"How was your dinner tonight my Lord?" Victor wondered, glancing over at him quickly as if trying to predict his response just by the look on his face. Sherlock let his head fall back onto the rim of the bathtub with a heinous look on his face, running his wet hand through his curls and leaving them to droop damply across his clammy forehead.
"Did you not see?" Sherlock wondered, craning his neck to glance at Victor as the boy arranged himself on his little stool, the numerous bottles of shampoo cluttering the tiles at his feet.
"Did I see what?" Victor wondered as he very softly began to run his fingers through Sherlock's curls, wetting his fingers in the bath before pulling the moisture through Sherlock's hair with the delicacy that was always appreciated.
"Well I'm glad you do not know Victor, surely you would have been disgusted if you had witnessed it." Sherlock admitted in a breath, closing his eyes for a moment and feeling a repulsive gag begin to creep up his throat as the memory of Molly's kiss resurfaced in his mind. Victor's fingers tensed for a moment, and Sherlock could almost feel the sudden nervous tremors of his heart. Surely the worst possible scenario had jumped to Victor's mind, and yet Sherlock couldn't even pretend to guess what that might be.
"Was Mr. Watson being uncivilized?" Victor wondered as he finally lathered up his hands in shampoo and began to rub it into Sherlock's scalp, making Sherlock close his eyes in satisfaction. He always enjoyed Victor washing his hair, it was something of a guilty pleasure, another task he had his servant perform that was most likely looked down upon from the upper class point of view.
"No it wasn't John; oh in fact John's presence was just lovely. But no, the most memorable event was certainly my interaction with Ms. Hooper at the end of the night." Sherlock admitted heavily, quivering to the point where the water trembled under the layer of bubbles that surrounded him.
"Oh Ms. Hooper? I rather thought she might be pushed to the side after the arrival of Mr. Watson?" Victor guessed with a rather hopeful tone of voice.
"Are you suggesting they are substitutions for one another?" Sherlock wondered with a genuine sense of confusion.
"Oh no, no not at all my Lord. I just suspected that one may grow to...overshadow the other." Victor admitted, talking as if he had suspicions that he would like to be confirmed. Sherlock hummed disappointedly, shaking his head and accidently yanking on Victor's fingers that were still submerged in his tangled curls.
"No, in fact Victor, I kissed her." Sherlock admitted heavily, closing his eyes in horror and anticipating Victor's troubling response. Sherlock felt Victor's fingers fall away from his curls, falling as if he didn't even recognize the man whose hair he washed, and for a moment Sherlock couldn't hear so much as a breath from the boy that perched behind him.
"My Lord..." Victor whispered, the only two words that he could seem to force out of his gaping mouth. Sherlock hid his face behind his pruning hands, nodding in shame and trying to think of the best way to explain himself. Surely the way it had actually happened couldn't be explained, no the less people that knew about this whole suspected homosexuality (that's it, that's the word!) the better. Surely Sherlock couldn't have Victor wondering, surely he couldn't have him hoping...
"It wasn't like that Victor, she rather forced my hand. She accused me of not being in love with her, which of course I'm not, and then she accused me of, um, never going to fall in love. Ever. And so I tried to prove her wrong, it was a petty move but it seemed to work." Sherlock admitted.
"Oh my Lord how could you ever dare to lead that poor woman on like that? Surely she took your advances to be legitimate?" Victor whispered nervously, his fingers retuning to Sherlock's hair without moving whatsoever, almost as if he had gone paralyzed with surprise.
"I do not know what came over me Victor, every nerve in my body quivers in disgust, in repulsion, in regret! I should not have kissed her Victor, I wished my lips to stay untouched by any woman who proved to be unworthy and yet I have failed once again! Oh I wish I could erase the memories, erase these imperfections!" Sherlock exclaimed in a whining wail.
"Who do you wish your lips to be kissed by?" Victor wondered softly, making Sherlock's body go rigid once more. In a moment a face flashed into his mind and yet he quickly pushed it aside, no, he should not be thinking like that, especially not a time like this. Those thoughts, those speculations, they were sinful, they were preposterous!
"When I have that answer Victor, I will surely tell you." Sherlock promised with a rather glazed look in his eyes, his mind desperately trying to push away the strange sensation that had overcome him on the water front, with his feet in the ocean and his heart jumping from his chest.
"And what of John Watson? Did he prove to be a good guest?" Victor wondered, tapping Sherlock's head finally to signal for him to submerge his head under the water. Sherlock obediently took a deep breath and plunged himself under the bubbles, emerging with a gasp as he desperately tried to clear the stinging fumes and aromas from his eyes. When finally Sherlock rearranged himself on the rim of the bathtub he simply shrugged, thinking to the occurrences they had experienced, the conversation they had...
"He was like most other guests I suppose, with an added layer of interest that couldn't help but spark my curiosity." Sherlock admitted in a breath. Victor nodded in disappointment, his fingers brushing ever so carefully against Sherlock's hairline once more, touching gently against Sherlock's forehead as if by accident.
"Curiouser and curiouser I'm afraid." He agreed in a breath.

Victor POV: Victor paged through a couple of letters that were written and ready to send on Sherlock's desk while he waited for his master to dress and return to him. This may be some sort of invasion of privacy, however Victor was growing to wonder who Sherlock had been keeping in touch with over the last couple of days. John's arrival at the dinner had been an anticipated one; however Victor was still yet to discover how he had received an invitation in the first place. He couldn't help but suspect that Sherlock had snuck out during the night to hand deliver it, and derived from that suspicion came a whole new branch of fears, the fear of losing Sherlock for good. What was Sherlock hiding from him, what secrets lurked in the silences that dotted their conversations like punctuation, what had convinced him to kiss Molly Hooper and who else has those lips kissed prior to her? There had always been secrets between them, however those secrets were completely housed from Victor's point of view, the secret of his infatuation, the secret of his love for the one man who he could never have. However the arrival of this John Watson into their lives has brought about a whole new layer of secrets, a new wall constructed between them in Sherlock's desperate attempts to keep the secrets of his heart protected from whatever judgments Victor was going to have. If Sherlock's secret was his love for John Watson then of course Victor was not going to think badly of him, in fact if Sherlock admitted such a love it would be a lot easier for Victor to cough up his own secrets, a man's love for a man certainly wasn't strange if another man shared the same passions. Whatever it was, Victor wouldn't find it strange at all, in fact it seemed only natural for a privileged man with the face of the Heavens to fall for a man that crouched along the streets, there was something of a dominance complex that Sherlock had adopted over the years, preying on the lesser in an attempt to be worshipped like the God he ultimately believed he was. And Victor played to that; he bowed his head and dropped to his knees in an attempt to submit completely to the man who would get satisfaction from stepping on him. And yet that was what he was paid to do, in the end, and money aside he would do exactly the same thing, for Sherlock was made to be worshipped and the citizens were made to bow to him. Victor knew that he had no power over the man despite their financial situations, Sherlock's beauty outranked all the mortals and so he should be their savior, why everyone else didn't bow to him was beyond Victor's comprehension. And yet John...this curious Mr. Watson...surely he would not be so humble? Victor hadn't known the man for long, and in fact in the time he did know him he wasn't paying much attention, however from the few instances he had witnessed John Watson seemed to be the type to think himself equal to all men, despite their looks or their money. For a simple shoe shiner to so much as attend a dinner with the elite members of society was daring enough, however he sat at their table and conversed with them as if he wasn't at all daunted by their state of dress or their shiny golden rings, or their abundance of servants that easily had better paychecks than he himself did. Surely that poor man was under the assumption that being the same species made everyone equals, and therefore he wouldn't bow, he wouldn't respect, well he wouldn't even follow an order from the man who may just have given him his heart! And to think...Sherlock's poor, trembling body in the hands of that ruffian, the man that wouldn't cherish him, or cradle him, or speak in the softest of words, oh it was almost too much to bear! Did Sherlock not anticipate the horror he was mindlessly submitting himself to, the abuse? Did he not know the gentleness Victor was willing to provide him with, the softness, the submission? He shall not fall into the calloused hands that were only outstretched so they could twist his heart and empty his pockets, no Victor would not let him! He would not allow it! The bathroom door opened and Sherlock stepped out, draped in his blue bathrobe with his curls dripping slow water drops down his face every so often. His pale skin shone and his eyes were heavy with exhaustion, however he stepped into the dim lighting of the bedroom and nearly took Victor's breath away. Surely the servant must be used to this now, the dramatic entrance of a God walking along the earth, however despite the repetition of Sherlock's bouts of beauty Victor still couldn't think of a thing to say. He stepped away from the desk and trembled over to his master, who was now trying to brush the water from his dripping curls with the most distracted look in his multicolored eyes.
"What have you been doing?" Sherlock wondered suspiciously, letting his hands fall away from his head as his eyes settled on Victor's lingering feet next to the bed.
"Waiting for you my Lord, nothing more." Victor assured in a breath. Sherlock hummed, although he didn't seem too convinced.
"Not sneaking about I hope? Meddling in things that surely aren't your business?" Sherlock guessed carelessly, striding across the room towards his desk and picking up the papers that Victor had left carefully back in their place.
"You act as though you have secrets to hide." Victor murmured, looking over at Sherlock to see that the man was replacing his papers back on his desk in nervous satisfaction. Obviously he had found nothing to be amiss, however it was obvious that he couldn't help but suspect.
"Secrets, Victor, are a natural part of any man's life. I cannot help but suspect you have plenty as well." Sherlock decided finally, lifting his head up so that he could observe Victor from the highest point of view possible.
"If you have a question my Lord, just ask. Just promise you will answer mine as well." Victor suggested, taking a step forward to which Sherlock could only stay put, trembling in his thin blue dressing gown as it trying to anticipate what kind of question Victor might have waiting on the tip of his tongue.
"I need not submerge myself into your private life Victor, and in showing you that respect I demand the same in return." Sherlock said flatly, to which Victor just smiled softly, teasingly almost, as if daring Sherlock to think up a question he may never ask.
"Fair enough my Lord." Victor agreed.
"I should like to go to bed now, if you would please towel off my hair and brush it I would be most grateful." Sherlock muttered, sitting down in his desk chair and staring at himself in the large mirror that stretched on the wall in front of him. Victor nodded, taking a towel and brush and walking over where Sherlock sat, pleased to once more have reason to run his hand through those ever tempting curls. Victor always fantasized of a day when he should tell Sherlock how he really feels, and those instances even surface in reality; however he shies away from them every single time. Occasionally he thinks of a moment when he could look his master in the eyes, maybe as he was dressing him for the day, or undressing him for bed, or maybe their eyes could meet in the reflection of the mirror and that would suit his needs. There are other times when Victor wishes he didn't have to watch Sherlock's emotions through those galaxies hidden away in his irises, no surely he would like to whisper those three words to the man while he lay in the dark, maybe on nights when the two of them would fall asleep together after a night of talking and laughing, or maybe while he stood behind him, in a moment like right now, when all he had to do was murmur his confession into the curls that he was so lovingly brushing, the water droplets flying from his brush and dotting his clothes. Sometimes Victor thought of writing his confession down and leaving it on Sherlock's desk, other times he thought about writing it in the sand for Sherlock to find when he woke up from his sunbathing, and as the theories got more and more ridiculous Victor began to realize just how ridiculous the idea as a whole must be. To love a man was one thing, to confess to that man was a whole new thing entirely. So what if Victor had feelings for Sherlock, surely Sherlock didn't share the same feelings for him, and if he dared to speak his heart then Sherlock would fire him, he would fire him or he would continue on employing Victor until the awkwardness grew to be too much and the boy quit on his own. A love confession now would be the end of his job, the end of his life! For his connection to Sherlock had grown to be more than just an emotional one, now Victor felt as though their hearts were connected, their bodies forged together so that a separation would be sure to kill him. No he could never dare such an escape, he could never dare the loneliness Sherlock's absence would bring about. Victor relied on him not only for life but for love as well, for admiration and for longing, for secrets kept and secrets pondered, for a warm bed and a warm bath and soggy oatmeal provided at the break of dawn. There was no Victor without Sherlock; however he was beginning to realize, with agonizing clarity, that Sherlock would certainly be able to live on without him.

     Victor was up at his normal time, crawling out of bed around four o'clock with the rest of the servants in their barrack like living space. The makeshift bedroom was at the very end of the house, down a nearly deserted wing with two or three bedrooms filled completely with bunk beds and tables. The more elite members of the staff, like Mrs. Hudson and their head butler Mr. Gregson, had their own rooms just down the hall, however the meager staff like the coachmen, the butlers, and the cooks all had to share these dingy little rooms together, laying on mattresses suspended by coiled rope right below the painted ceiling. It wasn't the worst of living conditions of course, it was always warm when they lit the fire and it was plenty spacious, with large windows to display the stars and night and to filter in the sunlight when it was daytime, and the beds were much better than anything they would have been able to afford on their wages. Certainly the living conditions were just fine; it was the company that Victor didn't particularly care for. He always thought himself above his bunkmates, all those pathetic little butlers and chiefs, all groomed for excellence until the time came when they didn't have to be fancy, when they stripped down to their disgusting cotton underwear and lay around with stubble growing on their chins, complaining about this and that and eventually falling asleep with beer dripping from their noses. They were revolting company, which was partially the reason Victor thought himself above them, however they never seemed to take too lightly to his turning his nose up at them. The men always insisted that he was just the same as they were, simple doormats for the elites to trample on, despite his pretty face and startling youth. Now they had no idea of class, no idea of appreciation, and certainly no idea of love. Victor had never seen a more disgusting and hopeless bunch of men, which was partially the reason Sherlock seemed so beautiful. In comparison that smooth skinned immortal seemed much more favorable than the burping buffoons that talked about women into the break of dawn but probably haven't been with one for a good ten years. Victor was unlike the rest of them simply because he had the heart of an upper class man, he had the style of a rich man and the heart of a romantic, that and he enjoyed getting out of bed. They always howled and groaned like they had been shot, screeching when the curtains were opened and hissing when their feet touched the cold hardwood. Victor descended the ladder and dressed quickly, donning his usual slacks and jacket before doing up his hair as best he could.
"Oh would you shut up!" groaned the man who slept on the bunk below him, an irritable man by the name of Stanley Hopkins. Victor looked over to see Hopkins clutching at his ears with his large, lumpy pillow, as if Victor's hair brushing was simply too loud to bear.
"You should be up alright Stanley, it's four." Victor reminded him as he did up the buttons on his cuffs and preened himself a bit more with hair gel and cologne. He always liked to mold his hair into a sort of swoop across his forehead; it kept his bangs out of his eyes and added to his person sense of style.
"And where do you have to be at four? Sherlock doesn't wake up until ten!" Hopkins groaned, as if Victor's irrational schedule irritated him.
"That has nothing to do with you Stanley; you're a butler, not a servant." Victor reminded him in a mocking tone, the very tone that usually got him beat up on the worst of days.
"Ha, a servant you think? Is that what you call yourself?" Hopkins grumbled, rolling over in his bed so that his hideous bare chest stuck out from under his woolen blanket.
"That is my job description." Victor agreed with a sigh, getting about sick of his constant whining.
"More like a prostitute in a suit." Hopkins murmured sleepily.
"You seriously misunderstand my position Stanley." Victor sighed, shaking his head in disappointment and talking to the poor man as if he was a little child.
"I think I understand your position quite well, nothing more than a boy toy. Bathing him, dressing him, what else do you do, cradle him until he falls asleep?" Hopkins growled.
"He's not a child." Victor muttered.
"Then why does he act like one? He's so dependent on you; does he even know how to brush his own hair?" Hopkins wondered.
"I suppose, Stanley, that you should ask him that for yourself." Victor decided with an air of sarcasm, finally finishing his hair before looking back to see if there was anything else his bunkmate would like to say. It would seem, however, that Hopkins had fallen back to sleep because instead of talking he was simply snoring, gurgling on his own saliva before rolling over and leaking it all onto his horrible stained pillow.