Fill! (5/?)
anonymous
October 11 2010, 13:59:10 UTC
Harriet Watson was a good reporter.
Was.
She chuckles bitterly before taking another sip of her whiskey, letting the burn of alcohol and the stinging of the ice numb the chaos within her mind.
That is the key word: was. She had everything too: an amazing job, friends, reputation, and a home. Most of all, she had John and Clara. They were her world.
Were.
Harry tightens her grip around the cool glass, resisting the urge to smash the thing against the wall. She had everything. EVERYTHING. She and Clara were about to adopt a child. They were about to buy a newer house in light of their life improvements. Her brother was coming back soon from Afghanistan. Their friends were great. Their house was great. Life was great. They even planned to adopt one of those animals at the shelter.
For the first time in her life, Harry found a home. A true one, a place where she belonged. Not the home of her alcoholic father and drug-addict mother. Not the home where both she and John wore bruises for days if they cross their parents in a bad moment. A home, so real that Harry could not bring herself to sleep at night in fear that it might disappear when she closed her eyes.
But now, all she wanted to do was to go to sleep. Sleep forever. Sleep so that she doesn’t have to open her eyes to see the mess that is her life.
Harry curled within herself and snuggles deeper into the stale sofa as the wind from the open window runs goose bumps up her arm. The room reeks of cigarettes and it is bloody freezing, but Harry keeps the window open. The only light in the room is the lamp on the bedside table, washing over everything with an eerie orange glow. Harry drains the bottom of her glass while flickering shadows that stretches from one wall to the other dance above her head. The cigarette smell stings her nose and Harry resists the urge to vomit at the memory of her broken childhood home that it provokes.
Outside, the sound of police siren echoes throughout the city. There is the distant shouting of the local drunks getting into a fight. Harry doesn’t know what she had done to deserve this. Her career was going great, and she was working on a mind-breaking story that would electrify all of Britain. Possibly even the world. A conspiracy. A mystery underneath the British government. John had come back from Afghanistan with more than a limp and many scars. He had a story. Things he found out while in service.
They worked together in an attempt to find the truth.
People had warned them that they were in danger for prying into something so old, so deeply entrenched in Britain, so powerful that all the world would fall onto its knees at the sight. But Harry had a great life and a great career and she didn’t fear anything.
It would have changed how the world sees its governments.
But an invisible hand came and took away everything.
It doesn’t matter anymore. She has nothing now, nothing but this bottle of whiskey and a little money that she is wasting on this cheap motel room and alcohol. Nothing but a bit of clothes on her body. No home. No John. No Clara. No career.
The worst of it is that John disappeared, leaving behind his apartment intact all of his belongings. Disappeared off the earth. The police came to her door with empty hands and shakes of their heads. After that, her life began to crumble into pieces.
She has nothing. She is nothing.
Nothing.
Suddenly, her stomach spins and Harry barely manage to move herself before she vomits the entire content of her guts onto the floor. It is freezing, so freezing and lonely and hollow, so much so that her body breaks into cold sweat. She feels nauseated and sick and smells death around her, and she just wants to close her eyes and sleep. Sleep forever. Sleep so that she doesn’t have to open her eyes to see the mess that is her life.
Fill! (6/?)
anonymous
October 11 2010, 14:05:02 UTC
Her cell phone on the coffee table leaps into an annoying poppy tune. Harry grabs it and plans to hurl it against the wall, but stops when she sees the “Restricted” flashing on the screen.
Harry presses ‘ignore call.’ Done.
However, whoever calling is annoyingly insistent, because within a few seconds after she settles the phone on the table, it starts ringing again.
Harry ignores the caller again, slightly irritated because she is absolutely not in the mood for this right now. Rachel is probably calling from a different phone because she knows Harry wouldn’t answer if she calls from her own. Smart, but unfortunately, it’s not enough if Harry refuses to receive all calls.
She doesn’t think she could stand it if Rachel gives her that disappointed tone. Worse, she could pity her.
Oh well, Rachel is more Clara’s friend than hers anyway.
The phone rings again. Harry ignores.
However, when the phone rings for the fourth time, her annoyance is replaced by a tinge of worry. This is definitely not Rachel or anyone else she knows, who would stop after the second failed call with a voice message.
The third, she could let pass. But there is something about a fourth try that brings chill up her spine. The word “restricted” haunts her as she contemplates whether or not to answer. Then a thought strikes her: what if John is calling?
But then she quickly dismisses this because John never calls. He texts, yes, but never calls.
With much trepidation, Harry presses the call button, but quickly ends the call before the person on the other side has a chance to speak. Taking a deep breath, she places her phone gingerly on the table. Swallowing down guilt and anxiety, she waits nervously for it to ring again.
It doesn’t.
The world goes quiet. The shadow on the wall stops moving. The siren outside stops. There is no drunken shouting.
Silence. So still that she could hear the frantic beating of her heart.
Harry jumps as the motel phone by the lamp gives a shrill scream that echoes throughout the empty walls. Wrapping her arms tighter around herself for comfort, she snuggles deeper into the couch, ignoring the disgusting sour smell. The phone persists screaming, its voice jarring her nerves. It might sound ridiculous, but she feels afraid of whatever is waiting for her on the other side of the phone; a deep carnal survival instinct within her can sense the imminent danger that would befall her should she answer that call.
Harry watches the phone intently, as if it would jump up and physically attack her. After a while though, it stops.
The room falls back into silence.
Suddenly, there is a knock at the door.
Harry shivers, curling tighter within herself. The knocking becomes more demanding, threatening to rip the door from its hinges. She slips her hands up to cover her ears, burying her face in her knees.
No, please don’t.
And then the knocking stops.
Harry glances up from her knees, peeking toward the door. It is gone, whatever it is. The room becomes quiet and empty once more. Slowly, she pries herself away from the couch and steps hesitantly toward the door. Shivering as she places one hand against the cold wood, Harry peeks through the peephole.
There is a pizza man outside. He knocks again; the sound of his hand against the door is almost gentle.
She opens the door.
“Hello,” the pizza man says, his words coming out in white puffs in the chilly air. He lifts up the box in his hand, “This will be £ 11.00.”
Harry stares. “I didn’t order pizza.”
The man frowns, “But we’ve received an order from this address.”
“I’m sorry, but you’ve made a mistake. I didn’t order any pizza,” Harry crosses her arms to keep in some warmth when the wind blows again.
The man looks anxious. “Miss, please. I’ve already gotten in trouble with my boss today, and if I bring this back I would have to pay it myself.” Harry wants to say, “So what? It’s not my problem,” but then the pizza man rambles on, “My wife left me and I have three kids and we’re on a tight budget this month and I really can’t afford to lose any more money….”
Fill! (7/?)
anonymous
October 11 2010, 14:07:17 UTC
“Alright, alright,” Harry stops him in mid-tirade, fumbling for the wallet in her pocket and produces a few notes, “Here.”
“Thank you so much, miss!” When Harry walks back into the house, the man stops her. “Wait, miss, aren’t you going to take the pizza?”
“I didn’t order it,” Harry replies curtly, but the man insists. “But you’ve paid for it. Besides, I really want you to have it since you’ve really helped me out.”
Heaving a sigh, she takes the pizza box. “Thanks.”
“Thank you!” the man waves as he walks down the hallway and disappears out of sight. Closing the door and locking it behind her, she opens the pizza box…
…to find an iPhone waiting patiently for her.
Harry almost drops the box in shock, jumping away from the door as if burned.
And then it starts to ring.
There is no way out of this, Harry knows. This person knows where she is, and if she struggles, she doubts that things will end very well for her. She tries to calm herself, slowing down her ragged breaths because panic solves nothing. Mustering the courage she thought she had lost, Harry picks up the phone, slides her finger to unlock, and answer it.
“Hello?"
“Hello, Miss Harriet Watson!” A manly but too-cheerful voice replies. “This is Jim. Oh! Would you like to call you “Harry” instead?”
“I don’t know any Jim,” Harry says. “What do you want from me? Why are you doing this?”
“Don’t worry, not many people know me either, so you’re not alone. You know, all of this unpleasantness could have been avoided if you would have picked up your phone,” the man says sadly, but his melancholy sounds artificial, like the fake cherry on a cheap cake. “What would you like me to refer to you as? Harriet or Harry?”
“Harriet is fine,” she grits out. “What do you want from me?”
“My goodness, you’re so hostile when I haven’t done anything to you yet! Well, Harriet, I called you because I’ve read your very interesting article on the underground world beneath the British government.”
“What about it?”
“As you may or may not have deduced, I’m a well connected man,” the voice chuckles. “A well-connected business man, to be exact. I have been doing well for awhile, until someone powerful starts meddling in my affairs. I’ve been trying to trace him down, but even with numerous resources at my disposal, I could not find him. It isn’t as if this man hides in the shadow, he is the shadow. I was at a loss, until I read your article.”
A well-connected businessman. Probably suspected of criminal activity. “So you think this mystery person that foils your plan is in the British government?”
Harry could feel the smile on the other side of the phone. “No, Miss Harriet. I suspect that he is the British government.”
Harry takes a deep breath, instantly intrigued with the mystery. “So, what do you want from me? I imagine that you don’t need me if you have so many resources in your hands.”
“As I have stated, even with all of my powers, I could not find him. Yet you, even with your limited resources, manage to discover so much about this mystery man. I want to employ your help.”
“I see,” Harry says slowly. “What do I get out of this?”
“I’m a well-connected man. I could get you anything you want: A home, your career back, your girlfriend back…anything.”
Fill! (8/?)
anonymous
October 11 2010, 14:09:18 UTC
Harry’s breath hitches. She wants her old life back so badly more than anything. She wants to end this loneliness, this emptiness. She wants herself to be whole again.
“So, what will it be, Miss Harriet?”
“I want you to find my brother,” Harry is gripping the phone so tightly that she is afraid it might break, “in return for my help.”
“Excellent, Miss Harriet! I will send out my people right away.”
“Jim, correct?”
“That’s right. Is there anything else, Miss Harriet?”
“Don’t make me regret this decision.”
The man guffaws, the high note scratches her ears painfully. “Oh, how delightful that you of all people would threaten me.”
“I mean it, Jim.”
“I understand,” the man recovers quickly. “I will send you some information and resources tomorrow, so you could begin right away. Goodnight, Miss Harriet.” He hangs up before Harry could reply.
She sits on the stale sofa, placing the pizza box and the phone on the coffee table. For the first time since a long time, she feels an excitement that isn’t created by the burning of alcohol.
*****
The light of the phone dies out as the man ends the call, the only illumination in the room is the mosaic city light outside his open window. He swivels his chair to face his companion, another faint outline of shadow in the dark.
“And Harriet Watson is under my hands.”
The other man, still in his pizza-delivery man costume, replies. “I’ll have surveillance after her right away.”
“Excellent,” the man smiles.
“Do you really intend to employ Harriet Watson’s help?” his companion asks curiously.
“Of course not,” the man answers. “What I really want from her will come walking into my hands.”
“You think that John Watson will return to see his sister.”
“Of course,” the man grins, showing all of his teeth. “I’ve made sure that Harriet Watson’s scuffles with the local police are national news. Wherever John Watson is, he is bound to come back to make sure his sister is doing fine, and when he does…”
The man rises from his chair and walks toward his window. Pressing his hands on the ledge, he looks down at the sight of London, the city of a nation that will soon be his.
Fill! (9/?)
anonymous
October 17 2010, 06:34:34 UTC
John Watson takes another sip of coffee, wincing slightly at the taste. He prefers breakfast tea (decaffeinated as his former therapist suggested) over a morning reading of the news from his laptop, but the strong coffee keeps him alert. Besides, having a laptop out slows his reaction time, and should there be a crisis, he has to abandon it rather than waste any precious escape time putting it away.
He had spent all of the past few days tracking down Harry, and his body is begging for rest. Luckily the coffee tenses his every blood vessels and muscles fibre with caffeine-induced energy, reminding him of cold nights' instant coffee from the ORP.
John is sitting in a nice outdoor coffee shop exactly five blocks from his temporary apartment. Two small trees shade a veranda of evenly spaced tables, just enough for the sunlight to filter through the leaves and dance on the floor in bright circles. All around, undergrad students from the nearby college brandish their laptops and heavy textbooks and course readers, their head hunching over their essays and biodegradable coffee cups. Older people, who he assumes to be GSIs or professors or just random locals living in this area, are equally occupied, either with work or conversation. John with his plain loose jumper over a collared shirt fits in perfectly in this environment.
It is a nice place indeed, but he has been making a habit of coming here every other morning, sometimes even in the evenings. An established routine in one particular place is dangerous. He needs to move on. He has Harry to find.
Taking another deep breath of fresh air, John shifts the newspaper he is pretending to read so that he could glimpse the streets. The café is conveniently located on the intersection of two streets, and John has situated himself in a chair that not only has the perfect view of the two but also in alignment with three possible escape routes.
He sees nothing unusual so far. It appears that this morning will be another peaceful one. Just in case something happens though, John has a light backpack with the basic necessities by his side, and the little unsubstantial possessions in his apartment could be abandoned. His cane rests against the leg of his chair.
John pats the left side of his chest, feeling the metallic cross in his breast pocket presses against his skin. Good. It is still there. Next, he pretends to brush something off his loose jumper, only to feel for the familiar shape of his hand gun. Check. He resumes his newspaper-skimming and street watching.
The cross burns against his chest. John is on the run because of this, is risking his life to protect this. Mike Stamford, with his last gasping breaths, gave this cross to John with his shaking, bloodied hands, begging John to let no one sees its content. And now Mike Stamford lies underneath the sands of Afghan desert while John struggles to keep the promise, not completely understanding what he has gotten himself into.
John does not remember what it feels like not to be on the run. He does not remember what normality feels like. He came back from Afghanistan expecting the constant drone of an ordinary civilian life, but instead he finds another war--another battle for survival.
Deciding that it is no time to dwell over the past, especially when it is quite dangerous to be distracted by his own thoughts in such a public place, John grabs his things and rises to limp slowly toward the counter.
“Good morning,” the barista greets him. She is much friendlier than her coworker who gave John his coffee this morning. Since she always has this late shift and John routinely get a small snack before he leaves, they bump into each other often.
“I’ll have the usual please,” John says and the girl beams. “Of course.”
“How are classes this week?” she asks as she puts the bagel in a small brown paper bag.
“I’m sorry?”
“How are your classes going? You teach at the university, right?” The barista gives him an encouraging smile.
Fill! (10/?)
anonymous
October 17 2010, 06:39:40 UTC
Neither refuting nor affirming this claim, John chuckles, “How do you know that?” He is certain that conversations with this girl never go beyond the occasional morning greetings, so he has never hints of any personal information to her.
“I traded an afternoon shift with a friend yesterday when a student of yours came looking for you,” she explains.
John has no students. He is not even a professor, far from it. John tries to stone his face into a frown of confusion rather than an expression of anxiety. “Oh? Do you remember what he looks like?”
“Oh, of course,” she says enthusiastically, a faint flush climbing up her cheeks. “He’s quite tall with dark curly hair and grey eyes and has on the most dashing long gray coat and blue scarf. He said that he couldn’t make it to office hours and wanted to meet you here instead, since the whole class knows you frequent this place.”
John lifts his eyebrows, schooling his face into what he hopes is an expression of a professor who is attempting to recall a face among a thousand that he sees every day, and then slowly letting his expression falls in disappointment. “Hmmm, I’m afraid I can’t recall who he could be. Did he leave you his name?”
“Ummm, no. I’m sorry,” she bites her lips apologetically, and John wonders if the stranger didn’t tell her or if she was too distracted by his probably impressive presence.
“I really can’t remember who he is. Perhaps he had mistaken me for somebody else.”
“Oh, but he describes your clothing perfectly!” The barista exclaims. “He even mentions your limp and the specific color of your cane.”
John swallows.
Misreading the meaning of John’s reaction, she adds quickly. “But don’t worry. I told him that if he comes back this morning, he might bump into you.”
John’s eyes flicker to the open door by instinct, the hidden hand gun suddenly feels much heavier than before. Turning back to the barista, he swallows the rising panic and manages to give her a smile. “I-I have to go right now since I’m running a bit late. Could you please tell the young man, if he comes by later, that I will meet with him tomorrow should he still need me?” He glances at his wrist watch.
“Sure” is all John hears before he walks toward the door, the pain in his leg fading away as adrenaline thrums in his veins. “Wait, you forgot your bagel?”
“I’m sorry, but I’m really late,” John replies hastily, not bothering to look back. As he reaches the street, he contemplates just abandoning his cane and rushes away from this place as fast as possible.
Someone found him. John doesn’t recognize the vague description of the stranger, but it doesn’t even matter because someone has found him when he is trying to hide. He silently scolds himself for not being more careful.
One false move and he could fail.
He should have known that it is a mistake to return to this city so soon. He should have known that it is a mistake to routinely go to this café. It is too dangerous. Whoever is hunting him down knows everything, controls everything, so one wrong move will cost John his life.
John knows that he has to leave now. Hopefully, he has enough time to get out of London before it is too late. God-knows how much that is.
Turning at a corner, he lifts his cane and stuffs it quickly in the side-slot of his backpack, casually strolling down the next street. He barely makes it that far when a man in a long gray coat blocks his path.
“Hello,” the stranger says as John cranes his head to peer at gleaming grey eyes on an angular face framed by a set of curly dark hair. “We’ve meet again.”
Was.
She chuckles bitterly before taking another sip of her whiskey, letting the burn of alcohol and the stinging of the ice numb the chaos within her mind.
That is the key word: was. She had everything too: an amazing job, friends, reputation, and a home. Most of all, she had John and Clara. They were her world.
Were.
Harry tightens her grip around the cool glass, resisting the urge to smash the thing against the wall. She had everything. EVERYTHING. She and Clara were about to adopt a child. They were about to buy a newer house in light of their life improvements. Her brother was coming back soon from Afghanistan. Their friends were great. Their house was great. Life was great. They even planned to adopt one of those animals at the shelter.
For the first time in her life, Harry found a home. A true one, a place where she belonged. Not the home of her alcoholic father and drug-addict mother. Not the home where both she and John wore bruises for days if they cross their parents in a bad moment. A home, so real that Harry could not bring herself to sleep at night in fear that it might disappear when she closed her eyes.
But now, all she wanted to do was to go to sleep. Sleep forever. Sleep so that she doesn’t have to open her eyes to see the mess that is her life.
Harry curled within herself and snuggles deeper into the stale sofa as the wind from the open window runs goose bumps up her arm. The room reeks of cigarettes and it is bloody freezing, but Harry keeps the window open. The only light in the room is the lamp on the bedside table, washing over everything with an eerie orange glow. Harry drains the bottom of her glass while flickering shadows that stretches from one wall to the other dance above her head. The cigarette smell stings her nose and Harry resists the urge to vomit at the memory of her broken childhood home that it provokes.
Outside, the sound of police siren echoes throughout the city. There is the distant shouting of the local drunks getting into a fight.
Harry doesn’t know what she had done to deserve this. Her career was going great, and she was working on a mind-breaking story that would electrify all of Britain. Possibly even the world. A conspiracy. A mystery underneath the British government. John had come back from Afghanistan with more than a limp and many scars. He had a story. Things he found out while in service.
They worked together in an attempt to find the truth.
People had warned them that they were in danger for prying into something so old, so deeply entrenched in Britain, so powerful that all the world would fall onto its knees at the sight. But Harry had a great life and a great career and she didn’t fear anything.
It would have changed how the world sees its governments.
But an invisible hand came and took away everything.
It doesn’t matter anymore. She has nothing now, nothing but this bottle of whiskey and a little money that she is wasting on this cheap motel room and alcohol. Nothing but a bit of clothes on her body. No home. No John. No Clara. No career.
The worst of it is that John disappeared, leaving behind his apartment intact all of his belongings. Disappeared off the earth. The police came to her door with empty hands and shakes of their heads. After that, her life began to crumble into pieces.
She has nothing. She is nothing.
Nothing.
Suddenly, her stomach spins and Harry barely manage to move herself before she vomits the entire content of her guts onto the floor. It is freezing, so freezing and lonely and hollow, so much so that her body breaks into cold sweat. She feels nauseated and sick and smells death around her, and she just wants to close her eyes and sleep. Sleep forever. Sleep so that she doesn’t have to open her eyes to see the mess that is her life.
Reply
Harry presses ‘ignore call.’ Done.
However, whoever calling is annoyingly insistent, because within a few seconds after she settles the phone on the table, it starts ringing again.
Harry ignores the caller again, slightly irritated because she is absolutely not in the mood for this right now. Rachel is probably calling from a different phone because she knows Harry wouldn’t answer if she calls from her own. Smart, but unfortunately, it’s not enough if Harry refuses to receive all calls.
She doesn’t think she could stand it if Rachel gives her that disappointed tone. Worse, she could pity her.
Oh well, Rachel is more Clara’s friend than hers anyway.
The phone rings again. Harry ignores.
However, when the phone rings for the fourth time, her annoyance is replaced by a tinge of worry. This is definitely not Rachel or anyone else she knows, who would stop after the second failed call with a voice message.
The third, she could let pass. But there is something about a fourth try that brings chill up her spine. The word “restricted” haunts her as she contemplates whether or not to answer. Then a thought strikes her: what if John is calling?
But then she quickly dismisses this because John never calls. He texts, yes, but never calls.
With much trepidation, Harry presses the call button, but quickly ends the call before the person on the other side has a chance to speak. Taking a deep breath, she places her phone gingerly on the table. Swallowing down guilt and anxiety, she waits nervously for it to ring again.
It doesn’t.
The world goes quiet. The shadow on the wall stops moving. The siren outside stops. There is no drunken shouting.
Silence. So still that she could hear the frantic beating of her heart.
Harry jumps as the motel phone by the lamp gives a shrill scream that echoes throughout the empty walls. Wrapping her arms tighter around herself for comfort, she snuggles deeper into the couch, ignoring the disgusting sour smell. The phone persists screaming, its voice jarring her nerves. It might sound ridiculous, but she feels afraid of whatever is waiting for her on the other side of the phone; a deep carnal survival instinct within her can sense the imminent danger that would befall her should she answer that call.
Harry watches the phone intently, as if it would jump up and physically attack her. After a while though, it stops.
The room falls back into silence.
Suddenly, there is a knock at the door.
Harry shivers, curling tighter within herself. The knocking becomes more demanding, threatening to rip the door from its hinges. She slips her hands up to cover her ears, burying her face in her knees.
No, please don’t.
And then the knocking stops.
Harry glances up from her knees, peeking toward the door. It is gone, whatever it is. The room becomes quiet and empty once more. Slowly, she pries herself away from the couch and steps hesitantly toward the door. Shivering as she places one hand against the cold wood, Harry peeks through the peephole.
There is a pizza man outside. He knocks again; the sound of his hand against the door is almost gentle.
She opens the door.
“Hello,” the pizza man says, his words coming out in white puffs in the chilly air. He lifts up the box in his hand, “This will be £ 11.00.”
Harry stares. “I didn’t order pizza.”
The man frowns, “But we’ve received an order from this address.”
“I’m sorry, but you’ve made a mistake. I didn’t order any pizza,” Harry crosses her arms to keep in some warmth when the wind blows again.
The man looks anxious. “Miss, please. I’ve already gotten in trouble with my boss today, and if I bring this back I would have to pay it myself.”
Harry wants to say, “So what? It’s not my problem,” but then the pizza man rambles on, “My wife left me and I have three kids and we’re on a tight budget this month and I really can’t afford to lose any more money….”
Reply
“Thank you so much, miss!” When Harry walks back into the house, the man stops her. “Wait, miss, aren’t you going to take the pizza?”
“I didn’t order it,” Harry replies curtly, but the man insists. “But you’ve paid for it. Besides, I really want you to have it since you’ve really helped me out.”
Heaving a sigh, she takes the pizza box. “Thanks.”
“Thank you!” the man waves as he walks down the hallway and disappears out of sight. Closing the door and locking it behind her, she opens the pizza box…
…to find an iPhone waiting patiently for her.
Harry almost drops the box in shock, jumping away from the door as if burned.
And then it starts to ring.
There is no way out of this, Harry knows. This person knows where she is, and if she struggles, she doubts that things will end very well for her. She tries to calm herself, slowing down her ragged breaths because panic solves nothing. Mustering the courage she thought she had lost, Harry picks up the phone, slides her finger to unlock, and answer it.
“Hello?"
“Hello, Miss Harriet Watson!” A manly but too-cheerful voice replies. “This is Jim. Oh! Would you like to call you “Harry” instead?”
“I don’t know any Jim,” Harry says. “What do you want from me? Why are you doing this?”
“Don’t worry, not many people know me either, so you’re not alone. You know, all of this unpleasantness could have been avoided if you would have picked up your phone,” the man says sadly, but his melancholy sounds artificial, like the fake cherry on a cheap cake. “What would you like me to refer to you as? Harriet or Harry?”
“Harriet is fine,” she grits out. “What do you want from me?”
“My goodness, you’re so hostile when I haven’t done anything to you yet! Well, Harriet, I called you because I’ve read your very interesting article on the underground world beneath the British government.”
“What about it?”
“As you may or may not have deduced, I’m a well connected man,” the voice chuckles. “A well-connected business man, to be exact. I have been doing well for awhile, until someone powerful starts meddling in my affairs. I’ve been trying to trace him down, but even with numerous resources at my disposal, I could not find him. It isn’t as if this man hides in the shadow, he is the shadow. I was at a loss, until I read your article.”
A well-connected businessman. Probably suspected of criminal activity. “So you think this mystery person that foils your plan is in the British government?”
Harry could feel the smile on the other side of the phone. “No, Miss Harriet. I suspect that he is the British government.”
Harry takes a deep breath, instantly intrigued with the mystery. “So, what do you want from me? I imagine that you don’t need me if you have so many resources in your hands.”
“As I have stated, even with all of my powers, I could not find him. Yet you, even with your limited resources, manage to discover so much about this mystery man. I want to employ your help.”
“I see,” Harry says slowly. “What do I get out of this?”
“I’m a well-connected man. I could get you anything you want: A home, your career back, your girlfriend back…anything.”
Reply
“So, what will it be, Miss Harriet?”
“I want you to find my brother,” Harry is gripping the phone so tightly that she is afraid it might break, “in return for my help.”
“Excellent, Miss Harriet! I will send out my people right away.”
“Jim, correct?”
“That’s right. Is there anything else, Miss Harriet?”
“Don’t make me regret this decision.”
The man guffaws, the high note scratches her ears painfully. “Oh, how delightful that you of all people would threaten me.”
“I mean it, Jim.”
“I understand,” the man recovers quickly. “I will send you some information and resources tomorrow, so you could begin right away. Goodnight, Miss Harriet.” He hangs up before Harry could reply.
She sits on the stale sofa, placing the pizza box and the phone on the coffee table. For the first time since a long time, she feels an excitement that isn’t created by the burning of alcohol.
*****
The light of the phone dies out as the man ends the call, the only illumination in the room is the mosaic city light outside his open window. He swivels his chair to face his companion, another faint outline of shadow in the dark.
“And Harriet Watson is under my hands.”
The other man, still in his pizza-delivery man costume, replies. “I’ll have surveillance after her right away.”
“Excellent,” the man smiles.
“Do you really intend to employ Harriet Watson’s help?” his companion asks curiously.
“Of course not,” the man answers. “What I really want from her will come walking into my hands.”
“You think that John Watson will return to see his sister.”
“Of course,” the man grins, showing all of his teeth. “I’ve made sure that Harriet Watson’s scuffles with the local police are national news. Wherever John Watson is, he is bound to come back to make sure his sister is doing fine, and when he does…”
The man rises from his chair and walks toward his window. Pressing his hands on the ledge, he looks down at the sight of London, the city of a nation that will soon be his.
“I’ll be waiting.”
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...why is everyone looking for John?
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And all will be revealed...eventually. =D
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this mycroft!
this sherlock!!!
and you have them all, lestrade, sally, JIM!!! JOHN!!! HARRIET!!!
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He had spent all of the past few days tracking down Harry, and his body is begging for rest. Luckily the coffee tenses his every blood vessels and muscles fibre with caffeine-induced energy, reminding him of cold nights' instant coffee from the ORP.
John is sitting in a nice outdoor coffee shop exactly five blocks from his temporary apartment. Two small trees shade a veranda of evenly spaced tables, just enough for the sunlight to filter through the leaves and dance on the floor in bright circles. All around, undergrad students from the nearby college brandish their laptops and heavy textbooks and course readers, their head hunching over their essays and biodegradable coffee cups. Older people, who he assumes to be GSIs or professors or just random locals living in this area, are equally occupied, either with work or conversation. John with his plain loose jumper over a collared shirt fits in perfectly in this environment.
It is a nice place indeed, but he has been making a habit of coming here every other morning, sometimes even in the evenings. An established routine in one particular place is dangerous. He needs to move on. He has Harry to find.
Taking another deep breath of fresh air, John shifts the newspaper he is pretending to read so that he could glimpse the streets. The café is conveniently located on the intersection of two streets, and John has situated himself in a chair that not only has the perfect view of the two but also in alignment with three possible escape routes.
He sees nothing unusual so far. It appears that this morning will be another peaceful one. Just in case something happens though, John has a light backpack with the basic necessities by his side, and the little unsubstantial possessions in his apartment could be abandoned. His cane rests against the leg of his chair.
John pats the left side of his chest, feeling the metallic cross in his breast pocket presses against his skin. Good. It is still there. Next, he pretends to brush something off his loose jumper, only to feel for the familiar shape of his hand gun. Check. He resumes his newspaper-skimming and street watching.
The cross burns against his chest. John is on the run because of this, is risking his life to protect this. Mike Stamford, with his last gasping breaths, gave this cross to John with his shaking, bloodied hands, begging John to let no one sees its content. And now Mike Stamford lies underneath the sands of Afghan desert while John struggles to keep the promise, not completely understanding what he has gotten himself into.
John does not remember what it feels like not to be on the run. He does not remember what normality feels like. He came back from Afghanistan expecting the constant drone of an ordinary civilian life, but instead he finds another war--another battle for survival.
Deciding that it is no time to dwell over the past, especially when it is quite dangerous to be distracted by his own thoughts in such a public place, John grabs his things and rises to limp slowly toward the counter.
“Good morning,” the barista greets him. She is much friendlier than her coworker who gave John his coffee this morning. Since she always has this late shift and John routinely get a small snack before he leaves, they bump into each other often.
“I’ll have the usual please,” John says and the girl beams. “Of course.”
“How are classes this week?” she asks as she puts the bagel in a small brown paper bag.
“I’m sorry?”
“How are your classes going? You teach at the university, right?” The barista gives him an encouraging smile.
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“I traded an afternoon shift with a friend yesterday when a student of yours came looking for you,” she explains.
John has no students. He is not even a professor, far from it. John tries to stone his face into a frown of confusion rather than an expression of anxiety. “Oh? Do you remember what he looks like?”
“Oh, of course,” she says enthusiastically, a faint flush climbing up her cheeks. “He’s quite tall with dark curly hair and grey eyes and has on the most dashing long gray coat and blue scarf. He said that he couldn’t make it to office hours and wanted to meet you here instead, since the whole class knows you frequent this place.”
John lifts his eyebrows, schooling his face into what he hopes is an expression of a professor who is attempting to recall a face among a thousand that he sees every day, and then slowly letting his expression falls in disappointment. “Hmmm, I’m afraid I can’t recall who he could be. Did he leave you his name?”
“Ummm, no. I’m sorry,” she bites her lips apologetically, and John wonders if the stranger didn’t tell her or if she was too distracted by his probably impressive presence.
“I really can’t remember who he is. Perhaps he had mistaken me for somebody else.”
“Oh, but he describes your clothing perfectly!” The barista exclaims. “He even mentions your limp and the specific color of your cane.”
John swallows.
Misreading the meaning of John’s reaction, she adds quickly. “But don’t worry. I told him that if he comes back this morning, he might bump into you.”
John’s eyes flicker to the open door by instinct, the hidden hand gun suddenly feels much heavier than before. Turning back to the barista, he swallows the rising panic and manages to give her a smile. “I-I have to go right now since I’m running a bit late. Could you please tell the young man, if he comes by later, that I will meet with him tomorrow should he still need me?” He glances at his wrist watch.
“Sure” is all John hears before he walks toward the door, the pain in his leg fading away as adrenaline thrums in his veins. “Wait, you forgot your bagel?”
“I’m sorry, but I’m really late,” John replies hastily, not bothering to look back. As he reaches the street, he contemplates just abandoning his cane and rushes away from this place as fast as possible.
Someone found him. John doesn’t recognize the vague description of the stranger, but it doesn’t even matter because someone has found him when he is trying to hide. He silently scolds himself for not being more careful.
One false move and he could fail.
He should have known that it is a mistake to return to this city so soon. He should have known that it is a mistake to routinely go to this café. It is too dangerous. Whoever is hunting him down knows everything, controls everything, so one wrong move will cost John his life.
John knows that he has to leave now. Hopefully, he has enough time to get out of London before it is too late. God-knows how much that is.
Turning at a corner, he lifts his cane and stuffs it quickly in the side-slot of his backpack, casually strolling down the next street. He barely makes it that far when a man in a long gray coat blocks his path.
“Hello,” the stranger says as John cranes his head to peer at gleaming grey eyes on an angular face framed by a set of curly dark hair. “We’ve meet again.”
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/freaks out
this is just delicious.
They meet agaaaaain.
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finally!!!
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