Author's Note: Yes, I'm still working on all of my full-lengths pieces, but I joined a challenge community where I get to write 100 fics all for Tom based around certain pieces, and this is #035 – Sixth Sense. I also finally got a job, and am taking part in a Christmas show. Sorry if I slack… :(

FLASH

Turning the corner carefully, Tom Sawyer lifted the Winchester from its place where he had lowered it, pulling back the hammer in the interest of stealth, rather than cocking the lever to load the round. He knew there was one of them left… in here somewhere, hiding. The building was old, dilapidated and abandoned, save for the rodents and insects that used it as a refuge from the elements and any predators. Green eyes searched every crevice and alcove cautiously, entire body tensed for the potential ambush. He heard nothing… he saw nothing.

But that didn't mean he didn't feel something.

It was beyond the normal spectrum of human senses, Tom knew. Allan Quatermain had taught him that. Just because you couldn't see or hear or smell any evidence, that didn't mean your prey wasn't close by, just hoping you would pass it unawares. But this prey was different; this prey would strike out at him if he turned his back just at the right moment, and if he was desperate enough, then he would lash out head-on. Tom had to be careful. He couldn't risk an injury. Unlike some of the others in the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, injuries held him back, save for the odd bruise or gash. His 'prey' wasn't interested in those kinds of wounds though… Tom was watching for the flash of a knife, and no small weapon either.

Keeping his own heartbeat steady, and his breathing quiet, the American agent waited… and then spun, turning the rifle on its side to deflect the blow.

The man gave an infuriated yell as the blade of his vicious knife collided with the solid length of the firearm his pursuer carried, grunting when a solid boot came up and knocked him back, landing in his stomach to wind him. If Tom could do this right, then he wouldn't have to pull the trigger at all, and he could save spilling any blood… this man had spilled enough.

His opponent wasn't winded for long though, fighting through the discomfort to launch at him, blade swinging in a dangerous arc for the blonde spy's chest. Ducking away, Tom forced his knees to buckle, and rolled back, using his agility and training to full advantage, watching the wielder stumble and fall ungracefully to the floor, only to scramble up and snarl at him, almost inhumanly.

Focus, Tom told himself, never taking his eyes from the other man, measuring the insanity and desperation in the posture and behaviour. This man would do anything to escape… anything he had to do. He wasn't afraid to do it either; he'd purged himself of fear to commit the acts that had led to his being hunted by the League.

The two men said nothing, staring at each other and sizing one another up almost; searching for weaknesses, whether they be literal and physical, or otherwise. Tom had learned how to hide anything, remembering his lessons with the other fighters in the team. Mina Harker and Captain Nemo had taught him many things since their first mission in Mongolia, and Tom Sawyer had learned them eagerly, always wanting to know more.

When the man lashed out again, Tom twisted his left side back to avoid the blow, but at the last second, the blade twisted down and caught his right arm, cutting a deep wound through the duster's sleeve into the flesh underneath. Fighting back a yell, Tom heard the heavy clatter as the rifle fell from his grasp, but he recovered, pacing back and clenching his right fist to test the extent of the damage; his movement was unaffected, but he could feel the blood running over his limb, trickling down towards his palm and fingers even as he stood there, waiting for the man to take advantage. He fought back a smile.

Inevitably, his opponent saw the dropping of the Winchester as a benefit to him, and surged forward anew, blade at the ready.

Tom waited just that few seconds longer, and then threw himself down and forward in a roll, hand gripping at the top of his boot as he did so. With a ring of steel, and a flash of red, he stopped, crouched there with his hair falling in his eyes, breath held. He felt no pain, and turned his head to look over his shoulder in his predatory, prepared position, seeing the other man falter, and clutch at his side, just above his hip. Mad eyes turned on the squatted spy, and then focused on the weapon now held in his hand, just subtly lined with red at the blade's edge, dripping a single drop of blood to the floor without a sound. Tom said nothing; did nothing. The bowie knife in his hand did not move.

The clang was deafening in the dimly lit hallway as the 'prey' dropped his knife, his arm losing the strength needed to hold it, and even as the Secret Service agent watched, one knee buckled, driving his opponent to the floor, where he crumpled to his side and breathed haggardly.

Tom felt the change in the air… he wasn't alone, and help was on the way. Standing fluidically from his crouch, he moved over to the dropped knife, and picked it up in his free hand, mirroring his bowie knife now; a new weapon in his collection to contrast the guns he was so known for. A trick up his sleeve… he had needed one for a while now, and usual tactics had started to wear thin; he needed an edge.

And now he had one.

Mina Harker came into sight at his side, the screeching of bats and fluttering of their wings fading as she banished them, striding gracefully to Tom Sawyer's side, and looking down at the incapacitated man at the American's feet. The deep slash in his side had drained his strength enough to take away the threat he posed; he was done.

Blue eyes met green just briefly.

It was done.

Fin