Hmm, to continue, or to not continue, that is the question. Imagine me looking at a skull, please. Or maybe I should be saying Alas, poor Yorick. Wait, that doesn't make sense... here. Alas, poor Kline. That's better. Yes, it is late, so I am a bit delusional. To be exact, it's 2:32 in the morning. And I have to perform today (waaaaah!). I figured, however, that while ff.net instant messenger downloads, I might as well type out the next chapter.
Nellanna23- I don't MEAN to be forceful... but I'm tired of only getting one or two reviews each chapter, you know? I'm glad you've enjoyed everyone of my stories- I certainly haven't *glares at To Watery Depths*, but it's nice to know someone out there likes them.
Kenta Divina- Pity, you didn't give me the clues that led to it. And I meant it as a compliment... glad you didn't die on the way to orchestra. I'm in a play, also. Opening night was on Friday- I was shaking before I went on stage, whether from nerves or the fact that there might be a psycho killer in the audience you tell me...
Pinkpanther- If you thought the last chapter was sad, wait until you read this one. And my next story... you're in for the ride of your lifetime.
Yes, yes, worship me all. I only have one thing to say to everyone- you assume I'm going to save Kline... you shouldn't make presumptions, my pretties!
*Runs off cackling*
Chapter Istoppedcounting: It Just CANNOT Be Adieu
The clock was ticking far too slowly. The second hand seemed to be going in reverse. The minute hand was mocking me, and the hour hand just was laughing. Forever laughing. Cackling evilly as it turned backwards. I felt like crying.
We had been at Scotland Yard for hours. At least five. And during that time we had been questioned, prodded, placed in several different rooms, and had even been blamed for the suicide of Emily Vouche. Those policemen had no sympathy for us. They even laughed when Christine and I had started to cry. They were cold, callous, and unforgiving. It wasn't our fault she had put that gun to her throat. It wasn't our fault she had pulled the trigger. It wasn't our fault that Kline was likely dead...
I felt my throat seize as I thought about Kline. Emily had said our friend was dead. Holmes said she was not. I didn't know who to believe- the lines between good and evil were so skewed... I hiccupped nervously, and then sniffed. I seemed to be coming down with a cold.
Christine muttered something in her sleep, her long fingers clutching my knee compulsively. She had fallen asleep over an hour ago, right in my lap. Since then, she had been whispering things in her sleep, and grabbing my knees over and over again. It was very annoying, but I was so numb with disbelief and exhaustion that I didn't much care.
I glanced at the clock again. Holmes had been in with the Scotland Yard official for at least an hour. I wished I knew what they were talking about- I wished I knew what was happening. My brain seemed frozen solid, dripping with icicles. Or, as Christine had put it hours earlier, "Utterly dumbfounded and numb with grief and God knows what else,". Very well spoken, I thought.
Christine said something again, and her hand gripped my knee. I winced and shook her shoulder. It was time for her to get up. My knee couldn't take anymore. I felt her stir beneath my hand, and then she slowly sat up, her hair in tangles and her eyes red. She yawned tiredly, and glanced at me.
"How long?" she asked softly. I dreaded glancing at the evil clock again, but I did.
"Five hours since we got here. An hour and fifteen minutes since you fell asleep. One hour since Holmes was led into that room by the police officer. Six hours since Emily Vouche killed herself. Three hours since the show was cancelled all together. Twenty minutes since Holmes's father and stepmother called, sounding furious. Two hours and forty minutes since my mom called, sounding concerned. Three hours and four minutes since your mom called, sounding tired and confused. Three days since Mrs. Kline called, sounding heartbroken. Do you want me to continue?" I asked blandly, my voice in a steady monotone. Christine waved her hand impatiently at me, shaking her head.
"That was quite enough, thank you Jenny. Any idea why they're keeping us here?" she questioned me, her blue eyes slowly becoming clearer as sleep fell away. I shook my head.
"No clue. I have a feeling that they're trying to pin everything on us," I sighed. Christine frowned, her mouth pinching into a thin little line.
"From what you've told me of Lestrade, he won't allow that to happen. Despite his obvious distaste for Sherlock, he respects him. He won't allow the top-notch detective to be thrown in the slammer," she reminded me. I glanced at her, playing with my hair.
"Do they even have a slammer here?"
"God knows. I don't even live here."
A silence passed between us, the only sound being that annoying clock. I sighed and leaned back on the hard bench, trying to get comfortable and not succeeding in the least. Christine stretched her legs out, yawning loudly in the dead air, and then sniffing.
"I'm going over there and demanding that they let us go. It's what, midnight? They have to let us go, this just isn't humane. And if that filthy clock doesn't shut up, I'm going to break it!" snarled Christine, standing up quickly. She walked over beneath the clock, and then dragged a chair over. Standing on the chair, she yanked the clock off the wall, ripping the cords from the fixture all together. Smiling in satisfaction, she tossed it onto the bench, and then walked over to the only door that led in or out of the room. Christine raised her hand and pounded on the door sharply. The sound echoed in the room for a minute, and then the door opened, much to my surprise.
"Yes?" barked an older man, his gray hair thinning, and his moustache completely white. Christine stuck a finger in his face, her eyes shining oddly.
"Listen here, sir. We've been good little girls, waiting in this d***** room for five hours. I think it is high time you let her, Sherlock Holmes, and I go. Right now. We're tired, we're frustrated, we're upset... and if you don't let me go, I will report you to your senior officer for misconduct to the witnesses. And you wouldn't want your star witnesses not allowed in court, would you?" Christine oozed, her voice dripping with contempt. The man wrinkled his nose at her, and shook his head.
"Miss, we can't let you go yet."
"And why the heck not?"
"We have some more questions to ask you all."
Christine looked ready to attack the man, and I feared she would for a moment. She was practically shaking with rage. Her eyes, normally very dark blue, had turned a fascinating shade of black, and it was beginning to look like a homicide would happen right inside of Scotland Yard. However, she contained herself, and let out a shuddery breath.
"Mister...?"
"Ogilby."
"Ogilby. We have answered your questions quite kindly for the last five hours. We have cooperated, despite the fact that it brought us considerable pain to do so. We have been nothing but patient and polite. And considering how very emotionally trying this case was, I do think you had bloody well let us go to our own homes to have a good cry!" she shouted, her anger getting the best of her. Before Ogilby could say anything, however, I found myself on my feet and storming over to him.
"Mister Ogilby, I am happy to tell you that we didn't do anything in this case other than watch people close to us get killed. One of our friends we cannot even find at present! All we want to do is go home. Come on, Christine isn't even from this country! And why would Holmes commit these murders, if that is what you're thinking? And me? You think I wanted to hurt those girls, or get involved with this case? Please. I have been in enough investigations to last me a life time, most of them landing me in the hospital. I am in no mood to deal with arrogant, pain-in-the-ass police officers at this time! I want to go home!" I shrieked. Christine smirked at me, looking impressed. Even Ogilby looked stunned.
"The fact of the matter is, miss, that we would like to let you go home. But even we don't understand the full implications of this case, and your friend Holmes does. We need to get the facts straight. You children had the jump on us, I'm afraid. We were investigating the murders in town. If you will please sit down, I will have an assistant bring you something to drink. What would you like?" Ogilby asked, suddenly looking sympathetic. Christine scowled, but relented.
"Tea. Two lumps of sugar, and cream," she ordered. Ogilby looked at me, and I had to think.
"Do you have cappuccinos?" I asked hopefully. Ogilby nodded, smiling a bit.
"A large French Vanilla cappuccino. Make it four. I want four. Four sounds good."
Ogilby nodded at both of us and disappeared into the room again, shutting the door. Christine sighed and dragged herself back to the seat which she had vacated. I followed, rubbing my eyes ruefully. I was exhausted... I just wanted to go back home and sleep for forty-eight hours. Or maybe seventy-two. Yes, three days sounded good. I also wanted toast. I didn't know why, but toast sounded good.
"I want toast," I announced to the silent room. Christine glanced at me, a dark chuckle escaping her throat.
"Ah, yes, comfort food. I want... I want ice cream, actually. A pint. Maybe two. Vanilla, with a bottle of chocolate syrup. And whip cream. Oh, and caramel... and maybe some sprinkles. Not the colorful kind, those make me sick. The other kind- the good kind. Ooo, and cookies! I'll add chocolate chip cookies into it. And maybe some other crap as well. Fudge. My kingdom for fudge," declared Christine. I snorted, the hilarity of it all hitting me.
"Chocolate stimulates endorphins. You want sex, don't you, Christine," I teased. Her eyes met mine, a carefully raised eyebrow mocking me.
"If sex would comfort me, yes. But as I don't approve of premarital sex, no."
"Ah, well, Todd will make you change your mind."
"Shut up."
"Oh, come on, you saw that heroic save."
"Idiotic save if you ask me."
I rolled my eyes at her, tossing my hair over my shoulder. "Denying it isn't going to help," I pointed out. Christine pursed her lips, making a fist as her fingers crackled when the bones cracked.
"Fine then, I won't deny it. I have a crush on Todd. A very large one, point of fact," she admitted. I have to admit, I fairly gaped at her. My jaw actually fell open, much to my shock.
Christine admitting she had a crush? Christine Penninger admitting that she liked a guy? Christine? I jumped out of my seat and studied her carefully.
"Ok, what did you do with the real Christine?" I demanded. Christine looked at me, momentarily amused. Then her smile fell away as she leaned back in her chair.
"Killed her off. Hours ago. Great bit of fun it was, too," she sighed. Then, arching her back, she yawned and lay back down on the bench.
"Wake me up when Holmes comes back. You should go to sleep too, we might be here for a while."
Her eyes slipped shut, and her breaths became slow and even. I watched her for a minute, yawned, and then lay down on the floor, folding my arms beneath my head. Black spots filled my vision as I slowly drifted off to sleep.
******************************************************************************************
"Watson? Come now, Watson, time to wake up," a voice whispered softly in my ear. I groaned and buried my head into my arms, trying to ignore it. A hand reached down and shook me on the shoulder.
"Watson?"
"Goway," I mumbled incoherently. There was a soft chuckle, and the hand returned, shaking me. I groaned again and swatted at the hand.
"Listen, I'm tired and I'm hungry. Go bug someone else, you arse," I swore, using British swear words for once in my life. There was a moment of silence, and then someone lifted me to my feet. I moaned and opened my eyes, to see a smiling Holmes looking at me. I sighed and stood up, ignoring the dizzy feeling. Sniffling, I rubbed my eyes, and then my nose.
"What time is it?" I whimpered, desperately wanting some more sleep.
"Nearly noon. Scotland Yard said we could go about two hours ago," Holmes replied. My eyes snapped open instantly, stunned. I glanced around, looking for Christine, but couldn't find her. Holmes seemed to sense what I was thinking, and shook his head.
"She left immediately to go to the hospital, she said. To see Todd, if I understand correctly," he informed me. I wrinkled my nose and carefully smoothed out my outfit, dismayed at the wrinkles.
"Home, then?"
"To your house, I think."
Holmes took my hand and led me through Scotland Yard, pointedly ignoring any of the Inspectors who glanced his way. I joined him in snubbing them, tossing my hair as though I were a high school snob. I saw Lestrade glance our way, but when Holmes shot a glare at him, he looked away instantly.
The streets were noisy as we left the Yard, and I quickly stepped out to the curb, hailing a cab. A rather dirty cab stopped in front of us, but we didn't much care as we climbed in, ordering the cabbie to my house. He grunted at us, and the car quickly sped off into the crowded streets.
I leaned back in the seat, feeling the hard (was it leather, or plastic?) fabric beneath me. Holmes did the same, taking deep breathes every few minutes. After a moment of silence, I decided to break in.
"What did they ask you?" I whispered, hoping the cab driver wouldn't hear. Holmes pushed back some of his hair, which had fallen in his face before he answered.
"How I knew. Why I didn't stop her. The details, the inconsistencies, the murders themselves... Scotland Yard was lazy on this case, Watson. They really weren't involved at all. I was their eyes and ears, unfortunately. It's going down in their files," replied Holmes wearily. I put my head on his shoulder.
"Bums. Couldn't even get off of their butts long enough to investigate this stuff. Why'd the need to talk to you for eight hours or something like that, though?" I questioned. Holmes laughed bitterly, causing the cabbie to glance at us. He lowered his voice when he next answered.
"Most of that time I sat in a room alone. I was only spoken to for three hours, maybe. And they were trying to verify if I had killed Vouche. Or, rather, if Christine or you had killed Vouche. Fools," he spat. I felt my blood rise slightly as I recalled the horrific scene of Emily's death.
"They really think we killed Vouche? Did they see us when we came in? Hellloooo! You would think they were Ashling police, darn them," I snarled. Holmes put a comforting hand on my knee, his breath growing calmer.
"They don't think we did it anymore. Just relax, Watson, it's over."
I snorted even as I began to fall asleep again.
"It's not over yet."
******************************************************************************************
My eyes fluttered open, only to have bright red numbers glaring back at me. I closed my eyes again and pulled the covers over my head, only to hear a tsk sound explode in my ears.
"Now, now, Jenny. You've slept long enough. It's seven at night. You cannot be that tired," a scornful voice said. I breathed out heavily, allowing my eyes to snap open again.
"You have got to be kidding me. Seven? Are you sure?" I asked the voice, knowing it to be Christine in all of her sarcastic glory. A snort quickly filled the room, and the rustling over clothing hit my ears.
"Am I sure... of course I'm sure! Get your butt out of bed, I'm sure Sherlock would like to talk to us. He's downstairs on the couch right now, if you care to know," she informed me, her voice laden with disdain and exhaustion. I rolled over in bed and propped myself up on my elbows so I could look at her.
Her hair was oddly wispy, and her eyes had dark blue bruises beneath them. I did a double take, thinking them to be black eyes, but then I saw that it was only shadows. She was overly pale, and she still hadn't changed out of her blood splattered clothes. Glancing down at myself, I saw that I hadn't either. I touched my hair and grimaced as I felt the dried blood.
"Am I allowed to take a shower first?" I questioned, allowing a bit of anger to slip into my voice. Christine, who had been perched upon my chair, jumped off of it, barely looking at me. I did see, however, a dark scowl cross her face.
"Of course, princess," she snapped. Then, twisting her back to me, she left my room, fairly slamming the door behind her. I glared at her fading image, and then crawled out of bed, getting tangled in the sheets.
Walking out of my bedroom and down the hall, I pushed open the bathroom door and then stepped inside. Within minutes the water was warm enough, and I stepped inside the shower, breathing in the steam. I pulled my lilac smelling shampoo from the tub's side, and proceeded to wash my hair as many times as possible.
Fifteen minutes later I emerged from the bathroom, fully cleaned and dressed in my pajamas. I ran a brush through my hair as I padded downstairs to the living room. Holmes and Christine both sat on the couch, Christine on the back of it, and Holmes sprawled across the cushions. I smiled at the site and cleared my throat gently. Christine looked at me instantly, her dark eyes much darker. She jerked her head at me, gesturing for me to sit down.
Holmes, I was glad to see, seemed a little more enthused with my arrival. His smile indicated genuine warmth, and he patted the space next to him. I walked over and sat down, leaning against his shoulder. I saw Christine's lips purse, even in the poor lighting.
"Well?" Christine snapped, the first to speak. Holmes sat up, looking at Christine.
"Well what?"
"Well, what are we here for? You asked us to come downstairs to meet you, and I would like to know why," Christine said. Holmes frowned at her.
"Christine, what is your problem?" he asked her, his eyes piercing into her. I saw her tense as she regarded Holmes with contempt I had never seen in her before. Her thin hands danced in her lap, and I saw her raise her chin, as though angry.
"My problem? My problem is that we're sitting here, nice and cozy. My problem is that we don't seem to be concerned with the splendid turn of events at all. My problem is that we still don't know where Kline is, or if she is even alive!" hissed Christine. Holmes considered her for a moment, and then yanked one of her constantly moving hands into his own. She nearly toppled from the back of the couch onto him, but managed to catch her balance in time.
"We'll find her Christine, I promise. But you needn't get so snippy with us. We're all a bit stressed, you need to understand that," he murmured soothingly. Christine regarded him in silence, and I feared that she might grow angry- but she just nodded, and curled her legs up underneath her, reclaiming her hand.
"Holmes, how did you know it was Emily Vouche?" I asked, putting my question into a voice. Holmes frowned at me.
"I was slow, Watson, very slow in deducing it. The clue was so very obvious, but I wasn't aware of it until the reception. You told me about the interviewers with the dancers then. And you told me that when you met Emily, she was fixing her laces, which were unraveling. Now, if you will remember, at one of the crime scenes, we found a bit of pink thread. I believe that if we had examined it under a microscope, we would have discovered it to be that from a dancers ballet slipper.
"Also, three of the five dancers that had stayed were in the audience at the time. Only Judith and Emily Vouche were missing. I had spoken to Judith earlier... she was going home directly after the reception. Indeed, I saw her mother lead her away.
"But how was I to know that the killer would strike that night? I remembered what we had decided about our killer- very bold with her murders. After all, Jackie's murder was bold. The two trumpet players were killed right in front of us. The violinist was killed the night of the masquerade. All highly public places. Obviously, the killer would strike that night.
"Her target would have been someone that was well known to the cast. However, all of her targets were teenagers, with the exception of Jackie. That eliminated more than half of the cast. And she only killed teenage females who 'bragged' according to the killer. That left you, Christine.
"I pieced it together. Pink thread, a dancer, highly public spot, someone well known. That left Vouche on opening night, to kill Christine," Holmes finished. I nodded, and then started.
"Emily was one of the people holding the rope when it fell on the trumpet players!" I exclaimed, remembering that day. Christine smiled thinly, nodding.
"And she was the gypsy woman... I saw her near the crime scene, didn't think it relevant, though."
Holmes nodded and leaned back on the couch.
"Yes... she was quite obviously the killer. We should have realized it sooner. But we didn't," he murmured darkly. Christine joined in the sentiments. I rubbed my forehead.
"But we didn't, and we shouldn't stay stuck in the past. Come on, guys, if we keep reliving our stupid moments, then we'll never find Kline. She's alive, and she's out there somewhere. It's just going to take some hard work to find her. You really don't think that she didn't leave some clue lying about, do you?" I questioned incredulously. Christine sighed.
"Kline would have done her best to leave a trail. She's not foolish. But the truth of the matter is that I doubt she could have. I think that Emily would have knocked her unconscious. And how are we going to track her after all this time? One week? The clues will be gone, if there were any whatsoever. We're screwed, Jenny. Kline is as good as dead," she sighed, trying to restrain the anger and frustration she felt. I jumped to my feet, enraged.
"Look, Christine, if you're going to be such a gosh-darned pessimist, why don't you just go back to the States right now? Kline is dead, you're right, so just get your cowardly butt back to your nice little home. Then you wouldn't have to deal with any of this!" I shouted. Christine was on her feet in a second, staring me in the eyes.
"I am not a coward. Did it ever occur to you that I'm just not ready to romanticize the idea that Kline is alive, when she may not be? I am not going to get my hopes up for nothing! You haven't seen what happens to people when they do that," she bellowed. I sneered at her.
"You. Are. A. Filthy. Coward. You just want to save your own skin!" I shrieked. Christine slapped me, causing me to step back in shock. Her cheekbones had turned a bright red color, and she stared at me with utter vehemence.
"Bitch! Can you blame me for wanting to protect myself? I hope you burn in hell, Jenny. I really hope you do."
With that, Christine spun on her heel and walked out the door, slamming it behind her. I felt my anger melt away instantly, shocked that we had been fighting. I dashed over to the door and opened it, poking my head out.
"Christine? Come on back, I'm sorry! I'm really sorry! I don't know what's wrong with me!" I called out into the brisk night air. There was no answer, just a distinctive "Hah!" from further down the block. I sighed and shut the door, turning to lean against it. I saw Holmes staring at me from the couch. Running a hand through my hair, I sat down next to him, ready to cry. Holmes put a comforting arm around my shoulder, and I burst into tears.
"What is wrong with us, Holmes? Why are we changing all of a sudden? I just don't get it!" I sobbed, burying my face into his shoulder.
"Shhh... come now, Watson, surely you can figure that out," he whispered in my ear. I looked at him in confusion. His sympathetic eyes met my tearstained ones, and I shook my head.
"She's furious at herself right now, not to mention Emily, Scotland Yard, and Kline. She doesn't have the capacity to reason. She isn't used to losing loved ones. Christine doesn't understand what is going on, and she doesn't want to. Was she the type of person who ignored the things that went wrong around her?" Holmes asked me. I nodded numbly.
"See? She doesn't want to face her problems right now, and at the same time she does. She's just very confused. How would you feel if your best friend and partner were captured by a girl who belonged in an insane asylum?"
I shrugged. If I lost Holmes, I would be heartbroken, angry, confused... my thoughts stopped instantly.
"And what about me? Why am I acting like a complete jerk?" I inquired. Holmes paused as he thought about it, his eyes shutting momentarily.
"You are just as distressed as she is. You do not want to face the possibility that she is dead, so you don't. You got angry at Christine because she was setting herself up for disappointment, and you just couldn't handle that right now. You want someone to tell you it will all be all right, that Kline is fine, and that life is great," Holmes told me. I sniffled and rubbed the water from my cheeks.
"So, who is right and who is wrong?"
"No one. You're both right, but you're both wrong. It's just that your personalities and coping abilities are so different, and you aren't compatible in those respects. It's understandable- don't beat yourself up for it."
I sighed and put my head on his chest, listening to his heart beat steadily, feeling his chest rise up and down, the hypnotic smell of his cologne. His hands moved gracefully over my still-wet hair, and I sighed again, content.
No contentment could last, though. An hour later, after Holmes and I had watched the ending to a particularly good movie, the door banged open again. Christine's form stood in the doorframe, clutching a piece of paper to her chest. Holmes and I stared at her as she stumbled into the house.
"She's- alive!" she exclaimed, trying desperately to take in a few breathes. The air rattled around in her lungs, and then she stumbled forward, handing the note to Holmes. He read it swiftly, and then handed it to me, his eyes glimmering.
If You Want Her, Come And Get Her. She's Alive. But Not For Much Longer.
I let out a cry of delight, and lunged for Christine, pulling her into a hug. She grabbed my shoulders, and we did a fairly bad waltz around the room, laughing and crying at the same time. Christine's eyes fairly sparkled.
"I'm sorry, Jenny," she whispered in my ear as we danced around the couch. I gave her an encouraging smile, and mouthed the same to her. She winked at me, and sat down on the couch, giving Holmes a quick peck on the cheek.
"Ah-hah! She is alive! She isn't dead yet, and we are going to save her sorry blond butt before she gets hurt," I crowed. Christine was busy humming a song of victory, and even Holmes looked ready to sing. Then his face got deadly serious, and he looked at Christine.
"Where did you get this?" he demanded. Christine looked at him lazily, her idiotic smile still plastered on her face.
"Somebody shoved it into my hand while I was walking by, and then jumped into a car. So, no, I didn't see the face. And I couldn't recognize the car if you asked me to."
Holmes nodded, and then rubbed his hands together.
"I guess that we have our work cut out for us."
Only one more chapter until the end! Review, or I don't update!
Also, I'm adding a few comments here at the end. My next story (it will be called: Sting of the Spider) is going to be extremely dark and will be rated R for fairly serious themes. I know, I know. I'm being a bad girl. But I decided my stories were way to bright and cheerful. Well, not really, but... everything's going to be dark for the next story.
Another change is that the murders are going to be secondary. And you will also know the murderer from the second or third chapter on. And, I have decided, half of the chapters will be done from Kline's POV. MUCH WILL BE CHANGED IN THE CHARACTERS DURING MY NEXT STORY! The characters are going to undergo a lot of development.
If you don't think you'll like this, tough. E-mail me your comments about this, at my new e-mail for ff.net. It's
cmoonrose@excite.com
Thanks much, and now onto the epilogue!