Wisdom: Chapter One
May. 1st, 2011 11:13 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
willow_41zRating: R
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the BBC's characters or plots.
Warnings: Violence, violent death, blood
Author's notes: Many thanks to emerald_happy, my Britpicker and beta, and also to lastwordy_mcgee.
Summary: The first in a many-chaptered work about the past history of several characters on "Sherlock."
For years afterwards, cold, clear days in January-- and the smell of Marmite-- evoked a particularly complex set of feelings and memories. It was just as well that in London, cold, clear days in January were rare.
The day it began was exactly that kind of day; she was twenty-five, interviewing for a minor civil service job. It wasn't what she wanted-- she'd hoped to move up after her last job, given that she had a master's degree in political science, top marks at uni, and two and a half years of work in the nonprofit sector-- but it was a start, something to pay the bills. The past four months certainly hadn't offered anything better. Nevertheless, something about the quality of the rare sunshine, as she walked from the Tube to the office building, made her a little hopeful.
Somehow the interviewer was already running late by the time she got there at half eight. She was prepared for that. She'd packed her handbag with a couple of interesting papers on trade deficits, a paperback novel, and a jar of Marmite. At least the reception room chairs were more comfortable than most; in fact, the whole room was well-appointed. To her right, the secretary's desk guarded access to the offices beyond; to the right of the desk was a wall with a window. Across from her was a counter with a kettle, some paper cups, and little plastic baskets that held tea bags, jars of instant coffee, and packets of sugar and creamer. She wondered about the packets of creamer instead of a carton; maybe this department dealt with Americans? Her research had indicated a domestic focus, though.
At the sound of hurried footsteps, she looked away from the tea counter to see a man rush in, go straight to the secretary's desk, and lean over it for an extended whispered conversation. Then he slouched in a chair across from her, looking anxious. She watched him surreptitiously. He was in his mid-thirties, perhaps, though his jet-black hair was already receding; he was wearing thin glasses, and was formally but carelessly dressed, his expensive-looking suit wrinkled. His face was flushed, and he was examining his fingernails, glancing every few moments from the door to the secretary. Another applicant? Late, and had missed his time slot? But it didn't matter, as the man they were both there to see had been tied up all morning. She found herself resenting the possibility that he was her competitor, with his sloppy appearance and possessive way of lounging in the chair; she reflexively smoothed her pressed skirt. The man started a bit, putting a hand inside his own jacket as he glanced at the door again.
“Er, Ms... Ms Wilson,” he said, glancing at the name plate on the secretary's desk. "Have you told him I'm here?” he asked.
The secretary's smile was strained. “As I said, I will let him know the moment he's back from his meeting.”
“Right.” The man hesitated, then took out a mobile phone and texted someone, typing furiously; a moment later, his phone buzzed in response. “Look,” he began, facing the secretary, “it really is quite urgent...”
“Sir, I'm sorry, you're just going to have to wait--”
Suddenly there was commotion downstairs: footsteps, shouting, and then the sound of breaking glass. Who would rob a government office? she thought.
“Dear god, do you think it could be terrorists?” The other woman-- Ms Wilson-- was ashen-faced.
She had no idea. “Does this door lock?” At the secretary's nod, she started to slam the door; then she thought better of it, closed it quietly, and locked it, including the deadbolt. Then she wedged a chair under the knob. “Help me stack some of these--” she started to say to the man.
But the anxious man wasn't in the chair any more. Instead, he was trying to open the window while simultaneously texting. He didn't appear to be having much luck with either. “Oh bloody hell,” he said, before dashing around the secretary's desk and bolting into a nearby office, slamming the door behind him.
Footsteps pounded up the stairs. “Open up!” someone shouted right outside, and then there was the sound of something heavy hitting the door; the wood splintered. She grabbed her handbag and made a run for the back offices, but she'd barely gotten halfway there when the door crashed down and two men with large rifles entered the room. Oh God, this can't be real.
“Don't move!” The taller of the two men pointed his gun directly at her. “Hands up!” She did; her handbag fell down her arm to thump against her ribs. He gestured with his rifle towards the tea cart. “Move over there and put that bag on the ground.”
Again, she did as she was told, feeling like she was stuck in a horrible nightmare. That they both had lit cigarettes dangling from their mouths only added to the absurdity. Her heart was racing, and adrenaline was making her stomach churn. She didn't seem to be able to think as clearly as she was used to.
The second man moved towards the office and spotted the secretary under the desk. “You! Out from under there, hands up! No noise! Get over there with the other!”
The terrified secretary obeyed, coming to stand next to her. Seconds later, the shorter man aimed at one of the office doors and triggered a hail of bullets; the sound was nearly deafening, and left her ears ringing, but the taller man was still covering them with his rifle, so she didn't dare cover her ears. The shorter man kicked down the door he'd shot at, and vanished into the office. The police, the police must be coming, she thought. They broke in downstairs... someone will have heard the shots... She was beginning to sweat. Beside her, the secretary moaned.
“Shut up,” the taller man said, and she realized he had no accent-- a domestic terrorist?
The other man shot down the second door and started swearing. “Rope out the window!” No accent for either of them.
“Get the last room!” their captor called back.
The other man started firing at the third door, and then stopped. “Come out and I'll let you live!” he shouted.
Live. What an idea. But there was only silence. I don't want to die in this office. I don't want...
“Going to faint,” she said clearly, and stumbled back towards the counter in a swoon. The man's gun followed her, but his finger did not tighten on the trigger. “Oh...” She slumped backwards, left hand flailing for purchase as her right hand raked through the condiment baskets, sitting down hard.
“Touch your bag and I shoot!” the man snapped. Obediently, she rested her hands on her knees, still swooning.
The shorter man jerked back immediately, bleeding from the arm. A second bullet narrowly missed his head. “Damn it!” he cursed, wrapping his hand awkwardly around the stock so he could still reach the trigger.
“Get over here,” the taller man snapped, starting for the offices, his rifle still trained on her and the secretary. The two terrorists switched places, but there was never an opportunity to run, and the shorter terrorist, though clearly in pain, could still hold his gun.
The taller man fired a shot into the ceiling. “Throw out your gun or I shoot the women!”
“Go ahead,” came the voice of the anxious man, “you still won't get me out.”
Bastard, she thought. The anger seemed to clear her mind.
“You-- get her up,” the shorter man barked to the secretary.
She stayed limp as the secretary tried to lift her. “Please get up, please,” the secretary said, voice shaky, and she half-stumbled, half-climbed to her feet, shifting her body so her hands were out of sight of the man with the gun as she fidgeted with her sleeves.
“Last chance!” the shorter man yelled into the office. Blood was streaming down his right arm, and he had shifted his rifle to the left, cradling it awkwardly.
The second the barrel was pointed away from her, she took her chance, throwing the three half-opened creamer packets hidden in her sleeves into his face. The white dust lit into a fireball; the man screamed, hands going to his face, and dropped his rifle. The secretary grabbed it and swung it like a bat into his injured arm-- he screamed and fell to the ground-- the other man spun, but two shots from the office caught him in the leg before he could shoot-- she and the secretary both dove for the floor, and she fumbled for any sort of weapon as she scrambled to get out of the line of fire-- her hand seized on something round and hard, and without thinking she threw it hard at the man's head--
There was a meaty thunk, the sound of shattering glass, and more gunfire-- she braced herself for pain, but a moment later when she realized she hadn't been shot, she opened her eyes again. The anxious man was behind the desk holding the other rifle, which he pointed at the shorter man. The secretary was in the corner of the room, slumped over, but she wasn't bleeding; fainted, then. “You, from the waiting room,” the anxious man said. “Come here.”
She stepped around the desk, trying not to look at sprawled body of the taller man or the blood quickly saturating the carpet. The Marmite jar was broken nearby. She concentrated on her breathing so she wouldn’t vomit.
“In there,” the man said. “I left my phone by the window. Go get it.”
She retrieved the phone, nearly throwing up as she had to step around the dead man, and put it on the desk. “The last number I texted,” the man said. Send this message: 'Attackers neutralized, need security, where are you.'”
She typed. “I sent it.”
“Good. Um.” For the first time, his expression relaxed. “I don't suppose you know how to use a pistol?” His was in front of him on the desk.
“No.”
“Right. Pick it up.” He moved carefully to the left, out from behind the desk, gun still trained on the moaning man across the room. “Point it at him. Put your finger on the trigger. If he moves, pull the trigger until it shoots. If he keeps moving, do it again.”
“All right.” She tried to hold the gun like people on telly did, with one hand on the top and the other supporting it on the bottom. Her hands were remarkably steady.
“What did you do to him?” the man asked.
“Threw powdered creamer at his cigarette.”
More noise downstairs; she tensed, backing toward the offices, calculating how quickly she could get down the rope dangling out that other window if more attackers came-- but she couldn't leave the secretary unconscious like that-- she smelled something foul, both coppery and yeasty, and realized it was the smell of blood mixed with Marmite. She swallowed hard, tightened her grip on the gun, and forced herself to stay standing up instead of doubling over and vomiting.
“You can put the gun down,” the man with the rifle said, and as she did so, the room was suddenly full of large men in black uniforms. Some surrounded the man on the floor as others disappeared into the offices. She heard someone examining the body behind her, and tried not to think about it.
One man knelt by the secretary, checked her pulse, and lifted a radio to his mouth. “One unconscious, one with burns.”
The man next to her put down his stolen rifle, and looked her over. “Are you hurt?”
“N... no.” It took her two tries to say the word.
“You did well, you know,” he said, “really well. You saved your life and the secretary's. What's your name?”
“Sophia.” She swallowed. “Is there a loo? I'm going to be sick.”
She had to go with an armed escort, but she felt too sick to protest. The guard propped the door open, and stood impassively outside as she knelt in front of the toilet, dry heaving. Finally she realized she wasn't going to throw up after all, at least not then. She splashed cold water on her face and washed her hands, then looked at the guard uncertainly. “I'm done.”
He shepherded her back down the hall, and showed her into another room, this one blessedly free of dead bodies. Another armed guard came to stand beside the door; when she asked him what was happening, he only told her to wait. She passed the time leafing through the magazines on the table, and looking up whenever she thought someone was coming. No one did. Finally, after nearly an hour had passed according to the clock on the wall, she asked the man, “Do you think I could have my handbag, at least?”
“Evidence,” he replied.
“I only came here for a job interview, this morning, I'd really--” Her voice broke a little. She swallowed. “-- really like to go home.”
“They'll need to take a statement from you.” But he touched his earpiece and said something unintelligible. “Someone will be here soon,” he said.
With that reassurance, she returned to her seat, and began perusing the brainless fashion magazines she'd skipped over the first time. They couldn't hold her attention, and she went to the window to look out. It was still sunny. Three stories below, people were hurrying about their business on foot and in buses and taxis, each wrapped up in their own doings, each of them construing themselves the center of their own universes, forming a never-ending stream, each gone minutes after they entered her field of view. It was much more fascinating than the article about winter's most fashionable gloves.
Behind her, a man cleared his throat. “Miss Sorin?”
She turned quickly. “Yes?” It was someone new, and he was holding a steaming paper cup in one hand and a plate with a sandwich in the other.
He gestured to the seats. “We'd like to talk with you about the events of this morning, if you don't mind.”
As if she had a choice in the matter. None of the people she'd seen bustling around had been uniformed police officers, and the uniforms and weapons practically screamed MI-5. Obediently, she seated herself; he put the tea and sandwich down in front of her. “Oh. Thank you.”
“I'm sorry for the delay,” he said, taking a seat himself and removing a laptop from the bag by his feet. “I'm sure you can imagine the aftermath of something like this. Now. Please tell me why you were here this morning.”
“I was interviewing for a job.”
“And what happened?”
She sipped her tea, and told him about waiting for the interview, about the entrance of the anxious man, and about barricading the door. “Why did you do that?” he asked.
“Well, I thought it was a robbery, I thought it would slow them down.”
“Mmm. Go on.”
When she got to the part about the creamer, he... almost smiled. “Tell me, how did you feel at that point?”
She blinked. “Sorry, how did I feel?”
“Yes.”
“I was terrified. And angry.”
“And how did you come to think of that particular trick?”
“My Year 10 chemistry teacher showed us.”
“You must have been rather desperate, to try something like that.”
“Yes.” Obviously. Why was he asking so many obvious questions? She eyed the sandwich, and wondered if she could keep it down.
“Did you think it would work?”
“I...” she swallowed. “Hoped. I didn't know. But they were going to kill us anyway. I knew I wouldn't get another chance.”
“Quite.” He typed something. “Do go on.”
She fought to keep her voice steady when she described the second man's dead body. “And then the man told me to pick up the gun and point it at the other terrorist, and then all the uniformed men came,” she finished.
He finished typing, closed the laptop, and folded his hands, studying her. She had the unpleasant feeling of being transparent. “My name is Thompson,” he said finally. “Thank you, you've been most helpful. You're free to go now, but we may pull you in later to talk to you further.” He slid a business card across the table with a name and phone number written on the back. “This is my business card. You may contact me if you have any concerns about what has happened. I imagine other authorities will be in touch. On the back is the name of a therapist you may see if you experience any unpleasant aftereffects from the events of today. Do not go to anyone else. The payment has been arranged. You have an appointment for next Tuesday, if you wish to keep it.”
“Er-- sorry, what's going on?” she asked. “What is all this, what just happened? Who tried to kill me?”
He smiled slightly. “I'm afraid the limits of what I can tell you are very narrow, but you will doubtless have drawn some conclusions on your own. The two men who attacked the office this morning were attempting to retrieve sensitive government information. While they would have been unsuccessful, your quick thinking saved yourself and Ms. Wilson. The secretary,” he added.
“That man, in the waiting room. He would have let us die?”
Mr Thompson hesitated. “The situation was not particularly in his control,” he said, which was a non-answer if she'd ever heard one.
“I... er, yes,” she said. “May I have my handbag back?”
“We're holding it as evidence. It should be returned to you at your flat later this evening. Please accept my apologies in advance for the inconvenience.”
“Evidence? Am I a... suspect?”
“We are of course examining all possibilities.”
“Right,” she said. Then: “What about the job? The interview?”
He almost-smiled. Again. “Someone will be in touch within a week.”
She nodded.
“There will be a cab waiting for you in the front of the building to take you home. There will also be a security detail shadowing you for the next day or two, just as a precaution. You are unlikely to see them.”
There was little she could say to that. “I can take the Tube.”
“The cab is already waiting. The driver will have been paid. I can release these to you now.” He slid her keys across the table. “Good afternoon, Ms Sorin.”
It was definitely a dismissal-- and it reminded her that he'd never asked her name. “Good-bye,” she said, and walked out of the room. No one tried to stop her as she went down the stairs and out the door. Outside were more armed men. “Miss Sorin?” one said, as she was hesitating by the building, looking round nervously.
“Yes.”
He opened the door of the cab. She took a good luck at the car and the driver, not sure exactly what she was frightened of, and then climbed in. The guard paid the driver, and they pulled away from the curb.
She sank back against the seat cushions and closed her eyes. Oh, God.
When the cab delivered her to her flat, she bolted the door. Then she made herself a strong cup of tea laced with the bottle of brandy she kept in the back of the cupboard for such occasions. It was bad brandy, cheap stuff left over from her days as a student-- not that her financial situation was much better now-- but she had never minded the quality when she was in dire enough straits to need it. She kicked off her flats and sank onto the sofa, cradling her mug with both hands.
That really happened. I was really attacked by terrorists today. In the quiet of her flat, it almost seemed like a bad dream, or maybe a very convincing hallucination, but she couldn't forget the blood spilling out of the dead man's head, or the utter terror of being convinced she was going to die that day.
After the tea she took a long, hot shower, wrapped herself in her thick dressing gown, and sat down on the sofa to watch mindless telly. But she couldn't focus; instead, she turned it off and stared out the window. When she found herself fixating on the attack, she picked up a book on trade deficits and their role in public policy, and tried to read. When the book couldn't hold her attention, she began to pace her small living room. She made another cup of fortified tea and double-checked the deadbolt. A deadbolt didn't stop them today. It took bullets.
“Stop,” she told herself firmly, and sat down on the sofa again, massaging her temples with her fingertips. Time to be practical. What did she need to do next? Food-- she needed to eat, though she wasn't hungry. Update her job search list. Ring her old flatmate back and accept the lunch date. Check the news. Get the wash ready for tomorrow.
Someone knocked on the door.
Her heart rate sped up. Quietly, she went to the door, retrieving a large butcher's knife as she passed through the kitchen. That they had limited themselves to knocking was a promising sign. She shifted the knife to her right hand and looked through the peephole. It was a tall man in a suit, holding her handbag.
“Who is it?” she called.
The man held up a warrant card identifying him as a sergeant with Scotland Yard. She swallowed and opened the door. Wordlessly, he handed her her bag.
“Thank you,” she said.
“You're welcome.”
She bolted the door again, put the knife down, and went through her bag. Everything was there-- except, of course, for the Marmite. Her fingers grasped a bit of paper; she pulled it out, and found a packet of non-dairy creamer. It must have fallen into her handbag during the... fight. Her hand closed around it convulsively; she deposited it in the rubbish bin.
Enough, she told herself firmly. She reheated a leftover curry, did the dishes, and went to bed. As soon as her head touched the pillow, she realized how tired she was, and fell asleep quickly.
Thank you!
Date: 2011-05-02 10:53 pm (UTC)Philo
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Date: 2011-05-03 01:21 am (UTC)Awesome
Date: 2011-05-15 01:10 pm (UTC)Summerfall
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Date: 2011-05-22 02:24 am (UTC)