The Adventure of the Civil Partnership Chapter 13 Scuffed
Sherlock and John are hunting a kidnapper who has been taking newlywed couples across the Greater London Area and Sherlock has the perfect way to flush him out. Warning: Pre-Slash/Slash of Sherlock/John Work in Progress - Very Slow Updates
Disclaimers: I certainly do not own Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s amazing creation of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Hamish Watson. I also do not own Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and the BBC’s adaptations of those works.
Spoiler Warnings: Series 1 and 2 of Sherlock
Ratings: M Warning Pre-Slash/Slash.
Beta: Ivory Winter - All mistakes are mine.
xxxxXXXXxxxx
Chapter 13 Scuffed
John bolted straight up right in his bed, one hand scrambling for a gun that hadn’t been there since Afghanistan, as his bedroom door noisily bounced off the wall, the overhead light snapped on with a pop, and Sherlock burst in announcing excitedly, “John! John! Get up, it’s almost six am. We have work to do!”
John watched blurrily, his heart rate slowly returning to normal; as Sherlock rushed over to his dresser and started unerringly pulling clothes from the drawers and closet. As Sherlock’s selections landed rapidly on the end of his bed, John noted that he never once opened an unnecessary drawer, even as he was nattering away about how John really should learn to control his transport’s need for ridiculous amounts of sleep and throwing out something about a cab that would arrive in a half hour. John wondered sleepily if Sherlock had just deduced what was stored in each drawer and the closet, or if at some point the detective had been snooping out of boredom induced curiosity. John supposed that both were equally probable and it didn’t really matter either way as he pulled himself tiredly out of his warm comfortable bed. “Yeah, yeah, alright Sherlock, come on, move so I can go shower and shave.”
“John! Really we don’t have time to waste on grooming. We have a lot of ground to cover today!”
John very carefully held back a sigh of frustration as he took his mad flatmate’s elbow and started tugging him to the door, snagging the clothes from the bed as an afterthought. “So I gather, but I will be of a lot more use to you after a nice shower and a shave to wake me up and allow me to feel more human. In fact you can make yourself useful and get me a nice cup of tea with some toast. Hmmm?”
Sherlock pouted but allowed John to tug him out of the room and down the stairs into the kitchen, John pretending to himself that he wasn’t taking peeks at Sherlock. The man was amazingly put together for so early in the day, instead of floating around the flat in his silk pajamas and dressing gown the detective was wearing what looked like tailor made black trousers and a red silk shirt that fit ridiculously well. If nothing else came out of this odd marriage of theirs at least John had found out where Sherlock got all the money for those ridiculous clothes. As John meandered into the bathroom, Sherlock called out, “Irish Breakfast blend is acceptable I presume?”
“Sounds fine,” John answered, shutting the door with a firm click before moving in front of the mirror, and groaning. As John grimaced at his own reflection the reflection grimaced back, showing a man who hadn’t managed to fall or stay asleep for longer than an hour or two at a time last night. His night’s sleep had not been disrupted by nightmares of Afghanistan, by Sherlock falling, or even by the more enjoyable dreams involving his flatmate (although those were rare and tended to be short as even his subconscious seemed to believe that he didn’t have chance with the annoying detective). No, what had kept him up all night was trying to figure out why Sherlock had kissed his forehead. They didn’t have an audience so Sherlock couldn’t have done it as a planned part of their cover, like the kiss in the bowling alley, or on his hand at the registrar’s office. And as much as he wished it, his wonderfully irritating husband had informed him repeatedly of his disgust of the softer emotions.
After a long night of tossing and turning between cat naps (some of which had included the beginnings of a few tortuously lust fueled dreams - that weren’t even long enough to enjoy), John’s working hypothesis was that in a fit of excitement Sherlock hadn’t even realized that he had kissed him. Sherlock’s behavior, especially when he was excited by a puzzle or an interesting discovery, was particularly idiosyncratic and often didn’t meet any social norms. John had seen Sherlock dance around their sitting room and practically pick Mrs. Hudson up off the ground in his excitement about the newest suicide on their very first case. John himself had been swung around in circles when Sherlock thought his memory needed jogging, and had been the casualty of an attempted drugging. And then there had been the fistfight with the detective just to make himself look like the victim of a mugging. Heck, Sherlock had married him just to solve a case, what sort of rational person thought that was even remotely appropriate behavior? So it was entirely possible, perhaps even reasonable, to believe that it, the kiss, was just an odd expression of his delight at finally connecting the dots.
In the early hours of the morning, when his heart was trying to convince his brain that perhaps Sherlock might have some deeper feelings than friendship for him, another possibility occurred to him. Sherlock didn’t just act those parts he did for cases; he immersed himself in the role he was playing, becoming at least for a while that person. If he couldn’t, John suspected that Sherlock never would have survived the time he was hunting the remains of Moriarty’s empire. If Sherlock was deep into his husband role it probably simply hadn’t occurred to him that it wasn’t necessary to act like that when they weren’t in public. Whatever the reason, John was sure it had nothing to do with any emotion other than Sherlock’s pure excitement at new data, never mind what his desperately craving heart wanted to believe.
John forced himself to shake off his painful thoughts and get ready before his flatmate decided that he wasn’t moving quickly enough and barged into the bathroom to update him on whatever he had discovered during the night. Fifteen minutes later John moved into the kitchen still drying his hair, pleasantly surprised to find that Sherlock had both tea and toast ready for him, and they were still nicely warm. John took a few grateful drinks before offering to the practically vibrating Sherlock, “Mmmm…. Delicious. Thanks. So what did you find out? How many suspects? Where are we going in this taxi you were blathering about? And when do we break the news to Lestrade that you have found him another serial killer?”
“Lestrade can wait. We have something much more important to accomplish than updating those blind fools at the Yard,” Sherlock replied, his hand waving dismissively. “I have discovered something highly intriguing! Just as I suspected, the charity, the bowling alley, and London Heathside all use the same direct marketing company!”
John smiled, caught up in Sherlock’s enthusiasm as he leaned back against the counter with his tea and toast. “That’s great.” And then frowned slightly before asking, “Do I want to know how you managed to figure that out in the middle of the night and how many people you had to wake up to do it?”
Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes, “An entirely unnecessary concern, John. The information was right under our noses the entire time. In the fine print on every one of the websites was a disclaimer in minuscule type listing the marketing company to which the information was sold. In fact the charity listed it rather proudly, claiming that they had worked with them successfully for seven years, and that providing the company with the information had allowed them to keep costs of the fundraisers low so that more money could be donated directly to the cancer center.”
“So how many employees’ lives do we have to look through? It’s got to be a lot less than all those nightclub employees and acts. And why aren’t we telling Lestrade? Wouldn’t he be able to help with a lot of the basic informational gathering at least?”
If anything Sherlock’s smile got larger and significantly more wicked. “One John. Just One.”
“Huh?” John asked, confused by Sherlock’s answer, unable to see how that related to Lestrade. “One what? One minute? One day before we tell him?”
Sherlock leaned toward him, John’s heart rate elevating, a flush rising as Sherlock’s eyes bored into him, the smile only John got to see flashing in his eyes a few short inches from John’s. “One suspect John. Just one suspect.”
John took an instant to process the detective’s words as most of his brain cells focused on Sherlock’s brilliant smile. When it finally did catch up his mouth dropped open slightly. “Wait, what, one! How did you get it down to just one suspect overnight Sherlock?”
Sherlock leaned back and laughed, low, deep, and joyful. “Oh John, once you got me on the right trail it was so simple, yet intriguingly unique. Do you remember Jeremy, the irritatingly arrogant trainer telling us the Ashdowns were originally from Bishop’s Stortford?”
“Vaguely,” John replied, his brows drawn together in concentration as he tried to think back to the conversation and his case notes, ignoring Sherlock’s description of what was after all a reasonably nice man. “They had a fight with his family or something? What’s that have to do with anything?”
“Nothing and yet everything,” Sherlock answered, the wicked grin lighting his face.
“A witty and enigmatic reply, Sherlock Holmes, but rather short on helpful details,” John scolded as he swallowed the last of his tea and toast.
“And yet entirely the truth,” Sherlock smirked, causing John to chuckle softly, the detective’s good mood being highly contagious. “Now John, I promise all in good time, but we have a taxi to catch. So if I may request you to join me in donning our outerwear we will be on our way.”
John peered closely at the widely smiling madman, deciding that it wasn’t worth the effort to convince the detective to explain his plan now. Instead John shuffled over to the door and quickly shoved his feet into his shoes and shrugged on his coat, finishing just as Sherlock swung his scarf around his neck in a typically dramatic fashion. Chuckling under his breath, he followed the detective out to the waiting cab.
xxxxXXXXxxxx
Forty minutes later found John exiting the taxi no wiser than when he entered it. The only thing John was sure of was that they were somewhere in one of the multitude of new subdivisions in the northeast section of London‘s ongoing urban sprawl. The detective had refused to give John any more information on the long ride, even when asked with an excessive amount of praise in an attempt to stroke the detective’s ego. In fact other than giving directions to the cabby, the only words out of the detective’s mouth on the trip were a snarky comment about the obviousness of John’s failed attempt to get information. John finally came to the conclusion that the detective was in the mood to show off and was waiting for the perfect moment. John decided to indulge him a little for now, although, he would keep a watchful eye out for trouble, as this was usually when things began to go sideways on them.
“Sherlock, where are we?” John called as he hurried after the detective, who was striding quickly to the old farmhouse in front of them that was surrounded by a well-kept and surprisingly expansive garden. Although the farmhouse was several generations old, there were several obviously new houses visible up and down the lane, with a half-finished house just beyond what John assumed was the property line. London was obviously expanding with a passion in this area. “And what are we doing here? How does this tie into the case? A new victim? This can’t be any of our couples’ homes, none of them lived out here when they disappeared.”
Sherlock smirked, turning with a flourish at the top of the steps to face John, announcing in a self-congratulatory tone, “You are absolutely correct, my dear Dr. Watson. Welcome to the home of Mr. Davis Reid. Avid gardener, computer technical support and programmer for a London based direct marketing corporation, and exceptionally well organized kidnapper and serial killer.”
John started for a moment, then jolted forward to grab the detective’s arm. “Sherlock!” John hissed purposely keeping his voice subdued, “What are we doing here without Lestrade? I realize that you find it impossible to leave a mystery alone, but I thought you were worried about frightening this man off?”
“John, relax. I would never jeopardize a case,” Sherlock said, a clearly fake indignant expression on his face. “Mr. Reid is not at home. Although he works from home three days a week, he is required to appear at the headquarters twice weekly. At this point he should be almost to his office for their weekly staff meeting. We could spend the entire day examining his house and he would be none the wiser.”
John shook his head in frustration but decided that it wasn’t worth arguing as Sherlock would obviously not be dissuaded from his planed search. “Fine,” he answered, giving in before a thought occurred to him. “How do you know so much about this man’s schedule already? And how did you figure out that he was the killer?”
“Simplicity itself. He actually provided me with all the information I required,” Sherlock replied, as he moved to the door and started picking the lock. “The website for the marketing company which employs him is detailed and extensive. I surmise that it is a marketing ploy to make the company appear upfront and above board. Whatever the reason, all the employees’ names along with a small personal history including what I believe is colloquially called an ‘amusing anecdote’ is provided in an effort to further personalize their business. They do stop short of giving out addresses, and non-work contact information, but there is more than enough information to start a detailed search. Care to guess John from where our intrepid Mr. Reid originally hails?”
John glared slightly cross at the detective’s back, wanting to tell the genius to get on with it before something Sherlock had said before they left the flat came back to him. “You said that this had something to do with the Ashdown’s, so Bishop’s Stortford?”
“Excellent. In fact Mr. Reid purchased this home just three months after the Ashdowns arrived in London. Now in and of itself this information means nothing. Bishop’s Stortford is certainly not a tiny hamlet, so it would not be unreasonable for people to be moving in and out of the city frequently. Ah ha!” Sherlock cried suddenly, interrupting his own deduction as the front door slid open, and he rose to enter into the house, John following close behind.
The house was nothing spectacular to John’s eye but was in good shape and clean, especially for a bachelor pad. As John followed Sherlock through the front hallway into the living room, the thing that struck him most was how stark and cold the room appeared. Beyond the basic furniture, a couch and chair, a wall mounted TV with an expensive-looking home theater system attached, and a desk where there was a set up for an absent laptop, there was nothing in the room. No pictures, no plants, no blankets or pillows, no knickknacks, or memorabilia of any sort. Not even a generic wall painting, and the walls were a basic eggshell white. The room didn’t reflect any sort of personality at all. John had felt more warmth and character in cut-rate budget motel rooms.
“It’s rather… empty. Almost feels like no one lives here,” John commented. “So since you evidently found the move more than slightly coincidental, what else did you find out about Reid?”
Sherlock threw John another quick grin as he moved out of the room and up the hallway stairs toward the second story. “Just a few more interesting coincidences. Mr. Reid happened to attend the same secondary school and sixth form as the future Mrs. Ashdown. He was then accepted to Cambridge to study in computer technologies. Instead of taking this offer he chose to go to the significantly smaller university that Pamela attended, and although he excelled in all his courses, the degree from this university certainly did not help his career. Nor did leaving the rising computer technologies corporation in Bishop’s Stortford five and half years ago to join a small London direct marketing firm as the entirety of their computer technologies staff.”
“It does seem rather coincidental, but it certainly doesn’t prove anything. Plus weren’t the Ashdowns the second or third couple taken? And why follow her? Were they a couple at some point?” John asked as he peered around the bedroom they had entered. Like the living room, there was not much personality here, although it also had an expensive home theater system, not as extensive as the one downstairs but fancier than John was used to seeing in bedrooms. It seemed to John that the only thing this Davis Reid was really interested in was electronics.
“They were the second couple taken, and as far as I was able to determine overnight Pamela and Reid were never a couple, in fact they appear to have been just barely aquatinted,” Sherlock answered from the closet, where he was managing to rifle through the clothes without overly disturbing them and leaving evidence of their presence. “That is one of the things I am hoping to determine today. If in fact this man was following her, which I believe he was, what did he hope to achieve? And if he is the killer I believe him to be, your question is apt, why take them second if she was his actual goal? In fact why take any of the other couples at all?”
Sherlock made an exasperated noise and strode out of the bedroom, turning down the hallway entering into another room. John hustled behind him to keep up, stopping in the doorway of what appeared to be a home office. There was yet another large wall mounted flat screen, but unlike the bedroom and living room there was no entertainment system attached to this one. This was the first room they had entered that had a touch of warmth in it. The walls were a nice deep brown and the desk was a large wooden antique. The room wouldn’t have looked out of place in any professional office.
“Bah, useless,” Sherlock announced, turning and knocking hard into John as he stood in the door examining the room. John fell backwards, hands flailing in a failed attempt to find something to grab to keep himself from hitting the ground. Sherlock’s hands shot forward and wrapped around John’s elbows, taking John’s weight, preventing the fall, and pulling him back onto his feet. Once John was stable Sherlock chuckled briefly, his hands still on John’s elbows, before he teased, “I do believe that we need to get your inner ear examined once this case is completed my dear doctor. First I had to rescue you on the dance floor last Friday night, and here we are again today.”
John stared for a moment, stunned as his erstwhile husband didn’t often tease him, but then broke into giggles, enjoying the friendship the teasing implied along with the gentle pressure Sherlock’s hands on his elbows. After they had caught their breath, Sherlock slowly slid his hands down John’s arms to his wrists, holding them in a light grasp for a moment that seemed to last forever to John. John’s heart rate started elevating as he stood frozen, not knowing what to make of Sherlock’s behavior. John was positive that Sherlock had to be able to feel his pulse rate increase, and yet he found himself unable to move, completely entranced by Sherlock’s touch on his wrists and the soft grin on the detectives face. Sherlock finally gave John’s wrists a quick squeeze before dropping his hands away entirely, as he announced, “Come along John, there is nothing of any use in this room.”
John took a deep breath, gathering himself together as Sherlock started to stride past him, deciding to ignore the behavior, at least for now, and hope that if the detective questioned him later about his elevated heart rate he could convince him that it was due to the adrenaline rush from housebreaking, rather than any other more dangerous emotions. John took another look around the room and then frowned, before calling “Sherlock? How come you’re not checking this room out? It’s the first room that looks like anyone actually lives in it.”
“And that’s exactly why it is useless to check this room,” Sherlock answered as he strode back down the hallway, opening the last door on the landing, which turned out to be empty, with not even a bed or dresser. “The office is a front for his work. He set it up to look good for the cameras when he teleconferences with the staff. Warm, inviting. The persona he wants to project to the outside world. Nothing that is actually his is in that room. We need to find the basement access.”
Five minutes later they had found the door to the basement in the back of the kitchen pantry. They trundled carefully down the bare wooden stairs to a room that to John’s eye was as empty as the rest of the house. Sherlock however seemed excited, whipping out his pocket magnifying glass, exclaiming, “Finally!”
John watched bemused as Sherlock started fluttering around the room, dropping to the cement floor to examine marks that meant nothing to John. The detective was practically crawling around the room, occasionally stopping to examine something more thoroughly. John watched the detective closely for a moment, attempting to examine the room himself and see what Sherlock saw when he noticed a door at the back of the basement behind the stairs. Curious, John opened it and moved inside, flipping the light switch which lit a bare bulb, to find a small four foot by four foot room that had the same cement block walls and cement floor as the rest of the basement. John was about to leave the room when something on the back wall caught his eye.
Moving over John looked closer at the wall discovering numerous holes, where it looked to John that something had been anchored into the wall. He examined it closely and found four groupings with three holes in each grouping, so whatever had been anchored into the cement block had been designed to hold a lot of weight. John was still frowning at them when Sherlock’s soft voice in his ear made him startle sideways into the wall, banging his bad shoulder, “Ahhh… well that answers that question.”
“Geez Sherlock, give a guy a warning would you?” John groused, rubbing his shoulder. “Explains what?”
“Where he kept them,” Sherlock answered absently, his fingers running over the holes.
John looked at Sherlock blankly, not following the detective’s train of thought. “Sorry Sherlock, I still don’t get what you’re saying.”
“Really John, and here I was thinking that your powers of observation were improving,” Sherlock grumbled. “These are clearly anchor points. See the scrape marks underneath, from something hard and metal banging against them. He had metal rings anchored into the wall. He probably chained them to the rings when he wasn’t …” Sherlock stopped abruptly to look up at John.
“When he wasn’t torturing them,” John finished softly. “He chained them in this windowless room when he wasn’t torturing or killing them.”
“Yes.”
John closed his eyes and took a calming breath, forcing down the rage that was trying to consume him. After several deep breaths he opened his eyes and gave Sherlock a hard look. “We are catching this bastard and he is going to pay for destroying all these lives,” John said with a snap, before adding, “now what were you poring over in the main room?”
Sherlock looked intently at him for a long moment, although once again what he was looking for was escaping John. He finally nodded and pulled John out into the other room by his coat. As they entered the room Sherlock started talking again, his excitement level rapidly increasing as he explained his deductions. “See those scuff marks here and here. Four in each location, both sets facing each other? They must be for chairs, two of them. He made them watch each other while he did whatever was done down here. He would have enjoyed this greatly. Not only did he get the pleasure of physically torturing one partner. He got the excitement of making the other person watch, thus mentally torturing them at the same time. Additionally although the chairs must have been heavy judging from the size of the scuff marks, there is no indication on the floor that he bolted them down. So it seems reasonable to conclude that he enjoyed watching them struggle with their restraints as well.”
Sherlock moved over to the far side of the room away from the stairs, and pointed at four more scuff marks in the concrete. These spread much further apart than the chairs. “Some sort of heavy wheeled table sat here, you can see where it was rolled back and forth repeatedly, damaging the concrete sealant. I do not yet have enough data to make a conclusion about its function.”
John followed as Sherlock moved back towards the center of the room closer to where the chairs had been. Sherlock gestured for the third time to the floor. “See these three circular scuff marks here, and there is another set of three on the other side of the room. These provide perhaps the most useful data in the room. Notice how the impressions are darker on the sides interior to the triangle they form?”
John nodded at Sherlock’s words, watching the detective’s finger trace the triangle they created. After a quick glance at John to confirm that he was following, Sherlock continued, “A tripod sat in both locations, undoubtedly to support a camera or video equipment. Reid is documenting the torture and presumably his killings as well. A permanent trophy if you will. If I can determine where he is storing these recordings or photographs that alone could reasonably provide enough evidence to convict him of his crimes, even if we are unable to determine what he did with the bodies.”
John stared at his husband, caught up in his words, in the sheer brilliance of this man who allowed him in his life. “Extraordinary.”
“Simple mathematics and spatial relations John,” Sherlock answered dismissively, but John could see the small gleam of pride in his eye at John’s words.
“You said he probably kept records of the killings as well, do you think he killed them down here?” John asked.
“Difficult to determine. The concrete floor has been professionally sealed, and given Reid’s history of cautious behavior, probably more than once, so it is doubtful that is would have absorbed any traces of blood. Additionally, someone of Reid’s intelligence would have cleaned up after himself with bleach to degrade any DNA evidence. I do have a larger concern however,” Sherlock stated, causing John to look at him inquiringly. “Davis Reid could not have tortured and killed the Langsdales, Mr. Williams’ daughter and son-in-law here. I suspect he didn’t bring the two couples prior to them here either. Those marks are old, and this basement has an air of disuse. He must have acquired a secondary location for some reason.”
John looked at the scuff marks on the floor, wondering just how Sherlock could tell that the marks were old, but decided against asking because he wasn’t in the mood for a detailed lecture. As he looked around him he noticed the windows at the top of the basement walls, the faint sound of construction bleeding through them. “The construction. He couldn’t bring them here anymore because of all the new housing. If someone heard something and came snooping at the wrong moment…” John said, giving a shrug as he allowed the sentence to trail off.
Sherlock swiveled suddenly from where he was inspecting the wall to look at John, following John’s gaze up to the window. “Ah… Yes, that would be a concern for him.”
“Do you think this is enough to allow Lestrade to arrest him, or do we need more proof?”
Sherlock shook his head. “The information is entirely too circumstantial, and most detectives, and certainly no attorney, would accept scuff marks on the floor as proof of such a heinous crime. Particularly without a body or any DNA evidence. However there is enough data to convince Lestrade. We can use his contacts to look for additional cases, and search land records to see if we can determine his new shelter. Additionally Lestrade, as opposed to Dimmock or some of the other DIs, will allow himself to be convinced not to interview him at least for a time, thus frightening him into hiding before he can be arrested.”
“I suppose it would be pointless to hope that he keeps his trophies here in the house?” John asked, wanting this man off the streets before he had the chance to either destroy more lives or disappear.
Sherlock answered as he started moving back up the stairs. “Unlikely as Reid appears to be entirely too intelligent to make such a basic error. Probable the photographic or video equipment is digital and he has the information stored on a private server which he can access through a secure internet site. Although his technical skills appear to be advanced enough that the site will be encrypted so that only he will have access. I will need to get a look at his laptop, or laptops, as he has numerous docking stations in this house.”
John sighed as they moved into the main hallway, watching as Sherlock locked the front door, John assumed in order to leave the house as they had found it, and then followed the detective as he strode back into the kitchen and led them out the back. “I suppose that would have been entirely too simple.”
John glanced around, noting that the back garden was just as orderly as the front. In the spring and summer it must be beautiful John thought, as he noted the neatly trimmed dormant rose bushes and hedges. “For a serial killer this man sure keeps a nice garden. You would think that between his day job and his time stalking, kidnapping, torturing, and killing people he would be too busy to have time to trim all those rose beds and bushes. I mean, even with all the heavy mulching, it must be a large project to keep this up so well.”
Sherlock moved off the bottom steps, moving a few paces onto the lawn before turning in a slow circle. “We won’t need to find his digital record anymore. You can call Lestrade now, and tell him to bring Toby. We have more than enough proof to convince him and anyone else,” Sherlock said slowly. “Look more closely at the flower beds, John.”
John looked again. There were the beds along the sides of the house that were currently appeared empty, they probably contained plants that flowered during spring and summer months. He also counted three sets of perfectly pruned and mulched rose beds near the center of the large garden. Along the outer edge of the lawn were two perfectly pruned and mulched green bushes that John couldn’t identify. After a moment John gave up trying to figure out what Sherlock wanted him to see and said, “It just looks like a flower garden to me Sherlock.”
“It’s not a garden, John. The rose bushes and those two yew bushes are acting as grave stones.”
xxxxXXXXxxxx
FanFiction Writer Notes: I want to thank all everyone who took the time to review. You all encourage me to do better and improve myself. Thanks to those of you who pointed out grammar and Brit-pick errors. I really do love those polite tips, they help improve the story. I also want to thank all my reviewers for not leaving huge spoilers in the reviews. It is very kind of you.
Once again thanks to my wonderful Beta Ivory Winter, who as always pushed me to make this chapter and story better.
Thanks,Rairakku
First Previous Next