Finally Sherlock found himself seated next to John, in a great big room that was filled with cozy chairs. It was dim yet not completely dark, and Sherlock could still see that they weren't alone in this place. There were numerous other people, a lot of them couples as well, and Sherlock felt so terribly out of place. He didn't know anyone here, much less the boy he was seated next to! This still felt like another dream, it still felt as though there was something terribly wrong, a misconception, and a miscommunication. Yet John had confirmed that it was a date, he had even called Sherlock beautiful...he seemed to know what he was getting himself into. And even now, as they sat side by side, John seemed content. Sherlock dared not look at him too long, for he felt almost as if he was not allowed to. This had to be some sort of bribery; John must only be here because he was paid off by Mycroft. Perhaps he thought he was just obeying the church and being a good follower by taking the alienated child of the minister out on his first date. Then again, homosexuality wasn't entirely appreciated in this church, and so John's acts were a little bit unorthodox. In fact, if Minister Holmes had caught them here together he may very well murder them both. Sherlock, for being out of the house, and John for being with him...so close really. Leaning on the armrest that separated them both, and grinning at random intervals in the direction of his date. Sherlock sat very straight, keeping his eyes fixed on the blank screen that sat before them, waiting anxiously for the movie to begin so that he could be given something else to distract himself with. Of course this very moment had played out in his head for years at a time! In the darkness, for as long as he could remember, he would imagine his first date with John Watson. Yet never had he expected it to come true! How much easier it was, when his actions could be erased and his words forgotten, and he could start it al from the top if things didn't go the way he liked? How much easier it was when the John alongside him had no judgement, and no traits that were not conjured from Sherlock's own interpretation of the perfect man. In his imagination he could have leaned over now, and finally tasted the lips that had been on his mind since he first saw John's blonde head on the sidewalk outside. Yet now, now in reality, well he had to stay away. He had to sit as straight as possible, remembering of course that everyone time John's eyes looked his way he was judging, he was making observations. None of those observations could be negative; Sherlock could not allow anything other than perfection. For the probability of keeping John by his side was much greater if John thought he was beautiful.
"We can talk, you know? That's what most people do on dates, talk." John said finally, after checking his watch to see that they still had some time to wait until the trailers began. John was sitting with a great big bucket of popcorn on his lap, yet Sherlock dare not help himself. He didn't even know if they were meant to share, or if John was just going to eat the whole thing by himself.
"Talking isn't my strong point." Sherlock admitted quietly.
"What is, then?" John wondered, to which Sherlock looked over at him with wide, nervous eyes.
"I'm very good at chemistry." Sherlock decided finally, after a long pause in which he assessed his skills. Admittedly, it was not a very long list.
"Chemistry! Wow, that's a complicated branch of science. I had to learn it once, last year. I couldn't make it past atoms before my brain had a conniption. You're smart then, a science guy?" John presumed.
"I suppose as far as my studies have gone, science has always been my strong point." Sherlock agreed hesitantly, for he didn't want to make himself seem like any sort of genius. It was true that he thrived academically, in all subjects to be honest. Yet he didn't want to sound like he held himself higher than everyone else, for in all honestly he was quite afraid of how superior everyone in this world was to him. Maybe he could understand chemistry more than most, yet it would seem as though everyone else in the world would know the proper social etiquette on a date, or at a movie theater, everyone else in the world would have already figured out how to get John's arm around their shoulders. Sherlock was a child in this strange world, simply a child who happened to understand the interworking of organic compounds.
"I'm not really good at school stuff." John admitted with a shrug.
"Really? I had rather assumed you were perfect in all aspects." Sherlock muttered, his cheeks glowing a bit scarlet as he realized what an embarrassing form of flattery this conversation had taken. Now he really was betraying himself and the secrets that weren't trying to stay hidden for long. Yet John simply chuckled, as if he took that as a compliment rather than a warning sign.
"Well I suppose I am smart, but like, I'm not naturally smart. I've got to work at it, and usually I don't have the time to do that." John admitted.
"Sports are your strong suit, I suppose?" Sherlock presumed. John grinned, nodding his head and wiggling a little bit excitedly in his chair.
"Oh yes." He agreed. "I imagine you've heard of my football stats?"
"I just know you're good. Beyond that, well I don't even know what stats are." Sherlock admitted a bit nervously.
"Well let's just say football is the best thing I do, or have ever done. I think I'm born for it, just like you're born for chemistry." John decided with a grin.
"I was born for a grave." Sherlock grumbled, looking down at his oxygen tank glumly all the while John tensed. Obviously he didn't know how to respond to something so morbid as that, and Sherlock felt rather bad for flinging such pessimism in his direction. Of course he wasn't used to conversing with people who weren't used to his disease! Mycroft knew the trouble that Sherlock went through daily, and he knew enough to disregard any death jokes that were made. Victor on the other hand was so casual with death that he may very well be the Grim Reaper himself, and he took Sherlock's death jokes as some sort of flattery, for the most part. John, on the other hand, surely hadn't ever been in a conversation with someone whose time on this earth was diminishing dangerously fast.
"Now don't talk like that. Life is what you make of it, no matter how much you're allowed." John muttered, although his voice was stiff, for he obviously didn't know what to say in this situation. He didn't know Sherlock enough to know his outlook on life. Sherlock heaved a great sigh, for John's words sounded exactly like Mycroft's when he tried to talk positively. It just sounded stupid, really, for it seemed as though optimists didn't understand how time worked. Just because Sherlock's life was destined to be shorter than everyone else's doesn't mean it worked at all faster. The only track to any purpose was education, and that was grade school and then university, both things Sherlock would be deprived of. Even if his parents did allow him any sort of escape into the real world, he would get cut short in the middle of his studies when his lungs gave out. He wasn't going to make it to a career, or to any sort of position at all. It was incredibly hard to change the world from the attic, no matter how good he was at chemistry. It was impossible to make anything about of your life if everyone merely pities you! Except, perhaps...in a morgue. Where no one saw you as anything different, where no one saw you as anything dying. Where there was only one set of eyes and they were...adoring. Sherlock shivered slightly, despite the heat, and for a moment he forgot where he was, and who was sitting next to him. Instead he remembered Victor, his eyes, his grin, and that familiar feeling washed over his entire body. And oh it was almost embarrassing to say that when he turned his eyes back to reality, it was almost disappointing. 

  When the church veered into view, Sherlock was trying to tell himself to relax. He was back home, it was all going to be over soon. Now of course he was enjoying himself, or at least he was telling himself he had to. A date with John Watson, the one thing he thought he'd never had...the one thing he was living through now, in that constant state of shock and confusion. In all honesty, Sherlock still didn't know why he had been granted John's company. Yet now it was coming to a close, now the church was rounding the corner and the car was coming to a stop in the parking lot. Sherlock took a breath of relief, yet still some part of him gave him the warning that this was not all over, not nearly so. Some part of him felt the tension in the air, and recognized that while the engine was off, neither of them were moving. That while the car was parked, and the doors unlocked, John's eyes were still staring at Sherlock as if he was expecting something more to happen than a goodbye. 

"John um...how do I thank you for this? It was a wonderful evening, truly." Sherlock muttered quickly, his voice getting caught in his throat as he reached for his seatbelt, deciding that it was now or never that he escape.
"Was it really? Sherlock I wouldn't have guessed that you enjoyed yourself." John admitted with a sigh, leaning over the steering wheel and glancing at Sherlock with a look he had not ever seen in someone's eyes before. It was a hungry sort of look, coupled with confidence in its truest, most radiant form. It was the look that someone wore when they wanted something badly, and knew of course that they could have it if they just reached out their hand.
"Of course I did. I mean...well who wouldn't?" Sherlock asked hesitantly, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck begin to stand. He knew that he shouldn't be nervous; he knew that this part of the night was almost essential for all dates, and for all goodbyes. A kiss, wasn't that what John wanted? But my God! They didn't know each other; they hardly spoke a full conversation! Sherlock had been whining to himself that he would never know the taste of another's lips, and here he was, knowing that look in John's eyes and wishing for nothing but an escape. It was a feeling of threat, possibly because he didn't know what to do after he got what he wanted. Maybe it was just because he didn't want to be a terrible kisser. Or maybe it was because what he wanted had shifted drastically, and intimacy at this point seemed to be violence.
"You're right, Sherlock, who wouldn't?" John asked with a laugh. "I know you probably think that you made terrible company, but I would like to do this again all the same. I found you strangely charming."
"Again...you mean like?" Sherlock breathed heavily. "Like again?"
"If you'll have me." John agreed with a little chuckle, obviously finding Sherlock's nervousness to be something of a likable feature. Sherlock had to admit that John's adoration was very confusing, for Sherlock never recalled a moment where he gave the boy something to admire. In all honesty, Sherlock had considered himself almost intolerable. Certainly if he had met himself he would have hated it.
"I'll certainly have you." Sherlock agreed in an eager breath, which was met once again with chuckling. Sherlock didn't understand what made that statement so funny, yet John caught him off guard now with a quick adjustment, in which his hand shot out from the steering wheel and trapped Sherlock's hand in a prison of fingers. Sherlock jumped, for such a quick bout of proximity was enough to get him afraid. Yet he told himself he wanted this, that he wasn't afraid. Maybe if he allowed himself to kiss John Watson then he would want to again, maybe if he allowed himself to delve into the humanity of intimacy, then maybe he might perfect it. And so Sherlock didn't move his hand, all the while his face paled to a dangerous shade of white. John's fingers were strangely rough, like an athlete's should be, supposedly. They were calloused and hard, yet they cradled Sherlock's fingers in the gentlest way, the most caring way. His touch was rough yet delightful, and he moved with such gracefulness that Sherlock almost felt drawn to him. He almost felt as though it was his job now to move closer. Their fingers interlocked together was enough to make his entire body go rigid, and even if Sherlock had wanted to move towards John he found that it was not in his power. He just sat stone still, with his lips parted nervously, watching now as John smiled.
"Ever kissed someone before?" John asked casually. Sherlock gulped, feeling as though the oxygen supplied through his tank was simply not enough. He felt helpless to do anything but shake his head, for he knew that any words that came out may very well be screams.
"Would you mind my being the first, then?" John asked carefully, leaning closer now as his words got softer, gentler. He was being flirtatious, he was being romantic. Sherlock didn't need to say anything, really, for as the words fell off of John's lips he began to lean, he began to get closer. And suddenly his hand left Sherlock's, it let Sherlock's hand fall back to his lap now as John ran his fingers along Sherlock's cheek, holding his head in place now, to make sure it didn't fall off in the process. John cupped Sherlock's face between his palms and he pressed his lips against Sherlock's, he kissed him now, so suddenly that Sherlock didn't have time to process what it felt like. He didn't have time to process anything except pure exhilaration...pure ecstasy. And just as soon as Sherlock remembered the importance of such an act, just as he remembered how his dreams had literally come true...well John pulled away. John pulled away, and left Sherlock gasping now for more. His heart was beating faster than he ever remembered it going. And John, once again, could only smile. 

Sherlock didn't know that he was staring at nothing until he heard Victor's voice, somewhere far off in his conscious mind. Yet he was so far into his brain and his memories that it was almost difficult for him to come back, even to here, even to the morgue. Something in his head was constantly replaying that kiss, something in his brain decided that it would relive it over and over again just to be sure it had actually happened. For he still wasn't entirely convinced that he was living in a single version of reality, there seemed to be multiples playing out at once. That, or Sherlock would wake up once again in his attic, and find that nothing had ever changed. That Victor and John were simply figments of his imagination, and he would be stuck once again between those ever so familiar four walls. But it was lovely, this dream of his, or this reality. Whatever it was, even if it actually was reality, well it was wonderful. He dared allow himself to be happy, Sherlock dared allow himself to smile when people weren't looking, he was happy these days not just to make anyone feel better. He was genuinely enjoying his life, living it to the best of his abilities as it was slipping ever so steadily through his fingers.
"Sherlock, are you listening to me?" Victor asked again, this time his voice was ever so apparent, and much nearer than the last muffled exclamation. Sherlock blinked, looking now to where Victor was standing on the opposite side of the silver table, staring at Sherlock with a look of disappointment. Sherlock cleared his throat abruptly, looking to Victor with an unapologetic little stammer. He wasn't going to pretend that he was listening, for it was very obvious that his eyes had glassed over and his brain had left his body. For he was standing in this morgue, yet he was still in that car. Somehow, someway, John's lips had never left his own.
"No, sorry. What do you need?" Sherlock asked abruptly, trying not to make it sound like Victor was being a burden, yet doing a poor job of it. In all honesty he wasn't upset about Victor's being here, he enjoyed his company, his work, and this morgue. Yet a small part of his brain was upset, for it was interrupted.
"I think Ms. Rosewood is properly drained." Victor reminded him, nodding towards the blood pump that was now hissing irritably. Sherlock nodded, moving quickly to take the needles out, and wrapping them as carefully as he could back onto the machine. Victor studied him, snapping the fingers of his gloves as if he meant to take them off, yet he never peeled them back. It must have just been an absentminded motion, for his blue eyes were penetrating yet thoughtful, as if he was once more reading the contents of Sherlock's soul. Sherlock hesitated, for he was quite afraid that Victor could see right into his head. He didn't want him to see the interactions with John; he didn't want Victor to know that Sherlock shared the same kind of romantic interest as his brother. However there was a part of him that was longing to tell him, longing to admit. Almost as if Victor needed to know.
"What's on your mind, Sherlock?" Victor wondered, his voice rather serious, as if this was far more than just casual mortuary talk. Sherlock shook his head, shrugging his shoulders and trying to busy himself now with the trocar, yet his fingers were shaking, and he couldn't stop shrugging. He was becoming very anxious, for he knew that a direct question from Victor must always be answered. Yet what answer did he have, Victor would know that he was lying! Victor knew everything, somehow.
"Oh nothing, I just had um...I had an eventful night that's all." Sherlock admitted, which was serious yet not the least bit condemning.
"An eventful night? Mm Sherlock, I thought you said you were never allowed to leave?" Victor hummed in playful accusation, as if he knew already that this story was going to be an exciting one. Sherlock grinned guiltily, for at this point he knew that it would be stupid of him to pretend like nothing monumental had occurred. Sherlock's attention hardly ever wavered, and surely Victor knew that if he wasn't paying attention it was for a very good reason.
"Oh well, you know. Mycroft helped me sneak out." Sherlock admitted with a shrug.
"Sneaking out? Oh you rebel, my goodness do tell." Victor said excitedly, this time snapping off his gloves for real and leaning over top of the corpse on the table so as to interrogate Sherlock closer, with those radiant eyes just gleaming in anticipation.
"No, I mean it's just kid stuff you know? I went to the movie theater for the first time, that's all." Sherlock admitted, which of course was yet another full truth. He was leaving out substantial details, and obviously Victor could tell, for his eyes continued to widen. Yet it was a lot easier answering questions than telling him flat out the full occurrences of the day. Sherlock didn't want to scare Victor by so abruptly bringing up romance, yet he felt as though the information was tempting to burst from his heart! He had already told Mycroft every single detail of the entire night (included the fact that they were going to go somewhere again next Friday!), yet Victor's ear seemed a lot more anxious to hear. It was much more exciting to tell Victor everything, for whatever reason. Oh it was so good to finally appreciate last night! In the moment Sherlock was just terrified, caught off guard. Yet now once everything had settled, and he was back in a safe, controlled environment, well he allowed himself to go a little bit crazy. He allowed himself to get excited.
"A date? Oh you went on a date, didn't you!" Victor exclaimed. Finally Sherlock broke his careless persona, giving a great little wiggle of enthusiasm and nodding his head in excitement.
"Yes! Yes my first date!" Sherlock agreed, jumping up and down in childish excitement all the while Victor's smile widened proudly.
"I am so proud, my little protégé learning the inner workings of romance." Victor teased. Sherlock heaved a great sigh, as if Victor was embarrassing him, yet now he couldn't wipe the smile off of his face. Oh who knew that so much fun could happen in a morgue? Sherlock was radiating such excitement that he was almost expecting the corpses all to get up and start cheering right along.
"Well not necessarily, I wasn't really good at it." Sherlock agreed, and hesitated. He needed to be mindful of talking about this, simply because the pronoun "him" would give it all away. Sherlock didn't mind telling Victor of his date, yet he wanted to keep the gender of his suitor a secret for now. Victor may very well guess it, for he had a way of knowing everything, yet until that point Sherlock wanted to maintain that wall of heteronormativity. He didn't want Victor to know the way his heart operated, for that was the first step of suspecting love. Yet right now Sherlock was properly distracted, in fact he was having a hard time of staying present even when he was in the view of Victor Trevor himself! It was surprising, really, to be able to look past that man.