Purgatory in D-Minor 3/?
Argh~! Mt stoopid computer is being retarded, which means I can only acces the internet while I'm at work. So I apologise in advance for the delays in this story. **sigh**
Immediately Holmes drops Irene’s hands, feeling as if their pressure is burned into his skin. The motion is not lost on Henry whose eyes narrow even further. He takes several slow measured steps into the room. “I asked you a question, pet. Well?”
Shooting to his feet, Holmes holds his hands out placatingly, trying to keep his voice even as you would with a wounded animal. “Please Henry, don’t be angry.” He, in contrast to the other man’s slow certainty, moves as quickly as he dares. He hopes putting some distance between himself and Irene will give her some protection from the wrath boiling behind Henry’s eyes. He draws up beside his host. “It was nothing, just a minor argument. A strange contention from before, nothing to do with you.”
The fighters instinct in him only gives a moment warning before he feels himself slammed against a wall. One hand is at his throat, cutting off just enough air that he can feel it, the other slams with deafening force into the wall beside his head. He barely hears Irene’s outraged noise, but his eyes find hers over the other man’s shoulder, begging her not to interfere.
Henry leans in, voice lowered to a whisper. “You know I don’t like being lied to, Sherlock. Now, you can continue to keep your secret, but it will cost you your pretty friends life.” His eyes flick sideways, drawing Holmes’ attention to the flash of a barely concealed blade in the hand on the wall. “Or, you can answer my question, and I may let her go free. The choice is yours.”
There’s no real choice there. Anything he say at this point will condemn Irene. Honesty may save her life, but he will certainly never see her again. He swallows, beats back the pride that wills him to hold his ground. Closing his eyes, he speaks softly. “She told me…about the boy I investigated the other day. What happened to him, because of me…”
“Is that so.” One eyebrow raises, but there is no other reaction. “What else did she tell you?” This he hesitates over. Henry may not know his dearest friend is missing. If he speaks he may be condemning Watson to the very fate Irene imagines for him. Unfortunately, his captor is almost as good at reading faces as himself. The knife moves to dig into his shoulder, tip barely drawing blood.
“Stop this! Let go of him!” Irene cries out, rushing Henry from her place at the window. The knife flicks back again and, despite his hoarse cry of warning, the handle catches her cheek. She falls, blood marring the pale outline of her face. The other man doesn’t even turn in her direction, eyes fixed on Holmes, simply returns the blade to his shoulder and pushes. The pain lances through him, like cold fire, drawing a scream.
“What else, love. I know she told you something else. You wouldn’t be this distressed otherwise.”
He hears his own breathy sobbing as if it comes from the next room, blood rushing loudly in his ears. “S-she told me that J…that Watson is…m-missing. That you…k-killed him!” //It’s not true. Tell me she’s wrong!//
He isn’t expect the sudden sharp laughter. “Is that all?! Almost unworthy of the effort.” Henry jerks the blade free, pulling out another cry. The pain is almost unbearable, but the other man pulls him close, supporting his shaking legs, and lowers him into the nearest chair. He then turns the dagger in Irene’s direction. She is just climbing to her feet. “You, sit there.”
Irene takes the chair across the table, as directed, glaring sullenly. “You’re sick!” She spits. A smile flickers at the corners of Henry’s mouth.
“Indeed.” He gestures to Coward, who is hovering in the doorway, eyes hungry. Coward scurries forward.
“Yes, milord?”
“When was the last time we saw the good Doctor Watson?”
“Almost a moth ago, milord, just before the rebel raid on the soldiers hospital. He disappeared when that group bombed a burn ward to create an distraction.”
Ah yes, now I remember. One of those skirmishes we’ve had with a minor resistance movement in the area.” Henry fixes Irene with a wide smile. “The very group that, if I’m not much mistaken, Miss Adler has been a member of for the last several months. Isn’t that so?” Holmes’ head is now spinning, from the pain and the accusation. He doesn’t want to believe it, but he can read the truth in the ashen pallor of Irene’s face. Her eyes plead with him for understanding, even as she nods. “You see,” the even voice continues, “It is entirely possible that Miss Adler orchestrated the very disappearance she told you about. If anyone caused the doctor’s death, it was she.”
“That’s not-”
“Silence!” Henry thunders. His hand comes down almost softly, to rest it’s solid weight on his uninjured shoulder. “We have, of course, been searching diligently for any trace of him.” He say’s soothingly. “We’ve not given up hope yet.” The hand moves up to stroke his hair gently, even as his voice becomes business like. “I do believe that our guest has caused quite enough trouble and distress. Coward, please escort Miss. Adler to the gate. And be sure to tell the guard, she will not be visiting us again any time soon.”
The two solid thugs standing at Coward’s back, and the hand on his gun, override any of Irene’s protests. Holmes refuses to lift his eyes to her as she is lead away. Once more, as always, he is left with only Henry Blackwood’s company.
He is numb, but at the same time the pain is overwhelming. Dizzy, sickened, he is unsure what to believe. The revelations of the last hour spin in tearing circles in his head. The only person who ever stood by him may be dead. Dead by Irene’s inaction, if not intent. For the last few weeks he’s been sitting in this hell, unknowing. Struggling to protect a family that is slowly falling to pieces. His world, never really stable, is falling out from under him.
When his own personal devil kneels in front of him, mirroring Irene’s pose from earlier, It is suddenly too much. He wants blessed oblivion. “Please, I need…” He chokes out, every word needing to be forced through the chaos.
“What is it, pet?” That oily voice is deceptively gentle.
Incapable of coherency, he paws at the pocket he knows Henry keeps the drugs in. “Medicine.”
His captor pulls back and stands up, frowning. He bends to press at the sides of the knife wound from earlier. “I think perhaps we should have someone see to this first.” He turns to go.
“No! Please, I’ll do anything!” He slides bonelessly from the chair, ignoring the agony in this shoulder. His hands are on the front of the other man’s trousers with a speed that surprises them both. As he expects Henry is hard. Intrigue and violence always have this effect on him.
He swallows the other man down to the root first thing, something he’s never tried before. The shocked moan and snap of hips is tribute to it’s effectiveness. There is a hand in his hair, trying to slow his motions. But he’s trained himself to expedite this and soon the hand tightens, holding him in place. He focuses on the hot slide of swollen flesh, on the harsh press against that back of his throat. It’s almost enough to still his whirling mind on it’s own. Sooner than he expected Henry is wrenching him back, growling, to spill across his lips and chin.
Breathing heavily, the monarch draws a finger through his own emissions, pressing it against his mouth. He licks it clean, glancing up at his captor through his eyelashes. The other man is struggling for composure, regarding him from under heavy lids. He is aware of the picture he must make. Debauched and bleeding on the floor, come painting his features, desperation shining in his eyes.
Apparently it is enough. Henry draws him roughly to his feet, and after a bruising kiss, slips the bottle of pills from his pocket. He places one gently under his tongue. Closing his eyes to wait for the dimming of his thoughts, he only dimly hears the rattle of the bottle being set down, or the soft foot falls as his host leaves him to his own devices.
After a time he opens his eyes again to see the bottle staring at him from the table. When he peers inside, he seen a small handful in the bottom. Probably enough for an overdose he notes absently, as he tips back two more. Finally, the blackness swirls in, and the agony of reality disappears.