#notimeforus

MisJoely approached me in September with an idea that at first I dismissed as impossible. I would have sworn what she was thinking could not be done. This has lead to the most creatively intense few months of my life to date; doing research, puzzling out answers to problems, and trying to come to terms with this new and demanding Muse I seem to have drawn close to my heart and soul. Involving Sempaiko has added a whole other dimension and depth to a process I'm learning as quickly as I can.

We were going to start posting around the twelfth, but...

I woke on the tenth feeling like death warmed over. I tried to fight it (ask the Divine MizJ!), but the more I fought, the worse I got. All I wanted to do was crawl in a hole and be forgotten! Start the cycle of frustration, then pushing, then getting nowhere; lather, rinse, repeat. I even questioned if I could ever write again. Finally, after a slow slide from the shower to the floor, I figured I'd better stomach a doctor. One round of tests later, and I had my answer!

Have you read any of MizJ's Vamplock stories? Well, one of those little bloodsucking plot bunnies of hers rode along on an email and was hiding in my flat! I know this because it sucked almost all the iron out of my blood! I hunted the damned thing down with a sharpened chop stick, lifted it by the fangs and put it in the box I sent milady for Christmas! (Shh!  She doesn't know it yet!) Vampires have never been huge on my list, but now I think I'll stick with just hers and 'Tanz Der Vampire'!

MizJoely is writing the current time, I'm writing the Victorian, and all artwork is Sempaiko. As to my Muse...? Growing stronger, more powerful and more beautiful with every heartbeat!

So to 'borrow' a quote..."Shall we begin?"

NO TIME FOR US by MizJoely and Wickedwanton

PROLOGUE

 He was coughing wetly, his eyes tearing up and blurring his already hazy vision. The air itself had grown heavy and hot, pulling at him, weakening his legs even as he tried to move forward.

 Figures rushed past unnoticed. Everything was a horrid orange red with dark shadows of corridors radiating outward. No brighter yellow of actual fire, but it had to be near, seconds away from pouring forth. No sense of a way out as the pressure built behind his ears.

 He stumbled around a pile of timbers that had burnt to embers, trying to listen for alarms, voices, anything but the roaring of the flames. The muffled sound of weak coughing off to his left caught his attention, and he swore he heard his name being called.

 He found the door and pulled his way through. Concentric rings of incandesce, interwoven in an elaborate pattern, burned brightly and shimmered the air around a single figure at their centre.

 A woman, wrapped only in a pale sheet, lay crumpled in the one circle of floor as yet untouched. A mass of chestnut curls hid her face from view and one empty hand, already kissed red by the fire, outstretched across the floor toward him from her still form. He could see her chest rise and fall, but she was breathing far too slowly.

 He was trying to see a path in the pattern, a way through the maze of combustion, when she began to stir, rolling toward him and sitting up. He tried to tell her not to move, that he would find a way to her, but he couldn’t hear his own voice over the roar of the pyre. 

 He watched as panic gripped her, her eyes darting wildly all around as she drew herself into a tight ball. Some sense of recognition, of knowing, fell on him like a lead weight. He had dreamt of her all his life.

 Her dark amber eyes met his through the shimmering air and he watched as recognition washed through her as well. She reached out, her fear palpable. Unheard, she called his name.

 She had to keep still; he had to get her to stop! He would find a way for her to escape, but she had to not move! Words fled as muscle gave way and he went to his knees.

 She had reached the small bit farther, but the flames hungrily licked at the sheet pressed tight to her flesh. It raced along her, a frantic lover devouring all that it touched. Her screams radiated, shattering…

 January, 2008

 Sherlock snapped awake on the couch in his Montague Street flat, still feeling the smoke burning in his lungs, a cough on his lips that had him stumbling to the kitchen for a glass of water to ease the ache in his throat. Ridiculous, to allow his subconscious to affect him so strongly as to cause actual physical symptoms to manifest like this. The cough had brought tears to the corners of his eyes - at least he stubbornly refused to believe they could have been due to any other source. Certainly not because of anything as cloying as sentiment.

 It had been years since he dreamed about the woman; he’d thought he’d deleted the memories but there they were, creeping up on him when he least needed such a ridiculous distraction. He downed the remainder of the water, dropping the glass carelessly onto the pile of dirty dishes in the sink, and then headed for the door. He had a case to investigate and shouldn’t have wasted so much time on something as useless as sleep. Besides, he vaguely recalled Stamford telling him a new pathologist was starting today, and he needed to keep his mind clear in order to properly evaluate him – no, he mentally corrected himself as he grabbed his coat and bounded down the stairs. Her. Stamford had said it was a woman, youngest in her graduating class, top ten, possibly not as idiotic as her predecessor. One could hope. He dismissed the dream totally from his mind as he hailed a cab, the details of the case and upcoming trip to Bart’s once again occupying his full attention.

 January, 1879

 He snapped awake on the sofa in his Montague Street flat, still feeling the smoke burning in his lungs. He shook for a moment before thrusting the memory away; cursing what his own overactive imagination was still capable of torturing him with. He had not dreamt of the girl in ages; thought she was some hormone-addled illusion left behind with puberty. He had a case ongoing, and time should not be wasted sleeping. Splashing water on his clammy face, he prepared to confront Mr. Dunkirk’s duplicitous bookkeeper.