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Despite his very best efforts, not a week goes by where Sherlock manages to avoid thinking about Victor Trevor.
Logically, he knows that the way things played out isn't his fault; even he couldn't have predicted events proceeding as they had. Guilt, however, doesn't care for reason. It coats everything in a thick tar, seeps into every pore in a way that makes his chest feel almost unbearably heavy. If he had never figured out the code, if he hadn't paid such close attention to that false orchid, if Victor had never run into John at the shops, if he'd never been saddled with Sherlock as a roommate all those years ago… If, if, countless ifs, swirling around in his brain and getting trapped in that molasses-sticky guilt to weigh him down even further.
It's one of these particularly guilt-heavy days when Sherlock hears four raps on the front door of 221B in quick succession, the familiarity of the gesture causing the tangle of emotions to swell up into his throat. There's only one person he knows who knocks like that, light and quick, as if wanting to be noticed whilst also not wanting to inconvenience anyone. What could Victor possibly be doing here?
Standing up to tie his dressing gown around himself, Sherlock swallows down a thick lump before striding over to the door. His hand flexes and clenches nervously where it hovers above the door handle, a brief moment of hesitation before he takes it and yanks the door open.
There stands Victor, one hand lifted as if to knock a second time - Sherlock knows he would never - and the other wrapped tightly in the sleeve of his jumper. His eyes widen slightly as if, despite knocking, he hasn't actually expected Sherlock to answer. Perhaps he's expecting John or Mrs. Hudson. That's likely the case. Of course it is. Why would Victor care to see him, after everything?
"Hello," greets Victor, knocking fist turning into a small wave before falling to his side and mirroring the other. "I… I wasn't certain that you were home. Since… yeah. You didn't answer right away."
Had he not? As far as he's aware, he had, but Sherlock knows there are times when he gets too wrapped up in his thoughts and loses time despite himself. Given the complexity of his current feelings, he isn't too shocked to hear it might have just happened once again.
"My apologies," Sherlock replies simply, clearing his throat and stepping back to let Victor enter the flat. He can't quite bring himself to look up at him; it's not particularly unusual, with his general aversion towards eye contact, but it feels tainted now. Guilt taints even the most ordinary of things, especially now with Victor right in front of him. He watches with a leaden heart as the shorter man takes off his coat and scarf to hang them on the coat rack, nervousness exuding from him in waves.
"Nothing to be sorry about," Victor insists easily, a soft smile coming to his face that forces a small furrow between Sherlock's brows. There's so much to be sorry about, he thinks. Just about everything, really. How can Victor not see that? How can he not blame Sherlock for the implosion of his life and the loss of the one family member he had left?
There is no way to voice that, though; even if he wants to, the now very solid lump in his throat will hinder any attempt to do so. Instead, Sherlock stays quiet, leading Victor up the stairs and down the hall to the sitting room. If John were here, he'd offer tea and some sort of biscuit, but he isn't and Sherlock can't bring himself to speak, can't even begin to find any sort of words. Instead, he gestures for Victor to take the sofa as he settles into his arm chair, legs instinctively tucked up beneath him.
Sherlock watches Victor as he settles, finds an odd sort of comfort in that ever lingering clumsiness that's clung to Victor all their lives. Despite his stature, his limbs are long, lanky, and - even in their thirties - reminiscent of a foal trying to find its footing.
"I thought you were in Australia. Why are you here?"
The question that manages to force itself past the intrusion in his throat is rude. Sherlock knows it is, hears the voice in the back of his head that sounds an awful lot like John Watson chiding him for his insensitivity. Still, he needs to know, needs to understand what Victor is seeking. Perhaps he's looking for a target for his righteous anger, someone to lay into for what he's lost. Sherlock is the perfect person for that. He wouldn't blame Victor for a moment, couldn't possibly blame him when this is entirely his fault.
"I… I don't know."
The answer is quiet and contemplative, Victor's own brows knitting with a small furrow as he looks down to hands folded in his lap. Long fingers fidget with the slightly too large ring around his index finger, alternating between spinning it and letting his thumb rub across its textured face — a signet ring, likely belonging to his father. The way he sits, all but collapsed into himself with head down and shoulders slouched, makes him look quite a bit like the nervous, neurotic sixteen year old Sherlock had met all those years ago. It makes his chest ache. Still, he can't bring himself to ask any sort of question, ask for clarification or elaboration or something more, anything more. No matter how desperately he needs it, it's clear that Victor needs to get there on his own.
"I'm moving back here, now. Finally got a job. And I… I think that I, uh… wanted to apologise?" The words come out more like a question than a statement; still, they leave Sherlock nearly dazed. What could he possibly be apologising for? Before he gets to ask, though, Victor continues.
"What happened with… with all of that. It… I know that I blamed you then. Told you that you're a liar and that I didn't trust you and… all of that. But it's not your fault. How could it be?"
Victor looks up at him as if expecting an actual answer but Sherlock is entirely breathless. How could it be? How could it not be? He's the smug, self-serving, know-it-all, the one who always has to prove he's clever no matter the cost. It is his fault because where else can the fault lie?
Before he can even begin to find the words, Sherlock watches as Victor's face changes, as dark eyes widen and thick eyebrows unfurl and rise.
"Oh. You do blame yourself, don't you?"
The question is clearly posed to himself far more than it is to Sherlock, head tilting slightly as he stares and stares. It's Sherlock's turn to feel exposed like a nerve, as if all of his thoughts and emotions have been spread out on a platter before them both. Victor has always been the only person able to make him feel like this - normally, he finds it exciting. Now, it makes him feel a bit sick.
"How can I not?" Sherlock asks after a long moment, exhaling a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. "If not for me, you both could have carried on as you were. Hunter would have left eventually. Would have gotten bored. Moved on. You would have your father here with you."
The look on Victor's face morphs into something near pity.
"Oh, Sherlock," he replies gently, voice earnest as ever. "You and I both know that's not true. Hunter would have terrorised my dad until he died or… or offed himself. I mean, he very nearly died even with you and John and Mariana there. I'd have been absolutely useless on my own."
Sherlock wants to deny it, he really does, but it's a tiny bit true. Victor has never been the best under duress; even a fire drill would send him into a fit back at school. It is quite likely that if John hadn't been there, Mr. Trevor - Mr. Armitage, his brain corrects as if to taunt him - would be dead. But perhaps that would be a mercy, death preferable to spending the rest of his life in prison for murder and piracy.
"How is your father?" Sherlock asks instead, the inside of his cheek between his teeth as he awaits an answer he isn't quite sure he wants. Miserably rotting away in a cell, all because of you. You horrid, rotten, evil person. That's what he imagines Victor will say, what his brain supplies despite knowing very well that even if that's how Victor feels, he isn't nearly confrontational enough to say it.
"On probation, actually," Victor answers, letting out a bark of a laugh as Sherlock's brows shoot up past his hairline. "Yeah, I know. Mental, isn't it? But he got a bloody good solicitor. Awful, slimy man, but that's sort of what you want for something like this. It was Hunter's word against my dad's. No way to prove that what he said was true, other than that my dad isn't actually Lionel Trevor. Only got charged with identity theft."
"That is… certainly something," Sherlock manages to reply, drawing another bright laugh from Victor. The sound attempts to make the weight on his chest begin to ease up, its cheerfulness a solvent that tries its best to melt away the thick tar encasing his heart.
"Think that about sums it up, yeah," Victor agrees easily, passing a hand through unruly dark hair. "I'm glad that it's… y'know. This. Instead of what it could have been. But then I feel a bit bad for being glad, cos the… I mean, I know Hunter said that they didn't have families. So no one is… I don't know. I don't know what I'm trying to say."
Sherlock watches as Victor scrubs his face with both hands, wishing desperately that he was the sort of person who knew what to say in situations such as this. John would know. It might be something slightly misguided but it would be right in all the ways that count. It would make things better. Sherlock doesn't do that, can't do that. He's floundering, blinking several times in quick succession as he attempts to think of something.
"I think anyone in your situation would be glad," Sherlock eventually settles on, repeatedly clenching and unclenching his dominant hand into a fist in his lap. "Beating yourself up for that seems like a rather fruitless endeavour when you truly had no say in any of what occurred."
Victor looks at him with a single raised eyebrow and Sherlock at least has the decency enough to sheepishly look away.
"Yes, alright," he continues, waving away Victor's words with a hand as he laughs once again. "I am aware that my words are rather hypocritical on the surface but truly, it's not quite the same at all."
"How is it not?" Victor asks, voice piercingly accusatorial.
"It simply isn't."
"That's not an answer, Sherlock Holmes, and you bloody well know it."
And Sherlock does know it, he does, but somehow, it feels so enormously different when it's him. Things always have.
Frustratedly, he puts his hands in his hair and tugs, eyes screwing themselves tightly shut and heart thudding painfully against his rib cage as he tries to think. Logic is the ruler of his life, followed closely by reason and rationality. Now he's left trying desperately to seek its guidance to access the simple truths he can so easily grant to Victor for himself, but he can't. He's mired in the tar pit of guilt, sinking further and further into it even as he desperately tries to struggle out. His fingers twist further in dark curls, a shuddering breath forcing its way out of his throat in a horrid, strangled sound.
The slight pressure of a hand on his shoulder sends Sherlock's eyes flying open, wild and wide as they land on Victor's face. He's crossed the sitting room to sit on the edge of the coffee table previously between them, a gentle smile on his face and one hand repetitively squeezing and releasing Sherlock's shoulder. It's a technique that had worked to ground him when they were children. Apparently, it still works just the same. Sherlock is back now, in the here, breaths still coming quick and sharp even as Victor's slow in an attempt to force his to match.
"There you are," Victor says gently once the breaths finally slow and settle, smile brightening slightly and hand releasing its grip. Before it can fall all the way, however, Sherlock grasps it in his own, finding himself desperately needing some sort of contact to avoid slipping away into his mind again.
"How long?" He asks quietly, almost directly continuing to follow that old routine.
"Not very," Victor answers, thumb rubbing circles on the back of Sherlock's hand. "Fifteen minutes, give or take. You've had longer. It's okay."
It doesn't feel okay. Then again, it never does.
"I am sorry, Victor," Sherlock states quietly after several long moments, eyes turned down to where their fingers are entangled. "I know you think that I needn't be, yet I find that there is no way for me to stop. I have tried. Truly, I have, and it… it won't go away."
"Then I forgive you," Victor replies plainly, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. "If you can't help but be sorry, I forgive you."
Sherlock hadn't realised how badly he needed to hear those three words. It takes them a few moments to settle and then he's all but lunging forward, arms winding around Victor's middle and face hiding itself away in the crook of his neck. It isn't often that he's the one initiating contact like this but he finds his movements involuntary, some desperate need bursting out of him and sending him rocketing into Victor's chest. For likely having the wind knocked out of him, Victor takes the armful of Sherlock with grace, arms settling around him firmly but not too tight, just above his diaphragm with one hand rubbing small circles between his shoulder blades.
"Come on. Up we get," Victor gently coaxes, guiding them both to their feet and over to the sofa. It feels nostalgic in a bittersweet way, reminds him of the lonely, broken boy he'd been back then and how grateful he'd felt upon finally being seen by someone.
For years after they'd gone their separate ways, Victor had remained the only person to not only see Sherlock but accept him warts and all; the years after they'd parted had felt almost lonelier than the ones before. Now, though, John and Mariana make three: three people who see the ugly alongside the good and want him around anyway. The thought nearly sends him spiralling once again. Instead, he allows himself to be settled onto the sofa and folded neatly into Victor's chest, all but curling up in his lap in a way not dissimilar to a clingy housecat.
"How is it that you still know exactly how to help me?" Sherlock asks quietly after several minutes of settling in, tilting his head back to look up at Victor. "We've not seen each other properly in over fifteen years, very nearly twenty, yet you've managed to calm me in a way I myself can't even begin to."
The hand that's lifted to pet Sherlock's hair stills as Victor looks down at him. "How do I remember?" He asks, brows furrowing slightly and lips turning downwards into a small frown. "How could I ever forget?"
Victor looks near offended at the implication that he possibly could have forgotten anything about him and Sherlock can't help but roll his eyes even as he feels heat rise to his cheeks. Their relationships with memory are so different; where Sherlock can't help but pick apart every memory, turn it over in his mind and attempt to see it from every angle to comprehend every little bit of it, Victor seems to embrace memory for what it is, trusts it despite its inherently fallible nature.
It clearly works for him. He remembers the way Sherlock likes gentle fingers in his hair and a steady hand between his shoulders, knows to keep the circles he rubs small and evenly weighted. He remembers it all and he doesn't question it and he's right. Sherlock can't help but wish that he could do the same, eyes tightly shut as he hides his face in Victor's neck once more.
"You remember too," Victor continues as if sensing Sherlock's inwardly-turned frustration. "You know you do. You can remember the good bits without getting stuck in the bad."
It's a thought Sherlock has never considered before. He pulls his face away, eyebrows furrowing in question. "How?"
"It's a choice," Victor answers, fingers returning to their gentle petting. "Not always an easy one, but a choice. You can let go of the bad. Accept it for what it is, accept that it's brought you to where you are, and tell it to bugger off."
Sherlock sucks his bottom lip between his teeth as he processes that idea. It sounds so simple, phrased like that, but Victor is correct in saying it isn't easy. It's not as if he hasn't tried but every time he does, he gets caught up in it all once again, stuck in a constant loop of what ifs and ways things could have been better, gone differently.
Would he want that, though? Victor is right. Everything that's happened has brought him right exactly here, to a life with a flourishing business shared with two people who have become quickly endeared to him in a way he'd never expected. They make him better, help him understand the world in a way he hasn't since Victor. Changing the past means risking this. Risking them. Sherlock knows he'd never do that.
"Okay," he replies quietly after mulling it all over, nodding slightly. "I've told it to bugger off."
Victor laughs brightly once again, pulling Sherlock tighter to him and dropping a kiss to the top of his head in a way that makes his cheeks heat all over again. It would be a ridiculous overreaction from anyone else but Victor has always been like this - bright and exuberant and so real.
"Good job, love," Victor says just as quietly, voice effused with so much affection Sherlock can practically feel it in the air. The praise and gentle endearment warm him from the inside out and he can't help but preen slightly, a small smile finally tugging at the corner of his lips.
"Oh, hardly," Sherlock insists sheepishly, voice failing to hide how pleased he feels. "I simply did as you instructed. That makes you deserving of the praise."
"Just accept the bloody compliment, Sherlock Holmes," Victor cheekily retorts, a huff of mock annoyance pushed from his nose even as he drops another lingering kiss to Sherlock's head. "We both know that you want to. Go on, then."
Sherlock hums noncommittally in reply and earns himself a poke in his ticklish side, a breath of laughter coming out against Victor's skin. After a few long moments of quiet, he manages to find the words.
"Thank you," he says quietly, voice raw in its earnestness. He's thanking Victor for so much and somehow, he can tell that Victor knows it.
"That's alright," Victor answers in a tone just as open as Sherlock's had been, pulling him even closer. "As horrid as it all was. Is. I'm selfishly glad that it happened. I'm glad that it brought you back to me."
On that, Sherlock can agree. He nods against Victor's neck, the last wisps of lingering guilt melting away with the knowledge that Victor is just as pleased to have been reunited despite the circumstances. The emotion of the day and his small meltdown have both drained him, though, so he stays silent except for a wide yawn.
"Fancy a nap, then?" Victor asks, clearly aware that he won't receive an answer but knowing what it would be nonetheless. He manoeuvres them around in a way that ends with him settled back half sitting and half lying against the armrest of the sofa, legs spread with Sherlock settled between them and tucked against his chest. He reaches up behind them to take the blanket that's draped over the back of the sofa to pull it over them, pressing one last kiss to the top of Sherlock's head before settling.
Sherlock is helpless to do anything but fall asleep, face still in Victor's neck and one hand curled in the front of his shirt as he drifts off into the most peaceful sleep he's had in months.