Death Is A Friend

Dreams Can Come True

Finally Sherlock found himself seated next to John, in a great big room that was filled with cozy chairs. It was dim yet not completely dark, and Sherlock could still see that they weren't alone in this place. There were numerous other people, a lot of them couples as well, and Sherlock felt so terribly out of place. He didn't know anyone here, much less the boy he was seated next to! This still felt like another dream, it still felt as though there was something terribly wrong, a misconception, and a miscommunication. Yet John had confirmed that it was a date, he had even called Sherlock beautiful...he seemed to know what he was getting himself into. And even now, as they sat side by side, John seemed content. Sherlock dared not look at him too long, for he felt almost as if he was not allowed to. This had to be some sort of bribery; John must only be here because he was paid off by Mycroft. Perhaps he thought he was just obeying the church and being a good follower by taking the alienated child of the minister out on his first date. Then again, homosexuality wasn't entirely appreciated in this church, and so John's acts were a little bit unorthodox. In fact, if Minister Holmes had caught them here together he may very well murder them both. Sherlock, for being out of the house, and John for being with him...so close really. Leaning on the armrest that separated them both, and grinning at random intervals in the direction of his date. Sherlock sat very straight, keeping his eyes fixed on the blank screen that sat before them, waiting anxiously for the movie to begin so that he could be given something else to distract himself with. Of course this very moment had played out in his head for years at a time! In the darkness, for as long as he could remember, he would imagine his first date with John Watson. Yet never had he expected it to come true! How much easier it was, when his actions could be erased and his words forgotten, and he could start it al from the top if things didn't go the way he liked? How much easier it was when the John alongside him had no judgement, and no traits that were not conjured from Sherlock's own interpretation of the perfect man. In his imagination he could have leaned over now, and finally tasted the lips that had been on his mind since he first saw John's blonde head on the sidewalk outside. Yet now, now in reality, well he had to stay away. He had to sit as straight as possible, remembering of course that everyone time John's eyes looked his way he was judging, he was making observations. None of those observations could be negative; Sherlock could not allow anything other than perfection. For the probability of keeping John by his side was much greater if John thought he was beautiful.
"We can talk, you know? That's what most people do on dates, talk." John said finally, after checking his watch to see that they still had some time to wait until the trailers began. John was sitting with a great big bucket of popcorn on his lap, yet Sherlock dare not help himself. He didn't even know if they were meant to share, or if John was just going to eat the whole thing by himself.
"Talking isn't my strong point." Sherlock admitted quietly.
"What is, then?" John wondered, to which Sherlock looked over at him with wide, nervous eyes.
"I'm very good at chemistry." Sherlock decided finally, after a long pause in which he assessed his skills. Admittedly, it was not a very long list.
"Chemistry! Wow, that's a complicated branch of science. I had to learn it once, last year. I couldn't make it past atoms before my brain had a conniption. You're smart then, a science guy?" John presumed.
"I suppose as far as my studies have gone, science has always been my strong point." Sherlock agreed hesitantly, for he didn't want to make himself seem like any sort of genius. It was true that he thrived academically, in all subjects to be honest. Yet he didn't want to sound like he held himself higher than everyone else, for in all honestly he was quite afraid of how superior everyone in this world was to him. Maybe he could understand chemistry more than most, yet it would seem as though everyone else in the world would know the proper social etiquette on a date, or at a movie theater, everyone else in the world would have already figured out how to get John's arm around their shoulders. Sherlock was a child in this strange world, simply a child who happened to understand the interworking of organic compounds.
"I'm not really good at school stuff." John admitted with a shrug.
"Really? I had rather assumed you were perfect in all aspects." Sherlock muttered, his cheeks glowing a bit scarlet as he realized what an embarrassing form of flattery this conversation had taken. Now he really was betraying himself and the secrets that weren't trying to stay hidden for long. Yet John simply chuckled, as if he took that as a compliment rather than a warning sign.
"Well I suppose I am smart, but like, I'm not naturally smart. I've got to work at it, and usually I don't have the time to do that." John admitted.
"Sports are your strong suit, I suppose?" Sherlock presumed. John grinned, nodding his head and wiggling a little bit excitedly in his chair.
"Oh yes." He agreed. "I imagine you've heard of my football stats?"
"I just know you're good. Beyond that, well I don't even know what stats are." Sherlock admitted a bit nervously.
"Well let's just say football is the best thing I do, or have ever done. I think I'm born for it, just like you're born for chemistry." John decided with a grin.
"I was born for a grave." Sherlock grumbled, looking down at his oxygen tank glumly all the while John tensed. Obviously he didn't know how to respond to something so morbid as that, and Sherlock felt rather bad for flinging such pessimism in his direction. Of course he wasn't used to conversing with people who weren't used to his disease! Mycroft knew the trouble that Sherlock went through daily, and he knew enough to disregard any death jokes that were made. Victor on the other hand was so casual with death that he may very well be the Grim Reaper himself, and he took Sherlock's death jokes as some sort of flattery, for the most part. John, on the other hand, surely hadn't ever been in a conversation with someone whose time on this earth was diminishing dangerously fast.
"Now don't talk like that. Life is what you make of it, no matter how much you're allowed." John muttered, although his voice was stiff, for he obviously didn't know what to say in this situation. He didn't know Sherlock enough to know his outlook on life. Sherlock heaved a great sigh, for John's words sounded exactly like Mycroft's when he tried to talk positively. It just sounded stupid, really, for it seemed as though optimists didn't understand how time worked. Just because Sherlock's life was destined to be shorter than everyone else's doesn't mean it worked at all faster. The only track to any purpose was education, and that was grade school and then university, both things Sherlock would be deprived of. Even if his parents did allow him any sort of escape into the real world, he would get cut short in the middle of his studies when his lungs gave out. He wasn't going to make it to a career, or to any sort of position at all. It was incredibly hard to change the world from the attic, no matter how good he was at chemistry. It was impossible to make anything about of your life if everyone merely pities you! Except, perhaps...in a morgue. Where no one saw you as anything different, where no one saw you as anything dying. Where there was only one set of eyes and they were...adoring. Sherlock shivered slightly, despite the heat, and for a moment he forgot where he was, and who was sitting next to him. Instead he remembered Victor, his eyes, his grin, and that familiar feeling washed over his entire body. And oh it was almost embarrassing to say that when he turned his eyes back to reality, it was almost disappointing.