Secretly I Think You Knew

The Fractured Friend

"So, ready?" John asked. Sherlock took a deep breath, looking more nervous than John had ever seen him, but nodded.
"I suppose even if I wasn't you'd make me come anyway." He guessed.
"Precisely." John laughed. Sherlock groaned, but nodded, following John like a timid dog to the table. John was proud to have him tagging along, but the looks on his friend's faces kind of made him regret this whole decision. No, this was the plan, the real Sherlock.
"I brought a friend along today." John said proudly. Mike's mouth was hanging open, whether in fear or shock, John couldn't tell. Sherlock muttered his hellos, but it was so quiet that even John could hear him.
"Hi Sherlock." James said, always the welcoming gentleman. Sherlock was very pale but he sat down next to John, scooting ever so closer as to not be within two feet of Greg.
"I thought you all should meet him, since we've been getting to be friends." John decided. He rather expected Sherlock to say something witty about not being friends but instead he stayed silent, looking as if he were choking on a golf ball or something.
"Well, we've heard a lot about you." Greg muttered. Sherlock looked very uncomfortable, to the point where John wanted to bring him back over to his table to prevent the poor kid from crying. The three of them were eyeing each other in confusion, Mike looking extremely uncomfortable since he had a proper fear of Sherlock Holmes.
"So, uh, practice today should suck." Greg started, in an attempt to relieve this awkward silence.
"How come?" John asked, trying to act as normal as possible.
"They're making us work on endurance, and you know what that means." Mike muttered.
"Sprints." John groaned. He pretended to be worried about practice but for the moment he was very preoccupied with Sherlock, who was simply staring at his lunch box, not bothering to touch it or pull anything out. In fact he wasn't even looking up; he was simply staring at the table, wringing his hands together as if having a silent panic attack. Wow, he really was camera shy.
"So, uh, Sherlock, how was your day today?" James asked in an attempt to make conversation. John was feeling worse and worse now because Sherlock didn't even seem to have heard him. This was backfiring, big time. He could almost see Greg trying to hold in his laughter.
"Sherlock?" John muttered. Sherlock didn't respond. "Sherlock, are you alright?" John asked, reaching ever so gently over and touching Sherlock's shoulder. Immediately the boy jerked away, jumping backwards over his chair and falling onto the floor. The entire cafeteria got silent, everyone stopping their conversations or their meals to look over at Sherlock sprawled out on the tiles.
"Is everything alright here?" a teacher asked, rushing over to make sure Sherlock hadn't broken a bone or anything. John started to stutter a response but Sherlock just rushed to his feet, dashing out of the cafeteria in shame, leaving his lunch box behind on the table.
"He'll be fine." John muttered. The teacher didn't look convinced, and before John could insist that Sherlock didn't need any special care she started walking swiftly away, in the direction Sherlock had fled.
"Always nice when you bring friends to the table." Greg muttered. John couldn't even say anything, he was just nodding, rather transfixed at the spot where Sherlock had fell, as if he could rewind time and actually do something about it, somehow not letting the boy embarrass himself in front of the entire school.
"Oh my god." John muttered. "This is all my fault."
"You're not the one with the severe social anxiety." Mike muttered.
"Stop making fun of him! He's a good person, he doesn't deserve it." John snapped.
"Sorry mate, we're only trying to lighten the mood." Greg insisted.
"Do you think another person's humiliation is funny? Do you think Sherlock wanted to make everyone laugh when he had a panic attack?" John growled.
"Sorry, sorry, it was nice...meeting him." Greg insisted.
"Oh stop it." John snapped, pushing away his food, suddenly not able to eat anything. He felt horrible, he really couldn't figure out when to stop pushing Sherlock's limits, could he? He just had to be selfish, he didn't think of what Sherlock might feel when he was thrown out of his comfort zone, he didn't consider that Sherlock might not jump right into their conversations and be part of the family. He should've known this would happen, he should've figured that somehow he would mess up this new friendship he was finally starting to form. So when lunch was over, John grabbed Sherlock's lunch box and stuffed it into his locker, knowing there was no way Sherlock would be at his locker or in public and if he was he was most certainly not going to talk with John. No, John would be surprised if that boy ever came within spitting distance again. So John decided that maybe instead of going to practice after school he would just give it to Sherlock after school, drive over to his house, maybe just leave it on the doorstep or give it to Mycroft. He was fine with Sherlock needing space, but he also needed his lunch box. The rest of the day everyone was staring at John, as expecting him to start falling out of his chair as well. A couple of people asked what had happened, or how Sherlock managed to topple over, but no one ever asked if he was alright. They didn't ask if he had broken anything, if he had thrown up or fainted or anything, they wanted to know what had happened that was all. They didn't care about Sherlock's wellbeing, or if he were injured physically or emotionally. It was always drama, who cared about the school freak? It made John sick to the point where he could see Sherlock's views, people were disgusting. When school was finally over John grabbed his things and stuffed them into his backpack, Sherlock's lunch box included, and decided to just leave his soccer bag in the locker room. He didn't want anyone to ask questions and he knew Greg would only torment him more and more, so he just slipped into the crowd, blending in with the common folk on their way home. Thankfully John was mobile, so he just threw his things into his car and drove away, headed straight out of town to where he knew Sherlock lived. This was all his fault, somehow he was going to make it right, but for now he was just doing his civic duty. When the house approached, John was starting to have doubts. Sherlock was surely going to think he was stalking him, right? I mean, John hardly left him alone at school, but now he was making house calls, wasn't that illegal? No, he was being a good person; this had nothing to do with his attempts at friendships or his hopeful reconciliations, he was helping a person in need. So he pulled up the drive way, not seeing any cars but there was always the garage, which was shut tight as usual. John stopped the engine, staring up at the house he once feared (and to be honest, still did a little bit), and got out of the car. Sherlock better appreciate this, but then again he was probably too angry to notice. He probably saw John as nothing more than a bully, purposely humiliating him and trying to make him feel bad about himself. John grabbed the lunch box from the backseat, hearing a container bounce around inside, and walked up to the front door. It still hadn't been cleaned and there was a thick layer of grime on the windows, but nevertheless John knocked on the old wood, twirling the lunch box nervously in his hands. Mycroft was sure to open the door, but would he already know what had happened or might he be oblivious? And when he did find out would he be angry? John didn't know much about Sherlock's older brother, but he knew enough to know that he didn't want that man on his bad side. After what felt like ages John could finally make out a humanoid shape coming from behind the door, approaching quickly. John sighed with relief, at least someone was home. The door opened but they didn't show their face, and John felt extremely uncomfortable.
"John?" Sherlock's voice muttered from behind the door. John let out a sigh of relief at the boy say his name; at least he wasn't completely hated.
"Sherlock, thank god, I didn't know what to do..." John sighed.
"You shouldn't be here." Sherlock muttered, cutting John off.
"Why not?" John asked. Sherlock paused for a second and John saw through the glass his silhouetted figure look desperately around, as if looking for someone.
"My brother went out for groceries, he should be back very soon, you need to leave." Sherlock insisted.
"I brought you your lunch box; I thought you might need it." John pointed out.
"My...oh, thank you." Sherlock muttered. The door opened wider but John still couldn't see his face, a single pale hand reaching out for the box.
"Sherlock, could we talk?" John muttered, handing him his lunch box but feeling like there was a lot more things they could be doing right now.
"There's nothing to talk about, you really should leave." Sherlock muttered.
"Just, come out on the porch, I want to see your face." John insisted. There was silence and for a small second John thought that maybe Sherlock was just going to slam the door in his face. But, thankfully, it opened wider and he could finally see Sherlock's face, half concealed in shadow. He was as pale as usual but there was something different, his eyes were red, his face tear streaked, he had been crying.
"Sherlock..."John muttered, taking a step closer only to have Sherlock take a step back.
"Don't come near me John." he insisted. John looked around the porch to see an old swing suspended over the porch. This looked like a good talking spot.
"Can we sit over there?" he suggested, wanting to get Sherlock into the light.
"I don't think that swing has been used in thirty years, it'll surely break." He insisted. John went over cautiously, pressing down on the swing but not hearing any cracks or anything.
"I think it'll be alright." He decided. Sherlock closed the door, walking out onto the porch and squinting in the harsh sunlight. John hopped onto the swing, hearing the chains strain with the new weight, but other than that it seemed to be alright.
"Look, what happened today at lunch, I'm really sorry about that, I didn't know something like that would happen." John insisted.
"I know, it wasn't your fault, it's just...I'm not very good with new people, I tend to panic a little bit." Sherlock admitted, rubbing his arms unconsciously and not looking John in the eyes. He was just so...precious, it made John want to cry.
"I didn't know that Sherlock, honestly, you should've told me..." John started.
"You think I didn't want to tell you?" Sherlock snapped. "I've learned not to bother arguing with you John, you're unstoppable, you think that you alone can change me, make up for the years, for everything that's happened. You have no idea John, and a little lunch date with your friends isn't going to change anything."
"Sherlock, I'm sorry." John insisted, feeling like that was all he was capable of saying.
"I know you are, and that's what hurts me the most." Sherlock muttered. John could only try to scoot closer, the swing rocking back and forth slightly with his shift in weight.
"I don't want to hurt you, that's never been my intention." John insisted.
"I know, but I know that no matter what you do, however convinced you are that I'll magically turn into someone like you, I'm only going to let you down John, and I don't want to see the look on your face when that happens." Sherlock insisted. He was still staring at the ground, as if he wasn't sure he could say all of this facing John, facing his audience.
"There's nothing wrong with you Sherlock, there never has been." John assured.
"Then why do I feel so different, so wrong? I feel alienated from you, from the rest of the world, Mycroft had his way with me a while ago, he made sure he fixed whatever might've been broken, but I think he just broke me even more." Sherlock admitted. John got to his feet, the swing bumping slightly against his knees, but he didn't know what to do. Sherlock was looking close to tears, in fact if John could just see his face he was sure the poor boy was already crying. There was nothing John could do to comfort him, the first thing to do with a person in need is to hug them, hold them, make them feel loved and accepted but he knew that was never going to happen, it would only make matters worse.
"Sherlock you're not broken." John insisted.
"I am John, please, please don't break me anymore. Please John," he looked up, his beautiful eyes locking desperately, "Fix me." John took another step forward, nodding, not knowing what else to do.
"Of course I will." He agreed. Sherlock stared at him once more, and for a moment, if he really looked, John could almost see the fracture marks around his face, around his personality, around his mental state, he was fragmented and shattered, and at the moment John was the only one that could do anything about it. But before he could do anything, before he could reach out and touch Sherlock's hand, feel his skin for the first time, the crunching of gravel announced Mycroft's arrival, the black car rolling up the drive way and stopping abruptly. Sherlock's face changed immediately, from sadness to panic, and quickly pushed John off of the porch.
"Run John, get out of here!" he yelled. John stumbled off of the stairs, having been caught off guard, and tumbled into the grass for the second time. His head smashed against a rock hidden in the weeds, groaning and pulling his head up slightly to see Mycroft running onto the porch, grabbing Sherlock by what seemed to be his neck and dragging the boy inside. John could hear his cries, his screams coming from inside the house, but everything was cut off when the door shut. John wanted to help, he really did, but at the moment he was worried Mycroft would grab a shot gun and reemerge from the house, so John scrambled to his feet, still disoriented and dazed, stumbling to his car and falling into the driver's seat. He desperately shifted into reverse, driving out of the driveway and speeding down the road, even if he couldn't see the lines very clearly.