Personal issues and then a writer's block. Fortunately, the kind lady dragonaunt allowed me to rant and rave at her about both until I found an answer on all fronts! (Yes, she pulled a Watson, and met the challenge with grace and wit!) I owe you so much! Put me down for buying the first round! Congratulations to Dietplanlite "All You Ever Wanted at Just the Wrong Time" and Petra Todd / Alacia Kensington "Far From the Tree", which beat me at the SAMFAs this year! You all write such amazing stuff that I am in awe! Special thanks as always to the breathtaking Nocturnias (both for the friendship and for the efforts of managing the SAMFAs), Rocking the Redhead (who keeps me honest), coloradoandcolorado1 (you drag me back to the keys every time), the divine MizJoely (I know I owe you an incomplete fic! Tonight, promise!), and MorbidbyDefault (you get me to smile every time!). Thanks also to a-lonely-human, 4May and MickeyMonroe! Reviews as always are welcomed! Think of them as tips to the barmaid!
The carpet cushioned him a bit as they dropped him in a heap. The back of his left arm ached badly enough that he wondered if they had broken the damned needle. If unconsciousness was going to elude him, he wished he could at least close his eyes the rest of the way. All he could see was short grey industrial carpet and the tips of the fingers of his left hand over the rise of the pad of his left thumb.
He knew he was in a different building, having felt a gust of fresh air for a few moments while he had fought nausea. Near the warehouse, then. He suspected he had just been delivered to Sebastian Moran. He was supposed to be in London, but Sherlock would have thought he'd keep farther away from his cache. Moran was a professional to his fingertips and would never allow the warehouse contents to be linked back to him.
Brown loafers walked past, a dull thump somewhere behind him. "That's all the freak had on him. We checked all the way to his socks." An unclear grunt came in some conformation. The first voice again. "Look, I don't get it. He killed Jim. We should just put a bullet in his head; drop him in a hole somewhere. I know eight places right now where he'd never be found. Christ, how much has he cost you?"
The answer came like a cracking whip. "You don't dispose of an asset until it stops being an asset! And that, that is one hell of an asset!" A few minutes passed and the second voice softened. "Jimmie screwed up. He got hot headed and impulsive, didn't listen to me and he got himself killed. Don't ever give that freak the credit for it. He hasn't earned it."
Ice hitting a glass, a decanter opened. The second voice continued. "Jimmie was always so much smarter. He knew where the real power was. There's not one thing in that entire warehouse that is more powerful than what Jimmie could do. A gun is nothing without someone to pull a trigger. A bomb is useless without someone to carry it, set it off. Codes are pointless without someone who can read them. Jimmie always knew how to get people to do exactly what he wanted, when he wanted and how he wanted. Even Sherlock Holmes."
"But Jim's dead and that bastard is still alive." the first voice pointed out.
A broken laugh. "Had to happen some time. Jimmie always said the villains had the most fun, but never got to see the final move. That's why the villain has to lay waste to the world; that way when a hero finally wins, there's nothing left to be claimed. He wanted to be sure all a hero got was a hollow, empty victory."
A glass being refilled, the squeak of an office chair. The second voice continued. "Jimmie made the same mistake twice. Twice he let that pawn on the floor dictate terms, control the board. First time, he got lucky. The freak tried to rush the game, push for an ending and Jimmie got too confident he could ad lib. It took a couple of phone calls, but I got him back on track and everybody walked away; no harm, no foul."
The hissing of a large body settling in on a leather sofa as the voice kept going. "You don't tempt fate a second time. After Jimmie came back from his little vacation, I couldn't keep him focused on the work no matter how hard I tried. He was furious, vengeful, like he thought someone owed him something. He came up with this crazy new game, took months to set it all up and I couldn't stop him. He thumbed his nose at the world, showed his face where it could be seen, and I knew after that, it was only a matter of time. I didn't even try to stop him when that bastard as you called him, tried to take control of the board again. I figured they'd both be dead and, really, I think that's what Jimmie wanted. Suicide by consulting detective."
"And you're letting him live why?" The first voice scoffed.
"Because he's an idiot. He's cut himself off, isolated himself. Anyone who gave a damn about him thinks he's dead. They're all hurt, aching and guilty, thinking they let him kill himself. That guilt is priceless. Yes, he's done us some damage, but nothing I can't compensate for now that I've got him for leverage."
"So what's the plan, then? Who are you going to use him against?"
"Not your problem, Nate. Your problem is the box of semtex that went missing after you reviewed the delivery yesterday. Did it grow legs and wander off by itself?"
Sherlock could hear the safety being removed even as the first man stuttered some excuse. The remembered gun shot jolted him awake, alone.
He sat up slightly, propping himself on his elbow. For a terrible moment, he had thought he was still in the cell, but a quick glance around the dimly lit room reassured him he was at Molly's. There was still a dent in her old mattress where she had been, but the woman in question was missing. He tried pushing himself up farther, but his equilibrium refused to settle. No sign of her purse, and he thought she kept it in here. The room was a little messy, but nothing to indicate she'd been made to go. He rubbed his face, increasingly frustrated with the fog in his mind. However he had gotten here, the risk for Molly jumped a thousand-fold. He had to think, find some way of keeping her safe until he could get as far away as possible.
The door eased open without a sound, but he found himself looking for a weapon. A girl walked in and for a moment, his mind thought she was just a child. She had a small plate in one hand, a mug in the other, and she paused for a moment when she reached the light of the small lamp beside the bed.
Sherlock remembered her. The girl from the fire, the one who put his shoulder back in place. A vague memory of her and Molly together, cataloging his injuries.
She gave him a small smile, leaning down to put the plate and cup on the bedside table. Her voice was quiet, almost a hum. "Coffee, black, two sugars, and marmalade on toast."
He reached, grabbing her lower arm. A band of scar tissue circled her wrist. The other appeared the same. Not a suicide attempt; suicides didn't try to cut all the way around. Her scars were roughly a quarter inch wide, tapering off near the outsides of her arms. Straps, leather straps, but it had to have been long ago. The scars were well healed, but stretched, slightly too wide, like she had grown since the injuries.
She pulled her sleeves down, embarrassed, onyx lashes hiding emerald eyes. When she looked up again, he was staring at her face.
She looked like Grimm's Snow White, but that wasn't what had caught his attention. He knew her. Not personally or recently, but he could see her in his mind's eye. Mycroft showing him photographs of her, open gravesites but not in cemeteries. Bodies mutilated to try to make identification impossible. Swirls of gold and platinum, studded with a rainbow of jewels. All traces wiped clean but a bet made. The words came without thought. "Ty yeshche zhiv?" He asked her if she were still alive.
She looked as if he had struck her, her eyes filling with tears as she backed away. "Prosti." She repeated it over and over again; she was sorry. She ran from the room, leaving the door open.
He could hear the front door open, Molly speaking, but the girl was frantic. Molly insisted the girl take her coat, and the front door slammed.
TE/TE/TE
Spyder walked just short of a run, pulling Molly's cloth coat closer around her, pushing the sleeves up her arms. Images and sound whirled in her mind, far too fast to be anything but nonsense. Her lover's touch could stop the whirlwind; pull her back to this moment, this heartbeat, and this breath. Where was he?
The Raven had recognition in his eyes, the perception she'd been running from. She had thought she was safe, that his own dilemma would keep his attentions elsewhere. It wasn't time for that part of the tale yet! Tears were coming, but she scrubbed them away cursing the weakness. No. That tale could never be told. Not even to him.
She blindly turned a corner, craving the sounds of a crowd to drown out the voices within. Absently, she bumped a vendor, plucking the apples he dropped from midair and keeping them moving until he took them from her. His customer laughed like shattered glass and she winced as she sped away.
Gaudy strings of flags were being tied in the air, tables of goods being prepared for passers-by. A girl handing out leaflets tried to press one into her nerveless hand. Her eyes raked the people milling about. Spyder glanced down an alleyway, trying to find anyone who looked familiar.
It was too open here, too many directions to try to watch. Chills screamed down her spine. She pulled the switchblade from her boot, hiding it in the pocket of the borrowed jacket. Where was Wiggins? She had to get oriented, find her way back to the bridge they slept under sometimes. She could press her back into the concrete corner; brace herself against the cool unyielding mass in welcoming shadow to await his return. Her lover would find her; he always did.
Music blared from the open glass doors of a boutique. A throbbing bass line with candy floss wrapped around it. A giggle was rising in her chest, frightening her. A scent of baking yeast in the air, coffee and cinnamon underlying it.
She nearly stumbled as she stepped off a curb, her eyes darting between hastily erected booths. Her head snapped back as the rest of her tried to keep walking.
Spyder twisted, barely staying on her feet. The blade was in her hand, the button already pressed as she looked into a wall of white cotton. She grabbed the fist holding her braid in her empty hand as she flipped the blade, driving it between the bones of her attacker's arm. She tried to twist the steel, but it slipped out of her fingers as the offending hand pulled away.
The giant was bellowing as she started to run, toppling tables behind her.
TE/TE/TE
John straightened his collar as he made his way out the clinic door. All told, he had treated three people with various injuries that had been at the warehouse fire. All three had mentioned Wiggins as encouraging them to come to taunt the media, but one of them; Joan Moore, seemed to remember being asked before the fire had begun. True, John hadn't known him well, but Wiggins never struck him as an arsonist. No, something had to be up, and John was determined to find him.
He'd mostly avoided cabs since Sherlock's death, but he couldn't think of another way to quickly search the city. It would be expensive, but he hoped he wouldn't need to pay for information about the man's whereabouts. He wouldn't cover for Wiggins if he had started the fire, but assuming he hadn't, maybe there was something he could do to help.
The cab drove past several locations John had known Sherlock to use when he needed his homeless network, but the spots were empty, no one playing their instruments or asking passers-by for change. It seemed so odd; if the regulars weren't there, he would have thought others would take up the prime locations.
After a half hour, John was nearly ready to give up when he saw a familiar face. He had the driver pull over, paid and followed her down the sidewalk. "Denise? Denise, can I talk to you a minute?"
She had jumped when she heard her name, but as she turned and saw him, she gave him a grim smile. "Doctor Watson! Sure, but can we keep walking? I've got somewhere I need to be."
He saw a coffee shop ahead and gestured. "If you can take a minute, I'm buying."
The reluctance on her face surprised him. "Um, yeah, okay, but we need a table away from the windows, yeah?"
He sent her off to get a table while he got their order; two coffees, a sausage roll and a muffin. Denise was a slight woman, but it was obvious to him that she hadn't eaten in a while.
She sat, angling her stool so she had a clear view of the door. The smile this time was a little more genuine. "Oh, Doctor! You always know how to treat a lady!" With a giggle, she wrapped the muffin in a paper napkin, tucking it in her purse before starting on the sausage roll. "So is this a social visit or were you looking for a good time?" She waggled her eyebrows in mock suggestion.
"Well, first off," he sipped his coffee. "Tell me who you're afraid of."
For a moment she seemed to keep up the inflated act, but then seemed to think better of it. "Truth be told, I don't know. Somebody nasty is trying to find a friend of ours and isn't afraid to get bloody to do it. I've counted two broken arms and a crushed foot so far, and that's just the damage I've seen myself. Everybody who can is getting under cover until this is all over. I've got a friend I play bump in the night with once in a while. I'm hoping I can hide at his flat for a few days."
"So who's the friend? Any idea why the search?" John wondered if anyone had tried contacting the police. The homeless tended to think no one would care if they were crime victims.
Denise took a deep drink. "You know Wiggins, right? His girlfriend, Spyder. Guy has a picture of her and everything. Bertie said it had one of those time and date things on it, so I guess she got caught doing something." She shook her head. "No idea what she gets up to. She's, well, touched, you know? Sweet girl, but mad as a hatter."
John wondered if she had anything to do with the fire. "Have you seen Wiggins?" She shook her head. "What's this guy look like, the one with the photo?"
Denise finished the coffee in a long drink. "Actually, he sounds kind of like the guy your friend was looking for when people kept getting bombs strapped to them." She shouldered her purse. "Oh, and he's got a big ring of some kind. It cut Bertie's face when he punched him." She stood, pushing back her stool and grasping his arm. "Look, Doctor, you're a sweet guy and everything, but stuff like this happens. Sit here, drink your coffee. You lucked out, got out of the excitement business just in time. Stay safe and keep it that way." She walked out of the shop.
TE/TE/TE
She ran on, hearing only her heart and her own ragged breathing. Spyder knew she was faster, but the giant's large stride made up for her speed She cursed herself for allowing the blade to have filled her with misplaced confidence. It had been a helpful tool, but could never have done enough damage to stop someone his size.
She began to recognize landmarks as she sped past them. She took a left turn, not wanting to lead him anywhere near Lenore or the Raven. Spyder knew several alleys well, but he was too close to allow them to be alone for even a moment. If enough people were around she could scream, struggle, draw attention he wouldn't want.
Watching the traffic carefully as she ran alongside it, she picked her point and darted across the road, cars and a lorry slamming on their brakes and delaying him a precious few seconds. She yanked a pasteboard easel advertising mobile phones into her wake. Finally she recognized a uniform ahead of her and ran for the officer.
Her eyes searched for anything else that might slow the giant when she ran full-tilt into someone exiting a coffee shop. The man tried to catch her as they fell, ending up beneath her in a tangle of limbs. She rolled to the side, watched as the giant slowed, then stopped. He glared at her for several seconds before reversing back the way he had come.
"Hey!" the man was trying to get her attention. "You're bleeding! Did he hurt you?"
Spyder turned to him, preparing to bolt. Her eyes went wide as a name rushed out of her in a whisper. "Medved!" She shook her head, looking down to where he was examining the small amount of the giant's blood on her sleeve. "I'm, I'm all right. Just a small cut on my finger, see?" She had nicked it when she flipped the knife.
"The bear?" he laughed at her shocked expression. "You're Russian, right? I dated a Russian girl once, so I learned a little of the language." He helped her to her feet, seeming to survey the small cuts on her cheek. "That big guy a friend of yours or should I call the police?"
"No, no. He just frightened me. I'm fine." Spyder smiled, the urge to giggle throttled. Lady Fate loved her secrets but this was unreal.
He didn't look as if he believed her and pulled a card from his wallet. "Well, if you ever need some help, someone to talk to about big scary men, or just a plaster for that finger, call me." He handed her the card, smiling. "I'm…"
"Doctor John Watson." Spyder darted in, kissing his cheek. "I believe in him, too." She whispered, turned and fled.