#rvolving / shinwell.

[crimewrought]

ㅤchaos puppeteers her heart, but strategy doesn't fly over her head. no—tonight, maria's lined up her dominoes carefully, in the knowledge that there's a science to making an impossible endeavour like this go well. it's strategy sits behind the 'outside' text she's sent him; it's brief, it prompts no response, it means there's no going in the pub to meet him and shinwell delaying their departure until they don't leave for the coveted meeting at all. they're ten minutes out of where they're meeting richards; shinwell's assurance, and maria feels a bit too much trust for him, and knows too extensively of his professional reliability, for her to doubt his word.

ㅤ" you been here long? " there's subtext to the question, and maria knows shinwell will likely decipher it. have much have you had to drink while waiting for me? her brow lays heavy on her forehead, creased with concern, and with anxiety that even the darkness of the hour, and the murky orange haze of the street lamps, hold no chance of hiding. maria hikes in a breath, her heart tight in its cage. she'd hug him hello if the situation were anything other; those cards not being dealt, she settles on a meagre smile and a hesitant nod. " we can go get blackout drunk as soon as this is over, if you want. on me. obviously. "

ㅤstarter for @rvolving.

[fxckingmoran-a]

~ @rvolving​ || Liked for a starter ~

                The  places  that  Sebastian  Moran  frequents  for  a  drink  tend  to  be  -  WELL  -  They’re  absolute  fucking  shitholes.  Dank,  bleak  establishments  where  the  criminals  and  undesirables  of  London  scurry  to  for  a  quiet  drink  away  from  the  eyes  of  Scotland  Yard.  That  evening  is  no  different.  He’s  sitting  at  the  bar,  eyes  carefully  watching,  looking  for  someone  to  either  chat  up  or  fight  with.  The  world’s  his  oyster.  Gaze  settles  on  a  figure  at  the  far  end,  lips  twitching  upwards.  He  pushes  off  his  seat,  grabbing  his  pint  and  making  his  way  over  to  -  ❝  Shinners  -  ❞  The  nickname’s  definitely  not  necessary  but  Seb  just  CAN’T  resist.  ❝  Y’alright  mate?  Long  time  no  see.  What’re  you  doing  here?  ❞

[shxlmes]

~ @rvolving​ || Liked for a starter ~

         Shinwell Johnson - An invaluable asset in regards to navigating the criminal underworld of London. He’s observant, confident and sociable, making him the ideal person for gaining information. Besides, it’s good for Sherlock to have informants from all walks of life - As crafty as the Irregulars are, they simply can’t always get him the information he desires. They just don’t have the access to it. Enter - “Shinwell. Good afternoon.” He sweeps into the shop, pizza box in hand and making straight for the counter with a nod of greeting. It’s placed down in front of him, Sherlock’s lips twitching. “I brought lunch so you can’t complain this time about me just showing up.” Eyes scan the shop, ensuring that they’re alone before speaking again. Straight to business, no time to waste. Small talk will only distract his train of thought. “I’ve received word of a gambling den in Croydon - know anything about it?”

[crimewrought]

" no backstabbing. " richards flings his attention to maria at a breakneck pace, plucking out precisely what he shouldn't from shinwell's words. " you got a knife under that dress? " her red lips pinch, and she shakes her head in a curt no. richards returns the motion, the action all malice and mockery in the places maria gave only subservience. " then what's all the fucking rush about? "

nausea pools at the base of maria's neck, an icy chill trickling down her spine. the question's directed at her—his eyes are, anyway, inside them an off-putting expression maria doesn't care to linger on—so she hikes in an uneasy breath, whatever silent message shinwell's trying to send her be damned.

" no rush, we just don't want to interrupt your night. here— " maria moves to complete the transaction—his shit for their unharmed selves—her hands moving to her bag, delving for the gear inside. except richards moves too, his hefty form rising from his seat; and with him, like objects bound to his magnetic field, the cronies scattered about move too. some tall, some short, some round, some lean. but they all move in unison, following a wordless command, entering the new space formed. richards stands inches away from shinwell and maria's faces, his cronies forming a sort of circle around them all—close enough to give shinwell and maria a few jostling shoves from behind.

" do you need how i work knocking back into your fucking skull, johnson? "

obviously, shinwell's no better at handling the communication part of this interaction than maria would've been. goes and puts his fucking foot in his mouth, because there is no getting it right, not when richards is determined to dislike you from the start. �� yeah, returning ❞, correcting himself as if agreeing to the terms -- the terms being: richards rules this place and shinwell's just one measly worm of many.

                    the only difference it makes, shinwell handling it instead of maria, is that it'll be shinwell suffering the consequences. and he can tell there's gonna be consequences. it's the tiny fucking pig eyes that promise retaliation.

                    now they're here, enjoying their audience with the fucking pope, there's no chance of shinwell touching her without it sending a message they won't like. so when she starts speaking, instead of his hand flying back up to her shoulder to stop her, it's his gaze trying desperately to meet hers: shut up, shut up, let them forget you're even fucking here.

                    ❝ i, uh-- ❞, fucking dipshit for not having anticipated this question, and his attention snaps back, quick on his feet but sheepish all the same, ❝ just witness, i guess. make sure you get your shit back, no backstabbing, that kinda thing. ❞ he motions at maria in a way he hopes suggests some sort of superiority, some indication of her playing no role at all. ❝ give it. ❞ there's an argument for rushing through this, but another against it too, and shinwell's gambling on the former. ❝ it's just this and we'll fuck off. ❞

[crimewrought]

8;ㅤsender lifts receiver's chin, invoking eye contact. @rvolving.

ㅤlips parted, eyes fixed, legs rooted to the ground—it's been thirty long seconds of maria's utter stillness, and neither the irritated patrons bumping into her, nor the growing concern shinwell's speaking into her ear, is enough to penetrate her horrified reverie. there he stands, a ghoul of a memory that she's managed to exile from her waking hours; a demon fiend more terrifying in the mundane flesh than her night terrors have ever rendered him. maria's body screams with the urge to flee, but the most movement she achieves is merely swaying a little on the spot; lucky, really, since her legs are just watery enough that they're nigh on buckling beneath her entirely. all her senses have taken leave though her fear, save perhaps touch—because it's shinwell's hand on her face, lifting her chin up gently but more than a little urgently, that somewhat registers in the tortured haze of her mind. when her eyes find his, they're glazed, but not enough to conceal her fright. not by half.

ㅤ" i— " the rest of her words rot in her mouth. all the senses that had abandoned her rush back suddenly; the room becomes so loud that she winces, her sense of utter unfeeling dissipating and giving way to her gunfire heartbeat. the reciprocated unease in shinwell's eyes near enough has her retching.

ㅤ" fuck this place. " his fingers on her chin may be all the comfort in the world, but maria still all but yanks herself away from the touch, pushing past him and towards the bar's exit. in her escape, she grabs his arm, veritably pulling him behind her as she beelines to freedom. " it's too busy here, we won't get served. there's a greek place that does good food on the other side of the river, can get a drink there. fucking—let's just go. "

[crimewrought]

you have no idea what you’re starting.   @rvolving.   accepting.

   most of the scene is familiar, downright unremarkable. maria showing up to the shop unannounced, shinwell not batting an eye at her unplanned presence, easy laughter shared between them with the minimal remnants of a takeaway waning in the corner. tonight had started reliably, but maria’s asking for information had caused the scene to splinter–––into something foreign, fracturing into some new ground that maria’s footing couldn’t surely navigate.

   “   i’m not staring anything, shinwell.   ”   her tone’s defensive, maybe a shade more than is really necessary, but to her mind, it’s nowhere near as bad as his. she’s taken warnings before, and plenty worse, but even a friendly warning is a ear-splintering racket when it comes from a voice so familiar; in an accent that can’t help but a sing of home and all its awful trimmings. it’s not shinwell’s fault that his voice is simply worse to listen to than any other, when the words are anything remotely rebuking–––but it is, and maria has more than a little trouble retracting her claws at the sound of it.

   she sighs, averting her gaze from him and settling it on a decidedly captivating grey mark on the wall beside them.   “   you have no idea what you’re giving your opinion on. and i didn’t come down here for advice.   ”   never mind that she’s most certainly come down for as much before. too embarrassed to acknowledge that. her gaze pummels relentlessly into that grey mark, her mind briefly willing shinwell to keep on dissolving from focus in her periphery into simple nonexistence.   

   “   i’ll just go ask to someone else, then.   ”

[crimewrought]

they've met a couple of times. the lack of elaboration unsettles her, prods at her chest with a noxious sting... but maria suspects elaboration is precisely what she doesn't need. if shinwell isn't willing to pull up the floorboards of their history and reveal what dwells there, maria will take his cue not to pry.

ㅤ" bit fucking different isn't it, johnson? you're not delivering shit, you're returning what's mine. " maria's stood at an awkward angle—to the side of shinwell, but also a little behind him—but she's not so far removed that she doesn't hear richards' cutting response. not so far removed not to see him, either, in all his troubling mundanity. maria watches the man glower at shinwell, scarce emotion in his watery blue eyes except a vague humour that's far from friendly. not having met her gaze, not having acknowledged her, maria sucks in a breath, preparing her planned introduction. she gets once syllable into the script before richards cuts her off, light eyes square on her. his pupils are blown, she thinks. familiar. instantly recognisable. " your lot steal my gear for extra cash, and they can't get you a bodyguard who doesn't take a punch like a bitch? "

ㅤthe words hang thick in unbreathable air. maria inhales, short and quick, as though not wanting to pull them in. " we're sorry about what happened. the person who stole your stuff, he's gone. i'm here to give— "

ㅤ" this a double act for a reason? " his unnerving gaze back on shinwell. " what are you here for? "

once inside, shinwell's abdomen remains clenched uncomfortably, as though bracing for a blow that might come from any direction. he's still not sure how much of their situation maria understands -- how much is her putting on the brave face of the stubborn little girl and how much is indeed ignorance of the exact circles they're moving into now --, but he's determined not to let her garner any deeper understanding tonight. if she should get to leave without knowing the danger she's barely scraped past, all the fucking better.

                    ❝ we've met a couple times ❞, purposely evasive then, surveying the room much like her. a man like richards has no friends, certainly none like shinwell; but it'd be a waste of breath getting into their checkered past now. it's made clear they're not here for their own amusement when another bouncer-looking type catches shinwell's eye and nods towards the back of the room. shinwell's hand finds her shoulder instantly, beckoning her to follow. ❝ c'mon. ❞

                    thing is, the man himself looks almost benign. they always do. bit too short, bit too round. and yet shinwell remembers impact with the thick silver ring on his hand very vividly. he has to clear his throat against the memory, but doesn't let maria get too close. ❝ thanks for having us. be outta your hair in just a minute. quick delivery, is all. ❞

[crimewrought]

ㅤmaria sputters out her one word vow—promise—on a hasty, shallow breath. speaking to the bouncer, a much undesirable prospect, is quickly dwarfed by a somehow sourer concept; immediate recognition, and immediate entry. knows their faces, maria thinks, discomfort like a viper coiling around her upright spine. knows to expect them, too. that viper clenches, her breath tightening. and for all that shinwell's grip on her arm had been ungentle, maria misses it sorely when it goes.

ㅤthey're ushered inside like shadows, whisked through the threshold and down the stairwell as though pulled by some invisible force; like rainwater sucked down the gutter and into the sewers below. when they reach the system of sin beneath, it's a bustling cacophony; maria scans the masses, restless eyes searching for a face she doesn't really want to find.

ㅤ" does this guy like you, shinwell? " brusque words, turned jagged by her nerves. the dim light catches someone's glass, turns it into something glistening, and maria's feels an engulfing desperation for a swing. in her thirst, she poses a question that can only reap a wretched answer. " does he even know you? "

once the decision's made, shinwell remains quiet. he's not one to keep talking when nervous, never has been, and so maria's fretful attempts at making the time pass faster are met with silence and eyes unable to meet hers. some of it's a juvenile understanding of proving unflappable, to be sure: a man will walk ahead without showing any fear. a much simpler part of it's the blood rushing in his ears, saving any resources for the battle they'll soon face. her impatience -- wanting to get it over with -- clashes uncomfortably with his apprehensions -- dragging his feet. he does briefly consider walking them in circles, or finding an excuse for a detour that would leave her locked in the cellar of a pub somewhere.

in the end, under a sky dark and impartial, they make it to a door that leaves no room for turning back. ❝ if we're gonna do this ❞, muttered so only maria and their two shadows will hear, not the bouncer already expecting them, ❝ you gotta let me go first and do the talking, okay? ❞ one last time, imploringly, he grabs her upper arm. there lies nothing gentle in it any longer. it's fear on his tongue, and he's afraid she'll catch it. ❝ promise. ❞

[crimewrought]

ㅤ" oh, don't be like that. " her venom has lessened a fraction, reduced into a more mild, biting annoyance. don't be like that. there's a distinct inference in her words, the explicit implication that she's got her finger right on the pulse of who he is, always has done, and doesn't particularly like who he's choosing to be right now. maria suspects, bitterly, dismally, that shinwell feels precisely the same about her. she shifts on her feet, weight passing awkwardly from one foot to the other, trying to savour a victory so impossibly sour. maria starts down the street, knowing he'll follow, knowing his feet may very well be dragging on the cold pavement below.

ㅤ" i don't ever want to talk about tonight. " she glances his way, expecting to see his face as it is; aged but familiar, older and in small ways wiser. might be the light, more likely the nerves, but maria sees his face nearer to her memory of it than ever. it's a remembrance that all but stops her dead in her tracks.

ㅤ" —we've been walking fucking ages. are we there yet? "

shinwell  remembers:  playgrounds  between  housing  projects,  swings  that  screeched  when  you  sat  on  them.  he  remembers  a  girl,  a  little  fucking  girl,  barking  at  him  for  wanting  to  ban  her  from  big  boy  territory.  he  remembers  she  could  not  be  argued  with,  and  he  remembers  laughing  at  her  childish  stubbornness  and  yet  feeling  impressed  by  it  all  the  same,  feeling  in  awe  of  so  much  wayward  tenacity.

                                it's  looking  into  that  very  same  face  now  that  kills  all  his  protest  at  the  back  of  his  throat.  swallowing  past  it  drains  his  ardour,  his  determination  to  persuade.  he  knows,  all  at  once,  that  it'll  be  no  use.  she's  right:  it'd  be  a  waste  of  precious  time.

                                ❝ know  him  intimately,  do  you. ❞  instead  of  bitterness,  it's  wariness  that  makes  his  hand  drop  from  her  arm:  @crimewrought  might  have  chosen  to  walk  into  this  blindly,  but  shinwell's  uncomfortably  aware  of  what  could  be  awaiting  them.  it's  consolidated  his  fear  as  much  as  his  decision:  thank  fucking  god  she's  not  facing  this  alone.  ❝ alright. ❞  it's  still  that  girl  he's  looking  at,  only  he  wouldn't  dare  laugh  at  her  now.  he  nods  down  the  street,  but  this  time  won't  start  moving  before  she's  by  his  side.  ❝ almost  there. ❞

[crimewrought]

ㅤthere's something hot burning in her chest, something molten, bringing with its burn the hanging threat of combustive eruption. shinwell doesn't deserve her anger, her brewing inferno, and yet maria can't quite sever those ranging synapses into absolving him. he's trying to help, so earnestly, so selflessly, but her heart won't give way for the thankfulness it should feel. because try as he might, that insidious voice within cajoles, he can't help her, and his attempts are only a pitiful reminder of that.

ㅤ" maybe. " her flippancy's intentional, partly to funnel out some of that fire... and partly strike back at his mention of guilt. when he grips her arm, the temptation stirs to yank it from his hand, but maria doesn't indulge it. " he's gonna what, shinwell? what's he gonna do? " maria searches his face, brown eyes frantic, but her gaze softens a fraction when she finds the panic, the care, she'd been trying desperately to ignore before. " if you—if you think he's going to punish me or something, stop it. he's got nothing to gain from that, and a lot to lose. i have people on my side. " spoken with the conviction of someone who nearly believes it. her jaw tightens, then loosens, the fingers of her free hand flexing behind her back.

ㅤ" i can't tell you why me, but you're free to ask my boss. i do know that us not getting there soon is gonna cause me more problems than solutions, though, johnson. "

it's  not  his  fucking  business.  he's  caught  rather  off-guard  by  the  slap  of  it,  like  a  fist  coming  down  harshly  on  a  table,  intense  in  its  finality.  it's  not,  they're  both  aware:  his  fucking  business.  still,  not  a  second  later  he  already  wants  to  launch  back  into  the  argument:  because  would  he  be  here  if  it  didn't  fucking  matter,  would  he  be  risking  it  if  he  wasn't  invested.  the  business  isn't  his,  no  doubt,  but  she  is,  but  she  is.

                                he's  saved  from  burning  with  the  truth  of  it  when  she  finally  comes  out  with  her  purpose,  and  his  muddled  anger's  immediately  snuffed  out.  ❝ fucking  hell. ❞  it  makes  his  stomach  drop,  frightfully,  like  there's  no  bottom  to  the  pit  of  it.  ❝ that's  as  good  as  a  fucking  admission  of  guilt ❞,  the  mutter  to  himself  incredulous,  as  if  he  should've  known  he's  walking  her  to  her  own  hanging.  but  she's  still  trudging  on  undeterred,  as  fucking  stubborn  as  ever,  and  it  takes  several  steps  to  catch  up  with  her.  ❝ maria ❞,  beseeching,  his  grip  firm  on  her  arm.  ❝ why  you?  he's  gonna-- ❞,  wanna  punish  you,  but  speaking  it  might  as  well  make  it  true.  they  have  time  yet.  ❝ why  you? ❞

[crimewrought]

ㅤ" no information. no deal. " maria's burning cheeks have betrayed her pride, announcing her mounting frustration in garish red swathes. it's not only frustration she's feeling, though—there's anxiety too, and potent desperation. the fatal cocktail of emotion erodes her tone from blunt to feverish, and even a little pleading.

ㅤ" it's not your fucking business, shinwell! that's the secrecy. that's what you agreed to. " they're a good few steps apart now, and the increasing distance smarts at her chest. part of maria wants to destroy the distance entirely, resume her place beside him and try rekindle that apparent united front... but another, much louder part, wants to bolt down the street and away from him, and this impossible argument. " ... for fuck's sake. " agitated, through an unsmiling mouth. bit a hint towards a revelation.

ㅤ" someone i work with stole some shit from him—his phone and a bit of gear. i'm here to give his stuff back. that's all. happy now? "

despite  the  barely-passing-as-machismo  demeanour  he's  struggling  to  uphold:  he's  hardly  a  seasoned  veteran  in  dealing  with  these  types  of  confrontations.  his  approach  typically  amounts  to  avoiding  them.  ❝ well,  sorry  for  keeping  the  offer  vague,  not  like  you've  given  me  a  whole  fucking  lot  to  work  with,  is  it. ❞  what  he  knows  is  that  they  shouldn't  be  going  where  they're  going  in  the  first  place.  what  he  knows,  too,  is  that  going  in  despite  their  odds  should  require  a  united  front.  ❝ if  it's  info  you  need,  or  a  deal  you  gotta  make... ❞  

                                that  he's  breaking  both  those  rules,  still  arguing  for  her  to  jump  ship  last  minute,  says  more  about  his  involvement  than  he's  willing  to  examine.  she's  walking  a  step  ahead  of  him  now  (two  steps  to  each  step  of  his  own,  in  fact,  an  observation  that  only  makes  her  seem  smaller),  and  it  allows  him  to  consider  her  with  open  concern  for  a  moment.  ❝ i'm  just  saying  you  don't  gotta  be  involved. ❞  in  the  end,  even  scowling  and  spitting  complaints,  he  won't  abandon  her.  no  matter  how  revolting,  criminal,  there's  nothing  she  could  reveal  that  would  deter  him.  ❝ i'll  be  there,  so  i'll  fucking  hear  it  anyway.  what's  with  the  secrecy? ❞

[crimewrought]

ㅤ" i obviously didn't mean it like— " maria starts her rebuttal in earnest, but her defence dwindles quickly. can she really argue to be offering in a strictly friendly capacity, when the lines of friendship and business have been thwarted by her hand? when she's the one who took a brush of something sinister and tarnished the both of them with it? knowing the answer, and knowing that paint won't scrub away easily, greene lets her protests curdle in her throat.

ㅤ" no fucking cleverness from me, then. " a quiet utterance, but not hidden; it's murmured as she quickens her pace to meet his excessive one. maria watches him beneath the street lamps, a sense of unreality settling upon her like an unexpected cold wind. when she'd first seen shinwell after so many years, maria had thought he'd looked out of place—and perhaps he had. but not like this. back then, she supposes, he'd looked out of place only due to the scenery; and due to the way time had found residence on his features and eroded most of the boyhood away. but he'd still looked familiar, because that moment had been a resuming of something. a reuniting. this, the way he looks now, seems to mark the beginning of something, she thinks. the newness, the unfamiliarity, makes the cold that's settled on her shoulders even harder to shake.

ㅤ" do you have any actual words of advice other than don't be clever? " wary of his new face, almost wholly stripped of the youth it probably didn't have before, maria's taken to watching the ground, or the dark sky above, as she walks briskly alongside him. " i'm not trying to be shitty with you. i'm actually asking. because me going into this completely blind is ten times more likely to fuck me than me going in with a little warning. should i be frank? polite? fucking, i don't know, nice? "

her  question  doesn't  get  her  any  response  aside  from  an  audible  exhale  into  the  freezing  night  air.  he's  snuck  out  back  onto  the  street  with  his  shoulders  drawn  up  high,  hands  tucked  deep  into  his  pockets:  the  bad  posture  of  someone  uselessly  trying  to  fend  off  the  creeping  cold,  when  in  reality  he's  just  a  dog  with  his  tail  tucked  between  his  legs.  his  guilt  smells  of  stale  beer.  he  should've  stayed  inside.  he  should've  sent  her  home  and  never  mentioned  it  again.

                                ❝ i  don't  need  you  to  buy  my  fucking  drinks,  greene. ❞  he  sniffs  against  the  insinuation  of  this  being  a  business  transaction  between  them:  like  her  paying  for  what  amounts  to  his  services  makes  him  turn  up  his  nose.  he  sways,  for  a  moment,  not  because  he's  drunk  but  because  he  seems  to  be  reconsidering  his  options.  it's  not  too  late  to  call  it  off.  but  then  she'll  go  on  her  own,  and  that  he  couldn't  stomach.  ❝ let's  just  get  this  over  with. ❞  he  turns,  spits  onto  the  pavement,  and  starts  walking  down  the  street  without  waiting  if  she'll  follow.  ❝ let  me  do  the  talking  until  he  asks  you  what  you  want.  don't  try  and  be  fucking  clever  about  it.  that  won't  work. ❞