a better way to fall (intermission)
master post
You have lived all your life-if you can call it life-in a place devoid of real sensation. You do not think you were blind, only that there was no light, but you cannot be sure. You collided with powers weaker than yourself and destroyed them; you fled from things that might have done the same to you. You gained a little standing, but remained centuries away from gaining a name. You are one among thousands, trying to distinguish yourselves as if you could ever be anything more than needles in a haystack. Everything is artificial and contrived. Even this despair, the need to climb and steal and inhabit, might stem from manufactured causes, but you bite your new tongue. You are no one's puppet, not now and not ever.
This is why the summoning rankles, why you don't simply break the circle and explore this filthy, fascinating mortal world. This is why you press yourself inside the foolish boy, drawing his skin around you until he sobs-until you sob, because he is yours now. You stretch your limbs and curl your fingers into claws. The body is weak (bendable and breakable) but it is your first and you will make the most of it.
It is your first and you will make mistakes. You will not draw enough on the boy's memories and this is how they will catch you, acting strange and stranger in front of the people who are the boy's family. By the time you think to question him-the mournful thing crowded into a dim corner of the bright flesh that is now yours-it is much too late.
The people are ignorant, but they have not forgotten everything and they bind you the way the boy should have, if he'd had sense. You wrap yourself around the boy's soul and resolve to not go back alone.
But then you feel the barrier wearing away, like water flowing over stone. You press against it from your side, finding the weak places and coaxing it along. The feeble lights in the room go out, but you don't need them to find your way. You hurl yourself against the barrier, feel it yield, and claw your way into new flesh, shredding the boy's soul as you leave. Your new body-your Holmes-rebels at the invasion, spine arching as if you are a tangible weight he might throw off. You coil inside his skull, stretching out inside him like hands in new gloves until he yields.
The transition is not so simple this time. You feel ill and unsteady, like the morning after a night of too much wine. You do not have time to learn what you must to play this part and escape; it tempts you to just knock down those around you and flee, but you have no wish to be chased. It will be better if you can just hold on.
Looking at Arthur Grenville's face is stranger than you expected. It was your face for long enough that you still feel some sense of ownership, coupled with a sense of disappointment that it lies here like a discarded mask after a winter revel. You think this is what they call regret. (You very nearly touch him before you remember yourself.)
The doctor doesn't believe you, you're too obviously wrong, but you can't bring yourself to care. The thrill of escape is sweet still, and you don't believe he can possibly confine you. You learn better.
The doctor thinks you picked your name to anger him, to continually taunt him with what you've stolen. You will never tell him this, but that is not what you meant at all. The word is vivid in Holmes's memory, which makes it vivid in yours. It is a symbol of firsts and change and yes, revenge. All of these things together make it perfect for you and you think even Holmes sees the rightness of it. But the doctor sees it only as salt in his wound and you are too petty to correct him.
At night, when Holmes is quiet, you dream for the first time. The settings and characters are all from Holmes's memories, but you are yourself in them, with a face of your own. You walk down streets and across cities. You may go where you like and no one forces you to leave. You may have a house if you like one, or lie out in the warm night and count stars. Sometimes there is someone with you.
In the morning, you wake up alone and lie still, pressing your eyes tightly shut to keep the memory of the dream as long as you can. You expect Holmes to laugh at you, but when he does not, you think you are both surprised.
When you learn about the coven, everything makes more and less sense. The knowledge that you escaped only at their pleasure is bitter, but tempered by the satisfaction that you slipped their snare and took Holmes for yourself. (You cannot forget, however, that the doctor said your name-a borrowed one, surely, a construct of someone else's memory, but it has settled on you and you are afraid. It shouldn't be enough to call you, but you cannot be certain your luck is that good. You think of the salt ringing the thresholds; for the first time, you are grateful for it.)
Your dreams that night are filled with cages, and the cages are filled with gears, and the gears are filled with you. Their teeth gouge into you, reshaping and crushing you but you do not bleed. You power the engine and the hooded figures surrounding your cage cackle and congratulate themselves. They pull from you until you wish you could die, but they do not stop. You call to them, screaming and pleading, but they cannot or will not hear you. You are infinite and they will never let you go.
The first among them, tallest and with the finest robes, steps close to your cage. He reaches out, palm not quite touching the wires and bones that make up your prison. As his sleeve falls back, you can see the silver cuff around his wrist. The face beneath the hood is not a stranger's at all.
You wake soaked in sweat, a cry strangled in your open mouth as you flail out from beneath the sheets. Holmes says nothing, your fear bleeding into his fear until you are both drenched in it. Your heart hurts, each beat rattling the bones around it, and your hands shake. You need to be calm. Holmes offers a solution and you readily accept, anything to scrub the memory of the nightmare from the inside of your skull.
You have no idea how the apparatus in the case is used, but Holmes knows and he guides you through it. The prick of the needle is a far away thing compared to the lingering slow burn of your wrist, but the drug hits your blood and the world softens. You and Holmes sigh in concert.
It doesn't last, though, not as long as you need it or-if Holmes's confusion is anything to go by-as long as it should. You do up the tourniquet again and prepare another dose. You use more this time, Holmes's attempts at caution fading as the drug coils in the base of your skull.
It's harder to tell where he ends and you begin.
This space is yours, both of yours, and for a moment it feels right and perfect. You both have freedom and control and you laugh, running your hand through your hair for what feels like the first time in days.
It fades, that feeling of unity. You can feel it sliding away between your (his) fingers faster than you can grasp it. You fumble for the case and find it empty. Holmes is louder than ever, pushing his way forward and crowding you out until you think you'll be forced out entirely. The thought of that-the fear of that-has you digging in your heels. You shove Holmes down, bullying him back into place and bringing your limbs back under your control a fraction at a time.
Afterward, you lie sprawled across the bed, gasping for breath. Your lungs burn and your muscles ache; there's a throbbing at the base of your skull in time with your heartbeat.
Holmes is louder and angrier than ever. He won't let you sleep.
Your control is not what it was. Holmes's near eviction of you has weakened your grip; to maintain it, you have to start letting other things go. There is very little you have left to lose, but you have enough for it to hurt. You keep absolutely still for hours, drawing quick shallow breaths like an invalid while your eyes never stray from the clock. One hour. Two.
It feels like weakness to go to the doctor-it is weakness-but there is no one else.
He is hardly sympathetic and you are not surprised. You think you must be slipping more than you knew if you expected comfort here. What you do not expect is for him to give you up completely. It hurts in a way you had not thought you could be hurt.
You have very few cards left to play and hurl them all onto the table at once, surrendering even as you know you've finally gotten to him, because it doesn't matter.
Watson doesn't believe you and this does not surprise you either, even as it strikes through Holmes like lightning. He rages the way he has not since that first night, but for this time he is not angry with you. He hates himself and his own cowardice; he even hates Watson a little for his disbelief and denial. You do not blame him.
It's a foolish thing to be insistent about, someone else's love, but he is lying to himself about what happened and why it happened and if he will hurt you, then you will hurt him in return.
When Watson runs, Holmes falls silent and will not be roused. You are full of smugness and satisfaction, but panic sets in as you hear the doctor's footsteps on the stairs. If he leaves-if he takes your advice and locks you up in here, you may die. You are not certain that you can properly die-you, the part that is demon only and not flesh-but you are certain you do not want to test it.
As if in answer to a prayer you never made, you feel the instant the line breaks, thudding through your soles like a drawbridge crashed down. You hesitate, certain that the doctor will notice, will turn back and close the line and leave you looking like a fool, drawn up short in the entry hall while he smiles at you from the stoop. But even as the front door closes, the line does not, gaping wide and inviting, leaving the whole of the world spread out before you if only you will go. You run and don't look back.
In your two previous excursions, you had a destination-or rather, the doctor had a destination and you were towed along by the ache of silver around your wrist. You did not spend much time taking in the scenery. Now, you have all the time you could want and it is better than anything you dreamed. There is noise so loud you can hardly think, but you don't need to think; you need only to run until there is as much space between you and Baker Street as you can manage.
There are scents that sting your nose, that make your body retch. You breathe it all in.
You love this world and its filth and decay, because mad as it is, it can never be as mad as the darkness you left behind. You love every festering inch of it and you will explore it all. You think of the places in your dreams-countryside and foreign cities and roaring seas. You will see them all and take what you like from them, but you are starting in London and will take full advantage.
You rifle through Holmes's memories for something promising, the memory of blood drawing you down a particular train of thought. A boxing ring-never his first choice but his last resort, for his bad nights and fiercest brawls. You love it immediately and tear off down a side street, whooping for joy. Holmes remains silent in your skull; you bare your teeth.
The building is down on the waterfront-once a warehouse and now abandoned, converted by some enterprising individual into an illicit club. There's a ring of sand at the heart of the building, scattered in a thin layer over the boards; anyone taking a fall here will be feeling it for some time. A low partition corrals the sand and keeps the fighters from staggering into the spectators. It comes up only to waist height and looks to have been constructed with expediency in mind rather than safety or stability. A similarly constructed bar is wedged along the far wall.
It takes you a moment to identify the man organizing the fights themselves; he keeps well back from the action, studying a small notebook, making marks now and again with the stub of a pencil. When you approach him, he explains the circumstances: how much you'll get for the fight, how you can take payment in cash or bet on yourself, and the bare bones of rules that confine fighters' methods. You agree to all of it, only half listening, and the man makes another notation in his book. He points out your opponent. The man has a broad chest and a narrow waist; he throws a few warm up jabs through the air while you set aside your shirt and shoes. If the roar of the crowd is any indication, he is a regular here and quite the favorite. You hear them calling out the odds. They expect you to fall quickly.
You step into the ring.
part four - finale