Milan never really stops, it doesn't have an off-button.
Yet every morning, just for a moment, there is a quiet instant of peace before the day begins.
The rowdy youth in Italy have finally gone home after their reckless night of fun, their vaguely incoherent calls and laugher fading away as the sky changes its hue.
The partygoers briefly share the streets, then relinquish them entirely - with an unspoken agreement to ignore each other- to a more discreet tribe: the dog-walkers. Yawning and drowsy, they hug themselves to ward off the bite of the crisp morning air, tightening their grip on lazily donned coats.
A scent, initially subtle, now pervades the streets:
fresh bread.
The bakers have been at work, and the very first to enjoy the results were the partygoers, who ended their exploits with a fresh brioche or focaccina bought from the backdoor of the officially still-closed shop. Now, however, the scent of fresh bread has escaped from the confines of the ovens and gently rules the city before its aroma can be stifled by the ruder smells of traffic, cigarettes and the busy city.
However, among these regular, familiar inhabitants of the first morning, there is an unnamed group of people who travel that line between night and day, fading in and out like morning mist... The silent figures, of solitary anonymity. Of no defined social status or ethnicity, they are always, always alone. Nobody approaches them for there is something quietly ominous about their presence. The best thing is to ignore them and keep walking untill they disappear into the city's mayhem, like the scent of bread. You can find them sitting on park benches, walking down deserted streets or hanging around bus stops...
This particular one was leaning against an old cinema wall, looking up at a window.
He didn't turn away when a man quietly approached him.
"Why am I not surprised?" John sighed ruefully, his eyes darkened with the weary shadow of someone who had slept enough to keep his strength up, but not enough to be fully rested. John could have slept longer.
He didn't.
Sherlock didn't say anything, but his lips turned upwards, ever so slightly.
"You really ought to talk to her." The doctor shook his head. "You're being such a stubborn git..."
"I don't know what you're talking about, John." Sherlock looked at his friend. "I've been very busy, I simply didn't have time to waste sleeping."
"Busy doing what?" He crossed his arms defiantly. "You've..."
John fell silent as Sherlock brought a finger to his lips.
A woman with dark olive skin, a scarf around her hair and a long skirt falling to her ankles, walked up to them. Moments later they were joined by a tall, lean black man and a Chinese girl.
"So?" Sherlock simply asked.
The man replied in broken English, heavily accented with his Nigerian slant. "More police at the stations and airports, but you are right: they didn't notice others."
His eyes turned to him. "So you saw them?"
He nodded. "Yes. People waiting for trains, planes and busses, do not get on. They just wait."
Sherlock nodded. It was as he suspected. "What about the Chinese district?"
The girl blinked, her delicate features a stark contrast to the woman's rougher demeanour. "Some vigili, not more than usual. We have not seen any strangers, foreign or not. But..." She bit her thin, pink lip. "But some of ours have been acting funny: Cao Yo didn't go to Ai Biyu's last night, and he always goes for a drink after work. And Jiao closed early, she never does that! My apologies if it is irrelevant, but you said anything out of the ordinary..."
"That was very useful, Qiaolian. That leaves you, Violca." He turned to the Rom woman, who pulled her . "Nobody knows the streets and underground like your people, here. What have you heard?"
Her green eyes darted to meet his icy ones. "There is ransom for anyone that find him. I wanted that ransom, but you said..."
"The Rom community is too dispersed to control with outside spies, their cooperation is necessary." Sherlock explained quickly to John before looking back at the woman. "I assure you, Violca: whoever brought Carthy to them would ultimately share his fate. You know what to do, let me know if there are new developments." Sherlock said to the small group.
He pulled out some money and handed it to the man and the woman. He proffered it to the Chinese girl, but she held up her hand, smilingly. "I am happy to repay a favour." She murmured, shaking her head before hurrying away.
Seconds later, John and Sherlock were once again alone.
"Seriously?" The doctor raised his hands in bewilderment.
Sherlock shrugged. "Rumours travel fast, especially amongst wanderers. My name turned out to be quite useful tonight."
"Right." John nodded. "So, where now?"
"We stay here." Sherlock leaned back against the wall. "They won't let me into the hospital, but this is the best place to be. For strategic reasons." He added as he cast a sidelong glance at his friend.
The doctor tilted his head. "Fine. I can smell fresh bread, shall I get us some breakfast?"
Molly opened her eyes.
Ouch.
She closed them again.
Too difficult.
Yup, too difficult to wake up.
Better just sleep.
This isn't my bed.
Her eyes opened again with that realisation. She turned the light on.
Ouch!
Molly sat up, rubbing her head as she tried to get her bearings.
She'd been waking up in too many strange beds, lately.
Oh.
It hit her.
Right.
She remembered.
Painfully aware of every single movement her body made, she carefully climbed out of bed, then lost her balance and gasped as her shoulder hit the wall.
"Doctor Hooper? Is everything all right?" A sharp, alert voice called from behind the door.
"Yes!" She cried before he could open it. "Yes, thank you. I...I just woke up, sorry. I'm fine. Good morning." She added awkwardly.
"Very good, Doctor. Good morning."
With a hand against the wall, Molly stumbled clumsily to the bathroom.
Getting washed and dressed was a delicate matter, but Molly achieved it nonetheless. She tried to brush her teeth but winced as the toothbrush touched the cut on her bottom lip. With a frustrated sigh, she placed three fingers of her left hand between her lip and her teeth, gently pushing the cut out and away. It wasn't the most dignified or elegant way to brush teeth, but it was effective, at least.
Not that brushing teeth is ever elegant, really.
Molly pulled her hair back in a ponytail and finally forced herself to look at her face in the mirror.
Wow.
She had expected it. From the aches and pains in her body, and the knowledge of the types of injuries she had received, Molly had imagined the visual result. She'd seen it on so many victims...She had told herself what to expect.
She wasn't ready.
Molly winced at the glaring, purple bruise that covered and partially closed her eye, at the small cuts on her face and the coagulated blood on her swollen bottom lip.
Make-up.
This is when she puts make-up on.
Concealer would be good right now...
shook her head. Her vanity would have her cover everything up, but her medical experience shuddered at the idea. Her cuts needed to breathe.
She didn't want to think that covering it up would probably make it look all the more apparent to those who knew, and her attempt to cover them would seem...Pathetic. She wouldn't want to hear the comments. Not today.
Mascara, then. There was nothing wrong with her lashes.
A trembling hand reached for her make-up case and pulled out the mascara. She lifted the brush to her lashes...But lowered it again, blinking furiously.
Maybe she'd wait to put the mascara on.
Trying to change her train of thought, Molly looked around.
The pale taupe walls, nondescript landscape pictures and cream-coloured bedside tables almost had a posh B&B feel to it. Her eyes fell on the flowers James had brought her.
James. She smiled. He was the one that had insisted she be put in the private room, he had Ginevra bring her a change of clothes, he'd been so concerned, so sweet. He'd had one of his men watch over her all night, too.
Her eyes turned to the window.
Nervously straightening her shirt, she walked to it, pulled the curtain aside and looked at the streets and crowd below.
Nothing.
"Molly?" There was a quiet knock on the door. "Molly, I heard you're up."
"Yes, James." She smiled. "Come in!"
The ambassador opened the door, some magazines and a small white paper bag in one hand.
"How are you feeling?" He walked over to her and kissed her on the cheek.
Of course, it would have hurt to kiss her lip.
"Quite good, actually." She said cheerily. "My head doesn't hurt at all!"
"I'm glad to hear it." He nodded, unconvinced but happy to humour her. He put the magazines down on the bedside table and held up the white bag. "I brought you breakfast." He smiled.
Sherlock had silently watched the car drive up to the hospital. He exchanged a single glance with the ambassador before the man walked to the front door.
Of course, they let him in.
Obviously there were ways for Sherlock to make his way inside, 23 to be be exact, but there was no point in doing so. 24. It wouldn't help the case.
"Mary called, she's home again." John said. He hesitated, then bit into his second pan de mej, a sweet bread with cornflour and elderberry blossoms. It had become their little arrangement: every time she would 'go on a trip', John would stay with Sherlock. John thought he was keeping his friend company, but Mary asked Sherlock to have him over to keep him out of trouble. Well, not really out of trouble, but just...Not dead.
The curtain moved.
"Molly's awake." Sherlock said, walking to the hospital door. Number 14, best option.
"I need to talk to the ambassador." He added.
"Right, Sherlock. Sure."
"Shut up, John."
He was panting heavily, crouching behind one of the pillars of the Ghisolfa bridge, too desperate to feel disgusted by the foul stench of urine. It permeated the very air, seeping into his clothes.
He had called, hoping to make them understand, but then he heard that terrible sound:
A deceptively soothing, feminine voice informing him the number he has dialled is incorrect or not functioning.
They cut him off.
Michael immediately turned off his phone and left it on a bus, so it would be taken away and could not be used to track him. He didn't even bother to call Stefano or Bonlieu, or anyone else.
He was on his own, now.
Michael had to run...
But where?
How?
His mind raced as he tried to come up with a plan: he had managed to stay under the radar and out of the way all night, but he had to keep moving, as fast as he could...There was no way he could use his car without being found instantly...Carthy didn't dare try to get money from the bank, and he had precious little cash left... The only things of value he had were the clothes on his back and the pearl bracelet...
Michael shifted, uncomfortable crouching with high heels. despite his discomfort, he was fortunate to have had the chance to change into his female persona before running for it: people were always more trusting and willing to help a beautiful woman than a man...And he needed all the help he could he had to do was act a little frightened, maybe...His train of thought was interrupted when he noticed an upturned bin from the corner of his eyes. Although running for his life and afraid to be seen, he didn't want to soil his clothes by sitting on the ground! He quickly made his way to the bin, trying to keep himself from running - that would be too conspicuous- and was about to pick it up when he heard a car slow down and halt behind him. His blood ran cold as he turned around.
"Ciao Bella." A middle-aged man called from inside the vehicle. "Quanto vuoi?"
Michael Carthy blinked at being asked 'how much', then he smiled and walked closer to the car, swaying his hips suggestively.
Well, looks like he just got himself a car.
.
.
.
Author's note:
Hi everyone.
I will not make any more promises for updates, because every time I think I will post one within a couple of days, something happens! The fact that I know there are very few chapters left, something I am slightly sad about, could also be a teeny tiny part of the problem.
There was supposed to be a Sherlock & Molly scene, but the chapter was becoming way to long so I cut it in half and will post the second part as soon as I can.
Thanks to:Bucky5 (sorry about the lack of fluff!), lovebirds413, SammyKatz, mrspencil, NiceNipps, Rocking the Redhead, lilyan'James, Renaissancebooklover108 , 16magnolias, coloradoandcolorado1 , SaraBahama, Monsterprincess and guests for their lovely reviews and support.
Have a great week, and thank you for reading my fic!
Feral