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Albeit thankful for the last night of the calendar year, Barok feels rather weighed down by the pressure of once again starting anew. Perhaps it has something to do with the burden of the entire grown man sleeping across his shoulder and drooling like a helpless baby, and less about his reservations for the new year.
He shouldn't be used to such things—right now, he's skillfully balancing a book on his chest and learning to flip the pages with the one free he has hand that isn't halfway flattened to the mattress by his blissfully oblivious lover—but he manages these days in a way he didn't think humanly possible.
Since when had this become the new normal in his otherwise boring, calculated life? And better yet... when did it make him so content to finally call this place home again? Whatever privacy Barok had prior to Sherlock and Iris moving to his estate is a strange, distant memory. A familiar knock at the door only further serves to prove it.
Normally a light sleeper, tonight Sherlock makes no movement to acknowledge his daughter's presence at the other side of their bedroom door. Clearing his throat, as if preparing to address an entire court of law instead of an innocent young girl, Barok decides to answer in Sherlock's stead.
"Come in, Iris," he says, loud enough for her to hear but hopefully not forceful enough to wake Sherlock from his deep slumber.
Iris slowly peeks inside before tiptoeing into the bedroom, a bit like a hesitant little mouse. She flashes a tiny, coy smile, always unsure of how else to announce her presence, but it does the trick wonderfully. Anyone would fall for that charming smile, and Barok is now included into that hopeless category of saps.
"I can't sleep," Iris admits, fidgeting with the frills of her night dress; her dainty curls bounce as she does, curls not unlike the messy head full of them that Barok once had as a child. He thankfully grew out of them, and for the briefest of moments, he wonders if Iris will, too. Not that it wouldn't suit her, he decides, despite his bias as her estranged uncle.
"Nor can I." Barok smiles back at her, dismissing her fears. He sets his book down, too, to further put her at ease.
"I guess Daddy is the only one who doesn't have that problem tonight." Iris giggles, and Barok is once again acutely aware of the wetness saturating through the shoulder of his night shirt pooling from Sherlock's mouth.
Barok scoffs.
"Unsurprisingly, yes. My arm has been held captive so long that I'm not sure it's even mine anymore." Barok rolls his eyes, but even Iris recognizes it's too half-hearted to take seriously. "He's been out cold ever since that last drink I tried to talk him out of." He hesitates before the words finally come out of his mouth. "Um. Would you like to...?"
He doesn't need to articulate further. Iris is already nodding happily and making her way closer to the bed. Barok half-expects her to catapult herself over top of him so that she can snuggle up with Sherlock like she normally does, but to his surprise, she instead settles in at Barok's side. The first few times Iris had asked to sleep with them, it had been solely because of nightmares or stomachaches; originally, she'd bury herself at Sherlock's side for comfort, which eventually turned to wedging herself between the two of them once she'd gotten more familiar with Barok specifically.
But this...
"I-Is this okay?" Iris interrupts his thoughts with a surprising amount of apprehension, as if she'd already forgotten they were the furthest thing from strangers now; she'd conked out overtop his lap just last week after Christmas dinner. She waits for Barok's wordless nod before she finally rests a shaky, tentative little hand against his abdomen and nuzzles closer.
At least she has the decency to ask permission before using him as a cushion, unlike a certain nameless detective on Barok's other side whose general idea of personal space knows no bounds (in bed, or otherwise). Iris curls up beside Barok not unlike the cat she'd brought with her from Baker Street, as Barok so often catches it napping with Iris much like the two of them are now.
"You can stay as long you'd like," Barok awkwardly offers before turning his eyes back to the book he'd barely been reading to begin with.
Embarrassed but clearly pleased by the invitation, Iris grins. "Thank you, I'm getting sleepy already. It's so cozy here."
Barok peers over his book. "Is your own bed not comfortable enough? If not, we can look into something that will better suit—"
"No, no, it's wonderful!" Iris quickly defends. "I didn't mean to imply there's anything wrong with it! It's lovely!" She blushes furiously. "I-I'd always dreamed of having a princess bed."
A princess bed? Barok raises an eyebrow. He wonders if the canopy on his own bed makes this, too, a "princess bed." By Iris' definition, it's very possible. He decides not to press it further.
"You're... liking it here, then?" he asks instead, after a long beat of silence. "All things considered?"
"Mm-hmm," she murmurs against his side. "I still get lost sometimes, but... I'm not homesick at all, like I thought I'd be." She chuckles under her breath. "At least I know I can visit Baker Street anytime, since Ginny's staying there now."
Barok smiles, too. Iris' ability to find the positive in everything is indescribably contagious. She must get that particular trait from Sherlock, whose (often misplaced) optimism borders on apathy more often than it straddles the intended sentiment of positivity. At least Iris had turned the trait into something more admirable. Right now, Sherlock's breathing hadn't changed in the slightest since Iris had joined them in the past five minutes. A rarity to see him in such a deep sleep, but not entirely unwanted. Barok distinctly remembers this time last year; the idea of engaging in a conversation with Iris sans Sherlock was downright terrifying. And now she's here, cuddled up beside Barok like it's the most normal thing in the world.
Iris' next question comes out of nowhere, and is much less comforting.
"I, um... I was wondering if I could visit the room you said belonged to my parents soon." She swallows hard, and Barok pales instantly. "I-I think I'm ready. I'd like to see more pictures, too... if that's okay with you..."
It had been too long since Barok dared to visit that room. Too many memories, all too painful to recall but too sad to forget. By keeping it far from his mind, it simply remains as "Klint's bedroom" and not just some random locked door in the van Zieks estate. With the exception of whatever the police had moved after investigating Klint's death, Barok hadn't changed a single thing about it in ten long years. Lady Baskerville had been the last one in there, and looking back on it, she had been bedridden there for months... pregnant with Iris, naturally.
"O-Of course," Barok says under his breath. At the very least, his voice is strong. "I can unlock the room for you anytime."
Ever the empath, she can sense the uncomfortable way his body tenses against her. "You don't have to come with me, Uncle Barry. Not if you don't want to."
"Thank you." He sighs. "We'll see. I know it's important to you."
"We'll... um, make it a New Year's revolution. If you want."
"Resolution," Barok corrects her, and Iris yawns it off.
"That too," she says, shifting beside him. "So sleepy."
Barok smiles to himself and decides to let her sleep. She doesn't often stay up this late, but something tells him she did it just for him tonight.
Things hadn't changed much since he'd confided in Iris about the truth of her parents. In all actuality, she'd taken the news quite well—it had shocked her, of course, to learn she was none other than Klint van Zieks' daughter, but the fact she and Barok had grown much closer in the past year must have helped pad the blow in some way. She was more excited to know she was "family" to Barok than she was upset about the grisly truth behind it.
Now, he wasn't just "Uncle Barry" in the same way that Dr. Mikotoba was "Uncle Mickey" and that Naruhodo and Susato were her self-appointed big brother and sister.
Barok was now her Uncle Barry in much more than just affectionate nickname alone. The thought makes Barok surprisingly proud to admit, even more so now that Iris knows of their relation in the same bittersweet way that he does.
Barok is also proud to admit that Sherlock hadn't urged him to tell her that night in any way whatsoever. He'd done it on his own time—on Iris' birthday, of all days, but whatever had given him the blind courage to spill the truth to her that day... well, he only hoped it wouldn't leave him anytime soon.
He finally had someone to name heir to the van Zieks' family fortune, and though Klint likely hoped she'd never learn of her true name, the idea alone had since taken a burden off Barok's shoulders he hadn't even known was there.
At the very least, he had an acceptable excuse to move Iris and Sherlock into close quarters without raising unwanted suspicion. The van Zieks didn't need anymore of that, and decidedly, neither did the great detective seen far too often at his side these days.
But now they had each other. Nothing else mattered, at least as far as Barok was concerned.
Things had been refreshingly perfect as of late. The idea of rekindling his—for lack of better word—relationship with Sherlock Holmes was something he never expected he'd be so content with, and in truth, had gotten quite serious the past few months without him even realizing it. Sherlock had never looked at him this way when they were younger. Everything about the way they did things together now was somehow... different. Unexplainable, even. Impossible to put a name to, so they don't.
Their closest of friends—those in Japan included—now knew (and accepted) the private bond he and Sherlock share behind closed doors, if only because Iris had casually slipped it over their most recent reunion (and damn it all if every single one of them didn't respond with "you two make such a lovely couple!" every chance they could get, if only to make Barok squirm). Even Gina had stopped teasing him about it, which was saying a lot considering her initial reaction was far less than favourable. She'd learned a valuable lesson of not only accepting others, but also knocking when entering a room not meant for her to walk into. Concurrently, he and Sherlock learned to be more mindful of using the locks.
But now they were at the van Zieks estate and had all the time, company, and privacy they could ever ask for. The opportunity to shower his niece with more presents than she knew what to do with made Barok feel slightly less guilty for everything she'd been through. And now they were—dare he say it? A family. Of sorts. Very unconventional sorts. The type Barok surely never imagined he'd be so fortunate to have. Instead of dying alone without a single person to care, he now had Iris to succeed him. And... well, Sherlock, if he didn't wander off in search of something more exciting as the years pass.
Iris had other ideas about their future, and had very cleverly pointed them out, just last week over breakfast.
"If you ever married Daddy, wouldn't that technically make you my daddy, too? Wouldn't you be like... my Uncle Daddy?
Barok had never blushed so violently his entire life. "P-Perhaps we should just stick with 'Uncle Barry' for now." He couldn't even begin to choke out his other protest about how he'd never marry Sherlock in the first place, nor could he bother to berate Sherlock for not coming to his aid instead of somehow conveniently choosing to drop every piece of cutlery at his disposal at that exact moment so he could dive under the table.
The time he'd spent with these two had been so disastrously rewarding, Barok feared it wouldn't be long before they had him conditioned to their madness completely. The longer he spent with him, the more his sanity suffered. But God if he didn't cherish every moment of it.
He'd been reminiscing over it for so long that he hadn't even noticed that Iris had begun quivering at his side. When he finally looks down at her to ask if she's cold, he feels his heart break in two for not realizing sooner that his niece is actually crying at his side.
"Iris, what's happened?" Barok panics, unsure of what to do in such a delicate situation. Sherlock is the one who comforts Iris, not him. He considers waking him up immediately, but then Iris lifts her head to reveal an unexpected smile.
She wipes away tears, only for more to replace them.
"I'm sorry," she hiccups, breathless. "I'm just... really happy."
"You're... happy?" Barok blinks wildly. "I-I'm not sure I understand."
She sniffles louder. "I'm so happy to have you in my life now... happier than I've ever been. And I'm happy to see Daddy so happy now, too, and... and...!"
Out of breath, she stops to regain control of herself. Barok isn't sure what to say, so he reaches out to console her, and it's pure instinct alone that helps him commit to it. "Come here," he whispers.
Before he can even sit up properly, Iris throws her arms around his neck so tight it nearly knocks the breath from his lungs. He remembers embracing Klint like this as a young boy, smothering him with every bit of strength he could muster. He never imagined he'd be the one in Klint's place someday, and yet here he is. Though he can't possibly imagine what Iris sees in him that's even remotely comforting, he reaches around to embrace her in earnest, as proper as he can with one arm still stuck under Sherlock. This time when Iris cries, it's clear she has no intention of holding back.
"I love you, Uncle Barry," Iris whispers urgently against his chest, and it's the most sincere, unexpected thing Barok has ever heard his entire life. "I love you so much. Happy New Year."
"I-I love you, too, Iris." Barok's voice barely sounds like his own, but he doesn't mind the way it sounds on his lips. He knows that he'll never be Klint, or even Sherlock, but he can still offer this much. He simply squeezes her tighter. "Happy... New Year."
They stay like this so long that the candle at the bedside nearly tapers to its end; Barok cradles Iris against his arm, relaxing little by little until she's completely limp against him. He hears her telltale gentle snore shortly after, and Barok allows himself to relax, too. He's now sandwiched between a grown man he can scarcely imagine sleeping without, and a wonderful little niece that leaves him speechless day after day. Really, though, Barok can't think of a better way to start the new year. Perhaps being able to move his arms would be a fair start, but he'd rather die than disturb either of them and ruin this moment.
He's not entirely convinced the wetness on his shoulder is Sherlock's drool anymore, especially when it feels so much like the familiar warmth of tears, but he can only hope that it means Sherlock is happy with tonight's outcome, too.
They'll face the new year together, just like they'd conquered the old ones. Barok is certain that a brighter future is waiting for them, and for once, he's determined to grasp it.
For the sake of his new family, he'll do whatever necessary to make ensure the van Zieks family name doesn't end with the tragedy of the Professor—how could it, with such a bright, young successor at his side?
If anyone can change the future, it's Iris.