Secretly I Think You Knew

How the Good Die Young

"Well Sherlock, don't just lie around, you have some work you need to do." Mycroft decided, suddenly appearing overtop of Sherlock. Sherlock just shook his head, lying on the floor as John's screams mixed in with the music playing on the record player.
"I can't..." Sherlock muttered.
"You said that last time, you can find that you can do a lot of things you never thought possible." Mycroft insisted, picking up Sherlock easily by the shoulders and dragging him to his feet. Sherlock steadied himself on the table, feeling as if he were going to throw up even though he hadn't eaten anything.
"He doesn't deserve this, he's a good kid, he's...he's my everything." Sherlock whispered.
"You love him." Mycroft muttered, sounding as if he were mocking Sherlock once more.
"I always have and I always will." Sherlock agreed, as if his feelings would make any difference right now.
"You're going to kill him Sherlock. There's nothing you can do about that." Mycroft insisted, walking over to the kitchen drawer and inspecting the knives. Sherlock closed his eyes, trying to block this out, trying not to look at John's place at the table, his jacket on the coat rack, trying not to hear his screams or the sound of Mycroft sharpening a blade.
"You shouldn't have told him to run Sherlock, there will be consequences." Mycroft insisted.
"Is this not...punishment enough?" Sherlock muttered.
"Oh no, this is only psychological pain. You will get some physical as well, I'm sure. I didn't want to have to do that to you, but alas, you disobeyed me." Mycroft sighed.
"You can't just kill him." Sherlock whispered.
"I can do whatever I like." Mycroft assured.
"His friend knows where he went, his family knows where he went, the police will come." Sherlock pointed out.
"The police don't scare me, your wandering heart does. Maybe this will finally send the message, that no matter what you do to hide it from me, I will always find out. Because once again, you are selfish, you are greedy, and the only reason Mr. Watson there is screaming in our freezer, about to get butchered like a pig, is because you couldn't control your heart. You dragged him into this mess and he will not get out of it alive. And it's all your fault." Mycroft pointed out.
"I DON'T WANT HIM TO DIE!" Sherlock screamed, grabbing the end of the table and throwing it with all of his might. Unfortunately all it did was topple over lamely, it didn't crash or break or anything. It was very uneventful but it was enough for Mycroft to actually pay attention to his brother, to take him seriously.
"You knew what would happen, you killed Victor and you knew you would have to do the same to whoever you decided to make your partner." Mycroft snapped.
"He's not my partner!" Sherlock growled, feeling anger pooling in his stomach, feeling rage build up inside him, a feeling that he had never felt so intensely before.
"Has he kissed you?" Mycroft asked calmly.
"No, he hasn't." Sherlock assured, and that was the truth.
"Don't lie to me Sherlock." Mycroft snapped.
"Why would I lie to you?" Sherlock whispered, still feeling tears as they fell down his cheeks.
"To save that boy's life! To try to make things right, when you know they can never be again!" Mycroft yelled.
"I LOVE HIM!" Sherlock screamed, so loudly he was sure John could hear. He hoped John could hear, he hoped that even in his worst moments, that John knew Sherlock's true feelings. That he had to do this, not because he wanted to, but because Mycroft was forcing him to.
"THAT'S PRECISLEY THE PROBLEM!" Mycroft yelled back. "That's why you're going to kill him!"
"I can't kill him!" Sherlock defended.
"Yes, but you will. Now come here." Mycroft insisted. Sherlock looked over at his brother who was holding the same knife from before; he was holding it as if it were a reward, not a weapon. He was holding it as if Sherlock should be happy to kill his love.
"Come here Sherlock." Mycroft said more firmly. Sherlock walked slowly over, his stomach churning, his fists clenched as he walked closer and closer to Mycroft.
"Here you are." Mycroft said, presenting the knife carefully to Sherlock. Sherlock closed his eyes tightly, keeping his hands by his sides.
"I won't do it." Sherlock whispered.
"Yes you will, or you will suffer much worse injuries." Mycroft insisted. Sherlock shook his head firmly, still not looking at anything but darkness.
"I can't kill him." Sherlock repeated. He felt a sharp pain on his chest, a dragging pain, as if Mycroft were dragging the knife over his chest.
"Take the knife brother mine." Mycroft hissed. Sherlock opened his eyes, seeing Mycroft holding the blade above Sherlock's stomach, as if fully prepared to disembowel him. Slowly Sherlock's hand grasped the handle of the knife, Mycroft's hand letting go until finally the knife was in Sherlock's hand. For such a light weapon it carried so much weight, and suddenly Sherlock saw himself killing Victor Trevor, he felt the blade cut through Victor's throat, he saw himself, killing John, with the very same weapon. Sherlock's fingers trembled but he didn't drop it, for some reason he held on, as if his body knew how important it was to keep this knife in his hands. Sherlock took a deep, horrified breath, looking into his brother's cold, dark eyes for a least some reassuring.
"It'll be alright Sherlock, you always have me." Mycroft whispered. Sherlock nodded, squeezing his eyes shut to flush out any tears before turning towards the hallway, not moving, just turning. He still wasn't so sure his legs could get him there in one piece. Sherlock felt Mycroft's hand on his shoulder, staring to steer him towards the basement door, and suddenly Sherlock's legs started to move, as if Mycroft had suddenly taken control through a single touch.
"You know what you have to do, just like that last time." Mycroft whispered. Sherlock's heart was beating so loudly in his chest, he was so scared, his head was spinning, his eyesight blurry, he could hear John screaming against the door, pounding against the metal, screaming for Sherlock to come, for him to rescue him. But as loud as John was being, Sherlock could still hear the small creaking of the wooden basement stairs, he could smell the condensation clinging to the old stone walls, he could see the tiny lightbulb struggling to illuminate the room and he could feel his brother's hand on his shoulder, steering him towards the door as they traveled deeper and deeper under the house.
"Just like we did with Victor." Mycroft whispered. "You know what you have to do." Sherlock's trembling hand grabbed the cold handle of the freezer door, hearing John scurry away as he opened it, his eyes still adjusting to the darkness. He could see the dark shape of John Watson, cowering against the wall, just as Victor had, and he could see the shape of Victor's body, lying just where he had left it the previous night, laying on the ground, frozen solid. There was another shape; Sherlock could see it more clearly because it was wrapped in a white, bloodstained cloth, near the back of the freezer. A body Sherlock hadn't noticed before, presumably the body of his uncle.
"Sherlock...Sherlock please..." John muttered. Sherlock heard the freezer door shut behind him, Mycroft's hand pushing Sherlock forward, closer to John's cowering form, finally letting Sherlock move for himself. But he seemed to be in a sort of trance, his body moved but Mycroft was still steering, even though Sherlock didn't want to get any closer to John, his feet still moved, his legs carried him until he was right next to John, standing so close he could once again smell his cologne.
"I told you before, this would never end well." Sherlock muttered.
"Is this what you did to Victor as well? Mycroft made you kill him?" John hissed, surprisingly calm for someone on death row.
"I have to do this." Sherlock muttered, the only thing he could say.
"You can't kill me Sherlock, you love me." John whispered. "I heard you scream it upstairs."
"I have to kill you." Sherlock repeated.
"No you don't, Sherlock, look at me." John insisted. Sherlock felt a cold hand grab the side of his face, the familiar fingers of John Watson, the touch that Sherlock had learned to appreciate, steering his face in the right direction.
"Tick tock brother dear." Mycroft pointed out, obviously not able to see what was going on in the semidarkness. But Sherlock could see fine, he could see John's eyes, alight with terror, his familiar face, his lips that had been so close once before, this was John Watson, the only John Watson there was in the world, and Sherlock was about to kill him. This was something that Sherlock positively could not do, not again. To deprive himself of this love that was so close, to give away the only thing he had found worth living for, Sherlock couldn't do it. Mycroft's fog was starting to lift; suddenly Sherlock could see the world as it was, not as his brother wanted him to see.
"Sherlock, I love you, and I know that you think you have to kill me but you don't. There's only one thing...one person making you kill me, and that's your sadistic brother. He's made you kill, he's beaten you, put you down, hid you from the world, but not anymore. There is only one person here that is making you kill me. You can either kill to avoid love or kill to ensure it, either way; one person is not making it out of this room alive." John whispered. Sherlock stared at him, raising the knife up to his throat. John let his head fall back, closing his eyes and grabbing Sherlock's hand, as if he wanted to know that the person killing him was also comforting him.
"John, I have to do this." Sherlock whispered again, holding the knife up to John's throat, closing his own eyes again.
"No you don't." John muttered, grasping Sherlock's hand harder. Sherlock blinked for a moment, opening his eyes and seeing John's face in front of him. He was right. Sherlock didn't have to do this at all. John was right, he was always right, one person had to die, and if John died, then Sherlock would be left with nothing. If John died, Sherlock would be left with Mycroft. Sherlock let his hand slip away from John's and the boy looked up, back into Sherlock's eyes with an accomplished smile.
"You know what you have to do." John whispered, stroking the side of Sherlock's face once more in encouragement. The rage boiling in Sherlock's stomach returned and suddenly all he could see was red vengeance, turning around and holding the knife more firmly in his hands. Mycroft stood near the door, looking a bit confused but confident all the same.
"Sherlock, kill him." Mycroft insisted carelessly, as if Sherlock was merely his puppet.
"You kept me locked up here my entire life." Sherlock whispered.
"For good reason, to prevent something like this happening." Mycroft agreed.
"You beat me, tortured me, for loving someone else, for believing that maybe I was able to love another person." Sherlock insisted, walking closer. Mycroft was starting to look apprehensive now, taking a small step towards the door.
"Don't overreact Sherlock, you need to kill John now." Mycroft snapped.
"I don't have to kill John." Sherlock whispered.
"Yes you do, Sherlock I am your brother, the only family you have left, OBEY ME!" Mycroft screamed.
"I DON'T HAVE TO KILL JOHN WATSON!" Sherlock screamed. "NOT IF I KILL YOU!" with that Sherlock dove at his brother, Mycroft barely having time to react as Sherlock threw him against the freezer door, driving the knife hilt deep into Mycroft's stomach. This was the type of death Sherlock enjoyed to see, he had thought watching the light die out of someone's eyes was terrible, was the cruelest punishment anyone could ever endure. But as he watched the light die from those cold, dark eyes, as Mycroft's weak hands slid from Sherlock's shoulders, as the blood gushed from his wounds and the hole in his stomach got bigger and bigger, Sherlock almost felt like laughing. After all of these years under Mycroft's thumb, being forced and beaten and tossed around like a rag doll, finally, this was his time to inflict his own pain. And as Mycroft slid to the ground, as if brother died at his feet, Sherlock felt a sense of accomplishment, standing taller than he ever had felt before, knowing he was the alpha now, the conqueror of the dictator, able to defeat the one person that he had thought had defeated him for all of these years.
"You did it." John whispered from behind him. Sherlock turned, kicking his brother's dead body away and turning towards John, who was just starting to creep out of the corner. "You killed him."
"It would've been you." Sherlock insisted.
"Yes, I know..." John muttered, walking closer slowly, not in fear, but in shock, in amazement. Sherlock watched him approach, not feeling able to take a step himself although he was flowing with power, with authority.
"I killed him." Sherlock muttered. John nodded, walking ever closer and taking one Sherlock's hands, his blood covered, murderous hands, and looking at it in shock. Shivers went down Sherlock's spine at John's touch, as their eyes locked in a mutual understanding.
"I thought you were going to kill me." John whispered. Sherlock stared back at him, stroking his face gently and leaving a smear of Mycroft's blood across his cheek, almost like war paint. It was so fitting that John Watson wear the blood of Mycroft Holmes, the man that had almost denied him his life, almost denied him his love. John needed to bask in the death of Mycroft, he needed to bathe in his blood, he had to fully appreciate that Mycroft was dead at his feet and finally they were free again.
"I would never kill you John, I want to love you." Sherlock whispered.
"You can now Sherlock." John insisted, pulling Sherlock closer and letting both of his blood covered hands wrap around his neck. Sherlock could only breathe deeply, knowing this was the time he had waited so long to witness, his entire life had been leading up to this moment, when Mycroft was dead and Sherlock was free to be with another person, to love another person. So many agonizing years, denying who he was and who he felt, so many years cooped up in his room trying to ease the longing in his heart with pictures and poems and dreams. Not this, this was real.
"And I will." Sherlock whispered, pulling his face closer to John's and kissing him after so many long days, kissing him with the forbidden love, coursing through his veins, through his very soul. John didn't seem to protest at all; in fact John backed Sherlock against the wall, right next to Mycroft's body so that they were slipping in his blood. Sherlock took in everything of John that he could, the touch of his hair, the taste of his lips, the beautiful aroma that came from the small squirt of cologne on his neck, absorbing everything he could of John Watson. For a moment John pulled away, just far enough so that Sherlock's lips could still hover so close.
"We should relocate, we'll freeze in here." John insisted.
"No we won't." Sherlock assured, pulling John's face closer, but John pulled away just as quickly.
"We're covered in blood." John pointed out. Sherlock nodded, smiling slightly, kissing John again and pulling him to the floor, collapsing in the pool of Mycroft's blood and pulling him close, just as close as Victor had in the dream. Except this was real, this wasn't a dream, John was real and finally John could be loved.
"I want Mycroft to see." Sherlock whispered. "I want him to know that everything he had done was for nothing, that no matter how he tried, he could never keep me from loving you. He could never keep us apart, and I want him to watch as I give everything I have, to you." John pulled Sherlock's lip's closer, kissing him once more and nodding in sudden agreement. They lay on the floor, intertwining in their shared love as their souls finally merged, as two hearts became one, splashing through the blood and feeling it soak through their clothes.
"As you wish." John murmured, hovering above Sherlock and kissing him without fear, even though Mycroft was watching everything. Mycroft, slumped against the freezer door, his eyes wide, watching as his brother fused with John Watson, but he couldn't see them. In fact, those cold, black eyes, the one alight with excitement at the promise of death and disaster, they would never see again. And the knife that was the death of Victor Trevor and should've sliced John Watson's throat was lodged deep in his stomach, where it should stay, because Mycroft was in no condition to pull it out.