Fic: An Age of Silver (18/23)
"An Age of Silver" (18/23)
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 / Part 13 / Part 14a / Part 14b / Part 15 / Part 16 / Part 17
----
Stanley returned to work the following Monday.
He’d only had one treatment since his flare-up was diagnosed, and even though the day of his infusion had been exhausting, by the time the start of the week came around he was on his way to being his old self again. Some of the colour returned to his face and he was able to sleep for six hours now, which was a far sight better than the two or three he had managing in the days previous.
He was going to be combating pain and fatigue for a while, his doctors said, but nothing like he had been experiencing before the treatments. And, considering how well he was responding to the medication this time around, it was likely that he wouldn’t suffer another flare-up for a very long time - if he ever did again.
“Look at us,” Stanley said one night, a weak laugh escaping him. He was lying on the sofa in his home with his head in Sherlock’s lap, drained from a six-hour infusion that left him aching and less-than-lucid. “Falling apart, we are. Your hand, my… everything.”
“Guess we’re just a couple of old men,” Sherlock teased lightly, and Stanley groaned. “Welcome to the club.”
But it wasn’t long before Stanley’s energy levels returned to something resembling normal, and it was soon possible to look at him and not realise that he was sick. Stanley’s mood lightened considerably once that happened. He could deal with being ill, Sherlock discovered, so long as no one else knew about it - and so long as he wasn’t pitied for it.
The return of his energy levels meant that he was back to attacking the serial killer case with vigor. He had taken to passing the suspect’s grainy image around local shops and businesses, and the Yard released it to the media and tabloids. Pretending that they knew less than they did had only gotten them so far in the past nine months. It was time to change tactics, and to put everything out there for the rest of the world to see.
In early June, an anonymous tip led to the identification of the latest victim - number six in this current spree, and number ten overall. Madeline Johnson had no family and few friends, and she’d worked at the front desk of a tiny shop that saw very little business. Still, someone remembered her name, and when her picture was shown on a news report, it was called in.
This meant that there was only one victim who still had no name, and that ate at Stanley like acid.
He started spending more and more evenings at the Yard, and twice was there the entire night. He had no spare time to speak of, and so he made some, canceling lunches with Sherlock and staying after his shift had finished so that he could work on the unidentified woman’s case on his own.
They went days without seeing one another, and Sherlock didn’t like that one bit.
Which was why, on this evening, he was heartened to see that all of the lights on the ground floor of Stanley’s house were on. It was unusual for Stanley to be up at this hour, especially when he had a shift first thing in the morning, but Sherlock hadn’t seen him for three days and he wasn’t about to complain.
But he happened to glance down the street as he dug out his key, and he caught sight of a nondescript black car parked discreetly on the corner. It was trying so hard to be inconspicuous that it was instantly noticeable, and Sherlock was too used to seeing that car parked outside Baker Street or at a crime scene. His blood boiled, and he jammed the key into the lock with more force than was necessary, good mood evaporating.
“It’s one thing for you to set up meetings with him and burden him with a security detail,” Sherlock snarled as he strode into Stanley’s main room. Stanley whipped around, startled, but Mycroft, who was sitting in an armchair, merely lifted an eyebrow at Sherlock’s entrance. “It’s another entirely for you to come into his home. Get out.”
“It’s fine, Sherlock,” Stanley said calmly, having recovered himself. “He was just on his way out anyway.”
“It’s not fine,” Sherlock snarled. “What do you want with him?”
“Nothing that concerns you, brother,” Mycroft said serenely.
“If it concerns him, it concerns me,” Sherlock snapped.
“I can speak for myself, you know,” Stanley cut in firmly. “And I say it’s fine, so it’s fine. He wanted to discuss my security detail, actually, and he was just leaving.”
Sherlock was not convinced.
“That’s what you told Victor to say, you know,” he hissed at Mycroft. “You kidnapped him every other weekend, and all he would ever say about it was that you were discussing security details. Did he feed that line to you?”
The last sentence he snapped at Stanley, whose nostrils flared.
“No one fed me any line,” he said in a low voice, clearly on the verge of losing his temper. “I can speak for myself, thanks very much. I’m telling you, it’s nothing. Believe it or not, Sherlock, no one can make me do a thing I don’t want to. I can say no to your brother, if need be.”
“Unless he made you an offer you couldn’t refuse.”
“Sherlock, I assure you,” Mycroft said smoothly, getting to his feet, “I have nothing but Inspector Hopkins’ best interests in mind. I only -”
“Best interests?” Sherlock hissed. “You have no one’s interests in mind but yours! Don’t give me that, Mycroft. I won’t let you do to him what you did to Victor. Now get out.”
Mycroft paused, and his smug look vanished. His expression became stone.
“What are you trying to imply, Sherlock?” he asked with deadly calm.
“You know very well what. Victor died because of you!” Sherlock bellowed. Stanley made a move towards him, but Sherlock threw out his hand, halting him. The room had gone deadly quiet, except for the pounding of blood in his ears.
“Sherlock, I understand your frustration -”
“Frustration?” Sherlock gave a wild laugh that skittered up the scale. “Frustration, is that what you think this is? You have no idea - no idea - what it was like. What it’s been like. You cannot comprehend the agony of losing part of yourself. He was the best part of my life and you killed him, Mycroft! Why did you send him on all those missions? Why would - why would you let him die for me?”
Sherlock reeled back, swiping a shaking hand across the back of his mouth while he struggled to hold onto his composure.
“I could have gone on that mission alone to take down Moriarty’s network,” he hissed. “That was the plan. Why didn’t you let me stick with the plan? Why did you have to drag him into that disaster? He deserved better!”
Sherlock grabbed the nearest object--the small clock on the mantel--and whipped it at Mycroft. His brother sidestepped the heavy object with surprising agility, and it crashed into the far wall, leaving a sizable dent before clattering to the floor.
The silence that followed was deadly. Sherlock couldn’t seem to bring his breathing under control, and his hands were shaking so badly he had to ball them into fists.
“He was mine,” he whispered unsteadily. “He was mine, and you couldn’t stand that, could you? You couldn’t bear the thought of me having something that you hadn’t played with, too. You love the feeling of pulling one over on me. Keeping secrets I don’t know; sending my partner on missions he couldn’t tell even me about! That must have been so thrilling. And now he’s dead, and he took your secrets with him. Well done, Mycroft. You won after all.”
Mycroft’s expression still did not change.
“Yes,” he said after a moment. “I did. You are alive. That’s all that ever mattered to me. I won, as you so crudely put it, and I don’t regret a minute of it.”
Only Stanley’s quick reflexes saved Mycroft that time. He lunged forward, grabbing Sherlock by the arm and hauling him back as he started towards Mycroft.
“Right, lads, that’s enough,” Stanley said quickly. He turned Sherlock around shoved him in the direction of the kitchen. “Go. And Mycroft, perhaps you’d better leave for now.”
“I’ll be back,” Mycroft promised blandly. Sherlock stumbled into the kitchen and manually shut off the lights. Behind him, he heard Stanley sigh.
“I know you will.”
Sherlock hunched over the counter, resting his elbows on the polished surface and burying his face in his hands. He was still shaking with residual rage, and biting sorrow left a bitter taste in the back of his throat. He could still feel blood pounding in his head, and his ragged breathing echoed in his ears. He tried to focus on that, counting the seconds as he inhaled and exhaled, and when he managed to make them both last six seconds, he finally straightened.
The door to the kitchen slid open, but Stanley didn’t turn on the lights, for which Sherlock was distinctly grateful. He swiped the pad of his thumb discreetly over his cheeks and swallowed hard.
“Well,” Stanley said finally, his voice filled with too much understanding, “that was a long time coming, wasn’t it?”
He placed a hand on Sherlock’s back, resting it between his shoulder blades.
“He can’t have you,” Sherlock said roughly.
“He won’t.”
Sherlock snorted. “You don’t know him.”
“He doesn’t know me,” Stanley corrected. “Sherlock, I’m not like you, or him, or - or Victor. I don’t need puzzles and stimulation to keep the tedium from eating at my mind. And I’m not so blindly in love with you that I’d rather live without you than see you dead. I’m not like any of you--and forgive me for being so bold, but I think that’s why you like me.”
Sherlock turned to look at him, and Stanley gave him a weak smile.
“There’s literally nothing Mycroft can offer me that is more appealing to me than simply being at your side. That’s enough. That’s all I need. I’ll not be leaving you.”
Sherlock brushed his knuckles against Stanley’s jaw.
“I don’t know that I could bear it if you did.” He folded his arms tightly across his chest and leaned back against the counter, crossing one ankle in front of the other.
“Well, that’s heartening, because you’re probably going to kill me for what I’m about to say next.” Stanley lifted his chin. “You need to go talk to him.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Absolutely not. I’ll not be apologising to him.”
“That’s not what I said,” Stanley pointed out. “I said talk to him.”
“Why should I?” Sherlock snapped.
“He’s family.”
“Which means nothing. I don’t love him,” Sherlock snarled. “I don’t even like him.”
Stanley snorted at that.
“As if those two aren’t mutually exclusive,” he said dryly. “I don’t like you, most days. But that doesn’t mean I don’t love you.”
The admission came as naturally as breathing, and it took Sherlock a moment to pick up on it.
“What?” he asked dumbly.
“I love you, you great oaf. Is that really so surprising?” Stanley said quietly. He brushed his lips over Sherlock’s brow and added, “And I promise never to die for you, or to think that I know better than you what you want out of life, or to go on a half-cocked mission without dragging you along with me.”
“Oh,” Sherlock said, his mouth suddenly dry even as something eased in his chest. “Right. I - appreciate that.”
Stanley snorted.
“Good to know,” he said dryly. “Now go talk to your brother. He has the ability to make life very difficult for us and I’ve got enough to worry about right now without him hanging over my shoulder. And the last thing I need is you spending the foreseeable future brooding.”
“I don’t brood.”
Stanley put a hand on the side of Sherlock’s throat and stroked a thumb along his jaw, his expression achingly tender. Sherlock swallowed hard but held his gaze.
“You’ve been holding onto that for a long time, what you said tonight. I don’t think even Mycroft saw it coming, though he hid it well. Talk to him, Sherlock. I think you need it. And maybe - maybe it will finally let you put part of Victor to rest.”
Sherlock swallowed hard, but finally nodded. Stanley squeezed his arm.
“I’m going to bed,” he said.
“I’ll join you in a bit.”
Stanley gave an understanding smile, like he didn’t believe Sherlock but was going to indulge him anyway. “I’ll see you later.”
Mycroft was in his London office tonight.
He looked up when Anthea showed Sherlock into the room. When she had gone, Sherlock said, in some surprise, “You seem to have acquired a dog. One of your beasts from Baskerville, I take it?”
“No,” Mycroft said calmly, his eyes flicking to the golden-haired dog who was asleep before the fire on the other side of the room. “Your stray.”
Sherlock blinked, and stared at the animal again.
“I said to find someone to look after him,” he said. Mycroft nodded.
“I did. At least, temporarily. He’ll be transferred into your care when you’re ready for him.”
“I don’t want a dog.” Sherlock hated when Mycroft did this; when he had a conversation that only he knew the outcome of, leaving Sherlock miles behind.
“That doesn’t mean you’re not going to get one. Just wait, little brother. You’ll see.” Mycroft looked back down at his paperwork and resumed filling it out. “You’re here to talk.”
Sherlock cleared his throat. “I’m told it’s what people do.”
Mycroft smirked. “I do hope you aren’t expecting a tearful heart-to-heart.”
“I do hope you’re not expecting a profuse apology.”
“Never.” Mycroft gestured to the chair before his desk, and Sherlock sat. “Did he send you?”
“Yes.”
Mycroft got to his feet and walked over to the antique mahogany cabinet that sat discreetly in a corner. He opened it and pulled out a bottle filled with amber liquid. “He’s a good man.”
Sherlock inclined his head. “A far better man than I.”
“Far better than us both, I should think.” Mycroft poured a drink and handed it to Sherlock. He then poured one for himself.
“He deserves better.”
“Yes,” Mycroft agreed. “But what he wants is you.”
“So I’m beginning to realise.” Sherlock took a long swallow of the drink. “And I think I may reciprocate.”
“It’s plain to anyone that you do,” Mycroft said. He took a tentative sip of his drink. “So what are you going to do about it?”
“I don’t know.”
Mycroft took a seat behind his desk again, tumbler in hand. He took a long swallow of the drink and stared at Sherlock, who fought not to look away from his brother’s penetrating gaze. After a moment, Mycroft broke eye contact. He opened his desk drawer and pulled out a thick folder.
“Victor entered my service at the age of twenty-one,” he said quietly. “It was not long after his graduation from university. He remained in my employment for the next fourteen years, until his untimely death at thirty-five. He spent nearly half of his life in the service of this government, and as a result his life was highly censored and classified. He couldn’t even share details about his work with you, which I know was very trying on him. He expressed his frustration about that on a number of occasions.”
Mycroft’s voice remained quiet and steady, as though he were reciting information from a report. Sherlock’s mouth had gone dry, and his hand tightened on his glass.
“And more than that,” Mycroft went on, “this withholding of information was cruel. Especially when, in the wake of his death, his missions remained classified. The biggest part of his life had to remain hidden, for various security reasons, from the one person most important to him--until now, that is.”
Mycroft finally slid the folder across the desk to Sherlock, who didn’t move.
“This is the Bolivia file,” Mycroft said gently. “While I have no doubt that Victor shared some of his missions with you while you two were on the run, he undoubtedly didn’t tell you everything. He couldn’t. And until recently, I couldn’t allow the files to speak for him. I’ve spent the last few years working to declassify everything Victor ever worked on, in the hopes that the information might be handed over to you, Sherlock. I’ve finally been successful. This is only a small part of what you’ll be receiving.”
Sherlock finally reached out and placed a hand on the file, but he didn’t open it. Bolivia. The mission that started it all; the one that had killed Victor the first time around.
“How many?” he croaked finally.
“Six boxes full of files just like that one are being delivered to Baker Street as we speak,” Mycroft said. “That’s all fourteen years. They contain handwritten notes, photographs, surveillance footage, and audio recordings of Victor’s debriefings. It’s everything he ever wanted to share with you, Sherlock. He also kept thorough journals, especially during the four years you thought he was dead. I believe he addressed all the entries to you.”
Sherlock felt a pressure building behind his eyes, and tried to blink it away.
“Why?” he whispered. “Why give these to me?”
“Because you need to know why he did the things that he did,” Mycroft said. “And the only person who can tell you that is Victor. His papers will have to speak for him. Knowing Victor and his meticulousness, they will be an adequate substitute.”
Mycroft leaned back in his chair.
“If I am to blame for Victor’s death,” he said calmly, “then he is as complicit as I. If you’re going to damn me, you must damn us both. But I rather think you’ll find that we were only doing what we thought best, given the evidence and the circumstances. We couldn’t divine the future, Sherlock. I dare you to have been in our shoes and chosen any differently. One last thing.”
Mycroft opened his desk drawer and pulled out a small, grey box. He placed it on the desk and opened the lid so that Sherlock could peer inside.
“This was Father’s,” he said of the silver ring that lay inside. “When you wed Inspector Hopkins, give this to him as his wedding band. They are the same ring size, and I know Father would appreciate one of us getting use out of it.”
Sherlock stared at him in complete stupefaction.
“I - we’re not,” he stammered. “I hadn’t planned on - or even thought -”
“You will,” Mycroft said calmly. He placed the lid back on the box and pushed it into Sherlock’s hand. “Good night, Sherlock. Anthea will see you home.”
Stanley had fallen asleep with the lights on and a book abandoned on his chest. He started awake when Sherlock removed the book.
“Oh, s’you,” he muttered when he realised it was only Sherlock.
“Who were you expecting?”
“Dunno.” Stanley curled up on his side and hugged his pillow to his chest, burying his face in the soft material. “Someone rich and gorgeous.”
Sherlock reached over him and snapped off the light.
“I don’t have to work another day in my life if I don’t want to,” he pointed out as he slid under the blankets. He pressed himself to Stanley’s back, wrapping an arm around his waist and resting his forehead against the back of Stanley’s neck. “And I believe I heard the words fucking perfect cross your lips the other night.”
“Hmph. You had three fingers up my arse at the time, if I remember correctly. I’d’ve said anything at that point.” Stanley yawned, and then muttered, “Time is it?”
“One.”
“Christ. Gotta be up in a few hours.”
“I know. I’ll be sure to wake you.”
“Sure?”
“I don’t mind.” Sherlock shifted, finding a more comfortable spot on the mattress. “I’ll probably be up anyway.”
“Mm. Knew I kept you around for a reason.”
“I’m just being used, is that it?”
“Oh, good, you’ve finally caught on.” Stanley yawned again, and the light teasing left his voice. “Sorry. Long day.”
“I know.” Sherlock pressed his face into the back of Stanley’s shoulder and closed his eyes. He breathed in the scent of laundry soap; relished the feel of the soft fabric of Stanley’s worn t-shirt against his cheek. “I was listening in.”
“Hm?”
“The week that John and Lestrade were here, when you were in the kitchen with John - I heard your conversation.”
Stanley stilled in his arms. “You weren’t supposed to.”
“I’m sorry.” Sherlock kissed his shoulder. “But you were wrong.”
“How’s that, now?”
“I had a great love, yes,” Sherlock said softly. “But now I have another."
He swallowed hard, and added, “I’m sorry for what I said tonight, about him being the best part of my life. He was at the time, but now you are. I hope you don’t think otherwise. I'm - ”
“Sherlock.” Stanley stopped him with a finger on his lips. “Stop apologizing to me, would you? It’s fine.”
He rolled back over and pulled the blankets up to his shoulders. “Besides, it’s too bloody early in the morning for introspection. You said what you needed to say to Mycroft; it’s all right. Honestly, I don’t mind. Okay?”
“All right.” Sherlock couldn’t keep the smile from his voice. He rested his chin on Stanley’s shoulder. “Go to sleep.”
Stanley hummed in agreement and fell asleep minutes later. Sherlock remained awake for a while after that, marveling at the fact that it was possible to feel this content.
It could be like this always.
He thought of his father’s ring, now tucked safely in the back of his desk at Baker Street. He had no recollection of it on his father’s hand.
He wondered what it might look like on Stanley’s.
----
Stanley left for work the next morning before Sherlock had got out of bed. Sherlock, who normally didn’t like spending time in the house when Stanley wasn’t there, lingered for several hours.
And then, finally, he worked up the nerve to return to Baker Street.
Six boxes were stacked neatly in the corner of the main room, near the piano that had been Victor’s. They were plain and unassuming-much the opposite of Victor, Sherlock thought absurdly.
The first three boxes were nothing but files. Case after case, location after location, Sherlock flipped through them all. His head had started to swim by the time he got through the first box, and by the third he was developing a stellar headache. How Victor had managed to fashion a semblance of a life for himself in France whilst also going on Mycroft’s numerous missions, he would never know. He’d gone on well over thirty missions in the four years he had been “dead,” and each one sounded more dangerous than the last.
The files were comprised of notes written in Victor’s scrawling hand; of surveillance camera photographs; of plane tickets and false papers. Sherlock found himself staring for an abnormal amount of time at the writing, for though the notes were of no use to him, it had been so long since he’d seen anything new written in Victor’s hurried hand. It was mesmerizing.
The fourth and fifth boxes were all items that had been salvaged from Victor’s French home. That, along with Victor’s Norfolk estate, had been razed fourteen years ago under Sherlock’s orders. He had been unable to salvage any of Victor’s personal possessions from the French house, per Mycroft’s instructions, because apparently anything Victor might have handled during his four years away was considered confidential information. It had been gathered and held, as far as Sherlock knew, under lock and key ever since.
But now his personal possessions, what few there had been, were gathered in these boxes. Much of what Victor had owned had been sacrificed to a fire back in France at the start of their joint mission to take down Moriarty’s network, but some items had survived. There were a couple of Victor’s favourite books in the boxes, and each one contained notes by him written in the margins. His favourite worn jumper was there, too, along with his model of an 18th-century sailing vessel and a small cross that had hung on the wall in his study.
Sherlock spent some minutes sifting through the personal contents, trying to fight back the flood of memories that they brought on. He had stayed in Victor’s house for some weeks the summer after his fall, and he remembered seeing all of these on display around the home. He pressed the jumper to his face, closing his eyes and breathing in the scent of the old cotton, imagining that he could still smell Victor’s cologne clinging to the fabric. He had worn the garment at night, when the summer evenings turned cool. Its scent now was alien but its touch was familiar, and for a moment Sherlock could pretend that he had pressed his face into Victor’s shoulder.
But the image faded, as all of his fantasies did, and Sherlock set the jumper aside.
The sixth and final box was filled with what appeared to be plain, leather-bound books. It was only when Sherlock picked one up and opened it that he realised this was something new entirely.
I’ve a new class of students tomorrow. They’re younger than what I normally teach, but Georges is on sabbatical and we’ve been left in a bind.
These were Victor’s journals.
Sherlock had never known him to keep any whilst they were at school, and he certainly hadn’t taken it up during their few years together after graduation. This must have been a development brought on by Victor’s first death, and by the circumstances of their separation.
He wondered how Mycroft had managed to get hold of them.
This house is too big, Sherlock, Victor had written in June 2007. I wish you could be here.
I’m back in London, he wrote later on that year. Another mission. You look like hell, Will. I know it’s because of me, and there’s nothing about that that I don’t hate.
Close call tonight, Victor wrote in a shaky hand almost a year later. Two inches to the left and that bullet would have gone straight through your head. I don’t often like to think about where you’d be right now if I hadn’t done what I did last year, but I can’t help it tonight. You’d be dead, Will. You’d be dead and gone. I won’t let that happen.
Sherlock took a seat on the floor in front of the cold fireplace and turned the pages of the journals with shaking fingers.
John seems like a decent fellow, said 30 January. Not really your type, though, is he?
Looks like you weren’t his type, either, a 12 June entry amended. Sleeping with Greg. You’ll figure it out eventually.
Met someone in town yesterday, Victor wrote on a 17 March. Beautiful eyes. Pegged me for a non-native speaker in about two seconds. No one’s done that in a very long time. We got to talking. He’s from Bristol. Small world.
His name is Malcolm, was the only thing written two days later, on 19 March.
A week later, Victor had written, Start anew, Mycroft said. As if it was that easy. As if I hadn’t left half of who I am behind forever. It’s absurd, but I keep feeling like I’m waiting for something. Waiting for you. We’ll never be reunited again, most likely, but I can’t just start over. Not yet.
The entries went on, covering the year leading up to their final reunion.
Malcolm came home with me yesterday.
Malcolm is brilliant. He’s kind, too. He makes a fantastic omelet.
He’s not you. I can’t keep doing this.
I’ve made Mycroft promise that if I should die before you, he’ll turn these papers over to you. I know it will be a shock-it’s probably nothing short of cruel, in fact. I am so terribly sorry. I only ever wanted to keep you safe, and this is the only way I could see of doing it. You are loved, Will, and you are loved by me. I’ll not let anything happen to you. Not while I’m around.
I hope you find someone, Sherlock, read one of the entries near the end - 11 November. You’re so unhappy. It’s all right. I know it’ll happen eventually.
Find someone, began a more insistent 24 June entry. I hope he’s brilliant, and I hope he’s kind. I hope he’s everything for you that I can’t be. And I hope you find him soon. Do that for me, Will. And do it for yourself.
Find someone. Love him, and love him well. It’s all I ask.
----
Part 19
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 / Part 13 / Part 14a / Part 14b / Part 15 / Part 16 / Part 17
----
Stanley returned to work the following Monday.
He’d only had one treatment since his flare-up was diagnosed, and even though the day of his infusion had been exhausting, by the time the start of the week came around he was on his way to being his old self again. Some of the colour returned to his face and he was able to sleep for six hours now, which was a far sight better than the two or three he had managing in the days previous.
He was going to be combating pain and fatigue for a while, his doctors said, but nothing like he had been experiencing before the treatments. And, considering how well he was responding to the medication this time around, it was likely that he wouldn’t suffer another flare-up for a very long time - if he ever did again.
“Look at us,” Stanley said one night, a weak laugh escaping him. He was lying on the sofa in his home with his head in Sherlock’s lap, drained from a six-hour infusion that left him aching and less-than-lucid. “Falling apart, we are. Your hand, my… everything.”
“Guess we’re just a couple of old men,” Sherlock teased lightly, and Stanley groaned. “Welcome to the club.”
But it wasn’t long before Stanley’s energy levels returned to something resembling normal, and it was soon possible to look at him and not realise that he was sick. Stanley’s mood lightened considerably once that happened. He could deal with being ill, Sherlock discovered, so long as no one else knew about it - and so long as he wasn’t pitied for it.
The return of his energy levels meant that he was back to attacking the serial killer case with vigor. He had taken to passing the suspect’s grainy image around local shops and businesses, and the Yard released it to the media and tabloids. Pretending that they knew less than they did had only gotten them so far in the past nine months. It was time to change tactics, and to put everything out there for the rest of the world to see.
In early June, an anonymous tip led to the identification of the latest victim - number six in this current spree, and number ten overall. Madeline Johnson had no family and few friends, and she’d worked at the front desk of a tiny shop that saw very little business. Still, someone remembered her name, and when her picture was shown on a news report, it was called in.
This meant that there was only one victim who still had no name, and that ate at Stanley like acid.
He started spending more and more evenings at the Yard, and twice was there the entire night. He had no spare time to speak of, and so he made some, canceling lunches with Sherlock and staying after his shift had finished so that he could work on the unidentified woman’s case on his own.
They went days without seeing one another, and Sherlock didn’t like that one bit.
Which was why, on this evening, he was heartened to see that all of the lights on the ground floor of Stanley’s house were on. It was unusual for Stanley to be up at this hour, especially when he had a shift first thing in the morning, but Sherlock hadn’t seen him for three days and he wasn’t about to complain.
But he happened to glance down the street as he dug out his key, and he caught sight of a nondescript black car parked discreetly on the corner. It was trying so hard to be inconspicuous that it was instantly noticeable, and Sherlock was too used to seeing that car parked outside Baker Street or at a crime scene. His blood boiled, and he jammed the key into the lock with more force than was necessary, good mood evaporating.
“It’s one thing for you to set up meetings with him and burden him with a security detail,” Sherlock snarled as he strode into Stanley’s main room. Stanley whipped around, startled, but Mycroft, who was sitting in an armchair, merely lifted an eyebrow at Sherlock’s entrance. “It’s another entirely for you to come into his home. Get out.”
“It’s fine, Sherlock,” Stanley said calmly, having recovered himself. “He was just on his way out anyway.”
“It’s not fine,” Sherlock snarled. “What do you want with him?”
“Nothing that concerns you, brother,” Mycroft said serenely.
“If it concerns him, it concerns me,” Sherlock snapped.
“I can speak for myself, you know,” Stanley cut in firmly. “And I say it’s fine, so it’s fine. He wanted to discuss my security detail, actually, and he was just leaving.”
Sherlock was not convinced.
“That’s what you told Victor to say, you know,” he hissed at Mycroft. “You kidnapped him every other weekend, and all he would ever say about it was that you were discussing security details. Did he feed that line to you?”
The last sentence he snapped at Stanley, whose nostrils flared.
“No one fed me any line,” he said in a low voice, clearly on the verge of losing his temper. “I can speak for myself, thanks very much. I’m telling you, it’s nothing. Believe it or not, Sherlock, no one can make me do a thing I don’t want to. I can say no to your brother, if need be.”
“Unless he made you an offer you couldn’t refuse.”
“Sherlock, I assure you,” Mycroft said smoothly, getting to his feet, “I have nothing but Inspector Hopkins’ best interests in mind. I only -”
“Best interests?” Sherlock hissed. “You have no one’s interests in mind but yours! Don’t give me that, Mycroft. I won’t let you do to him what you did to Victor. Now get out.”
Mycroft paused, and his smug look vanished. His expression became stone.
“What are you trying to imply, Sherlock?” he asked with deadly calm.
“You know very well what. Victor died because of you!” Sherlock bellowed. Stanley made a move towards him, but Sherlock threw out his hand, halting him. The room had gone deadly quiet, except for the pounding of blood in his ears.
“Sherlock, I understand your frustration -”
“Frustration?” Sherlock gave a wild laugh that skittered up the scale. “Frustration, is that what you think this is? You have no idea - no idea - what it was like. What it’s been like. You cannot comprehend the agony of losing part of yourself. He was the best part of my life and you killed him, Mycroft! Why did you send him on all those missions? Why would - why would you let him die for me?”
Sherlock reeled back, swiping a shaking hand across the back of his mouth while he struggled to hold onto his composure.
“I could have gone on that mission alone to take down Moriarty’s network,” he hissed. “That was the plan. Why didn’t you let me stick with the plan? Why did you have to drag him into that disaster? He deserved better!”
Sherlock grabbed the nearest object--the small clock on the mantel--and whipped it at Mycroft. His brother sidestepped the heavy object with surprising agility, and it crashed into the far wall, leaving a sizable dent before clattering to the floor.
The silence that followed was deadly. Sherlock couldn’t seem to bring his breathing under control, and his hands were shaking so badly he had to ball them into fists.
“He was mine,” he whispered unsteadily. “He was mine, and you couldn’t stand that, could you? You couldn’t bear the thought of me having something that you hadn’t played with, too. You love the feeling of pulling one over on me. Keeping secrets I don’t know; sending my partner on missions he couldn’t tell even me about! That must have been so thrilling. And now he’s dead, and he took your secrets with him. Well done, Mycroft. You won after all.”
Mycroft’s expression still did not change.
“Yes,” he said after a moment. “I did. You are alive. That’s all that ever mattered to me. I won, as you so crudely put it, and I don’t regret a minute of it.”
Only Stanley’s quick reflexes saved Mycroft that time. He lunged forward, grabbing Sherlock by the arm and hauling him back as he started towards Mycroft.
“Right, lads, that’s enough,” Stanley said quickly. He turned Sherlock around shoved him in the direction of the kitchen. “Go. And Mycroft, perhaps you’d better leave for now.”
“I’ll be back,” Mycroft promised blandly. Sherlock stumbled into the kitchen and manually shut off the lights. Behind him, he heard Stanley sigh.
“I know you will.”
Sherlock hunched over the counter, resting his elbows on the polished surface and burying his face in his hands. He was still shaking with residual rage, and biting sorrow left a bitter taste in the back of his throat. He could still feel blood pounding in his head, and his ragged breathing echoed in his ears. He tried to focus on that, counting the seconds as he inhaled and exhaled, and when he managed to make them both last six seconds, he finally straightened.
The door to the kitchen slid open, but Stanley didn’t turn on the lights, for which Sherlock was distinctly grateful. He swiped the pad of his thumb discreetly over his cheeks and swallowed hard.
“Well,” Stanley said finally, his voice filled with too much understanding, “that was a long time coming, wasn’t it?”
He placed a hand on Sherlock’s back, resting it between his shoulder blades.
“He can’t have you,” Sherlock said roughly.
“He won’t.”
Sherlock snorted. “You don’t know him.”
“He doesn’t know me,” Stanley corrected. “Sherlock, I’m not like you, or him, or - or Victor. I don’t need puzzles and stimulation to keep the tedium from eating at my mind. And I’m not so blindly in love with you that I’d rather live without you than see you dead. I’m not like any of you--and forgive me for being so bold, but I think that’s why you like me.”
Sherlock turned to look at him, and Stanley gave him a weak smile.
“There’s literally nothing Mycroft can offer me that is more appealing to me than simply being at your side. That’s enough. That’s all I need. I’ll not be leaving you.”
Sherlock brushed his knuckles against Stanley’s jaw.
“I don’t know that I could bear it if you did.” He folded his arms tightly across his chest and leaned back against the counter, crossing one ankle in front of the other.
“Well, that’s heartening, because you’re probably going to kill me for what I’m about to say next.” Stanley lifted his chin. “You need to go talk to him.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Absolutely not. I’ll not be apologising to him.”
“That’s not what I said,” Stanley pointed out. “I said talk to him.”
“Why should I?” Sherlock snapped.
“He’s family.”
“Which means nothing. I don’t love him,” Sherlock snarled. “I don’t even like him.”
Stanley snorted at that.
“As if those two aren’t mutually exclusive,” he said dryly. “I don’t like you, most days. But that doesn’t mean I don’t love you.”
The admission came as naturally as breathing, and it took Sherlock a moment to pick up on it.
“What?” he asked dumbly.
“I love you, you great oaf. Is that really so surprising?” Stanley said quietly. He brushed his lips over Sherlock’s brow and added, “And I promise never to die for you, or to think that I know better than you what you want out of life, or to go on a half-cocked mission without dragging you along with me.”
“Oh,” Sherlock said, his mouth suddenly dry even as something eased in his chest. “Right. I - appreciate that.”
Stanley snorted.
“Good to know,” he said dryly. “Now go talk to your brother. He has the ability to make life very difficult for us and I’ve got enough to worry about right now without him hanging over my shoulder. And the last thing I need is you spending the foreseeable future brooding.”
“I don’t brood.”
Stanley put a hand on the side of Sherlock’s throat and stroked a thumb along his jaw, his expression achingly tender. Sherlock swallowed hard but held his gaze.
“You’ve been holding onto that for a long time, what you said tonight. I don’t think even Mycroft saw it coming, though he hid it well. Talk to him, Sherlock. I think you need it. And maybe - maybe it will finally let you put part of Victor to rest.”
Sherlock swallowed hard, but finally nodded. Stanley squeezed his arm.
“I’m going to bed,” he said.
“I’ll join you in a bit.”
Stanley gave an understanding smile, like he didn’t believe Sherlock but was going to indulge him anyway. “I’ll see you later.”
Mycroft was in his London office tonight.
He looked up when Anthea showed Sherlock into the room. When she had gone, Sherlock said, in some surprise, “You seem to have acquired a dog. One of your beasts from Baskerville, I take it?”
“No,” Mycroft said calmly, his eyes flicking to the golden-haired dog who was asleep before the fire on the other side of the room. “Your stray.”
Sherlock blinked, and stared at the animal again.
“I said to find someone to look after him,” he said. Mycroft nodded.
“I did. At least, temporarily. He’ll be transferred into your care when you’re ready for him.”
“I don’t want a dog.” Sherlock hated when Mycroft did this; when he had a conversation that only he knew the outcome of, leaving Sherlock miles behind.
“That doesn’t mean you’re not going to get one. Just wait, little brother. You’ll see.” Mycroft looked back down at his paperwork and resumed filling it out. “You’re here to talk.”
Sherlock cleared his throat. “I’m told it’s what people do.”
Mycroft smirked. “I do hope you aren’t expecting a tearful heart-to-heart.”
“I do hope you’re not expecting a profuse apology.”
“Never.” Mycroft gestured to the chair before his desk, and Sherlock sat. “Did he send you?”
“Yes.”
Mycroft got to his feet and walked over to the antique mahogany cabinet that sat discreetly in a corner. He opened it and pulled out a bottle filled with amber liquid. “He’s a good man.”
Sherlock inclined his head. “A far better man than I.”
“Far better than us both, I should think.” Mycroft poured a drink and handed it to Sherlock. He then poured one for himself.
“He deserves better.”
“Yes,” Mycroft agreed. “But what he wants is you.”
“So I’m beginning to realise.” Sherlock took a long swallow of the drink. “And I think I may reciprocate.”
“It’s plain to anyone that you do,” Mycroft said. He took a tentative sip of his drink. “So what are you going to do about it?”
“I don’t know.”
Mycroft took a seat behind his desk again, tumbler in hand. He took a long swallow of the drink and stared at Sherlock, who fought not to look away from his brother’s penetrating gaze. After a moment, Mycroft broke eye contact. He opened his desk drawer and pulled out a thick folder.
“Victor entered my service at the age of twenty-one,” he said quietly. “It was not long after his graduation from university. He remained in my employment for the next fourteen years, until his untimely death at thirty-five. He spent nearly half of his life in the service of this government, and as a result his life was highly censored and classified. He couldn’t even share details about his work with you, which I know was very trying on him. He expressed his frustration about that on a number of occasions.”
Mycroft’s voice remained quiet and steady, as though he were reciting information from a report. Sherlock’s mouth had gone dry, and his hand tightened on his glass.
“And more than that,” Mycroft went on, “this withholding of information was cruel. Especially when, in the wake of his death, his missions remained classified. The biggest part of his life had to remain hidden, for various security reasons, from the one person most important to him--until now, that is.”
Mycroft finally slid the folder across the desk to Sherlock, who didn’t move.
“This is the Bolivia file,” Mycroft said gently. “While I have no doubt that Victor shared some of his missions with you while you two were on the run, he undoubtedly didn’t tell you everything. He couldn’t. And until recently, I couldn’t allow the files to speak for him. I’ve spent the last few years working to declassify everything Victor ever worked on, in the hopes that the information might be handed over to you, Sherlock. I’ve finally been successful. This is only a small part of what you’ll be receiving.”
Sherlock finally reached out and placed a hand on the file, but he didn’t open it. Bolivia. The mission that started it all; the one that had killed Victor the first time around.
“How many?” he croaked finally.
“Six boxes full of files just like that one are being delivered to Baker Street as we speak,” Mycroft said. “That’s all fourteen years. They contain handwritten notes, photographs, surveillance footage, and audio recordings of Victor’s debriefings. It’s everything he ever wanted to share with you, Sherlock. He also kept thorough journals, especially during the four years you thought he was dead. I believe he addressed all the entries to you.”
Sherlock felt a pressure building behind his eyes, and tried to blink it away.
“Why?” he whispered. “Why give these to me?”
“Because you need to know why he did the things that he did,” Mycroft said. “And the only person who can tell you that is Victor. His papers will have to speak for him. Knowing Victor and his meticulousness, they will be an adequate substitute.”
Mycroft leaned back in his chair.
“If I am to blame for Victor’s death,” he said calmly, “then he is as complicit as I. If you’re going to damn me, you must damn us both. But I rather think you’ll find that we were only doing what we thought best, given the evidence and the circumstances. We couldn’t divine the future, Sherlock. I dare you to have been in our shoes and chosen any differently. One last thing.”
Mycroft opened his desk drawer and pulled out a small, grey box. He placed it on the desk and opened the lid so that Sherlock could peer inside.
“This was Father’s,” he said of the silver ring that lay inside. “When you wed Inspector Hopkins, give this to him as his wedding band. They are the same ring size, and I know Father would appreciate one of us getting use out of it.”
Sherlock stared at him in complete stupefaction.
“I - we’re not,” he stammered. “I hadn’t planned on - or even thought -”
“You will,” Mycroft said calmly. He placed the lid back on the box and pushed it into Sherlock’s hand. “Good night, Sherlock. Anthea will see you home.”
Stanley had fallen asleep with the lights on and a book abandoned on his chest. He started awake when Sherlock removed the book.
“Oh, s’you,” he muttered when he realised it was only Sherlock.
“Who were you expecting?”
“Dunno.” Stanley curled up on his side and hugged his pillow to his chest, burying his face in the soft material. “Someone rich and gorgeous.”
Sherlock reached over him and snapped off the light.
“I don’t have to work another day in my life if I don’t want to,” he pointed out as he slid under the blankets. He pressed himself to Stanley’s back, wrapping an arm around his waist and resting his forehead against the back of Stanley’s neck. “And I believe I heard the words fucking perfect cross your lips the other night.”
“Hmph. You had three fingers up my arse at the time, if I remember correctly. I’d’ve said anything at that point.” Stanley yawned, and then muttered, “Time is it?”
“One.”
“Christ. Gotta be up in a few hours.”
“I know. I’ll be sure to wake you.”
“Sure?”
“I don’t mind.” Sherlock shifted, finding a more comfortable spot on the mattress. “I’ll probably be up anyway.”
“Mm. Knew I kept you around for a reason.”
“I’m just being used, is that it?”
“Oh, good, you’ve finally caught on.” Stanley yawned again, and the light teasing left his voice. “Sorry. Long day.”
“I know.” Sherlock pressed his face into the back of Stanley’s shoulder and closed his eyes. He breathed in the scent of laundry soap; relished the feel of the soft fabric of Stanley’s worn t-shirt against his cheek. “I was listening in.”
“Hm?”
“The week that John and Lestrade were here, when you were in the kitchen with John - I heard your conversation.”
Stanley stilled in his arms. “You weren’t supposed to.”
“I’m sorry.” Sherlock kissed his shoulder. “But you were wrong.”
“How’s that, now?”
“I had a great love, yes,” Sherlock said softly. “But now I have another."
He swallowed hard, and added, “I’m sorry for what I said tonight, about him being the best part of my life. He was at the time, but now you are. I hope you don’t think otherwise. I'm - ”
“Sherlock.” Stanley stopped him with a finger on his lips. “Stop apologizing to me, would you? It’s fine.”
He rolled back over and pulled the blankets up to his shoulders. “Besides, it’s too bloody early in the morning for introspection. You said what you needed to say to Mycroft; it’s all right. Honestly, I don’t mind. Okay?”
“All right.” Sherlock couldn’t keep the smile from his voice. He rested his chin on Stanley’s shoulder. “Go to sleep.”
Stanley hummed in agreement and fell asleep minutes later. Sherlock remained awake for a while after that, marveling at the fact that it was possible to feel this content.
It could be like this always.
He thought of his father’s ring, now tucked safely in the back of his desk at Baker Street. He had no recollection of it on his father’s hand.
He wondered what it might look like on Stanley’s.
----
Stanley left for work the next morning before Sherlock had got out of bed. Sherlock, who normally didn’t like spending time in the house when Stanley wasn’t there, lingered for several hours.
And then, finally, he worked up the nerve to return to Baker Street.
Six boxes were stacked neatly in the corner of the main room, near the piano that had been Victor’s. They were plain and unassuming-much the opposite of Victor, Sherlock thought absurdly.
The first three boxes were nothing but files. Case after case, location after location, Sherlock flipped through them all. His head had started to swim by the time he got through the first box, and by the third he was developing a stellar headache. How Victor had managed to fashion a semblance of a life for himself in France whilst also going on Mycroft’s numerous missions, he would never know. He’d gone on well over thirty missions in the four years he had been “dead,” and each one sounded more dangerous than the last.
The files were comprised of notes written in Victor’s scrawling hand; of surveillance camera photographs; of plane tickets and false papers. Sherlock found himself staring for an abnormal amount of time at the writing, for though the notes were of no use to him, it had been so long since he’d seen anything new written in Victor’s hurried hand. It was mesmerizing.
The fourth and fifth boxes were all items that had been salvaged from Victor’s French home. That, along with Victor’s Norfolk estate, had been razed fourteen years ago under Sherlock’s orders. He had been unable to salvage any of Victor’s personal possessions from the French house, per Mycroft’s instructions, because apparently anything Victor might have handled during his four years away was considered confidential information. It had been gathered and held, as far as Sherlock knew, under lock and key ever since.
But now his personal possessions, what few there had been, were gathered in these boxes. Much of what Victor had owned had been sacrificed to a fire back in France at the start of their joint mission to take down Moriarty’s network, but some items had survived. There were a couple of Victor’s favourite books in the boxes, and each one contained notes by him written in the margins. His favourite worn jumper was there, too, along with his model of an 18th-century sailing vessel and a small cross that had hung on the wall in his study.
Sherlock spent some minutes sifting through the personal contents, trying to fight back the flood of memories that they brought on. He had stayed in Victor’s house for some weeks the summer after his fall, and he remembered seeing all of these on display around the home. He pressed the jumper to his face, closing his eyes and breathing in the scent of the old cotton, imagining that he could still smell Victor’s cologne clinging to the fabric. He had worn the garment at night, when the summer evenings turned cool. Its scent now was alien but its touch was familiar, and for a moment Sherlock could pretend that he had pressed his face into Victor’s shoulder.
But the image faded, as all of his fantasies did, and Sherlock set the jumper aside.
The sixth and final box was filled with what appeared to be plain, leather-bound books. It was only when Sherlock picked one up and opened it that he realised this was something new entirely.
I’ve a new class of students tomorrow. They’re younger than what I normally teach, but Georges is on sabbatical and we’ve been left in a bind.
These were Victor’s journals.
Sherlock had never known him to keep any whilst they were at school, and he certainly hadn’t taken it up during their few years together after graduation. This must have been a development brought on by Victor’s first death, and by the circumstances of their separation.
He wondered how Mycroft had managed to get hold of them.
This house is too big, Sherlock, Victor had written in June 2007. I wish you could be here.
I’m back in London, he wrote later on that year. Another mission. You look like hell, Will. I know it’s because of me, and there’s nothing about that that I don’t hate.
Close call tonight, Victor wrote in a shaky hand almost a year later. Two inches to the left and that bullet would have gone straight through your head. I don’t often like to think about where you’d be right now if I hadn’t done what I did last year, but I can’t help it tonight. You’d be dead, Will. You’d be dead and gone. I won’t let that happen.
Sherlock took a seat on the floor in front of the cold fireplace and turned the pages of the journals with shaking fingers.
John seems like a decent fellow, said 30 January. Not really your type, though, is he?
Looks like you weren’t his type, either, a 12 June entry amended. Sleeping with Greg. You’ll figure it out eventually.
Met someone in town yesterday, Victor wrote on a 17 March. Beautiful eyes. Pegged me for a non-native speaker in about two seconds. No one’s done that in a very long time. We got to talking. He’s from Bristol. Small world.
His name is Malcolm, was the only thing written two days later, on 19 March.
A week later, Victor had written, Start anew, Mycroft said. As if it was that easy. As if I hadn’t left half of who I am behind forever. It’s absurd, but I keep feeling like I’m waiting for something. Waiting for you. We’ll never be reunited again, most likely, but I can’t just start over. Not yet.
The entries went on, covering the year leading up to their final reunion.
Malcolm came home with me yesterday.
Malcolm is brilliant. He’s kind, too. He makes a fantastic omelet.
He’s not you. I can’t keep doing this.
I’ve made Mycroft promise that if I should die before you, he’ll turn these papers over to you. I know it will be a shock-it’s probably nothing short of cruel, in fact. I am so terribly sorry. I only ever wanted to keep you safe, and this is the only way I could see of doing it. You are loved, Will, and you are loved by me. I’ll not let anything happen to you. Not while I’m around.
I hope you find someone, Sherlock, read one of the entries near the end - 11 November. You’re so unhappy. It’s all right. I know it’ll happen eventually.
Find someone, began a more insistent 24 June entry. I hope he’s brilliant, and I hope he’s kind. I hope he’s everything for you that I can’t be. And I hope you find him soon. Do that for me, Will. And do it for yourself.
Find someone. Love him, and love him well. It’s all I ask.
----
Part 19