Chapter 41: Epilogue


The late afternoon sunlight is filtering through the trees, almost strobing because of the train's speed. Maybe that is the reason why Sherlock's eyes are closed. He's slouching back in the seat beside Victor, body relaxed. Earbuds of the new Walkman CD player are in.

Victor wonders what the music is this time. Whatever it is, it's lulled the boy to sleep, which allows him to lean sideways and look his fill at the curves and angles of that face he's come to love so much.

The rocking of the train is gentle as it makes it way eastwards. They'd stopped over yesterday for a night in Marseilles, where Sherlock's fluent French had sent them down the back alleys to a restaurant known only to the locals, and a bouillabaisse that had simply exploded Victor's preconceived idea of what a fish soup could be.

And then they'd gone to bed, half drunk on each other, and the sex had been well lubricated by the carafe of house white wine that had gone done during dinner. Now free of Cambridge, England and the inhibitions that had kept their love-making restrained, the two of them had not slept until the dawn was breaking.

The afternoon train to Turin is running late, but it didn't matter. There is no time-table to keep, appointment to be met, or agenda to be set. Nothing matters except spending more time in each other's company. Victor wonders if Sherlock's Italian will be as fluent as his French had been. Just where a chemist had time to learn so many languages is still a mystery to Victor, but he is grateful for it, because it will ease their journey.

He reaches out to brush a stray curl away from Sherlock's closed eyes. It stirs a longing that takes physical shape in his trousers and he smirks. Just the sight of those long lashes is enough to rouse him, and he lays a hand on Sherlock's thigh, encased in the tight jeans that Victor has come to love for what they show of the long legs, slender hips and that arse.

There is a noise down the carriage and Sherlock's eyes flutter open…

BEEP/BEEP/BEEP

Victor reaches a hand out from under the duvet and slaps the clock radio from alarm to the local station.

"Good morning, Baysiders. This is KZSU, at 90.1 on your dial. It's seven am on a foggy morning and we're doing our best to drive away those post New Year blues with a bit of good music…"

Victor heaves himself up into a sitting position and turns the radio off. He banishes the dream to the back of his mind, already calculating just how much time he's going to have after a shower, shave and breakfast. He has to prepare by re-reading the financial accounting statement again, because they are going to be quizzed on it today in a role-playing simulation that casts him in the role of CFO of a mid-sized tech firm considering whether a management buy-out from their principal investor is workable.

The first term has been one huge challenge. The Leadership Lab and Managing Teams and Groups have been easier than he thought they would be; perhaps his team captaincy had given him more experience with people than most of his peers had. But the Financial Accounting and Optimization & Simulation Modelling courses were driving him nuts. It's not like he can't manage the numbers; it's just that he really doesn't enjoy it. Ethics was so much more interesting, as was Managerial Skills.

He knows he has to get good marks on his autumn exams, because the term just started yesterday is going to be unbelievably challenging. Finance, Data Analysis & Decision Making, and Managerial Accounting were going to be the triple whammy testing his numeracy. Not for the first time since he started on the MBA, Victor wishes that he had Sherlock's natural ease with numbers. When he sets up his business next year as part of his electives under the Entepreneurship Stream, he will be looking for the smartest guy in the cohort to handle the finance side.

There is not a day that goes by when he doesn't think of how much Sherlock would have been able to help him. The competitive pressure, the astonishing work-load—just about everything at the Graduate Business School is different from what he experienced at Cambridge. It's been tough, in part because he's had zero time and energy to put into anything like a social life. He has colleagues, other students he has to do group work with, and the academics here, but no friends. Oddly, he doesn't miss that. He just misses Sherlock.

Razor in hand, he's multitasking now, looking up his electronic diary and calculating time differences between California and London. Yes—after the simulation session ends just before ten this morning, he will have time to make a call to Doctor Cohen for the monthly update. On this day, of all days, Victor wants to know if progress is still being made.

oOoOoOoOoOo

"Sherlock, do you know what today is?"

Doctor Cohen waits for those blue-green eyes to turn away from the view out of the consulting room window. The bay window in the Georgian building of Hayes Grove looks out on the same lawns that can be seen from the patient's accommodation block for the secure ward, but this room gives a different perspective, more of a bird's eye view that seems to attract Sherlock's attention these days.

He returns his gaze to the room, but not to her face. "It's just another day. Nothing special; it's as tedious as every other day here."

"Today, I am going to disagree with you. It's the sixth of January 2002 and today you have become a full legal adult. That means your status here at the Priory changes."

"No, it doesn't. Mycroft will use this to keep control of my affairs."

"Only until you can demonstrate that you are well enough to leave. That should give you added incentive."

"Should it?" His tone is too off-hand, almost lethargic. "Whatever happens, he'll find some excuse."

"Only if you give it to him. You've made progress here. Doctor Muirhead says he is going to start tapering the antidepressants. Time to start work on your home care treatment plan, so you can leave."

"As delighted as I will be to see the back of this awful place, I won't go back to Parham. And nothing on earth would get me to agree to live with Mycroft."

"You could return to Cambridge. The Part Three is still open for another year."

Sherlock shakes his head. "Not interested."

"What, never?"

"No. Been there, done that, have the scars to prove it."

"You could do a graduate degree elsewhere, maybe Imperial or Kings?"

"Not interested. It's pointless."

Esther makes a note on the pad. The Priory has a good occupational therapist on its roster, so she will suggest to the clinician here that a session might be timely. Sherlock needs to keep his brain occupied once he is out of the strict regime of in-patient treatment.

She decides it is time, finally. It's a moment that she's been waiting for, for far too long, but in her estimation he is ready. "As it is your birthday… I have something for you."

A small V of confusion forms between Sherlock's brows. "No. If Mycroft has asked you to pass on something you can stop right now. I want nothing from him. Not now, not ever."

"It's not from your brother. It is from someone who loves you, who has called me once a month since you got here to be told about how you are getting on."

A look of anger smoulders in his eyes. "No. I've told you before. I won't discuss…him."

"It's not a discussion, Sherlock. I am just fulfilling a promise I made to Victor at the end of August." She reaches into her briefcase and pulls out a bulky A4 envelope. "He sent me this to give to you when you were better."

"Better? That's a joke. Anyway, you've read it." He shrugs.

"How could you know that?"

"Because it is the only way you'd ever agree to hand it over now. You'd have to know if it was safe." he spits the word out. "Has Mycroft read it, too?"

"No. It's none of his business."

He snorts. "Try telling him that."

She slides it across the desk so it is close enough for him to read the hand-written address: Sherlock Holmes, C/O Dr Esther Cohen, at her Hampshire practice. She knows he will recognise the writing, and hopes that curiosity will overcome ennui.

"Care of… how appropriate. I don't want it. I don't care what's in it. Caring is not an advantage."

"You don't know what he's said."

He sighs. "You do, and knowing you, you are about to tell me."

"It's a journal. He wrote it while he was in New Zealand and Australia, missing you. It's full of what he felt, but didn't say on the phone. With a letter he wrote at the end of August."

"I don't want either of them." He puts one finger out and uses it to prod the package back towards her.

"Why?"

"Because that was then, this is now." He looks at the package with disdain. "Irrelevant."

"He loves you."

"No, he loved what he thought was me; but it wasn't me, as events since then have proven. So, loved… past tense."

"He still does."

"No, he loves the person he thought I was. I am not that person, I never was. I can never be that person. I wasn't then; I'm not now."

"Sherlock, you will get better. You are already miles better than you were when you arrived."

"It doesn't matter. I won't ever be the person he thinks he remembers."

"You sound very sure."

"I am."

She tries another tack. "He said that all you have to do is ask for him to come back and he will drop everything and take the first flight here."

"I will never ask that of him, never."

"Why not? If he was in the room right now, what would you say to him?"

"He isn't, and won't ever be; not if I can help it."

"Why?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes, a faint shadow of his usual sarkiness managing to push through the pharmaceutical neutrality that his current drug regime creates. "I hate repeating myself, but as you seem particularly obtuse this morning..." He draws a breath and then continues, "I have no intention of resuming a relationship with Victor Trevor. I have no wish to see him ever again, or for him to see me. That moment has passed forever. Next time you speak to him tell him I said so."

"He will ask me why."

"Then tell him the truth; he deserves better."

"That isn't fair on either of you."

"It's the truth. Victor is going to do great things in his life. He is able, ambitious, clear-headed about his future. People like him; he will go far, be successful in whatever he chooses to do. Whatever he might think, our relationship was doomed from the start and I have no intention of letting it resume—for both our sake. It's over."

Sherlock pushes his chair back. As he's getting up, he says "That is my last word on the subject and I will not speak of him again." He walks to the door.

Startled by his sudden decision to leave the session, Esther calls out, "What do you want me to do with these?"

"Return to sender. Isn't that what people do when the addressee has gone away or is unknown?"


Author's note: Thank you to the readers who have persevered with this tale of woe; it's been a long road, but I hope it has managed to explain why for Sherlock caring is not an advantage, and in a way that does not disrespect either Sherlock or Victor. For those of you who have stuck it out the whole length, should you be wanting to more then you are hereby awarded the medal of valour with oak leaf clusters for meritorious dedication to the world of angst. There will be a sequel of sorts, called "The Ex" about what happened a decade later, when there is a reunion of sorts, and John meets Victor.

It has occurred to me that I need to give a special thank you for my beta JBaillier, who in a number of the later chapters here became so invested in the story that she became a virtual co-authoress ( a role with which we are both familiar); I think her relationship with this story is best described as a "Contributing Editor" and "all around cheerleader" for the Viclock. I am (as ever) grateful for her very existence and the fact that she is willing to share her time with me.