TITLE: Delicacy: A delicate operation.
AUTHOR: clarrie
DISCLAIMER: It's a multiple crossover.
I do not own any of the Conan-Doyle or Laurie R King characters used or the concept of Slayers and the Watchers Council

'Bring me my bow of burning gold,' The combined voices of the Watchers rose in unison towards the high stone ceiling of the Chapel, a crowd of brown and grey self assurance coming together in worship of history and the power of example, 'Bring me my arrows of de-sire...'
William Reed stared, open mouthed, in wonder at the carvings which crowded the interior of the building. Gargoyles in recognisable demon form leered and gestured from among the eaves, a twisted, intricate tree of life supported the roof above him, and everywhere he looked there were bees. Immortality in stone carved by hands long turned to dust. At least he assumed, he was unsure that a definite statement could ever be made in that area any more. 'Bring me my chariot of fire - Brooke?' Whispered Reed to the young Watcher at his side, 'I say, Brooke?'
'I will not cease from mental fight,' His companion continued to sing earnestly, 'Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand- What is it Reed?'
'Why all the bees?'
'Fisher King, if I remember nurse correctly - Till we have built Jerusalem - the wound that does not heal exetera, exetera, exetera, as the king said. Although personally I could never work out - in England's green - whether that was meant to be us or them - pleas-ant land.' Reed hushed his friend as the music drew to an end and the figure of a senior Watcher took to the pulpit. He looked flushed and uncomfortable with public speaking, wiping his damp palms on his trouser legs as he stood before the crowd of waiting faces and staring so closely at his notes that for a moment only a shock of salt and pepper hair was visible above the lectern.
'W-We are gathered together today,' He began, 'in memory of a tragic event. An event which has cast a shadow through the decades, touching the lives of entire generations of Watchers.' He cleared his throat nervously, 'T-today, that is, the sixtieth anniversary of the Albion Street Earling massacre, we remember those who passed on that dark day.' He shifted uncomfortably as an extremely elderly woman was assisted to the podium and began to wait beside him. 'Mrs Travers will now read the roll call of the dead.' He announced, and backed away, visibly relieved to surrender the microphone.
Mrs Travers wrapped a desiccated hand around the lectern for support and stood, straight, tall, and painfully thin, her black dress outlining her against the background of greys, and browns, a crow amongst the pigeons. She placed a finger upon the first name and read it with a slight tremor in her voice, 'Ezra Travers, Watcher, Lucia Cientani, Slayer, Teng Hu Lun, Earling, Hesther Cohen, Earling -' The congregation bowed their heads as the litany of names and rank washed over them - 'Francesca Green, Earling, Soraya....'

'Gods I hate those things,' Brooke drove his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket as the Watchers hurried from the Chapel, eager to return to work, to studies, to the living. 'Listing the fallen like that, maudlin I call it,' He drew a cigarette case from his pockets and offered it to his friend, 'Here, stunt your growth on me.'
'Ta,' Reed lit his cigarette and walked beside his friend, a schoolboy enthusiasm shone from his lean, pink face. His eyes, watery brown, the colour of bottled pale ale, widened and took in the sights and sounds of the corridors. 'I'd -' He buttoned down his enthusiasm and frowned responsibly, 'I'd never been to one of those before Brooke. I thought it was absolutely-' He cleared his throat and frowned again, 'I mean, do they - do we have them often?'
'On occasion.' Brooke shot a plume of smoke from the corner of his mouth. 'We have one when the Slayer passes of course, and then there's the general memorial on All Saints' day, you'll be expected to attend that unless you've more pressing business, a couple of services to previous heads of the Council, you can generally avoid those without much trouble though.' He took the cigarette from between his lips and paused with it held level to his mouth. 'To be honest, Reed old man, I wouldn't be in any hurry to-' His words were cut off as a tear stained young woman collided heavily with him, knocking his cigarette to the floor. 'Watch it!'
The tiny woman looked up at him, her black hair hung in dampened strands around her face, bleached and puffy with tears, her eyes, rimmed with pink, were a dirty indigo and utterly without expression.
Brooke noted the dark, grey green smear of a bruise on her wrist and bit down hard on his tongue. 'My fault entirely,' He lied, reaching out to pat her shoulder. 'I do apologise Mrs - '
'Imelda!' At the sound of her name being called the young woman started, and glaring back momentarily in the direction of the voice, ran on down the corridor.
'Imelda, please!' Puffing slightly, the originator of the cry rounded the corner and stopped, startled at the presence of the two young Watchers. 'I-' He stammered, running a hand through his hair, shifting the layer of battleship grey to momentarily expose the remaining black of his youth. . 'I - did you?' Reed watched the tired looking little man as he ran his hands nervously over his face, peering out between his fingers with eyes of sad, washed out, blue. 'I- oh dear.'
'Imelda staying with you again then is she Monty?' Brooke stepped forward and patted the older man comfortingly on the shoulder. 'Only natural, old chap, no parents of her own, only natural. You've met Reed?'
Wymond Wyndham-Pryce shook Reed hesitantly by the hand and returned to Brooke's side, wringing his hands nervously. 'I- you see, oh dear....'
'Only natural I suppose,' continued Brooke forcefully, 'what with young Edward being so busy. Only natural to stay with her father-in-law, I expect you appreciate the company.'
'Yes - yes!' Wyndham-Pryce grasped the proffered conversational straw eagerly. 'He - Oh, he's so busy you see,' his eyes showed unspoken thanks, 'in his work.'
'Yes, of course.' Brooke shook his colleague firmly by the hand. 'Best be catching up with her, eh?'
'Yes,' Wyndham-Pryce gave a brief, nervous, smile, 'yes... Thank you...'
Reed and Brooke watched as he scurried away down the corridor in pursuit of his weeping daughter-in-law. Brooke frowned darkly. 'Let's get a drink, eh, Reed?'

'Two pints of Large.' Reed passed a ten bob note over the counter and waited for his change. He looked back over his shoulder at his friend as the barman wiped the overflow from their drinks with a threadbare dishcloth. Brooke sat, slouched over the table, turning a beer mat over and over in his fingertips. His jaw was thrust out in controlled irritation at a world full of things he could not change. Reed sighed and picked up their drinks.

'Pint of Large OK with you?' Reed placed the glass on the table in front of his friend and sat down beside him. 'Go on, does you good.'
'Hmph,' Snorted Brooke, taking a sip and glaring fiercely into his pint. 'If I see Pryce anytime soon,' He drew his upper lip down under his teeth and exhaled slowly, 'I'm going to horsewhip the little shit.'
'Not our business, Brooke, not our business.' Warned Reed gently. 'Go on, drink up, your turn to get the next lot in.'
Brooke drained his pint and smiled uneasily at his junior's attempt to change the subject. 'Nothing like a liquid lunch to calm the savage breast, eh, Reed?' He took his wallet from his pocket and stood up. 'Reed,' He paused, suddenly serious, 'You mustn't think badly of old Monty you know, because of this. He's a good man, but, well, that boy of his is all he's got. It -It's not right I know but sometimes, with family, you can have trouble seeing 'right'.' Brooke sighed. 'Treacherous things, families. Remind me never to acquire one.'

'Shop!' The dull smack of the customer's palm against the counter top brought Norman Gardener scurrying from his refuge in the back parlour. Rubbing biscuit crumbs from his palms he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and replaced his teacup on the sideboard.
'Reports of a spontaneous human combustion at the dockside in -' The diminutive landlord of the Bide a wi' Guest House reached up and switched off the radio, briefly surveying the pair standing before him as he turned. He cleared his throat, taking in the sight of the customer's stubble, gaunt appearance, smouldering cigarette and finally, the young blonde at his side and raised an eyebrow. 'Double, will it be Sir?'
'With a bath.' Piped up the girl, cheerily.
'Two singles.' Growled the older man, pinching out the flame of his cigarette and carefully ignoring the existence of the girl beside him. 'Two single rooms, without an adjoining door.'
'But Papa...' Whined the girl, draping herself across the countertop and pouting sorrowfully. 'I've had such nightmares since we lost Mamma....'
The blow landed just below Russell's eye before she could properly prepare herself. With animal cunning she let herself fall limply to the floor as Holmes raged and lifted his fist to strike again. 'You little bitch.'
'Here!' Norman dashed forward around the counter and placed himself between Holmes and Russell. 'I'm not having none of this type of behaviour. Come on now, take your key.' He snatched a key from the board and waved it at Holmes. 'Take your key Mr and go up to your room. Go on with you.'
Norman watched as Holmes turned, snarling, and stalked away into the darkness of the stairwell. 'You all right, Miss?' He held out a concerned hand and pulled Russell to her feet. 'Ups a daisy, come on, brush yourself down, there.' He gently tapped the dust from her shoulders and gave a quick, nervous smile. 'Don't you mind that great bully, shameful I call it.' He took the key from its hook and pressed it into her palm. 'Here, next door to him. Room twenty-one C.' Norman winked conspiratorially. 'With a bath.'