Fic: The readiness is all
Title: The readiness is all
Author: lareinenoire
Play: pre-Richard II
Characters / Pairings: Richard II, The Gentleman in the Opium Den
Rating: PG13
Warnings: Drug use, references to canonical character death, Gratuitous Quotation, Opium, Pre-Canon
Wordcount: 774
Summary: A chance meeting in an opium den.
NB: For angevin2. Thanks to gileonnen for beta-reading!
Somewhere very far away, past the haze of reddish smoke that clouded his vision, he could see his uncle falling and wondered if he would ever hit the ground.
Richard coughed. That only made things worse; he found himself doubled over, practically retching onto the filthy floors. The attendants barely noticed, so indifferent were they to the souls who lost themselves in these dank rooms in Limehouse.
Not like Thomas. No, indeed, for Thomas' soul was somewhere else entirely. The more fool, madonna, to mourn for your brother's soul being in heaven. "Take away the fool, gentlemen," he giggled. "Take away the fool."
"The more fool you," a voice remarked out of the smoke and darkness. Richard blinked and tried to focus. "Just don't start quoting Ophelia or I might expire from boredom."
"I beg your pardon?" Richard's head was beginning to spin rather violently and he was forced to lie back against the flea-infested cot. "What has Ophelia to do with anything?"
"You are young and rich and a dabbler in bohemian circles. You take opium because you want to escape from the stultifying hell that you believe is your home, but somehow remain cocooned in privilege as you have been for the entirety of your life." Before Richard could react, one of his hands was snatched up. "Oh, yes. But there's more here. There's madness here. True madness."
He ripped his hand away and swept it behind his back. "What the devil are you talking about?"
"You've got scars on your wrists. You've been in restraints."
Richard found himself staring into a pair of eyes that seemed to drill into his own. "What is it to you?"
The other smiled, cracked lips parting to reveal even, white teeth. "Because madness, my dear sir, is the one thing that can't be quantified. Its explanations, its causes and effects, its patterns, are as varied as its victims. Ophelia is as unlike Lear as Lear is unlike Hamlet. But who are you, I wonder?"
"Wouldn't you like to know?" He leant closer, dragging his tongue across his lips. "I am Richard the Second, know ye not that?"
His companion laughed until the sound exploded into a coughing fit. "A very royal madness, then. But better the Second than the Third, no doubt. Fewer corpses."
It was Richard's turn to burst into slightly hysterical laughter. "Are you a connoisseur of corpses, then, Mister..."
"Holmes. And, yes, one might say that."
"Can you tell a murder from an accident?" The question emerged before he could think better of it. "Can you read intention in a corpse?"
Holmes reached for the pipe, pale fingers curling expertly round the bowl as he inhaled. "It would depend on the corpse, I daresay. The manner of death."
"A fall from a great height, per se."
"Staircase?" Holmes was looking at him again and, much as he wanted, Richard could not look away, pinioned by those eyes that seemed to read secrets as though they were written on his very skin. "A broken neck, I would assume?"
"More likely than not." His throat was painfully dry. "But it was an accident."
"Was it, now?"
"Well...that's what I was told, at any rate." It was a clumsy lie and they both knew it. Richard could hear Anne's voice, sparkling with laughter, oh, darling, you've always been the most dreadful liar, and he had to close his eyes against the awful, corrosive pain that lay tangled with every thought of his late wife. "That there was an argument, and...the victim...lost his balance, fell down a flight of stairs."
Holmes rolled his eyes. "I've met orang-utans who were more competent murderers than that."
Richard tried to muster the effort to glare at him but failed rather miserably. "That was a fictional orang-utan."
"They're surprisingly clever creatures." Holmes inhaled again and closed his eyes. "Perhaps it is safer to let some corpses lie."
Richard nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
"And perhaps you should get yourself home, Mr Perrivale."
"How did you...?"
Holmes smiled. "The inside band of your hat."
"Of...course." He glanced at the hat in question, sitting beside the bed. Indeed, his surname was inked on the inside band in the careful hand of his valet. "Do you believe in Hell, Mr Holmes?"
"The mind is its own place, and in itself," Holmes said, "can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven."
"And what of a broken mind?"
"Your mind is not broken, Mr Perrivale. That," he frowned, "seems to be the problem."
It was a very great pity, Richard thought to himself as he stumbled into the September chill, that nobody else believed that.
Author: lareinenoire
Play: pre-Richard II
Characters / Pairings: Richard II, The Gentleman in the Opium Den
Rating: PG13
Warnings: Drug use, references to canonical character death, Gratuitous Quotation, Opium, Pre-Canon
Wordcount: 774
Summary: A chance meeting in an opium den.
NB: For angevin2. Thanks to gileonnen for beta-reading!
Somewhere very far away, past the haze of reddish smoke that clouded his vision, he could see his uncle falling and wondered if he would ever hit the ground.
Richard coughed. That only made things worse; he found himself doubled over, practically retching onto the filthy floors. The attendants barely noticed, so indifferent were they to the souls who lost themselves in these dank rooms in Limehouse.
Not like Thomas. No, indeed, for Thomas' soul was somewhere else entirely. The more fool, madonna, to mourn for your brother's soul being in heaven. "Take away the fool, gentlemen," he giggled. "Take away the fool."
"The more fool you," a voice remarked out of the smoke and darkness. Richard blinked and tried to focus. "Just don't start quoting Ophelia or I might expire from boredom."
"I beg your pardon?" Richard's head was beginning to spin rather violently and he was forced to lie back against the flea-infested cot. "What has Ophelia to do with anything?"
"You are young and rich and a dabbler in bohemian circles. You take opium because you want to escape from the stultifying hell that you believe is your home, but somehow remain cocooned in privilege as you have been for the entirety of your life." Before Richard could react, one of his hands was snatched up. "Oh, yes. But there's more here. There's madness here. True madness."
He ripped his hand away and swept it behind his back. "What the devil are you talking about?"
"You've got scars on your wrists. You've been in restraints."
Richard found himself staring into a pair of eyes that seemed to drill into his own. "What is it to you?"
The other smiled, cracked lips parting to reveal even, white teeth. "Because madness, my dear sir, is the one thing that can't be quantified. Its explanations, its causes and effects, its patterns, are as varied as its victims. Ophelia is as unlike Lear as Lear is unlike Hamlet. But who are you, I wonder?"
"Wouldn't you like to know?" He leant closer, dragging his tongue across his lips. "I am Richard the Second, know ye not that?"
His companion laughed until the sound exploded into a coughing fit. "A very royal madness, then. But better the Second than the Third, no doubt. Fewer corpses."
It was Richard's turn to burst into slightly hysterical laughter. "Are you a connoisseur of corpses, then, Mister..."
"Holmes. And, yes, one might say that."
"Can you tell a murder from an accident?" The question emerged before he could think better of it. "Can you read intention in a corpse?"
Holmes reached for the pipe, pale fingers curling expertly round the bowl as he inhaled. "It would depend on the corpse, I daresay. The manner of death."
"A fall from a great height, per se."
"Staircase?" Holmes was looking at him again and, much as he wanted, Richard could not look away, pinioned by those eyes that seemed to read secrets as though they were written on his very skin. "A broken neck, I would assume?"
"More likely than not." His throat was painfully dry. "But it was an accident."
"Was it, now?"
"Well...that's what I was told, at any rate." It was a clumsy lie and they both knew it. Richard could hear Anne's voice, sparkling with laughter, oh, darling, you've always been the most dreadful liar, and he had to close his eyes against the awful, corrosive pain that lay tangled with every thought of his late wife. "That there was an argument, and...the victim...lost his balance, fell down a flight of stairs."
Holmes rolled his eyes. "I've met orang-utans who were more competent murderers than that."
Richard tried to muster the effort to glare at him but failed rather miserably. "That was a fictional orang-utan."
"They're surprisingly clever creatures." Holmes inhaled again and closed his eyes. "Perhaps it is safer to let some corpses lie."
Richard nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
"And perhaps you should get yourself home, Mr Perrivale."
"How did you...?"
Holmes smiled. "The inside band of your hat."
"Of...course." He glanced at the hat in question, sitting beside the bed. Indeed, his surname was inked on the inside band in the careful hand of his valet. "Do you believe in Hell, Mr Holmes?"
"The mind is its own place, and in itself," Holmes said, "can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven."
"And what of a broken mind?"
"Your mind is not broken, Mr Perrivale. That," he frowned, "seems to be the problem."
It was a very great pity, Richard thought to himself as he stumbled into the September chill, that nobody else believed that.