I took a sharp breath, and like that my eyes opened... Victor was sitting in a chair next to the bedside, holding one of my pale hands between both of his own, as if he was talking earnestly to my sleeping form before I had rejoined him. I adjusted myself in the bed, allowing my legs to stretch and my eyes to blink rather rapidly. Victor stared at me, for once he seemed to be the immobile one, and it was only once I was able to strain out my first word that he accepted I was awake.
"Victor?" I muttered quietly. He allowed himself a smile, laughing now as if with stark relief and gripping my hand tighter within his own.
"I don't remember you ever referring to me by my first name, Sherlock. Whatever happened to Sir?" he asked at last, though with that look of relief on his face I knew that was his own pretentious way of saying hello. I managed a grin, attempting to lift my head before finding that it was very heavy, my muscles were not used to supporting my own weight. I let it sink back down to my pillows, though I was at least able to roll myself off of my back, leaning off to the side so that I could grant him my unyielding attention.
"Have I been here all day?" I wondered quietly, for my last official memory had been that of the bath, and that felt as though it had been hours ago. Victor finally allowed concern to creep into his expression, and at once his fingers began to stroke my hand carefully, as if he was getting ready to bear some bad news.
"I'm afraid it's been almost three days that you've been unconscious." He admitted at last. "We've done all we can for you, but I was honestly starting to worry."
"Three days? Why that's...that's simply not possible. I only left home last night!" I insisted, to which my host shook his head rather shamefully.
"Time moves slowly when you don't know it's passing." He assured. "You're awake now, and you've missed nothing at all. You don't need to worry Sherlock, those are days you will make up for in the coming years."
"Well...well my brother! Certainly he's come looking for me?" I supposed. Despite Mycroft's promise of cutting ties with me I never believed he would actually do it, and for him to leave me at such a helpless state, probably not knowing whether I was alive or dead! Well he could never just leave me; he had too much heart within him, no matter what part he tried to play!
"There has been no word. I wanted your permission to write to him first, I can only imagine he's worried sick and doesn't know where to look." Victor admitted, his voice rather regretful though confident. I shook my head slightly, admitting to myself at last that my brother wanted nothing to do with me, and if I was acting within my own self-interest at all I should learn to want nothing to do with him, either. Our time had passed, the bond had broken...we had gone our separate ways.
"No, don't write. I left home, he told me never to return." I admitted at last, shivering with the thought of my old life falling to pieces behind me. It felt as though I could simply take a step backwards through time and find myself again in that old library, though already four days had passed. Whatever bonds might have been salvaged were forgotten now, and fever made sure that I had no second thoughts about my determined flight. Perhaps it was for the best.
"Why did you leave home?" Victor wondered.
"Well, to be a poet of course." I muttered, as if that was obvious. "Mycroft wanted me to go back to university, I refused."
"That's very brave, Sherlock. Though in the state I found you in I could also say it was rather foolish." Victor admitted, worry evident in his face though humor breaking through in his eyes. He seemed to find me amusing, all of my little mistakes and all of my daring endeavors to make a name for myself. He saw within me a familiar spark of himself, that might have been why we were so drawn to each other. I was desperate and he? Well he was a narcissist.
"I tried my best." I admitted quietly. "And I made it here, alive at least."
"Hardly alive. There were some moments when we had to call for the doctor...you'd get these shaking fits and honestly it, well it scared me. I didn't want to have to say goodbye to you just as soon as you'd come into my life." Victor admitted with a soft smile.
"What makes me so special?" I wondered rather immediately, knowing the answer that I most wanted to hear. Victor smiled, as if that was going to be his own secret to keep for a little while. He gave my hand one last squeeze before letting it fall away, getting to his feet and lingering next to the bedside table. I could see on the desk that my possessions were there, both of my books of poetry as well as the hordes of cash I had managed to stash. My clothes were sitting in a folded pile on one of the chairs in the corner of the room, as I was now dressed in what felt like a soft cotton nightgown.
"Are in the habit of carrying my book in your coat?" he wondered quietly.
"Not particularly. Though I didn't know when I was going to leave, so I kept my most prized possessions on me at all times. I hope it didn't get ruined in the rain." I muttered nervously. Victor looked down upon his own book, flipped through the now stiffened pages and shaking his head reassuringly.
"No damage, just a little bit stiffer than when you first got it, I suppose." He admitted.
"Oh it was never mine, but my friend's at University. That's how I found you, Victor. Through a friend." I whispered quietly, blinking for a moment and seeing Tobias's beautiful face for a split second. Oh what would he think of me now? What would he give to be in my place?
"Well now you are my friend, Sherlock. But may I warn you not to call me that in public. First names suggest intimacy." Victor whispered, his fingers falling away from the book and hooking into his pockets by the thumbs.
"Well...well you call me by my first name." I pointed out.
"There is a difference, Sherlock. Differences in age, position. I will take you into my home as my ward, and just as you would your father I suggest you address me the same, at least in public. We want no raised eyebrows, and must keep ourselves professional." Victor insisted. I nodded my head a bit stiffly, feeling my heart drop at the word 'father'. Was that all he planned to be to me? Oh what was I hoping instead?
"Certainly I will. But what are you so afraid of? We're poets, Mr. Trevor. Our feelings are for the world to examine." I pointed out. Victor managed a soft smile, perhaps one of regret.
"You have much to learn, Sherlock. But first you must heal yourself. I'll send Mrs. Turner to draw you a bath." Victor muttered, nodding his head in his own form of goodbye. He left the room without another word, his feet hardly making any noise upon the floor. I watched him leave, my head spinning now not only with the time I had missed, but the time I had just lived through. He was just as I had imagined he would be, caring and hospitable, though his words were to me an enigma, and his fears were just as complex. Was he afraid of something? Unfortunately I didn't have the time to process much, for just as soon as victor disappeared the old woman appeared to take his place, opening the door with a quick knock to announce her presence before slipping into the room.
"Oh look at you! Awake at last!" cried the woman who must be Mrs. Turner, as Victor had introduced.
"Yes, though I suppose it's been a rough couple of days for the lot of us." I assumed, at last managing to pull myself into a sitting position and make my neck support my head for a moment. The woman smiled, nodding her head as if it really was no trouble.
"Mr. Trevor told me to run you a bath, so I'll get that all settled. By the way I'm Mrs. Turner, Mr. Trevor's housekeeper. I do all of his cooking and cleaning, oh that poor boy really can't figure out any of the essentials himself." she chuckled for a moment, as if trying to imagine Victor cooking a meal for himself or cleaning the dishes. Sherlock allowed himself a little smile, though he was very perplexed at the way a servant would refer to their master. That was a rather insolent way to address him, though she spoke as though she was entitled to any opinion she had. Victor must have been a relaxed house manager, as I ultimately suspected he would be.
"Thank you." I muttered, not knowing exactly how to respond to that.
"Mr. Trevor told me all about you, darling. How you want to be a poet just like him!" she exclaimed, clapping her hands together in that doubtful way. Many a times older people seem to get enthusiastic for things they know will never happen, perhaps in pure pity for those who are more driven than they had ever been in their younger days. I managed a smile, though immediately found her energy to be quite exhausting. The idea of a long, hot bath was exactly what I needed at the moment, and the more this woman patronized me the longer it would take for that bath to be filled! And so, instinctively, I ceased responding. Almost immediately after I went quiet she bustled over to the bathtub, deciding that it was her duty now to fill up my bath and be done with it. As the hot water was running I took it upon myself to try to get to my feet, deciding that I would have to be mobile one way or another. As Mrs. Turner distracted herself with the bath I pushed my legs towards the end of the bed, allowing my bare feet to touch down onto the hardwood floor and support whatever pressure I could push down with. After I was satisfied with that I grabbed hold of the bedpost, and with a great heave I threw myself out of the bed. There may have been more delicate ways of trying to walk, and I learned the hard way that an aggressive shove was not the best way of going about it. Almost as soon as I could comprehend being upright I immediately spilled over onto the floor, and before I knew it that woman was hovering above me and pulling at my wobbling limbs, trying to at least get me into a chair for the meantime.
"Oh you clumsy boy!" she was taunting, pulling me up against the dresser so that I could at least regain my sense of direction.
"Trying to walk." I admitted in the shortest of words, keeping my breath quick and my intentions transparent.
"Well I could tell that much! Though you don't seem terrible successful, do you? Wait a little while, dear, your legs don't remember your weight." Mrs. Turner insisted.
"Well then, I suppose you'll be tasked with carrying me then." I muttered quietly, deciding with some irritation that she didn't trust me on my own two feet.
"Oh dear, you may be thin as a stick but I couldn't even attempt to lift you. Mr. Trevor has been very helpful in that regard." She chuckled. "I can give you a hand, though. A shoulder to lean on."
"Victor has been carrying me around all this time?" I wondered quietly, remembering the feeling of being moved about in the first couple of moments. I remembered him as he carried me from the street, but beyond that I could only remember being in one place and then the other, without any contemplation of having been moved. Did that mean through all of this time, all of this manhandling, it had been Victor himself that displaced me?
"Do call him by his proper title, dear." Mrs. Turner entreated, giving me a rather shaking hand up to my feat, in which I could cling onto the furniture until my useless limbs could adjust to the reposition. Before long I could stand without aid, though it was Mrs. Turner who undressed me and helped me settle into the warm water once more. She reminded me a lot of my mother, back in the times when my life had such a helpful womanly figure present. She was sweet like that woman, who had died before I could ever properly remember her features. All I know of my mother I had created in my own head, though if that ideal woman had aged she may very well have turned into the gentle creature who now sat scrubbing soap suds through my hair, pulling a bit harshly upon my curls until the knots gave way. I sat mulling in the water, staring at the many bubbles that separated my body from the outside world, considering now what my presence in Victor Trevor's house could mean. I was to be his ward, then? From what little I knew of that word I could only assume it meant something of an adopted child, though I could hardly stand to live under such a title. Victor had to be only ten years my elder, certainly I could not agree to being looked upon as his son! My father had been a disappointing man, and I wasn't quite prepared to suffer that same treatment with someone I adored so highly. I did not know what I intended my relationship to be with Victor, though the idea of being nothing but his ward put a terribly sour taste in my mouth. I had not crawled over here to be treated as the child of the house; no I sought to be his apprentice! I wanted to grow to be his equal, in poetry and in emotion; I wanted to be closer to Victor than I ever had been with a person before! Love wandered in and out of my mind like a fleeting possibility, though the longer I focused on it the more I began to worry. Certainly love would not be an option, not if he had carried me all this way to treat me like a son. But what, what did he want from me in return for his hospitality? He understood now that I was all he had; he had already assured that I would be allowed into his house! It was up to me, then, to make my being here worth it. It was my job entirely to figure out how to repay him for his kindness, If not in cash then in something far more precious. 

 When I was finally able to walk, it was time for me to join my host for dinner. Mrs. Turner had offered me clothes, however as none of Victor's clothes would fit me properly I resorted to wearing the same fabrics that had been frozen onto my body all those nights before. I was shocked at how soft the clothes had become, how warm they could possibly be. My strength had come back if only marginally, enough at least for me to descend the stair case through the magnificent house and find my way towards the dining room. Victor's house seemed to be a rather narrow home with many stories, for while I descended the stairwell from the first floor I was still aware that another floor was looming above me, ready for more guests should they make themselves available. The most had been made with the space that was given, and the entire house was painted white, black floors and trim contrasting in a most artistic way. All around the house were flowers and bird cages, as if Victor had tried to contain as much of nature into his own home as he could possibly fit. The sweet aroma of the roses coupled beautiful with the chirping of the robin, and before long my decent onto the lower floor felt more like reappearance into the natural world than it did into the dining room. I felt reborn, in a way, and as my fingers glided upon the smooth mahogany railing I felt a sort of power I had never been gifted with before. There was a certain freedom that came with escape, a worthiness you never knew you had until you broke out of the constraints of those who controlled you. Without Mycroft on my back I was ready to face the world, weightless and free, as if I had been welcomed into the world anew and at my prime. I felt virtually glowing with power, and I followed the sound of a record playing softly before at last I neared the doorway, figuring that where the music was playing I should follow. Though when at last I found the dining room table I felt as though it had fallen over on top of me, for what should have been my first night with Victor seemed to have exploded harshly in my face. All of the sudden I realized that I was not as special as I assumed, for when I neared into that dining room I saw that I was not alone. Nor was my host. 

"Sherlock, on your feet at last!" Victor exclaimed, looking anxious to get to his feet if his hand had not been restrained by a more tempting force. There was a man sitting next to him, a man I recognized only from the opera all those days ago. Both men stayed seated, and I was forced to take a seat opposite of what I could only describe now as my competitor, a man already having beaten me so it would seem. He was beautiful in his own way, though within the smooth lines of his pale face I saw an evilness that repelled me. He looked cunning, as if he was already planning on how he would boast for his invitation to the house, an invitation that he had not invented with his own disease. He was a proper guest of the house, while I was a mere burden.
"This is James Moriarty; I suppose you met him at the opera?" Victor presumed, leaning slightly in towards the stranger as if to establish his control of the man.
"Yes I um...yes good to meet you again." I muttered.
"I have taken Sherlock in, as my ward. He wishes to be a poet." Victor explained, smiling towards James as if he was showing off his new pet. Perhaps that was his purpose in having me here, a redeeming factor or a humanizing possession. I was to him just like these chortling birds or these blooming flowers, a thing of beauty that was to be preserved in captivity. My heart trembled, for this very man's presence gave me the shocking realization that all I assumed of Victor Trevor, his affection or interest in me, well it was all made up within my head.
"Well I assure you, you are learning from the best. Victor actually taught me a couple of tricks, but I admit I never got the hang of it. Admittedly I'm more of a story teller." The man admitted, sighing as if that was some great burden. I nodded quickly, noticing that he used Victor's first name without the host's interjection, something I had been told immediately never to do. Well that was the end of it, was it not? That was the end.
"I am just beginning." I said quietly, feeling my stomach turning in disgust as the stranger fixed his eyes upon me, his black eyes. Victor seemed very entertained by him, and for a little moment he watched as their fingers turned within each other, interrupted only by the serving staff arriving with the plates of dinner. As sick as their intimacy made me feel, the sight of food allowed me to regain some sort of strength and willpower. I was able to focus entirely on the meal which was being served, things of the utmost delicacy, and thankfully was able to tune out their small conversations.
"How does a poet make money, Victor? I know you have a book, but such luxuries do not come with the mere pension." James wondered as he enjoyed the food.
"Well I had an inheritance, though poets are profitable in many ways. Books are one things, newspapers pay for individual poems, and clubs pay for readings. Along with that there's the lovely donations from fans, as well as selling mementos and things like that, if you really are desperate." Victor admitted with a little sigh.
"There's one other thing you could sell, something I'm sure would be quite popular." James muttered, his eyes alight with a naughty humor as Victor shushed him, yanking his hand away at last. I kept my eyes down, filling my stomach with as much food as I could handle in an effort to get away from this strange intrusion upon my new home. I didn't want to listen to James talk any longer, he sickened me. I could only hope that victor felt the same way, though a part of me suspected that it wasn't James's skills in conversation that Victor admired. I remember him telling me at the club, that not all bachelors are lonely. Well, as a bachelor himself, he must be perfectly accompanied at all times. I was not alone in my preference of partners; I was surrounded by men with the same inclinations. It would seem, however, that despite our shared preferences I still would never be enough. Too young, too scrawny, too scared. Oh it was not the intimacy I wanted from Victor, it was merely the attention. He could be free to love anyone he wanted, so long as I had the firm commitment that I would forever remain as his most prized companion. I wanted him to cherish me, perhaps not in all connotations of the word but in enough to make it worth my while. I wanted to be special to him, though at the moment I felt quite akin to any filth he had dragged home on the bottom of his shoe. When I finished my dinner I saw no more of my host, nor of his companion.