The Last Romantics

Within The Realms of Possibility

As Sherlock was talking, Victor had snuck into the room, unnoticed by the crippled man. As the story got more and more dreadful, as Sherlock began to detail what had happened in the sitting room, and on the sidewalk, the old poet became more and more weary. It was not of the passing hours that he slid his head into his hands, it was the agony of having to listen to his own downfall as described by the boy who had arranged it, and as Musgrave now looked upon the two through such assigned lenses he began to see things as they had always been, unbeknown to him. Sherlock had long since silenced himself, though his eyes were now turned towards the dying fire within the hearth, and his hands began to feel back and forth the wheels of his chair. He seemed to be contemplating all that he had just reimagined, the emotions fresh within his mind as if they had just happened the day before. Everyone was silent, mourning the end of a tragedy even though most all of the players were now gathered together, an unhappy reunion forced together by the mere convenience of old companionship. Musgrave could see now why there was such a grudge between the two, he could understand why Sherlock was so quick to assign the label of murderer, while Victor was equally as quick to deny it. The history between the two of them was murky, and the final guilt of Victor Trevor was up to interpretation, if not entirely subjective at all. He hadn't seemed to play a part in John's immediate death, though there was no denying that without his actions the sailor never would have been upon the ship doomed for disaster. Perhaps he was guilty of selfishness, and the inability to understand the full consequences of his actions. Though for murder? It seemed more of a grotesque title rather than truth; however Musgrave could not help but stare upon the man in a different way. He had blood on his hands, like it or not, and perhaps that heart hid more darkness than he had first accounted for. The first sound that was uttered was a stifled sob, one that had escaped involuntarily from where Victor was now sitting sheltered within the corners of an armchair, his legs brought up to his chest and his hands covering his shameful face. No one reacted to the noise, no one moved. Sherlock must have realized at that moment that his audience had been bigger than he anticipated, though by his lack of reaction Musgrave had to assume that Sherlock had noticed Victor's entrance when it had first been made. The man continued to sob, now much more vocally as he delved deeper and deeper into such miseries as they had been unearthed before him. It was not a road he wished to travel again, it was not a memory that he wanted to relive. The pain must be fresh in his heart, as it was still in Sherlock's. Though there was something beautiful about their reunion, no matter how involuntary it was at first. There was something deeply moving, having them sitting together in the same room and grieving over the same day, so far away in their broken but mutual histories. Musgrave felt as though he had no place in this room any longer, for now that he had been caught up on the long and tangled history he was ultimately reminded that it was not his place to linger any longer. This was a story, nearly from beginning to end, that had nothing to do with him. As long as he had sat by Sherlock's bedside, even when he had sawed off the poor boy's leg...well he was only a spectator and a host to the more major players of a story that perhaps would never be told again. Suddenly he realized that he had overstayed his welcome, even if the talk was being had in his own living room. He was a mere appendix, an unnecessary part of a beautiful thing, and with that he got to his feet. Victor's cries had quieted down, though his face was still covered and tears were flowing and dripping out from the tip of his pointed chin.
"Sherlock, thank you." Musgrave sat at last, feeling as though there was no way to properly acknowledge all that Sherlock had shared with him in the past couple of weeks. He felt as though he knew that crippled old stranger much like a brother, though while he now had a clear insight into the man's backstory he realized that he could never have been inserted into the narrative. It was time for the Doctor to take his leave. He looked towards the back of Sherlock's head, still it was bent over his chest, and then back towards his poor Victor, who he realized could never love him again. It was not the matter of reluctance or disinterest; however Musgrave was beginning to see the truth unfolding before his very eyes. Any relationship he had ever had with the poet, well it was merely a pass time. Victor could never love another soul, not after these long and lonely years of holding onto the idea of Sherlock Holmes. And who was the Doctor to interfere with that? Even if Sherlock didn't accept his heart, it was still a thing that could not be possessed by another set of hands. Musgrave was out of his depths. He merely nodded towards Victor, his version of a goodnight to unseeing eyes, and with that the Doctor ascended the stairs towards his bedroom, highly suspecting that he should wake up to find himself in the same state which he had fallen asleep, alone. With Musgrave's disappearance it left only two men in the room, those two who undoubtedly had much to discuss and just as much to forgive. Perhaps speaking true of their history had made both men realize how uselessly they had wasted their lives since then, for what had been such a detailed narrative rather drops off into the mundane after that day on the sidewalk. Sherlock shuffled nervously in his chair, feeling again the familiar presence of blue eyes on the back of his head. It had been a long time, hadn't it? A long time since he had felt that.
"Is that where your story ends?" Victor wondered at last, his grief subsiding to his curiosity. Sherlock was still for a moment, but at last he managed to pick his head up and manage a nod.
"The rest is just...wandering. Following rumors, leading to nothing. Hopelessness growing." He admitted quietly.
"The way you tell the story, or rather the way you end it...well it sounds more like a love story between the two of us than between you and John. He's a mere side character in the narrative of our time spent together. I have the last word." Victor muttered, his voice quiet as if he was expecting to get snapped at. He would deserve a harsh talking to, that was for sure, though it was not from Sherlock's mouth which he would hear his scolding. Sherlock had not the energy for hatred any longer, not after realizing how far he had fallen. That day on the sidewalk, reliving it put the action into perspective, speaking of it made him realize just how foolish he had been, how impulsive! He had so much before he left Victor, a life, a home, an income! As soon as he took to the streets he was living off of scraps and false rumors, wandering around the European country side on some quest led only by a dream! What did he have now, to show for it? Or rather what had he lost, in result of his determination? A good twenty years of his life, what used to be his best friend, and a leg.
"Victor..." Sherlock muttered, rubbing his face with his tired hands after having to pronounce such a word, a word that had at one point scalded his tongue. Now he found some comfort in it, if anything. A friend from the past, no matter how that friendship had ended. Someone from before, when all the rest had gone away. "You said that you were here on my brother's instruction. The first day you came to the hospital, you told me that you had been placed in charge of my care. Where is Mycroft?"
"He's dead." Victor admitted abruptly. "He died before I could speak with him, but his will spelled out his wishes very clearly. I was to be placed in charge of your wellbeing; I was supposed to manage your inheritance, before you were married."
"Before I was married." Sherlock chuckled, shaking his head and finally managing a smile. He held no grief for his brother's loss; in fact he had been expecting the news for some time. The man had grown villainous, unhealthy, and distant. He, like many others, had been just a side character. They shared the same blood, but only seventeen years of time. Now as the world stretched farther away from his youth, that distant relation seemed perfectly removable.
"Well, then I suppose you are a rich man." Sherlock finished at last, for Mycroft never seemed to account for the fact that his younger brother would never marry, never legally at that. He might have married John, but there would have never been a document to prove it.
"It's your money, Sherlock. I've not spent a cent of it." Victor promised. "In fact, it was what prompted me to search for you again."
"How long after I was gone?" Sherlock wondered, at last stretching his chin across his shoulder to give his companion a strained glance. Victor, from what he could tell, was curled within one of the armchairs, a truly broken thing. He was trembling, though whether it was from withdrawal of his poison or from sobs that were still wracking within his frame, Sherlock could not tell. He looked much smaller than Sherlock remembered, perhaps due to weight loss, perhaps just due to another perspective. That man had seemed so mighty, so powerful when they first met. Now there was a mere shell of a man, trembling when the wind blew through him.
"Three years." Victor admitted. "Or roughly there about."
"Three years? What on earth did you do to fill that time?" Sherlock wondered with an almost pitiful grimace. He could imagine what state grief would offer his poor companion, that old poet who had the most unhealthy lifestyle even on his most joyous days.
"Most heinous things." Victor admitted. "All of which you would not approve."
"I'm sure of it." Sherlock agreed, finally beginning to roll his chair now to face Victor, wishing to see the man's face when a cloud of hatred would not be so thick between them. It had been a long while since he was able to appreciate his friend; it was a long time since he was able to see that man as something even remotely human. The anger that he had built up on that first night with the poker seemed so long ago, and it was becoming obviously childish to hold on to what could only be a pitiful grudge, one that seemed to get them both nowhere. One that landed them both, perhaps by something more than chance, in the sitting room of Doctor Musgrave.
"But then I went looking, much in the direction I assumed you would go. I began in Turkey, making my way across the countries and through the lands. I followed the trail of both a curly haired boy and a blonde sailor, searching for clues of either. I followed you to Italy when the war broke out, forced to retreat from foreign lands when I had the potential of being arrested as a spy, or enlisted in a strange army. England was my only hope, though when I returned I kept a close watch on all others who were coming into the country. I took up an apartment close to the Channel, and searched through lists of the wounded. I had no proof that you had ever returned to England, no proof that you had ever found what you were looking for. And so I imagined that the same fate I had fled the continent to avoid was the one you had been forced into. I figured the only way you'd return was by medical ship." Victor explained.
"And you were correct, were you not? Perfectly correct." Sherlock whispered to himself. "I never found him, and as soon as I felt that bullet I knew that I never would."
"You understand, then? You understand that it was a search doomed to fail, chasing mere shadows across the continent of Europe?" Victor insisted, now leaning forward onto his knees with some effort, his eyes shining with whatever light they could manage. Sherlock was quiet, his mind remembering all the way back to the dream, that dream which he had turned into poetry, and which had proved to be nothing more than a figment of his imagination.
"John died." He muttered at last. "John drowned, all those years ago. He drowned when I couldn't accept it, when I was so convinced that we were..." Sherlock's voice broke off, and he shook his head at last.
"Destiny is a funny thing, Sherlock. One man's version doesn't always come true." Victor explained quietly.
"I never mourned for him, though the pain is so...it's so far gone." Sherlock admitted. "I couldn't cry for him if I wanted to, I couldn't summon up the same despair. I never believed it. I never could."
"There is a life available to you again, Sherlock. A life that we could live together." Victor suggested. Sherlock allowed his head to rise; he allowed that familiar doubt to cloud into his usually luminous eyes. He still felt that same distrust of Victor Trevor, the same uneasiness that he had felt ever since he first met the man in the dark opera. Nevertheless, that same fright was just as apparent as that same excitement. The offer felt quite like it did before...the opportunity to run away. It was exhilarating.
"The farther he fades away from me, Victor...he's retreating more and more into shadow but I'm trying to cling to him. Every time I grasp out, every time I see his fingers try to receive my own I falter! Why, why is he so far?" Sherlock whispered, shaking his head. By now he saw that the poet had slid from his arm chair, taking up a position next to Sherlock's wheelchair and kneeling down before him, in an entreating way, as if he was making a proposition that could not be ignored. Sherlock's hand, which was now sitting upon one of the uncomfortable armrests, was where Victor's attention was now solely focused. Unlike his past existence, Victor was hesitant just to grab at it. He was at least patient, realizing that not everything in this world could be his when he wanted it to be, just because he wished it. There was going to need to be some cooperation, which was a barrier that Victor sometimes had trouble getting over. Though tonight he was as patient as could be, treating Sherlock now as if the poor crippled man was the one who was truly in charge of the moment. Sherlock had the control.
"Sherlock, love, he grows farther with every passing moment. He's a memory now, nothing more. And just like trying to relive your childhood, or remember the face of your mother...he's getting lost within memory as well." Victor whispered. Sherlock managed a nod, allowing his fingers to creep ever slowly towards where Victor was kneeling. The man took this as a sign, he read the subtext correctly. He reached out, and with a careful gentleness he enveloped Sherlock's hand within both of his own. One might say that he was in the position to propose marriage, and perhaps that might be indeed what he was offering. With a ring or without, what was on the line here was an eternity together, for better or for worse. The both of them had seen each drastic swing of events, the best and most foul sides of their counterpart. Perhaps they had gotten over the steepest hurdles before they even realized what sort of task they were preparing for.
"It's been long enough that you might have forgotten my first confession." Victor muttered, his fingers smoothing overtop of Sherlock's palm, as if to trace the lines that were stamped within his skin.
"Of love?" Sherlock presumed. Victor was wrong in his assumption, for Sherlock remembered that day as if it had happened only yesterday. In some ways it had, for there seemed not to be any substantial time between the night they had had departed and the night they had reunited, here within this sitting room. It seemed as though all of those years in between filled the gaps like mere seconds between the most eventful minutes, and when he looked back in his history Sherlock almost failed to remember his time spent on the continent. Victor was right, this story did read like one about love. Though when you consider the players, the beginning and the end, John Watson seemed just about as relevant as poor Tobias. Pieces, pieces moving about a chess board and sacrificed for the major players to mobilize. Emotions and heart strings, a first and last kiss, the interworking of a heart that was just beginning to know itself. What part did those boys play, if not to lead up to this moment here? There was a love, there was a tragedy, and there was a reunion just as strong. There was a story to be told, and a story that still might end happily. Sherlock found himself looking into Victor's eyes, a refreshed glance that had been recharging within his consciousness, waiting to once more see the good. It had been so long since he could see anything but shadows within those eyes, the last look which he gazed upon. Though now he saw something different, something pure. He seemed to be a changed man, for the better.
"You made mistakes in your life, Victor." Sherlock whispered. "You've killed a man I loved, and over the years you've been killing yourself as well. You're a violent creature, made soft."
"Need I say it again?" Victor wondered quietly, easing closer to Sherlock and pressing his chest up against where his single leg was rooted within the chair. "I'll take care of you, Sherlock; I'll make sure that nothing like this happens again."
"It couldn't happen again." Sherlock whispered in response.
"Sherlock, take me seriously." Victor entreated. "Tell me now what I need to hear."
"That I love you?" Sherlock wondered.
"That you'll have me." Victor corrected. "That you'll come within my arms again, and let me take you back home. We can live together, we can love together, we can trust one another like we used to. I'll heal you, and I'll house you, and I'll love like no other man ever could."
"You've made such promises before." Sherlock reminded him, remembering back to all of Victor's more drug induced speeches about eternity. Sherlock had never taken them seriously, though tonight they rung with startling clarity in his ears. Destiny, eternity, things that had seemed to just be beginning in the early days, a pathway that had only been tread a little while. He hadn't been able to see the future; he had always thought that it was much wider, much more extravagant. But as life lingered, life narrowed, and suddenly the path that he had been stuck on seemed to be the same for miles and miles, and treading it alone was becoming dreadful. All of the sudden what was fate all of those years ago seemed more to be the next step along the way, and the path that he was being pushed towards all his life was at last beginning to branch away from his usual way. Destiny had arrived; he had lived long enough to come to it. Destiny was kneeled before him, and wringing his hand anxiously. Destiny had blue eyes, and was smiling softly.
"I'll live with you, Victor." Sherlock whispered at last. "I'll love you and...and let you heal me." The grip on his hands tightened, it clenched at the skin and a cry of joy escaped his impulsive companion's lips. There may have been tears falling from Victor's face, Sherlock was not quick enough to perceive them. The man sprang up, alive with more energy than he had been for the past twenty years, taking Sherlock within his arms and pressing his lips to the mess of curly, graying hair.
"You won't regret this, Sherlock. I'm a new man already." Victor promised. Sherlock couldn't help but allow a smile, embraced by arms that he had felt before. It was a familiar touch, something that he had not experienced for so long. A thing from the past, a memory relived. He cherished it, for a moment there. Sherlock let Victor's arms continue to wrap around him, hugging him into the body heat of the exhilarated poet, he let his head fall upon the shoulder of a body he had long since understood. He was not within the clutches of a villain, but indeed of a friend. A friend. Of all the things strange about life, and of destiny, and of the coincidences that brought men together. All of the things which cannot happen by mere chance, as if they were being written by a God of strange power, of all the improbabilities...somehow the two found themselves just where they were meant to be, both fallen together, Within the Realms of Possibility. By Victor Trevor. 

A/N: Oh I know, I swindled you all. But please don't hate me for tricking you into reading a Viclock :) This was one of the fics that came together in a classroom, probably within one fifty minute block of Later Brit Lit class. We talked all about poets and how they were all friends at one point, and talked about Keats and Byron and the Shelleys and I was like wow, what a strange world. If you guys remember way back then I asked if anyone knew how to write romantic victorian poetry, because I wanted to integrate at least some of it into the book, but alas the search was in vain. I can't write poetry, I actually don't even like poetry, but I do like poets. Does that make sense? Either way I liked the long term relationship they had, a sort of childhood crush into a middle aged misery, into a sort of realism that destiny didn't always work the way you wanted it. They were connected whether Sherlock liked it or not, and I love it. A really nice book over all. Since college is starting I will probably not be updating two stories at once, so I'll probably not post a new one until after the Forth Wall ends. But when that happens, we'll have a fun story about Catholics and demons, and it'll be a good time. Thanks for reading my guys!