Chapter Text
It’s a clear day out in London. An extreme rarity. With a touch of wind, chilling one's body comfortably. God’s blessing or curse?
Herlock Sholmes is not a man to be seen as something human. Being human, being something more than an algorithm of pathways in the mind, more than a figment of the people’s imagination and a passing train of thought. To be human is to be full of holes and errors.
To make up for those errors, you must hide them amongst the brightest successes.
Nobody else knows. Except for Iris, Ryunosuke, and Susato perhaps. That’s much more than he’d like, but the last two don’t know the full extent. Bless his young child.
Herlock Sholmes cannot bear the burden of being human for too long, for interacting with the public for too long, for putting on a show for the people for too long. And it has been far too long.
It is supposed to be a perfect day.
A day to be something more than a holed up man in his dark bedroom.
Unfortunately for him, he is not perfect enough for this day.
The blond hasn’t answered any calls, any telegrams, letters, or knocks to his doors in about 2 days. 2 days doesn’t sound like a very prolonged amount of time, but it seems to be unmeasurable by any real means to the actual rock of a man stewing in his own stagnancy. Is it his own fault for indulging far too much in what people would consider “alone time”? Wouldn't all his work be enough to buy him solitude?
The human being is made to be social, to require interaction and most importantly, touch. To be perceived and held, and acknowledged as real.
When in isolation, clearly there are many errors. It’s a delicate thing to approach such a beast. Something so welled up inside, and so terrifyingly passive. Especially if this beast is your good friend. It can’t be helped.
Slipping in and out of the grasp of slumber, he is not a strong man. He succumbs to the perpetrator without fail, each time. When is it day and when is it night, he’s not sure. The clock’s numbers don’t bring him any solace, or any thought at all. He only answers to sleep’s beck and call. It speaks in the only language he knows now.
His reclusive nature at the moment, is not born of hatred or any sort of feeling really. Quite the contrary, it’s an extreme lack of any desire, any feeling, any urgent pressing matters to attend to. Or at least any that interest him. He’s devoid of any interest.
Only one.
The animal wishes to be cared for, though its asocial behavior says otherwise deceivingly. It wants not the frightening thought of reaching for it, a cry for help, for its mouth is clamped shut. That language is a lost one, hidden in a neglected corner of a library, that nobody tends to peruse or prod.
Fortunately, a certain prosecutor is an avid reader and investigator of his own in matters that matter most to him.
—
Barok hadn't heard from the peculiar 221B Baker street family in a while. At least not the renowned owner of it.
It's a little concerning. Scratch that. It's very concerning.
Who knows what that damned detective could have gotten himself wrapped up in now. He could be on death's door once again, or off on a ship to another country. (For what is he called a reaper for then?)
He wishes it was his door instead.
Speak of the devil, a methodical and cheery rapping of wood and knuckle sounds in Barok's hollow apartment. Its volume a tad startling, he strides over.
As he swings open the heavy door, he is met with empty space in front of his person.
"Perhaps a joke from one nasty child. How crude." He shakes his head, unimpressed by the supposed stunt.
Fortunately he was slow to close his door, for a small brass-colored handle slotted itself last minute between the frame and lock, making a striking "Clank!" noise. How curious.
Barok's gaze flits back to the door and source of the sound, and there he recognizes a far too familiar symbol. A four-petaled flower, with a signature circular center.
He was not wrong about the child.
"A little rude to close the door on a friendly visitor, Mr. Reaper." a bright voice sounds behind the wood, with an amused lilt to it.
He swings open the door with a hint of remorse, and aims his gaze lower to meet with the young lady's eyes. Said handle belonged to her trademark gun, in hand as she rested them on her hips.
"For such an observant prosecutor, you are as blind as a bat!" Iris's grin only widens evilly.
"To what do I owe this pleasure, Ms. Wilson?"Barok huffs out.
"Oh you must excuse my brashness. I went through a bit of trouble getting here. Made a few stops and I'm quite tuckered out. Nevermind that, Hurley and I would like to invite you over for some afternoon tea." prattled the pink pig-tailed girl. She's already invited herself in the man's foyer, pacing about the tiled floors.
Now that Barok thinks about it, how did this young inventor find his livings? He never mentioned it once to the family. As to be expected of someone under Mr. Sholmes's wing. He supposes. He swats that thought away.
Hesitant to join the detective for something as simple as tea, for perhaps he'd be intruding or Sholmes might just be inquiring for business. Though unlikely, it's much less plausible to Barok that he'd be a candidate for company. Regardless, it seems the detective is left with nothing to do and Barok has little to do today.
He'll bite.
"I suppose I can spare a few hours," The beast of a man swivels around to find Iris peeking at his shelves, handling a nondescript book in her hands. It's fortunate she wears gloves.
"Please refrain from fiddling with my belongings…" He appears directly behind her, his shadow enveloping the young doctor and figure curling around her silhouette. Despite the intimidating arrangement, she does not budge nor flinch one bit.
"Oh I do apologize! It's just that I'm not familiar with your home, and I do love perusing around people's livings. It's amazing what you can find out by simply looking around!" The girl hummed with pleasure, side stepping out of Barok's way. Though her distance did not allow her to exchange greetings with his baubles and novels, she still peered at the shelves and he's decided that is enough prodding for today.
"Well, we best be on our way, shall we?" Barok slipped on his boots and vest, donning his signature cape for the brisk weather outside. He looks up to see no head of pink hair nose deep in his library, but instead holding the door open for him in a gentlemanly manner.
"Ladies first." An innocent smile that would fool most, but Barok knows much better than that.
"How kind."
The door shuts with a low "clunk", dense and iron-clad. "Now where to?"
"You're not serious are you? You know the way, Reapy!" She gestures enthusiastically with flicks of her hand, like a cat batting at a feather. Iris seems very pleased by his joined presence.
They make pace for such a strange duo, one man of such large stature and a tiny girl with haste can compete against one another. All while the Cheshire cat grinning man, naps in his crumpled sheets. Melding with his blankets and swimming in the dim night of his quarters.