Victor POV: Victor didn't want Sherlock to know how he had spent his evening. He tried his best to hide what had become of his preened face and his ironed clothes, he didn't want Sherlock to find the remnants of the torn flower scattered about the rocky cliffs that stretched below the cold balcony. It was embarrassing for Victor to admit to himself how distraught he had felt, and as he thought suddenly of what Sherlock would think should he find Victor's usually carefree eyes bloodshot with his face streaked with traces of tears long fallen, well what would he think? Weakness would be the first thing to come to mind, because Victor had known for a while now that boys these days were not allowed to cry. It was presumed to be a feminine act, expressing your emotions, admitting to your own pain. And yet Victor's pain was becoming all too much to bear, he could not simply ball up this love, this burning admiration for the man who would never even notice his presence! The betrayal and indifference of Sherlock tonight had paid a heavy toll on Victor's heart, on his soul! He stood on that balcony, ripping his beautiful orchid to shreds and watching it get carried away in the wind, well he had to wonder if anyone would notice if he had joined it! Maybe he would be better at the bottom of the beach, lying impaled among the jagged rocks; at least then people would take notice of him. Maybe Sherlock would even realize how much he needed him, how much he had appreciated him. Certainly in life Sherlock wasn't able to come to that realization! What was his fascination with this undeserving man, with this mere shoe shiner! Couldn't he see that there was a man who was very much in love with him at his disposal; couldn't he see that he didn't have to wander that far and that low to find love? Victor hated feeling neglected, he hated feeling betrayed, and yet with this unrequited love he could not find any means to keep Sherlock obediently at his side. Victor longed for an excuse to be closer to Sherlock, for an excuse to tell him what to do for once, to advise him to socialize with and who to avoid entirely. Sherlock would never take his advice if he was nothing but a servant, but if he had Sherlock's hand in his own surely his word would be heard, it would be respected! A relationship was what he needed to keep Sherlock all to himself, he needed Sherlock to love him back so that his own love was preserved and protected. It pained him to see his poor master fraternizing with this horrible man, to see him standing so close in the driveway, to see him smiling even from afar! Did Sherlock not know that his abandonment had left Victor paralyzed in tears for the whole of the night? He had sat forgotten, uncared for, and completely distraught with no one to watch over him, no one to comfort him. And who would know? Who would even care about Victor's silly little fantasies, his boyish admiration that had transferred into an undeniable and unreturnable love? The aching that nestled in his chest, it pained him to a point where he could hardly stand it, where he was actually considering taking a knife and trying to remove it manually. Oh how he despised his own existence, his own heart! How dare he dedicate his happiness to a man who would never return the favor, how dare he let his heart settle on someone he could never even hope to love! Even if Sherlock did share some of the same feelings it would prove to be impossible, why would that hopeless boy ever sacrifice his own reputation to be with a man, a servant no less! And yet Sherlock seemed to be willing to drop everything from John Watson, he seemed willing to walk across the bottom of the sea for that man who may never appreciate his gestures. John was a poor man, no doubt, who had decided to take advantage of Sherlock's impressionable little heart, unexperienced and untaught in the manipulative ways of men. And why would Sherlock decide to give himself to John Watson, a filthy man, a boring man, one with no class or culture or money, what made him, in the eyes of Sherlock Holmes, ever more desirable than the servant who had loved him since the beginning of time? The door was flung open, breaking Victor's line of thought as Sherlock burst into the room, shedding his coat and hat and flinging himself onto the bed with a smile like that of a lovesick woman. It was almost embarrassing to see Sherlock this happy; it was like watching a scene of a play unfold, one that you would do anything to forget entirely, one that, if excluded, would make the play better off all together. Like an unwanted death and an unnecessary kiss, that smile on Sherlock's face made Victor clench his fists, standing forgotten next to the wardrobe while Sherlock breathed heavily, kicking off his shoes in glee.
"A nice night I assume, my Lord?" Victor wondered rather bitterly, keeping his teeth clenched and his hands in tight fists.
"Oh yes Victor, oh it was wonderful." Sherlock breathed, sounding distant yet elated.
"The opera?" Victor guessed in poisonous words.
"The man." Sherlock corrected carelessly, something of a mindless slip of the tongue and yet he seemed not to have noticed the error in his words. Victor winced, closing his eyes momentarily and trying to pretend he hadn't heard such a statement.
"I'll run you a bath my Lord." Victor offered, to which Sherlock simply hummed, obviously not finding it necessary to respond with actual words. Victor disappeared into the bathroom and ran his hand under the water, feeling for the perfect temperature as the glass and the mirrors slowly fogged up. Soon the room was steamed and perfumed, perfect for Sherlock's ideal bath, and Victor stepped out just in time for Sherlock to step in, not even taking a notice to his servant as he walked into the bathroom and dropped his robe, stepping into the bath while Victor busied himself in picking up the discarded jackets and shoes lying about the bedroom floor. When he decided that Sherlock was safely concealed under the bubbles he returned, sitting on his little stool with the numerous bottles of shampoo sitting next to him, and yet for the first time he felt as though he wasn't so keen on washing Sherlock's hair tonight. He would much rather dig his fingernails into Sherlock's scalp until it bled, maybe that pain would force Sherlock to at least notice Victor's presence! And yet Victor squirted some shampoo onto his hand without a word, lathering it into Sherlock's curls and waiting for the silence to finally over take the both of them.
"I am sorry, Victor, for leaving you tonight. It was an honest mistake when I forgot to reserve you a seat, and I do hope you don't hold it against me." Sherlock said finally, just the words Victor wanted to hear and yet it was a couple of hours too late for them. He couldn't take that apology to heart because it would seem that Sherlock only apologized when he had realized that Victor had taken this all to heart, it was an act of desperation, not of legitimate regret. Instead of answering Victor just pushed Sherlock's head so that he slid under the water, wetting his curls and washing them of soap before emerging with a gasp, wiping the water from his face with his dripping white hands.
"I don't want your apology." Victor said flatly, shaking his head while he agressivley screwed the lid of the shampoo back on.
"So I am forgiven?" Sherlock asked hopefully, craning his neck in the bath to see that Victor was not focused on him, instead he was miserably watching the tiles as the water and soap suds splashed down onto them.
"Tell me more about your night my Lord, more about John." Victor suggested, hearing Sherlock sigh above him, sigh in exasperation.
"You know I don't like it when you get mopey." Sherlock muttered with a frown, a frown to which Victor did not answer.
"I'm sure you had a nice night, I'm sure he did as well. Yet I don't recall seeing your brother exit the carriage, where might he be?" Victor wondered with a small tilt of his head. He hadn't expected Sherlock to laugh at that question.
"Oh we decided it would be best to let him get some exercise. It's not a long walk from the theater, oh about three miles or so. He'll struggle home eventually." Sherlock assured with a careless shrug, waving off his brother's multiple health problems as if they were simply no big deal.
"John's idea?" Victor guessed.
"Mine, of course. Mycroft was rude to John and I, so we decided to leave him at the theater to enjoy his snacks." Sherlock admitted. Victor nodded, leaning back against the counter and watching as the back of Sherlock's head finally turned again to him, it was much more natural to have conversations such as these when no eye contact was exchanged.
"Will he not be angry?" Victor wondered nervously, half expecting a winded, sweaty Mycroft to come bursting through the door any moment and attack Sherlock in a fit of angry words and whacks with his withered walking stick. That was be quite the display.
"I am utterly indifferent to my brother's fits of anger, and yet Victor, my dear friend, your dissatisfaction concerns me greatly." Sherlock admitted, letting one of his soapy arms dangle behind him, as if asking for Victor's hand. Of course this was an offer that could not go refused, and ever so timidly Victor extended his arm, letting his hand fall into Sherlock's as his long fingers wrapped protectively around him. Sherlock pulled Victor in ever so slightly, reaching for Victor's other hand, which he so graciously offered, and tugged him ever closer to the brim of the bath. Victor's heart stirred in anticipation, not sure what to expect and not sure what to hope for. Sherlock took his hands, however, and pulled them crisscrossed across his chest, forcefully making Victor hold him, bringing him so close so that the servant's head very easily fell onto his wet, soapy shoulder. It was a proximity that made Victor's heart race and his head spin, he wished to be close of course and yet he had never expected this kind of invitation from a man he thought had never appreciated him before. It was such a drastic difference, from the abandonment not an hour before, to the close embrace that he now held him in, breathing in the scents of his lilac shampoo and absorbing the stray droplets of water that lingered on Sherlock's bare chest.
"I can feel your heart beat." Victor muttered, tightening his grip over Sherlock's heart and feeling it beating at a rather normal rate, if not slightly faster. It was a normal human response to being so close to someone else, that elated heart rate, and yet Victor was quite sure that his heart was racing out of control at the moment. Surely Sherlock's heartrate was another sign of the absence of true attraction?
"And I can hear yours." Sherlock admitted, leaning his ear up against Victor's neck and absorbing the sound of his carotid artery throbbing as his heart gushed blood to and from his brain.
"My Lord..."
"Shush." Sherlock whispered, holding up his hand for silence and listening for a moment longer, a smile spreading across his knowing lips as he counted the beats, counted the frequency. Victor ever so reluctantly tried to calm himself, tried to calm his heart, Sherlock was listening to the very melody that had the power to reveal Victor and his secrets, he was listening to the voice in the back of Victor's head that was reminding him of the love that he felt! And yet he couldn't move, oh his selfish indifference he could not even budge in any direction except closer, there was a burning passion he felt building up in his throat like fire, he needed to be closer, to hold Sherlock tighter, and to cherish his warmth and his words and his breath.
"It's quite fast Victor." Sherlock commented in a voice that made Victor wonder just how much he was able to infer from that simple diagnosis.
"It's always fast my Lord." Victor whispered, unable to come up with a reasonable explanation for his undeniable love. Sherlock simply hummed, letting his head fall finally onto Victor's neck, his lips hovering ever so close to his jawbone, all it would take was an inch and the tiniest bit of motivation, oh but it could be done! It could be done...
"Make us tea Victor, and we can stay up like we did when we were young, we can talk, and I can play my violin, and for tonight we can be friends." Sherlock suggested sleepily, muttering his words so close to Victor's exposed skin that it was almost impossible to concentrate on the words he was uttering.
"We are still young my Lord." Victor reminded him quietly.
"And yet I feel like so much has changed between us Victor, I feel like a ravine has opened between the two of us, filled with secrets and miscommunications. I wish, Victor, that we had no more secrets between us." Sherlock admitted in a soft voice, his wet, pruning hands taking Victor's in his own once more. Victor closed his eyes regretfully, shaking his head ever so softly and wondering if now would be a good time to try to untangle himself from Sherlock's appreciated grasp.
"Secrets are made secret because the truth can hurt, my Lord I admire and I respect you, however I cannot bring myself to share what was made to be kept hidden." Victor insisted. Sherlock sighed heavily, shaking his head almost regretfully, as if he was talking to a mindless child.
"Your secrets, Victor, are not as discreet as you intend them to be." Sherlock reminded him.
"Neither are yours, my Lord." Victor agreed, his mind jumping immediately to Sherlock's should be secret infatuation with that meager shoe shiner. Of course Sherlock would be quick to pick up on Victor's admiration of him, yes their hearts desires were not so secret after all and yet it was the very idea, the pride, that went along with presuming your darkest desires were safe that assured the both of them of their security.
"Then what might be the harm of sharing them?" Sherlock wondered in a breath. Victor simply smiled, closing his eyes for a moment and seeing the expression of disappointment on Sherlock's face when the truth had surfaced, the realization and the regret, the awkwardness and the distance, the schedule changing and the job eventually fading away, all that Victor had worked had to achieve dissolving back to where he had come from. Back to nothing.
"Everything." Victor insisted, finally drawing himself away, letting Sherlock's head fall back onto the rim of the claw footed bathtub and getting to his feet. Sherlock drew his own arms around himself, freezing from the lack of added body heat, and curled into a small ball under the warm water so that his knees surfaced above the thick layer of bubbles.
"I'll get a pot of tea my Lord." Victor announced finally, disappearing out the door and leaving Sherlock to bask a little longer in his strong scented bath. 

    When Victor returned to Sherlock's room he was carrying a small tea tray, heavy with a large pot and multiple little flasks of milk and sugar. He knew of course how Sherlock liked his tea, however Victor decided that it was better to present it well than to prepare it before hand and bring up a tray with only a single tea cup on it. No, Sherlock was elaborate and so his tea must too be elaborate, and even so there was another tea cup on this tray as well, one for himself. Victor wasn't quite sure why Sherlock was deciding to pay him extra attention, well the obvious answer was because he felt guilty for leaving Victor alone tonight which he should of course! The less obvious answer was that maybe he was trying to worm Victor's secrets out of him, that or he was trying to muster up the courage to admit his own secrets to Victor. It would be much easier, presumably, for Sherlock to admit to his love of another man when he knew that he wasn't the only homosexual in the room. And yet as much as Victor's confession might comfort him he knew that the truth would end up hurting them both, and so no matter how much Sherlock begged to know the secrets Victor kept not very protected in his heart well, he could never sacrifice them. Not willingly that is. Victor pushed open the door to find Sherlock sitting on his bed wrapped in a nice silk robe, toweling his hair with some difficulty as if he was all together unsure just how he was supposed to do it.
"Oh my Lord do not trouble yourself!" Victor exclaimed, setting the tea tray rather agressivley down in his flight to rescue Sherlock from the most mediocre of tasks.
"I'm fine Victor, I can do it myself! We are friends tonight, remember, not master and servant. You shall call me Sherlock and you will forget all of my needs." Sherlock reminded him flatly, sitting atop of his bed and pulling a brush rather painfully through his now half dry hair. Victor nodded rather reluctantly, a bit too nervous to admit to Sherlock that he thoroughly enjoyed brushing his hair, and it was rather painful to watch the man himself take that pleasure away from him. However Victor could not complain, and so he carried to the tea tray to the bed and sat it down on the comforter in front of them, sitting rather reluctantly on the edge of the bed across from Sherlock and beginning to fix himself a cup of tea. Finally Sherlock threw his hairbrush to the side, giving up for the time being, and poured himself a nice cup of tea as well.
"It's a cold night." Sherlock admitted, gazing out the window mournfully as he watched the beginning of the leaves start to fall from the trees and smack against the window in the chilly gale.
"Very cold indeed." Victor agreed. "A nice cup of tea is very much appreciated." Sherlock hummed his agreement as he raised his tea cup to his lips, blowing along the steaming surface for a moment before taking a reluctant sip. The tea scalded down their throats and yet it was a much preferred feeling than the cold air around them, and so they struggled through the burning in an attempt to avoid conversation for a moment longer.
"I think we shall make a fire. If we'll be sitting up it ought to be in warmth." Sherlock suggested, glancing over to the cold fireplace that was seemingly never used. Now that winter was approaching Victor was sure that he would be making many more fires than he did in the past three months, and tonight seemed like the perfect night for the first of many.
"Yes of course." Victor agreed, setting his cup down and scampering over to the fireplace.
"Victor wait, teach me to do it." Sherlock suggested quickly, racing to his side almost desperately, his cold white feet stepping over the hardwood almost uncomfortably. Victor stared at him in obvious confusion, wondering why on earth such a man would ever want to learn to make a fire. Surely he would have servants doing it for him for the rest of his pampered life? Whether or not that servant was Victor remained to be seen, however he was sure whoever was in the service of the Holmes family was bound to be stacking all the logs and lighting all the matches for as long as the two brothers lived.
"Is this an act of pity or curiosity?" Victor wondered a bit apprehensively, takin a couple of logs from where they were stacked next to the brick fireplace and holding them in his arms for a moment, reluctant to hand them over to his master. Surely Sherlock wasn't even strong enough to hold one of them? He always appeared to be so weak, so fragile; surely he wasn't made for this kind of heavy lifting?
"It will be a skill I should learn, do you not agree?" Sherlock wondered, taking it upon himself to pluck a single log from the stack and hold it enthusiastically in his arms, looking like a child on their first day of school, excited for the change and unaware of the misery that would soon follow.
"I agree of course, however I'm not sure when you will be able to put your new skills to the test. I will always be here to prepare you a fire when your room grows cold." Victor assured.
"And if you're not?" Sherlock wondered.
"Where ever would I be?" Victor asked again, his eyes twinkling in an almost flirtatious manner. Sherlock nodded, dropping his head as if he were ashamed of his own distrust. He acted as though there would be a time in the near future when Victor would be removed from his service, and whether or not he intended it to be so or it would end up to be a self-fulfilling prophecy would remain to be seen.
"Teach me." Sherlock insisted, standing next to the cold fireplace with his single log, ever ready to learn. And so Victor did as he was told, showing Sherlock how to properly stack the wood and where to shove old newspapers to start the flame up easily, and finally he taught him to strike a match (a seemingly mindless task that took quite a while for Sherlock to master) and set a roaring fire to the display they had set up together. Soon the logs had gone up in flames, warming the little bedroom and immediately setting a soft, carefree mood. The darkness that simmered through the windows and the light from the fire provided a sleepy atmosphere, a very dangerous atmosphere, when it would seem that nothing you say could be used against you, nothing you say could be remembered. Victor had to be careful, or he might submit to the warmth of the flame and the chill of the air, the softness of Sherlock's words and the aching he felt in his heart, the longing of feelings that felt like they deserved to be recognized.