Chapter One: Gretel's Dreams~
"I have come to you , Mr. Holmes, out of the last death stroke of desperation."
The room has grown colder, as the fire dies lower, and glowers as red as rose-stained glass about them, like a cathedral for the night, encompassing them in the wings of muted angels, in stand-by for the drama that holds their lives on the end of a teaspoon.
Sherlock nods, as if he already understands, though he hasn't been told a single thing yet. John wonders at his friend, can almost feel his blood begin to run along with his own, as if the breath of God has animated him for the very first time. A new hunt, the thrill already present, his veins billowing as if to stir the furnace of his heart.
"So,...your mistress has been compelled to kill one of you. It was your sister that she chose, and what she plans for her was so slow and horrific a death, you dared to defy her?"
Hansel's jaw drops. Not only can Sherlock see straight through him, he can also empathize fully with him, being subjected himself to every form of cruelty that exists, and one dark day it caused him to Fall to his death in John's stead.
"You are right...She...is very skilled in poisoning. Her favorite method is by an apple, covered in some sort of diluted toxic chemical lacquer that burns a dark green, and is odorless and tasteless."
"John and I have observed such an apple in our latest engagement, and yet we weren't able to investigate it at that time." Sherlock said, brows knitting as if he were trying to piece together a bigger puzzle than the one he was presented.
"But Mr. York ate a bit of that apple, and he was fine." John said, stunned, wondering if Mr. York(the British consul in Copenhagen, that they met on their last case) maybe hadn't been fine, and was now...
"That's because the poison is only fatal if the apple is baked, something about heat release..." Hansel added, "Sometimes she will give her victims a taste of the poison, to give them seriously frightening hallucinogenic dreams. My mistress...she...sees herself as some sort of fairy tale witch...She copies her murders, and her threats and torments...after the methods used by characters out of pretty much every fable you can recall from your boyhood days. There will be a pretty vast list of those that you don't know either, I am sure...But you will learn them ,I'm afraid, if you encounter her; she will insist on schooling you in her vast Literary knowledge. She is a scholar of murder; basically worships the Art."
Sherlock's attention was pricked anew. For once he was being set up against a criminal that had the true heart of a villain. Any time he could have villain to destroy, it sent him into a state of euphoria that lasted for weeks afterwards. John held his breath, feeling butterflies in his stomach, glad to see Sherlock's happiness, but also nervous to be going back into danger, because whenever there was danger, Sherlock was harmed, and usually it was because he was trying to protect John from something the ordinary man could "see but not observe".
"Your sister...has become the victim of one of these passionate pantomimes, I take it?" Sherlock said, smiling almost delightedly.
"My sister , of both of us,all our lives has borne the brunt of the Mistress' hate, because she favors our mother more. Her alias is Gretel, but her real name is Margaret Yeats, Margaret after my mother. The Mistress always gave her a lot of chores in the making of her toxins, and the reenacting of these children's stories in a bloodthirsty way. Once when were were about the age of a child year 5,she had her spin a poisoned fabric whilst I watched, woven with poisoned lacquer ,like she uses on apples, but this has a golden sheen to it. She called it "Rumpelstiltskin's Night" and she wrapped me in it tightly, and I nearly died of hallucinogenic induced terror, and epileptic seizures. It was that day that I swore to my sister I would defy the Mistress and get us away...And as of a month ago, when my sister's life was laid on the scales, I ,belatedly, made good of my promise..."
"What ...happened to her?" asked John, clearing his throat.
Hansel swallowed..."The Mistress was ...extremely angry...because Maggie had stolen her fancy smartphone( I don't really know where the woman is able to come by all these things, we live probably a good 50 miles from anywhere with people) and was trying to surf the web to find our father...thinking she could email him our whereabouts. It was a radical attempt at our redemption, and in vain. The Mistress had been working on a certain mix of poisons...somehow diluting hallucinogens into anesthetics to create what she called the "Dreamcatcher" a poison that traps the victim in an intense series of frightening hallucinations, so paralysing, the body presents all the symptoms of a coma."
"Neat!" Sherlock cried. Hansel looked stunned.
"He...means...that it's...terrible for your sister!, and we will absolutely try to help you in any way we can." John back-pedalled ,giving Sherlock his classic "bit not good" look.
"We won't TRY to help you, Mr. Yeats, we most definitely WILL help you! We leave on the first flight for Finland in the morning." Sherlock cried.
"Oi, yeah...alright...Let me just go tell Sholto then..."John said, getting to his feet.
Anytime Sherlock said they were taking a case promptly in the morning, it usually meant they told Sholto, who currently resided in a renovated version of 221 C, living in the flat now as their self-appointed body guard, at some ungodly hour of the night. John prayed to the merciful God that he wasn't beaten to a pulp by the man that was supposed to be protecting him, for accidentally startling him awake. He prayed also that Sherlock wouldn't try too terribly hard to be a hospitable guest to their already socially traumatized client. As he descended the stairs, he heard the young man say something along these lines:
"Would you like some leftovers?...We have pudding you may help yourself to; it's in the fridge, top shelf, next to Sister Laurel's pickled thumbs..."