Chapter 3: Slightly Ruffled At The Base
"Oh, another one," John bemoaned, rolling his eyes. I bit back a grin. Oh, he would be interesting to hang around with. But who had said this before me?
"How did you know that, sweetheart?" Molly asked me in a worried tone. I gestured towards the newspaper by the door. On the cover, there were two images- one of soldiers fighting in Afghanistan and one in Iraq (there was a flag in the background). She turned to it and her face turned to one of realisation.
"When you looked at the front page when you saw the newspaper you were worried, like it was something personal," I told John, and he grinned. I didn't mention that his limp was psychosomatic- he probably already knew. "Do you know any of them?" I asked innocently.
He nodded, and pointed to a ginger-haired one in the left image, the one of Afghanistan. I smiled at him and continued drinking my hot chocolate. His limp wasn't a physical injury; when he was waiting in line, he stood normally, and he walked fine when he wasn't paying attention to it. I put down my mug, the sugary beverage gone.
"Where to now, Molly?" I asked. She seemed grateful that I had 'forgotten' about my mum.
"Well, I actually want to talk to John about something in private. If you want, you can get yourself a cookie," she allowed. I nodded, and she passed over 10 pounds, which, I was sure, was more than enough to get a cookie.
I walked over to the counter and purchased a 'triple choc' biscuit, taking my time to walk back to the table. I gazed out the window while eating it, walking so slow I might as well have been stationary, pulling off the day-dreaming-child act perfectly. In fact, I was trying to listen in on John and Molly's conversation. I caught certain phrases every so often.
"Where, though? Her mother's dead..."
"... Sherlock'd experiment on her, for sure..."
"... at my flat- her medical records say she's allergic to cats..."
"...body parts in the fridge won't be much better..."
"... not the orphanage, social services went nuts..."
"... no, not there..."
"Please, John..."
"... fine. But only for now."
A man bumped into me, sending me flying, but hands grabbed my arms, a bit harshly- not that I couldn't deal with it- and corrected me.
"You right, there, darling?" a sickeningly sweet voice asked me in a Irish accent.
I looked up to see a young-looking, clean-shaven face that would have looked at home in an action movie. But his aura was all wrong. It wasn't white, or even grey with splodges of any kind. It was pitch black throughout, an evil, nasty thing that made me want to run away. But instead I smiled sweetly and ducked my head, acting embarrassed.
"I'm fine, sir," I said softly. He smiled at me, but it seemed more mocking than a frown.
"Good to hear. Off you go."
He walked away and I just stood there for a moment, trying to calm my breathing. I shoved the rest of the cookie in my mouth- marvellous thing, chocolate, whatever will humans think of next- and walked over to our table.
"Can we go now?" I asked the pair, and John smiled at me.
"We're going to go to my flat, if that's OK with you." I nodded, showing that yes, it was okay. Yet again, what was the worst that could happen?
We caught a taxi to John's flat ("221B Baker Street, quick as you please.") and were greeted by an old, motherly lady that seemed to adore children, if her reaction to me was any give-away. Up the stairs, there was a wooden door, which John unlocked before ushering us in.
Seated on the couch, his hands held in front of his mouth seemingly in prayer, was a young man, around the same age as the one that bumped into me at the cafe. He didn't particularly seem that much- his hair flopped in front of his face, he was far too skinny and he sat rather oddly.
As I said, he didn't seem to be too much. But that was before I saw the wings. The dark navy - almost black, really - slightly ruffled at the base wings.
Edit: 25.2.16