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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
- 4
- 5
- 6
Chapter 5

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. The bed is shaking is the next, trembling violently, and something flails to strike him across the chest. He turns his head, slowly, and blinks as he makes out the form of the evil man lying next to him. It is this man who shakes the bed in violent desperation. The cause, Sherlock deduces, is a reaction to the large hands gripped tightly about the evil man’s throat.

The dark man is there, staying steady and solid as the evil man thrashes wildly. All is silent but for the sound of cloth against cloth and the gentle creaking of the bed. The evil man’s face has turned a grotesque red. Sherlock observes this passively, eyes wide as he drinks in the scene, as though this was merely a picture he is studying or a theatrical production, nothing tangible or real. And then the evil man turns and his eyes fall upon his, sparkling dark with the firelight. The lips move, desperate and commanding, mouthing words that he has no air to form.

helpmehelpmehelpme

And the part deep inside that still understands knows that Sherlock could save him. If he screamed for help, the guards outside the door would rush in. Sherlock has had no words for days now, weeks, he knows not how long, but he could try. He could scream.

He stays quiet as the grave.

He watches as the face grows dark, crimson, as the thrashing slows, as the lips become blue.

He waits silently, still as death, and watches as the fire in the eyes grow hotter, as the stare goes beyond him to something that even at his most delirious Sherlock cannot see. The body on the bed stills. The eyes are eyes no more, just bits of glass to reflect the world without sight.

Sherlock studies him, considers him with wide eyes, head cocked. The hands leave the throat, letting the body lie heavy and alone. A large dark hand touches his shoulder, drawing his attention.

“We must go.”

Sherlock is naked, bruised but not bloody, not this night. The dark man helps him to dress, first in his usual style of clothes, and then a robe to keep him warm. He leads him to the window, behind the heavy curtains where a stake has been driven deep into the wood, allowing a rope to hang down to the courtyard below.

Sherlock sees this, feels the cool night air running through his hair, and a sudden fear rises in his throat. He is leaving the room. Leaving the room is bad. He balks when the dark man tries to lead him to the sill.

“Come,” the man whispers in his ear, “Watson is waiting.” And he lifts Sherlock as though he were a child, a familiar gesture performed hundreds of times before. The hold is familiar, safe. And solid, so very solid, and even if his squirmed he knew it would not yield. It did not yield when he rebelled before. It did not yield when it crushed Blackwood’s throat.

The night is dark and smells wet, of mud and cows and fresh dew. The dark man grips the rope with his knees, keeping one arm around Sherlock at all times, the other on the rope. Sherlock grips him back instinctively, legs wrapped around his waist as well as they are able. They descend, slowly but surely. There is the sound of harsh breaths in his ear, the scrape of stone, the gentle creak of the rope. There are also the sounds of the night, of crickets and sleeping birds and wind. The silence makes each noise stand out sharp and obvious, but no one seems to be around to hear them. They reach the ground.

Sherlock is out of the room. Now that it has happened, he doesn’t know how to feel. Everything is new. It is bigger than he likes, all sharp edges and stone and wild sounds. The dark man does not give him time to get used to it, to take it in. He does not even set him down before he starts walking, slipping from shadow to shadow, into the corners Sherlock has never seen, not from his view at the window, and nothing is familiar anymore. And then he hears it, footsteps, the gait slightly off. It is accompanied by the sound of wood against stone. He knows that gait.

In the shadows, a stranger who is not a stranger is waiting, cloak wrapped to hide its features and a walking staff held in hand. If he hadn’t heard him first, Sherlock might have shied away, as well as he could in the dark man’s arms. But he did hear him, and so he leans forward instead and the dark man lets him slide slowly to the ground to stand upon his own feet.

The not-stranger reaches out a hand, and eyes almost invisible from the shadows of his cloak look him over with the professional gaze of a physician.

“He is not hurt,” the dark man’s soft voice says from behind him, deep and soft and reassuring. The other nods once.

“It is done then?”

“The snake is dead,” the dark man assures him, “Too quickly, but quietly. And he knew who brought his death, in the end. He saw and he knew. It is enough.”

“Good.” And they started walking in silence once more. They let Sherlock walk himself, though it slowed them down a little, and they had to stop him from wandering to touch and inspect everything that caught his eye. They walked through gardens and open passageways, seeing and hearing no one, until they came to a solid, barred door. The dark man lifted the bar and let it fall to the ground with a dull thud, muffled by the earth. The door opened slowly and reluctantly, shrieking all too loudly in the darkness. They opened it only wide enough to admit them through and did not shut it again behind them.

They went quicker then, speed becoming more important than silence. The dark man lifted Sherlock and carried him so that they could go faster. Finally, after thirty full minutes of tense, harried walking, they heard the low whinny of horses ahead.

“Good lad,” Watson breathed in relief, “He got the message through.”

Despite his obvious relief, Watson still approached the carriage with caution, leaving Sherlock alone with the dark man. Sherlock didn’t like it and struggled to follow, making a low, distressed sound. Then Watson returned, followed by another man. The dark man let him go at last and Sherlock lurched for Watson so abruptly he nearly knocked the other man down. Despite this, Watson gave him a smile, holding him steady.

“Mr. Holmes?” the stranger man said in a tentative voice, and Sherlock turned to look at him, not letting go of Watson. He knew him, and he didn’t. Sherlock waited, tense, studying him, instinctively shifting so that Watson would have full use of his staff, should the need arise. The man continued to stare, an odd look upon his face. Watson cleared his throat and the man shifted, turning his eyes away.

Finally, he led the three of them to the carriage, opening the door for them. He helped Watson in first and then made a move as though to help Sherlock, but he shied away. The stranger eyed the dark man warily and did not offer his help but the dark man got in the carriage anyway. It was a tight fit after the stranger got in as well, even with Sherlock half in Watson’s lap. The carriage began to move.

At first everyone was silent, and though Sherlock was still wary of the stranger, he was tired and let his eyes closed, not quite letting himself fall asleep. After a while, the others began to speak softly. Sherlock listened but did not open his eyes.

“Is he injured?” the stranger whispered, “I’m sorry, I know you warned me, but he does seem…changed.”

“He is…he’s…” Watson’s voice answered, “He is drugged, for one.”

“He’s unwell,” the deeper voice of the dark man suggested, “But uninjured.”

“I’m sorry, but who is he? You weren’t very clear in your note…”

“A friend,” Watson’s voice answered sharply and Sherlock tensed, but then Watson’s voice gentled as a hand rubbed softly against his arm. “I’m sorry, Inspector, we are tired. It has been a long night. A long year. His name is James; without his aid we should never have escaped at all.”

“You’ve been missing for ten months,” the stranger said in a tone that invited further conversation.

“We were detained,” Watson answered, “in a castle just up the road. A small one, to be sure, but in that place the people are ruled not as Englishmen but as slaves to Lord Blackwood’s whim. He has them all under his power with his parlor tricks and wicked tongue. You will want to inform someone of the matter, I suppose, to help those poor people. But as for Blackwood himself, you needn’t concern yourself. He is dead.”

“Your note was very obscure…” the stranger said after a brief moment of silence, “It took an effort worthy of…well, it took quite a bit of work to decipher it even with Mr. Holmes’s help.”

“It had to be. I thought the boy I sent it with to be trustworthy but there were so many ways it could go wrong…I’m not sure where we are, for one, or whether someone would stop him or even if he would become afraid and betray us all. I did not give the note myself and wrote as little as I could that would point back to me. That is why it was sent to his brother and not to you; you would have been recognized at once should the letter have been detained. We had made a similar attempt before and…it did not end well.” The hand at his arm tightened for a moment and Sherlock tensed again until the hand relaxed.

“Those sounds he makes…what happened to you there? What did Blackwood want with you?”

“Revenge,” Watson answered shortly, though his hand remained gentle.

“I’m sorry Doctor, and it isn’t my place to ask…but I would like to think I’m your friend. I have been worried…we feared you both dead.”

“Sorry…as I said, it has been a long year.”

“Are you injured, Doctor? Or your friend?”

“Just tired…he wanted me well for my skills…and he delighted in psychotic games. It wasn’t me he injured if I displeased him.”

“He would hurt Mr. Holmes to get to you?”

“And let me patch him up again after…As for James, his most trusted servant. He delighted in having control over such a strong giant of a man…complete loyalty he thought. He knows better now.” The grim satisfaction in Watson’s voice was apparent, and after he finished talking the conversation died. Sherlock, despite his attempts to remain as alert as possible, fell into a light sleep against his shoulder.

Sometime later, he jerked awake, confused and disoriented as to where he was. He wasn’t in the room, and there was a stranger sitting across from him, and an arm holding him to another man’s side. He panicked.

The arm left his side but firm hands settled on his shoulder and face, drawing his sight to face the man at his side, a familiar voice slowly calming his nerves. Watson was there. So was the dark man. And the stranger was also familiar and looked more frightened than threatening. Sherlock calmed.

“What did Blackwood do to him?” the stranger demanded, eyes staring at him, and Sherlock hid from the sight in the crook of Watson’s neck, letting his arms move back around him now that he knew who it was.

“You said we were almost there?” Watson said instead of answering, “And the others will be there. Who are the others?”

“Mrs. Watson and Mr. Holmes are there; they wouldn’t stay behind in London. Some lads from the yard as well, and a doctor. We didn’t know what to expect.”

“Mary is there? And Mycroft?” Watson asked, sounding slightly overwhelmed, and Sherlock responded to the tone by moving a hand to pat against his arm, pulling away slightly to look at him. Watson gave him a strangely watery smile and whispered, “I’m alright, Holmes.”

“It was all I could do to keep them from riding in the carriage to meet us.”

“Yes…of course. I just thought…were we declared dead, when you couldn’t find us?”

“Well…er…after all those months with no word it became rather difficult…though we didn’t want to think…”

“Yes, then.”

And then the movement of the carriage changed, slowing down.

“You better go out first, Inspector,” Watson suggested.

“Right, of course.” And then the carriage stopped. Sherlock sat up, watching as the stranger climbed out followed by the dark man. He waited with Watson for a bit and then Watson was pushing him towards the door where the dark man waited to take him and Watson followed close behind. They were outside again, but a completely different outside from when they had climbed in. Though it was still dark out, there were lights lit nearby that clearly showed the surroundings. Also, they were no longer in the countryside but standing next to a large building. More people were standing around, staring at them, and some of them felt quite familiar. Something inside Sherlock’s chest felt tight and uncomfortable, and he stayed close to Watson’s side. Most of the crowd kept their distance but two approached them: a woman who was crying and a man with a rather substantial waistline who reminded him of the dark man, despite not being dark skinned in the least.

“John,” the woman cried, “Sher…”

“Holmes,” Watson interrupted her quickly and the woman paused. She had tears in her eyes and Watson held out his arm to greet her, letting her fall into it. Sherlock did not move to embrace her but neither did he try to move away, though she had moved right against his side. “Mary,” Watson whispered, and his voice sounded full of tears as well.

“Brother,” the large man said. He was not crying as the woman was and Sherlock did not know what to make of him. The man held out a hand, slowly, but even so Sherlock flinched back towards Watson. The man paused, hand held in the air between them, and even more slowly he came closer until the hand rested lightly against his shoulder. Sherlock allowed it, staring at the man as though he were a new puzzle, trying to work him out. The man drew his hand away again. “Doctor?”

“In a bit,” Watson answered, “Let’s go inside.”

And finally, as the sun was just peeking over the horizon, Sherlock found himself in a new room. It was one he had never seen, smaller than the old room had been and the furniture much shabbier, and he was allowed to walk over all of it and take in and touch everything while Watson talked to the others. They were provided with a bath and changes of clothing and food, and then left alone to sleep. And Watson did not leave him, and neither did the dark man, and the evil man did not come. And something of the bad feeling that was coiled around his chest relaxed, just a little. And he fell at last into a deep sleep.
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The Gilded Room