The Last Romantics

Hammocks Are Dangerous Things

"Well Sherlock, how has our Mr. Watson done?" Victor's voice wondered from the doorway, accompanied by the sharp prodding of his walking stick upon the carpet.
"Fantastic. Victor I'm sure you've never seen anything like it." I insisted, turning my head to make sure he was smoking that foul pipe any longer. Thankfully it was absent from his lips, though he had a rather glazed look to his eye, as if he had been dosing up on some drug.
"Does he mimic our style?" Victor wondered, coming around the back of my chair and leaning his elbows upon it, bringing his head around towards the side and nearly brushing the sides of our faces together.
"Not really, he's more modern in his writing. But it's no matter, he'll be a star. Certainly this will make the papers, this will sell hundreds of copies." I decided with a grin. Victor hummed, obviously reading over the notebook where it was opened before me. He took a long while, as if he too had realized it could be read multiple different ways, though I could tell when he was finished by the long sigh that he released through his nose. He didn't seem disappointed, though there was certainly an air of annoyance.
"So he has done well. Who knew that our own little sailor could come up with something so clever?" he muttered, turning away from the poem at last, but not without touching his hands upon my shoulders and letting them drag slowly away back to his side.
"Do you think he could get published?" I asked excitedly, figuring that my own intuition had only ever been borrowed from Victor when it came to the process of publication and newspapers.
"I think he has a good chance, so long as he can sell it to be a perfectly innocent piece." Victor agreed in a very quiet voice. "What the audience thinks really is no matter but what the publisher takes it as will certainly stifle his chances."
"You don't think he could get in trouble for it, do you?" I asked again, worried that my own suggestion would cost John his freedom, or perhaps even his life.
"It's a risk he will have to take." Victor assured. I nodded, looking back again towards the poem and smiling.
"I think it's wonderful, perfectly wonderful." I admitted at last. "He may very well be a poet after all, a good one at that."
"Poet laureate?" Victor hummed, almost chuckling under his breath as he suggested.
"Who knows?" I agreed. "If he can write more of these, if he can get himself a reputation. Well the position will be up sooner or later."
"I do remember you designating that position to me, a while back." Victor murmured. I just turned my head, if only to give him a small frown, so as to remind him to act like an adult.
"You are still a contender. We all are." I assured.
"You kid yourself if you assume any poet with a single book and a handful of dull poems will ever achieve such an honor." Victor scoffed.
"Are you speaking of yourself, or me?" I asked immediately. "We have the same amount of dull poems, dare I remind you."
"I speak of John Watson." Victor growled. "The boy has just entered the business, who knows how long he will last? A single poem and he'll be shipped off to God knows where."
"The poem will prevent him from going, don't you understand? He only needs the money; he doesn't want fame or titles. He wants to stay on land, in England. With me." I insisted, feeling my cheeks flush with the pleasure of being so important to someone. It had been a long while since I was ever loved properly, and I could feel that John Watson radiated the very sort of love that I had been searching for all my life. He cared enough to leave everything behind; he saw me and only me within his future.
"What an honor, Sherlock. You have found yourself a sailor." Victor scoffed.
"More than you've ever found." I pointed out.
"I have been with countless..." Victor's voice trailed off, as if that surely wouldn't help his argument.
"Oh go on, Victor? Go on. Countless what, prostitutes?" I snarled.
"Watch your tongue, Sherlock. Remember who it is that gives you everything, and can just as easily throw you back on the street like your dear brother." Victor threatened, swatting his walking stick up into the air so as to point it directly at my throat. I hesitated, finding that I best not irritate him any longer if I wanted to save my own life, and so I merely gave him a scowl and got up from my chair.
"It is not my fault that I have found love, Victor. It's merely your fault that you have not." I insisted, feeling a bit bolder now that I was out of striking range. He didn't respond, he merely dropped the stick back to his side with a thunk, his blue eyes glowing with unforeseen fire. I took that as my chance to leave, not bold enough to fit in anymore choice words, and so with that as my last laugh I raced up the stairs towards my room, making sure I bolted the door so that I wouldn't wake to find my head bludgeoned in with his walking stick.