John couldn't sleep, and yet he could hear the breathing that assured him that Sherlock was asleep. It was slow, regular breathing; occasionally Sherlock even shifted, moving an arm or a leg, nothing too substantial yet enough to assure John that he was asleep. This was slowly getting to be too much, and yet too much of what John didn't know? Too much temptation? Too much anticipation? Too much desire, too much love, too much lust? John was dreading the rise of the sun, knowing that its arrival announced his failure, this may be the one time he had the chance to be with Sherlock and he knew that the regret that might follow a failure was far better than the regret that would follow stagnation. There was something of a balloon of emotions welling up in his chest, filled with love and with passion, filled with fear and with dread, anger for Victor and care for the soft boy sleeping next to him, nervousness for what he might do and hope for what he might achieve. It was beginning to suffocate him, he could not just sit here, pretending not to notice as Sherlock's arm moved closer to him in his sleepless animation, he couldn't just opt to ignore the presence that was dwindling so accessibly next to him? It was torture in the most horrible of sorts, self-induced torture of all the what ifs that might be, he needed that boy next to him, he needed him for life and for love, and with the slim chance that his kiss might bring about the change Sherlock was so desperately seeking for in his life, well it was worth a shot, was it not? Oh might he muster up the courage to dare something so absurd, something so forbidden? Did John dare to roll over onto his side and gaze upon the white skin that was revealed as Sherlock's neck extended from the collar of his dress shirt? Whatever moonlight was available all seemed to be bouncing off his complexion, only providing proof enough that he was growing more and more beautiful with the changing of the seasons, with the changing of the hours, with the changing of the seconds. John watched as Sherlock slept for a while, knowing that it may be considered stalking but in his case it was pure admiration, it wasn't like Sherlock didn't know he was there. His eyes were closed, his breathing soft, his lips parted, his beautiful lips that drew John to them with calls of desperation... John blinked for a moment, trying to determine if this was a dream or not, and for a moment he was able to convince himself it was. Why else would Sherlock be in his bed at three o'clock in the morning, if not trapped in a world of John's personal hallucinations? And what else did people do in dreams, what else would John do, when seeing Sherlock so accessible? He had dreams like this before and he knew how they were to end, he knew what he was supposed to do. In a dream it took almost no daring to do what you must, and in this paradox of altered reality John was able to tell himself that this all wasn't real. No matter what he felt he wasn't actually planting his hand on the mattress, rising up above the sleeping figure, hovering over the accessible lips. Sherlock slept quietly, unaware that John was now looming over top of him, this was the buzzing feeling, the numbness that followed ever proximity John felt in these dreams, the anticipation, and yet this time Sherlock's eyes didn't look back, they were covered, covered by his white eyelids, unseeing, unknowing. John hovered for a moment longer, just to let himself adjust to this reality, this reality that he was continually telling himself was a dream. It seemed that he only realized it was reality when he pressed his lips to Sherlock's, for his dreams never felt quite so real. No, this was reality, for his brain could never concoct something so perfect. John's kiss was light, it was timid, precautionary. The lips he met were so soft and motionless, so warm and so still. Sherlock woke slowly, his eyes never opening, not yet. He let out a sigh, his lips so close to John's that he could feel the power of his exhaling breath. John leaned in closer again and kissed Sherlock once more, just a little bit more powerful this time, he felt Sherlock's arms come to his; he felt the boy's hands clutch at his shoulders, this was a good sign, this was happening, this was happening! John quickly adjusted himself, pushing himself on top of Sherlock and bringing the boy's head in closer, their lips were locked, Sherlock was kissing back, this was real, this was right. John's hands trailed to Sherlock's neck, he clenched at the shoulder blades that were protruding from below the thin fabric of his dress shirt, he breathed and he exhaled into Sherlock's parted lips, he breathed in the breath of life to the boy that had been dead for so long. He lived, he gave life, he loved, he ached...
"Victor..." Sherlock breathed, his eyes still closed, his head lolling to the side and his hands pulling John's face onto his neck, to which John could only obey. And yet there was something wrong, something that had pulled John out of the moment just for a second, despite his lips pressed against that boy's thin neck, despite the taste of his skin, the very thing John had wanted for so long.
"John." he corrected in a whisper, kissing Sherlock's neck even as he realized that the boy had frozen. His grip on John's neck suddenly slackened, his breath stopped and his eyes flew open, and suddenly with a squeal of horror the poor boy pushed John off of him, flailing for a moment before falling out of the bed with a sickening thud. Reality set in. John sat up on the blankets, his face paled; his lips stinging with the infidelity, his heart racing, wondering what had gone wrong, his brain silenced it. Sherlock lay shuttering against the closet door, his breath coming so quickly he sounded like he was heaving for air, he sounded as though he couldn't breathe. He was rubbing his hands all through his face, over his lips and over his neck, almost as if he was worried that Victor might be able to sense the presence of another boy's lips on him, almost if he could smell it. Even in the darkness John could see the terror setting in, the realization of what had just occurred.
"I'm so sorry, Sherlock I'm sorry, I don't know what came over me I don't..."
"No no, no no just stay back, stay away from me, stay...stay..." Sherlock couldn't speak, he couldn't breathe, John didn't know what to do any yet he felt just as wounded, oh what had he been thinking? How could he even dare? Oh what sort of madness had that boy's beauty inflicted upon him?
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry Sherlock please, that was madness, it was a sickness, no it won't happen again, I promise you I never meant..." John cut himself off, he didn't know why he was apologizing, he didn't know what he could even do at this point to make it up to the boy who wouldn't hear it. You couldn't apologize for something like this; words could not hide away actions, not actions as horrible as these.
"I...I can't be with you I...I can't be here." Sherlock whispered, and yet even as he tried to get to his feet his knees gave out and he stumbled back into the wall with a gasp of defeat. He slid to the carpet once more. John didn't know what to say, he had done his apologizing, it had been ignored, what was he to do, oh there must be something?
"I'll leave, I'll go sleep on the couch downstairs, you don't have to go back to Victor but you don't have to be with me." John decided flatly.
"Victor..." Sherlock winced. "Victor, what is he going to do?"
"He doesn't have to know." John assured in a breath.
"He'll kill me, he'll kill you, we'll die together and yet I don't want to...No I don't want to be near you again." Sherlock breathed. "And to think I could have...I could have ever trusted you..."
"No you can, Sherlock you can, of course you can. I care for you, yes Sherlock, I love you, you can trust me now that I know those feelings aren't returned." John whispered desperately, his words tripping out of his lips as he spoke them in desperation, oh anything that could be done to make up for this, anything that could be said!
"I can't...you won't..." Sherlock was saying, not making any sense, stuttering and stumbling and breathing as if he couldn't breathe at all. John scrambled off of the bed, dragging one of his loose blankets, taking a pillow, holding his hands up cautiously as he crept around where Sherlock's terrified figure still lay.
"I'm going. I'm going." John assured. Sherlock didn't say anything more, and John snuck out of the room into the darkness without hearing his voice again. John didn't go anywhere, he couldn't will his feet to move, he couldn't even think about anything but the dark defeat that was surrounding him like a cloud of despair. He sank to the floor in silent agony, his brain screaming yet his mouth staying silent, he clutched at his pillow for support that would never come, not from anything but the arms of the boy that was repulsed at the sight of him. How could he have ever thought that a missed opportunity was as painful as a rejection? The brilliance of the kiss, the magic of the misunderstanding, and the pain, the defeat of denial. And to think the most magical moment of John's life came together not because of mutual consent, but because of a sleepy misinterpretation? To be second only to Victor Trevor, to be unwanted simply because he was himself, to be pushed away because to be with Sherlock was to be undesired, unwanted? His heart burned so brightly for that boy, if only he could see the flame! If only he could feel the heat, the burning, the pain that it was inflicting upon John's very soul. It didn't understand what had happened, why its spark had gotten snuffed, John's heart was still recovering from the joy it had felt, and it was confused as to why it had suddenly shattered. And so it was true then, John was alone in this world only because Sherlock had Victor. That horrible boy had claimed the one and only precious thing, the most beautiful piece of glass, piece of sculpture...And to think that he hit it, smashed it, broke it only to repair it with nice words? To think that such a boy, that such a masterpiece was to be desecrated with such rough hands? Victor Trevor was in no way worthy of the boy that was shuttering upstairs, and yet neither was John, so it would seem. 

Sherlock POV: Sherlock couldn't stay in that house; he couldn't stay in that bed. He lowered himself onto the blankets and he smelled John, he smelled the lingering scent of the chlorine that still stuck to the boy's skin, he could taste his lips... Sherlock shuttered, his eyes squeezing out the last of the tears that he could manage, he was going to cry himself dry, and yet he refused to show any other emotion than despair. It wasn't so much the kiss, that kiss had been, well it was wonderful, or at least it would have been. John had been his first crush, the boy he fantasized about, the boy who had made him realize who he was, and yet he couldn't appreciate this kiss because of the immorality of it. Sherlock understood that John was drunk, so maybe he wasn't thinking straight, maybe he was just overcome with emotions he couldn't explain, his alcohol induced oasis was just getting a little bit too real, however the two of them were committed to people, people that would most likely not appreciate if they were caught making out in John's bed. Now of course Sherlock didn't know Mary well enough to be certain, however his best would predict her shrieking and yelling, using her acrylic nails to scratch open John's face, and that would be a punishment much preferable to whatever Victor could come up with. And to think that Sherlock was still loyal to him, the very boy he was so afraid of, the very boy he was running from... What was Sherlock to tell Victor to make up for his running? Would John's kiss be distraction enough to forget the incidents of the night previous, if Sherlock told Victor the story to ensure the boy of his loyalty he would most likely be forgiven, it would be proof enough that their love was strong. And yet John, what would happen to John? If Victor didn't forgive the boy for simply driving with Sherlock what would he do for kissing him? Would John be killed for good this time? Not only was he letting Sherlock take refuge at his house but he was trying to kiss him, knowing full well that Sherlock was not his to kiss, not his to touch. As much as John repulsed him now, Sherlock understood that he had to protect John, it wasn't just the neighborly thing to do, it wasn't even the humanly thing to do. It was simply that Sherlock understood what had come over him, he couldn't blame John for falling in love, he couldn't punish him just to save himself. In any other circumstances Sherlock would never breathe a word of this, lest he threaten ruining John's relationships and his reputation, if he did tell Victor it would be purely out of self-interest, it would be cruelty. John didn't deserve such a punishment, he was just doing what any boy did, kiss people he wasn't supposed to. And yet Sherlock had trouble looking back at that kiss with pleasure, yes it had been wonderful, passionate, romantic...and yet it hadn't been consensual. Maybe it was the paranoia that came along with being romantically pursued, but Sherlock's heart beat fearfully at the mere thought of John's coming back into this room. He was stronger than Sherlock, he was rougher, he just like Victor could very easily overpower him and if he decided that he wanted to...what then? It wasn't in John's character to do such a horrible thing, however Sherlock wouldn't have counted on his being gay (bisexual, probably) either, he wouldn't count on his unfaithfulness. John was overcome with unrequited love, and some handle it much differently than others. Should John decide that he wanted Sherlock, well what then? And that was why Sherlock had to leave, he couldn't be here, with John being downstairs, waiting. When Sherlock could finally get himself to his feet he pulled on his shoes and jacket, breathing heavily and leaning heavily against the dark bedroom wall. He was sure that Victor still waited for him in the driveway; Victor wasn't one to back down once he had put his mind to something. He was still there, he was awake, Sherlock knew it was true. And what to tell him? What did he have to say? Would Victor hit him again, hurt him again? Sherlock let his fingers trail gently against the cut across his face, feeling the indentation and the sting of pain, and yet he couldn't see it, not in this darkness. Maybe Victor's anger had subsided, maybe he was asleep, able to sleep it off and return to whatever reality they were forced to live in. Maybe he would see that Sherlock's only option had been to run, he might have been killed if he stayed put. It was necessary, it was absolutely necessary. So Sherlock started for the hallway, opening the door as quietly as he could manage before sneaking into the hallway, moving quietly, his footfalls silent against the hallway carpet, his breath noiseless. The Watson family was all asleep, their doors were closed and not a light shone, however Sherlock's internal knowledge of the house was enough to get him through, he knew from memory where the stairway was, he knew which side to grab for the railing, eight years ago he would have maneuvered this house as if it was his own, and that was a talent he may not have lost. When Sherlock arrived downstairs he knew that John was just a wall away, sleeping on the couch, mostly likely fully conscious, aware that he was not alone. Sherlock almost felt as though he should say something, in fact he almost felt entitled, however he thought better of it, he remembered again the fears he now harbored for the boy, the doubts he had of his self-control. And so Sherlock just went to the front door, pulling it open quietly without a second look back, and spying that ember in the distance, he ran to it. He knew that Victor was waiting for him behind it.
"Victor, Victor I'm so sorry." Sherlock breathed, feeling his feet hit the pavement, seeing the shape of a familiar boy before him. There was a deep breath, and soon the air was clouded with smoke, that familiar scent that made it nearly impossible to breathe. It was a good sign.
"Running from the Watsons now, are we?" Victor guessed in his deep voice, his figure starting to materialize as Sherlock's eyes adjusted better to the darkness, as he started to see with the rays of the moon. Sherlock stumbled before Victor and fell to his knees apologetically, looking up pleadingly, hoping that Victor would be able to see the look of desperation in his eyes.
"I'm so sorry Victor, so sorry. I realized my mistake, I came as fast as I can, please forgive me." Sherlock begged. Victor just hummed, looking at him with something of doubt, looking almost as if he didn't quite believe Sherlock's apology.
"Sorry? For what Sherlock? For leaving me when I needed you most? For running to that boy who would take you from me? For choosing the scum of the earth over your very own boyfriend? A boy who loves you, and who would care for you?" Victor clarified.
"For all of that and more, for doubting you, for fearing you, for thinking that John Watson might provide some security when in fact..." Sherlock just shook his head, stooping lower until he could see the gleam of the minimal moonlight upon the numerous buckles and zippers on Victor's work boots.
"Ah Sherlock, the very words I wanted to hear." Victor muttered, a smile stretching upon his lips as he dropped the cigarette to the pavement, letting it sit there and smolder next to where Sherlock was crouched. He didn't dare speak, for he knew that Victor had the spotlight. Victor, however, simply picked up Sherlock's chin with his calloused fingers, pulling him to his feet, letting Sherlock rise and stumble into his chest, breathing heavily for he didn't know what was to come.
"What did that boy do to you Sherlock?" Victor wondered with a frown, one of his hands brushing against Sherlock's lips, almost as if he could feel the indentation...
"I'm sorry." Sherlock whispered again, shaking his head, unable to confess to what John had done to him, what he had made him do.
"Hm." Victor mumbled, not looking entirely convinced. "Might we go inside then, and I'll let you prove it?" Sherlock didn't say anything in reply, he merely let his head fall against Victor's chest thankfully, working out the last of his tears before he finally let Victor's hand fold into his, and slowly the two of them made their way into the house. The cigarette lay smoldering on the driveway but eventually the flame was snuffed, assuring any onlookers who may be watching that Victor had indeed disappeared, taking the boy he was waiting for along with him.