*This chapter is a little graphic in the beginning. If you'd rather skip the first memory then by all means please do.*

Chapter Ten—Pretenses

An empty chemical flask shattered against the wall. A deafening scream of anger followed after it. Richard Harding was shaking as he stalked through his bedchamber. Thomas had slipped through his fingers AGAIN. He'd let it go the first time, when that damned invisible man interfered, because he'd had his fix of the American then. The emotional high had been enough. He thought it would have been child's play to get within that same reach, but that failed attempt three nights ago proved him wrong.

It was strange, the hold that this boy had over him. It was suffocating, an addiction that clawed at the edges of his consciousness. He sat down and flung his head in his hands, fingers threading through his fine dark hair. It wasn't just the memories of the act itself that plagued him. There were things he needed to know about the boy, what had happened to him after he disappeared from Missouri. He never expected to return to that God-forsaken countryside, but he needed to know that Tom Sawyer was exactly where he'd left him. How he felt when he realized that Tom had left still confused him. He was genuinely frightened, scared that when he bothered to return, things had changed. And the fact that that scrawny little boy had scared him, further enraged him.

A long puff of breath escaped his trembling mouth. Lazily, his eyes opened and lolled about to the stars looking down at him and what he'd just done. With no emotion whatsoever, numbed by the blinding pleasure that had seized his body within the past few agonizing seconds, he let himself slip free from the boy's mouth. It had taken him a long minute to realize he just stood there, leaning against a tree, breathing in the night air. He'd sated his desire like he'd done so many times before. He couldn't hear the boy's gagging, crying, or the struggle that he'd put up. He had learned to tune it out because it only complicated matters afterward.

"Shut up!" Joseph shouted.

Bleary-eyed, Richard finally had the energy to pull his pants upright and make himself decent. He watched as Joseph gave the boy a good thrashing for trying to run. It didn't faze him until the man forced the boy down onto the ground, one hand pinning both arms against his back and the other gripping a bony hip. From Joseph's position, his own legs spread in protecting himself from the boy's, it was clear what he wanted. Richard didn't need to look up from the near-hysterical boy to see the obvious signs of lust in his cohort.

Joseph asked him a question, but Richard didn't respond. The boy made eye contact with him…and he wasn't breaking it anytime soon. It was strange. No one had ever dared to look up before, let alone right at him. Guilt, for one second, held him in an iron-grip like he'd held the boy moments ago. Those eyes that gleamed with fear, pain, and quiet pleadings for mercy in the night made him pause, made him hesitate in his response to Joseph.

"Richard," Joseph warned. "We had a deal!"

His eye twitched. He turned his back. "…so we did," was his hoarse reply. And then he walked away to make sure the other two were finishing up loading their boat. That was what he told himself for ten years.

Among all the girls and boys he'd taken, he remembered that one boy who hadn't even been his first, all because in that second of time, between rapist and victim, he reminded him of his own humanity. An eleven-year old Thomas Sawyer had woken a part of the increasingly infamous Richard Harding that he had long since thought was dead. That boy reminded him that he could feel, that there was something more than the superficial power-thrill of controlling and violating someone, of causing the hurt that had been done to him so long ago.

For the majority of his life he had surrounded himself with simple-minded individuals, all for the purpose of control and manipulation. In order to have others serve under him and for him this was a necessity. Even these scientists, given the proper persuasion, could be placed in that category of weaklings. It sickened him recently that he'd practically wasted his life pining for something that he had to deny himself for the purpose of self-preservation. How he survived through life depended on that need for control. And without that control, the vertigo of his world being upturned was explosive.

So why did he want this boy so badly? Maybe it was a chance at feeling normal again, of remembering for a split second that he was, in fact, human, that he had the capability to feel. Why now? …well, he wanted to know what that felt like again so he could at least say to St. Peter that he did feel remorse, and that he just chose to ignore it like God ignored him. Richard exhaled and pulled his face free from his hands. The problem was that if he wanted to get Thomas Sawyer he would have to take matters into his own hands from now on. There was no more room for further mistakes, especially not now that their experiments had proven successful, and that the next stage was awaiting his order to be set.

His inability to breathe woke him up. Tom's body lurched into action on impulse, grabbing, pulling, and pushing against the fabric of his makeshift bed until he could reach the edge and lean his head over. Wretches and gagging sounds followed, and all he could think, through the fog of panic, was how pathetic they sounded. Once the muscles in his throat stopped contracting, he gasped for air and focused on stopping his entire body from shaking. The only redeeming factor throughout the whole episode was that he managed to keep whatever was in his stomach down.

It was more out of frustration than exhaustion that he threw himself back against the pillows. He still didn't have the strength to stand up on his own, so how was he supposed to make it to this meeting and back without passing out? The message they'd received from Holmes and Bond really left no room for arguments. They wanted the whole League in attendance or the consequences would be severe enough to renounce everything they'd been working for over the past couple of months. Needless to say, someone was right pissed about something, and, from what it sounded like, the League had to answer for it.

And on top of it all he was starting to have the nightmares that used to terrify him as a child. He rubbed a trembling hand against his face to wipe the sweat away but it wound up fisted in his hair. Hadn't he decided to leave the matter alone? Wasn't the matter at hand more important than the problems that shouldn't have even been considered to be problems anymore?

'It's been ten years for God's sake! This is just plain crazy! You ain't that river boy anymore. All of that's behind you…and no one knows about it…'cept maybe the one person you won't let yourself remember…'

He sighed and snaked one hand behind his head as he studied the ceiling of the infirmary. It was true even though Huck's memory did bring him some solace through it all. You could say that the memory hurt as much as it gave him comfort, maybe more considering how hard it was to hand Quatermain that rifle for the first time. How much did he miss Huck? A whole Goddamn lot. He could tell that boy just about anything, and he did for about fifteen years or so…maybe more. It was funny how someone who could mean so much got harder to remember after they died.

And Mina was right. Time did help. Thinking about Huck right now didn't make his stomach twist like it used to. There was still an ache where that bond used to be, but it seemed as if the wound cauterized for the time being. Unbidden but not unwelcome, happier memories of the two surfaced. Tom held back a smile, even though he didn't have to, because he knew it wouldn't last.

Huck just wasn't coming back like Quatermain did, no matter how much he'd beg and plead and pray for it. There was just no way. He still blamed himself for what he had to do that night, and he doubted that he could ever forgive himself for it. But remembering Huck in his prime didn't make him feel as guilty as he feared. It made him cherish the memories that he did have. And it also made him realize one staggering and important thing that he'd forgotten since the start of this whole dirty business. He had one defense against this bastard who tried to ruin his life, one thing that he could never corrupt or touch.

He closed his eyes and took in a deep breath, unafraid of letting the smile loose now as he thought of their old adventures and that contagious laugh that used to ring in his ears. Nothing could ever harm the Huck Finn that dwelled in his memories. He was safe there and, in some inexplicable way, Tom felt safe because of it too.

He knew he'd have to face those nightmares one way or another, and that from now on he would have to be extra careful. Things were definitely complicated, probably more than he realized. But he also had a few things in his favor too, things that he'd forgotten about because he'd been too scared to lace up those boots again. He had Huck. He had Quatermain. And, reluctantly, he had the rest of the League backing him up, willing to take care of him even if he wasn't ready to lay his soul bare just yet.

A gnawing feeling picked at his insides though. What would happen if they did find out, if he did gather up enough courage to tell them? Would he be shunned? Would they ridicule him for being childish about it all? Would they be angry that was the reason why he wasn't able to fully concentrate anymore? Would they turn him loose, not want him, drop him off on the nearest continent and want nothing to do with him anymore?

Well…who would? He couldn't control their reactions. Sodomy was not a topic fit for normal dinner conversation—or for any kind of conversation for that matter. But it wasn't as if he was one of them! He hadn't liked it one bit, and even if he'd been too young to understand it he doubted that he ever would! The thought alone disgusted him, had bothered him for years. As much as he wanted to consider it as just another bump in the road...he was afraid that he couldn't. If it still bothered him this much after ten years...

But what was the use in crying over it all now? It wouldn't make the man go away. And he certainly couldn't run away from it all, not when his friends were this deep in it already. He would give anything to go back home, even if that meant back to his desk job or being sent back home to Missouri after a dishonorable discharge for going AWOL. But some small part of him wanted to see this through to the end, to feel the satisfaction of seeing that bastard behind bars. And he knew that he had the tools necessary to do the job, he just had to get his act together first.

Henry Jekyll scowled at Tom from across the carriage. Quatermain had turned his glaring out the window and into the rain, which Henry supposed was for Tom's benefit, since the boy had fought rather hard to keep from fidgeting. He couldn't really blame Tom for that. The ride was proving to be a most tense experience for all three of them, mostly because neither one wanted any attempt at conversation to erupt into another shouting match. It was bad enough that Tom was being carted from his sickbed when he needed another few days of rest for a full recovery, but Allan's temper had only made it worse.

Henry cleared his throat and chanced a glance over to Tom. They stared at each other for a good half-minute before Tom's fidgeting returned full-force.

"What?" Tom blurted.

Jekyll sighed and muttered, unable to keep his thoughts to himself any longer. "You shouldn't be up. You'll be lucky if you don't catch pneumonia by the time we get back."

Tom merely rolled his eyes, ire leaking into his tone as he spoke. "You know, I'm getting' right tired of repeatin' myself."

"Then by all means," Allan groused. "Keep your smart mouth shut. You're fortunate to sitting here instead of chained to that hospital bed where you belong right now."

Tom held back a wince as he readjusted himself in the carriage seat. "Well, Holmes was pretty clear about what he wanted."

The old hunter grumbled to himself with a string of colorful curses and names that nearly made Jekyll fidget in turn. He could only imagine the initial impression Holmes currently had in Allan's mind.–Don't deny it, Henry. You've thought those same things. You're just too much of a coward to voice them!—He closed his eyes for a moment and schooled his features. Today, of all days, was not the day to give in to Edward.

"I'm sure it wasn't his doing, Allan," Jekyll said. "It was probably Bond's idea, since he has, as of yet, to see us together as a team."

"Whether it was or wasn't is not the point," Quatermain retorted. "You're the doctor. I'm surprised you're going along with this nonsense."

Edward laughed. —Make a fool of the old codger again! Show him who knows best!—Henry frowned. "I'm certainly not happy about it if that's what you're referring to. But crossing either one of them at this point is out of the question. We either continue as we have been for the past several weeks or we become fugitives."

Allan and Tom both turned furrowed brows and unsaid questions to Jekyll. It might have been humorous if not for the elephant in the carriage, which, unfortunately, was Tom's health. But, if Henry could help their conversation from turning to that, yet again, they might just make it to their new headquarters in one piece.

The doctor crossed his arms. "Arson is a not a trivial offense in London."

"We had nothing to do with that building burnin' down," Tom pointed out.

"But the authorities have no evidence to prove otherwise. We were the last ones seen when they started to arrive. It was a wonder we weren't run down and detained. That's implication enough for Scotland Yard to convict us if we don't prove them wrong."

"What happened to innocent 'til proven guilty?"

Jekyll nearly rolled his eyes. "Would you really want to go to court with an invisible man, a monster, a vampire, an Indian captain, and someone who, until a few days ago, was presumed dead to try and prove our innocence on one account of arson? It would be a regular circus. Whether we like it or not, we need whatever help Holmes and Bond are willing to provide."

Tom shrugged. "Who says we have to come back to this country? Would you miss it?" When he received no response he turned to Quatermain. "Would you miss it?"

Henry had to give Tom credit. The front he was displaying was rather good. If it weren't for his sharp eye as a doctor and his natural mothering nature, as Edward constantly degraded him on, he would have overlooked it. Every now and then Tom had to reposition himself to keep the stitches in his side from pulling. His shoulder, thank God, had healed just fine and didn't cause him any discomfort, but the concussion was another story. It took both Jekyll and Quatermain's combined efforts to help him out of bed and steady him as they climbed into one of the two carriages they hired. And even after that it had taken a while for the color to return to his face. For a while he feared Tom would pass out before they left the docking district.

Mina, Skinner, and Nemo had claimed the other one that was following behind theirs. No one was really happy about the summons they received, but what could they do? There was a mess made and it needed to be cleaned up as carefully and as quickly as possible. The only problem was how they were going to go about doing it…and there were certainly differing opinions on the matter…

"You can't be serious?" he asked.

Mina turned away from him and bent over her desk, retrieving Bromley's journal. "There's no need to pull both Tom and Mr. Skinner from their sick beds. I can deal with Mr, Holmes and Mr, Bond if necessary."

"But they wanted all of us. It's clear that they want no more of this anonymity and mystery that we were hired for. We can't ignore the possible consequences—"

"What would they do to us, Henry? They are not the enemy—"

"But they could be! Don't you understand what's at stake here? If we run, if we ignore their threats we could just as easily be accused of treason as these men that we're hunting."

"Not without the proper evidence." She crossed the room and started to retrieve her coat and scarf. –She'll leave you, Henry. What makes you think she'll stay by your side? On anyone's side? She's a woman. And women always have something else up their skirt!—

"What are you doing?" he asked, almost afraid of the answer.

"Getting the proof we need," she answered. Mina tried to step around Henry, coat in hand, but Henry blocked her way, arms outstretched.

"No, you're not thinking of going back to that warehouse, are you? There's nothing left. Scotland Yard's been all over the scene by now."

"There were multiple warehouses in Harding's name. There's a chance we may be able to rectify—"

"By repeating the same approach that we've done before?"

"Of course not!"

"We need their expertise, Mina. They have entrusted us with this case for two months now and the fact that we've failed in obtaining anything concrete that could incriminate them—"

"What do you think I'm trying to do?"

"You're not listening!"

"And you're in my way!"

"I don't care," he shouted. "You're not going out there again!"

Mina stood there, mouth agape. She neither stepped forward in aggression nor stepped back in surprise. The fury started building on her face but all Henry could see was red. How could she even think of going by herself? They were on thin ice as it was and her even suggesting to go alone was ridiculous. The last thing he wanted was a repeat of what happened a few days ago. How could she not understand what it had done to him to see her so vulnerable, that those men had been able to physically hurt her? Did she not care?

She stepped up to him with a face as cold as stone. "Who are you to command me," she hissed, fangs peeking through her sneering delicate lips. "I would hope by now you would know not to mistake me for a common woman."

She breezed past him with ease and he whipped around as quickly as he could but she was already half-way down the hall, slipping her arms into her coat.

"Where are you going—"

"To hire two carriages for tomorrow," she shouted. "One is clearly not large enough for your ego and my nature!"

He had been wrong to question her the way he did. Mina was certainly capable of taking care of herself, and she had proven time and time again that she was in no league with the rest of the female Victorian population, but rather a step above them. She spoke her mind, could hold her own, and displayed more courage than any woman that he had met in his lifetime; she was a rarity as far as women were concerned. It had felt natural to say what he did because he didn't want to see her hurt again. And look where that had gotten him. He knew it was his responsibility to apologize, but he admitted to himself that he was still a little angry, and until that anger abated he dare not cross her again.

The carriage slowed in the rain and stopped at the mouth of an alley. About ten paces down, from what Henry could make out in the rain, was a short set of stairs and a lit lamp that hung over a broad set of double doors. He could tell from the bristling on the back of his neck that Edward didn't like this either, but what else could they do at this point? They didn't quite have a good track record with dark alleyways, but…since they were already here, what was the use in trudging back? The carriage seats had already started to give him a backache. He could only imagine how Tom felt through it all.

Quatermain put on his hat and pulled up the collar of his coat in one quick motion before he opened the door and descended the stairs. Henry scooted towards Tom and offered an arm. Tom barely put any weight on it, which only favored Henry's theory that today was going to be a long day, so he leaned forward and whispered to the American.

"Just promise me that you'll tell one of us if you start to feel out of sorts."

Tom rolled his eyes. "If you promise to stop hoverin' like I'm gonna' drop down dead any second."

"Lad, you look like death already," Quatermain exclaimed as he turned around from the doorway. "Do us all a favor and just accept the hand when it's offered."

Tom looked like he was about to set loose a sharp response but Henry managed to beat him to it by keeping his voice low, preventing anyone beyond Allan's range of hearing from eavesdropping.

"No one expects you to be at the top of your game right now. A concussion is a serious matter. We won't think any less of you."

Begrudgingly, Tom sighed and leaned onto Henry's shoulder, reaching for Allan's arm on the way out of the carriage. "You won't," he muttered.

Henry decided not to comment. The less time they spent out in the rain the better for Tom's recovery. As soon as he clambered out of the carriage, after nearly losing his footing on the slick steps and enduring a few taunts from Edward, he urged their group toward the door. Mina walked in front with Nemo trailing behind. He dared not catch her eye under the protection of her umbrella, not after their row and the endless silence that had since followed. So he trailed behind Quatermain and Sawyer with Skinner, trying, for her sake, to pick up some of the invisible man's talents.

Mina didn't pause to knock on the door, but turned the handle and found it unlocked. Nemo stepped forward to open the other beside it and the League stepped into a large, dark, and warm foyer. Tiled marble flooring covered a square portion of what they were later to learn was a huge complex of personal rooms, testing facilities, offices, and libraries. Up another short level was the rest of the front hall, carpeted floors and steps, furnished hallways with small wall lamps and the occasional chair, wood paneled walls with recesses for portraits and paintings, but few windows on this side of the building. No one dared move as they surveyed their new surroundings.

The atmosphere was thick with a deathly quiet until a female servant came from one of the long hallways and took their wet coats and things. Henry worried about the loss of Tom's coat and barely bit back a rebuke at the absence of a jacket, despite the waistcoat being buttoned for once. Skinner, of course, had no choice. But his bullet wound was practically guaranteed to completely heal even with the presence of a wet coat.

Ahead of them were another set of double doors. One of them opened and spilled a brighter light into the dark foyer. Against the opening was the figure of a man with calculating eyes that gleamed as he turned back to the light source from within the room.

"Ah, I thought as much," the man said. "Mycroft! Your League has arrived."

I'm LATE. There is no excuse. I can only offer apologies and two chapters in compensation for this week, just because I made you wait! I was in the middle of writing it, hating every word, then I changed perspectives and what do ya know? It worked. Just took me a little longer since I didn't even realize I was writing two chapters at the same time, not one.

I had a bit of a realization that in order to bring Sherlock Holmes into the picture I'd have some business with Moriarty to settle. Let's say for now that will eventually be explained in a conversation between Sherlock and Tom but not until the sequel…oh, right. There will be a sequel to this…thing. The end for this fic is nowhere near as of yet. If anything, consider this as the halfway point. Title for said sequel is as follows: An Angel's Requiem.

I'm actually kind of curious as to who is still reading. Please don't be afraid to leave a review! They are quite nice to wake up to in the morning ;)

-Rainsaber