Sherlock wasn't even afraid of the attic any longer; no he flung open the door like he ownedthe place and marched inside with confidence that might have been ill placed.Yet the attic proved to be every bit as harmless as it had been before, noshadows seemed to be occupied and no creatures seemed to be lurking about inthe boxes which surrounded them. All was quiet, thankfully, and Sherlock's rushof adrenaline faded away, leaving him now to search patiently through the boxesfor the supplies he needed. He had hatched a rather ridiculous plan, one thatwould undoubtedly get him in big trouble if ever he were caught. He had heardthe story of Rapunzel enough times to know how to climb out a window, but nowwhat he needed was something strong enough to support him. That was where thestories of prison breaks came in handy. He needed bedsheets, enough to lowerhim from his second story window and back again before daybreak. He was goingto see John tonight; the catch was that Agatha would never see them together.That was her threat, was it not? If ever she witnessed them then John would besent away, but she would be fast asleep by the time Sherlock decided to make arun for it. He could take his notebooks and pens and start off for the cottagejust as soon as he hit the ground, and together he and John could practicetheir writing alone in a candle lit room, just the two of them alone togetherin what might be paradise. It was getting closer, the moment when they met fullon, when there was nothing left to hide between them again. Soon Sherlock wouldhave to confess, that or John would do it first. But he was beginning tosuspect that maybe there was something between the two of them, somethingsprouting in both of their hearts perhaps without them even realizing it. Therewas a connection between the two, something that was far more intimate thanfriendship and far more meaningful than just acquaintances. They were supposedto be lovers, and so Sherlock would continue the long and painful realization,hoping that maybe these days apart had given John time to reflect on just whathe was missing. So he set to the boxes, remembering which ones he had rootedaround in previously for the curtains. That felt like ages ago, back when hewas afraid of the lights and the shadows they created. Now his fears seemed tobe much more real, something that he could actually touch...something that couldactually touch him. Sherlock grabbed a handful of bedsheets; enough to make asturdy enough rope, and also a rather floppy sunhat that had been sitting offin a box of its own. That might be useful in hiding his face, just in caseAgatha happened to look out her window. As he was getting ready to leave withhis newfound treasures Sherlock glanced once at the bed which was sitting inthe middle of the attic, as if it was supposed to be the center of attention.His blood ran cold when he saw for a split second that it was not empty, notany longer. There was a figure lying upon it, a boy who he recognized, a boywhose face he might never be able to forget. Sherlock let out a loud scream,falling backwards onto the boxes of linens and holding his own bundle close tohis chest, so as to prevent the boy from coming any closer. Yet no, just assoon as Sherlock ha blinked the boy had vanished, making Sherlock wonder if hehad even seen him at all. Perhaps he was beginning to hallucinate, and createpeople who were never really there...Sherlock shook his head, running to safetydown the stairs without even bothering to turn out the light. He was sure he'dbe up again in no time, looking for other things which might make his escape alittle bit easier. So it turned out that Sherlock was no good at tying knots,or at least no knots which would hold his weight that is. He would tie as manytimes as he possibly could, knotting the thin fabric over and over again untilit felt basically unbreakable. Then he would tie one end to his bedpost andpull, but rather than taking the bed with him the knots instead began touncoil, and more than once Sherlock found himself flat on his back after hisstupid little cord broke and left him falling backwards unceremoniously.Thankfully he never gave up, and after trying a few of the fancier knots thathis father had taught him for fishing he at last created a bond that wouldn'tbreak, no matter how much weight he applied to it. Now of course the real testwould be the window escape, but for now it seemed that he should be safe as hecrawled down the wall. Oh Sherlock dearly hoped that John would let him in,that he would appreciate all the effort Sherlock was putting in to make theirreunion happen. He hoped that John was as anxious to reconnect as he was, aseager and as impatient. Perhaps he was even hatching his own plan to seeSherlock, maybe they would meet halfway across the darkened yard! Or perhapsnot. Sherlock didn't have much to lose, well of course he would lose his onlyfriend and love in the world, yet if they were caught all he would be was sad.John on the other hand would be without a job, without any money, or home, orfamily. John would be crippled, while Sherlock would just be upset. PerhapsJohn wasn't willing to risk his entire livelihood on the account of one boy hejust happened to take an interest in, or rather who happened to take aninterest in him. Perhaps their friendship didn't matter as much to John as itdid to Sherlock. Perhaps he was only playing along so as to have a rich bestfriend, or to get on a better side with the family. Well how did that work out,huh? Sherlock was surprised that Agatha didn't fire him directly on the spot,for daring to accept an invitation into the drawing room! It was absolutelyscandalous! And that, that was absolutely ridiculous. Sherlock hung his head,wishing that he might have been blessed with a normal heart that did not acheand break for mere stable boys. Oh he was born with everything else, looks,money...why could he not have been born with the capability to enjoy it? To lovethe girls who threw themselves at him, and to appreciate the class he was bornand raised in. But no, he always had to be difficult. He always had to berebellious, and break out of the bonds that were assigned to him at birth. Whoknows? Tonight might be the night that he finalized his love, tonight might bethe night when John finally admits his own feelings, and together they kissedin the candlelight. Maybe Sherlock would find out what came after kissing, whathis strange visitor had in mind. Maybe they would run away together, tonight!Should he pack a suitcase just in case? Sherlock looked around, realizing thathe had nothing in his possession that he would really hate to lose. A couple ofhis books, perhaps, and his favorite shirt. Yet they could keep those things,those memories of who he was in the past! If John asked him to run away therecould be no question of the matter, he would agree to anything. Even alifestyle that was deprived of enough money, food, or shelter. So long as hehad John by his side Sherlock would be satisfied, no matter how disgustinglyromantic that sounded. Every day would have purpose, every day would havemeaning! He would fall hopelessly in love, and they could be married withoutanyone's permission, without rings or priests or an audience. They could craftwedding bands for themselves and wear them with pride, they could wear themknowing that they meant nothing and everything all at the same time. 

As night began to fall thickly over the horizon Sherlock sat up in bed, waiting for darkness to finally overtake the light. He knew that Agatha was usually in bed long before the boys would even consider settling in for the night, yet just to be sure he had paced the halls as the evening settled down, making sure that her door was closed and there was darkness from under the door. Sherlock was beginning to doubt his plan, as the front door was beginning to look more and more tempting; however he convinced himself that he would have no chance of a witness if he crawled out of his window. A maid could happen along him sneaking off down the hallway, there was even a chance that Agatha might hear his footsteps along the hall! No, going down the window as his best option for now. The only thing that had the risk of giving him away was that horrible lamp outside, the one which was the sole purpose for his thicker curtains. The light would illuminate him for any observer to witness; it was there for that reason of course. Yet Sherlock was not just some random intruder, he was a member of the house, a member of the family! Kept prisoner inside, by the will of his own diabolical Aunt. If the light knew any better it would extinguish itself just as soon as the window was opened, giving him plenty of time to spring unseen towards the flickering of the soft cottage lights, just beyond the tree line. Sherlock had a bag packed, filled with books, papers, and pens. Everything they would need to continue John's lessons was tucked away inside of this satchel, slung over Sherlock's back like some sort of adventurer. This was going to be the most rebellious moment of his young life, the only time he had tried to do anything out of the ordinary at all. The first time he had disobeyed a direct order, the first time he would sneak about the house like some sort of criminal...This would be the first sacrifice he would make for love. Oh he could only hope that he would be received as he wanted to be. A small part of him was prepared for the disappointment of not being able to wake the occupants of the cabin, or worse still get shooed away by the occupants for fear of losing their jobs. Surely John would appreciate the act in this; surely he should understand that their friendship meant more to Sherlock than anything else in this world? Even if he wasn't accepted, hopefully John would understand that he wasn't going to take their new banishment just sitting down. And maybe that would erupt more feelings inside of John Watson, feelings he hadn't anticipated. It was about eleven thirty when at last Sherlock decided to try his luck. He listened for a while against the wall he shared with Mycroft, so as to make sure his older brother was sound asleep and not likely to go looking out his window any time soon. The curtains were probably drawn, if that lamp did anything right it was ensuring the presence of thick enough curtains to hide the light it cast upon the driveway. Yes, this was the time. Sherlock took his bedsheet rope and knotted it as tightly as he could to his bedpost, wrapping it two or three times in separate places so as to make sure that it would hold. If his connection to the inside world got broken then he would be stuck outside until morning, begging to be let in by the first maid he could spot through the window panes. Now that would be a failure, in all connotations of the word. Sad to think that being stranded outside wouldn't even be the worst case scenario. Second Sherlock pulled the strap of his satchel tight across his chest, so as to make sure nothing would be falling out of his pockets as he descended. These books were precious to him, and to have them dropped in mud would prove disastrous. Lastly he put that large hat on, making him feel like even more of an adventurer now that his large forehead was covered by a dramatic brim. And now to the most difficult part, somehow managing to get down the wall without dying. Sherlock pulled the curtains back and opened up the window rather reluctantly, seeing now that the two story drop seemed much more dramatic when looking down directly at it. Sherlock was thankful that his window led down to nothing more than a patchy spot of grass; if it was some sort of shrubbery then he would not have been so excited to take this risk. It would be quite terrible to have to fight his way out of a bush at this time of night, especially alone and at risk of getting caught for being too noisy. But he couldn't hesitate now, that cottage was what he was fighting for, that little stream of smoke that was puffing cheerfully through the tree line. That was his goal; he couldn't let fear get in his way now. And so Sherlock took a deep breath, tossing the makeshift rope out the window and watching it fall just above the ground, swinging an inch or so away from the dirt. Okay, so a manageable distance. Now all he had to do was trust in his craftsmanship and hope for the best. Sherlock gritted his teeth and grabbed hold of the window ledge, stepping up onto it rather fearfully before sitting down next to the rope and grabbing hold of it. He gave a few test tugs, just to make sure everything was a sturdy as he hoped, and proceeded to look down at the fall that might await him. He just had to be brave...he just had to make the leap. On a mental count of three Sherlock grabbed hold of the rope and scooted off of the ledge, falling for just a moment before his grip caught him and held him in place. For a moment Sherlock's fear let his arms wobble, and he was afraid that it would be because of his body's betrayal that he fell to his death. Thankfully his grip was stronger than his trembling muscles, and he was able to get his feet flat on the wall as he was supposed to, letting the tension from the rope ease his feet down the wall quite easily. Sherlock was quite proud of himself as he began to descend, the satchel swinging dangerously off of his back as he made his way down to the cold grass. Miraculously he arrived unscathed, pushing off of the wall just high enough so that his legs could touch ground, and with that he let go of the bedsheets with a proud little nod before setting off as fast as he could across the ground, racing past that ridiculous lamp so as to make sure its light wouldn't have the capability of giving him away so easily. Sherlock clutched the hat to his head as he ran, swinging his free arm a bit ridiculously alongside of him as he raced down through the lawn. When finally he reached the cottage he saw that the lights were all off, which would be predictable at this hour of course. He saw just two windows at the top, which wasn't too surprising considering the tiny proportions of this quaint little building. One must be John's, and the other must be Mrs. Hudson's. Well of course Sherlock would have to choose carefully, for he wasn't entirely looking to wake Mrs. Hudson up in this whole ordeal. Yet he had nothing to go on, nothing except luck. For a moment Sherlock weighed the costs and gains, deciding finally just to throw rocks at the rightmost window and wish for the best. He had never done anything like this before, and frankly he was just hoping not to shatter a window pane in all of his enthusiasm. Sherlock searched the ground for pebbles, though it was a difficult search owing to the utter darkness that was surrounding him. The grounds had a much more threatening sense to them at night, when the single lamp was able to cast the large tree's shadow as far as the eye could see. It was almost as if that tree was the center of attention, as if it was trying to call out to the passerby and warn them that they too might end up swinging from its lower most branches if they weren't careful. Thankfully he scooped up enough little rocks near the make shift sidewalk to make himself known, so long as he could get his aim right. He stood far enough away so that he could be seen, and with that he threw the first of many rocks up at the window his choice. It hit along the wall just a couple of inches away, which for the first throw was not as pitiful as he imagined it to be. Sherlock had never mastered hand eye coordination; it was a talent that was not really necessary in the society which he grew up in, he never played any games which might require it. The second rock hit against the frame, and the third against the pane. It was a loud little click, just loud enough so that Sherlock could hear it from where he stood and surely the occupant might be able to as well. He threw again, hitting the pane again with that thankful little clink. When the fifth rock hit with no response Sherlock thought that maybe he might be hitting against the wrong window. Perhaps this was an office of some sort, unoccupied by the people of the house? Yet no, just as soon as he aimed to throw the sixth a light illuminated from inside, a mere candle judging by the flickering, and a hand pushed open the French style windows. Oh dear...he was in trouble now.
"Who's down there?" asked that old woman's voice, and by the light of the candle Sherlock could just make out the shape of Mrs. Hudson. He sighed heavily, figuring that his operation just might have to come to an end. Surely she would know of Agatha's wishes, and would keep John away from Sherlock while it was still in her power?
"It's Sherlock." He admitted a bit miserably. "I'm sorry; I thought that was John's window." The woman paused, dangling the candle a bit haphazardly out of the window as if that might help to illuminate him a bit more. Yet her face screwed up in confusion, as if she still couldn't make out her visitor plainly.
"Sherlock Holmes? What are you doing out here at this time of night?" she wondered, still sounding half asleep. Maybe if he left now he could convince her that this was all just a dream.
"I'm looking for John." he admitted.
"Why?" Mrs. Hudson shouted back immediately. Oh he really wished that she would keep her voice down, certainly the sound carried farther than he'd like it to?
"Agatha won't let me see him in the day any more. And I wanted to continue our writing lessons." Sherlock muttered, shaking his head as if already accepting his failure. "It's fine, I'll go. Just don't..."
"One moment young man, you stay right there." Mrs. Hudson insisted, now keeping her voice down as if she noticed the necessity of silence. Sherlock didn't think it was too wise, for she may very well be running down the stairs to apprehend him and hold him prisoner until Agatha came to collect her little miscreant. Yet there was something about Mrs. Hudson that he trusted, something that told him that he didn't have much to worry about any longer. And so Sherlock followed her instructions and stayed where he was in the grass, feeling a bit silly in his adventure outfit with a handful of muddy pebbles. After a while the front door opened, and Mrs. Hudson appeared in her nightgown with a candle, looking very spooky in the darkened woods.
"You're here to see John?" she clarified, ushering him inside as if worried that he was getting cold.
"Well yes, but if you don't allow it that's..."
"Now don't talk silly, I'm happy you're here. I was wondering what had gotten him so down recently." Mrs. Hudson admitted, taking Sherlock rather forcefully by the shoulder and leading him through the cozy little house and up the stairs.
"You mean he missed me?" Sherlock asked excitedly, to which the old woman chuckled. Sherlock felt as though she knew a lot more than what she was letting on, yet whether that knowledge was intuitive or learned Sherlock couldn't tell. Perhaps John had confessed his love to her, knowing her to be a trustworthy confidant?
"Unless something else happened in his life, yet I'm sure that's not true. Nothing ever happens to poor old John. This should be a nice surprise. Now his door is the last one on the left there, see it? I'll go back to bed, you don't have to bother about me." she assured, patting him on the shoulder twice before releasing her hand and letting him wander a bit aimlessly down the hall before turning.
"Thank you Mrs. Hudson." He managed with something of a tight throat, now suddenly very nervous to be reunited. Now that it was so close, could he really think of something to say after so long? He was rather wishing Mrs. Hudson would come in and announce his arrival, so that he didn't have to make his awkward introductions.
"I'll keep your secrets Mr. Holmes, as many as you'd like." Mrs. Hudson assured, and he could swear that he saw her wink. No, no it must have been a flicker of the candle. With that the woman disappeared down the hallway, leaving Sherlock to stand a bit stupidly in the hallway before starting down to the room he was instructed into.