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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Dealer´s Honour
Immersing in the life of a city the size of London means to hide in a mass of lives and destinies, of incidents and businesses intricately interwoven and connected. It means, also, to spill and spray like a drop into the vast sea of souls, into the "great cesspool into which all the loungers and idlers of the Empire are irresistibly drained," as a great English author has described my home town one hundred years ago.
The moves I am reduced to take in my pursuit of Moran, though, are far less dynamic then spilling or spraying. Two weeks ago I have taken up the company of a small group of junkies who run the odd errand for one of the more important dealers of East London. They regard me as a nutter, for I have made good use of my sharp tongue and given them the odd rant on insignificant incidents, telling them off sharply whenever they demaned money, food or attempted to coax me into a collective session of taking whatever substance they favour. They are not picky, but have accepted that I will only touch cocaine and cigarettes, nothing else. And I made clear to them that I have no interest to shoot up in company, so they are used of my leaving frequently. Every now and again, they request my advice on where to roam the city for food or goods, and safe places to stay.
While with them, I try to avoid sleep, nodding off only for an hour or two for fear of giving my identity away by talking in my dreams. The winter cold and lack of rest do take slowly and continually their toll on my abilities of observation. The days seem to blur and I sometimes fail to remember what my intentions have been in the first place other than finding food or conversing with my new companions. Frequently, I wonder how long I will be able to keep up my appearance, how long I will be capable to focus on the task at hand – finding Moran.
I loathe to admit that my brother could have been right in suggesting that tracking down the furious tiger Moran in his private jungle of illegal activities could have been completed far more successfully by Mycroft´s men. But since John got involved, I could never refrain from taking matters in my own hand. This is personal, as it was with Moriarty, and I will definitely not go back to my brother for help.
Mycroft has not suceeded in tracing me. Although I passed Baker Street twice to be sure that John has returned safe and well from hospital, his men have not noticed my presence, as the two police officers who are constantly watching our doorstep haven´t. The first time I watched 221B, John was leaning in the doorway, talking to Mike Stamford, who was leaving him after a prolonged visit. John was still pale, gripping the handle of his cane tightly, looking sad and tired. At my second visit, one recent December evening, I spotted him alighting from a cab, shopping bags dangling from his hand, obviously containing Christmas gifts. He didn´t use the cane then, and balanced a larger package with his left arm, still in a light cast.
I was again more than tempted to call him then, to follow him inside and explain why I had to leave, why I needed to become a shadow of my old self. Instead, I retreated into the shadows of the entrance I was hiding at, and left when the lights in our windows came on.
It is already two days before Christmas and freezing. The sleeping bag I acquired several weeks ago does no longer keep away the cold. Cigarettes provide an illusion of warmth, but most of the time I shiver in the foggy winter air, my fingers numb, a persistent cough on my lips. I am ready for my next move, and nervous. In the twilight zone I have entered, the life of the individual is only worth the amount of money said individual owes the web. And I am in debt to Brian, a hot-tempered, vicious member of one of the closer circles of Moran´s dealers. Although in a minor position, he is usually well informed about the latest developments and deliveries. He is constantly boasting of his close acquaintance to Moran, which makes him a suitable target for my purpose.
The sky is clouded and already darkening when I approach him.
"Hi Freak," he greets me, oblivious of the fact that he actually found the same name for me as a certain female police officer years ago. "Challenger. Want to try something new today?"
"The usual," I growl.
"Oh, so sorry, but you are in my debt already, Freak. A shame, really. I would have offerd you a good price for the new stuff. As you certainly want high quality, I can´t offer you a discount, I´m afraid."
"I´ll pay you later."
last time?" He draws nearer, eyeing me, nodding, convinced that my shaking hands and famished limbs are no threat to him. "Sorry not to be able to help you, but if you can´t pay…"
"Next time," I breathe, my voice shaky, my arms crossed on my chest to keep the shivering at bay. "Or probably you need someone to help?"
"Help? With what?"
"At the harbor tomorrow. With the new delivery."
His eyes narrow dangerously and he steps closer. "How do you know about the delivery?"
Coughing, I stare back. "Because you were boasting how important it is. And you mentioned you´ll need reliable hands to bring it on its way to Scotland."
He laughs. "Oh, I see. Freak has been listening, not sleeping his high off. Probably has been spying all the time." His eyes narrow and he draws nearer, pushing me into the wall. "Tell you what. That was secret."
"Then I wonder why you blurt it out in public…" I can´t help to remark, arrogance tingeing my voice.
His eyes are darkening and he grabs my right arm, drawing the silver bracelet, Chandra´s present, into the light of the street lamp.
"Oh, see, you are a rich man. Why don´t you pay me with this and leave with the stuff?" he asks with a wicked smile.
"Can´t," I gasp between two coughs, trying to wring my hand free. "Family heritage."
He smiles dangerously. "I knew you are a traditional guy." He yanks my arm down, hard, nearly throwing me off balance. "Hey, take it easy," he mocks me "you could easily break some bones, skinny thing that you are."
I don´t relent. "You´ll get the money or my manpower. I´m stronger than I do appear, you know."
"I bet,"he laughs, yanking my arm down again, but I have already taken a step back, steadying myself, and I clasp his wrist in a fixed grip, hurling him towards me. "See?" I hiss, my eyes narrowing.
"Oh yes, I do," he hisses back. "There´s certainly more to you than meets the eye." I realise that I have miscalculated badly. Brian thrives on power, he bathes in his superiority on supposedly weaker characters. By demonstrating my strength, I have undermined his authority. He will teach me a lesson. And he does. Faster than I can react, he draws a small knife and digs it into my left side, just beneath the ribcage. Gasping, I let go of his arm.
"No need for surplus hands, Challenger. Especially nosy ones. They are more than… useless for the organization," he spits into my ear and twists the blade slightly, nearly wringing a cry of agony from my lips.
"Next time you do overhear talk of official business you keep your mouth shut," he warns me before he retrieves the knife and leaves, not looking back.
My bad state has been the cause for my lack of good judgment, I think while I sag onto the concrete and try to quell the blood with my woolen jumper. The pain is unbearable. It appears, though, that Brian has not hit any vital regions. His attack was merely meant as a warning. I am his customer, after all, he still hopes to gather money from me. I can´t tell whether I will be able to get any more information on the web´s business, though.
The wound needs immediate medical treatment. There is only one doctor in London who can help me.
The quote above is from Arthur Conan Doyle, 'A Study in Scarlet', 1st chapter, Dr. Watson speaking:
"I had neither kith nor kin in England, and was therefore as free as air (...) Under such circumstances I naturally gravitated to London, that great cesspool into which all the loungers and idlers of the Empire are irresistibly drained."
