Sherlock Holmes and the Red Maverick

Chapter 6- Guilt

Sherlock and Watson discussed the matter for some time amongst themselves. I sat back and tried to sleep, yet I found it as hard as the other nights leading up to this. I was on my way to safety and I still felt the iron grip my employer had over me. Punctuated by the innocent little orange pips within the envelope still clutched in my hand. 

My attention was drawn by the sound of Sherlock's voice calling me back to reality and away from my ever present fear.

"May I see that for a moment?" he asked, motioning to the envelope in my hand.

I looked down to see that I had crumpled it some and that my fist had certainly done its work on the pieces of paper holding my death sentence. I nodded shortly and handed it to him. The waiter John had called upon for tea returned and set the little silver tray in the middle of the compartment on a little fold out table. He began to set out the china and fill the cups with the contents being held inside the pot.

Sherlock leaned forward and carefully emptied the 5 orange pips from the envelope onto the silver tray. I didnt take notice of the waiter faltering as he poured our tea through the filter into the little cups set precariously on the same tray. I watched as Sherlock's eyes worked their way up to the waiter who had once again to administer the liquid. He examined the man quickly and then stood abruptly allowing the china to slide on the little silver tray toward the ground. I caught it watching the orange pips steady themselves carefully and my eyes flew up to Sherlock and the waiter. 

Holmes threw a few well placed punches and then had him up against the bench seat on the other end of the compartment. The waiter was grasping at Sherlock's forearm that was slowly strangling him as his olive skin began to change in color. 

"Who are you working for?" Holmes yelled with a notable intensity 

"No one!" The man pleaded "Please no one. But I know that sign!" 

The man's hand lifted off of Sherlock's forearm and pointed at the silver tray where the orange pips lye. Sherlock glanced back cautiously at where the man's finger was pointing and considered the circumstances. With a sudden movement he had moved back away from the man and was standing and brushing himself off quietly. He fastened his arms behind his back and watched as the struggled to pull himself onto the seat and regain his breath. The mans eyes were now blood shot and his face had regained some of its color. 

"You are Abrielle's child I believe? As well as the Pope's descendant?" Holmes asked as he bounced on his toes, still watching the man intensely 

"I am," the man answered, nodding. I could hear the similar Italian accent in his voice, much like his brother's.

"Are we to assume there are four of you from that blood line?" Sherlock asked "That is assuming you are not one of them."

"No," the man shook his head. His curly hair drifting from side to side across his forehead "There are only three of us."

"Then do explain how you are 'no one's' side, as you so eloquently put." Holmes questioned bitterly. "While your at it, you might explain the presence of gun powder on your right forefinger."

"I was apart of the organization at one time," he answered, sitting up in his chair and rubbing at his neck. "I recently got a similarly foreboding message. So I challenged them, why would they openly kill their own brother. Even if I just wanted out of the venture."

"You wanted out of the venture why?" Holmes asked

"Similar reason's as her I suppose." He answered

At that he flung his hand out toward me and leaned across the compartment. I shook it briefly and he flashed me a smile as he held my hand for a moment.