"Well Sherlock, how has our Mr. Watson done?" Victor's voice wondered from the doorway, accompanied by the sharp prodding of his walking stick upon the carpet.
"Fantastic. Victor I'm sure you've never seen anything like it." I insisted, turning my head to make sure he was smoking that foul pipe any longer. Thankfully it was absent from his lips, though he had a rather glazed look to his eye, as if he had been dosing up on some drug.
"Does he mimic our style?" Victor wondered, coming around the back of my chair and leaning his elbows upon it, bringing his head around towards the side and nearly brushing the sides of our faces together.
"Not really, he's more modern in his writing. But it's no matter, he'll be a star. Certainly this will make the papers, this will sell hundreds of copies." I decided with a grin. Victor hummed, obviously reading over the notebook where it was opened before me. He took a long while, as if he too had realized it could be read multiple different ways, though I could tell when he was finished by the long sigh that he released through his nose. He didn't seem disappointed, though there was certainly an air of annoyance.
"So he has done well. Who knew that our own little sailor could come up with something so clever?" he muttered, turning away from the poem at last, but not without touching his hands upon my shoulders and letting them drag slowly away back to his side.
"Do you think he could get published?" I asked excitedly, figuring that my own intuition had only ever been borrowed from Victor when it came to the process of publication and newspapers.
"I think he has a good chance, so long as he can sell it to be a perfectly innocent piece." Victor agreed in a very quiet voice. "What the audience thinks really is no matter but what the publisher takes it as will certainly stifle his chances."
"You don't think he could get in trouble for it, do you?" I asked again, worried that my own suggestion would cost John his freedom, or perhaps even his life.
"It's a risk he will have to take." Victor assured. I nodded, looking back again towards the poem and smiling.
"I think it's wonderful, perfectly wonderful." I admitted at last. "He may very well be a poet after all, a good one at that."
"Poet laureate?" Victor hummed, almost chuckling under his breath as he suggested.
"Who knows?" I agreed. "If he can write more of these, if he can get himself a reputation. Well the position will be up sooner or later."
"I do remember you designating that position to me, a while back." Victor murmured. I just turned my head, if only to give him a small frown, so as to remind him to act like an adult.
"You are still a contender. We all are." I assured.
"You kid yourself if you assume any poet with a single book and a handful of dull poems will ever achieve such an honor." Victor scoffed.
"Are you speaking of yourself, or me?" I asked immediately. "We have the same amount of dull poems, dare I remind you."
"I speak of John Watson." Victor growled. "The boy has just entered the business, who knows how long he will last? A single poem and he'll be shipped off to God knows where."
"The poem will prevent him from going, don't you understand? He only needs the money; he doesn't want fame or titles. He wants to stay on land, in England. With me." I insisted, feeling my cheeks flush with the pleasure of being so important to someone. It had been a long while since I was ever loved properly, and I could feel that John Watson radiated the very sort of love that I had been searching for all my life. He cared enough to leave everything behind; he saw me and only me within his future.
"What an honor, Sherlock. You have found yourself a sailor." Victor scoffed.
"More than you've ever found." I pointed out.
"I have been with countless..." Victor's voice trailed off, as if that surely wouldn't help his argument.
"Oh go on, Victor? Go on. Countless what, prostitutes?" I snarled.
"Watch your tongue, Sherlock. Remember who it is that gives you everything, and can just as easily throw you back on the street like your dear brother." Victor threatened, swatting his walking stick up into the air so as to point it directly at my throat. I hesitated, finding that I best not irritate him any longer if I wanted to save my own life, and so I merely gave him a scowl and got up from my chair.
"It is not my fault that I have found love, Victor. It's merely your fault that you have not." I insisted, feeling a bit bolder now that I was out of striking range. He didn't respond, he merely dropped the stick back to his side with a thunk, his blue eyes glowing with unforeseen fire. I took that as my chance to leave, not bold enough to fit in anymore choice words, and so with that as my last laugh I raced up the stairs towards my room, making sure I bolted the door so that I wouldn't wake to find my head bludgeoned in with his walking stick. 

 The next day I was prepared for John's arrival, with his notebook and my paper of suggestions (as minimal as they may have been) ready at my disposal to discuss and improve upon. I figured that at this rate we would fit inside of our three week deadline, in fact we may even have some more time to figure out the income and back out of the sailing once and for all. The publishers weren't always the most accommodating folks, though with some leverage and a poem that was obviously going to be making money for everyone involved, well that would certainly get their attention. But that night, John did not appear. He sent no warning, not giving me any hint as to the reason for his absence. I felt as though I had waited a whole week in that sitting room, biding my time with a book but unable to concentrate, as I felt that should I allow myself to be transported through the pages I might miss the inevitable ring of the doorbell, or perhaps a knock on the door. John had never broke a commitment before, he had always been prompt and punctual. Though the minutes went by, slowly turning into hours, and still I sat alone. What was keeping him? Or what changed his mind? 

"Victor, has there been any word from John?" I asked him abruptly after hearing his telltale footsteps stepping through the hallway on the other side of the door frame. The steps paused, and at long last I heard at least one familiar voice.
"Nothing that I've heard of." He admitted quietly. "Why, were you expecting him?"
"Well yes, I was under the impression he was going to come for his poem." I agreed, now allowing some concern to seep into my voice. I was sure there was a perfectly logical explanation for this, though at the moment I could think of none. Unless something happened with the Morstan family, well surely John had no other commitments than us? Especially when something so important as his future was concerned!
"Well then, plans change." Victor muttered, and continued his way down the hallway as if he was not so concerned about John as I was. Somehow Victor's dismissal of the problem was only making my fears grow, and so I decided that I should just give up the expectation that John Watson was going to come swooping in my door at ten o'clock at night. I ought to think rationally, allow disappointment to seep in, and shuffle off to bed. The next morning I waited anxiously for any sign of him, and though I wasn't expecting any set meeting time I figured that he would be around at least once to explain his absence of the night before! Well my agony at last ceased around noon, when the doorbell rang clear and crisp throughout the house. I was sitting with Victor and enjoying our usual lunch of cut sandwiches, and it took a mere exchange of glances before we came to the correct conclusion. My long awaited visitor had arrived. I rushed to receive him, and upon opening the door I was met with the very face that had haunted my dreams in a serious of unfortunate and catastrophic accidents. I was almost ready for there to be some sort of police officer, announcing John's death at the hands of some rouge street cart or sudden plague. Though here he was, alive and well, and looking just as apologetic as he ought to.
"John you're a couple of hours late." I muttered, all the same stepping aside to allow him to pass through the doorway.
"All of my apologies at once, Sherlock. There was a ship arriving into port late, carrying all sorts of valuables. They couldn't leave it sitting in the ship overnight, and so they called a bunch of us in to assist. I swear they had found some hidden treasure, gold like that I've never seen before!" John exclaimed, his hazel eyes glowing with wonder as he recalled his exciting events of the evening. Even though I was still a little bit upset with the lack of notice he allowed himself to relax, figuring that one little misstep would not provide too much of a barrier for their relationship. John's mistake was forgiven, so long as it didn't happen again.
"That comes as a relief, John. I thought the worst." I admitted.
"Oh you poets are just dramatic." John laughed, clapping Sherlock rather roughly onto the shoulder in a brotherly sort of way. Though his hand lingered, in a very not brotherly sort of way, and for a moment we stood connected by that single limb, appreciating the other's touch and proximity, and feeling our eyes gravitating towards the other's nervous glance. It was ever too apparent that neither had any experience with relationships, and that with a single touch we were both at a loss for what to do next. Neither knew how to proceed, and so we backed off entirely.
"Remember, you're a poet too." I muttered, my words at last breaking the small spell that we had both fallen under. John let his hand slide away, nodding his head in agreement as if that was almost the sad truth.
"Not yet. But soon." He agreed with a little nod. "Soon enough."
"Well come along then, join us for lunch. Then we'll sit together and discuss." I proposed.
"Oh no, no I cannot stay long. For a sandwich or two, but I'll have to reappear tonight for the final diagnosis. They expect me back to the docks." John reminded him, to which I nodded his head in some mournful regret.
"Yes of course." I agreed, with that leading the way back to the dining table. Victor sat at his usual spot, though his plate had long since been emptied. In place of it now was that ever familiar syringe, emptied into his forearm just moments we appeared to join him. The poet's head was cast downwards into his hands, as if the drug was bringing about a form of unforeseen agony. He looked pained, though as soon as our footsteps became apparent he perked up again, shoving the syringe quickly away so as to hide it from John's wandering eyes. He had seen it, I was sure of it, though there was no time to discuss the terrible drug habits of the most renowned artists. I had a strange feeling that John was already on Victor's bad side, and inquiring into his health was probably going to get John kicked out of the house for good.
"There he is. Knew you couldn't have gone too far." Victor chuckled.
"I was just telling Sherlock..."
"I heard. The walls are thin, however much I had to pay for them." Victor assured, messaging his arm for just a moment before pulling his shirt sleeve back down to cover up the exposed skin. From where I was sitting I could see that his arm was wholly disfigured, blackened with bruises and red with various injection sights. It was ghastly to experience, though I could not say anything right there. I would not dare call him out in front of company.
"Alright then. Well, do you mind if I helped myself to a sandwich?" John asked a bit quietly, looking towards the reasonable stack as if he had not eaten a proper meal in days.
"Go ahead, certainly." Victor assured, waving his hand carelessly towards the platter before falling back into the arm rests of his chair, studying his company closely. He looked terribly interested in John Watson, though I could not figure out which angle had changed. Certainly Victor had seen him before, stared before, though now he was staring with a different expression entirely. He looked somewhat amazed, as if he was only seeing John Watson now for the first time.
"I have managed to read your poem, Mr. Watson. Truly impressive, in fact I was at a loss for words." Victor admitted, though where a smile should have been on his face there was but a blank, expressionless stare. His words had heart, though his face showed none.
"Well, thank you sir." John managed, looking quite happy as he made his way through half a sandwich with ease. "I tried my best to live up to Sherlock's expectations."
"And you have done perfectly." I assured quickly, for I had no intentions of poor John getting torn apart by whatever snide remark Victor might have thought of for such a statement. Though Victor was still silent, looking completely lost in his thoughts. John mumbled his thanks, seeming to already grow tired of our combined praise, and so I sat back and allowed him to enjoy his lunch in some peace. Victor's eyes were fluttering shut, his lids becoming too heavy to sustain in this unengaging silence. Before long I was convinced he was asleep, propping his head up on the table with his two fists and looking quite miserable. I was beginning to worry about him, now more than ever his drug habit seems to have grown worse. I didn't want to see him die at the hands of some silly, self-inflicted disease.
"Have they made you commit to the trip yet?" I wondered, looking over to where John was busying himself arranging a quick sandwich, having taken out some of the tomatoes that were buried inside of the tuna.
"Yes they had, though we don't sign any wavers until we embark." John admitted.
"Wavers? Well...well that's just concerning." I admitted at last, my stomach turning with the idea of such hazards being found on the open sea.
"Oh you know, for small things you know? In case I stub my toe on the docks, or fall out of the hammock." John assured, allowing himself a little chuckle so as to bring up my spirits. We both knew that there were far worse dangers that the open sea could hold, not to mention the ports in foreign countries that have horrors I could not ultimately understand. He was going to be in danger every minute of that journey, and those minutes would turn into years! Oh my poor John Watson, I was so worried for him.
"John I sincerely hope you will be careful. I don't care if that means wearing a life jacket constantly, or making sure you only eat nonperishable food. I'm afraid for you, like I never have been for anyone before in my life. I just...I see this going terribly wrong." I admitted at last, reaching out a hand towards him, despite the state of his tuna covered fingers. John sighed with some pity, tapping my hand in his regret as if to ensure that he wanted to take it, if not for his state of cleanliness.
"Sherlock, nothing's going to go wrong. I mean, the best case scenario, now a very likely scenario, is that I don't go out at all. That poem could spare us all of this anxiety, all of this stress." John assured.
"But every moment we do not work on it, my anxiety just rises. I feel as though something will go wrong even before you board that boat. I don't trust the outside world, and I certainly don't trust fate. Who knows what's in store for us, who knows what we ultimately cannot avoid?" I insisted in something of a drawing whine.
"Sherlock, if it's fate then there's nothing we can do to stop it." John pointed out.
"Very well said." Victor interrupted, still with his eyes shut. Though his interference in the conversation only proved that he was awake and eavesdropping, spoiling what I thought was a nice private conversation.
"Victor, you sneak." I growled. "Why are you pretending to be asleep?"
"I'm not pretending to do anything. You're merely assuming." Victor pointed out, opening his eyes with obvious difficulty and managing a little obnoxious grin in my direction.
"Whatever you're doing, it's eavesdropping." I insisted rather matter-of-factly, trying to at least scold him for his inconsiderate nature. Oh but Victor Trevor could never be tamed, and he merely busied himself now with arranging his forks into an x pattern overtop of his plate. He clicked his tongue, but other than that was silent.
"How has Mary been, lately? Have you told her yet about your trip?" I wondered at last, figuring I might as well draw the attention away from my inconsiderate host, just to make sure John didn't think too much on his manners. No matter how separate I was from Victor, I felt that his actions still reflected me.
"No I haven't told her anything, on the chance that I will not be going. Even if I was going I wouldn't tell her, as she gets so anxious with these things. Thinks it's her duty to make sure my last days are spent in company, and she takes to knitting me these ridiculous hats. I've got one for each journey I've taken, all in different colors and strangely lumpy." John admitted with a little chuckle. "Though I do appreciate the effort."
"She really is an amazing woman. Ignorant, admittedly, though quite loyal in her own regard." I admitted, my thoughts drifting for a moment towards where Mary Morstan was probably sitting perfectly untroubled, just on the other side of the wall.
"It'll break her heart, if she ever discovers my true intentions." John admitted.
"And those are?" Victor wondered, from across the table once more.
"Well, with her nothing. I don't intend to further our relationship at all; I'm happy just where we are. That alone will probably crush her." John muttered.
"You ought to tell her soon, so that she seeks a new husband before she grows old and gray." Victor suggested.
"I suppose I must...but we'll see. Perhaps the announcement will be more suited for a conversation we have not yet had. Besides, she's got suitors lined up the block. It will take her a mere moment to find the perfect match, should she chose to search for one." John assured.
"I'm sure she'll be fine." I agreed, feeling almost a little bit guilty for Mary's newfound (and yet unknown) troubles. I knew that I was partially responsible, for while I could never be responsible for John's disinterest in Mary, I was the source of his ultimate decision not to marry her. I was just the reason he was looking for, a validation of some sort.
"Oh, goodness. I hope, Mr. Trevor, that your clock runs fast." John muttered, jumping to his feet after having checked the time.
"Unfortunately not, Mr. Watson." Victor muttered, rubbing his eyes a bit forcefully before letting his hands fall away to reveal a strained smile.
"I'm going to be late if I don't hurry." John exclaimed. "Sherlock, I'll be back tonight."
"I'll see you then!" I agreed, trying to get out of my chair in time to see him off but finding that he was just too quick for that. Before my feet could hit the ground he had took off from the dining room, nearly barreling over poor Mrs. Turner as she bustled in to retrieve our empty plates.