John nudged Sherlock who appeared to be sleeping with Noah leaning against his shoulder, exhausted after a long boat trip to Paris to find their gypsy friend, Madam Simza.
"Hey, wake up. We're here," John told him when he didn't budge, but Sherlock remained seated in the carriage with his eyes closed as he responded.
"Brace yourself. We're about to be violated."
"Don't be so cynical," John laughed, leaning over the side of their ride to speak to the young boys nearby in French. "Bonjour. Mademoiselle Simza?"
The boys nodded and gestured as though they would show the group where she was as Sherlock roused a dazed Noah. They climbed out of the carriage, though Noah and Sherlock more reluctantly, and were immediately grabbed and hauled along by a number of gypsies.
"They're taking my luggage," John complained, unsure what to do.
"Hope you didn't have anything valuable," Noah muttered, slapping the hand of a woman who'd started to search her coat.
"Laugh them away, Watson. I have her bag."
Sherlock lifted the item and announced it as such only for one of the men to snatch it away as Noah sighed.
"Had her bag."
"Now they have my coat," John complained, giving Noah a look to see she'd yet to have any of her things stolen. "How is it you haven't lost your coat, Noah?"
"I have a firm hand," she said, glaring down a young man who'd attempted to snatch her cap, though his face was pinched in pain at the twisted grip she had on his wrist. "Réessayez et vous n'aurez plus de poignet." (Try again and you will no longer have a wrist.)
The man was released and the other gypsies gave her a bit of a wider berth as they reached the center of the camp.
"Where is Madam Simza?" John asked again. "Où Simza?" (Where is Simza?)
"This is Simza," the man nearest him said with a cheeky grin, gesturing to an older gentleman with a goose in his lap.
"Ha, ha, ha. Simza is a goose," John said sarcastically, getting some chuckles as the man patted his own chest.
"I'm Sim." He then tugged the scarf off John's neck. "Nice scarf. I like."
Just as he looped it around his neck, John pulled back a fist and sent it forward. He would've knocked the man to the ground if Noah hadn't caught the anger-fueled throw, pushing the gypsy to the ground but pulling the scarf off him at the same time. The fiddlers nearby stopped playing and the once cheerful, snickering gypsies went quiet as Noah let John go and pushed the scarf back into his hands.
"C'était un cadeau de sa femme. Je suggère de le laisser avec lui. Maintenant..." (It was a gift from his wife. I suggest leaving it with him. Now...) Noah eyed the group seriously. "Où est Simza?" (Where is Simza?)
The gypsies held their tongues and Noah sighed, pulling off her cap and scratching at her head.
"Je suis trop fatigué pour ça." (I'm too tired for this.)
Seeing that Noah had had enough for one trip, Sherlock cleared his throat.
"Il s'agit de son frère." (It is about her brother.)
The woman herself finally stepped into the circle with her things, eyeing them. "You hungry?"
"Famished," Sherlock said as Noah groaned, making a number of gypsies in the group stiffen.
"Thank God. Decent hospitality. Please tell me you've got something for headaches."
Simza cracked a small smirk as Noah bypassed John and Sherlock to exit the ring of people. "I'm sure we could find something."
They were led to where she stayed and offered food as the man who'd taken John's scarf before sat quietly, eyeing Noah uneasily.
"Madam, this is a glorious hedgehog goulash," Sherlock complimented. "I can't remember ever having had better."
John shot him a look as they both stopped eating, not really liking the taste of it. "Do tell me, when was the last time you had a hedgehog goulash?"
"I told you, Watson. I can't remember."
"Or perhaps you've repressed it," John hissed in return, getting a snicker from Sherlock.
"That's where we differ. Unlike you, I repress nothing."
John chuckled sarcastically as well, setting his bowl down. "How dare you be rude to this woman who's invited us into her tent, offered us a hedgehog."
"Says the man who throws women from trains," John answered bitterly.
"Why can't you be more like Noah, hm?" Sherlock said, gesturing to the woman who greedily ate the goulash and made them both grimace until she felt eyes on her and looked up.
"What?" She grumbled. "I've eaten far worse than hedgehog. Although…" She turned to Simza. "Have you tried frying it? Bit of oil in a pan, cover it in a mix of breadcrumbs and egg. Might be pretty good."
Simza eyed her before speaking to all of them. "Who are you three?"
"Concerned citizens," Sherlock hummed.
"Why did someone try to kill me?"
"Your brother has become involved with a very dangerous man," John explained. "Who clearly believes that René has told you something you shouldn't know."
Simza frowned. "I don't know anything. I've been looking for him for over a year. That's why I was in London. It's the last place anyone saw him."
"It's clear your brother loves you," Sherlock noted, lifting the letter they'd shown her before. "So he would never send you a message that would put you in harm's way. Any information therefore would be by default, unintentional."
"Has he sent you anything else?" John asked.
"Just a few drawings."
"Can we see them?" Noah asked and she pulled them out of her things and handed them over.
As she'd said, they weren't much. A sketch of a lighthouse, a post, It was the paper that had caught Sherlock's attention though.
"Unusual choice of paper. Thicker gauge designed for a printing press."
"It's the same stock as the letter," John added, smelling it. "They smell musty. Must've been stored somewhere cold and damp."
"There's something—" Noah snatched a paper and sniffed a red stain, licking it with a hum. "It's wine. A wine cellar near a printing press then?"
"That should narrow it down," Sherlock said, having caught a flicker of recognition from Simza and her companion.
"Il a dit qu'il ne reviendrait jamais," (He said he would never go back.) her companion noted with a shrug as Simza eyed the trio below.
"There's a wine cellar used by the anarchist group Lapin Vert. René was close to their leader."
"Claude Ravache," Sherlock said, recognizing the name, as did John.
"A bomb maker."
"Noah and I sampled some of his work last week," Sherlock mused as Simza went on.
"I was a part of the movement. So was René, until it became too extreme for us. Ravache knows me. If my brother's back there, he will see us. He will send a message."
Her comrade went to send it as she uncorked a glass, making Sherlock lean over to John.
"Whatever you do, don't let these gypsies make you drink," he warned but grabbed the bottle when it was offered to him and drained it dry.
"You dance?" Simza asked them, as Sherlock again, warned him.
"For God's sake, don't dance. It could be the death of you. You know what happens when you dance."
John took Simza's hand and stepped out with her as Sherlock stayed put but did a little dance in his seat, sending Noah a wink that she rolled her eyes to.
"How's the headache?" He asked, cracking a teasing smirk.
"Fine, fine. Leftover from the boat ride, I suspect."
"You don't dance?"
"Two-left feet, I'm afraid."
"We'll have to fix that at some point, you know. You should be well-rounded if you want to continue working with me."
Noah raised a brow, accepting the second bottle of wine he'd found. "You say that like you're going to kick me out. I'm not about to walk away from you, Sherlock."
"Yes, well, things can change. Just look at John." He waved the bottle at the tent flap and Noah leaned over only to snort as John bounced around with the other partying gypsies. "He went off and got married." Sherlock snorted before pausing, eyeing her as she took a sip of the wine, eyes going a little wide at the quality as she took another long drink. "Would you… want to get married?"
Noah choked, covering her mouth before giving him a shocked look. "P-Please tell me that wasn't just a proposal."
"What? No! I…" He scrambled to think up an excuse before snatching back the bottle and lifting it. "I'm drunk."
Noah snorted, shaking her head and turning on the seat, leaning back so she could rest her back against his arm. "Right, well… I'm not really interested if I'm being honest. Not that anyone would take me. I'm hardly normal."
Sherlock scoffed. "Normal. Who wishes to be normal? Normal is boring, dull, monotonous."
"Besides that, marriage is just signing some paper, isn't it? Societal construct," Noah drawled with a wave of her hand as Sherlock drank some more before handing the bottle back.
"Exactly. The only thing I am married to is my work," he declared, earning a snort from Noah as they continued to pass the bottle back and forth while listening to the music and laughter outside the tent.
The bottle was soon finished and Noah now had her head resting on Sherlock's lap while he carded his fingers through her hair. Both were drifting to sleep, tired from their long trip and the constant tension Moriarty had hanging over their heads. The wine had lowered their inhibitions a bit, and neither one of them really cared about the position they were in.
"When you said you died—" Sherlock started off, hearing her sigh but wondering how she'd expected him to let her earlier words go without a discussion. "—how did you survive?"
"I don't know, Sherlock," Noah muttered, turning to press her nose against his stomach and wrapping an arm around him unconsciously. "I thought I was dying then John found me and I passed out. I don't remember how I got there."
"Hm, a case of amnesia perhaps? Or maybe—"
"Sherlock," Noah groaned, pulled herself further into him as he sighed, begrudgingly letting that topic drop.
They were quiet for a minute, the music outside starting to slowly die down as Sherlock's mind turned to the problem they were currently dealing with.
"Noah."
"Hm."
"If I asked you to leave, to keep yourself safe—"
"No," she cut him off.
"Moriarty doesn't know about you, but if he finds out—"
"Then, we'll face him together," she said, pulling her face out of his shirt and scowling at him with cheeks red from drinking. "You said I was your trump card."
"While your help will be appreciated, upon seeing what has occurred with John—"
She pushed herself upright, bristling. "That's even more of a reason to stay with you! You're not pushing John away!"
"I tried pushing John away," Sherlock argued, "which proves that staying with me isn't safe!"
"Oh, and the fact that we had assassins try to kill us on a train somehow proves that my leaving would somehow be safe?"
"Why are you arguing this?" Sherlock countered, both of them on their feet now. "I'm trying to keep you safe, Noah!"
"I don't want to be safe! I want to be with you!"
"Well, maybe I don't want you here!"
He regretted the words instantly, seeing the quick flare of hurt before her walls came right back up and she turned, grabbing her forgotten coat and cap.
"Fine. I get it."
"Noah, I—"
She stopped at the door, shoulders hunched up to her ears as though trying to protect herself. "Just take me with you to town tomorrow and I'll find a ship back."
"Noah. Noah, wait!" He called out, but by the time he reached the opening of the tent, she'd vanished among the gypsies.
If John noticed that Sherlock and I had a falling out, he was showing some surprising restraint. I was able to stay completely silent as we were tucked in the back of a delivery vehicle and dropped off in town outside of where our bomber friend was housed. Sherlock strode right in, not bothering to see if I was following and once they stepped into the building, I stayed back to lean against a wall outside, wondering what I was going to do now. I was certain Sherlock hadn't actually meant what he said, but my own feelings on the subject were something I needed to deal with and I couldn't do that with John's curiosity and Sherlock's bickering.
A duo rolled by with a cake and I swiped a finger across the edge without them noticing, wondering why their faces seemed familiar. Upon putting the icing in my mouth, however, I grimaced and spat it on the ground, wiping my tongue with the back of my hand.
"That wasn't…"
My eyes went wide as I watched the duo drive away with the fake cake, toying with the taste that remained in my mouth. Clay, plaster… There was a bomb in that cake. That's why they were familiar. I've seen them before.
"They're Moriarty's men," I breathed, looking around and spotting a horse nearby.
I rushed over and threw myself onto its back, ignoring the man who'd been attempting to get it lined up with the carriage as I dug my heels into its side and got it moving. The whole time, my mind racing. Where was it going? I've already allowed distance between myself and them. Once it gets onto a busy main road, I will lose sight. Think! I remembered the pushcart they'd wheeled it out on and the plaque on the front.
"Hôtel du Triomphe," I muttered, pulling my horse to a stop upon hitting the main square and looking around.
It'll be big, multiple stories, name plastered across the front… There! I rushed out into the road, ignoring shouting motorists and carriage drivers as I nimbly pushed the horse to its limits to get to where I needed to be. Once outside of the building, I hopped off and quickly handed the horse off to someone before ducking around a back alley.
"Need to get in. Preferably unnoticed."
My eyes raked the building, glancing at a servants' entrance and trying it but the door was locked. I didn't have time to pick the lock. Fancy cake. Big meeting. It won't be on a lower floor. I glanced up and let out a soft sigh.
"Oh, Sherlock better appreciate this."
I threw myself up the wall, grateful for keeping up with my daily exercises and the occasional spar with Sherlock or fighting at the bar. The upper arm strength required to do this was not something I easily gained, but I had enough to get by. Or so I thought. My hand slipped off a window sill and I swung dangerously about two floors up. I attempted to keep myself calm and managed to regain my footing before reaching a window on the third floor that was about as near as I was going to get. I drew my knife and slipped it under the window, struggling to keep myself close to the wall without falling and also work the latch. Finally, it worked and I shoved the window up, climbing in with a hot breath of air.
My arms ached and I made a mental note to add climbing to my list of exercises, before moving to an adjacent wall and pressing my ear to it. Silence. I poked my head out and ensured there was no one around before ducking into the hall, cautiously. I spotted someone in a tuxedo stroll by the other hall and hastily picked up my pace to find them slipping into a large meeting room with a number of others one floor down. The large doors were closed, but not before I spotted the bomb inside. All the way in the back by the window. Meaning I've got to get from the entrance to the bomb by passing through a number of people at the table and any guards or workers. I could try running in and shouting "fire."
My mind worked through what would happen if I did and I winced. Not fast enough. Won't work if they don't believe me. I dug through my pockets for anything I could use and found Sherlock's pipe, making me solemn. I should've just gone with him. He would've had a plan for this. He would've known what to do. I shook myself of the thought, knowing I had no time to think of this. Even if I get in, what do I do with the bomb? Normally I'd throw it out the window, but there's people below. Adjacent room? I double-checked the nearby rooms were empty before I knew I had to move.
"Well, it's the only plan I've got," I murmured under my breath before yanking the doors open with a shout. "Fire! There's a fire!"
Sherlock was devastated as they ran as quickly as they could from the opera—where he'd thought Moriarty was going to set off a bomb—to the hotel where a bomb was already waiting. He'd noticed that Noah had vanished after they'd entered the bomb-maker's lair, but knew she could take care of herself which only made him feel guilty. He never meant to say what he did that night. He wanted her near him. Always near him. If he could, he would never let her out of his sight, given the woman was as danger-prone as him. I should never have pushed her away.
Just as they got to the hotel though, an explosion broke a set of second-story windows, sending the crowd below into panic. His heart plummeted and he rushed into the building with Simza and John, finding the floor where a number of men were trying to push past, coughing smoke from their lungs while Sherlock plowed through them as best he was able. When he reached the room the bomb went off in, he stared in shock.
The room was mostly empty. There were a few waiters by the door who were covered in soot and looked a bit dazed. John went to check up on them to see if there was anything he could do to help them while Sherlock moved around the debris. Chairs were broken and the main table had been turned to splinters on the far right side. Glass littered the floor and Sherlock carefully navigated around the destruction before there was a groan and a cough.
"G-Goddamn Moriarty... a-ass."
A soot-covered figure pushed themselves up off someone and sagged against the wall, revealing a tired expression as they caught sight of Sherlock.
"You… You're an ass too. You're late."
"N-Noah?" Sherlock breathed, falling to his knees and hovering a hand over her right arm that was burned terribly.
She didn't seem to even notice it though, dealing with shock and the rush of adrenaline that accompanied surviving a bomb.
"He was shot," she said then, confusing him.
"What?"
She looked to the man she'd been covering and Sherlock spotted the gunshot wound to his temple. "I didn't realize it was a coverup."
Sherlock frowned, checking the ring on the man's finger and following the angle of trajectory from the bullet hole in the wall through the window and to an adjacent rooftop. He stood and held out a hand for Noah.
"Can you walk?"
She nodded, accepting his hand and allowing him to keep a strong hold of her elbow as he called John.
"John!"
The man perked up and his eyes went wide as he spotted Noah, hurrying over immediately and taking in the damage. "My word. We need to get her to the hospital and—"
"No," she and Sherlock said at once, though he continued. "It's possible they know she interfered. In which case, that is the last thing we want to do. We need to get to the roof across the way. This bombing wasn't the only crime that happened here."
"Sherlock, she's in no shape to—"
"I'm fine," Noah bit out, the sweat sliding down her temple telling a different story but her stubbornness keeping her steady on her feet as she pulled out of his grip.
Sherlock was hesitant, everything in his body telling him that this was his fault. If he'd just done a better job convincing her to stay away—No. If he'd just held onto her and apologized after what he'd said, she wouldn't have ended up like this. She would've been with him when they dealt with the aftermath of the bombmaker killing himself. She wouldn't have been here. And many more people would've been dead if she wasn't, the logical part of his mind argued and he took a steadying breath.
"We need to go before the police come. If she says she can handle it, then so be it."
"Sherlock!" John complained as they hastily started to leave and Sherlock chose to change the topic.
"What were you doing here, Noah? I thought…" I thought you left.
"I-I was just going to get some air and wait outside," Noah admitted, stripping off her tattered coat and abandoning it before grabbing a few crisp white napkins nearby and starting to tear them with her teeth until John took them to work it into bandages himself. "They were moving a cake and I took a swipe of icing."
"You what?" John questioned, getting a quirk of her lips.
"You shouldn't be surprised. I stole a piece of cake from your wedding too."
"That was you?"
"Anyway?" Sherlock pressed, grabbing Noah's arm when she tripped a little once they were outside.
"Well, the icing was clay and plaster," she grumbled. "I realized it was a bomb and saw where it was headed on the cart, so I grabbed a horse and went after it."
"Where'd you learn to ride a horse?" John asked.
"I owned one until my parents sold it claiming it took up too much time," Noah said bitterly. "The back to the hotel was locked and I knew I had limited time, so I climbed and snuck in a window. Then, found a guy in a fancy suit and followed him to the room; spotted the bomb before the doors closed. Only thing I could think of doing was running in and yelling 'fire.' Got most of them on their feet before I went to push people away from the bomb. It went off faster than I would've liked."
They'd made it a safe distance from the bombing and Sherlock led them to the building they wanted, placing Noah in front of him in case she started having trouble getting up the ladder.
"Excellent deductions, Noah," he complimented. "Why not move the bomb?"
"Too many people between me and it," she said, wincing more often the longer they climbed. "Couldn't push it out the window with the people outside, and once inside, I didn't know when it would go off. Didn't want to risk being directly in front of it."
"You should've just shouted and ran," Sherlock grumbled once they were on the roof. "Them not running to safety would've been their own fault and you wouldn't have been—"
Noah frowned at him, looking angry just like she had the previous evening. "What? You wanted me to leave and just let them die?"
"I'm not saying it would be your fault. If anything, it would be mine for messing up and getting caught in Moriarty's trap," he countered.
"Oh, so let them die so it could be your fault?"
"If it meant you were safe—"
"God, we're not doing this again," Noah complained, bringing a hand to her head in aggravation.
"Your arm is burned because I was wrong!" Sherlock shouted, frustrated himself. "I was pulled into his little game and went to the wrong place! If I hadn't upset you and pushed you away, then you wouldn't have been there either! You got hurt because I got it wrong, because of me!"
Noah stormed forward and Sherlock stiffened, closing his eyes and preparing for her to knock him to the ground as she grabbed the front of his coat. A weight settled on his chest then and he peeked open his eyes to find her with her head pressed to his chest, sagging into him.
"Noa—"
"Just… let me be stubborn," she breathed. "I won't leave. I don't want to leave. I know it's dangerous and I know it's stupid and reckless… but I don't want you to do this alone."
His chest ached before he finally sighed, lightly pulling her off his chest. "Very well. Together."
She relaxed with a small nod. "Together."
"Excellent," he murmured, leaning in and kissing her cheek much to her surprise before he turned to John and Simza, who both pretended to be interested in the city below and not the heated discussion they'd been having. "This should be the nest of the shooter, given the angle of the shot."
They spread out along the edge and started easily picking up signs of the gunman.
"He took the shot from here," John said, using his cane as a sight guide and pointing out the scuffs on the ground. "Using a tripod and a shooting stick."
"And realized," Sherlock jumped in, "there's a better position. There's a faint scrape where he dragged the tripod and set it up here."
"Six hundred yards? Six fifty?" Noah wondered, eyeing the distance between them and the hotel.
"Not to mention the seven or eight mile an hour wind," Sherlock pointed out as the breeze pulled at their clothes, making him strip from his coat and drape it over Noah's shoulders when she shivered.
"He would've needed a wind gauge, which he placed here," John pointed out as Sherlock moved his spectacles over a nearby carving.
"And put a cigarette down here."
"Can anyone shoot that far?" Simza asked as Sherlock knelt to look at what was on the ground.
"Not more than half a dozen men in all of Europe."
"And me," Noah said, kneeling and eyeing the shot. "A Whitworth rifle has better range, but he probably used the Lee–Metford rifle given you lot never used the Whitworth. Lee-Metford is effective up to about 800 yards, but… Hm, could've been a Martini-Henry rifle. The range is more limited, only 400 yards, but it's been in production longer and is possible to hit at that range... Whatever he used, he's skilled."
"And served in Afghanistan," Sherlock noted, standing with the remains of the cigarette. "Prosperum with a touch of tekrum."
John leaned in and took a sniff and Noah hummed as well.
"Must've fallen out when he was rolling up. Wasn't it the blend you all smoked?" Sherlock asked. "You did tell me about a colonel—"
"Sebastian Moran," John remembered. "Best marksman in the British Army. Dishonorable discharge."
"He's likely now a gun for hire. This is the second victim of his that I've encountered."
"What better way to conceal a killing?" John scoffed. "No one looks for a bullet in a bomb blast."
"They might, given Noah's interference," Sherlock informed. "Due to her quick thinking, nearly everyone was out. He's one of only a couple of victims. Come, the sun is rising and I need to check on some things. There's a cafe where we can meet. John, if you'd give Noah some proper medical attention. We've got an early day tomorrow."
"So, you and Sherlock?"
"Shut up, John, or I'll spit in your tea," Noah snapped, drumming her bandaged fingers on the table. "He's late."
John checked his watch. "By twenty minutes." His eyes shifted up to Noah. "But really, are you two…"
Noah glared.
"It'd be fine if you are," John mused, offering a smile. "Sherlock could use a good influence like you."
"A good influence? John, I just ran into a room knowing it had a bomb."
"To save people," he countered.
"Which Sherlock was planning on doing anyway," Noah huffed. "You don't give him enough credit, John. He is actually a decent guy."
"Yes, however, I don't know many women who would put up with him better than you."
"Irene," Noah reminded, making John a little sheepish before Noah quickly changed the conversation. "He's taking too long."
Simza agreed. "I don't have any papers."
"And we're foreigners," John reminded. "This climate is exactly what Moriarty wants."
Sherlock finally stepped up then with a clearing of his throat, setting down a tray with food. "The omelette fino is divine. But, they spared every expense on the tea. Now, to compare movements or consider what we know?"
"You first," Noah said, taking the food offered and the tea that she greedily drank.
"Last night's bombing was clearly meant to look like Germany's retaliation for Strasbourg."
"But also meant to cover up the murder of that man," Noah said, frowning as she pointed her fork at him. "Who was he? How's he fit into all this?"
"We really need to brush up on your knowledge of Lords and large property owners," Sherlock said, getting an eye roll. "The man killed by the gunshot was none other than Alfred Meinhardt."
John nodded in understanding before looking at the two confused women. "He makes guns… Big guns."
"Only days ago, a large share of his company was bought by an unknown investor."
"Moriarty," John and Noah said together.
"Doesn't that mean that with him dead, the next biggest shareholder takes over?" Noah continued, getting a finger pointed at her by Sherlock.
"Exactly. The clues point in one direction. To avoid repeating last night's debacle, I was obliged to collect more sufficient data. Hence my tardiness."
"You followed him?" Noah accused, getting a small teasing smirk from him as he told him what he overheard about the man's next train stop.
"But, his habit of feeding that urban species, the feral pigeon—"
Noah snorted, reaching up and peeling off a strip of Sherlock's disguise mustache.
Sherlock eyed her for a moment before John cleared his throat and the detective continued. "So, there are seven mainline railway stations in Paris. But taking ten minutes to get to Jardin des Tuileries, where the largest concentration of winged vermin may be found, reduces that to one. The Guard du Nord, where he will be just in time to catch the 11:04 train to Berlin. It makes several stops along the way. One of which is—"
"Heibron," John understood.
"Exactly where we must go," Sherlock said, as John looked at the confused Noah and Simza once more.
"Where Meinhardt's factory is."
"Moriarty's factory, you mean," Noah muttered as Sherlock nodded.
"Unfortunately, due to the bombing, the border between France and Germany is to be closed. I'm afraid our pursuit is over unless I can happen upon a comrade who knows their way around borders."
The group looked at Simza who rolled her eyes. "Fine. I will lead you but it won't be easy."
"My dear, who said anything about easy?" Sherlock smirked.
The trio met back up with the gypsies who had a number of horses ready for the trek they were going to take to reach the borders. With a quick outfit change, they too looked like gypsies and Simza began to offer up the horses.
"Black one is yours," Simza pointed out to John. "The grey one is mine, and this is for you, Sherlock."
"Ah, hm. Right," he said, getting a curious look from Noah as she ran her hand down the head of his horse. "Where are the wagons?"
"The wagon's too slow. Can't you ride?"
Sherlock fidgeted and Simza looked at John who cracked a teasing smile.
"It's not that he can't ride. How is it you put it, Holmes?"
"They're dangerous at both ends and crafty in the middle," Sherlock responded, getting a snort and chuckle from Noah as the horse nudged her for more attention. "Why would I want anything with a mind of its own bobbing about between my legs? Then, I should require a bicycle, thank you very much," Sherlock said, stomping away. "It's 1891. I could've chartered a balloon."
Simza looked to Noah who shrugged and then to John.
"How can we make this more manageable?"
After a moment, they figured something out and Noah hadn't stopped laughing since, keeping her horse back with Sherlock as he trotted on his pony.
"Where's the fire?" He asked, trailing at the back of the group. "It's not as if Germany is going somewhere."
They hit the first border soon enough though and had to stop while Sherlock moved his pony to the front and peered through the eyeglass. It was well guarded and crowded with people on their own horses, demanding to be let in. It wouldn't work for them.
"We know another way," Simza informed, and off they went again.
It was a longer route and would take them a few days to get to it. As they rode though, Sherlock began to pull ahead and noticed something. Noah had gone quiet. She had a fondness for horses and had cooed and chatted with hers when not laughing at his situation. Yet, a day had passed and she hadn't spoken a word. So, he slowed his pace and allowed the others to pass his pony until he was once again beside her in the back. It only took a brief look to see what was wrong.
Her eyes were dilated with pain, sweat sliding down her temple and forehead. Her injured arm merely touched the reins limply while she controlled the horse with her legs and other hand. Every bump and jostle of said beast sent a rivet of pain through her, making her eye twitch with a wince as she stared dazedly ahead. Stubborn thing. Sherlock pulled his pony to the front again and forced everyone to stop as he called out.
"Stop, stop. A break is required, and if someone wouldn't mind keeping a firm hold on this pony for the rest of the trek, it'd be appreciated."
"Are you not coming?" Simza questioned, confused as he dismounted.
"On the contrary. It just seems as though I'm needed for an entirely different problem. John, might I borrow you for a quick moment?"
John hesitated but soon dismounted. "All right, Holmes. What is going on?"
"It seems someone is being rather stubborn regarding her injuries," Sherlock said, stepping up to Noah's horse and pointing at the ground. "Off."
Noah blinked, surprised. "What?"
"Get off the horse," he ordered more firmly and she slowly clambered off before Sherlock's hand snapped out and grabbed her wrist in one hand—the other pressed to her forehead. "As I expected. Fever and your heart rate is accelerated."
"Sherlock, I—"
"You were practically falling asleep on your horse," he cut her off, eyes sharp as John came over to check on her injury and spoke up.
"It needs cleaning again and new bandages," the man declared. "Sherlock's right. You need to be resting."
Noah bristled. "I'm not leaving."
"I never said you were," Sherlock countered, waving at John. "Do what you can and we will move again when you're finished."
John nodded and took Noah aside to set her down on a rock and get to the painful process of disinfecting and cleaning up the burns. Sherlock had to keep his eyes pointed firmly away as he did so, not wanting to see the pained look on Noah's face when the alcohol was poured or the bandages peeled off. His mind nagged him about how a hospital visit would've been better, but he knew leaving her would only make things worse for the both of them. After a while, John declared he was finished and held Noah's elbow to keep her steady.
"Sherlock, she can't ride like this."
"I'll be—"
"You're correct, John," Sherlock cut her off, cracking a smirk as Noah turned to him in shock. "Which is why she'll be riding with me."
"I'm sorry?"
Sherlock stepped up to her horse and took a deep breath before climbing onto the saddle. He wasn't thrilled to be up there, disliking the height of this creature versus the pony he'd been half-heartedly willing to try. For Noah, he reminded himself, holding out a hand in offering to the woman.
"Shall we carry on?"
She and John looked more than surprised, but she was helped onto the horse and he tucked her in front of him with a cheeky smile.
"Comfortable?" He breathed next to her ear, only to grunt as she elbowed him in the ribs—face red from more than just fever.
They traveled on like that with the occasional rest so Noah can have her injury taken care of and everyone could eat and drink. Her fever climbed though, forcing her to lean her weight back into him as they rode, eyes closed and barely conscious. It pained him to see her like that but there wasn't anything he could do other than try to make the ride as comfortable as possible. The day before they reached the border, her fever finally broke and he was able to relax. She was well enough to eat and while she claimed to be well enough to ride, Sherlock continued to ride with her.
Then, they reached the border and where the factory was. Night had just fallen and while John had insisted Noah stay with the gypsies instead of getting tangled up in this mess, Sherlock refused. She'll just come after us. No point in having her in more danger sneaking about on her own. She was healthier than before as well. No fever or lingering pain. Sherlock suspected some of the gypsy wine might account for that, but she stood tall once more, looking no worse for wear. Her help might be needed, given they were walking into the lion's den.
He, her, and John snuck onto the loading bay with the promise that Simza and the gypsies would help them out when they were ready. A set of guards passed and they stood only for Sherlock to sigh and look at John.
"Are you happy?"
"What?"
"At this moment, are you as happy as you would be on your honeymoon in Brighton?"
Noah groaned. "Sherlock."
"I'm not going to grace that question with an answer," John snipped back.
Sherlock hummed before asking again. "Are you happy?"
"Aren't we here for another reason? I think we are."
"Okay."
"Should we get on?" John pressed, seeing he wasn't going to drop it and giving Noah a look as though she'd be able to do something.
She simply checked her knife and gun as though they weren't bickering right beside her.
"It's a simple question."
"Are we going to do something? Or wait here for them to come back around."
"What time is it?" Sherlock asked then, making John pause before pulling out his watch.
"Three fifteen."
"Over there in the rest of the part of the complex should be a telegraph office," Sherlock informed, handing him a strip of paper. "Send this to Mycroft. Be back here on the hour. Noah, you go with him."
"Nope," Noah refused.
"Noah, we're not going to argue about this."
Noah folded her arms over her chest, raised a brow, and waited. Sherlock knew he couldn't force her and arguing would do nothing but draw attention to them and waste time. She knew this and was being stubborn about it. She would get her way.
"Fine. John, go."
John nodded and hurried off as Sherlock pulled out a familiar drawing and scribbled on it before placing it so John would see it on the way back. Before they moved out though, he grabbed Noah by the arm.
"I want you to stay out of sight."
"Sherlock, I'm going with you. We agreed—"
"Together, yes. However, given they may still not know about you, I suggest we use the opportunity given to us. Come with me, but stay hidden. You're good at it. Use it to your advantage." He kissed her cheek and pat it once. "I want you safe. Now, let's hurry."
