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ladylaviniya · 9 months ago

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Wails of Wedded Bliss

Chapter 6 || Masterlist || Chapter 8

Chapter Summary: Upon meeting the Baroness you are enamoured by her devotion.

Pairing: Sherlock Homes x wife!reader

Chapter Warnings: 18+ Dead Dove Do Not Eat, (No Smut), typical historical misogyny and sexism, mentions and discussion on miscarriages. Implied domestic abuse and infidelity.

Word Count: 9k

Author Notes: This is an important but rather sad chapter. I beseech you all to read the warnings. The details of this chapter are important to the plot of the missing Baron Thaddeus Pennicott.

Inspiring Song: "Flightless Bird American Mouth" by Vitamin String Quartet

8:30am Wednesday 7th May 1890, Grovelands House, The Bourne, London, England.

Sherlock tucked your arm into his side as you three entered the Groveland house foyer. The floor was made of fine marble tile and with ever step a light echo raced down the halls.

The inspector called upon a nearby dusting maid to fetch the head of the house. Who returned was a thin and tall man in a butler’s uniform with a sliver pocket watch hanging from his chest. His hair was the colour of autumn leaves and his face littered in freckles.

He bowed, “I am mister Edward Redmayne, head butler of the Groveland estate, how may I assist you?”

The inspector shook his hand and stated quickly, “We spoke on the telephone yesterday? A telegraph was sent.”

The butler smiled with a relieving gasp, “Detective Holmes?”

Lestrade sheepishly looked over his shoulder to you and your husband. He nodded. His expression wore a emotion of embarrassment mixed with annoyance. Perhaps he was jealous of your husband’s successful published case stories. You wished you could have told the constable not to fret as Sherlock was nothing short of a arrogant mule...yet again- the mark on his face...he probably already knew that.

8:42am Wednesday 7th May 1890, Grovelands House, The Bourne, London, England.

Upon meeting the lady of the house, you stood frigid by your husband. You felt somewhat self conscious by her grey eyes that lingered over your dress. Perhaps you should’ve worn your Sunday best before meeting a woman of such a high status.

The baroness was unmistakably pregnant. Her belly was bold and rounded beneath her maternity gown. She had been sitting calmly on a resting chaise, knitting a small bonnet for her future child. Her hands were covered in fine burgundy velvet gloves to match her modest dress.

Her face was framed by a light brown curls, that appeared almost white in some places, twisted into a bum at the base of her neck. Her pale face was blotchy with pink flecks and slight acne.

“Lady Pennicott, I am Inspector Braydon Lestrade of Scotland Yard,” the British officer proclaimed as he bowed dramatically forward. You withheld a girlish giggle by how low the man had bent his head and presented himself foolishly, and from the corner of your eye you manage to catch the whisp of Sherlock’s smirk.

The inspector waved his arm behind him and moved aside, “-and with me is Detective Sherlock Holmes and his wife, Mrs Holmes.”

You produced the baroness a respectable curtsy, your eyes glued down to the beautifully patterned carpet. You wondered how the servants could keep it so clean and freshly unstained by dirty guests. It must have been new.

The baroness shuffled her knitting needles and ball of woollen yarn into a Whicker basket and disposed of it beside her.

A slow stretching smile graced her thin lips as she spoke to you, “Oh, are you the little dear who solved that factory match girl incident?”

You weren’t sure how to answer her question. You weren’t entirely sure what the baroness was referencing until Sherlock stepped closer with your arm still cradled in his.

“No dear Baroness,” Sherlock pat your hand gently, “That would have been my sister Enola Holmes, she has her own detective office at present moment. My wife is here on my invitation. I wished to gift her a sight of the grand park and estate while I was here upon duty.”

The Baroness cocked her head, from her ears hung pearls that swung and hung like rain drops.

“Come forth dear,” she lifted her hand and beckoned you, “I would like to have better view of you.”

You wondered if she could smell the sweat beginning to drop down the back of your neck. You bit your tongue and tried to refrain from trembling. You were nervous. Her eyes were cold but her smile warm, two conflating details that you couldn’t understand. The last thing you needed now on top of a terrible start to your marriage was to be scrutinized by a haughty pregnant baroness.

She flickered your fingers for you to bend down to her. As you leant down, you swore you could smell copper, a metalic scent. A vein on your scalp pulsed. She scanned your face of its details. You dared to wonder what she was searching for. And then it clicked...the smell...

‘Dear god, you prayed, please don’t let her smell my blood, please let this not be my blood...’

You should have sprits on some perfume before leaving baker street.

She glanced behind you and questioned angelically, “How does it feel having such a clever husband?”

Your lips opened and closed. You resembled a fish. You were stumped to answer quickly.

‘Miserable, infuriating, torturous, pleasurable mixed with a cup of agony...’

She lifted her brows until you hurriedly blurted, “He is...formidable and righteous...” you stood up tall and took a step back, adding with a monetarism of truth, “I am very lucky to have become his bride.”

‘Lucky, while incredibly resentful.’

You reached back, Sherlock adopted your arm back into his hold once more.

Lady Pennicott rubbed her belly, her eyes started to twinkle, “And soon you will have a plethora of children that will look like him I gather.”

Your eyes fluttered. Sherlock’s hand tightened around your glove and his throat bobbed. You felt hot in the face.

Yes that’s right, that’s what normal husband and wife did isn’t it? They have children. That was your role, to be the mother of Sherlock’s offspring...

You couldn’t answer.

And there. That dear girl is when you questioned for the first time. ‘Is this what I want?’ and ‘Do I want Sherlock’s children.’ Because having a knowing of his barbarism conflated a fear in your belly...would Sherlock hurt his own children if he could easily hurt you, his wife?

When you hesitated for too long to answer her again, Sherlock said with a strained tone that was masked in a hopeful joy, “One may only hope, Baroness.”

“Lady Pennicott,” Graydon interrupted, “We have come to ask you on the whereabouts of Lord Pennicott and the evening he was last sighted.”

Her eyes narrowed at the inspector and with an annoyed twinge she muttered and wiped her hands on a nearby blanket, “I already informed the police of what I was informed of by our butler Edward.”

She glanced up next her right. Mister Redmayne observed her, looking down. The pair smiled to each other. She reached out to him. She grabbed his hand and they squeezed.

The inspector laughed nervously, “Indeed but Detective Sherlock Holmes was not presently involved in the case until yesterday.”

Her eyes flickered quickly to your husband and her face flared with confusion quickly to be matched with a impressed smile, “Of course, please sit all of you as I am near a indisposition with my child,” she gestured to the mirroring chaise and a chair beside the fireplace, “Edward, please tell Martha to bring tea and biscuits for our kind service men and Mrs Holmes.”

The butler bowed to you all and left the sitting room.

Lestrade took his place on the lone chair while Sherlock sat you beside him on the chaise. You took your time to lower yourself. Sitting on your bruises was uncomfortable while another cramp hit you. Your fingers dug into his palm.

From Lestrades breast pocket he pulled out a notebook and small pencil.

“Lady Pennicott,” Sherlock softly hummed, “Please, could you tell me what your husband is like as a person?”

The woman who you believed was in her late thirties smiled and stated softly, “My Thaddeus is a noble man, good taste in wine and very devoted to his work. He likes to go hunting and we share a passion for gardening,” she glanced up at the ceiling and paused, “He prefers to plant vegetables to donate to the church and orphans, whereas I have always loved to grow my flowers.”

The way she described him, her devotion was deep and honourable. She touched her round belly.

Sherlock looked over to the fire place behind the baroness. On the mantle was a magnificent portrait twice your height, painted on the canvas was who you recognised as Lord and Lady Pennicott. He was sitting up straight on a fine red cushioned chair with his dirty blonde hair and softened mutton chops while she stood at his right and her ringed hand on his shoulder. The similarities were there but Lady Pennicotts hair had lightened in reality perhaps from all the years that separated her likeness and her reality.

“I was informed Lord Pennicott is a father of five?” Sherlock asked.

The Baroness smiled proudly and pat her tummy softly, “Six soon.”

You couldn’t help notice something was missing from the painting, Sherlock also had a similar thought.

Where were the children in the portrait? Where was a family portrait in the house?

“Forgive me,” a breath of air escaped from him, “are the children away at school?”

“Oh,” her uncanny smile remained while her brows angled down, her throat tightened as she spoke, “I fear they are in the loving embrace of angels now. All of them were taken from us by God,” her eyes glanced to you, “They came out sleeping.”

Your heart sunk to the pit of your belly with sorrow and pity.

Five babies lost, five babies gone…five pregnancies… four and a half years of pregnancy and for what? Five angels.

A woman had one holy role in life, to bare her husband children, and when a woman was defective or produced a sickly child, it was a symbol of failure in society. But you never saw it that way...you imagined it must’ve been agony to lose so many babies. One or two was a common occurrence but five? Five was a curse to experience and relive over and over.

“Well,” you interrupted Sherlock rudely, cutting him off from his next abrasive question by squeezing his hand a little too hard.

You could see the mourning in the baroness’ face. You saw the classic look of all women made uncomfortable by something a man has said. What the hell would the detective know about a woman’s emotions after how coldly he has treated all women and yourself.

You shuffled on the opposite chaise and smile softly, “I will pray this one will come swiftly and feel the warmth of their mother.”

The baroness’ face lifted and warmed. She smiled happily and nodded, “Thankyou, oh I’m just so excited! This one really is a big one, I can feel it. I hope it’s a boy.”

Sherlock was staring at you intensely as the maid Martha finally delivered a pot of tea and poured the steaming liquid. His brows were knitted and his eyes held suspicion as he kept you in his sight. You politely nodded your head once at him before reaching for a hot cup and lifting it to your lips.

Sherlock sighed and turned back to his questioning, “You would say you liked your marriage?”

The baroness appeared offended by your husband as her face wrinkled and a sneer spread her thin lips, “Of course, any woman who doesn’t like her marriage should not be married in the first place. She is a burden to her husband if she cannot perform her duties as a wife.”

Lady Pennicott leant forward and collected her own cup of tea, she delicately pinched a biscuit and dunked it into the contents.

…you felt Sherlock drag his thumb across your fingers. You felt chilly, could he read your thoughts? Did he know truly how much you already hated him and his ideas of intimacy in your marriage? He clear his throat when both your glancing eyes caught each other.

“Can you tell me what happened,” Sherlock pressed, “The night of your husbands disappearance?”

“Well...after dinner,” the baroness sighed in thought and nibbled on her moist biscuit, “Thaddeus wanted to speak with me in his office about a spending I had made a week ago. You see, I had bought a cradle for the nursery. The one we had originally was broken and beyond repair, we disposed of it a month prior. Thaddeus was not pleased with the price and claimed it was an unnecessary purchase,” she paused and set her cup aside before she touched her belly again; rubbing in soft slow circles, she began to blushed, “He was sorely hurt by my choice. He then became very cross with me and left his office in a huff.”

She looked to the yarn, to the tea pot and then finally to the painting on the mantle, “I deemed that he would find forgiveness in his heart by the morning and brush it off. I returned back to the nursery to tidy up before I went to my rooms and went to bed to sleep in my quarters of the east wing. Thaddeus keeps himself to the west wing most nights.”

The detective nodded, “What time do you believe it was when you went to your bed, Baroness?”

She hummed softly while pursuing her lips, “A quarter to nine in the evening.”

“And how did you realise your husband was missing?” Sherlock stole a scone off the tea tray and lifted it to his lips. He paused amidst chewing it slowly.

The noble woman sighed and recollected, pragmatically, “In the morning Mr Redmayne informed me on how Thaddeus took off into the night astride Arion, our prize stallion Clydesdale. Thaddeus had not returned by the next morning and that is when concern drew near. I sent members of my staff to the factories to investigate his whereabouts and none had come upon him. I knew something had to be wrong so I alerted the authorities by the second morning.”

Your husband took a deep breath and discarded the half bitten scone, he wiped his hand unceremoniously on his jacket and throatily asked, “Do you recall if Lord Pennicott has any potential persons he might be deemed as an enemy towards?”

“Only his company competitors, Detective,” She said saccharinely with her smile, “He was a very loveable man.”

“Do you have a list of the names of staff who were working that evening here in Groveland House?”

The butler stepped forward and cleared his throat, “That would be in Lord Pennicotts office,” he pulled out a pair of keys, “I can you show you gentlemen in and where he keeps his accounts and other paraphernalia to his business if you’d like?”

Both Sherlock and Lestrade smiled and stood up.

“Baroness,” Sherlock gently requested, “Would it be overly bothersome if my beloved wife remained and kept you company while the inspector and I look in your husband’s office.”

Your heart jumped to your throat. What was Sherlock doing leaving you behind with the Baroness by yourself!?....what if you spoke out of turn or said something too presumptuous for your status!?...

“Most certainly not,” she beamed “I will gladly accept such delightful company,” She held out a hand, palm down to her right. The butler speedily stepped to her side and leant her his hand. She winced as she scooted forward on the cushioned lounge before struggling to rise to her feet.

Sherlock leant down and kissed the back of your wrist again, so scantily in front of the baroness. You tried tor refrain from loudly gasped and bringing anymore dangerous attention to yourself. Your husband left your side and followed the butler with Lestrade out of the sitting room.

So the party turned to two married women. The baroness was pleased.

She stepped closer to you and reached for your arm. You were surprised by her familiarity but you would not deny the assistance of a woman so desperately swollen and ready to birth any day.

“My dear, would you care to have a stroll with me in my garden?” She smirked and jerked her chin, “Knowing how dear Thaddie kept his space organised I suspect the gentlemen might be a while.”

You nodded and quickly made the warning assurance, “Are you in a condition to move great feets Lady Pennicott?”

“Fret not,” She giggled girlishly and waved her hand casually, “The physician told me fresh air is delightful for the health of the babe,” she tapped the top of her belly, “I have a month or so before they come.”

Your eyes widened, she looked huge enough to give birth now, surely she wasn’t a month away!! Maybe she was going to be blessed with a pair of twins. You had such a limited knowledge of pregnancy in women. Your grandmother hadn’t given birthed a child in the last forty years before your birth!!!

She pointed the way out of the main mansion to enter the garden paths. The sun was perfect today amongst the clouds. It was neither cold nor hot nor humid and dank...it was pleasant and you could smell the fresh nature of bushels and flowers.

“How long have you been known as, The Mrs Holmes?” She inquired cheerfully with her shining silver eyes.

“...Not very long,” you replied warmly before risking a white lie, “We recently finished our honeymoon.”

She grinned and waddled passed a wooden bench, she took a quick stop to rest and pat the seat for you to join her instead of standing dumbly.

“Shall I share some words of advise?,” She hummed, “From a woman that has been married for twelve years?”

“I would be ever so grateful,” you said rushed and desperate. You wouldve listened to anything she had to say. A woman of her standing must’ve held adequate wisdom.

She warmly cupped both your hands and squeezed them. And yet there was an ice creepy into her gaze. She appeared to dissociate, her voice losing its youthful lilt. Her lip wobbled slightly.

“Men are visual creatures. While you are so young and beautiful, you must become pregnant as soon as possible,” Lady Pennicott ran her palm across your waist, her eyes like razors cut across the yard to a bush of red rose buds, “It is inevitable that our husbands will stray their gazes to other women, it is in their nature,” those grey stones in her face rolled back and weighed you down, “as I said- visual creatures. The sooner you make a babe, the easier his devotion comes,” A joyous grin returned to her thin lips, she playfully tapped the tip of your nose and stated, “Trust me upon this.”

You clenched your hand behind you and strained a smile, “I thankyou for such wise words Baroness. I will endeavour to do what I must to conceive.”

At this moment in time Sherlock had proved himself a monstrous villain. Would it be possible for you to fall pregnant?

You looked out at the divine lush greenery and exhaled softly.

“Do you garden Mrs Holmes?” the baroness queried.

You chuckled softly and removed your gloves, you flashed her a sight of your palm, “I am afraid my hands have never been introduced. My grandmother preferred I focus on mastering piano and embroidery.”

The grey orbs fluttered back at you with a surprised him, “Embroidery is a lovely skill,” she pat your hand and pointed across the field, “Please help me up Mrs Holmes, let us take a look at my lilacs.”

You stood straight up and leant out your arm, she was surprisingly light for a woman her size. She leant against you and took small timid steps to her flower patches.

She stood and admired the flower patches, pointing to different types and explaining the breeds of flowers she hoped to grow in the future.

You finally bent over enough and cupped the petals of purple to hold up to your nose and took in a wiff “They smell lovely,” from the corner of your eye was a line of crimson, “I see your roses will soon be in bloom.”

She pinched a bud that was peaking to bloom soon.

“Oh yes, the soil is rich and healthy,” she giggled, “I can’t wait for Thaddeus to return, he liked the roses. He would stand here for a while and think. I know he will love the red colour. It is his favourite shade you see...” She sighed dreamily with her eyes scanning the bushes of scarlet rose buds, “I miss him terribly. I hope he’s alright. I want him to come home soon before the baby arrives.”

A fly smacked into your eye and you sputtered, battering it away. When you gracelessly composed yourself, you stood back up to your feet beside the Lady of Groveland.

You could see how her eyes puddles with droplets of mournful tears. You felt bad for any woman that did not know where her husband was. Especially if there was a rumour about him fleeing the marriage and abandoning her in her serious pregnant condition.

Taking the chance, you boldly took both your hands into yours and now squeezed them. Another buzzing from a fly sat on your shoulder.

The day was growing warmer and a bead of sweat rolled down your neck. The fly tickled your neck and suckled along your salted skin.

You tried your best to ignore the annoying creature.

“I am sure he will Lady Pennicott,” you soothed with a soft welcoming grin, “And he will be most happy when he returns.”

She sighed solemnly and glanced back at the rose bushes. You felt obligated for her happiness in that moment. Glancing back to the house you felt a opportunity come to you.

“May I visit your nursery Lady Pennicott, so I may have references for my own in the future?”

Her eyes flickered up, her face shine bright and her hand tightened over your wrists excitedly as though she was still as youthful as a school girl.

“Why of course Mrs Holmes,” she spun on her heel and wobbled a slight, she lifted her hand and called to the maid Martha still packing the china set inside, “Please inform the detective that I am taking his wife up to the nursery.”

“Yes Baroness,” she said with a humble curtsey and scurried off while Lady Pennicott took you totally inside the house and up a grand stair case from the foyer.

9:03am Wednesday 7th May 1890, Grovelands House, The Bourne, London, England.

Up, up, up you both climbed the stairs. You noticed how the stairs didn’t bother her ladyship once, she was fit and stridden widely whereas you were breathing a little hard by the top step.

She pulled you down a hallway to a white painted door.

She excitedly opened the door wide and practically skipped inside to show you around her future child’s room.

The walls were covered in light blue and yellow paint. There were small peonies covering the trim of the room. There was no carpet but who needed one when you had a newborn.

“Welcome to the resting nest of my baby,” Lady Pennicott proudly exclaimed, spreading her arms out at the room around you.

There was a tall shelf filled with stuffed animals and teddy bears. There was a rocking horse, a doll house, spinning tops, tin cars and rubber balls all waiting, collecting dust, awaiting the arrival of a playmate. There was a permabulator by the window sill. There was a rocking chair in one corner and against the wall closest to the door- you smiled and swaggered over curiously, “Is this the cradle you bought?”

It was made of fine cream painted wood. You chewed your bottom lip in the thought. It was a lovely crib, why was Lord Pennicott so upset by such a delightful purchase? He didn’t have money issues. You put it down as that you didn’t understand the way men thought and men will never know what women think.

“Yes,” Lady Pennicott chirped, “it is from William Whitely department store in Baywater next to the Howard & Co dress department.”

The Baroness sat down into her rocking chair and slowly moved it back and forth, watching you admire the nursery she spent hours and years consistently curating.

You clenched the edge and looked over the railing down at the empty bedding. There was a teddy lamb in the corner, you pinched it’s fluffy white tail and sighed. For a brief moment you let your eyes close and your imagination wander far.

One day you’d have this...with Sherlock. An empty cradle to be filled. You caught the vision of a tiny hand squeeze around your finger and the sound of soft gurgles with the warm pressure of a hand on your waist...was that Sherlock’s hand? Was that your child?

One day you’d have a baby to care for, to provide these things that meant love...yet, was any child of Sherlock’s capable of love? He certainly wasn’t as far as you were concerned.

You bit down a shudder and opened your eyes, feeling hot tears glide down a cheek. You pushed back and sighed, “I am most confident on one thing Lady Pennicott.”

“And what is that Mrs Holmes?” she said softly, she could see the unspoken pain in your face. You swallowed hard and your face fell into a smile, you flashed her a wink.

You laughed softly, “Your child will be spoilt rotten by the love you give.”

She chuckled with you and nodded.

“Have you thought of a name?” you inquired, waltzing over to the chested drawers of baby knick knacks on display.

“Thaddeus Colin if it’s a boy,” she hummed, “or Theresa Grace if it is a girl.”

“Theresa?”

She giggled gently, “That is my name dear.”

Mrs Theresa Pennicott. It suited her. Her old soul eyes reflected her devout name.

A shine of glass pierced a ray of sun into your eyes, you pinched the glass object carefully. You touched a long black tube pulling out of it. You couldnt understand it’s purpose, your eyes narrowed at the rubber end that was shaped like a thumb or a cows udder. There was a second tube attached to the first with a rubber squeeze ball at the end.

“What is this?” you humoured.

“Oh that? It’s a fantastic invention,” The baroness said, “It’s a pump for breast milk with a tube that syphons the milk into this baby feeding bottle. When babies start to teeth they can scar your breasts. This is an effective and modern method I look forward to trying.”

Your eyes widened, scarring!? Babies teeth could scar a breast!?

You placed the bottle bump back and helped Lady Pennicott when she beckoned to stand back up from the rocking chair.

“Have you ever felt the sensations?” She suddenly, “In which they kick within?”

Your face must’ve looked idiotic as you asked plainly, “Kick?”

She giggled and nodded, “Give me your hand, perhaps you may feel them moving.”

She plucked your palm and pulled your glove off your fingers. She pressed your entire hand intimately to her belly. You felt a sense of taboo shame, she was making you touch such a beloved spot.

“Do you feel it?” she then asked.

Felt what? Confusion flooded your mind. Your hand moved around her belly slowly.

“I am afraid I don’t know what I’m meant to be feeling?”

She moved your hand and again you felt absolutely nothing.

“They are very brutal on my body,” Lady Pennicott sarcastically assured, “trust me there is a kick.”

She made a point to push your hand harder, but all you felt was the hard material of her corsetry beneath her main dressing materials.

“Baby’s kick you inside?” you marvelled with stunned horror. This was the first time you’d ever heard of such a notion of a baby beating it’s mother inside.

“Not out of malicious intent Mrs Holmes,” she reassured, “mostly it is the baby using its limbs to move their cramped bodies inside or excitement at the sound of voices, I truly believe they can hear us while still inside. Fear not, to you it will feel like a faint touch like this-”

Lady Pennicott softly tapped your wrist, “Like that.”

And there again was new knowledge you heard from a woman on matters of pregnancy. You moved your fingers around, seeking the supposed feeling of a kick...

Still nothing. You frowned, was there something wrong with you that the baby was choosing not to reveal itself.

“How interesting...”

A soft knock on wood alerted you both to glance at the door.

“Mrs Holmes,” the butler from earlier politely spoke, “the detective is requesting your return, I believe he intends to depart.”

Your face fell. You couldn’t believe it but you’d found this experience immensely enjoyable. You had surprisingly made a friend of the Baroness.

The fair lady hugged your side and sweetly exhaled, “Then I shall escort you back to your husband, Eddie fetch me my cheque book.”

He nodded and walked ahead of you both. You solemnly shut the nursery door, trying to remember every precious detail as possible. It was a innocent place to escape from the crude world.

You returned to the bottom of the foyer and smiled at your husband that stood by Lestrade at the front doors.

By the bottom step you faced the noble woman and curtsied.

“Thankyou Lady Pennicott for your kind hospitality and agreeable cooperation to the case,” you heard Sherlock’s voice float over your shoulder.

“Of course detective, please,” the Butler returned with her cheque book, “find my beloved Thaddeus.”

She scribbled speedily with a modernised ink pen, a sharp tear of paper flashed to his direction, “Here. Thirty pounds. I am sure you are busy with other clients considering your reputation, but I beseech you to seek out my husband quickly.”

Sherlock bowed his head as he deposited the cheque into his pocket, “We shall try our hardest. Good afternoon Lady Pennicott.”

Your mouth might’ve collected flies. Thirty pounds. THIRTY pounds. That was a hefty wage for a year to many men.

Sherlock was granted his coat and walking cane along with Lestrade.

He opened the front door and left slowly, glancing over your shoulder back at the heavily pregnant Baroness.

9:21am Wednesday 7th May 1890, Grovelands House, The Bourne, London, England.

Sherlock and you walked up the gravel path in silence for sometime. You weren’t in much of a mood to speak to him despite well knowing conversation would need to spark eventually.

The three of you slowed down beside the inspectors horse cart.

Thankfully it was Sherlock who destroyed the silence with a stretched sigh. Lestrade grimly smiled at that sigh and rocked on his heels.

“Lestrade, show a useful skill,” Sherlock slapped a coin purse into his chest, “Find my wife and I a decent ride homeward. You still need to return back to the office and finish writing those reports on the Spring heeled Jack sightings....” he snickered.

The mutton chop male grumbled and left you pair alone to walk down the path into the main parklands to hail a cabriolet or another hackney carriage.

Sherlock pulled out his pipe and lit it quickly, he inhaled fast and asked curiously, “Did you learn anything else from our suspect?”

You squinted and felt a gasp pop from your lips, your hand snapped out and dug your nails into his arm with a scolding hiss, “Suspect? Look at the state she is in Sherlock. She clearly loves her husband. How could such a indisposed woman do anything to her husband?”

He smirked, “Perhaps a jealous one?”

Your brows pulled together. Jealousy wasn’t something you would’ve describe Lady Pennicott as especially with such a privileged life. Such an emotion wouldve been beneath her...but.. ‘It is inevitable that our husbands will stray their gazes to other women, it is in their nature.’

Sherlock pinched out a piece of card from his pocket, a business calling card, he flashed it through his fingers and let you carefully pluck it from his hand.

“it is no wonder Thaddeus Pennicotts name was so familiar,” Sherlocks huffed a puff of air, “He visits a like minded establishment.”

On the front of the card was a single image, a dove holding a olive leaf, and when you turned the card around there was a woman modelled in immodest clothing with text and an address in perfect hand writing.

“The Mayfair Row Dove club.”

You almost dropped the card in the mud at your feet.

He tucked the card back into his breast pocket and hooked his arm around yours, walking you closer to Lestrade waving his hands back at you both.

“I’m curious who his go to bird is there,” He chuckled.

You shook your head and scoffed in disbelief, “but she’s pregnant.”

“Men have needs,” Sherlock sighed, “I thought you’d have learnt that from last evening?”

Your nails dug harder into his arm and grit your teeth. Not everyone was as depraved as Sherlock, surely not. You couldn’t imagine Mycroft or your grandfather practicing such atrocities on women, especially women that weren’t their wives.

You noted snootily, “She said her husband liked to stand out by the roses to think. Perhaps he regretted his choice.”

Sherlock laughed cruelly and hard enough to almost drop his pipe from his lips. He plucked it out of his mouth and kissed you hard and squarely in front of Lestrade and any passing people that shook their heads in disgust at such public affection.

The taste of his tobacco filled your cheeks and floated down your throat into your chest. You could feel how his breath became your breath. Your head grew dizzy from it. His release left you trembling and collapsing against him briefly. His arm grabbed around your waist and held you totally against his chest.

“You see too much good in the worst people,” he whispered wetly into your ear.

“Not true,” you panted, you blinked your eyes hard and tried speaking again. You weakly pushed away from him back onto your own two feet. From the corner of your eyes you could see the inspector standing beside another hackney carriage.

“Not true,” you repeated and swallowed hard, “...I don’t see any good in you Sherlock.”

He grinned devilishly and walked you both to the carriage, He ignored Lestrade entirely except for retrieving his own purse.

“None at all?” Sherlock asked as he helped you step up inside of the carriage. It jostled as he plotted himself next to you instead of opposite.

You thought hard on his question for a time. You shouldn’t have ever been as petty as him. So you kept your silence before you could decide on a eloquent response. You did try to find the good in him. The trouble was you barely knew Sherlock and the side that you’d encounter was nothing short of a blagged, insufferable man that happened to be very experienced in the arts of the bedroom. So you tried to think about qualities you hadn’t seen in him but had at least heard of him.

“You help solve cases and even sometimes restitution, these deeds could be counted as decent and beneficial...perhaps good...”

He smirked until you finished hastily, “However your mistreatment and lustful addiction is nothing short of that than a person that suffers in his sin.”

A long annoyed sigh drew from his lips, however the corners jerked up.

He tug out his pipe and tapped it’s contents out the moving window, “Might I ask Mrs Holmes...” he inquired as he tucked in his pipe, and wiped his lips thoughtfully, “Do you think yourself better than me?”

The silence shared between the horses trotting along the cobblestones allowed you a chance to glare long and hard at Sherlock.

It was a jab, a jibe, a joke, a trick, a trap...

He wanted you to say yes... You could see it in his eyes the way they flicked to your lips and almost drooled with anticipation. He wanted to start a fight.

You didn’t give him the satisfaction of looking at you, you turned your head away and scoffed, “You may have quick wit and a expansive knowledge Sherlock, but I at least carry myself with the fairest morals.”

And that? The reply was granted a omen of Sherlock’s sickly chuckles and his heavy warm hand to sit over your thigh, running his them over the fabric of your skirts.

“We will see how fair a baker street whore morals really are when we arrive home then shall we?”

You leant against the wall of the carriage and chose to ignore him. You closed your eyes and held Sherlock’s hand to prevent it wandering anywhere else. His thumb rubbed along the back of your gloves hands.

You couldn’t understand Sherlock. And feared you never would.

HELPLINES:

If you are a victim of sexual abuse, assault or domestic violence or know someone who is please reach out to these links that share helpline services, phone numbers or emails. Consent and respect is important in every relationship whether between friends, family or even strangers.

Australian Helpline Services

UK Helpline Services

American Helpline Services

India Helpline Services.

#dead dove do not eat #dead dove fic #henry cavill x female reader #henry cavill x reader #henry cavill x y/n #henry cavill x you #henry cavill x ofc #sherlock holmes x female reader #sherlock holmes x poc!reader #sherlock holmes x y/n #sherlock holmes x you #sherlock holmes x ofc #sherlock holmes x reader #dark!sherlock holmes #dark!henry cavill

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thethief1996 · 1 year ago

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Netanyahu has issued a statement telling Gazans to leave now, because they will target each and every corner of the Gaza Strip. He and most of the media conveniently leave out that the entirety of the Gaza Strip is surrounded by a 65 km wall, which they have used to enforce a 17 years blockade, making it the world's largest open air prison. That's why the freedom fighters had to fly over it in hand gliders. Unless the Israeli government plans to open a humanitarian corridor, which it historically has refused, this is a cynical threat. It's psychological warfare to tell palestinians they will attempt to carry out their genocide.

This comes in the heels of the operation Al-Aqsa Flood. For the first time, Palestinians have managed to regain control of occupied territory. and tore down the Erez checkpoint. Latest reports say the freedom fighters are 10 km (6 miles) from reaching the West Bank. On Friday (06/10), at dawn, the IOF was still fighting palestinian soldiers in at least 22 locations near the Gaza Strip.

Gazans who have historically had their right to movement supressed stepped out of the walls for the first time in their lives. Palestinian bulldozers tore down pieces of the wall. Freedom fighters have infiltrated Asqalan prison. 35 soldiers were captured so far. In 2011, a single soldier was exchanged for 1.027 palestinian prisoners. The resistance managed to catch the israelis by surprise in an amazing victory.

Campaigns of disinformation are already being pushed by zionists on social media. Baseless claims of sexual assault against Israeli hostages are being fed to the media, and the only source is racist stereotypes. Meanwhile, videos of Israeli settlers dessecrating Palestinian corpses are ignored (warning, this link leads to a very graphic video). The Palestine tower in Gaza, which housed several media offices, has been leveled in a clear effort to stop reporting.

528 palestinians were killed since the beginning of the year. A little over half of this number comes as casualties from yesterday's invasion. Their martyrdom is a result of brutality routinely carried out against Palestinians.

There's no comparing both sides. While Hamas had to cut holes through less protected bits of the wall caging the Gaza Strip in order to carry out the attack, the Israeli government started carpet bombing and cut access to electricity, leaving wounded Palestinians with no medical care, shutting down ventilators and dialysis machines and harming clean water distribution at a snap of their fingers. Checkpoints across the West Bank have been closed, denying access to hospitals to the entire palestinian population.

On the other hand, settlers are being carried out in planes by their native european governments.

As Mohammed El-Kurd has said, "There's a population that lives inside a cage, without citizenship, without right to movement, without access to clean water, and there's a population that enjoys its full rights."

International support is essential. All eyes must be on Palestine. People should be ashamed of showing support for the zionist occupation. $3.8 billion in military aid are sent every year from USAmerican tax payer money, and the person who pushed for the creation of this aid was the old spineless clown that's president right now.

If you can, take action. Here's some dates for future protests:

Monday, October 9

ATHENS, GREECE – Monday, Oct. 9, 7 pm, Zionist Embassy, Athens. Organizer: Somoud Greece Info: https://www.instagram.com/p/CyGpGdEILQp/

BOSTON/CAMBRIDGE, MA (US) – Monday, Oct. 9, 4 pm, Cambridge City Hall. Info: https://www.instagram.com/p/CyH1OrRMeWi/

COMPOSTELA, GALICIA (SPAIN) – Monday, Oct. 9, 8 pm, Praza do Toural. Organizers: Mar de Lumes, Galiza por Palestina, BDS and more. Info: https://twitter.com/mardelumes/status/1710941315498725824

HONOLULU, HAWAII – Monday, Oct. 9, 5 pm, Dole St and University Ave. Organized by SFJP UH. Info: https://www.instagram.com/p/CyH82TEOZY6/

LONDON, ENGLAND – Monday, Oct. 9, 6 pm, Israeli Embassy. Organized by many groups (FOA, PSC, STWC, etc). Info: https://www.instagram.com/p/CyGTCBptrA5/

LONDON, ONTARIO (CANADA) – Monday, Oct. 9, 2 pm Victoria Park. Organized by CPSA. Info: https://www.instagram.com/p/CyH63tusJTS/

MADRID, SPAIN – Monday, Oct. 9, 8 pm, Puerta del Sol. Organizers: Masar Badil, Samidoun Spain, Alkarama, Alyudur, Unadikum. Info: https://www.instagram.com/p/CyHFOVLqKw0/

MINNEAPOLIS, MN (US) – Monday, Oct. 9, 6 pm, Sen. Klobuchar office, 1200 S Washington Ave, Minneapolis. Organized by Anti-War Committee. Info: https://www.answercoalition.org/join_a_protest_near_you_free_palestine

NEW HAVEN, CT (US) – Monday, Oct. 9, 3 pm 165 Church St, City Hall, New Haven. Organized by Yalies 4 Palestine. Info: https://www.instagram.com/p/CyIwyqrgCqh

NEW ORLEANS, LA (US) – Monday, Oct. 9, 5:30 pm, Duncan Plaza, New Orleans Organized by PSL, JVP, FRSO. Info: https://www.instagram.com/p/CyJLa_4uzQ9

NEW YORK, NY (US) – Monday, Oct. 9, 2 pm, Zionist Embassy, 800 2nd Avenue, NYC. Organizer: Within Our Lifetime, Samidoun NY/NJ, Existence is Resistance, Decolonize this Place, CUNY For Palestine & more. Info: https://www.instagram.com/p/CyG85-SAXsB/

ORMOND BEACH, FL (US) – Monday, Oct. 9, 4 pm, SE Corner of Granada and Beach. Organized by Daytona Workers League. Info: https://www.answercoalition.org/join_a_protest_near_you_free_palestine

SYDNEY, AUSTRALIA – Monday, Oct. 9, 5:30 pm Town Hall. Organized by Palestine Action Group. Info: https://www.instagram.com/p/CyHLhgnBEv4/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link

TORONTO, CANADA – Monday, Oct. 9, 2 pm, Nathan Phillips Square, Toronto. Organized by PYM. Info: https://www.instagram.com/p/CyGtNclA55P/

VANCOUVER, BC (CANADA) – Monday, Oct. 9, 2 pm, Vancouver Art Gallery. Organized by PYM, Samidoun, CPA, SPHR UBC, BDS Vancouver. Info: https://www.instagram.com/p/CyHOjTlAE2r/

Tuesday, October 10

EDINBURGH, SCOTLAND – Tuesday, Oct. 10, 9:30 am, Outside Edinburgh Sheriff Court. Organized by Scottish PSC. Info: https://www.scottishpsc.org.uk/statements/call-to-action-14-october-at-2pm

Wednesday, October 11

MANCHESTER, NH (US) – Wed, Oct. 11, 7 pm, Senator Jeanne Shaheen’s office, 1000 Elm St. Organizers: PSL, ANSWER. Info: https://www.answercoalition.org/join_a_protest_near_you_free_palestine

Thursday, October 12

NATIONAL STUDENTS FOR JUSTICE IN PALESTINE (North America) is calling for a Day of Resistance on Thursday, Oct. 12: https://www.instagram.com/nationalsjp/

MINNEAPOLIS, MINNESOTA (US) – Thurs, Oct. 12, 4:30 pm, Raymond ave and Energy Park Drive, St Paul. Organized by Anti War Committee. Info: https://www.instagram.com/p/CyHKEUFJzih/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link

Saturday, October 14

ABERDEEN, SCOTLAND – Sat, Oct. 14, 2 pm, St. Nichlas Square. Organized by Scottish PSC. Info: https://www.scottishpsc.org.uk/statements/call-to-action-14-october-at-2pm

DUNDEE, SCOTLAND – Sat, Oct. 14, 2 pm, Place TBA. Organized by Scottish PSC. Info: https://www.scottishpsc.org.uk/statements/call-to-action-14-october-at-2pm

EDINBURGH, SCOTLAND – Sat, Oct 14, 2 pm, Princes Street at Foot of the Mound. Organized by Scottish PSC. Info: https://www.scottishpsc.org.uk/statements/call-to-action-14-october-at-2pm

GLASGOW, SCOTLAND – Sat. Oct 14, 2 pm, Buchanan Steps. Organized by Scottish PSC. Info: https://www.scottishpsc.org.uk/statements/call-to-action-14-october-at-2pm

#free palestine #save gaza

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montyshistoryblog · 9 months ago

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Agonies surrounding milkmen

What better way to distract myself from activist burnout and the horrors of the carpet-bombing of civilians by exploring the Blitz!

I recently started a module at my university called History As Mythmaking: The Myth of the Blitz. In the seminar, we were discussing how the public image of the Blitz of London was created in part through propaganda, especially certain attitudes such as the stiff upper lip (despite popular belief, Keep Calm And Carry On was scrapped before the Blitz and only rediscovered at the turn of the millenium), and the subject of the milkman photo came up. For those of you who have somehow escaped such a pervasive image, here's the photo.

[Ownership: Getty Images | Credit: Fred Morley working for Fox Photo (defunct)]

This image, the tale goes, is actually a staged image. Fred Morley, the photographer for a Fleet Street firm called Fox Photo, was sick of the fact that the censor board would prevent press photographers from publishing any photos that showed excessive bomb damage. In some instances this would be cropping images to cut out ruined buildings, while other instances were outright blocked from publication. So Morley came up with a clever work-around: play into the themes that the propaganda aimed for while showing bomb damage. Supposedly, Morley or his assistant dressed up in a milk-man uniform, grabbed a crate of bottles and patrolled London until they found fire-fighters actively fighting the damage, before capturing this photo. The theme of "stiff upper lip" and "the unflappable Englishman" were so strong in the photo that it was published regardless of the rubble.

But is it true?

It's a compelling, neat little story that perfectly encompasses the concept of positive propaganda, and that's that is exactly the problem with it. It's a very neat, clean little story which is told almost verbatim all over the internet.

The oldest reference I've been able to find to the idea that the photo is staged is from ancient ancient... September 2015, not even a decade. A publication on the Telegraph website titled "The spirit of the Blitz: picture special". On slide 7 of 25, the website reads this almost exact story from the then-Letter Editor Christopher Howse. This is already strange, since Howse is a specialist in religious news, but this is also the Telegraph and qualifications are often secondary to a good story there. Howse is incredibly difficult to contact, and I've resorted to sending a physical letter to the Telegraph's offices in hopes he will answer. Considering his old-fashioned sensibilities and his current work being the designated old man for articles by Young Conservatives, he may appreciate slightly outdated format. I will keep you updated if he ever answers, I included my email in the letter thankfully.

Now, dear reader, this could in fact be the woozle effect in play, wherein everybody is just citing each other. What makes this especially evident is that all of the websites that discuss this idea are the typical fodder, with names along the lines of "HISTORY SLAM" and the likes. Their citations, if any exist, typically refer to either a Snopes article that references the Telegraph article, or directly refer to the Telegraph article without linking it, because the link is now dead. All of these articles are suspiciously similar in grammar and sentence layout too. Every day, I come closer to agreeing with the Dead Internet Theory.

So why care?

It's such a minor thing, what does it matter if it's wrong? Now, for the vast majority of people, yeah frankly who would give a shit? But stories such as these do feed into what is ultimately an incorrect narrative surrounding the Blitz, especially the concept of Blitz Spirit. Any Brits who were conscious during the first years of COVID-19 may remember the constant references to Blitz Spirit and how we can survive anything because of our British "Keep Calm And Carry On" attitude, before looking out the window at the toilet paper hoarding and realising that Blitz Spirit is a load of bollocks.

Jenny Draper has an excellent video on how Blitz Spirit didn't really exist, and she references the idea that this very photo is fake in her video. I'm looking at contacting her when I can find an email or phone number to go through without being intrusive (seriously who the fuck is putting Youtubers' phone numbers on the internet?), since I wonder where she picked this up too.

The myth of Blitz Spirit does have an important place in British culture, and if you want a good but slightly dated discussion of the Blitz and British culture, I suggest you read The myth of the Blitz by Angus Caldwell. Some of the current affairs and politics of it are a bit stuck in the 90s, but the overall book and discussion is very useful.

Catching untruths regarding such a culturally important event in British culture, one that was playing into government policy in 2020, is an important part of actually learning from history, instead of learning from a historical mythology.

More updates to come once I've been contacted back by experts and/or journalists.

#history #modern history #history tag #culture #human history #british history #european history #blitz #blitz spirit #milkman photo #I feel like a fucking movie conspiracy theorist following these articles in circles

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fissions-chips · 1 month ago

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called to heel

(evil butler AU: tw for violence, blood, humiliation and smoking)

———————————————————————

“So Valentine has left me… with you.”

Heaving a sigh, Butler straightened out his coat, lip curling slightly at the faint scent of warm sugar and smoke, the hallmark of the Phonetix CEO’s brief, but marked presence in his office. The side of his neck was still warm where the man had buried his face against it as he snaked his arms around him, a greeting that Butler would have shot anyone else for… but not Valentine. It was useless to refuse, and so Butler had tolerated it with all the patience of a saint, only the slightest furrow in his brow to show his displeasure- he’d taken the man to bed often enough to know it was only shallow, attention-seeking behavior, and that Valentine knew better than to expect anything in return.

Turning his head, the former bodyguard cast a glance towards the slumped figure across the room, the carpet beneath smudged with red from a graceless collapse to meet it. “He asked me to ‘deal with you’, and save him some trouble.” Butler explained- cold gray eyes narrowed slightly as the man flicked out a knife and began to polish it on the hem of his coat (a poor habit, but it wasn’t like the blade truly needed to be cleaned… yet). “Given everything that happened in London, I’m sure he’s imagined plenty of wicked ways I would do the job- though just breaking your neck would solve the problem easily enough, wouldn’t it?”

He spoke calmly, casually, no inflection of anger or interest in his tone- like he was discussing the traffic on the way here, or the weather. Jon felt a shudder run down his back, darkening bruises aching with the motion as he focused, in the moment, on not vomiting all over the rich red carpet. Blood was drying at the corner of his mouth, face and features nicked by a sunglassed man’s rings, and in the moment Jon wanted nothing more than to scrub it away. It itched- he didn’t want to die bloody. Still, watching from the corner of his eye as a blurry figure began to step towards him, he knew he didn’t have any say in the matter.

The knife clicked quietly as it was set against the carpet.

“It wouldn’t be hard.” Butler continued, above him- a strong hand seized Jon by the front of his shirt, dragging him onto his knees. Bound at his wrists and ankles, Jon’s legs slipped from beneath him, only to be stopped short by fingers seizing him tightly by the jaw. Jon’s eyes went wide, teeth gritting beneath the press of Butler’s thumb as the former bodyguard forced the man to look him in the eye. “Have you ever snapped a man’s spine before, Spiro? Felt it give way beneath your fingers?”

His face was utterly without pity. Jon’s heart skipped a beat, and then another, his senses reduced to the sensation of a hand rising up his chest to circle his throat, another cradling his jaw and tilting his head back, and back, and further still… those cold, cold eyes piercing right through him. Despite the strength brimming beneath the former bodyguard’s fingertips, it wasn’t a violent motion. It was slow, and steady, and as Jon felt the first quiet crck shiver up the nape of his neck as the fragile bones within began to stretch too far, he went limp. There wasn’t any point in struggling- he knew that. Eyes screwed shut, Jon lay still and waited for the release of pressure, that sharp and final snap as his life ended, and prayed that it would be painless.

For several long, aching moments, Butler held Jon there, his head tilted far and twisted just slightly- the smaller man was trembling, his whole body shaking with the force of it. And yet… he didn’t beg, or plead, or even speak.

“…Hm.”

Jon froze as the former bodyguard’s thumb brushed down the side of his jaw, gently tracing the bruising mark it found there- the other pressed firmly against the hollow of his throat, the faint pulse of blood warm beneath the man’s fingers. Idly, as if without thought, Jon felt Butler brush some of the blood from the corner of his mouth, expression darkening slightly. “Valentine really did a number on you, didn’t he? The last time we met, you were surprisingly aggressive for someone of your position and build… Now look at you.”

For a moment, the slightest hint of a snarl flickered over Jon’s face, unbidden- then, it dissolved as Butler roughly forced his head to the side, the former bodyguard looking him over impassively, turning his face left and right. Bound hands clenched to fists at his back as Jon gritted his teeth and forced himself not to react violently- all it would do is earn him a worse death, and he didn’t want to see firsthand the kind of damage the former bodyguard was said to do to those who pissed him off. Usually, there wasn’t even enough of his enemies left to bury.

“…I should kill you,” the man muttered, half to himself. “But the fact that Valentine brought you here beaten half to death is insulting, really. I’m not his pet hitman, here to do as he pleases just because we fuck on occasion.”

Jon stiffened at that, unable to stop the bitterness that flashed across his face- Butler raised a brow. Jealousy, brief but burning, ignited in the pit of Jon’s stomach, bile rising in the smaller man’s throat as he was dropped onto his knees, slumping back onto his side as he dragged in a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding.

“I have a meeting in a few minutes as well…” The former bodyguard leaned back on his heels, staring down at the collapsed figure before him for a few moments, his face utterly unimpressed. Jon felt his shadow move across him, heard the click of the knife picked up from the floor and flicked open, and closed his eyes, pressing his face into the carpet below.

Strong hands seized him by the wrists, expertly splitting the rope that bound them as Butler moved to do the same to his feet, too. Jon was dropped once more without warning, the man blinking up at the other with a bewildered expression as Butler stood, pocketed the knife, and dusted off his hands in one smooth motion. As Jon slowly, haltingly tried to pick himself up from the floor, the former bodyguard moved back towards his desk, leaning against its edge as he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. He didn’t even spare Jon a glance as he spoke.

“Come here.”

The smaller man blinked, dumbfounded- one hand automatically rose to his throat, fingertips brushing the forming bruises and flinching away. Off-balance, he sank back to the carpet below with a muffled curse, unable to get his feet beneath him.

He froze as Butler spoke again, voice ringing through the still air, even as his words remained quiet and measured.

“If you can’t walk… crawl. Come here.”

There was no room for argument. Shuddering, Jon tried to pull his legs beneath him once more and stand, only for a jolt of pain to shoot through his body so suddenly that a hiss forced itself through his teeth. Collapsing once again onto hands and knees, Jon’s fingers dug into the carpet below as fury spiked in his throat, the taste of humiliation sharp on his tongue. Crawl. Like a dumb animal.

Slowly, and painfully, Jon did so, his head spinning between exhaustion, anger and resignation. All he wanted to do was sink against the carpet and sleep for a week- every bruise on his body throbbed a drumbeat tattoo beneath his skin, and his vision was blurred both by weariness and the pointed lack of his spectacles. Still, he put one hand in front of the other, head bowed. Falling over would only mean a kick to the ribs strong enough to snap them- or worse.

When he reached Butler’s feet, Jon was forced to sit back on his heels as strong fingers seized his jaw and forced his head back once again. This time, he didn’t flinch- instead, Jon peered upwards, lip curling slightly as Butler began to scrub at his face with the handkerchief, meticulously wiping the dried blood away. As unexpected as the gesture was, Jon didn’t complain, merely sitting there silently with half-closed eyes. All of his attention at the moment had shifted to keep from tipping over like a cut-string puppet.

The former bodyguard’s hands were not unduly rough, merely careless- a slight furrow to his brow revealed his concentration. “Valentine should know better than to pull this shit when I have a meeting,” he muttered, a brief but unusual display of annoyance. “A meeting that is not going to end well.”

Jon closed his eyes. He knew that feeling well enough. After a few moments more, the grip around his jaw finally let go, and Jon sank forward on his knees, letting his head meet the side of the desk with a quiet thump. Above him, Butler returned the handkerchief to his pocket, nudging the smaller man’s side with his shoe for attention.

“Wait here.” He ordered, before calmly stepping out of the room.

Jon heard the sound of heavy footsteps retreating down the hall, and after a few moments longer, allowed a short, choked sound to tear from his throat as he knelt against the solid wood. Pain, or anger, or relief at not being killed, he didn’t know- nausea roiled violently in his stomach, the world spinning beyond his closed eyes, and Jon bit his lip until he tasted blood. In the absence of distraction, his injuries ached- Jon’s mind flashed with the memory of being kicked, over and over, beaten, and his stomach heaved.

Ow. Ow. Ow.

It must have been minutes before Jon felt like he could look up once again from his huddled position on the floor, curled against his knees, arms tight around his middle. As the taste of bile in his mouth began to fade, Jon opened his eyes to find a shadow across him, Butler’s cold eyes catching his gaze and watching, completely unreadable. Jon froze. The other man didn’t move- there was something clutched in his hand that Jon couldn’t quite make out.

After another few moments-

“Hold still.”

Forcing himself upright, Jon balked away as the massive hand reached out- instantly, he was seized by the hair and held fast, Butler’s frown deepening slightly as he crouched down, somehow still looming over Jon. “I just told you to hold still,” he repeated, fingers tightening slightly as the smaller man paled, pain shooting down his skull. He raised his other hand, holding the object in front of Jon’s nose. “Look.”

It was a collar. A heavy, leather thing, the kind made for kennel dogs and hunting hounds, not a house pet. Gray metal looped at both front and back for a lead to clip to, and though it was worn with age, clearly a relic from some previous Fowl’s working animals, it looked immensely strong. Jon’s eyes widened, brow furrowing- he shuddered beneath Butler’s hand as a bitter taste rose in his mouth.

“I am going to put this around your neck.” The former bodyguard explained, utterly calm even as his fingers threatened to tear Jon’s scalp from his skull. “You are going to sit and stay quiet at my meeting. For the moment, I see no reason to kill you.”

For the briefest of moments, something seemed to flicker over his face and behind his eyes- a sense of smug victory? Some sort of sick amusement?

Jon wasn’t sure, and didn’t care to know. He was going to be made a mockery of. A pet. A stupid pet, a little voice in the back of his mind sang, half-hysterical. Speak, Jonny boy!

When he tried to open his mouth, however, and protest for the first time since he had been tossed to the floor here to await his coming death… his voice failed him. Any words he had left in him withered on his tongue. He was so, so tired, in the moment, all the way down to his bones- if he made a fuss, he would be killed, or brutally hurt, quite possibly both. If he dipped his head, however, took the indignity on the chin and just surrendered to it… maybe he could lay down to sleep soon. What was one more kick while he was down?

With that realization, something crumbled, deep down inside of Jon, any spark of defiance he had left washed away by a wave of exhaustion so deep that the man struggled not to keel over right then and there. With a hollow cast to his eye, he tilted his head back and waited.

If Butler appreciated his obedience, he gave no sign- dark eyes furrowed slightly in focus as the collar was unfastened, closed around Jon’s neck with the soft creak of leather. Quickly, it was tightened, adjusted- Jon was surprised to find it not so tight as to choke or chafe. Rather, it almost hung loose against his throat, metal buckles clinking quietly when he moved. The sound was faintly reminisce of Jon’s former finery. Glancing away, Jon’s hands trembled against his lap, the man gritting his teeth as another wave of misery rolled through him- then, it was gone, dissolved into nothing.

Butler leaned back, rising to his feet to admire his handiwork from above. Jon swayed, avoiding the other man’s gaze and trying to ignore the increasing ache from every inch of his body- he was startled out of the rising stupor by the feeling of being pulled upwards, the collar tightening around his neck. Flinching violently, Jon looked up to find the former bodyguard had slotted one finger through the metal loop at the front of the collar and lifted his hand, the smaller man forced to kneel straight-backed and almost further as those cold gray eyes raked over him.

For a moment, Butler did nothing, merely watching as Jon struggled to stay still and not thrash like a fish on a line. Then, to the latter’s surprise, the former bodyguard’s grim frown lessened slightly, the man letting out a huff of breath. It might as well have been a laugh.

Jon’s ears grew hot with embarrassment, and he bit his tongue to quell a growing curse. Dropped back onto his knees, he raised a hand to tug at the ugly, leather thing, frown deepening at the weight of it against his shoulders. Stupid heavy piece of shit. Stupid, stupid piece of shit.

Butler stepped away from the desk, pausing at the doorframe as Jon watched- suddenly, the man snapped his fingers, a jolt of fright running down Jon’s spine as he froze, eyes wide.

“Heel.”

Jon blinked. He remained still for a long moment, warring within himself- the collar was one thing, but to answer to a dog’s command? There was also the reality that he might very well be unable to stand, and walk… and like hell was he going to crawl down a hallway on hands and knees.

Butler turned his head, eyes narrowing. As he moved, there was a small flicker of light at his hip, the barrel of a gun the former bodyguard no longer bothered to hide. That, and the sight of the man beginning to turn towards him was enough to stir Jon into action, the smaller of the two fumbling for the desk’s edge and using it to haul himself upright, body trembling with the effort.

Somehow, he managed to get his feet under him- his whole body swayed, gray static rising behind his eyes for several long moments as Jon huddled against the desk’s surface, breathing heavily. Then, he forced himself forward, blindly reaching out for the wall to guide him as he staggered after the other man, the collar bumping against his collarbone with each missed step or stumble.

Butler led him to a room dominated by a long, dark table, the space otherwise dim, uninviting and plain. Fitting, Jon thought, before sinking down alongside the chair he was directed to at the head- the former bodyguard sat down, not sparing the smaller man a glance as Jon slumped against its side, eyes half-lidded, legs sprawled alongside him.

There was a rustle overhead, and a quiet clk as a lighter was struck, the faint scent of smoke weaving through the air. Jon blinked- he hadn’t taken Butler as a man to partake in cigarettes… Then again, this was hardly the man he remembered.

There was a nudge against his shoulder, and Jon craned his head back, weary. Through his blurred vision, he could make out a small point of light waving, the scent of tobacco much stronger now. A cigarette- the former bodyguard was offering him a cigarette, already lit.

The absurdity of the gesture was not lost on Jon- his eyes narrowed, the man hesitant to take it. Was it meant to be some sort of… incentive? For following orders? Jon had done what he was told with no complaint so far- there had been no choice in the matter. There still wasn’t. Still, when the other man didn’t grab him again as he had when Jon had balked at the collar, something sparked in the back of the smaller man’s mind.

… A treat.

After another moment, Jon glanced down at his hands, took a deep, shaky breath, and nodded. Reaching up, he took it from the other man with trembling fingers, clutching it close as he set it to his lips and breathed deep, taking comfort in the slight warmth it offered. He’d take the damn cigarette, ‘treat’ or not.

Others began to file in shortly afterwards, most unfamiliar to Jon- at the sight of the white-suited businessman slumped at Butler’s side, bewildered expressions spread over their faces as they took in his battered features and the collar looped around his neck. Some paled, then, glancing nervously between Jon and his captor- others barked a laugh and sneered at the sight of the once-proud businessman made a mockery of.

As the one nearest to Jon sat down, he aimed a kick his way- Jon winced as it caught him in the side, a glancing blow. Bristling, the smaller man huddled back further against the side of Butler’s chair, free hand shielding his cigarette to keep it lit. He tried to ignore the quiet “woof” that followed, though his face flushed slightly with anger and embarrassment.

Above and around him, the meeting began- the conversation was a distant blur to Jon, the man focused on the moment of the taste of tobacco and the familiar flicker of smoke in his lungs, the nicotine helping to soothe the ache of his hurts, in its own small way. A blessed distraction from the situation he was in, and something to cling to as his senses began to smudge into one another once again, exhaustion, injury and stupor threatening to sweep him away into unconsciousness. He wasn’t sure what would happen to him if he passed out- in the moment, Jon found that he didn’t really care.

Voices rose and sharpened in the air, hands slamming onto the table as arguments began, ended, began again. Jon’s eyelids crept lower. A shadow fell across him as someone pushed away from their chair angrily, jabbing a finger at the man at the head of the table. Butler didn’t answer, though Jon felt the support of the chair rock and shift away as it too was pushed back. He tucked himself further against it absentmindedly, his cigarette near gone as he breathed in, breathed out. S’ a bad idea, he thought. Don’t raise your voice to that man. Bad things’ll happen if you do.

Jon’s prediction proved correct as Butler stepped forward, unhurried, almost unalarming, reaching out- reality came crashing in as a loud, crackling THUD echoed above Jon, something warm and wet suddenly splattered over the man’s face as blue eyes blinked open. He swallowed, his smoke dropping from nerveless fingers as above him, blood and bits of other things, splinters and teeth, dropped down around his head.

Nobody moved for several moments- the other guests stood pale and slack-jawed as the half-caved skull of the offending individual crumpled further beneath Butler’s hand. The former bodyguard’s face was completely calm, no trace of anger or irritation to be found. Instead, he let go of the body and shoved it away. It slid to the floor with a damp, heavy sound. Wide eyes watched him, horrified, panicked- Butler met each gaze evenly, taking his handkerchief from his pocket once more and wiping what he could of the red from his fingers.

“Gentlemen… I believe this meeting is adjourned. You’re dismissed.”

Cold, clinical- his voice gave nothing away. Some made no efforts to hide their fear in their frantic retreat down the hall, while others, still stunned by the sudden display of violence, staggered out of the room with thin apologies and wish-wells, their unsteady footsteps fading away towards the entryway.

Butler turned his head, looking down at the man beside him- Jon’s eyes were fixed to the floor, his cigarette forgotten on the floor beneath him, hand still raised slightly as if to hold it. Some of the blood had formed a trail, slowly tracing the lines of his face as it dripped downwards to stain his white linen suit. A long, slow shudder ran down the smaller man’s body, shoulders and spine shaking- then, unbidden, Jon collapsed backwards, his eyes closed before he hit the ground. His limit had been reached, both of mind and body.

Jon Spiro was out like a light.

The former bodyguard tilted his head slightly, staring down at his fallen foe- he drew back his foot and kicked the other lightly. Jon gave no response save for a cough, slumping back lifelessly against the floor.

Butler blinked. Slowly, he raised his foot again, settling against Jon’s throat and leaning down- even unconscious, the smaller man immediately began to sputter and choke, eyes darting beneath their lids as he struggled to draw in air. How easy it would be to deal with him now, with no foul mouth or scheming to contend with. Just another body to be cleaned up later, albeit much cleaner. Butler’s eyes betrayed nothing as the collar bumped against his shoe, clinking quietly. Another moment passed, Jon’s breath a thin rattle.

Then, the former bodyguard stopped- he sighed, crouching down. It was that same ease that bored him. Hooking his hand upon the leather collar, he hoisted the smaller man up by his throat and began to drag him out of the room, the remains of his unfortunate associate left behind to be dealt with in the morning.

#and the first of this month’s angsty fics!! i hope to do more. i am *deeply* fascinated by the dynamic of evil Butler and Jon and #- so I wanted to actually dig into it a tiny bit. deliciously fun. there is something so *intimate* about threatening to snap a neck no?#i really hope I nailed it. fucked up evil Butler is *delightful*#fission’s fics #evil butler AU #the prompts I used were ‘collared’ and ‘manhandled’!

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