Like a Fairytale

Lovesickness is a Serious Illness

Sherlock's mind was racing, his heart was nowhere to be found, his legs were only columns of Jell-O, he was wobbling off course and doing a pretty bad job of acting normal. If John were still here or anyone really, he'd probably be sent off to a circus. Sherlock supported himself with his arms, slowly lowering himself down the beam and sitting on the concrete below. That had been the single best experience of his life, never had he ever kissed someone before, well, that first one didn't count, but his first actual kiss was the only person he wanted to kiss, and they had initiated. John Watson, the football star, with Mary Morstan under his arm, with so many friends he couldn't count them on both his fingers and toes, had just kissed Sherlock Holmes, the freak who could count his friends on one hand and still have five left over. Why him though, what did he have that John wanted, wait, who cares? He had actually wanted him, he was John's, after so long he could finally say it, and John was his. Maybe. It all depended on where Mary was in this picture; John couldn't fully be his unless he leaves that bleach blonde in the dirt somewhere. There was something miraculous about this whole thing, in fact the entire thing was straight out of a fairy tale. John had won a football game and Sherlock had just won life, so what else could they ask for? The prince meets the prince after all, and all the evil palace guards were out smarted by a set of bleachers and darkness. Now both kingdoms would have to live with the idea that their princes were together. This wouldn't go well of course, the Holmes family very much hates the Watsons, and if anything the Watsons hate them more, probably because they were a tad more successful and had claimed the city first. The people were now leaving the stadium, Sherlock could hear talking and laughing and lone cheers echoing off of the buildings. Football games would have to be the nightmare of the neighbors on Friday nights, especially ones that want to sleep sometime before one o'clock. Sherlock got to his feet shakily, but was able to walk out of the fence, pulling his coat tighter around himself and keeping his head down, in case anyone would want to know what the freak was doing hiding under the bleachers. He made his way through the crowd and the fence, spilling onto the sidewalk and crossing the deserted street to get some extra walking space. Everyone was going back home, the lights still shining like a second sun, but John couldn't be seen from this distance. Was Sherlock expected to go back, congratulate the whole team and give John a proper good bye? No, of course not, he couldn't be seen with any interactions, and if he had gone over to congratulate Anderson he'd end up with a cracked neck. He heard people talking about the game, and there was barely a conversation without John's final goal, he heard John's name popping up in the conversations all around him, and he only blushed, his lips still tingling with the gentle kiss. All they could do was talk about him, maybe congratulate them, but little did they know that the shadow moving across the other side of the street, hidden in the long trench coat, was actually John's boyfriend, well, maybe soon to be boyfriend. He felt bad for them; they'd never know what true love felt like, true happiness, because they were stuck with the wrong people. When he got to his house the lights were out, but to his relief, when he felt around in the bush, a spare key had been hidden in its many branches. Sherlock unlocked the door and slipped inside, seeing that thankfully there were no family members posed to interrogate him about his day. Sherlock walked up the steps, locking the door behind him of course, and entered his room, locking that door as well in case Mrs. Holmes wanted to talk. Sherlock threw his trench coat onto his desk, scattering papers and pencils, and he heard Redbeard groan from across the room.
"Redbeard you'll never believe what happened!" Sherlock exclaimed, still trying to be a little bit quiet, but his nerves were taking over, making him want to bounce out of his shoes. He ran over to the dog, who was laying on the floor between the bed and the wall, his brown eyes open but tired.
"He did it, well, yes, he did, we kissed." Sherlock hissed. It was odd how well Redbeard could pick up human words and actually understand them, because he raised his head up, a lot more alert than he had been seconds ago. So Sherlock told him, some in a whisper and some louder than he probably should've, but no one was awakes so it didn't bother him. When Sherlock finished Redbeard looked a lot more happy, if he were a human he probably be smiling and patting Sherlock on the back, but he just wagged his tail a couple of times and kept his head up, as if there were more to hear. But Sherlock got to his feet, dancing away in excitement and almost smacking his foot against the oak bookshelf. He was happy, happier than he's ever been in his entire life; it felt like, even though the sun had long since set, that it was finally bright. Sherlock quickly changed into his pajamas, obtaining from brushing his teeth so that maybe, just maybe, the taste of john's lips could linger throughout the night. He never felt like he had to preserve any fuzz on his jacket, every small piece of grass stuck to his ankles, because they were all present when John Watson, the John Watson, had kissed him. This miracle though, was shrouded in mystery. Sherlock just couldn't see what John found desirable about him, it wasn't his personality, it wasn't his looks, did John just pity him so much that he wanted to make him feel better? Yes, that must be it; John was, in his own beautiful way, making up for everything he had done before, all the torment. Had he finally came to face the consequences of his actions? Sherlock sighed, turning off the lamp in his room and staring at the dark ceiling, the covers pulled up to his chin, but his heart was still pumping, his legs still feeling able to run a marathon, all he wanted was to go back there, once again, and to be held by John, kissed by John, just in the very presence of John. Sherlock took a deep, shaking breath, trying to mentally go back there; see the look on John's face, reciting his entire speech in his head. Sherlock Holmes, can I kiss you? The six words Sherlock wanted to hear, the six words he was gifted to hear, yes oh yes he could. This didn't mean they were in a relationship did they, Mary was still a barrier in the way, John hadn't fully broken up with her had he? What if he did, what if he was letting everything go just to be with Sherlock? No, that was madness, there was nothing Sherlock had that he wanted, he definitely wasn't up to his look standards, and it's not like dating him would boost your popularity. But maybe, just maybe, did John feel something, just a little pinprick in his heart, for him? If only John could feel the earthquake that ripped through Sherlock's body every time John merely glanced in his direction, if only he had the chance to admit how much he truly adored him, but that was preposterous, John wouldn't want to listen, why would you? Sherlock was in the negatives in social status, he looked like the back end of a horse, no one would want to listen to him mumble about his childish dreams. They weren't dreams though, not anymore, if nothing else happened, if they didn't exchange a single word again, Sherlock would still feel a sense of accomplishment knowing that he had managed to sway the boy he wanted the most. Of course no one could learn about his one accomplishment, not his parents, his brother, his inexistent friends, only Redbeard could know, as he knows everything. John wouldn't tell anyone, probably, unless this was all a joke and Anderson and the rest of the football team had been hiding around the bleachers, trying to catch a good glimpse of the freak thinking he had stuck gold. Maybe they even videotaped it, how humiliating would that be? Sherlock shuddered at the thought, for them to see him so flustered and awkward, it would be miserable to live in a world like that. But John seemed serious, as if had planned out what he were going to say, his exact actions, movements, maybe he had even practice facial expressions in the mirror as well.