#he got stabbed several times on the streets of london and never noticed

[jrueships]

What if diggs's car got stolen in London while he was out stress shopping for clothes and fine dining (he changed his mind on the fine dining once he saw beans on toast), and he turns around exasperated, and even more stressed now, for a ride only to look around and see

[queenshelby]

The Policeman’s Daughter – Part Two

Pairing: Thomas Shelby x Reader

Warning: Mention of Assault, Murder, Fluff, Mild Smut

Words: 2,345

Birmingham, 12 September 1924

It was Saturday night and seven days have passed since your encounter with Thomas Shelby and you have not heard from him. Perhaps he had changed his mind, you thought. You could understand if he did. He was probably still grieving the death of his wife or perhaps you simply weren’t a match for him.

Over the past seven days, you had learned that Thomas Shelby and his family owned most of the factories and industrial buildings in Small Heath as well as several streets of back-to-back housing.

He must have been a wealthy man with no interest in a common woman like you.

That same night, your father was away for work, investigating two recent murders in Small Heath in a pub called the Garrison and he had left you with two men who were employed by the Crown as security guards.

You felt safe with the men around the house and certainly didn’t expect an intrusion to occur on that night. But you were wrong. You weren’t safe at all. At least so it seemed as, at around 8 o’clock, you heard a knock on one of the windows behind where you were sitting, inside the reading room which was facing the forest.

Your heart began to pound as you turned around and peeked through the curtain only to find that it was Thomas.

Surprised and shocked all at the same time, you quickly opened the window while covering up your skin with a large satin robe.

‘What are you doing here?’ you asked with slight anger.

‘I said I would find you’ Tommy smirked, whispering as he did. ‘Get your coat’ he then instructed, not really giving you a choice to say no.

‘I am not leaving the house with an armed man who I barely know’ you said reluctantly and Tommy raised his eyebrows for a short moment before giving you a smile.

‘Fair enough’ Tommy said, reaching beneath his coat, taking the gun out of his holster and handing it to you.

‘Now you are an armed woman leaving with an unarmed man’ he then smirked and you couldn’t help but chuckle.

You quickly got your coat and boots from the next room, not bothered by the fact that, beneath all this, you would be wearing only a thin nightgown.

Tommy then held the window open and helped you to climb outside while ensuring that you wouldn’t slip on the wet grass.

‘So where are we going?’ you asked quietly, knowing very well that you shouldn’t be going anywhere with this stranger. You didn’t know why, but for some reason, you trusted him. His deep blue eyes appeared honest and comforting in a way and your attraction towards him clearly had gotten the better of you.

‘Just follow me, eh’ Tommy said somewhat reassuringly before taking your hand.

‘My father is a policeman and will get very angry if something was to happen to me’ you said nervously, wanting to ensure your own safety.

‘A copper, eh?’ Tommy said somewhat unbothered, thinking that your father is probably one of Moss’s men and therefore on his payroll.

You simply nodded and then followed Tommy into the woods, nervously and excited all at the same time.

After about fifteen minutes, you reached a small camp near the river and Tommy was quick to introduce you to some of the men, women and children who were there.

‘I thought you might like to be with kin for a change’ Tommy said after he introduced to the Lee family.

‘Your mother used to travel with us when she was young’ a woman named Esmeralda said to you and it was obvious to you that Tommy had told her your name. It was also clear that Tommy had done his research on you before visiting you that night.

You immediately felt comfortable around the Lee Family and spent several hours at the camp, talking, drinking and eating.

Whilst you appreciated Tommy’s gesture, introducing you to the Lees after what you had told him about your life when you met at the orphanage, you also desperately wanted to be alone with him and get to know him better. He seemed to know so much about you while you knew so little about him.

Eventually, Tommy noticed that you were cold, clearly not dressed for the occasion and he finally suggested that you sit down by the fire with him.

‘Go on Tommy Boy’ Johnny Dogs shouted after you as followed Tommy to the fireplace near the river bank.

In response, Tommy swore using gypsy tongue, before telling you to ignore Johnny Dogs. According to Tommy, he hadn’t been accompanied by a woman since his wife Grace had passed away and, therefore, your presence took Johnny Dogs by surprise.

As you finally reached the fireplace and you sat down on of the blankets scattered around it, Tommy took off his coat and placed it over you in order to keep you warm.

‘Thank you’ you said shyly as his blue eyes locked with yours. ‘Now tell me Tommy, how did you know where I live?’ you asked curiously, knowing that you had never told him your address.

‘I simply asked your employer’ Tommy winked and it was when you realised that you just asked him a completely silly question. Of course, he knew your address. The charitable organisation of which he was the founder and chairman had signed your employment contract.

‘You never told me what brought you to Birmingham’ Tommy then went on to say before asking you to hand him the cigarettes from the pocket of his coat.

But, as you reached into the pocket on the right to retrieve his cigarettes, smokes weren’t all you found. In fact, the first thing you inadvertently took out was a small case containing a blue bottle of cocaine and a brown bottle of opium which, without questions, you quickly put back into their place.

‘My father’s work is what brought us here’ you eventually said as you handed Tommy his cigarettes.

‘You said he is a copper, right?’ Tommy observed before lighting himself a cigarette and you nodded before Tommy continued on.

‘What is a copper from London doing in Birmingham? It doesn’t seem like a good career move to me’ Tommy chuckled and you simply told him that he wanted a change of scenery for the both of you and an easier life.

‘Well, I am not sure if he came to the right place then, eh’ Tommy laughed.

‘Why, is there a lot of crime here?’ you then went on to ask and Tommy shook his head.

‘Just the usual brawls you can expect in a town full of working men’ Tommy chuckled before quickly changing the topic.

You then talked for at least an hour about your respective upbringings and gypsy roots and Tommy appeared genuine and kind. It was obvious to you that he felt attracted towards you and, over the hour, you moved closer and closer towards each other, sharing one cigarette after another as you talked for what felt like an eternity.

You sat so close to him that you could smell the scent of his aftershave, a hint of musk and sweetness and it was at this point that Tommy made an admission to you.

‘I have to be honest Y/N. I didn’t just bring you out here to introduce you to the Lee Family’ Tommy said, just as the moment was right.

‘So, what are your alternate motives then Mr Shelby?’ you asked shyly but with a smile.

‘This’ Tommy responded quietly while caressing your face with one of his hands before drawing your face towards his with ease and pressing his lips onto yours.

You gave into the kiss, parting your lips slightly as you did and allowing his tongue to explore your mouth.

His lips were soft and warm and you ran your hands through his hair gently as you deepened the kiss.

Tommy’s hands then moved from your face over your chest and beneath his warm coat, brushing your breasts in the process.

It was at this point you abruptly pulled away and began to breathe heavily. His hands were too close to the scar which carried all your bad memories.

‘Don’t. I am sorry’ you said, your hands shaking as you broke out in tears.

‘Hey, look at me Y/N’ Tommy said calmly, unsure why you reacted the way you did but wanting to calm you down and comfort you.

‘Whatever it is, its alight, eh’ Tommy said, his both cupping your face, making you look at him and nod.

‘I am so sorry. I just…’ you said, looking down at the fire, unable to finish your sentence as tears built up in the corners of your eyes again.

Tommy sat there patiently, telling you to breathe before wiping your tears away with his thumbs.

‘I am ashamed of my body Tommy. I just am not ready for this’ you went on to say and Tommy looked at you, his eyes full of questions.

‘Then we won’t’ Tommy said calmly, his thumb running over your cheek as he smiled at you. ‘Although, you really have no reason to be ashamed. You are beautiful’ Tommy then whispered reassuringly before giving you another quick kiss, intending to leave at this for the night.

‘Yeah, well, you say this now but that might change when you see the hideous scar covering my stomach’ you said rather upset and it was at this point that Tommy stood up, took off his suit jacket and began to unbutton his shirt.

You weren’t quite sure what he was doing and you were slightly concerned about his actions when he suddenly pulled you up and reached for your hand.

‘Count them’ Tommy said as he guided your hand over his bare chest before telling you to reach behind him and run your hand over his back.

‘Six’ you said, swallowing harshly, realising that he had just a few more scars than you which evidentially all came from bullets and stabbings.

‘Seven actually’ Tommy chuckled as your hand left his chest and you took Tommy’s hand and guided it beneath your nightgown and right over your scar.

Your scar was large, covering the right side of your abdomen. But Tommy didn’t seem bothered and simply kissed you again, as passionately as he could and you would allow him.  

‘Who did this to you?’ Tommy then asked as your lips drifted apart and it was at this point that you broke down, confiding him about what had happened to you.

You never confided in anyone before and the truth was, you didn’t know why you told Tommy that night. But you felt that it was the right thing to do.

Shortly thereafter, Tommy walked you back home and, just as you reached the house and sneaked past the security guards which, quite evidentially didn’t do their job, Tommy kissed you again, gently but yet passionately.

‘Can I see you again?’ he then asked and you nodded shyly.

‘I didn’t think you would want to after tonight’ you said somewhat embarrassed about how things had ended.

‘You have no idea, do you?’ Tommy chuckled just as one of the security guards came walking around the house.

Without his coat and gun, Tommy kissed you goodbye in a rush before disappearing into the night, ensuring that he wouldn’t get caught.

‘Everything alright Miss?’ one of the guards asked, curious as to what the noises were which he had heard.

‘Yes, just two rabbits out and about. So cute’ you said as you stuffed Tommy’s coat and gun beneath the blanket on the sofa while looking out of the window.

‘Rabbits?’ the guard asked.

‘Yes, the small animals with the big ears and the fluffy tail’ you said.

Birmingham, 17 September 1924

Following your evening at the river with Tommy, you hadn’t heard from him for days and thought again that, perhaps, he had changed his mind.

But he didn’t and, on the morning of the 17th of September, you received a telegram, delivered to your house along with the daily newspaper your father had ordered.

With a cup of coffee, you sat down in the reading room, opening the telegram.

****

‘Y/N,

I ensured that this telegram would only reach you in your father’s absence.

Meet me tonight, at 8 o’clock. Your father will be busy and security will be taken care of. I will be waiting for you outside the gate of your property’

Tommy’

****

After you read the telegram, you couldn’t help but smile while a feeling of warmth and butterflies rushed through your body.

Nonetheless, you were surprised by his influence. How did he know that your father would be busy and how would he take care of security, you wondered?

But those thoughts soon left your mind when you opened the newspaper and read the headlines.

****

Judge dead in house explosion

Judge Kent has died along with his 24-year-old son in what appeared to have been a house explosion caused by two hand grenades.

Mysteriously, their death occurred just an hour before two killings in a London Nightclub in which another two men had been shot. This also appeared to be a targeted attack.

The two men identified as Jonathan Cohen and Lucas Cohen, friends and acquaintances of the Judge’s Kent’s son who, several years ago, escaped charges for assault.

Whether the murders are linked is yet to be determined and no arrests were made.

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[aidanchaser]

Waterloo Station

Several folks said, “I would love to see more of Regulus and Sirius shenanigans!” after Chapter 18. Well, lo and behold, I actually have a deleted bit of Chapter 18 showcasing just that. The second draft was from Sirius’ perspective, but since Sirius lent his voice to In Memoriam, and we’re about to hit a short run of non-Harry chapters, I brought the chapter back to Harry in the third draft. (the first draft was an entirely different Harry chapter about breaking James out of prison, but that got pushed back in favor of some character development; we’ll get back to it, I promise.)

So here’s a short bit, taken out of my scraps. It’s headed with “MY DARLING” because it is one of several darlings I have killed while writing Deathly Hallows, but it’s the only one to earn the all-caps title. Thanks to the magic of fanfic, I can still share this darling with you. (the alternate title for this chapter should be: Sirius Accidentally Outs Himself as a Furry)

Padfoot hated the city. It was loud and there were so many people, each with their own scents and emotions. He supposed he should count himself lucky Harry had bled so much, or the trail would have been harder to follow.

He recognized the wizards on the platform easily. Their attire of slacks combined with hoodies or rain slickers paired with thick rubber work boots marked them easily as incompetently dressed Ministry employees. Sirius supposed they were keeping an eye open for someone stupid enough to come to the platform in search of Harry, someone just like him.

The platform had been scrubbed clean, but Padfoot could still detect Harry’s scent through the bleach. He didn’t board the train that pulled into the station, not yet. He waited, sniffing the entrance of the car carefully. He didn’t smell Harry or bleach. So he sat back and waited. A few Muggles scratched his ears as they passed or before boarding the train. Sirius let them without protest. 

He had learned that Muggles, by and large, enjoyed dogs as long as those dogs were gentle, still, and quiet. And if he was anything else — too loud, too quick, or too threatening — they were eager to chase him out or worse, catch him. It was a lesson he had learned early in his life, long before he had become Padfoot; it was just an easier lesson to follow when he was Padfoot. Something about a thick coat of fur, the eyes and ears of a predator, and four paws to run with made him far more comfortable and settled in his own skin than being a young boy in the middle of a war ever had. 

Another train pulled in, and this one, too, didn’t smell of Harry, but the third one did. He followed the Muggles into the carriage, and noticed a small black shadow slip in after him. It hid under the seat, and Sirius pointedly ignored it. He took a post at the door and waited, ready to check each stop this train made until he found Harry.

Regulus had tried desperately to talk him out of this, but Sirius had ignored him. Between him, Lily, and Remus, Sirius was the only one who could track down Harry, and if he didn’t, Lily and Remus would. Lily was far more likely to be recognized on the platform than Padfoot was, making Sirius not only the safest choice, but the most efficient choice, given Padfoot’s hunting instincts.

The first stop didn’t have even a whiff of Harry, but the second one did, though it was no longer paired with bleach. Sirius could only surmise that Harry had healed any open wounds before exiting the train and he felt both relieved and proud. 

That relief vanished almost as soon as he stepped off of the train. This station was enormous. It wasn’t just another Underground station; it was the biggest train station in London. Crowds hurried past, chasing after trains. Others clustered around kiosks and maps. Sirius’ heart sank. Harry could have boarded a train to practically anywhere from here, even Paris. 

The small black shadow slunk out of the carriage behind him and slipped into a tiny space beneath a nearby bin. Padfoot put his wet nose to the ground and followed Harry’s faint scent to a ticket station. From there it was difficult to determine where to go next. He thought he had a faint trail of Harry’s blood but it was unusual, mixed with something else.

“Pardon me, sir,” a nearby Muggle said, “but you need to have your dog on a lead at all times —”

“Oh,” a man looked down at Padfoot. “He’s not my dog.”

Sirius decided to follow the scent of Harry’s blood. It led him out of the station and away from the Underground service workers. The last thing he needed was for a well-meaning Muggle to try to help him find his owner. The few times it had happened in the past, he had always had James to bail it out.

Sirius shook off the stab of grief that came with the thought. It was always easier to shake off grief as Padfoot, as if the same abilities that heightened his physical senses dulled the sharper edges of his hurt. Besides, he reminded himself, there was nothing he could do for James right now, not until they were able to find whatever Death Eater prison he was being held in — and they had to believe he was being held. What Sirius could do was find Harry.

Though it had been less than twenty-four hours since Harry had passed through here, London had a way of making people invisible, of burying passersby in the scent of automobile smog and endless eateries. Sirius had to work hard to discern the scent of Harry’s blood through it all, but he managed to follow the trail south for less than a mile until it disappeared into a tall, brown-brick residential building.

Padfoot sat down on the pavement and evaluated his options. It would not be hard to sniff out Harry, if he truly was in this building, but a large dog was likely to be chased out of a private building. As Sirius, it wouldn’t be hard to charm his way into the building, but it might be harder to find Harry.

Padfoot barked softly at the bushes. The black cat that had been tailing him crawled out. He knew Regulus had no interest in helping him, and had only come along as emergency backup in case of a duel, but Padfoot gestured his head towards the building anyway.

The small, black cat stared at Padfoot, then back up at the building. Reluctantly, he slipped up the stairs and into the building on the heels of an unsuspecting resident.

Padfoot sniffed the stone retaining wall. Plenty of people had passed through here, but he didn’t smell Harry, not exactly. He definitely smelled the blood trail he had been following, but that wasn’t the same thing as Harry’s scent. He wondered if it was Greyback who had come through here, but Sirius was fairly certain that he would recognize Greyback’s scent if he came across it.

He wondered, briefly, if Regulus had been right when he had said that Sirius was better off staying with Remus and Lily, rather than hunting down Harry. The full moon was just two days away, and he knew Remus was nervous. Brewing the Wolfsbane Potion had been impossible this week. They had been moving too frequently to get together the ingredients, and they still hadn’t figured out where Remus was going to transform. Lily would need to be somewhere safe but on hand in case of emergency, and they couldn’t be anywhere too open that might put others at risk. Tonks had, kindly, suggested hers and her mother’s home, but that had only sent Remus into another downward spiral. Remus was wary enough of transforming around people he loved when he had the Wolfsbane Potion to keep his mind. He was never going to allow himself to lose control with Tonks so close at hand.

Sirius tried to shake his worries off. Remus was tomorrow’s problem. Harry was today’s.

Regulus returned from his investigation surprisingly quickly. He hurried across the street and over a low wall, into some plants. When he stepped out as himself, Sirius reluctantly followed and also used the wall as cover to return to his human form.

“What did you find?” Sirius asked.

Regulus smoothed the front of his cloak. “Harry isn’t there.”

“I know.”

“Then why did we come here?”

Sirius swung his legs over the wall. “Because someone here has information about Harry. Did you follow the blood trail?”

“It’s going to be a dead end.”

“I’d prefer you didn’t use that word.”

“The trail is cold, Sirius. We have no way to know where Harry has gone.”

“Give me a flat number and I’ll go myself.”

Regulus hesitated, but Sirius knew he would give in. They were stubborn, the both of them, but Regulus had never built up the tolerance for conflict that Sirius had. Sirius could thrive in the center of chaos; he’d had to in order to survive. Regulus, however, invested too much effort in fighting chaos. It was always going to be a losing battle.

Regulus crossed the street, back to the building. He pointed his wand at the lock, but it didn’t budge.

Sirius looked over Regulus’ shoulder. “Oh, it’s one of those keypads? <i>Alohomora</i> is no good.” He dug his own wand out and aimed a hot white spark. It fizzed and sputtered and then the lock clicked.

Regulus pulled the door open. “Did you break it?”

Sirius shrugged. “They malfunction all the time. Keeps the Muggle maintenance men employed.”

Regulus led Sirius upstairs to the top floor and gestured at a door near the stairwell. “The trail leads here. But I didn’t see, hear, or smell anything to indicate that Harry might be here. I can’t imagine Harry would have stayed in London.”

“No, but if whoever lives here had Harry’s blood on them, they might be able to tell us something.”

“And if that person is a Death Eater?”

“Then I guess we’ll duel them.” Sirius knocked on the door.

“We aren’t even going to try to disguise ourselves?” Regulus hissed at him, but Sirius couldn’t answer, because the door opened.

The gentleman in the doorway wore a fine Muggle suit. His skin was dark and he had a neatly trimmed beard and shaved head. He looked about Sirius’ age, and was about as tall, though definitely rounder in both face and build.

He looked over the two of them and raised a thick eyebrow. “Can I help you?”

Sirius held out his hand. “I hope so. My name’s Sirius.”

“Nigel Brooks,” he said, and shook Sirius’ hand warily. His eyes drifted over Sirius’ shoulder to Regulus, but Sirius had a feeling Regulus would not be keen on an introduction.

Sirius reached into his pocket and pulled out a photograph. “We’re trying to find someone, and we think you might have run into him.” The picture of Harry was from Remus’ wedding. He had folded it over so that Ron and Hermione were hidden, along with most of the movement in the picture. Harry still blinked and his smile moved slightly, but Sirius hoped the Muggle would just think it a trick of the light.

Brooks took the photo to examine it more closely, then shrugged. “Might’ve seen him around.” He looked Sirius and Regulus over again. “You don’t look like police.”

Sirius glanced down at his worn jeans and leather jacket. “Hardly,” he said. “I’m his godfather. His mother’s awfully worried. We’re just trying to get some information.”

Brooks returned the photograph. “I’m afraid I can’t help you. Best of luck, though.”

He started to close the door, but Sirius wedged his foot in the door. “We know you saw him, and at the very least, got his blood on you. We’re just trying to find out where he might have gone. There are dangerous people after him.”

Nigel straightened, and Sirius recognized a familiar determination in his dark eyes. “If what you say is true, and if I really did run into a young man, injured and running for his life, then what makes you think I would tell the first strangers who knocked on my door anything about him?”

“We’re his family.”

“Family can’t be dangerous?” Brook’s voice was cold, and Sirius, while he appreciated the man’s desire to protect Harry, felt outmatched. He didn’t feel outmatched very often.

“His name is Harry,” Regulus said, “and all we want is to know that he’s alive. You don’t have to tell us where he went, just tell us that he’s safe.”

Brooks stared at Regulus for a moment, then opened the door so it was no longer pressing on Sirius’ foot. “He’s alive, as far as I know. There was a lot of blood, but his injuries weren’t as bad as they looked. I thought whoever was chasing him had torn his wrist open, but when he showed it to me, there wasn’t even a scratch. He refused to go to hospital, just said he wanted out of the city, so I put him on a train. That’s the last I saw of him.”

“Has anyone else come asking for him?”

“No. You’re the first.”

“Thank you for your help.” Regulus inclined his head. “Sirius, we’re done here.”

Sirius did not think they were done. He wanted to know exactly which train Harry had gotten on. But Regulus was already leaving.

“Reg — wait —” But Regulus did not wait. Sirius eyed Brooks, but he supposed Regulus was right. They weren’t going to get anything more out of this man.

“Thanks,” he muttered.

“Sirius —” Brooks hesitated, and Sirius waited, hopeful.

But Brooks gave them neither a train nor destination. Instead, he handed Sirius a small business card. “If you find him, I’d like to know he’s alright.”

Sirius looked down at the plain white card. It had the man’s name printed on it and the contact information for an art gallery. 

“I’d find him faster if you’d tell me more.”

“He told me he was going to find his aunt and uncle,” Brooks said. “If you’re really his family, it shouldn’t be hard for you to track them down.” And he closed the door.

Sirius walked away, more confused than when they had arrived. He met Regulus at the bottom of the stairs.

“Did he tell you anything?” Regulus asked.

Sirius handed Regulus the business card. “He said Harry went to stay with an aunt and uncle. Do you think he meant Tonks and Remus?”

“I suppose that would be a simple way to explain their relationship to a stranger. Why would Harry go to Remus?”

“Maybe a fight with Greyback scared some sense in him.” Sirius found himself hoping it was true rather than believing it was true. Harry had been pushing them away all summer, and Sirius thought one duel unlikely to have changed Harry’s mind. Harry had his mother’s stubbornness, after all. 

Regulus handed the card back to Sirius. “I suppose there’s nothing else to do. We’ll just have to trust this man Brooks’ word that Harry is safe.”

“We’re hardly done.” Sirius was already walking back to the station at a brisk pace. “Now we show Harry’s photograph on the platforms. We start with the line headed for Tonks, and pray he didn't actually board a train to Paris.”

An unusual anger sparked in Regulus’ cold gaze as he hurried after Sirius. Not that Regulus never got angry, but he usually tempered it so well. “Harry is wanted by some of the most dangerous people in the world and you think it's a good idea to flash his picture around to every blasted Muggle in London — you’re also wanted by those same people! You can't just spend a day on a platform where they're surely to be looking for Harry — it’s absurd!”

Regulus' general frown of displeasure twitched with his outburst. His nose scrunched the tiniest bit and his already thin lips seemed to disappear. He looked so much like Narcissa. Sirius looked away, wishing his brother could wear someone else’s face. He wished, more often than not, that he could wear someone else’s face, too. Perhaps that was just another reason it was so much easier to be Padfoot.

“We’ll wear disguises.” Sirius surprised himself with the “we.” He had never wanted Regulus to come along on this hunt in the first place, but suddenly he was not keen on Regulus leaving him to it alone. “Hell we could even pretend to be Hit Wizards, deputised with hunting Harry down, if any wizards question us.”

“But the Muggles, Sirius! You’ll have to Obliviate every single one of them that you talk to, or else the Death Eaters or Hit Wizards or Muggle-born Registration Commision or Snatchers or any other group of wizards that want you and I dead could interrogate them and track it back to us — or worse back to Harry.”

“That will take us forever —”

“Why can't you just let Harry go? You know he got away from Greyback. Brooks put him on a train, helped him, made sure he wasn’t injured, so he must be safe somewhere. Isn’t that enough?”

“No. Not for me, and not for Lily nor Remus.” It wouldn’t be enough for James, either.

“You can't protect him from everything, Sirius. He’s seventeen now, and whatever Dumbledore’s asked of him —”

Anger flared hot and bright in Sirius' chest as he whirled on Regulus, and there was no Padfoot to soften the edges as he snarled Regulus words back at him. “‘Whatever Dumbledore’s asked of him’? Harry’s told us you're in on it so don't give me that hippogriff shit acting like you don't know. Like you're not keeping all the same secrets from us as Harry is. Like this is somehow less your fault, just because you slink away from arguments whenever you damn well please.”

Regulus’ temper faded from his face, replaced with an unusual, stricken expression that Sirius was not sure he had ever seen on his brother. Blacks felt many things, and usually felt them strongly, but fear? That wasn't something Sirius had seen in any of his cousins before, nor his brother.

But to Regulus’ credit, he did not transform into a cat and run away. He carefully schooled his expression back into its traditional calm and proud with a dash of disdainful form.

“I’ll help you find Harry,” he finally said in a quiet, almost apologetic voice. “But we Transfigure our disguises, no Polyjuice. It's too unreliable. And we Obliviate every Muggle we meet — don’t argue with me on this, Sirius! Yes, it will take longer, but it will keep Harry safer, and I trust that wherever he has run off to, he is indeed safe. We would have heard otherwise if he wasn't.”

Sirius took in several deep breaths to make sure his anger was cooled, at least enough that it would not attract the attention of those passing by them on the pavement, before speaking again. “Fine. Let’s do what we can today. And I want to put a word in the paper to Tonks, just in case he really did mean that he was on his way to her and Remus.”

“The paper? Sirius —”

“Not the <i>Prophet</i>. I’m not an idiot. Tonks, Remus, and I have a code we use for personals in the <i>Times</i>. Her idea. Said her dad used to use it in the first war to communicate with some of his Muggle-born friends, at first just after he and Andromeda eloped and had gone to ground to avoid her family, then as part of the war effort.”

Regulus shook his head. “It’s still risky —”

“It’s a war. There’s risk. Accept it and move on. The longer you whine about it, the longer nothing gets done.”

Regulus studied Sirius, and Sirius did not care for the intent look on Regulus’ face, almost like Regulus was trying to peer directly into his thoughts. It reminded him too much of their mother, trying to parse just how much trouble Sirius was in, just how much damage he had done.

But Regulus did not scold Sirius, nor criticise him. “I’m sorry,” he said instead. “You're right.”

Had Sirius been in a slightly better mood, he might have had a joke ready, made Regulus repeat his apology. As it stood, Sirius had trouble accepting it at all. Perhaps it was no real wonder he and Regulus had grown so far apart. Even when one reached out, the other couldn't bother to reach back.

He zipped up his jacket, suddenly cold, though it was only the middle of the afternoon, and kicked his boots against a nearby wall. It didn't lessen his frustration. 

And after a full day walking up and down train platforms, talking to and Obliviating every Muggle they met, Sirius was no less frustrated. The task ahead of them was enormous, and with each passing day that left them with no leads, it seemed more and more futile.

But there was nothing else to do. Lily and Remus did their part connecting with the Order, hunting down rumors of sightings of Harry, while Regulus and Sirius plodded on through Muggle after Muggle and Memory Charm after Memory Charm.

It was two full moons more before, finally, a Muggle woman frowned as she looked at the photo.

“I think… Goodness it’s been a while, but I think I did see him. Or I saw a boy who looked like him. Had red hair. I thought it odd with his complexion, but it was a dark sort of red, I suppose. The glasses… I can’t remember if he was wearing them or not. He was a twitchy lad, though, rather unhappy face. Is he in some sort of trouble?”

“No,” Sirius said, though it was not exactly true. He spoke quickly, anxious to get every detail out of this woman. “I’m his godfather, just trying to track him down. Can you tell me where he went?”

She pursed her lips. “I think… it must have been the rail line that goes out to Portsmouth — yes, I was visiting my sister that day, and I remember he had a large pack. I thought he must be on his way home from a walking tour.”

Sirius could not fathom what might have attracted Harry to Portsmouth. He wondered if it had something to do with Dumbledore. Maybe Regulus would know, but Regulus said nothing, mere stood at Sirius’ side, waiting to Obliviate this poor woman as soon as she was done talking.

“Do you know where he got off the train?” Sirius asked.

She frowned and handed the photograph back to Sirius. “I don’t know… he tripped over my bag on his way out. I felt awful. It… oh! It was Guildford. Yes, I remember, because —”

“Thank you so much for your time,” Regulus interrupted. Then, her eyes glassed over. She blinked at Sirius and Regulus, slowly, uncertain.

“Er — can I help you?” she asked.

“No, thanks,” Sirius grunted, and as soon as she was gone, he whirled on Regulus. “She might have had more information!”

“We needed to know where Harry had gone. Now we know. What else could she have told us? It’s not as if she followed him off the train. Besides, Sirius, she saw Harry over a month ago. There’s no way Harry’s still in Guildford, no reason he would stay in one place for so long.”

“Are you sure?” Sirius lowered his voice and tried to keep the threatening tone out of it, but he found it difficult. “You don’t know of anything in Guildford that might keep him there? Nothing to do with Dumbledore or You-Know-Who?”

Regulus’ stare was even, but that didn’t tell Sirius much. “Nothing. And if you can’t think of anything that would keep him there, then all we can do is go down there and see if some other Muggle happens to remember him passing through months ago — there’s just no sense in it. We know he got away safely. Let that be enough.”

Sirius was no longer listening to Regulus. He had plucked a map from a kiosk and was staring at Guildford on the network of spider web lines spiraling out from Waterloo Station, trying to make sense of why it had appealed to Harry.

“I’m an idiot,” he finally said.

“That’s nothing new,” Regulus said.

“Brooks told us where he was going from the beginning and I was too stupid to understand.”

“What are you talking about?”

“He was going to see his aunt and uncle, is what Brooks said. Not Tonks and Remus — his mum’s sister. Her Muggle family.”

“Does Harry even know them?”

“He knows they’re in hiding, and he knows their house will be empty — bloody hell I can’t believe I’m that thick.” Sirius balled the map up in his fist.

“Should we tell Lily and Remus —”

“Let’s make sure he’s there before we get their hopes up.” Sirius fought down another grunt of frustration. He had not felt this stupid in a long time, but how was he supposed to connect Harry to Petunia and Vernon, whom Harry had met perhaps twice in his life? He did not even wait to slip away to a hidden corner of the platform to Disapparate. He turned on the spot, in the midst of a crowd of Muggles, ignoring all of Regulus’ protests, and disappeared with a crack.

[fromkaermorhentolettenhove]

The Eternity of Bliss - Chapter 1

Summary: Jaskier has been living in the non-magical world for several years now, protecting it from anything that might sneak though the barrier that separates this place from the one he calls home. 

When clusters of monsters begin to appear, threatening both worlds, it’s then Jaskier is assigned to partner up with Geralt, the best Hunter known on the continent, to clean up this mess.

In an instant, Jaskier’s life is turned on its head as he and Geralt deal with Destiny, deadly attacks, and falling in love.

Rating: T

Genre: 1920s Urban Fantasy, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Fate&Destiny

Words: 2871

A/N: on ao3 the rating is M because there’ll eventually be one chapter of smut, i just don’t know when yet

(also 100% inspired by joey’s role in war of the worlds;;;;)

-

AO3

or

Jaskier’s life was as normal as they came. 

A cushy office job, a number of acquaintances, and considering the economy, he was doing well for himself. 

The clacking of typewriters was a nice familiarity day to day, noisy car horns in the streets, and needing to wrap his trench coat around him when the wind blew. He was thankful that of all places to be assigned, it was right in the middle of London where he could have his days of excitement amongst the regimented schedule. 

It was one rather ordinary day when Jaskier was sitting at his desk, typing up the latest reports from management. One line in particular was giving him trouble and it was now his fourth time typing up this single page. Jaskier was about to give up when the sound akin to bursting flames caught his attention. 

Sneaking a glance around, Jaskier tugged his desk drawer open and flipped the cover of his star-studded notebook to the first page. 

Come at once was all the message read and Jaskier checked the large grandfather clock at the front of the room. It was close enough to his lunch and he gave a friendly nod to the men in the desks around him as he tucked the notebook into his front pocket. Grabbing his hat and coat, Jaskier left before anyone could question.

Once in the busy streets, Jaskier kept his head down, hands in his pockets as he weaved through crowds. He glanced over his shoulder every so often before he took his next turn, eventually finding himself down a dingy alley. 

The door at the end was dilapidated, barely hanging on its hinges and mice scurried out from it. Placing his hand on the door, Jaskier muttered a single word, watching as his hand glowed. The door shifted, shuffling into place as the wood became speckled with gold, the frame around it molding back together. Taking a step back, Jaskier waited until the door swung open and he stepped inside to a grand entrance. 

Large steps descended before him, the upper floors above packed with people as they bustled to and fro. The ceiling arched high, a glass dome that allowed sunlight to pour in. Jaskier followed his path down the stairs, only interrupted by a group of fairies that flew past him. Frowning at the group, Jaskier continued on, past the department of Magical Mishaps where he could hear explosions from behind several doors. 

Down, down he went until at last he reached a gate guarded by two wolves. 

“Triss sent for me,” Jaskier told them and the wolves gave him a wary look before stepping aside. 

Opening the gate, Jaskier approached a table where a woman stood, several maps opening with the wave of her hand. Her eyebrows were furrowed as she examined them and she didn’t notice Jaskier until he cleared his throat. 

“Oh, Jaskier,” she smiled and waved the maps back onto the table. “Timely as always. Just waiting on your partner and then I’ll begin the debriefing.”

“Hello, Triss. Um, partner?” Jaskier asked, his heart jumping with nervous excitement. 

It had been a while since Jaskier was required to work with someone else. He was always happy to make a new friend, even if this was supposed to be just work.

The gate behind him opened and Jaskier froze when he recognized the face. This couldn’t be his partner, yet there was no one else trailing behind the man who walked in with an intimidating stride. He took off his hat, a nod as his greeting as he took his place next to Jaskier. Golden eyes bore into Jaskier for just a moment before he turned his attention away. 

“Geralt,” Triss acknowledged him before snapping her fingers and a trail of golden dust circled above the table. “We’ve had a breach in one of our borders.”

She swiped her hand across the dust, a map of London appearing with intricate accuracy. “Nothing too miserable got out, but there’s a lot and not much time to contain them. Jaskier is your Tracer.”

Jaskier smiled at Geralt, only getting a raised eyebrow in return. 

“Report back when you’ve cleared them out and we’ll check the city once more,” Triss continued on. 

Jaskier’s stomach turned and he slowly raised his hand. “Is the breach just in London?”

Triss sighed. “Unfortunately not. There’s been reports coming in from all over the world. We’re looking into it, but right now, it just seems like the usual case of overlooking.”

Nodding his understanding, Jaskier found himself having to catch up with Geralt as the man quickly stalked out of the room. Once they were back above ground and out of the building, Geralt led them into busier streets, stopping so suddenly that Jaskier crashed into him. 

“Sorry,” Jaskier mumbled, readjusting his coat and hat as he stood next to Geralt. “I must say it’s an honor to finally be working with you.”

“Is it?” Geralt spoke, harsh and low, his eyes darting about. 

“You’re the best Hunter there is, you’re legendary, Geralt,” Jaskier couldn’t help himself, recounting every story he ever heard about the man.

Geralt grunted, but didn’t stop Jaskier from jabbering on for the next few minutes. The man humored him, not interrupting once, and it was then Jaskier calmed his racing mind with a shy smile.

“So, are we just standing here then?” Jaskier collected himself. 

“I was waiting for you to start the Trace,” Geralt replied. His mouth had formed a thin line, yet his eyes shone with something kinder and Jaskier cleared his throat. 

“Right, of course.” 

Taking a breath, Jaskier focused the energy within him before he snapped his eyes open. To the common observer, Jaskier appeared to be staring at the crowd with heavy intent. However, only Geralt could see the blue flames bursting from his eyes, encapsulating even the whites. 

“Shipyard,” Jaskier nodded towards the water. “Looks like goblins.”

The two men quickly made their way to the docks, Jaskier keeping his Trace on in case the goblins started moving. Luckily, Geralt was at the advantage and he was quick to pounce on a couple, sending them back to the proper world with a golden portal he pulled from thin air. 

Jaskier kept his distance–having learned his lesson of staying out of a Hunter’s way–and observed the area, still thick with goblin residue. He followed a few trails, finding only dead ends and eventually headed back to where he had left Geralt. 

Then, a sharp jab hit him in the stomach and Jaskier turned to the source. Magic was spiking all around him, poking at his skin as Jaskier scratched at nothing. A warehouse loomed not too far from him, the darkness in the windows foreboding. With a swallow, Jaskier crept over to the warehouse, peering over the edge of a sill. White flashed before his eyes and Jaskier covered his mouth to stop his scream. His chest began heaving with panic as he ran to find Geralt, nearly tripping over the man, who was searching crates for any last goblins. 

“There’s something,” Jaskier gasped between breaths. “In that warehouse over there.”

Geralt’s head snapped up and he marched over to the warehouse, Jaskier trailing behind him. As they got closer, the stabbing sensation began again and Jaskier twitched in annoyance. Geralt threw open the door to the warehouse, nothing but darkness greeting them. 

“Stay here,” Geralt motioned, drawing a silver sword out from his coat. 

Jaskier had no intention of that. To identify the creature was necessary, for records, for Jaskier to be able to stop the invisible needles that jabbed at his skin. Rushing in after Geralt, Jaskier strained his eyes, the small patches of light providing hardly any at all. Wind rushed past his ears and Jaskier ducked just in time. Silver swiped over his head followed by a snarl from Geralt. Lifting his head, Jaskier caught flashes of a dark-haired woman, pale skin, caught in the flashes of sun that peeked through broken rafters. Her hands swung at Geralt, missing, but a breath away each time. 

Jaskier’s eyes blurred as his pain intensified, screams clawing at his ears. His legs wobbled, his body shifting as he reached out for something to grab onto. Then, a veil lifted and Jaskier could breathe again. All was quiet, too quiet, a shiver running down Jaskier’s spine.

Jaskier fidgeted, his attempt to call for Geralt caught in his throat. The darkness began to morph and Jaskier took a stumbling step back. Geralt emerged, covered in blood but otherwise unharmed. Hunters never did kill unless there was no other choice and the thought sat heavy in Jaskier’s mind. With a sigh, Jaskier let the flames in his eyes die down as he rushed to meet the man halfway.

“How the hell did a fucking bruxa get past the wards?” Geralt ground out.

Jaskier could only shrug, just thankful that Geralt was alive and well. He pulled them both out of the warehouse, breathing in when the sun hit his skin.

“Get Triss. She needs to hear about this.”

Nodding, Jaskier pulled out a small golden container and unlatched the cover, trails of magic springing into the air. Triss’s face soon appeared as the colored dust collected itself into her form. 

“What’s happened, Jaskier?” She frowned. She looked frazzled and almost miffed by Jaskier’s call. 

“Bruxa,” Geralt grabbed Jaskier’s hand to make the container face him. 

Triss’s eyes went wide before she ran a hand down her face. “I was afraid of that.”

The two men waited as she collected herself, poised to her professionalism. 

“I ask that the two of you remain together and find a secure place to stay for now.”

Jaskier nodded as Geralt grunted, seemingly upset about the situation. 

“We’ll find out what’s going on. Then you can have them all to yourself, Geralt,” Triss glared at him. 

With that, she blinked out from the dust and the container snapped shut. 

“I should probably quit my office job then,” Jaskier commented as he put the container back in his coat pocket. 

“For the best,” Geralt agreed. “Come with me.”

A portal, once again laced in gold, opened in front of them and before Jaskier could protest, Geralt had taken hold of his arm, dragging him into the portal. Jaskier stumbled when they landed on a cobblestone street, a wave of nausea hitting him, yet Geralt gave him no time to recover. Long rows of buildings sat on either side of them and Geralt finally pulled them towards a black door, placing his hand on it. The door swung open allowing the two men in before it shut firmly behind them. Up a set of stairs, it was then there was one more door until Jaskier found himself in the middle of a living room. 

“My safehouse,” Geralt explained as he flicked his hand. 

Piles organized themselves as curtains shut and furniture rearranged. Geralt went around the room, murmuring a few more words, symbols shining in the air before dissolving. 

“Smart,” Jaskier finally spoke. “What will become of my flat?”

Geralt turned to him, holding his hands out for Jaskier’s coat and hat. “We’ll sort that out later.”

It wasn’t a comforting thought, but Jaskier couldn’t protest. After all, Geralt had brought him to a secret hideaway with no questions asked. After their coats and hats were hung up, Jaskier walked around the place, observing the kitchen and then the hallway that presumably led to a bathroom and bedrooms. He couldn’t help run a finger along a shelf, grimacing at the dust that coated his finger. 

“Bedroom on the left can be yours,” Geralt called from the living room. 

“Thank you,” Jaskier replied, then searching about the kitchen. 

He took off his suit coat, draping it on a nearby chair, and unbuttoned his vest, finding the atmosphere just a tad stuffy. Things clearly hadn’t been moved in a while and Jaskier tapped his fingers on the counter, letting his magic take over. A teapot flew past his head, filling up in the sink before settling on the gas stove, blue wisps swirling around the steam. Jaskier leaned against the counter once a towel wiped it off and stared at the fixtures and wallpaper. It was too modern for his tastes. He missed his cottage in the other world, the simple stonework and fireplace. 

While the non-magic world was getting along fine with their inventions, Jaskier could never get used to the horseless carriages and the dullness of telegrams. Non-magical folk just seemed to want more and more, never happy with what they had already. However, Jaskier could only critique from the sidelines, content with the knowledge that he wouldn’t have to stay in this world forever.

The kettle was soon boiling and Jaskier prepared two cups of tea for Geralt and himself. Not wanting to disturb the other man, Jaskier sent Geralt’s cup floating into the other room while he settled down at the kitchen table. 

As he took his first sip, Geralt appeared in the doorway with his cup in hand. He had taken off his suit coat as well, tie loosened, but still hanging around his neck. The blood on him had been vanquished, leaving clean, yet wrinkled clothing behind. 

“Thank you. You know my kitchen better than me.”

Jaskier laughed a little at this, resting his head in his hand. “The magic helps. Tell me, Geralt, did you always want to be a Hunter?”

Geralt pulled out a chair and sat diagonal to Jaskier, his expression neutral. “I didn’t really have a choice. What with my lineage and all...”

The family of Rivia was well-renowned for their Hunters, so much so that Jaskier had grown up on stories about them. It had been his dream to one day work with someone from the family and now he had finally gotten his chance. 

“What about you?” Geralt interrupted Jaskier’s thoughts. 

With a small grin, Jaskier sat back in his chair. “I was too restless to be a Healer. Tracing just works best for me. I get action but with how clumsy I can be with weapons, I don’t have to take that additional risk.”

The two drifted into silence, regarding each other over their cups of tea. Jaskier couldn’t help but study Geralt when the man wasn’t looking. How stern his face was, but he was an expression of calm as they sat together. For just a little while, Jaskier forgot that he was supposed to be in hiding and rather, that he was just spending a nice afternoon with Geralt. 

“Are you always this happy?”

Jaskier laughed. “I try to be. Oh, I can be serious when the situation calls for it, but why deny when my heart feels light?”

Geralt let out a small hum, his eyes flickering away from Jaskier. There seemed to be the faintest trace of a smile on his face and Jaskier was sure it was one of the most beautiful things he had seen all day. 

“Well,” Jaskier cleared his throat. “Any house rules I should be aware of? Pet peeves?”

“Just pick up after yourself,” Geralt mused over the rim of his cup. 

Jaskier couldn’t help the laugh that left him. “You know, Geralt, I think this is the start of something exciting. If only all flatmates could be like you.”

“You wouldn’t want that,” Geralt teased back. “I’m insufferable once you get to know me.”

“We’ll see about that, won’t we?” Drinking the last of his tea, Jaskier set to cleaning up the small pile of dishes that had accumulated in Geralt’s sink. 

He started humming as he rolled up his sleeves, flicking his wrist to levitate the soap and washcloth. 

“I can do my own dishes,” Geralt was suddenly beside him. 

“Well, today I’m doing them. I believe you’ve got some piles in the living room to sort through, so you go and do that.”

“Are you my housekeeper now?” Geralt retorted.

“I should hope not,” Jaskier laughed. “But since I’m living with you for the time being, we should split the chores.”

“You’re my guest.”

“And this guest wants to do the dishes.”

Geralt pursed his lips but fought no further, leaving the room to let Jaskier do as he pleased. Delighted with his win, Jaskier finished the dishes before conjuring more magic to organize and scrub down the entire kitchen. Time was forgotten and it was after sundown when Jaskier had finished. When Geralt re-entered the kitchen, he froze in the doorway, his eyes darting about. 

“Got a little carried away,” Jaskier gave a sheepish smile. 

“It’s...nice.”

“Oh, look,” Jaskier threw open a cupboard. “There wasn’t any real system here so I put the mugs on this shelf and plates on this one. Bowls and saucers are here.”

Jaskier continued to show Geralt his new kitchen, receiving only hums and grunts in return. Geralt took to it all quickly and when dinner came around, he proved that he did indeed listen to Jaskier’s every word. 

Despite the day’s events, Jaskier was starting to feel at home and he could only hope in time that Geralt would become a very dear friend.

[singledarkshade]

Worth Something

Summary: Lifting a purse proves to have bigger consequences than Michael realised. Now in a world he doesn't understand he wants to trust that Miss Xavier cares for him. But no one ever has before, why would she? Author’s Note: It's Rip Week. Day 1: Friends and Family – We’re starting off the week with two things that Rip doesn’t have a lot of, or perhaps he does and he just hasn’t realised it. I chose Mary Xavier, or as Rip knows her - Mother.                                ********************************************* He was almost at the end of the street before the man noticed his purse had been lifted. Michael didn’t bother glancing back as he heard the man yell, instead he began to walk making sure he didn’t draw attention to himself. Darting around people, using his small stature to good effect he moved easily through the legs of the crowds.

Michael knew if he could reach the factory then he’d be safe, no adults could get through the tunnels the street kids used to get around, so they’d never find him.  Sliding inside he smiled to himself and walked through several of the tunnels finding a small corner to sit in where he pulled out his prize. Opening it he found a few coins along with a strange smooth white stone. Picking up the stone, Michael turned it around a few times wondering what it was and why the man had it. The stone was slightly warm, and it seemed to hum slightly.

Shrugging, he decided he could probably sell it, so Michael pocketed it along with the coins before tossing the purse away.

Heading through the tunnels, Michael slipped out the other side of the network far away from anyone who might be chasing him.

Walking along the street he saw some of the other kids, so jogged over to catch up with them. Sliding into the group, Michael cried out in shock when he was abruptly grabbed from behind.

“Let me go,” he snarled, twisting in the grip of a man who studied him. Michael recognised him as one of those men who took kids every so often, and Michael knew he did not want to be taken. They’d seen Caspian once after he’d been taken and the look in his eyes chilled Michael. Pulling his knife out his belt, Michael stabbed blindly. The ground suddenly rushed to meet him, as warm liquid covered his hand. Seeing blood gushing from the man’s chest, Michael ran.

Breathing heavily, with every breath stabbing his chest, he paused for a moment coughing hard. He shoved his knife back into his belt before beginning to run again. He could hear the police coming after him and this time it wasn’t just a lifted purse he was being chased for.

Panic filled Michael as he had no idea where he could go that would be safe. He couldn’t get back to the factory, it was on the other direction through the people chasing him. The noise coming from behind him made Michael run again. Too late he realised where he was. He had stumbled into the docks and was at the side of the river. Wobbling on the edge, a hand grabbed his shoulder yanking him back dragging him to a safer spot.

“Let me go,” he struggled against the man holding him. Reaching for his knife, a bright light filled his vision and his entire body froze.

“Skinny little rat,” a woman said from somewhere near him, “Isn’t he?”

“But cleaner than you’d expect a child living on the streets to be,” the man holding him replied thoughtfully, “Probably realised it would make him a little more invisible not to be too dirty. Smart. Let’s see how smart he is.”

Michael felt cold metal touch his forehead and, as much as he wanted to struggle against it, he couldn’t move.

“Well?” the man demanded.

The woman let out a humming sound before speaking again, “IQ is extremely high. We’ll need a proper check to measure it accurately, but he is well within the range we’re looking for. Healthwise however is not good. I’m surprised he managed to move as fast as he did, considering he’s had pneumonia and his lungs are badly scarred plus several other health issues that need to be dealt with. Not to mention it looks like he would break in a slight wind.”

“Vicious little bastard too,” the man said, holding up the two knives Michael kept hidden on him at all times, “One in the left boot and one tucked in his belt.”

The woman laughed, “It looks like we have a new recruit.”

“Your lucky day, boy,” the man said to him, “You stole from the right person and it looks like I’m not throwing you back.”

The light came again but this time Michael blacked out.

                               *********************************************

 “Okay,” Zaman Druce, Time Master and Captain of the Proditores, scanned over the list of children who had been picked up by the scouting teams, although the next one on his list he’d found after the boy had stolen the money bag with the tracker, “Subject 1138, picked up in Victorian London. IQ is well above the desired level. Health poor,” he frowned as he scanned the list, “Extremely poor.”

“The Medical Centre have advised that he will be required to stay for at least three months in order to fix all problems and get him to a healthy weight,” his assistant Kale spoke up, “The Oculus has provided some interesting information on him.”

Druce pulled up the predictions and smiled to himself, “Perfect. I knew when I saw him there was something special.”

“We will need to ensure he is raised within the correct house. Someone who can handle his more ‘feral tendencies,” Kale continued, “Or he may not grow up to be what you want.”

Druce thought on this, all those who ran the houses that raised the children were good at what they did, it was why they had been chosen for the roles but considering what he’d seen of the boy so far then a specific person would be required and he knew exactly who that was.

“We’ll place him in the Refuge,” Druce said, “Xavier deals well with problem children and he definitely falls into that category.”

Kale nodded, “I’ll let her know he’ll be joining the house in a few months.”

Musing for a moment, Druce replied, “No. Introduce her to him now. I need him to trust her and Xavier meeting him while he’s in the medical centre will help with that. Have her come in tomorrow.”

Kale nodded again, “I’ll let her know we have a special case that you feel she would be the best person to work with.”

“Flattering her ego should work,” Druce murmured.

With that they moved on to the next subject.

                                 *********************************************

 Michael felt groggy as he woke up.

Remembering what one of the older boys had taught him when he first started stealing, he took a slow breath so he wouldn’t panic, finding he could take a deeper breath than he had been able to in a long time. The next thing he noticed was the smell. It was completely wrong for the world he had always known. It smelled a bit like what the maid used to clean the house where they sometimes got food.

Forcing his eyes open Michael looked around. He was in a white room, with a door in front of him and a chair against the wall. He was in a bed, with clean white sheets and a red blanket. Michael grimaced finding he’d been changed into clothes that were all white, and his own were nowhere to be found. He jumped when the door opened, and a woman walked in. She had curly blond hair and wore a strange green outfit.

“Good,” she smiled, “You’re awake. I need to check…hey.”

She let out a cry of surprise as Michael jumped off the bed, trying to ignore how cold the floor felt on his bare feet before he scrambled past the woman towards the door where he ran into another woman. Older this time, with short light brown hair and a sharp face she looked surprised at their collision.

“Now where are you going, young man?” she asked sternly but with concern in her voice.

Stepping back so she let down her guard, Michael then darted around her and into the corridor. He had never seen a place so white and clean, pausing for a moment the call from inside the room reminded him he had to get away.

“Catch him,” the first woman snapped.

Michael saw two men in the same green outfit coming towards him. Glancing back the first woman stood with two more men appearing behind her. Taking a chance, he began to run the way he had been going, hoping he could dodge through the men but misjudged. Two of the men seized his arms, while the other two his legs. Michael struggled, fighting against them, crying out as the grips on his limbs tightened.

“Enough,” the second woman’s voice rang out, “Put him down now.”

“Ma’am….”

“Did I stutter?” the woman snapped, “I said put that child down. Gently.”

Terrified Michael huddled against the wall the moment the four men released him. They moved away and suddenly the second woman was kneeling at his side.

“It’s alright,” she soothed, stroking his hair while her other hand rested on his arm, “You’re safe I promise.”

Unable to stop shaking he continued to huddle into himself.

“Michael,” she called softly, “Look at me. Come on, little one, look at me.”

Slowly Michael raised his head, and he found himself staring into kind brown eyes.

“I will not let anything happen to you,” she promised, “Now, get up off this cold floor and I will explain to you where you are.”

Knowing he couldn’t get away from here right now, Michael slowly stood. He edged as close as he could to the kind woman, who rested her hand on his shoulder, without getting too close. Once back in the room, Michael slid back onto the bed and stared in confusion as the woman fussed over him. She plumped the pillow up behind him, finding socks for his feet and ensuring he put them on then she covered him with the blanket, adding another one after a few moments.

“Are you nice and cosy?” she asked.

Michael nodded warily.

“Good,” she gave him a warm smile, “Now, I should introduce myself, shouldn’t I?”

He simply stared at her not sure what she was going to say.

“My name is Mary Xavier,” she smiled again and squeezed his shoulder gently, “And from now on, I am going to look after you.”

 Mary studied the boy in front of her, hoping he didn’t see how angry she was with the idiot staff. For people who treated many of the children brought to be Time Masters, you would think they would know how to calm them.

“Where am I?” Michael asked, his fear and confusion plain in his voice even though she could tell he was trying to sound brave.

Taking a seat on the bed at his side, Mary took the little boy’s hand, “This is a Medical Facility…” she stopped remembering where he’d come from, “It’s where people who are sick come and are given medicine to feel better.”

“I’m not sick.”

Mary smiled at the defensive pout, gently stroking his hair again, “Not exactly but you were. And it probably made it hard to breathe a lot of the time,” seeing him reluctantly nod, Mary continued, “We have very special medicines which we gave to you so that you can breathe easier.”

“When can I leave?” he demanded.

Knowing this was a delicate moment, Mary took a quick breath, “Well, you still need more medicine so will have to stay here for a while. And afterwards you will come to my home where you will learn amazing things with the other children I look after.”

She saw interest in his eyes, but his face set in a stubborn frown.

“Why would I come with you?”

“Because you are very special, Michael,” Mary told him, “You are wonderfully smart, you see things other people don’t, in a way they can’t, and I bet you like solving puzzles.”

He gave a half-shrug making Mary smile.

“You were brought here so that your talents can be used for good things,” she continued, “To protect people in a way you never thought possible.”

“I can’t go home?” he asked.

Mary stroked his hair again, “Michael, what is there for you back home?”

He opened his mouth before he shrugged.

“You can go home if you want,” Mary told him, even though she knew the Time Masters would never allow it, “But with me then you will have a warm bed every night and a full belly every day.”

“What do I have to do?” Michael demanded warily.

Mary’s heart broke wondering how such a young child saw a world where he only got good things from someone if he did something for them. Where there was no one he could trust.

“You have to study hard, follow the house rules and do basic chores,” she told him, “The same as everyone in the house.”

The unsure expression covered the boy’s face again and Mary gently squeezed his shoulder again.

“Why don’t you get some sleep and we can talk about it again later,” she said, “You’ve still got some time before you’re well enough to be released.”

He yielded to her gentle urging to lie down again. Mary tucked him into the bed and placed a soft kiss on his forehead.

“Do you need anything?”

“Will you be here when I wake up?” Michael whispered, looking anywhere but her eyes.

Mary nodded with a comforting smile, “I will be here, little one. I promise.”

Relief flitted over his face before he closed his eyes and cuddled into his pillows. Mary stroked the boy’s hair and gently sung to him until she was sure he was fast asleep.

Now she had to deal with the idiots working here.

                                 *********************************************

 “Good morning, Katya,” Mary greeted the nurse who was now caring for Michael.

Katya beamed, “Good morning, Mother.”

Opening her arms, Mary hugged the young woman she had raised from five years old.

“It’s good you’re here,” Katya said as they started walking, “He tried to escape last night.”

Mary frowned, “How many times is this?”

“Six,” Katya chuckled, “He’s getting more inventive. This time he stole one of the other nurses’ key cards and hid in the food trolley. Nearly made it the entrance.”

Mary smiled slightly, “He is as smart as the tests showed.”

“I think it might be time he’s told where he is,” Katya said, “He’s stronger than he was and has spent enough time in the Medical Centre with our technology. I think he can deal with the information.”

“I’ll talk with Doctor Evans,” Mary said, “But I’ll come and see our escape artist first.”

Katya laughed, “He’s still to have breakfast so I will see you there.”

Mary nodded and headed to Michael’s room. She knocked on the door and waited a moment before walking in. It was the deal she had made with him that she would never just walk into his room.

“Good morning, Michael,” Mary said, finding him sitting on the bed staring sullenly at the wall.

“Morning,” he muttered, only because Mary had given him into trouble for not answering with words the second morning she’d visited.

Ignoring the greeting, Mary placed the bag she had with her on the bed and pulled out the fresh clothes, books and games she’d brought for him today.

Michael had been in the Medical Centre for three weeks now. Mary visited him every day and, now she had ensured Katya was taking care of him, he seemed slightly less afraid. That hadn’t stopped him from trying to break out though.

“I hear that you took a small trip last night,” Mary said as she took the seat beside the bed.

Michael shrugged, “Wanted a walk.”

She frowned slightly before stroking his hair, even though he tried not to show it, Mary knew he liked the affectionate touch.

“You know that leaving here alone is not safe for you,” Mary told him, “Don’t you?”

He frowned, chin dropping defiantly.

“Michael, when I ask a question,” Mary said sternly, “You answer me.”

“I know, Miss Xavier,” he said softly.

“Look at me,” Mary ordered, pleased that two wide green eyes turned on her blinking as he tried to hold back tears, “I know that you’ve looked after yourself for a long time, Michael but you’re not alone anymore. Now, Katya is going to bring you breakfast. It is all to be eaten and no stealing anything from her. I need to speak to the doctor.”

“Will you be back?”

Leaning over, Mary kissed the top of his head, “I’ll only be a few minutes.” As she opened the door, she found Katya with Michael’s breakfast, “I’ve had a talk with him.”

Katya smiled and started extoling the virtues of the breakfast she’d brought while she took the tray over to Michael. Mary closed the door leaving them for the moment.

 Michael glanced up at Katya when she placed the tray on the table in front of him.

“Is she angry at me?” he asked quietly.

Katya sat on the bed beside him, “A little but it’s only because she worries. Leaving the Medical Centre alone is not safe, Michael.”

Picking up the bowl of oatmeal, Michael began to eat. He’d been told off for eating too fast the first morning so while Katya watched over him ate slowly.

“I don’t like it here,” Michael said suddenly.

Katya chuckled, “I know but you still need medicine. And I hope I’m not bad company.”

A small smile touched his lips at Katya’s teasing.

Catching his smile, she gently nudged his shoulder, “Okay, you finish breakfast then I will do your morning checks. Then we can look at what you’ve been brought today.”

Michael tried not to let her see how excited that made him, but he loved that he had so many books to explore. He’d taught himself how to read and was lucky that the owner of the old bookstore would let him look at books sometimes. He also helped Michael if he wasn’t sure what a word meant.

Katya had taken on that role and she would sit with him while he read or played some of the games, helping him with words and things he didn’t know or understand.

A knock came on the door and after a moment Miss Xavier walked in again. Michael grimaced for a moment before realising she didn’t look angry. Instead she was smiling.

“You need to eat up,” she told him, “And then get dressed. We’re going on a small trip.”

Fear filled him, “Where are we going?”

“The doctor has agreed that you are allowed to come with me to the Refuge for a few hours today,” Miss Xavier told him, “I can show you were you will be staying once you leave here.”

Michael wanted to like her, wanted to trust that she really cared about him, but he’d spent far too long fending for himself. Everyone he’d ever trusted before now had turned on him, leaving him in the dirt.

“Finish eating,” Katya said, “We’ll do your checks quickly then you can go see the Refuge. You know it’s where I grew up.”

Surprised he blurted out, “You did?”

Miss Xavier nodded, “Katya was much younger than you when she came to me. And I am so proud that she grew up to care for people. It’s why I asked that she look after you, Michael.”

“Eat up and you can get out of this room faster,” Katya encouraged.

With a slight grimace Michael began to eat again, deciding he could use this trip to find a way to get away from this place.

Even if he did quite like Miss Xavier.

 Mary fixed the collar of Michael’s jacket before satisfied that he was presentable.

“Alright, Michael,” she said gently, “I want you to stay close to me. Once we leave the building there will be a lot of people around and I don’t want you getting lost.”

She saw a small glint appear in his eyes at that, grateful that she had placed a tracker in his shoes. It wasn’t something she would usually approve of but the little boy walking at her side had already shown a tendency to try to run away. Considering where he was from, and that the world he was about to step into was completely outside his sphere of knowledge, Mary wanted to ensure he was safe.

They reached the entrance hall to the Medical Centre and Mary felt Michael edge closer to her at all the strange people milling around. She held out her hand to him.

“Just until we get outside?” Mary suggested.

Hesitantly he slid his small hand into hers and Mary squeezed comfortingly. As they walked out of the building, she had to admit she wasn’t ready for his reaction.

Michael stalled as they entered the space port, there were several small ships moving around the docked vessels, and he stared at them wide-eyed for several seconds. Screaming suddenly, he pulled away throwing himself against building and curling into a ball.

“Michael,” Mary crouched beside him, “It’s okay.”

“Monsters,” Michael cried, “Flying monsters.”

Mary smiled comfortingly, “They’re not monsters. You’ve seen ships on the river, haven’t you?”

He nodded.

“That’s all they are,” she soothed, “Just ships but instead of the river they sail through the sky.”

Michael chewed his lip for a moment before asking, “How?”

“That is a longer conversation than we should have here,” Mary laughed softly, “But it’s how we’re getting to the Refuge so you can see for yourself.”

Taking his hand, Mary managed to coax the little boy off the floor and wrapped her arm around his shoulders leading him to the small ship.

 Michael couldn’t stop shaking as he looked around the strange place he was in. London was big but he knew it. This world with ships that could fly was so incredible and he held onto Miss Xavier tightly.

“Just in here,” Miss Xavier said gently as he hesitated when they reached the ship that would take them to what she called the Refuge.

Slowly he stepped inside, staring around but didn’t get a chance to look at much as Miss Xavier drew him to a chair. He sat and watched her fasten the strange belts around him before she took a seat at his side. The jerk of the entire room and the sudden strange noises made him jump.

“You can hold my hand again if you want,” she said offering it to him.

Michael grabbed her hand, not caring at that moment that he was trying not to like her too much. The trip didn’t take long, and Michael allowed Miss Xavier to unbuckle him making sure he paid attention to what she did.

“Come on,” she held out her hand, “We don’t have all day.”

Taking it Michael watched the doors opened and stared in amazement.

“Are we in a park?” he asked as Miss Xavier moved him forward.

She laughed, “No. This is part of the Refuge. Come on, the house is just along the path.”

Michael couldn’t stop his head spinning from side to side as he looked around a world he had never imagined. He would go to the park every now and then, but it never looked as green as this. It had never smelled as nice as this did either.

There were children everywhere, many of them waved and called hello to Miss Xavier all of them calling her ‘Mother.’

But no one came near them.

 Mary was relieved her older children were keeping the younger ones in check and leaving her alone with Michael. She loved all her children but any time a new resident joined them Mary tried to have at least half a day alone with them to get the child acquainted with the house and with her. It also let them settle in a little.

Michael was a different case and Mary wanted to let him get to know what was going to be his new home a little more slowly. Let him ease into it.

The boy’s eyes were wide as he stared at everything, getting wider as they entered the house. Leading him into the kitchen Mary sat him down with some milk and a cookie.

“What do you think of my house?” she asked sitting across from him with a cup of tea.

“S’nice,” Michael gave a half shrug.

Forcing herself not to smile too much, Mary took a sip of tea, “Well, normally when someone joins the house. I would let them spend some time in the gardens and exploring the grounds maybe even going for a swim. But the doctor has told me that you’re not ready to be running around yet.”

Michael stared at her, waiting for whatever she was going to say.

“I thought we could bake some cakes for everyone,” Mary smiled at him, “You can take some back with you to the Medical Centre.”

He gave one of his small shrugs that Mary had become used to seeing in the past few weeks. The ones that he used to try and keep that invisible wall between them. Mary of course was intent on breaking through that and one day he would hug her first.

Finishing her tea, Mary started to pull out everything she needed to make cakes and set them out on the counter. Finally, she found the stepping stool she had to allow Michael to reach the counter.

“Alright,” she motioned him to join her and handed him the apron, “Put that on and we’ll start.”

Michael looked at her confused making her laugh.

“It’s so your clothes don’t get too dirty,” Mary told him, as she fixed the apron on him before patting his cheek, “So, how about we make chocolate cake first?”

 Michael remembered watching the bakers making cakes some mornings, and how amazing the street would smell outside as they did. He tried not to be but was fascinated as he watched Miss Xavier measure out everything.

“Alright,” she handed him the bowl and a wooden spoon, “Time to start mixing.”

“What?”

She chuckled, “Did you think you weren’t going to do any work here? Mix that while I start on the cookies.”

Taking the spoon, Michael started trying to mix the ingredients around grunting that it wasn’t moving easily.

“Just keep going,” Miss Xavier told him, “You will find that things that are hard to do are almost always worth it.”

Grimacing at her, Michael tried to mix it a little more sighing as it still wasn’t working.

“You know,” Miss Xavier said softly, “If it’s too hard for you…”

“No,” Michael said quickly not wanting her to think he was weak, “I can do it.”

Turning back to the bowl, he started mixing the ingredients again with determination. Surprised when suddenly it started to get easier to mix and became smooth.

“Well done,” Miss Xavier smiled taking the bowl back, “You’re a natural at this.”

Pride filled him and he gave her a small smile back. Miss Xavier poured the mixture into a big tin before she put it in the oven.

“Now for the fun bit,” she told him, “You’re going to take a bit of the dough I’ve just made, roll it into a ball in your hand and then flatten it on the tray. Okay?”

Michael slowly followed her as she took a bit of the dough, rolling it into a ball. Placing it on the tray as instructed he paused and looked at her.

“Like this,” she said and squashed the ball she’d made until it was a circle.

Michael smiled as he pushed the ball down, it took several tries but soon he’d managed to get it flat enough.

“Well done,” Miss Xavier chuckled, “Now, let’s keep going and get these in the oven too.”

It took them some time to get them all done but finally they had two trays and slid them into the oven with the cake.

 Mary turned back to Michael after they made a few more cakes seeing him trying to stifle a yawn, she’d been told he would tire easily.

“Come on,” she told the boy, “I have something else to show you.”

Michael followed her out the kitchen, and she gently rested her arm around his shoulders guiding him up the stairs. She led him to the room that would be his when he joined them and opened the door.

Michael looked inside before looking up at her suspiciously, “Who sleeps here?”

“Well,” she said softly, “This will be your room when you move here.”

“Just me?”

Mary nodded, “Of course, everyone has their own room in the house. Which I expect to be kept clean at all times.”

A confused frown touched his face as he looked around suspiciously.

“I thought you’d like this room. It has a good view,” Mary told him before she added, “And it used to be Katya’s room.”

She smiled at the interested look that information sparked, which meant he didn’t resist as she moved him inside and to the window.

“Here, you can see lake,” Mary pointed it out, “And a lot of the gardens.”

Michael stood and looked out the window before looking around the room. The entire room had been cleaned and repainted freshly ready for a new occupant as its former one was now at the Academy. All it had was a bed, which Mary had ensured was made, a desk with a chair, a bookshelf and a wardrobe.

“Why don’t you lie down for a while?” Mary suggested, touching his shoulder again.

“M’fine,” Michael muttered fighting against a yawn.

Mary smiled and gently stroked his hair back from his face, “I know you’re fine, but the doctor will give me a row if they think I didn’t let you rest.”

“I don’t want you to get into trouble,” Michael murmured, “I could lie down for a little while.”

“Take your shoes off,” Mary told him, “And get under the covers so you don’t get cold.”

With only the slightest of grumbles, Michael climbed into the bed and allowed her to cover him.

“I’ll be down in the kitchen once you’ve had your rest,” Mary said, gently stroking the boy’s hair again watching his eyes close. Once she was sure Michael was fast asleep, Mary gently kissed his forehead, “Sleep well, little one. You’re safe here.”

His only response was to snuggle deeper into his pillow as Mary left him to sleep.

 Michael looked around the street, he could hear footsteps but didn’t know where they were coming from. Starting to walk he heard them follow him. Michael began to run, trying to get away from the person following him, he knew they wanted to hurt him.

No matter where he ran, the person followed. Michael began to panic as the streets he knew well became a maze, with things in the wrong place.

Suddenly he saw the factory, where he could get into places no adult could and would be safe. Just as he reached the entrance, a hand grabbed his shoulder yanking him back.

“Got you now,” a voice growled.

Michael screamed, struggling to get away he was dragged further and further away into the darkness as his captor laughed.

“Michael,” a soft voice called, and he was wrapped in a tight embrace and rocked. Confused he tried to get away until the gentle voice managed to penetrate the nightmare, “You’re safe, little one.”

“Miss…Miss…” he gulped in several breaths.

“It’s alright, little one,” she continued to rock him, “I’m here and you’re safe. You’re safe here I promise.”

Caught up in how wonderful it felt to be hugged, and how safe he felt, Michael forgot to pull away and sank into the warmth of her embrace.

“That’s my boy,” Miss Xavier murmured, stroking his hair as she rocked him, “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

 Mary had been worried when she heard the scream from Michael’s room and rushed in to find him thrashing about, fighting with something in his sleep. Thankfully, when he realised where he was Michael allowed her to comfort him.

While she hugged the little boy, Mary wondered how long it had been since this child had been held in a comforting embrace. After several minutes, Michael suddenly remembered he wasn’t supposed to be getting close to her.

“Why don’t you wash your face,” Mary suggested when he pulled away, “And meet me downstairs. Our cakes and cookies are ready for us to decorate them.”

Leaving him in the room, Mary smiled because even for a few moments she’d managed to get him to let down his defences. However, she didn’t like that he was having nightmares and worried they weren’t being dealt with at the centre, she would check that when she took him back.

Once she reached the kitchen Mary pulled out the supplies for decorating and set them up on the table. A few minutes later Michael appeared at the door looking pale and uncertain.

“Come on,” Mary motioned him to the table, “We don’t have long before you have to get back, so we need to ice the cake and cookies we made.”

The little boy joined her, and Mary put him to work with the icing pens. Stepping back, Mary watched him as he concentrated on decorating the cookie in front of him. She still had a lot of work to do before he would learn to trust her.

But today had been a good start.

                                 *********************************************

 Michael sat on the bed in the room in the Medical Centre thinking about his trip to Miss Xavier’s house, the one they told him he was going to stay in when he left here. It had been so completely different than anywhere he’d ever been and, despite himself, he had liked it.

He didn’t want to, but he was beginning to like Miss Xavier. She was kind and seemed genuinely to care about him, but he didn’t understand why she would. No one else ever did.

He had no memories of his mother and a very vague one of a man he assumed was his father walking away. A knock on the door made him turn and Michael forced himself not to smile when Miss Xavier stood there.

“Good afternoon, Michael,” she said as she walked over to his side, her hand coming up to gently brush his hair, “How are you today?”

“Okay,” he replied softly, “How are you?”

She gave him a smile, “I’m very well. Now, I brought you a new book to read but you’re also going to have a visitor.”

Michael wanted to ask but didn’t want her to know he was interested, thankfully Miss Xavier wasn’t expecting anything from him.

“Now, I will be here with you the entire time,” she continued, “So if you want him to leave you tell me. Alright?”

Worry filled him, “Why would I want him to leave?”

Miss Xavier took his hand, “He is coming to explain why you were brought here and I know that it will be a great deal of information that might be a little overwhelming.”

Looking down at their hands for a moment, Michael nodded.

“Okay then,” she placed a kiss on the top of his head before she let go of his hand and moved to the door. Michael watched as she spoke to someone just outside. All he could make out was the person was tall and felt relieved that Miss Xavier was staying.

“Michael,” she stepped back into the room, followed by a man who towered over her and looked slightly familiar, “This is Zaman Druce.”

Staring at the tall man, Michael finally said, “I know you.”

Druce nodded, “I was the one who caught you before you fell off the docks.”

“Oh,” Michael said, frowning slightly as a memory tried to catch his attention but it disappeared suddenly, “Thanks.” He paused for a moment before asking, “Why are you here?”

Druce nodded slightly before he said, “I’m going to talk to you about why I brought you here and didn’t leave you back in London.”

Michael turned to Miss Xavier who sat on the bed at his side. Nervously he slid his hand under hers.

“It’s alright, Michael,” she said softly, taking hold of his hand, “I’m right here.”

Assured she had a hold of him, he turned back to Druce, “Why did you?”

“You are very special, Michael,” Druce stated, “Despite where you were living, your intelligence is exceedingly high. Now you’re here then you will be trained to use that in ways you never thought possible.”

“What he means,” Miss Xavier took over, “Is that he brought you here so that you can use your gifts to help people.”

“Thank you, Miss Xavier,” Druce frowned before he continued, “We are called Time Masters and we are charged with a solemn duty of policing the timeline to ensure it remains safe from all threats.”

Miss Xavier patted Michael’s hand, “We’ll be right back,” she said before motioning Druce outside. The door didn’t close properly, and Michael moved closer to listen in.

“He is a child,” Miss Xavier snapped, “A very scared and confused child who has had his entire world changed recently. Try to remember that while you talk to him.”

“I am aware of his age,” Druce replied, “But he is also in the top five percent…”

“I know,” Miss Xavier cut him off, “I know exactly how intelligent that boy is. He is brilliant, and he will do incredible things once he has been trained. But for now, he is ten years old and from Victorian London. Gauge your information to what he understands here and now.” She paused for a moment before adding, “I assume you are intending to sponsor him.”

“That is why I came.”

“Then treat him as a mentor,” Miss Xavier told him sharply, “He is not a cadet being given a lecture. Talk to him, not at him.”

 Mary took a quick breath before she turned back to the room seeing Michael scramble back to sit against the pillows. She gave him a comforting smile as she took her seat at his side again. Offering her hand to him, happy when he took it.

“Michael,” Druce said as he entered the room again, “I brought you here so that you can learn amazing things, and to let you help people in a way you never would have been able to before.”

Mary watched the flicker of interest in the boy’s eyes.

“Once you’re deemed to be healthy,” Druce continued, “Then Miss Xavier will take you to the Refuge, I believe you’ve already seen it.”

Michael nodded slightly.

“After you’re settled,” Druce continued, “Then I will show you the Time Master Academy and precisely why you were chosen to become one of us.”

Mary watched Michael closely as he processed this, relieved when he simply nodded again.

“Time Master Druce has to return to work now,” Mary said, dismissing him, “But he will visit you again.”

Druce frowned at her before he smiled slightly at the little boy, “Behave for Miss Xavier and I will see you soon, Michael.”

With that said he left the room. Mary rolled her eyes slightly at him. Turning back to the boy sitting on the bed she gave him a warm smile.

“What’s wrong?” she asked softly at Michael’s puzzled face.

“Is it true?”

“What?”

He bit his lip for a moment, “That I can help people? That I will be something good.” He paused for a moment before reciting, “That I’m not just a piece of street trash and no one will ever care if I live or die.”

“Oh, Michael,” Mary cupped his cheek making him look at her, “You are not trash and you are going to make a huge difference in this world. You will help people more than anyone will ever know. You will do magnificent things.”

Surprised that he was letting her see him this vulnerable, Mary wrapped Michael in her arms and held him.

                                 *********************************************

 “Today is the day,” Katya said as she walked in the room where Michael was trying to work out how to pack all the things he had into the small bag, “You’re leaving me.”

Michael shrugged slightly, “You can come visit.”

“You know that sounds like a good idea, especially since I hear you’re getting my old room,” Katya chuckled.

Before he could answer the knock came on the door letting them know that Miss Xavier had arrived.

“Good morning, Michael,” she gave him a warm smile, “Katya.”

“Hello, Mother,” Katya hugged her, before stepping back, “I will leave you to finish packing and see you before you leave, Michael.”

As Katya left, Miss Xavier stepped over to the bed and shook her head, “This is not very well done, is it? How about we repack and then we can go.”

Michael stood and watched as she unpacked everything before repacking the case perfectly, he gave a slight frown and Miss Xavier patted his cheek.

“I’ll teach you another time how to pack properly,” she told him, picking up the jacket from the bed and handing it to him.

Sliding it on, he took the small bag walking out the room for the last time.

Reaching the reception, he saw Katya standing waiting for them. She crouched and pulled him into her arms. Michael froze for a second before he relaxed into the hug. Katya had been so good to him for the past few months, looked after him, read with him and made him laugh.

“Okay,” Katya said as she pulled back, “I need you to promise me that you will listen to Mother…Miss Xavier. She is going to make rules that you might not like but they are for your safety.”

He nodded before asking quietly, “Will you visit?”

Katya smiled, “Of course I will. Give me another hug.”

 Mary watched Michael hug Katya, happy to see that she had made such a positive impression on the little boy.

“It’s time to go to the transport, Michael,” Mary spoke up.

Katya gave Michael another quick squeeze. Letting him go she smiled, “I’ll see you both soon.”

She watched the little boy take a deep breath when they reached the exit, obviously still nervous about the world outside the centre.

“You can take it,” Mary offered her hand, “If you want. I won’t tell anyone.”

Michael didn’t look at her but took her hand, allowing her to lead him to the transport. She was relieved that she wouldn’t have to come back here to see him. Although it was slightly easier now to get him onboard since they’d made the trip a few times, Michael was still nervous, and Mary could feel him squeezing her hand tightly.

They reached the Refuge and Mary led her new charge to the house. Now he’d been here a few times he knew where everything was and instantly started upstairs to his room.

“Alright,” Mary said as they stepped into the room and she placed a bag on the bed, “Now that you’re here permanently, it’s time we go over the rules.”

She instantly saw a spark of rebellion in his eyes, but Michael said nothing.

“Number one, you will keep your room tidy,” Mary told him, “Number two, you will do any, and all, chores you are assigned when you are meant to do them. There is a chart in the kitchen which you have been added to. Number three, all the other children here are now your siblings and I expect you to treat them with respect. Any disagreements are worked out with words, and nothing else.”

Michael was silent for a moment before he asked, “Is that all?”

“No,” Mary replied, “I expect you to follow all these rules, Michael but I promise you that no matter what you will never be sent to sleep without your dinner. And you will never be sent away.”

He dropped his eyes.

“Michael,” Mary said sternly, “Please look at me.”

Slowly he raised his head until his eyes met hers.

“This is your home now,” she told him, stroking his hair, “You are always welcome here and, if you apply yourself, as well as keep out of trouble, then you will be able to go to the Time Master Academy. There you will be able to use that brilliant mind of yours to be the amazing person I know you’ll become.” Silence sat between them for a few minutes before Mary kissed the top of his head, “Unpack your things and set up the room the way you want to. Dinner will be in one hour and I expect you to be in the dining room on time to eat with us all.”

Just as she was about to leave Michael asked, “What if I’m not?”

“I told you,” she said, “You will never go hungry, Michael but if you don’t join us for dinner then you don’t get the full dinner. Instead there will be a sandwich for you to eat.”

Michael nodded, “I’ll be there for dinner.”

Mary gave a small smile and kissed the top is his head, “Welcome home, Michael.”

[truecrimesposts]

Blueprint for Murder

Kemi Adeyoola

On June 28 2006, 18-year-old Kemi Adeyoola, daughter of a multi millionaire, was sentenced to the murder of an elderly woman after an incriminating 'blueprint' was discovered. The blueprint was written during her stint in a young offenders institution. The plan? A truly 'fiendish' crime, brutally stabbing 84 year old Anne Mendel 14 times. She was convicted at the Old Bailey yesterday and sentenced today to a recommended minimum of a least 20 years behind bars.

No one could understand why this twisted teen targeted elderly Anne Mendel, they were neighbours for a short time in North London. On first meeting Anne Mendel the first thing that you'd notice would be her size, at around 7 stone and barely 4 foot 10 she was a small woman who had spent her whole life helping others.

Kemi Adeyoola was her complete opposite. She was working at the time as a £500 a night prostitute and had served time for shoplifting. The 'blueprint for murder' that she was later found to have written while she was in a young offenders' institution was over 18 pages long, and detailed her plan to make £3 million by killing a 'wealthy, quite elderly and defenceless' victim.

The blueprint was actually discovered in her cell while she was still in the institution, but all that was done to protect te outside world was the creation of a council monitoring team to supervise her for three months after her release. But unfortunately psychiatrists decided that Kemi wasn't a risk to the public and tragically less than a month after the supervision ended, Anne Mendel was dead.

81 year old Leonard Mendel, Anne's husband, found Anne Mendel wearing blood soaked pyjamas and pink dressing gown, with a pile of clothes thrown on top of her.

Kemi who is the daughter of a property tycoon worth around £10 million, faces a life sentence. After this verdict those closely following the case stated that they believed that she was 'born to kill' and that she was a 'supremely arrogant phschopath with a total disregard for humanity'.

Kemi has since been disowned by her father Bola Adeyoola, he stated:

'Nobody is born evil but what she did was evil. She is no longer my daughter. I will never see her again, and don't want her anywhere near me. I regret the day I ever met her mother. When I saw Mrs Mendel's picture I started crying. As a Christian, I can't believe anyone would do that.'

Mr Adeyoola, a 49 year old former boxer who lived in a £2 million Berkshire home with his latest wife, had previously given his daughter free accommodation in the home as well as a £140 a week job.

Discussing this he said, 'She was staying with me until a month before the murder, when I found out she had been shoplifting. I do wonder wether this woman would still be alive if I hadn't kicked her out. At first I couldn't accept that somebody with my blood in her veins could do this to anyone - but then I saw the evidence. She should rot in hell.'

His marriage to Kemi's mother Mercuria lasted barely 4 years, and he had very little contact during the upbringing of his three children. Mercuria also has a fourth child from a different relationship.

She and her children moved to a succession of homes in places including Cheltenham and Peterborough, frequently alienating neighbours. While staying in one specific property in Gloucestershire, Kemi reportedly killed the goldfish in a neighbour's pond and blamed it on a cat.

The teenage killer briefly boarded at £23,000-a-year Wycliffe College. The independent school at Stonehouse in the Cotswolds prides itself on its academic and sporting achievements, but Kemi only lasted a few months because of a row over who was paying her fees.

The family then moved to Elmcroft Road in Golders Green for several months, living next to Mr and Mrs Mendel.

The elderly couple had been married for 50 years and lived a quiet, rewarding life. They had two children, and 14 grandchildren and great grandchildren.

Their son Yitzhak appealed for help after his mother's murder said 'My mother spent every day of her week performing good deeds and charity work. She devoted her whole life to visiting the sick, helping friends and neighbours and bringing a smile to everyone she knew - even complete strangers.'

In her youth Anne Mendel had worked as a hospital secretary and joined the Army during the Second World War, helping to track German bombers blitzing the East End of London.

While living beside Anne Mendel, Kemi locked herself out of her home and was quickly allowed into Anne's home. Anne Mendel did this despite the fact that neighbours reported Kemi subjecting residents nearby to a 'reign of terror'. Reportedly abusing young children, harassing neighbours due to their race and even smearing excrement on windows.

A resident who wanted to remain anonymous stated, "She gave a lot of trouble to one particular family. Once she lay in wait for the man, an Asian, behind a bush and punched him in the face, breaking his nose. She called his wife a "Paki lover". He said she tried to poison his dog as well.' Kemi was later arrested for this.

Other neighbours recall Mr Adeyoola sometimes turning up in his Rolls Royce to see his children, but the visits were brief and infrequent.

Kemi pretty much ignored her and by the time that she was 15 she had already fallen into bad habits. She was stealing frequently from high Street stores. She told the jury when in court that it was a skill and explained how she became adept at changing receipts to get refunds for these stolen goods.

However her arrogance outweighed her skill it seems, as after a string of convictions found herself finally facing a custodial sentence.

Her self-obsession continued and she reportedly talked to one of her siblings bragging about her acting talents when she was questioned by a youth worker. She said that she wept, mumbled and arched her back in an attempt to convince her of her 'innocence and vulnerability' to try and get herself a shorter sentence.

'It worked such a treat I could tell she was touched,' she wrote. 'I felt she sensed my anguish.'

However, her arrogance once again got in her way and she ended up at Bulwood Hall young offenders' institute in Essex for 3 months.

This young offenders institute is where she would craft her devious plan.

Her blueprint was discovered during a routine cell search, it was titled Prison and After - Making Life Again and included a shopping list and logged in detail her plan to kill dismember and dispose of a victim in pursuit of £3 million. The shopping list consisted of sharp knives or butchers knives, guns, drugs and handcuffs.

She imagined several different scenarios including stalking an elderly woman in a wealthy area, posing as a student carrying out a questionnaire.

'Run lightly and silently behind her and cover her mouth with a gloved hand,' she wrote. 'Make her so scared she co-operates. Keep calm, composed and silent. She must co-operate or take a knife to her throat. Tell her, "This is your only warning... With your butcher's knife, remove her head. Wrap it in film to contain bleeding, detach limbs one by one.'

When these writings were discovered she told her psychiatrists and prison staff that her notes were part of the draft of a novel. And incredibly, they believed her. The psychiatric assessment carried out after the document was discovered claimed that it 'did not indicate any concern that Miss Adeyoola would be pre-disposed in any way to this type of violence - nor was there any evidence of this type of violence in her past'. It described her as a 'highly intelligent and sophisticated young person . . . who with good support should make a good recovery and engage in her A level studies.' Kemi told a psychiatrist that she had accused 4 grade A GCSE's which they believed and said they felt it was a shame that she had been arrested.

However after her release in November 2004,1 education wasn't even on her radar. She moved into a flat with another teenager, telling the court that her job as an 'escort' easily paid for her £800 a month flat. She claimed that 'It is a completely legitimate and professional business. We earned up to £5,000 a week.'

In March 2005 her first month without any supervision at an end, Kemi turned her words into action.

Mr Mendel left the home for just an hour to pick up the plane tickets for their upcoming trip to Israel, and within this hour, Anne Mendel was dead. Kemi attacked the elderly woman in her home, inflicting deep wounds to the victims torso, right arm and blade with a blade that was proven to be at least 1 inch wide and 5 inches long.

A spokesman for the Barnet Youth Offending Team said: 'There was nothing in the file that would have predicted homicide. The psychiatric report did not predict any likely occurrence of this.'

Kemi appeared at her trial dressed in a pinstriped suit pink trainers and spangly belt, and she reportedly seemed completely unmoved by her crime. She was smiling and actually exchanging text messages during court recesses.

She lied to the police over the nature of the DNA evidence that had been found on Anne's body, claiming that she had actually visited the pensioner the day before the murder and that the elderly woman has scratched her hand as she helped her across the road.

Kemi then used a 16 year old girl, who can't be named, to try and construct herself an alibi for her brutal crime.

Detective Chief Inspector Steve Morris called her 'a callous and devious young woman', adding: 'Her cold, calculated use of extreme violence beggars belief.'

The police investigating the case believe that Kemi never intended to stop there. In fact, they believe that Anne Mendel may simply have been a 'dry run' before targeting a wealthier victim. Detective Sergeant Paul Belsham said: 'If she had got away with this then God knows what she might have done. She is very very dangerous.'

Mr Mendel, who has moved to Israel to live with his daughter, described his wife as someone 'whose life was taken up with kindness and giving up of herself to others The unjust end she met, having so much taken away in such an undeserving manner, left us in total shock.'

[honeypiehotchner]

Trust -- part thirty-five

It’s been a moment, hello! My mood took one of worse turns it has in a while the past couple weeks, but I think I’m back on track now (go to therapy, kids).

Also! I move into college in three weeks, and I won’t have as much free time. My goal is to finish this story before I move, though, so this is your warning that the end is near. Love you guys xx.

(Listen I don’t really like this part and idk if it’s my brain still in the weird mood or if it genuinely does suck, so be gentle lol)

“Sherlock,” you call, tucking your legs underneath you on the sofa.

           “Hm.”

           “When was the last time you went out?”

           He gives his violin a strange look – he’s tuning it before he plays – but you know that look was meant for you if he wasn’t preoccupied. “What do you mean?”

           “A case,” you clarify for him. “When was the last time you and John went out on a case together?”

           “We just did a case last week.”

           “No, that wasn’t a case, that was a small outing and you solved it in five minutes,” you reply tiredly. “I mean an actual case.”

           “Oh,” he hums, lifting his violin to his chin. “I don’t know.”

           “I thought you didn’t like not knowing.”

           A glare is the next expression sent your way as he picks up his bow and begins to play. He’s been working on a waltz for John and Mary. He’s told them (promised, more like) he’ll play it for their first dance at the wedding, which, again you try not to think about the dreams you had. But it’s incredibly hard when life is appearing to imitate them in the smallest of ways.

           “I’m just saying,” you speak over his playing. “I think it’d be good if the two of you got out and did a case together.”

           The violin falls from his neck as he gives you a pointed stare. “What’s wrong?”

           “Nothing’s wrong,” you chuckle. “I just don’t want to be the reason you’re stuck in this flat for the rest of your life.”

           “You’re not,” he replies firmly, lifting his instrument once more. “If I wanted to leave, I would. My brother’s security won’t be reason to stop me.”

           “I know that,” you breathe. “Speaking of, if you were to go out, I’m sure Mycroft would send an extra guard. Or I could ask Mary to come over. Speaking of Mary, what time did they say they were coming over?”

           “Noon,” comes Sherlock’s short reply.

           It’s barely ten now. This is one of the rare mornings where you and Sherlock are actually awake in the morning.

           “Well,” you heave out a sigh, standing to your feet. “I’m going to get dressed. Try not to make the waltz minor. I can hear it drifting that way.”

           You’re not trying to annoy Sherlock necessarily, but you’d be lying if you said you aren’t trying to push his buttons a little more.

           He’s been cooped up in this flat with you for two weeks now. Yes, you’ve gone out occasionally, but after one instance of cameras swarming the two of you in a café, you’ve kept the outings to a bare minimum. The “case” last week was less hectic, you’re assuming because reporters didn’t want Lestrade arresting them, but it was short lived.

           You’ve both become somewhat of a celebrity couple since returning from the hospital. It became known that Sherlock and his girlfriend – that’s you, even though, again, you and Sherlock still haven’t discussed labels – investigated and brought down a religious cult right here in London.

           The case alone was intriguing enough for people to praise Sherlock, but throw in the fact that this seemingly emotionless human being has a romantic partner? Everyone is all over that now, and it hasn’t died down like John had hoped.

           Which is why Mycroft still has security stationed at the bottom of the stairs, and eyes all on Baker Street at all times. You’re – meaning you and Sherlock – are no longer allowed to take cabs. Mycroft has a driver – his name is Ed, he’s nice – for the both of you and that is how you are supposed to get around. You think the only reason Sherlock doesn’t protest is because he knows how much of a concern your safety is – especially to him.

           But still. You and Mary have been talking. Even John is a little antsy. The wedding planning is in the final stages, and the last thing really to tackle is seating and fitting for the bridesmaid dresses. Mary has her wedding dress, John has his tux, as does Sherlock, but the bridesmaids – you included as Maid of Honor – don’t. You’ve got the color, at least.

           The point is, you and Mary have seen that both of your boys need to go out and work a case together. Just to get them out. And to give you two some girl time, but that’s irrelevant. You need to get them out of the house again, like they used to do.

           And you’ve got a plan.

~~~

“Need to work on your half of the church, Mary. Looking a bit thin.”

           You roll your eyes at Sherlock’s statement as Mary answers him. “Ah, orphan’s lot. Friends, that’s all I have. Lots of friends.”

           You reach over and squeeze her hand gently, earning a small smile. Mary’s past has always been a sore subject, and one that isn’t brought up often – except by Sherlock, in moments like these.

           “We should have the organ music to begin at precisely 11:48—”

           “But the rehearsal’s not for another two weeks, just calm down.”

           “Calm? I am calm. I’m extremely calm.”

           “Sherlock, love,” you chime in, ignoring the way your brother’s eyebrows raise at your use of the word love. “I’ve never seen you more stressed. Just – take a deep breath.”

           “Let’s get back to the reception, come on,” Mary suggests, ushering him over.

           You nod your head, urging him to join her. You sit curled up in his chair with a book, planning to help Mary after Sherlock and John leave, but of course neither of them know they’re going to be leaving just yet.

           “John’s cousin, top table?”

           Sherlock scrunches his nose. “Hm. Hates you. Can’t even bear to think about you.”

           “Seriously?”

           “Second-class post. Cheap card. Bought at a petrol station. Look at the stamp. Three attempts at licking. She’s obviously unconsciously retaining saliva.”

           “Aw, let’s stick her by the bogs.”

           “Oh yes.”

           You watch at Mary discreetly looks over her should, clearing her throat before asking, “Who else hates me?”

           And of course, Sherlock being Sherlock, he hands her a list.

           “Oh great, thanks.”

           You snicker at Mary’s way of dealing with family troubles, not that John cares either way. He’s been scrolling through his phone the entire time.

           “‘Priceless painting nicked.’ Looks interesting.”

           “Table four?” Mary continues.

           “Done,” Sherlock replies quickly.

           John chuckles. “‘My husband is three people.’”

           “Table five?”

           “Major James Sholto. Who he?”

           “Oh, John’s old commanding officer. I don’t think he’s coming.”

           Your ears perk up at the mention of him. You’ve always known John was in the military, but he never talks about it all that much. And he’s especially never mentioned an old commanding officer before.

           “He’ll be there,” John speaks up, so he’s clearly listening.

           “Well, he needs to RSVP, then,” Mary counters.

           “He’ll be there,” John assures her once more, still gazing at his phone.

           Sherlock looks about as confused as you feel. He’s clearly curious about this and you’re almost certain you’ll find him Googling Major Sholto later.

           “‘My husband is three people.’ It’s interesting.”

           You give John a strange look.

           “Says he has three distinct patterns of moles on his skin.”

           “Identical triplets. One in half a million births. Solved it without leaving the flat,” Sherlock speaks quickly as he suddenly stands and floats (as you like to say) down to the floor. “Now, serviettes. Swan or Sydney Opera House?”

           “Where’d you learn to do that?” Mary’s excitement and surprise is clearly written all over her face as Sherlock proudly displays the napkins. You even crane your neck to see.

           “Many unexpected skills required in the field of criminal investigation—”

           “Fibbing, love,” you call out, shaking your head.

           He sighs. “I once broke an alibi by demonstrating the exact severity of…”

           “We’re not John, we can tell when you’re fibbing,” Mary interrupts.

           “Okay, I learnt it on YouTube.”

           You snicker. “That’s more like it.”

           “Opera House, please,” Mary chooses, satisfied that she got the truth. “Oh, hang on, I’m buzzing.”

           Your eyebrows raise slightly. That’s the first code phrase.

           “Oh, hi, Beth!”

           And there’s the other.

           You close your book, standing and following Mary into the kitchen. Sherlock is too busy folding serviettes to notice you’ve gone, and you smack John lightly on the shoulder as you pass.

           “Yeah, yeah, I don’t see why not,” Mary continues the act.

           You stand over by the kettle, actually putting it on because you would like some tea, which gives you a plausible excuse for being in here.

           “Actually, if that’s Beth, it’s probably for me, too. Hang on.”

           John walks into the kitchen a second later, giving both you and Mary a tired look.

           “He knows we don’t have a friend called Beth. He’s gonna figure out that it’s code.”

           “He’s YouTubing serviettes,” Mary hisses.

           “He’s thorough.”

           “He’s terrified!”

           “Of course he’s not.”

           “He is,” you mutter from the kettle, looking up to John. “He is.”

           “Right, you know when you’re scared of something, you start wishing it sooner just to get it all going? That’s what he’s doing.”

           “Why would he be scared that we’re getting married?”

           You leave the couple to continue bickering, part of you wanting a small private moment with Sherlock while they’re occupied.

           You walk over to Sherlock where he’s quickly folding, and you make him pause, your hand smoothing over his shoulder. He turns his head to look up at you, his free hand bringing your knuckles to his lips.

           “Would you fold me a swan?” You ask.

           “Of course,” comes his reply, and you didn’t exactly mean for him to fold it for you right then, but he does, and a few seconds later, he’s handing you a swan.

           “Thank you,” you chuckle. “I love it.” You carry it gingerly over to the mantle and place it next to where he’s got something stabbed onto the wood. “What is it now, love?” Upon closer inspection you see it’s a note. “Another one?” You ask.

           Sherlock barely nods and hums.

           You sigh. “And how long has this one been up here?”

           “Two days.”

           “Where did you get it?”

           “Homeless network.”

           “Someone in your homeless network handed you a note with ‘I O U’ written on it? Are you joking?”

           “No,” Sherlock replies. “But Mycroft has them now.”

           “So, your brother knew, too,” you mutter. “Lovely.”

           “Don’t be cross. It’s only out of—”

           “Sherlock Holmes,” you turn around to glare at him. “If you tell me you’re trying to protect me, I’m going to throw you out that window.”

           He smirks as he stands, ushering you to come over to him, which you do. He’s like a damn magnet, this man.

           “No need to throw me out the window,” he murmurs, tilting your head back to look in his eyes. “I only didn’t want you to worry.”

           “You realize to me it seems like you’re keeping things from me.”

           “I apologize.”

           “Hm,” You fight back a smile. “Not good enough.”

           He hears what you’re implying, so he leans down, pressing his lips to yours. “Better?”

           You nod. “Better. One more.”

           He grants your wish, pressing a kiss to your lips once again, pulling your body up against his in a way that would promise something more if John and Mary weren’t in the kitchen.

           But they are, so you pull away, grinning. “I forgive you.”

           “Seriously?”

           “No,” you shake your head. “But you are a good kisser.”

           He hums again, getting interrupted by Mary practically shoving John out of the kitchen. Your older brother stumbles into the room, giving you and Sherlock a weird – but not disgusted for the first time – look.

           “Uh, kettle’s just boiled.”

           You nod. “I’ll go help Mary with the tea.”

           Leaving Sherlock and John in the living area, you disappear into the kitchen to help Mary with tea. When you round the corner, she’s sitting at the table, sipping tea and looking through a newspaper.

           “They’re talking,” you whisper. “Fingers crossed.”

           After a few minutes, Mary taps you on the arm. Time to see if they ever decided on anything.

           You wrap your hands around the warm mug, raising your eyebrows expectantly as Sherlock and John fumble through an explanation on where they’re heading.

           “Why don’t you go with socks?” You ask.

           “You’ve gotta get the right ones,” Mary adds, earning a serious nod from both men. “It’ll take a while, right?”

           “Yeah, my coat…”

           “In there,” you nod. You flash Sherlock a smile that he returns. “Have fun.”

           “Text me if you need me.”

           “Mary is going to be here with me, Sherlock. Go out and have fun. And don’t come back for a while. We need some girl time.”

           “Okay. The guard is just downstairs, and Mycroft—”

           “I know!” You laugh. “Now get out of here.”

           Sherlock and John disappear down the stairs for what seems like the first time in absolute ages. You and Mary let out of a shared sigh of relief as the front door closes.

           “Now,” Mary begins, giving you a look. “Now that he’s gone, I have to ask, how are you doing?”

           “I’m fine,” you reply, sipping your tea as you sit down on the couch. “Why do you ask?”

           “Well, with all this marriage talk, I just wondered how that head of yours was dealing,” she moves to sit next to you. “Have you mentioned it to him?”

           “No, God no,” you laugh. “We haven’t even talked about whether or not we’re ‘dating,’ which sounds ridiculous. The papers say I’m his girlfriend, but he and I haven’t even talked about it.”

           “I think it’s safe to say he is your boyfriend.”

           “It sounds so primary school when you say it like that,” you grimace.

           “Well the two of you act like you’re in primary school because you haven’t talked about it!”

           “Okay,” you give her a look. “I don’t mind that we haven’t talked about it.”

           “You don’t want clarity?”

           “Maybe?” You shrug. “And maybe when I do, I’ll ask him, but right now, I’m happy with where we are. I’m content just being with him.”

           “Alright,” she pats my leg. “I can tell he makes you happy. And I think John is coming around.”

           “I think so, too,” you smile. “Or I hope he is, at least.”

           “No, I think he is,” Mary nods firmly. “I’ve talked with him about it and I think he sees how protective Sherlock is and he values that. John wants someone that’ll keep you safe. And Sherlock does.”

           “I feel safer than I ever have when I’m with him,” you admit quietly. “I felt safe with Tony, sure, but never like this.”

           “And that’s what I like to hear,” she smiles brightly. “Now, what’s for lunch?”

           You sigh. “I might be able to convince the guard to let us out.”

           She grins, a bit mischievously. “Let’s do it.”

[redfoxwritesstuff]

The Things You Find (In the Rain) Chapter 2

Please thank @winterisakiller​ who’s reactions kept me writing. Nothing like outrage in response to angst to motivate me to make the words flow. You can find my master list with a quick search for ‘kit’s masterlist’.

Chapter warning: Excessive drinking

Chapter 2 is below:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“No.” Maggie whimpered as she backed down the hall. “No.”

“Maggie, I told you to-”

Blinded by tears, she groped at the table where she had set her things, picking up whatever ended up in her hand before rushing out the door. Panting breaths ripped out of her lungs as she ran down the hall. Panic welled within her heart as she pounded her palm onto the elevator’s down arrow.

It felt like she was running from a demon. There was no reason she had to fear Evan. He’d never hurt her. Would he? She would have said not even a day before that she would be forever loyal to her. Now? Did she know what he was capable of? She was wrong about this, what else was she wrong about? Would he hurt her? Could he?

In the hall behind her, the door to their suite opened and Evan called for her again as she pounded on the arrow as if it would somehow magically summon the elevator faster. The sound of his feet hitting the carpet grew closer as the doors opened with a chime.

Slipping in, she pounded the down button to close the doors. As the doors begin to slide closed, she braved looking up. In the hall, about twenty feet or so away she could see Evan running, pants not fastened and held up in one first. He was calling out to her but somehow she hadn’t heard it. When the doors slid closed and cut him from her view, her knees again gave out once again.

She didn’t feel it as she fell to the floor. A sob violently ripped through her and she felt like she couldn’t breath. Everything felt numb except the spot deep in her chest that felt shattered. It felt that the broken shards of her heart, her hopes, dreams and their future was somehow stabbing at the tender bits in her chest.

As the elevator smoothly made the decent she tried to pull herself together. Reaching out, she placed her hand against the cool metal of the elevator wall and found she was still numb. Eventually as the adrenaline faded, she would regain feeling. Probably.

She needed to go somewhere but she couldn’t figure out where. First she had to get out of here. Away from him. Knowing she was in the same building as him was too much at the moment. She was thankful for each floor the car descended without the doors opening.

Forcing a deep breath into her lungs, she slowly pulled herself up to her feet. Standing on legs that felt like jelly, she took a few more deep shuddering breaths. With a chime the doors slid open revealing a too bright lobby that had mesmerized her when she fist laid eyes on it. Now as she walked through the space, making a direct path toward the exit, the sight of the lobby around her made her want to vomit into the nearest potted plant.

She wondered if everything was going to make her want to vomit tonight. Would she still feel the urge tomorrow? The day after? Forever? Closing her eyes, she swallowed down a wave of bile and behind her eyelids the scene played out again as if her mind was doing her a curiosity. Her eyes snapped open and it took everything she had not to run for the doors.

Slipping outside, she looked to the left and the right and found the streets to be largely empty. There were some people milling about, working their way here or there seemingly living perfectly fine lives. They probably had people who loved them, who they loved and who wouldn’t betray them the way she had been betrayed tonight.

Opening her purse, she slipped her small handful of items into the clutch style bag. Whatever she had with her would have to do for now. Left behind, probably on the floor of the entry of that cursed hotel room her credit cards were probably lying scattered on the ground. She had her ID at least and a decent wad of cash to last her through the night until she figured out what she was going to do.

Turning right, she walked down the sidewalk in a direction she had not yet explored. She didn’t know where she was going but she didn’t want to be anywhere she had been with Evan. Somehow, she would salvage this night. Somehow, she would salvage this trip. Her feet hurt, crammed into the heels that she had been wearing all evening but she didn’t let that slow her down.  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Maggie was on a mission to forget. The night passed in a blur as the hour got later and later. She lost track of how many pubs she had been in. It caught her off guard however when the pub closed at 11.

It wasn’t even midnight yet. She downed her drink quickly and stumbled outside with the intention of finding another bar to drown her sorrows in. Walking down the street for who knows how long, she found the next three bars closed for the night.

London’s nightlife was severely lacking it seemed. After another step she scolded herself. It wasn’t fair to judge London’s nightlife just because she happened to be in a place where it seemed every bar closed before midnight. Surely, not every part of London was like this. Plus it was a Thursday night.

With a heavy sigh, Maggie looked around not even sure where she was. It didn’t matter. She walked and walked, swaying more than she would like to admit with her heels hanging limply from her fingers. Tears welled into her eyes as she turned down a random street. She needed to find another open bar before she thought too much.

She didn’t want to think. Thinking was bad.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~``

“We’re closing in 15.” The large man behind the counter drew her attention up to his face. The Bar was nearly empty and the bartender who’s name she had forgotten an hour ago had quickly noticed that Maggie was in a bad place emotionally and was kind enough to occupy her time. They played board games to pass the time while she downed drink after drink as the clock ticked well passed midnight.

When she stumbled out of the bar into the dark of the street she had no plan. Maggie was nearly out of cash and completely unaware of where she was. When she had left the hotel after the incident she didn’t want to think about she had not managed to grab her credit cards or the hotel key.

With her mind muddled by alcohol, Maggie couldn’t even remember the name of the hotel she was staying at. In the end, did it matter? She didn’t want to go back there. That place was where Evan was and where she had found him between the legs of another woman. It was also where her cellphone sat probably still on the table by the hotel door. Still, she had no where to go.

The weight of the world seemed to crash around her without anyone distracting her. Staggering, she slowly walked down the sidewalk toward a park. It wasn’t fair. None of it was fair. She wanted to turn back time and make it so that the events of the day never happened. Maybe if she had left with Evan rather than letting him to back to the hotel alone? Maybe if she just had stayed out longer? She wouldn’t have had to find out. If she never knew about it, it couldn’t hurt her.

The sound of thunder filled the air though she saw no flash of lightening. Looking up, she could barely see the moon through the thick cover of clouds. No stars danced for her. Another crash of thunder filled her ears as the misty air grew heavier with the impending rain.

Somehow, she managed to make it to the bench before collapsing onto it. The world was closing in around her and she was so tired. Looking around, she tried to pull herself together. She needed to figure out where she was and where she was going to go but it was so hard to focus on anything but the pain in her chest.

A brown dog came running out of nowhere. It nuzzled into her knee, drawing her attention and demanding that it stay wholly on him. Reaching out halfheartedly, she petted the dog. It was more that she limply held her hand out and the eager canine rubbed his head and back along her hand only to turn around and repeat the action.

“Bobby?!” A man in the distance called and the dog perked up and ran off, leaving her alone with her thoughts.

Another clash of thunder boomed as she pushed herself off the bench. A raindrop splashed against the toe of her shoe. A few more sprinkled on the sidewalk around her. Focusing on putting one foot in front of the other while she searched for cover, she didn’t pay any attention to the man talking to his dog.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tom scolded Bobby as he clipped the leash onto his collar. If he wouldn’t stay near and leave people alone, Tom had no choice but to restrain the lovable monster. Bobby whined as the woman he had been bothering stood, swaying so much that Tom was concerned that she would fall over before she began walking.

“Enough, Bobby.” The dog whined more, tugging lightly on his leash wanting to go to her. “If you don’t behave we’ll go home.”

A raindrop landed on his glasses, leaving a wet trail in his field of vision. It was annoying and he wasted no time pulling the glasses from his face and wiping them dry while he carefully watched the blurry form of the woman walking along the sidewalk toward him.

If she recognized him, she showed no sign of it. She was clearly intoxicated. When her foot slipped off the edge of the sidewalk and her ankle twisted an awkward angle that Tom was sure would cause pain in the morning, he was sure she would fall in a heap onto the grass. With arms out in a dramatic fashion only managed by the those who have spent the evening with a strong drink, she managed to catch herself and continue on.

Shaking his head, Tom was thankful when she walked by without paying him any attention. She wiggled her fingers at Bobby and smiled as she walked passed however there was a sadness in her eyes that made Tom wonder about her in passing. It wasn’t often Bobby was the one to get all the attention from a stranger.

Pulling the umbrella from his pocket, he put the drunk woman out of his mind. One more lap around the park and Tom would head back home. Bobby should be well tired out for the night after that and if he was lucky they would make it back before the weather made a serious turn for the worst. Without a thought, he rested the rod against his shoulder and began jogging once again.

Maggie’s hand dragged against the rough wall of the building as lighting cracked across the sky. The boom of thunder followed shortly as the sky seemed to rip open. The sprinkling of heavy yet sparse raindrops gave way to a downpour. In little time at all, she was drenched.

With rainwater running down her face, her own internal floodgates opened. Lost and with very little money left, she rested against the wall and tried to think. Her stomach churned and she willed herself to not vomit.

She shouldn’t have gone out. She should have stayed. She should have talked to Evan and worked something out. If she hadn’t been a coward, she could be at the hotel right now, safe and warm.

No, he threw her away. He threw them away. He threw their marriage away. He threw their future away. It was his fault she was out here. It was his fault she was hurting. This was his fault.

Sliding down the wall, Maggie resigned herself to spending the night on the sidewalk. She should be looking for somewhere dry and secluded to wait out the night and sober up but she couldn’t will strength to return to her legs. The rain was cold and she drew her knees up as she sat and cried.

A few people walked by but none stopped to ask her if she was alright. None stopped to ask her if she was lost. None stopped to offer her anything at all. In the end, Maggie figured that something was wrong with her. That had to be the only reason everyone in the world cast her aside.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~``

Tom sighed as he watched Bobby happily prance through a large puddle. He would likely be finding and cleaning muddy spots for weeks after this. It seemed he always was able to avoid taking Bobby out in a hard rain until right after he cleaned the last traces of the prior incident and at this point he really should know better.

Little booties were the solution, he decided. And a raincoat. Keep the feet clean and most of the beast dry. In front of him Bobby jumped gleefully in a puddle, splashing water up onto his belly before rolling in it. It would take more than booties and a coat to keep that creature clean and dry.

His phone chirped in his pocket and Tom passed the leash to his other hand, gripping it loosely while holding the umbrella steady and fishing the phone from his pocket. Glancing to Bobby he mentally prayed the dog would behave while he quickly answered the text.

Bobby perked up and gave a solid yank on the leash, pulling it almost free and earning a string of curses from his annoyed master. Tom grabbed at his phone as he watched it fall to the ground. With a splash it landed in a puddle. Of course it landed in a puddle.

Tom wasn’t sure what to be more worried about- the water or the new web of cracks across the screen? Bobby gave another yank and the leash slipped out of his hand. Tom swept the phone up and looked at the screen, partially lit up in white, pink and blue and partially black and dead. Now he certainly couldn’t put off the purchase of a new phone any longer.

Pocketing it quickly, Tom gave chase to the dog who clearly couldn’t mind his manners tonight. The sound of splashing filled the cool air as he rushed down the street after the damned dog.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~```

Maggie cracked open her eyes when the warm wet nose of a dog pressed against her face, filling the space in the crook of her elbow as she cradled her head against her knees. The creature huffed a warm breath that frankly smelled terrible in the oddly enduring way that dog’s had. As another tear slipped down her wet face the dog’s tongue darted out. Finally she gave the creature her full attention.

“You’re the same dog, aren’t you?” After failing to remember the name the man had called the dog, she pulled the tag on his collar around so she could read the name. “Bobby?”

She tried to shoo the dog away. Surely his master would be looking for him. Yet the brown bundle of fur was eager to sit with her. It’s hard to say how she ended up with her arms around the dog, sobbing into his neck and telling him all her woes in words that couldn’t be made out by the few people who walked passed.

Tom wearily walked up to where Bobby sat with his front paws in the lap of a woman soaked to the bone. It took him a moment to realize that it was the woman from the park. Choked sobs wracked her body as Bobby nuzzled her. Looking to the left then the right, he hoped to find someone to claim the woman. The street was nearly deserted in the late hour.

“Are you alright?” Tom asked and winced as another sob escaped her. It was a dumb question. Clearly she was very upset and very much not alright. Again he looked around, trying to figure out what to do.

“Bobby, come on.” The dog ignored his call. It was just as well, though he had intended to take his dog and leave the woman it felt wrong to do so. Still, what was he to do? To take her, go anywhere with her would be a risk. Pictures could be taken and people would talk.

Another choked sob escaped the woman. She smelled like alcohol and was clearly very drunk. A wet snuffle escaped her and Tom knew Bobby’s neck would surely be covered in snot. Again he looked around before kneeling down next to her, careful to keep his knee up and dry and the umbrella over him.

“Can I help you get somewhere?” He softly asked. When she didn’t answer he rested his hand on her shoulder. The fabric was thin and wet. Her shoulder was cold under his hand. He wanted to but he couldn’t leave her there. He didn’t think she would answer him as silence ticked on, measured only by the steady drum of rain and Bobby’s panting breaths.

“I don’t know where I am.” The woman mumbled with a distinctly American voice when he nearly asked again.

“That’s alright, Darling. Where do you need to be? I’ll get you a taxi to get there.” Tom again looked around, praying for someone else to be around to take over.

“I don’t know.” She whispered, seemingly having finally spent all her tears. “I can’t go back.”

“Go back? Why not?” Bobby finally got off her lap and he could see her better. He hadn’t paid any mind to her before but she was clearly not dressed for the weather. Blood trickled down her heel from where the strap of her heeled sandals rubbed the skin open. “Is someone hurting you? Are you not safe where you are staying?” The more questions he had asked, the more he worried for the woman.

“What’s wrong with me?” She asked instead.

“You’re very drunk for one.” Tom mumbled to himself as he considered calling for a car. He wasn’t sure where he would take her but she clearly couldn’t stay here in the rain. He couldn’t really send her off alone with out a place to go. If she went back to where ever she was staying, he couldn’t be sure she was safe.

“Why’d he do it?” She whimpered.

“What did who do? Did he hurt you?” Tom asked. “Darling, let’s stand up and get you out of the rain.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~````

Tag List: @dangertoozmanykids101, @alexakeyloveloki, @0-0-0-0-0-0-0-7, @theoneanna, @bambamwolf87, @j-u-s-t-4, @wegingerangelica, @missaphrodite23, @nonsensicalobsessions, @tinchentitri, @michelegurl, @just-the-hiddles​, @jennytwoshoes

as always, want in on the tag list? All you got to do is let me know. 

[caseybanning]

on love

((some slight spoilers for Ambition: Nemesis 100))

"It's not your usual fare," Casey's editor remarks, flipping through the article. It's several pages in length, word-dense, and cites everything from the Bible to the latest gossip in the honey dens of Veilgarden. His cigarette trails a line of smoke in the air, burning away almost untouched in the ashtray on his desk as he reads. He gives pause, Casey watching him as he reads, and finally his eyebrows go upwards on his face. He glances over the papers to Casey, his expression one of slight shock.

"Pointing out precisely what love is not is going to make a few people unhappy," He says. "And especially on such a personal level."

"I couldn't not write on the subject of romance without drawing from past experience," Casey explains. "Love is simultaneously the greatest pleasure and also the most harrowing pain. If I'm unable to explore both sides, this isn't going to work."

The editor exhales and sets the article aside. He taps the cigarette against the tray, loosening the ash and takes a drag. He contemplates quietly, and finally...

"It's not ready yet," He says. "You can do more with it, and you will have to publish this elsewhere."

"Carlisle--"

"You'll be unable to attract the audience you want with this publication," He explains. "I have some potentials that this could be sent to, but it's competitive. Work on it more, wait until the Feast is over. It'll stand out more."

--

On love

On the subject of love, my thoughts are numerous and scattered; it is my only hope that I may compile them here for you in one document and contribute my own into the conversation.

The subject of love is often introduced at a young age in your usual Christian household with popular verses. "Let all you do be done in love" is what we are told from 1 Corinthians 16:14, to the classic John 3:16 chiming in that God's act of love was to give his only Son for us to be forgiven of our sins. On this matter of love I've contemplated at great length in contrast of this being described as an act of love when it was instead such an act of violence and grief--Surely for Christ, who had been tortured and speared, and for his loving Mother to lose the son that she had brought into the world for this very purpose...

--

"Love?" Amos asks with a smile. "In what sense?"

Casey shrugs. "What's the first thing that comes to your mind?"

"Christ, of course." He says. "I don't think there would have been any greater act of love than his."

Casey leans forward in their chair. Surrounding the two of them in Amos's office were shelves and shelves of books--Bibles, different types, books on general theology, some novels. The candlelight here was warm and inviting, and gave a much better sense of ease than being in the church proper. "If a regular everyday man were to sacrifice himself for the love of his life, would that not be the same as what Christ did?" They ask.

Amos regards this question with a soft laugh. "You have to remember, Jesus was also as much of an everyday man as any of us. He was a carpenter. Also, his was for all of humanity and not just the love of a single individual."

"A single person's act of love for another single person could single-handedly change the course of history," Casey says with a smile. "Why else is London hidden away here?"

"I have little to say on the matters of the Empress," Amos says carefully, reaching for the tea on his desk.

"Here's a different question for you then," Casey sits up straighter now as Amos takes a sip of his tea. "Since London was taken underground and so much emphasis has started on the cultivation and actual sale of love stories, the matter of love is one that is expressed more openly. Theology and the church certainly had to make some changes once it was discovered that Hell is just a train ride away." Casey splays their hands out, motioning to all the books around them. "Why is it that, at best, the Church is still so silent on people like me and at worst an enabler for the likes of Jeremiah Lakewood?"

Amos blanches at the question, setting aside his tea with an abrupt clink into it's saucer. "I can't speak on behalf of the entire Church," He says. "At least as far as this parish goes, the attendees here do tend to hold similar opinions to you. I will tell you something though." He sits up, and his gaze is sharply fixed on Casey's as he starts to speak. "When the Veilgarden arsons were occurring, I was giving a sermon one morning when an attendee stood up express how they had been feeling. They'd said much of the same things that you did, just now, and back then I didn't have the answers. I still don't."

He folds his hands together atop his desk and continues. "What I believe, and additionally what I know to be true is this: People like Jeremiah Lakewood are not representative of the message of Christ. There are always disagreements between churches and congregations, but..." He stops to contemplate his words, almost long enough for Casey to press him to continue. "After the attacks in Veilgarden, what I was able to witness was an outpouring of love. It was the love of community. People opening their homes to the displaced, a few crossing class and belief lines to make sure the injured were cared for and safe, a single person interrupting a sermon to question everything right in the house of God. These are not insignificant moments. This is more what Christ meant to represent: the gathering of few to benefit the most, and working using love as a tool."

--

What types of love can we explore? We always hear so much on romantic love, and of course I can spend our time in this article together poetically exploring this subject, but I implore you also to consider beyond: the love between friends, the love between siblings, the love between yourself and your mother and father, the love you may feel during your favorite meal. Gestures, little gifts, sheltering someone from the rain, are all pieces that make up the puzzle of love. Love is a connection, and love is often a choice; a playing card that comes up in our hand that we can play or discard.

--

At the townhouse, Casey occupies a moment of time alone to go prepare a fresh pot of tea. Out in the parlor, they can hear Rashida's laughter as their aunt Mary regales another tale from her latest night out on the town. Behind her laughter were the intermingling voices of Blanche and Astrid, comparing notes on the latest play they were working on. The clinking of the china in the tray provides a gentle rhythm to the thrum of the chatter, and as they return Mary reaches out to touch Casey's arm.

"Oh, my dear--" She starts, gesturing them to sit. "Earlier you mentioned that my sister was in town."

"Yes," Casey clasps their hands together. Rashida's jovial expression softens, her gaze only breaking as she reaches for her teacup.

"About as well as one could expect?" She asks. Casey lifts up the teapot and pours into her cup, shrugging.

"It was worse before it got marginally better," They replied. "I don't quite think any supper with my family is complete without at least one person being called a disgrace, so in that regard my father did not disappoint. Roland was about to throw him out onto the street."

Mary sips her own tea quietly, and Rashida reaches out to hold Casey's hand. "That's terrible." She says. Cynthia, who had been quietly sketching in her journal his whole time next to Rashida, looks up.

"It's..." Casey pauses, staring down into their cup. "at least better than me thinking they would never speak to me again. We have written letters since then--more often than in the past. Mother has tried at least in calling me by my name, but father had a more difficult time coming around to that. The subject of my life here and who I am now is tread not at all."

"Which isn't better," Mary says darkly.

Rashida looks between the two of them, and Mary sighs. "When we reconnected here in London years ago, I felt... not really shocked by how Casey appeared to me, but there is always a surprise when someone you remember as one way presents differently daily." Mary says. Casey leans back and takes a sip of tea. "As a child, they used to try to get into their brother's old wardrobe and play dress-up. That's what we all thought, anyway. Children and their imaginations... Casey was not satisfied expecting to be a princess in stories, or to play mother with their dolls, not at first."

"Oh, I liked dolls plenty as a kid," They say. "I wouldn't pretend they were my children, but I did enjoy trying to make clothes for them."

"Sure," Mary says. "And then you got older. The young men in our church and community took notice."

Rashida nods, gently picking up a jar of honey to spoon in her tea. Casey's expression darkened. "It only took one of them though... just the one," They say, their voice quiet. "That was enough for me to learn what love isn't."

"You have Roland now," Cynthia says quietly, her eyes bright. "Not that it erases what has already happened, but it's a far stretch better than what you had."

--

To save the absolute best for last, my closing statements cannot go unsaid without mentioning my beloved husband. Without him, this would not have been possible and I would appear to you all a very different and much less pleasant individual...

--

Casey, though on the outside appearing to be relaxing into their chair, feels a stab of nervousness as Roland reads the article quietly to himself. As he reaches the last page, he glance up to Casey with a warm expression. "It's a complete work." He finally says.

"You think so?"

"Risky enough to where there will some inevitable push-back of course... not so much that you'll be exiled immediately. It's a good balance." He straightens out the pages and sets them aside on the table, standing up from his seat. He offers his hand to Casey and they stand up, retrieving their periodical from the table. "My editor is going to go over it with me tomorrow," They say, flipping through it as if to look for any last minute changes that could be made. "It's not going to be published in our usual periodical, but he's got a list of names lined up that I could try instead. Now that the Feast of the Rose has died down, it's not going to get lost in a sea of poetry or other works..."

Casey's voice trails off as they stare down at the papers. They crinkle lightly in their fingers, and Roland tries to catch their gaze. "What's wrong?" He asks.

"It's possible this isn't going to work," They reply. "The only time anyone ever really sees her or talks about her is during the Feast and that's all passed now. Who knows what other activities she's up to the rest of the year?"

"If this doesn't work, then this will still be considered your published work and it adds to your career as a writer," Roland says and smiles. "And if it does work, well... you're a step closer."

"Either option would be great," Casey says with a tired sigh and rubs their eye. "Nothing more happening tonight though--it's as completed as it can be until Carlise gets his hands on it."

Roland hums, pursing his lips in an exaggerated expression of thought. "Nothing more tonight?" He asks. Casey gives him a wry smile.

"Is there an idea you think maybe I can add?"

"Oh, always," He says, reaching to brush a bit of Casey's hair away from their face. "Nothing you could publish without getting exiled though."

"Do tell me more." Casey smiles, leaning up toward him for a kiss.

--

Actors are seen reading it between practices, giggling amongst themselves as they thumb through the periodical and swap their favorite quotes. The subject of love comes up in Amos's sermon the first Sunday after it's published. The Ministry of Public Decency doesn't waste much time in snatching up as many copies as they could over some of the more choice passages, citing security concerns and non-taxed stories. The few remaining copies are hidden away in reading rooms and personal libraries.

Casey lies in wait the whole time, keeping their eyes peeled as they traverse London--not a hint of that distinct, irrigo-soaked silhouette to be seen yet.

The night came in quietly, almost unseen just as the clock was chiming nine. Casey, distantly thinking of a steaming cup of tea and a book to close out their evening, pulls out a small ring of keys to the front of their residence and inserts one. The small pattering of footsteps coming closer could be heard just over their shoulder and they pause, their key still stuck in the lock, and they turn to face the source of the noise.

A cloaked figure is approaching them, a copy of Casey's periodical clutched in her hands. As she walks closer, the scent of her perfume sweeps over the porch and Casey staggers back, trying to reach blindly behind them to push the door open. They blink once, twice, rapidly--irrigo starts swirling in their vision--

[iamfitzwilliamdarcy]

Title: The Last Enemy

Summary: Before gathering members of the Order, Remus and Sirius pay a visit to Godric’s Hollow and the friends they’ve left behind. (ao3) 

Notes: I got...really tired of fighting with this (for months and months!) and I wanted it posted on the anniversary of James and Lily’s death so....here. Also, as Edmund Pevensie once wisely noted, “that’s the worst with girls...they can never carry a map in their heads,” and so Godric’s Hollow is just...whatever I want it to be. Also what does Sirius believe about the afterlife? I sure would like to know 

The moon is still only just waning when Sirius arrives on Remus’ doorstep. He’s holed up in run-down cottage on the outskirts of a little town by the sea in Cornwall; a little old lady sympathetic to his condition (or whatever condition Remus has told her he has) hired him on as a gardener, and he’s made it last longer than most jobs he’s had recently. He looks ragged, now, but his eyes are intense when he lets Sirius in.

He hadn’t seemed exactly surprised when Sirius had called him on the two-way mirror, salvaged by Dumbledore through whatever illicit means Sirius hadn’t bothered to ask, and told him he was coming. That it was time to raise up the Order again. They’d been in contact throughout the year, and it had only been a matter of time.

“Harry?” Remus asks, setting a hot cup of tea before Sirius.

It’s abnormally cold for late June, and the wind blows off the sea, buffeting the cottage, breaking through its cracks.

Sirius takes a sip, warming himself, thinks for a moment, and settles on, “Safe.”

Remus watches him. After a moment and a few more sips, Sirius adds, “Shaken, definitely. It was not…” he breaks off and shakes his head, looks up to meet Remus’ eyes, and then fills him in on the details.

When he’s finished, Remus’ face is taut, his eyes thoughtful. “So the Order,” he says.

“Getting the old crowd together again,” Sirius confirms. Adds, “Not that there are many of us left.”

“Where will we meet?” Remus wants to know.

Sirius’ grip on his mug tightens. “Dumbledore and I have been talking about that,” he says. “My parents—” Remus immediately straightens at the mention of the Blacks and Sirius pointedly does not look at him, “Their house should be mine,” he finishes.

“Should be?”

“Last Black male heir.” Sirius shrugs, nonchalant, like it doesn’t mean anything. “We should probably…verify that. Before we start gathering people up. And recruiting. Guess that should be our game plan.”

“I can’t just drop—” Remus starts, and Sirius jerks his head up.

“You’ve known this was coming,” he snaps, leaning his chair onto its back legs. “Your job—”

“Is the most stable one I’ve had in  years, Hogwarts withstanding, and—”

“And how long before you quit or fuck it up or—”

“What’s that mean,” Remus cuts in, his voice icy.

Sirius lets his chair slam down. “When have you ever let yourself have nice things?” he demands. “You bounce from shitty job to shitty job, letting people take advantage of you because you don’t think you deserve better—”

Remus opens his mouth and Sirius raises his voice. “—Leaving on some trite notion that it’s for everyone’s safety, including your own. You let Snape, Snivellus Snape, of all people push you out of Hogwarts—”

“I seem to recall,” Remus manages to break in, “that there were certain circumstances involving a mass murderer breaking out of Azkaban and kidnapping my students involved in that scenario.”

“So you let Snape use you to get back at me,” Sirius says, but they’ve both deflated a bit.

Sirius hooks his leg around the leg of his chair. “It’ll be like old times,” he needles.

Remus sighs and sits back down. Says, “I don’t want it to end like old times.”

“No,” Sirius agrees. It’s a moment before Remus sighs again, shakes his head, and says, “Alright, of course,” as Sirius had known he would. “We’ll go to London tomorrow.” Abruptly, Remus gets up again and disappears into the kitchen. He returns with a mostly full bottle of fire whisky and two chipped glasses. He pours out two double shots, perfectly measured by eye, and pushes one across the table to Sirius. Sirius raises an eyebrow, amused. “What are drinking to?” “Friends,” Remus shrugs. “The Order. Fighting the good fight.” “Hear, hear,” Sirius says, and they clink glasses. Sirius takes the bottle and pours them both another. “To stable unemployment,” he says, raising his glass. Remus actually laughs. “Guess I’m drinking to that,” he says. Sirius hasn’t had alcohol in nearly 14 years, and Remus has always been a bit of a lightweight, and each pour is getting progressively heavier. By the time the second drink settles, warm in stomach, he’s feeling a buzz. It’s pleasant, despite the chill outside seeping in and the circumstances leading up to this. Across from him, Remus’ face is flushed but he pours them another. “To us,” he says. “Still standing.” Sirius pours one more. “To James,” he says, his voice catching. “To Prongs,” Remus echoes solemnly.

They drink and clunk their glasses down. Remus’ eyes look droopy, and Sirius remembers they’re only a few days past full moon. He must be exhausted, and the stress of Voldemort’s return, Sirius showing up on his doorstep, reinstating the Order all combine with the alcohol to hit Remus hard.

“C’mon,” Sirius says, standing up. The room tilts a little, and he stumbles. Laughs because it’s been a long time since they’ve been wasted together. He’s not so bad off he can’t walk, though, and he tugs on Remus. “Let’s get you to bed.”

Remus lets Sirius help him to bed and take his shoes off. Mumbles something about an extra blanket hanging over the couch and what sounds like an apology that Sirius ignores as he pulls Remus’ threadbare covers up over him. He hits the lights, collapses on the couch himself, and doesn’t wake up until the sun rises.

**********************

Remus is already awake, nursing a mug of coffee, looking a little worse for wear. “More on the stove,” he nods towards the kitchen. “Merlin, I’m too old for that,” he adds.

Sirius laughs on his way to pour himself his own mug. His head hurts, but as far as hangovers go, he’s had worse. He brings water over for both of them, but once he’s settled in the same chair from the night before, he can tell Remus wants to talk.

Remus does not disappoint. “Before we leave,” he says, slowly, not meeting Sirius’ eye. “I want to go to Godric’s Hollow. We’re not far,” he adds hastily, glancing up when Sirius sucks in his breath. “And I think it’d be right. To start this off by visiting.”

Sirius takes a moment and examines Remus’ lined face, the bags under his eyes, the determined set to his mouth. He nods. “I never--,” he starts.

“I know,” Remus says. “I haven’t since…”

“To James, huh?” Sirius says into the quiet.

“To Prongs,” Remus echoes.

**********************

The late afternoon sun has burnt up the mist of the morning, and Padfoot bounds along next to Remus up the trail. They plan to visit the graveyard at nightfall, when the townspeople have long gone to bed. Remus is looking for the nearby inn, where he hopes to find some food and a room that’ll accommodate a dog. Sirius had said it’d be easy to sneak past a Muggle while human, but Remus reminded him he was wanted even in the Muggle world and had insisted on Sirius remaining Padfoot while in town. Sirius has grumbled at first, but now he seemed positively euphoric, bounding after pigeons, barking, and trotting happily next to Remus.

“How,” Remus mutters through a yawn, “do you have so much energy?”

Padfoot barks, which Remus correctly interprets as mocking him for struggling with a hangover two days post drinking.

“We’re old now, remember,” Remus says, hand resting affectionately on Padfoot’s head, though he gives his ear a little twinge. “Can’t recover like we used to.”  

Padfoot barks again, and Remus flicks his head. “I could too hang back then,” he says. Padfoot grins up at him, clearly laughing, and Remus shakes his head.

“I’ll leave you out in the cold,” he warns.

But Padfoot isn’t listening. He sits down abruptly, tail thumping as it wags, and whines a little. Remus follows the dog’s look to a small group of children approaching cautiously.

“Hey Mister!” one says bravely, having been jostled to the front of the group. “Can we pet your dog?”

Remus catches Padfoot’s eye, and he whines again, tail thumping harder.

“Sure,” Remus says. “Just be gentle.”

Suddenly empowered by their permission, the group streams forward, showering Padfoot in pats, “Good boys,” and even some kisses. Remus watches carefully, but Padfoot seems happy. Remus frowns,and it occurs to him to wonder just how much human contact Sirius has had in the past year.

In the past fourteen years.

(There’s a stab of guilt at letting him languish in Azkaban so long.)

As the kids disperse, he gets directions towards the Inn. Night is falling, and the people on the streets begin to disperse. No one takes notice of a shabby man and is dog. They make it, finally, and Remus, after much negotiation and a not quite small amount of gold Sirius had shoved in his pocket earlier, he and his dog have a room.

Sirius transforms back and flops down on one of the double beds as Remus set their bags down.

“I could get used to a real bed again,” Sirius sighed, closing his eyes and flinging a hand over his head.

“Sorry you had only the couch last night,” Remus says, for the umpteenth time, flushing. If he’d been sober, he’d have insisted Sirius take the bed.

Sirius, for his part, just waves his free hand impatiently in the air. “Told you already not to worry about it,” he yawns, sound far less annoyed than he had the last several times he’d told Remus this. “Vast improvement over a cave floor.”

And Remus thought he’d been living badly. He shifts uncomfortably, supposing he’d take his squalor over living as a fugitive, and then says, “I’ll go out and grab us some food.”

Still using his free hand, Sirius gestures over to he’s tossed his bag of gold, somehow obtained out of Gringotts, onto the nightstand between beds. Remus hesitates, but pockets it, his face still warm from embarrassment.

“It’s my food too,” Sirius calls after him, as if he can sense how uncomfortable Remus is accepting the money.

“Don’t expect a feast,” Remus calls back, but he relaxes a little.

He returns with dinner some thirty minutes later, and Sirius is leaning out of the window, a cigarette dangling from his fingers. It’s a familiar sight, one Remus had walked into many times while they were still at school or in the years after at Sirius’ own apartment.

“You’re not supposed to smoke in here,” Remus reminds him automatically

“Going to give me detention?” Sirius teases back, as if Remus were his prefect again.

They have had the conversation before, but over a decade of separation and betrayal and James Potter stand between. It’s not the same.

Remus smiles, though, and Sirius stubs the cigarette out.

They discuss directions over dinner, but mostly eat in quiet. They eat in silence, though Sirius tears into his food with gusto. Remus eats his distractedly. It hangs over him what’s happened to Harry, what’s happening next. The weight of everything--of his friends’ deaths, betrayal, guilt, a decade of loneliness, the danger they were stepping back into--hung over his head.

That James isn’t able to be here.

(James hangs between them…

The Absence of James…)

The sun begins to set, and Remus asks, “Ready?”

Sirius shrugs because it’s not something you’re ever ready for.

“I got directions from the girl at the front desk,” Remus says. “On my way back in. It’s not a far walk. Maybe you should--,”

“No,” Sirius says firmly.

Remus presses his lips together. He almost crosses his arms, then sighs and relents. “Oh alright. But if we run into any trouble--,”

“Don’t borrow any,” Sirius interrupts airily.

Remus wants to be annoyed, but Sirius is tensed and his tone just this side of too casual, for him to take Sirius to heart.

They make their way, following the directions the girl provided. The path becomes familiar, and Remus senses Sirius’ steps falter.

“We don’t have to go by the house.”

Sirius just shrugs, and they walk on, but he freezes when they get to the house. It looks like Remus remembers, except more run-down, a gaping hole in the corner. The yard’s grown wild, and the gate is long rusted.

Sirius is still beside Remus. He reaches out and lets his hand touch the gate; it trembles, and he’s 20 again, his motorbike thrown haphazardly in the street, not sure what he’s going to see, only knows he doesn’t want to, that it’s his fault. The ground crunches under his feet, debris from the upper room blown apart, and Merlin, Merlin, this is bad, what had even happened--

He can’t breathe, his hand lingering behind him on the gate, but he forces himself forward, has to see-

“Sirius.” Remus is standing there, looking concerned. Sirius shakes his head. When had Remus gotten here? He can’t think, can’t breathe.

“Sirius,” Remus’ voice again, gentle but firm. “You’re not there. It’’s 1995.”

Sirius blinks, focuses in on him. “1995?” he repeats.

“1995,” he says, softly. “Not 1981. It’s 1995, and Harry needs us.”

“Harry,” Sirius grasps at the name like a lifeline, and it draws him back. The evening is a summer one, the air fairly balmy, and the house before him now is in ruins, the smoke long gone. It’s been nearly 14 years, and there’s nothing he can do.

“We don’t have to go,” Remus says after a moment, but Sirius is himself again, and he says, “Come on,” in reply.

The graveyard looms ahead of them. Remus, who had gone to the funeral, guides the way to the gravestones. He hasn’t been here since the funeral and reminds Sirius a couple times, when he pauses to get his bearings. But the graveyard isn’t big, and soon Remus comes to a stop in front the tombstone.

The white marble is bright still, and cleared of weeds, even though no one’s left flowers in years, and their names stand out starkly.

James Potter and Lily Potter.

Back then, Remus had thought his world was ended. All his friends taken from him, in one fell swoop, and who besides his father, already burdened with too much, could have accepted him like they did?

Somehow, he’d gone on, one day after another. He slid a glance over at Sirius, who was staring intently at the grave, his hands still trembling. He’d had to go on to, but...

Remus knows about dementors.

Sirius’s mouth is pressed thin, and Remus realizes he’s crying, tears streaming silently down his face, over his lips, dripping off his chin. Remus looks away, embarrassed, but he can feel the tightness in his own throat.

“It’s different,” Sirius says after a long while. He clears his throat. “In Azkaban.”

Remus waits because Sirius rarely mentions Azkaban.

He shakes his head, like he can’t explain. Won’t explain. Sirius has always been highly emotional, dramatic, wild, but he’s never been very good at actually expressing himself. Remus has learned to manage him, a little, but James was always the one who understood.

“You relive it,” Sirius says, his voice gruff. “You relive it, but it’s not--it’s not sad.”

He drops to his knees, still graceful in that way he’s never managed to shake, and reaches out a hand to press against the tombstone. Remus half expects him to transform back into Padfoot, curl up at their grave, and never leave.

“You never got to say good-bye,” Remus says softly, taking a step closer. He’s quiet for a moment, thinking of the right thing to say. Remus is always composed, even as grief threatens to overwhelm him.

“It’s not grieving,” he suggests, after a moment. “In Azkaban, with the dementors. It’s not--you’re not allowed grief.”

Sirius looks up at him, almost surprised, his face gaunt, haunted.

“Yeah,” he croaks. “Yeah.”

There’s no joke about Remus’ emotional intelligence, nothing about his mind reading or hypotheses--nothing to deflect.

Sirius rocks back on his heels. “The last enemy,” he murmurs aloud. “I don’t get that.”

“It’s, y’know,” Remus gestures feebly. “The afterlife. That there’s more to life than death and more to death than....”

“Some dirt and maggots?”

“Sure,” Remus says, grimacing, pointedly not noticing how even Sirius flinches away from the thought of decomposition happening to James and Lily, to the friends they loved. He’s trying to be flippant, and they both know it’s a weak effort.

Sirius wipes at his eyes and stands. He’s not smiling, but there’s a note of teasing in his voice when flings his arms wide and adds, “Beyond the veil, eh, Moony? Think Prongs is here with us now?”

Remus steps up beside him, just as a cool night breeze, more autumn than summer, brushes past them.

He doesn’t answer, but he pulls out his wand and conjures flowers, roses and lilies, and carnations, sunflowers and daisies, wild and bright just like they would have liked. Sirius watches places them just so on the grave marker.

“To London?” Sirius says.

Remus nods, grim, ready again. “To London.”  

[highwarlockofarcher]

New story: A Doctor in the institute. chapter 1: Doctor who?

William Herondale stood atop the raised edge of Blackfriars Bridge, staring down at a swirling black mass of water below; thinking – in all honesty- about death. In the past three weeks six bodies – if they could be even described as bodies- had turned up in random points in the city. They had all had been skinned to the bone and left for someone to find. This led the police to believe that the bodies had been either dug up, or had been left to rot.

At first the London institute had brushed the first body off as a long dead mundane that had only just been discovered; after all the police, these days, were as useful as ten men absent. What really had drawn the shadowhunters to this case was that after two weeks there had been three new bodies that looked exactly the same. The confusing part was that when Will and his brother-in-law, Gabriel, began to dig deeper in to the investigation they found that there was no other cause of death other than aging and the obvious… well, death.

There was no mark on the bones, no bite marks, no sign of splintering on the skull, nothing. None of it made any sense. The only plausible explanation was… that there was no plausible explanation; but even that theory was flawed. It had been the bafflement of Scotland Yard and now the London institute were in over their heads too.

He’d been staring down at the river for a long time just waiting for anything at all to happen. Alas there had been nothing. Not that he’d known what he had been expecting but exactly nothing at all had been rather disappointing.

Behind him the city was punctuated by the clatter of carriages returning from functions and men’s clubs melding with the calls of the poor and dying. As a young boy- living in London with nobody but himself and the people he tried not to get too close to- the calls of those people shook him too his core. He had thought as an adult he would have learned to block it out, but he hadn’t. Their cries, if anything, got louder and more noticeable.

All of this made him wonder if the people who had died had been one of the people he had walked past in the streets; given money too when they had held their dying children close and whispered the only words of comfort they could without lying. He wondered now if he had made any difference to their lives. He supposed he would never know.

As he turned to get down from the edge of the bridge he caught sight of a figure in long parchment robes making their way towards him. Turning he jumped down on to the path bellow and walked the rest of the way towards the figure; plastering a grin on his face.

“You, my friend, are late” he said, placing a hand, pointedly, on his hip. He knew the figure like he knew his wife and son and was just as fond of him. Jem raised an eyebrow at him – something that was uncharacteristic of a silent brother. But then again Jem was no ordinary silent brother.

“I am sure you found a way to entertain yourself in my absence.”  Came the other man’s –almost emotionless - reply.

Will internally shivered as Jem’s familiar- yet strange- voice whispered in his mind. He still hadn’t gotten used to hearing his friend’s voice while watching as his mouth didn’t once open. Externally, however, his grin widened and leaned against the rails of the bridge with an air of serenity.

“By the angel, Brother Zachariah, did you just use sarcasm? I didn’t know silent brothers were capable of such a thing!” he watched as Jem lowered his eyebrow quickly, and schooling the amused expression that had crept up on him.

Will’s face dropped at that. Why had he said anything at all? Jem would never have noticed and Will would have had a few more minutes to see his Jem behind the dark façade of the bone city. He missed the other boy with such intensity it amounted to agony; to be without his parabati was agony. It was never –as the great writers say – a stab wound, but a million little tiny papercuts to his heart all day, every day. It may have been melodramatic and he may have to take the grief from others who didn’t understand, but he knew better than them. He felt it.

When James had first arrived at the institute Will had been- at worst- unreasonably cruel to him, and Jem- being his usual unaffected self- had laughed it off. To this day Will still didn’t understand how he could have just brushed what he’d said aside. Granted he had – even back then- always been able to read Will like a book, but anybody else would have recoiled like a scalded cat. Instead his former parabati called him an dreadful shot and suggested he let him train him. And that had been it; the day will had met his best friend, his brother, his soul, his parabati .

And for one shining moment everything was perfect… and then that moment ended. Jem had been severely ill – even then and as the years went on he only got worse. One day – as is always the way- he got as bad as you can get – without being dead. Jem had run out of his medication – namely his Yin Fen- and was deaerating fast. Will had been helpless through it all; something he was not used to being. In the end all he had been able to do was for fill his friends dying wish; which in the end hadn’t quite worked out the way he had intended. Even now it still kept Will up at night that he hadn’t been there for his friend when he had died and been born again as a brother of the silent city.

“You are troubled, old friend.” Said Jem, pulling him out of his train of thought. “ you are thinking of the bond.”

“don’t read my thoughts James” will snapped sharply, instantly regretting it as he saw the miniscule flinch that invaded Jem’s person. “I’m sorry” he sighed, in an attempt to amend his blunder. “ I know you cannot help it, I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”

“no it is my fau-“ Will cut him off quickly with a shake of the head and his signature don’t argue with me on this James look. It was one of the few things that they had still been able to retain about their friendship and Will was glad.

Jem’s facial expression shifted ever so slightly to exasperation; which did make Will laugh. Sometimes Jem’s struggle to fully integrate himself into the role of Silent Brother made Will’s heart jolt painfully and bleed for the other boy; however most of the time he selfishly revelled in the fact that he was still able to arouse an emotion from him.

“Why do I get the distinct impression that you are stalling on me Mr. Herondale?”  There had been humour in his voice then – much to wills entertainment.

“James Carstairs, when have you ever known me, William Herondale, to stall?” Jem didn’t give Will the satisfaction of an answer, only stared at him blankly trough his closed eyes. “On second thought, refrain from answering that in any way.”

“Oh I fully intended too.” Said Jem. “Now why have you called upon the brother hood at this ungodly hour, shadowhunter?”

Will snorted at that; what a James thing to say. He turned gesturing for the other man to follow him. As they walked Will was acutely aware that, while he himself had used a silencing rune, Jem’s foot-steps left not a whisper of sound in their wake.

Out of all the differences between shadowhunter and silent brother, the solitude and silence, in which they lived their life, was what disturbed Will the most. Everything else was simply white noise.

Making their way to the end of the bridge Will filled his former parabati in on the investigation and Gabriel’s concerns that these resent deaths may have been demonic in origin.  All the while Jem stayed silent next to him. Only when Will was entirely finished did he speak.

“And you say there is no connection between any of the people?” he asked

“None what so ever; well, except that they all live in London.” Answered will, as they passed bishop’s gate. “It’s as I said there’s no reason for any of the poor buggers to have died, it’s why Gabriel reckons it’s all demon related.”

Jem turned his closed eyes to him in an almost quizzical expression. He needn’t have done it really; Will knew even when he’d asked Jem not to, the silent brother could still hear his thoughts, but he appreciated the gesture all the same.

“but you do not think so?” Jem’s tone was almost curious, as if the idea of having to work with someone, other than those in the brotherhood, had brought back part of his humanity. Not that he had lost all that much of it.

Will sighed heavily, considering his answer for a minute. “The thing is, there is not enough evidence to suggest otherwise; but there also isn’t enough evidence to suggest it is either.” He scuffed his shoes against the dirt road they walked across; watching as the stones came loose of the earth under his feet.

“What do you mean by that?” Jem questioned further.

“Well, demons aren’t exactly the cleanest of beasts. They usually leave behind at least a trace of sulphur if nothing else.” The logic behind will’s theory was unquestionably sound; it was true that demons left behind some sign –some small trace – that the blood was on their own fangs. However it was increasingly possible that this was a demon the likes of which no shadowhunter had ever seen. The idea frightened him more than he would ever like to admit.

As they approached the top of white chapel, the gas lamps that lined the road side flickered ever so slightly in the gentle breeze that blew from the south. Will stopped for a moment as the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. There hadn’t been a wind all evening and if there had been it hadn’t been coming from the south. Something felt off about the street; not exactly bad, just off. He couldn’t put his finger on it exactly.

Reaching instinctively for the seraph blade at his hip Will pulled it free from its clip. “Tabbris” he whispered and the adimas set ablaze. Jem – as he often did when he sensed Will’s discomfort- tensed and slid quietly into a fighting position; his staff in both hands ready to strike.

The air seemed to get slightly heavy, as if it was being pushed on and manipulated to fit a strange alien object. Will strained his ears, leaning forward ever so slightly. In the distance there was a wheezing, groaning sound that pressed in from all sides.  Will spun three sixty on the spot, surveying every possible opening and attack point. It wasn’t a noise either of them had heard before, which was never a good sign.

Out of the corner of his eye, to his left, Will saw a blue box; A blue box that wasn’t there a second ago. Both shadowhunter and silent brother swung, in perfect unison, towards it as the sound faded and the feeling left. A new feeling invaded Will’s senses now; one he knew all too well. It was the cold sense of battle that lingered across every inch of his skin and filled his bones.  Pointing his sword at the box he advanced slowly forward, gesturing for Jem to flank him on his right. As they advanced it became more and more apparent there was someone –rather than something- inside. Voices drifted from behind the door, barely audible but still there. The door rattled slightly before opening and a man emerged, walking backward.

“See Clara, like I promised nineteenth century London!” he exclaimed excitedly swinging his full body around in an exaggerated manner as he continued ��still in the reign of queen Victoria and – ah. “ He cut himself off as he came very close to taking his -rather absurd- chin off on the edge of Will’s blade. The man was very odd looking from the front; not bad, just, odd. His clothes were a dark tweed three piece with a bow tie and a bowler had atop his head. His disposition was more childish than demonic but Will refused to back down just in case. Too many times had he been lured into false security by someone he thought was trust worthy and turned out to be a monster.

“What was that doct- oh!” Somebody else –presumably Clara- popped their head around the door, gazing out on to the scene. It was a young woman, about twenty four years old and roughly five foot three in height. She wore the typical Victorian attire but with an unusual air of someone who was not used to such constricting clothes. Both of them were out and out odd. Clara ventured further out, standing on the Doctor’s right; looking just as shocked as him as Jem raised his staff closer to her neck. “Doctor, I thought you said we were in the Victorian era?” she said none too discreetly as she tried in vain to stay still under Jem’s staff.

The doctor put a finger to his tongue and then held it up in the air. “We are.” He answered, sounding as though he wasn’t even convincing himself.

“then why,” asked Clara “are there people pointing glowing swords  at us?” To Will –as confused as he already was- it sounded like quite a good question; what threw him off however was the question about the date. Of course it was the nineteenth century, what other century could it have been?

“who are you?” he questioned them, sounding a lot more confident than he actually was. The doctor seemed to observe Will and Jem for a minute before a look of dawning realisation took over his features. In a strange jolting display of movement the Doctor smacked his own forehead and slipped past Wills sword.

“oh, yes, of course, your shadowhunters aren’t you? It’s okay Clara they’re only shadowhunters, see?” Will froze in surprise and the next thing he knew he’d been grabbed by the shoulders and air kissed on both sides. As the doctor disarmed Jem and gave him the same discerning greeting, Clara relaxed slightly and asked.

“uh, great! I think… Doctor what’s a shadowhunter?” this seemed to bring will back to reality a little bit as the doctor then went on to shake his free hand for no apparent reason. “Doctor!”

“yes! Shadowhunters, sorry.” He returned to Clara’s side and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “shadowhunters are a race of beings descendent from a race called the angelis, not actual angels as you can imagine, but they are what the stories are based off of. Shadowhunters are half human half angelis and are on this earth to fight the demos, or as they call them demons, who come from a parallel pocket universe that’s slowly rotting away, all very interesting stuff.” Will looked at Jem now and saw that he was just as disturbed as he was. Hat this man was implying was that they were ignorant as to their own heritage. And to add injury to insult he had a feeling this Doctor was right.

It was Jem who recovered his voice first. His voice held no anger or fear; merely curiosity and even a hint of amusement. It appeared he had searched through the Doctor and Clara’s minds and found nothing too threatening.

“Excuse us we didn’t mean to startle you.”  Jem spoke in all of their minds. “I am Brother Zachariah and this is my companion for this evening, Mr William Herondale.”  the two strangers looked Jem up and down and smiled.

“well that’s alright, no harm done. I’m the Doctor and this is my friend Miss Clara Oswald.” Replied the odd man.”

“doctor?” The question burst out of Will like an explosion, there was something odd about this Doctor fellow; something not quite honest. He had the same look in his eyes as so many other veteran Will had seen in his time; it was the cold look of sadness and the knowledge of so much death and suffering. However there was also a childish quality to him, a curiosity to know more about the world and the people around him; he had the stars in his eyes. “Doctor Who?”

[robinhoodrevisited]

Rotten Homecomings

London. Workshop. Night. (Amid several candles, Deschamps sits at a table concentrating on his work. He uses a stylus while looking through a magnifying glass mounted on a stand. An old man, Lord Sheridan, with a candle in hand, comes downstairs.) Sheridan: “What progress, Deschamps? (Sheridan approaches the work table.) The Prince is not a patient man. (Deschamps studies his work, silent. Sheridan looks over Deschamps shoulder.) Uncanny.” (Sheridan holds his candle closer, but Deschamps puts his hand to it, not looking at it or Sheridan.) Deschamps: “Not so close with the candle.” (Deschamps pulls his hand back.) Sheridan: “You are indeed an artist.” (Sheridan turns and sets the candle down out of harm’s way.) Deschamps: “It is finished.” Sheridan: “As skillful with a scalpel and brush... as I am with a dagger. You shall feel no pain, my friend. (Deschamps suddenly realises what Sheridan has said, but it’s too late. Sheridan holds Deschamps’ chin with his left hand and stabs his side with the other.) You give your life for a place in history.” (Deschamps slumps to the floor, guided silently by Sheridan. Sheridan rises and looks through the magnifying glass at Deschamps’ work.)

Sherwood Forest. (Marian stands on a rise watching Much and Robin practice. Allan has a shiny tin round lid in his hands and he’s reflecting the sun’s light into Marian’s face. Marian holds her hand up to shield her eyes.) Marian: (Admonishingly:) “Allan!” Allan: (Chuckles. Feigned innocence:) “What? (Meanwhile, Much and Robin are practicing with branches. Much swings his down and Robin blocks.) Good. (Much stabs at Robin and Robin jumps back, raising his arm. Impressed:) Ohh!” (Robin attacks. Much blocks, then swings back across, but stops before he hits Robin.) Robin: “Much! Come on! You don’t go easy just because you’re training!” Much: “I’m trying not to hurt you.” (Robin grimaces and turns away, flustered.) Allan: “You’re not going to hurt him if you never hit him, are you?” (Much glares at Allan.)

Marian: “Well, come on, boys.” (Much, with both hands on the “hilt,” shakes his branch up and down, looking at Robin. He comes at him with everything and a roar, swinging largely in front of him. Just as he’s approaching Robin, Allan reflects the sun in his eyes and Robin ducks the blow. Much’s momentum carries him face first into a tree. He falls backwards, dazed. Marian is shocked. Allan laughs, totally amused.) Allan: “Blinding!” Much: (Dazed:) “Oh!” Marian: (Holding back a laugh:) "That wasn't funny, Allan. Much could've really hurt himself." Allan: "Much? Nah, he hit his head, can't hurt him that way. (As Marian tries and fails to stop a smile forming:) Besides, you're just worried about the camp." Marian: "I just don't understand why Isabella would leave it intact. I mean what does she have to gain from it?" Allan: (Shrugs:) "Maybe she knew you'd come back one day needing a change of clothes." Marian: "Very funny. It wouldn't hurt you to change your clothes once in awhile." Allan: "I've only got these ones! Besides, all the wardrobe space is taken up by your bleeding outfits." (As Marian is about to respond, Little John & Will run over the hill.)

Little John: “Robin?!” (Marian walks over to Much.) Marian: “Are you all right?” (Robin jogs over to Little John.) Little John: “We’ve just seen a royal carriage on the North Road.” Will: “Carrying the King’s insignia, not the Prince’s.” Robin: (Turns to Marian and motions.) “Let’s go.” Little John: “It’s heading for Nottingham.” (Marian pulls on Much’s arm.) Marian: “Much, come on. Time to go.” Much: “Huh?” (Allan comes over.) Allan: “Come on, up.” Robin: “Get him up!” (Marian and Allan pull Much to his feet.) Allan: “Yes...” Marian: “Come on! Come on!” (Marian giggles.)

Nottingham Town. Marketplace. (Sheridan solemnly leads a procession of Crusaders who are carrying a coffin draped in white with a red cross through the streets. The gang watch from the shadows behind the crowd gathering.) Much: “It’s Sheridan.” Will: “Who?” Robin: “Keeper of the Crown. He used to be the King’s favourite trainer of knights. (Leans his head back on the wall, perplexed.) He trained me.” (Prince John runs out of the castle gate with a anguished look of grief as the coffin is lowered to the ground. Sheridan goes to stand near the gate.) Prince John: “Oh! No! (Kneels at the coffin’s head, feigning devastation and sobbing.) No, no, no, no. (Puts his face to the coffin. The Crusaders stand back.) No.” (Isabella stands behind Lord Sheridan, watching.) Sheridan: “People of Nottingham, it is to your great sadness, but also to your great honour, that you are the first to know…of the death of King Richard.” (Hangs his head. Robin’s lips are pressed together tightly, not wanting to believe. Little John is upset at the news. Allan, Will and Much have looks of disbelief.) Much: (Mouths:) “What?” (Will hangs his head.) Sheridan: “The Lionheart met his glorious end in battle with the infidel.” (Robin shifts his feet, his eyes darting everywhere. Sheridan steps forward and grasps Prince John’s hand, which is stretched out behind him. Sheridan helps him up.)

Prince John: (Addressing people:) “I thank you for your sympathy… and for your love. (Robin lowers his chin, glaring at Prince John.) The Archbishop of Canterbury is on his way to bless my brother’s body and though these are not the circumstances I would have wished for, in the interests of stability and national security, he will also oversee my coronation.” (The Prince walks slowly back to the gate. Robin continues glaring. The gang stare in disbelief. Allan is watching Isabella from under his hood.) Sheridan: “The King is dead. Long live the King!” (Sheridan turns towards Prince John and kneels, head down. The Crusaders and the townsfolk do also, chanting three times: Long live the King!) Little John: (Kneels. to Will:) “Kneel. (Will and Allan kneel. Robin remains standing. Little John pulls on his cloak.) Get down, get down!” (Robin reluctantly kneels, his face showing clearly he’s not happy about it, but he relents, not wanting to draw attention. Little John looks around to see if anyone noticed.) Prince John: (to himself:) “Long live me.”

[mama-orion]

The New Man

I took a little break from Sacre Coeur to write a piece for @hiatustory monthly fanfic challenge. This month’s prompt was Alternate Meeting.  ((THANKS H.I.A.T.U.S. team, this was super fun!))

Title: The New Man Summary: A new delivery man shows up with Sherlock’s takeaway one night, piquing his interest enormously. Over the course of several deliveries, they discover more about the other’s unique abilities and their mutual respect and intrigue grow. After they save a young couple from a hate-fueled attack, their own connection deepens. (Sweet, lightly silly, some tension that's quickly resolved. Sherlock’s POV)  Rated T: Some violence; some physical injury; some depiction of homophobic hate crime; reference to parental disapproval of sexuality; non-explicit romance. Wordcount: ~6,400 On AO3

Part 1

“Right, so we’ve got one ma po bean curd, one fried pak choy in garlic sauce, one deep fried banana. With delivery, brings you to twenty-four pounds, even.”

The delivery man from Red Sun Shanghai Takeaway looks up from his receipt. Sherlock scowls at him. Bit old for delivery. Middling 30s. His regular guy, Chen, is barely 19. New Guy is out of breath from laboring up the stairs with a cane, but his right trouser leg is pegged and the other is spotted with grease. A worn messenger bag emblazoned with reflective tape is slung across his chest. He obviously cycled the order over, despite the limp. Interesting.

“You’re new.”

“Oh. Yea, to this route, anyway,” he replies, handing Sherlock the paper sack. “Started covering for the usual guy tonight. Hope it didn’t take too long.”

“No-no, just… observing.”

Sherlock sets the bag at his feet and rifles through his wallet for notes. He sees the delivery man eyeing the room behind him and feels a sudden stab of self-consciousness. What’s wrong with him? He never cared when Chen saw his flat in disarray.

“Bit of a mess at the moment.”

“Mess?” The new delivery man’s youthful, weathered face crinkles with a wry smile and Sherlock’s stomach does something funny. “Looks like a bomb went off in a library.”

“I’ve just solved a case.” Sherlock gestures vaguely at the floor and walls covered with papers, news clippings, a large neon green duffel and a single rusty hockey skate marooned in the papers like flotsam. “There’s actually an order to it.”

“Oh. Case? You’re some kind of… police detective or something?”

“Or something, yes.”

“Sorry, um, not my business. Well, under all that, nice flat you’ve got here.”

“You think so?”

“Bit big for one, assuming–” he seems to remember himself and blusters, “assuming it’s just you, which, again, is none of my business.”

“Mine alone. Difficult enough to afford it.”

The delivery guy nods vigorously, back on safer ground.

“Ridiculous, trying to afford a flat in London. Just barely scraping enough together to keep mine, and it’s a dismal little box of a thing compared to this.”

“You’re new.”

“Yes,” he furrows his eyebrows, puzzled, “we’ve covered that.”

“Why?”

“Pardon?”

“Oh, never mind, clearly none of my business. Here,” he pushes the money at the man. With a quick re-count, he nods at Sherlock, but seems reluctant to leave.

“Ta, well, good evening. Enjoy your… banana.”

“You, too.”

The delivery man limps laboriously back down the stairs, leaving heavily onto his cane. The front door shuts. Sherlock thinks over what he’s just said. Winces. Idiot.

He taps his lips and then strides over to the windows, observes his new delivery man limping to a dated bicycle, a cargo crate on the back. Well-kept, nothing flashy. He attaches the cane to the frame with clips he’s rigged up, straps on a helmet, and pedals off. As he weaves into traffic, Sherlock detects no hint of weakness in the lame leg. Interesting.

...

The following night, he orders his usual. No case on. Not really hungry. But he’s curious. When the doorbell rings, he leaps up and thunders down the stairs before Mrs. Hudson can answer. He opens the door to find…

“Chen.”

“Mr. Holmes, evening.” Immune to his sour tone, the willowy young half-Scottish-half-Japanese youth gives him a lopsided grin full of braces. He holds out the bag. “Your usual, sir.”

Sherlock holds out the notes, takes the bag, nods goodbye, and closes the door a bit harder than he needed to. Then he blinks and opens the door so quickly Chen hasn’t had time to step away. He blinks, startled.

“Mr. Holmes?”

“New man on your route last night.”

“Oy? Oh yea, he covers for me when I’m at night class. Problem?”

“No problem. Class? What subject?”

“It’s um, artistic movement, sir,” Chen says sheepishly.

Sherlock looks him over quickly.

“Ballet, Chen, and do admit it proudly.”

“Oh! How’d you… course. Right.” He grins. “Thank you, sir, I will sir.”

“You must be dedicated – such a demanding art form. I can see it’s taking a toll.”

“Too right,” Chen relaxes, warming into his subject. “Toes are bloody killin’ me. Five mornings a week with my tutor, four extra night sessions for flexibility an’ core strength.” His eyes dive to the ground.

“Started quite late, considering, got a lotta catchin’ up to do.”

“You’re not living at home anymore, then. Your father…”

“Doesn’t know a thing about it. Mum’s cool. Living with my sister. Better that way, yea?”

“Mm. Where do you study?”

“City Academy.”

Sherlock pulls his wallet out and gives the delivery boy another 50 pounds. Chen backs away shaking his head.

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly, Mr. Holmes, sir.”

“Course you could. I consider it an investment in the arts.” He claps the notes into Chen’s hand and folds his fingers over them. “Can’t be easy to afford so many classes and your share of the rent on your present income. Juggling two jobs at the moment, aren’t you? Zappa’s Pizza? Lunch rush?”

Chen shakes his head, smiling.

“Really are a marvel, sir.”

“Not at all, it’s painfully obvious, Chen. Soak your feet in epsom salt after practice. Now, off with you. Study hard.”

“Yes sir, I will sir,” he shouts over his shoulder as he leaps an enthusiastic grand jété down the sidewalk.

Sherlock smiles, closing the door. Before he’s even reached the top of the stairs he’s looked up the school’s night class schedule and determined exactly when he will next be ordering Red Sun takeaway.

...

“Your usual. Twenty-four pounds. So, cleaned up a bit?”

The delivery man, his delivery man, stands in the doorway holding a paper sack dotted with oil stains and spatters of rain. The scent of fried bean curd fills the entryway. He’s breathless again from his climb. Sherlock suspected that if he met him at the street door, it would look like pity for his limp. He does not think this man wants to be seen as weak. His hair is wet from where the rain seeped under his helmet, sticking up at odd little points. Cycling these streets on a dark, rainy night – treacherous. The delivery man’s eyes glitter and his cheeks are flushed. Look at you, completely high on the adrenaline!

“Yes. Not on a case at the moment.” Not true, you’ve got two on, but you stopped just to clean the flat before he got here and you know it. You’re not even going to eat this takeaway. What are you doing?

“Overheard something interesting about you. From Chen. Your regular delivery guy.”

“Oh?”

“Said you could tell he studies ballet and works a lunch shift at Zappa’s, just by taking a glance at him.”

“Yes. True.”

“Right, but how did you know? Is there some trick to it? You saw him with his gear on after a class and he didn’t know it. Or you popped by Zappa’s for a slice, but went unseen in the crowd. Like a magic trick – they don’t know how much you know. Makes you look clever.”

“No trick. I simply observe.” Sherlock feels himself bristle. You too, then. Pity.

“So you say. But I see Chen all the time, and I didn’t know he was studying ballet ‘til he asked me to cover his shift. None of us did.”

“That’s because you’re all idiots.”

The delivery man scowls.

“Oh, don’t be like that,” Sherlock waves dismissively. “Practically everybody is.”

His delivery man gives him a challenging stare.

“Looked you up. The Science of Deduction.”

Sherlock pauses as he thumbs through his wallet.

“Oh?”

“Seems a bit much, really.”

“And you’d be the expert, I’m sure.” Sherlock huffs a sigh. “Here, thirty quid. Goodnight.” He holds the notes out for the man to take and leave him be, but he doesn’t. He actually leans against the doorway, arms crossed, as if he doesn’t have three other orders congealing in the rain in his bike basket outside. He stares a challenge at Sherlock.

“Alright then, do me.”

“Pardon?”

“Go on. Deduce me.”

Sherlock blinks rapidly, the data firing at him from every angle of the man’s body before he can even stop himself. Why should I bother? He’s only going to be cruel. But…  damn my curiosity.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

The man startles, his haughtiness evaporating.

“Oh, come now, why the surprise?” Sherlock drawls. “By your estimation, I simply fought in the same battles as you, but you never noticed me.”

“Afghanistan – but how did you– how could you possibly–”

“Simple.” The deduction tumbles out. “The cut of your hair and physical bearing says military. Likely a lieutenant due to the ease with which you give orders to strangers.” Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Your hands and face are tanned, but it doesn’t reach past your wrists or neckline. Musculature of your fingers, lack of callouses, says you performed specialist work, possibly as a surgeon. You limp and favor your left arm. Wounded in battle, recently removed from service. You’re trying to get by on a military pension, pedaling Szechuan chicken around London to help you afford a piece of shite flat. So, where does a man have occupational exposure to the sun, become recently injured in military combat, and land himself back in London? Afghanistan or Iraq.”

The man stares at him wide-eyed, his mouth slightly open.

“How could you possibly know I was a surgeon?”

“Bit of a leap. You do really have a doctor’s hands, though. And I’m sure your therapist has reams on why your PTSD is preventing you from returning to your chosen field.”

“How do you know I have a therapist?” he spits back

“Oh really,” Sherlock sneers, “you’ve got PTSD, of course you have a therapist.”

“How–” “You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand and walk with a psychosomatic limp. Judging by the shadows under your vaguely bloodshot eyes you suffer from insomnia. PTSD. You should fire her.”

“Why on earth should I?”

“Despite your injuries, despite your past, you choose to cycle on busy, darkened streets. You love it. She thinks you need peace and calm to heal from your trauma. You don’t. You weren’t damaged by the war. You long for it.”

The delivery man stares openly at him. Sherlock waits, bracing for the bitter retort he knows is coming.

“That was brilliant.”

Sherlock pulls up taut, looking for the barb. There isn’t one.

“Sorry?” He scowls.

“I mean…” the man absently brushes his hand on the back of his cropped hair. “You just read all of that. Just by looking at me?”

“Well, to be fair, I saw it the first time you made a delivery.”

“Fantastic.”

Sherlock feels his face redden and his stomach do that strange thing, again. He ducks his chin to hide a foolish little grin. What on earth is wrong with me?

“That’s not what people usually say.”

“What do people usually say?”

“Piss off.”

The man laughs. And not at him. He extends his hand.

“John. Dr. John Watson. Of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Afghanistan.”

Sherlock hesitantly takes it. It’s firm, warm. A surgeon’s hand, he was right.

“Did I get anything wrong?” he asks hesitantly.

“Captain, not lieutenant.”

“Captain. There’s always something.”

“Really, though, that was brilliant.” John’s face is shining. “Not sure how you’d have possibly read my rank in my, I dunno, my bike bag or the way I part my hair.”

Sherlock realizes he hasn’t released Dr. John Watson’s hand. With a quick shake, he lets go.

“Sorry, before, about doubting you.”

“Don’t, everyone does.”

“Really? Unbelievable. So, this website of yours, that what you do for work?”

“I’m a consulting detective. First in the world. I made up the job.”

“Really. Well, that’s just, that’s brilliant.”

They stand in the entryway awkwardly for a moment. Sherlock’s fingers tap a sonata on his thighs at high speed. He can’t think of a thing to say, but he doesn’t want his Dr. John Watson Red Sun New Delivery Man to leave.

“Um, I should. Deliveries.”

“Oh. Yes. Right.”

“So, til next time.”

“Til next time.”

“Do enjoy that banana.” John winks, then gives him a terse, military-like nod and grabs for his cane, leaning on it heavily as he makes his way down the stairs.

“And you,” Sherlock calls with a chuckle. The door shuts. I’m grinning. Why am I grinning?

Sherlock drifts back into the flat, passes his forgotten bag of dinner, and watches John from the window, lit up in the drizzly glow of the streetlight. Just as he’s about to attach his cane to the bike, John looks at it wonderingly, shaking his head and – yes – laughs to himself. Then he’s off, into the night. Sherlock watches the street for a while, trying to categorize and codify the various new sensations in his body brought about by this unusual interaction. He needs more data. Whirling away from the window, he flops onto the couch with an extravagant sigh.

Chen is working tomorrow night. Bloody hell.

…

Part 2

“Evening, Mr, Holmes. Your usual.” John the Delivery Man has brought him his usual seven times now, each night leaving behind increasingly puzzling data with his delivery. John the Pensioner Adrift in London, John Brilliant, Fantastic John looks up from the receipt and scowls at him. “Say, you alright?” Despite the searing pain in his right arm, Sherlock is pleased to notice how John the Retired Army Doctor’s entire demeanor changes as he medically appraises Sherlock

“I may have been…stabbed… earlier this evening.”

John immediately dumps Sherlock’s delivery and his messenger bag on the floor of the entryway and rushes into the flat.

“Where?” he demands, his eyes darting all over Sherlock’s body, looking for his own clues. But Sherlock is wrapped in his Belstaff, clutching his arms tightly, making it hard to see the wound at first glance.

“Right arm. It’s not that bad, really–”

“Hush. Take off your coat, let me see.”

John quickly, but gently, helps Sherlock slide out of his coat, being extremely careful as he removes the sleeve on his right arm. The tight, eggplant-colored shirt is stained a dark indigo around a jagged tear in the fabric of his bicep. John nods.

“Just here?”

“Yes.”

“Come, sit at the kitchen table so I can see it in the light. You look pale enough to faint. Not that that’s unusual.”

Sherlock obeys mutely, letting John push him into a chair. He is a bit dizzy. John’s brought his messenger bag, a battered, grease-stained thing that’s seen a lot of cycling – and pulls out a fairly substantial first aid kit. Sherlock quietly watches as John snaps on latex gloves and slices away his purple sleeve at the shoulder. There is absolutely no tremor in his left hand.

He sucks in his breath sharply as John gently peels the sodden sleeve from the wound.

“Sorry. Nasty cut. Not too deep, fortunately, but you’ve lost a fair bit of blood. Mostly clotted, now. How long did you wait to call?”

He dives into his kit and returns quickly, dabbing at the wound with surgical cotton and alcohol. Sherlock flares his nostrils and turns away, not wanting to answer. John doesn’t push the issue. He’s grateful.

“Going to sting, sorry.”

Sherlock watches John work, arm throbbing. His hands are efficient and skilled. A tidy mound of blood-soaked cotton appears on the kitchen table next to his microscope and a mess of petri dishes. John’s close to him, his short, sandy hair catching little golden highlights under the kitchen light, his face taut and concentrated. He smells good, a combination of something evergreen in his shampoo, sweat, fried rice, and a fresh hint of the chilly spring night. His eyes, very focused, are a strange shade. Sherlock spends several moments debating with himself about their exact hue. Not blue, not gray, but something in between, like a stormy sky over the Atlantic. Those eyes twitch to meet his. Sherlock feels himself redden.

“Alright?”

Sherlock nods.

“Just a scratch,” he rumbles. “Didn’t need to make such a fuss.”

“You say stabbed, Mr. Holmes, and I’m going to have a look. Don’t be an idiot. This needed medical attention.”

“Sherlock’s fine.”

“Sherlock, what did you do, chase some purse-snatcher down an alley and get yourself cornered?”

“You should see the other guy.”

John’s stern expression softens as he chuckles.

“Then, instead of heading straight to A&E, you order ma po?”

“Don’t like hospitals. Knew you’d come. It’s Tuesday.” Not exactly a purse-snatcher. Mycroft would know the instant I showed up.

John pauses, hands poised above his work. He blinks at Sherlock, absorbing his words. He sucks in his breath suddenly, focusing on the wound. Sherlock observes the corners of his mouth twitch up, but he tries to keep his face straight.

“Right then. Going to need a few stitches. If you like, I can finish the job, unless you have someone else who usually sees to your wounds when you’re dodging professional medical help?”

“I prefer you, if it’s all the same.”

“Ah. Ta.” That twitch of lips again. Sherlock wants to keep making that happen.

John pulls more supplies from his kit, slathering on antiseptic and spraying something that makes his skin feel prickly, then numb. He’s taken out a modern kind of suture tape, measuring and trimming it to the exact length of his wound.

“Quite a first aid kit you take on your deliveries.”

“Tell me why.”

“What?”

“Go on, you like it. Tell me why I travel around with such a ridiculously overstocked first aid kit.”

Sherlock’s eyes take on a soft focus as he balances the algebraic equation of his deductions. After a moment, he gasps.

“Sorry, that sting?”

“No, well, yes, quite a lot, actually, but I wasn’t reacting to that. You. Patch people up on your rounds, as you find them.”

“Very good.” He smiles warmly at him. Sherlock’s belly fills with honey. Idiot. Get ahold of yourself. “Wouldn’t believe the messes I stumble on. Near-overdoses, babies about to be born, couples at each other’s throats. And there I am with the Peking duck and my kit, faster than any ambulance. They usually wouldn’t call one, anyway. Like you. But this is the first time I’ve ever been summoned before. Flattered, really.”

John has finished taping the dressing over the wound and rolls gauze around Sherlock’s bicep.

“Fascinating,” Sherlock says, meaning it.

“Really?” John peaks his eyebrows at him. “Not what most people say.” He grins mischievously. Sherlock returns the grin.

“What do most people say?”

John shrugs, smile fading.

“Nothing, actually, never told anyone. Not even my therapist. Not many to tell, honestly.”

Sherlock nods. Alone then, like me.

“And certainly, your chosen method of transportation, while fueling your need for a bit of adrenaline, must also have its hazards. How’s your leg?”

As way of answer, John hitches up his left pant-leg with a grin to show his own recently-applied wound dressing over the side of his calf.

“Nice one! I was trying to hide the extra limp, though you probably saw that. Dodged a lorry, caught my leg on the fender. Pedaling Szechuan chicken all over London for a shite flat can be more interesting than you think.”

“Indeed.” He gazes softly at John who goes about cleaning up the mess, his eyes flicking up to him every few moments. Each glance feels like sparks.

“You’re going to need antibiotics for that. I’m not any kind of real doctor these days, so you’d best get it looked at tomorrow and get a proper prescription. And I’m going to text you in the morning to make sure you do, Sherlock,” he says with a stern tone that makes Sherlock’s soft gaze snap into focus. “Because I can tell you’re the kind of blighter who would ignore himself in favor of something more interesting.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do you care?”

“Why do I care?” John frowns at him incredulously. Sherlock finds he likes this righteous anger almost as much as the warm grins. “Because I’m a bloody doctor whether I’m getting paid as one or not.” John ducks into his kit, his tone becoming softer. “And I’d prefer if my most interesting delivery not die of sepsis from a bloody knife scratch.”

Sherlock blinks rapidly. John hands him a few small pills.

“Painkiller. Over the counter. Take these tonight.”

“Yes, doctor.”

John smiles. Sherlock smiles back. The warmth, that honey-on-a-warm-scone sensation, oozes through his torso.

“Now, I have other deliveries to make before they fire me for good this time.”

John has re-packed his first aid kit with efficient speed and is nearly out the door.

“John,” Sherlock calls, sitting up straight and trying not to look weak. John pauses at the door and turns.

“Thank you. Truly.”

John gives him a wry half-grin, a parting shot of warmth.

“I’ll text you in the morning, Sherlock.”  

…

Part 3

Text thread:

Unknown number: Good morning, Sherlock. This is your Szechaun Chicken delivery man texting from his shite flat.

S. Holmes: Morning, John. How is it you have my number? I always order online and pay with cash.

Unknown number: You have it on your website, idiot. I’m not a stalker.

S. Holmes: Ah

S. Holmes: I went to a doctor

S. Holmes: There was nothing for them to do. They changed the dressing. Said it was expertly done.

Dr. John Watson: Of course it was. Antibiotics?

S. Holmes: Yes. Already begun.

Dr. John Watson: Good. Ordering dinner tonight?

S. Holmes: Yes. Though not until late.

S. Holmes: Could you possibly do me one more favor?

Dr. John Watson: Of course

S. Holmes: Save my delivery for last.

…

John climbs the stairs to 221B. He’s juggling twice as much food as usual and leaning awkwardly on his cane. The door to the flat is open.

“Sherlock?”

“In here, come in, I’ll just be a moment.”

John limps hesitantly over the threshold. Sherlock is perched in an armchair typing into his laptop.

“You ordered quite a lot tonight. Expecting company?”

“Oh, very observant, doctor. Please, could you set it over here on the desk?” He looks up, wrinkling his face into a grimace. “You know, my arm.”

John gives him a suspicious smile, but places the bags on the desk. It’s been set for two. John tugs the receipt out of one of the bags a little gruffly and glares at the two place settings. Oh? What’s that, a hint of jealousy? Interesting. John begins to read off the order. Sherlock interrupts, clicking the laptop closed resolutely.

“No need, John, I’m sure it’s fine.”

“Oh. Got yourself a date tonight, then?” It is decidedly not asked with his usual offhand, friendly courtesy. Sherlock tents his fingers in front of his lips and peers at him over his fingertips.

“Not sure, honestly. Depends.”

John turns, looking suddenly weary, his voice gone flat.

“Sorry, not my business. Total’s fifty-eight quid.”

“Hmm. Might be, after all. Off duty now, are you not?”

“Well, I need to bring the last payments back–” John blinks, confused by the question.

“Right, of course. Shouldn’t have assumed.” Sherlock’s face falls.

“But – I can do it in the morning,” John says warily, “long as I let them know.”

“Ah! Excellent.” Sherlock brightens considerably. “Are you otherwise free for the evening?”

John gives him a long, uncertain stare.

“Nothing waiting for me tonight but cold tamarind duck at my flat.”

“Then do allow me to thank you properly for your services last night.” Sherlock flourishes his hands toward the two place settings. John gapes at him.

“Wait… you bought me dinner? This was for me?”

“Problem?”

“No-no, it’s just.” He runs his hand over his mouth and sucks in a breath. “Well, no one’s ever done that before.”

“Impossible, nice doctor like you. Oh...” Sherlock has pulled out his wallet. Forgot to bloody go to the bloody cash machine. Idiot.

“…Oh?”

“I, um, seem to be out of cash at the moment.” He makes a show of turning his wallet upside down. “If you don’t mind a brief stroll before dinner, we can just pop down to the machine on the corner. Or you could wait, I won’t be but a few minutes.”

John, still bewildered by Sherlock’s offer of dinner, shrugs easily.

“Sure, I’ll come. Night’s young. Chilly, though. You’ll want to wrap up in that big, flashy coat of yours.”

“It’s not big and flashy,” Sherlock protests as he strides to the coat hook. “It’s elegant. And practical.”

“Ah. Touched a nerve, very sorry.” John tries to hide his smirk as Sherlock ties on his scarf.

“Really, John,” he says, tossing the scarf over his shoulder. “You have no idea how valuable a touch of the dramatic can be in my line of work.” He grins. What, am I being playful? What is this?

John, still wearing his messenger bag, follows Sherlock down the stairs. Sherlock waits patiently for him at the door as he struggles down, and doesn’t comment. They walk out into the night. It’s cool, with a fresh wind that ruffles his hair and sets the coat flapping. Sherlock spreads his arms out so the wind can buffet the coat like a dark flag.

“You see?”

“Ah, I do,” John grins at him. “Had a thing for capes as a lad, did you?”

“Batman. So brooding. All those gadgets. And so righteous.”

“Always preferred Han Solo myself.”

“Who?”

John, limping along next to him, shakes his head, incredulous.

“You have got to be kidding me.”

“No, what? Who is he?”

They’ve reached the cash machine. Sherlock quickly withdraws the funds, passing payment for dinner to John, plus a nice tip.

“Ta. But really, Sherlock, how could someone like you, who can tell the difference between every fountain pen manufactured since 1910 by its nib–”

“Oh, you’ve been reading my site! I’m touched!”

“It’s Star Wars, Sherlock. Oh – fine, do you have Netflix? We’re remedying this tonight.”

“We’re watching a movie?”

“Bloody right we are–”

Sherlock suddenly whirls around, holding up a hand to silence John.

“What–”

“Listen, you hear that? Sounds like…. Not good.”

John stares at him incredulously. No, he can’t hear it, but Sherlock knows what his Baker Street sounds like on a calm night. He also knows the sounds of jeering, of hate, the way they warp the air and send daggers in all directions. He can’t quite place it, but he can feel the disturbance in the air like a splinter in silk.

“Let’s go check it out.”

“What? I don’t hear anything.”

“I know. Will you come?” Sherlock tents his eyebrows at him. “Could be dangerous.”

“Well then,” John replies with a smirk, “You do seem to know what I like.” Oh my god, was that flirting?

Sherlock tries to suppresses the effervescent bubbles in his solar plexus as they walk quickly toward the source of the disturbance, but they just morph into a kind of dangerous giddiness. He feels the hairs along his neck prickle as he senses, if not quite hears, the tension.

“John, we need to run, now.”

As they get closer, Sherlock’s sense that something is wrong manifests into an audibly discordant bray of shouting coming from a small knot of people farther down Baker Street. They’re yelling slurs at someone in their midst. Awful things. The giddiness he’s feeling transmutes into the familiar, electric fury that always comes when meting out justice. John can hear it now, too, his body going rigid.

“Oh bloody hell.” John takes on a burst of speed and Sherlock grins widely as he lengthens his stride to keep up. Soon they’re running, bolting toward the small crowd less than 50 meters away. Suddenly, with no words exchanged, they slow their run to a walk. Sherlock observes John from the corner of his eye. His jaw is set, eyes hard, chest puffed with anger.

“What’s the plan?” John turns to catch his eye. Not anxious. No, he’s thrilled.

“Follow my lead,” As they near the tight, angry knot, Sherlock grins and reaches out, taking John’s hand, twining their fingers together tightly. For a moment John looks completely surprised, then realization dawns. He grins wickedly at Sherlock and squeezes back. Oh, he’s really too good.

The knot of shadowy bodies resolves itself into three tall teenage boys towering over a couple they’ve backed up against the stone wall. Beyond the wall is a shadowy park, good place to get quietly brutalized. Fortunately, these idiots are show-boaters, doing their hate in plain sight. Sherlock hisses as the shadowy couple takes clearer form. It’s Chen and a lean, black boy, clearly also a dancer by his build. Chen has a bloody nose. They look terrified. Rage crackles through Sherlock. Not this, not here, and certainly not to his friend.

“What have we got here?” John calls out loudly. The aggressors turn slightly, taking in the older couple before them, hands clasped.

“What do you think John? Fair fight?”

“Oo, we’re a bit outnumbered, love.”

Sherlock can’t help himself. Even with the acting, it sends a shiver through him. Focus.

“Could be exciting, though, never taken on three hate-mongering, testosterone-pumped arseholes half my age.”

“Not your fight, you saggy old queen,” one of the group leers.

“Oh? Do you think so, John?”

John gives his hand a solid squeeze before releasing it.

“I think it’s very much our fight, Sherlock.”

As Sherlock and John move in, one of the bullies shoves at Chen, knocking him to the ground. Another winds up to kick, but in the time it takes him to shift his balance to the other foot and aim, John has tackled him to the ground, spinning him onto his stomach in a quick, clean wrestling maneuver. He twists the bully’s arm sharply, making him howl. In a flash, before the others can recover from their surprise, John is back on is feet, flexing his fingers, eyes shining.

He’s brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.

Sherlock shoots him a fast grin as he deftly tosses the largest boy onto his back, knocking the breath from him. His feet dance through his Capoeira maneuvers as he sizes up the third. Third Bully holds up his fists and snarls. Sherlock ducks his slow punch and flips him, his head hitting the pavement with a satisfying crack. He groans and does not stir. Sherlock whirls, itching for another, but of course, they’re already done. John is standing next to Chen and his boyfriend, soothing them, but catches his eye. They grin at each other like Cheshire cats.

…

“Can’t believe you two can fight like that,” Chen says with wide-eyed awe as he holds a wad of cotton to his nose. John has sat both boys down on the low stone wall to check them for injuries. Chen’s boyfriend sits close, hugging his knees to his chest, physically unhurt, but looking much worse for wear. He’s holding Chen’s hand tightly. On hold with the police, Sherlock makes a mental note to tell Chen about a good counselor for this sort of thing. The three aggressors lie in a semi-conscious heap at his feet. One moves to get up and John jumps up, but Sherlock roughly kicks the boy’s legs out from under him. John settles, nodding approvingly.

John turns his attention back to the young couple.

“There, I don’t think there’s anything worse than the bloody nose and some bruising to your face. You’re both very lucky, and I’m horribly sorry this happened to you. The police will be here in a moment and will need a full report from you. We’ll stay with you.”

“You two a team now, or something?” Chen asks, his awe slightly hampered by the nasal press of the cotton.

“Chen, didn’t you see?” his boyfriend mutters to him. “They were holding hands. They’re like us.”

Sherlock looks over, still on hold. He meets John’s eyes and feels a kind of pulse. The good doctor, he notices, does not correct them. Likely better to let them think it, safety among allies and all.

“Here, Chen,” John reaches back into his first aid kit and takes out a thin packet that, as he twists it, begins to rapidly cool. “Hold this to your face where it’s swelling.” John takes in the shaken boyfriend. “I’m sorry, we’ve not met – I’m Dr. John Watson.”

“Avery.”

“Alright, Avery, I have a very important job for you.” John holds up a thin blue, rattling tube Sherlock recognizes as homeopathics. “You both need to take three of these arnica tablets every fifteen minutes for the next hour. Avery, I see you’re wearing a rather formidable watch. Think you could track that? It’ll help immensely with the shock you’re both feeling, and with Chen’s injury.” Making him feel useful, taking his mind off things. Good.

Avery takes the little blue vial John offers, paying careful attention as he’s shown how to twist the cap to dispense the right dosage. He looks up at John and nods, steel in his eyes, and puts a protective arm around Chen.

“Got it.”

“Right, you two sit tight. I’m going to go make sure those arseholes don’t have it in mind to move any time soon.”

Sherlock thumbs off his mobile as John approaches. He gives John a slow, respectful nod, smiling.

“Well done, doctor,” he says quietly.

“Well done, yourself.” John, hands stuffed in his pockets, nudges Sherlock’s unwounded Shoulder for emphasis. “I was wondering how a skinny thing like you was going to hold up. Not sure you really needed me here at all. Might want me to check those stitches, though.”

Sherlock nods, wincing as a patrol car pulls up, lights flashing.

“You’re worlds better with the injuries and the…people part. Nice work with Avery.”

John shrugs. “Nothing special. A basic first aid course could teach you as much.”

“Not so sure about that. Either way, it was more fun.”

Impossibly, John’s grin grows wider.

“Oy, freak!”

Sherlock’s own grin curdles. He can see John’s smile flatten to a solid scowl at the approaching officer.

“Sergeant Donovan,” Sherlock says icily.

“Freak?” John mutters to him quietly, his hackles clearly rising. Sherlock shakes his head ever so slightly.

“Suppose we need to thank you,” Donovan drawls.

“Course you need to thank him,” snaps John. “He very nearly single-handedly saved these two young men from a vicious hate crime.”

“Yea!” Avery chimes in from the wall. Chen turns to him, startled. “Those pieces of shite,” he jerks his sharp chin at the pile of thugs, “could have killed my boyfriend. We’d probably just be a stupid, sad memorial about now if it weren’t for Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson.” Avery’s chest heaves. Chen wraps his arm around his shoulders soothingly, smiling softly.

“Right, um, thank you,” Donovan says, nonplussed, then squints at John. “Who are you?”

“I’m just his delivery man.”

“He’s my doctor. Dr. John Watson, Sergeant Sally Donvan.”

“Ah.” John makes no move to shake her hand. Sherlock grins. Sally rolls her eyes.

“Watch out for this one,” she says scathingly. “Running around London like he’s some genius vigilante. Play with him and you might end up the one needs saving.”

He can see John seethe, but he lets the barb pass by.

“Sergeant Donovan, instead of standing about insulting my friend, you may want to see to the rather large mess we’ve diffused for you.”

Donovan sniffs at him, then turns to the other officers and begins giving orders. After they’ve given their statements, Sherlock shrugs to the edge of the scene. The rest of this part is tedious, the arrests, the repetitive, idiotic questions. They sit with the boys, John making small talk with Avery and monitoring Chen’s swelling, Sherlock asking after their dance training. Finally, Chen’s elder sister arrives to bring the boys home. Only then do they leave.

“We’re alright now, Mr. Holmes,” Chen says through the window of the dusty, sky blue Mini, “My sister’s cool.”

Avery suddenly leans over him, bursting out the window, “Thank you. For saving Chen.”

“Take care, boys.”

“Oh, and sir,” Chen calls out as the car begins to drive off. Sherlock looks back. Chen winks and gives him a thumbs-up. “Nice one.”

Sherlock watches the car drive off, his chest very tight, and turns to find John watching him.

“Hungry?”

“Starving,” John replies with a soft grin, falling into step beside him.

“Good. Oh, and there’s something we need to pick up on the way home.”

“Home?”

“My home. I meant. The flat. Place. Whatever.”

…

As they pass by the cash machine kiosk, Sherlock slows their pace. John follows his gaze. The cane is still propped against the brick wall by the machine.

“Oh…” John huffs, looking down at himself, then at Sherlock, shaking his head with wonder. “Incredible. Just. Amazing.” Sherlock grins at him. Ok, here goes.

“You should know,” he says in a rush, “my landlady gives me a remarkably favorable rate. Between the two of us, we could cover it handily, even on your pension. I play the violin when I think, argue with myself, sometimes don’t talk for days on end, generally found to be utterly disagreeable to be around–”

“Are you… asking me to share the flat with you?” John asks incredulously, holding the cane, but not placing it on the ground for support.

“Um. Yes.”

“Oh. Wow. I… bit sudden? Haven’t even had dinner yet.”

“Did just wrestle three cretins to the ground together…”

John presses his lips together, giving Sherlock a long, measuring look.

“There’s two bedrooms…” Sherlock trails off, lamely.

John’s eyes sparkle in the lamplight as they watch each other closely. John steps toward him. Then again.

Sherlock feels his stomach flip and his knees go watery as John comes very close, the conifer-sweat-fried rice scent filling his nose, the brisk wind blowing suddenly, whipping his coat.

John hesitantly reaches up, tracing his soft, surgeon’s fingertips down Sherlock’s jaw. Sherlock presses his face against the touch, his breath coming quickly, then places his hand on the small of John’s back and pulling, closes the small distance between their chests. John brushes his lips lightly along Sherlock’s cheek, then hums close to his ear,

“Well, love, who says we’ll be needing two?”

[worldsandcenturiesfunposting]

Assassin’s Creed Syndicate Review

I had bought Assassin's Creed Syndicate when it first came out. Though more balls were dropped during the release of Assassin's Creed Unity than in a high school I still opted to get the game both because I didn't purchase Unity and thus wouldn't be spending more money on the company and because the Victorian era is one of my personal favorite periods in history and the idea being able to explore it seemed like fun. AC:S is the only of the three big named Victorian games I was able to get as both Bloodborne and The Order: 1886 were both Playstation exclusives.

However, at the time I was using a laptop PC which was quite a few years old and alas, far too out of date to run the game. By the time I had gotten to the first Evie mission where I was to rescue Robert Topping, the fight club curator, along the way to assassinate Sir David Brewster, the game would freeze and then quit out. A quick check at stemrequirementslab.com showed that my computer was out of date. No matter, I was planning on building a PC proper one day.

That day has finally come and of the two games I've downloaded right off the bat, Assassin's Creed Syndicate was one of them. So how does this game fare compare to the previous and on its own?

--

Disclaimers: I am playing on a PC using an Xbox One controller. I have seen various let's plays and long plays prior to playing. I have not received any monetary or sexual favors in exchange for this review.  

–

The Premise:

Assassin's Creed Syndicate is the latest in Ubisoft's Assassin's Creed series. It's an open world stealth based piece of historical fiction taking place in London during the height of the Industrial Revolution in 1868. To paraphrase one of the game devs, it's when the world left the medieval era. People no longer openly carried around swords but reconciled their weapons. Machinery and science was advancing at a pace unheard of in previous times. Industry was booming and once again, God was on the chopping block.

The story follows Jacob and Evie Frye; twin assassins who made it their goal to liberate London from the clutches of the Templars. The entire series is about the centuries old war between the two groups. Like the Illuminati in Deus Ex, the premise of the game is what it might be like if these age old secret organizations didn't die off eventually but kept working behind the scenes for all of history.

Their primary target is a man named Crawford Starrick who controls the London division of the Templars. In the opening cutscene, Assassin Henry Green states “Whoever controls London controls the world” and indeed, being the man pulling the strings behind the world's most powerful empire does make a man dangerous. However, it's not a simple matter of running up to him and stabbing him in the streets. Starrick controls London through his gang known as the Blighters who control various districts in London. In order to get to Starrick, Jacob and Evie will have to free each of the districts from the controlling gang leader.

This is where story starts turning into gameplay. Each district is separated into smaller districts. So say Whitechapel is a district and the area is cut up into pieces that hold different missions. The missions are: freeing children from factories, finding and kidnapping high ranking gang members and delivering them to the police, finding and killing high ranking gang members/templars, or taking control of a Blighter controlled stronghold and possibly saving members of your own gang from their clutches. Each district has several of these and by completing these sub challenges, you'll eventually have the opportunity to face off against the gang leader and a small assembly of their mooks to finally cement your control of the district.

--

The gameplay:

The Assassin's Creed series is very similar to Call of Duty where it will have the exact same base gameplay but throw in a few different mechanisms in an attempt to distinguish it from the predecessor.

For what it's worth, the core AC gameplay isn't bad, and they've improved some things from Unity such as having a button prompt to enter a building when climbing to avoid leaping all around a window but never getting in it. If you have played one AC game, even the earliest, you've played them all.

However, they have tried a few things with Unity that have translated into this game. A small but welcomed change was free running down where rather than having to play the drop-grab-drop game of scaling down buildings, the character will descend just as quickly as s/he climbs up.

As for the new mechanics, there's a few small ones and a few large ones. The large ones are carriage driving, gangs, and the zipline.

Carriages: Carriage driving is fairly fun and thankfully doesn't fall into any BS pitfalls. In a game where you can lose if you intentionally kill civilians (but sadly, you can't kill the kids), it's good that Ubisoft didn't implement this into the driving sections where you might accidentally (or not so accidentally) mow down hoards of people. The steering is fairly tight but occasionally the carriage can wobble from one side of wheels to the other. This however isn't so much an issue. The horses are invincible to everything but your bullets and knives and you can mow down everything but fences, buildings, statues, and large trees.

The only major issue I have is that you constantly have to press (a) button to keep the horses as maximum speed. I feel it would have been a lot easier just to be able to hold (a) similar to how every other driving game works. Even at max speed they're simple to control. It would also mean I won't have to hear Evie yell “Come on! Keep moving! Faster!” on my way from one side of the map to the other. (She's a dick to horses)

Gangs: They're an alright addition but since I was going for a 100% run as far as the missions go, I didn't use them that often because some of the additional challenges might be ruined by them (such as killing an enemy a certain way, not being spotted, etc) Ubisoft wasn't lying when they said if you recruit multiple members, get in a carriage, and if there's not enough room the remaining members will steal a carriage and follow. However, at times I felt they were a tad bit slow. They also follow you up and down buildings and if there's a path available, across the river as well.

I don't think I've played with them enough to form a truly solid opinion on the matter.

Zipline: This is actually a welcomed addition but one that came at the cost of the first hour of gameplay.

Initially I've found getting from one street to another to be a bit of a hassle. In all the other AC games, buildings are either close enough together to leap from one side to the other or there's a convenient rope stretching from one side to the other for me to run across. Alas in the wide streets of London, that's not the case. So the first hour of gameplay was rather slow because of that.

When I got the zipline however, things sped up. It can reach up to incredible heights and the game tells you this by having the first mission with it involving you zipping all the way to the top of Big Ben in less than a minute. It can stretch far horizontally as well (as apparent by that very same mission).

To use it, look in a certain direction and a button prompt on the screen will tell you where you're able to use the zipline. I found it works quite well and don't think Its messed up during the gameplay. If you need to zipline up, the button prompt will be on the top of the screen.

My only complaint is it's still a bit tedious getting from building to building. If you need to go from point A to point B, it's easier to jump down and steal a carriage rather than zipline from roof to roof. However for smaller areas such as the gang stronghold missions, it's a welcome addition that adds a slight bit of new strategy since you can stick to the roofs or quickly move across the area.

–

Aside from the main story, you have to liberate various sections of London. The sections include Whitechapel, the Thames, Westminster, City of London, the Strand, Lambeth, etc. Each section has several Boroughs which in turn have their own missions. The missions include finding and kidnapping a Templar and taking him/her to the police, killing a specific templar, child liberation, and gang strongholds.

Templarnapping: Of all the missions, I think I enjoyed them the least. Possibly because it seemed like there were more of them than the others and it got somewhat tedious. First you use eagle vision to locate your target who will be in yellow rather than the usual red for enemies. You kidnap people by walking up to them without being noticed and pressing B. A ring forms around you and can expand or shrink depending on how fast or slow you go. The slower you go, the smaller the ring. When you first kidnap someone, be aware that the ring expands completely before shrinking down so if that person is by any other enemies, they'll know. When you have someone kidnapped, you're able to walk in enemy territory without being noticed so long as no enemies step in the ring.

When you get them out of their territory, the game wants you to shove the enemy in a carriage and drive them to a point for the police to take. I've found it's easier to just walk (well, jog) them there since it's usually only 100/200 meters away. When they're shoved in a carriage, there's a chance an enemy carriage will spawn and chase after you which might end up taking more time than just going on foot.

If you're noticed by the target, they will try to run away. You can tackle them and capture them but if they get in a carriage and get too far away, the mission fails so be careful about that. Also for 100%, the target has to be brought back alive.

Gang strongholds: A borough's is considered enemy territory and in it are several Blighters you need to kill. You have to kill all of them to win and occasionally they'll have a few of your Rooks captured which you'll need to free and keep alive for 100%. Also one or two of them have a set of plans you need to burn.

With throwing knives, this is a very easy mission but really, they're quite OP and make a lot of missions easy. Killing them is fun and trying to do so without being detected is a nice little challenge.

I'd recommend not freeing your Rooks or killing the person watching over them until the end since they can get in the way (or die, thus ruining the 100% and requiring you to start over). For the plans I'd immediately scout them out first. You can find them using eagle vision. It shows up as the table they're sitting on.

Templar Hunt: Like the gang stronghold, there's an area that's enemy territory and several blighters walking around. However this time rather than killing everyone, you only need to kill one guy. Again using eagle vision, you can scout the prick out who will appear in yellow rather than red.

It's as simple as using a throwing knife if you're not up for a 100% run but if you are, I'd recommend killing everyone around him/her first. Especially if you need to use the environment like having a police officer kill the target or dynamite.

They're fun and I honestly wish there were more of them.

Child liberation: The second least favorite mission in my opinion. Not bad but again, I feel like there's a disproportionate amount of them compared to the gang strongholds and templar hunts.

You find a factory and there's several children working inside. The children are paired in groups of three so if the mission involves saving 12 children, you need to find 4 of the groups and press (b) when you're close.

100% involves not having the alarm bells in the area rung which you can do by either sabotaging them like in previous games or killing everyone in the area...like previous games. There was one time I was on the ground floor right next to them and absolutely swarmed by Blighters who were trying to ring the bell and every time they got to it, I stabbed them off. That was fun, but a good run involves not being seen.

–

When you've cleared all the boroughs, the gang leader for that section appears and challenges you to fight. Usually they run away, giving you only so much time to kill them. Whether or not you kill them, there's a 'large' fight of 10 or 12 enemies and a handful of your own guys duking it out for one final attempt at the district.

There was one time where the game glitched out. Normally when the head Templar appears and challenges you, the game 'freezes' where an in game cutscene plays and you're unable to control your character. However after clearing only two missions in Westminster, the leader appeared and for whatever reason, I was able to run up to her, tackle her, and stab her. This has not happened in any of the other districts.

After these gang fights, the district is yours. Blighters still appear and a few very small areas are enemy territory for the radiant missions.

–

Additionally, there's a few other smaller missions. The two bigger...smaller missions are the fight clubs and races, hosted by Robert Topping whom you meet during Evie's first mission.

Races: They're okay. There's four types: lap races, A to B, train race, and triathlon.

Lap races are fairly fun. There's only one I needed to do twice. They real key is getting to first and when you're there, it's pretty easy to stay there. Many times you can drive in front of an enemy and cause them to turn into an oncoming carriage or a building.

A to B: Straight shot to the end. These were a bit more fun in my opinion simply because the environment kept changing. They're not super long, but fun.

Race the train: Don't be fooled. You're actually racing a timer which shows how long it will take for the train to arrive at its destination. Maintain a constant speed and you should be good.

Triathlon: This is the most interesting race. There's carriage driving, running and climbing on foot...and running and climbing on foot but on the boats in the Thames.

One thing I wonder is how much of these races are set up the same each time (carriage placement, people placement, etc) and how much is random.

A complaint I have goes back to what I mentioned earlier by constantly having to mash (a) to maintain a constant speed. If that was not a part of the game I think it would be a lot smoother.

Another thing I'm no fan of is the rubber banding the NPCs do in the races. I'm no fan of the mechanic in general because it feels like the game has to cheat in order to keep the challenge up. In my personal opinion if you get so far ahead of the enemies they can't even see you, that should be fair game because you've utilized the environment and gameplay better than the game itself. I did very well with the races so it was kind of annoying to look down at my map and see them far away and then look again a few seconds later and see they've gone turbo and wounded up right behind me.

Fight clubs: They're pretty fun when you get the right strategy. Easy fight clubs you just wail away but for the hardest fight club, wait until a flash of yellow appears above the enemy head and press (Y) to counter. You can get one or two hits in before they block. If another enemy behind you has yellow above their head, press (Y) and tilt the control stick toward that enemy to counter them even if you're mid punch against another guy.

Doing this ensures you won't get hit which can be quite costly on the higher difficulties especially since they usually get 2 or 3 hits in and there's another enemy right there. So using this strategy, even if there's 4 enemies right by you in the ring, you should be safe.

One thing I liked is how the environments changed depending on the level. For lower level matches the fights were underground in these shitty makeshift rings but for the highest levels, they were in proper buildings with proper arenas. However, you still fight the same enemies all the same.

When you're a high level fighting a low level fight, you can one or two shot all the enemies.

One time an enemy got stuck behind the fence. I was unable to punch him but he punched me a few times when I was trying to.

–

Now for the real game story. I should mention that I completed all of the above before getting far into the main story meaning I was quite overpowered by the end of it with all the upgrades and skills I was able to unlock.

The story in my opinion is quite lackluster. I don't find it very impactful and its filled with missed opportunities and aspects that make it seem as if Ubisoft is afraid to be controversial.

For example, chapter 4 involves Jacob investigating a product called Starrick Soothing Syrup which is an opium laced fraudulent medicine. I'm going to list off some historical figures who appear in the game and if you haven't seen any spoilers, I want you to guess who's also involved in that mission: Florence Nightingale, Charles Darwin, Charles Dickens, Karl Marx, Queen Victoria, Fredrick Abberline.

You probably guessed Florence Nightingale since she was actually involved in medicine, but no, it's Charles Darwin. Nightingale's involved in one mission in a chapter and the final optional Darwin mission, but alas when investigating fraudulent medicine the one historical figure who's best known for her work in medicine isn't involved. Instead it's the guy who dropped out of med school.

Now you can say this is minor and sure, maybe it is. There's not a lot I can truly bitch about if I get to spend quality bro-time with Charles Darwin in a video game. But other aspects I feel are more damning. For example, in the trailers and promotional material, Jacob was basically ranting and raving about how shit capitalism is and how the working class is getting screwed over despite the age of supposed progress.

Remember when I mentioned Karl Marx earlier? He's in the game. Can you guess how many story missions he's involved in? None. All of his missions are completely optional and even if you do them, the game takes place when he chilled the fuck out about revolution and uprisings so he's no more controversial than Bernie Sanders. I kind of feel as if the AC games have lost their balls at this point, preferring to pander to modern sensibilities and not being too frank about the less good aspects of history.

For example, they completely got rid of prostitutes in the game despite them existing in the Victorian era. They have an openly transexual character for seemingly no other reason than to fill a diversity quota since you know, that's something that would happen in Victorian London. I suppose they needed to have one so they can justify including “multiple sexualities and gender identities” in their long irrelevant caveat before the game starts informing the player about how many different kinds of people are involved in the game. They wanted to fill a diversity quota, it's ironic that London was the trading capital of the world and they could have had plenty of minorities in the ports.

Assassin's Creed 2's final mission involved you trying to kill the pope. I don't think any aspect of Syndicate comes close to that level of controversy. The “capitalism is evil” message is not only one that has been done in tons of other video games, movies, and books, but many other sources are a lot more gritty, brutal, and honest about it. It's no longer controversial.

Despite Darwin being in the game, the fact that human evolution was made up by the Templars is never brought up. He's not aware of the assassin/templar war despite attempts on his life being made nor are any of the other historical figures other than Victory. Like Karl Marx spent his life trying to figure out the overcompensating repetitions that occur in every society in history and somehow he never comes across this underground war.

Some stuff just doesn't make sense. When Jacob kills a Templar, it ruins whatever industry was involved in. Dr John Elliotson was involved in the medical industry making that fraud medicine. When Jacob kills him...suddenly the medical industry collapses? How does killing a minor historical figure who in the game is just a con artist collapse the entire medical industry of London?

The fact that this has never been a problem for any of the other assassins is also something to question. Ezio, Connor, Edward, and Arno all killed politicians and some of them incredibly high ranking but Jacob kills a con artist, a thief, etc and suddenly the whole city's fucked?

The ending was just abysmal. Throughout the game, Jacob and Evie are looking for the Shroud of Eden which is a cloth you can wrap on yourself that heals any wound near instantly. At the start of the game you find out once more that in universe, you're some random prick playing video games and keep getting sucked into this dangerous conspiracy by the assassin's asking you to play through the memories of these historical assassins to figure out where this stuff might be located in the modern day.

So at the end of the game the modern assassin's find out where the shroud it but oh no, there's Templars. They fight but one of them gets shot and in response, the Assassin's run away letting the Templar get the shroud.

Oh fucking gee, if only there were literally a magical artifact right fucking there that could hear any wound instantly. Wouldn't that be fucking superb? Wouldn't that just be the bee's knees? If they literally could grab some magic alien bullshit, wrap it around the injured assassin, heal her, and be able to tank any more gunshots?

This is another non-ending right after Unity's non ending which was in turn after Black Flag's non ending.

It's not a game to play for the story.

–

Jacob was a fairly interesting character. Evie in my opinion a bit less so but then again, she didn't get as much story time as Jacob and hers were partially bogged down by a crappy romance subplot. A lot of people have expressed dissatisfaction with the protagonist always being this rude 'don't play by the rules' young guy who joins the assassins and only after fucking up bad, learns what it truly means to be an assassin.

For what it's worth, Jacob and Evie were born into the brotherhood so we don't have to see an origin story. I felt they were best when arguing, but I would have liked Jacob to have better arguments. When she berates him about killing templars mindlessly, he could mention that's literally what the assassin's are supposed to do. Like that's literally what they're about. Instead they fall back on arguing about their father (who died before the game began) and his teachings.

Henry Green's alright. He actually would have been a very interesting character to play as before the Frye twins arrive considering the game establishes him as someone with all these connections throughout London. They're brought up every now and then throughout the game so it's not something mentioned and then dropped. It's again a shame he's bogged down with Evie in the romance subplot.

As for the historical characters, they're pretty alright. I don't know how most of them acted in real life. Darwin was always described as very friendly and easy to get along with which is what he was in the game. Richard Owen was always a bit of an asshole and sure enough, he was in the game.

It's a bit of a shame the game only takes place in 1868. I mean sure it makes Jacob and Evie probably the best assassin's since Altair considering they've done everything within a year and in the world's most powerful empire no less.

However, restricting it to only a year limits what can be done. For historical figures, especially enemies, you're pretty damned limited. I mentioned Richard Owen who is in the game, but isn't someone you kill. He could have a big role in controlling the science side of London and be a Templar, but instead he's only around long enough to tell Jacob that John Eliotson is making the fraud medicine.

It also restricts the story. 1868 was a fairly tame year for London. There weren't any major social reforms the Assassin's could be fighting for (including a reform on child labor which was passed before the game takes place thus making the whole issue fairly moot). Darwin that year released his oh so controversial book on variations of animals and plants under domestication. Karl Marx released Das Kapital (but don't worry, he doesn't mention it or anything)

Personally I think it would have been better if the game took place over 5 or 10 years just for the sake of having more interesting enemies and real history scenarios.

–

DLC: I only have the Darwin and Dickens Conspiracy and have not played any of the other DLCs. In my opinion, it's not really worth it. There's three missions, one of which seems like it was supposed to be part of the base game optional Darwin missions and the other two involve faking a guy's death and kidnapping some woman so he can pretend to fight you and look like a badass. Hardly the conspiracy.

I think if they had more missions of a similar fashion, it would have worked better. Have Darwin and Dickens telling you to pull the strings of various people's lives rather than just one guy and girl, but unfortunately that's not the case. In the trailer for the DLC, it was all clips from the base game.

–

Graphics: The graphics are pretty good in my opinion but I'm not as much a sticker for them. The textures on clothing and faces is very good but hair is a hurdle Ubisoft always trips on. Sometimes it's alright but other times, like Charles Dicken's facial hair, it's pretty poor.

The game uses in game cutscenes rather than pre-rendered cutscenes (as far as I know) and they still look good. If I'm wrong on this, someone point out so I can correct it.

I wish the nights in London lasted longer because that's one of the more beautiful times in the game. The street lamp's warm glow and dark skies work very well together.

As with every game, when you get in close to an object or asset, you can start to see the texture fall apart and look pixely. I believe it will be the next great graphical revolution when that's no longer an issue.

–

Music: The music in the game was made by Austin Wintory who might be best known for doing the music in the game Journey. It was a pleasant surprise hearing his involvement because Journey does have an excellent soundtrack and the guy does seem to have a passion for making good music in games.

The way the music is handled is it's based more on location and context than anything. Unfortuantely other than the fight music, I found the game to be mostly silent. When you go into a bar or some places outside you might hear someone singing and rarely when on the roofs you'll hear this soft opera music but a lot of it was unfortunately forgettable. I did enjoy Underground: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b8qKAmO1Mfc which played at the end.

Glitches: Glitches and Ubisoft go together like....Bethesda and glitches. While I thankfully didn't get a case of one of the characters looking like a Gunther Von Haegens art piece because his skin didn't load, there were a few bad glitches.

Some glitches can be funny. A post I made of some screen caps from the game involved a female NPC being stuck on top the carriage and couldn't be shaken off. That was funny and didn't break any gameplay since I was between missions. But here are some glitches that weren't quite funny.

In one case during a cutscene when the Assassin's first board their train hideout, Henry Green failed to load, resulting in a floating box and his voice coming out the aether. Alright, that's kind of funny but one may disagree and think it's simply bad.

Another glitch is when you reply missions, you'll spawn roughly where the mission begins but the effects on the screen would indicate you've died or desynchronized. The game then puts you in the white loading room for a few seconds and respawns you again in the death state. This cycles four or five times before sorting itself out.

–

Additional gripe

I'm no fan of the collectables/currency system in the game.

Collectables are a mixed bag. There's several, which I'm not fan of, but some are a bit more than items you just collect with no reward. The collectables are: flowers, posters, helix glitches, bottles, chests, golden chests, royal letters, and several music boxes with disks in them to unlock OP armor.

For the flowers, posters, glitches, and bottles, it adds stuff to your database. Flowers tells you what the plant represents, posters unlocks images drawn in the 19th century, glitches unlocks letters from the past, bottles unlocks Shawn Hasting's review of various beers, and the letters unlock (I presume) real letters to and from Queen Victoria. As mentioned before, the music boxes lead to the unlocking of OP armor.

Chests meanwhile gives you money and materials and golden chests give you rare materials and  schematics you can craft.

I will be fully honest and say I have no gotten all of the glitches or chests (gold or otherwise) so I don't know the full story behind them.

Having some collectables can be fun and it's even better if it gives you a little reward like historical pictures or letters to look at. However having too many turns it into padding. The music boxes, for example, take the place of the parkour courses from the Ezio trilogy. Since those games, getting the armor has turned into a prop hunt. When I finally did find all the boxes, the armor I already unlocked was fairly superior to the supposedly OP armor which gave you slightly more resistance.

Another issue is with currency which involves actual money (pounds), materials, and skill points. Skill points upgrade your character. Money and materials upgrade your gang, items, or are used in just buying things. The issue with materials is that some stuff may be restricted unfairly because of them.

To craft some weapons and armor and upgrades, you need special materials which you unlock by completing missions or find randomly in a chest. Why the game shows you the armor/tool/upgrade before you're able to actually use it I don't know. It says the item is available to buy or craft but then says you're unable to because you lack the special item.

For example, completing all of Robert Topping's missions give you a special cane sword but despite doing all the races and fighting all the fights, I wasn't able to actually get it because I haven't found the special material which turns out to have been locked inside a golden chest in a train station somewhere.

It's just artificially drawing out the game at that point. If I unlock something, at most have it something I need to purchase but having the player play easter egg hunting for golden chests is just nonsense. I still haven't unlocked the upgrade for poison darts because I haven't found whatever chest that's located in.

Sometimes simpler is better and when it comes to this crafting/upgrade system, it's time to tone it back a bit.

–

Anyways, it's a fairly alright game despite its flaws. Certainly one to get on a sale but I don't think I can quite recommend at a full 60 dollars. Maybe more 45. It was fun exploring the center of one of my favorite time periods and running into some of the more interesting people from history but unfortunate that the game doesn't seem to commit to standing out trying something different or exciting with it.

[polyhappyfandomtrash]

Ask and you shalt receive, you queen. No, I don't stalk your blog (all the time), just seems like it. Okay, since 00Q was en pointé(

WHO ARE YOU MUFFIN WHY CANT I LOVE YOU WITH EYES UNCLOUDED BY ANON FOG

okay well anyways ilu and this lovely ask made my day and made me flap my arms about like a doof, so of COURSE, mormor for you. 

and also you whAT A GIFT NO icantevenwhatwhyhow

fic below the cut because i always worry about clogging dashboards with text walls so.

Sebastian’s had a bad day, and the weather knows it. It’s London, and of course, that doesn’t help. Rain is as constant and ever present as the thriving tourism, only dying down every once in a while, and never when it would be convenient. It could be raining less, though, he silently complains.

It’s late, very late, and the last thing he wants when he heads for his usual route home, is to be delayed in any way in his current beeline for home and a hot shower. Of course, destiny, in all her ironic smugness, has other plans. The flat Jim currently favors is a very small and unassuming affair, off of Bridle Street, and the cafe down at the corner - or maybe the theatre? - is drawing a massive crowd. 

Gritting his teeth, Sebastian turns a street up and cuts through the park there instead, intent on avoiding the crowd. He has to hop a short fence and cut through a narrow alleyway, but that’s hardly a bother, and finally, blessedly, he’s fucking home. 

Shutting the door behind him and sagging against it with a sigh, Sebastian shuts his eyes, even as he runs a hand through his hair, pushing the soggy mess away from his face. God, he’s tired. And cold. He had to tail a man halfway across the bloody city to start, took six phone calls and redirected the callers to where they needed to be and who they needed to talk to, threaten said man, had to then shoot him and quickly get rid of the body, and then, had to dump one of his favorite guns straight into the Thames before trekking back to an afternoon meeting. After that, it had been boring, awful bookwork at Jim’s downtown office, only leaving when he’d finally squared up the week’s loose ends. And then his cabbie had pissed him off. Being an impulsive creature, Sebastian had lashed out, then been kicked out of the car, and he was so irate, he’d simply walked it out, all the way to the flat. 

Taking off his coat, he hung it up, eyeing the water as it dripped slowly from the edges, soaked through. He’d have to put a pan down, or something, or Jim would freak out at his lovely carpet getting soggy. 

Sebastian’s eyes traveled the rest of the way down, and he swore. Loudly. His cut through the park had involved mud, which he hadn’t noticed.

There was a soft ‘tut’ from the other end of the hallway and Sebastian’s head snapped up as Jim appeared, wandering down the hall as if he had all day, though his eyes were fixed to Sebastian’s shoes. Fuck. 

“This carpet costs more than your entire wardrobe, Moran,” Jim says, voice dry and flat. “If you’re going to ruin it, we might as well really do it in.” Jim moves fast; Sebastian always forgets the fact until he’s at the wrong end of a weapon. Right now is no exception. He blinks, and Jim has a small, sharp knife to his throat. Swallowing causes a small, red line to appear. “You’re also late. Very, very late, and my client got pulled out of a dumpster around 11,” he leans in towards Sebastian, studying his right hand man’s face. “You’ve been a bad boy today, hm?”

Normally, Sebastian would snark, and tell Jim that he’s always a bad boy and that’s why he’s still around. Normally, Sebastian would be able to get a better read on Jim and decide if shoving him away would or wouldn’t get him a knife in the artery. Normally, Sebastian would argue and get angry.

But it’s so fucking late, and he’s piss tired, and wet and cold, and honestly? He doesn’t want to even do it. If Jim wants to leave him bleeding out onto the carpet to mix with the dirt and be that petty, then you know what? Fine. Sebastian sags back against the door, Jim following, knife still at his throat, and shuts his eyes, sighing through his nose. 

He counts to ten. When he opens them again, Jim just looks confused. 

“Tell you what,” he says flatly, “Why don’t you go figure out what the fuck I’ve actually been doing all day, and I’ll clean this stupid shit up, and then I can try and unwind before the sun comes back up.”

It shouldn’t work, but it fucking does. Jim sizes him up once more, then turns without a word, and disappears back into the flat. Sebastian isn’t the kind of man to look a fucking gift horse in the mouth, and he throws his shoes out onto the front step, knowing they’ll full well be gone by morning and not caring. He has several pairs and money in the bank account. 

Sebastian is on his hands and knees, ten minutes into scrubbing out the last of the dirt stains in the carpet with Resolve when he hears Jim come up behind him, and doesn’t miss a beat, “If you’re going to stab me, don’t do it in the back, and definitely don’t do it on the carpet, because I ju–FUCK, OW!”

Jim has locked a hand in the man’s still dripping wet hair and yanked him upwards, bringing stinging tears to Sebastian’s eyes as he stumbles to his feet and turns around, Jim’s hand still twisted in the locks. He lets go, and Sebastian stumbles slightly, tightness in his chest as he glares at Jim. “What.” He demands, voice raw, fed up.

“I drew a bath. I’ll take care of this. Go soak.” Jim stares him down, as if daring Sebastian to be surprised, which he is. 

“What?” He says again, this time a bit blankly. He heard him wrong. 

“Don’t make me repeat myself, Sebastian, it’s boring,” Jim says, plucking the rag from Sebastian’s hand and giving it a disapproving grimace, “Just go, okay?”

So Sebastian does, and Jim doesn’t apologize for jumping the gun and getting in his face, he never does, never will, but after that, whenever he’s had a long fucking day, there’s always a bath ready when he gets home.

[ecotone99]

[TH][MF] THE FORK (part 1)

[TH][MF] The Fork

What did you end up at? Put it in the Comments.

THE FORK

Instructions

At every five hundred words(approx), you will be presented with two choices. This is a fork.

Once you have made your decision at a fork, never look back, however bad your path may be.

Any feeling towards the author should be directed towards yourself as you are shaping this story, not me.

Fork 0

As soon as she turned left to check the noise in the dark alley, she noticed it. It was a man, the silhouette of what seemed to be a man,trying to say something to her as he slithered on the ground. She decided to take a closer look and focussed on the man-snake hissing at her.As much as he tried , he couldn’t form the sentence as blood poured out of a big gash on his neck every time he tried. It was not a fine cut but rather a very jagged and gruesome one. The attacker wasn’t even kind enough to make the cut a straight one but had taken a few tries at his nape before making the cut on the jugular. She stared in horror as blood trickled along the crevices of the boxy tiles on the sidewalk towards her feet. The only light which helped her distinguish between rainwater from earlier in the day and fresh hot blood was a dim streetlamp in the corner. She jumped back and looked at him , who, raising a lone finger at her with eyes full of fiery survival rage. He looked like God in ‘The creation of Adam’ by Michaelangelo, only here god was slithering on the floor rather than sitting comfortably on a cloud of babies. She remembered this painting particularly as it was the last painting she had seen with her parents, when they had toured Italy on that fateful summer.

Her parents had been called to her school as she had scratched another kid on his cheeks. She couldn't exactly remember the details, but as an 8 year old, she was pretty scared of her parents being called to school. Even though her memories were blurry, she could remember the events which led to the tragic incident. They spoke to the headmistress for what seemed to be a very long time. On the car ride home, no one spoke a word in the car which was usually filled with banter. ‘Pack your bags honey’ her mother said to her. She remembered the distinct smell of warm milk which used to emanate from her mother. The next thing she knew, they were on a flight to Rome. ‘You thought we were punishing you right’ her father said to her as he kissed and tickled her. She giggled so hard that day, and that was the last time. Returning from Rome after a seven day trip, on the way to the airport their cab met with an accident. She was the only survivor. After a series of orphanages and some foster parents, she decided to have her way with London. When she was sixteen , she was arrested for possession of drugs. She had been clean ever since,built her life from scratch and now had a family of her own. She was a respected person in the community and this made her rethink on what she had to do with this situation now she was in. He made it to her feet, begging her to save him from the jaws of death.

A] She would report the incident and call an Ambulance.

B] She would walk away since this was not needed for her life right now.

[A]

Muttering a few abuses at herself and God, she stuck her hand in her purse and fumbled for her mobile. She moved away farther from the slithering guy, who seemed to have grown tired inching towards her, as she called the emergency number.

“Hello, I ..I.. I..need to report an attack”

“Yes can you describe the attack and your location”

“I’m near the Mackie’s Diner on Smith Street. A man has been stabbed on his neck and is bleeding profusely.Please send help immediately.”

“Help is on its way Ms..” the operator paused on the other end.

“Graves” she replied. It wasn’t her name and she couldn’t take chances.

“Ms.Graves please stay with the victim till the medics..” said the operator as Donna cut the call, removed her sim card and broke it in half. Donna King was her real name and she was determined to protect it at any cost from this unfortunate sitch. Taking one last look at the man she registered his features in her mind. She adjusted her red Cashmere wool scarf and continued walking along the sidewalk. She had taken a turn at the junction and didn’t turn back even when she heard the sound of ambulances arriving behind her. Pride rushed in her as a smile played on her lips. She had saved a life tonight without getting into a bedlam. She had a good day at work and she was in a particularly good mood until the ‘situation’ she had stumbled upon. Donna was not the typical thirty five year old. She was unmarried, she wasn’t planning on it, she didn’t hate kids but wasn’t interested in having some either. And courtesy of those decisions she had a pretty body, pretty enough she was assumed to be in her twenties by most people who met her. With men(and women) , thanks to her stunning looks she had more choice in her sexual life than Baskin Robbins had in ice creams. She worked out regularly, ate to her heart’s content and basically lived a happy life. As a secretary Donna had hectic days but she never took work home with her.

The time was a quarter past eleven when she walked into Granger’s Corner, her favorite bar. she perched herself on a stool by the bar table.

“Hey Jimmy!” she waved at the bartender.

“Welcome back Ms.King. One Brand Daisy coming right up” he said with a wide smile.

“Thanks Jimmy” she replied, shifting her gaze to her phone. She noticed someone else sitting at the bar table. Using her peripherals, she could judge it was a woman, a beautiful one too. Since she was in a good mood already, she decided to try her luck with this mystery woman. Moving to a stool next to her, she noticed the woman aimlessly stirring her drink.

“So you like your drink stirred huh” she broke the ice.

Startled by the intrusion of her privacy the stranger turned fast, but the once the words got to her mind, smiled.

“Easy guess” she replied , smiling. She placed her phone on the bar table. The phone chimed and that’s when Donna noticed the image on the phone. It was this woman and a man,warmly smiling at the screen, rubbing shoulders. What shocked Donna was, the man was the one whom she had seen in the alley way an hour ago.

AA] Donna walks away from the encounter AB] Donna proceeds with caution

[B]

She had a good day at work, a good life altogether and didn’t want to spoil it by getting into this situation. She wasn’t the purest of souls and didn’t mind if she had to carry this on her conscience. His eyes gleamed with desperation but she wasn’t in a mood for helping him. Donna King was her name and she was determined to protect it at any cost from this unfortunate sitch. Taking one last look at the man she registered his features in her mind, just in case. She adjusted her red cashmere wool scarf and continued walking along the sidewalk. She had taken a turn at the junction and didn’t turn back even when she heard the sound of the man churning out a last cry at her. Dread rushed in her as a frown played on her lips. She had abandoned a man tonight but saved herself from considerable ruckus. She had a good day at work and she was in a particularly good mood until the ‘situation’ she had stumbled upon. Donna was not the typical thirty five year old. She was unmarried, she wasn’t planning on it, she didn’t hate kids but wasn’t interested in having some either. And courtesy of those decisions she had a pretty body, pretty enough she was assumed to be in her twenties by most people. With men(and women) , thanks to her stunning looks she had more choice in her sexual life than Baskin Robbins had in ice creams. She worked out regularly, ate to her heart’s content and basically lived a happy life. As a secretary Donna had hectic days but she never took work home with her.

The time was a quarter past eleven, and given her sour mood she walked into Granger’s Corner, her favorite bar. she perched herself on a stool by the bar table.

“Hey Jimmy!” she waved at the new bartender .He had joined here three months ago.

“Welcome back Ms.King. One Brand Daisy coming right up” he said with a wide smile.

“Nah. I’m in a vodka mood tonight”

“Ooh..rough day huh”

“ Roller coaster ride it was” she replied, faking a smile.

Jimmy returned to making her drink and she shifted her gaze to her phone. She scrolled through the news and remembered the important meeting her boss had coming Friday, which was two days from now. This made her realise she would have to work even harder the next two days, making her head bend a little more towards her phone. She felt a tap on her shoulder and turned to see a good looking lady

“Hi. I am Ginny. Seems like you need someone to talk to”

Usually she was the one who approached others but this time she welcomed this change.

“Yeah.. work stuff” she replied, straightening her back and adjusting her hair. The next half hour moved like a breeze. She had fun with this stranger who made her laugh , even giggle amidst several vodka shots. She started to feel the tingly itch between her legs, which was what she had intended to take care of before Mr.Bloody-neck came into her life. Now that her mood was revived, she decided to pursue it.

“Shall we go to my place?” Ginny asked.

“Okay” she replied, a bit too quickly.

After sessions of intense lovemaking, they finally stopped at sometime near 2 o clock. Ginny went to the loo and Donna remembered she had to get to work early the next day. She started dressing up, with a smile on her face. However bad her night had been earlier, it had ended in a much better fashion. As she put on her jeans she noticed Ginny’s phone ring. That’s when she noticed the face on the caller ID. Sweat trickled down her spine as it was a familiar face, the face of the man whom she had abandoned earlier.

Fork 4

BA] She rushes out of that place BB] She decides to stay and investigate

[AA]

Just when she thought the night couldn’t get any worse, this new twist in the tale put her out of sync. She dug into her purse and put a crumpled bill on the bar table.

“Umm.. I have to go.. Sorry” she said as she stepped down from the stool.

“Jimmy!” she called and pointed to the dollar bill. She nearly sprinted out of the place but then controlled her gait. ‘Is this some kind of joke’ she muttered to herself as she pushed the bar door which was supposed to be pulled. The chime of the bell above the bar door , which she enjoyed most days, irritated her beyond words. She continued to walk home, maintaining her speed .Donna remembered putting her phone in her bag. She continued walking away trying to compose herself. She turned every ten seconds to make sure no one was following her until she reached her apartment. During her time in the Juvie system, she used to share the room with another girl. Her name was Mary and Donna clearly remembered what she was in for. Mary was from a well off family with an elite background. She was homeschooled and wasn’t exposed much to the real world, making her a ‘very’ nervous girl. Even at nights, Mary used to turn on lights every two hours to check whether Donna was really asleep. One fine night, Mary had gone for a birthday party , one of the very few times she was let out of the house. Whilst returning, her driver had gone missing so instead of waiting , she decided to walk a little bit, trying to find him. On Mary’s account, she says that ‘the creepy homeless guy’ was following her and was about to rape her, but the state prosecutors and the witnesses were pretty sure that he was just minding his business. Mary had shot him twice in the stomach with the Glock her father had given her ‘just-in-case’. Donna felt what Mary must have felt all those years ago- a nervous breakdown. Mary was the first girl Donna had kissed but surprisingly that never came to her thought as she reacted to every small moving shadow. A flood of relief rushed through her as she keyed in the alarm code. She sank on the couch and stared at the ceiling trying to remember the events of the night. She was stuck in a trance when she heard the bell ringing. Not many people came to her place and no one came at midnight. She tiptoed to the alarm system and turned on the camera. Her fears came true when she noticed the woman from the bar standing at the door. Trying not to act startled she spoke through the mic

“Yeah.. who is it?”

“ Hey it’s me ...from the bar. You left your purse back there” she replied waving the purse into the camera. Donna grabbed her bag and stuck her hand in it, hoping her fingers would meet the very familiar leather but in vain. Her purse was not in there.She knew that the ID in the purse must have led the stranger here. “Hi.. thank you. Can you leave it at the doorstep? I'm sorry but thank you very much” she said. “Really?.. Can I atleast come in for some water?” said the visibly pissed woman as she placed the purse on the floor. Donna

Fork 5

AAA] She decides to risk it AAB] She sends her away

[AB]

Just when she thought the night couldn’t get any worse, this new twist in the tale put her out of sync. She wanted to run out of the bar ,go home, key in her door alarm code and sleep. But something in her, an instinct to find out where this ends made her stay

“Is that your husband?” she asked with a playfully raised eyebrow. “Ah no, it is my boss” she replied, shoving the phone back into her pocket. “What kind of boss calls at 11 in the night?” “He’s a nice boss actually. I don’t know why he’s calling but I won’t pick it up” she replied grinning, meeting Donna’s eyes. “That’s very brave. I’m sorry I am Donna” she said, lending her hand. “Ginny” Now she felt riskier than ever. She decided to wing it as she wanted this conundrum to end. “So.. Ginny what will you do If I told you I found your boss stabbed in an alley two streets away from here. I called an ambulance for him.” “Wait is this some kind of joke?” “Was he wearing a brown jacket today and were you in his recent calls list?” Donna asked with confidence. “Yes..on both counts” she replied as she got down from the stool. “Then I guess it’s the paramedics calling you from his phone. You need to answer it” she said. “Oh my God.” Ginny said as she called her boss. As suspected it was the hospital and they wanted someone at the hospital by his side. Ginny got down from the stool and started to leave. “You need to go? What about his wife or girlfriend” “He is divorced.. And single. I will inform his mother” she said. After giving some thought she said “Thanks for saving his life. He is a good man” Donna felt more proud than ever. “This is too much to ask.. can you come with me to the hospital. I don’t want to drive there alone..I am a bit drunk. I will drop you back home once I do the formalities. His mother will be there in an hour” Surprised by the invite, she thought of it. Her boss had an important meeting on Friday, which meant two more hectic days for her. She decided to go with Ginny, hoping she would get Ginny on her bed when they returned. “Ok let’s go” Donna said. The roads were empty and the hospital was on the other side of the city.Donna drove carefully, avoiding speeding or jumping signals. In the darkness, they noticed someone asking for a lift. When the headlights hit the person, they saw it was a ugly looking homeless guy. “Don’t stop the car,” Ginny said, making a face of disgust. Now she was already in a good mood, in a mood for charity to be precise. This man seemed like he needed to get somewhere urgently. Though she wanted to help him out, it was Ginny’s car.

Fork 6

ABA] Donna heeds to Ginny’s words and drives away ABB] She stops the car to help the man

[BA]

She jumped into her jeans and put on her shirt quicker than ever. Shoving her bra,phone and purse frantically in her bag, she heard the flush of Ginny’s bathroom go. Grabbing her heels, she ran out the door, into the elevator and to the street where she heaved a sigh of relief. Donna realised she had come here in Ginny’s car and now she had to grab a cab back home. Not that she was afraid of midnight cab rides, she was worried that all the adrenaline from the night wouldn’t let her sleep eventually affecting her work the next day. During her juvie years, there was a Yoga trainer who used to frequent the juvie school. He used to teach them breathing exercises for calming themselves if they got angry or scared, which was most the inmates’ problem. Ironically, most of them got angry at the instructor for calling them ‘angry’ kids and walked away. Donna did not want to be with them so she chose to attend these yoga classes instead. Surprisingly,on this fateful night, she found herself breathing in the rhythm the instructor had taught her 19 years ago. She tried booking a cab ride but to her dismay, no cabs were in her area. She started wondering if this was payback for leaving the man to die earlier in the night. She started walking towards her home, which was a good 2 kms from where she was. She turned every few seconds to make sure Ginny wasn’t following her. The chill in the air, moving shadows and eerie silence added to her fears.After walking for a few minutes, she started waving her hand at cars hoping she would get a lift. After three of four tries, a mini-truck stopped for her.

In the darkness, she could only make the silhouette of the man driving it.

“Hi there. Can you drop me by Hayshaw street. It’s really late and I’m not getting any cabs.”

“Oh I would love to help, Miss…” replied a gruff voice, with more air than voice in it. A passing car’s light lit his face for a fleeting moment when he said “Only if you hadn’t left me to die”. She noticed blood spurting out of his neck with every word he spoke while she froze in shock. She tried screaming , calling out for help but neither her throat nor her tongue came to her rescue. He grinned with his blood stained teeth and added “Goodnight Ms.King” as he drove away. She grabbed a lamp post and countered her failing legs. As much as she wanted to run all the way home, her traumatised brain wouldn’t send the necessary signals. Another car came to a halting stop near her, from which a familiar voice called out to her.

“Ms.King..Ms.King do you need a ride?”

It was Jimmy the bartender. The happenings of the night sucked out any belief she had for reality so she cautiously checked whether it really was JImmy.

“Thanks Jimmy. You are a lifesaver” she said, climbing into the car.

“What happened? Last I saw you went home with that new lady”

“Nothing.. Can we not talk about it?” she said slowly

“Ah..sure Ms.King. Where should I drop you?”

“Hayshaw street”

For the next fifteen minutes, they didn’t speak a word. She closed her eyes and took in huge breaths, trying to calm herself. She hears someone calling her from far away, only to realise the car had stopped and Jimmy was calling her.

“Ms.King I am going to drop off this package at my friend’s place. Is it okay with you? Are you okay staying here alone or you can come with me. It will just take a minute” he said, pointing to a house.

Fork 7

BAA]She goes with him BAB] She decides to stay in the car.

[BB]

Though horrified, she couldn’t bear the anxiety of not knowing what was happening around her. Steeling her nerves, she decided to do things differently. Stripping down naked, she entered into the sheets and began feigning sleep. Ginny came back to bed and snuggled next to her.

“Hi there,” Donna said warmly. Arching her back, she rubbed against Ginny’s thighs.

“You are insatiable” Ginny replied as she traced her fingers down Donna’s belly. GIving out a soft moan, Donna shifted positions, with her on top, straddling Ginny. In the blink of an eye, she sprayed the pepper spray into GInny’s eyes and placed a letter opener on her neck. She had snuck these under the pillow earlier.

“Don’t move. Don’t scream. Now tell me .. what do you want?”

“What?? I don’t understand. What are you doing Donna??”

“Don’t play with me. I have been in jail earlier and I don’t mind going back. Cut the shit and tell what you have been planning. And who is the guy who called you at the bar?”

“I don’t know what you are talking about”

Donna sprayed more pepper into her eyes, sending her screaming.

“Okay..okay.. We were sent to kill you. He got mugged and I was backup” she sputtered.

“What..why me??”

“You are the one of the persons who can access the Defense minister’s office. We needed your eye and thumbprint to bypass security systems”

Donna was secretary to a senior diplomat at the Defense department. She had access to several classified parts of the building. On Friday, the Defense minister was introducing an important bill which would significantly reduce Arms trade in the country.

“Who else is out there for me?”

“I don’t know. We were just given information on a need to know basis. I don’t even know why they want your eyeball for fuck’s sake”

“Don’t lie to me. I have already called the cops and they will be here any minute”

“I am not lying. Please don’t hurt me. I was paid 5000 pounds just to lure you here.”

“Just to lure me?” “Yes. They said they would come to collect you at 4 in the morning. And it is useless if you go to the police. I know nothing that would help you find the guys planning this”.Tying her up with bedsheets, she dressed up and sat in a chair. She could either call the cops or she could investigate this on her own.

Fork 8

BBA] She decides to investigate further BBB] She decided to call the cops

Continued in part 2

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