Woah-ho! Thanks for the beautiful reviews, once again. I couldn't write this story without fans, so keep commenting and telling me what you do and do not like. My author challenges seem to be failing, so we'll quit those and just get straight to business. :P
You guys really don't know how much your reviews mean to me. I re-read them all the time because they encourage me so much. This is a hobby of mine, and though I wish I could actually be a writer, there will never be any fans as great as you.
Love you all more than chocolate,
~Mistro
~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~
Existence. Nonexistence. The two words signify two very different things. Opposites, some might even say, but no matter how you look at it you cannot have one without the other. You cannot live without dying and you cannot die without first having to live.
When we live, we create, we grow and we think. We do all of these things to make life function in a particular way; the exact way that we feel it should be. We comb out hair every morning so that it may be neat and tidy for a couple of hours. We dress ourselves so that people can think of us as a certain kind of person. And yet, how can things be a certain way if life is always moving? If life is in constant motion, how could we ever just be one person?
To some we are nothing. To others we are potential. To a small few, we are as bright as the stars. And to perhaps a couple, but often only one, we are their sanctuary. We cannot have full existence without them.
That was how I felt about Sherlock Holmes. He was my existence. He was my sanctuary and salvation. Without him, my life would function. I would go on with my routines of hair brushing and dressing myself. But, I would not exist like I did when he was beside me. He had become so attached to my heart that pulling him off was like asking someone to never smile at their newborn child.
It was new to me, this love, and it was great. He would always be my great love.
And I was so close to losing him.
When the drowsiness finally began to wear away, and my senses started trickling back to their rightful places, my memory recalled the past events. Sebastian Moran and the twins had kidnapped us. I could still feel their tight fingers on my arm, bruises no doubt forming that very second beneath my dress. Sherlock's drawing came trickling into my mind when my memory began to turn its gears. We were most likely near or inside of the watchtower, but without my hearing and full mentality in tact, it was not for certain.
My sense of touch came back at me like a blizzard as the cold air rushed into my lungs. In the dark, my body was shivering violently. My brain was pounding as loud as my heartbeat and for a moment I felt as though the organs had switched places. My body had been thrown carelessly into a secluded corner as if I were worth nothing more than the dirt on my boots. I could see a light coming from my left, but my head was too weak to turn.
Amidst my shaking and the nauseous feeling rising up in my stomach, noises began to introduce themselves to my ears. Something scratchy and particularly unpleasant continued on without stopping. Part of the voice sounded familiar, but there was an amusement lingering behind the blurred words that stuck me as odd.
"… so he muddies the water …"
My jaw's tightness was suddenly dawned on me, and the tight pain sent a tremor through my skull. An audible groan escaped my gagged mouth. This must have taken the rest of the room by surprise. All grew still. My eyes finally scanned upwards, the devilish grin of James Moriarty now being aimed unerringly in my direction.
"So," he continued through his gapped teeth. "He confuses the fish." If I had had the strength, there is no doubt that I would have run to him with my tied hands, slung them over his neck and choked him with the very chains he had ordered upon me. The irony of it all seemed sweet inside my head. However, that kind of energy did not exist within me. I had no strength at all, and Moriarty could see that. He smiled down at me with another gaping smile. "It doesn't realize until too late that it has swum into a trap."
A scoff flittered through the unlit room, seemingly out of place for such a grim sequence. My eyes darted towards the direction from whence it came. Sure enough, a red vest came favorably into my sight like a harbor in The Tempest; the vest belonging to Sherlock Holmes. At the sight of him relaxing in a chair, my weakened state was all but forgotten. I could feel my torso raising itself up from the wall, my heart doing all of the work and not my brain. "Mmhrrrm!" My inaccessible mouth tried to utter his name, but it was no use. My teeth and lips were entirely unusable with the sweaty rag still gagging me into silence. Sherlock did manage to catch my eye, so at least my attempt had not completely failed.
Something was not right when he finally glanced upon my face. He was smiling. What is there to smile about? I questioned inwardly. Is the joke on me? Dread seemed like the only excuse for my foolish ideas, but everyone did seem rather calm compared to myself.
That was not for long.
The noise of a butcher cutting into a fresh slab of meat hit my ears quickly. The sharp sound of metal digging into muscle only lasted for a moment, but this time it was not where it was meant to be. This was not a butcher and a boar. This time, Sherlock Holmes was the target and the knife was now a hook. I watched in horror as one of the twins made his way behind Sherlock with the gruesome weapon, digging it into his right shoulder with a controlling desire. A muffled scream escaped my throat as hot tears suddenly boiled to the cliffs of my eyes.
Sherlock was lifted through the air without a choice. The rest of his body pulled the weight down from his shoulder, his skin all but tearing in half. I could feel myself sobbing, the tears pouring from my face and down my neck, but there was nothing I could do about it. That was the worst part. His screams were filling my ears and head like wildfire, so much that I could not even comprehend his from my own.
Let him go! I wanted to shout. Take me instead, I'll do anything! It was useless. I was banned from any form of speech. Sebastian Moran had made sure of that.
Things grew very quiet for a moment. Sherlock was grunting in pain, his hands reaching for the hook in order to lessen the weight that dragging him down. Though it was the last thing I wanted, I could not help to imagine his skin being torn away from him. The blood was rushing out of him beneath his clothes like a wounded hero. And yet, this moment had no glory. There were only battle scars and no battles won.
My feet were not tied and therefore I could run to him, but then what? That would result in no help at all. All I could do was wait. Wait and weep for him.
As Sherlock's struggling body hung limply in the air, like the fish Moriarty had so beautifully metaphored, the sound of electricity came whirring into the room.
He was playing music.
Music!
I wanted to strangle the man in front of everyone. I wanted to toss him off of the bridge and into the river Thames. I wanted to leave him to the gypsies and let them have their way with him. Who cared if his men would kill me afterwards? As long as he was gone, the world was safe. I could feel the tears drying and turning into glimmers of hate. My shaky legs were robotically lifting themselves off the ground, despite the weakness that ransacked my body. There was only one cure to my weakness. The death of James Moriarty.
"R-Rena!" Sherlock's choked voice yelled at me from above. It caught my attention enough for my plan to be swept away by tenderness. Sherlock gave a quick shake of his head. He knew what I wanted to do and was advising me, as much as he could, not to go through with it.
Schubert's Die Forelle began to play, a song I had recognized from Edward's piano. He had played it so beautifully a few months back, and now the song was being used for Sherlock's torture. I knew that Edward had been quietly jealous of our relationship, but the grim coincidence reminded me that he was never an evil boy. Far from it. He would never act as if Sherlock were some sort of trawl that he could blindly destroy through a twisted allegory. The idea haunted me to the point where I could no longer stand and my body returned to the hardened ground. The song had all but encouraged me to give up.
Moriarty began to sing into his much beloved mirror, his voice highly unimpressive for a man who has been to so many operas. I winced back in disgust, not just from the cracking of his voice, but also from the insanity that was radiating off of him. Somehow I was fearful of it being infectious, he was just so perfect for the adjective. He could sit there and watch a man dangle for his safety whilst singing as if nothing were the matter. An impressively criminal feat.
Nothing was the matter for him. Everything was according to plan.
With a greedy smile, I could see an idea breaking out onto the Professor's face before he even managed to perform it. The torture had only just begun. Moriarty spun around towards Holmes, his hands pushing him firmly across the room like a swing. Sherlock struggled not to scream as he clung desperately to the hook. Moriarty only smiled at him, as if he were a toddler in the schoolyard. When Sherlock managed to bite him tongue from an oncoming scream, Moriarty grew highly unsatisfied. My screams were worthless as Sherlock's leg was taken and spun around, the hook twisting deeper and deeper into his skin. The pleasure glowing from Moriarty's eyes was what feared me most.
Sobs racked my body and I did not care who saw them. I did not care about all of those times that I promised myself not to cry, because Holmes was my forever, and it seemed that my forever was going to be very short-lived.
The idea of Watson came into my mind at one point. The thought did not stay long, merely because he was not there yet. A telegram surely did not take too long to send. So, where was he? Losing both of them would be the end of my sanity. Without the duo, there would be no more Renadale Adkins. Only a shadow of once was. The dependency I had for those men is not to be seen a frightening thing, but a thing of honor. They were my truest and loyal friends; the only ones I had.
Sherlock kept screaming. The sound of his cries was echoing in the distance so that the whole encampment could hear the audible power Moriarty held. He had put a speaker up towards the phonograph, capturing not only the lovely German tenor, but also the frantic cries of his 'fish'.
I couldn't watch it any longer. Hot tears were dancing across my dirty skin as the silent screams got stuck in my throat. All I could do was shut my eyes and hear his pain. Feel his pain. If I could have said anything to him at that moment, it would have been those words. Those three, simplewords. But, it was too late. Everything was over. Everything was lost.
The song had finished. The rope tumbled to the ground in a hoop, like hair being cut. Holmes's weak body plummeted to the floor along with it, all of the screams ceaselessly knocked out of him. My tears were not silent yet, but no one in the room seemed to care. I was as insignificant as the bricks that built the watchtower.
Taking the opportunity of the villain's unfixed eyes, strength flew to my bones and lifted my body up from the floor. I rushed towards him in a flurry, the other men in the room curious as to what my next move was. As my knees buckled beneath me and I shrunk to his level, an unexpected smile looked up at me. It was laced with pain and swallowed agony. Sherlock struggled to reach over with his free hand, but he managed to pull together some energy and untie the knot keeping my mouth sealed. Salty air swam towards my lungs with a sigh of liberation. Moriarty did not bother to stop his movements, which only surprised me even more. "You're so stupid." I had to repeat myself as the words got choked up within my throat.
Sherlock's smile fell from his face as his hand reached up. His fingers held my face before he let out a wince in pain and dropped it. His eyes flickered shut while his teeth grinded together unpleasantly in his mouth. The agony he was going through was unimaginable, but part of me felt like this would be over soon. Every nightmare has their ending, even the ones that seem to follow you through the daytime.
"Move." Moriarty's command was directed towards me. Though I was actually going to listen to him, he kicked me out of the way before I had the chance. I fell to the ground with my hands still tied, the familiar aggression coming back into my veins. Moriarty's towering body was far more stable than the man shaking beneath him. His deep-orange brows lifted amusedly as his trout wriggled for air. "Let's try this again, shall we?" Moriarty repeated the question without any lightness in his heart. "To whom did you send the telegram?"
"To my…" Sherlock tried to get the words from his lips, but could not manage the next word. Seeing him that weak made my stomach churn. When I felt like I was about to gag, the noise growing in my throat, the twin's finally glanced my way. One looked disgusted with my obviously un-ladylike appearance and the other only snickered. My health and appearance was entirely insignificant.
Moriarty, displeased with not receiving a better answer, leaned down to Sherlock's level. One hand shoved the hook deeper into Sherlock's shoulder. Sore from screaming, Sherlock's throat only managed to let loose a faded groan. The other hand pinned down his wrist, making sure that he could not manage to run away.
The idea seemed ridiculous. Sherlock Holmes managing to escape the hell we were in? That just proved how frightened Moriarty really was. He knew of the power and genius his captive possessed.
After all, they were one in the same.
With different morals, naturally.
"To my brother… Mycroft." Sherlock managed a gasping whisper into Moriarty's ear.
"I've just got one more question for you." Moriarty spoke as he retook his power position over Sherlock. "Which one of us is the fisherman…"
Rumblerumblerumblerumble. The sound took me by surprise. I looked up. No one else saw it coming, but with my hands tied there was nowhere I could go.
"…and which the trout?"
Reeeeeeekkk.
All of our heads looked up towards the skylight, the unmistakable sound of something falling creaking into our ears. I could see the tower coming down on us like rainfall, but that wasn't what mattered to me. What I truly wanted to watch was the fall of Moriarty's face. And sure enough, it was exactly what I had yearned for. Fear splintered his bones as he stood utterly still. I could have stayed watching him like that forever, but a rough hand pulled me into their chest and rolled us both away from the main impact of the crash.
Glass, tiles, bricks, and other pieces of material shattered down upon us like the awakening of a bittersweet dream. Though I could feel my arm dripping blood as glass cut it's way through the dress, I felt entirely safe. Sherlock's warm body was enveloping me inside, the scent of blood unmistakable as my head pressed into his wounded shoulder. When I pulled my hand back and touched my face, the warm liquid was leaving its mark against my forehead. I stared at the blood on my hand; it's fluidity burrowing into the crevices of my fingertips. Smoke whirled around us until I could no longer see the blood, and I soon found myself inside Sherlock's chest.
"Renadale…" A quiet voice whispered. Sherlock's eyes were shut in unimaginable pain, though I could not pinpoint f it were emotional or physical. His lips pursed together as each word stung. "I'm… I'm so sorry."
Shock pulled me away from him. My hands eagerly began to fling bricks from his body. When the moonlight finally flickered onto his face, I held it firmly in his hands. He groaned in displeasure at my blunt actions, but I continued to keep him close. "You will never apologize to me again, do you understand that?"
"Yes, alright. I'm sorry for apologizing."
"Sherlock." He had already broken his promise.
"Holmes? Adkins?"
Watson's whisper was unmistakable. Holmes couldn't manage to lift his head upwards. However, I suddenly had energy now that we were (mostly) free from harm and sat up a bit straighter to find our companion.
"Holmes?" Watson called out from a few feet away. I raised my hand and signaled him over.
"Take your time…" Holmes muttered into my knee. "Take your time…"
Watson did not take his time. He sprinted over to us the second he saw the injuries. With a swift movement and no opportunity for arguments, Watson pulled the hook straight from Sherlock's skin. It slid out after a few seconds, the deep mark buried much deeper than I had realized. Holmes groaned from either relief or pain. His head fall back onto my lap as my shaking fingers stroked through his hair. "Always good to see you, Watson," he spoke through a sigh.
"I'm so glad you're safe," I whispered to John. He nodded, never once taking his eyes off Sherlock. My eyes flickered to the wounded hero as well. "And as for you, you had better tell me that you're well enough to get on your feet."
"I'm alright," Sherlock smiled cheekily. "Never felt better, in actuality."
"Can you walk?" John's voice was far more serious.
Sherlock lifted his brows. His eyes danced from John, to me, and then back again. The answer was taking far longer than we expected, but we watched as Sherlock struggled to find the words. "I think… It might be best if we… Well, if I only had… No. No, I cannot walk alone."
John gave him a curt nod. "That's what I expected. You'll have us to lean onto. Simza and the others will be waiting, but we have to leave here before anyone comes for us." His eyes darted around. I knew who he was looking for. Moriarty. The thought was haunting to me as well. "We have to leave here now."
As we hauled Sherlock up, slowly but surely fast enough to get us away in time, I couldn't help but remember my previous thought.
I was as insignificant as the bricks that built the watchtower.
As we headed away from the scene and my eyes landed upon the scattered blocks that buried our three enemies, I couldn't help but smile. Perhaps I wasn't so useless after all.
~.~.~.~.~.~
Luckily, the rest of the factory was as silent as the grave. I hoped this was the literal truth when it came to James Moriarty. We made our way unnoticed down a flight of metal stairs, our feet clanking loudly with the sound of urgency. I urged the boys to be gentle with their stomping, but it made no difference.
"What were you thinking?" John's arms were growing weary from hoisting Sherlock and it showed through the gruff question. His voice echoed a lifelong smoker as his accent seemed implacable and certainly not like the friend I knew. His tight face, suddenly expressing irritation, also seemed unrecognizable.
"Wait!" Sherlock grunted in response, pulling himself away. His bloodied hands tore a blanket from a nearby crate, displaying a wide array of weapons. None of them looked familiar to me and I kept my distance. It didn't take long for the men to stuff some down their pockets, however. "If you must know, I was thinking I had him right where I wanted him."
Sherlock cocked a gun and secured it in his bloodstained jacket. It made me nervous to think of such dangerous things being so near his body, not to mention loaded to the brim. His arm stretched out towards me with another wince, a shiny new gun waiting for the warmth of my hands. "I can't," I said quietly. Sherlock hadn't heard me. He pressed the gun closer towards my palms, but I was too fast. I backed away in hesitation. "I… I can't take it."
"Have you lost your hands or is there something I'm missing?"
"I'm so tired of all of this injury. I hate having to watch you be in pain. I hate seeing you feel this way. More than anything, I just want it to end."
"Then take the gun." He offered a light smile. "Use it to protect me from any more wounds." The idea was intriguing, but I was not so quick to follow its call. "Look at it this way; if you have it in your hands that is one less of Moriarty's robots that does."
"Right!" John nodded in agreement. "Crack on then!" John stole the wondrous line from Holmes. There was something far greater than my handgun concealed beneath his arm; a huge gun accessorized his side with golden metal as glowing as his wife's hair. I stared at it in disbelief as he rushed towards the exit, not a moment's hesitation in his steps.
Sherlock only looked at me with a shrug. One less gun in Moriarty's hands.
"Simza will be waiting for us," Sherlock said as we caught up with John. "Her and the others." We were running to God knows where, but we were making sure that we were quick about it. Smoke tried so terribly hard to keep herself in our midst. We were too fast and she parted her way for us as we trudged closer to the outdoors.
The thought of Simza waiting was a comforting one. She and her friends would help get us to our next destination as well as give us better odds. I didn't like the thought of fighting, but the more people there were, the more protection there was. And that was never a bad thing to have.
Sure enough, when we finally pulled open the door, a high-pitched whistle greeted us. Simza flagged us down from a room possessing even bigger guns as her typical orange skirt failed to blend with the grey surroundings. Well, what's the point of blending in anyway? I asked myself. Our cover is entirely blown.
"Renadale, go with Simza." Sherlock ordered, shoving me along forwardly. I opened my mouth to complain; there was no way he was getting rid of me so easily. "John and I will be together," he reassured. "We'll be safe, but we can't protect you as well. She, on the other hand, can do a very nice job of getting rid of people that need… Well, gotten rid of."
His eyes were sparkling the way they used to. Adventure was calling out to him and he was taking it with his bloodied hands wide open. Somehow it made me love him even more. It was a look that I never wanted to go away. I managed a quick smile before it faded along with my determination. And before I knew it, my back was turned to him and I was locking arms with my gypsy friend.
"So lovely to see you again, Simza."
She winked playfully. "Let's hope you can say that in the future." A laugh trickled up from her throat.
I didn't find it funny.
We were suddenly rushing behind loading carts, and though I felt safe, none of that mattered once the sound of bullets whizzed through the air. They danced up above me like butterflies, though lacking the same grace and beauty that the creatures shared. My ears were ringing like a bell had been smashed right beside them, and weakly I covered my head in pain. "I know it hurts!" Simza screamed over the noise. "But, you have to keep going! They're going to be fine if we just keep going!" She was right. I would risk everything if I did not move fast enough. With a nod of my head, I followed her quick footsteps.
But the pain wasn't going away. Bullet after bullet was targeted in our direction with ruthless revenge. Dizziness was twisting around my head, wrapping me into a sea of blackness. My cut arm began to grow stiff as well. I felt as if I were going to crash to the ground, but never actually land. In the blink of an eye, something inside of me was giving up, like none of it seemed to matter after all. Part of me believed that humans were not forever, so what did it matter if I lived or died?
Because of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson and Simza and my mother and even Irene Adler. That's why I was there. That's why I was still fighting.
My eyes cracked open as a gasp fell from my cracked lips. I could feel blood dripping down them as the skin broke. When I finally realized my surroundings, I felt Simza's hands holding my face tightly. She wiped the trail of blood off with her bare hands. "Are you okay?" She whispered beneath the whoosh-ing of bullets.
"I will be once we get out of here."
Whilst my head was ringing, I hadn't noticed Sherlock and John catching up to our side. The other gypsies were not far behind, and as we all ran out into the daylight and away from the warmth of the boiling poisons, Simza had only one thing on her mind. "Did you see my brother?" The pounding of our feet against gravel nearly covered her shrill voice.
"No," Sherlock said firmly. "But I'm certain he's been here." Sherlock Holmes was with me the entire time and somehow he managed to pick that up without me even realizing it. I wasn't surprised.
"Where are we going?" John asked. Family reunions were not of interest to him. Not as much as his own life, anyway.
"Over that wall!" Simza shouted.
John limped weakly behind us, the anger never once leaving his tone. "Holmes, how did you know I would find you?"
"Find me? You collapsed a building on me!"
My voice squeaked with its heatedly high pitch, both of their taunting bickers suddenly irritating to my buzzing ears. "Would both of you just stop acting like children for once in your lives?"
Shoop.
Someone fell behind us. He was one of our men, but now his mind had been handed over to a rounded piece of metal. He had been shot by one of the twins, but he had managed to snag one of their lives before his own. He died honorably, but we could not go back for him. My heart shattered upon this realization. I did not even know his name. I watched as the dead twin's brother shoved him away briskly, not caring as much for his other half compared to his prey.
"Wait…" I whispered. Why would he be so unloving to his blood? Twins had always been known for their bond. Even if the two didn't get along, if something happened to the other, common gossip said that it would not go unnoticed by the sibling. There was a connection between them, but these ones were obviously an exception. Unless…
Sherlock and John were both firing shots at them like lunatics before I could get a glance of the twins' faces. I glared angrily at them, displeased that I was actually getting somewhere for once and they ruined my single chance. "Let's go!" Sherlock shouted, tugging my sleeve to join the rest of the party. The confused look crossing his face was undeniable. He had noticed the unloving response with the twins as well.
None of us spoke once we reached the edge of the woods. We could have been dashing through the trees by then, if it had not been for the red brick wall blocking our escape. More shots were fired as we attempted to haul ourselves over the edge, which obviously made us rethink our options.
Bullet after bullet after bullet. That was the only thing that was being handed to us at that moment. No help. No guidance. Just metal. Simza, John, Sherlock and I ducked behind another transportation crate. As the ammunition danced above our heads with wood sprinkling onto our already-dirty clothes, Sherlock pulled me close. Once again, the stench of blood swam towards my nose. Only this time, I couldn't tell if it was his or my own. The cut on my arm was still bleeding as each raise of my limb caused the wound to reopen itself.
For a moment the bullets stopped. Sherlock turned around in confusion, staring up at the hundreds of little holes forever embedded into the wood of the box. "They've stopped," he muttered. I could hear what he said, but if he had said anymore it would have been lost.
A bang erupted before us as a cannon bullet sent the wall down completely. Furious shouts in a language I did not understand rang out behind us. I presumed I did not want to know the things they were saying. The German gunman had missed, but no doubt granted us a form of escape. I could have kissed the villain!
John and Sherlock helped me up from the rocky ground. I could see into the forest through the broken wall. Simza kicked her feet behind her in a sprint so fast that she was gone from my sight in seconds. Her black hair turned into a raven amongst the trees, her orange skirt matching the rising sun.
It was hard keeping up as the smoke and morning fog ate away at my lungs, not to mention the aches and sores that were splintering every bone. Whenever I needed encouragement after a trip or stumble, I turned to Sherlock. He was running faster than I had ever seen him. One hand was clasped desperately to his wound. I could relate to the pain. After all, I had been shot in the shoulder once before. However, I grew unconscious after the affair while Sherlock merely trekked onwards. The fear planted on his face was enough to turn my admiration into concern, but it did not alter. We would be safe. All of us would be safe.
"Where are the horses?" Watson screamed as we gamboled around the trees.
Simza briefly turned her head, but kept her pace up. "They're behind!"
"We need them!"
"Do you want to go back?!"
Sherlock searched the dense forest for any other kind of escape route. I couldn't think of anything that would be in the middle of the woods, but I had remembered seeing train crates near the cannons. What was more gypsy-like than hoping aboard a moving train? "What's our way out?" Sherlock screamed to our leader.
"That's our way out!" Simza pointed up ahead. Sure enough, a train was coming at full speed about a mile ahead of us. We could make it if we ran fast enough. We could make it if the Germans had given up their hunt.
Oh, but what wishful thinking that had been.
The horrible noise of guns started to play out behind us. This time, it wasn't from the base of the wall or even behind a crate. It was straight at our backs. Without letting loose a scream, I watched as a bullet barely grazed my ear. Sherlock saw it too and quickly pushed me in front of him. "Run, Renadale!"
I hated that he was blocking my path, stepping in the same places as I, but there was no time to argue. There wasn't even time to plead or make peace. Our only chance was that train and it was slipping further and further away from us.
I'm not sure how I got the chance to think at this moment, but thoughts tumbled into my brain. Maybe people always did that when it felt like their last moment. The only thing that came to mind was my mother. Perhaps I was an awful daughter for not thinking of her more. My mother was still at home, waiting for me at the dinner table alone, every single night. And though it was disheartening, she never complained for long. She would wrap me up in her arms like a child again, whispering in my hair how glad she was that I was safe.
I knew nothing of her and she knew nothing of me. She had no idea where I was, nor of the troubles I was burying my head into. She could have been ill for all I knew. There was neither one letter sent nor one letter received between the pair of us. Guilt trickled into my blood and whether it was from the nerves of guns dancing past my legs or the feeling of regret, I began to run faster.
Running fast was my form of revenge. I would not let the Germans have their way. If they took me, my mother would lose the game. We weren't just running for our own lives, but for the lives of others. And the lives of others mattered more than anything else. Even if my world was going to end some day.
Well, it wasn't going to be that day.
Something else was happening behind us as the thoughts finally left my head. The noise was indescribable… At first it was like a small child screaming in desperation and then the whole world shook beneath you. The turmoil we all felt was radiating between our bodies. Sherlock and I both turned to see what was happening. We wished we had not.
Huge bombs rained down upon us. It was comforting to know that only one of us had been lost to the reaper, and that Moriarty's giant weapons could not manage to harm the injured, fake gypsy-detectives. It gave me hope for the rest of humanity, considering I viewed myself at one of the lowest levels.
Shoop.
A scream erupted my throat as something scraped the back of my neck. Two teeth of a cobra could not have felt worse had they been buried into my flesh. I could feel the blood spilling out from my body. My eyesight was once again going blurry, but the world was a circus and I could not seem to find my balance. "Renadale!" John shouted as he took my hand in his own. There was no chance for me to answer. I could not process what had happened to the back of my neck, but I knew that it was taking its toll rather quickly. "Hang on just a bit longer!"
Whatever had cut me had come from behind. I knew the snipers were there with their numerous guns as well as the bombs, but this was not from a normal bullet. My head turned curiously, and avoiding the pain, I managed to catch a glimpse of my hunter. "Sebastian Moran." The whispered tone of my voice was not from fear. It was from hatred. If John hadn't been holding my hand, I would have changed my direction and charged straight for him.
Then I remembered.
My gun.
"John!" I shrieked, frantically trying to pull my hand away. "Let me go!" John looked at me in horror. "I have to do this." Surely, he had no idea what I was going on about. I could have meant suicide for all he knew. However, none of us were in our right mindsets and he quickly let me loose.
The gun had already been cocked and I spun around to take aim. There was a minimal chance of me actually getting anywhere, but somehow the anger took control and wasn't letting go. Sebastian wasn't concerned about the injured girl with the sewn-up shoes. She was the least of his worries. This only made my target far easier to reach.
I stopped running in the woods for only a second. It had felt like a lifetime, but none of the others noticed my momentary pause. Whilst they kept running, I took my aim with alertness and fortitude. He wasn't fast enough as I pulled back the trigger and then sprinted for my life.
Whether or not I had shot him was beyond my comprehension. There wasn't time to wait and check up on him. My aiming and target skills were further away from my talents of jujitsu, which really said something. And yet when I turned back to see where he was, there was no sight of the ginger. Perhaps that was because of what happened next.
Just when you think it's all over.
Another shockwave. Another bomb blast. This time was dissimilar than the last. Fire roared up all around us, the heat of it mixing unpleasantly with the snow dripping from the sky. It rippled the Earth beneath us, sending us all flying into the air. Our feet had no control. Our minds did not know where to land us when we came rushing back to the Earth. Our limbs were not prepared to protect our more vital organs from the fall. However, the tossing of our overly worked bodies was helpful as it gave us more covered ground. None of us seemed severely hurt as we landed in a deep patch of weeds.
In fact, the blast had tossed us so far that we were daringly close to our destination. "Well!" My voice did not carry strongly over the noise. "That could have been far worse."
No one answered me. None of them moved. In fact, they were all as still as the grave with their arms and legs tucked beneath their heads like sleeping children. Something sick began to pass through my veins. I could feel myself beginning to whimper like a lost dog as I dropped to the forest floor beneath them. "Sherlock!" My quivering hands grabbed his shoulders to shake the life back into him. An audible whimper fell from my lips when no response came. "Sherlock, we have to hurry!" My forehead pressed against his in desperation. "Sherlock, they're coming!"
That seemed to do the trick. A large gasp of air was blessed upon him, and without a word, he slapped his two partners back into consciousness. A strange moment of happiness passed by me, but it was not for long.
As we started running once again with our lack of breath actually noticeable this time, Sherlock held onto me for support. The wound was raining blood all down his body. There was a waterfall of red across his side. I could see it trailing over his hip, down his trousers and towards the bottom of his shoe where he stepped on it without notice. He kept a firm grip on the hole embedded in his shoulder. A strange thought trickled past my mind when I noticed this.
Now we match. Our scarred shoulders would no doubt remind us of the other.
Maybe we would laugh about it later.
"Sie sind tot!"
The words meant nothing, but the language was unimpressively German, which meant our enemies had not given up. The sound of black leather boots joined the rushing of our muddied, brown ones. We were going to fight ourselves to the death before the train even had a chance to whistle her greetings. The Germans turned the spears of their guns on us without any hesitation. Simza was the first to be sent to the ground with a furious shove, but John and Sherlock had a better handle on things. Sherlock needed no weapon to take down the two men around him. He was not in the mood to play games. A man shoved a gun in his direction, but he caught it quickly beneath his arm. With a quick switch of the bullet and a steady pass onto Watson, John began to take his aim towards the top of the hill. I watched them momentarily in awe, before I realized who their target was.
"Sebastian!" I cursed hotly beneath my breath. John was going to go for the goal, but my anger flared up before he could even comprehend my presence. My gun aimed straight towards the ragged army 'hero' and shot him deeply in the… Well, I once again wasn't sure where I shot him, but he fell and that was all that mattered to me.
"Rena?" John asked in surprise, chucking the large gun to the ground. "Where did that come from?"
"Hate," I grumbled mostly to myself. "Hate for a man who shows up to a wedding that he isn't even invited to."
A whistle put all of our thoughts on hold. The train's pace was slow, but with our damaged bodies, even the sluggish trudging was too much of a match for us. Yet, we had to take it. If we didn't, we would be stuck on the outskirts of Württemberg for the rest of our very short-lived lives.
Reaching the bottom wasn't a problem. It was catching up to the train and trying to climb aboard that was the issue. Simza hopped on easily. Her life was constantly on the move and this was nothing to her. The three of us on the other hand must have looked like fools. John and Sherlock struggled over one another, as Simza screamed for them to hurry up.
"Enough!" John screamed with as much energy as he could muster up. "I've had enough of this and we are getting on that God-forsaken train!" Without any consent, Watson hauled me inside of the dark crate. I screamed when I was hauled into the air and thrown roughly onto the wooden floor.
When I managed to look up, Sherlock and John had both gotten inside as well. Finally, a sigh of relief fell from my lips. It was a sigh that I would never forget.
Tamas finally got in as well, but just as the last member of our party was struggling to get on, one last battle was made. A bullet was fired straight into the man's back as he clasped onto the edge. This was a man whose name I did not even get the chance to learn. Like a lost battle flag, he was left alone on the snow-covered ground. "Marko! Marko!" I heard Tamas shout behind a sea of tears. The sound was more heartbreaking than the bullet that captured his friend's life, and with blurry eyes, he turned back to us. "Non, non, non…" He kept mumbling to himself as he crashed to the floor beside me. It was a word I understood. My eyes could not leave his face as he weakly muttered things to himself. His face finally hid from my watchful eyes as they found solace in the palm of his hands.
As the train continued it's path, the body of the dead passed along with her. There was nothing left for us to look at but the snow in the valleys as they soon came whirling into our line of vision. My feet tried to balance the rest of my broken body while I stumbled to the edge of the door. No one bothered to ask what I was doing, but with a long glance towards the weeping Tamas, I took the gun from my vest and tossed it from the train. It hit the ground with a thud and then it left my sight forever.
"Such a funny thing," I whispered. Tamas looked as if my words were insignificant, or perhaps he was pretending that he could not hear me. It didn't matter who was listening. I just wanted to laugh about the irony of it all. "… Today is my twenty-sixth birthday."
My eyes turned back to the sky. The blueness reminded me of a peace in which I never knew, and the eyes of a familiar hanging man.
~.~.~.~.~
Hello…
I don't think we've properly met. I'm Renadale Adkins. I suppose I do talk directly to you in this story, but I… Well. I don't actually know who you are.
We could solve this horrible issue, though! I think! My plans never seem to be very good, so I might just be going out on a whim here.
If you happened to leave a review, I would get a better understanding of who all of my lovely readers and friends are… That's what friends do, right?
Well, what do you say?
Friends?
Yours,
~Renadale Adkins~