Sherlock POV: A cup of tea was usually enough to steady his worried brain, a cool dark liquid which was used to drown and dissolve almost four whole cubes of sugar in its midst. Sherlock took to sipping it down in long, heavy draughts until he was breathless; nearly draining the cup before he felt that he had been satisfied with one swallow. At this point the tea was so sweet it nearly hurt his lips, though he continued to pour it, continued to stir it, until finally he was faced with an empty pot and a stomachache, his usual method of relaxation having failed completely. His brain was still churning, his subconsciousness still worrying, and there seemed to be no end in sight. What was he supposed to do about John Watson? It was an easy question to ask when he didn't take into consideration his own ideas. As he so often had, it would be only too easy to answer this question from his brother's point of view and settle on such rational to be gospel. Mycroft always had the most logistical mind of the two, he always seemed to answer questions before they were asked and handle situations before they could ever amount to be issues. However, this morning Sherlock began to doubt if Mycroft had any place in this, and furthermore if his opinion would be able to help at all. The love of John Watson may very well be the first issue the brothers had found themselves on opposite sides of, as Mycroft's ice cold heart would discourage any distractions from the work, from the real work, which Sherlock ought to be doing. A whore with a heart was never a good lover at all, and if Sherlock continually saw the same face pasted upon each man who hovered over him, if he continually uttered the same name at all hours of the night, if he kept having such potent dreams... The man sunk his head within his hands, messaging his temples and wondering if John's promises would ever hold. In the event that he did reveal himself, if he stood as the Doll and unlatched his mask, revealing the familiar face behind...well there would be no version in which John accepted it! He would be appalled to realize that his employer had been his lover; he would be disgusted to know that he had been sleeping with the father of his tutored children! It would be a mutiny and a disgrace, undoubtedly bringing the end of their affair and the end of John's position within the Holmes household. The man claimed that he was prepared for anyone to be behind the mask, though Sherlock assumed there was one face that simply would not do. And to put such things in jeopardy, now when his own foolish heart had decide to take the plunge, well he simply could not risk it! He could not let John Watson slip through his fingers, not now when he finally found someone to hold on to! If Sherlock lost John Watson, if he lost the promise of his visits to the club, if he lost his place at the table and his footfalls upon the upstairs carpet...well then Sherlock would have lost everything he had staked his happiness upon. It was dangerous to assign a man each and every part of your heart, especially when there was no guarantee that your relationship could ever hold up within its current state, nor could it ever sustain a shift into the more conventional realms. What was he to do, then, if Sherlock ever wanted to keep John Watson to himself? Well it was an answer that was a long time coming, especially when he put so much effort into blocking out the subconscious suggestions of his brother, those sharp and whiny recommendations acting like the unbearable angel on his shoulder, the voice in the back of his head that he would rather ignore. Yet when Sherlock let his own brain do the talking, especially now that he let it communicate with his heart on an uninterrupted line, he decided the only way forward was to act on both sides of the coin. He was a complex creature, with two sides of himself so perfectly indistinguishable. He had a body and a face, a mask and a name, a sexuality and a reputation. John Watson had fallen in love with his body, rather effortlessly it would seem. Could it be, then, that Sherlock could convince him to fall in love with his face? His alter ego had secured a spot within the tutor's heart, why could the rest of him not follow suit? Perhaps it would be easier to sell himself over to Mr. Watson if, when the mask came off, there was another man he loved waiting behind. It would come as a happy surprise, an unexpected victory, instead of an abrupt disgust. After all it was his whole heart which had been captured, and he could not expect to live the rest of his life hiding behind a mask. If he wanted to have John Watson to himself, if he wanted his most obscure fantasies to develop into a reality, well then Sherlock would have to drum up the courage to present himself as something more than an employer, and something less of a God. Perhaps he would have to be human, just for the time being, in order to display to John Watson that he was a man worthy of love. Sherlock steadied himself within the corner of the library, discarding his tea cup onto its tray and wrapping his knees up against his chest, basking in the sunshine. He was within his favorite window seat; the one he had lined with the most comfortable pillows in the house, making a nest of sorts, a protective corner in which to hide. With a good book it was a spot to disappear, for he was not visible from his family unless they came to look. And even if they did come to search, well there were still thick curtains to draw, ones which would hide him from his children's wandering eyes or his wife's mean spirited glare. For a while Sherlock let his head fall upon the warm wood, his forehead leaning against the window pane and his eyes watching the backyard for any motion. Squirrels came and went, enjoying the spring time and collecting their stored acorns from the ground. Birds chirped and pecked, squealing to attract attention from the opposite gender. It was time for the wilderness to fall in love, time for the eggs to be laid, the litters to be delivered in the confines of a hallowed out tree. Everywhere Sherlock looked he saw a creature of nature hastening to find its appropriate mate, and here he was, without a specified breeding season, with the world at his grasp and his heart on his sleeve, sitting lonely against the window pane and lamenting over a man who was still so close, yet so far. The birds might have laughed at him if they understood, the equivalent to summoning another bird onto the same branch and just sitting there, chirping and fluttering your wings. It was a waste of a good whistle, a waste of a good dance. If birds could so successful summon a mate then the trees would be full to bursting, though if they acted quite as reluctantly as Sherlock there may never be a creature in the clouds again. Sherlock's thought process was interrupted rather abruptly when he heard the faint creaking of the closed library door, an unusual sound to hear without the promised knock. At first Sherlock presumed it was a creak of the house, a shifting of the foundations that would prompt the door to hesitate against its hinges. As Sherlock continued to stare he saw the handle turn, quietly at first, so that the newcomer had a chance to peer around the room for any immediate occupants. Thankfully from his advantage point he was obstructed behind the curtains, and with his knees pulled to his chest he was almost perfectly hidden from the new intruder. It was a welcomed guest, though a quite indistinguishable secrecy. As the door open wider Sherlock could make out the form of John Watson, the squat form of the servant creeping strangely into the room and closing the door with a discreet snap behind him. He looked around once more, missing his employer both times he searched, and deemed the room acceptable to enter deeper into. Sherlock could not imagine why he felt the need to be so sneaky, unless he was hoping to look upon some books that he felt uncomfortable asking to borrow. Perhaps he was researching ways to free whores from their masters, as was his original promise the night previous? Sherlock watched from his confines, keeping his face so hidden that the minute fibers of the curtains were the only things which blocked his complete vision. He found this affair to be quite humorous until he saw John's eyes settle upon the desk in the middle of the library, Sherlock's personal desk, filled with things much more secretive than letters. The man crept forward, trying to keep his footsteps soft against the plush carpets; as if he was afraid any sound might alert one of the Holmes brothers to investigate a possible intrusion. At this point Sherlock dared not breathe, and by the way John's chest seemed to be squeezed it appeared he didn't feel the need to jeopardize his own position with an audible inhale. They both sat, quite breathless, waiting for the next move to be made. Sherlock hesitated, understanding of course that there were some very sensitive documents hidden within that desk, not to mention the pile of bills that had been handed to him by Wilson the night previous, those that had been the exchange for the pleasure of his company. Tied up in a rubber band were piles of cash that John may even recognize to have been his, if he dared look close enough! Sherlock's momentary silence was a risk, though for the moment he was too astounded to call out. He felt the need to know for sure, he wanted to see what John was intending to do in this moment of supposed solitude. The tutor looked quite nervous, by now he was checking the doors every passing moment, almost tripping over the desk chair as he kept his chin perched overtop of his shoulder. Though, when he assumed the coast to be clear, his objective came within reach. He extended a hand to one of the brass knobs, the drawer which held among other things Sherlock's communications with the late Sebastian Moran. It was a drawer too important to allow opened, a drawer too secretive to even give John the benefit of a single look. His hand had been extended, his motives clear. Sherlock had seen all that he needed to see. And yet, for some reason, he felt the need to be secretive in his own ways. He did not want to torment John, though his own trust had been shaken.
"Martha, is that you with the tea?" Sherlock called out, finally pushing aside the curtain and making his presence known. John Watson must have jumped three feet in the air, for it seemed to be the only time that Sherlock had to crane his neck to properly look him in the eyes. The man looked guilty, so pathetically guilty that it was hard to pretend that Sherlock did not notice his proximity to the desk, nor the secretive manner he had arrived in.
"Sherlock! I mean...Mr. Holmes." John corrected, clearing his throat and taking a large step away from the desk. Sherlock smiled, thankful to hear his first name uttered from such appreciated lips.
"Mr. Watson. Can I, or my desk, be of any use to you?" Sherlock wondered, allowing his eyebrows to crease and faking a look of confusion.
"Yes, yes actually. We've run out of paper upstairs, and I figured you might have some stored away in here. I'm sorry; I couldn't find you so I figured I might just..."
"Don't go in my desk without permission, Mr. Watson. I figured this would have been common sense." Sherlock pointed out, swinging his legs onto the floor and getting powerfully to his feet. Thankfully his own ascension to height only made John shrink down even farther, until finally the proper angle of downward gaze was achieved. John looked like a caged animal, cowering and whimpering in the face of its master. But of course this was a sort of submissiveness he had seen before. John didn't know it then, but this was not the first time Sherlock saw the man's knees shake.
"I suppose it should have been. I'm sorry sir, truly sorry." John muttered anxiously, wringing his hands together and stooping into a very uncomfortable bow.
"No need to apologize." Sherlock assured after a moment of tense silence, his words bringing John Watson back to his usual height. For a moment the two gazed at each other, Sherlock trying to force whatever humanity he could into his eyes. This was the first time they had the chance to be alone together after he set his mind on a specific course, in fact it was the first time they had been alone almost since the car incident. A lot had changed since then, with distance being their primary enemy. Sherlock felt as if he had aged many years since that car trip, and John Watson undoubtedly felt the same.
"I can um, well I can go get Martha for your tea." Joh offered at last, turning on his heel before a quick halt from Sherlock brought him back into the present moment, stopping him mid stride as he raced towards the door.
"No, John!" Sherlock insisted. "No, we can skip the tea. I've had two pots already."
"Skip the tea, right." John agreed, nodding yet not turning around.
"Instead I shall treat you to a whiskey. I figure you need it after spending all day with my children." Sherlock chuckled. John turned slowly, looking a bit afraid to accept any such invitation. He stood hesitantly upon the carpet, his large brown eyes following Sherlock as he strode towards the decanter and arranged two glasses upon the drink cart.
"Never too early to get started." Sherlock chuckled, pouring two generous glasses as he heard John's footsteps pace nervously towards one of the arm chairs.
"I'm sorry sir, but this is rather unexpected." John admitted.
"But not unappreciated, I hope?" Sherlock presumed, taking up both glasses and spinning around, faced rather immediately with the slouching figure of his tutor. For a man of such militaristic style he looked quite pathetic, with his shoulders slumped and his head nearly bowed. It was the proximity that startled Sherlock the most, for John was standing nearly four feet away from him, a distance that must have been achieved rather quickly, as if with a set purpose in mind.
"I expected a scolding, not a drink." John admitted.
"I can scold you if you like." Sherlock promised, a sentence he was not all together unfamiliar with speaking. John turned quite red, though instead of responding he merely held out his hands in acceptance, as if assuring Sherlock he'd rather have the drink. Sherlock let the glass slide into the tutor's hand, giving him a small smile as if to encourage him to relax. Instead John seemed to tense more, as if he almost recognized the touch of the fingers which for a single moment collided with his own.
"Thanks." John muttered, finally turning to sit down upon the arm chair. Sherlock didn't sit, though he felt it might have helped John's nerves if he appeared to relax himself as well. However there was something to be said about towering over another, and another full statement to be had about how much better he looked when he was standing as opposed to sitting.
"Have you been adjusting to the city very well? I know this isn't the side of town you're used to." Sherlock asked, trying to drum up a relatively normal conversation between the two of them. He was trying his best to be friendly; though each time he smiled it seemed that John receded even deeper into the couch, like a turtle hiding into his shell.
"Yes, I've grown to like it." John admitted. "Much more to do than where I'm from."
"Indeed. It seems as if you've been out almost every night." Sherlock agreed.
"How would you know, being that you're out every night as well?" John wondered, nearly jumping on the opportunity to question his employer in the midst of his own interrogation. Sherlock merely smiled, taking a sip of his drink before shrugging his shoulders and trying to think of a good excuse.
"I have other servants, who tell me other things." Sherlock assured. "Well it is nothing to be ashamed about, Mr. Watson. Night life is all the fun of the city. If you wanted to go to bed early you ought to camp out in the country, have a farm or something."
"Like your brother?" John suggested.
"Oh he may be a cow, but he's certainly no farmer." Sherlock scoffed. "He lives so far away because he has no interest in other people."
"And because he has secrets to hide." John added quietly. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, finding it strange for John to mention such a topic when he himself was burdened with the same sort of secrets. He had confessed, had he not?
"Secrets that you yourself are quite familiar with. Perhaps I ought to transfer you to the country estate, where there's not a woman in sight." Sherlock suggested with a little chuckle. This was definitely the wrong joke to make, for John's face reddened so deeply that he looked about ready to blend in with the velvet carpet at his feet. John jumped to his feet, perhaps more insulted than startled as the comment began to sink deeper into his brain. The alcohol he had left sloshed upon the brim of the glass, dripping upon his shoes as he held it close yet sloppily to his chest.
"Mr. Holmes, I'm appalled at you." John declared, finally abandoning his glass upon the side table, the whole of his serving save for what he had spilled upon the rug.
"I meant no offense! John, I am merely trying to...well I don't know. Lighten the mood? Make a few jokes?" Sherlock suggested, stammering over his words as his own face drained of all its confidence. With such a shade he began to worry, wondering just how white he was able to go before his skin shone a more familiar color, the one John was most accustomed to seeing upon his face.
"You insult me, truly. You degrade me." John declared.
"It was not my intention." Sherlock breathed at last, clasping his hands tightly together and nearly sending his fingers straight through the glass he held.
"I wish I might be like you, Mr. Holmes. I wish I might have a wife, and a child, and some sort of stability. I wish that I would be normal! But I am nothing of the sort, and will never be! But regardless of my accursed preferences, you have no right to assume I take on partner after partner, especially within your brother's estate." John growled.
"Like me...you wish to be normal, like me?" Sherlock stammered, nearly laughing upon his words as he uttered them. He had never been faced with such irony, and in fact he might've spilled every secret he had just to wipe that degraded look off of John's face. He found it humorous that there would be any envy in the world for a man of his position, regardless of his money, regardless of his status. If any man knew of his true life he would be shunned and scolded, pitied as he was supposed to be! And here John was, making Sherlock out to be the most privileged of the two of them? The room softened in the silence, and Sherlock watched as the anger began to drain from behind John's electrified eyes. They both breathed for a moment, allowing the shared air to sink the other's empathy into their own lungs, finally realizing that quarreling over such topics was entirely childish, if not perfectly pathetic.
"Mr. Holmes...I apologize for my abruptness." John muttered at last, casting his gaze down upon his shoes as he noticed for the first time that his socks were now drenched in alcohol.
"And I apologize for my insolence." Sherlock agreed with a stiff nod, setting his own glass upon the mantle so as to free his hands from any unnecessary burned. "But I do defend my point. If you knew anything about my life, Mr. Watson, anything at all, you would not envy me in the slightest."
"For your sake I hope that is not true." John murmured, taking a deep breath as if he was trying to force himself to remain calm. "I'll um...I'll excuse myself."
"Yes, perhaps you must." Sherlock mumbled, drawing his shoulders higher and tilting his head back to farther expose his chin. "But don't be ashamed of what you've said to me. It is I who should be tailoring my words."
"Thank you, sir." John muttered, giving Sherlock a final nod before he made his way back through the library, casting one last and almost longing look upon the desk as he passed, as if there were still treasures to be had inside. Sherlock made a mental note to deliver some more paper to the upstairs classroom, though for now he was going to be able to bide his time sitting back upon his multiple couches and kicking himself. What a pathetic way to start of a relationship, and an altogether regrettable attempt at any sort of connection! What did he want John Watson to view him as, if not a sarcastic and degrading employer? By making fun of John's only secret he was only demonstrating that he should not be trusted to know more, and just like that every bond he had managed to forge between them might be all together lost by his quick and uncontrollable tongue! No wonder his job in business negotiations was only to sit back and look pretty.