"Baker Street 17: A Small Glass of Burgundy"
After the comic relief of the last chapter, this one is more somber. It's
also the last flashback for the time being.
Title: "Baker Street 17: A Small Glass of Burgundy"
Author: Gaedhal
Pairing/Characters: Sherlock Holmes/Dr. John H. Watson; The Irishman, various servants.
Rating: R
Spoilers: None
Notes/Warnings: "Sherlock Holmes" (2009) Universe. Set before the Blackwood case.
Disclaimer: This is for fun, not profit. Enjoy.
Summary: A troubling dream.
First chapter here:
1. "A Walk to Regent's Park"
http://gaedhal.livejournal.com/367955.html
Previous chapter here:
16. "An Intimate Connection"
http://gaedhal.livejournal.com/376168.html
New Chapter here:
By Gaedhal
I had not had that dream for a long time, perhaps not in years. But I had it that night.
I do not know if Charles Griffith and his dilemma was on my mind, or if it was the proximity of Holmes in my bed, or some other confluence of memories and tangibilities that brought on the dream, but it came. We have no control over our thoughts in sleep and I had no control over this. But I do know that it was as real to me as when it happened so many years ago when I was only 18.
***
The house was a large one, a detached dwelling set back from the road and apart from any of its neighbors. The carriage pulled up to the door and a silent servant ushered us inside. There was a chill over the place and a hush, as if warmth and speech were strangers there. I saw a sitting room where a small fire was lit and began to move towards it, but the Irishman's iron hand gripped my shoulder like a vise.
"This way," he said, directing me to the stairway.
He walked me up to a large chamber. In that room was a fireplace, some nondescript furniture, a tall bookcase overflowing with thick tomes, and a curtained bed.
"My brother," I said in sudden panic. "He'll be coming home from his office soon. He'll wonder where I am."
"No, he will not," said the Irishman. "Has he ever wondered where you were? When you wandered about the Continent, alone? Or when you stayed out all night with your mistresses or gambling with your cronies at your club? Did he ever seek you out, concerned about your welfare?"
"No," I whispered. For it was true. My brother only seemed to notice me when I was in trouble, and then he simply wished I would go away and leave him in peace. And now I had truly gone away, but how far I could not then imagine.
"I will send him a note, telling him that you are visiting a friend and will be gone for a fortnight at least," said the Irishman. "You will sign this note."
"A fortnight?" I was standing by the fire, but my hands were like ice. "But I have brought no clothes with me. No possessions at all."
"That will be seen to," said the Irishman. He nodded to the silent servant, who left the room. "Whatever you need from now on, I will give to you."
The tone of his voice, the expression on his face, seized me with nameless dread. "Please! I will find a way to repay you," I pleaded. "I will go to a moneylender."
The Irishman went to the table and picked up a bottle of wine. A single delicate crystal glass stood, waiting to be filled -- but only one. "And what do you have of value as pledge for such a loan?"
"I..." I had nothing and he knew it. "Give me time! For God's sake!"
"Do you still believe in God?" he asked. "What a proper little Jesuit you would have made, Johnny Lad. But that would have been such a waste. You are much more suited to your new occupation. You have a composed exterior, but beneath that I perceive a restless and passionate nature. At least the females you have found pleasure with have been complimentary of your skills as a lover."
"They... they have?" My heart was in my throat.
"Yes," he continued. "The countess especially has been singing your praises to all her friends, but you know how the French are -- so effusive in their emotions. And the ladies at Madame Sophie's house in Lambeth are quite fond of you. I congratulate you on your taste in patronizing that establishment. Madame's girls are known for their cleanliness, if not their discretion."
"I don't have the pox, if that's what you mean!" I retorted. Too late I realized that if the Irishman did believe I was diseased, he might be put off. But I was not and he knew it. He seemed to know everything about me -- my health, my habits, even the women I had slept with.
"Yes, John," he said, reading my mind. "You have been my study lately. Ever since I saw you on the street in Florence."
"Florence? But we met in Rome," I said, confused.
"Yes, at Lady Percy's salon. But that is not where I first noticed you. That was in Florence. You were looking at the David, gazing on it with fascinated eyes. And I was gazing at you. I could not decide which was more beautiful -- the marble or you. But since I could not possess the statue -- carrying off that theft is beyond even my ability -- I vowed to possess you. So I bided my time, watching and waiting. You may have youth and beauty, my boy, but I have the gift of patience. And anticipation makes the consummation all the sweeter. ''Tis a consummation devoutly to be wish'd,' as the poet said."
"The consummation?" I recognized the quote. The Irishman loved to show off his knowledge of Shakespeare. But this quote referred to death. To self-slaughter. "To be or not to be." Under the circumstances I became even more afraid. I backed away, but there was nowhere to go. No escape. The windows were barred and the house infested with the Irishman's minions. I would look like a fool attempting to run.
"Here," he said, holding out a small glass of wine. "This is quite a fine burgundy. You will find it relaxing, I'm sure."
"I... I'm not thirsty." Now I was sweating. How can one be hot and cold at the same time?
The Irishman's eyes never wavered from mine. "I advise you to drink it. All of it."
I took the glass.
As soon as I had taken one sip I knew it was drugged, but I finished it anyway. Rather drugged senseless than to be fully aware and fighting a battle I was bound to lose. For there was no point in fighting. If this consummation had happened in another way, at another time, another place, I might not have been fighting it at all. That I was attracted to the Irishman was not in doubt. He was magnetic, even mesmerizing. I often wondered if he used a form of the hypnotic arts to lure men into doing his will -- the power of his mind was certainly strong enough. Still, this was not the way I would have chosen to meet my fate. Unfortunately, that choice was not mine to make.
I had never been under the influence of an opiate before and found the experience terrifying in itself. For I was not senseless -- in fact, I was all too aware of what was happening to me. But it was as if I were under water, trying to swim through a morass of vivid greens and blues, like I was breathing a fetid but enticing swamp.
The Irishman deftly stripped off my clothes and pushed me back onto the curtained bed. I flailed at him, but he was like a phantom, everywhere and nowhere. And he had me in every way possible and then he had me again, and yet again, but he was a hazy presence, the pleasure and the pain muted.
"You are more beautiful than I had imagined, Johnny Lad," he crooned as he caressed me afterwards. "I am intoxicated by you. Possessing you is a privilege I will not take for granted. You will be cherished, as you well deserve. And no one else will ever have you again. I will keep you safe and sound, I promise you that, my beauty."
His foggy words brought me little comfort. I was sick in body and in my soul and only wanted the world to end that night. And it did -- but not in the way I understood an ending.
I awoke in the morning, aching in every part, inside and out. And aching in my heart. What was my life to be from now on? Would the Irishman have his pleasure and then release me? Perhaps I could then forget it had ever happened. Perhaps my seminary would accept me back -- I could repent of my sins and beg forgiveness. I could hide there, away from my shame. And not just the shame of being violated in a way no man can be and still be a man.
For my other, greater shame was that I knew I wanted to do this and wanted it done to me. And that the Irishman had discerned that desire and brought it to light. Because I could not deny that my body had roused to him, eagerly meeting his ministrations with a response that dwarfed my experience with women, as delightful as that had always been. My body -- my prick and my arse and my mouth -- had betrayed me, even as my mind fought and lost.
I spent that first day in bed, hiding my face, refusing food. Another servant, a female this time, came and brought me water to wash and a clean nightshirt and a blue silk dressing gown. She told me to put it on.
"The master picked this out himself," she cackled, showing a row of broken teeth. "Said it matched your pretty eyes!"
"I won't," I said, remaining in the deep bed.
"Suit yourself," she shrugged. "But you'll come around. You should cheer up, young gentleman. I never saw the master take so to anyone. He's quite besotted, he is. You could have anything you desired. He's wealthier that you can imagine, although he don't put on airs."
"I don't care," I said, turning my head to the wall.
But then a thought came to me. Perhaps if I enlisted her to my cause, she might help me? Might see her way to letting me escape?
Then I looked at her face. She was laughing at me. She was as heartless as the Irishman. They all were. No one cared what happened to me, not even my own brother, so why should this woman take pity? I cried, but still she laughed. I thought of ways to kill myself, but I knew I would not do it. "A consummation devoutly to be wished." But I was a coward. I was a child. I wanted my life -- but I wanted it on my own terms, not the Irishman's. He was besotted with me, she'd said. Perhaps there was still time, still hope...
I got out of the bed and washed while she changed the dirty linen on which I'd been broken in. When I was clean, I put on the silk dressing gown and looked at myself in the mirror. I was still the same as I'd been before -- my face still smooth, my hair in golden curls, and my eyes as blue as the Italian sky. But now I knew what I was, what I was born to be. Not a priest, or a solicitor, or a physician, or a even worthless layabout. I was a whore. A thing to be used by men stronger and greater than myself.
And when the Irishman was done with me, another, lesser man would probably take me up, and so it would go. I'd seen it happen to women and I had pitied them. But I vowed not to pity myself. I vowed to find some way to survive without becoming something that the world would despise.
The Irishman came back in the early evening. He poured me a small glass of burgundy, just like the first one.
"Drink this," he said.
"No," I replied. "I don't need to." I dropped my blue dressing gown on the floor, revealing myself. There was nothing else to do.
And the Irishman smiled.
He took me. And took me again. Took me until I was begging for more. Took me on the bed and on the divan and on the floor, until we were both spent.
"I knew you were mine, Johnny Lad," he whispered. "Body and soul. I'll never let you go. Never. Never. Never..."
***
"Never!" I cried. "Never!"
"Watson! Please wake up!"
I opened my eyes and saw Holmes' face. "Thank God!" I sobbed. "Thank God!"
"Are you ill, my dear boy?" he asked gently. "Let me get you a drink..."
"No," I said. "I don't need a drink. Only let me breathe for a moment."
"Here." He got up and poured me some cold tea from the pot on the silver tray. "One sip. Slowly."
I let the tea slip down my throat. "Thank you. I am sorry to have been so much trouble."
"A nightmare," he stated, getting back into bed. "Do you want to tell me about it?"
"No." I shook my head.
"Afghanistan?" He was holding me up, his strong arm under me.
"No."
"You used to have them all the time when you first came to Baker Street," he said. "I would hear you cry out in the night in your room, but I didn't think it my place to go to you. I read in the 'Lancet' that men who have been wounded in war often have night terrors for a long time after their physical wounds have healed."
"I did have those terrors," I said. "When the battle would return to me and wake me. It was all too real. Even now those mountains will come back to me and I'll awake in an icy sweat."
"Never fear, my dear friend," said Holmes said. "For you are the bravest man I have ever known."
"Then you don't know me at all," I replied. "For I am not brave. I am not even fully a man. That is my fate. And my curse."
"Rubbish!" he uttered. "You are speaking nonsense. I am a consummate judge of character and I long ago I decided you are the most desirable of companions, for your bravery and for all of the manly virtues I hold in high esteem. So don't tell me that I don't know you. I have said before that I know everything I need to know about you. I have already selected you out of all other fellows as my perfect associate and partner. I wouldn't have lived with you all these years and shared my professional secrets with you if I didn't trust you with my very life. What more could any man ask for?"
"Nothing," I said, sitting up. "I beg your indulgence, Holmes, but I think you should go back to your own room now."
"Why ever for?" Holmes frowned. "It is almost dawn. In a few hours we can have a hearty breakfast and then face the major and his son over at Campton Grange. I have a theory about this case..."
"There is no case," I pointed out. "Major Griffith is unlikely to hire you to find his son's blackmailer, especially since you quarreled with him and he undoubtedly thinks you are a damned conceited ass."
"Well, I am a damned conceited ass. That is part of my charm," Holmes sniffed. "If the major does not engage my services, then I will undertake the investigation on behalf of Young Charles, forgoing my usual fee. The Griffiths are old family friends, after all. Now, go back to sleep. I'll be deuced if I'm going to crawl through that freezing passageway at this hour of the night when this bed is so cozy and warm!"
"Very well." I set the teacup on the tray and lay back down. Holmes nestled deeply into the bed, grunting in a way that reminded me of Gladstone. I closed my eyes, praying that the dream would not return.
"If it wasn't Afghanistan, then what was it, my dear boy?"
Holmes never lets anything go once he smells a mystery.
"Something I don't discuss," I said. "Something I cannot discuss. Ever. Not with you, not with any living being."
"You can trust me, John," he whispered. "As I trust you."
Little did he know how much I wanted to unburden myself to him, but I could not. "It isn't about trust. I cannot explain. Let it go. Please?"
"Another time then," he said, turning over on his side. In a moment he was snoring.
"No," I said to myself. "Never."
***
also the last flashback for the time being.
Title: "Baker Street 17: A Small Glass of Burgundy"
Author: Gaedhal
Pairing/Characters: Sherlock Holmes/Dr. John H. Watson; The Irishman, various servants.
Rating: R
Spoilers: None
Notes/Warnings: "Sherlock Holmes" (2009) Universe. Set before the Blackwood case.
Disclaimer: This is for fun, not profit. Enjoy.
Summary: A troubling dream.
First chapter here:
1. "A Walk to Regent's Park"
http://gaedhal.livejournal.com/367955.html
Previous chapter here:
16. "An Intimate Connection"
http://gaedhal.livejournal.com/376168.html
New Chapter here:
By Gaedhal
I had not had that dream for a long time, perhaps not in years. But I had it that night.
I do not know if Charles Griffith and his dilemma was on my mind, or if it was the proximity of Holmes in my bed, or some other confluence of memories and tangibilities that brought on the dream, but it came. We have no control over our thoughts in sleep and I had no control over this. But I do know that it was as real to me as when it happened so many years ago when I was only 18.
***
The house was a large one, a detached dwelling set back from the road and apart from any of its neighbors. The carriage pulled up to the door and a silent servant ushered us inside. There was a chill over the place and a hush, as if warmth and speech were strangers there. I saw a sitting room where a small fire was lit and began to move towards it, but the Irishman's iron hand gripped my shoulder like a vise.
"This way," he said, directing me to the stairway.
He walked me up to a large chamber. In that room was a fireplace, some nondescript furniture, a tall bookcase overflowing with thick tomes, and a curtained bed.
"My brother," I said in sudden panic. "He'll be coming home from his office soon. He'll wonder where I am."
"No, he will not," said the Irishman. "Has he ever wondered where you were? When you wandered about the Continent, alone? Or when you stayed out all night with your mistresses or gambling with your cronies at your club? Did he ever seek you out, concerned about your welfare?"
"No," I whispered. For it was true. My brother only seemed to notice me when I was in trouble, and then he simply wished I would go away and leave him in peace. And now I had truly gone away, but how far I could not then imagine.
"I will send him a note, telling him that you are visiting a friend and will be gone for a fortnight at least," said the Irishman. "You will sign this note."
"A fortnight?" I was standing by the fire, but my hands were like ice. "But I have brought no clothes with me. No possessions at all."
"That will be seen to," said the Irishman. He nodded to the silent servant, who left the room. "Whatever you need from now on, I will give to you."
The tone of his voice, the expression on his face, seized me with nameless dread. "Please! I will find a way to repay you," I pleaded. "I will go to a moneylender."
The Irishman went to the table and picked up a bottle of wine. A single delicate crystal glass stood, waiting to be filled -- but only one. "And what do you have of value as pledge for such a loan?"
"I..." I had nothing and he knew it. "Give me time! For God's sake!"
"Do you still believe in God?" he asked. "What a proper little Jesuit you would have made, Johnny Lad. But that would have been such a waste. You are much more suited to your new occupation. You have a composed exterior, but beneath that I perceive a restless and passionate nature. At least the females you have found pleasure with have been complimentary of your skills as a lover."
"They... they have?" My heart was in my throat.
"Yes," he continued. "The countess especially has been singing your praises to all her friends, but you know how the French are -- so effusive in their emotions. And the ladies at Madame Sophie's house in Lambeth are quite fond of you. I congratulate you on your taste in patronizing that establishment. Madame's girls are known for their cleanliness, if not their discretion."
"I don't have the pox, if that's what you mean!" I retorted. Too late I realized that if the Irishman did believe I was diseased, he might be put off. But I was not and he knew it. He seemed to know everything about me -- my health, my habits, even the women I had slept with.
"Yes, John," he said, reading my mind. "You have been my study lately. Ever since I saw you on the street in Florence."
"Florence? But we met in Rome," I said, confused.
"Yes, at Lady Percy's salon. But that is not where I first noticed you. That was in Florence. You were looking at the David, gazing on it with fascinated eyes. And I was gazing at you. I could not decide which was more beautiful -- the marble or you. But since I could not possess the statue -- carrying off that theft is beyond even my ability -- I vowed to possess you. So I bided my time, watching and waiting. You may have youth and beauty, my boy, but I have the gift of patience. And anticipation makes the consummation all the sweeter. ''Tis a consummation devoutly to be wish'd,' as the poet said."
"The consummation?" I recognized the quote. The Irishman loved to show off his knowledge of Shakespeare. But this quote referred to death. To self-slaughter. "To be or not to be." Under the circumstances I became even more afraid. I backed away, but there was nowhere to go. No escape. The windows were barred and the house infested with the Irishman's minions. I would look like a fool attempting to run.
"Here," he said, holding out a small glass of wine. "This is quite a fine burgundy. You will find it relaxing, I'm sure."
"I... I'm not thirsty." Now I was sweating. How can one be hot and cold at the same time?
The Irishman's eyes never wavered from mine. "I advise you to drink it. All of it."
I took the glass.
As soon as I had taken one sip I knew it was drugged, but I finished it anyway. Rather drugged senseless than to be fully aware and fighting a battle I was bound to lose. For there was no point in fighting. If this consummation had happened in another way, at another time, another place, I might not have been fighting it at all. That I was attracted to the Irishman was not in doubt. He was magnetic, even mesmerizing. I often wondered if he used a form of the hypnotic arts to lure men into doing his will -- the power of his mind was certainly strong enough. Still, this was not the way I would have chosen to meet my fate. Unfortunately, that choice was not mine to make.
I had never been under the influence of an opiate before and found the experience terrifying in itself. For I was not senseless -- in fact, I was all too aware of what was happening to me. But it was as if I were under water, trying to swim through a morass of vivid greens and blues, like I was breathing a fetid but enticing swamp.
The Irishman deftly stripped off my clothes and pushed me back onto the curtained bed. I flailed at him, but he was like a phantom, everywhere and nowhere. And he had me in every way possible and then he had me again, and yet again, but he was a hazy presence, the pleasure and the pain muted.
"You are more beautiful than I had imagined, Johnny Lad," he crooned as he caressed me afterwards. "I am intoxicated by you. Possessing you is a privilege I will not take for granted. You will be cherished, as you well deserve. And no one else will ever have you again. I will keep you safe and sound, I promise you that, my beauty."
His foggy words brought me little comfort. I was sick in body and in my soul and only wanted the world to end that night. And it did -- but not in the way I understood an ending.
I awoke in the morning, aching in every part, inside and out. And aching in my heart. What was my life to be from now on? Would the Irishman have his pleasure and then release me? Perhaps I could then forget it had ever happened. Perhaps my seminary would accept me back -- I could repent of my sins and beg forgiveness. I could hide there, away from my shame. And not just the shame of being violated in a way no man can be and still be a man.
For my other, greater shame was that I knew I wanted to do this and wanted it done to me. And that the Irishman had discerned that desire and brought it to light. Because I could not deny that my body had roused to him, eagerly meeting his ministrations with a response that dwarfed my experience with women, as delightful as that had always been. My body -- my prick and my arse and my mouth -- had betrayed me, even as my mind fought and lost.
I spent that first day in bed, hiding my face, refusing food. Another servant, a female this time, came and brought me water to wash and a clean nightshirt and a blue silk dressing gown. She told me to put it on.
"The master picked this out himself," she cackled, showing a row of broken teeth. "Said it matched your pretty eyes!"
"I won't," I said, remaining in the deep bed.
"Suit yourself," she shrugged. "But you'll come around. You should cheer up, young gentleman. I never saw the master take so to anyone. He's quite besotted, he is. You could have anything you desired. He's wealthier that you can imagine, although he don't put on airs."
"I don't care," I said, turning my head to the wall.
But then a thought came to me. Perhaps if I enlisted her to my cause, she might help me? Might see her way to letting me escape?
Then I looked at her face. She was laughing at me. She was as heartless as the Irishman. They all were. No one cared what happened to me, not even my own brother, so why should this woman take pity? I cried, but still she laughed. I thought of ways to kill myself, but I knew I would not do it. "A consummation devoutly to be wished." But I was a coward. I was a child. I wanted my life -- but I wanted it on my own terms, not the Irishman's. He was besotted with me, she'd said. Perhaps there was still time, still hope...
I got out of the bed and washed while she changed the dirty linen on which I'd been broken in. When I was clean, I put on the silk dressing gown and looked at myself in the mirror. I was still the same as I'd been before -- my face still smooth, my hair in golden curls, and my eyes as blue as the Italian sky. But now I knew what I was, what I was born to be. Not a priest, or a solicitor, or a physician, or a even worthless layabout. I was a whore. A thing to be used by men stronger and greater than myself.
And when the Irishman was done with me, another, lesser man would probably take me up, and so it would go. I'd seen it happen to women and I had pitied them. But I vowed not to pity myself. I vowed to find some way to survive without becoming something that the world would despise.
The Irishman came back in the early evening. He poured me a small glass of burgundy, just like the first one.
"Drink this," he said.
"No," I replied. "I don't need to." I dropped my blue dressing gown on the floor, revealing myself. There was nothing else to do.
And the Irishman smiled.
He took me. And took me again. Took me until I was begging for more. Took me on the bed and on the divan and on the floor, until we were both spent.
"I knew you were mine, Johnny Lad," he whispered. "Body and soul. I'll never let you go. Never. Never. Never..."
***
"Never!" I cried. "Never!"
"Watson! Please wake up!"
I opened my eyes and saw Holmes' face. "Thank God!" I sobbed. "Thank God!"
"Are you ill, my dear boy?" he asked gently. "Let me get you a drink..."
"No," I said. "I don't need a drink. Only let me breathe for a moment."
"Here." He got up and poured me some cold tea from the pot on the silver tray. "One sip. Slowly."
I let the tea slip down my throat. "Thank you. I am sorry to have been so much trouble."
"A nightmare," he stated, getting back into bed. "Do you want to tell me about it?"
"No." I shook my head.
"Afghanistan?" He was holding me up, his strong arm under me.
"No."
"You used to have them all the time when you first came to Baker Street," he said. "I would hear you cry out in the night in your room, but I didn't think it my place to go to you. I read in the 'Lancet' that men who have been wounded in war often have night terrors for a long time after their physical wounds have healed."
"I did have those terrors," I said. "When the battle would return to me and wake me. It was all too real. Even now those mountains will come back to me and I'll awake in an icy sweat."
"Never fear, my dear friend," said Holmes said. "For you are the bravest man I have ever known."
"Then you don't know me at all," I replied. "For I am not brave. I am not even fully a man. That is my fate. And my curse."
"Rubbish!" he uttered. "You are speaking nonsense. I am a consummate judge of character and I long ago I decided you are the most desirable of companions, for your bravery and for all of the manly virtues I hold in high esteem. So don't tell me that I don't know you. I have said before that I know everything I need to know about you. I have already selected you out of all other fellows as my perfect associate and partner. I wouldn't have lived with you all these years and shared my professional secrets with you if I didn't trust you with my very life. What more could any man ask for?"
"Nothing," I said, sitting up. "I beg your indulgence, Holmes, but I think you should go back to your own room now."
"Why ever for?" Holmes frowned. "It is almost dawn. In a few hours we can have a hearty breakfast and then face the major and his son over at Campton Grange. I have a theory about this case..."
"There is no case," I pointed out. "Major Griffith is unlikely to hire you to find his son's blackmailer, especially since you quarreled with him and he undoubtedly thinks you are a damned conceited ass."
"Well, I am a damned conceited ass. That is part of my charm," Holmes sniffed. "If the major does not engage my services, then I will undertake the investigation on behalf of Young Charles, forgoing my usual fee. The Griffiths are old family friends, after all. Now, go back to sleep. I'll be deuced if I'm going to crawl through that freezing passageway at this hour of the night when this bed is so cozy and warm!"
"Very well." I set the teacup on the tray and lay back down. Holmes nestled deeply into the bed, grunting in a way that reminded me of Gladstone. I closed my eyes, praying that the dream would not return.
"If it wasn't Afghanistan, then what was it, my dear boy?"
Holmes never lets anything go once he smells a mystery.
"Something I don't discuss," I said. "Something I cannot discuss. Ever. Not with you, not with any living being."
"You can trust me, John," he whispered. "As I trust you."
Little did he know how much I wanted to unburden myself to him, but I could not. "It isn't about trust. I cannot explain. Let it go. Please?"
"Another time then," he said, turning over on his side. In a moment he was snoring.
"No," I said to myself. "Never."
***