The Last Romantics

The Highest Heavenly Host

"What's he rushing about for?" Mrs. Turner wondered, clutching her chest as she leaned against the door frame.
"Some of us have work to go to." Victor chuckled.
"I know the feeling." Mrs. Turner said with a frown, as if to ensure that Victor wasn't making fun of all working class folks. Perhaps he often forgot that she was on his payroll, and not living in his house to wait on him for fun. "By the way, boys, please keep your belongings tidy. I had to move so much today as I tried to dust."
"Yes, yes." Victor muttered, waving his hand with some disinterest as Mrs. Turner snatched his empty plate from underneath him. I gave her my word that I would be more mindful, and with that decided to get to my feet and bide my time before John returned.
"Victor, you fancy a walk? Might be good to get out, stretch your legs." I suggested, to which Victor gave a sharp chuckle.
"My legs are perfectly stretched, Sherlock. I am taller than most everyone." Victor assured, giving me his trademark humorless smile before leaning forward on the table once again.
"Yes well...I had exercise in mind. Before you know it you won't be able to fit into your trousers." I reminded him.
"Drugs keep you thin." Victor pointed out. "I'm one step ahead of you."
"Yes, on your way to the grave." I growled, shaking my head in exasperation before retreating off to the hall to get my coat. "I won't be long!" I called out, and with that made my way out the front door to join the crowd of passerby, most forging their way to work with the same hurried look as John last wore as he disappeared out the door. My walk was one of my longest to date, considering that I hadn't any commitments until after dinner. I figured that my mind needed to be cleared more than my stomach needed to be filled, and so I found myself not minding Mrs. Turner's usual dinner time and wandering aimlessly for as long as my heart desired. There was much to be pondered, even far past John Watson. Though he was my center of main thought, being the complications of our relationship and his poetic situations, I found my thoughts drifting even farther back than I usually allowed them to go. Multiple times I saw something which reminded me of my brother, be it the streets that we used to walk as children, the steel that undoubtedly came from what was now his personal factory, or even the clothes on my back which were tailored for me while he sat by. I had been so long dependent on Victor that I rather forget about my previous guardian, the one who shared not only my money but my blood as well. What had happened to that poor man, so young yet so worn with the years of responsibility all crumbling down upon his shoulders? Had it been too much already, was he dead before I could reconcile? Would I reconcile, considering that he was the one to alienate me? I chose to leave, yes, but he was the one who put terms to my departure. He was the one who should reach out a hand of forgiveness, not me. But now at the height of my success, if he hadn't already realized that I was wealthy independently, well then shouldn't I be the one to inform him? Perhaps he would see my plan of action as a profitable and acceptable move, rather than a mere escape to a life of absurdity and dependency. It was Victor who ultimately stood in the way between the Holmes brothers, certainly Mycroft did not trust him, nor did he like him at all. I suspected that so long as I associated with the wayward poet, Mycroft would be as distant as he pledged to be. While Victor surely appreciated who I was, while he respected me and supported me in all of my most recent (and fairly illegal) endeavors, it was Mycroft that had been there for me in my growing years, watching me aspire for greatness and battle against my father's iron fist. So perhaps it came down to that, ultimately choosing between my two guardians, the two men who I dared call my family. I made a mental note to write to him, perhaps even anonymously, informing him of my success and renown. Maybe he would read over such a letter and decide to reach out, for the sake of reuniting a bond on his own terms. Maybe he would assume it was his own idea to reconcile, for he always did love to be the genius behind everything out family did. Oh Mycroft, I dearly hoped he was just as I left him. Safe, healthy, profitable. At the end of my long walk I found myself back at the doorstep of my familiar home, rather involuntarily to be quite honest. Though my feet seemed to have remembered the path to Victor's house better than did my mind, and when I arrived at the foot of the stairs I decided it would be in my best interest to climb them. It would be pointless to set out in the opposite direction, especially considering the time. It was nearly six thirty, meaning I would be arriving right in the middle of dinner. When I stepped in through the parlor I heard one of Victor's opera records spinning, a scratchy and poorly recorded piece of music though an effortless interruption of the silence. When I hung my coat in the hall I suspected that my presence had not yet been noticed, and as I walked towards the dining room my footsteps fell unheard. The music was loud enough to mask my presence, and though I felt it was within my power to avoid dinner all together I figured I should at least make an appearance. I wasn't hungry in the least, though I felt as though I should inform Victor of my safe arrival. No matter how much he tries to come across as a careless, thoughtless being, he did tend to worry about me excessively. Though as I rounded the corner into the dining room, I found the table empty. There was a single vase of flowers set in the middle, the decor that Victor most admired, though the man himself was absent. I was correct in the time, was I not? Six thirty...Mrs. Turner usually served dinner at six. The absent table raised the haunting question, where was the master of the house? I moved then towards the sitting room, the room where the music was coming from, where the fire was still crackling in a newly prepared hearth. The opera singer was beginning a great throated yell, though she was the only sound which could be heard. The chairs were empty and all was as it should be...save for what I recognized to be the box in which Victor kept his syringe. It was opened, empty but for a single empty vile, and I suspected at last that I was not dealing with a missing person, just in fact a junkie who had changed his normal habits. Injecting before dinner, for Victor it was almost unheard of...Suddenly my head was struck with something soft, a scream that was not usually present in the soundtrack erupted within my ears, and I felt what could only be a sharp object ripping through my cheek. With a yelp I fell towards the couch, covering my face with my desperate arms and finding refuge in the deep cushions of the couch, preparing for another attack. Was there an intruder, a robbery? But no, the longer I sat in this fetal position the longer I realized that the aggression had disappeared, and what had struck my face surely wasn't going in for another attack. At last I was bold enough to unfold one of my arms, straining a single eye through the firelight and looking about the room anxiously. All was the same, though there was a song playing overtop of the opera now, a whistling...
"You have got to be joking." I muttered, realizing at last what had struck my face. On top of the mantle sat hopping one of Victor's canaries, bouncing along the stone edge with its sharp feet and tweeting a little song from its beak. I got to my feet at last, staring at the bird with some malice but figuring it was the least of my worries. The bird was just a bird, and not the source of my grief. It was the man, wherever he may be, who had decided to free the bird that was the issue. And so I marched up the stairs, determined now to give Victor a very stern talking to, when I discovered the man laying sprawled out upon the first landing of the stairwell. Above him, as predicted, was an empty birdcage, the little door hanging open and its occupant long gone. He wasn't unconscious, his eyes were open and following me, though he was certainly in a disheveled state. His usually orderly clothes were disrupted about his figure, his jacket was missing and a couple of his shirt buttons were undone. On his feet were only socks, and from what I could tell his hair was falling along his face in greased bunches, having fallen out of its usually orderly style.
"Victor, what on earth are you doing?" I growled. The man said nothing, his eyes still following.
"Have you upped your dose of that poison, is that it? Wanting a good high tonight?" I wondered. That got a reaction out of him, a little smile.
"Do you know who I am?" I asked again, this time with a very disgruntled sigh. It took him a while, for that smile didn't seem to want to go away. At last he seemed ready to talk, for he lifted up his hand as if to quiet me, so as to allow him the proper stage to speak his mind.
"Sherlock." He announced at last. "My lovely, lovely boy."
"Yes, good." I agreed. "Now come on, get to your feet."
"Can't." the man muttered with a slurred tongue.
"Why not?"
"Took my legs." Victor whispered, closing his eyes quickly, as if he didn't want to relive the experience. I looked down once again; just to make sure I hadn't mistook the wholly complete figure before me, before proceeding.
"They're still there." I pointed out.
"Wrong."
"Right."
"He took them." Victor insisted, slapping his hands against the hardwood and throwing his head back, lifting his chin in the air as if he was straining to get into a sitting position but couldn't move.
"Who did?" I wondered, feeling as though there could be some entertainment value in all of this.
"Your little....your sailor." Victor whispered.
"John did? John came in here, took your legs?" I presumed.
"That is correct." Victor nodded.
"Then why do you still have legs? I can see them here, still attached. Still functioning." I pointed out.
"No, no surely you are mistaken. He put sticks there; he jammed sticks into my body and told me they would work just as well." Victor insisted, his eyes wild and wide.
"Somehow I don't believe that." I muttered, shaking my head as if I was truly upset by my inability to go along with the story. Victor shrugged his shoulders, as if to emphasize that it was my own fault for not believing him, and continued to lie on the floor.
"The bird has flown." Victor whispered, shaking his head and beginning to find his way into a sitting position. He seemed to have forgotten about his apparent missing legs, for he drew his knees up to his chest and hugged them close, his blue eyes staring madly at me, though it was debatable if he knew who I was or not.
"It'll go and get Mrs. Turner, I'll have her..."
"She's gone." Victor muttered sadly.
"Gone?" I clarified with a blink, surely hoping that she was in the same place his legs were, that being of course exactly where she was supposed to be.
"Night off." Victor muttered, to which I could only heave a sigh of relief. In my worst moment, I considered that Mrs. Turner might have been fired. Her loss would bring this whole house down, that was for sure.
"Oh, well then." I muttered, tapping my toe against the marble and trying to think of what to do. I wasn't sure if I would be able to get the man down the stairs in one piece, not if he didn't attempt to stand up or aid me in any way. "Do you think you could get up, maybe go down to a couch?"
"the stairs are just fine. I was actually on my way...on my way upstairs." Victor whispered.
"What did you need up there?" I wondered.
"My pipe." Victor admitted quietly. I gave a laugh, shaking my head, now happy that I had intercepted the man before he could complete such a mission.
"Whatever's in that pipe, Victor, I'm sure you don't need it." I decided at last.
"Wrong." Victor muttered.
"Come on then, let's go downstairs." I insisted, holding out my hand for Victor to take, which to my surprise he did. His hand shot out to receive my own, though it latched to my wrist and pulled me down closer, yanking me towards the ground until I had fallen to my knees at his side quite involuntarily.
"Sherlock..." Victor muttered. "Sherlock."
"Yes, Victor?" I managed, not entirely sure why I was afraid though understanding at last that I was. This was a feeling I was not yet used to, though I had experienced it from time to time. He was unhinged to a certain degree, and I was still not sure what his intentions were with me. He was dangerous, potentially, when he didn't have any concept of reality. I was trying to determine if it would just be best to leave him on these stairs, for surely he'll lay around until his high wore off. On the other hand it was entirely possible that he would roll down the stairs and crack his head open, which was a terrifying image and one I would like to avoid.
"Do you think I'll ever find true love?" Victor wondered in his small voice, dropping my wrist only to paw at my face, trying to touch my cheek. Thankfully I slapped his hand away in time, though this only made him a bit more anxious. He sat up farther, shifting towards me and trying to catch my face once more within his hands.
"Victor, surely you will. Victor, hey!" I exclaimed, shaking my head to try to loosen the two hands which were now clamped around it. I was within his grasp, helpless but to do anything but struggle. He was much stronger than I anticipated, and more dedicated than I could ever manage. At last I stopped struggled, for he seemed harmless enough. He seemed to like to keep my face in one place, so that he could examine me for a moment. He seemed interested, as if he was appreciating me for the first time, at least from such a proximity.
"You're beautiful." Victor muttered. "Beautiful beyond comprehension I can't...well I can't begin to describe it. I thought I was the face of poetry, I thought I was cupid's arrow. Nothing to you, Sherlock."
"Victor don't say such things, don't degrade yourself like that." I insisted.
"Your cheeks are so sharp, your skin so soft...the gods must have created you specially." He whispered.
"Thank you." I managed, the only thing I could really make out as I felt Victor's hands feeling around my face and running along my features.
"Do you know why I get high, Sherlock?" Victor whispered, touching three of his fingers against my bottom lip, running along the smooth edge before pushing it down to reveal my teeth. I shook my head in protest, though I couldn't prevent him any more than I already had. In fact it was all I could do but keep my mouth clenched, so as to make sure he wasn't able to get a finger inside my mouth.
"For artistic vision, I imagine." I managed, though even I knew that was a small portion of it. Perhaps his addictions had all started with such a noble cause, but I could tell that he had taken a turn for the worse. I could tell that something had changed within him, something he was trying to suppress. Perhaps he would tell me?
"I have artistic vision; I don't need that any longer." Victor whispered.
"Then where is your poetry?" I wondered a bit teasingly, knowing that I was delving into terrain that really wasn't mine to explore. I could tell that he found that insulting, for he tensed his shoulders and gave a little noise of embarrassment.
"Sherlock, you're beautiful." He said again.
"Thank you, Victor." I sighed.
"What would happen if I kissed you?" he whispered, his eyes firing with that strange light, that ambition that I could do nothing to avoid.
"I wouldn't let you." I said flatly.
"You wouldn't?" he clarified.
"No." I agreed.
"No!" Victor exclaimed, obviously happy to hear such contradiction.
"Yes, sorry." I corrected, "I would not let you."
"Why not?" Victor pouted, running his finger again about my lips as if he wanted nothing more than to put his own on them. It was quite a role reversal, for I was in about the same position when I arrived at his doorstep. Love struck. All the same, I could only suspect that his actions were not a result of direct feelings, instead they were being changed and manipulated by the drugs he so heavily took, distorting his affection into passion.
"Because, Victor, I'm not in love with you." I said clearly.
"Rude." Victor whispered.
"Not rude." I insisted, at last slapping his hand away from my face and forcing myself onto my feet. "Now come on Victor, let's get you downstairs. You need to sit down, to sleep it off."
"I need to sleep it off with you." Victor decided after a moment's thought.
"You are perfectly foul." I insisted. "Now if you don't cooperate I'll leave you here, and you'll be sitting on the stone all night long."
"I love you, Sherlock." Victor muttered, grabbing hold of the banister so that he could pull himself to his feet, standing weakly on his legs as if he believed they really were motionless sticks.
"No you don't." I interrupted, deciding to not listen to a word of praise that was spoken in my direction tonight.
"I love you, and I'm sorry." Victor said at last, his words stuttering but his emotion worthwhile.
"Sorry for what?" I wondered, his ramblings at last getting my attention for but a moment.
"I'm sorry." He repeated, twisting his hands together and looking to be a small child who had just done something naughty. All the same, I doubted that Victor would feel the need to apologize for stealing the last cookie in the jar. Something must have happened, though I couldn't imagine what it could be.
"Have you done something?" I asked, to which Victor managed a shameful little grimace, though he shook his head in denial.
"I'm an angel." He swore.
"That you are. Now come along then, heavenly host, down the stairs you go." I instructed. Victor finally cooperated, taking my hand quite anxiously and allowing me to lead him to at least the ground floor. I was satisfied when his feet hit solid ground, though he allowed me to lead him all the way to my intended destination, the sofa in which he so liked to lounge. I dropped him there, allowing him to position his head on one of the plush armrests and stick his feet off the other side. He looked quite comfortable, his body relaxed while his face was still taught and concerned, as if he couldn't shake the idea of his sins.
"I'm sorry." He whispered to himself.
"I know you are." I assured, patting his shoulder with a little smile. "Do you want a blanket?"
"Yes please." Victor whispered, so quiet that it sounded as though he was talking to himself, rather than to me. I did as he requested, finding one of the many blankets that were strewn about the place and unfolding one on top of him, allowing it to drape over as much of his body as I could manage to fit within the folds. He smiled at me, seeming to have become much more tame than usual. The opera record had long since stopped its singing, though the whistling of that canary was enough to remind me that my job was not yet finished. Victor may finally be at rest, though the actions of his little spree were mine to clean up, as usual.