"Baker Street 15: A Bargain with the Devil"
A sticky situation doesn't even begin to cover it...
Title: "Baker Street 15: A Bargain with the Devil"
Author: Gaedhal
Pairing/Characters: Sherlock Holmes/Dr. John H. Watson; 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 finds himself in a difficult situation.
First chapter here:
1. "A Walk to Regent's Park"
http://gaedhal.livejournal.com/367955.html
Previous chapter here:
14. "A Recollection of a Wayward Youth"
http://gaedhal.livejournal.com/375444.html
New Chapter here:
By Gaedhal
Getting into the carriage with the Irishman was my first mistake. It would not be my last.
"How did you find me?" I asked with trepidation.
He laughed. "You leave a trail a mile wide, as they say in America. I looked for places where a imprudent young man might waste his time and lose his money -- and there you were."
I tried to discern a purpose in his eyes, but they were veiled to me. "Yes, I have been reckless," I conceded. "And now I am in arrears. I confess I don't know where to turn."
The Irishman leaned back against the leather seat and carefully lit one of his long French cigarettes. He did not offer me one. He silently smoked for some moments, gazing out the window at the passing streets.
"Might you drop me here?" I asked. "My brother's house is along this way."
"You seem to think I am a hired cab," said the Irishman. "I remember dropping you off at another destination after we first met. Do you recall that evening?"
"Yes. I recall it." I also recalled his hot breath on my face. And his hard manhood pressing against my thigh.
"You have left debts all over this city," he continued. "They are not substantial obligations, as such things are understood."
"They are substantial to me. For they are beyond my means to repay." My heart was pounding now. The carriage was driving on, out of Kensington and into the northern part of town.
"You should never gamble beyond your ability, John," he said. "Or with your betters. I also seem to recall that you knew little of cards when you were in Rome. You did not even recognize that the men were playing poker, yet you staked your meagre fortune on the turn of these same cards."
I swallowed. It was difficult to be tutored in the truth by a man I judged to be without scruples or mercy. "I sometimes won. On days when I felt luck was with me."
The Irishman's grey eyes flashed with anger. "Luck! You would lay your life upon luck? Luck is for the weak of mind. Luck is for women. Luck is for those doomed to lose."
"But you gamble," I retorted. "You told me so yourself."
"I never gamble," he corrected me. "I place wagers, but only when I am assured I will be the winner."
"In other words, you cheat!" I crossed my arms before me, assured that I had him at last.
"I do not need to cheat," he said. "Cheating is for those who don't have the brains to win in the only way that matters -- by using reason. By using logic. And by using mathematics. I win because I follow the cards. I calculate all the possibilities. I don't guess which way the cards fall -- I know."
"That's impossible!" I stated. I had learned enough mathematics from the Jesuits to knew that what the Irishman was claiming was beyond the scope of the mind of a mere mortal. Or most mortals. "Even a prodigy would not be able to perform in such a manner!"
"I can," he said simply. "For I am a prodigy. I could do advanced calculations from the cradle. My mind is like a machine -- if such a machine for calculating existed. It does not -- yet -- but I do. And I am not the only one who can do this. I have, in my travels, met two others whose minds can almost match my own -- almost. It must be a trick of lineage, for they are brothers. Perhaps we three are related through some far distant ancestor. That would truly be an irony. So you see that I do not believe in luck. However..." he paused significantly. "I am Irish, which means I do believe in fate."
"Fate?" Something inside me went cold.
"Destiny. Kismet, as the Mohammedan would say. I believe that certain things are determined by a higher power. Certain meetings. Certain successes and failures. And that certain people are bound by fate to rule over others."
This sounded like superstitious nonsense, even more dubious from a man so invested in reason. "You mean kings and queens? And not those in a deck of cards."
"Kings and queens are mere figureheads these days, Johnny Lad," he said dismissively. "The true power of the material world lies in the hands of men whose names will never be known, whose faces will never be seen. Such men do not seek notoriety. They eschew mere fame. They gain power and wealth by their very invisibility."
"You speak of criminals," I pronounced. "The underworld. Men without morals or respect for society!"
"Respect for society?" he scoffed. "What is society but a stew of hypocrisy?" The Irishman smiled at me. "Were the men you gambled with moral? Were the boys you caroused with respectful and full of good will? And what about yourself, Johnny Lad? Who are you to lecture me on the wages of sin? A young pup who is as green as the grass. A boy who believes that dressing in silk waistcoats and sleeping with dim-witted females is the be-all and end-all of life's purpose. You should have stayed safe in your seminary. At least there you would have had a purpose and a belief, however wrongheaded it may be. Now what do you have? Nothing at all. You don't even have a friend you could go to when you were in despair. Not even your own brother cares a groat whether you live or die. If those ruffians who threatened you yesterday had slit your throat, would a single person on this earth have truly mourned you? Tell me the truth."
My eyes went wide. "How do you know about those men?"
"I know about them because I know who sent them -- and why," he replied. "They are little men -- or they were, for they no longer walk this vale of tears."
"What the devil do you mean?" I cried. "What happened to them?"
"They threatened you, John. With this." He produced a stiletto from within the folds of his black frock coat. "They might have damaged you and I cannot allow that. They went too far. They were supposed only to frighten you, not to touch you. Your beauty is too precious to me. And so they had to be taught a lesson. A last and fatal lesson."
"You... you... killed them?" I stammered. But even as I said the words I knew they were true.
"I did not," said the Irishman. "I don't need to kill. I have others who perform such deeds -- if they need performing."
"But... I thought those men were from the gaming club?" I said. My mind was spinning wildly.
"That they were. But they were thugs for hire. Such fellows are clumsy and I detest clumsiness. Here. I give you back these." He took a sheaf of papers from his coat. "It was beyond foolish to rack them up. Pray do not do it again."
I stared at the slips of paper. They were my markers from the gambling establishment in the City. And also from my gentlemen's club in Belgravia, and from three different bookmakers. And bills from my tailor and various haberdasheries in the West End. All paid in full.
The Irishman had settled my debts.
Now I owed him. Owed him more than my miserable life was worth to anyone.
I crumpled the paper in my hands.
"I cannot repay you."
"Of course you can, John," said the Irishman in his softest voice. "You will begin tonight."
***
Title: "Baker Street 15: A Bargain with the Devil"
Author: Gaedhal
Pairing/Characters: Sherlock Holmes/Dr. John H. Watson; 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 finds himself in a difficult situation.
First chapter here:
1. "A Walk to Regent's Park"
http://gaedhal.livejournal.com/367955.html
Previous chapter here:
14. "A Recollection of a Wayward Youth"
http://gaedhal.livejournal.com/375444.html
New Chapter here:
By Gaedhal
Getting into the carriage with the Irishman was my first mistake. It would not be my last.
"How did you find me?" I asked with trepidation.
He laughed. "You leave a trail a mile wide, as they say in America. I looked for places where a imprudent young man might waste his time and lose his money -- and there you were."
I tried to discern a purpose in his eyes, but they were veiled to me. "Yes, I have been reckless," I conceded. "And now I am in arrears. I confess I don't know where to turn."
The Irishman leaned back against the leather seat and carefully lit one of his long French cigarettes. He did not offer me one. He silently smoked for some moments, gazing out the window at the passing streets.
"Might you drop me here?" I asked. "My brother's house is along this way."
"You seem to think I am a hired cab," said the Irishman. "I remember dropping you off at another destination after we first met. Do you recall that evening?"
"Yes. I recall it." I also recalled his hot breath on my face. And his hard manhood pressing against my thigh.
"You have left debts all over this city," he continued. "They are not substantial obligations, as such things are understood."
"They are substantial to me. For they are beyond my means to repay." My heart was pounding now. The carriage was driving on, out of Kensington and into the northern part of town.
"You should never gamble beyond your ability, John," he said. "Or with your betters. I also seem to recall that you knew little of cards when you were in Rome. You did not even recognize that the men were playing poker, yet you staked your meagre fortune on the turn of these same cards."
I swallowed. It was difficult to be tutored in the truth by a man I judged to be without scruples or mercy. "I sometimes won. On days when I felt luck was with me."
The Irishman's grey eyes flashed with anger. "Luck! You would lay your life upon luck? Luck is for the weak of mind. Luck is for women. Luck is for those doomed to lose."
"But you gamble," I retorted. "You told me so yourself."
"I never gamble," he corrected me. "I place wagers, but only when I am assured I will be the winner."
"In other words, you cheat!" I crossed my arms before me, assured that I had him at last.
"I do not need to cheat," he said. "Cheating is for those who don't have the brains to win in the only way that matters -- by using reason. By using logic. And by using mathematics. I win because I follow the cards. I calculate all the possibilities. I don't guess which way the cards fall -- I know."
"That's impossible!" I stated. I had learned enough mathematics from the Jesuits to knew that what the Irishman was claiming was beyond the scope of the mind of a mere mortal. Or most mortals. "Even a prodigy would not be able to perform in such a manner!"
"I can," he said simply. "For I am a prodigy. I could do advanced calculations from the cradle. My mind is like a machine -- if such a machine for calculating existed. It does not -- yet -- but I do. And I am not the only one who can do this. I have, in my travels, met two others whose minds can almost match my own -- almost. It must be a trick of lineage, for they are brothers. Perhaps we three are related through some far distant ancestor. That would truly be an irony. So you see that I do not believe in luck. However..." he paused significantly. "I am Irish, which means I do believe in fate."
"Fate?" Something inside me went cold.
"Destiny. Kismet, as the Mohammedan would say. I believe that certain things are determined by a higher power. Certain meetings. Certain successes and failures. And that certain people are bound by fate to rule over others."
This sounded like superstitious nonsense, even more dubious from a man so invested in reason. "You mean kings and queens? And not those in a deck of cards."
"Kings and queens are mere figureheads these days, Johnny Lad," he said dismissively. "The true power of the material world lies in the hands of men whose names will never be known, whose faces will never be seen. Such men do not seek notoriety. They eschew mere fame. They gain power and wealth by their very invisibility."
"You speak of criminals," I pronounced. "The underworld. Men without morals or respect for society!"
"Respect for society?" he scoffed. "What is society but a stew of hypocrisy?" The Irishman smiled at me. "Were the men you gambled with moral? Were the boys you caroused with respectful and full of good will? And what about yourself, Johnny Lad? Who are you to lecture me on the wages of sin? A young pup who is as green as the grass. A boy who believes that dressing in silk waistcoats and sleeping with dim-witted females is the be-all and end-all of life's purpose. You should have stayed safe in your seminary. At least there you would have had a purpose and a belief, however wrongheaded it may be. Now what do you have? Nothing at all. You don't even have a friend you could go to when you were in despair. Not even your own brother cares a groat whether you live or die. If those ruffians who threatened you yesterday had slit your throat, would a single person on this earth have truly mourned you? Tell me the truth."
My eyes went wide. "How do you know about those men?"
"I know about them because I know who sent them -- and why," he replied. "They are little men -- or they were, for they no longer walk this vale of tears."
"What the devil do you mean?" I cried. "What happened to them?"
"They threatened you, John. With this." He produced a stiletto from within the folds of his black frock coat. "They might have damaged you and I cannot allow that. They went too far. They were supposed only to frighten you, not to touch you. Your beauty is too precious to me. And so they had to be taught a lesson. A last and fatal lesson."
"You... you... killed them?" I stammered. But even as I said the words I knew they were true.
"I did not," said the Irishman. "I don't need to kill. I have others who perform such deeds -- if they need performing."
"But... I thought those men were from the gaming club?" I said. My mind was spinning wildly.
"That they were. But they were thugs for hire. Such fellows are clumsy and I detest clumsiness. Here. I give you back these." He took a sheaf of papers from his coat. "It was beyond foolish to rack them up. Pray do not do it again."
I stared at the slips of paper. They were my markers from the gambling establishment in the City. And also from my gentlemen's club in Belgravia, and from three different bookmakers. And bills from my tailor and various haberdasheries in the West End. All paid in full.
The Irishman had settled my debts.
Now I owed him. Owed him more than my miserable life was worth to anyone.
I crumpled the paper in my hands.
"I cannot repay you."
"Of course you can, John," said the Irishman in his softest voice. "You will begin tonight."
***