Just as Sherlock had done with John tonight, Victor lifted Sherlock's chin so that their eyes could meet. As if he didn't want Sherlock to be ashamed any longer. Sherlock could only grin at him, the sort of childlike grin he wore when he had no idea what else to do. When he wanted to ensure the onlooker that they were in complete control of the situation, and that he was like putty in their hands. Tonight Victor made the first move; tonight he was the one that leaned in and kissed Sherlock preliminarily. And it was enough; it was just what Sherlock had remembered from the night before, the magic of his lips, the magic of the moment. And this time Sherlock knew what he was supposed to do, he knew just how to kiss someone, and he tried his best to make it as enjoyable for Victor as possible. He wrapped his arms around Victor's neck, pressing closer so that he could feel the man's heart beating underneath his thick red coat, he could feel it thumping at a pace that couldn't be anywhere close to normal. It was beautiful, quite beautiful, to know that Sherlock's love had that sort of effect on the man he thought could be fazed by nothing. And this of course felt good, it all felt very appropriate given the circumstances. Sherlock enjoyed kissing Victor, and he enjoyed it when Victor kissed him back. However that was not what he was hoping for tonight, that was not what he would be satisfied with. He had told himself that this would be the night that changed his entire life, changed it for good! And a simple recreation of a kiss that had already happened was certainly not going to be the end of it. Yet Sherlock didn't know how to get things started, he didn't know how to further this kiss into something he would prefer. Of course he knew what had to be the basics, that a bed was involved and clothes were not, and so with stumbling steps he led Victor towards his bed. He heard the man chuckle, his humor barely making it past Sherlock's aggressive lips on his own as the two of them sat down rather heavily onto the bed.
"Do you know what you're doing?" Victor clarified with a little bit of a chuckle, sitting up against the headboard while Sherlock sat upon his legs; trying to kiss him all the while he was desperately trying to get his shirt unbuttoned. It was challenging, that was for sure, especially when every so often he would get carried away with the kiss and forget to multitask.
"No, of course not." Sherlock breathed. There was something wildly pleasurable about this, something amazingly guilty in the process of living out what he had imagined all of those nights ago. Yes he was uneducated in the art of love, yet he was getting along as fine as he could manage at the moment. He was savoring the energy in the room, that wild feeling of necessity that came from one less layer of clothing, that feeling of trustworthy revelation when he finally allowed Victor to see him in his most vulnerable state. He couldn't wait to give himself away to this man; he couldn't wait to be at his mercy, and to know for the rest of his life that a part of him would always live in Victor Trevor, so long as Victor Trevor was still alive. How long that would be neither of them could know, yet right now if felt as though it could be an entire lifetime, maybe even more. At the moment Sherlock felt invincible enough to live out a great many lifetimes in his young and beautiful state. While kissing Victor, while unbuttoning his shirt, while feeling loved and appreciated, well he could almost swear the clock of the universe had stopped, and for a moment all that was being done now was just this. Everyone else had stopped and waited, for they knew what a necessary event was happening in the upstairs bedroom of the Holmes manor. Finally Sherlock's last button came loose, and it was Victor who helped him slide out of it. He did it in the most romantic way, for their lips were far apart now. Victor pulled the shirt down off of Sherlock's shoulders, admiring him all the while, until finally it fell from Sherlock's arms and he could go back to kissing just as vigorously as they had been doing before. Yet this time it was different, there was a whole new sensation that Sherlock was vulnerable to now. It was the touch of skin that had never been felt before, Victor's rough yet gentle hands now upon his bare sides, the touch of his warm fingers sending shivers down Sherlock's body, the feeling of his breath upon his exposed skin. It was something he never could have created in his imagination, purely because he had never felt it yet before. It was something he had not anticipated, and frankly it was something he could not handle. Just when Sherlock thought that he know knew the whole of it, Victor's lips began to move. At first Sherlock was worried that he no longer wanted to kiss his lips, at first he was worried that he was grossly untrained in the art of kissing and therefore Victor had grown bored. At first Sherlock panicked. Yet Victor's kisses didn't stop on his cheeks as he had expected, suddenly his lips began to trail, suddenly he was kissing Sherlock's exposed neck, his hands running down the length of Sherlock's torso in appreciation, his very fingers beginning to vibrate with the same feeling of ecstasy that Sherlock had felt the moment their lips had first met. He had never heard of kissing people on the neck, however tonight it felt so appropriate, tonight it felt so wonderful. It was all Sherlock could do but give in; suddenly it was all he could do but lean over onto Victor's shoulder with a gasp and just concentrate on the moment. The feelings that were erupting from every nerve that Victor touched, from his lips to his fingers to his breath, it was just becoming too much. Suddenly Sherlock felt physically weak, so overwhelmed in passion that he could hardly do anything to return it. The love he had for Victor now was beginning to drain him, it was beginning to focus all its power, leaving almost no strength in Sherlock's arms and legs so that he could even keep himself up. All he could think about was Victor, all he could feel was Victor, and all he wanted was Victor. It was time. Sherlock didn't remember the transition; in fact the entire rest of the night was a blur. He only remembered a feeling of rough disappointment, a sort of disconnection that came as he was lying face down onto the blankets that he had made so nicely. Yet suddenly he felt bare, suddenly he felt exposed yet not admired. He felt...used, in a way. He couldn't see Victor and therefore he could only imagine that Victor didn't care to be gentle, that Victor didn't care to be sweet. It wasn't as romantic as Sherlock would have imagined it, nothing near what poets have described in their books. In fact as soon as it began Sherlock wished it would end. He could feel Victor's hands clenching to his sides, and his own fingers were clawing onto the blankets, staring at his desk and only trying to breathe, only trying to enjoy the moment that he had been looking forward to for so long. And yet the act was hallow, the act was nothing like he had envisioned it. It wasn't magical, it was painful, and it felt sort of the opposite of intimate. The cloud that had been covering over them both as they were kissing, the magic of Sherlock's exposed chest and Victor's adventurous lips, it was all gone. Their lips were far apart, and there were nothing glamorous in Sherlock's exposed body now. He felt as though reality had taken imagination's place, it had taken the dream out of it all and reminded Sherlock once more that he was nothing but a child in the end. Inexperienced, much too eager, and most certainly in the wrong. He hated to ever listen to Molly Hooper, yet as soon as it had begun and just as soon as it ended he lay there and couldn't help but think that she was right. He was taking this all too fast, and what he thought was supposed to be pleasure ended up merely being regret. Sherlock only realized that Victor had finished when he noticed out of the corner of his eye that the man was dressing once more, standing by the bedpost and looking quite content in himself. Sherlock felt very out of place, very odd, lying here on the blankets while Victor stood so proudly and so decent.
"You're leaving?" Sherlock clarified nervously, sitting up and rearranging his shirt from where he found it so that he could at least cover up enough to hold a conversation without blushing.
"Yes of course." Victor agreed, standing in front of the mirror for a moment and fixing his hair so that it sat nicely on top of his head once more. All the disruption and tangles from Sherlock's desperate fingers were now swept away, almost as if Victor saw the mess as nothing more than an inconvenience, and something he needed to fix as soon as possible. Sherlock sat very sadly on the bed, watching as Victor, the man who was supposed to be his knight in shining armor, suddenly looked a lot more human. And humans were by nature very disappointing, as this man had turned out to be in the end. What had he missed, how had he forgotten to enjoy it? Was the shock of the moment, the shock of the process, too much for Sherlock to tolerate? Was he just so disgusted that he couldn't stop to appreciate the intimacy of the moment, the very moment that most all people would kill to enjoy? Is this not what everyone did, and claim it to be so desirable? Had something gone wrong, was it Sherlock's fault? Why did he not feel as he expected to, what did he not feel satisfied?
"Aren't you supposed to stay, fall asleep with me in your arms? I thought...well I thought that's what everyone did." Sherlock pointed out quietly.
"But we don't have such a luxury, remember? If the soldiers notice I have gone missing for the night, what's the first thing they might suspect?" Victor pointed out.
"You can tell them we got tired after reading poetry. Either way, what does it matter? I don't care if they know!" Sherlock exclaimed a bit desperately.
"I do." Victor said flatly, rearranging that red jacket on his shoulders to try to make himself look more professional. Sherlock nodded, biting his lower lip in frustration yet understanding now that he had been beaten. Victor cared that the men knew, almost as if he was ashamed to have any sort of romantic contact with Sherlock. As if he was afraid that the men might tease him...as if Sherlock wasn't an admirable enough partner.
"Could I please ask you to stay?" Sherlock pleaded, looking up towards Victor to which the man finally turned to face him. He looked beautiful once more, yet tonight there seemed to be something different in his expression, something Sherlock had not noticed before now. Something that seemed innately cruel. Victor sighed heavily, putting his hands on Sherlock's bare shoulders and caressing them carefully, as he would be expected to.
"I wish I could, Sherlock. I really wish I could." was all he said, and with that he kissed Sherlock's forehead in a final sort of way, getting to his feet and walking to the door. Sherlock knew that he should say some sort of goodbye; he knew that such a farewell would be necessary. Yet for the life of him he couldn't open his mouth, lest a croak and a sob escape instead. For a moment he felt too numb to say anything, and so he let Victor leave. Victor didn't wait for a farewell, he left when he saw it fit, almost as if he couldn't care less of the emotions of the boy he had left behind. 

 This was supposed to be the best night of his life, yet Sherlock couldn't help but feel as if it was the worst. Maybe it was his expectations that had taken the magic out of it; maybe he had hoped for too much and could never be satisfied with anything that reality could produce. Maybe he got too caught up in his imagination, and created something completely impossible. Deep down Sherlock knew it wasn't his fault, yet in all the scenarios of what went wrong, it felt entirely impossible to blame Victor. He felt as if he let the fault lay in Victor's hands, words, and actions that he would end up doubting his incentives and the lifestyle he had chosen. Was he flawed in some way, was this the cursed life he had to lead? To love, and to feel hallow? To get thrown upon a mattress and never get the chance to even return the love to the man who was on top of him? Where was the love in that, where was the intimacy, the feeling? It was a poor excuse for love; it was a poor excuse for most anything. Sherlock felt so...replaceable! He felt as though his being there was irrelevant to the end goal, he felt as though Victor could've been with any man that night and it would have made no difference at all. Sherlock felt almost as if he had just been taken advantage of, the way that Victor was so quick to let him make a fool of himself. With no warning, with no calming words, and with no training wheels. Sherlock was just thrown into the mix of love, an art he himself had attempted to perfect! Only to discover that he was not the artist, but the canvas that such a thing was painted on. He was replaceable with any blank slate, any barren piece of paper that was stupid enough to get itself up on the easel, only to be defaced, to be changed forever, by an artist who hardly cared what mistakes they made! It felt...well it felt horrible. Horrible enough that all Sherlock could do when Victor left was lay back on his bed and let the tears that he had been bottling up just flow freely from his eyes. He hurt, physically and mentally, and he felt so scarred. Almost as if Victor's actions had ruined him, his childhood and his adulthood all at once. He was no longer a boy, he was no longer innocent. Yet he felt like such a transition was inappropriate, it was unwanted! He had waited so long for this moment, only to lie here now that it was over, and wish that it had never happened! Oh the shame, the feeling that he wasn't good enough, or that nobody was good enough for him! What did he expect from a romantic partner, if not that? What had Victor done wrong, what made the real Victor differ from the imaginary Victor that had appeared in Sherlock's mind? Well first of all, the Victor in Sherlock's mind had been just as bare and exposed as Sherlock had been. The real Victor hadn't even shed his jacket, almost as if he knew that tonight's occurrences would be short lived. The imaginary Victor took time to make sure Sherlock was alright, to kiss him and cherish him for quite some time. The real Victor had taken maybe five minutes, God this whole ordeal hadn't taken more than fifteen minutes, start to finish! Was that really what Sherlock was to Victor, a fifteen minute detour from his normal life? It was shameful; it was almost embarrassing to be sitting here now, bare and shivering, still wincing over the pain and still agonizing over the regret. He shouldn't have been so quick to lead Victor up here; he should've taken time to make sure the man properly loved him! Yet this made no difference, of course Victor loved him how...how couldn't he? Love was the name of the game, and you couldn't be playing unless you felt something, could you? Victor had to love Sherlock, why else would he have come here with him, and did that to him? It had to be an act of love, what else could it be? What other emotion would drive a man to do such things? Yes of course, he had to love him. And Sherlock loved Victor right back, because they were a couple now, they were together, proper boyfriends. And some day they could do things that proper boyfriends do, like take walks in the park, get ice cream on the street corner...wake up next to each other. Oh why did Victor have to leave? Sherlock may have forgiven him if he could sleep the night away in those strong arms, he might have been able to see the loving and cherishing side of Victor Trevor if he had been able to snuggle up into his chest and fall asleep. Because that was what love was, that was what Shakespeare said it was! It was intimacy, it was caressing, it was being there. And yet Sherlock felt distant, he felt broken, and he felt alone. And even he, who had no idea what love felt like, knew that it wasn't supposed to feel like this. 

 The only thing that got Sherlock out of bed that morning was the promise of John Watson. He didn't know why that counted as motivation, and frankly he had to admit that it was a rather poor excuse to get moving. Yet Sherlock knew that if he didn't give himself something to get up for, he would never get up at all. He felt terrible, sluggish, and completely humiliated. So humiliated in fact that he didn't think he could even stand to see Victor Trevor this morning. Sherlock knew that it might be childish to play hide and seek this early in the day, however he didn't want to have to look into those eyes. Those eyes that had seen so much, and forgotten to appreciate it. Sherlock still ached, he got up and got dressed and noticed now that there were bruises along his sides, bruises that looked to be from fingers grasping too hard into his skin. Left there by Victor, undoubtedly, that brute. He didn't know why he wanted to see John; he didn't know what that would achieve except more annoyance with the world. Why the only boy Sherlock saw fit to run to was one of the only boys he couldn't stand he didn't know. Why he seemed to want to throw himself at more disappointment, he didn't know. The only thing he knew was that he couldn't stay here, and John Watson was his best excuse to leave. And so he grabbed some money from his dresser drawer and headed out, having groomed himself nicely enough to be seen in public, his clothing hiding his wounds and his smile hiding his pain. Sherlock started down the stairs slowly, just so as to ensure that he would be alone when he finished his descent. He didn't want to have to see Victor, and judging on the way the house was silent, he knew that he wouldn't have to. Sherlock crept into the sitting room and decided to wait, for it wasn't yet six thirty and that was when he expected the milk to be delivered. He sat down in the chairs that the men still had arranged for their poker game, all drawn up close together so that they had equal grabbing lengths to the coffee table in between them, where the money went. Sherlock sank into one of the armchairs; the one most often occupied by Moran, and sat miserably in the silence. He didn't like having to think, he didn't like letting his mind go back to that dreadful, helpless time. He tried to do something else, he tried to watch the seconds hand on the grandfather clock go around and around, he tried to wiggle his toes to the tune of his favorite opera song, he tried to count the number of red things he saw assorted throughout the room. Yet it was all in vain, for as soon as he focused on forgetting, his brain always tried to insist that he remember. His brain tried to remind him, for some reason, of the very things he wanted most to ignore. It didn't take him long, through his investigations of the room, to notice a carton of cigarettes, undoubtedly forgotten by the Captain last night. And along with the carton...a lighter. Oh it was almost as if the universe was setting him up for trouble, yet as soon as Sherlock spotted such things he was quick to grab them. It was in a fit of boredom that he broke the rules once more, grabbing a cigarette from the carton and lighting it with shaking fingers, inhaling the smoke as if expecting it todo anything but make him cough. As if he expected such a drug to take his pain away immediately. It didn't do the trick, for he still felt rotten, but the process of inhaling, exhaling, and twirling the smoldering thing between his fingers was still enough to distract himself up until the knock on the door announced John's presence.