I Know Your Face

You Won't Like Me When I'm Vengeful

It was the weekend, thank god. It was Saturday, and so, being the responsible adult he was, John wasted about half the day as he slept until eleven o'clock. Thankfully he wasn't plagued with those horrible dreams, he saw nothing of Sherlock or Victor in the inner depths of his imagination, in fact he had no dreams for the entire night (and pretty much all of the morning). Thankfully no one came to wake him, not even his mother, who usually capped the morning at ten o'clock, that way John and Harry didn't spend the entirety of their day curled up in their warm blankets. Then again Harry never slept in; she never seemed to be tired enough. She was the good child, the one who went to bed on time and woke up semi sort of early every morning, whether she had anything to do or not. She had always been the favorite, which had never been any fair. Then again, it was always the younger kid that got all the glory. But around eleven o'clock John wasn't woken by his mother, but by the doorbell, ringing shrilly from a speaker in the hallway that made his eyes open in anger. John groaned, rolling over to try to see the clock, rubbing his eyes in annoyance. Unfortunately he couldn't see the clock; he could only see a gigantic mass of brown hair. That stupid wig looked like a dead animal at this time of morning. John heard talking downstairs, and then the padding of feet walking up, as if someone was coming to get him. John groaned, and, as predicted, his door swung open.
"Mom what in the world are you doing? Come on it's like...nine!" John groaned, looking at the window and trying to guess the time of day by the amount of sunlight leaking in through his shades.
"It's eleven o'clock John, get up, get dressed there's, well, someone wants to talk to you." She muttered, looking rather worried and glancing down the stairs. John looked at her curiously, wondering who would bother coming to his house at this time. Maybe Greg, Mary? Then why did his mother look so worried? Certainly it couldn't be Sherlock? John groaned, kicking his blankets off with a newfound motivation and pulling on a sweatshirt and sweatpants, deciding that it was the best solution for getting dressed he had at the moment. John walked down the stairs slowly, his bare feet tingling as they walked across the cold wooden floors. The door was open; his mother was talking to the outline of a man. He didn't look like anyone John had ever met; in fact he was sure just by the silhouette that he had never encountered this man before in his life. Then why did he want to talk to John? Maybe it was a college recruiter, coming to talk to him about scholarships. Ooh, that would be nice, except he had just woken up! What did that say about his performance, his dedication? John licked his hand and tried to pat down his hair with the saliva, but all that did was dry out his tongue and leave a horrible taste in his mouth, not to mention a very unsanitary hand. How did mothers do such a thing on a regular basis? John walked over to the door, next to his mother, and stared at the stranger. He was tall, with a type of thinness to him that suggested some sort of diet, and he had a scowl plastered permanently onto his face. The stranger was younger, mid-twenties probably, dressed in a suit as if he had come on official business, and dispute the sunny weather outside, he was leaning both hands on an umbrella. Rather dramatic for a college recruiter.
"Hello John." the man said with a rather reptilian like look to him. It was as if he were forcing himself to smile, like John's presence didn't naturally bring a smile to his face. Maybe he wasn't a recruiter after all.
"Hi..." John muttered, looking outside the house to see a sleek black car parked up against the curb.
"John my name is Mycroft, Mycroft Holmes." He said with another smile, his eyes sparkling as he saw the realization dawn onto John's face. Holmes...he was Sherlock's brother.
"Holmes um...oh." John muttered. Mycroft's smile widened.
"Do you think we could have a moment Mrs. Watson?" he wondered with a pleasant enough smile, but it wasn't a question, and all three of them knew that. John's stomach twisted nervously, wondering what exactly Sherlock's brother could want with him.
"Yes of course, would you like to come in, would you like me to make a pot of tea?" Mrs. Watson offered, her voice a little bit tense, as if she were very intimidated by this man and his unnecessary umbrella.
"No thank you, we can talk perfectly well out here." he assured, stepping aside on the front porch so that John knew to join him.
"Oh...alright." Mrs. Watson muttered, sounding a bit apprehensive to let her son go outside without her supervision. That also illuminated the factor of eavesdropping, her pastime of choice. John wasn't as worried about what Mycroft might do to him, he was more so afraid of what Mycroft might say. John really hoped that Mycroft didn't know it was him already, he hoped he hadn't seen the letters. So John stepped onto the porch into the sunlight, wincing as his eyes became adjusted to such harsh light after being in darkness for a good twelve hours. Mrs. Watson shut the door and suddenly they were alone, John trying to stifle his yawns as Mycroft leaned very dramatically on his umbrella once more.
"Would you like to sit down? You don't look very alert." Mycroft decided in an all knowing voice.
"Will this take very long?" John wondered. Mycroft's smile faltered and John realized just how rude that must have sounded.
"Not to be rude or anything, general curiosity. You know what, just ignore that." he decided. Mycroft nodded, looking rather amused with John's childishness.
"Ya, I'd love to sit down, thanks." John agreed, seating himself on one of the patio chairs, feeling silly to have accepted a seat in his own house from a total stranger. Then again, Mycroft radiated a sort of power that can't be ignored, and even though they may not know him here, they knew that they ought to obey him. Mycroft helped himself to the other chair, sitting down very daintily, his posture very much resembling Sherlock's. There was an uncomfortable silence for a moment, Mycroft looked at John and John tried to distract himself by trying to even out the cords on his sweatshirt hood, a very terrible attempt at trying to look calm.
"I imagine you know why I'm here?" Mycroft started, looking at John with very cold, black eyes. His eyes made john very uncomfortable, they were nothing like Sherlock's sparkling green ones.
"Something about Sherlock most likely." John guessed.
"Yes, my brother." Mycroft agreed, his sentence ending quicker than John had imagined.
"Am I in trouble?" John wondered nervously. Mycroft just laughed quietly, as if that were an almost amusing question.
"First of all, Sherlock doesn't know I am here, and I intend to keep it that way. Don't breathe a word of my visit to him and I won't need to return." Mycroft decided.
"Why are you here in the first place?" John wondered, done with Mycroft beating around the bush, if he insisted on coming and wasting John's valuable sleep time he better have a good reason. The morning breeze played across Mycroft's face dramatically, swaying the one little twirl of hair in the front as he looked down at his shoes.
"Sherlock is...well, he's going through something. He's been rather reclusive these past couple of days, and I simply can't read his emotions." Mycroft continued.
"That's not my fault; I didn't do anything to him." John defended.
"This morning I noticed that his neck had acquired a bruise around it, when I questioned him he insisted that he must have slept on it wrong. I know differently." Mycroft muttered. John's stomach plummeted, and he knew exactly where Mycroft was going with this, he was accusing John of bullying his brother. Well, as long as he didn't go up into John's room and read the recently written love letter, addressed to Sherlock.
"It's not what you think, honestly, I can explain." John started quickly, but Mycroft silenced him with a mere sweep of his hand. There was another silence, filled with nothing except the pleasant morning chirps of the birds.
"John I'm sure there's an excellent reason for your abuse on my brother, but I'm not exactly in the mood to listen to a teenager's excuses. I have come not to make peace but to give you a warning." Mycroft insisted. John nodded, knowing well enough not to interrupt.
"A warning?" John muttered.
"Yes, John. A warning. I don't mind if you associate yourself with my brother, some time with other people may be good for him. but don't even think about hurting him. I don't care if that's physically, mentally...emotionally. If I notice a change in his behavior, if I notice the slightest mark or bruise on his skin, I will immediately come for you. And I suspect that you wouldn't like when I'm...vengeful." Mycroft decided, picking his words carefully.
"I wouldn't, of course not. I don't hate Sherlock he's just a bit irritating, at all times." John decided. Mycroft sighed but he nodded, as if he knew first hand just how irritating Sherlock could be.
"My brother alienates himself, following in my footsteps I suspect. He's always been in the shadows of his siblings, he's always tried to mirror himself in our image, dispute his own makeup." Mycroft admitted.
"You have another brother?" John wondered. He could hardly imagine two Sherlock's, but three, that was just pushing it.
"Sister, actually." Mycroft admitted. "Eurus."
"Interesting name. For all of you." John decided.
"Yes my parents do love to be dramatic." Mycroft admitted with a sigh, but even as he said it he twirled his umbrella through his very long, elegant fingers. Apparently the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.
"Mycroft don't worry, I have Sherlock's best interests in mind, as do you. I care about him, I suppose. Enough to worry about his wellbeing." John admitted.
"Good. That's good Mr. Watson, because I hate to imagine the consequences that would come from you going on with your childish nonsense. He's fragile John, and leave it to a devilish teenaged boy to shatter him." Mycroft said with a sigh.
"I'm not devilish." John insisted at once.
"Prove it." Mycroft snapped back, his eyes flashing with determination. John sighed, but obviously there was nothing he could do to prove himself now.
"How did you know it was me? It could've been anyone, why would you suspect me?" John wondered.
"We know what happens in Sherlock's life, even if he doesn't want us to." Mycroft said mysteriously.
"The school called you, didn't they? After he caught me cheating?" John wondered. A small smile played across Mycroft's lips, only if for a moment, as if impressed by John's daring.
"Yes, yes they did. And no one would be out for revenge except someone who imagined they had just lost everything." Mycroft said with a sigh.
"I didn't lose everything." John assured.
"He will. He could. So I suggest, Mr. Watson, that you treat my brother with nothing more than respect. For your own good, of course." Mycroft finished, getting to his feet roughly and clicking his umbrella a couple of times to the wooden porch, for good luck or something.
"Of course, yes, I'm sorry for any hard feelings." John muttered, not knowing what else to say. He got to his feet, expecting someone as professional as Mycroft to want a hand shake or some other form of farewell.
"As long as they don't continue I'm willing to overlook them, for now." Mycroft decided. John nodded, still not quite sure how he was expected to respond to that. So he didn't, he stayed silent.
"Well then, goodbye Mr. Watson, thank you for your time." Mycroft muttered, nodding his head in appreciation and starting his way down the side walk.
"Ya, bye." John agreed, not bothering to raise his voice, he assumed that Mycroft had some sort of telepathic powers or something, he probably already knew what John was going to say. So instead John went inside, listening to the engine of that fancy black car sputter to life but not bothering to look out the window to watch him drive away. That entire family was very odd, and Mycroft was example B.
"What did he want?" Mrs. Watson wondered, crouching rather timidly next to the staircase as if Mycroft was going to come inside and interrogate them all. John just shrugged, not really wanting to go over every little aspect of Mycroft's surprise visit.
"He wanted to talk about Sherlock, thinks I've been bullying him." John admitted. Mrs. Watson looked at her son for a moment with a very worried expression on her face.
"And have you been?" she wondered nervously. John sighed heavily, and Mrs. Watson clutched a manicured hand to her mouth in disappointment.
"John, you're not supposed to bully anyone, even if they did ruin your life!" she exclaimed.
"I'm not bullying him mom, but he irritated me, and I sort of...attacked him, not violently, he's alright, but I guess he had a bruise and Mycroft noticed and interrogated me. I swear mom, it's not repetitive I was just mad." John defended, not wanting to listen to his mother's desperate babying.
"John this is serious, you can't be hurting anyone, are you having anger issues, should I get you a therapist?" she wondered worriedly. John groaned, shaking his head.
"Mom, I swear to you, Sherlock is in no danger from me." he insisted. And he wasn't lying really, it was more Mary that boy had to look out for; she was the one behind this evil plan.
"John you're worrying me." Mrs. Watson admitted, shrugging her shoulders in defeat and looking as if she just wanted a hug. But instead John just shook his head, really not in the mood to have a pity party, and ran up the stairs to his room. Thankfully his mother didn't follow him, and he was safe to lock the doors and hide once more under the blankets on his bed. This whole thing was being treated as if John was planning world war three, it was simply unacceptable! Oh, you cheated on one little test? Detention for a week, you're never going to be redeemed and it's going on your permanent record! There's a little red spot on Sherlock's skinny little neck where you elbowed him? I'm going to come threaten you at your house in the middle of the day, seemed appropriate. John groaned, none of this was fair; all of these adults were so overdramatic! Sherlock didn't seem to be having any problems, he didn't seem to mind. Leave it to the people who don't know what's going to on to be the aggressive negotiators, which always seemed to be the parent's role in their child's social life. So he sat up in bed and grabbed the little pile of Victor Trevor from his bedside table, pulling the wig onto his head once more and pushing the glasses up to the brim of his nose. He flipped through the pages of notebook paper until he found a clean page, not quite sure what to write considering his last one hadn't even been delivered. But for some reason it felt right to write to Sherlock, he felt as if it would be what Victor would do if he were having a bad day, to drain his emotions to a boy on the other side of the locker door, someone who may never even know the author.
Sherlock,
I don't really know why I'm writing this letter; you may not even get it, who knows? John paused for a moment, thinking of how he could possibly turn his own problems into similar ones Victor could be having.
My family is worried about me; they think I'm insane, they think I'm different. Maybe it's because they're not used to seeing their son so happy, I don't know. But I've been smiling a lot more...thinking about you. They've caught me on several occasions, and now they think I'm losing it. Or even worse, my mother is convinced I have gotten myself a girlfriend. If only they knew, right? But it's you Sherlock, you're always on my mind, you're always there when I close my eyes, even if you don't even know who I am. I'm too afraid to tell my family the truth, too afraid to tell anyone in fact. I'm scared to be rejected, scared to be mocked and laughed at. Who knows, they might even throw me out into the street? But all of this fear, it's never going to keep me away from you, even if you reject me as well, for being who I am, my heart is being too rebellious. It's making me do ridiculous things, like writing letters to you when it's unlikely we'll ever meet in person. My heart is making me smile at the mere thought of you, in situations where smiles are quite inappropriate. It's beating, it's throbbing, it's aching, my heart longs for you like no other, and I do hope, in time, that your heart can learn to long for me. It's a lot to hope for, I know, but whoever said that I'm not allowed to hope?
With love,
Your hopeful secret admirer. John sighed, capping his pen and looking over what he had written once more. It was good, it was convincing enough. It was so convincing, in fact, that John almost believed it was true. Poor Victor Trevor, suffering with heartache, with the struggles of outing himself to his family. But his troubles seemed to minimal to John, it seemed as though loving someone who didn't love you back was very preferable to having your grade drop and everyone's trust in you diminish. Oh well, at least now John could build his reputation back up, his detentions were over so he could go to soccer practice on time, he could try to ace all of his tests to prove to his teachers that he wasn't just a dumb jock. And as for Sherlock, well, Sherlock was going to learn very quickly who not to mess with, and he was going to learn that tragic lesson in the form of heartbreak. Maybe Victor's problems were a little bit worse than John's, because John was soon overcoming the aftermath, while Victor was still pondering whether or not he was brave enough to stir up the trouble in the first place. Then again, they were the same person, and Victor didn't have a family to out himself to and he most certainly was going to end up with the love of his life, so honestly were his troubles even real?