Bonus Fic: Blood Brothers, Part 2/3

[holmesticemods]

In Liverpool Mycroft had put his ear to the ground in the lobbies of the great hotels and the backrooms of the taverns and bawdy houses lining the harbour front before buying them passage to New York. It was a risk – their last quarry had hailed from New Orleans – but the former colonies were vast and the Southern families were rather disdainful of Northerners. No doubt the same held true the other way round; and Mycroft wanted to strike big this time. Besides, they’d be introducing themselves under yet another alias. This year they were Baron Milord Sigerson and his brother Sherrinford Sigerson, small landed gentry intent on acquainting themselves with the modern approaches of the New World.

New York loved them. Mycroft kept explaining to everyone they encountered that ‘Your Grace’ wasn’t the proper mode of address, a demure ‘My Lord’ or ‘Your Lordship’ would perfectly suffice for him while his brother would respond to a mere ‘Sir’ but gave the job up as hopeless after a fortnight. Sherlock was all the rage with that year’s debutantes, even those who had already secured themselves a home and a life companion. There were a few incidents with girls fainting upon Sherlock entering a room. But they weren’t hunting for debutantes. Not of the sex that came in swirling skirts and fanning themselves with ostrich feathers.

Sherlock’s eye was the first to spot the young man Mycroft had put at the top of their list. The boy’s father – Mr Victor Trevor senior – was involved in unsavoury businesses concerning railroads of all things. Whatever the source of his money, the man was by all accounts rolling in it so he’d hardly miss a few wagons unhooked from his gravy train. When Mycroft intercepted the dark look the man shot his son across a ballroom filled with people pretending to amuse themselves he knew they’d hit a gold vein.

“Go,” he told Sherlock and took up position to observe the reaction of son and sire to Sherlock ambling over to loiter prettily in a spot five yards from where Victor Trevor junior was conversing with two other coxcombs, laughing and ostensibly despising every couple whirling past them.

It took all of three minutes before young Trevor was introducing himself, holding onto the hand Sherlock had proffered, with a faint quirk of his lips, for half a second too long. The disgust that flitted over the father’s face was a clear echo of Mycroft’s emotions. The man bent towards the man standing behind him, there was whispering and then the man’s gaze settled onto Mycroft. After a beat Mycroft raised one eyebrow. The wooing had begun.

Graciously losing at a rubber of whist was a time-proven opening bid. Having gained a foothold Mycroft led the railroad baron to the one topic of interest they had in common. Over cigars and some port wine so far below Mycroft’s standards he nearly choked on the first sip, the railroad baron disclosed his plans for branching out to England first, the Continent after. The fake Baron traded advice on typical British attitudes regarding business and the bizarre idiosyncrasies of the various European peoples.

After lighting his second cigar Trevor motioned for Mycroft to follow him to the salon; a disastrous affair rigged up by his wife, who was a Tudor devotee with an abundance of imagination and frightfully little sense. Whether she really believed a pianoforte came with the standard Elizabethan interior Mycroft hadn’t bothered to determine. It figured prominently in Mrs Trevor’s drawing room and currently her only son was sitting in front of it, hands hovering over the keys while his eyes were devouring Sherlock. The subject of his admiration had closed his to better concentrate on pulling the opening bars of Corelli’s first violin sonata from the strings. With his dashing scarlet neck cloth drawn into a particularly elaborate bow he embodied the very epitome of thespian elegance.

“Was your brother educated at one of your boarding schools, Your Lordship?” The proper form of address was a typical example of the man’s quick grasp of situations and opportunities presenting themselves. Equally typical he didn’t beat about the bush. Fortunately, Mycroft had long ago learned how to handle such rough-and-ready creatures.

“No, we were both tutored at home,” Mycroft replied, anticipating the next question of his own volition. “Afterwards we studied abroad, at Paris and Bologna.” Universities in parts hardly famous for fastidious filing.

“So your brother never participated in… he didn’t experience—.” The potentate chewed his cigar furiously, bushy eyebrows knitted tightly as he contemplated the tableau of his sole heir not quite swooning at Sherlock’s feet. Mycroft straightened his back and maintained a conspicuous silence.

“Damn you, man,” Trevor burst forth at last, in a fierce whisper. “You know perfectly well what I’m getting at. Is your brother an invert?”

“Pray, forgive me—,” began Mycroft.

“Cut the damned theatrics and answer me. Is he a sodomite?”

“Excuse me,” Mycroft replied in his archest tone. “I fail to see how my brother’s… ah, inclinations can be of interest to you and why you think I should be aware of them.”

“Why?” The railroad millionaire was almost shouting now. Sherlock obligingly increased the volume of his playing, inciting Victor to follow his lead. “Why? Because mine are perfectly normal, My Lord, as attested by the existence of that damned scoundrel over there making eyes at your brother.”

Obviously, rage had temporarily excised reason, Mycroft mused. “Your point being?” he asked, pointedly.

“Marriage, My Lord. The rascal adamantly refuses to fulfil his obligations and take a wife. His obnoxious behaviour hinders my girls’ prospects and my business opportunities. Several men in this city would consent to a match with any of the girls if it weren’t for the fact that they’d end up with that young reprobate intent on throwing himself at every pretty pair of legs fitted in trousers for a brother-in-law. ”

“Yes?” Despite the situation’s overall hatefulness Mycroft derived a mischievous satisfaction from witnessing the man’s struggle with this one aspect so gallingly beyond his control.

“You must understand—,” Trevor produced a handkerchief and started mopping his brow.

“Perfectly,” acceded Mycroft. “Shall we retire to your study?”

As if aware the deal was about to be struck Sherlock lifted his gaze from the violin to lock it with Mycroft’s over the honey-coloured waves of hair artfully coiled around Victor Trevor’s head. Sherlock winked. That moment the boy hit a wrong key. The discordant note had several of the younger ladies cry out in alarm. Exasperation and distaste flitted over Sherlock’s face before he tilted his torso solicitously towards the distraught musician, encouraging him to continue.

The next half hour was distinctly unpleasant. Mycroft didn’t need a reminder he was essentially vending his brother to the highest bidder, his soul ached with the knowledge since the first time he’d done so, when they’d sailed for France. But Trevor was a fool if he expected Mycroft to sell his sibling cheaply. Besides, the father’s position was equally compromised. He had a problem on his hands and Mycroft was willing to relieve him of it. The man’s assumption that Mycroft would trade his brother for thirty pieces of silver was an insult. Now, three hundred and thirty thousand in gold; that was more like it.

Another handkerchief appeared. There was much grumbling, ranting and cursing in invective that lacked true imagination. Mycroft sipped the abominable port, sighed when Trevor named him ‘a whoremaster’ and objected politely when he called Sherlock ‘a trollop, a queer and a cheap slut’. He grabbed onto the last term to observe he didn’t understand why Mr Trevor was objecting to the price if he thought it a bargain. Was this how they did business in America? If so, he’d have a hard time negotiating a deal in the British Empire.

The rush of blood to Trevor’s cheeks turned them a rubicund hue so evidently unhealthy Mycroft briefly feared for the man’s life. The magnate’s big hands gripped the arms of his chair as he visibly controlled the urge to throw himself at Mycroft and wrap those same hands around Mycroft’s neck to strangle him. His face twisted in a horrible grimace of repugnance.

“All right,” he grunted. “Three hundred and thirty thousand pound sterling, to be paid by my bank in London in six weeks’ time. Here’s my affidavit. Just make sure I never have to set eyes on any of you ever again.”

“That,” Mycroft responded smoothly, “can be arranged.”

***

All the plagues of Egypt had descended upon them at once. The pack spread over the house like a locust-swarm, ripping the house apart and defiling everything they laid their grubby hands on. They hunted the deer and the pheasants in the woods and felled the trees for firewood. They slaughtered the horses and ate them.

The women paraded around the gardens in Mummy’s dresses – Mycroft noted with a malicious and simultaneously saddening satisfaction that none of the bodices fitted them – and squabbled over who got to wear her furs. The day Mycroft noticed the crimson flash of Mummy’s ruby necklace resting on a coarse bosom he nearly choked. Mr Talbot had to put a straining hand on his arm to keep him from rushing the woman and ripping it from her fat neck.

They chanced upon them fornicating out in the open, in the rhododendron grove, behind the stables, and once in an outrage particularly scandalous a veritable orgy amongst the frolicking nymphs and satyrs in the empty basin of the great baroque fountain. Men were wrestling with women, with other men and on one occasion, in the downstairs left wing corridor, they even ran into two half-naked women with their hands beneath the other’s skirts. Each time Mr Talbot would clap his hand over Sherlock’s eyes and drag them away from the scene.

To his horror Mycroft discovered his body’s stimulation frequently overrode the revulsion his mind told him such perversity ought to inspire in him. He’d concentrate on the hatred that smouldered inside him, his loathing for the weak wretch who had fathered him and his brother most of all, and his blood distributed itself evenly throughout his body again, leaving him drained and with a vague desire to weep.

Another morning Mycroft entered the blue morning room to discover a man smashing the Chippendale dining chairs and feeding the wood into the thickly smoking fire he’d started. He was a scrawny fellow and Mycroft had by now reached Mr Talbot’s height so he chased the man out of the room with the foulest curses in his repertoire and doused the fire.

The nights were the worst. The house would reverberate with a howling din that seemed to rise through the floors straight from the depths of hell accompanied by the high shrieking laughter of men and women the worse for drink. The first few nights Sherlock had cried until Mycroft could no longer stand the sniffling and his own cowardice and invited Sherlock to curl up in his bed. There Sherlock slept with his head on his elder brother’s chest while Mycroft lay listening to the awful noises produced by the filthy beasts his father had invited into their home.

Mr Talbot would vanish regularly and it seemed the pandemonium increased twelvefold on those nights. Several times Mycroft intercepted him as he returned, always looking much the worse for wear with his clothes torn and face cut and bruised, but he steadfastly refused to describe what had happened to him. In the morning he’d brush off Sherlock’s enquiries as well.

“You don’t want to know,” was all he said.

But Mycroft did want to know, though he dreaded the answer as well. On and off he discussed the issue with Billy over the course of several weeks, whenever Mr Talbot’s attention wandered elsewhere; their fingers flying fast but falling immobile again the instant the tutor shook himself out of his reverie. Apparently Wiggins joined Mr Talbot on those dreadful nights to reappear the next morning every bit as dishevelled and shaken as Mr Talbot and as adamantly refusing to divulge what took place during those hours. When Mycroft thought of the dapper little man who had been serving his family faithfully since before he was born staunchly undergoing unspeakable atrocities, the nature of which he couldn’t fathom, a crimson sheen of murderous rage veiled his eyes.

Oh lord! He dug the heels of his palms into his eyes in frustration. His ignorance of and certainty that other men were suffering the worst sort of heinousness on their behalf was too much to be borne. From what stock had he sprung if he allowed this to continue. The weakest, an inner voice told him when he thought of his father. But then Sherlock would look at him with their mother’s eyes to remind Mycroft half of them was flesh from superior flesh.

Thus, one night, shortly after Mr Talbot had taken leave of them again and Sherlock’s even breathing told him his brother was asleep; Mycroft slipped into the anteroom where Billy slept and after shaking the servant awake motioned for him to guard Sherlock. Then he took the chamber stick and slipped into the servant’s passage; a huge maze of narrow corridors that ran through the whole house and along which the servants had once hurried to their tasks screened from the sight of family and guests.

The unholy clamour of fiendish carousing guided Mycroft to the door hidden in the panelling of the yellow drawing room. He extinguished the candle, but kept the chamber stick in his hand. With the other one he opened the door a crack and spied into the chamber.

A gasp of horror fled from his mouth before he could suppress it. He pulled the door shut and waited in the darkness, fighting to recompose himself while tears streamed down his cheeks. Most dreadful had been the glimpse of the creature he’d once addressed as Father.

As he struck sparks from his tinderbox to relight his candle the seed of a dreadful plan germinated in Mycroft’s mind. At first he shied away from the sprouting weeds that fed on the rotten acidity of his hatred with an abundance they could only hope for when it came to the carrots and parsnips they grew in the kitchen garden. He realised those roots actually kept them alive. But as Mycroft tended those very same carrot and parsnip beds, milked the two cows that hadn’t been butchered yet and bent over his volume of Marcus Aurelius’ Meditations the desire for revenge poked tenacious roots deeper and deeper into the fertile soil of his anger.

It was easy, he pondered, to Never regard something as doing you good if it makes you betray a trust or lose your sense of shame or makes you show hatred, suspicion, ill-will or hypocrisy or a desire for things best done behind closed doors if you were the most powerful man alive. But Mycroft had to live with the knowledge unspeakable things were happening behind closed doors and opened ones as well, only ten doors down from where his innocent brother was writhing in a sleep disturbed by sounds of the rape and torture of the only two grown-ups to have ever shown the youngster care and love.

The nature of Mycroft’s plot was crude, in accordance with that of the people he’d inflict it upon. He searched the library for books on anatomy and the workings of the human body. Sherlock was strangely attracted to the subject and eager to assist him. Together they read about the venous system and its organisation. With the books for guidance they palpated each other’s limbs in search of the muscles and bones and major arteries. They took each other’s pulse, Sherlock slowly and solemnly counting the beats with the aid of Mycroft’s watch.

At night, with Sherlock slumbering beside him, Mycroft lay whetting the blunt blade of his little clasp knife until it was so sharp it drew blood at the mere brush of his finger over the edge. The splatter had dried and turned a rust hue when the first morning light crept around the shutters.

Mycroft was ready. Now all he had to do was create an opportunity.

***

Vexingly, Victor insisted on bringing along his valet. ‘Vexing Victor’ was a remarkably complete resume of the boy’s character. No wonder his father had been prepared to pay a smashing sum to be rid of the thorn in his flesh.

“You can’t expect me to travel without William.” Beneath the honey-coloured mop of hair eyes as clear and guileless as an English summer day darted between them in genuine trepidation. “Every true British gentleman has a valet, hasn’t he? You must have.”

“Of course,” Mycroft beamed reassuringly in concert with Sherlock’s muttered, “Valet’s are boring.”

Mycroft shot his brother a quick glare and favoured Victor Trevor with his most benevolent smile.

“We’ve already booked the passage and there will be no room for another man in the suite. The line’s servants are perfectly adequate,” he said. Meanwhile, on the sofa, Sherlock had sidled closer to Victor and lifted the young man’s fingers to his lips.

“I’ll be your valet for the journey, sweetling,” he murmured, lashes fanning fetchingly while pressing a kiss to the fingers that dangled from his.

Mycroft watched in silence from across the room, fists clenched at his sides, the smile tacked to the corners of his mouth with nails forged in hell.

“Oh, Sherrinford,” Victor tittered. Bile rose in Mycroft’s throat and the scarlet veil of jealousy was draped over his eyes again. “Imagine you ironing my shirts. Would you even know how to go about it?”

As a matter of fact Sherlock would and he was doing a far better job of it than the man Victor apparently couldn’t do without. As Victor would discover once they’d transported him back to England and installed him safely at home.

“I know all about removing stains,” Sherlock answered, now toying with a strand of yellow hair. “Coal smudges, wine, blood, and also the most persistent of all which is…” Staring at Mycroft he brought his lush mouth close to Victor’s ear and whispered.

Victor flushed – scandalised – and giggled. “Oh, Sherrinford. Oh, you shouldn’t say such things.” A possessive hand landed on Sherlock’s thigh, claiming him and Victor looked daggers at Mycroft, clearly considering his presence superfluous.

Another minute of this and Mycroft couldn’t be held responsible for the consequences. Quickly, he came to a resolution. Send Victor packing for now and have a conversation with his brother. There was only so much he could bear. Welcome aboard the damn’ valet. They’d dispose of him somehow.

“Please.” Mycroft arched an eyebrow at the pair on the sofa. “It’s three o’clock in the afternoon. There’s a proper time for everything. I suggest you go find your precious valet and tell him to ready himself for the voyage and take leave of his family and friends. We sail at eight this evening.”

***

He was ready.

He was ready but for a lifetime of rules and taboos implanted in his soul by the sternest and gentlest of humans. At night he lay quarrelling with the hateful voice of his conscience that spoke in tones just as mild as Mr Talbot’s.

‘What did it matter,’ he argued, ‘if at long last his hand committed the murder he’d already enacted a hundredfold in his heart.’

‘And who are you,’ his conscience countered, ‘to assume the position of God and determine the faith of your fellowman?’

‘Not my fellowman,’ Mycroft would protest, ‘a vile beast, nay worse, for at least the beast only follows it instinct and doesn’t willingly invent such wickedness.’

‘Oh, Mycroft. Don’t you see that in contemplating this most foul of deeds you’re lowering yourself to their level?’

‘Enough!’

His seventeenth birthday came and went and still his conscience stilled his hand. His thoughts frequently lingered with Octavian, who’d undertaken a far greater task at the same age. Perhaps he was a coward after all.

One evening they’d just finished reading act two of Macbeth, Sherlock reciting the part of Lady Macbeth with particular relish, when Wiggins entered the schoolroom after a light knock.

“We’re wanted,” the butler told Mr Talbot.

“Oh.” The consternation on Mr Talbot’s face showed the summons surprised him as much as Mycroft. The last time had been less than a week ago. Usually at least a fortnight passed between Mr Talbot temporary departures and so far Wiggins had never been sent to fetch him.

“Don’t go, Mr Talbot,” Sherlock pleaded.

Mr Talbot mussed his curls. “I must, child. But I’ll see you tomorrow morning. Sleep well.”

So Sherlock did, for the night was uncommonly quiet. In his lair outside their door Billy lay resting peacefully in Morpheus’ arms, unhindered by the absence of noise. Daylight was already extinguishing the stars when Mycroft fell into a wary doze, clutching his knife in his right hand.

A rough hand rocked his shoulder and the racket of persistent wailing assaulted his ears. He sat up, sheets sweaty with worry sliding into his lap.

“What?”

“Mycroft, oh, Mycroft.” Sherlock’s arms cohered around his neck and a tear-streaked face was buried in his shoulder. “Mr Talbot… and Wiggins…”

“What?”

Snivelling silently, Billy led Mycroft to the window, with Sherlock clinging to him like a small child. A long time ago Mycroft had convinced himself he was braced for the worst. But, he reflected later, after they’d washed their bodies of the stink of their miserable work, nothing on this earth could have prepared him for the sight that met his eyes.

In death, Mr Talbot’s countenance was as dignified as it had been in life, even with his clothes gone and his innards spilling out of the deep gash that ran from sternum to groin. The mutilation of Wiggins’ body was even more severe, the skin ripped to blood-soaked tatters. Crows had already had their fill of the poor man’s eyeballs by the time they’d rushed outside to scare the birds away.

Sherlock helped dig the graves behind the stables and held Mr Talbot’s hand while Billy and Mycroft dragged the cart that held their lugubrious cargo. His brother hadn’t spoken a word all day but then Mycroft’s lust for speaking was equally meagre.

“You’d better sleep,” he advised. For once, Sherlock did as instructed and retired to their bed without dawdling. Mycroft waited until he was certain Sherlock was asleep before detailing the plot that had been building in his mind for months to Billy.

To his shame and relief Billy didn’t demand why he hadn’t executed his plan sooner for that would have resulted in his father and Mr Talbot still being alive. Somehow, Mycroft would have to learn to live with that knowledge. But for now he couldn’t afford to waste time on remorse. He’d shed those tears later. Billy agreed they should act now for they were in serious danger of undergoing the same fate.

His expression fell when Mycroft disclosed Sherlock should assist them. At first he refused to continue their exchange, turning his back on Mycroft and warding him off when Mycroft tried to reengage him. Only when Mycroft threatened to carry on with or without Billy’s assistance did he consent.

After they’d gone over every aspect of the plan twice Mycroft sat listening to the sounds of the house for a long time. It was by now four o’clock in the afternoon. Normally the rooms and corridors would already be vibrating with the buzz of debauchery and depravity. Perhaps the sinners were still reeling from the audacity of their latest crime. Mycroft sincerely hoped so. Not for the sake of their souls, those could roast in hell forever for all he cared for none of them would be suffering as badly as Mr Talbot and Wiggins had suffered. As Mycroft was suffering now. He sat with eyes closed and knife lodged in the small temple of his hands in front of his mouth. Billy’s light touch roused him.

‘Praying?’ Billy signalled. Mycroft shook his head.

‘I’ll never pray again. I don’t believe in God. If He does exist I hate Him.’ There, it was out in the open now. Billy’s eyes lit up.

‘Me too.’

They grinned at each other.

***

New York’s solid buildings had barely evaporated into the low mist hovering over the Atlantic before Sherlock feigned seasickness. Victor’s face was almost as ashen as Sherlock’s from distress as he sat holding Sherlock’s hand in the cabin they had been assigned.

“Didn’t want to worry you,” Sherlock moaned between bouts of retching. “Was hoping…”

“Oh, my poor darling,” Victor ejaculated, regarding the flecks of dubious, faintly reddish matter Sherlock had spewed over his hand with distaste before letting go to wipe at it with a handkerchief. Without altering its nature he shifted his attention from the speckles to Mycroft who stood observing the tender tableau from the doorway.

“What are you still standing there?” he burst forth, indignantly. “Why aren’t you out looking for the surgeon?”

“Waste of time, money and resources,” Mycroft replied. “Dear Victor, your distress is commendable but uncalled-for. Sherrinford simply has no sea legs; a pleasure trip on the Thames’ waters has him green around the gills in no time. The moment we’ll dock at Liverpool he’ll be as fit as his fiddle again. Leaving him to his misery is really the kindest you can do. Isn’t it so, brother mine?”

“Get out, Milord.” Sherlock’s tone hit the perfect note of peevishness. A fortnight lying abed in the darkness pretending to be seriously ill was no bed of roses; Mycroft would readily endorse the point.

On the other hand, it was Mycroft who would have to stomach two weeks of the silly, amorous puppy’s atrocious company, as well as deal with the valet. Fortuitously, the servant was a puny little fellow with a wholly unremarkable face. No one would even remember him once Victor started the hullaballoo.

“I’ll order you some weak tea,” Mycroft answered, pulling a struggling Victor into the suite’s main room.

“Come Victor. How about a rubber?” he proposed.

***

“I desire an audience with the Marquess LeFeuvre,” Mycroft addressed the lowlife barring the door to Mummy’s bedroom in the haughtiest voice he could muster. Arrogance would be his fastest means towards gaining entry to LeFeuvre, he’d decided earlier.

“Whoa.” The man bared the few brown stumps residing in his mouth. “Yer couldn’t wait, could ye? Glad we offed those bores for ye?”

“The Marquess.”

“Easy, yer young cub. He’ll have ye bending over soon enuff.” The man made a lewd gesture with his hands, grinning and licking his lips. Stifling the urge to strike the man’s insolence from his leering face Mycroft drew himself a little higher and stared at him down his nose.

The man scowled and knocked on the door.

“No! Bugger off. What is it?” LeFeuvre’s educated voice rang through the door.

“It’s the young lord, Leighton,” the guard shouted back.

“Which one?” Mycroft felt his face blanch, grateful the guard’s back was turned to him. Surely LeFeuvre didn’t expect.... Sherlock was a child. Anger nearly choked him. His resolve hardened even further.

“The big one.”

“Why didn’t you say so straightaway, you fucking louse. Show him in.”

With a mock bow the man opened the door and Mycroft entered the chamber he’d last seen more than a decade ago. If today’s events had not numbed all his emotions the sight of his enemy lying in state in his mother’s bed with a couple of whores for his armrests was the last shove he needed for liberating torpor.

“Your Lordship.” Mycroft swept into a bow.

“Young Mycroft. How delightful to meet you at last.”

LeFeuvre sprang from the bed with unsettling agility, his handsome face twisted in a smirk. He wiped his hands on the none too clean muslin of his nightshirt. One of the trollops was dislodged by the unexpected movement and fell from the bed with a shriek. He kicked her in the belly repeatedly, grunting with the effort, simultaneously speaking to Mycroft, “I confess… I hadn’t expected you so soon.” He interrupted himself to shout at the prostitute, “There, you… stupid cow...” before redirecting his attention back to Mycroft, “In fact… I was sure you’d be… cowering behind the back of that stupid… servant but it seems… you’re made of sterner stuff. Saves me… the bother of dragging… you down here.”

The woman screamed and flung up her arms to defend herself. Ridges of dried blood caked under her nails. The image of Wiggins’ flayed skin flashed before Mycroft’s eyes. He told himself the woman’s hollering left him cold.

“I assumed… with Mr Talbot and Wiggins gone—”

The fiend beamed at him. “Fuck, aren’t you a clever little thing.” He kicked the whore again, between her legs this time. “Shut… your… trap… you dirty slut. Harry!”

The door opened and the guard stuck his ugly mug into the room. “Yeah.”

“Take her out. Take both of them out. I’m tired of their soppy cunts.”

The woman who had lingered in the bed rose and lifted one of Mummy’s morning gowns from the floor. It was nearly in shreds but the pattern of ruby violets was still vaguely visible beneath layers of dirt. The tart huffed and, carefully stepping over her luckless companion, swanned out of the room. The other one crawled on all fours. The door closed upon them.

“Come here, young Mycroft.” LeFeuvre patted the bed’s jumbled covers.

Eying the man warily Mycroft approached the bed. LeFeuvre’s arm snaked out and before Mycroft knew what happened he was face down on the bed with one arm wrenched behind his back. The crusted sheets’ fetor rushed up into his nostrils.

“No. Wait!” This wasn’t going as Mycroft had planned it all. He’d counted on LeFeuvre being sated and nearly insensate after a night and day of drunken carousal. The strong hand that pressed his head into the rancid bedding belonged to a different animal than that of his imaginings. A far more dangerous devil.

For an instant he was allowed to come up for air.

“You spoke, Master Mycroft.”

Repressing his shudder and the desire to scream Mycroft gasped. “You can’t… I don’t....”

LeFeuvre chuckled. “You didn’t, my lad. Lower those nice trousers for me.”

Refusal would be futile. In the half second he considered it his arm was wrested further out of its socket. Biting down on the pain and humiliation the trembling fingers of his free hand tussled with the buttons of his braces and his fly. Handicapped by the pressure on his torso and LeFeuvre’s proximity he managed to wrestle the fabric of trousers and underwear over his hips.

LeFeuvre inserted his knee to push the clothes down Mycroft’s legs until they pooled round Mycroft’s ankles. He kicked Mycroft’s legs apart as far as the trousers allowed him.

Tears erupted in Mycroft’s eyes at the searing red-hot pain that ripped him apart. He concentrated on keeping his dignity; he wouldn’t grant the brute the pleasure of crying out.
Flashes of Mummy’s face, Sherlock’s, Mr Talbot’s sustained him for the minutes his ordeal lasted, together with the wild hope that once LeFeuvre was satiated he’d let his guard down long enough for Mycroft to strike at him.

Triste est omne animal post coitum, praeter mulierem gallumque. With each thrust the cool bronze of the knife’s heft slithered past Mycroft’s heart, whispering its promise of revenge.

True to the philosopher’s observation Le Feuvre grunted and collapsed over Mycroft; a disturbingly heavy weight.

“Easy now,” he muttered in a drowsy voice when Mycroft tried to wriggle out from under him. There was the discomfort of his limp penis sliding out of Mycroft’s body. However, it allowed Mycroft to squirm free. The same instant he felt for the knife, sprang the lock.

Their anatomical studies paid off at least. It was over all too quick; the air gurgling out of the slashed windpipe providing an appropriate background noise to the blood spurting from the severed artery. Warm jets sprayed Mycroft’s face, his torso, painting them a deep crimson. He licked the blood from his lips, savouring the irony tang. He caught the last gush in his cupped hands and baptised his head with the liquid.

Et excommunicatum et anathematizatum esse decernimus.

From now on he’d forsake the world as the world had forsaken them.

After swiping with a cloth at the slush dribbling out of his body and reordering his clothes he dashed to open the servant’s door and admit Sherlock and Billy to the room.

“What took you so long?” Sherlock scowled, while Billy gasped, his eyes widening at Mycroft’s appearance. “Is he dead?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” The morning’s sniffling child had shape shifted into a fierce little demon over the course of the day. “Good thinking to cover yourself with blood, Mycroft. You’ll scare them to death.”

Gesturing for Billy to come closer and tip his head he ran his hand through the puddle of blood on the oaken floor and smeared it over Billy’s face as well as his own. Billy cottoned on to the idea and aided him.

When they bore a closer resemblance to a trio of infernal ghouls than actual human beings, Mycroft checked the pistols and rapiers Billy and Sherlock had collected from the armoury room while Mycroft had been entertaining LeFeuvre. “Right,” he said. “Let’s go. And remember, we stay together at all times.”

Howling, they dashed into the corridor. Mycroft ran his rapier through the surprised guard while Billy finished off the still naked whore he’d been ‘amusing’ himself with. Then they went back to collect LeFeuvre’s corpse. Billy dragged the cadaver along the hallway with Mycroft and Sherlock covering for him. Together they swung it over the balustrade of the landing that ran around the great hall; their declaration of war. The skull smashed into the black and white marble tiling with an audible thud.

The plan had been a good one after all. Their leader dead the posse lost what little sense it had, with most of them still inert from drink to begin with. Sherlock barraged brutally, his blade soon reddened to the hilt. They chased the few who’d managed to stumble outside through the park.

Mycroft found the slut who’d appropriated Mummy’s dress hiding in the stables. She lifted her clasped hands, begging him for mercy.

***

Mishaps occurred all too often on a ship. Especially when the seas collaborated and the boat rocked violently as its stern ploughed through tempestuous waves. A head could crash against a railing, then as the boat scaled the next roller, the larynx be crushed. Unfortunately, on a moonless night no one noticed when a poor wretch lost his footing and fell over the railing. The sound of the splash as his body hit the water was lost to the roaring storm, his waving arms soon tugged down by the currents forever milling around the bottomless ocean.

***

The man Mycroft had once addressed as Father was looming over LeFeuvre’s lifeless form, bottle in hand.

“What’s this?” he assaulted Mycroft, seemingly unperturbed by their savage visages. “What are you doing in my house?” Then he caught sight of Sherlock and fell to his knees reaching out for Sherlock’s bloodied hand from which the dripping rapier dangled.

“Violet, darling,” he cried. “At last. Oh Violet, dearest, my heart, what took you so long? But you look a fright. Molly must run you a hot bath at once.”

“What a fool,” scoffed Sherlock. “Mistaking people for flowers.”

“Oh yes, a great fool,” Mycroft concurred. His arm had never been steadier. The bottle clattered on the floor and rolled off. Billy held Mycroft as they watched the man’s dying throes. It wasn’t necessary; really, for Mycroft would have felt a deeper anguish if he’d inadvertently hurt a sparrow. However, it was kindly meant. Mycroft could appreciate that.

***

Unsurprisingly, Victor was distraught upon learning of William’s disappearance.

“But who’s to look after my collars now?” he wailed, darting to the door of Sherlock’s cabin before Mycroft could stop him to throw it open wide and dramatically announce his ungrateful servant’s departure.

“Oh darling, how dreadful, where can he have run off to?” Sherlock fed the stupid boy between two sprees of very convincing vomiting.

“I don’t know!” Victor’s hands were in his pretty hair, pulling it in despair. “He’s nowhere to be found. The whole crew is out searching for him.”

“Seedy little ingrate,” grumbled Sherlock. “Please leave, Victor. I feel even worse at the idea of you seeing me like this.”

“Poor darling.”

At Victor nearing the bed Sherlock paled and draped a fawning hand over his brow. “Please,” he pouted.

Mycroft was already levering the boy out of the small space. “Let’s find the captain and arrange for a servant while the search for William continues, Victor.”

“Oh, all right then.” Victor Trevor cast a last lingering look on Sherlock’s prone form but his devoted lover had already closed his eyes again and lay groaning in misery.