STORY: "Un Homme Dangereux" (sorry it's so close to the title of the last one), a pastiche with Choderlos De Laclos' epistolary novel, Les Liaisons Dangereuses.

GOAL: This is the conceit: to write these as fast and dirty as actual letters, while still keeping as much voice as possible and historical accuracy and impact. The goal is one a day. Some will be very short. There are 175 letters in the original novel. Since I've combined some characters and cut others, plus am unwilling to make the dance quite as long as De Laclos did, let's say…maybe 50? If I can't post a letter I will make a post saying that there isn't an installment that day to keep myself honest.

IMPORTANT: The novel was published in 1782 so I am keeping that as the timeframe for this. My major break with the novel is that there is an encompassing letter that serves as a framework. The entire story is within a letter that Mycroft is writing to a friend after the events of the story, utilizing the other letters as support. Depending on what is needed, I may have to resort to diary entries in addition to letters. There will probably be more dialog than one usually finds in letters, but De Laclos does it as well.

HISTORICAL NOTES: I was rather bad at keeping up with historical notes on TMNOL, and if I can write this as fast as I want to, I will probably forget to do it on this as well. Additionally, I'm not as familiar with the time, so there may be a number of errors. Feel free to let me know, or share what you know in the comments. I will revise what I have time for. Ask questions about anything I don't explain, and I will point you to my research.

Again, like TMNOL, 1782 is an interesting time (perhaps there are no uninteresting times). The American War of Independence (or as we call it, "In Yo Face, King George") was winding down. England was still solidifying its hold on India (thus, again, John will have fought in India, not Afghanistan), and England and France hated one another (big shock). The French Revolution would begin in 1789 (although they can't know that at the time of the story).

Terms from the first chapter:

Banyan - a sort of smock or robe adopted from the middle and far east (the Orient) worn over clothes in the home like a dressing gown

Huguenot – Protestants of French descent who fled religious persecution in France

Hellfire Club – There were real gentlemen's clubs bearing this name where immoral acts were supposed to have taken place, but the idea of the Hellfire Club is a popular trope in literature, appearing in (among others): Blackadder the Third, the Grenada adaptation of "The Priory School," The Sandman comic (extending, I believe into Hellblazer), and the Doctor Who Eighth Doctor novels. And clearly influencing Mark Gatiss' Vesuvius Club.

My dearest Madame A_,

In your last letter you asked about the fate of my brother as you were still in France when the scandal ensued. It is a long story, longer in some ways in the telling than in the living. It is also a painful tale for me relate, as I cannot help but feel that I bear a great deal of the responsibility for my brother's downfall. It is only because of our long, long friendship (longer than either of us care to admit to) that I can bring myself to share the truth with you. I hope you will not think less of me when I am done.

My brother was, as you well know, extraordinarily beautiful. Very few people would dispute that. The very oddness of his features came together to create something exquisite, unique and otherworldly. Opinions of his character, however, varied wildly. To some he was the most charming man in the world. To others, the most cruel. He was known to be clever, but very few were aware of how truly brilliant he was. And he wasted his brilliance on trivial things. Did you know that in his childhood he was considered a prodigy? Oh, yes! His tutors believed he could easily become as great a scientist as Sir Isaac Newton, or as fine an empirical philosopher as Descartes. I remember quite clearly two of his masters fighting about him on the lawn when he was but eight or nine. "No, he will read chemistry!" "No, he will be a philosopher!"

But then, our parents died of cholera and I was entrusted with his education and his care. I was only just eighteen myself, and finishing my own education at Oxford. Alas, after a particularly buxom and forward maid initiated him in the pleasures of the flesh when he was twelve, followed, in his own spirit of completeness, by the seduction of a stable boy the following year, the world of the mind seemed to no longer interest him. While he managed two years of study at university, and maintained into his adulthood, some peculiar arcane hobbies, for the most part he dedicated his adult life to being a roué, Lothario and cad. And in contrast to the character in Cervantes, his tastes were omnivorous and not limited to a single sex. But you are well aware of all of this, as I know that both you and your son enjoyed his bed at different times.

Perhaps if I had not taken him to the theater that night, or if I had not asked him to perform that particular service… Alas, we will never know. Perhaps fate would always have intervened, and he would have met Sir John Watson, Physician, no matter what I or anyone else did. I would like to say that I sought his help in order to give his life purpose, to try and inspire that youthful curiosity and stir, once again, his glorious mind, but truth to tell, I often asked him to help me in less savory ways, taking advantage of his beauty, rather than his brain.

And so it was, in the spring of that year, that I went to visit him in his rooms in Baker Street. I found him before his fire, dressed in satin breaches, banyan and nightcap, sawing moodily at his violin.

"Sherlock. Rouse yourself, I have a project you will enjoy," I said to him.

"Can't. Things I have on are too important. I haven't the time," he replied. This was typical banter between us.

"Nonsense," I said, "I happen to know from your servants you haven't stirred from here for a fortnight."

"Oh, yes? Perhaps I am eluding your spies. I know that all of my servants are in your employee. Do they examine my shoes for dirt each night?" That was, I fear, nearer to the truth that I was ready to admit. I can only excuse my snooping behavior by saying that I worried about him constantly.

Instead, I observed, "You are unshaven, and your hair wants cutting. You are too vain to go into public with your hair ungroomed." Untrimmed, my brother's glorious curls would quickly become too unruly to be tied with a ribbon. "I would have heard too if you were at any of your usual haunts, or with any of your usual lovers. Anyway, is there a nun or priest in this country left that you haven't corrupted? Is there a newly appointed Anglican Bishop towards whom you have set your cap? You will enjoy this. It will be a challenge." I dangled this before him, for I knew that it was only a difficult chase that interested him.

He laid aside his violin to listen to me at last and I pressed on. Oh, how I regret now that I was ever so persistent. "There is a gentleman, a member of Parliament. He is of French descent and we believe he may be passing information to the French. If you compromise him, he might be amenable to passing on the information we feed him."

"Huguenot, surely?" he said, making to reach again for his violin.

"No, Catholic, interestingly. It may trouble his loyalties," I replied.

He looked at me most coldly and said, "We are of French descent. Does it trouble your loyalty?"

This too was a point of contention between us, although I think he only maintained his love of France to be contrary. "Papa was British and represented the British government in France. At the time we were at peace with France. Now we are not. We are British first."

"Quelle horreur! Maman en aurait le coeur brisé," he returned.

"Peut-être. Mais— but father would be proud." We stared at one another in defiance.

At last he said, "And this gentleman, he is…corruptible?"

"He is married with three young children. However, we know that he has, for many years, looked but not touched, as it were. Surely this is exactly the type of challenge you desire," I answered.

Sherlock had the effrontery to snort, "What is it you suggest to me? To seduce a repressed and fearful dullard? Who would be, so to speak, delivered defenceless into my hands, whom a first compliment would not fail to intoxicate, and whom curiosity will perhaps more readily entice than love. Twenty others can succeed and these as well as I. And if, in his relief from his self-imposed torture, he does fall in love with me, then I should have him on my hands." He smirked, "Both literally and figuratively, for if he has denied himself so long, then I should get but a moment's worth of pleasure out of him."

"He is devout, and seemingly fond of his wife and family. It may well prove more of a bout than you suppose. He is handsome and wealthy with a lovely estate in Surrey. A change of air will do you good." If nothing else, I did hope that removing him from London's miasmas might awaken something within him.

"Dull." He paused and seemed to consider. "If I do this, what will you give me in return?"

I said, "An increase in your allowance?" which I still had the manage of.

In answer he twisted the large ruby ring he wore on the middle finger of his right hand—a gift from some former lover—and gazed at me mockingly. Though he enjoyed luxury, he seldom lived beyond his means. Most of his allowance went into his wardrobe, although he seldom followed faddish nonsense, trusting his own impeccable taste in what suited him best. He dined well when entertained by his devotees, but left alone, he seemed to subsist entirely on Laudanum, tobacco and coffee.

At last I asked, "Well, what then?"

His answer surprised me. "An invitation to your club."

"To my club?" I asked. "Why on earth would you want an invitation to The Diogenes?"

He rolled his eyes then rose and came towards me, finally pressing so close to me that we were nearly nose to nose. "Come now, Mycroft. Everyone in London knows that The Diogenes is The Hellfire Club. There may be silence in the halls above, but there are regularly screams in the dungeons beneath." (I tell you nothing that you do not already know, my dear Missus A_. Your husband is a member.)

I pulled back as much as I could, pressed up against the mantelpiece as I was. "There are a half a dozen clubs of that nature in London alone that would be delighted to offer you invitations. Why should you wish to come to mine?"

I knew the answer before he said it, "Because it's yours." He smirked again, and at last relented, moving away from me with a flourish of his robe.

I offered a compromise. "Come to the theatre with me tonight. You can see and perhaps meet Lord D_, and decide he is to your taste. Then…we can discuss the terms."

He flicked his hand at me and started from the room.

"Sherlock?" I asked unsure of his answer.

Over his shoulder he called, "If I am to go to the theatre this evening I need to send for my barber and dress."

I took it as a victory until he paused at the door to his bedroom and turned to ask, "Mycroft? When you take me to The Diogenes," he lowered his eyes and then flicked them back up to meet my gaze, "will you collar me yourself?"

Ah, my dear friend, I fear that I fled. As I said, he was very beautiful.

(cont.)