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Post by Sherlock Holmes on Oct 21, 2008 14:54:40 GMT -5
Something gave way suddenly inside him. That dead place, that Destler had so aptly described. Perhaps he had been eroding from within, and this was merely the last flake to fall away. Either way, Holmes stared at her, raw and unguarded and tired, so tired, of hating himself and her and everything that had come between them.
"Hurt me," he agreed, his voice hoarse. "Hurt me, Irene."
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Post by Irene on Oct 21, 2008 21:30:07 GMT -5
*Realizing what he meant, she shook her head*
"No, please don't make me do that..."
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Post by Sherlock Holmes on Oct 22, 2008 10:08:55 GMT -5
He shook his head, possessed by the correctness of this impulse. Holmes moved forward inexorably, taking Irene's shoulder's in his hands.
"You'll stop before you kill me," he assured her calmly, though he honestly didn't care whether she did at this point. "And then you won't hurt anyone else."
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Post by Irene on Oct 22, 2008 11:19:21 GMT -5
*Her eyes focused on his neck, and her voice quivered*
"I've broken you..."
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Post by Sherlock Holmes on Oct 22, 2008 11:23:15 GMT -5
Holmes flashed back on Destler's words, realizing their truth long before he'd even come to Paris. He was empty inside. Rotten. He had not lived.
"I was broken before you found me," he said bitterly. "You're the only reason I'm still here. You are all that gives me life. Take what you need from mine."
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Post by Irene on Oct 22, 2008 13:25:37 GMT -5
*Tentatively, Irene opened the buttond on his shirt, pulling away the collar. She leaned down, and with a movement that was more instinct than plan, drove her fangs into his neck. For a moment, she was conscious of feeling his pulse, and then all thought vanished.*
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Post by Sherlock Holmes on Oct 22, 2008 13:38:48 GMT -5
Holmes was, it must be said, quite nearly insane at this point. It did not show in the conventional manner. Outwardly he was still stoic, though no less eccentric than usual. He had, for several months, been tired and drawn. He had had to force down his attraction to Irene, for when it surfaced it had Destler's fingers on it. He could not think of their connection without the specter of that night coming between them. Yet his guilt, combined with his devotion to what he saw as his duty, had kept him at her side, repressing his own pain in an effort to be what she needed.
But he didn't know what that was.
Even now, her teeth plunged deep in his neck, he knew both that this was a terrible idea and that he did not want to be anywhere else. He had no way of knowing if this would tip her entirely to the other side or, as he'd told her, assuage her thirst so that she would not hurt someone else. He had no way of knowing if she would stop before it was too late. But he arched against her, his body rebelling and knowing only that he deserved this and that he craved her touch, however painful. Gasping in mingled pain and long-repressed lust, his arms clamped around her and held her close.
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Post by Irene on Oct 22, 2008 14:11:57 GMT -5
*Eventually, what was left of Irene's conscious mind forced her to pull away. It was only then that what she had done fully sank in on her, and she turned from him, silently crying*
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Post by Sherlock Holmes on Oct 22, 2008 14:20:24 GMT -5
Weakened now by the blood she'd taken, Holmes wavered on his feet without her support, falling to his knees as he grasped at her with one hand. He felt blood trickle from the wound on his neck, but made no effort to stem it.
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Post by Irene on Oct 22, 2008 17:59:17 GMT -5
*Irene reached down and offered her hand to him. She had calmed down, and seemed steadier than before*
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Post by Sherlock Holmes on Oct 22, 2008 18:03:17 GMT -5
Holmes grasped it, though without his normal strength, and he did not rise. His heart was pounding from the contact with her after so long, but enough of him remained for him to raise his eyes to scan her face.
"Are you... how do you feel?" he gasped, hoping against hope he had not made things worse. Even if he had deserved it.
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Post by Irene on Oct 22, 2008 18:51:16 GMT -5
*How did she feel? Physically, it was wonderful, the first time since she'd been turned that she hadn't felt a deep gnawing inside her. And she felt her appetite whetted, and only wanted him more.
But emotionally, it was a nightmare. How could she have let herself do this?*
"I..."
*What could she say? Unable to stop herself, she kissed him for the first time since that horrible night*
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Post by Sherlock Holmes on Oct 22, 2008 20:11:38 GMT -5
Holmes stiffened, even in his weakened state. His brain felt feverish and wild, his body responding despite the warning bells going off in his mind. Images flickered before his closed eyes that he did not want and yet which did not lessen the bliss of being close to her again.
If he could just let go, not think, just feel something other than this gnawing guilty emptiness. He kissed her back, hating himself yet unable to tear himself away.
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Post by Irene on Oct 22, 2008 21:13:53 GMT -5
"I'm sorry", *she whispered,* "I am so sorry." *But the hunger that had driven her to feed was in her veins, and she wanted him now, in blood and in body. Was this how men like Dracula felt, unable to resist their carnal urges? Did the passage of time make them forget they'd ever been otherwise?
She felt a bit sick as she held him, remembering the feel of 'his' hands as they had pinned her to the floor. But she couldn't stop.*
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Post by Sherlock Holmes on Oct 23, 2008 10:28:47 GMT -5
Holmes' mind, too, was suffused with the memories of that night and the way he could still feel the arousal necessary for Destler's act yet so abhorrent to himself. He had, more or less, pretended certain parts of him, as well as certain desires, no longer existed. Out of self-preservation. But he couldn't forget now, with her hands on him, her breath hot in his ear. He'd been weakened, in more ways than one, and now the layering of memory did nothing to assuage the wanting inside him.
His face would always been the face of her rapist. His hands. He had betrayed her as thoroughly as a man could. How had she stood him all this time? Why was he still here? What had he hoped to accomplish?
"I'm sorry too," he said haltingly. But he couldn't tell her to stop.
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