Chapter Text
The engagement had been spur of the moment, when Victor first thought of it. Otherwise, it never would have happened; the very idea of asking Sherlock for marriage was daunting. He was nothing close to the type.
Except, that wasn’t quite true, as Victor discovered.
The assignment was months long and he ran on adrenaline alone for at least the last week of it, while sleep fell to the wayside in favour of getting his job done as well as possible. A matter of balance, and besides, he had become used to the irregular sleeping patterns that tended to come with the job.
He became used to the nightmares he was loathe to speak about, that had him waking with a start even now. They were mentioned once, in the quiet of a grey night when Sherlock had watched and waited, and Victor had been unable to lie his way out of it. He had refused to speak of it again, and for once, the wish had been respected entirely. Misery did indeed love company, but a problem shared was merely a problem that would go on to worry more people than just the one.
Adrenaline, a fear of losing Sherlock that had only increased, and a split second decision led to what Victor would consider one of the worst impromptu proposals he could have imagined.
He hadn’t even been on one knee; he had just pulled Sherlock close and asked-- no, rambled in a frantic whisper to him about marriage, and legalities, and the idea of staying together, and the fact that of course, it was overly sentimental. And when he had pulled back, Sherlock had looked at him for a long moment as if he was quite mad.
He now suspected that the man had been attempting to process it, or something along those lines, while saying nothing. Perhaps he had meant to say something-- Molly had filled him in on Sherlock’s speech at the wedding, and the reaction to being asked something about weddings seemed pretty similar.
Victor’s mind wandered in the silence, to the field of semantics, and the meanings of his own hurried words, and whether they got across the point he was trying to make--
I don’t want to lose you. I want you to continue to be mine, William, ‘til death do us part, whenever that may be, and however soon, considering both our positions. I know that you are already mine, but I want it to be indisputable, and I love you. I know it’s just a gesture, but that doesn’t render it worthless. Not to me.
Later, Victor felt rather like he had been a rash idiot and made a fool of himself, considering that the both of them were unharmed and there was really no need for such a reaction to seeing Sherlock again, even if it was for the first time in months.
He was a professional, all too used to the idea that he might not come home one day, and he knew that even his connections were dangerous. He could do what was needed, though there were nights when guilt and sorrow over those lives he had taken would overwhelm him, but he was still efficient and did his job. But then, it came to Sherlock, and he found himself in a mess over the idea that he might well leave him, though it would never be deliberately.
But he had said yes, and that rather overshadowed everything else.
Sherlock Holmes had agreed to marry him, and had grinned like he had just been presented with a fresh corpse, and it was more than Victor could have hoped for.
* * *
The date was set for June, after some consideration. More consideration on Victor’s part, and influenced somewhat by conference with Molly and Lestrade, whom he had decided would be the best people to help. They had known Sherlock for a long while, albeit not so long as Victor himself, and, well. Victor wasn’t above excited talk about the wedding, whereas some other people seemed less keen on it.
Sherlock had a case-- serial killer, his favourite, as he had told Victor one night when he arrived home, by filling the flat with glass (at least there was a sheet down too) and exclaiming something about the culprit the moment Victor walked through the door, and apparently completed whatever effect said opening of the door was intended to have. Victor decided not to ask, but did listen to Sherlock intently while he went on about the abundance of smashed glass, and the fact that it was ‘truly beautiful, Victor, you should have seen it, it’s an art, I tell you’-- and was therefore otherwise occupied.
They had found long ago that Sherlock could run off on his cases without much in the way of warning, and if Victor had the time and energy for it, he knew that he could find Sherlock and lend a helping hand. And he did, at times, when there was little to do or he had a few weeks downtime-- and it was exquisitely interesting.
The planning went slowly, of course, considering the fact that Victor had his job to attend to, as did Sherlock himself, and they were both busy. It began to take shape all the same-- the venue was booked, items ordered, fittings attended to, rings bought. He had decided to do things as much in advance as possible, and attempt to get time off at the correct point.
By the time November came around, most things had been planned, more of them with Sherlock’s help than not. Victor took reassurance from that fact, at the very least.
Sherlock also showed him how to make swans out of napkins. It was, indeed, an educational experience, right up until the point where Victor got too frustrated with the way the two sides would always end up uneven when he tried, and had settled for pushing Sherlock into a pile of swans (now crushed) and kissing him soundly instead. It was far easier, and he could leave the folding of such things to Sherlock, if the need arose.
It did, admittedly, leave Sherlock feeling mildly frustrated-- partly because of the swans, and partly because Mrs Hudson brought biscuits and Victor got off him rather abruptly, thus spoiling the moment. A great disappointment indeed.
But it was coming together, and that gave Victor hope that it would actually happen.
* * *
Life came to a standstill later that month, for both Sherlock and Victor.
Victor went missing.
It was always a possibility, of course, that something would go wrong while he was on an assignment, and he could end up out of contact for long periods of time, unable to reach anyone, or be reached himself. It was always a possibility that his death could occur, or that he would return alive, but changed.
While it was always a possibility, it was one that they became accustomed to over time, and the full meaning of it did not hit until the situation arose.
Victor was missing, no one could contact him, and whether he was alive or not was in question.
Nothing Sherlock could do-- including storming into Mycroft’s office reeking of cigarette smoke and demanding that he be found, and engaging in a one-sided shouting match that merely ended in his going very quiet, and his brother talking to him in a subdued, matter-of-fact tone with some cadence in it that gave away to Sherlock that he had no clearer idea where Victor was than Sherlock himself did-- could change the fact, or bring him back sooner.
Instead, he spent two full days at John and Mary’s place, though he refused to speak for much of the time; he knew that Victor would be happier with him there and avoiding temptation, as well as being looked after by people who cared about him.
* * *
One and a half weeks with no word, before Mycroft first texted Sherlock. There was little in the way of explanation, merely the name of a hospital, and a warning-- Victor’s injuries were severe, but he was stable, and recovery was possible. Sherlock itched for more details, but the texts of demand that he fired back in rapid succession were met with a digital silence that only frustrated him further.
Victor, injured: permanently? Possible, but recovery was possible. In time?
Query; Victor, questioned: psychological impact possible, nightmares, things Sherlock did not know how to fix.
Query; Victor, accident: involvement of others? Not his fault.
Victor, stable: will be safe.
Victor, hospital
Victor
Vic
Structure dissolved in worry, and there was but one thing on his mind-- getting there quickly was of the utmost importance, and discovering what had happened, too. Data, sentimentality, sensitivity. He wondered if he could achieve all three, or whether all thoughts of some would disappear when he got there.
Ten minutes. He counted them off in his head as he got nearer.