To Be Like That Of A God

Misery At The Manor

Sherlock POV: Sherlock was shamelessly entranced by the reflection that stared back at him in the full length mirror. He was never one to admire himself too lavishly out loud, however it was times like these when he could stand in the dim light of the small chandelier and focus on all the minute little details about himself that usually drove humanity as a whole into a wild frenzy. Sherlock always understood why women swooned at his very presence, and just now, as he admired his pale cheeks, like marble sculpted by the finest of all renaissance artists, and his thin yet elegant body clothed in the finest fabrics, the black jacket bringing out the angelic glow of his skin and the ferocious gleam of his multicolored eyes, well he could understand why his mere presence simply drove them mad. It was the greatest tragedy for a piece of art to go unappreciated, and yet while he was certainly admired in the highest of all social circles the tragedy fell in his own disinterest. Surely his beauty went to waste when he dismissed even the most eligible of bachelorettes? But oh how they bored him, with their extravagant dresses and their painted lips, their hair done up in all sorts of hideous curls and clasped tightly to their skulls with clips bejeweled with artificial diamonds and gems, why Sherlock couldn't stand the sight of them! And it was a shame, a true shame, purely because no one but himself could ever admire his beauty to the level in which it was necessary, they could not study his features as intensely, or as shamelessly, as he was able to in his bedroom mirror.
"My Lord I do beg you to wear this green tie, it complements your eyes most marvelously." Sherlock's faithful servant, Victor Trevor, insisted from behind him. And suddenly the boy materialized next to him, his long arms attempting to drape the tie around his neck without consent to do so. Sherlock simply swatted him away, tearing his eyes away from his captivating reflection in an attempt to rip the silk tie from where it now sat in his collar.
"Green drains me Victor; it makes me look like a swamp creature!" Sherlock exclaimed in disgust, flinging the tie back at his servant who merely caught it in disappointment.
"No color would ever make you look less than perfect." Victor assured, however he turned away and went back to rummaging through Sherlock's bin of perfectly organized ties.
"They all make me look less than perfect, for they hide my defined shoulder blades. No bone structure as beautiful as mine should be hidden behind a lump of fabric." Sherlock exclaimed in disgust, turning his head to watch Victor as he rummaged around through the drawers.
"Would you prefer no tie?" Victor wondered almost hopefully, casting a glance over at where Sherlock stood with something of a playful admiration in his eyes. Sherlock merely grimaced, shaking his head pointedly and storming to where his ties were folded and organized. He looked upon the fine collection in disgust, all of them presents from his distasteful brother who didn't know what else to gift him for his birthday.
"If I don't wear a tie I'll look like a barbarian, I'll look like you." Sherlock insisted miserably.
"I wear ties." Victor defended with a frown, crossing his arms and watching as Sherlock plucked a simple black tie from the drawer and thrust it at Victor's chest.
"You wear bow ties, there's a difference. Tonight I should like you to wear a normal tie, if at all possible. If you're going to go as my servant then you should at least look dignified." Sherlock muttered distastefully.
"I thought I was going as your guest?" Victor defended with a frown, steering Sherlock back over to the mirror and draping the black tie around his neck carefully.
"You are my guest in a way, my guest that gets my drinks and tucks in my chair and clears my dishes so that I don't have to stare at the remnants of my dinner." Sherlock assured, stretching his chin so that Victor could come around and do up his tie with his long fingers. He seemed distracted tonight, not terribly prompt with his decisions or with his actions. It took Victor about twice as long with Sherlock's tie this evening, not to mention that he must've brushed his knuckles against Sherlock's outstretched neck two or three times, only adding to the evidence that his mind was elsewhere. Sherlock was about to tell him off when there was a small knock on the door, followed with the turning of the knob despite the lack of a welcome. There was only one person in this household that would be rude enough to invite themselves into a room, however that person proved to be the only person in the house that could obviously do whatever they pleased and travel to wherever they desired without so much of a word of welcome.
"Sherlock the carriage is already out front, will you hurry up?" Mycroft whined, already dressed and ready with his top hat and walking stick in his hand. Victor gave a breath of finality before stepping away from Sherlock so that he could admire himself in the mirror, letting Sherlock gaze at himself while he scrambled around to fetch his coat, hat, and stick.
"It's not my fault that you hired an imbecile for a servant." Sherlock grumbled as Victor held out his coat for him to slide into.
"It's not my fault that you chose to keep him." Mycroft defended. Sherlock just laughed, shaking his head in disappointment and making it all that much harder for Victor to place his top hat onto his head.
"Oh yes brother mine, I did forget that the blame should always fall on me." Sherlock muttered with a sarcastic air of forgetfulness, and thankfully Mycroft's frown lines only deepened along his face.
"In this situation it most certainly does, you have all the power to fire your own servants and yet you tote this one around like a poodle in a handbag." Mycroft snapped, his beady black eyes following Victor as the poor boy got his own coat on; or rather a coat that Sherlock had lent him since his own was pathetically shabby.
"Victor is an imbecile to be sure; however he is also a friend." Sherlock defended, observing carelessly the smile that threatened to appear on Victor's thin lips.
"Well you know my thoughts on friends." Mycroft grumbled, holding the door open wider to let himself out before letting it fall shut, seeming to forget that there were two other people who intended on leaving the room.
"Don't let him bully you Sherlock, you can make your own choices." Victor suggested quietly as they exited, following the scuffs of Mycroft's footprints along the red carpeting along the hallway.
"Don't tell me what to do." Sherlock sighed, scowling at the large portraits of his distant family members as he walked along the hall and descended down the magnificent wooden stairway. Mycroft was waiting in the carriage when they arrived outside, buttoning up their coats and tapping their walking sticks unnecessarily against the cobblestone lane on which their carriage sat. From the porch Sherlock could smell the salty air of the ocean that crashed on the rocks some feet below them, the only consistent sound save for that of the crickets hidden in the tall grass. The moon had already taken its place in the sky on this brisk autumn evening, which only proved that the Holmes family would, as usual, arrive fashionably late. Victor lingered on the porch for a moment, watching as Sherlock clambered into the carriage and sat next to his brother on the velvet seats, already beginning to complain of the weather or the bumpy road. The carriage was unnecessarily stuffy, however opening up the small windows on either side would only drop the temperature and so Sherlock managed, taking off his top hat and checking his reflection in a small pocket mirror that he carried with him at all times.
"So self-obsessed." Mycroft muttered disapprovingly, the carriage rocking back and forth as Victor climbed in and took a seat next to Sherlock. Sherlock simply handed his mirror to Victor without a word, glaring at his brother with a weak glare of dominance. He knew that his glare would never stop a man's argument in its tracks like his brother's did, however he could only practice until finally he melted that glare of ice that stood before him now.
"Self-obsession only comes from the understanding of beauty, Mycroft." Sherlock snapped with a smug little smile.
"I understand beauty just fine." Mycroft defended quickly, his hands clenching his walking stick in front of him and steadying himself as the carriage wheels ran over bumps in the cobblestone below.
"Yes I know, which is exactly why you're not stupid enough to worship yourself." Sherlock teased, watching with pleasure as Mycroft's face contorted angrily, his lips thinning and his eyes squinting, however he recovered quickly enough, quieting immediately.
"Victor my mirror, if you will." Sherlock insisted, holding out his hand importantly for Victor to place the little pocket mirror into his hand once more. It had been a solid minute since he had not seen his own face, however Sherlock was starting to feel beads of sweat emerging from his forehead and he certainly couldn't arrive to the gala looking sweaty and sticky, it simply wouldn't do. Soon he suspected he might just have to open the window and sacrifice his comfort so that he could preserve his good looks. Just as he suspected, his curls were beginning to droop with the humidity in the carriage, and as soon as he noticed his less than perfect appearance Sherlock ordered Victor to open the windows as far as they could go, making Mycroft grumble in dissatisfaction and pull his coat tighter around his fat stomach. When they arrived at the gala the large white manor was light from the inside, the window glowing with soft orange light and the music seeping through the open windows and into the night. It was a beautiful sight from the outside; however Sherlock detested large parties simply because of the masses of people that were sure to be there. He preferred to stay by himself whenever possible, and he was only too disgusted of the intimacy he was sure to experience as the women tried to push up next to him on the dance floor or sit close to him while he was trying to enjoy his dinner. That was why he had brought Victor, partially because the struggle of having to clear his own plate was much too daunting, and secondly because the boy had a very protective nature to him. Sherlock doubted that Victor ever intended to give off such a poisonous air, however whenever a woman so much as drew near to Sherlock the servant stepped in, making some sort of excuse before dragging Sherlock away on his arm, protecting him in his own way from the tasteless members of the upper class. The coachman hastened to open the door and, while offering a hand to the men who descended onto the walk, bid them all a goodnight.
"Oh how ghastly." Mycroft hissed, straightening his jacket and placing his hat gently atop his head. Sherlock shared his feelings however he made a point to keep his agreement a secret, surely Mycroft could never know that they had something in common. Victor was the only one who seemed keen on going in, however neither of them were offered much of a choice when the servants manning the door opened them wide and announced their arrival into the large house. Sherlock, Mycroft, and Victor all walked up the large sidewalk and into the house, ignoring the servants completely as they entered the large and elegant house. It was the house of Molly Hooper, who claimed to be a distant relation of royalty from afar, however it was always rumored that she had a secret lover overseas who sent her money whenever she felt like it. Sherlock never believed the latter simply because Ms. Hooper seemed completely entranced with any man who so much as walked in front of her, surely she couldn't settle on one man when she filled her house with them every other weeknight. She was a lovely girl all the same; one of the few women Sherlock could stand to be around for ten minutes or so. Victor always seemed to have a burning hate for her, however, and maybe that was due to her constant party invitations and attention, as previously stated Victor was a jealous man. Sherlock sometimes liked to tease Victor with the idea that he may have feelings for Molly Hooper, accepting her invitations to the dance floor and occasionally letting her hold his hand in one of her soft yet disturbingly tiny hands over the dinner table. Of course his attention meant nothing, however he was the only one to know the true intentions. Victor always wore the most amusing scowl on his face whenever Molly drew near, and yet Sherlock knew that he would never let her go out of his sight as long as there was a possibility she would approach Sherlock when he wasn't looking. So that was why Sherlock invited him to this gala, not out of kindness but out of curiosity, he always liked to toy with people's emotions when it was at all amusing for him. As if on cue Molly Hooper rushed out of the ballroom wearing a very ugly white dress that was covered in feathers and lace, resembling something of a matted swan, and pulling Sherlock into her arms in greeting. Victor took an appalled step back, and for amusement purposes only Sherlock drew away and took Molly's hand, kissing it in formal greeting while his gaze remained fixed in her eyes. Molly blushed furiously; however she could do nothing but blush for it seemed that her mouth simply couldn't form words at the very moment. She was completely infatuated with him, that was for sure.
"And Mr. Holmes, so good to see you as well." Molly added hastily, seeing that there were more guests for her to greet other than just Sherlock. Mycroft bowed his head in greeting, obviously very keen on keeping his hands far away from Molly's lips. Molly didn't even acknowledge Victor, a habit she had formed upon noticing the disgusted look he usually wore when addressed by her, and so she lead them all to the ballroom with her heels clicking cheerfully along her polished marble floors. The ballroom was vast, decorated beautifully with drapes of white cloth hanging from the numerous chandeliers and around the platform on which the live orchestra sat, playing beautiful pieces on their violins as the guests danced and twirled with women in very extravagant dresses. Along the perimeter of the dance floor were round tables, each draped in golden table cloths and holding numerous candelabras and dishes, with shining silverware and crystalline glasses with gold lining the rims. There were buffets of gourmet food lining the other side of the hall, the delicious smells wafting through the air and tempting even the most active dances as they spun in their partner's arms. Molly certainly did know how to throw a party, that was her one and presumably only talent. However it was the people, not the atmosphere, that made Sherlock cringe internally. So many faces, so many bodies, all dressed in their finest attire with their shoes strapped fixedly to their ankles and their hair pinned up in bows and curls, their faces sweaty and their lips parted as they panted. They were disgusting, like animals, undignified and barbaric human beings that thought since music was playing they could leave their formalities at the table where they left their purses and revert to the nature of the second class citizen. Sherlock never danced if he could help it, since this was obviously the state it left its victims in.
"Oh it looks lovely as usual Ms. Hooper." Sherlock lied, her arm clutched in his own as she led him through the party, telling him all the foods that were displayed on the buffet table and introducing him proudly to all of the guests that were lingering around without a partner to dance with. Mycroft and Victor followed along like lost puppies, as they usually did in these sorts of parties, and it was all Sherlock could do to pretend he was interested in the dishes and drinks that were laid out in front of him.

    "Oh Sherlock I'm so happy you could come, I've been trying to book this orchestra for ages now and they always seem to be booked up, however they come with the most superb talent and I have given them my favorite pieces of Vivaldi." Molly gushed, going on and on about where they had learned to play and what colleges they had attended and what parties they had entertained. She seemed to think that they had played at a ball at the palace for the king himself; however Sherlock thought that was nothing more than a rumor circulated by the musicians themselves in an attempt to get booked every weeknight. Meanwhile, as Molly was talking, Sherlock could already feel his eye lids becoming droopy and his arm getting heavy while clasped in Molly's grip. Her voice was starting to irk him, loud and shrill as she attempted to talk over the violins she was speaking so highly of. His stomach growled as he smelled the roasted duck and the seasoned potatoes and all sorts of mysterious foods that he was ever so tempted to sample. Molly's presence was becoming nothing more than a nuisance now, and he certainly wasn't happy to sacrifice his momentary wellbeing for Victor's dissatisfaction for much longer.
"Well I should certainly let you get going; surely you're famished by now." Molly muttered, thankfully being able to sense Sherlock's discomfort as her voice became nothing more than an irritable fly buzzing in his ear.
"Oh yes, however I'd love to share a dance before the evening is over." Sherlock suggested with a smile, taking her hand once more before letting her trail away from him, her giggles finally getting lost in the array of sounds coming from everywhere at once. Sherlock's smile faded at once, and he turned back to where Mycroft was staring at a single spot on the floor, looking completely lost inside of his own head, and to where Victor was scowling, his electric blue eyes following Molly as she meandered back onto the dance floor to fall into the arms of whichever young bachelor spotted her first.