Mycroft didn't bother Sherlock for the rest of the night, except to give him more to eat and more to drink, for he didn't want his brother malnourished in a time of great emotional distress. Sherlock was at work trying to respond to John's letter, trying to think of a way he might cram all that he was feeling into four simple lines of poetry. He needed to think of something simple, something to demonstrate that John should never have seen the letter, how Sherlock never intended to send it. It wasn't easy of course, and Sherlock spent many minutes pondering what he might write next, having already written John's hand in nervous handwriting at the top, not nearly as beautiful as he had the lovesick night before.

Such a letter was a mistake,
Ignore every line, forget every word!
It never would have sent,
If it wasn't for this accursed bird!

So Sherlock saw the poem fit, it perfectly illustrated the situation he was in, and yet it didn't deny any emotions that John now knew had come to pass. Sherlock was still yet cautious, for John might be developing the same suspicions, he might now just be awoken to the interworking of his own heart. Maybe Sherlock's original words had been enough to make him look internally at the heart that beat in his chest, still his own, protected and kept until the appropriate hands should take it ever so carefully from his chest. Sherlock hoped to be that man, the one allowed to handle such a thing, such a delicate, beating thing. And yet until then he could only hope, hope that John would respond, hoping that he might do something other with his received letter than burn it. Maybe he might consider it, ponder Sherlock's soft words as the darkness overtook the day, maybe he would fall asleep with Sherlock's name on his lips and his smile in his eyes. And maybe his heart would take just as long as it did Sherlock's to realize its true desires, all of one day. Maybe it would take longer, maybe it would take weeks, months, years! Heaven know Sherlock would wait, that is if this love was the work of Heaven at all. John did warn him, did he not? And yet now it seemed as though what has been put into action could not be stopped, not now at least. Someone put these feelings into his heart, the same who had assembled his heart and his body; the same that breathed life into him and bid him walk among the earth. Surely the Devil couldn't preform such miracles, and so who else to blame for this love than God, the very one who might disapprove? And so Sherlock might ignore any of such inconsistencies, and gaps in the story meant to scare men and women into falling for the gender they did not desire, he decided to trust only the heart that was beating just fine, beating just as any other human's. He folded his response ever so carefully, not signing his name at the bottom for fear of disclosing his identity should this letter be at all intercepted, and held it out for Merlin to receive. Now maybe the bird was still tired from his trip back and forth before, and yet that was now the least of Sherlock's worries. If the bird did dare deliver with Sherlock's consent then he would have to pay with yet more exercise, flying tonight with the moonlight on his wings as he made his way towards the house of John Watson, and to a window he had never seen before. And it was all Sherlock could do but wait, as he heard the rustling of the wings out the window, he could only wait for a response, and pray that it contain the very lines he wished to hear. That his love was returned, and their interlocking fate was drawing ever near. 

It was Monday, a weekday, a day in which Sherlock would finally preform on his own. When he woke he was feeling much better, for some reason the promise of Mycroft's absence was motivation in itself, it was relieving. Merlin was perched on his bed stand when he woke up, and yet there was no letter in his beak or anywhere to be found. Maybe John was waiting on his response, unsure of what to say, or just in the process of making it rhyme. Then again Merlin would've arrived late that night; maybe John wasn't awake yet to notice its presence. And so Sherlock woke with hope in his heart, dressing quickly and sitting at the table before the sun even began to stir.
"Are you feeling better this morning?" Mycroft asked him quietly as he poked at his breakfast, barely any bread considering the lack of pay yesterday's performances had earned.
"Yes I do think so; I don't know what came over me yesterday." Sherlock admitted with a shrug, however Mycroft' beady black eyes stayed fixed upon him; obviously he could tell that Sherlock knew exactly what had come over him. Mycroft's knowingness always intimidated Sherlock and yet he knew that it was all he could do but play dumb, not question Mycroft's ideas and not confirm them either. So what if Mycroft suspected the truth, Sherlock would never allow him to know for sure, and so by leaving Mycroft forever wondering what might be going on he was ensuring his own security from his brother's nagging. The idea of love was simply hysterical, or at least that's what Sherlock had to pretend, he could never fall in love. His heart was ice in the eyes of his brother, and so it shall remain that way despite its thawing only a couple of days before. As the brothers walked to the market Sherlock carried the tent reluctantly, Merlin was fluttering about and chirping anxiously, as if wanting to know when he might be permitted to return to the Watson house and get the returned letter. Merlin was just as excited about this coming of events as Sherlock was; he knew that he was operating a secretive business, a crucial exchange. There was a hope in Sherlock's heart, an undeniable presence of what if's swirling about his brain, he saw John coming near, he saw John hiding forever, he heard him say his name and he heard him cursing in disgust...All these things that might come to pass, and yet for now Sherlock was stuck with the dust and his brother, sulking down the worn road to where the people would soon crowd. When they arrived they found a good spot near the edge of the market, right where the crowds would funnel in and out, where no one could escape without at least hearing Sherlock's voice as he shouted out in excitement. It was a good spot to lure them in, and so the brothers set up their tent and waited for the business day to begin.
"Well you be good Sherlock, and if you feel sick, or anything like that, just take the tin and come find me. I'll take you home." Mycroft assured softly, patting Sherlock reassuringly on the shoulder with a caring sort of look in his usually dark eyes. Sherlock shrugged away from him, always just a little bit uncomfortable when his brother actually showed compassion. He didn't know what it was, but for some reason Mycroft's calming voice was somehow linked to horrible memories, memories of their parents; of their deaths...Mycroft was never soft unless something was wrong. And yet Sherlock smiled at him, nodding and promising that he felt loads better. And so finally Mycroft walked away, bidding Sherlock a good morning and starting his way through the still deserted cobblestone, off to the shoemaker's to write numbers or whatever he did. Sherlock never cared to ask. While Sherlock waited for the crowds to arrive he sat in the middle of his tent with Merlin, staring out the flap at the mere slivers of people as they went by, seeing only two or three as the market was still yet to get crowded. The people that were here were most likely the vendors themselves, and surely they were here to make money, not to give it away. Shoppers who had bought their share were always much more generous, for with a bag full of groceries they almost felt as though their leftover pocket change was useless to them. And yet they never understood just how dire that money was, especially to those who had barely any. Sherlock loved people, he loved their generosity and he loved their stupidity. Without these stupid people he would most likely be dead, he and his brother, thin and gaunt, sleeping under a mere layer of earth for they couldn't afford any sort of proper burials. It was a terrible idea, and Sherlock could just thank God that people were too lazy to collect pennies.
"Did you see him last night Merlin?" Sherlock asked quietly to the bird, who was sitting still in the dirt and cooing softly. Finally he hopped up and down in excitement, as if he understood what Sherlock had asked, trying to communicate back with mere chirps and hops. It meant nothing to Sherlock; however the boy just smiled and nodded along.
"Yes, yes you did? How was he? Was he asleep?" Sherlock wondered. Merlin hopped ever more, and Sherlock nodded his agreement, still having no earthly idea how to speak bird.
"Ah I bet he was beautiful, even while asleep. He's rich enough to look beautiful while asleep, in his own room most likely, with a large bed and white sheets. I just sleep on a cot, I'm sure I don't look half as good." Sherlock admitted with a grin. Merlin slowed, as if he was trying to agree yet he just wasn't all that passionate about it.
"Don't worry Merlin; you look beautiful all the time." Sherlock assured, stroking the bird's head with his finger and giggling as Merlin chirped enthusiastically. Sherlock looked out the tent at the crowds that were now starting to grow in numbers, deciding that he ought to start his first show of the day.
"How about you fly up to his window again, see if you can get a response? Sing to him maybe; try to let him know that it's urgent." Sherlock suggested, getting to his feet while the bird took flight, opening the flap of the tent so as to let Merlin escape into the sky. It was very odd how obedient that little thing was, how domesticated. It really was quite unusual. Sherlock drew quite some crowd as he performed, for it was the perfect opportunity to mess around with nature. A woman had a small dog, and he charmed it so that it might walk on its two feet and meow, evoking terror into the poor woman and amazement in the rest of the crowd, those who were not emotionally attached to the dog. Of course it was in no danger, and yet quite as soon as it stood up on its legs the woman gave a cry of horror and looked as if she might faint, and so Sherlock had to end that trick a little bit early. When the dog had been returned and the woman had said her bout of choice words Sherlock took a reluctant bow, much to the amusement of the crowd, who mostly lined up and dropped some sort of change into the tin. Sherlock thanked them and walked back into his tent with a little chuckle, throwing aside his hat and sitting down upon the ground, still with a smile on his face. He looked through the money tin lazily, counting about seven pounds already in one show, which was quite the feat for a Monday morning. He put on two more shows that morning, one in which he did his favorite monocle yoyo trick and another where he did something of a disappearing card trick, usually which brought a smile to people's faces as usually their card ends up completely vanishing from their hands. Sherlock once made it so that the card they had been holding appeared only once they had peeled open the orange in their shopping basket, a trick that lasted for however long it took them to crave an orange. The problem with that is that he never got to see their reaction, and yet sometimes days later the subjects of such tricks would come back to drop a pound or two into his tin. Today, however, the trick was cut short. He was actually doing quite well, for every time the card vanished the entire crowd would search their pockets and their baskets, hoping that it might be their clothes in which he hid the thing. and yet as they were searching for the missing king of hearts Sherlock noticed a face in the crowd, still down a little ways in the market, dressed a little bit too nicely while being surrounded by so many common folks. Sherlock gave a quick jump, the card falling out of the air, seemingly from nowhere, and sticking as if by suction to his chest, right above his own throbbing heart.
"Yes, thank you, thank you." Sherlock muttered, taking a very quick bow and hastening everyone to drop their money into the tin, hurrying them as John Watson walked closer, faster, more urgently. He was preceded only by the very desperate Merlin, flapping his little wings desperately and squawking anxiously, as if trying to warn Sherlock of John's presence just seconds before he made his appearance.
"Yes I know, I know, get in!" Sherlock exclaimed, grabbing the tin from the ground just as the last pence had been dropped in, opening up the flap of the tent so that Merlin could fly inside with Sherlock following not seconds later. He pulled the flap shut and tied it securely; standing with his back to the front of the tent so that John wouldn't be able to see him should he peer inside through the small gaps in the fabric. Sherlock breathed very heavily, his heart racing out of his chest and his usually pale face flushed beyond recognition, not only was he terrified but he was also exhilarated, for John's arrival meant that he wasn't disgusted. In fact it might very well be the exact opposite; John might be looking for Sherlock because he was here to admit his own love. This was revolutionary, and yet it was absolutely terrifying. This will be the first time they saw each other after such confessions were made, and Sherlock knew for sure that no matter what news John had come to deliver, he wanted to hear none of it. He would much rather live in constant wondering than to live in regret, for John very well might be here to politely tell him to stay away and to stop sending his bird with notes. Sherlock would rather not know, should John's message be anything other than positive. He heard the footsteps outside, he heard them stop just next to the flap of the tent, god he could even hear John's breathing as he debated on what to say, what to do.
"Sherlock I know you're in there. I'm not stupid, I just saw you go in." John said in a small voice, just quiet enough as if he knew Sherlock would be standing only a slim piece of fabric away from him. Sherlock couldn't bring himself to respond, he covered his mouth with his trembling hand, trying to stifle his breathing that was growing too loud, too obvious. Merlin fluttered anxiously and yet he too stayed silent, as if he wasn't sure whether or not to greet John in excitement or hide until finally he turned away.
"I got your notes." John said obviously, waiting just a moment before continuing. "I have one, actually. Thought I might deliver it myself. I know you're in there." John said stubbornly. Sherlock heard the crumpling of paper for a moment, and the folding of a crease, before finally a fancy looking piece of paper appeared in opening of the tent, John's long fingers holding it carefully, as if knowing that Sherlock would be there to receive it. Sherlock stared at the paper nervously before glancing at Merlin, as if asking the bird what he should do. Merlin gave a reassuring coo, fluttering his wings quickly before staring back at the note that was clutched firmly between John's fingers. Sherlock took a deep breath, stretching out his hand ever so carefully, as if worried there might be some sort of trap involved here, however when he snatched the paper from John's hands he was relieved to see that it was just that, a paper. He unfolded it without taking a breath, for he couldn't do anything except read the words that were left for him, reading the words with ever growing eyes, and an ever beating heart...

Why do you act so frightened,
As if by admitting your love, you lose?
I understand now, as I dream of you,
That love is not a thing you get to choose.
J.W.

Sherlock looked up from the paper with a quickbreath, inhaling so sharply that he thought his throat might burst with theeffort. He stared at Merlin before reading the paper over again, his eyesreading so quickly that he absorbed none of it, he saw none of it, blurs andexcitement, smudged ink and his own trembling fingers, what did this mean, whatcould this mean? Not a thing, love wasn't...
"As you dream of me." Sherlock breathed, stumbling against the flap of the tentand leaning so heavily on it that the tent gave a great lurch, threatening totopple over should Sherlock not have realized his mistake quickly. He jumpedfrom the tent and found himself right before the opening, seeing a single browneye peering in at him, standing horrified in the spotlight, staring right backwith his jaw now dropped.
"I don't need to dream anymore." John responded quietly.
"No, no you..."
"John mate come on, I'm not going to stand around here all day." cried a voicefrom beyond, somewhere behind the tent where Sherlock couldn't see. It was avoice he didn't recognize, a friend maybe, a friend of John's that had beenleft to wait while John delivered his fateful mail.
"Yes, yes Greg I'm coming! Just hold on." John snapped miserably. Sherlockstared at him, stared at that little eye that was now looking so intently athim.
"What do you mean to say?" Sherlock whispered, walking closer to the opening,closer as if trying to scare the words out of John, to make him surrender hislove too quickly.
"I'll see you again, Sherlock, until then know you're not alone. Until thenknow...that you're not the only one who can fall in love." John breathed, his eyeblinking once before he started away, disappearing before Sherlock could evenrespond, before he could even think of something to say.  In a panic Sherlock tore through the opening of the tent, dashing out into the harsh sunlight and searching in vain for where John might have disappeared to, the poem clenched in his fist as he turned in helpless circles, twirling hopelessly and looking at crowds of people who were not John Watson. The boy vanished, disappeared in some cruel act and left Sherlock dizzy and confused, not daring to call out his name for he knew John didn't want to be addressed, he didn't want to be seen. Sherlock fell to his knees in defeat, unnoticed by anyone who walked by with their shopping, all of them careless and indifferent to the suffering boy who sat sprawled before them, confused as to whether he was loved or hated, concerned that John's short-lived visit meant only the latter. Merlin joined him quietly, for even the bird knew not where John had gone to, that or he knew that John just didn't want to be found. And they sat together like that for quite some time, before Sherlock finally decided to hide himself, shamed to be so broken so publically. What did this mean, what did it all mean? Oh how he wished John Watson would never have walked into his life, that way he would not be sitting here today, agonizing and sputtering helplessly, asking himself questions he knew he could never answer. Asking himself if he was enough, so that maybe he could have caught the attention of the boy that seemed to want to get as far away from him as possible.