To Be Like That Of A God

Death Might Be Preferable

Sherlock POV: Sherlock couldn't sleep, oh how could he even attempt to close his eyes after a conversation such as that! So he had said it, it was a miracle that he could even confess such a thing to himself but to Victor, to someone else, well that made it real did it not? A secret was just a fantasy unless it was shared with someone else, and now that victor knew it gave Sherlock's love a whole new life. Now instead of questioning with himself he knew it was true, now instead of trying to rationalize the unusual increase in his heart rate he would get to focus on how he would take his love to the next level, how he would make it known to the only man who mattered! Talking to Victor was the easy part, for Victor was the same breed of misfit that he had turned out to be. Homosexuals didn't judge each other, that was why Sherlock knew it would be safe to confess to his servant. He felt slightly bad of course, for virtually destroying Victor's hopes of ever being with him and yet surely the boy had never truly envisioned a rational future with them together? Surely Victor was a good servant but as a lover, well, he simply wasn't the man Sherlock was looking for. Victor was nice, he was caring, and he was compassionate, except he was clingy in a way that would make loving him virtually impossible. To love someone and to admit to that love would be to give them leverage over you, a metaphorical chain around your ankles. They have all the power in the world to tell you what and what not to do and you will do it, for the most part, because you deem it not worthy of a break up. If Sherlock had to satisfy Victor's ever last whim then his life would be an endless torrent of seclusion and violin playing, hair brushing and beach going. Not that Victor wouldn't be a good boyfriend, he was beautiful to be sure, he always seemed to be teeming with life, his skin glowing and his eyes vibrant, well Sherlock would go as far as to say that Victor came closer than anyone to being his own aesthetic equal. However there was John, John that rugged little man who didn't come anywhere close to being beautiful, John who smiled with all the happiness in the world and who laughed with the song of the most annoying morning bird. He was one of the purest people Sherlock had ever met, one of the most optimistic and one of the most handsome, in a beat up dirty street puppy sort of way. Sherlock almost felt as though it was his duty to love him, for his heart had been brimming with emotions ever since he had spotted John across the Molly Hooper's dance floor. Well it was necessary for them to be together for Fate had let it be so, Sherlock would never have encountered that man if any of the seemingly impossible variables had been askew. And yet here Sherlock was, lying awake, imagining a life with that man and wishing for an easy way to make his feelings known. The question was, would John ever love him back? Certainly he was a desirable man, Sherlock was the most beautiful person he knew, and yet would his gender be enough to push John away? The worst case scenario here, and I mean the absolute worse, was surprisingly possible. In fact it seemed like the aftermath of this fateful confession could go one of two ways. John could accept his confession and his heart and they could live together as secret soulmates, or John could recoil in disgust and call the police and have Sherlock arrested or possibly put to death for obscenity. Of course he would do anything to avoid the latter and yet it was becoming increasingly evident that the latter was probably more probable. It was possible that Sherlock just happened to have employed the only other homosexual on the planet; maybe no other man harbored any other feelings for another man. Statistically there should be a lid for every pot, however there was indeed two homosexuals in this world, two together, and one who was still seeking another. Maybe Sherlock and Victor were meant to be soulmates and John was fatefully heterosexual? Maybe he would have no interest? It was out of luck that the one man Sherlock could ever share his secret with was the only person that would understand; surely such a confession wouldn't be so easily handled by a man who thought it impossible to love anyone but a woman. And yet maybe John could change, maybe he could be convinced, maybe for Sherlock's sake alone he would try to love another man. What was the cause of homosexuality, were people born to love their same gender or was it some sort of disease, mental or otherwise? Was it an illusion, placed upon him by the pure fact that every other woman repulsed him, or was it a spell, set upon him by a witch who intended on cursing him to an unrequited heart? No but he must try, whatever the cause and whatever the consequence, Sherlock was becoming more and more away of the aching hole in heart, he was becoming more aware of the emptiness felt inside of him and beside him, spaces that should be filled by none other than John Watson, the one man who could make him feel whole once more.