Status: Between revision and assignments, it shall be done!
***, Father Dear
Chapter 1
January 30th, 1996
A small bundle lies on the doorstep of 221b Baker Street, a muddle of tightly compacted scarlet blankets abandoned in the middle of a wintery, London night.
Black Hackney cabs, cars, vans and cyclists pass the tiny delivery, all of them hurrying home or heading in for the night shift. An urban fox lingers near the bins outside of the café next door, before sauntering past the doorstep, not realising the power and absolute wonder wrapped up in this little bundle. Oblivious to the very beginning of one of the biggest scandals the world had seen in 27 years.
The whoosh of the bitter air as vehicles pass, the dampness of the near-freezing ground stinging against the warm friction of tyres, shoe soles, the pads of animals' feet as life goes on; uncomprehending and unaware.
The bundle moves; small bulges appearing and disappearing from the surface of the fabric, as a butterfly escaping the confines of the chrysalis, or a baby in the womb of its mother, though without the squeals of delight from both mother and her girlfriends, cooing over the baby attempting to make its presence known.
A whimper. A barely-audible, tiny squeak of a sound emanating from the small red bundle. The cold street simply ignores it.
There is sound of a taxi slowing down nearby, before the car door almost slams closed.
Dry, chapped hands rub together, searching for warmth, the sound accompanied by casual footsteps, used to walking this path often. The residue of rain lingering on the empty pavement shows evidence of the tread of a man's shoes. Key's jingle slightly as they emerge from a deep pocket, before the earlier casual steps stop short of the doorstep of 221b Baker Street.
The keys return to the pocket, plunging slowly, carefully back into its depths once more. Large, pale hands clutch the bundle gently, carefully bringing it to the man's face, as it whimpers again, weakly.
There is a deep breath in, before a rumbling growl of a male voice speaks, a cloud hanging in the cold air as he releases that contained breath, with a silent gulp and furrow of his eyebrows through the dark curls framing his angular face.
"Oh, I know exactly who you are..."
A small bundle lies on the doorstep of 221b Baker Street, a muddle of tightly compacted scarlet blankets abandoned in the middle of a wintery, London night.
Black Hackney cabs, cars, vans and cyclists pass the tiny delivery, all of them hurrying home or heading in for the night shift. An urban fox lingers near the bins outside of the café next door, before sauntering past the doorstep, not realising the power and absolute wonder wrapped up in this little bundle. Oblivious to the very beginning of one of the biggest scandals the world had seen in 27 years.
The whoosh of the bitter air as vehicles pass, the dampness of the near-freezing ground stinging against the warm friction of tyres, shoe soles, the pads of animals' feet as life goes on; uncomprehending and unaware.
The bundle moves; small bulges appearing and disappearing from the surface of the fabric, as a butterfly escaping the confines of the chrysalis, or a baby in the womb of its mother, though without the squeals of delight from both mother and her girlfriends, cooing over the baby attempting to make its presence known.
A whimper. A barely-audible, tiny squeak of a sound emanating from the small red bundle. The cold street simply ignores it.
There is sound of a taxi slowing down nearby, before the car door almost slams closed.
Dry, chapped hands rub together, searching for warmth, the sound accompanied by casual footsteps, used to walking this path often. The residue of rain lingering on the empty pavement shows evidence of the tread of a man's shoes. Key's jingle slightly as they emerge from a deep pocket, before the earlier casual steps stop short of the doorstep of 221b Baker Street.
The keys return to the pocket, plunging slowly, carefully back into its depths once more. Large, pale hands clutch the bundle gently, carefully bringing it to the man's face, as it whimpers again, weakly.
There is a deep breath in, before a rumbling growl of a male voice speaks, a cloud hanging in the cold air as he releases that contained breath, with a silent gulp and furrow of his eyebrows through the dark curls framing his angular face.
"Oh, I know exactly who you are..."