Secretly I Think You Knew

The Lie That is Love

John POV: As John watched Mycroft burning there was almost a sense of power looming around him, a sense of need. Mycroft had pushed Sherlock around for so long, he had forced Sherlock to do things he didn't want to do and he forced him to stay away from anyone who tried to force him to feel any positive emotions. It was sickening, but John felt as if he were Sherlock's savior. As soon as John came into Sherlock's life, the tables turned. As soon as Mycroft tried to do to John as he did to Victor Trevor, he paid the price. John was Sherlock's angel, his protector, and now as he watched his demons go up in flames, John felt as if he were sent from God to just this, to protect Sherlock Holmes and to liberate him from his brother's cruel grasp. 

"Why does Mycroft hate love so much?" John asked, his head leaning against Sherlock's shoulder and his hands holding the ones wrapped around his stomach.
"That is the question, isn't it? What made the Wicked Witch so wicked in the first place? Every villain needs a backstory." Sherlock sighed. John nodded, watching as the flames danced in side of Mycroft's now empty eye sockets.
"Why did he make you kill Victor, why did he want you to kill me?" John asked.
"He said that love was dangerous, and it wasn't really love at all. He said that it was just greed, that people only loved another person for the promise of being loved back. Obviously he's never been properly in love to realize that it's pure and it's beautiful, it's the only feeling on this earth that could ever motivate me to do something this extreme." Sherlock admitted.
"What turned him away from it? A bad break up or something?" John wondered. Sherlock just laughed doubtfully, John could feel him shaking his head.
"No John, Mycroft was never in a relationship. He said that right after I was born...that my father was having an affair." Sherlock muttered. John strained his neck to look up at Sherlock in sorrow, seeing the boy gazing blankly into the flames, as if trying to convince himself it didn't matter much.
"I'm sorry Sherlock." John muttered.
"I found out the night he found out about you. I was cowering in the corner, he was smacking me with his umbrella, he was so angry." Sherlock whispered, his voice quivering.
"And they died in a car crash?" John asked. That was what Sherlock had told him after all, but he felt Sherlock shake his head again.
"No, not a car crash. According to Mycroft, my mother found out. And she caught the two of them and stabbed them, through the hearts. Then she slit her own throat. Mycroft was seven years old, I was just born, he found them upstairs, bloody and dead, that was what started it for him I think. The madness." Sherlock muttered. John was silent for a moment, trying to image Mycroft as a child, finding his parents dead with another strange woman. He suddenly felt a strong sense of pity for the man in the flames, who had paid so dearly just because his family life was so messed up. "And then our uncle came to live with us, to take care of us. He was a drunk; Mycroft would never tell me everything about him, only that he was abusive. I don't think he beat me, since I was so small, but mostly Mycroft, he lived with us for about two years, probably grieving his sister's death, probably subconsciously blaming us for the tragedy. I don't know how a nine year old was able to take down such a horrible old man, but he did it. I never really knew, Mycroft had told me when I was young that our uncle had run away, it wasn't until Victor, until I saw the other body in the freezer, that I got suspicions." Sherlock admitted.
"I hear all of these stories Sherlock, of how your life was such a tragedy, how everyone you've ever known has hurt you, and I just want to fix you. I want to kiss all of your bruises, all of your scars, I want to piece you together, piece by piece, until all of this hate and hurt in your life has been repaid by love." John insisted.
"That would take an awfully long time." Sherlock admitted with a small laugh.
"I have all my life." John assured. "And all of yours."
"I know you won't hurt me John, and I hope that you know I would never hurt you. As long as Mycroft stays dead, there is nothing on this earth that would motivate me to kill you." Sherlock assured.
"And there's no coming back after this." John decided. Sherlock shook his head in agreement, the two of them gazing at the burning flesh in the fire pit.
"Let's sit down, my legs are getting tired." Sherlock decided.
"Are we going to sleep out here?" John wondered.
"It's not terribly cold, but it's up to you." Sherlock shrugged. John sat down, waiting until Sherlock sat next to him before he lay down, pulling Sherlock close so that Sherlock could lay his head on John's chest, like they had done in the freezer, so they could wrap their arms around each other and never let go.
"We could camp out under the stars, by the light of the dying fire." John decided with a small laugh.
"This really is messed up." Sherlock muttered with a laugh.
"It's necessary though." John insisted.
"Yes, maybe." Sherlock agreed with a small sigh, letting John twirl his fingers in his soft curls, pressing his heart against his chest so that he could feel his heartbeat. John just smiled, staring up at the stars, the smoke that was mixing with the night sky, feeling Sherlock's comfortable weight onto of him, holding him as close as he could. He had grown up on tales of true love, and fairytales where the prince and the princess were so in love that they would do anything for each other, and they always had a happy ending. This was John's happy ending, except this time the two princes fell in love. This time they had done everything for each other, and this was true love. John had his own fairytale, and he could only hope that this was the ending. With Sherlock's head on his heart, his arms around his neck, and the world fading away into the night sky.