"I um, well I loved your reading tonight. All of those poems, I know them by heart, but to hear you saying them out loud, to hear your emphasis on words..."
"I've been told it's quite different. I myself don't see a difference, but then again I'm sure I read my own writing in the same tone I chose to speak it in." Victor admitted at last, puffing his cigarette a bit more agressivley as if to make up for my lack of inhalation.
"Your poems are breathtaking, the way you integrate nature into your life, the way you speak of society, the way your problems are worked out into such a form that they are understandable...well you truly are a master. If I haven't said that before I will say it now, and let it be understood through the duration of our time together." I said at last, deicing that one bout of direct admiration was all that Victor required from me, considering he must hear praises throughout every conversation he entered into.
"I appreciate it, Sherlock. It is good to meet someone who has read my works, and has not just heard them for the first time tonight. All of these London clubs, filled with those who would rather stare at my face than listen to my words, and claim to be a fan..." Victor sighed. He reached over across the table, scooping up my wine glass in his outstretched hand and draining whatever was left of it, as if he needed a good swig to continue on with our conversation in that relaxed state that he had maintained thus far.
"No I'm, I'm an honest fan. I was introduced to your works by a friend in University, back when I thought poetry was quite silly. But now, well I'd like to dedicate my life to it. I've tried my hand at a few verses, but I figure if I can understand and feel the things that you express then certainly I can let down my own emotions for another reader to absorb." I insisted rather eagerly, wishing for his approval if nothing at all. This was the first time I had voiced my ambitions aloud, the first time I had truly admitted to an interest in verse and poetry. At first I assumed he would laugh, then perhaps that he would mock me and insist it was not for the weak of heart. Though he remained silent, raising his eyebrows at my declaration and nothing more.
"Is that...well what do you think of that?" I wondered at last, when something upwards on thirty seconds had gone by. He seemed to be lost in thought, though I wanted to at least keep his thoughts directed upon me.
"Well Sherlock, I can say you at least have the backstory of a poet. You have the ambition, the looks, and the brainless optimism that is needed." Victor admitted after a long, thoughtful breath.
"Brainless?" I muttered a bit nervously. The man smiled, his seamless face curling into a rather sarcastic grin, though his eyes were still quite soft. He seemed to appreciate me, in his own strange way.
"Anyone who would pursue a career in the arts, without even a firm understanding of the art form itself, certainly needs to lack some of the common sense that keeps people in line with the status quo." Victor assured. "Then again, all artists are missing at least a portion of their brain. That's why we have so much space for the trifles people can't bother themselves with, emotions we store for the commoners, to delve into on their free time."
"I think that's the whole point of art, Sir. Not understanding it. The moment you begin to understand art is the moment it loses its value." I suggested, to which Victor nodded rather slowly.
"You know, Sherlock, I'll let you in on a little secret. Sometimes I don't even understand what I have written; sometimes I just write the words because they sound nice. And before long I will have a conversation with someone and they will introduce to me the meaning I had never known. It takes more interpretations than just one to determine the meaning of a poem, or a piece of art, or whichever form you prefer. It takes mystery, and multiple brains." Victor admitted, chuckling a bit to himself as if he thought that bout of artistic gospel was another little stroke of his own genius.
"That's another way to look at it, I suppose. I had a friend in university, the one who showed me your works, and we used to argue over the meanings of them. Though the way you say it, perhaps there was more than one meaning after all." I admitted at last.
"What did you take them for, Sherlock? What angle did you prefer?" Victor wondered, at last leaning forward on the table to express his interest in me. I hastened a smile, remembering back to my time with Tobias, sat up on one of our dorm beds arguing back and forth over that little book of poems, forgetting our true homework as we instead debated on the meaning of some simple lines! We were ridiculous in those days, passionate with a flame of self-confidence neither of us could kindle on our own.
"Well, I suppose I took the more romantic approach." I admitted.
"Romantic like the style, or romantic like the action?" Victor whispered in reply. I thought for a moment, my face glowing red once more.
"I suppose both." I admitted. The man grinned, nodding his head as if he was happy to hear it.
"It always is the virgins who find so much love within poems that have not a mention of it." Victor chuckled. I let my mouth drop open, well in all honesty I was surprised that word would have any mention in a modern day, proper conversation. Not only that, but such an assumption was almost hurtful. No matter the truth behind it (as well as the social necessity!) I still took it as if he was taunting me, though for what I could not imagine.
"I'm...well I'm not married, sir." I muttered quickly, the only response I could think to respond with. A rebuttal of sorts, though not a strong one.
"Nor am I." he admitted with a chuckle. "Though you will find that not all bachelors are lonely." I nodded, not knowing what to do with my hands now as I folded them nervously upon my lap. My cigarette was nearly smoldered now, without my having taken another puff, and I was feeling quite uncomfortable. Perhaps Victor noticed, for he allowed himself to melt back into his chair and flag down a waiter for a drink of his own. He ordered me another wine, which might not have been a good idea on either end, though I was not going to refuse free alcohol and he was not going to be rude enough to drink alone. Before long we were both sitting in front of most generous glasses of wine, Victor admiring his with a long finger dipped partially into the liquid, swirling it about as he stared rather fixated on me.
"You're the brother of Mycroft, you said? Mr. Holmes the younger?" he presumed.
"Mr. Holmes the elder, as of late. My father died rather suddenly." I admitted at last. Victor smiled, as he surely noticed my emotion towards the subject, or lack thereof.
"Owner of a great big factory, then. Owner of a fortune?" he supposed.
"Blood money, the lot of it. I've seen the state they force their workers into; I've seen the way they all suffer." I assured, taking a great swig of my wine before setting it down on the table in a very final way. "I want to make my own money," I continued, "Without my father's help, without my brother's help."
"I warn you, Sherlock, poetry is not the best market to enter into. Especially when the world's lost sight of what's most beautiful." Victor insisted, at last emerging his finger from where it was dunked in the wine and bringing it to his lips, folding them over the side to catch the droplets as they slid down his white skin. I watched, almost fixatedly, though it was not an emotion I was used to. To be quite honest that look in his eyes frightened me, as I did not know what it meant, nor what was expected of me. And so I merely sipped at my own wine, nodding along to what he had just said as if that was the last thing which had been stuck inside of my head.
"Sherlock, you realize that the style of poetry that I have invested myself to is a dying art, over taken by these...well by these reformers! Poetic reformers, stuck within the brink of society and scribbling down their observations. I have mimicked my masters, Wordsworth, Byron! I have not dealt with society, but explored deeper to nature! That is where you find the true meaning of life, if ever there was one! Not stuck deep within the mobs of London, but within the bloom of a flower!" Victor exclaimed.
"However it is you think, Sir, whichever breed of artist you are...well I am exactly the same. I may very well own half of your brain, and you own the part of mine!" I agreed, leaning forward in some urgency as I declared our connection. Victor wasn't entirely sure how to handle that, in fact in all my time with him that was one of the only times he seemed at a loss for words. Perhaps it was frightening for him, to be faced with someone who claimed to understand his brain as much or as little as he did. Or maybe he just took that as my own confession, my own stamp of loyalty. My hands were outstretched towards him, clinging to the table cloth as I needed something to hold, something to grip to. I was feeling an overwhelming array of emotions, a great many which begged me to fall to my knees, fall to his feet, or fall onto his lap. I wasn't sure which one to act onto, not sure which one I could even carry through, and so I just clutched towards the cloth, hoping that it would offer at least some outlet for my powerful and bubbling emotions. Victor seemed just as perplexed, I watched as his wine stained fingers hastened from his mouth only to hover a mere inch above my own, as if he was too afraid to take that final leap and touch upon my skin. Perhaps he took such a confession to heart, maybe he even believed us to be intertwined through much more than skin, perhaps even in soul! Maybe he thought he found what was missing within himself, locked away in my own body. He never touched me, not that night. I was sure he was about to, I was sure his hands were descending upon mine ever slowly, and with some more uninterrupted time he may have hit his mark. Though it was not meant to be, that night would not hold what was sure to come. I met his eyes just as soon as a commotion begun at the door, a bout of yelling followed by what seemed to be a man getting beaten into the room by a very familiar looking umbrella...
"When I say I am going inside, don't question me again. Now where is that blithering Trevor, for with him will be my whelp of a brother!" came Mycroft's voice, stern and mean as he stepped away from the cowering doorman, beaten to the floor and unsure of what to do now. My heart sunk, for just as soon as Mycroft scanned the room he found the two of us where we had been all night, and his black eyes seemed to lose whatever friendly light had ever been alight inside of them. That was my father at the door, not by brother. It was Mycroft, infected with the deceased man's soul. I at last realized the mistake of my night's choices, and how dire it was to be caught by the man who was surely making himself into my enemy. As Mycroft descended upon us Victor took to his feet, standing in the way of my charging brother rather expertly, and with the air of a man not so ready to yield to a drunken beast.
"Mycroft, dear man, nice to see you again." the poet attempted, holding out his hand for a handshake but getting pushed aside in return. Mycroft was a bit too strong for the poor man to sustain, and with a mere shove he was forced to stumble out of the firing line and allow me to take the full force of punishment.
"To the carriage now, Sherlock, and be lucky I don't force you to walk home! A ploy, a ridiculous ploy! And for what, for this pansy? Wasting your time with art, oh you should be locked up, THE LOT OF YOU!" Mycroft exclaimed, grabbing me up by the collar of my shirt and attempting to drag me from the chair I was sitting in. Fortunately I had some more strength than he gave me credit for, and I held tight to the arms of my chair and was able to keep myself there for a moment longer.
"I'm allowed to go wherever I chose, Mycroft, and speak with whoever I wish!" I defended in something of a growl, to which Mycroft merely huffed, shaking his head as if he didn't believe a word.
"You're allowed to do what I say, Sherlock. Nothing more! Nothing less." my brutish brother at last wedged me out of my chair, forcing me to my feet without even allowing me a look back to my host and friend. I couldn't say goodbye to Victor, no matter how hard I tried to turn my head my brother kept me walking straight, before at last I found myself stumbling down the London streets like a dog to its master, helpless but to keep walking if I wanted to survive the night in one piece. The carriage had pulled around the street corner, presumably steered here by Mycroft as his vehicle of choice. Certainly he had known right where to look, and that sign in the front door, advertising Victor's name, was precisely the reason I was getting dragged through the crowds of high society by my shirt collar. Mycroft was silent, a terrifying state for that man to be in, and I knew better than to try to defend my case. However as the time went on, as I was thrown into the carriage seat and sat up against the window pane, I could think of a million different arguments for my entertainment of choice that I could use to defend myself. I was a grown adult these days, well almost on the mark of eighteen at least, and could choose what I did with my time and who I went to talk to. Just because Mycroft had decided to go along with me did not mean that I was at fault for sneaking away. My hand was forced from mere secret keeping to now diversions! Could he not tell that this act of disobedience was not at first the steps I was prepared to take, but the steps that were forced upon me? Oh he wouldn't hear a word of it, no matter how practical it all sounded in my head I was sure I would not be able to get a word out, at least not a word he would care to listen to, or to take to heart. To Mycroft I was still a boy, still a child trying and failing to make my way in the world, with a dire need for his brotherly assistance. He would never be able to let me go, off to the real world where my true destiny lay. He would never be able to take that leap and send me off to the extended hands of another. Therefore I sat in my seat in the carriage, knowing enough not to question the night's events and remaining thankful that my brother did not open his mouth to voice his opinion. I knew for sure that what he would have to say to me would not be good, and perhaps he was using this silence to allow me the chance to reflect on all of the things I had done wrong in my life and to imagine every possibility of verbal abuse. Certainly I could make up a better scolding in my head than he could, and I sat in the thickest of silences, wondering when Mycroft would choose to begin scolding. The outside world was dark as could be, without much moonlight to illuminate the landscape. I could not tell how far we had come, nor how much longer we had yet to go, though I could only trust that the carriage driver was on the right path and would not doom me to any extra minutes trapped along with this steaming brute.
"You came here for him, then?" Mycroft presumed at last, deciding that he would begin the interrogation.
"Believe it or not, Mycroft, we have become friends." I admitted at last, trying to keep myself within the illusion of confidence, or at least entitlement. Mycroft scoffed, as if he could hardly imagine a poet making a very good friend at all.
"Why bother, Sherlock? He's nothing more than a starving artist, not worth your time or attention! Those poets, they are all the same. Depressed, and with questionable habits indeed." Mycroft insisted, shaking head in slow mockery and disappointment.
"Don't say a word against them, Mycroft. He's twice the man you'll ever be! He creates more than steel, more than any tangible thing! He creates worlds, words, emotions..."
"More of a man? Sherlock open your eyes, he may as well already be a woman! It is not our business to deal with emotions, they get you nowhere in life!" Mycroft growled.
"They get you purpose! Something more than money, something so much more valuable!" I exclaimed in return, to which my brother could have laughed by that look on his face. I could tell it was more concern than humor, but he certainly seemed to think my argument was falling apart around me. Though I stuck to those words, for they were my newfound gospel. I was right in my assumptions; I was validated in my own opinion on the world. No one could tell me differently, not even my cynical brother or the ghost of my father.
"Sherlock, I have stated my reasons to you, and therefore I will follow them up by enforcement. I want no more meddling with these artistic folks, especially not that poisonous Trevor. He's questionable at best, and his interests with you, well...I could scarcely force myself to consider them." Mycroft insisted at last, nodding his head in some stark agreement with himself that this was indeed the best policy for the both of us.
"You can't force me to stay away from him, we're destined." I argued back, though I may have chosen a better word. My brother's face swelled up in an emotion I could not quite place, presumably something along the lines of pure rage, or perhaps fear.
"Destined implies something far deeper than friendship, Sherlock, and I dare not consider that you too have fallen into such a habit of indecency." He insisted, his voice falling down to a deep growl. I wish I could have let his connotation go over my head, I wish I could defend myself with a hearty promise that I had never and would never delve within such pleasures with the same sex, though as soon as I heard the word indecency Tobias flashed into my mind, and I remembered what a love I had at once felt for someone so like myself. I had attempted it before, certainly I would allow it again, and imagining myself with a woman in the future was sounding like more and more of a strange dream. I could never be happy, I knew that for sure. And so perhaps I had destined myself to a life of indecency, though why my brother would link my secretive past (which he knew nothing about) to my newfound friend, well it must mean that there was a connection that I was not yet aware of! Did Victor have some history, perhaps with that man I saw him with at the opera? I did not answer, for I was not prepared to lie directly, and I could tell that this silence was only aggravating my brother more.
"Well then, Sherlock, you can't speak for his intentions but you can admit to your own! What do you want with this man, if you do not seem so troubled by my meaning?" Mycroft wondered, his voice falling a couple of octaves as he struggled to understand me. I could sense the underlying concern he had, the true Mycroft beginning to show his colors against the bright and hazardous pallet of my father. He was worried for me, now more than ever.
"I want to be as close as I can, Mycroft. He is my hero, my idol. And if he will allow me to be his friend then I will not turn down such an offer!" I exclaimed.
"Your idol? You said you learned of him in some silly little English class, that he was nothing more than a passing interest!" Mycroft exclaimed, as if he was shocked to hear of my sudden fascination.
"Well, interests grow." was my concise response, determined to keep my poetic aspirations to myself for now. I knew I best not aggravate him more, and by admitting my career path to my raging brother I was sure to receive nothing but disapproval.
"I worry for you, Sherlock. Constantly." Mycroft muttered quietly, as if he wasn't entirely sure what to say now. He was at a loss, and perhaps he was just realizing how much I had changed while I had been away from his sight. I decided it was best not to answer, and so with my own little huff of satisfaction I turned away from him, huddling up against the wall of the carriage and deciding that should be the end of our conversation for now. Thankfully Mycroft agreed, and for the rest of the night not a word was said between the two of us, aside from the formality of good night.