The Last Romantics

Become a Part of The Narrative

I spent the night as any man would, when having been presented with a gift so delicate and so powerful. Mycroft perhaps thought I was sleeping, though already I was drafting a letter to my idol that would explain myself and my admiration far better than could my nervous tongue. To have the honor even to say nothing to Victor Trevor is something I might have killed for before, though now I was beginning to feel incredibly foolish. I had nearly blown my one and only chance at a connection to the man, and now with his card in my hands, well now I had one more shot to gain his attention. I deserved at least some recognition for my efforts, at least some conversation from one poet to another. And so I decided to write to him, write using the words I knew how to articulate without any stress, without the pressure of a blue tinted spotlight coming from those radiant eyes of his. Oh to think, to think that I had met my idol! The very words I had worshipped for so long, written by the hands which had grasped my shoulders! Half of me wished to write to Tobias, in an attempt to reconnect him into my life and disclose my new bout of fortune. I almost reached for a clean sheet of paper, so close was I to abandoning our silence and persevering towards the love I had been rejected! Though I hesitated, and before long I had fallen back into my chair without writing a single word for the boy to read. I decided that this path, well it was mine to travel alone. He had his shot; he had his chance to join me. Though I was alone now, as was he, though I had a feeling our paths were never destined to cross again. I was bound in one direction, towards fame and the halls of our university Gods; he was bound for who knows where? Alone for sure, or rather without me. And so no, I would not write a word for my past affections, I would not drag him into this world dedicated only to those who were outright with their feelings, those who were brave enough to reach out and take what they thought they deserved. And so, with this newfound dedication coursing through my worthy fingers, I folded up the letter written to Victor Trevor, a letter of admiration and of worship, and tucked it neatly into an envelope addressed to the address on the card. It would be sent the next morning, begging him to rejoin me somewhere within the city. I sought his teachings; I sought the wisdom he had stored away in his bones, wisdom so far from me at that moment! When my pen still halted, my thoughts still spun, and my intentions were never clear. I thought that he was the answer to my sufferings, and that should we reconnect on a more personal level I may never have to hurt again. I may never have to be alone, or unrecognized, or unheard. Well Victor Trevor was no magic cure; he was no God as I then perceived him as. He was just as foul as any scum I might have dragged in on my shoe, and he landed me here. If it was not for Victor Trevor...well then Doctor you may not have had this pleasure. You may not have ever known of me at all, which would have been better. Better for the both of us." 

 Musgrave waited for the man to go on, however when Sherlock sat back into his pillow he knew that the day's tales were at an end. He hesitated for a moment, figuring that he ought to offer the man a cigarette in recompense for his elaborate tales. The story had been fragmented throughout the day, due to waves of incoming patients and necessary surgeries, though now the ward was lit only with lamps, the sun had long gone down, and Musgrave found himself alone with Sherlock Holmes, alone in a room full of sleeping soldiers, fallen asleep to the sounds of Sherlock's voice struggling over syllable after syllable. Musgrave wagged a cigarette next to Sherlock's exhausted lips, and the man grasped onto it thankfully. He waited a moment for the Doctor to offer a match, and before long the poor patient was smoking and breathing in the fumes which might succeed in killing him faster. 

"You paint Mr. Trevor to be quite a villain." Musgrave perceived apprehensively, thinking back to all he knew of the man in person. Perhaps, even if Victor was mean spirited, he had found change in his ways? He did not seem a fraction of evil as Sherlock might portray him as.
"All stories, Doctor, have both a hero and a villain. The story of each man and woman's life too. He is my villain, and now that you've met him I'm sure he will become yours as well." Sherlock warned.
"Trevor is perhaps a changed man, due to the harm he inflicted upon you." Musgrave offered optimistically, to which Sherlock just laughed doubtfully, shaking his head in some regret.
"Changed man? No, no Doctor, surely you don't know enough about poets. A stubborn lot, and they never take back anything they say. And Victor has said so many things, done so many things, that to redeem himself would be all together impossible. Best stay on good terms with the Devil, then to risk ending up in purgatory." Sherlock chuckled. He exhaled a deep breath of smoke, turning his face to examine the Doctor with some curiosity, suddenly realizing it was quite strange for the man to go on trying to redeem what he knew all too well to be a criminal.
"Why try to defend him?" Sherlock whispered, to which Musgrave straightened himself up on the chair, shaking his head in his own defense and trying to turn the tides away from his own interrogation.
"I only try to see the good in all people, Sherlock. Just as I saw the good in you, when you would at first ignore me and my entire staff." Musgrave insisted quickly. The stranger stopped for a moment, tapping his fingers along his bedsheets before readjusting the cigarette in his mouth, taking a deep draw as if he felt he would need the healing affects before long.
"I warn you, Musgrave...there are some powers found within the worst of men. Powers of attraction, seduction, and blindness. Mind yourself; don't get trapped in his web." Sherlock warned, deep seriousness set heavy within his eyes. Musgrave chuckled, trying to make the impression that he had not a care in the world. Perhaps it was not as easy as he would have liked, playing the part of the innocent fly who had not been tempted by the spider.
"Sherlock, men of medicine like myself do not deal with the smaller temptations of humanity. We do not suffer the results of sentiments, and deal with nothing but the facts." Musgrave said at last, rising to his feet with some finality. Such a statement would be his attempt at the last laugh, and for the present moment it would seem as though Sherlock was at a loss to respond. As Musgrave gathered himself he looked down to find the man laughing, shaking his head as if there was some grave mistake about to occur, or perhaps one which had already come to pass.
"Men of medicine." Sherlock laughed. "Men of hack saws, and blindfolds." The Doctor stood for a moment, wondering if there was any use wasting his breath to defend his choice of amputation. The crutches still lay where he had left them, now almost a week ago! And here the man lay, useless but to whine over his current and helpless situation.
"You are alive, Sherlock. Alive because of me." Musgrave debated.
"That in itself is the worst truth of all." the man muttered, nearly biting through his cigarette as he gnashed his teeth, staring off into space and granting the doctor nothing of a goodbye. And so Musgrave decided to take his leave, as he was done arguing with the poor man over who in this world was right or wrong. There was a fine line, in the doctor's opinion, between good and bad. It all depended on the perspective you saw the person in, and what they had personally done to you. In Musgrave's opinion Victor Trevor was all together redeemable, perhaps because he had not yet heard in much detail of the crime he had committed against poor Sherlock. Well how could he know, when the character of John had not even been mentioned yet! Sherlock's life seemed to hold a great many men, strangers turned to lovers turned to strangers once again. Perhaps this John had been different, taken at a time when Sherlock needed him the most. Who could know, but those who had been there themselves, living within the stories that Sherlock dared create for them? Who could know, if not by continuing on with his story? And so Musgrave left the hospital, much later than he usually would have, and drove on towards where his home awaited. His mind was clouded but his heart was full, and when he pulled into the driveway he found that, to his ultimate pleasure, there was a light illuminated in the front room. The Doctor got out of the car anxiously, locking it securely before trying the front door. It was unlocked, and so carefully he made his way into the house to find a single glass of wine. All evidence that he had a guest, or rather a new inhabitant.
"Should I pour you another glass, or have you done that yourself?" Musgrave called out to the seemingly empty house. A laugh echoed from the sitting room, one that was quite recognizable, quite all together innocent.
"I've finished the bottle, Musgrave. Nothing to do all day, when the Doctor's away." Came the chortling reply.
"If only you had a real job, Victor." Musgrave insisted, turning to find the poet strolling through the illuminated sitting room and into the darkness of the kitchen with that wonderful smile upon his face. Musgrave's heart fluttered, goodness he could not help it! Love was an immediate reaction when faced with a man so beautiful, that form so tall and thin, staggering drunkenly and hidden away under layers of old, expensive fabric.
"A real job? I would have died years ago. I feed off of fashion, you know?" Victor insisted, looming into the room only to throw his arms tiredly around the Doctor's neck, leaning heavily into him and gazing with that far away stare into what Musgrave could only hope was his own soul. It was an interesting feeling, a rebellious one indeed. Back to his younger years, when he would hide his lovers from his parents, that same adrenaline was with him now! Though now he was hiding from Sherlock, hiding away with the so called villain of this very story.
"You feed off of more than that." the Doctor reminded him. Victor chuckled, allowing his hands to linger up and down Musgrave's back, hooking some of his fingers into his waistband and feeling his teeth along the crevices of the Doctor's heavily sculpted chin.
"Not afraid of me, Doctor?" Victor clarified doubtfully, his words pressed deeply upon the Doctor's skin, passing straight through and into his body, electrifying every nerve.
"Always, Trevor." Musgrave assured. "But that does not stop me."
"That's the spirit." Chuckled the poet, and with that he pushed that wine glass away and hoisted the Doctor onto the counter instead, hoping that the windows were shuttered but not caring enough at the moment to check. Gone were the times of discretion, alight now were the fires of passion that could burn only so long as curiosity was the coal.