A/N: Probably the darkest thing I have ever written. Possibly the darkest thing I ever will write. I very nearly didn't upload this, but something made me do it. This is a study of the power-play between Lord Coward and Lord Blackwood. I struggle to see their relationship as something simple or pleasant. As a warning: it is rated M for a reason.

"How did you get here and when did it start, an innocent child with a thorn in his heart?"

- World So Cold, 12 Stones -

Blood and Ink

The shadows of doubt darken Lord Coward's keen eyes and crease his forehead. Blackwood notices that the younger man cannot look at him. It is almost endearing.

For his part, Blackwood is not at all disappointed by Coward's uncertainty. A man who would sign away another's life without question would not be worthy of Blackwood's time.

'Is there not...' Coward's words trail away with his gaze.

'Is there not...?' Blackwood is careful to keep his own gaze steady; his voice devoid of emotion. Coward flinches, although the slight movement would go unnoticed by anyone other than Blackwood, and perhaps Sherlock Holmes. It is Holmes' business to notice things; it is Blackwood's pleasure.

'He...he's a good man. Honest, honourable. It can't be...' Coward trials off, doubting his own argument. This, Blackwood notes, is what makes him a follower.

'It can't be...?'

Coward grimaces, hearing his own weak words thrown back at him. Blackwood knows that his calm contemplation of Coward's doubt is putting the younger man on edge. He shifts in his seat – behind the desk that Blackwood's favour bought him – and stares out of the window. He is intelligent enough to know that one look from Blackwood would break his resolve. Blackwood is pleased to see it.

Coward stiffens as Blackwood rises from his chair. He's expecting rough hands and rough words. Even after so long, Coward can't forget his father's heavy-handed lessons; Blackwood's way remains a terrifying mystery.

Blackwood moves to the window and gazes into the dark glass. He cannot see the river, but he can see his own reflection in the black glass – just skin and blood and bones. Behind him, Coward has dared to glance his way. He can hear the Home Secretary breathing. He fancies he can hear his heart beating. Thundering.

Distracting himself from the thought, he prompts Coward's answer once more. 'It can't be what, Robert?'

In the black glass he sees Coward's jaw clench, his Christian name scratching through his skin. Blackwood toys with the cord wrapped around the heavy velvet curtains – faded burgundy turned a dusky, bruised purple by the gathering dark. He hears Coward shift in his chair and imagines wrapping the cord around the handsome young man's throat and seeing how long it takes him to forget his doubt then. A cold smile curls his lips, but he lets the rope fall from his fingers.

Coward fixes his eyes on the fireplace. Blackwood sees him move in the glass.

'It can't be the only way.'

Blackwood's lips twitch again. He turns back into the room, fixing Coward with a stare that would have caused a lesser man to crumble. Coward is still staring straight ahead, not so easily defeated. The tension in his shoulders suggests he is preparing for a fight. Coward's father beat obedience into his son, and even though the father was dead, the son still remembered the pain that followed doubt. Blackwood steps towards the Home Secretary and for a moment Coward seems to forget to breathe.

'Of course it is not the only way,' Blackwood says at last, 'But it is the right way. It is my way.' Blackwood is stalking Coward as he speaks: slow, deliberate steps that make the other man's breath catch on his tongue. When he reaches Coward's side he rests a hand on his shoulder and the younger man swallows. The touch is soft, gentle. Coward is used to harder hands. Blackwood knows that Coward would be less afraid of a beating, because it is what he has always known. The unknown is what men fear the most.

'Have I ever given you reason to doubt me, Robert?'

Coward clenches his trembling fingers into fists on the desk in front of him. 'No.'

Blackwood's mouth is so close to Coward's ear that his breath brushes against his skin. The younger man shivers.

'Have I ever given you reason not to trust me? Not to trust that everything I do is for the greater good – for your own good.'

Coward hesitates. Blackwood knows what he is thinking: he is thinking of the other times; the many times before this. This is not the first time Coward has doubted, and it is not the first time that Blackwood has had to teach him why he should never doubt.

'No.'

'Good.' Blackwood moves too fast for Coward to react. He hits the desk with enough force to crack his ribs and loses his breath, choking when it comes again too quickly. Blackwood doesn't falter, even as Coward struggles, animal-like against his grasp. Soon instinct will pass from the young man's thoughts and he will be left wholly human. As he always is.

Coward has been taught this lesson before. He has been taught it so many times. And still he doubts; still he wavers. Blackwood loves him for that.

xxx

'Henry, please.'

Coward can't draw a deep enough breath for the words to be anything more than a whisper. He struggles instinctively, trying to escape only because that is what his trapped body is telling him to do. But he knows he can't. Blackwood has his arms twisted behind him; has him pinned to the desk with the inhumane strength that Coward has come to know so well. He chokes on the air and feels Blackwood's hand underneath him, tugging deftly at the buckle of his belt. The animal-panic in his belly turns to the human terror he can't control. He tries desperately to pull his hands free but only manages to tear the muscles in his shoulders. He gasps for breath, but it sounds like a sob.

He feels cold air against his flesh as Blackwood pulls his shirt from his loosened waistband; feels a heavy hand slide underneath the expensive fabric and press a painful caress along his spine. He writhes again in a last, desperate attempt to escape and upsets the ink-well. Black pools across the desk, soaking into everything it touches. Coward can taste it, metallic as blood on his lips.

His breath leaves him as another sob that tastes like ink. Blackwood pushes him further forward, so that his pelvis is pressed painfully against the desk and Coward can't silence the cry that leaves him as the older man presses the heel of his hand hard into the small of his back, sending scolding agony and something else, hot and unwelcome, through his bones. He chokes on a sob that coats his mouth with spilt ink.

'No.'

Blackwood ignores him, as he always does. Instead he surges forward with a brutal, inhumane force that draws a cry from Coward's lips.

Coward's body fails him and he gives up the fight; feels himself weaken. Blackwood thrusts into him and Coward is crying half from pain and half from sick, unwelcome pleasure. He tries to forget his body; tries to forget the feel of Blackwood on him and in him. He keeps his eyes open and stares at the puddle of ink. Thinks of blood. He feels Blackwood deep inside him and feels a moan escape his throat. He tries again: concentrates on the hot, hard pain that burns through his ribs every time Blackwood thrusts him forward on the desk.

It seems as though it will never end when, at last, Blackwood makes an angry, animalistic noise and stills himself, panting. Coward can't move, for fear that feeling will flood back into his body. Blackwood steps back and Coward slides to his knees, covered in salt and ink and shame. He can't stop shaking and as bile burns up his throat he feels himself retch up what little dignity he has left.

He vomits until his stomach is empty. Behind him, Blackwood stands silent until the retching has stopped and Coward is left, stained and shaking, at his feet. He doesn't recoil when Blackwood rests a hand on his shoulder. Somewhere through the haze of shame, Coward knows that this is how it is always going to end.

Blackwood's words in his ear hardly hurt at all. 'Everything I do is for you.' He squeezes Coward's shoulder and pain shoots down the younger man's spine.

Blackwood moves towards the door. Coward cannot look away from him. He cannot spare himself the agony of knowing that Blackwood is only human after all.

Blackwood doesn't turn to look at him as he opens the door to leave. 'My way is the only way, Robin.'

The door clicks shut and Coward is left alone. Later, when he watches Ambassador Standish burn, he remembers the taste of blood and ink, and feels nothing.