Title: His Last Request
Rating: PG
Pairing: Lord Blackwood/Sherlock Holmes
Word Count: 1,092
Description: A distinctly slashier re-interpretation of Holmes' visit to Blackwood in prison.
Author's Note: Written for the kink meme, at the urging of degroove. It was difficult getting Holmes' internal dialogue straight, as I wasn't sure how much he had deduced up to this point about Blackwood's true intentions. Also, it's difficult molesting through prison bars!
"Clean yourself up. You are Blackwood's last request."
It took Holmes a moment to process the statement for what it was, and not the lurid carnality that it conjured.
Blackwood, an audience? Certainly not for clemency - that date had long passed. Revenge, perhaps. Or a final proclamation. The Lord in him demanding a last word against his captor. All very logical. Nevertheless, a twinge of unease nagged at Holmes, as he recalled the night of Blackwood's arrest. It had happened so cleanly, so quickly. Beeswax pentagrams, a jewel-encrusted knife, fine, hand-made boots padding in the darkness...yet something was out of place, something essential, which this final request had only begun to coalesce. He would have a word with the man.
Seeing the spark of curiosity in his partner's eyes, Watson quickly tossed Holmes his coat before the other could change his mind.
~o~
The dank, fetid air of the prison assaulted Holmes' nostrils, as he made his way slowly toward Blackwood's cell. Though he could not see the man, the murmurings - soft and whispered - drew his gaze to the shadow in the corner, still but for the subtle flutter of a hand over parchment. Fragments of sentences echoed off the stone, evoking devil and dragon and beast. Holmes peered deeper into the recesses of the cell. From the faint light of the window, he could make out occult symbols carved into every inch of the walls - a product of the sharpened fountain pen, no doubt, sitting at the floor of the bed.
As the voice grew in intensity, Holmes' eyes darted from engraving to engraving along with the incantations. A three-headed serpent, risen from the sea, hanging above the word FORTITUDE. The symbol of the sun, Roman numerals XV and XX, interconnected circles repeated again and again. A cross with an eye shining at its center.
The mind of a sick man.
"I love what you've done with the place," Holmes quipped, filing away all he needed from the prison cell.
The murmurings abruptly stopped mid-stream. Silence followed. Then, a deep voice resonated from the shadows.
"So glad you could accept my invitation."
"I just have a small point of concern."
A thin smile ghosted over Blackwood's face. He had been expecting this. "How can I help?"
"I followed the murders with some interest, and while my heart went out primarily to the families of the victims, I couldn't but notice a criminal mastery...in the stroke of a brush."
"You're too kind," Blackwood acknowledged the compliment with a touch of irony.
"However, by comparison, your work in the crypt was more akin to a finger painting." Pausing, Holmes let the implication hang in the air, like a gauntlet thrown down at the start of a duel.
The other man finally turned around and lowered his book to his knee. "So now you're curious as to whether there's a larger game afoot." He tilted his head knowingly.
Holmes shrugged. "Either that or shortly my friend will pronounce you dead, and I thought I might keep him company." He settled himself against the cell, one hand sliding nonchalantly along the bars, and dug his pipe out of his jacket.
Slowly, Blackwood raked his eyes over the other's lean, rugged frame. His tongue darted across his lips, predatory. "Your mistake is to imagine anything earthly has led to this moment. Your error of judgment is to presume that I am holding the brush at all." Closing his book of incantations, the other man uncoiled like a snake from the bed. "I'm merely the channel."
"Well, my only wish is that I could've caught you sooner, you see," Holmes replied, unperturbed. "Five lives might have been spared."
"Those lives were a necessity." Never wavering his gaze, Blackwood approached the bars of the cell, fingers gliding down the rusted metal until his nails just brushed Holmes' skin. A near-electric spark jumped between them. "A sacrifice," he whispered, pupils glittering with dark fever. "Five otherwise meaningless lives called to serve a greater purpose."
Resisting the instinct to flinch, Holmes slowly and deliberately extricated his hand from the other's grasp, as if peeling away a loathsome leech. "I wonder if they'd let Watson and me dissect your brain," he pondered aloud, feigning detachment. "After the act, of course." He didn't so much see as feel Blackwood's gaze burn with sinister intent when he turned his back to the madman. "I wager there's some deformity that'd be scientifically significant. Then you too could serve a greater purpose."
Raising his pipe to his lips, Holmes prepared to take his leave, when a powerful arm shot from between the bars and pulled him flush against the metal.
"Holmes," the voice hissed venom in his ear, lips caressing his name like a lover. "You must widen your gaze. I'm concerned you underestimate the gravity of coming events." Blackwood's crooked tooth brushed against his skin, a veiled menace, hot breath hovering as a viper ready to strike. Long fingers tightened around his sleeve until they were met with the hard rock of muscle. A slow intoxication began to overtake Holmes, as the overpowering scent of vetiver and incense slithered into his nostrils, wreathed by an undercurrent of smoky leather. "You and I are bound together on a journey that will twist - " Blackwood fisted his hand for emphasis " - the very fabric of nature. But beneath your mask of logic, I sense a...fragility." Just as quickly, the stranglehold around his arm disappeared, only to return in tender counterpoint as a stroke to his cheek - manicured nails against coarse stubble. This time, Holmes did flinch. Blackwood smiled. "That worries me." The other man's fingers traced a serpentine path down his jaw and neck. "Steel your mind, Holmes," came the whisper, as the tips hovered over his exposed throat. "I need you."
~o~
Holmes looked distracted more than his usual self when he emerged from the depths of the prison.
"What did he want?" Lestrade called, impatient for the execution to move forward.
There was a lengthy pause.
Thumb twitching, Holmes tugged the collar of his shirt up, as if to hide an invisible mark. "Not sure," he muttered, chewing on the end of his pipe. "But I don't think you're needed, Father. Not for this one."
The noisy London streets were an almost welcoming dash of cold water to his senses, though even they could not rid him of the lingering scent of musk and black leather.