The night following Molly's wonderful advice was sure to get Sherlock nowhere; however he decided that if he wanted to at least attempt to put himself out there as romantically available then he would have to at least attempt to be flirtatious. What a terrible way of going about things! Molly had given him all sort of advice, from smiling when they were talking to winking occasionally to even cornering Victor so as to ensure they were alone together at certain periods of the night. Molly told him that he would get nowhere in a crowd, for such a romance was supposed to be forbidden and so there could be no witnesses to when it began. The more time he had with Victor and only Victor would prove to be useful in the long run. And so that was what Sherlock was planning to do, there was only one place where he knew he could be very safe, and that was in his room. No one dared enter without asking, and it would only be too easy to get victor up there, even while mentioning the excuse of love! Victor had mentioned he enjoyed Shakespeare's work, and of course Sherlock was now in possession of most all of his poems. Would it be too difficult to ask for an interpreter? Yes it would be the perfect plan, and in Sherlock's mind it was completely flawless. With the two of them alone together and openly discussing love, what other possibilities could amount? And so Sherlock went down before dinner as he always did, sitting next to Victor and throwing his money onto the coffee table. Poker was a good pastime, and tonight Mycroft had joined them all. He was seated next to Moran and looking very intent with his cards, however that might just be a bluff. Mycroft was good with acting and he was good with money, as a business man he was always going out of his way to make an extra buck, and poker seemed to be a good place to start. He knew the ins and outs of the game, surely a simple tell wouldn't be able to give him away?
"Can you read your brother?" Victor whispered to Sherlock quietly, and together they both looked over at where Mycroft was simply smoking his cigarette, not looking very affected by the game going on around him and the three cards that were now in his hand.
"I'm sorry to say that I cannot." Sherlock muttered back, staring down at his own rather decent hand. He needed to see how other people fared so that he could know whether or not folding was the safe or stupid thing to do.
"Ah, that's alright. I think it's safe to say Mycroft is a very mysterious creature. We probably know an equal amount about him." Victor agreed, leaning in close so that Sherlock got that whiff of his cologne once more, the Victor aroma. It was mesmerizing, and almost enough to make Sherlock lose the last of his common sense and lean in to greet him. Yes it was certainly a bad idea to share his first kiss with his male crush in front of the entire regiment of soldiers and his older brother, yet at the moment Sherlock almost saw no flaws in the plan. It was that horrible cologne, it was most certainly messing with his mind. Or maybe it was Victor's snarky little smile, or his little chuckle, or the way that his leg was brushing up against Sherlock's as he leaned over to talk. Yes it certainly was tempting, but the arrival of another card kept Sherlock occupied, it kept him from doing anything too rash. In the end, he folded both his hand and his opportunity. Dinner was called not ten minutes later, and this time before Sherlock got to his feet he was the one who leaned over to Victor.
"Victor I've got something to ask of you, if that's okay?" Sherlock murmured, to which Victor smiled, shuffling his now useless cards between his fingers and staying seated.
"Yes of course." He agreed politely. "What is it?"
"Well my mother had given me a book on all of the Shakespeare poems, and being the person I am I was trying to read through all of them. However there are something that just mean absolutely nothing to me, and I've tried and I've tried to understand them. You seem to be knowledgeable at least in some of the poems, would you mind helping me?" Sherlock suggested, his voice getting weaker and weaker with every word he uttered. Victor smiled, bowing his head in an almost respectful manner.
"Yes of course." He agreed, chuckling as if he was almost flattered. Sherlock smiled at him thankfully, rising to his feet to find that once more they were standing in the room alone. He tried to think of what Molly had told him, about how he was supposed to look flirtatious and vulnerable, however at the moment such an act would seem almost inappropriate. The family's sitting room was certainly not the place to try to fall into Victor's chest and apologize with batting eyelashes, there was time for that after dinner. Now Sherlock just had to make sure he didn't scare Victor away before they were supposed to meet.
"Thanks." Sherlock muttered with a soft little grin.
"I'd be happy to help an up and coming scholar. Why the sudden interest in love poems, if I may ask?" Victor wondered, standing next to the couch without any visible inclinations to begin to move. It was almost as if he was trying to make it so that Sherlock had to answer the question if he wanted the two of them to make their arrival together. Sherlock just shrugged, his confident aura getting obliterated once more as victor brought up the subject of the very thing he was trying to avoid. Romance, and all that came along with it, was a conversation best had when they were not going to be making their way into a crowd of soldiers and family members. Sherlock would much rather answer this question when they were alone together, sitting on his bed by the light of an oil lamp, when he could inch closer and whisper his response into Victor's awaiting ear.
"Oh I don't know, just a love of the arts I suppose." Sherlock said with a shrug.
"That's a good enough reason for me." Victor agreed, nodding his head as if he appreciated that answer before starting over towards the dining room. "Will you be joining me?" he asked as he walked past, not pausing to let Sherlock give him a clear answer before he batted his swinging hand against Sherlock's solitary one. It could have been overlooked as a mere accident, yet Sherlock was not foolish enough to mistake it for anything unintentional. The mere seconds of contact send shivers going down Sherlock's spine, shivers that were enough to jolt him into action so that he stumbled forward in something of a surprised lurch.
"Yes, coming." Sherlock agreed eagerly. Dinner that evening was quiet, or at least Sherlock was quiet. Actually conversation seemed to be going on all around him at the normal rate that it was expected, however today it would seem as though Sherlock was just in his own world. He enjoyed the food as it was presented to him and he made a point to use proper manners. However he could not focus himself enough to think about anything other than Victor, the soldier who sat in front of him. It was only in his power to sit and stare at his food, keeping his head down while Molly's specifications buzzed about in his head, completely ignored. He remembered how she had told him that dinner was the most important part of the flirtation routine, for while everyone was watching no one was really paying attention. It was the time when he should be sitting up straight and staring Victor in the eyes, he should be kicking his feet under the table, he should be sitting with the top button of his shirt undone, right in Victor's line of vision. Right now he should have the same hold on Victor as Victor had on him now, the constant knowledge that if he ever was daring enough to look up he would be faced with Victor's eyes, looking right at him. And maybe that was just it; maybe he couldn't flirt with Victor because Victor was flirting so powerfully with him? Oh that was just wishful thinking, Sherlock would be mad if he considered Victor's mere personality to be anything close to the sort of flirtation techniques Molly had tried to drill into his head. Sherlock was just so preoccupied about what was to come after the desert dishes were cleared, what would happen when he successfully got Victor behind a closed door? What sort of self-control techniques had to be put into place so as to ensure he didn't completely lose his head when around the man? Or was that what was expected of him, was that what Victor was coming for? Did he hope that instead of interpreting Shakespeare's version of love they instead made their own poetry, wordlessly? Sherlock knew that while he had his own agenda Victor was not without motivation himself, and so what was making him ever so eager to jump right into the solitary conditions Sherlock had worked hard to set up? What if he was every bit as eager as Sherlock was? His questions would be surely answered when at last everyone began to get out of their chairs, and yet just as Sherlock departed the table and made one last bit of eye contact with his designated accomplice he understood that he wasn't prepared for whatever was about to follow. He may pretend that he was flirtatiously confident, yet deep down inside he knew that this was Victor's game. While Sherlock may think he was in control here, it would take Victor's cooperation and Victor's original intentions if he was going to get anything he hoped to have.
"William dear, would you mind helping with the dishes afterwards? Poor Mrs. Hudson has a bit of a head cold, and I sent her home for the night." Mrs. Holmes pleaded, stopping her son before he could get very far from the table. Sherlock paused nervously, looking towards Victor who was also now lingering at his chair, watching so as to see whether or not his presence tonight would be needed or not.
"Oh um, well mother actually I was hoping to um...to spend some time with Victor?" Sherlock muttered with an innocent little shrug. Mrs. Holmes's face lit up, looking towards where Victor was still lingering, his hands on the back of his chair as if he was still unsure whether or not he was allowed to move yet.
"With Victor? Yes of course, of course! So wonderful that you're making friends, William!" Mrs. Holmes exclaimed, looking as if she was about to hug her son before she paused, realizing at once that had the potential to be embarrassing.
"Thanks mother." Sherlock muttered, forcing a little smile of appreciation onto his face. Mrs. Holmes nodded, looking once more over to Victor as if thanking him for his friendship to Sherlock before taking her leave, wishing the two boys a nice time before she disappeared into the hallway, calling for Mycroft before he got too comfortable.
"Why is it always you who gets kitchen duty?" Victor asked with a careful little laugh, walking around the table to meet at Sherlock's side.
"Oh who knows? Probably because I'm the youngest, and the only one without an actual job." Sherlock admitted with a shrug.
"That's reason enough. She probably thinks you live too easy a life." Victor teased. Sherlock nodded, unsure what to say about that and so he said nothing and started his way up to the stairs. Now the very prospect of reading these poems was a plot in itself, for Sherlock had picked a certain poem in which he would try to focus on, and try to question in the most telling yet overall rather intelligent ways. He didn't want to sound like an idiot, unable to understand some of the most elementary poetry, however the poem he had chosen was all together something both difficult and the perfect set up to what this meeting was ultimately about. It was Sonnet 13, something Sherlock had read and reread over and over again so as to try to get the meaning. And he had gotten it, with hard work and some scholarly paraphrasing. Yet from what he could understand, it was writing towards a man. Such a work could be question as homosexual, considering that William Shakespeare was also a man. Would that then set him up to the conversation he was really hoping to have? It was the perfect plan, and right now it was setting into motion perfectly! Sherlock led Victor up to his room quietly, secretly wishing that Captain Moran was hidden in his room and unable to poke his nose around in business that was not his to know. That man had been witness to Sherlock's previous curiosities, if after such an event in the hallway he saw Sherlock leading Victor into his bedroom, well what would become of the man's suspicions? Would he think his soldier to be in a relationship with Sherlock, or would he think it was a plot of the younger boy's making, something that would incriminate one of the men under his command? Would he do something to put an end to it, or would he turn another blind eye and mind his own business? Thankfully Sherlock didn't have to know the answer to that question, for just as soon as he entered the hallway he noticed thankfully that it was empty. This made it only too easy for him to sneak Victor into his room without any heads turning, and it made it ever so natural to lead the man inside and close the door behind him. Of course he would need privacy, for the sun was setting and the mood was settling in, something of an immortal sort of confidence was in the air. Sherlock knew that tonight would go as well as the Fates would intend it to. Maybe it wouldn't end in a kiss or a love confession, however no matter what happens Sherlock knew that Victor would leave here knowing at least that the next time they meet had the potential to go better.
"My mother gave me a book of his poems, had I mentioned that?" Sherlock asked, walking over swiftly so that he could retrieve the book from his bedside table. He had made sure to clean up before he went down to dinner, for he knew that Victor would arrive just afterwards. Hopefully Victor didn't think he had made too much of an effort, maybe he would fall under the delusion that Sherlock's room was always this spotless? With no laundry on the floor and the bed nicely made? With the curtains ever so conveniently parted so that while moonlight could pass through, no onlookers would have a chance of noticing what was going on inside? Sherlock handed the book to Victor and busied himself with lighting the lamp on the table, smiling ever so sweetly as he sat down and motioned for Victor to join him. It wasn't distracting anymore to see the man in his red uniform, in fact it almost seemed like a necessary component to the soldier at this point. It was his most formal attire, no matter what social stigma surrounded it. If Sherlock wanted to ignore such a garment he would be ignoring part of who he had fallen in love with, for at this point there was no possible way to ignore what type of man he had chosen. Victor sat down quite close, looking over the book with adoring eyes while his shoulder brushed up against Sherlock's. Of course Sherlock had no choice but to try to ignore this and stay calm, however his fist clenched up by his side, trying to control the shivers that were going down his body as quickly as his blood flowed in his veins.
"It's a beautiful copy, old." Victor decided.
"Yes, I do think it was printed in England." Sherlock agreed quietly.
"I do agree." Victor muttered, opening the book so as to look at the inside cover. He nodded in satisfaction before turning to the index, and tracing his finger down the list of the sonnets that were held between the binds. "Some of my favorites." He admitted quietly.
"Yes, mine too. The only ones I know, yet my favorites all the same." Sherlock agreed with something of a smile. Breathing was coming hard to him, and of course he knew that it was just the effect of his proximity to Victor. The most difficult part now was to make it so that he didn't have to gasp to keep on breathing, for while his lungs were getting smaller and smaller he knew that he still needed the same amount of oxygen. If he was sitting here next to Victor gasping and panting for breath then surely the man would be able to figure out what was going on?
"Which ones did you have trouble with?" Victor asked.
"Well predominantly it was Sonnet 13." Sherlock admitted quietly, his voice sort of quivering as he stated the very sonnet that would make or break tonight's conversation. While Victor had no choice in whether he discussed the sonnet he could always avert the conversation from the obvious, and that would make it increasingly impossible to gauge his opinion on the matter. Did he know of homosexuality, and was he okay with it? That would all be revealed, undoubtedly, when he interpreted the work.
"Sonnet 13, an interesting one. I see why you might have had trouble with it, Sherlock." Victor assured, paging through the book and arriving finally at the sonnet in question. He read it for a moment, sighing heavily in satisfaction as his eyes scanned across the final line. All while he was reading Sherlock was trying to watch him as discreetly as he possibly could. While of course he knew that Victor must have some idea of what was going on he simply couldn't help himself! There was something about watching that man when he wasn't looking back, something about being able to focus on every little detail for as long as you would like without any farther repercussions! Without the fear of being discovered! And so while Victor's eyes scanned the art that had taken form through Shakespeare's pen, Sherlock scanned the art that had taken form through his accomplice's facial structure. And he was able to witness firsthand the beautiful curves in his jawbone, visible and prodding from the skin that attempted to hide them from the world. He was able to look upon the gleam that was produced by the tightly drawn tanned skin across his cheek, and focus on the little stray brown hairs that Victor had obviously tried to grease back, but with no success. For a moment Sherlock realized that Victor's eyes had stopped moving, however he wasn't saying anything. His smile was still on his face, and Sherlock realized that he had been trapped into the snares of observation. Victor knew that he was being watched, and he hadn't wanted to interrupt. Yet all this time Sherlock was appreciating the man that sat before him, Victor knew exactly what sort of admiring microscope he was under, and he let it play out. Oh how easily Sherlock had been distracted, and to think that he may have just allowed his secret to be revealed without his consent! Oh what a fool he had come to be!
"I'm sorry." Sherlock muttered quickly, the only thing he could think to say as he turned his gaze away and stared shamefully down at the floor. His face was burning red, and for a split second he expected Victor to leave him. He should know now, right?
"Sorry for what? I love this poem." Victor assured with a little chuckle, as if he thought Sherlock was going quite mad for apologizing for things he had agreed to. Sherlock didn't breathe a sigh of relief just yet, however he had to admit it was a lot easier to nod his head and continue on as if nothing had happened. He wasn't convinced that Victor hadn't noticed, however if he was willing to ignore it then Sherlock had no choice but to follow suit.
"Yes of course, go on." Sherlock muttered, nodding his head and looking over at the page from which Victor was reading.