Not A Thing You Get To Choose

The Spectre At The Feast

 The day of Mr. Watson's party came rather quicker than Sherlock would have liked. He wasn't one for practicing his tricks; however he had successfully managed to cut his bed in half and put it back together again. His main concern was the putting back together, since his magic was legitimate he would be literally splitting a human being in half, and it was confusing to try to mend all those little blood vessels back together. So every time he severed his bed in half he would slide underneath it with a candle, so as to make sure all the rings lined up correctly together. It was an exhausting process, and it required his full attention, however in the end he sewed his bed correctly and everything matched up just fine. He assumed, then, that this would all work out. Everything seemed to be fine for him so far, what on earth could go wrong now? Mycroft had ironed out their nice clothes to the best of his abilities, for despite his motherly instincts he really wasn't good around the house. Sherlock always thought that ironing clothes was a mundane and useless chore, especially since without the wrinkles one could easily spot the faded spots in their black jackets. The brothers were bound to look out of place, of course, however they were there to preform, not to look good. Sherlock donned his purple shirt and slacks, however Mycroft had laid out a bowtie and a top hat for him, both old possessions of their father's, so he could look a little bit more formal while standing before the crowd of rich folks. Mycroft stood near the mirror as he always did when he had to look perfect, always greasing back his hair and watching as it settled, so as to make sure everything stayed where he wanted it to. Sherlock merely brushed his curls and hid the mess under his top hat, for he wasn't terribly worried about impressing everyone. He knew that John's family would never have any clue as to their relationship, and so it wasn't like he had to charm Mr. and Mrs. Watson so as to ask for John's hand in marriage a little bit down the line. Now John, on the other hand, should be getting himself pampered and perfect so as to ease Mycroft's worries of him, for obviously he didn't trust him and never would unless John made a good impression. Sherlock surely hoped that John would be able to piece that together himself. When the brothers were dressed they stood together before the mirror, looking at their reflections and not recognizing the men who stared back. They looked out of place in their one roomed shack, all dressed up and classy looking; Mycroft had even folded one of their thin red napkins and stuffed it into his pocket so as to try to pass it as a silken handkerchief. 

"Right then, I suppose we should be off." Mycroft decided finally, looking over Sherlock so as to make sure everything was up to par before starting out the door and holding it open for Sherlock to follow. There was no carriage taking the Holmes brothers to the gala, no coachman to walk them up the small steps, no horses to pull them and clop down the road with large hoofs. There was a bird, however, a bird that followed dispute Sherlock's shooing. Merlin wasn't going to be that big of a help at a fancy gala such as this, the judge's birthday party was no place for an animal that ate worms from the street dirt. And yet Merlin followed, almost as if he understood everything except the word no.
"Do you know what tricks you will be doing? Things that are perfectly...discrete?" Mycroft asked in a hopeless voice, however he dared to dream that Sherlock might be law abiding one day.
"Oh yes, well first I was thinking about taking a bunny and instructing it to hop on the table, and then next I was going to pour out a glass of water and demonstrate how it dripped. I thought that would be worth the fifty pounds, right?" Sherlock snapped sarcastically.
"Oh please Sherlock just be reasonable! I don't want you to get caught with any sort of spell work or any sort of misplaced affection." Mycroft mumbled.
"Misplaced?" Sherlock clarified, looking over to his brother with poisonous eyes, as if daring him to doubt his true love for John once more. Mycroft pursed his lips; however he seemed in no position to correct himself.
"I'm just saying that it might be best to keep your love hidden, at least for now. Maybe these judges and jurors won't notice real magic, but we certainly can't trust that they won't notice you and Mr. Watson making out behind the curtains." Mycroft snapped, shuttering a little bit with the thought.
"Ah see, but if we're behind a curtain, who will notice?" Sherlock laughed, and with that he picked up his speed, walking as quickly as he could so as to leave Mycroft and all of his uncomfortable conversation behind. Thankfully Sherlock knew where the Watson household was from their short and exciting carriage ride, for he recognized the street name and he could pick out the large, magnificent building from anywhere. When they arrived on the sidewalk before it, however, Mycroft took a step back so as to admire the architecture, almost as if he couldn't believe such a structure was used as a house.
"This is where your friend lives?" Mycroft clarified, his mouth hanging open in admiration.
"Well yes, of course." Sherlock agreed, starting up the white steps towards the large oak doors, the very same that John had led him through some days before. The house was much more alive now, with butlers manning the doors, the windows alight with a soft orange glow, and the sound of music was drifting through the walls ever so slightly, beautiful music. Carriages were pulling up by the dozen, and with each one three or four rich people stumbled out, all dressed in elaborate dresses, suits, and furs, strutting up the steps and completely ignoring Mycroft and Sherlock, who still lingered on the stairs as if worried they wouldn't be admitted.
"Well come on then Mycroft, they won't wait for us." Sherlock insisted, beckoning his brother up the stairs before arriving at the doors nervously. A pair of butlers opened the doors proudly; however their stern expressions were replaced with curious ones as they looked over the brother's shabby attire, obviously wondering if there was some sort of guest list they might check. The once empty house had been transformed since Sherlock had seen it before, the entry way was filled with classy people, all chatting over glasses of wine and champagne, nibbling at food that was speared on little picks and wearing their finest attire. Sherlock and Mycroft shuffled very nervously into the crowd, following the sound of the music through a small hallway and into a magnificent ballroom, one of the parts of the house Sherlock had not been introduced to the night he was here previously. The ballroom was even more packed, with men and women alike dancing to a live band that stood on an elevated stage, men wearing suits and twirling women in magnificent dresses, all looking very rich and very pampered. 

"I imagine that's where you will be preforming." Mycroft guessed, nodding towards the stage on which the band now played. Sherlock looked on the stage apprehensively, feeling butterflies begin to flutter about inside of his stomach. For the strangest reason he predicted that this was all going to go terrible wrong...
"Ah, Mr. Holmes, so glad you could join us tonight!" exclaimed a very red faced and jovial Mr. Watson, having appeared out of the crowd leaning heavily on his walking cane. He was very obviously drunk, and he was even carrying a half filled glass of champagne as if to prove that despite his age he could still down plenty of alcohol. Sherlock blinked, for this definitely wasn't the same man that had sneered so horribly at him in his tent, however he wasn't going to complain at the man's excitement. To be treated with respect by someone so much higher than him, well it was honoring.
"Yes, thank you for having me! What time do you plan on me going on?" Sherlock wondered.
"Oh most likely with desert, for they all love to be entertained while eating their pudding." Mr. Watson said with a smile. His eyes then moved towards Mycroft, as if just realizing they were not alone in their conversation. Sherlock cleared his throat awkwardly, realizing that the two have never properly met.
"Mr. Watson I'd like you to meet my brother, Mycroft. He'll be my assistant tonight, if that's alright with you." Sherlock said with a timid smile.
"Ah well of course, of course, whatever you need." Mr. Watson assured. He held out his hand to Mycroft to shake, and the two men introduced themselves rather nervously.
"You are John's father, I presume?" Mycroft asked, to which Sherlock just shuffled nervously. He really hoped that Mycroft wouldn't reveal any secrets, criminal or otherwise.
"That I am, however I can't seem to find my son anywhere! Hopefully not out with some girl..." Mr. Watson said with a laugh, and of course the brothers laughed along for a completely different reason.
"Oh not to worry Mr. Watson, I'm sure John wouldn't dream of it." Mycroft assured, looking down at Sherlock who only smiled rather timidly.
"Well I best be off then, you two enjoy yourselves until I announce you, then you can go up and wow us all with your tricks." He said enthusiastically, patting the two brothers on the shoulder before disappearing into the crowd.
"Off with some girl." Mycroft chuckled to himself.

"He better not be." Sherlock warned, and starting back into the entrance hall, away from all the very loud and excessive dancers that spun across the marble floors. The food was all presented on large tables in the entrance hall, finger food for appetizers before the main course arrived. Mycroft immediately made for the snacks, leaving Sherlock to stand awkwardly by himself near the staircase. He craned his neck up hopefully towards the direction of John's bedroom, as if wishing that John would either come out of it and announce his presence or appear out of the crowd and pull Sherlock towards it. What a beautiful house this was, with such beautiful memories of such beautiful boys. When Sherlock looked again Mycroft was nowhere to be found, and so he decided that his brother was probably just wandering about with his finger food and trying to blend in with the crowd. There was an aching in Sherlock's stomach that still was yet to be satisfied, and certainly no appetizers were going to fill the void that was created in the absence of John Watson. He knew that it was stupid to think that John might be off somewhere with someone else, a girl perhaps, or maybe another boy? However there was a horrible feeling in Sherlock's stomach as he imagined the possibilities. Where could he be, this was his own house, his own father! Certainly he had to be somewhere!