Chapter Thirteen: Part of the Fire that is Burning
Evie's phone rings late one night a week or so later. She has had a text message every night at eleven that she has deleted. She answers the call and tries to argue quietly with the person on the other side. The caller tells her that is she does not cooperate, nasty things will happen to her new-found friends. She tries to keep her voice calm but anyone in the quiet house could hear her begging to be left alone. There is the sound of a loud burst of laughter as she pulls the phone away from her face and presses "end."
Tears make silver tracks down her face in the dim light of the guest bedroom. She barely feels the sting of salt when her tears reach the tender wounds of her sutures. The caller's cruel taunts dredge up old memories and fears along with the distinct and overwhelming feeling of loneliness. The ache in her leg is just another pain in the midst of so much more. It is way past time for her medication, Evie thinks as she settles back against the pillows that the housekeeper so graciously provided for her. She lets her head rest on the pink satin, the material cool against the skin of her neck. She is halfway to calling out for Mycroft in his room down the hall when she stops herself cold. Evie closes her eyes and accepts the pain as a reminder to end this trouble quickly. She sees absolutely no reason to hurt anyone else.
Mycroft is as complex and confusing to her senses as he was the first time she saw him. She had the impression a few nights ago that he wanted more from her, but then he backed off and kissed her in such a chaste manner. It has taken her all this time to get over feeling somehow beneath him, and that should be chalked up to the way he does not treat her any differently from anyone else around him. Except for his brother, though she figures whatever it is between them is like a tradition and nothing is ever going to change it. In turn, she is beginning to notice that his calm, confident manner is actually lifting her up. It is a silly school-girl fantasy to have a man that simply exudes self-reliance; someone to look up to, but it still lives in her mind. Once again, she is on the cusp of calling out to him, just to take her mind off of the nasty call.
No. Not now. She once again fights it all back down and swallows the fear like the bitter pill it has become. She feels like she is lying but she can deal with this herself. Maybe if she deals with this on her own she will be permitted to get closer to him: she can be strong. She thinks that may be why he pulls back and leaves their physical interactions to simply kissing. She attempts to persuade her mind to consider the good things that go along with simply being close to another human being, yet she hears the caller's voice over and over; this time she cannot control the flood of tears, though she does hold the soft lilac-colored duvet to her mouth to stifle as much of the sound as possible.
Mycroft stands with his back against the wall, putting two and two together and coming up with three. He knows about Evie's short-lived time with Wickersham and knows that she has only had two long-time relationships in her life. Someone is stalking her and he needs to take care of the problem. He knows exactly where to begin. He turns away, torn between going in and comforting her and just melding back into the shadows to do what he does best. This time, logic wins. He cannot hope to give her any comfort until he can put a stop to the problem. He believes that since she has not yet come to him that she doesn't need him. He has not yet learned how wrong he is.
~o~o~o~
It is just after breakfast the next morning. John is sitting at the kitchen table with his laptop typing up the case that he has titled Mediocrity on Microfiche on his blog. Sherlock and Phoenix are out on the balcony with a stack of forensics journals and textbooks. John adjusts his glasses with one finger and continues his hunt-and-peck typing, which has only gotten slightly better over the years: now instead of one finger, he uses two.
Sherlock is stretched out against the wooden floor of the balcony, his back against the overhang, legs crossed in front of himself at the ankles. He has a journal spread open in his lap to a rather humorless diagram of the steps of rigor mortis in humans. He is completely engrossed in an article that is written by one of the scientists from the Body Farm in the US. Phoenix is in a similar position beside him; two cats soaking up the scant rays of this morning's autumn sunshine. When his mobile chimes a new text message the first time, he completely ignores it. By the third chime, Phoenix raises her head and gives him a look that clearly says he is allowing it to interrupt her very important sun worshipping. He gives her a little glare and yanks the thing out of his soft blue pajama bottoms.
Are you any closer to finding Wickersham?
John is jolted out of recounting a quite enjoyable foot chase from the library when Sherlock growls from the balcony. The anger of being reminded that Sherlock has been unable to pick up Wickersham's trail is almost palpable, even from this distance. Charles has eluded them for weeks. John is aware of how the hunt for the arsonist has pervaded Sherlock's mind like a cancer, even more so because he is dull and not really worth all the time.
John calmly strolls to the open door. He can feel Sherlock's anger as it begins to boil beneath the surface. Sherlock is using his index finger to stab at the buttons on his phone. He holds it up to his ear as a deep growl reverberates from his throat and completes itself in a huff of air. His green eyes are bright and calculating.
"The text messages are from Charles." He states these six words without preamble.
John cannot hear what Mycroft is saying. He thinks it may be something to confirm Sherlock's suspicion when Sherlock's eyes close and his brow furrows. John shoves his hands down into his jeans pockets and waits. Sherlock hangs up without hearing another word his brother speaks and looks up to John.
"Charles Wickersham has been sending text messages to Evie since she first went to hospital. Apparently, he had the gall to call her late last night." Sherlock frowns again and his mouth turns down at the corners; little wrinkles form across the bridge of his nose. He does not pause before giving John an answer to his unasked question. "He is using different phones, though the messages are always exactly the same. Mycroft has attempted to locate him on three separate occasions. So far, the only evidence of his whereabouts that Mycroft's team has found has been an old mobile deep in a rubbish bin not far from the motorcycle shop."
John shakes his head. That makes even less sense. "Whose attention is he after? Ours or Evie's?"
Sherlock has a very-out-of-character look of confusion on his pale features. The whole escapade is getting under his skin. He pushes up off of the floor, a move that dumps the journal to the floor with a thud and walks from one end of the balcony to the other, a total of about four steps each time. At each of the two corners he can get to, he executes a neat little pirouette on his bare toes.
"It is driving me mad! I cannot discern his motives! Killers, kidnappers, thieves...even Mycroft, I understand…arsonists make no sense!" Sherlock shouts, pressing his thumbs to his temples. John thinks he looks every bit the wild-eyed scientist desperately seeking answers to all of life's perplexing questions. Of course, he knows full well that to Sherlock, the majority of human nature is life's most perplexing problem.