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Even through his trembling, exhausted fingers, Yuujin could feel the warmth drain from the fragile skin of the woman beneath him.
And suddenly it was Ayame there, laid out at his knees, body contorted in the pain she had been in but now relaxed in that awkward position. By the grace of something holy above (not that Yuujin could believe in such a thing at this time), her eyes were already shut, hardly relaxed from the way her eyelids had been squeezed so tightly only moments before. Surely, this was nature looking out for Yuujin; for he couldn’t look into those eyes again, knowing that he had failed her, failed her so horribly. He never wanted to again.
But if he looked down at the bundle in his arms, the noisy, violent bundle— normally, he would see this as something so wonderful, as the baby had been born strong, but for now it felt like a cry that embodied the grief that his currently numbed heart approached quickly— there he would see those same eyes, surely. He would have to face them, accusing, livid, surely.
Surely…
But, no, that was long ago; that was not now. The woman that had slipped away from life before him was not his wife, the child in his arms not his child. Yuujin breathed in, hoping to stabilize himself in the current reality, but he was suddenly less immune to the smells that clouded the air around him— oh, it was so stuffy in this place, to muffle cries of both mother and child. He ought to clean himself up; he ought to clean the child off more thoroughly, and let it breathe fresh air, clean its lungs…
His legs wouldn’t move, so paralyzed by the crowding of thoughts. The lady Baskerville couldn’t be let to lay dead in a place such as this, no matter how much dishonor she had believed herself to have brought. But Yuujin had entered this profession for a love of the living, and facing this corpse was harder than others had been lately— similar to the very first one he had ever faced. Another person failed. Why had he come here at all? Why had Genshin trusted him so? Why was he so immature?
The baby cried sharply in his ears. He looked down.
Could those be Ayame’s eyes…?
They weren’t really Ayame’s eyes, of course; the child had no relation to their family. The eyes were of different shape and color, the face they laid within so clearly different. But something about the look that flickered in this child’s eyes struck Yuujin deeply. Of innocence, of affection. Not what he could have expected to see after all this time, or what anyone might expect from a wailing newborn. It was the way that Ayame had looked upon him, once, when she had boldly come to him with a confession of love.
She loved him, she had said. She felt proud of him, safe by his side. She had wanted for his happiness. That was the Ayame that he had known sixteen years ago.
And here he was, he suddenly thought, six years spent in London, still questioning whether his work was worth it or not? Ayame wouldn’t have wanted this; she would have told him that he had done well. And this child was proof of this, she said. He’d done what he could.This sort of breakdown would never have happened in her presence. It should not happen in the child’s.
Yuujin took another breath, this one putting his pieces back together. The smell was hardly offensive, but it would be better to allow the child to get to a place where it could breathe clean air— ah yes, he still needed to check, he’d been so caught up in the slipping life of the mother. A girl, he discovered, somehow unsurprised. He cleaned her now, then properly wrapped her warmly. He would return to take care of the body; he needed to focus on the child. She needed to be brought away, her ties severed from her blood family— at least, for the time being. Of course, there was really only one place for Yuujin to go.
He set out— when had it gotten so dark?— holding the babe close against his chest. Warmth and comfort. All things said and done, the death that clung to the thick fog with unrelenting claws, it was warmth and comfort that he hoped she would remember first about this world. A carriage to Baker Street, with the girl nestled beneath his neck, so tightly enveloped that perhaps she might not even feel the bumps of the ride. He stroked her back, so tiny compared to his hands, as he set foot once more upon that familiar road and made his way up that doorstep. His fingers only hesitated a brief moment before pushing open that door.
Immediately, there was a clatter of footsteps that approached him from the second floor. He hadn’t even made it all the way up the stairs before he was met, characteristically energetic, by his beloved partner.
“My dear Mikotoba, you’re finally—” Holmes’ eyes fell from Yuujin’s face and rested upon the child, who was still bursting into occasional cries. “...ah.”
Yuujin’s lips turned into a small smile. His Holmes, how childish he could be! He was a thoroughly intelligent man, this much Yuujin would never want to deny, but sometimes still he could be caught off guard. And when one surprised the man who thought himself to have a grasp of the whole situation— or one who thought himself above caring about the finer details of life— there was a gate dropped from his defenses. The face that remained, tracing down from the arched eyebrows to the widened eyes to the softness of the jaw, was a look almost naive. No, Holmes had not expected this baby to appear here, and as the mechanisms of his talented brain were resetting to include this new information, the only thing left at the moment was him, as a human.
“What is this, Mikotoba?” he finally asked after a few moments of stalling.
“It’s a baby, Holmes,” Yuujin replied with a sigh— ah, how much exhaustion began to flood over him, now that he was home, safe. The world tilted slightly. Holmes’ hand flashed to grasp his arm. Without a word, the blond man took the baby into his own arm, then wrapped his free arm around Yuujin’s waist. “I won’t fall,” Yuujin assured, feeling warmth rise to his face at the touch; but Holmes said something about removing themselves from the stairwell before making such bold claims, to which he could only murmur in agreement and allow himself to be swept up to the drawing room settee.
He settled down into the cushions, which was a dangerous game to play with the fatigue that hung over him. Before succumbing to this, however, he owed his Holmes an explanation for this disruption of his peace.
And yet, when he looked upon Holmes, who stood opposite him with the child held up in his arms, he found that the man seemed to already be getting...acquainted, perhaps, with the girl. And when Holmes looked upon his partner, his eyes were still so soft. How rough did Yuujin seem to evoke such pity?
No, it was hardly right to pretend that the only times Holmes looked at him like this were when he looked a pitiful mess, as much as he was sure he did at this moment. This was a look Yuujin had grown used to, in occasional glances accompanied by wistful sighs, beneath drooping eyelids as if to be discreet. Glances that embarrassed Yuujin, disconcerting in a way that the image of those blue eyes followed him into his deepest sleep. How he wished he could meet them, but oh…
Six years, the two had lived together like this, and only slightly less had there been these deeply personal glances. Why, oh why, did Ayame's eyes always loom in the distance, always lurking just within sight behind Holmes?
…Ayame's eyes, again. No, no, those eyes that followed him around through the fog were not just right. The baby's eyes were more like Ayame's, he’d remembered: not those betrayed, judging, scorching ones.
How far had his mind's eye gone in conjuring such a gaze?It seemed he had allowed his mind to wander too long.
Yuujin leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. It was about time to explain. Smiling less honestly, he began, "I assume you may have guessed the child's...situation?"
"Of course," Holmes responded. He held the girl out at arm's length, as if to investigate her. "...what of the lady?"
"Didn't make it." His voice cracked, and even a throat clearing couldn't cover that up. "I will need to...return to her. But the baby will need food soon, too, and shelter, so…"
Holmes swallowed, looking between child and man. This was a situation unknowable to him; Yuujin's own nerves were touched in a way too personal to be felt, as Holmes could never know the feel of Ayame’s hand growing cold in his, or the horrendous pangs of guilt when he had seen his own daughter, and death was something surrounded by much emotion and convention that would be tricky for the detective to navigate. After their years together, he would not be entirely insensitive, but Yuujin felt he knew better than to expect him to approach this with grace.
"I will go after the lady, then," Holmes offered, much to his partner's surprise. He nodded deeply. "Oh, do not look at me with such a look; I am nothing if not capable of thinking on my feet. If you would tell me where she is, I will take care of the lady; and, I shall prepare something so that we can provide for the child." He brought the girl to Yuujin then, placing her into his lap with an awkward care. "You have always been the one best left with the people, and I do not think you ought to be moving about, doctor."
A small huff escaped Yuujin-- a laugh, not of humor, just of love. "I don't know, Holmes, you're not so bad with children yourself," he said, placing his finger in the baby's palm. She had stopped crying as much, breathing easier, reduced to seemingly drifting off with the occasional bubble. His voice grew fond and soft as he added, "Thank you."
“Of course, my dear friend.” Holmes was still leaning close, and there was a moment where he hung just over Yuujin’s head. Close enough that his breath could be felt in his hair— his mouth must have hovered so near to that sweat-slicked forehead. Would he do it? Would he finish the motion, dipping down further, melting lips into the exposed hairline?
He grasped Yuujin’s shoulder firmly, giving it a squeeze, and then rose away. It seemed he was gone in an instant, vanished to complete the things he had promised to do. Yuujin sank back down into the cushion, holding the child close again.
As he held her, his thoughts drifted home once again— in a different light, now. The babe in his arms now could have been his own daughter six years ago. He could have watched over her, late into the night like this; tired, but so enchanted by this brand new life. But he hadn’t. Even then, he’d been far too fixated on Ayame’s absence, and hadn’t been able to look his own daughter directly in the face.
Oh, what a fool he had been. Oh, what a fool he was ! His own gaze in the mirror was far more merciless than anyone else’s ever would; even his dead wife’s, the abandoned daughter’s, the more recently expired Lady Baskerville’s, his unfairly imprisoned friend’s, his lonely flatmate’s. He had escaped his homeland and found that the critical eye was not tied down there, yet refused to question it all.
And of course he should return there. His home and family were so precious to him.
But Holmes’ looks were intoxicating. Not just the gentle or dreamy looks Yuujin pretended not to see. The frenzied looks, the passionate ones, the hungry or bored or miffed— his eyes were so captivating, something of a familiar novelty each time they met Yuujin’s. He didn’t want to leave them. He didn’t want to be away from him . He was not separate from Yuujin’s sense of “family”, not in the slightest.
And if— if Ayame had wanted him to be happy, and Holmes wished the same, and his friends believed him to be a good enough man to save and he had saved the lives of dozens of people— couldn’t he afford to acknowledge his own feelings?
The baby cried— was his own daughter doing the same, so many miles away?— as she wanted milk. She searched the skin at Yuujin’s chest, to which he chuckled emptily. She, unfortunately, would have to wait a little longer. It would be a struggle to find a way to feed her at this time of night, and only his unfailing trust in Holmes fought the dread that blossomed in Yuujin’s chest. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder lightly. He could not fail this child, too; perhaps he might need to go and find a solution himself.
But his faith was hardly misplaced, for only a few moments later did the landlady arrive, eyes filled with sleep but movements bustling. She explained with great worry about how Mr. Holmes had dragged her from her slumber and requested her to help out with this situation, wherein he had disclosed that there was a newborn child, of all things, in their humble flat. It took little time at all for her to snatch up the child, cooing over her, bringing her to her own chest, and exclaiming how lucky it was that she had only just made sure she had some evaporated milk in her cupboards, made off with the child to feed her. Yuujin sat, stunned, then made a great effort to get to his feet and shuffle after her.
Some hours later, Yuujin was back on the settee, his only belly filled a bit forcefully, resisting the temptation to doze off. The child was much happier now, gurgling still, but with fewer cries. Her extremities had turned from blue to pink. Yes, she was a healthy child, Yuujin judged. One that would surely grow well.
Holmes returned, looking slightly miffed, but offering no explanation of what had gotten under his skin besides a deep sigh. “Well, dear fellow, the body has been removed and returned home. Died of grief, they’re saying.” He took off his hat and light coat, then walked behind Yuujin. Placing his hands on his partner’s shoulders and bending down to view the baby better, he clicked his tongue. “A tragedy, they say.”
“It is a tragedy, Holmes,” Yuujin sighed. “I do hope you gave them your condolences.”
“I did little more than guide the police there, my dear fellow.” He shook his head. “I do not think it would be quite wise for our names to be involved in that matter. Especially not with this ugly creature appearing in our care now.”
Yuujin moved to admonish his partner for those words, but then saw a curious warmth in his face; he, like Yuujin, was not immune to the charms of the very child he had insulted. So the doctor simply chuckled, and leaned his head back against the other man’s collar. In response, arms wrapped around him. Always eager for the chance of intimacy, even if Yuujin would never follow through.
“Do you have a name for this one ready?” Holmes mumbled into his neck.
A beat passed, then Yuujin nodded. “Iris,” he breathed.
Holmes snapped up from his position, unusually stiff in the way he held himself. “Iris,” he repeated, slowly, as if around a particularly sour lemon. He knew. Yuujin had told him of Ayame before, in periods of sadness, and had spoken at length about her. He hadn’t expected Holmes to remember this, though— at least, to remember the specific details of Ayame’s name was a surprise, given how little he seemed to enjoy Yuujin’s descriptions.
Yuujin knew that the man thought he was not over Ayame. He knew that he wanted him to be over her. And perhaps he wasn’t; she was an inextricable piece of his life and always would be, so perhaps he would never be finished with the restless nights of remembering her. And perhaps it was this weariness that made him think he had reached some ultimate conclusion in his life all in this stressful night. But…
“Iris,” he repeated, standing up and raising the little girl in question. He smiled at her gently as she whined at this. “And I believe she will do the name right.”
“...right,” Holmes repeated, clearly unsure of what this meant. He still sounded so bitter. “Well.” He held out his hands, grinning awkwardly as the young Iris was passed into his own arms. “You know you will not be able to bring her home, Mikotoba. Not without explanation.”
“I know. I...promise, in the morning, I’ll start trying to find a plan. I will find someone to take good care of her.” They both knew that Yuujin would not be able to stay long in London. Something terrible was afoot, and Lady Baskerville and little Iris were only a small part of the sum.
“Do not promise any such thing.”
Yuujin met his gaze. So cold— still alluring. “I’m...afraid I don’t understand what you’re saying by this.”
“I will be the one to take care of her.”
The bold claim filled the room, met only by silence and the crackles of the fireplace. Sherlock Holmes, famous detective— caring for a child. By the goodness of his heart; for the love of his companion. And oh, the things the great detective could do! He would be able to do it as well as any other single man— no, better than most, as he had learned of a love for the living, as well.
“I will take care of Iris, no matter what,” he repeated. The bitterness from before had broken, replaced by a great resolve. He kissed her head, almost clumsily. “Iris,” and the voice was so deeply warm, his heart somehow so changed in a matter of moments.
Yuujin couldn’t pretend to know the thoughts that had gone through his head in all this time, but he could nourish his spirit with nothing more than the way he had just spoken that word: Iris . He had chosen to change his life, just like that, all for his partner.
What an extraordinary man he had met and shared life with and loved. What a man.
Iris grew healthy and strong as expected, and had eaten away so much of her caretakers’ time. It had been— what— a month, though it felt like a day or maybe even a decade all at once, since she was born, and Yuujin was already having to leave. Genshin was gone, but this time, Yuujin could face that death with the determination to live up to the way that he had truly seen him. Genshin’s eyes, while appearing in his dreams, would never haunt him.
This felt like a small victory amongst a mess of a war, though, as Yuujin was rushed to pack up his things. He was to go to Dover that very night with Jigoku, and they would make their passage home from there. Holmes wasn’t even home at the time, off working a case. Would they even get the chance to say goodbye? Despite the storm of preparing for his trip, this was important.
His clothes were packed. Holmes wasn’t there.
Supper was had. Holmes wasn’t there.
Yuujin was so anxious to get to see his, to have to see his daughter again, and Iris got a farewell kiss on the cheek before being passed to the landlady. Holmes wasn’t there.
Jigoku was at his doorstep, they were off to the train station— they were on the train to the port. Holmes wasn’t there.
It was only at the port itself that the familiar wisps of blonde entered his sight. Yuujin’s heart rose immediately, but not any faster than Holmes flashed forward to meet him, grasping a hand in his.
“I was told of your dismissal and thought it best to come straight here,” Holmes breathed. “I thought one final goodbye would...Mikotoba?”
Yuujin, without a word, had begun leading him by the hand around a corner. There was hardly space for them to stand there, but no one else could see them. Holmes was stammering out of a barrage of questions as he grew aware of their proximity, then nodded.
“Ah, right, a private conversation— I promise, I will keep the child safe, as well as her identity—”
Yuujin gripped his lapels and pulled him down sharply into a kiss.
He could have done this so many times, for all these years. He wished he hadn’t stalled this long— oh, but who had time for regret, what with the way that Holmes’ lips softened against his and he dipped deeply against him with his whole weight. The boat was being boarded— whose tear was that against his cheek?— but so thoroughly intertwined as they were, they could not yet part from kiss after kiss, making up for so many that they had missed.
But Yuujin could not be too late. He had a companion to join, a daughter to reach, and perhaps this was a disgrace to the both of them. He pulled back just an inch. Then, guiding Holmes’ face with sure fingers, he brushed his lips against his eyelids.
“Holmes,” he said, stepping back into view of the public— their short affair was over, in a few minutes, in six years. “Thank you. For my life.”
Holmes stared at him, transfixed, lips still parted as they felt the ghost of what had been. Then he grinned.
“And I thank you for mine,” he said, and bowed dramatically. “In more ways than you might know.
“Till we meet again, my dear.”
“Till we meet again,” Yuujin repeated; and then he was gone.
yuzzu Tue 02 Nov 2021 01:34PM UTC
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