clean your room. clean space, uncluttered space, space that doesn’t have miasma clinging to it can work wonders. clean the dishes. sweep. take out the trash. peel the clothes off the floor and wash them, and then actually fold/hang them. take a long shower. scrub behind your knees. brush your teeth. (this can be utterly exhausting, but try to get it done in a day, if you can. the end result is worth it.)
pull out your notebook. it doesn’t need to be a new notebook, but preferably one that you don’t usually write in, or that you haven’t touched in a while. fuck moleskins. the yellow legal pad will work fine. sit in your room, or in the park, or in the library, and write a list. count clouds. describe all the colors that you see, and note patterns that arise. sketch the cracks in the walls. note the shape light makes when it enters a space. talk about what the air tastes like, smells like. what sounds are there? even the white nose, break that down: air planes, fans, cicadas, anything. remind yourself that you are sitting in the middle of a space brimming with detail. remind yourself that you are not in nothingness and emptiness. your world is fathomless. it has potential.
drink cold water and try to eat something that isn’t processed. it does not need to be fancy. buy yourself an apple with the change between your couch cushions. eat it outside. if you’re someone who walks, walk somewhere afterwards, just to stretch your legs. take your fucking meds. remember that its a good thing that you are inside your body. your body is a fantastic and endlessly intricate machine, and even though society has smacked a bunch of poisonous ideas on it, that doesn’t change its inherent worth and splendor. take care of it.
read a novel. underline your favorite lines, and write phrases that twist your heart inside your chest on the back of your hand with an ink pen. read a novel like it’s poetry. read poetry, something decadent but unpretentious. watch a movie you haven’t seen before. if there are free art galleries near you, walk through one. take your time. let yourself bask. if there are patterns in what makes your soul ache, write those patterns down – marbles arches or soot crumbling bricks or dandelions or descriptions of dresses or whatever it is, write them down.
your chosen family is important. remember, they picked you as much as you picked them. the love has no obligation. it is given freely and it is given from a place of compassion. you are not a burden. if you need to breathe, take a minute by yourself and just exist, but remember to go back to your people. when they need you, listen and be gracious. always be gracious. the universe sometimes remembers things like that.
listen to new music. link jump on youtube or related artist jump on spotify or ask the chap beside you in the cafe what their favorite band is, and listen to that. listen to something that you don’t usually listen to. we tend to tie up a lot of memory with music. we are falling in love again. the soundtrack needs to be specific to that.
allow yourself to indulge in romantics. press flowers in old books. play movies with subtitles and mouth the words. dance in your room. wear something that makes you feel good, even if you wouldn’t wear it in public. write your chosen family letters, even if you hand deliver them. write poetry, even awful poetry. revel in its awfulness. eat dark chocolate and when your chosen family want to go out, try to go out with them sometimes, even if its just to the market.
The cellar below the Lamb and Flag is a racket of noise, bodies crushed together around the perimeter of the makeshift ring. Men bump shoulders and snipe at one another, egging each other on as they slip their money to the bookies. The air reeks of rust and sweat, sharp smoke from the firepit and grease from the lamps.
End of January following the Rip’s closing sees London in a state of moral ambiguity. Constables, overwhelmed by the chaos in the low-end districts, turn their backs on what lesser depravities people engage in to cope with the aftermath. Drunkenness, disorderly conduct, prostitution, possession of unlawful goods, are now swept under the rug while the Magistrate drags himself through the swamp of violent offenders (rounded up both during and after the final stages of the Rip’s expansion).
In addition, a sense of paranoia has settled in the cracks of London’s streets. Nobody trusts a face they don’t recognize and therefore, anyone who wasn’t working before, is certainly not about to be handed a position now.
Hence, Billy is here, shirtless, binding his knuckles for an unlicensed boxing match he needs to win or else he and his friends will be turned out. Mrs. Hudson has far less patience now than she did before (that is to say none), and though she reduced the price of their rent, she’s still on their arses about getting her money at exactly one minute past midnight on the 1st of the month.
It wouldn’t be so terrible if Watson hadn’t disappeared a week after Sherlock jumped into the unknown after Bea and Jessie’s mother, leaving 221B behind for Mrs. Hudson to rent to another well-to-do bloke and his sister. And Mycroft has been too busy to get in touch, though with what is anyone’s guess.
There is one other option that Billy refuses to consider. Shockingly, Bea respected his decision when it was brought up the first time. Maybe she’s grown, or maybe her resolve was eroded by everything that happened; either way, Billy appreciates Bea’s understanding, because he may have learned a thing or two about minding his pride, but some things cross a line and That is one of them.
“William Chisup!” Uriah Dunn, a stout man with a slit of a mouth and bushy mutton chops muffing his cheeks, yells above the cheers as soon as the third man is down.
Billy hates that name, hates who his mind associates it with – someone who tormented Billy until he outgrew the Parish and was put under Vic Collins’ care. But it’s better not to attract too much attention with a name now associated to a prince, so Billy reluctantly opts to use Father Bennett’s choice.
Taking a deep breath in, holding it in his lungs, Billy closes his eyes and tries to clear his mind.
A task much more easily accomplished without the paranoid part of his conscience insisting:
“Billy, we shouldn’t be here, mate.”
Billy opens his eyes, rolls them toward the ceiling as he sends up a prayer for patience, albeit Spike’s right.
Spikeshouldn’t be here because Spike is supposed to be keeping someone else off Billy’s back until the fight’s over and done with. Except that Spike is Spike and had other ideas, nobler ideas, and apparently his loyalties lie exclusively with the Crown since Spike’s here and not where Billy asked him to be. Twice.
Bloody turncoat.
“Relax,” Billy says, tightening the binding around his knuckles, “I know what I’m doing.”
Spike throws his hands up, drops them, “That’s wonderful, innit, except that you don’t h a v e to!?” He slows down the last bit, as if speaking to a particularly thick child, uses his hands to punctuate each word.
Finally, Billy turns to acknowledge him, “If you’re that uncomfortable with it, you can leave.” He jerks his chin in the direction of the ring where his opponent is banging his chest and building the crowd’s enthusiasm. The man’s big, bigger than Billy by three, but Billy watched an earlier match long enough to know he isn’t quick on his feet, relies entirely on his right hook and thick skull. Billy loosens his shoulders, shakes his hands, and cracks his neck, winks at Spike when he brags, “This won’t take long.”
Spike isn’t looking at him, though, gaze fixed at a point above Billy’s head. More precisely, at the top of the stairs that lead down from the backroom of the tavern above.
“You’re right.” Spike agrees, eyebrows raised in an expression that severely lacks pity, “It’ll be no time at all.”
Billy follows Spike’s line of sight.
“Shit.”
-
pt.ii – protection
Leo’s never been to the Lamb and Flag before, couldn’t even say he knew it existed before today, but then, he could say the same for a lot of the places he visited with the Baker Street Irregulars, as they’ve come to call themselves. Bea, Jessie, Spike—Billy, of course, and himself, too many sips into their ales, fingers greasy from fat and oil, after the incident with the Linen Man. Relieved to be alive and determined to find a light in the inky dark, they cackled to each other as they decided their group needed a proper name.
An irregular bunch they are, indeed.
Strangely, it was Louise who summoned Leo to tell him where he needed to be and gave him directions to the Lamb and Flag, “on behalf of an interested party,” she said, a secretive smile on her dusk-pink lips. Leo frowned, curious, but didn’t question his sister; simply hailed Daimler and requested a carriage be prepared.
Daimler, God bless him, was so far beyond his wits’ end, that he’d done as commanded with minimal grumbling, posture that of a long-suffering parent.
Leo asked that the carriage remain a few streets away from the tavern, lest anyone discover him prematurely. Daimler, once again, agreed, pinched the bridge of his nose, and flapped a hand, muttering darkly under his breath until Leo was out of earshot. Much had changed in the wake of the Rip, and Leo’s fortitude was one of them. Not even Daimler could argue that his Highness no longer required round-the-clock supervision.
Waltzing through the entrance, Leo found the place oddly deserted, the barman and one patron keeping each other company at a table close to the taps.
“I’m here for someone.” Leo said as directly as he could without suffering politeness.
“Aye?” The barman peered at him, his beady eyes lingering on Leo’s cuffs and fine shoes before he nodded toward a closed door at the back of the room. Whatever he spied made him agreeable. “Down the stairs. Mind your ‘ead.”
Leo didn’t understand until he found a smaller door at the rear of the backroom, partially hidden by a grey curtain that blended in with the wall. The instant he’d entered the backroom, he’d heard muffled shouting, which burst through the door like a punch the moment he opened it, Billy’s name curiously sharp above the rest. Altogether, the noise sounded as if it came from a fairly large group of people.
As the barman suggested, Leo ducked to avoid hitting his head on the frame and proceeded down the narrow, stone staircase.
Now, he stands at the bottom, eyes adjusting to the muddier light, and sees he was right; there are men packed into the cellar, all of them frothing at the mouth as someone yells Billy’s name for the second time. That’s when Leo spots him, Billy, on the fringe of the crowd, bare from the waist up with his hands bound and his tin soldier glinting.
Spike stands behind him, admiring the architecture of the ceiling as Billy glares daggers at him.
Just as Leo is about to step forward, the stench of sweat and the heat of an overworked body slams into him, halting him before he has a chance to move his feet. The room goes quiet as the giant of a man scrutinizes Leo, an unsettling grin on his swelling face.
“I think I should ‘ave a go at this one,” He declares, tossing a look of condescending glee over his shoulder to the crowd. The crowd snickers.
It’s clear this man is a fighter, his right eye pulpy, teeth red, and his interest in Leo sends a frisson of terror down Leo’s spine. “Wouldn’t tha’ be a laugh?” He says when he turns back to Leo, snorting and then hawking a wad of pink spit at Leo’s shoes. He lifts a hand, grabs Leo’s coat, and drags him close, smiling madly. “Whaddu you say, boy? Wanna go?”
Leo fixes the man with a hard stare, unwilling to take this sitting down. He opens his mouth to answer… And is interrupted.
“Oi,” Billy barks, his image completely eclipsed by the man’s fat head. “I think you’ll find it’s my turn.”
The man shoves Leo away, turns on his heel, a growl in his throat, “You’ll mind yer business—”
CRACK
The man falls in a heap, two of his teeth projected a short distance and clicking across the floor. Billy looms over him, chest heaving, patches of blood blooming in the binding on his right hand.
Calmly, a slight tremor of fury beneath his words, Billy says, “Don’t ever. Fucking. Touch ‘im.” Eyes crazed, he sends a warning glance to the crowd of men who’ve gone completely silent. “Got it?” He demands, waits for a few heads to bob, then casually steps over the unconscious man’s limp body, sliding easily into Leo’s space.
Movements sure, Billy runs his palms across Leo’s shoulders, cups Leo’s neck and rubs the calloused pads of his thumbs along Leo’s jawline. He dips his head and bumps their noses, expression soft when he asks in a gentle tone, “You alright, darling?”
Leo nods shakily and sucks the corner of his bottom lip into his mouth, flushed from the inside out. At a volume he’s certain only Billy can hear, he implores, “We need to leave.”
Billy makes a face, gaze flickering between Leo’s eyes. It takes a moment, but, at last, comprehension dawns on Billy’s face.
the following is my Spike headcanon and no one can tell me otherwise:
our little bean wasn't always on the streets, he didn't always have it hard. he grew up in a loving household with a mum and a dad and a kid brother who pestered him and followed him around and looked at Spike with absolute, pure adoration that only a child can when they look at their big brother. Spike was his hero.
his name isn't Spike, btw, it's Simon, but nicknames are bestowed on those who earn them through instances of being prickly toward anyone who makes fun of their little siblings at school.
his mum was a seamstress, his father a well-respected tailor in the middle-class community. and, yes, the upper-class Mas would get their daughters and sons fitted by the couple every Season.
and then tragedy struck: one night, Spike snuck out for shenanigans with his school friends. nothing serious, just good fun, but when he returned home, the street was filled with onlookers as firemen worked to put out the flames that stole his family and his home from him.
Spike had no other family, no aunts or uncles. one man came forward, a family friend, and offered to take Spike in. there, this man gave Spike a silver bracelet that an inspector had retrieved from the wreckage, one Spike's father wore often.
Spike never takes it off.
the man wasn't unkind, but he was neglectful - there was a reason he didn't have children of his own, so Spike left. made his way to the streets, learned to fend for himself.
he met the gang through Jessie, who he defended from a bunch of cruel, cackling girls. she reminds him a lot of his little brother though he never says so.
Someone was really like "Let's mix Sherlock Holmes fanfic and the weirdest paranormal situations you can think of and heartrending commentary on grief and call it a Netflix show" and it ended up amazing.
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