The Last Romantics

No One Loves The World Anymore

Musgrave nodded his head for a moment before turning around and starting his way to the exit of the hospital, walking his way through the beds and wondering just many other men were witness to their rather personal conversation. All of these ears, with nothing better to do than eavesdrop...well Sherlock must have considered that when he had begun talking. Perhaps his secret wasn't kept as closely as it should be.
"Goodnight Doctor Musgrave!" came Molly Hooper's cheerful voice from where she stood still sanitizing some of the surgical tools.
"Don't need a ride home?" Musgrave assumed, rather thankful to see that Molly was preoccupied. It wasn't as if she was a nuisance, but he simply needed to reflect on what Sherlock had told him, and honestly there was no room for distractions.
"No I'm still finishing up; don't want to keep you any longer." Molly assured, to which the Doctor heaved a rather guilty sigh of relief.
"Alright then. Be safe, and have a good night." Musgrave muttered, nodding his head to the woman who beamed back in farewell. At last Musgrave walked out into the parking lot, his eyes straining to see properly in the dim lights of the unaided street lamps. The moon might have been shining bright had the clouds not overtaken the sky, as they usually do in this city. The composition of such clouds, whether they be the supposed water vapor or merely a cloud of pollution from the factories was really up to interpretation. It seemed as though there was hardly a sunny day this side of the city. Musgrave's car was alone in the lot as it always was, though as he was making his way through the loose gravel he heard the undeniable sound of a crunching footstep behind him. Someone was approaching, Molly then!
"So you do want..." Musgrave stopped, having turned to approach his visitor head on. His words trailed away when that footstep was accompanied by a sharp jab at the gravel, a walking stick now impaled into the rocks as if with an aggressive finality.
"What has he told you?" demanded Victor Trevor, standing now just a couple of feet away from the Doctor. He was well within striking range, and that look on his face definitely demonstrated his desperation. He seemed frightened, as if Sherlock had within him the potential to ruin some aspect of his life. Sherlock was keeping the man's secrets...
"Just enough to keep me wishing to hear more." Doctor Musgrave admitted, huddling himself into his overcoat and feeling quite exposed to not only the wind, but also to the poet's rather threatening gaze.
"Has he mentioned me?" Trevor asked sharply.
"Nothing but your works of poetry. I did not know that you were in such a profession. Are you famous?" Musgrave wondered at last. This didn't seem to change the man's attitude; his expression was as sharp as ever, as fierce.
"Nothing but that?" Victor clarified, taking another step closer as if to better interrogate.
"Nothing." The doctor reassured, stepping back to counter the man's advance. While such a reassurance seemed at least to ease his muscles his mind seemed terribly preoccupied, and though his faced relaxed his hands were still clenched tightly across his walking stick, as if he understood all too well that his problems were not yet resolved.
"You're afraid he might be indiscreet?" Musgrave clarified.
"Oh I'm sure he already has been! But his secrets...they're his to deal with! My own he should not be spreading about so lightly to every inquisitive ear. Sherlock loves the spotlight, anything in which to make himself into some angel and me into the serpent!" Victor growled, smacking his stick through the gravel and sending an array of rocks scattering about. The Doctor winced, feeling at once the need to ease his aggression and make sure he was not at risk of some brutal attack.
"I said already, you've not been..."
"He'll mention me, Doctor. He's bound to." Victor snarled. Musgrave blinked, realizing at last that he was facing the same man who had supposedly written out lines of gospel. Could this really be the true artist, someone who looked so rough and disheveled? Could he really have created poetry that was as eloquent as Sherlock claimed?
"Would you rather tell me yourself?" Musgrave wondered at last. "Perhaps let me hear your side of the story, before Sherlock has the chance to ruin your name?"
"Oh what are you, some sort of reporter? No Doctor, I need not clear my name yet." Victor insisted, holding his head up a bit higher as if trying to prove a point by looking even farther down upon his acquaintance.
"A drink, then? You look like you need one." Musgrave offered. Victor's eyes squinted, as if he was wondering what the play might be here. As if there was something suspicious about the Doctor's casual request for companionship.
"Everyone needs a drink now and again." Trevor agreed at last, his face easing down into less of an offensive growl as he repositioned his walking stick into both of his hands, a much more docile position. Musgrave nodded, pulling out his car key yet again and nodding his head over to where his vehicle was parked, alone in the lot that was made for so many. After the men had gotten shipped off to the war, cars on the streets severely declined. Most women weren't trusted with the vehicles just yet, which Musgrave thought a ludicrous double standard. As he approached the car he heard the footsteps following, and before long Musgrave found himself driving down the silent, dark road with Victor Trevor in his passenger seat. In his peripheral vision he could only make out what could be illuminated by the passing street lamps, dimmed for fear of being bombing targets. The man's skin was deadly pale, and his hands seemed to be quivering along the metal end of his stick, as if he was nervous about something...perhaps even afraid. Musgrave continued on, he didn't feel as though he was in any position to comfort the man when he felt as though they were both equally threatened by the other's presence. It was a strange sensation, being so comfortably afraid, to the point where he felt perfectly at ease, perfectly in control. His heart was racing tenfold, and he could still hear Sherlock's voice in his head, that voice that insisted the murderous habits of the man sitting next to him in this solitary vehicle. He had to wonder, for a moment, about what was going on inside of Victor Trevor's head. It seemed as though the man was constantly up to something, constantly one step ahead. Musgrave wanted so dearly to find out what his angle was, what his relationship to Sherlock was, and of course his influence in the death of that strange John. When at last Musgrave pulled into his driveway he allowed the man to get out first, following in his own methodical way from the driveway to the front door. Trevor was silent, though in the corner of his eye Musgrave could see him as he tilted his head upwards to the windows, almost as if to see how many floors were looming above them.
"Do you live alone, Doctor?" Victor asked, watching with some curiosity as Musgrave turned the lock sharply, pulling open the door and allowing the two of them to walk silently into the main parlor.
"I do, fortunately my job pays well enough to keep roommates out of my life for good." The Doctor chuckled, shaking himself out of his coat and hanging it on its normal peg. Victor smiled, allowing the door to shut behind him and mimicking such an action. Beneath his long trench coat he still wore the clothes from this morning, a neat suit and tie that were all too obviously expensive, though from another age entirely. Either Trevor was trying to bring old fashions back into practice or he hadn't been able to afford a new suit since the last century.
"Not always roommates that you associate with domestic company." the poet muttered, though with a sharp look of some accusation Musgrave let the comment slide. Perhaps the man wasn't used to common decency, perhaps he thought it was beneath him.
"What will you be drinking tonight?" Musgrave wondered, wandering over to his kitchen so as to arrange the drinks that would be necessary to start up a proper conversation. Trevor set his stick up against the door, treading silently into the kitchen and observing the lines of attractive bottles, all lined up along the counter so as to display to him his complete menu.
"Oh, whatever you are having I suppose. Beggars can't be choosers." Victor chuckled.
"Are you a beggar now, Mr. Trevor?" Musgrave wondered, selecting a fine scotch and pouring out two generous glasses.
"Poets only profit when the world knows their name. Considering, Doctor, that you had no idea who I was...well that only speaks to my income." Victor sighed.
"Sherlock described your works as life changing, as scripture. Surely there was a time when you were exulted?" Musgrave insisted, handing over a glass to the poet who was beginning to look as if the drink could not have come too soon. His skin looked fairly clammy, as if he was desperately in need of something that he couldn't have. His face began to perspire, and before long he was sipping desperately on the scotch, so quickly that he could hardly have been able to taste it properly.
"Sherlock...oh he did think so highly of me at one point. I was worshipped, Doctor...worshipped properly." Victor agreed. "And it was almost enough, I was almost satisfied."
"That seems intentionally vague." Musgrave commented. The man nodded, wincing just a little bit as he looked into his already half empty glass of scotch.
"You might excuse me, Doctor...though I do think I must take my medicine now." He muttered quickly, nodding his head and setting his glass down on the counter with a sharp shutter.
"Are you prescribed?" Musgrave wondered, watching as the man moved with such urgency to the pocket of his coat, snatching a small vial from where it sat on the coat rack.
"We are all prescribed, Musgrave. You know you need it when you first try it, it's a human deficiency that is all." Victor assured, his breathing increasing now as he vanished into Musgrave's sitting room, almost as if he knew perfectly well where he could grant himself a bit of privacy. The Doctor hesitated in the kitchen, staring down at his full glass of scotch and deciding that Victor's actions may very well be observed. It was some sort of drug, laudanum perhaps. So was the trend with suffering artists, at least in the glory days. Musgrave eased slowly to the sitting room, lingering in the doorway now and watching by only the light of the moon as the figure reclined on his sofa, with his legs strewn out before him and his silhouette moving at odd and irregular patterns. For a moment the figure was still, his long limbs positioned about each other in a strange fashion, and at last Victor's hand removed something from his upper arm, a syringe of sorts, and let his head fall back against the arm rest. He let out a long breath of relief, as if he had just emerged from the depths of sobriety and regained his consciousness, regained his clarity. Musgrave could just make out the man's jacket spread over the top of the couch, and his shirt sleeve was rolled up all the way to the elbow, revealing much of his equally pristine skin, catching what rays of moonlight it could manage from the thin curtains that hung behind. His limbs loosened, his body relaxed, all together that breath seemed to have sucked every trouble he had out, until at last he lay there an untroubled creature, an unburdened creature, allowing himself to be contorted as gravity permitted. He looked, well Musgrave dared to notice that he looked beautiful. Though it was a confession that would be hardly said, perhaps not in as many words. Perhaps not in any words at all.
"An addiction, I imagine. A bad one?" Musgrave presumed, not wanting to bother with any formalities. As a doctor he knew all too well the negative effects of such drugs, though Victor probably wouldn't sit around to hear such fanciful talk. That man seemed to live in the moment, no matter what the next moments held as consequence.
"All addictions are bad, Doctor. Not just to drugs. Being dependent on anything ends up killing you in the process, even if it was the very thing you lived for." Victor breathed at last. Musgrave nodded, inviting himself into the sitting room a little bit hesitantly. Even though he owned this house and everything inside of it, well it felt almost as if Victor's presence erased any jurisdiction he had on his life or his home. Even if that man was no longer on top of the world, well he still held such presumption in his movements, in his aura. He strutted like a king, and spoke as if to commoners. Musgrave couldn't help but feel little, when faced with a man so sublime.
"Laudanum?" Musgrave wondered. Trevor breathed slowly, his eyes shuttering now as the Doctor reached for the lamp. With a click it illuminated the scene, leaving the small perimeter bathed in orange light and the rest of the room considerably dark. Though Musgrave felt safe, for a small moment he presumed that the only real monster in this room was sitting before him, perfectly tame.
"They told me it would help, the poets of old. My mentors. Once the ideas stopped flowing, well they insisted that I just opened the tap a little wider. Since then I've...well I've not been well without it." Victor admitted.
"How long have you been in the business, Trevor? From the way you speak of yourself, well it sounds like it's been ages. Sounds like you're a man out of his time." Musgrave commented, leaning back into an armchair that sat close to the couch, watching as the man pinched across his opened vein and produced a single drop of scarlet blood, sparkling in the lamplight.
"Out of time, out of fashion. No one loves the simple joys in life any longer, the self-reflection that you can produce by leaving all of humanity behind. No one loves the world any longer." Trevor whispered.
"The world has shifted, that I can attest to. We don't need to forget the world, we need to save it." Musgrave debated.
"From the Germans?" Trevor chuckled, as if he severely doubted that such an enemy was causing any concern.
"From everyone. This is a great war, the greatest of all time." Musgrave explained, as if the man had somehow forgotten that the entire world was tangled up in such a mess of politics and bloodshed.
"It's not the Germans, not even the war that concerns me. I would like to escape society...oh you see what they do to their young men? What they do to their artists? They forget about them, until at last they each fall forgotten. You make your money while you're young and beautiful; you make your money when there are people who would like to listen to what you have to say. When they feel the same way. Gone are the days when anyone would like to look at me, gone are the days when my voice was to them like the sweetest song...They would hang me if they knew the truth." Victor breathed.
"The truth of what?" Musgrave insisted, leaning forward in his chair, feeling all together bound by a curious gnawing that had paralyzed him before the start of their conversation. Victor held things, secrets...oh Musgrave would get the whole truth if he got both Sherlock and Victor to tell what they knew of the world. Two of the most interesting men, fallen at his disposal now! The poet was silent for a short while, staring into space as he allowed his drug to seep farther and farther into his bloodstream. He quieted, for just a moment. He smiled.
"You know, Doctor, they tell you to do a great lot of things. And you never listen, no you never understand in the days when they might care. Those who had felt fame before, talking to those in the midst of their glory days...they can never make their message resonate." Trevor whispered, shaking his head as if he was looking back at himself, remembering what a fool he was.
"What did they tell you to do?" Musgrave wondered quietly, to which the man simply laughed, as if that was a question best left for another time. Nevertheless, he allowed the question to be asked. He allowed the interrogation to continue on.
"To kill myself." Victor said abruptly, to which Musgrave's eyes widened.
"You're not serious?" he muttered.
"Oh I am, Doctor. I am." Victor laughed. "You see the only way to get someone to remember your name is to associate it with something that can never be forgotten, or replaced. They told me that no one would care what my life resulted to, that they might read my books and find them a bore after a while. Though a tragedy, a tragedy that strikes in the hearts of men, something irreplaceable. Irreversible. They'll remember that. Look at Keats, look at Shelley."
"Their deaths weren't suicide." Musgrave debated at last, remembering the names and the deaths without ever having read a word written by either of them.
"Never grew old, never grew boring." Victor debated. "And I might have done it, too. There was a moment in which I debated securing my legacy some way or another, when the words didn't flow like they used to. I was still well known, still popular amongst the inner circles of literature and the arts. London was opened to me, though the gates were closing. There would not be a moment to waste, dare I hesitate the slightest. I would've done it that week...perhaps even that night."
"The night of what?" Musgrave pleaded, forgetting his manners and his discretion. When Trevor's voice stopped it felt like an awful jolt, a stab to his curious brain and his anxious, unyielding heart.
"The night I met him." Victor breathed, his hand now running down the length of his exposed forearm. He interlocked his own fingers, though in such a way to mimic another's touch. He was remembering, he was remembering...
"Sherlock." Musgrave muttered at last, the name fitting together like the missing piece of a beautiful puzzle, a mirage.
"If there was a reason to live if not for fame, a reason to exist in this god forsaken earth! It was for the purity that rested inside of that boy, for the untainted mind, and the heart that swelled with passion without ever knowing where to direct it to! He needed me just as much as I needed him, and in those moments I asked myself what was the use of being known by all, if you could but be known by one. By him."
"What did you want with him? Companionship...love?" Musgrave wondered, rather spitting out that last word as it interrupted his process of thought. For whatever reason he still couldn't fathom...he still couldn't understand. Love from Sherlock Holmes...love to Victor Trevor?
"What I intended...well I was not sure. Such a boy needed to be preserved, to be cherished. I knew as much." Victor whispered, his voice now a mere breath passing from his lips.
"So what did you do?" Musgrave insisted. There was a sharp laugh from his companion, so abrupt that it made Musgrave jump in his chair. It didn't sound remotely human, more of a banshee's screech... something produced of pain rather than humor. Though his teeth were bared in a smile they looked miserable, his eyes screamed for help and his fingers twisted around each other madly. If Musgrave had not been so curious he might have run...
"I corrupted him!" the man yelled. "God have mercy, I ruined that boy!"
"Trevor..." Musgrave muttered, without much words of sympathy. He knew not the story; no one had described to him the details enough to make this waling man come to his senses. Perhaps Trevor was responsible for him, for what he amounted to. Perhaps Victor Trevor had set the dominos in motion; perhaps he had prompted that innocent university boy to turn into the decrepit cripple that lay miserable in a hospital bed.
"He'll tell you, Musgrave...he'll tell you all I've done. All that I have failed to do." Victor whispered. "I wish what he will say was a lie, I wish it every day. I broke him, I killed him."
"You're a murderer." Musgrave clarified.
"I wish to God I was. A murderer in his most prime, a murderer not of another, but of himself. I wish to God I never found a reason to live...I wish I had never been offered the chance at redemption. I should have taken my own life that night, before I proved myself worthy of the Devil." Trevor ended his sentence with a gasp, letting his head fall back as he writhed on the couch, looking as if he were suffering an episode of spasm, as if a seizure had suddenly over taken his body. In all of his medical training Musgrave had never been taught to treat guilt, though in an instant he flung himself to the man's side, picking up the back of his head so that he might not choke on his own saliva, grabbing one of the flailing arms and stilling it within his firm grip, stilling it from flying madly towards himself or towards another. Victor twisted for a moment within the Doctor's grasp, fighting against him for a moment, fighting as if he suddenly forgot where he was, or who it was he was trying to ward off.
"Trevor, Trevor!" Musgrave growled, wondering now if this was some side effect from the drug, or if he was actually suffering a serious medical ailment. What it was he could not diagnose, though Musgrave perhaps offered him the cure he was seeking. It was no proper treatment, no proper medicine. No, in fact the poet only stopped fighting when he was properly restrained, held close to the doctor's chest in such a way that he could no longer fight. Though just as soon as he was cradled he began to relax, as if the touch of another man in such intimacy was the cure he had been waiting for. Their proximity quieted him, and before long Musgrave found that he had the poet trapped within his arms, with the man's head fallen onto his shoulder, much like any man would attempt to have a woman, offering them a shoulder to cry on when expecting so much more than tears... It was perhaps the closest he had held someone in years, it was the closest he had ever been allowed. Perhaps it was good for the Doctor, as well. The lonely doctor and the maddened poet, both found the medicinal purposes of touch.
"Mr. Trevor..." Musgrave began at last, his head clearing as he began to blink, realizing at last what he had come to in the middle of his very own sitting room. "You are unwell."
"Ever since, Doctor. I have been unwell ever since." Trevor explained quietly. The Doctor sighed, though he decided he was in no position to argue. He was not the confrontational type, after all.