An Age of Silver (11/23)
Sep. 15th, 2013 11:18 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
impishtubistAn Age of Silver (11/23)
Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 5a / Part 5b / Part 6 / Part 7 / Part 8a / Part 8b / Part 9 / Part 10
----
They became experts at not talking about the kiss.
Sherlock had woken the morning after with an uneasy knot in his stomach and a bitter taste on his tongue that wasn’t entirely due to the alcohol he had consumed the night before. The vague feeling of unease was unpleasant, and after a full day’s contemplation, the only way Sherlock could see to alleviate it was to make sure that there was no repeat of that night in the future, no matter how much he wanted –
No, it simply couldn’t happen again. Hopkins was brilliant, and he was fantastic, and he wasn’t Victor.
Three days passed before Sherlock saw Hopkins again, and they shared an unusually-quiet lunch in Hopkins’ office. The kiss wasn’t mentioned, though Sherlock felt it hanging over both of their heads. But Sherlock couldn’t bring it up and Hopkins, he knew, wouldn’t.
It soon became a sort of unspoken agreement that they wouldn’t mention that night. Hopkins once got so far as saying, “Sherlock, do you think we could talk –” before breaking off and shaking his head. Sherlock didn't press him for more, because he knew full well what Hopkins wanted to discuss, and Hopkins didn't bring it up again. Things were strange between them for a while after that, and the time they spent together was often punctuated by unfamiliar silences. Sherlock began to fear that the kiss—and the way that night might have ended—would hang over them always. He couldn’t bear the thought of it tarnishing their fifteen-year association, and couldn’t think of how to remedy things.
But despite all of that, Hopkins didn’t show any signs of truly withdrawing from him, and Sherlock eventually allowed himself to relax. Perhaps they would weather this storm after all, and come out of it relatively intact. It would just take time.
Hopkins was soon occupied with the case again, anyway, and any lingering questions he might have about that night were set aside as he threw himself into the work. As late February approached, there was still no sign of the serial killer and no new abductions that could be linked to him. Sherlock surmised that the killer only made his abductions and his kills in the warmer weather, hence many of his victims being found in springtime or autumn. If the outdoors was his hunting grounds, it made sense—London was more likely to be frequented by foot traffic in three seasons out of the four.
But what role the second man played, if he played any at all, remained a mystery. And as the killer’s silence stretched on, Hopkins became more and more agitated. He usually wasn’t prone to visibly losing his temper. His fury manifested itself in his voice--the softer he became, the angrier he was. But now he was exhibiting visible bursts of anger at frequent intervals. Sherlock witnessed him snapping at his team on no less than three separate occasions inside of a week, and he once became so furious during one of their lunches in his office that he slammed his hand down on his desk, sending a stack of paperwork to the floor and nearly upsetting his meal.
Sherlock didn’t know what to make of it. Usually Hopkins was the one trying to calm him down, not the other way around, and he wasn’t sure how to help.
Until one afternoon, when Sherlock suggested that they spend their lunch hour in the Yard’s gym.
It had been at least two months since they last had a chance to go a round in the boxing ring together, and Hopkins was plainly itching for a fight. Sherlock intended to give one to him.
“Don’t know why you want to waste time on this right now,” Hopkins grumbled, but he followed Sherlock into the changing rooms anyway. They changed in silence, wrapped their hands, and headed out to the ring.
There was always a pattern to their fights. There was the warm-up period where, hands wrapped and eyes sharp, they would slowly begin to feel one another out. They would trade light jabs and blows, limbs loosening as they fell into the well-remembered routine. And then something would crackle in the air, and the time for warming up was over. There never was any signal, verbal or otherwise, that started their fights. They would simply slip smoothly into the routine, trading long blows and circling one another, each trying to wear the other down. It wasn’t about brute force, but rather about strategy. It was a coordinated dance that kept their minds sharp and their bodies nimble.
But, on this day, their fight was none of those things. It was quick and dirty, little more than a street brawl with a few fancy dressings. Sherlock delivered quick jabs and then danced out of the way, his movements designed to agitate and provoke. He wanted Hopkins to snap, and he wanted it done here in the ring where it could be controlled.
Hopkins delivered his blows with vigor, his movements disciplined but with the occasional flair. It was clear that he wasn’t holding back, and every blow he landed on Sherlock had the full force of his strength behind it. Sherlock soon felt bruises forming on his arms, and one particularly violent punch glanced off his chin. They always avoided the face, but right now there were no rules. And Hopkins was delivering as good as he got.
Finally, Hopkins feinted right and swung left, a move that Sherlock should have seen coming. He was caught by surprise, however, and reeled back as Hopkins’ fist cracked across his nose.
“Oh, bloody hell.” Hopkins, seeming to come back to himself, took several unsteady steps backwards and leaned against the ropes, trying to catch his breath. “You all right, mate?”
Sherlock brought the back of his hand to his nose and tipped his head back, feeling blood run down the back of his throat. He swallowed, and then grimaced at the taste.
“I’ll live,” he muttered, and climbed out of the ring in order to grab a towel. Hopkins followed and took a seat next to him on the bench.
“I’m sorry,” Hopkins said between breaths. “I wasn’t thinking.”
Only a few inches separated them. Sherlock could feel the heat radiating off Hopkins’ body; smell the sweaty musk of him. He swallowed.
“Don’t,” he said. “I wasn’t fast enough. The fault lies with me. It was a good throw.”
“I don’t usually forget myself like that.”
Sherlock snorted, and immediately regretted it as his nose throbbed and continued to bleed.
“I’m not usually so slow,” he pointed out. “I’m getting old, Hopkins.”
“Hardly.” Hopkins rolled his shoulders and was quiet for a moment. “Your hand all right? Looked like you were favouring it.”
The weekly injections at the hospital had been helping, Sherlock had to admit, but they weren’t perfect. And they were beginning to become less effective, he was noticing. Whereas the injections used to give him a relatively pain-free week, now it was only three or four days before the constant agony returned, and he would have to bear it for the three days before his next injection.
“Fine,” he lied. “Just acting up a bit.”
Hopkins grabbed a towel and wiped off his face and the back of his neck. His breathing had largely returned to normal, and his body was no longer thrumming with pent-up, frustrated energy.
“You should probably have that looked at, you know,” he said.
Sherlock hadn’t yet told Hopkins about the impending surgery, mostly because he couldn’t stand the pity that would result. Partly, though, he was irrationally hoping to find a solution in the coming weeks that would allow him to avoid the procedure altogether. He knew that wouldn’t happen, but hoped that it might.
“Probably,” Sherlock said finally. “But to be honest, I’m more concerned for my nose than my hand. Who taught you to box like that?”
Hopkins gave a huff of laughter. Sherlock pulled the towel away from his face and winced at the sight of the blood left behind. His face throbbed. He was getting too old.
“Are you feeling better?” he ventured finally. Hopkins shrugged.
“A bit,” he said cautiously, and then he nodded. “Yeah, actually. Thank you. I didn’t realise I’d needed that.”
Sherlock waved his words away.
“You are welcome to throw a punch at me the next time a case gets to you,” he said, mostly without thinking. And, before Hopkins could reply, added, “But keep in mind that next time, I will hit back.”
Hopkins let out a huff of laughter.
“Fair enough, mate.” He clapped Sherlock on the shoulder. His touch burned through the shirt and scorched Sherlock’s skin, and Sherlock suppressed a shudder. “I should be getting back.”
Sherlock nodded, swallowing past a dry throat. He tried to avert his eyes as Hopkins walked back over to the changing area, but his gaze still passed over Hopkins’ muscled calves and the snug t-shirt that hugged his lean torso. It wasn't long ago that that body had been spread out underneath him on a worn sofa, and for a too-brief moment, Sherlock had had his hands on the taut stomach muscles and the flat planes of Hopkins’ chest. He had kissed his closest friend, and the kiss had been returned.
He wanted it to happen again, and hated himself for it.
----
It had been so long since Sherlock had visited Victor’s grave that flowers were blooming unchecked around the headstone.
Spring had arrived promptly this year, right at the beginning of March, though Sherlock hadn’t properly noted the season change until just the other day. The realisation happened when he came outside to find Checkers sleeping on the small patch of land between Baker Street and the pavement—a thin strip of grass that got sun for a brief time each afternoon. It was a change from his usual napping place on the staircase inside, and Sherlock realised only then that the temperature was pleasant, and that the snow that had coloured the scenery the last time he took note of the weather had disappeared.
“Helleborus niger,” Sherlock narrated quietly to the headstone as he sank to his knees before Victor’s grave. He fingered the delicate flowers with a gloved hand. “The Christmas rose. A short-lived but poisonous flower. How appropriate.”
Victor would have found it fitting, at least.
“The case continues still,” Sherlock told him. “It’s been seven months since I was brought on, and still we’ve made very little progress. He’s claimed another victim since the beginning, and we found several victims dating back to Lestrade’s time… oh. I told you that already, didn’t I?”
Sherlock shook his head.
“Sorry, old friend,” he said softly. “I suppose I’ve been distracted lately. It’s just – things with Hopkins…”
He trailed off, stopping short of admitting what had transpired between them three weeks back. But if Victor were here, one glance at Sherlock would have told him everything. Victor, who could read him like a book, wouldn’t have needed Sherlock to say the words.
Then again, if Victor were here, that February night would never have happened in the first place.
Sherlock had always looked to Victor for advice; had looked to Victor for guidance. But how could he expect the most important person in his life to guide him in this area? How could he expect Victor to condone wanting another; someone who wasn’t him?
It was cruel.
“If you were here,” Sherlock said finally, “you would be able to tell instantly what happened between us. And you mustn’t blame him for it. I was the one who initiated it. I… wanted to. And I’m sorry.”
He cleared his throat and was quiet for a while. Most days he had no trouble hearing Victor’s words in his head. He had difficulty remembering Victor’s voice anymore, but his words—his advice, his phrases, his inflections—were something Sherlock could conjure up whenever he needed to hear them.
Except for right now, when he could hear nothing – no advice, no guidance.
No forgiveness.
Sherlock cleared his throat again and tried to move on to other topics.
“My stepfather died,” he said at last, trying to remember all that had occurred since he was last at the gravesite. “I imagine, if you were here, you would be more saddened than I. You always got on well with him.”
Sherlock scrubbed a hand through his hair.
“It’s strange,” he said finally. “I was never close to Erik. My mother has been dead for five years; my father, for most of my life. And yet, it’s only now that I’ve come to realise… I am an orphan. It happens to all of us, eventually, but I wasn’t expecting… it’s strange.”
Sherlock blew out a frustrated breath between his teeth.
“If you were here,” he said, “I wouldn’t have to explain. You would just know. You always knew, without me saying the words. I’m not good with them, but then I never needed to be. I always had you.”
And on that night, when Sherlock was alone in the house he hated and slowly starting to process the hollow feeling of absence that his stepfather’s death had left behind, he had had Hopkins.
Hopkins had known to call, and he had known what to say. He didn’t need Sherlock to form the words.
Sherlock rocked back on his heels and rose to his feet, and the illusion of talking to Victor was broken. There were birds rustling the brittle branches of a nearby tree, and a light breeze rippled the grass. He breathed in the scent of damp earth and felt cool air on the back of his neck, and he tried to ground himself once again with the sounds of rebirth that were all around him.
Victor was gone. Hopkins was not.
And yet, he couldn’t care for one man without betraying the other.
----
Though the case of their serial killer had taken a back seat in recent months to other murders, every time they closed a case Hopkins had his team go back and take a fresh look at the serial murders. They were now approaching five months since the November murder of Sarah Burlough, and even Sherlock began to wonder if the killer—and his supposed accomplice—had moved on to better, less suspecting prospects.
Nevertheless, Hopkins’ team would pore over the same evidence time and time again, often for hours on end, and weren’t able to glean any new information from the old clues, even with Sherlock sitting in on the meetings. These meetings with his team were usually fraught with tension, and nearly all of it came from Hopkins. Sparring sessions with Sherlock eventually weren’t enough to distract him. Hopkins needed answers, and he needed them now--for all their sakes.
At the beginning of March, Hopkins decided to switch tactics entirely. If they couldn’t figure out who their killer was, or where he was abducting his victims from, they were going to have to figure out where he took his victims.
It was the only option they had left.
“Where does he take them?” Hopkins bellowed on this afternoon, snapping Sherlock suddenly from his thoughts. “Come on, people! I want theories, and I want them now!”
Hopkins’ nerves were frayed, his team was harried, and today even Sherlock’s presence wasn’t enough of a buffer.
“It must be someplace remote or abandoned,” Donovan said at last, and everyone turned to look at her. “Yet it can’t be far, because the killer abducts, murders, and dumps his victims all within forty-eight hours.”
“What do you mean by remote?” Sergeant Smith asked.
“She means isolated,” Sherlock said irritably. Wasn’t it obvious? “She means that there are no neighbors within earshot, and that’s very difficult to come by in London.”
Donovan nodded. Sherlock pointed at the photographs of the victims.
“These people were tortured, Smith. Look at those injuries! It would have hurt. And yet, there’s no sign of them having worn a gag, and they didn’t have enough Rohypnol in their systems to have lasted for very long. They were very awake and very aware when this happened. The killer either wanted them to scream or didn’t care that they did. Either way, he can’t be taking them anyplace where there are people within earshot. And yet it also can’t be that far from London, if it’s outside the city at all, because the victims were all discovered within a few hours of their deaths. So what does that leave us?”
He never got an answer, because at that moment both Hopkins’ and Donovan’s mobiles went off at once. Donovan excused herself to take the call while Hopkins read the text on his screen.
“There was a body found on the grounds of Greentree Banking Group this morning,” Hopkins informed the rest of his team wearily. “Unrelated to this case. Smith, Anderson – you’ll go with Donovan to check it out. If it looks like you’re going to need some backup, give me a call. We’ll have to put our serial killer—or killers—aside until this new case is closed. Keep me apprised, people.”
He dismissed his team with a nod and was the last one to leave the room.
“What, Sherlock?” Hopkins said irritably as Sherlock followed him back to his office. “You’re finished here for today. Go home.”
“No.”
Hopkins turned to face him once they reached his office. He crossed his arms over his chest while Sherlock closed the door. “And why the hell not?”
“Because you are about to do something very stupid,” Sherlock said calmly.
“Me?” Hopkins snorted. “I don’t think so.”
“Then explain to me why you sent Donovan to investigate a body with only Smith and Anderson. You never voluntarily stay behind in your office, especially given the fact that the sooner this new case gets closed, the sooner you’ll be able to return to your serial killer,” Sherlock pointed out. “Don’t you dare lie to me. It’s not going to work. What’s going on?”
Hopkins’ face darkened all at once.
“If you’re here to stop me, let’s get it out of the way,” he said in a low, dangerous voice. “I haven’t time for this, and I’d rather not hurt you.”
“Give me some credit, Hopkins,” Sherlock said. “I may be old, but I’m not dead. Whatever you’re doing, did you really expect me to miss out on it?”
Hopkins cracked a smile, the first one Sherlock had seen on his face in days.
“I suppose that was a bit short-sighted of me.” He touched a hand to his chest, which Sherlock knew to mean that he had grabbed the gun he kept at home and was carrying it on him. He added, unnecessarily, “This isn’t going to exactly be orthodox.”
“Do you really think that matters to me?” Sherlock considered him for a moment. Hopkins had been too agitated during the meeting, and he had checked his watch three times more than was normal. Sherlock had assumed it was because Hopkins was frustrated at the dead ends that they kept running into, but maybe there was another factor at play. Perhaps Hopkins hadn’t actually been agitated, but in a hurry. And then realisation sank in. “You’ve figured out where the victims were being held.”
“I’m not entirely sure; that’s what I was going to look into tonight.” Hopkins opened his desk drawer and pulled out a penknife, which he slipped into his pocket. “But I have an idea. Do you know of McCormack Industries?”
Sherlock had to think for a moment before he found the factory on his mental map of London.
“That’s near Hyde Park,” Sherlock said, finally locating the vast complex. Hopkins nodded.
“Right. Less than five years old, state-of-the-art equipment, a heightened security system - it’s precisely the opposite of the kind of building we’re looking for. And that, I think, is the point. Our killer isn’t concerned with being found out, right? I mean, that’s not his end goal. He doesn’t want to have his moment in the spotlight, and he doesn’t want to end his killing spree. But he knows how we think. He knows that we’re going to be looking in every decrepit, out-of-the-way building we can find, because we figure he needs an isolated place to commit his crimes.” Hopkins grabbed his keys and walked out of his office; Sherlock followed.
“I didn’t think of the connection to McCormack Industries until today. But do you remember the last victim—Sarah Burlough?” Hopkins went on. Sherlock nodded. “She was found with more than DNA on her body. There were tiny grains of trioxipate on the bottoms of her feet, and some of it was also found on her hands and under her fingernails. It wasn’t considered important, not when there was DNA to analyze. But for some reason I couldn’t stop thinking about it. It was the one detail that kept sticking in my mind. Do you know what the factory makes – what McCormack Industries is known for?”
Sherlock thought for a second, and then shook his head. “If I did, I deleted it.”
Hopkins grunted.
“Hull repair bots, the kind that are employed on low-Earth orbit craft. And one of the most important components in low-Earth orbit craft and robots is the compound trioxipate. I used to work with it all the time at university. Now, there would be no reason for Sarah Burlough to have it on her body—unless she had recently been inside a factory that produced such machines.”
“And she wasn’t an employee of the factory,” Sherlock said.
“Exactly. And, not only that, but there’s only one factory in all of London that makes those machines.” They entered the car park, and Hopkins dug his keys out of his pocket. “It’s a loud business, Sherlock, and the factory is in a fairly well-populated area. Think about it. They’re able to get away with that because -”
“ - because the buildings are all soundproof,” Sherlock realised. “And the victims were taken somewhere where no one could hear them scream. Oh, that’s clever. But how would the killer gain access to the factory? For that matter, how would he know about the sound-proofing in the first place?”
Hopkins glanced at him as they got into his car and he started the engine.
“Anderson is under the impression that this killer has an accomplice due to that anomalous strand of DNA,” Hopkins said as he peeled out of the car park. “If he does, then it’s possible that this accomplice is an employee of the factory. Hell, maybe the killer is as well. It seems to be the most logical conclusion. It would afford our killer easy access to a sound-proofed facility, and he would know the ins and outs of the building. We’re operating under the assumption that the killer and his accomplice are males, so that eliminates a handful of workers already. The killer has to be old enough to have been conducting murders for twenty years, which gets rid of another handful. In fact, that leaves us with a list of twenty men at this particular factory who could be suspects in this case.”
Sherlock blinked at him.
“You didn’t mention any of this at the meeting.”
Hopkins snorted.
“If I had, do you think I’d be out doing this right now?”
Sherlock shook his head. Hopkins’ team would have stopped him on the spot. While normally Sherlock had no issues with operating outside the protocols of the Yard, he couldn’t say he found it appealing when Hopkins was the one bending the rules—at risk to his own person, no less.
“You didn’t want your team to know about this. You’re going after him on your own, and you don’t want them to know, because – because you alone want to be the one to take down this killer.”
Hopkins glanced at him, and then back at the road.
“I’ve known you fifteen years, Sherlock. If you’re just now about to have an ethical crisis, I’d appreciate you telling me so I can kick you out of the car.”
Sherlock shook his head. It wasn’t Hopkins’ methods he had issue with. He had little use for justice or proper police procedures, and he rarely followed a case after he managed to solve it. What happened to the perpetrator wasn’t interesting; the puzzle itself was. But Hopkins going off on his own, and obviously intending to eliminate a killer rather than leaving him to the mercy of the justice system – well, this was new. And perhaps something that Sherlock could be concerned about.
He would deal with analyzing Hopkins’ mental state later, however.
“How do you plan to gain access to the factory?” he asked.
“The owner’s a friend of mine,” Hopkins said. “I worked in the Robotics Research Centre at King’s before joining the force; we met there. Kept in touch even after I decided to switch careers. He’s going to let us go on a tour of the place.”
Sherlock raised an eyebrow.
“Not exactly a thorough plan.”
Hopkins shrugged. “I figured this was the best way to go about it. We’ll be having a look around, nothing more. If we find nothing, we have an excuse for being there in the first place. And we won’t raise the killer’s suspicions like a normal police search would--if he’s even around tonight. He’ll run the moment he thinks we’re onto him, you know that. We need to operate under the radar, here.”
Sherlock tapped a finger on his knee, feeling the first surges of adrenaline thrum through his limbs and kick his brain into high gear. Hopkins’ theory was intriguing, and while it was a stretch, it wasn’t necessarily completely off-the-mark. Especially given the fact that Sarah Burlough had been found with such an unusual compound on her body. He wondered then if it had been found on the other victims, too, but hadn’t been put into the case notes. Or maybe the amounts of trioxipate on the other victims had been so miniscule that they hadn’t been detectable.
Just like the DNA found on Sarah Burlough, which had barely been enough to work with.
“Do you think we should be concerned about the fact –” Sherlock started.
“Should I be concerned about the fact that the first four victims of this particular killing spree were found with no evidence on their bodies?” Hopkins finished. “And then comes along victim number five, and not only do we find DNA on her, but also a rare compound that’s only found in one part of London?”
“Are we walking into a trap?” Sherlock finished. Hopkins took his eyes off the road for just a second; long enough to flash Sherlock a grin.
“I don’t know. Let’s find out, shall we?”
----
Part 12
----
Chapter Notes: McCormack Industries, Greentree Banking Group, the hull repair robots, and the compound trioxipate don't exist and belong to me.
Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 5a / Part 5b / Part 6 / Part 7 / Part 8a / Part 8b / Part 9 / Part 10
----
They became experts at not talking about the kiss.
Sherlock had woken the morning after with an uneasy knot in his stomach and a bitter taste on his tongue that wasn’t entirely due to the alcohol he had consumed the night before. The vague feeling of unease was unpleasant, and after a full day’s contemplation, the only way Sherlock could see to alleviate it was to make sure that there was no repeat of that night in the future, no matter how much he wanted –
No, it simply couldn’t happen again. Hopkins was brilliant, and he was fantastic, and he wasn’t Victor.
Three days passed before Sherlock saw Hopkins again, and they shared an unusually-quiet lunch in Hopkins’ office. The kiss wasn’t mentioned, though Sherlock felt it hanging over both of their heads. But Sherlock couldn’t bring it up and Hopkins, he knew, wouldn’t.
It soon became a sort of unspoken agreement that they wouldn’t mention that night. Hopkins once got so far as saying, “Sherlock, do you think we could talk –” before breaking off and shaking his head. Sherlock didn't press him for more, because he knew full well what Hopkins wanted to discuss, and Hopkins didn't bring it up again. Things were strange between them for a while after that, and the time they spent together was often punctuated by unfamiliar silences. Sherlock began to fear that the kiss—and the way that night might have ended—would hang over them always. He couldn’t bear the thought of it tarnishing their fifteen-year association, and couldn’t think of how to remedy things.
But despite all of that, Hopkins didn’t show any signs of truly withdrawing from him, and Sherlock eventually allowed himself to relax. Perhaps they would weather this storm after all, and come out of it relatively intact. It would just take time.
Hopkins was soon occupied with the case again, anyway, and any lingering questions he might have about that night were set aside as he threw himself into the work. As late February approached, there was still no sign of the serial killer and no new abductions that could be linked to him. Sherlock surmised that the killer only made his abductions and his kills in the warmer weather, hence many of his victims being found in springtime or autumn. If the outdoors was his hunting grounds, it made sense—London was more likely to be frequented by foot traffic in three seasons out of the four.
But what role the second man played, if he played any at all, remained a mystery. And as the killer’s silence stretched on, Hopkins became more and more agitated. He usually wasn’t prone to visibly losing his temper. His fury manifested itself in his voice--the softer he became, the angrier he was. But now he was exhibiting visible bursts of anger at frequent intervals. Sherlock witnessed him snapping at his team on no less than three separate occasions inside of a week, and he once became so furious during one of their lunches in his office that he slammed his hand down on his desk, sending a stack of paperwork to the floor and nearly upsetting his meal.
Sherlock didn’t know what to make of it. Usually Hopkins was the one trying to calm him down, not the other way around, and he wasn’t sure how to help.
Until one afternoon, when Sherlock suggested that they spend their lunch hour in the Yard’s gym.
It had been at least two months since they last had a chance to go a round in the boxing ring together, and Hopkins was plainly itching for a fight. Sherlock intended to give one to him.
“Don’t know why you want to waste time on this right now,” Hopkins grumbled, but he followed Sherlock into the changing rooms anyway. They changed in silence, wrapped their hands, and headed out to the ring.
There was always a pattern to their fights. There was the warm-up period where, hands wrapped and eyes sharp, they would slowly begin to feel one another out. They would trade light jabs and blows, limbs loosening as they fell into the well-remembered routine. And then something would crackle in the air, and the time for warming up was over. There never was any signal, verbal or otherwise, that started their fights. They would simply slip smoothly into the routine, trading long blows and circling one another, each trying to wear the other down. It wasn’t about brute force, but rather about strategy. It was a coordinated dance that kept their minds sharp and their bodies nimble.
But, on this day, their fight was none of those things. It was quick and dirty, little more than a street brawl with a few fancy dressings. Sherlock delivered quick jabs and then danced out of the way, his movements designed to agitate and provoke. He wanted Hopkins to snap, and he wanted it done here in the ring where it could be controlled.
Hopkins delivered his blows with vigor, his movements disciplined but with the occasional flair. It was clear that he wasn’t holding back, and every blow he landed on Sherlock had the full force of his strength behind it. Sherlock soon felt bruises forming on his arms, and one particularly violent punch glanced off his chin. They always avoided the face, but right now there were no rules. And Hopkins was delivering as good as he got.
Finally, Hopkins feinted right and swung left, a move that Sherlock should have seen coming. He was caught by surprise, however, and reeled back as Hopkins’ fist cracked across his nose.
“Oh, bloody hell.” Hopkins, seeming to come back to himself, took several unsteady steps backwards and leaned against the ropes, trying to catch his breath. “You all right, mate?”
Sherlock brought the back of his hand to his nose and tipped his head back, feeling blood run down the back of his throat. He swallowed, and then grimaced at the taste.
“I’ll live,” he muttered, and climbed out of the ring in order to grab a towel. Hopkins followed and took a seat next to him on the bench.
“I’m sorry,” Hopkins said between breaths. “I wasn’t thinking.”
Only a few inches separated them. Sherlock could feel the heat radiating off Hopkins’ body; smell the sweaty musk of him. He swallowed.
“Don’t,” he said. “I wasn’t fast enough. The fault lies with me. It was a good throw.”
“I don’t usually forget myself like that.”
Sherlock snorted, and immediately regretted it as his nose throbbed and continued to bleed.
“I’m not usually so slow,” he pointed out. “I’m getting old, Hopkins.”
“Hardly.” Hopkins rolled his shoulders and was quiet for a moment. “Your hand all right? Looked like you were favouring it.”
The weekly injections at the hospital had been helping, Sherlock had to admit, but they weren’t perfect. And they were beginning to become less effective, he was noticing. Whereas the injections used to give him a relatively pain-free week, now it was only three or four days before the constant agony returned, and he would have to bear it for the three days before his next injection.
“Fine,” he lied. “Just acting up a bit.”
Hopkins grabbed a towel and wiped off his face and the back of his neck. His breathing had largely returned to normal, and his body was no longer thrumming with pent-up, frustrated energy.
“You should probably have that looked at, you know,” he said.
Sherlock hadn’t yet told Hopkins about the impending surgery, mostly because he couldn’t stand the pity that would result. Partly, though, he was irrationally hoping to find a solution in the coming weeks that would allow him to avoid the procedure altogether. He knew that wouldn’t happen, but hoped that it might.
“Probably,” Sherlock said finally. “But to be honest, I’m more concerned for my nose than my hand. Who taught you to box like that?”
Hopkins gave a huff of laughter. Sherlock pulled the towel away from his face and winced at the sight of the blood left behind. His face throbbed. He was getting too old.
“Are you feeling better?” he ventured finally. Hopkins shrugged.
“A bit,” he said cautiously, and then he nodded. “Yeah, actually. Thank you. I didn’t realise I’d needed that.”
Sherlock waved his words away.
“You are welcome to throw a punch at me the next time a case gets to you,” he said, mostly without thinking. And, before Hopkins could reply, added, “But keep in mind that next time, I will hit back.”
Hopkins let out a huff of laughter.
“Fair enough, mate.” He clapped Sherlock on the shoulder. His touch burned through the shirt and scorched Sherlock’s skin, and Sherlock suppressed a shudder. “I should be getting back.”
Sherlock nodded, swallowing past a dry throat. He tried to avert his eyes as Hopkins walked back over to the changing area, but his gaze still passed over Hopkins’ muscled calves and the snug t-shirt that hugged his lean torso. It wasn't long ago that that body had been spread out underneath him on a worn sofa, and for a too-brief moment, Sherlock had had his hands on the taut stomach muscles and the flat planes of Hopkins’ chest. He had kissed his closest friend, and the kiss had been returned.
He wanted it to happen again, and hated himself for it.
----
It had been so long since Sherlock had visited Victor’s grave that flowers were blooming unchecked around the headstone.
Spring had arrived promptly this year, right at the beginning of March, though Sherlock hadn’t properly noted the season change until just the other day. The realisation happened when he came outside to find Checkers sleeping on the small patch of land between Baker Street and the pavement—a thin strip of grass that got sun for a brief time each afternoon. It was a change from his usual napping place on the staircase inside, and Sherlock realised only then that the temperature was pleasant, and that the snow that had coloured the scenery the last time he took note of the weather had disappeared.
“Helleborus niger,” Sherlock narrated quietly to the headstone as he sank to his knees before Victor’s grave. He fingered the delicate flowers with a gloved hand. “The Christmas rose. A short-lived but poisonous flower. How appropriate.”
Victor would have found it fitting, at least.
“The case continues still,” Sherlock told him. “It’s been seven months since I was brought on, and still we’ve made very little progress. He’s claimed another victim since the beginning, and we found several victims dating back to Lestrade’s time… oh. I told you that already, didn’t I?”
Sherlock shook his head.
“Sorry, old friend,” he said softly. “I suppose I’ve been distracted lately. It’s just – things with Hopkins…”
He trailed off, stopping short of admitting what had transpired between them three weeks back. But if Victor were here, one glance at Sherlock would have told him everything. Victor, who could read him like a book, wouldn’t have needed Sherlock to say the words.
Then again, if Victor were here, that February night would never have happened in the first place.
Sherlock had always looked to Victor for advice; had looked to Victor for guidance. But how could he expect the most important person in his life to guide him in this area? How could he expect Victor to condone wanting another; someone who wasn’t him?
It was cruel.
“If you were here,” Sherlock said finally, “you would be able to tell instantly what happened between us. And you mustn’t blame him for it. I was the one who initiated it. I… wanted to. And I’m sorry.”
He cleared his throat and was quiet for a while. Most days he had no trouble hearing Victor’s words in his head. He had difficulty remembering Victor’s voice anymore, but his words—his advice, his phrases, his inflections—were something Sherlock could conjure up whenever he needed to hear them.
Except for right now, when he could hear nothing – no advice, no guidance.
No forgiveness.
Sherlock cleared his throat again and tried to move on to other topics.
“My stepfather died,” he said at last, trying to remember all that had occurred since he was last at the gravesite. “I imagine, if you were here, you would be more saddened than I. You always got on well with him.”
Sherlock scrubbed a hand through his hair.
“It’s strange,” he said finally. “I was never close to Erik. My mother has been dead for five years; my father, for most of my life. And yet, it’s only now that I’ve come to realise… I am an orphan. It happens to all of us, eventually, but I wasn’t expecting… it’s strange.”
Sherlock blew out a frustrated breath between his teeth.
“If you were here,” he said, “I wouldn’t have to explain. You would just know. You always knew, without me saying the words. I’m not good with them, but then I never needed to be. I always had you.”
And on that night, when Sherlock was alone in the house he hated and slowly starting to process the hollow feeling of absence that his stepfather’s death had left behind, he had had Hopkins.
Hopkins had known to call, and he had known what to say. He didn’t need Sherlock to form the words.
Sherlock rocked back on his heels and rose to his feet, and the illusion of talking to Victor was broken. There were birds rustling the brittle branches of a nearby tree, and a light breeze rippled the grass. He breathed in the scent of damp earth and felt cool air on the back of his neck, and he tried to ground himself once again with the sounds of rebirth that were all around him.
Victor was gone. Hopkins was not.
And yet, he couldn’t care for one man without betraying the other.
----
Though the case of their serial killer had taken a back seat in recent months to other murders, every time they closed a case Hopkins had his team go back and take a fresh look at the serial murders. They were now approaching five months since the November murder of Sarah Burlough, and even Sherlock began to wonder if the killer—and his supposed accomplice—had moved on to better, less suspecting prospects.
Nevertheless, Hopkins’ team would pore over the same evidence time and time again, often for hours on end, and weren’t able to glean any new information from the old clues, even with Sherlock sitting in on the meetings. These meetings with his team were usually fraught with tension, and nearly all of it came from Hopkins. Sparring sessions with Sherlock eventually weren’t enough to distract him. Hopkins needed answers, and he needed them now--for all their sakes.
At the beginning of March, Hopkins decided to switch tactics entirely. If they couldn’t figure out who their killer was, or where he was abducting his victims from, they were going to have to figure out where he took his victims.
It was the only option they had left.
“Where does he take them?” Hopkins bellowed on this afternoon, snapping Sherlock suddenly from his thoughts. “Come on, people! I want theories, and I want them now!”
Hopkins’ nerves were frayed, his team was harried, and today even Sherlock’s presence wasn’t enough of a buffer.
“It must be someplace remote or abandoned,” Donovan said at last, and everyone turned to look at her. “Yet it can’t be far, because the killer abducts, murders, and dumps his victims all within forty-eight hours.”
“What do you mean by remote?” Sergeant Smith asked.
“She means isolated,” Sherlock said irritably. Wasn’t it obvious? “She means that there are no neighbors within earshot, and that’s very difficult to come by in London.”
Donovan nodded. Sherlock pointed at the photographs of the victims.
“These people were tortured, Smith. Look at those injuries! It would have hurt. And yet, there’s no sign of them having worn a gag, and they didn’t have enough Rohypnol in their systems to have lasted for very long. They were very awake and very aware when this happened. The killer either wanted them to scream or didn’t care that they did. Either way, he can’t be taking them anyplace where there are people within earshot. And yet it also can’t be that far from London, if it’s outside the city at all, because the victims were all discovered within a few hours of their deaths. So what does that leave us?”
He never got an answer, because at that moment both Hopkins’ and Donovan’s mobiles went off at once. Donovan excused herself to take the call while Hopkins read the text on his screen.
“There was a body found on the grounds of Greentree Banking Group this morning,” Hopkins informed the rest of his team wearily. “Unrelated to this case. Smith, Anderson – you’ll go with Donovan to check it out. If it looks like you’re going to need some backup, give me a call. We’ll have to put our serial killer—or killers—aside until this new case is closed. Keep me apprised, people.”
He dismissed his team with a nod and was the last one to leave the room.
“What, Sherlock?” Hopkins said irritably as Sherlock followed him back to his office. “You’re finished here for today. Go home.”
“No.”
Hopkins turned to face him once they reached his office. He crossed his arms over his chest while Sherlock closed the door. “And why the hell not?”
“Because you are about to do something very stupid,” Sherlock said calmly.
“Me?” Hopkins snorted. “I don’t think so.”
“Then explain to me why you sent Donovan to investigate a body with only Smith and Anderson. You never voluntarily stay behind in your office, especially given the fact that the sooner this new case gets closed, the sooner you’ll be able to return to your serial killer,” Sherlock pointed out. “Don’t you dare lie to me. It’s not going to work. What’s going on?”
Hopkins’ face darkened all at once.
“If you’re here to stop me, let’s get it out of the way,” he said in a low, dangerous voice. “I haven’t time for this, and I’d rather not hurt you.”
“Give me some credit, Hopkins,” Sherlock said. “I may be old, but I’m not dead. Whatever you’re doing, did you really expect me to miss out on it?”
Hopkins cracked a smile, the first one Sherlock had seen on his face in days.
“I suppose that was a bit short-sighted of me.” He touched a hand to his chest, which Sherlock knew to mean that he had grabbed the gun he kept at home and was carrying it on him. He added, unnecessarily, “This isn’t going to exactly be orthodox.”
“Do you really think that matters to me?” Sherlock considered him for a moment. Hopkins had been too agitated during the meeting, and he had checked his watch three times more than was normal. Sherlock had assumed it was because Hopkins was frustrated at the dead ends that they kept running into, but maybe there was another factor at play. Perhaps Hopkins hadn’t actually been agitated, but in a hurry. And then realisation sank in. “You’ve figured out where the victims were being held.”
“I’m not entirely sure; that’s what I was going to look into tonight.” Hopkins opened his desk drawer and pulled out a penknife, which he slipped into his pocket. “But I have an idea. Do you know of McCormack Industries?”
Sherlock had to think for a moment before he found the factory on his mental map of London.
“That’s near Hyde Park,” Sherlock said, finally locating the vast complex. Hopkins nodded.
“Right. Less than five years old, state-of-the-art equipment, a heightened security system - it’s precisely the opposite of the kind of building we’re looking for. And that, I think, is the point. Our killer isn’t concerned with being found out, right? I mean, that’s not his end goal. He doesn’t want to have his moment in the spotlight, and he doesn’t want to end his killing spree. But he knows how we think. He knows that we’re going to be looking in every decrepit, out-of-the-way building we can find, because we figure he needs an isolated place to commit his crimes.” Hopkins grabbed his keys and walked out of his office; Sherlock followed.
“I didn’t think of the connection to McCormack Industries until today. But do you remember the last victim—Sarah Burlough?” Hopkins went on. Sherlock nodded. “She was found with more than DNA on her body. There were tiny grains of trioxipate on the bottoms of her feet, and some of it was also found on her hands and under her fingernails. It wasn’t considered important, not when there was DNA to analyze. But for some reason I couldn’t stop thinking about it. It was the one detail that kept sticking in my mind. Do you know what the factory makes – what McCormack Industries is known for?”
Sherlock thought for a second, and then shook his head. “If I did, I deleted it.”
Hopkins grunted.
“Hull repair bots, the kind that are employed on low-Earth orbit craft. And one of the most important components in low-Earth orbit craft and robots is the compound trioxipate. I used to work with it all the time at university. Now, there would be no reason for Sarah Burlough to have it on her body—unless she had recently been inside a factory that produced such machines.”
“And she wasn’t an employee of the factory,” Sherlock said.
“Exactly. And, not only that, but there’s only one factory in all of London that makes those machines.” They entered the car park, and Hopkins dug his keys out of his pocket. “It’s a loud business, Sherlock, and the factory is in a fairly well-populated area. Think about it. They’re able to get away with that because -”
“ - because the buildings are all soundproof,” Sherlock realised. “And the victims were taken somewhere where no one could hear them scream. Oh, that’s clever. But how would the killer gain access to the factory? For that matter, how would he know about the sound-proofing in the first place?”
Hopkins glanced at him as they got into his car and he started the engine.
“Anderson is under the impression that this killer has an accomplice due to that anomalous strand of DNA,” Hopkins said as he peeled out of the car park. “If he does, then it’s possible that this accomplice is an employee of the factory. Hell, maybe the killer is as well. It seems to be the most logical conclusion. It would afford our killer easy access to a sound-proofed facility, and he would know the ins and outs of the building. We’re operating under the assumption that the killer and his accomplice are males, so that eliminates a handful of workers already. The killer has to be old enough to have been conducting murders for twenty years, which gets rid of another handful. In fact, that leaves us with a list of twenty men at this particular factory who could be suspects in this case.”
Sherlock blinked at him.
“You didn’t mention any of this at the meeting.”
Hopkins snorted.
“If I had, do you think I’d be out doing this right now?”
Sherlock shook his head. Hopkins’ team would have stopped him on the spot. While normally Sherlock had no issues with operating outside the protocols of the Yard, he couldn’t say he found it appealing when Hopkins was the one bending the rules—at risk to his own person, no less.
“You didn’t want your team to know about this. You’re going after him on your own, and you don’t want them to know, because – because you alone want to be the one to take down this killer.”
Hopkins glanced at him, and then back at the road.
“I’ve known you fifteen years, Sherlock. If you’re just now about to have an ethical crisis, I’d appreciate you telling me so I can kick you out of the car.”
Sherlock shook his head. It wasn’t Hopkins’ methods he had issue with. He had little use for justice or proper police procedures, and he rarely followed a case after he managed to solve it. What happened to the perpetrator wasn’t interesting; the puzzle itself was. But Hopkins going off on his own, and obviously intending to eliminate a killer rather than leaving him to the mercy of the justice system – well, this was new. And perhaps something that Sherlock could be concerned about.
He would deal with analyzing Hopkins’ mental state later, however.
“How do you plan to gain access to the factory?” he asked.
“The owner’s a friend of mine,” Hopkins said. “I worked in the Robotics Research Centre at King’s before joining the force; we met there. Kept in touch even after I decided to switch careers. He’s going to let us go on a tour of the place.”
Sherlock raised an eyebrow.
“Not exactly a thorough plan.”
Hopkins shrugged. “I figured this was the best way to go about it. We’ll be having a look around, nothing more. If we find nothing, we have an excuse for being there in the first place. And we won’t raise the killer’s suspicions like a normal police search would--if he’s even around tonight. He’ll run the moment he thinks we’re onto him, you know that. We need to operate under the radar, here.”
Sherlock tapped a finger on his knee, feeling the first surges of adrenaline thrum through his limbs and kick his brain into high gear. Hopkins’ theory was intriguing, and while it was a stretch, it wasn’t necessarily completely off-the-mark. Especially given the fact that Sarah Burlough had been found with such an unusual compound on her body. He wondered then if it had been found on the other victims, too, but hadn’t been put into the case notes. Or maybe the amounts of trioxipate on the other victims had been so miniscule that they hadn’t been detectable.
Just like the DNA found on Sarah Burlough, which had barely been enough to work with.
“Do you think we should be concerned about the fact –” Sherlock started.
“Should I be concerned about the fact that the first four victims of this particular killing spree were found with no evidence on their bodies?” Hopkins finished. “And then comes along victim number five, and not only do we find DNA on her, but also a rare compound that’s only found in one part of London?”
“Are we walking into a trap?” Sherlock finished. Hopkins took his eyes off the road for just a second; long enough to flash Sherlock a grin.
“I don’t know. Let’s find out, shall we?”
----
Part 12
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Chapter Notes: McCormack Industries, Greentree Banking Group, the hull repair robots, and the compound trioxipate don't exist and belong to me.
