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FIC: Staircase Wit [2/6]
Title: Staircase Wit
Author: Alex
Fandom: Sherlock [BBC]
Rating: Varies
Pairing: Eventual Sherlock/John
Disclaimer: A.C. Doyle, Moffat, Gatiss.
Summary: L'esprit de l'escalier - Sherlock never suffers from it, which isn't to say he doesn't suffer for it. Five times he took a beating, and one time he got away.
Warnings: Violence, possible explicit sex to come.
Notes: This is my very first Sherlock fic, so please feel free to let me know if I've made any missteps.
Can also be read on AO3
*
*
The radio, a heavy brown Bakelite model purloined from his grandmother’s house (she’d been deaf as a post for years anyway), sent out a scratchy, tinny noise, making Pablo Casals’ unaccompanied cello rendering of a Bach piece sound as if he were playing inside a rubbish skip, but it was comfortable and familiar and almost drowned out the racket Seb Wilkes was making outside his door.
“Sherlock!”
Shut up, Seb, and go away. I’m busy.
An insistent pounding thudded in unconscious rhythm to the music. “Come on, Holmes! I know you’re in there! I see your bloody light!”
Sherlock frowned behind his goggles. God, bugger off! He lifted the dropper, aimed, and released a single drop of solution onto the subject below.
“If you don’t open the god-damned door, Holmes, I’m coming in. You’d better not be having a wank in there.”
“Not the way you’d think,” Sherlock murmured, and heaved a sigh as the door handle turned. He refused to look up; acknowledging Sebastian Wilkes’ histrionic entrances was tantamount to admiring them – to Seb, anyway. He lifted his goggles and examined the flesh beneath him. A yellowish stain, a faint burn. He clicked his tongue, disappointed, and replaced his goggles.
“Christ, Holmes, I’ve been knocking for an hour. Are you deaf?”
“No.”
“Right. Ignoring me again. Thanks, awfully kind of you.” Seb wandered into the room and let out a groan. “God, doesn’t it pong in here. At least open a window. What the hell are you doing?”
“What the hell does it look like I’m doing?”
“That’s our boy, ever quick with the repartee.” Seb playfully ruffled Sherlock’s hair, looked down, and emitted a strangled shriek. “Jesus Christ!”
“Not even close,” Sherlock murmured, filling a syringe.
“Is that…good God almighty, Sherlock, is that a baby? Is it?”
Sherlock carefully depressed the plunger, and only when he’d removed the needle from the flesh did he look up at Sebastian, whose green face didn’t suit his white tie and tails in the least. “For God’s sake, have you never clapped eyes on a foetal pig before?”
“No,” Seb replied in a strangled voice. His fingers fumbled at the starched wing collar at his throat.
“Where did you go to school before this, Seb? Oh, don’t tell me – was it one of those progressive places with a no-dissection policy and earnest felt banners everywhere? Some place where you called all the instructors by their first names and got A-levels in yurt building?”
“Oh, shut up!”
“Thought so.” That did go a long way toward explaining Seb’s painful need to fit in with his peers, as well as his apparent distaste for the macrobiotic selections in the dining hall. Sherlock turned back to the pig, carefully pinned out on the board. “It’s obviously a baby, but it’s also a baby, if you follow. Never mind, don’t bother. You remember a month or so ago, that woman in Sheffield who was arrested for murdering her child?”
“No.”
“No. Why would you?” Sherlock sighed. “Well, the police claimed she knocked the child unconscious and then stuffed it into a bin liner and filled it with drain cleaner and then skipped town. But I don’t think that the flesh rendered as quickly as the police claim. There’s something they’re missing. Someone else killed the child.” Sherlock picked up his scalpel, sliced away a thin sample of skin, and arranged it on a slide. “Someone who knew exactly how long it would take to burn a body to almost nothing with sodium hydroxide.”
“God, that’s fucking grim, Holmes.”
“Well. Yes, Seb, it is. Obviously.”
“So why are you trying to work all that out? And why, for fuck’s sake, aren’t you doing it in the lab where disgusting things like foetal pigs belong?”
“I’m curious, that’s all. And Barrington gets shirty when I work on my own,” Sherlock muttered, and stared up at Seb. “Was there something you wanted? And why are you all rigged up like that?”
“Let me guess. You’re not going to the masquerade tonight.”
“No.”
“Oh, come on, Sherlock. You should give it a go. They’ll have masks there – just throw your tails on and come with us.” Seb hesitated. “You don’t have to bring a date, you know.”
“Why didn’t you say so? Quick, get my wig and heels from the wardrobe.” Sherlock turned on his microscope. “Really, Seb, I’m sort of busy, so if you wanted something, out with it, and then just get out.”
Seb crossed his arms and gazed down at Sherlock, looking like something graceful out of Brideshead Revisited. Which was fine – Sebastian Wilkes was stupid, just another sheep in the Uni pack, and only too eye-battingly aware of his own beauty, but he was essentially harmless and decent. “You don’t have to be such a prick, you know.” His tone was kind and resonated with an odd sort of sympathy; it travelled down Sherlock’s spine like the thin point of a stiletto.
“Evidently I do, if you’re going to come barging in uninvited and then hang about criticising me.”
“Fine.” Seb sighed. “You’ve got an opera cloak, haven’t you?”
“Yes. How do you know that?”
“I saw you wearing it last year the night the heat went out.”
Sherlock sniffed. “Surprised you’d notice a thing like that.”
Twin spots of pink bloomed on Sebastian’s cheeks. He opened and closed his mouth like a beached fish. “Well – Jesus, Sherlock, it’s hard not to notice a tall, gangly berk like you swooping around in a fucking Dracula cape.”
“You’re all red in the face.” Sherlock squinted at Seb, then shook his head and went about arranging his slide. “I presume you want to borrow it for the masquerade.”
“Yeah, that’d be brilliant, if you don’t mind. I’m going to be Dracula.” Seb pronounced the name with a terrible mock-Romanian accent.
“I suppose not. Just make sure you bring it back, and don’t soak it in beer, for God’s sake.” Sherlock pulled off his goggles and leant close to the scope. “What are you gawping at? I told you, it’s a pig, not a human infant.”
“Right. Right.” Sebastian coughed. “So. Where is it?”
Sherlock tilted his head slightly to the right. “In the chest. Bit squeamish for a vampire, aren’t you?”
“Well, you know, all sorts of nasty diseases out there nowadays. Even Vlad the Impaler can’t be too careful.” Seb went to the blanket chest at the foot of Sherlock’s bed and heaved off a pile of folded clothes, a stack of monographs, a massive chunk of Newcastle coal, a Book of Common Prayer (serial killing in Berkshire, pages ripped out, but certainly not at random), a scimitar (sharp – woe betide Seb’s hand if he were careless) and the newspaper articles on the Sheffield murder. He opened the chest and rummaged around. “Where?”
“Garment bag.”
Seb withdrew an ancient Hartnell garment bag that had once held one of his mother’s ballgowns and unzipped it. “Ah, there we are.” He drew the cloak from the bag, draped the silk-lined wool over his shoulders, and admired himself in the mirror on the back of Sherlock’s door. “God, that’s perfect, Holmes. Thanks.”
“It’s a bit moth-eaten, but have at it.”
“Thanks awfully. I’ll get it back to you tomorrow.”
“No hurry.”
Seb opened Sherlock’s door and hovered on the threshold. “You sure you won’t come? It’ll be a good time. Good music, dancing, plenty of liquor and lovelies.”
Sherlock bit back a sigh. He liked Seb well enough, but the concerned uncle bit was beginning to wear on him. He made a herculean effort and offered Seb an approximation of a friendly smile. “No, but thanks all the same. Have a good time.”
“Righto –“
“Did you get it?” a masculine voice boomed, and Sherlock was treated – if that was the word, which it almost certainly wasn’t – to the sight of Charles Adrian Kirkland, Kim to his friends and foes alike, in a caveman’s costume, complete with draped faux tiger skin, ratty wig, and club. Kim had been Sherlock’s lab partner at the beginning of the term, and had requested a change because he couldn’t keep up. No surprises there. He had a girl on each arm – one dressed as a French maid, the other as a “sexy” policewoman. Behind him was one of his rugby teammates, Ned Carson-Mathers, another troglodyte, but dressed as a Wild West cowboy. Good God, they’d really plumbed the depths of their imaginations, hadn’t they?
Sherlock flicked a glance at Kim’s costume. “Apropos,” he murmured.
“Yeah, I got it. Well, thanks, Sherlock –“
“Christ, what’s that niff? That you, Holmes?”
Sherlock didn’t answer. He bent his head to the microscope and studied the burned flesh on the slide. Decided rapid corrosion. It would have taken a few bottles of drain cleaner – the stuff was diluted, not pure lye – and more time to destroy the child’s body, and the mother had only been out of town overnight…something wasn’t right….
“You’re a rude wanker, you know that?”
Kim’s voice was right next to his ear, almost deafening; Sherlock had been concentrating so hard he hadn’t heard him approach. Sherlock rubbed his ear. “No, I didn’t need that tympanic membrane, but thanks for your thoughtfulness.” He glared at Kim, at Carson-Mathers, at the two overly eyeshadowed and lipsticked girls with them. “I’m sorry, is the masquerade meant to take place in my room, or did I miss something?”
Seb tugged on Kim’s arm. “Come on, Kim, let’s go.”
“Can’t get enough gore, can you, Holmes?” Kim stared down his nose at Sherlock, beyond absurd in his straggly wig. “God, you are one sick puppy.” He reached out with one thick-fingered hand and tweaked Sherlock’s ear.
“All right, Kim, that’s enough,” Seb said. “Come on. I’ve got loads of blanc de blanc in the car. Let’s go get really stupid.”
“Oh, I think he might be way ahead of you there, Seb,” Sherlock said.
“You’re an arsehole, Holmes.”
“Maybe,” Sherlock said, looking Kim up and down. “Could be worse. Could be a rapist.”
“God, Sherlock!” cried one of the girls – Tabitha Franklyn, Sherlock realised, almost unrecognisable underneath the French maid outfit and layers of paint.
“Whoa!” Seb said, laughing nervously. “Okay, okay. Come on, boys –“
“Did you just call me a rapist?” Kim asked, tilting his head to one side with an air of innocent inquiry. “Are you serious, Holmes? You’d better be joking, because that’s a really nasty accusation.” He smiled, as if to say that Sherlock could take it back and they’d all be pals again.
Sherlock leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. He surveyed the girls flanking Kim, noting that they seemed to be ever so slightly watchful now. “Clever girls. They don’t quite trust you, do they?”
“Well, come on, Sherlock,” Seb said. “You can’t just go round calling people rapists.”
“I can if they are,” Sherlock said, still watching the girls. “Careful what you drink tonight. Get your own drinks, no matter how chivalrous he is. He’s whipped up a batch of chloral hydrate and he’s just dying to use it. He could probably wheedle at least one of you into bed, with enough alcohol, but that wouldn’t be the same sort of thrill, would it, Kim? ‘Course not. God, if you could see your pupils dilating. Could be anger, but it isn’t, it’s arousal. You’ve been thinking about it all day, haven’t you? Drugging someone into unconsciousness and then having sex with them – that really floats your boat, doesn’t it? Doesn’t even matter who it is, as long as she’s out cold.”
Kim smiled again, and this time his smile was not quite so friendly. “I think I’ve heard enough of this horseshit.”
“Come on, I haven’t even got started. You didn’t make it yourself, did you? You paid someone and helped out a bit. Tremaine, right? Lab partner, awfully convenient, gives you all the answers come examination time, thoroughly cowed by your brutality. You’ve got red eyes – you’ve rubbed at them, a bit of chemical stinging from the chlorine gas because you’re too stupid to wear eye protection. You’ve got a brand-new burn on the wrist of your dominant hand. A little impatient with the hot beaker, maybe you were thinking about what it would feel like to have sex with someone without their consent. First time using chemicals – it’s always been alcohol with you, signs of dehydration in your skin already, but now you’ve hit the big time and you’re excited. Distinct chemical smell on your skin because God forbid you should bother to wash up after handling lab materials. And a little smudge of pink chalk on your hand. They only use that sort of chalk in the chemistry lab, so really, Kim, how much is truth and how much is horseshit? What do you think, Tabitha?”
Tabitha had backed away from Kim and was looking from him to Sherlock as if they were engaged in a rousing game of tennis. “I think – Sherlock, you wouldn’t lie about a thing like that, would you? You can be awfully…stroppy, sometimes.” She glanced at Kim, who was nearly purple, but wore a thin little smile, ever so slightly different from the others. “You wouldn’t just say that to be mean-spirited?”
Sherlock forced himself to speak kindly. “Tabitha, look at him. Fists clenched, face plum-coloured, eyes narrowed, teeth grinding. He’s a controller, and you probably know it better than he does. Watch him when you’re out with him, listen to him talk. He poisons the atmosphere because he can’t possibly understand or admire that anyone might be better-looking than he is, or brighter, or more socially connected, or whatever. He won’t praise you because he can’t bear to build anyone up – he’s got to suppress, to smother, and you probably won’t admit that he’s a boring sod because he’s a rugger captain and therefore glamorous, but I promise you that when the glow wears off, he’s a mediocre, drivelly, good-for-nothing prat who would rather rape a girl than charm her.”
“That’s rather bold talk from a swotty antisocial creep like you, Holmes.” Kim was clasping his hands together in a pose of assumed patience. “When was the last time you had a date? For that matter, have you ever had sex? Do you even know where it’s supposed to go?”
“In a conscious partner, so far as I understand.” Sherlock bent to his microscope once more. “Now if you don’t mind, my pig’s drying out.”
“God, you’re disgusting.” Kim moved to take Tabitha’s arm, but she pulled away.
“No. I’ll go with Seb.”
“Well, we’re all going together.”
“Not me,” said the other girl. She was near tears. “I’m going home.”
“Yeah…I think we’ll both sit this one out.” Tabitha glanced uneasily at Sherlock, then took the other girl’s arm. “Come on, Caroline, let’s go.” She looked at Seb. “Seb, will you drive us?”
Sebastian wore the unhappy expression of a man realising he’d just walked into quicksand. “Yeah, okay. I’ll, er…I’ll catch up with you lot later,” he said to Kim and Carson-Mathers, and dashed out after the girls.
“Smart girls,” Sherlock said quietly, and adjusted a lens. “Are you still here?” he asked the caveman and the cowboy. Idiots. He was bored almost senseless. And he’d missed the burning of subdermal tissue, God damn it all.
“We’re leaving,” Kim said. “Watch your arse, Holmes. Watch it very carefully.”
Sherlock waited until the door had closed quietly, but with a firmness that underscored the thrumming tension in Kim’s hand. He stared at the closed door. Kim’s silence had proved that Sherlock hadn’t been wrong, and Kim wasn’t bright enough or eloquent enough to deny the observations that Sherlock had made.
He got up, went to the door, and locked it.
*
Sherlock stared down at his plate in frank disgust. They might have called it dinner, but it wasn’t fit for dog meat. He pushed it aside and opened the Sheffield paper. The police had called in the accused woman’s boyfriend. Nice try, but I don’t think so.
“Sherlock?”
He looked up. “Seb.”
“Hey. I meant to get the cloak back to you – sorry about that.”
Sherlock shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. Did you go to the party?”
“Yeah, the three of us actually wound up going. Had a great time. Look, Sherlock…you really shouldn’t have said that about Kim. That was just – it was speculation, right? I mean, you can’t tell all that about someone just by looking at him.”
Sherlock appraised Seb coolly, seeing blonde hairs on his jacket, traces of Lancôme Blush Satin on his shirt collar, and smelling something distinctly feminine – YSL Paris, unless he missed his guess. “I can tell you don’t have to rape people to have sex with them.”
Seb’s cheeks reddened. “God, Sherlock.”
“Look, he’s a bastard, and you did those girls a tremendous service. Well done.” Sherlock went back to his paper.
“Sherlock,” Seb said pleadingly, “just…be careful, all right?”
“You worry too much, Seb.” Sherlock took a swallow of cold tea and grimaced. “Good Christ, do they have anything here that doesn’t taste as if it’s been fermented at the bottom of a cistern?”
Seb shook his head. “See you later, Sherlock.”
Sherlock pushed aside his tea as well, wishing he’d opted for something simple, like hot tea and beans on toast, but he didn’t feel like eating any longer. He got up, gathered his things, and headed for the pool. He’d been feeling tense and upset lately (not because of bloody Kim Kirkland, damn it all) and reckoned that a little physical exercise wouldn’t kill him. He’d swim a few dozen laps, then float lazily a bit. It was pleasant to relax in the water, and he’d always liked the chlorine smell and echoing sounds of the vast tiled room.
He yawned as he trudged toward the gymnasium and huddled into his coat. Maybe it was the shortening days, but he yearned for sleep. Too many late nights recently – he supposed he had to succumb at some point. The swim would tire him nicely, and he’d be asleep by one at the latest. Five hours was more than enough – indulgent, actually.
The pool was closed, but that didn’t present a problem; he picked the lock (not quite as deftly as usual – had they changed the style? No, it was the same) and slipped into the changing room before anyone saw him. It was too late for the lifeguards, too early for the janitorial staff. Perfect.
Sherlock toed off his trainers and unbuttoned his jeans, faintly amazed that his fingers seemed to stumble over the fastenings. He pushed them down his thighs, shivering a little in the chilly air, and suddenly found himself dying to simply lie on the bench and sleep. He pulled off his jumper and unbuttoned his shirt clumsily, yawning to clear his head, and found himself so exhausted that he had to drop to the bench.
Dizzy. Maybe not the most brilliant idea to swim alone.
Rubbish. He was a strong swimmer, and if he got too tired he’d simply climb out of the pool. He’d do twenty laps at most.
Slowly, he pushed his boxers off, stripped off his socks, and got into his speedos. He stood, leaving his clothes scattered on the floor, and walked across the tile floor, using the even pattern of squares to balance himself.
All right. Twelve laps.
He heard a soft scrape and a swish, as if the door to the pool had opened. Oh, God. He was tired of explaining himself to the security guards. Why didn’t they keep the damned pool open all day long? “Is that the cleaning crew?” he called softly, hoping it was and not Security.
Sherlock fumbled for the light, but something weighty like a canvas coat was yanked down over his head, and someone pinned his arms tightly. He gasped, and felt a fist crash into his midsection.
*
Seb had bitten his thumbnail into a bloody, ragged mess before he saw a sniggering Kim and Ned leave the gymnasium after half an hour of stillness and silence. Concealed in a hedgerow gap, he waited another fifteen minutes, terrified they might have seen him follow them, terrified they might come back, hoping Sherlock would emerge from the gym looking irritated, walking at his usual break-neck pace, hair wet because all he’d done was to go for a late swim and stupid Kim and Ned hadn’t bothered him at all –
You berk. They didn’t go in there to watch him swim.
Seb got his feet moving, hurried toward the steps, looking over his shoulder, shuddering with fear and anxiety. The warm, chlorinated air hit him as soon as he stepped inside. “Sherlock?” he called softly. “Holmes?”
It was dark, and silent, and terrifying. Sherlock, you fucking idiot. Seb stalked through the corridor to the pool, the upper level where spectators watched meets. There was a lone work light on, and the pool glowed a mellow blue, the chlorine smell strong in Seb’s nostrils. He scanned the surface; the water was calm, untouched. Taking the stairs in threes, he ran to the first level and trotted the length of the pool. Nobody beneath the surface either (please, God – no, empty. Thank Christ) and pushed his way into the men’s changing room.
“Holmes? You in here?”
He threaded his way through the rows of lockers. There were Sherlock’s clothes scattered on the floor: jeans, shirt, jumper, socks, trainers, underwear. There was his backpack, undisturbed, his coat draped over the bench.
“Sherlock?”
Seb crept along the rows of lockers, stopping dead as he saw a huddled form beside one of the shower stalls.
“Sherlock? Oh, Jesus –“ Seb rushed to Sherlock and turned him over, staring into the still face. Sherlock’s lips were like marble, his eyes closed. His hair and body were dripping, and Seb let his gaze, for one infinitesimal second, travel the length of Sherlock’s lanky figure, stopping (not really, just – pausing) at the brief swimsuit that clung to him wetly. “Sherlock?” Seb gathered him close and gently struck his cheek. “Wake up, for God’s sake.” He saw Sherlock’s eyes moving below the closed lids. “Oh, God, Holmes, wake up.” He grabbed one of Sherlock’s hands and started to chafe it. “Come on, you stupid bastard –“
Sherlock groaned. His eyes opened; he squinted. “Seb?”
“Yeah. Yeah, it’s me. What the hell happened?” Fantastic. Excellent question, I’m sure he’s in just the right mood to answer that, never mind perfect physical condition. Probably concussed, and if he dies here I’m going to have to spill everything. Fuck. And, Seb realised, he had a stiff prick, and Sherlock’s head was in his lap, centimetres from discovering something hideously embarrassing. Life could not possibly have become more inconvenient. I don’t want to fuck him, it’s just – oh, Christ.
Sherlock had closed his eyes again.
“Fuck’s sake, Sherlock. Talk to me.”
“Stop doing that to my hand.”
Seb let go of Sherlock’s hand, searched for a place to put his own hand down, and found it on the flat of Sherlock’s belly. It was chilly, the skin a bit pebbled, the hair below his navel in damp curls. Fuck. He snatched his hand away as if it had been burned. “Sorry.”
“You were right,” Sherlock muttered.
“What?”
“About Kim.”
“I’m sorry. Sherlock, we’ve got to get you to hospital right away. You’ve got a concussion.”
“No.”
“Yes, absolutely. I’m going to go find a phone.”
“It’s not concussion,” Sherlock muttered. “Drugged.”
“Wh –“ Seb gaped. Drugged – oh, God. Of course. Bloody Kim and his homemade chloral hydrate. “How?”
“Tea. I guess. I don’t know for sure. Just enough to make me slow.” Sherlock shifted, and for the first time Seb saw bruising on his abdomen, his thighs. A cold fear gripped him.
“Sherlock, they didn’t –“ He found himself unable to continue.
“Hm?”
“They didn’t…try anything….”
“Oh. No.” Sherlock’s eyes fluttered open and fixed on Seb’s. “Nothing like that. Nice friends of yours though, Seb.” His eyes closed again. “So tired. Doesn’t even hurt much.”
“Sherlock, you can’t sleep here.” Your mouth’s way too close to my cock.
“Why not? Comfortable.”
“You’re going to freeze to death on the floor, for one thing.”
“Who cares.” Sherlock turned to his side and opened his eyes.
Seb closed his.
“Oh.”
“Sherlock –“
“Seb…look, if that’s for me, I’m flattered, but –“
“No!” Seb scrambled up, half-dragging Sherlock with him. “Look, I’m going to get your clothes so we can get out of here and get you to the infirmary. If the janitors find us, we’re fucked.” He leaned Sherlock against the wall, letting his eyes flick over the wet speedos. His cock aching, he retrieved Sherlock’s clothing, burying his nose in the grey jumper. He’d never been so horny in his life. I don’t want to fuck him. It’s just – oh, God damn it anyway.
Fucking Sherlock Holmes.
*
Seb returned the cloak a few days later. Sherlock, absorbed in a book, accepted it with murmured thanks and little more. Seb withdrew, curiously hurt, and by the end of the term he and Sherlock were scarcely more than nodding acquaintances. Kim and Ned both failed the term and were expelled.
A few years later, Sebastian got married, and on impulse, invited Sherlock. He didn’t expect him to show, but he did – wearing the opera cloak. Seb thought he might have seen a twinkle in Sherlock’s eye, but maybe it was just the champagne.
*
Author: Alex
Fandom: Sherlock [BBC]
Rating: Varies
Pairing: Eventual Sherlock/John
Disclaimer: A.C. Doyle, Moffat, Gatiss.
Summary: L'esprit de l'escalier - Sherlock never suffers from it, which isn't to say he doesn't suffer for it. Five times he took a beating, and one time he got away.
Warnings: Violence, possible explicit sex to come.
Notes: This is my very first Sherlock fic, so please feel free to let me know if I've made any missteps.
Can also be read on AO3
*
*
The radio, a heavy brown Bakelite model purloined from his grandmother’s house (she’d been deaf as a post for years anyway), sent out a scratchy, tinny noise, making Pablo Casals’ unaccompanied cello rendering of a Bach piece sound as if he were playing inside a rubbish skip, but it was comfortable and familiar and almost drowned out the racket Seb Wilkes was making outside his door.
“Sherlock!”
Shut up, Seb, and go away. I’m busy.
An insistent pounding thudded in unconscious rhythm to the music. “Come on, Holmes! I know you’re in there! I see your bloody light!”
Sherlock frowned behind his goggles. God, bugger off! He lifted the dropper, aimed, and released a single drop of solution onto the subject below.
“If you don’t open the god-damned door, Holmes, I’m coming in. You’d better not be having a wank in there.”
“Not the way you’d think,” Sherlock murmured, and heaved a sigh as the door handle turned. He refused to look up; acknowledging Sebastian Wilkes’ histrionic entrances was tantamount to admiring them – to Seb, anyway. He lifted his goggles and examined the flesh beneath him. A yellowish stain, a faint burn. He clicked his tongue, disappointed, and replaced his goggles.
“Christ, Holmes, I’ve been knocking for an hour. Are you deaf?”
“No.”
“Right. Ignoring me again. Thanks, awfully kind of you.” Seb wandered into the room and let out a groan. “God, doesn’t it pong in here. At least open a window. What the hell are you doing?”
“What the hell does it look like I’m doing?”
“That’s our boy, ever quick with the repartee.” Seb playfully ruffled Sherlock’s hair, looked down, and emitted a strangled shriek. “Jesus Christ!”
“Not even close,” Sherlock murmured, filling a syringe.
“Is that…good God almighty, Sherlock, is that a baby? Is it?”
Sherlock carefully depressed the plunger, and only when he’d removed the needle from the flesh did he look up at Sebastian, whose green face didn’t suit his white tie and tails in the least. “For God’s sake, have you never clapped eyes on a foetal pig before?”
“No,” Seb replied in a strangled voice. His fingers fumbled at the starched wing collar at his throat.
“Where did you go to school before this, Seb? Oh, don’t tell me – was it one of those progressive places with a no-dissection policy and earnest felt banners everywhere? Some place where you called all the instructors by their first names and got A-levels in yurt building?”
“Oh, shut up!”
“Thought so.” That did go a long way toward explaining Seb’s painful need to fit in with his peers, as well as his apparent distaste for the macrobiotic selections in the dining hall. Sherlock turned back to the pig, carefully pinned out on the board. “It’s obviously a baby, but it’s also a baby, if you follow. Never mind, don’t bother. You remember a month or so ago, that woman in Sheffield who was arrested for murdering her child?”
“No.”
“No. Why would you?” Sherlock sighed. “Well, the police claimed she knocked the child unconscious and then stuffed it into a bin liner and filled it with drain cleaner and then skipped town. But I don’t think that the flesh rendered as quickly as the police claim. There’s something they’re missing. Someone else killed the child.” Sherlock picked up his scalpel, sliced away a thin sample of skin, and arranged it on a slide. “Someone who knew exactly how long it would take to burn a body to almost nothing with sodium hydroxide.”
“God, that’s fucking grim, Holmes.”
“Well. Yes, Seb, it is. Obviously.”
“So why are you trying to work all that out? And why, for fuck’s sake, aren’t you doing it in the lab where disgusting things like foetal pigs belong?”
“I’m curious, that’s all. And Barrington gets shirty when I work on my own,” Sherlock muttered, and stared up at Seb. “Was there something you wanted? And why are you all rigged up like that?”
“Let me guess. You’re not going to the masquerade tonight.”
“No.”
“Oh, come on, Sherlock. You should give it a go. They’ll have masks there – just throw your tails on and come with us.” Seb hesitated. “You don’t have to bring a date, you know.”
“Why didn’t you say so? Quick, get my wig and heels from the wardrobe.” Sherlock turned on his microscope. “Really, Seb, I’m sort of busy, so if you wanted something, out with it, and then just get out.”
Seb crossed his arms and gazed down at Sherlock, looking like something graceful out of Brideshead Revisited. Which was fine – Sebastian Wilkes was stupid, just another sheep in the Uni pack, and only too eye-battingly aware of his own beauty, but he was essentially harmless and decent. “You don’t have to be such a prick, you know.” His tone was kind and resonated with an odd sort of sympathy; it travelled down Sherlock’s spine like the thin point of a stiletto.
“Evidently I do, if you’re going to come barging in uninvited and then hang about criticising me.”
“Fine.” Seb sighed. “You’ve got an opera cloak, haven’t you?”
“Yes. How do you know that?”
“I saw you wearing it last year the night the heat went out.”
Sherlock sniffed. “Surprised you’d notice a thing like that.”
Twin spots of pink bloomed on Sebastian’s cheeks. He opened and closed his mouth like a beached fish. “Well – Jesus, Sherlock, it’s hard not to notice a tall, gangly berk like you swooping around in a fucking Dracula cape.”
“You’re all red in the face.” Sherlock squinted at Seb, then shook his head and went about arranging his slide. “I presume you want to borrow it for the masquerade.”
“Yeah, that’d be brilliant, if you don’t mind. I’m going to be Dracula.” Seb pronounced the name with a terrible mock-Romanian accent.
“I suppose not. Just make sure you bring it back, and don’t soak it in beer, for God’s sake.” Sherlock pulled off his goggles and leant close to the scope. “What are you gawping at? I told you, it’s a pig, not a human infant.”
“Right. Right.” Sebastian coughed. “So. Where is it?”
Sherlock tilted his head slightly to the right. “In the chest. Bit squeamish for a vampire, aren’t you?”
“Well, you know, all sorts of nasty diseases out there nowadays. Even Vlad the Impaler can’t be too careful.” Seb went to the blanket chest at the foot of Sherlock’s bed and heaved off a pile of folded clothes, a stack of monographs, a massive chunk of Newcastle coal, a Book of Common Prayer (serial killing in Berkshire, pages ripped out, but certainly not at random), a scimitar (sharp – woe betide Seb’s hand if he were careless) and the newspaper articles on the Sheffield murder. He opened the chest and rummaged around. “Where?”
“Garment bag.”
Seb withdrew an ancient Hartnell garment bag that had once held one of his mother’s ballgowns and unzipped it. “Ah, there we are.” He drew the cloak from the bag, draped the silk-lined wool over his shoulders, and admired himself in the mirror on the back of Sherlock’s door. “God, that’s perfect, Holmes. Thanks.”
“It’s a bit moth-eaten, but have at it.”
“Thanks awfully. I’ll get it back to you tomorrow.”
“No hurry.”
Seb opened Sherlock’s door and hovered on the threshold. “You sure you won’t come? It’ll be a good time. Good music, dancing, plenty of liquor and lovelies.”
Sherlock bit back a sigh. He liked Seb well enough, but the concerned uncle bit was beginning to wear on him. He made a herculean effort and offered Seb an approximation of a friendly smile. “No, but thanks all the same. Have a good time.”
“Righto –“
“Did you get it?” a masculine voice boomed, and Sherlock was treated – if that was the word, which it almost certainly wasn’t – to the sight of Charles Adrian Kirkland, Kim to his friends and foes alike, in a caveman’s costume, complete with draped faux tiger skin, ratty wig, and club. Kim had been Sherlock’s lab partner at the beginning of the term, and had requested a change because he couldn’t keep up. No surprises there. He had a girl on each arm – one dressed as a French maid, the other as a “sexy” policewoman. Behind him was one of his rugby teammates, Ned Carson-Mathers, another troglodyte, but dressed as a Wild West cowboy. Good God, they’d really plumbed the depths of their imaginations, hadn’t they?
Sherlock flicked a glance at Kim’s costume. “Apropos,” he murmured.
“Yeah, I got it. Well, thanks, Sherlock –“
“Christ, what’s that niff? That you, Holmes?”
Sherlock didn’t answer. He bent his head to the microscope and studied the burned flesh on the slide. Decided rapid corrosion. It would have taken a few bottles of drain cleaner – the stuff was diluted, not pure lye – and more time to destroy the child’s body, and the mother had only been out of town overnight…something wasn’t right….
“You’re a rude wanker, you know that?”
Kim’s voice was right next to his ear, almost deafening; Sherlock had been concentrating so hard he hadn’t heard him approach. Sherlock rubbed his ear. “No, I didn’t need that tympanic membrane, but thanks for your thoughtfulness.” He glared at Kim, at Carson-Mathers, at the two overly eyeshadowed and lipsticked girls with them. “I’m sorry, is the masquerade meant to take place in my room, or did I miss something?”
Seb tugged on Kim’s arm. “Come on, Kim, let’s go.”
“Can’t get enough gore, can you, Holmes?” Kim stared down his nose at Sherlock, beyond absurd in his straggly wig. “God, you are one sick puppy.” He reached out with one thick-fingered hand and tweaked Sherlock’s ear.
“All right, Kim, that’s enough,” Seb said. “Come on. I’ve got loads of blanc de blanc in the car. Let’s go get really stupid.”
“Oh, I think he might be way ahead of you there, Seb,” Sherlock said.
“You’re an arsehole, Holmes.”
“Maybe,” Sherlock said, looking Kim up and down. “Could be worse. Could be a rapist.”
“God, Sherlock!” cried one of the girls – Tabitha Franklyn, Sherlock realised, almost unrecognisable underneath the French maid outfit and layers of paint.
“Whoa!” Seb said, laughing nervously. “Okay, okay. Come on, boys –“
“Did you just call me a rapist?” Kim asked, tilting his head to one side with an air of innocent inquiry. “Are you serious, Holmes? You’d better be joking, because that’s a really nasty accusation.” He smiled, as if to say that Sherlock could take it back and they’d all be pals again.
Sherlock leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. He surveyed the girls flanking Kim, noting that they seemed to be ever so slightly watchful now. “Clever girls. They don’t quite trust you, do they?”
“Well, come on, Sherlock,” Seb said. “You can’t just go round calling people rapists.”
“I can if they are,” Sherlock said, still watching the girls. “Careful what you drink tonight. Get your own drinks, no matter how chivalrous he is. He’s whipped up a batch of chloral hydrate and he’s just dying to use it. He could probably wheedle at least one of you into bed, with enough alcohol, but that wouldn’t be the same sort of thrill, would it, Kim? ‘Course not. God, if you could see your pupils dilating. Could be anger, but it isn’t, it’s arousal. You’ve been thinking about it all day, haven’t you? Drugging someone into unconsciousness and then having sex with them – that really floats your boat, doesn’t it? Doesn’t even matter who it is, as long as she’s out cold.”
Kim smiled again, and this time his smile was not quite so friendly. “I think I’ve heard enough of this horseshit.”
“Come on, I haven’t even got started. You didn’t make it yourself, did you? You paid someone and helped out a bit. Tremaine, right? Lab partner, awfully convenient, gives you all the answers come examination time, thoroughly cowed by your brutality. You’ve got red eyes – you’ve rubbed at them, a bit of chemical stinging from the chlorine gas because you’re too stupid to wear eye protection. You’ve got a brand-new burn on the wrist of your dominant hand. A little impatient with the hot beaker, maybe you were thinking about what it would feel like to have sex with someone without their consent. First time using chemicals – it’s always been alcohol with you, signs of dehydration in your skin already, but now you’ve hit the big time and you’re excited. Distinct chemical smell on your skin because God forbid you should bother to wash up after handling lab materials. And a little smudge of pink chalk on your hand. They only use that sort of chalk in the chemistry lab, so really, Kim, how much is truth and how much is horseshit? What do you think, Tabitha?”
Tabitha had backed away from Kim and was looking from him to Sherlock as if they were engaged in a rousing game of tennis. “I think – Sherlock, you wouldn’t lie about a thing like that, would you? You can be awfully…stroppy, sometimes.” She glanced at Kim, who was nearly purple, but wore a thin little smile, ever so slightly different from the others. “You wouldn’t just say that to be mean-spirited?”
Sherlock forced himself to speak kindly. “Tabitha, look at him. Fists clenched, face plum-coloured, eyes narrowed, teeth grinding. He’s a controller, and you probably know it better than he does. Watch him when you’re out with him, listen to him talk. He poisons the atmosphere because he can’t possibly understand or admire that anyone might be better-looking than he is, or brighter, or more socially connected, or whatever. He won’t praise you because he can’t bear to build anyone up – he’s got to suppress, to smother, and you probably won’t admit that he’s a boring sod because he’s a rugger captain and therefore glamorous, but I promise you that when the glow wears off, he’s a mediocre, drivelly, good-for-nothing prat who would rather rape a girl than charm her.”
“That’s rather bold talk from a swotty antisocial creep like you, Holmes.” Kim was clasping his hands together in a pose of assumed patience. “When was the last time you had a date? For that matter, have you ever had sex? Do you even know where it’s supposed to go?”
“In a conscious partner, so far as I understand.” Sherlock bent to his microscope once more. “Now if you don’t mind, my pig’s drying out.”
“God, you’re disgusting.” Kim moved to take Tabitha’s arm, but she pulled away.
“No. I’ll go with Seb.”
“Well, we’re all going together.”
“Not me,” said the other girl. She was near tears. “I’m going home.”
“Yeah…I think we’ll both sit this one out.” Tabitha glanced uneasily at Sherlock, then took the other girl’s arm. “Come on, Caroline, let’s go.” She looked at Seb. “Seb, will you drive us?”
Sebastian wore the unhappy expression of a man realising he’d just walked into quicksand. “Yeah, okay. I’ll, er…I’ll catch up with you lot later,” he said to Kim and Carson-Mathers, and dashed out after the girls.
“Smart girls,” Sherlock said quietly, and adjusted a lens. “Are you still here?” he asked the caveman and the cowboy. Idiots. He was bored almost senseless. And he’d missed the burning of subdermal tissue, God damn it all.
“We’re leaving,” Kim said. “Watch your arse, Holmes. Watch it very carefully.”
Sherlock waited until the door had closed quietly, but with a firmness that underscored the thrumming tension in Kim’s hand. He stared at the closed door. Kim’s silence had proved that Sherlock hadn’t been wrong, and Kim wasn’t bright enough or eloquent enough to deny the observations that Sherlock had made.
He got up, went to the door, and locked it.
*
Sherlock stared down at his plate in frank disgust. They might have called it dinner, but it wasn’t fit for dog meat. He pushed it aside and opened the Sheffield paper. The police had called in the accused woman’s boyfriend. Nice try, but I don’t think so.
“Sherlock?”
He looked up. “Seb.”
“Hey. I meant to get the cloak back to you – sorry about that.”
Sherlock shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. Did you go to the party?”
“Yeah, the three of us actually wound up going. Had a great time. Look, Sherlock…you really shouldn’t have said that about Kim. That was just – it was speculation, right? I mean, you can’t tell all that about someone just by looking at him.”
Sherlock appraised Seb coolly, seeing blonde hairs on his jacket, traces of Lancôme Blush Satin on his shirt collar, and smelling something distinctly feminine – YSL Paris, unless he missed his guess. “I can tell you don’t have to rape people to have sex with them.”
Seb’s cheeks reddened. “God, Sherlock.”
“Look, he’s a bastard, and you did those girls a tremendous service. Well done.” Sherlock went back to his paper.
“Sherlock,” Seb said pleadingly, “just…be careful, all right?”
“You worry too much, Seb.” Sherlock took a swallow of cold tea and grimaced. “Good Christ, do they have anything here that doesn’t taste as if it’s been fermented at the bottom of a cistern?”
Seb shook his head. “See you later, Sherlock.”
Sherlock pushed aside his tea as well, wishing he’d opted for something simple, like hot tea and beans on toast, but he didn’t feel like eating any longer. He got up, gathered his things, and headed for the pool. He’d been feeling tense and upset lately (not because of bloody Kim Kirkland, damn it all) and reckoned that a little physical exercise wouldn’t kill him. He’d swim a few dozen laps, then float lazily a bit. It was pleasant to relax in the water, and he’d always liked the chlorine smell and echoing sounds of the vast tiled room.
He yawned as he trudged toward the gymnasium and huddled into his coat. Maybe it was the shortening days, but he yearned for sleep. Too many late nights recently – he supposed he had to succumb at some point. The swim would tire him nicely, and he’d be asleep by one at the latest. Five hours was more than enough – indulgent, actually.
The pool was closed, but that didn’t present a problem; he picked the lock (not quite as deftly as usual – had they changed the style? No, it was the same) and slipped into the changing room before anyone saw him. It was too late for the lifeguards, too early for the janitorial staff. Perfect.
Sherlock toed off his trainers and unbuttoned his jeans, faintly amazed that his fingers seemed to stumble over the fastenings. He pushed them down his thighs, shivering a little in the chilly air, and suddenly found himself dying to simply lie on the bench and sleep. He pulled off his jumper and unbuttoned his shirt clumsily, yawning to clear his head, and found himself so exhausted that he had to drop to the bench.
Dizzy. Maybe not the most brilliant idea to swim alone.
Rubbish. He was a strong swimmer, and if he got too tired he’d simply climb out of the pool. He’d do twenty laps at most.
Slowly, he pushed his boxers off, stripped off his socks, and got into his speedos. He stood, leaving his clothes scattered on the floor, and walked across the tile floor, using the even pattern of squares to balance himself.
All right. Twelve laps.
He heard a soft scrape and a swish, as if the door to the pool had opened. Oh, God. He was tired of explaining himself to the security guards. Why didn’t they keep the damned pool open all day long? “Is that the cleaning crew?” he called softly, hoping it was and not Security.
Sherlock fumbled for the light, but something weighty like a canvas coat was yanked down over his head, and someone pinned his arms tightly. He gasped, and felt a fist crash into his midsection.
*
Seb had bitten his thumbnail into a bloody, ragged mess before he saw a sniggering Kim and Ned leave the gymnasium after half an hour of stillness and silence. Concealed in a hedgerow gap, he waited another fifteen minutes, terrified they might have seen him follow them, terrified they might come back, hoping Sherlock would emerge from the gym looking irritated, walking at his usual break-neck pace, hair wet because all he’d done was to go for a late swim and stupid Kim and Ned hadn’t bothered him at all –
You berk. They didn’t go in there to watch him swim.
Seb got his feet moving, hurried toward the steps, looking over his shoulder, shuddering with fear and anxiety. The warm, chlorinated air hit him as soon as he stepped inside. “Sherlock?” he called softly. “Holmes?”
It was dark, and silent, and terrifying. Sherlock, you fucking idiot. Seb stalked through the corridor to the pool, the upper level where spectators watched meets. There was a lone work light on, and the pool glowed a mellow blue, the chlorine smell strong in Seb’s nostrils. He scanned the surface; the water was calm, untouched. Taking the stairs in threes, he ran to the first level and trotted the length of the pool. Nobody beneath the surface either (please, God – no, empty. Thank Christ) and pushed his way into the men’s changing room.
“Holmes? You in here?”
He threaded his way through the rows of lockers. There were Sherlock’s clothes scattered on the floor: jeans, shirt, jumper, socks, trainers, underwear. There was his backpack, undisturbed, his coat draped over the bench.
“Sherlock?”
Seb crept along the rows of lockers, stopping dead as he saw a huddled form beside one of the shower stalls.
“Sherlock? Oh, Jesus –“ Seb rushed to Sherlock and turned him over, staring into the still face. Sherlock’s lips were like marble, his eyes closed. His hair and body were dripping, and Seb let his gaze, for one infinitesimal second, travel the length of Sherlock’s lanky figure, stopping (not really, just – pausing) at the brief swimsuit that clung to him wetly. “Sherlock?” Seb gathered him close and gently struck his cheek. “Wake up, for God’s sake.” He saw Sherlock’s eyes moving below the closed lids. “Oh, God, Holmes, wake up.” He grabbed one of Sherlock’s hands and started to chafe it. “Come on, you stupid bastard –“
Sherlock groaned. His eyes opened; he squinted. “Seb?”
“Yeah. Yeah, it’s me. What the hell happened?” Fantastic. Excellent question, I’m sure he’s in just the right mood to answer that, never mind perfect physical condition. Probably concussed, and if he dies here I’m going to have to spill everything. Fuck. And, Seb realised, he had a stiff prick, and Sherlock’s head was in his lap, centimetres from discovering something hideously embarrassing. Life could not possibly have become more inconvenient. I don’t want to fuck him, it’s just – oh, Christ.
Sherlock had closed his eyes again.
“Fuck’s sake, Sherlock. Talk to me.”
“Stop doing that to my hand.”
Seb let go of Sherlock’s hand, searched for a place to put his own hand down, and found it on the flat of Sherlock’s belly. It was chilly, the skin a bit pebbled, the hair below his navel in damp curls. Fuck. He snatched his hand away as if it had been burned. “Sorry.”
“You were right,” Sherlock muttered.
“What?”
“About Kim.”
“I’m sorry. Sherlock, we’ve got to get you to hospital right away. You’ve got a concussion.”
“No.”
“Yes, absolutely. I’m going to go find a phone.”
“It’s not concussion,” Sherlock muttered. “Drugged.”
“Wh –“ Seb gaped. Drugged – oh, God. Of course. Bloody Kim and his homemade chloral hydrate. “How?”
“Tea. I guess. I don’t know for sure. Just enough to make me slow.” Sherlock shifted, and for the first time Seb saw bruising on his abdomen, his thighs. A cold fear gripped him.
“Sherlock, they didn’t –“ He found himself unable to continue.
“Hm?”
“They didn’t…try anything….”
“Oh. No.” Sherlock’s eyes fluttered open and fixed on Seb’s. “Nothing like that. Nice friends of yours though, Seb.” His eyes closed again. “So tired. Doesn’t even hurt much.”
“Sherlock, you can’t sleep here.” Your mouth’s way too close to my cock.
“Why not? Comfortable.”
“You’re going to freeze to death on the floor, for one thing.”
“Who cares.” Sherlock turned to his side and opened his eyes.
Seb closed his.
“Oh.”
“Sherlock –“
“Seb…look, if that’s for me, I’m flattered, but –“
“No!” Seb scrambled up, half-dragging Sherlock with him. “Look, I’m going to get your clothes so we can get out of here and get you to the infirmary. If the janitors find us, we’re fucked.” He leaned Sherlock against the wall, letting his eyes flick over the wet speedos. His cock aching, he retrieved Sherlock’s clothing, burying his nose in the grey jumper. He’d never been so horny in his life. I don’t want to fuck him. It’s just – oh, God damn it anyway.
Fucking Sherlock Holmes.
*
Seb returned the cloak a few days later. Sherlock, absorbed in a book, accepted it with murmured thanks and little more. Seb withdrew, curiously hurt, and by the end of the term he and Sherlock were scarcely more than nodding acquaintances. Kim and Ned both failed the term and were expelled.
A few years later, Sebastian got married, and on impulse, invited Sherlock. He didn’t expect him to show, but he did – wearing the opera cloak. Seb thought he might have seen a twinkle in Sherlock’s eye, but maybe it was just the champagne.
*
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“In a conscious partner, so far as I understand.” Sherlock bent to his microscope once more. “Now if you don’t mind, my pig’s drying out.”
--made me laugh loud enough to wake my still-sleeping mother.
Poor Sherlock. John's right, he really is an idiot.
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Lovely second part! The characterisations are beautifully done. I am really enjoying this.
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He’d never been so horny in his life. I don’t want to fuck him. It’s just – oh, God damn it anyway.
Fucking Sherlock Holmes.
*grins* Love your characters and Sherlock in his speedos.
“Seb…look, if that’s for me, I’m flattered, but –“ No use in hididng, I guess Seb. Must be really difficult to live with clever Sherlock.
Love it, dear; a wonderful chapter!
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I was never particularly fond of Seb. To me, he was just some obnoxious, disgustingly wealthy, pompous schoolboy arse (mostly I tolerated him because Sherlock seemed to tolerate him), but you actually made me think he wasn't such a bad guy, and now I actually like him, well and properly. Your Seb is my headcanon now.
I would say more, but I have no idea how to articulate my love. Reading this is like having a script for Moffat and Gatiss. Wonderful, just wonderful.
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http://221b-hound.livejournal.com/9146.html
Anyway, thank you SO much for the lovely comment - I'm all asquee that you heard Bertie Carvel's voice! He's a git, for sure [quite handsome in his IMDB pic - looks much less the city-boy jerk] but not, I think, malicious or truly nasty, and I figure Sherlock must feel something besides complete contempt for him if he's willing to help him out. Thanks again - I'm just delighted you're enjoying it! :D
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Have to agree with you on Carvel's IMDB pic, he really is quite lovely. I think what resonated most with me about your Seb was there was more to him that just the "city-boy jerk", which we didn't really get any of in The Blind Banker (or maybe that's just me being thick). But you're right, Sherlock wouldn't give the time of day to someone who he didn't connect to in at least some fashion. With these details in mind, I think I might actually like watching Seb in TBB again. In fact, I have the urge to pop in the episode right now...
Anyway, you've made me see a character in a wholly new light, and I love that. Thank you.
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Sherlock is Sherlock, whatever his age, isn't he? One wonders if his first words were a sarcastic deduction...
~Kris
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Sherlock is Sherlock, whatever his age, isn't he? One wonders if his first words were a sarcastic deduction...
Ha! So true. Doubtless his first thoughts from the womb were "Who are all these idiots staring at me?" and his first crying was purest pique. :)
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Incidentally, we were watching the Hounds of Baskerville and I heard Sherlock say "was sat." So I suppose that's why writers feel confident in using that construction!
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Earnest felt banners - I know just the ones you mean.
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No self-preservation instincts whatsoever.
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Loved having Sebastian there! I actually hadn't picked up on who he was until nearly the end. Going to have to re-read now :D
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He did indeed, silly rabbit.
It was surprisingly fun to write Seb! Thank you so much, I'm really happy you liked it and appreciate the nice comments. :D
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And I'm not even going to start on all the *cough* damage you're inflicting on him and Seb's underlying attraction.
Ehe - certainly, certainly. :D Thank you very, very much indeed!
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