Title: Mad, Bad and Dangerous to Know (or, Sherlock Gets His Byron On.) Chapter One.
No. 4 of the Indestructible Series
Author: ghislainem70
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1809
Warnings: Explicit sex, BDSM scenarios, graphic depictions of violence (entire work)
Summary: A quasi-AU. Sherlock becomes the obsession of a reclusive millionaire when he is cast as Lord Byron in a reality show; John is cast as Dr John Polidori. A dark journey that changes them both.
(Note: This fic is my tribute to the National Theatre's production of Frankenstein and Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, or The Modern Prometheus; I saw BCC's last two performances as The Creature and Victor Frankenstein in London, my impressions on that:
here.
This fic's title comes from Byron's lover, Lady Caroline Lamb's, famous assessment of Lord
Byron: "Mad, bad and dangerous to know.")
This case!fic/mashup stands alone, but is the fourth in an unfinished series of adventures. In order, they are:
1. Promised the Dark; or, Indestructible:
http://ghislainem70.livejournal.com/13592.html; 3. Full Fathom Five; or, the Torment:
http://ghislainem70.livejournal.com/14066.html; and 4. Wormwood:
http://ghislainem70.livejournal.com/14183.html Disclaimer: I own nothing. All honours to Messrs Gatiss, Moffat, BBC et al. The works Byron, Shelley, Mary Shelley, John Polidori, "Monk" Lewis as referenced or quoted herein are theirs, not mine
Mad, Bad and Dangerous. Chapter One.
"Have you ever watched ‘Regency House Party?’" Sherlock inquired. John was mystified.
"I don’t think we got that one in Afghanistan," he deadpanned.
Irene Adler had invited Sherlock to participate in the filming of a reality show in Switzerland. It was to be based upon the famous summer of 1816, in which Lord Byron, Percy Bysshe Shelley, Mary Shelley, Mary’s half-sister and Byron’s lover Claire Clairmont, and Byron’s personal doctor and confidante Dr. John Polidori, all summered at the Villa Diodati at Lake Geneva.
The summer of 1816, which came to be known as the "Haunted Summer," was a momentous one in English literature: Mary Shelly penned there the immortal novel "Frankenstein, or, the Modern Prometheus."
And also, during which Polidori wrote the first vampire story, presaging Dracula: "The Vampyre." Lord Byron made important additions to "Childe Harold" and brought forth the "Prisoner of Chillon." Bysshe Shelley completed the poems "Hymn to Intellectual Beauty" and "Mont Blanc."
Sherlock had a copy of Regency House Party on DVD, a gift from Irene, who after her triumphant turn as Ophelia in Hamlet had just been cast as Mary Shelley, the plum role in this new reality series. It was to be filmed in Switzerland, Lake Geneva, in the actual villa that had been the scene of the birth of "Frankenstein" - the Villa Diodati. Sherlock and John had a little over a week to prepare and travel to Geneva.
* * *
Sherlock and John settled down to watch. John was astounded, and was soon roaring with laughter, tears rolling down his cheeks.
"You’re not serious!! We’re going to be wearing tight breeches and waistcoats! Wigs? No, no, no!!! You didn’t tell me this when we agreed to go," John said darkly, realizing that he was getting the bad end of the bargain.
Sherlock had agreed to go, to play Byron, on the stipulation that John could come as well and be cast in the role of Doctor Polidori. And the entire trip was a bargain between Sherlock on the one hand, and Mycroft and John on the other; a trip to a private villa in Switzerland and a little amateur theatrics, or, in the alternative, a lengthy stay in a discreet private rehab facility as penance for his recent cocaine overdose.
Sherlock was not laughing. He was staring with great concentration at the screen, absorbing detail after detail in his sponge-like brain cells. He had a biography of Byron in his lap that he was scanning at the same time.
John sighed. Other than actual crime solving, there was nothing that stirred Sherlock’s blood more than the opportunity to play-act, to adopt another personality. This would be a welcome distraction after their recent struggles with near-death at the hand of the ever-inventive, inexhaustible Jim Moriarty.
Sherlock cried out: "Utterly fantastic!! Listen to this, John:
"A very interesting small-sword duel took place between Lord Byron (that’s the grandfather, John, he was called "The Wicked Lord;") and a Mr. Chaworth. These gentlemen were dining at the Star and Garter Tavern in Pall Mall, heated words were exchanged; Mr. Chaworth turned to find Lord Byron ready with his sword drawn, and who exclaimed, "Draw!" Chaworth complied, and thrust immediately; Byron returned the thrust, giving him a wound. A surgeon was sent for, and pronounced the wound a fatal one. Chaworth declared that although he was to die, he would rather be in that circumstance, than to live under the misfortune of having killed another person. The House of Lords found Lord Byron ‘not guilty of the felony of murder, but manslaughter.’"
"And look, John, Lord Byron - our poet-- was never to be seen without a short sword of his own, concealed in his walking stick. This is brilliant!
"I shall take fencing lessons," he declared, his eyes gleaming.
* * *
Sherlock came home to the flat the next day bearing a quantity of new gear: padded fencing jacket, close-fitting fencing trousers, a foil, an epee, a sabre, and fencing mask. He had started private fencing lessons, and had just finished his first session, he announced.
When Sherlock emerged a bit later from the shower, pleasantly warm and damp and wearing John’s favorite blue robe, John grabbed his hand and pulled him down onto the much-abused sofa. John commenced kissing his way from neck down to chest, and stopped abruptly.
Sherlock’s chest was marked with a small quantity of small, perfectly round fresh bruises. John parted the robe to take a closer look.
"Fencing. Foil. I need to get up to speed; Gerald got in far too many touches today." Sherlock’s face radiated determination. John was transfixed by the bruises, touching them gently. Sherlock said dismissively, "It’s nothing, they don’t hurt."
John placed his palm over the bruises and looked into Sherlock’s face, surprising Sherlock with an expression that was dark and unknowable.
"I don’t like it," John said in a tone that might have been a warning.
Sherlock froze under John’s touch. They were both still for a moment. John withdrew his hand and kissed Sherlock once more over the bruises, softly, then covered them up again with the robe.
"Don’t worry," Sherlock said slowly, "I’ll get up to snuff, and it will be Gerald nursing his wounds, next time."
John kissed Sherlock deeply on the mouth, demanding now, and there was no more talk about fencing, or anything else as their mouths were otherwise pleasurably occupied.
* * *
The next fencing lesson was the following afternoon. Soon they would be going to Geneva for the filming, and Sherlock wanted to absorb as much swordsmanship as possible in that short time. Sherlock was surprised when John insisted on coming along, mumbling something about maybe he, too, would take a few lessons; get into the spirit of the enterprise.
The fencing salon was in a private studio in Great Portland Street, in a huge block of Georgian flats. There were gorgeous men coming and going in their tight-fitting fencing garb, and if John had been so inclined, there was much here to attract and amuse the eye. Since there was no finer view to be had anywhere than Sherlock in his own tight-fitting white trousers and tunic, John was in no way distracted. He watched the trainer, Gerald, put Sherlock through his paces. Sherlock was a fast learner.
Sherlock expressed a desire to work with the small sword, such as Lord Byron was known to have carried. Gerald opened a cabinet and pulled out two rather short, flexible swords in sheaths, and he described some of the basic differences to modern fencing weapons such as foil, epee and sabre, principally due to its shorter length and greater weight.
After showing Sherlock a few classic feints with the small sword, they commenced fencing. Sherlock held his own, although Gerald was clearly working with great restraint. Suddenly Gerald made a lunge, Sherlock thrust upward, and they both sprang back. After a moment, a spot of blood appeared at Sherlock’s collarbone just at top of his tunic. Both men smirked and were ready to re-engage, but John with fearful speed was at Gerald’s side.
Now Gerald raised his mask and started babbling an apology as he saw Sherlock’s blood was spreading, blooming. John wrenched the sword from Gerald’s hand and dashed it to the floor with a clatter that rang out loudly in the sudden stillness. "Lesson Over. Leave. Now." He said between gritted teeth.
Gerald left, apologizing to Sherlock, who waved him off. The huge doors banged shut.
Sherlock leaned back against the wall, pulling his mask up.
John sprang upon Sherlock, gently but urgently unbuttoning and pulling down the collar of his tunic to expose the wound. It was very small, but somewhat deep, right where the tender flesh of his neck met his too-prominent collarbone. The blood welled forth steadily.
John was swearing now under his breath, looking for something clean to bind the wound with. John’s fingers and hand were quickly slicked red with Sherlock’s blood. There was a first aid cabinet against the far wall.
As John turned to go to the cabinet, Sherlock grasped John’s bloodied hand in a vise-like grip. "Bloody hell, Sherlock, let me -" John exclaimed.
Sherlock closed his eyes and put John’s bloodied fingers to his lips, sucking them slowly, voluptuously. He was gasping just a little. "Leave it," Sherlock whispered, now gazing into John’s eyes with an expression of baffled longing.
John stared at Sherlock’s bloodied lips for a long moment. The silence was deafening and there was a roaring in his ears as his heart thudded -- then skipped a few beats. Then he yanked his hand free and went swiftly to the cabinet, retrieving antiseptic and bandage.
Sherlock stared down with rapt fascination as John worked, gently cleaning away and stanching the flow of his blood, applying the stinging antiseptic to the open wound, and then carefully bandaging the small but deep cut. John buttoned up Sherlock’s tunic again almost demurely over the wound. Sherlock’s eyes were glazed now and his breath was coming in short gasps. John kissed him softly, smearing his own mouth with sticky blood, and the strangled desire under Sherlock’s lips was maddening.
John pulled back and turned abruptly away from Sherlock. He wiped his mouth. He began pacing around the studio, the tread of his footsteps against the polished wood the only sound.
John picked up the sword he had thrown to the floor. He found and deliberately replaced it in its sheath. This made a distinctive metallic hissing sound as they slid against each other, sword and sheath; and then a satisfying sort of click as they were joined together in his hands.
He could feel Sherlock’s eyes burning on him.
He returned to Sherlock, his firm step now slower, deliberate. When they were face to face, John unsheathed the sword again. He raised the thin, flexible blade about a foot, then swiftly and violently whipped it downward, flat against the palm of his own hand. It made a powerful whoosh through the air and resounding sharp slap against the skin of his palm.
He saw Sherlock’s entire body shudder in response.
John nodded to himself.
Taking one last step, until now their lips were almost meeting again, their warm breath mingling, John said, low and soft:
"Sherlock. Listen to me. I love you. And I’m warning you. Don’t start this with me. You don’t want to."
"John --"
"Believe it."
Then he wiped the blood tenderly from Sherlock’s lips and kissed him again, softly and lingeringly, and tossed the sword back to the floor.
He left the studio without looking back.
To be continued . . .
Go to Chapter Two here: (
Two )