To Be Like That Of A God

A Shack By The Sea

    When dinner was finally over Sherlock sent Victor for the bottle and he stood in front of the full length mirror, preening himself for the night ahead. Molly sat on the bed reading once more; however she didn't seem very interested in her story because she kept looking up at Sherlock, as though his poking at his curls and flattening his eyebrows was any more interesting than well written fiction.
"What are you trying to look all prim and proper for? How long is the journey?" Molly wondered with a frown. Sherlock sighed heavily, pulling sharply down on his jacket and taking one last look at himself in the mirror, he was wholly satisfied and so he turned back towards molly with a sigh.
"Oh, a little over two hours, that is why I'm leaving now." Sherlock admitted.
"She expects you this late at night?" Molly wondered with a laugh.
"I'm told she sleeps all day and she's up all night coughing, something about the sunlight and the pressure, oh I don't pay attention that much I just go with it." Sherlock admitted heavily, almost proud at himself for such a horrible lie. Molly just laughed, shaking her head and beckoning him by holding out her arms for a hug. Sherlock sighed heavily, as though giving his wife a hug was all that much of a burden, however Molly seemed rather insistent so Sherlock glumly marched himself over and let her wrap her arms around his neck in farewell.
"Now you be good, you hear me? I trust you of course; I just hope she doesn't have any attractive sons." Molly insisted with a laugh. Sherlock just shook his head; it was really weird to hear her talking about his sexuality as though it was a simple conversation to be had.
"She never had any sons." Sherlock assured, making sure not to promise his faithfulness for this entire story was a lie. He wasn't going to be good, and she had no reason to trust him. It was almost painful to see her smile, because he knew that his own actions were going to go unnoticed, and she would falsely assume that everything was okay. Oh if only that poor Molly Hooper knew what kind of monster she had married!
"Well that's a relief. Be safe Sherlock, don't come back infected." Molly insisted with a smile.
"Oh don't worry; I'm not planning on getting sick. Ew." Sherlock muttered, shaking his head in horror. Molly just smiled at him, letting her head fall back against the headboard as she admired her husband from afar.
"I love you." Molly added quietly. Sherlock blinked, clearing his throat, suddenly very unsure of what to say.
"I um...ya I mean..." Sherlock muttered, looking around for something to change the topic to very quickly, although Molly had already begun to laugh, and so the pressure was off for now.
"You don't have to reply, Sherlock. I know what you mean." Molly assured with a sweet smile.
"Thank you, thank you. Goodbye for now Molly, I'll see you tomorrow." Sherlock insisted, bowing his head quickly and giving Molly a final wave of farewell before turning and darting out the door, running away before he was faced with any other terrifying situations like that. What on earth was he supposed to say to a love confession when both of them knew that he was basically incapable of loving a woman? Did she mean platonically or romantically? Did she expect a response? Oh women were confusion, just when you thought you had them figured out they turn around and spew sentences like that! It almost made Sherlock feel justified in his actions tonight...almost. Victor met him at the bottom of the stairs with his suitcase, trench coat, and the bottle of wine as promised.
"My Lord the carriage is waiting outside, are you sure you do not want me to escort you?" Victor wondered carefully.
"No, I will be quite fine. I will send the carriage back when I arrive; I want it to return to me at ten o'clock in the morning, I want it to look as though my nocturnal story matches up." Sherlock decided, holding out his arms so that Victor could put his coat onto him as gently as possible.
"I'm sorry, your what?" Victor clarified.
"Oh nothing, it's rubbish anyway." Sherlock muttered with a shake of his head. He was beginning to get so impatient he was beginning to feel sick, every conversation he had with someone who was not John felt positively nauseating, and he could barely tolerate being in their presence for much longer. He needed that man, he needed that love, he needed that presence. John Watson had become the equivalent to a drug, and his lips were a fix that Sherlock needed in order to remain sane, in order to force a smile onto his face when necessary.
"Fair enough my Lord, come on then." Victor agreed, taking up Sherlock's luggage and holding open the door with his foot so that Sherlock could step out into the night, pulling his trench coat around himself as a cold breeze blew straight through the thin fabric in his shirt.
"It'll be a cold one tonight sir." called the coachman over the wind, making Sherlock nod gravely. Victor clambered into the carriage and set Sherlock's luggage on the seats, leaving Sherlock to shiver out on the cobblestone.
"I do hope he has some sort of heating in his house." Sherlock murmured glumly.
"A fire I'm sure." Victor assured as he nearly fell back out onto the drive, standing and shivering as well as he glanced at Sherlock one final time.
"I'll be alright Victor, there's no need to worry." Sherlock assured, looking down at his servant with an almost tedious look as though Victor's fussing over him was really just some great inconvenience.
"Yes my Lord, I know you will. Best of luck." Victor decided finally, bowing his head in farewell for the coachman was still watching them, and he was sure that any other sort of farewell would be looked upon as peculiar. Sherlock sighed heavily, merely nodding and jumping very lightly into the carriage, sitting on one of the seats and watching as the door closed, leaving his last glance of Victor to be a very mournful one indeed, almost as if Victor feared the worst was waiting for Sherlock down the darkened footpath, off to the rocky shores of the beach. However there was nothing Sherlock could do now, for the coachman seemed to know where he was going, and so he pulled away, the silence in the empty carriage being overtaken by the constant clopping of the horse's feet against the cobblestone and the beating of Sherlock's heart in anticipation, knowing that with every turn of the large carriage wheels he was getting closer and closer to the only place on earth he really desired to be. It was a longer drive than it needed to be, in fact Sherlock was sure that it was only a mere twenty minutes down the road and yet it felt to him like several hours, for the building anticipation of arriving at John's house was becoming just too much. He couldn't wait to see that man again, and although it hadn't been very long since they last saw each other these last couple of lonely weeks have been the most miserable of Sherlock's life, the withdrawal from something necessary, the removal of something magical. Molly had become ever more annoying as their secrets unraveled, and suddenly instead of seeing him as a timid bachelor at heart she saw him differently, now that she knew of his sexuality she seemed to think that all of his personal space needs had just vanished. Surely now she understood that there could never be anything romantic between them, however that didn't mean that he wanted her lounging over him as though he was some sort of armchair. No he wanted his space, and yet he was a bit too nervous to request it once more. Her touch wasn't all together horrific, at least now she wasn't trying to kiss him or hold his face in her hands to admire his beauty, however just her leaning against him or playing with his fingers as they sat together against the headboard, well it was all becoming a bit too much. Her touches were nothing compared to John's, who's very skin radiated pure electricity, oh how he missed those hands, those fingers! Soon, very soon.
"Is this the place Sir?" called the coachman from the top, staring down at Greg Lestrade's magnificent manor from where he sat. Sherlock sighed heavily, yanking the curtains from the window and peering out to see the large gates with the Lestrade family crest, unopened, unwelcoming.
"Yes, yes that's that one." Sherlock agreed.
"Is there any way we could get in?" the coachman yelled over the wind, and Sherlock sighed heavily. John hadn't mentioned anything about this before.
"Do you see a hut anywhere, near the beaches? A dirt path maybe?" Sherlock wondered, hoping that this trail John had mentioned was outside of the gates. Sherlock certainly didn't want to get the Lestrades caught up in this mess, nor their servants. The quieter the better.
"Yes sir, just a little path here near the fence, and I see some smoke over yonder but I can't be sure." The man yelled, sounding curious as to why Sherlock was looking for such meager landmarks.
"Then this shall do." Sherlock called, grabbing his suitcase and the bottle of wine and hopping out.
"Are you quite sure sir? I don't want you freezing to death out here." the coachman insisted, however Sherlock heard the crunch of his boots on the gravel as he hopped down into the frozen drive, pulling open the door and letting the frigid air leak into the previously bearable carriage. Sherlock shivered, his breath turning to fog as he climbed out of the carriage into the night. It was a clear night, all too perfect for freezing temperatures, and the stars were twinkling above. The moon hung lazily in the sky; however it cast the most beautifully silver aura around the sparkling iron gates of the manor. Sherlock wished desperately that he was going to that nice warm estate rather than a meager hut near the cold waves, however he knew that the hut housed the only man that really mattered, and no degree of warmth would substitute the satisfaction of being held once more in those strong arms. Sherlock paused for a moment, setting his luggage down in the frosted stones to dig around in his pocket for a couple of coins, holding them out for the coachman who looked at him ever so curiously.
"Tell no one where I went." Sherlock demanded, staring at the man ever so intensely and closing his palm until he heard direct confirmation that his location was a secret.
"My lips are sealed Sir." The coachman agreed, holding out his palm eagerly. Sherlock sighed heavily, not entirely trusting of this man and yet it would seem he had no other choice. And so Sherlock let the coins fall into the man's gloved palm, finally picking up his suitcase and wine bottle before starting down the road, leaving the carriage and the confused coachman behind. As Sherlock approached the beach it began to grow cold, for the wind off of the salty water was blowing off the desolate rocky shores. As promised there was a little muddy trail for him to follow, however the light from the carriage was fading and all he had now as navigation was the light of the vibrant moon, and however beautiful it displayed the earth it was certainly not enough illumination to prevent him from stepping into large puddles of mud and filth. There was indeed a steady stream of smoke in the distance, growing nearer and nearer with every step, and yet by the time Sherlock got close enough to spot the little shack near the sea he was already exhausted. This was the most exercise he had gotten in the past couple of months, and his exposed hands were freezing to the things he carried, the wine bottle growing increasingly heavier in his clenched, cold fingers. The shack was everything he had imagined, and that really wasn't saying much. The roof was simple tin, rusted from the rain and the constant fog of the ocean and giving way only to a rather crude brick chimney emerging from the top. It was a small little thing, presumably with only one room, and made with a very odd combination of brick and wooden paneling; as though John thought it would provide some insulation come the colder nights. Despite the miserable appearance of the little shack it brought warmth to Sherlock's heart, for the small windows were glowing with a warm light and the smoke emerging from the smoke was becoming ever so inviting. When Sherlock finally arrived at the door he sighed in relief, banging on the door with a frozen fist and hoping that this was indeed John's house, and not some creepy ocean stranger who would be ever so happy to rob him, kill him, and eat him as his next cannibalistic meal. That would be rather unfortunate. So when the door opened Sherlock felt many emotions at once, one of those being relief, when he saw the face of John Watson peering out from the light of multiple sources of flickering flame.

"Sherlock, glad you could make it. I almost thought you weren't coming." John admitted with a smile, holding open the door wider so that Sherlock could walk in. Thankfully the little shack was warm, in fact it was almost unbearably hot as there was a large fire roaring in the hearth, evidently John had been trying to heat it up for his guest. It really was a dingy little place; however John had managed to make it a little bit homier inside. There was a simple cot as a bed, with two or three old quilts placed carefully over the mattress, as though John had tried to make everything look superb and presentable. There were a couple of wooden cabinets very haphazardly hanging from the far wall, a crude little table with only one chair, and an assortment of odd sorts of knickknacks spread out over multiple shelves and desks. It wasn't much, it really wasn't, and yet Sherlock was overwhelmed with the beauty of it all. Such a modest lifestyle for such an amazing man, surely John Watson deserved a manor of his own, not just some dingy little shack by the sea! 

"My coachman got a little bit lost, but oh it felt like an eternity John, how could I not arrive! I would've walked here if that was what it took!" Sherlock exclaimed, dropping his stupid little suitcase to the floor and holding out the bottle of wine. "For you."
"You didn't need to bring me anything, you're too kind." John muttered, shutting the door as roughly as he could (it seemed as though it didn't quite fit into the frame) and taking the bottle up in his hands. He looked at the label and blinked for a moment, obviously trying to figure out how he got such a good brand in his possession, however he didn't act surprised, he didn't over exaggerate his excitement. Sherlock appreciated that.
"It's housewarming, although your house is very obviously warm enough." Sherlock commented, looking around once more before letting his eyes fall back once more onto John, the most beautiful man, almost as if trying to come to terms that he was indeed here. It seemed like a dream to be honest, a dream that Sherlock never wanted to wake up from, for certainly John Watson was much harder to come by? It seemed only too possible for Sherlock to wake up in a sudden sweat, a foot away from his wife and miles away from wherever John Watson lay. John nodded, clearing his throat rather awkwardly and setting the wine down on the little table.
"Well ya, it's not much. It's nothing like you've got, but it's home." John shrugged, looking rather ashamed at his meager state of living.
"It's wonderful." Sherlock assured, smiling reassuringly at him before taking the wine bottle up in his hands and attempting to pry out the cork himself. "Got a corkscrew?"
"I've got a knife, that'll work." John assured with a little smile, walking over to the kitchen and unearthing some sort of wicked looking pocket knife from one of the shelves. While he struggled with the wine Sherlock walked over to the fire, where there was a nice woolen blanket laid out before it. The shack itself was lit with nothing more than oil lamps and the light of the fire, for all the curtains had been drawn to provide extra privacy. Sherlock couldn't imagine who would ever happen by such a place; however he was happy that John was being cautious. Soon John was at his side with two dusty looking glasses, one square for drinks like whiskey and the other tall and thin, a simple drinking glass. Evidently he hadn't been able to come across any cheaply priced wine glasses; however Sherlock was ever so happy to accept the taller glass and hold it out for John to pour.
"Ya so, I mean I don't have much to do here. I just thought we'd sit by the fire you know? Talk? I realized I don't really know you Sherlock." John said finally, pouring his own glass before seating himself on the woolen blanket next to the flames, basking in the heat with his shadow flickering erratically with the popping and burning of the logs. Sherlock sat across from him with his legs crossed, his trench coat still pulled very tightly over his chest. He was warming up very rapidly and soon he was sure he would start to break a sweat, however this trench coat wouldn't be too much of an issue for too long he was sure.
"There's not much to know, in fact I'm sure you already know it all. I'm not much more than a rich man, a dreadfully boring and terrible misunderstood rich man." Sherlock admitted finally, sipping his wine and sighing in satisfaction. For some reason the grimy glass made him appreciate the wonderful taste of the wine, it made him realize the contrast that was present between him and John. And look at them now, seated at the fire like equals, their eyes glancing over each other eagerly, wondering just when the conversation would end and the drinks be pushed aside.
"Misunderstood how?" John wondered with a little smile, looking almost as though he seriously doubted Sherlock's tragic backstory.
"Well, for one everyone thinks I'm straight." Sherlock started with a laugh, making John chuckle rather nervously, sipping at his wine and shrugging in agreement.
"That's more of a misconception." John assured. Sherlock nodded, sighing heavily before leaning back on his elbow, gazing at John with a peaceful glare, thinking back to what he had left behind.