To Be Like That Of A God

My Own Confession

When the fire was lit Sherlock dragged over a large woolen blanket from next to his bed for the two of them to sit on and Victor carried over the tea, and together they sat comfortably in front of the fire. Sherlock had brought his violin case over as well, and for a moment they chatted rather unnaturally about life in general, never once straying into dangerous conversational waters while Sherlock polished the strings of his instrument and tuned them in preparation to play. Victor had always adored his violin playing; in fact it may just have been that when Sherlock had been playing the violin Victor had first fallen in love with him. There was always such humanity to Sherlock when he was playing that instrument, a type of carefree art form that took his white skin and dark curls and made them even more vibrant, even more beautiful. Together with the music Sherlock's beauty radiated more than ever, and Victor had always basked in the radiance that was displayed by such a performance. It took a long while for Sherlock to tune and clean the violin, however by the time he set it on his shoulder Victor was ever so anxious to hear, sitting cross legged on the coziest of blankets with one side of his body heating up uncomfortably fast next to the fire while the other longed for warmth, trapped to be facing the cold air that drafted in through the cracks in the old window panes. Sherlock smiled at him softly before drawing the bow very carefully across, closing his eyes as soon as the music began to play and mesmerizing Victor the moment the first note was struck. It was beautiful, undeniably beautiful, and to see him sway along to the music that he created, the music that engulfed the two of them, it was like a siren's song, a melody that could do nothing but pluck at the heartstrings of the onlookers. It was a slow, beautiful song, and coupled with Sherlock's swaying the man himself resembled an angel, a man fallen from heaven only to draw men in with his beautiful melodies and his ever so romantic aura. Victor was tempted to lean in closer, he was tempted to pause Sherlock where he was and take one of his beautiful, elegant hands, oh how he longed to kiss those cupid bow lips and absorb the music that was etching through Sherlock's soul! And yet what could he do but sit here, what could he only do but sit and wait for the song to end like a good audience member, what was expected of him? Sherlock knew that this music was entrancing but Victor had made a pact to himself that he would not submit to this form of flirtation with the truth. Victor wanted to keep his secrets well hidden, well protected inside of his heart, and he could only suspect that tonight Sherlock was doing everything he could to try to coax them out. What his intentions were Victor could only guess, however he was quite sure that nothing good ever came from a man who was using his own beauty to hear the secrets he so selfishly sought after. When the music finally stopped Victor found that his eyes had fallen shut, and coupled with the startling silence a small brush of the softest of skin brought him back to life, back to reality. Victor opened his eyes to see Sherlock's fingers withdrawing from where they had touched him on his chin, blinking a couple of times and watching as Sherlock set down his violin and watched Victor with a look that couldn't be explained. It was something of amusement and something of satisfaction, for he sat back on his elbows with this carefree gleam in his eyes.
"Had you fallen asleep?" Sherlock wondered gently, his voice sounding nearly as beautiful as the music he had been playing.
"No of course not, I was listening." Victor assured. Sherlock hummed in agreement, not taking his eyes of Victor for a moment before glancing down at his violin, the instrument's dark wood reflecting the light of the fire that was roaring next to them.
"I believe you of course." Sherlock agreed. Victor nodded thankfully, not entirely sure what to say to that.
"Your eyes were closed as well; it's almost as if you don't need to concentrate on the music." Victor pointed out almost confrontationally, however he meant it as no more than a casual remark.
"No I don't, the music is from my heart not my brain, and as long as my heart is playing my brain need not be attentive." Sherlock admitted with a smile. Victor nodded, suddenly realizing why the music had been played so beautifully this evening, and why it had been so upbeat and excited. Sherlock's heart was jumping with joy after his adventures tonight with John Watson; surely it was displaying all of his inner emotions through that violin, channeling his deepest thoughts and his deepest desires and expressing them through the music that surrounded them both.
"Well it sounded beautiful, as it always does." Victor assured. Sherlock nodded, sitting back up and sitting with his knees brought up to his chest, an expression of thoughtfulness playing across his youthful face.
"That's because my heart was projecting beautiful things." Sherlock admitted finally, confirming Victor's suspicions this whole time. So it was for John. Had this event occurred just twenty four hours earlier Victor may have had the hope that those beautiful things projected in Sherlock's mind were purely of himself, he may have still been under the delirious illusion that Sherlock's heart was still his to have and to cherish. And yet after tonight, Sherlock's abandonment, his sudden mindlessness towards the emotions to his lowly servant, well Victor would be a fool to hope for anything more than recognition.
"Victor may I ask you a question?" Sherlock asked suddenly, his eyes flickering with the firelight as he trained them upon Victor's timid blues. And yet Victor maintained the eye contact, reluctant as he was to let Sherlock stare too long.
"You have all the freedom to ask, and yet I give you no confirmation that I will answer." Victor agreed cautiously, eyeing Sherlock rather nervously as he saw a blush start to rise in his cheeks. Sherlock nodded, his fingers tapping uncomfortably on his shoe as he tried to think of the best way to put his thoughts into words.
"We've known each other a long time Victor, and I suspect that I can trust you. Am I right in thinking that?" Sherlock asked nervously, eyeing Victor with an unnecessarily suspicious look.
"Yes my Lord, your secrets are mine to protect." Victor assured honestly, holding his head just a little bit higher in the presence of a duty that was made to be upheld.
"And you trust me enough, of course, to keep your secrets away from my lips?" Sherlock wondered.
"What secrets of mine are possibly at risk?" Victor asked nervously, feeling the need to edge away from Sherlock and his intentionally vague questions.
"The question is not what I know, but whether or not you trust me enough to know." Sherlock repeated.
"I trust you my Lord, of course." Victor agreed with a nod. Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief, nodding his head as if that was the answer he was anticipating but not necessarily the answer he was hoping for. As if Victor's trust took this conversation to the level he knew it would have to go to, however he hoped for an easy escape.
"Then I must ask you something and I pray that you answer me truthfully, for your answer will eventually lead to my own confession." Sherlock started in a small voice, making a chill go down Victor's spine. This could never be good, a secret for a secret.
"Sherlock I'm not sure this..."
"Nothing leaves this room." Sherlock said flatly. "Not unless we intend it to escape."
"You're making me nervous my Lord, have you done something?" Victor wondered, having expected some sort of love confession and yet now Sherlock was starting to make it sound like a murder accusation. Of course Victor would prefer the latter, for killing a man in these days was considered more socially acceptable than loving one.
"It's not what I've done it's what I've been doing, and what I plan on doing." Sherlock admitted in a breath. Mass murder then.
"My Lord..." Victor murmured, and yet he silenced himself when Sherlock's eyes met his, fierce and beautiful, clouded in mystery yet sparkling in determination.
"Victor, do you love me?" Sherlock asked finally, not breaking eye contact, barely even blinking, and it was all Victor could do but gape, letting his mouth fall open and his cheeks heat up in humiliation.
"What a thing to say my Lord, what a thing to ask of me." Victor murmured, dropping his gaze to the blanket underneath him, suddenly finding it impossible to cough up the answer he was just aching to admit. The answer had been simmering in his heart ever since he first discovered Sherlock Holmes's beauty and his availability, it was almost unfair to ask so directly and without warning, and yet it would seem as though they had both been waiting for the question to be asked ever since Sherlock discovered Victor's attraction to him. It was almost as if this question was meant to be, ever since the time Fate intertwined their paths of life. Then why, why was it so difficult for Victor to just open his mouth and say yes?
"Victor your answer does not put you in any danger; I assure you I ask purely with the intention of hearing the answer you are too scared to admit." Sherlock whispered carefully, looking at Victor with the most careful of glances, with the softest of expressions.
"Then why ask, my Lord?" Victor whispered. It was much too humiliating to play this game with Sherlock, this game of hearts, this game of love. His answer wouldn't change anything, would it? If he said yes it wasn't like Sherlock would ever be his, if he said no then they would both know that he was lying, oh why was Sherlock torturing him like this?
"Because I would like to hear you say it." Sherlock admitted gently, touching Victor lightly on the chin once more to lift his eyes to meet his own. It was difficult to stare at him; it was difficult to glance into those eyes that seemed to be so careless, so expectant. It was impossible to look at him in all of his fire lit beauty and not admit to the answer that they both knew was on the tip of his tongue.
"Sherlock, I just, I find it hard to say..." Victor breathed, cutting off his words and shaking his head wearily.
"Just say it." Sherlock insisted, inching ever closer and letting his hand play across Victor's cheek, almost as if he was trying to coax the answer out.
"Yes." Victor breathed, staring into Sherlock's eyes and feeling his heart shrivel, feeling it deflate like air from a balloon. Its contents had been spilled and it had no use anymore, no secrets to keep or loves to hide, no unknown longing or visions played across his eyelids in the dark. Sherlock knew...and yet Sherlock was smiling.
"That is what I thought." Sherlock agreed with a small smile, his fingers still brushing along Victor's jawbone as if he now knew that Victor was his to admire and to cherish. And yet Victor knew that this moment, whatever this moment may present itself to be, was nothing but a mirage, simple playmaking until the real secrets were spilled, until the ever present truth made itself known. Because Sherlock didn't ask of Victor's love to be nice and supportive, he asked it because Victor's answer made it easier for him to admit his own.
"I apologize my Lord, just know that it was virtually inescapable, and I know that it is frowned upon and I know that it is wrong, and yet you have a charm to you that no one can escape, I feel as though I am caught in the same web of impossible love that you weave around everyone you meet." Victor whispered. Sherlock could only laugh from where he sat in Victor's line of vision and yet Victor couldn't seem to see him at all, in fact it was all he could do but focus on the flickering flames and the shadows that seemed to move along the empty walls. It was almost as if Victor had noticed Sherlock so much when he had been hiding from himself that now that he had admitted his secret desires Sherlock just faded from his sight entirely. For what use was a love that was admitted and yet unreturned?
"No Victor, you should never be ashamed to love. I find it to be a relief that you feel that way, because now I know that I am not the only one." Sherlock admitted in a breath, his voice seemingly filling to the brim with excitement.
"Because you're in love with John Watson?" Victor guessed quickly, finally getting Sherlock back in focus and staring at him with despair in his eyes. Sherlock took a deep, reluctant breath, glancing towards his shoes in the automatic response to a question that he didn't want to answer. And yet he had been asking the questions before, was he not? Did he suddenly feel that it was inappropriate to answer some himself?
"You know?" Sherlock wondered in a tiny voice, speaking as though it was some sort of secret, as if he had been so good at keeping his feelings confined until this exact moment.
"Sherlock I know what love is, and I'm not blind to it." Victor assured carefully.
"I did not intent for my heart to wander like this, I did not intend for it to..."
"Yes, neither did I." Victor agreed, cutting him off before he began to go into detail about the inconveniences of beautiful man stealing vulnerable hearts.
"It's illegal." Sherlock pointed out nervously, still unable to bring his eyes to Victor's.
"Only if they find out." Victor added with a careless shrug. It was a lot easier discussing homosexuality when he wasn't being interrogated, for once it seemed as though Sherlock was the one uncomfortable, and for once Victor felt as though he had some sort of control over this situation.
"But if he...what if he doesn't love me back?" Sherlock asked nervously. "What if he tells someone?"
"Sherlock I'm sure you've come to realize now that there can be no one that does not love you back, no one who could refuse your heart. However doubtful I may be about his worthiness I know that John Watson is not foolish by any means and will surely accept your confession with open arms." Victor assured in a small voice, a jealous voice. And yet it seemed to ease Sherlock's trembling heart, just a bit, for he was able to relax his shoulders and breathe easier. There was silence for a moment, and they both found themselves thinking about what the future might hold.
"I feel like I must tell him whatever the cost, I cannot hold my heart at bay now that it has finally committed to someone." Sherlock admitted. Victor nodded ever so reluctantly, feeling rather odd as he tried to convince Sherlock to walk away from him and love another man.
"I will help you all I can my Lord." Victor offered forcefully, feeling no sense of commitment to making this man's love life any simpler. Surely any man lesser than Victor would try to sabotage whatever love declaration Sherlock might have, that or he would attempt to talk Sherlock out of even confessing such a thing. And yet Victor loved Sherlock in a way that was beyond himself, he wasn't out to make Sherlock his own, he was out to make Sherlock happy. His heart would break if he had to see Sherlock suffer, and as painful as it would be to watch Sherlock take the arm of a man who had done so little to deserve such a prize it was what he must do. Sacrifices must be made for the greater good, and if Sherlock really did love this man then there must be something special about him, something that Victor could never hope to have. Victor left quietly that evening, not a word of a breath exchanged of any kind. He helped Sherlock get ready for bed yet there was something different, the absence of the ravine of secrets had seemingly driven them a lot farther away than they were before. It wasn't Sherlock who was now awkward, however, but Victor. He felt as though it wasn't polite anymore to dress Sherlock into his pajamas, he was becoming much too modest to look over Sherlock's chest without any hesitation, in fact it had become difficult for the boy to so much as touch him. Victor knew this moment would come, he knew that as soon as the declaration had been announced that it would be much too difficult to ever go back to normal and cherish the things that had made this job so desirable. Sherlock didn't seem to have a problem with it, yet it was Victor's own hesitation that was making the gap between them ever wider. When he left that room he left the fire burning, he took one last look at the figure in the bed, lying underneath the light of the moon and the flickering flames, and then he closed the door. Quietly, noiselessly, and he then took off down the stairs to where his mediocre bunk was waiting for him. Victor had not expected the night he admitted his feelings to be quite this dreadful. He had always imagined it as the happiest moment of his life, for some reason he had always suspected that the minute he confessed would be the same minute that started their romantic relationship; he had suspected that Sherlock had the same feelings bottled away. And yet his confession did nothing of the sort, instead of bringing them closer together his feelings were already beginning to draw them apart. He admitted his love and in return he learned of Sherlock's love for John, he learned of the indifference his own love made known. Sherlock didn't care, he used Victor's deepest secret simply as a preshow to his own confession, almost as though he had known those feelings were present in Victor's heart and he had just been waiting for the right moment to ask for them. And what did that confession get them, what did it do to help? Nothing. It ensured Victor's newfound hopelessness, gone were the days when he could lay in his bed and stare at the ceiling and envision a future with Sherlock on his arm. He was no longer foolish enough to hope for such a thing, for it had been confirmed that no such future could exist. Now was the time for him to stare into the darkness and feel tears brimming once more along his eyelids, staring into the darkness and seeing a future where Sherlock and John were hand in hand, strolling ever farther away.