#the surgery

It had been a while since Karl forced himself to cool down after the argument.

The parlor’s lounge corner—an oddly cozy addition to such a strange clinic—had become his refuge. He sat there now, a glass of whiskey in hand, letting the burn settle his nerves. Strange or not, he had seen worse. Far colder places. Far crueler ones.

And right now, this… helped.

He regretted how he had lashed out at Victor.

He was the only person he could talk to—really talk to. The only one he trusted enough to let his guard slip around. And yet, being refused—that request, of all things—had left him bitter. Angry.

…And beneath that, something heavier.

Because deep down, he knew Victor was right.

At this point… why would he want to give it all up? The power. The strength. The way the parasite had barely changed him physically—

Physically.

His thoughts drifted back to Victor’s words.

“If you’re a monster… then what does that make me?”

Karl exhaled slowly, setting his tinted glasses down on the table before rubbing his eyes.

“…I should’ve been more careful. I hope I didn’t—”

“Ah… I knew I’d find you here.”

The familiar voice pulled him from his thoughts.

Karl turned his head.

Victor stood there, looking down at him, his mask still covering half his face—but doing nothing to hide the calm in his gaze… or the softness that lingered beneath it.

Karl sighed, searching for the right words. He didn’t want another pointless fight. Not when Victor was finally speaking to him like this again.

“Yeah, I… I just—”

“You don’t have to explain.” Victor’s voice dropped into a quiet murmur. “I know you needed space. After what I said.”

Karl lowered his gaze, unsure. Opening up never came easily to him. It felt foreign, fragile—dangerous, even.

But how could he not try… when Victor made it look so effortless?

Before he could say anything else, Victor sat beside him. He removed his mask and placed it next to Karl’s glasses, letting out a soft sigh as he looked at the whiskey glass. A cigarette flickered to life between his fingers.

“…Whiskey? Same one as always?”

Karl hesitated.

Was that a jab? Or just an observation?

With Victor… it was always hard to tell.

He was too calm. Too gentle. And that unsettled Karl more than any hostility ever could.

But Victor noticed … Of course he did.

“You think I just insulted you again, don’t you?”

There was no venom in his voice—only quiet exhaustion, like he was tired of this misunderstanding repeating itself.

“Karl… we’re not enemies. I didn’t come back to continue that argument.”

A pause.

“You can drink whatever you want. Who am I to judge? I drink too, you know.”

Another small breath.

“It was just an observation. That’s all.”

Karl finally looked at him—eyes tired, and for once…

…unguarded.

“I know… it’s not you. It’s…”

A beat.

“…me.”

Silence settled between them, heavy and slow, broken only by the soft hum of jazz in the background. Victor’s hand found his.

“It’s not just you,” he said quietly. “I have my faults too.”

Karl stilled, staring at their hands, before shaking his head slightly.

“No, it’s not—”

“Love… it is.” Victor’s voice softened even more.

“I should’ve explained myself instead of reacting like that. But you… you affected me.”

Karl blinked, caught off guard.

“…Affected you?”

Victor? Affected ?

“…What do you mean? Because of what I asked…?”

Victor took a moment before answering.

“…Yes. The surgery.”

A breath.

“It shocked me. And I reacted poorly. I’m sorry.”

Karl tightened his grip on Victor’s hand and finally met his eyes.

“And… I’m sorry for asking you that.” His voice dropped. “You’re right. I’m… fine the way I am. I should be grateful.”

The words left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Because yes—Victor was right. He was stronger. More dangerous. Something more than human.

Who would willingly give that up?

…Who would choose to become nothing again?

But those words tasted just as bitter to Victor.

He watched Karl carefully, regret flickering across his expression.

“Karl… I didn’t mean it like that.”

A pause.

“I just… I got nervous.”

Karl frowned slightly, listening.

“…And I should tell you why.”

He nodded, silently urging him to continue.

“…I could do it,” Victor admitted quietly. “The surgery.”

Karl’s breath hitched.

“But like any procedure… there are risks.” Victor swallowed, his throat tightening.

The words he wanted to say—I don’t want you to die—caught and refused to come out.

The serpent of a man, always so composed, froze in place instead—forcing the emotion back down where it belonged.

But Karl understood.

For once… he understood.

And the realization made his chest ache.

Without thinking, he leaned into Victor, arms wrapping around his broad shoulders.

Victor didn’t hesitate.

He pulled him close in return—holding him tighter than he ever had before, a single tear slipping free despite himself.

“Please…” Victor whispered, voice breaking. “Don’t ever ask me that again.”

His grip tightened.

“I don’t care about anyone else—but you… you—”

A breath, sharp and uneven.

“Damn it, I love you, you idiot.”

Karl let out a quiet laugh against him, holding him just as tightly—something warm and unfamiliar blooming in his chest.

Regret.

And something else…

Something he was only just beginning to understand.

“…I love you too.”

A small pause.

“…Idiot.”

That's what UTI stands for, right?

Oops, guess not, and I've probably got one. So now I'm swallowing red dye pills three times a day to kill the bladder pain and pissing popcorn butter for the bargain. Not to worry, folks, I've already dribbled into a cup and the lab specialists are growing a culture to figure out what's going on.

Frankly, though, I'm even more concerned about if it's not a UTI. Because then... What do I even do? Without the bladder painkillers - which aren't meant for long-term use - I literally won't be able to sleep. After peeing, I felt like I had to pee worse!

In other news, the stitches continue to be a pain in my crotch. One of them is just dangling there, an inch-and-a-half out, easily pulled by mistake. It's horrible. And it's been a struggle to dilate with the second size, too. It feels like I'm jamming into bone, no matter how far apart I spread my legs. I'm doing my best and it's just not enough.

I also haven't slept very well lately, for obvious reasons. Constant pinching and pulling and burning and swelling will do that. I'm exhausted and relatively hopeless. Maybe if I set a goal of sorts, I'll feel better when I reach it, so let's make it official and say, "I will be happier when my UTI is cured and all these unending ramen-looking stitches are gone."

The worlds of Conan Doyle, an exhibition at Hardelot Castle near Boulogne.

Victorian London:

The door:

the flat:

costumes : Mrs Hudson, Watson, Holmes, Irene Adler, a Baker Street irregular

Moriarty’s corner: