Danger's Thrill
Sep. 24th, 2020 08:07 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
madimpossibledreamerWell, they're back and one's already sneezing. I'd like to hope (and wouldn't say this in any other circumstances) that it has to do with outdoor hiking when it seems like most of the world is on fire right now. (That being said, the fires are...bad. It's just that pandemic is also bad.)
Stay safe out there!
Assassin's Creed Syndicate/Sherlock Holmes AU
Summary: Dr. John Watson visits a certain fight club, places a bet, and can't hide an interest in a certain roguish gentleman...
Word Count: 2211
Rating: Teen
Warning: Internalized/period-typical homophobia, also gambling and Watson's PTSD
Pairing: Jacob/John
Stay safe out there!
Research says that towels existed, just…really flat towels. Still, I headcanon that Jacob takes good care of his clothes, you know, when he’s not getting blood all over them, because he’s the type to take a childish glee from acting as a gentleman knowing what he does about his nightly and daily activities.
(admittedly, this is slightly inspired by a RDJ!holmes fic on Ao3. That one is slightly higher in rating, though…)
This is not canon like Outside the Bounds of Society (ostensibly) is, but you can still kind of read it as a follow-up to that one, and also probably The Forbidden.
Assassin's Creed Syndicate/Sherlock Holmes AU
Summary: Dr. John Watson visits a certain fight club, places a bet, and can't hide an interest in a certain roguish gentleman...
Word Count: 2211
Rating: Teen
Warning: Internalized/period-typical homophobia, also gambling and Watson's PTSD
Pairing: Jacob/John
After that, Watson’s gambling grows to a fervor, burning fever-bright. He doesn’t really think of himself as a doctor anymore, which feels like the one thing that was keeping his tenuous hold on reality, on humanity. Wolf he might be, but he’d been a sheep-hound too, taking care of his self-imposed flock. Now that, too, is merely a façade, worn to prevent the panic and fear, ever as he burns higher and higher in a pyre of his own making.
His favorite bookie, chosen because the man never tries to cheat him in ways other than those permitted by the very fabric of gambling, because the man is honest in his own way and utterly strange in his circus affectations, suggests he move on to tougher prizes—his fight clubs.
“You’ll not want for entertainment, and you might even have a chance at winning.” A flash of a smile, quicksilver and oh his heart aches at the echo, strange and unknowable like his failing grip on the world, “I’ll wager you know a thing or two about spotting a fighter—and who knows? If it ever gets too boring watching, you can always step into the ring yourself.”
He smiles, wolfish, at the play on words, listens to the directions carefully, and finds himself strolling down to Whitechapel one foggy evening, the only sound echoing through the fog the click of his cane.
If he’d been himself, he would’ve worried about being jumped, if only because of the harm he might do to others, but part of him is actually excited about the prospect, and it’s then he contemplates the idea that something might have irrevocably broken during the war, something a little less visible than his limp or shoulder.
He turns down an alley, under some dirty archways, and then—there it is.
Lanterns, a terribly made short fence, alcohol, two bare-chested brawlers, slugging it out, a crowd, cheering from the edges—Robert, smiling happily to see him, though the welcome might be more for his money than for himself. It’s dark and dirty and for one long moment he thinks he’s never seen a more beautiful sight. Robert was right; he’d been wasted at the races, dice, and his other diversions. He belonged here.
And then he sees something else and has to remind himself to breathe.
The intriguing ruffian at cause for his current moral spiral, cheerfully unbuttoning his undershirt. The woman from before already holds his jacket, vest, and tophat. The show of skin almost appears indecent, and he leans further on his cane, making his way to Robert as well as he can while keeping the man—Jacob—in the corner of his sight.
“Is he planning to get in the ring?” he asks, nodding in the direction of a now-shirtless Jacob. He hasn’t removed the necklace, never mind the fact that rival fighters could tear it away or potentially use it to choke, and he’s opted for Japanese ink under his skin. For one wild moment, John wants to touch, to see if there’s any difference in texture. If it’s more sensitive.
“It seems I was right, m’lord,” Robert murmurs, taking his bet with clever, quick fingers. “He is indeed, and you’re lucky enough this is only his second time in the ring, so your bet’s like to pay more.”
“Why give yourself a higher likelihood of paying out?” It’s one of the things that’s bothering him the most.
The colorful bookie grins, every bit as cheerful and unrepentant as Jacob, who’s currently discussing something animatedly with the disapproving woman accompanying him, and shrugs. “It’s still only a chance, mind, but even men such as I have a conscience, and I’d prefer your continued presence rather than having driven an interesting man to the streets.”
Only the line about being interesting probably applies, but John appreciates it anyway.
The woman appears unfazed by the violence and half-nakedness everywhere. He’s grateful this is the sister he’d mentioned, that he hadn’t bothered to mention to the police upon his questioning, or he’d be concerned about her attachment.
He knows the infatuation is based on the fact that it’s only the last time he’d seen Jacob that he feels real and free and alive. He hadn’t been pretending, merely reacting, and if only for a brief while Dr. John Watson wasn’t merely a moniker adopted haphazardly but an actual name belonging to a man, however dangerous. He’s known of his own immoral tendencies since the War, where soldiers were permitted all sorts of latitudes, only his eye strayed more towards his fellow soldiers than the unwilling civilians of the towns. He can no more leave now, stop his foolish attraction, than he can speak to his mother and sister back in America openly and honestly about the monster he’s become. Instead, he settles back against the wall, the intoxication of the sights and sounds deeper than any of the poor-quality beers likely on hand.
A roar rises from the men and women watching as one man falls to the ground insensate, ending the round.
“Ladies, gentlemen, you’re in for a real treat this evening. First, our first time champion Jacob Frye is back for more. Second, his sister Evie Frye’s going to try her hand.”
That gets some excited, scandalized murmuring. John’s eyes merely narrow as he eyes the two. Well, that’s confirmation, at least, that the lady is his sister. She’s just finishing up wrapping her brother’s hands.
“Why don’t you just fight together?” a man yells, and Jacob smirks as he easily climbs into the ring.
“I don’t need my brother to make up for any perceived shortcomings, as much fun as it is fighting beside one another. Besides, we’ve a bet going ourselves.” Her voice is slightly deeper than your average woman’s, full of threat and confidence, but tone and words are entirely those of a lady’s. Interesting, the pair of them, the contrast between class and danger.
The rogue tips an invisible hat in his sister’s direction. “Couldn’t have said it any better myself, sister sweetest,” he calls. He ducks easily under a punch thrown his way, some poor fool hoping to get lucky as the rest of the combatants decide how to arrange themselves between the two fights. “Now, then, that wasn’t very nice,” he scolds, and moves into brutal motion—a fluid, violent show of strength that indicates he’s had experience with fighting, probably on the streets. One of the greatest weaknesses of the ones he’s fighting seems to be that they just can’t keep up. He doesn’t hesitate, deciding how to act next or hold back, waiting for the next move to gauge his opponent. He’s efficient, slightly flamboyant only insomuch as he’s showing off his propensity for violence. From the sound and look of things, he dislocates shoulders, breaks a few bones (mostly ribs), twists ankles, causes concussion… He takes a few hits himself, but barely lets them slow him down. As the number of opponents in the ring increases, he only seems to blossom further, kicking one, headbutting the next, throwing the one after that, then turning back to unleash a flurry of punches upon the first. John watches, rapt. He couldn’t have looked away if the place was on fire. It feels too short a time before Robert hops the fence, stepping around the bodies on the ground, and announces that Jacob Frye is again a champion. Jacob manages a victorious smirk as his arm is lifted skyward. He’s sweating, but barely seems winded. His gaze meets his sister’s, who seems fond and proud, and then, shockingly, he glances at John, who feels electricity race up his spine. The smirk widens. He lets his gaze linger for a moment or two before he heads over to his sister, taking the towel she offers him and wiping off the sweat before taking the hat first and flashily putting it on. His sister (Miss Evie Frye, John reminds himself) looks entirely unimpressed. He puts the undershirt, vest, and overcoat back on, just as efficient and quick. And then he serves the same hatrack service for his sister, who stops with an undershirt. He wraps her hands and mutters something at her that might very well be ‘have fun’. And then she moves into the ring.
Quietly, Watson moves to Robert to place another bet and returns to his spot.
Watson’s not entirely certain what he expected, sure that he expected more from the encounter than many of the others in the crowd did, and quite sure that he hadn’t expected this. She’s more likely to use her legs than her brother, which only makes sense—women’s legs, on average, are stronger than their arms, so it’s only using a natural advantage. She’s just as fluid in her movements and dodges than her brother, perhaps even slightly faster, and takes less hits. There’s something of the same fighting spirit, the same violence, but her brand of brutality is quieter, less flashy, more technical. The skill would almost go unnoticed if she wasn’t a woman.
“You know,” a voice states close to his ear, a voice that he recognizes immediately, “…I’m touched by your faith in my sister, but I admit jealousy you’ll win more off your bet on Evie than on me.”
John freezes. “I—what?” he stammers. He’d meant to form words; they just didn’t come.
“If you have your eye on Evie, please know to avoid heartbreak and possible other body parts breaking, she has her own mind and she’s already courting Greenie,” the ruffian continues, moving slightly further away, and Watson turns to see a profile that’s haunted waking and sleeping thoughts alike. This time, he’s on the other side of Jacob, better able to see the scar through his beard.
“I’m only here to place a bet,” he protests, voice sounding feeble and unconvincing even to his own ears. The scarred eyebrow rises as Jacob reads him easily, and he adds, “Do you think they’ll need a doctor, later?” indicating the fallen opponents with a sweep of his hand.
The man chuckles, the sound curling low in John’s belly. “Topping’s got his own doctor on retainer, never fear. Besides, I haven’t broken them that badly.” The insinuation is that he might have, if he wanted to, and Watson utterly believes that. He settles against the wall, still for the first time since John’s met him. It’s probably meant to convey the attitude of nonchalance, never mind the fact that the effort falls flat. It's not even the fault of his sister's garments still draped over an arm. “So, an American doctor with an illegal gun and a limp from a wound goes along with having his Hansom commandeered for a car chase with little more than a spent bullet and just happens to appear to place a bet at the fight club where the handsome man who’d taken his cab and his sister are fighting. An outsider might think that he’s developed an obsession with one or both of them.”
John shivers and adds another point to his list of reasons why he has quite possibly lost his mind: this Jacob saw him, all of him, and his tone is merely curious, not judging or disgusted. “Put that way, it sounds completely insane.”
“I don’t know, I find it rather flattering,” the man states quietly, barely audible above the rushing blood in John’s ears. “And I think I’ve found another clue in our little penny dreadful.”
“Oh? Enlighten me,” John mutters, quite shocked he’s managed to form words.
“You’ve barely even glanced at my twin since the moment I started speaking to you, and even when you have, you’re hardly aware of what you’re seeing.” Jacob leans back in closer, lips next to John’s ear, until he can feel the caress of Jacob’s breath and the body radiating warmth oh-so-very close to Watson’s own. “I mean it; I’m flattered. You’re a man after my own heart, Dr. John Watson. We’re both so very addicted to danger.” He can hear the smile in the man’s voice as he starts at the mention of his name. “Topping mentioned you, I asked around, you see. We could use a good doctor, if you’re interested. Think on it, and if you find it’s an offer you want to accept, just send word through Topping or come and find me.” He reaches out and grabs Watson’s hand, but rather than shaking it as the doctor expects (and the hand is warm, firm, and sure), he lifts it to his lips, placing a gentle, promising kiss on it like Watson is a woman and simply hasn’t noticed before returning the hand with a devilish smile.
John’s entire being is frozen in shock for a few seconds. Once he comes to himself, he glances around wildly, equally looking for Jacob and anyone else who might have witnessed the—
The kiss.
Nothing. All eyes are on the fight, as a roar goes up. It seems Evie has managed to dispatch all her opponents as well. Jacob is right back where he’d been, as if he’d never left. As if the whole thing had been a dream.
It takes a few minutes before Dr. John Watson dares move, having calmed down his whole being, rabbiting heartbeat, gasping breath, and all.
His favorite bookie, chosen because the man never tries to cheat him in ways other than those permitted by the very fabric of gambling, because the man is honest in his own way and utterly strange in his circus affectations, suggests he move on to tougher prizes—his fight clubs.
“You’ll not want for entertainment, and you might even have a chance at winning.” A flash of a smile, quicksilver and oh his heart aches at the echo, strange and unknowable like his failing grip on the world, “I’ll wager you know a thing or two about spotting a fighter—and who knows? If it ever gets too boring watching, you can always step into the ring yourself.”
He smiles, wolfish, at the play on words, listens to the directions carefully, and finds himself strolling down to Whitechapel one foggy evening, the only sound echoing through the fog the click of his cane.
If he’d been himself, he would’ve worried about being jumped, if only because of the harm he might do to others, but part of him is actually excited about the prospect, and it’s then he contemplates the idea that something might have irrevocably broken during the war, something a little less visible than his limp or shoulder.
He turns down an alley, under some dirty archways, and then—there it is.
Lanterns, a terribly made short fence, alcohol, two bare-chested brawlers, slugging it out, a crowd, cheering from the edges—Robert, smiling happily to see him, though the welcome might be more for his money than for himself. It’s dark and dirty and for one long moment he thinks he’s never seen a more beautiful sight. Robert was right; he’d been wasted at the races, dice, and his other diversions. He belonged here.
And then he sees something else and has to remind himself to breathe.
The intriguing ruffian at cause for his current moral spiral, cheerfully unbuttoning his undershirt. The woman from before already holds his jacket, vest, and tophat. The show of skin almost appears indecent, and he leans further on his cane, making his way to Robert as well as he can while keeping the man—Jacob—in the corner of his sight.
“Is he planning to get in the ring?” he asks, nodding in the direction of a now-shirtless Jacob. He hasn’t removed the necklace, never mind the fact that rival fighters could tear it away or potentially use it to choke, and he’s opted for Japanese ink under his skin. For one wild moment, John wants to touch, to see if there’s any difference in texture. If it’s more sensitive.
“It seems I was right, m’lord,” Robert murmurs, taking his bet with clever, quick fingers. “He is indeed, and you’re lucky enough this is only his second time in the ring, so your bet’s like to pay more.”
“Why give yourself a higher likelihood of paying out?” It’s one of the things that’s bothering him the most.
The colorful bookie grins, every bit as cheerful and unrepentant as Jacob, who’s currently discussing something animatedly with the disapproving woman accompanying him, and shrugs. “It’s still only a chance, mind, but even men such as I have a conscience, and I’d prefer your continued presence rather than having driven an interesting man to the streets.”
Only the line about being interesting probably applies, but John appreciates it anyway.
The woman appears unfazed by the violence and half-nakedness everywhere. He’s grateful this is the sister he’d mentioned, that he hadn’t bothered to mention to the police upon his questioning, or he’d be concerned about her attachment.
He knows the infatuation is based on the fact that it’s only the last time he’d seen Jacob that he feels real and free and alive. He hadn’t been pretending, merely reacting, and if only for a brief while Dr. John Watson wasn’t merely a moniker adopted haphazardly but an actual name belonging to a man, however dangerous. He’s known of his own immoral tendencies since the War, where soldiers were permitted all sorts of latitudes, only his eye strayed more towards his fellow soldiers than the unwilling civilians of the towns. He can no more leave now, stop his foolish attraction, than he can speak to his mother and sister back in America openly and honestly about the monster he’s become. Instead, he settles back against the wall, the intoxication of the sights and sounds deeper than any of the poor-quality beers likely on hand.
A roar rises from the men and women watching as one man falls to the ground insensate, ending the round.
“Ladies, gentlemen, you’re in for a real treat this evening. First, our first time champion Jacob Frye is back for more. Second, his sister Evie Frye’s going to try her hand.”
That gets some excited, scandalized murmuring. John’s eyes merely narrow as he eyes the two. Well, that’s confirmation, at least, that the lady is his sister. She’s just finishing up wrapping her brother’s hands.
“Why don’t you just fight together?” a man yells, and Jacob smirks as he easily climbs into the ring.
“I don’t need my brother to make up for any perceived shortcomings, as much fun as it is fighting beside one another. Besides, we’ve a bet going ourselves.” Her voice is slightly deeper than your average woman’s, full of threat and confidence, but tone and words are entirely those of a lady’s. Interesting, the pair of them, the contrast between class and danger.
The rogue tips an invisible hat in his sister’s direction. “Couldn’t have said it any better myself, sister sweetest,” he calls. He ducks easily under a punch thrown his way, some poor fool hoping to get lucky as the rest of the combatants decide how to arrange themselves between the two fights. “Now, then, that wasn’t very nice,” he scolds, and moves into brutal motion—a fluid, violent show of strength that indicates he’s had experience with fighting, probably on the streets. One of the greatest weaknesses of the ones he’s fighting seems to be that they just can’t keep up. He doesn’t hesitate, deciding how to act next or hold back, waiting for the next move to gauge his opponent. He’s efficient, slightly flamboyant only insomuch as he’s showing off his propensity for violence. From the sound and look of things, he dislocates shoulders, breaks a few bones (mostly ribs), twists ankles, causes concussion… He takes a few hits himself, but barely lets them slow him down. As the number of opponents in the ring increases, he only seems to blossom further, kicking one, headbutting the next, throwing the one after that, then turning back to unleash a flurry of punches upon the first. John watches, rapt. He couldn’t have looked away if the place was on fire. It feels too short a time before Robert hops the fence, stepping around the bodies on the ground, and announces that Jacob Frye is again a champion. Jacob manages a victorious smirk as his arm is lifted skyward. He’s sweating, but barely seems winded. His gaze meets his sister’s, who seems fond and proud, and then, shockingly, he glances at John, who feels electricity race up his spine. The smirk widens. He lets his gaze linger for a moment or two before he heads over to his sister, taking the towel she offers him and wiping off the sweat before taking the hat first and flashily putting it on. His sister (Miss Evie Frye, John reminds himself) looks entirely unimpressed. He puts the undershirt, vest, and overcoat back on, just as efficient and quick. And then he serves the same hatrack service for his sister, who stops with an undershirt. He wraps her hands and mutters something at her that might very well be ‘have fun’. And then she moves into the ring.
Quietly, Watson moves to Robert to place another bet and returns to his spot.
Watson’s not entirely certain what he expected, sure that he expected more from the encounter than many of the others in the crowd did, and quite sure that he hadn’t expected this. She’s more likely to use her legs than her brother, which only makes sense—women’s legs, on average, are stronger than their arms, so it’s only using a natural advantage. She’s just as fluid in her movements and dodges than her brother, perhaps even slightly faster, and takes less hits. There’s something of the same fighting spirit, the same violence, but her brand of brutality is quieter, less flashy, more technical. The skill would almost go unnoticed if she wasn’t a woman.
“You know,” a voice states close to his ear, a voice that he recognizes immediately, “…I’m touched by your faith in my sister, but I admit jealousy you’ll win more off your bet on Evie than on me.”
John freezes. “I—what?” he stammers. He’d meant to form words; they just didn’t come.
“If you have your eye on Evie, please know to avoid heartbreak and possible other body parts breaking, she has her own mind and she’s already courting Greenie,” the ruffian continues, moving slightly further away, and Watson turns to see a profile that’s haunted waking and sleeping thoughts alike. This time, he’s on the other side of Jacob, better able to see the scar through his beard.
“I’m only here to place a bet,” he protests, voice sounding feeble and unconvincing even to his own ears. The scarred eyebrow rises as Jacob reads him easily, and he adds, “Do you think they’ll need a doctor, later?” indicating the fallen opponents with a sweep of his hand.
The man chuckles, the sound curling low in John’s belly. “Topping’s got his own doctor on retainer, never fear. Besides, I haven’t broken them that badly.” The insinuation is that he might have, if he wanted to, and Watson utterly believes that. He settles against the wall, still for the first time since John’s met him. It’s probably meant to convey the attitude of nonchalance, never mind the fact that the effort falls flat. It's not even the fault of his sister's garments still draped over an arm. “So, an American doctor with an illegal gun and a limp from a wound goes along with having his Hansom commandeered for a car chase with little more than a spent bullet and just happens to appear to place a bet at the fight club where the handsome man who’d taken his cab and his sister are fighting. An outsider might think that he’s developed an obsession with one or both of them.”
John shivers and adds another point to his list of reasons why he has quite possibly lost his mind: this Jacob saw him, all of him, and his tone is merely curious, not judging or disgusted. “Put that way, it sounds completely insane.”
“I don’t know, I find it rather flattering,” the man states quietly, barely audible above the rushing blood in John’s ears. “And I think I’ve found another clue in our little penny dreadful.”
“Oh? Enlighten me,” John mutters, quite shocked he’s managed to form words.
“You’ve barely even glanced at my twin since the moment I started speaking to you, and even when you have, you’re hardly aware of what you’re seeing.” Jacob leans back in closer, lips next to John’s ear, until he can feel the caress of Jacob’s breath and the body radiating warmth oh-so-very close to Watson’s own. “I mean it; I’m flattered. You’re a man after my own heart, Dr. John Watson. We’re both so very addicted to danger.” He can hear the smile in the man’s voice as he starts at the mention of his name. “Topping mentioned you, I asked around, you see. We could use a good doctor, if you’re interested. Think on it, and if you find it’s an offer you want to accept, just send word through Topping or come and find me.” He reaches out and grabs Watson’s hand, but rather than shaking it as the doctor expects (and the hand is warm, firm, and sure), he lifts it to his lips, placing a gentle, promising kiss on it like Watson is a woman and simply hasn’t noticed before returning the hand with a devilish smile.
John’s entire being is frozen in shock for a few seconds. Once he comes to himself, he glances around wildly, equally looking for Jacob and anyone else who might have witnessed the—
The kiss.
Nothing. All eyes are on the fight, as a roar goes up. It seems Evie has managed to dispatch all her opponents as well. Jacob is right back where he’d been, as if he’d never left. As if the whole thing had been a dream.
It takes a few minutes before Dr. John Watson dares move, having calmed down his whole being, rabbiting heartbeat, gasping breath, and all.
