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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Snakes and Ladders
Chandra doesn´t drive back to the flat. Instead, he steers his black Enfield 500 to a slum, where he leads me to a hut. A large crowd of people gathers in front of it. Several people acknowledge Chandra with a nod and step aside, their eyes lingering on my blood-stained robe.
Inside, a short, broad, balding man with a clumsy nose tends to a girl, fixing a bandage on her arm. Realizing that we entered a surgery and the people in the queue are patients, I try to stop my companion by gripping his arm, but he just slaps my hand away and addresses the doctor in Hindi. The man delivers me a welcoming smile.
"Don´t worry," he says. "My cousin can bring in a patient any time he likes." Hesitating, I bite my lip, but the man´s hands are already on my wrists as he drags me down onto a chair.
"It´s Just a scratch," I bite out hoarsely and he gives me a peculiar glace before he pries the fabric away with surprising deftness. In silence, he cleans and dresses the deep cut Moran´s knife has left on my chest and bandages my hand. I feel Chandra´s gaze linger on the nasty scar the Belgian policeman´s bullet has inscribed on my arm. Both cousins exchange glances, but none of them voices his question. Finished, Chandra´s cousin looks me in the eyes.
"This should heal nicely," he says. "But don´t play the violin until your hand is well enough." Puzzled, I stare at him and he smiles back and hands me two packages with medicine.
"Oh, how do I know? Just look at your fingers, they are callused. I used to play myself. You haven´t played for some time, though, the horny skin is peeling off in some places." He looks at me, scrutinizing my face, and nods. "You do miss your music, I can tell. You probably miss the peace of your home, too."
"I don´t know what you are talking about," I answer gruffly, slipping carefully into my clothes.
He just smiles. "Oh, no need to talk about it," he says. "Off you are. But be careful."
Chandra nods at his cousin. "We will be. I´ll take care of that."
Back in the flat, Chandra pries the packages of medicine from my hand and offers me a beedi. Our gazes lock and he smiles encouragingly.
"You are nervous. I think I´ll better not allow you to take too many of these very strong painkillers."
I hesitate to take the cigarette and attempt to stare him down. With a shrug and a smirk, he leaves for the kitchen and returns with a glass of water.
"What are you hinting at?" I ask in my best commanding voice.
Chandra sets the glass down on the table and pries one tablet from the package. "You´ll need to be able to rely on your superior abilities tomorrow," he says off-handedly and laughs again at my expression of annoyed surprise.
"I don´t need a supervisor," I answer, surprise turning into anger. "And what makes you think I had 'superior abilities' ?"
He opens his arms, nearly spilling the water. "Oh, you are not the only one who´s observant. You look innocent enough, but you have been wounded repeatedly in the last months, obviously in fights. Your fingers are those of a violinist and the skin in the crook of your elbow tells faintly of your familiarity with frequent injections. News travel fast on the internet, you know. I´ve followed reports on the famous London detective who tired of his life so recently ever since Mr. Holmes convinced me to work for him. I was impressed by the amount of obstinacy his brother seemed to share with him. And he seemed an enigmatic character, all arrogant and smart-arsed, and being an addict, too."
"Sherlock Holmes is dead," I state, evenly, crushing the beedi in my hand.
Chandra just laughs. "Oh, of course you would know." Serious again, he steps nearer, handing me the glass and the pills. "And since Sherlock Holmes usually prefers to go unarmed you, Tim, will certainly not mind carrying a weapon when we go out to meet Roylott again." He swiftly reaches into a cabinet and retrieves a handgun.
"This one has been recommended to your using it by Mr. Holmes himself, you know." His hand fixes on my shoulder in a reassuring grip. "And don´t worry. I will follow his directive to watch over the living dead closely."
The following evening we hide behind a wall near the entrance of a small manufacturing plant. We blend in perfectly among the sleeping human shades on the concrete while we wait for our observation subjects to arrive.
In the early morning hours they pull up, and the Chinese business men, Roylott junior and Moran alight from a posh car. Like shadows, we sneak into the building behind them and hide in a small space between two rows of containers, while the four men stop in front of several crates.
Moran pries one of them open and proudly hands one of the Chinese men a plastic bag with a solid brown slate. "First quality from the best Afghan fields," he announces, and they nod their approval. Roylott´s smile is that of a shark who has spotted an outstandingly tasty fish. "I would think the snow leopard furs are not too much of a sacrifice for what we are paying you in exchange." Considering the smile on the Chinese´s faces, it obviously is not.
Roylott just opens his mouth to continue his speech and Chandra is already beckoning me to retreat when a sudden pain in my still raw wound startles me into a rash movement and my foot touches a metal sheet on the floor. The sharp noise rings far too loud through the empty space between us, and our opponents and Moran leaps into action with a curse, his torch suddenly blinding me, his gun settling on my temple in the wink of an eye.
He has been reacting incredibly fast, stalling me like a dear in the headlights. "Drop your gun," he rasps into my ear through clenched teeth, and I let it slip to the floor, not daring to move too quickly.
Moran´s gaze lingers on my eyes and proceeds to my torso, where trickles of blood have sept through the cloth. He snarls. "What a pleasant surprise. I confess I had this peculiar feeling we might meet again sometime soon. I bet you are dying to tell us who you are and what your business is."
Guiding me towards his companions, he prods me with his firearm and I walk very calm, attempting not to aggravate his already twitching forefinger. When we reach the crates he pushes me, hard, sending me crashing down on the wooden surface, its edge meeting with my wound. Gasping, I coil my arms around my chest in a vain attempt to protect myself from the pain while Moran points his gun at my head again and Roylott draws nearer.
"What is it, boss?" he asks.
"A recent acquaintance of ours. Last time we saw him he was an Indian beggar who displayed an unhealthy interest in today´s meeting place. I knew there was more to him than meets the eye."
Roylott addresses me in Hindi, but I remain silent, not comprehending his words anyway. In an instant, Moran´s look changes ever so slightly, his eyes lighting up with suspicion, when he grips my left arm and regards the scar on my wrist. He looks me straight in the eye and there it lingers again, the same mix of spite, wariness and brutality I registered the day before.
"Most peculiar. You know, I have heard of a man in our organization with a scar just like this. Grey-eyed, though. Norwegian. Grew up in England, speaks French fluently. Nosy type, messed with the police. Disappeared mysteriously from Morbier´s premises the day I was assigned to offer him a very special treatment and Morbier was arrested."
I give him the best uncomprehending stare I can gather with the sharp pain shooting up from my chest, but he simply draws his hand back and slaps my face. "You´d better tell us who you really are or we will find a way to make you talk," he threatens.
Just as I start to wonder where Chandra has disappeared to, a loud crack sounds and a shot roars. Roylott sags, hit on the head by a small wooden box, while Moran takes cover behind the crates. The Chinese flee back to the entrance.
For a second, I am paralyzed. My gaze follows a second small wooden container as it tumbles down onto the concrete and cracks open. There is a swift movement and a hiss as two cobras wriggle out onto the floor, quickly creeping towards where Moran hunches. He has stopped dead in his tracks, and aims his gun at one of the snake´s heads. In the same instant, I feel Chadra´s arm wrap around me, as he drags me up and off the floor, away to the depths of the building and out into the open.
Outside, for the first time I have known him he attempts to cover his concern with a broad smile.
"Close shave," I gasp, startling him into a laugh.
"Told you to be careful," he smiles, a twinkle in his eyes. "Snakes are lovely creatures, though. Let´s leave. Are you ok?"
I nod, still gasping. "As you´ve already pointed out, I am quite familiar with getting into trouble. Still getting used to the 'being-rescued-in-the-last-minute'-bit, though."
Chandra laughs all the way back to his motorbike and still while he finally steers us out onto one of the main streets.
Except for my weariness and exhaustion, I am still enjoying the ride. Actually, if I would be able to stay longer, I imagine I could honestly warm to Delhi and its animal life. I´m certainly warming to its inhabitants.
