WHO. Jonas Aldred and an NPC. WHAT. Tying together a rather large web. WHERE. 221b Baker Street. WHEN. Early Sunday morning. WARNINGS. None.
A knock on the door broke the ethereal silence that had taken firm hold of 221b Baker Street. His eyes snapped open. The man of faith sat awoken from his trance of concentration and prayer. Or rather, contemplation and untouched devotion. Jonas Aldred had not come up for air from his previous life's room for an approximate week. The world outside did not matter to him. It truthfully hadn't done so before. It was now, however, that it was placed far from his mind's eye. One name mattered to him in this moment. Or, perhaps, two, if one wished to explore technicality.
Willa Thompson, the reincarnation of Professor James Moriarty. He knew the latter well, but the former still remained fresh to Jonas. The woman, like Moriarty, was a recluse hidden so thoroughly within her own web of criminal wrongdoings, seemed untouchable, almost a fable. Jonas did not believe in fables just as he did not believe that any human being on this Earth was untouchable. He and Sherlock may not have known one another for an extended period of time, but they did know each other well enough to see such a fact from the same height.
"What is it?" His first words in days. The sound of his voice reached his own ears unusually weak, cracking from the strain of nothing having been said aloud in so many hours. The small flames in his fireplace snapped and fizzled as the door opened. A young boy of just thirteen walked inside cautiously. He glanced around the room, but finding Jonas became an impossible task at first. Papers and photographs draped nearly every part of the floor. Thin strings, some blue, some red, and one very fine white one, extended from wall to wall, all leading towards a map off to the side of the mantle. The boy's eyes widened. "Well?"
The boy scampered inside, clearing his throat quickly as he narrowly dodged some of the red twine. "Er - yew've tole us to report t'ya if we 'ad information, yeah, Mista 'Olmes? Uh, I mean, Mista Aldred." He scratched at his neck. Jonas witnessed this display with still eyes, not removing himself from the large armchair that he sat in with his legs folded underneath him and his fingers planted on the chair's arms. His chin gave way to a single nod, his hard gaze unflinching.
"Righ', well. I've go' somfink fo' ya." With that, the reincarnated Baker Street Irregular withdrew a slip of paper that only seemed to be scribbles from where Jonas was perched. The boy took the pause in conversation as a sign to move forward and offered the written words to the detective. Jonas slid the paper in his fingers, turning it around to look at it in full. A date, a mussy fragment, and a clearly printed "M". The boy maneuvered his way over to the side of Jonas' chair and frowned. "D'you know wot it means, then?" Jonas looked up, an eyebrow cocked disapprovingly. "Righ'. Course you know. 'Cos you're him, ain'tcha? Mista 'Olmes. Back again n' all. Funny ol' world, inn't?"
Jonas did not think it was a funny ol' world. Instead, he went back to observing the paper. He turned it round in his hands again, lifting it towards the light of the nearest window. His eyelids crinkled slightly. "It's Thomas, isn't it? Reincarnation of Wiggins." The boy nodded, his cheeks reddening with pride. "You should have brought this to my attention immediately."
"Do wot?" He frowned, very clearly upset by this insinuation.
"The slip of paper has been in your pocket for two days now. Wiggins would have had this in my hands not an hour later. Next time we agree to make an arrangement such as this, I highly suggest you take a lesson from your elder life's pages and find me as promptly as you can. As promised, everything you have asked for is waiting for you down in the kitchen. Remember to say please and thank you." The boy nodded fervently, thanked him, and started towards the door. "And Thomas," Thomas wheeled around. "Yes." Jonas stood on his feet, grinning through the mask of stubble and ink smears upon his face. "I am Sherlock Holmes, yes."
Thomas' smile reached his ears. "Always knew yew'd be back, I did." And with that, Jonas Aldred was left on his own once more. A noiseless chuckle knocked against his throat, and his attention met that the most vital piece of his puzzle once more. His thumb traced it. He knew where he had to go next.
He moved in and out, weaving through several different strings. He ran his finger along one, tracing it down until he found it tacked directly into a specifically designed invitation stuck into London's location. The intricate date upon it matched that on the scrap. 10 December, 2011. A party. A party held by one Willa Thompson. He removed the tack and placed the paper over the invitation, stamping it back in to keep them both in place. Checkmate.
Jonas reached hurriedly into his trouser pocket and pulled his cell phone from its depth. Fingers tapped and slid and the text message was off on a whirl.
To: JW.
Locate your best dress clothes. We've been invited to a party.