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"Detective?" Barok van Zieks asked cautiously as he strained his eyes and stepped into the darkness of his office.
An unmistakable scent of expensive tea leaves in the air let the prosecutor know who his uninvited visitor was. A heavy curtain prevented the moonlight from fully illuminating the figure sprawled out on the floor in the middle of the room.
Unsurprisingly, the figure did not acknowledge the question directed at it and continued lying face down on the cold tiles. With a flick of a match Barok lit a lamp and drew closer to the intruder. A faint mumble broke the silence.
"Great… Deduction…"
Barok closed his eyes and slowly exhaled, setting the lamp down, but did not move from his place near the round table to help the other man up. The prosecutor glanced at his pocket watch.
One in the morning.
A sigh escaped his lips once again. He came back to retrieve important papers for the upcoming trial. Not to deal with half-unconscious uninvited guests.
"To what do I owe the honour of your visit, Mr. Sholmes?"
It became something of a routine now: once a fortnight, Barok van Zieks would find himself in the company of Herlock Sholmes, whether he planned on it or not. He cannot deny that he found such unwarranted visits irritating at first, but he would be lying if he said he did not secretly find some of Herlock’s wild detective theories entertaining.
With a grunt, the great detective gracelessly rolled over, his tired eyes staring at the ceiling. Barok moved and stopped in front of Herlock’s resting form, crossing his arms, and looking down at him patiently.
"Another physically demanding case?"
Another bad day? Both? thought Barok as he studied Herlock’s unusually cheerless face.
In the dim light of the lamp, he could see that his guest’s clothes and hair were soaking wet, despite it being a dry and cloudless October night. Did he carelessly fall in the Thames pursuing a lead? Or was it someone’s childish japery? Or perhaps…
"I can hear you thinking from all the way down here, Mr. Reaper," Herlock muttered quietly and turned his head toward Barok’s iron-heeled boots.
…or perhaps I should stop standing around and do something about this.
The prosecutor weighed his options. Like any reasonable man, he could just take what he came here for and ask the guard to see Mr. Sholmes out. Or he could throw reason out the window and hear Herlock out, just like he did the last time. And the one before that. And the… Nevermind.
Barok glanced at the helpless man at his feet once again and pinched the bridge of his nose in irritation. Barok van Zieks did not like being unreasonable. We should stop meeting like this.
"…a case," muttered Herlock.
"Pardon?"
"I was working on a case," detective’s brow furrowed, "and I let him get away."
"Him?"
"The culprit."
Unconsciously, Barok’s glance slid up and over the shadow-clad portrait of his brother. The prosecutor calmly replied, "It is a shame."
"And I nearly had him!" Herlock suddenly exclaimed, flailing his hands wildly.
"But the fiend managed to escape your merciless pursuit by hopping onto a departing boat, I presume," Barok raised a brow in amusement, "The audacity."
"A boat, Mr. Reaper?" Sholmes grinned, "I must say, your imagination is certainly unbridled. Why a boat?"
"That would explain you mopping the floor of my office with your clothes."
"Pshaw! This trifle matter?’ Herlock slapped a hand over his chest, ‘I simply stumbled upon a suspicious-looking puddle on my way here. You had to see it. No self-respecting detective would just walk by such a puddle without thoroughly examining it."
"Naturally," Barok’s mouth was a straight thin line, but his tone was warm.
"I was terrified, you know," the detective suddenly became serious. Barok blinked.
"Of the… puddle?"
"Of the man I was pursuing. The fellow drew a gun on me. What a terrible night to get shot, I thought."
"Does that imply there are good nights to get shot?" Barok asked softly. You are safe here. Herlock huffed out a laugh.
"Glad to see you are full of vim, my dear Reaper," Herlock smiled. One of his rare, true smiles, noted Barok.
He felt slightly uncomfortable, as if he was invading some kind of unspoken boundary by seeing Sholmes like this – unguarded, unkempt, exhausted. He looked away from the man still lying in the floor and cleared his throat. We really should stop meeting like this.
Despite Barok trying to convince himself that he should not indulge the detective in his foolish games, or enjoy his whimsical stories, or feel that pleasantly irritating warmth in his chest when he hears the other man’s laughter, he could not deny the way he felt. He wished he was not worried about this ridiculous man. He wished he did not care.
He wished to find the right words to reassure Herlock, to let the other man know that he can trust and rely on him, but the only words his confused brain could conjure up at that moment were:
"It is unbecoming for a man of your status to lay sprawled out on the floor in that manner."
And there it was, one of the most beautiful sounds Barok has ever heard, Herlock’s gentle laughter.
His body moved before he could register what he was doing. Barok found himself kneeling beside the detective, his fingers in cold lapels of Herlock’s overcoat. He slid his hands down and slowly unbuttoned the clasp. He paused, his mind catching up.
Herlock didn’t protest and watched the prosecutor with an amused expression, as the man continued fumbling with the buttons on the coat.
"My, Lord van Zieks," Herlock said light-heartedly, "not even going to treat a fellow to dinner first?"
Barok stilled and looked at his hands. If he were capable of blushing, his face would be an unflattering shade of red right now.
"If you were to catch pneumonia," Barok’s level voice did not betray his embarrassment, "there wouldn’t be a fellow to be treated."
Herlock closely studied the other man’s face as if trying to understand whether he was serious or not.
Barok did not let him dwell on that for too long as he tugged on detective’s clothes. Herlock reluctantly sat up and shrugged his wet coat off. Barok moved to stand up, but his efforts were cut short by Herlock unceremoniously leaning forward and laying his head on the prosecutor’s shoulder.
At that moment, the long-standing theory of Barok van Zieks not being able to blush was disproved. The prosecutor held his breath, confused. What am I doing? I came here for the papers. I should stand up, take what I need, and we should both go our separate ways. This feels unnatural, this feels… on his shoulder, Herlock shifted slightly, …nice.
A wild, foreign thought went through Barok’s mind. Perhaps this could feel even nicer. He could wrap his arms around the other man and bring him closer, feel his touch and his heartbeat, feel the thing he was running away from, the thing he denied himself for so long. The warmth of another human being.
At last, he broke himself out of the stupor, but did not get the chance to move away, the sound of Herlock’s rushed words reaching him in the semi-darkness.
"Just. Let me have this. Just this once. Just for one more moment. Please," his voice pleading, barely above a whisper. And as if Barok did not feel overwhelmed already, Herlock snaked his hands around the other man’s neck and inhaled slowly.
Barok felt extremely hot and incredibly cold at the same time. This long-forgotten sensation was terrifying. As well as terrifyingly pleasant. He wanted to embrace Herlock and never let go, and he wanted to wriggle from under his hands and flee like a scared animal without looking back.
He did neither of these things and just stared at the shadow cast by the worktable, his heart in his throat. A million doubts went through Barok’s head, a thousand what-ifs, a hundred questions and a dozen words died on his tongue faced with one horrifying matter of trust.
He felt Herlock shiver.
To hell with it.
Herlock let out a small noise of surprise as Barok carefully enfolded him in his arms. For the first time in his life Barok regretted having gloves on. The prosecutor pressed his temple to Herlock’s hair, not minding the dampness of it, and closed his eyes.
All was still for a moment. They sat there, clinging to each other, taking in each other’s warmth, impervious to the night chill and the cold draft it brought with it. Herlock was the first one to pull away, but his palms were still resting on Barok’s wide shoulders. The prosecutor was not sure where to put his own hands, so he let them slide down to Herlock’s waist.
"Actually, I jumped off a bridge," the detective said quietly and put on one of his defensive fake grins. Barok stared.
"What? Why—"
"We were conveniently situated on a bridge when that fellow pointed his revolver at me. I created a masterful diversion by yelling ‘Officer!’ at the top of my lungs, and gracefully made my exit by jumping into the water. In truth, no one but us two were on that bridge. However, as the man turned around to check for any approaching policemen, I decided it is my queue to leave. And naturally," Herlock shivered again, "I did not expect the water to be this freezing."
Barok stared at the detective in utter disbelief.
"You did not expect the river to be cold. In London. In October," the prosecutor shook his head slightly.
"I am afraid I cannot afford to clatter my mental space with such miniscule facts, my dear Reaper," Herlock sounded almost defensive.
Barock simply sat there, not being able to wrap his head around how this man managed to survive to be thirty-four.
Barok felt Herlock shiver under his hands. The detective did not try to put on a smile anymore. Sholmes would never outright admit that he was shaken by the events of the night, so he just sat there, wet and miserable and exhausted.
Perhaps remaining on the floor was not the best idea. The prosecutor hesitated for a moment, but then brought his hands up to cup Herlock’s face. Something strange stirred deep inside of him as he heard the other man’s breath hitch in his throat. Something wild and hungry made itself known as he watched detective’s beautiful wide eyes settle on his lips. Herlock tightened his grip on prosecutor’s shoulders.
Barok leaned in and pressed his lips to Herlock’s forehead. Let us not rush. It was warm.
The detective was leaning into the touch, his hands and his face and his breath insufferably close. Please.
And then the prosecutor slowly pulled away. Coward.
"Just… Checking your temperature," Barok’s voice wavered on the last word.
Herlock nodded and hummed, a low gentle sound.
"So, what is your verdict, doctor Reaper?" Barok felt Herlock's heavy gaze on him and suppressed the urge to shiver.
"Let us not sit here any longer. We need to find someplace warm and, ideally, a change of clothes for you," the prosecutor stood up and offered his hand to the detective.
Herlock looked at it for a long moment and finally let Barok help him up. He swayed lightly and nearly stumbled over his own boots, but Barok's steady hands helped him stay upright. The prosecutor squeezed Herlock's shoulders, a reassurance. I am here. No need to worry. Herlock lifted up one of his cold clammy hands and patted the glove resting on his shoulder. I know. Thank you.
"So, where are we off to, my dear Reaper?" a bit of the usual positive energy returned to the detective's tone.
"Somewhere you can share more of your fascinating adventures with me," Barok allowed himself a small smile.
"Wonderful! Come, then, my dear Reaper, or we will both freeze to death. I can see the headlines already, hear ye, hear ye, Unexpected Terror in the Darkness of October Night... Two fine gentlemen found dead..." Herlock dramatically brought his hand up to his forehead, mimicking a fainting damsel.
"Let us away then," Barok took the lamp from the table and gently nudged Herlock towards the door. He looked at the documents sitting neatly on top of his worktable. He hesitated for a brief second, but then, with a rustle of his cape, the prosecutor turned around on his heel and exited the room with his companion.