Chapter Text
Every year, four days after Sherlock’s Birthday, Victor and Sherlock made time for each other. Well, almost every year. The two men led very busy lives, what with one being the world’s only consulting detective and the other being an MI6 agent who belonged to a very elite group, known for their suave, efficient brutality.
On this special day, the two celebrated the official anniversary of the day when Sherlock was viciously attacked by Charlie, Victor’s bull terrier. After some cursing and the shouting, and the growling on Charlie’s part, Victor had fallen quick and hard for the young man, with his wild hair mussed and his T-shirt rucked up enough to expose a slender waist, but it wasn’t until after Sherlock’s high-speed deductions of Victor’s life that Victor knew that he had the found the one. Sherlock had taken a little while longer--about 2 years--to know that Victor was indeed his, which, incidentally, happened to be the same year that Charlie died.
“Lets go for a walk.” Sherlock, at the age of twenty-three, with his head dyed in an array of blues and greens, had held a very wriggly dog in his arms--the very same dog that belonged to Sherlock’s first client, as it happened. “I’m borrowing him in honor of Charlie, since he’s the one responsible for our inconvenient attachment to each other, having led you to barrel into me like the bulldozer you are.”
Victor smiled wistfully at the memory. “You deserved it for antagonizing him. Besides, your bony body offered me no cushion. I got bruised pretty badly.”
Sherlock reminded him about his own broken ankle and how Victor had carried him, bridal style, all the way to Mycroft’s house, as they walked and talked at length about the first day of their friendship and all the days that came after.
Every year since that first walk, for sixteen years, they would meet on that day at whatever park they were closest to and walk whichever dog Sherlock managed to “borrow” for the day. As they walked, they told each other whatever they couldn’t in the letters, emails, or text messages they exchanged while Victor was away.
At the end of their walks, Victor always reached for Sherlock’s hand and said, “One day, Will, one day I won't have to leave.”
Sherlock would always squeeze back as if to say ‘I believe you’, even though he knew it was a lie. It was too difficult for Sherlock to take Victor’s words to heart, knowing that “One day I won’t leave” could easily change to “One day this will stop because I'll be dead." For Sherlock, the statistics were all too real to ignore. It was not a matter of if, but when.
That day came two weeks after John’s wedding.
***
When John found Sherlock in the drug den, he had almost believed the detective’s lies. True or not, he never questioned Sherlock again after the Magnussen debacle; since Sherlock never touched the drug again, it never became an issue. Everything had been so chaotic in the months before Moriarty’s mysterious resurrection, and the weeks after the major hacking incident were hectic for Sherlock and everyone involved.
That was, until the mystery had come to a rather anticlimactic conclusion.
“It’s already being handled overseas.” Mycroft handed Sherlock a file with a picture of a man with short-cropped blond hair and a wicked smile. His features were rugged and scarred, giving him the appearance of a man who had been through hell and back. “Colonel Sebastian Moran was behind it. He is being hunted down by my best men as we speak.”
Mycroft didn’t miss the way Sherlock’s shoulders hunched inwards. Victor would have been on this mission if he were still alive.
“Our dear brother found the hackers responsible for the broadcast. That’s how we were able to track Moran.” Mycroft spoke of the youngest Holmes, a legend within the hacking community.
Sherlock studied the picture of Moran. After a few beats of silence passed, Mycroft began to shift his feet as if he were expecting one of Sherlock’s usual barbed insults. None came.
“Tell me,” Sherlock said as he still gazed at the photograph. “Is he responsible for…”
Mycroft sighed deeply and took his time, choosing his words carefully.
“Sherlock. We’ll make sure Moran pays. One of agent Trevor’s closest colleagues swore to it.”
“Did he, now,” Sherlock muttered, without sarcasm.
This reaction was not what Mycroft had predicted. He almost asked why Sherlock isn’t jumping with glee. We found him! We found the one who killed your beloved! Shouldn’t you be happy? But the look in Sherlock’s eyes kept Mycroft from speaking; he thought it best to let him grieve in silence.