Smashed this out in the last two hours. A thousand apologies to all of you who have wanted more of this story and who have had to wait for the author to actually remember it exists. Mea culpa. And a thousand thanks to who messaged me and told me to get my lazy arse in gear (except she phrased it in much nicer terms). Also, this is more reflective of my recent work (in the sense that it gets a bit dirty. Read on if Artemis wanking is your thing.)

Oh, and one more thing. Reviews make me want to keep writing. So, essentially, if you want me to put out, you have to put out too. Don't let me down, cherubs.

Disclaimer: Not going to bother with this anymore. Simply put, if you haven't worked out by now that I don't own Artemis Fowl, you're a bloody idiot.

Chapter Eighteen: Genius Turned To Madness (And Back To Genius Again)

Later, much later, he would regard it as a testament to his utter distraction that he did not notice the infiltrator among the group of midgets playing Don Juan's minions. Later, much later, he would reflect on many things.

But for now the vast pressure in his head of Holly's deceit was enough to keep him occupied, when coupled with the slow turning gears of his opera coming together, and research into the nature of his diva. The first inkling that Holly was part of some unknown military force had occurred to him weeks ago, at the touch of those calloused hands, at the sight of wiry muscle lurking underneath her skin. And the knowledge of her difference in species had not escaped his memory. The vision of those sapphire sparks would stay with him for a very long time; after all, it seemed eternity since he had been surprised like that. A pleasant surprise, regardless, for after the spasm of rage had passed, he truly regretted killing Butler. Butler, his bodyguard, conscience, confidante and - dare he say it - friend for so long: he had deserved better than the suffocating embrace of the Punjab lasso. He'd called and called, dozens of times, but Butler had never answered. The door appeared to be closed, and never to be opened again.

The rigor mortis of betrayal and fury had relaxed after a time into frosty acceptance. Artemis was accustomed to coldness; he lived below ground, for a start, but his long acquaintance with frigid temperatures had begun in the cage of the gypsies who'd used him as a slave, and occasionally as entertainment. Freak shows were long a thing of the past, according to the history books, but apparently so were gypsies of the type he'd known. Wandering, dirty men and women, their children screeching and screaming, camping in the woods and forests of Europe.

His parents had lived in Dublin, but it was on a holiday to Europe that his mother had finally snapped. He had been all of three when his father had bore him away in the car away from his screaming wife, but he remembered things well before then. Blessed, or perhaps cursed with a prodigious memory, he remembered a great deal.

And now, years later, look at the mess he'd got himself into. Oh, he'd finished his damnable opera, finally, his fury and sorrow providing the last thrills of dark emotion to complete the wretched tale of Don Juan and Aminta. But now he had a furious, non-communicative former bodyguard, an angry prisoner, and an unknown hostile military bearing down on him. Still, he had been researching assiduously, and he felt he was on the right track, perhaps within inches of a discovery, he just had to reach out and touch it -

It was late when he slipped inside his house, fists clenched around a multitude of shopping bags. Life had become a little more difficult since Butler was no longer his ally. For a start, he now had to do his own food shopping, much to his consternation - when did everything get so bloody expensive? Furthermore, he had to take the laundry to the drycleaner himself, going late at night just before they closed, slipping in like the shadows lurking in the street. It was downright irritating, but if he was honest, also a tad liberating. For fifteen years he'd locked himself away down below the opera house, leaving for very little, perhaps once or twice a month. Now he was required to go above almost every second day, sometimes more often, and the knowledge that he could still function in the maddening world above was both gratifying and freeing.

Yet still he cringed from the touch of humankind. Too many years of fear and doubt and abuse had conditioned him too well; he could interact with those terrifying individuals, but never feel at home amongst them. Too many appraising stares to his mask, too many whispers behind hands. He could cope, but it did nothing for his sanity.

And Artemis was well aware he was slipping. Even as he comported himself well amongst random strangers, his thoughts were consumed with revenge and rage, with the betrayal he still felt every time he looked at Holly. Their interactions were limited to basic yes or no answers, and though he was well aware she tried to bridge the widening ravine between them, he could not bring himself to respond in kind. To respond in kind was to open himself up to trust once more, and that he could not do.

After putting the foodstuffs away, and peeping in at his slumbering captive, he retired to his office and to the brandy decanter awaiting him. Never mind dinner, not when he could have the sweet nepenthe that alcohol could bring him. And as every night, before returning to his investigation into Holly's true nature, he indulged himself in his customary bout of self-flagellation. Except tonight, of all nights, would be different.

As usual, he sank into contemplation of his particular brand of lunacy in even dreaming that Holly might one day come to care for him. It was foolishness to think she could ever love a man such as himself - for as much as he tried to deny it, to others but ultimately and necessarily to himself, Artemis was a man. And he had a man's beating heart in his chest, a man's equipment between his legs, and a man's desire for his lovely prisoner. There had always been lust mixed in with the purer love he bore her, but he'd buried it deep, feeling it a dishonour to let his mind wander into fantasies of the body hidden beneath her clothes. But now? Now the dishonour was hers, and slumped in his office chair, with brandy swimming through his veins, he dared to let that shameful desire rise to the forefront of his mind.

It had taken him only minutes of letting his mind wander for him to go from uninterested to hard as steel, cock straining against his trousers. It took only that long for the thought of unbuttoning his trousers brought only a sensation of anticipation rather than humiliation, and by the time he took himself in hand, a sigh of relief on his lips, his doubts had fallen away.

Holly stood in the living room, lifting those little hand weights he'd gotten for her. She was, once more, clad in nothing but one of his old shirts, far too big on her, and a pair of boxer shorts. It did terrible things to him to see her in his clothes, but he repressed it in favour of watching her longer.

"I know you're there, Artemis," she said, setting the weights down. Casually she pulled off her shirt, leaving her in shorts and a bra, and as though commanded to reveal himself by her words, he found himself stumbling into the centre of the room.

"You're not… decent," he rasped, and she lifted a sarcastic eyebrow at him. He was hard and throbbing, shifting to try and ease the ache of his trousers confining his erection.

"Not decent?" she questioned. I think I'm very decent, don't you agree?" And oh, yes, he had to. Soft, warm flesh; the faint gather of a tad of excess weight around her middle, and breasts so sweet and small, he longed to feel their peaks against his tongue. Even still in her brassiere, he was so aware of how close to nudity she was, and it drove him half mad.

"Yes, no, oh God, Holly, I don't know," he growled out in frustration, and she just smiled.

"I do," she assured him, and she rose on her tiptoes, looking up at him, her lips full and red. He sat down hard on the sofa, eyes darting to every inch of skin he could see, curling his hands into fists at his sides, he so wanted to touch her -

He achieved hard, sweet release, rocking up into his clenched hand, biting his lip to keep the noise from spilling from his lips. Every tense nerve unwound, every brain cell for the moment blissfully inactive, he pumped his hand a few times more before settling into a gentle haze. For all his distaste for giving in to his mortal instincts, he relished the temporary blankness in his mind, a mind forever active, silenced only by alcohol or drug induced sleep. And by this. And he could not deny the stilling of his concerns and worries, if only for a time, could not deny the temporary peace that stole across him like the winter chill.

And yet he was disgusted with himself. A pathetic creature, so starved of touch and kindness, that the very thought of a kiss had him spending himself like a teenager? Horrendous. Probably a good thing he'd never had the opportunity to bed a woman, after all, he'd probably fail as keenly at that as he would as interacting with the rest of humankind. Oh, he could manage it, but he would never be proficient.

Shaking his head, he cleaned himself off with a handkerchief, dropping it carelessly onto the floor. No need to hide, here. She would never enter the study, never, and who else would come into his home? No one, now that Butler was gone. He finished off the rest of the brandy, buttoned himself back into his trousers, and turned on the multitude of computers and laptops in his office. He had work to do.

xx

"You are sure?" he typed into the IM program, feverishly awaiting the reply. For all his orgasm had temporarily relieved him of tension, Artemis was not the kind of man to linger long in such a state. Not now, when he was so close to discovering the truth. He had soon returned to his usual condition of heightened emotions and marked impatience.

"Entirely sure," came the response. "I am sending the video to your email address. I followed your instructions to the letter. She was most… forthcoming."

"Excellent," he replied, already loading the video onto his computer. For a moment, shaky footage, and then an image in the shadows of a thin, green, unnatural figure came into view. Artemis leaned forward, unconsciously trying to get closer to the creature on the screen. Long after the video finished, he stared into the fuzzy blackness of the screen, until once more he snapped into action, hands like great pale spiders on the keyboard.

"And the contents of what she carried?"

"Sending it through now," his associate replied. Artemis felt a rare smile stretching his face - he knew from experience it was like the grimace of the Grim Reaper, but even that knowledge could not dampen his pleasure. He had doubted Nguyen's ability to fulfil the task he'd set him, but evidently the man was not entirely incompetent. Absentmindedly, he opened one of his several online bank accounts, and prepared to send the exorbitant seven figure amount to Nguyen for his work. That is, assuming the incoming email contained what he hoped.

Slowly, patiently, he waited for the next email from Ho Chi Minh City, this one far larger than the last. When it arrived, he found himself staring at page upon page of absolute gibberish, but that hardly mattered. He finally had the information he had sought so long. Finding a way to read it was child's play in comparison.

"Sir? My compensation?"

xx

Four days, seventeen hours, and thirty-four minutes later, Artemis was still staring at the screen. He was still wearing that same black evening suit and black shoes, even if his cravat had long since been abandoned and his shirtsleeve were rolled back to expose skeletal arms. He had moved only to use the bathroom and to escort Holly above and then back below, not even noticing her curious looks as his appearance deteriorated more and more. Four days, seventeen hours and thirty-four minutes of mostly uninterrupted analysis, and finally he had the answer. Finally, he could read the text in front of him. God bless the ancient Egyptians. Now, he had every iota of information he could possibly need regarding Holly's… LEP, and every scrap of knowledge regarding Holly herself in terms of her limitations and strengths. His lovely elf, his darling fairy.

She would never be able to escape him now. Finally, they were equal in that. After all, he had never been able to free himself from the yoke of his love for her, the strength of that unerring pull towards her he has felt now for so long. The swell of emotion tightening his chest was something like joy, something like anticipation, and something like frail, trembling, tremulous hope, breathed into life after being denied so long. At long last the upper hand was his.

At last, this time for true, he can begin.