[Fanfiction] The Conductor of Light [AU: Saving Grace-verse; Arthur x Alfred], part 1
Title: The Conductor of Light [AU: Saving Grace-verse]
Disclaimer: Er, I don’t own Hetalia.
Pairing: Arthur × Alfred; hints of Francis × Matthew and Arthur + Matthew
Rating: PG-13, perhaps a bit of fluff. IDK.
Author’s notes: A two-part side-story for the multipart fic The Saving Grace of Antiquity written for the usxuk ficathon. Sherlock Holmes AU. Arthur Kirkland is the world’s foremost independent consulting detective. Matthew Williams is his trusty companion, assistant and chronicler, and Alfred F. Jones is the tenacious and enthusiastic detective sergeant of the Yard.
Warning: Lots of spoilers for the Sherlock Holmes’ stories. Also, this fic is possibly so fucking hurt/comfort cliché and fluff fail it burns. orz
Part I
It is not often said out loud, especially in the company of strangers, but it is a universally acknowledged truth between the twins that Arthur Kirkland, the brilliant and Bohemian independent consulting detective, is a cruel, arrogant, and inconsiderate man, prone to fits of anger and mocking remarks and sarcasm, rarely if never bending to anyone’s will except his own (and tea, Alfred would sometimes bitterly add, when he was particularly eloquent and frustrated with their former guardian, he would cheerfully bend his obdurate ass for tea).
“Damn you, Arthur,” Alfred grits out. He tears the linen tablecloth into strips ferociously, the thin fabric no match to his strength and fury, giving away easily as if they were mere paper. “I told you to wait. For three minutes. Why could you not listen to me? Why must you be a stubborn” - the ripping sounds echoes rather loudly in the room - rip, rip, riiip - “impatient,” - Alfred pauses, and Matthew could hear him take a deep breath and swallow hard before continuing, punctuating his last word with another tear - “bastard?”
Beside him, Matthew is silent, teeth biting deep into his lower lip as he concentrates all his powers and knowledge in staunching his former - and now unconscious - guardian’s still-bleeding wound, pressing the soaked and bloodied handkerchief with firm and constant pressure against the jagged gash with one hand while trying to wrap the strips of cloth Alfred had made to hold together the makeshift dressing in place.
He ignores the heavy thudding of his heart against his chest, ignores how cold and sweaty his hands have gotten. It is only a graze, Matthew tells himself, a graze, only a graze, though a rather long, deep one that would likely need stitches - where is the damn doctor? Alfred had one of the constables call one hours ago - but not-not fatal, despite the copious amount of blood; head wounds merely have an inclination to have a somewhat melodramatic nature, a nasty fondness of appearing much worse than it truly is.
It takes him barely more than a minute to wrap the strips around Arthur’s head, and as soon he is finished he checks for Arthur’s pulse again, fingers over the carotid artery and sighs with relief to find it strong, not thready as he had feared, though weaker than it usually is.
Now if Arthur would do them the very great kindness of waking up, everything will be all right, and Matthew’s heart would stop pounding so loudly against his chest. But Arthur’s eyes remain closed; his head is still slumped against the cushioned back of the settee, his slightly parted lips as pale and bloodless as his face.
“Why isn’t he waking up?” Matthew turns to Alfred at his question, and breathes sharply at how pale Alfred’s face is, his blue eyes wide, pupils dilated, as if he was gazing into profound darkness. His hands are clenched in fists, knuckles white. “Is he concussed or is he-”
Matthew touches his brother’s sleeve, interrupting him, and shakes his head. “I don’t think he’s had a concussion, but I’m not quite certain. It’s possibly the loss of so much blood that made him unconscious, but don’t worry-” he hastily adds when Alfred’s eyes go impossibly wider, “the bleeding seems to be stopping. All we need is the doctor to sew him up and he’ll-he’ll be fine.”
Alfred draws a shaky breath and nods. He turns back to Arthur and slowly, and very gently, as if he was touching the most fragile of china, brushes his trembling fingers against the detective’s hair. His expression stills as his fingers reach the blood-matted locks near the dressing. “I told you to wait for me.”
“I’m sorry, I should have-” Matthew starts to say quietly, but stops when the door bangs open. Alfred grabs his shoulder and shoves him behind, revolver out and aimed at the door. He lowers it when he sees it was only the constable Alfred had sent out to fetch doctor, and beside him was a middle-sized, strongly built man with blonde hair and tanned skin. In his one hand he carried a Gladstone, and ‘round his neck was a stethoscope. His eyes, like the constable, went wide at the sight of the revolver pointed at them. For a moment, Matthew thought he would flee (even though Alfred had lowered his revolver), but the doctor just scowled and headed straight for them, a grim expression on his face. After politely telling them to get out of his way, he then proceeded to examine Arthur.
Alfred stood beside Matthew, hand still gripping his shoulder. Matthew briefly touched his brother’s hand before turning back to the doctor, who was now about to remove Arthur’s dressing.
Well, Matthew couldn’t help but think bitterly, this was certainly an unexpected end to this case.
----
In hindsight, the whole affair probably was, in Arthur’s point of view, an otherwise unremarkable case, though there were certain points of interest that had intrigued Arthur enough to take it in the beginning. The tale of a missing priceless Egyptian artefact with an ancient curse and its the dead owner, killed with a weapon that left strange bruises on the body, the curious arid sand and tattered rags scattered in the room, the breakneck chase in the back alleys and streets of London, all led to the rather commonplace crime of attempted burglary and murder precipitated by the also commonplace sins of greed and lust.
It was the secretary who did it, Robert Blackwood. Him and the sweet, innocent-looking daughter of the house, the lovely Lady Alice Greymail, who had fainted dead away when Arthur produced the peculiarly shaped aluminium crutch that was her father’s Arthur had recovered from only God knows where, the one she had used to bludgeon him to his death and left those strange bruises.
When she recovered, Lady Alice threw herself at Arthur’s feet and begged him to have mercy for her lover. “He did it for me, Mr. Kirkland,” she declared pathetically, tears in her pleading doe-brown eyes. “He loved me so, but Papa would not have it, would not give in. He banished my sweet Rob, forbade me from meeting him again. I could not bear it, and neither could he. Rob tried to reason with him, but Papa became so enraged and tried to reach for his pistol. I could not let him hurt my Rob so I hit him.”
You and your lover hit him more than a dozen times, Matthew wanted to say, but she looked so pitiful then, that both him and Arthur did not have the heart to tell her the truth: her lover was a scheming, thelyphthoric drunken gamester up to his neck in debt, and had seduced her for a wager and her inheritance, that she had been cruelly used and deceived.
Alfred, however, was in a less tactful frame of mind.
It took two constables to keep the screeching woman from scratching his eyes out.
Near the end of it all, frustrated and disappointed that his talents and time had been wasted by so dull and trifling a matter, Arthur spent most of the time in no very sweet temper, and Matthew considers it a small miracle he had not yet exploded into one his cutting verbal tirades (but perhaps he should not be so astonished, as Arthur did care much for gentlemanly behaviour, at least in public). He did make some sarcastic remarks towards Alfred, who had brought the case to them in the first place, but Alfred, as usual, ignored them.
Matthew inwardly winces at the thought of the imminent explosion that would happen once they were in the privacy of their flat in Baker Street (he’d better remind his twin to not antagonize Arthur further today, or else), but that would be a much preferable outcome than Arthur locking himself in his rooms and sulking - with a bottle of whiskey, or worse, black rum.
Still, despite his irritation, Arthur agreed to come with Alfred for the arrest of Mr. Robert Blackwood. The affair would have been fairly routine; however, they could not find the dammed man in his house. The neighbours and the constable assigned to discreetly watch the house all swore that Blackwood did not leave in his home all day.
“Then where the hell is he? He couldn’t have flown away like a damn goose,” Alfred had muttered under his breath. Behind him, Arthur was smirking, and would have made another insulting remark had not Alfred turned and glared at him. “Not a word from you.”
Arthur raised one brow, his smirk widening. “As you wish,” he said. He then proceeded to make himself comfortable on one of the chairs in the study. “Perhaps he could be hiding in a concealed space in the attic. Mattie and I will just sit here and let you do your job. I certainly wouldn’t want to get in the way of your arrest.”
Alfred’s eyes narrowed, as if suspicious, but Arthur merely stared back at him. Matthew thought they’d try to outstare each other again, but Alfred looked away first. He shrugged. “Fine. Just stay here. And wait for me. I’ll be back in three minutes.” With a final, warning glance at Arthur and a nod to Matthew, he was out of the room.
The moment Alfred’s footsteps faded into a faint echo, like a tightly wound coil, Arthur sprung up, startling Matthew, and began prowling about the room. He put a finger on his lips and whispered to Matthew, “Search for anything odd! There is something strange about this room, it’s too-”
As soon as those words left his mouth, one of the walls slid open to reveal a gaping, square hole. And a heartbeat later, Blackwell emerged, bold as you please, handsome face and everything else of him covered in white dust. He stood up, looked around, and then froze when he saw Matthew and Arthur.
It was almost amusing, really: the way Blackwell’s eyes went wide as tea cups, the way Arthur and Matthew had also frozen from surprise, mouths open. The whole situation seemed like something out of a Shakespearean comedy.
That is, until the bastard pulled out his pistol from his pocket, and shot at them.
TBC
Notes:
I tried to be as medically accurate as possible in the treatment of Arthur's wound, I think I still fail. orz
Title is from a quote from The Hound of the Baskervilles. “It may be that you are not yourself luminous, but you are a conductor of light.” Holmes here is referring to Watson, of course.
This should have been part of the first chapter, but I removed it because I didn’t think it fitted in. This takes place before the events in Saving Grace and has in fact no basis in Sherlockian canon. Well, maybe it does have similarities with one part, which is possibly known as the SLASHIEST scene ever in SH canon. In The Three Garridebs, Watson is shot in the thigh by ‘Killer’ Evans. The usually stoic Holmes pistol-whips Evans, then rushes to Watson’s side and cries out: “You’re not hurt, Watson? For God’s sake, say that you are not hurt!” When he’s assured Watson is okay, he tells Evans, “By the Lord, it is as well for you. If you had killed Watson, you would not have got out of this room alive.”
Matthew here is but a medical student, so he isn’t that quite knowledgeable yet as Watson in treating wound, especially gunshot ones.