AN: Sorry I haven't written much in awhile (been suffering from a rather pernicious depression. But I always feel better when I write, and as such - tonight I just sat down, turned on some music, and tuned out the world.)
It's a departure chapter, from which the next chapter will make much more sense, and it's from a character's POV that you won't see again in this work - but which is vital for understanding Sherlock's fear, as it is exposed more and more in subsequent chapters. So this POV is from that of Victor Trevor.
Aspects of this chapter are rather graphic sexually (not TOO explicit, but certainly getting there - so please take that into consideration) and the sexual acts in question could be termed ''dubious-con'' or possibly even ''grey non-con'' between Sherlock and Victor. Please keep this in mind. (Yes, Victor takes all sorts of liberties and does behave quite unethically in this chapter).
Finally, a request from everyone...please. I am always nervous about posting chapters of my work. On AO3 I had a reader post a flame, replete with swearing, because she was so upset by the fact that the POV in this chapter shifted away from Sherlock's take on reality and shifted to showcasing Victor's. If you don't want to read Victor's POV here, I understand. And if you have constructive criticism - great! But please don't swear and act in such a juvenile manner simply because there is an aspect of how the story is told that you dislike. (For example, this poster's flame certainly did not encourage me emotionally and it can be nerve-wracking enough as it is to post work that you very likely know can be ripped apart. Especially when it deals with sensitive subject matter that in some way relates to things you have gone through personally.) Again, constructive criticism is wonderful. But please refrain from swearing and outright mockery. Suggestions and ways to improve I will always appreciate. And lastly: while this particular review has been the first of its kind to be hostile, it's not motivational.
Thanks, guys. As always, mature (non-swearing) reviews that actually help my writing = love :D
INTERLUDE
VICTOR'S POV
Autumn 1995 - Spring 1996
Recollections
The first time I saw him, I wasn't even sure it was a him.
His back was turned to me, and his hair was nothing but raven ringlets - nearly to his shoulder. His body was all lean lines and proportions, and he was wearing a violet cardigan with a butterfly print shirt underneath.
What caused me to stop, pause, and study the figure was not how he looked, exactly, but what he was doing.
He was playing music, in the courtyard outside of the Sheldonian Theatre. Others were playing, too. But as I watched his hands move up and down over a violin with a sort of rapacious concentration, I fell into a trance.
The sun was setting - casting unearthly shadowed faces over the statues and the busts that had been worked into the building centuries ago. As the quality of light changed from that of late afternoon to early evening, they appeared to be shifting in emotionality - also caught up in the music.
Suddenly, the music halted. And as I stood there in stunned disbelief as to the enormity of what I felt, especially for the soloist's playing, he turned around abruptly. Sharp bird-like movements, his face impassive - as if he hadn't just given one the most exquisite performances that I had ever heard with my own ears.
Since I lived off-campus at the time, I had palling around with me my terrier of three years, Bisquick. Bisquick was a Bingley terrier with a black saddle. Bisquick would have readily been a British Kennel Club winner for looks, but it was in matters of personality that he was lacking, as Biquick had a snappish temperament that caused me to watch him closely. On this particular evening, however, I was lost in my own thoughts - so entranced with what I had heard. Ironically, in my interest in introducing myself to the violinist in question - I forgot that Bisquick was in my possession, and meandered on over to introduce myself, dragging Bisquick along with little thought.
And that was my mistake.
For a few paces in, I gave a slight wave and the young man turned and set his gray gaze upon me. The gaze was as sharp as the movements of his fingers I had seen mere moments before.
His lips were an unfathomable sort of pink, almost mind-boggling to see on a man sans makeup - and they formed a perfect Cupid's bow. His face was angular, and almost alien-like in structure, but handsome in a disarming, atypical way.
''That was simply incredible,'' I stammered awkwardly, the faint pulsing of heat in my face relaying to me an obvious fact: where lust was concerned, I was obviously attracted to the man before me.
The man gave me a once over, and seemed hesitant to accept my praise, looking almost doubtful as he registered my words.
''It wasn't a particularly difficult piece,'' he said - not out of false modesty, but in an odd intonation that hinted at self-deprecation. ''But - thank you?,'' he said again, as if coming to some conclusion that he wanted to be polite, even as his words came out in a questioning lilt.
''Just wonderful. I don't even go for classical usually-''
''Baroque,'' he interjected suddenly, almost forcefully, and then paused, winced and closed his eyes.
''Okay, baroque,'' I conceded. ''At any rate, it was delightful. I had to listen to the entire thing. Me and Bisquick,'' I said hurriedly, sensing I was generating some form of anxiety for this bird-like creature.
His eyes immediately darted to my Bingley terrier, and as his sight settled on my crabby pet, the man's eyes had seemed to soften.
''He's an Airedale, is he not?,'' the young man asked quickly, licking his lips as if nervous.
''Yes - yes he is,'' I replied, engrossed with the man's quick stride, purposeful, as he came over slightly at last.
But before I could warn him of Biquick's feisty nature, he had bent down and turned his palm upwards, as if for Biquick's inspection - than Bisquick snapped at him.
The man drew back suddenly, not letting out a sound - simply cradling his nipped palm against his chest, eyes wide.
''Bisquick!,'' I shouted, pulling on the lead and Bisquick trotted back to my side where he licked his chops, looking bored. As if he hadn't just bitten the violinist. As if I hadn't just all but dragged him back to my side forcefully.
The man started to hurry off, and I felt horrible for what had occurred.
''Please. Please let me see-,'' I fumbled with my words, my face - I could feel - beet red.
''It's nothing,'' the young man rushed to say, ''Nothing I can't take care of-''
''I'm so sorry. Bisquick is temperamental-''
I heard a strained, ''He should be in a muzzle then,'' under his breath.
''You're right. He usually growls first. He's never actually bitten anyone before, though-,'' and I trailed off, expecting a name to follow.
The gray eyes continued to flicker over my form, not quite registering the hurt that my brat of a dog had inflicted.
''I - I had better be off,'' he stumbled awkwardly, brushing his injured hand against his cardigan. When his hand drew away from his clothing, I could see a smear of hot red in an arc over the wool.
''Oh God - he's broken the skin,'' I said queasily, never being one that was good with blood. ''Oh, please - just, come with me. At least let me help you patch it.''
The man's face worked awkwardly, presumably debating if he should go his own way or if he should take me up on my suggestion.
''Please,'' I reiterated. ''I feel awful. The least I can do is patch it. It's your dominant hand, too. It's going to impact your playing. God, I'm sorry.''
The man faltered, fumbled brokenly for his violin case, and I tied Bisquick up to the side of the fence, now safely away from the two of us.
Helping him deposit and secure his instrument into the case, I tried again.
''My name is Victor, by the way. Victor Trevor. I read Economics. Do you attend-?''
And again the man bit out, quickly - ''Thank you for your help, Victor.'' His voice was gruff, almost sad.
''Listen, Bisquick can sit here for a bit and-''
''Maul other students that come too near, unaware of his temper?,'' the violinist responded tartly. ''Do you really feel that's the best course of action?''
I didn't let his attitude derail me, however, and continued to walk astride him as he ambled along on his stick-like legs, as if he were a young adolescent still getting used to his height.
A few seconds passed before he turned back to me, his face veiled in confusion.
''What are you doing, V-Victor?,'' and he said my name as if he was trying to recall it, despite the fact that I had introduced myself to him only seconds prior.
''I am going to assist you back to your residence. And see to your hand; I insist on it.''
The man bit his lip.
''That's really not necessary. I can take care of it myself, I assure you.''
His face still had a forlorn look to it. Something quiet but ill-at-ease, and I didn't have it in me to just leave everything so badly off.
''Please,'' I tried a third time. ''To assuage my guilt. It's my fault you're hurt, after all.''
His brow crinkled, but he hurried along - all with his injured hand pressed against his clothing to absorb the blood, and his pale features whitening even further in the setting sun. It gave him a ghostly look - all thin lines and the alabaster skin of someone plagued with consumption, bitterest anxiety in his voice.
''If you insist,'' he mumbled.
''I do,'' I replied with conviction.
We moved along the cobblestone for several minutes in total silence, and I ignored the squealing sound of Bisquick as I walked off.
Suddenly, the man stopped, his hand still bleeding profusely.
''Go and get him,'' he said, in a tone nothing less than imperious.
''What?''
''Go and get Bisquick. You cannot leave him chained to the fence.''
The face was now ashen; from mild shock or simply a trick of the light, I was not sure. But when I glanced to his hand, I could see it was rather violently torn, and I felt adrenaline pulse out into my body, like a tapeworm of heat.
''You can't leave him,'' the man repeated, then licked his lips.
So I turned back, and grabbed hold of Bisquick's collar, shortening the leash by circling the excess leather around my hand until the dog was barely inches from my side.
''I'll ensure he stays well away from you,'' I supplied as I returned to my new companion.
Almond eyes turned to the dog, the taut leash - and he nodded shortly.
''Yes. Fine,'' he replied abruptly, continuing his walk.
''Can I get a name?,'' I blurted out, impulsively.
The peaked face turned towards me, letting out a short huff of breath as if I had asked for a rather grand favor.
''Why on earth do you want to know my name?,'' and the lip darted out, moistening the Cupid's bow. I realized he did this a lot, almost like a tic. Nervous, staccato-like.
''Well, my dog bit you: the least I can do is apologize properly.''
But the man continued on silently for the next few minutes, as if my query had gone unheard. Suddenly, as we neared what could only have been his dormitory building, he looked off towards a grove of trees in the next courtyard and proclaimed, ''Sherlock. My name is Sherlock Holmes. And I, um, I read Chemistry.''
My face opened up into a wide grin, enamored with the eccentric name. Testing it in my mind, fascinated by the kind of family Sherlock must have grown up in - the kind of family that would bestow such an odd sounding name to a child.
''Is that a family name?,'' I asked, amused.
His eyes darted back to my face, and he frowned.
''What's wrong with my name?,'' Sherlock had asked testily.
''Nothing. It's unusual. But I like it.''
Sherlock sighed, laboriously, and I tried to maneuver onto a new and acceptable subject.
''If you must know - yes, it's a family name, and additionally my brother chose it for me when he was a child. He undoubtedly felt adrift in a world of normal-sounding names and resolved to do something about it.''
My face quirked back into a grin.
''And so what's his name, then?''
Sherlock blinked, almost in confusion, and then kept on walking - this time at a faster pace.
''He's hardly little. Quite the opposite really, but my brother's name is Mycroft.''
This time I chomped down on my bottom lip to keep myself from outright giggling.
Of course.
Sherlock finally informed me that we were making our way to Merton College, where he also informed me that he was in his second year, reading Chemistry (as previously mentioned) but with a second focus in Molecular Biology.
Plus, he ran track. And rowed, but was considering giving it up because he found it ''repetitiously boring,'' apparently.
''AND you play the violin? Impressive.''
Sherlock seemed to tense at the compliment, but quickly responded with: ''I have played the violin since the age of three. It's hardly impressive that I can play at my current grade.''
''Still,'' I argued, ''I can't play anything. Never mind the fact that I am rubbish at advanced maths, too.''
Sherlock remained quiet, merely came upon his dormitory entrance, and held the door open for me and rotten old Bisquick.
''Try to, umm, hide him in your coat or something,'' he tested, finally, looking about for other students.
'''No pet' policy?,'' I guessed, and Sherlock nodded.
''Although I keep an aquarium for my chameleon. Plus, I know of a handful of others in the building that keep fish, small rodents. That sort of thing. But they might have a bit more of a problem with a rabid, blood thirsty dog like yours,'' and for the first time of the evening, Sherlock smiled.
And it was brilliant.
''This is posh,'' I remarked with a whistle, taking in the space.
On the floor were Persian rugs, and on the walls were actual paintings - not prints. Sherlock's room contained a bar fridge, an enclosed bookshelf with overhead lighting, and a Mr. Coffee coffee maker that was still half full and which oddly clashed with his many other obviously expensive possessions.
His bed was rather messy, with sheets and blankets and pajamas all mucked up, and he indicated that I should take to an Eames chair situated off in the corner of the room (which I did).
From there, he walked into his enclosed bathroom, and turned on the light which queued the fan to kick in.
I waited about, Bisquick on my lap, and let my eyes read the titles on his shelf. Most of the works were about Chemistry, although I caught some Isaac Asimov on the shelves, and a rather large volume of true crime books, as well as tomes on poisonous plants, and toxins and poisons in general. Every now and then something that seemed to be a huge departure would catch my eye: a book on Buddhism, a book on Thatcher, a book about Rupert the Bear.
To my left, a bay window cut out against the night and I could see the Japanese Maples in their reddish-purple intensity below.
On a metal shelf, I caught sight of an aquarium - probably 30 or 40 gallons, which housed the aforementioned chameleon - along with terrariums on the floor, which housed everything from a miniature botanical world filled with insects and slugs, to succulents, to what looked like a enclosure of aquatic plants, with affixed growth lights suffusing the flora in pinks and blues.
I rested Bisquick at my feet, and made my way towards Sherlock's bed, let my fingers touch discarded pajamas. Indigo with a herringbone print.
I touched the collar of the garment, the seam arcing into a Peter Pan ridge.
Silk.
Definitely silk.
And cashmere socks balled up near a wicker wastepaper basket to my right.
''Sherlock? You okay in there?,'' I called, suddenly aware of the boundaries I was crossing. Bisquick slumped to my side, seemingly at ease with Sherlock's dorm, although not Sherlock himself, now watched a colony of ants working this way and that, carrying pieces of what looked like toast or Hobnobs back towards an opening into the sand.
''Sherlock?,'' I asked again, and Sherlock himself emerged - his cardigan now off and lying on the floor of his bathroom - adding to the strange sense of mess among luxury; his good arm holding onto several packets of gauze and a first aid kit.
He was looking progressively whiter with every passing moment.
''How's the pain?''
He made a screwed up motion with his hands, dismissive.
''Can you help me open these packages, please?,'' he asked, and I noted the vulnerability in his voice as he passed his first aid kit over to me.
I popped the lid, and was stunned at what lay inside. Not merely the essentials, but enough first aid and injury related items to stock a mini-hospital. Butterfly plasters, gauze in three differing widths, needles with dis-solvable thread, clamps, antibiotic ointment, scar ointment, Bactine, Asprin, Codeine in a small plastic canister, hydrogen peroxide, anti-pyretics and so on.
''Wow.''
Sherlock suddenly looked uncomfortable.
''I aim to always be prepared for any occurrence,'' he responded in a clipped voice, and I fought off an odd sense of apprehension.
''Accident prone?,'' I tested, unease worming through the back of my mind.
''Not more than the average,'' he said in short tenseness, and I let the subject drop.
''Okay. Let's see Bisquick's damage,'' I muttered, and Sherlock held his hand out to me, almost timidly.
I picked up the hydrogen peroxide, and doused the cotton in it.
''Oh, I hate this bit,'' I said awkwardly, and Sherlock huffed at my statement.
I dabbed at the gash with the peroxide, and he flinched, but gave no outwards cry of pain, and the wound fizzed white and the skin suddenly looked hot and pink when I removed the pad from his hand. Fresh curdling of blood welled up to the surface, and my stomach writhed in empathy.
''Now the Bactine?,'' I tested, and Sherlock shrugged, as I spritzed the injury with the pain reliever. After a few seconds, the tension in his face diminished, as did the tension in my own stomach.
''I'd recommend the liquid bandage next, followed by the medium width gauze,'' Sherlock ventured, his body slowly easing with the reduction of pain. ''I have special tape for the gauze which will keep everything affixed.''
Which is exactly what I did.
I wrapped his limb, hot and sore, with the gauze, and affixed it with special white tape that had a gummy snap and seemed to adhere velcro-like to the bandages.
Sherlock flexed his fingers when I was through with my tending, and I glanced about his space, suddenly at a loss as to how to proceed.
''Would you like to see Vernet?,'' and the voice sounded far younger, and apprehensive.
I had never seen a chameleon in the flesh before, and was careful with my handling of the gentle animal - so different in character to that of quick-tempered Bisquick.
''He's not turning black, like my trousers,'' I murmured aloud, and Sherlock inclined his head, his eyes switching back and forth between me and the slothful Vernet, whose small body inched along my trouser leg in the smallest of increments.
''That's because that aspect of a chameleon's nature is generally linked to a perceived need for self preservation. It's a form of camouflage, and it's unlikely to ever be an exact match in terms of hue or pattern. Additionally, it always indicates some measure of internal stress.''
''Therefore it's a good thing he's remaining his, umm, typical colour?''
Sherlock nodded.
''Indeed. If he had started to change in any overt way, I would have taken him off you and returned him to his tank. I would not subject him to the stress; it's not good for their longevity or happiness.''
Something warm filled my chest at that declaration, not to mention the tender way Sherlock's hand hovered near the oddly-eyed creature, as if expecting it to stumble from my body. In fact, he kept his good arm low to it's tiny form as if to break a fall should his pet slip.
It was obvious then that he cared deeply for the being, and as I glanced up at Sherlock out of the corner of my eye, I could see the red and oranges of butterflies on his shirt, the tapered nails of someone incredibly aware of their personal hygiene, the delicate hands - one now swollen and puffed out with gauze and the wetness of rose blood that continued to flow from the bite, despite my ministrations.
He watched Vernet with intense focus, and a peacefulness I hadn't seen once in the evening prior.
I cleared my throat.
''Why did you name him Vernet?''
Sherlock pulled his body inwardly, until he was sitting cross legged on his Persian rug. His feet were clad in chrome yellow socks, and they kept flexing back and forth rhythmically.
''He's a member of our family. An ancestor.''
''The painter?,'' I asked, surprised.
But somehow that information just seems so wholly possible in relation to what I'd quickly come to learn about Sherlock that I wasn't all too surprised, either.
''Yes. The painter,'' Sherlock responded, now collecting Vernet-the-chameleon from my leg, and angling his hand in such a way as to let the Old World lizard begin an ascent to Sherlock's shoulder, where it came to rest. ''Although, I never really experimented with the visual arts, myself. Aside from anatomy drawings.''
I quirked an eyebrow.
''Like nude model things?,'' I said with a smirk.
Sherlock looked confused for a second, then suddenly frowned.
''Nooo,'' he drawled out. ''No, I meant anatomy drawings.''
He sashayed back a few moments later, Vernet cupped in one hand and a rather large burgundy tome in the other.
''Like this,'' he said, he voice a little more tentative. Softer. He opened the pages of the book.
It was a medical book, replete with black and white sketches, highly detailed, of different organ systems. Pancreas, liver, female reproductive organs, the lungs. Sherlock's spidery fingers turned through the pages, and Vernet squirmed.
''Let me put him back,'' Sherlock responded tightly, and he suddenly seemed uncomfortable as I turned the pages. A piece of onionskin paper fluttered to the floor and I picked it up.
It was a sketching of a woman's interior. A heavily pregnant woman. The drawing focused in greatest detail on the curvature of the fetus, the hands so miniaturized, the face serene.
I picked it up carefully, taken by the soft lines used to depict the womb itself and the sharp and precise contrast of the unborn.
''This is beautiful,'' I said in earnest, and Sherlock flushed crimson.
''I forgot that was in there,'' Sherlock responded primly, face cautious.
''Well, I really like it. The child looks as if she's dreaming.''
Sherlock's eyes moved from mine and back to the drawing.
''No. Male,'' and he hesitantly pointed out the slight protrusion towards the bottom of the sketching that was partially hidden in shading.
''He,'' I amended. ''He looks as if he's dreaming.''
Sherlock's head slanted and he sat down a few feet from me, awkwardly crossing his legs. Fiddled with his cardigan, splayed over his lap. Probably Merino or Angora, or something equally expensive.
''Maybe he is dreaming,'' he supplied a few seconds later. ''Yes. I like that. He is dreaming. What else would he be doing?'' he asserted, and I fought back a smile at the tone.
After Sherlock's insistence that his hand was absolutely fine, and after I had scanned some more of the art book, he seemed to fall into a bit of a wordless anxiety. He padded around, balling up his strewn-around and undeniably-posh clothing and stuffed them into his closet, where he'd hidden a wicker hamper.
''Ah, so I probably should head off then,'' I said in measured beats, and watched as Sherlock's head nodded. He'd become seemingly interested in arranging items on hangers, and I felt a bit silly for injecting myself into his dormitory without a proper invitation.
''Alright,'' I tried again, wondering suddenly if I've done something to offend the now-mute man before me. ''Well, maybe I'll see you around on campus?''
Sherlock turned, arms holding onto three different hangers.
''I don't know how likely that will be; we don't take any of the same classes, I presume,'' he said brusquely. ''Economics is not really my area.''
''Well, that hardly matters. Just tell me when your next musical concert is scheduled, and I'll be there,'' I tried brightly, amused when Sherlock's cheeks tinted rose.
''That was hardly a concert,'' he replied quickly, licking his lips for what felt like the 20th time of the evening, obviously nervous.
''Well, even so - I enjoyed your music.''
Sherlock scratched the back of his neck, uncomfortable with the praise.
''Yes, well. I, um, I hold practice sessions sometimes. Near the Sheldonian. Usually Wednesday evenings. Sometimes Friday nights. 6 to 7.''
I nodded in encouragement, and made to speak, when he added: ''And I enjoy a good game of Weiqi - which also goes by the name of Go - at least twice a week. I play with some of the others in first and second year. Do you know the game?''
He licked his lips again, and I felt a surge of quiet and low-key fondness.
''Not really. I've heard of it, but I've never played.''
Sherlock hesitated, and then said in a rush: ''I can teach you, if you'd like? We don't have a large enough group of us to actually start a student's group - not yet - but-''
I chuckled, and Sherlock flinched, so I quickly rose and shouldered my bag.
''I'd like that. I've always been interested in learning that game. When do you play?''
Sherlock had resumed the sorting of his closet and the clothes within.
''Typically on weekends. But if you leave your student email near my study desk, I can forward you the specifics of the meet-ups,'' he rushed, sounding semi-distracted by ordering the colours of his button downs.
He didn't turn around, and so I headed back towards his desk. Finally noticing a memo pad and assortment of mechanical pencils and fineliner pens that he'd housed in a metallic mesh holder, I scrawled my email and my name with a sprightly smiley face on the clean yellow paper, and then detached it from the pad before affixing the sticky portion to the outside of his laptop.
''Alright then, I guess I will see you at your next Go meet up. Or your next...musical event. Whatever comes first.''
Sherlock nodded, his back to me, while I located my Dockers. When I was ready to leave, I muttered a ''See you around, then,'' and called Bisquick to my side. Sherlock kept a wide distance between me and the dog, and I felt somewhat confused by the interaction, but on the whole - intrigued.
The leaves were turning from their vibrant gold to a much more sedate brown and the early morning fog cast the park in an eerie sort of autumnal splendor. I pulled my scarf tightly across my throat and took a sip of my Americano, then glanced at my watch, fiddled with the leather strap.
I knew I was early, and as such - being ridiculous. And yet, Sherlock was a hard person to get a feel for - both in person, and through email correspondence. He divided his words between excited statements about random things and then a withdrawn sort of sensitivity, whereby I quickly felt as if I were intruding into his space.
He's hard to gauge. And yet, I remind myself, he offered to teach me how to play this game.
I did not push him for another interaction, another meeting.
Through the whiteness, I could see his lanky form approach. He was wearing an over-sized navy peacoat, and his dark tresses, normally curly, were flattened beneath a lighter blue Laplander hat that covered his ears. Even from the distance, I could see the tell-tale signs of an ember glowing red-hot. He took a drag, then coughed, before finally stamping the thing out with the toe of his shoe.
Coming closer, he caught sight of me near one of the old pine-wood benches where I've taken up while waiting for him. Eyed the additional Americano cooling on the frosty wood, the little pile of sugars and creamers. Bit his lip.
I broke the silence first. ''Yes, it's for you. I didn't know how you took your coffee.''
Sherlock sniffed, his nose ruddy in the brisk air, the rest of his face white as a sheet.
''Obviously,'' he said, voice all careful enunciation and shielding. ''It's never come up before, so how would you?''
I nudged the creamers over towards him; he picked up both packets of sugar and poured them into his beverage.
''Thank you,'' he replied in hesitation, and it came out almost questioning in tone. As if he rarely even said thank you, the words themselves sounding brittle and foreign in his mouth.
''No problem. I recommend trying the hazelnut creamer. It's actually quite good.''
Sherlock's gaze floated over the little canisters of cream. 18% plain. 18% Irish Creme. 18% Hazelnut.
''Those are absolutely full of fat,'' he informed me briskly, and the words themselves come out as snappish. Then he rubbed his hands together as if to fight off the chill in the air. A moment later, I realized that his hands were actually trembling.
I didn't even know how to respond to such a statement, and pondered the words for a few seconds; decided to say nothing.
''Are you sure you wouldn't prefer to head indoors?''
He looked back up to me, a little more openly.
''Are you cold?,'' he asked in confusion, and I shook my head in uneasy dismissal.
''No, I'm fine, really, but you look a little chilled.''
Sherlock ignored my statement, and instead unfolded a wooden Go set, pinned in the center. In one cupped palm he held out two clear bags filled with narrowed black and white stones.
''Don't worry about me. I'm fine with this weather. Just do whatever would be more comfortable for you,'' he responded with a practiced smile, face squinting against the board, nudging the now cast aside creamers to the side of the table.
It's had been nearing 7 pm by the time we decided to call it an evening. The game itself was fast paced and interesting, but I failed spectacularly against Sherlock on all three games we played together.
''Thank you for the Go instruction,'' I said quickly, helping Sherlock count out the stones and organize them into separate piles before putting them back into their respective bags.
Sherlock tensed a little, nodded in my general direction, then blurted out: ''Thank you for the coffee, and the sugar.''
I smiled at him.
''Black. Two sugars,'' I said easily, and Sherlock nodded again.
''Alright, well I better head off. Unless you'd want to stop by somewhere else with me, first; I'm heading to Browns. The coffee made me even hungrier than I was before.''
Sherlock looked up at me; his smile stretched in tenseness.
''No, I - well, thank you - I am a tutor for organic chem, and-,'' Sherlock's hands fluttered about his sides in nervousness.
I felt something distantly sad then - a pale sadness, and pushed it away.
''Sherlock, listen - it's just an invite. I get it; you're busy. No worries. Maybe another time?,'' I responded with greater speed than I normally would, if only because he sounded so damn stressed.
''Maybe another time. Yes,'' Sherlock whispered flatly, and started to pad away, leaving me - for the second time in just about as many weeks - confused as hell.
For several weeks, we played Go, sometimes Chess. I bought him banana nut muffins from the student canteen, and always an extra large biscotti coffee, which I quickly came to realize was his favourite. Black. Two sugars. I deposited them in front of Sherlock when we sat down in the park to play our games, to chat; I felt an abundant happiness when he nibbled at my offerings. As if he were a mercurial God, and I had provideded him a sacrifice of highest quality, which he deemed worthy of consumption.
I was not stupid. I knew something was up. A something people didn't talk about, in relation to men. Especially *not* in relation to men. And especially not of those who tried so damnably hard to keep it to themselves. Because I knew he was not avoiding eating for attention. It might have done a good deal for attention, sure - but I could see how he ate, how odd he was with it all, and I could also sense when he tried to play it cool. In this area, at least, his behaviour didn't stem from a need to garner attention at all.
In fact, one time - just once - I tried to ask him about it, and ended up with a flurry of ''I'''s and ''umm's'' and the oddest deflections before he pulled his satchel across his chest and informed me that he was late to a tutoring session.
Ever since then, I had brought him foodstuffs. He had his preferences, too. Things that had nuts he could pull off and eat in small succession. Candies, gummies, things he could slowly chew. Things he could shell such as pistachios, sunflower seeds. Deep drags of diet Coke, slurped between each nibble. Actually, he gulped at Diet Coke like he smoked. Deep inhalations.
One time - a couple months after we had become friends - I went into the city center to help him buy groceries. He carried along a small list. Vegetables for his pet, and everything else - finicky, almost prissy and expensive, for the most part, but resoundingly nutritionless. Expensive roasted Italian coffee. Cocoa flavoured thins biscuits (sugar free, fat free, likely taste free), which Sherlock pecked at occasionally, dipped into his espresso. Packs of gum, of mints, of toothpaste and dental rinse. Crab meat, which he seemed to live off of - aside from the treats I'd bring him during our evenings together. Oh, and oddly enough -cilantro, by itself - which he'd make a ''salad'' out of and douse in tomato sauce and Keen's mustard. And crazy amounts of salad.
I knew it wasn't healthy, and I certainly knew it wasn't normal. But I didn't know how to speak of it without breaking our general ease.
One night, we stayed out too late in the park playing Go. The sky moved from inky-blue to inky-black so rapidly that Sherlock and I had a bit of a time counting all the game pieces, even as the bright and powerful white lights of the campus turned on. Sherlock looked even paler and more surreal in the darkness. Snowflakes started to fall, which made the evening seem somewhat magical. Prettily romantic, though I dared not voice this thought.
Wet flakes melted on his blue toque, wet his face, fell on his eyelashes. And I was entranced by his face, the cold steel of his irises clashing with the tentative warmth of his gaze when he looked at me. When he looked up at me hesitantly. Flustered.
And in that moment I had a tremendous urge to kiss him.
So I did.
We walked along the cobblestone, back to my residence. Sherlock rubbed his hands together occasionally, to heat them up.
''You need some warmer garments,'' I supplied readily, and he frowned, looked up at me sharply. ''Or more padding on your frame. Not sure, really.''
''I'm fine,'' he muttered, and I paused my walking, waited for him to stop.
He did. Looked across to me, apprehensive, like always, his dark curls vignetting his white face in dramatic fashion.
''I'm fine, Victor,'' he repeated, and I let my hand reach out to touch his cheeks, his cheek bone. ''Please don't...fret. It makes me agitated.''
''Fine, huh? You don't look all that fine lately, Lock,'' I whispered, and Sherlock closed his eyes. When he opened them up again, they were damp.
I cupped his neck, and he moved into me, towards me - his white cold cheek grazing my own.
''What is it, eh? You're dropping weight, dearheart,'' I muttered to his side, against his ear, and he pulled back. Microscopically pulled back.
''Are we friends?,'' he queried, and the expression on his face was unlike anything I had seen on him before. Unlike anything I had seen on anyone before.
''Of course,'' I enthused, grabbing his hand, rubbed the knuckles. Brought the knuckles up to my lips. Kissed the soft skin.
Sherlock's mouth opened, slightly in time to his eyes snapping shut. I saw and felt his body tense.
''I am fine. I will be fine. It's just, a thing. It's nothing.''
His eyes remained closed, as if he did not wish to take in my expression.
''Okay. But you'll let me help you if this gets...less fine. Right?''
Sherlock suddenly opened his eyes, seemed to be lost in thought. Finally nodded.
''Okay then. That's all I needed to hear. Or rather, that and your response now: want to come inside? Get some coffee? Heat up?''
Sherlock looked at me, suddenly fearful.
''Is that literal coffee? Or is this innuendo, Victor?''
His gaze remained off to my side. Unwilling to look me in the eyes.
''It is innuendo if you want it to be, Lock. And it's literal coffee if you prefer that. It's what you want. That's it.''
His throat convulsed, so I pulled him into me, hugged him. Realized he was trembling.
Felt a surge of affection and sadness for my friend, this man, so gifted and yet so afraid. I knew that's not what most people saw in him - fear, I mean. Most people didn't see him as afraid. They saw someone stuffy, aloof, impressively brilliant, untouchable.
They didn't see a potential friend, a potential lover. They didn't see his worth. They only sensed the power of his mind, strictly as it related to academia.
''Time to turn off this big brain of yours for a few hours, Lock,'' I murmured against his ear, and I felt his fingertips dig into my back, felt the pointed weight of his chin against my shoulders.
''I-I don't know what to do. I don't know what's happening here; I thought this was just friendship,'' and his voice sounded high. Almost alarmed. ''I am not good with,'' and when he licked his lips, I felt a shiver go through my core, ''reciprocation in these matters. I won't say the right words, do the right things. And I don't need coffee. Not any kind. I'm okay.''
I kissed his temple, and he stilled. The fluttering motions of his hands, when worked up, stilled. He tightened his grasp around my torso, and I kissed his temple again. And then again, and then wound my kisses around to his cheek, kissed the corner of his lips.
Sherlock fisted the material of my coat.
''Victor - someone will see, someone, they will - they will-.'' and he moved his body into mine, as if seeking out heat.
''I don't care. I don't give a flying fuck, Sherlock,'' and I bent down and lightly teased his lips, which were also cold. Sherlock opened his mouth slowly, so damn slowly, and I moved my tongue against his lips. Pushed back and opened the semi-closed barrier, let my tongue run over his teeth, slide over his tongue. Tasted his cinnamon gum and Earl Grey tea. He let out a sound, not quite a moan (something more from the gut) and I suddenly realized that maybe he was right. Maybe I should stop. The last thing either of us needed was an ASBO for indecent exposure. Sherlock had already acquired an ASBO for something else, which he'd never precisely told me about in detail. But it was enough for him to be more cautious now, and I understood that motivation.
So I broke the kiss, quickly. Pecked against his cheek again.
''Come on.''
I grabbed his gloved hand, and whisked him upstairs.
Once inside my suite, I didn't pour coffee. Or tea.
I cracked open a bottle of Bordeaux, and served us both a generous portion.
Sherlock took his share, and the glass hopped around in his hands. He downed the entire offering as if it were water and he were severely dehydrated.
I poured him some more, and sipped at my own with far less nervousness or speed.
In fact, I was not nervous at all. I was entranced, and felt alive and libidinous and fascinated by his anxiety.
Watching him fascinated me at any time, of course, but even more so as his eyelids closed with sleepiness as the wine worked its way through his vessels. His body lost an edge of tenseness as he relaxed.
I helped him peel off his gloves, his toque. Take off his greatcoat.
By the time he started sipping at his fourth drink, his motions became a little uncoordinated.
''Victor,'' he pat my hand, looked up at me tiredly, as I moved in closer to him. ''You scare me sometimes. This scares me, I mean. Sometimes, I think everything scares me. Everything to do with people.''
I realized then he must be at least marginally intoxicated. He wouldn't be speaking like this, otherwise.
I brushed his damp hair out of his eyes.
''Nothing to be afraid of with me, dearheart,'' and Sherlock rubbed the edges of my sweater between his fingers, seemingly absorbed by the material.
Took another sip of red, then. Some of the wine dribbled down the corner of his mouth, and I moved in and kissed the wine away with my tongue.
''No, Victor, lissen,'' he slurred. ''I can't do this with you-'' and he waved his hands around, then motioned between himself and myself. ''It alarms me.''
''What alarms you, Lock?,'' I stroked the sides of his ribcage, gently. ''Hey? Go on. Tell me.''
''You know what I mean,'' and he frowned now, eyes blinking unsteadily. ''Sex. Not for me,'' he breathed oddly. Too quickly.
''Not for you?,'' I queried gently while I pushed against his knees. He spread his legs open without argument, his eyes owlish and huge.
''Victor, I *can't.* I can't,'' he tapped my hand. ''I shouldn't. It would all fall apart.''
I smiled against his neck, tongued the skin. White, still cool - but not so cold.
Wormed my hands against his chest, let my fingers dip underneath the wool of his sweater.
''This thing must feel so itchy against your belly,'' I growled, and Sherlock shook his head at me, eyes still wide.
''It's fine. It's warm,'' he murmured, suddenly picking up my hands, and fiddling with my digits. Long, lean artist hands, and an expression of such childish naiveté, that I wanted to simply collide with him. Wipe that look off of his face. Wake him up, and know that I had been the one to do so.
Sherlock took another sip of his Bordeaux, and I helped him tilt the glass upwards. Helped him pour the alcohol down, as he gulped at the drink. Waited several minutes, until he seemed to calm, and eventually relaxed into me.
''Let's take this off,'' I encouraged, slowly peeling the garment from his lanky body. It catched his undershirt, and the two items of clothing came off together, disturbed Sherlock's hair. Electrified Sherlock's hair with static, which I smoothed down with my hands.
I watched his hands. Off to the side. Not touching me. Not touching himself.
I moved in, nipped at the side of his ear, brought my body over his lap, and moved against his frame. Felt him gasp, hands flushed against the seat of my sofa. Immobile.
As he seemed to relax, his body became more placid; I tilted and angled my lower body to graze against his pelvis, then I recaptured his mouth. Kissed him with greater forcefulness.
Sherlock broke the kiss after a minute or so.
''Maybe we should stop,'' he said in a tiny voice.
''You don't really want to stop,'' I smiled at him between kisses, pressing the bulk of my weight into his too-lean body, until he collapsed against the sofa. He let my hand wander over the top of his jeans, slip underneath the denim band. He said nothing. Just closed his eyes, his breath harsh and quick and labored.
I tentatively pressed against him, barely thrusted. Gentle with my movements.
Sherlock bucked at the sensation, and made a high pitched noise that caused me to grin widely.
''That feel good?,'' I tested, as I lowered him down to his back, until his head rested against one of my throw pillows. I encouraged him to let his arms drape to the side of his body. ''Just relax, Lock.''
Sherlock's cheeks became hot pink and his breath came in sporadic gasps.
''This your first time?,'' I said, presuming our further activities. Not giving Sherlock the head-space to psych himself out.
''Victor, I don't know. I don't know if I, if we, if I can-''
I stilled his objections with a kiss, wrapped my hands around his skull, and rocked into his body until I felt what I am looking for; what I needed to feel.
''Your body knows what it wants, at least,'' I broke the kiss, brought my hands back to his chest. ''I'm not going to hurt you, Sherlock. Alright?''
Sherlock's throat bobbed and stilled. His eyes stopped their frantic shifting and closed.
''Okay. Good,'' I tested. ''Just lay back and enjoy the feelings, okay?,'' I encouraged him, before proceeding.
He nodded again, and I pressed a kiss to his eyes, still closed, before I let myself reach for his body.
Sherlock's eyes immediately opened, as if he'd been shot.
''That woke you up, Lock. Feels good, huh?,'' I teased, stroked the skin gently, non-aggressively. ''You're almost there already.''
Sherlock bit his lip, shifted his focus to my coffee table. I saw him mouth something, quietly. Soundlessly. For a second, I was convinced he was reciting a string of digits.
My hands slowed, and I frowned.
''What's the problem?,'' I asked carefully.
''I can't - I don't, do this. With anyone. We shouldn't-Victor, I should-''
I let my hands brush against his lips, and he stopped talking.
''You need to stop doing that. We aren't doing anything wrong, you know. I care about you, Sherlock.''
Sherlock's eyes darted back and forth across my face. His hands curled into little fists.
''I-I am sorry, Victor. I, this, I-''
I gave Sherlock's shoulder a little squeeze.
''This is new for you, and you're just stressing yourself out. You know that, right?''
Sherlock continued to study me. ''I know that.''
I unhooked the button of his trousers, pulled the material down over his legs. Tucked my fingers under his pants and pulled those down, too.
Sherlock stopped talking. Stopped protesting. Laid there silently, his chest and face flushed the colour of a sunset. His body moved in little rhythmic jumps and stops, obviously enjoying the sensation, even if finding it intense.
''Remember, Lock. Don't over-think this. Just give your body what it needs,'' I murmured against his ear, and he started to move, then. Furtive little shifts, his eyes closed tightly, as if watching a terrifying film.
On the other hand, I didn't close my eyes for a second. Just continued my motions, until I realized I was close to climaxing, and Sherlock was still stuck half-way between physical pleasure and fear.
I looked over at Sherlock, his face contorted - and let my hand stoke his cheekbone to reassure him. A deep and vibrant sex-flush ran up the length of his torso, and splashed his face in colour. Suddenly, his eyes opened, and turned to settle on a piece of artwork overhanging my study desk. His face settled into something calm, something almost voided entirely of his earlier apprehensiveness, and he sped up his own motions.
''Victor,'' he panted, realizing I had pulled back. ''You've, you're -''
Sherlock stopped moving, and his body shuddered with pent up need.
''Would you like some help?,'' I inquired and Sherlock covered his face in sudden embarrassment.
''I'm sorry; I should- we can stop if you're done-''
He squeezed my fingers so tightly that I am reminded of the tales I have heard regarding the bone-crushing grip of women in labor.
Realizing his nervousness hasn't departed as I had hoped for initially, I decided to bring him to an end state quickly.
And then he'd turned away from me - his face pushed into the corner of my sofa until all I can see is the naked form of his backside, his spine.
''Jesus,'' I muttered, somewhat off-put, ''Why are you pulling this act? I thought we were making some sort of progress, tonight. What's going on with you?''
I heard Sherlock sniffle against the leather, and for the first time, I felt a sense of foreboding.
''You're okay, you're fine,'' I rushed, then let my hands dance over his prominent spine. Traced the bone. ''Just a little intense, huh?''
Sherlock didn't respond, just toyed with the fleece blanket that he'd semi-wrapped around his torso.
''Look, Lock. You needed that. You're wound too tightly.''
Sherlock sighed, and it came out as a wet rattle. I suddenly detected the first sounds of a person trying to keep back a sob.
''Awww, come on. Stop doing this to yourself,'' and I turned him away from his corner of the sofa, wrapped him up with the rest of the throw. His face was streaked with tears and he pinched at his nose.
''Oh hell, Lock,'' I encouraged, ''I'm sorry. I didn't think you'd get this upset. I thought it was just first-time jitters. Please calm down.''
Sherlock grasped my forearms, his body trembled, and I pulled him back against my side, rocked again.
The motion seemed to quiet him, and eventually he just went limp. Rag-doll limp. Exhausted limp.
For a few minutes, I just held him, and he just let me. His tears tempered, his breathing started to regulate.
Then, I nudged him.
''This alright? Me holding you?''
He nodded his head, murmured, ''I like this,'' and I rubbed his back in small, soft circles.
''Good. I like holding you. But I think maybe we should get you cleaned up now, okay? You'll feel better. Hot steam to clear your head.''
Sherlock looked at me questioningly.
'''We'?,'' he questioned.
''Come on,'' and I took his hand, led him into my bathroom. Closed the door.
Sherlock pulled off his remnant clothing - socks - before he let the fleece blanket fall to the bathroom floor. He crossed his arms over his torso - his movements oddly shy.
''I'm not going to see a damn thing of yours in the steam,'' I chuckled, a slight guilt lurking in my belly.
I stripped easily, carelessly, and entered the shower first. Then turned the tap to the far left until the water became very, very hot.
''Get in,'' I commanded Sherlock, and he did, all skinny legs and concave belly, and his long, dangling artist arms across his ribcage.
I moved his body with my hands until he'd become soaked by the spray, and then motioned for him to bend forward a few inches. He tilted his head.
''I have this stuff. You're going to love it. Smells amazing,'' and I showed him a bottle of boutique shampoo. Pear scented. Worked the mixture into Sherlock's scalp, massaged gingerly. His eyes closed gently - not tightly, like before - and he let me position him into the spray like a doll. Malleable. I told myself that if he had been truly afraid of what we had done, he would have fled long ago. He simply needed his downtime. He needed to process what had happened.
But he'd be okay.
Of course he would be.
''This feels good?,'' I questioned, as I massaged his scalp with the cleanser.
I saw his head go to nod, then stop. Stultified.
''Yes.''
I smiled. Kissed his neck. The spot where his vertebrae extended furthest from his skin, almost obscenely in his thinness.
''You need a bit more meat on you, dearheart.''
Sherlock's chin lolled against his chest and he remained quiet as I worked the shampoo through his hair.
''Okay, tilt back now. Going to rinse this stuff out.''
He did, and I disconnected my shower attachment; the water pulsed over Sherlock's scalp. Small bubbles flowed down his chest and back, and swirled down into the drain.
''Time for cream rinse.''
Sherlock turned around, looked less apprehensive now. He tapped against my hipbone lightly with his fingertips.
''Hmm?,'' I asked, and turned to give him a smile.
''What are we, Victor?''
I squinted up at him, the water had blanketed my dark hair into a carpet-like fringe over my eyes. I pushed at it, and let the water cascade down my throat.
''We're friends,'' I assured him easily, and saw a muscle work in his cheek.
''We can't be just friends. Not with what we did,'' Sherlock sputtered, hands brought up to his face.
I watched him for a moment, then rubbed a soft patch of skin at his hip bone.
''Why not? Why can't we be friends? Friends can have sex.''
Sherlock frowned.
''Tonight wasn't- we aren't-,'' he stopped, sputtered, looks frustrated with his inability to get the words out. ''Tonight wasn't normal. Not for friends. Not for ''just'' friends.''
I tilted his head forward. Washed out the conditioner.
''You're going to smell like an orchard in a few minutes. Then I'll be wanting you all over again.''
''Victor!,'' Sherlock started, an edge of hysteria had crept back into his words. ''I don't know how to do this! I can't just have some form of 'benefits' arrangement with you. I can't think of you like that! You're supposed to be safe to me!''
I took in his eyes, caught the worry in them. The near-panic.
''So...what? You want to be something else? Something more than friends? Boyfriends? Because I honestly wouldn't mind being your boyfriend, Lock. I just...look: I didn't want you stressing even more about a stupid label.''
Sherlock's mouth opened and closed.
He wrapped his arms over my chest. Pulled me into a tight hug.
''I like you more hands-on like this, Lock,'' I assured him. ''I hated seeing you so fearful. Hated feeling like I pushed you, or something.''
He just continued to hold me.
''You're going to be fine. Just fine,'' I assured him, rubbing his cording spine. ''I promise.''
Sherlock's hold increased around my frame. I didn't say anything else, and he didn't say anything else, either.
I simply let him hold me until the water turned cold.