Secretly I Think You Knew

Pathetic Practices and Drama Queens

           

"I didn't think you were coming." Mike muttered.
"I didn't think so either. Thanks to our mediator, here I am." John muttered.
"I don't want to be involved in this." James insisted.
"Oh wow, so you've finally straightened your priorities." Greg snapped, dropping his backpack rather aggressively on the ground.
"Hello to you to." John snapped back. Greg just glared at him, that sparkle of happiness gone from his eyes.
"You know I always thought nothing would come between us John, friends forever, that's what I thought. Who knew that this Sherlock would get in the way of that?" Greg muttered.
"I never knew you to be such a territorial as**ole." John snapped.
"Language John!" James insisted. John ignored him.
"Where'd you go after you made your dramatic exit? I can take a guess." Greg growled.
"I went to my locker, and I met Sherlock there, and you know what, he told me that he's never killed anyone, so there." John snapped.
"He's a liar, obviously. If he didn't kill Victor himself he had someone else do it for him, John, he's a psychopath, don't go near him." Greg insisted.
"He's not a psychopath; he's been nicer to me than you ever have!" John yelled.
"No he hasn't! You spent this entire week being rejected by him, yelled at by him, ignored, when have I ever done that to you?" Greg yelled.
"You're doing a pretty good job right now. Sherlock's never had a problem with me having other friends." John insisted. Greg opened his mouth but looked around; they were drawing quite a big crowd, some football boys leaning on the lockers to see if any punches were going to be thrown.
"Get dressed John, I'd hate for you to be late for your first practice back." Greg snapped. John just scowled but turned away, quickly changing and getting ready for practice. Greg and Mike left together, but thankfully James waited for John so he didn't like a total loser, walking out to the field himself.
"He's being childish." John snapped.
"Just leave it John; you're both being childish about this whole thing." James decided.
"He's yelling at me for making a new friend, what's wrong with that?" John growled.
"You are being a little bit, well, aggressive. If you both just leave it alone maybe peace will be made." James suggested.
"I don't want to make peace." John groaned. James just sighed, as if he were disappointed about how both of his friends were acting right now.
"You know, you two have been friends before any of us, and I have to admit you're the closest. Don't let a stupid thing like this tear you guys apart." James insisted.
"If he just met Sherlock for himself, he'd have to realize that Sherlock is no killer." John growled.
"Drop it John, just leave it alone." James insisted. John sighed deeply but nodded, walking onto the field and starting to pass a ball with James. Honestly the entire practice was horrible. John had to explain to his very angry coach about why he hadn't been to practice the previous day, Greg and Mike both pretended he didn't exist, and somehow the rumor that he had threatened to quit soccer entirely had flooded around. So now the whole team had a grudge against him. It seemed the only person that wasn't treating him like garbage was James, and that was only because James was a nice person who saw potential in everyone, no matter how wrong (or right) they were. So when practice was over John sped to the locker rooms alone, loading his car up and driving quickly home, as to avoid another fight with Greg. Thankfully tomorrow was Saturday so they didn't have to talk to each other, they didn't have to quarrel and fight. And tomorrow meant Sherlock, and that was enough to make this miserable day worth it. His soft skin, his bruised stomach, his red cheeks, his tear filled, multicolored eyes...John sighed, turning on the radio to distract his mind, which was running off in very weird directions. There was nothing beautiful about Sherlock, I mean, there was, but John couldn't actually appreciate it. They were friends; they couldn't start admiring the other's features, John was as straight as could be there was no way he could be attracted to Sherlock.
"You're home early." Mrs. Watson decided as John walked through the door.
"Ya, I wanted to get home." John shrugged. She was in the kitchen as usual, cooking up what looked like roast beef in the oven. John dropped his bags next to the stairs and went over to get a closer look at what she was making, grabbing a bag of chips before his mother pulled them out of his hand.
"No snacks, I'm making dinner." She insisted.
"I'm hungry." John protested.
"After dinner, if you're still hungry." Mrs. Watson decided, tucking the chips up in a cabinet and going back to stirring some sort of sauce.
"Hey, I'm going out tomorrow, nine thirty." John shrugged.
"Where to?" she asked.
"Library." John sighed.
"Are you meeting Greg there?" she wondered. John sighed, leaning against the counter and debating about how much of the truth his mother should know.
"Nah, Sherlock." He shrugged. "And we're probably going to come back here."
"Sherlock, the boy you brought home from school the other day? I thought we decided we didn't like him?" she pointed out. John sighed, was he really the only one here that thought Sherlock was a good person?
"No, you decided that. I like him, he's pretty cool." John shrugged. Mrs. Watson shrugged doubtfully, checking on the food in the oven.
"Alright then, I guess I can't stop you. You have a project or something to do?" she asked.
"Ya...history." John agreed. That was their cover right, a history project? Honestly he couldn't remember. So John got showered and changed, brushing out his wet hair and making sure he looked appropriate enough to show up to dinner. His mother didn't really have a dress code around the house but she always seemed to be a bit disapproving when John showed up looking like he was ready for bed. Shen he came down stairs Harry was actually out of her room, wearing her pajamas. John had a sneaking suspicion that Harry hadn't changed out of her pajamas for the entire week.
"Hey Harry, good to see you're alive. I think." John said with a small laugh, sitting at his spot and jeering at his miserable looking sister.
"Shut up John." Harry snapped. Mr. Watson made an appearance as well, sitting at his spot at the table and watching excitedly as Mrs. Watson brought over the large roast beef. As hungry as John was he doubted their entire family could ever finish the whole thing, even if they magically cleared the stomachs in the middle of the meal and started all over.
"Looks awesome mom." John decided with a smile.
"Why thank you John." Mrs. Watson said proudly. "I worked on it all day."
"So, I was thinking more about my future and whatnot, as you all said." Harry groaned halfway through the meal. John looked up from his plate expectantly, was she actually going to move away?
"Yes, and what did you decide on?" Mrs. Watson asked hopefully.
"Well, I think I want to go to art school and become a tattoo artist." Harry said with a smile. Mr. Watson's glass smashed to the floor in shock, and John couldn't help but burst out laughing. 
"Harry, honey, that doesn't sound respectful at all. What about a nurse, or...or an author?" Mrs. Watson suggested.
"What's wrong with being a tattoo artist? I looked it up, and the good ones are actually pretty rich." Harry pointed out.
"Harry, you have never taken an art class, you do realize you're going to have to permanently draw something onto someone's skin?" Mr. Watson insisted.
"Ya, that's what art school is for, and I found this one, and it has a whole class for tattoo artists, it looks really awesome." Harry said excitedly.
"How expensive?" Mr. Watson grumbled, trying to collect the shattered pieces of glass on the floor.
"Well, um, I don't know. Somewhere in the twenty thousands for a year, and then we've got all this expensive art supplies and books and after school activities." Harry shrugged.
"No." Mr. Watson decided.
"But dad, I think it would be..." harry started.
"You heard your father, that is preposterous. Maybe if you could try to practice drawing on your own, on notebook paper or something before you waste all our money on an impossible whim." Mrs. Watson suggested.
"John could you go get me a new glass of milk please?" Mr. Watson insisted. John groaned, abandoning his plate and walking over to the kitchen. He grabbed a glass from the cabinet and pulled open the fridge, rustling around through the butter and juice to find the milk carton. He heard Harry and his parents arguing still, and John just smiled to himself. He loved being the good, sensible child. He pulled out the milk and started to pour it into the glass before his eyes noticed something under his fingers...an eye. John put the cap back on and observed the carton, it was a missing sign, those things they put on to make sure everyone is aware of the person that had gotten kidnapped or something. It was Victor Trevor, of course it was. The boy that Greg was convinced Sherlock had killed. John sighed, looking at the boy on the carton, black and white and pixelated yet he still looked somewhat dashing. A large presumably white smile, hair brushed neatly, eyes wide, skin smooth, if Sherlock had somehow killed this boy, John couldn't think of why. James had said they were flirting, that Sherlock had probably liked this Victor Trevor. John couldn't help but feel a pang of jealously, why couldn't he look like this? Was he not good enough for Sherlock's exclusive heart, was this whole sociopath thing a cover up for only falling in love with the male models of the school? John shoved the carton in the fridge a bit more aggressively, but silently he decided that wherever the kid was, he deserved it. Because if Victor still walked the halls of their school, he might just have Sherlock on his arm, and John didn't want that to happen at all.

Sherlock POV:  Dinner that night was abnormally quiet. Usually all the meals at the Holmes house were quiet, simply because the two brothers never had anything to talk about, but today the silence at the table was almost tangible. They didn't talk because there was an elephant in the room, there was the ghost of John Watson hovering over them, and both Mycroft and Sherlock could feel his presence.
"So, I um, I have a history project to do tomorrow, at the library." Sherlock muttered.
"You do?" Mycroft asked. "With who?"
"By myself, I made sure that was an option." Sherlock insisted.
"Good, I don't want another John Watson catastrophe." Mycroft sighed, stirring his chili around in his bowl without eating much. Sherlock couldn't help but clench his fist, but nodded.
"Anyway, could I drive myself to the library at like...nine?" Sherlock suggested.
"Why must you go to the library, what's wrong with here?" Mycroft asked.
"Unless you have books and magazines and articles on World War One, I suggest I just go to the library." Sherlock sighed.
"We could get those books. I don't see why you need to be in a public environment just to do a project." Mycroft insisted. Sherlock sighed; he knew this would be difficult.
"It's not like I'll talk to people or anything. I'll sit in the back corner,where no one can talk to me, and I'll just work. I don't want to talk to anyone and I know they don't want to talk to me. I have a sort of reputation around this town." Sherlock insisted.
"What is that?" Mycroft asked with amusement.
"Everyone thinks I'm...rather odd." Sherlock decided.
"As they think with anyone who doesn't fit their standards. You're not odd Sherlock, you're practical, there's nothing wrong with being abnormal at all as long as you know the normal people are living their lives all wrong. They're missing the simplicity of life, the pureness of living without emotions to weigh them down." Mycroft insisted.
"What's so wrong about living with emotions? Not that I'm tempted, I'm just...wondering." Sherlock said as casually as he could, glancing up to see his brother's glare over the table.
"Sherlock, you know that all emotions are costly. If you live with guilt you live with a weight on your shoulders, if you live with fear you may never feel free again, if you live with love you suddenly turn into a blind idiot, willing to sacrifice everything and anything for someone you might not even feel anything for. It's pathetic and it's worthless, we've gone over this." Mycroftinsisted.
"So you've never been in love?" Sherlock asked.
"No Sherlock, I haven't, like I said, we've gone over this many times." Mycroft insisted.
"Our parents were in love." Sherlock pointed out. Mycroft sighed deeply.
"And look where that got them?" he insisted.
"Their love didn't kill them, their car did." Sherlock pointed out.
"Don't talk about things you don't know." Mycroft snapped. Sherlock looked up in wonder; he thought he knew all about the accident? What hadn't he been told?
"Wait...what don't I know?" Sherlock asked. Mycroft sighed but didn't respond, stirring his chili thoughtfully.
"Mycroft, I have the right to know, they're my parents!" Sherlock insisted.
"I am your parent Sherlock, you don't even remember them!" Mycroft yelled.
"Mycroft you knew them, you grew up with them in a safe, loving household, what makes you think this is better? What makes you think that the abusive ways of our uncle were better suited for this family?" Sherlock snapped.
"I don't abuse you Sherlock." Mycroft growled.
"Oh, you don't, do you? Would you like to see my stomach right now, or is that purely the umbrella's fault?" Sherlock asked.
"That's John Watson's fault! It's Victor Trevor's fault! It's your fault!" Mycroft insisted.
"I'm sorry, how did Victor Trevor do anything about this? Unless his ghost came back in our house and somehow possessed you to beat your younger brother?" Sherlock asked.
"To your room Sherlock!" Mycroft yelled. Sherlock didn't even argue, in fact, he was rather hoping for a chance to get out of there before Mycroft hurled his spoon at his face.