Hooked (teenlock)

Chapter Eight

John left about an hour later, soon after waking up. My parents asked no questions, despite clearly seeing John as he left my room. They simply smiled and waved, as though they were completely used to having their social freak of a child invite people into his bedroom.

As soon as John departed, I set to work. Over the sixty-or-so minutes that John had spent napping, I had composed a mental list of several possibilities linking the murderer to my dear Watson. After all, he mattered even more to me after muttering those three words, and I felt a great desire to protect him- at all costs. The list was frightening and involved no evidence whatsoever, but a list it was, and therefore, I found use in it.

1. The murderer had some sort of deeply personal relationship with John. They tried to be rid of him in the crash when he was young, and now they had hunted him down to this place, prepared to strike.

2. Someone was stalking my dear blond blogger, and chose to be involved in John's life in poor, mysterious ways.

3. The murderer is cruel (and, admittedly, clever) enough to avoid hurting John physically. Instead, the attacker kills people who mean something to John, permanently damaging him emotionally.

The third theory on the list was the one that terrified me the most. If this was the case, then there was the possibility that I was next on this hit list (if such a thing existed, anyways). John seemed to have grown very fond of me (a mutual feeling), and I wasn't as concerned about my own death as I was about John's state of mind after such an event. The poor man had seen enough dark days for a lifetime, and I would hate to bring him even more.

Lifting myself from my bed, I launched into my favorite phase of the mystery-solving process: the visuals. I printed off every single fact about John, about Molly, about my school and many of my peers. I began to pin things onto my bedroom wall, connecting certain facts with others by using pieces of colored string. By the time I was finished, my wall looked a bit messy, but a few connections had been made: sadly, I found nothing that I didn't already know.

I felt as though I had reached a dead-end, and, feeling the frustration building inside of me, I decided that it was time I took a break. I found Mycroft downstairs in the kitchen, clutching a cup (Ceramic. Made in China. 8 years old.) of tea in one hand and a recent copy of The Sun in the other.

"I can't believe you haven't moved out yet," I grumbled.

"Ooh, dear brother, please, at least act like you're pleased to see me."

"Mycroft, I am many things, but we both know that I'm not an actor."

"Really? You seem dramatic enough already to excel in theatre. Frankly, you should consider picking it up. It's not like you have any other hobbies."

I rolled my eyes and opened the fridge, searching for any remaining leftovers from the previous night's dinner. "Ha-ha."

"Ah, yes. Speaking of laughing matters, how is that pathetic little 'case' you and your boyfriend have decided to waste your time on?"

"John isn't my boyfriend."

Mycroft laughed. "He obviously thinks he is." He began to speak in a high-pitched voice that sounded nothing like John's. "Oh Sherlock, how frightened I am! Oh Sherlock, is this my fault? Oh Sherlock, I love you!"

I shut the fridge quickly, feeling my face heat up. "It isn't polite to eavesdrop."

"Thin walls, little brother. I can't help myself."

I turned around and slammed my hands down on the kitchen island, glaring at Mycroft. "That doesn't make it okay."

Mycroft hardly jumped, but did care to look up from his paper and meet my eye. "That temper, Sherlock. It will be the death of you, really."