Secretly I Think You Knew

Personified Version of Love

           

Sherlock scrambled to his feet, running off upstairs and closing his door, locking it and leaning against the old wood. What didn't he know about his parent's deaths? Was there something there that turned Mycroft against emotion forever? Was love somehow responsible for getting their parents killed? Even if it was, Sherlock still wouldn't turn his back on it. Even if the personified version of love had pulled the breaks out of their car, Sherlock would still want to love John. He still wanted to be with him, to feel his skin, to taste his lips...Sherlock sighed deeply, closing his eyes slightly and imaging the soft brushing of John's fingers, the feel of John's hand in his, the warm, smooth skin, the pulse beating so heavily, John Watson and his beautiful, beautiful  being. The last person Sherlock had ever touched had been Victor Trevor; he had held his hand as he slit his throat. He had felt the pulse slow, the hands shake in fear, the skin slowly turn cold, the veins still. He felt the life leave Victor's body, the pure, crimson blood pour over his hands and blade, watched as the light left his piercing blue eyes, the eyes that were supposed to gaze at him, to watch over him, to protect him, the hands that were supposed to hold him and cradle him, the boy that was supposed to love him. Sherlock couldn't do that to John, he couldn't kill that precious boy, the boy that had come to Sherlock to help him and protect him and love him, he couldn't deny John Watson his entire life. Sherlock knew that John was more special than Victor had ever been; he knew that he may have been too direct with Victor, too obvious. He thought Mycroft's rules were made to be broken, that they were flimsy and easily breakable. He never knew the extent his brother might go to make sure Sherlock was shielded from all emotions, even the purest and most magical of feelings, for some reason Sherlock had to be denied. Sherlock Holmes could never love, even if the perfect boy loved him back. Sherlock walked over to his bed and pulled the hangings once more, sitting in his little secure cave of fabric and pulling out his notebook. He flipped through the old worn pages, watching as Victor Trevor stared back at him from every angle, and then finally John Watson, his idiotic little smile haunting Sherlock even in his notebook. But Sherlock couldn't help but smile back, John, he could only imagine this John coming to life right now, crawling out of the pages of his notebook, landing softly in Sherlock's bed and holding him close, telling him everything will be okay even when the both of them knew it would never be okay. There was never going to be a day where Sherlock could love John without fear of oppression, without fear of his brother. No matter how close the two of them got, there would always be a gap, a barrier, made up of the constant terror of Mycroft' wrath, if/when he found out. But would the consequences be the same as they had been with Victor? Would Mycroft make Sherlock kill John or would he do it himself? Would he kill Sherlock as well, lock him in the freezer with the corpses of his previous lovers and freeze to death next to their cold, still bodies? That sounded more Mycroft's speed, or he would chain Sherlock downstairs and make sure he never saw the light of day again. He grabbed his pencil from his dresser and flipped to another page, a blank page, and pressed the pencil to the paper. Sherlock once more let his soul flow free, whatever he might see in his mind he would soon see in the notebook, lines, dashes, squiggles, coming together to form a picture. For some reason this drawing took a lot longer than the other ones, and when Sherlock's hand finally stopped he discovered why. There were two people, contorted and intertwined together, one he recognized as himself, except, it wasn't him at all. Sherlock saw his distinguishable curly black hair, his cheekbones, his eyes, half shut, but there was something else, something about this person that didn't resemble Sherlock at all. Maybe it was the real, small smile on his face, a feature Sherlock felt like he hadn't worn in ages. Maybe it was the fact that there was an almost happy glow to his body, maybe it was the fact that this Sherlock was in love. The other figure was also a bit harder to recognize, not because it wore the expression of a happy man, but the fact that it seemed to be two people. Sherlock saw the face of John Watson, the soft, smooth hands of John Watson, holding this happy Sherlock's face between them. But it had the hair of Victor Trevor, the expression of love that Sherlock had only seen on Victor Trevor, the lips of the boy that had first stolen Sherlock's heart. Those lips that he had never been able to kiss, that muttered out his name as the blood started to pool at the bottom of his throat, the lips that had been spitting and coughing out blood. Sherlock, the happy Sherlock, was being loved by the only two boys that had ever loved him, the only two people that had ever cared. And they were mixed, this wasn't just John and Victor this was, as Sherlock had imagined earlier, the personified version of love. In this drawing Sherlock was happy because he was being cradled and kissed by love himself, taken in the form of the only two boys Sherlock had ever loved, one that he could never have, and the other that he had to take care of, protect and hide, because Sherlock didn't want to die without meeting love, without being in love, without being overwhelmed and over powered by the fierce wave of love that John Watson was sure to drown him in. He had thought Victor would be the one to provide this, but it turns out Victor was no more than a small creek in which Sherlock had dipped his feet in, John was the ocean, the big, brewing body of water that would have Sherlock gasping for air, stranded in the middle with no land and no rescue in sight. And he would drown, be succumbed by the awesome power of the love John could provide him until it took his very life away, and he would float to the bottom with a smile on his face, he would be happy, he would be satisfied, to give everything he had ever known away just to be engulfed in this forbidden feeling. In this forbidden love.