Sherlock Holmes - Truth Will Out
Title: Truth Will Out
Author: ladylovelace
Rating: PG
Pairing/Characters: Holmes/Trevor
Disclaimer: Not mine. But public domain, nonetheless.
Summary: The very worst happens, and more besides. Nothing this good ever lasts.
Spoilers: Not so much a spoiler, but if you haven't read GLOR, you need to go do that.
Warnings: Minor Character Death.
Word Count: 1300
Author's Notes: ::passes out tissues:: ::offers beeinmybonnet her hankie and chocolate cookies::
The train journey to Hampshire was perhaps one of the most uncomfortable experiences of Holmes' life. He knew that Victor's father was particularly important to him, having already lost the rest of his family in his young life, and he had no idea what to do or say that might help. The note had contained few clues as to Trevor senior's condition, and since it had clearly been written by a servant and not a friend, there was little more to be gathered from it, except - and Holmes had the sense not to mention this to his friend - that his father's condition was less than stable. So he sat quietly, holding Victor's hand and trying to be as comforting as he knew how.
“What will I do if he dies?” Victor whined eventually, having sat in almost complete silence for the past three-quarters of an hour.
“If he dies; and that is far from certain; then we will both deal with it. I'll help with everything, I promise.”
“Everyone dies on me. Everyone. Do you think it's my fault?”
“Have you been killing them off?” Holmes asked reasonably.
“No!” Victor's eyes widened, and he stared at his friend in horror for long moments, “do you actually think that?”
“Not in the least, Victor. But perhaps you should ask yourself the same question. If you haven't been actively killing them, then their deaths have not been your fault.”
Victor sighed heavily and slumped against Holmes. “Why must you be so reasonable about everything? Can't you let a man wallow in self-pity a little?” He smiled a very small, weak smile.
“Self-pity is hardly going to help. And I am trying to help, you know.”
“I know. You are helping, just by being with me.”
Holmes squeezed Victor's hand gently, and encouraged him to lean against him and try to sleep the trip away.
Trevor Senior's condition was rather worse than Holmes would have liked, and he sat uncomfortably in the cold country house while Victor sat alone with his father. It was a statement on the cruelty of existence, perhaps, that such an amiable person as Victor would be on the verge of losing the last of his family at the age of twenty.
A discussion with a nice young lady in the service of Mr. Beddoes only made Holmes more curious as to what was going on. Apparently, Victor's father had first collapsed at the sight of the new grounds-keeper. The man, Hudson, was apparently an old acquaintance of the master's. It was impossible that it was a coincidence. That the gentleman, for want of a better term, had disappeared didn't strike Holmes as likely to be unconnected, either.
When Victor came down, eyes ringed red and holding back tears, Holmes didn't even have to ask how his father was. He simply pulled him down onto the settee, and arranged them so he was holding his unfortunate friend tightly.
“Let it all out. I'm here.”
Victor cried. And kept crying. It started as a few wrenching sobs, but then calmed down to a quiet, whimpering sound which was considerably more heartbreaking. When Victor turned around, Holmes could feel that his collar and shirt-front were soaked through. It was perhaps the knowledge that there was nothing he could do to improve the situation that made it so much worse. There were few things he wouldn't have given in that moment to bring Victor's father back.
After perhaps half an hour further, Victor went quiet and limp, having exhausted himself through a mixture of stress and crying. Holmes refused to let go of him even then, and waited until he woke himself up. When he finally did, it was with a low wail that suggested he hadn't mistaken the day's happenings for a dream.
“I'm so sorry, Victor.”
“I know. I know. Nothing like as sorry as I am, though.” The young man tried to smile, but only managed to scare up a sad little parody of it. “He told me I need to read some papers, before anyone else does. They're back at Donnithorpe, hidden away. But I don't think I'm up to going anywhere tonight.”
“We'll head back in the morning, if you're ready. Whenever you're ready, and not before then.” Holmes risked a quick kiss to the tip of Victor's nose, before brushing his hair back as Victor had done for him hundreds of times by now. “Do you want to get some sleep?”
“I think that might be best, yes.” Victor's reply was so unlike the happy young man that he usually was, quiet and insecure, and Holmes wished again that he could make it all go away before dealing with the very serious business of getting Victor to sleep in a bed, so that perhaps he would have one less battle to fight in the morning.
The trip back in the morning was made in total silence. Holmes was obliged to check Victor's breathing more than once, to be sure he wasn't dead. An unpleasant weight had settled in Holmes' stomach, and he found himself not wanting to imagine the discomfort Victor was in. Still unable to do anything about it, Holmes had little choice but to stare at the countryside as he waited for the train to pull in.
Once they'd made it back to the house, Victor was descended on by all of the female members of the household, offering tea and sweets and a few varieties of 'something stronger', all of which he refused, in favour of going to dig out the papers he'd come in search of. Holmes followed at a distance, afraid that he was likely to make things worse at any moment. He found Victor again, sitting at his father's desk and staring at an old envelope, stuffed full with slightly untidy papers. Victor turned to look at him.
“Would you read this for me? I don't think I'm in a frame of mind to make much sense of it myself.” Victor held out the envelope, and Holmes went over to take it from him carefully, before pulling up a second chair to the desk.
He opened the envelope, and recounted with ever-increasing horror the story of Trevor senior's past. Whilst the story held a sort of macabre interest, the look on Victor's face caused Holmes to stop and ask if he should continue several times before managing to finish. The end of the narrative was met with a heavy silence, in which neither man knew quite what to say.
“I've been living a lie.” Victor managed distantly after a few long minutes. “My whole life, my name, for God's sake. None of it has been true,” he levelled a tortured look at Holmes, “you must be disgusted.”
“No,” Holmes stopped just short of enumerating the skeleton's in his own family closet, “no, Victor. I'm not in love with your past.”
Victor seemed unconvinced. “Of course. I'd like to go to bed now.” He stood and wandered off.
Holmes followed, only to be thrown out of Victor's bedroom. Gently as ever, but it stung nonetheless, to know that he wouldn't even be allowed to try to help. To hold him through the tears that would come again tonight as they had yesterday.
In the morning, Holmes woke to the prodding of the crying maid. Victor had disappeared in the night, and left a note that she wouldn't dare open.
Please, don't try to follow me. I'll send word when I've stopped somewhere, I promise. I'm not going to do anything stupid. Or at least, nothing more stupid than I've already done.
I'll miss you, but I do not deserve your friendship or you help any longer. I'm not the man I thought I was.
My regard for you will never change, Sherlock. Remember that for me, please.
Very Sincerely Yours,
Victor.
Holmes attended Trevor senior's funeral on his own, and then left to bury himself in the bustle of London. Word from Victor six months later that he'd settled in Terai, but again not to follow, was promptly burned and regretted in the morning.
Author: ladylovelace
Rating: PG
Pairing/Characters: Holmes/Trevor
Disclaimer: Not mine. But public domain, nonetheless.
Summary: The very worst happens, and more besides. Nothing this good ever lasts.
Spoilers: Not so much a spoiler, but if you haven't read GLOR, you need to go do that.
Warnings: Minor Character Death.
Word Count: 1300
Author's Notes: ::passes out tissues:: ::offers beeinmybonnet her hankie and chocolate cookies::
The train journey to Hampshire was perhaps one of the most uncomfortable experiences of Holmes' life. He knew that Victor's father was particularly important to him, having already lost the rest of his family in his young life, and he had no idea what to do or say that might help. The note had contained few clues as to Trevor senior's condition, and since it had clearly been written by a servant and not a friend, there was little more to be gathered from it, except - and Holmes had the sense not to mention this to his friend - that his father's condition was less than stable. So he sat quietly, holding Victor's hand and trying to be as comforting as he knew how.
“What will I do if he dies?” Victor whined eventually, having sat in almost complete silence for the past three-quarters of an hour.
“If he dies; and that is far from certain; then we will both deal with it. I'll help with everything, I promise.”
“Everyone dies on me. Everyone. Do you think it's my fault?”
“Have you been killing them off?” Holmes asked reasonably.
“No!” Victor's eyes widened, and he stared at his friend in horror for long moments, “do you actually think that?”
“Not in the least, Victor. But perhaps you should ask yourself the same question. If you haven't been actively killing them, then their deaths have not been your fault.”
Victor sighed heavily and slumped against Holmes. “Why must you be so reasonable about everything? Can't you let a man wallow in self-pity a little?” He smiled a very small, weak smile.
“Self-pity is hardly going to help. And I am trying to help, you know.”
“I know. You are helping, just by being with me.”
Holmes squeezed Victor's hand gently, and encouraged him to lean against him and try to sleep the trip away.
Trevor Senior's condition was rather worse than Holmes would have liked, and he sat uncomfortably in the cold country house while Victor sat alone with his father. It was a statement on the cruelty of existence, perhaps, that such an amiable person as Victor would be on the verge of losing the last of his family at the age of twenty.
A discussion with a nice young lady in the service of Mr. Beddoes only made Holmes more curious as to what was going on. Apparently, Victor's father had first collapsed at the sight of the new grounds-keeper. The man, Hudson, was apparently an old acquaintance of the master's. It was impossible that it was a coincidence. That the gentleman, for want of a better term, had disappeared didn't strike Holmes as likely to be unconnected, either.
When Victor came down, eyes ringed red and holding back tears, Holmes didn't even have to ask how his father was. He simply pulled him down onto the settee, and arranged them so he was holding his unfortunate friend tightly.
“Let it all out. I'm here.”
Victor cried. And kept crying. It started as a few wrenching sobs, but then calmed down to a quiet, whimpering sound which was considerably more heartbreaking. When Victor turned around, Holmes could feel that his collar and shirt-front were soaked through. It was perhaps the knowledge that there was nothing he could do to improve the situation that made it so much worse. There were few things he wouldn't have given in that moment to bring Victor's father back.
After perhaps half an hour further, Victor went quiet and limp, having exhausted himself through a mixture of stress and crying. Holmes refused to let go of him even then, and waited until he woke himself up. When he finally did, it was with a low wail that suggested he hadn't mistaken the day's happenings for a dream.
“I'm so sorry, Victor.”
“I know. I know. Nothing like as sorry as I am, though.” The young man tried to smile, but only managed to scare up a sad little parody of it. “He told me I need to read some papers, before anyone else does. They're back at Donnithorpe, hidden away. But I don't think I'm up to going anywhere tonight.”
“We'll head back in the morning, if you're ready. Whenever you're ready, and not before then.” Holmes risked a quick kiss to the tip of Victor's nose, before brushing his hair back as Victor had done for him hundreds of times by now. “Do you want to get some sleep?”
“I think that might be best, yes.” Victor's reply was so unlike the happy young man that he usually was, quiet and insecure, and Holmes wished again that he could make it all go away before dealing with the very serious business of getting Victor to sleep in a bed, so that perhaps he would have one less battle to fight in the morning.
The trip back in the morning was made in total silence. Holmes was obliged to check Victor's breathing more than once, to be sure he wasn't dead. An unpleasant weight had settled in Holmes' stomach, and he found himself not wanting to imagine the discomfort Victor was in. Still unable to do anything about it, Holmes had little choice but to stare at the countryside as he waited for the train to pull in.
Once they'd made it back to the house, Victor was descended on by all of the female members of the household, offering tea and sweets and a few varieties of 'something stronger', all of which he refused, in favour of going to dig out the papers he'd come in search of. Holmes followed at a distance, afraid that he was likely to make things worse at any moment. He found Victor again, sitting at his father's desk and staring at an old envelope, stuffed full with slightly untidy papers. Victor turned to look at him.
“Would you read this for me? I don't think I'm in a frame of mind to make much sense of it myself.” Victor held out the envelope, and Holmes went over to take it from him carefully, before pulling up a second chair to the desk.
He opened the envelope, and recounted with ever-increasing horror the story of Trevor senior's past. Whilst the story held a sort of macabre interest, the look on Victor's face caused Holmes to stop and ask if he should continue several times before managing to finish. The end of the narrative was met with a heavy silence, in which neither man knew quite what to say.
“I've been living a lie.” Victor managed distantly after a few long minutes. “My whole life, my name, for God's sake. None of it has been true,” he levelled a tortured look at Holmes, “you must be disgusted.”
“No,” Holmes stopped just short of enumerating the skeleton's in his own family closet, “no, Victor. I'm not in love with your past.”
Victor seemed unconvinced. “Of course. I'd like to go to bed now.” He stood and wandered off.
Holmes followed, only to be thrown out of Victor's bedroom. Gently as ever, but it stung nonetheless, to know that he wouldn't even be allowed to try to help. To hold him through the tears that would come again tonight as they had yesterday.
In the morning, Holmes woke to the prodding of the crying maid. Victor had disappeared in the night, and left a note that she wouldn't dare open.
Please, don't try to follow me. I'll send word when I've stopped somewhere, I promise. I'm not going to do anything stupid. Or at least, nothing more stupid than I've already done.
I'll miss you, but I do not deserve your friendship or you help any longer. I'm not the man I thought I was.
My regard for you will never change, Sherlock. Remember that for me, please.
Very Sincerely Yours,
Victor.
Holmes attended Trevor senior's funeral on his own, and then left to bury himself in the bustle of London. Word from Victor six months later that he'd settled in Terai, but again not to follow, was promptly burned and regretted in the morning.