Ghosts of London

by Cutie_Pi3

Summary:

The first time Sherlock saw the white-haired boy, he was leaving a crime scene.

Investigating a series of bewildering and inexplicable murders in London, Sherlock Holmes begins to spot an odd boy with white hair lingering around the scenes - he can only assume he is either the culprit, or he knows something Sherlock doesn't.
Trying to both solve the crimes, and track down this elusive stranger - Sherlock finds himself being pulled into a plot much, much bigger than he could have imagined.

Sherlock-centric, focused more on Moriarty the Patriot - at least in the beginning. D. Gray-Man elements are gonna take a while to show up.
Set post-Apocryphos, so Allen is on the run, there are SPOILERS for D. Gray-Man, and also I'm going to be going way off canon for both series.

I'm posting this in the hopes that I will be encouraged to actually write more if I know people are waiting...this seems unlikely, but we'll see. Life is kicking my ass.

Chapter 1: Wraith in White

The first time Sherlock saw the white-haired boy, he was leaving a crime scene.

 

Sherlock had just arrived, summoned by the perplexed police as they grasped at straws trying to solve the series of inexplicable deaths in the past week or so - a series of what appeared to be spontaneous combustions that left nothing but piles of ash and scorch marks in the place of several victims of all ages, classes, and genders. 

The first couple had been odd.

The next, bewildering.

The ones after that, suspicious.

And this latest one, three people at once, all on the same street and at the same time, supposedly reduced to ash in an instant - no immolation, no obvious causes - was the nail in the coffin that had everyone convinced this was somehow a serial killer.

Sherlock had no idea how it could be a killer, when there was no way a human could reliably burn people to that degree, that quickly, and so seamlessly so as to never leave a trace - but he also had no idea how spontaneous combustion could be…contagious, as this seemed to be.

 

He had been about to start his investigation, when a flash of white had caught his eye.

Looking up, his eyes followed a head of hair that he initially attributed to some elderly person - that degree of pure white was nothing that could be achieved naturally, after all.

But then, almost as if sensing Sherlock’s stare, the figure had turned his head - and Sherlock had caught a glimpse of round, young cheeks and wide grey eyes, framed by lashes just as white as the hair on his head.

A genetic condition of some sort, then - albinism, perhaps.

Sherlock would have dismissed it - but the boy looked away too quickly, shrugged his shoulders up just a bit, and turned up the collar of the tan trench coat he was wearing.

Remarkably suspicious.

Sherlock had hurried after him, calling out, turning the corner of the street just seconds after - but the boy with the snow-white hair was gone.

Sherlock took note of him, told the officers to be on the lookout in case he had seen something or had information…or was the culprit himself, visiting to see the effects of his work - and then Sherlock went back to work.

 

The case continued to stump him, and his curiosity turned to what John referred to as ‘obsession’. Sherlock found himself pacing more often, wearing a path in the carpet of his living room as he muttered to himself and tried to piece things together.

More bodies piled up - or, well. They would , had they not all been reduced to piles of indistinguishable grey ash.

A mother, disintegrated just in front of her home - unlocking the door one moment, gone the next, blown away when her husband opened the door to let her in. Her clothes, the items in her hands, even the paper bag her groceries had been in - untouched by the flames that had supposedly consumed her.

An old man, too feeble to move far by himself, locked and secure in his home with no visitors and no one who had a copy of his key aside from his daughter, turned to dust in his rocking chair, found the next morning when his daughter came by to care for him.

A noble family, protected and safe in their luxurious home, along with all their staff…nothing more than piles to be swept away after the scene was investigated thoroughly.

Never any signs of a break-in.

Never any trace of foul play or an uninvited guest.

Not until after the crime was done.

 

See, Sherlock had returned to a few crime scenes after the fact, just to look over things again, or to get a better gauge of everything without the bumbling police in his way - and only then, after he had already ruled out break-ins and strange presences, would he find a lock carefully jimmied open, or a window scratched from someone prying up the latch from outside, or some small disturbance marking someone’s passage through the scene.

Or, most telling - a white hair or two.

So Sherlock had a stakeout one night.

He told the police he was going home, left the scene…and returned once the police were gone, ensuring no one saw him, and no one knew he was staying behind.

 

The second time he saw the white-haired boy, he was breaking into the crime scene Sherlock was staking out.

 

Sherlock was honestly beginning to fall asleep by the time anything happened, and he’d begun to entertain the thought of just going home, because nothing was bloody happening.

And then the front door handle had clicked, and all traces of fatigue had left Sherlock’s body as he stilled, sitting upstairs in someone’s plush armchair and listening as the door opened quietly, closed near-silently, and locked again .

What a stupid criminal - even if he was here to steal, he had just locked his easiest escape route behind himself.

 

Sherlock waited, still listening, still as quiet and unmoving as could be, and he heard precisely where the intruder went.

Past the entryway, into the parlour. Back out to the hallway, over to the dining room. The kitchen. Across the hall to the water closet.

To the base of the stairs.

Up the stairs, step by step, carefully avoiding creaks - had he been here before? How did he know where to step?

Sherlock slowly drew his pistol, and carefully aimed it at the door to the room he was in.

The footsteps approached, and now he could hear quiet talking - whoever this was, he was mumbling to himself.

 

“What do you think, Tim? Still here? Or did it move on? My eye isn’t reacting…”

He had a polite, upper-class sort of accent, with just a hint of some lower-class English in there too - a roundness to his vowels, a slight lilt on certain syllables that denoted an accent not quite settled into his mannerisms.

(It reminded Sherlock of William.)

And who was Tim? Was there someone else with him? No, Sherlock hadn’t heard a single sign of a second intruder.

Was this guy just crazy, then? What was that about his eye…?

Sherlock’s finger tightened slightly on the trigger - better to be safe than sorry. Better to be ready, just in case this intruder decided to attack once he realised he’d been caught.

The footsteps finally reached the first door in the upstairs hallway, and Sherlock’s eyes narrowed as he waited.

A white-gloved hand pushed the door open, its owner currently looking away, further down the hallway, and Sherlock leaned forwards, gaze keen as he recognised that white hair.

Sherlock snapped at him to stop where he was and raise his hands, and the boy gasped harshly, jumping back as his hands instantly went…up. Into the air. 

Not a single thought for fighting back, huh?

Wide grey eyes stared at Sherlock for a heartbeat - and then the boy turned and darted back towards the stairs, and Sherlock made chase.

 

“ Oi! Get back here, you crook! The hell’re you doing here! What d’you know about these murders!”

 

The boy leapt down the entire flight of stairs , landing in a roll and launching right back out of it in one smooth motion, foot pivoting in the hallway carpet as he pushed off towards the front door.

Sherlock did the same, and nearly rolled his ankle as he stumbled into the wall opposite the staircase, quickly turning to face the boy again.

He raised his pistol, aiming it at the boy’s back, fluttering beige fabric held in the gaze of the barrel - and the guy…flashed an apologetic smile over his shoulder, waving as his other hand reached to unlock the door mid-stride.

“Sorry! I would love to explain more, but I really can’t afford to be caught right now! Goodnight, Detective!”

Sherlock’s gun fired, now aimed lower, at the guy’s leg - but an odd flash of white fabric intercepted the bullet, and it clattered away just before the front door closed behind the escaping criminal.

By the time Sherlock opened the door…there was not a trace of white hair to be seen.

Chapter 2: Meeting with Moriarty

Summary:

Sherlock consults his favourite professor, and gets a few more ideas on how to solve his case.

Sherlock finally got to consult William a couple days after that.

It happened by chance, really - Sherlock had gone out to buy more tobacco, and while walking back in the direction of his flat (taking a bit of a detour so he could enjoy a smoke on the way back and not have John or Martha harping on him about the smoke or smell inside the flat), he had spotted a familiar head of blond hair that made him perk up instantly.

There was a second head of blond hair that did give him pause - but not nearly enough to not go say hello to Liam, so Sherlock spun on his heel and pushed past some other pedestrians until he could grab William’s shoulder, grinning broadly as he called out his nickname and successfully startled the nobleman into turning around with a bit of a shocked expression on his face. 

Then his surprise softened into a polite, pleased little smile, and Sherlock’s mood went way up.

(Louis’ expression was a little more murderous, but Sherlock ignored that.)

 

“Oh, good afternoon, Mr. Holmes. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Sherlock beamed at William, eyes gleaming with delight and mischief and eagerness.

“Liam! You’re just the man I was looking for! I’ve got a fascinating new case I’d like to pick your brain about.”

That certainly intrigued William, who cast a brief glance at Louis (glaring at Sherlock and bristling like an annoyed cat, of course) before looking back to the detective and nodding.

“I think I would enjoy that. Shall we find someplace to sit, then? I’d rather not clog up the sidewalk and make Louis hold things the entire time.”

Louis was torn between telling William it was fine, because he wanted to keep this conversation short - and just going with it, because there was no way in hell this conversation was actually going to be short, no matter what he did.

Sherlock pumped a fist in celebration, and then crowed that there was a café nearby where they could get a cuppa and have a chat - and before anyone else could say anything, he turned towards it and just started walking, too excited to get anyone else’s input.

William smiled - somewhat fond, somewhat exasperated - and followed, while Louis just sighed heavily and stayed with his brother, adjusting his purchases in his arms and hoping that this was at least a mystery interesting enough that he could ignore his frustration and just listen to the details instead of being caught on the fact it was Sherlock Holmes spouting them.

 

Once they were seated and had their drinks ordered, Sherlock launched right into his explanation. From mysterious deaths that he couldn’t quite attribute to either murders or accidents, to his lack of leads and then the white-haired boy he had seen and nearly caught - Louis actually found himself listening intently, curious about the layers of mystery in this case.

William, too, was enthralled, and although he got his tea shortly after Sherlock started talking, he wound up forgetting to actually drink it, instead sitting back in his chair with one hand brought up to his chin, one leg folded over the other in a thoughtful pose as he tried to parse out the same things as Sherlock.

He remained quiet as Sherlock finally finished adding the final confounding details, and then he thought in silence, a slight furrow between his brows as he stared into the middle distance and parsed through what he knew.

Sherlock added a frankly excessive amount of sugar to the coffee he’d received, and still made a face at the bitterness when he took a sip.

 

The table was quiet for a couple minutes, all parties either thinking or waiting, and finally, William spoke again.

“That certainly is a very interesting conundrum. Have you considered the usage of some sort of highly flammable chemical? Something that would induce flames hot enough to burn bones as well? The clothing and accessories could have been placed afterwards to derail the investigation.”

Sherlock hummed, eyes widening a little at the suggestion, and it was clear he had not yet considered that.

He pointed his spoon at William, and replied that that was a very good point.

“I’ll have to go take a look at the surrounding areas, ash, and items, then, see if I can’t chemically isolate something. I don’t know of any chemical that could get a body to burn that thoroughly on its own, but I’m sure something must exist.”

He narrowed his eyes, already thinking hard, and his coffee was promptly forgotten about while he and William practically swapped places - William was now sipping his tea with honey, waiting with a small, vaguely amused smile on his lips, and Sherlock was hunched over the table staring at nothing, fingers steepled in front of his face as he went through all of his chemistry knowledge and came up with experiments he could do and what chemical profile, exactly, he would be looking for.

 

William did eventually bring him back to the present, mentioning that he could perhaps make use of the population of street urchins to track down his mysterious criminal.

“He doesn’t exactly have an easily hidden appearance, and those children are all over the city every day. I’m sure if you spared them a few pence, they would gladly look around for such a character.”

Sherlock’s eyes refocused on William, and he grinned, nodding.

“Another terrific idea, Liam! I’ll recruit my Irregulars to lend a hand.”

William nodded, polite smile still playing on his lips, and he made a note in his mind to get Fred on the issue as well. If anyone could find the mysterious white-haired boy, it would be Fred.

 

They continued chatting (save for Louis, who said nary a word) until they had finished their drinks, and then William took pity on his brother and suggested they go their separate ways.

Sherlock, all too eager to get started on his experiments and round up the Baker Street irregulars, agreed without much fuss - only pausing to tell William they should meet up again soon.

“Always a grand time, chattin’ with you! I keep forgetting to invite you for tea and whatnot!”

William just chuckled and nodded, replying that he would like that too, and he also enjoyed their talks - and then he gathered up his cane and hat, gave a small bow as he said farewell, and joined Louis in heading back the way they had been going before.

Sherlock started his walk home, mind abuzz with possibilities and plans, and lit himself another cigarette as he pondered over what William had suggested.

It was always so great, getting William’s opinion - sometimes Sherlock overlooked even the simplest of ideas, too focused on other things to pause and take a step back and think critically like William.

He really would have to start visiting more often - maybe he could pay a visit to Durham again, and not have Louis hovering like a disgruntled mama bird the entire time.

 

.oOo.

 

It took some goading, lots of persuasion, and a little bit of blackmail for Lestrade to allow Sherlock to go home with some samples of the collected evidence. But Sherlock was cunning and persistent, and Lestrade was just too tired to deal with him, so he did eventually succeed, and subsequently returned to his flat with several pieces of victims’ clothing articles, and a small collection of little glass jars filled with ash. John gave him an incredulous look when he saw the odd assortment of items, and he just looked appalled when Sherlock explained what they were, and what he planned to do.

 

“But - that’s - Sherlock , that is incredibly disrespectful to their remains! Not to mention the possession of human remains is illegal - that skull in your room is bad enough! Did you even bother to ask their relatives if you could use their ashes like this?!”

Sherlock just shrugged and kept pulling out beakers and pipettes and other chemistry equipment.

“Not like the dead give a rat’s arse. They’re dead. And the families won’t miss a few grams of ashes, even if they did care to go looking. Plus, John - you really should know by now, the police can’t do a thing to me. They’d all be helpless without me, and Lestrade knows full well I’ve got these ashes and what I’m going to do with them.”

John made an affronted, distressed sound, and hurried away to his room to hide from his roommate’s ridiculous methods (and the questionable chemistry he was sure was about to happen).

 

When he finally woke up and came out of his room in the morning…Sherlock was still at his desk, now with several mugs of half-consumed coffee joining the mess of glassware strewn about both his desk and the coffee table nearby.

John sighed, and asked Sherlock dryly if he had slept or eaten.

As expected, he was entirely ignored, and that told him everything he needed to know. Sherlock was currently oblivious to anything but chemistry, his case, and coffee - which meant he had neither slept nor eaten, nor drank anything except bitter, overly sugary caffeine water all night.

John went to fix Sherlock a sandwich - and heavily considered lacing it with something that would knock him out and force him to sleep at least a few hours. But that was a little too much of a Sherlock plot for him to actually follow through, and he settled for just taking the beakers from Sherlock’s hands and replacing them with a plate of food and a glass of water when the sleep-deprived detective protested.

“Eat that, and drink some water, you fool,” John admonished.

“And if you would please get some sleep at some point during the day…I would much rather not come home to find you passed out on the floor again .”

Sherlock gave him some side-eye that wasn’t nearly as imposing as he thought it was (it was rather dampened by messy hair, a pronounced cowlick, and a yawn halfway through), and then sighed and moved to the couch to give his sore back a break while he ate.

 

“...Thanks, John,” he muttered after a moment, while John started getting ready to leave for work. 

John sighed, and nodded, and gave Sherlock a small, wry smile.

“What would you do without me, hm? Take care of yourself, Sherlock. I’ll be home around the usual time.”

Sherlock nodded in response, busy devouring the sandwich he hadn’t known he needed, and John tipped his hat at him and then left him to his own devices for the day.

Chapter 3: Vigilante

Summary:

Sherlock is frustrated, and Fred and Allen have a chat.

The results were inconclusive.

Sherlock slaved over his chemistry set all night and all day, only stopping an hour or so after John arrived home - and the results were inconclusive .

This pissed him off to no end, of course, and after a fit of frustration wherein he cursed at the useless, unforthcoming vials on his desk, he collapsed onto the couch with a groan and lit a cigarette to soothe his frayed nerves.

John, saint that he was, set a plate of food on the coffee table and then sat himself down in an unoccupied armchair.

“Would you like to talk about it?” he asked calmly, and Sherlock groaned again before, predictably, sitting up and taking a heavy drag of his cigarette prior to speaking.

 

“ Nothing, ” he griped bitterly.

“All that work, and I’ve come up with nothing . No traces of foreign chemicals, no signs of anything especially flammable, not even any bloody signs of burning! Tell me, John - how in the bloody hell do multiple people manage to turn to ash without even any charring around the area? Not a fireplace nearby, no habit of smoking, not a single sign of any attempts to put the fire out or flee the area - it’s like they all just disintegrated!”  

He rubbed his face with one hand, rubbing tiredly at his eyes and then massaging his temples to try stave off the exhausted, frustrated, dehydrated headache that was building behind his eyes.

John pursed his lips, just as bewildered if not more, and silently ate his dinner while trying to find some sort of explanation.

 

“Is it…did they make themselves disappear on purpose, perhaps?” he asked.

“Could it be some sort of plot to run away?”

But Sherlock shook his head no, and took another drag off his cigarette before tapping the ash into the nearest receptacle.

“I already looked into that,” he replied, and he sounded so tired and defeated that John had the urge to pat him on the shoulder consolingly.

He didn’t, because that would surely earn him a withering glare, but he was tempted.

 

“No signs of any disturbances after the fact, no money, valuables, clothes, or identification missing. No reason for any of them to flee or be forced into hiding. Nothing suspicious at all aside from the miraculous piles of ash. I mean, I found one odd thing in the ashes, a trace of something I couldn’t identify, but it wasn’t a chemical or incendiary, it was just…I don’t even know. I couldn’t figure it out at all. Probably just some side product of the combustion…”

John nodded slowly, disappointed that he couldn’t be of any use. It was a common feeling, when dealing with the cases that stumped Sherlock - John really had no way of helping other than reminding the detective to take care of himself, since he wasn’t at all built to be a detective. He was a doctor, and that didn’t often factor in too much, because Sherlock already knew everything he needed to know about the human body. And perhaps a little more past that, too.

 

“...I’m going to go make us some tea,” he offered by way of support.

“Remember to eat, I’m sure you’ll crack the case soon enough. You’re not London’s Greatest Detective for nothing, after all.”

Sherlock chuckled a little at that, cracking a smile that relieved John of some of his worry, and he nodded and thanked John for the encouragement.

John smiled, rather proud of himself for pulling Sherlock out of his moping, and trotted off to go make that tea.

 

.oOo.

 

The Irregulars only managed to catch glimpses.

They did find their target a couple times, catching sight of him in some store or back road - but every time, before they could catch up or get a better look or even call out to him properly…he would be gone without a trace. A couple kids said they saw him performing some impressive manoeuvres to get over walls or on top of buildings, some claimed he was just really fast, and one girl decided quite firmly that he was actually a ghost - but no matter the explanation, they still couldn’t catch him, and they had to return to Sherlock frustrated, apologetic, and empty-handed.

 

Fred had more luck.

He experienced the same elusive behaviour - but he was just as elusive, quick, and resourceful, and he managed to follow the boy after tracking him down a second time.

Up onto a garbage can, then a window sill, then vault over the fence bisecting the alleyway.

Turn left, then right, then duck back into a narrow passage between buildings.

Back and forth between the walls, shoes finding purchase on the cracked mortar between bricks, then onto the roof.

The boy glanced back and found Fred still there, and grey eyes went wide with shock before darting around quickly to find another escape.

Fred lifted his hands silently to show he meant no harm, and while the boy remained tense, wound up like a spring and ready to bolt at the slightest sign of trouble…he stayed put.

His chest was heaving, heavy breaths that surely played a part in his willingness to take a break from running, and Fred wouldn’t lie and say his own breathing wasn’t pretty harsh at that moment. It was rare that someone actually managed to give him a run for his money, but this guy seemed to have him just about matched in the escape artist department.

 

“...Who are you?” the boy asked after a few seconds of catching his breath - and Fred realised that he really was just a boy. He didn’t just look young - he sounded it, too. It made Fred very curious what he had lived through, to have just as much talent being evasive as Fred himself.

He debated for a second or two, deciding how honest to be - but it seemed this kid disliked Holmes and was just as intent on avoiding him, so he chose to be truthful with him. He had a feeling the guy had just as much of a talent for detecting lies as Fred.

 

“My name is Fred,” he replied levelly.

“And I mean you no harm. I just want to talk.”

Grey eyes examined him critically for a bit - and then the boy nodded, and a little bit of the tension leached out of his body.

“...Okay. I’ll talk, but I make no promises about how much I’ll actually tell you. I’ve a vested interest in keeping myself hidden.”
Fred nodded, the boy nodded back, and because they were both on the relatively flat roof of a taller building, they both took a seat.

And finally, Fred got a name for the mysterious white-haired boy.

Allen.

 

“...Pleased to meet you, Allen,” Fred said somewhat stiffly. He really wasn’t one for talking…but there was not a chance in hell he would get Allen back to someone better with words than him. The guy was flighty enough as it was.

Allen smiled a little, a nervous but polite smile that reminded Fred all too much of William - and he replied just as politely, and in the same sort of accent, too. Refined, definitely upper-class English…but with a slight roundness to the vowels, a little bit of a lilt, that Fred recognised as belonging to a lower-class upbringing.

Curious.

“Pleased to meet you as well, Fred. My apologies for leading you on such a wild chase. But I suppose you’ve caught me fair and square now…perhaps I should work on my endurance, I really didn’t last long, did I?”

Fred shrugged.

“You would have lost most people. I’m just good at that sort of thing, too.”

There was a drawn-out silence, neither of the two very eager to start talking first, and Allen wound up being the next to speak.

 

“So…why were you chasing me…?” he asked tentatively.

“I don’t recognise you, you’re not in any sort of uniform, and you don’t seem to want to capture or kill me, so…I’m a wee bit confused what your goal is.”

Fred certainly took note of the examples Allen brought up, wondering why he was so wary and who else was after him that warranted such extreme caution and concern - but he gave no indication that he was thinking so hard, and just responded calmly instead.

“Curiosity. And concern about the city. You’ve been…frequenting crime scenes. If you’re the one killing them…I am going to have to stop you.”

It wasn’t an empty threat - but it wasn’t an especially malicious one, either. Fred was just prepared to do what was right, especially since he and Allen had both seen each other’s faces and heard each other’s names now, so Fred would be a high-priority target if Allen really was on a killing spree.

But Allen’s eyes widened, and he shook his head vehemently.

 

“No! No, of course not, I would never. I am most certainly not the culprit behind those murders - I’ve been trying to track them down, actually.”

He gave Fred a sheepish smile, and then swallowed hard and glanced around nervously. Like he was expecting someone to jump up here and try to murder him any moment now.

“I can’t really…say much else, but I assure you I am no threat to you or others. I just…have a good idea what’s - who’s - responsible for those deaths, and I intend to bring them to justice.”

 

Fred tilted his head curiously, darker grey eyes boring into Allen’s lighter ones.

“...Why avoid the detective?”

Allen flinched a little, caught, and grimaced with another anxious glance at their surroundings.

“Well, I…” 

He sighed.

“He wouldn’t be able to help. And I don’t want to endanger him by bringing him into this.”

Another strange answer - Sherlock Holmes was already in this, of course. He was the detective on the case. He was actively looking for Allen, thought he was the murderer, and he certainly wasn’t going to give up. So what, exactly, was Allen scared to bring him into…?

Fred didn’t ask, but Allen definitely noticed the curiosity in his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he offered, sounding almost guilty.

“I can’t bring you into it, either. It’s for your own safety, I assure you.”
He glanced down at his hands - gloved; pristine white gloves that showed no sign of having been used to kill, light fires, whatever.

Then he looked back up, brows furrowed slightly, and asked Fred for a favour .

 

“If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, Fred, and pardon me for asking, but…do you think you could give the detective a warning for me? I don’t want to do it, I feel as if he’ll know somehow, and use it to track me down - but perhaps you could…leave him a note, or something. Just…something so he’ll stay away and out of trouble?”

Fred didn’t have any such concern for Sherlock Holmes…but he nodded anyways. He knew full well that Holmes wouldn’t be dissuaded by a note from his number one suspect.

If anything, it would only fuel his determination more .

So Fred had no intention of actually doing that - but he let Allen think he would. Allen seemed utterly relieved, and he nodded with a soft sigh before getting back to his feet.

Fred stood as well, and Allen took a couple steps backwards towards the edge of the roof, smiling sheepishly again.

 

“I’m sure you have more questions, and again I apologise for not answering them…but please, for your own good - stop looking for me. I’ll take care of that murderer, and then I’ll be on my way and you won’t have to worry about me anymore. Have a good day, Fred.”

Then he hopped backwards, off the roof , and by the time Fred made it to the edge - he was gone.

Chapter 4: Clownery

Summary:

William becomes even more involved in the case - and Sherlock gives Allen the 'Kanda' treatment while passing by a clown performing on the street. (Luckily for Allen, Sherlock does not have Kanda's 'beansprout-sense' and does not attack him.)

William, of course, was very interested to learn what Fred had gleaned over the course of that talk with the elusive boy named Allen. He was pleased, and proud, that Fred had managed to track him down and convince him to have a chat, and he sat Fred down in the parlour to have some tea and talk over what he’d learned.

 

First - the name. No last name given, and a rather common first name…but not a fake one. Fred had been able to tell that Allen was being honest when he told him that. Partly because he hadn’t offered up his last name.

 

Second - the accent. Fluent, easy English, most likely his native tongue, although he hadn’t started his life speaking such proper English. William was intrigued by the news that Allen had likely begun his life in the lowest caste much like he and Louis had, and he mused that it did explain some of his caginess, flightiness, and skill in navigating back alleys and fleeing pursuers. That sort of cleverness was very necessary as a street urchin.

 

Fred also talked a bit about Allen’s appearance - he was pale, befitting of a Brit, and his hair was indeed pure white. Not bleached, not powdered, not just sections of it - all of it, white as fresh snow and clearly trimmed by hand, if the unevenness of the bangs and sides were anything to go by.

And he had makeup on his face.

Fred had only noticed that upon close scrutiny - it had taken him a bit, but he had determined in the end that there was makeup on one side of Allen’s face. His left, Fred’s right. It was well done, nearly impossible to spot and not rubbing off on his hair or clothes - but it was there, and it meant he had some sort of identifying mark on that side of his face.

 

And finally - what they had actually spoken about. From Allen’s insistence that it was not him committing the crimes Sherlock suspected him of, to his sheepish but wary assertion that he didn’t want to endanger anyone else by bringing them too close to himself or whatever it was he was investigating - since he apparently had a different angle on the case than Sherlock. Fred also included the bit about wanting him to warn Sherlock away - William chuckled and agreed that he should not, because that would only spur the detective on further. Like trying to take a bone away from a stubborn dog…

 

William came to a few more conclusions after that - aside from the obvious ones, that is. It was clear to see that Allen was British, hiding something, and running from something as well.

 

1. Allen already knew who - or what, apparently, based on his own brief slip-up during the conversation - was murdering people, and it was likely he knew how they were doing it, too. He was only here to find them, and bring them to justice.
2. ‘Justice’, in this case, did not mean the law - and more than likely, it meant that Allen was willing and able to kill, just as much as the murderer he was after. He clearly wasn’t going to involve the Yard, just as he wasn’t involving Sherlock Holmes, and the only other way to get rid of the threat for good was to get rid of the person (or thing) behind it.
   That did sour William’s opinion of Allen a bit.
   It didn’t bode well, at the very least.
3. Despite having the goal of killing a serial killer…Allen was used to being the ‘good guy’. He was too trusting and willing to talk to be actually used to running and hiding. He was good at it, yes…but if he had lived his whole life being some street urchin vigilante or the like, he would have done his vanishing act off the building straightaway, and nod stuck around to have a chat with Fred and tell him to try and keep the detective safe.
   Which was why his seeming willingness to kill only soured William’s opinion a little. He would have to speak with the guy himself to really get a proper read…but it seemed to him that the intentions behind his actions were good, even if the actions themselves were sketchy at best.
4. Allen was not just running from something…he was being chased by something. That something was not who or what he was after here in London, but he was jumpy and skittish enough even while sitting down and talking with Fred that it was fairly obvious he was on the lookout for someone else to come after him. He also knew precisely what he was running from, because he had sat down and talked with Fred - he had known that Fred was not, in fact, there to catch him, and was not allied with his pursuer(s) either.

 

Needless to say, William was rather invested in this mystery now. Not so much the mystery of the murders…he trusted Sherlock, if not Allen as well, to solve those…but the mystery of Allen himself. Where had he come from? Why was he so concerned about the serial murders in London, if he was actively on the run from someone, and it would surely benefit him to keep on moving rather than hanging around in one city? And what, exactly, were his goals?

William told Fred that, if he could manage it, he should convince Allen to meet with William as well, because he wanted to talk, too. He could offer information, food, a place to stay for a night, whatever would convince him to come chat - William left that bit up to Fred, trusting him to offer bribes within reason, and Fred of course agreed to try his best. Which meant he would get it done, because his best was, truly, the best. He was a very capable young man.

 

.oOo.

 

The next time Sherlock Holmes encountered Allen Walker…he didn’t even know it was him.

There was a new street performer on the day Sherlock set out to find William again and talk over his frustrating results and lack of findings, and Sherlock really didn’t pay said performer much mind.

It was a clown - kind of creepy, with all the face paint and the bald cap. Kind of scruffy, with the baggy and well-worn outfit, oversized shoes, and mildly messy makeup. Kind of amusing, with how genuinely practised and talented the performance was. It was a clown - but it was a clown with great balance, hand-eye coordination, and a broad smile plastered on his face that never wavered one bit.

Something about the clown nagged at Sherlock slightly, but he assumed the white face paint just made him think about that white-haired kid he was still after, and he shook his head before moving on.

 

(Allen nearly sweated his makeup right off, with the detective staring at him so bloody intently - but he kept his smile in place, and the detective didn’t seem to recognise him, so he just kept the performance going until he was out of sight…and then swiftly packed up and moved along, just in case.)

 

.oOo.

 

Sherlock ‘found’ William at home this time. It was Louis who opened the door - and who hardly managed to conceal his sour expression and twitchy eye upon laying eyes on Sherlock.

But he welcomed Sherlock graciously like a polite nobleman should, bowing to Sherlock and greeting him as ‘Mr. Holmes’ - a moniker he waved away dismissively.

“Please. Just call me Sherlock, ‘Mr. Holmes’ makes me think of my brother. ‘Course, I bet you’d prefer being called ‘Mr. Moriarty’, so I guess you can call me whatever, if the disparity makes you feel strange.”

Louis’ eye twitched again.

 

“You’re looking for my brother, yes, Mr. Holmes?” he asked pointedly, and Sherlock shot him an amused but annoyed glance before nodding.

“An astute observation, Mr. Moriarty. My investigation, as I’m sure you’d be glad to hear, isn’t going as well as I’d like, so I’ve come to consult Liam on a couple things again.”

Louis was torn between preening over William’s intelligence and importance - and scowling at the detective for calling him by that stupidly familiar nickname.

In any case, he made sure Sherlock shed his shoes and put them away nicely - and then he led him to the sitting room, where William was already sat with a cup of tea…and a carafe of coffee with its accompanying cup and sugar bowl.

He’d known Sherlock was coming, after all.

Notes:

*Peeks out nervously*
So, uh, I've been...busy?
Not really. Just wholly lacking in motivation. Here's a chapter, though! I haven't forgotten about you!
Hope you enjoyed~

Chapter 5: Apology in Print

Summary:

William has more sage advice, Sherlock has to swallow his pride, and Allen is making stupid decisions.

William sipped his tea with a small smile gracing his lips, eyes shining fondly as he watched Sherlock stir an egregious amount of sugar into his coffee. It was a good thing Louis had already left the room - he’d have been appalled at the waste of good coffee, filling it with sweetness like that.

But, as abrasive as the detective acted at times…he really wasn’t a bitter man, and that reflected in his tastes.

William let Sherlock finish tasting and re-tasting his coffee, amused at the amount of sugar he’d stirred in - it was surely an oversaturated solution at this point, and Sherlock would definitely be finding a sugary sludge at the bottom as it cooled. 

(There was a distinct possibility that was precisely what he was going for.)

 

Finally he seemed happy with the coffee, though, and William only needed to prod a little bit for the detective’s mind to rubber-band right back to his original purpose for visiting, along with a sudden shift in his emotions from amicable enjoyment of William’s company - to stubborn frustration over the case that kept eluding him.

 

“ Nothing , Liam! Nothing of import whatsoever! Not a single trace of an accelerant or untoward chemical, just - ash! And, well. There was something a little off I found in all of the samples, but I couldn’t identify it - it wasn’t an accelerant or anything, it seemed organic, so I passed it off as uncombusted biological material.”
He paused for a moment, briefly pensive, and William took a moment to think as well - a moment that was quickly dashed by Sherlock continuing to complain.

 

“That’s beside the point, though! I was so hopeful about your theory, and I got nothing! Plus, I’ve been looking into the murders and disappearances, and I can’t find anything in common! No reason anyone would have wanted them dead or gone, no reasons to run off and disappear themselves, most of those folks are squeaky-clean. I just don’t get it . There’s no type like with serial killers, and while the modus operandi is the same, I don’t understand how one would even get such identical results on people of varying ages, weights, sizes, and body types. There just isn’t anything for me to go on.”

He had calmed down by then, no longer gesticulating wildly and raising his voice in his excitement - more musing, quiet and contemplative, brow furrowed with concentration and consternation.

He looked rather handsome like that, all pensive and serious, lit from the side by the afternoon light streaming in from the window.

William drowned that stray thought in a sip of tea, and offered a little bit of insight to see if Sherlock would catch on.

 

“If there’s no ‘type’, which implies there isn’t a serial killer in the sense that you think of serial killers…perhaps you should look at it from a different angle? Perhaps that boy you keep seeing isn’t a killer, but someone trying to solve these cases as well?”

It was rather direct , and it would usually be dangerous to offer such information at the risk of being asked how he knew that - but he suspected Sherlock would be too focused on solving the case to even notice.

Sure enough, Sherlock latched onto the advice rather than the suspicion, and gestured his cup of tea at William as he countered.

 

“I guess I could , even if a serial killer makes the most sense - but why would the kid run away from me, if he’s trying to help? Seems backwards to me, and bloody suspicious at that.”

He frowned at William, and frowned harder when William smiled into his teacup and suppressed a chuckle.

“ What? What’s so funny about that!”

William raised his eyebrows delicately and gave Sherlock a wry little smile.

 

“Perhaps he ran away because you pointed a gun at him, Mr. Holmes. I doubt you were terribly friendly the first time you encountered him…”

He watched as Sherlock paused.
Thought about it.
Frowned.
Opened his mouth to reply - then closed it again.
Frowned harder.
And finally flopped back in his chair, cup clinking harshly against its saucer as he put it down unceremoniously and groaned, all while tipping his head dramatically backwards over the top rail of his seat.

 

“But he was suspicious!” he complained, throwing his hands up in defeat. “How else was I supposed to confront him! He was breaking into a house where people had just been murdered!”

William stifled another laugh by drinking tea.

He was talking with what had to be the most childish but also brilliant detective the world had ever seen.

 

“I’d bet your mystery man would be more amenable to talking with you if you offered an olive branch,” he suggested, trying not to sound too amused at Sherlock’s expense. Sherlock looked up at him, lifting his head with all the eager curiosity of a dog hearing a word he liked - and William took it as his sign to continue that train of thought.

“Either get that gaggle of urchins to chat with him for you - or if that fails, perhaps he reads the paper and would appreciate a little apology.”

Sherlock looked appalled .

William looked forward to seeing him swallow his pride and put an apology in the paper - there was not a chance his Irregulars would catch the mystery boy, if Fred had had a hard time of it.

 

The conversation moved on, and William’s suggestion lingered naggingly in Sherlock’s mind the entire time.

 

.oOo.

 

Allen found the apology a couple days after that.

He picked up a morning paper, borrowing it off of someone’s front step and reading it just around the corner. He was looking for any news that might pertain to Innocence, or other exorcists, or the Noah…or Apocryphos. He didn’t find anything concerning, though, and allowed himself to breathe a sigh of relief and relax for a moment as he read the rest of the paper just so he could be caught up on local news.

And then, in the Classifieds section - a message from Det. Holmes, addressed to ‘Elusive White-Hair Boy’.

 

Elusive White-Hair Boy,
I would like to extend an apology for our first encounter, and invite you to cordially discuss the case. I think we have the same goal. 221B Baker Street, or wherever convenient.
Signed, Det. Holmes.

 

Admittedly, Allen was wary of the message - it seemed suspicious, too terse and formal for the detective…but then again, it was likely he’d enlisted someone else’s help in writing it, and also tried to keep it short. Personal ads did cost money, after all, and it was better to use concise wording.

He put the borrowed newspaper neatly back on the step where he’d found it, and then huddled away in his best attempt at remaining undercover, pondering his next move all the way back to the empty house he’d taken refuge in.

(It was very awkward and strange, to be staying in the house of someone who’d been turned to ash, but it was also very convenient, and Allen tried to be respectful.)

 

He wound up packing his meagre belongings into his suitcase, after which he let out a heavy sigh and resigned himself to whatever plot the detective had cooked up. He was sure he could make an escape, even if he didn't manage to talk his way out of it…so he would go see if the proposal was genuine, and maybe it would actually be beneficial if it was. 

The detective's influence would at the very least mean that Allen could investigate things more thoroughly and finally finish off whatever akuma were responsible for all of this. It was hard to be both undercover and an exorcist… 

 

About half an hour later, Allen's gloved hand was knocking politely on the front door of 221 Baker Street. 

He fidgeted nervously, shifting from foot to foot and adjusting the navy blue bandana on his head to ensure as much of his distinctive hair was hidden as possible. 

He only had to wait a few moments, and then a red-haired woman pulled the door open and eyed him with a healthy amount of wariness. 

“You here to see Holmes?” she guessed correctly, and Allen nodded with a small, polite smile. 

“Yes, please. Is he in?” 

The woman nodded, looked him up and down - and then showed him into the house without any fanfare. She led him up the stairs, lifting her skirts and huffing a little as she poked her head into the upper flat. 

“Sherlock! Get out here! You've got a visitor!”

 

There was some rustling and a thump from a room across the messy flat, and then a curious face framed by dark, messy hair poked out. 

His eyes widened when he saw Allen, and he promptly pointed at him while exclaiming, 

“Elusive white-hair boy!” 

The redheaded woman chastised him for being rude, but Allen smiled nervously and assured her it was fine. 

“We haven't met, he doesn't know my name. Lord knows I've been called worse, so I really don't mind…” 

It was still better than ‘beansprout’. 

 

Ms. Hudson huffed, but conceded, and stated that she would bring up some tea for them both in a few minutes - Allen gave her a small bow and another kind smile. 

“Thank you very much, miss…?” 

Slightly flustered, Ms. Hudson told him her name - and then shot a Look at Sherlock that threatened pain if he managed to insult or scare off such a polite boy. 

Allen finished his expression of gratitude, and waited for the landlady to leave the flat. 

Once she did, he sighed, and then turned to Sherlock with a guarded but polite smile. 

 

“Good morning, Detective Holmes. Thank you for your invitation. Shall we talk?” 

Sherlock nodded, and strolled over to an armchair to plop down and examine the boy in his living room. 

 

The white hair was even more striking up close - there was no evidence of any products, no discoloured roots or tips, no chalkiness or stiffness to the strands…his hair really was just white . 

His eyes, pale grey as they were, seemed to indicate some form of albinism, and he was…certainly pale enough to warrant such an assumption. 

Of course, his paleness only served to further accentuate the…tattoo? On his face. A deliberate-looking, bright red marking that crossed over his eye and crooked right beneath it before trailing down to his jaw - and was that a star on his forehead? It had to be a tattoo. 

 

The boy sat politely, the action just as reserved and nervous as everything else he did. He perched on the couch with his gloved hands on his knees, back straight and smile unwavering. He had removed the bandanna and trench coat, which revealed not only was he even smaller than Sherlock had expected…but he looked younger, as well. He couldn't possibly be past his teens. 

He waited patiently for Sherlock to speak, tense the entire time. 

Finally, Sherlock indulged him. 

 

“So. You know my name. What's yours? So I don't have to keep calling you variations on ‘white-haired boy’.”

That earned a light chuckle and a sheepish smile. 

“Ah, of course. You can call me Allen.” 

He had a British accent that sounded…just like William's. Upper class to be sure, refined and careful…but with a certain roundness to some vowels, or the occasional clipped or lacking consonant that spoke subtly of an upbringing not among the higher echelons of British society. Just a hint of the same accent Sherlock put on, only without the purposeful intent behind it. 

(Sherlock knew full well how to speak properly. He just chose not to, because it frustrated Mycroft to no end.) 

 

Sherlock's next question of course addressed what Allen was doing around all those crime scenes - and his initial hesitance put Sherlock on edge. 

Still, he made an effort to answer. 

“Well…I suppose I'm investigating, just like you. Only, I…don't have any connections with the authorities here, so I'm not too sure I would be welcome in a crime scene. I know I was being suspicious, and I do apologise - but it was for my own safety that I kept a low profile.”

Sherlock hummed, mulling over that for a bit…and frowning as the peculiarities in phrasing and word choice painted a rather muddy picture. 

 

“...You're on the run then, aren't you. You pull some stunt elsewhere? Got folks on your arse? Why bother investigatin’ a buncha crimes here when you could be moving on? Why even bother meetin’ me, when you could just scarper?” 

 

Allen hesitated again, but chose to be honest. It was generally the best policy, and he…didn't think he would get away with lying to this man. 

“Well…yes, in a way. You wouldn't find any criminal charges if you looked for me, nor a warrant for my arrest. But I do have some people looking for me. As for why I would linger…I feel it's my duty. I can stop any more deaths from occurring once I find the culprit, and since no one has caught up to me just yet, I feel fairly comfortable accepting your request and perhaps working together to solve this. I'll be on my way once it's over, though.”

 

Allen knew he couldn't tell Sherlock about the real culprit - but he could use the help tracking down the akuma responsible, and he would just have to discreetly exorcise it and then flee before the detective could catch him. Whatever akuma was responsible, it appeared to be heavily stealth focused, and luckily would probably be lacking in fighting prowess as a result. It would also be either Level 2 or Level 3. Level 1 akuma were simply too stupid to pull this off, and Level 4 were too cocky and destructive to be so stealthy. 

Sherlock didn't seem to be buying Allen's story, though, and Allen was getting increasingly nervous about the potential for an arrest right here in this living room. The detective certainly had the power to do so, and who would ever question his authority if he brought in some strange white-haired kid with no documentation?

 

Sherlock stared at the kid a while longer…but either he was the best bloody liar in the world - or he was being honest.
He leaned forward, eyeing the boy carefully, and the kid got increasingly tense and nervous, right up until Sherlock spoke.

“Are they debt collectors?”

Chapter 6: Tensions Rising

Summary:

One meeting with a detective...and an ominous summons to an abandoned church.

Allen blinked at Sherlock, stunned—he had been expecting an interrogation, a negation of his story, aggression or suspicion or something like he usually got, being a strange person being intentionally vague and overly polite.

Instead, it seemed like Sherlock had decided to focus on something else altogether.

He blinked once.

Twice.
Waited a moment longer, just in case Sherlock was going to clarify anything - a vain hope, really—and then, his polite but flabbergasted smile remaining plastered on his face, he tilted his head to the side slightly and spoke.

 

“...What?”

 

Sherlock clarified, gesturing at him casually.

“The people after you. Are they debt collectors? Lord knows, those fuckers’re persistent, and it’d explain your whole deal pretty well. On the run, clearly broke, no criminal charges? You get a botched loan or something?”

The lady from before, Ms. Hudson, finally made her appearance with their tea and, having overheard Sherlock’s train of thought, added a very dry comment of her own.

 

“You buy a bloody Strad on no income?”

 

Sherlock shot her a glare, but she just stared back defiantly, and Sherlock looked away again whilst grumbling under his breath in begrudging exasperation.

Allen stared a little longer, and then let out a nervous chuckle.
“...Ah. Well, I don’t know if I should tell you, Detective. I get the feeling you’re sizing me up to see if it’s worth arresting me.”
Sherlock, however, just barked out a laugh and sat back in his chair, greatly amused by that - well, the kid was no detective. His skills of deduction were lacking, to say the least.

“Nah!” Sherlock replied, grinning.

“You’re way too interestin’ to arrest just yet, kid. You’ve got a mystery about ya, and I’m all for solvin’ mysteries.”

 

Allen laughed quietly again, making a bit of a face and fidgeting with his gloves, thanking Ms. Hudson for the tea as she set it down, just to buy a little more time and think a bit more on that.

He…would have preferred being arrested, to be honest. He really did not need London’s Greatest Detective getting all up in his business.

Still…he needed to keep Sherlock safe, and leaving him with no answers and many questions was clearly just going to make the man more determined—that was why Allen had bothered showing up, after all.

So Allen steeled his nerves, and did his best to warn Sherlock away, again.

 

“I…suppose I appreciate that you aren’t planning on arresting me just yet, Detective,” he murmured.

“But I really must insist that you stay out of this, at least until I’m done. I can tell you what I know, and I can take care of all of this and let you take the credit, but it’s…it’s much more dangerous than you think. If you keep lingering around the crime scenes and trying to catch the killer, I’m afraid you’ll only end up as so much ash.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“Insist?” he asked curiously.

“As if you’ve warned me before?”
Allen grimaced a little—okay, so the boy he’d spoken with hadn’t managed to get a note to the detective just yet…that was unfortunate, but it didn’t really change much.

 

“I did try,” he replied apologetically.

“But it doesn’t seem to have reached you. I suppose that does explain why you so openly invited me for a chat, although I did intend to tell you to stop looking for me.”

Sherlock nodded slowly.

 

“...Right. Well, that wouldn’t’ve stopped me anyhow—lookin’ for leads and clues is my job, and right now, you’re the most promising lead I’ve got. You know somethin’, and this’d be a lot easier if you’d just tell me what it is.”

His tone was cagey now, more aggressive than before, and he clearly wasn’t pleased about being stonewalled and told not to do his own job.

In all honesty, he was confused, and that annoyed him—this kid seemed to have knowledge that no one else did, plus he thought he could solve the case all on his own, and he was on the run from someone.

Was this killer an old friend of his, or something?

The white-haired boy just smiled that frustratingly polite little smile of his, and repeated himself again.

 

“I’m sorry, Detective. I really can’t tell you anything without endangering you further. Please just stop tracking the killer for now, and I’ll handle everything for you. You’ll only be in danger if you try to confront it, and you’ll only get yourself into trouble with the people who are after me if you continue to associate with me.”

Allen stood as he spoke, leaving his tea on the table, hardly even touched, still steaming in its cup.

Sherlock stood as well, defensive and on guard, not intending to let him go that easily.

 

“No, no, no—we are not done here. I’m not just going to leave a massive case like this to some delinquent teenager, and I’m not going to let you run off again without explainin’ shit! I didn’t want to arrest you, Allen, but I will if you keep trying to impede my investigation!”

 

And Allen…made a break for it.

 

He snatched up his briefcase and darted around the table for the door, dodging around furniture and hoping it would trip Sherlock up to have to get around it.

Sherlock vaulted the seat he’d been sitting in, and before Allen could even reach the door, he was being tackled to the floor.

He twisted to the side, managing to keep one arm free, and promptly elbowed the detective—it hit him in the face, and although it did make him loosen his grip, Allen grimaced and apologised as he quickly scrambled back to his feet and made a grab for his briefcase, which he had dropped in the small scuffle.

Sherlock grabbed his ankle and yanked him off balance, hitting the backs of his knees to buckle them and immediately going for his wrists so he could handcuff him.

 

Allen apologised again.

 

And then, with a speed and strength Sherlock had only ever witnessed before from Mikey—the short, skinny teenager grabbed Sherlock’s arms, twisted around, and slammed him onto the floor before bounding over him and fleeing the flat, taking his briefcase with him.

Sherlock may have been stunned, but he could swear the kid wasn’t even holding his briefcase—it just looked like he’d somehow fastened it to his shirt, or something. All he could tell was that there had been white fabric wrapped around the handle of the thing.

 

When Ms. Hudson came running up seconds later, Sherlock was sat on the floor, rubbing his tailbone and scowling at the front door.

Like hell was he going to stop investigating, especially after that.

 

.oOo.

 

Allen ran until he made it far enough away, until he was sure he would be able to escape even if Sherlock came after him—and then he leaned against a wall, breathing hard as he dismissed Clown Belt and picked up his suitcase with his own two hands.

He made sure to keep an eye out as he waited there, catching his breath with a wary eye on each direction an angry detective could come from, even if he circled around to try catch Allen by surprise.

No detective seemed to be coming, and Allen let out a sigh as he relaxed.

He closed his eyes for a moment, wilting against the wall—

And his eyes snapped back open as a footstep sounded from the entrance to the alleyway, to his right.

 

The boy he’d met before—Fred—was standing there, chin tucked low to hide the lower half of his face in his scarf, and he was holding a knife in one hand.

Relaxed, pointed down at the ground, not threatening but still ready for use if needed, and hidden from the sight of anyone who might pass by on the main road—but a knife nonetheless.

Allen glanced hastily to his left, ready to bolt further into the alleyway to start up another wild chase.

But a black-haired man he didn’t recognise was waiting up above, aiming a gun right at him—at his legs, not his head or vitals, thankfully.

 

“Please come with us,” Fred said softly.

“We mean you no harm, but we do need to talk. If you don’t comply, we’ll take you by force, or we’ll let Detective Holmes know where to find you.”

Allen opened his mouth to protest that they had no way of knowing that—but Fred continued before he could say a word.

“You were in the house of one of the victims. You’re planning on squatting in another one, yes? Likely the most recent.”

Allen froze, and that was all the confirmation needed.

 

Fred gestured towards the alley, towards the other black-haired man.
“Please come with us,” he repeated.

Allen slowly nodded, and waited for Fred to approach him and lead him away.

He had no clue what was coming, but there was definitely no escaping Fred if he had a friend with him, this time…

 

.oOo.

 

Allen was brought to a church, which he found incredibly ironic.

Luckily for him, however, this church was thoroughly abandoned, so he didn’t have to worry about being recognised by a church official and reported to the Order.
Fred and the black-haired man flanked him for the journey, the other man lighting a cigarette soon after departing, and stowing his gun in a case meant to resemble something fit for a musical instrument, not a weapon. The ease with which he handled it, and the way he carried himself, made Allen think he too was an old hand at this sort of thing. 

 

Both of the men all but melted into the shadows once Allen had been escorted up to the broken old lattice that had once been an ornate and likely quite lovely chancel screen. The area beyond was dark, lit only by a candle that sat on Allen’s side of the screen, making it so he couldn’t see anything more than the hand resting on the sill at the other side.

“Good evening,” said a low, smooth voice from the darkness beyond the screen.
“My apologies for bringing you here under duress…but we do need to talk. Have a seat, Allen. I have some questions.”

Allen nodded slowly and sat on the rickety chair nearby, not quite trusting the way it wobbled and groaned.
He was on edge, that was a given…but being in a church assuaged some of his nerves. It was probably stupid to think this way, but being in a holy place—abandoned as it may be—made him feel just a little more protected. This had to be a part of whatever plan God had for him, and its secrecy was much appreciated from a man on the run.

 

“...Very well,” he replied, setting his hands on his knees and staring into the unremitting darkness on the other side of the wooden lattice.

“But I cannot promise I’ll answer all of them.”

 

Albert James Moriarty smirked on the other side of the screen.

“We’ll just have to see about that. Now…what do you know about the recent murders Detective Holmes has been investigating?”