To Be Like That Of A God

The Horror of A Heir

    "What were you doing?" Victor wondered suspiciously.
"I could ask you the same." Sherlock muttered, shutting the door and leaning against the wood for a moment, letting his fingers trail very slowly off of the brass door handle until they fell once more at his sides. Victor stood next to the bed looking almost shameful, as if he didn't want to admit just what he been doing.
"Just waiting for you to return." He admitted finally.
"I was talking to Mrs. Hudson about tonight's dinner, making sure she knew not to serve us." Sherlock lied, however that was a much more convincing lie since he was sure he smelled a little bit like ground beef and if he had claimed to have been outside Victor would have picked up on that right away. He was a very observant fellow.
"You're to dine at Major Sholto's tonight, am I correct?" Victor clarified, draping out a nice two piece suit for Sherlock to wear to such a formal occasion. Sherlock looked upon the outfit hatefully, never one for frock coats and vests, in fact he was perfectly content with a simple jacket and slacks however the men of the age had decided that that was simply too casual for such events, and so they invented these hideous costumes of sophistication.
"Yes, and oh how I dread it." Sherlock admitted with a groan.
"He's not a very good conversationalist from what I remember." Victor admitted, walking over to Sherlock and holding out the suit for his approval. Sherlock nodded miserably, knowing that he really didn't have much say in the matter, taking his place in the middle of the room for his dress up party. Sherlock couldn't help but notice Victor's sudden change in character, as if the noticeable absence of that letter on the desk was enough to put him in a better mood. Sherlock knew better to comment on it, however, because Victor was one to forget grudges easily but carry them on once he remembered what it was he had been angry about in the first place. He seemed rather apologetic nevertheless, almost as if he was trying to make up for his childish behavior all throughout the day. Sherlock thought that would only be fair considering how whiney he had become when he didn't get what he wanted. For a servant he certainly was spoiled, and the moment something happened the he didn't approve of it was suddenly everybody else's problem. This evening, however, Victor seemed to be treating Sherlock with his deserved humbleness and dormancy, following instructions and keeping his gaze away from staring directly into Sherlock's eyes. Victor crept up behind Sherlock and placed the clothes onto the bed, reaching around him from behind almost as if he was hugging him only to pull at the cord that tied the two ends of Sherlock's dressing gown free, letting it fall open for just a moment and pausing there, just for a millisecond. Sherlock could feel his sharp intake of breath, positioning his head right above Sherlock's shoulder so that he could feel his deep exhale of breath play along his partially exposed chest. Sherlock couldn't help but breathe deeply as well, letting his eyelids droop for the slightest moment while he felt Victor hover so closely, feeling the very soft touch of his fingers against his collarbone as he went to push the dressing gown from his shoulders. For a moment, however, Sherlock was in an almost dreamlike state, almost as if he was watching this scene from a third person's perspective. But when he saw the two of them supposedly standing together next to the bed it wasn't Victor that he saw but John Watson, the man's golden head positioned so close to Sherlock's neck that with a mere lean on either of their parts his lips would be pressed against the pale skin. It was a wild fantasy, interrupted only when Victor opened his mouth to speak, reminding Sherlock only too well of the man who was truly standing above him.
"My Lord I feel as though I owe you an apology for my actions today. I was being childish, and for that I am dearly sorry." Victor breathed, his words landing on Sherlock's skin and sending shivers down his spine at their touch. Sherlock appreciated Victor's words more than the boy could understand, simply because Victor was never one to apologize, at least not without being forced to. In the very few instances when he had misbehaved Sherlock had insisted that he apologize, threatening his job and all of that before finally squeezing out the most insincere apology, delivered of course with a scowl.
"You're forgiven Victor, of course." Sherlock assured quietly, leaning in ever so slightly so that he could feel the tiniest of brushes of skin against his neck, whether it be by Victor's cheek or his lips or his forehead Sherlock would never know, however at that moment he felt his dressing gown get pushed off of his shoulders, hitting the ground at Victor's feet in a very unceremonious lump of shimmering fabric. With that Victor breathed heavier, remaining just for a moment with his hands wrapped around Sherlock's chest, holding him in almost a cradling position without so much as touching him, almost as if he felt like he wasn't allowed. Sherlock still felt as though it was John who was behind him, for the strangest reason he was almost sure that the arms that enveloped him were the strong arms of the stocky shoe shiner, and the breath that broke against his skin was breathed from the very same lips that had stretched into the most contagious of smiles. For a moment Sherlock convinced himself that he wanted Victor to be John, for a moment he was almost hoping for it to be true. However Victor finally let go, untangling his arms from around his master and picking up the white buttoned down shirt to begin with, pulling it over Sherlock's bear arms and buttoning it up all the way to his neck, apologizing all the while because he knew how much Sherlock despised modern day asphyxiating fashions. Victor was surprisingly compliant today, dressing Sherlock very quickly and brushing his hair until it shone, squirting on just the right amount of Sherlock's almost flowery cologne (Mycroft had always teased him, calling it perfume) and lacing up his shoes with beautiful looping laces.
"I am not coming along tonight, correct?" Victor clarified, helping Sherlock get up from where he sat on his desk chair and keeping their hands together for a just a moment longer than necessary. Sherlock nodded grimly, not overly excited about sharing a carriage and a table with none but his rather judgmental brother.
"No unfortunately not, stay here and clean my room while I am away. I found some dust on my headboard this morning and I was thoroughly disgusted." Sherlock admitted, as if this was some sort of horrible tragedy. Victor knew enough, of course, than to argue with Sherlock's nitpicky cleaning regulations since he had lived up to them for how many years now. He simply bowed his compliance and fetched Sherlock his walking stick and top hat, handing them over with a gentle, apologetic smile.
"Thank you again, my Lord, for the lovely day at the beach." Victor added. Sherlock just hummed his agreement, turning towards the mirror and poking at some curls that stuck out in a very unruly fashion on his forehead.
"Don't think of it as some sort of reward for behaving like a child; I simply fancied a relaxing day. It had nothing to do with your mood swings." Sherlock snapped back, holding his head a bit higher just to keep his neck from getting impaled by the buttons that were fastened very tightly below his neck. Nevertheless he appeared much more confident, probably part of the reason Victor was looking so weak and dormant next to his aura of power.
"Well I enjoyed it nevertheless." Victor assured with a bit of a smile. Sherlock studied him in the mirror for a moment and couldn't help but cracking a miniscule smile in return.
"Yes, I'm sure you did." He agreed quickly. With that Sherlock placed his hat formally onto his head and nodded his farewell to Victor, starting out his bedroom door and going to join his brother in the carriage bound for the manor of Major James Sholto. Mycroft was sitting on the small couch in the entrance hall, the couch they had placed there for exactly this purpose, Sherlock's lateness and Mycroft's laziness. God forbid that man had to stand more than five second on his feet; no it would be an atrocity! Because of this the servants had moved one of the love seats from the sitting room to be next to the door, the very same couch that Mycroft was now lounging on carelessly, tapping his walking stick irritably against the marble floors so that it produced a loud, irritable clacking noise.
"Late as usual." Mycroft commented, heaving himself to his feet with a massive groan of effort.
"Fashionably late, I assure you." Sherlock said with a smile, puling at his curls so that they fell down his forehead appropriately. Mycroft looked over his brother with a rather disapproving glare, as if he didn't like the amount of effort Sherlock put into his appearance, that or he was just jealous that only one of the two brothers had inherited all the beauty that had ever gotten passed down through their bloodline. The two of them walked out into the dying darkness of the dusk, standing idly on the porch in their dinner clothes as they watched the carriage horses trot ever so gracefully up the cobblestone drive. When they loaded into the carriage they each took opposite seats, positioning themselves so that one sat by the window and one sat by the door, making sure that if they both raised their head at the same time there would be no way to make eye contact unless it was absolutely necessary. The Holmes brothers were always rather reclusive, and that didn't just fade away when they were seated together in a silent carriage. Sherlock would much rather get lost in his own thoughts than interact with his brother, and he was quite sure that Mycroft felt the same.
"Not to be the bearer of bad news..." Mycroft started, however Sherlock raised his hand to shush him in an instant.
"I don't want to hear it. Nothing good ever comes from that introduction." Sherlock insisted, shaking his head and drawing his knees protectively up to his chest. Mycroft sighed heavily, watching his brother with insistent black eyes, obviously trying to decide if he should appeal to his brother's wishes and silence himself or if he should just say what he had intended on saying in the beginning.
"Sherlock I was running our finances once more...the money is dwindling at a terrifying rate." Mycroft admitted quickly. Sherlock looked up quickly, not having expected such a terrible blow this early into their carriage ride induced solitude.
"You're not serious?" Sherlock wonderer nervously, looking about the carriage as if hoping to spot some golden coins sticking out of the cushions. Mycroft shook his head gravely, his hands clutching onto his walking stick with a bit of a nervous tremble, as if he was holding on to it as if it were going to vanish the moment he let go. Surely their luxuries were going to be dwindling from now on.
"I hate to say that I am quite serious." Mycroft admitted heavily.
"Well then we must get jobs! We must start a business with what is left, we must invest!" Sherlock decided quickly, leaning forward in his seat in excitement.
"Oh nonsense Sherlock, could you imagine the two of us working real jobs? It's preposterous." Mycroft muttered hatefully.
"We could start up an operation in America; invest in the cotton fields, or the gold mines!" Sherlock said quickly, getting more and more excited as more opportunities materialized into his imagination.
"Or we could just marry." Mycroft suggested in a low mutter, shuttering at the very thought. Sherlock fell silent, his brain suddenly sputtering to process this new horrific information. Mycroft wouldn't raise his eyes to meet his brother's and yet his silence said it all, he was just as terrified with the suggestion as Sherlock was.
"Marry?" Sherlock whispered in disbelief. Mycroft heaved a great sigh, shaking his head shamefully and tapping his stubby fingers against the golden head of his walking stick.
"Well you really must consider it Sherlock, to merge two families of great wealth is to ensure the prosperity of them both. I can only imagine there are tens of thousands of rich bachelorettes just dying for your hand, surely you could pick at least one of them to make your wife?" Mycroft suggested, shrugging as if this didn't sound too burdensome for himself at all. Sherlock, on the other hand, couldn't help but gape in disbelief, staring at his brother as if waiting for a joking smile to break along his face.
"Mycroft I'm not looking for a wife." Sherlock muttered with a little smile, still in the process of understanding the lengths of their necessary. Surely starting a plantation in America was a lot less cumbersome than marrying?
"Now Sherlock you may not be looking for one at the moment, however with a little bit of motivation I'm sure you'll suddenly see the opportunities and the, um...desire?" Mycroft muttered, trying to pick some words that might make love sound more preferable to solitude however he was obviously coming up short. Surely he didn't actually know the complexities of being in love, in fact Sherlock doubted that Mycroft had ever even known the very basics of the human emotion spectrum. Mycroft always had a heart sculpted of rock, unable to feel anything but stagnation and disinterest. And why did Mycroft suddenly assume that Sherlock was willing to step out of his comfort zone and into the ever judgmental world of the female race? He was so willing to let his brother get dangled on a hook in front of ravenous sharks, why didn't he sacrifice himself as well?
"Mycroft you've got to be joking." Sherlock muttered, his smile slowly dropping as this supposed joke ran on longer and longer. Mycroft shook his head once more, sighing as if this conversation was getting more and more tedious by the second.
"Once you take me seriously, brother mine, then we could actually have a conversation." Mycroft grumbled, raising his eyebrows in disappointment while Sherlock gaped in disbelief.
"Why won't you marry? Why does it have to be me to take these great leaps? I don't want to associate myself with...with that kind anytime soon." Sherlock growled, thinking about all the women he had ever met, all of them with the high voices, the screeching laughs, and the elaborate costumes of artificial beauty.
"I am far too old to marry, and too fat. No woman would want me as a husband and surely I would want no woman as a wife." Mycroft muttered, although there was a hint of sarcastic solemnness that made Sherlock suspect that he wasn't entirely upset after all.
"I refuse to marry to ensure your bank account." Sherlock said determinedly.
"Then marry to ensure our bloodline. What happens if we both die in a horrific carriage accident? Who will inherit the fortune if you do not produce an heir?" Mycroft wondered. Sherlock winced, a horrible shiver running down his spine at the very idea of continuing the family line.
"Mycroft I have no interest!" Sherlock demanded sickly, pulling miserably at his face at the very idea of having any sort of relationship with a woman, whether that relationship be emotional or physical, oh it was simply all too much! All too overwhelming...all too disgusting.
"Sherlock I don't think you have any choice! We must continue the line and we must ensure our finances, the only way to satisfy those two situations is by finding you a suitable mistress. You can have your pick of course, that is the good side of all of this." Mycroft pointed out.
"I pick none!" Sherlock exclaimed suddenly, making Mycroft shake his head in annoyance.
"Sherlock surely there is one woman who might satisfy you?" he insisted hopefully.
"None." Sherlock said flatly, crossing his arms and sneering at his brother who simply looked back at him with a mournful glare.
"Well then we'll find you one. Surely you will have to brush up on your romantics; a true gentleman should be trained in the art of flirtation." Mycroft decided with a bit of an upset huff.
"A true gentleman stays clear of romantic attachments overall." Sherlock decided flatly.
"No they do not. Even you have feelings Sherlock, I know it. Maybe not the most normal feelings..."
"I do not!" Sherlock protested.
"Then why do you have Victor dress and undress you ever morning and night?" Mycroft wondered in a growl, leaning forward and raising his eyebrows suspiciously. Sherlock gasped, he couldn't help himself, he gasped like an old woman and clutched at his heart, unable to believe what he had just heard.
"That's impossible Mycroft, Victor is a man, and there is no way for a man to love another man!" Sherlock insisted flatly, shaking his head for a moment and deciding that Mycroft must be on some sort of hallucinogenic. Mycroft sighed very heavily, acting like he was a very burdened parent who had to explain every little thing to his incompetent child.
"It's called homosexuality Sherlock, look it up." Mycroft growled, sitting back in his seat and staring rather fixedly at the empty seat in front of him, the smallest of blushes beginning to appear in his cheeks. Sherlock stayed frozen where he sat, his fingers clenched so tightly around his walking stick that he felt as though his knuckles were going to go straight through his splitting skin. He couldn't say anything because there was obviously nothing more to say, and the ever looming presence of their conversation weighted upon Sherlock's shoulders even as the carriage pulled up along the entrance of the brightly lit manor of Major Sholto.