ONE YEAR LATER
The Instructor had just finished giving the relevant information of this lecture and was now beginning to drone on about one of her pet subjects. Sherlock bounced his eraser on his notebook and his mind began to wander. Lectures were, for the most part, tedious, but they provided a plethora of subject matter to interest his mind. First there was the lecturer herself: Single, untenured, brilliant, overlooked. He had taken this course instead of the one with the Professor of the greater reputation because he knew that that man had got his position largely through connections rather than any brilliance in his part. Dr Arbunkle, on the other hand, had a way of thinking laterally about a problem that Sherlock truly admired. Her papers, although nowhere near as well read and reviewed as others in the field, were starling in their insight. Even so, she seemed likely to pass unrecognized where she was. Sherlock predicted that she would leave in less than five years to some other University who would recognize her talent and give her the tenure that she deserved. She usually had a good twenty minutes of interesting things to say. The rest of the time was wasted on stories of social relevance that bored Sherlock to tears, as if any of his classmates would consider society in making their decisions which mostly appeared to involve where they were going to spend their next minibreak.
Sherlock's phone vibrated, and he pulled it out of his pocket. Under cover of the desk he read the message from Victor and smiled. After class, he went directly to his flat, a private one as he no longer lived in University provided accommodations. This one had its own kitchen and bath as well as a large closet for his clothes. Ever since Victor had introduced him to his tailors, Sherlock had acquired a number of new clothes and shoes. He wiped the water from his hair, and walked down the length of his rack looking for just the right suit. He chose the dove grey because Victor had said the color looked particularly fine with his dark hair.
The shirt he chose was blue silk, almost purple. He never wore a tie. He buttoned it up almost to the top, and then he thought better of it and unbuttoned the second button as well to reveal more of his skin. His shoes were bespoke, made of the softest leather imaginable. He pointed and flexed his toes and the shoe hugged his feet as if it were part of his skin. He smiled. Sherlock shook out his hair, and took one more look in the mirror before going out to meet Victor.
They were going to the Fitzwilliam museum to see an exhibition of rare Greek and Roman sculptures. Victor was waiting for him on the steps. He smiled the moment he saw Sherlock reaching out as he approached to clasp his arm near the elbow. Sherlock held his as well, and his hands slid down the smooth fabric of his suit until their fingers clasped. It had started by accident. An awkward missed greeting that had become a sort of secret hand shake. They fell into step with each other then and walked up the steps falling into the friendly silence of close companions.
The marble sculptures were many different scales, but most were life-sized. The Greek ones in particular were most realistic. Sherlock squatted down to look into the hollow eye holes of a kneeling maiden. He wanted to touch it, but then that wasn't allowed. The grime on a person's hands was enough to corrode the delicate surface. Perhaps if he wore gloves...
"What do you think of them?" Victor asked.
"The clothes aren't realistic," Sherlock replied.
"What do you mean they aren't realistic? How can you tell what people thousands of years ago wore. Mostly we tell by looking at images such as these."
"I'm not saying that they didn't wear robes and togas, I'm just saying that the folds don't fall naturally. Clothes just don't act that way."
"It's art, Sherlock. They aren't meant to be completely representational."
"The nudes are. The proportions are recognizably realistic."
"Yes, that's true for many of them, but this statue of Hekate for example. The folds of her dress radiate out from the center. You couldn't have pleats this perfect on a real person. This is an idealized sculpture. Everything is perfect because it represents something."
"The thirteen months of the year."
"What?"
"The thirteen folds of her dress represent the thirteen moons in a typical year. Hecate is the goddess of the moon."
"I thought that there were twelve months in a year."
"Months yes, moons no. If you consider a lunar cycle to be 28 days then 28 times 13 equals 364 days. One solar rotation is 365.24255 days, therefore...
"Do you have to bring calculations into all this? Can't you just appreciate the statue for what it is?"
"But I am. Do you think that the thirteen folds in the dress were a coincidence? Obviously they were placed there as symbolism which is what you keep telling me that we are here to appreciate. What would you have said about the number of folds?"
"I wouldn't have counted them in the first place."
Sherlock sighed heavily.
Victor had turned, walking toward the smaller statuary when Sherlock noticed raised voices behind them.
Sherlock turned and stared at a woman in a sari who seemed to be having an argument with one of the guards. The guard was trying to take something out of the woman's hand, and she was resisting. Since the guard spoke English, and the woman did not appear to speak any, they had resorted to fighting over the device like children fighting over a toy.
Victor rushed past and lay a finger lightly on the guard's shoulder. He released the device and turned.
"Excuse me, but please stay back. I'm busy talking to this woman," the guard said.
"No," Victor said. "You are busy talking AT this woman. You haven't understood a word that she's said."
"How can I, she's not speaking English."
The woman raised her voice now, a string of angry words directed at the both of them. Victor turned to her and replied in her own language. The woman visibly brightened, then she launched into what was clearly a complaint as she gestured at the guard, holding her device up and then pointing again. Victor nodded listening, then he said something that made the woman smile and calm down. She stood quietly and waited while Victor turned back to the guard.
"What was that about?" the guard said. "The rules are clear, no recording devices are allowed."
"That is not a recording device," Victor said. "That is a tape player. The woman here is from India, she can not read or understand English, but she wanted to see this exhibit, so her son came yesterday. He received permission to record a tape for her explaining what the captions on each of the statues said. She was not recording anything, but listening which is not against any of the rules of this museum."
"Well it looks like a recording device to me."
"You are wrong, but in the interest of peace, I will escort this woman around the exhibits myself. Does that meet with your approval?"
The guard stepped back and nodded. Victor turned to the woman and explained. She very determinedly held up the device and placed it back in her purse, then Victor gestured and the woman turned up her nose passing the guard without another word.
Victor went to the first statue and translated the caption for the woman. Then he turned toward Sherlock and winked, a smile on the edge of his lips. Sherlock stood back and followed them as he led her through the entire exhibit telling her much more than was written on the cards. Sherlock watched his face, so animated!, as he bent down toward the woman listening to her comments and adding some of his own. When they finally did leave some hours later, the woman had exchanged personal information with him and most likely invited him to spend the winter at her home in Mumbai.
They laughed about it later over dinner in a small French café with an excellent wine list. They sat at a tiny round table, so cramped that their knees were touching as they leaned close together, their words rushing out like a burbling stream.
That evening after clasping hands goodnight, Sherlock walked back to his flat pulling his coat tight around himself as the weather turned chill. Once home, he toed off his shoes and hung up his suit. He changed into his pajamas and after readying himself for bed, he cut off the light, and went into his mind palace.
In the back of his mind, behind the library where he stored his studies and the lounge where he stored his maps, was a secret room. The bright red door was always kept locked until Sherlock was completely alone. This room was filled with images of Victor.
Victor biting his knuckles, his wayward tongue licking the joint in a circle.
Victor pulling off his shirt and trousers before jumping into the pond on the grounds of his Father's house in Norfolk.
Victor asleep on Sherlock's bed. His lips open slightly as if waiting for a kiss.
Sherlock found an empty alcove and put in the memory of the two of them sitting at a small round table, legs intertwined. Victor rubbing his leg unconsciously up and down along Sherlock's inseam as he bounced it on his knee. Sherlock trying to keep his breathing regular as he watched Victor's wine reddened lips shape itself into a smile. "Mon chéri" he had said, and Sherlock had imagined him saying those words before touching his burgundy red lips to the soft skin on the inside of Sherlock's thigh.
A thousand stolen images of Victor flashed behind his eyes coalescing into a fantasy whose soft lips and strong hands touched Sherlock's body quickening his breath and pulling out a dozen moans and sighs.
Victor, whose broad chest and strong arms looked equally well bare or in a bespoke suit.
Victor whose smile magically made all sad thoughts vanish.
Victor who made him laugh and who apparently found him funny as well.
He longed to feel those lips laughing around him. The thought of it made him sigh in pleasure.
Victor.
His Victor.
'Mon Cheri' .
After he had closed and locked the door behind him, he looked around his empty room and felt shame. Victor was his friend. Victor's love was pure. It was he whose dirty thoughts insisted on painting Victor as something he was not. He was so much lower than Victor, so much more common. His thoughts disgusted him. He checked the lock again. Victor must not know, he must never know about Sherlock's base lust. He would never forgive him. He would go away, and Sherlock would lose him forever.
Sherlock turned on his side and tried to sleep, but disgust dominated his thoughts so that sleep was quite impossible. He rose, put on his robe, and pulled out his box of experiments. He was working on perfumes. He now knew how to tell by smell what a scent was made of. He would no longer be tempted to taste as he had been so long ago. He had improved his skills of observations so that he would never have to show that side of himself to the world again.
