The Madness Was A Man

Just Waiting For The Right Person

"Sherlock, what do you really know about your grandfather?" Irene wondered, her gaze returning from the large tree in the front yard and back into her suitor's eyes. He hesitated before ultimately shaking his head in defeat.
"Nothing much. They kept it hushed away from us, scared that if we believed the stories we'd allow our brains to trick us. Agatha claims that it's just mass hysteria...but I saw my father fall under the same spell. I saw him lose his mind." Sherlock admitted quietly.
"What do you think is the cause? Is it mental, spiritual? Is it a ghost that comes back, or is it your grandfather's spirit come to possess those he connects with?" Irene inquired excitedly, coming around to a bench and sitting down rather abruptly onto it, not very lady like at all. Yet her eyes sparkled with enthusiasm, and so Sherlock sat beside her, happy now that she had allowed herself to abandon her perfect composure.
"A possession?" Sherlock clarified, wondering just how that might have worked to drive his father insane.
"Yes, like a ghost infesting your body, and taking control of your actions. Maybe your father wasn't crazy...maybe he just wasn't your father." Irene suggested.
"No I don't think so. He was afraid of something, he wasn't afraid of himself." Sherlock corrected.
"Well then...well maybe a ghost then? The ghosts of his victims, come to get their revenge on the living heirs. It's happened before, I've heard stories." Irene admitted excitedly, giving a squirm of enthusiasm to which Sherlock could only chuckle in response. This was feeling much more legitimate, so much more meaningful than small talk. It was almost a discussion between friends, something relaxed and casual. So long as the idea of romance was not brought up, so long as Irene kept her personal space...well maybe Sherlock could grow to tolerate her.
"What sort of gossip do you listen to, to hear those sorts of stories?" Sherlock wondered.
"I love the grotesque, Sherlock. An escape from the modern society, where everyone is on their best behavior. I love to hear about all that goes wrong in the world...rather than focus entirely on being right." Irene said with a rather eerie excitement in her voice. Sherlock felt a shiver run down his spine, wondering now just why Irene was so keen on getting into this house and courting him. Wondering now why she would be so enthusiastic about the Holmes brothers, if she knew full well what sort of painful attachment they had to death and madness.
"That's certainly a different viewpoint than most would take." Sherlock admitted finally, after thinking of a correct response to such an interesting confession.
"But we've all got something wrong with us, whether it be madness or not." Irene insisted. "Isn't it refreshing to know you're not alone in the world?"
"You say that as if you're haunted!" Sherlock exclaimed.
"Perhaps I am." Irene offered, inching closer now, close enough so that Sherlock began to feel increasingly uncomfortable. "Ghosts that come back to haunt you, to scare you...to love you."
"I'm sure a ghost has no intention of..." Sherlock was cut off, forced now to duck away when Irene finally made her attempt at his lips. It was a quick lunge, which was perfectly countered by his quick and gracious reflexes. As Irene leaned in Sherlock flung himself away, effectively landing in the stones which surrounded the bench, falling flat on his back like a flopping fish out of water. He scurried to regain himself, finding that Irene was already on her feet in humiliation and looking about ready to cry.
"Too soon!" Sherlock exclaimed, pulling himself up onto his feet in some finality.
"Every boy I've ever met only wanted one thing from me, Sherlock." Irene exclaimed. "You so happen to be the one person I want something from...and so you must be the one who wants nothing."
"I'm sorry!" Sherlock defended, though he wasn't entirely sure how truthful he was in that. Irene turned around, not saying anything in response as she stormed out of the garden, leaving Sherlock to wonder just why he was the one to blame for her abrupt actions. In all honesty he thought he had acted as anyone would, when fight or flight syndrome kicked in surely flight was the better option when approached by a woman in such a way. Surely falling off the bench would be less humiliating for all of them, considering after one punch Sherlock would surely have received another, stronger punch in return. He found himself abruptly alone, sitting rather stupidly on the bench and hunching over with a sad sigh. Well no, he wasn't sad per say, maybe just a little bit disappointed. He knew going into Irene's visit that he wouldn't want anything romantic from her, and as predicted it turned out that the thought of kissing her was actually revolting. Yet he had hoped in the end that she would turn out to be different, someone other than a romantic pursuer, someone who understood the struggles all rich children go through and someone who might appreciate the ghosts which were beginning to plague him. She might have been a confidant, someone to help him through the transition from a quiet life to a public one. She might have been someone to trust...Well that seemed to be over, wasn't it? The time had passed for friendship, evidently resentment was setting in. And that was what he had been hoping for all along, he had finally shooed her away as effectively as possible, and now it was time for the aftermath, for the explaining. Hopefully Irene had a convincing story for their separation; for Sherlock certainly wasn't clever enough to make up a good enough lie. The truth of the matter would be humiliating for the both of them, surely there must be a good story to tell or else people might suspect things, things along the lines of Sherlock's true interest.
"Not really a Romeo, are you Sherlock?" wondered a very familiar voice, making his way through the little grove of roses that surrounded them. It was a private spot, a romantic spot, and so it was a positively elating place to see John Watson walking forward. Sherlock looked up with some embarrassment, wishing now that there had been no witnesses to his little panic attack. Surely he could've told John some warped version of the truth, one that didn't involve him falling off the bench to avoid a goodnight kiss.
"You saw that?" Sherlock wondered in a little squeak.
"Quite accidently." John admitted. "I promise I'm not stalking you, it's just that I heard voices while I was walking to take care of the horses. Thought someone was in trouble."
"Someone was in trouble...or at least I will be when Agatha finds that I've driven her away." Sherlock grumbled, rubbing his face in some exasperation. John grinned, as if he found Sherlock's romantic failure to be very entertaining.
"You did that on purpose then?" John presumed.
"It was a reflex, honestly." Sherlock grumbled. "I didn't want to make it so dramatic. She was an interesting person, really she was. But when she leaned in I panicked."
"That's not usually what people do when they're about to be kissed." John pointed out rather obviously. Sherlock blinked at him, trying to keep his heart from pounding too hard in its presumably misplaced excitement. That wasn't...well Sherlock didn't know what that statement was. Perhaps something of an invitation? Or maybe just small talk, or banter. Sherlock really shouldn't think too much of it, yet he needed to respond! Oh no, the silence that had followed that statement was enough to make it obvious that Sherlock was analyzing it!
"What...what do they do?" Sherlock rather spat out, regretting the words just as soon as they left his lips.
"Why, do you want practice?" John teased, looping his thumbs into his belt buckles as if preparing for quite the laugh. Sherlock went rather pale, not entirely knowing if he did or not. Certainly he shouldn't be direct about this, should he? Oh dear, this was an opportunity, an opportunity of a lifetime! If he said yes it might be a confession, if he said no it might finalize his silence and their distance apart... The question then was, if Sherlock said yes what would John do? Would he leave, would he suddenly look at Sherlock in disgust? Would he run away screaming, or would...would he kiss him? Sherlock's mind felt as if it was splitting in two, all the while his heart was beating out of his chest and his stomach twisting up into the tightest of knots. The word was right on his tongue; he just had to spit it out!
"No." Sherlock muttered, heaving a sigh of relief all the while he felt a lot like slapping himself in the face. "I suppose I just want to know, you know...for future reference."
"Can't get a wife if you can't kiss her." John agreed.
"Not that I actually want a wife." Sherlock grumbled. John looked at him with a certain version of curiosity, the sort that seemed rather impressed, maybe even hopeful? Sherlock was certainly looking too much into this, he was taking it all too far he was just...oh he was losing his mind!
"Nevertheless." John chuckled, strolling over to the bench upon which Sherlock sat and inviting himself to sit next to him. The proximity was deafening, it was enough for Sherlock's lungs to collapse in on themselves, it was enough for him to almost have to gasp for his next breath! Why did John need to get closer, what was the gain in all of this? Talking of romance in a garden of roses, why would he want to get closer if not to go all the way? If not to break the gap between them and kiss him like he was meant to, like Sherlock had begun to dream of?
"The first suggestion I have, if you want someone to love you, is to always make the first move. If you don't then they'll think you're waiting on them, or even worse- that you have no interest at all. People always doubt themselves; they think they're not good enough. But the truth is everyone loves someone who is brave enough to love them. As revolting as your suitor might be, their interest is always a compliment." John began. Sherlock nodded, processing as much as he could without becoming physically ill. This was all so breathtaking, it all sounded as though John was asking for so much more, as if he was asking for their own little fairytale to unravel before them.
"That's um...that's a very good point." Sherlock agreed nearly silently. The words weren't coming easy; the words seemed to be choking him at this point!
"Secondly, when you're coming closer keep your eyes shut, it makes it more romantic, like you're savoring the moment. And if possible, keep your hand on their neck; keep them still so that the impact doesn't give them whiplash." John suggested.
"On their neck. Yes." Sherlock agreed, raising his hand very gently to his own neck and brushing his fingers down the side of it. He meant it to be an invitation, really, but John's hands were still on the bench, as if he didn't understand what was to become of all this.
"And lastly, no tongue. Not on the first kiss. Just a peck." John suggested.
"Tongue? Ew that's disgusting, people actually do that?" Sherlock insisted, nearly scowling all the while John began to chuckle.
"My God Sherlock! Haven't you ever kissed a girl before?" John exclaimed. Sherlock thought for a moment, remembering his first and only kiss with the strange boy in his bedroom.
"No, no I haven't." Sherlock admitted, though he presumed that answer was pretty obvious judging by his attitude with Irene.
"Do you have any intention on kissing anyone?" John wondered, though this time his voice had dropped an octave, it had dropped all humor and all joking manner. It was serious, almost as if John was worried about Sherlock's romantic life...or maybe he was hoping for a one word answer instead.
"I...I don't know." Sherlock admitted with something of a forced shrug.
"Just waiting for the right person to come around then? I get it." John admitted.
"No I've found the right..." Sherlock cut himself off, shaking his head before giving something of a groan of defeat. "Yes, I'm just waiting." He agreed finally. John nodded his head, smiling a bit softly before reaching up to pat Sherlock on the shoulder. That, it turned out, was just another method of saying his farewells. John got to his feet, leaving Sherlock to sit on the bench alone and look up to him rather sadly, distraughtly in fact. Worried now that he had scared him away.
"Sherlock, I used to think you were an enigma." John admitted. "But now I see you're actually quite simple."
"I am? I'm...well what am I?" Sherlock asked, almost hoping for an answer that would satisfy his own question as well. Not even Sherlock was completely aware of what he was, perhaps there was a word for it, perhaps there was a word that would solve his puzzle and explain his emotions all in one simple, perfect word. John began to chuckle, shaking his head with that dazzling smile plastered upon his face.
"You're an idiot." He announced finally, and with one final glance towards Sherlock he set off in the other direction, dropping his hands into his pockets and whistling all the way back to the stables. 

 Sherlock sat up in bed that night and watched the clock by the light of his oil lamp, still lit. He had a hunch that he would have a visitor tonight, and he wondered just when he might be arriving. This person, this strange boy, always had a knack of arriving exactly when Sherlock needed him to. The first time was when he had just discovered his feelings about John, and tonight those feelings had magnified to an almost breathtaking amount. Sherlock found himself wallowing in doubt, crushed by the realization that John must have absolutely no interest in him whatsoever. For starters, anyone who feels confident enough to give advice would certainly live by such ideals. John's first advice was to act upon your impulses, no matter what. Well if he really did believe in what he was saying, and if he was actually falling in love, then he would've kissed Sherlock there on that bench. And so the space between them, just inches tonight, felt much more like miles. Vast miles, keeping them separated for as long as time would allow. Secondly John called him an idiot, right after what might be considered a half a confession. Sherlock had admitted that he found someone he wanted, and then John just got right up and laughed in his face. And then he walked away! Well surely that meant he wasn't interested, surely that meant that he couldn't bear the thought of it, that he thought Sherlock was stupid for even considering himself worthy of John's presence. So there it was then, just as soon as John looked him in the eyes and got so close, well that was the end of it all! There was no hope, or rather there was even less hope than Sherlock had before. Yet that hope had been miniscule, now it was so close to zero that it needn't even be considered. He had no chance any longer; he might as well just give up in his endeavor. And yet just because hope was fading away, well that didn't mean that he would be deprived of anyone to love. Here he sat, and here he waited. His heart was full and ready to burst, and his lips were now feeling so anxious to just kiss upon anyone who came within range. After such a night of one sided romance Sherlock felt ready to dissolve into that boy, the one who knew enough to come and collect him. He didn't know his name, he didn't know his purpose- and perhaps that's what made him all the more desirable. Sherlock had nothing to lose by loving the stranger, whether he be staff, an intruder, or even just a hallucination. Even if he was just a dream. Sherlock wanted to be held tonight, by soft hands and careful arms, he wanted to be sure that even in a world of normality there were still those willing enough to break through their shells and love who they wanted to love. This stranger was reassuring at least in a sense that Sherlock knew he was not the only one left in the world ready and daring to submit to his heart's own desires. Sherlock knew by the clock that it was nearly two thirty in the morning when the footsteps began to shuffle outside of his door. The house had been asleep for nearly four hours, and with such a silence for so long there could only be one purposeful disturbance. Just as soon as Sherlock hear the door handle creaking his heart gave quite a lurch. He was afraid still, for he didn't know the identity of his visitor. For all he knew this boy could be some sort of murderer, who had stopped into the house with the intentions of killing its occupants but continually got distracted by the youngest brother. The fact that the boy crept about in the dark reeked of guilt, yet all the same what they were prepared to do was entirely criminal. There was a reason to keep their interactions quiet and secretive. Otherwise Sherlock would be exposed as a homosexual, and the future that he might have made for himself would be sent down the drain. As the door opened that familiar shape hovered in, stepping quietly along the floorboards and shutting the door as silently as he could manage. The light of the lamp illuminated that same strange face, the face that had not allowed itself to appear since it last disappeared from Sherlock's room all those nights ago. 

"It's you." Sherlock breathed. The boy was silent, as was usual for him. He didn't seem to like to talk, almost as if he was forbidden to say a word. As if he was too afraid that he might be recognized if he said anything, like a word which might accidentally give him away. Sherlock scrambled to his feet, meeting the visitor half way across the floor yet not kissing him, not just yet. He was rather afraid to, now that they were face to face once more. Doubt made him falter, fear made him hesitate, and loyalty made him think back to the one he truly loved. Was this right, was this even ethical? What sort of gentleman allowed some strange visitor to walk into their bedroom at night? Furthermore, what sort of person lets someone who never speaks a word just kiss them, as if there was some sort of trust involved? What a strange and daring pastime...yet how ecstatically exciting. Rebellion, Sherlock never knew just how sweet it tasted.