Chapter 11: Starships Were Meant to Fly

At eleven o'clock that evening, with clothes cleaned and pressed, the mask cleaned of sweat, the eyeliner dark and dangerous, and the contacts covering his recognizable eyes, the Raven walked into The Spider's Nest after flashing his I.D. at the bouncer, again paying him to keep his mouth shut. Most of the Widows were chatting up other men tonight, but five of them flocked to his side, purring and touching his shoulders and sides.

"Good evening, ladies," Raven murmured in his deep voice, letting his lips turn up into a shy smile.

The Widows giggled. Raven recognized them as Purr, Sparkle, Acid, Coca, and Malice. He pointed to each one in turn, which made them snuggle towards him in affection. Purr got behind him and wrapped her arms around his ribcage, making him gasp. "My, but you're skinny!" She giggled, standing on tiptoe to rest her head on his shoulder, her blonde pixie cut tickling his neck. "One would think you don't eat well at all!"

"Well, I have a high metabolism," Raven replied calmly, refusing the urge to jerk away from her grasp.

"I wish I did," pouted the brunette Malice.

Raven reached out a hand to brush against her cheek. "Nonsense, my dear Malice. You look beautiful." The Widow blushed and giggled, pulling her cheek from his hand. Purr let him go, and Raven relaxed again. Raven glanced over their heads, trying not to make it too obvious to the five girls in front of him. The bronzed Coca noticed, though.

"Looking for someone, Raven?" She asked tersely.

Raven pretended not to hear the hurt in her voice. "Actually, yes." He smiled viciously. "I happen to be looking for a young lady I met last night…Impala. Yes, that was her name." He nodded as if reassuring himself he hadn't forgotten. "May I see her?"

"She's right over there," Sparkle, another blonde with a pixie cut, pointed to the bar, where a young Indian girl was seated alone. Her braids were done up the same as last night, though tonight, she was wearing blue instead of gold. She looked like one might imagine a genie to look. There was a scarf tied around her thin waist. She was talking merrily to the barkeep, who seemed very interested in doing more than talking.

Raven thanked the Widows and strode towards her. "Miss Impala?"

Impala turned around and looked up with a start. "Oh! You scared me," she chuckled. Her voice still hinted of her original language, but it was obvious she hadn't been raised in Britain. "Can I help you?"

"Yes, actually," Raven sat down at the bar and propped his head on a bent elbow, effectively brushing off the barkeep, who sulked and went away. "I believe we danced last night. Allow me to introduce myself. I am—"

Suddenly, Impala was inches from Raven's face, her nose nudging against the front of the mask. "I know exactly who you are," she whispered, her arms lacing around his neck. Her head moved so that her lips brushed his ear and he shivered; he barely caught her whisper, "Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock jumped, nearly upsetting a nearby drink. "How do you know my name?" He whispered into her ear.

"Well, you certainly aren't the son of a wealthy family come for dancing and sex," Impala replied with a shrug.

"Is that what they think of me?" Sherlock mused thoughtfully. "Interesting."

Impala giggled into her hand. "You have a way of carrying yourself, Mr. Holmes. I knew who you were from the start."

"Rose told me I could find you here," Sherlock straightened his mask. "She said you could give me answers."

Impala seemed taken aback. "Well, if you knew Rose, of course I can help you. But," and she drew near to him again, looking into his eyes with her dark drown ones. "The only way to get any privacy is in the Nests."

Sherlock caught her meaning. "The private sex rooms," he breathed.

"Yes."

Sherlock sighed. "You must know I really have no desire for anything of the sort, nor do I wish to take advantage of you." He pressed his lips against hers.

The kiss was brief, and them Impala pulled away. "My, you are inexperienced, aren't you?" She purred against his lips. "I have no desire for sex either, Mr. Holmes, but at least I have been kissed." She touched his lips again. "Do you trust me?"

"Do what you have to," Sherlock replied. "Anything. Everything." And the command sounded just desperate enough to give the appearance of desire.

Impala climbed onto his lap, straddling him. Sherlock held her easily, his eyes curious but understanding. Impala began to kiss the pressure points on his neck, taking the skin between her teeth just enough so that Sherlock would sigh and cry out from the worrying of the sensitive, ticklish area. Sherlock felt his heart racing, and he began to feel dizzy, though he wasn't sure why. It certainly wasn't arousal—nothing was stirring. Impala pulled away from his neck, looking at him panting and sweaty before her. "Did you like that?" She asked loud enough for surrounding patrons to hear. "Do you want more?" But while her smile was loving, her eyes were filled with their secret purpose.

In answer to the real question her saw in her eyes, Sherlock breathed out a husky: "Yes."

So Impala led him away to her Nest.

Sherlock was still feeling a little dizzy when Impala opened the door and led him down a long, warm corridor. Appreciative moans and sighs from men and women alike leaked out of the closed doors. Some doors were open but dark, where the Widows were out on the dance floor, selecting their prey. How appropriate, Sherlock thought as he tried to fight the dizziness threatening to pull him into the darkness of a faint, I see the reason for the name, now.

Impala led him to her Nest and closed the door. Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief.

The room was full of the thick, heady smell of incense, coming from a small clutch of burning candles under the windowsill. The room was warm, the covers on the bed a soft pinkish-red, the plush carpet a deeper red, the walls a warm brown. Sherlock felt his dizziness fade away (though he knew not what had caused it).

Impala sat on the bed up by her pillows and Sherlock sat at the foot, a little unnerved to be speaking to a prostitute. The girl stretched and folded her hands in her lap. "Okay," she began. "Tell me what you want to know."

"What is Moriarty up to?"

"Straight and to the point? You are more direct than most men." Impala's voice was quiet, seductive. It was little wonder Moriarty sought to add her to his clutch of women. "I am afraid I know little, and the other Widows know less than I do. Our boss is not interested in women."

"Tell me what you know."

"I know he was derailed," Impala replied. "He had plans that depended on you dying in captivity. I'm not sure what they were, but they were dangerous, certainly. Our boss is desperate now. The club is a cover, a way to draw attention to his alias, Rich Brook, so he can work undisturbed."

"But he hasn't drawn attention to Brook. The club was in the papers today, and his name wasn't mentioned."

"He didn't want it in the papers. He's going to announce it tomorrow at the club."

"Do you know anything else about what he plans to do?"

"Rose told me he wanted to 'burn the heart' out of you. I assume that means you care for someone?"

Sherlock's eyes widened. John. "Is Moriarty here at the club?" He demanded.

"No. He won't be here until tomorrow."

Sherlock stood. "Thank you, but I have to go now."

Impala followed him. "If we act appropriately, I can take you out the back." She offered her hand. Sherlock took it.

In no time at all, they were at the back door to the club. Sherlock, remembering Rose's fate, looked seriously at Impala. "You won't get in trouble for this?"

"Hardly," Impala laughed. "Lovers get let out this way all the time. It's fine. Now, kiss me for the cameras."

Sherlock bent down and pressed a quick kiss against her lips. "Thank you, Impala."

When Sherlock got outside, he felt a thrumming weakness flowing through his body. He felt dizzy again, his head spinning wildly. He wondered what the problem was, until he remembered he'd eaten nothing all day. The ache in his stomach was now unbearable, and Sherlock felt lightheaded.

He was going to pass out. Great.

Sherlock hugged the wall and weakly pulled himself forward, hoping cameras weren't in place outside the establishment. He reached a dark, lonely alley and tried to reach for his mobile to call John.

But his weak body could take no more of this abuse. Lack of nourishment had taken a sudden toll on him. It was too much to bear.

Sherlock groaned and passed out.