Genre: Drama, angst, friendship
Spoilers: End of series 2, "The Reichenbach Fall"
Warnings: Spoilers, angst, some violence, mentions of drugs, swearing

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An Indian Ally


Only a week later I wake to the ringtone of my mobile. Mycroft.

"Time to get up and pack. Your flight is tomorrow evening at seven, Kathmandu-Delhi, Air India 216," he informs me, his voice as clipped and precise as ever.

"You didn´t mention London," I observe.

"No, because there´s an assignment."

"Since when will I comply to being assigned to a task by you?" I bite back, now fully awake, anger stifling the irritating joy I have felt at hearing his voice again.

"If I remember correctly, you did only a few months ago," he answers, rubbing salt into old wounds. My answer is a sarcastic grunt.

He sighs. "Let´s not call it an assignment, then. I thought you might be interested in Roylott´s business. His son will be visiting the Delhi plant on Monday. Our informant told us he will be meeting some Chinese contacts."

"Roylott is extending his smuggling business to China," I reply, already deep in thought. I can imagine him raising his eyebrows.

He actually sounds surprised for once. "How would you know after six months in the Himalayas?" he asks.

"Deduction," I reply, smirking inwardly. "My greatest talent, don´t you remember?" There´s no need to let him know Irene Adler told me.

Still, he gets suspicious immediately, but he hesitates only ever so slightly and finally lets my remark pass without commenting on it. "Well, considering your special talents, it won´t be difficult for you to find out exactly what is going on," he replies sarcastically. "You have exactly one week. Our man in Delhi will meet you at the airport." Abruptly, he ends the call.

I turn in my blankets, not yet ready to get up. The fact that Mycroft wants me involved is puzzling. There must be something to Roylott´s plans he trusts me more with than his own people, otherwise he would not put me in the line of danger. And there was an undertone to his terse instructions which indicated there must be something more about the whole affair, and he is hesitant to tell me.

As it is useless to try and find out what without any data, I finally get up and pack. As much as I have been looking forward to this moment, I loathe leaving the hut and Nepal. In the mountains I was no longer a fugitive, no longer a man hiding from powerful enemies. I was finally free. When I immerse into the throngs of a megacity, I will need to be far more careful than I have been in the past weeks. And I will be lost without a powerful ally, without Mycroft´s help.

On my way to the bus stop, I visit the farmer who has taken me to the wild bees and taught me how to collect their honey. He is a friendly old man. His face is wrinkled with laugh lines, his brown eyes sparkling with consideration, very similar to John´s expression whenever he is working on a patient. Sadness darkens his features when I say my goodbyes. He takes my hand and wishes me luck, then he asks me to wait and hurries back to his house, to return with a small glass of honey balancing on his small, worn palms.

"Please, take home," he offers, his smile warm and inviting. "You look for bees, you think of me." He closes my hand on the glass and nods.

Touched by his kindness, I finger his present gingerly. "I will remember you and keep bees – one day," I answer and his friendly gaze follows me until I reach the familiar bend of the small village road. Suddenly, I feel lost. To leave this peaceful place which already feels inexplicably familiar to chase down criminals again seems utterly wrong, and I desperately wish I could be home soon.


The flight to Delhi is short and unspectacular, except for the start, which carries us swiftly over a steep mountain ridge. The quiet of the mountains is abruptly replaced by the chaos of Delhi´s Indira Gandhi International Airport. Stepping out of the doors of arrivals, my mind is already running in high gear with the multiple sights and sounds of the whirling crowds, and a blooming headache signals the information overload it will be experiencing in the next hours. There are far too many faces, too many different voices shouting simultaneously, to make it possible to discern any details, least of all the individual whose task it is to pick me up.

"Taxi, taxi!" several men call me as soon as I leave the building, their hands prying at my jacket, clinging to my sleeves, but I don´t stop walking until a low male voice asks: "Taxi for you, Sir? No milk, two sugars?"

The stranger bears an enigmatic smile, all white teeth and beaming friendliness. "You are English, Sir? I can drive you to a hotel, good price, very clean," he offers. His black curls are slicked back, his eyes are a light grey. He is broad and muscular and does not at all resemble any of the other slim, short taxi drivers which beleaguered me earlier. He stretches his hand out in a welcoming gesture, and I take it. "Alright, drive me," I accept his offer. Still wearing his wolfish grin, he nods. "I am Chandra Singh," he introduces himself.

"Timothy Cushing."

"Ah, you really are English, wonderful Sir, wonderful! England is a very good country! And your Queen is a wonderful woman! You have a queen, haven´t you? She has celebrated her Diamond Jubilee, that must have been a very big party, wasn´t it? Oh, and the wonders of London…"

I cease to listen to his blather but take scrutiny to follow him through the crowd and out of the building, ignoring the outstretched hands of hawkers who try to persuade me to buy food or small gadgets. Already, I feel at a loss with my surroundings, the multiple faces, the bright colours, the unfamiliar smells and sheer thriving of the place short-circuiting my mind which can´t stop to observe, to collect and to categorize data.

It suddenly gets harder to breathe and I feel my heartbeat quicken as faces and movements blur into a curtain of colours and sounds. My companion takes a firm hold of my arm and steers me to a small yellow car, simultaneously prying my luggage from my hand. Inside, he turns to face me and flashes me his feral grin again, laugh lines wrinkling his eyes.

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Cushing. Don´t worry, the sights of Delhi can be quiet overwhelming for a stranger," he says. "Actually, Mr. Holmes wasn´t too sure you would accept his invitation."

"There were no options available," I answer, and he laughs. "Where are we going?"

"Home. You are my honored guest," he says, scrutinizing my face. "Any friend of Mr. Holmes is a friend of mine." He continues driving, pointing out to me the sights as we pass them, turning from larger into smaller streets, expertly blending into the congested traffic of bikes, rickshaws, cars, pedestrians and the odd truck.

After nearly two hours, we finally stop at a three storey house. Never have I found myself so lost in a foreign city, as even with my skills of observation I find that I can´t tell where we came from and where to get back to the airport. I really am at my driver´s mercy. As if on cue he turns to me, gesturing toward the building: "Here we are, my friend. The prettiest house in Delhi – and your home now."

Actually, the house is rather nice. It is built of brick, has wood balconies at the front and shows faint traces of blue and yellow paint on the walls that indicate that it has been vastly decorated once. We enter a small flat where Chandra directs me to a room with a bed and a small wardrobe. The closed blinds shut out the blinding sun and the air is stale and bears traces of a sweetly smell I recognize but can´t define at the moment.

He sees my hesitation and puts a reassuring hand on my shoulder. "Don´t worry, I won´ti lock you in," he says. "Make yourself comfortable, I will fetch some food."

He leaves and I stand in the middle of the room for several minutes, the sounds of the street muffled by the walls, my eyes closed in an unsuccessful attempt to block out the overwhelming impressions of our drive. Some time passes and I breathe a bit easier and finally feel ready to change into lighter clothes, abandoning my jacket and hiking trousers for a loose-fitting shirt and a light chino.

Half an hour later, I emerge into Chandra´s kitchen. He flashes me his shining smile again and offers me a place at a low table, pouring tea.

"Ah, you have recovered from our journey," he says, handing me a cup. "Mr. Holmes warned me you might get… confused by the chaos in Delhi."

Sipping the warm liquid, I look at him and he frowns at my scrutinizing gaze. "What else did he tell you?"

He opens his hands widely, indicating honesty, but his answer contradicts his air of innocence. "You are interested in Mr. Roylott. I have been following his activities for the past four months. He was into the smuggling business of protected species. But in the last four weeks, his plans have changed."

"Why are you working for Mr. Holmes?"

Again, he laughs. "Oh, straight to the point, hm? How very european! Mr. Holmes was very persuasive when he heard that I have been working for the Indian government on crimes on protected wildlife. He told me I was the right man to watch Roylott´s moves in India."

"You are not with the government now?"

"Oh, no, not anymore." He leans towards me, smirking. "They never pay well enough for the trouble." Serious again, he looks at me intently. "A friend of mine has been clubbed by Roylott and still suffers from it – I have made it my personal quest to watch him."

"I see. Let´s say I do have a personal interest in him, too."

He sips his tea, nodding. "I know. This is why I agreed to help you. You can stay here, my friend. On Monday, we will try to find out what the business with the Chinese people is. I know a place where we can eavesdrop easily."

"You know where they meet?"

Again he shows his enigmatic smile, all flashing teeth. "I know everything about Delhi, Englishman. You just need to follow my lead. Please, take some food."