Like a good houseguest, Victor left Professor Holmes's apartment in pristine condition before he departed for the hospital the next day. It was Sunday, the last day he would have to test out his new life of abandonment before he had committed to something remarkably more criminal. As of now, only a handful of Professors had noticed his absence, Professors which may attribute the empty seat to a sudden illness or a poor communication. On Monday it would be confirmed, on Monday some may suspect that Victor was not planning to show up again. On Monday his life of a drop out would begin, and his situation would only get worse from there. Could he be salvaged, did he want to step backwards from the plunge he had already prepared himself to take? Victor couldn't decide one way or another, nor did he feel the need to ponder something so deeply before the sun had fully risen. Victor would have wanted to sleep in a bit longer, for his late night had taken a toll and the immense amount of weed he had smoked behind the garage was still lingering within his brain, like a fog clouding on the back of his eyeballs. All the same, Professor Holmes had given him an ultimatum. He had to be back by his side at 8am, or the old man would call the police to report a trespasser. Whether this threat was empty or not was something Victor dared not find out, as he imagined Sherlock Holmes was now so bored in his hospital bed it might seem more entertaining to get the police involved.
As he parked outside of the hospital, Victor's eyes still didn't want to fully open. The sun was blinding upon them, and in some ways he felt if he kept them heavily lidded he would have the opportunity to save his exhaustion, save it for when he could settle comfortably in a chair or on a carpet and sleep away the rest of his achiness. It was a foolish notion, though as the boy lingered in the front seat of his car he had the strangest temptation to just lay his head on the wheel, using the thick plastic as a sort of pillow. As much as he would have loved to relax just some minutes more, the clock read 7:50...he had to get moving. Nearly dragging himself out of the car, Victor approached the hospital in a pitiful state. The morning was cloudy and cold, though his jacket was lying forgotten in the backseat and he did not have time to retrieve it. The only thing he carried was a letter, the latest that had been returned to the old man's mailbox, this one predictably unopened and unread.
"Two minutes to spare," were Professor Holmes's first words upon the entrance of his most constant visitor. Victor smiled proudly, nodding his head and feigning some pride as he strolled towards the guest chair, still turned so as to face the old man.
"I'm true to my word," Victor assured.
"Well, in fear of consequence you might be. Though I also recall you pledging to pass the calculus class you so stubbornly refuse to commit yourself to."
"There's consequence associated with failing," Victor pointed out. "Though not consequence enough to keep me from staying in that rotten school, especially if Professor Donavan has taken the reins."
"Too afraid to face her every day?" Professor Holmes chuckled, his smile gleaming as if he understood the notion. Victor nodded, relieved to see that some color had returned to the old man's face. He seemed to be moving more naturally, more fluidly, like a human in control of all of his muscles rather than a puppet on weak marionette strings. Perhaps he would be back in the classroom sooner than he thought.
"Thank you again for letting me stay at your home," Victor muttered, sinking into the chair and hesitating to admit to the letter in his pocket. In some ways he thought Professor Holmes would be better off ignorant of John's newest streak of betrayal. In some ways he might be better dying with the hope that the last of his letters had been properly received.
"I trust you left it in proper order?"
"Oh yes, I even vacuumed for you!"
"I'm sure the neighbors loved that at seven in the morning," the old man scoffed. "Will you return to your dorm tomorrow, as you should?"
"I don't know," Victor admitted heavily, wishing he could conjure anything more concrete than that. Though it was true, he didn't know, nor did he feel it was the time to decide.
"I am not lending you my house again. You'll either go back to school or your home, I will not allow you to be nomadic, nor homeless."
"I don't intend to do either, or be either," Victor admitted with a grumble.
"Then what do you plan to do? I see no other options, Victor." Spoken like a true pest.
"Well...well I'll figure something out. Certainly I will," Victor promised emptily.
"Why do you not talk to your roommate, before you automatically assume the bridges have been burned? You are being immature, and insensible."
"It's too early in the morning for your lectures, Professor." Victor rubbed his hands over his face, trying to push away the sags of exhaustion that were showing in his skin.
"In fact it's just one of many lectures I've given you at eight am. Or have you already forgotten the class we shared?" The man seemed tired as well, his voice was patchy and dry, as if he hadn't had the chance to sip some water before his conversation began.
"Have they brought your breakfast?" Victor wondered, looking for the little tray where it might be hiding in the folds of the Professor's blanket.
"Not yet, though I won't share. I'm not your father."
"Grandfather, more like," Victor grumbled disappointedly, leaning on his elbows.
"Are you calling me old?" the old man challenged.
"What, so you can call me stupid but I can't call you old?"
"I suppose the truth is obvious for both," the man sighed.
"Thanks," Victor growled. He sighed heavily, though through the lapse in conversation felt obliged to reach for his pocket, figuring the old man might be having too good a morning. If he was being so stubborn and so damn inhospitable, Victor might as well humble him.
"I found this on your dining room table," Victor admitted, presenting the letter gingerly. The old man stared at it, his mouth at first opening for an immediate rebuttal, for a scolding about going through his items without permission. However, after he was able to discern the writing underneath Victor's clenched fingers, the Professor realized the importance of the delivery. The realization sunk like a poison into his bloodstream, turning the man's skin a milky white. His fingers grasped for it, what little strength he had available to him squeezing upon the paper as if it would try to struggle away.
"The landlord must have brought it in while you were gone," Victor explained. "I didn't open it."
"Nor...nor should you have." The man seemed breathless with disappointment, his fingers clenching upon the envelope as if he could not believe it would betray him like this. As if he hoped more than anything that he would not see it again. His old eyes dimmed, for once in their entire acquaintance Victor recognized pure defeat in the man's expression.
"This was supposed to be my farewell. To him." The old man's voice caught in his throat, his eyes reeling towards the ceiling as he finally unclenched his grip, allowing the envelope to flutter softly to the blankets below. "If he was to open one, any one...it had to be this!"
"Professor, I surely doubt he's..."
"It is not your job to make his excuses," Professor Holmes demanded, his fists clenched and his eyes closed for a moment of refocusing. He breathed heavily, a whistle rattling from his lungs in an uneven, choppy sound. "This would explain my illness, it would explain my death. How...how would he know otherwise?"
Victor was smart enough not to respond. He recognized a rhetorical question, and in this he noticed the utmost sadness. Professor Holmes voiced the question though his pain knew the answer all too well. It was an obvious truth at this point, the truth that John wouldn't know Sherlock Holmes had passed, though with their lack of communication he was no wiser as to his friend's current state of life. In John Watson's eyes, Sherlock Holmes might have died ten years ago or he might live another ten years from now. In John Watson's eyes it made no difference. Where once he had braved the fire of enemy bullets to save a man's life, he now cared not for its longevity. He cared not if Sherlock Holmes lived or died.
"Victor...in the drawer there..." the old man pointed, and Victor obeyed. "Yes, there, see my wallet? Take some cash, buy yourself breakfast. Somewhere...somewhere but here. Leave me alone for a while, please."
"Professor, I didn't mean to distress you like this," Victor admitted, sensible enough not to argue against the offering of free food. His stomach had ceased growling and instead had seemed to understand that there was no use in complaining. His last meal had been the night of his flight from campus, already more than twenty four hours before.
"No...I thank you for delivering it to me. I just need to process it, Victor. Process it and wonder what...what else there is to be done."
"Are you so resolved to tell him your fate?"
"Breakfast, Victor. Get breakfast and a coffee." It was an avoidance of the question of course, though Victor understood when he was not wanted. Grabbing a ten dollar bill from the old man's wallet, Victor took to his feet. Already Professor Holmes was avoiding his eye contact, casting his gaze towards the window with a heavily clouded gaze, as if he could hardly recognize the space in front of his own eyes. He was lost in his head, lost in his thoughts, lost in his plans for delivering the most terrible news.
"I'll see you in a little while, sir."
"Yes," Professor Holmes muttered, waving his skeletal arm with as much energy as he could muster. It would seem he sacrificed most of his strength to brain power, and thus his hand could only wave but inches from the blanket, hardly able to fight gravity for long enough to complete the proper wave. Victor nodded pitifully, though he understood when he had overstayed his welcome. What more could he do but retreat, leave the old man to his mourning, and hope that some solution would present itself in the enigma of the Professor's brilliant mind?

It was a pathetic breakfast sandwich, soggy and greasy, with an egg nearly calcified on an English muffin and a piece of sausage that tasted of rubber, though together in harmony the thing might have been the best single item Victor had ever stomached. He hadn't prepared for this part of nomadic life, the part where he forgot to eat, or he simply did not have the means to. He wasn't broke, though he had to start thinking long term; he had to start wondering if he would rather spend his few dollars on a meal or on a hotel room for the night. These were tradeoffs he was unaware of until now, considerations that he had always taken for granted until he had stepped off the cliff of his privileged life. He had stayed up hours worrying about a calculus exam, drilling equations into his head, when now he was more concerned about where he would sleep tonight and the night after. Square roots and decimals would get him nowhere now, nor would they get him anywhere in the future without a proper degree. He was about as destitute as he ever had been, though it was still better than humiliation. It was still better than looking into Reginald's cloudy grey eyes through the gleam in his glasses and seeing disgust.
In some ways Victor pitied the old man dying in the hospital room, alone with the same issues that Victor now faced. He wished he could skip the middle section of his tragic love story, the section where he mourned his loss for fifty some years, having come so close to true love that he could hardly let it slide from his appreciation. He didn't look forward to the decades of writing to no response, nor to the wallowing in the dark nights, dreaming of a man who had forgotten him. He looked at Professor Holmes and saw his future, and while the story of the old man should have been treated as a warning, as a guidebook for what not to do, Victor recognized it as a track he was already set upon. He had been doomed from the beginning, from the first time he laid eyes on his marvelous roommate, and it would be his task to mourn the loss of a love that was never once feasible. In some ways there was something beautiful in the stubbornness, a creation of true love where fate would not properly place it. In other ways there was an intense sadness, a pity that was akin to a crippling wound, a loneliness that would be suffered for the remainder of his life. He saw Professor Holmes and he hardly saw a role model, instead he realized he saw a man some spaces ahead of him in this incredibly stunted, incredibly unprogressive game of life. Where others were just beginning, earning their degrees, getting married, having children, Victor was already nearing the end of his progress. At the age of twenty he was already stalled, stalled and beginning to go backwards.
It was a botched perspective, and perhaps it only spoke to the boy's true lack of intelligence when he decided to forgo his own problems and solve the ones ailing his only true companion. There was a clock ticking for Professor Holmes, a clock that was nearing its end much quicker. Victor had time to spare, he could figure out his own track once the world became truly lonely. Though he could hardly handle that look on the old man's face, that of utmost despair, that of a true defeat. Sherlock Holmes had suffered war and wounds, heartbreak and a lifetime of loneliness, though it would seem as though a simple letter would be the thing to break him. He wanted so badly for John Watson to know what had become of him, he wanted so badly for his last letter to go through. In it was undoubtedly a deep love confession, a despair for the years lost between them, and a thorough explanation of where he would be waiting in Heaven when the time arrived for John to join him. Because certainly he expected to meet him there, in the eternal afterlife when Earth itself seemed too big of a gap to cross.
Though it seemed unreasonable to wonder about the afterlife, being as though John Watson may have already entered into it unknowingly. Was that why his letters were being returned, not because of a change of address but instead a sudden death? Was Professor Holmes writing letters to a dead man, letters that were sent back in haste by a widow too upset to inform all of her husband's callers of his passing? Perhaps death was a likely solution to their separation, in the few years that they would share the afterlife without John Watson's wife. Perhaps there, Professor Holmes could be happy. Was that why he did not seem so distraught about his own state? Was he more hopeful that his version of Heaven would align well with John's?
Victor leaned over the breakfast counter, his head inclined towards the greasy wrapper of his sandwich, the sleeves of his shirt sticky where they leaned against the syrup covered lamination. He had an idea, a ridiculous one at that...though he wondered if it just might work. John Watson was being unresponsive for reasons unknown. The gap had not been crossed between them in physical form, only in that of words. Letters could not speak for themselves, letters could not solve problems. Letters could not debate against the postal workers who sent them away, or scream foul words at the woman who sent them in haste back to the post office before her husband could see. Letters could not read an obituary or a chance of address, no better than they could stand on a doorstep with a bundle of roses and beg for one last word. Letters were inanimate, sent by a lover in the hopes that they could perform the impossible. Though they were flawed in that attempt, as they were surely flawed in others. Letters would not step up to the urgency of the matter, nor could they be expected to. Letters needed to be set aside, for now. Set aside in the place of something more assertive, something more determined. Sherlock Holmes shouldn't send a piece of paper in the mail...instead he should send a messenger.