The brothers swam for some time before at last their welcoming party was able to catch up to them. No one in the house knew where to find them, and so it was actually quite a surprise to see two figures standing upon the shore and waving madly, both looking relieved just to have spotted their masters on this gigantic plot of property. Sherlock, who had been lying comfortably upon his back on the top of the current, suddenly sunk his body under the water and kept his chest submerged, remembering with a jolt that it was his undressed form which would give away the secret he was trying most to protect. Certainly his wounds were not all healed, and what would he have to say for himself if John Watson recognized his own bite pattern upon his boss's shoulder? It would be too much to explain, and so for the time being Sherlock kept all but his head hidden under the murky depths of the trustworthy river. From where he floated he could see the look of relief upon John's face, the tutor now wringing his hands together when he noticed that he had at last caught his due attention.
"Mr. Holmes, we thought you were dead!" John called out frantically, scrambling down the grassy shoreline and staying put upon the rocky shore. Every now and then a movement from the Holmes brothers would send water flushing up the shoreline and splashing upon the tutor's shoes, though for the moment he seemed much too preoccupied to mind.
"Dead?" Sherlock clarified. "Why on earth would you think that?"
"Well you didn't show up from work last night." John explained carefully, looking back up towards Victor as if to make sure the other servant could back up his rather ridiculous claims.
"That's enough to speculate a missing person, not a murder." Sherlock corrected.
"Thankfully you are neither." John managed with a little chuckle. Sherlock dared a small smile, though he quickly spat it away when his parted teeth allowed a good amount of river water to work its way into his mouth. Mycroft swam to the shore, silent up until the point when he scrambled out of the water and steadied himself upon dry shore.
"Have you got a towel, Mr. Watson?" Mycroft wondered, standing with his hands settled upon his hips and demonstrating the most unflattering angle of his bare stomach. John swallowed a bit uncomfortably, looking back towards Sherlock as if expecting an answer to be put into his mouth by the more educated of the two. Sherlock merely pursed his lips, letting his feet float from the bottom as he swaying his palms back and forth in the water, keeping himself afloat and protected long enough to watch the events unfold.
"No, sir I don't." John said at last.
"Sir." Mycroft muttered with a grin. "Somehow Sherlock always manages to find the most polite help."
"Excuse me, but I'm polite." Victor defended, materializing from the lawn and waving his hand around as if to call attention to himself once more.
"Give me your jacket, Victor." Mycroft demanded, turning his attention back to his valet and flashing a cold look from behind his black, soulless eyes.
"It won't fit you." Victor snarled.
"You call yourself polite?" Mycroft scowled. "Give me your jacket, and don't talk back!"
"Fine." Victor muttered a bit miserably, standing upon the shore and yanking the sleeves of his jacket free from his arms. Eventually he balled the thing up and threw it in Mycroft's general direction, looking almost satisfied when the jacket hit the dirt instead of the man's arms as intended. Mycroft gave some choice words, though finally he scooped the jacket from the beach and crumbled it up in his arms.
"The perfect towel." Mycroft announced thankfully, proceeding to rub the fabric up and down his arms so as to soak up the water droplets which were falling in long drops down the length of his excess skin.
"John, give me yours." Sherlock decided at last, with no intentions of using it as a towel. Instead he knew he had to find some garment with which to cover himself, and if they were going around taking advantage of their servant's dress this would have to do.
"It's...well yes of course." John muttered apprehensively, though without another thought he began to tear the jacket from his shoulders in his urgency to please.
"I know it's your best." Sherlock assured softly. "I don't intend to ruin it, just to wear it."
"Thank you." John managed, stepping closer to the water and dipping his toes into the river just so that he could gently toss the garment across the water and into his master's hands. Sherlock caught the thing perfectly, just managing to yank it above his head before any of the sleeves dangled too far into the water below. Sherlock thought for some moments, realizing that his bare arms were extended and already drawing too much attention from John's wandering eyes. He could not emerge in such a showy fashion, lest john notice each and every detail he was trying to hide.
"Do you mind averting your eyes?" Sherlock suggested at last.
"Are you naked?" John asked with a gasp, as if he hadn't even considered such a possibility before now.
"No, no I'm just..."
"Modest." Mycroft assured, patting John on the back with one of his large wet hands. "He doesn't like audiences."
"Yes, that's it." Sherlock agreed quickly, squinting suspiciously at his brother as if trying to figure out why he would so willingly steal the words out of his mouth. Mycroft merely chuckled, chomping down on the air as if to mimic the exact wound Sherlock was sporting upon his shoulder. Sherlock scowled, though he was happy to see John shuffle away to face the house, looking over towards Victor so as to allow his boss his promised privacy. No one else did the honor of turning, and yet Sherlock knew that the secrets he was attempting to hide were already buried deep into their consciousness. Mycroft and Victor knew every detail about his life, so much so that he needn't bother trying to hide anything. Sherlock emerged from the water from the waist up, trying to shake off his arms in an attempt to save John's coat from getting too dirtied in the process. No matter his efforts Sherlock found that he was still dripping as he pulled the coat around his chest, nearly ripping the fabric in his attempts to pull it substantially around his shoulders to protect his most vulnerable areas. Of course Sherlock never anticipated John's size being a factor, and yet he found with some disappointment that the jacket would not button, nor would it stretch properly to his waist line. Instead Sherlock emerged from the water wearing what looked like a cropped shirt, exposing all the way up to his navel and allowing a length of his chest to be exposed between the opposing lengths of fabric. It was an embarrassing fit, yet thankfully Sherlock was able to keep his wounds hidden and his chest more or less concealed. He left most to the imagination, which was all he needed at the moment.
"Thank you, Mr. Watson." Sherlock muttered, his bare feet stepping upon the shore and digging into the sharp edges of unforgiving stones. John turned excitedly, his eyes finding his master's as a smile broke out upon his face. It would seem as though the tutor was overcome with some sort of emotion, one which Sherlock would later recognize as relief. Relief perhaps for his paycheck, or for his job security. Relief that was not rooted in his care for his boss, just in fact for the job itself. Though in the moment Sherlock caught the full force of that emotional gaze, his wide eyes absorbed each and every tremble of the opposing man's heart. And in that moment, oh in that foolish moment, he thought he recognized some of the same feelings which were floating in his own body. He used those eyes as mirrors, not as windows, and as such he thought he caught a glimpse of deep admiration, of blind exaltation...of strange and experimental love. Sherlock's breath caught in his throat, and for that moment in time he found himself caught between lunging forward and falling backwards. Had there not been an audience he might have taken John Watson within his arms, he might have pulled him into an embrace and held him until his fingers grew tired and his legs grew numb. Though with the pure surprise of it all Sherlock also felt the need to stumble back into the water, falling back first into the stream and sink to the depths so as to hide his shame and protect every emotion which was beginning to surface. He knew he was under a microscope, not so much from the oblivious John Watson but instead from his brother's ever wandering black eyes and Victor's spotlights from above on the grass. They could see straight past Sherlock's facial expressions and directly into his mind. They could notice every quiver of his heart and which direction it was pointing. They could watch his eyes widen and read everything which his soul was trying to suppress. And he tried to hide it, he tried to look away, cast his eyes down towards his bare feet and ignore what was beginning to grow like a parasite within his chest. A feeling, a terrible feeling...all together unfamiliar. What could he do except step away and ignore it? Sherlock turned his head away, beginning to step up from the gravel and settle his feet upon the soft grass. He did not say another word to John Watson, and yet he could feel the tutor's eyes following him as he made his way past Victor and off towards the house. Sherlock wanted to look back, though he kept his eyes forward all the same. 

Sherlock had always considered Mycroft's home to have many similarities to a bleak old graveyard, one which was carefully maintained and yet hardly ever visited by the families of the dead. The walls were papered with the same gray which would be found upon the rotting stones, with names lost to weathering and dates long forgotten. Just as a cemetery's grass paths were kept clear, so too where the carpets new and the halls fresh, well maintained for none but the passing feet of the few servants, those who lingered about when their master was away on his numerous business trips. And the silence, well the silence was the most striking feature of the entire estate. A building large enough to hold an army, and yet now put into use for only two visitors at most, that is if you didn't include the master of the house as a visitor to his own estate. He lived within the silence which would be found when you wandered alone in a forgotten cemetery, with faces watching from the ground or from the dusty oil paintings secured on their brass hooks. You were always caught in silence and yet you knew you were never quite alone. It had the same haunting feeling, as if every nerve was alight and ready to fire, as if ever muscle was tense and ready to run. Sherlock had always felt incredibly uncomfortable within the cold, gloomy walls of his brother's country estate, and tonight really was no different. Tonight the air was perfumed with the scent of cigar smoke, curls of white erupting from either end of their lingering cigars, flashing them around in the air more than they ever did position them between their lips. The four men had arranged themselves in the front sitting room, a large and expensively decorated area where the furniture was hardly sat upon and the carpets hardly tread. Sherlock always found himself feeling like he was the first to ever sink into the springs of his favorite armchair, as it squeaked and hesitated to hold even his minimal weight after so many months of dormancy. John was positioned on the couch closest to the fire, sitting upon the farthest end so that he could lean his elbow upon the armrest and keep away from the rather aggressive heat that was issuing from the iron hearth. Mycroft and Victor shared a loveseat, sitting rather close to each other but playing it off as if they weren't all together aware. While the men on the other side of the room could very easily see that their legs were brushing and their fingers were dancing within the other's palm it seemed as though everyone chose to ignore it, as if such intimacy was just another feature of this estate that could be chalked down as a preferred normality. In fact nothing was considered strange within these walls, the rules which Mycroft enforced were little to nothing when playing upon frowned upon and even criminal desires. The seclusion of the house, the silence of the few servants, and the lawlessness of the master made the estate a cesspool of bad decisions, one which would offer a safe haven for a man who wished to hide a body, or even a man who wished to seduce another. Love was never off limits, and as their cigars began to succumb to ash and the whiskey bottle began to drain it seemed as though love was the next and most logical step. There was no other light save for the fire, projecting dancing flickers upon the walls and forcing the shadows to move all about in strange patterns, flashing upon the men's faces and illuminating them in the pale orange which was characteristic of such startling flames. Sherlock kept his fingers clenched tightly around his cigar, though he really didn't enjoy the taste or the sensation of smoke. Instead he let it smolder at his side, snubbing off as much ash as he could whenever he felt it necessary and blowing a couple of smoke clouds just to pass it off as if he was enjoying it. In reality he wished to toss the foul thing into the fire and wash his mouth out with a fine red wine, though the cigars were one of Mycroft's most precious collectors, ones which cost too much to mere discard. Oh he never would understand it, the difference between a good cigar and a bad one! In Sherlock's mind every puff from every thick roll of tobacco was distasteful, no matter the nationality or the price tag. No one spoke for a long while, a silence which Sherlock felt comfortable within and yet one in which Mr. Watson was growing more and more impatient. The man continually shuffled about upon his couch, at times leaning forward with a breath to see if such a position would spark the attention of others who wished to begin speaking. While he made a move to talk he never did utter a sound, because when he called attention to himself each man gave him a passing look, bored and exhausted with their languid eyes, and the tutor fell back upon his couch in defeat. The clock had struck ten before anyone had voiced a single opinion, which when in the company of Mycroft really did amount to be quite a feat. Sherlock was not used to his brother sitting so idly back, enjoying the mere touch of a person rather than the intellectual or business conversations he could be having. Victor had cast a very strange spell upon the man; one that Sherlock had first understood as physical though one which was morphing with every passing day. The more Sherlock studied the pair the more he began to realize that Victor was no longer a valet, no in fact he was acting as more of a wife for the older Holmes brother. He was at his side all hours of the day and night, he was trusted with family and business secrets alike, he was invited to the dinner table and to the bed without a hesitation on either side. Victor was, as foul as he was in personality and mannerisms, perfectly irreplaceable to Mycroft Holmes. And as Sherlock studied the way the two were positioned, leaning into the other as if satisfied merely with the slight pressure, well it did seem as though they fit together as tightly as any two puzzle pieces could manage. Two half men, deceitful beings, connected to make one perfect demon. With the strike of the clock Sherlock began to realize how strange it was for him to be sitting alone in an armchair, alone and fully dressed at this time of night. By now he might have managed two or three costumers, with a whole night of entertaining left to go. And yet he sat here untouched and content, with only the cigar to feel disgusted with. No men hanging over him, no men pressed against him, no men on his skin or in his hair or in his arms. It was a strange feeling, made even stranger by his body's initial reaction to the loneliness. It was as if he had gotten in some sort of sexual rhythm, one which fit into his schedule more like a routine than an actual job. He wasn't disappointed at this loneliness and yet some of his more sensitive nerves were beginning to wonder what was missing, they were beginning to call out for their usual excitement. He could feel his neck tingling with the absence of any lips, his hands strangely empty as they were clutched only by the thin lines of smoke issuing from the end of the cigar. And his heart, while it remained steady in his chest, began to look around the room with eyes of its own, as if trying to find a costumer within their small group, one which would entertain him enough for the time of night. Though while his heart searched Sherlock kept his head down, figuring it might be healthy to pass a night without forcing himself to appear amused. Perhaps tonight would be a good one to focus on recovering from all the past evenings wasted to such a taxing and humiliating occupation. Though as fate would have it he was still sitting in the proximity of two paying customers, one of which who was always looking to slide a dollar into a pocket after a couple of glasses of whiskey.
"Sherlock you don't look to be enjoying your cigar." Mycroft declared at last, his black eyes finally noticing as Sherlock squished the thing just about as hard as he could into the ash tray, trying to break off the entire chunk in order to shorten it to a more polite stump.
"I've never enjoyed cigars, but you keep feeding them to me." Sherlock pointed out.
"You don't enjoy anything which is fun." Victor taunted, curling his lips around his own and inhaling quite deeply, his blue eyes shining into Sherlock's from across the room. Sherlock sneered, finally casting his cigar aside onto the ashtray to make it some else's problem from now on.
"Our tastes are different, Victor. You find pleasure in things which most of humanity disregard as distasteful." Sherlock reminded him, his eyes cast now in Mycroft's direction as if to personally call Victor out for his taste in partner. Victor chuckled, leaning even heavier into Mycroft's shoulder as if he was proudly claiming ownership over his master. Mycroft sneered, feeling as though the spotlight was shining a little too brightly upon them. Victor sighed heavily, though he took the hint and alleviated some pressure.
"Pleasure can be found everywhere; you just have to know where to look." Victor sighed. Sherlock nodded, though for the show of it he allowed his eyes to close for a moment, trying to display that his idea of a good time was complete nothingness. After so many years of 'pleasure' he found that there was nothing better than being left alone and in silence, untouched and unnoticed for the rest of his days. No costumers, no railroads, no reporters...just nothing.
"What about you, Mr. Watson, do you enjoy the distasteful things?" Victor wondered, his fingers dancing upon the end of his cigar before at last drawing it into his mouth with a grin.
"If you mean this cigar, well I find it's quite manageable." John admitted, looking about to each of the gazes he was met with, as if to try to make sure he has spoken correctly and given a satisfactory answer. Sherlock braved a small nod, as if to encourage the man to continue on with his conversations. He liked to see the tutor fitting in, even if it was a group of most detestable companions.
"I did not just mean the cigar." Victor admitted, his eyes sparkling as he dropped his own cigar back into the ashtray, saving it for later as if something much more important had come up. The man instead brought his fingers to his lips, curling his pointer finger into his bottom lip and giving a smirk out the other side, as if demonstrating how delightful his skin might taste in the mouth of another. Sherlock cast a side eye to John, seeing how the man might be reacting to such an obvious move of flirtation. As expected there was not much of a difference between the tutor and the flaming coals which were hot in the grate, both burning red and smoking under the intense heat of the moment.
"Victor you have introduced me to most of my distasteful vices." John reminded him, his voice trembling as he glanced nervously upon his employer. His deep eyes locked with Sherlock's, flashing with vulnerability and the quick fear of a shattered reputation. Sherlock, who felt rather guilty for being caught staring, merely waved his hand carelessly through the air, as if to assure John that his past and present would be morally forgiven if anything was exposed tonight. Another thing about Mycroft's house was the power it had, the power to draw the wickedness out of men like one would seep poison from a wound. It peeled away their pleasant outer coverings and revealed the raw, unfiltered intentions. Perhaps it was the pressure applied, the deep gaze of the most careless company, though Sherlock began to wonder if even John would begin spilling his soul for their consideration.
"Yes I know." Victor agreed with a large sigh, running his fingers through his hair before settling his elbow upon the chair and resting his head within his hand. The man slouched over completely, as if his muscles had grown too tired to support the rest of his body, his eyes fixing upon Sherlock and melting with the growing passion. Victor was becoming restless, and when he found that Mycroft would not satisfy him in this moment he instead turned his attention to the men on the other side of the room, those with the more cautious eyes.