty dollar bill.

"Worth a lot," he said. "Found Sherluck. Traded bag with women. Left quick. Sherluck knows streets better than Luca."

"Luca?" John asked, bending down so he was more at the kid's level. The child pointed to himself. "Oh, Luca… Can you tell me where Sherlock and the other people were?"
"One person. One women. At Tahavra Avenue." John's expression softened. The boy in front of him was dirty, scrawny, and ill fed.

"Luca, would you like to spend the night in a hotel room? It's a little nasty, but it's cheap. I can get you a room." The boy shook his head and jerked a thumb back towards where he came.

"Jennay waiting." The boy made his arms into a cradle and rocked them, trying to emphasise that Jennay was a small child. He had forgotten the English word for baby. John tapped his finger against his cane. After a moment of contemplation, he reached into his pocket where he had put an energy bar.

Luca jumped away, expecting a weapon or an attack. He had learned long ago that people would use him without issue. Instead, though, he was given food. He looked up at John in amazement and nodded his head.

"I keep looking for Sherluck," he promised. The boy darted away as quickly as he came, using the shadows to hide himself expertly. John simply stared after him. For the first time since he arrived, he had actually learned something truly useful.

When his phone buzzed, John was not surprised. When he read the message, he was not surprised. When a similar feeling of anxiety settled into the pit of his stomach, he was not surprised.

My, oh, my. I was told by my sniper and my informant that you didn't understand my gift. Pity. -JM