To Be Like That Of A God

Only The Best Of Company

    Sherlock saw that Mycroft had found John before he could, however whatever conversation they had been having was interrupted by his appearance, John's lips ceased to move and his gaze turned on the staircase, watching with a rather transfixed expression as Sherlock clutched gently to the banister, his feet stepping along the velvet and his head held high, he walked like royalty, he walked like a God, and that was enough to get John's undivided attention. Mycroft didn't seem as enchanted, in fact he was watching his brother with an expression of exasperation, clutching his walking stick in his two fat hands as if trying to strangle the poor thing.
"Mr. Watson, so good to see you." Sherlock announced finally, letting his long fingers trail off of the polished wood and bringing his hand to John's, holding it out as if expecting some sort of greeting.
"My Lord, good to see you as well." John agreed, taking Sherlock's hand and shaking it rather roughly. Sherlock hummed in agreement, feeling disappointed yet he was quite unsure of what he had been expecting.
"I'm not really a Lord; Victor only calls me that when he feels the need to flatter me." Sherlock admitted with a miniscule laugh. John nodded, looking to Mycroft for clarification with a rather confused look.
"He always calls you that." Mycroft reminded Sherlock in a very bored tone, staring blankly at the floor as if he had had enough with Sherlock's constant flirtations.
"Yes well, he's an obsequious one." Sherlock agreed with a sigh. John let out a bit of a laugh; however neither of the Holmes brothers cracked a smile. Sherlock could only assume that John didn't know the meaning of the word obsequious, and maybe he had just mistook it for something humorous. This misunderstanding alone was enough to make Sherlock smile.
"To the opera then? I do hope we get there on time, for I love the little crackers they set out." Mycroft admitted, donning his top hat and starting his way towards the door without waiting for the consent of the others to depart. Sherlock could only chuckle, glancing down at John to see he was trying to contain the smallest of smiles.
"Too many crackers for him, apparently." Sherlock muttered, making John break out into a dose of laughter, quickly covering his mouth with his hand in an attempt to hide his amusement. Together the three of them walked out into the brisk night with their coats pulled around them, and Sherlock couldn't help but scan the night for any signs of a carriage that John may have arrived in. However the drive was empty, and he was left wondering just how John had snuck in here without anyone being alerted of his presence by the clatter and clamor of a horse drawn carriage.
"How did you get here?" Sherlock wondered as he stepped into his own carriage, sitting down on the seat opposite Mycroft and making sure it was quite obvious that he wanted John to sit next to him.
"Oh I um...I walked. It was a nice night out." John admitted rather timidly as he took his seat next to Mycroft (how dare he). Sherlock raised a confused eyebrow however he didn't dare say anything too judgmental, surely John had his reasons, probably financial in nature, for his walking to the Holmes manor.
"I could always send a carriage for you." Sherlock offered.
"Well I'm already here, that would be rather pointless." John insisted with a bit of a laugh, looking next to Mycroft to see if he had in anyway appreciated his joke. Sherlock didn't find it very funny, in fact he didn't understand that it was a joke at all, and so he stayed quiet. This night was already turning out to be a disaster.
"For future reference, Mr. Watson, if ever I summon you to the manor I will surely be able to send over a carriage." Sherlock corrected, making John nod in agreement.
"Oh well, no need to fuss over me. Like I said, it was a nice night." John admitted rather timidly, dropping his gaze for a moment and shuffling his feet rather awkwardly against the lush carpeting on the floor of the carriage. With every bump it sent them all flying out of their seats, interrupting the halfhearted conversations they were having about the weather or something, Sherlock was almost half listening. He was fully intent on studying John in this semidarkness, using the light of the moon that was filtering in through the frosted glass to get a good look at the man tonight. He had cleaned up, that was for sure, his hair was combed neatly and there didn't seem to be a speck of dirt on his newly ironed dinner jacket and shirt. His shoes, as expected, were shining, and he held himself higher than he did at dinner, as if he was feeling a little bit more confident and a little bit more educated on the art of fitting in with the higher class. Sherlock was happy that John was beginning to feel comfortable around him, to be honest he wasn't quite sure how this meeting was going to go over. Surely inviting a poor man to dinner once was explainable, but inviting him now to an opera was something different entirely. Sherlock was surprised that John didn't start questioning him on his motives, not only John but Mycroft as well, surely his brother was beginning to formulate questions and answers in his head as to why his silly younger brother was devoting so much time to a man who held no social status in the world? Sherlock was slightly worried about what conclusions Mycroft was beginning to concoct in the absence of a legitimate explanation, surely he wouldn't let his brain wander down the same path of concerns that Victor had had? Well of course Sherlock was worried; curious was a better word in fact, as to what John's potentials might be. Their relationship could bud into something much more, it could develop into something frowned upon by society or it could flop on its face and dissolve before it even had the chance to take off. It was Sherlock who was extending the offer of friendship a bit more heavily than was John, however the man accepted his invitations and so he must have his own intentions? Mycroft must be suspecting something, or he would not be so quiet. John was doing most of the talking now, going on about how the other day when it had rained and he had men coming in almost every five minutes with their untreated leather shoes, whining about how the condensation was going to make them stretch or something like that. It was almost pitiful that this excited John, however he seemed to be talking with the most interesting gleam in his eye, as if he legitimately found shoe shining to be a fascinating subject. Sherlock was listening of course, well, only a little bit, but he was definitely more attentive than Mycroft, whose beady black eyes had glazed over in disinterest. So it came as some relief to all of them when the carriage finally pulled up at the theater, right under the glowing street lamps and in front of the magnificent oak doors that led to the inside of the extravagant theater. It was the most prestigious destination for the upper class, an opera was always an event for the rich and the new money, those who appreciated the arts and who had the money to afford to appreciate them more closely. Needless to say Sherlock was willing to bet this was John's first ever opera.
"Oh what an event, I just love attending the opera." Mycroft boasted, puffing out his enormous chest and dismounting onto the neatly swept sidewalk. Immediately the three of them were ushered into their box, led by an usher holding a candle in a small lantern despite the large chandelier that was hanging lit above the seats. In their private box there were only three chairs, with small tables dotted around filled with little appetizers to appease the hunger they may have gained from the trip over. Mycroft's face lit up, and of course he dove right for the snacks. The presence of the three chairs only made reminded Sherlock of the fact that Victor was most likely sitting alone, doing his chores with a somber look on his face, the orchid from his lapel laying forgotten on the empty bedside table.
"What a beautiful theater!" John exclaimed in amazement, going immediately to the edge of the box and examining the theater from the murals on the ceiling to the detail on the carpeting below. Obviously he felt like he was king of the world, for he held his head high and stood just a little bit taller than normal. He must have been absolutely blown away by the décor and the style of the theater, from everything from the velvet curtains hanging along the large stage to the wooden carvings along the walls to the chandelier that hung in a painted dome above their heads, staying completely still with hundreds of lights lit along its magnificent golden rods. Sherlock watched John expectantly, feeling like something of a proud father introducing his son to the world of the rich. However there was something much more relevant than a simple father son relationship, in fact the feeling that Sherlock was beginning to feel welling up in his chest was an entirely different kind of admiration. It was curious, the types of sparks that excited his heart strings as he watched John stare down at the theater below, however it was a feeling enough to make Sherlock momentarily loose his breath, feeling as though the mere sight of John Watson was leaving him virtually helpless. Thankfully there was no one around to see his almost embarrassing gasp for breath, and so Sherlock hastily turned his eyes away, joining his brother at the small table laden with all sorts of delicacies.
"Is Mr. Watson impressed?" Mycroft wondered with a smug smile, lathering caviar onto a small cracker with the smallest of silver knives.
"Yes of course, even I am impressed and I've been here countless times." Sherlock assured, deciding that Mycroft was probably trying to degrade John even in seemingly casual conversation. Sherlock was an expert at diverting Mycroft's conversational goals, and he seemed to have silenced him enough for a mere moment where his brother, instead of responding, took a careful bite of his cracker.
"Well I do hope he enjoys the opera, however it is a rather luxurious form of entertainment, not nearly as exciting as...oh what was he going on about in the carriage? A rain storm?" Mycroft chuckled, to which Sherlock simply glared at him with a poisonous look in his usually calm, colorful eyes.
"Don't let your ego get too terribly out of hand brother mine, I do remind you that even though he is a poor man he is still my friend." Sherlock snapped. Mycroft raised his eyebrows with a little giggle of amusement, as if Sherlock had said something that he found remotely funny.
"Ah yes Sherlock, a friend. Some friend." Mycroft muttered, glancing over doubtfully to where John was still standing mesmerized, half hanging over the railing in an attempt to observe every inch of the extravagant theater below.
"I'm sorry Mycroft, how many friends do you have? Zero? Oh yes, that's because no one can stand to be around you for more than ten minutes. Now if you would excuse me." Sherlock muttered, patting his brother on the shoulder and 'accidently' knocking his cracker out of his hand as he passed. Sherlock joined John at the balcony and tapped him ever so gently, trying to cue him to stand up straight so he didn't fall to his death on the beginning of the best night of his life.
"How do you like the theater?" Sherlock asked in a soft voice, looking over as John finally straightened himself up and recollected his breath, looking back over at Sherlock with a bit of a lost glare.
"It's amazing; it's unlike anything I've ever seen before!" John exclaimed in admiration, his face was red with delight and a smile plastered his face like a child on Christmas morning.
"I'm glad to hear it; I thought this would be a nice destination for tonight." Sherlock admitted with a small smile. John nodded, ducking his head away and staring rather thoughtfully at the wooden rail in front of him, suddenly looking a little bit unnerved, as though there was still a question that was lingering on the tip of his tongue, a question he didn't quite know how to ask.
"Mr. Holmes I hate to have to ask this, but why me?" John wondered quickly, looking up at Sherlock with large brown eyes, looking almost watery and so different from just a couple of moments ago.
"Well Mr. Watson, I must ask you why not?" Sherlock asked with a bit of a twinkle in his multicolored eyes, making John smile in a very timid way. Before he could answer, however, the lights blinked in warning, cueing everyone to take their seats as the show was about to begin. Mycroft gave a whine of disappointment; however he scurried to collect himself a plate of snacks before the lights dimmed completely. Sherlock and John took their seats and Sherlock was happy to see that John sat right next to him, leaving Sherlock to sit in the middle and Mycroft to sit on the other end. It was good that John chose to sit away from Mycroft, as the elder Holmes brother didn't seem to be too taken with the little shoe shiner. Mycroft must be a little bit embarrassed to be carting around such a low class member of society, surely the rich and elegant would recognize him from his place on the sidewalk, scrubbing away at their shoes in his ragged clothes with his calloused hands? Mycroft obviously didn't want to be associated with such street trash yet Sherlock was only too eager to take John on extravagant nights out and parade him around for all to see. So what if his reputation was damaged in the process, he had never had a friend before, not a true one at least, John was worth it in the end. As Mycroft took his seat the chandelier was shut off, replaced with a large spot light shining down on the curtains as they parted, revealing a bunch of opera singers in large extravagant costumes, all dancing around the stage as the music began to play. To be honest Sherlock always found the opera as a funny way to display a story, the songs never seemed to fit quite with the costumes and story lines and it would seem that in some cases the beautiful music was drowned out by the impressive yet slightly annoying screeching of the singers below. In no case could he ever have gotten onto that stage and performed himself, nor could he write an opera suitable for the more historically accurate, and so he was perfectly satisfied with sitting back in his chair and enjoying the hard work of the people who had composed such a display of song, music, and dance. John proved to be a rather disrespectful audience member, as most sophisticated men know that you are not to talk during a performance John had taken completely to making little comments to Sherlock, whispering and making the two of them laugh in hushed little giggles. He was a very entertaining man and he could always point out the humorous flaws in the actor's costumes or their faces or their voices, and soon the two of them were whispering away, bent over so that they could virtually talk right into the other's ear, nearly doubling over in laughter half the time so that Mycroft had to slap them to make them pay attention. And yet Sherlock had never felt so alive, at least never in the darkness of the opera, but with John sitting next to him already beginning to lean over and breathe a comment into Sherlock's waiting ear, well it was an almost childish sense of excitement. It was a touch of rebellious entertainment that would never even be considered among the crowds that Sherlock was forced to acquaint himself with, however as soon as he began to giggle the opera suddenly became virtually unbearable without the hilarious little remarks whispered to and fro. Mycroft eventually grabbed Sherlock's arm and pulled him out of his seat, taking the spot between the two and sitting cross legged and content right in the middle of them. Sherlock moodily took his new seat, slouching over onto his knees and staring rather unamused at the actors and actresses that now failed to entertain him. It turned into one of the longest operas of his life simply because he was trying to count the seconds until the lights would turn back on, when he could walk back over to John and talk to him, laugh with him, be with him... It was an odd feeling of codependence, he knew that John was just as content with his company as he was with John's and that was reassuring in a way. Maybe there was a chance that John appreciated him for his personality more than his money, for his humor more than his beauty, and for him as an individual rather than for his long and dignified family tree. There was a tugging sensation in Sherlock's chest, something of a little voice urging him to get closer to John, reminding him that it was possible to offer John a cigarette and leave the show a little bit early to smoke together in the darkness outside of the theater. But of course that was not socially acceptable, it would be considered quite rude, and despite Sherlock's sudden need to be with John and John alone he knew that Mycroft would always appear just in time to disrupt whatever moment he was trying to have. But what moment was he trying to have, really? Did he want to laugh some more, did he want to make fun of the actors below, or was that a cover, a rationalization of sorts that was ensuring him that there was nothing obscure about the relationship he was hoping to blossom? What was it about darkness and solitude that excited him so much, what was it about the feeling of John's lips against his ear and his voice along his neck, his breath tingling against his white skin and his hand lingering ever so close to Sherlock's resting arm? What was it about the proximity and the intimacy of this darkened theater that made Sherlock wish for John more than anything? What was it that made him despise Mycroft with an infuriating passion? Victor's words suddenly stuck into his head more clearly than ever, the peculiarity of temptations, the seemingly unpopular and unrealized feelings that may still be lingering in your ignorant heart and brain. Was Sherlock prepared to admit to himself what really tempted him, or would he still be inclined to shove it all aside, to insist that he wanted a laugh and not a lover, that he wanted a friend and not so much more... Sherlock took a deep breath, glancing across his brother in the darkness to see John staring rather meaninglessly at his knees, his brown eyes lost in some world of his own imagination. With his head bowed and his hair gleaming against the spotlight, his tanned skin darkened and his eyes bright with thought, Sherlock could only wonder if their minds were straying in the same direction. As the opera came to a close Sherlock returned ever so carefully to his feet, stretching out his long legs and glancing carelessly down to the actors as they lined up on stage, looking rather ridiculous as the lights returned.