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„Mr Herlock Sholmes…“ the great detective's ears pricked up to hear the low, clear voice amongst the horrible loud static as his numb body moved towards the source of the sound, the grey around him turning to white, the fog around him slowly clearing as it fell to the floor, moving like little clouds beneath his feet, and he would like to tell he felt his lips twitch upwards at the familiar sound – but he really couldn’t feel anything, and his body was as light as a feather. His eyelids fluttered opened and he rose from the cold concrete ground – not that he could feel the ground’s temperature right now – looking up at the man who was reading from a piece of parchment that he held away from his face, his small crystal blue eyes, piercing yet restrained, stormy yet calm, darting over the list in his hand before his nose scrunched up, twisting the unsightly cross-shaped scar on his face, “This time around, you slipped on a few chips from a detective’s forgotten luncheon, hit a stone fence, climbed on top of it only to lose balance and fell down onto a parking lot near a poor freezing coachman”, his listless eyes looked to the blond in question who was looking up at him expectedly, “Your lethargic body is being rushed to the hospital as we speak. For the ninth time in these past two months”, he rolled up the paper and stored it for later use, folding his arms against his chest and raising his chin, “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”
“It was a really foggy morning, Mr. Reaper”, Sholmes stated matter-of-factly, dusting off his trousers, forgetting he had no physical form to dust off right now, “As you can see, it was a busy day.”
“You cannot keep doing this”, the Grim Reaper deadpanned, his eyes narrowing, “I refuse to believe you managed to keep yourself alive for thirty five years only to fail at living on every second Wednesday and every third Friday after that long of a period of time”, he pointed to him, his long dark teal cloak enveloping his tall frame neatly, like a blanket, just like the smog enveloped the early London morning, smog Herlock couldn’t smell at this particular moment, “I have seen you taste poisons, eat soap off the floor, almost choke on a nigiri sushi roll, roll in bed from a horrible illness, get shot by a burglar, hit by a poisonous arrow, climb out of a burned building and get punched in the face by a man thrice the size of you”, he crossed his arms again to look ahead of himself, “And you’d like me to believe”, he said slowly, meaningfully, accentuating every word, “your preferred method of going is to slip on a man’s chips?” he clenched his fist in his direction, “Are you daft?”
“We can’t ever choose how we go, dear Reaper”, Sholmes replied, a hint of smugness in his green eyes, “Also. I knew you kept watch over all London, but I didn’t know you knew me in such detail. Pray tell, have you gotten fond of me?”
“I am the Grim Reaper of the capitol of the Great British Empire. Of course I know everything that goes on – especially when someone knocks on Heaven’s door quite so frequently, only to retaliate.”
“Hum. Well, yes. S’pose that is true”, the detective mumbled, quirking his head to the side, “Still, you cannot blame me for that, with my line of work. Well, just the other day, an accused of Mr Naruhodou’s threw a pufferfish into the gallery – right next to me, it flew! And the day before, my fists had a little rendezvous with a first-class jewellery thief.”
“If you were to die of a pufferfish I wouldn’t be any more glad”, van Zieks deadpanned, “Do you really expect me to believe that someone with your luck managed to slip on a chip and fly off the street? The other day you slipped on wet floor in your bathroom, the time before that you slammed against your own bed while shuffling out at 2 p.m. If that is standard, how by Jove did you managed to live long enough to become a legend?”
Sholmes seemed to lighten up at the comment. Barok van Zieks, menacing as he was, never understood how exactly the great detective wasn’t afraid of him at all – knowing full well he was the gate to the afterlife. Still, his genuine smile made him warm, even though he felt a tinge of irritation at the way his head was suddenly up proudly, and how his steps became more self-assured as he stepped closer to the apparition that Barok was.
“Well, you might be right. Your observation skills are not as dull as your nose appears to be, dear Reaper.”
Van Zieks flinched at the comment, covering half his face with his cloak.
“Perhaps making a fool out of myself was not the correct way of approaching this, so do forgive me for making your job a little bit brighter.”
“And more annoying than it’s supposed to be.”
“But you do not seem to be so hot on social cues, dear. If you were, you would have understood the meaning of my escapades for quite some time now.”
“Do you mean to tell me you wish to die?” van Zieks asked, brows lowering, stretching out his scar, “With such kind friends and loving roommate, and with the entirety of London depending on your reasoning?”
“Goodness, no. Not at all”, Sholmes panicked, shaking his hands wildly in front of his face, “Nothing of that sort, Barok, I…” he sighed, hanging his head, “Must I spell everything out for you?”
“There’s a few people still on the list for today, Mr Sholmes. You would do well to make this quick”, van Zieks huffed.
“You know, I would have to be simple not to realize you have a certain weakness for great detectives”, the detective replied, a smirk appearing at the corner of his mouth.
“I… beg your pardon?” Barok inquired and narrowed his eyes at the shorter man, his back straightened completely in a defensive stance. What was that man thinking, speaking in such a manner with Death himself? Was he that oblivious?
“I confess. The first time I slipped on the wet floor of my bathroom – that was an accident. I never intended for anyone to see me in an old bathrobe. Let alone the Grim Reaper himself”, Herlock said, laughing out loud as he bent forward, holding onto his deerstalker. Then suddenly, he raised an index into the air, looking him straight in the eye – in the eye, to look the Reaper in the eye, “But every other time, it was more or less a ploy.”
“A… ploy.”
“Your ears do not deceive! A ploy, for the good ol’ Reapy”, Sholmes saw the raging storm hidden beneath the calm, so he staggered to quickly explain his reasoning, opening his palms, “You must still remember how I shook in my boots – which I did not have – as I looked upon you! I was really baffled – is this how I die? By slipping on Iris’ rubber duckie? By slamming my head into the boiler? But you were just standing there, reassuring me that all will be well, and then you let me off the hook! I was back in my apartment with no more than a cat stuck in a violin and a bump on my head!” he put a finger to his forehead, as if in deep thought, “Naturally, as any great detective as myself would, I grew curious. Curious as to why the Grim Reaper of old London town decided to let me live.”
Barok van Zieks pinched the bridge of his nose, shaking his head gingerly.
“Next time around, I made sure to be dressed properly for the occasion. There I was, preparing my usual toast, but I had purposefully tested a new antidote I had concocted and smeared it into the butter – finding out it was more poison than antidote, and there you were, sitting in my armchair. You kept glancing at all my belongings, inquired about the shoe and the Napoleon bust, glared at the woman on my fireplace, asked about the small teacups scattered around Iris’ table, and had the softest look – do not give me that death glare now, dear fellow – the softest look when I told you about the plushies she made. Next thing I know, I was back in my chair, toast untouched and thrown into the bin. I knew – for a fact, that I had a grip on you, somehow.”
“I may not be alive, but you’re giving me a headache.”
“The time after that, I got caught up in an explosion from one of my experiments, and you had strolled into the apartment to open the windows and ask me what I was doing this time. I only laughed, as you might remember, laughed – and you let me go!”
“I can always just declare you dead on the spot – ” the Reaper got back to his parchment, looking for Sholmes’ name on the list. But Sholmes’ proud stance suddenly faltered, and his queasy smile was replaced with something smaller – something more genuine. He stepped closer again, sight falling to the white, misty ground beneath them. The Reaper frowned still, then returned to try and find his name on the list of the living, all the while wondering how Sholmes withstood the cold that was emanating from his form and why his brilliant smile kept occupying his mind whenever he stopped thinking.
“Any other point in time, I wanted to see you again.”
Van Zieks stopped dead in his tracks, lifting his head only to see the man standing in front of him, his pale thin fingers holding onto a small daisy that he was extending towards the other, “What…?”
“I’ve been carrying one around every time since my third supposed death. So, if you had followed my line of sight for just a second, perhaps we would have been over with this charade for some time now”, the detective’s eyes fell to the frail little flower in his fingers, a somewhat shy smile on his face as he chuckled, “Well, it’s not the fanciest of flowers, I fear, but it’s one I kept running into. And then I started to associate you with it somehow”, he paused, “Not sure why. But it might suit you.”
Van Zieks was breathless. The detective’s hopeful eyes finally rose from the flower to look at him, a tender look in the green. Vulnerability. He never would have thought he would see the detective vulnerable. A shy smile, yet a steady gaze; he was sure if he had a beating heart, it would race and burn his very core – instead, he just felt his entire form alight.
“Why…?” van Zieks’ brows furrowed, his eyes calming as he took the daisy from the man’s hand shakily, fingers lingering when they touched Sholmes’ hands accidentally, “Why are you giving this to me? Do you not comprehend what I am?” the glassy eyes met the detective’s as he stumbled to find the right words, not one of them fit to leave his colourless lips, not fit enough to describe his soul’s merriness, “This sentiment… it is misplaced. I would not bear to see you in love with one such as myself. Perhaps this is a jest?”
“I’m afraid not”, Herlock said, smiling, “You are an unfortunate ally I have met on my journey through life, no matter its length. An ally I managed to fall in love with.”
Upon hearing Herlock Sholmes’ words, his world came to a stop. The white fog beneath them suddenly ceased moving, the white was fading into grey once again, the smell of ozone mixed with poison wrapping around them. Sholmes raised a brow, but otherwise, didn’t find his surroundings too surprising, or he might have been too busy looking at the Reaper who was trying to collect the pieces of his soul that the man just shattered with the daisy that Barok now carefully held in his gloved hand. Barok’s eyes fluttered close as he steeled himself, giving himself a second of peace. He then reopened his eyes, a gentle look in them as he stepped closer towards the detective who only shivered slightly upon being this close to Death himself, staring openly. A small smile broke his stern façade as van Zieks spoke up, sighing, “We have to stop meeting like this, detective. I won’t be as patient the next time I see you wasting my time on antics such as these”, leaning down, he pressed a chaste kiss on top of the content detective’s forehead.
“You say that every time, dear”, Herlock cooed, unable to hide the grin that he had fought to hide up until now.
“I’ll see you when it’s time, Mr Sholmes. Life is too precious to have me on your mind all the time”, Barok said and, without forewarn, sent the detective back to his own world, Sholmes’ soul disappearing gradually to find its way back into its host, the space he had been occupying suddenly empty, devoid of that illustrious energy and wonderful vigour. Barok sighed, feeling his chest constrict as he watched the emptiness in front of him meaningfully, then carefully attached the little daisy to his lapel, marvelling at the complexity of such a delicate flower as he grabbed for his scythe and turned the other way.