Author Note:A Study in Copper is multi-chapter USUK story modeled moderately off of A Study in Scarlet by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. For those that don't know Sherlock Holmes canon verse, ASiS is the first story (book) in the 56 canon Sherlock Holmes stories and is the first meeting/case between Dr. Watson and Sherlock Holmes.

However, because my internet shyness dictates it, well, that and the fact that I can't post another multi-chapter fic up unless it is finished, this is not A Study in Copper, but a short story knitted together from scraps for Sweethearts Week at the USUK forum. As such, these are scenes that are modified, or stripped, or just didn't make it into A Study in Copper and have hints of A Study in Scarlet and BBC Sherlock's A Study in Pink (it's a multi-rendition AU). This short story deals with Alfred and Arthur getting to know each other as flat mates. Notes at the end.

Apologies if my writing style feels off. See any mistakes? Tell me. I'm afraid I've caught a nasty little cold and am writing a total of 30 pages by Thursday for school. I'm a bit cranky and dusty and teary-eyed and put this together in the last hour.

A Study in Copper: Snapshots of a Meeting

Alfred F. Jones had neither kith nor kin in England, and, therefore, was as free as air – or as free as a retired army pensioner could be after leaving a war torn landscape.

For the first few weeks during his stay at the Strand hotel, Alfred had considered between bouts of loneliness and misery whether it might be best for him to do as his brother Matthew and move to Canada. If Alfred had had more money, he would have considered it more seriously. But as alarming as his finances had become, Alfred was left with not even enough to afford a ticket to cross the Atlantic.

His options were certainly limited. Cheaper accommodations were definitely a necessity. But Alfred wasn't worried.

He'd always been a particularly lucky man.

.

Perhaps not lucky enough, though Alfred certainly thought the opposite when amid the London crowd he sighted in between pressed black suits and beards the clean-shaven face of his old acquaintance from his training time at Barts, Toris Lorinatis. He barely recognized Toris, but the sight of a friendly face in the wilderness of the metropolis made a soft warmth flush spread over Alfred's chest, well into his throat.

He hailed him with enthusiasm, practically running a block to pat his shoulder.

It surprised Alfred with what eagerness he clutched hands with Toris, who had never been a close friend of Alfred's, but now appeared equally delighted to see him.

Alfred had always been the impulsive kind—the lucky and impulsive kind. So he invited Toris to lunch, and they made their way to the Holborn for a quick meal.

"Whatever have you been doing with yourself, Alfred?" he asked in the naïve wonder that always tended to fog over Toris' kind eyes. They rattled through the streets, finding a shortcut through an alleyway. "You're awful thin, and quite tan."

"Ah, yes," Alfred replied sheepishly, sketching as clearly as possible the adventures he'd had while abroad as they walked. "It was a horrid time in the war, you know. Served mostly as a Doctor in Afghanistan, thankfully, but still had my fair share of the fight. Just recently returned, actually, and you've no idea how good it feels to see a friendly face."

Toris nodded, commiserating in the careful way in which he sewed his words together. The skill of a surgeon; Toris had always been a formidable surgeon. "Blimey, well, that's certainly a story, Alfred. I'm glad we've crossed paths again." He paused, "what are you up to now?"

"Looking for lodgings," Alfred answered as they reached their destination. They stepped into the waiting room, making a camp by the bar. "But I'm finding it difficult to find a comfortable room for a reasonable price."

"Oh, what poor luck we've had! I just recently let a spare room to a friend of mine from Poland looking to start a new life in London. But, perhaps not too unlucky."

"What do you mean, Toris?" Alfred felt his throat dry-up. He ordered a glass of bourbon, as he climbed a three-legged stool.

"You're the second man today that has mentioned a need for a flat mate, actually," Toris mused to himself, ordering only a glass of water for himself. "I am not well-acquainted with Arthur Kirkland myself, you see, as I just first shared words with him yesterday, but he seems like a nice young man. He works at the chemical laboratory at the hospital, and was just bemoaning this morning that he could not for the life of him get someone to go halves on some nice rooms he'd found in central London. I was quite surprised, you see. Arthur Kirkland didn't strike me as the type to need to share accommodations."

"Well, Toris, the cost of rent is now high enough that few men's purses could comfortably affront the cost of a flat in central London. But if you say he's a nice chap, and a chemist, and as eager to find someone to share the expense, then I am the very man for him! – I've always hated the idea of living alone, anyway, and a flat would be more comfortable than anything else I've seen recently."

"Oh, yes," Toris turned a shy pink, hiding his face in the shadows of the bar. "Yes, I'm quite aware of just how expensive living in this city has become. I just. See, Arthur Kirkland always seemed to me a wealthy man, or at least an heir of some sort. You'd notice it, too, if you just took one look at him."

"Many men lose their fortunes, leaving their heirs penniless."

"He's an Oxford man, too," Toris offered, almost secretly offended that Alfred would so easily dismiss his observation. Toris being Toris, however, simply came off as reflective.

Alfred seemed unwilling to bite the bait. He grinned.

"An Oxford man that studied chemistry?"

"I see your point," Toris chuckled, shoulders easing in comfortable companionship. "Yes, he's surprising in many ways. You can understand my constant shock, then?"

Alfred nodded, laughing. The glimmer in his eyes wet into color between the etched gray of sadness at the edges of his pupils. It was a revelation. In several months, Alfred had not felt himself laugh so freely.

"I think I'd like to meet him. I'd rather have a partner sharing close quarters with me than to spend more time alone in this city. It's been, well, it's been lonely without Mattie, to be honest, Toris."

Toris looked strangely at him over his water glass, lips turned. "I—I don't mind procuring a meeting between you, if that's what you'd like, Alfred. But, but you must not hold it against me if you do not get on with him."

"Is there something against him?" Alfred's face fell, almost instantly. Already he'd sketched in his mind a vision of a future brother and friend in the concrete island of London. Surely anything wrong with Arthur Kirkland would be the same insidious habits that haunted any and all men to some extent—a smoking habit, perhaps, or a penchant for strong liquor. "You'd just described a most formidable flat mate."

"Oh, he is! I mean, he should be!" Toris almost dropped his glass in his defense, "Was the nicest to me, and never made any trouble in my lab before we properly met, but, but I have heard from others in St. Mary's that, well, he's sometimes not so nice. And when the Detective Inspector drops by—"

"A Scotland Yader?"

"Oh, not as far as I know. He has a consultorship established with them from what I have heard, but I know little about what else he does with DI Bonnefoy. As far as I know, he is knowledgeable of all the things that would make him a prime medical student: anatomy, chemistry, medical classes. But some of his other studies seem slightly," he shrugged miserly, "eccentric, I suppose; not fit for medicine, at least."

"You have never asked him?" Alfred grabbed for a few peanuts, popping one into his mouth.

"No! Goodness, no! He seems a most formidable, lovely young man, and has a simple, communicative style about him. But he seems rather reserved, too." Toris leaned into the bar, desperate to melt into his seat. "I just would not want to jeopardize your confidence if things should not work out. I—I'm not always good with first impressions."

Alfred smiled, patting Toris' shoulder as he stood, and followed behind a waiter to a free table. "I should still like to meet him! I shall take full responsibility for the consequences, though, if that should put you at ease."

"Oh quite. He will be in the laboratory, surely," Toris returned, following behind his friend. "He should be, anyway. If you'd like, we can go after lunch. If you really feel that way, that is. I—I'm sure he'll be very happy to meet you."

.

Arthur Kirkland had what could only be described as cherubically young and handsome face with a tender baritone voice. Anyone that saw him could tell almost instantly by the way the roundness of his features were already giving way to the sharp edge of emerging high cheekbones and a strong, angled jaw that he would grow into a handsome beauty. But until age could strip away the warmth of Arthur's visage into cold marble, his young appearance and Oxford accent sparked immediate confidence in Alfred, who was more than surprised to hear that Arthur was only twenty-two.

Alfred wouldn't have given him more than nineteen. He certainly didn't seem as imperious as Toris had made him sound. If anything, Arthur Kirkland came off as talkative young man, brilliant in his ignoble discomfiture, which had hit him almost as soon as Alfred had entered the room.

Toris leaned uncomfortably on the wall behind him, watching as Arthur dissected Alfred into pieces of carefully deduced information—like falling leaves hitting the ground with soft thuds: Afghanistan; a Doctor, yes; a most talented surgeon; recently arrived; oh, yes, no family in the area? Not married, either; how wonderful, most wonderful. Oh, I do not mean that! That is insensitive of me. The words just kept flowing from Arthur's mouth at such an alarming speed that Toris was sure the lad couldn't help himself.

Alfred had always been an imposingly handsome figure. Surely the poor lad was intimidated. Arthur Kirkland, though, seemed well-aware of his problem—eager to bring his barricade of monologues to a close.

It was no less amusing to watch Arthur Kirkland – beautiful, young, and exuding the aroma of wealth – fumble through his words. There was something almost mechanically shy in the way Arthur Kirkland stressed his deductions, as if hiding behind them. He most certainly had not done that with Toris. In fact, he'd done little upon meeting Toris, other than peek into Toris' lab to ask him if he had any chloride he could borrow.

"That's, that's just amazing!" Alfred exclaimed in glee, almost bouncing in excitement as Arthur stood awkwardly, blinking in surprise. Maybe he was shocked that he'd finally managed to get himself to stop talking. "Isn't it, Toris? Doctor Alfred F. Jones. Put it there, chap."

"A—amazing? T—truly, you think that?" Arthur blinked, pleasantly surprised. He palmed for a towel behind him, grabbing one to clean his hand before clutching Alfred's hand tightly in his own. Toris leaned from his position, curious by the new acquaintance. "I beg your pardon for that most… that has never happened to me before, I'm afraid. I mean, that is to say, it has, but, I beg your pardon nonetheless. And now I am babbling. Goodness. I'm sorry about the towel. It is not a habit of mine, but I tend to dabble in poison, you see, and it would just be a most unfortunate accident if I took your hand and—"

Alfred chuckled, looking at Toris from over his shoulder. "Completely understand. As I said, Doctor Alfred F. Jones. As you so cleverly guessed—"

"Deduced," Arthur corrected before coughing into his arm. "Arthur Kirkland. Charmed; I assure you, quite charmed."

As Arthur and Alfred made their acquaintance, Toris wandered meekly around the lab, eyes scanning over the flasks lying unattended in the corner. He shifted, gulping. It was hard to miss the way Arthur Kirkland's green eyes were now dissecting him, perhaps with glee, or maybe just mirthful thanks. Toris couldn't be sure. He backtracked to the safety of his corner.

"We came here on business, though," Alfred grew serious, seeking out a stool to sit and rest his weary leg. Arthur nodded, waiting patiently. "My friend here tells me that you might have some diggings you're seeking to share. As soon as he mentioned it, I asked him to bring us together, for, well, you see, it is just as you… deduced…"

"Bring us together?" The choice of words seemed to amuse Arthur, who turned to his experiment with a delightful smile sliding over his red lips. He composed himself, licking his dry lips. "Mr. Lorinaitis is quite right. I do have my eye on a suite in Baker Street, which would suit us down to the ground, assuming you don't mind the smell of tobacco."

"Not particularly, no," Alfred wriggled his nose, "Though I don't indulge in it myself."

"Ah, a healthy choice, I suppose." Arthur waved at Alfred dismissively, picking at a test tube, "I hope you don't mind if we're direct about our worst habits?"

Alfred leaned into the edge of his chair, "Not one bit. I think it would be best if we got such formalities out of the way, in fact."

Arthur hummed, pacing the room with the test tube still in his hand. Toris watched as he pushed past him, and itched to comment on proper lab safety, though just as he opened his lips, green eyes fell on him—hard and bright, so emerald and yellow they reminded Toris of his own flat mate's cat. And, oh, how Toris feared that cat; it seemed to have an affinity for filing its nails, much likes its own surely. Except the cat had little decency of finding his typical filing post; it simply opted for Toris' shoes.

"Then, I will continue. As I mentioned earlier, I dabble in chemicals and poisons. I am known to generally have both lying about, and occasionally do experiments. Would that annoy you?"

"No," Alfred shook his head quickly. "I'm a Doctor. I spent my own college years dabbling in unexpected substances. I understand you're probably training—"

"It isn't training. My interests are private, but important to my line of work." Arthur shrugged, returning to his beakers, "I don't mean to be direct, but this is the part where – typically – the other person might interrupt and mention some of their own shortcomings."

"Ah, right! Well, I—I keep a bull pup."

"Oh!" Toris rejoined the conversation, eyes bright. "How old is the pup?"

Arthur's lips twitched as he turned from Toris. Alfred snorted lightly, trying to hide his own laughter. Blue eyes met green—and there was a sudden understanding. A bull pup. The idea seemed to please Arthur immensely. Almost involuntarily, he felt his mouth spitfire into conversation again.

"Let me see—my other short-comings. Oh, yes, I am known to get in the dumps at times and don't open my mouth for days on end." Arthur waved dismissively at Alfred's protests that as a Doctor he'd be able to help. "You need only leave me be for a few days and I should soon be right again. You must not confuse my moods for sulks."

"All the better for me, then. I will be happy to have silence. Perhaps this is a good time to mention that I object to rows because of my nerves…" Alfred sighed, looking away, almost ashamed. But Arthur's eyes seemed to encourage him kindly. Toris was almost surprised. "My nerves are quite shaken because…"

"The war, surely," Arthur nodded, cutting him off rather curtly. A light pink shaded his cheeks almost instantly. "Oh, blimey, my apologies, I don't, I'm not typically so direct. Or, I am, but not with such issues of emotional sensitivity."

"Best you know."

"Yes, but it was not my place—"

"I—I tend to get up at strange hours at times because of it. But I am otherwise free of vices. Would my odd sleeping patterns annoy you?"

Arthur pulled out from his pocket a cigarette box. "The dreams must really be something."

"More like nightmares, Mr. Kirkland. Would that annoy you?"

"Arthur, please," the young man blew at the fringe covering his forehead. He leaned his back against the edge of the counter behind him, and took a long drag from his cigarette. "If we're to be flat mates, we can drop the formalities now."

"You mean it?" Alfred jumped from his seat, completely forgetting his cane. He beamed at Toris, and then turned to an anxious Arthur, grabbing his hand in the most unpredictable bout of warm regard that Arthur had ever experienced. The young chemist stared at the older Doctor with nervous curiosity. "Oh, you won't regret this. We'll be a most formidable set, you and I. I can already tell! When can I see the rooms?"

Arthur smiled, taking Alfred's hand in his again. The Doctor's hand felt warm and heavy in his.

"Tomorrow, if you're free."

"Excellent! Most formidable! And these rooms, they are spacious?"

Toris simply wondered about the poor pup and of his future in a house full of chemicals and poisons.

"Oh, quite; they are at a discounted rate. The landlady owed me a small favor. Mind if I see your bull pup, Doctor Jones?" Arthur leaned closed to the doctor, giving him his most charming smile.

"Call me Alfred," Alfred smiled unevenly now, taking a nervous step back. His hand clutched his cane.

"May I see your revolver, Alfred?" A pale hand fell on the lapels of Alfred's coat, too friendly in its familiarity. "I presume you have it with you."

"Carry it all the time."

In the inside of his jacket pocket, Alfred palmed his short-barreled, high caliber revolver. Arthur's eyes flickered over the mild movement behind the cheap fabric, a hard thud dropping in the pit of his stomach with an emotion he couldn't quite recognize, but which made him feel ill, almost nauseous. It was a strange sort of heat that splayed over his face and neck and settled quite nicely in his chest. He rather liked it. Seldom did his body's intuition betray him.

However, if Doctor Jones' cerulean blue eyes didn't stop giving him that under-lashed stare, well, Arthur was probably going to enter another unexpected bout of deductive-regurgitation. Not that he didn't when Alfred pulled out the gun from his pocket and let it rest heavily on his palm. Arthur slowly ran his fingers over the trigger, nodding politely as Alfred informed him that with a good excuse, Arthur was more than welcome to use his revolver any time.

Arthur's eyes flickered over Alfred's face, unsure if the offer was a proposition or not.

.

Arthur decides that it couldn't have been love at first sight. That would be ridiculous. Arthur doesn't even believe such a thing is possible.

But it's something at first sight, and it has frightened Arthur ever since that day at the St. Mary's laboratory. Sometimes he still finds his tongue and brain fumbling together when those blue eyes fall on him. He recognizes the dip in his stomach and understands he's gotten himself immersed with something dangerous—so dangerous that it excites him all the more.

By the time Alfred moves in, Arthur finds himself constantly trying to decipher the other man. If they are to be flat mates, there must be a certain level of honesty between them, after all. Still, Arthur can't bring himself to confess his situation. It's not a particularly easy thing to breach, even in private.

He might be attracted by danger, but it's not as if he shares any penchant for spending some time in jail. Not that his brother Angus would ever allow it.

So, Arthur waits. He spends as little time in the flat as possible, focusing on his laboratory experiments and his cases. He keeps quiet, sometimes making sure to hide his huffing when he returns to his flat and finds Alfred entertaining a guest or two—because Alfred is the popular type with a handsome face and pretty smile and amicable disposition. There is a part of Arthur's mind that silently dissects Alfred's guests, always focusing on their sex. Not that it is any good. It is mostly couples that visit Alfred—dear, ignoble, kind Doctor Jones.

The cane by his foot adds a touch of charisma and compassion to his figure. And Arthur feels almost cheated, because when he'd deduced at St. Mary's that Alfred was alone, well, he'd assumed they would be alone. Arthur doesn't appreciate many people; never has.

"I need full liberty of the living room," Arthur simply tells Alfred one day on his way to the kitchen. He hopes that will avoid the incessant twitching that overtakes half his body when he returns to find Alfred laughing with someone else. He sits in front of Alfred, drinking tea. "For my job, you see. I am a consulting detective."

After that conversation, Arthur doesn't see any more visitors lounging on his divan.

It's pleasant, after that, to return from a long day at the lab to find Alfred peering around his books. Sometimes there's even a cup of tea waiting for him. It's beautiful in the domesticity of its aesthetics, and Arthur seldom drinks or eats what Alfred leaves out for him, too fearful that it might disappear and too happy to bask in its presence.

.

A part of Alfred will always blame himself. Arthur Kirkland was a fine flat mate, a man of habit like a clockwork automaton. Surely Arthur would have assumed Alfred was a man of habit, too, and having recently started a small part-time at the hospital, well, Alfred was never home so early.

Yes, he should have known.

But Alfred is still shocked by the way Arthur chooses to make his declaration known. It's a sobering sight when he walks into the flat and finds a man sprawled on Arthur's divan.

The detective is grinning that strange twisted little smile that encapsulates the cavalier nature of their encounter. And if the curve of Arthur's lips and the quiver of his hands don't make it obvious as he reaches out to touch the shadowed face of his companion, then certainly the way his companion has a lapful of Arthur Kirkland should be plenty a clue for Alfred, who immediately breathes out a quick apology before slamming the door shut with bright cheeks.

.

"Oh bugger," Arthur huffs, undoing the top button of his shirt. He sits on the edge of the divan, looking more like his typical self as he sighs in boredom.

"Precisely what I thought we'd be doing…"

The man behind him presses a kiss to the back of his neck. Arthur simply turns to him, rolling his eyes.

"Bloody hell, get a clue. We're done. This experiment has been an utter failure," he pushes the other away, shrugging any lingering touches before wandering into his room. "You know the way out. It's not a large flat. Pray do not make eye-contact with the flustered blonde by the door."

His companion stares at him, blinking confusion away from his lust-addled mind.

"Oh," Arthur peeks from the corner of his room, "Make so much as a pass at him, and I assure you that you'll wake up missing a body part or two. I know quite well how to hide a body."

.

Leave it to Arthur to not misread signs of social decorum, but act against them all the same. Alfred assumes Arthur seldom eats and stops leaving food behind. Or maybe he is completely disgusted by Arthur?—At least if he mentioned something…

The detective sulks. He rolls onto his side, staring out at the window.

Arthur is sure Alfred assumes it to be one of his moods. Worst, Alfred might think Arthur is under the influence of a narcotic. But no, Arthur is sulking, genuinely and with pining as he lies on his divan and presses his fingertips carefully down Alfred's revolver in ways that, if Alfred cared to pay attention to, might be considered slightly obscene.

.

The closest Arthur comes to breaching the subject is during breakfast one morning. His hands are shaking, and his lips are threatening to spitfire without permission, again.

"Alfred."

"Yes?" Alfred looks up; blue eyes resembling a faded sky behind the fogged glasses perched on his nose. There's that awkwardly endearing, almost disarming smile. And Arthur just looks down at his empty plate. "Need me to pass the jam?"

"Ah, no, no," Arthur coughs, reaching for it himself. His fingers brush lightly against Alfred's, and he withdraws, much like a roly-poly might curl into itself at any sudden poke. "Actually, I wanted to. That is to say."

Alfred's concern seems genuine. Lines of worry begin to fade into view all over his forehead.

"Are you ill?"

"Oh bugger," Arthur sighs, hiding his face into his hand before pulling at his hair in frustration.

"Pardon?" Alfred laughs. "Arthur, is something wrong?"

"No, yes, no. Mind if I borrow your revolver again?"

.

When the case is over, well, Alfred is left with a confusing echo pinching at his thoughts. Everything is illuminated and dark at once, and he wants to dispel the myth already swirling in his heart. The facts are rather simple: he's just shot a man for Arthur Kirkland. He just killed a man for Arthur Kirkland.

And Arthur Kirkland, well, Arthur Kirkland just confessed rather poignantly that he's into men, except he hasn't, much in Arthur's style to bring up things that should best be left buried. There's also nonsense about how much he appreciates Alfred's friendship, and whispers, so many whispers, or are they whimpers? Whatever they are, it's poignant and Arthur is begging for his forgiveness, telling him everything will be okay. He's already feeding him a storyline.

It's—there's this pressure in Alfred's chest choking him, and his eyes are watering, and Arthur is next to him within seconds, taking the gun from his hand and saying things, many, many things. There are hands on him, inspired and wild as they try to call his attention to a stool nearby.

"It's not your fault. This is not your fault. Scotland Yard is not going to apprehend you. This does not make you a bad man, Alfred. You are a most formidable man—a good friend, a good flat mate, a… a decent man. Because anyone else, anyone else would have reported me, but you didn't treat me any differently. And, god, you're infuriating in your composure, but—"

But the only thing Alfred can say is, "don't touch me. Not right now."

Arthur moves away from Alfred, already grabbing for a cigarette from his pocket.

Alfred watches him from his position against the wall, and almost wants to explain to Arthur that it isn't killing a man that is giving him a fit of nerves. No. Alfred had to kill before—in the war, for survival. This is no different. Except it is: he just shot a man. He just killed a man for another man. For some reason, Alfred's having a hard time pretending that he did it because Arthur's his friend, because, well, they're not. They're flat mates.

.

It's easier for Alfred to be direct. So the next morning, he sits on the edge of Arthur's divan. Arthur immediately sits up, staring expectantly as he snubs out the last bit of his cigarette.

"I'm not going to report you." Alfred shrugged, "If that's what worries you."

There's a hitch in Arthur's throat, and he almost jumps, but what little emotion he's willing to display is washed out by his relief. "Thank you. I—I'm really very sorry that I had to do it that way, but you must understand my precarious position. I knew that should you choose to, well, you see," he offers, gesticulating with his palms. He bites his lip.

"You would've said it was the shock, wouldn't you?—even though you were well-aware I'd already seen you, here."

Arthur nodded. "I'm truly, truly sorry. T—that. That, I would never, will never bring anyone here. Ever. I assure you. It's just I needed to gage your reaction. This was quite difficult for me as well." He smirked, "all failed experiments do tend to hurt with a special kind of burn—maybe that's shame?"

"Only you wouldn't be sure what shame feels like," Alfred smirked, shaking his head. "Well, glad that's clear, except, well…"

"You're welcome to ask anything. I won't be offended if you're just curious. Many are."

"I suppose I just… I guess I just want validation, or, not the right word, but just insurance that, well, that, you know."

Arthur shakes his head. "I assure you I'm at a loss."

"You don't find me attractive, do you?"

.

That's bait.

Arthur knows better than to jump ship so quickly. Sure, he's always been impatient, not the least-bit careless when the fancy strikes him to be bold. But right now, right now he's sure that he knows what Alfred's confused mind is asking of him.

So he turns his face, looking at the door. His ears perk at the sound of footsteps. And he smiles inwardly.

He can feel Alfred's fingers fall on his jaw already, digging into his skin to force him to drown in blue. Arthur's not ready to drown. If there's anything he's learned is that his infatuations fade. His infatuations always fade. But he's not sure he's willing to let the possibility of Alfred's friendship vanish with it.

"You're quite handsome, Alfred. But ease your mind. I do not see you with those eyes," he coughs, pushing away his flat mate's hand. It's going to take some work, but Arthur can do it. He's come to trust himself—there are many things he can do. Acting is one of his gifts. "Now sit across from me. We've a guest coming."

.

It only takes Arthur a month to feel his infatuation fading.

He can tell because slowly the deductive regurgitations end completely as Alfred's companionship becomes a stable, almost habitual aspect of his life.

It's too bad Arthur's never had much experience with infatuations turning into something else entirely. At least Arthur is sure it can't be love. He's barely known this happy stranger turned acquaintance turned historian for a couple of months. But it's something. And he's not sure he's opposed to playing the waiting game to find out.

But he's sure that whatever it is, it is the result of identification—self-identification in Alfred. It's not validation. Arthur has always known he was brilliant, always been told he was handsome—always. There's something different, though, in the way Alfred looks at him. And if Arthur is honest, he likes it.

He likes the Arthur Kirkland Alfred sees, even if he calls him Sherlock Holmes in print.

.

"B—But the solar system!" Alfred exclaims during an evening walk. He's not sure what might have pushed his flat mate to follow him into the wintry evening, but he's happy to share time with Arthur. A part of him hopes he'll be able to learn more about the young detective. Already Alfred has learned something surprising. "It's—I can't believe you wouldn't know about the solar system!"

Arthur shrugs, stuffing his hands into his pockets. His cheeks and nose are bright pink now. And he's tempted to lean close to Alfred's warmth. Alfred can almost second-guess his thoughts; he leans closer.

"You appear astonished," he nudges Alfred with his elbow as they make a turn. "Now that I have learned it, I hope you are not offended that I shall do my best to forget it."

"F—forget it?"

"It's the only sensible thing," Arthur informs Alfred with a decisive nod. "You see, I consider a man's brain much like a little empty attic, and you have to stock it with only such furniture as you choose. My furniture is rather eclectic, but makes sense for me."

Alfred blinks, trying to follow the logic as he trots behind Arthur, who spins once as he walks. He makes his way around the park backwards, facing Alfred with a twinkle of sunshine now plucking at the green of his eyes. At some point, he stops to pick at a mushroom on the ground.

"It is a mistake to assume the little room has elastic walls, Alfred," he continues, now bringing out his handkerchief to wrap it around his newest finding. The mushroom is squished, gray and grimy with soil, but Arthur looks fascinated. "It doesn't. For that reason, I am careful to put in my attic only that which is most beneficial to my work. Like this mushroom."

Alfred is unimpressed by the mushroom. He looks up at the stars, stopping. "But… what of the Solar System? Isn't that more beautiful than a mushroom?"

"I—It's not pertinent to my work," Arthur looks down at the poor mushroom, poking it with his other finger. "You say we go around the sun. But even if we went round the moon, or an asteroid, it'd make no difference to me or my work. You understand?—some things are beautiful in their importance and others are important only in their beauty. I focus on that which is beautiful because it is important. Like this mushroom."

Arthur watches as his flat mate pouts, "But, but. The stars. Haven't you ever just wanted to know something just because? It just seems so pragmatic and dreary in your head."

"It's alright," Arthur reassures him, letting one of his hands fall on Alfred's arm. It was obvious his flat mate was distressed. Arthur almost wished he could press his hands to Alfred's cheeks, perhaps impress upon him the noise and chaos in his mind, the need for order over beauty. Maybe then he wouldn't be so distressed, though knowing Alfred, Arthur is sure he'd be concerned nonetheless—if not be the noise, then by the silence. Arthur's mind is always silent around Alfred. "Really, it is alright."

"No, it really isn't! – The stars, I mean, you don't know about stars…"

"Oh Alfred," Arthur chuckles and shakes his head. He looks up at the sky, letting out a breathless shudder. There is silence in his mind, though the echo is lonely, eternal. Arthur leans closer to the warm body near him, "just because I don't understand them, doesn't mean I can't appreciate them."

"But the constellations and…" Alfred purses his lips together. The sight of his roommate's wistful look sobers him.

"They're there. I assure you I'm very good at observation," Arthur grins. The ease of his movements, the looseness of his muscles all betrayed the beauty of his youth. And Alfred watches, almost mesmerized by the reminder that the brilliant detective in front of him is eight years his junior—so young, with so much still to learn. "Besides, you can know it for us both. If ever I am in need of knowing about stars, I will be sure to ask you. You can properly teach me about stars then."

All Alfred can do is smile as he drops a fraternal arm around Arthur's shoulder to pat his back. It's a short, fleeting touch. But Arthur stiffens immediately.

"Quite right, I can know it for us both! You can know all about water and soil samples and mushrooms, and I can know about stars."

Arthur looks away, trying to hide his pleased smile behind his scarf. "Yes, you're right. You can know about stars and I can know about mushrooms."

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The End

Notes

Ages – I won't go into the fandom arguments that give Sherlock Holmes a newly graduated college student's age at the time of ASiS. Some have made him as young as nineteen because it is known he'd only have spent two years in college. But I make him twenty-two. There'll be an exploration of this later in the week. But if Arthur is 22, then Alfred is 30 in my world.

Some might comment on the fact that Arthur is described differently in this story. It's a bit obvious he's crushing on Alfred from the beginning, and he still looks young, his features not as sharp and defined as in Are You Happy? and in Reunion in an Empty Flat. The truth is that the original Sherlock Holmes was described as plenty amicable when he wasn't in a mood; he wasn't rude or socially inept, he was Bohemian and socially avoidant. Arthur is constantly changing into what you see in the first two stories of this series.

Bull pup – In a Study in Scarlet, Doctor John H. Watson mentions to Sherlock Holmes that he is the owner of a bull pup. Since then, some adaptations of Watson have given the character a dog—never mind that the poor puppy is never mentioned again. Hmm, so what gives? A bull pup was a common slang term in the 19th century for a stubby revolver. So next time someone asks you: what about the poor puppy? You can tell them. Or use it in your own Victorian fics.

Oxford – In canon, Sherlock Holmes mentions twice that he spent two years in college, and mentions most distinctly in one occasion that he studied subjects that differed from the typical courses of his fellow students. Because of the Holmes family wealth, and Holmes' own brilliance, many fans assume Sherlock Holmes would have attended Oxford for two years. Why Oxford and not Cambridge? Cambridge at the time – and into today – has a strong science and mathematics inclination, whereas Oxford in the 19th century was known for its focus in the humanities and social sciences.

Where could Holmes' course study differ most from that of his fellow students and be allowed to take whatever he wanted with a tutor's supervision? Oxford. Of course, it's slightly ironic because today Oxford actually has the strongest chemistry program. So either way it sort of works, right?

The Buggery Act of 1533 – Bugger off? Bah, sod off. Oh, did you know… of course you did. ^^ Alright. Let me get to the point for those that maybe don't. The word bugger was first used as a replacement for the word sodomy in the Buggery Act of 1533, which made sodomy and bestiality illegal rather explicitly. In fact, it made it a capital offense. Anal intercourse was not allowed by a man with a man or woman equally. This bill was repealed in 1828. Wait, so…? I'm getting there.

The Offences against the Person Act of 1861, darlings, which only alluded to buggery in light of the precedent of the Buggery Act of 1533, is to blame here. At least1861 was the same year as the capital offense was repealed for sodomy. But because precedents in law are tricky and quickly escalate: in 1885, the Criminal Law Amendment Bill was passed, and while it had different intentions altogether, the bill was given an amendment by Labouchere, which then made any and all homosexual acts a punishable offense. Acts in public and private were considered against the law. Of course, this law has been repealed. But in the setting of this verse, well, this law is definitely in place. I've been meaning to talk about this in Are You Happy? and Reunion in an Empty Flat. But hopefully this explains why Alfred is constantly trying to keep Arthur in check with his displays of affection and outbursts. Arthur, on the other hand, thinks the law makes little sense.

This is important because by Arthur trusting Alfred with this aspect of himself, he's taking a big risk. Alfred, by deciding he wants to keep living with Arthur, though, is taking a big risk, too.

Any questions? Go ahead. Ask. Can you tell I write a lot of Victorian era stories?