Assuming is a dangerous thing. I assumed I knew the whole story I was telling here, but one little bit hid from me and kept me stuck on this chapter for days. I've written a lot of scenes in advance, so no telling how fast or slow I'll be able to post. Impassioned thanks as always to the divine Nocturnias (remember that PM I sent about LSTOL? It came back and bit my behind!), Rocking the Redhead ("or". Interesting word. Not one I'd use!), and especially thedragonaunt, who is allowing me to "borrow" her Mycroft! (Her Mycroft is divine! Go read her stuff if you don't believe me!) Deep thanks as well to coloradoandcolorado1 (you already do, babe!), 4May (oh, you made me blush), and the ever enthralling MizJoely! I wanted more heart in this chapter as well, but bloody plot got in the way! Next time, promise! 102 and falling.
All she could smell anymore was ozone, like the terrifying seconds too close after a lightning strike. Running, her heartbeat too loud in her ears, the slapping of her bare feet on linoleum. Pushing the hair out of her face with blood covered, throbbing hands. Trying to turn the corner, but the film of dust made her slide a little. A cool draught where the robe opened in the back. The doors ahead were chained together, the padlock new enough to shine. Her eyes darted to a small red box on the wall; maybe the fire alarms were still hooked up. No tiny hammer on the end of the chain, so she broke the glass with her fist, pulled the plastic handle; nothing. She slid down the wall, exhaustion catching up to her. If there had been a fire axe, she would have taken it to the chain, padlock be damned. Someone had emptied out the axe, hose and extinguisher when they left.
She saw the Giant down the corridor, sweating, and picking up speed like an oncoming train. She'd gone too far this time. No mercy would be offered or considered. She launched herself across the floor on her knees, trying to push enough space between the chained doors to wriggle through. Maybe if she were lucky, she'd push him far enough to kill her this time.
He pulled her across the floor by her ankle, rolling her over and kneeling on her chest, restricting her breathing. She swung wildly, her hands too wet for purchase. Two sharp, numbing slaps and he was lifting her limp body by his hand clenched in her hair, her feet blindly searching for the floor.
A door farther down the corridor opening and closing too softly. The shuffle of leather soles. A deep, almost sympathetic sigh, then a sing song voice. "Daddy's had enough now."
Spyder's eyes snapped open, shattering the dream and sending the fine fragments back into the void where her memories once were. Wiggins was tight behind her, his arms wrapping her and holding her hands firmly until they began to relax from resembling claws. He whispered, humming just behind her ear, assuring her she was safe, no one could ever trap her again, the fight was far behind. She wanted to believe that, had spent a decade telling herself that, but within had always known that was a lie. Killing time, waiting for those huge hands to drag her back. Soulless eyes of a doll, asking for everything when she could remember nothing.
She rolled in his arms, burrowing her face into his shoulder, drawing solace from his scents of sandalwood and amber. Her head throbbed a bit; she usually held her breath during nightmares, afraid of screaming, and it gave her a headache. Spyder kissed along his jaw line while slipping from his arms. She needed to pace, to put movement between herself and the slivers of memory still able to draw blood.
TE/TE/TE
Smiling, Moran stirred the cream in his coffee, never taking his eyes off the video feed from the second floor. Some evidence tech, tall, thin, dark haired, was bouncing a wooden crate of chemicals on his hip. If Jimmie were here, they'd be trading bets as to whether the fool would drop the box, mixing the bottles contents when they shattered on impact and starting a secondary fire. Got to love the Met.
A long line of shining black cars pulled up outside the warehouse. He checked his watch, amazed it had taken them this long to claim the building. Maybe he shouldn't be too surprised; they still hadn't figured out that the mirror-like polishing job on their vehicles was an instant identification.
"Mr. Moran?" The smaller man in the jersey seemed to be crawling into himself to try to appear even smaller. "Mr. Moran, we've went over all the security footage. All we found of your guest was these." He spread out a set of fuzzy, grainy images showing a darker lump on a lighter background. The details of the outside of the building were unperceivable in the fog. Even looking at the signatures showing which image was from which camera only showed the lump moved away from the river and deeper into London proper. One thing was certain, though. His trophy had help, maybe even a tiny feminine key that had bought his freedom. He'd have to monitor Viktor's progress carefully.
"Go over the news footage." Moran glared. "Match witnesses with names. If we have to do this the hard way, I want the name of every single body on site as my property burned."
Wild gestures on the monitor showing the rear of the warehouse caught his attention. Moran looked closer, a feeling of familiarity passing over him. He almost laughed. Of course! He couldn't remember the officer's name; only that he thought the salt and pepper hair reminded him of a silverback. The officer was clearly not happy, protesting strenuously. What could have yanked his chain that hard? The officer stomped off, still gesturing, now yelling at a uniformed cop who jumped into a car and sped away.
Lestrade. The silverback's name was Lestrade. Sebastian did laugh then; sure Jimmie would have loved this. The Detective Inspector didn't want to share another crime scene with a Holmes! The investigations must have burned his little hands, poor dear! A dance with the Iceman might be just what he needed.
He stabbed the button on his intercom. "Tell Mr. Walsh to pull together the documents on the warehouse and meet me in the lobby. I think we need to attend a caveman ritual at Scotland Yard."
TE/TE/TE
Molly waited as long as she thought she could before carefully easing from under the duvet and out of her room. As wondrous as it had been, she wasn't kidding herself. He was wounded, confused, and not any where near the man she knew. She'd treasure the memory but harbor no illusions. She swung the door around behind her without latching it, wanting to hear if Sherlock started to wake up.
Wiggins stood propped against the door to her kitchen, shirtless and nearly pleading for the coffee to brew. The fold away couch had been reassembled and Spyder paced back and forth in front of it, her face void of any emotion. She must have felt Molly's eyes on her because she looked up briefly, a sympathetic smile hinted on her face before she resumed pacing.
Molly poured Wiggins the first cup and he swallowed it down, hot and plain. "Can you to go get Sherlock some clothes, maybe an electric razor? I hate to ask, but I don't think I should leave him just now." She added milk to her own coffee, carefully adding an ice cube to try to cool it enough to drink quickly. "I don't have much cash, but you could take my card. I don't even know his sizes."
"S'okay." Wiggins nodded. "I used to help get his disguises together. I can fake it. Can you keep an eye on her, as well, then? Rough night. I think she's doing the flashback thing."
"Do you know what happened to her?" Molly spoke barely above a whisper. "Has she ever given you the details?" She sipped gingerly at her coffee, still trying to get an idea of what it might take to get Sherlock through this. She wished she could think of someone to call, ask for advice. She kept coming back to her promise.
"I know bits and pieces. She talks in her sleep sometimes." He pulled the jumper on over his head. "Truth be told, I don't think she remembers much. Too painful to hold onto, I guess."
She dug in her purse, pulling out a small wallet. Molly handed Wiggins her debit card. "Get some food, too. Milk, sugar, maybe some of those kit dinners I can throw together quickly."
"Lenore?" Spyder poured her own cup, half coffee and half milk. "Shouldn't you get patches as well? The Raven will have been away long enough for the flesh to clear, but the spirit will crave."
"No." Molly shook her head. "I don't want a big new purchase like that suddenly showing up in my records. I used to have to buy cigarettes for my father. If Sherlock wants nicotine, I'm afraid he'll have to do it the old fashioned way for a bit."
Wiggins grinned, opening the bolts on her flat door. "I know his usual!"
TE/TE/TE
Mycroft closed his eyes, the taste of ashes in his mouth, the sense of inevitability pulling at him again. It had taken him only moments to recognize what the documentation showed and what was hidden beneath. An ending, no matter how high the price, had obviously been too much to hope for.
He took his tea to the window, absently wishing it wasn't too early for a brandy. With the head gone, the coils had been loosening, dying. He was sure of it. In his more fanciful moments he'd even thought of his brother as some vengeful disembodied wraith, the pirate he'd dreamed of being, cutting through the numbers, watching as the web ripped apart under its own weight. Wishful thinking.
He had stopped on his way into his office to check the guarded vault in the sub basement. Absolute zero maintained by an independent generator. Samples were kept off site for identification purposes. It was foolish, but occasionally he craved the reassurance of knowing precisely where that body lay.
"Sir?" Anthea broke his train of thought. "Detective Inspector Lestrade just had Sebastian Moran picked up for questioning."
TE/TE/TE
Molly searched the cabinet for a bottle of paracetamol, the mobile pressed firmly to her head. "Sally, I promise. I gave Wiggins my card to use so he could get a few things. He's been very helpful and I owe him for a number of jobs he's done." She rolled her eyes as Spyder tried not to giggle.
The other woman seemed obsessed with the sound of her own voice. Sally Donovan was ninety percent law enforcer and ten percent human being. Molly thought that was great when criminals were being caught, but sometimes the woman stuck her nose in where it didn't belong.
"I'm ill, Sally. I've already called Mike to get the next few days off. Can't you just let him go? I'm not going to file charges!"
Spyder had grabbed the pad Molly left on the counter for taking notes. She scribbled a few lines in small block script, turning it for Molly to read. "Go and get him. If the Raven wakes, he'll need to eat. I'll take care of him, promise."
Molly added beneath. "Are you sure? I don't want him to think I left him."
Spyder smiled. "Easier than rescuing him. He'll know you'll be back; your flat. I'll show him this."
"All right. I'll be there as fast as I can. Have Wiggins ready when I get there." Molly shoved the mobile in her pocket.
TE/TE/TE
Greg Lestrade tapped the edge of the file in his palm as he entered his office. He'd been watching the blonde man whisper to his solicitor and flip a two pound coin back and forth across his knuckles for almost ten minutes. Officially, everything said Sebastian Moran was a businessman, entrepreneur, successful. Everything he had within said Moran was a liar, a criminal, and neck deep in the arson he'd had to pull his officers from. "Mr. Moran," he stuck out his hand. "I'm DI Lestrade. Sorry for the delay, but we were calling up the property records on your warehouse."
"Shouldn't have wasted your time, Detective Inspector." Moran smiled like Lestrade hadn't yet gotten the joke. "That's what I brought Mr. Walsh for. I'm sure he can provide any documents your heart desires." He flipped the coin into the air, catching and pocketing it. "Am I under arrest or are you just the appetizer?"
"No, no arrest. Just trying to clear up a few things." Lestrade wanted to get the chair cleaned as soon as Moran was out of it. "I understand you're chief operations officer for a holding corporation under the name Erinesyo, primary shareholder being the estate of Valentin Nikolay Salamonsky?"
The smile was growing. "Yes. I must remember to give the Mr. Salamonsky's solicitors a call with the bad news. They shouldn't be too disappointed, though. We were trying to find a buyer, but I'm afraid retrofitting the structure would have cost far more than it was worth. We weren't even carrying much in the way of insurance, so the loss will just have to be withstood."
Arson for profit was the last thing on Lestrade's mind. "I'm more interested in the property manager you hired. Mr. Troy Amir, I believe?"
"I'm interested as well." Moran's smile hardened, fire lighting his eyes. "Mr. Amir disappeared many, many months ago, and I haven't heard from him since. Perhaps he's been kidnapped again."
Lestrade checked the few papers in the folder. "Mr. Amir was kidnapped before, then? You know the details?"
"He never told me much about it. Wasn't quite the same afterwards. Nightmares, binges, fury. He got sloppy after that, never could get his focus back." Moran shook himself with a sigh. "And he never called it kidnapping. I'm trying to remember the word he used. Ugly word. A word only a civil servant could love."
"Detective Inspector!" Lestrade's door opened with a bang. He recognized her, had even been expecting her, but she arrived faster than he'd imagined. She also smiled like a crocodile. "I'm afraid you're required urgently downstairs." Anthea purred. "I'm sure you can talk to this gentleman later if needed."
"Well, well." Moran turned in his chair, raking her with his eyes. "Emma Peel with just a hint of Cathy Gale, I think. I always preferred Mike Gambit, myself. Dark hair, dark eyes, they always were my weakness." He stood, pushing Mr. Walsh out ahead of him. "Your boss should invite me to dinner, pretty lady. You're supposed to kiss someone before you try to screw them."
Her smile never wavered. "Duly noted, Mr. Moran."
He paused in the doorframe. "Goodbye, Detective Inspector Lestrade. I'm afraid our next meeting may not be so pleasant." Moran began to turn, and then stopped. "I remember the word now. He said it wasn't a kidnapping; it was a rendition. Renditions don't get investigated."
Lestrade watched Moran weave his way out of the squad room, a venomous snake hypnotizing any who came too close. What he saw next chilled him to the core, sent him careening into the room to try to intervene.
Molly had been searching in her purse, talking to Sergeant Donovan, when she walked right into Moran's chest. No recognition in her face, but she did drop back a step, her hand coming up in defense.
"Molly Hooper!" Moran seemed overjoyed, sweeping her up in his arms like some lost cousin, crushing her to him. "Molly Hooper, you are all he said you were and more! A little porcelain doll, too long on the shelf!" Lestrade saw him lean in, whisper something that left her white as a sheet. He sat her back down carefully, sketched a bow and swept out of the squad room.