An Age of Silver (13/23)
"An Age of Silver" (13/23)
Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 5a / Part 5b / Part 6 / Part 7 / Part 8a / Part 8b / Part 9 / Part 10 / Part 11 / Part 12
There was a streetlamp directly outside Hopkins’ bedroom window, and it glowed silver from dusk to dawn.
Sherlock had often heard Hopkins complain about the light, irritated as he was about its placement and persistent brightness. If ever he was remiss at night in closing the heavy curtains that framed his window, he was invariably woken in the middle of that night thinking that it was day, the lamp was so bright.
Sherlock woke now, as the clock approached two, and groaned when he realised both the hour and the fact that they had forgot about the curtains in their haste a few hours before. The streetlamp was just as glaring as Hopkins had described, and Sherlock was surprised that it hadn’t yet woken him.
Sighing, he lifted Hopkins’ arm off his chest as gently as he could manage and got up to close the curtains. Gooseflesh erupted on his chest and arms as the cool air of the house assaulted his naked body, and it was with great relief that he accomplished his task and slid into bed once again. Hopkins bled warmth, and the bed felt divine.
He roused when Sherlock caused the mattress to dip and, despite the lateness of the hour and their mutual exhaustion, gave a groggy smile when Sherlock leaned over and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth.
“Time’s it?”
“Two. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“S’all right.” Hopkins gave a tremendous yawn that he tried to stifle with the back of his hand. “Everything okay?”
“Yes. Go back to sleep, Hopkins.”
Hopkins gave a weak snort and pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s shoulder.
“At this point, Sherlock,” he whispered, “you should probably call me Stanley.”
Sherlock slid an arm underneath his body and pulled him closer, so that Hopkins’ head was resting on his chest and one of his legs was thrown across both of Sherlock’s own.
“You found that unsettling, last time I checked,” Sherlock said quietly. He wrapped an arm around Hopkins’ shoulders and pulled him close. Hopkins’ arm tightened around his chest once more.
“That was before this happened,” Hopkins pointed out, amused. He lifted his head off Sherlock’s chest and gave him a slow, lingering kiss.
“Stanley,” Sherlock whispered against the pliant lips, trying out the name on his tongue. He only ever used it very occasionally, and it sent a shiver down his spine.
Stanley hummed against his mouth, and then he gave a low chuckle as Sherlock ran a slow finger down his back, tracing each of his vertebrae. Sherlock’s hand came to rest first on Stanley’s lumbar curve, and then on his flank. He squeezed lightly. Stanley groaned and broke the kiss.
“Were I twenty years younger,” he whispered regretfully.
Sherlock had to laugh at that, because twenty years ago his own libido had been nearly nonexistent, and it hadn’t changed much since then. But he’d found over the years that it was impossible to explain to others that, while he possessed almost zero interest in sex, he could also be almost insatiable when a sufficiently brilliant and clever person came along.
“I say something funny?” Stanley murmured sleepily as the silence stretched on. Sherlock dipped a finger into the cleft of his arse, and he gave an undignified squeak.
“You probably wouldn’t have liked to know me twenty years ago,” Sherlock said, lightly teasing. Stanley kissed him.
“Oh, yes, I would have,” he said earnestly. “I’ve seen pictures. You were gorgeous, mate.”
“Were?”
Stanley laughed, and Sherlock kissed him, and for a time he forgot it was two in the morning, and that at some point this moment would end. He smoothed a hand over Stanley’s shoulder blades and down his back, brushing his palm over the bandages that bound the gunshot wound.
“Feel all right?” he asked quietly, and Stanley nodded.
“I feel fantastic.”
Eventually, Stanley fell asleep again, but Sherlock remained awake, trying to wrap his head around the absurdity of it all. Just hours ago they had gone on a mad-cap chase after two men involved in one of the longest serial killing sprees to hit London, one of their suspects was dead, they had discovered the kill site…
… And all he could bring himself to care about was this moment, and the man in his arms.
They woke for the second time that morning about an hour before Stanley’s alarm was set to go off. The hour was an unseemly one but, shattered as they had been by the previous night’s events, they had first gone to bed almost ten hours ago. As a result, Sherlock awoke feeling as though it was mid-morning, and the gaze that met his when he turned to look at Stanley was warm and clear.
They didn’t have buttons to fumble with this time, and after having spent a night together under the bedclothes, their hands and feet were warm. This time there were no hisses or undignified squeaks as cold fingers pressed against sensitive skin, and Sherlock could tuck his feet between Stanley’s calves without causing him to yelp.
This morning was calm and languid where last night had been intense and life-affirming. Stanley’s body, while far from familiar to Sherlock, was no longer uncharted territory. Sherlock now knew a couple of choice spots where he could press his lips and elicit a strangled gasp, and he knew where Stanley preferred he put his hands. Stanley shuddered under him and murmured something breathless and incoherent against his mouth; Sherlock, when he came, did so while Stanley pumped him with one hand and fingered his arse with the other.
“Swear to God, Stanley,” Sherlock whispered, resting his sweaty forehead against Stanley’s, “we should’ve done this sooner.”
Stanley framed Sherlock’s hips with his hands and kissed him. And then they kissed again, Sherlock tentatively settling his weight on top of Stanley and sliding his arms under Stanley’s shoulders. Soon they were wrapped around each other, legs entwined, Stanley’s hips pressed against his own and the hard muscles of his back leaping under Sherlock’s hands. This morning Stanley’s kisses were silver and smooth, and the sleep-sour taste of his mouth was as sweet as anything Sherlock had ever tasted. Sherlock mapped his mouth thoroughly, carefully, memorizing the tips of his canines and his slightly-crooked incisors, and the way Stanley’s smile felt under his lips when Sherlock kissed the corner of his mouth.
They missed Stanley’s alarm the first time it went off, as occupied as they were, and when it went off again ten minutes later Stanley let out a quiet curse.
“Gotta go, old man,” he said regretfully as Sherlock pressed his face into Stanley’s neck. He nipped the sensitive skin there and surfaced again. “That alarm cuts it close as it is. I’m gonna be late.”
“Five more minutes,” Sherlock said, knowing that it would be more on the order of ten - and knowing that Stanley wasn’t going to say no.
He wasn’t quite ready to give this night up.
“Five minutes, my arse. You’re going to be the death of me,” Stanley muttered good-naturedly some time later as he bent down over an armchair in the main room to give Sherlock a brief farewell kiss. His hair was still damp from his shower, and he had dressed in haste.
Sherlock breathed in the sharp scent of his soap and tried to ignore the pain in his gut, as though he had been physically struck by Stanley’s words. He reached up to redo the top three buttons of Stanley’s shirt, slotting them through the proper holes, and affected an air of nonchalance. Stanley stilled, though, apparently realising the error in his words.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean -”
“It’s fine.”
Stanley shook his head. “It was the other way around, Sherlock. You had nothing to do with me being there.”
I let you go, Sherlock thought, but at the look on Stanley’s face he simply said, “I know.”
“Don’t lie.”
“I’m not.” They kissed again, until finally Stanley was forced to pull away. Sherlock attempted a light tone. “Try not to get shot at again today.”
Stanley gave a wan smile, which Sherlock tried to return, and he ran a hand through Sherlock’s hair before finally departing the house.
Sherlock returned to Baker Street not long after Stanley left for the Yard. He showered, but that did little to ease the knot in his stomach, and the bitter taste in the back of his mouth lingered despite the strong cup of coffee he fixed for himself.
He wanted to return to two in the morning; to the hour of night when sharing a bed with Stanley - sharing with Stanley - didn’t feel like a betrayal. He wanted to return to that cold February night, and to the heated kisses that tasted like honey.
But he couldn’t go back, and he couldn’t erase what happened. Whatever occurred under the blanket of night or behind a thin veil of alcohol seemed right at the time, but here in the daylight, he was struck cold by all that they had done - and by the stark realisation that it couldn’t happen again.
He couldn’t do this. He had been fooling himself all along. It wasn’t just that he had nearly caused the death of someone else he cared deeply for-despite Stanley’s denials, Sherlock could have easily prevented them both from going last night. More than that, he could have-and should have-prevented their growing intimacy.
Because no matter how much he wanted it-and he had so desperately wanted it to happen-he couldn’t escape the fact that he was trying to love another with the intensity with which he had loved Victor, and that simply couldn’t happen. He’d had his great love. How could he possibly contemplate replacing him with another?
Sherlock’s mood deteriorated as the morning dragged on. He went from mildly discontent to feeling foul, and everything set his teeth on edge. He couldn’t stop thinking of Stanley, but it wasn’t with fondness that he thought back on their night together. Now the memory of Stanley’s mouth against his own made him curl his lip, and remembering Stanley spread out beneath him, flushed and wanting, left Sherlock merely feeling uneasy.
I’m so sorry, Victor.
Sherlock sat in the kitchen with his head buried in his hands. Working on his website had done nothing to improve his mood, and none of his experiments were sufficiently compelling. He tried to read for a time - his mythology was growing rusty - but even that wasn’t enough of a distraction from his restless thoughts.
This was why he didn’t do this; why over the years, when he was at his lowest, he went to a pub and picked up the stranger who most resembled Victor and allowed the man to fuck him blind. He had tried to assuage his grief over the years with men he would never have to see again, and it had been enough-or so he thought, at least. But now he was letting himself get embroiled in an affair that had no good outcome, for he couldn’t love one man without betraying the other.
Caring isn’t an advantage, Mycroft always said, and Sherlock should have heeded his advice.
It had been so much less complicated before he kissed Stanley, even though at the time it had felt right. At the time, it felt as though a dam had finally given way in his chest, and a pressure that had been building for years finally eased. It felt right.
But just because something felt right didn’t mean it was the correct course of action, as Lestrade had reminded him so many times over the years. Sherlock should have known better than to let emotions get the better of his judgment.
I don’t think that’s what Greg meant, the John-voice in his head pointed out helpfully.
Sherlock really wished that the voice would bugger off.
----
Sherlock found Molly in the morgue.
“What’s the first insect to appear at the site of decomposing remains?” Molly asked him as he entered the morgue. She was bent over the exposed arm of a corpse on her table. The rest of the body had been covered by a grey sheet.
“Calliphoridae,” Sherlock answered. “They usually arrive within a few minutes of death, no matter where the body might be.”
“Blow flies,” Molly murmured to herself. “And they usually deposit their eggs within three hours?”
“Correct. Why?”
“I can’t tell you.” She straightened, snapped off her gloves, and flashed him a grin. “But if my hunch is right, you might have another case gracing your plate at some point in the coming weeks. Strictly murder.”
That would be a nice change, Sherlock had to admit, and he gave her a grateful nod.
“Something I can help you with?” she asked as she washed up.
“No,” Sherlock said, and then couldn’t think of any reason for why he might have come down here, and so said nothing further. Molly, to her credit, didn’t appear fazed. When she left the morgue, he followed, and they both ended up back in her lab.
“Well, since you’re here,” she said, pulling out a stool and indicating that he should sit before one of the microscopes, “you can help me with this. I have fifteen petri dishes I’ve been growing cultures in, and I need to record today’s results. But the death of Mr X back there really backed me up today, and I’m running behind. Get started on them for me?”
She handed him a notebook and indicated where she had been keeping a running tally of the number of growth spots that had appeared in each petri dish over the course of the past five days. While Sherlock set to work on that, Molly then moved over to one of the computers and began entering all of the data she had obtained from her newest addition to the morgue.
Sherlock had always admired her efficiency, and her ability to detach herself emotionally from the work. It was the one area that she excelled in while he failed, in fact, and Sherlock would be lying if he said that didn’t cause him a slight bit of envy. He had always prided himself on his ability to remove himself mentally from a situation, no matter the crime or the victim. It was necessary for getting the work done and getting it done well. In their chosen occupations, they could not afford to let emotions get in the way.
He had failed at that once, and only once, and it had cost him Victor’s life. He had not noticed the ominous signs until it was far too late. He had not noticed the glaringly obvious because he had allowed himself to become emotionally invested in the situation; because he was so focused on protecting-and avenging-those at home that he didn’t focus enough attention on what was happening to the one closest to him.
He was careless, and Victor got sick. He was oblivious, and Victor died.
And fifteen years ago, Molly had come into work on the evening of Christmas Day so that she could be the one to tend to Victor’s body. She saw to Victor whilst wearing a white lab coat over her bright party dress, her painted lips drawn together in a thin line and her face impassive. She was a doctor first and a friend second that night, and she did what was necessary in order to properly tend to her charge.
Sherlock, on the other hand, had waited in the corridor while Molly conducted the autopsy. He’d sat on the ground with his forehead pressed to his knees, brain stuttering and unable to process anything. He’d been of no use to Victor in the final months of his life, and he was of no use then. He went to Baker Street afterwards and spent days quietly falling apart. Molly, during that time, was a constant source of calm and reason; a wealth of rationality that Sherlock normally found in himself. Such logic was noticeably absent in the months after Victor’s death, and so he had come to rely heavily on her. Her judgment was sound then.
Her judgment was sound still.
“I slept with Inspector Hopkins.”
Molly didn’t look up from her work.
“Yes,” she said.
“It -” Sherlock stopped. It’s wrong. I shouldn’t be so content. “He’s not Victor.”
Now Molly looked at him.
“Of course he’s not,” she said levelly. “You’ve had your Victor. Why would you want another one?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Then say what you mean.”
I did, Sherlock thought in irritation. Instead, he said, “I only meant -” and stopped.
I only meant, would Victor have minded?
“Sometimes I wonder if he said anything the night he died.” Sherlock rubbed the back of his neck wearily, trying to press away the ache of exhaustion and stress. “I don’t entirely recall.”
A brief look of concern flashed across Molly’s face, but she hid it quickly.
“I wasn’t there,” she said gently, as though she thought he might have forgotten. “No one was, Sherlock. Just you.”
He remembered that much, of course, but sometimes the night of Victor’s death felt more like a hazy, terrible nightmare than something he had actually experienced. It was foggy and unclear in his mind, and some details Sherlock was sure were imagined. Sometimes, he remembered Victor holding his hand up until the end; other times, he remembered instead clutching Victor’s barely-responsive fingers, because Victor was so far gone at that point that he hardly noticed what was happening around him.
On the worst days, Sherlock remembered whispered assurances and a litany of I love you, but that couldn’t have been real. Victor was never one for voicing what was already known, and Sherlock had never needed to hear the obvious.
Not at the time, at least. Now, however, he could have used the comfort of those words.
“I don’t suppose I might have mentioned something afterwards,” Sherlock said quietly.
“Like what?”
Sherlock swallowed hard.
“Sometimes I wonder,” he said softly, “if he might have said… if he might have told me what I was supposed to do after he was gone. Because… because I don’t know what he wanted, and I don’t know what to do.”
Molly came over to sit next to him on a neighbouring stool. She smelled faintly of antiseptic and laundry soap, but not of perfume. Molly never wore perfume.
“He said your name,” she said softly. “That’s all. He said your name, and then he was gone.”
She took his hand and held it, much like she had done on that night fifteen years ago. They had sat together much like this in the morgue, Victor’s cooling body already on a slab before them, the sheet pulled down to his chest because Sherlock wouldn’t let anyone cover his face. They had sat in silence for close to two hours, until finally Molly had whispered, “Let me take care of him now,” and Sherlock had retreated to the corridor. He’d known that no one could take better care of Victor than Molly.
“I remember,” Sherlock whispered.
“And do you know what else I think he’d have said, if he’d had the strength?” Molly squeezed his hand. “‘Like generations of leaves, the lives of mortal men.’”
“‘As one generation comes to life, another dies away,’” Sherlock finished with a grim smile.
“You told me once that he liked the classics.”
Sherlock nodded. “The Iliad was one of his favourites. ‘Why so much grief for me? No man will hurl me down to Death, against my fate.’ Yes, that was very like him.”
He added dryly, “I suppose it’s also no small irony that its sequel involves a man returning home from war to a wife who thought him dead.”
“Victor always had a bit of dramatic flair about him, didn’t he?” Molly said. She gave an understanding smile. “You two were rather well suited for one another.”
She let go of his hand and patted his knee. “But that was another time, and you were someone else back then. Victor’s greatest flaw was that he was obsessive, and it made him short-sighted. You were everything to him, and he went to every length to protect you-even if it ultimately meant that you got hurt in the end. He couldn’t quite understand that, because nothing mattered other than keeping you safe. He was a story, Sherlock. He was larger than life. Stanley Hopkins is none of those things, and I think it’s for the better. You don’t need stories anymore, but you do need him. Victor would understand.”
“I’m not entirely certain that he would.”
“He’s also not exactly around anymore to make that judgment.”
It stung, but she was right. Victor was the sum of the makeup of the grey matter in his head, and that had decomposed years ago. There was nothing left of him that could pass any kind of judgment on Sherlock, and nothing left of him that could give the kind of approval Sherlock seemed to need.
Molly got to her feet. “Don’t let a man who has already passed dictate how you live out the rest of your life-especially when all he ever wanted to do was make you happy. He may have gone about it entirely the wrong way, but his intentions were genuine. So the question you need to be asking isn’t what would make Victor happy, but what would make you happy, Sherlock?”
Sherlock was quiet for a long moment.
“I don’t know that I should answer that,” he said finally. Molly touched his arm, her eyebrows furrowing in deep concern.
“I think you need to,” she said softly. “Tell me. What would make you happy?”
Sherlock met her gaze steadily.
“Having Victor back.”
Molly’s face crumpled, and Sherlock turned on his heel and left the lab without a backward glance.
----
Stanley spent three days putting out the fires from their escapade to McCormack Industries.
Sherlock received periodic updates from Donovan via text, as he was trying to keep his interactions with Stanley at a minimum. Besides, he had a feeling that Stanley would catch hell from Guerra if he found out that Stanley was involving Sherlock in more of the investigation than he already had. But there was very little Donovan could tell him, apart from the fact that Forensics was going to be spending days properly processing the kill room, as there was an abundance of evidence to sort through.
He finally heard from Stanley at the end of the third day.
Dinner? I’ll pick it up after my shift.
Sherlock missed their interactions, no matter how much he tried to pretend to himself otherwise these past few days, and he responded instantly.
Yes.
Stanley arrived back at the flat a little after seven, and Sherlock couldn’t help the tiny leap in his chest when he heard the tell-tale slam of the door downstairs and then Stanley’s footsteps as he took the stairs two at a time. Guilt settled, hot and heavy, in his stomach, and when Stanley kissed him in greeting Sherlock simultaneously wanted to relax into the kiss and push him away.
“You all right, old man?” Stanley asked quietly, pulling back and giving Sherlock a reassuring smile.
“Fine.”
Stanley shrugged and moved away. Sherlock turned so that his back was to the main room, and he stared out of the tall windows while Stanley got himself settled.
It was raining.
“What’s the news from the Yard?” Sherlock asked finally.
“Guerra’s not exactly the forgiving sort,” Stanley said. “Not that I don’t deserve it, mind, but I could do without him hanging over my shoulder right now.”
“And the case?”
“It looks like we can confirm that Anthony Dawlins was our accomplice, but not our actual killer,” Stanley answered. “He has an alibi for every kill so far, and one that can be corroborated a number of different ways.”
“So he provided the kill site, and perhaps nothing more,” Sherlock said. Stanley nodded. “What about that room?”
Stanley rubbed his forehead wearily.
“They’re still processing it,” he said quietly. “There’s a hell of a lot for them to look at. The killer wasn’t too concerned about keeping it pristine. There are fingerprints everywhere and DNA on the mattress. There’s only one thing we can say for certain at this point. He’s going to have to change his kill site.”
“Yes,” Sherlock agreed, “but not his hunting grounds.”
Stanley gave him a skeptical look.
“Are you sure about that?” he asked. “If I were him, I’d get the fuck out of London. Staying isn’t worth the risk.”
Sherlock shook his head. “He’s not going to do that. For some reason, he needs to find his victims here. If not, he would have cleared out long ago, probably not long after that first press conference. But he stayed, Stanley, and I think that means something.”
Stanley rubbed the back of his neck wearily. The collar of his shirt shifted, exposing part of his neck that usually remained hidden, and Sherlock caught sight of a now-fading mark he had sucked into Stanley’s skin three nights ago. He swallowed and looked away.
“I’m not telling the public about this,” Stanley was saying when Sherlock managed to shake the memory of Stanley’s moans from his mind.
“Sorry, what?”
“We never told the public there were two suspects in the first place. We have a body, and we have the kill site,” Stanley told him. “I’m going to imply that we think the man you killed that night is actually our killer, given that it was his office where the kill site was discovered, and that the case is wrapping up. Our actual killer will hang around even longer once he realises I’m not going to pursue him. Maybe he’ll even grow comfortable and make a mistake.”
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. It was probably the best course of action, he had to admit that, but likely was also the kind of suggestion that would have got him in trouble had he made it ten, fifteen years ago.
“Do you think it’ll work?”
Stanley shrugged. “I’ll try anything, at this point. There’s been a hell of a lot of pressure since the beginning to get this wrapped up. The fact that it’s dragged on for so long has the higher-ups nervous. Now that we have the kill site and an abundance of evidence, they’re going to want a name quickly. I need to flush out this killer as quickly as possible, Sherlock.”
Sherlock nodded absently. He turned back to the window and watched the rain. Stanley came up behind him and rested a hand on his shoulder.
“You sure you’re okay?”
Sherlock said nothing for a long while, and Stanley wrapped his other arm around Sherlock’s collarbone. He rested his chin on Sherlock’s shoulder and molded himself to Sherlock’s back. Sherlock swallowed hard as the solid warmth of Stanley bled through his shirt.
Stanley pressed a kiss to his temple. “What’s got your mind in a muddle now, old man?”
Sherlock didn’t register the question right away, and by the time he dredged up an answer Stanley had pulled away. He was now standing in front of Sherlock, his back to the window. He looked concerned.
“What’s happened?” he asked quietly. “Christ, man, you look like hell.”
Sherlock felt the strength leave his limbs, and he slumped, no longer able to hold his rigid posture. Stanley pressed his hands to Sherlock’s shoulders, steadying him.
“Bad day,” Sherlock whispered.
“I can tell,” Stanley said gently, and his words bled concern. “Tell me. Was it Mycroft?”
Sherlock gave a harsh laugh. “No, Stanley, it’s all me. I’m - I’m a fool.”
“You’re not -“
“I am,” Sherlock said emphatically. “I’m a fool, and now I’ve dragged you into it, too, and I just - I can’t -”
Stanley rested his hand on the side of Sherlock’s throat, and he stroked a thumb along Sherlock’s jaw.
“What is it?” he asked quietly. “What can’t you do?”
Sherlock took a deep breath. “This. You and me and… this. It isn’t going to work, Stanley. I can’t do this.”
He fought to keep it level as he said this, and winced at the pain that flickered across Stanley’s face. He looked as though he had been slapped, and he dropped his hand and took a step back.
“I’m so sorry,” Sherlock whispered.
Stanley said nothing for a very long while, and Sherlock hated himself; hated that he needed to do this. For a brief, terrible moment, he wished that he had never met Stanley.
“All right,” Stanley said at length, his voice quiet but steady. He plucked his jacket off the back of the door and opened it. “Good night, Sherlock.”
He left quietly, without fuss, and when the downstairs door shut behind him Sherlock felt as though he had been punched in the chest.
That night, Sherlock dreamed of a chase.
He dreamed of a man who had been loved and lost twice over; a shade who remained just one step ahead of him and who was always out of reach. They were dashing through a darkened street, Sherlock’s breathing echoing in his ears and nearly drowning out the footsteps of the man he was pursuing. But then, as the man rounded a corner, Sherlock reached out his hand...
…. and closed it around Victor’s bicep.
Victor turned, and Sherlock froze, rendered immobile by the shock of finally having caught him.
“Sherlock,” Victor said softly, a gentle smile on his face.
“Victor,” Sherlock whispered, breathless. “Are you - I -”
“It’s all right,” Victor said calmly. “You can let me go.”
“What?” Sherlock asked stupidly. “No.”
But when he blinked, he was grasping empty air.
Sherlock woke all at once, chest heaving, his heart still pounding from the imagined chase. His right hand was curled into a tight fist, nails biting into his palms. It still tingled with the lingering, phantom sensation of Victor’s jacket, and the warmth from his skin.
He had been so close, so close, this time. Victor had looked at him, Victor had spoken, and Sherlock’s gut twisted at the memory. He was never going to see that face again, he couldn’t even properly remember the voice, and the indignity of having caught Victor only to lose him again was almost too much.
Sherlock choked back great lungfuls of air, trying to slow his breathing and calm his heart, but a handful of broken sobs slipped past his lips instead. He gritted his teeth and clamped his eyes shut, resting his forehead on bent knees as he struggled to bring himself back under control. He hadn’t felt pain this acute in years, not since the day they buried Victor.
He didn’t sleep again that night.
----
Sherlock had lunch with Mycroft the next afternoon.
They dined in the same opulent restaurant, filled to bursting even on a Wednesday. Sherlock picked at his food and drank his wine without truly tasting it, thinking of Stanley in the conference room with images of the victims and the dead suspect plastered on the wall, and people bringing him reports every half an hour, reports that said nothing more than We’re still working on it. He’d probably forget to eat, the useless bastard.
“You’re worried about him.”
Sherlock couldn’t tell what was making him feel worse - the actual look on Stanley’s face right before the left the flat the other night or the imagined look on Victor’s when Sherlock pictured him finding out about Stanley. Both were equally nauseating.
“Yes,” Sherlock answered finally.
“I can increase his security.”
“That’s not what concerns me.” Sherlock focused on a woman sitting to his left. Her back was to him, her golden hair twisted in a bun that was so high it concealed the face of her dining companion. He stared at her for a long moment--two dogs, ten years married, a painter--before his thoughts settled and he could look at Mycroft again. “We found the kill room, and one of the suspects is dead.”
“But not the killer.”
“No, I don’t think so. Stanley’s not going to handle that well.” Sherlock worried a loose thread on his napkin between two fingers, trying to steer the conversation elsewhere. “There’s nothing you can do.”
It was half a question, and Mycroft answered it accordingly.
“My resources are not infinite, Sherlock. I have been putting my own people onto the case, but they have had as much luck as the Yard, I’m afraid.”
“I see.”
They ate in silence for a while.
“I was doing some reading the other day,” Sherlock said at length. “I’m rusty on my Greek mythology.”
“Oh?” Mycroft made a good show of feigning interest, at least. “And have you come to learn anything interesting?”
“The poet Hesiod proposed that there were five ages of man,” Sherlock said quietly. “The first was the Golden Age, a period of time where humans were fashioned by the gods and lived out long lives of peace and harmony. And they were - they were oblivious of death. When they died, it was peacefully, and in their sleep. It was an age of harmony… and of perfection.”
Mycroft remained silent, but Sherlock knew he was listening.
“It was followed, then,” he said dully, “by the Silver Age-an age where men were less noble than the ones who had come before. They aged, and they were plagued by war, and eventually they died. It was… an imperfect age. A lesser age.”
“And is that how you see your life?” Mycroft said at last. “That you’ve had a golden age - and that everything that comes after it pales by comparison?”
“It’s just a story, Mycroft,” Sherlock muttered, dropping his eyes to his plate. “I don’t know. It’s just something that I read.”
Mycroft poured himself another glass of wine.
“Just something that you read,” he repeated thoughtfully. “Interesting. Tell me, does this something that you read have anything to do with why Inspector Hopkins left so abruptly the other night?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sherlock said stiffly, his stomach twisting. They stared at one another for a long moment, until finally Sherlock dropped his eyes to his plate.
“His only crime is that he’s not Victor,” Mycroft said at last. “Ease up on him, brother dear. How is he supposed to compete with a dead man?”
Sherlock wrestled with an irrational burst of anger and took a long swallow from his own glass.
“He wouldn’t have to if you hadn’t decided to meddle in Victor’s life all those years ago,” he snarled at last.
Mycroft ignored him.
“You could no more have stopped Inspector Hopkins from going out that night than you could have the Earth from spinning,” he said. “You play long-suffering well, Sherlock, but that’s all it ever is - play. You hide behind your guilt over Victor’s death and you use it as an excuse to keep from moving on. You use him as an excuse. And I don’t think he’d really appreciate it, do you?”
Sherlock took a bitter swallow of wine. He was too sober for this conversation, and he was starting to feel physically ill. He wished Mycroft would leave well enough alone.
“Inspector Hopkins feels everything too much,” Mycroft went on. “You won’t allow yourself to feel anything at all-or you try not to, at least. But there are flaws in that plan that even you never foresaw, Sherlock. Victor was one of them, and he forced you to feel more than you wanted to. Hopkins is another, and he’s making you feel what you never thought was possible again. You two are quite well suited for one another.”
Sherlock downed the rest of his wine and set his glass aside, his hand unsteady.
“We’re not -” he said, and stopped abruptly. His brain, it seemed, would no longer allow him to say the words aloud.
“Yes,” Mycroft said patiently into the silence, “you are.”
----
Part 14a
Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 5a / Part 5b / Part 6 / Part 7 / Part 8a / Part 8b / Part 9 / Part 10 / Part 11 / Part 12
There was a streetlamp directly outside Hopkins’ bedroom window, and it glowed silver from dusk to dawn.
Sherlock had often heard Hopkins complain about the light, irritated as he was about its placement and persistent brightness. If ever he was remiss at night in closing the heavy curtains that framed his window, he was invariably woken in the middle of that night thinking that it was day, the lamp was so bright.
Sherlock woke now, as the clock approached two, and groaned when he realised both the hour and the fact that they had forgot about the curtains in their haste a few hours before. The streetlamp was just as glaring as Hopkins had described, and Sherlock was surprised that it hadn’t yet woken him.
Sighing, he lifted Hopkins’ arm off his chest as gently as he could manage and got up to close the curtains. Gooseflesh erupted on his chest and arms as the cool air of the house assaulted his naked body, and it was with great relief that he accomplished his task and slid into bed once again. Hopkins bled warmth, and the bed felt divine.
He roused when Sherlock caused the mattress to dip and, despite the lateness of the hour and their mutual exhaustion, gave a groggy smile when Sherlock leaned over and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth.
“Time’s it?”
“Two. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“S’all right.” Hopkins gave a tremendous yawn that he tried to stifle with the back of his hand. “Everything okay?”
“Yes. Go back to sleep, Hopkins.”
Hopkins gave a weak snort and pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s shoulder.
“At this point, Sherlock,” he whispered, “you should probably call me Stanley.”
Sherlock slid an arm underneath his body and pulled him closer, so that Hopkins’ head was resting on his chest and one of his legs was thrown across both of Sherlock’s own.
“You found that unsettling, last time I checked,” Sherlock said quietly. He wrapped an arm around Hopkins’ shoulders and pulled him close. Hopkins’ arm tightened around his chest once more.
“That was before this happened,” Hopkins pointed out, amused. He lifted his head off Sherlock’s chest and gave him a slow, lingering kiss.
“Stanley,” Sherlock whispered against the pliant lips, trying out the name on his tongue. He only ever used it very occasionally, and it sent a shiver down his spine.
Stanley hummed against his mouth, and then he gave a low chuckle as Sherlock ran a slow finger down his back, tracing each of his vertebrae. Sherlock’s hand came to rest first on Stanley’s lumbar curve, and then on his flank. He squeezed lightly. Stanley groaned and broke the kiss.
“Were I twenty years younger,” he whispered regretfully.
Sherlock had to laugh at that, because twenty years ago his own libido had been nearly nonexistent, and it hadn’t changed much since then. But he’d found over the years that it was impossible to explain to others that, while he possessed almost zero interest in sex, he could also be almost insatiable when a sufficiently brilliant and clever person came along.
“I say something funny?” Stanley murmured sleepily as the silence stretched on. Sherlock dipped a finger into the cleft of his arse, and he gave an undignified squeak.
“You probably wouldn’t have liked to know me twenty years ago,” Sherlock said, lightly teasing. Stanley kissed him.
“Oh, yes, I would have,” he said earnestly. “I’ve seen pictures. You were gorgeous, mate.”
“Were?”
Stanley laughed, and Sherlock kissed him, and for a time he forgot it was two in the morning, and that at some point this moment would end. He smoothed a hand over Stanley’s shoulder blades and down his back, brushing his palm over the bandages that bound the gunshot wound.
“Feel all right?” he asked quietly, and Stanley nodded.
“I feel fantastic.”
Eventually, Stanley fell asleep again, but Sherlock remained awake, trying to wrap his head around the absurdity of it all. Just hours ago they had gone on a mad-cap chase after two men involved in one of the longest serial killing sprees to hit London, one of their suspects was dead, they had discovered the kill site…
… And all he could bring himself to care about was this moment, and the man in his arms.
They woke for the second time that morning about an hour before Stanley’s alarm was set to go off. The hour was an unseemly one but, shattered as they had been by the previous night’s events, they had first gone to bed almost ten hours ago. As a result, Sherlock awoke feeling as though it was mid-morning, and the gaze that met his when he turned to look at Stanley was warm and clear.
They didn’t have buttons to fumble with this time, and after having spent a night together under the bedclothes, their hands and feet were warm. This time there were no hisses or undignified squeaks as cold fingers pressed against sensitive skin, and Sherlock could tuck his feet between Stanley’s calves without causing him to yelp.
This morning was calm and languid where last night had been intense and life-affirming. Stanley’s body, while far from familiar to Sherlock, was no longer uncharted territory. Sherlock now knew a couple of choice spots where he could press his lips and elicit a strangled gasp, and he knew where Stanley preferred he put his hands. Stanley shuddered under him and murmured something breathless and incoherent against his mouth; Sherlock, when he came, did so while Stanley pumped him with one hand and fingered his arse with the other.
“Swear to God, Stanley,” Sherlock whispered, resting his sweaty forehead against Stanley’s, “we should’ve done this sooner.”
Stanley framed Sherlock’s hips with his hands and kissed him. And then they kissed again, Sherlock tentatively settling his weight on top of Stanley and sliding his arms under Stanley’s shoulders. Soon they were wrapped around each other, legs entwined, Stanley’s hips pressed against his own and the hard muscles of his back leaping under Sherlock’s hands. This morning Stanley’s kisses were silver and smooth, and the sleep-sour taste of his mouth was as sweet as anything Sherlock had ever tasted. Sherlock mapped his mouth thoroughly, carefully, memorizing the tips of his canines and his slightly-crooked incisors, and the way Stanley’s smile felt under his lips when Sherlock kissed the corner of his mouth.
They missed Stanley’s alarm the first time it went off, as occupied as they were, and when it went off again ten minutes later Stanley let out a quiet curse.
“Gotta go, old man,” he said regretfully as Sherlock pressed his face into Stanley’s neck. He nipped the sensitive skin there and surfaced again. “That alarm cuts it close as it is. I’m gonna be late.”
“Five more minutes,” Sherlock said, knowing that it would be more on the order of ten - and knowing that Stanley wasn’t going to say no.
He wasn’t quite ready to give this night up.
“Five minutes, my arse. You’re going to be the death of me,” Stanley muttered good-naturedly some time later as he bent down over an armchair in the main room to give Sherlock a brief farewell kiss. His hair was still damp from his shower, and he had dressed in haste.
Sherlock breathed in the sharp scent of his soap and tried to ignore the pain in his gut, as though he had been physically struck by Stanley’s words. He reached up to redo the top three buttons of Stanley’s shirt, slotting them through the proper holes, and affected an air of nonchalance. Stanley stilled, though, apparently realising the error in his words.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean -”
“It’s fine.”
Stanley shook his head. “It was the other way around, Sherlock. You had nothing to do with me being there.”
I let you go, Sherlock thought, but at the look on Stanley’s face he simply said, “I know.”
“Don’t lie.”
“I’m not.” They kissed again, until finally Stanley was forced to pull away. Sherlock attempted a light tone. “Try not to get shot at again today.”
Stanley gave a wan smile, which Sherlock tried to return, and he ran a hand through Sherlock’s hair before finally departing the house.
Sherlock returned to Baker Street not long after Stanley left for the Yard. He showered, but that did little to ease the knot in his stomach, and the bitter taste in the back of his mouth lingered despite the strong cup of coffee he fixed for himself.
He wanted to return to two in the morning; to the hour of night when sharing a bed with Stanley - sharing with Stanley - didn’t feel like a betrayal. He wanted to return to that cold February night, and to the heated kisses that tasted like honey.
But he couldn’t go back, and he couldn’t erase what happened. Whatever occurred under the blanket of night or behind a thin veil of alcohol seemed right at the time, but here in the daylight, he was struck cold by all that they had done - and by the stark realisation that it couldn’t happen again.
He couldn’t do this. He had been fooling himself all along. It wasn’t just that he had nearly caused the death of someone else he cared deeply for-despite Stanley’s denials, Sherlock could have easily prevented them both from going last night. More than that, he could have-and should have-prevented their growing intimacy.
Because no matter how much he wanted it-and he had so desperately wanted it to happen-he couldn’t escape the fact that he was trying to love another with the intensity with which he had loved Victor, and that simply couldn’t happen. He’d had his great love. How could he possibly contemplate replacing him with another?
Sherlock’s mood deteriorated as the morning dragged on. He went from mildly discontent to feeling foul, and everything set his teeth on edge. He couldn’t stop thinking of Stanley, but it wasn’t with fondness that he thought back on their night together. Now the memory of Stanley’s mouth against his own made him curl his lip, and remembering Stanley spread out beneath him, flushed and wanting, left Sherlock merely feeling uneasy.
I’m so sorry, Victor.
Sherlock sat in the kitchen with his head buried in his hands. Working on his website had done nothing to improve his mood, and none of his experiments were sufficiently compelling. He tried to read for a time - his mythology was growing rusty - but even that wasn’t enough of a distraction from his restless thoughts.
This was why he didn’t do this; why over the years, when he was at his lowest, he went to a pub and picked up the stranger who most resembled Victor and allowed the man to fuck him blind. He had tried to assuage his grief over the years with men he would never have to see again, and it had been enough-or so he thought, at least. But now he was letting himself get embroiled in an affair that had no good outcome, for he couldn’t love one man without betraying the other.
Caring isn’t an advantage, Mycroft always said, and Sherlock should have heeded his advice.
It had been so much less complicated before he kissed Stanley, even though at the time it had felt right. At the time, it felt as though a dam had finally given way in his chest, and a pressure that had been building for years finally eased. It felt right.
But just because something felt right didn’t mean it was the correct course of action, as Lestrade had reminded him so many times over the years. Sherlock should have known better than to let emotions get the better of his judgment.
I don’t think that’s what Greg meant, the John-voice in his head pointed out helpfully.
Sherlock really wished that the voice would bugger off.
----
Sherlock found Molly in the morgue.
“What’s the first insect to appear at the site of decomposing remains?” Molly asked him as he entered the morgue. She was bent over the exposed arm of a corpse on her table. The rest of the body had been covered by a grey sheet.
“Calliphoridae,” Sherlock answered. “They usually arrive within a few minutes of death, no matter where the body might be.”
“Blow flies,” Molly murmured to herself. “And they usually deposit their eggs within three hours?”
“Correct. Why?”
“I can’t tell you.” She straightened, snapped off her gloves, and flashed him a grin. “But if my hunch is right, you might have another case gracing your plate at some point in the coming weeks. Strictly murder.”
That would be a nice change, Sherlock had to admit, and he gave her a grateful nod.
“Something I can help you with?” she asked as she washed up.
“No,” Sherlock said, and then couldn’t think of any reason for why he might have come down here, and so said nothing further. Molly, to her credit, didn’t appear fazed. When she left the morgue, he followed, and they both ended up back in her lab.
“Well, since you’re here,” she said, pulling out a stool and indicating that he should sit before one of the microscopes, “you can help me with this. I have fifteen petri dishes I’ve been growing cultures in, and I need to record today’s results. But the death of Mr X back there really backed me up today, and I’m running behind. Get started on them for me?”
She handed him a notebook and indicated where she had been keeping a running tally of the number of growth spots that had appeared in each petri dish over the course of the past five days. While Sherlock set to work on that, Molly then moved over to one of the computers and began entering all of the data she had obtained from her newest addition to the morgue.
Sherlock had always admired her efficiency, and her ability to detach herself emotionally from the work. It was the one area that she excelled in while he failed, in fact, and Sherlock would be lying if he said that didn’t cause him a slight bit of envy. He had always prided himself on his ability to remove himself mentally from a situation, no matter the crime or the victim. It was necessary for getting the work done and getting it done well. In their chosen occupations, they could not afford to let emotions get in the way.
He had failed at that once, and only once, and it had cost him Victor’s life. He had not noticed the ominous signs until it was far too late. He had not noticed the glaringly obvious because he had allowed himself to become emotionally invested in the situation; because he was so focused on protecting-and avenging-those at home that he didn’t focus enough attention on what was happening to the one closest to him.
He was careless, and Victor got sick. He was oblivious, and Victor died.
And fifteen years ago, Molly had come into work on the evening of Christmas Day so that she could be the one to tend to Victor’s body. She saw to Victor whilst wearing a white lab coat over her bright party dress, her painted lips drawn together in a thin line and her face impassive. She was a doctor first and a friend second that night, and she did what was necessary in order to properly tend to her charge.
Sherlock, on the other hand, had waited in the corridor while Molly conducted the autopsy. He’d sat on the ground with his forehead pressed to his knees, brain stuttering and unable to process anything. He’d been of no use to Victor in the final months of his life, and he was of no use then. He went to Baker Street afterwards and spent days quietly falling apart. Molly, during that time, was a constant source of calm and reason; a wealth of rationality that Sherlock normally found in himself. Such logic was noticeably absent in the months after Victor’s death, and so he had come to rely heavily on her. Her judgment was sound then.
Her judgment was sound still.
“I slept with Inspector Hopkins.”
Molly didn’t look up from her work.
“Yes,” she said.
“It -” Sherlock stopped. It’s wrong. I shouldn’t be so content. “He’s not Victor.”
Now Molly looked at him.
“Of course he’s not,” she said levelly. “You’ve had your Victor. Why would you want another one?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Then say what you mean.”
I did, Sherlock thought in irritation. Instead, he said, “I only meant -” and stopped.
I only meant, would Victor have minded?
“Sometimes I wonder if he said anything the night he died.” Sherlock rubbed the back of his neck wearily, trying to press away the ache of exhaustion and stress. “I don’t entirely recall.”
A brief look of concern flashed across Molly’s face, but she hid it quickly.
“I wasn’t there,” she said gently, as though she thought he might have forgotten. “No one was, Sherlock. Just you.”
He remembered that much, of course, but sometimes the night of Victor’s death felt more like a hazy, terrible nightmare than something he had actually experienced. It was foggy and unclear in his mind, and some details Sherlock was sure were imagined. Sometimes, he remembered Victor holding his hand up until the end; other times, he remembered instead clutching Victor’s barely-responsive fingers, because Victor was so far gone at that point that he hardly noticed what was happening around him.
On the worst days, Sherlock remembered whispered assurances and a litany of I love you, but that couldn’t have been real. Victor was never one for voicing what was already known, and Sherlock had never needed to hear the obvious.
Not at the time, at least. Now, however, he could have used the comfort of those words.
“I don’t suppose I might have mentioned something afterwards,” Sherlock said quietly.
“Like what?”
Sherlock swallowed hard.
“Sometimes I wonder,” he said softly, “if he might have said… if he might have told me what I was supposed to do after he was gone. Because… because I don’t know what he wanted, and I don’t know what to do.”
Molly came over to sit next to him on a neighbouring stool. She smelled faintly of antiseptic and laundry soap, but not of perfume. Molly never wore perfume.
“He said your name,” she said softly. “That’s all. He said your name, and then he was gone.”
She took his hand and held it, much like she had done on that night fifteen years ago. They had sat together much like this in the morgue, Victor’s cooling body already on a slab before them, the sheet pulled down to his chest because Sherlock wouldn’t let anyone cover his face. They had sat in silence for close to two hours, until finally Molly had whispered, “Let me take care of him now,” and Sherlock had retreated to the corridor. He’d known that no one could take better care of Victor than Molly.
“I remember,” Sherlock whispered.
“And do you know what else I think he’d have said, if he’d had the strength?” Molly squeezed his hand. “‘Like generations of leaves, the lives of mortal men.’”
“‘As one generation comes to life, another dies away,’” Sherlock finished with a grim smile.
“You told me once that he liked the classics.”
Sherlock nodded. “The Iliad was one of his favourites. ‘Why so much grief for me? No man will hurl me down to Death, against my fate.’ Yes, that was very like him.”
He added dryly, “I suppose it’s also no small irony that its sequel involves a man returning home from war to a wife who thought him dead.”
“Victor always had a bit of dramatic flair about him, didn’t he?” Molly said. She gave an understanding smile. “You two were rather well suited for one another.”
She let go of his hand and patted his knee. “But that was another time, and you were someone else back then. Victor’s greatest flaw was that he was obsessive, and it made him short-sighted. You were everything to him, and he went to every length to protect you-even if it ultimately meant that you got hurt in the end. He couldn’t quite understand that, because nothing mattered other than keeping you safe. He was a story, Sherlock. He was larger than life. Stanley Hopkins is none of those things, and I think it’s for the better. You don’t need stories anymore, but you do need him. Victor would understand.”
“I’m not entirely certain that he would.”
“He’s also not exactly around anymore to make that judgment.”
It stung, but she was right. Victor was the sum of the makeup of the grey matter in his head, and that had decomposed years ago. There was nothing left of him that could pass any kind of judgment on Sherlock, and nothing left of him that could give the kind of approval Sherlock seemed to need.
Molly got to her feet. “Don’t let a man who has already passed dictate how you live out the rest of your life-especially when all he ever wanted to do was make you happy. He may have gone about it entirely the wrong way, but his intentions were genuine. So the question you need to be asking isn’t what would make Victor happy, but what would make you happy, Sherlock?”
Sherlock was quiet for a long moment.
“I don’t know that I should answer that,” he said finally. Molly touched his arm, her eyebrows furrowing in deep concern.
“I think you need to,” she said softly. “Tell me. What would make you happy?”
Sherlock met her gaze steadily.
“Having Victor back.”
Molly’s face crumpled, and Sherlock turned on his heel and left the lab without a backward glance.
----
Stanley spent three days putting out the fires from their escapade to McCormack Industries.
Sherlock received periodic updates from Donovan via text, as he was trying to keep his interactions with Stanley at a minimum. Besides, he had a feeling that Stanley would catch hell from Guerra if he found out that Stanley was involving Sherlock in more of the investigation than he already had. But there was very little Donovan could tell him, apart from the fact that Forensics was going to be spending days properly processing the kill room, as there was an abundance of evidence to sort through.
He finally heard from Stanley at the end of the third day.
Dinner? I’ll pick it up after my shift.
Sherlock missed their interactions, no matter how much he tried to pretend to himself otherwise these past few days, and he responded instantly.
Yes.
Stanley arrived back at the flat a little after seven, and Sherlock couldn’t help the tiny leap in his chest when he heard the tell-tale slam of the door downstairs and then Stanley’s footsteps as he took the stairs two at a time. Guilt settled, hot and heavy, in his stomach, and when Stanley kissed him in greeting Sherlock simultaneously wanted to relax into the kiss and push him away.
“You all right, old man?” Stanley asked quietly, pulling back and giving Sherlock a reassuring smile.
“Fine.”
Stanley shrugged and moved away. Sherlock turned so that his back was to the main room, and he stared out of the tall windows while Stanley got himself settled.
It was raining.
“What’s the news from the Yard?” Sherlock asked finally.
“Guerra’s not exactly the forgiving sort,” Stanley said. “Not that I don’t deserve it, mind, but I could do without him hanging over my shoulder right now.”
“And the case?”
“It looks like we can confirm that Anthony Dawlins was our accomplice, but not our actual killer,” Stanley answered. “He has an alibi for every kill so far, and one that can be corroborated a number of different ways.”
“So he provided the kill site, and perhaps nothing more,” Sherlock said. Stanley nodded. “What about that room?”
Stanley rubbed his forehead wearily.
“They’re still processing it,” he said quietly. “There’s a hell of a lot for them to look at. The killer wasn’t too concerned about keeping it pristine. There are fingerprints everywhere and DNA on the mattress. There’s only one thing we can say for certain at this point. He’s going to have to change his kill site.”
“Yes,” Sherlock agreed, “but not his hunting grounds.”
Stanley gave him a skeptical look.
“Are you sure about that?” he asked. “If I were him, I’d get the fuck out of London. Staying isn’t worth the risk.”
Sherlock shook his head. “He’s not going to do that. For some reason, he needs to find his victims here. If not, he would have cleared out long ago, probably not long after that first press conference. But he stayed, Stanley, and I think that means something.”
Stanley rubbed the back of his neck wearily. The collar of his shirt shifted, exposing part of his neck that usually remained hidden, and Sherlock caught sight of a now-fading mark he had sucked into Stanley’s skin three nights ago. He swallowed and looked away.
“I’m not telling the public about this,” Stanley was saying when Sherlock managed to shake the memory of Stanley’s moans from his mind.
“Sorry, what?”
“We never told the public there were two suspects in the first place. We have a body, and we have the kill site,” Stanley told him. “I’m going to imply that we think the man you killed that night is actually our killer, given that it was his office where the kill site was discovered, and that the case is wrapping up. Our actual killer will hang around even longer once he realises I’m not going to pursue him. Maybe he’ll even grow comfortable and make a mistake.”
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. It was probably the best course of action, he had to admit that, but likely was also the kind of suggestion that would have got him in trouble had he made it ten, fifteen years ago.
“Do you think it’ll work?”
Stanley shrugged. “I’ll try anything, at this point. There’s been a hell of a lot of pressure since the beginning to get this wrapped up. The fact that it’s dragged on for so long has the higher-ups nervous. Now that we have the kill site and an abundance of evidence, they’re going to want a name quickly. I need to flush out this killer as quickly as possible, Sherlock.”
Sherlock nodded absently. He turned back to the window and watched the rain. Stanley came up behind him and rested a hand on his shoulder.
“You sure you’re okay?”
Sherlock said nothing for a long while, and Stanley wrapped his other arm around Sherlock’s collarbone. He rested his chin on Sherlock’s shoulder and molded himself to Sherlock’s back. Sherlock swallowed hard as the solid warmth of Stanley bled through his shirt.
Stanley pressed a kiss to his temple. “What’s got your mind in a muddle now, old man?”
Sherlock didn’t register the question right away, and by the time he dredged up an answer Stanley had pulled away. He was now standing in front of Sherlock, his back to the window. He looked concerned.
“What’s happened?” he asked quietly. “Christ, man, you look like hell.”
Sherlock felt the strength leave his limbs, and he slumped, no longer able to hold his rigid posture. Stanley pressed his hands to Sherlock’s shoulders, steadying him.
“Bad day,” Sherlock whispered.
“I can tell,” Stanley said gently, and his words bled concern. “Tell me. Was it Mycroft?”
Sherlock gave a harsh laugh. “No, Stanley, it’s all me. I’m - I’m a fool.”
“You’re not -“
“I am,” Sherlock said emphatically. “I’m a fool, and now I’ve dragged you into it, too, and I just - I can’t -”
Stanley rested his hand on the side of Sherlock’s throat, and he stroked a thumb along Sherlock’s jaw.
“What is it?” he asked quietly. “What can’t you do?”
Sherlock took a deep breath. “This. You and me and… this. It isn’t going to work, Stanley. I can’t do this.”
He fought to keep it level as he said this, and winced at the pain that flickered across Stanley’s face. He looked as though he had been slapped, and he dropped his hand and took a step back.
“I’m so sorry,” Sherlock whispered.
Stanley said nothing for a very long while, and Sherlock hated himself; hated that he needed to do this. For a brief, terrible moment, he wished that he had never met Stanley.
“All right,” Stanley said at length, his voice quiet but steady. He plucked his jacket off the back of the door and opened it. “Good night, Sherlock.”
He left quietly, without fuss, and when the downstairs door shut behind him Sherlock felt as though he had been punched in the chest.
That night, Sherlock dreamed of a chase.
He dreamed of a man who had been loved and lost twice over; a shade who remained just one step ahead of him and who was always out of reach. They were dashing through a darkened street, Sherlock’s breathing echoing in his ears and nearly drowning out the footsteps of the man he was pursuing. But then, as the man rounded a corner, Sherlock reached out his hand...
…. and closed it around Victor’s bicep.
Victor turned, and Sherlock froze, rendered immobile by the shock of finally having caught him.
“Sherlock,” Victor said softly, a gentle smile on his face.
“Victor,” Sherlock whispered, breathless. “Are you - I -”
“It’s all right,” Victor said calmly. “You can let me go.”
“What?” Sherlock asked stupidly. “No.”
But when he blinked, he was grasping empty air.
Sherlock woke all at once, chest heaving, his heart still pounding from the imagined chase. His right hand was curled into a tight fist, nails biting into his palms. It still tingled with the lingering, phantom sensation of Victor’s jacket, and the warmth from his skin.
He had been so close, so close, this time. Victor had looked at him, Victor had spoken, and Sherlock’s gut twisted at the memory. He was never going to see that face again, he couldn’t even properly remember the voice, and the indignity of having caught Victor only to lose him again was almost too much.
Sherlock choked back great lungfuls of air, trying to slow his breathing and calm his heart, but a handful of broken sobs slipped past his lips instead. He gritted his teeth and clamped his eyes shut, resting his forehead on bent knees as he struggled to bring himself back under control. He hadn’t felt pain this acute in years, not since the day they buried Victor.
He didn’t sleep again that night.
----
Sherlock had lunch with Mycroft the next afternoon.
They dined in the same opulent restaurant, filled to bursting even on a Wednesday. Sherlock picked at his food and drank his wine without truly tasting it, thinking of Stanley in the conference room with images of the victims and the dead suspect plastered on the wall, and people bringing him reports every half an hour, reports that said nothing more than We’re still working on it. He’d probably forget to eat, the useless bastard.
“You’re worried about him.”
Sherlock couldn’t tell what was making him feel worse - the actual look on Stanley’s face right before the left the flat the other night or the imagined look on Victor’s when Sherlock pictured him finding out about Stanley. Both were equally nauseating.
“Yes,” Sherlock answered finally.
“I can increase his security.”
“That’s not what concerns me.” Sherlock focused on a woman sitting to his left. Her back was to him, her golden hair twisted in a bun that was so high it concealed the face of her dining companion. He stared at her for a long moment--two dogs, ten years married, a painter--before his thoughts settled and he could look at Mycroft again. “We found the kill room, and one of the suspects is dead.”
“But not the killer.”
“No, I don’t think so. Stanley’s not going to handle that well.” Sherlock worried a loose thread on his napkin between two fingers, trying to steer the conversation elsewhere. “There’s nothing you can do.”
It was half a question, and Mycroft answered it accordingly.
“My resources are not infinite, Sherlock. I have been putting my own people onto the case, but they have had as much luck as the Yard, I’m afraid.”
“I see.”
They ate in silence for a while.
“I was doing some reading the other day,” Sherlock said at length. “I’m rusty on my Greek mythology.”
“Oh?” Mycroft made a good show of feigning interest, at least. “And have you come to learn anything interesting?”
“The poet Hesiod proposed that there were five ages of man,” Sherlock said quietly. “The first was the Golden Age, a period of time where humans were fashioned by the gods and lived out long lives of peace and harmony. And they were - they were oblivious of death. When they died, it was peacefully, and in their sleep. It was an age of harmony… and of perfection.”
Mycroft remained silent, but Sherlock knew he was listening.
“It was followed, then,” he said dully, “by the Silver Age-an age where men were less noble than the ones who had come before. They aged, and they were plagued by war, and eventually they died. It was… an imperfect age. A lesser age.”
“And is that how you see your life?” Mycroft said at last. “That you’ve had a golden age - and that everything that comes after it pales by comparison?”
“It’s just a story, Mycroft,” Sherlock muttered, dropping his eyes to his plate. “I don’t know. It’s just something that I read.”
Mycroft poured himself another glass of wine.
“Just something that you read,” he repeated thoughtfully. “Interesting. Tell me, does this something that you read have anything to do with why Inspector Hopkins left so abruptly the other night?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sherlock said stiffly, his stomach twisting. They stared at one another for a long moment, until finally Sherlock dropped his eyes to his plate.
“His only crime is that he’s not Victor,” Mycroft said at last. “Ease up on him, brother dear. How is he supposed to compete with a dead man?”
Sherlock wrestled with an irrational burst of anger and took a long swallow from his own glass.
“He wouldn’t have to if you hadn’t decided to meddle in Victor’s life all those years ago,” he snarled at last.
Mycroft ignored him.
“You could no more have stopped Inspector Hopkins from going out that night than you could have the Earth from spinning,” he said. “You play long-suffering well, Sherlock, but that’s all it ever is - play. You hide behind your guilt over Victor’s death and you use it as an excuse to keep from moving on. You use him as an excuse. And I don’t think he’d really appreciate it, do you?”
Sherlock took a bitter swallow of wine. He was too sober for this conversation, and he was starting to feel physically ill. He wished Mycroft would leave well enough alone.
“Inspector Hopkins feels everything too much,” Mycroft went on. “You won’t allow yourself to feel anything at all-or you try not to, at least. But there are flaws in that plan that even you never foresaw, Sherlock. Victor was one of them, and he forced you to feel more than you wanted to. Hopkins is another, and he’s making you feel what you never thought was possible again. You two are quite well suited for one another.”
Sherlock downed the rest of his wine and set his glass aside, his hand unsteady.
“We’re not -” he said, and stopped abruptly. His brain, it seemed, would no longer allow him to say the words aloud.
“Yes,” Mycroft said patiently into the silence, “you are.”
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Part 14a