PART V

JUNE 1996

Victor woke the morning of the fourteenth with a fluttery feeling in his stomach, the kind of nervous anticipation one gets right before a sudden drop, or giving a speech in public. Tonight would be his first art show in which pieces of his work would actually be for sale. The idea that something he created could feasibly be purchased for actual currency, and go to live in the house or office of a complete stranger was staggering, to say the least. It made him feel... Legitimate. As though he had somehow crossed a line from being the little boy who doodled in the margins of his text books, to something more substantial.

And there was another reason for Victor's anxiousness — one far less adult-sounding — that made his cheeks feel hot if he thought about it for too long. Tonight would be his first time seeing Sherlock outside of the confines of the library. Victor was almost embarrassed to admit how much time he had spent hanging around the dusty shelves in hopes he might run into Sherlock again. He had not been disappointed; almost half a dozen afternoons and early evenings had been passed in Sherlock's company.

In all honesty, he wasn't quite sure what it was exactly about Sherlock that he found so intriguing. By all rights, the last person on earth he should have found interesting would be an anti-social scientist, but Sherlock was so much more than that. He was a walking conundrum — a chemist who played the violin, a genius who was baffled by simple social interactions, a loner who spent his free time trying to steal cadavers from the hospital, just so he had someone to talk to. Victor loved to see Sherlock's mind at work — he had a razor sharp wit, a lovely, dry sense of humour, and an extensive, and sometimes antiquated vocabulary that was oddly refreshing, and seemed out of place coming from a twenty-year-old uni student. Sometimes Victor could almost picture Sherlock in a velvet smoking jacket and mahogany pipe, sitting by a roaring fire, writing his memoirs.

Yes, there was something about the mad scientist who had just about single-handedly saved Victor's chemistry final, and Victor was cautiously intrigued. He had dated casually the last few years, both males and females, and though all interactions had ended amicably, they had never felt worth investing serious time and energy into. His first priority was his art; his second was his music. Somewhere after that came his studies, and his friends and family, and so on. It wasn't that he didn't value the people around him, because he did, very much. It was more of his art gave him a sense or purpose that he had previously been lacking, and while his work wasn't all that mattered, it certainly ranked high on the list. Girlfriends and boyfriends tended to not understand this sentiment, which is why he had never pursued them too actively.

Somehow, Victor sensed that Sherlock would understand the importance of having your life's work as your foundation without taking it personally. He hoped very much that he was correct.

The day passed in a bit of a blur. Victor had already delivered his pieces to the cafe the night before, so all he had to work on was himself. He wouldn't like to admit how many times he changed his clothes, and contemplated getting a fresh haircut for the evening. Sherlock was always impeccably dressed, usually in fitted jeans, and a sharp button-up shirt. At first Victor had thought a dress shirt seemed out of place being worn at the library, but the more he got to know Sherlock, the more natural it seemed; Sherlock himself always seemed just slightly out of place, but still unapologetically present.

In the end, Victor opted for a simple heather grey and white striped button-up shirt, a black tie, and charcoal waistcoat, over dark jeans. It seemed both professional and artistic enough for the venue, and that he wouldn't feel under dressed next to Sherlock. He decided against the haircut, but did give himself a quick shave. In all honesty, he was just trying to waste time until it was finally just after five, and he could leave to meet Sherlock at the library.

He walked swiftly through the courtyard, until he could see the library in the distance. As he neared, he was finally able to see Sherlock, perched on the steps, reading a book. He slowed slightly wanting to take in the sight. Sherlock was wearing his purple dress shirt again, and his brow was furrowed in concentration as he read his book, turning pages every few seconds. Once Victor was close enough, he read the title on the spine of the thick volume, and laughed.

Sherlock was still working his way through the Lord of the Rings, which Victor had only barely managed to convince him to try. It seemed that the fantasy world of Middle Earth was too ludicrous for Sherlock to comprehend, and several times over the past week Sherlock had hounded Victor with questions such as 'Why on earth would the walking, talking trees think they could go to war? Wouldn't these creatures just light them on fire and be done with it?' or 'How does this elf-woman think she is going to become mortal to be with her human counterpart? Surely it's not like a switch she can just flip on a whim?' Victor had done his best to patiently explain the nature of Elves and Men, and Ents and Goblins, and whatever else Sherlock grilled him on, hiding his smile throughout it all. He had never met someone so baffled by a bit of imagination as Sherlock.

'Sherlock!' Victor called once he was within range. Sherlock looked up in alarm, but then relaxed when he saw who had shouted his name. Victor noticed he was always on guard when approached, as though he wanted to be as inconspicuous in public as possible — a tall order indeed.

'Good evening, Victor,' Sherlock greeted him somewhat stiffly. He glanced at the page number in his book, and closed it with a thud. He placed the book in a small satchel at his side, and looked up at Victor with a small smile. 'Shall we?'

'Yes!' Victor replied enthusiastically, and extended a hand to Sherlock to help him up. Sherlock hesitate only a moment before accepting it. His hand was strong and warm in Victor's.

Victor privately wished he didn't have to let go.

The art show was a surprising, booming success.

Victor had had reasonably low expectations from the start. He was largely unknown, save for his friends and family, and perhaps a few peers from the university, and he had never tried to sell his work before. Considering his highest hopes were to inspire some conversations, and maybe sell one or two pieces, he truly couldn't have imagined things would go as well as they did.

Out of the fifteen paintings he had displayed, only six remained, and he had already been approached by three or four individuals who hadn't found exactly what they were looking for, but had been impressed enough to ask him if did commissions. He happily jotted down their contact information in his diary, and thanked them for their interest. Lucy, who had been running the till, was flushed and smiling with surprise as well.

'I can't believe it!' She whispered happily, 'Congratulations, Victor, this is better than we could have ever imagined. And your friend seems to be enjoying himself as well.'

She was right; Sherlock did seem to be having a good time. When they had first arrived, he had hesitated at every turn, staying mostly silent, and hovering slightly behind Victor's right elbow. Victor, sensing his unease, made a point to introduce Sherlock to every person who came up to say hello and wish him well. Sherlock had seemed shocked and delighted to be included.

At the current moment, he was leaning casually against a wall, chatting animatedly with Victor's cousin Timothy. Timothy was a few years younger, and intent on studying to be an environmental engineer when he got to university. As Victor neared, he heard Sherlock detailing a study on the rate of decay of organic material based on current soil oxidation levels or some other such biological function that Victor didn't quite understand. Victor leaned in next to Sherlock, and tried to listen attentively, but some of the words spilling from Sherlock's mouth sounded so impressive, Victor wasn't entirely sure he wasn't making them up on the spot.

'Oh, hello again, Victor,' Sherlock said, taking a breath, 'Your cousin was just telling me of his future career plans. It sounds like it will be a fulfilling and vital occupation.'

'Thanks, Sherlock!' Timothy responded, glowing with pride, 'I'm taking Biology and Chemistry for my A levels now. It's not easy, but it's terribly interesting stuff, isn't?'

'Well, I think so, Timothy, but I'm not sure your cousin would agree,' Sherlock teased gently.

Victor snorted, 'Well, luckily, the world has the likes of you to keep it in experiments,' he said fondly. 'Sherlock would you like to grab something to drink now that things have slowed down? I feel as though we've barely spoken all evening.'

'Of course,' Sherlock agreed dutifully, 'Best of luck to you in all you do, Timothy. This world needs more scientists.'

Victor lead Sherlock over towards the queue to order, and said quietly, 'I'm sorry I haven't been able to spend that much time with you tonight, Sherlock, it was far busier than I anticipated. I hope you weren't too bored?' He stole a glance at Sherlock, and relaxed slightly when he saw Sherlock's shy grin.

'Not at all,' he replied honestly, 'Your friends were all very welcoming, and I have to say, for someone as young as he is, your cousin was endlessly entertaining. You are very fortunate to have such a strong support system.'

'I am,' Victor agreed. 'Thank you again for agreeing to come tonight. It was great to see you set against something other than a bookcase.'

'That was part of my motivation for coming as well,' Sherlock admitted, and glanced at his watch. Victor watched him pale slightly, and swallow hard, the carefree air slipping away, and being replaced with something much heavier. Sherlock sighed, and shook his sleeve back over his watch quickly, and said regretfully, 'Apologies, Victor. It seems that the evening went quicker than I was anticipating. I have a... I should be going,' Sherlock stopped by one of the tables, and picked up his satchel, and turned to face Victor. He smiled, 'Thank you again for inviting me; it was truly enjoyable.'

'Oh. Okay then,' Victor replied, surprised by the sudden turn of events, 'Give me just a moment, and I'll go say goodbye to Lucy and see if she needs me for anything else.'

'Victor, you don't need to leave with me,' Sherlock said quickly, looking embarrassed, 'This is your night; I don't want to interrupt. I didn't mean- I don't expect you to-'

'Sherlock,' Victor said gently, 'I'll walk you back to the library, and then come back and help them clean up. Almost everyone has left anyway; they can do without me for half an hour.'

Sherlock still looked embarrassed, but nodded silently, and stared uncomfortably at the floor while Victor made his way over to Lucy and let her know he was going to walk Sherlock out. She winked cheekily at him, and he rolled his eyes.

The June night air was surprisingly cool, and Victor shoved his hands into his jeans pockets, just trying to keep pace with Sherlock's long legs without having to jog. He was hoping Sherlock would slow down just a tad, because he knew it was only a matter of time before he tripped over nothing again if they kept their current pace up. He had never been an especially graceful individual, but something about being in Sherlock's presence made him so on edge that he kept doing things like running into shelves, or dropping books several times in a row in the neat and quite library. Victor shuddered to think what Sherlock thought about his newfound clumsiness.

Sherlock had been quiet and pensive since leaving the cafe. Something was weighing heavily on his mind, and Victor couldn't think what might have caused the sudden shift in his demeanour.

'Sherlock, is everything alright?' He asked finally, wishing he had even a fraction of Sherlock's skill with languages so he could better articulate what he was feeling inside.

Sherlock took a few more steps without speaking, then forced a smile, 'I'm fine, Victor. I just wish I could have stayed at the cafe longer. You really don't have to walk me the rest of the way if you want to head back and see if you can score one more sale.'

Victor shook his head, 'I'd rather spend more time with you. Plus, honestly, this evening went better than I could have dreamed. I never would have thought more than a few odd people would be interested in purchasing my work. It really is surreal.'

'You should be incredibly proud,' Sherlock commented quietly, 'I have to admit, I'm quite envious of the support you have from your loved ones in pursuing your passion.'

'Thank you,' Victor replied honestly, 'That means a lot.' They walked a bit farther in silence, though this time it was a bit lighter, until Victor shyly asked 'May I see you again? Maybe dinner next time? I was hoping to spend more time with just you tonight, but obviously that didn't work out.'

Sherlock was silent for a long pause, and Victor saw a debate raging in his eyes before he said 'Yes, I think I would like that very much.' He looked anxious, but pleased nonetheless.

'Good,' Victor grinned, 'I... I find you incredibly interesting, Sherlock. I'm glad we met.'

'I am too,' Sherlock told him with a smile, 'Thanks to botulinum.'

'To botulinum,' Victor repeated with a laugh, glad that the tension seemed to have eased.

They continued on in a peaceful silence until the library loomed in the distance. Sherlock regarded it reluctantly, and slowed his pace just a touch. The closer they came to their destination, the slower Sherlock walked, until they were almost upon the library, but covering hardly any distance at all.

Sherlock finally gave up the charade of walking, and stopped at one of the benches lining the walkway, and took a seat. Victor followed suit, unsure of what was happening, but also not wanting the evening to end. Sherlock stared down at his hands for a moment, then cleared his throat.

'Victor, I want to thank you again for an interesting evening, It was fun,' he began, still not looking at Victor, 'But on second though, I think I will have to decline your offer for dinner. I just... I mean... It's just not a good time for me.'

'Sherlock,' Victor said, stunned, 'I thought we were having a good time getting to know each other. I really... I like you a lot.'

'I like you too, Victor,' Sherlock admitted in a voice that was barely a whisper. The look on his face was so regretful that it made Victor's heart clench painfully. Victor's eyebrows knit together in confusion.

'Then why...?' He asked, but Sherlock cut him off.

'It's just not a good idea, Victor,' he said in frustration, 'I shouldn't have... We shouldn't... I'm just honestly not someone you should waste time on right now. I wasn't thinking before, I'm sorry.'

'Getting to know you has never been a waste of time, Sherlock,' Victor argued, 'I'm sorry if you feel that way, but I sure as hell don't. I think you're one of the most brilliant, interesting people I've ever met, and I could talk to you for hours without getting bored. I love listening to you explain microbiology, and advanced physics, and how you knew the librarian was having an affair with the caretaker. None of that, not one single moment, would I consider a waste.'

Sherlock didn't respond, but his eyes suddenly looked very bright. Victor took a chance, and took Sherlock's hand in his. He brought it softly to his lips. Sherlock's eyes widened, and — encouraged by this — Victor leaned in to take Sherlock in his arms, intending to lay a gentle kiss on his mouth, but he never got that far.

Sherlock jumped backwards so quickly, he actually fell from the bench to the hard ground. For a mad moment, Victor felt as though the entire world had tipped off its axis, and they had reversed roles, because falling was usually his job. Sherlock's arms windmilled wildly, and upon impact, his face screwed up in pain — a gross overreaction compared to the slight bump. None of this was what caused Victor to gape in shock and horror, however. The reason for that was far worse.

As Sherlock sent himself reeling back, he had shouted — actually yelled — at Victor, fear and pleading in his voice, that Victor had never heard before. He'd sounded positively feral — broken. It stopped Victor in his tracks to hear his normally subdued, articulate friend react in such a primal manner.

Please, he had cried. Don't.

It didn't sound like a simple request against Victor expressing interest. It sounded like Sherlock was begging Victor not to hurt him.

Victor stared, mouth still half open, not really sure how to react or what to say, but it really didn't matter in the end.

Sherlock, cheeks flushed bright red with humiliation, regarded Victor for one long moment, looking as though he wished he could physically pull his words from the air between them to recall them. Seconds later, he sprang to his feet, and took off at a dead sprint, leaving Victor staring, heartsick, after him.