My Full Confession

Your Invitation Is On Its Way

"So what have I missed, besides Ms. Irene Adler?" John asked comfortably. I sighed heavily, shrugging my shoulders and trying to think of the main points of my life.
"My mother died." I decided finally.
"I'm sorry to hear that. Mine did too." John admitted with a glum little shrug.
"It was when I was still young; she got into an argument with my father about Mycroft's college. He pushed her down the stairs, and she died." I finished miserably. John's face went very pale, and he looked almost as if he wanted to reach over and console me. He restrained himself, yet looked absolutely shocked all the same.
"Why wasn't he hanged?" he asked almost angrily, as if wondering why his own father had been executed for stealing, while my murderous father walked free.
"They didn't have enough evidence against him. God I wish they had hung him though. I wish they had." I growled.
"No you don't." John muttered. "Being an orphan is the worst thing in the world."
"I'd rather be alone, than living under his fist." I insisted. John sighed heavily, yet shrugged his shoulders as if he didn't feel like arguing.
"My sister's gone off somewhere; I can't imagine what sort of trouble she's gone through to get by. She's peculiar, but she's cunning. I'm sure she'll get on okay." John admitted glumly.
"You mean you haven't seen her?" I asked in astonishment.
"Not since my mother died. Harry had always been waiting for a reason to leave, and just as soon as my mother passed she took her inheritance and took her leave." John grumbled. "She never liked us much."
"I'm sorry to hear that." I muttered. "It seems as though both our families have been shattered."
"Mycroft's still here, isn't he?" John presumed.
"Oh, yes. But he's hardly the same man he was before. He's broken, from the inside." I grumbled.
"I imagine he never went to college, then?" John presumed.
"No, he didn't. My father wouldn't let him." I agreed. "And when Victor went off, well Mycroft sort of just fell apart. Victor went to Harvard, he's the Sherriff now, he's just as rich as his father."
"Oh Victor! I remember him, sly little thing that your brother hung around with." John agreed with something of a grin. "Never liked him."
"Neither did I. I still don't." I agreed, remembering with a shiver our last encounter. I had not seen the man since he had pushed me up against the porch, yet needless to say I was not looking forward to it.
"Well it's nice to have rich friends, isn't it? I mean you; you're off to great places with that wife of yours. Surely you'll meet Victor for tea in these upcoming years." John presumed with a chuckle.
"I wouldn't be caught dead in his sitting room." I insisted with a sneer.
"You act like he's offended you somehow." John presumed. I shook my head, yet still couldn't prevent a shiver from running down my spine. John could tell that I was agitated, presumably because we had spent so many years together sharing the same emotions. He could tell that I was troubled, and his gaze softened. Finally he reached out a hand, and set it comfortingly on my shoulder. I relaxed at once, taking a deep breath and smiling to feel his familiar hand. It felt right, it always had felt right.
"He's simply unnerving, that's all." I assumed, smiling at John and feeling myself leaning closer to him.
"I've met a lot of people like that, in my travels. You never know who you can trust, not really." John admitted with a shrug.
"Sometimes you know." I assured quietly, reaching over and allowing my hand to fall onto his, holding it down onto my shoulder while running my fingers almost caressingly over his. I didn't know what I was doing, really, and I didn't know why. I just knew that it felt right, one way or another, to touch him once more. I knew that it was what we were meant to do, in the end. Space was a foreign concept, as illplaced between the two of us as it was between a fire and the logs on which it burned.
"It's been too long." John muttered, to which I nodded, letting my hand steady upon his as my gaze was fixed into the fire. 

I lay in my bed that night, feeling more alone than ever before. I lay in my bed, with the ghost of his hand still upon my shoulder, wishing that there might be another figure under the blankets with me, tucked against my chest with his arms wrapped around my neck. I wished for his presence more than anything else in the world, I longed for his touch as if I was positively entitled to it. I knew as I lay there, and stared into the darkness, that my heart belonged to him more than it did to any other thing upon this earth. I knew that I loved him; I knew finally what this feeling was, this strong sense of companionship, this strong sense of purpose, of ownership, almost. I felt as though he was another half of me, I felt as though the closer we got the more appropriate it was, for we were rejoining our severed halves, and making a whole once more. This feeling wasn't foreign to me, I knew what love was, I had simply never been able to identify it before. As a child, it had been there. I remember the same sort of pulling in my chest, yet I had never stopped to think that it might have meant more than friendship. That it might have connected the two of us more than we assumed it did, that it was going to be our destiny, in the end. That it may very well be our downfall. But how did I act upon it, if I did at all? Once more that memory of Mr. Watson, swinging from the gallows, came to haunt me in the darkness. The man who had died to show me the fate of a criminal, the breaking of a neck in exchange for the breaking of the law. I didn't want to end up like him, yet I knew that I could be sneakier, if I wished. The secret wasn't the problem, no in fact there were so many issues lined up that I could hardly think of which to start with. Well, the most obvious question was if John loved me back. I would like to think that answer was yes, every sign had pointed in that direction since the day we first met. I'm sure he felt something; perhaps he just couldn't identify it yet. Perhaps he saw me as a friend, and nothing more than that? I would be a fool if I decided to risk my freedom on a kiss, only to find that it would not be returned either way. The second problem would follow the first, for even if John did love me back, that spoke nothing to the wrath of Irene. I couldn't pretend to love her, it would be one or the other if both ended up being successful. I would have to give her up for John, and that would not go over well at all. She'd need a reason, and if she couldn't find one then she would make one up to satisfy herself. God forbid she come to the truth, and go immediately to her father to complain that she had fallen in love with a homosexual. I would have to tread carefully around her, lest I end up with a rope tied around my neck. Yet however fearful I was of the gallows, I was even more afraid of living a normal life, a meaningless life. Education was good, money was fine, yet love...love was all you really needed in the end, was it not? I felt as though John might be the one who granted me such pleasure, I feel like I could trust myself in his hands, to make my life worth something in the end. I wanted him to help me make sense of the world, if that is but with a kiss, one which was eleven years overdue.