Sherlock POV: Sherlock couldn't sleep, oh how could he even attempt to close his eyes after a conversation such as that! So he had said it, it was a miracle that he could even confess such a thing to himself but to Victor, to someone else, well that made it real did it not? A secret was just a fantasy unless it was shared with someone else, and now that victor knew it gave Sherlock's love a whole new life. Now instead of questioning with himself he knew it was true, now instead of trying to rationalize the unusual increase in his heart rate he would get to focus on how he would take his love to the next level, how he would make it known to the only man who mattered! Talking to Victor was the easy part, for Victor was the same breed of misfit that he had turned out to be. Homosexuals didn't judge each other, that was why Sherlock knew it would be safe to confess to his servant. He felt slightly bad of course, for virtually destroying Victor's hopes of ever being with him and yet surely the boy had never truly envisioned a rational future with them together? Surely Victor was a good servant but as a lover, well, he simply wasn't the man Sherlock was looking for. Victor was nice, he was caring, and he was compassionate, except he was clingy in a way that would make loving him virtually impossible. To love someone and to admit to that love would be to give them leverage over you, a metaphorical chain around your ankles. They have all the power in the world to tell you what and what not to do and you will do it, for the most part, because you deem it not worthy of a break up. If Sherlock had to satisfy Victor's ever last whim then his life would be an endless torrent of seclusion and violin playing, hair brushing and beach going. Not that Victor wouldn't be a good boyfriend, he was beautiful to be sure, he always seemed to be teeming with life, his skin glowing and his eyes vibrant, well Sherlock would go as far as to say that Victor came closer than anyone to being his own aesthetic equal. However there was John, John that rugged little man who didn't come anywhere close to being beautiful, John who smiled with all the happiness in the world and who laughed with the song of the most annoying morning bird. He was one of the purest people Sherlock had ever met, one of the most optimistic and one of the most handsome, in a beat up dirty street puppy sort of way. Sherlock almost felt as though it was his duty to love him, for his heart had been brimming with emotions ever since he had spotted John across the Molly Hooper's dance floor. Well it was necessary for them to be together for Fate had let it be so, Sherlock would never have encountered that man if any of the seemingly impossible variables had been askew. And yet here Sherlock was, lying awake, imagining a life with that man and wishing for an easy way to make his feelings known. The question was, would John ever love him back? Certainly he was a desirable man, Sherlock was the most beautiful person he knew, and yet would his gender be enough to push John away? The worst case scenario here, and I mean the absolute worse, was surprisingly possible. In fact it seemed like the aftermath of this fateful confession could go one of two ways. John could accept his confession and his heart and they could live together as secret soulmates, or John could recoil in disgust and call the police and have Sherlock arrested or possibly put to death for obscenity. Of course he would do anything to avoid the latter and yet it was becoming increasingly evident that the latter was probably more probable. It was possible that Sherlock just happened to have employed the only other homosexual on the planet; maybe no other man harbored any other feelings for another man. Statistically there should be a lid for every pot, however there was indeed two homosexuals in this world, two together, and one who was still seeking another. Maybe Sherlock and Victor were meant to be soulmates and John was fatefully heterosexual? Maybe he would have no interest? It was out of luck that the one man Sherlock could ever share his secret with was the only person that would understand; surely such a confession wouldn't be so easily handled by a man who thought it impossible to love anyone but a woman. And yet maybe John could change, maybe he could be convinced, maybe for Sherlock's sake alone he would try to love another man. What was the cause of homosexuality, were people born to love their same gender or was it some sort of disease, mental or otherwise? Was it an illusion, placed upon him by the pure fact that every other woman repulsed him, or was it a spell, set upon him by a witch who intended on cursing him to an unrequited heart? No but he must try, whatever the cause and whatever the consequence, Sherlock was becoming more and more away of the aching hole in heart, he was becoming more aware of the emptiness felt inside of him and beside him, spaces that should be filled by none other than John Watson, the one man who could make him feel whole once more. 

 When morning came Sherlock was sitting at his desk, drafting a letter, an invitation really, for John to come to the manner for a quiet dinner, just the two of them. Mycroft of course would have to be diverted, and thankfully Sherlock knew that there was a dinner planned tomorrow night at one of Mycroft's only friend's house, that of a Mr. Gregson. Sherlock would pretend to be sick and stay behind, inviting John for a dinner and having the cooks put them together an elaborate dinner over which Sherlock could make his ultimate confession. Maybe, just maybe, tomorrow night would be the end of his eternal loneliness and the beginning of a chapter of love. Oh but he shouldn't get his hopes up, there was a lot between him and tomorrow night and one of those variables was to knock on his door any moment. Sherlock had just picked up his pen to write when there was a very timid knock on his door. 

"Come in Victor." Sherlock called, not bothering to pick up his head as the servant entered the room. Without even looking he knew that there was something off in Victor's presence, for he was unusually quiet as he pulled the curtains open, letting the morning sunlight begin to soak in through the frosted windows. Sherlock was ever so aware of Victor's presence and Victor was only too aware of his as well, however they both couldn't think of anything to say and so their lips were sealed. Sherlock had not anticipated this change in behavior from his poor servant; in fact he had planned his interrogation of the night previous purely with the intention of bringing them closer together. Sherlock had thought that Victor's confession might make it easier for the poor boy to move on and in doing so move closer, it would bridge the gap that had been spreading so far between them. And yet Sherlock was soon coming to realize that it had done nothing but make it even more awkward, instead of Victor's guiltily little glances he kept his eyes on the carpet at all times, avoiding eye contact as if he was ashamed to even look in Sherlock's general direction. It was a shame; it really was, for that poor boy to think he had to worry about such silly little whims such as love. Sherlock thought that nothing really had changed, he had always had that suspicion that Victor loved him and just because it was brought to light didn't change anything, did it?
"It's a lovely morning, is it not?" Sherlock asked finally, dropping his pen without writing a single thing and spinning on his chair, watching as Victor very nervously stood on the other side of the room, shivering in fear at being so suddenly addressed.
"Yes my Lord...lovely." Victor agreed in the tiniest of voices, sounding as though he were on the brink of either bursting into tears or screaming violently. Sherlock wasn't quite sure which he would prefer, so he hoped that Victor stayed in that happy neutral zone for now.
"Victor I think I must address what we talked about last night, obviously it is a rather pesky elephant in the room." Sherlock muttered, to which Victor picked up his head violently, meeting Sherlock's eyes before turning away fearfully.
"My Lord I apologize most..."
"I'm not looking for an apology Victor. I don't want there to be anything different between us Victor, your confession is nothing but a verbal confirmation of something I have known for years." Sherlock assured quietly. Victor nodded, taking a deep breath and looking almost as if he was going to be sick.
"Nothing has changed, my Lord." Victor whispered, however even as he said it his voice was unexplainably high pitched, sounding as though he was virtually petrified.
"We have been honest with each other, and so I see no reason why that should split us apart." Sherlock repeated.
"Yes I agree." Victor whispered. Sherlock hummed in agreement, feeling as though this conversation was going nowhere at all. Victor certainly wasn't going to be the one to start the conversation and so Sherlock got to his feet, walking over to the wardrobe and selecting his favorite purple shirt and slacks.
"So nothing has changed you say?" Sherlock clarified as he threw his selection of clothes onto the bed.
"Nothing my Lord." Victor agreed. Sherlock nodded, not entirely convinced of that answer and yet he stood near the bed, standing in the radiant morning sunlight and dropping his robe.
"Good." Sherlock said rather lazily, glancing over to where Victor was very reluctantly picking up his head, looking Sherlock straight in the eyes for that was the only true way to avoid staring directly at his bare chest, his cheeks glowing as red as burning coals. Sherlock simply raised his eyebrows, as if wondering what was taking Victor so long to dress him. It was an altogether painless project, however awkward and tense Victor was the whole time, and yet when Sherlock descended the stairs for breakfast he was looking as dashing as ever. Victor trailed rather reluctantly, standing in the entry way and bidding Sherlock a good breakfast before disappearing down the hall to the kitchens, as if he had some sort of special duty there or something. Sherlock walked into the dining room with his head held high, seeing that Mycroft was, as usual, the only one seated at the long mahogany table. At first Sherlock couldn't tell why Mycroft seemed so incredibly angry, and then Sherlock realized with a rather guilty little laugh that it was because this was the first time he was seeing his brother since last night's incident at the opera. Sherlock could only wonder how Mycroft had gotten home, maybe he had walked. If so, Sherlock wanted to hear all about it.
"Good morning brother mine." Sherlock said cheerfully. Mycroft raised his head with an almost poisonous smile, looking delighted about something and yet there was a deep seated anger simmering in his black eyes. That expression didn't make Sherlock feel very comfortable at all, in fact he was beginning to worry about what sort of horrors Mycroft had decided to conjure up. Had he poisoned Sherlock's cup? Had he locked all the doors to the house, never letting Sherlock leave again? Or worse...had he overheard Sherlock and Victor's conversation from the night before? Sherlock looked at his brother horrifically; however he took his place next to him and didn't touch any of the food.
"Good morning Sherlock. I hope you had a nice night." Mycroft snapped, his own plate empty as well. That was a bit uncharacteristic, so Sherlock began to wonder if all of the food had been poisoned as well.
"I did indeed. And your night, pleasant as well?" Sherlock wondered. Mycroft simply laughed, rubbing his fat hands together with glee.
"Oh yes Sherlock, I had a nice long walk thanks to you and your new friend. And during that walk I was able to think nice and long about the future of our estate, and the heritage that we need to ensure." Mycroft began, a gleam in his eyes that made Sherlock shiver very nervously. What type of horrors had Mycroft conjured up in his head as he walked spitefully those three miles from the theater to their manor?
"I do apologize." Sherlock said rather reluctantly, however both brothers knew there was no true guilt in his words. Sherlock almost felt like Mycroft had deserved such a stroll, and to be honest he wouldn't hesitate to make him hike back home again.
"Oh well it's quite alright Sherlock, you'll make it up to me I'm sure you will." Mycroft assured with a little laugh, cruelly stabbing at a blueberry with his fork and doing nothing but squishing it against his white plate, watching its little blue guts smear all over the fine Holmes crest that was stamped into the china.
"What do you mean?" Sherlock asked nervously, squinting his eyes worriedly. Mycroft still looked rather thrilled, looking across the deserted dining room as though he was anticipating it getting much fuller in the years to come.
"Well of course Sherlock, your time has come. Your responsibility as a member of the Holmes family, your destiny that we have both been pushing aside in an effort to confide ourselves to this lovely solitude, it's time to put it all into action. But I'm sure you'll understand Sherlock, quite sure, when I tell you that it is indeed the time for you to marry." Mycroft announced with a smile. Sherlock's face turned even whiter than it had been before and for a moment he couldn't think of anything to say. His more irrational side had cheered in relief, for he was planning on finding a romantic partner anyway, and yet the realization swooped in not long afterwards. John Watson could never provide the money and children Mycroft was seeking through Sherlock's marriage. A homosexual relationship with a poor man would gain nothing; in fact it would be almost counterproductive for they would take on another person without gaining any money in return. And suddenly the panic sunk in and Sherlock's body went rigid in horror, realizing that now there was no chance for him to ever declare his love to John, not if he was to be unfaithful to his new wife.
"Marriage? Now? Not now, no Mycroft you cannot make me!" Sherlock exclaimed, jumping to his feet in horror before looking around the dining room, wondering if it was socially acceptable to just run away from this. Mycroft shrugged carelessly, sitting back in his chair and watching his brother with smug black eyes. He was most definitely enjoying this.
"I think I can, actually, being the master of this house and your older brother, I think I can indeed make you." Mycroft said with an air of amusement. Obviously it was very satisfying for him to see his poor younger brother clutch at his forehead in dismay, his eyes bulging and his mouth hanging open in surprise. Marriage, marriage, oh what a horrible word, what a horrible concept! He could never love a woman, not after he had just admitted to loving a man, no this cannot be happening!
"I refuse!" Sherlock exclaimed, and yet even as he turned on his heel and ran from the dining room he could hear his brother laughing, laughing because he knew that every refusal Sherlock tried to declare was futile. There was no stopping this; there was no preventing what was already set into motion. If Mycroft declared it then it must be so, and if Sherlock had to marry, well, then it must be so. Sherlock flew through his bedroom door to see Victor look up in surprise. The boy had been changing the sheets on the bed, like Sherlock had told him to yesterday, almost as if he had spent his night doing something other than what Sherlock had instructed him to do. 

"Victor, Victor's it's horrible, it's dreadful, just throw me from the balcony oh Victor I would rather take death!" Sherlock exclaimed, shutting the door and racing towards the doors to the balcony, pausing before the glass and staring at the freezing air that lurked just outside. Alright, so maybe dying would be a little bit cold this morning, he'll wait until the sun came up to kill himself. And then Victor was next to him, with his arms around his chest, trying to pull him away from the doors. Thankfully Victor found no resistance, for Sherlock went limp and let his servant's strong arms pull him back to safety, back to the cozy mess of sheets and blankets that had become of his usually orderly bed.
"My Lord what happened, what could have possibly happened so early in the morning?" Victor wondered softly, setting Sherlock softly down upon his mattress and propping his head up with a couple of pillows. And yet Sherlock did not want to lay down, he struggled to his feet once more and threw his arms around his poor servant's neck, feelings tears sliding down his face as he buried his head into Victor's very surprised shoulder.
"Mycroft has told me the most horrible thing, I must..." Sherlock shivered in repulsion as the reality set in, as the futile attempts to uncage his captured heart began to process in his unfortunate brain.
"Sherlock it's alright, whatever it is, just tell me. No secrets anymore." Victor persuaded in a soft voice, one of his hands very slowly rubbing against Sherlock's back and the other very gently pressing against his neck, as if this would in some way sooth him. Sherlock sniffled heavily, hearing his heavy tears fall against Victor's jacket as he tried to find the words to express his desperate situation.
"Mycroft said that I must marry." Sherlock whispered, closing his eyes to stop the waterworks and pressing his face even deeper into Victor's shoulder. He could hear the boy gasp, his grasp around Sherlock tightening as if he thought that would somehow soothe him, as if that would somehow erase the terrifying truth that befell them both. Surely Victor would realize that if Sherlock was forced to marry for money and for power than surely he would never end up with a man, as they both intended on him being, and so the desires of Sherlock's heart and the desires of Victor's heart would be sure to be forgotten. For a moment it was silent, and yet Sherlock was sure he felt something, droplets, on his own neck, almost as if Victor's tears were sliding from his cheeks and landing on Sherlock's skin.
"My Lord, I'm so sorry." Victor whispered, so quietly that only at this proximity would Sherlock be able to hear.