Disclaimer:The novel "The Picture of Dorian Gray" belongs to Oscar Wilde. The 2009 movie "Dorian Gray" belongs to Momentum Pictures. I claim to be neither and I am making no profit. However, Roderick Lewin belongs to me so yay.

Warning: This fic is slash. Not explicit, not dirty, but still slash. As in 'male/male romantic relationship' and not 'cutting something open'. I very much doubt that there are any Dorian Gray fans who have a big problem with that, but if by chance you happen to be offended by such things, proceed no further.

Author's Note: Please, cheer me up with a review, I was feeling so sick today on the way back from work that I apparently got careless and lost my wallet. Idiot. I guess bad things come in threes :(((.

Anyways, I wanted to say that I have to credit old copies of the British Medical Journal from the Victorian era for this chapter. I went and did my research properly to see what was possible and what not. I found the journals in question very interesting to read, although a few of my friends looked at me a little weird when they saw I seemed to be very interested in cutting and stabbing people's throats ;P.

Chapter two

Words

Rody struggled to see through his tears and his hands itched to curl around Dorian's throat. If only he had been there five minutes earlier! He must have felt something was wrong tonight because he could not seem to go further than about twenty yards from Dorian's house. Something had made him come back, bang on the door until it was opened by a sleepy servant, push him aside almost knocking him to the ground and search every inch until he had found Dorian's secret room. He had been worried to the point of panic without knowing why. But nothing could have prepared him for the sight he encountered as he opened the door. Dorian had been kneeling next to the bloody form of Basil Hallward lying on the floor but at the sound of the door opening he had shot up. He had stared at the newcomer like a cornered animal for a moment. Then he had charged, pushed him to the floor and run out the door.

That had been almost ten minutes ago. Rody had shouted at the servant to get a surgeon. Dorian had disappeared before he could even fully comprehend what was going on. But he vowed that if Basil died tonight, he would personally find James Vane and team up with him to hunt down and kill this monster.

Pushing thoughts of vengeance aside for the moment, he focused on keeping his friend alive, at least until help arrived.

Basil spat more blood as he turned him to the side but at least now he wasn't entirely drowning in it. Trying to think clearly, Rody did all he could to stop the bleeding from the wound and secure the glass in place. He thanked his diseased father for teaching him a thing or two. At the very least he knew it was dangerous to remove the object from the wound.

Now all he could do was hold Basil's hand and talk nonsense that were perhaps meant to be reassuring but he wasn't even certain the painter could register what he was saying. Rody didn't register it himself. There were a few words just at the tip of his tongue that begged to be said but he was terrified that if he said them, it would mean admitting defeat. It would mean accepting that Basil would die and he would never get another chance.

After what seemed like ages, the door opened again and the surgeon rushed in. From then on, Rody's thoughts blurred into one continuous, fervent prayer.

Night turned into a watery gray morning, barely detectable through the boarded windows of the attic room. Minutes ticked by. Each one was met with fear and sent off with short-lived relief that the worst had not yet happened. Basil's pulse had become almost non-existent, so every time the doctor checked for it, it took agonizingly long to determine if it was still there. Rody had stopped asking questions an hour ago. The doctor had been patient enough with his explanations but there was very little he could tell. The glass had hit a large vein and a few smaller blood vessels. There was a relatively small tear in the pharynx. As far as he could tell, the vocal cords had not been touched, which he tried to present as good news but Rody hardly cared about that at the moment. Being able to talk would be quite irrelevant if Basil didn't survive at all. The doctor had removed the glass, clamped a few blood vessels and declared that all they could do was wait.

Rody ran his fingers through Basil's hair and wiped blood from his mouth without even registering what he was doing. The movements had become mechanical after so many hours.

He was looking at the portrait. He had not noticed it at first, preoccupied as he had been with keeping his friend alive. But when the adrenalin had drained away and panic had turned into dull, almost catatonic expectation, his eyes had fallen on it. Rody had always approached supernatural concepts with a healthy dose of skepticism but he had never completely denied the existence of higher powers. And now the proof was before his eyes. Proof of the existence of demons, if not God.

At first he had thought it was not the same picture but one side of Dorian's face was still recognizable, while the other had become ugly and disfigured. And there was Basil's signature at the bottom left corner. His own butterflies were still hanging to the curtain, although…

His hand froze on Basil's hair. There were only two! He narrowed his eyes to see better. The room was dark and his sight was still blurry from tears but as far as he could tell, one butterfly was missing. Sudden fear gripped his heart as he remembered what he had thought when he had drawn them.

One for each of us.

This, more than anything, made him feel hopeless. Was this some kind of horrible warning? Was it certain then, that Basil would die?

Suddenly he felt trapped. He wanted to get out of this nightmare and rejoin the real world. The room felt like a time capsule and everything outside was moving a lot faster than inside. By this time the house must have been brimming with police but they had only come into this room once, after which the doctor had forbidden them to disturb them anymore and very firmly told them that their investigation would have to wait until Basil could be moved or... Or. The awkward pause at the end of the sentence had hung in the air so heavily that it had suddenly seemed to thicken and become almost suffocating. The officers had retreated, resolving to question witnesses instead.

About noon Basil started coming to his senses. Rody didn't dare take that as a good sign. He found it scary, if anything, that the painter was aware of what was going on. He stroked his forehead again and whispered reassurances he was not sure he believed while the doctor droned in the background in a professional voice:

"Don't try to move, Mr. Hallward. You have been badly injured but we have stopped the bleeding. Your vocal cords do not appear to have been damaged but I advise you not to try to speak for now. Just rest. When you are well enough, we will move you somewhere more comfortable…"

Neither of them was listening. Rody was trying to keep a straight face for Basil's sake and he was sure Basil was doing the same for his.

It was a few more hours before the doctor decided they should move. Rody was still reluctant to allow it until the doctor offered his own home, which was only on the opposite side of the road.

On their way out of the building they passed Harry and his wife. Rody doubted anyone had ever seen the confident, nonchalant, impossible to disturb Henry Wotton look so shell-shocked. Victoria was holding on to his arm and Rody got the impression she was the only thing keeping him upright. It was a confirmation of what he had always known. Underneath it all, Harry cared more than he showed. Maybe right now he wished he had shown it.

To Rody's relief, Basil didn't seem to worsen in any way as a result of the journey. He slept all right that night but Rody himself didn't at all. By the next morning he was so tired he could hardly keep his head up. He was sitting in a chair next to Basil's bed, staring out the window and fighting to keep awake when he felt a light touch on his hand.

"You should sleep."

It was the quietest of whispers but still understandable.

Rody froze, looked down at Basil's hand over his and broke down in sobs, leaning over the armrest.

"Oh, hush now. It will be fine," the painter whispered, stroking his hair.

Rody wanted to tell him to shut up and save his strength but he could hardly draw enough breath to speak himself. Strangely enough, the only words that managed to leave his mouth were the ones he had been choking on the previous night.

"I love you."

"Revolting," the man with the sideburns muttered but he made no move to leave. He seemed as eager to find out the rest as the others.

"Well, he might have just meant it as a friend," Lord Greenaway suggested.

"He might have," the storyteller agreed. "After all, Lord Henry Wotton said the same words that day and I am quite sure he had no romantic feelings for Basil Hallward. Basil himself never asked exactly what Rody had meant. Perhaps because he didn't want to embarrass him. Or perhaps because he was afraid the answer may not be what he had hoped for."

"I wonder if he knew he had only a few days to live," Lady Greenaway said sadly. "It's even more awful if they were in love! No, don't snort like that, sir! I find it very improper of you!"

The last had been directed at the gentleman with the sideburns, who was showing his disapproval quite clearly. Even Lord Greenaway was looking at him indignantly.

"Please, continue," Lady Greenaway said after a moment. "I seem unable to tear myself away, although I know I won't like the ending."

"I must agree with you," the storyteller said with a sigh. "Unfortunately this story did not have a happy ending. I suppose all of the characters in it could be blamed for that, although in the case of Mr. Roderick Lewin, I really have no idea what he could have done better."

"There is something that's unclear to me, though," Lord Greenaway said thoughtfully. "The way you describe it, Mr. Hallward seemed to be getting better and yet we know he only had a few days to live. Did he die of infection?"

The storyteller inclined his head to the side and a small, sad smirk played on his lips.

"My dear friend, you are relying on Lady Weatherby's words. I never said he died."


End Note: Le Gasp! Did I get you there? Did you really think Basil was dead? I'd love to know :). So if you want to know what's next, leave me a review - that always gives me the kick I need to upload the next chapter.