To Be Like That Of A God

Feelings That Become Reality

    "You know Mr. Watson it is quite rude to talk in an opera." Mycroft started rather bitterly, getting to his feet and hobbling over with his small plate for seconds. John was looking rather upset as he stood next to his chair however Sherlock rejoined him with a small smile, glancing hatefully over to his brother as he was now transfixed with the snack choices once more.
"And it's rather rude to disrupt one's conversations." Sherlock muttered, to which John just shrugged.
"He's got a point, I'm sorry. I don't really know proper opera etiquette; I'll be more careful next time." John assured.
"Ah, so you assume there is a next time?" Sherlock wondered almost teasingly, however John's face fell altogether as if he imagined that his talking had cost him all future interactions with his new friend.
"Should I not hope for another invitation?" John asked nervously, taking a rather nervous step backwards to which Sherlock just laughed, hoping his apparent humor would reassure John of his value here in the very small Holmes family.
"Mr. Watson if I could invite you to every opera for the rest of my life I would gladly do so." Sherlock assured pointedly, to which John just breathed a small breath of relief, looking a bit flustered in the process.
"You're to kind." John muttered, dropping his gaze to his very shiny shoes as Sherlock glanced back at his brother with a rather angry glare in his usually dormant eyes.
"My brother has become especially hateful this evening. It is a shame, because I expected you two to maybe bond a little bit." Sherlock admitted, tucking his hands into his pockets with a bit of a pout. John just laughed, shaking his head as if he already knew that was a lost cause.
"We are very much opposites Mr. Holmes, don't trouble yourself on friendships that can never come to be." John assured with a careless shrug. Sherlock had no idea how it was possible to shake something off so carelessly, however John made it seem so easy, he made the topic at hand so seemingly meaningless, that suddenly Sherlock felt as though he had no care in the matter at all.
"I say we leave him, while his back is turned." Sherlock decided with the tiniest of giggles, glancing over to where the servants waited flanked at the doors. John gaped, looking over at Mycroft to see that he was entranced once more with the cheese platter.
"You don't mean take the carriage and leave him here?" John whispered.
"Oh that's exactly what I mean. He deserves it, does he not? And it's not like some exercise would kill him." Sherlock assured, already grabbing John's arm and quietly leading him to the door.
"I'm not sure, it might." John whispered back, and Sherlock had to muffle his laughter in order to maintain their covert operation. Not a single step scuffed the carpeting as they escaped their box, leaving Mycroft still plenty entertained with the numerous snacks to notice their absence and together they snuck down the stairs and into the large crowd, sucked into the torrent of classy men and women all with golden jewelry and expensive top hats. It was a crowd unlike John had ever seen, with the calamitous force to separate parties and to steal men and women into their midst. Sherlock almost absentmindedly took John's arm, hooking them together in an almost reserving sort of way as they fought through the crowd of long dresses, high heels, and walking sticks. Finally they escaped the perfumed air and found themselves safe outside of the large oak doors, their arms still interlocked as they searched the cobbled streets for their carriage.
"Are you sure he won't be upset with me?" John wondered nervously, glancing back every moment or so to check for Mycroft's angry head among the crowd.
"Oh no of course not, he's sure to realize that it was my plan all along." Sherlock assured carelessly, leading John down the streets lit with lanterns, walking along the rows of sleek black horses and carriages.
"Mr. Holmes!" cried a sudden voice from the masses behind them, making John and Sherlock both shutter, expecting a very enraged Mycroft to come scampering at them in all of his angry girth. Sherlock couldn't say he was pleased, however, when he saw that instead of Mycroft it was none other than Irene Adler, clad in a long red gown with her black hair pulled into a loose bun on her head. She was walking rather swiftly towards them from the crowd, a little gold handbag that most likely held a notebook and pen swinging at her side. She held her head as though her presence should somehow overwhelm them, walking as if she had a purpose, as if she believed that simply by her being there everyone was forced down a rung of the social ladder. Needless to say, neither of them were impressed. Sherlock hoped that she wasn't trying to bother him about his romantic life again, that would surely be quite embarrassing while John was still standing at his side.
"Ms. Adler, what a...pleasure." Sherlock mumbled rather worriedly, halting as she approached while keeping a firm grip on John's arm. He was ever so ready to pull him away should Irene get too talkative; they were after all trying to avoid Mycroft's finding them on the side of the road.
"I can say the same; I didn't know that you enjoyed the opera." Irene commented, smiling as though she thought they had so much in common now. Sherlock just glared at her, trying to pull a glare that made it seem like he was surprised she even had the nerve to approach him. This was how most conversations between rich people go, it was a dominance battle, no one with a large bank account could ever have anyone towering over top of them.
"I don't really." Sherlock said shortly, making Irene's smile falter so quickly he was sure he hadn't noticed a fluctuation at all.
"And who is this lovely man on your arm? Surely there's not a story here?" Irene wondered with a gleam in her black, soulless eyes. One of her painted hands starting inching for her handbag in anticipation; however John immediately unhooked their arms and took a step back, stumbling away from Sherlock's grasp as though he thought that would change anything.
"That doesn't concern you." He muttered almost nervously. Irene looked even more excited now, taking an interested step towards John as if to see how he might react.
"Everything concerns me, especially secrets that are so obviously kept tucked under the rug. Defensiveness is never the right approach when trying to keep a journalist at bay." Irene advised with a poisonous glare, looking quite like a snake poised to strike.
"Irene as wonderful as it has been I must get going, you see we're trying to lose my brother and your stalling us has been most inconsiderate. Goodnight, and do keep your nose where it belongs." Sherlock advised, scanning the crowd and noticing with a jolt that his brother's face was among the masses.
"Speaking of Mycroft..." John muttered, and together they turned and dashed down the street, leaving Irene standing alone on the sidewalk with a smug little smile on her pointed face, standing with her fingers tapping against her handbag, her mind racing as she tried to unravel the secrets that had just been dumped in a great big knot at her feet. Sherlock found the carriage rather easily, parked along the sidewalk with the rest of them, and together he and John rushed inside, pounding on the wood to make the coachmen start up the horses at once.
"Sherlock!" roared Mycroft's angry voice, however Sherlock simply laughed, watching through the small frosted window as the carriage pulled away Mycroft's large angry silhouette standing on the sidewalk, throwing his arms up in the air in exasperation. Immediately Sherlock and John collapsed into a fit of a laughter, sitting on opposite seats and holding themselves upright with some difficulty. For some reason Mycroft's struggles were extremely entertaining, and after a good couple moments of paralyzing amusement they finally wiped the tears from their eyes and recollected their dignity.
"I can't help but feel a little bit bad for him." John admitted rather meekly, looking out the window at the darkness and seeing nothing that could help ease his nervous conscience. Sherlock, however, simply waved his hand carelessly, fixing his curls and taking a deep breath, noticing the empty seat next to John with a smile.
"Oh don't worry about him, he'll find his way home in the end. And you will be long gone by the time I have to pay the consequences." Sherlock assured carelessly, throwing his hat to the seat next to him and longing across the seat with his long legs crossed. John's eyes ever so guiltily ran up the length of his body, his jaw clenching a bit timidly as he noticed immediately that Sherlock was watching him as well. Sherlock recognized that expression of guilt, it was something of nervousness yet not of regret, being caught looking at something you know you shouldn't but still keeping your eyes fixed on it all the same. Sherlock's beauty had the tendency to bring that sort of guilt out in all people; however he had never been so satisfied to recognize it in someone than he was tonight.
"You're staring, Mr. Watson." Sherlock reminded him ever so carelessly, keeping his eyes fixed on John with the most antagonizing glare.
"As are you." John reminded him. Sherlock could only smile, curling the corners of his mouth into a small expression of amusement and yet he couldn't even bring himself to blink.
"So I am." Sherlock admitted in a breath, letting his head fall back against the wooden wall of the carriage, bouncing his curls up and down as the wooden wheels rumbled over the cobblestones and the holes in the road below.
"So who was that woman, that Ms. Adler?" John wondered apprehensively, straightening up and fixing his jacket subconsciously. Sherlock breathed a sigh of annoyance, letting his eyes close for a moment and feeling that wonderful feeling of someone watching him, someone taking the opportunity of his blindness to fulfil their own curiosity.
"She's a journalist, and not a very sneaky one at that. Horrible girl, she approached me at Major Sholto's dinner party. I do believe she finds me rather interesting." Sherlock admitted with a groan.
"Interesting how?" John wondered with his fists clenched, looking almost as if he was waiting for an answer so that he could lash out and defend himself... or his territory.
"Oh well I'm about the age when marriage becomes the talk of the town, and for such an eligible bachelor such as myself I'm the subject of most of the chatter. They want to know which woman I'm seeking, which one would be so lucky as to be my wife." Sherlock sighed carelessly, letting his white hand wave through the air. John stared for a moment, his eyes unblinking as he tried to formulate an intelligent reply to such a statement.
"And who is it?" John wondered suddenly, looking a bit too desperate and a bit too concerned than should be normal. Sherlock simply smiled, turning his gaze over at John to see that the man's large brown eyes were fixed intensely at him, his hands picking very nervously at the threads hanging from his second hand dinner jacket.
"You tell me Mr. Watson." Sherlock breathed, sitting up without warning, making John jump a little bit in his seat. Sherlock couldn't help but smile, resting his chin on his fingertips and watching as John thought about a question he didn't want to answer.
"I would say Molly Hooper; I did see you kiss her." John decided finally, an air of discontentment a little bit too evident in his voice. He almost made is seem as though he longed for Sherlock in a way he couldn't express, almost confirming the suspicions that Victor had expressed all those days ago. Romantic temptations, how very curious.
"Oh Molly Hooper, no I could never marry her. She rather forced my hand with that kiss, if I didn't she would have blackmailed me with information neither of us can prove correct, and I decided that a little bit of gossip about my love life was much more important than my reputation as a sane, healthy man." Sherlock muttered with a smile.
"Oh, not Molly Hooper then? Well maybe...maybe another woman? One I hadn't met?" John suggested rather nervously, seeming as though he was disappointed that he couldn't name any more potential candidates. Sherlock, however, could only smile at John's lack of an answer, for his conclusion was the exact same one Sherlock had drawn. He couldn't name any more women because there simply weren't' anymore, Sherlock's heart was unoccupied, still beating whole in his chest where it belonged and not struggling in the hands of some unworthy female. No, it didn't belong to anyone at the moment, however for some reason Sherlock rather suspected that it may be passed along in the near future.
"It was a trick question my poor Mr. Watson, there are no other women in my life, and I don't intend on there ever being one. To be quite honest they repulse me, their voices are much too high and their hair much too long, half the time I don't even know what they really look like because of their makeup, and their dresses take up half of the carriage when they sit." Sherlock complained. John could only laugh, shaking his head with an air of relief as he realized to what extent Sherlock was joking.
"Do you intend on living alone forever then?" John wondered, looking on Sherlock with an innocent yet curious gaze. Sherlock sighed heavily, observing his hands in the dim lighting of the carriage and seeing his white skin gleam under the bulb.
"Oh no of course not, I'll have Victor I suppose. Mycroft will die before me, of that I'm sure. And maybe you can join me, in our old age of course. I'll have a lovely manner, and with no one to share it with." Sherlock admitted finally. John blinked rather curiously, shaking his head in confusion. He finally dropped his gaze, looking more disturbed by Sherlock's seemingly flattering response. Most women would be jumping all over that opportunity but John, well he seemed rather upset. As if Sherlock's kindness unnerved him in a way neither of them could truly understand.
"Mr. Holmes I still cannot wrap my head around the admiration you show for me, I am nothing compared to you and I should presumably be nothing to you. All of your friends agree, your brother, your servant, everyone! I don't deserve to sit next to you in the opera and ride with you in your carriage and dine at the same table...why me?" John wondered once more, looking up at Sherlock with a rather broken expression, an expression that brought out the softest of glances from the two of them. It was a form of admirable pity that made Sherlock's heart quiver in his chest; he wanted to preserve John's innocence and his appreciation, and more than anything did Sherlock want to make John feel special, make him feel important. Because he was important, in a way Sherlock simply couldn't describe John Watson had suddenly become everything to him, and yet neither of them could fully grasp that. Sherlock smiled rather softly and held out his hands, making John freeze for a moment before very reluctantly placing his own hands on top. Sherlock breathed heavily, enveloping John's fingers in his own and letting their hands sit there, coiled around each other's and feeling each other's pulse through their throbbing wrists. John's hands weren't soft, they were actually horrible to hold for the skin was so tough and the palms were so calloused, his fingers were ridden with cracked, dry skin and his fingernails were long and unkempt, however Sherlock wouldn't trade this moment for anything. Right here, right now, with his eyes sagging closed and his hands trapped in those of John Watson, this was the moment where Sherlock realized that there was more to life than just money. Maybe there was someone else, someone else that was worthy of his company and something else that would make life worth living. Maybe there was John Watson.
"John I enjoy your company purely because you're unlike anyone I've ever met. The rich people they're so fake, with their fancy clothes and fancy accents and golden watches and coins, I cannot stand their gossip and their mindless conversations and their uselessness. The world neither gains nor loses from any of their existences, and so certainly I should not waste my time in their company. And you, Mr. Watson, well you are unlike any other person I've ever met simply because you are human. You're imperfect, you're scarred, you're dirty, you're poor. And yet you struggle on, you smile when no one else can, you laugh when you're not allowed. You're happy, and you're meaningful, and optimistic, and interesting. I don't need a retinue of mindless beauties when I can have you at my side. That is, of course, if you will be willing to join me." Sherlock muttered. John seemed at first to not know what to say, his face had contorted into all sorts of expressions and his fingers had writhed in Sherlock's hands, however now he sat still, processing, with his lips slightly parted and his eyes slightly blank. He was thinking, interpreting, believing. For a moment Sherlock stared at him and for a moment John couldn't stare back, for a moment they sat there in silence and yet there were voices, voices coming from inside of them, that were beginning to break the silence. Heartbeats turned melodies and whispers concocting in the backs of their brains, thoughts that became colors and feelings that became reality. Realizations that turned to truth.
"I'm not quite sure what to say." John admitted in a whisper. Sherlock nodded, starting to pull his fingers away, feeling as if they weren't entirely welcome in John's hands. And yet John's fingers tightened, suddenly he wouldn't let Sherlock slip away so easily, suddenly he was needed.
"Mr. Watson?" Sherlock breathed, seeing a bit of conflicted interest here. However John seemed quite at a loss for words, letting one of Sherlock's hands drop before pulling the other hand to his lips, breathing for a moment before kissing the back of Sherlock's hand with such softness, kissing it for a moment before releasing it and letting Sherlock's hand quiver and spark while sitting still trapped in John's two, worthy hands.
"I'm willing to join you." John assured in a breath, looking a bit frazzled, as if he himself wasn't quite sure what he was to be doing at this moment, or what he had already done.
"Then I am in your debt." Sherlock whispered, taking one of John's rough hands in his own and pressing it to his own lips, feeling the man shiver beneath his kiss, feeling John's heartbeat race through his skin, through his veins. This was an act of equality, neither of them should be dominant to the other, they relied on each other and they respected the other equally, for they were equals at heart. For a moment Sherlock felt as though his heart was going to race out of his chest, that or it would explode against the confiding walls of his rib cage. He felt a sudden need for that man in front of him, he needed to be closer, he needed to be wanted. A kiss on the hand suddenly didn't feel like it was enough, a small smile and a gaze from across the carriage simply wouldn't do, and just as Sherlock began to theorize what might be a more satisfying alternative he felt the carriage jolt to a stop, making the poor men jump in surprise as the stillness ripped them back into reality.

"I will make the coachman drive you home; I do not want you walking tonight." Sherlock insisted, getting to his feet and noticing that as soon as he dismounted the carriage John was quick to follow behind.
"No Sherlock, thank you, but I would like to walk." John assured, standing contently on the cobblestones and shutting the carriage door behind him. Sherlock frowned, he couldn't imagine any reason why John would want to struggle home in this cold, windy night, however he thought it best not to argue and sent for the coachman to park the carriage back in the barn, they would not be needing it again tonight.
"I hope to see you again soon." Sherlock muttered softly, standing suddenly alone with John once more in front of his elaborate manor.
"Yes of course, I'm not going anywhere I assure you." John insisted with a smile. Sherlock nodded, tucking his hands into his pockets and staring down momentarily at his feet. There must be a better way to say goodbye than simply saying it, and yet what else could he hope to do? What else was he allowed to do?
"Thank you, Sherlock, for a lovely evening." John muttered, looking almost as uncomfortable as Sherlock was with this unsatisfying farewell. They both felt the need to take another step and yet they had nowhere to go, no destination. They could not step, and so they kept their feet planted flat on the ground.
"And you as well, I say in all truthfulness that I have never had a more exciting trip to the opera." Sherlock admitted with a soft smile, to which John only nodded with a laugh, looking flattered yet guilty all the same.
"Yes well I think I must apologize, I'm not the quietest of guests." John admitted with a bit of a flush in his cheeks.
"Ah not to worry Mr. Watson, your narration was much more entertaining than the play itself." Sherlock assured carelessly, watching as John's gaze was still focused on their feet, he looked somewhat preoccupied and Sherlock knew why of course. The same conundrum was playing on both of their minds and yet neither could think of any solution that was acceptable. All they could do was exactly what they were already doing, and that, quite simply, was nothing.
"Goodnight Sherlock." John said finally, bringing his gaze up to meet Sherlock's with a smile and a look of longing that they both knew could not be satisfied very easily. Sherlock nodded, clearing his throat in this chilly weather and watching as his breath turned to fog in front of him.
"Goodnight Mr. Watson." He agreed, feeling the need to step closer even as John began to turn away. And just like that he was gone, disappearing through the cold air with his jacket drawn around him, leaving Sherlock to stand helplessly as the gap between them widened with every step he took, pulling the string between their hearts farther still. And Sherlock stood alone, unaware of the face in the orange window that watched from above.

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