The Madness Was A Man

We Are Our Own Worst Enemies

"John I'm being such a child." Sherlock grumbled, shaking his head at last and trying to clear the tears from his eyes. They were slowing, yet still falling even after the sobs had ceased to erupt.
"It's fine." John assured. "It's necessary to cry sometimes."
"I'm just so frustrated, I'm just so confused. All the time I don't know if my mind is breaking in half...I don't know if my heart is already shattered." Sherlock admitted in a breath.
"Sherlock, if it's the women that scare you just stay away. You're old enough to disobey; you don't have to do the things you don't want to do." John assured. Sherlock sniffled, nodding his head all the while knowing that was impossible.
"That's not my problem, John. My problem is not doing the things I want to do." He admitted in the smallest of voices. John didn't respond as quickly to that one, as if finding a response was becoming increasingly difficult.
"I understand that Sherlock. I do." John agreed, his words sounding as though he were pushing them out of his mouth by force. Sherlock could tell, it was the exact tone of voice he might have used for his own confession. It was just as hard for John to admit it, whatever love they had blooming before them. Perhaps then it was mutual. Perhaps they both wanted the same thing, but were both too cowardly to admit it. Or to do anything about it, for that matter.
"We are our own worst enemies then." Sherlock decided at last, letting go of John's hand now to wipe the tears away from his eyes. John chuckled, pulling away as if taking that as his cue.
"We certainly are." John agreed finally, clearing his throat and coming back into the real world rather abruptly. Sherlock sighed heavily, realizing now what a fool he had made of himself, what a fool he had made of John. Here he was, sitting and blubbering about his problems without taking into consideration how difficult this must be for John to have to watch! How painful it must be, to sit there and be able to do nothing, to doubt yourself and your capabilities? He was too meek to make the first move, too afraid to cross the boundaries that Agatha herself had drawn between them! Yet what was Sherlock to do now? What was he to do except make his exit?
"I'm sorry John...I'm sorry but I have to go." He exclaimed finally, grabbing the piece of paper which had been mocking him from the table. Grabbing it and folding it, and shoving it securely into his pocket. For whatever reason those few words meant more to him now than did the actual words if they would have escaped his mouth. The words were written by John, a script of sorts, telling him exactly what it was he was supposed to say. Perhaps if he stared at it long enough he could remember, and muster out the words when the time was right. But that time was not now, and Sherlock had a sneaking suspicion that it would not come for a long while.
"Go? Sherlock you don't have to leave!" John protested, though he got to his feet and didn't seem to know what to do then.
"Why don't I?" Sherlock muttered, staring at John now from such a close proximity, both of them on their feet and staring each other down as if they were getting ready for a fight rather than a kiss. Or perhaps just a departure. "Give me a reason, John."
"I haven't got one." John admitted immediately. "Not one good enough for you, at least."
"Perhaps I'll see you tomorrow night." Sherlock offered finally. "You can keep the paper; the pens...practice while I'm away."
"Sherlock..." John managed, yet Sherlock shook his head, snatching up the stupid hat from the floor and placing it neatly atop his curls once more.
"I've got to go." He said again, the only string of words he could think acceptable for this situation. The only statement that might be heard by a police court without much fuss from the audience. All the other options were illegal. John managed no protest, perhaps because he couldn't force the words out quick enough, or maybe he just couldn't speak them at all. And so he let him go, both of them aching for something that might keep them together for one second longer. And both coming up without anything reasonable, and so staying silent. Sherlock couldn't manage a goodbye, and so he merely nodded. And he merely walked away. 

 That visit was supposed to heal him, and yet for whatever reason all it did was tear open the hole in his heart even wider. For whatever reason Sherlock had assumed that seeing John again would help him recover the part of him that he had lost, he hoped it would make Agatha's new quarantine something more of a joke. And yet he lay in his bed for a long while after having crawled back up the bedsheet rope, lying still in his bed long after the sun had come up, wondering just what was changed inside of him. What sort of cowardice had taken over his body and forced his feet to move, and his mouth to stay silent. He kept the paper folded up in his hand, crushed now under the strength he applied to it, yet the words still remained clear. He looked it every so often, as if waiting to see if they had changed yet. Waiting to see if even a piece of paper was too cowardly to declare such a bold message. They had been building up to something last night, he knew that they were! Yet why...why would he leave when things were just beginning? Was he more afraid of change than he was of his Aunt's agenda? Was he more afraid to step out of the law than to just make the easy choice and allow himself to be married off to some girl for the social benefits of it? Was he beginning to let himself submit to his expectations, merely because he wasn't brave enough to be who he wanted to be? Would he and John be stuck eternally in a spinning circle, dizzy until they couldn't see straight but still unwilling to stop themselves like they were supposed to? One touch, one word, one kiss! God, one of anything would do the trick! And yet still he sat here in agony, like a coward, like a loser. Sherlock was so disgusted in himself that he could hardly turn his head to look at the clock; he was paralyzed with self-loathing and the idea that maybe his own agony was simply his own fault. He could blame Agatha, or Mycroft, or John...but who was the one who kept avoiding the opportunities? Who was the one who ran away when things got to overwhelming, or stuttered and changed the topic whenever love might be what they discussed next? Who was the one who simply could not admit to anything, because words would make his thoughts official, they would make his thoughts damning. And so he was his own greatest enemy, the very person holding the chain too tight and strangling him whenever he got close enough to something he actually wanted. Why couldn't he be anything...anything more than who he was meant to be?