(Wrote then totally forgot to post yesterday - still getting the hang of this writing every day again thing)
Written in 30 minutes only, based on these prompts (I know they are six word stories but Iâm not using them that way this month - maybe another time).
Not read through since and completely unedited iâm trying to turn these things into a coherent story. Letâs see what happensâŚ.
Unwritten
âWhat did Prudence tell you?â Sherlock asked as he came in, more suitably attired though his expression was curious, bordering on nosy.
âNone of your concern,â Mycroft said but he said it with the knowledge Sherlock was not going to let it rest.
âWas it about the letters?â Sherlock asked.
âWhat letters?â Mycroft asked before he thought through the consequences of giving Sherlock any attention.
Sherlock did look smug. He looked around, then lowered his voice.
âI found them in the fireplace in the old nursery,â Sherlock said.
And of course Sherlock had to show him The letters were charred, crumbling at the edges. Letters was an overstated description as, given the size of the scraps that remained, there was very little writing. In the corner of one was a single letter âgâ in another the word âtheâ. The letters and words were curiously placed â blank space surrounding the legible words.
âDo you think they were using invisible ink?â Sherlock asked.
Mycroft nearly laughed but then he realised Sherlock was serious. And as deductions went it wasnât necessarily a bad one. At least Sherlock had recognised the spacing was unusual and was trying to find a solution to match that fact.
âI donât think so,â Mycroft said. âIt looks more like ââ
âWhat?â Sherlock asked, after a second.
âMycroft!â he prompted.
Mycroft shook his head.
âNothing,â he said.
Sherlock frowned at him.
âNothing nothing,â he said which was the kind of sentence he knew Mycroft hated and was the sole reason he used it.
Myrcoft just shrugged.
âSee if you can figure it out,â he told Sherlock. Hopefully that would keep his brother focused on the papers and out of other trouble he could easily fall into. This case seemed a little more serious than heâd first thought and under no circumstances did he want Sherlock trying to uncover some kind of conspiracy.
It was time to let the officials take over. Â
Clash
Mycroft had not ever had need to visit the police station before and so he was unsure as to how to go about it. Heâd gotten the story of the poisoning out of Sherlock which gave Sherlock an excuse to demonstrate how much heâd been eavesdropping which was how he knew that Aunt Florenceâs husband had died in suspicious circumstances, how poison had been suspected but never proved, how Aunt Florence was under the impression that it would not be long before she too would succumb to arsenic or cyanide.
Sherlock told it all with relish but he kept, to Mycroftâs surprise, largely to the facts with little embellishment though his recital had half an acting troupes worth of drama injected into it. Sherlock liked an audience.
Mycroft sifted through the information heâd learnt from his brother and from Prudence, as well as his own impressions of the house. It would do to present the facts in an orderly manner with only the relevant information being passed over to the force. Anything else might confuse matters.
Mycroft tapped a finger idly against his sleeve, as he counted out the main facts. Aunt Florence had a warmer than usual room, a room warmer than the rest of the house, a room warm enough that the snow melted just a little quicker above her window. Prudence had seen letters delivered by a man who was not the regular postman. Sherlock had found â
âMr Holmes?â
Mycroft brushed invisible dust off his jacket and nodded at a lean, imperious man with a set of mobile eyebrows. His eyes were dry and a little red but Mycroft supposed that was to be expected since the man had a young child and a poorly wife back home. Mycroft held out a hand but the inspector ignored it.
âGot some information for us?â he asked. He didnât sound pleased by the fact.
âA couple of things I noticed,â Mycroft began but the inspector just sniffed.
âWe donât have time for things everyone has noticed.â
Mycroft raised an eyebrow.
âHow old are you boy?â
Mycroft was perhaps not that advanced in years but he also was clearly too old to be referred to as boy. The taunt stuck in his throat and choked his next words into an indignant squeak rather than the dignified response heâd wanted it to be.
âI donât see how thatâs either here nor there,â he answered.
The inspector shook his head.
âEverybody thinks they are a detective now,â he said. âWeâre working on the case. Personally I think your aunt is hysterical. Happens. Husband dies, sad enough, but now sheâs seeing conspiracies everywhere. Weak constitution thatâs what it is.â
Aunt Florence was dramatic and Aunt Florence tended to get wrapped up in her own thoughts. But Mycroft judged her to more shrewd than she let on. Her weakness was her form of control.
âPerhaps,â he said shortly. âBut the letters are ââ
âWeâve looked at those. Nothing there. Now if that was all -?â
He didnât wait long enough for Mycroft to have replied if heâd wanted to. Mycroft watched him go thoughtfully. Perhaps Aunt Florence was merely a hysterical woman with a weak constitution.
Written in 30 minutes only, based on these prompts (I know they are six word stories but Iâm not using them that way this month - maybe another time).
Not read through since and completely unedited iâm trying to turn these things into a coherent story. Letâs see what happensâŚ.
Aunt Florence was indisposed upstairs which left it to Mycroft to send Sherlock up to his room to put fresh clothes on. While he waited in the drawing room for Sherlock to reappear he listened. Sherlock, for all his enthusiasm, couldnât yet be still or patient enough to just stop and listen, and so heâd probably missed the way the rhythm of the house was off-beat.
It wasnât just that Aunt Florence was declining to leave her bedroom, or the fact the cook had left. Â The remaining servants were jumpy and distracted. Their footsteps outside in the hall were quick, harried. The surfaces of the dining room had been dusted but only cursorily and he could see the flicked trails the duster had made. The curtains had been opened hastily, and unevenly. The fire in the grate had been allowed to burn too low.
All in all it wasnât really unexpected when the girl â Prudence, remembered â split tea down the side of the table. Her hands had been shaking so badly Mycroft had half stood to assist her but he was a moment too late.
âIâm so sorry sir!â she exclaimed. Her voice shook as she wiped the spill with the edge of a sleeve.
âI wonât tell,â Mycroft told her, but he poured his own tea. The cup had a chip. Second best crockery coming out. He wondered if that was a deliberate slight or absent-mindedness. Given McCreadyâs opinion of his brother, but also the state of the rest of the house it could have been either.
Prudence noticed the fire and began to tend to it.
âItâll warm up soon,â she said apologetically and made to leave. She stopped at the door and looked back with a slight frown; sheâd been eyeing him thoughtfully and what she probably thought was subtly.
Prudence examined Mycroft, obviously and considerably sceptically. Mycroft had a more solid build, a squarer jaw, hair that was blonde rather than brown and eyes that were bluer to Sherlockâs cool grey. Mycroft could catch their resemblance in the family nose, the tilt of their eyebrows and the shape of their hands, but he was well aware it wasnât something that the general public noted as easily. As demonstrated by the first time he tried to take Sherlock out for an afternoon from school. Though quite why anyone would want to kidnap Sherlock he did not know.
Prudence seemed a little put out, fiddling with the edges of her apron.
âI thought you might be one of those detectives. Like Dupin. You know.â
She shrugged apologetically.
âIâll just leave you sir.â
Mycroft sighed. Sheâd gotten herself ready to talk and it was likely she wouldnât get the courage back.
âWhat did you want to say?â he asked. âTo the detective I mean,â he clarified at her startled expression.
âOh itâs probably nothing,â Prudence said, self-conscious. She was still picking at her apron. âItâs just I was the one doing the curtains and the mistress was upstairs with one of her headaches so I was a little late and when I looked out I saw the postman. âcept he wasnât the postman. I thought that was a bit strange.â
âWhen was this?â Mycroft asked.
âThat morning,â Prudence said with a shudder that was at least half affected. She shared Sherlockâs interest in the macabre â no wonder sheâd opted to remain. âAnd he had all our letters like. But our normal postman is smallish. Cookâs a bit sweet on him. But this guy was huge. A giant. But he had all our letters. I donât know. I just thought it was strange.â
She looked at him.
âIt is a coincidence,â Mycroft said slowly, unwilling to say anymore. âIâll pass it on to the officials.â
Prudence nodded, though she seemed to want to say something else. Before she could say anything more however her name echoed down the corridor: the hails of an irate McCready. She shrugged off whatever her concern had been and darted off.
Mycroft stared into the fire thoughtfully. A postman and some snow. It wasnât much to go on but â
But it wasnât his concern. Heâd find out who was in charge of the investigation and heâd pass it on to them. No need to get involved. Â
It had been approximately five minutes since the last world-changing event hit them, so they were probably due another one. Jason's statement was probably earth-shattering but neither he nor Will appreciated that and just stared at him slightly blankly. Jason sighed in relief and sank back slightly into the cushions.
"Is that bad?" Will asked.
"No," said Jason. "That's good. That's really good."
Nico wasn't sure if it was just him or whether Jason really wasn't making much sense. He glanced at Will, but Will was just surreptitiously examining Jason, in med-student and doctor to the mob mode.
"Did -" Jason paused. He looked at Will as though trying to figure out how to phrase something.
"Luke never mentioned it," Will said, acting more composed than he must have been feeling. "Nico can you get that notebook?"
Nico got up to did that, leaving Will examining a cut on Jason's arm.
"How did you get this?" Will asked, as Nico padded away. Nico stopped listening. He didn't want to know. He couldn't know.
Everywhere around him the protective bubble he'd been forming  was fracturing and cracking. The world was pushing in, reality was coming for him. But why was this his reality? Why couldn't whatever drama his father and Jason's father were involved in just leave them all alone? Why couldn't he just have a boyfriend and worry about paying the rent and who was going to wash the dishes.
Actually, that was never really a worry. They both knew who would always end up doing the dishes.
He glanced at the date jar as he picked up Will's notebook. It had been only an hour or so since they'd been happily, soppily, writing down ideas for dates like a normal - sickeningly sweet - couple. Now it felt like a lifetime away. It felt like they had two different lives, two different personas - crisis and normality.
Normality hadn't lasted long and they had more experience with crisis. In the long hours of night that stretched out into time spent in the dark reaches of dark thoughts, deep worries that he usually shoved to the back of his head, he sometimes wondered if he and Will could cope without secrets, without drama, without crisis. If he closed his eyes and thought really hard he could maybe, just about see the two of them with a house and a car and proper jobs, maybe even kids. But the picture was hazy. The picture was hard to reach.
The picture might scare him a little.
He knew Will liked him, and liked him a lot. You didn't stay with someone who's family and family friends had tried to kill you, unless you liked them a lot. He knew that Will was loyal. He knew that despite Will's habit of picking up habits - even healthier eating, going to the gym, no tv days - and dropping them a week later, Will was loyal. He stayed, come rain or shine. Will was one of those people who didn't shy away from forever.
Nico couldn't say the same for himself.
Case in point: Austin. Nico had finally managed to convince Will he wasn't overthinking the secret brother. He'd then managed to convince himself he wasn't other-thinking the secret brother. Mostly convince himself anyway.
It wasn't the secret side of it he was over thinking this time, but the family aspect. And okay maybe the secret side. But not in the same sense as before: he had changed, no matter the looks Jason might give him. But Will's loyalty to his foster brother despite not seeing him in years, how torn up Will's life had become because of the past, because of those secrets - well that was something Nico was over thinking. Will had made it clear he didn't blame Nico for the possible actions of his father, the definite actions of Jason's father, Percy's father.
But would that hold? Would Will's loyalty hold?
And if Will was so loyal would there be a time when he went back to Luke?
No. Nico was not going down that path again. He wasn't.
He picked up the notebook just as Will called out to ask what was taking so long, and for a glass of coke and a pack of cookies. He assumed the coke and the cookies were for Jason, so he picked up the remains of packet of oreos - Jason's favourite and carried it all the into the living room.
He put everything down on the coffee table and Jason took an oreo. That was good. Jason looked too thin.
Will picked up the notebook, weighing it briefly in his hands before flipping the pages over, scanning his writing as though something might job a memory, a synapse might spark and he might suddenly unlock the secrets of the universe.
"Nothing," Will said with a shrug. The notebook seemed heavy in his palms.
"Something in here might help anyway," he said, holding it out to him. Jason reached out with a certain amount of reverence. He read, quickly and his expression changed. Sympathy? Wonder? Slight suspicion. Nico couldn't read Jason as well as he used to.
He wondered if he should have stopped Will giving Jason the book, but it was too late now anyway. And anyway Jason wasn't a threat. He had to stop letting his father get to him.
They'd already eaten, but they had a second dinner because of the unspoken agreement between him and Will that Jason needed to eat. With the lights on and Will making jokes, most of them at Nico's expense (Nico didn't mind because they were drawing smiles out of Jason, and then good-natured teasing out of Jason), Jason started looking more Jason like.
Midway through the evening, Jason and Will began ganging up on Nico's relationship with vegetables. Nico quickly diverted them with a question about Thalia.
"Won't talk about what happened," Jason said with a sigh. "But doing alright. She and Piper are getting on great. Always ganging up on me though."
"Gee," Nico said and he didn't think he'd ever felt the sarcasm dripping from his tongue so venomously, "I wonder how that feels."
Will just laughed; Jason pointed out how many nutrients aubergine had in with a beatific smile.
"That may be," Nico said, poking a piece with his fork. "But I hate the texture."
"I have to sneak vegetables in," Will said. "Like you have to do for little kids."
"I seem to recall earlier you saying how much you liked my spaghetti dear," Nico said. "And I put vegetables in that. You just have terrible taste in healthy stuff."
Jason went home with a bit of colour in his cheeks. After Nico shut the door behind him, and bolted it, he looked at Will, in the kitchen and staring into space.
"You didn't have to give Jason the notebook," Nico said softly. "That was a nice thing."
Will nodded. He pressed the thumb of one hand into the palm of the other. It was a nervous habit he'd only picked up very recently.
"It'll probably help," he said with a shrug. "And besides it will probably all come out at some point anyway."
He looked resigned. Nico wanted to get rid of that look but he didn't know how, not when he himself was resigned too.
Would they even survive without secrets?
He either needed to sleep, or a distraction. He glanced at his watch, Will noticed.
"Picnic tomorrow," he said. "First day of the rest of our lives doing the important stuff and all that."
Nico nodded.
"Are you saying early night?"
"Early night for you would be about 3am given how late you woke up," Will teased.
"It wasn't that late!" Nico protested, poking him in the ribs. Will giggled, squirming. He was extremely ticklish. It gave Nico the edge in arguments when Will had the edge with his sarcastic dears and loves and sweethearts melted Nico into butter outside in a heatwave. Will had not yet worked out that Nico was equally, and possible even more, ticklish. It was one secret he intended to keep from Will until he was cold in his grave.
Still giggling Will moved back, out of reach.
"I was just going to suggest Mario Kart," he said. "I'm not tired yet and aside from our super romantic rom-com picnic, we don't have much to do tomorrow."
"I'll take you up on that," Nico said. "Providing I get to be Luigi."
"You can be Luigi if you get there first," Will offered, sprinting away to the living room as he spoke.
"Come back cheat!" Nico called, running after him.
The next day dawned fair and warm: perfect picnic weather. Will, full of visions of checked blankets and wicker baskets searched for both despite knowing full well they'd never owned either of those items. He was debating going out to find them and whether amazon could same day delivery them and whether that was even a thing, or he'd dreamt it, when the doorbell went.
Will still deep in picnic planning land, ignored it. Nico drinking coffee and eating this morning's pancakes (Will was apparently very serious about big, important breakfasts - not that Nico was complaining) had to get up. He was expecting Jason, maybe Percy or Cecil. Lou Ellen even. He certainly wasn't expecting Thalia.
"Hey," she said, quietly hands shoved deep into the pockets of her jeans. "Jason gave me your address. I wanted to bring this back."
She took Will's notebook out of her jacket pocket.
Nico nodded. Then remembered they were both standing opposite sides of the doorway.
"Right," he said. "Come in?"
Thalia picked up on his tone.
"Won't stay long," she assured him. "I know you two are probably busy. I just wanted to ask Will something."
Nico pursed his lips, sour and irritated. He tried to shove it down but it was a pressure behind his eyes, a heat in his blood.
Thalia went through into the living room where Will was still at the laptop, staring with slight horror at the prices of picnic hampers.
"Hey," she said. "Thalia. Jason's sister."
"I remember," Will said. "From the party?"
Thalia and Will hadn't interacted much. Thalia, strangely, seemed unsure and she nodded, picking at a silver thread along the hem of the jacket. She didn't sit down, just stood uncomfortable and thoughtful in the centre of the room. Will closed the laptop.
"Brought this back," Thalia said, handing the notebook to Will. "Jason copied it all out. He said you wouldn't mind?"
Will shook his head.
"I suggested it."
Thalia nodded again. The thread was getting longer as she played with it, winding it tight around her finger.
"You knew Luke fairly well?"
Will looked down at the table, quiet now too. Nico suddenly got the impression he wasn't necessarily an important part of the conversation. He faded, as unobtrusively as he could into the kitchen. He could still hear them talking, could still jump in and rescue Will or kick Thalia out if things got too much. Could still eavesdrop.
He closed his eyes and took a breath. Sometimes he really hated his inner self.
"I guess," Will said. "I mean as much as anyone. He just kept to himself really. Didn't say much to anyone or have much to do with anyone."
"No," Thalia said softly. "I knew him. He trusted you. I can tell from the things he told you."
Will looked down at his hands.
"It was a business relationship really," he said. "But he must have cared about you. I haven't seen him or contacted him in a couple of months and he still texted me the other day to make sure you were okay."
Thalia was pale, furious, upset, hurt. It was a mix of emotions Nico was intimately acquainted with and for the first time in a very long time he felt a flash of kinship to Thalia.
"See," she managed. "He trusts you."
She shrugged, pulled her jacket more closely around herself.
"He wasn't always terrible you know," she said. "Even now I'm sometimes not sure he's wrong. I just wish he -"
She broke off, shaking her head.
"Thanks for answering. I know it's probably not something you want to dwell on."
Will didn't deny that.
"Any time," he said.
Nico showed Thalia out. At the door she paused.
"I know you didn't want this," she said. "But I thought maybe now?"
Out of her pocket she pulled a mythomagic card. It was a rare version of Hades. It was the card Thalia had brought back from their road trip, the card Bianca had gotten for him.
He swallowed the lump in his throat, ignored the heat in his eyes. He managed to reach out a hand to take it.
"Thanks," he said quietly.
Thalia, didn't acknowledge it. That was fine: he didn't want her to. Acknowledging him would also mean she acknowledge how rigidly he was holding himself, how hard it had been to get the words out at all. She just turned and left.
Back in the living room Will had opened up the laptop again and was back on the hunt for picnic hampers.
"We don't need a hamper," Nico said, forcing himself back to normality, back to that persona. "I mean how often are we going to picnic?"
"We should do it every weekend," Will said. Nico have him a look.
"Yeah, yeah," he said, forestalling Nico's comment. "I know. We'll probably do it twice and then it will rain and then we'll be busy and then -"
Nico sighed. Will was right, but suddenly he realised that he'd also been picturing their picnic with a hamper. Will's stupid romanticism was rubbing off, catching like the dreaded lurgy.
"We'll go today with a boring old carrier bag," he said. "And then we can look in some junk shops. I'm sure a thrift store somewhere will have a hamper."
Will grinned at him.
"What?" Nico said.
"You are a romantic!" he said with a grin.
"It's your fault," Nico grumbled. "I'm pandering to you and some of your stupid ideals are rubbing off."
Will just grinned, not taking Nico seriously at all. Nico wondered how seriously he'd meant it. He'd never had the opportunity to be romantic before. It had been so much easier to be a cynic.
"I'll start packing the food," Will said. "See if you can find something to sit on. It doesn't have to be checked."
They had plenty of blankets. Nico folded one up on the fourth attempt and then they were out in the warm spring air. Birds sung, road rage was at a minimum. It was a lovely day.
In the park there were plenty of other picnic-ers: other couples, families with small children running happily across the grass. Nico watched them blankly. Was that his future? Or was his future darker, did his future involve an endless array of Luke's and Ares's and echoed gunshots in his head.
He honestly didn't know which he wanted, which scared him more. And that scared him.
"I'll just do all this myself shall I?" Will asked, teasingly as he shook the blanket out. Nico looked up at Will, blonde hair a bright halo on the warm day.
What are you scared about? he asked himself.
He didn't have the answer.
"I was just waiting for you to get the blanket down," Nico said, equally teasing. "Not my fault you're slow."
They talked. They watched clouds. They did everything they were supposed to do on a romantic picnic. But Will didn't seem to be as present as he might have been. Given how excited Will had been about the whole thing, his distractedness worried Nico. He got an explanation without warning, as Will stirred a pot of honey he'd been spreading on a slice of bread.
"Thalia's right," he said, watching the spoon go round and round. "Luke did trust me."
Nico had no idea what to say. He had no idea where Will's train of thought had come from, even less where it was going.
"Did you trust him?" he asked.
Will sighed.
"You know what," he said. "I did. At least to the extent that he would continue to pay me and continue to ensure I was as out of danger as possible."
"When I met him," Nico said. "He seemed okay. I think that was one of the things that really bothered me. He does all these terrible things, but he just stood there and seemed okay."
Will was quiet.
The spoon went round and round.
"You know," Will said quietly. "I sometimes wonder if he has done terrible things."
Nico really didn't know how to answer that one. He couldn't think of a single thing to say that wasn't Luke is evil!
"I mean what do we really know? Your father and Jason's father don't like him. He attacked them. But they also attack him. We don't know who is right."
"Luke's the mob," Nico said, frustrated, but he knew he was mostly frustrated with himself. Because Will was making sense. He didn't want Will to make sense. He didn't want things to get messier. He didn't want to find out just how loyal Will was.
"Yes but," Will said gently, "-and please don't take this the wrong way but - how do we know you're dad isn't. Jason's father isn't?"
If it were a gang fight, a turf war, if it was one version of a mob against another version of the mob would that make it better or worse?
If it was would Will pick Luke? Would Nico pick his own father?
"I -" Nico said. But then he shook his head. "Maybe you're right."
"I didn't mean to rock the boat," Will said. "Or ruin the picnic. But we don't know anything. I gave Jason the notebook because maybe we need to go back a bit. Figure out what happened in the past. Figure out who's right now. Maybe that's the only way we get out."
"That doesn't sound like getting out," Nico said, through gritted teeth. "That sounds like getting into it."
"Wasn't that your idea?" Will asked. "Getting into it to get out of it?"
"My idea largely involved neither of us getting hurt!" Nico snapped.
There was a beat of silence. Will put down the spoon. Nico played with the ring on his finger.
"We won't," Will said.
"You can't promise that," Nico said.
"No," Will said. "I guess I can't. But I can't promise we won't get hurt anyway. Ignoring everything, not being angry, it was okay before. But now Austin's here, and you're here and everything that goes with your dad and Jason's dad is here. I think now not being mad is making it worse. Ignoring it all is making it worse. Kayla's strong, she's doing okay. I don't have to worry about upsetting her."
"What about upsetting yourself?" Nico asked softly.
Will looked up at him, expression suddenly so much it made Nico dizzy.
"I've got you," Will said. "I know you'll be there."
Nico swallowed. He couldn't look up. It wasn't an I love you, the words weren't even close, but they carried the same tone, the same weight.
"And I've got Jason and Percy and Annabeth and Piper, and Lou Ellen and Cecil and -" Will added with a grin, completely and totally ruining the moment. Or maybe the way his eyes gleamed made it better. Either way Nico lent forward and kissed him.
"You have us," he agreed. It wasn't an I love you, but he hoped it carried the same tone, the same weight.
January Writing Challenge - The Banker & Snow Birds
(Iâm slowly catching up)
Written in 30 minutes only, based on these prompts (I know they are six word stories but Iâm not using them that way this month - maybe another time).
Not read through since and completely unedited iâm trying to turn these things into a coherent story. Letâs see what happensâŚ.
The Banker
Mycroft stepped out into the street, as a policeman stepped up to the house. The policeman nodded at Mycroft as he stepped up to the door. Mycroft gave it no further thought as he headed down the street. Snow had turned to a brownish slush, horizontal tracks carving the centre of the road. As Mycroft hurried across, timing his crossing between a young man on a horse and a cab.
His own rooms were in a shabby but reasonably respectable street as befitting a minor secretary. They were at a close enough distance to Westminster that his daily commute could be timed to a pretty much perfectly exact twenty-three minutes once heâd factored in all the usual chaos of the city. Â While it was close to Sherlockâs school so he could, when he was feeling particularly familial, he could visit his brother, it was a long was away from his aunt Florenceâs.
He hailed a cab once he got to James Street, because the short walk cut his overall journey time by at least eight minutes. In the back of the cab he reflected on the chaos Sherlock was, against explicit instructions, no doubt causing as well-meaning intent and natural curiosity merged to create a larger than normal nuisance. He only hoped that Sherlock wouldnât push Aunt Florence over the edge â his rooms consisted of a single room with a single bed and he simply refused to have Sherlock camping out on his floor.
Jenkins hailed him as he entered, catching his arm with an entreating expression. Jenkins worked at one of the great city banks and was an amicable enough fellow lodger in that he was quiet and regular in his habits. He and Mycroft had the woes of a career entry and wilfully stupid or stupidly wilful employers and seniors in common, and Jenkins was, if not his sole friend in the house, than at least a familiar acquaintance.
They were not, as yet, so familiar that Mycroft expected to have his arm trapped in an entreating grip as soon as he stepped inside his building with thoughts on a cup of tea and a warm fire.
Jenkins was also a good deal more coherent than he was currently expressing. Mycroft steered him to an armchair and after some dull platitudes, Jenkins settled enough to finally tell his story. It was a minor problem â bribery and accusations of fraud in the bank that Jenkins was worried would cost him his position. Mycroft had heard enough about Jenkinâs co-workers and the inner-workings of the establishment that he had his suspicions as to the perpetrator before Jenkins offered his suspicions and further details.
And yet as Mycroft revealed the solution with the little pomp and circumstance he thought the simple observation deserved, Jenkins grasped him by the hand â a second unexpected liberty in under half an hour â and shook his hand vigorously. His eyes shone with emotion and his voice faltered as he thanked Mycroft in earnest.
âForget the government,â Jenkins said with a merry laugh when heâd come to the end of his complimentary gushing. âYouâd give those boys at Scotland Yard a run for their money.â
Mycroft screwed up his nose, with more Sherlock-like disgust than father-like propriety.
âI rather think not,â he said but it did bring his thoughts back to his brother. Heâd have to go back tomorrow to check on the state of Sherlockâs interventions in what was probably a small, though obviously distressing household mystery â he was serious about not wanting to have to house a homeless sibling for the remainder of the holidays.
 Snowbirds
A dull day at work was rounded off by the expected discussion as to what the holiday season had brought in terms of family visits. The wheels of the government were very slowly starting to grind again and the talk of the day had been lazy and simple as the upper ministers did their best to cling to the rosy glow of fires and full stomachs. The last of the mince pies and the final forlorn slices of Christmas cake were consumed, tea was taken. Paperwork was shuffled thoughtfully and then put in piles to be dealt with once those wheels had gained some more traction and the gentleman in charge of the country remembered they had jobs to do.
Myrcoft had managed to hide in the outer office of his ministerâs rooms for the majority of the day but he couldnât escape the banal how was your holiday talk and so he dutifully explained heâd been to see his father (which he had) and his brother (also true). He told them one or two tales of Sherlockâs impudence which got them onto the topic of the younger generation and how the various siblings, cousins and more distant relations of an age younger than the current youngest in the room (nineteen) were lazy and not applying themselves.
In fact it turned into somewhat of a competition as to who had the most, tastefully, shameful younger sibling and though Mycroft was sure he could quite easily had won, he let Kingsbury win with tails of a younger brother who wanted to be a playwright which got a collective shudder and murmurs of sympathy. Satisfied heâd distracted them from the fate of his mother by implying it was his connections to Sherlock he was mildly and aristocratically ashamed of, Mycroft excused himself by glancing at his pocket watch and declaring his intention to conduct one more familial visit to his brother before the school term resumed.
The snow had worn out its welcome so that the piles of frozen slush no longer held the same appeal, even to the most bright eyed of children. Snowball fights had ceased to be fun in a cold that seemed through gloves and layers. The birds up in the trees were miserable, hopping listlessly among snow laden branches and only speaking in mournful cries. The city appeared to be in much the same mood. The traffic plodded along down icy streets, pedestrians plodding with shoulders bent against the chill, heads low and cheeks red from being struck relentlessly by a ceaseless icy wind.
Despite all this Sherlock was out in his shirt sleeves, muddy slush seeping into his slippers as he peered up at the house with a contemplative expression that made him look a little simple which Mycroft rather gathered wasnât the effect Sherlock had been going for.
âWhatever are you doing?â Mycroft asked.
Sherlock, oblivious to Mycroftâs arrival despite the fact Mycroft had had to open and shut the slightly rusting gate which gave an shrill, grating creak as it moved, jolted and looked over his shoulder with a frown.
âMycroft,â he greeted unenthusiastically. âDonât usually see you twice in so many days. Are you well?â
Mycroft sniffed.
âQuite well,â he asserted. âBetter than youâre going to be if you continue standing out here. Get inside and put some proper clothes on.â
Sherlock scowled again. Petulance was such a common expression on his face Mycroft paid it no mind. Â
âIâve not been out here long,â he said. âYou donât have to worry so.â
âEvidentily,â Mycroft retorted, âI do. As lacking as you are in common sense, someone has to remind you not to be such a stupid louse.â
Sherlock bristled but a bid to watch the snow was all he gave in response. For purposes of shortening the conversation Mycroft did so, following Sherlockâs gaze.
âThere!â Sherlock said triumphantly, as a little clump fell from the roof.
âYes?â Mycroft asked wearily. He was in a heavy overcoat, good winter shoes and gloves, and he was still cold and thus impatient.
âDonât you see what that means?â Sherlock asked. His cheeks were ruddy, wind bitten but he barely seemed to notice in his excitement.
âYes,â Mycroft said. âBut unlike you Sherlock Holmes I do not care. Now can we please go inside?â
Sherlock was evidently put out, but he allowed Mycroft to push him down the path.
âThe cook left last night,â Sherlock commented as he pushed the front door. âSo I wouldnât get your hopes up for tea.â
It was a petty jab; revenge for Mycroft already having noticed the snow, or perhaps his lack of excitement about it. Either way Mycroft was ashamed to say it had worked as intended: his own cook was what could be expected for the moderate sum he paid to lodge in the house and heâd been looking forward to crumpets or maybe teacakes.
âI donât visit you just for the food,â Mycroft said instead but a scoff informed him that his brother did not believe him in the slightest.
(I know Iâm behind - surprise attack of a social life! I intend to catch up tomorrow...)
Written in 30 minutes only, based on these prompts (I know they are six word stories but Iâm not using them that way this month - maybe another time).
Not read through since and completely unedited iâm trying to turn these things into a coherent story. Letâs see what happensâŚ.
It was a matter of honour to him that he always conducted himself with more decorum than Sherlock. If he kept it up for long enough perhaps even a slither would travel into his brotherâs mannerisms through sheer osmosis.
Sherlock had confined himself to his room which, in typical Sherlock fashion, was strewn with papers and books and items of dubious origin and apparent interest. It was as though the contents of a small, obscure library and a junk shop had been upended with little abandon into the small, squarish room. It was enough to set Mycroftâs teeth on edge and his fingers twitched as he fought the compulsion to straighten the nearest piles of books.
His brother was sitting on the bed, long legs stretched out in front of him. He was reading a book, grey eyes narrowed as they flicked across the pages, too quickly.
âGood afternoon Sherlock,â Mycroft said pointedly.
Sherlock turned a page, pointedly.
âI know you are not reading that.â
âI donât need your comfort in this most distressing time,â Sherlock said, a little more sullen than usual.
âIf you intend to eavesdrop perhaps donât do it by such an obvious means as pretending to read,â Mycroft suggested. Sherlock huffed and threw the book aside.
âHow much did you hear?â Mycroft asked.
âAll of it. And I donât need â â
âYes, yes,â Mycroft said impatiently, waving Sherlockâs impetuousness away. âIâm well aware. I expect whatever ghoulish happenings have plagued our Aunt Florence are the distraction youâve been waiting for.â
Sherlock sniffed and crossed his thin arms, but mercifully did not respond.
âI merely wished to impress upon you the compliments of the season.â
âGo on then,â Sherlock said, rather shortly.
Mycroft raised an eyebrow.
âSeasons greetings,â he suggested, a little at a loss.
âLikewise,â Sherlock said with something of a sniff about his words.
There was a pause.
âWell then â â Sherlock said.
âIndeed,â Mycroft agreed.
They had had one conversation in all Sherlockâs fourteen years of life that could be classed by both of them as meaningful or even prolonged. It had been shortly before their motherâs death and had come as an equal surprise to both of them. It had not been replicated since.
âYou can go,â Sherlock said. âI feel suitably greeted.â
Sherlockâs keenness to get rid of him was neither new nor especially insulting but Mycroft didnât quite trust the way his brotherâs eyes had flicked over to a book the was open and half hanging off the window sill. Mycroft stalked over with a raised eyebrow and picked it up, smoothing out the crumpled page.
âPoisons Sherlock?â he asked. âFor heavenâs sake.â
Sherlock shrugged his shoulders, a sharp up and down. He was all angles and lines, a thin figure made thinner by his height. Despite the age difference it wouldnât be long before he overtook Mycroft and Mycroft considered himself tall.
A distant memory filtered to the surface.
âIs this what happened to the groundskeeperâs dog?â
Sherlock scowled.
âThat wasnât me,â he said, unconvincingly. âAnd the dog was quite alright in the end. It was just sleeping.â
He deigned to get up, only to snatch the book away.
âI thought,â he said with a shrug, âthat I could figure out what the poision might have been in. Aunt Florence is convinced sheâs near deathâs door but if I can convince her she didnât accidentally ingest any perhaps it will cheer her.â
There was a pause and they both assessed the likelihood of that statement.
âAt any rate it might persuade the Butler to stay,â Sherlock said. âHe was going to teach me card tells.â Â
âHow very charitable of you,â Mycroft said dryly. âI think Iâll leave you to it. I understand the police have been called? Donât get in their way.â
âArenât you curious?â Sherlock asked, frowning as he dropped back onto the bed, book limp in his hands. âYou could probably figure it out in half a second.â
âNo,â Mycroft said firmly. âI am not. Good day Sherlock. Donât go causing trouble.â
Written in 30 minutes only, based on these prompts (I know they are six word stories but Iâm not using them that way this month - maybe another time).
Not read through since and completely unedited iâm trying to turn these things into a coherent story. Letâs see what happensâŚ.
Part Two - Going Up
Mycroft looked around. If the house followed the typical layout for one of its size and location, then the first door to his left would be the front parlour. Perhaps he should wait there. And yet he didnât want to open doors unbidden. Sherlock might take great delight in snooping but one of them had to act like they had a semblance of manners.
Mycroft busied himself with taking off his gloves, slowly, and then his overcoat, equally slowly. As he draped the heavy, grey thing over his arm more shouting echoed in a hallway above and then a figure appeared at the top of the stairs. Under normal circumstances the woman he presumed to be Aunt Florence would be described as thin but recent events â whatever they may â had moved her towards gaunt. Her skin had a sallow tinge and was set, waxen like a candle and she clutched a silken handkerchief to her face.
She was supported by a strong armed woman with the air and the right sleeve of a housekeeper. She was a grim figure with a stiff expression that suggested it was only a strong desire not to lose her current position that kept her from rolling her eyes at her employer.
âThereâs a man downstairs Mrs McCready,â Aunt Florence commented waving a limp hand at Mycroft in a gesture that disguised command in a weak, lethargy. âSpeak with him. I donât feel up to it.â
There was another thud â a door going again. Mrs McCready stared at Mycroft with a blank expression that said more than she could have otherwise said.
âLooks awful young to be police,â Mrs McCready said with a sniff.
âI think thereâs been some misunderstanding,â Mycroft answered, politely as he could since Mrs McCready didnât like him and Aunt Florence didnât look strong and neitherâs position would be improved by him pointing out his dress was not normal for a policeman and that their assumption was a completely erroneous one to the point of silliness.
âIâm Mycroft,â he said.
âHolmes,â he added when expressions of recognition were notably absent. There was another pause. âSherlockâs brother.â
Realisation dawned, better late than never.
âSherlock,â Aunt Florence said. âOf course. This must be very distressing for him.â
Mrs McCready failed to keep her face in check at that asinine comment. Her views of Sherlock aligned more closely to Mycroftâs, who felt that whatever had caused such excitement in the house would be a cause for excitement rather than distress for his dearest and luckily only sibling.
âPerhaps Master Mycroft will be a source of comfort to him in this distressing time,â Mrs McCready suggested dryly. Her eyes were fixed on a painting in the hall.
âYes, yes,â Aunt Florence said. âI donât feel up to it at all. In fact I think I need to lie down.â She wobbled with more sense of drama than genuine ill health, though Aunt Florence seemed to believe her own act, clutching with long, grasping fingers at her handkerchief as though it were a life preserver.
âYes Maâam,â was Mrs McCreadyâs only answer. She cast a glance over Mycroft, still holding his hat, his gloves, his coat.
âWho let you in? Has no one taken your things?â
Evidentially not, but Mycroft held his tongue. He didnât know the girlâs name, and even if he did he wasnât sure if he wanted to give it up to the severe housekeeper.
âThatâs that Prudence that is,â Mrs McCready continued. âMind like a sieve. Sheâs got no business answering doors anyway. Put your things down; you had better come up.â
With that she steered the pale faced figure of his aunt off down the hall, perhaps forgetting in a sieve like manner herself, that he didnât know the way.
It was usually not wise to theorise without proper data, but Mycroft was beginning to form tentative conclusions. Sherlock, he mused as he headed up stairs that were collecting dust at the edges of the carpet, was probably in his element.
Written in 30 minutes only, based on these prompts (I know they are six word stories but Iâm not using them that way this month - maybe another time).Â
Not read through since and completely unedited iâm trying to turn these things into a coherent story. Letâs see what happens....
Part One - First StepÂ
Mycroft Holmes had been gifted with a brother at the age of eight. Gifted was the term his family and school teachers had used. Mycroft had his own views of how much of a gift Sherlock was. As a baby Sherlock had screamed and cried. His first step had ended in a tumble and a curtain yanked from the wall. Once he became mobile he became more of a nuisance and he only got more irritating as he learnt to talk.
Fourteen years later and he didnât think heâd once succeeded in successfully quietening his brother. There were periods, of course, when Sherlock was silent, but these were often accompanied by intense and misdirected study and dubious activities. Sherlock did possess some intelligence which made the fact he tended to be a complete and total moron a case of insult to injury.
But it was New Year, a time for family, and in his new position as secretary to a middle ranking political figure he was beginning to feel the pressures of the job. It wasnât the work that was a problem â that was simplicity to the point of boredom. No, it was all that that went with it, the polite conversation that hit veiled barbs.
Even that might have been okay but Mycroft, who knew more about them than their respective partners or closest family would ever know without trying, was coming to the realisation that people were trying to read him.
It first came to light when Simmons asked him, ever so casually as they happened to meet in a corridor, where heâd be spending Christmas. It was a clumsy attempt to illicit information, but Mycroft learnt through it that people had been coming to conclusions about his family situation.
So here he was, trying to circumvent rumour by doing a little seasonal visitation.
Sherlock was staying with an aunt, who wasnât really an aunt at all but a distant relative tentatively attached to the Holmes family tree through a marriage. He tended to get shipped around during the holidays when the school no longer held him. Mycroft had not met this aunt before and the aunt had not met Sherlock. It was likely a factor in her charitable acquiescence to having a sullen teenager pervade her home over the Christmas season.
The front door was shiny, the paint new enough that the sharp smell was still faint in the air, overlaying the damp, bitter chill. He brought his hand up to the knocker â dull, scratched, beaten - raised it, and let it fall. He repeated the gesture twice more for emphasis, listening as the raps reverberated in the hall beyond.
He waited. The air was bitter. He drew his overcoat more firmly around him and counted the seconds. Three for someone to process the sound, another two to stop what they were doing and readjust.
He clasped his hands. Even through the thick leather gloves they were cold. Somewhere in the house a door shut with a slam. There was a hysterical voice, female, and the sound rose in a crescendo before sharply cutting off.
It had been three seconds longer than heâd anticipated now. Did he knock again? Another voice, female again but harsher and more guttural. Angry this one, not distressed. Something else slamming three times in quick successions, smallish but compact from the sound of the thuds.
It was at least six seconds now. He raised his hand to the knocker.
The door opened, and a girl about Sherlockâs age peered out. Her hair was falling out of her cap, wispy and untidy. Her skin was pale behind the two bright spots in her cheeks and her fingernails were recently bitten.
âHullo,â she said, before Mycroft could introduce himself. âYou had better come in.â
She turned, without waiting to see if Mycroft was following. Sheâd only opened the door a crack, and Mycroft pushed it open further affording him the first view of a hall cluttered by hat stands, plants, knick knacks and three large suitcases half blocking the already narrow passageway.
The girl had vanished.
âHello?â Mycroft called. âAunt Florence?â
There was no response. He shrugged to himself, steeled his shoulders and took a step inside, feet echoing on the black and white tiles. He pushed the door to behind him, but it was lighter than he expected and wrenched itself out of his grip and shut with an ominous and final sounding click.
Iâm trying to write every day this year and will be resuming writing every day. In line with this I will be resuming the month challenges.Â
To make it a little more challenging for myself Iâm having a monthly theme.Â
This month (partly because I just finished Mycroft Holmes by Kareem Abdul-Jabbar and Anna Waterhouse which I thorough enjoyed (will probably do a review soon) I am going with each day being a mini-chapter of a story with Mycroft as the main character.Â
Itâs more fanfiction of the original stories than on Kareem Abdul-Jabbar and Anna Waterhouseâs take, so you donât have to have read Mycroft Holmes to get this and there wonât be any spoilers of anything.Â
Iâm only giving myself 30 mins for each section so weâll see what happens.Â
I will still be doing other fanfictions and stories as well so look out for those. Next chapter of The Currency We Spent will be out on Saturday.Â
November Writing Challenge:Â http://writerswrite.co.za/november-writing-prompts/
Date: 5/11/2018
There were times when I thought Jack must be a freaking Guardian Angel. Today it was the coffee, piping hot and the perfect pick me up after a hellish morning arguing with everyone from my step-mum to the dog.
Jack got weird about all the jokes I made about his divine personality, and it was getting to the point where I was starting to wonder. I mean angels, that was kind of out there, but then again I was accidentally a superhero and Jack my kind of sidekick and we had our own resident supervillain. He was more ineffectual than ineffable and more terrible than terrifying but he was there. And I occasionally fought him. And he occasionally fought me. And then Iâd hand him over to the police and heâd sooner or later escape.
It was all pretty cartoonish.
But the point was that this was all in our tiny town. We were barely on the map. The highlight of our calendar this year was a performance by King â a terrible tribute band who attempted some Queen songs but had as much musical creativity as they had thinking up clever band names.
And if we had a supervillain and me and Jack, then who knew what else was out there in places big enough to have bigger problems and better heroes?
Angels. I was becoming more and more convinced angels were out there.
For Christmas I brought Jack a cheesy little angel ornament Iâd picked up in the local charity shop. It was a curious little place and the charity it collected for was a mystery â for all I knew it went into Mr Johansenâs pocket. (Note to self check Mr Johansen is running legitimate charity shop and not taking all the money to pay for the sports car he just brought).
It has such an odd mix of items inside, probably because weâre an odd little town. Despite being so small we have a very dedicated group of performers who do Pantomimes in the winter and serious business wordy plays in the summer. They often gave away jewelled capes, fancy hats, stripy trousers only to snatch them up again as they remembered that said jewelled cape would be perfect for side character four in the latest offering.
The hotel on the hill gave away any items that had been in their lost and found more than sixth months. That was always interesting because guests tended to flee screaming in the middle of the night, often leaving behind all sorts of belongings. Usually it was only clothes or the odd bit of costume jewellery but sometimes thereâd be something a bit more unusual. My personal favourite was a giant stuffed giraffe. It still stood in Mr Johansenâs store, and Mr Johansen insisted that was because no one wanted to buy it but we all knew it was because Mr Johansen had become attached to it. It now had scarves draped around its neck â Mr Johansen believed in hard work even if you were a stuffed giraffe.
The angel wasnât the weirdest find Iâd ever picked up there but it was absolutely perfect. A little too twee, a little too silly. Jack would hate it. And the whole point of a Secret Santa was to buy the worst present humanly possible. Jack would know it was me, but I also knew he had ended up with me because Jack was awful at keeping secrets and Iâd seen his little slip of paper. I knew Jack and was certain Iâd be getting tights and underwear, or maybe a mask or something else hilariously alluding to superheroes.
None of our other friends would get it, but Jack would have a good chuckle.
So the angel was more than fair play.
Jack went bright red when he opened it. He took it gingerly out of the box while everyone else cackled with glee. He glanced at me, his expression the visual dictionary definition of Iâm Going to Get You For That.
He didnât mention the angel after that and, unsurprisingly, he didnât put it pride of place on his windowsill no matter how much I suggested it would look perfect next to his model of the moon which heâd painted to look like the Death Star. Jack didnât take many of my suggestions seriously. He was rude like that.
Still the angel, simpering up at the viewer in what was supposed to be a cutesy way kept distracting me. Because apart from the hair which was completely the wrong colour, and factoring in the fact that Jack didnât wear flowing gowns and was no longer a grinning chubby infant (he used to be â his mum showed me the baby pics), the angel looked just like him.
Writing Challenge October Prompt from madebypernille (here)
Date: 24/10/2018
I was experimenting with first person because itâs usually not my thing but I accidentally really like this and now I want to write a book.Â
Hey so we might have a slight problem.
Slight problem was something I could probably handle. Compared to my experiences over the last few weeks anything up to about Defcon three would be handle-able. An unexpected battle in which an unexpected piece of shrapnel to my side had sent me reeling, pained and panicked, half way across the country to a random forest, teleporting gone haywire in an attempt to obey the one thought my brain had been able to conjure which (unfortunately) was away.
Iâd been forced to hide in a cottage in the woods with an old lady who in the olden days would have been classed the village mad woman. I donât know where she came from. After I limped out of her cottage, mostly better, she vanished and who knows where she went. While Iâd been in her tender care sheâd stuck green gloopy stuff on my side and told me not to move. She talked to her cat more than me. She communed with spirits using an old, cracked mirror hung on walls that smelt faintly of gingerbread (or maybe that was a product of my fevered imagination).
All in all, I was half convinced at some point I was going to end up in the oven.
I didnât. All was well and so when my best friend slash partner in crime(busting) texted me to say there was a slight problem, even given that their secondary powers were extreme understatement I felt I could handle it.
Iâll be back in a bit.
I went to slip the phone back into the pocket of my jeans but it buzzed almost straight away.
Not a good idea. Donât think your grannyâs heart is all that strong.
I didnât have enough energy to play guessing games. I sent a curt question mark and began hobbling forward again. Teleporting. Easy enough to do accidentally in the middle of a giant battle; really freaking hard to do when youâre trying to get home.
Ways Iâd teleported before? Imagining a door. Visualising a serene staircase and climbing it. Â Picturing the place I desired to go so hard my brain hurt. Screaming in frustration after trying for three hours and ending up half a mile down the road. Falling off a balcony. Well actually I was pushed off a balcony but it amounted to the same thing which was landing in my neighbours pool. It was a paddling pool. It hurt.
Lucky us magical super folk have super healing right?
Phone went again.
Everyoneâs at your house. For uh your wake. Everyone sort of thought you were dead.
I blinked at the message.
And you didnât correct everyone?
My fingers raced across the screen so clumsily I had to erase and rewrite significant portions before it was readable.
And tell them what? Youâre a superhero who can teleport so itâs all okay youâre probably not dead?
That, in all fairness was a point. It might even be a good point.
Fine, I texted back. Iâm still coming home. Meet me in the garden.
I closed my eyes. For some reason teleporting was a lot easier when I was emotional. I might even end up within a mile of where I was meant to be.
Writing Challenge October Prompt from madebypernille (here)
Date: 23/10/2018
âWhat would you do if your worst fear was right outside the door?â
Will, who had been winding a bandage around Nicoâs not particularly hurt wrist, paused.
âSorry?â
Ever since Nico had come up to the infirmary heâd been jittery and distracted. Will had got out the bandages without a word to the fact the tiny cut really didnât need much more than a wash. Now there was this.
âYour worst fear. Just, waiting outside your door. What would you do?â
Will went back to winding the bandage.
âIâm not sure,â Will said. âItâs not something Iâve ever thought about.â
Nico had been sitting very still, letting Will go about his work. Now he shifted, as though about to get up before remembering he was effectively pinned in by place by his hand in Willâs.
âI donât know,â Will continued. âIf I even know what my worst fear is.â
âI do,â Nico said.
He wasnât looking at Will.
âMine or yours?â Will teased gently, trying to ease the set of Nicoâs shoulders. It worked, then Nico glared, as though irritated it had worked, irritated Will knew him so well.
âMine,â Nico said. âThough I could guess yours.â
âGo on then,â Will said. âWhatâs my biggest fear?â
Nico suddenly gave a grin, a complete contrast to his manner moments before.
âThat would be telling,â he said.
He waved his hand.
âThanks for this,â he added with a slight smirk. Â
And out he went. Will packed up, thoughtful. What was that all about?
Writing Challenge October Prompt from madebypernille (here)
Date: 22/10/2018
No one ever survived a night in room 87. No one.
And yet somehow everyone always thought theyâd be the first. The latest visitor to the out of way motel was a blonde, with a sunny demeanour and too much optimism. It made him roll his eyes. The blonde noticed him right away, reflected in the mirror. To the blondeâs credit he didnât react beyond a subtle doubletake.
The blonde put his bags away. And then he was gone, probably off to the restaurant. Heâd be back. For how long he would be back for remained to be seen.
Nico was staring out the window when the blonde returned. Nico watched the reflection of the room in the glass, tracked the blonde as he made his way to the bed, sat down.
âHi.â
Nico blinked. The blonde wasnât on the phone. At the moment it was just the two of them.
âIâm Will.â
Nico turned.
âAre you talking to me?â he demanded.
He was one of those was he? The ones who had heard of the legend of room 87, who wanted to try their luck.
It was, to be fair, unusual that Will could actually see him.
But he still wasnât going to make it through the night. No one did.
âNo one else in the room,â Will answered with a small grin.
Nico just shook his head. He glanced at the clock. Will had been downstairs longer than he realised. Time was so odd now he was dead.
âYou need to go,â he said.
âDo I?â Will asked.
âLook thereâs no time to explain. You very much need to leave now!â
Will frowned.
âNico,â he said softly. âThatâs your name right?â
How did Will know that? He really had done his research. The others hadnât known that.
Maybe Will read the newspaper articles: teenage boy murdered in motel. Nico presumed there had been newspaper articles. Or maybe theyâd just brushed his death under the rug. His jaw ached he was clenching it so hard, his jaw wasnât supposed to ache anymore. He unclenched his fists.
âI want to help you,â Will said. âIt canât be fun being stranded in this room.â Â
âItâs not,â Nico said. Anything to get this conversation over with. Anything to get Will to hear him.
âIâm not scared of you,â Will said.
âItâs not me you have to be scared of!â
Will frowned but then his gaze shifted to the bathroom where shadows were gathering. Understanding dawned. He stood.
âAlright,â he said. âI get it. Iâm going. But Iâll be back tomorrow Nico. Before that thing is. And weâll get you out.â
Nico didnât believe Will for a minute. No one survived a night in room 87. They either died or they ran in the early hours of the night and never returned.
As the door shut behind Will, Nico turned to face the shadowy ghost of his murderer. It wasnât fun sharing a room with him on a good day but when Nico managed to scare off the patrons before the other ghost could get to them it was much worse.
Why is it forbidden to cross the stream in the forest?
Writing Challenge October Prompt from madebypernille (here)
Date: 21/10/2018
âDonât cross the stream,â the others always said. Sheâd asked why but theyâd never been able to answer.
âJust donât.â
There were lots of things they told her not to do and most were for good reason. So she stayed away from the stream in the forest and she never crossed the bridge, no matter how inviting it looked. Sometimes sheâd go and stand on the very edge, toes overhanging the place where track met wood by millimetres. Sheâd listen to the stream. Sheâd stare at the forest beyond. It didnât look any different to her side.
But she didnât cross. Donât cross the stream.
One day she ventured to the stream, stood with her toes overhanging the bridge. They were a centimetre over the wood now. Just a centimetre. That wasnât crossing. Her feet were still mostly on the track.
Why build a bridge if you didnât want people to cross?
She shook the thought away. It didnât matter. Donât cross the stream.
She was staring down at the grains of the wood, weathered by weather but not by footfalls when she heard footsteps.
She looked up. Someone was staring at her from the other side of the bridge. They met each otherâs eyes, surprise narrowing eyes and drawing down eyebrows. She looked just like her. The girl on the other side of the bridge waved, hesitantly. Hesitantly she waved back. It was like looking in the mirror.
The other girl turned to leave. Maybe sheâd been told not to cross the stream either.
But why?
She tipped forward, centre of gravity shifting. Her toes went over by another centimetre. Who was the other girl? Why did she look so much like her? Her toes crept forward that little bit more.
No. She mustnât cross the stream.
She turned, but then curiosity took hold and she was running, feet pounding on the wood. Was she the first person to do this?
The other girl had turned, waited as she hurtled across the bridge. As soon as her toes crossed the wood the other side, the girl smiled. It wasnât a nice smile. It was a wide smile, so wide it seemed to split her face in two. The skin pulled back, peeling away to reveal something that had too many teeth in that wide grin and too dark eyes, watching in unhurried amusement.
âYes,â the thing whispered in a sibilant hiss. âYes.â
Donât cross the stream. Theyâd always said donât cross the stream.
She turned, ready to flee.
The bridge was gone.
A hissing, crackling laugh floated towards her.
âNo,â the thing said. âYou canât cross the stream.â
Writing Challenge October Prompt from madebypernille (here)
Date: 20/10/2018
Those were the last words Will had said to him before Nico had stormed off. Theyâd gotten into an argument about something stupid and neither had wanted to admit they were wrong. Theyâd argued before, theyâd argue again. Neither ever held it against each other. Nico could already feel regret creeping in, chilling his rage. Or maybe that was the rain. It was really cold.
The problem with arguing on the way home from the restaurant was that when Nico got dramatically out of the car, he got dramatically out of the car. And Will had called his bluff and driven off. And now Nico was lost. And cold. Of course, it would be raining when Nico was trying to be dramatic.
His hair was plastered to his boyfriend, his jeans clung to his legs. His shoes had given up the pretence that they were waterproof and squelched with each step. The apartments seemed darker around here, taller, more angular. Two guys huddled under a lamppost, shoulders hunched against the rain. One was trying to light a cigarette. It wasnât going to happen. Not on a night like this.
The lack of a consistent flame and therefore a lack of nicotine didnât look like it was improving their mood any. They stared at Nico. Nico walked a little faster. He could probably handle himself in a fight, providing they didnât have any concealed weapons (not a certainty) but he didnât want the bother. Will tended to get grumpy if Nico injured himself.
A car pulled up and began moving alongside him. Nico swallowed and refused to turn. Pretend not to see it, head down, keep walking.
âNico!â
Nico turned a fraction, turned completely when he realised he recognised that voice. Â
Right. That was his car. His boyfriend.
âIâve been looking for you for ages,â Will said. âYouâre going completely the wrong way.â
âIâm not,â Nico countered, automatically with a sniff.
âYouâre going to catch a death,â Will scolded. âJust get in.â
Nico just got in. The heating was up full blast. The rain lashed against the windows, but the car was cosy, safe, warm.
âWhat were we even fighting about?â Nico asked.
âThe right way to fold a napkin.â
âOh yeah,â Nico said, leaning back against the headrest. âYouâre wrong you know.â
âI am not wrong!â Will burst out.
Nico turned to glare at him, reached for the door handle.
âDonât you dare,â Will cautioned. Nico just laughed.
Bianca yawned and stretched, accidentally hitting one hand against the window and one hand against Percy's head. He jolted awake, kicking out at the front seat which got Zoe up. All the grumbling, complaining and mixed confusion woke Thalia.
"I hated this motel," Percy commented, pulling himself upright and rubbing at his eyes. "0 stars, would not recommend."
"We booked somewhere for tonight," Thalia said. "So there'll be actual beds and showers. You know providing we can find it."
Zoe and Thalia wanted to go to some museum in some town somewhere. Percy was ambivalent but since he was stuck in the car with them couldn't stop them if he'd wanted to, unless he was planning on walking home. Bianca just wondered whether the museum was part of Thalia's secret mission part of the roadtrip or whether Thalia and the still unexplained Zoe just really liked old stuff.
Bianca had been to a lot of museums as part of their mom's attempt and then their father's attempt to enrich their lives with culture and knowledge. Plus it got them out of the house on the days when there was nothing to do because their mom had frowned upon television except on weekends and even then only after they'd done all their homework and their chores and all other entertainment options had been exhausted. No wonder Nico had gotten so obsessed with mythomagic and his comics - it was sheer self defence against complete and total boredom.
Bianca should get some hobbies. She'd never really found a niche though, never really picked up anything and stuck with it. She'd tried musical instruments, ballet, girl guides and all the other nice, gentile, enriching hobbies her mom thought would be good for her. None of them had caught her interest and so she'd just ended up playing with Nico. It kept him happy and at least now she could claim a very thorough knowledge of mythology even if alongside it she had a very thorough knowledge of attack and defence stats.
They stopped at another McDonald's for breakfast.
"Do you think by the end of this trip we'll be sick of McDonalds?" Percy asked, philosophically as he bit into his egg mcmuffin.
"We'll go to KFC for dinner," Thalia answered, slightly sarcastically. She had the largest coffee they had but wasn't eating. In complete contrast to the day before she seemed tense as a bow string, though whether that was because she had had very little sleep or whether that was because she was anticipating whatever the day was going to bring for her, Bianca didn't know. Zoe was quiet too, but that suited the aloofness she'd presented when they'd first met. Bianca still hadn't gotten the explanation for Zoe's presence. Maybe that would have to be the topic of her and Thalia's next late night talk.
"So what's so special about this museum then?" Percy asked.
"Got an exhibit we need for school," Thalia said. It was a perfectly natural answer but something about it didn't ring quite true.
"You are aware I hate museums right?"
"What's wrong with museums?"
"They are a school trip thing. And school trips always seem to go wrong for me."
"Everything always goes wrong for you," Thalia answered, but she didn't put as much venom in it as she could have done. Percy couldn't even be bothered to answer that with a retort. Thalia, after all, wasn't exactly wrong.
"You don't have to come," Thalia said suddenly. "We could drop you off and you could go I don't know shop or... something."
Whether it was her uninspiring delivery or not, Percy just shook his head.
"I'll take school trip to the museum."
The museum looked like every other museum Bianca had ever gone to, stone steps leading up to a building with lots of columns and fancy triangular bits and lots of darkened windows. Tourists were already streaming up the steps when they got there and they joined the crowds.
"What are you looking for?" Percy asked as they went through the doors. He'd made a beeline for the map, perhaps aiming to streamline their visit and ensure they didn't see anything they didn't have to see.
"Can you even read that?" Zoe asked Percy innocently.
"This little x means treasure right?"
Zoe, slightly unexpectedly laughed.
"So where are we going?" Percy asked.
"Hold on," Thalia reached into the pocket of her jacket and removed a folded bit of paper. She and Zoe examined the paper, looked up at the map, looked down at the paper, looked up at the map. Bianca became even more sure there was something more about this museum than a homework assignment that the famously academically unenthused Thalia was suddenly incredibly invested in. Percy was frowning at them both.
"Greek myths," Thalia said in answer to Percy's earlier question. "But I can't see -"
"There's a Roman exhibit in the Long Gallery." Percy said. "I mean same thing right?"
"You've been around Nico for five minutes, you know it's not," Thalia said. Percy sighed.
"Are you sure it's the right museum?"
Thalia glanced at Zoe, who nodded very firmly.
"Well they change the exhibits every so often so maybe it's not here anymore. You want me to google it?"
Thalia shook her head, tapping the bit of paper against her lips thoughtfully.
"Well let's wander," Percy said, impatient to move off. "We might come across it."
Percy initially walked quickly through each room, but then he got interested in a display of old coins and then in a marine life exhibit. Thalia moved on, slightly restless, and Bianca followed. Unexpectedly Zoe stayed behind with Percy, staring at various marine life.
"What's going on?" Bianca asked. "And by that, I mean what's really going on. There's no way you're only here for homework."
"I told you, you're not getting involved," Thalia said firmly. She glanced left and right at the different exhibits but never stopped long enough to really take anything in.
"Okay fine," Bianca said. "But does Percy know what you're really doing? Because he's getting suspicious."
Thalia sighed.
"I didn't tell him," she said. "I meant to. Like just give him a heads up - I'm not letting him get involved either. But I never got round to it and then I thought maybe it's better he doesn't know anything at all. I probably shouldn't have told you anything."
"What are you so scared of?" Bianca demanded.
"I don't know," Thalia whispered, suddenly candid. "Everything. I'm scared Luke's dead in a ditch somewhere. I'm scared my dad's involved in some shady stuff. I'm scared that he's going to drag Jason into it all."
Bianca pursed her lips.
"Well I think you should tell us," she said, firmly on her high horse. "If your dad is involved in something shady that might impact on us. We're all in this together remember. Heirs to the same business."
"If my dad thinks I'm going to run a business," Thalia said. "He's going to be sorely disappointed."
Bianca laughed and tried to imagine punk rock, rough edged Thalia heading a board meeting.
"I don't know," Bianca said. "I reckon you'd be great. Whip everyone into shape."
Thalia laughed.
"Can you imagine me in a business suit?" she demanded.
"No, no," Bianca said. "You'd have to go in in your regular clothes. Pins and all."
"I think my dad would have a heart attack," Thalia said. "And all his high ranking what-do-you-call-ems after him. He was furious enough when I cut my hair short. He said it was unlady like."
"It's not just dads," Bianca answered, stopping to examine an old vase meditatively. "You know what my mom was like. It was like she was stuck in the Victorian era, she wanted me to be all prim and proper and ladylike."
"She was kind of terrifying sometimes," Thalia agreed. "I always felt like I had to stick my little finger out when drinking and know which fork was which. She loved you though."
Bianca nodded.
"Sometimes I forget that," she said quietly staring at a necklace unseeingly, eyes hot. "And I just remember the bad stuff. But she used to teach Nico and to bake and cook. She always played with us. We would have fun. But I hated her for not letting me do stuff everyone was doing. I wanted to go to karate but that wasn't delicate enough."
"After my mom went I felt relieved for a little bit," Thalia said, more to herself than Bianca. "Then I felt bad that I didn't care, that I wasn't very sad. She was great once when I was really little. But all I really remember is the drinking and the yelling. She forgot Jason once, just left him in a cart at the shops because she got distracted. What kind of mom forgets their kid?"
Bianca didn't have an answer for that. Thalia didn't look away from the display and neither did she.
"You've got to tell me T," Bianca said. "Tell me what's going on. You know I'll just keep asking otherwise."
Thalia sighed and glanced around, obviously looking for Zoe or Percy. Either they were still distracted by the marine exhibit, or they'd wandered on.
"Alright," Thalia said. "But let's find the cafe I saw on that map. I missed breakfast."
Thalia ordered a sandwich, a chocolate bar and another coffee.
"Do you think maybe you're addicted to coffee?" Bianca asked.
"Do you think maybe you should shut up?" Thalia answered, mild and teasing. She was tapping at her phone while her coffee cooled. She dropped it down onto the table and opened the chocolate.
"I'm starving," she said.
"I texted Percy," she added. "Told him we'd meet up here."
Bianca nodded and took a sip of her hot chocolate.
"So?" Bianca said pointedly.
Thalia grimaced, like sheâd been hoping Bianca would forget.
"Fine," she said with a faintly irritated scowl. "So I told you about the warehouse?"
"You did."
"Well that's the main reason for this whole roadtrip. But there's a couple of stops along the way that I wanted to check out. I wasn't lying about the Greek exhibit: I did want to see it. There's a lot of files in my dadâs office under the names of three Greek gods."
"Hades, Posideon and Zeus," Bianca said. "Those were the nicknames they got. But that's not news."
Thalia nodded.
"But then I found out he sends regular donations to this museum. He doesn't ever donate to anything, but he's been sending money here every year at least once, sometimes more than that. I thought there might be a connection somewhere. I mean the names had to come from somewhere right?"
Bianca shook her head, picking the crusts off her sandwich.
"I don't know Thalia," she said. "Maybe you're right but you shouldn't push it. I mean looking through your dad's finances -"
"The company's finances," Thalia said. "The company that, as you pointed out I am heir to. I want to find out exactly what I'm getting into."
"I don't want you to get into any trouble," Bianca said. "What if you do find something? What are you going to do then?" Thalia shrugged.
"I - ".
She broke off frowning.
The cafe was up on a gallery, and glass fencing allowed an uninterrupted view of the main hall below. Thalia's gaze had settled on the marble floor. She was frozen, frowning, her hand halfway to her mouth.
"Thalia!"
She dropped the piece of sandwich she'd been holding, stood up to lean out over the balcony.
"Thalia!" Bianca tried again. "What is it?"
"That's Jones. He's my dad's guy."
She stood up quickly, her chair scraping on the floor, nearly tipping backwards. Thalia hurried off, making for the stairs. Bianca followed. This was exactly the kind of thing she was worried about. Thalia was headstrong though, and stubborn and no matter how Bianca entreated as they hurried down the escalator she would not listen to reason.
"You can't just go chasing some guy."
"We go way back," Thalia said grimly, not paying the slightest bit of attention. "He kidnapped me once."
"An excellent reason not to stalk him," Bianca said.
"You should go upstairs," Thalia said. "Wait for Percy and Zoe."
"Not if you won't," Bianca said. "Someone's got to make sure you don't do anything stupid."
Though that someone seemed to be her, she wasn't particularly good at it. At the bottom of the escalator Thalia didn't stop or pause, in fact she used the momentum of the escalator to move even quicker away. She strode across the hall, scattering tourists who stared at her and at Bianca who hurried along in Thalia's wake.
Whether it was Bianca's instruction, or the fact Thalia was beginning to realise she was drawing attention to herself, Thalia did slow ever so slightly.
Jones had gone through into the exhibition halls on the right so that's where Thalia went, and because that's where Thalia went, that was where Bianca went. They went straight through a display on the Egyptians, past a mummy that, under other circumstances Bianca might have stopped and looked at. There was something intrinsically fascinating about the practice of wrapping up the dead.
Thalia was frowning, pace quickening. As they went through into the next room, they finally caught sight of Jones again and Thalia allowed them both to slow. Jones wasnât hard to tail: he was the only other person in the museum walking with such intent. He stood out in his suit, he stood out in the way he walked along, uninterested in the ancient artefacts he was surrounded by.
They went into the next room.
"Greeks," Thalia whispered. "I told you. But why couldn't we see this on the map?"
"Because apparently none of us can read a map and Zoe wasn't paying attention?" Bianca suggested, in equally hushed tones.
"What is the deal with Zoe anyway?" Bianca asked on the vague hope the sudden question might startle Thalia into an actual answer.
"Not now," Thalia hissed. "What's he looking at?"
Jones had paused very briefly at one of the cases, made a very quick note in a journal he pulled from his pocket and then moved on. Thalia cast a quick glance over the case before following him. Bianca paused, hanging back for a moment while she stared into the glass cabinet, trying to figure out what could have attracted the guys attention. There was nothing particularly special, nothing that could stand out as being a special or time limited acquisition. In fact a quick glance around the rest of the room was enough to see that almost every item had another, similar item in a case somewhere around the room.
And yet something was bothering her. Something was tugged at her memory, something was familiar. Was it just because she spent so much time playing cards with Nico? Was it just something in the case reminded her of one of those cards or one of those stories? Or was it something more sinister. Thalia was so sure something was going on.
Bianca had to agree. She'd tried to dissuade Thalia, admittedly not especially well, but she'd tried. Now she was catching the bug too. She was probably just jumpy, seeing patterns where there were none.
And Thalia had run off on her own while she'd been staring at a few urns and some assorted coins.
She quickly hurried into the next room but there was no Thalia. She didn't stop, just went through to the next room, and then the next room and then she was back in the entrance hall, having completed the loop.
And there she was standing, glowering.
"Thalia! What happened?"
"He vanished," Thalia said, quietly furious, quietly seething. "He must have seen me and doubled back somehow. Or - I don't know. He can't have got that far ahead of me. One minute he's there and then he goes into the next room, I catch up like two seconds later and he's gone. Just gone."
"I don't think he doubled back," Bianca said. "I was still in the Greek room and I didn't see anyone come through."
She thought.
"But then I wasn't paying a whole lot of attention," she admitted.
Thalia was still scowling, still seething. She threw up her hands.
"Then where did he go!" she said. "I refuse to believe there was a secret door."
Bianca gave her a sympathetic smile.
"Hey," she said. "At least you were right. It looks like there is something going on with this museum."
Thalia sighed, the anger leaving her in her outward huff of breath.
"Or maybe Jones was just here to do his homework," she said.
Bianca giggled.
"We should meet the others," she said. "Percy already thinks youâre losing it with your sudden museum fascination. Don't want to make him think you've lost your interest in food too."
Thalia nodded, accepting that.
Percy and Zoe had found a table and had already gotten their food. The table Bianca and Thalia had been sitting at had been cleared which meant Bianca had lost her lunch. Thalia paid for a replacement, once again using her dad's credit card.
"Does he know you have that?" Bianca asked.
"Oh yes," Thalia said. "It's for emergencies."
"This is an emergency?"
"Food is a necessity," Thalia said innocently. Bianca was pretty sure Thalia's definition of emergency got stretched in lots of other ways too. Emergency new shoes, emergency records, emergency road trip.
"Are we done with the museum?" Percy asked. "Not that I didn't enjoy it because you know in the end it wasn't terrible, but I'm ready to do something that couldn't in any way be classed as educational."
Thalia laughed.
"Yeah," she said. "I think I'm done with this place."
After eating they did, as Percy requested, leave to find something to do that wasn't in any way classed as educational. That required a bit of wandering, but the sun was shining and the day was warm and they found an ice cream shop so they all got cones and so wandering wasn't so bad. They took a photo in a park, which Bianca partly suspected was at least 70% so they'd have road trip proof in case Thalia's father asked. (If his credit card statement wasn't proof enough.)
They checked into a motel where there were actual beds and actual showers and a TV with lots of channels and nothing on. Bianca stayed in the shower a long time, until the bathroom was nothing but steam, and thought and thought. She couldn't get the glass case at the museum out of her head. There was something.
Something.
They had two rooms, but they all gathered in one talking and ignoring the television. It was pushing midnight when they even began thinking about going to bed, gone one by the time they actually started acting on it. In the dark, unfamiliar room, Bianca lay on the unfamiliar bed, the sheets pulled up to her chin and stared at the unfamiliar ceiling. She was just drifting off, her mind finally exhausted of turning over all the possibilities when it came to her in a flash.
Thalia was in the next room, but even so Bianca briefly considered waking her to tell her what sheâd figured out.
Writing Challenge October Prompt from madebypernille (here)
Date: 19/10/2018
Thereâs a boy in my cellar. I hear him down there sometimes: light footsteps pattering in the dark. Heâd come close when the lights were off but when the electricity clicked on and orangey light flooded the cellar. The first few times I went down there Iâd rushed right back up the steep steps as soon as I heard a noise that shouldnât be. But over time I got braver. The boy never tried to hurt me. He just seemed to want to talk. Sometimes heâd reach out and take my hand.
I used to think it was just me and him down there, but one day when I was down in the cellar searching for a box I knew must be there, a shadow appeared at the top of the stairs. I froze, caught halfway reaching for a box I didnât recognise â there were things I didnât recognise every where now I came to think of it. The shadow lengthened, sharp but crumpled as it fell down the steps. It called to the boy.
âComing!â the boy said.
It was the first time Iâd heard him speak.
âJust talking to my friend,â he added.
The shadow dipped and then there was a woman standing at the top of my stairs.
âWhat friend?â she asked. âThereâs no one here?â
