The Last Romantics

Reconciliation Is Within Reach

Sherlock took a deep breath, a dramatic way to end his story, and at last motioned for a glass of water that was sitting on his bedside table. Musgrave blinked, though hastily provided him with the glass in an attempt to get him to continue the story. When he was silent the Doctor allowed himself to be slightly disappointed, though in the end he realized that it was time for him to go home, his day being wasted away at this man's bedside.
"Your story is totally unpredictable, Sherlock. You seemed to be quite the impulsive child." Musgrave laughed, to which Sherlock raised his eyebrows with some discontent. Whether or not he regretted his past decisions seemed to be undetermined, and he certainly wouldn't comment on them now.
"I've lived a life, a life that would be considered a multitude by those who have not determined how to live their own." Sherlock admitted with a sigh.
"Well it's not over; you're talking as if death is imminent. In fact, well you're getting better by the day, your wound hardly needs bandaging anymore and your time here seems to be coming to a close. If only we could get you on those crutches, well perhaps we could get you home." Musgrave insisted, remembering at last that beds in this hospital were a precious resource, and perhaps the removal of such a big distraction like Sherlock Holmes would prompt more work from the doctor, and less sitting around listening to autobiographies.
"I'm not terribly motivated to move, not at the moment. And my leg still hurts, Doctor." Sherlock defended, sounding all together childish. There was a startling difference between his younger self, who seemed to always be on the go and looking for new opportunities and this current state of vegetable in his older years. He still had plenty of life inside of him! Though perhaps he saw the loss of his leg as an unavoidable handicap, and determined that the world was much too large for him any longer. He had lost hope.
"Hurt is one thing, well who knows it might hurt for the rest of your life. The need of care is another thing entirely, the moment our nurses cannot do anything more is the moment we need to get you out of this bed, one way or another." Musgrave insisted. Sherlock sighed heavily, handing back the water as if he liked to be waited on, and sat back to strike a cigarette.
"I have no home, Musgrave. If I left now, I would be left for dead." He admitted at last.
"No...well certainly you have the money to afford one?" Musgrave presumed, remembering the money the boy had been in line to receive, as well as what could only be a promising poetic career.
"Budgeting was never my strong suit, and well...well I suppose you'll see where most of my funds ended up." Sherlock muttered, shaking his head as if he really was a fool.
"If you have no home, well you are welcomed to mine." Musgrave offered automatically, figuring that he was obligated to offer. Sherlock was a friend to him, a friend in most aspects of the word. And while they didn't know each other half as much as was necessary for sharing living space, well Musgrave felt a sort of responsibility over the fate of the man. He knew more about Sherlock's life than he did even with his own life! Certainly he could not let that man and his story go to waste, starving on the streets while suffering the wound that Musgrave himself had inflicted.
"A tempting offer, Musgrave, but I do suppose you are already sharing with one. My presence would be...company." Sherlock muttered, a small smile flashing over his cigarette before he smoked once more, his eyes completely humorless. Musgrave, on the other hand, felt his face drain completely of color. He hadn't spoken to Sherlock about his relationship with Victor; in fact he had hoped that Sherlock never found out! And yet here he was, being able to deduce the affair without having been given a hint of any sort.
"I um...well I would pretend that I don't know what you mean, though I suppose that would be futile." Musgrave murmured, shuffling his feet a bit awkwardly beneath him. The feeling was like being caught by a parent with a girl in your bed, though there was a bit more shame considering Sherlock should have no authority over Musgrave's pastimes. What the Doctor did with his own time was certainly nothing for Sherlock to scold, and yet here he was, worried that he would get a stern talking to. He realized that he was afraid of Sherlock, not by what he would do but by what he might think. Musgrave had been given all the proper warnings, and yet still he had invited that man into his home. Though Sherlock knew, he understood at least partially, the irresistible ways of that long suffering poet!
"And it would be foolish, too. The entire thing is foolish, Doctor, but I assume you know that for yourself." Sherlock scolded.
"I'm fascinated by him, Sherlock. Just as I am with you." Musgrave defended.
"In even my broad justification of sex, fascination does not altogether make the cut. If you want his story, ask him. If you want his body, well then that is much more along the lines of lust, or perhaps even love." Sherlock cooed.
"I don't love him." Musgrave admitted, a statement that Sherlock had to hear and he honestly had to say. It was a good reminder that this was all impermanent, their relationship as a whole was being enacted more as a compliment to Sherlock's story than an actual act of love and interest.
"I can assume that this is your first relationship with a man. In fact I'm quite sure it is, given your reaction when I spoke to you about Tobias." Sherlock presumed.
"Yes." Musgrave admitted, not wanting to go into any more details about that sort of field. Perhaps he didn't want to admit that Sherlock's story had awakened something inside of him, not just the urge but the possibility of loving a man. Something about hearing Sherlock talk so openly about it made Musgrave realize that stigma was the only thing preventing his heart from seeing the possibilities in both genders, the availability to love. All his life Musgrave might have been feeling the very same emotions, strong and powerful, towards the men in his life. Though he had accredited them to something else entirely, and attempted to move on. That possibility may very well be instilled in all men, even all women, and yet it would take considerable support to act upon it.
"Well then I leave you with a warning, Musgrave, not even about Victor but instead about all men," Sherlock announced. "Remember, they have the capability to treat you as you would treat anyone else. The brain you have, the heart...they are equipped with the same weapons. Think about your motivations; think about your end goals. If they are harsh, remember that your partner could very well be thinking the same things. If they are pure...remember they might not be returned."
"That's um...terribly optimistic." Musgrave muttered.
"It's real! So get bloody used to it!" Sherlock exclaimed, his cigarette waving a bit angrily between his teeth and his eyes gleaming with something akin to hostility. Musgrave raised up his hands in surrender, not wanting to argue with the man and not wanting to upset any of the other patients. It was nearly time for the medication cart to go around, and as such it was already time for Musgrave to leave. He let those be the final words; in fact he didn't even manage a goodbye. All it was in his power to do was give Sherlock one last look, a rather apologetic one at that, for the very thing Sherlock was warning him not to do was the exact thing he was on his way home to do. Musgrave figured that there was truth in Sherlock's words, perhaps an underlying jealousy of sorts, but a truth all the same. And that was Musgrave's shield against the cruelty of men, that was his armor, the understanding and expectation of heartbreak.