I Dream of Disney (Volume II)

The Mystery of the Oval Window [ Professor Ratigan x Reader] Part IV

Part IV  - Falling from Grace

The chase was on. 

The detective raced forward like a feral bloodhound on the trail of a bleeding rabbit, tracking down the porcupine that had snatched her evidence. She felt a different kind of sensation as the adrenaline pounded through her body, propelling her down the waterlogged streets. It was almost hunger but it was too intense for that; it was a hunger pang that could only be satisfied with a handcuffed perpetrator bleeding at her heels. Dawson's earsplitting pleas for her to slow down were lost to the rain and the wind, merging to form a wordless scream in her ears. 

Tracking the porcupine as he shoved civilians and swerved down secluded back alleys, a burning sensation built in her chest. As her breath became sharper, she thought it was her lungs that were burning from the strain of her energetic movements or the mounting strain of taking such short, ragged breaths - but then she realised she was wrong. It wasn't exhaustion. It was fury. 

The alleyway was full of shadows and silence when the porcupine shouldered into its cramped walls. There were two passages that joined the forked alleyway but, judging from the salty air on her lips and stinging her eyes, the detective knew that one led to the harbour when she skidded to a stop. Her teeth clenched as she dropped to the floor, pressing her spine against the dark brick. 

The porcupine grunted but did not move. 

From where she was huddled against the wall, disguised by a shroud of the insipid grey light of the passing thunderstorm, she knew that he had not seen her. The limited vision of the porcupine had been her saving grace and the briny wind had concealed her scent, but it was the sound of her dogged breathing that would betray her now. Forcing herself to breathe normally, she observed the thief. 

It was clear that the porcupine was accustomed to a life of crime. An amateur detective would assume that from the porcupine's intimidating brawn, the vile sheen to his black pinprick eyes that spoke of the dark recesses of sin or even the surly expression on his sneering face - but not (Y/n). She could get all of her information from one glance at his greasy handlebar moustache. Though the rain fell freely into the alleyway, the slicked hair gel on the porcupine's black-and-white banded quills washed the water away before it got even a chance of trickling to his forehead. Following her intuition, she knew that there would be a tattoo on his lower ankle: a sign of one of London's notorious gangs. Narrowing down her possibilities, it could have been a simple hijacking. 

But it wasn't. The porcupine's motions were swift and meticulous. The realisation made her heart pound harder. This wasn't just a common thief. He had been paid to steal information: he was working for the Oxford Street Slayer. Silently, the detective crept onto her haunches and prepared to jump him - until she heard the fatal sound that she would curse for decades to come. 

Dawson stumbled into the clearing, his every pant echoing breathlessly onto the walls like the ricocheting of gunfire. (Y/n) cursed. 

"Stop!" Dawson demanded, "Thief!"

The porcupine froze. Glinting like rubies in a dark tunnel or drops of blood in darkness, the suspect's eyes widened. It took barely a second for the suspect to turn tail and dash down the connecting alleyway. (Y/n) could have turned around and slapped Dawson across the face.

"You insufferable - !" (Y/n) yelled, "Dawson! How could you - ?" 

Dawson was flustered, his cheeks bright pink,"B-but - "

"Nevermind that now!" (Y/n) ordered, "Take the evidence bag to Anderson and tell him to meet me at Baker Street. I'm going after the porcupine." 

Breathless, Dawson grabbed her wrist, "You mustn't! It's not safe!"