The Last Romantics

A Poet Who Never Wrote A Word

Mycroft had been truthful with his ban of poets from my life, though he could only go so far as banning me from traveling to the city, as well as attempting to screen what I sent from the house and what I received in return. To be quite honest I was too embarrassed to send out the first letter, for while I had Victor's address I thought my departure the other night was grounds enough to set a great divide between the two of us. I thought Mycroft's interruption caused too much of a scene, and that Victor would be humiliated to be associated with a boy who was still following along at his brother's hip, open to scolding and instruction. I was proved wrong, however, when I happened down the stairs before my brother, finding that the mail had just been delivered through the slot. I must have arrived just as the post man left, for the metal slot was still swinging as I ascended upon the pile, noticing at the very bottom the corner of a telltale envelope. It was that same red color that my last invitation had been sent in, and in a moment I recognized it as once being the property of my Victor Trevor. Anxiously I snatched it from the pile, tucking it within my jacket in the nick of time. Just as soon as I had bent to retrieve the rest of the mail my brother entered, another second sooner and he would've witnessed my retrieval and would have forced me to surrender it, all that beautiful handwriting sent to the flame instead of the eye!
"Mail?" Mycroft presumed.
"Mostly bills." I admitted with a little chuckle, passing them all along to my brother in a great stack.
"Oh the usual toils. Nothing for you, I assume?" Mycroft presumed, raising his eyebrow a bit suspiciously, as if he was waiting for me to admit to my secret communication.
"Who would be writing to me?" I asked a bit stupidly, hoping Mycroft would take such a question as my honest opinion. Maybe he would take that as a sure sign that I had forgotten my poetic escapades, and that my suitor (dare we use that term) had forgotten about me equally. Though Mycroft seemed to take the answer seriously, as he scoffed at a couple of the letters and continued to the sitting room to open them, forgetting about me and certainly never noticing the envelope that I had shoved rather haphazardly into my jacket. As soon as I could get a moment I escaped upstairs to my room, shutting the door quietly before pouncing atop of my bed to tear open the letter I had received. Just as I had predicted, Victor's handwriting was scrawled upon the front of the envelope in his usual neat handwriting. I ripped the top open with my finger, anxiously pulling out the letter inside...
Sherlock,
I am sorry that our evening ended on such a note. It is with great regret that I realize what trouble you had put yourself into, just to meet with me and attend my reading. Your family is constructed of very weak minded men, profit hungry and narrow in their sights of the world. You were gifted something else, perhaps having inherited the thinking power of three men instead of just one, to make up for the Holmes deficiency. I wanted to express my regret to you, as well as my gratitude for your dedication. I had not stopped thinking of what you said to me that night, how we are as much a part of each other as we are a part of our selves. Whether or not that is true I cannot tell, though I would like to inquire into the theory more diligently. I imagine it would be difficult to meet again, though I am anxious to see you. You remind me of myself in my younger days, when still that spark of optimism shone so brightly. A poet who had never written a word...it's hauntingly familiar. Do let me know if we can ever meet again, and tell me of what measures I should take to ensure our communication stays frequent. Just as soon as I had gained your friendship, Sherlock, I realized what a loss it would be to lose you. Keep in touch.
Victor Trevor
That moment, I remember it so well. I remember setting that letter down and feeling the weight of the world being lifted off of my shoulders, I remember reading over his signature and feeling as though he were my angel, sent to me to be a guiding light in my divine mission. I had never held someone higher than in that moment, I had never had so much blind confidence in a man who would later turn to be my sworn enemy. I thought of him as more than God, and being as though he seemed to have interest in me I began to also consider myself more than human. I was special, gifted with the attention of the exalted, and surely I was becoming a bit too confident in my operations. I began to write my own poetry, short little lines at first, mimicking his style and word choice the best I could. After a long while I discovered I could write most of his poems free hand, and by changing up a few words or copying the pattern into my own verse I found that I could certainly pass of as an experienced, gifted poet without much effort at all. In fact over the time I began to fool myself into thinking I was some prophet, transcribing my feelings as if they meant anything at all. In all reality I was setting myself up for disaster, and the amount of times I should have thrown that pen away began to increase as I spent more and more time locked away in my room, obsessed with the idea of Victor, though more so obsessed with the idea of myself. I wrote to him in a system of secretive letters, eventually setting up a PO box in the post office to have my correspondence remain more of a guarded secret. I would go to town most every day, this had been part of my routine for as long as I had lived in that house, though these days I would make a stop to collect or send letters, now getting up to the point where I would have a letter waiting both in my box and in my pocket daily. Though despite our correspondence I was beginning to suspect that the conversation was going the wrong direction, and while I was ever so eager to speak about myself and my aspirations I really was not learning a lot about my new friend at all. He remained as much a mystery as he ever was, keeping his daily descriptions vague and inconclusive, forcing me to speculate all I knew about him from the few snippets of given fact. Apart from his profession in poetry (which I had solid, personal proof of) I could never be sure if I was imagining his life correctly in my head or not. A couple of times I assumed he had a wife, or rather some companion with which to spend his days, and other days I was convinced that he was romantically interested in me, and that the day would come when he would arrive at my house to elope. Neither theory was given any conclusions, and so while I poured my history, future, heart, and soul out to him on paper I was left as much in the dark as ever before. And this was undoubtedly by his own design, he wanted to remain a mystery, it was indeed the most romantic approach to long distance communication. I figured this friendship, or whatever category it should fall into, was beginning to plateau and become rather limiting. I wanted to see him again in person, for now the memory of his face in both darkened places with his features dim and his eyes bright with drunkenness, were the only mental pictures I was armed with. I knew him to be beautiful, and in some cases I'm sure I overestimated such beauty in my head when I let my thoughts wander. More than once I wondered what I would do in the case that he did pursue me as a romantic interest, and more often than not I settled on the conclusion that I was at his beck and call, for whatever suited his most dire interests. I didn't feel distinct love for him, not quite like the love I felt for my dear Tobias which had been cultivated from weeks. Though there was an admiration, a curiosity that was deep seated within my heart. I felt as though what we had now could escalate, and if I was so entertained by him through the mere communication of letters then perhaps I could be head over heels by the time he offered my his hand. I knew even in those days that he was a questionable character; his secrecy and his ability to go along with deception were two telltale signs of caution. Though at the moment I felt as though despite his slippery nature I had him tied in a pretty tight knot, so that even if he did have the potential to escape he might not want to. I had the illusion in those days that I was in control, and what a fool I was for attempting to conquer what man could only describe as a demon, villainy compressed into a single glimmering mortal body. But in those days he held my future, and so long as I did not tip off my brother to my secret dealings I would be in fine shape to continue on into the next stage of my life. That was the most difficult part of the entire operation, keeping that oaf at bay. He had curious eyes, ones that would bore into your soul if you were not careful enough to look away at certain intervals. Mycroft tried to know everything, and that alone was the reason he never knew about my secret deals with Victor. The man was so caught up in trying to balance the factory, the bills, and the household that he could hardly spare time to keep tabs on his wandering brother, and before long he had forgotten all about my single rebellious activity and had gone on to worry about his own issues. These were the days when unions were becoming popular, or at least showing their true colors, and my brother was becoming increasingly worried that such 'outrageous' coalitions might begin to get in the way of him and his income. So at the moment I was safe, in most every scenario except a direct interrogation. And those usually came in the form of a casual conversation over a meal, the only time the two of us really saw each other in the duration of our time in that large, lonely house.
"Sherlock, it appears as though the new semester is starting up in a couple of days at your university." Mycroft said one night over our tall glasses of red wine. He had been a bit more careful with his alcohol consumption, perhaps due to my taking advantage of it on my night of escape, though tonight he seemed comfortable enough to indulge.
"Oh yes? Well, good for them." I muttered, feeling as though my best chance was to worm my way out of this conversation as quick as possible. I didn't want Mycroft approaching the suggestion of sending me back to school, as I had no aspirations to do so. As far as any one was concerned, I was totally fine with mental stagnation.
"It would be a good time to join afresh, pick up where you left off? Father's death was traumatic for the both of us, but we cannot just keep our lives in that screeching halt. Education will do you well." Mycroft offered at last, speaking the very words I feared the most. I hesitated, my fork hovering over my plate without much enthusiasm as I stared down into the puddles of gravy.
"No I um...I don't think I would like to go back." I said at last, only reiterating what I had said to him a couple of weeks back. He knew I hadn't the interest, though surely my brother couldn't place a meaning onto why I was suddenly so contempt in my home life.
"Why ever not, Sherlock? When you were once so fascinated with the sciences, why do you turn them away? Knowledge, brother mine, is the most powerful weapon you have against the world." Mycroft reminded me. I nodded my head quickly, knowing better than to try to beat him in a battle of one liners and motivational quotes.
"I'm just...well like I said before. I don't think I'll need any such knowledge to be an heir." I muttered.
"I disagree." Mycroft insisted sharply, shaking his head with discontent. "I want you to learn, I want you to go on with your studies and make something of your brain. And if you can't provide me with a valid reason for not getting what I want, then I would like to hear it now. Otherwise you will be on that train this Saturday morning, without a word of complaint."
"No I...I will complain!" I exclaimed at last, the whole of my body tensing as I suddenly realized what position my tyrannical brother had put me into. I had forgotten how much of my life was controlled by his pure whims, and when he was uninterested in me I had free range of the world. However when his attention had regained my livelihood, well there really was nothing I could do to fight my way out.
"Then give me a valid reason!" Mycroft defended.
"I just don't want to go back! I don't want to see all the same people, read all the same books, it's knowledge but it's not, it's textbooks and repetition! I'm not learning, I'm regurgitating, memorizing!" I defended at last.
"You wish for a more dynamic education, well then we can certainly work towards that. A different university, perhaps?" Mycroft suggested. I shook my head, imagining how my life would change if my brother shipped me back to that place, or any place at all! I would be shoved full of knowledge I did not want, and had no use for! I would be academia's puppet, without any outlet to work on my own works, lost without my true mentor! Victor could be erased from my life by a simple transfer of locations, he may find me uninteresting, unmotivated! What did a poet so fiery, so lively as himself want with a boy who could not stand up for his own lifestyle, his own aspirations? I would be proven weak, not to mention thrown into that mundane and repetitious life that I decided was no longer useful to me. I had to do something, but I was left without an option, without any plausible resort other than the strict facts as they were resonating in my mind. I could not go to school because I wanted to be a poet. So easy an explanation was going to be so difficult to comprehend in my brother's mind, though one way or another it had to be said. One way or another I would have to break the news...though perhaps not tonight.
"Can I be excused?" I wondered at last, disgusted with my meal and frightened enough to scurry away without my proper manners. Though my brother seemed suspicious he allowed me to run off, waving me away with his hand as if I was not worth his time any longer. When I ran to my room my first instinct was to write to Victor...that instinct being shoved away promptly, my second was to pack. Saturday morning was just three days away, and even if I wasn't going to school I decided that I very well could not stay here. Where to run I did not know, and with what money was a further complication. I had my own inheritance stored away for me, though that was to be available when Mycroft allowed it, due nothing to my age or state of being. I could steal the china or the silver, but that furthermore would not get me far. Mycroft would know where to look, for there really was only one place to run. I had his address, I wrote to him enough to be a regular friend even if we had only met in person twice...would Victor be willing to let me in? Would he accept me into his home, knowing that I was his prop in this game of life? I was putting myself at great risk, depending on a man whose motivation and character I only minimally understood. Was he a good place to run to? I did not know. And I would not know, really...not until my hand was forced. 

I stalled my departure, though my bags were packed and ready to go. Each one of my possessions was ready to be taken from the house in an instant, in just two suitcases that I could carry with each hand. I would travel by foot, presumably, until I made it to the city, where I would in turn find my way to his home. I was not good with navigation, though I trusted myself enough to find my way in a time of emergency. I was not sure when was the moment to run, or if I would have the opportunity to claim my things from upstairs, and so my most prized possessions I kept on my person at all times. My pockets were shoved with what money I had to my name, and in my coat I kept Victor's book of poetry, my own journal of attempts, and his address card. I knew his address by heart these days, though I figured it would be a safer bet to keep it in writing in case I had to show it to a carriage driver or something like that. I was prepared, and though I was nervous. And due to such nervousness I allowed my situation to escalate, in which every hour spent in that house felt as though it could be my last, until finally Friday night came and the train tickets were bought. I was being prepared to be shipped back to University, and that was about the time when I decided I could not take it any longer. I had to leave, one way or another, and my mind was set as to where I would go. I would run to Victor, the moment I saw the opportunity.
"Sherlock, I imagine you are packed and ready?" Mycroft wondered, wandering into the library that evening before dinner, where he caught me sitting on the edge of the couch and staring anxiously into the flames. I jumped, having been startled out of my thoughts by the very voice I had been imagining, and nodded quickly.
"All ready." I agreed quietly. My brother nodded, seeming satisfied with that answer though not enough to leave me at peace.
"You know that I only want what's best for you, right Sherlock?" Mycroft clarified.
"I know, Mycroft. But I want what is best for myself as well and...and we have conflicting versions on what is my chosen path." I admitted finally. My brother's breath caught, I could almost hear his anxiety rising. Whatever could I mean by this, he was wondering?
"And what path have you chosen for yourself?" he wondered, now positioning himself upright in the doorway, rather than leaning casually against the frame. He wasn't just here for a conversation; he was also here to maintain order in his household. He was there to act as body guard, not for himself, but for his company and aspirations. I took a deep breath, patting the inside of my jacket and touching upon the notebook I had filled with my ideas and verse. I turned to him quietly, sitting upon the couch with my toes planted on the ground, ready to run.
"Mycroft, I've decided I want to be a poet." I admitted at last.