Secrets Aren't Made Slowly

End Up Proving Him Right

It was a miserable three days of solitude, complete and utter loneliness. Well, Sherlock did at one point have one companion, and yet Victor should hardly count. In fact you'd probably think seeing another human being would somehow make him feel better, and yet Sherlock felt even worse after Victor Trevor sauntered through his door with what looked like a can of chicken soup. Now Sherlock didn't know how he knew about the 'flu' fallacy, and yet he was rigid with anger as soon as that horrible man tried to smile at him, smile as if he had never made a sinful move in his life.
"Sherlock, oh well you're looking quite good for a man with the flu." Victor teased as he walked in the door uninvited and without a key. Somehow he had just tried the handle and let himself in, and yet he might have been disappointed to find that Sherlock was in fact very able to pounce towards him with the bottom of the lamp and try to hit him over the head with it. The attack was futile, of course, for Victor simply grabbed hold of the lamp and wretched it out of Sherlock's hands, kicking the man away and sending Sherlock flying back to the hardwood floor where he had started.
"You horrible, you despicable human being!" Sherlock growled, pulling himself to his feet not to fight Victor, but simply to make sure he wasn't caught on the floor if Victor decided to make some sort of sickening romantic move.
"Me? What did I do? I just...well I brought you soup! Surely that's worth a thank you?" Victor insisted, sounding rather insulted as he held his hand to his heart and displayed the can of chicken noodle soup.
"How did you even know that I was sick?" Sherlock growled, walking over and grabbing the soup before holding it in his hand like a weapon, feeling ever so tempted to use it as a club and bludgeon Victor over the head with it. Oh how satisfying would that be, to leave Victor senseless on his floor, maybe even with a head wound? It would be what he deserved.
"Jim told me, of course. I saw him last night, and yesterday morning." Victor teased, smiling rather sadly as he looked upon Sherlock's pitiful form. He was still wearing the same clothes he had gotten high in two days before, they were sticky with sweat and wrinkled underneath him as he slept, and yet somehow he still looked more beautiful than ever. Sherlock's hair was matted and oily, sticking to his forehead and his cheeks were gaunt, for Janine had gone off somewhere and didn't leave him with much food choices. Sherlock had been getting high in the entirety of his little vacation, calling in sick every day and whining over the receiver about he had been to the doctor and they gave him antibiotics, all this rubbish that he couldn't believe the school wasn't investigating by now. He was trying to keep himself from being sober simply because he hated what his mind produced when he was, he liked his mind much better was it was dulled enough to forget about the constant pain John Watson produced upon it.
"You told me that John loved me, you lied to me!" Sherlock exclaimed, pointing an accusing finger at Victor who just raised his hands defensively. He expected Victor to defend himself, of course, for men liked Victor usually despised being called a liar, however this time Victor just laughed, he laughed as if his evil little plan was working out wonderfully.
"Oh you, you gullible little Romeo, what did you do?" Victor asked all between gasps of laughter, leaning up against the doorframe and watching as Sherlock's mouth contorted into a frown, laughing at him as if his emotions were just funny little things that he could play with now and then.
"I didn't do anything, and thank God I didn't! You lied to me, I realized it." Sherlock snapped.
"Poor Sherlock, awe does Juliet not love you, huh? Poor Sherlock." Victor whined, pulling a mockingly upset face to which Sherlock only growled, attempting to take a step forward when in reality he only took a step back. This was hurting him more than Victor could ever imagine, not only with physical pain but with emotional pain as well. Can Victor not see that his mind was tearing itself to shreds, trying to think of what was to be done about this, about all of it?
"You told me he did!" Sherlock exclaimed defensively.
"And what does that matter? What does it matter if I did? I don't know him well enough to disprove myself; maybe he really does love you. But that will do you no good, Sherlock, if you don't love him back. So tell me, where does this obsession lie? In your brain or in your heart?" Victor taunted, taking a step forward and shutting the door with a mere flick of his foot. Sherlock scowled at him, his fingers clenched over the paper label of the soup and yet he wasn't strong enough to step away. His heart wanted so badly to be loved, that maybe there wouldn't be that much of a difference if it was Victor's love or John's.
"Victor, he's my student..." Sherlock whispered.
"That makes no difference Sherlock, none at all. I know you to love out of your league, out of your century. Admit it Sherlock, your heart knows no bounds, it doesn't want to. You're so desperate to be cradled with hands that would scratch you that you leap into any man's arms that looked willing to accept you. You love it, Sherlock...and so you love him. There mere opportunity of falling in love is enough to make you unbutton your shirt and fall into bed." Victor taunted in a purr. Sherlock scowled at him and yet he didn't protest, oh he hated it when Victor was right, he hated how someone else knew his heart better than he did.
"Oh just stop it Victor, stop!" Sherlock demanded, and yet Victor continued to get closer, and of course Sherlock wouldn't back away.
"Why Sherlock? Afraid of finally falling in love, is it? Or are you afraid of what might happen if you admit it? Love isn't fragile Sherlock, it can take a beating, oh just admit it Sherlock, in one way or the other, admit it, you're in love with a student. That's why you were so desperate to know that he loved you, and so shameful to realize that he wasn't." Victor whispered.
"I'm not afraid of falling in love; it's just that I'm not! I'm not, I can't..." Sherlock breathed. "You don't understand."
"What don't I understand?" Victor whispered.
"If I could tell you I would, but I can't, so I won't." Sherlock murmured, to which Victor just chuckled and nodded, almost as if he thought he understood the situation Sherlock was in. Maybe he was expecting something a lot more racy than an undercover cop, however since John's profession would later lead to Victor's eventual arrest Sherlock had to keep the secret safe, at least for now. It would be a like a surprise party for the entire community, they could all cheer and eat cake while Victor was condemned to heavy fines and forty years behind bars.
"Always so insistent on having a secret Sherlock. Do you think that it makes you special? Do you think that by knowing something that no one else knows you are somehow above them?" Victor wondered. Now he was nearly on top of Sherlock, their chests were nearly pressed together, and his electric blue eyes bore so heavily into Sherlock's that he was almost worried that Victor could see right into his soul. Oh the things that were kept in there, the feelings, the love and the hatred, the secrets and the truths...
"Would it be any use to ask you to get away?" Sherlock wondered in a whisper.
"No, no you would be wasting your breath." Victor murmured, lifting up his hand so as to stroke Sherlock's cheek lovingly, gently, as if he was trying to convince Sherlock that he was no more than just an innocent suitor when in fact he was a snake, wrapped all around the branches of the tree.
"Why would I need my breath anyway?" Sherlock whispered, knowing that there really was no reason to raise his voice as Victor was now just inches away, breathing carefully, smiling gently.
"You'll need it for staying alive, of course." Victor laughed, now wrapping his arms around Sherlock's neck as if he had every right to do so. "You want this Sherlock, I know you do. How long as has it been, hm? Since you were with anyone, how long has your heart been struggling in that chest of yours, aching for just one man to come along and soothe it, if not for a night, just an afternoon?"
"It's never ached for you." Sherlock growled.
"Oh but it aches for someone, does it not, it aches for him. Think of him Sherlock, for if I am in paradise I would hate to deprive you of the same pleasure." Victor suggested, and with that he kissed him, roughly, passionately. And of course Sherlock hated to take Victor's advice, and yet he was right again, right forever. It was a lot easier to submit to him when he could convince himself that it wasn't actually Victor. It was much more passionate when he could close his eyes and envision not a brunette but a blonde, imagining that the hands that caressed his shoulders were smooth, and the lips that kissed his were soft, and gentle. It was easier to grab at arms that were untainted and unwounded, and easier to imagine that he was the first as opposed to just one of many. It made his heart beat instead of stop when he thought that the man on top of him now was not Victor, the very man he despised most, the very man who knew how to play him and how to show up at the exact moment he was needed. Sherlock had never loved Victor, he had never even tolerated Victor, and yet Victor was the only man Sherlock knew that stayed, that returned, that actually cared. Victor knew every hair on Sherlock's head and every freckle on his skin, he knew every line in his lips and he knew every scar on his body. He knew how Sherlock moved, how he twisted and how he writhed, he knew the words that would come out of his mouth, he knew of the contortion of his neck, he knew when to kiss his neck, he knew when to kiss his back, he knew when to be still, and he knew when not to be. And even worse, Victor knew that Sherlock hated him. Maybe that was one of the reasons he was just so attracted to him, maybe Victor loved to over dominate those who thought they were somehow better than him. Sherlock knew that he was in no way better, however he also knew he was in no way worse. He and Victor both lay at the bottom of whatever pit humanity was supposed to crawl from, maybe that was the one connection they both shared. Maybe that was why they kept finding each other, simply because they had no one else down here in the darkness. And yet maybe Sherlock could convince himself otherwise, maybe it didn't have to be Victor now, with him. Maybe it could be someone different, someone who had scaled the walls of success and was now going down to collect those who couldn't even make it to the base. The man who could make all the difference, that man who knew nothing of Sherlock and yet everything about love, the man who could possess his heart and his body and his soul, the man that Sherlock would very willingly leave the world for. In his mind it was John with him now, not Victor, and of course that was evident, it was his own sort of love confession. Victor had asked for a confession of course, and he knew that it would come eventually. It would come when Sherlock's face was up against the pillows, and it would come when he breathed out John's name, softly and quietly, all while it was Victor who was with him now. And Victor heard him, of course, and yet it made him smile. Victor always loved to be proved right.