To Be Like That Of A God

He Cannot Be Overlooked

           

The three of them slipped out of the house before anyone could trap them to say goodnight, and however excited Victor was to get going Sherlock seemed to linger a bit at the end of the sidewalk, looking here and there as if he had lost something in the darkness. Victor knew that Sherlock was most likely looking for the stranger and so instead of helping him search he held open the door to the carriage earnestly, deciding that the less they saw of that man the better. However as the night progressed it seemed as though neither of them could think of anything but the man at the party, both thinking in different connotations of course, and it seemed as though the conversation was imminent. The very idea of another man coming into Sherlock's life was like poison to Victor, it was slowly seeping into his bloodstream from his heart and from his mind, and the longer the conversation went undiscussed the longer it pained him to think on the possibilities of Sherlock's possible acquaintance. Surely he was over exaggerating everything; surely there really was nothing to be worried about. People meet an array of different personalities at a party and forget them the next day, this man would be the same for sure, Sherlock had discussed one or two topics with him before they ultimately decided they had better things to do and so they left each other alone, that was the beginning and the end. However Sherlock's preoccupation seemed to be more daunting than their actual conversation, and the way he sat in his desk chair, staring idly at his reflection in the mirror in front of him, was a sure sign that his mind was traveling far elsewhere. Victor was busying himself with putting Sherlock's dress clothes away, hanging them nicely on hangars and placing them on the door handle so that he remembered to iron them in the morning. He couldn't help but worry about Sherlock, however, and as soon as Sherlock's dress shoes were tucked neatly away in his closet Victor hovered over to where he sat, taking one of Sherlock's many brushes and beginning to pull it gently through his soft curls. He was washed and ready for bed, still with the last of his bathwater clinging to the lower more insulated curls at the back of his neck. Sherlock was ever so soft when nighttime approached, the way the orange light glowed upon his porcelain skin and the way his curls felt after being washed in lavender scented soaps and perfumes, and the way his dressing gown fell over his chest when he tied it in such a loose revealing knot, well it was enough to make Victor loom ever nearer on the pretenses of going the extra mile to make sure he was satisfied to his last whim. Sherlock didn't seem very cooperative tonight, however, and he kept complaining when Victor tugged too viciously at the knots that had formed in his hair as it dried.
"Did you enjoy the party my Lord?" Victor wondered casually, wondering just which part of the party Sherlock would mention in his response. Sherlock, however, simply sighed, tapping his fingers thoughtfully against the desk in front of him and taking his time to answer.
"It was quite dull." Sherlock admitted finally, an answer Victor wasn't expecting to hear. Certainly he was lying, because if he had found the party dull then he would not be in such a gloomy and thoughtful state at the given moment of conversation.
"I saw you spent a lot of time dancing with Ms. Hooper, is there a romance blooming or is it just theatrical adoration?" Victor wondered curiously, to which Sherlock finally smiled teasingly.
"Oh I do love it when you fuss about my relationships with women." He admitted with a laugh. Victor couldn't help but tense up, pulling the brush rather painfully through Sherlock's curls and accidentally hitting his head with the bristles. Sherlock winced, however he didn't say anything in protest. Surely he understood that Victor would do everything he possibly could to make sure that didn't happen again.
"I do not fuss, I simply comment." Victor assured, brushing Sherlock's hair all the more gently now so as to not hurt his poor master.
"In a very fussy way." Sherlock added with a smirk. Victor couldn't help but smile, letting his fingers trail so very gently down Sherlock's cheek and pretending he simply needed his hand to remain so that he had the right leverage for brushing out the other side of his head. Sherlock didn't seem to notice nor did he seem to care, instead he kept drumming his fingers and staring blankly at the piles of papers and books that lay in front of him.
"Who was that gentleman you were talking to before we left? A new friend, an old one?" Victor wondered, starting to sound as though he was probing for more information while trying his best to remain discreet.
"A new one, although I could hardly call him a friend. We only exchanged a few words before we parted, however he did seem quite mesmerized with me." Sherlock admitted with a modest shrug, as if he had come to understand that most all humans were mesmerized with him after a short while.
"Hard not to be, my Lord." Victor admitted. "And his name?" 
"John Watson." Sherlock muttered after a moment's thought, saying the name very slowly, as if trying to cherish the way the syllables rolled off of his tongue.
"Is he a well-respected gentleman?" Victor wondered curiously, not recognizing the name as he usually did. After attending so many drab parties with the Holmes brothers he had begun to understand the very complex world of the upper class. The last names usually corresponded to the position, and so if you were a descendant of a very high class individual your surname usually told your story for you. However the name Watson didn't ring any bells, in fact Victor was sure that he hadn't ever heard of such a last name in his many years of employment at the Holmes manor.
"No I dare say he's quite unknown, and however brief our conversation proved to be I did infer that he was a member of the lower class." Sherlock admitted finally, waving his hand carelessly through the air and shifting his entire body to the other side of the chair. Victor hummed in understanding, deciding that, with great relief, Sherlock would most likely never communicate with such a man ever again. The upper class was only supposed to interact with the upper class, any mingling with the commoners was deemed unnecessary and even improper.
"What was he doing at Molly Hooper's manor then?" Victor wondered curiously, watching Sherlock's reflection in the mirror as he breathed a breath of annoyance.
"Oh he was a friend of a friend or something like that, Molly said herself that he shouldn't have been at that party at all. And the poor thing was standing all alone, well that was half the reason he caught my attention. No one except my brother ever stands alone at a gala such as that." Sherlock admitted with a heavy sigh.
"And the other half sir?" Victor wondered rather nervously, not knowing what he expected and what he should prepare himself for.
"The other half I cannot account for Victor, no matter how hard I ponder. Surely there must be a reason I was so utterly desperate to meet him, however..."
"You were the one that requested to be introduced?" Victor wondered sharply, until now he had assumed that Molly had simply dragged him over.
"Well yes of course, Molly takes habit of only introducing me to those she thinks are somewhere along my level, whether it be by intellect, beauty, or monetary value." Sherlock admitted in a sigh.
"And certainly he cannot fall under any of those categories." Victor concluded finally. Sherlock's fingers tapped harder, shaking his head for a moment and gazing at himself with eyes that didn't look back.
"Well certainly not of monetary value, however nothing can be said yet of his intelligence." Sherlock admitted in a breath of finality.
"And his beauty?" Victor wondered nervously, finding that he was holding his breath in preparation for Sherlock's fateful answer.
"A curious thing, he was. Surely not the sort of beautiful that would be used to describe you and I, however he did house a sort of aura that could not be overlooked, despite his shabby coat." Sherlock muttered quietly, as if he was ashamed to even be speaking in such terms of another man. Victor had been too preoccupied with the fact that Sherlock had absentmindedly called him beautiful to even focus on the rest of his sentence, and for a moment he beamed with humble pride as he finally set the hair brush down on the dresser where he had found it.
"Well I suppose it is what it is; he certainly shouldn't be the type you interact with much more, at least not publically that is." Victor insisted finally, letting his fingers trail through Sherlock's curls and travel ever so gently down his neck without need for any explanation at all. He suspected that Sherlock liked the way he admired his beauty, surely there was no one else in this world that had the appreciation Victor did for every last beautiful detail of Sherlock's body, and Sherlock did love to be adored.
"Yes I suppose you're right." Sherlock admitted finally, breathing heavily before getting out of his chair without so much of a warning, nearly smashing Victor's foot under the leg of his heavy wooden chair.
"Will that be all for tonight my Lord?" Victor wondered regretfully, wishing that there might be one more task he could perform for Sherlock just so that he could have more time to bask in his evening beauty.
"No Victor I'm afraid that is all." Sherlock admitted with a tired sigh, glancing over at Victor very lazily as if making sure he was still there, lingering by the door. And of course Victor remained where he was, fumbling with the multiple hangars that he had hung by the knob to bring with him to the ironing board. With a large laborious sigh Sherlock let his dressing gown fall off of his shoulders, standing momentarily in the pale orange glow of the dim chandelier with his porcelain chest exposed, glowing in an angelic way before he slid underneath the blankets of his large bed. Victor watched transfixed from the door, however when Sherlock finally nodded his farewell Victor hastened to turn out all the lights and draw all the curtains, hiding Sherlock's beauty under a layer of darkness until he could return to reclaim it for himself.