The Last Romantics

Lonely Together

Loneliness is a feeling I thought I was familiar with, owing to the secluded nature of my childhood. I thought that I had become content with being my own company, my own best friend. Though as I sat alone in the halls of Victor Trevor's townhouse, angry at the master of the house for no logical reason, I found that the silence had become deafening and the loneliness became maddening. It had only been a day since the ship took off, though what used to be my daily schedule of meeting John for lunch had been abandoned, and all hope for a surprise visit in the evening was lost to the sound of that accursed whistle and the cheering of the crowd. I saw him waving on the mast of the ship, standing up on the bars of the railing so that we could distinguish his short head from the rest of the excited crowd of seamen. He was gone, I had watched him leave, and I was beginning to suspect that my stomach would never settle so long as I knew he was abroad. I would begin to feel better in some two years, I supposed, when he was returned by my side. The cigarettes did nothing to ease the worry that was creeping through my gut, for I kept reminding myself that this could've gone much differently. Had I kept that book close, had I ensured it was never misplaced or lost; well then John would've been here with me now. We might have been admiring the paperback edition of his collected works, thankful to know that the ship which was to take him away was already too far out to sea to return for him. He would have been prosperous, famous, and most importantly he would have stayed. It was a modern day tragedy; it was a grievous error that I could never hope to remedy. I was responsible for this mistake, and all the drugs in the world couldn't make me forget it. Mary tried to be of some help; in fact she seemed to need some assistance herself. She never mentioned the kiss that I had shared with John on the docks; in fact she never brought up the subject of romance at all. Though her glances began to change when directed to me, as if she was trying to look at me with this newfound perspective. She didn't seem to be angry, nor even upset, though she seemed to be struggling over some idea within her head, as if she just couldn't connect the dots and make the picture that she had been abruptly presented with. For the most part we spent our time together in silence, for it was better to mourn for one who was not yet dead in a small group, where you didn't feel so silly for shedding a tear. Mary seemed to be feeling the same grief that I was, though she had no idea of the guilt that was wracking my fragile system. She didn't seem to understand that I had failed, and thus personally invited all of this misery into our usually cheerful households.
"Sherlock, what are we to do until he gets back?" Mary asked one day as we sat upon her front porch. We were perched among the top most stairs, both of us smoking despite the stigma against ladies who became found of nicotine. The passerby may have noticed, though if they had anything to say against the matter they kept their mouths shut. Best that they did, really. I was not in the mood to take any more judgement from someone who didn't seem to know their place, and it would have been my delight to begin a fight that I could never win. Handing out a punch to my advisory would have felt good, though getting some returning blows might be what I was after. In fact I felt the need to be hurt, to be kicked while down, to bleed a little bit upon the pavement. I felt that it was terribly unjust to leave a man aching with his own self-hatred and not offer the service of a beating.
"We're going to wait, I suppose." I muttered, letting loose a great cloud of smoke and shaking my head in agony. "How long we'll have to wait I don't know."
"He said it could be as short as a year. I mean, when you think about it, it's a little less now. More like...oh I don't know. Three hundred sixty days?" Mary offered.
"Add another year, for the worst case scenario." I suggested.
"We both know that's not the worst." Mary whispered, to which I gave a great shutter.
"I couldn't even consider that, Mary. To expect that he would never come home it would...well it would give no reason to wait. And waiting seems to be the only thing I'm physically able to do." I admitted.
"You'll need to find something else. I mean, don't poets revel in emotional turmoil? Why not depict your feelings in some sort of writing?" Mary suggested.
"You know as well as I that my feelings wouldn't be generally accepted." I grumbled, closing my eyes for a moment and filling my lungs delightfully with the smoke from the smoldering cigarette. Mary was silent, I could tell that she wanted nothing more than to ask another question but found it nearly impossible to do so. She didn't want to accept the truth; she didn't want to interpret what she had seen to be anything different from what it was. Most importantly she didn't want to insult me, on the off chance that she had witnessed the farewell of two incredibly close friends.
"And what of Victor, how is he holding up?" Mary wondered quietly, seeming to change the subject intentionally. I looked back towards the door, not expecting it to be opened until I returned inside.
"Oh you know, he's an emotionless being. He never liked John, and I suppose he'll find this all to be incredibly convenient." I admitted.
"How could he not have liked John?" Mary wondered, her eyes deepening in some confusion as if she had never heard those words be put together like that before. I had to agree with her on such a matter, I personally thought it was impossible to dislike what only Heaven could have created. John Watson was a man without a flaw, though perhaps that was exactly why Victor felt such a distain. Victor himself was a troubled individual, riddled with his own imperfections, and he must have felt incredibly subpar in the face of perfection.
"Oh you know, jealousy I suppose. John was a great poet, and Victor isn't all together fond of his competition." I admitted.
"Well aren't you his competition as well?" Mary presumed, to which I merely gave a shrug of doubt.
"I think I'm just his own strange experiment. I'm his prodigy, his ward. No matter what I do, I suppose he'll take the credit for it." I admitted, "After all he taught me everything I know."
"That's an interesting take on things." Mary decided after some thought. "Do you ever think he'll start writing again?"
"He's writing, he's been writing. But to publish something? Well I think he's trapped in the same situation as I am. All his deepest feelings are illegal." I mumbled.
"Victor too, huh?" Mary wondered quietly, scuffing her feet against the stairs so as to give herself something to do. It was an uncomfortable feeling, interrogating someone as casually as you could manage. And this subject above all was one of the most delicate.
"There's more than you think." I agreed. "But you don't have to worry about that."
"Well of course I do!" Mary defended. "You know how foolish I've been these past couple of months, so determined to marry my childhood best friend? I had no idea, Sherlock. None at all! And I've been waiting around for the improbable...the impossible!"
"If it makes you feel any better, he didn't know before either. He always knew he couldn't propose, but he didn't know why." I pointed out, hoping that would somehow ease her embarrassment. Despite my best effort the girl still slumped over her knees, stubbing her cigarette onto the porch railing and throwing it towards the gutter below.
"So I've been a fool all my life." She decided at last.
"Not yet." I offered. That little spark of humor didn't seem to cheer her up, for she still sat forlorn and silent.
"It's not like I'm not happy for you." Mary declared at last. "I mean, I want the best for you both. I love John, I suppose like a brother these days, and to see him happy with such an excellent man warms my heart. I just, well I just guess I wish I had known earlier. That way I might've been able to find my own soulmate, rather than wait around for someone who could never be."
"I thought we decided all we could do was wait." I pointed out a bit glumly.
"I suppose you're right." Mary sighed. "Though for who, I could no longer guess."