Shuffling the Cards

(This is my first atempt at Avengers fanfic, hope you like it!)

It was December, another dreary day in a whole run of similar weather. Snow wafted from the clouds, to frisk and flit down to the ground and blanket it in white. To put it shortly, it was very, very cold.

Mrs Emma Peel was sitting in the chicest café on the chicest street of London, idly sipping a steaming coffee and musing over a newspaper. Every now and then she would flip over a page, her brow creasing in intent, her dark eyes skimming across the page.

The room was heavy with the warmth of the log fire burning in the corner, warding away the chill that was desperately trying to steal the room. Emma found it rather stifling.

She took another sip of the piping hot drink (One lump of sugar, and a dash of milk), glad for its comfort on a frigid day such as this, and flipped over a page, with that thoughtful gaze.

It was quite nice to be alone for once, having a quiet cup of coffee and a reeducation of current affairs. Steed was out visiting an old acquaintance from his WWII days, of whom he hadn't seen since. Truth to be told she missed the man a little, even though she had just seen him this morning. But she could never really get enough of that charming voice, the playful bantering they shared so much between them and that naughty roguishness of a young boy – that was far less than his physical years.

Hey ho, Emma thought to herself, and finished another spread of newspaper. And despite her concentration on the print, every time she heard the wind whisk through the door as it was opened, she looked up, hopeful. He had this talent of always knowing where she was: in clutches of diabolical mastermind, taking her Lotus Elan sports car for a spin, or simply reclining at her flat with a juicy book. Always.

The girl gave herself five more minutes before she left, then she drained her coffee and – she was about to get up, but she paused. Her intuitive eyes were fixed firmly on the bottom of her empty cup. They were widened in surprise. There was her name, boldly printed on the bottom of the cup.

Mrs Peel.

Then her surprised face slid slowly into that rather lopsided, ironic smile (or maybe, smirk would be more apt). She heard the wind at the door and immediately turned, to see that familiar form framed by the door.

The impeccably dressed strode towards her table and turned his bowler hatted head towards Emma's now sincerely smiling face and uttered a simple sentence.

Said John Steed, the best agent of the Ministry of Defense to his talented amateur partner Emma Peel:

"We're Needed."

Emma and Steed walked briskly through the sterile halls of the underground morgue, deep in the bowels of the Ministry of Defense, occasionally pausing for Steed to swipe an officious security pass at checkpoints, and tipping his bowler to numerous guards.

Ever the gentleman. It made Emma smile.

"So Steed, dastardly murderer, unexplainable oddity, natural causes?" She questioned in her strong yet lilting voice, "What have we got this time?"

He placed his twinkling eyes on Emma. Normally he would have handed her some kind of brief, a document. But today wasn't normal. Steed seemed graver and not himself.

"Murder. Well, we weren't originally to be placed on this assignment," he paused, and sighed, "But it was thought imperative you should know."

"What? Why?"

"Here we are Mrs Peel," he seemed unwilling to give any information up for her.

"But-" She started, her stubborn streak wasn't letting Steed get away.

Before she could finish though, she and Steed were admitted to a stark room in the morgue and greeted by an older, graying fellow.

"Good Morning Steed!" Said the man cheerily.

He was slightly pot-bellied, with a ruddy face, small eyes hiding under comet brows and behind an extremely oddly shaped nose. It was bulbous, yet refined at the tip, much like half a lemon had been screwed onto his face.

"Hello, Bradbury. This is Mrs Peel, I trust you have met?"

"Yes, but each time is a renewed pleasure." He delivered it like a rich Scottish infused line of the Sean Connery James Bond and smiled in a way he supposed was charming.

I do not with to be buttered up with corny clichés by an aging pant-puller, she growled in her mind, I want to know what's going on.

Emma put on a smile. She noticed Bradbury ogling her. Oh hell, no. She stiffened visibly.

"Now, uh…" She prompted.

"Oh yes." He chuckled.

Emma raised a solitary eyebrow.

He led Steed and Emma across the room, pausing for a moment, then he pulled out a draw with a rattling slide.

"The victim was found nine a.m. yesterday, in a field near Risley Dale, ah, a section of the ah… Hamford reserve, I do believe it's called," he announced, "Gunshot wound, point blanc to the heart, in fact there's virtually nothing left of it."

"Well it certainly gives a new perspective to one's heart being broken." Purred Steed, with that sly boyish smile.

Now the draw was fully extended, Bradbury extended two furry hands, and removed the cloth shrouding the still body.

Steed watched with baited breath, monitoring his partner, waiting until she displayed a rare flicker of emotion.

Emma Peel could scarcely believe her eyes. Her beautiful face took on an anxious, confused expression. She shook her head, repeatedly breathing to herself "No, it can't be."

The blonde woman lay peacefully on her deathbed, her mouth open, revealing a gap between her two front teeth. She brought back a flood of memories.

Memories Emma was hoping to forget, and remain never to be revived, to rust and tarnish in a separated part of her fantastic mind.

But here they came, swirling back. She breathed heavily.

Snip, snip, snip. That raving young woman.

Snip, snip, snip. Flowers… roses everywhere.

Snip, snip, snip. The man, who was he? Then the scream.

Snip, snip, snip. Steed, where was Steed? Help! Help! Snip, snip, snip. Then HE was there, calling me, "Emma, Emma". But where? Who?

Snipping, snipping. Me. He was cutting me. Steed, where are you? Steed! My Steed! Help! Panic, helplessness…

My love, my rose…

My love, my rose…

My love, my rose…

Love… Rose…

Over and over…

That night… but then he was there, Steed came, ever dependable Steed..

But the horror… what happened… it won't… it won't – fade away.

Emma continued to stare in a frightened disbelief.

She was dressed in a white gown. Was it the same one? Emma wondered.

A single, glorious red rose lay undisturbed on her chest. Emma reached out and picked it up, gently. She studied it.

My love… My rose…

My love… My rose…

Meine Liebling… Meine Rose…

Such a brutal language.

She gave a strangled sob.

Only Bradbury awakened her from her trance.

"This is how we found her," began Bradbury, "Her name is-"

Emma finished it for him.

"Ola Monsey-Chamberlain."