Crossroad demons
Malcolm pushed down the brake pedal and the clutch with his feet. The car came to an immediate stop. He was out of the car before it had stopped completely, leaving the car door open as he ran the short way back down the street, yelling her name. When he reached his wife's unmoving body, he fell down on his knees beside her.
"Maria! Maria! Please, Maria!"
He lifted her upper body, supporting her in his arms. Her head hang down and he put a hand under her neck and lifted her face towards his and gazed at her pale skin, slightly spread lips and closed eyelids.
He brought her body up to his, holding her towards him.
"Maria, no, no, no, no, no..."
As strucken by a sudden memory, Malcolm brought her down again and put two fingers against her neck. It was silent and still, as an abandoned house.
Panc started to set in. He felt it moving through his body and up to his head, making him dizzy, out of breath.
"I... I... I... Maria... I don't... I don't... No, no, no..."
He checked her pulse with his fingers again, pushing down her skin. Nothing. He held his hand in front of her lips, but couldn't feel a breath. Panic spreading, dizzyness, a few lonely, hopeless tears falling down his cheeks, he picked up her hand and touched her wrist, pushing down hard, without receiving a response.
"No! No! No, you can't, you can't... I don't know, Maria, I don't... No, please help!"
He looked up and screamed down the street.
"Help! Somebody, please! Please, help me! Please, I don't know... No, no, it can't, you can't, no, no, no, please, please, help! Help me!"
He heard a scream. When he felt his body desperately fighting for air, he realized that it was his own. He fell down over his wife's lifeless body, his eyes closed, and saw for his inner mind her standing in the street, her hand raised, blowing him a kiss. The distance between them had been almost covered, only for her to be violently and suddenly jerked from his touch. He looked up again and put his shaking fingers on her neck. Nothing. He screamed, cried, violently, every breath shaking his body.
"No! No! No, plea..."
His cries died out as they were swallowed by his gasps for air. His lungs were fighting for air as his mind was swarming with thoughts, feeling, memories, white, blank spaces, consuming his mind, his being, his existence, the places which used to be Maria.
Not even a minute had passed.
He blinked himself awake and, through violent sobs and pleads, he got up his phone from his pocket. Holding it in a shaking hand, he dialed 999. It wasn't until the phone started ringing that he realized that he had been holding it upside down.
"Crowley."
"I... I need to talk to you."
"Who is this? How did you get this number?"
"My name is Charlotte Wilde. I think you remember me."
"Ms Wilde... What do you need from me?"
"Can we meet?"
"You're an interesting woman, Ms Wilde... Meet me under the trees in Regent's Park in two hours."
He hung up. Charlotte looked at the phone in her hand and looked up at Loki, who smiled, but the smile didn't reach over to where she was sitting on the couch.
Crowley hung up the phone and looked at the display for a second. Charlotte Wilde... He couldn't decide if this was a turn of events that he needed to worry about. He would need to think more about this.
The phone rang again.
"Crowley."
Violent sobs were heard in the backgroud.
"Hello?"
"I... I need help. Please, come quickly! It's my wife, she's... she just collapsed, I don't know what happened, there's no pulse..."
"Mr Reynolds... I wasn't expecting to hear from you so soon. I was planning to come and see you later today."
"What... What are you...? Who are you?"
"I see you at the hospital, Mr Reynolds. I suggest you call an ambulance now."
Crowley hung up the phone. Malcolm started at the number on the display for a few seconds, seeing the number he had just called. '666'. Pushing away the thought, he dialed 999 while stroking his wife's cheek.
"Emergency. Which service?"
"Ambulance."
When the sirens were heard in the distance, Malcolm was kneeling down next to Maria, his hands locked over her chest, pushing down over her silent heart which just a few minutes ago had been beating stronger than it had done for a very long time and he had to waken it again.
The table was decorated with cups of tea and coffee and the agents of SHIELD had taken their places around the table. Fury and Mycroft were sitting opposite each other. Mycroft was leaning back in his chair with a worried look on his face, stroking his forehead.
"If what you say is true..."
"I can guarantee that it is", Fury responded.
"My god... It's much worse than I expected."
"So you knew aboout this?"
"In an organization like ours...One can expect a certain amount of... intervention from outside parties, but if what you're saying is true..."
"This poses a serious threat to both our organisations, Mr Holmes. We need to act immediately but discretely."
Mycroft nodded.
"I will put my best people on this."
"Mr Holmes, with all respect... Are you sure that you can trust your best people?"
Before Mycroft had time to answer, there was a knock on the door before it was opened and Sherlock entered the room, followed by John.
"Ah, Sherlock, finally... Mr Fury, this is...
... Sherlock Holmes", Fury said, as he rose from his seat.
"Yes..." Mycroft sighed, annoyed over being interrupted. "Sherlock, this is...
"...Nick Fury", Sherlock responded as he was walking up to the table.
Mycroft sighed again and leaned back in his seat.
"And this... well, I guess you already know...
"Doctor Watson, yes. I have been asked to, on behalf of the President of the United States, thank you for your efforts in Afghanistan. But, as I've understood it, we also have more recent events to show our appreciation of."
"Thank you, Mr Fury."
Fury turned to Sherlock.
"And the same can be said about you, Mr Holmes. Regarding more recent events, I have understood that you have had contact with the suspect."
"Yes. I'm working on several theories at the moment."
"Several?"
"Seven. Or..."
Sherlock inclined his head and looked over at the agents sitting by the table.
"Six."
"Are you suggesting that my agents are involved in this?"
Fury sat up straighter in his chair, gazing intensely at Sherlock.
"No, you have just lessened that suspicion."
"Mr Holmes, I don't take kindly to your vague answers. You are not here to investigate my people."
"Mr Fury", Mycroft cut in. "We are confident that you have chosen people from your organization that you can trust." He met Fury's gaze, stressing the last clause of the sentence. Fury responded by leaning back in his chair. He turned to Sherlock again.
"What is your take on this situation?"
"Loki is apparently getting outside help to set a plan into motion that has been processed for months. He is not the one we should focus on. He is, at best, distraction."
"Well, this distraction blew up your Parliament."
"Imagine what the other one could do. The man with the plan..."
"Mr Holmes... junior. How nice to see you again."
"Moriarty... I'm afraid I can't say the same."
Moriarty was seated in the same chair as before. He was wearing a white t-shirt and his hair was somewhat greasy, but commed into a flattering hairstyle. His eyes were glowing, as if a ray from a distant star had been painted with oil, as he was watching his new visitors. Sherlock was accompanied by John, Mycroft, Fury and Coulson. The later remained standing by the door.
"Tss, tss, tss... You keep telling yourself that. You'll need me, before this is over, even more than you need me now. And judging by your company, I believe that moment will come quite soon."
"Jim Moriarty, my name is..."
"...Nick Fury..."
"...and I don't take kindly to being interrupted."
Fury sat down on a steel chair in front of Moriarty, just next to the table he was sitting by.
"Mr Moriarty... What are you doing working with Loki? You are dealing with forces that you don't understand and are far from being able to control. Don't misunderstand me, this is not an attack on you. At the moment, be it, just at this moment, we are not interested in your business or your network. We have bigger problems, common problems, that we want to deal with before they get completely out of hand. And we need your help with this."
"You need my help... And why on earth would I help you? What's in it for me?"
"Do you seriously believe that you control Loki? How could you do this, locked up in here? Do you even know where he is or what he is planning on his own?"
"I seriously doubt that Loki is alone."
"Who does Jim Moriarty trust? Or it isn't about trust, is it?"
"Jim Moriarty is a spider", Sherlock stated. "With many threads tied to his legs. The question is how far they reach. Try jerking a few of them, Moriarty, see if they still are attached. Can you feel them?"
Moriarty closed his eyes and raised his head slightly, moving it slowly from side to side, as if he was hearing a melody.
"My ears can still hear and my eyes can still see, no matter how deep into your cavern you drag me." Moriarty looked over at Sherlock. "Can you see your reflection in the darkness, Sherlock?"
"Someone is doing the seeing for you", Fury said. "And when we find out who, you will see just how blinding the darkness can be."
Fury got up from his chair.
"You're a criminal consultant, a provider of plans and solutions, a representant of probability, dealing with an agent of chaos, who have just fallen from the world he knew, into one where he is lost, desperate and alone. Just how bright do you imagine that your distant light shines for him now, in the darkness of the world you have created for him? You try to lure him deeper into it, into the darkness you cherise, but there are other possibilities, other passages to choose, leading him away from you."
Fury leaned down, resting one hand against the cold surface of the table.
"Loki doesn't want a throne, not really. Not as a first priority, at least. I know his kind. He wants to be seen, recognized, cherised, praised, honoured... but also forgiven. He wants to return to the arms of his kingdom. In his heart, Loki doesn't want to step into your darkness. He is mischieveous, not ruthless. He has no desire to rule. And you have no intention of letting him. And soon, when the dimming fog of your alluring words in your absence starts to clear, he will come to realize that too."
"Have you practised that speech for long?"
"Who is the man from Regent's Park?"
The TV in the small hotel room was broadcasting the morning news on BBC. The entire program was devoted to the bombing. Sam was sitting on the footend of his bed, watching the TV, a paper cup of coffee in his hand. Dean was sitting by the small table, looking through the morning newspapers on Sam's laptop. Suddenly, Sam got up on his feet.
"What is it?"
"I thought I saw... The website, they must have this footage."
He walked over to Dean and glanced at the TV.
"Here", Dean said. Sam looked down at the computer screen and pointed at it.
"This one, play this one."
Dean clicked on one of the videos on the screen and soon footage from Piccadilly Cirkus, shot with a handheld camera, was played. The brothers gazed at the screen intensely.
"There!" Sam pointed at the screen and Dean paused the video and leaned back in his chair.
"You're right, Sammy. It's him."