Divided We Will Fall

Alone, But Never Again

At first Sherlock wanted to look away, in fact with something of a gasp he almost did, he almost lurched back and raced back to his room. He didn't want to be a stalker; he didn't want to be a creep. Victor was entitled to privacy, and at the moment Sherlock was not granting him any. And yet...yet he looked beautiful, standing there silhouetted by the oil lamp. In fact he looked more beautiful than Sherlock could ever remember him looking, and that may just be a side effect of the wonderful night he had been having already. Maybe it was a side effect of falling head over heels in love. Yet he stared for a moment, appreciating the way Victor's skin gleamed, the way his hair curled, and the way he stood so tall and so proud. He was a creature of Heaven and a force of nature, all that Sherlock wanted to be and all that he wanted in the end. Someone who Sherlock would follow to the end of Earth if it would mean his open arms were waiting at the edge. And that was almost enough to satisfy his curiosity, and he very well might have looked away if Victor had not begun to move. His actions were enough to draw Sherlock back to the keyhole; enough to stop him from blinking all together, God forbid he miss anything. Victor very quietly began to unbutton his shirt, standing facing the bath so that Sherlock could only see the side profile of his beautiful figure, a figure that would be sure to be revealed in not a moment's time... Victor didn't seem to notice anyone watching, for why should he suspect such a thing? And like that he shed his shirt, pulling his arms out and letting the simple cotton thing fall to the floor at his feet. Sherlock's breath caught in his throat, and in a moment of pure panic he glued himself to the door so as to get a better look at the absolute sculpture of a man that was standing before him. Victor was even more beautiful with every layer shed, as would be proved now with his muscular bare chest, gleaming effortlessly and flawlessly before Sherlock's unwanted eye. Sherlock could hardly breathe, he could hardly seem to look away, his entire body had gone rigid and numb, and it would seem that the only thing that mattered now was staring through this keyhole! It would seem as though his entire world had been narrowed down to just one little snippet of vision, where he could watch the man he had fallen for as he prepared himself for his bath. It was wrong, oh God Sherlock knew it was wrong, and yet he knew of course that there was more to come. Even as he thought of what else might play out before his eyes Victor began to unbuckle his belt, and at that moment Sherlock felt a jolt of excitement that he had never yet experienced. He felt something more passionate than he could ever have imagined, a sort of absolute infatuation that rose throughout his whole body, making his stomach twist and his legs numb. It made his breath stop all together and his heart drum up a whole new anthem, and for a moment it was all he could do but clutch to the door handle and clutch to his own leg, digging his nails into his flesh so as to try to divert the excitement that was building up in what could prove to be the most obvious way. And just as his face began to pale, and just as Victor pulled his belt from the final loop, just as Sherlock's mouth went dry and his brow began to sweat...someone cleared their throat behind him. Sherlock flung himself from the door in such a fury that he was almost sure he woke the entire house with his clatter. He fell onto his back on the floor, taking a deep gasp of well overdue air and wiping his forehead with the back of his hand, trembling only slightly as he looked up to see just who had interrupted such an unorthodox session of observance. A flash of horror dragged him back to reality, back to the present where the world continued on even past the keyhole. Back to where he could be punished for such things, if they had been observed by the wrong people. Sherlock was quite sure now, looking at the man who had caught him in the act, that he had somehow managed to wrangle up a wrong person. Captain Moran was standing next to the guest bedroom door, crossing his arms and looking at Sherlock in utter amazement. He looked somehow amused, yet his brow was curled in such a way that could allude to anger. A cigarette was still smoldering in his teeth, which made Sherlock wonder why he had not smelled such a stink and be alerted of his presence long before he was dragged back into the present.
"What are you up to, Mr. Holmes?" Captain Moran wondered, his eyes gleaming in a way that made it quite obvious that he knew exactly what it was Sherlock was doing.
"I'm uh...I'm just seeing who..." Sherlock's voice cut off as he thought back to what might be going on right now, what state Victor was in at the moment. Undoubtedly just stepping into the hot water now, all of his clothes lying unneeded at the floor where he had once stood... Sherlock's heart gave way to that strange rhythm again, and with a lurch Sherlock felt a sudden rush of panic, his face heating up again and his body betraying him once more. Oh not here, not now!
"You better get back to your room, Mr. Holmes. Before I tell your father that you have been...entertaining yourself." Captain Moran hummed, chuckling to himself as if Sherlock's sudden panic was something of a joke if not a tragedy. Sherlock nodded, scrambling to his feet with what little power that was still somehow in his legs. He couldn't bring himself to say a final word of thanks; he couldn't even manage a simple goodbye. Sherlock just dashed into his room and shut the door finally, just so that Captain Moran could not sneak inside and see him as he dissolved into the bed as something of a humiliated yet completely love sick mess. Oh what has he done, what was still about to happen? Had Sherlock just given way to his secret, had he let it overpower him and therefore gotten sloppy? Did Moran know now what Sherlock had been doing, who he had been watching; did Moran know now what such an action was alluding to? What sort of unorthodox desires were burning in his heart at this very moment? Would he tell? Sherlock was too stressed to think of the future, it hurt his head and it hurt his heart just to think of what sort of punishments would befall not only him, but his suitor of choice. And so he tried not to think of the future, not even of the present. Maybe so as to settle out this lovely (although interrupted) evening he would allow himself to think of the past. Sherlock was happy to be alone; in fact he knew that such a thought process would be very much frowned upon if he were anywhere else but in his room with the door locked. With the lamp lit just enough so that he could see only half of his illuminated face in the mirror that hung over the dresser, the rest hidden in well-deserved shadow. Maybe Sherlock should feel ashamed, maybe he should be praying right now, praying for forgiveness for the temptations he had succumbed to, he should know that what he had just done was wrong. He should feel rotten, he should feel empty inside. Yet that was not the case, no in fact Sherlock felt anything but. He felt whole again, as if suddenly the missing piece in his life had been recollected and handed to him just as he had expected it to be. As if he had suddenly been granted the love that he had been waiting for, no matter if such a love was delivered unintentionally. He could live on happy now, he could live on at least satisfied with what he had, and what memories and what images were stored into his head. Watching Victor tonight, owing entirely to his infatuation, had been the most romantic thing that Sherlock had ever done. Yes of course it had been something of unwanted stalking, yet it allowed him to experience something that he may never have the pleasure of experiencing again. As someone whose heart worked like his, as someone who lived in such a time when that is considered completely obscene, well what other chances would Sherlock have? He got the pleasure of watching what he considered to be the most beautiful man as he undressed; he was allowed by fate or by chance alone to marvel over the beauty he decided he preferred. Not a thin, trembling woman, but a strong, able bodied man. Sherlock was able to see a man with a sculpted chest, with muscles rippling under his skin from years of strenuous work. He saw a man whose skin gleamed in the lamplight, a man who Sherlock's eye could feast on, and could see over and over again for as long as he liked. How many more opportunities would he be able to get, how many more times might the love of his life be so readily available? And now that Sherlock saw him, now that he could imagine the way he looked purely because it wasn't up to imagination anymore...well he could think of anything he liked. He could add that bare chested Victor to any one of his dizziest daydreams, and suddenly it could be as real as he allowed it to be. Yes maybe Sherlock might live a life of physical abstinence, owing to the fact that he was undoubtedly the only man in the world who would be stupid enough to fall for someone of his own gender. Someone who was set up for loneliness! Yet in his head...maybe it could be different. Maybe tonight's encounter between an unwanted eye and an unknowing subject could turn into something much more intentional. Even between a wooden door, and without trying, Victor's display had made Sherlock feel things he never could've thought possible. Things that he could only imagine were reserved for those who sought them out. It had been without interaction, something that very well might have been left up to the imagination. Something that very well could be replicated now, with an able and willing brain. And so maybe in the real world it had amounted to nothing but humiliation, yet in Sherlock's brain...well maybe it happened another way. He focused hard, lying sprawled out on top of his bedspread in the darkness, and he could almost envision Victor here with him too. Victor who was standing next to his bed, and looking down upon him, and unbuttoning his shirt just as he had done moments before. Victor in reality who was sitting in his warm bath, unaware that Victor in Sherlock's head was just now descending down upon him. Unaware that while Sherlock's own hand brushed against his neck that he could imagine it being Victor's, and that while his lips were exposed only to air, that somewhere in his mind it was different. Maybe he could only have the man when he was elsewhere, but at the moment that didn't matter. While his eyes were shut tight Sherlock could see Victor now, lying with him and kissing him as he would expect him to be able to. While he was alone he could feel Victor's hands on his skin, and while no one would ever notice he could feel his heart giving way once more to such feelings that were only just presented to him tonight. He was alone yet he never would be again, Sherlock would make sure of that. In reality he may never have the pleasure of being with Victor, and yet tonight, without the soldier knowing it at all, it was his very own imagination that allowed it to be the first time, the first time of many.