To Be Like That Of A God

Must Be More Than A Mortal

    Sherlock led the way down a rocky path, his shoes scuffing against the rust that had been created as many feet trampled away at the stone made it slightly more walkable each time they trekked through. John was quiet behind him, save for a couple of profanities uttered when his foot hit against a rather large rock that jutted out of the path before them. All the while down Sherlock was contemplating things to say, he imagined that there might be at least one thing that would entertain his guest enough to keep conversation flowing, however for the life of him he couldn't think a single topic. No drama was coexisting in both of their social circles, politics had gotten quite boring in the past couple of days, and there were no public scandals that could be discussed without assuming too much background information. The weather had been normal over the past week and was expected to stay the same, no wars were on the brink of starting or ending, and surely John wouldn't be interested in hearing about the stocks since he kept most all of his money very close to his chest. So what could be talked about? Maybe Greg Lestrade and his usual antics, or the time that had passed since they had last seen each other, or the terrifying idea of Sherlock's imminent marriage to one woman or the other. Oh but of course these wouldn't be topics of enough entertainment to keep John interested, surely he could do better! When Sherlock finally descended onto the pebbles of the rocky beach he held out a hand for John to take, assuming of course that John didn't know how to step down from the ten inch step without the aid of a strong hand. John just laughed at him, as if his help was more amusing than touching, and instead just stepped down by himself, his shoes landing flat on the rock strewn beach as his eyes scanned the area with a sparkle of wonder.
"This is all yours?" John wondered in a mystified voice, looking around the beach and taking a step closer to the frothing waves that were creeping slowly up the shoreline.
"Well it's my family's, yes. This manor has been in our house for centuries, as well as this beach." Sherlock admitted.
"All my family is dead." John said almost absentmindedly, walking another couple of steps before stopped short and looking back almost apologetically.
"Sorry, that was kind of morbid." He added quickly before smiling widely and turning back to face the ocean. Sherlock remained where he was, putting his cigarettes to his lips once more and wincing as the cold, salty breeze of the ocean played across his delicate pale features. How different the beach was come night time, how mysterious the alcoves and shadows of the rock face become, and how beautiful the ocean was, gleaming in the pale moonlight and rolling lazily across the pebbles.
"Do you live alone then?" Sherlock wondered rather curiously, walking up to where John stood so that the two of them could face over the ocean together, their cigarettes letting off the smallest trails of smoke as they smoldered in their fingers.
"Yes I do, but it suits my needs. Well you know what I do for a profession; surely I couldn't support a family with the couple of cents I make a day." John admitted rather carelessly. That was another attribute Sherlock respected in this man; he wasn't moping about and complaining that he was poor, or that he actually had to work for his pay. He seemed all together indifferent, as if he fully understood that it was his fate to be no more than a shoe shiner and he wasn't going to hold his bad luck against anyone else's fortunes. Surely any other poor man would have come into the Holmes manor and attempt to slide the silverware into their pockets; however John seemed mystified and impressed by their fortune, not envious. He was very down to earth, and extremely appreciative of what he was able to accomplish despite his workplace on the sidewalk.
"Oh I just wondered since you seem to be the marrying age. I wasn't sure if you had left your wife at home or not." Sherlock admitted, the tiniest hint of hope evident in his soft voice. John simply laughed, shaking his head as if the very idea of a wife was something completely absurd.
"Is there really a marrying age for men like me?" he wondered, looking on Sherlock with a very large, almost accusing smile. Sherlock shrugged, keeping his gaze fixed on the waves as he held his cigarette to his lips in an attempt for more time to think of what to say.
"I do believe there is. I for one am considered to be the prime marrying age, at least that's what the gossip foretells." Sherlock admitted.
"Then why don't you have a ring on your finger, or a woman on your arm?" John wondered curiously, asking as if he found it completely absurd not to marry when you have the opportunity. Sherlock simply laughed, dropping his gaze almost shamefully as he suddenly found it more difficult to get a breath.
"I said I'm old enough, I didn't say I'm interested." Sherlock defended. John nodded, finally dropping his cigarette and stamping it into the mud.
"Oh, so you're one of those men?" John wondered, looking up at him as if he suddenly noticed a completely different side to the man he was standing next to. Sherlock recoiled, his mind immediately jumping to the accusation Mycroft had made in the carriage the other night, the word that he had used, that strange word used to address a strange man...
"I'm not quite sure what you mean." Sherlock admitted quickly, shivering slightly under his heavy coat as the ocean water edged quietly up towards his polished shoes.
"A loner." John clarified. "It's always said that the Holmes brothers were loners."
"Is that really what is said about us?" Sherlock wondered curiously, not entirely sure how John had received such information.
"Oh much more, that was only just a snippet of the whispers I hear." John assured. Sherlock nodded, humming his agreement for a moment before stamping out his cigarette and turning his gaze upon John for the first time that night.
"And are any of those whispers true?" Sherlock asked quietly. John looked back upon him, their eyes meeting for the quickest of moments before they both averted their gaze, staring off at the rocks or at the ocean that stretched before them.
"I'd like to say they're not...for your sake." John decided finally. Sherlock nodded, however John's rather vague answer provided no consolation. To be honest Sherlock had nothing to hide, so despite the whispers that may be said about him it was obvious that they couldn't be true if they were indeed that horrible. He was a man with little to be ashamed of and little to hide, however the commoners loved to make a good scandal out of the well-known faces in their towns, and the upper class provided a familiar name to drag through the mud. Making up stories has become something of a hobby for the less fortunate these days. Sherlock could only hope that these fabrications were doing him some justice, for he would hate to have John believe any of the whispers.
"I wish to keep any indignity out of my life; I assure you Mr. Watson, that my record is quite clean." Sherlock assured, looking upon the man once more to see that his golden head was bowed towards the waves, the moonlight gleaming along his rough tanned skin. He was in no way beautiful; however there was a certain sense of attractiveness that a rich man could never accomplish. John's hands were not smooth they were rough, callused, and well used. His face was not unblemished, he had wrinkles forming from squinting in the sun too long, and he had patches of sun that had not yet healed even as the autumn months approached. His hair was combed yet untrimmed, his face was shaven yet there were the smallest of white scars dotted along his cheeks from where he had cut himself in past attempts. In no world would John Watson ever pass as anything other than a laborer, a commoner destined to sit in the streets for the remainder of his life, and yet Sherlock was finding it increasingly difficult to turn his gaze away. John possessed a strange sense of beauty that was evident not on the physical level but on the spiritual level, his eyes held a sort of softness that was hardly ever found in the eyes of a wealthy person, his hands moved with a certain carefulness that would never be felt in the hands of the upper class, certainly John held attributes that would be thought impossible for anyone of the highest tax bracket to possess all at once. However John Watson also lacked the elegance and grace that was usually sought after in this world, he lacked the glowing pale skin that made Sherlock so desirable, he lacked the long lanky figure that was considered so attractive these days, he was short, stocky, and muscular beneath his faded black clothes. Sherlock found him to be breathtaking; however John's qualities would most likely go overlooked by any other man who glanced in his direction. There was such a contrast between the two men as they stood silent on the beach, the waves lolling about their feet and yet they made no moves to step back. For a moment it was only the two of them, both thinking of something to say while assuring themselves that they were content with this silence, and for a moment they let their brains wander away to the man that stood at their side, wondering just what was going on in his head. Not once did they consider that they were both thinking about each other. Finally John bent over to pick up a smooth, flat rock from the mass of pebbles by their feet, turning it over in his hands with a smile and brushing off the sand that clung to its shining surface.
"What's that for?" Sherlock wondered, almost worried that John was going to use it to bash in his skull while they were alone. John, however, took a step towards the surf, his feet getting overwhelmed by the sea foam yet he took no notice. He took the stone in one hand and with a flick of his wrist sent it skimming over the waves, bouncing along the lolling water four times before it sunk and disappeared from their sight. Sherlock laughed in amazement, never having seen a rock fly like that before, however John seemed unimpressed, already trying to find another rock to follow the first.
"What on earth are you doing?" Sherlock asked in amazement, forgetting about his beautiful leather shoes as he ran to stand by John's side in the tides. John grabbed another flat rock and paused, looking up at Sherlock curiously as if he couldn't believe his ears.
"You mean you've never skipped stones before?" John asked miraculously, straightening up while a wave rolled about the shore and soaked the bottoms of their trousers. The water was freezing and it sent horrible shivers down Sherlock's spine, however in the moment he didn't seem to notice, for the smile on John's face was warming his heart enough to forget about the cold for now.
"I don't think I have." Sherlock admitted. John's jaw dropped and he immediately held out his newly collected flat stone for Sherlock to take, splashing about in the waves himself to try to unearth a suitable rock for himself. Sherlock held the stone in his hands and stared at it for a moment, appreciating the way the moon gleamed against the black rock's damp surface. John let out an unintentional cry of triumph before pulling another rock from the bottom of the waves, running it along the frothing waves to clear it of any sand before straightening up and walking back over to where Sherlock stood.
"I could teach you, if you'd like." John offered, although it seemed as though he was already prepared for a lesson despite Sherlock's answer.
"I suppose it may be a good skill to have. I come to these beaches and only lie around; Victor always complains that he has to swim alone." Sherlock admitted, glancing back over to the large flat rock on which he usually sunned himself, like a snake enjoying a hot day.
"You bring your servant out here?" John wondered almost jealously, as if he was seriously reconsidering his line of work.
"Well yes, although when I bring him here he's more of a friend than anything. The other servants don't get this type of luxury." Sherlock admitted, feeling a slight blush of shame creeping into his cheeks although he wasn't quite sure why.
"You and Victor have a good relationship then?" John guessed despite the conclusion that could obviously be drawn from Sherlock's previous statements.
"Well yes, he's been my servant for as long as I can remember." Sherlock agreed, feeling as though this was more of an interrogation than a casual conversation. John nodded, pausing for a moment and turning his glistening stone over in his fingers rather nervously.
"Am I wrong in assuming he doesn't like me?" John asked quickly, as if he thought that by asking Sherlock would suddenly grow to dislike him as well. Sherlock shrugged his shoulders innocently, suddenly finding that it was necessary to stare off into the waves before him, noticing finally the horrible chill that was engulfing his sunken feet.
"He doesn't like many people, especially those that I seem to take interest in." Sherlock admitted quietly, glancing up at John to see that the man's face had turned serious, nervous even, as though he were trying and failing to decipher Sherlock's words.
"Am I one of those people then?" John wondered in a rather low voice. His words worried Sherlock although he wasn't quite sure why, it almost felt as if John was accusing him of something and yet Sherlock didn't know what for, surely there was nothing wrong with being interested in someone? Unless John had a much different definition for interest...
"Well yes of course, you intrigue me Mr. Watson, you seem to be much different than the common man. I cannot help but be fascinated by you." Sherlock admitted. John ducked his gaze away; however Sherlock could almost swear he saw something of a smile on those usually expressionless lips.
"Is that a compliment?" John wondered in a curiously high pitched voice, almost like he was on the verge of laughter.
"I should hope so." Sherlock agreed, watching John as if wondering what he had done wrong. Surely sincere compliments shouldn't be that funny? John nodded; clearing his throat and turning his head back to Sherlock, weighing his rock in his hand before flicking it down across the waves. This time the rock skipped close to five times, bouncing along the waves as though it was a rubber ball on a marble floor before sinking and disappearing into the depths.
"Did you see what I did there?" John wondered, looking towards Sherlock to see it there was any measure of amazement in his eyes. Sherlock, unfortunately, had not been looking at the rock and instead had been focused on the man who had thrown it, all while John was watching his stone skip across the waves Sherlock had been studying his face, the intense look in his eyes and the concentration that seemed to overwhelm his expression just for a moment. It was a strangely beautiful expression, and for a moment Sherlock couldn't help but feel his heart begin to beat faster than normal, thudding against his rib cage as though it was trying to remind him of something.
"No I um...I'm sorry I missed it." Sherlock admitted. John nodded, clearing his throat before grabbing another rock from the waves just below their knees. He held it up proudly and showed Sherlock just how to hold it, right between the forefinger and the thumb. Sherlock mimicked him, nodding along as John explained just how to flick the rock and all that, he was emphasizing the wrist flick and the follow through and all these other things that meant absolutely nothing to Sherlock. However he followed along, trying his very best to absorb some of the information that was being thrown at him.
"Alright then, give it a try." John said finally, stepping back in the surf and waiting expectantly.
"Oh, me?" Sherlock muttered, looking at him nervously before glancing at the rock that had now become dry in his fingers. It was a lot less visually appearing without the coat of water, instead of shiny it appeared to be just another rock, suspiciously smooth yet just as gray and ugly as the rest.
"No, the person next to you." John teased. Sherlock, being the intelligent person he was, immediately turned to see who was next to him. Obviously there was no one, and it took John a couple of moments to get his laughter under control before he could calm himself down and wait for Sherlock to skip his first stone. Sherlock took a deep breath, knowing that this was going to be an absolute atrocity and an obvious reminder that he hadn't been listening to a word John had been saying. However he decided that he ought to just get it over with, and with that he tossed the rock just as John had taught him, making sure to flick his wrist and follow through and all that nonsense that John had preached not a minute before. To Sherlock amazement, however, the stone skipped twice along the waves before sinking into the surf, and with a gasp of excitement Sherlock looked over to John, who was smiling yet he didn't seem to notice that any stone had actually been thrown. It seemed to be John's turn to not pay attention to anything but the man beside him.
"Did you see that?" Sherlock asked proudly, to which John just blinked and nodded.
"Yes that was good Sherlock, that was very good." John agreed, clapping his hands rather sarcastically while looking around in confusion. Obviously he hadn't seen a thing, however Sherlock was left to wonder what might have distracted him.
"You didn't see it, did you?" Sherlock wondered accusingly, to which John just shrugged his shoulders guiltily. He seemed to be almost embarrassed for not paying attention; however he at once dropped his gaze as his face grew a bit red. A smile poked at the corners of Sherlock's lips; however he wasn't quite sure what he found so funny.
"I had heard a lot about you Sherlock; I was just stopping to see if it was true." John admitted heavily, leaving Sherlock for a moment to stare at him, waiting for an explanation. This wasn't more about the gossip that had spread about him, was it?
"What is that supposed to mean?" Sherlock wondered nervously, to which John could only duck his head lower.
"It's mostly the women who call you a God, at the parties and such I heard them swooning over you as they stood by the punch bowl. They said that are the most beautiful man to even walk the Earth, going on about your bone structure and your skin and your eyes. I just realized that I hadn't given it much attention before now." John admitted in a rather soft voice. Sherlock nodded, smiling in a strange way before turning to face John, trying to make sure he was able to see every part of him that he desired to see. For some reason there was a certain amount of flattery that went along with a spotlight, and the eyes of John Watson seemed to be the perfect audience for Sherlock to stretch out his long neck and brush his dark curls away from his eyes. It was almost as if he had been waiting for this moment, almost as if they had both been waiting to adore Sherlock Holmes.
"And what do you see Mr. Watson? Do you agree with the women at the punch bowl, do I really resemble a God?" Sherlock wondered, feeling himself edge ever closer the man before him as if proximity changed the answer to that question. It just felt right to be closer, Sherlock couldn't explain why. For a moment John simply stared, his lips slightly parted as they glistened in the moonlight, his eyes scanning every inch of Sherlock's face with entranced brown eyes, he was coming closer as well, taking the most miniscule steps as if he expected Sherlock not to notice. John's expression gave Sherlock a feeling of power he had not yet experienced, however along with that power came a sort of submission that made him want to fall forward and kiss the wet shoes of the meager common man. He had never felt such a strange feeling before, however as he stood in John's transfixed glare he knew that whatever this strange feeling was, he wanted more of it.
"I see no evidence that you might be a mortal." John admitted in a small voice, almost as if he was having trouble forming words from his parted lips. Sherlock smiled ever so slightly, taking a deep breath as if he was trying to breathe in John's words, trying to cherish them to the best of his abilities while the waves crashed into his already soaking legs.
"Ah Mr. Watson, you do know how to flatter." Sherlock admitted with a bit of a teasing smile. John nodded proudly, putting his hands into his coat pockets and shrugging his shoulders rather innocently.
"I could keep going...if you wanted me to." John offered in a tone Sherlock didn't quite recognize.
"Oh you do know how I love a compliment." Sherlock breathed, stumbling forward another shaking step, finding that the gap between them was closing faster than ever before. Soon they would be together, with just another step from the both of them their chests might be pressed against the other's, their breaths might intertwine and their lips might veer along the other's cheek, unsure where to go in such close proximity... And yet he heard a call, a voice carried off by the wind and yet its message was clear enough.
"They're calling for us." John muttered, blinking as if he was regaining his composure and coming back into his own mind, rearranging his common sense and taking a stumbling step backwards. Sherlock nodded, taking a deep breath and dashing off towards the dry pebbles, his trousers now sticking irritably to his freezing legs and with every step his feet sloshed in his shoes. Wordlessly they both scrambled up the same path they had descended not long before, however it felt like they had been down at the beach for ages when finally the house loomed into sight, seeming almost foreign to Sherlock with its glowing, welcoming windows and its towering gates. Surely something had changed, or had it not been the house but his own point of view that had been altered? Sherlock glanced back at John, who had taken to lagging behind as he stamped his feet against the cobblestones, leaving great watery footprints as he followed like a scared puppy, too afraid to walk at his owner's side. And Sherlock smiled, ducking his head away before leading the way into the house where the rest of their dinner party was waiting to say their goodbyes.