Corruptela

{Latin, noun: means of ruining, corruption, spoiling, temptation, enticement, allurement}

52

The silver chain, fine as a thread, dripped delicately from his fingers, glittering in the firelight.

The phoenix ring revolved its own accord, seeming to soar in a nonexistent breeze.

"What is that?" one of his fellows asked, curious.

In a quick movement, Sherlock pulled the chain into his hand, hiding it from view.

The remnants of my heart.

"Nothing."

"Ah, come on," the other said, edging closer to him. The others had gone to sleep; it was only Sherlock and the one entrusted with guard duty that remained awake. "Something that shiny has to be more than nothing. It's been cleaned regularly, kept in good condition, and the work's nice enough that it'd fetch many a pretty penny. Are you going to sell it?"

Instinctively, his hand tightened on the necklace- her necklace, her only gift to him.

"No," Sherlock said, his voice low.

"It has to be worth at least a hundred and fifty quid, mate-"

"No, Valspar," Sherlock repeated, and he let that dangerous note creep into his voice again.

He slipped the chain over his head, tucking it under his collar, feeling the ring settle against his chest.

"It's mine."

{I named a character after a brand of paint. *looks away*}

**

You would have been sixteen, by now.

You had hair like pale sunlight made solid, and eyes like a summer's sky. Your voice still had an accent. It carried undertones of strength and valor.

Strength and valor, Lydia. That is the complete epitome of who you were.

I'm not sure why I'm thinking about you right now. Maybe because when they asked how I'd pay for drugs, I felt your necklace in my pocket and part of me consider it just for a second? Because Valspar asked me what it was, and all I could find within reason to say was "it's mine?"

Because it's been seven years, and every twenty-fourth of February, I still write you a letter? It's not even February yet.

Because here, I have six people who listen to my words, one who knew my name before I came here, and I feel even more alone than before? Because my parents are dead now, and my brother is as good as, as far as I'm concerned?

Because I'm fourteen, and you would have been sixteen. Because I've lived seven years that I stole from you, and now I feel as if I was a shadow of myself.

Because the skin heals faster than the heart.

Yours,

Sherlock Holmes

"Who's Lydia?" Valspar wondered, leaning subtly to read the letter. Being a solid three feet away from Sherlock, he hadn't earned a second thought.

Sherlock's eyes widened as he lifted his head, realizing that Valspar had crept closer; mortified, he jabbed an elbow into his comrade's ribcage.

"Fuck off, Valspar."

"Hey!" He rubbed ruefully at the spot. "What the hell got into you? Is she your lover or something?"

When Sherlock's expression changed, faint pain entering his eyes, his hand dropped.

"Oh," Valspar said. "I'm… I'm sorry, mate. I didn't know. But you wrote to her sort of weird, like- in a past tense sort of way-"

And then it struck him.

"She's your dead lover."

Sherlock tucked the letter inside his coat, then bowed his head, staring at his hands, weaving his fingers together.

"My murdered lover, to be precise," he whispered. "Killed on my account, as I stood by, not having the guts to do anything. She died in my arms."

It had been so long since he'd experienced a non-malicious touch that he jumped when a hand touched his shoulder.

"I'm sorry," Valspar murmured again. "How long ago was it?"

"Seven years. But wounds under the skin bleed longer than ones on it."

"Only too true," Valspar agreed. "So, the necklace… it was hers?"

"Yes."

Valspar swallowed.

At the sudden silence, Sherlock raised his head.

Valspar dug inside his coat, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. He offered one.

"You smoke?"

"Not until now." Sherlock took it. "I know the theory. You got a light?"

Valspar held it out; Sherlock leaned forward, taking in a pull through the filter to make sure that it caught properly.

He leaned back, calmly breathing out the smoke.

"You handled that rather well, for a first-timer," Valspar commented, lighting one of his own.

Sherlock took another drag, savoring the dark flavor. "I knew what to expect."

A companionable pause.

"Thanks."

"Anytime."

More silence, of an easy sort.

Sherlock flicked the ash off of the end of his cigarette.

"Forty-five meters to the right," he said under his breath. "Male, slightly over average height. Trying to sneak up on us."

Valspar blinked. "What?" he breathed.

"There's somebody over there." He cupped a hand around the glowing end of the cigarette, removing any remaining discernible sign of his presence. "I'll ring around and flank him. You want to take point?"

Full of youth's arrogance, Valspar rolled his shoulders. "Ah, hell, why not."

Sherlock stood, and having scouted out the area previously, gaining a loose knowledge of it, he darted down an alleyway, going around the block in a path that would lead him to be behind the would-be intruder.

A sharp, human yelping sound just as he rounded the corner made his heart skip a beat.

He tossed the cigarette aside, drawing Moran's knife in an easy, practiced move as he broke into a sprint.

He could make out the figure of his enemy- taller than he'd thought- and Valspar, held closely to his chest, fingers wrapped around his throat-

He reached them in a second that took an hour to pass, and with a quick stab to the wrist, convinced the assailant to let go.

As Valspar staggered away, Sherlock pinned his enemy to the wall and plunged the blade into his throat.

**

Damn, Sherlock.

Well, it looks like he made his kill mark, too. That makes everyone even, doesn't it?