The Madness Was A Man

The Words Say It All

Sherlock hesitated outside, wondering if he should knock or not. That would be the polite thing of course, and yet it already seemed as though he was intruding... Sherlock allowed his hand to twist over the knob, pushing the door open ever so slightly to see that it truly was John asleep in the bed. Yes...yes the moonlight shone through the window effectively enough to identify the sleeping figure. The peacefulness nearly brought Sherlock to his knees, the pure beauty that was the sleeping, shirtless figure of John Watson. He was tangled in his blankets, strewn across the empty bed like a child he had been wrestling invisible creatures in their sleep. He was sleeping on his back, with his arms strewn underneath his pillow and exposing the muscles that had developed along his chest and arms. It certainly was a sight for sore eyes, a sight so magnificent that Sherlock felt the need to close the door once more. He didn't really want John to know that he had witnessed him asleep, it felt very creepy indeed. And so he waited outside the door for a moment before finally knocking his fist against the wood and waiting for a response.
"Who is it?" John's voice called out after a moment, sounding raspy and sleepy as the bed creaked to support the change in his weight. Sherlock didn't think it necessary to answer, or at least that was his rationalization when his throat wouldn't obey him and wouldn't open to say a word. There was silence for a moment, before finally the door opened a crack and John appeared on the other side. He was still only half dressed, but his conscious state was enough to ease Sherlock's mind. It wasn't as creepy if John knew that he was staring. The boy's face grew into the biggest smile, and before Sherlock could even open his mouth to explain his being here he found John's arms wrapped rather tightly around his neck, a hug that happened so abruptly it was all Sherlock could do but gasp and allow himself to be gripped. He didn't even have time to hug back, for John pulled away so as to make sure it really was who he thought it was hidden under that floppy hat.
"Sherlock, what on earth are you doing?" John breathed, keeping his hands on Sherlock's shoulders as he examined the boy, perhaps looking for any new changes within the last two days.
"I thought you might want to continue lessons." Sherlock managed, the only logical thing he could think to say at this moment. Reconsidering it didn't sound all that logical, for writing lessons seemed to be a daytime thing at least. The only nighttime visitors Sherlock had ever received have been very recently, and of course both visitations had ended in rather the same thing. Sherlock had to wonder if that's what was crossing John's mind now, as he stood there so vulnerable yet so delighted.
"Of course, ya of course." He agreed after a moment's hesitation, as if waiting for Sherlock to say something else, something more along the lines of what he wanted to hear.
"Good." Sherlock said with a smile. John stepped aside and allowed Sherlock to walk in, looking about while John closed the door behind them and lit up an oil lamp for the light they needed to work.
"That desk there should work fine; you can clear the stuff of it." John assured, gesturing to the desk that was tucked rather forcefully into the corner. It was a small room, almost a little bit too small to hold a person. The bed and wardrobe were practically next to each other, and even now John had to duck around the furniture so as to retrieve a loose fitting white shirt that had been lying at the foot of his bed. Sherlock tried not to show too much interest in John's process of putting it on, though he had to admit that he watched just a little bit through the reflection in the mirror. When finally John was properly dressed he walked over to join Sherlock at the desk, taking it upon himself to throw the piles of papers onto the bed so as to clear a space large enough for them to work.
"I also brought novels...in case you wanted to read from them." Sherlock offered.
"Don't you think I should practice with small words first? Like, like dog or something?" John presumed.
"I was taught with novels." Sherlock admitted, though he did remember those books being a little bit less complex.
"And look how intelligent you turned out to be." John teased. Sherlock frowned, not entirely sure what he meant by that. Yet he went along with it, sitting down on the chair while John pulled up a rather decorative chair to perch on. Sherlock unearthed all the treasures from his bag, arranging them just as he had the day they were caught.
"What's this hat for? You look like a pirate." John chuckled, snatching the hat off from Sherlock's head and observing it closer. Sherlock merely giggled, giving up any hopes of recovering the ridiculous thing.
"I found it in the attic when I was looking for bedsheets." He admitted. "I thought it might cover my face in case anyone saw me."
"Bedsheets? Why exactly..."
"To make a rope! That's how you escape out a window, isn't it?" Sherlock defended, interrupting John before he could go on pestering Sherlock about his choice of material. John just shook his head, laughing as if there was something seriously flawed in Sherlock's common sense.
"Sherlock, there is a front door you know?" he laughed.
"Someone might have seen me. Besides, it's a lot more exciting sneaking out a window than it is just walking out the front door." Sherlock defended with a little pout, to which John just rolled his eyes.
"As if this isn't exciting enough? Showing up at my door in the middle of the night for writing lessons. If your Aunt catches us you know we'll both be hanged." John pointed out.
"Certainly not. Besides, she's asleep. That's the whole point of coming at night!" Sherlock insisted.
"How clever you are!" John mocked, to which Sherlock dropped his head to hide his smile.
"Let's just get on with it, ya? I didn't come here to get ridiculed." Sherlock mumbled, though with all good spirits of course. Though John took his statement in a rather defensive way, as if he thought Sherlock was feeling unwelcomed or unappreciated. In response John just patted his shoulder, rather like one would a dog that they had accidentally kicked.
"I'm not making fun of you; in fact I was half ready to jump out a window myself. I missed you Sherlock, honestly." John assured. Sherlock smiled at him, though admittedly a bit awkwardly. The way the light made John's face look, the way his soft smile stretched upon his suntanned cheeks...if they were any other two people in the world they might have kissed right now. If John was some maiden, or Sherlock some distinguished woman from high society, perhaps they might have eliminated the space between their lonely lips and done something about their aching hearts. And yet they were still themselves, both too afraid to make the first move, and neither allowed to. And so they didn't kiss, they merely focused their attention on the papers in front of them so as to convince themselves that the writing lessons might be as interesting as the other's complex eyes.
"So, do you remember your alphabet?" Sherlock wondered. John took a breath, but began to recite the little melody that Sherlock had drilled into his brain as they were writing down the letters the first time. Well of course it stuck, the alphabet song was certainly the most annoyingly catchy tune there was. And here it went, being ever so helpful.
"I can't remember all the letters, but I do remember a couple." John admitted, grabbing one of the pens and starting to scribble down the ones he remembered, leaving spaces to fill in when he had Sherlock's assistance. All in all he had the basics, the more easy letters and ones that he had learned with the help of spelling out his own name. Maybe he got about half, yet he still required Sherlock's assistance to fill in all the rest. For a while they slaved over the basic alphabet, until at last John had a decent copy that he could keep for his own assistance. On another page they began writing out the basic words, this time John remembered to put the H where it belonged and spelled out his full name as it was meant to be. It was wonderful watching him work, for the anticipation of watching his pen write against the paper and the satisfaction of seeing the correct letter spelt out was enough to make Sherlock want to sing. It was very interesting, how exhilarating it was to watch John's hand clenched around the pencil, writing perfectly in long childish strokes.
"Do you know any other words to spell?" Sherlock asked after congratulating him profusely. John sat back in his chair, admiring is handiwork in the light of the flickering lamp, a smile appearing on his face as he began to understand now what he was doing. He was one step closer to being literate, as understanding how to sign his name really was step one.
"Only a couple." John admitted. "I've only ever been able to decipher a few words from a letter my mother had written me before she died. It's been read to me a hundred times, but still I've been determined to read the signature."
"And that is?" Sherlock wondered. John was silent, dipping his pen in the ink and beginning to scrawl down on the paper in front of him. Well after the first letter was written it was not difficult to decode what the rest of it was going to say, as they may just be the most used and most neglected three words in the English language.
"I love you." John announced, setting down his pen as the two boys stared blankly down at the words where they were written. Sherlock's throat had suddenly become dry, and for the life of him he could not do anything but stare at the words, trying to decipher if John meant anything by them at all, other than just as writing practice. He couldn't tell if those meaningful three words had any purpose there, he couldn't tell if they were aimed at him or if they were just meant to be written down for proud observation. The response was on the tip of his tongue, just a simple 'I love you too' and all his pain might be eased. Just a simple response, oh even written in words and tacked onto the end might suffice! Yet suddenly Sherlock's arms were heavy at his sides, his fingers tense and unmoving around the arms of his chair. His mouth wouldn't form the words he wanted it to say, as his brain had enough time to override his heart after all.
"John...what does it mean when someone pins you down onto a bed?" Sherlock whispered finally, all color draining from his face as he spat out the question had had been meaning to ask for so long. John looked at him rather blankly, as if trying to figure out just what on earth he had meant by that.
"In like...in an aggressive way?" he clarified in a rather small voice.
"In a romantic way, or rather in a romantic moment. What do they want from you if they've got you trapped underneath?" Sherlock wondered, still staring unblinking at the words on the paper. They read so appropriately John Watson, I love you.
"I suppose they want to make love." John decided finally. Sherlock finally blinked, looking over at him as if to express his lack of knowledge.
"Make it?" he clarified in very quiet voice, like a squeak if nothing else.
"You don't actually know what that means?" John wondered, almost looking as if he couldn't believe his idiocy. Sherlock merely shook his head, with eyes wide and nervous.
"Sherlock, who was this bloody tutor of yours? They never taught you where babies come from?" John asked with something of a doubtful laugh.
"Not particularly. Just that they grow inside a woman's stomach." Sherlock whispered. "Or at least that's what I've observed, rather involuntarily."
"I'm not going to be the one to explain it to you." John said flatly.
"Why not?" Sherlock whined.
"Because...well because you're too pure! I wouldn't want to taint you with such knowledge." John admitted, shaking his head a bit pointedly and trying to focus again on their writing lessons.
"John, now come on." Sherlock insisted.
"Why are you even asking me this, who was it that was pinning you down on a bed?" John asked, just now taking the offensive side when he realized his argument was completely invalid. Sherlock felt his cheeks get a little red, yet he shook his head in protest.
"No one...I saw it in town." Sherlock managed finally.
"You saw that in town? I really hope that's a lie, because if it's not we'll have an even bigger problem on our hands." John muttered, to which Sherlock frowned, not really knowing what the big deal here was. Surely he couldn't tell John the truth, for he knew as well as any that any sort of physical contact with a man was illegal. And once you get to kissing, well that was not a confession for any distinguished gentleman to be making! No one was going to know about this, not even the faithful John Watson.
"Just tell me, alright?" Sherlock insisted.
"It's those women you're courting. My god Sherlock you rascal, one of them got too..."
"It wasn't a woman!" Sherlock exclaimed quickly, to which John's eyes widened even farther, looking almost as if they might pop out of his skull. "It wasn't anyone." Sherlock added immediately, so as to make sure John might get another breath before he passed out on the spot.
"Sherlock you confuse me more and more, daily." John decided finally. "So you've never been told when, you know...when a man and a woman love each other very very much? That's not been the beginning of any story you've heard as a child?"
"Never." Sherlock admitted. "Frankly we never talked about love, considering my mom died when I was very young. My father never talked about romance, I think it hurt him to think about it too deeply."
"That's sad." John decided finally. "Oh fine, but I'll only whisper it. I don't want Mrs. Hudson to think we're discussing things too vulgar in here."
"I don't think she's listening." Sherlock protested, yet he obediently leaned his ear closer to John's mouth. It was quite nice, feeling John's hand against his ear with his lips pressed up close to his ear, so close now that with a little maneuvering Sherlock could have them pressed against his very own in no time at all. Yet his curiosity had taken over, and instead of considering his own desires he instead let John go on with the story. Very quietly John began to explain the most ghastly of all acts, talking of such grotesque interactions that Sherlock winced many times. It was too terrible to think about, and just as John finished about the delivery of a child Sherlock realized with a jolt that he was going to be expected to do that. All the talk of continuing the family tree, all the talk of producing an heir...well that had sounded difficult before! Now, with the talk of being with a woman in such a way, well Sherlock's stomach turned dangerously around, as if threatening to empty his dinner all over their writing desk.
"Oh my god!" Sherlock exclaimed, ripping his ear away just as soon as John's voice had quieted. "How do you know all that?"
"How do you not know all that?" John asked just as quickly, looking almost as if he was about to laugh.
"I don't know, I suppose I just...but seriously? That can't actually be natural." Sherlock protested, his voice dropping into something of a quiet and disturbed whisper. John's humor faded away as well, and the awkwardness of the moment they had just shared was beginning to set in. John began to bounce the tip of his pen against the paper, making great big lines as either of them tried to figure out what to say. The thought of such horrible actions scared Sherlock beyond contemplation, not only because he was expected to do that in due time, but also because of his stranger's advances the night he disappeared. Had he been intending on...on having children?
"Can a man have children? If the process was...was the same?" Sherlock wondered quietly, nervously. He surely hoped the answer was no. John forced a laugh, yet his eyes were bleak and deprived of any humor, any good spirits at all. His eyes might even be classified as afraid.
"A man? Well that implies that he would be with a man and that's..."
"Impossible." Sherlock interrupted in a breath.
"Unorthodox." John corrected finally. Sherlock looked up at him curiously, nervous now of the thoughts that were beginning to form in his head. Unorthodox...but not impossible. What could that mean, and what did that mean for their future together? If they might have a future at all?
"But they can't have children, that's something reserved only for a woman." John interrupted finally.
"That's very strange." Sherlock admitted finally, not knowing if there was another response that might suffice.
"It is." John agreed finally. "But I mean you hear rumors all the time, you hear of people...people getting hanged for it."
"It shouldn't be a crime." Sherlock said flatly.
"Shouldn't it? I never knew you felt so strongly." John muttered with something of a surprised tone.
"Well I don't, not really. I don't have any angle at all, but I think it's ridiculous to hang people over something as innocent as love!" Sherlock exclaimed, shaking his head in expiration. "If anything should be illegal it should be arranged marriages. True love should be preferable than forced love, no matter the genders. And to think...well I thought the worst part would be marriage! Who knew I would have to...I would have to do all that!"
"You don't have to, Sherlock." John protested, though he didn't seem to know at all what he was talking about. His mouth seemed to be working separately from his mind, and as one worked at deciphering their conversation the other just spewed anything that might keep Sherlock talking.
"Don't I? What, are you recommending I just let my family tree die? That I should be selfish, and avoid all the women who come to me with the sole intention of...of pinning me to my bed?" Sherlock whimpered, shaking his head in exasperation and shuttering at the thought.
"You have a brother. He could be the one to do it." John protested a bit hopelessly.
"Unfortunately I have an ugly brother, one no woman would want to touch. I'll be married first, it'll be solely my...my responsibility." Sherlock whispered, feeling for the strangest reason a sob erupting from the bottom of his throat. Oh how embarrassing it was, to have to push away tears while dwelling on such a conversation! Yet he couldn't help it, without his consent a big teardrop fell from his eye, rolling quietly yet visibly down his cheek until at last it dripped off of his chin and splattered against the piece of paper that had been set there. John Watson, I love you. John Watson... The tears fell even harder after that, after he discovered that he would not be ridiculed if at last he decided to cry. If at last he realized that he would not die if he finally allowed his emotions to surface, if he allowed his anger, frustration, loneliness, and love all to spill out in the form of tears onto the paper that spelled out the one statement he could not manage alone.
"Sherlock...oh my god." John muttered, obviously not knowing what exactly to say to that. He wasn't some sort of councilor; he didn't know the first thing to do around a man who had suddenly broken down into tears. And yet each word John said was making it more difficult, for each word reminded Sherlock of what he was going to have to give up should he allow his Aunt's schemes to go on any longer. In an instant Sherlock's quiet tears turned into full out sobs, and he began to cry so violently that he had no choice but to bring his knees up to his chest so as to hide the shuttering, hiding his face behind his hands while gasping for the breaths he simply could not manage. John sat there like an idiot, oh what a true man he was! He didn't know a thing about emotions, his own or other people's. For a moment Sherlock felt more alone than he ever would be again, simply because it was John that he had been clinging to for companionship, and now here it was John who would not do a thing to ease him. For a long and silent moment John could only sit there, reaching out his hands yet not daring to touch Sherlock, almost as if he was afraid it might depress him more. What was he good for, if not for emotional support? What sort of rubbish friend was he?
"Sherlock I don't know what to do." John admitted finally, his hands still a mere inch from Sherlock's arm but they hovered there...motionless. He looked about ready to cry himself, he looked so conflicted that he could only stand stone still, not seeming to be able to move a muscle at all.
"You're supposed to comfort me, you b*stard." Sherlock growled between his tears. John's eyes widened, he nodded as stiffly as he could...
"I don't know how to do that. I don't know what's got you upset, I don't..." John's voice dissipated as at last Sherlock felt his hand touch down onto his arm. For a moment the room was silent, their heartbeats even seemed to stop. This was the first time they had touched; the first time it had been something other than a mere hand of help. This was the first time they had been intimate, the first time since they had fallen in love that either was brave enough to touch upon the other properly. For a moment it felt like time itself had stopped, and the candle stopped flickering, the moon ceased to shine. All that happened was John's hand upon Sherlock's arm, all five fingers pressed down upon his shirt, clenching now to his arm as if that might help ease his pain. It helped, but in rather the opposite way. Sherlock's tears fell more frequently, but they began to change. They weren't in complete despair, now only partial despair. The other half were tears of relief, and perhaps something of joy. John was brave enough; he was brave enough to touch him. He was brave enough to comfort him. Sherlock forced a smile, leaning into John's touch all the while he let a hand of his own fall upon John's, helping press it securely into his own flesh. Both boys were breathless, they didn't know what to do except cling to each other. John's hand was clammy with sweat, Sherlock's wet with tears...but did they ever fit together so perfectly.