Sherlock turned off of the porch when Molly stepped inside, for despite his eagerness he knew that it was only polite to wait until she had made her leave. He was nervous yet he knew that there was only one option tonight. He would regret it for the rest of his life if he was a coward and somehow avoided what was yet to come, if he declined Victor's approach, whatever it may be, and tried to ignore the feelings that were bubbling up inside of his chest. Victor had to be waiting there for him to discuss their feelings, it would only make sense! He wouldn't have been so private about it, nor would he have made a point to be so intimate. Simply by using Sherlock's preferred name he was making it known that he was opening a door from the public and proper conversations to a more casual and private affair. What else could that be, other than addressing the feelings they both must be having right now? It was only obvious that after last night's mutual understanding they both needed to sit down and try to sort things out between the two of them, and by sort things out of course I mean pour out their heart's desires until somehow their lips were locked. The night was calm and clear, the perfect night for some heartfelt discussions on the front porch. The walk that had seemed so quick before was now proving to take much longer than had been expected, however Sherlock still felt as though he could see his house and the man that now stood on the porch...he saw Victor before it was logically possible. He knew the man to be waiting there, and with that very same anticipation came a fear that was very much indescribable and all together unknown to him. Sherlock couldn't place it as rational, for this meeting with Victor was everything he had wanted for a long time, yet there was still a voice in the back of his head reminding him that there might be some unforeseen consequences that could come along with fulfilling his fairytale. What if it wasn't as he imagined, what if it all somehow went terribly wrong? If Victor wasn't as he imagined, or if someone found out? And a little part of Sherlock was reminding him constantly that the moment his lips touched those of Victor Trevor, his childhood was over. Whatever claim of innocence he once had, the fall back on the idea that he had never fallen in love and never will, that sort of ease of emotion was gone. The moment he kissed Victor would be the moment he submitted himself to a life of crime, one that could very well be noticed and punished...a life that could lead him to his imprisonment and possibly death. However these hesitations Sherlock knew that it was worth it, whatever hysteria was beginning to build up was merely speculations, and if all went horribly wrong a relationship could easily stop just as quickly as it had started. It would only be too easy to call it off and disappear back into his bedroom for the rest of his life. But he had wanted this, it was worth the risk. As fearful as leaving childhood behind might be, there was also an unknown joy in becoming a proper, experienced adult. Sherlock was eighteen and way past the normal age in which people had their first kiss...well for God's sakes; a lot of kids his age were married already! What excuse did he have, other than his sexuality? If there were men out there that had the same tastes then it really shouldn't be an obstacle, he was just afraid, that was all. Or at least he used to be. Tonight he would change this; he would change his innocence and his childlike behavior. He would prove to himself that he could overstep his boundaries and discover a whole new world of possibilities, a world where he could love whoever he wanted, despite whatever consequence might come along with that love. He would be moving out of one phase of his life and into a new one, it wasn't anything to be afraid of, it wasn't anything to run from! It was a thing to embrace, a silent transition that would be met with no congratulations. A secret accomplishment, which would be known between two people immediately. And there was something strangely magical about the fact that the Victor Trevor would be the one to lead Sherlock into the world of adult hood. There was something very complete about that man's role as gatekeeper, as ferryman. He would lead Sherlock across; with his kiss he would age Sherlock a couple of seconds yet years of experience. He would catch his heart up on what it was like to feel love; he would fill it in on decades of missed time. Victor seemed knowledgeable, he seemed able bodied. He would make Sherlock's first kiss memorable, he would make it perfect.
"That took you quite a while." Victor commented from the top stair as Sherlock finally came up upon his front porch. Sherlock looked up with a nod, smiling at Victor in a knowing sort of way.
"Well we chatted a little bit, as we always do." Sherlock admitted, staying on the sidewalk as if he thought it would be rude to approach just yet. Victor was leaning against the banister, a cigarette smoldering between his knuckles, emitting a steady stream of white smoke that disappeared among the fresh night air.
"Are you two together?" he wondered, looking down on Sherlock with such electric blue eyes that it took Sherlock a moment of shock to collect himself. He was taken aback with the question, considering what a stupid thing it was to ask in a moment like this. If Victor suspected Sherlock to be a homosexual then why would he ask such a thing?
"No, no of course we're not. We're best friends; I thought I told you that." Sherlock pointed out.
"She looked at you as if she was in love." Victor admitted, to which Sherlock just laughed. He looked down at the sidewalk for a moment, trying to hide what an amused smile he now wore. He didn't want Victor to think he was making fun of him in anyway; however a statement so obvious had to be giggled at just a little bit.
"Yes I know. She says that everyone looks at me like that, but I suspect she's only trying to protect herself." Sherlock admitted with a shrug. Victor nodded, a small smile of amusement playing upon his face as he studied Sherlock in the moonlight.
"A boy like you, well maybe she does have a point." Victor decided with a bit of a grin. Sherlock blushed in flattery; however his stomach was now twisting and turning, reminding him of what good news this was. Victor was turning the conversation away from the topic of Molly and back to the general public's appreciation of Sherlock's beauty. He was, in his own sneaky way, admitting his own attraction!
"You said you wanted to see me?" Sherlock wondered, looking up at the soldier in an expectant sort of way, as if he was fully prepared for the man to leap off of the steps and directly into his arms.
"Yes, yes actually. Nothing too urgent, but a poem I had found in a book I was reading, I thought you might enjoy it." Victor agreed, stubbing out his cigarette on the railing so that he could reach into his pocket and pluck out a piece of paper. "I had copied it down, so not to destroy the book." He added. Sherlock looked up at him curiously, as if trying to see if this was some sort of joke. A poem, was that really what this was about? Was he expecting something much more, or was there still more to come? Had Victor's choice of words in the hallway simply been the product of chance, and Sherlock's over analyzation? Was he expecting something that simply wasn't coming?
"Oh right. Ya, a poem. Thank you." Sherlock agreed reluctantly, taking the piece of paper and looking over it for a moment. As promised, it was another sonnet, and contained in the lines of poetry seemed to be no hidden messages or proposals or anything of the sort. It just seemed to be... poetry. Victor looked down on Sherlock as if he was worried he didn't like it, which wasn't exactly the case, but it was certainly close. It wasn't that Sherlock didn't appreciate his thoughtfulness, it was simply he didn't want the poem to make an appearance now. There were so many other things that Sherlock had expected of the night, and this little thing certainly wasn't up to par.
"Do you like it?" victor wondered, looking down upon Sherlock in obvious worry. Sherlock nodded, clearing his throat and tucking the poem into his pocket. For some reason the very sight of it made his stomach churn and his heart drop, this feeling of disappointment now was very much mirrored to the feeling he had felt when Victor left him in his room the night previous. It was the same sort of disappointment, same sort of doubt, that left Sherlock wondering if Victor even wanted anything to do with him in the first place. Was the attraction Sherlock had been suspecting simply been a product of his own desperation, his own imagination? It was a hopeless feeling once more, yet Sherlock could remember telling himself that he was going to make a change. Yes, he remembered vividly, when he had felt this last he had made a pledge to never feel it again. He told himself that when he had Victor in his grasp once more that he would make his move. No matter how much he regretted it, it would still be accomplishing something. No matter how badly it went, at least he would have gained the knowledge of whether or not Victor would accept his advances or not. It would be the moment of truth in many ways, and the climax that he had been waiting in vain for. So Victor was not going to be the one brave enough to start something between them, or to ask the questions that were necessary to be asked. Then Sherlock would have to take matters into his own hands, he would have to make the move that would define the future of their relationship. He would ask the question without words, and he would make tonight as memorable as he had anticipated it being. Maybe he didn't need an escort to the world of adulthood; maybe he didn't need anyone teaching him how to control his own life. Maybe all he had to do was step forward. And so that's what he did. Sherlock didn't make an announcement; he didn't ease Victor into what was happening until it had already happened. He didn't help alleviate any of the shock that might have been associated with such a move, he just went for it. Victor may have thought Sherlock was walking towards the door, yet Sherlock leapt up the two steps so quickly that the poor soldier could do nothing but watch as he got closer. And then Sherlock lunged at him, he didn't know what else to do! He got real close and smashed their lips together, for that was the only idea he had of what kissing was. He didn't know how to be intimate, no one had ever taught him such things, and so he just pressed their lips together and hoped for the best. Maybe it wasn't a romantic thing to do, and maybe from Victor's perspective it was the most horrible kiss he had ever experienced. However from Sherlock's point of view that kiss was one of the most magical events that might've taken place. It was something even more satisfying than if Victor had been the one to make the first move, predominantly because Sherlock finally felt as though he had accomplished something. He felt like instead of being led across the barrier he had broken through it, and taken what he thought he deserved instead of waiting for someone to hand it to him. He had kissed Victor; he had made his move and in turn admitted all of the feelings that had been stirring inside of him. And now he pulled away, nearly falling down onto the second step so as to gain his balance and just a little bit of proximity. And for a moment all was silent, for a moment it was all that Sherlock could do but gape, looking as surprised as he might have been if Victor had been the one to make the first move. He was quite numb yet satisfied; Sherlock was feeling very complete, all together with a feeling of absolute control. He knew that for once in his life he may have surprised Victor; he may have immobilized him just for a moment so that it was all the both of them could do but stare. Yet the silence couldn't last for long, there had to be a moment when Victor could speak his mind, when he could run away... Yet he didn't run away, in fact he stepped forward. Before Sherlock could do anything to prepare himself he was swept by the soldier's arms, Victor holding him by the waist as he bent down from the awkward angle the stairs gave them and kissed him as one would properly do it. Not just lips on lips, but motion, kissing as an action not as stagnation, kissing so that it felt more like Victor was trying to eat his lips off rather than simply kissing him. Sherlock tried to play along, he tried to make it seem like he knew what he was doing. Yet it was hopeless, and in the end he allowed himself just to be swept off of his feet like he imagined he would be. Sherlock was swept into the hands that were holding him so tightly, holding them together in the light of the moon, the silvery light that illuminated them for none but their own eyes to see. And just as it had started, it was over just as abruptly. Victor pulled away, still with his hands on Sherlock's waist as if he was going to try to keep him there, as if to make sure he wasn't going to try to run away. This time Sherlock was properly fazed, this time he could do nothing but try and fail to process what progress had been made in nothing more than two minutes' time. What confession they had both made, just by being the instigator to something they both wanted so badly. Something that, prior to tonight, neither of them would have believed to be possible. Sherlock looked up at Victor with his mouth agape, gasping for breaths he knew would never come while their eyes were still locked. Yet suddenly he felt that he was able to look into Victor's eyes, because there was nothing hiding anymore in his own. His soul, as of now, was wiped completely clean of secrets. Victor looked surprised yet calm, his hands finally sliding from Sherlock's waist as if to say he had finally had enough. Sherlock was tempted to grab at his hands once more, to force them back where they had been and to try something more, something new. He was tempted to reposition Victor's hands, and try to relive what his imagination had produced so long before. Yet this was not imagination, this was reality, and such perseverance may not be entirely appreciated so early on. And so Sherlock let Victor slide away, for he had no other choice at the moment. He was helpless once more, helpless to the man he would willingly hand his life, soul, and body to. The man that in a few short moments had proven to be the man he had been waiting for his whole life. Victor stepped away once more; back up to the porch where he might've thought would be a safer proximity. He took a deep breath before unearthing from his jacket a carton of cigarettes, plucking one before holding the case towards Sherlock in an offering. Sherlock knew it better not to smoke, yet tonight it seemed almost crucial to calm himself down before the aftershock of falling in love kicked in. He took one, as might be expected, and waited for Victor to light a match. Neither of them spoke because they couldn't think of a single appropriate thing to say. Calling light to what had just happened might ruin the moment, and remembering back to a time when they hadn't had such a mutual understanding would just depress them both, and make tonight's kiss feel well overdue. And for the first time, tonight they both felt like they understood each other completely. For the first time Sherlock felt as though conversation wasn't needed at all. And so he held his cigarette under the light of the lit match, he puffed on it until smoke was emitted and he leaned against the banister just as Victor was doing. Together they looked into the darkness of the empty, quiet Boston streets. Together they expected nothing to look back. And when their cigarettes had snuffed out, together they went inside. A goodnight was the first and last thing said. 

 The morning Sherlock woke up and felt as if he had dreamt the whole thing. It seemed almost surreal that his dreams and his reality had somehow merged, yet as he was now realizing, both had the taste of Victor's lips. What sweetness they were, at that! What sweetness that could never have been imagined in his dreams, what power yet softness! It was a form of kiss that Sherlock hadn't known possible, something that was strangely foreign yet completely appropriate, a proper way to express love and desire in the preliminary stages. Sherlock stayed in bed that morning, only so that he could appreciate the events of the night before. He thought for a long while about what it all meant, the approach by both parties and the silence afterwards. Most likely it had been their ways of expressing their love, one after the other, without trying to put such complications into words. It was easier for Sherlock to peck at Victor's lips to display that this was his first love, and it was easier for Victor to gnaw at Sherlock's mouth to show that while this was not his first love, it was passionate enough to be his last. It showed also that Victor had the same feelings, the same pent emotions that were waiting for the right moment to emerge. How ironic that Sherlock had made the first move, and how lucky he was now that he knew it was mutual! If Victor had pulled away, if he had left or made his excuses, well Sherlock couldn't imagine how he could show his face ever again. What a humiliating form of defeat, admitting such a vulnerable feeling to someone such as love, illegal love at that, only to be pushed away! The embarrassment might have been the death of him! Oh so lucky he was that Victor was acceptant, so lucky he was that Victor was kind! And what a night it had proven to be, what a success his approach had been! What a life he was destined to lead, now that he knew that he was not alone. Sherlock rose from bed purely with the intention of seeing Victor once more before breakfast. While he knew conversation was wasted in the moment he also knew that silence would hurt them in the long run. They had to at least say good morning so that they knew that the feelings expressed last night had not been just a whim, and that this morning had not brought about a change of heart. Sherlock needed to clarify with Victor that last night had held his sincere intentions, and not been some delusion of a twisted sort. And so Sherlock dressed in his best, brushing his hair so that it looked the best he could get it before he descended down the stairs to a surprisingly quiet house. It was not usual that nothing stirred, yet today Sherlock found the house to be eerily quiet. Obviously the soldiers were asleep, for it was only six thirty and they had to be up at eight. No way would men of their stature dare get up even minutes before they absolutely had to. The Holmes parents, along with Mrs. Hudson, were absent as well. Sherlock went down to the kitchen to find that the door was open, and so he was not the first one to be here today. Yet the milk was absent in the ice box, which meant that while John's schedule usually merged with his own, the milkman was presumably late.