Fic: Of Statues and Chalk
Title: Of Statues and Chalk
Author: secret_smile19
For: inamac
Rating: R
Summary: Did the world really think their plan had failed?
The statues were bright against the backdrop of the night sky. Nude and perfectly poised, they were pieces of art in the horridly cluttered apartments. Strange to think such a detailed, controlled man as Sherlock Holmes had such messy, chaotic rooms. Nicholas picked one statue up and drew a finger along the smooth stone. Then the clink of chains caught his attention.
“These statues are wonderfully crafted, Mr. Holmes,” he told the prone figure, as if a normal conversation were at all appropriate in the situation. “Although I must say it is rather strange to place such pieces right in front of an open window.”
He glanced over his shoulder. Sherlock Holmes was prostrate on the floor, his hands chained behind his back and his mouth gagged by cloth. He did not look at all pleased.
Nicholas focused on the statue again and pulled. The affection was layered deep on the stone and he could see clear blue eyes and dirty blond hair and a coarse moustache. How…sentimental. Grimacing, he pushed away the cheery affection and absently said, “I always pinned you as an invert.” Then, as he came back to himself, he continued with, “A gift from Dr. Watson, I presume?”
And there- there was that cold, calculating look Nicholas remembered. He also remembered Holmes paraded in the streets as spectators stared at the swinging pendulum that had been Lord Henry Blackwood. Nicholas smiled politely at the bound detective and calmly dropped the statue; on impact it broke into several large pieces.
Pulling his pistol from his jacket, he walked over to the chained man and dragged him up, directing the man with an arm on his bicep and the barrel of the pistol in the small of his back. The stairs creaked with their combined weight, the door noiseless as it swung open. As Nicholas shoved Holmes into the coach, the driver looked over to them, confusion apparent on his face. Nicholas clicked his fingers and the man was entranced once more, never thinking, never caring.
He settled into the seat across from Holmes and smiled at the furrowed brows and angry eyes. “I suspect you are curious as to my purpose this evening, Mr. Holmes. I should apologize for removing you from your home this late in the night,” he said, but they both knew no actual apology was forthcoming.
One dark eyebrow arched up in question as Holmes shifted, his chains rattling.
“The chains and gag are necessary, I’m afraid,” Nicholas said. “At least I did not place a bag over your head.” His smile thinned. “It would not matter, I suppose.”
The dark eyes narrowed in a fierce glare. Nicholas suspected that if he could, Holmes would be cursing him soundly at the moment.
“As to my purpose and your place in it…well, that is for Lord Blackwood to explain.”
Oh, what delight to see those intelligent eyes go wide in shock and confusion! Nicholas wanted to laugh. “My dear Mr. Holmes, you did not think that all of the Order’s ceremonies were based in mere belief and science, now did you? Science,” the word twisted so it sounded like a curse, “was simply easier to use in the situation. You must believe the truth that magic is in fact real.”
And he lifted one hand and directed his intent to the click of his fingers. Fire bloomed and blossomed at his fingertips, the glow throwing cruel shadows on to Holmes’s face. He made the fire dance around his fingers and hands, got it close enough to singe Mr. Holmes’s fringe, and then blew it out as if it were a candle.
Mr. Holmes looked quite pale now.
The coach rolled to a stop, the poor bedazzled coachman dropping from his place to open the door. Just as the statues had, Parliament seemed to glow in the nightlight. With the pistol still fixed in the small of Holmes’s back, the walk through Parliament was quick and easy, their steps echoing in the high chambers.
The sudden brightness in the House of Lords was almost a shock. The room was flooded with light, the stone and golden fixtures positively gleaming in the illumination. All the furnishings from the center of the room had been tossed and forced to the corners, a chalked circle now dominating the floor. And Lord Henry Blackwood, immaculately dressed in his familiar leather coat, a knife in one hand, stood in the center of the circle as if he were some resurrected deity.
Mr. Holmes froze at the sight, but Nicholas nudged him forward until he was at the outermost circle and then pressed him down until the detective was on his knees. Wide-eyed, he stared at Henry in obvious disbelief. Nicholas bent down and whispered, “I told you, Mr. Holmes. One must suspend the notion that magic is only a myth.”
Henry turned, his expression a cold mask for the fire banked in his dark eyes. “Mr. Holmes, we meet again.” He tilted his head to the side, eyes cataloguing and weighing every nuance of every shift, every motion. “Though the odds are distinctly in my favor this time, I believe.”
He spread his arms, gaze now focused on the chalked lines of the circles. “Mr. Holmes, do you understand the purpose of sacrifice?” When Holmes gave no sign, Henry continued. “In most cases it was to appease a god or deity. Sometimes, however, sacrifice has little to do with the act of killing and more with the simple act of spilling blood.”
Carefully, Henry moved forward, steps placed just so as to not smudge the lines of the circle. “Your blood, Mr. Holmes, is indeed a rich mixture. Such ingenuity with such intelligence can only make its mark on the blood.” He paused, eyeing Holmes. “Yours is also the blood of a victor.” His smirk was slight, a mere turn of the corners of his lips.
Holmes shifted in his place. As a warning Nicholas set his hand on Holmes’s shoulder and squeezed.
“These symbols,” Henry went on, “are for a ritual of triumph. It will lead to my domination of England and then the world.” With the knife, he pointed to a pair of intertwined symbols. “The blood of a victor and the blood of the clever.”
He stepped forward again until he was standing before Holmes. “Surprisingly, you made this supremely easy, Mr. Holmes.” His expression made no discernable shift, yet there was still the faint suggestion of disappointment. “I expected better of you.”
With Nicholas holding the detective tight, Henry drew the knife along Mr. Holmes’s neck, the slice deep enough that the blood immediately started flowing, drenching Holmes’s shirt and dripping to the floor. As the first drops of blood hit the chalked circle, the lines started glowing red, the illumination growing as blood continued to cover the lines.
Henry skimmed the knife along his fingers contemplatively. “Nicholas,” he said abruptly as Holmes started to wilt. “With a ritual as this, with an endeavor such as ours, there are other components that are needed.”
Numerology, symbols, magical theory raced through his mind. Another glance at the symbols in the circle gave him his answer. “The acts of submission and obedience with the act of dominance, my lord,” he answered.
“Of course,” Henry replied faintly. Then he strode to the center of the circle. “Strip,” he ordered over his shoulder. “And remove Mr. Holmes’s chains. We shall be needing them.”
The skin of Mr. Holmes was still warm, the chains cold and heavy in Nicholas’s hands. He placed them at the edge of the circle and started removing his clothes, folding them and placing them on the benches surrounding him; the air was cool, prickling along his skin.
As it always did, the weight of Henry’s stare made him flush, but the hand that took his made his stomach fall in a swoop. Henry mouth’s was a warm brush against his cheek. “Kneel in the center,” he commanded.
Nicholas focused on the chalk, careful not to step on the lines. The floor was rough against his knees when he knelt, the muscles straining just so in his shoulders when Henry pulled his hands behind him and bound them with cool links in the small of his back. Minutes passed in silence and he had to calmly remind himself to stay relaxed.
The first crack of the whip against his back was unexpected. It was not as if they hadn’t done this before. (Despite his and Henry’s care, there were still the lightest of scars, pale and silken, along his back. Henry would touch them with deft, gentle fingers and Nicholas would relish them and the touch associated with them.) He straightened his shoulders and waited for the next hit.
This time, he heard the whip as it went through the air and the resulting crack against his back. This time, the sweet sting of it lanced across his skin, the nerves all coming alive.
The third hit caused that wonderful rush of heat to coast all throughout his body. The fourth soon followed, as did the fifth. The sixth, however, caused a noise to try to get past the cage of his teeth and he had to bite down on his lip to still the noise, whatever it was. The seventh, the last, had him biting down so hard that the warm copper tang of blood invaded his senses.
Although his body wanted to tremble in the sensations, he counted breaths and kept as still as he could. Then there was a body kneeling behind him and strong arms curving around him, pulling him to close to the rough leather of Henry’s jacket. It rubbed against the marks on his back and Nicholas had to choke back a moan at the feeling. One hand went down his front and curled around the erection Nicholas had been insensible to.
Bending his head down, Nicholas watched the agile hand. The fingers were slender but strong, the lightest of calluses catching on the sensitive skin of his erection. The palm was a hot, dry tunnel around him, moving and rubbing in all the right ways.
Henry’s breath was a warm puff of air against his cheek. “England will obey and submit, just as you have. The world will obey and submit.” Nails scratched lightly at the underside and heat coiled tightly at the bottom of his stomach. Henry bit the shell of his ear and a frisson of light raced along his spine. “And you and I will rule, completely.”
It was the scrap of teeth along his neck that had him tensing, had white overtaking his vision. Sense came back when Henry moved his hand against too-sensitive flesh, removing his grip. The strong hand, coated in white, raised and shifted, the fingers spacing wide.
Nicholas leaned forward and caught the fingers with his mouth, licking up all he could. The skin felt rough against hit tongue, the bones somehow fragile and delicate against his teeth. He swirled his tongue around the knobs of knuckles and pressed the flat of his tongue to the rough palm, catching every drop of his essence. Leaning back against Henry and shivering at the feel of cloth against his marked back, he pulled his mouth off one newly cleaned finger with a pop.
The circle wasn’t glowing red anymore, but white. As they kneeled there, they watched as the bright glow pulsed and slowly faded; the once white chalk lines were grey and ashy when the light faded.
Henry gave an imperceptible sigh and smoothed his wet hand over Nicholas’s chest. “It is done,” he said quietly. And then he stood, bending to undo Nicholas’s chains and to help him stand on shaky knees. “Let us get you cleaned up.” With a grip around Nicholas’s elbow, they walked to the edges of the circle, where Henry gently helped him into his clothes.
Slumped at the outer lying circle, Mr. Holmes was pale, his lips a tinge of blue; his grey eyes were blind and empty.
“They will see,” Henry murmured. “They will see this and they will know.”
Henry helped him out of the House of Lords with a guiding hand on the small of Nicholas’s back. The coach driver was still caught in the enchantment Nicholas had set, so he did not notice when two men-a dead man and a jailed man-stepped into his coach and gave him directions. The coach sped into the dark with a rattle of wheels.
Author: secret_smile19
For: inamac
Rating: R
Summary: Did the world really think their plan had failed?
The statues were bright against the backdrop of the night sky. Nude and perfectly poised, they were pieces of art in the horridly cluttered apartments. Strange to think such a detailed, controlled man as Sherlock Holmes had such messy, chaotic rooms. Nicholas picked one statue up and drew a finger along the smooth stone. Then the clink of chains caught his attention.
“These statues are wonderfully crafted, Mr. Holmes,” he told the prone figure, as if a normal conversation were at all appropriate in the situation. “Although I must say it is rather strange to place such pieces right in front of an open window.”
He glanced over his shoulder. Sherlock Holmes was prostrate on the floor, his hands chained behind his back and his mouth gagged by cloth. He did not look at all pleased.
Nicholas focused on the statue again and pulled. The affection was layered deep on the stone and he could see clear blue eyes and dirty blond hair and a coarse moustache. How…sentimental. Grimacing, he pushed away the cheery affection and absently said, “I always pinned you as an invert.” Then, as he came back to himself, he continued with, “A gift from Dr. Watson, I presume?”
And there- there was that cold, calculating look Nicholas remembered. He also remembered Holmes paraded in the streets as spectators stared at the swinging pendulum that had been Lord Henry Blackwood. Nicholas smiled politely at the bound detective and calmly dropped the statue; on impact it broke into several large pieces.
Pulling his pistol from his jacket, he walked over to the chained man and dragged him up, directing the man with an arm on his bicep and the barrel of the pistol in the small of his back. The stairs creaked with their combined weight, the door noiseless as it swung open. As Nicholas shoved Holmes into the coach, the driver looked over to them, confusion apparent on his face. Nicholas clicked his fingers and the man was entranced once more, never thinking, never caring.
He settled into the seat across from Holmes and smiled at the furrowed brows and angry eyes. “I suspect you are curious as to my purpose this evening, Mr. Holmes. I should apologize for removing you from your home this late in the night,” he said, but they both knew no actual apology was forthcoming.
One dark eyebrow arched up in question as Holmes shifted, his chains rattling.
“The chains and gag are necessary, I’m afraid,” Nicholas said. “At least I did not place a bag over your head.” His smile thinned. “It would not matter, I suppose.”
The dark eyes narrowed in a fierce glare. Nicholas suspected that if he could, Holmes would be cursing him soundly at the moment.
“As to my purpose and your place in it…well, that is for Lord Blackwood to explain.”
Oh, what delight to see those intelligent eyes go wide in shock and confusion! Nicholas wanted to laugh. “My dear Mr. Holmes, you did not think that all of the Order’s ceremonies were based in mere belief and science, now did you? Science,” the word twisted so it sounded like a curse, “was simply easier to use in the situation. You must believe the truth that magic is in fact real.”
And he lifted one hand and directed his intent to the click of his fingers. Fire bloomed and blossomed at his fingertips, the glow throwing cruel shadows on to Holmes’s face. He made the fire dance around his fingers and hands, got it close enough to singe Mr. Holmes’s fringe, and then blew it out as if it were a candle.
Mr. Holmes looked quite pale now.
The coach rolled to a stop, the poor bedazzled coachman dropping from his place to open the door. Just as the statues had, Parliament seemed to glow in the nightlight. With the pistol still fixed in the small of Holmes’s back, the walk through Parliament was quick and easy, their steps echoing in the high chambers.
The sudden brightness in the House of Lords was almost a shock. The room was flooded with light, the stone and golden fixtures positively gleaming in the illumination. All the furnishings from the center of the room had been tossed and forced to the corners, a chalked circle now dominating the floor. And Lord Henry Blackwood, immaculately dressed in his familiar leather coat, a knife in one hand, stood in the center of the circle as if he were some resurrected deity.
Mr. Holmes froze at the sight, but Nicholas nudged him forward until he was at the outermost circle and then pressed him down until the detective was on his knees. Wide-eyed, he stared at Henry in obvious disbelief. Nicholas bent down and whispered, “I told you, Mr. Holmes. One must suspend the notion that magic is only a myth.”
Henry turned, his expression a cold mask for the fire banked in his dark eyes. “Mr. Holmes, we meet again.” He tilted his head to the side, eyes cataloguing and weighing every nuance of every shift, every motion. “Though the odds are distinctly in my favor this time, I believe.”
He spread his arms, gaze now focused on the chalked lines of the circles. “Mr. Holmes, do you understand the purpose of sacrifice?” When Holmes gave no sign, Henry continued. “In most cases it was to appease a god or deity. Sometimes, however, sacrifice has little to do with the act of killing and more with the simple act of spilling blood.”
Carefully, Henry moved forward, steps placed just so as to not smudge the lines of the circle. “Your blood, Mr. Holmes, is indeed a rich mixture. Such ingenuity with such intelligence can only make its mark on the blood.” He paused, eyeing Holmes. “Yours is also the blood of a victor.” His smirk was slight, a mere turn of the corners of his lips.
Holmes shifted in his place. As a warning Nicholas set his hand on Holmes’s shoulder and squeezed.
“These symbols,” Henry went on, “are for a ritual of triumph. It will lead to my domination of England and then the world.” With the knife, he pointed to a pair of intertwined symbols. “The blood of a victor and the blood of the clever.”
He stepped forward again until he was standing before Holmes. “Surprisingly, you made this supremely easy, Mr. Holmes.” His expression made no discernable shift, yet there was still the faint suggestion of disappointment. “I expected better of you.”
With Nicholas holding the detective tight, Henry drew the knife along Mr. Holmes’s neck, the slice deep enough that the blood immediately started flowing, drenching Holmes’s shirt and dripping to the floor. As the first drops of blood hit the chalked circle, the lines started glowing red, the illumination growing as blood continued to cover the lines.
Henry skimmed the knife along his fingers contemplatively. “Nicholas,” he said abruptly as Holmes started to wilt. “With a ritual as this, with an endeavor such as ours, there are other components that are needed.”
Numerology, symbols, magical theory raced through his mind. Another glance at the symbols in the circle gave him his answer. “The acts of submission and obedience with the act of dominance, my lord,” he answered.
“Of course,” Henry replied faintly. Then he strode to the center of the circle. “Strip,” he ordered over his shoulder. “And remove Mr. Holmes’s chains. We shall be needing them.”
The skin of Mr. Holmes was still warm, the chains cold and heavy in Nicholas’s hands. He placed them at the edge of the circle and started removing his clothes, folding them and placing them on the benches surrounding him; the air was cool, prickling along his skin.
As it always did, the weight of Henry’s stare made him flush, but the hand that took his made his stomach fall in a swoop. Henry mouth’s was a warm brush against his cheek. “Kneel in the center,” he commanded.
Nicholas focused on the chalk, careful not to step on the lines. The floor was rough against his knees when he knelt, the muscles straining just so in his shoulders when Henry pulled his hands behind him and bound them with cool links in the small of his back. Minutes passed in silence and he had to calmly remind himself to stay relaxed.
The first crack of the whip against his back was unexpected. It was not as if they hadn’t done this before. (Despite his and Henry’s care, there were still the lightest of scars, pale and silken, along his back. Henry would touch them with deft, gentle fingers and Nicholas would relish them and the touch associated with them.) He straightened his shoulders and waited for the next hit.
This time, he heard the whip as it went through the air and the resulting crack against his back. This time, the sweet sting of it lanced across his skin, the nerves all coming alive.
The third hit caused that wonderful rush of heat to coast all throughout his body. The fourth soon followed, as did the fifth. The sixth, however, caused a noise to try to get past the cage of his teeth and he had to bite down on his lip to still the noise, whatever it was. The seventh, the last, had him biting down so hard that the warm copper tang of blood invaded his senses.
Although his body wanted to tremble in the sensations, he counted breaths and kept as still as he could. Then there was a body kneeling behind him and strong arms curving around him, pulling him to close to the rough leather of Henry’s jacket. It rubbed against the marks on his back and Nicholas had to choke back a moan at the feeling. One hand went down his front and curled around the erection Nicholas had been insensible to.
Bending his head down, Nicholas watched the agile hand. The fingers were slender but strong, the lightest of calluses catching on the sensitive skin of his erection. The palm was a hot, dry tunnel around him, moving and rubbing in all the right ways.
Henry’s breath was a warm puff of air against his cheek. “England will obey and submit, just as you have. The world will obey and submit.” Nails scratched lightly at the underside and heat coiled tightly at the bottom of his stomach. Henry bit the shell of his ear and a frisson of light raced along his spine. “And you and I will rule, completely.”
It was the scrap of teeth along his neck that had him tensing, had white overtaking his vision. Sense came back when Henry moved his hand against too-sensitive flesh, removing his grip. The strong hand, coated in white, raised and shifted, the fingers spacing wide.
Nicholas leaned forward and caught the fingers with his mouth, licking up all he could. The skin felt rough against hit tongue, the bones somehow fragile and delicate against his teeth. He swirled his tongue around the knobs of knuckles and pressed the flat of his tongue to the rough palm, catching every drop of his essence. Leaning back against Henry and shivering at the feel of cloth against his marked back, he pulled his mouth off one newly cleaned finger with a pop.
The circle wasn’t glowing red anymore, but white. As they kneeled there, they watched as the bright glow pulsed and slowly faded; the once white chalk lines were grey and ashy when the light faded.
Henry gave an imperceptible sigh and smoothed his wet hand over Nicholas’s chest. “It is done,” he said quietly. And then he stood, bending to undo Nicholas’s chains and to help him stand on shaky knees. “Let us get you cleaned up.” With a grip around Nicholas’s elbow, they walked to the edges of the circle, where Henry gently helped him into his clothes.
Slumped at the outer lying circle, Mr. Holmes was pale, his lips a tinge of blue; his grey eyes were blind and empty.
“They will see,” Henry murmured. “They will see this and they will know.”
Henry helped him out of the House of Lords with a guiding hand on the small of Nicholas’s back. The coach driver was still caught in the enchantment Nicholas had set, so he did not notice when two men-a dead man and a jailed man-stepped into his coach and gave him directions. The coach sped into the dark with a rattle of wheels.