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He notices after downing his third glass of wine that one of two things is happening tonight.
Either the sofa Barok von Zieks is sharing with Sherlock Holmes is becoming smaller, or they're getting mysteriously closer to each other by some other unseen force. Barok is positive that at the beginning of their conversation, Sherlock's knee wasn't nearly close enough to make contact with his own, and certainly not close enough for Barok to see the childish sparkle in his eyes as he laughs at his own jokes, swirling around the wine in his glass so wildly he's nearly close to spilling it all over the both of them.
By the time a much too familiar hand sneaks over to caress his inner thigh, however, Barok has lost count of both the wine and his senses. He stays still as Sherlock moves, somehow, even closer, craning his head against the curve of Barok's neck. He's begging for something, Barok is sure of it–and he isn't so intoxicated that he doesn't know exactly what that something is.
Barok opposes his better judgment and allows himself to hazard a look down at Sherlock, knowing that the moment their eyes lock it will all be over.
He's right, of course.
It's impossible to know who truly instigates the first kiss, because it happens in an instant, like two bullets ejected from guns at precisely the same moment; their lips move together perfectly, far too natural and practised to be a mere coincidence. And it isn't, because there's history there between every single kiss, every calculated attempt to deepen it further and absorb each other completely. It's all been done before. And Sherlock still tastes inexplicably the same as Barok remembers, a subtle hint of tobacco and cloves that invades every corner of his senses, even through the over-poweringly bittersweet notes of the wine they've shared tonight.
Sherlock is the first to break away from it, surprisingly enough; odd, considering the great detective at his fingertips would never turn down a challenge, and this particular tryst is certainly no exception. Barok opens his mouth to question it, but then he realizes that the kisses haven't stopped at all... on the contrary, they've only changed location.
They're traveling ravenously down his jaw now, peppering all the way down until they reach the most sensitive part of his neck, and Barok can't help but squirm desperately at the unexpected feeling of someone's breath on his skin, melting against him.
His resistance doesn't last very long, naturally, and it replaces his lapse in judgment with pure, unbridled need when Sherlock begins pressing his lips against the shell of his ear.
"Be still for me, my dear boy," he whispers, slow and wicked.
He doesn't trust Barok to be still enough on his own, ultimately, because Sherlock decides to climb onto his lap instead; if nothing else, it serves to render him completely helpless. Barok can't remember the last time a man had straddled him like this quite so indecently, though likely, that was probably Sherlock, too. Their lips meet again and Barok isn't sure he can hold back much longer. There's only so much of Sherlock Holmes that he can ignore in one sitting, and considering that all of him is currently sitting squarely on top of him–
"Y-You realize this is still just as inappropriate as it was ten years ago," Barok mutters against Sherlock's lips. "...If not even more so now."
"Ah. You're almost certainly referring to the fact that a legendary prosecutor like yourself is fraternizing with a legendary great detective like me, is that it?"
"You know very well what I mean." Barok frowns. "Imagine the chaos that would ensue were we to be found together... like this. Even after all these years..."
"Nonsense." Sherlock seems pleasantly indifferent to the idea. "Who on earth is going to find us behind the locked doors of my own home... on my own sofa, no less?"
"Iris could–mmf!–walk in at any minute, you dolt," he protests through more kisses. He's not wrong–it's only been about hour since she retired to her bedroom after their long-awaited dinner had wrapped up and she had her last cup of tea with them. Barok can't help but look up to check the doorway every few minutes to quell his paranoia as it is. The thought of Iris seeing them like this–catching them in the act, so to speak–is something he hopes to never have to deal with, least of all tonight.
"She's fast asleep by now." Sherlock seems sure of his logic. "There are many things I still don't understand about children, but fortunately for us, their predictable bedtime schedules are one of them."
Barok looks away from his smug smile, unable to meet it so up-close and personal like this. It's maddening, but Sherlock's right. This is no time to be thinking about Iris, clearly, but thoughts of her smiling face throughout the dinner keep popping up and distracting him from the task at hand. The girl is an absolute treasure, and Barok wonders what it'd be like if he'd been in her life sooner. Would he have been... happier, somehow? Or would it have only caused more grief knowing the truth before now?
"Besides... does it really matter?" Sherlock asks suddenly, and it's a sincere, honest question.
"D-Does what matter?"
"If someone were to find us and your idea of certain chaos were to ensue..." Sherlock pecks one more tiny kiss before sitting up straight, still seated comfortably in Barok's lap. "What does it really matter anymore?"
Barok blinks through the awkward silence that falls over the room–no, all of Baker Street, to be sure–and both of them seem to be waiting for the other to react.
"How much further could one possibly curse the van Zieks family name, is that what you mean?" Barok stops himself to emphasize his glare; Sherlock almost seems shocked at how he'd jumped to that conclusion, but... was that not his intention? "Not only was my brother a notorious serial murderer and the cause of the biggest scandal of the century, but I'm..." He hesitates. "Well, I'm–"
"An incorrigible shirt lifter?" Holmes finishes for him with a devious smirk. "Scandalous indeed! Who would have guessed? Certainly not I–"
"There's no reason to be so vulgar." Barok considers pushing him aside, but something tells him that even if he did, Sherlock would just climb right back on top of him again. "Hmph. I was going to say the 'infamous Reaper of the Bailey.' But clearly you have other things on your mind... tell me, if I'm what you say I am, then what does that make you?"
"Ah, I'm nothing of the sort, in fact. I simply prefer the company of men, you see."
"Yes, I do see. I've always seen you exactly for what you are. You're as spirited as I remember... perhaps a bit heavier, as well."
Barok lets out a surprise gasp when more weight purposely shifts to the center of his groin, Sherlock grinding further against him in an attempt to declare his victory. The contact only succeeds in making Barok blush, and he's positive that Sherlock must have noticed... perhaps he anticipated it, even. Sherlock is smiling down at him like some heedless school boy now, not a care in the world behind those eyes.
"Although this conversation is quite stimulating, I do have to wonder... is witty banter your idea of foreplay these days? Or should I simply abandon any hope of having your hands on me tonight?"
"So crass." Barok quickly slaps his hands back to either side of the man's hips again, this time with no intention of letting go, holding him tightly in place. "You never change, do you? Shut up and kiss me, then, if that's all you're interested in."
"You make me sound most vile, and I'm not entirely sure that I dislike it."
Sherlock grins before leaning in to press their lips together once more. Barok is a bit surprised at himself for allowing this to continue when he had such a perfect opportunity to leave just a moment before, but there's more than just Sherlock straddling him into the sofa that's keeping him here, and perhaps they're both all too aware of it.
It's exactly as Sherlock had said when they shared their first glass tonight.
"If you wish to be a part of your niece's life now, you must also realize that means–by extension–being a part of mine."
Those words ring loud in his ears, even now, because he knows it's true. This–all of this–is simply unavoidable. It'd be best to get it over with, once and for all, so that they can move on and focus entirely on Iris.
That's what they've decided on, isn't it?
This tension won't go away without revisiting certain old habits of theirs, and that much was painfully clear the moment Barok walked through the door of 221B Baker Street tonight. The moment he laid eyes on Sherlock's hopeful smile, he hadn't been able to stop thinking about his lips. Everything about him was suddenly so tempting, beckoning back memories than Barok had never expected to resurface. It was different than running into Sherlock on the streets, or seeing him make random, nonsensical visits to the Old Bailey for heaven knows what.
Perhaps it was just the sheer intimacy of being in his home like this, guarded by walls that, away from the outside world, would never judge them for the private moments they'd shared in the past together. Behind closed doors, Barok could look at him in a way he wasn't allowed anywhere else. Such indecency would never be accepted... not by the Court, and not by anyone else.
Sharing his life with another man–be it Sherlock Holmes or anyone else that wouldn't be considered a proper bride–would never be befitting for such a distinguished man of the Court, let alone the Aristocracy.
Barok had accepted this unfair truth long ago, unfortunately, and had since learned to keep his desires at bay. He'd been somewhat thankful that he and Sherlock had parted ways back then, if only to spare him the heartache of having to charade their affairs as a closely guarded secret a moment longer. It was exhausting to pretend otherwise, knowing that in reality he'd been a part of the very same debauchery he'd been raised to abhor.
With another man, no less. It was a rather dangerous secret, to say the least, and over the years, Barok had prayed his adventures with Sherlock Holmes were simply a meaningless phase. He'd grow out of such uncouth behaviour, he told himself, when Sherlock wasn't around to tempt him with it.
...He hadn't.
In truth, it had only made him want Sherlock that much more.
Their secret relationship hadn't necessarily ended with hard feelings, at least. In truth, it had simply fizzled out on its own; it truly had been close to ten years since he'd last shared something like this with the man currently atop him. As are most things with Sherlock Holmes, the relationship was as flighty and unpredictable as everything else about the man, and perhaps neither of them had truly taken it seriously. As much as Barok would hate to admit it... he was incredibly lonely back then. Especially after the case ten years ago that'd turned his entire life upside down.
He saw Sherlock less frequently during the dark reign of the Professor, and looking back now, he knows that Sherlock was doing everything he could to solve it on his own terms from the shadows. Not necessarily for Barok, but for the sake of London, to be sure.
And then, to complicate things further, Sherlock suspiciously gained custody of an infant.
Perhaps that was the true turning point, even after Klint's death and Asogi's "execution"–admittedly, it didn't make any sense at the time, especially with Sherlock unwilling to name the parents of the child. He now had that to juggle in his daily life. There was little time to spend in secret with a lover when there was a baby at home taking priority. It went without saying that things dissipated between the two of them after that... Barok can only recall a couple of times up until Iris must have been a year or two old that Sherlock came to see him–again, in secret–to spend time with him.
But now... it all made perfect sense. And Barok can't stop combing over the details of it in his mind.
"It's not polite to think of other people, my dear, when your lips are locked with another."
"Hm?" Barok snaps out of his thoughts only to find Sherlock smiling down at him curiously, studying him. "I... apologize. I was thinking."
"Just as I deduced, surely," Sherlock says. His hands are still resting on Barok's shoulders, gently massaging tiny circles into them with his thumbs. "But I fear you weren't thinking about me."
"Well, you... were a part of it, I suppose," Barok admits doggedly. He realizes there's really no point in trying to keep secrets around Sherlock without him trying to twist it into something else entirely, and he lets out a sigh of defeat. "I was thinking about... back then. How it all makes sense now."
"I'm merely the world's greatest detective, not some mind-reading clairvoyant, you know," Sherlock points out. "Out with it, then, so we can move past this."
Sometimes, Barok forgets how ridiculously frank Sherlock can be with his words, and it still has the ability to take him by surprise. He must be losing his touch with all things Sherlock Holmes, and that makes him feel a small pang of guilt.
Still, he knows it's true. He does need to say what's on his mind. He needs to put it all out on the table. So he does just that.
"I was just thinking that, all this time, you never once thought it necessary to mention her relationship to me...?"
This conversation would be much less awkward without a man intimately straddling one's lap, but Sherlock stays in place, like it's the most normal thing in the world to be there.
"How curious! Though I wasn't aware that you and Iris had much of a relationship to begin with, up until tonight, that is."
Barok grips tightly on Sherlock's backside, an explicit warning that needed no words to accompany it.
"B-But if you're referring to her little family secret...!" Sherlock's face considerably softens. "Well. I suppose it must have always slipped my mind. Silly me!"
"Of course it did," Barok grumbles. He'd half-expected him to tell the truth this time. "You've always been so forgetful, how could I have possibly forgotten?"
Sherlock allows a tiny smile to crack. He's waiting patiently for Barok to say the words that are quite obviously painted all over his face. Sherlock must already know what they are, but he wants to hear it himself.
"...Is that why you so abruptly stopped visiting me back then?"
Well, he doesn't expect Barok to bring that up, but now that he has...
"Yes, raising a child is very time-consuming, and I assure you it was nothing personal," Sherlock answers. "And back then... you expressed little interest in rearing a baby with me, if you recall. We both know your reputation would've been at stake, and I give you my word that I never once blamed you for it."
"I... I apologize. Truly." Barok quickly looks away. "Up until recently, I'd assumed we lost touch solely because of Iris. Now I understand there was more to it, and... well, clearly, I was unable to step back from my own selfishness to realize it."
"Oh, please, there's really no reason to be so dramatic." For the first time tonight, Sherlock seems genuinely flustered. "I was sworn to secrecy, Barok... surely you understand the importance of that. It wasn't easy to keep it from you. And it would have been selfish of me to put you in that position, even if I hadn't been forced to keep her identity a secret."
Barok finds himself nodding along to Sherlock's words, though unable to look at him directly.
"Not only that, but..." Sherlock hesitates. "Even if you'd known it was a baby of your own lineage... would that have changed things somehow?"
"I-I'm not entirely sure. I'm sorry." Barok winces, as if in pain from admitting it aloud. "I simply regret that you weren't able to confide in me about her, and that will always haunt me. But I suppose I should be thanking you instead of... wallowing in my own pathetic insecurities like this."
"Thanking me?" Sherlock asks incredulously, and Barok realizes it's probably to mask his fondness for the idea of Barok thanking him in the first place. "Dear me, whatever for?"
"For taking such good care of her, in Klint's place. Obviously, it was a wise choice leaving her in your care, though I still can't imagine how you've managed it by yourself these past ten years when you can barely take proper care of yourself."
"A bit of a back-handed compliment, don't you think?" Sherlock feigns annoyance by slapping his hands onto his hips and pursing his lips into a familiar little pout. "You forget that you're speaking to one of the most capable fellows in all of Great Britain–no, all of Europe, even! It was nothing more than, well... child's play, if you'll forgive the expression."
A bit of uncomfortable silence follows, with Barok simply staring at him, quite speechless–whether from disbelief, or something else entirely, he isn't sure.
"You have nothing to fear, my old friend," the great detective sighs, discarding his previous mirth. "The girl is a fine specimen, as you already know, inheriting only the most charming and distinguished of the van Zieks family traits... to be sure."
"I... I see." There's a bit of relief in that exhale, followed by a barely existent smile, something Barok van Zieks isn't particularly known for, but it's certainly not the first time Sherlock, of all people, has seen it surface. "I would expect nothing less."
"I will take that, mind, as a compliment for raising her as such," Sherlock chirps back. "Well, is it settled, then? All's well that ends well? No further objection from the prosecution?"
No, it's far from settled–they both know that–but something about the inexplainable, nostalgic warmth in Sherlock's eyes makes Barok feel better, if only a bit. This will do. For now.
"You irritate me in a strange way that no one else can fathom." Barok's hands have found Sherlock's hips again, and he makes sure his presence there is known by applying more pressure, pushing him further against his pelvis. "I'm impressed, really, how you still have this effect on me."
"Well, if you're impressed by that, my dearest, I have some other tricks up my sleeve that I'd be more than happy to affect you with tonight." Sherlock gives him a deceptively innocent wink while tracing a finger down the buttons on his shirt. "Shall we retire, perhaps, to the bedroom? I can't say I approve of either of us drinking anymore tonight, and quite frankly, I've missed you... it'd be a shame to not take advantage of this opportunity together."
"Wait." Barok tenses, pale and breathless. "I... I can't stay here with you tonight. I'm not ready. It's too risky, and I can't possibly imagine facing Iris in the morning–"
"You don't have to stay," Sherlock says a bit sadly. "Just come to bed with me. Just this once. Please, Barok, I'm at your mercy."
"I-I don't understand how you can say such things with a straight face," Barok admits, blushing from the mere suggestion of him begging for his company. "You're absolutely shameless."
"I won't deny that," Sherlock whispers with a shrug. "And yet you came here, knowing that, so what does that say about you, my equally shameless friend?"
"Touché." Barok has no choice but to concede in part. "But you forget, I came here for Iris, not for you."
"I'll be sure to pass that along to her. But for now, I'd appreciate if you stopped talking about my daughter while looking at me quite so seductively."
"Y-You're right, I'm sorry." Barok looks away, clearly embarrassed. "Your lack of manners and social graces are wearing off on me. I forget how to behave properly when I'm with you." He traces a finger down Sherlock's spine, forcing him to lean closer. "Perhaps staying away from you would be for the best."
"You're a terrible liar, Lord van Zieks, and I don't need any powers of deduction to prove it... you've done that much for me on your own, haven't you?" Sherlock slowly drops his hand to brush against the growing bulge between them, even more noticeable now that Sherlock has been rocking against him the past few minutes. "Surely you don't plan on leaving... like this? A fine, well-bred gentleman like yourself?"
Barok all but throws his head back in approval when Sherlock grips tighter. "You do make an excellent p-point," he sputters, attempting to regain his composure, mostly to no avail. "Just... please, for God's sake, stop teasing me."
Sherlock doesn't move his hand, but doesn't take it off either, and makes a further show of his hesitation, as if unsure what to do next.
Much to Barok's annoyance.
"I said 'stop teasing me,' not 'stop everything'–"
"What I meant earlier, when I asked you what it mattered... I was referring to, well, us." Sherlock's sudden confession is unprecedented. He closes his eyes, more reverent than Barok has seen him his entire life. "I don't care what they might think of me if someone sees us like this–together, content in each other's company. I'm not ashamed of it, and I won't sacrifice how I feel about you just to make them happy." He presses a chaste kiss to Barok's cheek. "Just know that Iris and I will always be here for you. I should have told you that ten years ago, when you needed a family the most, but hopefully it still has meaning to you now just as well."
Barok is unable to move. He hears the words loud and clear, but processing them? That's... a much different story. Paralyzed in this moment, he wonders if he'll ever be able to speak again for the rest of his life. It's as if Sherlock's words have stolen his own, and left him with nothing.
Sherlock thankfully isn't expecting a reply anyways, so he smiles and swiftly hops off Barok's lap. "That's all I wanted to say," he says, heading to the direction of his bedroom, only stopping to look back and give Barok one last lingering glance. "You can certainly follow me, if you'd like. And if not, I understand completely and wish you a good night all the same. The choice is yours, my dear boy."
Barok continues watching as Sherlock walks away and disappears behind the closed door. Now Barok's left here alone, with a rather important decision to make.
Sherlock never has been one for making things simple, but this time, it couldn't be more elementary.
Barok looks down at his hands, still warm from gripping Sherlock so tightly up until now. He searches for the answer there in his palms, before closing them into fists and making his choice.
He pours himself one last glass of wine before standing, a silent toast to himself as he disgracefully chugs it down (for his nerves, he tells himself).
To old habits, he decides, before chucking the glass aside.