The Madness Was A Man

The Stranger At Your Door

Sherlock couldn't sleep that night, and not because he was afraid. Well yes, a part of him wanted very much to go to sleep so that he didn't have to lay awake and listen to every squeaking of every floorboard in this animated, living structure. Yet he couldn't fall asleep, he didn't want to fall asleep, he wanted to stay awake and just think. About what? Well nothing in particular, life, friends, stable boys, tour guides, accomplices...John. Okay so he was just thinking about John, and such a task seemed too important to shut off his brain just yet. It was interesting, how that mere stable boy was preying so easily on his mind, how he was twisting Sherlock's thoughts of reality and social structures and just turning them completely on its head. Sherlock was supposed to act polite, poised, and perfect. He was supposed to talk to those he was allowed to talk to, marry who he was supposed to, and not ask any questions about why he wasn't even allowed to be happy. And before John came around, before he unrooted the true system and the true ideals behind the family's smiling faces, well Sherlock had never even questioned his life! He had never questioned the path he was following, even if somewhere he had accepted that there was something just not quite right. Sherlock was tossing and turning, the thought of John swimming in and out of his consciousness before finally something alerted him awake. Or at least, he thought he was awake... There was a creaking outside of his door, the creaking of footsteps along the ancient wooden floors. The first thought Sherlock had was to his father, the night he had died. He had been visited by someone then, and yet it couldn't be his father now. Even the laws of the supernatural rooted the old man to the place he had died, and so he could not leave their family home no matter how hard he tried. The only living person who would be wandering this floor at night would be Mycroft, and surely that man was fast asleep in bed, cradling his pillow in his self-inflicted loneliness. And so who could it be, visiting him so late in the night? When the moon had long since settled itself above the thin layer of clouds, and even the crickets had silenced and gone to sleep. The creaking followed with an ever so distinct sound of a knob turning, a chilling sound which sent Sherlock sitting straight up on his bed, unable to cry out for fear that he still was dreaming, and that he would wake the whole house in some childish paranoia. It was all he could do but cling to his blankets and stare through the dark, stare at the door which was now opening ever so slowly, the soft shadow widening and widening until at last, silhouetted by the dim lighting in the parlor, the figure of a man appeared. Sherlock screamed into his balled up blankets, wishing himself to wake up, wishing himself to come back to his senses and fall out of this nightmare he seemed to be stuck in. Yet the man walked closer, and Sherlock knew that he had to take action. The door shut closed, quietly so that even Sherlock could hardly hear. Privacy, the figure wanted to be alone. Sherlock rolled towards his bedside table, grabbing the oil lamp and igniting it with a panicked yelp. The flame burst into the glass, and it was bright enough to illuminate the figure which was now standing wordlessly at the foot of his bed. It was...well it was someone Sherlock had never seen before. And yet he could tell that his visitor was not here to harm him, he could tell that this boy whoever he may be had a soft and trustworthy face to him. A beautifully constructed face, dare he notice.
"Who are you?" Sherlock breathed, scrambling out of his bed and hoisting the lamp up to his visitor's face, noticing now every detail of his complexion. He was tall, with brown hair slicked back in an old fashioned style. He was handsome in a tragic way, quietly observing with the most electric blue eyes Sherlock had ever seen. Yet he said nothing. Sherlock breathed just as silently as he could manage, yet his heart was beating so loudly in his chest that there was still something of a background noise. He was terrified, afraid of this boy and his purpose at such an hour, afraid of his silence, afraid of his presence. Yet Sherlock wasn't going to do anything about it, he wouldn't say a word against him. This figure gave him the impression of a very lonely boy, someone who for once in his life just wanted to be welcomed, or understood. And despite his rather unorthodox method of crying out for help, well certainly Sherlock would be the one to cooperate.
"Are you a butler?" Sherlock wondered, noticing now the way the stranger was dressed. It was a formal outfit yet not expensive in any way, as if it was issued to him by his employer. However Sherlock could not recall his face, not from any of the numerous meals they had been served, not from any of their help around the house. Sherlock would've noticed, and would've remembered, someone who was so young and so radiant. Still, not a word from the boy. Yet he began to move, slowly taking steps towards Sherlock and extending his hand up towards Sherlock's face, as if with the intention to touch him...Sherlock gave something of a squeal of protest, dodging the stranger's hand with the fear that he might be in some danger. He didn't want to be touched, especially not somewhere where it was only too easy to strangle him, or to gouge his eyes out with thumbs. Yet the stranger persisted, and it was all Sherlock could do but straighten up and stare fearfully at the hand that reached out to touch him. This time, however, he didn't duck away. And those fingers touched so gently upon his cheek that he thought he might black out on impact. They were so cold, each touch felt like a solid block of ice, and yet it was a welcoming presence. It was accepted. Sherlock could hardly catch his breath, he didn't understand what was happening or why. He only knew that the stranger's fingers were sliding ever so determinedly across his cheek, until at last they touched the tip of his ear, and the beginnings of his curls. Sherlock stared, his mouth having dropped open long ago and remaining motionless as he gaped at what he couldn't describe as an attacker any longer. The silent creature, the thing of a dream that had turned surprisingly real, now leaning closer...Before Sherlock could process what was happening he felt the freezing lips brush across his own, in a kiss that he never should have accepted, yet of course could not protest against now. It was a kiss that he had never experienced before, mainly because it was his first and only kiss by either gender. And yet something about being kissed by this boy made it all the more exhilarating, because it was not smart, nor legal, to allow those cold lips to be pressed so tightly against his own. Yet Sherlock allowed it, trying to let his eyes close, trying to enjoy this meaningful if not stagnant kiss. He was confused; he was elated, and the stranger...the stranger had pulled away. Warmth regained in Sherlock's body as the finger tips fell away, and the boy stepped backwards a couple of times before turning and heading back to the door. He seemed content, as if his work here had been completed, and without a word of farewell or at least a glance backwards he snuck out the door as quietly as he had come, leaving Sherlock at a loss for words, a loss for thoughts entirely. He merely stood with his oil lamp in hand, illuminating the motionless shadows, and brushing his own fingers across his lips where he could no longer feel any lingering chill. He tried to wonder if that had happened or not, if he was in a dream or in reality. Yet one thing was for sure, whether or not that boy had been created inside of his head Sherlock had accepted him. His compliance was a conscious choice, and in each version of reality he would have stood there and allowed the boy closer, for now that he looked back that had been the thing he wanted from his visitor just as soon as he looked him properly in the face.