all that icing and all that cake

Rache goes back through the Demonographia twice more and still isn't any closer to determining exactly how to channel his own power for his own purposes without binding himself first.

He wants to believe there is another way, and so he goes home.



It is, he admits privately, getting harder to consider London home.

He can't be honest about what he is here. He can't operate under his own name. The few people who believe in what he is either want him imprisoned or never want to see him again. It's not a situation that tends to inspire much fond feeling. He can't be sure what he's going to do about that.

He can, however, return to the wreck of Harper's store and see if there is anything left that might prove useful.

Most of the books have been gathered up by the Yard--evidence, perhaps, or maybe just sold to pay Harper's bills. Some of Harper's papers remain, scattered over the floor, poking out of drawers in careless bundles. There isn't time to review them now; he gathers as much as he can, packing everything into a satchel that Bar thoughtfully provided. He tries to keep his movements crisp, official--an assistant, a relative, an agent of the police; anything but a thief.

He leaves the shop thirty minutes later, expression schooled into a neutral professionalism. He pauses at the corner, glances at the woman across the street; the glance becomes a stare. He would swear on his life that is Irene Adler.

He takes a step in her direction. She vanishes into the crowd.



Rache spends the better part of two days in his room, going through the papers. Unfortunately, Harper had both terrible handwriting and an irritating propensity to slip from English into Latin whenever the mood struck him.

He decides eventually that a longer break is in order, which is what brings him here, to a table in the bar with a fresh cup of tea. He should probably order something to eat in a little while, but for now, the tea is enough.

Rache has been doing quite a bit of thinking since the last time he saw Matt; it was more productive than he expected. On the other hand, it left him unable to go any further without first talking to Matt again.

Which brings him to his seat at the bar tonight. No drink, no food; he's a little busy watching the room at the moment, but maybe later.

Even a bar at the end of the universe has its quiet nights and tonight is one of them.

There's a smattering of patrons, a bartender cleaning glasses, but compared to most other nights, one might call it empty.

Rache doesn't mind. He has a seat on a couch near the fire, far from even the murmurs of others' conversations, and a book of poetry. There are worse ways to spend an evening.

Two flights up and turn left; halfway down the hall is room 122. Rache unlocks the door and holds it open.

The furnishings inside are simple--bed, nightstand, and dresser. There's an armchair with a footstool near the window, books heaped on the floor beside it. Some of them should be familiar; the atlas with the countries of the multiverse, and the Complete Shakespeare.

"After you."

It's been five days since his visit to Baker Street. Rache is making plans.

(He is free but he has no resources. Travel costs; his room and board here costs. He is considering prize fights or thievery. Some perverse part of him wants to try his hand a detective work.)

For now, he has tea and a good view of the bar. It's enough.

This set of clothes fits better. He made it to Baker Street and John didn't shoot him on sight. It's a good day, all things considered.

He just doesn't know what he's doing tomorrow. Or any day after that.


Clearly the bar is the place to find inspiration. Rache has commandeered a barstool and a glass of very fine whiskey.

(It goes on his tab, everything goes on his tab, what is he going to do for money, what if someone knows his face--)

People watching. People watching is safe, and the whiskey burns sweetly. It's a good day.