An Age of Silver (8a/23)
"An Age of Silver" (8a/23)
Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 5a / Part 5b / Part 6 / Part 7
The earliest train to London arrived late in the afternoon on the twenty-seventh, and by the time Sherlock arrived back at Baker Street the party at the Yard had already got underway.
But the annual Christmas party had a tendency to run into the early hours of the morning, anyway, and even if Sherlock were to show up three hours late it was doubtful that he would miss much.
He showered, washing away the scent of travel that clung to him, and changed into black trousers and his customary purple shirt. He had owned some variation of a purple shirt since he was eighteen, and at the height of his days as the Great Detective he had been photographed wearing it so many times that it became synonymous with his name - as did the deerstalker hat, unfortunately, even though he had only ever donned that once.
But he wasn’t the Great Detective - not tonight; not in a very long time.
Sherlock went back into his room and changed into the deep blue shirt John had suggested, the one that was so dark that it appeared almost black in dim lighting.
He wasn’t entirely sure what this was meant to accomplish-or, at least, he wouldn’t allow himself to contemplate it for too long-but he hoped that, whatever it was, John was right about it.
One of the large meeting rooms on the ground floor of the Yard had been converted into tonight’s party venue. A bar had been set up along one of the far walls, and a long table was filled with non-alcoholic drinks and more food than the entire Yard could eat in a week. Paper snowflakes hung suspended from the ceiling, and a live band set up in one corner was serenading an empty dance floor and a few tables that were filled with the party’s earliest arrivals.
Sally Donovan was standing on a ladder in another corner, affixing the final decorations to the ceiling, and she jumped when Sherlock tapped her leg.
“Jesus Christ,” she cursed violently, and then she blinked down at him. “You’re here.”
“Yes.”
“What are you doing here?”
Sherlock lifted an eyebrow at her. “I was invited, Sally.”
She came down off the ladder and stood before him, her arms crossed.
“Yeah, but you’re always invited,” she pointed out. “You’ve been invited to every Christmas party for the past fifteen years. You never come.”
“Well, I’m here now, so I rather think that statement needs to be revised. I almost never come.” Sherlock scanned the room. “Where’s Hopkins?”
Sally rolled her eyes.
“Not here,” she said unhelpfully.
“Obvious. Office?”
“Probably.”
Sherlock glared at her. “He does come to this, correct?”
She gave a shrug. “In the loosest sense of the term, yes. He comes long enough to order a beer and then disappears again. Unless I can blackmail him into staying for longer than that, but he hates every minute of it.”
“He’s never been one for crowds,” Sherlock mused to himself. Sally blinked at him.
“Tell you what,” she said. “Get him down here for at least some of the party-I don’t care how little-and I’ll pay you twenty-five quid. If he refuses, you owe me twenty-five.”
It had been a while since Sherlock had faced a real challenge-well, a challenge outside of this excruciating case, at least---and he considered it for a moment.
“Done,” he said finally. “See you again soon, Sergeant.”
“In your dreams, Holmes.”
Hopkins was, exactly as Sally had predicted, in his office.
His head was bent low over an open file, and he had the end of a pen caught between his teeth. He chewed on it contemplatively for a moment before scribbling down a note in the margin of one of the documents he was looking at.
“Unless I’ve understood the invitation incorrectly--which, I assure you, I haven’t--the party is elsewhere.”
Hopkins’ head snapped up, startled, and Sherlock suppressed a groan. He thought he had given Hopkins ample warning that he was approaching this time. Evidently, that was not the case.
“Sherlock,” Hopkins said, and then stopped. He stared at Sherlock, unblinking, for several long seconds, his lips parted. Sherlock resisted the urge to look down at himself--he knew his outfit was nothing short of pristine--and instead lifted an eyebrow at Hopkins.
“Hopkins,” he said sharply, and Hopkins blinked.
“Sorry,” he said, shaking himself. “Er - how was your trip?”
“Uneventful,” Sherlock said, and though Hopkins’ face remained impassive the light behind his eyes faded.
“I see,” he said, attempting to mask his disappointment. “I take it that means that they were unable to shed any light on things?”
“Not on the case, no,” Sherlock said before he could stop himself, and at Hopkins’ quizzical look he said quickly, “Never mind. Lestrade sends his regards, by the way.”
Hopkins took a long swallow from a nearby mug.
“How’s he doing?” he asked.
Sherlock considered this for a moment.
“Well,” he said finally. “He appears to have responded well to treatment. We didn’t spend a lot of time talking about it, however.”
“I suppose that’s some good news, though.” Hopkins looked weary, and Sherlock suddenly began to feel regret at having come tonight. He had no good news to report, not really, and Hopkins appeared as though he could use some. His shoulders were hunched and stubble shadowed his jaw, the result of him having neglected his daily ministrations for some time now.
“Was your holiday... satisfactory?” The words felt alien on Sherlock’s tongue, and he had no idea what possessed him to ask the question in the first place.
“Hm? Oh, yes, fine,” Hopkins said absently. “Nothing spectacular. I worked. How was yours?”
“It was... quiet,” Sherlock said finally, deciding that was the best--and most neutral--response that he could give. It was a far sight better, at least, than the truth that was slowly starting to take shape in his mind now that he and Hopkins were in the same room again; a truth that, before now, had merely been a nebulous and indistinct feeling. But now it had words, too, that accompanied it.
I missed you.
Hopkins was looking at him, his face blank, eyes withdrawn and mouth creased at the edges. Sherlock swallowed, feeling at once out-of-place and wrong. He had never before felt this way in Hopkins’ presence; he had never felt as though he didn’t belong. This was an alien feeling, and it burned away in his chest.
“Apologies,” he managed at last. “I shouldn’t have come -”
But Hopkins reached across the desk and closed a hand on his elbow just as Sherlock got up to try to leave.
“No,” he said abruptly, his words too quick. Sherlock turned to look at him, and he dropped his hand. “I’m sorry, it’s just - this case. The work. This holiday. It’s all horrendous timing. I haven’t had a day off in weeks, this case is horrifying, and my house feels too big sometimes. Too empty. Especially around the New Year. I’m sorry, Sherlock, I’m just... tired. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want -”
He broke off, uncertain.
“But that doesn’t mean that I’m not glad to see you,” he said finally. “I am. Stay, please.”
Sherlock nodded, and Hopkins gave a shadow of a smile. He turned to shut his computer off, but in the moment that their gazes met, Sherlock saw a brief flicker in his grey eyes, equal parts hope and relief, a mirror of Sherlock’s own unspoken feelings.
I missed you, too.
“I have to admit,” Hopkins said as he set his laptop aside, affecting a light tone, “I wasn’t expecting to see you before January, mate.”
“You did invite me.”
“I always invite you.” Hopkins’ mouth quirked. “Bad habit.”
“So is this, I gather.” Sherlock gestured to the obvious signs of work scattered across Hopkins’ desk. “Is this how you spend the Christmas party every year?”
“It’s not exactly my holiday.”
“You have a Christmas tree at home.”
“And three menorahs, as well as a mezuzah on the door. What do you want me to say?”
Sherlock paused. “Three?”
Hopkins shrugged.
“My mother went through a phase back when David and I first married. Got us everything a good Jewish household should have, never mind the fact that neither of us were practicing.”
“You still go to temple.”
“Once a year, to atone for my sins. You should consider doing the same.”
Sherlock sat down in front of the desk and propped his feet on the polished wood. Hopkins scowled, but for once didn’t knock his feet away.
“I doubt attending services of any kind could convince me that there’s a higher power.”
Hopkins snorted.
“If you go to a worship service looking for proof of a deity, you’re doing it wrong. Faith is something you have, not something you should be searching for constant confirmation of.” He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray.
“You don’t believe.”
“No. But I can appreciate tradition and ritual. And I have many things to atone for--not for the sake of a higher power, but for my own.” Hopkins leaned back in his chair, regarding Sherlock carefully. “But you didn’t come here for a theology discussion.”
“I came here for a party, which you are neglecting to give me,” Sherlock said.
“Oh, please. Sherlock Holmes wants to attend a party? When the Earth stops spinning, maybe, but not a moment before.”
“I’ve been known to party,” Sherlock said, attempting to sound indignant and failing miserably. Hopkins smirked at him.
“You’ve been known to attend them. When forced. And when you do, you stand in a corner with the same drink all night and sulk.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
“Well, I’m here now,” he said. “I came here for a party, and I expect you to give me one.”
Hopkins sobered. “I’m working.”
Sherlock glanced at the papers scattered across the desk. He caught sight of a familiar crime scene photograph.
“On the case?” he asked. “It’s been months since the last abduction.”
“That doesn’t mean that the case goes away.”
“I wasn’t implying that it did,” Sherlock said. “Hopkins, there’s been no new information. There is very little you can do for it this night, and from this room.”
Hopkins crossed his ankle over his knee and rubbed his forehead.
“At least it feels like I’m doing something,” he said. “I can’t just... sit here.”
“Why not?” Sherlock asked. “You are expending time and energy on something that will get you nowhere. It’s foolish and irrational. Come downstairs.”
Hopkins looked at him as though he’d grown two heads.
“Why do you care so much?” he asked. “What does it matter whether I’m there or not?”
You’re the only reason I’m here, Sherlock almost said, and it startled him how quickly that thought came to mind.
“I have good money on you making an appearance,” he said smoothly instead. “It’s been five years since I last won a bet against Sergeant Donovan; I intend to break that streak tonight. Come on.”
Hopkins stared at him for a beat, and then let out a sharp bark of laughter.
“All right, old man,” he said, pushing himself to his feet. “I’ll go. Anything to help you keep up your reputation, or whatever. But one drink, and then I’m out of there.”
Sherlock wasn’t sure if he was even going to make it through one drink.
The party, which had started three hours ago now, was just now hitting its stride. The dance floor was crowded, the music was loud, and the various white-clothed tables scattered around the room were full of attendees taking a break between dances. The noise in the room had reached a deafening level, as everyone around them was trying to make themselves heard above the music and each other.
His only consolation was that Hopkins appeared to be as put off as he.
“Jesus Christ,” Hopkins muttered as he surveyed the crowded room. They were over by the bar, having found a spot to stand at the end of the long counter. Hopkins was on his second beer; Sherlock had barely touched his cocktail. The noise and visual stimulation combined were beginning to give him a headache.
Donovan appeared out of the crowd at Hopkins’ elbow, startling him.
“Honestly, Hopkins,” Sherlock huffed, grabbing a napkin and tossing it down on top of the beer that had sloshed over Hopkins’ glass and onto the bar.
“Sorry, sir,” Donovan said apologetically. She slapped some money down onto the counter by Sherlock’s elbow. “Here, Holmes.”
“Thanks, Donovan. Better luck next time.”
“Hey, if the only way I can get this one out of his office is by paying you, I think I can handle it,” she said dryly. “Carry on, gentlemen.”
She gave them both a two-fingered salute and dove back into the crowd, surfacing some seconds later on the arm of a fellow sergeant whose name Sherlock could never remember.
“Huh.” Hopkins stared after her for a moment, and then took a long swallow of his beer. “I thought you’d made that up.”
“Hmm? Oh, no.”
“And here I thought you actually wanted to spend time with me,” Hopkins said dryly.
“Would knowing that have got you to come down here?”
“You know what, old man?” Hopkins said absently, his eyes still on the dance floor. “It might have, at that.”
Sherlock blinked at him.
“Right, sod this,” he said suddenly. He pushed Donovan’s money across the bar and signaled the bartender. “Two more of what he’s having. Hopkins, finish your drink.”
Sherlock knocked back the remainder of his drink while Hopkins downed his beer. The bartender brought them fresh drinks, and Sherlock grabbed his.
“Going somewhere?”
“Yeah. Back to your office. Come on.”
Once they were safely sheltered in his office, Hopkins flipped on his music player. Sherlock groaned at the very first note.
“You are not going to subject me to this drivel again.”
“It’s classic rock, not drivel, and you could do with someone expanding your musical tastes. Which, last time I checked, hovered right around zero.”
Sherlock took a long swallow of his beer. It was a refreshing change after his earlier drink, and it went down easily. He probably shouldn’t have got it - one drink was about his limit, and this beer alone was probably the equivalent of two - but he couldn’t bring himself to care much.
This was, after all, a party.
“I happen to have excellent musical tastes.”
“It’s all - it’s all Puchalini, or something.”
“Puccini. And you call yourself homosexual.”
“I didn’t realise there were requirements. Other than, you know, the obvious.” Hopkins put his feet on his desk and slid down in his seat, holding his drink balanced on his stomach and resting his head against the low back of the chair. He stared sightlessly out of the window, at the view that would have been spectacular if not for the building across the way.
“Cigarette?” Sherlock asked. He dropped his feet to the floor and leaned over Hopkins’ desk in order to pop out the top drawer and grab the packet he knew Hopkins stashed there.
Hopkins shook his head. “Best not. I think I had four of those before you came.”
Sherlock lit himself a cigarette and put the rest away. He leaned back in his seat again, matching Hopkins’ posture, and blew a stream of smoke out of the corner of his mouth.
“What is it about this case that’s getting to you?” he asked finally.
“Besides the obvious?”
“Besides the obvious.”
Hopkins shook his head.
“I don’t know, Sherlock,” he said finally. “I really don’t. I’ve not really had experience with unknown victims before. It’s - look, I’m younger than you, and I’m a late-comer to the Met. It’s not something I ever really had to deal with, not once the national registry was implemented. And...”
He trailed off.
“And I’m not used to victims who don’t have anyone left behind to grieve them. No one’s going to miss them, and I can’t stand that. Isn’t that absurd?”
Sherlock shook his head slowly.
“No, I don’t believe it is.”
“You don’t feel that way.”
Sherlock felt his lips twist into a wry smile. “I don’t feel many things the way others do. I’m a poor gauge of what is proper and good, Hopkins, if that’s what you’re looking for.”
“Don’t say that,” Hopkins said gruffly. He took a quick swallow of beer. “You’re the best man I know.”
“Don’t be absurd,” Sherlock said before he could stop himself. He tried to soften his tone. “I appreciate your confidence in me. But I am far from good.”
“I don’t think you get to be the judge of that.” Hopkins’ tone was harsh. “You’ve always been good to me. Maybe not always kind, but good. You don’t give yourself enough credit.”
“And you give me far too much. You’re biased. Of course it appears to you that I am good.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Sherlock gave a wry smirk. “Haven’t you noticed that I show a certain favour towards those whose company I like to keep? I enjoy your presence, Hopkins. I... appreciate the friendship you offer. Things I won’t do for others... I’d do for you.”
Hopkins was gaping at him, rather comically, and Sherlock would have found this amusing if it were any other situation. But he was acutely aware that everything carried with it a tinge of unreality, and that he had revealed far more than he’d intended. It all seemed very remote right now, as though it had happened to someone else, but he had a feeling he would regret having been so open once he sobered up in the morning.
But the morning seemed a very long way off right now.
Sherlock got up out of his seat to fetch his mobile, which he had left in the pocket of his coat. It was hanging on the rack in the corner of the room now, probably courtesy of Hopkins as they had left for the party not an hour earlier. But before Sherlock reached the coat he paused, his attention drawn by an unfamiliar object sitting in the back corner of the office.
Behind him, he heard Hopkins give a weary sigh.
“You weren’t supposed to see that just yet,” he said in resignation.
Sherlock walked over to the tank that was sitting in the corner of the room. The lights were off, save for the dim lamp sitting on Hopkins’ desk, and he could barely make out its contents. But he knew enough to hazard a guess at what he was looking at.
“Poison dart frog,” he murmured, taken aback. He never thought he would get a chance to see one in real life, not after the massive restrictions that had been placed on their sale and breeding thirteen years ago. “Interesting. Where did you get this?”
“Oh, I don’t think I’m going to tell you that,” Hopkins said, an audible smirk in his voice. He got to his feet and joined Sherlock by the tank. “Got to keep some secrets to myself, don’t I?”
“But - Hopkins, how did you get one?” Sherlock bent at the waist to peer into the tank, still stunned. “These are incredibly rare nowadays -”
“ - which is why you’ve been dying to get your hands on one for ages.” Hopkins folded his arms over his chest, sounding smug. “So I decided to give you a bit of help.”
Sherlock straightened.
“What?”
“That’s for you, idiot,” Hopkins said fondly. “I told you I wasn’t expecting you back until well after Christmas. You usually stay out with John and Greg until sometime in January. This is what you get for popping in on me unannounced - you just spoiled your birthday gift.”
“My - Hopkins -” Sherlock couldn’t remember the last time he’d been rendered speechless. He cleared his throat, searching for words. “I - thought we agreed that you weren’t to observe that occasion.”
“You’re turning fifty, old man. You think I’m going to let the opportunity to remind you of that pass me by?” Hopkins clapped him on the shoulder. “And anyway, I’m giving it to you now, so it’s not really a birthday gift, is it? It’s not even a Christmas gift. It’s more of a - well. It’s more of a thank-God-you-lived-to-be-this-old present.”
He cleared his throat, and added quietly, “Because I don’t really know where I’d be without you.”
Sherlock straightened. Hopkins’ hand dropped from his shoulder, but Sherlock caught him by the wrist. He felt the steady thud of Hopkins’ pulse beneath his fingers, and the grey eyes that met his were perplexed.
“Sherlock,” Hopkins whispered, and it was half a question. His breath smelled of beer and cinnamon, and Sherlock fought to suppress a shudder.
“Stanley, I -” He stopped and tried to swallow past a sandpaper-dry throat. Hopkins’ pulse quickened beneath Sherlock’s fingers, and his own heart stumbled against his ribcage.
There were only centimeters between them. Sherlock’s gaze flicked to Hopkins’ lips and then back up to his eyes, and then he leaned in, his mind going blissfully blank as his breath stilled in his chest -
- And the phone on Hopkins’ desk started to trill.
Hopkins jerked backwards in surprise and Sherlock dropped his wrist, startled. They stood there for a moment, chests heaving, staring at one another in surprise while the phone continued to ring.
“Shit,” Hopkins muttered finally when the third ring of the phone tore him out of his shocked stare. He strode over to his desk and practically dove across it for the device. “Stanley Hopkins. I - well, it’s - yeah, okay, I’ll be right there.”
He rang off and turned to Sherlock.
“That’s, uh, well, another one of our cases,” he said, stumbling over his words. Sherlock didn’t think he could recall Hopkins ever being flustered before, and seeing it now was disconcerting. “Are you - can you -?”
“I’ll be all right getting home,” Sherlock said, waving away his concern. “Go.”
Hopkins paused on the threshold.
“I’m glad you came, old man,” he said quietly. “Er… Don’t forget your frog.”
He was gone before Sherlock could reply.
----
On to part 8b