So, Oscar has been sold to the frigid Mina Chandler. Unfortunately, that isn’t the last he’s seen of troublesome changes in his life, as her job is merely to deliver. But to where, Oscar has no clue.
The roaring grew, and Oscar curled into a tighter ball. He was in the dark, but that was at least a comfort. The world around his small box prison shook with the sound of that massive engine, but he couldn’t see it at all. He didn’t have to watch the scary world that had swallowed him up and refused to release him.
He was an object. And he’d been sold.
He didn’t know where the plane was destined to go. The faint sensation of speed wormed in his gut as the enormous machine taxi’d, and he knew that wherever he was headed was far from his home. His space in a little motel in Breckenridge, Colorado was way beyond his reach now.
Oscar covered his ears with his hands to muffle the sound of that roaring engine, and thought of home. His makeshift table and spools for chairs. The shabby curtain in front of his pantry. The velvety ring box he used as a comfortable cushion while he worked on his sewing. A pile of blankets that he could burrow into to sleep at night and hide from the cold.
The plane jostled and shook as it picked up speed. Oscar grimaced and dragged the one piece of cloth he’d been given closer to himself. It didn’t hide him nearly enough.
The shaking suddenly changed. No more rumbles from speeding along the ground shook through his small body, only the engine’s roaring.
Gravity caught up as, a moment later, the world lurched upwards. Oscar cried out in fear and curled up again as an unseen force pushed him down into the bottom of the box. He was flying. It was just like the soaring feeling of a human grabbing him up, but thousands of times worse. The changing altitude hurt his ears like someone was pressing on either side of his head.
Oscar let his tears free. The pressure around his skull and concentrating on his ears hurt more than any headache he’d ever had. He couldn’t hear past the pounding in his own head as his body tried to cope with leaping miles into the air. For several long minutes, the pain drowned out all thoughts of where he was going. He couldn’t see the earth dropping away, but the terror of the very thought gripped him tight.
The entire plane shuddered again. Oscar was jostled out of his corner of the box and tossed against the opposite side by the turbulence. It knocked the wind out of him, but he didn’t take long to resume his frantic sobbing. The muscles in his hands hurt from clutching his blanket so tightly.
As the pressure mounted on his head and the fear and panic crackled through his every nerve, Oscar reached his breaking point. By the time the plane leveled off to carry him to his next destination, he was out cold.
At least in sleep he didn’t have to think. Blackness claimed him and his mind hid away from the fear of the unknown.
Timeline: Before the first story, after the brothers move into 221B Baker Street
It was just another supply run.
There was no reason for either brother to think this morning would be any different from any other.
It was becoming their regular routine; wake up early, grab some food from the cabinets, keep an eye on Sherlock and John while they were up and about. Midafternoon to evening was a good time to catch some sleep with the humans at their most active, and during the night the brothers would pick through the main room of the flat, reading up on the materials Sherlock scattered about his latest cases and grabbing extra supplies for the supply room they were building across the fireplace from their home.
It had only been a week since officially moving in, but so far the schedule was holding out. There were a few hiccups along the way while learning and they had to have chosen the most erratic humans around, but the brothers remained hidden against all odds.
“Anythin?’ “ Dean hissed at Sam as he hesitantly pushed at the entrance into the cupboard.
Sam paused, his eyes unfocused as he concentrated on the strange knack he had. Without that ability, moving into this particular flat would be ill-advised. Between the two of them and their unusual abilities, it became worth the risk.
“Nothing,” Sam confirmed, and Dean climbed into the cupboard to begin their raid.
Throughout the last week, Dean had begun the lengthy process of creating entrances where they were most needed. It was a skill he’d picked up like a natural, mechanically inclined the way he was. Mapping out the walls was accomplished the first few days, and Sam had created an intricate diagram using some scrap paper and the broken tip of a pencil Dean had tracked down for them to use. On that diagram he had marked off the most desired entrances into the main area where the humans lived, and was slowly checking them off as they were completed.
The entrance into the cupboards for food being one of the most important ones to make.
Now, they could slip right in under the humans’ noses and get what they needed to survive. It wasn’t much compared to what someone normal sized might eat, but they’d learned harsh lessons early in life that they weren’t seen as people. No handouts would ever come their way.
Sam brightened up at the sight of a new box of cereal, the top already opened. “It’s fresh!” he chirped brightly, letting his hand fall to his hook in preparation.
Dean nodded. “I’ll keep watch,” he said, stationing himself between the teabags and the cereal so he could see the front of the cabinet in case it was opened.
Sam tossed his hook into the air. His aim was not as good as his older brother’s, but the three prongs made it easier to get a catch, and the sturdy weight of the hook wasn’t a deterrent with his natural strength. It caught on a flap, and Sam tugged it questioningly. With it holding fast, he started to climb up the side of the box with his boots braced against the side and his grip tight on the black thread, the weight of the cereal inside preventing it from tipping over on him.
Reaching the top quickly, Sam balanced uncertainly on the uneven ground. It took some doing, but he was able to work one hand under the top flap and tug it open, revealing the food inside. With his satchel empty, there was plenty of room to stash the food, and no way for John or Sherlock to know some was missing unless they weighed the cereal by gram as they ate.
The humans in the flat were odd, but not quite that odd.
Sam balanced with one boot on either side of the box and started to scoop up the cereal one piece at a time, filling them into his bag as he went, his position precarious.
John was especially groggy as he entered the kitchen. Not only had the night out with his friend Mike Stamford gone on for longer than he’d meant it to, but the storm that followed made John’s old bullet wound act up, disrupting his sleep for the rest of the night.
The doctor rubbed absently at his left shoulder, the gloomy morning still giving him an ache there. Ordinarily he’d get something for breakfast started before getting his tea, but ever since he’d moved in with Sherlock Holmes not so long ago, John found his schedule being arbitrarily changed– mostly his sleep schedule; John was certain he still hadn’t recovered from that late night filing through a pair of dead men’s books– and his habits shifting. Right now, he was in dire need of caffeine.
There was water left in the kettle, so all he had to do was plug it in and push down the little switch to get the heat started. Rubbing his eyes in attempt to get rid of that heavy feeling in his lids, John fumbled at the cupboard door and groped blindly for a teabag.
The footsteps weren’t unexpected, but what was unexpected was the lack of reaction in Sam’s knack. Light washed over the tiny pair as the wide door swung open.
Both brothers’ froze.
Unbelievably, considering how Sam was perched on top of the cereal box, one boot braced on either side, and how Dean was frozen right out in the open, John Watson didn’t notice them.
The oblivious human wasn’t even looking in their direction as his hand stretched out, blindly groping past the box Sam was stuck on.
Dean snapped out of his shock, stumbling away from the grasping fingers that were longer than he was tall. As he backed away, his hand fell on another of the boxes shoved in there by Sherlock.
Teabags.
Saying a prayer under his breath, Dean grabbed a teabag from the box and shoved it in the direction of John’s huge hand. All he could do was hope that if John got what he was looking for, the human doctor wouldn’t glance into the cupboard and spot Sam, who had no fast way down from the box unless he fell inside with the cereal.
John’s fingers latched onto the thin material of the teabag, curling into a loose fist around it as the hand retreated. With a half-yawn, half-groan, John let the cupboard door fall closed and dropped heavily into a chair while he waited for the kettle to boil.
As the door slammed shut, Sam sucked in a breath. John hadn’t noticed. Sam was right there, perched on a box of cereal, and he hadn’t seen a thing.
How?
While the sounds of John peacefully preparing his cup of tea filtered into the cupboard, Dean tilted his head back and waved for Sam’s attention. Catching Dean’s meaning, Sam inched his way backwards until he reached where his hook was lodged, and scaled down the box.
Time to get out of the cupboard before their luck ran short.
Brothers Apart 