#victor trevor

+ he’s played by tom hiddleston
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happening in the episode, and it wouldn’t have been a main thing. 
i think, if they made johnlock canon, we wouldn’t be happy about it now because it would’ve been a small scene and then the normal storyline would’ve continued. and that’s not what johnlock deserves.
i’m not sure if this makes sense to anyone else but i’m pretty sure i’m gonna get hate for this, this is my opinion. if you think different about it, im totally ok with that. [ if you see grammar mistakes, i’m happy that you have such great eyes, you can keep them es a reward for finding them]

eurus killed victor at the age of idk 6 or 7 oh my

as you can see on my sherlock posts, I really wanted them to make victor appear on the show as an old friend / love interest of dherlock. I DIDNT ASK YOU TO FUCKING KILL HIM AT THE AGE OF IDK 6 MOFFTISS. I

day twelve

It rains today. It’s still winter, but not cold enough to form snow. So, instead, the heavens above cry out and rain litters the London streets. It’s the day after Valentine’s Day. Sherlock and John did not celebrate - they’re simply not the type.

Sherlock stands facing the window, curtains separated so he can peer out to the street below. London is both sad and beautiful during a rain shower. He balances his violin over his shoulder and plays a simplistic song that bellows throughout the flat. John’s in the shower and Sherlock plays this song for no one at all. It is not John’s song and simply something he composed somewhere in between his travels. It’s not that it doesn’t matter, he’s simply misplaced it in his mind palace and he doesn’t quite have the need to detail out where, when, and why he composed such a piece. So he plays because even though they have nothing on and it’s raining and he should be bored, he finds comfort in this.

It’s not been easy nor has it been perfect but this is what he has pursued for over a year and a half. He’s wanted this moment - one of many - and now he is allowed to have it. He enjoys this.

John comes from the bathroom sometime later. His hair is wet on the edges and he drapes the white towel around his shoulders. If you looked close enough, you could see several gray hairs line his forehead. He’s getting old and there is no doubting that, but he feels of youth as he makes his way to the sitting room. He sees his flatmate - his something not yet titled - justthere. He hadn’t been there for over a year and a half and this transition, this motion from past to present allows John to feel something beyond time working against them.

He slips behind Sherlock because he is allowed to do so and he folds his hands around Sherlock’s waist. Sherlock does not pause - nor does he miss a note, and John simply presses his cheek to the younger’s shoulder. Seemingly, this should be odd or different or something that John is not but this is home to him - to the both of them - and this is what the both of them want. John would not trade this for the world and he tightens his hold on the detective at that thought because if he were to die at whatever age, he knows now, he would want just one more second to hold onto this man and never let him go.

“You’re thinking,” Sherlock says, pulling the violin away from his chin, ceasing the music from livelihood.

“Your deductions are becoming better by the day.” John retorts, enjoying the casual yet silly banter shared between the pair. He sighs, nonetheless, and closes his eyes, burying himself between the hollow of bones he finds on Sherlock’s back. “What piece was that, Sherlock?”

“I don’t remember,” Sherlock replies. He pulls away, only slightly, and sets the violin down in its case before turning to face the opposite. He really is taller than John, or perhaps, the doctor is just far too short. But he’s smiling, handsomely so, and Sherlock likes when John smiles. If he could announce it, even just mentally, he could say that he loves when John smiles. We’ll just say it for him.

“You never forget,” John says, tilting his chin up. Sherlock can see the teardrops of water clinging to the end of his hairs. He wants to run in the rain with John.

“I’ll never forget you.” Sherlock says. It’s the truth and both of them know it. John only smiles, not articulating a reply, and presses his face into the crook of Sherlock’s neck.

This time Sherlock holds onto John.

He doesn’t let go either.

*

day fourteen

John’s been picking up shifts and Sherlock’s been, well, keeping himself occupied. Lestrade offers him small cases, for now at least, but only because Sherlock finally gave way and said that one or two is alright. At least it tides him over until John comes home from whatever useless job he has – well, at least in Sherlock’s mind. Sherlock’s out today though, and John’s just come home from a ten hour shift at the clinic. They don’t really need the money, he knows that now, but he still enjoys working and he doesn’t plan to stop until Sherlock’s ready to retire or he just gets too tired to go in. He likes being a doctor, contrary to popular belief - at least it comes in handy when Sherlock tries to argue with an experiment. That happens quite a bit.

But today is not an emergency day, per se. Instead John simply stops by Tesco’s and picks up ingredients to make spaghetti and meatballs. He thinks they’ve ordered takeaway one too many times for the week and since he’s off early enough in the day, he’d like to cook a meal for Sherlock and himself. However, that all doesn’t go as planned because, really, what in the world ever goes by a particular plan when it comes to the residents of 221B?

It starts with John returns to that particular flat. He’s dropped off the groceries in the kitchen and removed both his jacket and shoes. He likes, just after toeing them off, when he sets them by Sherlock’s own pair. But Sherlock’s not home today. However, someone is. He hears a noise coming from the bedroom and he raises a brow - odd, really. A sign that Sherlock is home is that his shoes are there (coat and scarf included) and quite obviously, Sherlock is not.

“Sherlock?” John calls. “You home?”

He wanders the spare amount of distance between the bedroom and sitting room and peeks in. Perhaps Mrs. Hudson is doing the cleaning (the sheets really, reallyneed tidying for apparent and obvious reasons). But it’s rather the opposite when he peeks into the bedroom - theirbedroom.

“Um,” John says, almost as if he’s caught off guard by to the random man standing in said bedroom, “Wrong house?”

He’s really gotten soft in his age because, in the past, he would have pulled a gun or at least lifted a fist. But no, apparently now, if you wandered into 221B, you were greeted with a man who sported a rather comfortable looking jumper and just a tad awkward smile. But it was a rather handsome smile nonetheless.

“Oh, hello,” the opposite says, turning and offering a brilliant smile in return, “I was looking for Sherlock. I’m not sure if he told you who I was?” John just blinks and shakes his head minutely, “Of course not. Sounds like Sherlock. Anyways, hello - John, yes? - I’m Victor. Victor Trevor.”

There’s roughly forty-three seconds in time that exist where John’s (right) fist collides with Victor’s (right) cheek and another nineteen seconds when John comes to term with reality versus anger and bends halfway over, touching Victor’s shoulder. “Oh god, I’m sorry. That - that, yes, sorry.”

Victor only laughs because there are so few men like Victor in the world and regardless if he is hit or shot or hugged, he is going to make the best out of everything. It’s just the type of person he is and it’s the type of person he loves to be. He touches his cheek and sits up slightly, using his free hand on his knee to hold his steady. “Nice to meet you too, John Watson.”

If John and Sherlock hadn’t already made love, John would have punched him again. Jealousy really is a spiteful thing.

Instead he offers to make tea and a cold compress.

*

day fifteen

Just over two weeks from their reunion, they find their selves settles on the sofa, collapsed on the opposite after a long round of lovemaking. John isn’t demanding of sex, but that isn’t because Sherlock doesn’t like it. Sherlock, in fact, enjoys it and will often gloat about it on his laptop to those he speaks with. John’s not particularly fond of the way his male body parts are discussed, but Sherlock just smiles broadly and replies, “You should be proud of the fact that you have a nicely sized penis. Some men out there do not and you know I have high expectations.”

That remark, obviously, leads to Sherlock’s face being hit with a pillow. They giggled for over ten minutes straight and Sherlock kissed him for just as long.

But today is rather different. The sun is rising and Sherlock is draped over John’s chest while a sheet covers them both. John loves these moments and Sherlock’s rather fond of them too. He enjoys the fact that he can be happy here - just here - in the silence that follows sexual activities. He knows it is beyond his control to even attempt to stay in this sort of situation all day (really, far too sticky) but he has no problem spending a good three-quarters of an hour basking in the afterglow.

“What did you do with Victor, Sherlock?”

Victor only stayed an hour or so the day prior. John sent a text to Sherlock and Sherlock arrived, via taxi, half an hour later. Sherlock grinned rather smugly at the sight of Victor Trevor holding a towel-wrapped package of frozen peas to his cheek and John only blushed. Perhaps there was something more then, but it was never going to be what Sherlock wanted - it was never going to be what Sherlock needed. They exchanged a small hug and Victor asked for them not to be strangers. They both knew that meant Sherlock alone and strangely enough, John was alright with that. As long as they no longer shared a bed of course.

However, again, back in this moment, Sherlock does not lie. Not to John and not about this. “We shared a bed on three different occasions. We kissed the same amount, though we never went beyond. He offered, to an extent, and while I had the opportunity to do so - he informed me that he didn’t want to be hurt.”

John traces a figure on Sherlock’s chest. He feels childish in his response but he’s never loved someone like this. “Did you love him? Do you?”

Sherlock snorts and tilts his head to the side, pressing his lips to John’s forehead. “You’re ever the idiot, John,” he sighs softly and closes his eyes - he’s got about another quarter-of-an-hour before he needs to reoccupy his mind, “The only person I could ever love is you. I haven’t the room, time, patience, or want to love anyone else.”

John could make a joke about loving Mycroft or Mrs. Hudson or his skull, but instead he basks in the glory of being the love of Sherlock’s life and it guides him to sleep.

*

day nineteen

Mycroft visits. Apparently the British Government can get slow from time to time. He doesn’t carry his umbrella but he has a briefcase and he wears a tired smile that seems to have made a home as of late on his face. Mrs. Hudson is the one to let him in and everyone can see the spark of sadness in his eyes when he glances in the direction of Sherlock and John. John is sitting on the sofa with the newspaper held in his hands while Sherlock lies opposite, his feet piled into John’s lap. Mycroft wants that and everyone knows this because Mycroft’s never really had love before Greg Lestrade and everyone knows that men like Mycroft rarely ever get it in the first place.

John says something before Sherlock does. He knows how brutal their relationship can be.

“Have a new case to beg Sherlock to take?”

“Actually, no,” Mycroft responds. He takes a seat in Sherlock’s chair and watches the pair of them. John’s shown the decency to place the newspaper back onto the coffee table but apparently, Sherlock can’t find the time to do anything besides turn to his side and face the back of the sofa with a huff. John just chuckles and settles his hand (the right) on Sherlock’s side. John glances back at Mycroft and he can read the world on his face because he’s worn that face before. He knows what it feels like.

“What can we do for you Mycroft?”

Mycroft swallows. This is hard for him. He is not a man of weakness. “I would like for you to talk to Gregory for me, on my behalf, if you could.”

John licks his lips but Sherlock does not move. “Are you sure that’s a wise idea, Mycroft?”

“I haven’t the faintest clue of what else to do. You - Sherlock, either or both of you, if you could. I don’t know if you’ve mentioned me in prior conversations with him, but now, at the very least, I’d like you to extend a few words to him for me.”

John looks down at Sherlock now. Sherlock’s eyes are closed and his face is pressed into the cushion of the sofa. It’s unlikely that Sherlock will help and John knows this for a fact. He knows that Greg has been hurting and Greg is just as stubborn, if not more, as him. They talk about Mycroft only in passing, spare bits of words here and there, and he doesn’t know what else more he can do. But here Mycroft is and John’s not a man to say no - nor is he a man to see another hurting, even if itisMycroft.

“What would you like me to say?”

Mycroft is watching the empty fireplace as if a fire is illuminated. This is hard for him but he will do this for Gregory because he is at his wits ends and not even the Queen could save him now. “Tell him that I miss him and that I am sorry,” Mycroft says, quietly and to almost just himself, but John can hear just enough, “and that I have thought about him every day.”

It’s quiet in 221B and John does not reply. It’s only a matter of seconds before Mycroft stands up. This is hard on him - really hard - and he can only find the decency to straighten his suit jacket and nod in the direction of John before making his way to the door of the sitting room. John stops him first though, words just as quiet. “I told you before, Mycroft, he misses you too.”

“Will you tell him what I said?”

“Of course.”

Two and a half minutes later when the sedan downstairs is gone, John focuses on Sherlock whom has yet to move an inch. John’s fingers are massaging Sherlock’s side gently because it is as natural as nature. Perhaps another three minutes later, Sherlock finally turns on his back once again and gazes up at John. His eyes are not wet nor does he read much of any emotional expression that can be deduced. He is a master of disguise and only his words can explain everything.

“He is my brother,” Sherlock says. His fingers have found their way onto John’s jumper and they hold on tight because just like Mycroft, emotional announcements do not come easy. “And I may not understand him, nor do I like him - much. But I do not like to see him hurt.”

John figures it out. “You could not bear to look at him like that.”

Sherlock nods and they stare at each other for a long time.

Sherlock really is human.

*

day twenty-one

They solve a small case for Lestrade. It takes them roughly three and a half hours and John tells Lestrade what Mycroft has said. The detective inspector is slightly taken aback but John only shrugs his shoulders. Sherlock is too busy investigating what nonsense he can get into in Lestrade’s office. It’s mostly though, to ignore the conversation at hand. The last thing he needs to do is offer emotional advice on a situation regarding Lestrade and his brother. It’s a terrible experiment in the making.

“I’ll talk to him.” Lestrade announces. Sherlock’s turned away where no one can see his lips curl into a smile.

“Good then, yeah?” John replies, arms crossed at his chest.

“Maybe,” Lestrade shrugs his shoulders, “Doesn’t mean I forgive him. Damn well doesn’t mean I’m getting back together with him either - but, yeah, I’ll contact him.”

Sherlock’s smile fades a little. He thinks, deduces even, that even if Lestrade wanted to get back together with Mycroft, he probably wouldn’t. Not everything is perfect, Sherlock knows, but Mycroft has the Queen, country, and government to hold him over till he dies.

That evening they go to Angelo’s and sit in their usual spot. Angelo is not in so there is no candle and they sit just the same. John gets Sherlock to order and they each have a glass of wine to start with. This should be considered a date but they do not title it as such a thing. They just know it as dinner and laughing and grinning and well, trying to get Sherlock to eat at least half his meal. John finds it helpful when they just share an entree. For being such a sociopath, Sherlock does have romantic tendencies (ones he may or may not be aware of). For example, the detective is rather fond of their knees touching under the table.

It’s after the second glass of wine where John’s laughing so hard that there are tears pouring from his eyes, when he says, after fighting the laughter to stand inside, “Got anything on tomorrow?”

The restaurant is empty and it’s nearing closing time. This is not Sherlock being brave or romantic or going out on a whim. This is Sherlock seeing John - just John (you don’t need to add in details of the lighting or music or level of alcohol in both) - and doing something that he simply wants to do. He leans over, curving his body around the edge of the table. His hand lifts up and touches John’s cheek and he smiles - well, rather, both of them smile. “Perhaps.”

“Oh?” John says. He’s not caught off guard because he knows this is Sherlock just being Sherlock. “A case?”

“Of sorts.” Sherlock replies, their faces incredibly close.

“Will you be needing your blogger?”

“I’d be lost without him,” Sherlock says, and makes the leftover distance vanish.

John doesn’t need to say, I’d be lost without you too, because he’s too busy kissing Sherlock and sometime later, when they’re under white sheets entwined by limbs, he thinks to himself, he’s pretty sure Sherlock’s deduced all of this - all of everything - a hell of a long time ago.

day one

They kiss until their lips are swollen and the only thing they can taste as deep as their molars is each other. They taste of tea (black) and toast (strawberry jam) and something that cannot be defined in any dictionary found in London (probably the world). They make home to the sofa, one atop the other as the day carries out and they speak of nothing whatsoever. Sherlock hasn’t the strength or the mindset to tell his story just quite yet and John isn’t sure he can handle hearing it because all he can focus on at this very moment is that he is allowed to share a kip with Sherlock Holmes and that means more than something he could ever describe, even if he wanted to. He folds Sherlock, for that very fact, safely into his arms and whispers only his breath against the younger’s forehead. Sherlock lets him too. It should alarm either of them with how easy and natural this offer of affection is, but much like the days that turned into months, things changed on the axis of their foundation, and in turn, there they were.

It was once again, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson; not a torn off fragment of who they were prior to the storm that flooded their lives away.

Sherlock kisses gently and John does the same. Sherlock is not shy in his actions because he knows he is lucky enough to have them. He’s not a man to believe in guesses or luck or anything of that nature but he will not be idiotic enough in these moments to doubt anything - not when he feels John Watson’s heartbeat against his ear. He knows that this unlike him in most cases - that he’s never been one to seem the romantic of sorts, but John’s hand is heavy on his back and he feels the pads of each finger trail down his shoulder blade and who is he to say no? Not just to himself, denying such pleasure, but what sort of man is he to say no to his best friend that he’s missed more than words can describe?

It’s somewhere near nightfall when John brings Sherlock’s face up and kisses him on the lips. Sherlock says, in the quietest of voices, “I am sorry,” and John kisses him again because while an apology may be necessary, it is not what John wants. John wants Sherlock to stay forever and never leave him again because hecan’t do that again - he really can’t. There was a gun and pills and liquor bottles and tears and pain. There was no life without Sherlock, even if he tried to mask it with an illusion of something else. John knows that this is not the life he would have imagined years ago and he knows that this is probably the most insane thing he has ever done – will ever do - but he also knows what it feels like to have the polar opposite of what he has now, and he will die before he ever leaves this again.

He tells Sherlock this, in much less words, because he’s tired. He says, against Sherlock’s forehead, holding him tightly, “I need you to keep me close, Sherlock.” Sherlock is a consulting detective and he knows what this means. He can’t bear to look at John in these moments because he knows what he has done and even though it was for John, it hurt him, and he never wanted that. And so, instead, he buries himself against John and says nothing. John knows what this means and holds him until the streetlights of Baker Street turn on and they are home.

*

day three

Mycroft drops by, umbrella in tow. He looks tired but you can’t blame a man for being slightly exhausted after not seeing the one you love for over a month. Mycroft may be made of ice but his heart is not and that makes all the difference in the world. Sherlock sits in his chair and John sits on the right arm of it. Mycroft sits the opposite and watches the two of them. He is not stupid and he knows what they have now - he knows that it may be difficult for them and there is a long road ahead of the pair, but they both have what they have both (unknowingly) wanted for a very long time.

“Have you been out?” Mycroft asks. John usually offers to make tea or would banish himself from any and all of their conversations but right now he refuses to leave Sherlock’s side. They’re not touching one another, but Sherlock finds it awfully hard not to reach over and hold onto the end of John’s jumper. They’ve been all over each other for the last three days and he’d like the back.

“Not yet,” Sherlock responds, glancing to the side, away from Mycroft. He is one who will often stare someone down to their death, but right now, well, he’s still a bit tired and the fact that he is home (with John) is still sinking in. He is a detective; he is not perfection. “We haven’t had time.”

John instantly blushes. They both know they have done nothing beyond being curled against each other as day turned into night and night slept until day was ready to wake, but still, it’s almost unnatural to see how Sherlock is ready to parade around what they have. Mycroft sees this - sees this in both of them and he can’t help but feel a pang of jealousy float around his chest. He’s not one to have many things to be jealous over but he knows Greg is about four miles to the west of 221B Baker Street and the man still hasn’t returned a single text message or phone call from Mycroft and it’s killing the older. He can get anything he wants but he cannot have this and this is what he misses most of all.

They barely talk, the three of them. Mycroft stays no more than fifteen minutes and tells Sherlock he will arrange to have all of his belongings from his residence dropped off within the next few days. Before Mycroft leaves, John turns his head to the man held captive by the British Government and smiles sadly.

“Greg misses you too.”

It speaks sounds but Mycroft is resilient to showing emotion as ever. He simply nods stiffly and makes his way down to the black sedan waiting for him. Sherlock looks up at John when the door clicks close, a momentary lapse of confusion cross his face.

“He does,” John says simply, “He misses Mycroft quite a bit but it’s just as hard on him as it was on me. Mycroft may not have been dead, but Mycroft lied to him for a very long time.”

“I am sorry.” Sherlock says again, keeping his eyes on John.

John touches Sherlock’s cheek with the palm of his (right) hand. His fingers flex out and he smiles at his counterpart. He never imagined being in a relationship with this man - not before all of this - not even in drifting thoughts, but now, in this moment, he knows that there is no other option and no matter what comes: come what may. This is what he wants and this is what he chooses and nothing else will be what he needs. “I know that, Sherlock,” he says and leans down to kiss Sherlock on the lips.

He knows this. He’s known it for a long time.

And now, he thinks, Sherlock is really starting to know it too. What it means to be sorry and what it means to be forgiven and what it means to be loved.

John thinks, after enough time, he will tell him that. But for now, with nothing else on his mind and as Sherlock curls his hand into the folds of John’s jumper, he kisses him until he forgets everything and all he remembers is Sherlock.

*

day four

Sherlock tells John about some of his journey. He tells him about Cairo and airports and endless heat. He tells him about hotel rooms where the lights were so bright that he had to pull the duvets over his head to stop his migraines. He tells him about Venice and the beach and how he imagined John getting married. He tells John about how he thought of them sitting right here, a few nights before John’s wedding, and John told Sherlock that he would stay if he needed him. Sherlock looks at John (who is rested across his chest) when he says this, and opens his mouth again, but closes it. It’s hard to tell someone to never leave because Sherlock’s never asked this of someone. He skips this thought and carries on.

He tells John of drugs and drugs and drugs. He tells John that he is not sorry for what he did, on those days and nights when everything hurt and all he wanted to come what home because he knows that he would not be here if he could not, at the very least, let his mind rest for a moment or two. He tells John, eyes closed, that sometimes when he chose to shoot up, that he could see John and it was a small vision that reminded him of what he was doing this all for.

John, because he’s not a consulting detective, asks, “What were you doing this all for?”

“John, you are an idiot,” Sherlock automatically replies, but seconds later, he tightens his grip around John’s waist, “You, John. All of this was for you.”

“You died for more than me,” John says back, breathlessly.

“I died for you, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock explains, and then he finishes his story, “But I came back for you.”

John swallows the next two or three minutes of Sherlock’s story by kissing him until he remembers that breathing is not boring and is, in fact, a requirement. Sherlock could have gone longer but he thinks two or three minutes is just fine as long as there would be more in the course of the next few decades.

When John pulls away and resettles on Sherlock’s chest, Sherlock tells John of killing men and getting information. He tells John that jumping from Bart’s wasn’t that scary, but he never expected to feel the way he did when he had to look John in the eyes and say goodbye. He tells John he is sorry again and he means it because he feels it in every bone of his body. He tells John that he’s traveled more than he’s ever wanted to and he’s glad to be back home and not because home is where the heart is - no, that would be sentimental - instead he says that home is where John is and all the while, John is sobbing in Sherlock’s arms because even though he is a soldier and a doctor and a man - he’s never been more in love with someone in his whole life.

Sherlock does not cry, but he holds John the entire time and the only thing that his mind can think of is how lucky he is and how this person, tucked safely in his arms, is the only thing that matters to him in the world and even though he’s not going to change and be someone different, he’s still going to be loved and he knows, deep inside of his heart, he’s going to love the hell out of John back.

*

day seven

Mrs. Hudson returned home the day prior and they had to plan Sherlock’s return to her in advance. John comes down and discusses it with Mrs. Hudson, but the landlady will not have any of it. She storms upstairs and finds Sherlock in his bedroom, sorting through old boxes, and pulls the younger into a tight hug - nearly putting a crick in her back to lean over and hold him. Sherlock is alarmed at first, but he’s hugged her before and he will hug her again and he does just that. She is not sobbing or crying, but on the contrary, she is laughing and smiling and she kisses his cheek where there is a pale stain of pink lipstick splashed across his skin in the aftermath.

“You foolish boy,” Mrs. Hudson remarks, pulling away to get a good look at him, “Three years is too long young man. Next time I’ll toss out your experiments into the Thames instead of boxing them up. And just - oh, look at you, Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson pulls away, giving a shake of her head, “We’ll have to fatten you up. Sherlock,” she says, almost as an afterthought, “Sherlock.”

Sherlock does not tell Mrs. Hudson of his adventures and he does not say he is sorry. He is, but he knows that Mrs. Hudson does not have expectations as such. He does share a cup of tea with her and sit in the kitchen as they discuss Baker Street and Mrs. Hudson’s new beau. They discuss John, who is in the shower at the moment, and they smile sadly at each other because Mrs. Hudson really should be mad at him but she can’t allow herself to be, because despite all the experiments and body parts and loud noises and guns, she loves Sherlock as she would love any son.

By the afternoon time, Mrs. Hudson is gone and John and Sherlock are finishing going through a few boxes in Sherlock’s bedroom. John does not apologize for boxing everything up and Sherlock doesn’t require an explanation. They simply go through boxes and Sherlock reorganizes his sock index. He puts enough clothes in his closet to have something to wear for the rest of the week and he looks at John with soft eyes, ones that have missed the man in front of him even though it’s been a week since they’ve been apart. “Will you be staying in here with me?”

John raises a brow and glances at the bed. “You’re probably going to hog all the blankets aren’t you?”

Sherlock merely gestures with his head and shoulders, clearly saying, as if you would expect anything else, John Watson.

“Hog the entire bed won’t you?”

“Obviously. I am rather tall.”

“Would there even be room?”

“Yes.”

“Sherlock.”

“John.”

Sherlock stands from his sitting position on the floor and sits on the right edge of his bed. He takes John’s (left) hand and pulls him over. John takes his lead and stands between Sherlock’s legs. He leans down automatically and they kiss again. It was never going to be easy and it was never going to be perfect but all of this? All of this is just fine.

They kiss on the bed until it’s too late for dinner and the boxes on the floor don’t really matter right now. John orders takeaway and they eat on the sofa.

They fall asleep on sofa, too.

Sherlock takes up all of it, as usual, but there’s always room for John.

*

day nine

Sherlock finally takes his phone off silent. He has messages from Lestrade and Mycroft and even one from Molly. He ignores them all and sets his mobile on the nightstand. He really should have grown tired or bored by now, but he is fascinated in all aspects by how John looks when he sleeps. The soldier is draped over him like a curtain and a sheet covers them both. They’ve both slept more than normal for even an ordinary person in the last nine days, but they both have needed just it the same way that they have needed each other.

He really isn’t sentimental but he is smart and he knows something good when he has it. He knows that John is unlike cases and experiments and drugs; he also knows that John should probably want something more along the lines of a wife and child and small dog and possibly a white picket fence, but for whatever reason, they have chosen each other and Sherlock will not be the one to argue against whatever person (greater or not) that has gifted them this. Instead, he may not be remotely audible about it, but at least, to himself, he is grateful. He spreads the palm of his hand on John’s back and massages his shoulders gently.

John stirs and mumbles, “Sherlock.”

It makes Sherlock’s heart stir. John’s waking thought is Sherlock.

Quite possibly, John’s onlythought is Sherlock.

“John,” Sherlock replies, still stroking the doctor’s back gently.

John looks up and kisses Sherlock on the lips.

Moments later, Sherlock’s phone goes off. He huffs irritably and rolls his eyes. He’s not one to ever answer his phone unless it’s important, or even ever, when one John Watson is placed right here, directly on his chest. John catches this though, and only smiles lazily before reaching over to grab at Sherlock’s phone.

“If it’s Lestrade, tell him to bother me in two weeks and not before.”

John feels his whole heart swell in pride to know thatthis consulting detective - hisconsulting detective - is practically telling everyone to bugger off just to make time for him.

Sherlock resumes closing his eyes while John fiddles with the opposite’s phone. But it’s John’s voice that makes Sherlock regain reality.

“Who is Victor Trevor?”

When Sherlock opens his eyes, the mobile phone’s screen is pointed towards the younger and he squints his eyes to read.

Haven’t heard from you, Sherlock. Would you like to come by this week? Back in Oxford for the week. The bed is lonely without you. Let me know. - VT

Sherlock should really feel sorry for this - maybe even explain, but he can’t be anyone besides himself. So, instead, he simply replies, “A childhood friend I have seen recently.”

“And you shared a bed with him?”

There is a moment delay in time where all thoughts are lost and John can’t, for a moment, really believe that this all happening.

“A bit obvious. Yes, John.”

“Unbelievable.”

John’s gone then, quite probably, before even Sherlock realizes it. John’s name is off of Sherlock’s lips a quarter-of-a-second later but John is already gone.

Now if Sherlock was any other person - perhaps one who had a better understanding of how relationships work; of how explanations and apologies and understanding and things of that nature twined together, then, perhaps, he would have run after John. He would have chased and chased and chased and took John’s hand and explained things because quite obviously, they are explainable. However, he is not that type of person. He’s a consulting detective, and while he does have a heart, he has never promised another that he could change himself. Of course, it’s embedded into his heart that he does love John Watson, far more than he’d ever imagined, but that never meant and will never mean that this particular consulting detective can do things with his heart that he is unable to do.

And so he stares at the open bedroom door with both feet (bare) on the ground. John’s name falls from his lips again and perhaps four minutes later he is in the bathroom, staring at the shower, having decided it would be a good time for a shower. He would like John back, but he will not chase him.

He will wait through, and perhaps send texts when he gets out until John gets home.

But there is only so much he can do before he becomes someone he is not.

*

day nine

Nine minutes later (about six minutes left before hot water turns cold), John is in the bathroom too, albeit panting and out of breath (seventeen steps is a lot on a man of his age and he can flip off anyone who tells him otherwise). He parts the shower curtain angrily to reveal and a very wet and a very naked Sherlock Holmes.

“John,” Sherlock says, loofa still in the palm of his (right) hand.

“I don’t care what you did, Sherlock,” John says. He grips Sherlock’s (left) wrist with his own left hand and steps awkwardly into the shower. His clothes begin to drench in water and he doesn’t care because he only took nine minutes to come back and he thinks that’s more than enough time when over nineteen months has already separated them. “I don’t care who Victor Trevor is or what you did with him or anything. But you are mine,” he says, in a tone of authority that says everything that he’s not saying. They’re both wet now and Sherlock is crowded near the corner of bath. His eyes are wide and John’s eyes are narrowed.

“John.”

“I don’t care if you shagged him into tomorrow, Sherlock. I will not even begin to try and guess your reasoning for anything you did and I’m not going to blame you. But I am going to tell you that I already know what I feel for you and I just want to know that whatever you have in there,” he pushes his right hand to the center of Sherlock’s chest, just against his heart, “Whatever you manage to hide deep in there, Sherlock - I want to know that it is mine and mine alone. Not Victor’s. Not Irene’s. Not someone I don’t know about. Just mine and that it will stay that way.”

“John.”

They’re both dripping wet and the water is starting turn less of a burn and more towards warm and the ice-cold is just minutes away. Sherlock slips his hand up and grips John’s wrist before pulling roughly, so they were flush against each other. “John,” he says again, leaning down until their lips meet in some sort of flash of anger or jealousy or need or something they can’t even explain because they’re too busy kissing each other. “John,” Sherlock says, both under the tumbling water cascaded from above. “You,” he says, breathing out and carrying on, “I am yours.”

They kiss against the wall of the shower and it is wet, wet, wet. They kiss until it is cold and they kiss some more and John forgets all about Victor Trevor and Sherlock knows, deep somewhere he cannot reach, that John was never Helen’s and only ever his. They kiss and kiss and kiss until they make their way to the bed and kiss some more because god they have missed each other so much.

The shower is turned off an hour and fourteen minutes later and as ordinary as it sounds, they kiss some more.

*

day ten

John’s gone out to get milk and eggs and beans and some eye drops for Sherlock’s eyes because they’ve been really red as of late. He’s back nearly an hour later, carrying the shopping up the stairs. It’s been raining and he’s wet from head to toe.

Sherlock, because he is who he is, refuses to help. But he does look over at the doctor who is holding three bags. John’s not got chocolates or flowers and he’s a particular mess because he’s drenched in rain and probably needs a towel that Sherlock probably won’t get either. But he’s got eyes, spectacular ones that are looking clearly at Sherlock who is set on his own chair, legs crossed at the ankle.

And it slips carelessly from Sherlock’s mouth as if he was saying hello.

“I love you John.”

John cracks a smile but doesn’t drop the shopping bags because there are eggs and he doesn’t want to have to go back to Tesco’s in this sort of weather.

But his smile is bright and big and he’s grinning from ear to ear because, well, he says what he feels right back.

“I love you too,” and he adds on, still smiling, “now come help me put up the shopping, you lazy sod.”

And so Sherlock does.

It really should be ordinary or boring, like kissing. It really should be tedious and mundane, like boredom.

But it’s John, and well, that’s just that.

It’s John.

Mycroft gives him cases. They’re not the most interesting in the world, but they keep Sherlock’s mind occupied enough so that it doesn’t begin to stray into the depths that do exist out there. It’s a land field out there honestly, and John’s just so far away. There are gaps in time when Sherlock doesn’t text his best friend and then there are moments when the blackness of the void begins to seep in and Sherlock opens his mouth and never lets it shut. There are many things he wants to tell John, things that are much less organized such as the state of his heart, but they are things that he knows and understands and wants John to understand too. But Mycroft tries to avoid allowing his younger brother to sink to those levels because he knows what Sherlock will do if left stranded for too long.

Sherlock feels crushed when John tells him not now because when will it ever be the right time? He’s been waiting nineteen months thus far and February is creeping right around the corner and it claws at Sherlock’s mind to know that while he exists in the same world that holds John Watson, he is not allowed to be a part of it. He thinks, minutely, that perhaps everyone is right - that this really isn’t his area - and that John just needs time. But when those hours turn into days and days fill into weeks, he becomes claustrophobic of how little time he has left. He wants to spend it all with John because even though it’s almost ridiculous, he knows how he feels and what he’s done and how he’d do it all over again for this one person. It is a lot and says a lot and he just wants John to understand.

It would almost be too much if there were no cases, but there’s just enough to keep the cocaine at bay and the narcotics hidden just a mile ahead of the consulting detective’s sanity.

The papers begin to unfold too, mentioning in small letterheads that Jim Moriarty was real and, somehow, (he thinks most likely through Mycroft) the tale of his survival is fit into three or four paragraphs. The world doesn’t care that he’s alive. It doesn’t really matter and nineteen months really could be shrunken down to thirty-four sentences and printed on page four without a headline even covered on the front page. It doesn’t really bother him because Sherlock’s not a man for media, but he feels like he’s still in hiding because John doesn’t want him just quite yet.

It’s a week to February - actually, less than, if you’re working on actual time, which Sherlock is not. Mycroft’s made arrangements to see Lestrade and Sherlock finds himself jealous. He knows that Mycroft may come back more damaged than he left three hours ago, but at least Lestrade is speaking to him. He wants that more than anything in the world. To be with John. His fingers play idly over his mobile phone but he knows not to text just yet. It’s Friday and John’s off today, probably spending time with Helen. He imagines that they go shopping together and maybe to the cinema. Maybe they have dinner at Angelo’s too and sit at the same booth that they used to eat at.

He’d like all those things, really. He could handle shopping (if John was there) and the cinema (if John was there) and Angelo’s (if John was there). He knows there is a pattern to how he handles things and it’s exactly why home is: 221B, cases, experiments and most importantly, John (John, John, John).

He could live outside of 221B, too (if John was there) and he could live without cases (if John was there), and he’d easily bin all his experiments (if John was there). He knows what home has morphed into and he knows, sitting alone in the guest bedroom of Mycroft’s residence, it’s exactly the place he wants to go back to.

Victor sends a text message and Sherlock replies. They casually exchange an assortment for a moment or two or three.

In London. You busy?
VT

Not particularly. Why are you in London?
SH

Handled some paperwork for a conference I’m doing in Peru next week.
VT

Would you like an invite?
SH

Would you mind giving one?
VT

No.
SH

Is that a ‘no you wouldn’t mind giving one’ or ‘no you’d prefer me not to stop by’?
VT

How soon?
SH

Fifteen out, tops. Make tea?
VT

Yes. I’ll be in my room once you’re done. The door’s unlocked.
SH

I’ve missed you.
VT

Sherlock does not reply.

To an extent, he misses Victor. He misses John more. He misses John most. But he’s been so lonely, so glued to another world he’s not quite used to that when Victor tends to him in whatever manner he does, it helps. Victor keeps the darkness at bay and while he knows it may not be fair to Victor, he thinks they both firmly understand that this is a sort of friendship that does not go beyond that title alone. Sherlock’s never been a man to follow social restraints so he finds no dishonor in enjoying pleasuring through spending time with Victor, including whatever activities they instigate during that time. It’s something he doesn’t question too far into because he doesn’t know enough and he doesn’t want to know more. He can’t know more. He knows it’s dangerous to play with fire in such a manner but both Victor and he are old enough to cut the cord when either of them needs to.

He hears the noise echoing down the long hallways as Victor makes his arrival and less than five minutes later, Victor is at the door of his bedroom, manhandling two cups of tea on a platter while opening the door with his free hand. It’s been a long week since they’d seen each other and Sherlock feels the urge to kiss him because he feels hollow on the inside and out and he doesn’t like that feeling all too much.

Sherlock likes how Victor doesn’t berate him for not helping with the door. Victor understands that there is already enough of the younger and it’s something that Sherlock appreciates. A level of understanding that doesn’t need to be discussed but is as apparent as ever.

“I couldn’t find the Earl Gray so I made a batch of whatever was in Mycroft’s cupboards. I didn’t mix in the milk or sugar yet, seeing as you’re the pickiest man I’d ever met.” Victor says, placing the platter on the nightstand. It’s covered with papers but he doesn’t bother to clear the mess. “Cup on the right is yours. I already mixed mine.”

Sherlock doesn’t say anything and works with his hands instead. He reaches over and grips Victor’s wrist (the right) and tugs him on top of him. He’s set there, sitting with his legs dangled off the edge of the bed (right side, too) and he pulls Victor just enough where he falls off balance and settles his left hand to the left of Sherlock. He parts his lips and Sherlock leans up elegantly and meshes his own to the opposite set. They both breathe out and Victor realizes that Sherlock never really needed tea.

Victor tips Sherlock back, pressing himself in between the consulting detective’s legs whilst leaning over him, chest against chest. He pulls away from the kiss and smiles in result of everything that’s occurred in the last twenty-four seconds. “You’re going to let your tea go cold.”

“You’ll make more?”

The question mark really should be abandoned because with Sherlock, it’s always a demand.

Victor hums and presses back down, finding his place against Sherlock’s lips. The weight is heavy like an anchor on Sherlock and it helps him find gravity again. There is warmth and heat and feeling and someone else here who may not fully understand but can still respect the fact that Sherlock is damaged goods and he just wants to try and feel something for even just a second or two. Victor can understand this much and he knows that while this is nothing romantic in nature, it is something that they both need to an extent and he is willing to offer it because Sherlock is Sherlock and a man like Sherlock does not deserve to live in pain.

Their lips slide together and it’s hot, hot, hot. Sherlock’s kissed a numerous amount of times now and he’s extraordinary at it because he knows how to learn and how knows how to learn quickly. Victor is practiced in the art, having done so on multiple occasions with multiple people, but it’s nothing like kissing Sherlock. These are not the kisses from New Years Eve or the night of the funeral. These are kisses that are forceful and filled with desire and want and need. Sherlock craves these things like he craves cocaine and John, John, John. Victor craves these things like he craves affections and love, love, love. They abuse each other because in a world of beautiful people and beautiful places, they are abandoned.

“What do you want, Sherlock?” Victor asks. He’s pulled away now, still pressed down against the younger with his face centimeters away. His lips are already kiss-swollen and the desire for more is written clear across his face. “You need to tell me what you want.”

“John.” Sherlock says, honestly. He doesn’t cater to many people’s feelings and he doesn’t really think that the truth can hurt. It doesn’t quite hurt Victor, but it stings. Victor smiles sadly and cups Sherlock’s cheek, pressing their foreheads together. Sherlock rests his right hand on Victor’s lower back and holds him close, their bodies lying against each other naturally so.

“I’m not John,” Victor says, quite honestly back, “But I care enough to give you anything I can. To make you feel even the slightest bit better.”

“Why?” Sherlock has his lips pressed to Victor’s own and his breath is hot and heavy and he could take more without asking.

“Because,” Victor replies, tracing Sherlock’s sharp cheekbones with his fingertips, “Because pirates are there for each other, in the end. You live together and die together and whatever thisis - whatever we’re doing - is helping me, too. I need this just as much as you, and anything you’re willing to give, I’ll take.” He stops again and kisses Sherlock’s jaw, sucking at the bit of stubble he feels against his parted lips, “You’ve never asked, and I’ve never expected you to, but, I have my own issues and this - again, this, Sherlock, is something I need too.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes and tries to read the other. He does, successfully, because despite not having John and the last nineteen months pulling him to pieces, he’s still a genius and he’s still a detective and this is what he was born to do. Piracy was not a career set in university and so he chose second best. He uses his height and weight and leverage to push Victor over, so that the older is flush against the bed sheets and Sherlock now lies of atop him. His long body pins Victor down and he moves his right outer leg between Victor’s own (which fall open easily) and he presses forward. They’d never gone this far before and he’s not sure how far they will go but his skin is on fire and all he can think about is dousing the flames.

“What do you want, Victor?” Sherlock asks, dangerously close to Victor’s neck, breathing against the skin. “Tell me what you want.”

This is the line that has always stopped them from going further and there is a marking laid down there allowing them to know that they will be allowed access if one of them says yes. They are grown men and they know they can get hurt (Sherlock most likely not; Victor most likely yes) and they know that this can either just be sex or this could be more. They are grown men and they are grown pirates and neither forgets that.

“I want you not to tell me to leave when I say,” he stops, closes his eyes because he knows he will get hurt because it’s already hurting now to know that Sherlock wants John and only ever John, “When I say that I don’t want you to hurt me.”

Sherlock pulls away and rests their foreheads together again. Victor looks nervous but Sherlock kisses it away, gently this time though. Sherlock can be gentle at will, because he’s still in control. Victor glides his hand up and down Sherlock’s back, leaning back up for another kiss when Sherlock lifts his head away. “This is alright, Sherlock. This is what I’m alright with.”

“Would you give me more if I asked?”

“Yes, Sherlock.”

Sherlock needn’t ask why. Instead he lifts himself off Victor and straightens his shirt. He doesn’t offer discussion or explanations for his next actions as he feels they are not required. He strips off his shirt and his belt and his trousers because they’re beyond that. Victor understands the concept quite easily and copies the same until they’re down to just their pants and they both slide in under the white silk sheet that lays atop the bed. Victor curls at Sherlock’s side and rests his head on the pale chest of the consulting detective. This is comfortable and this is safe and this may hurt Victor in the end, but only just a little.

“I want to tell you things,” Sherlock says, and he asks a question because he may not be sentimental, but he knows about things like care and love and the chemistry of it all. “Will you let me?”

“Anything.”

And so Sherlock tells him. He tells him about John and how John made him feel as if he was alive. And then one day, he can’t remember which, John made him human. He tells him about the experiments he’s done and how John was always there to clean up after him and remind him to eat or sleep. He tells Victor about bandages wrapped around his wrist and pain medicine given while John sits on the edge of his bed, reminding him to be safer next time. He tells him how when John would leave the room, the only thought that would stick in his chest would be that he wished John would have stayed. He tells him how John’s never doubted him and stood at his side and has been there for him every day of his life. He tells him how he fell in love with John a long time ago but never realized it until just last year. He tells him that John proclaimed that he loved Sherlock too and it was enough to make him never stop what was he doing because he just wanted to get back home so he could try for John. He tells Victor how he thinks he would be a terrible person in a relationship but he would try every day for John because John is the most important person in his life and all he wants is to remind him of that each and every day. He tells Victor that he’s never been the sort to look at love in such a light but there is nothing else he can offer for John because it’s the only thing he’s ever discovered in his life that covers all the bases for how he feels about John. He tells Victor, in a quiet voice, that he would do anything for John. That he will wait and he will wait and he will never stop because nothing else matters.

All the while, Victor holds onto Sherlock and doesn’t let go. He feels for Sherlock truthfully, and even though there is a jealousy in his heart, it is completely overpowered by the fact that, never once in his life, has he seen Sherlock in such a heartfelt moment. Victor becomes completely awed.

Sherlock talks and talks and talks because he’s had no one to really talk to in over nineteen months and he’s old enough to know that sometimes feelings are real and evident and science is science and he knows exactly how he feels about John Watson.

When Sherlock seems to lose track of where he started, Victor only leans up and kisses Sherlock on the lips. Sherlock is almost taken aback but he’s far too comfortable and covered in oxytocin not to kiss back. Victor breathes against Sherlock’s lips, “You’re one lucky prat, Sherlock. And he’d be a complete and utter bastard not to mend things. He will. He can’t deny you for too long.”

Sherlock swallows his words and kisses him roughly, holding his grip on the older’s waist. They breathe in and out with each other as time passes on and afternoon becomes evening and the world spins and spins and spins. Over time the tea goes cold and Sherlock listens as Victor mentions small things here and there, but Victor focuses more on asking questions to the detective because he knows exactly what he needs. Pirates are smart like this - Victor asks questions about John and things about their past cases and all of the answers make Sherlock smile. He’s glowing in happiness just thinking about his best friend and Victor finally understands in a complete sense of what Sherlock really wants.

John.

It’s dark when they break for a moment. Loo visits for both and Victor makes them both sandwiches with a new kettle of tea. He gets Sherlock to eat half his sandwich and he eats his own along with the reaming bits that are leftover. They share a teacup because it feels natural and Sherlock remembers that Mycroft has yet to come home. Maybe they’ve made up. Maybe Mycroft is drunk and crying and in pain. Maybe he’s just letting work heal all of his wounds. He doesn’t know but he finds himself caring. Nineteen months does a lot on a man and it does even more on a consulting detective.

They kiss and talk in the darkness, completely lip-swollen and fingers tracing whatever flesh they can find on the other. They’re healing each other in ways that only pirates know of. Again, this is nothing romantic though there is a line they could cross if they wanted to. It’s simply a sense of healing and repair and listening and they give to each other in such a subtle way where it’s just what they both need. They kiss and touch until they fall asleep (one before the other) and let their minds get the rest they need.

If Sherlock were honest, he could admit that Victor is a good person and one that, if it were any other situation, he could see himself trying for. But it’s not like that. It will never be like that. Not since the day that Mike Stamford introduced him to John Watson and the solider changed his life. He knows that Victor may get hurt and probably is even hurting now, but he knows they both needed this in their own ways and he feels good and he appreciates what Victor has offered him and continues to offer him. He knows that Victor is not John and will never be John but he will be Victor and that’s what he needs right now. He’s not a man to think that every person has their own special someone, and he can’t make a promise to Victor that there is someone out there for him, but he does know that John Watson was made for him and that’s the leading light to everything in his world.

They wake the next morning and Victor makes breakfast before leaving. He gets Sherlock to have a few bites before showering and calling a taxi to go off on his next adventure. Sherlock holds Victor against his chest for the minutes before the taxi’s arrival and they, once again, speak in their own language. Kisses are exchanged, and soft touches – a goodbye of sorts and a lingering want for more. They know that at some point John will contact Sherlock and all of this will be over. Sherlock enjoys this, but this is not where his heart lies. Victor enjoys this too, and he knows he does not love Sherlock, but that tactful information in the back of his head reminds him that he could, if he was allowed. But that’s just not the case.

Victor kisses him goodbye, lingering longer than necessary and Sherlock leans against the door when Victor slides into his taxi. Sherlock watches the taxi drive off and he thinks of John. Because it’s only ever John and no one else.

*

It’s late afternoon when Sherlock gets the text. Mycroft is still not home. He thinks it is Victor but it is not and he almost drops his mobile phone in realization.

Let’s go home. I want to go home, Sherlock.
JW

He replies, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.

John. When?
SH

I need to talk to Helen first. It’s complicated. Are you free Sunday night?
JW

Yes, of course.
SH

221B?
JW

Yes, John.
SH

Sherlock.
JW

Yes, John?
SH

I’ve missed you too.
JW

Sherlock leans against the wall of his bedroom and the mobile phone feels heavier than his heart. His vision is blurred as he stares at the screen and it takes him moments to even try and formulate some sort of reply because he made a promise to himself a long time ago (months and months and months) and he knows that he needs to be honest with John. It may not be the same Sherlock in sentiment that had once existed but he’s never going to throw John away again.

I’ve missed you more than you could ever imagine.
SH

Is it all true? In your mobile phone.
JW

Yes, John.
SH

You’re not the same from a year and a half ago, Sherlock.
JW

I haven’t been the same without you.
SH

Sunday then?
JW

Yes, John.
SH

See you then.
JW

*

This journal entry is dedicated to Mathilda, in celebration of her birthday. I hope it wasn’t too terrible (or pulling at your ‘feelings’ as you call it), knowing your thoughts on Victor and myself. I do think I redeemed myself at the end, yes?

Don’t answer that. Any other answer besides 'Yes’ would be considered idiotic.

Sherlock travels to Oxford for the funeral. He hasn’t been here since the time he was trying to pick apart the bits of Moriarty’s web that never really existed. It probably should irritate him - all that work that went unnecessary, but the effort to do so, to be irritated, just isn’t in him right now. He’s stated before, to himself - to John - that he’stired. And he still is. There had been a common goal for him through all his travels for the last - nearly, now - nineteen months, and still, it has not come to fruition. He knew that there were so many variables to the situation and that John’s brain allowed for more processes than just cause and effect. But he also had allowed his mind to dwindle into the lake of thoughts such as hope and love and possibilities. He didn’t put much effort in these areas, but he did put some. And for Sherlock Holmes, that’s saying quite a bit.

But regardless of how he feels now, he promised a childhood friend (he titles that heavily and with uncertainty) that he would attend a funeral. It wasn’t so much of a promise but there were two kisses involved (and two administered by said friend on Sherlock’s cheeks) so there’s some kind of weight to his offer to come to Oxford. Plus, as it was admitted then, on New Years Eve, Victor’s mother did tend to Sherlock fairly kindly when he was a young child. Well, a young pirate. When they played pirates out in the fields, that’s when Sherlock would need the most band-aids and she would have them by the handful.

Sherlock’s not a man with a deep understanding of how social extremities work, but he regards Victor’s mother with a shield of respect and that’s enough to allow him this visit here to Oxford.

He will not say that he’s mostly here to see Victor. Because Sherlock tends to hide the truth, especially when he’s so good at lying. At least about sentimental things.

The funeral is quiet and attended by a small amount of people who seem to have been either family or close friends upon Laura (Victor’s mothers) death. Sherlock hadn’t the time (or, rather, the desire) to attend the viewing, but he made it for the funeral. He stands in the back row, next to a man who explains himself as a neighbor who would come over for tea on lonely Tuesday, Thursdays, and Sundays. Sherlock can see why he stands in the back. He loved her - still does, he thinks. He doesn’t cry because he’s not the (deceased) husband and no one knows of their secret friendship, but Sherlock can deduce it in a heartbeat. Sherlock says nothing in response, except offering a small smile while he stands there with his hands tucked behind his back. He looks pale in the mixture of black on black clothing and he feels slightly isolated. But he’s here, as kept to his word, and that’s all that matters.

Victor stands to the front and he shows a notion of surprise when Sherlock shows up, but he’s too surrounded by others to offer a word just yet. He wants to, Sherlock can read, and that says quite a bit, all things considered. Victor wears all black and he doesn’t cry either. But he talks in fragments when he speaks of his mother. He looks directly at the casket still sitting above the earth and speaks of things like love and cookies and hugs and promises and how he will never forget her because that’s what sons do. Sherlock’s not one to get overly emotional ever, but he misses his own mother in these times and he tightens his hands into a knotted fist behind his back where no one else can see. He knows what Victor is going through because he’s done it himself.

After the funeral, Victor is swarmed by people who are leaving, and once again, for probably their third or fourth time, they are giving their condolences to him. He is the only child and the father is already deceased so now he is left alone. These guests have no one else to offer words to and society requires, in some odd way, that when you leave a funeral, you always leave a peace offering of some sort. Victor probably doesn’t need this but he accepts all the words graciously and thanks them all for coming. Sherlock still stands in the back because he doesn’t plan to leave.

The man next to him, the elderly one, is one of the last to leave just thirty minutes later. He doesn’t say much, but he explains that Laura made a wonderful cup of tea and that he thinks she’s raised Victor right. Victor only smiles - the layer of tears still present against his eyes - and clasps his back when they shake hands. Victor doesn’t know the things that Sherlock knows and maybe that’s for the best right now.

When they are alone, the last on the green under Oxford’s cold early-evening sky, they don’t hug or shake hands or say anything. At least, not for several minutes. Sherlock is watching and Victor is finding gravity again. There is a casket holding his mother that will be six feet under soon enough and even though his mother died a week ago, she is dying now. Sherlock knows of these situations and he knows death is a part of life, and hell, Victor knows this too, but in all honesty, just because Sherlock knows of this pattern - it doesn’t mean he likes it. Sherlock knows why people care so much and he knows why Victor is trying to find a place on the ground to plant his feet. He understands the chemical and psychological process that the mind goes through when a person is grieving, having studied it extensively. But he also knows that if you cut out all the bullshit, it’s simply this: you only have one mother and when she is gone, there is no one left in the world who can really - really- tuck you in at night.

Sherlock cannot offer much in the way of condolences, but he arrived by taxi and he slips his hand into Victor’s coat pocket to fish out the automobile keys. Victor already understands and they fall into step together, walking away from the graveyard to a black sedan sitting just beyond the green. Sherlock still watches Victor - keeping an eye on his reactions because he knows at any point in time, if Victor trusts Sherlock enough and the walls break down, so could he.

“Your mothers?” Sherlock asks, a quiet in his voice. Victor only nods and Sherlock drives them away - away from the green, away from the acknowledgment of death, and away from the past.

When they arrive back to the estate, Sherlock parks at the front and Victor opens his own door. It’s just as Sherlock remembers, the house, with only slight changes made on the open patio of the entrance. He remembers playing here, when books were not that interesting and he hadn’t gotten his calculator just yet. He remembers sword fights and yelling and cheering and smiling and jumping up and down because despite being a consulting detective, he was a child once and all children are just that - children.

He’s in his thoughts when Victor smiles from the door, welcoming him in.

“The last time I was here,” Sherlock states because he’s learned how to converse in some moral sense from John Watson, “I had just started smoking. Your mother told me that I wasn’t allowed back into her house unless I nicked the habit. She stole three of my cigarettes too.”

Victor grins a bit, having taken a seat on one of the barstools decked around the kitchen island. He pulls off his gloves and sets them on the counter, though he hasn’t enough energy just yet to tug off his coat. Sherlock stands opposite of him, on the other side of the counter, and leans against it with his hands in the same way he leaned against Mycroft’s counter when he kissed Victor last week.

They look at each other and Victor speaks for the first time since the funeral. “Thank you for coming. It means a lot having you there.”

Sherlock knows these things because he knows how people work. He knows how they are imperfect - even him - and he knows why they have flaws and feelings and emotions. He knows that this is something that people, typically, automatically say to anyone who attends a fellow family member’s funeral. He knows that, perhaps, for Victor, Sherlock being here means more than just that for a number of reasons. He could list them all, and by five seconds past, he already has, because his mind just works that way. He knows that moral support when speaking about your mother in a casket is something that is naturally required by the heart. He knows what Victor means in his words and actions - he knows what all of this means, but still, despite knowing everything, he wants to know why.

And so he asks.

“Why?”

Victor makes a face, a quirked up one that equates to him being confused as to why Sherlock would even ask such a question - consulting detective or not. “What do you mean, why, Sherlock?”

“Exactly that, Victor,” Sherlock responds, a bit of impatience hinting in his words that he doesn’t really mean to let loose but it all comes too naturally for him. “Why does it mean a lot having me here?”

Victor’s facial expression still reads confusion but he thinks back to the times when they were young and children and pirates and the times when Sherlock liked feeling as if he mattered. Maybe this was still one of those times. “Because, Sherlock,” Victor replies, humor laced in his words, “You were my childhood friend and having people there who knew my mum for the day I buried her mattered. It means a lot to me that you were there for not just me, but for her.”

“You could have done it without me.” Sherlock states, matter-of-factly.

“Of course I could have. But it was nice that you were there in attendance.” Victor retorts, but he offers an open ended question because he doesn’t quite understand this conversation in the same ways that Sherlock might, “You might have to explain to me why it wouldn’tmean a lot to me.”

Sherlock opens his mouth to say something, and a variety of things could come out because this conversation could go in many directions - but nothing echoes into the house. Maybe it’s because, in some indiscreet way, Sherlock simply does not want to put the multitude of an emotional conversation on Victor after today. Maybe it’s more than that. Maybe it’s less. But for once - for once in a great deal of time, Sherlock Holmes shuts up. Instead, he shakes his head and closes his eyes. “We’ll discuss it later,” he stops, and adds, because John taught him how, “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” Victor responds, very solidly, “I have already cried the tears that needed to be let out. On my own time and in my own space. Of course I’m exhausted on all levels, but I’m fine.”

And he means that entirely and truthfully because he’s one of the few people who knows that death exists and even though it’s emotional and sad and tiring, he knows that his mother lived a good life and that’s all that matters when they go six feet in. She was a good mother to him and raised him right and he knows that she was tired and ready to go. Of course he cried at some point in time, but his grieving is over and now he gets to remember.

Sherlock doesn’t know how to proposition these things because this is where he does not have experience. He would have acquired more if John had taught him how or if he had been close to Victor after their childhood, but in this area, well, as stated a long time ago, it’s really not his area. No, he’s not looking for anything sexual or by far, romantic. Sherlock knows how he feels and where his emotions lie. He knows of a man in London right now that gave him the heart he has in his chest and it will never, in this lifetime at the very least, be owned by another. Sherlock’s not looking for that - not even when you consider the two kisses exchanged at New Years Eve. It’s just that he’s tired, too.

But he doesn’t know how to ask because he’s never asked before. It’s almost shameful to know that in three decades and some odd years, Sherlock’s never requested to share a bed with another.

But he tries anyways because it’s in his nature not to hold back. It’s in his nature to be brash and not care what others think.

“Do you want to lie down?” He leaves out the ‘withme’ part because it’s obvious and Sherlock doesn’t know how to add that part in just yet.

But Victor is a pirate just like Sherlock and despite not being close to the consulting detective for a very long time, he knows the man decently well. You can read a lot about a person based on how they were in their youth. And Victor does just that. He doesn’t take Sherlock’s hand and he doesn’t look behind him to see if the younger was following him (he already knows that Sherlock was). He leads the way to the guest bedroom set on the second floor of his mother’s house. He walks by memories and pictures and the smell of apple pie that was always baked upon his arrival. He walks by the past and into the present because that is what Sherlock is offering with his attendance today at the funeral. They both know this.

Amazingly enough, it’s not awkward when they’re in the guest bedroom. Victor leaves the bedroom door ajar so they’re not in an enclosed spaced and starts to shed his coat, leaving it on the back of the armchair that decorates the room. He removes his shoes and his belt. The last thing to come off is his button up which is set atop his coat. He still adorns his black trousers and white undershirt but it’s comfortable enough to sleep in and when he turns to look at Sherlock, they’re almost identical. Except that Sherlock’s bare on the chest, his pale skin is almost lighter than the tone of his face. Victor can’t help but suck in a deep breath because their situation is complex and Sherlock is an attractive human being. Victor had always been more compelled toward the female gender but to him, Sherlock’s not really a gender - he’s extraordinary.

He pulls off his own undershirt as an afterthought because even though he’s not as handsome as the younger pirate, he knows full well how good the feeling of skin-on-skin is and he’s not sure if Sherlock’s ever experienced that.

Victor avoids any awkwardness that could sneak its way into the situation by sliding into bed first. He takes the left side and Sherlock trails behind, taking the right. It’s not like a damsel-in-distress scenario, but as soon as Sherlock’s laid out on the bed, Victor shifts to lay his left arm across Sherlock’s chest. He can feel the ripple effect on Sherlock - the sharp intake of breath and the increased breathing pattern. They’re flesh on flesh and it’s a cold day out but the heat shared is extraordinary. Victor can’t help but notice that he’s breathing heavier, too. It’s been a long time and Sherlock’s been far too on his mind as of late.

“Has John contacted you?” Victor asks because he doesn’t want to talk about his mother and he doesn’t want to talk about a future they cannot have. He’s not one to talk about things that are just beyond the horizon because he’s had many missed opportunities in his life and he knows what thinking about them all can do.

“No,” Sherlock replies. With instinct, he reaches his free hand down underneath the thin sheet atop of them and fishes his mobile phone out of his trouser pocket. He checks the home screen but there are no new messages for him. He looks over to the right and sets his mobile phone on the nightstand. “He has yet to reply.”

Victor doesn’t say this: I would take care of you, if he never replies. I don’t know who you have become but I know who you are and I think we could work things out. I know that you love him in your own way and I know that I don’t love you but in the few hours I have been around you in the last week, I know that I could. I know it would not be easy and I know that we’re not pirates, nonetheless children, anymore, but somehow, despite the laws of nature, I care about you more than I expected. You’re right, you weren’t needed here today, Sherlock, but you were my cornerstone when I spoke about my mother today at the funeral and outside of her, you were all that I could think about. I’m not sure if it was a mistake, last week, what we did or what we didn’t do, but I think I could love you if let me and I don’t know if you’ll allow yourself to love me too, but I know that you’re capable of it. And I’d like to try, if you’d let us.

Instead he says, “You should text him to let him know you’re in Oxford if you haven’t already. Even if he doesn’t talk to you, he seems the fellow who likes to know where you are.”

Sherlock considers it for a moment and he considers a lot of other things. He reaches over for his mobile phone and sends several texts, quickly, despite only using one hand (his left one tucked behind Victor’s neck somewhere in the last four and a half minutes).

In Oxford for a funeral.
SH

I should be back in London by tomorrow night if you’re free to meet. If you can make time.
SH

If not, I can make time for you.
SH

I miss you.
SH

We could go back to 221B and I could play the violin for you. I have a song I’d like to play for you, if you’d let me.
SH

We could go back to 221B and we could be friends again.
SH

We could go back to 221B.
SH

Once the phone is set back on the nightstand, Sherlock turns over slightly, facing towards Victor, and Victor turns over completely to where his face is buried against Sherlock’s neck. They’re beyond the stage of the nervousness of sleeping in each other’s presence because that was done last week. This is a time for resting. Sherlock moves his right hand around Victor, allowing both of his arms to cradle the older in his embrace and tug him just a little closer. Their legs, naturally, fall into order, lying haphazardly on top of each other. This is what lovers and boyfriends and girlfriends do, Sherlock knows, and he knows that they are anything but those three things. He hadn’t even a title for the two of them, but he knows that he could use the term, friend, if he wanted. But he decides not to think of that now because it’s just too comfortable, here in this bed, and he was too drunk last time to really feel the warmth that being tucked away in another’s arms allowed.

Victor looks up, still shorter than Sherlock and even more so in this position. He reaches up and touches Sherlock’s cheek with his left palm. Sherlock lets his lips part because they’re both not saying a lot.

It’s Sherlock, this time, who leans down to brush a kiss against Victor’s lips. But it’s Victor who presses this time, harder than the last, and sighs into the kiss. It’s been a long week for him and it’s been a long, nearly nineteen months, for Sherlock. Victor’s hand stays in place as they carry into the kiss, longer than the previous two that they had. It, once again, is not a romantic kiss. It’s a gesture, of course, and it means a multitude of things. It could mean more if either one of them allows it but they know where to draw the lines of their emotions and thoughts and Sherlock knows exactly where his heart lies.

When Sherlock pulls away, Victor is smiling handsomely and Sherlock lets the corner of his lip curl into a small smile. He leans down and kisses Victor again, having come to understand the act fairly well given this is now just his sixth kiss. He understands pressure and tilting and movement and how it all works because kissing is not just an art, he thinks, it is a science. And it’s something, at least right now, he enjoys. And so they kiss, fingers touching here and there, but never too intimate, and their mouths sliding against each other in a refined gentleness that threatens to be more but is always tugged back with a quick turn.

Sherlock finds that he appreciates the act of kissing just like he appreciates the stars and art and music and John.

When they separate the second time, Victor issues a stop to the kissing because he needs to draw his own lines. He tucks his head under Sherlock’s chin and allows them time for rest. That is what this - sharing a bed, curled in each other’s embrace - is meant for.

When they wake, they may kiss some more. They may talk - in depth or not. Perhaps there will be coffee or tea and a spot of food (of course, if so, Sherlock’s portion will go untouched). They may speak of John or Victor’s mother or London because nothing is really taboo to speak of. It’s up to either of them in regards to what questions will be asked and what will be said, but for now it’s simply about resting.

There is a complex yet simple calm that is washing over the both of them as they submit their selves to sleep. Victor thinks of many things - the funeral and his mother and how he’s glad he’s had such a good life with her. He thinks of Sherlock and their friendship and not so much of what they could be, but rather, what they are now and how he’s happy that Sherlock took his time out for this; how Sherlock took his time out for him.

Sherlock thinks of John.

Only ever John and no one else.

Contrary to popular belief, Sherlock Holmes actually does drink.

It’s very rare, of course, but he knows that he kills more brain cells with cocaine, therefore having a glass of wine or a highball of gin or whiskey isn’t going to do much more damage. He never picked up the habit that much compared to the times he spent with John. Usually they would indulge in a drink after a long case before passing out in their respective beds until the sun was high above the sky the following day. Sometimes John would get Sherlock to relax in a glass of wine or two for a special occasion, though he’d have to be very persuasive in his wording. Really, it wasn’t all that often these times existed, but Sherlock Holmes did drink.

And despite being completely at the end of his wits on the topic of John, New Years Eve was a perfect time to have a date with a glass (or two or three or maybe even four) of wine. Actually, the topic of John was theperfect reason to engage in a rendezvous with alcohol.

Plus, Mycroft had a nice collection of red wine (which, of course, was always better than white).

It starts, of course, with a visitor.

His name is Victor Trevor and Sherlock’s not seen him for, what, maybe fifteen years now - probably even longer if he could calculate correctly. He doesn’t remember all too much from his years dealing with cocaine. But they’re older now, and out of their years of primary and secondary school. Victor had always been a person who hung heavily on that line that separated individuals fromthepeople you knew andthe people you called friends. Sherlock, to say the least, accommodated Victor. He could stand him and they engaged in several interesting discussions and even adventures (piracy turned to chemistry). But even then, at such a young age, Sherlock had issues defining people as friends.

Maybe Victor was a friend. He probably was, if declared by an outsider. But fifteen years had passed since then and Sherlock doesn’t know what to think by the presence of the opposite. He shows up unannounced and Sherlock’s almost paralyzed in thought because he never expected to see the counterpart again. No, there was never really a mournful history between them nor was there any sort of romantic inclination between the pair, contrary to what many thought. It was simply that they went different routes in their lives and the ideas to either write or visit simply went forgotten.

But given the situation, everything going on with John and the sort, Sherlock acts offended when Victor visits - because he doesn’t know how else to act.

“What? Did Mycroft call you in hopes to making me feel better?” Sherlock asks, tilting his head to the side. He knows that, most likely, Victor doesn’t deserve such brash behavior, but this is just Sherlock at his best and his worst and that’s just what you get. There are no options with this - nothing like: would you like your eggs scrambled or sunny-side-up? You get Sherlock in all his broken and raw edges because the mirror of perfection broke a long time ago.

Victor’s tall, almost matching Sherlock’s own height. He doesn’t have the gorgeous looks that Sherlock has, but he’s attractive in his own ways. His brown hair is longer than Sherlock remembers, curling at the back just a bit and a mass amount curves over his forehead in a fringe. His eyes are still the same - periwinkle blue that almost rival the intensity that owns Sherlock’s own eyes. Even though Victor dresses nicely - black slacks, white button up with a black tie - Sherlock only sees the boy who used to dress up like a pirate with him and sail across the seven seas in a cardboard box. He really ought not to be as mean as he is now, but he can’t help it.

“Sherlock,” Victor says, standing before him in the sitting room of Mycroft’s residence with his hands folded behind his back. He’s tall and strong and probably powerful but here he’s only a shy boy seeing his friend for the first time in a very long time. “You still have the words of a pirate but I must admit, I still think I could take you in a duel.”

Sherlock almost has his breath stolen from him and he can’t help but let a small smile crack across his lips. They dueled many times in the past, and well, Sherlock had always been skinny as a stick. Though once Sherlock started to map out blueprints on how to capture Victor in their games of privacy, well, the older boy (only by two months and three days, of course), had no chance. Sherlock probably doesn’t have a chance now though, to be honest. He hasn’t felt this alive in ages - one single line and his name said in a statement from Victor and it lets Sherlock feel alive.

He hasn’t cried much but he’s felt things and men like Sherlock Holmes rarely ever do such things, and so he’s worn out and tired and at the point where it’s almost just too much. He needs this. God, he needs this.

“You say that now,” Sherlock replies, standing and setting his teacup to the side before giving Victor a look up and down. The man hides no sword underneath his armor, but Sherlock thinks they can craft makeshift ones if they needed to. “But we all know who destroyed your ship before we went off to university.”

Victor cracks a smile and extends his hand, though it shakes a bit because he’s biting back his laughter as the best he can. “I cried to my mummy all night, saying that you cheated.”

“And to think you were sixteen at the time.”

Sherlock extends his own hand and their fingers clasp as they shake. Victor takes it a step further and moves close to Sherlock, pulling him into a hug. Sherlock swallows hard and that particular breath stops somewhere in the middle of his throat because it doesn’t know where else to go. He’s on that edge - that point where he could sob and laugh and cry and just fall to his knees because after a year and a half away from John, he’s tired and he feels like he hasn’t slept in ages. He thinks, even if Victor’s never heard of what has happened, he would understand and maybe would even let him fall.

Victor lets go of Sherlock’s hand in their embrace and moves it to rest on Sherlock’s back gently, their heads nudged towards each other. Victor knows more than Sherlock may or may not realize, but he doesn’t know more than Sherlock’s comfortable with. But he’s not a liar and he won’t hold this above Sherlock’s head, and so he lets himself be honest. “I was actually the one to contact Mycroft. He didn’t tell me much, but he said it wouldn’t be harmful if I stopped by.”

Sherlock doesn’t pull away because if he does he would fall. It may not be as such a height as St. Bart’s but the feelings all the same.

“I thought you hated Mycroft,” Sherlock remarks, still standing there with his hands at his side. It feels surreal in some aspects, that he’s actually holding a conversation with someone from his past - but the last eighteen months have been lonely and the words that have come from Mycroft’s mouth have become mundane. Not that he doesn’t appreciate everything that Mycroft has done, its hard going from having the best friend in the world to the world you used to live in when you were just so alone. Here in this hug with someone from his past, Sherlock feels as if he is allowed to be a part of this world again.

“I did,” Victor remarks, pulling away but keeping both of his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders. He smiles brilliantly and lets the words fall out his mouth. “Probably not so much anymore, but, well,” he stops and shrugs his shoulders, “I had a favor to ask of Mycroft.”

Sherlock simply stares, his facial expression reading the usual, go on.

Victor swallows and turns his head to the right. He really isn’t as gorgeous as Sherlock - he doesn’t have the sharp cheekbones and he’s got a fair bit of freckles on both of his cheeks, but he’s elegant with how he moves, with how he looks. “Mummy died,” Victor explains, biting his bottom lip. His words are not faltered but he’s hanging on by a thread. “We are going to have a viewing next weekend and I remembered that Mycroft had a few photo albums with some pictures of her. I was going to see if I could get copies of them.”

“Victor.” Sherlock says, because death is death but he knows that emotion does exist in the world. He’s always known this but he knows it now. “Are you alright?”

Victor looks back and breaks into a small smile, but his eyes tell a more detailed story. “Probably not in the best shape, but mother knew her time was coming. We all did, actually. We had time to make arrangements and she was comfortable,” he stops and tries to pull the right words together, “But it’s still hard losing one’s mother.”

Victor then moves to take the free sitting chair, folding his hands in his laps. He’s distorted by the story he’s just told but he’s holding himself well. Sherlock already knows that Victor does not have many friends he’s close with based upon the events of the last few minutes. He probably has some, he was always that friendly sort of guy, but one’s that were close could be counted on a single hand. Sherlock follows suit and takes his own seat, keeping an eye on the other.

“Anyways, after I phoned Mycroft he explained what happened to you. Hell, I didn’t even know you were - well,alive again,” he laughs and there’s a sparkle in his eye, almost as if he’s saying, of course you were alive you prat, you were always too smart to even take on my own band of pirates, “And he told me to stop by.”

“I am sorry about your mother.” Sherlock says because this discussion is about Victor and not John or Sherlock or even pirates and the sailing seas. “She was a lovely woman.”

“Like I said, it was her time. It’s quite fine,” he stops and turns his face up, watching the consulting detective with bright eyes that are coated in a layer of tears that won’t ever fall because he’s a grown man and he knows that death is a part of life. “Though, now that I do know you’re back wreaking havoc, if you’re not too busy in your own world - I think mother would like you to attend her funeral. It would mean a great deal to me.”

“Of course,” Sherlock replies without a moment of delay, his hands folded over his right knee, “She covered me in more band-aids than I could count. She also stopped me from smoking at the age of - what was it? – eleven, I believe. Yes, of course, I’ll attend, Victor.”

“Thank you,” he stops, and adds just after, “are you really alright, Sherlock? Mycroft explained portions. But well, I know you.”

This is where Sherlock could be honest, really, he could. He probably needs to be because he hasn’t spoken to anyone about everything that’s unraveled itself in his head and his heart and John hasn’t replied to his messages since everything unfolded itself. Mycroft is not due back to the residence for another half an hour and if Sherlock really needed to, he could talk to Victor and for whatever reason, mental or emotional or something beyond that, he thinks it would be alright. That telling Victor things like I really do love JohnandI have missed him for a very long time would be alright. It’s not typical for Sherlock to talk to anyone, ever, about anything going on in his head, and nonetheless, his heart, but this could be different. If wanted, Sherlock could say anything and everything without reprimand. But instead:

“It’s New Years Eve, Victor,” Sherlock states, his lips turning into a smile - the first real one in ages, “let us have a drink.”

*

It’s roughly two hours to New Years exactly. The single drink, of course, turned into multiple drinks. Mycroft showed up after the first drink (where Sherlock was already shaded pink in the cheeks and Victor was pouring his own second glass). It didn’t take much effort for them to encourage Mycroft to join in with their charades; after all, Greg left Mycroft. Well, not really left, but explained that they needed time apart. Greg, of course, hadn’t been too pleased with the notion that Mycroft had been lying to him for the last year and a half, and Mycroft had been quite lucky not to have a fist in his own face. But Greg hadn’t contacted him since that day just about a week ago. Give me time, Greg had said, and then we’ll talk. There’s no promises in that My, but, I - just, just leave me alone.

And so Mycroft had left him alone. Though, that did leave him where he was now: holding a glass of red (his third) set on the floor with Sherlock (whose cheeks were now red versus pink) and Victor (who was working on his sixth glass, having the ability to hold his wine a lot better).

“I haven’t seen the two of you this friendly since the time Sherlock broke his arm falling from the tree and Mycroft - you - you were screaming, saying someone needed to save your little brother,” Victor speaks, laughing here and there, though holding a steady grip on his glass of half-full wine, “and everyone kept telling you it was just a broken arm. You were up in tears over Sherlock.”

“Yes, well,” Mycroft huffs, leaning against the sofa set in the sitting room. “Mummy would have killed me if I didn’t take care of him. He was always her favorite.”

“I was not!” Sherlock barks back. Somewhere over the last quarter of an hour, he has gone from standing up, pacing the room in a ranting about paper aeroplanes versus box-shaped pirate ships to lying on the floor with his head rested against Victor’s thigh and his feet plopped into Mycroft’s lap. “You know Mummy always favored you. Did you not see what she packed for you at lunch? You always got the best snacks and the best sandwiches - and she always left you notes, Mycroft.”

“Notes to remind me to keep an eye on you!”

Victor finishes off his glass in a hearty swallow, leaning back heavily on his right open palm. “You two,” he says, setting his glass down on the floor and moving his hand to rest on Sherlock’s shoulder, just to steady himself, “You two could start a war with your bickering. There’s more ammo between you two than the British military.”

“He is the British military!” Sherlock states, sitting up quickly but the alcohol in him forcing gravity to defy him as he plops right back down to his lain position.

“A minor part of it, Sherlock.”

“Oh, Mycroft, sod it.”

“And with that,” Victor states, nudging Sherlock’s head gently until it sets itself on the floor with a small thud, “My glass is empty. Does anyone need a refill?”

Sherlock eyes his glass and then Victor’s glass and then Mycroft’s glass before looking at his own again. “You cheated, Victor,” he states, matter-of-factly, before drowning the rest of his wine (which was about three-fourths of a glass). Mycroft does the same, though he only has a sip or two left.

“Yes, yes, of course I cheated,” he stands, fingers holding onto his glass, Sherlock’s and the free hand moving to grab Mycroft’s own.

“Loo for me,” Mycroft explains and Sherlock, of course, pouts. He’d never been one to be left alone.

“Oh come on you prat,” Victor says. He leads his way to the kitchen without waiting to see if Sherlock’s following or not because he knows the man who used to be a pirate and probably still wants to be. It’s not until he’s in the kitchen does he realize just how close Sherlock is. He turns, setting all three glasses on the granite countertop, eyeing the younger (two months and three days) curiously.

“I miss him,” Sherlock states. He’s looking at the floor, breath heavy and scented in flavors of cherry and mint.

“I know,” Victor replies, leaning against the backside of the island in the kitchen while Sherlock stands right before him. They’re young now, telling secrets and thoughts and words that will never be said again because even though they’re not friends they trust each other and that stands for something. “I read his blog. You two were close. Of course you miss him.”

Sherlock finally lifts his gaze and matches Victor’s eyes. Sherlock has that same lining of tears that Victor held earlier, and just the same, they won’t fall. Sherlock’s not a man who will cry a lot, and least of all, in front of anyone else. His bottom lip is folded underneath his upper teeth and his cheeks are flushed completely red. He should say something but he doesn’t. Instead, he only props both of his hands on the edges of the island’s counter, either side of Victor and keeps his stance.

“Don’t,” Victor says because he’s smart and already knows.

“Don’t what?” The question would probably be considered idiotic if Sherlock weren’t so drunk. Still, Sherlock leans in closer; he towers Victor only by two or three inches.

“It’s never meant to be like this between us,” Victor states, smiling almost sadly. “And you know that, Sherlock. More so, you don’t need this now. I’m trying to stop you before you mind starts going in all directions.”

“Too late,” Sherlock says, and closes the distance between Victor and himself by pressing his lips to the older’s own. It’s almost chaste but Sherlock adds pressure and Victor doesn’t pull away. Sherlock brings his right hand up off of the counter and touches Victor’s shoulder gently as he pulls away, smiling lazily. “Happy New Years, pirate.”

Victor’s eyes are gentle, despite engaging in a kiss he thought ought not to happen. He’s breathing heavier of course, and his pupils are dilated. He’d always been more infatuated by females, but Sherlock is Sherlock and they’d been pirates for a very long time. “It’s not even New Years, Sherlock,” Victor replies. He lifts his right hand and touches Sherlock’s cheekbone with the pads of his fingers, the thumb resting on his jawline. “You’ve always been my favorite pirate.”

Sherlock’s eyes flutter close and the smile never fades from his lips as he tilts his head down and their foreheads brush together.

They stay like that for a few more moments, though Victor doesn’t want to trail in between these lines for far too long. Sure, he would consider it if the situations were different. Sherlockis Sherlock again, and well, they did have a decent history. If things were different, Victor would treat Sherlock out to dinner and talk about things like chemistry and stars and how to build a ship out of twine and string. He’d be gentle with Sherlock because he knows that’s the type of person that Sherlock needs. He probably doesn’t love Sherlock, at least not now, but he could, if allowed. But the situation is not set up in such a way and that’s exactly he doesn’t go beyond this and he doesn’t linger for very long. He lets his hand fall from Sherlock’s face and he finds the younger’s own (right) hand and squeezes it with his own.

“He slugged you good, didn’t he?” Victor asks, eyes focused on the light-purple bruise slashed across Sherlock’s cheek. It didn’t hurt anymore and it was fading, but Sherlock remembers it as clear as ever.

“Apparently I deserved it,” Sherlock states, lifting his free hand to touch the mark. Victor beats him though, inching his face close to the spot as he presses a gentle kiss to the bruised area. Sherlock doesn’t flinch or pull away. He just stays because it feels just like another band-aid going onto the wound. But better. A lot better.

“Victor,” he breathes, closing his eyes because he’s scared of what he’ll do next if allowed. Maybe not even scared - more or less, just willing.

“You probably did deserve it, Sherlock. But no one deserves to be in pain,” Victor explains, kissing the bruise again, despite himself. Though, he adds at the end, closing off the future that could have existed, “Go check on Mycroft while I refill the glasses, alright?”

Sherlock pulls away, his cheeks as red as ever. He, though, probably due to the alcohol, allows himself to lift his own hand and touch Victor’s cheek. “You weren’t such a bad pirate yourself, Victor.”

And he’s gone just then, hopefully, Victor thinks, to check on Mycroft.

*

It’s less than ten minutes to midnight and Sherlock did the opposite of check on Mycroft while the older brother was in the loo. Mycroft, being far too drunk on red and white (a terrible combination), had passed out while sitting on the toilet, and, of course, Sherlock had taken this as an opportunity to lock his older brother inside the tiny room.

Sherlock goes through two more glasses of wine while Victor only sips on his one. They stay in the sitting room, pattering on and off about things that happened in the past, ignoring most of the time that Sherlock and him hadn’t stayed in touch. That area almost seems gray in the light of things. They laugh a lot, because that’s what they both need right now. Sherlock toys with his phone, sending messages here and there to several people - one of which apparently calls him Sherly, thus setting up Victor with the unspoken privilege of being able to call Sherlock that too. It takes Sherlock less than four minutes to wander about the house (after excusing himself to go to the loo) to fetch his riding crop and threaten an attack of piracy against Victor for uttering such a word.

Victor only laughs and pulls Sherlock down, telling him that pirates aren’t very good when they’re drunk. Sherlock responds, in between fits of giggles, that pirates are always drunk and quite obviously, that’s when they are best. Victor concedes and the riding crop is forgotten - though Victor adds in the word Sherly every now and then. Sherlock just blames everyone he is messaging because it’s quite obviously their fault and he would plan some sort of revenge later, probably, when he was a little less drunk. If he could remember.

John is heavy on Sherlock’s mind, especially when the hour grows nearer and the world grows fuzzier around the edges. He misses his flatmate more than anything or anyone he’s ever missed in his life and it pulls at his gut in ways he’s never felt before.

Sherlock has his head slung back against Victor’s shoulder, set in between Victor’s legs with his back to the older’s chest. Victor keeps one hand wrapped about the younger’s stomach, keeping him steady. “Don’t you think it’s time you’re off to sleep, Sherly?”

“I - I don’t even think I can walk at this moment, Victor.”

The three wine glasses (as Sherlock drank Mycroft’s own glass - who, of course, is still locked in the loo) lay on their sides on the floor.

“Up you get, then.” Victor says, and leads him because he knows that Sherlock’s drowning and sometimes even consulting detectives need to have someone guide them home.

Victor is smart and can figure out where Sherlock’s room is. He ignores the fact that it’s covered in sheets of paper and there are three televisions set up, though they’re shut off. He ignores the cmell of cigarettes because he hates cigarettes and he’s quite happy that Sherlock’s breath smells of cherry and mint versus the distasteful scent of nicotine and tar. He ignores changing Sherlock out of his clothing and simple lays the man out on the bed, lit only by the moonlight cascading in from the window nearby. If this were any other situation, he really would consider this. He would consider Sherlock, because no one’s made him laugh or smile this much in ages. But this isn’t the right situation - isn’t the right world or time or anything for that matter. Maybe it could have worked if they kept in touch but it’s just different now. That’s alright too, and he can appreciate what they have before them. He needed this night too, just as much as Sherlock and Mycroft needed it their selves.

He tucks Sherlock’s head under a pillow and sets a linen sheet atop his figure. He still dawns against the moonlight and really, the man does look gorgeous as ever. You’d have to be a fool not to think that.

Sherlock’s eyes flutter open and Victor sets Sherlock’s phone on the nightstand.

“Stay?” Sherlock asks, but it feels less of a question and more of a demand.

And because they’re pirates, Victor gives in. He slides in to the right of Sherlock, laying on his back and gazing upwardly at the ceiling. “You’ve always gotten your way, haven’t you, Sherlock?”

“Most of the time, yes.” Sherlock replies. He turns on his side, facing the older, eyes hazy but still open despite the amount of alcohol he’s taken in during the last few hours. “Lately, though, no.”

“He’ll turn around,” Victor says. He says these things without knowing for sure but he says them because he feels it. He knows the type of man Sherlock is and if there is someone out there, someone who he doesn’t even know himself, whose willing to do as much as written on that damn blog - well, leaving Sherlock for good simply isn’t an option. You don’t have to be a consulting detective to know that much. “Just give him a spot of time, Sherlock. I mean, hell, I really don’t know him and I don’t know if I’ll ever get the chance to, but I mean,” he sighs softly, his own eyes growing heavy and tired with the moment, “He’ll come back around - your John. Just give him time, alright?”

“Mm,” is Sherlock’s reply, because he can’t formulate a lot more at the present moment. He does, however, sling his left arm over Victor’s chest and Victor looks over at his fellow pirate. Their eyes lock for a moment and they understand each other completely. Pirates have their own set of code anyways, and it’s something they never forget - even if fifteen years has passed. Plus, Sherlock’s not the type of bloke that’ll forget anything, ever, if decided.

Victor reaches over and brushes his free hand through Sherlock’s hair, which, in turn causes Sherlock to flutter his eyes closed completely. “You’re still my favorite pirate, Sherlock. After all, you taught me the art of piracy itself.”

Sherlock’s lips curl into a smile, despite the fact that he rarely ever smiles this much, ever. Victor leaves his hand in place and Sherlock opens his eyes again. Victor leans down, giving into temptation because even though the situation is not set itself, it is nearly midnight or just past and just this once is alright he supposes. Their lips brush for a second time during the night and this time while there’s not as much pressure, they do linger much longer with slow movements. This is only Sherlock’s fourth kiss ever and even though Victor’s a bit more experienced, every time you kiss, it always feels new. But it carries on - maybe a minute, even more - a language beyond piracy but before love because it’s all they have and it’s all they’re allowed.

When Victor pulls away, he whispers, keeping his face close, “Happy New Years, Sherlock.”

Sherlock does not reply, but he says, because he hasn’t forgotten, before he sleeps, “I’ll be at the funeral.”

Sherlock’s breathing settles out yet Victor stays awake. He kisses Sherlock’s brow gently, waiting at least ten or twenty minutes past before reaching over for Sherlock’s mobile phone. He scrolls through the messages, finding John’s own series. He doesn’t bother going through everything and instead only spends thirty seconds typing out a single message before sending it.

Happy New Years, John.
SH

The mobile phone is set back in its proper place and he knows he won’t get much of an argument for what he’s done.

It’s closer to one when Victor fades to sleep. He’s thinking of his mother and his youth and Sherlock, too. He doesn’t let go of Sherlock because he doesn’t know the next time the man will get held, and while it’s not romantic in nature - it’s something that could have been. It probably could have been something beautiful and amazing and damn near perfect with enough work, but those are just mindless thoughts in a world where dreams do not become reality. And so he stays like that through the night, holding onto Sherlock, against the moonlight and tucked away in the world where piracy really does exists.