Secrets Aren't Made Slowly

Happiness Is Indeed A Crime

John went to his closet and grabbed his pajamas, walking into the bathroom and sitting for a moment on the vanity, lost in his mind, lost in his senses for the moment. His fingers pressed up against the marble and yet he could still feel skin, not his own skin, softer skin, smoother skin. He shut his eyes and he didn't see darkness, no he saw light, light in the form of white skin, so close and so breathtaking. He could feel the ghost of those hands on his shoulders and his neck and his back, he could feel the fingernails clinging to his skin, he could feel the fingertips dancing along his hairline. He could hear now, Sherlock's heartbeat, right underneath his own. He could hear his voice, his instructions... John shook his head violently, and thankfully when he opened his eyes once more he was in his bathroom. Alone. Oh what was it about that memory that made him feel so wrong? Well everything of course, everything was wrong about it. In all honesty this entire night had been a roller coaster that had been leading straight down to the fires; he was destined there after such a display of passion. He couldn't call it love, not right now, not before he could be sure that whatever fire they had been sparking together had not just burnt out in one night. Love was different, it was more long term. Lust was tonight, love was a first kissed and lust was what turned it into a first night, love was a touch and lust was when it turned into a grapple. He loved Sherlock, he knew that he did, and yet as he thought of it now, what did he really know about Sherlock that he loved? What did he really know about that man that he wanted? Could he ever be in a long term relationship with him, a junkie, a man who was undoubtedly depressed, one who was married to someone he hated and constantly complained about every human being in his life? John knew only things he didn't want to know about Sherlock. About his hateful wife, about his relationship with Victor, about his relationship with whatever drugs were left on his nightstand when Victor left. John might have fallen in love with that man's body, not necessarily with his soul, and maybe it was that fact entirely that scared him. Maybe he was concerned because he realized that they weren't as compatible as he had imagined they'd be. John showered as quickly as he possibly could, not because he felt as though the water was hurting him in anyway but he was suddenly feeling quite modest. Now of course he knew that there was no need to feel uncomfortable in his own bathroom, and yet he also knew that what he hid daily under his clothes was no longer much of a secret. It made him wince, just a little bit, to think that he was no longer a secret to the world. All of this, all of these instances and these childhood nervousness, kissing and intimacy, being in love, being exposed, he had never prepared himself to handle such things, no one had ever taught him just what to do or how to feel! He was almost beginning to feel ashamed, for he suspected now that maybe taking it through as many bases as possible in just one night wasn't the best approach to a new relationship. Maybe he had gone too quickly, maybe this was all just happening to fast! Instead of easing into a new and blossoming love this experience was basically the equivalent of being hit in the face with a ton of bricks. It was just a sensory overload, really, as his heart tried to process it and his brain tried to rationalize it, they weren't working as a pair, they were disproving each other, they were contradicting each other. John's heart said that it was right all while his brain insisted that it was wrong, the logic was overtaking the love and suddenly John was having trouble seeing that night as anything more than just wrong. And was it wrong, was it really? Or was he once more simply over thinking things? When John finished his shower he dressed rather quickly, toweling his hair dry before walking out into his room to find a nice steaming cup of tea. He appreciated his mother's worrying about his caffeine levels, and yet even though the tea was decaffeinated he noticed that when he gave it a quick stir a whole tablespoon of sugar was brought up, swirling about the liquid as it attempted to get dissolved. Nevertheless John drank it rather forcefully, sitting in his bed with his back to the headboard and beginning to shiver rather violently. He pulled his blankets up to his chin and sipped the warm tea, attempting to watch reruns of some of his favorite shows on Netflix and yet nothing seemed to grab his attention. Instead he blinked and he saw...he saw him. He saw his beauty, he saw his breath, and his skin, John shivered again, trying to block those thoughts from his mind. And yet this feeling, in some ways he knew it was worse than the agony of longing simply because there was no coming back from whatever this was. Regret, disgust, most likely, not with Sherlock but with himself. It was eating him slowly, from the inside it had begun to gnaw, and John knew that when it finished he would not be able to look at the magic that had been created in any other way than horror. He felt differently about himself now, he felt differently about the world. He felt tainted, he felt diseased. No longer did he bare the pristine glimmer of youth, the carelessness of blissful waiting for some sort of princess to sweep him off of his feet. No, it had been a man, it had been his teacher...it had still been beautiful and yet it wasn't...it wasn't right. John could barely even think of himself as the same boy, he was supposedly a man now, and yet he was still yet to be a legal adult. He was just, well he was out of his mind!