Chapter 9
Sherlock grunted as he swung the last garbage bag over the bridge. There had been ten in all; Ubar had been a large man. John looked over the edge as the bag hit the water with a splash. It was dark out, he could barely make out the water rippling away from what he thought had been Ubar's head. They'd decided to spread him out over several different bridges, this last on the outskirts of London heading west.
Sherlock dusted his hands together, obviously satisfied with a job well done. They walked back to Mrs. Hudson's Ford Mondeo where Vara waited comatose and cold in the back seat. Sherlock started the car and headed further out-of-town, driving carefully so as not to attract attention. John looked back, checking on Vara for the hundredth time. Still cold, still no pulse. "She exhausted herself," John said. "She hurt herself terribly to save us."
Sherlock drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. "I wonder if we could put her in a tanning bed," he said.
John turned to him. "Run that by me again."
"Think about it! She needs UV light, that's what they use," he shrugged, "I don't see why it wouldn't work."
"And how, exactly, are we going to get a woman who appears dead into a tanning parlor?"
Sherlock pursed his lips. "Hmm, good point. I guess we'll just have to wait 'till sunrise."
"Where are we going, anyway?"
"Far away. Obviously Mr. Ubar," Sherlock sneered, "wasn't working alone. God only knows how long it'll take him to come back together again but I'd rather be outside a fifty mile radius when he does."
"Yeah…" John looked out of the window at the tail end of London at night. They were getting into the suburbs where things quieted down a bit, the lights farther and farther apart as the urban sprawl dwindled then eventually gave way to rolling countryside. It had taken them the better part of the day to dispose of Ubar. John had come back to the room cradling a broken Vara in his arms to see Sherlock decked out like Dexter the Lumberjack. They had to take their grisly task in shifts; Vara had really done a number freezing him and it felt like carving solid stone. Then poor Mrs. Hudson had come home and while John distracted her downstairs, Sherlock bagged up what they had and cleaned up the worst of the mess. The blood though, Vara's blood, was on the floor like someone had spilled a gallon of dark red paint that refused to clean up properly. So they did the only thing they could do which was to pack up, borrow Mrs. Hudson's car, and get the hell out of London.
John sighed and looked back at Vara again. "Oh quit that," Sherlock said exasperated. "She's fine. You saw her. Hole the size of your fist in her chest and she took that walking mountain down like a champ. You know, that was actually pretty impressive of her."
John blinked in disbelief. "Well," he said, "you make sure to tell her that when she wakes up."
Sherlock grimaced. "I don't know if I'd go that far," he said.
John smiled and reached back to hold Vara's limp, cold hand. "I may have an idea," he said.
"Oh?" Sherlock asked.
"Yeah, my family always went on holidays down in Cornwall. I know my way around some of the smaller villages pretty well. I'm sure we could find somewhere to stay."
"Works for me. There's too much of this that I don't understand and I need somewhere quiet to think. Then, once she recovers, I can get some answers out of her."
John frowned. "She's been through a lot Sherlock, don't be too rough on her."
Sherlock huffed. "She'll be fine." He glanced down at John's hand holding Vara's and sighed. "You're getting too attached."
"What?" John bristled.
"Don't 'what' me. You think this is going to turn out well, the two of you? Please. Not only is she thousands of years old she's being hunted for who knows what reason by people or things just as unnatural as she is. You plan on growing old with her, are you? You will, she won't. And she's already said she wouldn't give a damn if either of us died. It doesn't sound promising to me."
John glared at him for a moment and then his shoulders slumped in defeat. "Ah, hell Sherlock, you're right." He looked at her still form in the darkness. "She is lovely though. Of course, it's not me she wants," he said, trying hard not to sound bitter.
"God help whomever she does want," Sherlock said, willfully ignorant. John just shook his head and kept his vigil. Vara may not love him, but he would still do his best to keep her as safe as he could. And if she got it into her head to care for Sherlock Holmes then he will offer her a shoulder to cry on for that as well.
The sun was beginning to peek over the horizon when they rolled into some random southern hamlet that suited their needs. It was small, remote, and had a vacancy. While John got the room and gritted his teeth through the "one bed or two?" routine, Sherlock parked the car around back in the biggest patch of sun he could find and hauled Vara onto the roof of the car.
Sherlock leaned against the trunk and rolled up his sleeve to apply yet another nicotine patch to his forearm. He could really use a cigarette. Hell, he'd settle for a ridiculous pipe at this rate. It would've made him more predisposed to enjoy the beautiful sunrise over the ocean, the splash of light on the waves and the crisp sent of salt-air in his lungs when all he wanted was the sweet burn of ash and smoke. He glimpsed up at Vara, a pathetic lump on the top of the car, one hand flung carelessly over the side.
He had examined Ubar carefully before crudely dissecting him. Besides a bad taste in clothes, he hadn't gotten much. That he, Sherlock Holmes, master of deduction, had drawn a blank was irritating. The care Ubar had taken to give no hint of his origin or lifestyle showed that he was more than muscle and insults, he had been smart. Was smart, he supposed. Sherlock doubted their stunt would do anything more than slow Ubar down. And Sherlock would do it all again, every whack. Vara's pet, was he?
"You look like you could chew nails," John said, interrupting Sherlock's murderous train of thought.
Sherlock slid his eyes to John and watched as he, yet again, checked Vara's pulse and temperature. He was doting on her as though she were a fragile little flower. What a joke. She could probably survive a nuclear blast and from the way John treated her it was as if she were spun glass. That's where caring got you, he supposed.
"Do you want to stay out here or shall I?" he asked John.
"Well," John said, "you haven't slept in a few days. Maybe you should try…"
"I'm fine," Sherlock said, cutting him off. As usual when he became frustrated he took it out on the nearest warm body.
"Right. Well, I'll go in then and get us settled." John slammed the car door a little too hard after retrieving their bags and stomped around the building to their room.
Sherlock took a deep breath and closed his eyes, the rising sun warm on his face. Finally, peace and quiet. On the long drive down he had forced himself to accept the situation's reality. He wouldn't fight any longer with the inevitability of Vara's story. Facts were facts and if he refused to acknowledge them it would be a mistake that could bite him in the ass. After that life altering decision there were still too many questions left unanswered. The biggest, the one driving him nearly mad, was why Vara's life, or whatever you want to call it, was in such danger. Her family obviously wanted her back and weren't afraid to crawl over human bodies to do so. They didn't hesitate to hurt her either. Ubar had been more than physically violent, he'd been cruel and it came to him as easily as breathing. Sherlock wondered how long she had been called "whore" by them. What abuse had she suffered, indignities large and small tolerated for hundreds, possibly thousands of years? If he looked at it from that point of view it was easy to see why she would want to escape, but there was something more, something missing. Ubar's actions were those of a desperate man. He had been sloppy hiring a sniper, showing himself to Sherlock and John, it made no sense. What on earth had she done to scare them so badly?
Sherlock heard a tiny groan and looked back to see Vara stirring. "Ah, good," he said, cheering considerably. He stood over her, the car low enough that he could see her well, and watched carefully as she woke up. It didn't happen suddenly like in the lab at Bart's she just stirred fitfully like waking from a long nap and opened her eyes.
"Good morning," he said. "Can you speak?" He carefully moved aside her ruined dress to watch as her partially mended chest wound slowly began to heal completely. He didn't want to disturb her recovery of course, but he couldn't resist the urge to lay one finger near her breast bone to feel the muscle move beneath the skin. He could no longer see into the raw cavity of her chest but he could hear the small popping noise of her ribs snapping back in place and her destroyed scapula scrape back together. "Fascinating…" he breathed.
She took a deep, slow breath and said, "I could wake up to see your face every day for eternity and never once be tired of it." Sherlock blinked in surprise. He jerked his hand away from her chest. "Ah," he said, stammering, "that's, um, nice. Listen, do you need to stay out here or can we go inside now? We're a little exposed out here."
Vara gave a little laugh and winced. "Yeah, I am feeling a bit exposed," she said. She held out her arms and Sherlock carefully gathered her to him placing her arms around his neck. Vara nestled her head against his chest. She could hear his heart beating. He had one, maybe there was hope.
