Chapter Text
Nick Cutler gasped for breath and sat up. It was not as refreshing as he expected it to be. He felt cold, sick, and empty. He rubbed his chest. It felt like a vacuum. There should be more pressure, more something. He blinked his eyes again and again. They hurt. So did his gums on either side of his front teeth.
I’ve got to stay calm.
Cutler was a solicitor. He was analytical. He was logical. And he could reason his way through this.
Item number one: where was he? Sitting on a velvet chaise. Specifically a fainting couch. Antique. Expensive. Previously he had been lying on a fainting couch. Presumably he had fainted? He was indoors, in a sitting room, though it was so fancy it might be more accurately described as a parlor or salon. Judging by the architecture and the cost of the items in the parlor, the rest of the house was quite large.
Item number two: how had he gotten there? His last memory was being called the cells for a new case… and then it got fuzzy. He had the strangest dream while he was passed out. Men in a corridor. The dream wasn’t important. The present was important. His last clear memory was driving to the station thinking how cross Rachel was going to be about him working so late again. She won’t say anything. She’ll just sulk and turn away on her side in bed.
He should call her. The most reasonable explanation was that he had some sort of fainting fit, probably due to exhaustion from overwork, and some good Samaritan had brought him here. He did remember arriving at the station, so an automobile accident was out of the question. For fuck’s sake, no one at work had better find out about this or I’ll get some charming nickname.
Which led to item number three: who had brought him here and where were they now? Surely not one of his clients. No one with this much money needed a duty solicitor. They would have someone on retainer. No policeman had this much money either. Most likely another solicitor. Fuck.
Cutler stood, meaning to head for the door. There would most likely be a butler he could speak with. Upon standing, he felt so sick and hollow, he was worried if he would make it to the door. Had he injured his head? Why did his gums hurt, of all things?
“Excuse me?” he called out. He looked for a bell. Didn’t these sorts of houses have bells to summon servants? He did not faint again, but his voice was raspy. He rubbed his swollen tongue over the dry roof of his mouth and swallowed what little saliva he could find. “I said, excuse me? I, I believe I’ve had some sort of… accident?” He tried clearing his throat again and walked towards the closed door.
The door opened and a man stepped through. His suit said butler.
“Sir?” said the butler.
“Yes, um, hello. My name is Mr. Cutler. I’m a solicitor. I think I was injured and brought here and…” I have no shitting clue where I am and I would like to know if I’ve been kidnapped. Cutler didn’t know how to finish his sentence out loud.
“Yes, sir.” The butler didn’t say anything else. He was awfully taciturn and unhelpful for a butler.
“And I would like to know—that is, could you possibly tell me where I am? I’m afraid I might have a head injury.”
Was that a smirk?
“Yes, sir. His Lordship has requested you remain here and he will be with you presently.”
The butler left. Cutler heard a click. He had locked the door behind him. He had heard the same click when the butler came in. He had been previously locked in as well. This was starting to seem less like a rescue and more like abduction.