The Last Romantics

A Search Which Leads To The Sea

I spent most of the evening trying to catch that bird, for it was rather easy to spot against the dark, gloomy corners of the room. When trying to trap it in my fingers stopped working I instead resorted to trying to catch it in a pillow case, and my work was not any closer to being done when the doorbell rang, flinging me back into reality.
"John!" I exclaimed out loud, suddenly remembering that I had company expected. I dropped the pillow case and the bird gave an apparent whistle of relief, sitting on one of the top most tiers of the chandelier. I pranced over to the door to admit my guest, finding that since I had been inside the weather had turned, and here came a rather soaking John Watson as he trudged through the door way and onto the welcome mat. Despite his state of dress and the water that had taken to pooling in his shoes he seemed to be in a good mood, for his face broke into a smile as soon as I opened the door.
"John you look freezing!" I exclaimed, helping him peel off his wet jacket and hang it on a hook near the door.
"I am freezing, admittedly." John muttered. "But being with you, well it warms me right up."
"That's pretty sappy." I admitted with a chuckle.
"Trying something new." He muttered with a shrug. "Well, I've got good news and bad news."
"Bad news first, I suppose." I decided, holding my elbow in my hand so as to support my worried chin upon my fist. John's face turned a bit sour, and a darkness crept through his previously carefree expression. I could tell just by his reluctance to speak that something was the matter, something dire.
"They've moved the excursion up, they're to set sail this Monday. Things fell into place quicker than expected, and some of the items just can't wait until the original date. We need to get going soon." John admitted. I nodded, absorbing the information with a heavy heart. Though I allowed myself to absorb the information, for while it was a bit deterring it was in no way earth shattering.
"We still have time." I assured, the very consolation that allowed me to stay on my feet in wake of such news. "We can get it to the publisher tomorrow morning, and they can have it in stores by Sunday. We'll give them some incentive, yes? Some bonus to get it out as fast as possible."
"Are you sure that's possible? I mean, what if it doesn't sell? What if I wait here in England, only to find that I'm not popular?" John muttered, his doubts creeping forward in an obvious though troubling fashion.
"Then I'll take care of you, until you can publish something else." I decided at last.
"You know I don't accept charity. I'll be without a job; they'll kick me out of the docks for sure. I gave them my word, Sherlock, and breaking it will mean getting fired." John reminded me.
"I know...I know what's at stake." I agreed. "We just...well we need to move faster than anticipated, we can do that! We can do it. Now come on, let's get moving."
"don't you want to hear the good news?" John wondered, catching me by the forearm as I tried to walk away, back to where I had left his book in the sitting room.
"The good news?" I clarified, allowing my hopes to leap once more. There was so much good news that he could potentially tell me, so much that I sore direly needed to hear.
"Yes, Sherlock. Good news." John agreed, pulling me a bit closer so that we nearly brushed up against each other. It was about as close as we had ever gotten, at least face to face, and for the moment I had no idea what I was supposed to do. I faltered, still with my arm in his grip, and felt myself shaking with some anticipation. I wasn't sure what I was afraid of, though I certainly felt a bit of fear.
"What is it?" I wondered.
"I told Mary." John announced.
"You told her what?" I exclaimed, nearly jumping away from him for fear that the police would break down the door in an attempt to lock up what they now knew were homosexuals.
"I told her I couldn't marry her." John insisted, his face falling in some disappointment to see my blatant horror. "No need to worry, I didn't mention your name. She just, well she brought up the subject of love. I told her rather obviously that she was my best friend, and only that, and she seemed to get the message. She was disappointed, though her heart may have been spared."
"Spared." I whispered. "Well that's good! That means, well that means that you're serious."
"Serious about what?" John wondered.
"About...well about us I suppose. I always thought that maybe, well I don't know. That this was all some strange dream for you, and that life would continue on the way it did." I admitted. John smiled sweetly, his grip softening on my arm and his gaze becoming much more deeply emotional. He obviously had a whole speech to say on such a topic, though I wasn't sure that I could give him the time for such a thing.
"Of course I take this seriously. I love you, remember that? I wasn't just saying it as a joke." John pointed out.
"Yes I know, I know. Not a joke." I agreed, not a little bit embarrassed for having doubted him. "But come on then, we can only take a relationship seriously if it's destined to go somewhere other than the Philippines."
"Of course, yes. Let's get to work." John agreed, allowing me to slip from his grasp and make my way back towards the sitting room. I wasn't sure why I was trying to avoid the proximity, for like nothing else in the world did I want to be close to him. Though there was a certain anxiety in the air, a strange and haunting feeling that I couldn't shake from the pit of my stomach. I wanted to get this poem edited and into the publisher as soon as possible, for there was just too much at stake. I knew that John would not accept my charity; I knew that he would be dead set on making his own way in the world. This was the only way; these precious five days would be what cemented our relationship together for good, or what sent him sailing off to an unknown fate on the other side of the world. John followed in my wake, looking just as excited to get started as I did. I knew that it wouldn't take long to do this little editing, for as previously stated his work really was flawless, though I wanted to make sure the publisher thought the same, and the editor as well. I felt that there had to be potential bias when I talked so highly of it, for I knew that it was my dearest John's work that I was praising. Then again, I was sure I would react to it the same way if I saw it published in some newspaper under an unknown name.
"Who's there?" called Victor's voice from the other side of the couch, facing away from the door way so that he couldn't at first identify the footsteps to a friendly party.
"It's just us, Victor." I grumbled. "Ya, John, careful with him. He's been experimenting with dosage."
"Oh yes, that's um...ya I'll mind my distance." John agreed, taking a couple of steps backwards and walking in a very wide perimeter around the couch where Victor slept. The man was curled in a small ball, looking at John with what could only be distain. He reminded me quite like a snake, ready to pounce upon its prey if it got within striking range. Certainly John picked up on this strange behavior as well, for he hesitated to come any closer. I looked about the sitting room, searching for the notebook which I had left on the coffee table the night before. It wasn't where I had left it, however I remembered Mrs. Turner mentioning something about dusting. Certainly it was misplaced somewhere, mistaken for one of our many notebooks and strewn in a pile some place else. I wasn't worried, not at that moment.
"Victor, do you know where Mrs. Turner would have put the notebook? It was here before she dusted." I muttered, looking about the room to where she usually put our unclaimed items. The mantle was empty thing that looked literary (though the loose canary had taken to perching there, undisturbed) and the coffee table was barren. I checked all of the end tables, the drawers, and yet still the notebook could not be found.
"Oh I'm not sure." Victor grumbled, pulling the blankets up to his chin and staring at John with unlinking eyes. He was giving off a very threatening air, as if he was trying to give John some reason to fear him, and his lingering tension was not making my rising stress levels any easier to handle.
"What, you can't find it?" John asked nervously.
"Well it was here..." I groaned, shaking my head but making sure to offer a smile of reassurance towards where John was standing, only his toes dared to stand on the carpet while the rest of him remained on the hardwood, nearly in the hallway.
"Mr. Watson, what makes you so special?" Victor wondered from where he lay, extending his legs so that his feet popped out of other blanket of the short blanket.
"Special? Well I don't think I'm very special at all." John debated.
"Out of all the men in the whole world..."
"Victor, can you please help me here? Where does Mrs. Turner put things when she moves them?" I asked, this time more forcefully. I knew that Victor was experienced in this field, considering how much he leaves lying around these days.
"I don't know! God Sherlock you're so rough with me tonight." Victor grumbled.
"I'm just using my resources, Victor. Now tell me, have you seen the notebook? Did you move it, mistake it for your own?" I wondered.
"If I had it would be on my desk, though I'm sure it's not." Victor muttered, very matter-of-factly as he pursed his lips and finally took his eyes off of poor John, this time turning them to me with considerable sweetness.
"Well then, I'll look anyway. John, you can come up if you want."
"He's not invited into my room." Victor insisted. "He'll stay here with me."
"I can go and help." John muttered a bit weakly, obviously not wanting to be let alone with this lunatic.
"No, no...I want you here." Victor whispered, his mouth breaking into a smile as he sat up straight, sitting now in a very awkward position and holding himself up with his arms perched against the couch cushions.
"Just don't provoke him." I suggested.
"Who's that directed towards?" John asked weakly.
"Both of you." I decided, looking towards John with a little smile. John smiled sarcastically, walking carefully around the couch and easing nervously into an arm chair on the other side of the coffee table. At least this way Victor would have to jump the table if he wanted to make some sort of physical move. I wasn't terribly worried about John, due of course to Victor's sickly frame and John's incomparable strength. If the poet did decide to get violent, I knew for sure that John would be able to inflict more damage than Victor could even attempt. I instructed them both to behave before I made my way up to the upper levels, first checking my room to make sure Mrs. Turner didn't throw the book onto my bed, perhaps having decided that it was my book and wanting to see it fall into the right place. After a thorough search of my room (my anxiety now rising, considering the possibilities were getting fewer) I retreated off towards Victor's room where I checked all the same places. I had not been in this rather disorganized room since I last took that poison he offered me, and it had since taken a turn for the worse. The papers were scattered and disorganized on the desk, the bed was made sloppily, and all of his clothes and shoes were spread haphazardly across the floor. I couldn't tell what Victor was creating in here, some sort of pitiful mess of a masterpiece, though it was apparent that Mrs. Turner was not allowed inside. This mess seemed to be days old, perhaps even weeks, as if all the clothes he had ever worn had simply been shed off of his body and left in a pile on the floor. What a disaster. I went towards the desk, searching a bit desperately throughout the mess of papers and pens, looking for anything which even resembled the missing notebook. There was no luck, no hope...wherever the notebook had gone was not a place that any of us would readily search. Unless Mrs. Turner was deliberately hiding it from us, well I'd say that we were officially in a tight situation. This poem had to get to the publishers by tomorrow morning if we wanted John to stay with us for the next two years, and now it would seem as though our life force had just slipped unnoticed from our hands. Where could it be? I almost turned away from the desk before I noticed what had to be a scrap of poetry, some scribbled lines of verse in that sloppy but familiar cursive. Victor had mentioned some sort of motivation, some sort of troubling obsession, though I still had yet to figure out what it was on his mind for all these weeks. He claimed not to be able to publish any of it, though what appeared before me seemed to be some poetry, at least taking on the proper form. I unearthed a leaf of poetry from the mess of documents, holding it up towards the light that was seeping in through the open hallway door and reading for some time. It was complicated, not only in its language but also in its syntax. Victor didn't seem to edit this one as he went along, for there were so many spelling and grammatical errors that it almost made my head spin. In the end I determined that it was a poem about love, love boarding upon obsession, a painful and unrequited feeling. I could understand the feeling, for such passion extended back to my days under the influence of Tobias Gregson. Though who this poem was dedicated to I could not tell. Perhaps it was one of his earlier works, before we had met. The more I learned of Victor the more I suspected there was heartbreak in his past, thinking back to the pains he seemed to have in regard to love and other emotions. He was a broken man, hallowed out by some hand that I never had the chance to shake. He was a mystery, and throughout these months living under his roof I still was no closer to solving any one of the mysteries that I had taken to pondering about him. In the end I discarded the poem back upon the desk on which I found it, running my hand through my hair very nervously now and feeling my stomach twisting. I could feel it now, that dreadful sense of hopelessness, that flight or fight feeling that would help in neither case. What I was so afraid of now was the very ideas creeping within the corners of my mind, a small reminder that this notebook's disappearance was my fault, entirely mine. I was the one he trusted with it, and under my care it had vanished. If John had to get on that boat on Monday...oh it would be all my fault. At long last I rushed down the stairs, my heart beating fast and my face flushed with concern. Certainly John could tell from my mannerisms that I was unsuccessful in my search, for he got immediately to his feet upon my reentry. I could tell that he was becoming nervous as well, for the same sort of situation was flashing in his mind. All of the sudden we both saw the possibility of defeat, of a master plan falling apart at our feet because of my own carelessness.
"I can't find it." I admitted with a shiver, looking towards John with hallow eyes and a mouth gaping open in despair.
"You've lost it?" John whispered.
"I...well I haven't lost it. I've neglected it, and in that time it has been lost." I corrected, which of course didn't make my position look any more redeeming. In fact John looked angry, or at least bordering upon angry, for his face had paled and his jaw suddenly clenched.
"Well you can just write it again, can't you John? You must have some memory, together we could at least..."
"I can't just write it again!" John exclaimed, his voice growing harsh and confrontational. I paused, allowing my speech to fall off there. I held up my hands in something of a defensive pose, hearing Victor chuckling softly from where he was now lying face down on the couch. Perhaps he thought this little domestic argument was humorous, perhaps he liked to see us fight.
"Well then, then we'll just find it. I'll go and I'll find Mrs. Turner, she knows where everything is. I'll...well Victor where does she go on her night off?" I wondered anxiously, tapping my feet against the floor and biting down on my tongue, feeling tears begin to well up in my eyes. I felt terribly defeated, as if someone had dropped the roof down upon my shoulders and forced me to carry the weight. There was nothing I could do, I could feel my options dwindling...something had happened, something went wrong. Something was gone. And with that something, so too will John disappear.
"I don't know." Victor said quietly.
"What a big help you are!" I exclaimed, kicking at the back of the couch and hitting what felt to be a wooden beam, rather than the back that I was aiming for. Victor chuckled, unseen by me, though his carelessness didn't seem to be helping John's attitude at all. The boy appeared to be fuming.
"Sherlock, you can't just have lost it! That was my greatest work yet, that was my chance at fame! You're telling me that after all of this fuss about making money you're just going to let me go on that boat after all?" John exclaimed.
"I don't know what to say, I don't know what to do! It wasn't my intention to lose it, but it's gone and I...I'm so sorry John. I'm so sorry I can't..." I didn't finish my sentence, my words were cut off abruptly as my eyes begin to let lose their stores of tears. Instead of an apology I choked out a sob, and like a child I fell forward onto the couch, unable to support my own weight through my grief. That might have brought John back to life, or at least the John that I had familiarized myself with. His face softened, and before long I felt a hand patting my back softly, trying to ensure to me that all was well, no matter what conclusion my brain had jumped to.
"It's alright, Sherlock." Came John's soothing voice, perhaps having realized that his harsh words resonated a bit too deeply with me.
"It's not alright; no we're not going to let this ruin it! You have to stay here; I can't imagine life without you. Two years, John that's too long!" I exclaimed, forcing my words out through unwelcomed sobs and wiping my cheeks as I tried to maintain eye contact with him. John shook his head softly, perhaps having realized defeat long before I was able to accept it. "You can publish your other poems; certainly they'll make enough to live on!" I decided at last.
"You know well enough that they won't be. Face it, Sherlock. Without that poem I'm done for." John muttered, taking me by the shoulders as if trying to relax me. Me! Oh can you imagine a greater fool? My life wasn't the one in jeopardy; I wasn't the one going to the other side of the world for some silly adventure! No matter what happened with this poem I would stay rooted in the place I have always been, whereas John had to face unspeakable troubles, perhaps even his death! I couldn't bear it, how selfish I had ultimately become!
"You can't just give up. What if...well how about this? Instead of keeping you here, I'll go with you on the boat! I mean that would be..."
"You'd die in like...three seconds." John said with a bit of a stifled laugh, obviously feeling guilty that he was bringing humor into this tear streaked conversation.
"Better me than you!" I exclaimed in protest.
"Sherlock, I'm not going to die. In a way I'm relieved, I truly am. This way I get to have one last adventure." John insisted, shaking my shoulders in a bit of a pitiful way. He was trying to cheer me up; there was even a smile on his face, though in the face of such optimism I could only feel my tears fall faster.
"I don't like the word 'last'. Makes me fear the worst." I admitted quietly, to which John could only shake his head.
"I'll be back before you know it." John assured.
"Are you going to give up hope so easily? You won't let me look any longer?" I wondered in a sort of whisper, easing my voice into the most rational tone I could manage. Even that was quaking with emotion and grief; I couldn't hide it for long.
"I feel as though this was meant to happen." John assured. "My fate is tied to the sea."
"That's just...that's crazy." I whispered, wiping my tears away and sniffling in despair.
"It's true." John whispered in return, pulling me into a tight hug. This may very well have been the closest we've ever been, though at the moment I could not appreciate it. I knew that this proximity was only in result of the shared grief, it wasn't anything to do with intended action. He held me now because he knew his opportunities were running out, and the longer we could stay touching the better his journey would prove to be. I felt so small compared to him, even though I had to bend over to fully set my head upon his shoulder. He was so much stronger than I, more of a man than I could ever have resulted to be, and so much more emotionally sound. I had cracked like an egg under this pressure, whereas John, the one who was going to face all of this danger, was simply nodding along as if this was his duty through and through. For whatever reason he didn't seem surprised at this heart wrenching turn of events, as if he knew it was his destiny to sail on that ship which would leave so soon.