Thanks, silent song of shadows. It is good to know people enjoy this story. :-)
Chapter Twelve
The police officer looked tired, but strained a smile to attempt pleasantry. "Just sign here, please, and take this form over to that desk with your ID. You are familiar with the procedure?"
Aidan nodded her answer even as she followed the weary desk officer's instructions, then put the pen down with a small return smile. "Thanks, though," she followed the nod, "the layout always seems different between stations."
She was off on the edge of London this time, having paid an early morning visit to Mike and found that one wanted troublemaker was heard to be loitering off in the south reaches of the city. That was the easy part—next she had to catch the guy. Relying on shop owners and neighborhood kids along the way, she eventually managed to track one Richard Larkson to the Norwood Junction of the London Overground. From there it was a short trip to the nearest police station after the cops were called, and then began the paperwork.
Aidan checked the time on her phone. 9:53pm, and she had yet to even start on her way back to Baker Street. She'd have to catch the Overground over to the Hammersmith & City line via Whitechapel, and take the Tube west to Baker Street. Thankfully it was pretty straightforward, but she guessed that itself would take an hour, at the very least. She also needed to factor in transit time back to the station, probably a ten to fifteen minute drive if she remembered right. If she was out of here in the next twenty, then she could very well make it back before midnight.
A text came in from Mike. Stopping in tonight?
No, she texted back, changed schedule for the day, heading to bed as soon as I get back. Long day.
Okay. See you tomorrow?
Yeah, schedule me for a shift at the bar if you can. I'll see what jobs you have there, otherwise.
Great. Will text hours in the morning.
Thanks. Goodnight.
Aidan put her phone away again and stepped up to the desk she had been pointed to. "Hey," she greeted with a smile, and the officer smiled back. His was a bit more genuine, refreshing after her day, and her tense shoulders relaxed. Maybe, just maybe, things would end on a high note.
... . . . ...
The train ran over its track with a loud clatter as the cars passed through the Underground tunnels and hummed. "Next stop, Baker Street Station," the automated recording informed the scattering of passengers. Aidan picked her head up from the window and watched the lights go past, only paying attention with half an ear to the rest of the message. She didn't care that Edgeware Road and Paddington stations were coming up next, just that she would soon be back on the crappy old mattress that served as her bed. It was decent, she supposed, but first thing after she got the next large check, she was getting a new one.
"Mind the gap" signaled the moment to leave, and she ditched her day pass in a rubbish bin after passing through the gates to the stairs. It had become habit to throw it away at the the day's end. She had only been in London for fifteen days, by her count, but each morning or afternoon she bought a ticket, zones one through six, and each night when she came back to Baker Street she threw it away. Mike had asked early on why she didn't just get an Oyster card, but the look she gave him shut up that line of questioning pretty quick. "Sherlock," she had answered, and that was that.
Honestly, London didn't smell that bad, not to her. She breathed deep of the cold night air when she emerged at the top of the steps from the Tube Station, and it jolted her mind just enough that she could cross the street and not get hit by a car. Because she would, given her luck. Came with the name, she supposed—Mallory, from the Old French word "maloret." She had looked it up once online, out of curiosity, and found it was an old nickname that meant "the unfortunate" or "the unlucky." Fitting, perhaps too fitting. Whatever the case, Murphy's Law applied very well to her—lots of things could go wrong in her life, and they definitely did.
Aidan released a huge yawn as she walked down the road to where she knew her door was. Crappy mattress or not, it would feel like heaven after her long day. She was done thinking, she just wanted rest. And with Sherlock in the house, though she had not run into him since the "welcome party" six days before, she wasn't always sure if she could get it.
The door to 221 came open with a long creak, to her consternation. She'd have to find Mrs. Hudson and ask if she had any WD-40. She hated squeaky doors, they made it more difficult to sneak around. Thankfully, the second one with the glass pane didn't make a sound, and she heard only the scrape of her key in the lock as she turned it back and removed it. Mrs. Hudson had left a light on for her, a lamp set on an end table on the way to her door, so as she passed she reached out to turn it off.
"You are back rather early."
Aidan gasped and spun about, her zipped up jacket causing her to reach automatically for her taser—a good deterrent, actually, when trying not to pull her gun. And had she not registered whose voice, exactly, had startled the living daylights out of her, she would have shot the tall detective. "Stop doing that!" she snarled, lowering the defensive weapon. "One of these days I really am going to hurt you."
"I've only done it twice now," he reminded her, quirking an eyebrow. The shadows cast by the lamp put the angles of his face in sharp relief, and only strengthened as he stepped closer. "You should stop returning overtired, it lowers your awareness and allows this to happen. You completely missed me on the stairs."
He was right, regardless of how little she liked it, and she felt her movements become aggravated as she shoved the taser back into her cargo pants. "I'm still going to shoot you."
"Hmm, no, because you'd rather not deal with Scotland Yard or my brother on almost killing me."
"A taser's not going to kill you, Sherlock, unless you have some sort of severe health problem, like a heart defect. I think. It'd just hurt, a lot."
"It would be an interesting experiment," Sherlock said, fiddling with one of the buttons on his shirt. "In a controlled environment, of course."
Aidan gave him a look that conveyed exactly how crazy she thought he was. "If I'm going to shoot you with a taser, it's not going to be a controlled environment; it's going to be when you sneak up behind me again." She waved a hand. "You know I'm armed. Make some noise!"
"If I feel like it." Which meant no.
"Naturally," she sighed. She was too tired to deal with him for long. "What did you want, anyway?"
"To ask you about something." His tone was entirely too nonchalant.
"If you're asking me to join your network, the answer is still no."
"For now," he dismissed her words. "No, this is something different. Something you seem quite hung up on, and I suspect the origin was a little more subtle than I expected."
Aidan massaged her head, feeling a headache coming on. "What is it?"
"A vortex."
Her spine stiffened, and she inhaled sharply. He wasn't supposed to find out about that—but given who she had been talking to, she should have expected this. Half a minute passed, in which neither spoke or moved, then her jaw relaxed and she forced herself to calm. "You've been talking to John."
"Indeed. A perfectly ordinary metaphor, drenched in unoriginality and effused with all the droll humor of a bureaucrat." Sherlock spat the words as if they left a horrible taste in his mouth like too much marmite. "It positively reeks of my brother."
"You caught me." Aidan spread her hands in a "what can you do" fashion. "He did compare your life to a vortex when I met him. When he asked me to spy on you, I told him I don't want to get involved in your business or life. He called your life a vortex, said people near you get sucked in."
"I can't argue with that." Sherlock stalked even closer, until only a couple feet separated them, and peered down at her with pale eyes which glowed in the lamplight. One side of his face was lit brightly by the lamp to his left now that the angle had changed, the other was cast in sharp dark shadows in a way that reminded her of old horror flicks, though she hadn't ever really seen one. He just stood there, studying her, for a while, and then he gave her a dangerous smirk. "You're already sucked in," he told her triumphantly, eyes alive with the knowledge that he had already won. "The hook is baited, the line is cast, all I need to do is decide on how to reel you in."
"Fishing metaphor, nice," she snapped, trying to hide her unease. He was right, even if he didn't know how—the bodyguard job had her firmly tethered to him, after all.
"Well, all things water…" Sherlock reached out to his left, fingers hovering near the lamp switch. "Mycroft had it wrong, though."
Aidan swallowed. "Oh?"
"A vortex is a failed analogy. Vortexes fade and die, releasing their captives. I?" He leaned down, meeting her gaze closely. "I never let go."
A click, and the lamp turned off, plunging the hall into darkness. Soft footsteps led him away and back up the stairs, and Aidan stared into the darkness with a numb mind and burning lungs. Breathe, she reminded herself, and nearly gasped for air as she steadied herself against the wall.
It is entirely too late to back out now, her imagination had Mycroft telling her. Unless you wish to abandon your two friends—one of which you are slowly improving relations with—and draw Sherlock's attention to yourself by running.
When had her subconscious turned into Mycroft? It was creepy.
At least it isn't Sherlock, hmm? And that was Mike, probably a bit more acceptable. Continue with life and await the inevitable, Mallory.
Aidan felt for her door and navigated her way to unlocking it and going back downstairs without turning on a light, feeling like a lightbulb would somehow make things more real. As if it wasn't already real enough.
At least, and this was finally her own voice, he didn't ask why you were avoiding him. He probably doesn't even care.
Small comfort, but it let her sleep.
Uploaded 9/5/14
