Secretly I Think You Knew

The Face on the Milk Carton

Sherlock POV: It was silent for most of the car ride, he leaned towards the window, gazing outside as the town got farther and farther behind, soon it was just a speck in the mirror.
"So, how was your little study date?" Mycroft asked teasingly.
"It was fine." Sherlock sighed.
"I didn't know you were into things like that now, going over to friend's houses, group projects...all very social if you ask me." Mycroft muttered, a tone of disappointment in his voice.
"I told you, I never asked to be paired with someone. He was the only person I knew in the class, I had to go with him." Sherlock snapped.
"Convenient you met when you did then, isn't it?" Mycroft asked.
"You sound disappointed in me." Sherlock decided.
"I'm not disappointed." Mycroft assured.
"Did I do something wrong? You always tell me to put education before everything, what's that tone for?" Sherlock asked with a frown.
"I'm not upset with you Sherlock; you did what you had to do. I assume everything went alright? I know social situations aren't your strong point." Mycroft muttered.
"It was fine; he's a very respectful boy." Sherlock assured.
"I have trouble believing that." Mycroft decided, adjusting the mirror a little bit while keeping one eye on the road.
"Why?" Sherlock wondered. A small smile flicked over Mycroft's face as he continued to drive.
"Because he's a teenaged boy. As a normal boy, they only have one thing on their mind." He pointed out.
"Are you saying I do as well?" Sherlock asked with a doubtful frown.
"You're going through a stage, of course, but you're keeping it under control a lot better than most boys are. However abnormal you are." Mycroft sighed.
"I'm not abnormal, I'm extraordinary." Sherlock insisted.
"There we go, positive attitude, gets you far in life." Mycroft said with a small smile, turning into the driveway and pulling into the garage. Sherlock got out and went into the house, dropping his bag at the foot of the stairs and going to sit in the living room.
"Sherlock don't leave your things strewn around the floor, you look like a slob." Mycroft insisted.
"I'm not a slob; I can leave my backpack on the floor for thirty seconds." Sherlock debated.
"Pick it up Sherlock; don't make me tell you again." Mycroft warned. Sherlock scowled, turning and grabbing his backpack from the floor and running it up to his bedroom. Sometimes his brother can be an absolute hell creature. So he dropped his backpack on the floor of his room and sat down on his bed, pulling his knees to his chest and thinking for a while about the day's events. John, what in the world was that boy doing? Sherlock extends one act of kindness and all of the sudden he has a new shadow, following him around and starting awkward conversations, it was almost unbearable. Then again, something about his stubbornness was kind of touching; no one had ever actually wanted to talk to Sherlock. All of his conversations were with his brother, and even if he had wanted to talk to someone from school, there was no way they would talk back. But of course he was annoying, and pretty stubborn, and lazy, and talkative. Overall he was the very thing Sherlock wanted to avoid the most, an athletic teenaged boy with perfect hair and perfect teeth and naturally tanned skin who loved video games and sports and basketball shorts and flirting with girls. It was disgusting, honestly, and it seemed like Sherlock was the only one who didn't fit that profile. Well, Sherlock and...
"Sherlock, dinner, come down!" Mycroft called. Sherlock groaned, back for not even five minutes and Mycroft already had dinner ready. He got to his feet, pulling his fingers through his hair and walking down the stairs to where his brother was waiting.
"I told you to put your backpack away, you knew dinner was ready, why didn't you come help?" Mycroft asked.
"I didn't know dinner was ready, I thought you had just come from town." Sherlock defended.
"No, I was making dinner, now set the table." Mycroft insisted. Sherlock groaned, grabbing two plates, two forks, and two cups from the cabinets. He set the plates and forks down but set the cups on the counter to fill. Sherlock looked over at his brother, who was now busy draining what looked like boiled potatoes into the sink, such an innocent act, he could probably get away with it... Sherlock opened the fridge quickly and pulled out the milk carton, pouring the two glasses before setting the container down, staring at the Missing picture plastered on the side. It was that familiar beautiful face, staring up at him from his secret notebook as well as the milk carton, a smile chiseled into his kind face, his brown hair molded into a wave in the front. Missing, Victor Trevor.
"Sherlock, what do you think you're doing?" Mycroft snapped, grabbing the milk from the counter and shieling the picture from Sherlock's face.
"Nothing, I was just pouring the milk..." Sherlock insisted, backing away in fear.
"Next time we're drinking almond milk, I've had enough of this. It's been months, they're bond to realize this search is hopeless." Mycroft insisted.
"I wasn't looking at the picture." Sherlock said quickly.
"Don't lie to me Sherlock." Mycroft snapped. "I shall get rid of this problem before it arises again, I don't want any temptations in this household." He insisted. With that he unscrewed the cap and poured the rest of the milk, which was about halfway full, down the sink. He crumbled up the carton with his fist and threw it into the garbage, disposing of Victor's face once and for all. Sherlock tried his best not to look hurt as he took the glasses of milk over to the table.
"I made beef stew." Mycroft said harshly, grabbing a pot and slamming it down on the table.
"That looks good." Sherlock muttered, knowing he had to say something. Mycroft came over with the potatoes as well, putting them down aggressively on a heating pad and sinking into his chair.
"Yes well, I try. As you know." Mycroft snapped, ladling stew into his bowl before passing the spoon over to Sherlock to take his desired portion. He didn't say anything more, but obviously Mycroft was expecting some sort of apology for wandering eyes.
"I'm sorry, Mycroft, alright? Sorry." Sherlock muttered.
"Just because you recognize it's wrong doesn't make it right." Mycroft sighed. There was a sort of awkward silence and Sherlock ate his stew silently, feeling a talk coming on. Mycroft loved to talk, especially when it was about something Sherlock had done wrong, he loved making Sherlock feel small and worthless, just to make himself feel better.
"Sherlock, I regret ever letting you get involved with that Victor boy." Mycroft sighed.
"I wasn't involved with him." Sherlock snapped.
"I should never have let you socialize with him, and the events that followed were my fault. I just feel like I'm stuck in a time loop, I feel that whatever you had with Victor Trevor you are transferring onto John Watson, you are projecting your impossible feelings onto another impossible candidate, and I would hate to see him suffer the same fate." Mycroft insisted.
"I never had any feelings for Victor, and I don't have any for John! I'm a sociopath, you made sure of that, so why don't you just let me make my own choices? What happened to Victor was all your fault, I did nothing wrong, and if you think that you'll get away with something like that again with John, then you're wrong. John means nothing to me Mycroft, while Victor was my friend, John in a fly I'd like to swat. Don't pretend you pity me Mycroft, you brought this all upon me yourself." Sherlock snapped.
"Don't talk to me like that Sherlock, I am the only family you have left!" Mycroft growled.
"Ya, well that's your fault too, isn't it? Or do you expect me to think our uncle just disappeared?" Sherlock snapped.
"To your room!" Mycroft yelled, snatching Sherlock's bowl away from him and splashing it all over the table. Sherlock stayed seated, his stomach still growling. "NOW! Don't ever think you can get away with talking to me like that!" Mycroft yelled, rising to his feet. Sherlock got the message, worried his brother might start throwing things. So he jumped to his feet, running from the dining room in terror, dashing up the stairs and locking his door, in case Mycroft decided he wanted to have the last word. Sherlock sank to the floor next to his bed, grabbing his notebook from under his bed and flipping through it once more. Victor, Victor, Victor, staring up at him from every page. Love, loss, grief, Victor, Victor, Victor. Sherlock sighed, letting his head lean back against the wall as he reconstructed the grainy black and white photo from the side of the milk carton. Victor Trevor, the only boy he had ever loved.