Captain Of All These Men Of Death
Chapter 11
2004
Periculum
Sherlock pushed the damp, rotting door ajar and peered into the gloom. It was early evening, the sky a dour, gloomy grey, the sunset hidden behind a layer of cloud. The wind whipped at his hair and face as he eased himself quietly inside.
The room was huge, cold and dark, apart from a small flickering light in one corner. Broken plaster and rubble crunched underfoot as he crossed the room, noting more and more still figures as his eyes became accustomed to the pitch black. He buried his hands in his pockets and pulled his scarf up to his nose, partly to warm his cheeks, partly to mask the smell. The candlelight drew closer, gently illuminating two rough faces. They were looking at him.
"Haven't seen you around here in a while," one grunted, a grubby hand reaching up to tug at his threadbare beanie. The other nodded in agreement, huddling a little closer to the sparse warmth of the candle.
"Surprisingly, I have nicer places to frequent", Sherlock replied dryly, crouching down next to them and holding out long, slender fingers to the flickering candle.
There was silence as the unlikely trio huddled around the light. Fire had always fascinated Sherlock, and he allowed himself a moment to take in the bright yellow teardrop of flame as it danced in his eyes. As a child, he'd taken any chance he could to be near to a fire, and had on more than one occasion burned himself trying to thrust his hands into the grate when his mother wasn't looking. The pain had never quite won over the fascination, however.
A bony elbow jabbing his side snapped him back to the cold, derelict room. The woman next to him was grinning. "Oi, dozin' off? You c'n sleep on my lap if y' like." Her cold knuckles brushed Sherlock's cheek before he could slap her away, inwardly shuddering. She cackled, her gappy teeth glinting in the flickering light as she threw her head back. "Yeah, I was pretty once too y'know," she laughed. "Then I met Mr. Brown." She picked up a spoon with a bent handle and waggled it at him.
Sherlock's lip curled in distaste as he looked back towards the flame. The light permeated the tips of his fingers, making them glow a dull pink colour. He curled them towards his palms.
The man spoke again. "Let him be, Lynne." His eyes flicked to the sleuth. "You make a point though. You've got better places to be. Why here with us riffraff?"
Sherlock smiled darkly. "Passing time, really. I fancied a little chat."
"And a bit o' wash as well, eh?" Lynne said, leaning into Sherlock, a knowing smirk on her face as he eyed his body trembling.
Sherlock ignored her, turning to the man. "Any news?"
"Why don't you just read the newspaper like everyone else?"
"Newspapers are akin to holding a mirror to smoke - the more you search the less you see. Why not just go to the fire itself?" Sherlock replied sharply, a wry smile playing ups his lips as he held eye contact with the man opposite him. The man shrugged, tugging at his beanie.
"I might have something you'll like." The man dipped a grubby hand into his coat pocket and pulled out a flyer.
Sherlock took it, his eyes clouding in confusion. "This is a church healing programme."
The man nodded. "There was a man handing them out to us under the Waterloo Bridge yesterday."
Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. "And? Don't you get these all the time?"
"Yes, but he was different. He didn't try to pray with me, or offer me food, or ask me about my story. He just smiled." The man tugged at his beanie, frowning. "And then I took it, and he leaned in towards me and said 'God is waiting to pay you back for your hard work.'"
Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. The leaflet was severely underwhelming - a hand folded piece of paper, decorated liberally with clipart. The front cover was emblazoned with the word SALVATION. There was a staple in the back page. Sherlock held it up to the light. "What was this holding?"
The man grinned. "A bump of ketamine."
"What?" Sherlock asked, disbelief evident in his voice.
The woman chimed in, grinning. "A bump. An actual bump. Stapled t' a church flyer. A fuckin' bump."
Sherlock pulled out a crisp £20 note and handed it to the man, who watched as the sleuth slipped the flyer into his coat pocket. He grinned. "Always a pleasure doing business with you."
Sherlock gave a short nod and made to stand, before being pulled back down to a crouch by a tight hand on his jacket sleeve. The woman leaned in, her breath on Sherlock's ear, a malicious grin playing across her face. "It's rude ta leave a lady alone, Mr 'Olmes."
Sherlock tugged his face away from hers, yanking his arm out of her grip. "Get off of me," he snarled at her, venom dripping from his voice. She instantly let go, shuffling away from him. In one fluid motion, Sherlock stood and strode away from the two, the rotting door bouncing loudly on the doorframe as it swung shut behind him.
The man tugged at his beanie, hie eyes on the flame between them. "You shouldn't have done that, Lynne." He turned to the woman who was hurriedly wiping tears from her eyes with the heel of a gloved hand. "Lynne?"
"Just scared me a bit. M' alright," she mumbled, fiddling with her spoon, before proffering it to her companion. "Ay, cook me up some will ya?"
Translation for this chapter: Risk
I know this chapter is very short! I am sorry about this!
After about a week of horrible rainy coldness, it's finally starting to warm up again in London. The sky is still grey though. At least my ice tea is good.
Thank you for the wonderful reviews on the last chapter. I hope to be able to continue reading such kind comments :D