"John I'm being such a child." Sherlock grumbled, shaking his head at last and trying to clear the tears from his eyes. They were slowing, yet still falling even after the sobs had ceased to erupt.
"It's fine." John assured. "It's necessary to cry sometimes."
"I'm just so frustrated, I'm just so confused. All the time I don't know if my mind is breaking in half...I don't know if my heart is already shattered." Sherlock admitted in a breath.
"Sherlock, if it's the women that scare you just stay away. You're old enough to disobey; you don't have to do the things you don't want to do." John assured. Sherlock sniffled, nodding his head all the while knowing that was impossible.
"That's not my problem, John. My problem is not doing the things I want to do." He admitted in the smallest of voices. John didn't respond as quickly to that one, as if finding a response was becoming increasingly difficult.
"I understand that Sherlock. I do." John agreed, his words sounding as though he were pushing them out of his mouth by force. Sherlock could tell, it was the exact tone of voice he might have used for his own confession. It was just as hard for John to admit it, whatever love they had blooming before them. Perhaps then it was mutual. Perhaps they both wanted the same thing, but were both too cowardly to admit it. Or to do anything about it, for that matter.
"We are our own worst enemies then." Sherlock decided at last, letting go of John's hand now to wipe the tears away from his eyes. John chuckled, pulling away as if taking that as his cue.
"We certainly are." John agreed finally, clearing his throat and coming back into the real world rather abruptly. Sherlock sighed heavily, realizing now what a fool he had made of himself, what a fool he had made of John. Here he was, sitting and blubbering about his problems without taking into consideration how difficult this must be for John to have to watch! How painful it must be, to sit there and be able to do nothing, to doubt yourself and your capabilities? He was too meek to make the first move, too afraid to cross the boundaries that Agatha herself had drawn between them! Yet what was Sherlock to do now? What was he to do except make his exit?
"I'm sorry John...I'm sorry but I have to go." He exclaimed finally, grabbing the piece of paper which had been mocking him from the table. Grabbing it and folding it, and shoving it securely into his pocket. For whatever reason those few words meant more to him now than did the actual words if they would have escaped his mouth. The words were written by John, a script of sorts, telling him exactly what it was he was supposed to say. Perhaps if he stared at it long enough he could remember, and muster out the words when the time was right. But that time was not now, and Sherlock had a sneaking suspicion that it would not come for a long while.
"Go? Sherlock you don't have to leave!" John protested, though he got to his feet and didn't seem to know what to do then.
"Why don't I?" Sherlock muttered, staring at John now from such a close proximity, both of them on their feet and staring each other down as if they were getting ready for a fight rather than a kiss. Or perhaps just a departure. "Give me a reason, John."
"I haven't got one." John admitted immediately. "Not one good enough for you, at least."
"Perhaps I'll see you tomorrow night." Sherlock offered finally. "You can keep the paper; the pens...practice while I'm away."
"Sherlock..." John managed, yet Sherlock shook his head, snatching up the stupid hat from the floor and placing it neatly atop his curls once more.
"I've got to go." He said again, the only string of words he could think acceptable for this situation. The only statement that might be heard by a police court without much fuss from the audience. All the other options were illegal. John managed no protest, perhaps because he couldn't force the words out quick enough, or maybe he just couldn't speak them at all. And so he let him go, both of them aching for something that might keep them together for one second longer. And both coming up without anything reasonable, and so staying silent. Sherlock couldn't manage a goodbye, and so he merely nodded. And he merely walked away. 

 That visit was supposed to heal him, and yet for whatever reason all it did was tear open the hole in his heart even wider. For whatever reason Sherlock had assumed that seeing John again would help him recover the part of him that he had lost, he hoped it would make Agatha's new quarantine something more of a joke. And yet he lay in his bed for a long while after having crawled back up the bedsheet rope, lying still in his bed long after the sun had come up, wondering just what was changed inside of him. What sort of cowardice had taken over his body and forced his feet to move, and his mouth to stay silent. He kept the paper folded up in his hand, crushed now under the strength he applied to it, yet the words still remained clear. He looked it every so often, as if waiting to see if they had changed yet. Waiting to see if even a piece of paper was too cowardly to declare such a bold message. They had been building up to something last night, he knew that they were! Yet why...why would he leave when things were just beginning? Was he more afraid of change than he was of his Aunt's agenda? Was he more afraid to step out of the law than to just make the easy choice and allow himself to be married off to some girl for the social benefits of it? Was he beginning to let himself submit to his expectations, merely because he wasn't brave enough to be who he wanted to be? Would he and John be stuck eternally in a spinning circle, dizzy until they couldn't see straight but still unwilling to stop themselves like they were supposed to? One touch, one word, one kiss! God, one of anything would do the trick! And yet still he sat here in agony, like a coward, like a loser. Sherlock was so disgusted in himself that he could hardly turn his head to look at the clock; he was paralyzed with self-loathing and the idea that maybe his own agony was simply his own fault. He could blame Agatha, or Mycroft, or John...but who was the one who kept avoiding the opportunities? Who was the one who ran away when things got to overwhelming, or stuttered and changed the topic whenever love might be what they discussed next? Who was the one who simply could not admit to anything, because words would make his thoughts official, they would make his thoughts damning. And so he was his own greatest enemy, the very person holding the chain too tight and strangling him whenever he got close enough to something he actually wanted. Why couldn't he be anything...anything more than who he was meant to be? 

"Sherlock, you'll miss breakfast!" Mycroft's voice rang out, followed immediately by a couple of bangs on the door.
"I'm not hungry." Sherlock growled.
"Yes you are." Mycroft interrupted, trying the door handle now that he found Sherlock to be awake. Just as soon as the knob wiggled Sherlock jumped to his feet, realizing now that he hadn't bothered cleaning up after his excursion. The window was still opened, and the rope was thrown in a mess all over the floor, well certainly Mycroft could tell what he had been up to as soon as he walked in! Oh he wouldn't want to have to explain that... And so Sherlock jumped to the door, just as soon as it opened a mere crack he slammed his body weight against it, pushing it back onto Mycroft to which the man gave a great gasp of disapproval.
"Sherlock, Sherlock what are you doing?" Mycroft growled, trying the door again and finding that it wouldn't open. The lock was a key hole, and the key was somewhere over on the dresser. Sherlock couldn't lock it now; he didn't have the time to race over and keep Mycroft out at the same time. It seemed as though they had come to an impasse.
"I'm not decent." Sherlock exclaimed, really the only excuse he could think of that would keep his brother out.
"Well then get decent!" Mycroft muttered. "I'm not leaving until you come out here, to breakfast."
"Yes, I'll...I'll be down in a moment!" Sherlock exclaimed, keeping his hold on the door none the less.
"I'll be here." Mycroft protested.
"No no, you can leave." Sherlock muttered, though he knew those words were suspicious just as soon as they left his mouth.
"Sherlock what are you hiding in there?" Mycroft growled, wiggling the door knob again and finally forcing his weight against it. Well there was only so much Sherlock could do about that, for it didn't matter about leverage or desperation or anything. Mycroft was heavy enough to slam the door right open, flinging Sherlock off of his feet and landing sprawled on the floor next to the bedsheet rope. Mycroft walked in uninvited, and it didn't take him more than a quick glance to see what was so criminal about the state of Sherlock's room. His face paled, yet still he had the curtesy of shutting the door behind him before he went off on his own parental rant.
"What on earth is that?" Mycroft exclaimed, darting towards the rope before Sherlock could do anything but wiggle on the floor in protest, as if that might do anything to dig him out of the rut he had already fallen into.
"It's nothing, it's an illusion." Sherlock managed pathetically. Finally he managed to pull himself to his feet, though he didn't know what else to do. Really there was nothing more to hide; now it was just time to defend himself, to ask for forgiveness rather than permission.
"It's a rope. You've been sneaking out?" Mycroft guessed correctly, grabbing up the tangled mass of sheets and brandishing it at Sherlock like a weapon.
"No I've..." Sherlock merely sighed, shaking his head in exasperation. "Yes."
"To see John?" Mycroft presumed again.
"Yes." Sherlock admitted. Mycroft's face grew tired, though not nearly as angry as Sherlock might have imagined. There was a hint of disappointment for sure, though anger didn't seem to be very visible in his face. Mycroft knew of Sherlock's banishment, why then was he suddenly so receptive of Sherlock's new rebellion?
"Sherlock you know you're not supposed to do that." he muttered, though as far as scolding went that really wasn't too harsh at all.
"And you know that I'm not going to follow her rules. They're unjust, and unreasonably prejudiced." Sherlock pointed out with a little frown. "I saw him last night, yes. What are you going to do? Tell her?"
"I'm certainly tempted to." Mycroft admitted, crossing his arms yet not looking nearly as lethal as Sherlock had imagined. The younger brother just frowned, allowing himself to hunch over a little bit in his weak and defensive state. Mycroft couldn't flat out say no to his sad little face, and the battle of empathy versus reason was playing out very obviously inside of his mind.
"Don't tell her Mycroft. I'll lose the only friend I've ever had." Sherlock insisted in the smallest voice possible.
"Don't do it again, and I won't have to." Mycroft decided finally.
"I will do it again." Sherlock promised immediately.
"Then I'll have to tell her!" Mycroft exclaimed in response, throwing his arms up in the air in his own exasperation.
"No you won't! You won't have to because you can just ignore your own rigid moral code; you know what you can just pretend you never knew about any of this! You can just go on with your regular, boring old life and pretend that I haven't got a life of my own. Would that make you feel better?" Sherlock suggested. Mycroft sneered at him, yet just at that moment his eyes seemed to notice something, something that had been clenched in Sherlock's fist this whole time, without even the owner realizing. Perhaps his fingers had been fasted, latched onto the paper like a life force and therefore unwilling to let go without proper force. Or maybe Sherlock had wanted the thing to be found, almost as if he wanted someone to confess to after all this time. Maybe Mycroft would be the one to know?
"What have you got there?" Mycroft wondered.
"Nothing." He managed finally, shoving the paper into his pocket as forcefully as he could and displaying rather pathetically his now emptied hands.
"It's not nothing, Sherlock come on." Mycroft insisted, stepping forward and holding out his hand in a very aggressive manner. Mycroft made it quite clear that his hand would be filled with what it wanted, or else there would be consequences. It hurt Sherlock to do it, yet half of him was ultimately relived that Mycroft was forcing his hand. In some ways it might be better to share his burden with someone else, especially someone who would not turn him into the police. God forbid Mycroft might even help him in the process, help him discover who he really was. Sherlock stared at that open hand for what felt like ages, yet all the while his eyes remained still and unblinking his hand began to reach into his pocket, reaching for something that seemed to be dancing away from his betraying fingertips.
"Promise you won't tell her?" Sherlock whispered, just as soon as his fingers clenched once more to the paper. Mycroft sighed, yet blinked his eyes in his own unwilling agreement. Obviously he didn't like to keep secrets, yet he was left now with no other choice. He wanted to help his brother, in the end that was his one and only goal. And this would be how he achieved it, to be let into the complicated world that existed exclusively in Sherlock's deranged brain. And so Sherlock took a leap of faith, in fact he betrayed everything that his mind was saying all together. He went against all his common sense, every ounce of ideology that he had lived on for so many years...and he set that piece of truth right into the palm of his brother's hand. The frightening part was that he felt nothing as he watched his brother open it. He should've been afraid, god he should have been jumping out that window or fleeing through the door while he had the chance to run. He should have been racing down the driveway, he should have been curled up in a ball and sobbing for forgiveness. He should have at least felt something, something more than absolute carelessness. Than a stone still wastefulness, watching as his brother's eyes widened at the statement, watching and feeling as though he had been empty on the inside for so many long and painful years.
"You're...Sherlock no. Surely I'm reading this wrong, surely this isn't your handwriting?" Mycroft insisted, reading the wrinkled paper over and over again before finally holding his hand up to his mouth in complete astonishment.
"It's not my handwriting, but the message is clear enough." Sherlock whispered. "I can't stay away from him Mycroft. I can't."
"This could get you arrested. You could be hanged, Sherlock. Don't you know what this means?" Mycroft insisted, throwing the paper down onto the bed as if he wanted to forget about it for the time being, as if he just wanted this to be a discussion of common sense.
"It means that I'm human, doesn't it?" Sherlock whispered in response. "Just like everyone else on this god forsaken planet, I'm human. And humans fall in love."
"Not with..." Mycroft bit down on his tongue, keeping the words from flying out just as irrationally as he originally intended. "It's a phase, surely. You don't know what love is, you don't know your own heart well enough. You'll grow out of it, you'll come to realize."
"I've realized everything, Mycroft. Everything about this life we lead, and these people we're supposed to be. I've realized that it's not worth anything, that it's just some big charade! Like a play we're supposed to be putting on, being proper, being wealthy...being happy! Have you ever seen a rich person smile genuinely, Mycroft? Have you ever seen them not trying to mask their pain?" Sherlock insisted.
"Sherlock this is madness! You're not yourself, you're ill." Mycroft protested.
"I'M NOT ILL!" Sherlock yelled, stomping up to his brother and pushing him hard in the chest, sending him stumbling back for a split second before regaining his composure with an exasperated huff.
"Sherlock, calm down!" Mycroft exclaimed.
"THERE'S NOTHING WRONG WITH ME!" Sherlock screamed back, lunging at Mycroft some more and landing a well-placed slap against the poor man's cheek. "I'm not a child, I'm not insane!"
"Stop it Sherlock, Sherlock..." Mycroft flinched as Sherlock's hands kept flying about in a randomized and unpredictable pattern. At last Mycroft was able to grab his brother's arms, locking them against his sides with all the force he could muster. And yet from there Mycroft pulled him into a hug, he even wrapped his arms around him and everything! Sherlock was able to collapse onto his other brother's chest for the first time since they were children, feeling his eyes beginning to leak for the second time in how many miserable hours. He didn't feel much like fighting anymore, he didn't feel like screaming. He felt like a child, like someone who was just in desperate need of a good hug and a confidant. He had both now, did he not?
"You won't tell?" Sherlock whispered into Mycroft's chest, trembling fearfully as his brother's breathing lifted him up and down in a very comforting sort of way.
"I won't tell." Mycroft promised, though the words came quietly, as if he really didn't want to spoil this one moment with talk.
"I haven't done anything yet. I haven't even told him." Sherlock murmured.
"That's probably for the best." Mycroft agreed. "Don't deny your passions but keep them at bay. For everyone's sake, for my sake, Sherlock. I can't lose you too."
"I know." Sherlock muttered. "But I want to tell him. I just can't, I can't force my mouth to say anything. I can't override my common sense no matter how much I try. I want so badly to..."
"Sherlock, if anything happens between you two and it's discovered then you'll have serious consequences to face." Mycroft warned, patting Sherlock's back as calmly as he could, as if that was his way of being an older brother again.
"Don't you think it's worth it?" Sherlock whispered. "To feel something at last, to feel something other than despair."
"Have you really been so upset?" Mycroft asked, his voice turning to worry now as he sensed something deeply wrong inside of his brother.
"I've been so afraid. Of myself, of this house, of our aunt." Sherlock admitted. "I just want to know I'm doing something right, not just because someone else told me to. But because I want to do it." Mycroft was silent for a moment, as if he was physically preventing himself from responding in a dismal way. As if he was trying to think of something to say that might make his brother feel better, all the while keeping him safe. Sherlock knew that he wanted nothing more than to ridicule this whole idea, he wanted nothing more than to shoot down Sherlock's unworldly aspirations and keep him human, keep him legal. Yet what could anyone say to that, to such a heartfelt confession after years of small talking? After years of pain, loss after loss, madness, and then death? Surely Mycroft couldn't deny Sherlock the one simply thing he was asking for, the one simple boy that might have the power to make his days worth living again?
"Alright." Mycroft whispered finally. Sherlock blinked, peeling himself from his brother's arms just long enough to look up into his face for confirmation. Did he really hear that?
"Alright?" Sherlock clarified blankly. Mycroft bowed his head, though he scrunched up his face with the effort of it all. He didn't like to approve of this, that was for sure.
"Yes, alright. I know there's nothing I can do to stop you, so I might as well just leave you with my own string of warnings. Starting of course with be safe, and be smart. If Agatha catches you, if anyone catches you, you know the consequences. Secondly there are diseases that are associated with loving someone, and I want you to ask John before you engage in anything too intimate if he's been tested. And lastly...for God's sake Sherlock, don't get your heart broken." Mycroft insisted. Sherlock couldn't help the smile that broke out onto his face; in all honesty he didn't even will it to be there! It just appeared, the first genuine smile he had happen upon his face in what felt like decades. It was just...oh it might have been too good to be true. It might have been too perfect to be happening right now, in this very moment. Those words of approval that spilled from his brother's mouth, those words that made it sound like Sherlock was not completely crazy after all! It filled him with newfound confidence, just the elixir of courage he needed to reassure himself that everything would surely be alright in the end.
"Alright!" Sherlock exclaimed, throwing his arms around his brother one last time in his absolute glee.
"Alright!" Mycroft laughed, wincing a little as Sherlock hugged him too tightly around the middle, nearly knocking the breath out of him. However the laugh was a pure one, the laugh was a genuine one. It was the first time Sherlock could remember either of them being happy together, and it was something he wouldn't so easily forget. It was a moment to save in the back of his mind, to unearth when all that he hoped and dreamed about came crashing down upon him. The moment of his brother's approval, and thus the beginning of the end.