Like a Fairytale

Caught in the Act

He spent all of that night and all of the next day in his room, crying until he was probably as dehydrated as a raisin, but it didn't bother him that much. If he died it might have felt better than the pain he had surging through his heart like icy fire. Mycroft, Mrs. Holmes, Mr. Holmes, even Mrs. Hudson knocked on his bedroom door, trying to talk to him separately, as if he would want to talk to the devil or the devil's helpers. Sherlock hated them with such a passion he wanted to jump out the window again, and the only reason he didn't was because he knew John was worried about him. Through his sulking he had missed a day of school, his first absence since John had accidently broke his rib bone, and his phone was exploding. John really wanted to know things like where he was, how he was, how Redbeard was, why he wasn't at school, etc. Sherlock ignored all of them, but every time his phone buzzed he at least felt like someone cared about his wellbeing for once. The worst thing about this whole ordeal was that he was through it alone. Usually when he cried Redbeard was here to lick his tears away and snuggle up against him, and now all he could do was let his tears fall and curl his knees up to his chest, as if that would fill the hole. Rain splattered the window panes, as if the world were crying for Redbeard's death, or it was just trying to be as annoying as possible. He ignored the protests for meals, he ignored the warnings of dehydration, he ignored his family and every aspect of their Devil hearts. He knew that they hated him, why would they kill his best friend if they had his best interest in mind? They knew how much Redbeard had meant to him and now it felt like he was stranded on an island in the middle of the ocean, no one around, nothing around but sand, sand and despair. And, of course, the annoying buzzing phone and a stack of cigarettes. Sherlock smoked his feelings away, not caring if his parents or brother found out, but it made his brain relax, it made this insufferable pain seem just the slightest bit bearable, it tamed the monster inside him that was clawing at his heart. The sun sank after a while, and Sherlock stayed just where he was, in a little ball at the top of his bed, a cigarette dangling from his lips. It was 1:00 in the morning when the phone went off again, which Sherlock found particularly odd. Why would John wait this long to try to contact him? Sherlock groaned, feeling the urge to at least tell the idiot to go to bed, and picked up his phone with annoyance. It was almost impossible to scroll through all of the text messages and phone calls, all from John of course, there had to be over two hundred. Sherlock unlocked the phone and read the last couple of texts, and his heart, as broken and beaten as it was, beat just a little bit faster.
I know you're there.
I'm outside your house right now.
If you don't come to the front door right now I'm going to go upstairs and declare my love for your brother.
I'm warning you Sherlock, you've got five minutes! The texts kept repeating threats like that, all trying to get Sherlock to go downstairs. Sherlock sighed, texting back Give me three minutes, and scrambled to get off of his bed. His legs were wobbly from sitting so long, and when he actually stood it took a little bit for his head to stop spinning, but he threw the cigarette into the sink and changed quickly into some more acceptable clothes. He brushed his teeth, brushed his hair, and sprayed some cologne on just so that he didn't smell like smoke and tears. After a quick check of his reflection he walked down the stairs with a frown, he hated people sometimes. But he couldn't hate John, no matter how annoying he is right now. Sherlock would kindly tell him to get his butt back home and leave him alone, and then, if John would listen, he would go peacefully back to his bed. Sherlock crept down the dark stairs, careful to avoid the squeaking ones just in case one of his deadbeat family members wanted to wake up and torture him farther. The rain was still coming down hard, and he could only see through the tiny light of the stars and moon outside. Other than that he was going off of memory to not bump into something and fall down the stairs to his death. That might be slightly easier though. Sherlock turned on the porch light, knowing that it was low enough to not wake up his parents, and unlocked the door, swinging it open to see John Watson standing on his porch. John looked wide awake, and not even mad, he looked worried as heck and soaked to the bone. There was a bundle of water lodged, drooping flowers clutched in one of his hands, their peddles weighed down and falling off onto the sidewalk.
"Good to see you're alive." John said, but he didn't sound angry, he sounded so relieved that it was almost embarrassing. Maybe it was the flowers, or his wet, flat golden hair in the rain, or the fact that John had come all the way from his house in the pouring rain at one o'clock, obviously not sleeping a wink, that made Sherlock crack. But suddenly he realized that there was a reason they weren't kissing, but he couldn't think of just what that reason was. Sherlock grabbed John's face, pushing him up against the door frame and kissed him like the world was ending, which it already had evidently. The flowers dropped to the floor as John realized just what was going on, and of course he didn't bother protesting. This had been the first move Sherlock had ever made that was accepted, and John was taking it and running. Sherlock could feel his long fingers running ever so gently in his tangled curls, they were so close, they were so in love, that it was almost unfair. Compared to the hallowing despair Sherlock had felt for so long this sudden flash of love and happiness was enough to give him a heart attack. Thankfully it didn't. Sherlock felt himself tugging on the sleeves of John's varsity football jacket, of course he had no idea what to do with it, but it felt right. Well the whole thing had them both so wrapped up in the moment, which was perfect considering everything else in the world seemed to want to destroy their sanity and all, but it was also a bad thing because they didn't hear the footsteps coming from the kitchen. It wasn't until the voice called out and John's varsity jacket was on the floor when they realized they were as good as dead.
"Sherlock?" it called, sweet, worried, and a little bit cautious. "Sherlock what are you doing?" it was Mrs. Hudson. The two of them froze, John's hands still around Sherlock's neck and hair and Sherlock pretty much tangled everywhere. The light turned on and Sherlock could see the fear, so close, in John's chocolate eyes. There was a small gasp, but Sherlock knew that John was shielded from view, as long as they could stay that way maybe she would let them be.
"Sherlock did you bring a girl over, at this hour?" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, there were two funny things to that sentence though. One, she knew Sherlock had barely talked to a single girl, and two, that definitely wasn't a girl he was kissing.
"Mrs. Hudson, go back to bed." he said in an exhale of breath, it sounded so sketchy, he knew, but he couldn't look at her or John's identity would be revealed.
"Oh Sherlock, you know I'm old, but I can see when the right time to have someone over. I thought you were sulking?" she pointed out. It would've been funny to John if he knew he wasn't about to die.
"Please, she'll leave, just..." Sherlock sighed, he didn't know what to do and he heard high heels coming their way. "Hide your face." He muttered, and John ducked down a little bit so that she wouldn't recognize him if she came closer.
"It's great that you found someone, it really is, but isn't it a bad time?" Mrs. Hudson asked. "Sweetie you don't have to hide, you're not in trouble and neither is Sherlock." She assured. John looked up at Sherlock's eyes with terror, how could such an innocent visit get so bad? As long as the parents and especially Mycroft stay where they are, they might be able to scrape by with only Mrs. Hudson knowing.
"She's scared." Sherlock decided.
"You don't have to be dear; I'm not going to hurt you." Mrs. Hudson assured with a laugh. Why was she being do bloody annoying, just go back to bed! People are so arrogant sometimes.
"Please, Mrs. Hudson, just leave us alone, she'll leave..." Sherlock tried, but John's arms tightened even more around Sherlock's neck, they knew they were in big trouble now.
"Is she trustworthy?" John muttered, so quietly it was hard for Sherlock to make out what he was saying.
"Yes." Sherlock whispered.
"Can we just ask her?"
"No."
"I'll make a run for it?" John asked nervously, they both knew this was a life or death situation.
"Yes." Sherlock agreed. John nodded, looking up at Sherlock, and they both so desperately wanted to have one last kiss goodbye, but they knew that would be asking for an execution.
"When?" John breathed.
"Now, go!" Sherlock exclaimed, stepping back. John ran to the door, throwing it open and running out into the night, and Sherlock was left standing alone, the jacket and a pile of crushed flowers at his feet. He turned around slowly, seeing the white, terrified expression on Mrs. Hudson's face.
"That...that wasn't, that was..." she stuttered. Sherlock ran for it, sprinting up the steps and into his room, not bothering to clean up the mess, he was just terrified that she would get mad, that she would tell his parents, that she'd force the two of them apart like a fault line. But he should've stayed, or at least reclaimed the jacket, because when she picked it up she read the name, in black felt letters across the back, Watson.     

        That morning Sherlock was forced to go to school, Mycroft made it very clear that he'd had his sulking time and if he didn't get up that he'd drag him out himself. So Sherlock, fearing he would smell the smoke that clouded up his room, told him he would be out in a minute. Sherlock was so shaken up from the previous night, it had been such an emotional roller coaster, and now he had only to worry about Mrs. Hudson might say about the matter. Would she ask him about it, just return the jacket, or make no move to point out that it had even happened? Sherlock hoped it was the last one, but he'd feel pretty bad if John never got his jacket returned to him. He hadn't slept a wink that night, he had been dreaming about John, about what might have happened if Mrs. Hudson hadn't ruined the moment, and what might've happened when John had left. He was having terrible visions of his parents finding out, pushing him away from John, calling and alerting John's parents about the situation, making them split up. There was nothing else that Sherlock feared anymore, the only he had to live for was John now that Redbeard was a thing of the past. Would John's feelings for him change now that it wasn't completely secret? Sherlock dearly hoped not, last night really killed his suspicions about John's true intentions. Someone that was pretending to be in love wouldn't go through all that trouble to get in touch, wouldn't buy flowers, and certainly wouldn't be standing outside in the pouring rain at one in the morning. That was something a joke just didn't cost, and even if the entire football team was playing around, John wouldn't have cared that much about Sherlock's wellbeing. This made Sherlock feel so much better about himself, but yet so bad. The one thing he had wanted so desperately has become his, but it also meant he had so much more to lose. Like Redbeard, he had cared too much, and the aching pain in his heart was just proof that you only get attached to things to get ripped violently apart, left more empty and more alone than ever. Sherlock walked down the steps once again, groomed to his proper attire and ready for another day of impressing John. But he had a strange feeling it wouldn't take much anymore. That kiss last night had been the kiss of his life. Not only had he started it, which was kind of a plus in the sense that he was brave enough, but also that John had gone along with it. And it had been much more passionate than the one under the bleachers, which had been an experiment to see if both would actually go along with it, it had confirmed their suspicions, they were both very much into one another. When Sherlock got downstairs he smelled bacon, and that could only mean one thing, Mrs. Hudson was awake. He kind of wanted to turn back to his room to avoid any conversations about what had happened, but then again he needed to tell her not to tell anyone else. She couldn't go gossiping and telling dear old Mrs. Turner over tea, because then the word would spread and soon the whole town would be buzzing about the forbidden star crossed Holmes/Watson lovers. And that would be the catastrophe of all catastrophes. Sherlock got to the bottom of the stairs and could feel his stomach twist awkwardly. The flowers were long gone, but he could see a small red rose petal squished underneath the door mat. He made a quick dive for it and hastily stuffed it in his pocket before someone stupid like Mycroft the murderer could see it. When he turned the corner Mrs. Hudson was, indeed, cooking. She cooks when she was uncomfortable or nervous about something; he's known that for ages so he used to spill some of her lesser secrets to other people to get more cookies. But now the kitchen was just over flowing. Their entire lunches had all been packed, dinner, which was a large smoked ham, was sitting on the top of the oven, and she was now scrambling eggs and frying some bacon. When he enter the kitchen Mrs. Hudson did a double take, her eyes widened but she looked back down at the eggs hastily. Maybe she was more awkward than he was in these situations.