Weighing His Words

Chapter Twenty-Four:

"Discord"

When I awoke, I was immediately aware of two things: the first was that I was not in my own home, much less my own bed; the second, that absolutely everything – from my face and neck, to my ribs and sides, right down to my feet – ached fiercely. With great difficulty, I hauled myself upright, groaning with the effort. My muscles decried the exertion. 221b's living room swam in front of me, a bleared tapestry of green and brown clutter. With what little vigour I could muster, I rubbed my eyes until my vision settled. My head pounded. Gritting my teeth, I slotted my fingers together and pushed my palms away from my body. After few seconds, I raised them upwards in a loose arc. The stretch ached, but this time it was a good one.

Never, ever, ever again would I let myself fall asleep in an armchair. Ever.

Feeling somewhat improved, I looked about. Predictably, Sherlock was nowhere to be found, but having already catalogued him as 'definitely-not-a-morning-person' (when not embroiled in a case, at least), I figured it was probably for the best. My gaze flickered towards the closed bedroom door. I judged my chances of executing an unnoticed exit to be pretty high; he'd barely slept the past few days and would likely be dead to the world for at least another nine hours. I couldn't stop a tiny smile at the thought of him sprawled out in a lanky mess across the mattress.

The previous night had been...interesting, to say the least. Whatever I'd expected, it wasn't what I'd arrived to. The conversation had been surprisingly free between us; our words had flowed – dare I say it – easily, untarnished by reticence on my part or haughty contempt on his. Moreover, despite everything that had been said before, I'd found myself relaxing in his presence. And although I couldn't peek inside his head to verify it, I had a very strong suspicion that he'd let down his guard just a little. The somewhat unorthodox circumstances aside, it had been, well, good to just sit down and talk, one-on-one. It struck me, suddenly, that since I'd met him, I'd barely spoken to him about non-case related topics, much less been alone with him in a situation in which we were able to converse. I was looking forward, I realised, to getting to know him better; to be able to navigate and weather his unpredictable moods the way John could; and to get to a point where we both truly felt at ease in each other's presence, the way good friends did. I'd come a long way in my understanding of him over the course of the last few weeks but, and I could state it with utter certainty, I was nowhere near to claiming complete comprehension.

A wry smile twisted my lips.

Oh, I knew it. And yet I was glad for it, all the same.

Though I still couldn't hear any tell-tale hum, the glass of water and box of painkillers that had materialised on the side table told me that John was home. I reached for it gratefully, popping two of the white caplets into my open hand and into my mouth. I chased them down with three long gulps of water. Tentatively, I rolled my shoulders back, testing their stiffness. The prognosis wasn't great. I needed tea, I decided. Fast. For a moment, I toyed with the idea of making myself a cup, but I quickly discarded the notion. There were too many obstacles (namely cupboards) to negotiate and thus too much potential for exposure to biohazards, body parts or worse. My stomach gurgled and I resolved to pick something up to eat as well. Preferably something with bacon. Lots and lots of bacon.

With a sigh, I hoisted myself clear of the chair. Almost absently, my eyes strayed to the antique clock on the mantelpiece. I made a face. Eight twenty. I'd no idea how long we'd talked but, even with the best-case scenario, I could only have slept for about three, maybe four hours tops. I stifled another groan. At least it explained why I felt so awful. At some point during the night, my phone had slipped clear of the pocket of my jeans and I was forced to root around amongst the cushions to find it. With a small noise of triumph, I managed to extract it from its leathery hiding-place. The date and time flashed up as I brushed the screen.

Saturday, 08:23.

I frowned. Saturday? Why was that important?

Saturday.

Work.

"Shit!"

I practically tripped over my own feet in my mad scramble for the door. I had a little over an hour and a half to get back to my flat, shove some food down my neck, get changed, disguise the bruised wreck of my face and get to the other side of London; all before ten o'clock, all using public transport. London's public transport. I was so screwed. I stole down the stairs as quietly but as quickly as possible, slipping out into the street. Closing the battered door firmly behind me, I began to rifle urgently through my pockets, praying furiously that I'd find an extra twenty for a cab ride home. There wasn't one, only the change left over from the previous night's - morning's? – taxi fare and my Oyster Card. My face fell as my heart sank. It would have to be the Tube.

Overriding the complaints of my aching muscles, I took off in the direction of the Underground. As I passed, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the water-streaked window of a parked car. Startled by what I saw but too pressed for time to stop and bemoan the state of my face, I hastily pulled up the hood of my jacket and drew my hair forward to cover the worst of the mess. I kept my gaze riveted to the ground as I hurried down the stairs towards the platform. Despite the somewhat early weekend hour, there was already a fair amount of foot traffic. Weaving in and out of the paths of other commuters, I lifted my head only to swipe into the barrier and made the unfortunate mistake of meeting the stare of an inquisitive TFL employee. In order to head off the unwanted questions, I shot him what I hoped was a reassuring smile and hurried on towards my platform.

In the past, I'd avoided the Tube's busiest hours, always making later or earlier journeys to avoid the worst of the crush, as well as the horrendous volume of hundreds upon hundreds of urgent, irritated and disgruntled minds. By travelling an hour sooner or leaving later, it meant I was more able to cope with the density of thought I was bombarded with. In fact, I'd often found comfort in the constant, jumbled drone of the collective consciousness of London's commuters. However, with my abilities abruptly departed, I was feeling disarmed, exposed and increasingly jittery. The silence emanating from the minds of passers-by pressed uncomfortably close and I had to fight to keep my composure. Although it was loud in the station, there was no real noise; only a persistent, infuriating and increasingly alarming emptiness leaking from the minds of the people around me. I didn't like it.

Had it been a weekday morning, I might have avoided most of the scrutiny I found myself being subjected to. Monday at eight o'clock, workers were too wrapped up in their own heads, worried about getting to work on time, revisiting the events of the weekend to view a bruised, exhausted woman with much suspicion. The weekend lot were a different breed. Wishing I had my headphones so I could at least pretend to zone out, I determinedly ignored each and every curious glance. Nevertheless, being the morning after Friday night, it meant that although I made for an unusual sight, I was not alone in looking worse for wear. Dishevelled revellers stumbled in and out of the carriage, nursing hangovers of varying intensity; a welcome distraction for my captive audience.

The moment the doors hissed open, I was out onto the platform. I risked a glance at my phone. Although the Tube ride had seemed to last an age, I was making relatively good time. I flitted up the escalator and through the turnstiles, emerging into an overcast, sulky morning that was so characteristic of the UK. A woman on a mission, though still directing my gaze resolutely downwards, I navigated the flow of people with the absent ease that came only from years of living in such a large city. When my bus drew alongside the curb after little over a minute's wait, I began to reason that maybe the day wasn't lost quite yet. Directing a quick "Morning" at the driver to make up for my avoidance of his gaze, I made my way along the aisle, selecting a seat towards the back.

That was my first mistake.

It took me a couple of stops to notice how intently the child was staring at me. I happened to turn my head slightly, only to see a pair of astonished eyes raking over my face. The kid, cocooned in a violently orange raincoat that was several sizes too large, could only have been about four or five years old. As is the way of small children the world over, his fascinated - and mildly stunned – gaze was uncomfortably direct.

"Were you in a fight?"

I shuffled awkwardly in my seat, feeling myself redden with embarrassment. "No."

"You look like you were."

"Really, I wasn't." I glanced imploringly at the woman who I presumed to be his grandmother, but she was too absorbed by her paperback to take the hint.

The boy gnawed on his bottom lip. "Are you sure?"

"Yes."

He was quiet for a few moments. "Well, I think you were," he declared, brushing the messy blonde hair from his eyes. "Did you win?"

"Err, kind of."

"Ha! I knew it! I said!"

An only child, I was unaccustomed to interacting with children so I had no idea how to respond. Unfortunately for me, he was unfazed by my lack of reply and began to chat eagerly away.

"Are you a wrestler? I don't think girls should be wrestlers, but my sister says they can if they want to and she's always right, so you might be. Are you? That would be cool. What's your wrestler name?" He paused, waiting expectantly.

By this point, many of the other passengers had begun to take notice of this little exchange. In my peripheral vision, I could see the heads turned towards us and I was all too aware of their amused expressions. "I, uh, I don't have one. I'm not really a–"

"Oh, it's okay," he said cheerfully, leaning across the aisle. "I'll make one for you."

"It's okay, really, I'm not –"

"'Purple Lady!'"

I died, right there and then.

"Do you like it? Please like it. Johnny – he's from my school, Priory Wood, where we wear green jumpers – says I'm rubbish at making up names so he never lets me pick, but I think I'm good. Do you?"

His big brown eyes were trained on me, eagerly awaiting my answer. Seeing no other way out, I swallowed my instinctive response – along with what was left of my dignity – to reply. "I– I do. The, uh, next time I…wrestle, I'll make sure to use it."

"Really? Do you promise? I can't wait to tell Johnny! Purple Lady! Do you have a purple cape? Is it shiny? You should get one and then you could fly. I'd like to fly but I don't have a cape. Johnny says he does but I've never seen it, so I don't believe him. Oh, if you get one, can I share yours?"

Mercifully, my stop arrived. After, and only after, I had promised to share any and all magical garments I came into possession of, was I allowed to leave. I fled.

…

I skidded to a walk as I rounded the corner a few meters away from Thomas's office, in a vain, futile attempt to appear natural. I straightened my spine and lifted my gaze from where it had been riveted to the floor, walking, with what I hoped was convincing purpose, towards the door. Taking a deep breath and steeling my nerves, I slid into the office as unobtrusively as I could manage. I had about seven seconds to spare.

Already seated at her desk, telephone pressed to her ear and pen in hand, Thomas peered at me over the rims of her glasses in a decidedly calm fashion. I shrank a little under the weight of her gaze, acutely aware of the sorry sight I made. She held up a slender finger in a 'hold a moment' gesture and proceeded to conclude her conversation. I hovered awkwardly while she did. When she finally put the phone down, I wasn't sure whether I was relieved or suddenly more apprehensive. I opened my mouth – to say what, I didn't know – but she headed me off.

"Goodness, Mycroft is getting sloppy in his old age," she sighed lightly.

Wait, what?

"Really, you would think he would make more of an effort to preserve his assets." She eyed me succinctly again, shaking her head. She turned her attention back to her computer monitor. "Take the day, Hannah."

"But–"

"This is not up for negotiation. You are plainly exhausted and in pain. You'll do yourself no favours by attempting to 'tough it out', as it were."

"But I'm–"

"As it happens, I'm moving you permanently to Client Relations, effective immediately. I am given to understand that you are uniquely adept at pinpointing the exact requirements of others. Regardless, I worry for the future of this establishment should you be set loose on the floors. I sincerely hope that the rigours of your new position will keep you suitably preoccupied and out of trouble." Her gaze flicked over the worst of my injuries. "You begin in three days; that is ample time for the swelling to go down. Report to me on your return."

I just stood there, too flabbergasted to form a coherent response. I blinked a few times, staring at her stupidly, as I tried to process it all. The whole damn day was just too bizarre – my brain was hard pressed to keep up.

Thomas waited calmly for my response, with some hint of the exaggerated patience one employs when dealing with a particularly slow child.

When I could finally form speech, the first thing that fell out of my mouth was somewhat less than brilliant. "You know Mycroft?" I blurted.

Thomas's lips twitched into her version of a wry smile. "I should hope so. I was engaged to him, for a time."

My eyebrows just about shot off my face.

Thomas's smile became more amused at my stunned expression. "He was young, once. And decidedly less…cold. Alas, that is a tale for another time." Humour glinted in her dark eyes. "Perhaps I shall part with it, in exchange for your voluntary exile from the hotel's pool and leisure facilities."

I opened my mouth to reply, but had no honest clue what to say. My jaw clicked shut.

"Go home, Hannah," she said, not unkindly.

Combined with the more...interesting revelations, her unexpected generosity and consideration caught me completely off-guard. In my knackered, frazzled state, it was all too much for me to process. I pressed my palms to my face, holding them there while I rebooted my brain. A few seconds passed before I removed them, running a hand through my hair.

Thomas was watching me closely but her level stare held no hint of contempt or irritation. "Better?"

I nodded, "Much." I shook myself. "Sorry, I just…" I took a deep breath, forcing back the exhaustion. I squared my shoulders. I could do this. "Please, I can stay." I lifted my gaze to look at her directly. "Thank you for your kindness, truly, but we have an agreement; I said I would work today, and I can and I want to."

The clock on the wall ticked loudly as she considered me. Finally, without a further word, she waved a slender hand in the direction of my workspace.

I released a breath I hadn't realised I'd been holding and hurried across the room, taking my place. Determined not to invoke her displeasure or invite her disapproval, I booted up my computer and brought all the paraphernalia I needed into order. Without further delay, I threw myself into my work. I slogged through endless slew of reports and correspondence, largely unaware of the world outside the office. Never one for small talk, Thomas was content to work in complete silence and I was eternally grateful for the fact. I soon lost track of how many emails I replied to; how many letters I printed and proofed; and the number of phone calls I made. Within an hour, I'd managed to successfully immerse myself in the petty intricacies of other people's problems. Dealing with the mundane queries and quibbles was exactly what I needed to do in order to – as my favourite aunt would say – compartmentalise and address my shit.

Here, surrounded by ringing telephones and an ever-filling inbox, I didn't need to think about Moriarty and his twisted designs; I didn't need to think about the fact that I couldn't hear anyone else's thoughts; I didn't need to worry for Sherlock or John; and, most importantly, I didn't have to stumble over my words or thoughts to try to articulate or assess or address myself. Here, I could just do my job and I could be good at it too; and that simple reassurance of my own worth and abilities, however irrelevant they were to the wider picture, was what I needed to ground myself.

For the past few months, I'd been all over the place and now that I'd stopped to consider it, I realised that the feeling of being out of my depth had persisted for a long time. But I'd meant what I'd said to Sherlock in the small hours of the morning: I was not going anywhere. For good or for ill, I'd gotten myself entangled in this royal mess, but with a certainty I felt deep in my bones, I knew I could weather it, or at least, if all else failed, I knew that I wanted to try.

With that conviction firmly in mind, I lifted my gaze from where it had been absently focussed on my coffee mug. There were some questions that needed to be asked, if not answered, and I intended to voice them. The only issue that remained was how I went about asking them.

Thomas appeared to have noticed my sudden possession of myself. "Speak, Hannah. I can practically hear your thoughts."

Caught off-guard, I blinked in surprise.

A slight smile flickered over her face at my expression. "Well," she conceded lightly, "perhaps not. Nevertheless, you have a certain look about you. Ask, and I shall do my best to answer."

I hesitated as I considered my words carefully, not wishing to offend her but unwilling to blunder in ham-fistedly. "With respect," I asked slowly, "why are you offering me this?"

She regarded me for a time, her sharp eyes squarely upon me.

I held her gaze evenly.

After a few protracted moments, she nodded succinctly. "Good," she said simply. "You'll need that mettle if you're going to tread this path." She sat forward a little and, lacing her fingers, rested her hands on her desk. "To put it mildly, Mycroft Holmes is not a forthright man. He will never divulge any information that is not absolutely necessary or relevant." Her lips quirked. "Such is the way of men in positions of power. But while I understand that the need for discretion befits many of the situations that he is required to address, there are some circumstances in which such taciturnity is more detrimental than constructive. As is the case here, I believe." She eyed me closely again. "Is that explanation satisfactory?"

I nodded slowly. "Yes. Thank you."

She inclined her head in acknowledgement. "Good. Then please, proceed."

I took a deep breath and plunged in. "What do you know of Moriarty?"

"The man and the name have only recently been connected. I am given to understand that for years he has been a key player on the international stage."

"In which circles?"

"Now that, Hannah," she sighed, "is the question on everyone's lips. His network, as far as we can tell, is more than extensive. His organisation acquires, smuggles and sells historical artefacts and rare antiques, even more mundane cargo if the reward is significant enough. Where there is demand, he – or his people – will supply, and money is not the sole form of currency. He acts as an information broker, dealing in secrets and, where necessary, lies. He could topple nations, if he wished, by starting wars we would be powerless to stop." She looked at me over the rims of her glasses. "Of course, much of this is smoke and shadows. We simply don't have the information to distinguish where the man ends and his empire begins."

"Nor do you know what his motives are," I murmured without realising.

"Exactly," Thomas agreed. "That is what makes him so dangerous. He has no loyalty that we can discern and there's no apparent pattern to his agenda."

"Chaos," I said quietly. "Discord."

"Perhaps," she replied, unfolding her hands. "But we simply do not know enough to be certain."

"Who's 'we'?"

She speared me with a look. "A figure of speech, in this instance," she answered calmly. "Though you yourself are well aware of some of the parties engaged. I am not at liberty to say more, however."

I nodded. "I can respect that."

"Good. Not that you have much choice otherwise," she said with a hint of amusement.

My own lips twitched in response. I suppose I should have been more alarmed at the realisation that I was suddenly running with the big boys, but a strange aura of acceptance had descended upon me. Thomas' abrupt forthrightness was an unprecedented gift and the pragmatic part of my brain was winning out: if I intended to stick around, I needed to be as clued-in as possible. There was one question in particular that burned at me.

"If he's so notorious, then why was he permitted to work here?"

Thomas sighed. "I thought you'd ask as much. The trouble with James Moriarty is that the name has only recently been put to the face. In fact, very few of his clients are left with more than a letter: 'M'. It is only by chance that we knew of the name 'Moriarty' before the events of Sherlock Holmes's most recent cases. Regardless of that knowledge, we had little notion of the scope of his influence and even less of an idea of his whereabouts or his appearance. That is how he came to work here; it was less a case of 'permitting' and more of a costly oversight."

"Nobody ever dreamed that he would appear on London's doorstep, in the flesh."

"Precisely. The man is a silver-tongued chameleon and, more to the point, has a profound talent for disappearing into the ether."

I snorted humourlessly. "You're telling me. Has there been any trace of him?"

"Not at all," Thomas shook her head. "Or if there has, I've not been made privy to the information which is not entirely unlikely."

I frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Mycroft shares with me only what is absolutely crucial and even that fraction must be cut out of him."

I felt my eyebrows rise. "You mean you don't get a full brief?"

She startled me with a laugh. "Good heavens, Hannah, of course not. I run this hotel, not the country. The calibre of our guests is the sole reason that I am permitted such granules of knowledge. Very powerful individuals walk through those doors each and every day, and it is not my only purpose to see that their desires are fulfilled." She met my gaze directly. "I trust you understand what I am saying?"

I blinked as I processed the bizarre fact that my boss was essentially a spymaster. Normally, I would have just about fallen out of my chair, but after the events of the past few days, I had no more incredulity to spare. "Well, that explains a hell of a lot," I murmured unwittingly.

Thomas chuckled drily. "Yes, I rather imagine it might."

A thought occurred to me then. "My, err, promotion isn't entirely your doing, is it?"

Something flickered in her eyes. When she spoke, there was an odd note of approval in her voice. "Mycroft suggested it. Uncharacteristically, I agreed with him."

"You want me to spy on people?" My voice had raised a few octaves.

She regarded me for a long moment then. The strangest expression has settled across her face, one that I couldn't place. "I want you to be careful." She leaned forward, speaking slowly but with the greatest intent and gravity. "Mycroft Holmes considers you and your…talent an extremely useful resource, but such interest is double-edged. The line between asset and liability is highly indistinct; I cannot stress this enough, Hannah. Mycroft merely sees it as an advantageous placement of personnel. I'm granting you this as insurance." Her eyes bored into mine. "It's a tired statement but knowledge is power, and if certain parties are determined to use you as a pawn, I have every intention of leaving you equipped. For too long, I was a player of that game and I cannot, in good conscience, allow you to enter into it blind or misguided."

I was still for a moment as I absorbed the enormity of what she was saying. I felt a distinct rush of gratitude towards the woman who had previously acted so aloof. Though I knew instinctively that she was not disclosing the full extent of her motives, I could recognise that she risked much by speaking so freely. "I don't know how to thank you," I said slowly, trying to convey that I understood just what she was venturing.

"Don't," she replied simply. "Just do your job and do it well." She paused for a second, adding almost as an afterthought, "Just be careful not to do it too well."

I nodded. "I can try."

"That is all any of us can do," she said, trailing off for a moment. When she spoke again, it was with a hint of implacable sadness. "Watch your step with Mycroft Holmes. There is a ruthless streak present within him that did not use to be so apparent. This career has changed him. For him, the country – the many – will always come first. And although the world needs men like him to make it turn, that does not mean he is an easy man to know."

"I can imagine," I said softly.

Her gaze was so far away, her words so deeply thoughtful, that I was relived I was not aware of her contemplations. "Can you really, I wonder."

I decided it was best not to reply.

A/N: Erm, oops. I really didn't mean to leave you guys hanging for *ehem* five months. My first term at university happened and basically got in the way. A lot. Then the trailer popped up and I just had to get my act in gear and here we are. Consider it a Christmas miracle! ;)

As always, my sincerest thanks to everyone who has read, followed and favourited over the accidental hiatus. In particular, special thanks go to the following for their kind words of encouragement: ciaofay, Gwilwillith, a lovely guest, Daliah Valley, Heart of Diamond, xOffToThePensieveWeGox, Marshall Cowduck, MickeyMonroe, Sarah, riotgirl777, another lovely guest, CrystalHeart27, KittyNyan2012, aren, VeilsofSleep, Scarlet, dares to dream, smileyeilee, short-skirtbluescarf, Laura, GeekaZoid420, AmeliaReddy, Take A Bow Sherlock, Anea the Morwinyon, Narnian Sprite, TolkienGirl, Yuuki no Yuki, Jaygrl22, Diving in, Not Enough Answers, wibblywobblytimeywimey16, Silimaira, Bakagirl101, kitsmits, paw pad claw, blue-icicle, Hana-Lizzie-Chan, dark-dreams-of-love, a brilliant guest, Anne Onimous, LindseyWasHere, Fictitious Fake, , an awesome unnamed guest, 15, ImANightOwl and aLeXaNdRaSaInSbUrY.

As always, if you have a moment, I would love to hear your thoughts.