Fic: The Way We Were: Teen

[okapi1895.livejournal.com]

Title: The Way We Were
Rating: Teen
Length: 500
Notes: references to former Holmes/Victor Trevor
Summary: While swapping stories with Watson, Holmes reveals more about his relationship with Victor Trevor.
Author’s Notes: Whenever I think about November month’s prompt, I keep remembering a song by Barbara Streisand that used to play at the dentist. Here it is.


“…and I woke up next to a camel of the very same name!” I cried.

Holmes laughed, then fiddled with his pipe. “Watson, you poor dear.”

“I suppose everyone has an ignoble start.”

“Everyone? Dangerous to speculate before all the evidence is gathered.”

I stared at Holmes, quite certain I’d not drank enough port to misconstrue his words.

He was studying one of the mountains of paper that blighted the landscape of our rooms.

“You did not have an ignoble start, my dear man,” I said.

He shrugged.

A moment of silence, then curiosity won, and I probed further,

“Anything you’d like to recount?”

“I have recounted it, or rather you have, to the readers of The Strand. The Gloria Scott case.”

“I knew it!” I cried, slapping my thigh. “Victor Trevor!”

Holmes smiled.

“A bond of union. From the moment that we travelled up the lime-lined avenue leading up to his father’s place in Donnithorpe, we enjoyed ourselves, and each other.”

“Well, well,” I said, crossing my legs and toppling a tower of Holmes’s newspaper clippings, note-books, and old maps that had been erected near my armchair.

“Indeed. We went duck-shooting in the fens. The ducks might have died of shock, but they were spared our bullets.”

I snorted. “Holmes, in plain air! Brazen! Reckless!” Then I sighed. “Ah, youth. Just hunting?”

“No, we also did a good deal of fishing, resorting to extremes at the end of the day to quickly procure an appropriate number of fish so that no one would be the wiser.”

“Good Lord. In a boat, Holmes? Recklessness and balance. Cheers to you.” I raised my glass to him.

“In a boat, in the water, along the bank. The woods around the house were lovely, dark, and deep—a detail that escaped your narrative, I believe. Trevor listened, truly listened, as no one had ever listened to me before. It was intoxicating. I was wholly, thoroughly smitten and behaved like a peacock, spreading my feathers and strutting before him. There in the library, I would look up and catch him staring…”

Holmes’s expression, his voice, his whole manner became achingly wistful.

And yet, wrong, somehow.

“Holmes, are you lying?”

He smiled a rueful smile. “You’ve heard too many of these kinds of tales, Watson, and told too many yourself to be taken in by false ones. No, the last bit about the library was true, but the rest was,” he shrugged, “fantasy. The second night of my visit, Trevor and I had the shocking conversation with his father and Trevor Senior’s unease fed my own. I was too distracted, and nervous, to make an overture.”

“And Trevor never did?”

Holmes shook his head. “The way we weren’t. Ah, well, Watson.” He rose. “I believe I’ll retire to nurse my nostalgia—.”

“Holmes.”

He stopped.

“No. No matter how many stories you tell, or persuade me to tell, you are still going to clean up this mess!”

“But, Watson! The misty water-coloured memories!”

“Now, Holmes!”