An Age of Silver (5a/23)
Aug. 24th, 2013 01:02 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
impishtubist"An Age of Silver" (5a/23)
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Notes: Sorry for the awkward chapter break on this one, folks. I fought LJ and lost. Chapter 5 was just too long, so I had to split it into two. It will appear as a single chapter on AO3. Chapter notes are at the end of Part 5b.
----
September this year as was hot and oppressive as July and August had been, which was irritating at first and downright maddening as the month wore on with no relief in sight. Sherlock began to regret not taking John and Lestrade up on their offer of an escape. Their seaside home would have been a welcome break from London’s heat, and their presence would have been a salve for the tedious days when Hopkins was busy and no new cases loomed on the horizon.
But no. Sherlock couldn’t leave, not just yet. Hopkins needed him.
There was no news for Hopkins to report during their twice-weekly lunches. His team was slowly combing through the various crime databases, with no sign yet of further victims. And no new victims had been kidnapped, which offered them a slight respite, but it also meant that they had no new information to go on.
“Stuck like an ox in the mud,” Hopkins groused to Sherlock one afternoon between bites of rice. Sherlock rolled his eyes at the odd phrase, but found that he couldn’t disagree.
The third victim continued to go unnamed. Eventually, Sherlock had to concede that none of his attempts to identify her had proved fruitful, and that it was time to call in some outside assistance.
He didn’t know why he was so reluctant to rely on his homeless network. Back in the early days, he would have utilized them the moment he ran into a dead end. Nowadays, though, he would only bring them in on a case as a last resort.
Maybe, he reflected as he cut down an alley, that was because years ago he would only utilize the homeless network in order to speed up a case. He didn’t actually need to rely on them, as he always could have reached the answer without their help. It was only a matter of time.
Now, however, it just served to prove that he was slowing down. There were things he couldn’t accomplish anymore, and he didn’t like to be reminded of that fact.
Sherlock approached his target—a man he knew only as “Bo”—and pulled the picture of the third victim out of his breast pocket. He wrapped some money around it and pushed it into Bo’s hands.
“There’s more,” he said quietly, “if you can get me any information about that woman.”
He left just as abruptly, without waiting for a response, and heard Bo hurry away in the opposite direction.
----
Serial murders just didn’t happen in London.
Murders themselves were rare enough. Hopkins and his team spent more time investigating attempted murders and incidents of manslaughter than actual deaths. There hadn’t been a case of serial murders, in fact, since 2010, and even that had been engineered by an outside force. This, a serial killer acting of his own accord - this was something entirely new, and no one knew how to deal with it.
But Sherlock didn’t care about them. His only concern, his only thought, was for Hopkins, and for the fact that every day he looked more and more as though he had taken the weight of the world on his shoulders.
“I’m probably not going to be around for lunch next Tuesday,” Hopkins said apologetically one Thursday night. Sherlock clamped his phone between shoulder and ear so that he could add some sugar to his tea.
“Oh? Where will you be?”
There was silence on the other end of the line for a beat, and then Hopkins answered, quietly, “A cemetery.”
Sherlock blinked, and then frowned. He couldn’t recall Hopkins having mentioned a death in the family, and there had been nothing in their conversations these past few days that would have led Sherlock to deduce that something had occurred. Tea forgotten, he brought a hand to the phone and straightened. He wondered what he’d missed.
“I didn’t realise,” he said finally.
“Not for what you’re thinking,” Hopkins said. “It’s the third victim. Her remains have been sitting in that damn morgue for months and, well… I’m having her buried. I’m not sure what time, exactly, but it’ll be in the middle of the day. It depends on when someone gets back to me about availability.”
“That’s not your job, Stanley.”
“Someone needs to do it.”
“No, they don’t.”
“Yes,” and now Hopkins’ voice had a hard edge to it, “they do. I can’t find her killer and I can’t even give her a damn name, but I can do this.” He was quiet for a moment, and then he said, softly, “No one misses her. No one even remembers that she existed. But no one is so insignificant that they don’t even deserve someone to bury them.”
“Everyone is insignificant,” Sherlock pointed out. Hopkins blew out a frustrated breath over the phone.
“I can’t talk to you about this right now, I really can’t,” he said shortly, and his voice was strained. “Look, I’ll be in touch when we need you again.”
He rang off without waiting for a reply.
----
Someone had left flowers on Victor’s grave.
Sherlock inspected the bouquet with mild curiosity. Every other grave in this portion of the cemetery had the same bright bouquet resting near it; someone had obviously been feeling generous. Sherlock couldn’t understand the need to leave flowers for a deceased loved one, let alone doing it for deceased strangers.
“Lilies,” he said finally, setting the flowers aside. “Not the most original choice. At least Molly has the sense to bring you rare flowers—you’d at least have found them interesting.”
A bee buzzed around his head and then went to investigate the lilies. Sherlock watched it for a moment.
“We were going to have bees,” he said quietly. “Bees and the cottage. It would have been wonderful, Vic. You were so excited. Hell, so was I.”
He shook his head, and returned his gaze to Victor’s headstone.
“We’ve identified three of the victims,” he said. “It hasn’t brought them any closer to identifying a suspect, however. And I’ve done all I can for them. I don’t take cases like this.”
And yet.
“And yet,” he went on, softly, “I couldn’t walk away from this. I wanted to – hell, I still do. I wish I could run like hell from this one. But Hopkins needs my help. He needs me.”
And I need him.
A hot rush of guilt flooded his stomach at the thought, and Sherlock swallowed. He had never thought he could ever need anyone the way he’d needed Victor, and the idea was almost painful to contemplate. And yet he also couldn’t ignore the fact that the idea that he could lose Hopkins’ friendship over this seemingly inconsequential argument was incredibly unsettling. He had never before considered that Hopkins might not always be a part of his life.
“He’s furious, Vic,” he muttered. “My fault, of course. I cocked it up. He’s having the third victim buried—we never managed to figure out her name. He’s having her buried properly, regardless. He’s paid for it and everything, and I don’t understand – I don’t get why he needs this.”
He could just imagine Victor’s incredulity. And you told him that?
“Are you surprised?” he said dryly. “Yes, I told him. He hasn’t spoken to me since.”
It was only now that they weren’t talking that Sherlock realised that he and Hopkins hadn’t gone more than a couple of days without speaking to one another in – well, in at least the past three years now. Perhaps even longer. They were now going on four days without speaking, and Sherlock missed it.
“This is absurd,” Sherlock muttered under his breath. “This is foolish. What in God’s name do I expect you to do about it? Christ.”
Talk to Stanley, John would have said. Talking – his solution for every problem. But Victor had always been miles more practical.
If he’s put up with you for this long and hasn’t been chased away, you’ve haven’t got anything to worry about. He knows what you’re like. He’ll be back.
“John would tell me to talk, and your stellar advice is to wait,” Sherlock said dryly. “And I was never very good at listening to either of you, was I?”
He pushed himself to his feet with a quiet groan.
“Take care, old friend,” he murmured to the headstone. “Sleep well.”
-----
Hopkins lived on a nondescript street in a nondescript part of London. His home was one of about two dozen identical white houses that lined both sides of the street. The doors and shutters on every house were painted the same shade of dusty red, and brass numbers and knockers were displayed on every door. Sherlock felt bored just looking at this street. Everything about it was painfully ordinary; it was almost agonizing.
Hopkins had only lived on this street for the past five years, as he and David had sold their shared home after the divorce and gone their separate ways. At the time, Sherlock had briefly considered offering Hopkins John’s old room, but he had never managed to properly formulate the question.
You got scared, the John-voice in the back of his mind said flatly. Sherlock shook his head to be rid of the thought. Hopkins was the only person on the planet he would consider living with, and John’s room had thus been unoccupied ever since.
Sherlock dug his hands into his pockets as he walked up the path to Hopkins’ house, fishing for his lock-picking tools. There was a key hidden behind the mezuzah on Hopkins’ doorframe, that he knew, but he had never bothered to use it. Hopkins changed his locks every few months due to Sherlock’s constant break-ins, and Sherlock enjoyed the challenge of trying to figure a new one out.
This time, however, the door swung open before Sherlock had managed to finish picking the lock, and he came face-to-face with a decidedly irritated Hopkins.
“My neighbor called,” he said flatly. “She said that a strange man was breaking into my house.”
“She was right on all three counts,” Sherlock said, brushing past Hopkins and into the foyer without an invitation. “You should consider adding her to the team. She sounds very observant.”
Normally, that remark would at least have resulted in a dry chuckle from Hopkins. This time, however, he simply gave a weak snort and shut the door.
“Come on, then,” he said, moving into the kitchen. “You went through all the trouble to come here. What do you want?”
Hopkins made himself a cup of coffee, but didn’t offer Sherlock one. That alone spoke to his mood, and Sherlock flinched inwardly. He wasn’t used to being unwelcome in Hopkins’ presence, and it stung.
“Hopkins, I –” But he had never been very good with words. Actions had always suited him better, and so he asked instead, “Did you bury her? The third victim.”
Hopkins considered him for a moment, and then gave a slow nod.
“Yes, just yesterday,” he said quietly. “They managed to fit her in a day early. Why?”
Damn. Sherlock knew from experience that gestures tended to mean more than words to most people, and he had realised that what he needed to make his regret known was to accompany Hopkins to the burial. He saw no purpose in it, but it meant something to Hopkins, and that was really all he needed.
“I thought I might –” He stopped again, unsure of how to convey his intentions and make them sound genuine. “Damn it, Stanley, during our phone conversation last week, I didn’t mean… I didn’t intend to imply that you were a fool or that your actions were worthless, or – or whatever else you might have taken away from the conversation. I just don’t understand these things, and you’re already so invested in this particular case that I didn’t see how burying the third victim could have been good for you. But just because I don’t understand it doesn’t mean I think less of you for it, and I know you’re angry with me because you haven’t spoken to me in days, and I just want – I’d like that to stop. Please.”
Hopkins stared at him blankly for a long minute, and Sherlock felt a flush creep up his neck. Damn it, not only must that have been rambling and incoherent, but he must have missed the point entirely again –
“You know,” Hopkins said abruptly, interrupting his bout of self-pity, “you really need to stop calling me Stanley. It’s weird.”
Sherlock blinked at him.
“It’s your name,” he said slowly.
“Not to you, it isn’t,” Hopkins pointed out. He shook his head and let out a huff of disbelieving laughter. “Look at you. Coming over here to apologize and calling me by my first name. Who is this new Sherlock Holmes and what have you done with the old one?”
Hopkins clapped him on the shoulder. “I’ve got the rest of the night off. Fancy a pint?”
“I –” Sherlock stared at him, and then he said flatly, “I’m confused.”
Hopkins snorted.
“You’re terrible at giving apologies, and I’m bad at accepting them. I appreciate you coming over, but what’s past is past, Sherlock. It’s fine.” Hopkins reached for his mobile and then grabbed his keys.
“Besides,” he added as they left the house and started down the pavement towards the nearest pub, “I’ve missed talking to you, too.”
----
Hopkins came over one sunny day near the end of September to watch football, something that he did once or twice a month. Sherlock had no interest in the sport and never had, but his presence wasn’t required. They had long ago become accustomed to doing as they pleased while in one another’s company.
“How’s the experiment?” Hopkins asked as he dropped his keys on the kitchen table. He brushed past Sherlock and went straight for the fridge.
“Far beyond your comprehension,” Sherlock said shortly.
Hopkins pulled out a beer and used the counter and the palm of his hand to pop the top off the bottle. He took a long swig of the drink, foregoing a glass. How he drank his beer was usually indicative of his mood. The fewer steps he took between obtaining one and drinking it, the more difficult his day had been. This was not promising.
“I was at the Yard today,” he said finally.
“On your day off?” Sherlock asked absently. He looked up from his microscope long enough to scribble down a calculation in his notebook and push his reading glasses up his nose.
“Very observant of you.”
“Anything new?”
“Nothing worth reporting at this point.”
Hopkins’ voice was heavy and resigned. Sherlock glanced at him. His shirt was rumpled and his hair was mussed, and there was a smudge of ink on the side of his nose that was as black as the pools under his eyes.
“You look like hell.”
Hopkins snorted. “Thanks.”
Sherlock nodded to the main room.
“Go on. I’ll join you in a minute.”
A minute turned out to be an hour, and when Sherlock next looked up from his experiment, Hopkins was half-asleep and sprawled across most of the sofa. He set aside his pen and tugged off his glasses before going into the other room.
“Budge up,” Sherlock said, touching Hopkins’ leg with his foot, and Hopkins obliged with a grunt. He propped his legs on the low table instead and reached for his beer--his second, though Sherlock hadn’t noticed him finish off the first one.
“Are you all right?” Sherlock asked. The match had long since ended, and a programme he didn’t recognise had taken its place.
“Fine,” Hopkins said after a pause, as though he had needed to think about the answer. Sherlock plucked the bottle from his hands and took a long swallow.
“Try again.”
Hopkins snatched his beer back and glared at Sherlock.
“Don’t you go all therapist on me, Holmes. Not when there’s enough in your head to keep a psychiatrist happy for years.” Hopkins drank in contemplation for a long moment while Sherlock tried to make sense of the television programme. And then he said, softly, “I’m getting tired of this shit, that’s all.”
“With the case?”
Hopkins sighed. “With everything. Christ. I’m not cut out for this, Sherlock. I don’t think I ever was.”
“Don’t be a fool, of course you are,” Sherlock said harshly. “If you were anything less than the best I would have pegged you for an idiot within five minutes of meeting you and subsequently had nothing to do with you.”
Hopkins gave a wry smile.
“Thanks,” he said, “I think.”
Sherlock huffed.
“It’s simply the truth,” he said brusquely. “I don’t have time for people who refuse to acknowledge or use their own worthiness. It gets very tiring. You are brilliant. You were absolutely meant for this job.”
“I appreciate that.” Hopkins took another swallow of beer, his eyes drifting back to the television. “Well, I’ll tell you one thing. If I can survive this case, I can survive anything. Oh, you stupid woman, you’d known him six months; of course it wasn’t going to last.”
It took Sherlock half a minute to piece Hopkins’ thought process together, and eventually realised that his final comment had been directed at the television. There was a woman being interviewed on a news programme, and going by the clip in her hair and her nails, Hopkins was right--her husband had left her after a whirlwind courtship and marriage that had lasted less than six months.
“Made the same mistake I did,” Hopkins muttered darkly to his bottle. Sherlock realised then that he should have seen this coming. Hopkins had a tendency to become more melancholy than was normal around the High Holy Days, and they were fast approaching. “Next time, I’d wait longer.”
“You would marry again?” Sherlock asked in some surprise. He’d been intending to steer the conversation elsewhere in an attempt to cheer Hopkins up, but now he was intrigued despite himself.
“Why?” Hopkins deflected the question with a smirk. “You asking, old man?”
Now it was Sherlock’s turn to snort.
“If I was, I wouldn’t say it in so many words.”
“I don’t know.” Hopkins gave a shrug. “Maybe. I’m not against the idea. But at the same time, it’s not really something that I need right now. I’ve got my job, got my team, got the most infuriating best friend in the world...”
“Ha, ha.”
“Who said I was talking about you?”
“Sorry, I didn’t realise you meant Checkers.”
Hopkins gave a bark of laughter and held out his bottle. Sherlock took another swallow before handing it back to him. They lapsed into silence for a time and watched the television until the news programmes began to cycle and repeat. Hopkins dug a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket and held it out to Sherlock, who hesitated before taking one. He rarely indulged anymore, and it was always with Hopkins.
He would have to remember to air out the flat later, before Alice cottoned on.
“Why did you get married?” Sherlock asked at length.
Hopkins blew out a long stream of smoke, was quiet for a while, and then shrugged.
“I don’t know, Sherlock. I loved him.” He rolled the cigarette between his fingers before taking another draw on it. “Still do. We keep in touch.”
“It is fully possible to love without marriage.”
Hopkins snorted.
“Don’t I know it.” He smoked for a little while longer, finishing off the cigarette and grinding it out in the nearby ashtray. “I wanted to. I don’t know why, it just felt right. I was his husband and he was mine and it was... good.”
He cast a tentative sidelong glance at Sherlock, and then returned his gaze to the television.
“Why didn’t you marry Victor?”
Sherlock shrugged.
“It was a different time. And I didn’t see much use then for sentiment, or for grand declarations.”
“Do you think you might have, one day?”
“Had he lived, you mean?” Sherlock asked bluntly, and Hopkins grimaced, but nodded. He took a long draw on his nearly-forgotten cigarette, and sighed the smoke out through his nose. And then he said, quietly, “Yes. I would have.”
Sherlock finished off his cigarette. Hopkins was unnervingly quiet.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered finally. “Truly.”
Sherlock nodded absently.
“If you don’t mind, Hopkins,” he said finally, “I’d rather not talk about this anymore.”
He stood, and then offered Hopkins a hand up. He knew that Hopkins was reluctant to leave, because the conclusion of the evening meant that nothing stood now between him and returning to work the next day.
“Will you be all right?” he asked as Hopkins reached for his coat and grabbed his keys.
“It’s only a short drive.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
Hopkins considered him for a moment.
“I don’t know,” he admitted finally. “I really don’t, Sherlock. I’ve never had a case like this.”
“If you need anything…”
“Yeah.” Hopkins squeezed his shoulder. “Good night, Sherlock.”
----
Alice Hudson was a resourceful woman.
Sometimes, a little too resourceful.
“It’s fine, Sherlock,” she scolded impatiently while he prodded at the latch on her kitchen window. “It stays shut!”
“Alice, you’ve got this held together with fishing wire and Sellotape,” Sherlock scolded. She leveled a look at him.
“Yes, I do,” she said, rather smugly. “And I dare you to try to break in.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes and went around to the side of the building. Twenty minutes later, he finally slid through the window and into her kitchen. Alice was sitting at the table, a pipe across her knees and Checkers at her feet. He barked happily when he realised it was Sherlock who had come into the room and ran circles around his feet.
“I think that’s a new record for you,” Alice said with a smirk. “Maybe even a new record overall. Longest lock-pick in the history of burglaries.”
Sherlock sighed.
“I’m going out to the shops,” he said in exasperation, brushing dust off his shirt, “and I’m coming back with a new latch. Stay here.”
He found the correct type of latch at a shop two streets away. It was a shop he frequented whenever he was forced to purchase his own food—which was more often than he’d had to do when John and Lestrade were around, granted, but Alice indulged him in ways her aunt never would. He was forced to go out on his own maybe once every two weeks.
“No milk this time, Mr Holmes?” the aged shopkeeper asked amiably whilst Sherlock prepared to pay. Sherlock, who had never seen the point of small talk, resisted an eye roll. It was helpful to keep certain members of society in his favour, especially ones who were in a position to observe the behavior of other people on a daily basis. “Your fellow hasn’t been by recently?”
“He’s not my fellow,” Sherlock said absently. “And no, he hasn’t. Case.”
“He works too hard, that one,” the shopkeeper said sadly.
“Mm,” Sherlock hummed noncommittally. His eyes fell on a packet of cigarettes, and he realised that the stash he kept for Hopkins in the flat must have run out, hence Hopkins bringing his own last week. He indicated the package wordlessly, and the shopkeeper added it to his purchase.
Sherlock cut down an alley on his way back to Baker Street. A rustling noise just behind him was the first clue that someone else was there; the hand that grabbed his elbow was the second, and Sherlock reacted without thinking.
“Mr Holmes,” the man gasped around the hand that Sherlock had pinned to his throat, “it’s me.”
“Hell,” Sherlock whispered, dropping his hands. Bo slumped forward, leaning against the wall for support while he gasped for breath. “You know better.”
“Fuckin’ quick, you are,” the younger man said with a bit of awe. “You know, for an old –”
“Don’t finish that sentence,” Sherlock sighed wearily. “What do you have for me?”
“Nothing,” Bo said regretfully. He handed over the photograph of the third victim that Sherlock had given him.
Sherlock blinked at him.
“You must have something,” he said incredulously. Bo shook his head.
“Sorry, Mr Holmes, but no. We don’t have a clue who that might be, and we can’t find anyone who does. Just thought you ought to know.”
Sherlock pursed his lips, heart sinking. That had been his last resort, and it had always come through for him before.
“Thanks,” he muttered finally. He dug through his pockets for his change from the shop and pushed it into Bo’s hands. Bo gave him a grateful nod and disappeared back down the alley.
Sherlock looked again at the picture before tucking it away in his breast pocket and resuming his walk back to Baker Street.
Today marked the start of Rosh Hashanah, and Hopkins had left earlier that morning for his parents’ house. As a nonbeliever born to a Jewish woman and her agnostic husband, this was the sole religious observance Hopkins ever marked (albeit loosely). It was also the only time during the year that he took a holiday, and Sherlock was loath to bother him. But he knew that Hopkins would appreciate even less Sherlock keeping quiet about the information for the ten days before he was due to return to London.
“Shanah Tovah, Sherlock,” Hopkins greeted when Sherlock called him that night. He sounded calm; relaxed by both drink and the break from London.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” Sherlock said, “but I’m afraid I have news.”
“I figured,” Hopkins said in quiet resignation. “It’s all right. What’s going on?”
Sherlock explained about his contact within the homeless network, and how they had been unable to shed any light on the identity of the third victim.
“I can’t say I’m surprised,” Hopkins said, though he did sound disappointed. Sherlock heard ice cubes clink over the line, and then it sounded as though Hopkins had taken a deep swallow of his drink. He sighed. “Thank you, Sherlock. I appreciate the effort. Has anything else happened?”
“No,” Sherlock told him. “No, there’s nothing else. It appears as though the press is still focusing solely on Jessica Thompson. They haven’t yet figured out about the preceding three murders. And your team has yet to find any other victims in the crime databases, male or female. So we have that going for us, whatever small comfort that may be.”
“I’ll take what I can get, at this point,” Hopkins said dryly.
“How has your holiday been?”
“So far? Uneventful. My mother keeps trying to shove food down my throat, and Dad’s got it in his head that he’s going to introduce me to the son of one of his co-workers. He’s desperate for another son-in-law.” Hopkins took another drink. “How are things back home?”
“Also uneventful, at least at the moment. I’ve got lunch with Mycroft on Monday.”
“Couldn’t manage to worm your way out of it?”
Sherlock sighed. “Not this time.”
“Well, we’ll make up for it when I’m back. I daresay I’m a better dining companion than your brother.”
“It’s not difficult to be a better dining companion than Mycroft,” Sherlock pointed out. Hopkins laughed. “But yes, I’ll miss your company this week. I don’t know how I’ll manage to get by without you.”
“Something tells me that was sarcasm.”
“Well spotted, detective.” The vid screen on the opposite side of the room lit up suddenly, and Sherlock glanced at it. He suppressed a sigh. “Hopkins, I’ve got to go. I have another call.”
“S’all right, old man, I should probably get back to the folks. Have a good night.”
“The same to you. And – have a good year, Stanley.”
----
To Part 5b/23
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Notes: Sorry for the awkward chapter break on this one, folks. I fought LJ and lost. Chapter 5 was just too long, so I had to split it into two. It will appear as a single chapter on AO3. Chapter notes are at the end of Part 5b.
----
September this year as was hot and oppressive as July and August had been, which was irritating at first and downright maddening as the month wore on with no relief in sight. Sherlock began to regret not taking John and Lestrade up on their offer of an escape. Their seaside home would have been a welcome break from London’s heat, and their presence would have been a salve for the tedious days when Hopkins was busy and no new cases loomed on the horizon.
But no. Sherlock couldn’t leave, not just yet. Hopkins needed him.
There was no news for Hopkins to report during their twice-weekly lunches. His team was slowly combing through the various crime databases, with no sign yet of further victims. And no new victims had been kidnapped, which offered them a slight respite, but it also meant that they had no new information to go on.
“Stuck like an ox in the mud,” Hopkins groused to Sherlock one afternoon between bites of rice. Sherlock rolled his eyes at the odd phrase, but found that he couldn’t disagree.
The third victim continued to go unnamed. Eventually, Sherlock had to concede that none of his attempts to identify her had proved fruitful, and that it was time to call in some outside assistance.
He didn’t know why he was so reluctant to rely on his homeless network. Back in the early days, he would have utilized them the moment he ran into a dead end. Nowadays, though, he would only bring them in on a case as a last resort.
Maybe, he reflected as he cut down an alley, that was because years ago he would only utilize the homeless network in order to speed up a case. He didn’t actually need to rely on them, as he always could have reached the answer without their help. It was only a matter of time.
Now, however, it just served to prove that he was slowing down. There were things he couldn’t accomplish anymore, and he didn’t like to be reminded of that fact.
Sherlock approached his target—a man he knew only as “Bo”—and pulled the picture of the third victim out of his breast pocket. He wrapped some money around it and pushed it into Bo’s hands.
“There’s more,” he said quietly, “if you can get me any information about that woman.”
He left just as abruptly, without waiting for a response, and heard Bo hurry away in the opposite direction.
----
Serial murders just didn’t happen in London.
Murders themselves were rare enough. Hopkins and his team spent more time investigating attempted murders and incidents of manslaughter than actual deaths. There hadn’t been a case of serial murders, in fact, since 2010, and even that had been engineered by an outside force. This, a serial killer acting of his own accord - this was something entirely new, and no one knew how to deal with it.
But Sherlock didn’t care about them. His only concern, his only thought, was for Hopkins, and for the fact that every day he looked more and more as though he had taken the weight of the world on his shoulders.
“I’m probably not going to be around for lunch next Tuesday,” Hopkins said apologetically one Thursday night. Sherlock clamped his phone between shoulder and ear so that he could add some sugar to his tea.
“Oh? Where will you be?”
There was silence on the other end of the line for a beat, and then Hopkins answered, quietly, “A cemetery.”
Sherlock blinked, and then frowned. He couldn’t recall Hopkins having mentioned a death in the family, and there had been nothing in their conversations these past few days that would have led Sherlock to deduce that something had occurred. Tea forgotten, he brought a hand to the phone and straightened. He wondered what he’d missed.
“I didn’t realise,” he said finally.
“Not for what you’re thinking,” Hopkins said. “It’s the third victim. Her remains have been sitting in that damn morgue for months and, well… I’m having her buried. I’m not sure what time, exactly, but it’ll be in the middle of the day. It depends on when someone gets back to me about availability.”
“That’s not your job, Stanley.”
“Someone needs to do it.”
“No, they don’t.”
“Yes,” and now Hopkins’ voice had a hard edge to it, “they do. I can’t find her killer and I can’t even give her a damn name, but I can do this.” He was quiet for a moment, and then he said, softly, “No one misses her. No one even remembers that she existed. But no one is so insignificant that they don’t even deserve someone to bury them.”
“Everyone is insignificant,” Sherlock pointed out. Hopkins blew out a frustrated breath over the phone.
“I can’t talk to you about this right now, I really can’t,” he said shortly, and his voice was strained. “Look, I’ll be in touch when we need you again.”
He rang off without waiting for a reply.
----
Someone had left flowers on Victor’s grave.
Sherlock inspected the bouquet with mild curiosity. Every other grave in this portion of the cemetery had the same bright bouquet resting near it; someone had obviously been feeling generous. Sherlock couldn’t understand the need to leave flowers for a deceased loved one, let alone doing it for deceased strangers.
“Lilies,” he said finally, setting the flowers aside. “Not the most original choice. At least Molly has the sense to bring you rare flowers—you’d at least have found them interesting.”
A bee buzzed around his head and then went to investigate the lilies. Sherlock watched it for a moment.
“We were going to have bees,” he said quietly. “Bees and the cottage. It would have been wonderful, Vic. You were so excited. Hell, so was I.”
He shook his head, and returned his gaze to Victor’s headstone.
“We’ve identified three of the victims,” he said. “It hasn’t brought them any closer to identifying a suspect, however. And I’ve done all I can for them. I don’t take cases like this.”
And yet.
“And yet,” he went on, softly, “I couldn’t walk away from this. I wanted to – hell, I still do. I wish I could run like hell from this one. But Hopkins needs my help. He needs me.”
And I need him.
A hot rush of guilt flooded his stomach at the thought, and Sherlock swallowed. He had never thought he could ever need anyone the way he’d needed Victor, and the idea was almost painful to contemplate. And yet he also couldn’t ignore the fact that the idea that he could lose Hopkins’ friendship over this seemingly inconsequential argument was incredibly unsettling. He had never before considered that Hopkins might not always be a part of his life.
“He’s furious, Vic,” he muttered. “My fault, of course. I cocked it up. He’s having the third victim buried—we never managed to figure out her name. He’s having her buried properly, regardless. He’s paid for it and everything, and I don’t understand – I don’t get why he needs this.”
He could just imagine Victor’s incredulity. And you told him that?
“Are you surprised?” he said dryly. “Yes, I told him. He hasn’t spoken to me since.”
It was only now that they weren’t talking that Sherlock realised that he and Hopkins hadn’t gone more than a couple of days without speaking to one another in – well, in at least the past three years now. Perhaps even longer. They were now going on four days without speaking, and Sherlock missed it.
“This is absurd,” Sherlock muttered under his breath. “This is foolish. What in God’s name do I expect you to do about it? Christ.”
Talk to Stanley, John would have said. Talking – his solution for every problem. But Victor had always been miles more practical.
If he’s put up with you for this long and hasn’t been chased away, you’ve haven’t got anything to worry about. He knows what you’re like. He’ll be back.
“John would tell me to talk, and your stellar advice is to wait,” Sherlock said dryly. “And I was never very good at listening to either of you, was I?”
He pushed himself to his feet with a quiet groan.
“Take care, old friend,” he murmured to the headstone. “Sleep well.”
-----
Hopkins lived on a nondescript street in a nondescript part of London. His home was one of about two dozen identical white houses that lined both sides of the street. The doors and shutters on every house were painted the same shade of dusty red, and brass numbers and knockers were displayed on every door. Sherlock felt bored just looking at this street. Everything about it was painfully ordinary; it was almost agonizing.
Hopkins had only lived on this street for the past five years, as he and David had sold their shared home after the divorce and gone their separate ways. At the time, Sherlock had briefly considered offering Hopkins John’s old room, but he had never managed to properly formulate the question.
You got scared, the John-voice in the back of his mind said flatly. Sherlock shook his head to be rid of the thought. Hopkins was the only person on the planet he would consider living with, and John’s room had thus been unoccupied ever since.
Sherlock dug his hands into his pockets as he walked up the path to Hopkins’ house, fishing for his lock-picking tools. There was a key hidden behind the mezuzah on Hopkins’ doorframe, that he knew, but he had never bothered to use it. Hopkins changed his locks every few months due to Sherlock’s constant break-ins, and Sherlock enjoyed the challenge of trying to figure a new one out.
This time, however, the door swung open before Sherlock had managed to finish picking the lock, and he came face-to-face with a decidedly irritated Hopkins.
“My neighbor called,” he said flatly. “She said that a strange man was breaking into my house.”
“She was right on all three counts,” Sherlock said, brushing past Hopkins and into the foyer without an invitation. “You should consider adding her to the team. She sounds very observant.”
Normally, that remark would at least have resulted in a dry chuckle from Hopkins. This time, however, he simply gave a weak snort and shut the door.
“Come on, then,” he said, moving into the kitchen. “You went through all the trouble to come here. What do you want?”
Hopkins made himself a cup of coffee, but didn’t offer Sherlock one. That alone spoke to his mood, and Sherlock flinched inwardly. He wasn’t used to being unwelcome in Hopkins’ presence, and it stung.
“Hopkins, I –” But he had never been very good with words. Actions had always suited him better, and so he asked instead, “Did you bury her? The third victim.”
Hopkins considered him for a moment, and then gave a slow nod.
“Yes, just yesterday,” he said quietly. “They managed to fit her in a day early. Why?”
Damn. Sherlock knew from experience that gestures tended to mean more than words to most people, and he had realised that what he needed to make his regret known was to accompany Hopkins to the burial. He saw no purpose in it, but it meant something to Hopkins, and that was really all he needed.
“I thought I might –” He stopped again, unsure of how to convey his intentions and make them sound genuine. “Damn it, Stanley, during our phone conversation last week, I didn’t mean… I didn’t intend to imply that you were a fool or that your actions were worthless, or – or whatever else you might have taken away from the conversation. I just don’t understand these things, and you’re already so invested in this particular case that I didn’t see how burying the third victim could have been good for you. But just because I don’t understand it doesn’t mean I think less of you for it, and I know you’re angry with me because you haven’t spoken to me in days, and I just want – I’d like that to stop. Please.”
Hopkins stared at him blankly for a long minute, and Sherlock felt a flush creep up his neck. Damn it, not only must that have been rambling and incoherent, but he must have missed the point entirely again –
“You know,” Hopkins said abruptly, interrupting his bout of self-pity, “you really need to stop calling me Stanley. It’s weird.”
Sherlock blinked at him.
“It’s your name,” he said slowly.
“Not to you, it isn’t,” Hopkins pointed out. He shook his head and let out a huff of disbelieving laughter. “Look at you. Coming over here to apologize and calling me by my first name. Who is this new Sherlock Holmes and what have you done with the old one?”
Hopkins clapped him on the shoulder. “I’ve got the rest of the night off. Fancy a pint?”
“I –” Sherlock stared at him, and then he said flatly, “I’m confused.”
Hopkins snorted.
“You’re terrible at giving apologies, and I’m bad at accepting them. I appreciate you coming over, but what’s past is past, Sherlock. It’s fine.” Hopkins reached for his mobile and then grabbed his keys.
“Besides,” he added as they left the house and started down the pavement towards the nearest pub, “I’ve missed talking to you, too.”
----
Hopkins came over one sunny day near the end of September to watch football, something that he did once or twice a month. Sherlock had no interest in the sport and never had, but his presence wasn’t required. They had long ago become accustomed to doing as they pleased while in one another’s company.
“How’s the experiment?” Hopkins asked as he dropped his keys on the kitchen table. He brushed past Sherlock and went straight for the fridge.
“Far beyond your comprehension,” Sherlock said shortly.
Hopkins pulled out a beer and used the counter and the palm of his hand to pop the top off the bottle. He took a long swig of the drink, foregoing a glass. How he drank his beer was usually indicative of his mood. The fewer steps he took between obtaining one and drinking it, the more difficult his day had been. This was not promising.
“I was at the Yard today,” he said finally.
“On your day off?” Sherlock asked absently. He looked up from his microscope long enough to scribble down a calculation in his notebook and push his reading glasses up his nose.
“Very observant of you.”
“Anything new?”
“Nothing worth reporting at this point.”
Hopkins’ voice was heavy and resigned. Sherlock glanced at him. His shirt was rumpled and his hair was mussed, and there was a smudge of ink on the side of his nose that was as black as the pools under his eyes.
“You look like hell.”
Hopkins snorted. “Thanks.”
Sherlock nodded to the main room.
“Go on. I’ll join you in a minute.”
A minute turned out to be an hour, and when Sherlock next looked up from his experiment, Hopkins was half-asleep and sprawled across most of the sofa. He set aside his pen and tugged off his glasses before going into the other room.
“Budge up,” Sherlock said, touching Hopkins’ leg with his foot, and Hopkins obliged with a grunt. He propped his legs on the low table instead and reached for his beer--his second, though Sherlock hadn’t noticed him finish off the first one.
“Are you all right?” Sherlock asked. The match had long since ended, and a programme he didn’t recognise had taken its place.
“Fine,” Hopkins said after a pause, as though he had needed to think about the answer. Sherlock plucked the bottle from his hands and took a long swallow.
“Try again.”
Hopkins snatched his beer back and glared at Sherlock.
“Don’t you go all therapist on me, Holmes. Not when there’s enough in your head to keep a psychiatrist happy for years.” Hopkins drank in contemplation for a long moment while Sherlock tried to make sense of the television programme. And then he said, softly, “I’m getting tired of this shit, that’s all.”
“With the case?”
Hopkins sighed. “With everything. Christ. I’m not cut out for this, Sherlock. I don’t think I ever was.”
“Don’t be a fool, of course you are,” Sherlock said harshly. “If you were anything less than the best I would have pegged you for an idiot within five minutes of meeting you and subsequently had nothing to do with you.”
Hopkins gave a wry smile.
“Thanks,” he said, “I think.”
Sherlock huffed.
“It’s simply the truth,” he said brusquely. “I don’t have time for people who refuse to acknowledge or use their own worthiness. It gets very tiring. You are brilliant. You were absolutely meant for this job.”
“I appreciate that.” Hopkins took another swallow of beer, his eyes drifting back to the television. “Well, I’ll tell you one thing. If I can survive this case, I can survive anything. Oh, you stupid woman, you’d known him six months; of course it wasn’t going to last.”
It took Sherlock half a minute to piece Hopkins’ thought process together, and eventually realised that his final comment had been directed at the television. There was a woman being interviewed on a news programme, and going by the clip in her hair and her nails, Hopkins was right--her husband had left her after a whirlwind courtship and marriage that had lasted less than six months.
“Made the same mistake I did,” Hopkins muttered darkly to his bottle. Sherlock realised then that he should have seen this coming. Hopkins had a tendency to become more melancholy than was normal around the High Holy Days, and they were fast approaching. “Next time, I’d wait longer.”
“You would marry again?” Sherlock asked in some surprise. He’d been intending to steer the conversation elsewhere in an attempt to cheer Hopkins up, but now he was intrigued despite himself.
“Why?” Hopkins deflected the question with a smirk. “You asking, old man?”
Now it was Sherlock’s turn to snort.
“If I was, I wouldn’t say it in so many words.”
“I don’t know.” Hopkins gave a shrug. “Maybe. I’m not against the idea. But at the same time, it’s not really something that I need right now. I’ve got my job, got my team, got the most infuriating best friend in the world...”
“Ha, ha.”
“Who said I was talking about you?”
“Sorry, I didn’t realise you meant Checkers.”
Hopkins gave a bark of laughter and held out his bottle. Sherlock took another swallow before handing it back to him. They lapsed into silence for a time and watched the television until the news programmes began to cycle and repeat. Hopkins dug a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket and held it out to Sherlock, who hesitated before taking one. He rarely indulged anymore, and it was always with Hopkins.
He would have to remember to air out the flat later, before Alice cottoned on.
“Why did you get married?” Sherlock asked at length.
Hopkins blew out a long stream of smoke, was quiet for a while, and then shrugged.
“I don’t know, Sherlock. I loved him.” He rolled the cigarette between his fingers before taking another draw on it. “Still do. We keep in touch.”
“It is fully possible to love without marriage.”
Hopkins snorted.
“Don’t I know it.” He smoked for a little while longer, finishing off the cigarette and grinding it out in the nearby ashtray. “I wanted to. I don’t know why, it just felt right. I was his husband and he was mine and it was... good.”
He cast a tentative sidelong glance at Sherlock, and then returned his gaze to the television.
“Why didn’t you marry Victor?”
Sherlock shrugged.
“It was a different time. And I didn’t see much use then for sentiment, or for grand declarations.”
“Do you think you might have, one day?”
“Had he lived, you mean?” Sherlock asked bluntly, and Hopkins grimaced, but nodded. He took a long draw on his nearly-forgotten cigarette, and sighed the smoke out through his nose. And then he said, quietly, “Yes. I would have.”
Sherlock finished off his cigarette. Hopkins was unnervingly quiet.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered finally. “Truly.”
Sherlock nodded absently.
“If you don’t mind, Hopkins,” he said finally, “I’d rather not talk about this anymore.”
He stood, and then offered Hopkins a hand up. He knew that Hopkins was reluctant to leave, because the conclusion of the evening meant that nothing stood now between him and returning to work the next day.
“Will you be all right?” he asked as Hopkins reached for his coat and grabbed his keys.
“It’s only a short drive.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
Hopkins considered him for a moment.
“I don’t know,” he admitted finally. “I really don’t, Sherlock. I’ve never had a case like this.”
“If you need anything…”
“Yeah.” Hopkins squeezed his shoulder. “Good night, Sherlock.”
----
Alice Hudson was a resourceful woman.
Sometimes, a little too resourceful.
“It’s fine, Sherlock,” she scolded impatiently while he prodded at the latch on her kitchen window. “It stays shut!”
“Alice, you’ve got this held together with fishing wire and Sellotape,” Sherlock scolded. She leveled a look at him.
“Yes, I do,” she said, rather smugly. “And I dare you to try to break in.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes and went around to the side of the building. Twenty minutes later, he finally slid through the window and into her kitchen. Alice was sitting at the table, a pipe across her knees and Checkers at her feet. He barked happily when he realised it was Sherlock who had come into the room and ran circles around his feet.
“I think that’s a new record for you,” Alice said with a smirk. “Maybe even a new record overall. Longest lock-pick in the history of burglaries.”
Sherlock sighed.
“I’m going out to the shops,” he said in exasperation, brushing dust off his shirt, “and I’m coming back with a new latch. Stay here.”
He found the correct type of latch at a shop two streets away. It was a shop he frequented whenever he was forced to purchase his own food—which was more often than he’d had to do when John and Lestrade were around, granted, but Alice indulged him in ways her aunt never would. He was forced to go out on his own maybe once every two weeks.
“No milk this time, Mr Holmes?” the aged shopkeeper asked amiably whilst Sherlock prepared to pay. Sherlock, who had never seen the point of small talk, resisted an eye roll. It was helpful to keep certain members of society in his favour, especially ones who were in a position to observe the behavior of other people on a daily basis. “Your fellow hasn’t been by recently?”
“He’s not my fellow,” Sherlock said absently. “And no, he hasn’t. Case.”
“He works too hard, that one,” the shopkeeper said sadly.
“Mm,” Sherlock hummed noncommittally. His eyes fell on a packet of cigarettes, and he realised that the stash he kept for Hopkins in the flat must have run out, hence Hopkins bringing his own last week. He indicated the package wordlessly, and the shopkeeper added it to his purchase.
Sherlock cut down an alley on his way back to Baker Street. A rustling noise just behind him was the first clue that someone else was there; the hand that grabbed his elbow was the second, and Sherlock reacted without thinking.
“Mr Holmes,” the man gasped around the hand that Sherlock had pinned to his throat, “it’s me.”
“Hell,” Sherlock whispered, dropping his hands. Bo slumped forward, leaning against the wall for support while he gasped for breath. “You know better.”
“Fuckin’ quick, you are,” the younger man said with a bit of awe. “You know, for an old –”
“Don’t finish that sentence,” Sherlock sighed wearily. “What do you have for me?”
“Nothing,” Bo said regretfully. He handed over the photograph of the third victim that Sherlock had given him.
Sherlock blinked at him.
“You must have something,” he said incredulously. Bo shook his head.
“Sorry, Mr Holmes, but no. We don’t have a clue who that might be, and we can’t find anyone who does. Just thought you ought to know.”
Sherlock pursed his lips, heart sinking. That had been his last resort, and it had always come through for him before.
“Thanks,” he muttered finally. He dug through his pockets for his change from the shop and pushed it into Bo’s hands. Bo gave him a grateful nod and disappeared back down the alley.
Sherlock looked again at the picture before tucking it away in his breast pocket and resuming his walk back to Baker Street.
Today marked the start of Rosh Hashanah, and Hopkins had left earlier that morning for his parents’ house. As a nonbeliever born to a Jewish woman and her agnostic husband, this was the sole religious observance Hopkins ever marked (albeit loosely). It was also the only time during the year that he took a holiday, and Sherlock was loath to bother him. But he knew that Hopkins would appreciate even less Sherlock keeping quiet about the information for the ten days before he was due to return to London.
“Shanah Tovah, Sherlock,” Hopkins greeted when Sherlock called him that night. He sounded calm; relaxed by both drink and the break from London.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” Sherlock said, “but I’m afraid I have news.”
“I figured,” Hopkins said in quiet resignation. “It’s all right. What’s going on?”
Sherlock explained about his contact within the homeless network, and how they had been unable to shed any light on the identity of the third victim.
“I can’t say I’m surprised,” Hopkins said, though he did sound disappointed. Sherlock heard ice cubes clink over the line, and then it sounded as though Hopkins had taken a deep swallow of his drink. He sighed. “Thank you, Sherlock. I appreciate the effort. Has anything else happened?”
“No,” Sherlock told him. “No, there’s nothing else. It appears as though the press is still focusing solely on Jessica Thompson. They haven’t yet figured out about the preceding three murders. And your team has yet to find any other victims in the crime databases, male or female. So we have that going for us, whatever small comfort that may be.”
“I’ll take what I can get, at this point,” Hopkins said dryly.
“How has your holiday been?”
“So far? Uneventful. My mother keeps trying to shove food down my throat, and Dad’s got it in his head that he’s going to introduce me to the son of one of his co-workers. He’s desperate for another son-in-law.” Hopkins took another drink. “How are things back home?”
“Also uneventful, at least at the moment. I’ve got lunch with Mycroft on Monday.”
“Couldn’t manage to worm your way out of it?”
Sherlock sighed. “Not this time.”
“Well, we’ll make up for it when I’m back. I daresay I’m a better dining companion than your brother.”
“It’s not difficult to be a better dining companion than Mycroft,” Sherlock pointed out. Hopkins laughed. “But yes, I’ll miss your company this week. I don’t know how I’ll manage to get by without you.”
“Something tells me that was sarcasm.”
“Well spotted, detective.” The vid screen on the opposite side of the room lit up suddenly, and Sherlock glanced at it. He suppressed a sigh. “Hopkins, I’ve got to go. I have another call.”
“S’all right, old man, I should probably get back to the folks. Have a good night.”
“The same to you. And – have a good year, Stanley.”
----
To Part 5b/23
