Archive of Our Own

“Sherlock?” Victor calls as soon as he pushes the door to the studio open. The light is on and the door is unlocked when it shouldn’t be.

He’s the one to open up the shop on Tuesdays, Justine always takes the mornings off and the only other person who could be in at this hour is Sherlock.

“Just me,” Justine says and rises up from behind the counter. “I had to pick up some stuff. Sorry, Victor.”

Her face is a rare mixture of pity and worry – it only manages to make Victor feel even more deflated. Justine too is feeling nervous because of Sherlock’s continued absence and while she may be rough, she is aware how much worse Victor must feel. He got his hopes up too early and now he’ll only spend the rest of the day switching between resentment at Sherlock and worry concerning his whereabouts.

In general, there’s nothing to fear if Sherlock skips off for a couple of days; Victor learned that pretty quickly. He’s prone to mood swings and burst of inspiration and if he has a desire to conduct a series of paintings and call it ‘Study in Scarlet’ later, Victor won’t say anything and help him shuffle the appointments around. Even Justine has accepted that Sherlock is the very definition of eccentric and that his genius comes at the price of a number of quirks and a loose leash. She just counts it as his allocated holidays whenever he runs off for something.

Sherlock always comes back.

Except this time.

It’s been nearly two weeks and there hasn’t been a peep from Sherlock. Victor went over to Sherlock’s place two days ago to find it empty. That isn’t unnerving in itself, Sherlock’s run off before. He’s got some boltholes all over the city, that much Victor knows, but he doesn’t know where they are.

After a full shift of checking his phone like a madman, Victor types the fifth text in as many days, despite not having received any answers so far.

[To: Sherlock, 19:37] answer ur damn msgs, u tosser.

He ought to demand the money for the texts back from Sherlock. On some days Sherlock sends him strings of messages and Victor really doesn’t want to know how much Sherlock spends on his phone in a month.

Again, there’s no answer.

Victor doesn’t know whether he should be angry at Sherlock or start getting worried. Chances are he just ignores Victor’s attempts at contact because he can’t comprehend that others might be unnerved by a prolonged lack of responses.

Sherlock is excellent at predicting the end of a crime show or at telling you the end of a book without you wanting to know, but Victor isn’t much of a detective. Once Sherlock’s flat and the few other places he frequents yield no results, he’s run out of plans. He hasn’t stopped at the usual places to buy cigarettes, hasn’t insulted the fishmonger in Rue Clairemont the last two weeks and hasn’t nipped into his preferred art supplies shop to stock up. (Clerks tend to remember Sherlock. Vividly.) Justine apparently became worried as well and took it upon herself to call some of Sherlock’s more adoring clients, asking whether they heard from him without actually letting on she doesn’t know where to find him.

Victor knows they could – maybe should – call the police and report him missing, but Sherlock’s had a couple run-ins with the police already and Victor isn’t much of a fan of the French police either. Besides, it’s entirely possible they won’t even look for him once they find out Sherlock is prone to disappearance and defacing public buildings with paint and a spraying can.

There’s also Sherlock’s brother. Sherlock’s never said exactly what it is that his brother does for a living, only that he’s in the government and wields more power than anyone that irritating should. But Sherlock hates having his brother badger him and Victor isn’t sure he wants to call Mycroft Holmes and tell him he’s lost his little brother. Victor doesn’t know whether Sherlock might be exaggerating as to the extent of Mycroft’s powers but from what he knows of the elder Holmes, Victor can’t rule out being sent to a gulag. No, calling Mycroft Holmes will be the last option.

He goes as far as speaking to the homeless that linger around the shop and Victor’s favourite bar. Sherlock has a strange affinity for them and Victor has seen him chat with a couple of them. They’re evasive and none are giving him a definitive answer, but Victor likes to think the ten-euro-notes he’s handing them makes them keep their eyes open.

Two days later, there’s a homeless girl waiting outside the shop, wrapped in a hoodie at least three sizes too big for her and sporting one of those tribal designs that were already unfashionable when they were printed in the late nineties. The hood hides half her face, but Victor thinks she can’t be much older than sixteen. He wants to feed her a sandwich and a cuppa because she’s thin like a weed.

“Rue Blaise Pascal” she says and startles Victor.

“Pardon?”

“Cherche à Rue Blaise Pascal,” she repeats and starts to walk away.

“Encore un moment,” Victor calls, but she doesn’t wait. “Hey!”

Did she refer to Sherlock? Why else would she tell him to look in Rue Blaise Pascal? There’s of course always the possibility that she’s off her rocker and telling people random street names, but she didn’t give that impression.

And where the hell is Rue Blaise Pascal?

Victor storms inside the shop and chucks his backpack behind the counter, marching towards the office-slash-breakroom where the boss is watching the coffee drip into the machine.

“Do we have a street map of Paris?”

“Good morning to you, too,” Justine drawls. Her hair has turned electric blue overnight and as usual, she wears the matching nail polish.

“Yeah, sorry,” Victor mumbles. “Morning.”

She seems appeased and pulls a ring-bound book off the shelf above her. “We do have internet, you know?” she says and hands Victor the battered map of Paris.

“Yeah, and once we finally get broadband, looking up a map on the internet might actually be faster than using a real map,” Victor grumbles and wanders off with the map, leafing through the pages to find the index.

“Do you know how expensive broadband is?” Justine calls after him. She’s been resisting the twenty-first century and still thinks dial-up is the way to go. The melody of the modem is giving Victor nervous twitches each time.

He finds Rue Blaise Pascal and groans. It’s at the arse end of nowhere, or more precisely Aulnay-sous-Bois. Far north-east and Victor estimates it’s at least twenty kilometers from the shop. Goddammit. Sherlock better be there.

Victor decides not to say anything about his encounter with the homeless girl to Justine and denies her question whether he’s heard anything from Sherlock. Just in case this lead yields no results. She mutters about killing him when he turns up and then flaunts off to her work area. Victor has to resist the urge to take the next train right now, but he has customers waiting today and his rent is coming up. Not to mention that Justine would kill him too if he suddenly started to swan off like Sherlock.

Thankfully today’s work is rather brainless. Simple designs, not hard to execute, which is what he needs today because Victor isn’t sure he could have concentrated on something complicated. If Sherlock is indeed in Blaise Pascale, what the hell is he doing there? The area is more or less industrial this close to the airport and he can’t fathom what business Sherlock has there. Has he been spraying again?

Sherlock still doesn’t answer his phone.

It’s almost dark when Victor manages to put down his machine and leave a little early under the guise of wanting to check Sherlock’s flat again. Victor has long since bribed Sherlock’s neighbour to call him if Sherlock turns up and so far he hasn’t heard from the guy. Admittedly he has no idea how reliable the neighbour is, but he seemed okay. (And relieved that Sherlock isn’t at home to torture him with a screeching violin.)

At the train station, he questions the clerk for the fastest way to Aulnay-sous-Bois, curses the expense for the ticket and crams himself onto the train. It’s rush hour and every centimetre is jam packed with people trying to get home from work. The copy of the street map is crumpled in his back pocket, the way from the station highlighted with a marker. He’s never been in the area before save for the airport. Please let Sherlock really be there. It’s the only substantial lead he’s had the whole time. If it turns out to go nowhere, he’ll have no choice but to call Sherlock’s brother.

Victor’s halfway to Aulnay when he notices he’s forgotten his iPod at the shop and suppresses the desire to bang his head against the wall of the carriage. Not that he could. There’s at least three people barring the way. With some music he could at least try and keep a little calmer. He hasn’t even got the space to tap his foot nervously.

When the tinny voice overhead announces Aulnay-sous-Bois, Victor wrestles two old ladies to get to the exit before the driver can slam the doors shut again. Outside, it’s gone dark and there’s a slight drizzle that makes Victor pull up the hood over his head and flip up the collar of his leather jacket. Under the light of a street lamp he tries to orient himself before a middle aged guy with the bushiest beard Victor has ever seen takes pity on him and sends him in the right direction.

He nearly takes a wrong turn on Rue Roger Lemaire but after about thirty minutes, he’s finally found Rue Blaise Pascal. His Converse are soaked through, his hoodie is damp and his mood is about the same. The street is nearly deserted – being an industrial area, most have gone home for the day and Victor wonders what the hell Sherlock could be doing here. If he even is here. Maybe the girl really didn’t know what she was saying. But if he’s already made the trip, he might as well take a proper look.

There’s light in a few of the buildings, most are dark, some lots are clearly abandoned. At one of the abandoned places, Victor pauses. Some people seem to have taken over the deserted building of an old electrical engineering company for the night. Homeless possibly, if the lit barrels and people wrapped in thick coats and hoodies are any indication. Has Sherlock come here for some weird creative experiment? Would those people even speak to Victor if he asked? They’re a tight-lipped bunch as far as Victor has experienced, but what’s he got to lose?

“Bon soir,” Victor says.

The two men – one about Victor’s age and one somewhere around forty if Victor has to guess – eye him with some suspicion, but they don’t turn away.

“I was told I could find a friend of mine here,” he says and pulls his wallet from his back pocket where he keeps a shot of Sherlock he took on Cimétière Père Lachaise earlier this year. It’s a rare photo showing Sherlock’s unguarded smile and Victor is unreasonably proud of catching it on film. Sherlock scoffs at the idea of keeping someone’s picture in your wallet but Victor is now glad he carries one. He holds it up for the men who move closer to see the picture better in the flickering light of the barrel.

“Why are you looking for him?” the younger asks with an accent thicker than Victor’s own.

“He hasn’t come to work for a while. I’m worried.”

“Béla!” the guy hollers and gestures to a figure in the distance to come over.

Béla turns out to be a woman who must be older than Victor’s mum with short grey hair sticking out from under a red knit cap. She’s bundled in a tan military coat and has piercing blue eyes. There’s no question who’s calling the shots in this place.

They converse for a minute in something that could be Hungarian (at least it sounds like his Hungarian neighbour downstairs does when he’s on the phone with his sister) before Béla takes a quick look at the picture and then a long look at Victor.

“You’re not here to make trouble?” she asks him and Victor feels the need to bow.

“No,” he replies in earnest. “I just want to find him.”

She seems to deem his answer satisfactory because she nods and hands him back the picture. “He’s been here for a few days. Saw him last on the second floor.”

The relief that floods Victor is nearly overwhelming. Two weeks of tension sag off his shoulders. Sherlock is here. He’s found him.

He’s going to kick Sherlock’s arse.

“Get in and get out,” Béla orders.

Victor nods, unable to form words, and starts walking towards the entrance. He just about resists running.

Inside, it’s nearly pitch black. There isn’t much moonlight falling through the mostly broken windows and the occasional fires used by those dwelling inside only illuminate small portions of the vast space. It smells damp and mouldy, the way abandoned buildings do when no one looks after them. Victor takes out the small torch he’s got attached to his keychain and follows a rusty sign pointing out the stairs to the upper levels.

Occasionally, he runs into people, but they pay him no heed. Some are warming up drinks and tinned food on small camping stoves, others are sleeping or huddled in groups for conversation, and there’s also those that stare into the distance with vacant eyes. Victor takes care not to step into anything that looks like a needle. The soles of his shoes are trodden thin and a reasonably sharp needle would probably go right through them. He doesn’t need another Hepatitis or HIV scare. Punching that piercing needle into his hand last year was more than enough.

The set of metal stairs leading up are rickety and they creak in an untrustworthy manner when Victor starts climbing, but it’s not like he can take the lift instead. Carefully he goes up to the second floor which seems to contain fewer people than the ground floor. The draft is stronger here and there’s more broken window glass littering the floor.

The nerves are creeping up on Victor. His heart is beating faster now with anticipation – or apprehension. Maybe both. Victor takes care to shine his torch light into every corner of what looks to be an old office. Most cubicles are gone, but a few chairs and desks haven’t made it out. One of them even has a sad, dried-out potted plant still resting on top of it.

“Sherlock,” Victor hisses. He doesn’t want to yell like an idiot.

There’s a rustling in the corner and Victor spins around, torch in hand. That unruly mop of hair appearing in the light can only belong to one person.

“Sherlock!” This time, there’s nothing to keep him from basically flying to the other end of the room. He’s here. He’s found Sherlock.

The relief does a backflip in his stomach and goes glacial when he sees Sherlock up close.

“Fuck.”

Sherlock is propped up in the corner, dressed only in a white t-shirt smeared with red and yellow paint and equally dotted jeans. He’s shivering, but his shirt is sweat-soaked, as is his hair. For a desperate moment, Victor wants to believe Sherlock’s fallen ill, but once he looks him in the eye there’s no pretending this isn’t exactly what it looks like. Sherlock’s eyes are glazed over, pupils the size of pinpricks and it’s as if he doesn’t really understand it’s Victor standing before him.

“Sherlock…” Victor can’t remember ever sounding so broken before. He crouches down next to Sherlock who at this moment convulses and gasps, pain riddling his features.

Sherlock is high and not having a good time of it. Carefully, Victor slips out of his jacket and unzips his hoodie, wrapping the latter around Sherlock’s shivering frame. His boyfriend huddles into the item, soaking up Victor’s body heat like a sponge and Victor can’t stand to see it, pulling Sherlock into an embarace. Sherlock presses into him, shivers continuing to rack his body. As good as it feels to have Sherlock back, something is tearing Victor’s heart out as he closes his arms around Sherlock.

He knows Sherlock’s done drugs before. Sherlock was nonchalant about it when it came up, saying that he used to take them while at university. Victor took Sherlock’s relaxed demeanor about it to mean that Sherlock was through with them. This is anything but.

A folded piece of paper next to Sherlock catches Victor’s eye for it’s neat and clean and isn’t crumples and streaked with dirt like the other debris and rubbish littering the floor. He pulls it apart with one hand, revealing something that looks like a hastily scribbled list.

What’s on it sounds chemical and the numbers too don’t tell him anything, but his mind makes vague connections to drugs with these chemical names and it’s without a doubt Sherlock’s handwriting, even if it’s a bit shaky. Christ, is this a list of what he’s on? The length alone sends terror into Victor’s heart.

What if Sherlock isn’t having a bad trip? What if he’s overdosed?

“Shit,” Victor curses and gently pushes Sherlock back a little to get another look at him. “We need to get you to a hospital.”

Sherlock suddenly catches Victor’s wrist in an iron grip just when he’s about to reach into his pocket to call 112.

“No,” Sherlock rasps, more awareness seeping into his face.

“Are you insane?” Victor hisses in a spike of anger. “Am I supposed to watch you die?”

“Not. Dying.” Sherlock doubles over again, dry heaving. He sinks back against Victor’s chest. “Mycroft.”

“What about him?”

Victor suppresses the onset of anger he senses coming on. For disappearing. For ignoring Victor. For getting high. For being unreasonable. For making Victor more afraid than he’s ever been.

“He can’t know,” Sherlock answers through clenched teeth.

“He will know if you die,” Victor snaps back, but pushes his fingers through the damp locks on Sherlock’s head to calm him down anyway.

“Won’t,” Sherlock says. “Wait. Please.”

Now all of a sudden Sherlock knows how to say please. Victor is torn. He doesn’t know anything substantial about addiction. He has no idea if Sherlock can realistically tell whether he’s in danger or not. And why is he so adamant that his brother can’t know? Mycroft Holmes may stick his nose into Sherlock’s life far more than he ought to, but even Victor thinks that taking an interest when your little brother lands in hospital with an overdose is hardly unjustified.

“Are you sure?” Victor asks, trying to keep all anger and fear from his voice. He’s surprised he manages.

Sherlock nods against his chest and Victor closes his eyes, taking a deep breath.

“Fine,” he says, barely loud enough for Sherlock to hear. “But if I think you’re getting worse I’m calling an ambulance.”

The idea is shit, but Victor is out of his depth. He slides into a sitting position against the wall, more comfortable than the crouch he’s been in. Sherlock scoots with him, unwilling to let go of the warmth Victor provides. The cold from the concrete floor seeps through the bottom of Victor’s jeans and his toes have long since frozen solid. He can’t even imagine how cold Sherlock has to feel having been here for some time. Once Sherlock can walk under his own steam, Victor will bring him to his place and ride this out with him.

He prays it’s only a glitch in Sherlock’s system, that this isn’t the beginning of Sherlock’s sobriety unravelling because Victor isn’t sure he’s equipped to deal with that. Two of his friends from university died from an overdose – not even close friends, but Victor found it hard to stomach at the time.

“I’m going to kick your arse when we get home, you absolute prick,” Victor mutters with a heavy tone.

He wraps his arms tighter around Sherlock nonetheless.