Archive of Our Own ^beta

Paris, 2001

Well, that was chilling, Victor thinks as he snaps on a fresh pair of latex gloves.

Most people who've made his acquaintance know Victor to be a friendly bloke (some say disgustingly so). The word charming has even been used on more than one occasion. Yet even he had struggled to find an icebreaker with Sherlock's brother.

Now, charming the pants off of that one was the furthest thing from Victor's mind anyway (not his type, even if he weren't heading toward a sort-of relationship with Sherlock), but an acknowledgement beyond a brief once-over would have been nice. As would, perhaps a handshake warmer than the one that had frozen Victor through, despite the sweltering heat outside.

And the guy was overdressed to boot – complete with a blimmin' coat! Sweat had rolled off Victor's chest just looking at him. Okay, so perhaps the broken AC and the dinosaur of a computer that apparently aspires to become a radiator when it grows up don't exactly promote a cool working environment; but even if the temperature outdoors were half of what they had in the studio, Victor would think twice about wearing a coat. Especially if he were already sporting a jacket and trousers. In late-summer Paris. Victor can't imagine a more stifling place on earth. (And he's had his fair share of OE before taking on this job.) The guy must have arctic water flowing through his veins to stand it; would explain his frigid aura.

If he was like this while growing up, it's no wonder Sherlock's never mentioned him. Victor wouldn't want to remember his sisters, either, if they treated him like a misbehaving child every waking second.

But then again, Victor's going on a first impression. And while his intuition is usually spot-on, he's received enough hostility from people judging him on his own appearance to know better than to make the same mistake.

Sherlock himself is a prime example: bloody gorgeous, but a sullen, superior kid with an attitude problem – bossy from the first, confrontational, ready to show off his powers of observation at the slightest opportunity. Once that no longer puts you off, you can see his weird way of analysing everyone and everything as a means of communication, of connecting, inept though it may be.

It makes more sense, though, now that he's seen his brother and the way Mycroft never reacted to any of Sherlock's obvious taunts. Kissing him right in front of the man must have been just that, a taunt. Sherlock doesn't do public displays of affection (he'd probably spear Victor if he but mentioned the word – he's still under the impression that he doesn't really care about Victor, the bloody git), so it confused him, that kiss. But Sherlock loves to get under people's skins, to annoy them until they sod off. Why else would he want to introduce his boyfriend (if that's what Victor is) to a family member he'd be happier to do without? And when he says 'introduce,' Victor means presenting him as a fait accompli and expecting said family member to deal with it. Mycroft looked rather stiff and conservative, but not close-minded; neither quite the kind to condemn fags to hell nor one to approve of their existence. And yet, he didn't so much give a sniff at Sherlock fondling another bloke in front of him. (If Victor had to guess, he'd say it's because the guy isn't the most straight-laced either.)

Rather than disapproving of their relationship, he seemed to disapprove of the whole package: Victor, his looks, and probably his infernal influence on Sherlock, seducing him to the dark side, i.e. body mods. Apart from glowering at Sherlock for a bit, Victor couldn't even begin to imagine what the man came here for – certainly not an appointment.

For the record, it was Sherlock who had strutted in demanding the mods in the first place. If this were his shop, Victor might have sent him right back on his way for behaving like an arrogant twat, demanding the shop's master artist. So what if Victor's a "mere" apprentice? His two years of practical experience should have given him a fair clue what he was on about and he didn't need some entitled rookie telling him his skills weren't wanted.

But, since he was a paying customer and old enough, neither Victor nor his boss had any reason to throw him out. They'd seen worse. And in the end, Sherlock swallowed his arrogance in the face of having to choose between waiting eight months for the master to have an opening or settling for the apprentice. Impatience won out, of course. And Victor hasn't once heard Sherlock complain about his work.

"Bon Dieu de merde!," the maréchal curses in the other room, just loud enough for him to hear it over the whirring of his tattoo gun. Victor, like the good soldier he's trained to be, interprets it for what it is – a call to attention, not a slip of the needle – and excuses himself again. (His client eyes him dubiously already, but says nothing. Probably glad for the break.)

As he enters the maréchal's work room, a pleasant shiver runs down Victor's back: it's a lot cooler in here. Victor's glad he's been called: he's run out of excuses to sneak in here, the only room with an electric fan.

"Your wish?" Victor asks in heavily accented French.

Even after four years in France, he can't get his tongue around the consonants. Especially the 'r' that sounds like he has laryngitis (which Sherlock calls a uvular fricative or something equally exotic). Sherlock, on the other hand, seems to be a natural, speaking fluently since the day he arrived. Probably a testimony to his posh education. (Or to the workout his marvellous tongue receives... by which he means talking, of course. Sherlock talks a lot when he enlightens others about his findings. Victor is certainly not thinking of any other kind of workout for his tongue.)

His boss lifts her eyes from her work, turns her impassive doll's face towards him. Victor suppresses another shudder – that mechanical movement of hers never fails to creep him out: it's like a scene from a horror movie. Victor expects to be gutted every time she does it. She could be Chucky's bride or something. (It's a pity jokes like this are lost on Sherlock. The tosser can name every major painter, composer and scientist from the Renaissance until now in chronological order by birthdate, date of death or relevance of their contribution to the arts or humanities in general, and Victor still needs to educate him on the finer points of pop culture.)

"Where's that rotten apprentice of ours?" she asks, in a level tone. He's never once heard her raise her voice, although she likes to spit out invectives like FAMAS rounds. Must be a cultural thing.

Still, she's hot stuff (if a bit heavy on the makeup), despite her foul mouth, and knows it, too: candy floss hair done up in a twist, revealing a finely inked crocus flowering up one side of her swan neck, a septum and angel bites above her plum-coloured pouty lips, not to mention the wide shirts she cuts into to allow a nearly unobstructed view down her cleavage. Which, he has to admit, was the first thing he noticed when he met her.

I'm sorry if it looks like I'm ogling your breasts, he said, unable to keep his focus on her face, but that's some amazing chest piece you got there.

And it was: the All-Seeing Eye mounted in an ornamental setting, with swan's wings extending on either side, pinions in soft shades of grey, no outlines. A choker dangled from them, its jewels indicated by red dots and teardrop shapes. The same red was used on the stylised rays above the eye. Exotic, but even then there was something familiar about it.

She was cool about his gall, saying Ogle away. My husband's gonna like hearing about it.

Victor's eyes shot up then. And around, expecting the husband in question to round the corner any second.

He's the artist, she continued, with a smile in her voice but none on her lips. And he's very proud of it.

There had been something familiar not only about her face, but about her tattoos, too, but it took two years and one Sherlock Holmes to solve the riddle for him. Victor's still not quite come to terms with the fact that his boss used to be a cover girl for Tattoo life and other magazines. (If it counts, her hair was auburn then, but she had already turned it platinum by the time they met face to face. Rather awkward to think he might have had a wank over her photographs.)

Right. Not what he should be thinking about during work hours. Especially not since he's got Sherlock to have a wank with now. The transition from shagging each other regularly, no strings attached, to shagging each other exclusively happened rather fast and it was taking Victor's brain some time to catch up with the reality of it. Good thing that Sherlock can't actually read his mind – although he sometimes comes eerily close to it. The boy gets jealous quicker than he has a right to. (And calls himself rational, too, the prick. It's not Victor's fault that whatever comes out of his mouth can be considered flirtation; he's not actually conscious of flirting when it means nothing.) But Sherlock's as new to this relationship business as Victor is and it's rather cute that Sherlock wants Victor to himself, so Victor's not too put out by it.

But okay... not the point and still not what he should be thinking about. The honeymoon phase should be over by now. (Victor was completely out of it the first time he hooked up with Sherlock, mooning over the git like a besotted 15-year-old. Took him two days to return to normal. But Sherlock can be a randy little bastard, more enthusiastic than you would give him credit for. He swallowed Victor down like it was nothing, and Victor nearly blew his load down his throat before they even got started. What guy wouldn't fall for that?)

Victor wills himself to concentrate on the hannya mask on the client's back (that face might be Sherlock's if he knew what was on Victor's mind), its brows already glistening with colour. Nice needlework indeed.

"Grab a chair, why don't you?" the maréchal says, reprimanding him for zoning out. She waves a paper cup at him. "I need some fresh water. And if you see that little friend of yours, tell him he ought to get his skinny arse in here if he wants to keep the job."

"Sure, right away," Victor says and immediately bites his tongue. It irks him sometimes how subservient he sounds in her presence, bowing and scraping as if his life depends on it. Victor calls it being polite, but Sherlock takes the piss out of him for it as much as she does – the first thing that's made him display some sense of humour.

In the end, he does it all for the craft. Since he started piercing for her, they've grown quite comfortable around each other, enough so that teasing won't be filed as sexual harassment. But, there's a time and place for everything. Talking back at his boss in front of a client? Not such a good idea. Tattooing means the world to him and he won't be caught screwing it up, at least not before he has his own licence.

Sherlock's not in the front. His brother must have gone then. Victor thought he heard the chimes a minute or two ago.

He checks in the break area, where a salad left sitting on the counter reminds him to buy food for Mikey. He's been mixing fish food with fruit and veg for the past two weeks, because he's perpetually broke (he should probably consider modelling on the side, like the maréchal, to pay his bills – which might actually work if he were a pretty girl with nice tits tats). He wants to give her real food every once in a while, though. The poor girl shouldn't have to suffer just because his pay is crap.

Sherlock's not here either. Or smoking out back.

So unless he's hogging the bog or gone out – which would be a daring, if not spectacularly stupid thing to do without letting the maréchal know – he should be in the cupboard. Whatever for. Victor doubts Sherlock's brother could have bodily dragged him outside; he didn't look the type to overwhelm anyone (although Victor doesn't know what the guy's umbrella can do – might be weaponised; must be some reason for carrying it around in this weather. Unless Brits expect it to piss down wherever they go). And Sherlock, as Victor once found out most painfully during a friendly sparring session, has a black belt in Judo. (Victor walked off with barely any bruises, but boy, was he sore.) Dragging him somewhere without first tranquillising him would prove difficult.

Victor's hand closes around the handle just as the door is ripped open. Sherlock freezes as he sees him.

"Whoa, easy," Victor says out of reflex.

Sherlock looks flushed and bewildered, ready to slam the door in his face again. Apparently he didn't think he'd run into anyone on his way out. Victor leans his weight against the handle, just in case. A broken nose is not his idea of a good time.

"Something the matter?" he asks, stupidly. Of course there's something the matter. He half-expects Sherlock to call him out on that.

His frown suggests he’d like to, that he wishes he could pull the door off the hinges and ram it into Victor's face. Instead, he brushes past him with a simple "No." But Victor catches him by the shoulder and turns him on his heels.

"Does this have anything to do with your brother?"

This is turning out to be their first serious conversation, he realises. (Talking about ambitions doesn't count.) Sherlock's not looking at him. Are they ready to take it to the next level yet? Well, Victor guesses they'll just have to find out.

He tilts Sherlock's chin toward him and says, "Listen, I'm not trying to pry or anything." Although it tickles him, because, dear God, whatever rattles Sherlock must be profound. "But I hope you know you can talk to me about whatever's bugging you."

Okay, so he's said it. He's offered Sherlock commitment. This should be a given, he knows, but for some reason saying it out loud, no matter how innocent it sounds, makes it, makes them feel alarmingly real. Now would be a bad time to panic, right?

But Sherlock's not listening. Going by his line of sight, he's been watching Victor's lips move, waiting for his opportunity. Victor hates it when the kid's singularly focussed; it gets his blood boiling. So when Sherlock's lips close in on his own, who is Victor to push him away? Victor loves making out with Sherlock, after all; his piercings offer so many creative ways to enjoy that mouth. (He's not gonna think about how they spice up the sex now; he's just not.)

Victor knows this is a bad idea, but before he can form a coherent objection, Sherlock shoves his back against the wall. His dreads cushion the impact, but it still knocks the breath from his lungs. Sherlock gives him no chance to breathe. He's ravenous, digging into Victor with his mouth as well as his hands, clawing up under his shirt, over his naked back, and Victor wants to do the same, wants to feel the skin on Sherlock's arm, on the back of his neck, but can't, because he's still wearing gloves.

Which, in this case, is actually a good thing: it reminds him of what's important here. But Sherlock is at his most distracting, pressing his thigh up against Victor's crotch, and he gives in for another few moments to the rush of getting away with snogging during work hours.

They end up with Sherlock's back against the doorpost of the maréchal's (thankfully empty) bureau and his hands on Victor's arse. Victor has to use both of his to tear him off. Worse than suction cups sometimes. The wanker actually clamped down on his tongue.

"Ow, fuck, hang on," Victor says once he's free, working out the sting in his tongue, all the while glowering at the prick half-heartedly. "If you don't wanna talk, fine, I get it. Just don't go shutting me up like that, yeah?"

"I'm not," Sherlock says, all fake innocence. "Diversion tactics are so plebeian."

"Oh yeah? And what would you call this then?"

"Kissing?" Sherlock grins, leaning in. "See if I do it again."

"Sherlock," Victor warns. "I don't care about your fancy semantics – we're at work!"

"So? We haven't done anything inappropriate yet."

"Feels like we're getting there."

"Fine," Sherlock says, suddenly in a strop. He shoves at Victor's shoulders. "You can let me go then if you don't want me anymore."

"Hey, what's up with you? I never said that."

"Once you're done squabbling, would you mind if I join in?"

They both turn to find the maréchal leaning against the wall with arms crossed. Great, Victor thinks, give a man ideas. Sherlock, by the looks of it, is getting the same vibe off of her. Only, he's not as enthusiastic about it: his face has 'ew, gross' painted all over it, and his fists bunch in Victor's t-shirt possessively. Until he catches Victor entertaining the notion. Oh God, he actually thinks she's serious, doesn't he?

The maréchal pads closer, swaying hips and all. "Now," she coos, stopping so close her breasts nearly brush their arms. Victor, of course, can't help a quick peek at her chestpiece. "If you would either fetch me some water, or let me through so I can get it myself..."

When Victor looks up again, Sherlock's expression has changed to one of indignation. He wants to tell him it's a joke, come on, laugh about it, but the git jabs the heel of his palm into Victor's solar plexus and extricates himself. There was some real force behind it, too.

"Jesus," Victor curses, nearly doubling over. He calls after Sherlock, but he's already stormed out of the back door. "Fuck."

His boss is still standing there, a foot to the side to avoid being knocked over by Sherlock, but Victor thinks he can feel the displeasure rolling off of her despite her very straight face.

"That, was embarrassing," he says and strips off his gloves, a gesture that, curiously, only amplifies his awkwardness.

"I'm disappointed in you, Victor." She sighs, a tad too dramatically. "I thought you had more integrity than to drop your pants in my shop."

"Sorry you had to witness that." Victor crosses to the small bottle cooler where she keeps the distilled water and takes one out, holding it to her as a peace offering.

"Keep your sorries. They can't buy me anything."

She accepts the bottle anyway and moves past him to the tap. A compulsion of hers: scrubbing her hands every time she sees one (and complaining about her nail polish never lasting a day).

"I don't care about your relationship troubles. You surprised me, that's all." She turns around, towelling her fingers dry. "I'll forgive you if I receive no complaints from Gérard."

"Oh, crap."

Victor drops his gloves into the bin and dashes back to his client. He nearly forgot all about him. Jesus, what is wrong with him? He doesn't lose focus like this, normally.

Back in his room, he apologises and pretends that he had some urgent business matters to attend to. (Which, in a way, he did. Sherlock can be serious business if he sets his mind to it.)

Shit, that was really unprofessional. He berates himself for some time, taking extra care with the lion's shading. Meanwhile, he also formulates a plan to make it up to Sherlock. This little misunderstanding isn't worth getting his bollocks in a knot over. At all. Jesus. Should he say he's sorry? Nah, that would look like he's admitting a fault. And Victor didn't do anything. (Though that's probably it. Sherlock was a tad too forward given where they are. Whatever happened to their agreement?) No matter. Victor's just gonna have to make him see reason. Sherlock likes his logic. He should be able to figure this out without Victor having to point it out for him.

But, Victor really wants to make it right with Sherlock. He's never seen him so distraught before. Did someone die? Sherlock is naturally close-mouthed unless he can brag about his intellect; not much chance of extracting that secret without drugging him first. And Victor is yet above that. He values privacy and will let this one go if that's what Sherlock needs. Still, he's going to offer. They could meet up later, finish what they started, whether that meant sex or talking, or just do whatever it is he needs to wind down. They could do that, Sherlock granting.

Once Victor has wrapped his client's shoulder with Gladwrap, they move to the front to cash up. Sherlock's scribbling at the counter, chin on hand, the very picture of aristocratic ennui, and doesn't deign to glance up. He has taken to pencilling his own suggestions for a client's designs. That is, if they're challenging enough. Or if he knows what they're on about. Sherlock has no associations with names like Bane, Scarecrow or the Joker save for the literal.

Victor waits for the door to close behind Gérard, before he asks, "Are you done being cross with me?"

Sherlock says nothing, continues doodling bees on a sketchpad and chewing his gum. Such consideration. Victor feels almost touched. (It's a near thing.) He's not too fond of Sherlock tasting like an ashtray.

"Do you perhaps want to go over what happened before?" Victor rubs the lower edge of his breastbone. It's still smarting a little.

"Not particularly," Sherlock drawls, still avoiding eye contact, still pushing his pencil across the paper. Audibly.

"Okay, I'm going to do it all the same, and it's your choice if you want to listen or not." Victor crouches down next to Sherlock and drums his fingers on his knees. "But before I start, mind telling me the precise manner of bug that crawled up your arse? I'd like to address that first, if I can."

"I'm not in the habit of letting insects near any of my orifices. You can check."

"Let's shelve that for later. I'd rather not get caught in another awkward situation like before. Which is actually what I wanted to talk about—"

"I'm fine, Victor. Leave it."

"Are you sure? 'Cause someone getting mighty pissed for no reason doesn't strike me as fine."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Why not?"

"I just don't. Which you said was fine, if I may remind you." Sherlock slumps back into his chair, wipes a hand on his jeans. "It's got nothing to do with you either way, if that eases your apparent need to relentlessly bother me about it."

Victor blinks. "That's... not exactly what I was on about."

He takes Sherlock's hand in his, turns it palm up, studies the lines with his fingers. It gives him a moment to prepare himself. One look around assures him the boss is out of sight. Thankfully, her English is worse than Victor's abysmal French, so their private conversations are in no danger of being overheard, but it never hurts to check.

"I thought you were mad at me for turning you down earlier," he finally says.

Sherlock frowns down at him, but his hand stays where it is. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, I get it. You're upset because you're not used to anyone being able to resist your charms. Believe me, I was as surprised as you are, but you know I've got to protect my virtue."

Sherlock can't help it, he's still giving him the evil eye, but a small smile threatens to break his stony expression. "A bit late for that."

"Excuse me?" Victor asks, mock-affronted. Sherlock is not the only one who can play that card. "Mind elaborating?"

"Please. If there was so much as an ounce of it left in you, I'm positive I would have found it by now."

Victor stops stroking Sherlock's little finger and looks up. "That is a very hurtful thing you're saying, Sherlock. Has no one ever told you about the effects your words can have on other people? Not to mention your actions. Hitting me wasn't a very companionable gesture, you know?"

Sherlock sucks in the ball of his vertical labret, the way he does when he's considering something. Does Victor spot embarrassment? "I admit that might have been a tad overboard."

"Say that again. There must be something wrong with my ears. Did I really just hear you admitting a mistake?"

"Shut up," Sherlock says with more discomfort than conviction, and cuffs Victor's shoulder with his free hand.

Victor can't remember the last time he got weak-kneed over a man, or if he ever had, but Sherlock is a-fucking-dorable and this is getting ridiculous.

"So we're good then?" he asks, just to be sure. "You're still with me on the whole 'laying low at work' deal?"

"If you'd stop pestering me about it."

"Done," Victor complies.

Sherlock's face remains stoic, his gaze too unwavering, and Victor gets the feeling he's far from done. He waits another moment for Sherlock to continue, but when he merely continues to stare, Victor nudges his knee.

"And...? Come on, spit it out."

"And nothing."

Victor squints his eyes at Sherlock. Like hell he's gonna believe all the issues are dealt with. Sherlock is reticent at the best of times, and Victor supposes he grooms his grudges until they flower into something deformed and ugly – wholly out of proportion and beside the point and yet a great source of inspiration for, say, penning death threats. (Which he can almost imagine Sherlock writing to his brother.)

"Do I really have to be this blunt?" he muses aloud, but laying his cards on the table is safer than waking up one day with a knife in the back. Or a mustachio tattooed on his face. "Okay, here's the thing..." Victor does another quick sweep of their surroundings. Their boss may not be able to follow the conversation, but she'll still understand her own name, so best not take chances. "I'm not interested in Justine. In case you're worried I might dump you and skip off with her into the sunset. So yes, I like Asian women – who doesn't? And her being a half would definitely be a plus, but she's our boss, for one thing. And married, for Christ's sake. Way off limits. Have you seen her husband? A bear of a man. You do not want to mess with that. And besides," he adds in a conspiratorial whisper, "you're way hotter anyhow."

The decided lack of amusement in Sherlock's face doesn't let up, but at least he seems to relax a little. "Apology accepted," he says finally.

"None given, you twat."

Sherlock tries to fight the small smile tugging at his lips, but doesn't succeed. "Name-calling isn't going to restore you in my good graces."

Victor's own lips quirk. "Not even creative ones?" he murmurs into Sherlock's ear.

Sherlock makes a show of deliberating for a moment. "You'd have to surprise me."

"Then, what do you say we go back to my place after work and I do just that." Victor closes his lips around Sherlock's tunnel and sucks. (He's found early on that Sherlock's ears are his weak spots, and Victor's not above exploiting that.) Sherlock twitches deliciously. "Unless you have other plans?"

"Hmm..." he hums and fingers one of Victor's dreads. "I have two pieces of pig-skin awaiting my attention. These experiments need monitoring."

"You don't say. What about our own experiment? You know, the one involving variable pressure of teeth on your skin and the resulting discolouration thereof." He nips at Sherlock's neck as a gentle reminder. "I'll need my test subject to continue."

"That experiment is certainly not without merit. I guess mine will keep another day."

"Great." Victor grins and steals another kiss from Sherlock. "Let me just clean up."

"I'll finish up the order for the supplies in the meantime." When Victor doesn't move immediately, Sherlock snorts and pokes him with his pencil. "Go away. You have five minutes until I change my mind."

Victor is feeling chipper again; he's tingling with anticipation.

That doesn't keep him from being startled by Justine's presence in his work room, though. She's come looking for the watercolour reference book he pinched from her shelf for this appointment. His little talk with Sherlock now has left him in a totally different sphere. Sherlock has that effect; one of the many reasons Victor insisted they keep their relationship out of the shop. Luckily, his work day is over and he doesn't have to deal with another client. But he still has to deal with his boss.

"Listen, about earlier..." he starts, not knowing how to address this. He'd rather not, would rather forget the whole thing, but he wants her to know he's got this, and that it's not going to happen again.

"It's okay, Victor. I know you're serious about this job. I'm not going to fire you yet."

He stops throwing away the used ink caps to stare at her warily. "Yet," he states,

"I'm not giving you a free pass to keep doing that."

Victor huffs in amusement and resumes cleaning. "Too bad, I was hoping you would."

She watches him put back the ink bottles for a while. She's not scrutinising, but he feels as if he's on probation; as if every movement counts towards his vindication.

"You remember the girl who used to come here with her own tattoo ideas sketched out, who insisted to have you do them?"

"Aw, you don't mean the one who had some sort of crush on me?" The girl had some serious talent, but that was creepy shit all right.

"That's the one."

"What about her?"

Justine adds a meaningful silence, and Victor's starting to get apprehensive. Silences are foreboding. "She asked to be apprenticed here before Sherlock showed up."

Victor tenses. Now, that would have been awkward. He tries to sound neutral though. "And? You obviously didn't hire her."

"I supposed she wanted to work here to get closer to you. And while I obviously couldn't care less about your discomfort around her, I didn't accept her because I can't use the drama." Another pause, while she studies her nails. "With Sherlock, I thought we'd be on the safe side, despite the way he got on my case."

"Yeah," he snorts, wiping down the worktop. "Who would have expected him to have a temper like that?"

"A bit of advice from a friend: you might want to think twice about getting serious with that one."

With that, she leaves a dumbfounded Victor behind. He stares after her, wondering if she overheard them after all. Shit, he thinks, and balls up the paper towel in his fist. She's not one to dish out relationship advice whenever she sees the opportunity, she's more close-mouthed than that. Any personal affairs should stay out; this is a tattoo parlour, not a self-help group, that's her motto.

But what a can she's opened there. Could have used that counsel a few weeks earlier. Where was she then? Now, it might be too late to back out. Not like he'd want to. Oh God, he doesn't want to. He wants to make it work with Sherlock. He actually does. What a scary thought. He knows this isn't going to be easy, and will certainly give him a major case of headaches every once in a while, but he actually wants to do it.

Oh shit, all right. He's just gonna come out and admit it: there's real feeling involved. He wonders what Sherlock is going to think of that.

Maybe Victor shouldn't spring it on him right away.