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The Gilded Room	By : DayjaJadie Category: Titles in the Public Domain > Sherlock Holmes > Slash > Slash Views: 7684 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work fiction, based on the Sherlock Holmes series by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

Chapter List
- 2
- 3
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Chapter 3

Sherlock awoke slowly with a vague, unsettling feeling in the pit of his stomach that something was wrong. He was in a bed, was his first observation, but he dismissed that as the reason behind the wrong feeling because he almost always awoke in a bed. He was not wearing a shirt was his next, the cover heavy and soft against his bare skin, and he moved both hands to cautiously fold it back. He was not, in fact, wearing any clothes. This seemed particularly indecent as he was not in his own bed. Despite this, and the slight spinning sensation that movement gave him, he did not grow alarmed. He knew this bed. In fact, he slowly deduced, he had been sleeping in this very bed for some time now. Which created the interesting question of how a bed that he apparently had been using for days, perhaps weeks or even months, could still not be considered his own. The answer to that question eluded him and he gave it up swiftly.

The room, like the bed, was familiar. It was a room he knew intimately, from the names of the books on the shelves to the stain on the sofa hidden beneath a well placed pillow. He was alone in the room, he discovered. He was unsure of the time; the heavy curtains were drawn across the windows letting in no light whatsoever. The room was shadowed, flickering in the firelight. It gave the impression of being the middle of the night, yet Sherlock did not feel inclined towards sleep. He got up.

Standing left the spinning in his head worse and his legs felt unsteady beneath him but he managed unaided. Looking down at his body he saw nothing for cause for alarm. No bandages anyway, though there were a few bruises about his hips. He poked one speculatively and felt a dull ache, but otherwise they didn’t hurt. Nothing hurt like he would expect it; he pinched his arm, wary of a few more bruises found about his forearm and wrists, and again felt only a numbed twinge. So he must be drugged in some form or another.

Frowning, he took a shaky step away from the bed, taking the cover with him like a large cape before his eyes fell upon a robe laid out nearby. Checking once more to make sure he was truly alone, he let the cover fall and took the robe. It took rather more effort than he had anticipated to get it on, the arms kept getting confused and at one point he managed to get both his arms through one hole, but in the end he got it. He tied it closed with slow care, making an effort to smooth out the cloth where it caught and bunched up. Finally, feeling more or less covered if not decently dressed, he made a stumbling gait towards the door he instinctively remembered to contain a bathroom.

The door was hidden in the shadow of a bookcase, nearly indiscernible from the wall, but Sherlock made his way unerringly and opened the door. There was a large mirror there, and various supplies including a comb, a basin filled with water, and shaving cream but no razor. Sherlock stared at the foam with a slight frown, running his hand over his face and finding it to be clean shaven. A large bathtub was also set up in the room but no obvious source of water other than the small basin. Sherlock used it to splash his face, the cool water doing nothing to relieve him of the cobwebs that seemed to coat his mind. Through still another door was a toilet. Altogether the room was small, though of an elegant style, and not particularly interesting. He used the toilet and left it for the bedroom once again.

Still stumbling a bit, and confused as to what he was meant to be doing as well as why he was alone, he made his way to one of the windows and drew the curtain. Daylight streamed in, piercing his eyes and giving him a sudden intense pain through his skull. Squinting, he stubbornly left it open, waiting for his eyes to adjust. The world outside was quiet with no sign of life. Judging from the angle of the shadows, it was either midmorning or midafternoon. To say more precisely, he’d need to know first which way was east or west. And despite the familiarity of the sight out the window, the cobwebs didn’t allow such trivial information to pass. The feeling of wrongness grew stronger, as did his headache, and finally he stumbled away from the view. He made for the only other place he could think to go, the door out of the room.

The door was locked. Sherlock didn’t think that boded well at all. Unsure of how to proceed, as most of the plans that formed in his head involved either finding Watson and letting him make a plan, or growing wings and flying out the window, Sherlock finally settled upon the simplest plan. He knocked on the door.

The door made a clattering sort of noise of a lock being turned, and then opened. Sherlock ignored the inquisitive man asking how he might be of service and turned his eyes intently upon the hallway beyond the room. Unlike the room itself, it was not at all familiar. This was surprising. Surely, if Sherlock had been in this room for quite some time, he had also been in this hallway? But he felt none of the same recognition, and it unsettled him. He took a half step out the door only to be halted by a hand at his chest. He looked down at the hand and then up at the man it belonged to. The man was large, taller than Sherlock, and his expression mostly unemotional. Another just like him stood at the other side of the door while the servant stood at ready attendance inbetween.

“Sorry, sir,” the large man said in a clipped, almost militarized tone, “You are not to leave the room, sir.” Sherlock stared hard at him, trying to form some sort of plan that would result in the hand being gone from his chest and the hallway being free for him to walk down. Preferably, this plan would end in finding Watson; he remembered that the doctor had been there before and so was likely to be nearby. It also seemed rather unfair that Watson could leave the room and he could not. Because his brain refused to give any brilliant suggestions whatsoever, he let his muscle memory guide him, allowing the pressure at his chest to push him back, throwing his guard off balance and allowing him to slide away and past him. He managed the move with surprisingly flawless ease considering he could barely walk and had strolled several steps down the hall before the second guard managed to grab him in a firm but gentle grip.

“Here now, you can’t go wandering off! Back into the room with you; if you need something, we’ll bring it.” Sherlock stared at him blankly, mind still processing though the data didn’t quite seem to have any place to go but round and round in useless circles.

“Do you need anything, sir?” the servant who had first greeted him at the door asked while the two guards gently propelled him back to that hated room.

“Hey, I wouldn’t bother with talking to him,” the second guard said, his voice not unkind but not exactly friendly, “You know how the Lord keeps him, he’s addled.” Which Sherlock rather resented but was slightly worried that it might be true. Nonetheless, he managed to find his tongue.

“I’ll just be going on a walk, thank you,” he insisted, squirming in a second attempt to escape but with less success than his first and he soon found himself propelled into the room, despite putting all his weight forward and digging in with his toes.

“Do you need anything, sir?” the servant asked again, eyeing him with a slightly nervous expression.

“Yes,” Sherlock answered, “I need to leave.”

“Sorry, sir, we can’t allow that. Do you need anything else? Some tea, perhaps?” Sherlock frowned, still digging in and still being half carried further into the room, towards the couch.

“Watson,” he said at last, “I need Watson.” And then, as all other resources had failed him, he tried a trick he had once used in his youth when his small size had allowed his elders and brother in particular to manhandle him far more easily than should be allowed; he went completely limp. The sudden dead weight threw his captors off balance once more, and for a second time Sherlock fell backwards in the same direction they had been pulling him, this time managing somehow to trip one of the guards over his back and into the other. It wasn’t planned, not really, but the move was so familiar it didn’t require thought or brain power. And finding himself free, he lurched to his feet and ran surprisingly quickly out the door. And straight into a mountain of solid muscle. He looked up into another familiar face.

“Moon Man, you have returned!” he said, “Come, I am going to see Watson.” The arms did not release him, however, the man’s eyes looking over his head with a disapproving frown at the two guards who were stumbling to their feet. The guards did not meet his gaze.

“Come, James,” Sherlock said, pulling insistently at his arm like a child who is held back by their nurse.

“Do you wish to go out in nothing but a robe?” James asked, and Sherlock frowned, staring down at himself as he remembered how he was dressed for the first time. The robe had become twisted about in his struggles, the tie undone and leaving him barely decent. “Let me help you dress,” James said, his voice low and gentle, “And then we will be going out.”

“Alright,” Sherlock conceded at last, though he did shout after the guards and servant before they shut the door again to bring Watson.

Getting dressed was easier than getting the robe on had been, mostly because James was there to help him. The clothes, however, were strange; they more resembled the robe he had removed than the proper attire he was accustomed to going out in, though they did at least have pants. The shirt was more robe than shirt, however, white with strange symbols on it. The servant returned just as James was putting on Sherlock’s shoes with a tray of tea and no Watson in sight. Sherlock ignored the offering, just wanting to get out.

“Are we going to see Watson, now?” he asked, walking carefully towards the door while James held him at his elbow to steady him.

“I’m sorry, sir,” James said in a soft voice, “Lord Blackwood has asked that you be brought to him.” Sherlock frowned, a thrill of unease sending a shudder down his spine. A memory, or a string of memories, that didn’t quite surface made him wary when James got that look in his eyes, that sound of apology in his voice. It meant something bad, something his thoughts shied away from. Suddenly, he wanted nothing more than to stay inside the quiet, empty room.

“Will Watson be there?” Sherlock asked, going slower than before. James allowed this, adjusting his own gait to barely a shuffle to match. He failed to look in Sherlock’s direction at all when he answered, “Yes, he is there.” They left the room.

The walk was long and Sherlock allowed it to soak into his head, through his eyes, ears, and nose, though with the way his head spun he had no clue if he would really remember the walk afterwards. It felt rather like walking in a dream, or underwater. Everything felt muffled.

James let him set the pace only until the end of the hallway, when he said they must go faster and picked up the pace. Sherlock allowed himself to be led, half stumbling and headache growing, through several passages and down several flights of stairs until James slowed at last so Sherlock could make a more dignified entrance than one of being half dragged and barely upright. Blackwood was waiting. So was Watson. And an audience of at least two dozen, if not more. He did not recognize the crowd that was gathered below the dais where Blackwood stood waiting. He didn’t give them more than a passing glance anyway, his eyes drawn to his friend.

Watson did not look well. He was standing tall, firmly on his own two feet though Sherlock suspected his leg to be hurting. His hands were shackled before him and two guards flanked him on either side. Blackwood was talking, his tone ceremonious and angry, but Sherlock wasn’t paying attention, his focus on the doctor. Watson’s eyes turned to see him and his guarded, almost noble expression faltered, his pale face paling further.

“Watson,” Sherlock said, eying his friend with some concern, “Are you well?” The hand at his elbow tightened slightly and Blackwood’s tone got an edge to it that Sherlock noted briefly without attending to the man’s words. Watson stared at him, something strange and frightening in his eyes. Sherlock made an attempt to approach him but the hands held him back. He frowned, turning to look up at James. James wasn’t looking at him at all, though, his eyes turned towards Blackwood. Blackwood was also wearing strange garment, he noted, though his robe was black rather than white and the symbols were different. They burned red like fire in Sherlock’s eyes and he felt as though they should mean something, that if his mind wasn’t so addled he’d be making the connections. But he couldn’t, and so he turned again towards Watson, pulling at impatiently at James’s strong hold.

Suddenly, Blackwood’s tone grew fiercer, and Watson was being dragged forward to center stage. Sherlock watched in alarm as Watson’s shirt was removed, another guard approaching with a whip. Only then did Sherlock make note of the pillar at the center of the dais where Watson’s shackles were being attached.

“Watson?” Sherlock cried, twisting in James’s hold, no longer simply tugging at it but fighting it in earnest.

“It’s alright, Holmes,” Watson told him, his voice strange and hoarse. Sherlock didn’t like it. He noted Watson already had a couple of large bruises across his front where he must have been hit quite hard. Feeling desperate to get free, Sherlock finally managed to twist his hands just so that he broke from James’s grasp, lurching towards Watson and bumping hard into Blackwood on his way. He didn’t quite know what to do with his freedom; Watson was still trapped after all. He just had to be near him.

“Holmes, it’s alright, dear boy,” Watson told him, sounding slightly desperate, “Go with James now, I’m sorry, just…don’t watch.” And then rougher hands were drawing him back, practically throwing him into James’s hands and away from Watson. Blackwood’s eyes were dark and dangerous and as mesmerizing as a viper’s gaze. Sherlock found himself trapped in them. Blackwood raised his hand and Sherlock flinched back but all he did was stroke his fingers lightly across his face. When his spoke, his tone was soft and calm, at confusing odds with what Sherlock had expected.

“Sherlock, love, you must stay with James until the ceremony is over and the doctor has been punished.” He sounded almost sad, regretful.

“Why? Why are you hurting him?” Sherlock asked. It was wrong.

“Damn you,” Watson growled from over Blackwood’s shoulder, “Did you have to bring him here?”

“Your punishment needs to be witnessed,” Blackwood answered him without turning around, eyes still on Sherlock. He raised a hand and over his shoulder Sherlock could barely make out the form of the whip being raised.

“No!” he cried, struggling again, and Blackwood paused in his motion. The whip hung threatening but did not fall.

“Now, love,” Blackwood said gently to Sherlock, “I’m afraid it must be done. A crime has been committed and so someone must be punished.” His tone was that of one reasoning with a child, a tone Sherlock would normally resent but at that moment all his emotions were attuned to the danger Watson stood in. He listened to the words instead of the tone, trying to make sense of it. It made no sense. Watson did not commit crimes, and Watson should not be hurt.

“Why?” he asked at last, almost begging for the world to make sense once more, for the wrongness to disappear.

“I have told you,” Blackwood said, tone remaining eerily gentle, “There has been a crime. He has been discovered to be conspiring against us. Someone has to be punished for this; that is the way things are. We cannot change that.”

“No! It’s wrong, it’s…don’t…don’t hurt him.”

“I must punish someone, Sherlock,” Blackwood answered sadly, “Who would you have take his place? A servant? One of the people in the crowd? Perhaps that boy down there?” He gestured and for the first time Sherlock noticed there were children among the crowd of people, women and men, old and young. They looked frightened and stood strangely quiet, waiting to see how things turned.

“No…I…don’t hurt Watson.”

“It must be someone,” Blackwood answered, and he jerked his hand. The whip fell. Watson didn’t quite cry out, or if he did Sherlock couldn’t hear it over his own cry of ‘No!’

“Stop! Stop this…you must…” why wouldn’t his thoughts line up, why couldn’t he find a way to fix this, to make things right? He couldn’t understand why this was happening, memories and sights, and smells whirled around his head, and nothing made sense.

“I told you,” Blackwood answered, “It must be someone.” And he raised his hand again.

“No…stop, I…me.”

Blackwood hesitated. The whip did not fall. “What did you say?”

“Me. Punish me. Not him. If someone must be hurt…hurt me.”

“No!” Watson yelled, struggling to escape his bonds for the first time, “Holmes, don’t…!” he shouted when someone covered his mouth, smothering whatever he had to say. Sherlock watched with wide eyes before Blackwood shifted in front of him, filling his vision.

“You would take his place?”

“Yes.”

Blackwood turned to face the crowd. “So you see! The Lamb offers itself for the altar! As I told you, of his own will, he will take on the pain of the people; the crime shall be paid with the blood of the innocent, and with his blood we shall lift the curse upon this land!”

He said more but Sherlock was no longer focused on his words, his attention turning back to where Watson still struggled, a cloth thrust between his teeth to replace the hand that had gagged him. The world still felt numb, not quite real, as James led him forward. His large hand squeezed Sherlock’s gently, all the comfort he was able to offer as Sherlock’s hands were shackled over his head to the pillar. This close he was able to see more strange markings etched into the stone, as well as a few ominous stains. The back of his shirt was opened, leaving his back bare. Cool air slid across it. Watson was angry, he could see him still twisting uselessly about from the corner of his eye. Sherlock didn’t like it when Watson was upset.

Something was pushed against the crook of his arm, and he turned his head to see something being injected, felt it burning into his veins.

“Sorry, love,” Blackwood whispered into his ear, “Can’t have you insensible to the pain.” And then the world went strange, sharper. He felt the metal of the shackles, the stone at his chest, heard the sound of feet shuffling and the flex of leather. He smelled sweat and incense and beneath that, something rotten and unpleasant. The air smelled sharp and vibrant, the sounds rushing about his ears, the stone smooth and rough against his chest. His heartbeat grew stronger in his ears, loud and alive, the senses growing stronger by the second until he had an overwhelming kaleidoscope of information. He knew everything and nothing. He didn’t process it, didn’t have room for thoughts and suppositions and conclusions. It was data, raw and incapacitating, knowledge without room for understanding. There was chanting and paints and feeling, nothing left but to feel.

Then there was pain, sudden and fiery and so intense he drowned in it. It flared, incorporating his entire being, all his senses, so that all he could see, hear, feel, smell, taste was centered at his back in a line of ferocious agony. As it slowly faded, leaving a ringing sensation in his ears, he became aware of the world again.
Someone was struggling nearby, noises furious but muffled, leather flexed and then the world vanished again into fire.

And the pain went on and on and on, growing until it left nothing inside his mind, no room for observations or data or thoughts, not even the desire for it to end. There was nothing left. And then there was darkness.
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The Gilded Room