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People often like to think Louis Tomlinson to be a mystery, a complex, oxymoronic case, but that’s not quite right, is it?
Granted, his collection of body parts in the name of science may seem rather disturbing, his 3am violin practices, a bit peculiar (and, most of the time, a pain in the arse, though Harry never complains), and his mind palace not containing the most basic of information (The sun doesn’t go around the Earth, Lou!), but Louis is not 'unsolvable.'
Liam once asked Harry what they can deduce of Louis’s heart; why, with a brain like his, he would choose to be a consulting detective rather than a philosopher or a politician. Puzzling as it might, the answer is really quite simple: when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.
Louis Tomlinson wants to be solved.
221B is awfully dreadful tonight, Louis thinks, as he presses his forehead up against the fogged ridden window. Behind the dusty brocade curtains, he can see the sun setting beyond the horizon, disappearing quietly beyond Buckingham Palace – Louis briefly wonders whether people notice it leave as darkness blankets over London. The great detective isn’t sure how long he stood there, watching, but when he gathers enough will to turn and take in his now empty flat, he suddenly feels very, very tired.
The flat is an absolute mess. His mess. From where he stands, Louis can see the dishes beginning to pile up in the sink, pushed up against the dozens of teacups he hasn’t got time for and are probably leaving thin rings of yellow on whatever surface they touch. His millions of sweaters and Vans lay abandoned on the ground, folded and mixed into the mélange of case files and gadgets and the occasional packaged human pieces alike.
It’s odd not having Harry around. Unnerving even. Louis finger twitches nervously, as if he were the one with war flashbacks and PTSD. Maybe he is, losing Harry.
No, no. No. There is nothing wrong with him, Louis seethes, brows scrunched up and lips pursed the way he does when there’s ‘nothing wrong.’
Nothing wrong, when the only piece of carpet that can be seen in the living room is an empty square left uncluttered by Louis’ mess like something used to be there.
Nothing wrong, when Louis determines that he absolutely needs to sleep and ends up folded into the upholstery cushion of Harry’s chair. He definitely doesn’t flashback to the nights when he’s sat there, alone, worn, and trying to take in whatever’s left of Harry’s smell, a faint scent of green apple shampoo that may or may not come from the dollar store on the corner of Baker Street and Marylebone Road.
Tonight has been the ultimate proof that things will never be the same upon his return. Louis had hoped, prayed to the gods he doesn’t believe in, that coming back to London would restore the balance of 221B – that everything would go back to normal. Oh, but how he was naïve. Naïve and really fucking stupid. Harry had moved on with his life, met a pretty little thing at work, got married, and moved out – from him!
Tonight, 221B is peace and quiet – how hateful. Even Niall’s hustling and bustling downstairs is absent, and a part of him even misses the obnoxious ‘More pints! oi'm only on me turd wan!” as Harry’s wedding looms over all of Louis’ acquaintances.
Louis wonders with half a heart if anyone notices his disappearance earlier in the evening, when he had left without even having danced. He thinks about Harry, how happy he must be, dancing the night away with his new wife. He thinks about Zayn, how he’s probably getting another few drinks, making conversation with Niall. He thinks about Liam a little too, and how despite their brotherly differences, they do stand on the same side (maybe). He thinks about the woman woman, where she is right now, what she’s doing. And lastly, he spares a thought for Perrie, the woman who sees him when no one else can. The one person who Modest thought didn’t matter but matters more than anyone. Maybe she notices his absence. Maybe she notices the sun setting.
From there, it doesn’t take long for Louis’s fingers to begin itching for a cigarette, for the patches do him little good. That case once upon a time, that was a three patch problem. This, this new thing, this new life without Harry thing, this is something that patches can’t fix. With a groan, he pushes himself away from the window and made three long strides to the couch, reaching beneath it to pull out a shoe. A light ‘tap tap,’ and two dozens of cigarettes fell from its tip. His fingers twitch once. Twice.
Classical music fills the hall as Harry sways to the end of his waltz and leaves his new wife in the little black dress to finally greet his friends.
“Congrats man!” Niall and Zayn cry simultaneously, pulling him into a deep embrace. Perrie smiles politely from behind them.
“Thanks man, Taylor’s a great girl.” Harry beams, leaning in to give Perrie a kiss on the cheek before pulling away with pursed lips, a habit he seems to have picked up some time along his residency at Baker Street. “Where’s Lou?”
There is a collective shuffle within the group as concerned eyes scan over a sea of people, trying to pinpoint the feather haired brunet with a winning smile.
Perrie visibly tenses. Should I tell them? Should I not? Would a friend ruin a wedding? Or is the wedding already ruined the second Louis Tomlinson withdrew himself from the premise?
“He left.” She ultimately blurts out, voice so cautious that it tips the balance of the festive cheers in the air. The veil of solemnity engulfs the friends and softly, the chatters die into silence.
Harry stills. The grin he’s sporting earlier in the night slips off. A quick puff of breath, a quiver of the lip, “What do you mean he left? Louis is my best man,” he bites in a voice so quiet Perrie almost doesn’t catch. His green eyes, the very same ones Louis used to see every morning trained over his stupid blog, begin to dart around the room like they’ve suddenly lost all sense of direction. It’s like they don’t know where to look, where to go, what to settle on. The compass is gone.
“I’m sorry babe.” Perrie whispers upon witnessing the way his face pales into a terrifying neutrality. His champagne-stained lips are now bitten raw, scarlet and wet. White faced and red lipped, he is the humanification of fresh blood on the newly fallen snow.
The good doctor takes a step back, and Perrie tentatively reaches out, halting just before she makes contact. “I’m going to get him.”
“H, this is your wedding day.” She murmurs softly, rubbing his arm as he distractedly tucks a stray strand of purple behind her ear. Her emerald eyes beg the others for help, and it is Zayn who lends a hand.
“Harry, leave him be for the night, enjoy yours. This is your new chapter; don’t go looking for what used to be.” Zayn whispers, wise and assured the way he always seems to be, and for a second, it seems as if Harry believes him.
The fireplace is dimming and the violin is left on its open case when Louis curls up further into his own armchair. He’s never slept well in his life, as there are always cases to solve and experiments to be done and people to consult – there’s always something. But tonight, sleep comes even more fitfully, and also it’s bloody cold and he just doesn’t have enough will to drag himself up to the bedroom. He briefly contemplates shooting another smiley face next to the current one on the wall or maybe check on that bowl of eyeballs that he left marinating in the microwave but everything seems like so much effort tonight, so he settles on tightening his robe and curling up again, little feet exposed to the chilly room.
Maybe he should invest in some socks. Harry used to bring him socks. Not the boring old white ones, but the cute little colorful kind with cupcakes and monkeys and ships. God knows Harry loves his ships.
With nicotine heavy in his system, Louis almost drifts off when heavy bounding steps interrupt the silence that had been occupying 221B the entire evening.
“LOUIS TOMLINSON I SWEAR TO-”
“H-Haz?” For a moment Louis looks groggily delighted, but the look quickly drops into one of confusion and concern. “Why did you break it off with Taylor?”
Harry’s eyebrows shot to his hairline, incredulous at his best man, best friend, the massive dickhead who left his wedding early without so much as a goodbye, now accusing him of- “Wha- NO!”
Louis cocks his head, even more confused now, drowsiness having left his system with every step Harry takes towards him. Harry has to restrain himself from punching him in the face. “I just married her for God’s sakes!” He seethes, fingers clenching and unclenching as Louis eyes rakes over him, observing and absorbing every little detail about his boy. Taylor’s boy.
“That was the only reasonable explanation.”
“How did you possibly deduce that?!”
Louis blinks only once. “The back of your right hand sleeve is slightly damp but not your left, so we can rule out washing your hands, so why else would your right sleeve be damp? You, a man of habit, usually keep a handkerchief in your breast pocket, and as of a few hours ago, the pocket had been smooth, indicating that the handkerchief had been untouched since you neatly folded it and slipped it in this morning. Now, I detect a slight bulge, where you hastily stuffed it back in. But I suppose the determining factor remains that your bottom lashes are clumped together, damp just like your sleeve. A damp sleeve, the placement of dampness, the usage of your handkerchief, plus the clumps in your lashes all point to one thing – you were crying. In addition, you,” Louis pauses to take a whiff of him. “you stink of Our Moment; Taylor wears Wonderstruck. So Perrie is the last person you were with, it's her preferred brand. If you weren’t with Taylor, you’ve cried, and you’re here, you must’ve left her.”
“Amazing.” Harry breathes with a shake of his head that makes his messy curls bounce, but this time, his compliment is remorseful, as if saying it physically hurts him. If he can figure out all these things, why is Louis missing the most crucial part? “But no, oh great hat detective.”
Louis finally stands, but he hardly appears taller as curls into his own frame the way he does, and turns his back to his beloved companion. “I’m wrong?” His eyebrows scrunch up in confusion, and his face contorts in an almost childlike fashion. “According my knowledge of successful weddings, you should be on your way to your, uhm…Sex Holiday. And yet-” He gestures with a flap of his hands, as if the act itself is so absurd.
“I’m here to take my best man back to my wedding. Or were you just bullshitting the entire time about being there for me?” Harry snaps.
Upon hearing that, Louis whips around, mouth slackened in horror as his deep blue eyes dull a few shades. “Of course not, H, I meant every word! How could-” he sucks in a breath, incredulous, “How dare you think-”
“Then what, hmm!? What could possibly possess my best man, my best friend for God’s sakes, to abandon me at my own wedding!?” Harry raises his voice, though it still comes out in the same deep drawl that makes Louis’ knees weak.
“You’re hardly being fair! You didn’t even notice I left, what difference does it make?!” Louis throws himself back into his armchair, holding his knees tightly to his chest as if Harry might cut him with his words.
“What diff- It makes all the difference!! Of course it matters that you’re present at my wedding Lou!” Harry cries, half exasperated, half defeated as his voice soften just enough to coax Louis out of his defensive position. “Just knowing you’re there…it matters to me.”
The night grows darker outside, and the only source of light in the darkened flat is the soft shades of yellow streaming in from the streetlamps. As silence hangs in the air, the glow lights up the floating dust, and on its way, finds Louis’ face, contouring the hollows of his cheek, tracing along the angle of his jaw line, resting upon his long lashes, and finally revealing the bags beneath his tormented eyes. Harry definitely feels a pang in his chest when the sight snatches his breath. Louis Tomlinson is absolutely breathtaking.
But Taylor.
As for Louis’ inner battle, to go send Harry off to his sex holiday…Louis, strong-willed, stubborn Louis, doesn’t think even he can manage. But it’s for Harry, and for Harry, he’ll always try for one more miracle. If it’s for Harry, he’d shoot a man, drop his career, and give up his life. For Harry.
It would be laughable, Louis admits, if he weren’t in this position. Everything about Harry right now seems so…so contrite. The same, but different. Like he’s running and Louis can’t catch up. The suit, the ring, the way his hair is quiffed into an emu-inspired look, Louis almost doesn’t recognize him. His memories seem to cling harder and harder onto a time when Harry was his with each passing second. The Harry who greets him on their chair, updating their adventures, sipping their tea in the morning, with his fringes down and his robe half open, swallows flying free, and fuck if Louis doesn’t miss him.
But then Harry gives him the look. The stare. The half-exasperated half-fond look that he reserves solely for him, and with a hand outstretched with Louis’ suit in his arms, he whispers, “Come back with me.”
Hook, line, and sinker.
Louis sighs, eyelashes fluttering away the moisture that they might’ve collected somewhere along the night, and begins to shed off his warm, comforting robe.
In the duration of the second between the robe hitting the ground and Louis looking up expectantly at the suit, Harry gasps and drops everything. The jacket, the shirt, the trousers, the bowtie – everything.
Confusion floods over Louis for the second time that night. “Harry?”
Nothing.
“Harry?” Louis blinks, waving a hand in front of the curly haired boy. “Harry?”
Nothing.
“Hazza?”
Harry suddenly jerks out of his reverie, but his eyes remain fixed on Louis’ body, and reaches out his hand automatically. Louis takes it, no less instinctive than Harry, and wraps his much smaller hand around his companion’s larger one pathetically. “What’s wrong H?”
“Lou.” Harry swallows thickly with clouded eyes, and Louis watches the bob of his Adam’s apple. Everything suddenly seems tight, like too much, claustrophobic, inescapable – Harry couldn’t breathe. “W-Where, where did you get those.” He seethes, voice trembling as hard as his fingers as they, for the first time since Louis’ return, find themselves gently brushing against his body. Louis grips tighter around him.
When Louis finally reacts, it’s groaning softly to the cool sensation of Harry’s fingers ghosting across the burning wounds he has acquired on his last undercover mission. The angry swelling has since mellowed, but the marks of torture and neglect remains visible on the dark red imprints against his tanned skin where the flesh ripped. Throwing his head back, Louis arches into Harry’s touch; his fingers feel so cold and good and- “Lou, answer me.”
“Last…mission…taking down Modest!.” He shudders, willing Harry to keep contact. “Liam said, said we gotta- ah! make it – believable – ”
“I’m gonna kill Liam I’m gonna fucking kill him, he-” Harry shakes his head with a lump in his throat. He wants to cry. He wants to cry and wants to fucking end the souls who ever dared made Louis feel like anything less than the Sun itself, wants so much to murder everyone who’s ever laid a hand on his Louis, wants to castrate the bastard who did this and feed his dick to him.
But not right now.
Right now Louis needs him, needs his attention and care and love. And if there’s anything Harry can do, it’s this. Louis whimpers when Harry leaves his side in favor of searching for a first-aid kit. With gangly limbs and deer legs and pigeon toes, Harry manages to stumble his way through Louis’ piles of rubbish and returns unharmed. “Why haven’t you wrapped yourself up Lou, this could get infected!”
“I’m fine.” Louis stills when Harry thumbs over the still tender flesh, the sting of the ointment numbed by the tightness of the bandage. Initially, he fights it a little, being the stubborn arse he is, but when Harry mutters a quiet “Trust me, I’m a doctor,” the fight leaves him as fast as it’s come.
Harry’s fingers are something else. Despite his gangly limbs and clumsy feet, Louis admits he’s actually really good with his hands. Every brush and stroke is careful and gentle, and somehow, the process ends far too quickly for Louis’ liking. He’s Louis Tomlinson for God’s sake, and as far as calculations go, he already has 17 different ways of getting out of the rest of the after party, but each and every single one includes disappointing Harry.
He wouldn’t do that. Not to Harry Styles.
Shooting Harry a soft smile and getting one in return, Louis pushes himself off the seat. “Well c’mon then, help me with the bloody outfit, we’ve got a party to catch.”
The air suddenly shifts, and Harry’s smile falters and he looks...confused, like none of his decisions before made any sense to him anymore. “I uhm- Lou, I… I don’t think you should go anywhere right now.”
“Doctor’s orders?” Louis replies, but his inside nearly explodes. This is it. This is his chance, his one chance to be left alone on this dreadful night. Take it Lou, take it! But…this is one chance to be left…alone. It's hard to believe that there was a time when Louis genuinely believes that 'Alone is safe. Alone protects him,' and in a sense, Harry was cruel to take away his only armor and leave him declawed to the unknown.
“Doctor’s orders.” Harry confirms, running a hand through his gelled hair and coming out with a handful of goo. He stare down dumbly at his gigantic hand, and suddenly foolishly misses the beanie days, the bandana days, when he can put in no effort and make Louis so happy about tugging on the ‘curly bits’ that puff out from the side.
But that doesn’t matter now. Louis had gone off and he has Taylor. He literally just needs to get back to the party, sign the marriage contract, and everything would be official. He can go on his honeymoon, lead a happy, domestic life, have kids, and grow old the way he always dreams was meant to be.
How. Utterly. No.
Suddenly, that world seems so, so- there are no words. He used to think that life would be something great, something amazing, better than words even, but now, it’s the complete opposite. He’s only moved in with Taylor for a handful of months now, and how he misses 221B. Despite how much he used to despise Louis’ little white lies to get him out to have dangerous (and half the time, fatal) adventures through the dark, right now, he wishes he could still come home at the end of it all and blog about his midnight memories. After the war, it’s what kept him…alive. Did Louis see this coming when he deduced that he left Taylor? Does he know that Harry’s suddenly having doubts regarding where he truly belongs?
“H?” Louis voice snaps him out of his stupor as he jerks his head away from his hand.
Harry coughs, “yeah, I’m fine, I just. You and I, nothing’s gonna change if I get married, y’know? I’d still come over, we’d solve cases, I’d happily blog about it.”
Louis blinks at him, blue eyes getting bluer. “If?”
“Rushed here when Perrie told me you left, just need an official signature.” Harry shrugs, and Louis desperately tries to drown his strong disgust for himself that a flame of hope managed to burn in his stomach when he heard that. So he does the only thing he knows – he resists. Story of his life.
“So why don’t we go there, get it all signed for you.”
“We?”
“Just an expression. I can’t leave this flat, doctor’s orders.” Louis grins cheekily, and Harry finally dimples for the first time in two whole years. But that’s enough, it really is, for Louis to close the gap between them and fists at Harry’s hair as he finds his lips. One second of barely contact, and then, he’s pushing off, bracing himself for the punch that’s about to come.
221 B becomes tense for the nth time that night as Louis covers his face with his arms. Harry swallows, stunned.
“Lou.”
Silence.
“Damn it Lou, look at me.” Harry insists, gently tugging away his arms to reveal his scrunched up face, eyes shut tightly.
“I’m so sorry H I have no impulse control you know I literally have none.” The great detective slurs quickly, bringing his arms back only to have the good doctor hold them steadily on the side. “Just punch me and go to your wife. GO.”
“’M not gonna punch you Lou.” He says, and Louis gradually opens his eyes, millimeter by millimeter.
“No?”
“No.”
“Then what?” Louis’ obscenely long lashes flutter, casting such unfair shadows to the jut of his cheekbones. Then Harry’s lips are on his, molding ever so gently into his, and Louis’s arms fall lifeless to his sides.
There’s just Harry. Harry Harry Harry. So much Harry.
There is no firework or electricity or a toe curling sensations. It’s just Harry. Harry with the curls and the loveliest green apple smell.
Then Louis is clinging onto him for dear life, chin tilting to fit onto Harry’s broad shoulder on his tippy toes, little hands snaking around Harry’s middle with a vow to always hold on. “Dr. Styles isn’t gonna leave the high functioning sociopathic patient by his lonesome then?”
“Oh Lou, you’re the great hat detective who single handedly took down Modest!, and yet, you haven’t got a clue what a sociopath really is, have you?” Harry chuckles, deep voice vibrating in his chest as he engulfs his boy in his arms.
“I am a sociopath, do your research.” Louis muffles into Harry’s shirt, shivering lightly as he still remains half naked with the exception of bandages. Harry eases him back into his robe, and proceeds to return his arms around the smaller frame of his boy. His.
“You’re really not.” He smiles, and begins to sway them back and forth.
Louis doesn’t argue back, because he doesn’t really care anymore. Wrong or right, Harry’s here with him. The dance he didn’t get, he’s getting now as he puts his feet on Harry’s, letting him lead. There is nothing more he can ask for when Harry’s his, and he Harry’s.
That night, in the darkened flat of 221B on Baker Street, many things happened – hearts are broken, friendships are fixed, new feelings are founded, phone calls are made, and Taylor Swift may have written a not-so-nice song about Styles – but Harry only considers one of them a true victory:
Louis Tomlinson, case closed.