A/N: Little bit of a shorter chapter:)
Thanks to mattie and JAL for looking it over once again:)
4. The Night
He sat on a throne. It wasn't a real throne. It was a large, overstuffed chair that was steeped in comfort, but looked intimidating and really that was the whole point. Dark, rich, wine-coloured leather and brass studs, covered in fur from beasts that twenty years ago had been considered to be myth.
He'd had his slaves pull several of the original thrones out from the displays and glass cases and storage when he had first taken over the former Tower of London. He had tried them, but they really hadn't suited. Uncomfortable things. He had thought about moving into the Palace as well but he liked the idea of playing the feudal King, controlling his people from the old battlements, watching the waterways. Besides the Palace had burned to the ground shortly after he came to power, in one of the first attacks against the city by outside forces. The Tower, he had rechristened as Appledore, was at least defensible. So here he was. Seated and steeped in history. It seemed appropriate. He had always liked history. He had studied it and learned how to manoeuvere and manipulate from some of the greatest minds in the world.
And he kept it all in his head. He knew the moves and countermoves. He knew the how and when and why the great kings had been defeated. He knew that an image and rumour were bigger influences than the truth and that the truth could be manipulated to sway the people. They had been ignorant fools when all he was doing in the old days was running a media empire. In this day and age they were even more ignorant, more scared of the dark and the beast. Looking for a leader who could control them and protect them and to make their decisions for them.
And it was so easy.
He had the reputation.
He had the control.
And he didn't even have to lift a finger.
That's why one had subordinates.
He looked over the rim of his glasses. There was a man who knew how to make them still, someone who had thought to stock up on the supplies that had been freely available during the days of confusion and looting, someone who had thought ahead. He used magic now to grind the lenses, but they were just as good as in the days before.
He didn't actually need glasses at all, but he felt they gave him a wise and benevolent look.
For those times he felt it imperative he look wise and benevolent.
Glasses were also a useful prop, to remove and study, to hold and caress. He gently placed them upon his face and looked carefully over the rims. He steepled his hands together and thought about the information he had received this morning.
He had known they were back in the city. He had known for a while. But he had bided his time to see where they were going and what they had planned.
He cleared his throat.
"Mary," he called softly, his voice reminiscent of the quiet slide of the snake in the shadow of a rock, one you walked by unaware.
"Come here, Mary."
A small shadow detached from the wall nearest the door. He marveled once again at the way she glided toward him. If he hadn't been paying attention or had been unaware she was there, he would have missed the small assassin as she crept toward him on the throne.
"Come here. There you are. Good girl. I have a surprise for you."
Beautiful dark eyes looked up at him.
"He's come back to London, Mary. Would you like to have him back? Would you like to have him for your own again?"
A tilt of the head.
"Well then, how about I let you wander about the city? You find him. Find him and the other and you can have him. But," and he wagged a finger at her. "But you must bring them back to me first. I want Holmes and you, you my pet, you can have your John again. For your very own. To do with as you wish."
Mary slinked forward and sat at his feet. He reached down and ran his fingers over her head and chucked her under her chin. He then grabbed the back of her neck, hard. A mewl of sound escaped from her mouth, but that was all. She knew better than show anything else. It would be so much worse.
"And then Mary, you can punish him for leaving you. Won't that be nice? And maybe if you're a very good girl, I'll give you Holmes, too. When I'm done with him. Now then, off you go."
Mary rose gracefully to her feet and turned to leave.
"Oh and my dear? Happy hunting."
The serval opened her mouth and panted, tail lashing as she thought about tracking down her wayward husband.
"You can come out too, my dear. I know you are there." Another figure removed themselves from the shadows.
"You must be tired after all of the hard work you've had to do for me today. Now come and sit here by my feet and tell me about your day. Hmmm? I hope you have good news for me." He already knew what she had done and where she had been but he did so like to listen to the lilt of her voice.
The pretty brunette sat as gracefully as the wild cat had and looked up at the man she served. "Of course I do, sir."
oOo
Wiggins lay down and started to drift back to sleep when his eyes snapped back open. He heard the howl again, closer. It cut him to his heart, such a lonely, fearful sound.
Although Holmes had told him not to disturb him, he thought he should check. He stood and made his way to the door, where he dithered. Then, squaring his shoulders, he pulled on the door.
A figure stood in the hallway, his hand ready to knock upon the door just flung open. Wiggins let out a little shriek.
It wasn't Holmes. There was enough light from the moonlight shining through the windows in the hall to pick out blond and grey glints in the hair of Watson.
Wiggins gaped at him.
"What the hell is going on? Where did you come from and how did you find us?"
The look of amusement and slight surprise crossed Watson's face.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you. Sherlock told me you were here. I came to see how the wrist was." A small look of shame lingered at the corners of his mouth and eyes. At least that's what Wiggins told himself.
"Yeah, it's all right, I guess." In fact it was beginning to ache a bit.
Watson tilted his head and looked thoughtful. "Come with me."
They walked down to the other room and Wiggins watched as Watson bustled about, taking small packages out of the pack on the floor and adding something to an old tin camping mug. There was a small fire in the fireplace and a pot of water was steaming over it. With a scrap of cloth he poured the water from the pot into the mug and set them on the dusty floor. A quick rummage in the pack again produced a jar of something dark and runny, which was also added. He passed the whole thing to Wiggins and said, "Here, try this."
"What is it?" A suspicious look crossed Wiggins' face.
"It's willow bark tea. It's one of the remedies from the ancient days that we used before analgesics."
"Oh?"
"Ummm, yeah, doctors, healers now, I guess. Funny how we've reverted to some of the old names with the descent to the dark ages." His tone was dry and slightly mocking. "Fortunately, there's still a need for doctors of skill. Unfortunately anyone can set up a shop and hand out herbs and Fey medicine and call their selves a healer."
Wiggins sniffed at the mug of liquid and took a tentative sip. It was a bit bitter, but had been sweetened with something, probably whatever was in that jar. "Honey?" he asked, surprise replacing suspicion.
He could just make out Watson's smile. "Yes, Sherlock likes to keep bees, when we are…well when we aren't in London." The sorrow that hovered ever present was there again, but then it was replaced with a soft grin. "Come and sit with me for a bit. Tell me what you two where up to today. Sherlock didn't leave much in his notes."
"Notes?"
"Er, yes. We don't really see each other much, to talk, so we leave notes. I didn't get a chance to last night, so I hope he wasn't too much of a prick when you spoke to him yesterday."
Wiggins was sorting the information that was coming in, in his head. He was coming to some rather odd conclusions, but was dismissing them out of hand as being too strange even for him.
"So how do you find each other, then? If you're not together and off on your own?"
"Oh well, you know. Here, sit down here. I've managed to build up a nice fire. There was an old fireplace here and the chimney's not too blocked. The air is nice enough tonight so we can leave the window open. I was rather surprised to see glass still intact, but trust Sherlock to find a place like this."
There was warmth and affection in his speech. He cared a great deal for the tall, dark man. But there were also secrets and hidden stories woven through the pitch of his voice as well. Something was itching at Wiggins. Something obvious that he couldn't quite see.
Watson looked into the fire, a mug of his own cradled in his hands. Wiggins continued to sip at his own drink. He mused on the fact that the other man had not answered his question. He let it go for now.
The howl came again this time right outside the window. Watson placed his mug on the floor and went to the open window.
"You need to stop that now. You're bothering our guest." He then patted the ledge and a dark shape bounded through and landed at his feet. The wolf seemed even fiercer looking. Silver eyes peered at Wiggins and it huffed at him, but then he turned and ignored the thief. It looked up at Watson. Wiggins' eyebrows shot up as he saw the wolf wag its tail through the dirt and debris on the floor and then sit, looking up expectantly at John.
"Well I do have some food for you, git, but you could have found your own. You are much too lazy sometimes. You need to do your own hunting. Help to supplement what we have." He sat and reached over to where he had left the food Wiggins had given Sherlock earlier. He tore the bread and cheese in half and gave it to the wolf. It took it from his hand, daintily and then wagged his tail for more. Watson laughed, a chuckle, and took the apple and cut it in half with a pocketknife out of the pack and held it out. "He likes apples." He wasn't really speaking to Wiggins. There was a level of fondness in his voice that was almost embarrassing, almost intimate, to hear. Like he was watching something private. He wondered if the two of them saw much of people in their day-to-day lives. He wondered if Holmes and the bird were the same. They all seemed terribly lonely and out of practice with simple conversation, as if they'd spent so much time alone they'd forgotten how. He wondered why Holmes and Watson just didn't travel together more often, but he supposed one got use to the solitude, the quiet. And maybe they didn't really get along.
Watson sat upon the floor on a dark, oddly shaped blanket. The wolf yawned wide and long, its tongue curling up and then it shuffled down until it was laying beside Watson, its head on his lap. He lifted his hand and stroked through the fur. "You must be tired," he said, softly. Wiggins must have grunted or something, because the other' eyes were on him. "He doesn't sleep much. Never has. Never did, not even before…" He stopped and turned his head looking down and away from Wiggins into the dark, lips pursed.
"Before what?"
Watson turned to look at him and said nothing for the longest time. His eyes glittered in the firelight. "You need to get yourself to bed and sleep. You've probably got some travelling to do tomorrow with Sherlock. Morning comes early."
Curious, but not wanting to push his luck, he stood and made his way back to the room he had been sleeping in. He thought about what he had learned and what he hadn't from talking to Watson. It seemed there were more questions than answers. He tried to get comfortable in his chair. It wasn't that it wasn't comfortable. It was that something was bothering him.
He was just beginning to drift off when he thought about what it was. It was little things, small details that others might not notice. The pack that John had been using was the same pack he had had the night he'd sprained his wrist. But it was also the same pack Sherlock had and the blanket he had been lying on wasn't a blanket but Holmes' greatcoat.
"I am getting slow not to have noticed before. It's all very strange. Lord, pardon me for saying, but what the hell is going on? And why must I be included in all of these oddities?" He sighed and curled up again and was soon asleep.
oOo
Outside of the flat Sherlock and John had lived in, a small hunting cat sat upon her haunches in the gloom of a side street and watched. There was no movement from the upper windows.
Looking carefully around, she determined no one else was watching the area. She crossed the street, avoiding the light from the fairies. She hunted around the doorstep and sniffed, cautiously, carefully and beside the stronger odour of the woman who used to take care of them, she could detect traces of the two men she was searching for. Fresh scents. There was someone new as well, someone unfamiliar. She learned his scent and committed it to memory.
Something caught her eye, something caught in a crack in the old pavement. She approached it. A feather. It screamed at her a name she hadn't been able to speak for two years, ever since she had been turned into a serval as punishment for letting John escape with Sherlock.
It was his, his feather. She sniffed the familiar and tantalizing scent of her former mate. Her tongue came out and gave it a lick. Saliva gathered in her mouth and a thrill shot through her. Her human voice and instincts warred with that of the cat's but both seemed to say Mine, mine, mine to have, mine to keep.
Mine to devour.
