A Child's Entertainment 2 of 7
A Child's Entertainment
Rating: PG
Chapter: 2 of 7
Summary: A trip to London entails: a bus tour, snarling about said bus tour, a giant ferris wheel, a scavenger hunt, a doctor, a consultant detective, and a deranged psychopath. Peregrine and Darren know how to take a vacation.
Disclaimer: While Perry and Darren are native residents of my head and the Falconry therein contained, Sherlock and all related characters are merely visitors... Y'know... when they bother to show up.
Bad Dreams Are Made of This
Nothing was missing, but someone had been there. Nothing was moved. But damn it, someone had been in the hotel room. That was obvious to him. So, something must have been moved. Why couldn’t he bloody see what?
Peregrine swore and paced the length of the room, pausing in front of his own luggage, shaking his head and then moving on and pausing in front of Darren’s.
He kicked the bag and fell back on his bed. Nothing was right. Not a single bloody thing. Where the hell was Darren anyway? Why was this even happening. He couldn’t wrap his brain around it. They had enemies sure, but not here.
Not that he knew of.
A phone rang, interrupting his thoughts, not the hotel phone. He pushed up from the bed. Where?
It rang again, under the covers of the other bed. All he could do was scramble across the room, pulling up the covers and reaching for it. Unknown number, on an unknown mobile. In his own bloody hotel room. This was what was different, the pillow hadn’t been propped up. Damn it all. He hit call and was met with a click.
What the bloody hell?
He furrowed his brow, looking the phone over. Nothing immediately visible to make it distinct. One text message on the phone. He tapped it. Honestly, what other choice did he have?
Claw: I hoped for better, but you will do. Try to keep things more interesting.
What the hell? He couldn’t even begin to process that enough to bother wondering about the name.
That was all he could manage. Seriously. What the hell?
Attached was a picture of Darren, unconscious and blindfolded, blood seeped through the cloth, leaving the white stained a brownish red in places. He tossed the phone, taking some effort at least in his tantrum, and throwing it into the pillow instead of against a wall.
This was the one clue, the one bloody clue he had. He wasn’t an idiot. Or... that much of one.
He headed for the bathroom, grabbing one of the hotel cups and filling it from the tap. His own forehead sported an impressive bump, but no blood. With no regards to the protest from said bump, he let his head fall against the glass.
He couldn’t think, couldn’t focus without Darren, without something. God. He chugged the water and headed back to the bed. After collapsing onto it once more he snatched the phone back up and looked through it, all through it, settings and everything.
The Welcome message of all things, read: “Police here are so dull, are you any less?”
Suddenly, he decided that maybe, just maybe, it was a good thing he’d not called the police before he’d figured out what was different about the room.
He went back to the text message and the picture. No police, but he didn’t know this area. Could he possibly pick up any clues on location?
He had to try.
Nothing in the photo stood out. Natural light came in from a window that couldn’t be seen in the picture, but not much. While he’d still been out on the street then.
How long had he been out? A few hours? From a hit on the head. Unreliable. Drugged too, maybe? He’d not noticed, but maybe. It seemed possible. Did it tell him anything? Not really.
Damnit. Darren needed him to focus, not sidetrack himself. He hit reply on the text.
Gadget: What the hell is this about?
He blinked at that name. What the hell?
Claw: What do you think? Me, I’m beginning to think you should have been the goal and your partner the player.
A game? What the hell. Was this seriously all a game? No other messages followed the first, and he didn’t dare send another, instead resuming his search of the phone content.
Somewhere in this he fell asleep, or passed out again from the probable concussion, which didn’t really matter to him, though others probably would have been more concerned. All he knew was light was slipping through the cracks in the curtains when another text chime tore him to alertness.
Oh hell, what was wrong with him? He checked the phone.
Claw: The rules are simple. Follow the clues, and there are rewards. Fail, and there are consequences.
Attached was another picture. Darren again, or the top of his head, no more, the hair was obvious, if only at the bottom of the picture with the focus on the window and outside. An Underground station was slightly visible, though which one he couldn’t be sure.
He furrowed his brow. This game seemed wretchedly cruel, but, all things considered, he couldn’t be surprised.
Huh? Did this bloody device have Internet? He checked the browser, no harm to that, at least he hoped not.
Several searches later, he had a few possible places to check. It was all he could manage though. He grabbed money from his suitcase and headed out. He’d thought of changing rooms, but really. Why bother? They already had Darren and this left opening if they decided to leave something else.
Not that this was necessarily a good thing, but he did not even care right now. All that mattered was finding where that picture was taken.
----------
There were certain things you never want to open your eyes to. Gauze pressed against them so tight they could barely open was one of those. Darren groaned, his first instinct to try to pull the stuff from his face, but he quickly discovered his arms were tied behind him.
All of this met with no response from...whoever had left him like this. “Peregrine?”
Nothing, but he could swear there was someone else there, footsteps proclaimed that much, moving nearer and then further away, but always close. “Who’s there?”
Again he met no response. Hey, if they weren’t going to interrupt him, he could at least focus on trying to get his arms free.
How did one do that again? What? Rope untying had not been covered in his last refresher for being a Detective.
He worked at the rope, listening. Some traffic, probably outside compared to this inside. Wherever it was.
He paused at a camera click, the sound causing him to go stiff with caution. “Hello?”
Nothing except more footsteps, coming closer this time. “We’re moving.”
Words! “Wha?”
“Listen carefully,” the voice grew closer, close enough that he was quite certain the source was right next to his ear now, crouching or kneeling as he spoke. “You run, your friend gets shot. Game’s up. Plain and simple.”
“Game. What?”
Whoever this was twisted their fingers into his hair and pulled his head back by it. “Not my game. I don’t care about it. I just get to hurt you if you cause any trouble. Got it?”
Darren bit his lip at the whole hair pulling thing. Really? This guy didn’t sound like a teenage girl. “Got it. And to shoot my friend?”
“Nope. That’s someone else.” The man pulled him to his feet by his bonds with enough force to twist his arm painfully. “If we don’t both make it into the car... I think you get my point.”
“Right, yeah. I've got it,” Darren replied, voicing the words slowly as he tried to process this.
Of course, as soon as his arms were untied and the blindfold removed, he bolted for the door. The locked door.
And his captor was right behind him, shouldering him against it hard enough to wind him and landing a blow against his spine that caused his legs to buckle.
“Do you want to spend the rest of your life in a wheelchair?” He didn’t need the warning of what that could lead to, but apparently now that he was talking, this guy felt like he should say every little thing that came to mind.
Darren resisted an eye roll and just shook his head.
“Good. Then walk. Slowly, and with me, and cut the funny business.”
“I thought it would get my friend shot,” he replied dryly.
The man growled, pulling him back and twisting his arm around. Hard. “Only if you get away. But don’t worry, these little stunts won't be lost on him either.”
He didn’t understand what this was about. They had to have Peregrine too. He’d seen this guy come out of nowhere between them and down the boy first. So, why separate them like this? What was the whole ‘game’ thing about anyway?
So many questions, and all he could do was follow complacently. At least for now. Until he had some clue what was going on.
He was shoved none-too-gently into the back seat of the car before his loving companion pushed in after him, shutting the door. As soon as it was moving, the man pulled out the blindfold again.
“I don’t see why I need that.”
“Shut up.”
“But-” Crack! Everything flashed as pain lanced through his head. Elbow. Temple. Ow. He’d been hit there already, hadn’t he? And again. Ow!
It had the desired effect, though. He didn’t fight the blindfold after that. He just let himself go limp when the man pushed him to the side after the fact. He hated, hated the thought of Peregrine dealing with the same treatment somewhere.
Or that he might be making it worse.
It was a wretched enough thought that he cut the backtalk. He saw no choice.
But really. Whoever these people were. Would it really matter in the end?
----------
It had occurred to Peregrine that he was giving whoever was toying with him the means to track him when he ran out of the hotel with the planted phone. It had even come to mind that maybe, just maybe, this was a rather lousy idea.
Of course, he'd passed the point of caring about the quality of his ideas concerning his own
safety. Only figuring out where they had Darren and bringing him back safely mattered.
So he'd made his way through the Underground, from one stop to another. He'd skipped the first possible station quickly. The wrongness of it turned turned him on his heels and sent him right back into the station before he’d even managed a full step outside.
He couldn't say why it was wrong, but why didn't matter. All that mattered was that it was wrong and the next stop took precedence. That one might be right.
The day was hellish. He didn't do well packed in with people in the best of times, with Darren there to help him relax. Much less now when he was hellishly worried and when dizziness tried to take over at random intervals.
He didn’t take a break though, not until he stepped out and it hit him that this was the bloody place. This was the station he’d been looking for. His eyes darted about. The window, where would the window be. He started toward one building, paused and shook his head before starting toward another.
That people must think him crazy neither occurred to nor fazed him.
Here! This was the one, he crouched down, looking in. A basement window. The place was empty, but damnit, he was certain it was the right one. As he headed for the door a text message chimed.
Claw: Oh, too slow. Perhaps you’ll waste less time now?
There was no bloody sign of Darren in the picture attached this time, just a park. A bloody park. What the hell?
He was about to check the browser but paused. The idiot tour guide had mentioned this one. He knew exactly where that was. He didn’t even need to go there. Should he anyway? One thing was confirmed though. He was being tracked through this bloody phone. Great.
Gadget: Regent’s Park.
He sent the text, trying to remember the easiest way to get there without bothering with a map. When he thought he had it, he crossed the street once more to head to the station.
Claw: He’s not there, you know.
Peregrine let out a snarl as his eyes darted about. It took far more effort than he cared to admit to resist throwing the phone again. What the hell? Was he being watched too? Not bloody comforting.
Claw: Do try to be less dramatic. We both know I could have you already.
All Peregrine could do at this was let out a breath.
Gadget: There another clue?
Claw: Tsk, tsk. You aren’t done with this one yet. The last was where. Do you really think I repeat myself?
He shouldn’t have, he knew he shouldn’t have, but some part of the whole infantile game had gotten on his last nerve.
Gadget: You just did.
He shoved the phone in his pocket and headed for the station. He still needed to go there if he wanted to figure out what ever else this bloody idiot could want.
He didn’t check the phone again until he was there. Another message with an attachment. Damnit, if he wasn’t getting another clue, that bloody well scared him.
He checked anyway though. Nothing written in the message, and the picture showed Darren, this time slumped in the backseat of a car, fresh blood dripping down his face. Peregrine leaned against a wall, forcing himself to keep looking at the picture, reflections, anything at all. It could give clues whether or not he was intended to have them.
The frustrating part of it all? There had been clues. Deliberately blurred out of the photo. Leaving him to hunt the park for something other than ‘where’.
He paused mid-step of his rather futile looking. Idiot! Idiot, bloody, damned, moron. Once more he pulled out the phone and looked more closely at the picture of the park this time, checking this one for reflections now, too.
There! The tour bus. Maybe not theirs, but it was meant to represent it. He was sure of it. Or at least he bloody well hoped so.
Gadget: 15:40, yesterday.
Another text popped up. It contained another clue picture, not one of Darren. He went slack with relief, pushing his fingers through his hair.
But he was pretty sure he’d only just begun his game of scavenger hunt with this deranged sociopath while his partner suffered for whatever mistakes he made.
Damn. It. All.
[ToC] [Next>
Rating: PG
Chapter: 2 of 7
Summary: A trip to London entails: a bus tour, snarling about said bus tour, a giant ferris wheel, a scavenger hunt, a doctor, a consultant detective, and a deranged psychopath. Peregrine and Darren know how to take a vacation.
Disclaimer: While Perry and Darren are native residents of my head and the Falconry therein contained, Sherlock and all related characters are merely visitors... Y'know... when they bother to show up.
Bad Dreams Are Made of This
Nothing was missing, but someone had been there. Nothing was moved. But damn it, someone had been in the hotel room. That was obvious to him. So, something must have been moved. Why couldn’t he bloody see what?
Peregrine swore and paced the length of the room, pausing in front of his own luggage, shaking his head and then moving on and pausing in front of Darren’s.
He kicked the bag and fell back on his bed. Nothing was right. Not a single bloody thing. Where the hell was Darren anyway? Why was this even happening. He couldn’t wrap his brain around it. They had enemies sure, but not here.
Not that he knew of.
A phone rang, interrupting his thoughts, not the hotel phone. He pushed up from the bed. Where?
It rang again, under the covers of the other bed. All he could do was scramble across the room, pulling up the covers and reaching for it. Unknown number, on an unknown mobile. In his own bloody hotel room. This was what was different, the pillow hadn’t been propped up. Damn it all. He hit call and was met with a click.
What the bloody hell?
He furrowed his brow, looking the phone over. Nothing immediately visible to make it distinct. One text message on the phone. He tapped it. Honestly, what other choice did he have?
Claw: I hoped for better, but you will do. Try to keep things more interesting.
What the hell? He couldn’t even begin to process that enough to bother wondering about the name.
That was all he could manage. Seriously. What the hell?
Attached was a picture of Darren, unconscious and blindfolded, blood seeped through the cloth, leaving the white stained a brownish red in places. He tossed the phone, taking some effort at least in his tantrum, and throwing it into the pillow instead of against a wall.
This was the one clue, the one bloody clue he had. He wasn’t an idiot. Or... that much of one.
He headed for the bathroom, grabbing one of the hotel cups and filling it from the tap. His own forehead sported an impressive bump, but no blood. With no regards to the protest from said bump, he let his head fall against the glass.
He couldn’t think, couldn’t focus without Darren, without something. God. He chugged the water and headed back to the bed. After collapsing onto it once more he snatched the phone back up and looked through it, all through it, settings and everything.
The Welcome message of all things, read: “Police here are so dull, are you any less?”
Suddenly, he decided that maybe, just maybe, it was a good thing he’d not called the police before he’d figured out what was different about the room.
He went back to the text message and the picture. No police, but he didn’t know this area. Could he possibly pick up any clues on location?
He had to try.
Nothing in the photo stood out. Natural light came in from a window that couldn’t be seen in the picture, but not much. While he’d still been out on the street then.
How long had he been out? A few hours? From a hit on the head. Unreliable. Drugged too, maybe? He’d not noticed, but maybe. It seemed possible. Did it tell him anything? Not really.
Damnit. Darren needed him to focus, not sidetrack himself. He hit reply on the text.
Gadget: What the hell is this about?
He blinked at that name. What the hell?
Claw: What do you think? Me, I’m beginning to think you should have been the goal and your partner the player.
A game? What the hell. Was this seriously all a game? No other messages followed the first, and he didn’t dare send another, instead resuming his search of the phone content.
Somewhere in this he fell asleep, or passed out again from the probable concussion, which didn’t really matter to him, though others probably would have been more concerned. All he knew was light was slipping through the cracks in the curtains when another text chime tore him to alertness.
Oh hell, what was wrong with him? He checked the phone.
Claw: The rules are simple. Follow the clues, and there are rewards. Fail, and there are consequences.
Attached was another picture. Darren again, or the top of his head, no more, the hair was obvious, if only at the bottom of the picture with the focus on the window and outside. An Underground station was slightly visible, though which one he couldn’t be sure.
He furrowed his brow. This game seemed wretchedly cruel, but, all things considered, he couldn’t be surprised.
Huh? Did this bloody device have Internet? He checked the browser, no harm to that, at least he hoped not.
Several searches later, he had a few possible places to check. It was all he could manage though. He grabbed money from his suitcase and headed out. He’d thought of changing rooms, but really. Why bother? They already had Darren and this left opening if they decided to leave something else.
Not that this was necessarily a good thing, but he did not even care right now. All that mattered was finding where that picture was taken.
----------
There were certain things you never want to open your eyes to. Gauze pressed against them so tight they could barely open was one of those. Darren groaned, his first instinct to try to pull the stuff from his face, but he quickly discovered his arms were tied behind him.
All of this met with no response from...whoever had left him like this. “Peregrine?”
Nothing, but he could swear there was someone else there, footsteps proclaimed that much, moving nearer and then further away, but always close. “Who’s there?”
Again he met no response. Hey, if they weren’t going to interrupt him, he could at least focus on trying to get his arms free.
How did one do that again? What? Rope untying had not been covered in his last refresher for being a Detective.
He worked at the rope, listening. Some traffic, probably outside compared to this inside. Wherever it was.
He paused at a camera click, the sound causing him to go stiff with caution. “Hello?”
Nothing except more footsteps, coming closer this time. “We’re moving.”
Words! “Wha?”
“Listen carefully,” the voice grew closer, close enough that he was quite certain the source was right next to his ear now, crouching or kneeling as he spoke. “You run, your friend gets shot. Game’s up. Plain and simple.”
“Game. What?”
Whoever this was twisted their fingers into his hair and pulled his head back by it. “Not my game. I don’t care about it. I just get to hurt you if you cause any trouble. Got it?”
Darren bit his lip at the whole hair pulling thing. Really? This guy didn’t sound like a teenage girl. “Got it. And to shoot my friend?”
“Nope. That’s someone else.” The man pulled him to his feet by his bonds with enough force to twist his arm painfully. “If we don’t both make it into the car... I think you get my point.”
“Right, yeah. I've got it,” Darren replied, voicing the words slowly as he tried to process this.
Of course, as soon as his arms were untied and the blindfold removed, he bolted for the door. The locked door.
And his captor was right behind him, shouldering him against it hard enough to wind him and landing a blow against his spine that caused his legs to buckle.
“Do you want to spend the rest of your life in a wheelchair?” He didn’t need the warning of what that could lead to, but apparently now that he was talking, this guy felt like he should say every little thing that came to mind.
Darren resisted an eye roll and just shook his head.
“Good. Then walk. Slowly, and with me, and cut the funny business.”
“I thought it would get my friend shot,” he replied dryly.
The man growled, pulling him back and twisting his arm around. Hard. “Only if you get away. But don’t worry, these little stunts won't be lost on him either.”
He didn’t understand what this was about. They had to have Peregrine too. He’d seen this guy come out of nowhere between them and down the boy first. So, why separate them like this? What was the whole ‘game’ thing about anyway?
So many questions, and all he could do was follow complacently. At least for now. Until he had some clue what was going on.
He was shoved none-too-gently into the back seat of the car before his loving companion pushed in after him, shutting the door. As soon as it was moving, the man pulled out the blindfold again.
“I don’t see why I need that.”
“Shut up.”
“But-” Crack! Everything flashed as pain lanced through his head. Elbow. Temple. Ow. He’d been hit there already, hadn’t he? And again. Ow!
It had the desired effect, though. He didn’t fight the blindfold after that. He just let himself go limp when the man pushed him to the side after the fact. He hated, hated the thought of Peregrine dealing with the same treatment somewhere.
Or that he might be making it worse.
It was a wretched enough thought that he cut the backtalk. He saw no choice.
But really. Whoever these people were. Would it really matter in the end?
----------
It had occurred to Peregrine that he was giving whoever was toying with him the means to track him when he ran out of the hotel with the planted phone. It had even come to mind that maybe, just maybe, this was a rather lousy idea.
Of course, he'd passed the point of caring about the quality of his ideas concerning his own
safety. Only figuring out where they had Darren and bringing him back safely mattered.
So he'd made his way through the Underground, from one stop to another. He'd skipped the first possible station quickly. The wrongness of it turned turned him on his heels and sent him right back into the station before he’d even managed a full step outside.
He couldn't say why it was wrong, but why didn't matter. All that mattered was that it was wrong and the next stop took precedence. That one might be right.
The day was hellish. He didn't do well packed in with people in the best of times, with Darren there to help him relax. Much less now when he was hellishly worried and when dizziness tried to take over at random intervals.
He didn’t take a break though, not until he stepped out and it hit him that this was the bloody place. This was the station he’d been looking for. His eyes darted about. The window, where would the window be. He started toward one building, paused and shook his head before starting toward another.
That people must think him crazy neither occurred to nor fazed him.
Here! This was the one, he crouched down, looking in. A basement window. The place was empty, but damnit, he was certain it was the right one. As he headed for the door a text message chimed.
Claw: Oh, too slow. Perhaps you’ll waste less time now?
There was no bloody sign of Darren in the picture attached this time, just a park. A bloody park. What the hell?
He was about to check the browser but paused. The idiot tour guide had mentioned this one. He knew exactly where that was. He didn’t even need to go there. Should he anyway? One thing was confirmed though. He was being tracked through this bloody phone. Great.
Gadget: Regent’s Park.
He sent the text, trying to remember the easiest way to get there without bothering with a map. When he thought he had it, he crossed the street once more to head to the station.
Claw: He’s not there, you know.
Peregrine let out a snarl as his eyes darted about. It took far more effort than he cared to admit to resist throwing the phone again. What the hell? Was he being watched too? Not bloody comforting.
Claw: Do try to be less dramatic. We both know I could have you already.
All Peregrine could do at this was let out a breath.
Gadget: There another clue?
Claw: Tsk, tsk. You aren’t done with this one yet. The last was where. Do you really think I repeat myself?
He shouldn’t have, he knew he shouldn’t have, but some part of the whole infantile game had gotten on his last nerve.
Gadget: You just did.
He shoved the phone in his pocket and headed for the station. He still needed to go there if he wanted to figure out what ever else this bloody idiot could want.
He didn’t check the phone again until he was there. Another message with an attachment. Damnit, if he wasn’t getting another clue, that bloody well scared him.
He checked anyway though. Nothing written in the message, and the picture showed Darren, this time slumped in the backseat of a car, fresh blood dripping down his face. Peregrine leaned against a wall, forcing himself to keep looking at the picture, reflections, anything at all. It could give clues whether or not he was intended to have them.
The frustrating part of it all? There had been clues. Deliberately blurred out of the photo. Leaving him to hunt the park for something other than ‘where’.
He paused mid-step of his rather futile looking. Idiot! Idiot, bloody, damned, moron. Once more he pulled out the phone and looked more closely at the picture of the park this time, checking this one for reflections now, too.
There! The tour bus. Maybe not theirs, but it was meant to represent it. He was sure of it. Or at least he bloody well hoped so.
Gadget: 15:40, yesterday.
Another text popped up. It contained another clue picture, not one of Darren. He went slack with relief, pushing his fingers through his hair.
But he was pretty sure he’d only just begun his game of scavenger hunt with this deranged sociopath while his partner suffered for whatever mistakes he made.
Damn. It. All.
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