Victor writhed in disgust and bolted out of the room, closing the door behind him and making his way down the velvet carpeted hallway and pausing at the beautiful carved door that was Sherlock's, pressing his ear against the wood and hearing nothing. That was good; it meant Sherlock was still asleep, which he ought to be at this hour of course. When Victor arrived at the kitchens it was only he and the cooks, of course no other servant, butler, or stable boy would be up at this hour, they were supposed to be of course but it took them a good twenty minutes just to get one leg out of the warm blankets, and so usually Victor got to dine alone. And so today he took his bowl of oatmeal (with brown sugar and raisins of course) outside onto the terrace overhanging the house, the closest point he could get to the ocean without stepping out onto the rocky cliff side. The air was chilly this morning although he didn't mind, the sun was yet to rise and the salty sea breeze stung against his eyes as he sat down in a cold iron bench to have his breakfast. The warm oatmeal always tasted especially good in the cold morning air, and it was only in conditions like these when Victor could truly appreciate all that he had, despite his not owning a thing. Mornings like this, the serene mornings when nothing but the waves crashed and the seagulls chirped, well this was the reason he had to keep his heart protected in his chest. Outside of this life he had nothing, his money was tucked away in a small pouch under his mattress and yet he had nowhere to go, no place to be, and no people to meet. He was alone in this world, alone and afraid of what would happen should he be abandoned by the only people he had grown accustomed to. An orphan never truly lost their status until they made a family of their own, they were lonely to the core until their married and with Victor's peculiar heart he knew that could never be. The only man he would ever love was right here with him, and to admit that love would be to lose him forever and so he couldn't, he had to keep his mouth shut and his heart stilled. This was the only life he had ever had, the only life he had ever appreciated, and without these mornings, this oatmeal, and the promise of Sherlock's company come ten o'clock, well Victor didn't know what the use of life would be. He couldn't lose this job, if he lost this he would lose everything.
"Oh Victor darling you make me cold just watching you!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed when Victor returned to the kitchens with his empty bowl. He simply chuckled, lending a hand with washing dishes (as already stated, that was his only talent in the kitchens) while listening to the kitchen gossip. The cooks were his favorite branch of laborers simply because they were the only hygienic ones, the only ones that washed their hands and showered regularly. And they always had something interesting to say, some new recipe to try or some new person to drag through the mud. This morning it was John Watson; apparently they had observed his manners at dinner and had become most appalled. Victor could only smile, washing the dishes very slowly so that his sloshing didn't become louder than the conversation on hand. It was something of a relief to know that he wasn't the only one who wanted to keep John Watson as far away from this manor as possible.
"Did you see his elbows on the table? The whole night, he looked so barbaric!" exclaimed one of the cooks in disgust as she carried along a carton of eggs to where Mrs. Hudson was making Mycroft and Sherlock's favorite omelets.
"And he ate his soup before Mycroft had picked up his spoon, did you notice that? Oh I almost laughed, thankfully I didn't, or they would've fired me." added another as she fried bacon on the other end of the kitchen.
"Oh surely you wouldn't have been fired, obviously they shared the same disgust in his table manners as you did." A man assured as he buttered toast that had just come out of the oven.
"Surely not, well I'm sure one word against that John Watson in Sherlock's presence and you wouldn't just lose your job, but your head as well!" a voice piped in. This got Victor's attention immediately, and he ceased his washing all together.
"Oh that poor boy and his choice of friends, I swear he picks the worst people on purpose!" a man complained.
"John Watson surely wasn't a bad person; he just wasn't prim and proper. Surely there is something of a charm in a man who didn't sit up straight." Assured a woman from the back.
"Are you saying Sherlock's charmed?" the man wondered.
"I'm simply saying he doesn't run off with all his guests in the middle of dinner." The woman laughed, to which all the cooks chuckled and continued their work. Victor, however, had become rigid in disgust. He could only drop his sponge and turn around to confront the other cooks, seeing that they were all getting along quite fine despite their obvious knowledge of Sherlock's fraternization.
"Sherlock ran off?" Victor asked suddenly, to which all of the cooks paused and looked up at him, obviously not accustomed to their conversations being interrupted.
"Well yes, he didn't tell you?" asked the woman who had been laughing about it not a moment before, hidden in a tall chief hat with a whisk in her hands.
"No he didn't. Where did they go?" Victor wondered suspiciously.
"Oh who knows, they were gone for what, a half hour maybe? I don't know what they got up to but I imagine they went to the ocean, because Lucille was scrubbing the entrance hall all night trying to get that water off the floor!" she complained. Victor leaned against the sink he had been working in with a scowl, his fingers tapping against the damp metal as his mind whirred. What could Sherlock have been doing with John that he didn't know about, what would Sherlock keep from him so intentionally? Of course Victor thought of the worst case scenario, however his mind kept jumping back to Sherlock's kissing Molly Hooper, were the two events related or not? What had Sherlock done with John that made him want to prove to Molly Hooper that he could love, unless he was hiding something much bigger, and protecting it with something as awful as a kiss? The cooks had lost interest in him and soon Victor had lost interest in washing the infinite stream of dishes, and so he excused himself to go check to see if Sherlock was awake yet. When Victor pressed his ear against the wooden door he was surprised to hear something of a scratching noise, the sound of a pen against paper, as if Sherlock had woken an hour early simply to write a letter. Victor tried the door to find it unlocked, and so he eased the door open to try to find a simple explanation for the sounds he was hearing. To his surprise it was Sherlock, awake and wearing his dressing gown loosely over his white shoulders, sitting in his desk chair with his pen in his hand. The curtains were still drawn yet the lights were on, bathing the darkened room in a very limited orange light and making Sherlock's out of place figure seem ever more strange.
"My Lord, you're awake!" Victor observed rather obviously, walking into the room and closing the door very softly behind him. Sherlock turned rather quickly, his pen in his hand and a very concerned look on his face, as if he didn't want victor to read whatever it was he was writing.
"Well yes Victor, that does tend to happen during this time of day." Sherlock murmured sarcastically, turning back to his desk and scribbling a couple more things before grabbing his paper and waving it through the air in an attempt to dry the ink in a more private manner.
"Who are you writing to?" Victor wondered, watching suspiciously as Sherlock folded the letter carefully with his long white fingers, his eyes still drooping from sleep as if he had just woken up not moments before.
"Oh just an old correspondent of mine..." Sherlock shrugged. "A pen pal of sorts."
"I don't believe you." Victor said flatly.
"My business is none of yours." Sherlock responded with a cold frown, shoving the letter into an envelope and tucking it under his numerous books and papers that scattered about his messy desk.
"John Watson then?" Victor guessed, to which Sherlock's face fell, and he draped himself carelessly across the back of his chair.
"Was it really that obvious?" he whined, holding up his smooth chin with his long, dangling arm.
"Any confidentiality these days must be centrally located around John Watson; there really is nothing else you attempt to hide from me." Victor reminded him, to which Sherlock only pouted some more.
"I've invited him to the opera with my brother and I. You surely can attend, if you would like to, however I thought it would be a good experience for my brother to get to know him a little bit better after the um, the rather disappointing first impression he had made at dinner last night." Sherlock admitted.
"Disappointing?" Victor wondered, walking over to the window and opening the curtains, letting the morning light illuminate the dingy room to the point where Sherlock hissed in protest.
"My brother was not very impressed, to put it lightly. Mr. Watson needs to brush up on his table manners." Sherlock admitted with a shrug, as if John's horrible etiquette was nothing too bothersome. Victor nodded, already planning on attending. Surely he could not let Sherlock out of his sight when this Mr. Watson was involved, who knows what the two of them might get up to without a watchful, protective eye?
"And what good do you think it would be to expose your brother to his barbaric ways once more?" Victor wondered, raising his eyebrows as he opened the wardrobe wide to see all the lines of clothes that hung very neatly ironed from their respective hangers.
"Are you suggesting I meet Mr. Watson privately?" Sherlock wondered, sitting up rather attentively in his chair, obviously the idea of collusion was tempting to him. Victor, however, turned rigid with his hands tightly clasped around the handle of one of Sherlock's favorite dress shirts.
"No my Lord, no of course not. You still do not know this man's intentions, surely to leave the two of you alone, especially at this time in your relationship, would be foolish." Victor insisted.
"Ah but we have been alone together, I took him down to the beaches." Sherlock admitted in an almost love sick little huff, letting his head fall onto his arm once more with a goofy smile spread about his gorgeous face.
"Oh did you? And I trust that nothing...interesting happened?" Victor wondered as casually as he could manage, however his teeth were clenched and he had entirely given up on doing whatever it was he had set himself to do moments before. Surely what Sherlock said next was more important than picking out a silly little outfit.
"Well it would depend on your definition of interesting, Victor." Sherlock murmured against his arm.
"Nothing...romantic?" Victor clarified, his voice getting caught in his throat and his body having gone completely numb. Sherlock waited for a moment to respond, however Victor was quite sure he could hear the man chuckling behind him, as if he found Victor's concern to be nothing short of adorable.
"I was wondering if that might have been your suspicions." Sherlock admitted finally, not confirming or denying Victor's fearful claims. He stayed silent, suddenly realizing how much of himself he had exposed by asking such a seemingly innocent question.
"I believe it is my duty to worry about you my Lord, in all aspects not just the seemingly normal." Victor whispered tensely. Sherlock hummed in agreement, Victor could hear his voice getting closer and closer, he was walking over, he was approaching...
"So you deem homosexuality as abnormal?" Sherlock wondered as he stepped quietly across the carpet.
"I deem it irregular, unpopular..." Victor whispered, feeling as though his voice wouldn't get any louder than the little squeak he was able to utter.
"But not impossible, I presume? If you worry so much?" Sherlock guessed softly.
"Not impossible at all my Lord." Victor assured, feeling so many emotions spark up all at once. What was Sherlock doing, was he flirting, was he teasing? Was he probing with the intent on finding the darkest secrets that Victor had attempted to hide away? Or was this his idea of an advance, a pick up line of sorts? Why would he be closer if not with the intention to be just that...closer?
"And what would you know, Victor, of homosexuality?" Sherlock wondered with a very soft voice, his words being uttered so close to Victor's ear that he could feel the breath passed from Sherlock's lips stinging against his exposed neck.
"I know that temptations can come in the most peculiar of manners." Victor admitted finally, feeling the need to lean back just a touch, lean so that he should be closer than ever, and whether or not that played to Sherlock's wishes was completely unknown to him. Victor knew what he wanted, and yet he realized once more what he would be losing when he gained that extra inch, that extra centimeter. To feel Sherlock's touch was to sacrifice so much, all of the joys in life and all the love in life, gone with a wordless confession and a mindless entrancement! No, he could not move, he must stand still.
"What tempts you Victor?" Sherlock whispered, so close Victor could almost swear his lips were hovering right next to his ear. Just a little lean, oh that would be all it took! And yet Victor felt a hand on his shoulder, the softest, gentlest of hands, and for a moment his mind jumped to the breathtaking conclusion that this was all going to happen, right here and right now. This really might be it, Sherlock was going to take him into his arms, he was going to press his lips onto his skin, he was going to whisper the sweetest of words still while the sun was breaking over the horizon. This was the moment Victor had been waiting for...And yet Sherlock's hand pushed him away, after a moment's rest Victor was shoved aside carelessly, stumbling into the closet door and making way for Sherlock to scan the closet himself.
"I myself am tempted by a nice silk shirt." Sherlock announced, sounding completely unfazed by the conversation that they had just had. In fact Sherlock was so unscathed that Victor was starting to wonder what had really happened, had those words really been breathed, or was he making this intimacy up in his mind to counteract his longing? No that was real, it had to be real, the blush flaming through Victor's cheeks was real, the sweat lining his brow was tangible, and the quivering of every muscle in his body was ultimately unavoidable. Those words had been spoken, and yet nothing was confirmed, and nothing was denied. Sherlock had taken that conversation and turned it from interrogations to accusations, oh how flawlessly he had learned to divert Victor's attention? A soft word and a seemingly romantic string of words and Victor had forgotten all about the topic on hand, the relationship between Sherlock and John Watson and the future meetings that were ultimately going to take place. Was Sherlock in love with John; was he just really skilled at hiding his attractions? This was all so confusing, and Sherlock had ensured that Victor's mind still be whirling by the time he began to realize what was really going on. A simple touch and Victor couldn't think straight, he couldn't be straight; oh that man had the most embarrassing effect on him! And yet what a feeling, being in love, being completely helpless and at the will of the stronger, more dominant man! Oh what a feeling it was. 

 Sherlock POV: Sherlock tapped his pocket watch irritably, standing in the hallway and waiting for the time to make his dramatic entrance. John was to be arriving soon, in fact he was due thirty seconds ago, and yet there was still no announcement made of his presence, and no sound of any rumbling of carriage wheels or lights of a lantern as it approached up the drive. Sherlock wanted to look his very best and so it didn't bother him much that John was just a tad bit late, in fact it was all the more time he had to stare at himself in the hallway mirror and fixate over his stunning good looks once more. John was curious, however, in a way that made it almost seem like he wasn't as enchanted by Sherlock's looks as the rest of the human race. Yes of course he had called him a God, or something like that, when they had been standing on the beach and yet he still didn't seem to become the stammering, helpless mess that Sherlock's presence usually made of people. It was almost like a challenge, something of a completion between stubbornness and radiant beauty; Sherlock hated feeling as though he was becoming inferior to anyone else. He needed to ensure that he got John flustered by the end of the night, his cheeks red and his words tripping over themselves in an attempt to say something close to logical. It gave Sherlock a sense of untouchable power to see a strong, able bodied man degraded into nothing but a stuttering mess, it was always so very satisfying and proved yet again that beauty won over brute strength any day. Wars were started by beauty and ended by strength; the strongest men always gave way to such natural predispositions, the face of a man whose skin shone with the light of the Gods was proof enough that not all power was obtainable through hard work; some were simply born with the right to lead and be followed. And John Watson, well he was beginning to prove to be a rather stubborn subject. He was enchanted by Sherlock's beauty of course; however it would seem, at least in the instance down at the beach, that he thought himself somehow superior, as though his short stocky body somehow gave him the right to try to tower over Sherlock and tell him what he was supposed to do. Sherlock felt the need to break that man's confidence, and to remind him who really was the superior party in this budding relationship. This tactic always worked on Victor, one word could send that paper thin body trembling to his knees, and yet John, well John was as solid as a stone, he couldn't be moved by just anything. And speaking of Victor, where was that useless servant anyways? Always late, always loitering, didn't he knew that he had to pamper Sherlock just a little bit more before John arrived? Finally the boy scampered up, wearing his finest suit with a flower in his lapel, a little touch of color that he surely took a long time to plan. He looked dashing, at least for a servant; however Sherlock was just a little bit confused as to why he had bothered with such a get up. Was he trying to show John up in some way by walking Sherlock out the door in style? 

"Victor what on earth have you been doing?" Sherlock growled, turning towards the poor boy with a scowl. Victor seemed unfazed; however, well he almost seemed cheerful!
"Getting ready of course. It took me a while to pick out a flower to match my tie." Victor admitted, patting the flower, some sort of orchid it would seem, that was trapped in his jacket. Sherlock chuckled rather curiously, looking towards the servant who obviously didn't seem to think he had done anything wrong.
"Getting ready for what?" Sherlock asked with a little laugh, glancing away from his reflection for a moment to see the boy standing in the hallway, his face beginning to fall under his neatly gelled hair.
"Well...for the opera of course. You told me that I could come last week." Victor reminded him, however Sherlock had no recollection of such an invitation.
"I did? Well Victor I'm terribly sorry, but I had only reserved the box for three, Mycroft John and I, surely if you came along it would be rather inconvenient for the both of us." Sherlock muttered, patting his hair down under his hat and turning towards the servant. Victor was looking very upset, he didn't show it very obviously in his face and yet Sherlock could sense it in his eyes, in his very aura as well. There was an annulled vibrancy in Victor's disappointed gaze, one that stung Sherlock's heart only the slightest bit before he lost interest entirely.
"But you said before that I was welcome to come." Victor murmured, staring down at his feet and sounding about ready to cry. Sherlock just laughed, a small careful laugh of course, however he couldn't help but find amusement in Victor's fragile emotional state. Surely he hadn't been so dependent on the promise of an evening out with his master? He was nothing but a servant of course; surely he was having trouble remembering that?
"Victor I do apologize for the misunderstanding, maybe I shall take you another time, just you and I. And we can both wear such obnoxious flowers in our lapels." Sherlock offered, taking a step closer and going to lift up Victor's chin when he heard the doors opening downstairs, undeniably announcing the arrival of the man of the hour, Mr. John Watson. Victor tensed immediately, in fact Sherlock thought he noticed the boy's fist clenching, hidden in his coat sleeve as if he didn't want Sherlock to notice his sudden flare of anger. Oh but how could he chose to ignore such childish behavior, why Sherlock should punish Victor for being so petty when he returned, yet there were more important things to worry about at the moment. The more important thing, of course, was the presence of that man, that very interesting man, who was standing the entrance hall and gazing up at the chandelier wondrously.
"That's my cue; do behave yourself while I am gone. Change my sheets while you're at it, and I'm sure my laundry needs some attending. Keep busy dear Victor, and you won't even realize I'm gone." Sherlock insisted, and with that he gave the servant a small smile before turning his back on him and starting his descent down the elaborate staircase.