The Madness Was A Man

This Is What It's Like To Be Loved

It was just bright enough to see what lay before them, yet not for very far. Sherlock could only imagine there were more trees at the edge of the clearing, yet for the life of him he couldn't see much farther than the horse's head. The clearing they had come to was a meadow, and a beautiful one at that. John had been right in taking him here, as the place was positively overgrown with all sorts of wildflowers. Some shone more brightly in the moon than others, for the daisies sparkled while the purple flowers seemed inky black and indistinguishable from the darkness that surrounded them. other flowers were closed up for the night, while some of the pink and yellow ones had stayed on blooming, stretching towards the moon as if trying to absorb what little light it had to offer. It was a beautiful spot, presumably even more breathtaking in the sunshine, when all of the flowers were opened and alive with bees and butterflies. Yet it was peaceful tonight, silent save for crickets chirping, and as private as you could ever hope for.
"It's beautiful." Sherlock muttered, letting go of the horse's reins all the while John clambered down with some difficulty, landing hard on his feet before offering a hand for Sherlock to dismount. Sherlock took his hand one last time, just as he had done the first time he had descended from that carriage, with the house to look up to in awe. Yet this time John didn't let go of his hand, this time he locked their fingers together and pulled Sherlock up against him, with that fierce intimacy that Sherlock had come to appreciate.
"You like it?" he clarified, using his other hand now to lift up to Sherlock's neck, letting his fingers brush against the edge of Sherlock's curls in an affectionate way.
"I like it." Sherlock agreed with something of a chuckle. "I love it, actually."
"I thought you might. I would have taken you here in the sunlight, but I think your aunt would have a few choice words in response to that." John admitted with a grin.
"She would never know." Sherlock assured.
"Oh she would, she'd find out. And I'd get fired, and you'd have to learn to feed a horse." John grinned.
"Not a very good outcome. I'd rather this." Sherlock whispered.
"I'd take this over anything. This moment...I'd choose it every time." John breathed, staring now deep into Sherlock's eyes, looking at him with the deepest of affections. Sherlock didn't feel awkward in his glance, in fact for the first time he was able to return his stare, knowing now that there was hardly anything to hide within his own soul. John was his secret, and now that John was standing here as close as he ought to be, well really there didn't need to be anything hidden between them at all. John would be free to stare all he liked, and Sherlock didn't have to look away. Sherlock wasn't quick enough to think of a response, and in the end he was rather thankful that he didn't have to speak. For no words would have proven to be as satisfactory as the kiss they shared, immediately after John had leaned in. It was gentle, just as was the first with that strange butler. Yet this time it felt like something more, it felt meaningful, as if it had been waiting to happen for as long as they had known each other, as soon as Sherlock first noticed the driver of the cab come to take him away. Now here they stood, nervously wrapping their arms around the other's neck as their lips pulled away for a brief moment, enjoying the peacefulness of their first ever exchange. Sherlock simply had to smile; he let his eyes fall closed and his forehead lean up against John's, he interlocked his fingers behind the boy's neck and just enjoyed their closeness, this proximity that would never have been allowed if they were in front of an audience. Yet Sherlock could not think of another time he had been so close, save for that ghastly visitor. He could remember hugging his mother as a child, and being carried by his father when he was still light enough. Yet just as soon as they put him down and never picked him back up again, well supposedly that was the last time he had been so close with someone for so long, so shamelessly intimate. When he could just press his chest against another, and loop his arms around their neck. It felt so relieving to finally feel the breath and the heartbeat of another human soul, standing so close that the faint body heat was able to warm him against the chilly night breeze. So unapologetic... When John kissed him next it was a bit more aggressive than the first, yet nothing near as downright hostile as the butler had been. It was mere motion, motion with the lips, with the hands. John's hands slid from around Sherlock's neck to press up against his chest, as if they intended to do something father if time and fate would allow it. Sherlock didn't mind, he had considered all the possibilities of tonight and he decided that he wouldn't mind any one of them. It was supposed to be fun, was it not? And there had to be a first time for everything. And so Sherlock kissed him back, just as much as he was able to at least. He tried his very best to be romantic, he tried to make it seem like he had kissed someone properly before. Presumably it wasn't all that convincing, because he could swear he heard John chuckling just a couple of times between their kisses. Well it didn't take long until John's fingers began to serve their purpose, for Sherlock could feel them now attacking at the buttons on his shirt, undoing them just as fast as possible as if there was a sudden urgency to their night. Sherlock didn't know the time, yet in fact he didn't care all that much. Suddenly the idea of Agatha catching them seemed so very far away. Here in the woods, well it felt as though they were untouchable, it felt as though nothing serious could really get to them. Or rather it felt like that for a brief moment, as John's fingers were brushing against his chest, as his shirt was beginning to catch the breeze and flutter out away from his shoulder blades. But it was then that Sherlock finally opened his eyes, opened them and tore his lips away from John's for just a little moment, so as to question him on his ultimate goals. It was then that he remembered that some enemies follow anywhere you go, so long as they were trapped inside of your head... Sherlock took one look at the face and let loose a great scream, stumbling backwards so abruptly that he fell right into the horse's backside, causing the great beast to whinny in protest and canter carelessly away. He might have fallen if he didn't regain his senses, taking another blink and seeing that it was John who stood before him...it was John and it always had been. Yet he could've sworn that he had seen another, that familiar face that had begun to haunt his dreams... The blue eyes, the pointed face, and the dark brown hair of the elusive butler.
"Sherlock, what's wrong?" John asked anxiously, standing where he had been abandoned as if too afraid to provoke Sherlock any father. Sherlock breathed heavily in his own panic, a feeling which was soon melting into embarrassment and shame. He just realized that he had made a fool of himself, and in turn spoiled one of the most momentous moments of his life. For a moment he stood silently, squinting around through the darkness as if to try to find where the boy had vanished off to. But was he here at all? Was he here, or was Sherlock simply projecting his fears onto the moment, the moment which he seemed to be reliving now with a different person entirely.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry." Sherlock whispered, taking a trembling step back and staring at John's face determinedly, as if to make sure there was no way he might've mistaken the two. Yet no, there was no resemblance. It was a trick of the mind, it had to be. "I thought I saw...well it doesn't matter really. It's not your fault let's just...let's just continue where we left off." he muttered, marching right back into John's arms and very awkwardly draping his hands across the boy's shoulder. Yet the magic, oh da*n him! The magic had faded away just as soon as Sherlock's lips changed from a kiss to a scream. Something had been interrupted, their momentum had been thrown off and John left to doubt.
"I'm sorry if I rushed anything." John muttered, now merely holding onto Sherlock's sides, as if to steady him rather than to continue working his shirt off of his shoulders.
"No it's fine. I'd be ever so happy to make love to you." Sherlock assured, with such a normal sort of tone that even he had to crinkle his eyebrows in distaste. "That was a bit abrupt." He admitted quietly.
"Sherlock what scared you?" John asked anxiously, ignoring Sherlock's last comment for the betterment of them both. Sherlock just shook his head, trying to kiss John so as to distract him from the ever present question. Yet it didn't work, John pulled away and now cradled Sherlock's face, as if trying to pry the truth out of him manually. Yet his face was still soft, it was still John. He cared, that was why he was so annoyingly persistent.
"I thought I saw someone else's face, that's all. A face that I've been trying to forget." Sherlock admitted finally, letting a long exhale out. As with most secrets, it felt so good to let this one out. A secret that would get him in trouble for multiple things, yet one which had been prying on his mind ever since Mycroft interrupted the butler in his final visitation.
"Someone who hurt you?" John presumed quietly.
"John I've not been entirely truthful. I mean I've never lied, but...well since I've been here I had kissed someone. Or rather I let someone kiss me; I really didn't know what I was doing at the time." Sherlock whispered, shaking his head in some reluctance while John's face turned to worry. He didn't look jealous, merely concerned.
"One of your suitors?" John guessed, to which Sherlock almost had to laugh.
"No, no. A stranger...a man. He came into my room twice, late at night when everyone else had already fallen to sleep. The first time he merely kissed me, the second he got more physical..."
"He pushed you onto the bed." John muttered, realizing now where that odd question had come from.
"And he wouldn't stop. I thought he was trying to kill me, I realize now that I may have been dramatic but I screamed for him to stop, I screamed until my brother came in to find me alone. He had vanished, almost as if he had never been there at all. A man in a butler's uniform, yet a man not recorded on the staff at all." Sherlock whispered finally, feeling a tear start to collect in his eye. It was hard to admit such a tale, for it painted him in a very shaky picture indeed. It made him sound crazy, and considering his family's background such a reputation was not a promising one at all.
"Sherlock...you don't think it was some sort of ghost?" John muttered.
"You don't believe in ghosts, John." Sherlock pointed out, to which John merely shrugged, tilting Sherlock's head up so that they could maintain their eye contact.
"I'd believe anything from you, Sherlock. I don't think you're crazy, I never have and I never will. But if there's someone after you, something threatening you...well I want to know about it. I want to stop it." John insisted, squeezing his hands a bit uncomfortably around Sherlock's head as if to demonstrate his enthusiasm.
"I'm not sure he's a ghost, I'm not sure he's a hallucination. He felt so real, the only explanation my mind is willing to accept is that he just ran quickly, perhaps he leapt out the window when I was distracted by Mycroft, perhaps he turned...invisible?" Sherlock muttered, though his argument was proving to be very weak indeed. John chuckled again, though nodded his head in his own way of encouragement.
"That's probable." John laughed, to which Sherlock merely smiled in shame.
"I don't know what's possible! John I'm just trying to rationalize...knowing my family history it's not a good sign if I start to hallucinate." Sherlock pointed out.
"Have you seen him since that night?" John wondered. Sherlock thought for a moment, knowing of course that he had not been approached. Yet there had been two occurrences that he could remember, ones not of the physical nature but the psychological.
"I saw him once on the bed in the attic, so briefly that I thought it was just a trick of the light. And again, tonight. In you." Sherlock admitted.
"That's quite unnerving." John muttered. "I don't like to think that I'd been sharing a body with some revolting creature."
"He wasn't revolting, he was actually quite beautiful. He appeared when I was feeling things, when I was longing for you without realizing it. He first appeared when I realized I loved you, and secondly when I realized I could never have you." Sherlock pointed out thoughtfully.
"Well, how'd that work out for you?" John chuckled. Sherlock nodded, though now the gears in his educated brain had begun to spin, thinking now the symbolic meaning of this ghostly figure.
"John, perhaps he is a ghost, drawn to homosexuals." Sherlock suggested abruptly.
"I've never seen him." John muttered.
"Well perhaps in the house instead. Maybe he'd died there, maybe..." Sherlock stopped himself, his words trailing off before he could make the final and daring claim.
"You think he was the servant who got killed by your grandfather?" John finished in a very curious way.
"Well it could make sense. The bed in the attic, the portrait I found...my grandfather looked just like me. Perhaps the ghost was confused, perhaps the ghost thought that I was him. Maybe they had an affair a while back, and murder was just my grandfather's way of ending it?" Sherlock whispered.
"Now you're talking crazy." John interrupted, his voice now bordering on concern.
"It's possible!" Sherlock defended.
"Sherlock, that was how many years ago? Fifty? If there was an affair that scandalous it would not have been kept quiet for so long. Someone would have squealed, especially if it had ended in a murder." John pointed out. "Besides, back then it was...well it was under more of a stigma."
"Nothing's changed from last century to ours, and here we are. You're a stable boy, I'm a noble. If it works now if might have worked then, perhaps my grandfather was seduced and panicked!" Sherlock exclaimed, now getting very excited about his own string of theories. Yet as Sherlock's face grew into a smile John's in turn began to turn sour.
"I'm not entirely liking this comparison you're making." He admitted quietly.
"I'm not saying we're going to end with a murder." Sherlock assured. "I'm just saying that if it happened now it could have happened then."
"We know nothing about that night, Sherlock. No one does! Some claim he killed the entire household, others claim he killed just one, and then there's a few who say he just killed himself! Maybe he didn't kill anyone at all!" John insisted. "I don't like the morbidity. Let's just focus on now, not then. Let's focus on each other, and not some illusive butlers that may or may not exist."
"I'm not crazy, John." Sherlock whispered, almost in a pleading way. As if he was begging for John to believe him.
"I know, Sherlock. God, I know." John assured, finally settling his lips onto Sherlock's forehead in a caring way, as if trying to kiss all the way into his brain so as to keep it healthy. From there John let his lips trail down the side of Sherlock's face, kissing all the way down his cheek until finally their lips meant once again. There was nothing more romantic than heartfelt confessions of ghosts and madness, and when such confessions end in a reassuring way as they did...well Sherlock felt more passionate than he ever had before. He was the one who began to kiss agressivley, he was the one that shoved his untrained tongue into John's mouth, and he was the one who moved John's fingers onto the buttons that were still left fastened. Perhaps he was moving this all too quickly; perhaps he was overstepping his boundaries. Yet now he felt so unburdened, he felt as though there was nothing to lose anymore. John knew the entirety of his brain, why not let him know the whole of his body as well? Together they fell into the flowers, the stems poking into Sherlock's bare back as he cradled the weight of John Watson, the boy kissing him as passionately as Sherlock would have him. He began to feel ecstasy, he began to feel weightless, careless...lawless. He let loose a sigh into John's mouth, wrapping his fingers through the boy's hair and pulling him closer still. So this was what it was like to be in love. And this was what it was like to be loved in return. 

Sherlock dreamt all night of a single face, the face that he had been unable to get out of his head since it last stung his eyes. It wasn't a very detailed dream at all; in fact it was merely the face of the mysterious butler, smiling. That was all the dream consisted of, and yet he still woke to the sunshine already in a sweat, finding that he didn't know where he was, nor what he was doing laying nearly naked in a field of crushed flowers. It was certainly frightening, and even more so to find that he was alone. He distinctly remembered falling asleep in John's arms, and so where was the boy?
"John?" Sherlock called anxiously, sitting up and wincing as he poked at some of the new cuts along his bare chest, those left from the thorns and sticks which had seemed so irrelevant in the heat of the moment. Yet as he woke in a panic the last thing he appreciated was pain, that nagging sort of feeling as those microscopic cuts began to open once again. The field seemed to be empty, no horse, no rider. Sherlock got to his feet, now pulling on his trousers and feeling the need to run screaming, realizing that he didn't know where he was nor how to get back. He could be wandering half dressed for days before finally someone noticed he was missing! The sun was already rather high in the sky, the birds were singing unbothered in the trees...Oh Sherlock hoped that Mycroft would be smart enough to make excuses. He hoped he would be smart enough to gather in that rope before one of the gardeners noticed it, along with the vanishing of the younger brother.
"John!" Sherlock screamed, allowing the rising panic to seep into his voice once more. Oh the worst of all possibilities was beginning to dawn on him, the possibility that this had all been in his head. The possibility that John had been as real as the butler, vanished just as soon as he got what he wanted...
"No need to sound so scared." Came that laughing voice, along with the pleasant trotting of horse's hooves. Sherlock turned to where John's voice was coming from, finding that he was just emerging from the path atop the beautiful palomino, shirtless and totting what looked like an old canteen.
"John...God. I thought you left." Sherlock admitted, pulling on his shirt and walking carefully up to where John was now dismounting.
"Well I did leave, but I didn't go far. Only to the river, to get us something to drink. Thought you might need it." John admitted, waving the canteen temptingly to Sherlock, who gathered it up thankfully and took a gulp. His throat was indeed parched, yet that had been on the bottom of the list of worries he had woken up with.
"Thanks." Sherlock muttered, passing it back to John who smiled appreciatively.
"You alright then?" John presumed. "Not too shaken up after last night?"
"Shaken up? No I'm...I'm fine." Sherlock assured.
"First time for everything." John said with a smile.
"Indeed there is. And hopefully a second time?" Sherlock giggled, to which John merely laughed in an impressed sort of way.
"I'm just happy you're not running and screaming all over the place. I thought you were afraid of things like that." John remembered.
"Perhaps with a woman, yes. But with you it's different." Sherlock admitted, feeling his cheeks go a bit red. John nodded, not bothering to hide his large and rather goofy smile.
"Well I'm flattered, Sherlock." He giggled, ruffling Sherlock's curls in a rather playful way before moving along towards the patch of crushed flowers to retrieve whatever was left of his clothes. Sherlock sat down in the grass to get his shoes on, rubbing his eyes and aching muscles. Last night had been something...well something he would never forget, surely. Something quite interesting, something he might have thought uncanny if not impossible beforehand. Yet something about it meant the world to him, and as he watched John stroking the horse's nose he felt a burst of affection unlike anything he had ever felt before, something of a dedication and a purpose. Something that he vowed never to take for granted, and even more importantly never to let go.