TIOBS III

I agree with Gyr, Lester Bird is fine so far, just make sure that he doesn't drift into the whole 'I am an evil bad guy and I like it' stereotype.

About your henchmen though you could add some more discription, at least in the parts where the heroes are not in sacks that is.

Your edit of the end helped, the last piece of dialogue did taste a bit like mozzarella.

Ooo, bird agrees with shireling on the descript of henchmen idea.

Chapter Five: The Flower Fadeth

The room we were kept in had only one window. It was very small and high up in the wall, and only a small bit of light managed to trickle through the tiny pane. Sherringford had paced the room out in the first ten minutes, and Li and I sat and watched him, without offering any opinions.

‘Five and a bit paces wide,’ Sherringford announced, stopping before us, his feet wide-planted, and a falsely bright tone in his voice. ‘And three paces long.’

Silence.

‘Oh,’ Li said politely.

Silence again. Sherringford sat down and began tracing aimless patterns in the thin layer of dust that showed up white against the dark floor. I sat with my arms over my up drawn knees and stared at the peeling whitewash on the opposite wall. My mind was running over all that had happened: the meeting with Li and Sherringford, the henchmen, the - I could find no pleasanter word to use - the kidnapping ; and finally, the Right Hon. Lester Bird. I thought of his pleasant face, his frank manner, and remembered something Mr. Holmes had said in one of Doctor Watson’s stories; something about how going by a person’s appearance was a dangerous argument. The thought crossed my mind that while I had always loved reading about Mr. Holmes’ cases, I had never expected to become one myself.

And how will this case turn out? I thought. Will Mr. Holmes give up the case and get us out? No, he’ll… My thoughts trailed off. The right thing, I knew, was to wish for him to carry on regardless, and ignore Bird’s threats. That was his duty, to be a knight in shining armour for the people, to right their wrongs and see justice done. He should continue with the case.

That may have been the right thing for him to do, but at that moment, I wanted Mr. Holmes to be there more than anything in the world. I wondered what he and Doctor Watson were doing. Have they missed Sherringford yet? That reminded me that I didn’t know what the time was. Noon? Past noon? It didn’t matter, I supposed. We were here, and when you boiled it down, that was the most important thing, really.

---

Eventually, the light from the window faded away altogether, and instead of sitting in near darkness, we now sat in total darkness. I slept, and although Li did as well, I know that Sherringford did not. When I closed my eyes, he was sitting cross-legged, his back against the wall and his hands resting in his lap; when I opened my eyes again some time later, the room was still very dark, and Sherringford was in the exact same position as before, making me wonder if any time had passed at all. Once more I slept, this time only wakening when Li shook my shoulder. ‘C’mon, Kit. Wake up.’

Something was slapped down on the floor near my face, and I opened my eyes, dragging myself upright. The something was a thick china plate, slightly chipped, and holding a slice of bread and butter. Two more plates were given to Sherringford and Li, then the grey-suited man who had brought them, put a jug of water on the floor and left silently, without looking at any of us.

‘Bread and butter?’ I queried in astonishment.

‘An’ white bread!’ Li stuffed his slice into his mouth. ‘Even if there’s only one bit, it tastes grand!’

Sherringford unfolded his limbs and reached for the water jug. ‘But why?’ he mused, taking an undignified swig.

‘Who cares?’ I said blithely. ‘Just enjoy it!’
---

That evening, the man came again, collecting the plates and jug and bringing back a fresh supply. Again, there was only one slice of the genteel fare. As I finished my portion and held out my hand for the water, I felt quite optimistic about the future. Mr. Holmes would find a loophole in Bird’s scheme as he always did. If he could beat my father, the Napoleon of Crime, and still live to tell the tale, then out-witting Lester Bird would be a breeze.

---

The next day started the same as the previous one, only now we were starting to get very bored with sitting and being busy with our own thoughts.

‘Can you walk on your hands?’ I asked Sherringford.

‘No. Can you?’

‘Oh, yes!’ I boasted, and crouching down, swung my legs up into the air. I managed to take three steps forward in the confined space before I toppled over.

‘Let me try!’ Sherringford said eagerly, and tried to kick himself up.

‘Not like that, you’ll fall over and wind yourself. Do both legs at the same time. Here,’ I instructed, backing away to give him room, ‘you want to fling yourself up and - ’

Sherringford’s legs threshed about in the air, and as the door to the room opened, he went over forwards and landed on his back, where he lay gasping. Li and I were laughing at the spectacle he presented, but the men in the doorway were stony-faced. They did not look familiar, and, amused, I wondered how many men Bird had in his pay. They were both dressed the same, in grey suits that were not too shabby and not too expensive. One of them was taller than the other, and they had the look of a team used to working with each other in sticky situations.

The short one crooked a finger to Sherringford and pulled him up, not roughly, but firmly. They led him outside, and Sherringford managed to shoot me a quick smile before the door was shut and locked behind him.

Li looked at me. ‘Where ’dyu think they’re takin’ ’im?’

I shrugged. ‘Maybe exercise? In prisons they let the people out for exercise, and maybe they’re doing that with us, only one at a time.’

‘Yeah.’ Li seemed happy with this explanation, and personally, I thought it the best one. Now that Sherringford had gone, there was more space in our room, and I could stand on my hands without worrying about kicking anyone. With my feet leaning against the wall, and squinting at an upside-down Li, I asked him, ‘Why don’t you do some? It’s not like you can’t.’

‘Aw, I just don’t want to.’ He smiled and ducked his head, making his white hair fall over his eyes; he peered up at me coyly from behind his curtain of hair and pulled a face. I laughed. Li’s grimaces were priceless, and not even Wiggins could match some of them.

---

It was quite some time before Sherringford returned. I had long since tired of Li’s faces, and was sitting idly, when there came the sound of a key scraping in the lock, and the door swung open. The two men were there, and each held one of Sherringford’s arms. His head was lolling around, and the men brought him in and laid him on the floor. Then they turned and went out, their faces never once loosing their expressionless masks.

Sherringford lay on his front; his jacket had been removed, and the back of his shirt had been shredded to red rags. Wait… red rags? I scooted forward and stared in horror at Sherringford’s back. He had been whipped, and blood was still oozing ever so slowly from his broken skin.

Swallowing hard, I touched his shoulder. He raised his head and stared blankly at me for a moment. Then he dragged himself up onto his hands and knees.

‘Sherrin’ford,’ Li breathed.

Sherringford’s eyes closed, screwed up tight in his face as he took a deep breath. He let it out in one gust and croaked hoarsely, ‘Yes?’

‘What did they do?’ Li asked helplessly.

‘C-can’t you see? He… he told them to… ’

‘What?’ I demanded harshly. ‘What?

‘He told them - the two men who came - he told them to… to hold me down, and… he… he did it, and then he… ’

‘He did what? Tell me!’

‘Why?’ Sherringford’s face was contorted into a tangle of rage and pain. ‘So you can laugh? So you can shudder in horror? He held me down and whipped me and talked to me! He hurt me, and - ’ His voice cracked and he fell silent. I could see his body shaking, and I reached out and touched his shoulder lightly, trying to strengthen him through the contact. I had never seen Sherringford like this before. Sherringford was always so controlled, in command of himself. Sherringford was a Holmes, and in my mind, the name Holmes and the word strength always went together.

‘It’s alright, Sherringford,’ I said quietly, knowing how untrue my words were as I said them. ‘I-it’s alright.’

‘No, it isn’t,’ Li said. He took my hand off Sherringford’s shoulder, and pointed meaningfully to the far corner of the room. When I frowned at him, he gave a shove and in surprise, I went. Li came and sat down beside me. Although it wasn’t much, this corner was as far away from Sherringford as we were able to get.

‘Stay ’ere,’ Li said to me, in authoritive tones quite new to him.

‘And why?’

He sighed patiently. ‘’member, Kit, when Mister ’olmes found that you’d pinched a purse an’ got them cakes?’

‘He found out because you told him.’

‘When he found out,’ Li continued, unperturbed, ‘you went away to be on your own. You wanted to be private, like.’

‘So?’

A sigh. ‘Kit, that’s ’ow it is wi’ Sherrin’ford right now. So just leave ’im ’lone a bit.’

‘You’ve been spending too much time around Wiggins,’ I said disagreeably, but deep down, I knew Li was right. Sherringford had lain down carefully on his front, and I could see his lacerated back rising and falling with each painful breath he took. The sight was both repellent and morbidly attractive at the same time. Even as I recognized that last thought, I banished it from my mind in horror, and in its place came a purely selfish one instead.

If Bird had done this to Sherringford, the true hostage, what would he do to me, who was merely an unwelcome addition?

---

Sherringford passed the rest of that day and night in obvious pain. Li and I kept away from him, and he made no move towards us. Only the next morning, when they grey-suited man came to bring the bread and butter and clean the chamber pot did he stir. The plate was set down near his face, and after a moment, when the man had left, Sherringford hauled himself up onto his hands and knees. He shuddered, and with a grunt, he sat down stiffly, his back as rigid as if he had swallowed a poker. He took his bread and shoved it down, then wiped his mouth on the back of his wrist.

‘You alright?’ I asked awkwardly. ‘Do you want to - ’

‘Kit,’ Sherringford said, and his tone made me stop. ‘Kit, Bird mustn’t find out that you’re a girl. He mustn’t! Be always on your guard so you don’t give yourself away. He mustn’t find out!’

I stared at him. ‘What? Why? Does it matter?’

‘Yes, it does! Kit, use your head!’

It clicked. ‘You mean he might… try something?’ I asked delicately. Dubiously.

‘Yes, he would! Don’t let him find out! For now, you’re relatively safe, so keep it that way! And Li - keep your mouth shut completely so you don’t let anything slip out.’

Solemn-faced, Li nodded. I looked at the floor, hoping my face did not betray my thoughts. This… reminder of my femininity was disturbing, and not a little embarrassing. The thought that it could get me into trouble had never even crossed my mind before. I didn’t really think of myself as Kristopher-the-boy, and certainly not as Katherine-the-girl. I was simply Kit - me - and I had never let gender get into it. But if Bird does find out… Knowing what he might do did not prepare me for a possible reality.

I had an overwhelming urge to put my head on my knees and simply cry until the whole horrible situation had magically vanished away, or until Mr. Holmes came and made everything better.

But crying solved nothing, and Mr. Holmes was not coming. He was not coming, I was sure of it, and that only made me want to cry the more.

-

^that's all I have to say. *sniff*

MORE PLEASE!!!

Chapter 6: All Flesh Is Grass

Sherringford was able to sit up without too much pain the next day, and he had eaten his breakfast with a show of good spirits. Then there came the sound of the door being unlocked, and his face immediately went taut, as though a shutter had been slammed down over his emotions, so no one could see them. I looked at him, then at Li, not knowing what to do.

The door swung open, and the same two men as before stood there. One of them stepped into the room, and then he took hold of my wrist and pulled me to my feet. Too surprised at this to do anything, I let them lead me out, and the door was locked again. They pushed me between them, each took hold of one of my arms, and started off down the passage way.

All at once, my heart was beating very fast, so hard I could almost hear it. Bird… they must be taking me to Bird, I thought numbly. Bird. The one who had killed his own cousin and whipped Sherringford. Sherringford, who was never scared of anything, was scared of Bird. What had fully happened to him, I still did not know, but it had broken more than Sherringford’s back; what Bird had done had broken something else inside of him as well. And they were taking me to him. My heart was thumping somewhere near the bottom of my stomach, and I felt sick. My feet stumbled on the rich carpet, but the men pulled me up again.

The door we eventually stopped at was of a very thick wood; light, honey-coloured wood, with dark knots like eyes staring out of the panels. When one of the men knocked, the sound seemed to loose itself in the sturdiness of the wood and then get trapped in the hinges, making them vibrate.

‘Come!’

They opened the door and led me in with them. My first thought was that the room was a study, for there were two chairs by one wall, and a cabinet next to them; a canary in a cage hung from the ceiling near the opposite wall. It was plainly furnished, though, compared to the richness of the first room I had seen. The walls were bare of paper and there was no carpet on the floor. It reminded me of a word that I had read somewhere; what was it?

‘Hello, Kit.’

I jumped at Bird’s voice. He had been behind the open door of the cabinet, and I had not noticed him. He rose, shutting the door with a tiny, complete clack of wood on wood, and came over. I stared at the floor, at my dirty feet, noting their brown against the brown of the floor. Looking at anything but that aristocratic face with its gentle, excited blue eyes…

‘Kit.’

Silence. My stomach hurt. Sherringford’s back, rising and falling with each new breath, the blood tracing a soft, darkly red trail across his skin…

‘Kit.’

His hand lifted my chin and for a moment, I was staring into his eyes. Then I hastily looked away and Bird removed his hand. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him nod to the two men, and then he went back to the cabinet.

The men turned me around and stretched my arms out to the side, each grasping my wrist, and pulling so tight that it was hard to breathe. Standing spread-eagled like this, I heard Bird behind me; a rustling of paper, and a long, almost sad sigh. Then a pause. What was that word again? I thought desperately. That word for plain and simple. Harsh. Not pleasant. Stern.

A thin whistling noise, the slap of impact, and I cried out in shock and pain. A white flash of immediate agony, and then my back was left throbbing as the whiplash recoiled.

‘Does it hurt, Kit?’ Bird’s voice was genuinely curious, with no trace of mockery. Gasping, felling the ache still tingle over my back, I did not answer.

Whistle, crack. This time I gritted my teeth and determined not to answer. Whistle, crack. It was as though a lit match had been run over my skin. My back arched in agony, and I thought I felt a warmth start from my shoulder. Whistle, crack. The lash flicked my shoulder and sent a drop of something wet and sticky onto my cheek. Whistle, crack. As the tingling numbness hit me again, I remembered the word I had been searching for. Spartan.

---

‘Does it hurt bad, Kit?’ Li asked hesitantly.

Sherringford gave a short bark of laughter. ‘Don’t ask for a description, Li. It would involve a lot of unintelligible sounds and unprintable words.’

I grimaced in agreement. When the men had first brought me back, then pain had almost ceased, leaving me just feeling numb, as though the blood had drained out of my body and down my back to form a puddle on the floor. Now it creeping up again, the pain stroking my raw and bloody skin. My shoulders were stiff, and every movement I made seemed to pull at my back.

‘Lie on your front, Kit,’ Sherringford advised, ‘and try not to move.’

‘You’re right chipper now that someone else has had it done to them as well,’ I commented venomously, following his suggestion and carefully lying down.

‘I’m relieved, that’s all. You said he didn’t ask you anything, and he didn’t whip you that much -’

‘It was much, too!’

‘That sentence was atrocious.’

‘I don’t care! Hang grammar, hang bigwig sentences and hang the man who invented the whip!’

Li squinted at me, but said nothing.

‘I’m sorry, Kit.’ Sherringford was suddenly repentant.

‘I don’t think as ’ow you needs to worry, Kit,’ Li said quietly. ‘Sherrin’ford’s been called, then you. My turn next.’

With a pang of conscience, I realised that this had not once crossed my mind. ‘He might not,’ I offered feebly and untruthfully. Li gave a sickly smile that showed he was not taken in for a moment.

---

It was hard to sleep that night, lying on my front with my head on my arms. It was cold, and I shivered. My back was hot and cold all at once, and throbbing painfully, as though there was a swarm of bees trapped in the lash marks, trying to break out.

I could vaguely see Li and Sherringford; Li was stretched out on his side, his breathing deep and peaceful. Sherringford was still sitting upright, and I could just make out the distinct lines of his profile. His lips were moving silently. In surprise, I watched him for some time, the whispered, ‘Sherringford? What’re you doing?’

His head whipped around and he stared at me in the dark. ‘Aren’t you asleep?’

‘No.’

He was quiet for a moment, then he whispered, ‘I was praying. We could never get out of here, Kit. Bird could kill us. We could die.’

‘But he won’t kill us! We’re hostages, well, at least, you are, but he hasn’t yet, has he? If he wanted to, wouldn’t he have… What’s the good of praying, anyway?’

‘God can do things that we can’t even imagine. He’s stronger than any evil men can think up. He’s the good that keeps this world going. Sherlock tries to stop criminals, and that’s like proof of God.’

‘How’s that?’

‘That there’s good people to stop the bad. That bad doesn’t always win. That there’s a God in heaven who cares for his people. He won’t let them go to dust.’ There was a pause, then Sherringford said, ‘You know Father was a minister?’

‘You said something about a church?’

‘Yes. There was a psalm that Father always really liked. He’d use it in his sermons a lot. Unto thee, O Lord, do I lift up my soul. O my God, I trust in thee: let me not be ashamed, let not mine enemies triumph over me…’

Vaguely, a verse learned and half-forgotten from my time in the dame school came to my mind. ‘O my God, I cry in the daytime, but thou hearest not; and in the night season, and am not silent. What type of god’s that?’

‘That’s because David -’

‘Oh, stuff it. Your verse don’t apply anyway, as I don’t trust in God. He sounds too choosy, only helping those who trust in Him.’ I resisted the urge to add, ‘So there.’ Instead, I buried my head on my arms, showing that I didn’t want anymore talk. I heard Sherringford ease himself down to the floor, but did not hear the slow breathing that meant sleep.

When I woke the next morning, Sherringford was gone.

At first, I simply could not believe it. It was a trick of my still sleep-fuddled brain. He couldn’t be gone. Then I finally realized what this could mean, and in a panic, drew my knees up under me and called, ‘Li! Li, wake - ow!’ This, as I sat upright and a meaningful jolt of pain shot through my back.

‘’smarrer?’ Li opened one eye.

‘Sherringford’s gone!’

Li immediately came awake, sat up and stared about the tiny room. ‘Wha-? ’ow’s ’e gone?’

‘He’s gone! Use your loaf, Li! It was him, he took him, and now he’s… gone.’ A horrible fear was growing in my stomach. If he had taken Sherringford away, then there was one blinding reason why.

Li must have had the same thought. ‘They wouldn’t kill ’im, Kit, not Sherrin’ford. He’s the main reason we’re ’ere at all.’

‘But he’s a maniac, he might not be bothered enough to keep him…’

‘We’re the ones wot’re fillin’ up space, If Bird was going to get rid of any of us, it’d be me or you ’e’d start with, wouldn‘t it?’

This reasoning left me silent. I wanted to believe Li, but I couldn’t help thinking, Li’s not met Bird. He doesn’t know what he’s capable of, the way he speaks and thinks.

The key scratched in the lock, and the door opened. The grey suited man was there as normal, but behind him were the other two men; the ones who had come for Sherringford, then for me. Like stone statues in a graveyard, they stood motionless while the grey suited man handed out the bread and butter. I gulped mine down, swigged from the jug, then while Li was drinking, I took a deep breath and asked, ‘Please, where is Sherringford?’

Li looked at me over the rim of the jug, his eyes wide with apprehension. I waited, but none of the men answered, or even looked my way.

‘Please,’ I began again, but the grey suited man turned and before I could dodge, gave me a vicious backhander that made my ear ring and my eyes water. He took up the plates, removed the water jug from Li’s hand, while I looked at the floor and rubbed my stinging cheek.

When he had finished, the other two men beckoned to Li to come, and he did so. Then one of them pointed to me as well, and with a kind of dull horror, I got up and came to them. Even as I did so, my mind toyed with the mad idea of making a break for it. The thought was discarded. There wasn’t anywhere I could get to, and it would only result in a punishment. The men shut the door and shepherded Li and me between them, marching us along the passages, back to that heavy wooden door with the knots like eyes in the glossy panelling. Back to the room where he was. Where he created pain and revelled in it with a sad and melancholy pleasure.

The knock, the pause of about five seconds, the command to enter. Inside the room, hearing the canary sing for pleasure at being alive, seeing him sitting in one of the leather cushioned chairs, seeing him rise, come forward, hearing him say, ‘Hello, Li. Hello, Kit.’

I stared at the floor, suddenly very conscious of the burning stripes on my back. Beside me, Li stiffened, and I risked a glance up. Bird was eyeing Li with a disgusted curiosity, his gaze flickering over Li’s white hair and squinting, watery-blue eyes.

‘So,’ he said finally. ‘You really are one of those… anomalies.’

Li said nothing.

‘Why did you bring Kit? I only wanted Li.’

For the first time, one of the men - the smaller one - spoke. ‘He asked where Sheringford was. Twice.’

‘Oh.’ He looked at the ceiling, then at the canary, still trilling away to itself. Eventually, he sighed and nodded. He reminded me of a man trying to give up a pipe; he struggled against the urge to light up, but was secretly thankful when he did give way. He went back to his chair, brought it up a few feet away, then sat down in it.

I was wondering what he was doing, but then the taller man put his hands on my shoulders. I half-turned, but as I did, his fist swung up and hit me in the side. I doubled over with no breath to cry out with, and his second blow brought me to the floor. Curled up, I tried to shield myself, but he began kicking me, each kick hitting me in a jab of pain, then leaving an ache that was covered up by the next jab. I rolled over, and his foot caught me in the stomach, then again in my side. I heard a sharp crack, and it was like a knife had been rammed into my side. I think I screamed, but the world had turned into a ringing confusion of blows, and a sobbing, tempestuous agony. Then something hit my head, and the world went black.

It seemed only a moment that the merciful darkness was allowed to remain before I was suddenly awake again, gasping, with cold water dripping down my chin. I tried to lift my hand to wipe it away, but the pain dug in its talons, and a pitiful noise like a whining dog spilled out of my mouth.

‘Kit? Lift the child up, I can’t see his face.’

A hand gripped my collar, tugged me up, and I moaned, half-opening my eyes. A face swam into being before me, blurred and out of focus. I tried to blink and couldn’t.

‘Kit,’ the face said.

There was a ripping sound and my shirt tore, dropping me down onto the floor again. I fell all in a heap and closed my eyes again, feeling the darkness hovering nearby, ready to slip back into if I wanted.

‘Kit!’ A different voice this time. Younger, hoarser. Li. ‘Mister Bird, sir-’

A hand touched my face, then my neck. ‘Kit. Kit.’ His voice, very nearby. I forced an eye open and saw him, bending over me. His attention seemed riveted on my ripped shirt front. ‘Kit. Katherine,’ he breathed. His hand touched the base of my throat and stayed there.

‘Leave ’er lone!’ Li screamed. He tore out of the short man’s grip and hurled himself on Bird. He tore at his face, and Bird toppled over in surprise. Li hit him, and then he was fighting like I had never seen him fight before.

But it only lasted a moment. Both men pulled him away, and then they flung him to the floor. As Bird struggled to his feet, both men began to hit Li, and kick him. Bird listened to the muffled thuds of fist hitting flesh, and rubbed his forehead, where already a bruise was forming.

I took a breath that hurt, and whispered, ‘Please, Bir-Bird, sir. Don’t…’

He wasn’t listening to me, only to the sounds of his men beating Li, and Li’s half stifled cries. Finally, after an eternity, they stopped. Li lay very, very still, blood pooling slowly out around his head. It was staining his hair, matting it together. One of the men took him by the wrist and brought him close to my side, so he was facing me. I closed my eyes, tasting blood in my mouth. I felt someone lift my arm, then they tied my right wrist to Li’s left, and my left to his right. The leather cord was wet and cold, almost comforting against my skin.

As I half opened my eyes, Bird bent down and pushed my hair back from my face. ‘You kept your secret well, Kit, and so did Sherringford. Au revoir, Katherine.’

He rose and left with the other men. The door shut softly behind them. The only sounds in the room were the chirpings of the canary and Li’s very faint, very shallow breathing. His skin was icy cold against mine, and blood dribbled down from the corner of his mouth, red as poppy petals.

----------------------------------------

Rather worried about this chapter, especially the beating/whipping scenes. Please shred thoroughly!

Wow, cool chapter.

I thought Kit was great, I especially liked this passage.

ئ twit ئ wrote:Whistle, crack. As the tingling numbness hit me again, I remembered the word I had been searching for. Spartan.

The wordplay comparison of the description of the plain room to an attitude of endurance was very neat.

ئ twit ئ wrote:Now it creeping up again, the pain softly stroking my raw and bloody skin. My shoulders were stiff, and very movement I made seemed to pull at my back.

I've never felt pain softly stroke before so I'm not quite sure what you were describing here. It seemed a little odd.

Here is the one lone typo I found.

ئ twit ئ wrote:‘God can do things that we can’t even imagine. He’s stringer than any evil men can think up. He’s the good that keeps this world going. Sherlock tries to stop criminals, and that’s like proof of God.’

Stronger than any evil right?

ئ twit ئ wrote:‘Leave ’er lone!’ Li screamed. He tore out of the short man’s grip and hurled himself on Bird. He tore at his face, and Bird toppled over in surprise. Li hit him, and then he was fighting like I had never seen him fight before.

I was rooting so hard for Li here. I really wanted him to do some major damage to Bird.

A couple more thoughts before I wrap up. I have forgotten how old Kit is and was wondering how she is able to disguise her voice as well as she does, especially in any yelling and screaming.
I am also very curious what the whole thing is about. What is Bird's reason for keeping them? Why beat Kit and not ask any questions? I hope you give some good explanations for his strange temperament later, it's going to be very interesting.

I can't find much fault with the whipping and beating parts. Incidentally, what kind of whip is Bird using? A buggy type whip or something heavier? That would affect the damage and pain done. All in all a very painful chapter to read. I continue to hope for a happily ever after for Kit and her friends.

Also I thought you did a good job with Kit and Sherringford's conversation about God, it didn't come off as out of place or preachy to me.

And another also, could you squeeze in some more descriptions of the building they are in? I know they don't see much of it but as I read, it seems like the passages could use some more description, something to give the reader clues as to what the building might be. I get the feeling of vastness, like a warehouse for some reason. I don't know if that is right or not.

Anyway, keep up the good work,

Shireling

NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

How can you do this two me, twit, I mean how?

Anyway, a couple small comments:

Sherringford gave a short bark of laughter. ‘Don’t ask for a description, Li. It would involve a lot of unintelligible sounds and unprintable words.’

Lol, I think Danteel likes him...which probably isn't a good thing.

‘I don’t care! Hang grammar, hang bigwig sentences and hang the man who invented the whip!’

And I think Danteel likes her, too.

He’s stringer than any evil men can think up.

I think you meant "stronger."


Much wonderful, if depressing, chapter, darling!

Thank you both!!

Shireling wrote:I have forgotten how old Kit is and was wondering how she is able to disguise her voice as well as she does, especially in any yelling and screaming.

She's about twelve, so she doesn't need to disguise it too much.

Shireling wrote:What is Bird's reason for keeping them? Why beat Kit and not ask any questions?

Ah, well...

I get the feeling of vastness, like a warehouse for some reason. I don't know if that is right or not.

Sort of right. ^_^


It is a good thing, Gyr! It's a compliment!

Thank you both ever so for your comments!!

Chapter Seven: Stormy Petrel

Li died late the next day. He never awoke from his coma, but as the light from the window faded, and the blood on his head dried his hair into sharp little points, his breathing slowed and then stopped. Opening my eyes with difficulty, I stared into his face. His pale skin was mottled all over with bruises, and there was a bright smear of blood across his cheek. His broken head lay awkwardly on the hard floor. His eyes were closed, his fine white lashes curling upwards on his cheek, his eyelids almost transparent, delicate as a butterfly’s wings.

Slowly, very slowly, I lifted my hand, still tied to his, and touched the side of his face. He was as cold as china, frozen and still. Dead.

Dead.

Dead. I tried to think what that meant, how it affected me, but my mind would not focus. Li was dead. Then he wasn’t in pain anymore. But was he? Was he? He had left here, so there could be no more pain that he would feel. No pain could be worse than the pain felt here.

Jealous. Li had gone away from the pain. Why couldn’t I go too? I wanted so much just to let go, to get away from it all. The agony, the misery of living. Good wasn’t strong enough. Bad had killed Li and it would kill me. It was all a lie. The bad of men was stronger than the good. It was all lies.

---

‘Kit. Wake up, my Katherine.’ The voice intruded into my mind, lifted me from the darkness. Bird. Dully, I gazed up at him. He was standing close to my side. Too close; his shoes almost touched my shoulder.

‘Li…’

‘The albino?’ The shoes moved, and one of them prodded Li in the back.

‘Li…’ The words came stumblingly, lacing each breath I took with pain. ‘Li’s… de-dead.’

‘Oh. Are you sure?’

I could not answer. He shrugged. ‘No matter.’

A pause. Bird bent down, sitting on his heels. He put his hand on my wrist, where blood had started to clot around the leather cord, and lightly, slowly, ran it up my arm and down again. Up, down. Up, down.

‘Where… Sherringford?’

His hand stopped half-way, and he looked at me thoughtfully. Then he asked, ‘Why do you want to know?’

‘I do, I… I just…’ Pain was stabbing through my side, and my mouth wouldn’t form the words because it hurt too much.

Bird went to the canary cage. It cheeped at him, and he whistled softly to it. Then he came back and gazed very intently into my face. He put out a finger and brushed the cord around my wrists; it came away bloody. He looked at it curiously, then put his finger to his mouth, touching it to his lips. He sighed, then said offhandedly, ‘Sherringford is dead.’

Long, long pause. ‘No.’ I managed to slur even the one syllable.

‘Yes, he’s quite dead.’

‘No…’

‘Yes, he is. He is.’ He sounded petulant.

Lies, all lies, whispered my heart. Lies, lies, lies… My sight blurred painfully, my left eye throbbing. Empty lies. Lies. ‘Lies.’

‘It’s not a lie, Kit. Sherringford is dead.’

I could not take anymore. I closed my eyes, but the darkness there morphed into images, and I saw what had happened. Saw Sherringford dying. Saw Sherringford dead. Saw Bird ordering his men to beat Sherringford to death, saw Bird pulling back Sherringford’s head and running a knife over his throat, laying it open, spilling red blood onto the floor, letting it bubble bright with life as it left Sherringford’s body.

Dead. Li and Sherringford. Both dead.

As Bird touched my arm again, his hand playing up over my shoulder and neck, I wished with my whole heart that I could die and join Li and Sherringford - wherever they were.

---

A thumping, a hammering at the door. The sound hit my head like a blow and a sighing moan escaped my lips. Bird rose and went to the door. I heard his voice, low and soft; the voice of the other man there, a panic-filled plea.

Suddenly Bird was there again, bending over me. ‘Kit. Kit. Kit, I’m talking to you.’

‘Yeh…’

‘Some friends are coming, Kit. Good friends. They want you, and they want me, too. Have a nice time, Kit. Thank you for having me.’

His shoes sounded on the floor; I felt each footstep through the boards. The heavy scrape of the door being shut and locked. Then all was silent in the room.

I tried to shelter in the darkness of unconsciousness, but it would not come. My body hurt too much to be ignored. Too much; it was all too much. Every part of my mind and body felt broken and dirty. Lies, lies, all is lying and vanity…

A thumping. Not on the door, this time, but still close by. Getting closer. Bumps below the floor. Voices. Thumping outside. Something hitting the door; the voices getting louder.

Then a sharp crack, and a bang that shattered inside my head. In the darkness behind my eyelids, I heard the voices. Familiar voices.

‘Quick, man, tell Lestrade we’ve found them!’

‘Should we-?’

‘No, wait! Don’t move them like that, let me…’

People by my side. Voices above. Hands holding me, something cold cutting through the cord around my wrists. I could no longer feel the icy touch of Li’s skin against mine. Someone lifted me up, carried me in their arms. Moving. Out of the room where the canary still sang, into places where footsteps echoed off the walls. Down some stairs; hearing other voices.

‘Mr Holmes! You found them?’

‘Not Sherringford.’

‘I say, they look a sight. Are they still -’

‘Lestrade, I shall be taking your cab to Baker Street. If you can bring yourself to do something useful, you might inform your superiors of the results of our search. Watson.’

‘Are you alright with her, Holmes?’

‘Come, Watson.’

Outside. Chill air biting into my body. I felt as though I were burning. Lifted up, laid down, covered with something rough and warm. I was cold, freezing cold, shards of ice imbedded in my bones.

The cabbie: ‘Hup, you.’ The cab rattled and shook as the horse started off. At long last, I sank down, down into the wonderful blank darkness of oblivion.

---

Flames, crits, blighting and pestilence et al.

*WAAAAIIIIIIILLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLSSSSSSSSSSSSS*

(will have more comments when I can stop crying )

Li Dies???? Arrrghh! I liked that little guy.

I still can't figure out Bird yet either and it's bugging me, he's weird, definitely not like any villain I've read before. Is he insane or something?
The stream of consciousness (is that the right term?) style this is in is somewhat annoying to me but then I have always disliked it when people write this way. It fits the situation well though, the fading in and out.

Chapter Eight: Valley of Death

Swimming. Swimming in dark and light. An ocean of confused voices and half-heard sounds; odd flashes of faces and scenes appearing and disappearing without any warning. At times I was cold, so cold that my teeth seemed to be chattering themselves out of my head. Then I was hot and breathless and the air was stale and stifling.

Lies... all is lying and vanity. The grass withereth, the flower fadeth: because the spirit of the Lord bloweth upon it: surely the people is grass...

Lying in a coccon of soft sheets, helpless and unmoving. A prison. No, a sanctuary.

The name of the Lord is a strong tower...

"I tell you, we searched everywhere! He isn't there - no one's there!"

"If he isn't in his house, then where is he?"

"I don't... we have men on the case, Mr Holmes. They're combing all of London for Bird and - "

"Did it not enter your addled brain that he might have left London?"

"Mr Holmes..."

"Leave this house and don't come back until you have something sensible to tell me!"

Voices. Swirling through my mind like dry leaves in the wind. Shouting. Cracking my head open like an eggshell. Voices shouting knowledge that twisted my heart like a garrotter's wire.

Darkness and light. A puddle of blood on the floor. Sherringford's blood. Li's blood. My blood. A lion roaring and ravening for its prey. A bird gathering her young beneath her wings and covering them with her feathers. War. Tearing the land apart, men falling and women grieving. Battles. Battles for a boy's mind and a man's heart. The struggle for a friend's sanity. A father's death and his children's misery.

A boy sitting with his dog on the stairs leading up to his home. He looks up at me, his hazel eyes clouded with worry. His little sister is in the room behind me, whimpering with the pain from her broken leg. She is a year or so older than me, but I feel as though she is the young one. I saw her cry with pain and writhe away as her mother and my guardian, Old Bet, tried to soothe her. Now I look at her brother and wonder how he sees his sister. Does he marvel at her naive delusions of the world being a fair place? She cried at her pain, and was surprised by it, thinking it unfair. Does she not realise? Does she not see? The world is unfair. The world is cruel.

"Holmes, you must rest. Holmes! Answer me."

"I can hear you, Watson."

"Holmes, it will not help Kit or Sherringford if you collapse. At least drink something. Here."

"Watson."

"As a medical man..."

"As a medical man, you should understand."

"That's no answer!"

"I gave it as such. Take it as it was meant."

Light. Warm golden pools of it. They swim and swirl, confusing themselves together in a giant whirlpool that goes around and around and down and down. It goes down to the heart of infinity, deep into the chasms of the world and sucks me down with it. The darkness there is mingled with the smothering shadows that nightmares are made of and the endless dark blue that cloaks the sky after sunset. The walls of the whirlpool gleam dully, valiantly trying to light the way on my journey through the darkness. The black, moving shadows reach out and stroke my face, then retreat before I can beat them away.

Lies. The whisper echoes off the walls and rumbles in the deep. Lies...

I try and ignore the voice, concentrating only on the dim golden light of the whirlpool, but it seeps into my mind, spreading like a cloud of ink through water. Lies and death. Death stalks the land and you are helpless. What do you matter? Why should you matter? You are simply the tool of hurt. You killed Li. If he had not come to look for you, he would still be alive. You killed Sherringford. If he had not come to look for you, he would still be alive. And now, if you wake...

I turn and look back the way I had come, through the golden maelstrom of light. I see the world, the cruel, harsh, unforgiving world.

If you wake[i], the voice whispers, [i]you will simply cause more pain. You have to tell Mister Sherlock Holmes that you killed his younger brother. And then you will die anyway. Die now, without waking, and he will never know. And then you will be free.

Free.

And then you will be free. Knowledge is a curse. Do not inflict it upon someone else.

I look at the golden swirl of light, then at the heavy, twitching darkness beyond. I can feel my heart beating, even though I am not breathing.

Be free.

The voice sounds familiar. It is my own voice. My hands are shaking; my whole body is shaking. A whimper slides up my throat and out of my mouth, but it makes no sound.

Be free.

Trembling, I whisper back, "I'm afraid of the dark." My words fall into the shifting dark before me, and are reflected back, magnified and multiplied. "Afraid... Afraid... Afraid..."

Tears fall from my eyes. "Afraid..."

Afraid.

Afraid.

Afraid, afraid, afraid, afraid, afraid...

The shadows reach out to me again, clutching and grasping. Afraid... they whisper. Afraid to your heart.

"Yes!" I cry to them. "I'm afraid! I can't do it! I can't! I killed them both, and I can't tell him, but I can't do this either! I can't do it! I can't do anything!"

"What time I am afraid, I will trust in thee..." A new voice, a new whisper. Quietly slipping into the space between the light and the dark, it is like hot food after days of hunger, like comfort from the mother I never had. It comes from beyond the light. A voice I know from far away and time past.

"I will fear no evil while I trust in thee."

"How?" I clutch at the air where the voice is. It leads me to the edge of the golden whirlpool and leaves me hovering.

The voice calls again, "Lo, I am with thee alway, even until the ends of the earth."

It leads me through the golden whirlpool to the other side. Here it is dim, with a soft dimness like that under a blanket. Again, the voice whispers, "Kit. Come back, Kit. You can do this. Come back. Be free."

And I know the voice.

I open my eyes.

---

The pale grey light of London early morning seeped through the gap where the curtains had not been drawn properly. It washed over the floor like living water and touched the haggard face of Mr Holmes, sitting in the chair next to the bed I was lying in. He sat slumped, his head lolling forward as he half-dozed. Always thin, he now looked gaunt and colourless, the bones at his wrists sticking out harshly. His dead white skin was stretched tight over his cheekbones, making his features look as though they were cut out of paper, with painfully straight edges and sharp corners. The room was quiet, still.

My head hurt, and it seemed as though I had something covering my left eye. I tried to raise my hand to remove whatever it was, but the movement pulled at my side and back, and I jerked, a tiny, quivering cry leaping from my throat to disturb the quiet of the room. Immediately, Mr Holmes was up and bending over me. "Kit?"

I looked into his grey eyes, identical to Sherringford's and I felt a huge lump knot itself in my throat. I tried to swallow it, to push it down, but it hurt so much. "Mr Holmes," I managed to croak.

"Lie still Kit," he said in a gentle voice I had never heard him use before.

He went out of the door and I heard a low murmur of voices in the other room. Then he was back and Doctor Watson was with him. He smiled at me and took up my wrist, counting time with his pocket watch.

"My eye hurts," I whispered.

Doctor Watson placed my hand back on the sheet and smoothed my hair back from my forehead. "Lie quietly." He, too, sounded gentle. "Go back to sleep and rest. Then you can talk."

---

Gradually, bit by bit, day by day, I got stronger. After a few days I could sit up, and after a week I stayed awake for the whole day. Doctor Watson gave me awful-looking, awful-smelling and terrible-tasting medicines to take, and told me they were helping me get better. Personally I doubted it, but I said nothing. I did a lot of that; saying nothing. It was safer that way. If I kept quiet and asked no questions, then maybe I could stop the questions coming to me. I could put off the moment when Mr Holmes would ask, "Kit, do you know what's happened to Sherringford?"

Night was the worst time of all. Sometimes I hurt so badly that all I wanted was sleep to block the pain out, but if I did sleep, I kept on remembering. My mind wouldn't let my memories alone; it kept on prodding them, as though they were an itchy sore that wouldn't heal. The rememberings happened over and over. I would see Bird's face, hear his voice, feel his touch on my skin. I would see Li, cold and still in death, the blood drying on his skin. Worst of all were the times I remembered Sherringford. Sherringford grimacing with pain. Sherringford collapsed on the floor, the blood runing from his broken back. Sherringford dying. Sherringford dead.

Whenever I dreamed of Sherringford, it always ended up with me waking myself in my efforts to scream. Sometimes Watson would be there when I woke, trying to hold me still as I thrashed in my nightmares. Then there would come a drink of something nasty that burned on my tongue, and it would send me back to sleep again, however hard I tried to fight it. I couldn't explain that I was terrified of sleeping again, in case the dreams came back, so I swallowed the medicine and said nothing.

Whenever Holmes came in, I pretended to be asleep, or if that didn't work, I answered him shortly, turning away so that his eyes couldn't meet mine. I couldn't face him, I just couldn't. If I looked at him, then I feared I would loose all control and simply tell him everything, anything to ease the despair etched in every line of his being.

---

I had been back for two weeks. I still couldn't see at all out of my left eye, but I was getting stronger. My hurts were healing, but slowly, and my nightmares weren't getting any better. Watson shook his head when I said I didn't want the sleeping medicine one night. "Kit, sleep is what you need now. It gives your body time to heal."

But I can't sleep, I wanted to say. I don't want to go back to the dark and see... But if I said that, I would have to say why, and that was something that I couldn't do. I didn't want to say why about anything, or how or what. By not talking about it, I could almost pretend that it wasn't as bad as it really was. That what I had done wasn't really my fault. That somehow it would turn out all right, after all.

I didn't know if Watson would understand this anyway, so I sighed and swallowed the medicine, then lay down carefully. Watson drew the curtains and the room grew dim and shadowy. I creased the sheet between my fingers as he went to the door, said, "Goodnight," and left.

The whole house was silent. I knew Doctor Watson would be sitting in the main room. Holmes was out. Mrs Hudson was rarely allowed in, for which I was glad. She was a kind lady, but a touch peppery and inclined to fuss. I drew the sheets up under my chin and tried to breathe quietly so as not to bring on the pain. My eyelids were growing heavy and although I struggled against it, sleep came and dragged me down.

This time it was worse than ever. Bird's face loomed above me, smiling sadly. He put his hand on my wrist and began to run it up and down my arm. Up, down. Up, down, in the old familiar motion. I heard the canary singing in the background, its song rising high and sweet, going on for eternity, while Bird's hand went up and down, up and down without slowing or stopping. I tried to move away from him, but I couldn't, and every time I tried, pain shot through me like a bolt of lightning.

"Sherringford," Bird murmured, leaning over me, his breath warm on my face.

"Please," I begged. "Please..."

"Sherringford is dead. The albino too. There's just you left, my Katherine. Just you. Only you."

"No, he's not dead! He isn't! They aren't!"

"You saw them die, Kit. Don't you remember? You saw them both die."

"No!"

"Yes, Kit."

"No!"

"Yes."

"No..." I was sobbing the word out again and again, Bird's hand touching me and stroking my skin. I couldn't get away; I never would be able to. "No... please, no..."

"Yes, my Katherine."

"No!" This time, I screamed it, and suddenly I was sitting up in bed, gasping, my side and back on fire with agony. Panting loudly, I clutched at my ribs and hung my head forward as I struggled to catch my breath.

"Kit."

My head snapped up. Bird was in the doorway, smiling his sad, thoughtful smile. "Hello, Kit."

"No, please!"

Bird took a step closer and put his hands on the iron rail across the bottom of the bed. "I just thought you might like to know, Kit. I'm with Li and Sherringford now. They both send you their love."

"Please," I sobbed. "Don't. Go away."

"But they wanted you to know, Kit. Sherringford especially. He wanted you to know that even though he's dead, he is very well, thank you." Bird held out his hand and I looked. He was holding something white and shiny, and he offered it to me. It was a skull, glowing white in the dark. Its empty eyes looked at me, and its wide mouth smiled and moved. "Hello, Kit," it said.

"Sherringford..."

"Yes," said the skull. "I'm Sherringford." It grinned at me, teeth shining, and Bird moved it forward, holding it out.

I threw back my head and screamed. It was as though that scream had been locked inside for years, and now it stood for all the times I had wanted to scream and cry but hadn't. It kept on sounding, high and shrill, and I couldn't stop it. The skull sat and smiled at me, but Bird's hand began to shake. His fingers opened, and the skull fell through the air. It hit the floor and broke into pieces, and the force of my scream blew the pieces to dust.

"Kit!"

Someone caught my wrists and held them. My eyes flew open and abruptly my scream stopped, leaving me gasping for breath and shaking all over. Mr Holmes was sitting on the side of my bed, his face a pale blur in the dark. "Kit," he said softly. I stared at him. Gently, so gently it hurt, he touched the side of my face. I drew in an aching, shuddering breath and began to cry. Huge, tearing sobs ripped out of my chest and my tears burned as they fell. Mr Holmes pulled me to him, and I cried into his jacket, clutching at its fabric, as though to keep it there with me always. He rocked me back and forth, stroking up and down my back. His hands were like soft feathers, soothing all the hurt away as I cried and cried. I cried for Li, for Sherringford, for all the hurt, all the pain, all the guilt I had carried so heavily for so long. Mr Holmes held me, murmuring softly. Amidst my wild crying, I realized he was singing.

"L'Eternel est mon berger: je ne manquerai de rien. Il me fait reposer dans de verts paturages, il me dirige pres des eaux paisibles."

His voice was like a bird singing in the evening, clear and quiet, with layers of pureness behind it.

"Quand je marche dans la vallee de l'ombre de la mort, je ne crains aucun mal..."

My sobs were dying down now. I hiccupped and sniffed, took a deep breath. Mr Holmes laid me down again on the bed and drew the sheets up. "Oui, le bonheur et la grace m'accompagneront tous le jours de ma vie, et j'habiterai dans la maison de l'Eternel jusqu'a la fin de mes jours."

I sniffed again and whispered, "Mr Holmes..."

"Tell me tomorrow, Kit." He rubbed my shoulder gently. I closed my eyes and slept.


---

May I stress just *how* worried I am about this chapter? *stresses until blue in the face* Oh, and a minor note here: Holmes sings strong tenor/light baritone.

*blubbering sobs!!!*

*sniff, sniff, sniff*

Sorry my first post was so stingy; I hope this makes up for it!

An ocean of confused voices and half heard sounds

should be “half-heard” I think

Then I was hot and breathless and the air I breathed was stale and stifling.

get rid of “I breathed”

A prison. No, a sanctuary.

might have more punch if it was more like “A prison—no! A sanctuary” or suchlike

"Did it not enter your addled brain that he might have left London?"

"Mr Holmes..."

"Leave this house and don't come back until you have something sensible to tell me!"

Poor Holmes! *sniffle* really well done, btw.

Voices. Swirling through my mind like dry leaves in the wind. Shouting. Cracking my head open like an eggshell. Voices shouting knowledge that twisted my heart like a garrotter's wire.

really well done, here, darling! Although, I think you can replace “garrotter’s wire” with just “garrote” if you like

A lion roaring and ravening for its prey.

umm…what’s “ravening?”

A bird gathering its young beneath her wings and covering them with her feathers.

should be “A bird gathering her young” as you establish gender

War. Tearing the land apart, men falling and women grieving. Battles. Battles for a boy's mind and a man's heart. The struggle for a friend's sanity. A father's death and his children's misery.

this just seemed kinda non-sequeitor (sp?) to me, kinda out of the blue, as it were, and not really connected…though that may well be the point

Tears fall from my eyes. "Afraid..."

Afraid.

Afraid.

Afraid, afraid, afraid, afraid, afraid...

The shadows reach out to me again, clutching and grasping. Afraid... they whisper. Afraid to your heart.

well done, darling!

He sat slumped down, his head lolling forward as he half-dozed. Always thin, he now looked gaunt and colourless, the bones at his wrists sticking out harshly. His dead white skin was stretched tight over his cheekbones, making his features look as though they were cut out of paper, with painfully straight edges and sharp corners.

excellent description! Except, I don’t think you need that “down” at the beginning, “slumped” accomplishes the purpose admirably all by itself

Doctor Watson gave me awful looking, awful smelling and terrible tasting medicines to take

I think you are a bit hyphen-deficient here, need it after both “awful”s and the “tasting” methinks

"But they wanted you to know, Kit. Sherringford especially. He wanted you to know that even though he's dead, he is very well, thank you." Bird held out his hand and I looked. He was holding something white and shiny, and he offered it to me. It was a skull, glowing white in the dark. Its empty eyes looked at me, and its wide mouth smiled and moved. "Hello, Kit," it said.

"Sherringford..."

"Yes," said the skull. "I'm Sherringford." It grinned at me, teeth shining, and Bird moved it forward, holding it out.

I threw back my head and screamed. It was as though that scream had been locked inside for years, and now it stood for all the times I had wanted to scream and cry but hadn't. It kept on sounding, high and shrill, and I couldn't stop it. The skull sat and smiled at me, but Bird's hand began to shake. His fingers opened, and the skull fell through the air. It hit the floor and broke into pieces, and the force of my scream blew the pieces to dust.

so very creeped me OUT!!!

Huge, tearing sobs ripped out of my chest and my tears burned as they fell.

don’t think you need “tearing”

Chapter Nine: In The Eye of the Beholder


“Tell me tomorrow,” Mr Holmes had said. So I did. When I woke up, Doctor Watson was drawing back the curtains. Holmes had gone.

“Good morning,” Watson said cheerfully.

“Good morning,” I replied, sitting up, and he looked surprised and pleased at my response.

“How’re you feeling today?”

Normally, I replied to this with a non-committal, “Alright,” but today I said, “I’m hungry.”

“Good!” Watson looked as pleased as though he’d won a bet on his favourite horse. “I’ll get your breakfast.”

“Can I get up?”

“When I get back.” He went out the door. I rubbed my forehead. I felt better than I had for days, but still painful. Doctor Watson was soon back with a tray which he placed on the little table beside the bed, under the window. He set the spoon beside the bowl and said, “I’ll just look at your back while that’s cooling.”

He sat down on the bed and felt my forehead, prodding gently with his fingers over my left eye. He pressed with his thumb and I winced. “Doctor Watson?”

“Yes?”

“I’m… not going to see out of my eye properly, am I?”

Watson was quiet for a long moment. Then he drew his hands away and said, “No. You won’t. You’ve damaged your brain up there where you can feel it hurting. It’s affected your left eye and you’ve lost the sight in it. The infection didn’t spread to your other eye though, and I think it’s as healed as it will ever be.”

A long silence, during which I pinched bits of the blanket between my finger and thumb. Half-blind. That was what it ended up as. “Half-blind.”

Watson put his hand on my shoulder. “It’s not as bad as that, Kit. It shouldn’t affect your life too much; you just need to be careful of your left side, that’s all.”

“I’m still half-blind,” I said dully. “Fat lot of good that will be, being careful of my blind side.”

Watson looked at his hands and sighed. “Sit forward a bit.” He ran his hand up and down my back, asked, “Does this hurt?” several times and then thumped his fingers against the bandaging around my ribs. I was wearing an old nightshirt that had had the sleeves and hem trimmed so I didn’t drown in a mass of flannel, and Watson lifted the back of it to look at the healing whip marks. I tried to crane my neck and see them too, but Watson said, “Sit still. Your back is mending nicely. You’ll have a few permament marks, but your ribs should give you no trouble.”

I shivered, feeling the cool air on my bare back, and Watson smoothed the nightshirt back down again. “That’s done. Now, eat your breakfast.”

I did so, and afterwards, when Doctor Watson came to take the tray away, I asked him again, “May I get up?”

He smiled, his moustache twitching. “Yes, you may. Just wait a minute.” He disappeared with the tray and was soon back. “Gently,” he admonished, as I swung my legs over the side of the bed and stood up for the first time in weeks. It felt like months. I swayed a little, my arms stretched out to the sides to keep my balance. Taking a step forward, I felt my mouth curl into an idiotic grin.

“I’m up!”

Watson grinned. “You are. And I think you’d better sit down before you tire yourself out.”

“Oh, I’m not tired!” All the same, I sat down on the bed again, pushing back the sleeves on the nightshirt to reach up and scratch my head. At the same time I noticed something. “My hair’s got long.” I felt it in surprise, and saw that it was almost on my shoulders. “Too long.”

“It needs cutting.” This was a new voice, and I looked up to see Mr Homes in the doorway. He grinned at me. “You’re up, Kit, that’s good.”

I grinned back at him, a little hesitantly. “It’s nice.”

“I’d say your hair was an improvement,” Watson said, eyeing my head critically. “What do you think, Holmes?”

Holmes said nothing, only shook his head, still smiling.

“I like it short,” I said firmly. “Can I have some scissors?”

“I’ll do it for you,” Holmes said. Watson and I both looked at him in surprise. He raised an eyebrow and made a little movement of his head that seemed to show contemptuous loftiness for our amazement. I hid a smile.

“Very well,” Watson said. “You can use the blanket from the bed. I’ll be off now, I have a few patients that need seeing too.” He went out, and I heard him go down the stairs, greet Mrs Hudson and close the front door.

Mr Holmes brought a chair in and began rummaging in a drawer. “Sit down, Kit,” he said, dropping handkerchiefs, bits of paper and a pipe onto the floor. I sat down on the chair, the nightshirt hanging around me like a sack and hanging down almost to touch the boards.

Holmes took the blanket from the bed and laid it on the floor. Then he began combing my hair, gently teasing out the knots and snarls. His touch was light and his fingers deftly parted my hair, avoiding the bruises still there. It was very quiet; the only sounds were the traffic outside. A dog barked, and someone shouted, “Warnuts, warnuts, warnuts, fine war-r-r-r-nuts!” but they were muted, faraway. The house was quiet and still, and the comb made very tiny rustles as it made its laborious way through my tangles.

“Tell me what happened when Bird took you.” Mr Holmes spoke so quietly, his voice seemed as tiny as dust mote dancing in a ray of sunlight. “Tell me, Kit.”

So I told him. I told him everything; how Li and Sherringford had come to find me, how we had been caught, of the whippings, Sherringford’s disappearance, that last, terrible beating, Li’s death and how it had ended. Telling it, it sounded much less horrible than it had been. It was as though mere words, knowing they could never capture it properly, watered it down and made it lighter and less real, so they could master it after all.

After I had finished, there was a long silence. Mr Holmes laid down the comb and took up the scissors. Bits of dark brown hair fell off my shoulders and into my lap. “Kit,” he said slowly. “Did Bird… ”

“What?”

“… hurt you?”

I turned around and stared at him. “Sir?”

Mr Holmes closed his eyes and took a small breath. Then he opened them again and muttered, “Delicacy. A fate worse than death hardly covers it.”

“Oh.” I looked at my hands and began matching up my fingers with each other. Left thumb with right thumb, left first finger with right first finger. “I don’t… think so.”

“Pray be more specific,” he said, so sharply that I flinched.

“I don’t think he did.” I said carefully. “I forget.”

“How can - ” He broke off abruptly, and there was a small, tense silence that I was not sure whether to break or not. I looked down at the stray snips of hair on my knees and reached up to scratch my head. My finger encountered a bruise, and I snatched it down again. “I’ve nearly finished,” Mr Holmes said, and he began cutting again. Neither of us spoke until my hair was cropped short all over my head.

“It’s all short.” I ran my hand through it curiously.

“That was the point of cutting it.”

“… and clean.”

“That is a novelty.”

I peered around at him. He blew a few loose hairs off the scissors and placed them back on the table. I got off the chair carefully, stepping around the clips of hair on the floor, and sat back on the bed. Mr Holmes rolled up the sheet with its bundle of hair and went into the sitting room. I heard the rattle of the poker, and then a strong, strange, burning smell.

“What’s that smell?” I asked as he came back in.

“Your hair. I’m burning it.”

I leaned back against the wall and looked at the ceiling. The bed creaked as Mr Holmes sat on the edge. “What happens now?” I asked, still looking at the ceiling.

“Now?”

“Now that I’ve told you what Bird did.”

Holmes face was impassive as ever, but his eyes were cold shards of steel. “Now we find Bird.”



---


And so on, towards the stars from the mud.