Secretly I Think You Knew

Dangerous Dining

    "Hello John." he said, his voice friendly enough but his expression poisonous, as if he were eyeing up John and wondering how much he would scream while locked in the freezer.
"Hello Mycroft. It's been a while." John muttered, his voice suddenly a lot firmer.
"It has, but it seems just yesterday you came knocking on my door. So much can happen in a mere month or two." Mycroft sighed.
"Yes, I suppose it can." John agreed. Sherlock was standing by the entry way, watching the two make small talk, obviously both of them not liking it one bit. Sherlock knew John had a deep seated hate for Mycroft, after finding out what he did to Sherlock when he was disobedient, and obviously Mycroft hated John enough to invite him over for murder. Both of them seemed to be eyeing each other with cold eyes, as if daring the other to make a move.
"Sherlock why don't you get John a drink or something, nonalcoholic, of course, I don't want the police knocking down my door." Mycroft said with a laugh, the same horrible joke he had made with Victor. Of course, it wasn't a joke at all, he didn't want the police to come and find the bodies in the freezer.
"Oh, alright, John, would you like anything? We have...water...and milk. Maybe some orange juice." Sherlock muttered. Mycroft wasn't really one for soda; he said it kills brain cells even though he treats himself to a glass of alcohol at least every night.
"I'm fine for now, thank you." John assured.
"Well, I'll go check on the dinner, you two sit tight." Mycroft decided, getting up from his chair and walking into the kitchen. Of course he was eavesdropping while cooking, he wanted to know every word exchanged between Sherlock and John, to see if the two were possibly hiding something from him.
"You can sit down if you'd like." Sherlock muttered.
"You seem nervous, are you alright?" John asked. Sherlock nodded furiously, looking over to the kitchen where he saw Mycroft pause in front of the stove, obviously listening very contently.
"I'm fine, of course. What is to be nervous about?" Sherlock asked. John looked over to the kitchen, where Mycroft was putting some green beans in a pot, and dropped his voice.
"Did he catch you?" John whispered. Sherlock nodded, sitting down quickly on the couch and forcing a smile on his face.
"We're glad to have you here." Sherlock muttered. John looked very confused, obviously he could tell Sherlock's smile was fake, but there was nothing Sherlock could do to make it genuine. There was nothing to smile about, no reason to, and if John suddenly got apprehensive and decided to leave, that was all the better. But no, John sat on the couch next to Sherlock, looking around the house curiously.
"Well I'm glad to be here, Mycroft's letter said that this was sort of a get to know you dinner, so that we can kind of, you know, not hate each other." John shrugged.
"Yes, he told me. I'm sure he thinks tonight will solve a lot of our problems." Sherlock agreed. He hoped that maybe John would get these ridiculous hints and leave, obviously John could see that something was wrong here? Obviously he could see how terrified Sherlock was, hidden behind his not very convincing fake smile.
"Ya well; Greg didn't want me to come." John laughed.
"Why wouldn't he want you to come?" Sherlock asked, suddenly worried that Greg knew a bit more than he should. Wasn't his whole fight with John over Sherlock? Was he somehow convinced Sherlock was a murderer, and wanted to keep John out of harm's way?
"I don't know, just Greg being Greg I suppose. We made up though, he apologized for being such a jerk and we're back to being friends." John shrugged.
"That's good, that's always good. Friends are good." Sherlock decided.
"Are you alright?" John asked, reaching out and ever so gently touching Sherlock's hand. Immediately Sherlock jerked his hand away, nodding his head aggressively to the kitchen where Mycroft was checking the pork roast in the oven, the same meal he had made for Victor.
"I'm fine, of course, just hungry." Sherlock said. John nodded, looking over to the kitchen and watching as Mycroft cooked.
"Ya, alright, just checking." He agreed. Sherlock's fists were clenched on the couch, he was watching John as much as he could, to make sure that if things went south he would always remember John, the carefree John, not one that was screaming for his life. Unfortunately all Sherlock could remember of Victor was the screaming, he remembered memories of before the dinner, but every time Victor's face seemed to be contorted in an expression of terror. An awkward silence was starting to fill the room, Sherlock pretended to listen to the music although he had a very strong urge to cover his ears, he could still hear this music playing as he walked down the basement stairs, the knife clenched tightly in his fist. He searched desperately for something to talk about but he couldn't think of anything that Mycroft would approve of.
"So, how was soccer practice?" Sherlock asked. Stupid, that was a stupid question. Sherlock was actually sure he heard Mycroft laugh from the kitchen, as if laughing at how stupid his younger brother was, how hopeless he was, wasting the last precious moments of John's life with pointless small talk.
"Practice, it was good ya, good drills. We're getting ready for the championships; I hope you're still coming to that?" John asked.
"Well, um, ya, I guess so. I'd have to ask Mycroft." Sherlock muttered.
"I've never seen you at any of the games actually; I doubt it's really your thing." John pointed out.
"Yes well, I'm not very, sporty." Sherlock muttered. John just laughed, shrugging in agreement.
"I'm not very studious, so I guess we balance each other out." John decided. Sherlock managed a small smile, looking at John and having the strong urge to just kiss him now. Mycroft was going to kill him anyway, he had nothing to lose. But of course, Sherlock couldn't actually do that, he couldn't be that selfish, to lead John on, to make him think that they could be together when all they were going to be was dead and grieving.
"Balance is good." Sherlock muttered. John sighed, leaning back on the couch and looking around at some of the old family pictures on the walls.
"Is this your family?" he asked.
"What, oh, yes, extended family, but yes." Sherlock agreed, looking at some of the black and white pictures on the walls. John got up and examined one of them with a smile.
"I could be wrong, but I'm guessing this is Mycroft." He decided, pointing at a little boy in one of the photos.
"Yes, that's him." Sherlock agreed, getting to his feet and joining John at the photograph, the only color picture in the room. "And that little baby, that's me."
"Aw, look at you, you were so cute. What happened?" John asked with a laugh. Sherlock just sighed.
"Life happened I suppose." He agreed. "Those are my parents, this was taken shortly before the...the car crash." Sherlock muttered. His father was probably having the affair as this photo was being taken. To John it looked like a family portrait, but no, this was actually the picture of a crumbling relationship and two children who didn't know what was coming. This was a picture of a tragedy waiting to happen.
"You look a bit like your mother." John decided. Sherlock just laughed, a real laugh actually, he hadn't been expecting John to say something like that.
"Oh, well, thank you I guess." Sherlock muttered.
"No, don't get me wrong, she's beautiful, just, you kind of have her face shape, her eyes." John decided.
"I never really noticed that." Sherlock admitted. "No one ever told me that."
"Well, you're beautiful as well." John assured in no more than a whisper, in case Mycroft heard. Sherlock blushed a little bit, walking back over to the couch so that he didn't have to respond. John Watson thought he was beautiful, that was a self confidence booster.
"Dinner's almost ready if you two are." Mycroft called. Sherlock nodded and John just shrugged, the two of them making their way to the kitchen. Mycroft watched them approach, his eyes dead yet determined, a maniacal smile on his face that only Sherlock could pick up on.
"I hope you're hungry, I've made quite a bit." Mycroft decided.
"Don't worry, I'm always hungry." John assured with a laugh.
"Good, that's good." Mycroft agreed, pulling the pork out of the oven and sticking a thermometer in it.
"Do you do all the cooking around here?" John asked as he sat down.
"Yes I do, I'm sorry to say Sherlock doesn't really have a knack for cooking." Mycroft sighed. "One of the many responsibilities I've taken on when our parents passed away."
"Well I'm sure you're an excellent cook." John decided, obviously not knowing what else to say. Mycroft's politeness was making Sherlock sick, he came across as warm, polite even, making jokes and pretending that everything was normal, that all of their dinner guests made it out of the house alive. Sherlock sat next to John at the other place setting, the head of the table was obviously reserved for Mycroft, and he dare not sit in his seat. And besides, Sherlock didn't want Mycroft to be sitting next to John during dinner, so close that he could cut his throat with the steak knife from where he sat. There were already some homemade biscuits on the table with some butter, but neither of them ate one, thinking they should wait for Mycroft as he put the finishing touches on the beans, pork, and some mashed potatoes.
"Here we are." Mycroft said with a proud smile, setting the pork roast in the middle of the table along with the rest of the meal.
"Looks wonderful, thank you." John said with a smile. Mycroft smiled, catching Sherlock's eye, his black eyes gleaming with anticipation. Sherlock looked down at his plate in disgust, feeling the strong urge to throw up. His stomach was churning, he was sure he could never handle a bite of food without it making a reappearance, he knew what came next, he knew that after desert ended, John's life might end as well. Sherlock saw that the cutlery drawer was still open, obviously that could be viewed as an honest mistake, but Mycroft wasn't that careless, he knew that Sherlock could see it, which must be why he set the table facing the counter. He knew that Sherlock could see all of the knives, lined in perfect little rows, one of them still having small specks of blood, Victor's blood, soon to be joined with John's...Sherlock felt his forehead start to become hot and suddenly the room was spinning, he looked over at John, who was serving himself potatoes as Mycroft was slicing the pork roast, Sherlock felt as if he were going to faint, the smile on John's face, the smile that would soon fade, turn to a grimace of pain, soon bubble over with blood, spitting it out as his sliced neck started to bleed him out, struggling to breathe as his life faded...
"Excuse me, I need to...excuse me." Sherlock muttered, getting up so quickly from the table that he banged his knees off of it, making all of the platters shake.
"Careful Sherlock." Mycroft muttered, but his words sounded far away, like something in a dream. Sherlock ran to the bathroom in a sort of panic, locking the door and collapsing against the wall, breathing heavily. There was no way he could do this, there was no possible way. Sherlock could never kill John, the boy didn't deserve it, he could never kill him. But what could he do, what other options did Sherlock have? Mycroft wouldn't let John just walk free, and Sherlock couldn't let John collapse on the freezer floor, he couldn't let him die. So what could he do, what were his options? Sherlock shuttered, letting his head thump against the wall and his legs wobble, realizing that he had no options. He told himself that John was going to walk away from this, but he had no idea how that was even possible. If John's life was in Sherlock's hands, he was in a lot more trouble than he realized.
"Sorry about that." Sherlock muttered, coming back into the dining room with an apologetic smile.
"No problem." John assured, handing Sherlock the bowl of potatoes. Sherlock took them with thanks, but he knew he couldn't eat anything, he knew that he simply couldn't handle it. Nevertheless he took small portions of everything, busying himself trying to butter a biscuit so it looked like he intended to eat. Mycroft, of course, was looking perfectly well. He was eating and chatting with John, talking about school and sports and life in general, he seemed to have no problem welcoming John into his home. Sherlock wondered, he truly wondered, if Mycroft had always been this way, always this cruel and emotionless. He simply couldn't picture a younger Mycroft with a big heart, being loved by a family, being amused by small things, playing with puzzles and toy trains and action figures with a smile on his face. Sherlock had always seen the cold, emotionless, cruel Mycroft, who had seen his parents dead, who had killed his uncle before he reached age ten, who had done all he could to protect his family and to protect himself. But somewhere along those lines he had lost his sanity, his compassion, his warmth. Somewhere along the lines that little boy had grown up to be the monster that was sitting at the head of the table, offering John more biscuits.
"Are you not hungry? The pork is delicious." John asked, seeing that Sherlock hadn't taken a bite yet.
"Oh, not really." Sherlock lied, forcing a shrug and mixing around his mashed potatoes with his fork.
"Sometimes Sherlock just gets like this, he doesn't eat for days, it's actually quite concerning." Mycroft admitted. John nodded, obviously not understanding but making a small, oh.
"Don't go telling him everything about me." Sherlock muttered.
"Don't worry Sherlock; I'm not sure even I know everything about you." Mycroft assured. His words sent shivers down Sherlock's spine, but he just forced a smile and continued to poke around his plate. When all but Sherlock's plate was cleared, Mycroft got up to wash the dishes, and Sherlock couldn't feel his legs at all. He was practically shaking in his chair as Mycroft washed the dishes, he was so nervous, he knew that John's life was coming down to the last hour, he didn't know what else he could possibly do, Mycroft would take him to the basement any minute now.
"Sherlock are you feeling alright?" John asked as Mycroft squirted some soap onto the sponge. Sherlock's face contorted into fear, into sadness, his eyes starting to tear up as he looked desperately into John's eyes. There was nothing else he could do, there was no alternative.
"John, run." Sherlock hissed desperately. John looked rather confused, and Sherlock could only pray that Mycroft hadn't heard.
"What?" John muttered. Sherlock got to his feet, grabbing John by the neck of his shirt and pulling him out of his chair, pushing him towards the door. This idiot, why was he still standing there, didn't he understand he was about to die?
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING, RUN, JOHN RUN!" Sherlock screamed, tears streaming down his face as he saw John's confusion turn to fear. The boy turned to run out of the kitchen but suddenly Mycroft appeared behind him, grabbing John around the neck and trapping him in his grasp.
"Don't leave now John, you'll miss desert." He said with a smile, his eyes alight with madness. Sherlock collapsed onto the table, his legs finally giving out, sliding onto the floor and taking deep, desperate breaths. He couldn't see the two of them but he could hear screaming, John's screaming, he could hear John thrashing and fighting, trying desperately to get out of Mycroft's grip, but Sherlock knew there was no use. He knew first hand that once Mycroft caught someone, there was no getting out. Victor learned that the hard way as well. Sherlock felt his tears start to fall, his life felt like it was fading, he felt like he was losing all control, John, he had failed, he was going to have to kill John, the boy he loved, the boy who loved him as well, he couldn't stop it. He could still hear screaming but now it was muffled, obviously Mycroft had managed to get him in the freezer, to lock him in there.