"True to her word, Mary Morstan decided that it was in her best interest not to let me alone. It was a terrible bother at first, for I really had no use for a companion and Victor found the presence of other people to be terribly threatening. He didn't trust people in general, but women scared him the most. I'm sure it had something to do with his guilty conscious, suspecting that the women would sense his disinterest in them and automatically phone for the police. It was around this time that they were cracking down on men like us, deeming us indecent and treating us like criminals. It wasn't until a couple of days after her first visit that I got to meet her suitor, or supposed suitor at least, and after that I began to find me much more interesting than ever before. It was a sunny day in February, abnormally warm for that month (probably only hitting about forty, but that in itself was a miracle) and I had been sitting out on the steps, basking in the warm rays and enjoying myself as best I could. While I was wearing a coat my hands were free of gloves, and on my lap I had set to writing down a little poem about the warmth, a little trifle to amuse my host. Over the weeks with Mr. Trevor I had excelled in my studies, and before long we had polished up my poem about the shipyard nearly ready for publication. It spoke, in so many words, about the heroics of sailors and the indifference of regular people. I hadn't yet told Mary that she had been depicted in my art, though I expected once it hit the newspapers that she would notice her own relevance to my documentation. Well, as if my thoughts had predicted her arrival, here she came in a bright blue dress, strutting down the street with one arm confined in the arm of her sailor and another holding a great basket of shopping. Presumably they had been at the market, taking advantage of the abnormal day and making it into some sort of date. The idea of romance still turned my stomach, and it really hadn't been since James Moriarty's arrival that I had thought anything of the sort. In trying to express my feelings on paper I seemed to have forgotten that they were mine to act upon, and the lure of men or anyone in general seemed to have been forgotten in place of my rather ambitious artistic endeavors. And despite Mr. Moriarty's general disappearance from the house (the last I heard of him, he was engaged in a very loud argument with my host) the sight of two young love birds still made me cringe.
"Oh look who it is! My darling neighbor!" Mary called from all the way across the street, aiding on John's guidance to help her cross safely through the traffic of wagons and carts. I smiled, shutting my notebook rather defensively but staying where I was. I mustn't always act on impulse, for it would be rude to run away at a moment like this.
"Hello Mary." I muttered, forcing some enthusiasm into my would-be sarcastic tone. She stood with her sailor at the sidewalk near my feet, looking upon me under the brim of her wide hat as if I was just the most interesting thing she had ever seen.
"I don't believe you've met John, not formally at least." Mary muttered. "John darling, Sherlock met me on the bench when you first came home."
"Oh yes? Are you related to a sailor then?" John presumed, addressing me directly and sending the first of many shivers down my spine.
"No I was just...well just sitting." I lied quickly, not overly prepared to hear his voice. It was much softer than I would have imagined, for on the outside he seemed to be as rough and tough as any man who would take voluntarily to the sea. He was wearing rather shabby clothes, however underneath I could make out his strong build, despite his rather uncanny stature. I didn't see any visible tattoos, though I assumed he would have had one or two about his skin, as many of the sailors did, and even from here I could see the outline of a large callous on his palm. He was an interesting character, for one would expect such a hardened creature to be stern and aggressive. All the same he talked to me with a pleasant voice, a soft and understanding tone, a tone which became the most inconvenient aspect of my young life. How different things would be if he repulsed me. However, quite accidentally, he charmed me. I was interested.
"Just sitting at the docks? Well they are much too smelly for a man of your class I'm sure." John laughed, to which Mary just shook her head in exasperation, clinging even more desperately to his arm as if to scold him for his rude behavior.
"Sherlock is a poet! He was writing a piece on the sea, the sailors, all sorts of nautical things." Mary explained quickly. John's face broke into the first smile that I had witnessed, a smile that made me clutch a bit tighter to my book, in an attempt to hide the blood that was now rushing to my face. God, that was quite a smile.
"I love poetry." He admitted at last.
"I wouldn't think you were the type to enjoy it. Though I suppose times have changed." I admitted quickly, meaning no insult but obviously coming across as rather rude.
"Wordsworth himself said it...not only the rich can enjoy poetry." John said a bit harshly, to which Mary pursed her lips and stayed out of it. I suppose she thought I was being rude as well, though she didn't say it directly.
"Oh yes, yes I wasn't supposing that you were incapable of enjoying poetry, I just thought that sailors enjoyed hard liquors to any emotional verse." I explained quickly. John still didn't look amused, though I could tell that he was beginning to see my original point. I laughed a bit nervously, realizing that I had really dug myself into a hole for our first official meeting. Even Mary looked as though she had nothing to say, and I was in no better position myself.
"You got back from the Americas, then?" I remembered, trying to change the conversation as quickly as I could manage. Thankfully, it worked.
"Oh yes, just the other day." he agreed.
"What was it like?" I wondered quickly, leaning forward onto my knees in interest, as I had never even left England before. To travel across the world, to see things that were foreign and exciting...it was something I could only hope to understand. John Watson had seen things I probably couldn't imagine, and in turn lived more lives than I ever could.
"Well it was different...magical, exciting, but wholly different. We went down to Cuba, and Jamaica, all territories with vast jungles, violent natives, and animals I couldn't even begin to describe." John admitted, his face lighting up once more with a look of delight.
"A jungle...what characterizes a jungle?" I wondered, having heard the word before only in stories and books, though never knowing they were biomes that existed on this planet.
"Well...well there were trees everywhere, but not trees like we have here. Their bark was much thicker, their leaves larger, greener...everywhere you stepped there were new plants, strange insects...I even saw a snake that was about as thick as your leg! You can't see anything but plants, and water, and everything that moves it probably out to kill you." John explained at last.
"Fascinating." I whispered. "And you, well I imagine you survived?"
"Barely. We had a run in with this gigantic spotted cat; it was the size of a dog and twice as quick! Its teeth were about the size of a drinking glass, and its claws as sharp as a blade! It killed one of our local guides, and as it dragged his body up a tree we were just able to escape. It was a terrifying experience, but honestly a good story." John admitted with a little smile.
"John that's perfectly horrid." Mary exclaimed, releasing her arm from his grasp just so that she could hit him very lightly on the arm. Perhaps that was her form of scolding.
"Mary doesn't believe me." John explained quickly, to which the woman scoffed.
"I do." I said immediately. "I always knew that humans couldn't be the most vicious things on earth."
"Well that depends on your definition of vicious. This cat was only trying to eat, to survive. Later on the locals went over and shot him, out of nothing but their own fear. Animals kill to live, it's their instinct. Humans kill just to kill...sometimes it helps them sleep better at night." John explained quickly, his words fascinating me beyond compare. He had a deep intellect which I could not begin to explain, so advanced in his knowledge being nothing but a sailor of a poor household, yet able to hold up a conversation with an academic and provide a new perspective on the world. I was astounded, and I recognized a knowledge and potential within that man that I knew I must act upon. He had already expressed an interest in poetry, and here he was loaded with stories and knowledge of another world! I could help him, I told myself I could. If I could become a poet, well then certainly so could he!
"You fascinate me, Mr. Watson." I admitted. "Have you ever considered a career in the arts?"
"In the arts? Well, no sir. I can appreciate art as well as the next man, but I need to support myself more than I need to entertain others. Money is hard to come by as it is." John admitted quickly. I nodded gravely, understanding of course that he had a true meaning in his words. Life would be different for me if I had grown up poor, and like most talent mine may very well have gone forgotten, or even unnoticed.
"Well Sherlock, we best be getting inside. We've bought ice cream at the market and if we waste away out here in the sun I'm sure it will start to melt." Mary said quickly, waving her shopping bag at a dangerous angle as if trying to prove her point. I didn't know why she decided to hurry him along, especially when our conversation seemed to be getting started, though I was in no position to argue.
"Very well, John Watson. A pleasure to meet you, truly." I muttered at last, getting to my feet and offering a rather awkward hand for him to shake. The man smiled, but shook my hand with an honest interest. His hand was just as calloused as I predicted, in fact it was rather uncomfortable to hold onto it for very long. Mary bid me good day and ushered John inside, though their disappearance did not erase them from my mind. I was fascinated, and for the first time in a long time I felt as though there was a possibility here, a possibility for real friendship. And, like most of my friendships to date, perhaps something even more special. 

Victor sat alone tonight, though I dare not overthink it. James Moriarty had not been seen, though his absence still did not make me anymore special in the house I was adopted into. In fact I felt like even more of an outcast, considering Victor had nothing to distract himself with any longer and was forced to focus on my own rather deadweight presence in his household. Nevertheless, I felt rather comfortable sitting at the table with him when dinner came at last. He sat across from me, not bothering with taking the head of the table when there were no guests to impress with his control. Instead he took to staring at me, stirring his spoon very gently around the china bowl with his blue eyes fixated.
"How much do you know about our neighbors, Mr. Trevor?" I asked quickly, realizing that he was in no mood to be asking his own questions. He seemed satisfied with silence, which unfortunately was something I had never quite gotten used to. Silence made me uncomfortable, for while it allowed some to venture into their minds it instead forced me to try to outthink them, try to read them, and worry constantly about what they were thinking about me. It was insecurity of the highest form, though I had developed such a tendency ever since my father began to mistrust me. He had the habit of thinking the worst of me, and when I could feel his eyes on me I knew that there was something hateful going through his head, for I could never live up to the standards he had set for his two sons. Even now, oh look at me! My father was so far away, my brother equally so. Both may very well be dead, and it would make no difference to me.
"The neighbors?" Victor muttered after a brief pause, one he took to assess my question and ponder it for a moment. "Well nothing of much importance. I know that Ms. Morstan has taken an interest in you, though she seems to be courting that...well that other lad. I'm not sure of his name."
"His name is John. In fact I was going to ask you more about him. He says he wants to be a poet, and that he's been to some countries across the world, explored jungles, and almost got eaten by a cat! He's utterly fascinating, Mr. Trevor." I insisted, my face lighting up with some boyish enthusiasm as Victor chuckled over top of his soup. He seemed to find me terribly amusing, and it was that laugh that at least reassured me that I was bringing something to the man's life in exchange for my being here.
"These days it seems like everyone is an aspiring poet." Victor commented, to which I smiled a bit nervously.
"I'm not sure if everyone is, sir. Though fate has a way of bringing those with common interests together. I think we should take him under our wing, help him perfect his craft?" I suggested quickly, to which Victor thought for a moment, shrugging his shoulders in indifference.
"I'm afraid, Sherlock, that if I train him alongside of you that there will be a conflict of interest. Poetry requires full attention, and to split my concentration between the both of you, especially in so critical a time! Well I think it would be utterly unjust." Victor decided at last, letting his soup spoon slide from his hands and down onto the rim of the bowl, just barely keeping hold so as not to go splashing into his dinner. My heart sunk, though I really was in no position to argue. Victor was my mentor, and to go against his judgement would not be in anyone's best interest. He had lived through all of this before, and certainly he will go through it again. I was no one to argue to such a master.
"Alright then." I muttered quietly, not bothering to hide my disappointment though not bold enough to verbally announce it. Victor didn't seem to care; in fact my emotion in regards to his decision seemed to be perfectly unimportant to him, as he answered with getting to his feet and abandoning the table all together.
"Come along, Sherlock." He instructed, summoning me with one of his long fingers. As if cast with magic I obeyed, and as he drifted along into the other room I followed obediently, my steps feeling far more clunky and loud when compared to the way his feet seemed to drift over the hardwood. Victor was something more of a ghost than I ever could be, though perhaps that's where our points of interest differed. I was shockingly, if not disappointingly, human. Victor on the other hand was something of another world, a specter that I could not hope to understand, though he had a curious knack for understanding me. Together we were quite the pair, for while I could see the world as it was in front of me, Victor could instead see the world as it was for most everyone in London. And along with such points of views came our attitudes, our struts, and our personalities. Such as it was that night when he led me to the sitting room, a fire roaring in the hearth that Mrs. Turner must have just supplied with wood, as there were some charred logs squished beneath the weight of fresh cedar. The room was lit in a strangely romantic way, as the shadows were more present than the orange light and I could hardly see my host's face by merely the glow of the fire. My thoughts were still on my abandoned dinner, though I figured I would just have to go hungry for now.
"I would like to introduce you to the poet's greatest weapon, Sherlock. With your first poem ready for publication and the world of ideas stretched far beyond your wildest dreams...well I want to make sure you are ready for such things. I want you to see the world in all dimensions." Victor muttered, opening up one of the drawers of a table and producing a small wooden box from the inside. I didn't know what to think at the moment and so I stayed quiet, watching as Victor sat the box atop of his lap and opened it for me to see. Inside there was merely a syringe, coupled with two small vials of white liquid. I hadn't much experience with the drug, though I could identify it easily enough as laudanum. My heart stopped for fear of the stuff, and my first inclination was to pull away completely. However determined my mind was to refuse, my body stayed quiet still and patient. My face drained of color, though there was no other visible sign of my hesitation.
"I have become a regular user; it helps me think so clearly! After I published Possibility I had no other ideas, no inkling as to where to start! And now you are witness to my ongoing projects, poems upon poems of what only laudanum can show me! Dreams, Sherlock...dreams turned experiences. Experiences turned feelings, and feelings turned poetry. We have a point to prove, love, a world to show! We may very well be the last romantic poets in the world, and so we might as well do our best to preserve ourselves." Victor whispered, taking the syringe from the case and sticking the needle into one of the vials, sucking up enough of the drug to fil the thing nearly halfway. I wondered for a moment if he intended the drug for me, though I figured that such a speech was one of encouragement, one devoted to changing my life for the better. Well I had my doubts, from the start that syringe scared me, though at the moment the thought of disappointing my host was even more frightening an idea.
"Lay back, Sherlock. And expose your forearm." Victor instructed quite quickly, getting up from where he sat on his chair so as to kneel by my side, helping me with a guiding hand ease onto the couch and watching with those blue eyes as I hastily rolled up as much fabric as I could manage. From this position I felt quite vulnerable, I could feel his eyes scanning me anxiously and I could sense his excitement, quite akin to any child sharing their favorite toy on the playground. That syringe was gripped tightly within his fingers, though with the others he stroked the length of my exposed forearm, appreciating my skin as if it was his right. Finally he pressed his thumb overtop one of my more obvious blue veins, nodding his head in some determination and looking up to me with a quick, fleeting glance.
"You'll feel a pinch." He whispered, and with that he raised up the syringe and pressed the needle sharply into my arm. It was rather more than a pinch, for as soon as the needle punctured my skin I gave a great yelp of protest, almost jumping and swatting the man away in a natural reaction to the pain. Thankfully I was able to stay still, though my hand clenched around itself and my muscles stiffened, watching in horror as the white liquid was slowly dispensed into my vulnerable blood. And just like that, as the last drop was dispensed, Victor yanked the syringe from my arm and allowed me a moment to contemplate what it felt like.