Let The Shadows Win

The World As A Single Man

John arrived at the prison with a minute to spare, somehow managing such a drive in six minutes less than it should usually take him. Somehow he arrived just in time, pulling his car up with a very good view of the doors that Sherlock was undoubtedly going to walk out of. There were a couple of news crews here, which deterred John from getting out of his car or getting any closer. As much as he would love to hold Sherlock in his arms he knew that such an act would be broadcast through the news cameras, it would be on every TV of everyone who had ever known him. His coworkers, his therapist, his parents...his wife. No he could not go up and hug Sherlock, not now at least. And so John waited, he waiting with such a yearning in the pit of his stomach, nervous as to who or what might come out of those doors. If Sherlock was being released that meant he was deemed as normal, yet what might normality have done to this man? What had thirteen years of confinement done to change him from the boy John had initially fell in love with? He had only known Sherlock when he was crazy, he had never known him as who he was meant to be. What if Sherlock emerged with no romantic interest in him, what if he walked out of those gates with a shaved head and muscles larger than John's head? What if he was ripped, straight, and a complete stranger when compared to the boy John had fallen in love with? Oh it would be a tragedy; it would be complete and utter tragedy. John locked his car doors, for he was not only trying to keep himself inside but Sherlock out. He knew he was far enough away that the man would not notice him, yet just as he had some sort of pulling he knew Sherlock must have the same as well. He would know, wouldn't he? He would sense John's proximity, enough to look about the crowd and distinguish the everyday little car against the very obvious news vans. He would be caught, undoubtedly. Yet there was nothing wrong in that. At least he could say that he tried to stay away. Right as his clock turned to twelve o'clock, the doors to the prison opened. At first John was so worried that he wanted to close his eyes, however as he focused through the darkness he saw a long, lanky figure begin to emerge. And just like that, all of the breath that he had been saving, the breath he had kept in his chest for as long as he knew Sherlock was going to be released, was let out in one big breath of relief. For he recognized the man that emerged. Just as he had always been, no taller, no buffer, and with the same dark mop of beautiful black curls on his head. His skin was just as pale as John remembered it, and his face just as beautiful. From what John could see from here, the man who emerged was still the boy who had disappeared into the walls. A beauty...a masterpiece. Sherlock walked down the stairs with some difficulty, favoring his right leg as he limped down towards the earth. Obviously the wound that had been inflicted upon his leg that fateful day was still bothering him, and never quite healed. Sherlock was dressed as he was in John's dreams, that same button down purple shirt with a tight jacket over top, and black trouser pants that still fit just fine around his ankles, as they always had. These clothes must have been the ones he had been arrested in, or else the prison would not have had them. They were washed of all blood, all of Sherlock and John's blood that had been spilt that night, and hemmed where the blade had impaled into his leg. He looked just as John remembered him, yet now with a bit more of a captivated look to him, an afraid look. He looked older yet no more mature, like a man who was confused as to what he was supposed to do with adulthood. He clambered down the last stair and appeared to stumble, yet when he fell to his knees he looked as if he had meant to be there. He kneeled down in the grass that was growing next to the sidewalk, the disgusting grass that most all pet owners let their dogs do their business in, the grass that most all of the townspeople tried to avoid. Yet Sherlock, having not seen grass for thirteen years, kneeled down in it like it was the most amazing thing he had ever seen or felt. He ran his fingers through it; John could see the paleness of his exposed hands contrasting harshly against the green. All of the cameras were pointed at him now, the convict who had been on all the local news stations, the man who had been the talk of the town since it was discovered what atrocities he had committed. Free at last. John watched in awe as Sherlock still sat there, looking like a child who was just getting its first taste of the real world. He smiled for a moment, recognizing Sherlock just as he had always been, tempted almost to get out of the car and greet him. John knew that he should be afraid, the last time he had seen this man was when he was just seventeen, and Sherlock had been taken out on a stretcher, strapped down and raving mad. Yet John wasn't afraid, even if Sherlock was screaming at no one again John would still approach him, he would still want to embrace him. For it had been so long, so long since he had properly gazed upon the boy he loved! Oh how wonderful it was to see him again! Already John was trying to remember the feel of Sherlock's hair, the touch of his skin, and the taste of his lips. Already he was trying to prepare himself to relive all of those sensations, for Sherlock was free, and he was all John's now. No more walls or cages would separate them, no more people lining up just to tell them no. Sherlock was John's for the taking, and he planned to use that privilege to its fullest extent. Yet now...not now. There were too many camera crews pointed on the man, he knew that it would not be safe. And just as John began to contemplate what he was going to next his opportunity was taken from him, as Sherlock got very shakily to his feet and approached one of the prison cars, undoubtedly to take him to his place of residence until he got back on his feet. The news cameras filmed the car as it began to roll away, however as soon as it vanished they all gave up reporting and began to pack away their cameras and microphones. Just like that, John's love vanished without a trace. Ripped again out of his life, for now at least, until John could finally appear to reclaim him. For now it was a game of chance, two men living in the same town, absentmindedly searching for one another as they went through their daily lives. John would find him; he knew that he would, because he knew it was destiny. He knew that he would run into the love of his life once more, simply because there were forces much bigger than the both of them pushing them together in the end.