Chapter Text
It was around five o'clock in the evening when the letter from Dr Jekyll was placed in Lanyon’s hands, he had just finished seeing to his final patient of the day and was sitting in the dining room when his servant had delivered the envelope to him.
Truthfully, Lanyon’s mind had already been occupied as of late with a matter regarding Henry Jekyll, so the sight of his name hastily scribbled onto the envelope instantly caught his attention.
Over the past two months, the two men had carefully rekindled their previously broken relationship and had eased back into their usual light-hearted teasing and closeness they had both dearly missed over the last decade. Though neither would admit it, the loss of their friendship was painful for them both; they had gone from seeing each other nearly every day to only coming into contact with one another when Mr Utterson would invite them both to his house (which occurred rarely, as the man preferred not to host his own events) and they kept things civil for him, not wanting to drag Utterson into their personal issues with each other. However, he had soon caught on and even those already rare meetings dropped in frequency as he adapted to finding enough time to spend with both doctors separately. Yet now, to the astonishment of all three of them, Lanyon and Jekyll appeared to be close friends once again, and were finally able to meet up in private without it ending in a row. Although, they refused to discuss any work related matters, not wanting to risk another falling out.
The night before — the 8th of January — he had been invited to Jekyll’s house to attend a small party his friend was hosting. He had enjoyed himself, yet he became overly conscious of the eye contact between them that lasted a moment too long, and how Jekyll’s leg brushed against his own under the table a few too many times, and how he had stopped apologising for it after the second occurrence. This had left Lanyon rather distressed the next day, as he helplessly watched long forgotten feelings creep back into his mind to haunt him.
Now, he held the letter tightly in his grip, and nervously peeled away the backing of the envelope and began to read its contents.
“Dear Lanyon,
You are one of my closest friends; and although we may have differed at times on scientific questions, I cannot remember, at least on my side, any break in our affection. There was never a day when, if you had said to me, ‘Jekyll, my life, my honour, my reason, depend upon you,’ I would not have sacrificed my fortune or my left hand to help you.”
Lanyon paused, his hands trembling as he held up the page. These words had hit him hard, and the wave of emotion didn’t leave him any time to wonder how genuine they were, and he continued to read.
By the end, he was left feeling conflicted. He was confused, baffled even, by the strange and specific request laid out in front of him, he was also worried for both Jekyll’s mental well-being and his safety, and he still felt a faint flutter in his chest from Jekyll’s intimate words.
The letter only confirmed what Lanyon already knew — Dr Jekyll was insane. But, unfortunately, he was also irresistible. That and the strangely worded threat that if Lanyon didn’t do as he asked, he would die and Lanyon would be responsible pushed him to sigh, get up from his chair and head for his friend’s house.
Hyde lay down on the bed in his dingy hotel room, his eyes fixed on the dark ceiling. He had six hours until he could meet with Dr Lanyon and collect the drugs. He felt nauseous from the fears of being caught, Lanyon refusing to help him, or any other unforeseen circumstance that would ultimately get him killed.
Not only did he have to consider the short term consequences for his transformation in public, he was dreading what this meant for the long term, if he even could say he had long left. If he takes the potion tonight, there isn’t a guarantee that he would stay as Jekyll. This isn’t the first time he has transformed against his will and things seem to only be getting worse for him as time goes on.
However, beneath the nerves there is an odd sense of excitement brewing, for being able to look Lanyon in the eye and tell him he was wrong. He knew it was quite childish, that his life was in danger yet he’s still focused on a ten year long grudge, but he was sick of being told he was deranged and that his branch of science was impossible, illogical, sinful, and he knew Lanyon would do the same to him given the opportunity, so it’s justified, surely.
The thought of humbling his smug friend brought a wide, sharp-toothed grin across Hyde’s face. Of course, he liked Lanyon, he enjoyed his company when they weren’t arguing (and occasionally enjoyed it when they were, particularly when he got to wind Lanyon up), especially now they were friends again — or at least he’s friends with Jekyll again. But unfortunately, they greatly get on each others’ nerves sometimes, and if Hyde can’t punch Lanyon in the face then he will have to do the next best thing.
Though, there are still plenty of risks that come with him revealing his identity and all of them involve Lanyon having an overly dramatic reaction and a few of them involve him being arrested and hung for his crimes. Could he be certain to trust that Lanyon wouldn’t tell anyone?
Unlikely. Lanyon has no reason to keep his secret once he admits to the treacherous acts he’s committed, especially not if he’s planning on destroying his entire belief system at the same time.
There must be a way to get him to stay quiet.
He thought for a moment.
An idea, an entirely insane idea popped into Hyde’s mind, and firmly embedded itself inside so that the man couldn’t dispose of it even if he wanted to. An idea that is so ridiculous and has such a low chance of success that it could be perfect. An idea that is so distasteful and selfish that if he were sitting here as Jekyll at this very moment, he would never have considered it.
He could, if he somehow managed to get him to agree, involve Lanyon in his predicament in a way that he wasn’t originally planning on involving him, in a much worse way. He could make Lanyon drink the potion instead.
Originally, Jekyll had only made the drug for his own recreational use, but at the end of the day it was still his most prized scientific experiment, despite the horrible issues he has recently encountered from it. He already knew the results from when he himself drank the potion — Hyde. Or, well, himself as of right now, truth be told he was still a little confused on how it all worked. When he’s Hyde, he still feels like himself for the most part, but it is as though the part of his brain that contains his moral compass suddenly switches off, and his chains of repression unlock. Yet, there’s always a strange force that is clawing at him from the inside, a force he can feel has gradually strengthened over time, a force that feels foreign to him, but a force that has been him all along.
Either way, over the past couple of years he has been desperate to know what happens when another person takes the drug, yet as expected he could never afford to reveal his secret, and even if he could there would be no willing test subjects. And of course, as far as test subjects go Hastie Lanyon would be the most unwilling by a mile, he knew that, but Hyde would have to cross that bridge when he gets to it.
He spent a while pondering what Lanyon would look or act like after drinking the potion, he was intrigued by what his “socially unacceptable” desires would be, though if their past together was anything to go by, he could think of a couple already. He also wondered how he’d react, both to him being forced to accept his duality just as Jekyll had, and how angry he’d be at Jekyll for roping him into his mess. Well, again, Hyde would have to cross that bridge when he gets to it.
He felt guilty, which is unusual for Hyde, but he made a promise to himself that he’d keep Lanyon safe, and ensure he doesn’t let his transformations get out of control as well. However, he was sure that the thrill of being able to reopen his scientific investigations on his creation, and more importantly that he would no longer have to feel so isolated on this matter, no more painfully suffering in silence, would make it worth it.
Lanyon arrived at Jekyll’s house without delay, where he was greeted by his butler, Poole, who appeared to be understandably concerned and stressed towards the current situation. When Lanyon remarked about the peculiarity of Jekyll’s letter, the other man could only give a grave nod and state that he too had received similar odd instructions.
It took a great deal of work for the door leading to the cupboard to be opened, so when it finally gave in Lanyon promptly took the correct drawer and bid farewell to the other members of this cryptic ritual they were blindly following.
It wasn’t until he arrived home and set the drawer down in the centre of his consulting room when the questions he had sealed in the back of his mind came pouring out.
He examined the drawer, finding a notebook containing messy scribbles that belonged to Jekyll, showing evidence of experimentations, a salt and an unidentifiable, pungent, blood-red liquid in which Lanyon could not make out the ingredients of. He could clear as day picture Jekyll erratically mixing an assortment of random compounds to create this vile concoction, without any safety equipment either. Horrific.
His findings did not answer any of his questions, only confusing him further, until he gave up trying to create logical explanations in his head as to why Jekyll needed him to do any of this. Instead, he took the letter back out from his pocket to ensure he had followed the steps correctly (and absolutely not to reread the beginning part) until he noticed the date in the top corner.
10th of December? Why had he written this a month prior to sending it? Lanyon, in his perspective, was now faced with two possibilities: Jekyll had already been planning for something to happen, or he was playing a trick on him. Both these hypothetical outcomes angered him, yet he decided he was in far too deep to give up now, sending his servants to bed and loading an old revolver in an attempt to calm his nerves, just in case someone actually did turn up. Now, he’d wait until midnight.