If there's one way to convince me to continue writing, my near-sister ZK just did it—fanart. I posted her work at synthetic-dreaming (go check it out!).
Anyway, the disconnection of the previous chapter might carry over to this one. But, still, read and enjoy!
Truthseekers
by mierin-lanfear
Chapter Twenty Five
Holmes rarely dreamed, unless he was under the influence of his seven-percent solution. His normal sleep was of a dreamless kind, a white blank in between his waking hours, where he was everything anf nothing.
Tonight, like the other nights after her abduction, he began to dream.
The difference lay in the manner the dream was spun.
The noise was the same. The clamor of the crowd rang in his ears. Despite his height, people—adults and children—jostled him about, their endless chatter like birds. A child smeared his chocolate ice cream on his leather jacket by accident, who wailed when his mother scolded him and pulled him away, apologizing hurriedly.
Holmes shrugged off the rugged jacket, feeling his sweat steam out into the summer heat. Almost everyone around him wore denim pantaloons cut off at the knees, the women in flimsy floral camisoles suspended by whip-thin straps...
He paused.
Why didn't I notice it the first time?
He was at a carnival. And, judging from the general attire of the populace, in Vera's time.
Shrieks of excitement and fear tore through the place, from people riding roller coasters which looped upside-down and other gravity-defying forms. He heard laughter from the nearby booths, the clatter and hum of the machines running the extreme rides, and music.
He had heard that song before, when he listened to Vera humming it to 'Lene.
It was always about Vera.
It's a world of hopes,
And a world of fears.
There's so much that we share,
That it's time we're aware
It's a small world after all...
The song came from the merry-go-round a few steps behind him. A minor note ran through the melody—a pitiful sobbing of a girl-child.
Weaving his way through the crowd, he approached the railings of the merry-go-round. The glaring lights from the carousel momentarily dazzled him. He looked away, down to the round, tearstained green eyes of a redheaded girl.
She was tugging his arm with her small hands, crying, "Please help me find my sister, Mr. Holmes! I can't find her thread from the loom!"
"Rowan." He touched her hand.
Everything around them shifted.
They were at 221B's sitting room, drinking tea. The redheaded woman facing him crossed her legs, then struggled to pull down the hem of her too-short skirt. Sighing, she picked up an embroidered pillow from the floor and laid it flat on her lap.
"You knew that she was in my era, Ms. Gale," he said, setting aside the cup and saucer on a side-table. "Maybe you can help me understand what is happening."
Rowan shook her head. "It's beyond me, Mr. Holmes. The Powers-That-Be just told me to watch over her thread, the guiding thread in the loom." With a grimace, she tossed aside the pillow and got up from the settee, walking to and fro across the room. "She said I can't touch it, to limit myself in observing, but..."
She spun around, facing him with angry, desperate eyes. "...I can't bear to see her die! Help me find her thread again, Mr. Holmes...!"
"Then help me here, Rowan!" he replied forcefully, as he took her by the shoulder. Shaking her, he demanded, "Do you know that I've been looking for her for a month, through tons of records of passenger manifestos, of police reports, of real estate listings under Margolin's name? But I could not find anything! Damn!" He released her from his grip, turning away from her.
He began to laugh, empty mirth in silence. "Rarely does Watson see me frustrated. Ever since she disappeared, I kept myself away from everybody, just to devote all my energies looking for her."He shook his head, leaningagainsthis overstuffed armchair. Sober, he asked, "Tell me, Rowan, is it a family trait of yours to break promises?"
The question visibly nettled Rowan. "You've gotta be kidding, Holmes! We never break promises, never! She held on to that jerk Sparks because she promised to love him and never let it go! Even if it almost killed her heart and soul to be betrayed!"
"Then...why did she renege on her promise to never let me go? She could have escaped and left us alone to face them..."
"Because she cared for you and Watson, that's what! She cared for you enough to break her promise! And I always thought you were smart enough to know that..." She hissed and ground her teeth in annoyance.
Behind them, a flock of ravens fluttered by the window. The sound of their wings broke their verbal tension.
Rowan touched Holmes's shoulder, the beginnings of a smile crossing her relieved face. "I can help you, Mr. Holmes. You know yourself that signs are everything in both our worlds."
Her image shimmered before him before dissipating into the blank air of dreams. Only her voice remained. "Remember the ravens."
Again, a white blank greeted him.
He slept on.
Vera tasted her salty, metallic blood in her mouth as she bit hard on her thumb. As fresh blood oozed from the self-inflicted cut, she spread it on the paper bird she had made, now perched on the windowsill.
It's the only way...she thought, as she traced her blood on a parchment wing. Locked inside, all it needs is an opening, a focus to use just a little bit of its power... She closed her eyes, focusing on the pain on her hand.
She can see it clearly before her, a red crystal sphere pulsing light in time with her heartbeat. Using pain as the conduit, she channeled the crimson glow to the blood-smeared paper bird.
The Stone has the power to change...to destroy and create, the Magus' voice droned in her head, as she recalled the first day she arrived at World's End. It is the very secret of Nature itself.
To create and destroy, what goes around, comes around, bending to man's will. She cut her channeling immediately, as she molded the desired form of her wish. Bending to my will.
Vera watched her paper bird fly away from her window. "Will it reach them on time? I only have three days more..."
A loud crash and a discordant tinkle of glass opened everybody's morning.
Watson saw it crash through the flat's glass-paned window, as he was walking along Baker Street from the Underground station. He had noticed that there were a lot of crows lately for the past few days.
As he ran to the building, Mrs. Hudson opened the front door and peered right above her.
"Good morning, Mrs. Hudson! Might you have any idea...?" Watson began, panting as he climbed the porch steps.
Mrs. Hudson was mumbling, "The nerve of the birds knocking against windows like there's no tomorrow! It looks like one finally went through and met its end, I suppose! Imagine, such a ruckus so early in the morning...but at least it'll pull Mr. Holmes out from...oh, Dr. Watson!" She ushered him inside. "Can you go check Mr. Holmes and see that he's alright? The rooks have been pestering us since last night!"
Watson waved the landlady off as he climbed another flight of stairs to his old rooms. He did not knock, as he knew intuitively that the door was unlocked.
He found Holmes examining a dead raven on his laboratory bench. "My dear Lord, were you up already when that bird went through? You don't look surprised!" Watson exclaimed. And you definitely look better ever since Vera was gone for a month...last night, you looked terrible, his mind ran.
Holmes looked up from the feathered corpse to his friend, who was busy hanging his coat and hat on the nearby stand. "I was expecting this, my dear friend. It is, pun intended, a breakthrough in the case!"
His brilliant grey eyes shone bright against his face, which made Watson doubt. "Holmes, do I take it that you went back to..."
"Contrary to your opinion, no. How can you doubt me, my loyal friend? It's this, Watson, which 'made my day', as Vera would say..." He pointed at the bird. "This is not a real raven, Watson. Watch."
He brushed away the feathers, leaving a crumpled paper bird in its place. "Only she can think of doing this, only she is capable of making this artificial bird." His jubilant tone fell as he unfolded the blood-streaked paper.
Watson said, "The paper's empty."
Holmes furrowed his brow, rubbing the paper between his fingers. "Parchment, not paper. And on one corner, she used blood to write 'I'. I...what could I...of course!" He snapped his fingers. "Watson, can you reach for me the bottle of iodine crystals I keep in my reagent cabinet? And an evaporating dish, please?" He began to set up a tripod over a Bunsen burner. "Pour some of the crystals on the dish and give it to me."
Watson did as he was bid. "What do you have in mind, Holmes? It's a miracle you're up so early in the morning..."
"A brain lost in thought never sleeps." As purple fumes rose from the evaporating dish, Holmes held the clean side of the parchment right above it.
Words started to form on the surface, brown against the cream of the parchment.
World's End, Spring Equinox, please come.
I never let you go.
Vera.
The 'I' reacted with the iodine vapor, and shaped itself into a brown butterfly. The paper then burst into flames.
The two men watched the ashes drift down to the fuming dish.
Holmes was pale. "Watson, we have no time to lose. Tomorrow's the Equinox."