To Be Like That Of A God

Accomplice To An Abnormality

           

Sherlock made his dramatic decent to no audience except the butlers, having lined up in the entry way in case of any stragglers. Sherlock, it would seem, would appear fashionably late to his own party. And yet he was quite satisfied with that, in fact it seemed like a very glamorous thing to do. He was pampered the point of perfection, and so when he entered into the busy ballroom is seemed as though everyone paused, settling their eyes on him and basking in all of his beauty. Two of those eyes, he noticed immediately, were those of his most beloved John Watson, who was standing rather awkwardly to the side as he always seemed to do in parties such as these. Sherlock pretended not to notice his sudden idolization, instead making for his brother who stood alongside the ballroom with some very bored looking men, all of who Sherlock didn't care to recognize.
"Late again, brother mine?" Mycroft asked, seeming almost relieved at the appearance of someone he didn't have to impress.
"No carriage to miss, so no issue." Sherlock assured with the hint of a smile, listening as the orchestra picked up to a song he very much enjoyed. There weren't many people dancing at the moment, and yet the ones that were seemed to be enjoying themselves very much, for they spun and twirled with the largest of smiles on their painted faces. Most of the guests were eating, loading up their plates with delicacies presented in a beautiful array by Mrs. Hudson, who was herself absent at the feast.
"How quickly this night did approach, I assume Sherlock, that you're fully prepared?" Mycroft wondered, raising his eyebrows as if asking if Sherlock had the ring or not. Sherlock discretely patted his pocket, in which he felt the familiar shape of the box protruding, and nodded miserably.
"How could I ever forget?" Sherlock asked with a bit of a scowl, turning away finally and disappearing back into the crowd. He assumed that Mycroft would understand his desire to be alone, and yet he wasn't alone, at least he wasn't intending on it. John Watson was somewhere in this crowd, and it would seem as though the two of them had some unfinished business to discuss before Sherlock's life as a free man ended in the most tragic display of falsified delight. John appeared to Sherlock quicker than he would've anticipated, standing near the orchestra and watching as the bows rocked back and forth across the strings of the elegant violins, and how the cheeks of the flute players inflated and deflated as they blew their breath in the form of music through their instruments. John seemed momentarily fascinated, and before he could ever see Sherlock he seemed to notice his presence, for he blinked and donned an expression of some confusion, as if wondering why he was torn out of his transfixion. When their eyes finally met John drew himself up to his full height, straightening his coat and bowing while his cheeks began to turn the slightest shade of red.
"My Lord, so good to see you." John announced formally, talking as if he were a stuffy rich person and not the most beloved peasant in the room.
"Oh you and your formalities will be the death of me." Sherlock insisted in a mockingly sarcastic tone. John, however, seemed to take that as some sort of insult, and he ducked his head sorrowfully, studying instead Sherlock's polished shoes. He seemed rather interested in the shining of the leather, as if wondering whose handiwork it was.
"My apologies." John murmured, however a smile broke out on Sherlock's face as examined the boy's meek, rather timid expression.
"You know how I joke with you Mr. Watson; you have nothing to apologize to me about. Are you enjoying the party?" Sherlock wondered, taking a moment to spin on his heel and examine all of the festivities that were going on around him. People he didn't recognize eating, dancing, chatting away, all dressed their finest and holding their spotless noses high in their air, trying to look down on even their superiors.
"You know how I feel about rich parties." John insisted, shoving his hands in his pocket and leaning against the marble wall of the Holmes family ballroom. To be honest Sherlock had no idea how John felt about rich parties, and if he had once been informed on the topic he had long since forgotten, and so he simply nodded. Sherlock could only assume, however, that John wasn't the biggest fan of these obnoxious parties, as he always seemed to be standing off to the side in that old frock coat of his.
"Then why did you attend?" Sherlock wondered, raising one of his delicately waxed eyebrows in confrontation. John couldn't help but smile, shrugging as if he were suddenly feeling as though this was an interrogation.
"Well I knew you would be here, of course." John admitted with a smile. Sherlock nodded, trying to restrain his smile to the best of his abilities but finding that a futile task, for the corners of his lips threatened to rise in an expression of slight amusement despite his best efforts to keep them down. Sherlock decided that he probably looked a little bit crazy while trying to fight his own facial muscles and so he turned his back sharply, letting himself fall into the wall next to John and examine the orchestra more carefully. None of the members were ones he recognized and yet their music was just the same, beautiful and well played, he could not find a single thing to complain about.
"Does my presence tempt you?" Sherlock wondered without a single glance at his companion, talking more in the direction of the orchestra than anything. And yet they didn't seem to notice the question, and the deep breath which could be heard beside him assured him that John did.
"Your presence is certainly a contributing factor to my willingness to leave the house." John admitted finally, picking his words carefully so as not to accidently reveal too much about his inner feelings to the man standing next to him. Sherlock nodded, thinking about what sort of house John may just have to leave from. Surely it wasn't much, a shack if anything?
"And your presence is a contributing factor to my throwing a party." Sherlock admitted, finally letting his head fall upon his own shoulder so as to spot John in the corner of his eye. John was looking back with some difficulty, trying to form words which he could not anticipate without trapping them in his lips and examining them before allowing them to escape into the air around them.
"You threw this party for me?" John clarified, looking around him at the extravagant event that was unfolding all around them and smiling in a rather pleased way, as though he had never had such a thing thrown on his behalf. Sherlock was much too kind to admit to John what this party was really for, and yet the mention of such a gala brought to mind the real objective of the evening, one that  certainly could not be accomplished in the presence of so many formal party goers.
"It is much too loud in here, were you planning on eating anything?" Sherlock asked in a huff, his heart rate accelerating in anticipation as he began to plan his next words carefully. Where should he bring John that would assure them complete privacy? Certainly not anywhere a guest could aimlessly walk into, or where a servant would walk in to do their daily cleaning, somewhere untouched, unbothered...
"I've already had some cheese crackers, or whatever they were." John admitted carelessly, his voice overcome with an odd sense of knowingness, a pitch higher than it would usually be.
"Would you mind then, accompanying me to the sitting room? It's quitter there, warmer." Sherlock admitted, shivering at once with the cold draft that was being omitted from the frosted window panes right next to him.
"I don't want to take you from your party; surely there are other people here who would like to have the pleasure of your presence." John defended, and yet even as he said it there was an air of desperation to his voice. He didn't want to leave Sherlock, not now that their webs were slowly intertwining evermore, no he couldn't leave now.  And yet John, ever so faithful, ever so considerate about the wellbeing of others, thought that it might be polite to ask, despite his ever so obvious need to bask in the beauty that was radiated off of the man who stood next to him.
"Oh we don't need them for this." Sherlock assured, grabbing one of John's hands, which had been stagnant at his side, and pulling him off through the crowd of meanderers and through the doors. John didn't let his hand drop, in fact Sherlock thought that he might've wanted to preserve some of his social status as they made their way through the top class citizens, and yet John's grip only tightened as the crowd thickened, which either meant he was proud to hold Sherlock's hand or he was actually afraid of getting lost in such a swarm. When finally they escaped into the entrance hall all who occupied it were a couple of servants, and so John stepped closer to Sherlock's side, giggling a little bit as their fingers intertwined, forming a sort of bond that was not easily broken nor easily noticed if they stood close enough together. Sherlock paid no attention to the butlers and yet he was sure all of their eyes were on him, what talking could they do anyway? What did it matter? All that would circulate was that Sherlock had run off with a man from the party, not much gossip there unless those horrible brains started to formulate the correct theory, and of course the correct theory would require at least minimal knowledge of the different sexualities. Sherlock wasn't very worried, and so he led John through the house and to the sitting room, where there was already a blazing fire and two soft armchairs positioned in front. There was a tray on the mantle, filled with many expensive scotches and whiskeys, all shining in crystalline flasks with small glasses decorating the sides. As soon as they entered their final destination their hands retreated, and John ventured towards the fire while Sherlock very softly closed the doors, the small snap so quiet that John didn't look up from the flames. He was enjoying the warmth, it would seem, and yet he seemed so unsure of what was to come next. Sherlock, on the other hand, was experiencing quite the anticipation, quite the anxiety. He had not planned out a speech; he had not planned out much of anything except his intended end result. He wanted John to be his, that was all. He wanted John to be his at least for this moment, until he himself had to drift away to the wife who he did not want.
"Would you like a drink?" Sherlock wondered politely, walking over to the drink tray and setting two small glasses on the mantle for filling.
"If you wouldn't mind." John agreed, shrugging his shoulders indifferently and watching Sherlock out of the corner of his eye, as if he wasn't entirely sure if he was allowed to stare just yet. Sherlock found that his hands were trembling, and despite John's request of a drink he was sure the mantle and the floor would receive more whiskey than either of them combined.
"Are you alright?" John wondered as he heard the tinkle of the crystal decanter knock against the glasses one too many times. Sherlock nodded, clearing his throat rather awkwardly and capping the large flask, setting it back where he had found it and handing John one of the glasses as carefully as could be managed.
"Quite fine." Sherlock lied rather hastily, feeling as though his heart was beating much faster than should be normal, and so he made his way to one of the armchairs and sunk into it very nervously. He was thankful for the break, for now his legs were beginning to grow quite numb with the anticipation of what was to be set in motion with his very words. Sherlock had never cared about a relationship before; in fact he had never kissed anyone before, voluntarily that is. He didn't know the appropriate lines, the appropriate actions; oh now that he considered it he didn't even know how to kiss properly! He should've kissed Victor when he had the chance, at least then he might have been a little bit prepared for this! His romantic future with John stretched the whole of these couple of minutes and yet Sherlock was desperate to make them last, he didn't want to spoil their future relationship, romantic or otherwise, because he couldn't think up the right speech or figure out just what to do with his hands while his lips were occupied. John took the seat opposite, sinking into the cushion and looking quite impressed. He sipped at his alcohol and yet neither of them were able to think up anything to say, at least not yet.
"Is your brother here?" John wondered, trying to make a sort of small talk while his eyes scanned the room nervously. Sherlock's heart stopped momentarily before he let out a breath of confusion, for a moment he thought that John had meant that Mycroft was lurking around the doors, intending on coming in. That would certainly make for an awkward moment indeed.
"In the ballroom, yes." Sherlock assured, not entirely sure of John's intentions with this question. John, however, could only laugh, sipping at his drink as if he had found Mycroft's presence to be extremely entertaining.
"Oh well that's good, I thought he still might be wandering along in the cold." John admitted, chuckling to himself and yet getting only a small, timid smile from Sherlock in return. Yes of course their abandonment of Mycroft had been plenty amusing at the time, and yet the consequences that had arisen were anything less than satisfactory. Sherlock wished that he had let Mycroft join them in the warn carriage away from the opera, at least then he would not be have to say goodbye to John so quickly into their relationship.
"No he is fine, quite fine." Sherlock assured gloomily. John nodded, deciding that their very short conversation had ended with that even smaller statement. Sherlock was off in his own mind, however insistent he was on being a good host this evening he was trying his best to come up with something, anything, that would provide him with a good start of his ultimate confession of love. Surely he couldn't just blurt something like that out, it had to come in short statements, there was even some vagueness necessary for an easy to absorb acceptance. John was becoming discouraged, that was evident, and yet what could Sherlock do to get this conversation sped up a little bit more? He gazed off into the flames, sipping at his whiskey and trying his best not to look too distant.
"You seem rather off today Sherlock." John observed finally, leaning forward in his chair and taking the final sip of his whiskey, looking almost as if he was eager to refill it himself. Sherlock hummed in agreement, gazing for a moment at John with unyielding eyes, staring right into the brown eyes that did an equal job of examining him back. John really was a beautiful creature beneath his rugged nature, his soul was pure, it was golden, and it was protruding from those beautiful black pupils and just waiting to get scooped up by Sherlock, accepted by him, oh he could sense that longing deep in John's soul, it was just like his, yearning for the impossible and yet the impossible was in his grasp, all he had to do was find the right introduction!
"Do you mind?" John wondered, shaking his empty glass to which Sherlock nodded, waving his hand carelessly to the sparkling decanter and holding his own half-filled glass in his nervous hands. For no reason at all Sherlock jumped to his feet in an act that was seemingly aggressive, for John looked over rather curiously as he saw Sherlock very timidly approaching him by the light of the blazing fire. Sherlock's throat was closing and yet he so desperately wanted to say what he needed to say, for the clock was ticking and the party outside was dwindling, he needed to propose soon, Mycroft was intending on it being tonight. He was the one that had planned this after all.
"John tonight I am being forced to do something which I will ultimately regret." Sherlock started in a trembling voice, standing next to the man with his fingers clenched tightly around his small glass of whiskey. John looked at him with the most curious of glances, filling up his glass and setting the flask on the mantle, shuffling his feet and yet doing nothing to return to his armchair. This proximity was necessary if Sherlock wanted the kiss he sought; he could not let John return to his chair.
"And what might that be?" John wondered nervously, the light from the fire illuminating his face and concealing the crevices in his cheeks with shadow. Sherlock shook his head fearfully, unable to look John in the eyes as he remembered the horrible task which he had to preform and the ring that was hidden in his pocket.
"It is irrelevant at the moment, and yet...it will change things between us." Sherlock admitted heavily. John stared at him curiously, looking almost sympathetic as he attempted to step closer. He could sense Sherlock's uneasiness, he could sense his despair. And yet the pieces weren't connecting, and they won't of course, until Sherlock delivered the final blow.
"I don't intend on anything different." John assured in a quiet voice, staring up at Sherlock and yet not finding that his gaze was returned. Sherlock had become too afraid to look John in the eyes, so he stared at the fire instead. It wasn't as interesting, or as beautiful, and yet he felt much more comfortable with the fire than he did with the man.
"I've fallen in love." Sherlock admitted in the smallest of voices, his fingers gripping at his glass with such ferocity he was surprised it was not shattered by now. His body had grown numb and his heart had begun to beat louder and louder, and yet he knew that this was exactly the position he wanted himself to be in; this was the position he had dreamt of for the longest of times. When he could finally admit his love to the man who deserved it, this was how it started.
"Oh you have? And who, if I may ask, is the lucky lady?" John asked in the most curious of all voices, for he seemed happy and yet there was hollowness to his excitement, something of discontentment seeping through. He was heartbroken momentarily, for never in his wildest dreams would he ever consider himself a worthy recipient of Sherlock's heart.
"No..." Sherlock murmured, shaking his head and squeezing his eyes shut momentarily yet still seeing the light of the fire from beyond his lids. There was silence.
"No John...John it's not..." he shut his eyes and his mouth this time, shaking his head for the lack of words, for the lack of the appropriate words that was. And yet it would seem that there was no need, for the crash of a glass upon the floor was enough to alert him of John's understanding. John's glass lay in shards at their feet and yet neither of them paid any notice, in fact the shatter was the only thing that brought their attention back together, it was the magnet that drew their gazes to meet and their hearts to beat, and for a moment it would seem as though they were the only two things moving on earth, in fact Sherlock could almost swear he didn't hear the ticking of the clock in the corner of the room.
"Sherlock you don't mean...?" John wondered in the smallest of voices, a breathless voice. Sherlock didn't know what John meant, or at least he didn't know for sure, and yet he allowed himself to nod. There really could only be one suspicion that could not be spoken, for its name was considered poison on men's lips. 
"I did not intend on it, I assure you John I know that it is unnatural, and it is sinful, and yet...Oh how can I help it? I'm just...I'm not normal." Sherlock admitted, closing his eyes in an attempt to try to suppress his tears. John just shook his head, his feet crunching over the shards of glass that had been carelessly strewn about the hardwood floors.
"You're normal." He assured in a breath, as though he was trying to reassure Sherlock of the fact.
"I'm not." Sherlock whispered, shaking his head in painful denial. Sherlock found that his eyes were closed only once he felt John's touch and yet he couldn't see his face, he felt that beautiful brush of skin, skin that was so rough and yet so fair it had to belong to John Watson, it was brushing ever so softly against his cheek in the most beautiful of patterns, in the most beautiful warmth...
"If you are not normal Sherlock, then what does that make me?" John wondered softly.
"My victim." Sherlock whispered, his lips still unrestrained, still empty. And yet he felt, with a tugging sensation that was beginning to present itself at the pit of his heart, that they wouldn't stay empty for much longer.
"Your accomplice." John corrected, prompting Sherlock's eyes to fly open just in time for John's lips to meet his own, a kiss so effortlessly delivered and so breathlessly received that Sherlock could do nothing but stand, stare, and freeze. He couldn't do anything with his hands and yet that was quite alright, he held onto his glass and John held onto his face, and together their lips eased themselves together in the most still of all dances, brushing together and loitering momentarily before John finally pulled away, a brief thunderstorm, a brief rainbow, a brief tsunami followed by the most marvelous of blue skies. Sherlock did not know how to react, in fact he ultimately suspected that he was not supposed to react because of how impossible it suddenly seemed to open his mouth or even think of a word that was more than just a long stream of gibberish. John didn't say anything either, in fact he seemed almost ashamed, as if that was not what he was intended to do, and he turned his face away in angst. Sherlock, however, stayed completely still, realizing at once that this kiss was his first and last proper kiss, and it had just come and gone without his proper realization or satisfaction. In fact he was almost sure that it had never happened at all. How could something so breathtaking be forgotten so easily and how could a memory he intended on keeping forever fade almost as soon as it was finished being made?