To Be Like That Of A God

He Doesn't Deserve That Angel

"Now Sherlock behave, if you will, and keep your eyes out for any women who catch you eye." Mycroft suggested, smiling in an almost antagonizing smile before stepping out of the carriage, just in time to avoid Sherlock's swinging walking stick which, had Mycroft been a moment slower, would have caught him right in his fat backside. Sherlock followed his brother out of the carriage and stood in front of the large house, servants already rushing to open the door and escort the two men inside. Sherlock nodded thankfully at them as he stepped into the magnificent hall, haring music playing from a beautiful gramophone in the corner. Mycroft cleared his throat and thrust his hat and stick at the nearest servant, shedding his coat and loading it on top of the poor boy's already filled hands. Sherlock mimicked him, however with a tad bit more politeness, and followed his brother into the dining room where conversation was carrying out from the open door. Inside was seated a handful of elite members of society, including the Major himself along with some other stern looking military men, all dressed in their uniforms and decorated with multiples stars, epaulets, and badges for courage and whatnot. They were all retired from their positions of course, aged and withered from their days on the battlefield, and yet they still held themselves high and mighty as if they thought themselves to be feared and respected even in their later years. Among them were apparent members of their families, their wives sitting next to them with a couple of their sons and daughters lining the table, trying to look as official as their decorated parents. Sherlock recognized very few of them, in fact it seemed as though he and Mycroft were some of the only dinner guests without military background. Nevertheless they took their spots at the table, introducing themselves and starting up the most forceful small talk imaginable. Mycroft had always been a good conversationalist despite his chosen lack of practice. Sherlock was much more apt to taking the backseat and letting his brother do the talking and so he sat back in his chair and watched as his brother began to describe the ocean this time of year (somehow that had come up in their conversations). When dinner arrived everyone was silent for a couple of moments, save for their compliments to the chef and their adoration of the food presented in front of them. Sherlock thought that it was good food of course, however it was nothing compared to Mrs. Hudson's superb cooking. These military men never had much good food to offer, simply because they had spent so long living off of nasty porridge and stale bread while on the battlefield, one would expect half of their taste buds to have dried up and disappeared just to survive those days of famine. Sherlock, on instinct, kept his head down and his lips sealed, content with eating his food and listening to Major Sholto continue on with his long, drawn out stories of heroics that everyone at the table had undoubtedly heard a hundred times before. Sherlock had a very uneasy feeling of being watched, however, and finally he raised his head and was met with a pair of very dark, very forceful looking eyes from the other side of the table. The owner of these eyes appeared to be the daughter of one of the military officials, a very pale and skeletal looking girl around Sherlock's age with long dark hair and a horrible, overconfident grin on her thin lips. She appalled Sherlock from the moment he set eyes on her and he hastily looked away, pretending to be entranced by Major Sholto's stories despite the everlasting feeling of uneasiness radiated from that girl's stares. When finally dinner had been cleared and the last of the desert crumbs had been picked off of their plates the men and women burst into loud fits of conversation, drinking dark coffee and smoking cigarettes as they chatted away. Sherlock was beginning to feel very dreary, his head spinning with the thick plume of cigarette smoke, the noise of the shouting men beginning to cause his head to throb. He looked over at Mycroft to see that he wasn't the only one with drooping eyelids; however he decided that it was best to leave his brother to interact while he took a short leave of absence to clear his head. So Sherlock excused himself in a little mutter, getting to his feet and disappearing out into the entrance hall for a moment. He stood in the elaborate domed ceiling and took a couple of breaths, finally finding what looked like a door to a terrace, a perfect place to relax and be at peace for a couple of moments before he was forced to reappear at the dining room. Sherlock looked around rather nervously, worried that he might be caught by a servant or something like that. However no one seemed to be around and so Sherlock walked to the doors of the terrace and pulled them open, finding a couple of cold armchair sitting outside in the pale, moonlit darkness. The world was silent as he pulled the doors shut once more, cloaked in darkness and still he watched as the tops of the trees as they shivered softly in the slight breeze. Sherlock sank into an armchair and sat with a smoldering cigarette between his fingers, smoking for a moment before exhaling powerfully, letting the smoke intermingle with the cold air in a plume that formed around his face before diffusing into the atmosphere above. For a moment it was silent, and Sherlock was able to enjoy his time in the chilly night, before suddenly the door opened, making Sherlock jump to his feet in surprise. He was half expecting a servant to walk onto the terrace and yell at him for trespassing when he found, to his absolute disappointment, that it was none other than the pale girl from the dining room. She smiled at him for a moment before taking her place in the armchair next to him, crossing her legs under her red dress and unearthing a cigarette from her small purse that lay by her side. For a moment they sat in silence, the uneasiness rising with every movement she made, until finally Sherlock had the urge to get up and leave.
"It says a lot about a man to see them sitting alone in a crowded house." She started, letting out a plume of smoke from her painted lips without looking over. Maybe she found that to be more flirtatious, Sherlock viewed it as just rude.
"It says a lot about the woman that follows him." Sherlock added with a bit of an annoyed air.
"He believes his thoughts are superior to the conversation." She said in a breath.
"And she thinks that she's entitled to interrupt his serenity." Sherlock muttered bitterly. The woman laughed, nodding her head as if she knew that to be true.
"Irene Adler." She introduced, not bothering to hold out a hand for a shake or anything. Sherlock sighed heavily, about to introduce himself when she looked over at him with a bit of a smile.
"And I already know who you are of course, how could I not? The famous Sherlock Holmes, every upper class woman's daydream." She breathed, looking over him with approving black eyes while Sherlock eased even farther away from her, nearly leaning over the side of his chair in an attempt to get some more distance.
"I don't think I would go so far as adding that to my list of titles." Sherlock admitted meekly, quite sure that he was no woman's daydream, more like their nightmare.
"Well obviously you don't know the gossip that follows you then. All the women are crazy for you; you're quite the topic of conversation." Irene admitted with a puff of her cigarette, sitting back in her chair and glancing over the darkened landscape that stretched before them.
"I was unaware." Sherlock muttered, thinking immediately to Mycroft's insistence that he should take his pick of any woman he wanted. Surely if all of these women were swooning over him there must be at least one who caught his eye? Oh it seemed ever so impossible!
"I for one am quite keen, not only with you but with your story. I'm a reporter you see, and with your name on the front page I'm sure I'll sell hundreds of copies to those desperate women all dreaming of the day when you take them by the hand. Surely you could spare a couple of moments for an interview, possibly on your ideal bride?" Irene wondered, unearthing from her bag a small notepad and pen as if she suspected Sherlock to just spill his ideas and secrets out to her because she asked nicely. Instead Sherlock got to his feet, shaking his head quickly before clearing his throat, smoldering his cigarette in the ash tray, and glancing nervously at the door. Suddenly he felt quite like curling up into a ball and hiding, trying to protect whatever thoughts and feelings lingered inside of him without even knowing what they were himself. Surely if he was interviewed on his ideal bride more than a couple of ideas he hadn't thought of himself would erupt from his lips, surely if he tried to explain why no women caught his eye he would accidently depict in full color just who might. He didn't want to think on such questions and he most certainly didn't want the answers to those fateful questions to end up sitting in the newspaper on every respectable man and woman's coffee table.
"Mycroft will be looking for me, my apologies." Sherlock said quickly, bowing his head in due respect before grabbing at the terrace door and nearly running back to the dining room, where it would seem that the topic at hand hadn't changed a bit.