"I don't want to marry either, it seems a lot of work." He admitted finally.
"Then don't, there's no need. Bachelors aren't always frowned upon, and besides a man of your status, you can just claim you're married to your work." Sherlock suggested.
"Oh but I want to fall in love, at least once in my life. It sounds to be the most exhilarating experience, I've read it in my books quite a lot of times, it always makes them so happy. I've always wanted to find the woman that might make me happy like that." John decided finally, a large smile appearing on his face as he imagined his Juliet counterpart, hidden among the common folks and ready to be found.
"Yes I do agree." Sherlock agreed quietly, remembering the feelings that he's felt these past could of days, noticing the very feelings he was feeling in this moment. They were just as John described them, truly exhilarating.
"Have you ever been in love Sherlock?" John wondered casually, dropping his head towards Sherlock as if watching for his reaction. Sherlock just laughed, shaking his head almost ironically, for he obviously didn't know.
"I'm not sure yet." he admitted with a sigh.
"Yet?" John clarified, blinking in his obvious confusion.
"Well, I don't know what it feels like; I don't know how to classify it. I may have been once, and just never knew." He admitted with a shrug.
"You'd know, from what I know of love, you'd know." John assured finally. Sherlock just smiled a bit more, hoping that John was focused once more on the windows and not taking notice to his apparent amusement. He didn't answer simply because he didn't want to lie, and he knew that if he told John that he had never been in love that would be very far from the truth. He had been in love, he was in love, it was becoming ever more apparent as the seconds ticked by. When he was with John there was that fluttering in his heart, that weightlessness in his limbs, he smiled and yet he ached, he felt as though he were being torn in half as he was being drawn so powerfully to the boy next to him. It was agonizing, but he wouldn't trade it for the world. He understood of course, why John would want to fall in love. He was wondering now if John was falling in love as well.
"I think that might be the end of my lunch break, Mycroft will send out a search party if I'm not back soon." Sherlock admitted finally, the silence being much too overbearing as they let the last words simmer in their ears and in their brains.
"It's not even been an hour!" John protested, however he got to his feet just as soon as Sherlock did.
"Like I said before, he's annoying." Sherlock groaned, however John didn't seem to think this was his place and so he did nothing to prevent Sherlock from starting up the street. He did, however, follow quite closely. Merlin flew and landed on Sherlock's shoulder, looking over at John and singing rather loudly into Sherlock's ear as if trying to say something urgent. Sherlock tried his best to ignore the bird, however he was growing more and more annoying and so he shushed it quietly, attempting to listen as John was going on about his Sunday schedule.
"...When I get back from church my family and I go out for brunch, so I won't be around lunch time and surely I can't skip something like that. Harry and my mother go off to the market afterwards, because she's trying to teach Harry to be a lady who can do her own shopping, to no extent really, and I can visit you so long as they don't see me." John finished quickly, to which Sherlock was only half listening.
"Why do you not want them seeing us together?" Sherlock wondered. John shrugged nervously, as if trying to think of a good reason that didn't sound entirely offensive. Of course Sherlock knew full well why being seen with him was shameful, well it was obvious. No rich boy should be seen sauntering around with a street performer, it just didn't happen.
"Oh well, I don't know. Like you said before, it might be considered a bit of an odd friendship." John admitted with a shrug.
"I think it's perfectly justified, however we shall certainly make it our own little secret." Sherlock assured with a smile. John nodded, evidently breathing a sigh of relief and continuing on throughout the crowded market. There were plenty of witnesses to their walking together, so it wasn't a very well-kept secret after all. When they returned to the tent Mycroft was waiting, trying to look as if he had expected them later but evidently he had been counting the seconds on his pocket watch, for it was in his hands when they arrived. John and Sherlock exchanged an awkward sort of goodbye before finally parting ways, no more than simple words before John disappeared from the tent all together. Sherlock had to wonder what might have been different, should Mycroft had been absent.
"Well he seemed like a very nice boy." Mycroft decided sounding as though that was a required formality and not sounding all together genuine. He then poked his head out of the tent flap while Sherlock stood rather melancholy inside, thinking once again about what John had said about marriage. Why he had he been so interested in love? Did he feel like it was a topic of necessary conversation because he knew Sherlock felt something, did he feel something? Or was it just something that all boys talked about, for Sherlock knew nothing of the conversational norms as he never talked to anyone. He could only assume it was the latter since he was by nature pessimistic, and he knew that by increasing his hopes he would only proceed to be even more disappointed.
"Sherlock are you listening to me?" Mycroft asked loudly, snapping Sherlock back into reality.
"What...yes I was." Sherlock lied quickly, trying to force a look of concentration onto his face.
"Oh really? Then pray tell what I just said." Mycroft challenged with something of a smirk, very obviously realizing that Sherlock's attention had been focused internally for the past couple of seconds.
"You said oh really." Sherlock with a proud little smirk, to which Mycroft just sighed heavily, shaking his head as if he found his brother to nothing more than a bother.
"You must not let your mind stray too much on that boy Sherlock." Mycroft warned, as if he knew all about the dangers of thinking. Sherlock simply crossed his arms, not entirely convinced of Mycroft's rational.
"And why not? He's a friend, and a good thing to think about when I have nothing better to do with my mind." Sherlock pointed out with an indifferent shrug.
"He's a distraction Sherlock, nothing more. And besides, I was just saying about how you ought to put on another show, for the lunch crowd. Or whatever is left of it that is." Mycroft murmured, evidently trying and failing to push the annoyance out of his voice. Sherlock just shook his head carelessly, for his brother's opinion really didn't affect him in any way. Mycroft had a very odd way of looking at the world, and that way was almost entirely straightforward and very bland. Mycroft didn't have any friends; he never had, and so why would he think it a good waste of time to ponder them? He would never understand, and so Sherlock doubted that his judgment was entirely valid in this situation.
"Yes of course, another show. Always another show." Sherlock grumbled, donning his stupid hat and sighing heavily to Merlin, who fluttered his wings in equal annoyance as if he as well wanted nothing more than to be in the presence of John Watson once more. 

 It was always impossible for Sherlock to get a bit of space in a one roomed house, and yet sometimes Sherlock found refuge in pulling the curtains around his corner of the house and nestling under the blankets of his bed. He was rather angry at Mycroft tonight and yet he didn't know why, his brother hadn't done anything wrong it was just his presence that was being increasingly unbearable. He was always so judgmental, and he always seemed to want to correct Sherlock's brain so that it molded entirely with his own. Well sometimes Sherlock didn't share his views, he didn't share his understandings and his fears, and so sometimes he wanted to just branch of his mind towards placed he had never ventured before. Tonight he was laying in his bed in the most privacy he could create, propping a withered old chemistry book in his hands and thinking about his heart. The pages had been read over ten times before by his young curious eyes, he knew the book in an out by now, and so he merely opened it so that his silhouette, should Mycroft examine it, looked very much occupied. And yet he stared with his eyes open and unseeing, scanning the interworking of his brain and his heart so as to find reasoning for this newfound feeling. He thought it was love, in fact even without much understanding of the feelings he knew that it had to be, because what else could it be? He was sure that friendship didn't come with such a pleasure, and he knew that there was nothing else different about his life that might give him this feeling, this elation. It was a weightlessness that he'd never felt before, simply sitting in his bed he felt as though gravity had weakened, and suddenly the mere thought of John Watson pushed him up towards the stars! It was a humbling experience, it was a magical experience, oh and it could only be love. Sherlock let his head fall back onto his pillows with a smile, imagining that John might one day share the same feelings, imagining that John might share them now! What if he wasn't the only one falling in love at this moment, wonder if John felt the same way, what if he was sitting in his bed and thinking the same things? Thinking the requited love to be impossible? Oh well then he had to let him know, he had to do something! But no...no of course he couldn't tell a soul, much less John! Why it had only been four days since they had known of each other's existences, how might that seem if Sherlock went and declared his love, to another man at that! It was pathetic, and it was hopeless in every aspect. Even if John were a woman, even if he was interested, even if they had known each other for years, it still wouldn't be enough. There was the gap in income that was enough to separate the two; no matter how much they loved each other they could never have each other should all else be ideal. It would be considered madness for John to marry a poor man, or even if it be a poor woman he would still be looked at with a wrinkled brow. No one understood the power of love it would seem, or at least they had forgotten it as they aged. Right now Sherlock was delusional enough to hope that it might work, he was mad enough to hope that maybe John's brain was hatching the very same ideas he was now. And he had to tell someone, he had to at least confirm his own suspicions! No one had to know, no one had to see! It was just so intangible, the feeling that remained confirmed inside of his head. He had to tell someone, he had to write it down; he needed to convince himself that this feeling was in fact something very real. Maybe that would be enough to remind him of just how impossible this love really was. Sherlock reached over to his very short stack of books and papers to grab a spare piece of paper and a quill, tapping the worn feather on his smiling lips and wondering where to begin. A letter would be nice, something explaining his feelings in full detail; however Sherlock had always characterized love as more...vague. More poetic. If he spelled out his own feelings so that an idiot could interpret them then there wouldn't be much romance in them after all, would there? No he had to be more beautiful than that, somehow he needed to personify the feelings; he needed to clarify his innermost secrets all while keeping them under lock and key. And so maybe it was time to dabble a little bit in poetry, and see what his mind might create. This was madness indeed, however all the same he pressed his quill to the paper, writing out that name very gently on the top of the paper, writing in small loopy letters, the ink shining as it dried, John Watson, the name that preyed on his very being and insisted on making itself part of his very soul! Oh John Watson, if there ever was a boy more deserving of another's heart, if there was ever one more necessary! And to think, all Sherlock could give to him was his heart in the form of hidden poetry, all Sherlock could give to him was secrets never admitted in fear of their being realized and retaliated. John Watson deserved the world, and yet Sherlock could only afford to pamper him with words he will never read. It was a tragedy of the worst sorts; it was a longing of the farthest distance, a need that will never be returned. And yet this one sided love story must play out at least on one side, and to make that possible Sherlock needed to admit to himself, he needed to tell himself. This was real. He thought for a moment about what he wanted to say, messing about with word play in his head as he tried to formulate something so vague and yet so colorful. He never was the best of poets, however he could rhyme a couple of words, he could go nearly as far as a simpleton, for of course he had not been educated in the works of literature and therefore only knew of poetry what Mycroft had read to him as a boy. And yet it seem to flow, it seemed to come right to him the moment he demanded it to appear, the words getting into their places very nicely, obeying his every thought and desire. Love, love was on his mind and love was in his heart, it was on his quill and it was being traced ever so gently against the paper with the smallest of scratches. Merlin chirped quietly beside him, looking down upon his work with curious black eyes, as if wanting to know just what Sherlock was getting up to. And finally it was finished, not a masterpiece to be sure but a work of art all the same. An expression in the form he needed it to be, a reassurance that maybe these thoughts weren't quite as absurd as they had first appeared. Sherlock read the poem quietly so himself, his lips forming the words and yet no sound came out, reading it to himself and to himself alone as if reminding himself of the severity of these very words he had scrawled.

I was foolish to think you a friend,
knowing I've loved you from the start.
Now dare I hope you accept, every
portion of my trembling heart?

Sherlock fell asleep that night with his veryown words tumbling about in his skull, nodding off with his quill lying besidehim and the poem sitting in his open chemistry book. There was nothing to worryabout of course, for the curtains were pulled and Mycroft had long since fallenasleep, and yet Sherlock might have liked to be a little bit more cautiousshould he have been awake longer. And yet love sickness was something of anexhausting disease, and with the thoughts of that beautiful boy still simmeringin his head it was impossible not to just let his eyes flutter shut and hisbrain wander off to where dreams were created and fantasies lived, off to meetJohn Watson the only place he would surely be waiting. When he woke in themorning it was in some confusion, for he found himself lying on top of hisblankets with his quill and his chemistry book stuck very uncomfortablyunderneath him. He must have done some tossing and turning throughout thenight, for everything was not as he had left it when he had finally shut hiseyes.
"Sherlock come on, get up, we'll be late!" Mycroft insisted eagerly, throwingopen the hanging curtains around Sherlock's bed to find his brother sprawledout and disheveled, his curls in a mess atop his head and his face contortedinto the oddest of smiles.
"Late for what, it's Sunday, remember? Everyone's at church." Sherlockinsisted.
"And so we have plenty of time to get a better spot at the market, come nowSherlock, get your head out of the clouds, out of your dreams!" Mycroftinsisted, storming over to the breakfast table and gesturing at whatever wasleft of the bread for Sherlock to eat.  Mycroft was already dressed, almost as if he had attempted to let Sherlock sleep as long as possible, and yet still with those extra five minutes Sherlock felt considerably exhausted. He had fallen asleep without warning the night before, however it was later than usual. His head throbbed and his heart ached, almost as if he had woken from a love induced high only to be reminded that his love had yet to be returned. And so all he could do was keep it hidden on that paper, for now at least, his love would be immortalized for his eyes only in the form of poorly written poetry. 

"What dreams have I to linger in?" Sherlock groaned, however he reluctantly fell out of his bed in a heap while Mycroft hustled around to get the tent and the tin in order.
"Now hurry Sherlock, hurry!" he exclaimed impatiently. Sherlock got to his feet and meandered towards the breakfast table with a groan, sitting down on the small bench and staring blankly at the pieces of bread left to him. Sherlock noticed that the crusts had been eaten beforehand, which was his brother's own way of showing that he was human after all. Mycroft knew that his brother didn't like eating them, and so in his own act of selflessness he had chosen the crusts instead of the preferable parts in the middle, despite his being the first one awake. Sherlock was always quite admirable of his brother for such actions, and it was only further proof that Mycroft was in fact human, despite the suspicions that surround such a claim.
"There really is no rush." Sherlock muttered miserably as he finished off his breakfast, collecting the crumbs into a little pile for Merlin. However when he looked back at his bed he didn't see the bird anywhere, not on the bed post where he usually slept nor anywhere on the dresser or in the blankets, where could he have gone?
"Mycroft have you seen Merlin?" Sherlock wondered a bit nervously, getting to his feet and whistling sharply for the bird, just in case it had gotten lost in the small one roomed house.
"No I haven't." Mycroft shrugged, his voice still donning that annoying sense of urgency, as if they had to run down to the deserted market for some reason. Sherlock frowned, knowing that from past habits the bird wouldn't have gone far, however it would seem like he had vanished for the time being. The window was open, as it always was in the warmer months, and Sherlock could only suspect that Merlin has escaped through that in the night. Maybe he had gone out to peck for seed, maybe he had finally had enough of this makeshift family, or maybe he just fancied a long flight for some reason. Either way Sherlock could only hope he came back, for after showing that much domestication Sherlock had rather hoped that he would stay.

"Oh come Sherlock, no time to linger on the bird, he'll be fine either way. Now dress, come on!" Mycroft insisted with a whine, pacing nervously about the room while Sherlock grumbled and pulled on his work clothes.