I Know Your Face

Tell Me Something I Don't Know

"Well then, I guess I'm going to go to bed. It's been a long night." John decided, getting to his feet in an attempt to get Mary on her way.
"Do you want me to stay? Straighten our your life a little bit, literally?" Mary offered, rolling off the bed and walking closer to John, who suddenly had the urge to duck away.
"Nah, I think I've had enough love for one night, even if it was fake." John decided with an innocent shrug. Mary nodded, but she kept moving closer.
"Well then, I guess I'll see you later then. When later is I don't know." She admitted.
"Ya, I'll see you." John agreed. Mary stepped closer, pressing a horrible kiss onto John's lips, horrible because it wasn't Sherlock.
"Bye." She agreed, pulling away as if John was going to want more and walking slowly towards the door. John stood there in his room, waiting for the sound of the front door open and close before he lunged at the wig and glasses sitting on the bed, grabbing the notebook and pen from his bedside table and jumping onto the pillows, prepared to entrance himself in the world of Sherlock Holmes once more. He put on his wig and glasses and nestled into his blankets, opening to a blank page of the notebook and pressing the pen to the top of the first line.
Sherlock,
I wanted to start by thanking you for such a lovely evening. I've never felt so happy in my life, your company is just too perfect, I almost doubt that I deserve such a blessing. You're a wonderful person Sherlock, all that I've ever wanted and more, and I just hope that this can continue. I really do feel like we were made for each other, in the least cheesy interpretation of the statement. I feel like ever since talking to you, interacting with you, feeling your lips on my forehead...I feel like I've fallen deeper and deeper into the pit that is love, and I rather hoped I had succeeded in dragging you in with me. I just...it's impossible to put my love into words, especially words on paper, where my eyes can't tell the full story. I suppose I'll just have to ask you myself, when I see you next. Don't come looking for me in the hallways, by the way. I don't want that John Watson fellow getting any ideas, for your sake.
With love,
Victor Trevor (it's nice to sign my real name for a change)
John looked away for a moment, smiling to himself as he imagined Sherlock once more, standing out there in the cold, with rosy cheeks and a soft smile, his lips so close...John capped the pen, tucking the notebook, wig, and glasses under his bed once more and changing quickly into his pajamas. He then slid under his multiple blankets in a small burrito of coziness, turning off the lamp in an impressive stretching act before snuggling deeper and deeper into his pillows. He didn't want to stay up in the darkness for long, thinking about Sherlock, because he was almost positive he was see the beautiful boy once he slipped into his dreams. But as he lay in his pillows and tried to close his eyes it was virtually impossible to ignore the fact that he had just gone on a date with Sherlock Holmes, and his brain insisted on playing the forehead kiss in his head on loop. So he let it play, not complaining even after the twentieth time of trying to imagine the exact feeling of Sherlock's beautifully soft lips on his skin.

John was afraid; there was that tense feeling of unknowingness rising in his chest, that feeling of helpless solitude that you only find amidst your dream world. He was standing in a darkened room, it looked something like a hospital but he knew it wasn't, stretching past the darkness he knew there would be no medical equipment, no sick patients, no doctors. But there was a screen in front of him, lit from behind so that he could only see the shape, the outline of the body behind. It was moving in a very elegant fashion, the shadow's arms moving about as if it were dancing to unheard music and with an unseen partner. But John knew how this worked, he knew exactly who that was and what he was supposed to do. This was a matter of love, an unconscious test so to say, nestled deep in the back of his mind. His brain was testing him, asking him if he were really ready for this kind of love, for this kind of commitment. Because that figure moved with a kind of beautiful, a kind of elegant grace that no other human being possessed. Its body was thin and nimble, and the light played across its glowing skin like sunlight dancing off of a smooth lake. It was Sherlock, it could only be Sherlock. But he couldn't see John; he didn't know that he was being watched as he danced to the rhythms of his own heart, he didn't know that he was being chosen. So could John do this, would he? Would he dare pick Sherlock Holmes, the strange boy who had momentarily ruined his life? Would John pick the kind of torment, the kind of social harassment that went along with being gay? Was he prepared? Yes of course. John took a step closer, and Sherlock started to dance faster, moving elegantly as if he had become excited, as if he knew that someone was coming to claim him, to dance alongside of him. John started to walk more, and Sherlock just twirled and twirled, and then John started to jog, and soon he was sprinting to the screen, where Sherlock was waiting for him. Yes, he wanted to do this, yes he needed to do this, yes he needed Sherlock Holmes. This wasn't a matter of yes or no, it was a matter of when and how, and right now, Sherlock was easily accessible, Sherlock was right there, he was ready. But no matter how much John ran, he discovered that he simply couldn't move fast enough. He felt the ground move beneath his feet, he felt his own air current move past his ears as he raced forward, but Sherlock still stayed the same distance away, almost taunting John from afar. Until John couldn't move any more, until his muscles burned and his lungs ached and his knees gave out from under him. Sherlock Holmes, as beautiful, as accessible, as loving as that boy was, John was never going to be able to have him. Not being who he was, not without the wig. Because Sherlock didn't love John, no, he loved Victor, and even though they were the same person, in Sherlock's eyes there were completely different. And that was the tragedy of this mutual love.