An Age of Silver (19/23)
"An Age of Silver" (19/23)
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 / Part 18
----
It took Sherlock a week to properly sort through Victor’s items.
He read through all the case files, committing them to memory as best as he could before boxing them up again and putting them in storage. He kept all of Victor’s personal items in the flat - even the cross, which he hung on the wall next to his bedroom door. He made space for Victor’s journals on his overflowing bookcase, but not before scanning each page and uploading it to the flat’s computer system. Now that he had them, he didn’t want to run the risk of ever losing those words.
And finally, when that had all been accomplished, he told Stanley what Mycroft had done.
“I’d wondered what you’d been up to this past week,” Stanley admitted. “I figured it had something to do with your row. How do you feel?”
Sherlock opened his mouth to say fine but what came out instead was, “Empty.”
It was the most accurate description he could think of. Stanley looked sympathetic.
“I can only imagine,” he said quietly, brushing a thumb over the lines at the corner of Sherlock’s right eye. “Must have been draining to read through all those journals.”
It had been. Sherlock felt as though all of his energy had been drained by the mere act of reading Victor’s words. He had imagined each and every situation Victor had got himself into, and had combed through his own memories to try to slot in what he now knew about Victor’s years as a dead man. There were cases that he himself had been involved in that Victor had a hand in as well, and knowing that now was disconcerting. He was working to come to terms with it, and to modify his own memories of the events of his life.
It was exhausting.
But the distance of days worked wonders, and his mind slowly got used to this new information - about Victor, about himself, about his life and the man he’d loved. It started to feel less like an ill-fitting glove and more like a comfortable suit. Soon, he knew, it would be all right.
Sleep worked wonders. It was reparative and soothing, and it allowed his mind to work without his consciousness getting in the way. Stanley was soon occupied with work again, and eventually Sherlock succumbed to his exhaustion. He slept on and off for the better part of twenty-four hours, and for a while after that remained in his bed, listening as a stiff wind pushed against the building and a steady rain began to beat down on the roof.
When he finally ventured from the sanctuary of his bed, the flat was dark, even though it was mid-morning. Sherlock pulled his dressing gown tighter around his body and went over to the window, brushing aside the curtain. The buildings across the way and the street below were grey and smudged, distorted by the water that was streaming down the glass.
“Good morning, dear,” Alice chirped as she stepped into the flat, carrying a bag of shopping. “I was just down at the shops; thought I’d pick you up some more sugar and tea. I noticed yesterday that you were out.”
Sherlock went over to his desk and opened the drawer. He stared at the small box he had tucked in the back of it last week.
“Sherlock?”
“Yes, thank you, Alice,” he said absently. “Just leave them in the kitchen.”
He brushed his fingers over the box and then, finally, picked it up. It was the first time he’d looked at it since Mycroft handed it to him, though he hadn’t actually stopped thinking about it since last week.
“Sherlock, dear, come and join me for a moment.”
Sherlock pocketed the box and went into the kitchen. He sat down before his microscope and watched as Alice put away the items she had bought. He felt clear-headed and absent; for once, his mind was almost completely blank. He thought of Victor and didn’t feel a pang of guilt or pain; he thought of Stanley and felt nothing but a warm swell of joy.
His world, it seemed, was starting to right itself.
Alice set about making them something to drink. Sherlock pulled the box out of his pocket again and opened it. The ring inside was silver and plain. It was in excellent condition, but it would need to be cleaned before -
“Tell me about him.”
“Hm?” Sherlock looked up, pocketing the box once again. “About who, Alice?”
“About Stanley, silly.” She brought over two steaming mugs - tea for her, coffee for Sherlock - and then sat down across from him at the kitchen table. Sherlock pushed his microscope out of the way so that he could properly see her face.
“You know Stanley already,” he said with a frown. She rolled her eyes.
“He’s been coming by for all the years I’ve lived here, yes, but that doesn’t mean anything.” She stirred her tea absently, a small smile on her lips. “I know that he’s very quiet, and very kind. I know that he’s dead gorgeous.”
“Careful there, Alice,” Sherlock said with a smirk. She winked at him.
“But I don’t actually know him,” she finished. “So go on, then. Tell me about your man.”
“He’s not -”
“Yes, he is. You two have been together for how long now?”
It depended on how one looked at it, Sherlock supposed. Since March was probably the most accurate, given all the fits and starts they’d had along the way since the aborted December kiss.
“Three months,” he said finally. “I suppose. But it feels like years.”
“It has been years, I think,” Alice said with a tiny smile. “For all the time I’ve known him, at least. He’s had nothing but eyes for you - and you for him.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock scoffed. “He was married for part of that time, for God’s sake.”
“Not since I’ve been living here,” Alice pointed out. “I’ve only ever known Stanley when he was single. And you’re avoiding the question.”
She sipped her tea for a moment, one eyebrow arched elegantly at him. Sherlock sighed.
“He studied robotics systems while at university, but upon graduation joined the Met. He was transferred to Lestrade’s team fifteen years ago, which is where we met. He took over for Lestrade five years ago -”
“Stop, stop,” Alice said with a laugh, holding up a hand. “Tell me about him, Sherlock.”
He blinked at her.
“I don’t understand,” he said after a moment.
“What does he like to do in his spare time?” she tried. Sherlock snorted.
“What spare time?” he asked dryly, and she rolled her eyes.
“All right, fair point. What about… books? He must read.”
“He does,” Sherlock said with a nod. And then he grimaced. “He enjoys mysteries.”
“You’re joking.”
“I wish I was. They’re terrible, Alice.”
At that, she laughed out loud. “You’ve read them? Oh, Sherlock. Only you would read a book solely for the purpose of being able to argue about it with someone. And what about music?”
“Don’t even get me started. His taste in music is abominable.”
“Does he dance?” Alice rested her chin on her fist. “He looks like he would be excellent.”
“He doesn’t make a habit out of it.” Sherlock felt an unbidden smile come to his lips. “But when he allows it - yes, he’s quite talented.”
They’d only ever danced once, and Sherlock was sure Stanley didn’t remember it. It was during one of the many parties that resulted from Lestrade’s retirement announcement and Stanley’s promotion. Sherlock had been dragged to too many pubs by John and Lestrade for one send-off or another, and had even put up with three separate parties being thrown at Baker Street. Stanley had attended all of the spontaneous events, looking just as put-upon as Sherlock felt, but he handled it with considerably more grace and tact. They had bonded over their mutual dislike of large crowds and parties, and one night Stanley had consumed enough alcohol to allow himself to be dragged out onto the dance floor at that night’s haunt.
And, three drinks later, he had hauled Sherlock out there to join him.
“There’s something about watching him let go,” Sherlock said quietly, smiling at the memory. “He’s always so careful, so reserved. Quiet, as you said. But when he opens up - when he laughs, when he cracks a joke, when he stops thinking - it’s a wondrous thing. I love - I love watching it.”
He swallowed, suddenly realising how much he’d revealed, and occupied himself for a moment with taking a long swallow from his coffee. It had long since gone cold, but no matter.
Alice shook her head, that same understanding smile playing on her features. She was about to take another drink from her tea but paused, something having caught her eye.
“What’s that, dear?”
“Hm?” Sherlock looked down at his hands, and realised he’d once again taken the small box out of his pocket. He was holding it tightly in one hand, but uncurled his fist so that she could see. “Oh, nothing. My father’s ring. Mycroft gave it to me.”
“Well, that was nice of him,” Alice said with a small smile. “Must be nice to have something that reminds you of him.”
“I suppose.” Sherlock opened the box, as though looking at the ring might bring forth a memory that had long been buried. “Though I feel it’s rather a futile effort. I was too young when he died. There’s really nothing left for me to remember. Just stories.”
“From your mother?”
Sherlock nodded. “She cared for him. Deeply.”
Alice touched the back of his hand, and then covered it with her own.
“And you know what that feels like, even if you don’t remember him yourself,” she said. And then she gave a content sigh. “What a lucky man you are to have had such an intense love not once, but twice in a lifetime.”
Sherlock was quiet for a long while. He turned the box over and over in his hand and, finally, held it out for her to take.
“So you think that he’d like it?” he asked quietly. She opened the box and surveyed the ring carefully.
“Sherlock,” she said, a grin splitting her features as realisation dawned, “he’s going to love it.”
----
If Stanley had his way, he would do nothing but work on the serial killer case.
But the Yard had other ideas, especially for its Detective Inspectors. In addition to working other cases, Stanley had meetings and paperwork, and a dozen other administrative tasks that he needed to complete on a regular basis. He attended special events, too, from time to time, which Sherlock had never before paid much attention to.
That is, until one night when Stanley came over to Baker Street at half-eleven, dressed in a dinner suit and wearing an air of irritation. He stormed into the flat, ranting about hierarchies and publicity and his bloody useless supervisors…
And Sherlock didn’t register a word of it, because he was too busy staring at Stanley. He looked stunning.
Sherlock, first and foremost, appreciated the mind. It was the first thing he noticed about another person; the first place where he saw beauty, if it was to be found at all. He never gave much thought to physical attractiveness. He could appreciate aesthetics; art and music; nature and literature. But when it came to people, he very rarely found himself stirred by physical features alone.
But he found that he was starting to appreciate the physical aspects of Stanley’s appearance almost as much as he did Stanley’s mind. More than that, Sherlock discovered that he was starting to develop preferences when it came to Stanley’s appearance. Stanley looked better in dark shirts, for instance, and though he wore dark trousers well, Sherlock preferred when he dressed down to jeans on the weekends. There were few sights Sherlock found more entrancing than Stanley just after a shower, with his hair spiked and a towel secured around his waist. Stubble suited him, and Sherlock loved the feel of it against the insides of his thighs when they were in bed together.
But all of those things were surpassed by the sight of Stanley in a dinner suit - in this dinner suit. It was a tailored suit that emphasized his long legs and broad shoulders, and when Stanley turned away to hang his outer coat on the back of the door, Sherlock saw that it hugged the curve of his arse nicely.
“Bloody useless, the whole lot of them,” Stanley grumbled to himself. His cheeks were flushed in irritation, his eyes were bright, and his hair was mussed from the number of times he had run his fingers through it. Sherlock swallowed hard.
“Problem?” Sherlock asked, trying to sound casual. It came out as more of a croak, which Stanley didn’t seem to notice.
“Yeah, about half a dozen of them,” Stanley snarled. “Namely, a bunch of arse-nosed higher-ups who don’t seem to realise that I have better things to do than spend an evening at a fundraiser in this ridiculous outfit. Like, you know, solving murders and - oi!”
Sherlock grabbed his arm as Stanley moved past his chair and gave a strong tug, sending Stanley sprawling across his lap.
“Very funny, old man,” Stanley grumbled, struggling into a sitting position. He tried to get up, but Sherlock held him in place.
“I don’t think arse-nosed is a real word,” he said seriously. Stanley scowled at him.
“It is if I say it is.”
Sherlock kissed him. Stanley sat stiffly for a moment, and then finally relaxed. He kissed back, slowly at first, though when Sherlock squeezed his arse he hummed in approval and parted his lips. Sherlock moved his hand to cup Stanley through his trousers, and Stanley groaned.
“Are you sure this is the best time?” he muttered against Sherlock’s mouth.
“You’re here,” Sherlock murmured against the shell of Stanley’s ear, “and gorgeous. What better time could there be?”
Stanley hummed in appreciation as Sherlock moved his attentions to his neck. He shifted, and Sherlock was suddenly very aware of his own straining trousers.
“Bed, then, I think,” Stanley whispered at last, and Sherlock was inclined to agree.
Something else Sherlock had discovered--it seemed as though he was discovering new things about himself every day now--was that he enjoyed undressing Stanley. He found it almost as stimulating as the act of sex itself. There was something thrilling about seeing Stanley in a well-cut outfit and knowing what was hidden underneath; not only that, but knowing that he was the only one who was privileged enough to see it. He always took great care in peeling Stanley from his clothes - the anticipation of what was to come coupled with Stanley’s need tended to spike his own arousal.
He started tonight with the polished shoes and dark socks. He pulled them off, and then kissed Stanley’s ankle before moving up to his mouth again. Sherlock mouthed the curve of Stanley’s jaw while he made quick work of the bowtie and then unbuttoned the dinner jacket. Stanley sat up long enough for Sherlock to push the dinner jacket from his shoulders, and he deposited it on the floor before moving on to the braces. He slipped them off, and then unfastened Stanley’s trousers.
Stanley was aching at this point, hard and leaking, and he gave an involuntary moan of disappointment as Sherlock’s palm brushed lightly over his still-clothed erection. Sherlock slid the trousers over Stanley’s hips and tossed them over his shoulder. Stanley’s shirt followed soon after, and then he was clad in nothing but his pants and the thin sheen of sweat that now covered his chest. It was taking everything he had not to help Sherlock divest him of his clothes, but Stanley had learned quickly how Sherlock preferred to do the act.
Finally, Sherlock hooked his fingers into the waistband of Stanley’s pants and slid them down his thighs. Stanley worked them off his calves and then kicked them away. His cock lay heavy and flushed against his stomach, and he was near-panting now. He reached for Sherlock, grasping him by the lapels and pulling him closer.
“You’ve - you’ve got too many clothes -” Stanley’s sentence was cut off as Sherlock kissed him, hard enough to bruise. He grabbed Stanley’s wrists and pinned his hands on the mattress above his head. Stanley whimpered.
“I know,” Sherlock whispered. He lowered his hips to Stanley’s and gave a slow, deliberate grind. Stanley bucked against him. “I think I’ll fuck you with them on, this time.”
“Nice touch,” Stanley said later, when they had got their breath back and cleaned themselves off. Sherlock, completely naked now, was returning from the adjoining bathroom. He snagged his underwear from the floor and put it back on; thankfully, it had survived their session unscathed. Stanley was dressed in a clean t-shirt and pants, and when Sherlock slid into bed he molded himself to Stanley’s back and pressed his face into a fabric-clad shoulder.
“Glad you approve,” Sherlock said dryly, for Stanley had been completely speechless--and breathless--for a long while in the wake of his powerful orgasm. When he had finally regained some control over himself, he had proceeded to strip Sherlock with fumbling hands and kiss him senseless. And, when they had both recovered sufficiently and the blood started to flow south once more, they had gone for another round together.
Sherlock couldn’t recall the last time he’d had two orgasms in so short a time. It was beyond invigorating.
“Shirt’s probably ruined,” Stanley said apologetically. “Er… my bad.”
“I’ll get another,” Sherlock said, dismissing his concern. “Fortunately, your suit is not.”
“Damn shame.”
“I wouldn’t say that quite yet. You’ll be needing it again soon.”
It took a couple of seconds for Sherlock to fully realise what he’d said. Thankfully, Stanley didn’t appear to catch his meaning.
“God, I hope not. If they make me go to another fundraiser this month, heads are going to roll.” Stanley yawned. “Did you set the alarm?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, you’re spectacular.” Stanley was quickly fading, his words becoming little more than a mumble. “Love you.”
Sherlock tightened the arm he had around Stanley’s waist.
“I know.”
------
Summer that year didn’t arrive until halfway through July, when temperatures soared from what felt like springtime to highs that London hadn’t seen in years.
For all of its advanced technology, London was still at the mercy of the weather, and it wasn’t long before the extreme temperatures started wreaking havoc on the city at large. They were subjected to intermittent power outages that lasted anywhere from a few minutes to a few hours, and though the entire city never went down at once, it was still horribly inconvenient. The lack of power affected the traffic signals and the driverless transport system, and proved dangerous for those who had sought refuge from the heat in designated cooling centres.
Sherlock and Stanley took to spending more and more of their evenings over at Stanley’s house, as he had air conditioning that Baker Street lacked. But increasing power outages soon started affecting his area of the city, and eventually it actually became more practical to spend their nights over at Baker Street.
These evenings were frequently unpleasant, but with the right number of fans they could usually make the flat at least somewhat bearable. On the worst nights they relocated to Alice’s main room, as her flat was below Sherlock’s and therefore somewhat cooler. And when even that became impossible to stand, all three of them camped out on the floor of 221C, savouring the relief that the unoccupied basement flat offered them.
On this August night, they were back in 221B. The day had been sweltering, but the night had cooled quickly - almost too rapidly, in fact. Sherlock wouldn’t be surprised to find that a storm front wasn’t far behind.
Stanley was asleep on the sofa, as Sherlock was up tending to his website and Stanley didn’t generally like to go to bed without him. Checkers had been sleeping at his feet earlier that night, but he had long since relocated to Alice’s flat. Much as the dog loved Stanley, his disdain for the heat overruled that affection and he had sought out more comfortable lodgings.
The flat suddenly gave what sounded like a tremendous groan, and before Sherlock could fully process what was going on, the lights went out. His laptop dimmed as its charger cut out, and the television shut off with an audible snap, which roused Stanley.
“The hell?” he muttered, rubbing sleep from his eyes and sitting up. He was no more than a silhouette sitting on the sofa in the darkened flat. “Jesus. This old building.”
“It’s not the building,” Sherlock said. He got up from his chair and navigated over to the window. He had the flat memorized, mess and all, but in the dark his depth perception was thrown off and he still managed to bump his knee on a stack of books. When he finally reached the window, he pushed aside the curtains. “It’s the entire city. We’ve gone dark.”
Stanley appeared at his elbow, and Sherlock stepped aside so that he could see as well. All of London, it seemed, had gone dark. A few essential buildings had backup generators that were seemingly unaffected, but they were few and far between. The majority of the city was a vast silhouette against the sparkling midnight sky.
The night was as black as spilled ink, Sherlock thought, and his breath caught as he realised how impenetrable the darkness was. He couldn’t recall the last time he had experienced a night as deep as this. There was no true night in London. The sun disappeared from the sky every day, yes, but with the blaze of city lights and the myriad cars it was of no consequence. London shone brightly during the day and glowed at night, and there was never any respite from it.
“You can see the stars,” Stanley said softly. “Look at that. When’s the last time any of us saw the stars for real?”
“That case we worked two years ago out in Norfolk,” Sherlock answered quietly. “Do you remember?”
He heard more than he felt Stanley’s sly smirk.
“‘Course I remember that one. How could I forget seeing you in that getup? Those jeans were so tight, I think I spent most of my time trying to figure out how you were able to even walk, let alone saunter like that.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You should have spent more time focusing on the case and less time staring at my arse.”
“It’s a very nice arse, to be fair. You can’t exactly blame me.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes and knocked his shoulder gently against Stanley’s.
“Come on. You can see the stars better from the roof.”
Sherlock had truly never seen a night like this one, not even during the brief bouts of time throughout his life that he had spent out in the country.
The stars were scattered like jewels across the vast stretch of black. A thick band of them arced across the sky, from horizon to horizon, coloured by faint patches of yellows and oranges.
“That’s our galaxy,” Sherlock said unnecessarily, gesturing to the band. “That’s home.”
“I thought you had no use for information about the solar system,” Stanley teased.
“I don’t,” Sherlock sighed. “But I can appreciate beauty.”
He fixed Stanley with a pointed look. “As you should well know.”
In the darkness, he couldn’t see if Stanley flushed, but he wouldn’t be surprised if that was the case.
“You’re just - oh!” Stanley knocked the back of his hand against Sherlock’s chest, his eyes fixed on the sky once again. “Did you see that?”
A tiny pinprick of light had streaked across the sky. It was followed by second, and then a third, and in the space of half a minute there were at least thirty more.
“Meteor shower,” Sherlock said finally. He dredged up a scrap of information from the astronomy knowledge he had mostly deleted and added, “Ah - it must be the Perseids. They’re an annual occurrence.”
“What a night,” Stanley said, his voice rough as gravel. “Incredible.”
Sherlock turned to look at him. Stanley was still looking at the sky, and the bright moonlight playing off the sharp angles and smooth planes of his face. He appeared elegant and serene, and wonder shone in his dark eyes.
There would never be a night like this again.
Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat. He could stare at Stanley forever, if given the chance.
But then Stanley returned his gaze to Earth, and the spell was broken.
“Hell, what a mess,” Stanley muttered as he stared down at the near-impassable roads below. The city-wide power outage had caused chaos on the streets, as all traffic signals were out and that only added to the general distraction and confusion. The roads were backed up horribly.
“You could stay,” Sherlock offered quietly.
“Might have to, at that,” Stanley sighed. He pulled a packet of cigarettes and a lighter out of his pocket.
“Something wrong with staying?”
“God, no,” Stanley said. He lit two cigarettes and then passed one to Sherlock. “But what is that - three nights, now? Four? First because of the temperature, then because of the power outages at my own place. Now this. At some point I need to leave you to have your space.”
Sherlock took a long pull on his cigarette, and sighed the smoke out through his nose.
“No,” he said finally. “I don’t think you do need to leave, actually.”
Stanley snorted.
“Don’t give me that. You know as well as I that you’d be crawling the walls if you were stuck living with someone for more than a week.”
His words were light, but a hollow feeling dug its way into the pit of Sherlock’s stomach.
He doesn’t want me to move in, John. Of course he doesn’t. Why would he?
“If it were anyone other than you, yes,” Sherlock said softly. “But I rather think you should know by now, Stanley, that you are the exception to everything I know about myself.”
Victor had been an extension of Sherlock; a mirror image that reflected only the very best of Sherlock’s own self. But Stanley was another matter entirely. He was everything that Sherlock wasn’t, everything that he couldn’t be, and that made him beautiful.
Sherlock never wanted to be without him.
“What is it you’re trying to say, old man?” Stanley asked quietly. His words were sombre. Evidently, he realised that now this was not just another nighttime conversation.
Sherlock took a long draw on his cigarette to save himself having to answer right away. He breathed out, letting out a stream of smoke, and flicked ash onto the ground.
“You’re astonishing,” he said finally. “You’re brilliant, and you fascinate me. I’ve never met anyone quite like you, and I don’t know what I’d do without you. You’re my best friend, Stanley. And I think - I’d quite like - oh, hell.”
“Sherlock Holmes,” Stanley said gently, a note of awe in his voice, “you’re stammering.”
Sherlock flicked his cigarette to the ground and crushed it beneath the heel of his shoe. He turned to Stanley.
“I’d very much like you to stay,” he said steadily, his voice forcibly calm. “If that’s agreeable to you.”
“Stay,” Stanley repeated quietly.
“Yes.”
Stanley reached out and traced the line of his jaw, his fingertips catching on Sherlock’s stubble. Sherlock wasn’t just talking about tonight, and Stanley knew that.
“For how long?” he asked softly. His fingers stuttered over Sherlock’s skin, and Sherlock could feel the tremors that shuddered through them.
“Until the end of my days,” Sherlock said quietly. He took the hand and held it in his own, lacing their fingers together. “Until the end of yours. Until the summer’s out. Until -” And here the words caught in his throat, and he had to force them out, “- Until the night is gone. I’m yours, for however long you’ll have me.”
And because it was Stanley--his unwavering companion, the man who infuriated him like nothing else and who understood him better than anyone else on the planet--because it was Stanley, he understood that those words were as close to convention as Sherlock was willing to get; that standing on a balcony in the middle of the night with Stanley’s hand in his own was as good as getting on bended knee.
“Yes. You idiot,” Stanley added as an afterthought. And then his face broke into a glorious smile, one that showed a hint of teeth; a smile that only Sherlock was privileged enough to see. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”
----
Part 20
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 / Part 18
----
It took Sherlock a week to properly sort through Victor’s items.
He read through all the case files, committing them to memory as best as he could before boxing them up again and putting them in storage. He kept all of Victor’s personal items in the flat - even the cross, which he hung on the wall next to his bedroom door. He made space for Victor’s journals on his overflowing bookcase, but not before scanning each page and uploading it to the flat’s computer system. Now that he had them, he didn’t want to run the risk of ever losing those words.
And finally, when that had all been accomplished, he told Stanley what Mycroft had done.
“I’d wondered what you’d been up to this past week,” Stanley admitted. “I figured it had something to do with your row. How do you feel?”
Sherlock opened his mouth to say fine but what came out instead was, “Empty.”
It was the most accurate description he could think of. Stanley looked sympathetic.
“I can only imagine,” he said quietly, brushing a thumb over the lines at the corner of Sherlock’s right eye. “Must have been draining to read through all those journals.”
It had been. Sherlock felt as though all of his energy had been drained by the mere act of reading Victor’s words. He had imagined each and every situation Victor had got himself into, and had combed through his own memories to try to slot in what he now knew about Victor’s years as a dead man. There were cases that he himself had been involved in that Victor had a hand in as well, and knowing that now was disconcerting. He was working to come to terms with it, and to modify his own memories of the events of his life.
It was exhausting.
But the distance of days worked wonders, and his mind slowly got used to this new information - about Victor, about himself, about his life and the man he’d loved. It started to feel less like an ill-fitting glove and more like a comfortable suit. Soon, he knew, it would be all right.
Sleep worked wonders. It was reparative and soothing, and it allowed his mind to work without his consciousness getting in the way. Stanley was soon occupied with work again, and eventually Sherlock succumbed to his exhaustion. He slept on and off for the better part of twenty-four hours, and for a while after that remained in his bed, listening as a stiff wind pushed against the building and a steady rain began to beat down on the roof.
When he finally ventured from the sanctuary of his bed, the flat was dark, even though it was mid-morning. Sherlock pulled his dressing gown tighter around his body and went over to the window, brushing aside the curtain. The buildings across the way and the street below were grey and smudged, distorted by the water that was streaming down the glass.
“Good morning, dear,” Alice chirped as she stepped into the flat, carrying a bag of shopping. “I was just down at the shops; thought I’d pick you up some more sugar and tea. I noticed yesterday that you were out.”
Sherlock went over to his desk and opened the drawer. He stared at the small box he had tucked in the back of it last week.
“Sherlock?”
“Yes, thank you, Alice,” he said absently. “Just leave them in the kitchen.”
He brushed his fingers over the box and then, finally, picked it up. It was the first time he’d looked at it since Mycroft handed it to him, though he hadn’t actually stopped thinking about it since last week.
“Sherlock, dear, come and join me for a moment.”
Sherlock pocketed the box and went into the kitchen. He sat down before his microscope and watched as Alice put away the items she had bought. He felt clear-headed and absent; for once, his mind was almost completely blank. He thought of Victor and didn’t feel a pang of guilt or pain; he thought of Stanley and felt nothing but a warm swell of joy.
His world, it seemed, was starting to right itself.
Alice set about making them something to drink. Sherlock pulled the box out of his pocket again and opened it. The ring inside was silver and plain. It was in excellent condition, but it would need to be cleaned before -
“Tell me about him.”
“Hm?” Sherlock looked up, pocketing the box once again. “About who, Alice?”
“About Stanley, silly.” She brought over two steaming mugs - tea for her, coffee for Sherlock - and then sat down across from him at the kitchen table. Sherlock pushed his microscope out of the way so that he could properly see her face.
“You know Stanley already,” he said with a frown. She rolled her eyes.
“He’s been coming by for all the years I’ve lived here, yes, but that doesn’t mean anything.” She stirred her tea absently, a small smile on her lips. “I know that he’s very quiet, and very kind. I know that he’s dead gorgeous.”
“Careful there, Alice,” Sherlock said with a smirk. She winked at him.
“But I don’t actually know him,” she finished. “So go on, then. Tell me about your man.”
“He’s not -”
“Yes, he is. You two have been together for how long now?”
It depended on how one looked at it, Sherlock supposed. Since March was probably the most accurate, given all the fits and starts they’d had along the way since the aborted December kiss.
“Three months,” he said finally. “I suppose. But it feels like years.”
“It has been years, I think,” Alice said with a tiny smile. “For all the time I’ve known him, at least. He’s had nothing but eyes for you - and you for him.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock scoffed. “He was married for part of that time, for God’s sake.”
“Not since I’ve been living here,” Alice pointed out. “I’ve only ever known Stanley when he was single. And you’re avoiding the question.”
She sipped her tea for a moment, one eyebrow arched elegantly at him. Sherlock sighed.
“He studied robotics systems while at university, but upon graduation joined the Met. He was transferred to Lestrade’s team fifteen years ago, which is where we met. He took over for Lestrade five years ago -”
“Stop, stop,” Alice said with a laugh, holding up a hand. “Tell me about him, Sherlock.”
He blinked at her.
“I don’t understand,” he said after a moment.
“What does he like to do in his spare time?” she tried. Sherlock snorted.
“What spare time?” he asked dryly, and she rolled her eyes.
“All right, fair point. What about… books? He must read.”
“He does,” Sherlock said with a nod. And then he grimaced. “He enjoys mysteries.”
“You’re joking.”
“I wish I was. They’re terrible, Alice.”
At that, she laughed out loud. “You’ve read them? Oh, Sherlock. Only you would read a book solely for the purpose of being able to argue about it with someone. And what about music?”
“Don’t even get me started. His taste in music is abominable.”
“Does he dance?” Alice rested her chin on her fist. “He looks like he would be excellent.”
“He doesn’t make a habit out of it.” Sherlock felt an unbidden smile come to his lips. “But when he allows it - yes, he’s quite talented.”
They’d only ever danced once, and Sherlock was sure Stanley didn’t remember it. It was during one of the many parties that resulted from Lestrade’s retirement announcement and Stanley’s promotion. Sherlock had been dragged to too many pubs by John and Lestrade for one send-off or another, and had even put up with three separate parties being thrown at Baker Street. Stanley had attended all of the spontaneous events, looking just as put-upon as Sherlock felt, but he handled it with considerably more grace and tact. They had bonded over their mutual dislike of large crowds and parties, and one night Stanley had consumed enough alcohol to allow himself to be dragged out onto the dance floor at that night’s haunt.
And, three drinks later, he had hauled Sherlock out there to join him.
“There’s something about watching him let go,” Sherlock said quietly, smiling at the memory. “He’s always so careful, so reserved. Quiet, as you said. But when he opens up - when he laughs, when he cracks a joke, when he stops thinking - it’s a wondrous thing. I love - I love watching it.”
He swallowed, suddenly realising how much he’d revealed, and occupied himself for a moment with taking a long swallow from his coffee. It had long since gone cold, but no matter.
Alice shook her head, that same understanding smile playing on her features. She was about to take another drink from her tea but paused, something having caught her eye.
“What’s that, dear?”
“Hm?” Sherlock looked down at his hands, and realised he’d once again taken the small box out of his pocket. He was holding it tightly in one hand, but uncurled his fist so that she could see. “Oh, nothing. My father’s ring. Mycroft gave it to me.”
“Well, that was nice of him,” Alice said with a small smile. “Must be nice to have something that reminds you of him.”
“I suppose.” Sherlock opened the box, as though looking at the ring might bring forth a memory that had long been buried. “Though I feel it’s rather a futile effort. I was too young when he died. There’s really nothing left for me to remember. Just stories.”
“From your mother?”
Sherlock nodded. “She cared for him. Deeply.”
Alice touched the back of his hand, and then covered it with her own.
“And you know what that feels like, even if you don’t remember him yourself,” she said. And then she gave a content sigh. “What a lucky man you are to have had such an intense love not once, but twice in a lifetime.”
Sherlock was quiet for a long while. He turned the box over and over in his hand and, finally, held it out for her to take.
“So you think that he’d like it?” he asked quietly. She opened the box and surveyed the ring carefully.
“Sherlock,” she said, a grin splitting her features as realisation dawned, “he’s going to love it.”
----
If Stanley had his way, he would do nothing but work on the serial killer case.
But the Yard had other ideas, especially for its Detective Inspectors. In addition to working other cases, Stanley had meetings and paperwork, and a dozen other administrative tasks that he needed to complete on a regular basis. He attended special events, too, from time to time, which Sherlock had never before paid much attention to.
That is, until one night when Stanley came over to Baker Street at half-eleven, dressed in a dinner suit and wearing an air of irritation. He stormed into the flat, ranting about hierarchies and publicity and his bloody useless supervisors…
And Sherlock didn’t register a word of it, because he was too busy staring at Stanley. He looked stunning.
Sherlock, first and foremost, appreciated the mind. It was the first thing he noticed about another person; the first place where he saw beauty, if it was to be found at all. He never gave much thought to physical attractiveness. He could appreciate aesthetics; art and music; nature and literature. But when it came to people, he very rarely found himself stirred by physical features alone.
But he found that he was starting to appreciate the physical aspects of Stanley’s appearance almost as much as he did Stanley’s mind. More than that, Sherlock discovered that he was starting to develop preferences when it came to Stanley’s appearance. Stanley looked better in dark shirts, for instance, and though he wore dark trousers well, Sherlock preferred when he dressed down to jeans on the weekends. There were few sights Sherlock found more entrancing than Stanley just after a shower, with his hair spiked and a towel secured around his waist. Stubble suited him, and Sherlock loved the feel of it against the insides of his thighs when they were in bed together.
But all of those things were surpassed by the sight of Stanley in a dinner suit - in this dinner suit. It was a tailored suit that emphasized his long legs and broad shoulders, and when Stanley turned away to hang his outer coat on the back of the door, Sherlock saw that it hugged the curve of his arse nicely.
“Bloody useless, the whole lot of them,” Stanley grumbled to himself. His cheeks were flushed in irritation, his eyes were bright, and his hair was mussed from the number of times he had run his fingers through it. Sherlock swallowed hard.
“Problem?” Sherlock asked, trying to sound casual. It came out as more of a croak, which Stanley didn’t seem to notice.
“Yeah, about half a dozen of them,” Stanley snarled. “Namely, a bunch of arse-nosed higher-ups who don’t seem to realise that I have better things to do than spend an evening at a fundraiser in this ridiculous outfit. Like, you know, solving murders and - oi!”
Sherlock grabbed his arm as Stanley moved past his chair and gave a strong tug, sending Stanley sprawling across his lap.
“Very funny, old man,” Stanley grumbled, struggling into a sitting position. He tried to get up, but Sherlock held him in place.
“I don’t think arse-nosed is a real word,” he said seriously. Stanley scowled at him.
“It is if I say it is.”
Sherlock kissed him. Stanley sat stiffly for a moment, and then finally relaxed. He kissed back, slowly at first, though when Sherlock squeezed his arse he hummed in approval and parted his lips. Sherlock moved his hand to cup Stanley through his trousers, and Stanley groaned.
“Are you sure this is the best time?” he muttered against Sherlock’s mouth.
“You’re here,” Sherlock murmured against the shell of Stanley’s ear, “and gorgeous. What better time could there be?”
Stanley hummed in appreciation as Sherlock moved his attentions to his neck. He shifted, and Sherlock was suddenly very aware of his own straining trousers.
“Bed, then, I think,” Stanley whispered at last, and Sherlock was inclined to agree.
Something else Sherlock had discovered--it seemed as though he was discovering new things about himself every day now--was that he enjoyed undressing Stanley. He found it almost as stimulating as the act of sex itself. There was something thrilling about seeing Stanley in a well-cut outfit and knowing what was hidden underneath; not only that, but knowing that he was the only one who was privileged enough to see it. He always took great care in peeling Stanley from his clothes - the anticipation of what was to come coupled with Stanley’s need tended to spike his own arousal.
He started tonight with the polished shoes and dark socks. He pulled them off, and then kissed Stanley’s ankle before moving up to his mouth again. Sherlock mouthed the curve of Stanley’s jaw while he made quick work of the bowtie and then unbuttoned the dinner jacket. Stanley sat up long enough for Sherlock to push the dinner jacket from his shoulders, and he deposited it on the floor before moving on to the braces. He slipped them off, and then unfastened Stanley’s trousers.
Stanley was aching at this point, hard and leaking, and he gave an involuntary moan of disappointment as Sherlock’s palm brushed lightly over his still-clothed erection. Sherlock slid the trousers over Stanley’s hips and tossed them over his shoulder. Stanley’s shirt followed soon after, and then he was clad in nothing but his pants and the thin sheen of sweat that now covered his chest. It was taking everything he had not to help Sherlock divest him of his clothes, but Stanley had learned quickly how Sherlock preferred to do the act.
Finally, Sherlock hooked his fingers into the waistband of Stanley’s pants and slid them down his thighs. Stanley worked them off his calves and then kicked them away. His cock lay heavy and flushed against his stomach, and he was near-panting now. He reached for Sherlock, grasping him by the lapels and pulling him closer.
“You’ve - you’ve got too many clothes -” Stanley’s sentence was cut off as Sherlock kissed him, hard enough to bruise. He grabbed Stanley’s wrists and pinned his hands on the mattress above his head. Stanley whimpered.
“I know,” Sherlock whispered. He lowered his hips to Stanley’s and gave a slow, deliberate grind. Stanley bucked against him. “I think I’ll fuck you with them on, this time.”
“Nice touch,” Stanley said later, when they had got their breath back and cleaned themselves off. Sherlock, completely naked now, was returning from the adjoining bathroom. He snagged his underwear from the floor and put it back on; thankfully, it had survived their session unscathed. Stanley was dressed in a clean t-shirt and pants, and when Sherlock slid into bed he molded himself to Stanley’s back and pressed his face into a fabric-clad shoulder.
“Glad you approve,” Sherlock said dryly, for Stanley had been completely speechless--and breathless--for a long while in the wake of his powerful orgasm. When he had finally regained some control over himself, he had proceeded to strip Sherlock with fumbling hands and kiss him senseless. And, when they had both recovered sufficiently and the blood started to flow south once more, they had gone for another round together.
Sherlock couldn’t recall the last time he’d had two orgasms in so short a time. It was beyond invigorating.
“Shirt’s probably ruined,” Stanley said apologetically. “Er… my bad.”
“I’ll get another,” Sherlock said, dismissing his concern. “Fortunately, your suit is not.”
“Damn shame.”
“I wouldn’t say that quite yet. You’ll be needing it again soon.”
It took a couple of seconds for Sherlock to fully realise what he’d said. Thankfully, Stanley didn’t appear to catch his meaning.
“God, I hope not. If they make me go to another fundraiser this month, heads are going to roll.” Stanley yawned. “Did you set the alarm?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, you’re spectacular.” Stanley was quickly fading, his words becoming little more than a mumble. “Love you.”
Sherlock tightened the arm he had around Stanley’s waist.
“I know.”
------
Summer that year didn’t arrive until halfway through July, when temperatures soared from what felt like springtime to highs that London hadn’t seen in years.
For all of its advanced technology, London was still at the mercy of the weather, and it wasn’t long before the extreme temperatures started wreaking havoc on the city at large. They were subjected to intermittent power outages that lasted anywhere from a few minutes to a few hours, and though the entire city never went down at once, it was still horribly inconvenient. The lack of power affected the traffic signals and the driverless transport system, and proved dangerous for those who had sought refuge from the heat in designated cooling centres.
Sherlock and Stanley took to spending more and more of their evenings over at Stanley’s house, as he had air conditioning that Baker Street lacked. But increasing power outages soon started affecting his area of the city, and eventually it actually became more practical to spend their nights over at Baker Street.
These evenings were frequently unpleasant, but with the right number of fans they could usually make the flat at least somewhat bearable. On the worst nights they relocated to Alice’s main room, as her flat was below Sherlock’s and therefore somewhat cooler. And when even that became impossible to stand, all three of them camped out on the floor of 221C, savouring the relief that the unoccupied basement flat offered them.
On this August night, they were back in 221B. The day had been sweltering, but the night had cooled quickly - almost too rapidly, in fact. Sherlock wouldn’t be surprised to find that a storm front wasn’t far behind.
Stanley was asleep on the sofa, as Sherlock was up tending to his website and Stanley didn’t generally like to go to bed without him. Checkers had been sleeping at his feet earlier that night, but he had long since relocated to Alice’s flat. Much as the dog loved Stanley, his disdain for the heat overruled that affection and he had sought out more comfortable lodgings.
The flat suddenly gave what sounded like a tremendous groan, and before Sherlock could fully process what was going on, the lights went out. His laptop dimmed as its charger cut out, and the television shut off with an audible snap, which roused Stanley.
“The hell?” he muttered, rubbing sleep from his eyes and sitting up. He was no more than a silhouette sitting on the sofa in the darkened flat. “Jesus. This old building.”
“It’s not the building,” Sherlock said. He got up from his chair and navigated over to the window. He had the flat memorized, mess and all, but in the dark his depth perception was thrown off and he still managed to bump his knee on a stack of books. When he finally reached the window, he pushed aside the curtains. “It’s the entire city. We’ve gone dark.”
Stanley appeared at his elbow, and Sherlock stepped aside so that he could see as well. All of London, it seemed, had gone dark. A few essential buildings had backup generators that were seemingly unaffected, but they were few and far between. The majority of the city was a vast silhouette against the sparkling midnight sky.
The night was as black as spilled ink, Sherlock thought, and his breath caught as he realised how impenetrable the darkness was. He couldn’t recall the last time he had experienced a night as deep as this. There was no true night in London. The sun disappeared from the sky every day, yes, but with the blaze of city lights and the myriad cars it was of no consequence. London shone brightly during the day and glowed at night, and there was never any respite from it.
“You can see the stars,” Stanley said softly. “Look at that. When’s the last time any of us saw the stars for real?”
“That case we worked two years ago out in Norfolk,” Sherlock answered quietly. “Do you remember?”
He heard more than he felt Stanley’s sly smirk.
“‘Course I remember that one. How could I forget seeing you in that getup? Those jeans were so tight, I think I spent most of my time trying to figure out how you were able to even walk, let alone saunter like that.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You should have spent more time focusing on the case and less time staring at my arse.”
“It’s a very nice arse, to be fair. You can’t exactly blame me.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes and knocked his shoulder gently against Stanley’s.
“Come on. You can see the stars better from the roof.”
Sherlock had truly never seen a night like this one, not even during the brief bouts of time throughout his life that he had spent out in the country.
The stars were scattered like jewels across the vast stretch of black. A thick band of them arced across the sky, from horizon to horizon, coloured by faint patches of yellows and oranges.
“That’s our galaxy,” Sherlock said unnecessarily, gesturing to the band. “That’s home.”
“I thought you had no use for information about the solar system,” Stanley teased.
“I don’t,” Sherlock sighed. “But I can appreciate beauty.”
He fixed Stanley with a pointed look. “As you should well know.”
In the darkness, he couldn’t see if Stanley flushed, but he wouldn’t be surprised if that was the case.
“You’re just - oh!” Stanley knocked the back of his hand against Sherlock’s chest, his eyes fixed on the sky once again. “Did you see that?”
A tiny pinprick of light had streaked across the sky. It was followed by second, and then a third, and in the space of half a minute there were at least thirty more.
“Meteor shower,” Sherlock said finally. He dredged up a scrap of information from the astronomy knowledge he had mostly deleted and added, “Ah - it must be the Perseids. They’re an annual occurrence.”
“What a night,” Stanley said, his voice rough as gravel. “Incredible.”
Sherlock turned to look at him. Stanley was still looking at the sky, and the bright moonlight playing off the sharp angles and smooth planes of his face. He appeared elegant and serene, and wonder shone in his dark eyes.
There would never be a night like this again.
Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat. He could stare at Stanley forever, if given the chance.
But then Stanley returned his gaze to Earth, and the spell was broken.
“Hell, what a mess,” Stanley muttered as he stared down at the near-impassable roads below. The city-wide power outage had caused chaos on the streets, as all traffic signals were out and that only added to the general distraction and confusion. The roads were backed up horribly.
“You could stay,” Sherlock offered quietly.
“Might have to, at that,” Stanley sighed. He pulled a packet of cigarettes and a lighter out of his pocket.
“Something wrong with staying?”
“God, no,” Stanley said. He lit two cigarettes and then passed one to Sherlock. “But what is that - three nights, now? Four? First because of the temperature, then because of the power outages at my own place. Now this. At some point I need to leave you to have your space.”
Sherlock took a long pull on his cigarette, and sighed the smoke out through his nose.
“No,” he said finally. “I don’t think you do need to leave, actually.”
Stanley snorted.
“Don’t give me that. You know as well as I that you’d be crawling the walls if you were stuck living with someone for more than a week.”
His words were light, but a hollow feeling dug its way into the pit of Sherlock’s stomach.
He doesn’t want me to move in, John. Of course he doesn’t. Why would he?
“If it were anyone other than you, yes,” Sherlock said softly. “But I rather think you should know by now, Stanley, that you are the exception to everything I know about myself.”
Victor had been an extension of Sherlock; a mirror image that reflected only the very best of Sherlock’s own self. But Stanley was another matter entirely. He was everything that Sherlock wasn’t, everything that he couldn’t be, and that made him beautiful.
Sherlock never wanted to be without him.
“What is it you’re trying to say, old man?” Stanley asked quietly. His words were sombre. Evidently, he realised that now this was not just another nighttime conversation.
Sherlock took a long draw on his cigarette to save himself having to answer right away. He breathed out, letting out a stream of smoke, and flicked ash onto the ground.
“You’re astonishing,” he said finally. “You’re brilliant, and you fascinate me. I’ve never met anyone quite like you, and I don’t know what I’d do without you. You’re my best friend, Stanley. And I think - I’d quite like - oh, hell.”
“Sherlock Holmes,” Stanley said gently, a note of awe in his voice, “you’re stammering.”
Sherlock flicked his cigarette to the ground and crushed it beneath the heel of his shoe. He turned to Stanley.
“I’d very much like you to stay,” he said steadily, his voice forcibly calm. “If that’s agreeable to you.”
“Stay,” Stanley repeated quietly.
“Yes.”
Stanley reached out and traced the line of his jaw, his fingertips catching on Sherlock’s stubble. Sherlock wasn’t just talking about tonight, and Stanley knew that.
“For how long?” he asked softly. His fingers stuttered over Sherlock’s skin, and Sherlock could feel the tremors that shuddered through them.
“Until the end of my days,” Sherlock said quietly. He took the hand and held it in his own, lacing their fingers together. “Until the end of yours. Until the summer’s out. Until -” And here the words caught in his throat, and he had to force them out, “- Until the night is gone. I’m yours, for however long you’ll have me.”
And because it was Stanley--his unwavering companion, the man who infuriated him like nothing else and who understood him better than anyone else on the planet--because it was Stanley, he understood that those words were as close to convention as Sherlock was willing to get; that standing on a balcony in the middle of the night with Stanley’s hand in his own was as good as getting on bended knee.
“Yes. You idiot,” Stanley added as an afterthought. And then his face broke into a glorious smile, one that showed a hint of teeth; a smile that only Sherlock was privileged enough to see. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”
----
Part 20