Holmes fic: Greater Purpose 1/[10]
This story is completely written, so parts will be posted as I have time to edit them.
Title: Greater Purpose 1/?
Rating: R overall, PG for this part
Characters: Holmes, Blackwood, Watson
Wordcount: 1,832 this part; 21,703 overall
Summary: Blackwood discovers a way to use Holmes' uniqueness to his own advantage.
A/N: Written for the shkinkmeme prompt: Set in a Blackwood wins senario, Blackwood forces Holmes to carry his child.
I should note that, while I do research, anything in my fics should be taken with a grain of salt as I often tweak things for plot purposes.
This also fills my hc_bingo square for "forced to participate in illegal/hurtful activity".
Lord Henry Blackwood was not a cruel man. When his men managed at last to capture Sherlock Holmes alive and mostly unharmed, he had to carefully consider what he wanted to do with him. That his main adversary should be used as an example to discourage opposition was perfectly clear, but the method remained murky.
When it was discovered that Holmes had certain . . . unusual physical characteristics, Blackwood had his doctors thoroughly examine him to determine the extent of the deformity. Perhaps it could be useful, though the thought of a man having the genital features of both sexes was quite distasteful. And to have been nearly defeated by a part-woman was utterly disgraceful.
He stood unseen in the shadows during one interview as a doctor attempted to find out how much Holmes knew about his own condition. Holmes did not answer or tried to change the subject every time he was asked about it, obviously uncomfortable with this aspect of his anatomy.
The doctors determined that the aberrance appeared to be internal as well, possibly even to the point of the capability of bearing children. They were not certain he could successfully birth a child and suspected he might perish in the attempt, but the physical structures seemed to be present. It was disgusting, the mere thought of a man bearing a child, and yet . . .
This abnormality could provide the perfect opportunity to deal with Holmes.
And it could begin with the very ceremony that had led to Blackwood's own conception.
Sherlock Holmes had to admit he had been unprepared for what greeted him when captured by Blackwood: nothing.
Aside from the injuries he'd acquired in the struggle to escape the clutches of the thugs that abducted him, he was unharmed. He was kept in a solitary cell in a neglected corner of Pentonville Prison, with a bit of food and water brought twice daily. Other than the silent jailers (one was deaf in his right ear, the other was a mute), the only people he had seen were doctors who were impolitely interested in the state of his being beneath his clothing.
On one occasion the doctors deemed it necessary to invade his cell and impose upon his person. He broke one's nose and blackened the other's eye. The next attempt was preceded by drugged food--which, of course, he had not eaten--and an encounter much like the first. The third time they finally caught on and had his jailers restrain him while they injected him with something to keep him cooperative. He was naked when he woke again, but fortunately his clothing was still at hand.
He had been in captivity for five days when his jailers handcuffed him and led him along the empty corridor, a dark hood over his head so he could not see where he was being led. Holmes tried to resist and earned a blow to the head for his trouble. He was unhooded as he was brought out to the yard of the prison, a small knot of unsavory characters awaiting his arrival. They scattered into a circle around him as his guards unlocked the handcuffs and stepped away, and Blackwood himself strode forward from their midst.
"I thought it was time to demonstrate that you have not been forgotten," Blackwood said haughtily, brushing past him and knocking against his shoulder. "You may attempt to defend yourself. This is the last occasion in which you will have that opportunity."
Adrenaline surged through his veins even as part of his brain processed the implication of Blackwood's statement. Then the first punches were thrown and his attention was wholly focused on staying awake and alive for as long as possible.
Doctor Watson was startled out of a doze by his cell door clanging open. Before he could even think about moving, a pair of the goons Blackwood kept as guards deposited an unmoving body on the opposite bunk and hastily departed, tossing a bag inside the door before it shut again. "You will keep him well, if you value his life or yours," Blackwood's voice decreed.
Watson sat up then, and glared at the robed figure in the corridor. "Which means what, exactly?"
"I have generously provided a few supplies you may find necessary to see to his wounds. There is nothing either of you can use as a weapon, of course, but it should help. You, Doctor, will either ensure his health and wellbeing, or I will remove him from your presence and see that you are on hand to witness his humiliation. What happens after will depend upon how long it takes to break the mind of the great Sherlock Holmes." He smirked, then swept away.
Watson dared not believe it until he was bending over the still figure and breathlessly drinking in the sight of those familiar features. "Holmes," he murmured, touching a reddened cheek, then feeling for his pulse, which was steady and strong enough that Watson could be confident Holmes wasn't about to expire.
Watson turned his attention to the bag Blackwood had left behind, opening it and examining the contents in the light cast by the torch outside the door. Bandages and linen strips, a few small bottles of antiseptic, a couple jars of various salves, some powdered medications in packets, and, mysteriously, a stethoscope was the extent of the supplies, but it was more than enough to be welcome.
He wondered about the stethoscope--it could, in theory, be used for strangulation--even as he returned to Holmes' side and used it to listen to Holmes' heart rate and respiration after setting the bag down on the floor beside his feet. He was satisfied with what he heard, and exchanged the stethoscope for a jar of arnica salve that he slipped into his trouser pocket. He felt along Holmes' back and his exposed side for any breaks or bumps; finding none, he eased Holmes onto his back and felt along his other side.
Moving on to run his fingers over Holmes' scalp, he found a lump near the left temple that would explain Holmes' continued unconsciousness. He pried open both of Holmes' eyelids, though there wasn't sufficient light to properly gauge anything, then assessed the fine bones of his face. Perhaps a fractured cheekbone, but that, the lump, and abrasions on his face and hands were all he suffered. Well, and what would no doubt be numerous bruises elsewhere on his body, but those were not yet be visible.
Watson daubed the arnica on the abrasions, maintaining the monologue of his actions that he'd kept up during his evaluation of Holmes' injuries, and watched for any sign that Holmes might be waking. Holmes could feign sleep well enough to fool almost anyone--a useful skill, when one was in captivity and might be able to overhear something of use--but Watson had discovered there were one or two tells that indicated Holmes was actually awake.
That slight twitching of the eyes was one of them. "Holmes, I know you're awake," Watson said, dropping Holmes' hand onto the bed rather ungently and screwing the lid back on the jar of salve.
Holmes' lips quirked into something like a smile as he opened his eyes. "Watson," he said hoarsely, then cleared his throat before continuing, "I hope our host hasn't treated you too poorly."
Watson chuckled as he bent to replace everything in the bag. "Oh, no, of course not. They have been quite courteous, save during the interrogations. Coward was convinced I knew where you were, and somehow thought it could be beaten out of me."
Holmes' gaze searched his face. "We'll have matching eyes, once mine finishes swelling," he commented wryly, levering himself up until he was sitting on the edge of the bunk. "It is regrettable that you had nothing of use to tell them."
"Yes, quite," Watson agreed, and sat on the bunk next to him. "The only hiding place I knew was the one already known to the police."
"And a hiding place no more; the building burned to the ground three weeks ago." Holmes examined his hands as he spoke.
Watson's throat was dry, but he had to ask. "And Mary?" he murmured.
"Fled to the Continent. Brother Mycroft arranged a journey in the guise of an educational trip for her charge, his parents, her, and her parents. They escaped two days before the ports were closed to travellers."
Watson released the breath he had been holding, his relief beyond description. "Thank you. What has become of your brother?"
Holmes scoffed as he carefully stood and took a few cautious steps. "He remains, as ever, faithful to his post in Whitehall, convinced he can wreak havoc from within the government and evade detection. So far he is correct," he admitted grudgingly. "He misled Coward's forces on several occasions, passing them intelligence about my whereabouts only when he knew I had fled those locations, or subtly changing the information so as to lead them astray." Left unspoken was the insinuation that the police forces had always been easily led astray.
Watson preferred to remain on topic. "Then why are you here?"
"We had agreed he could not delay or misconstrue every piece of information concerning my whereabouts, or he would be easily discovered once someone became aware of the ruse. Evidently the address of my last bolt-hole was one piece he did not delay . . . and even I must sleep sometimes."
Holmes paced as he said this, and Watson watched him for a lack of anything else to do. "Now what? Do you have any idea what Blackwood intends for you?"
"Not a clue," Holmes confessed. "But it is likely to be unpleasant."
Holmes and Watson were left to wait and wonder for ten days, the only disruption of their solitude the twice-daily deposit of food and water (accompanied once a day by an exchange of the pail provided for their other needs). The first day passed pleasantly enough as they exchanged tales of what had passed in the weeks since they were separated.
After three days, Holmes was bored to the point of restlessness, and endlessly paced the cell while Watson watched from his bunk and unsuccessfully attempted to draw him into conversation. After the pacing came several days of near motionlessness on his bunk, staring either at the ceiling or the wall. Watson periodically goaded him into eating and drinking but otherwise let him be.
On the morning of the tenth day, instead of breakfast, Blackwood appeared along with a handful of his men. The men stormed the cell and took hold of Holmes, quickly restraining him and carrying him off, slamming the cell door behind them. Blackwood lingered for a moment, smirking. "I fear I must deprive you of your companion for a time, Doctor. He shall be returned after he has served his purpose."
Watson was left to ponder that purpose and what Holmes' condition would be when he returned.
Continued here
Title: Greater Purpose 1/?
Rating: R overall, PG for this part
Characters: Holmes, Blackwood, Watson
Wordcount: 1,832 this part; 21,703 overall
Summary: Blackwood discovers a way to use Holmes' uniqueness to his own advantage.
A/N: Written for the shkinkmeme prompt: Set in a Blackwood wins senario, Blackwood forces Holmes to carry his child.
I should note that, while I do research, anything in my fics should be taken with a grain of salt as I often tweak things for plot purposes.
This also fills my hc_bingo square for "forced to participate in illegal/hurtful activity".
Lord Henry Blackwood was not a cruel man. When his men managed at last to capture Sherlock Holmes alive and mostly unharmed, he had to carefully consider what he wanted to do with him. That his main adversary should be used as an example to discourage opposition was perfectly clear, but the method remained murky.
When it was discovered that Holmes had certain . . . unusual physical characteristics, Blackwood had his doctors thoroughly examine him to determine the extent of the deformity. Perhaps it could be useful, though the thought of a man having the genital features of both sexes was quite distasteful. And to have been nearly defeated by a part-woman was utterly disgraceful.
He stood unseen in the shadows during one interview as a doctor attempted to find out how much Holmes knew about his own condition. Holmes did not answer or tried to change the subject every time he was asked about it, obviously uncomfortable with this aspect of his anatomy.
The doctors determined that the aberrance appeared to be internal as well, possibly even to the point of the capability of bearing children. They were not certain he could successfully birth a child and suspected he might perish in the attempt, but the physical structures seemed to be present. It was disgusting, the mere thought of a man bearing a child, and yet . . .
This abnormality could provide the perfect opportunity to deal with Holmes.
And it could begin with the very ceremony that had led to Blackwood's own conception.
Sherlock Holmes had to admit he had been unprepared for what greeted him when captured by Blackwood: nothing.
Aside from the injuries he'd acquired in the struggle to escape the clutches of the thugs that abducted him, he was unharmed. He was kept in a solitary cell in a neglected corner of Pentonville Prison, with a bit of food and water brought twice daily. Other than the silent jailers (one was deaf in his right ear, the other was a mute), the only people he had seen were doctors who were impolitely interested in the state of his being beneath his clothing.
On one occasion the doctors deemed it necessary to invade his cell and impose upon his person. He broke one's nose and blackened the other's eye. The next attempt was preceded by drugged food--which, of course, he had not eaten--and an encounter much like the first. The third time they finally caught on and had his jailers restrain him while they injected him with something to keep him cooperative. He was naked when he woke again, but fortunately his clothing was still at hand.
He had been in captivity for five days when his jailers handcuffed him and led him along the empty corridor, a dark hood over his head so he could not see where he was being led. Holmes tried to resist and earned a blow to the head for his trouble. He was unhooded as he was brought out to the yard of the prison, a small knot of unsavory characters awaiting his arrival. They scattered into a circle around him as his guards unlocked the handcuffs and stepped away, and Blackwood himself strode forward from their midst.
"I thought it was time to demonstrate that you have not been forgotten," Blackwood said haughtily, brushing past him and knocking against his shoulder. "You may attempt to defend yourself. This is the last occasion in which you will have that opportunity."
Adrenaline surged through his veins even as part of his brain processed the implication of Blackwood's statement. Then the first punches were thrown and his attention was wholly focused on staying awake and alive for as long as possible.
Doctor Watson was startled out of a doze by his cell door clanging open. Before he could even think about moving, a pair of the goons Blackwood kept as guards deposited an unmoving body on the opposite bunk and hastily departed, tossing a bag inside the door before it shut again. "You will keep him well, if you value his life or yours," Blackwood's voice decreed.
Watson sat up then, and glared at the robed figure in the corridor. "Which means what, exactly?"
"I have generously provided a few supplies you may find necessary to see to his wounds. There is nothing either of you can use as a weapon, of course, but it should help. You, Doctor, will either ensure his health and wellbeing, or I will remove him from your presence and see that you are on hand to witness his humiliation. What happens after will depend upon how long it takes to break the mind of the great Sherlock Holmes." He smirked, then swept away.
Watson dared not believe it until he was bending over the still figure and breathlessly drinking in the sight of those familiar features. "Holmes," he murmured, touching a reddened cheek, then feeling for his pulse, which was steady and strong enough that Watson could be confident Holmes wasn't about to expire.
Watson turned his attention to the bag Blackwood had left behind, opening it and examining the contents in the light cast by the torch outside the door. Bandages and linen strips, a few small bottles of antiseptic, a couple jars of various salves, some powdered medications in packets, and, mysteriously, a stethoscope was the extent of the supplies, but it was more than enough to be welcome.
He wondered about the stethoscope--it could, in theory, be used for strangulation--even as he returned to Holmes' side and used it to listen to Holmes' heart rate and respiration after setting the bag down on the floor beside his feet. He was satisfied with what he heard, and exchanged the stethoscope for a jar of arnica salve that he slipped into his trouser pocket. He felt along Holmes' back and his exposed side for any breaks or bumps; finding none, he eased Holmes onto his back and felt along his other side.
Moving on to run his fingers over Holmes' scalp, he found a lump near the left temple that would explain Holmes' continued unconsciousness. He pried open both of Holmes' eyelids, though there wasn't sufficient light to properly gauge anything, then assessed the fine bones of his face. Perhaps a fractured cheekbone, but that, the lump, and abrasions on his face and hands were all he suffered. Well, and what would no doubt be numerous bruises elsewhere on his body, but those were not yet be visible.
Watson daubed the arnica on the abrasions, maintaining the monologue of his actions that he'd kept up during his evaluation of Holmes' injuries, and watched for any sign that Holmes might be waking. Holmes could feign sleep well enough to fool almost anyone--a useful skill, when one was in captivity and might be able to overhear something of use--but Watson had discovered there were one or two tells that indicated Holmes was actually awake.
That slight twitching of the eyes was one of them. "Holmes, I know you're awake," Watson said, dropping Holmes' hand onto the bed rather ungently and screwing the lid back on the jar of salve.
Holmes' lips quirked into something like a smile as he opened his eyes. "Watson," he said hoarsely, then cleared his throat before continuing, "I hope our host hasn't treated you too poorly."
Watson chuckled as he bent to replace everything in the bag. "Oh, no, of course not. They have been quite courteous, save during the interrogations. Coward was convinced I knew where you were, and somehow thought it could be beaten out of me."
Holmes' gaze searched his face. "We'll have matching eyes, once mine finishes swelling," he commented wryly, levering himself up until he was sitting on the edge of the bunk. "It is regrettable that you had nothing of use to tell them."
"Yes, quite," Watson agreed, and sat on the bunk next to him. "The only hiding place I knew was the one already known to the police."
"And a hiding place no more; the building burned to the ground three weeks ago." Holmes examined his hands as he spoke.
Watson's throat was dry, but he had to ask. "And Mary?" he murmured.
"Fled to the Continent. Brother Mycroft arranged a journey in the guise of an educational trip for her charge, his parents, her, and her parents. They escaped two days before the ports were closed to travellers."
Watson released the breath he had been holding, his relief beyond description. "Thank you. What has become of your brother?"
Holmes scoffed as he carefully stood and took a few cautious steps. "He remains, as ever, faithful to his post in Whitehall, convinced he can wreak havoc from within the government and evade detection. So far he is correct," he admitted grudgingly. "He misled Coward's forces on several occasions, passing them intelligence about my whereabouts only when he knew I had fled those locations, or subtly changing the information so as to lead them astray." Left unspoken was the insinuation that the police forces had always been easily led astray.
Watson preferred to remain on topic. "Then why are you here?"
"We had agreed he could not delay or misconstrue every piece of information concerning my whereabouts, or he would be easily discovered once someone became aware of the ruse. Evidently the address of my last bolt-hole was one piece he did not delay . . . and even I must sleep sometimes."
Holmes paced as he said this, and Watson watched him for a lack of anything else to do. "Now what? Do you have any idea what Blackwood intends for you?"
"Not a clue," Holmes confessed. "But it is likely to be unpleasant."
Holmes and Watson were left to wait and wonder for ten days, the only disruption of their solitude the twice-daily deposit of food and water (accompanied once a day by an exchange of the pail provided for their other needs). The first day passed pleasantly enough as they exchanged tales of what had passed in the weeks since they were separated.
After three days, Holmes was bored to the point of restlessness, and endlessly paced the cell while Watson watched from his bunk and unsuccessfully attempted to draw him into conversation. After the pacing came several days of near motionlessness on his bunk, staring either at the ceiling or the wall. Watson periodically goaded him into eating and drinking but otherwise let him be.
On the morning of the tenth day, instead of breakfast, Blackwood appeared along with a handful of his men. The men stormed the cell and took hold of Holmes, quickly restraining him and carrying him off, slamming the cell door behind them. Blackwood lingered for a moment, smirking. "I fear I must deprive you of your companion for a time, Doctor. He shall be returned after he has served his purpose."
Watson was left to ponder that purpose and what Holmes' condition would be when he returned.
Continued here