Not A Thing You Get To Choose

Suddenly Sherlock felt his arm being pulled, he looked up to see that John had taken to his feet, he had Sherlock's hand in his own, he was leading him up! Sherlock looked up at him helplessly, it was all he could do but rise and yet he couldn't feel his legs, in all his numbness he couldn't understand how he was even on his feet, how he was level!
"John..." Sherlock whispered, not sure what was happening, knowing that he liked it, but not entirely sure why.
"You know Sherlock, I've never been with anyone either." John whispered, taking Sherlock's hand even tighter and starting him towards what looked like some sort of side door, away from the public eye, into the darkness, the starlight...
"Not yet." Sherlock agreed quietly, stumbling over his own feet for he knew what was imminent, he knew what waited behind that door! John's fingers were the only things giving him life at this point, they were the only thing holding him up, his heart was growing so heavy that he felt the need to just collapse on the spot, his knees were wobbling, his eyes were growing ever so blurry. And finally John pushed open the door, flinging it open into a back alley, leading Sherlock into the darkness to which the boy could hardly get a breath, love...this was love. This was at least where it led. Love in the middle of a garbage strewn alley, were only the desperate go, where only the love sick dare... By now Sherlock's breathing was so heavy he could hardly inhale, it hurt for his lungs to inflate, and by now he didn't even need air, by now he didn't even need to live, John was his life now. He could barely see by the light of the distant moon, however he could feel his way about, he could tell that he was now being backed gently against the brick wall, he knew it was brick because of the distinct smell, he knew it was brick because of the way it stung against the back of his head as he fell into it, helpless with John's touch. John was steering him by the hands, pushing him ever so slightly back as if he knew that he was going to collapse. Sherlock sunk against the wall, closing his eyes and just focusing on breathing while he felt John's finger brush ever so gently against the curve of his jawbone, trailing about his chin and hovering just below his lips. It was like a wild animal playing with their prey before they went in for the kill, and yet in some ways Sherlock might have preferred death. Maybe it would be less agonizing than this. In other senses, however, Sherlock was sure that even if he did die he would never have felt so alive. He craved life more than he ever had in this instant; however he knew that he would be helpless to stop whatever death might choose him in this moment. John wasn't talking, which was good because Sherlock wasn't listening, because Sherlock wasn't seeing, Sherlock wasn't breathing... And finally it came, that kiss that he had been waiting for, for so long, for days, for weeks, for years. Here it was, that brush of the lips, that mere touch of lips and yet it was just so...so magical! More magical than any of Sherlock's tricks, all of them combined! Nothing could have amounted to this feeling of ecstasy, to this feeling of harmony. And with that kiss, with those lips, Sherlock came back to life. His eyes flew open, he saw John standing before him, suddenly he could feel everything, everything that was happening, every sound and feeling, every touch and breath, the taste of beer on John's lips, the slight fog that was settling on their skin, the beating of their mutual hearts and the talking of people through the wall, so far. He could see the lines in John's face and the curves of his lips, he could hear as he exhaled and he could feel as he inhaled, Sherlock could feel John's hands on his waist, he could feel the touch of his hair on his chin, he could now feel his lips as they pressed against the collar of his jacket, on his skin, on his neck... Sherlock pulled John closer, pulling their lips together in some sort of ferocious move, knowing now that it was okay, it was quite okay. Not yet, not yet...now. Now. John gave a breath of triumph, something of a laugh that was inhibited by lips, intruding lips; Sherlock wouldn't let him speak any longer. He could feel John's hands rising, pulling up the fabric in his shirt, untucking it from his slacks and dragging his fingers across Sherlock's chest as he struggled to find the top button. Sherlock could feel his chest, pressing so close, his legs, beginning to curl around his own, his hands feeling at Sherlock's neck and puling at the buttons, Sherlock could do nothing but hold him closer, dangle his arms around his shoulders and hold him so that he wouldn't be going anywhere, not anytime soon. It was the darkness that caused the delirium, oh in the sunlight none of this might have happened but now, now they were being fed by the rebellious air, by the beer that was still pumping strong through their veins. He felt the chill begin to sweet under his clothes as John succeeded in unbuttoning the first three of his buttons, his lips trailing with the exposed skin, kissing at his chest, kissing at the fabric, clawing at it, trying to get more...
"Not here John, not here, not yet..." Sherlock breathed, pulling John's face up to his once more and kissing him again, kissing him in his anxiousness.
"Then where, then when?" John begged in the smallest of voices, sounding as if he couldn't get enough of Sherlock, he couldn't wait any longer.
"Not in an alley." Sherlock insisted. John gave a groan of annoyance, however he wouldn't let such a thing as location stop them, he was desperate, he was an unstoppable force...John grabbed Sherlock's hand, kissing him once more so fiercely before pulling him towards the road, dashing out into the street even in their disheveled state, calling for a hansom desperately, yelling so loudly that they were bringing attention to themselves. It was almost embarrassing, however John never let go of Sherlock's hand, and he never bothered to do up the buttons on his shirt, or to fix his hair that was now in curly mess atop his head. Finally a small carriage rolled up, the horses trotting to a stop in front of the sidewalk and slowing just enough so that John could fling open the door anxiously, nearly pushing Sherlock inside.
"To the judge's house, to the judge's house!" John exclaimed, assuming of course the driver knew where that was, however it seemed he couldn't be bothered. As soon as Sherlock took a seat on the velvet John was with him again, pulling the door shut and pushing Sherlock back against the seat, falling atop of him as Sherlock's head sunk deeper and deeper into the cushions.
"So anxious." Sherlock teased, all the while John continued to kiss him, as if trying not to lose the mood, the magic. Oh but it was never gone, no not really.
"So talkative." John breathed, his lips moving once more to Sherlock's neck all while the boy could only breathe, only stare up at the darkened ceiling as the horses started on their way, clutching to John's back all while the carriage bounced over rocks and bumps in the cobblestone streets. It wasn't a long ride, made shorter of course by the distance between the hansom and the house, the road and the entry way, the servants and the family members that might not be expecting John to be home so early, and with such mangy company. And yet that might not have been on John's mind, well of course it wasn't on his mind, it was growing only too obvious that he was only thinking about one thing... When the carriage finally pulled up only one more button had been undone and only a couple of kisses had been exchanged, and yet in that state the boys hopped out, delirious and staggering, falling into each other's arms with smiles on their faces, drunken smiles.
"Is that all now?" the driver wondered, calling down and looking quite confused as his eyes strained to see who he was looking at in the darkness. Maybe he couldn't be sure if there was a woman standing down there, a woman occupying the man's voice he had heard before.
"Yes that is all, thank you, keep the change." John agreed, throwing up a ten pound note carelessly and pulling Sherlock towards the sidewalk. The Watson household proved to be just as magnificent as Sherlock had imagined it, a large white building with tremendous columns lining the doorway, with marble steps leading up to the great wooden doors.
"This is yours?" Sherlock breathed in amazement, staring at the house in wonder as John struggled to pull him up the stairs. The windows were all alight with candles and yet the curtains were drawn, giving the mansion a warm and homely look to it.
"Oh come on Sherlock, come on Sherlock!If an alley wouldn't work then surely my front porch won't either." John insisted eagerly, pulling Sherlock towards him once more and pressing a kiss to his lips in joy as he started up the stairs once more. Sherlock willed himself to be led up the stairs and through the oak doors, stepping out of the night and into the bright illumination of the chandelier that hung in the magnificent entry way. John didn't give Sherlock time to look around, and in fact Sherlock was sure that in the time he had looked at everything that intrigued him it would already be morning, and John would be just a little bit disappointed. The only thing that Sherlock could grasp before he was led up the stairs was just how many doors there were, leading off to so many directions, so many doors while the house he lived in only had one...the front door.
"Come on, come on, quietly!" John breathed, pulling Sherlock up the velvet lined stairs and down a hallway lined with portraits of people Sherlock didn't recognize, most of them in obnoxious powdered wigs. The last door on the right was John's, or at least Sherlock could only assume it was, for in an instant he was being pulled into it, the candles burning softly throughout the room so as to shed the softest candle light, the most romantic air, and the most beautiful aura. The room was lined with luxury, or at least that was what Sherlock could gather, for as soon as the door had shut he was against it, once more with John pressing him down with his weight, with his urgency. It was quite difficult to get back into the mood, especially in such a strange place, scenery changed so quickly, and yet John made it easier, he made it much, much easier. For finally he had worked off the last button of Sherlock's shirt, finally his lips trailed about Sherlock's waist before he finally straightened himself up and pulled off his own shirt in one effortless swipe, leaving Sherlock to tumble back into the abyss of infatuation that he had fallen into not ten minutes before. Oh everything was happening so fast, and yet what could he do to complain? What could he do to even try to stop it? He fell into John's arms, he let John pry off his shirt and jacket, all in one, he let himself tangle into John's limbs and into his sheets, he let himself dissolve in that touch and in his lips. It was love, it was love, it had to be love! For the first time since he had met John Watson that feeling of anxious pain, that insufferable nagging sensation, well it was all together cured, just by the kisses and the touches and the skin. How could he have been so foolish before, to think that friendship would stir this sort of need into his heart? This wasn't friendship, it was, but it was so much more! It was everything, it was every emotion curled up into one, it was every emotion so obscenely compressed into the heart of another, Sherlock was trying to give his heart and take one as well, oh it was chaos, it was desperateness, it was...it was love. Oh and even as a sorcerer, even as a sorcerer Sherlock could tell that it was magical! More awe inspiring, more breathless, more forbidden and more hidden, oh love, love for all it was worth, Sherlock was no longer poor! Not when he had this, this feeling that was worth its weight in gold, this feeling that was worth anything this world could offer him. And he would still refuse it, not if he could live this night over, and over, and over again, living it and feeling it and experiencing it with the one man that suddenly meant everything to him, the one man that had once been no one... A face in the crowd suddenly became the face above him, the lips that once spoke that first greeting were now the lips that pressed against his lips, against his skin, the hands that accepted the daisy were the ones that cradled his very life and soul, it was love, it was love and oh, how beautiful it was. 

 Morning wasn't announced with the crow of a rooster, not it was rather strange, for the crowing came instead from the throat of a song bird, whistling anxiously as the sun started up over the horizon. The sunlight was daunted by the white curtains that fluttered softly above the slightly open window, displaying the town below, just starting to wake. And Sherlock, well he wasn't about to wake any time soon if it wasn't for that bird, that singing. As soon as Merlin's whistling processed in his brain his eyes flew open, and for a moment he was so overwhelmed by his surroundings that he almost didn't want to look at the figure that he felt cradling him, for a moment he suspected that if he looked over to see who these arms belonged to his brain would shut down for good. He was surrounded in luxury, these white sheets weren't his own, this large bed wasn't his cot...this white ceiling, trimmed with gold, surely wasn't the mere wooden roof that sat above his head as he woke. No this as different, it was all different, oh and he wasn't alone...he wasn't alone. Sherlock felt his breath begin to come in quick, panicked gasps, for he looked down to see that his bare torso was cradled by strong arms, soft arms, and he could hardly move himself to confirm his suspicions. He remembered everything from the night before, he remembered every kiss and every touch so vividly that he could play it back in his mind with pinpoint accuracy, and yet his own memories still had yet to prove to him that this wasn't some wild hallucination. No, it would be his company that confirmed the occurrences of the night before. Sherlock very carefully touched the arm that was holding him, trialing his finger up its relaxed muscles as his head slowly turned to approach the boy that was lying so close. And so it was, it was John. Sherlock breathed again, however he wasn't sure if it was in relief or in fear that he gasped, for John looked so beautiful and yet their presence together, here in nothing but blankets and with the sun rising faithfully, as it always did...Mycroft would be expecting him. Oh Mycroft would've been expecting him hours ago, his poor brother probably didn't get a wink of sleep for worry of his brother's safety! And yet the idea left his brain as soon as it had come, and so Sherlock very gently set his head back down on the pillow that seemed to be his for the night, for there were a great many pillows (some of which he suspected served no purpose at all). He stared at the mahogany wardrobe, polished and shining just as he would have expected it, for the entire room seemed to be glowing with elegance, of course it would be looked upon as distasteful for even a speck of dust to make its home on any one of the many curves and grooves of that magnificent, expensive wardrobe. That thing, and all of the clothes presumably hidden inside of it, was probably three times as much as Sherlock's entire livelihood cost, food housing and clothes included. No inheritance he had received from his parents would ever suffice to that amount, no tips in the tin or paycheck from the shoemaker could even cover one quarter of such a magnificent thing. And the astonishing part was simply that the wardrobe was but a piece in this elegant bedroom, which was in turn simply just a piece of the mansion itself, and in most all the rooms wardrobes such as that were placed, all filled with luxury, and all accompanied by equally expensive pieces of furniture. It was so foreign, so alien, that Sherlock wasn't yet convinced that this wasn't a wild hallucination. For a moment Sherlock was almost tempted to slip away without waking John, the less confirmation he had of the night before, the better. Not that it wasn't beautiful, oh it had been the most amazing night spent with the most beautiful man, and yet it might be more exciting should it not be followed up with justification. The mysteriousness of the disappearance might aid to the elegance of the evening, for all that would be in their memories would be the night they had and the moment when they first drifted to sleep, calming their breathing and settling softly in each other's arms, smiles on their faces as their eyelids drooped, feeling safe, feeling loved, presumably for the first time in their lives. It had been beautiful of course, and yet so preliminary. Neither of the boys had been with anyone before, and so their kissing was sloppy, their love wasn't entirely perfected, and yet it was convincing enough for them to be satisfied, loving enough for them to feel as though their innocence was not wasted. Sherlock was ever so happy entrusting John with his childhood, with his purity, and with his heart. He knew that a tainted man never made a good husband, and yet he was quite sure he would never make a good husband anyway. Not to a woman, at least. He would stay with John, that is of course if John would stay with him, together they shall not be married but they shall be united all the same, bonded with the share of mutual secrets, and with a love that dare not be openly displayed. Before Sherlock could put his mysterious disappearance to action John began to stir, he felt his muscles twitch and his fingers clutch ever so slightly around each other, pulling Sherlock closer in his waking and sighing heavily against his bare shoulder.