" Ex nihilo nihil fit. "

Somehow, James knew almost instantly what books she had found; clearly very old but preserved with the utmost care, bound in soft leather and sealed with ribbons, containing that dear, dearest of penmanship… With a wry smile, he gently picked up one of them from the table, marked as it was with ‘The Case of the Hound of the Baskervilles’, taking a seat opposite his little daughter as he pondered how best to answer her innocent question. “Sometimes it is jealousy,” James began, softly and honestly though choosing his words carefully, “sometimes it is anger. Sometimes hatred, sometimes merely evil. It is the darkest impulse present in human nature, my Emily, to destroy the life of another.”  Sometimes, in very rare cases, James knew that it was none of those things; instead the work of another creature using ones’ hands as its own weapon, using ones’ heart as its own home, and twisting, always twisting, until blue eyes sparked with unspeakable violence and a knife was reddened with blood.  John, however, was the exception, his previous affliction neither of his choosing nor one which he could help. Usually, the most terrible and appalling monsters could be found merely in the hearts of men, and there was no reason, and no excuse, merely the heartwrenching human toll left in their wake upon the rising of another grim morning’s sun.  To that end, he would stand stalwart against this darkness. He would fight it, such as he might be able, until the streets of London were safe and all of the true monsters in the world might fear the name of Sherlock Holmes. “I see that you have located John’s books, the records of the cases we investigated together. Do you have any other questions, darling?”

His answer makes sense, she supposes. Most things her father says make sense so it stands to reason that this does as well, though she cannot imagine ever being angry enough or jealous enough to hurt someone. 

And evil? She had always thought that was simply in those silly faerie tales, but… But her father uses it as a reason. So then it follows that it must exist, yes? What is it then? Not goblins and stepmothers and Bogeymen, surely. Then what?

But her father asks her if she has other questions and that is not the most pressing among them. No. The question she really wants to ask is an entirely different one.

“Why are there not more?” she questions, big brown eyes looking up at her father in confusion before she stands from the floor and walks over to stand where the books are stacked, tiny fingers touching numbers on the spines.

onlyxthexchosen:

Was there not an element of choice? Was there not always an element of choice? And if there was not, what then did that make Victor Frankenstein, who created life only to beget death upon death? It was his turn to smile sadly. He shook his head.

“How remarkably little you think of yourself,” Victor marveled. “And of me. Don’t tell me I know nothing of living an eternity and carrying around excess guilt. You are not what others think of you, nor are you the creature that should be held responsible for the actions it coerced you into. You at least are blameless in that regard - nothing more than a vessel for these evil acts and nothing less than a good man when ridded of this monstrosity.”

“ ‘When’ ? ” he repeats, what might be a ghost of a laugh escaping past scarred and twisted lips. “Do you assume that it can be removed again? That it is not, at this point, inextricably joined to me? That the very darkest part of my being and its own are not one and the same?”

“That through some alchemy most foul, the ruination of my soul is complete. Not gold but rot, the culmination of so many years and attempts… No… I fear it is too late and the Creature has consumed what light once existed, if ever it did exist at all. Helen believes that it was in my nature ere this curse seized me within its vile grasp…”

“Hullo, Emily!” Oh, it just WOULD have been Tabby who had called her over and therefore thoroughly blown her cover. “How are you? Are you doing anything for Valentine’s Day?” Oh yes, it was one of Tabitha Clarke’s favourite holidays. Not because she was in a relationship with anybody, but instead because there would be discounted chocolate and wine in all of the stores on the 15th. That girl had her priorities most definitely in the right place.

Now, Chris had become aware of her presence in the office, and, to his colleagues’ glee (and their many whistles and laughter), he made his way over to see Emily himself. “Hey. Uhm – I hope you’re not too embarrassed by the attention. They can’t seem to mind their own business.” @onlyxthexchosen

“I––…” Wide, brown eyes dart between the young Clarke and Christopher standing before her.

Oh how stupid of her! To come here! To think she might get away unnoticed! If she had been more certain of being able to catch him with his shift the way it had ended up, she never would have attempted this foolishness! 

Yet she had! And now! Here she stands! In the middle of the office! Under the attention––and whistles and laughter and scrutiny––of the entire place! For all for them to further laugh and mock her and have new commentaries to whisper to one another the next time they think that she cannot hear them.

And that is just her own discomfort! No doubt she had brought down such ridicule and teasing upon her poor darling Christopher as would take weeks––if not months!––to live down!

She hardly seems to process his question amidst the cacophony and the burning of her face and the rush of thoughts and her emotions and the embarrassment and how her heart seems to thud thud thud both at this humiliation and at the sight of him and at the weight of the envelope in her hands and–– 

For only the span of a breath longer does she stare, wide-eyed and mouth slightly agape and then––

“I– I’m sorry. I have to go.”

––with no more than that, she turns and beats a hasty retreat from the room and out into the blessedly empty hall beyond.

At last forcing air back into her lungs, she stops and leans against the paneled wall, trying to collect herself. The closer she gets to regaining some semblance of calm, the more convinced she is that she should simply walk back out of the station and back home now to avoid any further embarrassment. 

Declan did take a moment to glance up from his paperwork – he was, after all, currently shoulder-deep in it – but as soon as he registered Aleulan’s question, a bright (and very tender) smile formed on his tired face, and he stood at once. “There is nothing that I would want more in the world.” Paperwork forgotten, he strode over to her and pressed a soft, sweet kiss to her cheek. “Shall we go for dinner somewhere? I happen to know a wonderful Italian restaurant in Piccadilly…” @onlyxthexchosen

How quickly her uncertainty melts away! how bright her smile turns! with little more than the lovely gesture from him, with the brief yet infinitely sweet contact. Still she cannot fathom how fortunate she is to have met him, to have become his friend, and now to have embarked upon this new adventure with him.

“What is this place like? Is it busy? Well, I suppose it would be today? Should I glamor? There must be quite a few Normals there and––” She stops herself, as usual, a soft laugh escaping her as she looks at him, one pale, soft hand coming up to brush his cheek.

“They’re new,” Victor said in a pinched way as he looked at the small child in his living room. If he had to guess, Elizabeth had replaced the silver silverware for pewter when she noticed he was digging up his old alchemical texts. “Am I meant to understand my wife has volunteered us to watch your friend’s child for the evening, then, Mr. Druitt? Did she inform you or the girl’s parent that our home is hardly childproof?”

Elizabeth shot Victor a look. Fine time to pretend to care for another’s well-being, least of all a child’s!

“Emily will be fine. Please, ignore Victor. He’s working towards his doctorate and I fear he brings the occasional tool or two home - if he would kindly put his school work away, I’m certain Emily is in no more danger here than she would be at home. We will take excellent care of her, Mr. Druitt.”

“Won’t we, darling?”

“I’ll see to it.” Victor’s teeth ground against one another. He took one more look at Emily before departing the room, “Clever girl, that one. We’ll have to keep an eye on her.”

He descended to the basement.

Elizabeth looked back at Mr. Druitt and Emily and smiled wearily. 

“I apologize for my husband. He’s not accustomed to children. I did tell him we would be babysitting. He’ll come around before you return, Mr. Druitt. Victor has a mercurial sort of mood in that sense. In the meantime, Emily… you and I will just have to have fun without him.”

John watches Mr. Henry depart, eyes narrowed not in dislike or anger but scrutiny. How very much the younger man reminds him of a certain other mercurial and anti-social scientist that he knows.

However, despite the… less than warm welcome, Emily seems entirely unfazed, even staring after Mr. Henry in curiosity for a moment before turning her attention back to Mrs. Henry. 

“I brought books,” she replies, no doubt explaining her idea of fun. Or, at least, what ‘fun’ she is permitted to have without very strict supervision from a RESPONSIBLE adult. That is not her Uncle Nikola.

“Or, rather, were she to be more accurate, I brought the books for her,” John wryly adds, at that very moment removing quite a weighted satchel from his shoulder and setting it down beside the little girl.

She nods, almost impatiently at the correction, one hand closing around the strap.

“Yes, yes. Thank you,” she says, already opening the bag to withdraw a worn book perhaps rather surprisingly––at least, had she been a normal child––with the title Twenty-Thousand Leagues Under the Sea.

Cracking open the cover, she dismissively waves without even looking up from the pages. “You may go now.”

The amused little grin grows, one brow raising.

“Are we forgetting something, Miss Emily?” he questions, causing her to pause in her perusal of Verne’s rather wordy introduction––when is the man not verbose?––to look at John in confusion.

“Are we?”

He says nothing, merely continues to stare at her for a moment, waiting, but at last what she has forgotten seems to occur to her. Closing the book, she sets it on the satchel and expectantly looks up at him. Grin at last becoming a smile, he kneels, wrapping his arms around her in turn as soon as she hugs him. 

Pulling away, his hands loosely rest on her shoulders, bowing his head to better attempt to meet her gaze. 

“Now. Remember what your father told you. Be certain to behave for Mrs. Henry. Do not cause her any trouble and follow her directions to the letter, just as you would at school. This is her home. Also bear in mind the limitations and rules placed upon you when you are at our home. You still may not use acids, knives, finger-dusting kits, lock-picks, or any other item on the list, am I clear?”

“Yes, sir,” she says with a rather long-suffering sigh.

A gentle kiss pressed to the top of her head, he stands to his feet once more and looks to Mrs. Henry. 

“Thank you once again for keeping her. We will return to retrieve her as soon as we are able. Here is our contact information if you require something of us.”

Handing a small card to her, he nods, pats Emily’s shoulder once more, and then leaves, casually walking along down the sidewalk, something that apparently strikes the young girl as out of the ordinary.

Elizabeth leaned forward in her seat and clasped her hands before her upon the table. There was no mistaking the way her eyes lit up with curiosity - whether John was about to tell her a tall tale or terrible truth didn’t matter. He had her fullest attention.

“Go on,” she said softly, invitingly. “I’ve always loved to hear a good story.”

He notes her reaction, wonders somewhere in the back of his mind how far he will reach in his tale before she leaps to her feet and stumbles away from where she sits, fear and revulsion in her eyes? How long before she gapes, wide-eyed and uncomprehending until the terrible understanding dawns… and with it utter horror, the scramble to put as much distance between herself and a blood-thirsty monster… as James had all those years ago?

And if any were to know a monster… would it not be this woman?

Yet, it is all the more reason that he owes her this history, this greater understanding of those with whom she surrounds herself, and he respects her too much to allow her to remain in blissful ignorance.

“Perhaps, first, I should correct myself. It was not a single murder most foul.… but rather, it was several heinous murders that brought an entire city––if not an entire nation––to its knees and sent its people scurrying like hunted prey into their homes as the city entered the clutches of the night…”

He trails off then, his gaze remaining to the floor and he says nothing for several moments in an effort to collect himself… but at last his quiet voice resumes the painful telling of his tale.

“But that is neither how the story ended nor how it began… It began with a young man who enjoyed observing nature and the people around him. One who preferred pretty words to concrete numbers, and wished nothing more than to write poetry… His parents disapproved, of course, as they would in such times as they were…”

“They urged and pushed and prodded and begged him to pursue a more profitable and respectable profession, and finally he relented and, as a dutiful son, followed their wishes and enrolled at Oxford University.”

A wry smile, a self-deprecating little laugh.

“In retrospect, he owes them a great deal, because no matter what else came of it––no matter what tragedy and sorrow and torment so doggedly chased him in the years that followed–– for a time he was happy beyond measure, beyond wish or expectation.”

But perhaps it had only been a matter of time. How well he has learned from his experience that one can only ride the high for so long before the next low…

“He gained the dearest friend that ever anyone could claim. Someone who understood his love of words and of beauty and of observation, and even encouraged it, cultivated it, allowed it to further grow and develop…”

“And then, he was met with yet another blessing in the beautiful form of a brilliant young woman with whom he intended to share his heart and his home, for the rest of their lives… Of course, he did not realize then that all good things must end… Like Icarus, he flew too close to the sun and when the wax melted his beautiful wings, there was nothing left but the descent…”

At last, he raises his gaze to meet hers once more, his expression grim, his eyes dull and tired. They are the eyes of one who has seen and suffered far more than any man should ever need bear upon his shoulder, upon his soul…

Victor recognizes the design as Tesla’s and delights in disabling the device. He delights less in the message. But when Tesla returns to his office, he will find a leather bound journal and a poem in return:

Shall I compare thee to the poor gadfly? Thou art more annoying and as useless. My work ensures that no more man may die; Yours, copi’d by others with more finesse. Your writing lacks originality; Your insults have grown stale o’er the years. Of written verse, it’s clear who shows mast’ry I hope this poem does not cause you tears, For I am surely not the first - you must admit - To upstage you in every single way. When will you learn it is better to quit, Than to play the fool in our game each day? But tell me, beloved Tesla, how does it feel To be bested by the Promethean ideal?

When Nikola had returned to his office, he had picked up the letter and the notebook with curiosity and read its contents, a derisive yet amused snort escaping him as he takes up a pen and begins to scribble his response.

Once completed, he journeys once more to Victor's office, fixes the note again to the door––this time with a more complicated device––knocks, and then sprints away down the hall and around the corner.

' You mock me for my failings and for my lack of fame. Well, at least I’ve never cause to fear my own name. ( But tell me, old friend, can you truly say the same? )

You work birthed a Creature, a success! … in failure In crazed attempts to stop death, THIS was your savior ( Pssst! but It did your reputation no favor. )

How can you call yourself ANY sort of ideal? You’re an overzealous pup who never learned to heel. ( And, let’s be honest: no one even thinks you’re real. )

Graveyards and monsters! lots of lightning and thunder! You’re less a great scientist –– more a great blunder. ( Need I say more to tear delusions asunder? )

My theories were full light-years ahead of their time! Today the masses think Edison’s theft a crime! ( Now tell me, with that salt, would you like some lime? )

____

In case you missed it, ‘dear Victor’, I’m offering you a Margarita Plus. ( The ‘Plus’ meaning certain additions that counteract certain problems we have with regular alcohol. )

–– Tesla