To Be Like That Of A God

Wallowing In the Wake of The Lower Class

    "Good morning brother mine." Sherlock sighed lazily as he entered the large dining room, equipped with a table that could seat up to twenty people and yet this morning it only held one, Mycroft seated all alone with a feast sitting in front of him on the mahogany. Mycroft looked up quickly before trying to shove a couple of Danishes back onto the tray on which he had taken them, however Sherlock just smirked as his brother fumbled and dropped one of the deserts onto the table, cursing and muttering profanities as he called for a servant to clean up the mess.
"Good morning." Mycroft growled as one of the newer servant girls came to clean it up, mumbling her excuses as she moved the plates out of the way to mop up the spilled raspberries with a damp towel. Sherlock irritably moved out of the way, purely out of his own self-interest of course, she was swinging that towel around madly and he certainly didn't want any of the stray droplets of water to land on his freshly pressed jacket. When finally the servant disappeared back into the kitchens Sherlock took his seat next to his brother, staring blankly at the seat in front of him and almost wishing it was occupied. The house had become a lot quieter in these past couple of years with the death of the Holmes parents. The estate had been passed down through countless generations, as did the money, and when Mr. Holmes had died he left the entirety of his fortune to Mycroft, who ruled over the house as if it was his sole responsibility to keep the place in peak condition. Mrs. Holmes had gone just last year, losing her battle to a nasty bout of tuberculosis and with that the children finally found themselves alone, struggling to keep the house running and the bloodline continued. The latter was the most difficult of the tasks, purely because to gain an heir one must first have found a worthy wife, and unfortunately neither Holmes brother was terribly interested in fraternizing with the opposite sex. Mycroft, the fat lump he had grown to be at least, was certainly not the most eligible bachelor in their social circles and Sherlock was becoming known more and more as a beautiful outcast, keeping to himself but looking wonderful as he did. Of course he interacted as much as necessary with those he wanted to make a good impression on, like at Molly Hooper's party the previous night, however he was becoming more and more contempt with simply standing off by himself at dances or staying silent at dinner parties, focused purely on his food and wishing that he was back home in his desk chair, getting his hair brushed gently by his ever faithful servant. He always knew that the issue of an heir was always playing on Mycroft's mind, for obviously he wasn't going to be the one to continue it unless absolutely necessary. If something happened to Sherlock then the responsibility would fall to him, however they both subconsciously knew that if one of the two brothers would be shamefully submitted to false feelings and a forceful marriage then it should certainly be the more sought after sibling.
"Any big days for the day?" Mycroft wondered in boredom, picking lamely at a couple of blueberries that he had shoveled onto his plate from the large crystalline bowl that sat before him. Mycroft was a fan of fruit only if it was topped with sugar and shoved into a ball of dough, for some reason he never really was one for healthy foods and the evidence of that lay solely in the size of his waist coat, however he kept insisting that he was trying to make better choices. A couple of blueberries certainly wasn't going to do the trick, however Sherlock watched him in amusement as he chased them around with his fork, impaling them on a single prong before eating them with a disgusted look on his face.
"I never have any plans, and if I do I'd hardly call them big. Maybe I'll take Victor down into town, or perhaps we can go lay on the beach." Sherlock shrugged carelessly, not feeling like leaving the house at all today. Mycroft nodded, pulling another sour face as he bit down on a single blueberry.
"I'm going to run through our finances once more." He admitted gravely, folding his hands in front of him and leaning on the table in a very melancholy sort of way.
"There is no trouble I presume?" Sherlock wondered nervously. Mycroft sighed heavily, shaking his head as if he didn't know the true answer to that question.
"After generations of living off the fortune I can only imagine that they will eventually dwindle, and the burden has fallen upon me to make sure our children don't suffer for our ancestor's mistakes." Mycroft muttered glumly. Sherlock looked up at him curiously however he let his gaze fall back down to his plate, deciding not to ask just where these children were going to come from.
"Are you suggesting we find work?" Sherlock wondered with a bit of amusement, getting a rather disturbing picture of the two of them wearing their slacks and waist coats selling loaves of bread on the side of the street. That would certainly be a way to find your name smeared in the mud.
"I'm not sure as of now." Mycroft admitted, shoveling some eggs onto his plate and eating them with a little bit more enthusiasm. Sherlock nodded, picking at his food without much of an appetite. When his plate was finally cleared Sherlock got to his feet, buttoning his jacket once more and bowing his head in respect for his brother.
"Best of luck with the finances. I suppose Victor and I will head out to town. We will eat lunch out; don't bother setting a place for me." Sherlock added quickly, and with that he started out the door into the large sitting room, finding Victor waiting for him near the staircase.
"Have a nice breakfast my Lord?" Victor wondered politely, having learned that whenever they part for a while the best way to start up a conversation was to ask what had happened on the other end, appealing to Sherlock's love of talking solely about himself.
"Just another day." Sherlock admitted, rolling his eyes in disinterest before starting up the stairs without pausing to wait for Victor to catch up. The house was silent as Sherlock entered his bedroom, collecting his hat and walking stick before glancing out the window and seeing a beautiful day staring back at him, the ocean sparkling under the brilliant sun below.
"Planning on going for a swim?" Victor wondered rather hopefully, glancing over Sherlock's shoulder to see the water that splashed upon the rocky beaches below. Victor always loved to go swimming, he was an athletic man all around however swimming was definitely his best skill. He could go hours swimming out in the ocean, far from the tides that pulled him this way and that, while Sherlock usually liked to lie on the beach in his full coat and slacks, so as not to taint his beautifully pale skin.
"No swimming today, however I suppose we should do something productive. We're going to town; we'll shop around for oh I don't know...a new tie. Another black tie." Sherlock decided indifferently, glancing at Victor to make sure he pocketed some money before they headed out for the day.
"That sounds lovely my Lord." Victor assured, however there was a hint of disappointment in his voice as he turned away from the window and the waves. Sherlock didn't think Victor was in any position to whine about his life considering he was the only servant Sherlock has ever heard of to follow his master around like a puppy and indulge in the same activities. Should any other high class person go to the beach they would certainly employ their servant to hold their umbrella or get them cold water or brush the sand off of their towels, it was almost unheard of to let your servant swim in the waves beside you. And even today Victor would be outfitted in the finest attire (for keeping up appearances of course) and would be treated to a lovely lunch (paid for by Sherlock), surely he couldn't whine that he couldn't go swimming when he was being treated as if he were part of an upper class family rather than simply being a servant. The Holmes family had employed Victor when Mr. Holmes was still around, deciding that they ought to get Sherlock a personal servant who was around his age so that he could be there for him for life's troubling moments or something like that. That had been Mrs. Holmes's excuse of course; however it was obvious that she just wanted Sherlock to have a friend after growing up all alone. Sherlock had never been one for making friends, especially when he had been in school, and so when Victor was hired he automatically despised him for intruding on his self-satisfying solitude. It was only after Victor was hired, however, that Sherlock realized the affect his beauty had upon people of all genders. They bonded through their mutual love of Sherlock, and now after so many years they were nearly inseparable, despite the obvious difference between servant and master.
"Would you like your coat my Lord? It's getting brisk outside and I would hate to see you catch a cold." Victor offered, his hand already outstretched to grab Sherlock's trench coat from the wardrobe where it hung.
"No Victor, I think I will survive today without it." Sherlock assured carelessly, not giving much thought to temperature but to the effort it would take to get that coat on and off every time he went into a nicely heated building, even with a servant's help it was tedious and so he decided against it. Surely its time would come with winter slowly approaching, however today Sherlock would get along just fine. Victor nodded and closed the wardrobe obediently, checking to make sure Sherlock was fully outfitted before opening the door to offer their departure.
"Shall I call the carriage?" he offered.
"I think we will walk, it's not far after all, and I feel that I ought to get a bit of exercise in once and a while." Sherlock decided after a moment's thought, thinking back to the state Mycroft had degraded himself into after taking the carriage everywhere for the thirty or so years he had been alive.
"Not a bad decision at all." Victor agreed, however he sounded, once more, a little bit annoyed by Sherlock's rather rash decision making. Surely Victor didn't want to walk the whole two miles; however Sherlock suspected that it would be good for them to get their legs moving after sitting around at parties all night. They started out around eleven thirty, walking along the cobblestone roads in silence, the sun beating down upon their heads and lining their brows with sweat. Sherlock was rather disappointed about the weather for he was never a big fan of the heat. It was September and yet it was still very warm out, the leaves were just starting to change and the grass was beginning to lose its vibrant shades of green and yet he still felt the need to fan himself as he walked! It was a horrible tragedy, and yet the trouble of fanning always fell upon Victor who always walked something like a penguin when trying to fan Sherlock while he walked, finding that it was very difficult to go anywhere when your arms are preoccupied fanning up and down.