PART XI

And I am feeling so small

It was over my head

I know nothing at all...

JUNE 1996

Sherlock woke alone with a start, his chest tight with anxiety, like pins and needles behind his clavicle. It took him a moment to remember why, but when memories of the night before flooded back in, he groaned loudly, and rolled over, burying his face in pillow.

He. Was. Absolutely. Mortified.

Why on earth he had thought it would be a good idea to pursue any type of friendship with Victor was beyond him. He had learned long ago that confusing social entanglements were not something that he was especially good at, and truly, it was so bizarrely uncharacteristic of him to become so infatuated with anyone at all, much less someone he'd met by chance in the library of all places. He had not literal idea why he had allowed himself to go down that path, and now he was severely regretting that decision.

Additionally confusing was the progression his interactions with Victor had taken — from shy conversation, to casual flirting, and then escalating to Victor leaning in to kiss him. It left a raw feeling deep in his stomach, where all he heard was Liam's voice murmuring in his ear the only reason a man would ever want you would be to fuck you. It hadn't seemed like that was Victor's motivation at all. Sherlock had watched him carefully — so carefully — and all he had seen in Victor's eyes had been genuine interest, or so it seemed. However, it was hard to ignore the niggling voice inside that whispered that it could all be part of a clever ploy to gain his trust. He groaned again, this time in frustration, because none of it made sense.

And yet...

Somewhere deep inside, in a quiet little crevice of his mind where his other thoughts couldn't quite reach, Sherlock replayed the part where Victor had called him brilliant and interesting and said that he actually liked spending time with Sherlock, and that he didn't mind Sherlock telling him about his interests, or whatever bullshit struck his fancy as Liam would say. It was completely foreign to him to hear that his presence was actually something enjoyable, and not just something to be tolerated in the hopes of getting something in return.

Sherlock rolled back onto his back, and groaned a third time, but this time it was due to physical discomfort rather than mental. His back, arse, and thighs were still a multi-coloured rainbow of blacks, blues, purples, and reds. It was hard to say where one wound ended and another began. Unlike when Liam or his associates left marks on him — usually only a few left in the heat of the moment — the beating he had received from Phillip had been intentional, each mark deliberate.

Liam had woken Sherlock yesterday morning with gentle kisses, and a steaming cup of coffee, sweet and black. He had thanked Sherlock again for the night before, but made no mention of his loss of consciousness other than commenting that 'next time we'll have to make sure you enjoy yourself enough to stay awake' as if Sherlock had merely fallen asleep out of boredom. Sherlock had actually apologised for passing out, which Liam accepted with another kiss before climbing into bed, and taking Sherlock in his arms. It was those quiet, sweet moments that made everything else feel as though it was worth it.

Mustering all his willpower, Sherlock forced himself to roll from the bed, despite his body rebelling furiously against the movement. Mornings were always the hardest time to convince his aching body to move. He made his way to the bathroom, and washed his face and brushed his teeth, careful not to look too closely at his reflection in the mirror. Phillips words came back to him, about him looking wrecked, and in the harsh light of the bathroom mirror, he was half inclined to agree.

Sherlock had barely made his way down the hall to the kitchen, when he heard a knock at the front door. He frowned. It was highly unusual for someone to be visiting the flat at this time of day — Mycroft or Mummy came obscenely early in the morning; Liam's associates typically came obnoxiously late at night, and only when he was home as well. He tried deducing who it might be, settling most likely on the landlord, or a lost letter carrier. Whoever it was knocked again, so he wrenched open the door with great annoyance.

Of course, it could never be someone as innocuous as the post master, that Sherlock could merely slam the door on again. Of course the person standing there was Victor, holding two paper cups of tea, looking immensely uncomfortable, but determined. Of course Victor would be the one to take Sherlock by surprise, because when didn't he.

The hot feeling of embarrassment welled up in Sherlock's chest again, and he crossed his arms in front of him, and leaned against the door frame.

'Victor,' he greeted him evenly, but made no move to invite him inside, 'I never gave you my address.'

'Yeah, sorry,' Victor said sheepishly, 'You mentioned once that you lived in this block of flats, so I knew I was at least in the right place. Then I ran into your neighbour, Mrs Martin, and she said you live here. With... With your boyfriend.' He looked up at Sherlock, his gaze full of unasked questions, but not accusing in the slightest.

Sherlock was quiet a moment. He was surprised again that Victor had been able to actually pinpoint his address from just mere snippets of conversation, and stored that fact away in that reptile part of his brain that held onto the idea that Victor actually cared, actually listened to him. He took a deep breath, before replying.

'Yes. I live here with my boyfriend, Liam. We have been together about a year and a half,' he said, and stared hard at the ground, waiting for Victor's anger and indignation at being mislead.

It never came. Victor sighed, and Sherlock glanced up, and saw the hurt in his eyes, but he did not take it out on Sherlock. Instead, he shifted slightly, held up the cups of tea, and asked, 'Can I come in? Can we talk? Please?'

Sherlock considered this briefly, but ultimately decided there was no way in hell he was letting Victor enter the flat. There were too many things out in the open that would undoubtedly lead to questions Sherlock had no interest in answering, the least of which was not the damn pulley Liam had agreed to let Phillip drill into the ceiling. Additionally, he did not know when Liam was due to return, and the last thing he wanted was to have him come home to find Victor in the flat.

'No,' he said finally, but continued quickly when he saw Victor's face fall in disappointment, 'I'll come out. Just let me get dressed. You wait here.'

He closed the door without looking for a reaction from Victor, and quickly made his way back to the bedroom. As quickly as he could, he changed from his pyjamas bottoms and t-shirt to his usual jeans and button-up shirt. He realised too late that he had answered the door still in the short sleeve shirt he had slept in; it was highly likely Victor had seen the abrasions around his wrists from the cuffs two nights ago. He groaned to himself as he tied the laces on his shoes, and made his way out of the flat.

Victor was still standing where Sherlock had left him, and looked up with a small smile when he heard the door open and saw Sherlock come outside.

'Thank you,' he said sincerely, and passed Sherlock one of the cups of tea, 'It's not very hot anymore, I'm afraid. Playing detective took me a little longer than I anticipated.'

'It's fine, Victor, thank you,' Sherlock said, accepting the tea, but not drinking any, 'There is a park nearby that we can walk to.'

Victor nodded, and they made their way down the street towards the park. Sherlock didn't know what to say, and it seemed like Victor, despite his request to talk, seemed to be at a loss for words as well.

They had passed through the entry gate of the park, and began walking down the long, winding paths gravel scraping from beneath their shoes, before Victor finally spoke.

'So,' he said uneasily, 'You have a boyfriend.'

'Yes,' Sherlock said guiltily, 'Victor, I never meant to... I didn't... I am sincerely sorry for being misleading in any way. I simply... I enjoyed our conversations. And your were kind. I understand that things between us can't continue, and that I am entirely to blame. You... You are truly very talented, Victor, and I wish you all the best.' He fiddled with the plastic lid to his tea, and distracted himself by taking a few sips. It wasn't hot, as Victor had said, but it was still quite good.

'Don't I get a say in that decision?' Victor asked, anger creeping into his voice for the first time, 'I didn't come find you just to find our your relationship status, though that was quite a shock, I will admit. I came here, because, Sherlock... What happened last night? And I don't mean you backing out of dinner, which you have every right to do. And I'm sorry if I was being too forward when I tried to — you know, kiss you — I shouldn't have done that. But you just looked so... So sad. And like you'd never heard anyone say they liked spending time with you before, which is completely mad to me, because it's quickly become one of my favourite things in the world. But aside from that, what the actual hell caused your to launch yourself off the bench like that? I just don't understand.'

'Victor, can we please not talk about that?' Sherlock asked, a note of pleading in his voice, 'I shouldn't have reacted like that, and I'm quite embarrassed about it.'

'Sherlock, please, talk to me,' Victor begged, his eyes bright and full of concern, 'Please, just help me understand.'

'Victor...' Sherlock replied, his voice trailing off, 'I told you. I have a boyfriend.' He stopped walking, and stared hard at the ground, bracing himself.

Uncomprehending, Victor just shook his head, and said 'I heard you when you said that. And I understand. And if you can't go on to date me, I also understand. But what about last night? I've never heard you yell like that. You sounded like you were in pain when you fell; far more pain than you should have been in from just a small tumble like that. Sherlock, you sounded terrified. You sounded like you expected... Expected me to... And you have those marks on your wrists... I know you usually wear long sleeves, which I always thought was unusual, but then I figured it was just you, and it just seemed to fit, but I saw... When you answered the door, it looked like...'

'Victor,' Sherlock repeated gently, 'I have a boyfriend.'

It was the closest Sherlock had ever come to admitting out loud that what was happening between him and Liam was less than normal. Having never been in a relationship before, he had nothing to compare it to, but sometimes he had to wonder if the dynamic between him and Liam was typical of what a romance should be like, and then furthermore, if it was perhaps what a romance between two males was like, thinking that between members of the opposite sex, there were bound to be some differences in how they treated each other. It was something he quietly pondered every so often, but tried not to focus on, because he'd learned from an early age that comparison was merely the breeding ground for contempt.

'Oh. Oh, Sherlock,' Victor breathed, the look on his face full of horror, 'Do you mean... I mean, does he... Are you... Does he hurt you?'

'I don't want to talk about that, Victor,' Sherlock replied quickly, 'What I share with Liam is private, and I will not reveal details of our private life together. I owe him that much.'

'Owe him,' Victor repeated in disbelief, 'Sherlock, you know that you don't have to- I mean, that there are ways out, resources? If he is hurting you, or making you feel unsafe. There are charities-'

'I don't need charity,' Sherlock spat angrily, 'I am fine. I am merely conveying to you that I am in a committed relationship, that sometimes... That is sometimes unpleasant. But he loves me. And I love him. And that is all that matters. He has been very good to me. Please respect that.'

'But Sherlock,' Victor said quietly, looking as though he very might wanted to reach out and touch Sherlock, but that he didn't dare, 'Love shouldn't hurt.'

Sherlock had no response to that, so he merely downed the final dregs of his tea, and continued on silently down the stony path.