Fic: A Study in Purple (Holmes/Watson, R)
So, there's this thing of beauty (ok, slightly cracky beauty, but beauty nevertheless) called the Sherlock Holmes kink meme. Which anyone so inclined should check out, because there are literally thousands of prompts waiting to be filled.
Anyhow: Someone requested fic based on Neil Gaiman's short story A Study in Emerald, of which I'm a longtime fan, and this piece happened. I don't know if it will find any readers, but I decided I liked it well enough to post here anyway. (With apologies to Mr. Gaiman.)
Title: A Study in Purple
Author: Lady E
Fandom: A Study in Emerald (essentially a Sherlock Holmes/Cthulhu mythos crossover written by Neil Gaiman - the full story can be found here on Gaiman's website)
Pairing: Sherry Vernet / The Limping Doctor (or Holmes/Watson, if you prefer)
Rating: R, to be safe
Warning: Slash.
Word count: 1967
Disclaimer: This is a piece of fan fiction. I did not create and do not own the characters or fictional universe(s) depicted in this story, nor am I making any profit from this.
A/N: Written for sherlockkink. The prompt was 'anything set in the universe of "A Study in Emerald" - desperate makeouts or desperate sex followed by desperate potentially-last stands are always great.'
* * *
The lady on the stage raised her top hat and took her final bow in front of the cheering audience. Her hair was cropped short, and in her gentleman's outfit she looked every last bit a lad, albeit a very pretty one; only her singing voice and the slight swell of her bosom and hips had revealed her as a member of the fairer sex. "Miss Irene Adler", the programme in my hand told me. The applause continued as the curtain fell. I glanced towards Her Majesty's private box, where the lights were dimmed, as they often were in the presence of royalty. I could see her enormous figure in the deep shadows, and somewhere among them, movement: distinctly different from human, slow as underwater currents gently tugging at the limbs of the drowned.
I was shaken from my thoughts when my friend entered the box in which I was seated. His demeanour was calm, but I had become intimately acquainted with his moods over the course of our partnership and could not help but notice a slight crack of concealed agitation in his manner.
"I know where they are," he said. "Walk to the back of the stalls, where you will find a door covered with velvet curtains. This is what they plan to use for escape. Do not touch it: a very slight push will take you to the street, and you will not be able to get back in through this door. Instead, look for a leaf-shaped engraving on the wall to your left and press it gently three times in a row. A panel will open, leading to a secret passageway. Follow it until it takes you to the space under the stage, where rarely used apparatuses are stored. This is their hiding-place. You know what to do."
I felt the weight of my weapon in my pocket and nodded. Yet I could not contain myself, for once again the workings of his mind were a mystery to me.
"How do you know where -?" I asked.
"There is no time to waste," interrupted my friend. His voice was as dry as sun-baked mountains. "You must go at once."
As I made my way out, I was sharply aware of the uniformed human figures in the shadows, sitting in the boxes and lining the stalls, eyes flitting between the stage and the large, darkened box in the middle. Their hands rested ready on their guns, and protecting the Queen of Albion was the sole focus of their minds and hearts. My restlessness eased a little.
An anonymous warning of an assassination attempt at the annual Variety Gala organised in honour of Her Majesty Victoria had been delivered to Baker Street a month earlier. My friend had taken the matter in his own hands, reluctantly informing inspector Lestrade, and exceptional security arrangements had been put into place. He was convinced that certain Restorationists well known to us were behind the plot, and he had spent many a night drawing a cunning plan that would result in the assassins finding themselves trapped.
While the emerald-green curtain rose again and an illusionist began his performance, I followed my friend's instructions.
Just as he had told me, applying pressure to a certain ornamental shape in the wall panel revealed a narrow, hidden passage between the one-way door to the street and the thick curtains covering it. I pushed the panel carefully back into place behind me. After a short walk I found myself in a dimly lit storage space filled with curious instruments, the purpose of which was beyond my imagination. There were large wooden cabinets with metal wires tangled around them; tables on wheels laden with looking-glasses in different shapes and sizes; chairs with leathers straps attached to the hand rests, backs and legs; giant magnifying glasses propped on elegantly shaped brass stands; and many other apparatuses strange and wonderful.
I inhaled the scent of paraffin that wafted in the air, squinting my eyes in the dim glow seeping in from around the corner. I heard faint movement: rustling of clothes, breathing breaking into sighs, and peculiar, wet sounds that I was unable to place immediately. I pulled my pistol from my pocket and moved towards the corner as quietly as I could.
The sight before my eyes only revealed the full extent of its implications to me gradually.
The space opened into a taller room, where a nearly-burnt out oil lamp had been placed on a small table, leaving the room wrapped in shadows. Crimson moonlight fell in thin shafts through the latticework of a round window high above, and the glass must have had a blue tint to it, for the light painted the two figures moving against the wall in faint purple hues.
A man with his back turned to me was resting most of his weight on his right leg. Despite the near-darkness, I thought I recognised him as the Limping Doctor. He was pinning another figure to the wall, and it was only now that my rational mind allowed itself to admit what I must have known instinctively all along: that the sounds were, unmistakably, what most of us would associate with the pleasures of the flesh. Eyes are quick to follow on the trail of what seems the most likely explanation, and for a short while I thought that the Doctor had somehow conspired with Miss Adler, who, after her delightful performance, had rushed to meet him here to steal a quick moment of lovemaking without bothering to change out of her stage costume.
But as the Doctor shifted, I suddenly saw the face of his partner in crime, and my limbs turned into stone.
I had heard of such things, of course. I was aware that they took place in secret gentlemen's clubs and on hidden alleys, perhaps closer to my own living quarters than I knew. But I had never witnessed these queer actions with my own eyes. Even after all this time, I hesitate to describe what I saw, but in the interests of verisimilitude and integrity, I feel I must proceed.
One of the Limping Doctor's hands rested on Sherry Vernet's temple, and the other one was lowered between their bodies. There was a desperate urgency to their movements, a hunger that seemed to reach beyond physical passion - as if they were trying to make their way under each other's skin, meld their very souls into one. The purple light clung to the creases of their dark clothing, turning their joint figures into a writhing, trembling animal or a strange sculpture splashed with unexpected shape and colour, a work of art from some place so deep and blind I had never before been aware of its existence.
The Doctor pressed Vernet harder to the wall, and I heard one of them moan - which one, I could not tell - and Vernet's hand clutched at the fabric of the Doctor's jacket, his long, bone-pale fingers opening and closing like a sea anemone. The Doctor shuddered against him, and then they were quiet and still, with only the sound of their heavy breathing moving in the room.
Vernet's hand stroked slowly down the Doctor's back, dropping to his hipbone. They still seemed entirely focused on each other. But then Vernet's fingers slipped swiftly into his partner's pocket, and before I regained my composure, he was pointing a gun at me.
"You may show yourself now, sir. Or would you perhaps care to join in?"
My arm had fallen to my side. I realised that the old, now almost entirely healed wound in my shoulder was throbbing with tension, and that my hand holding the pistol was shaking. I stepped into the wider space from behind the corner, raising my weapon.
"As much as that would please us, I doubt it is what your detective friend had in mind when he sent you," continued Vernet. "Do not come any closer."
I stopped in my tracks. The words escaped my mouth before I could stop myself, and I cursed my curiosity.
"How did you know I was here?"
"You do not tread in the half-dark quite as silently as you seem to think," said Vernet, "and you have not bothered to change your cologne since our last meeting."
I felt as I sometimes did in the company of my friend: that I should have seen such an obvious explanation without needing to ask.
"You would do wisely to surrender," I told them. "There is no way out for you. The theatre is full of guards."
The Limping Doctor turned. He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his fingers with it. I noticed that his trousers were partially unbuttoned.
"What makes you believe we have not thought of that?" he inquired.
"Our friend here seems to think," said Vernet, now addressing the Doctor but not taking his eyes off me, "that our methods are as straightforward as trying to get to a close proximity of the monster to whom they bow as their monarch and using something as unsophisticated as fire weapons. He may not have realised that there are other ways: poisons that only work on royalty and leave humans unharmed, throwing swift and soundless blades as part of a stage illusion, well-placed explosives -"
"You will still not be able to escape this time," I said. "My friend has seen to that."
Vernet looked at me, and in the twilight I thought I discerned a slight grin.
"That remains to be seen," he said. "And should our little encounter not turn out as planned, should the story have an undesired ending for us - well, let us simply say that some fights are worth dying for, would you not agree?" Vernet observed me with his clear eyes. "You and your friend have pursued us relentlessly for years. You have been tracing our every move, as we have yours, as faithfully as a shadow or a mirror image. If one day you catch us, if one day this pursuit is over - what will become of you? How will you continue to live without that which defines you in the darkness of the mirror, how will you continue to live without your shadow?"
The Limping Doctor, who had finished buttoning his trousers, glanced at his pocket watch and placed his hand on Vernet's arm.
"We must go," he said. "It is time."
"I would advise you to place your weapon slowly on the floor and raise your hands," said Vernet. The Doctor gave a small nod, and their eyes followed as I took his advice. "Now, if you will excuse us."
With my arms raised, I watched as they walked past me and disappeared into the corridor from which I had come. My shoulder had begun to ache. It felt cold, as if an icicle had been driven into my flesh where the old wound had been.
I thought of the soldiers surrounding the theatre, watching every exit, their hands heavy and hot and impatient against the cold metal of their weapons.
I wondered if Vernet and his Doctor had known, if they had believed me when I told them there was no escape this time.
The strange, floating picture of them against the wall haunted my eyes: an animal rattling a cage of purple light - and I knew. Their last stand, their last chance. Their final farewell to each other.
Some fights are worth dying for.
How will you continue to live without your shadow?
I waited.
When the gunshots came, I lowered myself to the floor and closed my eyes, knowing that someone would soon come and tell me it was finally over.
For the first time that evening, I felt true fear.
* * *
(Post Scriptum: Against my habits, I have left this unbetaed, so please feel free to point out any mistakes I may have made so I can fix them.)
Anyhow: Someone requested fic based on Neil Gaiman's short story A Study in Emerald, of which I'm a longtime fan, and this piece happened. I don't know if it will find any readers, but I decided I liked it well enough to post here anyway. (With apologies to Mr. Gaiman.)
Title: A Study in Purple
Author: Lady E
Fandom: A Study in Emerald (essentially a Sherlock Holmes/Cthulhu mythos crossover written by Neil Gaiman - the full story can be found here on Gaiman's website)
Pairing: Sherry Vernet / The Limping Doctor (or Holmes/Watson, if you prefer)
Rating: R, to be safe
Warning: Slash.
Word count: 1967
Disclaimer: This is a piece of fan fiction. I did not create and do not own the characters or fictional universe(s) depicted in this story, nor am I making any profit from this.
A/N: Written for sherlockkink. The prompt was 'anything set in the universe of "A Study in Emerald" - desperate makeouts or desperate sex followed by desperate potentially-last stands are always great.'
* * *
The lady on the stage raised her top hat and took her final bow in front of the cheering audience. Her hair was cropped short, and in her gentleman's outfit she looked every last bit a lad, albeit a very pretty one; only her singing voice and the slight swell of her bosom and hips had revealed her as a member of the fairer sex. "Miss Irene Adler", the programme in my hand told me. The applause continued as the curtain fell. I glanced towards Her Majesty's private box, where the lights were dimmed, as they often were in the presence of royalty. I could see her enormous figure in the deep shadows, and somewhere among them, movement: distinctly different from human, slow as underwater currents gently tugging at the limbs of the drowned.
I was shaken from my thoughts when my friend entered the box in which I was seated. His demeanour was calm, but I had become intimately acquainted with his moods over the course of our partnership and could not help but notice a slight crack of concealed agitation in his manner.
"I know where they are," he said. "Walk to the back of the stalls, where you will find a door covered with velvet curtains. This is what they plan to use for escape. Do not touch it: a very slight push will take you to the street, and you will not be able to get back in through this door. Instead, look for a leaf-shaped engraving on the wall to your left and press it gently three times in a row. A panel will open, leading to a secret passageway. Follow it until it takes you to the space under the stage, where rarely used apparatuses are stored. This is their hiding-place. You know what to do."
I felt the weight of my weapon in my pocket and nodded. Yet I could not contain myself, for once again the workings of his mind were a mystery to me.
"How do you know where -?" I asked.
"There is no time to waste," interrupted my friend. His voice was as dry as sun-baked mountains. "You must go at once."
As I made my way out, I was sharply aware of the uniformed human figures in the shadows, sitting in the boxes and lining the stalls, eyes flitting between the stage and the large, darkened box in the middle. Their hands rested ready on their guns, and protecting the Queen of Albion was the sole focus of their minds and hearts. My restlessness eased a little.
An anonymous warning of an assassination attempt at the annual Variety Gala organised in honour of Her Majesty Victoria had been delivered to Baker Street a month earlier. My friend had taken the matter in his own hands, reluctantly informing inspector Lestrade, and exceptional security arrangements had been put into place. He was convinced that certain Restorationists well known to us were behind the plot, and he had spent many a night drawing a cunning plan that would result in the assassins finding themselves trapped.
While the emerald-green curtain rose again and an illusionist began his performance, I followed my friend's instructions.
Just as he had told me, applying pressure to a certain ornamental shape in the wall panel revealed a narrow, hidden passage between the one-way door to the street and the thick curtains covering it. I pushed the panel carefully back into place behind me. After a short walk I found myself in a dimly lit storage space filled with curious instruments, the purpose of which was beyond my imagination. There were large wooden cabinets with metal wires tangled around them; tables on wheels laden with looking-glasses in different shapes and sizes; chairs with leathers straps attached to the hand rests, backs and legs; giant magnifying glasses propped on elegantly shaped brass stands; and many other apparatuses strange and wonderful.
I inhaled the scent of paraffin that wafted in the air, squinting my eyes in the dim glow seeping in from around the corner. I heard faint movement: rustling of clothes, breathing breaking into sighs, and peculiar, wet sounds that I was unable to place immediately. I pulled my pistol from my pocket and moved towards the corner as quietly as I could.
The sight before my eyes only revealed the full extent of its implications to me gradually.
The space opened into a taller room, where a nearly-burnt out oil lamp had been placed on a small table, leaving the room wrapped in shadows. Crimson moonlight fell in thin shafts through the latticework of a round window high above, and the glass must have had a blue tint to it, for the light painted the two figures moving against the wall in faint purple hues.
A man with his back turned to me was resting most of his weight on his right leg. Despite the near-darkness, I thought I recognised him as the Limping Doctor. He was pinning another figure to the wall, and it was only now that my rational mind allowed itself to admit what I must have known instinctively all along: that the sounds were, unmistakably, what most of us would associate with the pleasures of the flesh. Eyes are quick to follow on the trail of what seems the most likely explanation, and for a short while I thought that the Doctor had somehow conspired with Miss Adler, who, after her delightful performance, had rushed to meet him here to steal a quick moment of lovemaking without bothering to change out of her stage costume.
But as the Doctor shifted, I suddenly saw the face of his partner in crime, and my limbs turned into stone.
I had heard of such things, of course. I was aware that they took place in secret gentlemen's clubs and on hidden alleys, perhaps closer to my own living quarters than I knew. But I had never witnessed these queer actions with my own eyes. Even after all this time, I hesitate to describe what I saw, but in the interests of verisimilitude and integrity, I feel I must proceed.
One of the Limping Doctor's hands rested on Sherry Vernet's temple, and the other one was lowered between their bodies. There was a desperate urgency to their movements, a hunger that seemed to reach beyond physical passion - as if they were trying to make their way under each other's skin, meld their very souls into one. The purple light clung to the creases of their dark clothing, turning their joint figures into a writhing, trembling animal or a strange sculpture splashed with unexpected shape and colour, a work of art from some place so deep and blind I had never before been aware of its existence.
The Doctor pressed Vernet harder to the wall, and I heard one of them moan - which one, I could not tell - and Vernet's hand clutched at the fabric of the Doctor's jacket, his long, bone-pale fingers opening and closing like a sea anemone. The Doctor shuddered against him, and then they were quiet and still, with only the sound of their heavy breathing moving in the room.
Vernet's hand stroked slowly down the Doctor's back, dropping to his hipbone. They still seemed entirely focused on each other. But then Vernet's fingers slipped swiftly into his partner's pocket, and before I regained my composure, he was pointing a gun at me.
"You may show yourself now, sir. Or would you perhaps care to join in?"
My arm had fallen to my side. I realised that the old, now almost entirely healed wound in my shoulder was throbbing with tension, and that my hand holding the pistol was shaking. I stepped into the wider space from behind the corner, raising my weapon.
"As much as that would please us, I doubt it is what your detective friend had in mind when he sent you," continued Vernet. "Do not come any closer."
I stopped in my tracks. The words escaped my mouth before I could stop myself, and I cursed my curiosity.
"How did you know I was here?"
"You do not tread in the half-dark quite as silently as you seem to think," said Vernet, "and you have not bothered to change your cologne since our last meeting."
I felt as I sometimes did in the company of my friend: that I should have seen such an obvious explanation without needing to ask.
"You would do wisely to surrender," I told them. "There is no way out for you. The theatre is full of guards."
The Limping Doctor turned. He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his fingers with it. I noticed that his trousers were partially unbuttoned.
"What makes you believe we have not thought of that?" he inquired.
"Our friend here seems to think," said Vernet, now addressing the Doctor but not taking his eyes off me, "that our methods are as straightforward as trying to get to a close proximity of the monster to whom they bow as their monarch and using something as unsophisticated as fire weapons. He may not have realised that there are other ways: poisons that only work on royalty and leave humans unharmed, throwing swift and soundless blades as part of a stage illusion, well-placed explosives -"
"You will still not be able to escape this time," I said. "My friend has seen to that."
Vernet looked at me, and in the twilight I thought I discerned a slight grin.
"That remains to be seen," he said. "And should our little encounter not turn out as planned, should the story have an undesired ending for us - well, let us simply say that some fights are worth dying for, would you not agree?" Vernet observed me with his clear eyes. "You and your friend have pursued us relentlessly for years. You have been tracing our every move, as we have yours, as faithfully as a shadow or a mirror image. If one day you catch us, if one day this pursuit is over - what will become of you? How will you continue to live without that which defines you in the darkness of the mirror, how will you continue to live without your shadow?"
The Limping Doctor, who had finished buttoning his trousers, glanced at his pocket watch and placed his hand on Vernet's arm.
"We must go," he said. "It is time."
"I would advise you to place your weapon slowly on the floor and raise your hands," said Vernet. The Doctor gave a small nod, and their eyes followed as I took his advice. "Now, if you will excuse us."
With my arms raised, I watched as they walked past me and disappeared into the corridor from which I had come. My shoulder had begun to ache. It felt cold, as if an icicle had been driven into my flesh where the old wound had been.
I thought of the soldiers surrounding the theatre, watching every exit, their hands heavy and hot and impatient against the cold metal of their weapons.
I wondered if Vernet and his Doctor had known, if they had believed me when I told them there was no escape this time.
The strange, floating picture of them against the wall haunted my eyes: an animal rattling a cage of purple light - and I knew. Their last stand, their last chance. Their final farewell to each other.
Some fights are worth dying for.
How will you continue to live without your shadow?
I waited.
When the gunshots came, I lowered myself to the floor and closed my eyes, knowing that someone would soon come and tell me it was finally over.
For the first time that evening, I felt true fear.
* * *
(Post Scriptum: Against my habits, I have left this unbetaed, so please feel free to point out any mistakes I may have made so I can fix them.)