Chapter Text
A month ago, Barok van Zieks sat in a cold, damp, and dingy prison cell, all by himself, awaiting trial for a murder he did not commit. His heart closed off to the world and his ability to trust long abandoned. Resigned to whatever fate had in store for him, as taking the plunge and confiding in another had been far more frightening than losing everything he had built for himself. But that was all in the past.
Indeed, if you had told him then that a month later he would find himself on the doorstep of 221B Baker Street upon a promise to have tea with a 10-year-old girl, he would have thought you mad. And yet there he was, staring holes into the doorbell, making his best effort to psych himself up before ringing it.
“Lord van Zieks, don’t forget about that promise you made.”
In the weeks following that fateful trial, Kazuma had made a point of reminding him that he’d promised to visit Iris and pay her his thanks. Their relationship still resembled that of coworkers rather than friends, but Barok figured that his apprentice’s recent openness to nag him had meant that he’d grown more comfortable around him. He was hesitant to shut him down – especially since casual banter with him had been something he did not think himself worthy of after all he had said and done. Of course, I won’t. I wouldn’t miss it for the world, he had always wanted to say in response, but the words didn’t sit quite right on his tongue. Not yet. It was true that he had emerged from the hopeless mire in which he’d spent the last decade, but he couldn’t shed his old skin in an instant. The most he could do was make small daily efforts until he arrived at a point where he could earnestly say he was happy with the person he had become.
Still, there had not been a single day since then that he didn’t think of visiting her. He had to visit her. He would have regardless, as he made a promise, and she had been so kind to him, not to mention she was just a child. But he would have been a fool to assert that her being the most important trace of Klint left in this world didn’t play a significant role in the matter, as well. It was a strange feeling, unlike anything that had been familiar to him up until that point. She didn’t know about their familial connection, and she certainly wasn’t lacking a caretaker – even if his contact with Mr Sholmes had been sparse these past few years, he knew that she was in good hands – but he still wanted to be a part of her life. To what extent, he couldn’t say. But for the time being, he knew that he had to see her.
Regrettably, the aftermath of that trial had left him quite a busy man. As predicted, there had been a spike in criminal activity, as the masses grew restless over the revelation that the legal world that held their fates in its hands had been corrupt to its absolute core. Some cases Lord Stronghart had shown a vested interest in were even pushed for a retrial since no one could be quite sure how far his desire to fulfil his warped idea of “justice” may have truly led him. The Reaper’s activities had finally been halted, so Barok no longer had to fear the possibility of yet another assassination being tied to his name should the accused be found not guilty. Thus, there was much work available to him, should he choose to take it, and he readily accepted case after case.
The simple desire to work as hard as possible to definitively prove his good intentions and distance himself from the moral failings of his brother had been a great motivation, but not the full extent of his reasoning. He had also hoped that it would serve as an adequate distraction from what had happened, from the things he had been made to grapple with in exchange for acquittal. The truth had been paramount – he knew this, as he would always pursue it to the bitter end himself – but the events of his trial pushed that conviction of his to its absolute limit. Bringing Klint’s crimes into the spotlight had been a good thing, no doubt about it, but it had also inflicted upon him the greatest pain he had ever been made to endure. Indeed, possibly even greater than that of initially having lost him. So the mountains of work proved a sufficient distraction, for even a man with a disposition as steadfast as his could not be expected to so easily make peace with all he had learnt.
This overwork, however, also rendered him incapable of allocating the time to fulfil his promise to Iris sooner. The most he could spare had been that single afternoon when he managed to free himself a humble 4 hours’ window. Part of him thought it had been for the best. Though he wanted to see her more than anything else, he was also scared. But of what? Any time he pondered it, he knew that he had been wholly irrational in his fear. She wanted him there. He would not be a burden to anyone, and conversation with a 10-year-old, even one as intelligent as Iris, certainly was not going to be troublesome at all.
Truthfully, he had been hesitant to think himself deserving of moving forward. Was he even capable of such a thing, anyway? Perhaps his visit would only serve to demonstrate the rift that existed between him and other people – an unmendable chasm – and leave him with no choice but to retreat back within himself. His shell had been comfortable. Agonisingly lonely, too, but it had been what he was used to. Was it not worse to put himself out there and be punished for it, than to simply hurt all by his lonesome? But whenever he’d confront this thought, he would be made to remember that rejecting this very mindset had been what set him free. Would he not be letting Mr Naruhodo down by doing nothing worthwhile with the innocence he had fought tooth and nail to secure for him, remaining the same distrustful and miserable person he had woefully spent the last decade inhabiting the body of?
A multitude of thoughts swirled in his head, and the tip of his nose had already begun to grow cold from how long he had spent loitering on the porch. He knew that if he could not brace himself to take the first step, he would spend the entirety of what little time he had made for himself posted up outside the suite or, worse yet, turn around and leave. And then, having failed to fulfil his promise after all, he would be unlikely to get another chance. Thus, he needed to re-centre himself with the shrill ringing of the doorbell, so that there would be no way for him to back out. Immediately after he brought his finger to the button, he heard a muffled girl’s voice on the opposite side of the door – “Hurley, he’s here! ” – and swallowed. His heart was racing – a sensation he hadn’t felt for God knows how long.
The door was flung open, and two smiling faces emerged to greet him. He felt almost tragically lacking in vim, standing in front of those two.
“Barry! You finally came!”
Her choice of nickname immediately struck him. He clearly remembered both of them calling him Mr Reaper for ages – did they not wish to dredge up unfortunate associations by continuing to use the moniker any longer? Had they been so concerned with his feelings? The very thought made him uneasy.
“Ah, dear fellow, I was wondering how long you'd spend standing there! I was half-convinced that the chill had frozen you solid! Make haste now, come on in!”
Hearing those words, Barok felt that he had erred terribly in coming, and wished that a knife would miraculously fall from the attic window and plunge straight into his back. “You… saw me? How?”, he hissed, already feeling his cheeks grow warm. He had not once before been embarrassed so quickly – perhaps such a feat would have been laudable, had it not come entirely at his expense.
Mr Sholmes struck his signature pose. “A great detective always finds a way! But let us discuss my classified methods no further – it is terribly frigid outside, spend any more time on this porch and you shall surely fall ill, man!” His tone oscillated between concern and mockery – it had always been tiresome to make sense of the man.
A bitter retaliatory remark forced itself against Barok’s tightly-shut teeth, like venom begging to be released unto its prey. He needed to mind himself – old habits die hard, but that doesn’t excuse not attempting to change them. He couldn't move forward like he wished if he continued to respond to the most innocent of jabs with such vitriol. Besides, he recognised that he certainly had been a fool to stand outside their door for at least 10 minutes, as though a mortal danger awaited him beyond it. He exhaled and took a step forward, Iris scampering to grab onto his arm and lead him inside the suite. He couldn't possibly object to such a motion, even if the sudden contact startled him – the detective must have taken note of his eyes suddenly widening because he offered him a smile, though he could not ascertain whether it had been one of ridicule or admiration.
It had been a long while since Barok last saw the inside of 221B Baker Street, and it had changed rather drastically, just as one would expect it to after 13 years. Back when Mr Sholmes shared it with Mr Mikotoba, the living space had been quite a bit more subdued, if only because the eccentric detective’s financial state was even more grim as a young adult. He would hardly have appreciated the pomp and kitsch that defined the living room in the present day, instead opting for grisly pieces of decor such as taxidermies and prickly cacti. It had been a domicile well-representative of its owner’s character, and that seemed to still be the case – it was merely that the man in question had undergone great change since his youth. The Herlock Sholmes mirthfully marching in front of him and Iris could hardly be considered the same person, given his frequently jovial tone and “young single father” qualities. Perhaps Iris would be amused to learn that her father used to have quite the fearsome glint in his eyes, Barok thought as he settled into the chaise longue in the centre of the living room.
As he scanned the perimeter, his eyes hardly knew where to look. In a word, the place struck him as… homely. Or perhaps that had been a polite way to declare it an utter mess – Mr Sholmes’ work area, at the very least. Various odds and ends lined every surface, no doubt acquired from some pawnbroker’s or other. Piles upon piles of various contraptions of indiscernible function, presumably fashioned by the detective himself, were sprawled aimlessly across his desk, making him wonder how the devil he kept track of them all. Iris’s side of the room, however, had been a different story entirely – she kept her workstation neat, and seemingly possessed a much more sophisticated eye for interior design than her guardian. His eyes flitted to the charming porcelain tea set laid out on top of a brass serving cart, and he felt a sense of anticipation at the thought of getting to sample the girl’s delectable tea blends once more. Perhaps the dread that clawed at him on his way there had been entirely misplaced.
“So good of you to finally join us,” the detective began to speak as he sat down opposite him. Iris had made for the tea set, brewing a fresh pot for the three of them. “Lord van Zieks.” The expression on his face appeared accommodating yet remained impossible to read all the same. Precisely too many peculiar variables had presented themselves in that short sentence of his. Had that first remark been sarcastic, or genuine? He knew he shouldn’t have put the visit off as long as he did. And even when he finally made time for it, he couldn’t spare enough of his day to sufficiently dine – paltry afternoon tea, as thanks for saving his life? A pitiful display. And what had been the matter with how he referred to him? Preferable to Mr Reaper, to be sure, but it felt overpoweringly strange, coming from him. None of the appellations he had ascribed to Barok over the years had been so neutral in meaning. His words had rendered him somewhat dumbfounded, and by the time he could think of a sufficient response, it seemed Mr Sholmes had already burrowed through to the heart of the matter.
“... Dear fellow, I must ask. Forgive the intrusion, but are you quite alright? Your pallor is even more striking than usual. Don’t tell me – could it be that you’ve beheld a ghostly apparition on these premises?” He had understandably grown alarmed by his unresponsiveness. This had all proven far, far more trying than Barok anticipated. Having that in mind, however, his deduction about the ghost had been, expectedly, quite a ways off the mark.
“I… have seen no such thing. You must understand that this is, erm… an unusual arrangement for me. I’m afraid it has been rather a long time since I had to engage in casual conversation like this, thus I have grown unaccustomed.” His arms were crossed, and the way his face contorted while he spoke made it appear as though each word had carried with it a razor blade as it exited from within him.
“That means you’ve been working too hard, Barry! But don’t worry, I have just the thing to fix you right up,” Iris sang as she wheeled her tea set towards the table. Her voice had been a welcome intrusion, as Barok was overcome with the feeling that the real challenge of this get-together would be finding common ground with the detective, rather than her.
The tea was delicious, just as he knew it would be. And Iris’s assertion that it would soothe him in some regard had been accurate, as well. So much so, that he entirely forgot to address the reason why he came to the suite to begin with, and once he realised this, he nigh dropped the half-full teacup to the floor. Both Iris and Mr Sholmes took note of his sudden start – nothing in the world could get past the two of them. They looked at him with curious, wide-eyed stares, and he noted just how similar they truly were before composing himself and beginning to speak.
“In my haste to enjoy your delicious tea, I seem to have shamefully forgotten the purpose of my visit altogether. I promised to stop by and express my gratitude, but I have done no such thing as of yet, and I must apologise.” His words pierced the silence just as a blade would have. They rang salient and frank, yet far more subdued in tone than was to be expected of the fearsome Lord Barok van Zieks, once termed Reaper of the Bailey. Wearily, he continued. “... What the two of you, along with Mr Naruhodo, and his gifted assistant, and Mr Mikotoba, accomplished in that trial… It was nothing short of a miracle. I understand that your ultimate aim had been to arrive at a greater truth, rather than solely exonerate me. Yet even still, I struggle to say that I would have extended a helping hand to one such as I, had I been in your position.” Barok searched for the rest of his words within their eyes but suddenly came up short. He felt beads of sweat take shape on his forehead.
Iris caught wind of his trepidation and made a frown. “Umm, Barry? You’re being too hard on yourself. I think you’re nice!”
For a moment, Barok felt as though the frame holding his physical form in place had shattered, and all that lay within was about to spill through the broken seams. Iris had no reason to feign such sincerity. Therefore, what she said must’ve come from the heart, she had to have meant every word. He realised that Mr Sholmes had accompanied her statement with a nod, and a remarkably serious expression on his face. So he believed it, believed him, too. What was it that they saw within him that he thought he lacked? He was reminded of what Mr Naruhodo had once said, as well – that the way he spoke in court and treated others inspired trust. Had Barok himself really been the only one who thought his heart rotten?
He set his teacup and saucer down on the table and placed his hands on his knees, grasping them in a hardly subtle manner. “Yet again, your courtesy renders me speechless. I… have nothing further to say. Or, rather, I don’t know what I could say to adequately convey my present sentiments. But if you would be willing to do me one more kindness… Pray believe me when I tell you I am touched. And you have the deepest of my gratitude. For… for everything.”
His head was bowed, both owing to respect and a desire not to meet their eyes in such a state. Due to his obstructed field of vision, he had neglected to notice that Iris now sat beside him, and only realised her presence once she took hold of his right arm – for the second time that day. When he turned to face her, he saw the most radiant smile in the world. “Your thanks are appreciated. But there’s no need to be so modest! I’m just happy you’re here, really! The best thing you could do to show your gratitude now is to… well, have a little fun!” Her grin shifted into an exaggerated pout. “Because if you spend the whole afternoon sulking, that simply won’t do! I shall find myself depressed, as well!” Barok let out a barely audible yelp in response – indeed, that simply would not do at all!
“Ah ha ha ha ha! Brilliant, absolutely brilliant work, Iris! Just look at the fellow! The mere thought of that has him white as a sheet!” A perfectly timed exclamation, Barok thought, conceding that the light-hearted tone of their conversation prior had been much preferable to him painstakingly laying his heart out before the two of them, necessary though it may have been. He still would not let the corners of his mouth budge, but something appeared to have chiselled down the grave furrows in his brow, and though he had no means of looking at his own visage, the slight surprise on those of his hosts’ told him that his expression had grown a great deal less grim than usual.
The remainder of the afternoon proceeded far more smoothly. Now that Barok had made his sentiments clear, he was less frightened by the prospect of casual conversation with the two, even if they were still the party responsible for the larger share of words spoken. The mood had grown surprisingly pleasant. Barok realised that his initial apprehension had been born out of complete foolishness. The air in the room had a quality to it that reminded him of that particular evening all those years ago.
“Iris, has Mr Sholmes ever told you that this is not my first time gracing this suite with my presence?” Barok shot the detective a somewhat mischievous gaze, now comfortable enough to seek recompense for how he had blindsided him upon his arrival.
“Oh, no. Absolutely not! I know where this is going, my good man, and I do not appreciate this line of inquiry one bit! Cease your badgering at once!” His face betrayed the bitter remembrance of an embarrassing moment that he had hoped never to think about again.
“No, he hasn’t! It must’ve been quite a story then, huh?” Iris looked at both of them with earnest curiosity, eager to persuade them to divulge this cryptic recollection of theirs.
“Really, my dear Iris, it is nothing worth mentioning! Don’t let our friend trouble us with this idle prattle!”
“Such harsh words, just as you had insisted on valuing my presence here… I do feel quite antagonised at this moment.” Barok’s subsequent melodramatic glare made Mr Sholmes take a step back, albeit hesitantly, for he conceded that his retelling of the tale, humiliating though it would be, was much preferable to dead silence.
“... Very well. If you insist on regaling Iris with that dismal anecdote, the least I can do is correct you whenever you paint me in too unfavourable a light!”