(no subject)

[impishtubist]

Title:  “The Fall of Gods” (4/24)
Characters: Sherlock, John, Lestrade, Mycroft, Victor Trevor, Ensemble
Pairings: Established John/Lestrade
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Language, angst, mentions of suicide, implied past alcoholism
Word Count: c. 5,000 (this part); c. 70,000 (total)
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Spoilers: through “Reichenbach”
Beta: Many thanks to canonisrelative and list_of_lists for their suggestions and guidance.

Summary: Sherlock finds an ally in death and begins the slow process of dismantling Moriarty’s network, not knowing if he’ll ever be able to return home. Meanwhile, John and Lestrade mourn, remember, and move on.

See Part 1 for full Author's Notes.{C}

“You never heard me talk of Victor Trevor?...I was laid by the heels for ten days, but Trevor used to come in to inquire after me. At first it was only a minute’s chat, but soon his visits lengthened, and before the end of the term we were close friends. He was a hearty, full-blooded fellow, full of spirits and energy, the very opposite to me in most respects, but we had some subjects in common, and it was a bond of union when I found that he was as friendless as I. Finally, he invited me down to his father’s place at Donnithorpe, in Norfolk, and I accepted his hospitality for a month of the long vacation.”

-“The Adventure of the ‘Gloria Scott,’” The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes

---

Chapter 3 Notes: This chapter (as well as the rest of the story) indulges in a bit of fact-bending in regards to world events. The government of Bolivia, for example, to my knowledge is still intact.

***Now that all the players have been introduced, please note: in the event of me having to warn for character death, major characters in this particular story are Sherlock, John, Lestrade, and Victor Trevor. Everyone else is a minor character.***

---

Sherlock pushes past Victor and into the dim foyer--a light bulb’s burned out just above the door, not recently, and Victor hasn’t replaced it. As a result, the entryway is steeped in shadows, and when the door shuts Victor is reduced to little more than a silhouette. Sherlock forces his gaze away from Victor and balls his free hand into a fist to try to stem the sudden tremors that wrack it.

This cannot be happening.

Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut, but that only makes things worse. His other senses reach out, trying to close the gap. His ears are filled with the rustling of Victor’s clothes as he moves to do up the locks again, and the smell of sharp pine nearly overwhelms him. Victor’s cologne. Sixteen years since the day they met--nearly half Sherlock’s lifetime--and some things hadn’t changed.

Sherlock forces open his eyes and catches sight of a painting on the wall. It is a seascape, bland and unassuming, and Sherlock focuses on it in an effort to calm his racing thoughts. A dead man is standing less than a foot away from him and Sherlock can’t even begin to fathom how he came to be here. He observes nothing because there is nothing to observe, just as Victor intended, and it makes him virtually blind.

He is adrift, without answers, and it is terrifying.

“Let me take that for you,” Victor says, gesturing to the bag Sherlock is holding, but Sherlock jerks away from him involuntarily and takes a step back. When Victor speaks again, his voice is low and tinged with regret. “I’m sorry you had to find out like this, Sherlock. Truly.”

Sherlock ignores him, turning his attention to other objects in the foyer, trying to get a read of some kind, a read on anything at all.

“You haven’t left this house in three days,” Sherlock says stiffly after a moment again spent contemplating the burned-out light. He turns abruptly and strides down the hallway as fast as his ankle allows. Victor follows him at a much more sedate pace. The corridor opens into a spacious and sparse main room, and Sherlock drops his bags by the sofa.

Victor pauses in the entryway, his hands tucked in his trouser pockets, and the moment they lock eyes Sherlock forgets what he’d been about to say. It’s reminiscent of their time together at school, when the mere act of their arms accidentally brushing would shatter Sherlock’s concentration for minutes on end, or when Victor’s smile--rare, and it had to be earned--would knock Sherlock’s brain offline.

He’s filled out since Sherlock last saw him, and he has a hint of softness about the edges that has come with age. His face is fuller and his eyes are grey; the former is natural, and the latter is due to coloured contacts. His hair, once brown, has been dyed a dusty blond, and he’s grown a beard. It is neatly trimmed and flecked here and there with grey, which Victor has not bothered to cover up. There is also something off about his face, as though his features have shifted slightly, but Sherlock can’t pin it down.

Victor has rolled the sleeves of his dark brown pullover halfway up his tanned forearms, and he’s wearing a beaten pair of fitted jeans. The outfit is a far cry from the sharply-cut Daniel Hechter suits he used to wear like a second skin. But he taps one toe absently against the wood floor in a nervous rhythm that is a remnant of the past; an old habit that has followed him through the years and across the Channel. This is Victor, despite the years and disguise that separate him from his past self. Something lurches behind Sherlock’s navel as they stare at one another and he swallows, turning away so that Victor can’t read the revealing emotion in his face.

“Can I get you anything to drink?” Victor asks finally, tentatively, and it is too much. This cannot be happening, this shouldn’t be happening, and Sherlock can’t even begin to figure out what’s going on here. He has no data, no theories, and a dead man is offering him a drink.

“Don’t talk to me,” Sherlock snarls. He needs to get out, get away from this puzzle that makes no sense and this man who shouldn’t exist.

He strides from the room, pace hampered by his damaged ankle, and at the end of yet another corridor he finds Victor’s study and a dead end. He pauses inside, chest heaving, leaning against the windowsill for support as his ankle throbs in protest. He rests his forehead against the cool glass of the window, sucking in great lungfuls of air through his nose while the world spins around him and confusion clouds his mind.

This cannot be happening.

------

Victor waits for three full minutes before following Sherlock down the corridor.

Sherlock is standing in Victor’s study, his back to the open door, shoulders hunched as he leans against the window. Victor lingers just inside the door so as not to crowd Sherlock, but he does reach over and turn on a lamp, and its soft illumination fills only a portion of the large room.

Sherlock stiffens, but he doesn’t turn around.

“Look at me,” Victor say, gently as he can manage. “Please.”

Sherlock straightens, presses the back of his hand to his nose. Finally, he turns around.

“Where are we?” he asks, his words attempting to be biting and failing utterly. He simply looks worn; defeated.

Victor doesn’t respond. It’s the first time he’s seen Sherlock in proper light in four years, and though he’s had three days to steel himself for this moment, he still pauses when Sherlock turns to face him.

The years have been kind to Sherlock, far kinder than they were to Victor. He is still the height of asymmetry, his features so curious that they are unforgettable, and so unique that they are deemed beautiful. The last time Victor had seen Sherlock, the flesh of youth was still lingering around his cheekbones and the hollows of his collarbone, making him appear to be a teenager even into his twenties. In the years since Victor’s supposed death, Sherlock’s features have sharpened and grown more distinctive. He wears all of his thirty-three years with a careful grace born of his nature and breeding, and he wears them well.

Victor clears his throat, mentally shaking himself, and walks over to the antique liquor cabinet. It serves mainly as decoration in the largely-empty room; he hasn’t used it more than a handful of times since being relocated to this house.

“France,” he says mildly, knowing that Sherlock has already figured that much out, if Mycroft hasn’t informed him already.

Sherlock’s tone is chilly. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I know.” Victor pulls out various bottles; considers them before putting them back. “But that’s all you’re getting.”

“Oh, this is intolerable,” Sherlock snarls. He turns away from the window and limps over to the fireplace, apparently looking for a distraction so that he can avoid eye contact with his former lover. Victor watches as his gaze travels over the painting of the tall ship that hangs on the brick wall. A hunting rifle sits on the mantel just below it, and Sherlock reaches out to stroke the barrel with one long finger.

“Sentiment,” he mutters derisively, because the gun is Victor’s father’s. It’s the first weapon, in fact, that Victor ever held. Henry Trevor had often joked to family friends--or anyone who would listen to him--that his son had learned how to fire a gun before he could walk. Inaccurate though that was, the sentiment was nevertheless sound - Victor was a far better shot than even Mycroft’s professionally-trained men.

“I never thought you would submit to drugs, of all things,” Victor says in return. “Cocaine?”

“It’s been years,” Sherlock says tightly. He takes a seat on the small sofa, the movement losing some of its dramatic flair with his injured limbs and without the aid of his long coat.

“Obviously,” Victor says, needing only a glance at Sherlock’s eyes and left wrist to see that it’s true. “Not for two, at least, though you also only started less than five years ago.”

Sherlock’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t say anything in response now that he knows that Victor can read him just as well as he used to back when they were at school together.

“A life in hiding seems to have done you well,” he says eventually, words scathing even though he delivers them with a sudden, chilly smile. “What is it you’re going by, now? It appears to have slipped my mind since Mycroft told me. Scotch, neat.”

Victor pours Sherlock’s usual drink and hands it to him. Sherlock accepts it with a nod and rests the glass casually on his knee, not drinking from it.

“That’s because Mycroft didn’t tell you,” Victor says. He pours himself a glass of water from a pewter pitcher. “You know me far better than that, Sherlock. Do try to be a bit less obvious when you’re digging for information. While you’re on the premises, Victor will suffice.”

“And when we’re not on the premises?”

“I’ll no more be going by any of my current aliases than you’ll be going by Sherlock, so they needn’t concern you.” Victor drinks from his glass of water; eyes Sherlock’s in disapproval.

Sherlock notices Victor’s gaze and considers his drink for a moment, his lip curled in distaste. For a moment, Victor thinks he’ll refuse. Then, in a movement so swift that Victor would have missed it had he blinked, Sherlock knocks back the entirety of the scotch in one swallow and sets the glass aside.

“So,” he says, finally. “You’re alive. Was my presence truly that intolerable for you to feel the need to fake your own death? Or were you simply bored?”

“Don’t be rude,” Victor says mildly. He feels his face darken. “It wasn’t my idea to leave you.”

“You died,” Sherlock says stiffly. “In - I was there!”

In my arms is what he doesn’t say, and Victor can hardly blame him.

“That part was real enough,” he says softly. He pulls at the collar of his shirt, exposing the jagged scar at the base of his neck, the only mark that remains of the piece of glass that nearly killed him. “I died before the ambulance arrived; you’re right. But they were able to resuscitate me on the ride to the hospital.”

“That’s not what they told me,” Sherlock says faintly, unnecessarily. His words would have been ridiculous in any other situation.

“What did they tell you?” Victor asks, honestly curious, and winces at Sherlock’s flinch.

“That you died,” he says shortly, but his eyes slide away from Victor’s face and cloud over as he remembers the events he’s not telling Victor.

Victor finally sits down. The furniture is huddled together in the spacious room, settled on an elaborate carpet in the center; an island on a sea of mahogany floorboards. They are mere inches from one another.

“I was supposed to complete a job abroad for your brother around Christmas four years ago.” Victor trails a finger through the condensation on the outside of his glass. “It was classified. Deep undercover. Only problem is, Mycroft never said just how undercover I was supposed to go.”

Sherlock blinks, apparently taken aback. He runs a hand through his hair and looks away for a moment, gathering his thoughts. Finally, he meets Victor’s eyes again.

“Mycroft... staged that whole accident,” Sherlock says in horrified realisation. He rubs a hand across the back of his neck and shakes his head. “God. And here I thought he was done surprising me.”

“Thought you appreciated people who could surprise you.”

“Not like this,” Sherlock says sharply. Victor nods, conceding his point.

“To give Mycroft some credit, no, he didn’t stage the car accident,” Victor tells him. “He... simply took advantage of an unexpected opportunity. He had intended to stage my death--without my knowledge, I should add. The car crash was fortune. For him, at least.”

“And why exactly did he need you dead?”

"Because he needed me in order to accomplish a job, but he also couldn't risk it being tied back to him." Victor swallows, trying to gather his thoughts. “Do you remember, um... God, I guess it was about two years ago now. The coup in Bolivia.”

“The president was assassinated.”

“That was me.” Victor chews the inside of his cheek for a moment, thinking. “I, um. I had to infiltrate his hierarchy in order to even get close enough to accomplish it. I became his right-hand man. I spent nearly a year in that capacity, and I used my time to earn his trust and pit his staff against one another. When I finally managed to do away with him, I fled, and both of our absences created a power vacuum. The government collapsed in on itself, and the fighting parties ripped what was left to shreds. It was... very effective.”

“And then my brother stepped in.”

“And established the provisional government, yes.”

Sherlock frowns.

“What does he want with Bolivia?”

Victor gives a short, sharp laugh.

“Hell if I know, Sherlock. I just did what he told me.”

“And in the time since?” Sherlock demands. “Your mission ended two years ago, Victor!”

“That one did. Only thing is, Mycroft’s found that it’s very useful having a dead man in his arsenal.” Victor lifts his eyes to Sherlock’s once again. “I am no one, Sherlock. I have no origins; I have no background. And I’m dead useful--forgive the pun. Mycroft doesn’t need just any man, he needs the best. And that’s me.”

“And what does he have on you?” Sherlock leans forward, earnest. “What could he possibly have on you, to make you stay away? To keep you in his employ, doing his very bidding?”

“Well, the pay’s not half bad,” Victor says with a weak smile, gesturing to the house at large.

“So if this hadn’t happened - if I had not been forced to die by Moriarty - would we be having this conversation right now?” When Victor doesn’t answer, Sherlock presses, “Would we ever be having this conversation?”

Victor stands abruptly, his face shuttering.

“You must be exhausted. Come. I’ll show you to your room.”

----

Sherlock showers in a tile-lined and echoing bathroom--or, rather, he runs a bath and sits in the tub with his damaged ankle draped over the side and his healing arm resting on the edge until the water becomes chilled and his skin shrivels from being submerged for so long. He tries to focus on the task at hand and finds himself thinking of Victor instead--of Victor's warmth and Victor's smell, and the fact that Victor isn't telling him everything.

He catches sight of himself in a mirror for the first time after and glares disapprovingly at his mangled hair. He then dresses in clothes he finds in the wardrobe of his borrowed bedroom--which turn out to fit him eerily well--and proceeds to inspect the rest of the house.

Victor is nowhere in sight, probably having retreated to his study or the main room. Sherlock avoids both of those places but investigates every other room, from Victor’s bedroom to the kitchen to the vast and chilly wine cellar. There’s a mounted display next to every door - a state-of-the-art security system that monitors every corner of the house. The computers Sherlock comes across - and there are half a dozen on the ground floor alone - are so well encrypted that even he can’t hack into them. They are all Victor’s work, then.

Sherlock had pursued chemistry at university while Victor had chosen maths. And whereas Sherlock had then turned his attentions to the world around them, Victor turned to a world that was not so easily observed--the one that existed in cyberspace. He was a genius in the realm of mathematics and an expert when it came to technology, putting even Sherlock’s own self-taught skills to shame. It appears as though time had not dulled Victor’s expertise; if anything, he is even more astounding now than Sherlock remembers from four years ago.

He gives up on his third attempt to break into Victor’s computer network and stands for a moment in the dark and silent kitchen, watching the warm glow that emanates from the open doorway of the study just down the hall. He moves toward it, an insect drawn inexplicably to the warmth, and pauses just inside.

Victor is reading by the light of a fire, settled deep in an armchair with an ankle crossed over his knee. In the dim, flickering light of the room his hair appears chestnut and his skin is golden. Sherlock can almost catch a glimmer of the man he remembers from university, tanned and toned from hours spent on the rugby pitch, the flesh of youth still lingering around his cheekbones. When he first came into this house, Sherlock had been taken so unawares that to look at Victor was almost painful. Now, as the shock of Victor’s resurrection thins and wears, Sherlock finds that he can’t look away.

Sherlock is gorgeous and knows it; Victor is handsome and doesn’t. His beauty comes from his commonness, and he would be described by most as conventionally attractive. He is tall, but not towering. His strong jaw has been slightly softened by the beard, and his normal hair colour is a particularly unassuming shade of brown. Under the coloured contacts, his eyes are blue. He is broad in the shoulders and solidly-built; sturdy and self-assured where Sherlock is all sharp angles and wild limbs. He has put on weight in their years apart, but it appears to be nearly all muscle.

Everything about Victor screams average, and perhaps that’s what makes him noticeable. Or perhaps it’s his eyes--his true eyes--which Sherlock find are as striking as his mind.

“That ankle must be smarting,” Victor says without looking up. He takes a long swallow from his glass and then adds, “Come and sit.”

Sherlock doesn’t move.

“I thought you’d quit,” he says softly, and hates how pitiful it sounds.

“It’s just water.” Victor holds out the glass for Sherlock’s inspection; Sherlock stays glued to the wall. Victor sets the glass down and goes on. “I like the look of it, there on the table. I like the feel of it in my hand. It wasn’t just about the drink, Sherlock. It was also about the illusion I created along with it. I always did enjoy a good mask.”

Sherlock peels himself from the wall then and comes to sit on the sofa across from Victor’s chair. A low table separates them, and Victor has the contents of a file spread across it. Sherlock catches the glimpse of a familiar face amid the pile and tugs a photograph out from under a piece of paper. It’s a newspaper clipping, dated some months ago.

“Hatman and Robin,” Sherlock mutters with derision. He puts the photograph back. His eyes then travel over the rest of the papers, and he comes to realize that they all pertain to him. There are printouts from John’s blog, surveillance photographs, more newspaper clippings... Every movement he’s made in the past four years is spread out there on the table. The papers are worn at the top edges; some of them are creased. Victor’s thumbed through this file a multitude of times over the past few days.

“I wasn’t allowed to know anything about you,” Victor says quietly. “Nor about anyone else I had associated with in my... previous life. It was assumed that, should I ever be caught, at least I wouldn’t be able to divulge current--and useful--information. But then, three days ago, a messenger appeared at my door with this file and a note from Mycroft saying that you would be joining me very soon. Needless to say, I’ve had a lot to catch up on.”

Victor sets his book aside, looking grave, and Sherlock knows what is coming next.

“I am so sorry -”

“Don’t,” Sherlock says sharply. Victor shakes his head.

“I am so sorry,” he presses, “that this happened to you. But we will fix this, Sherlock, do you hear me? And I will do everything within my power to help you.”

Sherlock nods tightly and finds he can’t formulate a response.

“What is it you do?” he asks instead, hoping desperately to steer the conversation back into territory that he can handle. Victor shifts for a moment, thinking, as though considering whether or not to answer truthfully.

“There’s a town not far from here,” he says at last. “I teach.”

“You what?” Sherlock does not bother to hide his incredulity. Victor shrugs.

“Your brother’s money helped me get established, but it wasn’t going to last forever. I needed something to support myself in-between missions,” Victor explains. “I’m thankful that, of all the places in the world Mycroft could have dropped me, it was here. My French is excellent; most days, I can pass as a native. And, when Mycroft needs me for a job, it’s not too difficult to get away from my work for a time.”

Sherlock lets out a huff of laughter, disbelieving and sad all at once.

“All these years, I believed you were somewhere I couldn’t reach. Turns out, you were practically on my doorstep.” Sherlock snorts. “You’re too forgiving of Mycroft.”

Victor meets Sherlock’s eyes then; fixes him with a penetrating gaze.

“Mycroft is just doing what is necessary in order to protect the interests of the country. I loathe the situation, of course I do, but not your brother.”

Sherlock feels his jaw tighten. He drops his eyes to the file on the table and begins to sift through the papers again, though he already knows all of the information he’s going to find.

“I see that you worked a case for Sebastian Wilkes not too far back,” Victor comments as Sherlock comes across a printout of the case John had called The Blind Banker. “How’s he doing?”

“Jealousy doesn’t become you, Victor,” Sherlock says without looking up. “I chose you in the end, didn’t I?”

“That’s not what I meant,” Victor says, and he gives a quick smile. Sherlock feels his heart stumble in his chest at the sight. “I only mean... how’ve you been, Sherlock?”

“Fine.”

“Truly?”

Sherlock stares at him a moment, for how is he expected to answer that? How is he supposed to put into words the crushing grief, the empty days, the world that turned on despite Victor’s death? And so he gives a slow nod, for lack of any other response.

“Yes,” he says. “I’ve been... fine.”

Victor gives a quick nod and sits back in his seat, obviously satisfied.

“Of course you have,” he says fondly. “Look at you. Consulting detective. You’ve made quite a life for yourself. Quite a name, as well.”

Sherlock nods absently.

“How’s your mother?”

“Fine,” Sherlock responds shortly. “She’s still alive, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I was just wondering how she was doing,” Victor says gently. “She was always kind to me.”

Sherlock nods, because his mother had doted on Victor almost as much as she did her two sons. The memory brings a small smile, unbidden, to his face.

“On the good days, you’re all she talks about,” he says finally, and Victor lifts an eyebrow in surprise. “She doesn’t understand why I don’t bring you around anymore. She berates Mycroft; says he’s working you too hard.”

The smile slips from Sherlock’s face, and Victor asks, gently, “And on the bad days?”

“On the bad days, she asks for Father,” Sherlock says quietly. “On the bad days, she doesn’t remember me at all. I don’t visit often. It upsets her.”

“She’s your mother,” Victor says reproachfully. Sherlock shoots him a glare.

“Don’t talk about things you know nothing about,” he snaps. It’s meant to wound and, from the expression on Victor’s face, it does. Victor, who has not even a trace memory of his own mother, always envied Sherlock his. Sherlock, who has watched his own mother deteriorate before his eyes, always envied Victor his ignorance.

“My God,” Victor mutters, dropping his gaze to his glass. “It’s as though no time has passed, isn’t it? I think the last fight we had was about your mother.”

He takes a long drink from his glass.

“Then again,” he adds, finally raising raw eyes to Sherlock’s, “sometimes it feels like it’s been an eternity. God, I’ve missed you.”

There are no words for how much Sherlock missed him in return; no words to describe the day his world ended. He remains quiet and hopes that Victor will not misinterpret his silence. If this is truly still Victor - his Victor - then he won’t.

Victor stares at him a moment and then nods, once, in understanding.

“Whatever happened to my dog?” Victor asks after a moment, moving the conversation onto safer territory.

“Did no one - no, I suppose Mycroft wouldn’t have seen the point,” Sherlock says darkly, answering his own question before it’s fully asked. “Lestrade... Lestrade took him in.”

“I don’t suppose -”

“No.” Sherlock shakes his head, surprised at the hole that digs its way into the pit of his stomach.. “No, he died last year.”

“Ah. Well.” Victor rubs the back of his neck. “That was kind of Greg.”

“Too kind.”

“Did you ever expect anything less from that man?”

“No. He’s almost as foolish as you.” Sherlock cocks his head, considering Victor. “This mission is going to be dangerous.”

“Yes.”

“You could die.”

“I already have.” Victor hesitates a moment. “You might never be able to return to England.”

“But they will be safe.”

“Do you have a plan?” Victor asks.

Sherlock gives a derisive snort, realising that he hadn’t afforded Moriarty even the slightest thought since he first stepped foot into this house. This illusion.

“Not much of one,” he admits. “I’ve been... a bit preoccupied, needless to say. Not that it would matter if I did - it would still need to be abandoned now that you’ve entered the equation. I hadn’t considered the possibility that I wouldn’t be working alone.”

Sherlock fetches his file on Sebastian Moran and lays it out on the table, on top of the folder that holds the contents of his life. Most of the information they have about Moran is second- and third-hand. They know he exists almost exclusively because of what happens around him. He’s anywhere between thirty and fifty, a mercenary and a sniper, responsible for half a dozen civil wars around the world and a handful of assassinations.

“He seems pretty good as far as hired guns go,” Victor admits as he looks through the file, which is high praise coming from him, “but I can’t imagine what Moriarty would have been thinking, making him second-in-command.”

“What do you mean?”

Victor shrugs.

“He doesn’t seem like the type, that’s all. He prefers to do his work quietly, behind-the-scenes, out in the field. He’s not one for sitting behind a desk and overseeing it all; planning it out. He’d rather be out there doing the work. He has no time for bureaucracy... such as it is.”

“You seem very sure of that.”

“Look at it this way.” Victor takes off his reading glasses and fixes Sherlock with a grim look. “I’d much rather be here doing this work than cooped up in London doing Mycroft’s.”

And before Sherlock has a chance to turn that thought around in his mind, Victor has pocketed his reading glasses and starts to gather together the loose pages of the file.

“Where you going?” Sherlock demands.

Victor huffs a laugh.

“Bed, kid, where d’you think?”

The ancient nickname slips out automatically. Victor doesn’t even seem to realize he’s said it.

“We aren’t finished,” Sherlock protests.

“The work will still be here in a few hours,” Victor points out. “We’re going to be cooling our heels here anyway for a few weeks, at least until those injuries of yours become manageable. So I suggest you do the same and get some rest. You’ve been through a hell of an ordeal.”

Sherlock grunts to acknowledge that he’s heard, but he doesn’t follow Victor from the room.

----

Part 5

----

Comments

[thesmallhobbit.livejournal.com]

I have to admit this wasn't quite what I expected - not that I didn't enjoy it. I'm very curious about how Victor and Sherlock's relationship is going to progress.

I feel that Sherlock isn't entirely confident of Victor at the moment, suspecting that Mycroft does have a hold over him. And unless he's an extremely accomplished actor it would seem that Victor doesn't seem as upset about never seeing Sherlock again as one might expect. I shall wait to see what happens.

[impishtubist.livejournal.com]

Well, I'm glad to keep you on your toes, at least! Even though this wasn't what you expected, it's good to hear that you still enjoyed it. That's a relief :)

And unless he's an extremely accomplished actor it would seem that Victor doesn't seem as upset about never seeing Sherlock again as one might expect.

Yes, that is curious, isn't it? ;)

Part of it, of course, is simply the fact that Victor has had four years to resign himself to the situation and Sherlock has not. But that's still an interesting thing to point out, nonetheless.

Thank you for reading! (J and L will return soon, I promise)

[list-of-lists.livejournal.com]

Brilliant part, especially the complexity of it all, and all the details about their pasts (and that Lestrade took in Victor's dog), and the things that had and hadn't changed. Particularly He remains quiet and hopes that Victor will not misinterpret his silence. If this is truly still Victor - his Victor - then he won’t.

Victor stares at him a moment and then nods, once, in understanding.



I'm looking forward to see where things go for Sherlock and Victor from here!

[impishtubist.livejournal.com]

Thank you, thank you! I'm happy that the complexities are coming through. Despite the fact that they're united again, it's not going to be an easy road going forward. But there will be plenty more Victor and Sherlock to come!

[canonisrelative.livejournal.com]

Victor pauses in the entryway, his hands tucked in his trouser pockets, and the moment they lock eyes Sherlock forgets what he’d been about to say. It’s reminiscent of their time together at school, when the mere act of their arms accidentally brushing would shatter Sherlock’s concentration for minutes on end, or when Victor’s smile--rare, and it had to be earned--would knock Sherlock’s brain offline.

I love this introduction to Victor. We know Sherlock, so having Victor shown to us as someone who could "knock his brain offline" is powerful.

And I love this turn of phrase: Sherlock is gorgeous and knows it; Victor is handsome and doesn’t

I love the turn into their brief discussion of (or should I say, commentary on) the past. The lovely little tidbit that Greg took in his dog, etc. Speaks volumes to a past that is so dear to them. And I am left desperately wanting to know what could have been so bad as to keep Victor away from Sherlock. I enjoy the feeling of not knowing everything but, given the chapter count, feeling sure that there is so much more to come.

Lovely. Lovely, lovely.

[impishtubist.livejournal.com]

*flails*

Okay, you've known what's coming in this fic since, well, July, but I'm still so glad to hear that you like Victor's introduction and their reminiscing here in this reunion chapter.

Thank you for the lovely comment!!