The Last Romantics

A Horrific Homecoming

"Who should we put in his bed, Doctor?" the nurse wondered, now tearing off the sheets to make a deliberate attempt at hygiene.
"Oh whoever is suffering the most, I suppose. Mattresses in the hall won't sustain those who need constant attention." Musgrave admitted with a sigh.
"Have you found Mr. Holmes's relatives, then?" the other one wondered, to which the first nurse just smirked and turned away with the dirtied sheets. She seemed to enjoy eavesdropping, and from what she had heard she certainly knew there was a more personal agenda going on.
"No, no he shall stay with me until we find a permanent location. He's just not sick enough for either the bed or the hallway." Musgrave admitted quietly, feeling as if there was some sort of stigma attached to his sudden hospitality. For a moment he tried to wonder what his hesitations about the publicity were, though he immediately remembered what his obvious connection to this flamboyant poet were. Well any wandering nurse might have heard the rather criminal details of Sherlock's love life. God forbid they trace the men's connection back to that shared interest. Well they wouldn't know about Victor, surely they couldn't know about their relationship? Oh what use were those silly little fears, considering there were s many other issues for law enforcement to deal with? Some homosexual in a position of power was not going to stir the strong men of the country, those who were off fighting other country's battles rather than protecting their own homeland from the strange creatures who were now roaming free. Musgrave feared not arrest, as he was a logical thinker at heart, though he rather feared gossip. His reputation was not very good to start with, considering his shaky medical triumphs, and to get this rumor going may really damage his already struggling career. Thankfully the nurse asked nothing more, as if she found that to be a perfectly reasonable explanation, and continued to hand over Sherlock's crutches to the Doctor.
"He might be needing these." She said at last, and with that turned away without a goodbye to poor Sherlock. Thankfully he didn't seem offended by her disinterest, instead he seemed rather fixed on the bed that he had been lying in only seconds before, now already stripped and ready for the next patient.
"Got your book, cigarettes." Musgrave muttered, dropping each of Sherlock's personal things into his outstretched hands. "Your clothes, as well. Can't forget those."
"What use have I for the trousers?" Sherlock snarled. "Unless we cut off one leg."
"That's precisely what we'll do. Now come along then, we can shop for amputee clothing when we go into town." Musgrave muttered. "Hold on now, or else I'll dump you along the way."
"That would be an honor." Sherlock muttered, though he now took to holding onto his possessions and to the arms of the chair as Musgrave began to roll him from the hospital. There seemed not to be an ounce of pity upon leaving, which really didn't come as a surprise. Certainly a hospital was not a place fit for anyone, and all memories that were stored within those walls were tainted and foul, at best. At last Musgrave rolled Sherlock over to his car, pushing and rather dragging the thing through the loose gravel until at last he got him tucked up against the passenger side. After Musgrave opened the door he demanded Sherlock's cooperation, though with some help and a very strong arm to lean on, at last Sherlock managed to work himself into the seat so that he could be sitting upright and strapped in with his seatbelt. Musgrave fit the wheelchair in the backseat, though he was already wishing that Sherlock was more skilled with the crutches, before at last joining Sherlock in the front seat of the car.
"Many things have changed since before the war." Sherlock muttered, admiring the car as if he had never seen such a dazzling vehicle.
"Never been in a car before?" Musgrave wondered with a chuckle.
"Never so close. I think they took me back in a truck, some sort of ambulance, though I don't remember clearly." Sherlock muttered, obviously remembering back to the time he spent wounded.
"Well I'll teach you to drive it someday, but not now. I don't want you losing that other leg, or even your head." Musgrave said with a chuckle, starting up the motor and finding his way towards the main road. As it was these days, the roads were quiet. No one rich enough to own such a vehicle bothered driving these times of night, considering they were usually rich by heritage and didn't need to work for their money. Sherlock was silent, staring at all of the magnificent buildings and shops, all lit up from under the electric lights. Musgrave couldn't at first tell if he was just gawking at the world outside of the hospital walls or if he was legitimately fascinated to see electricity and other things of the modern age. Surely this didn't surprise him? Surely he had been exposed to such things before? What had happened to him in between the time his story ended to the time he ended up in this hospital bed? What had he missed in this world that continued to turn, with or without his assistance? Well no matter how unfamiliar he was with the modern world it kept him quiet for the whole ride, so much so that Musgrave nearly forgot about him by the time he pulled into the driveway. The light in the sitting room remained on, which of course meant that his favorite squatter was at home. Musgrave had rather neglected to mention to Victor that he was going to be taking Sherlock home, though it had been a conscious decision at the time. He wanted this to be something of a surprise, just so that there could be a legitimate exchange between the two of them. From these long stories of times once united, Musgrave was honestly surprised that the two of them could not just forget the past and move on. They seemed perfectly made for each other in all possible ways, why they couldn't see that for themselves was beyond him. Crime or misunderstanding, was it not just water under the water at this point?
"I imagine you're not in habit of keeping your lamp on when you're not at home?" Sherlock grumbled, lighting a cigarette just as soon as he fell into his wheelchair. He was scowling, as if he knew exactly what was waiting for him when he arrived through that door.
"No Sherlock, I am not." Musgrave said simply, thinking it best not to argue at this point. He got in return a face full of cigarette smoke, an act that was beginning to infuriate the Doctor most grievously. Sherlock was being invited as a guest in his house, a much more comfortable alterative than being thrown onto the street, and this was the thanks he got! Why could Sherlock not cooperate with Victor, seeing as though they had lived together for almost a year before! Musgrave paused only to lock the doors before proceeding to roll Sherlock up the small sidewalk and heave him up the small stair that separated the house from the ground. For now he was going to have to sleep on the couch, considering the ground floor did not hold any proper bedrooms. The stairs would indeed be a problem, that is if he did not soon learn to use his crutches. As soon as they arrived into the house Victor was there to greet them, attracted by the noise and drawn by his everlasting curiosity. He didn't say anything when he saw Sherlock being wheeled in, and of course Sherlock was silent in his everlasting spite. The two seemed perfectly wordless, though on opposite ends of the speechless spectrum. Sherlock did not speak out of resentment, as if his throat refused to work and entertain what he saw only to be a beast. Victor seemed perfectly astonished, as if too overjoyed to talk, and just took to staring at his estranged ward for some time longer. He looked to be a man in love, though Musgrave did not take the expression too personally. Despite his romantic whims with Victor he really did support the two in their reunion, whichever form of relationship that took in the end. He knew that he could not integrate himself into this story long enough to become a permanent character, though if he could have an impact on the outcome he would find that perfectly satisfying in itself. When at last Musgrave had rolled Sherlock up near the fire he went off into the kitchen to pour some glasses of wine, figuring that everyone in this scenario could use a drink. Well of course Victor followed, choosing to be alone with his Doctor rather than with the man who would still not look him in the eyes.
"You didn't say you were bringing Sherlock back." Victor muttered, keeping his voice low despite Sherlock's obvious ability to hear them at any octave. Musgrave nodded, busying himself with the wine and trying to avoid any of that underlying hostility present within Victor's voice.
"Well it was rather impulsive. But there was a truck load of men who needed beds, and seeing as though Sherlock didn't need much more care I decided to relocate him to somewhere much more comfortable." Musgrave admitted.
"Why didn't you ask me?" Victor asked finally.
"Well you don't live here, darling. I figured the choice was mine." Musgrave insisted, to which Victor just huffed. He obviously couldn't counter that with a logical argument, though he still looked dedicated enough to try.
"You do realize he'll be a nightmare if I'm still around? He's never going to look me in the eye, never going to talk with me. We're like...well live gunpowder a match. If you will." Victor muttered.
"Just don't blow up my house and we'll be fine." Musgrave suggested, feeling all together quite snarky this fine evening. It must be the adrenaline of doing the right thing; oh the righteous always felt such a constant high.
"Reginald, I'm trying to get a point across." Victor snarled, catching Musgrave's arm as he went to cork the wine bottle again. The Doctor's smile faded, if only for a moment.
"Don't use my name, it's perfectly dreadful." he complained. Victor frowned, though upon seeing that the Doctor's attention had been grabbed he went along with his formal complaint.
"Your home will become a hovel of depression. And with the two of us alone in the days, well who knows if he won't hobble out of that wheelchair and stab me?" Victor insisted.
"Even if he could hobble, which I doubt, you could probably fight him off. Or simply stroll away. Besides, Victor, it's not the violence I seek between you. It's the reunion. He's told me of all your adventures together about London ("All of them?" was Victor's nervous interruption) and you two seemed perfectly inseparable. Perfectly matched, if nothing else." The Doctor insisted.
"He thinks me a criminal." Victor muttered gravely.
"And what do you think of him? You do not hate him, Victor. What do you feel?" Musgrave insisted, handing a glass of wine to his companion and allowing him to think on the subject.
"Well I feel responsible for him, of course. But I have grown to understand when I am not wanted. I feel it is my burden, perhaps even my duty, to let him simmer in his hate of me." Victor admitted quietly.
"If that is truly your feelings, Victor, then you are just as childish as he." Musgrave insisted, and with that he carried the remaining two wine glasses out towards where he had last left his patient. As he expected, Sherlock was sitting up just where he had been left. He had taken to scribbling again in that little notebook of his, perhaps writing a poem about his experiences thus far. Musgrave only held onto the element of surprise long enough to glance at the page, though what he saw he could not understand as simple poetry. In fact it looked like prose, a diary entry of some sort. Perhaps Sherlock thought his life so important thus far that he decided to write the entire thing down, as if for his own personal records or even for a treasure after he had died.
"Some wine for you, Sherlock. To calm your nerves." Musgrave offered. He noticed that while Victor had appeared he was lingering only in the doorway, hidden from Sherlock's sight and not officially invading his space. Oh despite Victor's hesitations Musgrave knew this plan to be flawless, it was the right thing to do, through and through.
"Oh my nerves have never been more alight, Musgrave. Not with a murderer in the house." Sherlock muttered.
"Would you forget your grudge? You two are like children squabbling on the playground." Musgrave muttered in some exasperation, sitting down heavily on the couch and trying to enjoy himself even in the midst of such dense silence. Victor sat sipping his wine far removed from the crowd of two, and Sherlock seemed perfectly content still staring at the fire.
"Let us talk of something cheerful, for once." Musgrave suggested.
"You start." Was Sherlock's answer, which of course was the perfect halt to any positive conversation. As hard as Musgrave thought on the subject he could not consider one, for all he could think about that was worth discussing was the war. That in itself was just as miserable as whatever past these men left behind them, and in the end he sat silently once again.
"Well, Sherlock have you considered yet writing to your brother?" Musgrave suggested.
"I don't intend to consider that, no." Sherlock snapped.
"I think it would be a good idea, well for both of you in fact. It's been so many years since you two feel apart; wouldn't it be nice to rekindle?" Musgrave insisted.
"What is it with you and mending old bonds? You know, Doctor, that sometimes things break for a reason." Victor interrupted from where he stood in the doorway.
"For once I can agree with him." Sherlock grumbled. Musgrave sat rather defeated on the couch, though he was not entirely sure what to say. Never did he think they would both argue against him, and when faced with what seemed like two unstoppable forces he found it perfectly unsurpassable.
"Well...I am an idealist." Musgrave admitted at last.
"A painfully ignorant optimist." Sherlock agreed.
"Who has very obviously never left someone for the betterment of everyone." Victor added in, to which Sherlock smiled in a quiet agreement but never voiced his approval. Musgrave felt rather dumbfounded, but in the end he decided that even if the two cooperated on a mutual attack on him, well it was better than simply attacking at one another. This was, if anything, a baby step in the right direction.
"I admit, I had never had such a separation. However I had never been in such a position to forget someone I had once cherished. I never had bad blood with any of my family, nor any friends who could speak ill of me." Musgrave admitted.
"I doubt, Doctor, that you had any friends at all." Sherlock suggested, to which Musgrave could only frown.
"You act as if I did not know your entire life story, you who gained his first friend at seventeen." Musgrave snapped back, to which both of his audience members dared laugh. Musgrave felt rather satisfied with himself, figuring that he was picking up on some of the sarcasm that was shot constantly back and forth across his poor living room.
"A valid point." Sherlock agreed.
"Whatever happened to your lovely Tobias?" Victor asked from where he stood near the door.
"I'm not sure." Sherlock admitted. "I seemed to have lost touch."
"He's probably helping the war effort." Musgrave suggested, which seemed to be the admirable profession for any man young enough to walk unsupported by a cane.
"I should hope so." Victor nodded.
"Says you, who never lifted a finger to help." Sherlock sneered.
"I am a poet and a drug addict, Sherlock. I could be of no help if I tried." Victor chuckled, to which Sherlock nodded his head slowly.
"That you are, Victor. A useless thing at best." Sherlock grumbled.
"Such quarrels." Musgrave mumbled, though he found that their communication might at least be a step in the right direction. The rest of the night was filled with the same sort of banter. They would begin a conversation with a promising topic, speaking of things that they certainly would have been able to talk hours about had they not ended all short conversations in a low blow at the other's personality or past actions. In the end they always seemed to be going after each other, if not for their own amusement but perhaps to better insist upon their feud to the Doctor. They seemed to want to prove their hatred, as if that was something he didn't already pick up on simply by the energy within this torturous room. At long last their wine glasses were emptied and their eyes heavy, bedtime had come. And so instead of tending immediately to his own needs, Musgrave went to assist Sherlock in his task of getting situated comfortably onto the couch. He was told to yell for assistance should he need it, though Musgrave placed both the crutches and the wheelchair within his reach, if he was at last feeling independent enough to take advantage of them. With a bid of goodnight and farewell, Musgrave and Victor disappeared up the stairs to make themselves comfortable. To no one's surprise they ended up once more in the same bed, though it was a mere habit by now. They had no intentions of becoming romantic tonight, considering Victor still didn't seem to understand his feelings about his new housemate.
"I think we may very well kill each other by the end of his stay." Victor admitted, when at last he had tucked himself with the warm blankets of Musgrave's bed. Musgrave rolled over to examine him, the beautiful if not pouting man who had his head propped up against his arm for the slightest advantage of height. The Doctor sighed, not wanting to consider such a violent end to Sherlock's perfectly innocent stay.
"I think you'll be surprised, Victor, at what some time will do you both." He muttered.
"He detests me, for reasons I cannot refute." Victor insisted quietly, his blue eyes straining in the lamp light and looking all together desperate.
"I think he will come to forget. You are at heart, darling, a wonderful person. I do not doubt that your mistakes will fall away, in light of your virtues and kindness." Musgrave insisted.
"And how might I display such kindness, if not occupying myself on his every whim and need?" Victor scoffed, as if that sounded like a perfectly impossible task to uphold.
"Well, Victor, he is a cripple. In need of a nurse." Musgrave admitted at last.
"A nurse?" Victor exclaimed, almost afraid to allow that word on his tongue. He seemed to get the picture at last, though Musgrave decided that was enough bickering for the night.
"Goodnight, Victor." He muttered with a smirk, stretching his arm towards the lamp so as to plunge the room in the familiar darkness. Victor muttered the word one last time ("Nurse?") though he too fell to sleep, perhaps more hesitantly than did the Doctor. Though Musgrave fell to sleep with a considerably lighter heart, knowing with some confidence that it was all going to work out in the end. Whatever reunion he was hoping for would surely materialize one way or another, for the best way to solve a problem was to force the two halves of the problem together again. They'll fit eventually, cooperate at last. They were on the road to redemption, and that warmed his heart enough to drift him softly and happily to sleep.