Work Text:
Habits are the worst maladies of all and Barok had become harshly aware of that. No matter how things changed — because they had changed, without an ounce of remorse for the lonely man and his selfish ways of life — his inner world stayed still. He woke up earlier than any aristocrat and way later than any commoner, and he found himself walking the same alley, greeting overly-busy faces dressed in dark, heavy cloths and pure aprons. His breakfast was readily cooked even when he had no appetite; he kept on eating and drinking as he ignored the twisted feeling in his stomach. Perhaps the wine had finally gotten a hold of him, but yet again, how could he put an end to such comfort? He never thought of himself as a strong-willed man anyway. There was absolutely no need to put on a laughable act.
Barok’s office was empty most of the time. Asougi’s career as a prosecutor had been far from fulfilling and the young man seemed incapable of accepting imperfection. That’s why van Zieks was sure his colleague would’ve left the workplace soon. Both prosecutors failed to understand each other; they regarded themselves as Asougi and van Zieks, mere consequences of deceased men whose virtues couldn’t be emulated, or even barely replicated. That, too, was a habit Barok couldn’t let go of.
On brighter days, his niece Iris would come to visit him, bringing sweets and some tea and a hopeful insight on the future.
The prosecutor would be stuck on his paperwork for an unnecessary amount of time, while his fingers tapped along the shape of yet another refined glass. Once he was done, Barok would go straight for his mansion, putting on his black coat and bringing along a cane. He walked steadily as the wind violently brushed over his scarred face, causing his eyes to water. On his way, he would often stop for the family cemetery, which was located close by. Van Zieks himself was unaware of the reasons behind his frequent visits to the graveyard. It was something he had picked up almost an year before the trial that cleared Genshin Asogi’s name — maybe some sort of gut feeling led him towards the land of the dead. Barok observed the dirty, stained graves and read over the names of those who departed. Men and women who lived and died before he could even breathe his first breath lied there, now forgotten forever for no one could testimony their existence anymore. Barok looked down at the dirt crawling over his parents’ grave. He was their only child, now that Klint had died, he had responsibilities to fulfill. And yet, all he could remember when thinking about the buried people was their strict and monotone voices, trying their best to shape him into an obedient boy.
He would walk over, taking in the guilty feeling that eroded his soul. He was not a grateful son. Klint’s grave was pure white, as opposed to the blood he had spilled. Barok couldn’t stand to stare at his brother’s burial stone for long, since London’s harsh weather would suddenly redden his eyes and shaken his hands.
Habits aren’t supposed to be withering. They must not go through any kind of unwanted change, because that only would destroy their very core. Habits have the same appearance as cherubs; their reddish cheeks and golden curls bring comfort to those who stray away from the reality of things. Anything that disturbs said comfort has to be deemed as a nuisance. Holmes was a nuisance.
That day, Barok had fallen victim of his usual trip to the cemetery. He had caught a cold just a week prior — his body was so weak and the fever was so high he ended up bedridden. Forced into idleness, he sought comforting habits. That’s why, once his hand felt warm compared to his forehead, he went to his family’s graveyard. The maids and attendants looked over him with worried glances.
— Lord van Zieks, are you well enough to go out? Shouldn’t you rest more?
— I am well rested, I assure you, — Barok replied, while struggling to contain his coughs.
The cemetery looked the very same it did the last time he had visited. Van Zieks wandered with his hands in his coat’s pockets and his face half-buried in a long scarf. Crackling leaves, crushed by heavy heels, soothed the austere atmosphere.
Silent stones welcomed him once more and he felt almost content. Relief and loneliness mixed up in his confused heart. What was it, which led him to that accursed cemetery? Why had such painful habit taken him captive? Perhaps he needed to feel guilty. He wanted to make himself aware of everything he had ignored, everything he had taken for granted. His brother’s crimes, his family’s tainted history. By going to the cemetery, the prosecutor pondered about the dead — those who had left him alone — and the living — the cheerful little girl whose life had been made unknown to him.
It was late as Barok’s complexion grew weaker. The gentleman took one last glance at the graveyard, and made his way towards a consumed iron gate. However, the sound of firm footsteps suddenly stopped him in his tracks, and forced him to turn around.
— Ah, well, isn’t it tricky to visit cemeteries just when you’re no longer thought of as the Reaper?
Sherlock stood proud, wearing a nicely knitted scarf, whose bright pink reminded Barok of his niece.
— Aren’t you aware, detective, that this is private property?
Holmes laughed and his eyes softened, all the while a reddish tint — a direct consequence of the cold — was sprawled over his cheeks and nose. Van Zieks felt a sudden tightening in his chest.
— But, my dear, I trust your heart is not so cruel as to punish me for my… friendly visit.
— I’d suggest you stop making assumptions about me, detective. I hold no restraints in kicking you out of here.
Sherlock ignored the other man’s admonishments and stared at the stones that stood before them, as he began muttering the engraved names. Once in a while, he’d stop mumbling, almost as if he had reached a conclusion too far from the other man’s grasp.
Barok quickly realized that Holmes would have made absolutely no effort to leave the cemetery, thus resulting in an awkward attempt to understand the bizarre man’s intention.
— Care to tell me why you’re here? Is it yet another of your foolish investigations? If so, I do not wish to be bothered.
— Nay, nay, my dear fellow. As of today, I’ve been employed as a humble postman.
As he spoke, the detective slid a closed letter out of his pocket, and readily handed it over to the other man, then he went on:
— This elegant envelope is from the little Iris. She visited your office twice this week, but she received no answer. She got so worried, she urged me to find you as soon as possible.
Van Zieks took the letter from the other’s hands, confused and almost afraid.
— I have been sick, therefore my absence from work.
The detective nodded absently, his mind occupied with something of seemingly great importance. Silence sounded weird upon Holmes’ lips; it made Barok feel even more discomforted and unsure of what to do. After all, most of their interactions were built upon the detective’s curiosity and constant blabbering.
— I won’t bother asking how you found me, detective, — said the prosecutor — however, I must return now, and so should you.
Sherlock smiled and Barok’s self-proclaimed discomfort grew suspiciously.
— My, I’m glad you recognize the skills of a professional investigator!
— Leave.
Holmes took one last glance at the cemetery, and then faced the other man once more:
— You know, lord van Zieks, I suggest you might be shying away from your own nature, in favor of something far too ripe for you.
Silence followed. Holmes’ words clinging onto the air and becoming one with the timid wind. Just as he tried to get an explanation, Barok saw Sherlock walking away, then waving at him from the distance and raising his voice to remind him of the envelope, because Iris deeply cares about it.
Van Zieks stood in the graveyard, with the letter as his only companion. The cemetery no longer held that distorted comfort he sought.
The prosecutor’s mansion was quiet during the late evening. Barok’s own steps echoed in the never-ending halls, and even the servants had gone to sleep as he retired to his bed chambers. The man began inspecting the envelope he had received a few hours prior. It took him a considerable amount of time to gather the necessary courage to open it.
After all, it was not a habit of his to receive such spontaneous letters.
Barok grabbed his letter opener; the paper was unmistakably pink, and it bore slightly embossed flowers — the very ink had a dark purple shade. A small, almost imperceivable, smile had formed upon the man’s face, once he noticed all the little details Iris was adamant about putting in all of her letters. The man sat down on a wooden chair and began reading the contents of the envelope.
Mr van Zieks,
I sincerely hope this letter finds you well. I was truly worried when I found out you hadn’t been in your office — you’re always so busy with work! Hurley thought it’d be a good idea to search for you, I wonder if his deductions were right. It’s been too long since you last visited us in Baker Street, don’t you agree? It’d be great if you could join us for dinner, perhaps next week, on a lovely Friday evening!
Kindest regards,
Iris.
Van Zieks was left speechless. He had found himself suddenly involved in a dinner and he was sure he had little to no decisional power in the matter.
It was true, he hadn’t been to Baker Street in quite some time. Work kept him busy, and he let himself be completely engulfed in his duties. However, stuck in his own cobweb, he had forgotten that Iris must have been lonely ever since Naruhodo and Mikotoba had left. The prosecutor felt a pang of guilt — he adored his niece, but he had long forgotten the warmth of cozy afternoons and spontaneous joy. That kind of calm happiness had been so distant from him, he figured he’d never manage to bring it back.
Running away was the easiest route to pursue.
Barok sighed, as he carefully stored the envelope in a polished commode.
He had missed Baker Street.
Even if he felt unworthy of the hospitality, he couldn’t help but wonder how it would’ve felt to stay — stay and watch as Iris grew into a young lady, stay and enjoy another glass with Holmes. Holmes, who had visited him that same day, with a skittish grin and yet another ensemble of cryptic words.
The passing of time had been imperceivable. Barok’s week appeared to be suspiciously calm — the only astonishing events being Asougi questioning him about his health, and inspector Lestrade stealing a pair of his chalices.
A peaceful Thursday indeed.
And yet Barok couldn’t stop worrying about the appointed dinner. The man began regretting his visit to the cemetery; wandering aimlessly around his office, he couldn’t help but glance at his brother’s portrait. Klint’s absence was ever so strong at times like this. Even after everything he had found out — everything he had been forced to realize — Barok never stopped staring at the picture whenever he felt trapped in anguish. Many were the attempts at hiding away the portrait, entrusting it to one of the unused lounges in his mansion. That way, the Professor’s haunting figure could be sealed.
Klint had taken care of him, all those years ago, when he was but a timid child, meanwhile everyone else expected adulthood from him.
Cowardice, that’s the word he frequently picked to describe his attitude, and there hadn’t been a single time in which his older brother hadn’t argued with his choice. Klint believed in him, and his steady support made Barok believe he would be able to keep on going, too, notwithstanding the harsh world he lived in.
Joy and growth, betrayal and grief. Too much can change in a few years. Whatever is hidden comes to light, and sooner or later the picture crumbles unabashed.
Van Zieks, yet unable to move away from the ruins, regretted his utmost ignorance, his complete blindness and naivety, whilst he held onto the virtuous remembrance of his brother.
How could he survive his weaknesses, when the person who had raised him abandoned him, with his surname as a burden?
And Barok couldn’t dismiss his pitiful behavior, after so much time spent in solitude, while his hand lingered over another glass of wine and his mind slowly drowned in worrisome thoughts.
Mindless bureaucracy kept the prosecutor occupied for a little longer, until he finally heard a voice calling for him.
— Lord van Zieks, I’ll be leaving.
Barok raised his head and nodded absently at Asougi, sensing a small ache in his eyes. He hadn’t even noticed how dark the room had become.
— Good evening then, sir, — insisted his apprentice, whose voice sounded merrier than usual, almost like a child repressing his blatant cheerfulness.
— Good evening, Mr Asogi.
Soon after, Barok gathered his things and, glancing once more at the monumental portrait, left for his mansion.
That Friday had turned out to be quite rainy. The carriage Barok had called for raced through the streets of London with an unexplainable — and surely concerning — fervor. Perhaps the prosecutor had worried too much about the dinner itself and way too little about his chances of survival. Surprisingly enough, the carriage stopped before committing a slaughter.
Even when grayish clouds clogged up the sky, and suffocated thunders could be heard from the distance, Holmes’ residence stood bright. Too bright, for van Zieks felt the urge to run away and threaten that sick coachman to bring him back to his estate. The screeching anxiety he had acknowledged a week prior was now turning into a violent, overwhelming fear which could no longer be dissipated in wine or court papers or visits to the cemetery.
It was truly a wonder to see a man so tall reduce himself to the littlest of creatures.
One step after the other — with a refined umbrella in one hand, and a box in the other — Barok approached the door.
He knocked once, twice but he was met with silence. A third time, for good measure.
Pure nothingness came from the inside of the building.
Just as he closed his fist to try and knock for the fourth time, he heard a muffled, high voice:
— Come on in, come on in!
Barok tried his best to calm his nerves, and then went in.
To his great confusion, he did not see Iris’ content face. Instead, the first thing he managed to capture, in the artistic mess that was the lodging, was Holmes focused on his mahogany desk.
— Good evening, detective, — said van Zieks, in an attempt of announcing himself.
And yet, Sherlock paid no mind.
— Detective, I believe I had an invitation from you and the landlady.
Holmes began working with a screwdriver.
— Detective.
A hum of approval came from Sherlock as he turned the gears correctly, while Barok was standing by the doorstep, not yet properly invited in; a long forgotten memory took the prosecutor back to a time in which he wasn’t older than ten, learning about proper manners and highly specific etiquette.
Holmes didn’t seem to care about such trivial courtesy.
— Daddy, you should be ashamed of yourself!
But his daughter did care.
Both men turned their head to meet the little girl’s angry expression.
— That’s no way of treating a guest!
Holmes suddenly stood up from the chair, finally giving van Zieks the possibility to look him in the face. The man had his goggles on, and he was out of his typical, long coat.
— Guest? But, my dear, what guest? — replied the detective, who held his screwdriver in his right hand.
Iris shook her head, opting on ignoring her father.
— Mr Reaper, — she said, walking towards the door — I’m very, truly sorry!
Just as van Zieks opened his mouth to reassure the young lady, Holmes roared with laughter.
— Ah, the Reaper! Well, aren’t you heedless?
— Heedless? — asked the prosecutor, whose cold glare seemed powerful enough to destroy London in its entirety.
— Heedless indeed! Our dinner was scheduled for Friday, and yet here you are, standing by the doorstep, on a dreary Thursday evening.
— No, daddy. Today is Friday, — the little girl affirmed, once she happily accepted the box Barok had brought with him.
— The idea of passing time is rather stale nowadays, don’t you agree? — said Sherlock, while taking his goggles off.
— I think, Hurley, you’re the one being stale, — chuckled Iris.
— Young lady, you wound me so!
The prosecutor kept silent as he observed the family’s light-hearted bickering.
It was extremely kind.
That household radiated an incredible warmth that could affect anyone who ever decided to step in its territory. Barok couldn’t pinpoint precisely whether it was the smell of tea and tobacco, or maybe all the knick-knacks located upon wooden shelves, but the welcoming atmosphere was unavoidable.
— Look, daddy, Mr Barok brought pastries, — Iris’ cheerful voice and bright smile made the never-ending queue and the incredibly high price worth it.
Sherlock’s gaze softened while watching his daughter twirl around the room, with the giant box in her tiny hands: — It goes without saying, Iris, that you must let me taste a tart or even two! What if, God forbid, the confectioner used expired ingredients? As a responsible parent, I must prevent you from being sick.
The prosecutor suddenly spoke: — No, Mr Holmes. I didn’t buy these for you, surely you won’t stoop so low as to steal from a young lady.
The man’s words sounded casual, but he couldn’t suppress his fear; the terrible fear of interrupting, breaking into someone else’s life, becoming a part of something he wasn’t meant to experience. Perhaps it was wrong of him.
Van Zieks expected disappointment but was met with a joyous laugh from the young doctor. Holmes mumbled something about being ostracized in his own household, while fetching his pipe.
— I have to go and finish the preparations for dinner, but I swear I’ll be back in a minute! — added Iris, before disappearing in the kitchen.
Sherlock looked over his desk once more, adjusting the position of a couple bizarre objects, then he glanced at his host.
— Well, what are you doing standing there, man? Get yourself out of that coat!
And so did van Zieks, without uttering a single word, still confused by the detective’s antics, as he eyed the scarlet sofa.
— The couch won’t bite you, it has never been a habit of its.
— Considering the wizardry you’re prone to, I wouldn’t want to assume.
— I’ll take it as a compliment, Mr Reaper.
Ah, that reminded Barok of something he had heard from the very same man a week prior. Something about appreciating the detective’s skills, when actually all he ever wanted was to be left alone in his solitude. Holmes’ words from that day were still hanging onto the prosecutor’s brain, unexplained.
— If that makes you sleep at night, detective, consider it however you want, — van Zieks, now sitting with his legs carefully crossed, contained his curiosity, afraid of throwing himself in a cage.
After all, it wasn’t the time to put his misery at stake; to reveal himself as the lonely man who just couldn’t let go of the past.
Holmes frantically adjusted his pipe, lit the tobacco with a match, and then replied: — How considerate of you, to grant me freedom of thought. Such courtesy is admirable.
Smoke danced around Sherlock’s curled mouth, hazily tracing the man’s features. Barok studied the slow, attentive movement with an unusual interest; something Holmes had probably noticed, since he suddenly flung on the armchair, only to lean forward — elbows rested on his knees.
— I’m glad to see you’ve recovered, prosecutor. Our last meeting had you looking quite miserable.
Smoke lingered over Barok’s face.
— And I’m glad just the same to see you still for once, in your own property.
— Truly harsh for a guest, is that what you’re taught by preceptors?
No, van Zieks urged to reply, this has nothing to do with what I’ve learned throughout my childhood.
— Please, you are in no position to argue manners.
Holmes scoffed, feigning offense, way too caught up in his way of life to spare a penny for whatever specific social measures he was supposed to be following.
— Either way, worry not, for my apparent resting won’t last long. Great minds can’t stand stillness, and isn’t the very concept of ‘property’ outdated?
— Pray, whatever do you mean?
Holmes was silenced by his daughter’s sudden appearance. With a ladle in her hands, she announced that dinner was ready.
There was so much food. Too much food. Everything was meticulously arranged; the meat dish was served with marmalade sauces, whilst the aroma of homemade savory cakes and colorful entrées adorned the light tablecloth. Iris introduced the meals, explaining each and every variations she decided to implement, leaving no detail behind. The little girl had put immense time and commitment.
Just as he was handed his plate, Barok’s mind brought back a past memory.
It was Christmas, and his short legs dangled from the chair. Around him were foreign faces of distant relatives he knew very little of. A pompous aunt had asked him his age for the third time that day. The young boy had replied, with a soft and shy voice, that he had recently turned ten.
— What a darling you are, a little darling indeed!
Then, no one spoke to him. No one besides his brother, who was seated just opposite.
Even when Klint was drowned in questions about his career, plausible marriages and whatnots, he still took care of his younger brother. Klint would quietly tell him jokes, ask him about that one novel he was invested in, or talk to him about the most mundane of things. All to make sure he didn’t feel lonely, attending such formal dinner, surrounded by the loud adults.
An elder man’s voice announced it was time for prayer. Everyone fell silent, while they kept their hands clasped together and their eyes respectfully closed. Barok wished for his family’s health to be steady and for his heart to be noble at all costs; and that was it.
The child regained sight before anyone else at the table. It felt awkward, almost illicit for him to be the first to end the preaching — others might have considered such behavior disrespectful.
A delicious smell suddenly shook him from his worries.
The young boy fawned over the rich table, full of delicacies and appetizing dishes, and time seemed to slower. Why were his relatives taking so long, anyway?
Was there really so much to pray for?
He began impatiently tracing the tablecloth’s embroidery with his small index finger, going over the patter many and many times, until he could remember it from memory.
Finally, a quiet snicker was heard. Barok looked up to see his brother, smiling kindly at him.
— They are slow, aren’t they?
The young boy couldn’t stop himself from snickering at Klint’s quietly mouthed words, thus resulting in a few inquisitor gazes, which appeared angrier than they should’ve been.
But the child did not care, for he was happy.
— Mr Barok, are you alright? — Iris asked, with a preoccupied expression on her face and a plate in her hands.
Van Zieks cursed himself for letting such memory in. He even cursed his heart for being so dedicated to things that simply were no more, habits of the past which were no longer bringers of serenity.
— Pray forgive me, young lady, I have spent many hours in my office today.
The girl shook her head: — Oh, don’t worry, Mr Reaper. Daddy told me you just went through a harsh fever, you should take more time to rest!
Something in the little genius’ voice made it clear that she was not so easily fooled.
— Yes, Mr Reaper, the young lady speaks the truth, — chirped the detective, while covering the steak with a concerning amount of marmalade — Overworking oneself is often prelude to hysteria, or even neurosis.
A single pause let Sherlock take a bite out of his meal, his lids pensive and his head slightly tilted to the side: — What if your brain were to wander aimlessly at all times? You wouldn’t be much of a prosecutor then, would you?
Holmes’ amused face also made it clear that he had coerced the reasons behind van Zieks’ absent-mindedness. How tragic for him.
— I suppose not, — Barok glossed over the matter, inducing yet more suspicion than if he went along with Sherlock’s blabbering — Miss Wilson, you are exceptional. It’s been quite a while since I last dined with something so good-tasting.
The girl giggled merrily and displayed a satisfied grin on her face.
The dinner was mostly spent in joyful chatter between Holmes and his daughter. The both of them seemed unable to stop talking, even for the briefest moments. They fled from one topic to the other, following their own kind of logic. Barok intervened mostly with resolute comments, nods of agreement and, sometimes, glances of confusion destined to the detective. Van Zieks could’ve spoken more, of that he was very much conscious, but he didn’t mind listening to his hosts’ beaming words. He didn’t mind, because he found it endearing. Iris’ novelist attitude was ever noticeable when she began recollecting anecdotes, whose nature was often so bizarre it was impossible to remain detached. She discussed of previous cases accompanied by Sherlock’s insights. She loved Holmes dearily — Barok had no difficulties in deducing such truth. Whether it was about the man’s great deeds or his greater oddities, Iris’ narration portrayed her father in the most positive of lights. The young girl’s eyes sparkled with appreciation each time she spoke of him.
Her aquamarine eyes, akin to Klint’s very own irises. The resemblance was too much to bear at times, and Barok would pathetically lower his gaze.
The four savory cakes were reduced to one, and the prosecutor had been informed of most of the cases Sherlock had taken care of. An insane quantity of knowledge to gain in one evening. Barok had found out that the detective had been stuck one whole night in Hyde Park, as he had forgotten about the existence of closing time, and on the morrow he had to hide from the patrolling policemen. Iris had even mentioned his father’s interest for disguises. The young lady excused herself from the dinner table just to bring back with her a picture of Holmes dressed as a woman. He did make a plausible lady, van Zieks noted, repressing his own thoughts from going any further. It seemed the detective’s repudiation of the norm and its strict ethics went to further extents than simple obliviousness to etiquette. Iris, too, proudly showed off that photograph; her next words reckoning the names of the men who had asked Holmes’ hand in marriage, even after the disguise had been revealed. Barok wondered if her adulthood would be easier, being free from secular notions of guilt and hatred. A silly question, van Zieks tutted to himself. It was not about it being easier, whereas what mattered the most was having shoulders broad enough to accept and overcome humanity’s turn for hypocrisy and anguish.
Iris was destined to become stronger than him, stronger than Klint.
— Oh! I had almost forgotten, — said the landlady, standing abruptly from her seat — I have something for you, Mr Barok!
Both men were escorted in the living room. Barok had offered help with the dishes, Iris had vehemently refused.
— But you’re a guest, Mr Barok, I’d be a terrible landlady. Today
is Daddy’s turn to wash the dishes anyway!
Once again, Sherlock had opted for the emerald armchair, whilst Barok approached the scarlet sofa.
— I’m impressed you have experience in something so lowly as dish-washing, Lord Van Zieks.
The mockery in the detective’s tone was blatant, yet Barok felt exposed. He did not, in fact, have any kind of experience. He had asked out of courtesy and genuine desire of helping, something he had never thought he’d do, all clammed up in his manor.
— It’s your fault, for assuming wherein ignorance prevails.
— ‘Assuming’? No, no, my dear man. It was merely a deduction.
Van Zieks frowned: — Are my skills in housekeeping interesting enough material for you?
— Indeed! A man so wealthy he has twelve servants, not counting those meant to cook or do the gardening. A man who states he could do the dishes, extraordinary!
The prosecutor mentally counted the number of maids who worked for him. There were twelve of them, and the man began to wonder if Sherlock had eyes and ears everywhere. Extraordinary.
— That doesn’t change the fact that your interest is unjustified.
— Justified or unjustified, it matters not to me. Either way, I think it’d be thrilling to admire you at work, while washing the dishes.
The detective was now pressing the tobacco in the pipe’s bowl.
Iris strolled back in the lounge, carrying a plate with a tea set and a small bag.
— Here it is, my new blend! — Iris carefully placed the cups in front of the two men, then she went on: — Mr Barok, this tea is especially good for recovering. Hurley tried it too, a few months ago, when he had caught a bad fever.
— Ah, I remember this one! Yes, I was bedridden for a while, — confirmed the detective before taking a sip. The fine china gleamed in opposition to Sherlock’s hands.
The young girl nodded: — This little bag here, it’s for you. It contains the tea leaves. That way, you can drink the blend once a day, and you’ll feel better in no time!
The prosecutor’s eyes widened. His gloved hands accepted the gift, although he couldn’t bring himself to speak. Air around him stilled, his breath hitched. He begged for his heart to stop hurting at such time. There were so many things he could be thinking about — how lucky he was, to be granted such appreciation from people he had wronged. How nice the dinner had been, how he had spent an evening far away from the accursed cemetery. However he was bound, so it seemed. He was bound to unhappiness and vexation.
Once again, Barok thought of Klint.
His brother had gotten a cold, and he was so preoccupied he had to do something for him. The young boy had heard from his father that vitamins were of great importance for keeping the body healthy. So, Barok decided to sneak into the kitchen just to cut some fruit in order to put it all together in a bowl. An easy task, it was.
Barok carried the bowl with pride. He went towards his ill brother’s bed chambers. The young boy asked him if he was awake, in a soft spoken voice.
‘Yes, I am. Has something happened, Barok?’
No, Barok readily stated, before handing him the fruit he had cut.
‘Ah, thank you! I’m surprised they even let you
close to the kitchen.’
They didn’t, the young boy replied, for he had sneaked in.
Barok told him he was sure he’d feel better if he ate.
‘D-did you perhaps use
salt instead of sugar?’
Full of embarrassment, the young boy tried some apple. To his disappointment, it was extremely salty. He began to wonder how he could’ve messed up something so elementary. Before giving Klint the chance to speak, Barok fetched the bowl and stormed out of the room. Later, he got scolded by one of the maids for running around the manor.
Van Zieks remembered his previous conversation with Holmes. He didn’t know the first thing about housekeeping, although he wished he did. He wished he weren’t so inept.
— Mr Barok, I’m sorry I offended you.
A tiny, desolate sigh came from Iris: — I, I didn’t mean to say you seemed ill-looking.
Barok, now shaken out of his bothersome memories, saw the little girl tearing up. Out of the corner of his eye, Barok even caught a glimpse of Sherlock’s puzzled expression. He had to say something before he made his niece feel even worse.
— No, Miss Watson, you did not offend me. On the contrary, I highly appreciate your gift. Forgive me if I seemed troubled, but I swear it was hardly an impression.
— You seemed so sad, Mr Barok.
How did the detective manage to hide some truths from his daughter, van Zieks wondered.
— I assure you, you must not worry about me.
— You don’t have to lie to me! — cried Iris, who had dropped the silver plate only to bury her face in one of the cushions on the sofa.
Van Zieks felt hopeless. There was nothing he could say to avoid Iris’ attentive deductions.
— Hold it, young lady, — Sherlock’s clear voice sounded sympathetic — I suggest you might be jumping to conclusions here.
Iris, after having raised her head and wiped her tears with the back of her hand, asked her father what he meant.
— Well, let’s go over the facts, shall we?
The man stood abruptly from the armchair and walked towards the young lady. He lowered himself on his knees and began caressing Iris’ pink-haired head.
— The, the facts?
— Indeed! For you’ve been so preoccupied over Mr Reaper’s visit, that you might be failing to see the truth.
Barok was seated right next to Sherlock’s daughter; he felt utterly horrible. To think he made the young girl cry, during a simple dinner, and it was his constant reminiscences’ fault. Of course, she must have interpreted her uncle’s silence as disesteem — or worse, boredom. Holmes’ gaze was warm, and van Zieks reckoned he had never seen the man like this.
— You see, dear Iris, your gift was obviously very well received. Yes, it was appreciated even too much!
Iris pouted: — But where’s the evidence, daddy?
— If it’s evidence you seek, then I shall oblige! — then with a swift movement Sherlock positioned himself on the sofa, just between his daughter and his guest — Do you perhaps remember our last Christmas?
— Of course I do, Ginny was there too!
— Exactly, and do you remember what Inspector Lestrade’s response to the lovely present she had received was?
— She did not utter a single word.
— That’s it! And why was that?
— Because she, she was not used to presents, and she didn’t know how to respond! — Iris appeared much merrier, and she had even stopped crying.
— Correct! And what do you gain from this inform-
— Then, Mr Barok’s reaction is due to his awkwardness!
The young lady’s words stung, and Barok’s presence had been completely forgotten. However, he did not mind being an experimental subject for deductions, if that meant Iris would lose her previous gloom. As a matter of fact, he even confirmed the duo’s theory when Iris had asked soon after. The detective shook with an amused laughter.
— Mr Barok, I hope you will forgive me for my rude attitude!
Van Zieks tilted his head, and lightly smiled: — Young lady, you must not worry, for you have done no wrong. I, however, must apologize for my absent-mindedness.
— Not at all, Mr Barok! — giggled the girl, before standing up. The pair of men sent an inquiring glance at Iris; her sudden shift startled them both. But the lady refused to reply to any kind of questioning, and disappeared from the lounge once more. Barok then opted on drinking his tea, which had turned tepid. It tasted slightly bitter at first, but a sweeter note came in later. His muscles relaxed, and the man closed his eyes as the flavor washed over his tongue.
Holmes’ figure, still positioned in the middle of the divan notwithstanding the available space, was ever so close to the prosecutor’s. Van Zieks’ lips tingled as they tried to come up with a proper sentence — genuine words to thank the man for his help. And yet Barok, hopeless in his endeavor, emitted no sound.
Iris fled back to the living room with the box of refined pastries in her hands.
— I thought I’d wait for tomorrow to open it, but I really feel it’d be a waste not to try them now!
She put the box on the heavy chest located in the room; the smell of strawberries and chocolate captured Sherlock’s attention — the man adjusted his slouched posture in order to peek over the package.
— Why, Iris, that was a most clever idea! There’s no reason we’d have to wait tomorrow, is there?
— I can’t believe you, Hurley! Don’t you remember that tomorrow Runo and Susie will be back?
That last information piqued the prosecutor’s interest, as he recollected his apprentice’s behavior in the previous days. The mystery behind Asogi’s contained excitement had apparently found its resolution.
Thinking back on it, the sudden disappearance of Naruhodo and Mikotoba had even left an impression on Barok. He surely couldn’t refer to them as friends — they were but colleagues. Said colleagues also happened to defend him in court and accuse his belated brother of mass murder. It was only natural he was distraught by their absence, just as much as he had been distraught by their presence.
— Mr Naruhodo and Miss Mikotoba will return to London? — finally asked the prosecutor.
Iris put her fists on her hips and nodded: — Tomorrow they are to arrive at Dover! I’m just so excited, it’s been too long!
— Indeed it has, and it seems to me they won’t be leaving soon, — added Holmes, full of wisdom and firmness; he had probably been informed by doctor Mikotoba about the reasons behind the attorney and his assistant’s visit.
They ate the flavorful pastries, accompanied by the lovely bittersweet tea blend. The three of them were seated on the sofa, together. Barok had formerly refused the offer, as he reminded his niece that he had bought the confectioneries as a present for her, but Iris stated that she’d cry again if he ended up leaving without having tried a single tart.
Holmes had been talking for a while now, about a case concerning some sort of exotic snake, and his voice resonated in the Barok’s mind way more than it should have. The two men’s shoulders were touching, both were extremely conscious of the other’s movements and words. It flustered Barok, being so physically close to the detective, so much he had even tried to scoot a bit further away while his body kept on being pressed to the divan. However, Sherlock managed to nonchalantly drape an arm over him — almost like it was nothing to him, a simple gesture of no importance, all the while Barok tried to ignore the sudden warmth and proximity.
It had been some time since Iris last spoke, and the prosecutor positioned his head as to look in her direction. Barok saw her huddled next to her father’s side, with her eyes peacefully closed.
— Holmes.
Van Zieks interrupted the other man’s rambling.
— What is it, man? The story’s about to reach its conclusion here, you know! For you see, when I found myself in such terrible conundrum, I coul-
— The young lady has fallen asleep.
Sherlock, who had been too caught up in his own narration, glanced to the side and saw the sleeping lady. His gaze softened and van Zieks could feel the man’s shoulders relaxing.
— It must be quite late, mustn’t it? I’ll be back in no time.
The detective rose to his feet and scooped the young Iris in his arms. She flinched slightly, but once she realized she was in her father’s embrace, she closed her lids. Sherlock then walked out in order to accompany the little girl to her bedroom.
Barok, now alone on the divan, asked himself how different things would’ve been if he had known about his niece sooner. He didn’t think himself capable enough for being a parent, he had no experience and his loss would’ve probably made him even more vulnerable, but his past days would’ve been merrier if he had been witness to Iris’ growth. He would’ve even been content with sending her gifts on her birthday anonymously, if that meant being a part of her life. Yet, this was the best possible outcome. Iris’ name was not to be tainted with the van Zieks family’s cursed history, she was free to live life as she pleased. Even if the truth was destined to come out, she still had a close family to support her. She had her beloved roof at Baker Street, she had even found two overseas siblings. She had Holmes, who had turned out to be an exceptional father.
— My dear man, it seems as though you are incapable of quieting your mind today.
Barok, awaken from his thoughts, turned around in search of the other man. Sherlock stood behind him, his body leaned against the wooden desk, and he wore a cunning smile. Having realized his presence had been noticed, Holmes walked around the lounge and flung himself into the armchair.
— I suggest you might be relying too much on your own beliefs, detective, — words unnecessarily sharp.
— Wouldn’t that be the highest virtue of all, to truly believe in oneself?
— That very easily turns out to be the lowest of all, Mr Holmes, if the conclusions are inaccurate.
Barok was aware of the grave consequences of blind faith: his own soul tricked and an innocent man sent to the gallows.
— Inaccurate? You jest! — scoffed Sherlock — I could enunciate each time your gaze faltered, your heart ached, and your strained voice battled against your bothersome thoughts.
— Fatigue, Holmes, merely fatigue. For I am a busy man, — emphasized Barok, who had now crossed his arms against his chest.
— To take tea with the departed must be your preferred diversion; a busy man you are!
The detective’s expression appeared forcibly relaxed and his straightforwardness sounded cruelly harsh. The man’s unfathomable goal restrained the prosecutor’s breath.
— Stop this farce, Holmes. I’ve had enough of your insights, — a voice just above whisper, broken enough to make the prosecutor’s facade crumble.
— It’s obvious to all, Lord van Zieks, that your life has not been the same, as of late.
The detective lit his previously discarded pipe as he scrutinized the other man.
Of course, silence was the only response. Barok’s lips quivered and his breath stilled, the same way they did when he had wanted to thank Sherlock. To leave would’ve been the proper resolution. To leave and forget the detective’s inquiry, to leave and dig fot comfort in the solitary mourning of the deceased. And yet to stay would’ve been his first attempt at discarding his tedious habits, a courageous act against himself.
— How can you be so sure of it yourself? I reckon we have never been close enough for you to make such claim, — the prosecutor added, filled with hopeful animosity. Perhaps, the detective would’ve been able to find the answers to his most distressing question.
— You are a stubborn man, but you simply cannot avoid the reality of your existence,— Holmes’ eyes held a wondrous sparkle, and his mouth was pressed with force — You are not to be confined within the realms of the dead, for you’re alive, Barok.
How the sound of his first name hurt, when the detective’s words echoed mercilessly!
Alive, was he? Alive, and yet held back by countless deaths; from his beloved brother’s funeral to the corpse of the Inspector. Was he ever supposed to be alive?
— You know, lord van Zieks, I suggest you might be shying away from your own nature, in favor of something far too ripe for you.
— What is left for me, detective? What else should I consider as mine, besides the murky graves and the gaunt soil they’re built upon? — said the prosecutor, his tone akin to a plea.
— This dinner alone is enough to consider as yours, is it not? The cuisine you’ve tasted, the words we’ve exchanged, the surfaces you’ve touched; all of this belongs to your experience, — Holmes objected — The veritable experience of a living being.
— Please, you make all of this sound simpler than it is!
— Why, my dear man, why must it be more complex than that? Are you suggesting that it was not you who dined with us, on this night?
Sherlock’s reasoning was irrefutable, hence the prosecutor tried to find faults in it. And yet he couldn’t withhold from the man’s wits. There was something alluring in the way Holmes’ pressing lilt scraped his guest’s desolation and brought it to the surface; much slower than gentler.
— Your lack of discretion is ever so unpleasant, — Barok said, whilst he turned his eyes elsewhere, so that they’d be free from the detective’s grasp — I refuse to become subject to such callow sentences.
Sherlock began running his hands over his seat’s arms — he appeared as serious as ever, an expression Barok didn’t get to see often. Surprisingly, van Zieks broke off the other man before he could even open his mouth: — If my amiss behavior has troubled you so, there’s little more I can do than to fetch my coat and bid you farewell.
— My dear fellow, must you always be so relentless? I reckon I never once stated anything of the sort, — a newfound snicker formed upon Holmes’ face — I do appreciate to be a matter of interest, but I’m afraid the discussion has never really relied on my persona.
— Then why, pray do tell me, have I become your matter of interest?
Sherlock’s lips grazed the pipe, he shifted in the armchair and his posture visibly stiffened. A moment and whimsical smoke danced through the air. A little more, and Holmes caressed his own index finger with his thumb. Yet another passing minute of silence, and Barok regretted his words.
— It is in my nature, my dearest prosecutor, to feel attraction towards hidden truths, — said Sherlock — And there is nothing as quite enticing as the most simple of enigmas.
Van Zieks flushed — a reaction he attempted to hide by turning his head to the side, letting a strand of hair cover his lids. Under heavy clothing and posh gloves, his fingertips suffered from a tingling sensation.
— ‘Simple’, you daresay? And what if countless dinners weren’t enough for the enigma to be solved? What if, and I insist, one’s habits are far from your reach? So far they could never change.
— I’d throw myself in the Thames, man, if I were to succumb so quickly to specious failure! — laughed Holmes, almost as if he had just stated the obvious. The man’s guest stared baffled, still shaken from what he’d heard before.
— I fail to understand you, Holmes.
— It is easy, my dear man, I merely hunt down whatever catches my interest, until the very end.
— And once you have it in your grasp, you get rid of it, — sighed Barok. He wondered why his voice sounded so reserved and compliant.
Holmes shook his head, but his smile never faded. Even after accusations had been made to his name, he dared not betray his peaceful appearance. In doing so, however, he refused to reply to his guest. Something van Zieks had taken as admitted defeat on the detective’s part — a resignation of some sort. Pride and heartache dwelt inside him; to shut up a man so fiery was both a reason to rejoice and a motive of pain. The silence made the ticking of the grandfather clock unbearable.
To call a hansom, that’s what I need to do, thought Barok, whose eyes danced around the room in search for his coat. He reckoned he had seen it on the sofa, before dining, and then it disappeared, when they were back in the main lounge.
— Might I entertain you one last time, prosecutor? Before you slam the door to my humble dwellings and continue your laborious digging of your very own grave? — said Sherlock — We’ll fetch your coat, later, and it’ll be no burden.
Holmes’ antics were unnerving. It was plain disrespect; being ignored and then asked to stay, Barok felt like a marionette in a fool’s hands. And somehow, he obliged.
— Excellent, my dear fellow! — Holmes enthusiastically exclaimed as he rose from his seat with great vim. Van Zieks stared at him in wordless confusion, whilst his mind cursed him for staying even a minute more. His status as Iris’ uncle surely didn’t mean that he was bound to become Sherlock’s plaything, too. Holmes walked over his chaotic desk, and grabbed a bizarre-looking object. Content with his search, the man came back and, for the second time that night, positioned himself on the sofa, right next to his guest. Their knees were touching, and the air was suddenly warmer.
Barok examined the item in the man’s hands; it seemed like the replication of a chest, only in smaller proportions and ebony colour. However, it lacked a keyhole.
— It’d be a glee, dear man, if you’d humor me for a second, — Holmes said as he handed the object to his guest — This is a safe, quite obviously. I must have worked on it a few weeks, or even a month ago. It had a purpose at that time.
Van Zieks turned the safe in his hands, and noticed — at the bottom — a few levers and several buttons.
— Why should it be of any importance, may I ask?
— It had a purpose at the time, and I dutifully accomplished said purpose. But now, I’ve not only forgotten about what lies inside the chest, but the combination itself is a mystery to me! — Sherlock frantically laughed — Truly a waste, wouldn’t you say?
Barok blinked and his eyes narrowed in a judgmental way.
— And you expect me to solve this? Your nonsense is a plague.
— Might as well try, wouldn’t you say? A high prize awaits you, if you manage to relieve me of this bothersome safe: an expensive, well-refined coat! A great deal indeed.
Sherlock’s emerald irises shined bright and van Zieks let out a beaten sigh.
— Do you, at the very least, remember its modus operandi? Was there a number combination behind the buttons and levers? — Barok traced over the object’s surface with his thumb.
— No, no, — Holmes scooted closer, observing the safe — there was no logic behind it. Merely a concatenation, you see.
— And just how many moves are there supposed to be?
— About thirty-three, my dear man. A sacred number, repeated twice.
The man’s insanity knew no bounds, Barok realized, as he questioned how much time it would’ve taken for him to lose the last fragments of his patience. And yet, what haunted him the most was not the tedious task at hand, but the proximity of Holmes’ body to his. Barok, caught up in that unsolvable game, began pressing the buttons and switching the levers; a constant ticking sound reached his ears. Next to him, Sherlock stared at the safe, and sometimes would rise his gaze to analyze his guest, whose eyebrows were knitted together in a pensive expression.
— I do not believe you have actually forgotten what lies inside this… treacherous thing, — said Barok, breaking the silence both of them had implicitly agreed on. His fingers moved nervously; ten minutes had passed since he first held the safe.
— I assure you, I am not lying.
— It seems oddly foolish, even for someone like you. Your deductions were of no assistance, I presume.
— Deductions are no witchcraft, my dear man. I’m aware you’ve argued about it once, or even twice, but that’s simply the reality of things.
Van Zieks hummed absently, not yet convinced. Something in the detective’s words had piqued his interest; the very mention of deductions brought him a sense of deja vu. It reminded him of reading Iris’ letter, a week prior, and noticing a contradiction in between those neatly written characters.
— Holmes, — called Barok, who was still fixed on the safe, looking like a kid playing with his new toys — when you invited yourself to my family cemetery, you said it was Iris who asked you to come find me.
Click, click, click. The background noise lulled slowly.
— Indeed, I remember telling you as much.
Sherlock’s amused tone had been suddenly tinged by a melancholic shade.
— However, in the letter you’ve delivered, Iris stated that it was you who suggested to search for me.
— Ah, was it? — replied Holmes, feigning nonchalance, showing off a cryptic smile.
Van Zieks stared at the other man in need of answers. In a desperate need of understanding both himself and the detective who had been vivisecting his very soul, he opened his mouth once more: — What’s this about?
— Barok, — Sherlock replied, uncharacteristically calm — you wouldn’t have accepted this dinner invitation in the first place. If I had confessed to you, back then, that it was me who searched for you, pray what response would I have received?
Before Barok could ask, Holmes replied to the unspoken question: — Once little Iris found out about my intentions, she handed me the envelope, hoping that I could deliver it to you vis-a-vis.
Sherlock’s face was serious and sharp, and closer than it had ever been to Barok’s.
The man was right, van Zieks thought. If Holmes had been forthright, he would have probably avoided him with all his might. Out of shame, probably, for being trapped in such a dark state, in the eternal mourning of his living flesh and feeble soul.
— Are these the lengths you pursue in order to fulfill your desire of knowledge, detective?
Barok rested the safe upon his thighs — the other man’s breath vaguely caressing his face.
— Desire of knowledge? — parroted Sherlock — My dear, you diminish yourself.
A voice just above whisper, tantalizing and damning. Holmes moved just a bit forward, as he forced Barok’s shoulders to hit the divan’s backrest. Barok could feel his heart bursting, savagely shaking in his ribcage. It reminded him of his younger days, the idealized thrill of adolescence and the spicy odor of carnations. It reminded him of nothingness, a thousand twirling tulle gowns and yet he did not yearn for any. It reminded him of guilt and everything he had abandoned, forcefully repressing it all up until that point.
Barok shuddered, his hands trembling out of pleasurable fears, and he felt warm lips grazing his cheeks, and then press right on the corner of his mouth. Agonizingly slow, their lips properly met; Holmes’ hands were rested upon the other man’s face, caressing and teasing.
— Must you make the safe wait any longer? — asked Holmes, once they had parted. A most crass question to make in such occasion, and yet Barok’s flushed visage and disheveled hair made it clear that he was lacking of the necessary strength to complain.
— I, I won’t be able to solve it, tonight, — hurriedly replied van Zieks.
— Bring it with you, then, good man, — Sherlock grabbed the safe and twirled it around — bring it home with you, and, once you’ve solved it, you’ll redeem it back.
— I don’t think I’ll ever solve it, Sherlock.
— I’ll most generously lend you a hand, once or twice a week, in your obscure mansion or in this suite of mine, — chirped the detective — in such case, you should be prone to unravel this enigma.
Holmes looked at him with a tinge of prideful victory. Warm skin had left its impression on Barok, who tried to concentrate on the words Sherlock had previously announced. The very idea of being searched for had shaken him, it made him succumb to wishful thinking. It made him crawl out of his grave; the harrowing ordeal of dallying with that accursed safe had distraught him even for the slightest of moments. And yet, moments are wont to depart.
— I would like to receive my coat, — Barok sighed — for it has gotten late.
Holmes smiled and, with a swift movement, withdrew far from the other man’s reach. He disappeared up the stairs for a few minutes, then came back with the refined piece of clothing over his arm. Sherlock reached the man, who rapidly stood up from the sofa.
— Where was it hidden?
— Why, upon the coat rack. Where else was it supposed to be?
Just as Barok tried to grab the clothing, Holmes positioned the coat over his shoulders and guided him into wearing it. Van Zieks stilled as the detective’s hands adjusted the fabric by applying slight pressure. Then, when the coat was finally on, Sherlock began fixing its collar, brushing over Barok’s hair.
— Aren’t they the image of what’s lively, your scarlet-stained cheeks? Surprisingly enough, it seems even a dead man such as yourself is capable of human response.
— Refrain from making similar comments, — sharply stated Barok, whose eyes were averted.
— Merely a compliment, — said Holmes — I cannot comprehend whatever your mind has made of it.
— I can adjust the coat myself, — objected Barok.
— Your preceptors must’ve been quite the specimen!
Sherlock moved away from the other man’s presence, and rapidly whisked away the safe in both his hands. Van Zieks eyed it with perplexity, confused as to whether his host had really decided on entrusting it to him.
— If you do not take it, I might as well deliver it by hand and consign it to one of your lovely maids, — Holmes assessed — It would cause a grand commotion, if the great detective himself inspected the Van Zieks estate.
Barok received the safe, and the mere presence of it in his grasp made him reminisce about the previous physicality. He hoped this wouldn’t result in being haunted by those fresh memories, for he would’ve probably lost his rationality.
They arrived at the doorstep and, all of a sudden, time seemed to slower. Van Zieks glanced at the man who was standing just behind, half expecting to be dismissed with cruel sarcasm. However he was met with a serious face, the very same he had seen at the cemetery and the one which had transpired during their sharp conversation. A fearsome bullet shot through his heart.
— Do consider, my dear fellow, that now Iris is also a part of your life, — words carefully spoken — and she might be extraordinarily bright, but she’s still a child. Do not disappear so easily from her sight.
Barok dared not to interrupt him.
— To succumb might seem the just choice for you, but do not forget the people you leave behind.
Ephemeral principles and apparent annoyance crumbled down before the man’s decisive statements. In his continuous longing of the past, Barok had never properly focused on what laid before him; everything was but the manifestation of vanished delight, all that was present had been pointed as doomed solitude.
Accustomed to be the one left behind, van Zieks’ soul had departed.
— You are correct, and my behavior has been heinous, — replied Barok, whose gaze he kept fixed on the other’s face — I will not let her down again.
Sherlock appeared satisfied, and he put one hand on his guest’s arm. Caught up in the gentle touch, Barok chastely pressed his lips near Holmes’ curled up mouth. Sherlock’s shoulders stiffened in surprise, and Barok felt himself a weight too heavy for his knees. Just before opening the door, van Zieks allowed his heart to find solace in warm liability, which only secured walls could grant.
— I wish you a pleasurable night, Barok.
In the nightly quiet of London’s streets, the galloping of the horses resonated imperious. Barok watched as he encountered familiar places and residences with elegant fronts. He had retraced this path many times, whether it was enlightened by the sun or thanks to dimly lit lampposts, but never his return home had felt this confrontational. Torn between warmth and fear, a force had awakened in him. His grieving heart had been shaken.