PART VII

And I will stumble and fall

I'm still learning to love

Just starting to crawl

JULY 1996

Life went on.

Despite his best efforts, it seemed Sherlock was not able to stick to his plan of quietly disentangling himself from Victor. He had tried, and tried mightily to stay away for all of a week and a half, but then found himself wandering back to the damn library in hopes of another chance meeting, and most of the time, he was not disappointed. Victor had returned every day he was able for this exact reason.

It was as if the art show, and the morning after had never happened. Sherlock stoutly refused to talk about it, even going so far as immediately leaving without a word any time Victor brought it up. Victor quickly learned that there was no point in challenging Sherlock's denial if he wanted to spend any sort of time with him, so he reluctantly dropped the issue, and forced himself to be content with keeping things light and airy; he continued to listen attentively as Sherlock detailed his latest experiments and escapades, and in return, he twisted Sherlock's arm to get him to read more of Victor's favourite works of fiction. (The Little Prince was especially entertaining to watch Sherlock read. When he got to the part about drawing sheep, he looked so baffled and disgusted that Victor was genuinely waiting for him to launch the book across the room.)

Yes, life went on.

Unfortunately, that also meant that Sherlock's life behind closed doors also went on. Though Victor was never allowed to comment or question about it, there were many — too many — times that he saw Sherlock enter the library before Sherlock saw him, and it was physically painful for Victor to watch the way Sherlock carried himself as though he was expecting to be assaulted at any turn. Some days he walked in ramrod straight, as though fighting the urge to collapse in pain. Others, he looked so exhausted that Victor wouldn't have been surprised at all if he fell asleep right on the table they shared, dark shadows under his bloodshot eyes. Once, Victor watched from across the room as another man approached Sherlock, leaned over and whispered something in his ear that caused Sherlock to immediately curl in on himself, and stare determinedly at the ground until the other man sauntered off with a chuckle. Sherlock never mentioned any of this, so neither could Victor.

It was infuriating to be so impotent.

It begged the question what was worse: having Sherlock in his life and seeing what was happening to him, but being unable to do anything about it, or turning away and not having him at all, but at least not having to witness this slow destruction.

He could ponder all he wanted, but ultimately Victor knew that he would never turn away, until the bitter end.

However, one day he couldn't stop himself, despite their unspoken agreement. Sherlock had shown up cradling his left wrist, and when he moved, his sleeve slipped and showed just a flash of angry red lesions across his pale skin. Sherlock himself seemed... Off kilter, as if he was hanging on to his careful composure by the skin of his teeth. There was a vulnerability in his face that broke Victor's heart.

Carefully — so carefully — he reached across the table and took Sherlock's uninjured hand in his, and gave it a squeeze. Sherlock looked wary, but did not pull his hand away.

'Sherlock,' Victor said quietly, 'He's destroying you.'

'I'm fine Victor,' Sherlock replied automatically, like he always replied, like he had been replying to anyone who had asked for the last year. Victor's blood roared in his ears, and he closed his eyes briefly and swallowed hard before speaking again.

'And your wrist? That's what, fine too? You deserve so much more than this, than him,' Victor said, trying his hardest to keep his frustration from creeping into his voice, not entirely successfully.

'You have no idea what I deserve,' Sherlock said despondently, which in itself was alarming. It seemed he didn't have enough left in him to muster his usual indignation.

'You deserve to be loved,' Victor said simply, 'And you shouldn't be ashamed for wanting someone to love you. But what you and Li- you and him have is not love. You don't try to ruin someone you love.'

'He,' Sherlock replied. When Victor shot him a look of confusion, he continued, 'It's he, not him. What you and he have.'

'Yes, Sherlock, because that was the point I was trying to get across, you know, just searching for a grammar lesson,' Victor said, though his lips twitched as he tried to suppress his grin. He sighed, 'I just... I think about you. Often. And I worry about what is going to happen to you every time you leave here.'

'I appreciate your concern, Victor, but I assure you... It's unnecessary. Some days I cope better than others. I just seem to be having an off day today,' Sherlock gently pulled his hand from Victor's, but looked him straight in the eye, 'Thank you for caring, though. It means a lot.'

The mask that Sherlock always wore was slipping back into place, and there was nothing Victor could do to prevent it. It was like trying to hold on to the last glimpse of light from the setting sun.

'Please,' he said, desperate to get a few more moments of authenticity from Sherlock, 'Let me help you.'

Sherlock paused, the look on his face both thoughtful and surprised, 'You already do. Help, I mean. Just by being here,' he said as though he had only just realised it himself, 'Though honestly, I don't know why you bother. But... Perhaps I was too rash before. Victor,' he continued, his tone suddenly shy, 'Would you still like to have coffee with me?'

Victor did.

And so began their new normal. They would still meet up at the library (Sherlock had very adamantly refused to let Victor come around to his flat again), but from there, they would venture out to the local cafe where Victor's art show had been, or to a nearby bistro for lunch, or a few times, even back to the park, where they would wander the path in amicable silence, or sit on a bench and talk for hours. Victor still loved hearing about everything and anything Sherlock cared to share with him; Sherlock, on the other hand, seemed to focus solely on learning everything about Victor. He wanted to know about his childhood, whether he had had any pets, what courses he had taken for his GCSEs, when he first learnt the piano. Sometimes Victor felt like he was being watched from under a microscope, like Sherlock wanted to observe him from a cellular level. It wasn't an entirely bad feeling.

'Do you think your parents named your younger brother Jonathan Michael after the brothers in that faerie book you forced me to read?' Sherlock asked one day, quite out of nowhere.

'Faerie book?' Victor asked, puzzled, 'Oh, you mean Peter Pan? I didn't force you; you demanded my copy of it when you heard that quote about death being a great adventure,' he was quiet for a moment, thoughtful, 'I actually have no idea if that's where his name came from. I know it's one of Mum's favourite books, but she never mentioned it.'

'Oh, for God's sake, Victor,' Sherlock said in exasperation, 'Did you truly not realise that all three of you have literary names? The younger brother, Jonathan Michael, from the faerie book, the older brother, Alexander James, from Treasure Island?'

Victor frowned mulling this revelation over in his mind, 'Well, what about me? I don't know any characters named Victor Henry.'

Sherlock snorted, 'You're not going to like it, but... Ever heard of Frankenstein?'

After several weeks of coffee, lunches, and daytime strolls in the park, Victor got up the courage to ask Sherlock to dinner again, but this time Sherlock accepted, and did not change his mind moments later. They made plans to meet at a nearby restaurant that was casual and affordable, but just the idea of having dinner with Sherlock was exciting in itself. To Victor, it felt like taking a huge step in the right direction. He hoped Sherlock felt the same.

Though Victor was immensely pleased with the progression of his friendship with Sherlock, he couldn't help the uneasy feeling that it was perhaps a bit... Taboo. Sherlock was still steadfastly committed to that arsehole boyfriend of his, though he had not uttered a single word about him or their relationship since his near slip up in the library weeks earlier, though, thankfully, most of his injuries seemed to have subsided. Victor, who was raised on honour and integrity, felt no small amount of guilt in aiding Sherlock in his infidelity, but he was also raised with a strong moral compass, and the idea that love and kindness were universal, so he justified it to himself that Sherlock's relationship was the epitome of unhealthy, and abusive. Most days he was fine with that, and just wanted to be there for Sherlock in whatever capacity the other man would allow, but some nights he went around and around with himself, and the position he was putting Sherlock in.

The night they finally met for dinner, was like something out of a film or romance novel. The restaurant was cheerful and lively, the food was superb, and the conversation was intriguing and meaningful. Victor thought Sherlock never looked more radiant — for once, he looked completely uninhibited, and the life and laughter in his eyes was enough to make Victor want to cry. It was perfect in every way; the first date they would never get to have.

When it came time to pay for their meal, the smiling waitress dropped the check directly in the middle of the table.

'I usually hand it off the the boyfriend,' she said with a wink, 'But in your case, I think I'll just let you two fight over it so you can make up later.'

Sherlock and Victor laughed, and though Victor reached it first, Sherlock snatched it from Victor's hand and threw his credit card down on the table. Their waitress winked again and took the bill and the card back to her register.

'Sherlock you didn't have to do that!' Victor protested, but Sherlock make an impatient shushing noise, and rolled his eyes.

'It was all of twenty pounds, Victor, relax,' he instructed gently, 'Your company is worth far more to me than that.'

'It won't... Cause any problems for you, though, will it?' Victor asked anxiously, 'You know, if- if he sees the charge?'

Sherlock's face betrayed the faintest hint of sadness at the reminder of the life that awaited him back at home, but rolled his eyes again, and said, 'My finances are none of this business, just as his are none of mine — or so he keeps telling me. Anyway, my billing statements go directly to my older brother, and given his penchant for stuffing his stupid face, I doubt he'd think anything of a restaurant charge at that amount. He probably goes through twice that for just himself on a daily basis.'

'You sound so fond of him,' Victor remarked sarcastically, though he was quite surprised to learn of the brother Sherlock had never mentioned before, 'Is it just the two of you? What's his name?'

'Mike- sorry, it's Mycroft now,' Sherlock replied with a sigh, 'He was recently hired by some low level government official as errand boy, so now he thinks he's set to be the next PM. I give it five years — either he breaks down completely and goes to work as a barista, or he works his way to running the MI6.'

'Wow. So two geniuses in one family, then,' Victor said fondly, 'Your parents must be over the moon.'

'No,' Sherlock said flatly, but did not elaborate. Thankfully at that time, the waitress returned with Sherlock credit card.

'You boys have a wonderful evening,' she said sincerely, 'It's been a pleasure.'

Victor and Sherlock thanked her, and got up to leave. Once they were back out in the cool night air, Victor turned to Sherlock and smiled.

'She was nice,' he remarked, meaning the waitress. Sherlock nodded

'She was,' Sherlock agreed, 'She has a homosexual son that you remind her of. I noticed her watching you, even when she was tending to other patrons. She worries about the life he has set before him, but after watching us tonight, she is hopefully he can find... Love,' he finished uncomfortably, as if he wished he could have left that last part off. He stared down at his shoes as he and Victor made their way through the town.

'I'm sure he will,' Victor said quietly, after a few moments, 'You never know when someone will come along who will change your life, you know?'

Sherlock nodded, as they approached a bench set under a lamp post. Night had fallen, and the sky was dark above them. Only a few stars were visible beyond the ambient light from the city. Victor motioned towards the bench, and he and Sherlock sat, regarding the night sky.

'Some day,' Sherlock said suddenly, 'I think I would like to move to the country, where you can actually see the stars at night. Once I'm old and grey, and my work is done, I think that would be a nice way to live out my days.'

'The country!' Victor exclaimed with a laugh, 'Sherlock what would you do in the country? Become a farmer? You get bored without commotion after ten minutes.'

'A farmer?!' Sherlock repeated, wrinkling his nose, 'Victor, can you see me raising pigs?'

'Yes,' Victor said, in mock seriousness, 'At least then, you would have something to occupy your time with, other than driving the locals mad. 'Old Man Holmes', they'd call you, 'the one with all the pigs', and knowing you, you would create a new type of bacon hybrid or something, and have routine explosions coming from your little cottage.'

'I despise bacon,' Sherlock said seriously, 'Maybe cows instead. Or chickens. Or bees. Bees are quite important to the local ecosystems you know. Plus I could keep you in honey for your tea.'

Victor stared at him, suddenly shy, 'H-honey for my tea?' He asked, his mouth suddenly dry, 'You want me to be there with you?'

Sherlock looked embarrassed, and stared down at his hands for a moment, then looked directly into Victor's eyes.

'Victor,' he said quietly, 'You know I am with Liam. And I intend to stay with him. However...' he drifted off, the look on his face both vulnerable and defiant, 'However, I can't deny that there is something about you that... That intrigues me. And I can't seem to get you out of my head, no matter how hard I try. I don't want you to think less of me; I have never once in the last year and a half been unfaithful to Liam. I'm not that type of person.'

He stared up at Victor imploringly, as if begging him to believe that he was not an adulterer.

'I know, Sherlock-' Victor started, but Sherlock cut him off, his words coming out in a rush.

'I just... There's just something I would like to know, because I keep thinking about it,' Sherlock continued, 'For weeks now. And I think that I won't be able to move on until I know for sure, because there is a chance that all this agonising is in vain,' he broke off for a moment, and seemed to steel himself, and swallowed hard, 'Victor, can I- I mean, could I- I mean may I,' he groaned, and took a deep breath before starting again, 'Victor, may I kiss you?'

Not wanting to actually speak, and abruptly end the dream he was currently in the midst of, Victor nodded mutely. Sherlock wasted no time, and leaned in until his face was mere inches from Victor's. He raised a hand to Victor's face, and gently — so gently — cupped his hand against Victor's cheek. He brushed his lips over Victor's once, twice, three times, before kissing him softly.

The intimacy of it was like nothing Victor had ever experienced; it actually took his breath away. He returned the kiss, unsure at first, but then firmer and more urgent until both he and Sherlock were breathing heavily, and when they finally broke apart, the look Sherlock was giving him was as though he had just truly seen him for the first time.

Victor opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock beat him to it.

'Well, shit. Not in vain after all.'