Sherlock Holmes 09: Those Halcyon Days [Part 3] [Blackwood/Coward]
Title: Those Halcyon Days
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes 09
Pairing: Blackwood/Coward
Length: 21,200 words
Rating: At the very, very most R.
Also now crossposted to AO3 here.
Part One | Part Two | Part Three
June 1883
Lord Henry Blackwood was back in London.
Nicholas was not; as his friend stepped home from foreign shores, Nicholas was gliding through Europe on the back of the fledgling Orient. He, too, was homeward bound, but only an hour or so outside of Strasbourg; he had some way to go, yet.
The news caught him in Paris.
He had intended to spend a night with friends (or, rather, friends of Duvall), but his mindless, giddy excitement spun him straight on a train to the coast, and it wasn’t until he was having the thrill punched out of him by the thick channel wind that dread unfurled inside him.
Why hadn’t Blackwood come for him?
As the journey lengthened, as the Normandy countryside slipped through night into dawn, as French beaches became soft sea and then English cliffs, Nicholas grew fearful. In the countless times he had imagined his friend’s return, he had always been Blackwood’s first point of call; not London, not politics, but Nicholas.
Nightfall found him in London. It was his own carriage which collected him from the coast - Lord Coward could afford the expense. Westminster welcomed him with its cold grey arms, and he acutely felt his relief to be home again. He didn’t know the name of the man who had let him in - Emily’s handiwork, he supposed - and he suddenly, irrationally longed for Carlyle, for some semblance of normality in the hugely empty house.
“There was a man here for you yesterday, sir,” the stranger was saying. “Called himself a friend.” He had left Duvall behind in Vienna, which left only one other, and in his uncertainty and exhaustion Nicholas found himself utterly relieved to have missed him.
He retired immediately; but had no one to make excuses to. He tried to sit up in his room, in his sister’s, in his father’s, but couldn’t, and took refuge in the guest room, curled at the window from lack of want to sleep.
The man had wanted to be thought dead; something terrible must have happened to bring him back. Nicholas had not heard of such a thing, but Nicholas had not done much hearing for a long while. The week prior to his departure had seen the death of Lord Blackwood and the marriage and subsequent emigration of his sister; he saw little else worth keeping a keen eye on in the papers. And once they got abroad - well, with Duvall, there had never been much talk of England, let alone politics. They had never had much grounds to talk of anything at all, really.
He slept until the morning was long since past; he was only woken when the nameless servant announced Lord Blackwood awaited him in the study, and the voice in which it was said matched the content for pomp. He had dragged himself out of bed and halfway across the room before it hit him, and he had to steady himself against the sudden weight on his chest. This was Henry Blackwood, the same Henry Blackwood whom he had spent half a year scouring England for, whom he had regained as if from the dead merely days ago, whom he had thought, once, he couldn’t live without.
He stayed silent as he stepped inside; he merely walked across the room and sat. It surprised him how uncomfortable Blackwood seemed, but then again, the last time they had been in this study together - well. Nicholas had to choke down a hysterical giggle at the thought of it. He couldn’t even ask if the man wanted to take a stroll in the garden to break the tension. He opened his mouth; tried to speak; choked on the surge of panic that came from nowhere. “I thought you were dead,” he blurted, almost biting his own tongue.
“Quite,” was the lame reply. Blackwood let his hands fall into his pockets and attempted to appear nonchalant as he looked out into the murky London skyline. “I’m sorry I didn’t write; there was a war on.”
“Was there?” Nicholas replied, blandly.
“Yes. In Egypt.”
“A nondescript regiment and a pseudonym, no doubt. Did your father ever find you?” Blackwood shook his head. “And you return to reap the rewards of his estate?” His voice was mild, but moralities expressed in a garden a long time ago heaped implications on the sentence which Blackwood could not avoid. He wondered whether he would remember or not, but nothing showed on his old friend’s face, carefully pointed away across the garden.
He could tell Blackwood found it hard to so much as look at him; he could not stand the notion that he still wanted something so base, so incomprehensible, so uncontrollable from him. It terrified him, in a way that something like fighting the war hadn’t. Blackwood told him nothing of this; but Nicholas had known him inside and out, once.
He knew it all without Blackwood having to breathe a word.
“Do you intend to stay?”
Blackwood nodded, and braced himself to face him, his diffidence far too careful. “I am to be a Member of Parliament. I wondered whether you would care to join me.”
“You can do that?” The childishness of his question annoyed himself as soon as he asked it, especially because of the smug smile it brought on Blackwood’s face.
“I have friends of friends who can.”
“You have been busy.”
“I had hoped - we might work together.”
Nicholas stared. “Work together,” he echoed, eventually, “as politicians? Working for a government I - we - despised and denounced on countless occasions? Ah, but I forget - ” He smiled viciously. “You killed for that government, didn’t you?” He sneered. “Thank you, but I respectfully decline. Never had the head for politics, anyhow.”
Blackwood carefully resumed staring out of the window. “I thought you should have the choice, at least.”
“How kind.” Blackwood shrugged off his sarcasm with nonchalance. “So what is to become of me, then?”
“Whatever you like. I have no other use for you.”
The idea stunned him. “You want nothing more to do with me?”
“You have my word.” Nicholas stared at his feet, lost for words, no longer certain even of what he wanted from him. “Right. I’d - ah - best be - ” Blackwood gestured vaguely in the direction of the doorway, and turned from him. He knew then that he desperately, desperately did not want him to go - but had nothing to say to stop him. There was nothing for him here now.
He locked himself in the study - in his father’s study - and stared at the floor. There were Things to Be Done; staff to be hired; finances to be purveyed; acquaintances to inform of his return; but Nicholas instead stared at the floor, and did not move.
He slept a little that night, and decided, when he woke, that Things Would Change. This was a chance for him to make another stab at being his own man; there was no one left to berate him, no one left whom he felt he was betraying.
He took the trouble to discover that the name of the man whom his sister had left was Kemp, and entrusted to him to find the necessary servants for a man of his class, before washing, dressing smartly in what he considered to be dangerously fashionable, and making a jaunty visit to Chancery Lane to meet with the family solicitor, George Floss, whom Emily had seen fit to put in charge of their finance. Nicholas had not met him before, but was rather taken by the quiet, somehow sad man, and not only because he revealed Lord Coward was not in such dire straits as he had anticipated he would be. Emily had, apparently, discreetly swept his inheritance from under his feet and put it aside, a fact for which he was eternally grateful, though at the time he probably would have disowned her in sheer fury.
With Duvall in Vienna, he had not a single ally within the whole of London. He was well aware that London’s upper classes would be observing him acutely because of his return, especially coupled with that of his long-time friend, a man whom he had once been called “particularly close” to by some of the less erudite papers. He needed to make a good name for himself once more; go down to the Strand; hang around some of the back-alley gentlemen’s clubs; get himself known. He could not face as much that night, at least; he had the carriage drop him off by St James’, and lay himself along the grass, unperturbed by anything except the blue sky, watching it fade through blood-red and pewter to blue-ink black.
It was as he took the familiar route across to the palace that he learnt of the reason behind Blackwood’s return. A cheery newspaper-boy had set up shop beside the Mall, ignoring the ever-more threatening glances of nearby police; Nicholas had avoided the news thus far, but if he intended to find the highlights of London’s raunchiest social scene, he couldn’t afford to do so any longer, and he begrudgingly bought a copy to skim on his journey home.
John Blackwood’s funeral was Tuesday next, and his death left a certain Henry Blackwood as sole proprietor and heir.
He had returned not for Nicholas, not for politics, not for family, but for power, and nothing more.
An entire fortnight lolled past, in which Nicholas did absolutely nothing. He lay in bed until the middle of the afternoon, spoke to no one, read into the small hours and then fell into bed again; the relaxation would have been welcome if he hadn’t just spent a year abroad doing much of the same. He was bored out of his skull, but his only alternative was to get out of bed at a sensible hour and dance the merry dance of high society, and the idea of flattering a prominent politician in the chance of getting his daughter’s skirts above her knees made him feel ill.
He did not attend John’s funeral. As much as the thought of Blackwood having to make do alone pained him, his presence seemed inappropriate somehow, and he knew he would feel nothing short of uncomfortable at the least. Besides, the Lord Blackwood circulating in the media nowadays was not the Henry he had known; the man seemed to bathe in self-confidence, assured in his every word, plucked and raped of their meaning and twisted to suit a politician’s mouth. Nicholas sat and watched as his friend rose to fame, but felt little more than a distant acknowledgement; though he supposed he had his old friend to thank for the lack of his own name in the papers.
His summer came and went with no event. He left the house little, and heard no word from anyone. He tried writing to both Thomas and Emily; neither replied. He hadn’t expected they would - the words traded on their parting had implied as much, and he knew exactly where their loyalties lay. They had a son, he was told; he was an uncle, though the chances of him meeting his nephew were slim at best. The one exception to his loneliness was a singular telegram from Duvall to inform him that his stay had been ‘somewhat elongated’. As his friend had been due back in July, and August was currently tumbling into September, this did not surprise him in the least. Besides, he mostly hoped Duvall would choose to stay there forever; he had no desire to see him again.
It was late September before Blackwood showed again. He arrived unannounced on his doorstep; Nicholas had not left his room for days, but he was up on his feet like a shot at the sound of the knock, hanging over the banister to peer into the corridor. When he heard nothing from Kemp, he presumed their visitor had been no one but a nuisance - or perhaps the post, with a larger-sized package than the delivery boy deigned possible to cram through the slit in their door. With nothing else to do, curiosity got the better of him, and he made the slow descent to the hall to investigate -
- to which he found Blackwood, standing sure as anything in his parlour, staring at him with, as ever, the most infuriatingly impenetrable expression. Nicholas had neither shaved nor washed for a good few days; he was the worse for wear from lack of sleep and appetite; he wore nothing but ill-fitting trousers and a hugely oversized shirt; all in all, he must have been an absolute spectacle to a friend who was used to seeing him so smart, but he was so incredibly furious none of it bothered him in the slightest as he charged into the room.
“I told them not to let you in.”
Blackwood shrugged. “Kemp’s my man. He’ll do as I ask.”
“You sent him here - to spy on me?”
“You were unstable; I considered you to be unsafe.” As if it were the explanation for everything in the world, the justification for every action he ever performed.
“Unstable,” Nicholas echoed, incredulous.
“I’d never seen you so out of sorts. It concerned me.”
Nicholas snorted. “Of course not; the last time, you were long since gone.”
Blackwood had nothing to say to this, a fact of which Nicholas was utterly glad; if the man had tried to justify his actions, he wouldn’t have been held accountable for punching him securely in the face. Instead; “why did you leave England?”
“A friend asked me to go with him.”
“Duvall?” Nicholas said nothing; as good as a confession, but he was past caring. “And why did you come back?” His voice was softer; but the question made Nicholas burn.
“He - ” Nicholas paused; glanced around the room; but he was past having anything to lose. “He slept with another man.”
There - at last - something; unmistakeable jealousy ripped across Blackwood’s face as he realised what Duvall had been to him. Nicholas felt a sordid smile wrap around his face and it would not let him go, not even as Blackwood shoved past him to rush out of the door and away - and Nicholas even had to choke on laughter at the liberty of it, the freedom of having said it, but most of all knowing that somewhere deep inside Blackwood had never quite stopped wanting him.
“Did you think I’d wait?” he called into the corridor, heard Blackwood’s step freeze halfway. “Sit here twiddling my thumbs whilst you had your crisis of conscience, no matter how long it would take?” He walked to the corridor; could feel it was a saunter, knew his smile was spiteful at best. Blackwood seemed frozen, half-turned from the doorway to stare at him, and it filled Nicholas with vicious glee to see how the façade had slipped; he looked so beautifully vulnerable. “I waited,” he hissed, “a whole damned year for you. I lost my father, and my sister, and Christ, even my own best friend was sick of the sight of me - of what you had made me become - and when your father died, and there was no sign of you, I knew you must be dead; what kind of man wouldn’t go to his own father’s damn funeral?”
“I didn’t know - they didn’t tell me - he wasn’t my father - ”
“ - and if you did return,” he continued, stalking even closer, “what would I be to you? Another servant? Another member of the Blackwood family entourage? Christ, I wouldn’t have been able to breathe in the same room as you. I am not some thing,” he snarled, “to be kept, out of harm’s way, told what to do. Once upon a time, you would have understood that, I know; but now you are Lord Blackwood, and the world and its mistress are mere servants to you.” Lord Blackwood would always be fond of bold exits; but he today he turned away, let the door close quietly behind him. Nicholas’ knees had long since turned to jelly, but he did not let them drop him now. The house’s huge silence seemed to suffocate, far away on every side. He became aware of Kemp, skulking around the bottom of the stairs; Nicholas rounded on him. “I suppose that if I told you to go, you’d not listen to a word I say?” Kemp remained impassive. “Make yourself useful, then, and sack the staff. And get a man down to Floss’; I want the house sold by Saturday.”
Kemp, ever the professional, didn’t flinch. “We’re moving, sir?”
“Not far.” He paused to pass a hand across his face. “Near St James’ Park, I think,” he said softly; “but something small.” The house had never been his; he had grown up on the other side of London, across the river and deep in the richer suburbs. They had moved from there when his mother had gone, and so Emily remembered nothing but Westminster; the house was his sister’s keepsake, but she had abandoned it readily a long while now.
He was in Victoria Street before the week was out.
Small, but tastefully so; manageable, the word which came to mind, big enough to entertain but small enough for comfort. No one there but him, Kemp and someone to cook and clean for him. His father would have hated it; Blackwood probably would; but he felt safe again.
There was perhaps no one more surprised than Nicholas himself when his neighbour appeared from nowhere to invite him out that Saturday night. The man in question was the son of a self-made American millionaire, bored out of his pretty head, made to lounge around his “apartments” when his father saw fit to abandon him. He reminded Nicholas of his sister so acutely he was lost for words when the boy first stuck his head around the door.
He found himself agreeing, though he had no idea why. He knew that no good could come from it; but all the same, the only alternative was hardly appealing in its misery and loneliness. He washed; he shaved; he dressed his finest, and was shoved into a carriage with no idea of where they were going, a somewhat evil smile in his neighbour’s eye.
“I’m liking the outfit,” he was teasing, drawl more pronounced than those Nicholas was used to; “so incredibly out of fashion it’s almost edging back in again.”
Nicholas almost didn’t see the point of taking a carriage, the journey was so short - but he remembered how exciting wealth had been when he had been that age, and passed no comment. He did not recognise the house (one of Lady Ranelagh’s estates, he was told), and the idea that he knew not one person inside both thrilled and terrified him.
The boy played his part; Nicholas was introduced to several dignitaries as Lord Coward, and the title seemed to earn his opinion a ghastly amount of respect. He suddenly longed for Thomas or even Blackwood at his side, the ability to turn his head and snide at the blind patriotism in front of him. Still; an easy thrill overcame him as the evening wore on, back in his element, doing what he had been raised to do almost effortlessly. He had made an enviable ally in Sir Rotheram before the dinner was served, and was being slowly introduced to his entourage, none of them influential and all pitiful.
“We’ve not seen much of you around, recently, milord,” Sullivan simpered - nothing better than a backbencher, and yet the men around them were gazing at him with a ridiculous level of awe.
“I’ve been on holiday. Europe.”
“Ahh.” Several sage nods spread like a contagion throughout the semicircle. “Europe.”
“And are you planning to come back to politics?” This came from an inexorably hopeful Rotheram, peering keenly down at him over twig-like spectacles. “Your father was ever so good at it.”
The statement caught him unawares, and didn’t let him go. “I - ” He coughed, choking on his own breath, struck speechless. “Excuse me.” He couldn’t walk away from their eager stares fast enough, desperate to find some way out into the open. The situation stung, made sharp air catch in his throat, the stupidity of it all - pretending this was his world, when it had always been his father’s, and he’d never felt the desire to even step into it - Christ, what was he doing here? He didn’t even know his neighbour’s name -
- and then Blackwood saw him. He wished he could say that he caught sight of Blackwood, but in truth it was the uneasy prickle on his neck that made him look about and see he was being watched; even he couldn’t tell which one of them was more horrified. His first instinct was to run, as if he had no right to stand in this ridiculous house with these ridiculous people and in such a ridiculous outfit - but then he registered the panic in Blackwood’s face, the gawking stare that had not wavered since he had set eyes on him. Nicholas felt that vindictive smile seize hold of him again; nodded politely, snatched a passing glass of wine and strode resolutely back into the mêlée.
Blackwood did not confront him once.
He threw himself back into it with a dogged determination; stayed close to Rotheram’s side until he was whispering into the golden ear, suggesting which men to shed and which to save. He had, somewhere, stumbled upon a remarkably acute sense of character; he supposed he had Blackwood to thank for that, or Duvall, perhaps, as he had never possessed the wit to leave the two of them well alone. It made him most invaluable as a companion, and Rotheram slowly became devoted to him. He was aware that others’ envy only escalated, and the pleasure of this was almost too much to bear.
Rotheram had an idle schedule, but Nicholas spent more nights out than in; he dined, drank and danced with any noble he could get within three feet of.
Blackwood was there. Blackwood was always there; but he never spoke a word.
Nicholas had, though not by choice, always been a sycophant. First it had been to his father; then to Blackwood; now it was to Rotheram. Part of the allure of Thomas had been, if anything, his lack of authority; his amenability to settle back his shoulders, look him squarely in the eye and listen, not assuming that what he said had no use in the slightest. It was with Duvall, however, that he had attuned the level of sycophantism he now practiced with Rotheram; it slowly but inevitably gave him the true power, asserted himself into the other man’s life until he could not think without him.
Duvall had noticed; had rebelled; hence the circumstances leading to Nicholas’ departure. Rotheram believed he had nothing but a misfortunate innocent as a sort-of assistant, and to this opinion Nicholas was happy to comply.
In spite of this authority, there was one aspect of Rotheram’s life from which Nicholas found himself entirely excluded. Rarely, though with an oddly selective sort of frequency, he would be turned from his door; it would be for no more than a single night, and he would happily accept Nicholas’ company the following day. He would always have a thin slit across his thumb, and, intermittently, a livid red weal or two at the juncture of his neck. Naturally, no explanation was forthcoming, neither from the Lord’s uncanny ability to inevitably make everything into vapid conversation nor Nicholas’ polite instigation towards the matter.
Whatever he was getting up to, Rotheram didn’t trust Nicholas enough to let him in on it. And considering the type and depth of information Nicholas was more than capable of accessing, it must be something big.
The only explanation that came to mind was some sort of illicit club in which the Lords and Ladies went to vent a little of their frustrations, which the Penny Dreadfuls had them believe were ever so prominent in the right areas of the capital; he had very great doubt that his Lord had a lover, simply because other than those rare occasions he was living in the man’s pockets. Nicholas himself had not slept with him, despite what some of the more prosaic individuals might claim; aside from the fact he was not a harlot, he had no desire to do so, not even for political gain. There were, of course, other ways of him ascertaining such information, as Kemp would often quietly remind him; but a little curiosity kept the mind alive, and besides, the last man found to have put tails on Lord Rotheram was found on his stomach in the Thames three weeks later.
He could ask Blackwood. Blackwood wouldn’t ask questions; Blackwood would know a man; Blackwood would probably know the answer himself. Nicholas knew with damning certainty that that way madness lay.
In the end, neither espionage nor even sleight of hand were necessary; Rotheram invited him.
“I don’t doubt you’re curious, Nicholas,” he crooned, his fingers stroking the finery of his not-quite-antique chaise. “I know you.”
To this, Nicholas saw fit to reply with a sickening smile.
Rotheram inspected him keenly. “Just for tonight, you understand.”
“Naturally.”
Across the room, Alex Duvall stared at him.
Throat dry, Nicholas’ first reaction was one of panicked horror. The room was, naturally, crowded, but Nicholas in his youth stuck out like a sore thumb; and it was too late to escape, now that Duvall had seen him. At first chance, Duvall crossed the room and came next to him; the reunion was far from joyful. “When did you get back?”
Duvall waved his hand. “Days ago - but never mind that, what the hell are you doing here?”
Nicholas’ back straightened in anger. “I am with friends.”
“These are my friends, Nick, my people.” The occupants of the room began to file out of the heavy double doors to one side; Nicholas and Duvall did not move. “Are you a member?”
“A member of what?”
Duvall rolled his eyes. “The Order, Nick.”
“I - what? No, I just, sort of - ” He cast about for Rotheram, but they were alone in the room, the great doors just falling to. “Really, a secret Order? A great conspiracy? I suppose there’s sorcery involved?”
Duvall smiled wryly. “Not my style, I know, but I want power in America - and well, this is easiest.” He inspected Nicholas closely. “You honestly didn’t know I’d be here?”
Nicholas snorted. “I didn’t even know this existed until yesterday,” he replied, casting about with one hand. “I’ve hardly had time to do my research. And the knowledge would have put me out of coming, not entranced me to, I assure you.”
He watched Duvall hesitate. “I’m - ” A deep breath; a wrangled expression. “I am - sorry, Nick. About...”
“Quite,” he replied absently, eyes towards the fireplace. “What did you do once I’d gone?”
“I left, too, almost straight away - but went further East. Stayed in Budapest for a while. You would love it. I did m- ”
“Don’t,” Nicholas muttered. Duvall’s mouth closed instantly.
From the great doors, Rotheram’s head emerged, peering through for him. “Nicholas,” he coaxed, “you’re missing the dinner - ”
“Coming,” he replied, shortly, and followed him through the doorway.
“A most pleasurable evening,” Rotheram said in a grave tone which quite suggested otherwise. Nicholas said nothing; watched Westminster streets slip by. “The others were rather taken with you,” he continued, but of course they had been - Nicholas had had his sycophant’s face on. “Did you enjoy yourself?”
Nicholas hesitated. In all honesty, not in the slightest, but during his time there he had found himself seduced by what the Order meant; the power, of course, but not because he wanted it, but quite the opposite. Imagine it - just imagine it - all Blackwood’s years of plotting and planning to be undercut by him, the disregarded son of Lord Coward - oh, the satisfaction of such a victory. He could think of nothing but the faces of the people who had thought so very little of him - his father, his friends, even his sister, by the end. To rise - to take them by surprise - to hold their stupid, petty little lives in the palm of his hand and then squeeze -
“Yes.”
Rotheram beamed - a first in Nicholas’ books. “Oh, excellent news. They had a task in mind for a man of your stature - we shall get you Initiated right away. You do of course believe in magic, Lord Coward?”
“Absolutely,” he lied, and smiled.
If he had been alarmed to find Duvall present, it was nothing compared to the terror at discovering the attendance of Lord Blackwood.
He could tell it wasn’t orchestrated quite simply because Blackwood turned tail and fled at the sight of him. Nicholas, God help him, found himself chasing Blackwood into the great entrance hall, shouting out his name until his friend stopped, looked back at him. “I didn’t know you’d be here.” He took a half-step forward. “They told me there was a new man, but I thought it was just Standish.”
Nicholas’ mind flapped frantically, hysterical, incapable of saying anything - was he pleased to see him? Was he well? What had he been doing? “Nicholas.” Duvall came up behind him, one hand resting on his arm. “They’ve retired upstairs; they’re asking after you.” He looked at Blackwood, but spoke to Nicholas. “Are you staying?”
“Yes,” he replied.
Duvall steered him upstairs, one hand resting on the crux of his back; Blackwood followed a pace behind, and Nicholas’ throat was caught with the impossibility of working out what to say.
They found the others already well submerged in their own activities, and their trio stood awkwardly to one side, Nicholas’ eyes on his feet, well aware of the other two staring at him. Duvall stood closest, and Nicholas’ whole body jumped as his hand brushed up his arm, worming its way past cuffs and through creases, up along his shoulders. Fingers hooked around his jacket, threw it to the floor. Nicholas did not move, could not move, was lost in the impossible task of working out what he actually wanted. Duvall was picking open the buttons on his waistcoat with steady familiarity, sliding it off to join his jacket with slightly more reverie, his hands smoothing out across the front and back of Nicholas’ chest, far too cold for Nicholas to appreciate the intimacy.
When Duvall bit into his neck in a manner Nicholas thought most unpleasant, he finally looked up in protest, but it was Blackwood who caught his eye - stood a good three feet away, whole body stiff as stone, hands balled in fists beside him, but in his eyes, there was fury and loathing, yes, but the lust and jealousy and longing there punched the breath from in him.
There was a letter from Blackwood waiting for him at home. He knew the man had retired to Chichester for the New Year, and had been absent for quite a few of the Order’s meetings, now; he idly wondered whether he was asking for Nicholas to catch him up with their latest proceedings, thumbing one corner of the envelope til the paper curled. He searched around for his letter-opener and ripped the top in two, scanning the painfully familiar writing as quickly as he could.
Blackwood was summoning him.
Nicholas snorted, and cast it aside, careful that it landed in the pile of dry ends used to light the fire. He considered Blackwood’s motives as he took the seat behind his desk, looking across the papers Kemp placed neatly for him there - did the man honestly expect him to come running? Was this some ridiculous, elaborate test - and if so, how on Earth was he to know if he passed or failed? He sneered at the idea; as if such a test would hold any importance to him. There were whispers, faint though they were, of a life for Nicholas in politics - thoughts in mind of him being Home Secretary no less, not this Christmas, certainly, but maybe the next, or the one following... the allegiance of Lord Henry Blackwood was no longer of great circumstance to him.
He knew it would be a week or so before it became apparent to Blackwood he had refused to come at his call; after that, he simply lounged at home, waiting for the inexorable knock at the door. Not that he anticipated it with any pleasure, mind; he was relishing the chance to gloat from a position of political power he knew would have Blackwood squirming with jealousy.
A month passed, with nothing - no presence at his door, nor at any Order meeting. At every session, he was forced to bite his tongue for want of asking into his whereabouts, especially as it was a commonly-known rule that their lives outside of that hall were not to be discussed when within it. He stooped, once, to reading the papers for any base information he could gather, but all he found was the sycophantic propaganda all too easily attributed to the Order, now Nicholas knew of their workings. He found himself idly reading on the progress in Egypt, trying to imagine Blackwood the common soldier, arms smeared with others’ blood, always, in his mind, small and terrified in the midst of all the horror around him.
When the last week of March passed with no event, Nicholas found himself beginning to feel scared. He became trapped in his mind, reliving the guilt and terror he had suffered, not so many years ago - different, now, as he was not only less naïve but less responsible, and yet somehow just as potent, just as capable of having him lay awake for torturous hours at night.
On the second day of Lent, Blackwood attended his first Order meeting for four months.
Nicholas experienced tangible relief as he caught sight of him across the cold, smelly hall, the emotions making his body crumple, his shoulders sag, and, to his horror, hot tears push insistently at the back of his eyes. The world seemed to drone away as he realised - he had missed him, more so than he’d known, until he’d set eyes on him again. His whole scheme, his lust for power, seemed pathetic, inconsequential, the feeble scrabblings of a lesser man - it had amounted to nothing without Blackwood, whether standing coolly across an echoing room, or - and Nicholas ached at the thought - standing quietly at his side.
Duvall’s hand tightened on his arm. “Are you alright?”
“Yes,” he replied, feeling far away. The others were retiring upstairs, but Blackwood was turning from the hall, already halfway to the door. Nicholas bit down on the urge to scoff; Blackwood had abandoned him, rejected his friendship with horrific ease, left Nicholas to turn in on himself, become some detestable creature until there was nothing of him left anymore. He gathered his cloak from the floor, and, smiling, took Duvall’s arm as they began to file upstairs.
And yet, something in his mind whispered, he placed himself before you, humble and apologetic - and who was the one to abandon whom, then?
He lasted until Sunday afternoon - unusually bright, considering the time of year - when, sat at his desk, he found himself composing a letter, single strips of paper torn apart and thrown away as he failed to work out what exactly he wanted to say.
I wish to speak with you.
I need to speak with you.
I want to speak with you.
He settled, finally, on the latter, and sent Kemp away with it, refusing to believe his manservant’s insistences that he did not know where to find him. Sure enough, he had returned within the hour, Blackwood’s simple reply for Nicholas to come to him whensoever it pleased him. He wrestled with his conscience, stood in the centre of the room with the strip of paper in hand - and then had Kemp call him a carriage, nearly running out the door, hat and coat in hand.
It felt strange, walking through the Blackwood house’s foyer, the floor cold and hard against his echoing feet. He could only think of all that had happened since the last time he had been there - his father, Emily, Duvall, Blackwood; and all that time, the house had not changed. The world had not stopped for him.
Blackwood stood in the study, the room illuminated with soft, yellow light from the spring sunset. It seemed impossible that he was not waiting for him, and Nicholas entered without a knock.
“Drink?”
Nicholas nodded. “Please.” He watched as Blackwood poured it, took it with quiet thanks, and cradled it to his chest, like a shield. He was aware of Blackwood’s anticipation, pressing down on him like lead - but now that he stood here, he had no idea of what to say. “Where have you been?”
Blackwood shrugged. “Around. Speaking to people. Working. Is this what you wanted - an interrogation?”
“No,” he said quickly. I missed you - but couldn’t form the words; they felt like lumps of wood in his throat.
“I’m glad you called, actually,” he continued, almost as if Nicholas hadn’t spoken. “I had hoped to include you.”
“Include me?”
“I have,” he said, with a facsimile smile, “a plan. To bring about something never before seen in all our nation’s history.” Nicholas watched as his old friend changed before him; the posture altered; the expression shifted; the man became something altogether different. A politician’s stance. “Two centuries ago, a group of men no more noble than those on the street rose up together and seized the throne in the name of democracy, committing the foulest acts which surmounted to no less than blasphemy because the corruption of government had gone too far. They ruled without sovereign for near a decade; they were overthrown; but they were weak where we could be strong. They were fanatic where we could be wise.” Blackwood stared across the room; his gaze was almost hypnotic. “Since that day, the nation has never forgotten the taste of its own liberty - but it chose badly, representing itself in a Parliament that has fallen foul of greed and malice. It can be disposed of, and in its place an institution more noble, more wise and more just can be established - with us to lead it. We could rule the world, Nicholas.”
Nicholas’ first thought was that the man had gone completely mad. People couldn’t just go around ruling the world; it was never as easy as that. No plan was ever foolproof; no nation ever lacked a steadfast hero willing to decapitate a tyrant. Blackwood would have a plan; but it would be flawed, it would be full of grandeur and nobility and wide, sweeping moves which would be blatantly recognisable to anyone with half a brain. He would fail.
And yet...
To gain a foothold in government. To petrify a group of stupid and yet influential men to follow them. To slowly, ever so slowly, amount power, until at last there was nowhere for the country to hide from them...
It could be done.
Nicholas felt a chill worm up his spine. He felt an overwhelming desire for the power he could obtain, the likes of which he had not felt for months - not since Blackwood had disappeared, yet again. He thought of a door slamming shut on a June afternoon, and what freedom could mean if he ruled the world.
They would need an infallible spokesman, the likes of which never seen before; but if there were ever a man to do it...
He shook his head, breaking the reverie. He had come to - well, he wasn’t sure, but it was certainly not to involve himself in some insane plot -
He had come to be with him, a quiet voice mumbled, deep in the recesses of his mind. Because it is him, or nothing at all.
“What do you say, Nicholas?” Blackwood’s voice was soft, but somehow it made his heart ache.
“I missed you,” he spat out, wringing his hands together, eyes roving around the room. “I always miss you.” He passed a hand over his eyes, shook his head. “And what would I be, in this grand scheme of yours? Another lackey? Another sycophant?”
Blackwood looked very small when Nicholas met his eye; very weak. “If you wanted. I’d much rather you were my equal.” Blackwood smiled and looked aside, and for a second the years slid off him, and Nicholas’ friend stood before him once again. “I wager you think I forgot you,” he murmured, seemingly to himself. Nicholas’ heart hopped. “Spent all my time on war and politics, never a second thought...”
“They intend for me to be Home Secretary,” Nicholas blurted out, and felt the fool the second he said it, knew he was just scrabbling for anything to say. Blackwood’s smile, however, merely grew.
“I know, Nick,” he said, as if he was berating a child, and Nicholas certainly felt very small. “I told them to.” They were closer than Nicholas expected, but he couldn’t for the life of him place who moved or when - but Blackwood was near enough to touch, now, to smell, and all Nicholas could think of was all the times he’d longed for this -
When he kissed him, his body simply sang - he could not think of another way to describe it. They slid free from the years that had separated them, full of loathing and betrayal and regret. He fiddled absently with his friend’s lapels, smoothing creases from where his fists had bunched them, moments before. “When you left - ” He felt his friend stiffen, and tightened his grip. “ - no, Harry, we can’t avoid it.”
“I was afraid,” he replied, after a long while.
“You were a damn fool,” Nicholas replied, automatically, his brain still attempting to reconcile the concept of ineffable, indomitable Blackwood feeling base fear. He felt alive, stood in that huge room devoid of anything save for yellow sunset and the two of them, like he hadn’t for too many long years. He looked up at his friend and quietly vowed to himself, smiling, that the man should never feel fear again.
*
March 1890
A quiet clock ticked above London, unbeknownst to anyone save for Nicholas and Blackwood. The week before last, Blackwood had lain unconscious on his bed without pulse or breath, the only vestige of his fear apparent in the loose way his hand had gripped Nicholas’. The drug had worked; Reardon was to be trusted.
Now, they stood under the city, in cavernous sewers that reeked of the city’s life, of sweat and damp and urine - Blackwood’s voice echoed off every wall, nonsense Latin and gibberish woven together to form a spell. The girl bucked and writhed on the plinth, mind addled and long gone with the poppy-seeds forced to her hours ago - at least she would die happy, Nicholas thought idly, shrugging his cloak about him against the damp. He knew there were some who would not be so fortunate.
The blade sliced down - Nicholas smiled - and thus -
- the game’s afoot: follow your spirit, and upon this charge, cry ‘God for Harry, England, and Saint George!’
*
January 1891
They had put him in Blackwood’s cell. The walls were alive with his friend’s hand, crawling and shifting like insects. Nicholas stared at them and thought only of Blackwood’s face, eyes closed in concentration, mouth moving soundlessly as he committed to memory chunks of the texts Nicholas had picked out for him.
They had shown him a picture. Blackwood on his gibbet, high above old London town. Circled in vivid cerise. They had wanted to see him scream, see him squirm; he had stared them in the eyes and smiled.
It haunted him now, though, alone in this desolate place, stamped into his eyelids whenever he tried to rest. He was surrounded by him, and yet his friend had never been further away.
A baton clattered against the railings; “on your feet,” barked the guard. “Visitor.” He did not stand, even as the door was heaved open; there was no one of any consequence able to visit him now.
His mother entered the room.
“Good Christ,” she barked, appraising him coolly, “I can’t even recognise you.” He shot to his feet, staring at her in horror. “Got himself in a right mess,” she sighed to no-one in particular. “Just like his father.” Her voice had changed; it was American, now, slow and harsh, drawling. She dismissed the guard, who looked like he’d rather argue otherwise.
“What are you doing here?” he mumbled. He’d meant to sound imperious, and failed spectacularly.
She peered at him scornfully. “I’m getting you out of this trouble, you stupid boy. Your sister wrote to me when she heard about, what was his name? Blackwood - ”
“Is Emily here?” he interrupted quickly, and she snorted.
“She has better things to do with her time.” As do I, came the unspoken words. “There’s a man very keen not to see you hang, God help him, and I agreed to do the legwork with the courts.”
He stared at her, lost for words. Years had passed - decades - and she comes here at the whim of another man. What on Earth do you say to a woman - a mother - like - her? “I don’t want to escape,” he muttered, embarrassed at how petulant he came across. “I killed; I deserve to hang for it.” He had lain in that wretched cell and longed for the quiet, the finite comfort that death would provide - had seen no other option. Not without Blackwood. But he was human, still; and part of his mind clutched frantically at the idea of his survival.
“And now he has a backbone, eh?” She looked ready to clout him from frustration. He took a seat on his bed again, avoiding her eye. “It’s not up to you any more. There are larger forces in motion. You must be with him, Nicholas - God knows you don’t want to be against him.”
“Who is he?” She ignored him; as she bustled out, Nicholas grabbed her arm, but she freed herself with ease. “What’s his name?”
A man entered. He was dressed in black. Nicholas raised his head, and the smallest of pistols bumped his forehead. What is it to be?
Nicholas smiled.
End Notes:
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes 09
Pairing: Blackwood/Coward
Length: 21,200 words
Rating: At the very, very most R.
Also now crossposted to AO3 here.
Part One | Part Two | Part Three
June 1883
Lord Henry Blackwood was back in London.
Nicholas was not; as his friend stepped home from foreign shores, Nicholas was gliding through Europe on the back of the fledgling Orient. He, too, was homeward bound, but only an hour or so outside of Strasbourg; he had some way to go, yet.
The news caught him in Paris.
He had intended to spend a night with friends (or, rather, friends of Duvall), but his mindless, giddy excitement spun him straight on a train to the coast, and it wasn’t until he was having the thrill punched out of him by the thick channel wind that dread unfurled inside him.
Why hadn’t Blackwood come for him?
As the journey lengthened, as the Normandy countryside slipped through night into dawn, as French beaches became soft sea and then English cliffs, Nicholas grew fearful. In the countless times he had imagined his friend’s return, he had always been Blackwood’s first point of call; not London, not politics, but Nicholas.
Nightfall found him in London. It was his own carriage which collected him from the coast - Lord Coward could afford the expense. Westminster welcomed him with its cold grey arms, and he acutely felt his relief to be home again. He didn’t know the name of the man who had let him in - Emily’s handiwork, he supposed - and he suddenly, irrationally longed for Carlyle, for some semblance of normality in the hugely empty house.
“There was a man here for you yesterday, sir,” the stranger was saying. “Called himself a friend.” He had left Duvall behind in Vienna, which left only one other, and in his uncertainty and exhaustion Nicholas found himself utterly relieved to have missed him.
He retired immediately; but had no one to make excuses to. He tried to sit up in his room, in his sister’s, in his father’s, but couldn’t, and took refuge in the guest room, curled at the window from lack of want to sleep.
The man had wanted to be thought dead; something terrible must have happened to bring him back. Nicholas had not heard of such a thing, but Nicholas had not done much hearing for a long while. The week prior to his departure had seen the death of Lord Blackwood and the marriage and subsequent emigration of his sister; he saw little else worth keeping a keen eye on in the papers. And once they got abroad - well, with Duvall, there had never been much talk of England, let alone politics. They had never had much grounds to talk of anything at all, really.
He slept until the morning was long since past; he was only woken when the nameless servant announced Lord Blackwood awaited him in the study, and the voice in which it was said matched the content for pomp. He had dragged himself out of bed and halfway across the room before it hit him, and he had to steady himself against the sudden weight on his chest. This was Henry Blackwood, the same Henry Blackwood whom he had spent half a year scouring England for, whom he had regained as if from the dead merely days ago, whom he had thought, once, he couldn’t live without.
He stayed silent as he stepped inside; he merely walked across the room and sat. It surprised him how uncomfortable Blackwood seemed, but then again, the last time they had been in this study together - well. Nicholas had to choke down a hysterical giggle at the thought of it. He couldn’t even ask if the man wanted to take a stroll in the garden to break the tension. He opened his mouth; tried to speak; choked on the surge of panic that came from nowhere. “I thought you were dead,” he blurted, almost biting his own tongue.
“Quite,” was the lame reply. Blackwood let his hands fall into his pockets and attempted to appear nonchalant as he looked out into the murky London skyline. “I’m sorry I didn’t write; there was a war on.”
“Was there?” Nicholas replied, blandly.
“Yes. In Egypt.”
“A nondescript regiment and a pseudonym, no doubt. Did your father ever find you?” Blackwood shook his head. “And you return to reap the rewards of his estate?” His voice was mild, but moralities expressed in a garden a long time ago heaped implications on the sentence which Blackwood could not avoid. He wondered whether he would remember or not, but nothing showed on his old friend’s face, carefully pointed away across the garden.
He could tell Blackwood found it hard to so much as look at him; he could not stand the notion that he still wanted something so base, so incomprehensible, so uncontrollable from him. It terrified him, in a way that something like fighting the war hadn’t. Blackwood told him nothing of this; but Nicholas had known him inside and out, once.
He knew it all without Blackwood having to breathe a word.
“Do you intend to stay?”
Blackwood nodded, and braced himself to face him, his diffidence far too careful. “I am to be a Member of Parliament. I wondered whether you would care to join me.”
“You can do that?” The childishness of his question annoyed himself as soon as he asked it, especially because of the smug smile it brought on Blackwood’s face.
“I have friends of friends who can.”
“You have been busy.”
“I had hoped - we might work together.”
Nicholas stared. “Work together,” he echoed, eventually, “as politicians? Working for a government I - we - despised and denounced on countless occasions? Ah, but I forget - ” He smiled viciously. “You killed for that government, didn’t you?” He sneered. “Thank you, but I respectfully decline. Never had the head for politics, anyhow.”
Blackwood carefully resumed staring out of the window. “I thought you should have the choice, at least.”
“How kind.” Blackwood shrugged off his sarcasm with nonchalance. “So what is to become of me, then?”
“Whatever you like. I have no other use for you.”
The idea stunned him. “You want nothing more to do with me?”
“You have my word.” Nicholas stared at his feet, lost for words, no longer certain even of what he wanted from him. “Right. I’d - ah - best be - ” Blackwood gestured vaguely in the direction of the doorway, and turned from him. He knew then that he desperately, desperately did not want him to go - but had nothing to say to stop him. There was nothing for him here now.
He locked himself in the study - in his father’s study - and stared at the floor. There were Things to Be Done; staff to be hired; finances to be purveyed; acquaintances to inform of his return; but Nicholas instead stared at the floor, and did not move.
He slept a little that night, and decided, when he woke, that Things Would Change. This was a chance for him to make another stab at being his own man; there was no one left to berate him, no one left whom he felt he was betraying.
He took the trouble to discover that the name of the man whom his sister had left was Kemp, and entrusted to him to find the necessary servants for a man of his class, before washing, dressing smartly in what he considered to be dangerously fashionable, and making a jaunty visit to Chancery Lane to meet with the family solicitor, George Floss, whom Emily had seen fit to put in charge of their finance. Nicholas had not met him before, but was rather taken by the quiet, somehow sad man, and not only because he revealed Lord Coward was not in such dire straits as he had anticipated he would be. Emily had, apparently, discreetly swept his inheritance from under his feet and put it aside, a fact for which he was eternally grateful, though at the time he probably would have disowned her in sheer fury.
With Duvall in Vienna, he had not a single ally within the whole of London. He was well aware that London’s upper classes would be observing him acutely because of his return, especially coupled with that of his long-time friend, a man whom he had once been called “particularly close” to by some of the less erudite papers. He needed to make a good name for himself once more; go down to the Strand; hang around some of the back-alley gentlemen’s clubs; get himself known. He could not face as much that night, at least; he had the carriage drop him off by St James’, and lay himself along the grass, unperturbed by anything except the blue sky, watching it fade through blood-red and pewter to blue-ink black.
It was as he took the familiar route across to the palace that he learnt of the reason behind Blackwood’s return. A cheery newspaper-boy had set up shop beside the Mall, ignoring the ever-more threatening glances of nearby police; Nicholas had avoided the news thus far, but if he intended to find the highlights of London’s raunchiest social scene, he couldn’t afford to do so any longer, and he begrudgingly bought a copy to skim on his journey home.
John Blackwood’s funeral was Tuesday next, and his death left a certain Henry Blackwood as sole proprietor and heir.
He had returned not for Nicholas, not for politics, not for family, but for power, and nothing more.
An entire fortnight lolled past, in which Nicholas did absolutely nothing. He lay in bed until the middle of the afternoon, spoke to no one, read into the small hours and then fell into bed again; the relaxation would have been welcome if he hadn’t just spent a year abroad doing much of the same. He was bored out of his skull, but his only alternative was to get out of bed at a sensible hour and dance the merry dance of high society, and the idea of flattering a prominent politician in the chance of getting his daughter’s skirts above her knees made him feel ill.
He did not attend John’s funeral. As much as the thought of Blackwood having to make do alone pained him, his presence seemed inappropriate somehow, and he knew he would feel nothing short of uncomfortable at the least. Besides, the Lord Blackwood circulating in the media nowadays was not the Henry he had known; the man seemed to bathe in self-confidence, assured in his every word, plucked and raped of their meaning and twisted to suit a politician’s mouth. Nicholas sat and watched as his friend rose to fame, but felt little more than a distant acknowledgement; though he supposed he had his old friend to thank for the lack of his own name in the papers.
His summer came and went with no event. He left the house little, and heard no word from anyone. He tried writing to both Thomas and Emily; neither replied. He hadn’t expected they would - the words traded on their parting had implied as much, and he knew exactly where their loyalties lay. They had a son, he was told; he was an uncle, though the chances of him meeting his nephew were slim at best. The one exception to his loneliness was a singular telegram from Duvall to inform him that his stay had been ‘somewhat elongated’. As his friend had been due back in July, and August was currently tumbling into September, this did not surprise him in the least. Besides, he mostly hoped Duvall would choose to stay there forever; he had no desire to see him again.
It was late September before Blackwood showed again. He arrived unannounced on his doorstep; Nicholas had not left his room for days, but he was up on his feet like a shot at the sound of the knock, hanging over the banister to peer into the corridor. When he heard nothing from Kemp, he presumed their visitor had been no one but a nuisance - or perhaps the post, with a larger-sized package than the delivery boy deigned possible to cram through the slit in their door. With nothing else to do, curiosity got the better of him, and he made the slow descent to the hall to investigate -
- to which he found Blackwood, standing sure as anything in his parlour, staring at him with, as ever, the most infuriatingly impenetrable expression. Nicholas had neither shaved nor washed for a good few days; he was the worse for wear from lack of sleep and appetite; he wore nothing but ill-fitting trousers and a hugely oversized shirt; all in all, he must have been an absolute spectacle to a friend who was used to seeing him so smart, but he was so incredibly furious none of it bothered him in the slightest as he charged into the room.
“I told them not to let you in.”
Blackwood shrugged. “Kemp’s my man. He’ll do as I ask.”
“You sent him here - to spy on me?”
“You were unstable; I considered you to be unsafe.” As if it were the explanation for everything in the world, the justification for every action he ever performed.
“Unstable,” Nicholas echoed, incredulous.
“I’d never seen you so out of sorts. It concerned me.”
Nicholas snorted. “Of course not; the last time, you were long since gone.”
Blackwood had nothing to say to this, a fact of which Nicholas was utterly glad; if the man had tried to justify his actions, he wouldn’t have been held accountable for punching him securely in the face. Instead; “why did you leave England?”
“A friend asked me to go with him.”
“Duvall?” Nicholas said nothing; as good as a confession, but he was past caring. “And why did you come back?” His voice was softer; but the question made Nicholas burn.
“He - ” Nicholas paused; glanced around the room; but he was past having anything to lose. “He slept with another man.”
There - at last - something; unmistakeable jealousy ripped across Blackwood’s face as he realised what Duvall had been to him. Nicholas felt a sordid smile wrap around his face and it would not let him go, not even as Blackwood shoved past him to rush out of the door and away - and Nicholas even had to choke on laughter at the liberty of it, the freedom of having said it, but most of all knowing that somewhere deep inside Blackwood had never quite stopped wanting him.
“Did you think I’d wait?” he called into the corridor, heard Blackwood’s step freeze halfway. “Sit here twiddling my thumbs whilst you had your crisis of conscience, no matter how long it would take?” He walked to the corridor; could feel it was a saunter, knew his smile was spiteful at best. Blackwood seemed frozen, half-turned from the doorway to stare at him, and it filled Nicholas with vicious glee to see how the façade had slipped; he looked so beautifully vulnerable. “I waited,” he hissed, “a whole damned year for you. I lost my father, and my sister, and Christ, even my own best friend was sick of the sight of me - of what you had made me become - and when your father died, and there was no sign of you, I knew you must be dead; what kind of man wouldn’t go to his own father’s damn funeral?”
“I didn’t know - they didn’t tell me - he wasn’t my father - ”
“ - and if you did return,” he continued, stalking even closer, “what would I be to you? Another servant? Another member of the Blackwood family entourage? Christ, I wouldn’t have been able to breathe in the same room as you. I am not some thing,” he snarled, “to be kept, out of harm’s way, told what to do. Once upon a time, you would have understood that, I know; but now you are Lord Blackwood, and the world and its mistress are mere servants to you.” Lord Blackwood would always be fond of bold exits; but he today he turned away, let the door close quietly behind him. Nicholas’ knees had long since turned to jelly, but he did not let them drop him now. The house’s huge silence seemed to suffocate, far away on every side. He became aware of Kemp, skulking around the bottom of the stairs; Nicholas rounded on him. “I suppose that if I told you to go, you’d not listen to a word I say?” Kemp remained impassive. “Make yourself useful, then, and sack the staff. And get a man down to Floss’; I want the house sold by Saturday.”
Kemp, ever the professional, didn’t flinch. “We’re moving, sir?”
“Not far.” He paused to pass a hand across his face. “Near St James’ Park, I think,” he said softly; “but something small.” The house had never been his; he had grown up on the other side of London, across the river and deep in the richer suburbs. They had moved from there when his mother had gone, and so Emily remembered nothing but Westminster; the house was his sister’s keepsake, but she had abandoned it readily a long while now.
He was in Victoria Street before the week was out.
Small, but tastefully so; manageable, the word which came to mind, big enough to entertain but small enough for comfort. No one there but him, Kemp and someone to cook and clean for him. His father would have hated it; Blackwood probably would; but he felt safe again.
There was perhaps no one more surprised than Nicholas himself when his neighbour appeared from nowhere to invite him out that Saturday night. The man in question was the son of a self-made American millionaire, bored out of his pretty head, made to lounge around his “apartments” when his father saw fit to abandon him. He reminded Nicholas of his sister so acutely he was lost for words when the boy first stuck his head around the door.
He found himself agreeing, though he had no idea why. He knew that no good could come from it; but all the same, the only alternative was hardly appealing in its misery and loneliness. He washed; he shaved; he dressed his finest, and was shoved into a carriage with no idea of where they were going, a somewhat evil smile in his neighbour’s eye.
“I’m liking the outfit,” he was teasing, drawl more pronounced than those Nicholas was used to; “so incredibly out of fashion it’s almost edging back in again.”
Nicholas almost didn’t see the point of taking a carriage, the journey was so short - but he remembered how exciting wealth had been when he had been that age, and passed no comment. He did not recognise the house (one of Lady Ranelagh’s estates, he was told), and the idea that he knew not one person inside both thrilled and terrified him.
The boy played his part; Nicholas was introduced to several dignitaries as Lord Coward, and the title seemed to earn his opinion a ghastly amount of respect. He suddenly longed for Thomas or even Blackwood at his side, the ability to turn his head and snide at the blind patriotism in front of him. Still; an easy thrill overcame him as the evening wore on, back in his element, doing what he had been raised to do almost effortlessly. He had made an enviable ally in Sir Rotheram before the dinner was served, and was being slowly introduced to his entourage, none of them influential and all pitiful.
“We’ve not seen much of you around, recently, milord,” Sullivan simpered - nothing better than a backbencher, and yet the men around them were gazing at him with a ridiculous level of awe.
“I’ve been on holiday. Europe.”
“Ahh.” Several sage nods spread like a contagion throughout the semicircle. “Europe.”
“And are you planning to come back to politics?” This came from an inexorably hopeful Rotheram, peering keenly down at him over twig-like spectacles. “Your father was ever so good at it.”
The statement caught him unawares, and didn’t let him go. “I - ” He coughed, choking on his own breath, struck speechless. “Excuse me.” He couldn’t walk away from their eager stares fast enough, desperate to find some way out into the open. The situation stung, made sharp air catch in his throat, the stupidity of it all - pretending this was his world, when it had always been his father’s, and he’d never felt the desire to even step into it - Christ, what was he doing here? He didn’t even know his neighbour’s name -
- and then Blackwood saw him. He wished he could say that he caught sight of Blackwood, but in truth it was the uneasy prickle on his neck that made him look about and see he was being watched; even he couldn’t tell which one of them was more horrified. His first instinct was to run, as if he had no right to stand in this ridiculous house with these ridiculous people and in such a ridiculous outfit - but then he registered the panic in Blackwood’s face, the gawking stare that had not wavered since he had set eyes on him. Nicholas felt that vindictive smile seize hold of him again; nodded politely, snatched a passing glass of wine and strode resolutely back into the mêlée.
Blackwood did not confront him once.
He threw himself back into it with a dogged determination; stayed close to Rotheram’s side until he was whispering into the golden ear, suggesting which men to shed and which to save. He had, somewhere, stumbled upon a remarkably acute sense of character; he supposed he had Blackwood to thank for that, or Duvall, perhaps, as he had never possessed the wit to leave the two of them well alone. It made him most invaluable as a companion, and Rotheram slowly became devoted to him. He was aware that others’ envy only escalated, and the pleasure of this was almost too much to bear.
Rotheram had an idle schedule, but Nicholas spent more nights out than in; he dined, drank and danced with any noble he could get within three feet of.
Blackwood was there. Blackwood was always there; but he never spoke a word.
Nicholas had, though not by choice, always been a sycophant. First it had been to his father; then to Blackwood; now it was to Rotheram. Part of the allure of Thomas had been, if anything, his lack of authority; his amenability to settle back his shoulders, look him squarely in the eye and listen, not assuming that what he said had no use in the slightest. It was with Duvall, however, that he had attuned the level of sycophantism he now practiced with Rotheram; it slowly but inevitably gave him the true power, asserted himself into the other man’s life until he could not think without him.
Duvall had noticed; had rebelled; hence the circumstances leading to Nicholas’ departure. Rotheram believed he had nothing but a misfortunate innocent as a sort-of assistant, and to this opinion Nicholas was happy to comply.
In spite of this authority, there was one aspect of Rotheram’s life from which Nicholas found himself entirely excluded. Rarely, though with an oddly selective sort of frequency, he would be turned from his door; it would be for no more than a single night, and he would happily accept Nicholas’ company the following day. He would always have a thin slit across his thumb, and, intermittently, a livid red weal or two at the juncture of his neck. Naturally, no explanation was forthcoming, neither from the Lord’s uncanny ability to inevitably make everything into vapid conversation nor Nicholas’ polite instigation towards the matter.
Whatever he was getting up to, Rotheram didn’t trust Nicholas enough to let him in on it. And considering the type and depth of information Nicholas was more than capable of accessing, it must be something big.
The only explanation that came to mind was some sort of illicit club in which the Lords and Ladies went to vent a little of their frustrations, which the Penny Dreadfuls had them believe were ever so prominent in the right areas of the capital; he had very great doubt that his Lord had a lover, simply because other than those rare occasions he was living in the man’s pockets. Nicholas himself had not slept with him, despite what some of the more prosaic individuals might claim; aside from the fact he was not a harlot, he had no desire to do so, not even for political gain. There were, of course, other ways of him ascertaining such information, as Kemp would often quietly remind him; but a little curiosity kept the mind alive, and besides, the last man found to have put tails on Lord Rotheram was found on his stomach in the Thames three weeks later.
He could ask Blackwood. Blackwood wouldn’t ask questions; Blackwood would know a man; Blackwood would probably know the answer himself. Nicholas knew with damning certainty that that way madness lay.
In the end, neither espionage nor even sleight of hand were necessary; Rotheram invited him.
“I don’t doubt you’re curious, Nicholas,” he crooned, his fingers stroking the finery of his not-quite-antique chaise. “I know you.”
To this, Nicholas saw fit to reply with a sickening smile.
Rotheram inspected him keenly. “Just for tonight, you understand.”
“Naturally.”
Across the room, Alex Duvall stared at him.
Throat dry, Nicholas’ first reaction was one of panicked horror. The room was, naturally, crowded, but Nicholas in his youth stuck out like a sore thumb; and it was too late to escape, now that Duvall had seen him. At first chance, Duvall crossed the room and came next to him; the reunion was far from joyful. “When did you get back?”
Duvall waved his hand. “Days ago - but never mind that, what the hell are you doing here?”
Nicholas’ back straightened in anger. “I am with friends.”
“These are my friends, Nick, my people.” The occupants of the room began to file out of the heavy double doors to one side; Nicholas and Duvall did not move. “Are you a member?”
“A member of what?”
Duvall rolled his eyes. “The Order, Nick.”
“I - what? No, I just, sort of - ” He cast about for Rotheram, but they were alone in the room, the great doors just falling to. “Really, a secret Order? A great conspiracy? I suppose there’s sorcery involved?”
Duvall smiled wryly. “Not my style, I know, but I want power in America - and well, this is easiest.” He inspected Nicholas closely. “You honestly didn’t know I’d be here?”
Nicholas snorted. “I didn’t even know this existed until yesterday,” he replied, casting about with one hand. “I’ve hardly had time to do my research. And the knowledge would have put me out of coming, not entranced me to, I assure you.”
He watched Duvall hesitate. “I’m - ” A deep breath; a wrangled expression. “I am - sorry, Nick. About...”
“Quite,” he replied absently, eyes towards the fireplace. “What did you do once I’d gone?”
“I left, too, almost straight away - but went further East. Stayed in Budapest for a while. You would love it. I did m- ”
“Don’t,” Nicholas muttered. Duvall’s mouth closed instantly.
From the great doors, Rotheram’s head emerged, peering through for him. “Nicholas,” he coaxed, “you’re missing the dinner - ”
“Coming,” he replied, shortly, and followed him through the doorway.
“A most pleasurable evening,” Rotheram said in a grave tone which quite suggested otherwise. Nicholas said nothing; watched Westminster streets slip by. “The others were rather taken with you,” he continued, but of course they had been - Nicholas had had his sycophant’s face on. “Did you enjoy yourself?”
Nicholas hesitated. In all honesty, not in the slightest, but during his time there he had found himself seduced by what the Order meant; the power, of course, but not because he wanted it, but quite the opposite. Imagine it - just imagine it - all Blackwood’s years of plotting and planning to be undercut by him, the disregarded son of Lord Coward - oh, the satisfaction of such a victory. He could think of nothing but the faces of the people who had thought so very little of him - his father, his friends, even his sister, by the end. To rise - to take them by surprise - to hold their stupid, petty little lives in the palm of his hand and then squeeze -
“Yes.”
Rotheram beamed - a first in Nicholas’ books. “Oh, excellent news. They had a task in mind for a man of your stature - we shall get you Initiated right away. You do of course believe in magic, Lord Coward?”
“Absolutely,” he lied, and smiled.
If he had been alarmed to find Duvall present, it was nothing compared to the terror at discovering the attendance of Lord Blackwood.
He could tell it wasn’t orchestrated quite simply because Blackwood turned tail and fled at the sight of him. Nicholas, God help him, found himself chasing Blackwood into the great entrance hall, shouting out his name until his friend stopped, looked back at him. “I didn’t know you’d be here.” He took a half-step forward. “They told me there was a new man, but I thought it was just Standish.”
Nicholas’ mind flapped frantically, hysterical, incapable of saying anything - was he pleased to see him? Was he well? What had he been doing? “Nicholas.” Duvall came up behind him, one hand resting on his arm. “They’ve retired upstairs; they’re asking after you.” He looked at Blackwood, but spoke to Nicholas. “Are you staying?”
“Yes,” he replied.
Duvall steered him upstairs, one hand resting on the crux of his back; Blackwood followed a pace behind, and Nicholas’ throat was caught with the impossibility of working out what to say.
They found the others already well submerged in their own activities, and their trio stood awkwardly to one side, Nicholas’ eyes on his feet, well aware of the other two staring at him. Duvall stood closest, and Nicholas’ whole body jumped as his hand brushed up his arm, worming its way past cuffs and through creases, up along his shoulders. Fingers hooked around his jacket, threw it to the floor. Nicholas did not move, could not move, was lost in the impossible task of working out what he actually wanted. Duvall was picking open the buttons on his waistcoat with steady familiarity, sliding it off to join his jacket with slightly more reverie, his hands smoothing out across the front and back of Nicholas’ chest, far too cold for Nicholas to appreciate the intimacy.
When Duvall bit into his neck in a manner Nicholas thought most unpleasant, he finally looked up in protest, but it was Blackwood who caught his eye - stood a good three feet away, whole body stiff as stone, hands balled in fists beside him, but in his eyes, there was fury and loathing, yes, but the lust and jealousy and longing there punched the breath from in him.
There was a letter from Blackwood waiting for him at home. He knew the man had retired to Chichester for the New Year, and had been absent for quite a few of the Order’s meetings, now; he idly wondered whether he was asking for Nicholas to catch him up with their latest proceedings, thumbing one corner of the envelope til the paper curled. He searched around for his letter-opener and ripped the top in two, scanning the painfully familiar writing as quickly as he could.
Blackwood was summoning him.
Nicholas snorted, and cast it aside, careful that it landed in the pile of dry ends used to light the fire. He considered Blackwood’s motives as he took the seat behind his desk, looking across the papers Kemp placed neatly for him there - did the man honestly expect him to come running? Was this some ridiculous, elaborate test - and if so, how on Earth was he to know if he passed or failed? He sneered at the idea; as if such a test would hold any importance to him. There were whispers, faint though they were, of a life for Nicholas in politics - thoughts in mind of him being Home Secretary no less, not this Christmas, certainly, but maybe the next, or the one following... the allegiance of Lord Henry Blackwood was no longer of great circumstance to him.
He knew it would be a week or so before it became apparent to Blackwood he had refused to come at his call; after that, he simply lounged at home, waiting for the inexorable knock at the door. Not that he anticipated it with any pleasure, mind; he was relishing the chance to gloat from a position of political power he knew would have Blackwood squirming with jealousy.
A month passed, with nothing - no presence at his door, nor at any Order meeting. At every session, he was forced to bite his tongue for want of asking into his whereabouts, especially as it was a commonly-known rule that their lives outside of that hall were not to be discussed when within it. He stooped, once, to reading the papers for any base information he could gather, but all he found was the sycophantic propaganda all too easily attributed to the Order, now Nicholas knew of their workings. He found himself idly reading on the progress in Egypt, trying to imagine Blackwood the common soldier, arms smeared with others’ blood, always, in his mind, small and terrified in the midst of all the horror around him.
When the last week of March passed with no event, Nicholas found himself beginning to feel scared. He became trapped in his mind, reliving the guilt and terror he had suffered, not so many years ago - different, now, as he was not only less naïve but less responsible, and yet somehow just as potent, just as capable of having him lay awake for torturous hours at night.
On the second day of Lent, Blackwood attended his first Order meeting for four months.
Nicholas experienced tangible relief as he caught sight of him across the cold, smelly hall, the emotions making his body crumple, his shoulders sag, and, to his horror, hot tears push insistently at the back of his eyes. The world seemed to drone away as he realised - he had missed him, more so than he’d known, until he’d set eyes on him again. His whole scheme, his lust for power, seemed pathetic, inconsequential, the feeble scrabblings of a lesser man - it had amounted to nothing without Blackwood, whether standing coolly across an echoing room, or - and Nicholas ached at the thought - standing quietly at his side.
Duvall’s hand tightened on his arm. “Are you alright?”
“Yes,” he replied, feeling far away. The others were retiring upstairs, but Blackwood was turning from the hall, already halfway to the door. Nicholas bit down on the urge to scoff; Blackwood had abandoned him, rejected his friendship with horrific ease, left Nicholas to turn in on himself, become some detestable creature until there was nothing of him left anymore. He gathered his cloak from the floor, and, smiling, took Duvall’s arm as they began to file upstairs.
And yet, something in his mind whispered, he placed himself before you, humble and apologetic - and who was the one to abandon whom, then?
He lasted until Sunday afternoon - unusually bright, considering the time of year - when, sat at his desk, he found himself composing a letter, single strips of paper torn apart and thrown away as he failed to work out what exactly he wanted to say.
I wish to speak with you.
I need to speak with you.
I want to speak with you.
He settled, finally, on the latter, and sent Kemp away with it, refusing to believe his manservant’s insistences that he did not know where to find him. Sure enough, he had returned within the hour, Blackwood’s simple reply for Nicholas to come to him whensoever it pleased him. He wrestled with his conscience, stood in the centre of the room with the strip of paper in hand - and then had Kemp call him a carriage, nearly running out the door, hat and coat in hand.
It felt strange, walking through the Blackwood house’s foyer, the floor cold and hard against his echoing feet. He could only think of all that had happened since the last time he had been there - his father, Emily, Duvall, Blackwood; and all that time, the house had not changed. The world had not stopped for him.
Blackwood stood in the study, the room illuminated with soft, yellow light from the spring sunset. It seemed impossible that he was not waiting for him, and Nicholas entered without a knock.
“Drink?”
Nicholas nodded. “Please.” He watched as Blackwood poured it, took it with quiet thanks, and cradled it to his chest, like a shield. He was aware of Blackwood’s anticipation, pressing down on him like lead - but now that he stood here, he had no idea of what to say. “Where have you been?”
Blackwood shrugged. “Around. Speaking to people. Working. Is this what you wanted - an interrogation?”
“No,” he said quickly. I missed you - but couldn’t form the words; they felt like lumps of wood in his throat.
“I’m glad you called, actually,” he continued, almost as if Nicholas hadn’t spoken. “I had hoped to include you.”
“Include me?”
“I have,” he said, with a facsimile smile, “a plan. To bring about something never before seen in all our nation’s history.” Nicholas watched as his old friend changed before him; the posture altered; the expression shifted; the man became something altogether different. A politician’s stance. “Two centuries ago, a group of men no more noble than those on the street rose up together and seized the throne in the name of democracy, committing the foulest acts which surmounted to no less than blasphemy because the corruption of government had gone too far. They ruled without sovereign for near a decade; they were overthrown; but they were weak where we could be strong. They were fanatic where we could be wise.” Blackwood stared across the room; his gaze was almost hypnotic. “Since that day, the nation has never forgotten the taste of its own liberty - but it chose badly, representing itself in a Parliament that has fallen foul of greed and malice. It can be disposed of, and in its place an institution more noble, more wise and more just can be established - with us to lead it. We could rule the world, Nicholas.”
Nicholas’ first thought was that the man had gone completely mad. People couldn’t just go around ruling the world; it was never as easy as that. No plan was ever foolproof; no nation ever lacked a steadfast hero willing to decapitate a tyrant. Blackwood would have a plan; but it would be flawed, it would be full of grandeur and nobility and wide, sweeping moves which would be blatantly recognisable to anyone with half a brain. He would fail.
And yet...
To gain a foothold in government. To petrify a group of stupid and yet influential men to follow them. To slowly, ever so slowly, amount power, until at last there was nowhere for the country to hide from them...
It could be done.
Nicholas felt a chill worm up his spine. He felt an overwhelming desire for the power he could obtain, the likes of which he had not felt for months - not since Blackwood had disappeared, yet again. He thought of a door slamming shut on a June afternoon, and what freedom could mean if he ruled the world.
They would need an infallible spokesman, the likes of which never seen before; but if there were ever a man to do it...
He shook his head, breaking the reverie. He had come to - well, he wasn’t sure, but it was certainly not to involve himself in some insane plot -
He had come to be with him, a quiet voice mumbled, deep in the recesses of his mind. Because it is him, or nothing at all.
“What do you say, Nicholas?” Blackwood’s voice was soft, but somehow it made his heart ache.
“I missed you,” he spat out, wringing his hands together, eyes roving around the room. “I always miss you.” He passed a hand over his eyes, shook his head. “And what would I be, in this grand scheme of yours? Another lackey? Another sycophant?”
Blackwood looked very small when Nicholas met his eye; very weak. “If you wanted. I’d much rather you were my equal.” Blackwood smiled and looked aside, and for a second the years slid off him, and Nicholas’ friend stood before him once again. “I wager you think I forgot you,” he murmured, seemingly to himself. Nicholas’ heart hopped. “Spent all my time on war and politics, never a second thought...”
“They intend for me to be Home Secretary,” Nicholas blurted out, and felt the fool the second he said it, knew he was just scrabbling for anything to say. Blackwood’s smile, however, merely grew.
“I know, Nick,” he said, as if he was berating a child, and Nicholas certainly felt very small. “I told them to.” They were closer than Nicholas expected, but he couldn’t for the life of him place who moved or when - but Blackwood was near enough to touch, now, to smell, and all Nicholas could think of was all the times he’d longed for this -
When he kissed him, his body simply sang - he could not think of another way to describe it. They slid free from the years that had separated them, full of loathing and betrayal and regret. He fiddled absently with his friend’s lapels, smoothing creases from where his fists had bunched them, moments before. “When you left - ” He felt his friend stiffen, and tightened his grip. “ - no, Harry, we can’t avoid it.”
“I was afraid,” he replied, after a long while.
“You were a damn fool,” Nicholas replied, automatically, his brain still attempting to reconcile the concept of ineffable, indomitable Blackwood feeling base fear. He felt alive, stood in that huge room devoid of anything save for yellow sunset and the two of them, like he hadn’t for too many long years. He looked up at his friend and quietly vowed to himself, smiling, that the man should never feel fear again.
*
March 1890
A quiet clock ticked above London, unbeknownst to anyone save for Nicholas and Blackwood. The week before last, Blackwood had lain unconscious on his bed without pulse or breath, the only vestige of his fear apparent in the loose way his hand had gripped Nicholas’. The drug had worked; Reardon was to be trusted.
Now, they stood under the city, in cavernous sewers that reeked of the city’s life, of sweat and damp and urine - Blackwood’s voice echoed off every wall, nonsense Latin and gibberish woven together to form a spell. The girl bucked and writhed on the plinth, mind addled and long gone with the poppy-seeds forced to her hours ago - at least she would die happy, Nicholas thought idly, shrugging his cloak about him against the damp. He knew there were some who would not be so fortunate.
The blade sliced down - Nicholas smiled - and thus -
- the game’s afoot: follow your spirit, and upon this charge, cry ‘God for Harry, England, and Saint George!’
*
January 1891
They had put him in Blackwood’s cell. The walls were alive with his friend’s hand, crawling and shifting like insects. Nicholas stared at them and thought only of Blackwood’s face, eyes closed in concentration, mouth moving soundlessly as he committed to memory chunks of the texts Nicholas had picked out for him.
They had shown him a picture. Blackwood on his gibbet, high above old London town. Circled in vivid cerise. They had wanted to see him scream, see him squirm; he had stared them in the eyes and smiled.
It haunted him now, though, alone in this desolate place, stamped into his eyelids whenever he tried to rest. He was surrounded by him, and yet his friend had never been further away.
A baton clattered against the railings; “on your feet,” barked the guard. “Visitor.” He did not stand, even as the door was heaved open; there was no one of any consequence able to visit him now.
His mother entered the room.
“Good Christ,” she barked, appraising him coolly, “I can’t even recognise you.” He shot to his feet, staring at her in horror. “Got himself in a right mess,” she sighed to no-one in particular. “Just like his father.” Her voice had changed; it was American, now, slow and harsh, drawling. She dismissed the guard, who looked like he’d rather argue otherwise.
“What are you doing here?” he mumbled. He’d meant to sound imperious, and failed spectacularly.
She peered at him scornfully. “I’m getting you out of this trouble, you stupid boy. Your sister wrote to me when she heard about, what was his name? Blackwood - ”
“Is Emily here?” he interrupted quickly, and she snorted.
“She has better things to do with her time.” As do I, came the unspoken words. “There’s a man very keen not to see you hang, God help him, and I agreed to do the legwork with the courts.”
He stared at her, lost for words. Years had passed - decades - and she comes here at the whim of another man. What on Earth do you say to a woman - a mother - like - her? “I don’t want to escape,” he muttered, embarrassed at how petulant he came across. “I killed; I deserve to hang for it.” He had lain in that wretched cell and longed for the quiet, the finite comfort that death would provide - had seen no other option. Not without Blackwood. But he was human, still; and part of his mind clutched frantically at the idea of his survival.
“And now he has a backbone, eh?” She looked ready to clout him from frustration. He took a seat on his bed again, avoiding her eye. “It’s not up to you any more. There are larger forces in motion. You must be with him, Nicholas - God knows you don’t want to be against him.”
“Who is he?” She ignored him; as she bustled out, Nicholas grabbed her arm, but she freed herself with ease. “What’s his name?”
A man entered. He was dressed in black. Nicholas raised his head, and the smallest of pistols bumped his forehead. What is it to be?
Nicholas smiled.
End Notes:
- John Blackwood had been sick all his life; he dies of pneumonia.
- Blackwood's mother was driven insane by the family's separation. Blackwood puts her in an institution on his return to England.
- Blackwood terrorizes Duvall with 'magic' until he flees the country.