Purgatory in D-minor (1/?)
Fic for the Serlock Holmes kink meme. This thing has eaten my brain.
Sherlock Holmes wakes, as he has every morning for the past six months, with a startlingly clear understanding of the wrongness of his world. As it has been since the first few weeks, he is woken by the sharp sound of curtains being drawn, and the sun on his face. It is something that would not distress another man, but he’s never been accustomed to such things.
The maid ignores the moan of incoherence that issues forth from where he buries his head under the damask covers. He peers out as she straightens his things from the night before, without so much as a glance in his direction. He already knows she won’t speak to him. He expects Henry pays her a good deal extra not to. He waits until she leaves before dressing himself in his own clothes. These are the last simple things left to him, and even so, sometimes he is told what to wear for ‘special occasions’.
When he enters the disgustingly opulent and tidy sitting room that adjoins his bedroom, the maid is just finishing the last of her duties. She sets two place settings at the small dining table by the fireplace. This is the signal to announce that his gracious host and sometimes bed partner will be joining him for breakfast. It is the first time in just over a week that he has seen the other man. Henry Blackwood comes and goes as he chooses. This is one of the terms of their Arrangement. He tries to quell the excitement, but today is also the day Irene is supposed to visit; perhaps she’ll even bring Mary with her. Watson never visits on Tuesdays, but one can’t have everything. If he plays his cards right, today he will be a man rich with company. It should suffice, for a time, to distract him from his gilded cage.
He is startled from his contemplation by a knock on his doorframe. Henry is leaning against it, regarding him with a curios softness in his eyes. He is without the robes of state this morning, but the heavy gold chain of office rests heavily on his chest. “I wish you wouldn’t wear those shabby old clothes, pet. It makes you look such the pauper when you’re surrounded by all this elegance.” The words are disapproving, but there is an indulgent smile playing about the other man’s mouth, so he relaxes into the criticism and offers a small smile in return. Henry gestures to the table and asks. “Are you ready to eat, or did you have other plans?”
From the hallway emerges the head chef, with a trolley of covered dishes that make his mouth water with the smells emerging from them. Subtle teasing and a selection of delicacies? It is a good day then. Perhaps he is still in good graces for assisting Henry with that minor matter concerning the guard’s missing pay.
“No other plans, at the moment.” He admits, even though he knows full well that Henry already knows this. He seats himself, before his oddly doting benefactor can get it into his head to pull out the chair for him. These bouts of cosseting are so few and far between that he hardly knows how to respond to them.
As the servants dish out the food, Henry begins to go over all the minute details of the last few days. He absorbs it all, and interjects comments where he feels they are appropriate. He even manages to make the other man laugh out loud a few times. This is a ritual he never expected to enjoy, and he used to resent it, but he has stopped feeling ashamed of the things that keep him entertained in this place. After a time the conversation dies off.
They dine in silence for a few moments, Holmes nervously avoiding the deep gaze fixed on him, before his companion speaks. “Your looking a little peaked of late, love. I don’t believe you’re getting enough sunlight. I have a tour of the gardens today, would you like to join me? And later I am having dinner with a few foreign guests. They’ve heard of your exploits, and I think would be very much pleased to meet you. How does that sound, to round out your day?
It sounds like more activity than he’s had in weeks, so he says, “Wonderful, only…” There is one flaw in the plan.
One of Henry’s perfectly severe eyebrows arches. “Only what?”
“Well, it’s just that today is the day Irene is supposed to visit.” He finishes, feeling guilty although he’s not sure why.
That gaze has taken on the half hooded look of a displeased cobra, but the smile only widens. “Of course it is. How careless of me to forget. Well, the tour is nothing that cannot keep. Perhaps you will be able to join me once your lady friend leaves. Say around half past twelve?” He nods, and the serpent eyes retreat. “Since you’re going to be so busy today, and you look a bit wrung out, I do believe you should take some of your medicine, pet. For your constitution.” Henry continues, reaching into his vest pocket for the little case of pills.
This is something the royal physician cooked up to help him with his cocaine addiction, at Henry’s insistence. He’s not sure what it is, just that it is opium based. Some pills of powdered sugar, soaked in a solution, to be dissolved under the tongue. He tried resisting it’s administration at first, but found upon being given no other choice, that it helped. It stills the buzzing of his nerves from boredom and excitement both, and takes his mind far beyond the confines of these rooms. He’s come to depend on it.
He reaches for it, but Henry pulls back the offering hand, just out of his reach. So this is the game today then. He leans forward across the table, in a manner designed to appear at his most submissive. He parts his lips and allows his companion to place the pill gently on his tongue, gently wrapping his mouth round the fingertips as they withdraw. The effects begin immediately, swirls of warmth in the pit of his stomach. He closes his eyes against a spin of dizziness.
He is aware of Henry’s voice, as if from very far away, and he vaguely wonders about the sense dulling properties of the drug. Curious that it always seem to settle around his hearing first. It is something he would very much like to discuss this with Watson. Speaking of which…He opens his eyes to find Henry regarding him with something akin to amusement. Even in the arms of bliss, he hesitates. “I was wondering?”
“Yes?”
“Would you-do you happen to know why Doctor Watson hasn’t been by to see me these last few weeks?”
He’s far gone enough not to notice the darkening of the other man’s face at the mention of his former companion. And Henry Blackwood has gotten a bit better at disguising his tone from one Sherlock Holmes. “I’m afraid that the fault would lie with me. There is much need in this transitory time, for Medical men with a working knowledge of other sciences. I have been keeping him more than busy. I should think, however, that his current undertaking will be through by the end of this week. Then perhaps I shall be able to release him into your company.”
The idea of going through another week without his friend is distressing, and he protests without thinking. “Couldn’t you this once let him off a bit early? It’s just that, his presence is essential to an experiment I wish to run.”
“Impossible.” Henry rises from the table, and makes as if he’s getting ready to leave.
“Couldn’t you even have someone deliver him the message. If he’s got a moment, he might chose to--”
Striking faster than an adder, his host pulls him to his feet by his collar. Sudden pain explodes across his cheek, setting of fireworks behind his eyes. He feels the sudden sting of tears, and tastes sharp iron. The twisting fabric is cutting off his breath, and Henry’s hand is raised for another blow. He can see with crystal clarity, the red of blood on his signet ring. He flinches away, but only succeeds in further obstructing his airway.
“I don’t like to be questioned, Sherlock.” The fury in the other man’s voice is barely controlled. It twists his features into something almost demonic.
“I-I’m sorry.” He just barely manages to gasp out, and he is released, staggering backwards until he hits the wall.
Henry stalks to the door without a backward glance, and barks “Someone clean this mess up!”, out into the hallway. Terrified servants scuffle into the room and make short work of the food and dishes. Throwing his charge one last sneer, the master of the house turns to leave. Only to run into Irene Adler on her way in the door. She shrinks back a bit from his glare.
“I’m sorry,” He tells her stiffly, “But the Good Detective is a bit busy today. You’ll have to come again tomorrow.” All Holmes can see is her face, pale with concern as the door closes behind Henry. There is the dreadfully final sound of a key turning in the lock. And then silence. He is alone to ponder how the morning took such a terrible turn.
The drugs wear off long before the ache in his face subsides. Day turns to dark and no one comes to his door. He falls into bed that night thinking resentfully of Henry at his dinner party, making excuses for his absence.