Author's Note: Hello, everyone, I've updated, what a good girl, huh? Don't get your hopes up, this chapter's a quickie. And just a note to Jake, the lone Canadian, yes, I am an american (booohisss!) but at least I'm smart enough to wish I was BRITISH! Lol... And now, back to our regularly scheduled program -
"Sit down, Marianne."
"I am not - "
The stranger sitting behind the desk pulled a gun from the drawer and cocked the barrel. I glanced behind me at the two burly men on either side of the door, then back at the gun, then sat in the plushy chair in front of the desk. After the short but terrifying car ride, I had been brought to this... place. I was in some kind of office, very upper class but dark and sinister.
"We're not going to hurt you, Marianne," said the man, his face hidden the shadows. "If you just help us out. This is a copy of your father's will." A hand emerged from the shadows - definitely a man's with neat fingernails and a long, wicked scar running from thumb to wrist. "Unfortunately, he wasn't able to write it himself." From the sound of his voice, the man was smiling. "Be a good girl and finish copying it over, in his handwriting, and no one will get hurt."
"I - I - " I stammered. "I can't."
"You will."
"No - really. I can't-"
"You have five hours or we will find and kill your mother, too."
What I wouldn't have given for a tape recorder just then. One of the burly men grabbed my arm and yanked me too my feet. The other one gathered the fake will, sheets of legal paper, and some ballpoint pens. The paper, pens, and I were all tossed into an adjoining office.
"Umph." I said, then pushed myself upright. The door locked shut behind me.
This office was much bigger and grander. One of the walls was a large picture window that looked out on to a neatly trimmed lawn. The walls were red wood, polished to a shine. Struck by inspiration, I took a better look around. There was probably a hidden camera or something, and this would not look good. I went past the bookshelf on one wall, and found it - the spine of Pride and Prejudice had a very tiny black spot. I began pulling books out at random, and "accidentally" knocked P and P to the floor, then kicked it so the spine was facing the wall.
Praying that was the only hidden camera in here, I took one of the ballpoint pens and retreated to the far corner of the office. Gripping the pen with both hands I dug into the soft woodwork. SW 2002, I carved, small and near the floor. If I ever got out of this alive, I could always identify the room, now.
I began pacing. I certainly couldn't copy the will over - but would they carry out their threats? I knew they wouldn't hurt me; they needed Marianne to rewrite the will, but what about her mother? And where was Holmes? I tried the office door. Still locked. I looked out the window to the ground two stories below. I supposed I could jump it if I needed to, but where would I run afterwards. I went to the window and rapped the glass. It looked breakable, but a crash would bring them running.
I turned my attention towards the desk. It was immaculately neat, with pens and paper lined up straight. The corner of the desk was embossed with the initials J.C.W.
J.C.W.? I thought. I bit my lip.
There was a photograph in a large picture frame sitting on the desk, tilted away from me. I reached out one hand to bring it closer and -
TINK!
My attention snapped back to the picture window. Sometimes, I think, if I had just turned that photograph, if I had just seen the portrait that lay inside it, I wouldn't be here to tell the tale. Months later I would come back to this room, this desk, and I would see that photograph.
But right now I watched, captivated, as another tiny stone plinked against the glass.
I ran to the window, and down below I saw Holmes. I cried with relief.
If Holmes was here, we couldn't be far away from London. I bit my lip and listened - no sounds from the rest of the building. I made a swinging motion at the glass and mouthed "BREAK IT?"
Holmes nodded and shifted backwards.
I looked around the room, frantic, and noticed a stiff wooden chair in the corner. I picked it up and hefted it towards the window. I swung one, two, three and then banged it with all my might against the glass.
Everything shattered and I dropped the chair out the window and instinctively covered my face. Alarms began sounding inside the building.
"JUMP!" I heard Holmes yell, and, blindly, I did, kicking glass shards along with me. Holmes shifted his stance and caught most of my weight, and we fell backwards into the grass, scratched and bleeding. Holmes yelled in pain as we got up, and I stared at him, terrified.
"Run, RUN!" he yelled, and we took to the streets.
After gasping and running and stumbling down the dark London streets, I eased the door to Holmes' house open, and Marianne looked up from a book. Holmes and I staggered into the living room, pale and out of breath. But Holmes' hands were pressed against his stomach and he collapsed to the floor.
"Watson," he gasped, after a minute, "Do you think you can help me with this?" He pulled back his hands, slowly, and both Marianne and I could see they were sticky with blood.
I gasped and practically flew to his side. "Marianne!" I said sharply, "Call 911!"
"What?" Marianne was wringing her hands and white as a ghost.
I kicked myself inwardly. Stupid American. "The ambulance - call an ambulance!" I said, helping Holmes unbutton his shirt. I stripped it off of him, laid him on his back, and pressed the white cotton against his wound. From the broken glass, I noted, my hands shaking.
"Holmes, it's going to be okay, you just pull through this, you hear me?" The shirt was slowly filling with his blood. I increased the pressure, crying desperately. "You can't leave me, I won't let you!"
Holmes opened his eyes, moaning. "Watson - find... find the..."
"Find the what?"
"Foe.... a foe's... toe..." Holmes whispered. Then he groaned again, and he was gone.
"Holmes!" I screamed, crying. "No!" I thought I heard sirens in the background. "Holmes!"
Hands snatched at me. "It's all right miss, it's all right." I was pulled away from him, sobbing. As they took Holmes away, I had the presence of mind to scream for Marianne to call his parents, and mine. Then I was a mess, a quivering mess on the bloody carpet...
"Sit down, Marianne."
"I am not - "
The stranger sitting behind the desk pulled a gun from the drawer and cocked the barrel. I glanced behind me at the two burly men on either side of the door, then back at the gun, then sat in the plushy chair in front of the desk. After the short but terrifying car ride, I had been brought to this... place. I was in some kind of office, very upper class but dark and sinister.
"We're not going to hurt you, Marianne," said the man, his face hidden the shadows. "If you just help us out. This is a copy of your father's will." A hand emerged from the shadows - definitely a man's with neat fingernails and a long, wicked scar running from thumb to wrist. "Unfortunately, he wasn't able to write it himself." From the sound of his voice, the man was smiling. "Be a good girl and finish copying it over, in his handwriting, and no one will get hurt."
"I - I - " I stammered. "I can't."
"You will."
"No - really. I can't-"
"You have five hours or we will find and kill your mother, too."
What I wouldn't have given for a tape recorder just then. One of the burly men grabbed my arm and yanked me too my feet. The other one gathered the fake will, sheets of legal paper, and some ballpoint pens. The paper, pens, and I were all tossed into an adjoining office.
"Umph." I said, then pushed myself upright. The door locked shut behind me.
This office was much bigger and grander. One of the walls was a large picture window that looked out on to a neatly trimmed lawn. The walls were red wood, polished to a shine. Struck by inspiration, I took a better look around. There was probably a hidden camera or something, and this would not look good. I went past the bookshelf on one wall, and found it - the spine of Pride and Prejudice had a very tiny black spot. I began pulling books out at random, and "accidentally" knocked P and P to the floor, then kicked it so the spine was facing the wall.
Praying that was the only hidden camera in here, I took one of the ballpoint pens and retreated to the far corner of the office. Gripping the pen with both hands I dug into the soft woodwork. SW 2002, I carved, small and near the floor. If I ever got out of this alive, I could always identify the room, now.
I began pacing. I certainly couldn't copy the will over - but would they carry out their threats? I knew they wouldn't hurt me; they needed Marianne to rewrite the will, but what about her mother? And where was Holmes? I tried the office door. Still locked. I looked out the window to the ground two stories below. I supposed I could jump it if I needed to, but where would I run afterwards. I went to the window and rapped the glass. It looked breakable, but a crash would bring them running.
I turned my attention towards the desk. It was immaculately neat, with pens and paper lined up straight. The corner of the desk was embossed with the initials J.C.W.
J.C.W.? I thought. I bit my lip.
There was a photograph in a large picture frame sitting on the desk, tilted away from me. I reached out one hand to bring it closer and -
TINK!
My attention snapped back to the picture window. Sometimes, I think, if I had just turned that photograph, if I had just seen the portrait that lay inside it, I wouldn't be here to tell the tale. Months later I would come back to this room, this desk, and I would see that photograph.
But right now I watched, captivated, as another tiny stone plinked against the glass.
I ran to the window, and down below I saw Holmes. I cried with relief.
If Holmes was here, we couldn't be far away from London. I bit my lip and listened - no sounds from the rest of the building. I made a swinging motion at the glass and mouthed "BREAK IT?"
Holmes nodded and shifted backwards.
I looked around the room, frantic, and noticed a stiff wooden chair in the corner. I picked it up and hefted it towards the window. I swung one, two, three and then banged it with all my might against the glass.
Everything shattered and I dropped the chair out the window and instinctively covered my face. Alarms began sounding inside the building.
"JUMP!" I heard Holmes yell, and, blindly, I did, kicking glass shards along with me. Holmes shifted his stance and caught most of my weight, and we fell backwards into the grass, scratched and bleeding. Holmes yelled in pain as we got up, and I stared at him, terrified.
"Run, RUN!" he yelled, and we took to the streets.
After gasping and running and stumbling down the dark London streets, I eased the door to Holmes' house open, and Marianne looked up from a book. Holmes and I staggered into the living room, pale and out of breath. But Holmes' hands were pressed against his stomach and he collapsed to the floor.
"Watson," he gasped, after a minute, "Do you think you can help me with this?" He pulled back his hands, slowly, and both Marianne and I could see they were sticky with blood.
I gasped and practically flew to his side. "Marianne!" I said sharply, "Call 911!"
"What?" Marianne was wringing her hands and white as a ghost.
I kicked myself inwardly. Stupid American. "The ambulance - call an ambulance!" I said, helping Holmes unbutton his shirt. I stripped it off of him, laid him on his back, and pressed the white cotton against his wound. From the broken glass, I noted, my hands shaking.
"Holmes, it's going to be okay, you just pull through this, you hear me?" The shirt was slowly filling with his blood. I increased the pressure, crying desperately. "You can't leave me, I won't let you!"
Holmes opened his eyes, moaning. "Watson - find... find the..."
"Find the what?"
"Foe.... a foe's... toe..." Holmes whispered. Then he groaned again, and he was gone.
"Holmes!" I screamed, crying. "No!" I thought I heard sirens in the background. "Holmes!"
Hands snatched at me. "It's all right miss, it's all right." I was pulled away from him, sobbing. As they took Holmes away, I had the presence of mind to scream for Marianne to call his parents, and mine. Then I was a mess, a quivering mess on the bloody carpet...