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throughpatchesofviolet · 1 month

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A Night Out

Synopsis: Heathcliff and Sherry spend an evening out at a local tavern, taking advantage of a rare opportunity to relax.

Ship: The Adventure of Wuthering Heights

Words: 5,445

Warnings: alcohol, mentions of gambling, smoking, mentions of drugs, mentions of torture and death (no one is actually tortured/killed), mentions of food

Note: This fic is set in my Sherlock Holmes AU; Originally posted in June of 2023

A pleasant hush had descended on the Backstreets, and Heathcliff observed the evening routines of the local residents with a disinterested expression—here, on the outermost fringes of the Nest, the denizens of the District enjoyed a modicum of tranquility that stirred a bitter resentment in his heart.

Arrogant bastards, he thought, glaring at a pair of men as they lounged on the steps of their apartment, discussing whatever topic entertained those within the folds of high society—poetry, he supposed; those Odysseys and Iliads that only men and women of ‘genteel breeding’ had the pleasure of reading.

Scoffing, Heathcliff leaned against the side of the alleyway, his gaze turning towards the building that formed the opposite wall—the Diogenes Club. It was a polite structure, constructed of ruddy bricks that had been glued together with thick globs of cement, and several windows adorned the frontside. The building possessed two stories, with the second floor rising from the first and shunted back a ways, and every single curtain was drawn, much to his consternation.

How much longer is this going to take? He thought, eyeing the nearest window warily. Every now and then, the drapes were drawn back, and someone would peek out before hastily drawing the curtains once more. He knew exactly who it was, and the game he played, but he wasn’t deterred. Does he just think he can keep her all night? That I’ll get fed up and leave?

Huffing, Heathcliff kicked the pavement, muttering a string of curses to himself. He’d been waiting since five, and, though there wasn’t a clock nearby, he knew it’d been a good three hours since his companion had vanished into the establishment—the surrounding apartments had been painted gold, then orange, and now a cool shade of indigo, and now the faintest lines of silver were beginning to dance through the streets, lending a soft, sparkling sheen to the pavement of the cul-de-sac.

What business is so important he has to keep her three hours? He glowered at the window, the curtains once again flickering as someone peered out at him. If I have to wait much longer, I’ll go mad.

Heathcliff had oft repeated that exact line to himself over the past three hours, yet he’d remained outside, patiently awaiting his companion’s return—such was the power of the vow between them.

“I shouldn’t have signed that lousy scrap of paper,” he grumbled. “I’d be off having a fine time with my mates at the pub if I hadn’t—I’d be starting scraps here and there, sure, but at least I’d be inside where it’s warm.”

But I wouldn’t be sitting half as pretty as I am, he reminded himself with a scowl.

His gaze returned to the window, but it was still. A moment later, the front door opened, and a woman dressed in a familiar coat of brown tweed stepped onto the street, her brow knit as she addressed someone behind her.

“—I won’t hear anymore of this, Mycroft. I have made my position on this matter perfectly clear—perhaps clearer than you would’ve liked. Now, if you’ll excuse me, my companion and I have another appointment, and I’ve wasted quite enough time entertaining your nonsense.”

“Sherlock, you cannot be serious about keeping this … engagement of yours. Your reputation will suffer for it—as will the family name!”

“Reputation means little to me, as you well know—besides, you’re the one the family name relies on, what with you being the eldest.” Tipping her cap, she offered the man a stiff bow. “Now, good evening.”

With that, she turned on her heel and set off at a brisk pace down the street, signaling for Heathcliff to join her with a wave of her hand. Glancing between her and the man still standing in the doorway, he shrugged, detaching himself from the shadows and hurrying after her.

“I take it things didn’t go well?” he asked, raising an eyebrow as she fished a pipe from one of her coat’s numerous pockets.

“It went as expected,” she replied crisply. “Things played out exactly as I told you they would, this morning: Mycroft begged me to drop my work as a Fixer, but he really dug in when it came to me keeping you around.”

“Ah … hence the ‘your reputation will suffer’ …” Heathcliff sighed. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone worried about me disgracing a lady.”

“And, as I’ve told you, not even my dear brother can undo the ties that bind you and I.” She smiled mischievously, lighting her pipe. “Imagine the look on his face if I were to produce the contract … he’d faint, I’m sure.”

“As would a good chunk of my mates,” Heathcliff muttered, shoving his hands in his pockets.

Though, they wouldn’t be as civil as Sherlock’s brother, he thought ruefully. No … they’d brand me a traitor, and then they’d exile me … but not until after they’ve tried to kill me.

He glanced at Sherlock—Sherry—hoping that he’d feel the familiar rush of rage towards her that he’d felt when they’d first started out on this private venture. But, try as he might, the flames of anger and resentment had long since abated when it came to Sherlock Holmes. After all, she’d opened her home to him, despite his untoward behavior, and had let him eat whatever leftovers remained when she finished eating—and, oftentimes, those leftovers were the entire feast.

She’d even enlisted her friend, Dr. John Watson, to tend his injuries whenever he returned to the Office covered in wounds from this or that clash between Syndicates, silencing Watson’s complaints with nothing more than a cold glare and a single, sharp word.

And, if that weren’t enough, she’d promised him the one thing no one else could—information. Along with a forty percent cut of her earnings, so long as he agreed to help her on cases every now and then.

By all accounts, Heathcliff had landed himself a deal that others would’ve killed for. Free room and board, a doctor whenever he needed one, tidbits of information on the person he yearned for most, and a sizeable paycheck … to hate Sherlock Holmes after all she’d offered him would be to bite the hand that feeds—and she fed him well.

And all he had to do was swallow his pride and sign a fancy little contract.

Heathcliff sighed, abandoning his attempt at hating the woman beside him—it was impossible for him to harbor hatred toward her, given the circumstances. “You said we had another call, this evening?”

Sherry shook her head. “That was simply an excuse to get away from my brother,” she said, her smile fading. “I don’t like lying to him, but he’d exhausted my patience.”

“Then we’re returning to Baker Street?”

“If that’s what you wish.”

Heathcliff raised an eyebrow. What I wish?

That was the other thing that had stifled his frustrations shortly after they’d both signed that scrap of paper—Sherry always took interest in what he wanted. At first, this had only served to incense him further—he was already bound to aid her, and now she was trying to befriend him? It reeked of deception, the kind of trickery any Backstreets swindler would employ.

And yet … she’d met his gaze whenever he answered—she’d seen him, rather than straight through him, and committed his responses to memory. It’d been far too long since someone had wanted to know Heathcliff for who he was rather than for what he could do for them, and, despite reminding himself over and over that it was probably a clever ploy to win his trust, he’d developed a secret fondness for the detective—a fondness he both loathed and treasured.

“I didn’t have anything that I wanted to do,” he said finally, ignoring her piercing gaze as it settled on him—those sharp, sapphire eyes, sparkling with an intensity that made his insides squirm, were incapable of missing even the slightest of details. Heathcliff instinctively reached to adjust one of his suspenders, then froze.

Lass has me fretting about my appearance, now, he thought, gritting his teeth and forcing his hand back into his pocket as Sherry chuckled softly.

“You’ve been doing that more,” she said, closing her eyes.

“Doing what?” he asked, feigning ignorance.

“Straightening your clothes whenever I cast a glance your way,” Sherry replied, smiling. “There’s no need for it, you know—I’m not going to scold you for having a button undone.”

She cracked open an eyelid, her gaze hovering on the collar of his shirt, which, as usual, was unbuttoned.

Heathcliff muttered an oath, beginning to fumble with the buttons, which only made Sherry laugh more. After a moment, she tugged his arm, halting him so she could adjust his attire herself.

“I told you—I’ve no problem with how you dress.” She pulled his dusty, brown jacket so that it covered his shoulders properly, then fussed with his sleeves, picking off a few pieces of lint. “As long as you’re comfortable, I’ve no qualms about your clothing.”

Heathcliff grunted, waving her away. “If you didn’t care, then you wouldn’t be fussing.”

“I’m only fussing because watching you fumble with buttons and folds is as entertaining as watching rain trickle down a windowpane,” she retorted.

“Yet you were chuckling just a moment before,” he growled.

“Only because you fall for my teasing so easily—surely you know when I’m taking the piss, by now?”

Heathcliff bristled, but couldn’t think of a clever comeback. Instead, he settled for another curse, turning to follow Sherry as she continued down the street.

“If you don’t have anywhere you’d like to visit, then we can retire to Baker Street early—Victor did send me a letter, and I could spend the evening continuing my correspondence with him.”

At this, Heathcliff hissed. “Not that rich sod from the Nest, again … he isn’t insisting you return to that bloody estate of his, is he?”

Sherry’s eyes twinkled mischievously. “He is. I know how you feel about him, so you can look after the Office when I visit him, if you so choose.”

And let him flirt with you? I’d rather be shot! Heathcliff bit his tongue, barely stopping himself from listing the numerous reasons Sherry shouldn’t return to Victor Trevor’s estate—chief among them the jealousy surging through his veins.

“Victor informed me that a man by the name of Hudson has been working his father into quite a state, and wishes for me to look into him, and it wouldn’t do to turn down a friend after all he’s done for me.”

She turned her eyes toward Heathcliff, their mischievous twinkle growing brighter as she grinned.

“Unless, of course, something prevents me from writing back to him.”

Heathcliff returned her gaze coolly. He knew exactly what she was doing, and if he wasn’t so stung by her dragging Victor’s name into the conversation, he would’ve been flattered. To think, the great Sherlock Holmes was hinting at wanting to spend time with him … outside of the Office, no less!

Finally, he sighed. “I suppose … I might know a place we could go—but it’s not exactly the kind of establishment I should be taking a lady.”

“My dear Heathcliff, do you think I’m unfamiliar with the City’s dens of iniquity?”

“No, but still …” he avoided her gaze. There were places he frequented that he’d wanted to keep Sherry away from—the taverns were one thing, but the gambling dens and the underground fighting rings, thick with tobacco smoke, were places he didn’t want her to see, lest they spoil her opinion of him.

“I assure you, you shall receive no judgement from me—if that’s what you fear.” Sherry placed her finger over the end of her pipe, snuffing out the flame before pocketing it. “And if you’re concerned about my reputation … I made my stance quite clear, earlier.”

“That you did,” Heathcliff muttered. “Alright—perhaps I have a bit of unfinished business at a place nearby. But I don’t want to hear you complaining about the clientele, got it?”

The Rat’s Nest was an unassuming building upon first glance, with ashen brick walls and a number of freshly scrubbed windows, but locals knew better—though the establishment had a modest exterior, the inside was rank with illicit activity, from gambling to forgery to smuggling enkephalin.

Still, it was a place Heathcliff frequented—if nothing else, he could turn up a tidbit of info or two to run back to Sherry for her cases. And … well, the drinks were nice, too.

“The Rat’s Nest,” Sherry’s eyes glanced over the sign hanging above the door, and she sighed, clearly unamused. “How clever.”

“Careful there,” Heathcliff said, nodding at a crowd of thugs gathered outside the establishment, their eyes trained on the unusual duo. “This place is one of the most dangerous places in the District.”

“I’m familiar with its reputation,” she said softly. “Many of my clients have run into trouble with those who frequent this establishment … but it’s a wealth of information for any Fixer willing to step inside.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been here, then?”

“No—but I know a certain man with a rather unkempt appearance who has.” She shot him a sly grin, and he grit his teeth. “What’s your business, tonight?”

“Same as every night where you’re not demanding I go and dig up information—pool.”

Sherry raised an eyebrow, but said nothing as he opened the tavern door, a cloud of thick, blue tobacco smoke roiling forth and smothering them as they ducked inside.

The building was packed, with people from all corners of the Backstreets crowded around tables throughout the main floor. Many of them were speaking in hushed whispers, dark eyes glittering warily as they surveyed the room, watching for potential eavesdroppers. Most were smoking thick cigars, contributing to the hazy blue cloud drifting across the ceiling, while others had their fingers curled around neatly chiseled glasses filled with brandy, vodka, or gin—at least, that’s what Heathcliff supposed, having glanced over the bar menu briefly once or twice. He fancied the scotch, himself.

One quarter of the room had been lowered several yards, and a staircase had been installed for guests to travel down to the lowest point in the tavern—a space filled with dartboards, pool tables, and slot machines. Throngs of Rats had gathered around the slots, their dim eyes reflecting the dazzling colors as they watched the reels spin as if in a trance.

Sherry barely suppressed a soft cough, glaring at the indigo fog rolling overhead. “Would it kill them to crack open a window?”

“Don’t let ‘em hear you saying that,” Heathcliff whispered, nudging her towards the stairs. “Trust me—this crowd can sense disapproval, and they’re pretty quick to stamp it out.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You’ve upset them a few times, then?”

“And what would make you think I’m the one who upset ‘em? Perhaps I was just an innocent bystander who witnessed some poor sod getting thrashed for daring to tell one of ‘em off?”

Sherry grinned, shaking her head. “My dear Heathcliff … I’m sorry, but it sounds like you’re recounting one of your personal experiences.”

He muttered a curse, prodding her closer to the stairs. “Fine, I’ve been in a few scrapes with these lads in the past, but that’s all the more reason for you to keep your mouth shut.”

“Oh?” she raised an eyebrow, her eyes gleaming mischievously. “Is that why you’ve been coming back to the Office so ragged these past few weeks?”

“Mouth. Shut.” Heathcliff hissed, his eyes flicking towards the bar before scanning the nearby tables. “I don’t need you drawing more attention than you already have.”

Sherry huffed, folding her arms. “You’re not scared of them, are you?”

“What? No!” he scoffed. “Just get down the bloody stairs before I—”

He stopped midsentence, noticing a few people had turned to stare at them, and he felt his face flush. Grabbing Sherry by the elbow, he led her down the stairs, then towards a pool table in the bottom left corner of the room.

Releasing Sherry, he sighed, leaning against the pool table with his eyes closed. This woman is going to be the death of me.

“Eight-ball or one-pocket?” Sherry’s question, asked in a soft, gentle tone, made him open his eyes, and he was surprised to see her racking pool balls on the table behind him.

“Eight-ball,” he answered, and she nodded. “You … you’ve played before?”

“Once or twice,” she replied, shrugging. “Mycroft often lets the boys play at the Diogenes Club, and I picked it up from them—though, my dear brother was upset when he found out.”

“I can imagine.” Heathcliff couldn’t help but grin at the thought of Mycroft fuming because his precious little sister had learned how to play something as ‘scandalous’ as pool.

Sherry removed the rack from around the balls with a flourish, setting it to the side before placing the cue ball at the headstring. “Would you like to shoot first?”

“If it pleases the lady,” Heathcliff hummed, and Sherry scoffed. But she nodded, tossing him a cue stick from the set hanging on the wall beside the table.

“The floor’s yours.”

Without another word, Heathcliff moved himself behind the cue ball, leaning forward and placing his bridge hand on the table—open bridge, as always—and delivered a sharp prod to the cue ball, which collided with the pool balls at the opposite end of the table, sending them scattering in all directions. A solid blue ball rolled neatly into the top left pocket, and Heathcliff shot Sherry a smug grin.

“Seems I’ll be taking an early lead.”

“Don’t go getting cocky, now,” she warned, rubbing a chalk cube on the end of her cue stick. “You haven’t even seen me shoot.”

He shrugged, moving to the right side of the table to position himself behind the cue ball, eyes fixed on a solid red ball a few inches away from the leftmost pocket. As he settled down to shoot, though, he felt that familiar sensation of being watched by a sharp pair of eyes …

Sherlock, he thought, gritting his teeth as his heart skipped a beat. His gaze flicked up to meet hers, but he quickly focused his attention back on the cue ball, trying to ignore her. Just focus on the game, Heathcliff—don’t let her get in your head.

He poked the cue ball firmly, but it only rolled enough to nudge the red ball he’d aimed for, and he muttered a quiet curse as Sherry scooped up the cue ball and reset it behind the headstring.

“Allow me …” she said, settling into a striking position.

Heathcliff huffed, stepping back to lean against the wall, studying Sherry’s movements.

There were few moments where he had the opportunity to truly look at Sherlock Holmes—she was always bundled up in her brown trench coat, a short, tweed cape hanging about her shoulders, with a familiar cap perched atop her head.

And that was usually all he noticed.

But here, in the dimly lit tavern, with her crouched low as she charted the course of the cue ball in front of her, Heathcliff had a rare opportunity to admire her face—it was surprisingly soft, with the faintest of wrinkles under her eyes denoting the many sleepless nights she’d spent in her favorite armchair, her deep blue eyes reflecting the leaping flame contained in the fireplace. He never really knew what she was thinking on those nights, but he knew one thing: Sherlock had some of the most piercing eyes he’d ever seen, and they expressed her thoughts more clearly than her own tongue.

Sherry narrowed her eyes, studying the cue ball with an intensity that she usually reserved for the morning papers, and she set her bridge hand flat on the table, running the edge of her cue stick back and forth along her thumb and index finger in quiet contemplation. A few locks of her warm, tawny hair brushed against the table as she leaned forward, delivering a firm strike to the cue ball that sent it shooting across the table, knocking a ball with a thick, yellow band into the top right pocket.

Wordlessly, Sherry straightened, moving around the table to prepare for another shot, this time her gaze set on a ball behind the headstring, sporting a band of indigo. And, again, she sank the ball.

Moving back around the table, she cast Heathcliff a sly glance, and he snorted. So, she’s got a little bit of skill—it’s nothing to be proud of. It’s not like we’re playing for money or anything.

Sherry sank yet another ball, and he sighed as she once again looped around the table.

Okay … maybe she’s got something to be proud of.

“I do hope I’m not boring you,” she said, flicking her eyes in his direction as she settled down for her fourth shot. “I’m not familiar with the kind of conversation people have when they play pool.”

“They’re usually about topics that wouldn’t interest you, anyway,” Heathcliff replied.

“Try me.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, listening as the cue ball clattered against a trio of balls at the other end of the table. “When it’s me and my mates, the topic usually turns to who fancies who pretty quick.”

“Ah … you’re right. That isn’t something that interests me.”

“Not even if it’s about me?” he asked, opening his eyes to study her curiously.

“I was under the impression you were in love with that Earnshaw woman.” Sherry’s words were polite, but her eyes were dark. She gestured at the table. “It’s your shot.”

“So it is,” he murmured, detaching himself from the wall and plucking the cue ball from the table, once again resetting it behind the headstring. “Have you learned anything more about Cathy, by any chance?”

“Nothing that pleases me,” Sherry muttered bitterly, brow furrowed. “The more I learn of her, the more I dislike her—if you’ll pardon me saying so.”

Heathcliff hummed in response, taking his shot and sinking another ball in the rightmost pocket. “Wouldn’t happen to be because you’re … jealous, would it?”

“I have no reason to envy her,” Sherry said simply, but the storm in her eyes brought a smile to Heathcliff’s face.

Oh, she’s definitely jealous …

He missed his next shot, and Sherry took his place, resetting the cue ball and knocking two more balls into separate pockets. She really was quite good at the game—better than most.

“If I’d known you were this good, I would’ve made a bet with you.” Heathcliff sidled up beside her, earning an annoyed glare.

“And what would the stakes have been?”

“Nothing big—just a bet to see who’d be buying drinks.”

Sherry shrugged, jabbing the cue ball and sending another pool ball rattled into a pocket. “If you want a drink, I have no problem buying you one.”

“You, Miss Sherlock Holmes, are the complete opposite of a lady. Your brother would be horrified if he heard you were offering to buy a man a drink, you know.”

“There are more scandalous things,” she replied, rounding the table and sinking her seventh pool ball. “For example—I’m about to beat you at pool by knocking the eight ball into that pocket.”

She nodded at the hole closest to him, and he grinned.

“You’re just racking up your sins, tonight, aren’t you?”

“I never said I was a lady—you’re the one who assumed I was.”

With that, she sank the eight ball into the pocket beside Heathcliff, and the game was finished.

“Not bad,” Heathcliff mused, knocking the rest of the balls into the table’s pockets as Sherry hung up her cue stick. “Seems I owe you a drink.”

“If I drink, it’ll be back at Baker Street.” Sherry sighed, twirling her hair around her finger. “I don’t care to drink in public—and especially not in places like this.”

“What—you can’t hold your liquor?” Heathcliff teased.

“I hold my drink better than you,” she said sharply, and he winced—she had seen him in a drunken stupor once before, and though he couldn’t recall any of the things he’d said or done, the disapproving look in her eyes during the weeks following his intoxicated haze had hurt more than the initial hangover. “But … if you’d like, I can treat you to a glass of brandy.”

“Scotch would be nice,” he muttered, hanging up his cue stick.

“Scotch, then.” Sherry moved towards the stairs, and Heathcliff scrambled after her, catching up as she reached the main floor.

Before he could say anything, however, she’d vanished into the crowd, leaving him alone on the landing.

Shit, he thought, glancing around frantically for her. Really, Heathcliff—you bring a lass out with you for the first time in years, and you decide the ideal place to take her is a seedy little tavern packed full of the shadiest Syndicates in the Backstreets … and then you go and lose track of her. Sure, she’s Sherlock Holmes, but with a face as cute as hers, any drunk sod could fancy the idea to try and charm her—not that he’d succeed, because she is Sherlock Holmes and has no interest in romance, but …

He shook himself, muttering a quiet curse.

Pull yourself together, you stupid fool! It’s because she’s Sherlock Holmes that she’s in so much danger here—all sorts of Syndicates gather here, and none of ‘em are too keen on her after she broke up their enkephalin smuggling rings. If they cornered her, they’d do all manner of unthinkable things to her …

He shuddered, a cold, dark realization dawning on him.

… and it’d be my fault. I’d be the reason she got caught and tortured. His stomach twisted painfully at the thought, and his heartrate accelerated. They’d kill her and I’d be the one responsible for it, because I’m the bastard who brought her here in the first place.

He was about to dive into the crowd in search of her when he felt a gentle tug at his arm, and, glancing down, he saw that Sherry had returned, a glass of whiskey in her hand, which she offered to him.

“Sherlock!” he wheezed, relief washing over him. “You’re … safe.”

“Of course I am,” she replied, raising an eyebrow at his quivering frame. “Are you feeling alright? You’re shaking like a newborn calf …”

He blinked, then released a tired sigh. “Don’t go running off on me, love … you scared me half to death.”

“Ah …” Sherry glanced away, then took his elbow. “Let’s go over here—there’s a table in the corner that was unoccupied … you can rest there for a moment.”

Heathcliff allowed her to lead him through the crowd, and they settled down at a small booth in the farthest corner of the tavern, far away from the wary eyes of the ruffians clustered around the bar.

Sherry was silent, quietly observing the murmuring crowds, and Heathcliff took the opportunity to take a swig of his drink, sighing as the familiar warmth of alcohol spread through his limbs, filling him with renewed vigor.

Setting the now-empty glass down, he turned his gaze to Sherry, who was staring at her lap, her hat drawn low over her eyes.

“You doing alright?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I’m fine,” she replied curtly, lifting her head and staring out at the people milling about the tavern.

Heathcliff tried to read her eyes, but they weren’t the dazzling window to her thoughts that they usually were—instead, they were clouded with an emotion that was foreign to them … something different from the delight and anger that usually thundered through them.

“… can I ask you a question, Heathcliff?”

Sherry’s voice was soft, hesitant—so much less confident than usual.

“Of course,” he said, tilting his head. “What is it?”

“Do you still love Catherine Earnshaw?”

Heathcliff blinked, surprised by the question. “Of course I do—Cathy’s the only reason I’m doing all this, remember? You said that as long as I help you out here and there, and sometimes keep you company now that Watson’s left to focus on his practice, you’d tell me what you learned about her whereabouts.”

“I see. I suspected as much.” Sherry’s words were stiff, and that clouded emotion in her eyes thickened. “And what if she’s ceased to love you? Have you ever considered that possibility?”

“That ‘possibility’ is an impossibility,” Heathcliff hissed, bristling.

Sherry frowned. “Then you’re set on returning to her, once I discover where she’s decided to roost?”

“Naturally—once I get the information I want, our contract’s fulfilled. I’m free to go on my way, and you can find someone else to accompany you on your cases.”

“And what about everything we’ve been through? Is the friendship we share so trivial that you’ll just vanish without a word once you get what you want?”

Heathcliff hesitated at this—certainly, Sherlock meant something to him … she meant more to him than anyone else in the Backstreets. Hell—just a few moments ago, the thought of losing her had stricken him with terror, and that fear was rivaled only by the bitter thought that someone else would steal away her affections … but he knew that was impossible. Sherlock Holmes had no interest in winning a man’s heart—and besides, didn’t his love belong to Cathy?

Still, the idea of parting with Sherry once he finally learned of Catherine’s whereabouts left him feeling hollow. He did harbor a secret affection for her, after all … even if he refused to admit it.

“You’re … you’re not going to make me choose between the two of you, are you?”

“I’m not. But the fact that Catherine Earnshaw and I lead very different lives and desire very different things—save, perhaps, one thing—is undeniable. It’s not a matter of choosing between Catherine and I … it’s a matter of choosing between the life Catherine wants and the life you currently lead.”

He blinked—he’d never once considered how different his life would be once he was finally reunited with Cathy. He’d just assumed things would go back to how they were before he left—only this time, she would accept him. How could she not? He was returning to her a fairly wealthy man, after all …

But, life as it was before was … dull and uninteresting, now that he thought about it. He’d rise with the sun, eat breakfast, do whatever business required his attention, eat lunch, return to business, eat dinner, and then go to bed shortly after sunset. And there’d be balls, no doubt—and he loathed balls. Even with Cathy at his side, the drabness of it all would bore him to tears—especially in comparison to the fast paced life he led in the Backstreets working with Sherry.

At Baker Street Office, he had his three meals a day, a room for himself, and there was something new happening nearly every day—unearthing scandals, busting enkephalin smuggling rings, tearing down entire Syndicates, and learning the secrets of the Wings … plus, he still had the pleasures of gambling and drinking to pass the time whenever Sherry gave him leave. Though the consequences of those behaviors weren’t always the best, he at least enjoyed freedom when he was working for her … a freedom that he’d lose the moment he returned to Catherine.

“I’m close to figuring out where she is, Heathcliff,” Sherry said softly. “I just wanted to make you aware of how serious a choice awaits you. I won’t sway you one way or the other—but I will say that of all the men I’ve known, you certainly keep me the most entertained.”

She rose, brushing off her coat.

“I think I’ll return to Baker Street, now. All things considered, this was a lovely evening—it’s been a long time since I had this much fun.”

Heathcliff started. “Don’t you want company on the way home?”

“I’ll be alright on my own—I’ll leave the door unlocked for you. Just go easy on the whiskey, alright?”

With that, she swept out of the tavern, leaving Heathcliff to brood over the problem she’d unceremoniously dropped in his lap.

It was only a few minutes after she departed, however, that he realized something—Sherry had said there was one thing that both she and Catherine wanted. What that thing was remained a mystery to him, though his fluttering heart dared to hope that, perhaps, it was him.

#this still somehow holds up post Canto VI and I'm really proud of that ... it helps that it's an AU #so Catherine is in a different situation than she is in canon--though what that situation is is for me to know and you to find out /lh #otp: the adventure of wuthering heights ⛈️#r: remind my heart to beat 💢#si: to a great mind‚ nothing is little 🤎#cuddle up with a good book #scattered pages

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fideidefenswhore · 2 months

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I hope this isn't stupid, but did Henry really do the Great Matter the right way? I just feel if he'd used a normal argument instead of making it a religion problem it'd be easier for him. If he said "I have no son, so I want to make a new marriage and get one, to protect my people from war" then wasn't that a reason other kings had, and they got annulments? That would be just a fact and everyone at the time knew no son had problems. Sure Catherine would still fight but she couldn't really say he was wrong. But instead if he says it's all Leviticus and God's mad it gives her the out to say she never slept with Arthur so God's not counting that as a real marriage. Then Henry has to say she's lying and so she looks the injured party and right to be offended, and nobody knows what to believe so it just drags out hoping someone dies.

Precedentially and in hindsight, making it a "religion problem" might not have been the best course; but I think it was genuinely his belief and also he had been so highly respected as "Defender of the Faith" (literally) up to that point that he saw an opportunity for fame and acclaim in (what he believed to be) the "righteousness" of his case, and a way to shore up the image, power, and prestige of the English monarchy; even when it became clear it would be one from a position of defiance. We have to place his belief in the context of his acclaim as a scholar and theologian up through the 1520s...it was bold, but so was Henry, and while the common narrative is that his case was facile; after further reading I found that to be reductive:

"In Henry’s obsession with an idiosyncratic interpretation of natural law and his apparent indifference to the strength of his own case on Deuteronomy we may discern a litigant who seems determined to snatch defeat from the jaws of possible victory. Nevertheless it is hard to resist the conclusion that the biblical texts themselves support Henry’s claim that his marriage contravened divine law as expounded by Moses. [...] In the field of legal codes Henry’s view, whether treated as a matter of divine or human law, held a strong position. Among other examples the Council of Neo-Caesarea and the regional Council of Agde followed the Levitical injunction by forbidding the marriage of men to their brothers’ widows. Faced with such arguments, Bishop Fisher usually asserted that the prohibitions did not specifically forbid all dispensations – yet nor did they specifically allow any. As on the Leviticus/Deuteronomy dilemma, Fisher reasoned that in cases of ambiguity the pope should interpret the matter. Yet such a papal interpretation had been given by Innocent III in a rider to his judgement on the Livonian issue discussed below: that, whatever the validity of pagan marriages to which the Deuteronomical exception might apply, a man’s marriage to the widow of a deceased childless brother should not be permitted to baptised Christians." HADWIN JF. Leviticus, Deuteronomy and Henry VIII. The Journal of Ecclesiastical History. 2019

I don't think there's really anything he could've done to assure a 'secure' outcome, tbh (besides the possible counterfactual of applying for an annulment circa, say, 1520 rather than 1527, he did seem to have a better understanding and alliance with Leo X). The final judgement from Clement was that Henry had lived too long in matrimony with Catherine by principle of the dispensation granted to be able to legitimately protest the dispensation.

Precedent ran against Henry in the specific matter of Popes erasing former dispensations. That was not something they had done; but arguably Popes did reverse decisions of their predecessors in other matters, or sometimes reverse their own decisions-- there are many cases, for instance, of Popes granting annulments and then reversing them. This can make better sense of Henry's decision to reify the legitimacy of both his annulment with Catherine and his marriage with Anne via Parliament, even before the Pope has made declaration (because, even if he had made one in his favour, it might not have stuck...the sands were always shifting, too, even if, say, Clement had died without declaration and his successor had been an anti-Imperial candidate, like the later Paul IV, that did rule in his favour, was it not possible he himself would die and his successor reverse that decision? It is plausible to consider, also, a counterfactual where Henry made his application late 1525 or 1526, had it granted January 1527, and Imperial troops stormed as they did by May, pressurizing Clement to reverse...):

"And here it must be acknowledged that, while a substantial case could be built to support Henry’s challenge on the issue of the bull, the fact of that issue had significantly changed the situation and the canonical context within which it might be viewed. On the question of possible rescission of the bull the critics seem to have been right: on balance, precedent would appear to run against the king. Neither a dissolution nor an annulment would seem likely to have been granted. No previous marriage had been ended on the grounds that a pope had acted ultra vires; nor, as David d’Avray notes, ‘was any dispensation to my knowledge … ever revoked because the alleged political ills that it was meant to cure were later shown to be imaginary’. The application of the principle of dissimulatio – the turning of a blind eye to the legal weaknesses of a long-standing union in view of the greater good that would accrue by leaving well alone – could also have favoured the queen’s cause; a similar canonical rule held that ‘doubtful cases ought to be resolved in favour of the marriage’. Most significant of all might be the maxim asserted by Gilles Bellemère in the count of Armagnac’s case, that if the pope asks for advice before taking action, he should be told that the dispensation should not be granted; however, if he has already acted, then he should not be opposed. Thus, even if Henry had succeeded in convincing an impartial court of the impropriety of Julius II’s granting the dispensation, all [of his] lengthy campaign might well have gained him not that triumphant solution for which he had striven but merely the cold comfort of a Pyrrhic victory." HADWIN JF. Leviticus, Deuteronomy and Henry VIII. The Journal of Ecclesiastical History. 2019

And, that's actually a misconception; it was probably the predominant of his arguments/case, but hardly the only one or aspect:

"Like many other litigants, Henry adopted a ‘scatter-fire’ approach to his task of seeking an annulment, attacking a vast array of targets, hoping that at least one shot might reach its mark. His opponents tended to follow suit, thus a comprehensive analysis of each pellet might seem desirable to do the parties full justice. This has not been attempted in the present study. Instead it has seemed best to concentrate on three of the most serious and most often cited defences of the queen’s case, those based on the questions Henry asked of the universities in 1530-1, thus setting the agenda for the debate. The first of these was that, while forbidden by the texts of Leviticus, marriage to a brother’s widow was prohibited by the Church only if the previous marriage had been consummated, whereas Katherine insisted that she came to Henry 'virgo intacta'. Secondly, it was argued that the Levitical prohibition should be interpreted as being limited by the command in Deuteronomy requiring a man to marry a childless brother’s widow, exactly what Henry had done. Lastly, the king’s critics cited a number of what they considered relevant precdents for the dispensation granted to Henry and Katherine by papal bull in 1503.

Each [argument of the Queen's side] appears to have serious weaknesses. The strict application of canonical procedures in the case would appear to favour a verdict that Arthur and Katherine had indeed consummated their union. On Deuteronomy, not only had the Church generally regarded the command as obsolete and inapplicable to Christians but the contentious verse does not on close examination cover Henry’s case at all. Finally, none of the oft-cited papal dispensations involved a clear-cut breach of the Levitical injunctions: the bull really does seem to have broken new ground and might not have been issued had all the facts been known." HADWIN JF. Leviticus, Deuteronomy and Henry VIII. The Journal of Ecclesiastical History. 2019

Royals being anti or pro papal tended to be a matter of political timing, and this wasn't unique to Henry VIII. Hell, Mary I's spouse was excommunicated (not just threatened with excommunication, as her father had been circa the Great Matter era) by Paul IV because he had sent the Duke of Alva to occupy the papal states in retaliation for his alliance with France, and deprived her councilor and Archbishop of Cantebury, Reginald Pole, of his legateship and ordered him to return to Rome to answer charges of heresy ; and she chose to defend them rather than repudiate them in kind.

So, for the matter of claiming Catherine wasn't a virgin when he married her...I don't think he anticipated that she'd confess otherwise to Campeggio and unseal the confession; or use the trial of Blackfriars for the opportunity to repeat her own claim otherwise and then refuse to attend the rest of the hearing of evidence. For the hearing in Dunstable in 1533, she refused to attend, as well, and so did her supporters, so there's some revionism in the narrative that the Henrician side of the divide refused to hear her own evidence and supporters. They clearly did not regard it highly; arguably they gave it short shrift, but the political tactic of refusing to acknowledge the legitimacy of any proceedings or hearings outside strict papal jurisdiction (not that all of Catherine's supporters adhered so strictly to that, when it suited them...see: Trial of Zaragoza) by Catherine and her supporters precludes the accusation, reified by Marian Parliament, that Henry and Cranmer "refused to hear evidence" from oppostion. This was a convenient fiction, underrating agency and choice and emphasizing a narrative of corruption vs "godly truth".

But at the same time, I think that aspect of it was a matter of principle for both of them and yet a nothingburger both legally and politically: it was impossible to prove or disprove. There was ambiguity on the matter because the dispensaton covered any possibility ("forsan"); even Clement's declaration did not really fully vindicate her side because he didn't comment on the matter of her virginity upon her marriage to Henry. It was, ultimately, a non sequitur. Henry pursued it because he vehemently believed it was true, and that the proof was in his deceased children by the marriage, that they had died because of the Levitical 'curse', for lack of better word...

And Henry had legal/canonical precedent on his side (see excerpt from JF Hadwin's excellent article on the case above, and this one: "[...] the canonical procedures for determining non-consummation suits would have worked against her. As in any such dispute, witnesses were questioned. Not surprisingly, their stories differed according to their nationality: like the decisions of the universities this was a case of what Hans Thieme delightfully described as cuius regio, eius opinio. English ones remembered a raunchy young prince boasting of his having ‘been this night in the midst of Spain’. Most of the interrogation records of the queen’s Spanish servants have been lost, but they seem to have agreed with the implications of the leading questions that they were fed by recollecting only an immature wimp. Canonical rules, however, held that in such controversies, the husband’s view was to be preferred to the wife’s. Furthermore, in the absence of sound evidence to the contrary, in any marriage that had lasted more than a few days, consummation [would] be presumed. This is why neither Mendoza, the Spanish ambassador, nor his successor, Chapuys, was enthusiastic about Katherine’s claim and probably why Campeggio felt relief that the question was not to be argued at Rome. As Gardiner had warned the queen earlier, presumption would run against her: rightly or wrongly, in any court operating under standard canonical rules and procedures, she would probably have lost this argument."), but not circumstance.

My unpopular judgement is that Henry was actually far more judicious in his timing of the Great Matter than he's given credit for; as early as 1529 he's saying he's "about to undertake the annates", he delays the cessation of paying the annates until Easter 1533; he waits to pass the Act of Kings alone nominating Archbishops and consecrating bishops until Cranmer is elected Archbishop by the Pope (a fait accompli, because it does mean that Cranmer's annulment of his marriage can be viewed as an act of the papacy, by extension; and forces Clement's hand...arguably this backfired, but not fully, he did not excommunicate Cranmer, probably because doing that to someone he had so recently promoted would call his judgement into question); and he doesn't pass the Act in Absolute Restraint of Annates until 1534, after Clement declares for the validity of his marriage with Catherine. Was the timing different (annates are forbidden by law irrevocably, and then Clement declared for the marriage), one could argue otherwise (that Henry had been too hasty); but Clement could've secured annates from England for the rest of Henry's reign had he done the opposite, or possibly delayed their total annihilation had he just continued to not declare on the matter.

#anon #the great matter files #his opponents certainly made hay out of his claim that catherine wasn't a virgin #generally by praising the pudicity of her life and her character; saying this was contrary to the claim she had lied for personal gain #and we can argue it was naiive of him not to expect that counterattack ; however as far as his claim #went...precedent should have been on his side in many respects. i think he expected an outcome in his favor at blackfriars #and that it was more a public relations exercise to him than anything else; one that initially backfired #but in the eyes of his contemporaries i think he thought it was best to give her such a public opportunity to defend herself #and their marriage...#so that he could maintain a gracious image etc #you can also take the actions of him sending the issue to be debated and declared at universities #as both a response to clement's procastination and as better fitting that sort of dogmatic idiosyncracy #that was so integral to his mind and personality and mode of thinking...#he doesn't seem to have discussed or cited papal precedent on these kinds of marital cases so much #bcus i don't think he felt it was especially relevant/salient...#it was the word of the bible > earthly authority . that's why we see him in this period embracing those reformist texts .#within limits ; but still #tl; dr arguably there was no 'right way' . but there might have been a right- or rather; better- time

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