An Age of Silver (22/23)
"An Age of Silver" (22/23)
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 / Part 19 / Part 20 / Part 21
Stanley was taken from Sherlock’s arms and whisked off to the ambulance, almost before Sherlock had a chance to rise to his feet. An officer Sherlock had met only once before wrapped a blanket around his shoulders--“I’m not in shock”--and steered him into the back of a police car. He was too numb to protest, and somewhere along the way to the Yard, he learned that Margaret Hayes had been saved, and that the killer had been taken into custody alive.
Sherlock gave his statement to a young sergeant he didn’t recognise, and whose name he couldn’t recall after the interview concluded. He was still in his bloodied t-shirt and grimy jeans, and when he inquired about a ride to the hospital, Anderson took him to Baker Street instead.
It took fully half an hour for Sherlock to get rid of the blood. Every time he thought he had sufficiently washed it off, he discovered a new patch hidden behind a lock of hair or stubbornly clinging to the skin just under his fingernails. He showered twice before he felt remotely like himself again, and even then his skin tingled, prickling with the phantom sensation of flowing blood. Stanley’s rattling breaths echoed in his ears, and his sweat still filled Sherlock’s nostrils.
He was in surgery, and would be for some hours yet. Sherlock had left strict instructions to be contacted the moment the operation ended and, because he didn’t trust anyone to follow his orders, had called upon his brother for additional assurances. Mycroft would tell him the moment Stanley’s condition changed, and probably with more details than the doctors themselves would provide.
It wasn’t enough, though, to quell Sherlock’s restless mind, and it did little to dispense with the ache that sat deep in his chest.
He was halfway to the hospital when he received a text from Mycroft--He’s in recovery--and by the time he found the correct ward, Stanley had already been moved into his room.
“They’re not allowing any visitors yet,” Donovan said when she noticed Sherlock approaching. She was already waiting in the corridor outside Stanley’s room. There was a cut above her eye, and the skin was being held together with a butterfly bandage.
“What was his name, Sally?”
She hesitated for a moment, which he found absurd.
“Thomas Boone,” she said finally. “You were right. He’s the wrong side of fifty with the beginnings of arthritis. He was getting old - too old for these killings, at least.”
“I hope he looks worse,” Sherlock said around a dry throat. Judging by Donovan’s split knuckles and loose shoulders, Boone had suffered much more than she did, and she wasn’t sorry for it one bit. She snorted.
“The suspect suffered several unintentional and yet unavoidable injuries while being taken into custody. He struggled a bit, you see.”
“What did you break?”
Donovan gave a faint smirk.
“His wrist. Smith got his nose. What are you doing here, by the way?” Her words weren’t scathing, but genuinely curious. “I thought you’d be at the Yard, interrogating our suspect.”
“Is there any doubt that he did this?” Sherlock asked. She shook her head. “Then I don’t quite see the point.”
“I just thought you might like to know why he did this. It’d be good for future reference, I’d think.” Donovan swallowed. “It’s not like you to not see a case through to the very end. You always like to try to understand them, yeah? The killers.”
Sherlock nodded absently.
“If I may be perfectly honest with you, Sally,” he said dully, “I’m afraid that if I ever come to be in the same room as Boone, I will kill him with my bare hands. It’s probably best for all concerned if that does not come to pass.”
Before Donovan could reply, the door to Stanley’s room opened, and his doctors filed out.
Donovan stayed long enough to ensure that Stanley was in no immediate danger, but hospitals had always made her uneasy, and seeing her normally strong and resilient boss so grievously injured was unnerving for her. Stanley was unconscious still, and Donovan finally made Sherlock promise to keep her updated before taking her leave of them.
Sherlock stood by the window for a time, watching as the brilliant summer sky was overtaken by fat, white clouds that climbed and towered and eventually spread out until not a scrap of blue could be seen. They darkened and grew heavy, and soon were spitting rain. Sherlock watched the mist for a while, until it thickened into a true rainstorm and the water streaming down the window distorted the view so that there was nothing left to look at.
He turned his back to the window, and his gaze was drawn to Stanley’s still form.
Once, about six years ago, Stanley had been struck down by a severe bout of pneumonia. Sherlock remembered the coughing, the fevers, the struggle to breathe... but the most vivid memory he had of that horrible illness was the yellow tinge that Stanley’s skin took on, and the sickly-sweet scent of him.
Stanley’s skin was that colour again tonight, and even the antiseptic smell of the hospital room couldn’t override the sweat-tinged, sweet smell of someone who was distinctly unwell. Stanley’s hair was plastered to his forehead as his body overheated in the wake of the anesthesia, and an oxygen line to his nose aided his breathing. But his injuries had been treated, and though he would be uncomfortable for some time, he was going to live.
He was going to live.
----
Mycroft was in contact with him almost as soon as Sherlock had settled into the chair by Stanley’s bed, bracing himself for the long wait ahead.
“What I want to know, brother dear,” Sherlock said quietly into the phone, venom dripping from his words, “is how Stanley disappeared out from under the noses of that security team.”
“A question I am investigating most thoroughly,” Mycroft said. “You have my word.”
“I had your word that he was safe,” Sherlock snapped. “Look where that got him.”
Mycroft was quiet for a long while.
“I have done my best to do right by you over the years,” he said at last. “I haven’t always been successful, but it’s not due to maliciousness or a desire to see you hurt.”
Sherlock brushed his fingers over the back of Stanley’s cold hand. He felt an unexpected stab of guilt.
“What hope do I have of keeping him safe if even you can’t do it?” he asked quietly. “I should have been there, Mycroft.”
“It’s thanks to you they found the victim in time,” Mycroft pointed out. “Had you been with Inspector Hopkins, he would have been abducted, you would likely have been knocked unconscious or worse, and the victim would have died. As would have Hopkins, come to think of it. It’s unlikely anyone would have found him before the heat was too much to bear.”
Sherlock took Stanley’s limp hand in his own; there was no reaction. Not that he had expected there to be one.
Still, it would have been a pleasant surprise. And he could do with something pleasant right about now.
“That dog,” he said finally, “the one in your study. Where is he now?”
“The one you rescued, you mean?” Mycroft sounded faintly amused now. “He’s living in my home with the others. They all get on quite well.”
“Stanley’s allergic,” Sherlock said.
“They’ll be rolling out a new allergy shot next month, courtesy of my Baskerville scientists. Stanley will need to have it administered once a year; he’ll never have an issue around animals again.”
Sherlock swallowed past a dry throat.
“There isn’t room in Baker Street,” he tried.
“You’ll make the room,” Mycroft said. “You always do, for the important things. Besides, Baker Street isn’t your only home.”
“Stanley will be selling his house.”
“That’s not what I was referring to.”
“Sussex,” Sherlock agreed. It was an idea that had been crossing his mind quite often of late, and it was proving difficult to shake. “I don’t suppose -”
“No. I don’t think Victor would mind at all.” Mycroft cleared his throat. “Sherlock, I’ve got a meeting -”
“Does he have a name?”
Mycroft paused. “My housekeeper has been calling him Rex, I believe. Her lack of imagination sometimes is astounding.”
“Rex.” Sherlock turned the name over in his mind; then he gave a tentative smile. “Oh, that’s Stanley all over.”
“Shall I transfer him to your care?”
This time, Sherlock didn’t even need to think about it.
“Yes,” he said, his hand tightening reflexively on Stanley’s. “Yes, do. But not until Stanley comes home.”
----
It was still raining four hours later, when Stanley woke up.
“What are you doing here?” he murmured when he noticed Sherlock standing by the window, looking out onto the wet pavement below. Sherlock turned.
“Yes, why am I visiting my fiancé while he’s in the hospital?” he asked dryly. “How ridiculous of me. Do you feel all right?”
Stanley adjusted his bed so that he was in a sitting position, and winced.
“I’ve had worse,” he muttered. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him.
“I sincerely doubt it,” he said dryly, and Stanley gave a hoarse laugh.
“Yeah, I know, I was just trying to make you feel better.” And before Sherlock had time to fully process that, he asked, “How’s Margaret?”
“Fi - well. Uninjured, for the most part.”
“But scared shitless, no doubt,” Stanley finished for him. “Did he -?”
Sherlock shook his head.
“No. He never got the chance,” he said, and Stanley breathed a sigh of relief.
“Well, thank God for that, at least.”
Sherlock filled Stanley in on the rest of the details, starting with Donovan’s initial call to him and ending with their conversation out in the hall.
“Thank God for you,” Stanley murmured. “You saw through all of that. It’s because of you Margaret’s still alive.”
Sherlock shook his head.
“No,” he said softly, “don’t thank me. I was only thinking of you.”
Stanley blinked at him, for once at a loss for words.
“Your leg will heal completely, given enough time,” Sherlock said after a moment. He came and sat down in the chair by Stanley’s bed. “As will your other injuries."
His hand tightened reflexively into a fist, for in the time before he had found Stanley, Boone had managed to inflict a number of injuries--including a blow to the head that had required sutures to close, and the wound in his side that had caused him to lose so much blood. The bullet wounds would cause Stanley the most trouble, though, as he had suffered nerve and muscle damage as a result. The leg was going to take the longest to heal.
“Good to hear,” Stanley whispered. His eyelids were becoming heavy; Sherlock could see that sleep was going to be pulling him under again soon. “They’re going to kick you out.”
Sherlock grinned. “Let them try.”
Stanley snorted.
“S’all right,” he murmured. “Go home. You need the rest.”
“No,” Sherlock said. He brushed a strand of hair out of Stanley’ eyes. “You have a tendency to get yourself ambushed, kidnapped, or shot whenever I’m not paying attention. I’m not going anywhere this time.”
“Is that a promise?” Stanley murmured.
Sherlock bent down and pressed his lips to Stanley’ sweat-damp forehead.
“It’s a fact.”
----
The grass was still wet from the morning’s rain, but Sherlock paid it no mind.
He knelt before Victor’s grave, the water soaking through his trousers, and rested a palm on the stone.
“It’s over,” he said finally. “It’s over, Vic. The case, I mean. It’s been solved. And Stanley - he almost died, but he’s all right now. He’ll be coming home soon from the hospital. I just slipped out for a bit; he’s sleeping.”
He swallowed hard. A few stray droplets of rain fell onto his face, streaking down his cheeks like tears. He brushed them away.
“I just thought you should know that, when he comes home,” Sherlock continued, “I might - I might ask him about the bees.”
Sherlock paused again, as though expecting a tremendous outburst. But the breeze stilled, and even the rain seemed to pause.
“I was wrong, before,” he said at last. “I thought at first that Stanley might simply serve as a companion, because I couldn’t have you. I never thought I could care about someone as fiercely as I did you. I was wrong. He’s not you, but he's just as important. He’s not just a companion, he’s… everything.”
Sherlock broke off.
“The bees were our plan, I know,” he said. “And had you lived, I would be living there with you now. But he’s here now, and you’re not, and I think - I think I’ll ask him about them.”
He rubbed his knuckles over Victor’s name.
“I never loved anyone the way I did you,” he whispered. “But I plan to spend the rest of my life with him. I care for him, and I’m trying to do it well. I just thought you should know.”
This wasn’t goodbye, Sherlock told himself as he traced Victor’s name again. It wasn’t goodbye. It was no more of an ending than the one they had had at Christmas fifteen years ago.
But it felt so final.
“Thank you, old friend,” he said at last. “For everything.”
----
Stanley came home from the hospital at the end of the week.
Sherlock stayed to help him through the first few nights. He slept on the sofa in the main room for exactly one hour, before a text from Stanley at midnight told him to Get your skinny arse in here right now.
“Bloody ridiculous, you staying out there,” Stanley grumbled as Sherlock slid into bed next to him.
“My intention was to give you space.”
“Your intention can go fuck itself.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
“Go to sleep, Stanley.”
Neither of them slept much for the first few nights after Stanley returned home. His leg was healing well, and quickly, but he was still going to be experiencing pain for some time and it had a tendency to wake him in the middle of the night. Sherlock was always there with an extra dose of the medication, when it was allowed, or with a grounding touch when it wasn’t. Stanley hissed and cursed his way through the weekend and into the next week, his mood souring rapidly as the pain lingered and his mobility refused to increase as quickly as he wanted.
He was up and walking--well, hobbling, and only with the aid of his cane--by Monday afternoon. It was only then that Sherlock felt comfortable enough leaving him on his own for a few hours. It was excellent timing, too, because he received word from Donovan at the beginning of the week that they were bringing Boone back to the Yard from prison for another round of questioning.
“We’re going to be grilling him for some days yet,” she’d said in her phone call. “Twenty years’ worth of crimes is a lot of ground to cover. I know you said you don’t want anything to do with him, but in case you change your mind.... this is your last chance to talk to him.”
“What do you have so far?” Sherlock asked when he tracked Donovan down at the Yard that afternoon. They stood in a corridor near the room where Boone was being kept, speaking in low voices even though he couldn’t hear them.
Donovan snorted and shook her head.
“Everything you can think of,” she said darkly. “He’s not exactly denying anything. I suppose he doesn’t see the point of keeping it secret now that he won’t be able to get away with it anymore. Here.”
She held out her notes to him, and he flipped through them for several minutes. Dates, locations, and methods jumped out at him, as well as some of the more graphic details of the victims’ final hours, but that wasn’t what he was looking for.
“It’s not here,” he muttered.
“What isn’t?”
Sherlock handed the file back to Donovan.
“Give me some time with him. Twenty minutes. Alone.”
She hesitated.
“I don’t need another body to deal with, Holmes,” she said warningly. And then she added, quietly, “And the Inspector doesn’t need any blood on his hands. Don’t you dare do that to him.”
Sherlock shook his head.
“I just need a name.”
----
Stanley was asleep in the main room when Sherlock returned to his house that evening. His cane was propped up against the armchair, his damaged leg resting on a low table. He roused slowly when Sherlock put a hand on his shoulder, and it took some minutes of coaxing for him to wake fully. Sherlock fetched him water and his pain medication, and perched on the table while Stanley gathered his wits about him.
“I went to the Yard today,” he said at length.
“Wondered where you’d got off to,” Stanley murmured. “Everyone all right?”
“They’re fine. Stanley -” Sherlock broke off. Stanley’s gaze turned from curious to alarmed, and he started to lean forward. Sherlock put a hand on his leg to stop him. “They’re questioning Boone. I went to see if I could be of some assistance.”
It wasn’t entirely a lie.
“And?” Stanley prompted.
“I spoke with Boone for a time. He was able to shed some light on the one thing we could never figure out. The third victim’s name was Jane Smith,” Sherlock said softly. Stanley went very still, and what colour there was left in his cheeks quickly fled. He looked away. “She was twenty-two when she died. She had no family, no friends, and no home when she was abducted. There was no one to miss her then, and no one to remember her now. I thought you might like to know. I - am sorry.”
“Jane,” Stanley repeated quietly.
“Yes.”
“I see.” A tremor rippled through Stanley’s hand, and he clenched it into a fist. When he brought his gaze back to Sherlock’s face, his eyes were red-rimmed. “I’ll - uh - Well. It looks like I’ll have to get her a new headstone. Jane.”
Sherlock was on his feet in an instant, the moment Stanley’s face started to crumple, and he wrapped him in a tight embrace. He became aware too late that the gesture must have jostled Stanley’s injuries and tried to pull back, but then Stanley was clutching back just as fiercely, his fingers digging into Sherlock’s back. He buried his face in Sherlock’s shoulder and drew ragged, uneven breaths.
“It’s over,” Sherlock whispered. “It’s all over.”
The armchair wasn’t made for two but Sherlock made it work anyway, settling down so that he was half on Stanley’s lap and half on the arm, never once letting go. And then Stanley finally sagged, allowing Sherlock to bear his weight for once, and wept.
----
By the end of the week, Sherlock needed to return to Baker Street.
Stanley insisted on coming with him, and Sherlock wasn’t exactly willing to put up much of a protest.
“There will be stairs,” he pointed out, which was as close as he was able to come to one. Stanley gave him a withering look.
“God, Sherlock, if I let some stairs stop me, I’d never leave this bloody house. Besides,” he flashed Sherlock a smirk, “that’s what you’re for, isn’t it? Or are you afraid you won’t be able to give me a hand, old man?”
Someday, that light taunt wasn’t going to work on him anymore. This wasn’t that day.
The seventeen steps in Baker Street were still a struggle for Stanley, even with Sherlock’s aid, and though he had been trying to wean himself off the painkillers for the better part of the week, he gave in and needed to take some once they made it inside 221B.
“Right, I’m never doing that again,” Stanley huffed, settling in the overstuffed armchair before the cold fireplace. “You’re stuck with me, ‘cause I’m not leaving this place.”
“The horror,” Sherlock said dryly, bending for a kiss.
Sherlock spent the rest of the afternoon tending to the experiments he had abandoned in the wake of Stanley’s abduction--had it only been a week?--and then paid a visit to Alice. She insisted on following him back upstairs to see Stanley, and she fussed over him until dinnertime. Stanley tolerated the attention, mostly because he had a soft spot the size of London for Alice Hudson, but partly because it meant he got to have Checkers on his lap for a few hours.
“You’re going to have to get one of those, you know. A dog,” Alice told Sherlock in an undertone at one point when they were in the kitchen. Stanley and Checkers were engaged in a game of tug-of-war over an old sock. Checkers was too big for Stanley’s lap, really, but neither seemed to be complaining.
Sherlock gave a smile. “I already have.”
Alice gave a tiny squeal and hugged him tightly around the neck.
Within a few days, Stanley was able to move about on his own without the cane. His movements were still slow and stunted, but his mood improved greatly once he was able to stop relying on Sherlock’s help.
Sherlock made a few trips to Stanley’s house in order to pick up some items for him. By the end of the next week, many of his clothes were hanging in Sherlock’s wardrobe and some of his books had migrated onto the bookshelves in the main room. His shoes sat by the door, his favourite mug was in the kitchen, and there were two permanent body-shaped impressions forming in Sherlock’s mattress.
There was just one thing missing before the home would be complete.
Sherlock made a clandestine call to Mycroft one morning while Stanley was visiting his physical therapist.
“I’ll send him along by car in an hour,” Mycroft said in response to Sherlock’s request, “along with all of his supplies. I’ll also have a note made in Stanley’s medical record that he’s to start receiving those allergy shots as soon as they become available to the public. In the meantime, I’ll send over two boxes of the trial version of the drug in pill form. He’ll have to take it daily, but it will suffice until he can get the shot.”
Stanley arrived home two hours later. Sherlock heard the cab pull up and the door downstairs open, but he didn’t dare go investigate. Stanley wanted to manage these simple tasks on his own, no matter how long they took him, and Sherlock wasn’t allowed to interfere. He took a laboriously long time to climb the stairs, and when he opened the door to the flat Sherlock could hear that he was out of breath. He was in good spirits, though, for having mastered the stairs, and that was all that mattered.
“Did you see Alice’s door?” he asked as he stepped into the flat. “She’s already got Christmas decorations up! And - oh, hello. Who’s this?”
Sherlock came out into the main room. Stanley had settled into an armchair, and it was only then that he noticed the dog sleeping on the sofa.
“Go on,” Sherlock said to the animal, who was gazing at Stanley in wary curiosity. He snapped his fingers. “Come on, Rex, go say hi.”
“Rex?” Stanley asked. The dog jumped off the sofa and trotted over to Stanley’s chair. Stanley scratched him behind his ears, an instantaneous smile gracing his lips. Rex went up on his hind legs and planted his front paws on Stanley’s thighs, and he licked Stanley’s face enthusiastically. Stanley laughed. “Who do you belong to, eh?”
“You,” Sherlock said quietly, and Stanley twisted in his chair to look at him.
“You got me a dog?” he asked blankly. Sherlock came over and perched on the arm of the chair, offering Rex a quick pat on the head.
“Not exactly,” he said, and he briefly told Stanley how he had become acquainted with the dog. “He was living with Mycroft, but I rather thought I knew someone who would enjoy his company more.”
“I would,” Stanley admitted. His voice sounded thicker than normal. “I do. But Sherlock -”
“You’re allergic; I know.” Sherlock ran his fingers through Stanley’s hair and then placed a kiss on top of his head. “That’s not an issue. Not anymore.”
He explained about the new medication. By the end of it, Stanley was shaking his head.
“This is unbelievable,” he said quietly. “Your brother is astounding, Sherlock.”
“He has his moments,” Sherlock conceded. Stanley craned his neck and gave Sherlock a kiss.
“I don’t even know what to say,” he whispered when they broke apart.
“So don’t,” Sherlock said gently. Rex gave a tentative bark, drawing their attention back to him, and Stanley laughed. “Walk, do you think?”
“Yes, I think so.” Stanley swung himself to his feet while Sherlock fetched a leash. He held out a hand for Rex to sniff, and then lick. “C’mon, boy. Want to go for a walk?”
Rex barked louder this time, Stanley laughed again, and Sherlock couldn’t help but smile as well.
He could get used to this.
----
They passed a quiet Sunday morning out on the balcony that looked down onto Baker Street.
It was a temperate morning, but every breeze carried with it the warning of a scorching afternoon ahead. Every time the clouds shifted and parted, a warm sun shone down on them. Sometimes it lingered too long, and Sherlock could feel sweat starting to bead between his shoulder blades.
The flat was going to be stifling tonight.
Stanley, sitting in the chair next to him, had his eyes closed and his face turned to the sky. He had been reading the morning’s paper, but now that sat abandoned at his feet. Rex was lying in the far corner, his nose poking through the small gap between the bars of the railing so that he could watch the activity on the street below. Sherlock pecked away on his laptop, updating his website. They hadn’t spoken in close to an hour, and the silence had grown comfortable.
The shrill ring of a phone filtered through the open door, and Stanley sighed, stiffly pushing himself to his feet.
“That’s mine,” he muttered unnecessarily. “Back in a moment.”
He was inside for nearly a quarter of an hour. Rex padded over to Sherlock’s chair and laid his head on Sherlock’s thigh.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Sherlock scolded lightly. He scratched behind one of Rex’s ears. “He’ll be back out soon.”
He couldn’t make out the conversation, but given the length of the phone call he surmised it was either the Yard or Stanley’s parents. He was surprised, actually, that Ruth hadn’t been out to check up on Stanley since he came home. Both of Stanley’s parents had come to the hospital to visit him immediately after his rescue, but they had left before his release. They spoke to Stanley nearly every day, but seemed to trust that Sherlock would alert them should anything go wrong.
“That was Donovan,” Stanley said when he limped back out onto the balcony several minutes later.
“And?” Sherlock muttered around a cigarette he was struggling to light. He had abandoned his laptop and was now standing by the railing, looking down onto the traffic below. Rex was resting at his feet.
His lighter sparked and died; Stanley finally pulled the one from his pocket and offered it. Sherlock inclined his head and cupped his hands around the cigarette. Stanley lit it for him, the flame flaring to life in the shelter of Sherlock’s hands. He felt the heat lick his palms.
“The case is officially closed. They’ve named Thomas Boone as the true murderer, and Anthony Dawlins as his accomplice. They will be exonerating everyone else who might have been wrongly convicted along the way.” Stanley rubbed the back of his neck absently. “They’ll be giving you a commendation--I told them you wouldn’t accept it--and, well... my medical leave is up next week.”
Sherlock glanced at him, watching as the corners of his mouth tightened.
“You’ll be able to return to fieldwork within a few weeks,” he said quietly. “Especially if your leg continues to heal as it is. That’s only a month behind the desk, at the most.”
Stanley gave a jerky, uncertain nod.
“I know.”
Sherlock frowned.
“What is it?”
Stanley glanced at him and shook his head.
“It’s nothing. Got another one of those?”
Sherlock fished into his pockets for another cigarette and handed it over. Stanley lit it, and they smoked in silence for some moments.
“I’m not sure I want to return to the job,” Stanley said abruptly. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. This was new.
“That job is your life.”
“I do love the job,” Stanley said. “But I don’t think it’s been my life for a very long time.”
Stanley’s eyes were a clear grey this morning, almost a light blue, and his gaze was steady even in the long silence that followed his words.
“Stanley, I’ve a house in the South Downs,” Sherlock said abruptly after a moment’s contemplation. “It’s small. There aren’t any stairs to climb. You would be a good deal more comfortable there, given the nature of your injury and the length of your recuperation.”
Stanley was quiet for a long while, confusion overriding bemusement in his face.
“Leave the city?” he asked after a moment, slight incredulity in his tone. “Leave London? Sherlock, I appreciate the offer, but I know very well that the last thing you want to do is leave this city.”
Sherlock gave a huff of laughter and shook his head. He slid an arm around Stanley’s waist.
“Stanley, what makes you think I stayed in this city for any reason other than the fact that you were here? London is my home, yes, but it isn’t my life. Even the work hasn’t been my life for a very long time. I don’t love -”
Sherlock took a deep breath, and then he said the words that he had never been able to say to Victor, but which he could say now because of Victor: “I don’t love it the way I love you.”
They were so close that Sherlock felt Stanley stop breathing for several seconds.
“Come with me,” Sherlock pressed, his arms tightening around Stanley’s waist. “I want to move to the country, and I want to keep bees, and I want to do it all with you at my side. Will you come?”
Stanley drew a shuddering breath.
“Wherever,” he said quietly, “and whenever you like. Yes. I’ll come.”
---
Part 23
---
Chapter Notes: The final line is a paraphrase of a line of dialogue from ACD's "The Adventure of the Empty House."
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 / Part 19 / Part 20 / Part 21
Stanley was taken from Sherlock’s arms and whisked off to the ambulance, almost before Sherlock had a chance to rise to his feet. An officer Sherlock had met only once before wrapped a blanket around his shoulders--“I’m not in shock”--and steered him into the back of a police car. He was too numb to protest, and somewhere along the way to the Yard, he learned that Margaret Hayes had been saved, and that the killer had been taken into custody alive.
Sherlock gave his statement to a young sergeant he didn’t recognise, and whose name he couldn’t recall after the interview concluded. He was still in his bloodied t-shirt and grimy jeans, and when he inquired about a ride to the hospital, Anderson took him to Baker Street instead.
It took fully half an hour for Sherlock to get rid of the blood. Every time he thought he had sufficiently washed it off, he discovered a new patch hidden behind a lock of hair or stubbornly clinging to the skin just under his fingernails. He showered twice before he felt remotely like himself again, and even then his skin tingled, prickling with the phantom sensation of flowing blood. Stanley’s rattling breaths echoed in his ears, and his sweat still filled Sherlock’s nostrils.
He was in surgery, and would be for some hours yet. Sherlock had left strict instructions to be contacted the moment the operation ended and, because he didn’t trust anyone to follow his orders, had called upon his brother for additional assurances. Mycroft would tell him the moment Stanley’s condition changed, and probably with more details than the doctors themselves would provide.
It wasn’t enough, though, to quell Sherlock’s restless mind, and it did little to dispense with the ache that sat deep in his chest.
He was halfway to the hospital when he received a text from Mycroft--He’s in recovery--and by the time he found the correct ward, Stanley had already been moved into his room.
“They’re not allowing any visitors yet,” Donovan said when she noticed Sherlock approaching. She was already waiting in the corridor outside Stanley’s room. There was a cut above her eye, and the skin was being held together with a butterfly bandage.
“What was his name, Sally?”
She hesitated for a moment, which he found absurd.
“Thomas Boone,” she said finally. “You were right. He’s the wrong side of fifty with the beginnings of arthritis. He was getting old - too old for these killings, at least.”
“I hope he looks worse,” Sherlock said around a dry throat. Judging by Donovan’s split knuckles and loose shoulders, Boone had suffered much more than she did, and she wasn’t sorry for it one bit. She snorted.
“The suspect suffered several unintentional and yet unavoidable injuries while being taken into custody. He struggled a bit, you see.”
“What did you break?”
Donovan gave a faint smirk.
“His wrist. Smith got his nose. What are you doing here, by the way?” Her words weren’t scathing, but genuinely curious. “I thought you’d be at the Yard, interrogating our suspect.”
“Is there any doubt that he did this?” Sherlock asked. She shook her head. “Then I don’t quite see the point.”
“I just thought you might like to know why he did this. It’d be good for future reference, I’d think.” Donovan swallowed. “It’s not like you to not see a case through to the very end. You always like to try to understand them, yeah? The killers.”
Sherlock nodded absently.
“If I may be perfectly honest with you, Sally,” he said dully, “I’m afraid that if I ever come to be in the same room as Boone, I will kill him with my bare hands. It’s probably best for all concerned if that does not come to pass.”
Before Donovan could reply, the door to Stanley’s room opened, and his doctors filed out.
Donovan stayed long enough to ensure that Stanley was in no immediate danger, but hospitals had always made her uneasy, and seeing her normally strong and resilient boss so grievously injured was unnerving for her. Stanley was unconscious still, and Donovan finally made Sherlock promise to keep her updated before taking her leave of them.
Sherlock stood by the window for a time, watching as the brilliant summer sky was overtaken by fat, white clouds that climbed and towered and eventually spread out until not a scrap of blue could be seen. They darkened and grew heavy, and soon were spitting rain. Sherlock watched the mist for a while, until it thickened into a true rainstorm and the water streaming down the window distorted the view so that there was nothing left to look at.
He turned his back to the window, and his gaze was drawn to Stanley’s still form.
Once, about six years ago, Stanley had been struck down by a severe bout of pneumonia. Sherlock remembered the coughing, the fevers, the struggle to breathe... but the most vivid memory he had of that horrible illness was the yellow tinge that Stanley’s skin took on, and the sickly-sweet scent of him.
Stanley’s skin was that colour again tonight, and even the antiseptic smell of the hospital room couldn’t override the sweat-tinged, sweet smell of someone who was distinctly unwell. Stanley’s hair was plastered to his forehead as his body overheated in the wake of the anesthesia, and an oxygen line to his nose aided his breathing. But his injuries had been treated, and though he would be uncomfortable for some time, he was going to live.
He was going to live.
----
Mycroft was in contact with him almost as soon as Sherlock had settled into the chair by Stanley’s bed, bracing himself for the long wait ahead.
“What I want to know, brother dear,” Sherlock said quietly into the phone, venom dripping from his words, “is how Stanley disappeared out from under the noses of that security team.”
“A question I am investigating most thoroughly,” Mycroft said. “You have my word.”
“I had your word that he was safe,” Sherlock snapped. “Look where that got him.”
Mycroft was quiet for a long while.
“I have done my best to do right by you over the years,” he said at last. “I haven’t always been successful, but it’s not due to maliciousness or a desire to see you hurt.”
Sherlock brushed his fingers over the back of Stanley’s cold hand. He felt an unexpected stab of guilt.
“What hope do I have of keeping him safe if even you can’t do it?” he asked quietly. “I should have been there, Mycroft.”
“It’s thanks to you they found the victim in time,” Mycroft pointed out. “Had you been with Inspector Hopkins, he would have been abducted, you would likely have been knocked unconscious or worse, and the victim would have died. As would have Hopkins, come to think of it. It’s unlikely anyone would have found him before the heat was too much to bear.”
Sherlock took Stanley’s limp hand in his own; there was no reaction. Not that he had expected there to be one.
Still, it would have been a pleasant surprise. And he could do with something pleasant right about now.
“That dog,” he said finally, “the one in your study. Where is he now?”
“The one you rescued, you mean?” Mycroft sounded faintly amused now. “He’s living in my home with the others. They all get on quite well.”
“Stanley’s allergic,” Sherlock said.
“They’ll be rolling out a new allergy shot next month, courtesy of my Baskerville scientists. Stanley will need to have it administered once a year; he’ll never have an issue around animals again.”
Sherlock swallowed past a dry throat.
“There isn’t room in Baker Street,” he tried.
“You’ll make the room,” Mycroft said. “You always do, for the important things. Besides, Baker Street isn’t your only home.”
“Stanley will be selling his house.”
“That’s not what I was referring to.”
“Sussex,” Sherlock agreed. It was an idea that had been crossing his mind quite often of late, and it was proving difficult to shake. “I don’t suppose -”
“No. I don’t think Victor would mind at all.” Mycroft cleared his throat. “Sherlock, I’ve got a meeting -”
“Does he have a name?”
Mycroft paused. “My housekeeper has been calling him Rex, I believe. Her lack of imagination sometimes is astounding.”
“Rex.” Sherlock turned the name over in his mind; then he gave a tentative smile. “Oh, that’s Stanley all over.”
“Shall I transfer him to your care?”
This time, Sherlock didn’t even need to think about it.
“Yes,” he said, his hand tightening reflexively on Stanley’s. “Yes, do. But not until Stanley comes home.”
----
It was still raining four hours later, when Stanley woke up.
“What are you doing here?” he murmured when he noticed Sherlock standing by the window, looking out onto the wet pavement below. Sherlock turned.
“Yes, why am I visiting my fiancé while he’s in the hospital?” he asked dryly. “How ridiculous of me. Do you feel all right?”
Stanley adjusted his bed so that he was in a sitting position, and winced.
“I’ve had worse,” he muttered. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him.
“I sincerely doubt it,” he said dryly, and Stanley gave a hoarse laugh.
“Yeah, I know, I was just trying to make you feel better.” And before Sherlock had time to fully process that, he asked, “How’s Margaret?”
“Fi - well. Uninjured, for the most part.”
“But scared shitless, no doubt,” Stanley finished for him. “Did he -?”
Sherlock shook his head.
“No. He never got the chance,” he said, and Stanley breathed a sigh of relief.
“Well, thank God for that, at least.”
Sherlock filled Stanley in on the rest of the details, starting with Donovan’s initial call to him and ending with their conversation out in the hall.
“Thank God for you,” Stanley murmured. “You saw through all of that. It’s because of you Margaret’s still alive.”
Sherlock shook his head.
“No,” he said softly, “don’t thank me. I was only thinking of you.”
Stanley blinked at him, for once at a loss for words.
“Your leg will heal completely, given enough time,” Sherlock said after a moment. He came and sat down in the chair by Stanley’s bed. “As will your other injuries."
His hand tightened reflexively into a fist, for in the time before he had found Stanley, Boone had managed to inflict a number of injuries--including a blow to the head that had required sutures to close, and the wound in his side that had caused him to lose so much blood. The bullet wounds would cause Stanley the most trouble, though, as he had suffered nerve and muscle damage as a result. The leg was going to take the longest to heal.
“Good to hear,” Stanley whispered. His eyelids were becoming heavy; Sherlock could see that sleep was going to be pulling him under again soon. “They’re going to kick you out.”
Sherlock grinned. “Let them try.”
Stanley snorted.
“S’all right,” he murmured. “Go home. You need the rest.”
“No,” Sherlock said. He brushed a strand of hair out of Stanley’ eyes. “You have a tendency to get yourself ambushed, kidnapped, or shot whenever I’m not paying attention. I’m not going anywhere this time.”
“Is that a promise?” Stanley murmured.
Sherlock bent down and pressed his lips to Stanley’ sweat-damp forehead.
“It’s a fact.”
----
The grass was still wet from the morning’s rain, but Sherlock paid it no mind.
He knelt before Victor’s grave, the water soaking through his trousers, and rested a palm on the stone.
“It’s over,” he said finally. “It’s over, Vic. The case, I mean. It’s been solved. And Stanley - he almost died, but he’s all right now. He’ll be coming home soon from the hospital. I just slipped out for a bit; he’s sleeping.”
He swallowed hard. A few stray droplets of rain fell onto his face, streaking down his cheeks like tears. He brushed them away.
“I just thought you should know that, when he comes home,” Sherlock continued, “I might - I might ask him about the bees.”
Sherlock paused again, as though expecting a tremendous outburst. But the breeze stilled, and even the rain seemed to pause.
“I was wrong, before,” he said at last. “I thought at first that Stanley might simply serve as a companion, because I couldn’t have you. I never thought I could care about someone as fiercely as I did you. I was wrong. He’s not you, but he's just as important. He’s not just a companion, he’s… everything.”
Sherlock broke off.
“The bees were our plan, I know,” he said. “And had you lived, I would be living there with you now. But he’s here now, and you’re not, and I think - I think I’ll ask him about them.”
He rubbed his knuckles over Victor’s name.
“I never loved anyone the way I did you,” he whispered. “But I plan to spend the rest of my life with him. I care for him, and I’m trying to do it well. I just thought you should know.”
This wasn’t goodbye, Sherlock told himself as he traced Victor’s name again. It wasn’t goodbye. It was no more of an ending than the one they had had at Christmas fifteen years ago.
But it felt so final.
“Thank you, old friend,” he said at last. “For everything.”
----
Stanley came home from the hospital at the end of the week.
Sherlock stayed to help him through the first few nights. He slept on the sofa in the main room for exactly one hour, before a text from Stanley at midnight told him to Get your skinny arse in here right now.
“Bloody ridiculous, you staying out there,” Stanley grumbled as Sherlock slid into bed next to him.
“My intention was to give you space.”
“Your intention can go fuck itself.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
“Go to sleep, Stanley.”
Neither of them slept much for the first few nights after Stanley returned home. His leg was healing well, and quickly, but he was still going to be experiencing pain for some time and it had a tendency to wake him in the middle of the night. Sherlock was always there with an extra dose of the medication, when it was allowed, or with a grounding touch when it wasn’t. Stanley hissed and cursed his way through the weekend and into the next week, his mood souring rapidly as the pain lingered and his mobility refused to increase as quickly as he wanted.
He was up and walking--well, hobbling, and only with the aid of his cane--by Monday afternoon. It was only then that Sherlock felt comfortable enough leaving him on his own for a few hours. It was excellent timing, too, because he received word from Donovan at the beginning of the week that they were bringing Boone back to the Yard from prison for another round of questioning.
“We’re going to be grilling him for some days yet,” she’d said in her phone call. “Twenty years’ worth of crimes is a lot of ground to cover. I know you said you don’t want anything to do with him, but in case you change your mind.... this is your last chance to talk to him.”
“What do you have so far?” Sherlock asked when he tracked Donovan down at the Yard that afternoon. They stood in a corridor near the room where Boone was being kept, speaking in low voices even though he couldn’t hear them.
Donovan snorted and shook her head.
“Everything you can think of,” she said darkly. “He’s not exactly denying anything. I suppose he doesn’t see the point of keeping it secret now that he won’t be able to get away with it anymore. Here.”
She held out her notes to him, and he flipped through them for several minutes. Dates, locations, and methods jumped out at him, as well as some of the more graphic details of the victims’ final hours, but that wasn’t what he was looking for.
“It’s not here,” he muttered.
“What isn’t?”
Sherlock handed the file back to Donovan.
“Give me some time with him. Twenty minutes. Alone.”
She hesitated.
“I don’t need another body to deal with, Holmes,” she said warningly. And then she added, quietly, “And the Inspector doesn’t need any blood on his hands. Don’t you dare do that to him.”
Sherlock shook his head.
“I just need a name.”
----
Stanley was asleep in the main room when Sherlock returned to his house that evening. His cane was propped up against the armchair, his damaged leg resting on a low table. He roused slowly when Sherlock put a hand on his shoulder, and it took some minutes of coaxing for him to wake fully. Sherlock fetched him water and his pain medication, and perched on the table while Stanley gathered his wits about him.
“I went to the Yard today,” he said at length.
“Wondered where you’d got off to,” Stanley murmured. “Everyone all right?”
“They’re fine. Stanley -” Sherlock broke off. Stanley’s gaze turned from curious to alarmed, and he started to lean forward. Sherlock put a hand on his leg to stop him. “They’re questioning Boone. I went to see if I could be of some assistance.”
It wasn’t entirely a lie.
“And?” Stanley prompted.
“I spoke with Boone for a time. He was able to shed some light on the one thing we could never figure out. The third victim’s name was Jane Smith,” Sherlock said softly. Stanley went very still, and what colour there was left in his cheeks quickly fled. He looked away. “She was twenty-two when she died. She had no family, no friends, and no home when she was abducted. There was no one to miss her then, and no one to remember her now. I thought you might like to know. I - am sorry.”
“Jane,” Stanley repeated quietly.
“Yes.”
“I see.” A tremor rippled through Stanley’s hand, and he clenched it into a fist. When he brought his gaze back to Sherlock’s face, his eyes were red-rimmed. “I’ll - uh - Well. It looks like I’ll have to get her a new headstone. Jane.”
Sherlock was on his feet in an instant, the moment Stanley’s face started to crumple, and he wrapped him in a tight embrace. He became aware too late that the gesture must have jostled Stanley’s injuries and tried to pull back, but then Stanley was clutching back just as fiercely, his fingers digging into Sherlock’s back. He buried his face in Sherlock’s shoulder and drew ragged, uneven breaths.
“It’s over,” Sherlock whispered. “It’s all over.”
The armchair wasn’t made for two but Sherlock made it work anyway, settling down so that he was half on Stanley’s lap and half on the arm, never once letting go. And then Stanley finally sagged, allowing Sherlock to bear his weight for once, and wept.
----
By the end of the week, Sherlock needed to return to Baker Street.
Stanley insisted on coming with him, and Sherlock wasn’t exactly willing to put up much of a protest.
“There will be stairs,” he pointed out, which was as close as he was able to come to one. Stanley gave him a withering look.
“God, Sherlock, if I let some stairs stop me, I’d never leave this bloody house. Besides,” he flashed Sherlock a smirk, “that’s what you’re for, isn’t it? Or are you afraid you won’t be able to give me a hand, old man?”
Someday, that light taunt wasn’t going to work on him anymore. This wasn’t that day.
The seventeen steps in Baker Street were still a struggle for Stanley, even with Sherlock’s aid, and though he had been trying to wean himself off the painkillers for the better part of the week, he gave in and needed to take some once they made it inside 221B.
“Right, I’m never doing that again,” Stanley huffed, settling in the overstuffed armchair before the cold fireplace. “You’re stuck with me, ‘cause I’m not leaving this place.”
“The horror,” Sherlock said dryly, bending for a kiss.
Sherlock spent the rest of the afternoon tending to the experiments he had abandoned in the wake of Stanley’s abduction--had it only been a week?--and then paid a visit to Alice. She insisted on following him back upstairs to see Stanley, and she fussed over him until dinnertime. Stanley tolerated the attention, mostly because he had a soft spot the size of London for Alice Hudson, but partly because it meant he got to have Checkers on his lap for a few hours.
“You’re going to have to get one of those, you know. A dog,” Alice told Sherlock in an undertone at one point when they were in the kitchen. Stanley and Checkers were engaged in a game of tug-of-war over an old sock. Checkers was too big for Stanley’s lap, really, but neither seemed to be complaining.
Sherlock gave a smile. “I already have.”
Alice gave a tiny squeal and hugged him tightly around the neck.
Within a few days, Stanley was able to move about on his own without the cane. His movements were still slow and stunted, but his mood improved greatly once he was able to stop relying on Sherlock’s help.
Sherlock made a few trips to Stanley’s house in order to pick up some items for him. By the end of the next week, many of his clothes were hanging in Sherlock’s wardrobe and some of his books had migrated onto the bookshelves in the main room. His shoes sat by the door, his favourite mug was in the kitchen, and there were two permanent body-shaped impressions forming in Sherlock’s mattress.
There was just one thing missing before the home would be complete.
Sherlock made a clandestine call to Mycroft one morning while Stanley was visiting his physical therapist.
“I’ll send him along by car in an hour,” Mycroft said in response to Sherlock’s request, “along with all of his supplies. I’ll also have a note made in Stanley’s medical record that he’s to start receiving those allergy shots as soon as they become available to the public. In the meantime, I’ll send over two boxes of the trial version of the drug in pill form. He’ll have to take it daily, but it will suffice until he can get the shot.”
Stanley arrived home two hours later. Sherlock heard the cab pull up and the door downstairs open, but he didn’t dare go investigate. Stanley wanted to manage these simple tasks on his own, no matter how long they took him, and Sherlock wasn’t allowed to interfere. He took a laboriously long time to climb the stairs, and when he opened the door to the flat Sherlock could hear that he was out of breath. He was in good spirits, though, for having mastered the stairs, and that was all that mattered.
“Did you see Alice’s door?” he asked as he stepped into the flat. “She’s already got Christmas decorations up! And - oh, hello. Who’s this?”
Sherlock came out into the main room. Stanley had settled into an armchair, and it was only then that he noticed the dog sleeping on the sofa.
“Go on,” Sherlock said to the animal, who was gazing at Stanley in wary curiosity. He snapped his fingers. “Come on, Rex, go say hi.”
“Rex?” Stanley asked. The dog jumped off the sofa and trotted over to Stanley’s chair. Stanley scratched him behind his ears, an instantaneous smile gracing his lips. Rex went up on his hind legs and planted his front paws on Stanley’s thighs, and he licked Stanley’s face enthusiastically. Stanley laughed. “Who do you belong to, eh?”
“You,” Sherlock said quietly, and Stanley twisted in his chair to look at him.
“You got me a dog?” he asked blankly. Sherlock came over and perched on the arm of the chair, offering Rex a quick pat on the head.
“Not exactly,” he said, and he briefly told Stanley how he had become acquainted with the dog. “He was living with Mycroft, but I rather thought I knew someone who would enjoy his company more.”
“I would,” Stanley admitted. His voice sounded thicker than normal. “I do. But Sherlock -”
“You’re allergic; I know.” Sherlock ran his fingers through Stanley’s hair and then placed a kiss on top of his head. “That’s not an issue. Not anymore.”
He explained about the new medication. By the end of it, Stanley was shaking his head.
“This is unbelievable,” he said quietly. “Your brother is astounding, Sherlock.”
“He has his moments,” Sherlock conceded. Stanley craned his neck and gave Sherlock a kiss.
“I don’t even know what to say,” he whispered when they broke apart.
“So don’t,” Sherlock said gently. Rex gave a tentative bark, drawing their attention back to him, and Stanley laughed. “Walk, do you think?”
“Yes, I think so.” Stanley swung himself to his feet while Sherlock fetched a leash. He held out a hand for Rex to sniff, and then lick. “C’mon, boy. Want to go for a walk?”
Rex barked louder this time, Stanley laughed again, and Sherlock couldn’t help but smile as well.
He could get used to this.
----
They passed a quiet Sunday morning out on the balcony that looked down onto Baker Street.
It was a temperate morning, but every breeze carried with it the warning of a scorching afternoon ahead. Every time the clouds shifted and parted, a warm sun shone down on them. Sometimes it lingered too long, and Sherlock could feel sweat starting to bead between his shoulder blades.
The flat was going to be stifling tonight.
Stanley, sitting in the chair next to him, had his eyes closed and his face turned to the sky. He had been reading the morning’s paper, but now that sat abandoned at his feet. Rex was lying in the far corner, his nose poking through the small gap between the bars of the railing so that he could watch the activity on the street below. Sherlock pecked away on his laptop, updating his website. They hadn’t spoken in close to an hour, and the silence had grown comfortable.
The shrill ring of a phone filtered through the open door, and Stanley sighed, stiffly pushing himself to his feet.
“That’s mine,” he muttered unnecessarily. “Back in a moment.”
He was inside for nearly a quarter of an hour. Rex padded over to Sherlock’s chair and laid his head on Sherlock’s thigh.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Sherlock scolded lightly. He scratched behind one of Rex’s ears. “He’ll be back out soon.”
He couldn’t make out the conversation, but given the length of the phone call he surmised it was either the Yard or Stanley’s parents. He was surprised, actually, that Ruth hadn’t been out to check up on Stanley since he came home. Both of Stanley’s parents had come to the hospital to visit him immediately after his rescue, but they had left before his release. They spoke to Stanley nearly every day, but seemed to trust that Sherlock would alert them should anything go wrong.
“That was Donovan,” Stanley said when he limped back out onto the balcony several minutes later.
“And?” Sherlock muttered around a cigarette he was struggling to light. He had abandoned his laptop and was now standing by the railing, looking down onto the traffic below. Rex was resting at his feet.
His lighter sparked and died; Stanley finally pulled the one from his pocket and offered it. Sherlock inclined his head and cupped his hands around the cigarette. Stanley lit it for him, the flame flaring to life in the shelter of Sherlock’s hands. He felt the heat lick his palms.
“The case is officially closed. They’ve named Thomas Boone as the true murderer, and Anthony Dawlins as his accomplice. They will be exonerating everyone else who might have been wrongly convicted along the way.” Stanley rubbed the back of his neck absently. “They’ll be giving you a commendation--I told them you wouldn’t accept it--and, well... my medical leave is up next week.”
Sherlock glanced at him, watching as the corners of his mouth tightened.
“You’ll be able to return to fieldwork within a few weeks,” he said quietly. “Especially if your leg continues to heal as it is. That’s only a month behind the desk, at the most.”
Stanley gave a jerky, uncertain nod.
“I know.”
Sherlock frowned.
“What is it?”
Stanley glanced at him and shook his head.
“It’s nothing. Got another one of those?”
Sherlock fished into his pockets for another cigarette and handed it over. Stanley lit it, and they smoked in silence for some moments.
“I’m not sure I want to return to the job,” Stanley said abruptly. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. This was new.
“That job is your life.”
“I do love the job,” Stanley said. “But I don’t think it’s been my life for a very long time.”
Stanley’s eyes were a clear grey this morning, almost a light blue, and his gaze was steady even in the long silence that followed his words.
“Stanley, I’ve a house in the South Downs,” Sherlock said abruptly after a moment’s contemplation. “It’s small. There aren’t any stairs to climb. You would be a good deal more comfortable there, given the nature of your injury and the length of your recuperation.”
Stanley was quiet for a long while, confusion overriding bemusement in his face.
“Leave the city?” he asked after a moment, slight incredulity in his tone. “Leave London? Sherlock, I appreciate the offer, but I know very well that the last thing you want to do is leave this city.”
Sherlock gave a huff of laughter and shook his head. He slid an arm around Stanley’s waist.
“Stanley, what makes you think I stayed in this city for any reason other than the fact that you were here? London is my home, yes, but it isn’t my life. Even the work hasn’t been my life for a very long time. I don’t love -”
Sherlock took a deep breath, and then he said the words that he had never been able to say to Victor, but which he could say now because of Victor: “I don’t love it the way I love you.”
They were so close that Sherlock felt Stanley stop breathing for several seconds.
“Come with me,” Sherlock pressed, his arms tightening around Stanley’s waist. “I want to move to the country, and I want to keep bees, and I want to do it all with you at my side. Will you come?”
Stanley drew a shuddering breath.
“Wherever,” he said quietly, “and whenever you like. Yes. I’ll come.”
---
Part 23
---
Chapter Notes: The final line is a paraphrase of a line of dialogue from ACD's "The Adventure of the Empty House."