Purgatory in D-Minor 4/?
It has come to my attention that this fic is growing at an alarming rate. It's gone from probably 6 parts to at least 8, maybe more. Everytime I think I might be able to end the thing, I realize there's something more that needs telling. As such I think it may have outgrown the kink meme, and I may look to post it in one of the comms.
It will of course remain dedicated to the faulous suxing , who posted the original prompt.
Now on to chapter 4:
He lies in a trance for two or three days, as long as the drugs last. When he wakes he’s lying on top ofthe covers, bathed and dressed, the wound on his shoulder tended too and well on it’s way to healing. The pain however still skirts the edge of his consciousness. As long as he doesn’t look directly at it, it is content to lie in wait. Like a beast stalking it’s prey. He knows he will have to deal with his new reality soon. But for the last few hours he’s been floating in that waiting space that must occupy the mind of condemned prisoners. Ironic since he once held his esteemed host in exactly this same position. Except, he remembers, Henry had a plan of escape. So it really wasn’t the same thing at all.
Shortly after he emerged into wakefulness, Coward had been in to see him. The man had skulked around, weasel face twisted with hatred, long enough to deliver a message. Lord Blackwood would be free tonight, and would be joining him to ‘keep company’. The old code for conjugal visitation. The idea of entertaining Henry now that he’s got nothing left to protect by it seems strange. But he’s been here for so long, he’s at a loss for a different course of action.
Whoever dressed him has turned him out to look respectable. His collar is buttoned too tight, and there is even a pocket watch attached to his waistcoat. He unbuttons the collar and turns up the sleeves, trying to avoid the temptation to check the time. When he gives in and looks down to grab the pocket watch, it takes him a moment to realize what he’s seeing. The waistcoat is one of the ones he brought with him from Baker Street. It is not his.
The blue-grey fabric, shot through with silver, was one of his friends most prized articled of clothing. He remembers that when Watson wore it, it brought out the highlights in his eyes and the gold in his hair. He always paired it with the black Indian silk jacket to go to the theatre. Young women everywhere would fair swoon when he smiled at them, dapper in his finery, eyes crinkling warmly at the corners.
He can almost conjure the man up with his thoughts, as he has so many times over the last few days. Fingers lightly stroking the material, he imagines that at any moment he will come walking in as he used to in the early days of his imprisonment, to berate him for lounging about for so long. Perhaps bring him some small puzzle in logic to occupy his mind. He can almost hear the steps on the sitting room carpet, the soft creek of the door.
“I believe that’s my waistcoat you’re wearing.” His eyes fly open. The drugs must be having more of an effect on his psyche than he thought, because the figure in the doorway is so real as to almost cast a shadow. There is the ghost of a smile on his face, and he appears to be dressed as a spy. Black from head to toe, boots, trousers, shirt, waistcoat, long coat, gloves. The only thing separating him from espionage is a top hat with a brim wide enough to shield his eyes. The thought causes a half hysterical laugh to bubble out into the silence.
“You look ridiculous.” He says, amused. Then he remembers he’s talking to a dead man, and closes his eyes against the stab of despair. “You’re not real. Go away.”
Instead the footsteps draw closer, and there is pressure, as if someone had sat on the bed beside him. Fingers smooth gently over his brow, rest delicately on he bandages peeking from under his collar. A hand, warm and solid, presses just over his heart. He wonders when this new torment will end, when he will wake to find the room empty and cold as always.
“Sherlock Holmes, look at me please.” The familiar murmur is accompanied by lips brushing his forehead, and the smell of pipe smoke and antiseptic. He does. The beloved face swims in front of his eyes, going blurry from tears of disbelief.
“John?” The answering smile doesn’t entirely eclipse the new shadows in his friends eyes, but it is real. Solid, present, warm, breathing. He realizes he’s running his hands along Watson’s arms, gripping at shoulders and fingers overly tight. He stills, but cannot stop trembling. “How? I don’t understand. Everyone told me you were dead.”
Watson grimaces briefly. “Forgive me, my friend. That fault lies with me. I needed to disappear. I thought it would be safer if you did not know about it, nor Mary nor Irene. I’m afraid I’ve been rather cruel to all of you.”
The other man looks as if he’s expecting anger, but he can’t feel anything yet except overwhelming shock. He sits up gripping, Watson's sleeve tightly.“Disappear? But...why?”
"My intent was to join the resistance. Make a stand against what Blackwood is doing to the Empire. I couldn't just sit back and do nothing, even if it meant risking my life."
The tone in his voice bears a bit of reproval, and it hurts. After all he gave up his liberty to keep the rest of them alive. "Why would you do something like that? You could have been killed at any time. If Henry found you...I just don't see why it was necessary. You were safe from scrutiny. We were all safe."
"You weren't safe. Not here, not like this. Alive maybe, but not safe." Once again those fresh shadows flit across his friends face, there is a roughness to his voice. "Anyhow, I didn't come here to fight with you. I came to take you away with me."
A sudden cold fear drops into his heart, even as it sings at the temptation of freedom. "I can't."
"What reason is there for you to stay?"
"The same as always. To buy your safety."
"You don't need to do that anymore. I have contacts that can keep us safe." Watson is frustrated, he fairly bristles with it.
"What about Irene and Mary? Mrs. Hudson? They're at risk too."
"Not anymore. I've arranged everything. Passage for all of us on a merchant vessel heading for one of the tropic colonies, then from there to America. We can get ourselves out of his reach, the decide how best to go about fixing this whole bloody mess. But we have to leave within the week, and I'm not certain I'll be able to get back here for you." The words are measured, logical, but the tone borders on desperate.
"All the more reason for me to stay, my dear friend. If I'm here, He'll be far more likely not to search you out. You can escape unnoticed. I'll be fine. I knew what I was getting into when I made this arrangement. And Henry's kept his end up, there's no reason to think he won't continue." He has to find a way to make Watson see. They have to leave without him. He can keep Henry's attention here, and they'll get away from all of this. Then he won't have to worry about any of them. He'll be able to rest, to slip out of Henry's grip, knowing they won't be punished for it. There is no other way. He stands, gesturing for Watson to follow him. "You have to go. He'll be here soon. He can't catch you here with me."
"I'm not leaving here without you, Holmes." The man is so damnably obstinate. They are both stubborn, but he is less so since coming to this place, and he can feel his resolve weakening. As if on cue, there are voices in the hallway, making their way towards the door of his rooms.
"Go now! If you go out the window you can probably make it down to the street."
"No."
He groans in frustration. They are running out of time. His eye falls on the wardrobe to the left of his bed. He pulls the doctor over to it. "In here then. You can hide until he leaves."
Still Watson balks. "Will you come with me, when he's gone?"
"Now is hardly the time."
"Promise me, Holmes. Or I'll stay and take my chances with the guards."
"Fine, yes! I'll go, just hide, please!"
In answer Watson pulls him close, and kisses him. It is a rather chaste kiss, but he is struck suddenly by the devotion behind it. The doctor pulls away, and ducks into the wardrobe just as The door to the sitting room opens. He can hear Henry talking to Coward, who is trying to hold on to just a few more moments of his master's time. No doubt he is using some court business to mask his jealousy. But the monarch dismisses him curtly, and Holmes has just enough time to get back to the bed and compose himself, before Henry enters the bedroom.