Authoress' Notes:
Inspired by our lovely Holmesian Twitterverse. There are five of us, RPing Blackwood (me), Coward, Holmes, Watson and Gladstone, and it's just a crazy amount of fun. Yesterday, Blackwood (hung over from drinking himself to sleep out of jealousy for Coward's new friend, Matthew) was throwing up all over the place, and Coward rubbed his back. This fic pretty much just appeared right then. For those interested, you can find us here:
http :// twitter . com / ThatsLeon / holmestwitterverse
Anyways, yeah. I've taken a bit of a break from ficcing these guys, and it feels nice to be back. Comfy, I guess.
Disclaimer: If I owned it, the gay would be way more obvious.
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(Im)Perfection
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Perfection is a state unattainable by most men, and to those lucky few who achieve it, their existence is both defined and, indeed, remembered, by their perfection. Julius Caesar is remembered for his leadership, for his power, and yet none seem to remember the blunders he surely made along the way. In the eastern regions of the world, the Buddha's legacy is made not of his youthful indiscretions and hedonistic frailties, but of the enlightenment he was said to achieve in time.
So will it be with Lord Blackwood. Someday, Coward knows, his Lord will be remembered as a great leader, a man to inspire the nations, a uniter, a Messiah, saving the masses from the ignorant drudgery of a purposeless existence. And this is as it should be. After all, Blackwood deserves this legacy as surely as Caesar deserved his.
But the moments Coward truly treasures, the moments he holds dear in his heart, are those that will be forgotten. Those moments of weakness mean the world to him. Take now, for example. His Lord is bedridden, driven there by some ailment, Coward isn't sure what, that has manifested itself in a fever to scorch the devil himself and a most unpleasant upset of the stomach.
Blackwood lies in his bed, face pale and glistening with sweat, as Coward watches quietly. His Lord's pallor concerns him, as do the chills that wrack the normally powerful body. The brilliant eyes, so often filled with a fire and cunning to take his breath away, are dull and disoriented when they open, but his Lord's need is clear when Blackwood rises in the bed, coughing. Coward reaches quickly for the nearby basin and holds it out just in time, feeling his own stomach churn at the sound, smell and sight of vomit spattering into the bowl. He reaches out with his spare hand and, placing it gently on his Lord's back, rubs it in slow, tender circles, trying as hard as he can to communicate devotion, comfort and caring through the touch. Blackwood's fever burns, even through the night shirt, and Coward winces in sympathy as his Lord retches again.
As he reaches for the damp cloth to wipe his Lord's face clean, Coward cannot help but smile at the way Blackwood's eyes, sick and confused as they are, meet his trustingly, almost innocently. The illness seems to have stripped his Lord temporarily of his mental prowess and calculating brilliance, reducing him instead to a sick, miserable creature seeking help and comfort.
Coward helps Blackwood lean back into the bed, tucking the blankets up around him a little more snugly, and settles back into his chair. He has no idea how long it will take for Blackwood to convalesce, but really, he has nothing of more importance to do. What could be more important? After all, Coward reflects, he's seeing one of the most precious sights a man can ever hope to behold. He's seeing the imperfection of a perfect man, and, though he suspects his Lord would strike him to hear something so foolish, he thinks he loves Blackwood all the more because of moments like this.
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Ah, vomit-scented fluff. Nothin' like it.
Please review!