Despite his claims of a liquid lunch I would not allow him to go on starving himself, on the promise that I would pay whatever fee might arise from eating solid food. Well nothing looked very good on the menu, and what they did have seemed to be handwritten on a thin piece of parchment paper, illegible for anyone not trained in the sailor vernacular. In the end we were presented with some strange looking meat pies, and while I pretended to be delighted when the bartender handed them to us I ended up hardly eating a bite. John seemed satisfied, for I could only imagine he was fed things like this on a regular basis when they were at sea. This place must be mimicking their experience below deck, perhaps intentionally.
"I wanted you to look at a poem I had written, a professional opinion would probably do it well." John said at last, pausing in his eating as he summoned a notebook from his pocket and flipped it to the desired page. I hummed, thankful for an excuse to abandon my own food, and grabbed at it in delight. The light was terrible to read by, though I took it upon myself to light the stump of a candle that had been set out on our table, perhaps for use in the evenings when the window provided no such luxury.
"Rather bold to discuss poetry in a place like this. I figure they'd want to talk more about...well fish guts or something." I admitted.
"Not all sailors are so brutish." John warned, in a tone that seemed to me to have taken offense. I looked up at him quickly, though thankfully he didn't seem too hostile.
"Well, I figured they'd have some hostilities in the presence of such...pansies." I muttered, squinting in the candlelight to try to see the words he had written.
"Perhaps we know that word to be a different meaning." John commented, leaning forward a bit suspiciously. I looked up quickly, though upon catching his eye I shrugged automatically and busied myself once more with the notebook.
"That's the word my brother would use." I said at last.
"Poetry is a noble art, Sherlock. What other people think of it shouldn't bother you." John insisted, to which I managed a nod at last. These were dangerous waters, deep and complex. I was being very bold to even approach them with John Watson as my witness.
"No, no certainly they don't bother me. I was just worried, you know. Worried we'd end up in the river." I admitted with a little chuckle. John laughed as well, though admittedly he sounded a bit more nervous than did I. I knew that in such an environment he had much more to lose. I did not know much about the culture of sailors, though I would be willing to guess that they had terrible things in store for a man who seemed to be attracted to other men. Masculinity seemed almost essential around these parts.
"Don't worry about them." John assured me, allowing a smile before insisting I go along to read his poem. I read for a moment, squinting in the dim light to read what the candle would allow. John's writing was small, light, and perfectly neat. It was rather ironic, considering the scrawl that Victor and I used to depict our genius. Though as I read I found that there was a certain genius in this writing as well, as certain insight into a strange topic, one that I had never been so bold to tackle in the public eye. After a moment of reading I went over it again, trying to see just what John had written...
"It's about love." I commented at last, looking up to him to see if my presumption was correct. John managed a smile, nodding very quietly as if he was worried that I didn't find it interesting. Well, contrary to what he might imagine, I thought it was splendid. How someone from his background, a sailor no less, had written something of such magnitude and in such a beautiful language I could not tell. Though what he had left for me here was something else, something that fit up with whatever I had chalked down in my own time. Something comparable even to Victor.
"Do you like it?" John wondered.
"If I'm interpreting correctly it's...well it's fantastic." I admitted at last.
"You're not just saying that?" John clarified, his eyes squinting in some accusation as he leaned forward, obviously worried that I was lying to protect his feelings. I allowed a smile, shaking my head quickly and looking at him with a newfound appreciation. A newfound amazement.
"No I'm not just saying that it's...well it's outstanding. I could line you up with a publisher I could help you make money off of this." I said at last, nodding my head and handing the poem back to John in some urgency, as if trying to make sure he kept it close.
"Well I have no intentions of publishing this, honestly it's private." John admitted. I nodded slowly, thinking about the words he had used to describe his feelings, trying to determine just how private his love may be. It wasn't any direct confession, though now that I thought of it some more he did depict a thick fog, a deceit, a lying man with a good heart. Could it be?
"Privacy gets you nowhere in poetry." I warned, quite hypocritically in fact. I had been too afraid to speak of love, especially in something that may be published. He was brave enough even to write it down, should anyone depict its meaning as I so wanted to believe.
"You have secrets, I'm sure of it." John insisted, folding up his notebook and tucking it safely into his jacket pocket. That made me feel a bit better, knowing that it was secured on his person.
"We all have secrets, though to hide something when your job is to depict yourself transparently...well it is especially hard to hide something. You better have good reason, in this profession." I warned, to which John nodded again.
"Well I'm not in that profession, that's where my advantage is." John pointed out. "I'm a sailor."
"I've never known a sailor to be so flowery in their language." I debated, though not with intentional rudeness.
"You'd be surprised." John warned, swirling what was left of his beer and staring at me very intently. He seemed to admire me, though why on earth he would make such a mistake I could never understand.
"If this is so private, why are you showing me? I mean, take this as you will, such a poem can have many different connotations. Speaking of love is like walking through a field of land mines...you never know when you might blow up." I whispered, to which John just shrugged.
"I figured I could trust you to take the right steps." John assured.
"The right..." I let my voice trail off, noticing now how his hand was placed on the table between on, how it was so open and available. I noticed that he was almost offering it up for my taking; he was assuring me that I was allowed. I managed a breath, my heart might have stopped for that moment as I began to list the pros and cons in my head, trying my best to imagine what could happen to me should I reach out and take it. Test your limits...Victor's voice reminded me in my head that I was here on a mission. I wanted to know what I could get away with, oh it could cost our friendship but that was better than suffering in silence! I had to know, I had to try. Take the right steps. Well, perhaps I was not as indiscreet as I should have been. Perhaps I was not all together nimble, nor smooth in my attempt. All I remember was lunging forward, knocking my plate to the side in my urgency and having it slide rather dangerously towards the other end of the table. With such a commotion I already alerted John of my movements, and so it might have been a surprise to find our hands enclosed a second later. I was instructed to take his hand, not to grab it, though I felt that my grip was as tight as I could manage, squeezing the blood from his fingers in my urgency. My face had paled, my limbs grew heavy...John looked confused.
"Sherlock, you okay?" he whispered at last, obviously noticing now that what eyes were remaining in our company's' heads were all trained on us. Apparently I had caused something of a scene. All at once my hand loosened, I flung away from John and got to my feet abruptly, my head spinning and my heart thumping. I had felt his skin, it was a win. He hadn't pulled away, another win. I had made a fool of myself...well that was certainly a loss.
"I'll pay, I'll...well I have to go." I said anxiously. John got to his feet as well, perhaps trying to stop me in my flight. He could see me for who I was, a blatant fool. A man so caught up in the fairy world he lived in that he was beginning to mix reality with his imagination, finding love where there was none and supplying bravery where there should only be fear.
"John, this man isn't causing you trouble?" one of the men asked from the bar, one of the men who was sporting a wooden leg and tapping it very intimidatingly against the floor from where it hung.
"No he's not. Sherlock you don't have to leave." John insisted, looking as if he wanted to support me in some way but wasn't quite sure what I needed.
"I said I'll pay." I snapped back to the bar, where the men began to chuckle amongst themselves.
"F*ggot money don't go far round these parts." One of them sneered, to which I felt my face go red, staring around at all of the eyes trained on me.
"I'm not...that's..." I could only stammer, looking towards John for any help at all. He seemed astounded, perhaps not just with the accusation but my reaction. An innocent man would be able to articulate his defense, where as I could only mutter fragments. I, who should have been so good with my words! Lost for them. It was all I could do but throw whatever money I could clutch, undoubtedly a sum much higher than what I owe, and threw it down onto the table between us.
"Keep the change." I whispered, and with that I fled. My poor feet couldn't take me far, though I went as fast as I could before at last I erupted into the front door of the only safe haven in this God forsaken city. I fell across the marble floors, slamming the door behind me and collapsing into tears just as soon as my knees hit familiar ground. A failure, oh I may have just ruined any chance I had! John would think the worst of me, my confession, my experimentation, all wasted by a sly remark of some foul sailor at the bar! John knew, oh he must know! And what was he thinking now? Was he getting trouble down at the docks for keeping such company? What would they do if they associated me with him, what would they suspect if they knew of my own orientation? Would they recognize me as the poet, would they slander my name in the papers? Was my career over? Was my freedom lost?
"Sherlock, oh darling what are you doing on the floor?" came Mrs. Turner's desperate voice, calling towards me as she raced down the stairs to meet me.
"I've lost him, Mrs. Turner. I've lost him!" I exclaimed in a strained voice, choked with tears and remorse.
"Who darling, pray tell?" she insisted, kneeling down beside me so as to ease my face off of the cold floor. I later learned that she wasn't protecting my pride, just the floor that she had so recently mopped.
"John Watson!" I yelled, though that name should surely mean nothing to her.
"Alright then." She muttered, easing me up into a sitting position. I was still crying, though when faced with a rational face it was rather hard to remain hysterical. Surely Mrs. Turner didn't know the details; well perhaps she didn't even care. That was exactly what I needed at the moment, a blind optimist.
"You boys and your hysterics." She muttered, patting my damp forehead with her motherly hand as if to calm me down. Despite my tenacity, it was working. My tears stopped, now I just sat trembling and afraid.
"I'm ruined, can't you see? I've given my heart away not just to one, but exposed it to all. I'll be exposed my morning, in jail by midafternoon." I whispered, shaking my head in agony while Mrs. Turner's face turned to some curious concern. Certainly she couldn't take me so seriously, though she was at least kind enough to consider my worst case scenario.
"How many times I have heard such an exclamation, and how many times I'd have to put together bail money that would never be used. Mr. Trevor runs through this house just as frantically as you, worried about his silly little reputation. Well each time I tell him, each time I say "Now Victor, no one cares about your reputation but you." And each time I'm right. Perhaps you've made a fool of yourself, but those witnesses will not speak of it. There is only a fraction of folks who know your name, and each one of them would never betray you with gossip. The artistic community is a frail one, and cannot take so much scandal. Now Sherlock, I'll run you a nice warm bath, and if the police show up I'll stall them enough for you to get dressed." Mrs. Turner offered.
"People are always looking for scandal!" I insisted, not entirely sure why I was fighting against such apparent logic. She was perfectly correct in
"Not those who don't know you are famous enough to cause a kerfuffle." Mrs. Turner reminded me, getting to her feet and attempting to pull me up with her. Well despite my dramatic intentions I allowed myself to follow, figuring that relaxing into a nice bath would not hurt matters at all. I was overly emotional, still with John's skin fresh upon my own and those sailors' eyes still bored into my skull. Even now I felt as if someone was watching me, calculating every move I made, preparing for my downfall and disgrace. At the hands of those few witnesses I could be shattered, and I all I had worked for will be in vain. Just as soon as I had sunken into my bath Victor arrived, interrupting Mrs. Turner's quite intentional use of bubble bath to protect my modesty. I looked up at him through my wet curls, not entirely thrilled to have to relay my story back to him. It was on his suggestions that I had made such mistakes; well surely he was prepared to take some credit for them?
"Pandemonium in my parlor, so I hear." Victor commented, patting Mrs. Turner on the shoulder as a thank you doubling as a farewell. She made a silent fuss, though at last excused herself from the room, leaving the door ajar. Victor did her the liberty of closing it completely, sinking down into a chair and staring at me through his tired blue eyes.
"Well your advice led me astray." I snarled, not holding back on my blatant accusations.
"My advice? How so?" he wondered.
"I tried to take his hand, and in doing so attracted the attention of every witness. I had no choice but to pull away, I had made a scene....he thought I was losing my mind." I admitted at last.
"And who exactly were these witnesses, the birds and bees? I thought you were to take him to a meadow?" Victor clarified.
"No he didn't have the time, it was his lunch break. We went to a sailor bar." I admitted at last, shaking my head as if I was partially responsible for the lack of correct scenery.
"The Rusty Anchor?" Victor presumed, to which I allowed my eyes to open in some amazement.
"How did you know?" I wondered, to which Victor grew slightly red, shaking the question away instinctively.
"Never mind that. What's important here is that I am not to blame, considering your plan of attack went astray. Had you attempted such things in that meadow like you promised, well perhaps things would be different." Victor insisted. I sighed, sinking my head under the bathwater for a moment so as to warm my head and ignore my host all at once. I stayed submerged for a moment, though appeared abruptly when at last my lungs could not sustain me. Victor remained attentive, as if he had grown used to such interruptions during his conversations.
"Do you think they'll go to the police? One of them called me...well I'm sure you're familiar with the word. I dare not repeat it." I admitted quietly, to which Victor hummed quietly.
"It's an accusation, nothing more. You can play this off on the very, very slim chance that it makes it to the newspapers. Which I highly doubt. Besides, I'm not sure John would incriminate you." Victor decided at once.
"Why would he not? I must have frightened him, I mean I admit my approach was not flawless, I sort of grabbed at him." I admitted quietly. "tightly."
"Like that impulsive thing you are I'm sure." Victor sighed.
"I suppose." I whispered, though that certainly didn't help this feeling of guilt.
"Well he did not pull away, no? He did not yell, or push you away?" Victor clarified.
"No, no in fact I seemed much more shaken up about it than he was." I admitted, allowing something of a smile before at last I shuttered, realizing that this still was no laughing matter. We were in danger here, or rather I was. To laugh about it now was to cry about it later, perhaps in a prison cell.
"That is good news, Sherlock. Perfectly good news." Victor assured me, patting my shoulder with some congratulation and getting to his feet at last.
"You think that means he accepted me? That if we had been some place private it would've gone better?" I wondered quickly, daring to hope now that Victor seemed to be optimistic.
"Certainly. It's a straight man's instinct to run when faced with anything they did not wholly appreciate. If John didn't find your advances to be frightening, then certainly you are in business." Victor assured me.
"I've never been in...business. Before." I admitted after a moment's thought, just to make sure we were using the same meaning of such a word. Victor chuckled, shaking his head as if he was so disappointed with me. Perhaps when he took me under his wing he did not understand just how much of a confused burden I would be.
"I can tell you what you do not know. Until then, Sherlock. Enjoy your bath." He insisted, and with that he made his grand exit, shutting the door softly behind him and allowing me to wallow in the hot water, thinking over what had been said and what had been blatantly ignored. Was I really in such a good place that Victor had hope? Well sure, John didn't seem too appalled by my advances but he still didn't try to follow me out. Perhaps he was afraid, just in his own polite sort of way? I was a fool to hope, considering what my last love confession had done to my first real friendship. I had lost Tobias to time; a boy who I thought would stay by my side forever! Could that really happen with John, could I overstep my boundaries and lose sight of what really matters? To declare my love was like shooting blindly at an apple positioned over my own head. I could very well hit my mark, enjoy the splendors of love and admiration, and spend the rest of my life in the arms of a man I so wholly adored. On the contrary I might hit myself, splattering my brains on the sidewalk and breaking my heart in consequence. I might lose my John Watson the moment I decided to take my shot, never realizing the full consequences of my actions before they turned deadly. Was it a shot I was willing to take, a risk that was worth the gamble? I must ask myself now, as I sat pruning in this bubble bath, if John's love was something I would lose his friendship over. If I cherished him as much as I thought I did, why not keep him close and oblivious? Was it worth potentially losing him forever, all for the sake a little bit more proximity? I was at a loss, deceived by my own obliviousness and concerned for my wellbeing as well as his. I had so much to lose these days, not just from his rejection but by anyone who knew enough to snitch to the papers. There could be a media firestorm, an attack against my character that is enough to send me away! Mrs. Turner claims that Victor had feared the same, though this was different, wasn't it? I'm sure any reporter would be much too scared to confront him, or to frame him for anything. Victor wore an air of confidence, a trait that I could never quite learn from him. He knew more about the world, how to manipulate it in ways I was too afraid to try. If ever he was convicted he could probably talk his way out of it, but me? Well I would probably break down in tears. And that was not how I wanted my career to end, in tears and shame. I was to be a public figure, adored! Not some sorry pansy locked away for letting his secret lose. Though it was worth it...it was worth it. I hope that John Watson appreciates the position he had put me into, just understanding the mental battle I was struggling with was confession enough! I wish that he could see into my mind, see all the worry he was causing me. Then again, considering his poem from this afternoon...perhaps he was worrying with all the same problems I was. Perhaps we were similar, in that regard. Perhaps we were both scared, both with too much to lose on the account of some love affair.