"Baker Street 13: An Unsettling Acquaintance"
I've changed the rating on this -- I think from now on I'm going
to rate all the chapters R, no matter the content, just to be on
the safe side. Because we're going into areas that are not so
safe... if you know what I mean!
But let Watson (not yet Doctor) tell the tale...
Title: "Baker Street 13: An Unsettling Acquaintance"
Author: Gaedhal
Pairing/Characters: Sherlock Holmes/Dr. John H. Watson; Lady Percy, The Irishman.
Rating: R
Spoilers: None
Notes/Warnings: "Sherlock Holmes" (2009) Universe. Set before the Blackwood case.
Disclaimer: This is for fun, not profit. Enjoy.
Summary: Watson continues his remembrances.
First chapter here:
1. "A Walk to Regent's Park"
http://gaedhal.livejournal.com/367955.html
Previous chapter here:
12. "An Interlude in Italy"
http://gaedhal.livejournal.com/374287.html
New Chapter here:
By Gaedhal
I will not name him because any name I give him will be of no consequence. He offered me a name that night at Lady Percy's, but it was not his true one. In fact, I am sure none of the names he ever used was his true one, just as none of the stories he told about his history was the true one. They may have contained grains of truth here and there, but that is all.
But one thing I was certain of, he was an Irishman. That he never denied. And so I will call him the Irishman. That is enough.
I had obtained a suit of clothes from a wealthy young gentleman who left Rome to return to England and discarded his extra belongings so he wouldn't have to take them on the train. The suit was almost new and I took it to a local tailor who altered it to fit as if it had been made especially for me. I went to the market near my pensione and bought a length of silk and the tailor made me a fine cravat for only a few pence. Thus, I was ready to attend Lady Percy's salon in clothing I wouldn't be ashamed to stand up in.
Lady Percy's villa was on the highest hill in Rome and commanded a magnificent view of the city. I arrived on foot, but easily mingled with the ladies and gentlemen pulling up at the door in private carriages. I took Lady Percy's words to heart -- I was there not to be intimidated by the company, but to continue my education. I may not have been rich, but I was as much a gentleman in birth and education as any Englishman there. Besides, I had discovered that good looks and pleasing manners served as an entry to almost any venue -- and I had both to spare.
"My dear child!" said Lady Percy, kissing me on the cheek. "How delightful you look!" Then she adjusted my cravat. "You need a stickpin to finish the effect. I will give you one of my late husband's. He won't be needing it any time soon." And then she laughed. Lord Percy had been dead for over twenty years.
"I thought you warned me about accepting expensive gifts," I returned.
"I didn't say it was an expensive stickpin, John," she said, tapping me lightly with her fan. "An old woman like myself may give gifts to a beautiful young man without fear of scandal, that is the privilege of age. Now go and take refreshment. There is music in the drawing room and cards in the blue salon. Enjoy yourself, my dear."
I took a glass of champagne and made my way through the rooms, observing. I was the youngest guest and certainly the poorest, but I knew I looked well in my re-made suit and silken cravat, so I was feeling confident. I also noted that none of the 'infamous sodomites' were present -- Lady Percy had apparently crossed Lord Brigham and his crowd off her guest list.
A trio of cello, violin, and flute was playing, so I listened for a while. Then I moved off to the card room. Some ladies were playing at whist, but a table of gentlemen in the corner were engaged in a game with which I was unfamiliar. They were seriously intent on their cards and gambling heavily -- I saw piles of money that made my palms itch. I squinted, trying to understand what the game was about.
"Poker," said a deep voice behind me. "'It is an American form of Commerce."
"I don't know how to play Commerce," I said, turning around. I was met with a long, thin face and a pair of cold, piercing grey eyes under a shining cap of black hair. "We weren't permitted card games at my school."
"And what school was that?" asked the man. He was tall and exceedingly lean, in his mid-30's or thereabouts, lounging against the doorframe and smoking a long French cigarette.
"A Jesuit school. In Yorkshire."
"Ah," he hissed. "And are you a little Jesuit?"
Something creeped up my spine, like I'd seen a snake. "No. I'm a free Englishman. I profess no religion -- anymore."
"And what do you profess?" He was sizing me up like I was on sale.
"Nothing -- yet. I'm seeing the world."
"And how do you find the world?" he drawled. "Is it to your liking?"
"Some things are," I replied. "Others... not so much. But I am out to learn. Which is why I'm here."
"Then learn something," he said. "Watch."
I followed his eyes, which were on the cards being dealt and the players holding their hands.
"The bald chap -- he has the winning hand. A straight flush," he whispered in my ear.
"But how do you know?" I whispered back. "He's facing us. You can't see his cards."
"I don't need to see his cards," he said. "I've been watching the game. I know exactly what hand every player has and what cards remain in the deck."
Now my curiosity was aroused. "But how?"
"Mathematical probability. Observation. Superior power of intellect."
"But isn't a card game all about luck?" I asked.
"Luck!" he ejaculated. One of the players turned to glare at him, but he stared the man down. "Luck is for those who want to lose. I never rely on luck, but on my own mind. It never fails me."
A moment later the game was over. The other players threw in their cards and the bald man lay his hand on the table and gathered in his winnings gleefully.
"See?" said my new acquaintance. "A straight flush. Just as I said."
"But how did you know?" I probed. He did not answer. "Then why don't you play yourself? You could win a lot of money."
"I do," he said. "When I need to. But I don't need to." And then he walked away.
I watched the card players a while longer, then went in search of a plate of food. The champagne and wine had been flowing, so the company was now louder and more congenial. I went out on the terrace to eat. There I saw the tall man, surrounded by a knot of admirers, most of them women. I crept closer. He was regaling them with stories of the late war in America. From my eavesdropping I learned he was an American with a large estate in Virginia, and had been an officer on the Southern -- the losing -- side of the conflict.
"Oh, Colonel!" gushed one silly woman. "Were you wounded?"
"Only a flesh wound, dear lady," he said smoothly. His eyes lifted as he saw me there, listening. "But it was in a place not fit for the ears of the gentle sex."
That sent the women into paroxysms of giggling and fan-waving.
"If you will excuse me, please?" he said to them.
"Certainly, Colonel."
And, to my surprise he walked directly over to me. "Credo fatum nos coegisse," he said.
I set down my plate. "I must go. Suspicor fatum nos voluisse diversos."
But his hand stayed me. "What do you know about the workings of Fate, little boy?"
"I know that Lady Percy warned me about avoiding sodomites," I said, pulling from his grasp. "And I am not a little boy!"
"You think I am a sodomite?" His voice was dark.
"Your hand on my wrist tells me that you want me to stay near to you, so I will assume the worst." He then released me. "I also think you are not an American."
His eyes shifted nervously. "And what do you think I am?"
"An Irishman," I said with confidence. "My mother was Irish and I well remember her soft accent. You have that slight softness in your speech that Englishmen do not have, but which is common in Welshmen and Irishmen. And a moment ago you said 'tink' instead of 'think.' I heard you make the same mistake when you were talking about your estate in Virginia. The Irish don't pronounce the 'th' sound. You were careful to say it most of the time, but sometimes you slipped, like you did when you were annoyed with me."
He leaned back. "You are an impertinent boy."
I shrugged. "Perhaps, but I can afford to be impertinent because I have nothing to lose and nothing to hide. Unlike you."
"It is possible to be an American and also Irish-born. The United States of America is full of immigrants." He blew a puff of acrid smoke over my head.
"I thought you were a Confederate?" I said. "I didn't know they acknowledged the legitimacy of their conquerors. You see, sir, I may have been locked away in a strict Jesuit school, but I was allowed to read 'The Times' and other newspapers. I am not completely ignorant of the world -- even if I am merely an impertinent boy!"
I strutted away, laughing, very pleased with myself for having scored off the pretentious gentleman.
I drank another glass of champagne and chatted with Lady Percy for another hour, then said my farewells and began the long trek back to my small pensione.
I had not walked halfway down the Esquiline Hill when I became aware that a carriage was following me. I lengthened my stride, but the carriage kept apace, slowing and speeding up to match me. I was apprehensive, but also full of champagne courage, so I stopped and challenged my pursuer. "If you want something of me, make yourself known!"
The carriage was large, of dark wood, with a crest on the side. The door opened. "Get in. 'Tis a long walk down to the city." The accent was now clearly Irish, no attempt at disguise.
"So," I said, once inside. "You are a sodomite after all. Are you going to attempt my virtue in this closed carriage?"
"I am not going to attempt anything, John Watson," he replied. "And I am not a sodomite. I do not put such labels upon myself. It is limiting. I open myself up to all possibilities, as should any truly rational man."
"Then I am not rational," I said. "Because I assuredly am not a sodomite."
"You are a wicked little boy," he growled. "You don't know what or who you are. That is what intrigues me. You are unformed, like common clay."
"I am not common!" I retorted. "My father was a solicitor and my grandfather a doctor! They were both gentlemen, as am I!"
"You are a spoiled brat," said the Irishman. "Entranced by your own beauty and certain that you will always get your way. And, if you follow my instruction instead of that of the well-meaning but very limited Lady Percy, then you will certainly always get your way from any man and woman you desire. Except me, of course. Because I will always know what you really are."
I was gripped by a strange excitement. "Are you making an indecent proposition to me? Because I have had offers from many gentleman and a number of ladies as well. But I have turned them all down. I am not interested in such 'arrangements.'"
He leaned closer. I could feel his hot breath on my neck, smell his dark, musky cologne. "Are you afraid, little boy?"
"No," I swallowed. But I was. Afraid and thrilled.
"You should be, John," he said, his voice mesmerizing. "You have no idea of my power. Or of my grand plans. In your entire life you will never meet anyone who is my intellectual equal. I am offering you a chance at greatness. You will have more power, more wealth, more satisfaction than you have ever dreamed of. That is my promise. What does the mundane world have to offer you? A pittance! A small allowance on which to live. A dismal career as a solicitor like your boring father. A drab middle class female as wife. A hobbled little life. That is what you can expect. What a waste of beauty that would be! I collect beautiful things, you know. And you are extraordinarily beautiful."
"Turn here!" I cried out. "Please! My pensione is down that way!"
The Irishman gave the coachman the order and he turned. A few minutes later we stopped before the old building. It was very late and the street was dark and still.
He climbed out of the carriage and handed me down. "I will see you to your door."
"I'm not a schoolgirl," I said, tossing my head. "I can see myself."
"I said I will see you to your door," he repeated, almost threateningly.
In the entryway I fumbled with my key, but the Irishman seized me with an iron hand and shoved me against the rough plaster wall. I thought he was going to kiss me and I held my breath, expectantly.
But he didn't kiss me. He held me close to him. I could feel his member harden in his trousers as it pressed against me. His cold grey eyes were now hot and blazing with lust.
"I will have you, Johnny Lad," he whispered. "You may count upon it. I will have you, body and soul. Because I know what you want and what you need: a man who is everything to you -- friend, companion, comrade-in-arms, father, brother, and lover. Together we will defeat all our enemies and rule a dominion unseen by men without vision. Once I thought I had found my perfect soulmate, but he proved false. One day he will pay for that rejection. But you will not reject me, John. I will have you. I will be the first to possess you. And then I will always own you."
The tone of his voice terrified me even more than his words. I pushed him away. "Get your bloody hands off me! You're a madman!"
He stepped back and straightened his clothes. "Perhaps. But if this be madness, yet there is method in it, as the poet said. Adieu -- for now."
He returned to the carriage and the door slammed. I watched the conveyance clatter down the narrow street into the enveloping darkness.
The next day I left Rome as if the hounds of Hell were on my tail. I was not far wrong.
***
to rate all the chapters R, no matter the content, just to be on
the safe side. Because we're going into areas that are not so
safe... if you know what I mean!
But let Watson (not yet Doctor) tell the tale...
Title: "Baker Street 13: An Unsettling Acquaintance"
Author: Gaedhal
Pairing/Characters: Sherlock Holmes/Dr. John H. Watson; Lady Percy, The Irishman.
Rating: R
Spoilers: None
Notes/Warnings: "Sherlock Holmes" (2009) Universe. Set before the Blackwood case.
Disclaimer: This is for fun, not profit. Enjoy.
Summary: Watson continues his remembrances.
First chapter here:
1. "A Walk to Regent's Park"
http://gaedhal.livejournal.com/367955.html
Previous chapter here:
12. "An Interlude in Italy"
http://gaedhal.livejournal.com/374287.html
New Chapter here:
By Gaedhal
I will not name him because any name I give him will be of no consequence. He offered me a name that night at Lady Percy's, but it was not his true one. In fact, I am sure none of the names he ever used was his true one, just as none of the stories he told about his history was the true one. They may have contained grains of truth here and there, but that is all.
But one thing I was certain of, he was an Irishman. That he never denied. And so I will call him the Irishman. That is enough.
I had obtained a suit of clothes from a wealthy young gentleman who left Rome to return to England and discarded his extra belongings so he wouldn't have to take them on the train. The suit was almost new and I took it to a local tailor who altered it to fit as if it had been made especially for me. I went to the market near my pensione and bought a length of silk and the tailor made me a fine cravat for only a few pence. Thus, I was ready to attend Lady Percy's salon in clothing I wouldn't be ashamed to stand up in.
Lady Percy's villa was on the highest hill in Rome and commanded a magnificent view of the city. I arrived on foot, but easily mingled with the ladies and gentlemen pulling up at the door in private carriages. I took Lady Percy's words to heart -- I was there not to be intimidated by the company, but to continue my education. I may not have been rich, but I was as much a gentleman in birth and education as any Englishman there. Besides, I had discovered that good looks and pleasing manners served as an entry to almost any venue -- and I had both to spare.
"My dear child!" said Lady Percy, kissing me on the cheek. "How delightful you look!" Then she adjusted my cravat. "You need a stickpin to finish the effect. I will give you one of my late husband's. He won't be needing it any time soon." And then she laughed. Lord Percy had been dead for over twenty years.
"I thought you warned me about accepting expensive gifts," I returned.
"I didn't say it was an expensive stickpin, John," she said, tapping me lightly with her fan. "An old woman like myself may give gifts to a beautiful young man without fear of scandal, that is the privilege of age. Now go and take refreshment. There is music in the drawing room and cards in the blue salon. Enjoy yourself, my dear."
I took a glass of champagne and made my way through the rooms, observing. I was the youngest guest and certainly the poorest, but I knew I looked well in my re-made suit and silken cravat, so I was feeling confident. I also noted that none of the 'infamous sodomites' were present -- Lady Percy had apparently crossed Lord Brigham and his crowd off her guest list.
A trio of cello, violin, and flute was playing, so I listened for a while. Then I moved off to the card room. Some ladies were playing at whist, but a table of gentlemen in the corner were engaged in a game with which I was unfamiliar. They were seriously intent on their cards and gambling heavily -- I saw piles of money that made my palms itch. I squinted, trying to understand what the game was about.
"Poker," said a deep voice behind me. "'It is an American form of Commerce."
"I don't know how to play Commerce," I said, turning around. I was met with a long, thin face and a pair of cold, piercing grey eyes under a shining cap of black hair. "We weren't permitted card games at my school."
"And what school was that?" asked the man. He was tall and exceedingly lean, in his mid-30's or thereabouts, lounging against the doorframe and smoking a long French cigarette.
"A Jesuit school. In Yorkshire."
"Ah," he hissed. "And are you a little Jesuit?"
Something creeped up my spine, like I'd seen a snake. "No. I'm a free Englishman. I profess no religion -- anymore."
"And what do you profess?" He was sizing me up like I was on sale.
"Nothing -- yet. I'm seeing the world."
"And how do you find the world?" he drawled. "Is it to your liking?"
"Some things are," I replied. "Others... not so much. But I am out to learn. Which is why I'm here."
"Then learn something," he said. "Watch."
I followed his eyes, which were on the cards being dealt and the players holding their hands.
"The bald chap -- he has the winning hand. A straight flush," he whispered in my ear.
"But how do you know?" I whispered back. "He's facing us. You can't see his cards."
"I don't need to see his cards," he said. "I've been watching the game. I know exactly what hand every player has and what cards remain in the deck."
Now my curiosity was aroused. "But how?"
"Mathematical probability. Observation. Superior power of intellect."
"But isn't a card game all about luck?" I asked.
"Luck!" he ejaculated. One of the players turned to glare at him, but he stared the man down. "Luck is for those who want to lose. I never rely on luck, but on my own mind. It never fails me."
A moment later the game was over. The other players threw in their cards and the bald man lay his hand on the table and gathered in his winnings gleefully.
"See?" said my new acquaintance. "A straight flush. Just as I said."
"But how did you know?" I probed. He did not answer. "Then why don't you play yourself? You could win a lot of money."
"I do," he said. "When I need to. But I don't need to." And then he walked away.
I watched the card players a while longer, then went in search of a plate of food. The champagne and wine had been flowing, so the company was now louder and more congenial. I went out on the terrace to eat. There I saw the tall man, surrounded by a knot of admirers, most of them women. I crept closer. He was regaling them with stories of the late war in America. From my eavesdropping I learned he was an American with a large estate in Virginia, and had been an officer on the Southern -- the losing -- side of the conflict.
"Oh, Colonel!" gushed one silly woman. "Were you wounded?"
"Only a flesh wound, dear lady," he said smoothly. His eyes lifted as he saw me there, listening. "But it was in a place not fit for the ears of the gentle sex."
That sent the women into paroxysms of giggling and fan-waving.
"If you will excuse me, please?" he said to them.
"Certainly, Colonel."
And, to my surprise he walked directly over to me. "Credo fatum nos coegisse," he said.
I set down my plate. "I must go. Suspicor fatum nos voluisse diversos."
But his hand stayed me. "What do you know about the workings of Fate, little boy?"
"I know that Lady Percy warned me about avoiding sodomites," I said, pulling from his grasp. "And I am not a little boy!"
"You think I am a sodomite?" His voice was dark.
"Your hand on my wrist tells me that you want me to stay near to you, so I will assume the worst." He then released me. "I also think you are not an American."
His eyes shifted nervously. "And what do you think I am?"
"An Irishman," I said with confidence. "My mother was Irish and I well remember her soft accent. You have that slight softness in your speech that Englishmen do not have, but which is common in Welshmen and Irishmen. And a moment ago you said 'tink' instead of 'think.' I heard you make the same mistake when you were talking about your estate in Virginia. The Irish don't pronounce the 'th' sound. You were careful to say it most of the time, but sometimes you slipped, like you did when you were annoyed with me."
He leaned back. "You are an impertinent boy."
I shrugged. "Perhaps, but I can afford to be impertinent because I have nothing to lose and nothing to hide. Unlike you."
"It is possible to be an American and also Irish-born. The United States of America is full of immigrants." He blew a puff of acrid smoke over my head.
"I thought you were a Confederate?" I said. "I didn't know they acknowledged the legitimacy of their conquerors. You see, sir, I may have been locked away in a strict Jesuit school, but I was allowed to read 'The Times' and other newspapers. I am not completely ignorant of the world -- even if I am merely an impertinent boy!"
I strutted away, laughing, very pleased with myself for having scored off the pretentious gentleman.
I drank another glass of champagne and chatted with Lady Percy for another hour, then said my farewells and began the long trek back to my small pensione.
I had not walked halfway down the Esquiline Hill when I became aware that a carriage was following me. I lengthened my stride, but the carriage kept apace, slowing and speeding up to match me. I was apprehensive, but also full of champagne courage, so I stopped and challenged my pursuer. "If you want something of me, make yourself known!"
The carriage was large, of dark wood, with a crest on the side. The door opened. "Get in. 'Tis a long walk down to the city." The accent was now clearly Irish, no attempt at disguise.
"So," I said, once inside. "You are a sodomite after all. Are you going to attempt my virtue in this closed carriage?"
"I am not going to attempt anything, John Watson," he replied. "And I am not a sodomite. I do not put such labels upon myself. It is limiting. I open myself up to all possibilities, as should any truly rational man."
"Then I am not rational," I said. "Because I assuredly am not a sodomite."
"You are a wicked little boy," he growled. "You don't know what or who you are. That is what intrigues me. You are unformed, like common clay."
"I am not common!" I retorted. "My father was a solicitor and my grandfather a doctor! They were both gentlemen, as am I!"
"You are a spoiled brat," said the Irishman. "Entranced by your own beauty and certain that you will always get your way. And, if you follow my instruction instead of that of the well-meaning but very limited Lady Percy, then you will certainly always get your way from any man and woman you desire. Except me, of course. Because I will always know what you really are."
I was gripped by a strange excitement. "Are you making an indecent proposition to me? Because I have had offers from many gentleman and a number of ladies as well. But I have turned them all down. I am not interested in such 'arrangements.'"
He leaned closer. I could feel his hot breath on my neck, smell his dark, musky cologne. "Are you afraid, little boy?"
"No," I swallowed. But I was. Afraid and thrilled.
"You should be, John," he said, his voice mesmerizing. "You have no idea of my power. Or of my grand plans. In your entire life you will never meet anyone who is my intellectual equal. I am offering you a chance at greatness. You will have more power, more wealth, more satisfaction than you have ever dreamed of. That is my promise. What does the mundane world have to offer you? A pittance! A small allowance on which to live. A dismal career as a solicitor like your boring father. A drab middle class female as wife. A hobbled little life. That is what you can expect. What a waste of beauty that would be! I collect beautiful things, you know. And you are extraordinarily beautiful."
"Turn here!" I cried out. "Please! My pensione is down that way!"
The Irishman gave the coachman the order and he turned. A few minutes later we stopped before the old building. It was very late and the street was dark and still.
He climbed out of the carriage and handed me down. "I will see you to your door."
"I'm not a schoolgirl," I said, tossing my head. "I can see myself."
"I said I will see you to your door," he repeated, almost threateningly.
In the entryway I fumbled with my key, but the Irishman seized me with an iron hand and shoved me against the rough plaster wall. I thought he was going to kiss me and I held my breath, expectantly.
But he didn't kiss me. He held me close to him. I could feel his member harden in his trousers as it pressed against me. His cold grey eyes were now hot and blazing with lust.
"I will have you, Johnny Lad," he whispered. "You may count upon it. I will have you, body and soul. Because I know what you want and what you need: a man who is everything to you -- friend, companion, comrade-in-arms, father, brother, and lover. Together we will defeat all our enemies and rule a dominion unseen by men without vision. Once I thought I had found my perfect soulmate, but he proved false. One day he will pay for that rejection. But you will not reject me, John. I will have you. I will be the first to possess you. And then I will always own you."
The tone of his voice terrified me even more than his words. I pushed him away. "Get your bloody hands off me! You're a madman!"
He stepped back and straightened his clothes. "Perhaps. But if this be madness, yet there is method in it, as the poet said. Adieu -- for now."
He returned to the carriage and the door slammed. I watched the conveyance clatter down the narrow street into the enveloping darkness.
The next day I left Rome as if the hounds of Hell were on my tail. I was not far wrong.
***