Sorry for the delay, folks. Personal crisis that couldn't be helped. Working on this tale is the best feeling for me right now, so know I'm weaving as fast as I can! So with a shot of Tangueray, let me give heartfelt thanks to my beloved Nocturnias (happy birthday, maitresse! You haven't aged a day!), my lady dragonaunt (Jeremy Brent works!), the delightful MizJoely (if I can help at all, public or private, I'm all yours), and the blazing RockingtheRedhead (didn't give up, did ya?). Also special thanks to coloradoandcolorado1, yay, Nan, a-lonesome-human, 4May, and whovianallover! I endure, promise! If you need a sound for this, try "The Monster is Loose". All hands inside the car. Let the games begin! Reviews appreciated!
Input had always been his biggest problem. Either too much was coming in too fast, forcing him to try to analyze, catalog, reach conclusions far too quickly to allow for extraneous thought, or not enough, silences that threatened to overwhelm him, filled with second guesses, recriminations, and failures. The only way he'd ever found to make it stop proved to have far too many side effects to be maintained for any real time. Another way he had "disappointed".
Mycroft had always recommended solitude. A distance to try to slow down the incoming information; a privacy to hide any weaknesses from being exploited. He had tried, but it left far too much vacancy, empty spaces that filled themselves with nightmare images of his own devising. He craved distraction, interaction, something to pull him outside of his own mind.
He had tried to convince himself that the cell couldn't harm him, that it would give him that distance his brother had treated like a grail. It took an excruciating time to realize the silence was breaking him. It was the tricks his captors tried to play; the blasts of sound, the temperature fluctuations, even his own body's reactions to starvation that were the touchstones. Input to analyze. Strange that what they must have thought would break him had done the exact opposite. He had bent, but not broken.
He ran his hand absently over the duvet, feeling his index finger drag slightly. Stickiness there; a bit of marmalade that had escaped the toast. He shot a look at the table; saw the empty plate and cup. The taste of coffee in his mouth with no memory of drinking it. How? He closed his eyes for a moment.
His fingertips sent an approximate thread count of the cotton sheets. He knew the laundry detergent, the fabric softener. He eased off of his elbows, down onto the pillow. A faint hint of furniture polish.
He had been hearing Molly moving around in the flat, the sounds of dishes in the sink. A swift knock and a man's voice. For a moment he wanted to bolt up, but then he recognized the voice; Wiggins. Rustling sounds and Wiggins' voice went tight as he left the flat, banging the door behind him.
Molly's body wash, her shampoo and conditioner. No acid undertone of hair spray. She'd slept on the sheets two, maybe three days. Trying to focus, narrow the input, and digest it. Three days; three different colognes. No, two. The third scent was Molly herself.
The girl must have been Wiggins' elusive girlfriend. Strange name; obviously not one that would have been on a birth certificate. Many of Wiggins' friends hid behind nicknames. The spelling had made him wince. Spyder! The girl called herself Spyder. Wiggins said she insisted it be spelled with a "y" instead of an "i".
He took a deep breath, feeling the pathways beginning to ease, patterns reestablishing themselves. Focusing the data, examining it, filing it where needed. A conclusion rising based on memory; Wiggins' Spyder was Alexandria Ivanova Salamonsky. As sleep took him, he smirked. Mycroft owed him fifty quid.
TE/TE/TE
John wandered on foot for a while, marveling at the empty spaces no one else seemed to notice. The few faces he recognized in shadows disappeared before he could get close. Denise hadn't been overstating her case; the homeless seemed to be in full retreat. Thinking it through, he pulled out his mobile and checked with the clinic; they were more busy than usual, an upswing in accident victims were being brought in for plasters, stitches and x-rays. A few even needed to be transported for more serious injuries. They were handing the extra currently, but if it continued, he'd be called in later.
He hesitated for a moment before putting the mobile back in his pocket. He had made a point of keeping in contact with Molly Hooper for months after Sherlock's death, but they had drifted since Mary had come into his life. They still spoke frequently enough that he knew there were no hurt feelings, in fact Molly adored Mary, but there just hadn't seemed to be enough hours in the day. To call her now, over something so grim seemed tactless somehow. He knew she volunteered at the shelter regularly; maybe she even knew Wiggins. Maybe she had a few answers.
John scrolled through his contacts, putting through the call. Three rings later, it went to her voicemail. He almost hung up, but the unease wouldn't leave him. "Molly? It's John. Listen, I know this is going to sound crazy, but…" he paused. No, this was too much to try to explain as a message. "Something's going on. I shouldn't get you involved, but I'm trying to help a friend you may know. I'm guessing you'll get off work about six. Could you meet me at that café we had dinner at last month? I'll see you there at seven. Call me if you can't make it." He hung up, immediately texting a dinner invitation to Mary at the same location.
John started walking for the tube station, but the unease wasn't letting up. There was still one more thing he could do. His own hesitation annoyed him. He and Lestrade had made their peace, but there still remained tentativeness between them. He couldn't, wouldn't go into that building. Never again, not without… He pulled up the contact on his mobile.
"Lestrade, its John. Can you meet me out front in half an hour?" he crossed the street. "No, but something's happening."
TE/TE/TE
Moran pulled the small binder from an inner pocket, reviewing his notes on jobs in progress. The timing on misplacing his trophy couldn't be worse. Loosing the detonators was a problem in and of itself. A new shipment would arrive within the week, but the client had specified taking delivery tomorrow. Not a phone call he was looking forward to.
A Bosnian warlord would be flying over Germany tomorrow, needing the properly forged documents in place to land in Zurich. The Nicaragua mess. Antiquities waiting offshore of Southampton.
All of that could be dealt with, but his prime concern was a crate due to arrive in Liverpool in four days. Neither the buyer nor the seller were willing to divulge the contents of the crate; had paid a king's ransom to withhold that information. It was to be moved from freightliner to dock to another ship without any inspection, paperwork or notice. Sebastian had his suspicions. The crate would be large and heavy, and those involved didn't want any of his people getting too close. It just screamed nuclear and trouble.
When he'd taken the job, Holmes had already been in the vault three days. Samples had been taken for future use, stored in the mini fridge under his desk. Sebastian had assumed the trophy would be ready to be displayed to the Iceman by the time the crate arrived. Now he couldn't even be sure he'd have the trophy back by then.
Moran texted Andrasko, demanding he come in and report in person. The girl was looking more and more like the best chance at recovery.
He hated bluffing. He pulled the cotton gloves on, breaking the seal on a package of padded manila envelopes. A couple of samples from the fridge were joined with a photograph. The photo would immediately be discounted as a fake, but it would point an arrow at the samples. He pulled the plastic strip away and the envelope sealed itself. He checked the seal to be sure no traces were caught in the adhesive.
Moran handed the envelope across his desk. "You know how to deliver this. Make sure it's undisturbed until it gets to his private office."
TE/TE/TE
He was dreaming of when he sat in the window as he chain smoked, adding to the miasma of Karachi's air. The former capital was louder than London at night, ambient lighting hiding the sky. The nicotine was hitting him in perceptible waves, filtering, focusing. The patches were a joke, a cruel substitute, but one he'd be returning to soon enough.
He glanced back at the bed, seeing the dip in her spine shadowed by candlelight. She was on her stomach, the sheet draped low on her nude body, her arm stretched toward the floor. He was sure she was asleep, but the resemblance to the painted woman from that ridiculous Bond film was almost too close for chance. Fake. False. He couldn't decide if it was her or him.
It had been enjoyable, less messy than he had expected. Despite the outer appearance that made the adventure look like a Mills and Boon cheap paperback romance novel, he'd had no illusions going in and been sure she hadn't either. No promises made or oaths given on either side. No expectations, but that wasn't quite true.
He sighed, watching the cloud of smoke curl upward. He had craved the distraction, the way the drugs had sped up his thoughts until they felt like quicksilver flowing through his mind or the glowing euphoria that lit the shadows and thinned the walls that defined him. He had long suspected that sexual acts were no substitute and was trying to not to be disappointed at the confirmation.
He had been careful. Just as he had started by testing the chemical balances of his purchases, he had made sure Irene Adler was a known quantity. He had known precisely what she was capable of before he'd ever let her near him. He had scrupulously protected himself, and by extension, her. True, she had built up a romantic image in her mind, but she was intelligent enough to know the image was hers, not an actual reflection. They had touched, but he still felt curiously untouched. An intimacy that lacked intimacy.
He snorted. There was only one person in his life that he felt he had any intimacy with at all and despite the ridiculous rumors, there was nothing sexual about it. John couldn't understand why the label "friend" was uncomfortable for him. He could just imagine his reaction to being called an "intimate".
Eventually, the chemistry had gotten away from him. He had gotten less careful as the craving for sensation had grown. He stopped testing and that's when the overdosing problem had begun. Three hospitalizations, but only he knew how many times he somehow survived without assistance. The balance tipped and the reward was eclipsed by the cost.
He looked back to the undeniably beautiful woman on the bed. Perhaps exposure was the key. No. Exposure was a vulnerability he couldn't afford; not with her. She was brilliant, calculating, and sooner or later that calculation would not work out in his favor. The distraction did not outweigh the risk.
The creaking of a metal hinge woke him. Molly had pulled a strongbox out of one of her dresser drawers, opening it and removing a handgun. With practiced ease, she ejected the clip, began loading it with twenty two caliber bullets. It took him a moment to recognize it; a Ruger MK III. When had she gotten a permit for that? The memory came at him like a wave. Lestrade told him she got the permit right after the incident at the swimming pool, shortly after learning she had been dating a man who strapped bombs to people for entertainment.
Setting the weapon on the dresser, she relocked the box without putting the box of ammo back inside. He could see the slightest tremble in her hand as she put the strongbox back in the drawer.
His head swam a little as he stood. She pushed the clip back in with a snap, practiced and without hesitation. It was just wrong. Wrong in so many ways and on so many levels. The tremor was gone as she checked the safety, wrapping the weapon in a flannel and putting it and the spare ammo in her purse. She was comfortable with it, at ease.
She ghosted a smile at him as he approached, glad to see him moving but uncomfortable at what he'd just witnessed. "Sorry, I'm keeping it. I like my walls and John told me you scratch your head with the barrel sometimes."
He touched her elbow, feeling the shaking she was trying so hard to hide. Her hair had been wet; dry now, but she hadn't combed it out yet. The tendons in her neck were rigid, her breathing shallow and fast. Her eyes were too bright, too sharp. He could almost taste the fear in the air around her. Something had happened, something beyond having a fraudulently dead man sleeping in her flat. They hadn't found him yet; they'd be moving in if they had. What had frightened her enough to…
His mind was fogging up again and it was maddening. She didn't deserve this, having this mess brought right to her door. Everything he had been through had been to keep all that away from all of them. He had to say something, do something or it would all be for nothing. An impulse, primal, exactly what he'd avoided all his life, but it was all he could think of. He'd have to trust her to understand, to not read in an intent he didn't mean. He'd hurt her before without intention, but now… She'd seen him before, let her see him now.
The kiss was soft, a momentary brush. I'm here. I won't let anything happen. I'll find a way to stop this. I won't let it touch you. Please, let her see.
Her eyes were damp as he pulled away, but she wasn't close to tears. The corners of her mouth twitched. "Do you know how much I miss your voice?" Her smile bloomed with her blush.
TE/TE/TE
Wiggins had heard of the search for his girl, seen photocopies of a photo with "two hundred pounds" scrawled across it. He had rushed through the rest of Molly's shopping; sure Spyder was safe at Molly's flat. Discovering she had bolted, run away alone terrified him. She was too close to the edge. The last time she had gotten this upset, she had gone catatonic. Knowing how hospitals affected her, he had cared for her alone; fed her baby food, washed her from buckets of water drawn from outside a florist. He called in every favor he could to provide food and shelter without leaving her side for the week it had taken before she came back to herself.
She had a cycle of monuments; public places she would go to hide in crowds. She seldom went in anywhere that required a ticket and instead loitered staring into space until she got her bearings back. She wasn't at the Eye or the Tower.
He finally found her standing before Nelson's Column in Trafalgar Square. Her fists were clenched tight as she stared upward, He might have missed her in Molly's coat, but the onyx braid stretching down to her mid-thigh was unmistakable. Relieved, he barely noted the secondary band roughly two feet up from the elastic holding her braid together.
He walked to the side of the statue so she could see him before he could startle her. "Hello, my beautiful Spyder." he whispered into her cheek, wishing he'd stolen another flower for her hair.
"My lover." She stroked his cheek with the back of her fingers. Her eyes were glassy, pupils pinpoints. Her upper lip twitched as she pulled him close, molding their bodies as her hands drew him into the kiss. She seared his flesh, grazing his lower lip with her teeth, inviting him deeper. His hands tightened suddenly on her hips as the fear rolled over him. He was losing her, feeling her slipping away even as she pressed into his chest.
He couldn't tell if the tears on their skins were hers or his as she pulled away, stepping back a few paces. She was smiling, but it was gallows humor. "I loved you, Wiggins. With everything I had left, I loved you, I swear it."
He was moving, trying to stop her even before he saw the scissors in her hand. His mind was screaming that she wasn't gone yet. He couldn't let her leave.
Her head snapped around, the braid coming forward to rest across her chest. A horrible grinding noise as the scissors bit through her tresses. It took three strokes before her tail broke free, her hair relieved of the weight, pulling loose from the confines it had been in every moment that they had known each other. The tendrils curled, free in the breeze, dancing on the face of a stranger.
Her eyes hardened, got cold as she stepped forward, wrapping the braid around his outstretched hand. A voice he swore he'd never heard before passed by the familiar lips, accent heavier, deeper tones. "You need to hide now."
"No. I promised I wouldn't leave you. Not any of you." He gripped the braid tightly.
"You promised a ghost." She bent down, lifting a duffle bag he hadn't noticed. She hefted it onto her shoulder, running her hands through the rest of her hair, finger combing it back from her forehead. "A handsome fool. You'll regret it." Looking around, she flatly stated "First we need a chemists."