I sat very satisfied with my cup, sipping at the hot water as much as my burning mouth would permit, and after a nice moment of silence I regained conversation with my two hosts.
"John, are you going on any more voyages soon?" I wondered. John shrugged his shoulders; as if that was an answer everyone was anticipating.
"I work by offers, and they usually take about a month or two to process. I'm sure another voyage will show up, but as of now I'm living off the salary they gave me for the trip to the Americas. We're paid by the trip, you see. And this one was a rather wild ride." John admitted with a little smile. I nodded, though I remembered back to my dream of his untimely and water inflicted death. I wasn't sure if the dream was prompted by the drugs or some sort of prophesy, though either way I was quite concerned about the idea of another voyage. The sea was a dangerous place, especially when crossing the open ocean. I dare not imagine what sorts of hardships the sailors face, not only in the oceans but also within the strange lands they inhabit. I could only imagine that each journey was a gamble, agonizing not only for the man who was forced to toil in the waters but also for the loved ones they left behind. Perhaps that was why John refused to take Mary as his bride, safeguarding her from becoming a widow if ever he met his end on the water.
"That must be a very dangerous way of life." I commented after the dots had connected in my head.
"Well it is, surely. But it's rewarding as well, gives a man some grit, some muscles, some experience. I think it's a wonderful job to do while I'm young and free." John agreed with a smile.
"What will compromise your freedom in the future?" Mary wondered, looking at John as if she couldn't quite place his meaning.
"Well marriage, I assume." John admitted. "Everyone treats it like some heavy burden, but I'm going to be dedicated to my family. If I've got obligations in England then I'll stay here."
"That's a good man." I muttered, deciding to cut through the almost hostile silence that Mary was producing. I wasn't entirely sure what had gotten her so upset, perhaps the idea of John finding a wife that was not her, and for a moment she decided not to speak. That was no matter, for our conversation did not need her input very much. John and I went on discussing the foreign lands he'd been to, which turned out to be quite the extensive amount when I interrogated him more. Turns out that was his third voyage, and while the first was a very short trip from England to Russia, he had also taken a very long one down to China. I asked him a great many questions about these fascinating places, admitting that here in London was about the farthest I've ever been from home, and lavished in the rich descriptions of new lands, cultures, and ecosystems he had experienced. It seemed as though the world was much bigger than I could ever imagine, though John seemed to have a much more experienced grip on geography and cultures. He said that he had taken souvenirs back with him from all of the lands he had visited, various tokens of good fortune or remembrance. I expressed interest and he promised to bring them over the next time, for me to investigate for myself. I found it hard to offer anything more than fascination to our conversation, for I had nothing that even came close to be relevant to what he had lived through. He was one of the most interesting people I had ever met, skilled and experienced in ways that us poets could not dream of! And knowledgeable enough to hold his own against an academic like myself. I found him perfectly charming, and before long my tea had been emptied and my chin rested on my hands, positioning myself as close as I could get to him with a childish look of wonder in my eyes. It was some relief to observe that John enjoyed talking to me almost as much as I liked listening to him. It was a perfect match of sorts, fascination and respect on either side of the equation, already I could feel that we had a much deeper connection than I had first expected. He had the makings of a poet, I could feel the passion of words in his soul, and I found myself considering going against Victor's word and teaching the boy myself, just to ensure that he had some professional help in the ways of the poetic world. The idea of mentoring John was still in the back of my mind when I said my final farewells, as the reappearance of the Morstan family put an obvious end date on my visit. After a brief introduction (only as Sherlock from next door) I roamed the streets with my hands in my pockets, thinking deeply about what I had spoken to John about and what role he might have to play in the coming years of my life. He was certainly charming, a man that I enjoyed to be around, and certainly not needing any more looks than what he had already been blessed with. He was an all-around genuine person, and I felt that familiar nagging sensation in my stomach, something which felt suspiciously like falling in love. Oh I really did need to keep my heart on a shorter leash; here it was jumping after men of all sorts of unavailability! To approach John now, well it would be perfectly unacceptable. He seemed to be in a committed arrangement with Mary, and no matter what sort of arrangement that was it appeared to be something that did not welcome a third party. Perhaps they were not married, though the time they spent together and the apparent loyalty was not something I wanted to intrude upon. Happiness with another person is incredibly hard to come by these days, even those you thought were perfect always end up to have a flaw of some sort. John and Mary claim to have known each other since childhood, obviously they were destined for something greater than friendship. Who dared take that companionship away from them, who dared steal their love from underneath their noses? I was not about to intrude, I felt as though I had my own matters to deal with. Love is like a fire, burning nonstop though depending on more additives, more wood. If I didn't fuel my fire, if I ignored my feelings for John and kept a good distance away, well surely the fire will burn itself out eventually. I was a fool to submit to the flames, and with some tenacity and self-control I might just be able to burn it down to ashes and scatter them to the wind. 

In the next couple of months that followed I wrote my first book of poetry and got addicted to cigarettes. Much like the greats of our time, I enjoyed my company with only one other person, give or take my own alter ego as a second involuntary companion. I removed myself from society as efficiently as I could, spending my days instead wandering the woods and moors with Victor and finding the beauty that only nature could provide for the two of us. I was wasted with his topics of London, with these hide and seek games of inspiration throughout the masses. Instead I found myself preoccupied with what Mother Nature had gifted us, sitting atop a blanket and staring for a long while at a small spider who was weaving a web between blades of grass, or staring up at two squirrels who were chasing each other around the trunk of a tree. The world was quite beautiful without human intervention, though I found that Victor's presence along these rambling nature walks was always well appreciated. Together we would stroll, and it was in these strolls that I took to smoking. It felt like a much more sophisticated purpose when there was a trail of foul smoke following you as you went, and I even wrote a small poem about the way it got lost to the wind. Nature's fresh air, being fouled by these slow acting death sticks, air that humans sought only to dirty voluntarily. In my book I did not pretend to be an angel, in fact I provided very real perception to each one of these trifling matters of nature and her creatures. I admitted my role in the poem, if it is but to appreciate nature or have a hand in destroying it. In my admiration I was not afraid to destroy just small parts, be it the grass I tread under my feet or the ant I scrape away from my exposed picnic. I am just as guilty as the rest of society for polluting our earth, and with my name and heritage I am even more so connected to the villains who would destroy our earth in an attempt to conquer it. I tried to be as human as possible, as translucent as possible, though I chose only to keep my peculiar love interest to myself. I wrote of my family, my escape, my dreadful position as a self-made orphan...though I spoke never of what my heart was drawing me towards each and every moment. I had only even admitted such feelings to Tobias in the form of an unheard confession and to Victor, that drug induced night that he may or may not remember. And since then I had commanded my heart to be silent, ever since I had turned my back on my delightful neighbors I had been all together in love with life and not another inhabitant of this cursed planet. The publication of my book was a triumph, for those who had begun to notice my poetry in the newspapers were immediately willing to purchase more of my work in its published form. Before I knew it money was flying towards me in all directions, not to mention letters of adoration, offers to present my poetry at certain readings, and invitations to attend operas and balls with some of the more reverend members of society. I was thankful for this attention; however I spent the first week of my true fame alone, not even with Victor at my side. I had grown accustomed to silence, and for a long while I sat lying in the fields, knowing that the moment I returned to London I would be plagued with an incessant amount of noise. All I wanted was an income, perhaps a name, but the things that went along with such fame were truly becoming more nauseating than I had first assumed. And so I lay on my blanket, far off in a field and away from the noise and smoke of London. I lay here alone, staring at the birds who flew past my vision, the puffy clouds which happened across the blue sky and brought with them a pleasant breeze. Spring was in bloom, the flowers erupting in their buds and the trees just beginning to turn a tint of green. Beauty was on its way, beauty was unstoppable. I liked the sound of the breeze, the sound of the chatter of animals, the sound of the trees as they smacked their barren branches at each other in a sort of earthly battle. At times I loved nature so much I wished to just absorb into it, though I knew well enough to avoid such temptation. In the end I returned to London, I had no choice in the matter once the sun disappeared, and before long I was attending to my fan mail and checks, figuring it was better to address my business before my business overwhelmed me.
"Letter from...oh just another admirer." I announced, sitting by the fire with my feet up on the coffee table, a cigarette in my teeth and a letter opener twiddling from my left hand. In my other hand I read through this woman's quick letter, declaring her love of my work and her admiration of the bold imagery I used throughout. She took a moment to compare me to Victor Trevor (who no one really knew my association with) and continued to thank me for offering her some entertainment for her lonely evenings.
"You seem bothered by mail. Is this not what you wanted? Fame?" Victor presumed, sitting in his chair without a letter or check to open for himself. For someone who had lived in his glory days only about a year before mine, I was beginning to wonder where his newest book would be, where his latest poem was in process of being written. I was beginning to wonder if he had all together given up.
"Not bothered, Victor. Not bothered at all." I assured, shrugging my shoulders for a moment before discarding the woman's letter and picking up a rather nicer one, sealed within a golden envelope.
"Oh, I know what that one is." Victor chuckled, sitting back in his chair and watching as my letter opener cut through the top of the rather beautiful envelope. It was almost a shame to destroy such a thing, though the letter inside proved worth it. I read over quietly, at last looking up at my companion with some disbelief.
"It's an invitation to read...at the very club you invited me to." I announced at last, to which Victor chuckled rather ironically.
"Will you read?" he wondered, sitting forward in his chair and watching me intently, his blue eyes sparking in the firelight as if he was intentionally antagonizing me. Tempt fate, he was insisting. Go along on the loop of life, and end in the place you started.
"I think I will." I agreed at last. "And for the fun of things, I'll take you along too."
"Splendid." Victor whispered, nodding his head and stubbing out his cigarette in the ash tray next to him, as if that was his last word of the night. 

I had added three names to the list of people to invite inside, though I never offered them to attend directly. There was a small advertisement of the reading in the newspaper, something public enough to summon anyone who was following my progress closely. I told the men at the door to accept any one of these men into the club, despite their not having a membership, as it would provide with me at least some peace of mind, some reassurance or validation. I assume, Doctor, that I need not list for you the honorable few who I wished to summon. I wasn't expecting as large a crowd as Victor had summoned, though I was beginning to realize that the gap between us was very slowly closing. Who I had once admired was the person I was beginning to grow into, for now we had almost the same accolades and accomplishments as the other. He had been my hero, now I was his poetic rival, and here I was living the life he had grown accustomed to not months before, the very life he seemed to be sacrificing for my success. I wasn't sure what his play was, if anything at all, though he was supporting me as would any true friend. The only hesitation I had with his sudden support was my understanding of his character, an understanding that I had developed before I even entrusted myself to his hospitality. He was a man who would only offer something if he was getting something in return, and for the life of me I could not understand what he was getting in return for my success. In anyone's eye it appeared as if I was taking over for him, pushing him off of the pedestal as I myself climbed to the top. Was he not worried, not intimidated? Even now as I sat in this borrowed dressing room, sitting under the lights of the mirror and dabbing some powder upon my face I could not help but notice his lingering eye, watching as if he was waiting for me to make a mistake, any mistake, that could allow him to regain his mantle.
"This is my first reading, Victor. I'm rather concerned." I admitted quietly, at last putting aside the stage makeup and assuming that my natural beauty would get me by.
"Concerned for what, Sherlock?" Victor wondered, coming up behind me and putting his hands upon my shoulders, as if this was his own way of calming me. I sighed heavily, staring at my reflection in the mirror and wondering what it really was that I was concerned with. I knew my words, I knew the flow of them and I knew where the emphasis should be placed. I was the master of these poems, not the other way around. What had I to worry about? The crowd, or perhaps who was not in the crowd? Or was I just overwhelmed with the idea that all this fame, no matter how inconvenient, would all go away in the end. For once upon a time Victor Trevor sat right where I was, and now here he is tending to the boy who had taken his place. It was just another reminder that none of this was permanent, and as it was slipping through my fingers I tried not to appreciate it. And I never would, I don't think, not until it was gone.
"I'm not sure. Stage fright, perhaps?" I muttered, looking up to him in the mirror to which he met my eyes, smiling softly and allowing his fingers to work deeper into my shoulders.
"There is nothing to be worried about. A stage is just another place to be admired, and we of all people do most love that." Victor insisted.
"Did you ever get stage fright?" I wondered.
"Oh I still do, love. That's why I don't ever leave the house." Victor chuckled, to which I allowed myself a small smile of agreement.
"Perhaps that is the best way." I agreed. "I need a cigarette, and then I think I'll be ready."
"You've got about five minutes, so smoke away Sherlock. Smoke away." Victor insisted, grabbing a match from the vanity and striking up a flame, waiting for me to position my cigarette in my lips until at last he caught the end on fire and watched for a moment as it smoldered. When the match had at last charred within his fingers he cast it aside, standing with his arms crossed and watching as I sunk my head nervously within my hands, hearing already the small talk of the people who sat waiting for my arrival in the very same club I had sat in, not months before. Oh how the tables turned, and how little I was prepared for it! Who was I expecting in that crowd, what sort of offensive glares would I have to turn away? What if the crowd collectively deemed me unworthy, what if they booed me, or threw things? I knew most audiences are patient and forgiving, but on the off chance that this collection would think themselves better than me, what did I do in such a situation? Well I had to go on, that was the only choice. I had to go on, to speak, to listen, to appreciate their unyielding eyes. The show must go on, that was the phrase was it not? And let it go, let it be. I stubbed my cigarette into the ash tray, giving a great gasp of air and clenching onto Victor's hand, watching the clock tick down its last couple of seconds as an announcer mounted the stage to announce my arrival. Sherlock Holmes, he called. The most recently regarded poet of our lives. I let Victor's hand fall away, and I walked out into the view of many.