The Last Romantics

Ethics For The Unethical

"I sent my letter that morning, giving it to the postman at the door so that my brother would never notice that I was suddenly in communications with someone. Perhaps Mycroft would not care if I was to make a friend on the side, however I knew that Victor's affiliation in the arts would be a deterrent to such a cold, factual mind as my brother's. He didn't always use to be that way, I'm quite sure that was the pity in it all. I never knew him to be so cold, so lifeless. Things had changed, often I wondered what it was that happened while I was away, though other times I figured it was best not delve into the world I was no longer a part of. I knew all too well that my time in this house was dwindling, I did not know where I would go, nor the conditions of my departure...I only knew that the world was waiting for me, a world much larger than ever could be imagined in these cold, desolate walls. I dreamed of him at night, thought of him in the day...well dare I say I was completely obsessed. But it was not by his words, not by his actions either. Something told me that I had met more than a man last night at the opera, I had met opportunity, I had met in its own way, destiny. I just had to preserve my ambition; I had to keep myself ready for the final transition. I had to be, in all sense...available. And so I bided my time, ignoring my brother when at all possible and flattering him when I was forced to make conversation. I figured I would treat him just as I had my father, the way one would when handling a ticking land mine. It was no trouble to tread carefully, the moment you put any pressure on was the moment you watched it blow up. And so I was cautious, I was flattering, and I was obedient in every way. Mycroft talked about nothing more than the factory, the profits, and the time it would take until I could be made his proper heir. Not once did he mention securing his own future with the production of a child, no he seemed quite happy to keep his younger brother as the sole inheritor of the factory and its wealth. Little did he know I wanted nothing of it, none of the blood that came pouring down every cent, every dollar. If I was given the rights to that property I would shut it down entirely and vanish, leaving the Holmes legacy, the Holmes riches, behind. I was no longer part of this family; not after discovering I was gifted with something none of them could understand...sympathy. Emotion. The heart that my direct descendants lacked had all been absorbed into myself, and suddenly I was feeling the world at three times the magnification of any normal man or woman. When given the option, I would run. And the option came, finally along the line the postman came bearing gifts, a letter for myself along with the countless checks that had come for my brother. He did not ask, presumably he did not care, and Mycroft allowed me to scamper off into the library to open my correspondence unbothered. It was a letter from Victor, that much I could tell by the elegant seal that bound the envelope together. There was no return address, perhaps for the best, and the handwriting was something of elegance, that same handwriting that had written lines of poetry now wrote my name so carefully across the thick red envelope! My own name, by his own hand...
Sherlock,
I thank you for your letter, and thank you for the praise you seem so willing to offer me. I am much obliged to fans, though far more indebted to worshippers. You do intrigue me, I admit that much. Why don't you come to one of my poetry readings at the end of the week? I will be reading in a club in London, a small gathering of the elites but I can certainly get you in. Don't bring your brother; he reeks of a man without an imagination. Come alone, dear Sherlock, and perhaps I can find a way to entertain your ambitions.
Victor Trevor

The letter was signed in great loops, almost illegible if I did not know which letters to look for. He signed it like a man who was used to giving out his autograph, like any old celebrity I suppose. Burdened with the public's admiration, exhausted of being recognized. But he knew I was special, he admitted to it in his very lines! I intrigued him, I, who had only been introduced to poetry weeks before! That in itself was motivation, that in itself was the call of destiny. I didn't care how I would get there; I didn't care how much it would cost me to arrive. I would be at that club, at that reading, whether it killed me or not. The letter had been written a couple of days previous to its arrival, making the poetry reading just tomorrow night! I had to wonder what sort of clientele would show up...more importantly I wondered if such a reading would attract another fan who I was quite intimately acquainted with. Oh the most fun of being so close to Victor Trevor now was the smug look I could give my dear Tobias when he finds out who his ultimate replacement was! The trick of the matter would be getting to London, as I would undoubtedly have to trick my brother into allowing me the carriage for the evening, as well as a reasonable excuse to return home at a dreadful hour of night. I thought up my plan for a long while, really not a complicated one at all, though it must be executed perfectly or it would not pass. He couldn't know to whom I was running to; certainly Mycroft's view of the arts was as cynical as any scientific professor's! He would not respect my decision, nor my transition, and it was up to me to ensure my legacy in such a field. And so I would make up an excuse, a reasonable one at that! I was always quite good at lying, especially to one who would never imagine that I had a secret to hide. Mycroft, for the most part, was completely oblivious. And so I would attempt to keep him that way.
"Mycroft, I don't suppose you would allow me to go out tonight?" I asked at last, over the lunch table of the day prescribed. Mycroft had set himself up quite comfortably at the head of the table, the seat in which my father used to lounge during the infrequent meals we used to share together. He was picking apart one of the sandwiches the chef had prepared, peeling off any of the vegetables with some sense of disgust.
"Out? Where on earth would you be going at a time like this?" Mycroft wondered.
"Well in fact, one of my old professors is giving a lecture in London. I thought I might take a trip there, to bid him a proper farewell." I admitted at last, trying to remain calm as I forced some lunch down my throat and into my queasy stomach.
"Farewell? Well certainly you'll see him soon enough, I intend for you to finish your education." Mycroft said with a little chuckle.
"I thought you wanted me to stay here, to be some sort of heir?" I clarified, my eyes narrowing in some disbelief. I had already made up my mind about my education; I had already cast that University from my head and heart entirely!
"An heir with an education, Sherlock. I have not forgotten your dreams, don't you worry." Mycroft assured with a chuckle.
"My dreams...yes." I agreed, remembering back to when all I longed for was a rich understanding in science, in the language of the world that was so misused, so painfully misunderstood! I didn't want to be a part of a world that could not be loved by all; I wanted to be a part of the whole, not some elite unit of prestigious, pretentious academics.
"Which Professor of yours is giving the talk? Perhaps it would be of interest to me as well." Mycroft wondered, striking within me the first fear I had felt in a long while. I had not even considered the fact that he might want to come along with me, and then what? Oh I must make some excuse, some reason for him to detest it...
"Ethics." I said at last.
"Ethics? You mean that painful study of right and wrong? Oh Sherlock why do you trouble yourself with such fancies?" Mycroft demanded.
"I felt it was a useful science!" I defended, a bit more passionately than might have suited the situation. I only needed his approval, not his opinion! And now here I was, backing a science that I had not even studied myself!
"Oh it is the science of the poor, Sherlock. The science of those who think too much about their actions, and not nearly enough about their profit. What silly little talks you must enjoy." Mycroft scoffed, shaking his head in utter indignation.
"Can I go, then?" I wondered anxiously.
"Yes, I suppose you may go. And I, who find your little fancies to be terribly enjoyable, will attend as well." Mycroft decided at last. "Perhaps you think it's best for me, to learn a little bit of sympathy."
"You would hate it; no certainly it would not be for you. I wouldn't want you to embarrass me in front of my professor; your very being there would disrupt the crowd. They know you, they know your crimes." I insisted anxiously, my fingers clenching very nervously around the table cloth that I had managed to bunch up on my end. For some reason I felt the crushing weight of urgency bearing down upon me, I knew that no matter what I would have to abandon my brother one way or another!
"Do not call them crimes! Do not insult me at my own table!" Mycroft exclaimed. I hesitated, feeling quite afraid as I nestled back into the chair I had been sitting in. Okay, so perhaps an aggressive tactic was a failed attempt.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry Mycroft." I whispered, staring down into my plate of lunch and trying my hardest to avoid his direct glance. I tried to reconsider, tried to come up with a plan here at the table, something that would deter my brother enough from staying at home but encourage him enough to let me go in both of our places. He couldn't see me at a poetry reading, he couldn't know that my dearest Victor Trevor had anything to do in the matter...
"Alright then, we can both go." I muttered quickly. All I needed him for, after all, was the carriage. Certainly I could think something up on our way to London, and if not well...well perhaps he ought to know anyhow. Perhaps he be reminded what my true ambitions were, before he could ship me off to that school once more. Mycroft nodded, perhaps satisfied with that decision at last, and continued on with his lunch completely unbothered. I, on the other hand, excused myself as quickly as I could; leaving what was left of my meal on my plate and rushing up to my room in some urgency, forced now with the effort of conducting a plan that would free me from the constraints of my brother and allow me to slip to Victor Trevor's poetry reading unnoticed. Certainly this would be easier if I had some sort of accomplices in London, someone to ask for a quick favor or a simple distraction. And so I sat in my room, calling upon the knowledge everyone was so convinced I had. I sat alone, pondering, and getting nowhere. And so I decided, well this may have to be as impromptu as the invitation itself. This might have to be an escape created entirely on the fly, in which neither Mycroft nor I had any idea what was happening. Somehow I had to head to an ethics convention that didn't exist, shake off my brother somewhere in London, and meet Mr. Victor Trevor once again. Well I couldn't imagine what could go wrong.