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Listening to Sholmes' quiet singing was not a sound that Barok van Zieks had ever particularly wanted, or imagined, really, he would hear. Still, it was nice, hearing that warm, love-laced baritone sing a tired little melody, over and over until the child would finally fall asleep. It was soothing his own grievances, though the prosecutor would never admit to that.He looked to the ground, trying to steady his breathing as an unwanted image sprung to mind.
Barok had barely managed to stop the man from playing the little being his counterfeit Stradivarius, Herlock being too tired to argue, and he was pretty sure the child wouldn’t sleep for the next two days if it had been subjected to that torment. He was in awe of Herlock, he really was, but the man didn’t have a shred of talent in his fingers when playing the instrument. Spirit he had – too much, even. Why, Barok could almost hear a clear tone when he’d draw on that A string, once he’d actually hit it.
The young prosecutor sat in the red armchair next to the fireplace, getting cosy against the rock-hard seat and tea-stained armrests he tried to avoid at all costs – but in the end, tiredness had overtook him, and once he set his arms down, that was the end of it, really. After running to the store to buy diapers that Sholmes didn’t have, warming the milk the man was desperately trying to shove into the little girl’s mouth cold, trying to figure out what her crying meant until Sholmes started crying himself, the overgrown child he was, upon which she finally giggled, carrying the small thing around in his shaking hands and praying he wouldn’t drop it when Sholmes moved about the furniture to find out where her lost soother went, and flipping through three books on parenting Sholmes’ old friend had left him when he departed to Japan a week ago as the other man pulled grimaces at the kid to make it keep laughing and Iris was getting impatient with him, only glaring at him after a while.
“Why did you call for me to help…? I have never even held a child before!” he chanced upon a moment to ask, exasperated with the small girl’s tantrum. The detective laughed.
“You know very well I don’t have many friends”, he said matter-of-factly, “Moreover, you look like a natural talent.”
He wasn’t a natural talent. If he stood staring too long, the child would start wailing, and Herlock had shooed him out of the room when it had become too much. So the violin came into play – replaced by Herlock’s soft hums by Barok’s plead.
In his drowsiness, the pale man’s eyes fluttered shut, lulled by the crackling of the fireplace beside him, the soft touches of heat prickling on his skin, the dim light of the mystery-shrouded apartment filled with all those bizarre knickknacks – from the shoe on display, knives stuck through shopping notes, the Napoleon bust glaring at him, a dirty sponge and a single encased dart laced with a darkened liquid, to the gentle baritone whose notes Barok kept storing somewhere in his brain, trying to savour in them as much as he could. But alas, he stopped paying attention at some point and closed his eyes, dozing off.
Weight dropped into his lap and his eyes flew open again, staring down at the man that was now unceremoniously draped over his lap, scrawny legs dangling from the left armrest, backside firmly set on his thighs, and arms around his thick neck to hold himself up. Herlock was smiling triumphantly, and seemed oblivious to Barok’s eyes blinking at him in panic.
“I did it, Barok”, the man in his lap loudly whispered into his ear, proudly smiling, “I did it!”
The detective’s back arched forward to let out muffled laugh, teeth pressed together tightly so as to not let a single sound except from sharp outtakes of air escape. He then straightened again, looking into his interlocutor’s eyes, “My, dear Barok. You’ve lost some pallor”, he said, reaching forward a pointing finger to touch one of the staring man’s cheeks, “Right here.”
“Herlock, you know very well – ”
“You’re in my apartment, dear. No one will see us in here – no one at all”, Herlock reassured, showing him a small smile after frowning at his attempt of pushing the man down from his lap, “Formalities are not becoming here. Not with me, no. Hush.”
Barok’s protesting mouth closed without making another sound.
“Good boy”, Herlock cooed and noted how Barok’s eyes narrowed, so he continued, “You must have known I wouldn’t miss out on the very best sitting place at 221B Baker Street, right? And you looked so comfortable I couldn’t help but to let myself in”, he explained his reasoning, lazily blinking at him.
“How would you… Why, you have never…” Barok stammered, cursing his inability to resist the detective’s odd charms. Meaning, he was too shy for this.
“Oh, please. You are sitting on one of them seats right now. Pray tell, is it comfortable?”
“At… first it hurts”, Barok managed, “but after a while you start losing feeling in your muscles”, he answered bluntly, and Herlock nodded, satisfied with the answer.
“Exactly. And if you were to sit on the sofa, you’d feel springs pricking up your poor backside”, the blond explained, spreading his hands before snaking his arms around the man’s shoulders again, making sure to do so agonizingly slowly, smoothing out the fabric of Barok’s white button-up and feeling the soft material of his grey-blue vest. Barok’s breath hitched as Herlock leaned forward subconsciously, and upon hearing the cute sound that escaped the bigger man’s lips, he pressed a small peck to the centre of his forehead, retreating into his lap and looking back down at him gently, “Other than that, I’m finally taller than you. So that’s a win for the both of us.”
“I don’t… see this as a win of any sort”, Barok responded, permanently perturbed clear eyes locking with Sholmes’. The detective watched him for a while, then reached out one of his hands to comb stray greyish locks out of the prosecutor’s face, noting how the man’s long lashes fluttered close again to accept the touch. Sholmes took the invitation to keep stroking his silky hair as he spoke up again.
“She’s out cold now. Took a while.”
“Quite disturbing language to use for an infant, Herlock.”
“I don’t care. Girl got us into enough trouble as it is”, the detective joked, picking out a lint from Barok’s vest, “I think I pulled a hamstring, running around the apartment like that.”
“Is she always like this?” Barok asked, voice laced with worry that made Sholmes want to laugh out again, but he diminished his usual theatrics for just a chuckle as he pulled up his right sleeve, drawing Barok’s attention to a purple spot on his forearm.
“She’s worse, usually. Well, just yesterday, she bit me when I tried to feed her!” Herlock cried out, silently as to not wake her, then turned his head to the left to point on a tiny cut on his cheekbone, “The day before that, she assaulted me with a butter knife.”
“Why are you giving a new born a butter knife?” van Zieks growled in worry, making Sholmes pout.
“Don’t make her the victim now”, the man complained, his arms travelling to wrap around the prosecutor’s neck and shoulders again, “Anyhow. Seems as if your form has somehow mellowed her out a little…” there was a knowing glint in Herlock’s bright eyes, and Barok would have asked him about his sudden sullen expression if the man didn’t snap a finger and pointed at him immediately after, “I guess your presence took away way too much space, and she felt smaller, all of a sudden.”
“What is… what is that supposed to mean?” Barok asked, brows lowering in confusion.
“Well, dear, look at you! You are a tower of a man!” Herlock explained, then retreated into the safe haven of the crook of his neck, his body pressing into Barok’s to huddle up, “Which makes it all the warmer to cuddle with you.”
Barok opened his mouth to say something, but his nervousness got the better of him, which is why he just leaned into the touch, a calloused hand of his finding its way to envelop Sholmes’, which was now resting on the man’s broad chest; Sholmes noted the newly acquired soon-to-be scar on it, the deep red cut reaching from his wrist past his middle finger’s knuckle, threatening to stab into the ring finger, and felt his lips curl downwards. No matter the fact that those were proof of what the man had been through and all that he had survived, he never liked seeing one of those spike up from his translucent skin; never hearing about any of them, on top of that. Curiosity killed the cat; even he knew not to ask.
“Thank you for coming today”, he said instead, “I’m not sure I would have survived without your aid there – when she held up that building block, I was sure I was done for!” he chuckled, taking hold of the top of his ring finger to hold onto it.
“It was you who reigned her in, in the end, so you have nothing to thank me for.”
“Reigned her in?” Herlock shook his head as he looked up to meet the other’s chin, “What is she, a horse now?”
“You know what I meant.”
“So do you”, the detective said, lips stretching out, “Life hasn’t been treating you too kindly as of late, yet you still made the time to help me with my rambunctious new roommate”, Herlock hummed, brows furrowing at the thoughts of all that had transpired in the last month, and thinking of how to put his next words lightly, “It… must have taken a toll on you, having lost what is dear to you like that”, he thought of his lost-looking blue eyes that were once full of merit and wonder, then thought of the caring expression being replaced by an eternal frown and downcast eyes, before his mind brought up the chalice he had seen him break in one hand in his office, and the look of shock the younger had shown when he spotted Herlock looming over the entrance, looking straight at him, “Despite that”, he continued, pushing his voice not to quiver, “you came to help me today. And for that, I am very grateful.”
Barok met Herlock’s eyes in calm surprise.
“I’ve told you I would always do so. There is no need for antics.”
“Antics, he says”, Herlock repeated in a chuckle, steadying Barok’s shoulders with his hands, “Does a Great Detective use antics as a means to reach an end?”
“As far as I’ve observed, yes.”
“Ouch”, Sholmes pretended to be stricken, then smiled to place a chaste kiss on his cheek, “Antics or not, I want you to know just how grateful I am for you”, the man softly said, embracing Barok in a warm hug, feeling his lover’s tense shoulders relaxing under his touch, “I am sorry for waking you before; I could not contain my excitement to share the news with you”, he parted from the hug to look at the tired-looking prosecutor, knowing the bags under his eyes and the twitching of his left eye to be a sign of restlessness in his sleeps for the past few days, “Now. Would you like me to continue where I have left of?”
Barok was silent for a while, trembling lips refusing to speak his mind, until his glassy eyes fell to the floor as he said, “Yes, please. If you don’t mind, much.”
Sholmes softly smiled, leaning against him to play with the curly strands of grey hair, letting out a few soft hums to focus on the melody from before, his baritone sounding just as sweet as it did as he sang his small roommate to sleep. The detective closed his eyes to begin singing, fingers moving on to massage Barok’s neck, down his spine to scratch lightly against his upper back, watching his lashes flutter close to relax.
“If they take you away from me
what will I be
what will I become?
If I see you
in my dreams, my mirror”
The detective’s smile softened, brows lowering sadly as he watched his tired lover.
“Without your hand
inside of mine
safety will cease
my sky will fall
and I’ll be the same as before”
He let out a cackle at the other’s dishonourable snore.
“There’s no fingers that wrap mine like yours
no lips I would lend an ear to
no heart I’d listen to, fain
If not yours
not yours…”
“Barok”, he silently added, pressing another light kiss at his lover’s forehead before carefully crawling off, wishing not to overstay his welcome.