Authors' Forward
And... We're back, and a lot sooner than last time, to be certain! That aside, welcome to Chapter III of the rewrite. Astute readers will have noticed that we split the original first chapter in two. That was intentional, for both reading, and enjoyment, purposes. However, during the rewrite, we've expanded — and in our hopes, improved — the story quite a bit.
The story will follow in the same vein as the original, but expanded in many ways... And perhaps there'll be a bit more ground covered between our dining companions of happenstance in subsequent chapters. Do let us know what you think, as we crave feedback! At any rate, enough rambling from us, we hope you enjoy!
As a note to readers familiar with history, there will be mentions in this story of real places and events, as well as matters of science, culture, travel, and society, interspersed with fictionalized happenings, as well as both fictional and historical figures, places, and events. These are, of course, in part for the sake of the story, but as well, to show a possible alternative to the history of the Kim Possible universe in relation to our own. If you are a student of history, please keep this in mind as you read, and do let us know if it is compelling, and fitting within the greater scope of the past we delve into here.
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December 20, 1905
It was a warm night in Britain; considering the time of year, that still meant bone-numbing temperatures, even for those who could afford thicker clothing. Then again, the cold went mostly unnoticed by the woman who had been running through the streets of London for the prior fifteen minutes. Her dress of a more high class style, which made it quite warm in and of itself. The many layers added to this, holding in the heat of her exertions, which were puffed back out in thick clouds to dissipate slowly in the still London air.
Unfortunately, the combination of rushing to escape the police and the cumbersome cut of her dress left her unable to catch herself when she tripped. With an undignified squawk, Miss Go found herself skittering along the slick streets, falling on her rear and spinning about. She just spied the homeless man she'd tripped over huddling in a dark corner to get out of the wind on her second revolution. Figures this would happen to me tonight of all nights! She grumbled to herself as she managed to stop her barely controlled slide.
It took her a few seconds to push herself up and recover her footing, which she found she didn't have as the policeman giving chase scrabbled to a halt a few feet away. She was about to spin and attack, but the clear, distinctive click of a revolver being cocked gave her pause. "Don' move too quick, Miss, o'else I'll have t' shoot ya in th' back," the Bobby growled with clearly fell intent.
The bobby's words, and Miss Go's unceremonious trip and slide, served to scare off the few street urchins and scavengers that could possibly bear witness to whatever was about to happen. The pounding of their feet on the ground were a fitting accompaniment to the bodyguard's heart. "An' y'best not think I won' do it!"
"I have no doubt you would." Miss Go snorted in anger at the threat, clamping her willpower down over her own instinctual reaction to attack him, forcing herself to say no more than that… For the moment, at least. Figures I'd run into the only Bobby in the area with a damn gun! Her mind boggled at the fact; since the middle of the prior century, although allowed to carry them, it was the rare bobby indeed that carried a firearm of any kind.
Especially in this particular neighborhood! Regular citizens tended to react badly to armed police, considering the British government's old tendency to use the military for policing actions... And aside from them, there were the less savory inhabitants, which would deliver an armed policeman a swift, brutal beating if they knew he had one. If it wasn't just lifted from his person by pick-pockets of prodigious skill.
Of course, the man's confidence spoke that he was likely either part of that more seedy side, or just corrupt enough that they'd let him be, for later favors on their behalf. Either one was proof positive that, despite having one of the classiest police forces in the world, there were always some bad apples.
Granted, it was quite possible this particular Bobby was a regular, upstanding, and incredibly lucky member of the police... But with his tone and mannerisms in the chase, Miss Go quite doubted it. Either way, I do not want to find out if he's a good or bad apple! If she could get to her sap, or one of the hypodermic needles hidden on her person, if she could hit him or inject him and, yet again, if she could knock him out or keep him busy long enough for the sedative to knock him out? She might get away with her life intact. Too much 'if' in that for my liking!
As she was settling her hands in a seemingly unusable position just above her shoulders, Miss Go heard a sudden scuffle, the sound of a hammer nestling gently into its frame, and the barely audible choking of the Bobby. The sound of cloth rustling was drowned out by the man's boots scraping on the cobblestone streets, and she smiled evilly, waiting for the telltale sounds to stop. She was rewarded for her patience barely a quarter of a minute later as the noise of struggle died down.
"I'm surprised you managed to dodge your pursuers, Lipsky, what with you being so over the hill!" she mocked as she turned around. As she had thought, the man she'd been guarding for the last several years had the police officer in what she thought was an overly complicated, though very competently applied, choke hold. Damnable Greco-Roman techniques!
"This is no time for your barbed tongue," Bartholomew said sternly. He released the tight grip on the officer's neck and set him down gently against the wall. "They will be here soon. I was able to lose the police officer pursuing me, but only barely."
"Uh-huh." Miss Go scoffed in a droll manner, "Because you are most certainly capable of that without an overcomplicated scheme or two at the ready!"
"What did I say of that wicked tongue?" Bart growled with pursed lips, "I distinctly remember you having trouble keeping up with me in Morocco last month!"
"And I remember always having trouble moving in Africa's heat!" Miss Go snapped back at him, earning a wry smirk from Bart.
"Be that as it may, we must move quickly, Miss Go," Bart hovered over the unconscious patrolman as he draped a tattered blanket one of the urchins had abandoned over his unconscious form. He also nestled the unconscious man's head on his custodian helmet, hiding even the silver adorning it from easy sight. At Miss Go's questioningly quirked eyebrow, Bart chuckled lightly, "That is the best way to ensure we are not spotted and recognized by the police."
"Good idea." Miss Go grunted as the villain stood from covering the Bobby.
"And at least you were lucky to have been stopped here, since the local constabulary have an… Understanding with the proprietor, and so followed the police code." He gestured toward a door she hadn't noticed, well hidden as it was in the shadows of the night. While shady looking, it seemed the right type to serve their needs, which was hiding in the last place certain parties would likely look for them. He glanced back at her and noticed her slightly miffed expression, and added, "If he had caught you elsewhere, I am afraid your decency could have been quite compromised, at the very least!"
"Compromised," she grumbled as he opened the nearly hidden door she'd been heading towards and went in. "I'll show you compromised..." To her minor relief, he didn't do the ridiculous gentleman crap and hold the door, instead simply walking inside ahead of her. She followed, failing to notice a familiar figure with luxurious red hair spying their movements but a street away.
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"What in the devil are they doing in there?" The young blond man tapped his foot a few times before turning to his friend with added benefits. "We've been standing here in the cold for nearly twenty minutes, by my count. Why would they spend so much time in one spot when all of the British police are looking for them?"
"They seem to be waiting for someone." the redhead answered with narrowed eyes. I know they're waiting for something, at any rate... she thought, pursing her lips. As much as I do enjoy the warmth of our teatime meetings, and as much a gentleman as Bartholomew has been during them, I had hoped the meetings with him had finally borne fruit! But it seems the hints I picked up on were not enough to gain the whole picture...
"Are you certain they're waiting for someone?" Jon asked, rubbing his chin in thought, "Or could they be waiting for something? A delivery, some such?"
"I do not know, Jon..." Sighing in frustration, she shook her head at Jon's thoughts paralleling hers so effectively. It was part of why they made such a good team, but frustrating when neither could come up with a solution. Perhaps a bit of brainstorming between us? Aloud she said, "And why would they come here for a delivery? This is not the friendliest district of London's outer metropolis, and a delivery here would be risky, to say the least!"
"True..." Jon drew out, frowning slightly, "But what if they're working with less savory types in the area?"
"Possibly," Miriam sighed softly in frustration, "But Bartholomew does tend to avoid truly criminal people when he can."
"Unless he can use them as patsies, yes?" Jon prodded, drawing a grudging nod from Miriam.
"That… It does make sense, Jon, but for some reason I can not put my finger on, I do not think that is it?" Jon nodded in vague agreement at her querying tone. After a moment, she sighed and began to recount what they knew aloud, her speech much more agitated than it had been, "They just obtained the messages from the French ambassador's office pertaining to their agreements with Britain, both public and secret. There is nowhere in Britain they could safely divest themselves of those documents no matter how well ensconced in their role. They would need to get to whoever they are obtaining this information for soon, lest the information become outdated..." She sighed and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "What do you think, Jon?"
"Well, mayhaps they're just stopping for a light drink," Jon suggested with a shrug. "I know that I'd certainly like a taste right now. The cold's nipping right through my trousers!"
Miriam couldn't help but to slip him a tantalizing look, the comment having reminded her of an itch which would need scratched soon. "Do not worry of your trousers for now. They will be more a worry later tonight when they are in the way."
His look of mild surprise was swiftly replaced by one of knowing. "Ah, got ya. Still, I don't think it'd be a bad idea to go in and get a small drink. Maybe we could even ask the locals if they know anything."
"Jonathan, this is not a saloon where one obtains alcohol and talks with friends," Miriam stated with a bit of frustration. "Or, rather, it is not just a bar. You see that entrance, about twelve feet to the left? There's likely an easier one to use inside as well."
"I only see a poorly patched section of wal-" Several loud, metallic bangs, followed by what seemed a cannon at a good distance, gave him pause. "That sounded like a boiler explosion!" he concluded after the briefest of pauses, before glancing over at Miriam, who had dropped into a crouch as if preparing to dive for cover. She quickly shook her head and turned towards the southeast, and Jon's gaze followed hers. Both scanned the skyline, but saw no telltale red glow or fire. "That steam cloud there," He pointed to a thick, grey fog boiling up into the sky in the distance. He winced, reaching up to scratch his head in consternation, "I hope no one was hurt…"
"This is the industrial area, and the fact that the locals do not seem to be bothered makes me think it is a regular occurrence," Miriam harrumphed in distaste, "That is one of the things I miss about America! The safety of our factories seems so far ahead of Britain's or even those in France!"
"Yes," Jon agreed, looking back towards the front of the building they were watching, "But I still don't see this door you ment-.." He stopped and squinted, then shook his head in wonder, "I see it now… I'd have missed it had you not mentioned it, Mim!"
"As is the design," Miriam nodded firmly. "By the looks of it, it is like some of the one of the many opium dens which I encountered in my time in China, the ones set up in higher class neighborhoods designed to be hidden in plain sight. The same kind that are still in Europe and even our own country! The addition of a saloon, or pub, as this is England, is likely to allay suspicion of authorities or busybodies."
"Huh. What would those two want with opium?" her blond friend asked.
"I do not think they are there for opium. That only leads us back to waiting, which still has no sense. What could they be waiting for?" She grunted and began to pace back and forth, oblivious to everything but her own thoughts. Even the sound of alarm bells and police whistles in the distance did not rouse her from her musings. "Is it a person? A signal? How do they expect to get out of here with their information?"
"Maybe they're waiting for the commotion, and any fire from the boiler explosions to die down?" the detective hazarded.
"Commotion? Fire?" Miriam's head shot up as she listened for the telltale sounds. Sure enough, fire bells from various firefighting wagons and the emergency whistles the police used, sounds she had ignored a brief moment earlier, were sounding in the distance. And all going in the direction of that explosion! "A signal!" her eyes widened in realization, "Jon, you are a genius!" The redhead grabbed Jon's collar and began dragging him toward the den. "We must hurry!"
"Whoa!" Jon struggled to regain his balance as they rushed toward the nearly hidden entrance of the opium den. "I don't get it, Mim. What's going on?"
"A distraction is what is going on," she said with certainty. "I do not know how — compatriots, perhaps — but I am certain they are behind that explosion." Jon gave a confused blink, drawing further explanation from her, "They'll likely use the commotion, which will distract the policemen and capture their attention, which those two must be desperate to avoid." She mentally prepared herself for what could very well be a nasty flashback as the door came into clear view. "It may even be too late as it is, but I would wager my freedom that there is a secret exit in this hole!"
"Technically you're already wagering that with chasing Mr. L.!" Jon commented.
Miriam somehow managed to both sigh and chuckle at the same time, breaking her sour mood a bit. "Somehow, you always know what to say..." she smiled as she opened the door and went in.
"Erm..." Jon murmured as he caught up to Miriam, "I still don't get it."
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"Ugh!" Miss Go's pacing to and fro had not stopped for even a moment since they had hidden themselves in the dingy hole-in-the-wall masquerading as a legitimate establishment. Why Bartholomew had picked this particular place to wait was beyond her. All she knew was that the lighting was dim, the few men that were conscious enough to see their surroundings were too touchy for comfort, and there was a distracting sense of exaltation flowing through her body.
That very exultation was diminishing her normally iron will, and her blood was boiling hotter with every moment she was pressed into the dark corner her employer had forced them into. It was that damnable tea! she griped to herself, favoring her employer with a dire glare. He should have told me what it was before I drank it!
She felt herself relaxing her gaze, indeed, her whole body as she continued staring at him. Of course, he could not have known I was going to drink the tea left out by the proprietor... She sighed in what she hoped was an unobtrusive fashion, a small part of her protesting how easily she forgave the man, but the majority cheering the response. Then she cursed herself as her employer looked back at her. Thinking as fast as her rather numbed mind would allow, she screwed her face up in as nasty a grimace as she could and asked, "Can we leave yet, Lipsky? I can't stand the smell in here."
"Patience, Miss Go," he urged quietly, the hand he placed on her shoulder — much in the manner of a commander comforting a fidgety soldier — adding to Miss Go's distraction. She grunted in a deeper sense of frustrated elation, and craned her neck in an attempt to see more of the hidden cranny they were in. It was, indeed, a bit dingy, hot, and borderline claustrophobic, but at least they were hidden out of sight from casual observers; not a bad place, considering the situation. He removed the hand from her shoulder when she stilled, giving her a vicious smile as he nodded towards the door, "We are biding our time. You will know the signal when it is given."
She grunted again, but settled back completely and tried to ignore the comforting warmth still spreading from where his hand had been. She shook her head and concentrated on the facts of the situation, hoping it would distract her. She knew that the proprietor of the establishment was a Chinaman of an oddly regal bearing, but that the German nationalist they were working with owned it.
Strangely, the nationalist was as strong an anti-imperialist as her employer, if not more so. He was serving to protect them from detection long enough for a fellow ally, a former Prussian agent who spoke with a perfect French accent and was also loyal to the German Kaiser, to finish his part. Though the Prussian had feigned hatred at the unification of the Germanic states, he had nonetheless helped to set up the next stage of the plan.
The Prussian had perhaps four dozen local toughs ready to take action against two different factories with bricks, clubs and small explosives designed to wreck the newfangled machines and possibly start small fires, but damage little else. The men were all former employees of those same factories, all of whom had been unable to change with the new manufacturing techniques the factories had begun using. They were to storm the factories and attack the workers still there, as well as the firefighters that would inevitably come to douse any flames.
Of course, once the police arrived to quell the seeming riot, in turn trying to save not just the precious factories which powered the empire, but the still employed factory workers and the firemen as well, the two villains would slip out of the opium den and into a back alley. From there, they'd make their way to an awaiting carriage which was under the protection of Austria-Hungary, and thus free of suspicion, all the way to the harbor. And it would all point to the French, or at least a faction within the French government, as the overall instigators. A fitting combination of resources, as Bart had said when he'd modified the original plan, a point to which Miss Go had grudgingly agreed.
Now, as she watched her employer sitting there as if the cloyingly sweet, smoke filled air gave him no pause, she wanted to shout at him. But she couldn't; she knew, and had agreed, that this was the only place available which the police would not suspect enough to send officers just after the theft. And, despite her earlier bravado, she was not taking the atmosphere nearly as well as she had hoped she would.
"This air is stifling!" Miss Go huffed, removing the satchel carrying a false copy of the sensitive documents from her bodice, before further pulling at the top of her dress. "How did London in winter get so warm? I can barely breathe..."
"I suggest you not begin to loosen your clothing," Bart said, motioning toward her hands which were now clumsily working at her top button. "It will be hard to resist the urge to continue removing everything once you have started."
"And you'd know this why?" Miss Go half-heartedly snapped, before smiling as the man turned and grabbed her fumbling hands.
"That is unimportant!" he muttered sharply, "I hear the first signals; it is only a matter of time before we must move along to th-..." His words stopped suddenly, his face slackening slightly in surprise as her fingers interlaced with his in an oddly intimate fashion. She stared up at him, and wondered why she was so frustrated. Truly, it was an oddly warm night despite being a chill London winter, especially in the small, if somewhat unkempt room, but she was so comfortable, despite her clothing, and… And she had never realized just how gentle Bartholomew's hands could be...
She was about to lean in towards her employer, a man she knew was attractive — in a charismatic way, though not so much so to her physical desires — when the sound of the disguised, street side door being slammed into assailed their ears. Their attention was on the door as it bowed dangerously from a second impact, and the three bouncers from the pub made their way into the opium den. Immediately following the calamitous noise of the door finally breaking was the proprietor's high pitched, rapid fire screaming in Chinese when the front door to the bar proper slammed open.
"What th-..." Bart began, but stopped cold at the frustratingly familiar voice hollering back at the proprietor in his native tongue. The bouncers turned back towards the front, the head bouncer the first to step towards the bar. Bartholomew was startled into action when an all too familiar, blond haired Pinkerton bowled into the back of the largest bouncer, slamming the man into the wall next to the bar's entrance. The actions happened in less than five seconds, but it was enough to startle the villain into action. "Quickly, Miss Go, to the rear exit!"
"Wha-..." Miss Go's jaw was slack with a mixture of happiness and confusion as he stared down at her. She didn't understand her employer's sudden urge to leave the wonderfully dark, invitingly intimate room, but she didn't argue, and attempted to stand, grabbing onto his coat to pull herself up. "Oohhh..." she moaned when he suddenly helped her the rest of the way to her feet, her vision swimming drunkenly.
She then saw her favorite Pinkerton detective, his blond hair flying as he dodged a punch from one of the bouncers, simultaneously stepping over three men lying about in opium fueled stupors. The bouncer ended up tripping slightly over one of the men, and he reached out, grabbing the blond by the overcoat. This allowed her detective to slam a hard fist into the man's midsection. As the man doubled over, the blond caught him with an uppercut that knocked the bouncer out cold, ripping both Jonathan's coat and shirt half open as the bouncer fell.
She wanted to cheer, despite the fact that the man was obviously there to stop them, when her attention was drawn back to her employer. A hot flush spread rapidly across her skin as he shook his head and placed one hand to the side of her chest, the other on her hip. She was further warmed when he lifted her bodily, bundling her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
"Come on, Miss Go!" he hissed as he made towards the rear door, "The Chinaman said the tea was weak, so please snap out of this stupor!"
"I'm fine!" she called out in a vague chuckle, reaching around his torso and pressing the side of her face close to his back to keep the bouncing of her view to a minimum. She glanced back to see the last bouncer jerking at Jonathan's shirt, the front of which was ripped in half, while also serving open the coat fully. Miss Go cooed softly as she saw this, as his torso conformed to her likes far more than she'd ever expected. While short, he was lean and wiry, obviously used to hard work, yet not bulky in the least. In addition, she realized that he was rather handsome, in a baby faced fashion, another point in his favor that she'd never expected to realize.
Her coo turned into a sullen, wordless protest as the blond was jerked nearly off balance, receiving several lightning quick punches to his body. While he took about half of them on his blocking arms, the rest landed hard, making him grunt with each, when an unexpected uppercut to the jaw snapped his head backwards. The blow didn't seem to daze the blond too much, but it allowed the bouncer to bear him down to the floor.
And the movements were all so fast, all of it happening in the few steps it took for Bart to reach the back door. She had no idea the handsome Pinkerton could move so, even after having fought him! Has he been holding back in the fights he's had with us? She asked herself vaguely, but the question was put aside, her mind lurching in odd worry as the Pinkerton fell, his hand thrashing out blindly to try and keep his balance. Instead of finding purchase on the nearby roof support, his hand slammed down on a ceramic bowl filled with collected opium ash, which one of the smokers had been mixing with fresh opium tar.
The bowl shattered under his weight, making the blond curse and shake his bloodied hand in obvious pain. Miss Go grumbled worriedly as the bouncer tried to punch him again, but Jonathan beat his maneuver by dodging his head out of the way. This unbalanced the other man, bringing his face close to the blond, who slammed his forehead into the man's nose. Blood sprayed forth as the man reeled back, the appendage broken if the solid crunch had been any indication. The Pinkerton then shoved the rather large ruffian off with his apparently powerful legs, just as Mim dashed into the den.
Suddenly Bart stopped, turning so fast that Miss Go's vision was a practical smear of color, rushing back to the hole-in-the-wall as he growled, "The papers…!" He was clearly upset at someone, but her mind was too foggy to know who or why.
Bart turned back to the door, just in time for her to see the bouncer draw a rather sharp looking knife and take two steps towards Mim, his intent on using her as leverage for Jonathan clear. The blond saw it as well and shoved himself to his feet, grabbing the man around his arms and squeezing with all of his might. The man groaned in pain, the knife falling uselessly from his grasp, and then went flying as the blond wrenched him from his feet. Half-falling and twisting at the same time, he threw the much bigger man at the stout wooden pillar in the center of the room, which the bouncer struck head first, knocking him out cold. Again Miss Go fought the nearly impossible urge to cheer, though she did let a huge smile cross her face as she waved at the redhead, "Bye, Mimmie!"
Her world spun drunkenly as Bart twisted to close the back door and bar it shut with the heavy timber and iron door bar he had suggested the owner install before the mission. "This was a good idea, Barty..."
Miss Go's comment was almost drowned out by Mim, whose voice was still clearly audible despite the thick, heavy wooden door, "You won't get away, Lipsky!"
"I already have, my dear Miriam!" Bart answered, and Miss Go tittered at the odd humor in his voice, so out of place for her employer. This was quickly followed by Mim kicking the door with a frustrated growl. She closed her eyes to avoid watching the dizzying spin as Bart turned, giggling at the sensation of weightlessness it gave her. She bit her lips to stop her mirth as he dashed down the back alley towards the waiting coach. "Now, a quick trip up the coast to my airship, and we will be on our way to Paris!"
"I love flying..." Miss Go sighed, adding in her head, With you... She immediately held tighter to Bart. She knew she hadn't said what she wanted to, but was glad she hadn't. If she kept her thoughts confined, trapped within a small box in her mind, perhaps she could act upon them before the fear that those feelings brought about within her, a quelling stab she couldn't quite place in her altered state of mind, could stop her.
Though it wouldn't stop her from trying later… And if he was unresponsive? As she'd seen already, there were other possibilities, that were far closer to her physical preferences in men…
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"Damn you, Lipsky!" Miriam growled as she stormed into what would be hers and Jon's private room, at least until the ship made landfall on the Normandy coast later the following morning. It had seemed serendipity she'd found a liner making a stop in Le Havre, and better yet, their stop should be early enough for them to disembark and arrange passage on a train from the port city on to Paris. If all went well, they should arrive not long after nightfall, and with luck, perhaps a little before.
She worried at the inside of her lips for a moment, trying to calm herself. Even despite her heartfelt irritation at Bartholomew, there was a touch of a smirk on her lips and the faintest hint of laughter in her tone. She knew that was because she still felt the effects of the fight in the opium den, considering the occasional drowsiness, along with the odd, unaccountable sense of elation and unreasonable warmth that pervaded her being.
The heat she felt was why she was down to her shortened knickers — wearing full knickers underneath pants or trousers was not only uncomfortable, but tended to bind her movements — and the breast binding she wore when not in 'normal' women's clothes. She had thought of doffing even those thin garments, and had it been teh apartment in Paris, she would have without a thought. As it was, she felt the chance of interruption early on in their journey was too much to chance.
Even so, she could not help but feel a wash of guilt as she thought of how badly off Jonathan was after the fight in that damnable opium den. The redhead glanced back at her friend and sighed, her brows crinkling together as a guilt ridden frown darkened her features, her mind inexorably drawn to what had happened only a few hours earlier...
"Mim, go to the inside door, I'll try and get through the outside door here!" Miriam hadn't argued when Jon moved towards the hidden door at top speed; there was a better than even chance he would be able to break the door down. He was, despite his short stature, quite powerful, as his shoulder-first impact nearly knocking the door from its hinges attested.
She'd barely been halfway across the street when he'd slammed into the door a second time, and the redhead had seen rather large shadows moving towards what she'd presumed to be the inside access to the opium den. "Be careful, Jon!" she'd called out, reaching the door just as he'd broken the door down with a cacophonous rending of wood.
She'd burst through the front door, hoping to draw at least one of the big men she could see through the opium den's inside door, only to be assailed by the proprietor screaming at her in Mandarin Chinese. She had only enough time to yell back in Mandarin that they were chasing thieving fiends before the three tall, burly men had turned, the largest actually managing a step back towards the saloon. Their bearing and quick move towards Miriam had made it obvious as to their jobs: doormen.
Jon — perhaps inspired by the rush of having broken down such a stout door with so few attempts — had slammed into the back of the one that had moved towards her, sending him headlong into the doorway between the den and the saloon. Though the big man was knocked quite senseless by the move, it had been obvious the other two were professionals; instead of protesting his move or diving away, they'd instantly set upon her friend, the fists, feints and dodges flying between the three quickly drawing them deeper into the den proper. Miriam had tried to jump in to help, but was distracted by the proprietor.
The man, she'd learned quickly, was very skilled in his home country's martial arts; far better, it was apparent to her, than she herself at her own preferred martial art. He'd easily corralled her into a corner with kicks, feints and grand, sweeping blocks that had nearly turned her own attacks upon her. She had managed to land a few blows due to her still superior speed, but was honestly no match for his skill.
Miriam was still embarrassed as to how she'd defeated him and how quickly it had happened. She had struck out at him, and he had dodged before sending a long, claw-like strike to her midsection. Pulling back as swiftly as she could, it had been enough that the blow was glancing, but his fingers had caught underneath the snap buttons of her waistcoat. The blow had driven up and popped the buttons, and a finger had slipped under her breast bindings, ripping them up far enough to reveal the flesh underneath. The man's eyes had boggled for barely an instant, but it had been long enough that she'd managed a firm strike behind his ear to knock him out.
She had immediately grabbed a discarded umbrella to use as a club and rushed into the smoke-filled back room. Upon entering, she had found Jon in the middle of fighting off the last of the men, just having shoved the brute off of him, while the other two were lying quite unconscious on the floor. If the men of the smoking den — and their strange positions as compared to mere moments earlier — had been any indication, he had won by being the least tripped up by the opium smokers on the floor. And while he was bruised and scraped, it seemed he had managed to avoid most of the toughs' blows while rendering them unconscious in turn.
If the door wasn't enough, his next actions had easily given proof to just how strong he was. When the bloody-nosed tough saw Mim, he had turned and pulled a knife, taking a few steps towards her with the obvious intent on holding her prisoner. While she would never have allowed the man to achieve a superior position, Jon had beaten her to the punch. He had grabbed the man from behind, reaching his arms around the man's elbows and rendering his knife useless. The bear hug had been powerful enough to make the man groan in pain and drop the knife, and then he'd lifted the man bodily and thrown him head first into a thick wooden support beam.
"Bye, Mimmie!" Miss Go had then called out, her mocking wave distracting her from her friend and lover. She had moved towards the door just as Bartholomew had spun about, closing it behind him. She'd heard the sound of a bolt sliding into place, precluding her from attempting to open the door, as well as Miss Go saying something from the other side. Presuming the pale brunette had been mocking her, she had let her temper loose slightly, hollering after them, "You won't get away, Lipsky!"
"I already have, my dear Miriam!" Bart had answered smugly, more than a hint of devilish laughter lurking within his voice, and Miss Go had giggled, the mocking sound grating on Miriam's nerves all the more. She kicked the door once in frustration, again entertaining Miss Go if the fading laughter had been any indication, before turning back to Jon, who seemed none the worse for wear.
"Thank God you are alright!" Mim had sighed, quickly making her way to him. Unfortunately, he hadn't been as hale as she'd thought. He was standing, but was decidedly woozy on his feet. His hand had been severely lacerated by a broken ceramic bowl, and the thick, viscous brown of opium tar, partially mixed with what could only been the dross from prior usage, had clung to his hands, working its way deeply into the cuts. "Let's get you out of here, Jon!"
She had hurriedly taken him out, and somehow managed to find a cab working late in the area. She had tended to him as best she could, but decided it best to let Lipsky and Miss Go get away, much to Jon's chagrin...
The blond in question stood leaning against the door frame, looking oddly lost in thought. She sighed in dismay once more, then shook her head and made her way over to him. "I am so terribly sorry for leaving you in that room alone, Jon," Miriam said as she led him from the door to the bed, gently urging him to sit down.
"It's alright, Mim..." he answered in a distracted tone, unbuttoning his suit jacket and attempting to shrug it off, "I thought merely to keep you from their hands, figuring you could take them all with the proper distraction..."
"Well, had the proprietor not been so skilled, it would have worked!" she assured him as she helped him with his suit jacket. It was obvious the new bruises and scrapes were causing him problems despite the drug still coursing through his veins.
"Yeah, I hadn't figured the Chinaman to be a good fighter…" he looked away from her, shame on his face as he whispered, "I'm sorry that Mr. L. and Ms. G. got away, Mim…"
"Do not worry about that, Jon!" Miriam admonished, barely resisting the urge to slap his shoulder, "Worry about yourself." She sighed unobtrusively, realizing part of his problem was the drug still in his system. The opium was obviously not settling well with him at all…
MP MP MP MP
Jon was unsure how he'd gotten to the bed, but he couldn't complain since sitting was helping the pounding in his head. He had tried to remove his shirt jacket, managing to unbutton it, but the vague feeling of pain lancing through his body halted him.
Not that it was objectionable; in point of fact, he'd felt more intense burning in his muscles when he was a young teen working in his father's warehouse moving large shipping crates around. Even when he'd worked under Barkin, he'd suffered worse soreness. Having to pull the stubborn man around in a rickshaw wasn't nearly as easy as it sounded; the man had still been heavy with muscle despite the nearly crippling back injury which he'd received during the American Indian Wars.
Yet, despite being what many considered somewhat of a dunderhead — an opinion he never really fought to dispel, considering its assistance in his chosen career — he had learned well enough, and thus knew of the general effects some drugs had on people. Opium was related to morphine, the effects of which he knew thanks to hearing Albert, Mim's late husband, describe his experiences with the powerful narcotic.
Of course, had it been Jon who had broken his arm after falling from that tree, instead of Al, he'd have known for certain what the drug felt like, but Al had never lied to him...
He shook his head slightly, thankfully shaking the memory away, lest he become bogged down with melancholy. Besides, he was rather certain that, had he been sober, he would be in a great deal of pain. More than he felt at the moment, to be sure!
As it stood, he was feeling... Good, if a bit muzzy headed. He shook his head, trying to focus on something, and found Mim's hands now working on his undershirt. He wanted to comment on the missing suit jacket, but instead he spoke on his strange state of mind. "I feel so odd..." he whispered as his shirt left his torso, "I have this... This feeling, like something creeping in uninvited... Yet... Yet I feel capable of doing so much, of saying so much..."
Mim's nimble fingers worked on loosening the buttons of his pants, and he found himself staring down at the crown of her head. A sudden thought struck him, inspired by his earlier efforts struggling against the aftereffects of the fight in the opium den. He knew that part of his confusion was concern over his own problems with anxiety and the preventative his childhood doctor had prescribed him, one which he still used from time to time.
Unfortunately, he would be unable to let his thoughts rest until he received a suitable answer. Looking at Mim through suddenly watery eyes, he gently clasped her hands in his to stop the distracting motion and asked, "Mim... Do I... Do I get like this when I imbibe hash oil or cannabis in food or drink for my anxiety?"
"Sometimes, Jon," Mim acknowledged guardedly, "But never this... Strangely subdued? Truthfully, you are usually more easily amused than normal… A hard task, I will admit!" He had enough presence of mind to groan at the poor joke as she continued, "And while sometimes scatter-brained, you are never this… This weepy, or so worryingly vague of thought."
Jon smiled at her answer, strangely relieved to hear it. "Thank God..." he murmured as a strangely faraway memory struck him. Her steady work at his pants fly reminded him of their plans for the night. A sense of joy, more intense and of a different type to the one he normally felt when preparing for the deed, flushed through him as he thought of being close to her once more.
Jon knew he didn't like having this feeling during their sexual couplings, and tried to remember just why he didn't like to let himself dwell on the possibilities. The buzzing in his head, however, seemed to brush the attempts away. A deep part of him agreed with it and helped to put his qualms to rest.
"Those men were quite brutish, were they not?" Mim commented in dismay as she looked over his now trouserless body, examining his wounds. "Do not worry; I shall treat these abrasions and cuts before they become too bothersome. Especially the cuts on your hand!"
"We washed the opium out, Mim!" he protested weakly, "I-.."
"There is no arguing on this, Jonathan," she cut him off, giving an evil eye as he attempted to protest again, "I will tend to you as you would if I were the injured party. Remember last month in Madrid?"
Jon leaned in and pressed his forehead against hers, closing his eyes, "Of course. I'm sorry, Mim, I jus-.." A sudden knock at the door interrupted him, startling them both enough to bump their heads together firmly.
"J-just a moment!" Mim cried in a shaky voice, rubbing her forehead. She climbed from the bed and swiftly made her way to the door. Jon was shaken from his hot-blooded stupor while she dressed herself enough to answer the door, wondering if the shakiness in her voice was because of his comments and actions, or the bump they'd shared.
His last bit of speculation shook him further from his wandering thoughts. Coming somewhat to his senses, he realized just how close he'd come to accidentally pressuring his best friend. As he berated himself, said friend came walking back from the door holding a note.
"Strange that someone came to a boat to deliver a message." he noted, clumping the sheets close to his body, more in chagrin at his recent thoughts than embarrassment.
"It was not a messenger, though a messenger most likely dropped it off with the crewman that delivered it." Mim shrugged to him before opening the letter she'd received. She seemed unperturbed by it, but he noticed her eyes widen a fraction. "What is it?"
Looking up in surprise, she shook her head and chuckled. "I was simply taken aback by the date. Is it truly the twentieth already?"
"Yes..." Jon wasn't sure where the sudden change in demeanor came from, but he was certain that there was to be no more physical interaction that night. Mim looked to be quite pleased, though Jon was sure it was more from the letter than him. Whatever was in that note must have been good news indeed! Her sudden shift of attitude told him that she didn't wish to discuss it, which was curious in itself. Why am I so... Worried about this? I never have before now, an-..
"I am afraid that I must admit forgetting the date," she said sheepishly, cutting off his thoughts, "I will have to find a present for you when we reach Paris. Speaking of which... We cannot arrive too late lest we lose the trail."
"A point, Mim," Jon agreed with a strangely happy smile as he watched her readjust her garments, removing her breast binding to slip a camisole on in its place, before donning her usual dress, "though we may be too late to do anything, considering how close to Christmas Eve it is."
"C'est la vie." Mim shrugged, then speared him with a concerned gaze. "I am going to check on the time of our arrival, Jon. I shall be back directly." When she caught his smile, she walked over and gave him a peck on the cheek. "And I will get the needed supplies to make a sugar and oil compress for those cuts and scrapes."
"I am not a horse!" Jon laughed brightly, remembering the many times helping the redhead with injured horses when they were younger.
"Perhaps not," Mim winked salaciously at him after placing a gentle hand just below the junction of his leg and hip, "But you are as strong and stubborn as one, my dear friend..." Jon felt himself responding to her comment and the implications of it, and Mim's smile became just a bit saucy as she kissed his cheek again, this time just at the edge of his mouth. She stood and made her way quickly to the door, calling back over her shoulder, "You try and get some rest while I am out."
"I shall endeavor to, Mim!" Jon called back to her, admittedly very tired despite his desires.
"I mean it, Jon!" his companion called again, sticking her head back into the cabin.
"I..." Jon began, only to pause for a brief moment when the door closed firmly, "Will... You must always get the last word in, eh, Mim?" he concluded with a fond smile. Then he lay back with a sigh, pondering the latest development. He didn't know what had been in that letter, but he couldn't help but feel like it was something he would not be happy to know of.
Less than a half hour later, Jon was hard pressed to remember the letter... Or why he had been so worried. It was plainly obvious that Mim still held a strong interest in the physical side of their friendship...
Authors' Notes
Oh dear, poor, loveable Jon. Looks like he's gotten himself in a bit in over his head! And the experience he had with the opium seems to have left a distinctly ashen taste in his mouth. Then again, he did have someone to help him along, and work it out of his system afterwards. I'm rather sure most would be pretty pleased to be in his position after all that, non?
And then what about poor Miss Go? As inexperienced, and as accidentally exposed, to that particular narcotic as Jonathon, she was left in quite the altered state of being! The question is, did she have the drug worked out of her system, or was the clearing of her system accomplished in another manner?
Then there's both Miriam and Bartholomew... Both seem to have familiarity with both the narcotic, and that type of establishment. How they had occasion for such knowledge, only time will tell...
As always, readers, there are a lot of fics out there,and they deserve your attention... So keep on reading, enjoying, and if you feel like it, reviewing!