I am not a lying man. White lies can of course be useful, to spare people’s feelings et cetera, but I prefer to be honest even in those circumstances. Until today, I had thought that everyone perceived me as trustworthy, especially those who know me. It hurt a bit when I found out I was wrong.
Presently, I am at the pub with Greg and Mike. They think I am sloshed because of the story I’ve just told them, despite that my speech and behaviour suggest otherwise.
“You are taking the piss, mate,” Mike states.
“Even Sherlock wouldn’t do something that extreme,” Greg says. “Are you sure you aren’t making this up for Halloween or something?”
“Halloween? Why on earth…”
I sigh exasperated and wish I’d never mentioned my bloody flatmate. Literally bloody this time, thank you very much!
“Never mind,” I mutter and head for the loo.
***
Two hours earlier, I was writing up our last case, when Sherlock entered the room, stating: “That was rather tedious!”
There was nothing out of the ordinary about that remark, so I didn’t even look up at first, but then I heard a loud thud, and I lifted my head.
Sherlock stood perfectly still, holding a harpoon. Blood dripped from his curls, down his face like rivulets, making an interesting pattern on his light-grey shirt. His hands were also bloodstained, as was the harpoon.
“What the bloody hell, Sherlock?” I exclaimed.
“Yes, it is rather bloody, isn’t it?” he replied thoughtfully looking down at his ruined clothes and soon Mrs Hudson’s carpet.
“I take it this is not your blood?” I inquired, quite sure that it wasn’t but feeling a bit anxious all the same. You just never knew when it came to my mad scientist and best friend.
“A pig,” he informed me with a sigh. “No cabbies would take me, John. I had to take the Tube!”
I hid my smile, trying, but failing spectacularly, at picturing him wandering around London in this state, not to mention standing in a crowded train carriage.
Before I addressed him further, I made a mental note to thank Mycroft from not interfering, having his brother sectioned, or worse - forcing some tedious government case on him. His CCTV cameras would have picked up on this, surely.
“Well, that must’ve been a sight,” I mused. “Admittedly, there are a number of speculative creatures on the Tube, but this…”
I waved my hand indicating his entire frame. A tiny twitch of his mouth told me that the sulk was over; he’d most likely used the train ride for that already.
“Get in the shower before you ruin our landlady’s rug,” I said with a smile.
“You’re not angry? Or shocked?”
“This is nothing, Sherlock. Fingers in the sugar bowl, ears in the toaster, and spleens in the fridge, next to the leftovers however…”
He rolled his eyes at that, huffed, and made his way carefully down the hallway to the bathroom.
He was still in there when I left for the pub, humming to himself. I shook my head, called out to him that I was going out, and got the affirmation that he’d heard me.
***
When I return to the table, Sherlock is there, much to my surprise. He avoids pubs like they’ve personally offended him in some way.
There are no traces of blood on him, his appearance is meticulous as always when he leaves the flat. He beams at me when he catches sight of me and points at a pint, he’s apparently procured for me.
“This is a surprise,” I say and sit down next to him, not even bothering to ask how he knew which pub I was at.
“Indeed,” Greg answers. “I’m sorry, John.”
“Yeah, sorry, mate,” Mike hurries to concur.
I look at Sherlock who winks at me. My smile broadens when I realise what has happened in my absence.
“You’ve told them about the – “
“I have, and if you want to make it into a Halloween story; he says this with disdain, directed at our friends – you should name it: “Drenched in Crimson.”
I laugh, pull him close, peck his lips, and whisper: “God, I love you.”
Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial using the prompt #FFF325 - drenched in crimson. Truth is, I don’t know how many times I changed the premise of this fic along the way. This is the continuation of this story. Finished the prequel with Sophie Moriarty already. Perhaps, when I am done, I’ll post them on AO3 in their entirety. Still creating a Totomaru Isshiki lore because we need it.
—
Fandom: Kamonohashi Ron no kindan suiri
Characters: Ron Kamonohashi, Toto’s grandmother
Word count: 1079
THE OLD woman was not in the room when Ron came back from the flat. Toto’s vegetable state was still unchanged. He watched his friend’s closed eyes, praying to high heavens that it was time for him to wake up. The picture of a mother and her two young children burned in his jacket’s left chest pocket. This state of unknown was unnerving.
On the empty sofa he placed the bag and sat next to it. He took out the picture and stared at it again.
Ron knew that it was wrong to jump into conclusions. The greatest taboo in private investigation was making a conjecture based on one evidence.
The door opened and Toto’s grandmother appeared.
“Ron-kun, here you are…” She handed him a sandwich and a cup of coffee she bought from the hospital canteen.
“I brought Toto’s things.”
“Thank you so much for all the things you have done for my grandson. I am sure he’d say his thanks if he were awake now,” said the old woman. There was no doubt that she was related to Toto due to their delicate body features and similar facial structure, apart from their height. On the other hand, it was also obvious that Toto had at least one Western parent due to his light brown hair.
Ron took out the picture from his jacket pocket and handed it to Toto’s grandmother, who was called Masako Miyazaki when she was younger. It was uncanny, but he could see Toto would look exactly like her if he turned an older man someday. His heart ached chasing away the negative thoughts that it would never happen.
For her age, Masako still looked energetic except for that slight limp that she immediately noticed to correct her posture.
“I found a picture of my aunt and her children from Toto’s belongings. Do you have any idea why he’s keeping it?” Ron kept his composure, ready to do his deduction. He felt bad doing it to the old woman, who happened to be Toto’s only living relative. But Ron was already desperate.
She squinted her eyes inspecting the photo Ron was holding. She took it from his hand and in a split second her eyes turned bigger.
“Sophie…” The murmuring caught Ron’s antenna.
“Who is Eli to Toto?”
“Ah! Eli is my other grandchild.” The old woman tightened her lips.
“Is?” Ron blurted out. “Is he still alive?”
A beat.
“I see. Toto hasn’t told you yet of his twin brother Eli,” she sat down shaking. “ ‘Eli is one of the Moriarty children. How come he’d be Toto’s sibling?’ You’d probably asking yourself.”
“Explain please,” Ron was on the verge of spewing out vile insults. Toto’s grandmother’s delaying tactics were up to the roof. She was hiding the truth and it was so blatant that he could taste it. Or maybe he was just impatient.
“The story of Toto and Eli’s parents is drenched in crimson blood. My son, their father, killed Naomi, their mother, many years ago and then killed himself. It was all over the news. They connected him to Yakuza, all sorts of underground syndicates. It definitely caught the attention of the police and his connection to the Moriarty Family. Naomi was Sophie’s twin sister.” She opened up her story. “It was a devastating loss as Rei was my only child.”
Surprisingly, her hand never trembled as she said this.
“Where is Eli now? There had been reports that he was not living anymore with the Moriartys for so many years.” Winter once told him that he went missing after Milo took over the Moriarty empire. Unlike Theo, who Alice murdered in his sleep, Eli as the second son just vanished without a trace. “Did he ever return to Japan?”
“Yes. He went to see us once. He even visited Toto after he passed the police academy. After that I receive postcards every Christmas without an address. He’s out there somewhere. I know that he’s still alive.” She touched her chest as she said it with confidence. “Would it be tragic if he died too? I am losing my family one at a time.” A single tear rolled down her cheek.
Ron was speechless. He wouldn’t know how or what to answer her.
“Do you need to see the postcards that Eli has sent to me?” She asked him as if she had read his mind.
“Hm-mm. If it is not too much to ask… I’ll stay here so Toto isn’t alone.”
“Of course.” The old woman took out a tissue from the box and blew her nose to ease the pressure from a sudden onslaught of emotions.
Ron was not entirely sure if it was a bad form to ask an elderly woman to do this chore, but at this moment Toto was lying there unconscious and he, Ron Kamonohashi, needed some answers.
“Then I will get the postcards and show them to you. Perhaps you could tell me where he has been for the last seven years or so.”
When he turned to face her and smiled at him, he was stunned. He thought he saw a glimpse of his friend from the way she curled her lips and arched her eyes.
Her long skirt billowed as she closed the door without a sound. Ron felt her hand on his shoulder. When he was alone, he held his head. He thought he was losing his mind. Anguished and bereft of his friend, he reached for his left hand.
~~
Masako limped toward the elevator and pushed the arrow button pointing downward. When it opened, she waited until the other visitors got out. Inside, she pushed the button leading her to the hospital’s garage.
She pressed her key and a flashing red car with dimmed windows made a noise parked at the blind side of a CCTV. Still limping, she sat on the driver’s seat.
She scratched her head and slowly pulled out the wig, and carefully placed it next to her.
“Ah, for how long I have to put that thing on?” The voice lamented that seemed to have changed to a lower octave. The blonde hair was now shorter. Eli looked at the rear-view mirror, he removed his lipstick.
“It is time to play, Ron Kamonohashi.” A triumphant smile on his face.
Adjusting the seat, keys on the ignition, he pushed the power button on. The car roared as he drove away.
Warnings - MCD, Murder-Suicide, the haunting of Erebor
Words - 978
A03 link here
Summary - Thorin has gold sickness and in is madness he does the unthinkable.
Thorin looked down at his hands, not understanding what he was seeing. Thorin knew that the body before him was Bilbo’s. He knew that something had gone wrong, and yet he couldn’t understand why Bilbo was so still before him. Why was he so silent? Why was Fili lying a few feet away from Thorin, his beautiful blond curls drenched in the same muted red that also drenched Thorin, from his face to his scuffed and worn boots.
Thorin looked down at the red of his grandfather’s red velvet cloak, which he had thrown around his shoulders when he had first found it in the treasury, and he wondered why that red was vibrant and bright and yet the red he knew was staining the bodies before him, that was staining his hands, wasn’t.
Was this another trick? Another way that vile wyrm was trying to destroy Thorin and his from beyond the grave?
It must have been, after all, if that was really Bilbo, and Fili …
Thorin looked around at the treasury, the piles of gems and jewels and riches beyond measure that all belonged to him now, and he saw more bodies, more muted red, muted red that became more crimson the longer Thorin looked at it, becoming even brighter, even more insidious than the cloak that he was still wearing.
He looked at another lump. Another body before him, and it took him many long, slow moments before he realised what … who … it was.
The body he was looking at now was Kili. Thorin’s beloved little minum. His precious sister-son. Someone had not just killed Kili; they had chopped his hands off before gutting him, hands that he must have held up in supplication, held up in hopes of mercy from the fiend who had cut him down.
Thorin turned, his circles getting more and more erratic as he spun and saw them all, laid out, dead and bared open before him.
His friends, his family, his Company, all of them were surrounding Thorin, their dead, glassy eyes staring up at him and finding him wanting.
How did he not see this? How did he not hear this? How did he not know someone had come into his mountain and slew his people?
Thorin heard a roar echo around the treasury, the sound bouncing back to him, and it was only then that he realised it was not the roar of a wyrm or an enemy, but rather himself making that noise.
He was heart sore and disoriented, and yet he drew up Deathless, noting for the first time that it was in his hand and he prepared himself to fight whatever had slunk in here and done such foul deeds.
Thorin got himself in a ready stance, standing before the bodies of what had once been his sister's little ones, when he noticed something on Deathless’ blade. He carefully reached forward to pluck the long blond hairs that were encrusted with blood on his blade. Hairs that matched Fili’s perfectly. His beautiful golden boy, who was led on the ground, dead, gone.
Thorin found himself on his knees, unable to believe what had happened.
His memories rushed back into his fractured mind. Memories of screams, of shouts, of the sound Deathless made as it sliced into the flesh of all those Thorin loved.
Thorin found himself leaning forward, retching, unable to believe what he knew. Unable to process what he had done. What the madness that had always itched under his skin had driven him to do.
Thorin knelt there, his despair mixing with the sour scent of blood and fear that surrounded him. The despair was drowning out the anger and gold lust that had ensnared him.
Thorin knew there was only one thing he could do, only one way forward for him now.
Thorin stood on his shaky legs as he gently carried Bilbo away from the bloodbath his madness had caused. He did the same for his precious boys and each member of his Company. He laid them side by side, away from the treasure and in a clear hallway, not wanting the gold to taint their bodies anymore.
He then went and collected all of the flash fire that they hadn't used when trying to kill Smaug. He sent a prayer of forgiveness to Mahal, one to Bilbo’s creator, Yavanna. He begged Mahal to give his sister some semblance of peace as he let all of the fire lose, as he let it roar through the accelerant he had poured, as he sat there, his eyes on Bilbo, Fili and Kili’s dead bodies as the fire roared through every crack and crevice, bringing Erebor down on herself, the bodies of Thorin’s Company, of his One and on himself, ending Thorin’s life under rock and rubble and ruin.
Thus ended the line of Thorin II, and it would be many millennia before anyone was able to get through the rocks of Erebor to learn that the Company of Thorin Oakenshield II had not died under the rock slide that had killed the King Under the Mountain.
No one was sure what had happened, but every dwarf who set foot into Erebor was sure they could feel madness pushing at their minds, that when they looked down at their hands, they felt like there was blood dripping off them even when there was nothing on them.
The legend of the haunting of Erebor persisted through the ages; the sounds of a mad king could be heard as wind rushed through the cracks that had now formed in the once majestic mountain.
Erebor was now nothing more than the husk of a dead mountain filled with the broken cries of those who had tried to reclaim her, tried to make her a home once more, even as she was now nothing but their tomb!
