Chapter Ten: Petals
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters apart from Cordelia and Thorn Rivers, who are of my own invention. All rights go to the BBC.
-Here's a little fluff to apologize for the long wait! Please enjoy!
"Where are we going?" Thorn dipped her small head to avoid a man who was shaking loose raindrops from his slim, black umbrella. "Northumberland Street's a five minute walk from here," Sherlock commented as he upturned his stiff coat collar against the pernicious wind as it blew a frigid breath across the avenue. A thick swirl of charcoal colored clouds burdened the sky. "You think he's stupid enough to go there?" John queried in surprise. "No. I think he's brilliant enough to go there. I love the brilliant ones- they're always so desperate to get caught." Thorn looked confused as she nimbly dodged a cluster of tulips growing near her feet; they drank in the rain, and she could see the flowers' red throats as they sipped from the storm. "Why?" she wondered aloud.
"Appreciation! Applause! At long last the spotlight. That's the frailty of genius, Thorn: it needs an audience." Sherlock explained, his eyes a bright silvered mist in the street lamps. "Who doesn't like a little recognition for their work?" He peered at the remote moon, its natural clarity dimmed by distance and city light. "This is his hunting ground, right here in the heart of the city. Now that we know his victims were abducted, that changes everything. Because all of his victims disappeared from busy streets, crowded places, but nobody saw them go. Think! Who do we trust, even though we don't know them? Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd? Thorn, any clue?" He glanced at the young girl as her thick braid bobbed rhythmically behind her; her pale pink lower lip swelled with concentration, dark irises pregnant with a mystery. "No idea," she admitted. "I'd have to consider it for longer."
"I haven't the faintest," the detective agreed as he sniffed the air delicately; a florist's push-cart overflowing with a ravishing display of blossoms was perched on the curb; blue, orange, green, lavender, pale pink, white flowers lining the innards of the labeled boxes, prices scrawled haphazardly in smudged indigo ink. Suddenly, Sherlock froze in his tracks and offered the vendor a pound or two; she handed a single healthy daisy to him, wet soil from a potted lily spilling onto the pavement. "This for someone special sir?" she asked in a thick Cockney accent as he held the stem up to the light. "You could say that," he replied softly. He turned and walked over to Thorn, handing it to her; it stretched lithely in the night as the pale petals quivered in the breeze. He winked at he r, and then spoke to John, all emotion cleared like chalk from a slate. "Hungry?"
….
Angelo's restaurant was a picture; ancient coils of Christmas lights twinkled and glistened as they wove intricately through boughs of holly and pine and spruce. A silver wind chime sung to the rushed passerby as they blurred past in a fray of pastels and rain macs; the inviting scents of roasting chestnuts, thyme, and mint invited customers in, an old radio wheezing from a shadowed corner. "Ah, Sherlock!" Angelo greeted cordially, the rough stubble on his chin grey and patchy. "Always a pleasure; anything you want, free, yes? And for the little lady, too. What's your name, child?" he inspected the trio curiously with the dulled dark brown of his eyes. "And how do you know Mr. Holmes?" Thorn toyed with the daisy stem, winding it around her index finger as she responded. "I'm Thorn," she answered in a voice as soft as light rain pattering a window. "Sherlock is simply looking after me this week, because my sister is out of town." Angelo's suspicion flew away and his expression grew kinder, his tone light-hearted. "Ah, I see now. Thorn, hmm. A pretty name for a pretty girl," he teased endearingly. "Imagine, a little thing like you, running after criminals in the dark of London. Oh well! I'm sure Sherlock knows best. Why don't I get you the chef's choice? Chef's choice? Okay, sounds good. I'll get it for you." And he scuttled away to the steamy kitchens before the girl had an opportunity to reply. "That's Angelo," John laughed quietly. "He's quite the character. Sherlock helped him out a few years back- got him out of some legal trouble."
The detective ruffled his dark curls and gazed out of the window, foggy from the heat. "Look. Across the street. Taxi." He murmured absently, the pale orange lights shimmering on the glass pane. "A taxi?" John spluttered, confused. "Yes John, a taxi. Do try to keep up, I know it's hard for you." Sherlock spat bitterly. "Why a taxi? Oh that's clever. Is it clever? Why's it clever?" John knocked his tarnished silverware to the side as he leaned across the table to see. "Is that him?" he pressured, squinting, the wrinkles on his skin outlined in the softer folds of his eyelids. "Don't stare," Sherlock ordered, continuing to lock his piercing blue gaze on the cab as the thick rubber tires splattered water like running paint onto the sidewalk. "You're staring," John pointed out. "We can't all stare," he huffed in response. "Quickly, Thorn. Grab your coat." He seized his Belstaff and ripped the chair from its position, the brown fabric napkins fluttering and the warm candle wavering in its jar. The passenger in the taxi stared back the imposing detective, both pairs of eyes meeting, calculating. Suddenly, the driver rolled sharply off the curb and vanished into the thick streams of traffic. "Thorn, on my back," he ordered and crouched swiftly as the slim girl hooked herself onto his lengthy limbs, as though he was a wild thoroughbred colt, eager for the races. "Hold tight. It won't help the case if we wind up in the emergency room." Her thin arms, like flower stems, wrapped gently around his neck as he rose to his full height. He yanked open the rusting door and leapt into the flowing crowds of humans before spotting the receding cab. He bunched his muscles like a scavenging leopard before vaulting over a bonnet, John cursing and hurtling over it clumsily from behind.
"After it!" his voice was swallowed by the collective rasp of the city crowds. "We can't let it get away!" the detective grinded his palms to his throbbing temples. "Right turn, one way, road-works, traffic lights, bus lane, pedestrian crossing, left turn only, traffic light," he recited rapidly into the noise of the darkening streets. He dashed unseeingly into the rush of locomotives, dodging a snarling pack of bloodhounds, a mewling litter of calico kittens a woman was giving away, and a pair of quarreling children. He charged like an enraged bull up a staircase while crushing a middle-aged man into a peeling brick wall in the process. "Oi!" he shrieked as the pale detective departed up the spiraling staircase; John muttered an apology as he flitted after his flat-mate. "To the roof, John!" Sherlock barked. He opened a metal hatch and nightfall shed its coat of stars upon them as they emerged. Setting Thorn down, Sherlock estimated the distance between two rooftops before hurling himself across one. "Come on, Thorn, you can jump," he urged her quickly. "No time to waste. Just trust me." The child's chocolate irises widened at the sheer length of the necessary leap, but she back up to the edge of the wall. She nimbly catapulted across to the other rooftop, arms laced with wind and hair rolling in the dark. "Good girl," Sherlock murmured. "Here's John." The doctor grumbled but lunched his stocky frame to the brick building. "Cordelia would have our heads off if she knew what we were doing," he wheezed, sweat pooling deep in his brow's creases. "This is insane." But Sherlock had already shimmied swiftly down a shaky fire escape to the depths below. "He can't just wait like a normal person," the doctor grouched as he and Thorn followed in his large, wet footsteps, imprinted with rain. "Every single time."
"Police! Open her up!" the detective rapped unrelentingly on the cold window of the long-sought taxi: the trio had finally caught it after much cursing, stumbling, and sprinting. He panted heavily like a dog sweltering in the heat as he pried open the rear door; a nervous young man with curling wisps of brown hair and high cheekbones peeked beneath his fringe to see Sherlock. "No," the detective groaned with a wounded sigh. "Teeth, tan; what- Californian?" he briefly skimmed the paper luggage tags in the dimmed glow of the streetlamps. "L.A., Santa Monica. Just arrived. You can tell by checking the baggage." He grimaced sheepishly at the passenger. "It's probably your first trip to London, right, going by your final destination and the route the cabbie was taking you?" He fluffed his onyx curls. "Sorry, are you guys the police?" The man asked bemusedly as he inspected him and John- Thorn was conveniently out of sight. "Yeah," the detective breathed as he slipped a white hand into his black coat. "Everything alright?" He presented a nicked police badge with a flourish before storing it in his pocket again. "Yeah," the passenger responded with a smile. Sherlock appeared to consider this for a moment before grinning falsely at the foreigner. "Welcome to London," he puffed grandly, before abruptly waking away; John took his place with a vacant look staining his features. "Er, any problems just let us know." He closed the door and returned to his friend. "Basically just a cab that happened to slow down," he confirmed.
'"Basically."
"Not the murderer."
"Not the murderer, no."
"Wrong country, good alibi."
"As they go."
"Hey where- where did you get this? Here." He pried the police badge from Sherlock's palm. "Detective Inspector Lestrade- bet he's wondering where this is." He frowned slightly as he thumbed the name. "Nah-he has a new one. I pickpocket him when he's annoying. Give it to Thorn. She can keep that one. I've got plenty at the flat." The doctor reluctantly passed the white plastic card to the patient girl; she grasped it so lightly, it was as if she were handling Cinderella's glass slipper. "If Cordelia asks where you got this from, it was a souvenir from a trip to Scotland Yard," he warned her; she nodded slightly as she toyed with it. Out of the blue, she began to laugh- it was the kind of noise that causes contentment to all who listened. "What?" Sherlock demanded as she twittered. "Nothing," she chortled as she covered her mouth self-consciously. "Just- welcome to London." This earned a soft chuckle from both men. It was short-lived, however, because they noticed a real police officer staring at them suspiciously. "Got your breath back?" Sherlock huffed as he nodded in the vague direction of the main road. "Ready when you are," John whispered. They pivoted and dashed madly into the blackness.
John and Sherlock collapsed against the faded red wallpaper of the hallway, wrestling for breath with their lungs; Thorn perched on the second step of the dusty wooden staircase, exhausted. She leaned her flushed cheek against the refreshing cold of the railing. "That was," the ex-soldier rasped hoarsely, "the most ridiculous thing I've ever done with you- and that's a wide margin." The detective grinned crookedly. "And you invaded Afghanistan." They wheezed a laugh. "Oh look," John murmured as he gestured to Thorn. "She's asleep." And she was; nestled in the crooks of the wood with black clouds of hair covering her closed eyes. A slight smile played on Sherlock's lips as he stooped down to her low level. He scooped her up easily and she instinctively buried her head in his chest. He carried her slowly upstairs to her room, John trailing behind like a loose string from a ball. "We must have tired her out- all that running and excitement. It's hard to remember she's still just a child," he mused as the consulting detective bore the unconscious girl to her bedroom. "There we go," he murmured as he lay her down on the cool cream sheets; he noticed something slip from her hand and fall to the floorboards. Crouching down and picking it up, he deciphered the thin form of the pure white daisy he had given to her earlier. Rising, he silently left the room and wove his way to the recently tidied kitchen, pausing at the sink. He filled a clean beaker with lukewarm water before screwing off the tap and returning to Thorn's bedside. Placing the beaker on the nightstand, he gently arranged the flower in the water, before looking to his sleeping charge. He noticed John had already changed her into something soft- but neglected to tuck the covers around her. He reached out a pale hand and drew the warm blankets to her chin, brushing back a few loose curls and kissing her cheek tenderly. The doctor bid him a quiet goodnight, a whispered word in the still air. After he left, Sherlock touched her milky cheek and kissed her forehead gingerly. "Goodnight, dear," he murmured softly. Then he departed into the deep recesses of the apartments, grey socked feet pattering quietly, like snow on a roof. Everything was still. Everything was quiet. The daisy's pale petals breathed in the moonlight and bobbed in the beaker, the long ribbon of green stem floating in the water. Everything was still. Everything was quiet.
Everything was quiet.
A/N: There's no excuse for not updating for so long- almost a month, actually. I do hope you enjoyed this little scene; we're warming up for the big action in A Study in Pink. Please expect updates in the future, I'm looking forward to resolving the case! What do you think so far? Please review: it means the world to me. Thanks for reading! - And please read on! (Responses to reviews will be sent) An especial thank-you to:
-shezza5ever
-tiger0lily
-jsins
-Willow owl
Until next time,
-TheArtist59
Willow owl: Again, thank you for the wonderful reviews! (Still grinning like an idiot here.) Please continue reading and critique! I hope you enjoyed it this time!