Mad, Bad and Dangerous, A Frankenstein Tribute. Chapter Nine. Where It All Ends.
Title:Mad, Bad and Dangerous, a Frankenstein Tribute. Chapter Nine. Where It All Ends.
Author: ghislainem70
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 3454
Summary: Sherlock and John are cast in a reality show depicting the "Haunted Summer" in which Mary Shelley penned "Frankenstein".
Disclaimer: I own nothing. All honors to Messrs Gatiss, Moffat., BBC et al. They works of Byron, Percy Bysshe Shelley, Mary Shelley, John Polidori, "Monk" Lewis as quoted herein are theirs, not mine.
Warnings: bdsm scenarios, torture, graphic depictions of violence, explicit sex. Just your basic Byronic scene.
Chapter Nine. Where It All Ends.
You've made me cry
When you're on my side
My heart and soul, is yours for life
Just don't let go, you got me hooked
You give me shivers
When you take control.
--Lyrics to Call My Name, all rights reserved and copyright, Sultan & Ned Shepard.
John was all for quitting Switzerland immediately.
Now, right now," he said as they left the police station in Geneva, having given their statements. "By the very next flight, look, there's one in an hour."
Sherlock frowned distractedly, attacking his mobile. "I've been asked to assist the Swiss police with their inquiries --- I can do more here than in Baker Street," Sherlock reasoned.
John stopped in his tracks, arms folded. A flood of dour-faced, yet prosperous-looking Swiss businessmen moved around him like lemmings on their determined ways. Sherlock, sensing John was no longer at his side, turned to see him scowling and fuming. Then Sherlock stopped too, even putting his mobile away for a moment.
"John, really, first: there are the twenty plastic surgeons. How much did any of them know about where de Roel was going to get the -- tissue -- "
John started shifting his weight one foot then the other, fists clenching and unclenching.
"Second: there is apparently some evidence that de Roel's last "Eric" died while undergoing extreme facial reconstruction ---"
John was flexing his fingers as though itching to pull a trigger.
"And third, there are the videos -- the police say de Roel may be a serial killer of unprecedented depravity -" Sherlock's entire face lit with gleeful anticipation and his arm gestures were positively operatic.
John exploded. "Bloody hell, Sherlock, would you just listen to yourself, for one second! You are the last person that needs to be digging into this -- this -- grotesque mess. That. Was. Your face. He wanted. Have you ever stopped to consider what would have happened if I hadn't gotten there in time?"
Sherlock was about to explain in great detail his plan -- well, what had been the beginnings of a plan, anyway, to be strictly accurate: he had been drugged, after all; and even his formidable brain did not work in optimum ways when he was completely unconscious--- but, after perceiving the ill-concealed signs of extreme distress in John's face -- flushed, voice shaking, he stopped; and simply put his hand on John's shoulder to steady him.
"I have an idea," he said. John looked skeptical as Sherlock made a hurried phone call, head ducked down, concluding with the unprecedented words, uttered in a tone of exasperation:
"Yes, of course, certainly, Mother."
* * *
John had refused to return to Villa Diodati, wishing to forever close the chapter on their strange costumed adventure. They had arranged for their bags to be delivered to their anonymous Geneva hotel, which Sherlock had chosen for being just a block from the police station.
That afternoon, though, shortly after the mysterious phone call, Sherlock said, "We are leaving now," and they went down to find a hired car waiting which Sherlock insisted on driving, something that John had never experienced and which was quite terrifying.
He refused to say where they were going, but had a small secret smile and so, John decided to let him have his way. Higher up the mountains they climbed through treacherous twisting snowy roads, until after an hour they reached the outskirts of the picturesque little ski village Les Diablerets, looking over the surrounding glacier and the Alps. They turned up a long, snowy drive to arrive at a ski chalet. "Courtesy of Mother," Sherlock said, but did not elaborate as he unlocked the door.
Inside, surprisingly, all was sleek modern Italian leather furniture, with huge glass windows looking out over the snowy Alps and the village below. And suddenly John was overtaken by a sensation of deja vu as his vague expectation of a cozy Swiss cottage was turned upside down, recalling the feeling of marching through de Roel's gleaming white modern halls, only to be plunged into his baroque den of vice.
But John shrugged off his feelings of unease. Sherlock was studying him closely and he saw that Sherlock was actually anxious that he be pleased, that this was for him; a peaceful retreat after their ordeal. He felt an unaccustomed sensation of warmth and comfort at his feelings being understood, and he was content, for the first time since setting foot in Switzerland.
"Thank you," he said, suddenly overwhelmed. Sherlock said triumphantly, "I knew you'd like it," as though knowing this about John was the most marvelous discovery imaginable.
* * *
It must be said that John did not ski. Sherlock, though, was very skilled, the family having enjoyed ski breaks at this chalet throughout his childhood. Now, he evidently wanted revenge for John having shown him up with his secret fencing skill. They ventured out onto the gentler slopes, where John took numerous undignified tumbles, after which Sherlock behaved quite considerately, even gentlemanly; making sure always to be right at John's side to assist him up and not laughing at all as he gently brushed the snow from John's hair.
Finally, they came to a mutual agreement that cross-country skiing would possibly be more rewarding.
They picked up a week's worth of provisions. John surveyed the pristine, modern kitchen with a thrill of satisfaction. Here was an environment which held no forensic debris, mortuary residue, or unclean experimental fungi. All was gleaming white, stainless steel, a vast Sub-Zero refrigerator, and rows of spotless matching knives, pots and pans.
He would cook dinner, something that he had never attempted in 221b. So far as he could recall, the only human comestibles that ever emerged from their kitchen were tea, and beans on toast.
Then he remembered that his own repertoire was exceedingly limited, not having had any opportunity to ever actually prepare his own meals in Afghanistan; before that, well, medical school and residency do not breed chefs. He found a few cookbooks on the shelf with mouth-watering pictures -- but all in French. Finally he settled on roast chicken and jacket potatoes which he was fairly sure he could manage, or at least not ruin. To his extreme satisfaction --which he tried very hard to conceal behind a bland poker face-- Sherlock actually ate steadily, without complaining, fidgeting or any need for John to coax him bite by bite. Possibly the altitude and vigorous skiing actually brought out Sherlock's inhumanly erratic appetite. This was roughly the equivalent of earning a Michellin star as far as John was concerned.
* * *
They had not spoken of their ordeal. But after dinner, John was not surprised to find Sherlock standing in the kitchen, staring at the partially healed cut on his palm. John took the wounded hand and covered it with his own.
"What are you thinking?" He asked. Sherlock was looking away, shoulders suddenly hunched. "I want to understand."
"When I was a boy," he said, very quietly, "There was a sort of --fad, I suppose you'd call it -- at school. The boys would cut each other's palms, and then shake hands. It meant they were blood brothers. A blood brother was loyal, would keep your secrets, would never -- betray you."
Sherlock almost never spoke of his childhood. John felt a flood of anger for that boy, all those years ago. He couldn't bear it, he didn't think his chest could contain this feeling.
Silently he took a knife from the gleaming set on the kitchen counter and drew it across his own palm, blood welling up. He wordlessly handed the blade to Sherlock and their eyes met, John's fierce, Sherlock's wide with something that might have been wonder. Sherlock reopened the cut from John's sword, and they clasped hands, hard, their cuts stinging, the warm blood slick and wet between their pressed palms. A strange happiness filled them and John understood why men had always done this. And then it was turning to something else, something darker, primitive. John pulled Sherlock down roughly to take his mouth with his own.
* * *
The next morning they decided to hike the glacier, called Glacier 3000 for its elevation at 3000 meters. They brought cross-country skis as well. They took a tram to a high trail head, looking out over the panorama of impossibly towering snow-capped peaks, then began making their way in the crystalline air along the glacier's edge. It glowed pale blue and ancient in the clear sharp winter sunlight.
"Why is it called 'Les Diablerets'?" John asked breathlessly. They were at 3100 meters now and the thin air made everything a little strenuous. Though he was very fit, he felt almost a bit lightheaded as they trudged.
Sherlock pointed below to a dark granite rock face looming over the Alpine village. "In French, it roughly means, 'the abode of the devil.' In the 'olden days,' the villagers thought that the rock had a malevolent power, that it was a place one could meet the devil himself, face to face.
"Also, it was said that the glacier itself was a curse from a villager's diabolically cruel acts -- it is not said what acts, only that they were unspeakably cruel --- and this caused the meadow to shrivel away overnight, replaced by this barren ice field -- by the devil. "
John shivered and looked cautiously down upon the dark rock. Sherlock smiled. He was obsessed with the mercurial expressiveness of John's slightly rumpled face, upon which a dozen different expressions, feelings, emotions might pass in the course of mere seconds, like ripples in water after a rock is thrown in. It was magical and maddening and he never could anticipate them, which was in itself fascinating.
"It is just a folk tale, John."
* * *
They found a pristine field of snow and decided to practice their cross-country technique. John sat to apply wax tape to his skis and Sherlock said he would open up the trail. They were in still, hushed solitude. Sherlock crunched expertly through the fresh snow, trudging along the edges of the precipice affording panoramic views of the blue glacier. John became exasperated with his tangled bindings and patiently began plucking them loose.
The deafening motor of a snowmobile, that moments before had seemed very distant, suddenly roared explosively and it came crashing through the field, spraying snow and careening wildly until it spun to a stop just in front of Sherlock, who was now quite far ahead, although still in view. The driver of the snowmobile climbed out awkwardly, stumbling in the deep snow, and seemed to be reaching out to Sherlock for assistance.
John felt a twinge of alarm and swore when his skis became tangled and he flopped gracelessly into the powdery snow. He heard Sherlock shout, "John, stay back, it's all right," his voice suddenly seeming alarmingly distant, echoing. He could see Sherlock reaching out to the figure, who was so tall, in fact precisely Sherlock's height, so as to likely be a man. His face was covered by hood, ski mask and goggles despite the relatively mild winter sun.
"Sherlock, what is it?" he called, only to see a brief precise explosion of snow at his feet. The man's arm was now pointing at John. He now thought he could make out the black outline of a gun in the man's gloved hand. A silencer, then. He swore again as he remembered leaving the gun in the chalet. The figure swerved to point now at Sherlock, who was quite out of arm's reach of the gunman.
"John, please stay back," Sherlock shouted again. John could hear them talking but could not make out the words. He started slowly working with as little motion as possible while it seemed the gunman's attention was completely focused on Sherlock.
* * *
"Do you know who I am?" the masked man asked Sherlock. It was remarkable. The cultured baritone accents were precisely, exactly Sherlock's own, as though Sherlock had become a ventriloquist.
"You are Eric," Sherlock said calmly. "Put the gun down, I can't talk to you properly unless you do."
The man sneered. "You will have to try harder. And you are wrong, the great Sherlock Holmes is wrong. You see, I am not 'Eric.' I gave him up, long ago now. I am Sherlock Holmes."
"You don't have to be, not any more. Don't you see? De Roel is dead, you don't have to be anyone now but who you are, really are inside," Sherlock said. Eric scoffed and removed his goggles, then the hood and mask.
Now Sherlock could see de Roel's true madness. For Eric, despite the freshly healing surgical scars at the hairline and around the ears, was an identical twin to Sherlock in every respect. Every feature had been molded with precision by the finest surgeons in the world, to De Roel's exacting specifications. The facial transplant was the craving of a madman for a perfection that existed only in his imagination. Eric was Sherlock's mirror. His doppelganger.
Eric studied Sherlock with fierce concentration. "I cannot understand it," he said in Sherlock's voice, his intonation. "I am perfect, I was making myself even more perfect," he gestured to his legs, supported by metal braces. His free arm was also in a long brace with a supportive crutch upon which he leaned, holding the gun with his free hand. His fingers were bulky under the gloves but he somehow contrived to handle the gun, which was enormous and had a long silencer. "But he was never satisfied. It was you, only you that he wanted."
Sherlock shook his head. "I heard him say it, that you were perfect, that it was your particular -- spirit, that he really wanted."
Eric shook his head. He was weeping now. "It's not true. Because you see, I was there. He ordered me to watch. That day. And I heard what he said. If your master had not killed my master, I know he would have changed his mind. I could see it in his face. Once he really had you, really tasted --" he spat the words -- "he would never have destroyed you. No, in that moment, it was very clear to me. I did not have his love. After all this," He gestured to his fresh scars, the braces. "--- what I have been through, what I have suffered, for his acceptance, for his love, you can never understand."
"But I want to understand," Sherlock said. "Tell me, please, I want to know. Why did you do this?"
Eric laughed. "I'm not stupid, you know. He knew your brilliance, wanted that, too --he chose me for that, as well. You already know why I did it."
Sherlock saw that he did. "Because you needed to submit. To him. To his wishes, only his. You needed to give up all . . . control, everything to him. Even, finally, control of your body, all of it --your -- flesh, far more than a slave would ever dream of giving, or a master of asking. You reduced yourself to an assembly of body parts, molded to de Roel's . . .requirements. That is not love. But you can still find it. It's not too late for you," Sherlock said, a flashing vision of the long years before John.
"Clever, indeed. You are right. What I gave him was the supreme gift. My flesh, down to my very bones. No one every gave more; willingly, at any rate. And it was not enough. You can never know what that feels like. Your master loves you, he honors you." Eric nodded his head minutely in John's direction.
"He is not my master."
"Wrong again. Not as clever as you think you are, then. You know that he is your master, and he knows it, too. My master said to Doctor Watson that he would give anything, anything at all, to have been him."
Sherlock tried to inch closer. If he could just get close enough to knock the gun away--
"It was really you that took my master from me, not Doctor Watson. And I will give myself to Doctor Watson, and he will love me. I have seen it. I know that he will. But not until you are destroyed. I will destroy you. I must. That will make me free."
John had quietly clenched the roll of wax tape in his hand and now he flung it forcefully to the side of where Eric stood, just raising the gun, creating an explosion of snow that distracted him just enough for Sherlock to dive at Eric, who screamed as the impact jolted his braced, unhealed limbs, and he rolled over the edge of the precipice.
Sherlock sprang to the edge.
Eric was vainly clinging with his wounded hands to the edge of an icy rock, slick with melted snow. The gun he had dropped far below.
The vertical drop to the glittering glacier was thousands of meters down.
Sherlock reached down. "Give me your hand! " he shouted, crouching and straining, then rolling onto his side because of the skis. There was nothing to brace himself with, and his fingertips brushed Eric's hand as he struggled to try and pull himself up, shrieking with the pain.
Now John was here, too, holding a ski down for Eric to grip; but at that moment, Eric clasped Sherlock's hand, looking up into his face with an expression of endless despair as he yanked, hard, trying to pull Sherlock down the precipice after him.
John gasped in horror when he saw Sherlock's twin face, but threw himself down and pulled back on Sherlock to resist with all of his strength.
Sherlock shouted, "Stop, don't do it, Eric, let us help you!"
Eric made a final desperate tug.
And the bandage enveloping Sherlock's cut palm slipped, unravelled and gave way under Eric's death grip.
Eric plummeted silently, a falling angel, before striking the dark granite face of Les Diablerets, and then finally tumbling to the glacier ice far below. The bloody bandage fluttered on the wind after him.
* * *
The business with the police took hours, but finally in the early morning well before dawn, John and Sherlock returned to the chalet. John poured them stiff brandies and they settled before the huge window that looked out over the tiny glittering lights of the village. In the darkness, the looming Alps and glacier of Les Diablerets could not be seen.
John was very shaken. "It looked just like you. Falling." He held Sherlock tight. He would never get the image from his mind, ever. Sherlock kissed John's hair.
"Do you know," Sherlock said, "that just before Shelley died, he told Mary Shelley that he was dreaming of a twin apparition, walking by to meet himself on a terrace, saying as he passed, 'how long do you mean to be content?' And then their friend Jane Williams saw Shelley passing by on her terrace, and he vanished. She cried, 'Good God, can Shelley have leapt from the wall? Where can he be gone?' Now, this was after Shelley's death, of which she had not yet been informed.
"In Prometheus Unbound, Shelley wrote:
"The Magus Zoroaster, my dead child,
Met his own image walking in the garden.
That apparition, sole of men, he saw.
For know there are two worlds of life and death:
One that which thou beholdest; but the other
Is underneath the grave, where do inhabit
The shadows of all forms that think and live
Till death unite them and they part no more. . ."
They drank more brandy, and John said, "Never leave me. You can't die, you can't do this to me. You have to stop all this. I just can't --I don't know if I can see you risk your life, every day. Anymore. Don't you understand?"
"It's no more than you did. In Afghanistan."
There was really no answer to that. They went upstairs to the bedroom where Sherlock hesitated. His eyes had that particular intensity that John was starting to understand.
"Eric said . . . you are my master. That you know it, and that I know it."
John was still and the very air between then seemed to fairly vibrate with electricity. He breathed deeply, feeling a thrilling, wild darkness rising that he had long suppressed. But when he gathered himself he was rock steady.
"The safe word, Sherlock, is 'stop'. Get on your knees, love. Get ready."
Sherlock quickly and quietly disrobed and knelt at the foot of the bed. John permitted himself to taste this very particular moment, a crossing from which they might not return as they were before.
Sherlock's face was very peaceful as he waited.
The riding crop was just where John had left it.
He lashed him hard.
"One," Sherlock counted.
The End . . . .
**Your author so appreciates feedback as we end this adventure:)**
back: Eight |
The adventures continue in to No. 5 of Indestructible series: The Irresistibility of Orbits: Korengal Calling: http://ghislainem70.livejournal.com/17509.html