Chaaaaaapter two! I've been rewatching the miniseries - breathtaking, seriously, watch it - and I had promised myself that I wouldn't upload this until I updated both of my other on-going fics, but I am extremely weak.
To my reviewer, Percy James Frost: I'm actually not sure! Of course, you know how it ends, so it would be pointless in the end but I wouldn't mind adding in a ship.
A tiny little filler chapter - next one is where all the action is going to be - I'm reeeeally excited about it. Please let me know what you think!
THE ARRIVAL
…
A man stands in a velvet booth, surrounded by lights and a large microphone, hanging from the center of the ceiling. He clutches in his hand a paper, with hastily scribbled words occupying the space.
He looks up from the sheet, to his left. "And this - this is for a play? In the West End?"
He must have received an answer, for he continues. "And will I be credited in the program?"
A low murmur of a voice in reply, and the man nods attentively, apparently satisfied. The red light blinks - once, twice, then steady.
"Ladies and gentlemen…"
…
A small group of people stand in uncertainty - though some less than others. The judge remains stately, as his job requires, with the umbrella as powerful as his gavel in the courtroom. He manages a kindly if not slightly insincere smile in Margaret Hooper's direction, but can hardly summon the energy for little else. Irene Adler perches herself on a stone ledge - nevermind the wind and oncoming storm - head tilted, observing the company with a coy grin on her scarlet lips. When she once again lifts a cigarette to her lips, she catches Mr. Anderson staring, and throws a wink at him. The poor man flushes, looking away quickly.
They were on a stoned area in a fishing village, near a rustic dock. Introductions had been attempted and quickly fallen into silence, so the former participants were doing their best to avoid eye contact. It was clear a rather bad storm was coming in soon - the wind was harsh and stung salty on their skin, and the clouds hung heavy and gloomy in the sky. Margaret shivered, tucking her hands into her folded arms.
Sherlock Holmes stood separate from the group, observing the people silently. His eyes dart from person to person curiously, cataloging every scrap of information he can collect. He analyzes Miss Margaret, curving his lips up into an arrogant smirk when she glances back at him. She flinches slightly, recognizing him from the train, and she turns away from him - initiating a quick conversation with General Lestrade.
"Margaret Hooper," she introduces herself.
The silver-haired man looks rather surprised to be addressed, but he smiled kindly back at her. "Greg Lestrade - or General Lestrade, really. Either suits me fine." Scrambling to reciprocate, he comes up with the original, "Er, coming to Soldier Island for a holiday?"
Her lips curve up into a gentle smile, reassured by the seemingly gentlemanlike man. "I'm the Owen's secretary."
His eyebrows shot up, interested in this information. "Oh? And what are they like? This whole business is damned mysterious, I'll say that." He winces - rather uncertain whether he should have revealed how little he knows of his host.
Margaret frowned, her brow puckering worriedly. "I couldn't say, I'm afraid," she murmured. "I've only just been hired. I rather was hoping you could tell me something."
It was the obvious truth that for curiosity and perhaps lack of entertainment there were a certain amount of people listening in on the conversation - and upon hearing this rather uncommon and unnerving piece of information, the preceding reacted in the following way: Irene Adler raised a perfect eyebrow carefully, Judge Mycroft Wargrave furrowed his brow quickly before smoothing it back into an impassive expression, and Mr. Anderson coughed uncomfortably. In truth, all of this company had assumed the others knew their elusive hosts, and had hoped to conceal that they, in fact, did not. When confronted with the notion that at least two of their fellow guests were not at the very least acquainted, if not intimately, they suddenly found themselves quite unsettled.
The pair exchanged worried glances, before turning away from each other, an uncomfortable feeling of unease settling in their stomachs.
Sherlock watched the conversation curiously and then her for a moment more, his hands tucked into his pockets, before looking away, a small frown playing on his lips. He lifts a finger to rub along his jaw, mulling over what he just heard. His head turns sharply from his thoughts when he sees something out of the corner of his eye.
Down the steep track into the village a car was coming. It appeared and moved with such speed it seemed an apparition - which had a near paralyzing effect on the attempts at warmth from the group. At the wheel was Sebastian Wilkes, hair blown back with the wind, sharpening the appearance of his handsome features. In the light from the dying sun, he seemed something more than mortal.
Obligingly, he presses the horn with a knowing grin, and a grand roar of sound echoes from the rocks of the bay. The car skids to a stop in front of the silent company, and no words are uttered as he steps out cheerfully, closing the door with a grandiose motion. Dr. Watson, recognizing the car, scowled a little. His arms crossed instinctively in front of his chest.
At that moment, an elderly man with a kind face steps forward. "Soldier Island?" he asks, a heavy accent breaking his words up.
Eight voices give their consent - and then immediately after give quick surreptitious glances at one another, with the notable exceptions of Sebastian Wilkes, Irene Adler, and Judge Mycroft Wargrave. For quite different reasons, they never do anything so unstylish.
He grins toothlessly. "Right, m' name's Jeff Hope. If you'd all make your way to my boat, we best be off." A hand wave in the vague direction of a rather skeptical looking boat.
The group obliges him, picking up their cases dutifully and following him across the rocky shore. Illuminated by a sun dying behind approaching clouds, they could see the outline of a magnificent island. Softly, the collective drew in a breath, momentarily stunned by the sight.
Sebastian Wilkes whistled appreciatively. "A goddamn sight, ain't it." He grinned around, but was met only with rather stony faces. Not much fun, are they. Sebastian shrugged his broad shoulders, eyeing the woman on his side. At least that dark-haired chit looks like she go for a turn.
"It's a long way out," Margaret breathed, a little surprised. She stood watching the shore a moment before turning at the hand coming to touch her arm.
The other men stepped into the boat, while Sherlock and Judge Mycroft extending their hands to the two ladies. Miss Adler accepted with a frankly disarmingly charming smile, but with no effect on the judge, by the unimpressed look on his face. Sherlock's hand was offered to Miss Margaret with an impassive expression, which she took hesitantly, sliding her slim hand into his. She gathered the fabric of her skirt in her gloved fingers, lifting the hem enough to only just graze the rough wood as she stepped lightly over the side. She sat, arranging her skirts neatly, directly opposite Mr. Holmes and adjacent to Miss Adler.
Mr. Hope began his rituals for getting the boat out to sea. The ride wasn't pleasant, with enough roughness to turn poor Mr. Anderson rather green. Soon a gloomy fog coats their skin, obscuring any sight of the coast they had just left behind. The waters beneath them were thrown into choppy waves by the wind, churning the boat side to side. It whipped the hair from Miss Margaret's tidy bun, casting stray strands across her neck. Sea water sprayed occasionally from its slaps against the hull, but the dignified English women remained unconcerned and the men remained unaware.
The boat crossed the churning sea roughly, skidding over the bumps. The island loomed closer and closer, until the occupants could make out a large house, sitting on the pinnacle. Ragged cliffs from a small shoreline separated them, isolating the house from the coast. The sand was darkened with the water, carving a harsh line in the smooth shore. The house itself was white, and a uncommonly modern design - a pleasing sight that one would usually associate with the gossip; actresses and millionaires and such.
Margaret glanced up at the darkening sky. Seagulls circled over the house, tumbling from their orbits before climbing back up, cawing frantically. She nearly shivered.
The boat pulled up onto the shore, shifting unevenly on the sand. The ladies were escorted out carefully by General Lestrade and Dr. Watson, while Sebastian Wilkes hopped out, adjusting his suit coat with a very satisfied air. Sherlock examined the island as usual with critical eyes - skimming over the terrain systematically and Anderson blustered out a weak "Nothing like Africa, eh?" Sherlock's bright eyes shot quickly to examine the man, before flicking back to the two dark figures approaching. Dr. Watson eyed Anderson doubtful.
Irene approaches Sherlock from behind, brushing her shoulder against his, drawing his attention away from the strangers. She glances up at him coyly with dark eyes. "A lovely sight, no? The kind of place where all sorts of naughtiness could happen." She smiles up at the house, relishing the sight.
Sherlock was in no humour to oblige her. "I suppose you rather think you'd get away with it," he replies, coldly.
Her lips curve into her trademark smirk, unconcerned with his unfriendly manner - in fact, she seemed almost encouraged. "I always do, handsome." She tilts her head, calculatingly, settling her eyes on his. "And I rather think you do too, Mr. Holmes."
He jerks his head away from her quickly, staring determinedly ahead.
The two figures had made their way down the cliffs, coming to a stop in front of the crowd. It was a man and a woman, dressed sensibly in black staff attires. The woman, rather fragile looking but with a kindly face stood slightly behind the man. Margaret quite quickly found she didn't like his look - like a man forcing himself to appear more than he is.
"I'm Mr. Hudson, the butler," he called. Any half-hearted attempts at conversation were stilled, rather grateful for the interruption. "Welcome to Soldier Island," Mr. Hudson nods his head politely to the crowd. "This is my wife, Mrs. Hudson. Cook, and lady's maid to the women during their stay."
The woman ducks her head a little at the introduction, and stays silent. Margaret examines her a little curiously, seeing the nervous way she conducts herself.
Mr. Hudson continues in a detached tone, "If you'd all follow me." He turns his body, gesturing to the house behind him with a tight smile. They oblige him, each dutifully picking their case up - with the exception of Miss Irene, who left it on the shore to be carried for her, which Dr. Watson did grudgingly - and beginning a steep climb up the rocky cliff, leaving winding trails of footprints in the sand behind.
For a moment, Margaret glances towards the shore, down at the rolling waves crashing on the sand and she remembers, what it's like, to be under those waves, a scarlet against dazzling blue, a bright sun overhead but she's sinking - falling - can't breathe -
A steady hand on her back from a concerned General Lestrade, and she's jerking herself from the vision, and walking quickly away.
From the mainland, they were nothing but specks, blending into the mass of shadows.
