New patterns are emerging, new dreams and new joys! New balance is tricky, but I promise to get caught up reading and reviewing! I owe huge thanks to MizJoely for helping me keep the rhythm, and to Nocturnias, the dragonaunt, and Flavia (who I hope forgive my momentary silence. It doesn't happen often!). Special thanks as well to RockingtheRedhead, Elliesmeow, 4May, and coloradoandcolorado1! This only covers half the notes I have for this chapter, so hoping to post again quickly. If you'd like a love theme for Wiggins and Spyder, I'm using "Nowhere Fast" by Fire, Inc. I'll put a link on Tumblr. The circles draw tighter. All reviews are deeply appreciated!
"No use tempting the animals." She led Wiggins down a side street, pulling him behind a skip. Kneeling, she unzipped the duffle bag, releasing a small cloud of what appeared to be confetti.
He felt sick, wanting to simply grab her arm and flee, but knowing somehow the girl he loved was already gone. "Should I still call you Spyder? I mean, you don't seem…"
She paused for a moment, considering. "No, you could be overheard." She pulled several thick bundles of paper out of the bag, handing them to him before grabbing more. "I used to be..." she laughed brokenly, "call me Alex, its close enough." She began beating the bundles against each other, sending up clouds of dust and small bits of paper.
Wiggins glanced down, seeing at least one hole had been chewed through the bag, evidence of rodents scattered among the slips of paper. He had begun hitting the bundles in his hands just as she had before his eyes identified what he was holding. Cash, large bundles of currency in several denominations.
His eyes bulged, returning to the bag. It must have held at least a couple of thousand quid before the rats had gotten to it. She seemed to think she had gotten enough debris off what she was holding as she shoved the money into various pockets before reaching for more of the banded notes. "How long have you had this?"
"About half an hour. Emergency cache too risky to touch." Pocketing the rest of the money she held, she gestured for him to do the same. She zipped the bag up, and then dropped it in the skip. "I'm sure I wasn't spotted, but someone will notice its missing sooner or later."
"So you were robbing banks when I wasn't around?" Wiggins hurried to keep up with her as she strode across the square, afraid if he lost sight of her, he'd never find her again.
Alex stopped abruptly, giving him a fractured half smile. "Do you really want to know?" Her eyes, once so familiar and soft had gone hard, but at least the ice had retreated from the leaf green. It was as much a challenge as a request for assurance. She was judging him, weighing him in a way she never had as a lover.
"I want to know everything." the statement flowed out like a prayer. He needed to know, to reconcile the damaged girl he had held so often with whoever it was she'd become.
She curled her hand around his, setting off in the direction of Boots. "This is how I remember the tale. It is the only truth I know, the only family left to me." She cleared her throat, beginning to recite. "Once upon a time, a beautiful golden haired equestrienne fell in love with an obsidian haired winged prince. Their courtship was welcomed throughout their small kingdom as it would unite two of the most powerful families into an alliance not seen since the nightmare of Revolution. He had proposed marriage to her beneath the castle's highest dome, both lovers suspended between heaven and earth, surrounded by a rainbow of silks and gossamer threads. The cheers had gone up so quickly that they drowned out her tearful acceptance. The feasting went on for days, food and wine pouring freely."
She paused at the zebra crossing, her voice droning seamlessly. "Arrangements were made, banners hung, and the next time the castle was raised, the old rituals were again performed. The entire kingdom was in attendance, spilled out across the floor, while those who made their way through the gates witnessed from the long benches. Long after the banquets were served, the wine poured and the dancing begun, the patriarchs of both families met secretly in the steel vault that followed the kingdom on its travels. The matter of the dowry was settled; three effete eggs, heavier than their productive namesakes, each encrusted with splendors, opening to reveal hidden treasures within. Each a ransom in its own right, but the existing horde would be split no deeper. Any future harvests would be shared among the reapers."
Wiggins followed her through the store as she quickly located a few boxes for herself, and then judged a few by holding them along side his face. "When winter's snows began to grow, the lovers kept warm in each other's arms. As the kingdom rang in a new year, the castle reaching for the steel struts above while its feet were mired in dirty slush, the announcement was made. The princess' horses would have to dance their ornate patterns without her for a time; a child was coming."
TE/TE/TE
Molly had brought him the bags Wiggins must have been delivering. Clothing mostly, but a few toiletries and one of the multi-function electric razors that would trim as well as shave. Sherlock wanted to shower, almost desperately, but wasn't sure his legs were up to it yet.
He swung Molly's bedroom door around, surprised at his own hesitancy to close it all the way. Enclosed spaces had never bothered him before. Something else he'd have to get used to. Changing quickly into jeans and a casual buttoned shirt, he crossed the hall to her bathroom.
The fluorescent bulbs were too bright, but the ambient light from the bedroom was enough to brush his teeth by. He snorted to himself. Such a mundane thing, but after all that time, tooth brushing was almost a delight. He briefly considered letting the beard go, but a quick glance in the mirror had him reaching for the razor. The fit of the clothing had given him some idea of how much mass he had lost, but the reflection in the glass looked too much like a stranger.
Turning the razor off, Sherlock could hear a small repeated noise coming closer. Molly was tapping her finger on the wall as she approached, obviously not wanting to startle him. He splashed water in the sink, the bits of hair swirling away as he avoided her eyes.
He had known on some level that his confinement had marked him, that what he'd endured would show, but knowing it and seeing it were two entirely different concepts. If it was a shock to him, he couldn't imagine what it was to her. Her physical attraction to him had always been a bit of a mystery, but for her to see him like this; skeletal, drawn, weakened, should have been disillusioning.
"Here." she held out a silver watch on a black leather band. "I had Wiggins get it for you. It's not as nice as your old one, but I know you like keeping track."
He took it from her, bracing himself. A deep breath and he reached for control, feeling the chords resisting being put to work again. The sound came, barely audible. "Thank you."
TE/TE/TE
John was frankly astounded by how quickly Lestrade had gotten out his pad, taking complete and thorough notes. He had expected at least hesitancy, some disbelief at the tale he had to tell. "You already knew about this, didn't you? That someone's harassing the homeless?"
Lestrade grimaced as he continued to write. "Well, sort of. They're a bit of an insulated group, but between the bounty offered and the people at casualty, it's gotten too out of hand to hide."
"Anything to do with that warehouse fire?" John watched closely for a reaction. He'd kept Wiggins' name out of it so far, but loyalty only would allow for so much.
"Doubt it." Lestrade pocketed the notebook. "Not even our case any more. I'm sure that…" he stopped as Sally Donovan walked up.
"Doctor Watson." she acknowledged with a nod, handing the paper to the other man. "We finally got hold of one of the photocopies. That's the girl our big Russian is after."
Lestrade looked it over, the knot settling in his stomach. He recognized the location immediately, grateful Donovan hadn't been in the warehouse. He'd have to call Mycroft Holmes; fax him the image. He knew Sherlock had had ties in the homeless community, but knew he didn't dare ask John about it now. It was all getting far too close to home. John snatched the paper from his hands.
"I've seen her!" John's brows had knitted together. "I ran into her, literally ran into her earlier! She's Russian." The image was so grainy, but there was no mistaking the long braid trailing across her shoulder.
"Have you got a name?" At this rate, Lestrade wanted to start looking for snipers, peering into corners looking for Richard Brook.
"No, sorry." John shook his head. "You said a big Russian is after her? I think I've seen him. Only for a few seconds, but I think I could give you a description."
"Okay, I've got an appointment I'm late for." Lestrade folded the image, putting it in his pocket. "Donovan, take the description. John, I'll be in touch." He tried to not rush into the building.
TE/TE/TE
Boots behind them, they moved on to Next, Alex grabbing shirts and pants in groups, only letting Wiggins pick out his own briefs. Her tale continued almost uninterrupted. "The onyx princess was thought to have been born unlucky. Her mother's family thought so because their beautiful horses were crated away where they could not see the newborn child, and her father's family thought so because she had been born with no view of the sky. The patriarchs thought she brought doom since the kingdom had to halt its travels for a time until escape could be made from the concrete and steel prison that her parents had been forced to take refuge in when she was discovered to have been in breech position."
Shoes next, only one pair for each of them; trainers. She kept the tale pouring forth. "The obsidian prince and his golden princess were far removed from succession, but they still had many duties, so their onyx haired daughter was raised by the entire kingdom. What time was not spent in the rolling boxes, trying to hear tutors over the infernally loud clicking sounds was filled to overflowing with the joy of the open air."
Alex picked out a purse, more like a messenger bag and added it to the pile as she went on. "Much of her time was used for feeding and grooming the animals that traveled with them. She rode her mother's horses bareback, danced beneath the outstretched arms of the bear, and even strode fearlessly into the marked territory of the lion whose mane reminded her of her mother's golden locks. His teeth were too gnarled, yellow and brittle to pose much threat to anything larger than the occasionally ignorant and confused rat."
They made their way to the till, practically buried in a week's worth of clothing for each of them. Casual, nothing too dressy that might attract attention. She went on. "Much of her time was spent in the sewing circles of the old women, hearing the tales that had taken generations to accumulate while silks, costumes and even curtains were made right. She learned to play cards from them as they taught her the finer arts of deception; lying, cheating, concealing. The old women never offered, yet she returned to her mother each time too stuffed with biscuits to eat a decent dinner."
The doors let them back out into the street and Wiggins watched the wind tangle her hair into her eyelashes. Her story went on. "Much of her time was passed with Pyotr and his brothers, learning the art of calculation in motion. Three at a time, then four, trying to master five in mid-flight. They taught her to see the paths hanging open and ready to be taken. Eventually the paths lead not from one hand to the next, but instead from one hand to a goal. Concentric rings, lines of dented cans, even rows of empty bottles would disappear before her gaze."
TE/TE/TE
Sherlock made his way down the hall, sticking close to the wall in case his legs stopped cooperating. The watch said Molly's flat should be full of light by now, but the dimness held. As he made his way into her living room, he could see the reason why; blackout blinds. White on the outside but black on the inside. Not only did they hold the light at bay, they would mask any shadows from being visible outside at night. A measure of privacy Sherlock wondered if Wiggins had been responsible for, or if Molly's odd working hours caused her to seek out a method of creating artificial night.
She had followed him, present if he got into trouble but not interfering, then went into the kitchen. Pulling out a pot, she put some soup on to slowly warm, hoping to get him to eat again soon. Knowing his usual habits, she was preparing to have a fight on her hands, but she knew he would have to eat small, frequent meals until his body could safely reassert its own rhythms.
He sat carefully on her couch, reaching mindlessly for the remote control. The television came on so loud he almost dropped the remote. By the time he found the volume button, the rapid flashes of bright color irritated him enough to simply shut it off. As difficult as the hypersensitivity was, the craving for distraction was growing, followed by the usual frustration. He needed to focus, find some way of dealing with the coming threat of Sebastian Moran, but it kept slipping away from him, like a bar of soap in the bath. The harder he tried to grab on, the faster it got away from him.
Movement caught his eye. Molly had turned on her laptop computer, setting it before him on the coffee table. She must have turned down the screen's brightness, the glow muted compared to the way the television had been. A cursor flashed onscreen, waiting for her password. He looked at her expectantly.
She raised an eyebrow. "Wouldn't want to spoil your fun." she smiled.
He smirked in return; glad to see her smile grow. Three whole minutes. He wondered if that was her skill or his fuzziness. Charitably, he settled on both.
He supposed he should go to his usual web haunts for news, see if anything would twig him to Moran's plans, but the sites would be rife with flashing ads he didn't want to stomach yet. He wanted to look up stories of local fires, try to piece together what had happened in the last few hours, but Molly said Spyder and Wiggins would be back soon and he'd rather hear from them first, and then view whatever the media chose to tell.
He was typing the name into the search engine before he'd given it much thought. Sherlock knew all the articles would be there, a rare few written in English. He clicked on one of the earliest, from the newspaper Blesk in the Czech Republic. Bodies in a shallow unmarked grave; two adults and one child, the child largely untouched, but the adults missing their teeth and fingertips. No clothing or jewelry found with the bodies, decomposition leaving only weather-beaten bone behind. No locals had gone missing so they were assumed to be transients of some kind until DNA had come along. Even then, identification had been difficult. Too many missing members of the same family to narrow down to specific names.
He went back to the search, this time picking a more recent article. The state taking the girl away from the family she had known, giving her to distant cousins who said they wanted to keep her safe from whatever forces were making those closest to her disappear. A photo of the child, her face contorted with tears and confusion as a somber man in a trench coat loaded her into a black car.
Molly was holding a steaming bowl out to him. She glanced down at the screen and stopped. Sitting beside him, her fingers trailed over the close cropped curls on the child's photograph. "My god, that's Spyder."
TE/TE/TE
Emma dropped the sack of potatoes with an unceremonious thump, once again cursing the managers of the shelter for not being organized enough to have the muscled volunteers show up to unload deliveries. She was more than happy to share her pension time trying to make the world a little better place, but she'd need help at this rate!
Glancing around and feeling absurdly naughty, she took her purse to the rear of the building. She had told her son she was going to give up smoking, but she'd never specified when.
Startled, she almost choked on the first drag. How the hell could someone so large sneak up on her like that?
The man was curled into himself, his eyes wet as he thrust a photograph at her. "I'm sorry to disturb you, but I'm trying to find my daughter. She's been missing for so long, and I need to find her. Can you help me?" He sounded eastern European.
Emma hadn't intended to look at the picture. The shelter kept a strict policy of non interference unless the police were involved. Some of the homeless were fleeing some desperate situations. Anyone could claim to be a concerned family member, a long-lost friend. Those that used the shelter had to have some faith that they would be safe. "I'm sorry. Why don't you come back tonight and have a look for her? We start serving about six. If you come a little early, maybe you could help us out." She stubbed out the cigarette.
"No, I need to find her now." He held the photo up where she couldn't evade it. "Her momma is very sick…"
It had only taken a split-second, but Emma recognized the image. That strange tiny girl Molly Hooper had helped, the one with the bleeding hand. She looked back, shivering when she noted the rest of the volunteers had gone back inside. "Look, Vladimir, or whatever your name is…"
"Viktor." he smiled, his eyes bone dry. "My name is Viktor. Now you will tell me about the girl, yes?