The Forth Wall

Brothers and Bothers

"How's your head?" John asked at last, finding it within himself to at least acknowledge his enemy before he took another swing. He let his gaze fine Mike's, whose eyes were narrowed miserably.
"Throbbing." He said honestly. "It's a wonder I'm not lying unconscious as well."
"Ya well, I went easy on you." John sighed. Mike shuffled in his chair, this time to make sure he could get a better look at his friend. John felt his gaze almost intensely, like a heat lamp that had been pressed against the side of his face. He pretended not to notice, but it was as if Mike was starting to look at his friend in a completely different light.
"Why'd you attack me, John? It's not like you to come to that freak's aid, especially not with fists flying." Mike wondered, his tone sounding as if he was conducting his own investigation even before the official one had begun. John sighed, trying to keep his cheeks from flushing.
"I don't know, really." John muttered, the most convincing lie he figured he could tell considering the circumstances. It wasn't like he was in a position to tell the truth, nor could he figure any better alternative than just playing dumb. "Football instincts, I guess."
"You can't fool me, John. I know your true intentions." Mike insisted, giving John a slight kick so as to prompt him into spilling his true mind. John gave a nervous little chuckle, surely wishing that Mike had no idea what he was talking about.
"And what are those, then?" John presumed, looking over and feeling his cheeks growing hotter by the moment. Had he truly revealed himself today, accidentally exposing his heart and its intentions to his friends?
"You wanted to make peace with those little lesbians." Mike insisted. "You were all diplomatic, right up until the point that you weren't."
"Well of course I want to make peace with them. I'm tired of this little rivalry, especially considering the only thing they've ever done to us was exist!" John insisted.
"Not true! They complain a lot." Mike pointed out in defense.
"Ya, mostly about us!" John agreed.
"And about funding!" Mike added quickly. "They're always whining about funding for the arts and things like that. Acting like it's our fault that we're the priority."
"It's no secret that we get like, ninety nine percent of the budget." John agreed a bit quietly, as if he didn't intend for Mike to hear his small defense.
"Look at you John; you might as well try out for the show!" Mike insisted. "Why the sudden change of heart?"
"My heart's not changed." John demanded. "It's just that we're too old for this, that's all. Middle schoolers trifle over budgets, we're better than that."
"Well, you can't say either of those punks didn't have it coming. The audacity of that Victor Trevor makes me want to square him right in the nose!" Mike growled, practicing a punch in the air and wincing as his head jolted along with his momentum.
"Then you should've gone and hit Victor! Sherlock was just trying to settle things; he was being just as diplomatic as I was." John defended.
"Oh boohoo. As if Sherlock wasn't asking for it either." Mike sighed.
"He wasn't!" John agreed. "That's where my instincts came in, I can't just be a bystander."
"But you also didn't have to break my skull in two!" Mike added in.
"Once again, instincts. I won't go easy on anyone, not even my friends." John muttered.
"Ya well, I'm starting to wonder who your true friends even are." Mike grumbled. John was silent for that comment, figuring it was better to leave the poor guy in suspense. Any more lying would just make him feel icky, and if John had to weasel his way around his feelings for Sherlock then he would be getting very close to a dangerous confession. Better leave that comment hanging in the air, long enough for it to evaporate and be forgotten. Thankfully they didn't have to wait long, for the office door opened only a couple of minutes after their conversation ended. Victor Trevor went slinking out, his usual posture broken by the pressure of scolding, his eyes defeated and his frown evident. Obviously the administration had been harsh on him, though his crimes were much less violent than were the footballer's. Victor only made a mess, Mike and John had been going for the kill.
"Go well in there, Vicky?" Mike wondered. Victor lifted his head, clenching his fingers into a fist and giving a rather deadly stare.
"Not as bad as it will for you." He promised.
"Why don't I doubt that?" John sighed, getting to his feet and pulling Mike up with him. The boy snarled at Victor, who at last scampered away, and together John and Mike shuffled into the principal's office to get their own earful. Well, it wasn't anything they hadn't heard before. Thankfully John knew the speech, for this wasn't his first offense, and he listened in about how this would be put on his record, how colleges wouldn't like to see it, how they would have to contact his parents, and how he would be receiving a week's worth of detention in punishment. This punishment extended to Mike, who seemed just as bored by it as John was, and before long the two were on their merry way. Thankfully they were able to brush off their scolding fairly easily, considering it was all stuff they had heard before. After being released back into their classes, John decided he had to make a visit first. On the guise of going to change his shirt in the locker room (which was next on his agenda, of course) he parted ways with Mike and walked down the hall a ways, at last ducking around a corner so as not be witnessed during his final mission. When he heard Mike's footsteps faded down the other end, too far away for the boy to realize he had been shaken off, John crept back down the hall and into the nurse's office. Thankfully the door was open, and the desk unmanned. Perhaps she had taken leave to tend to one of the many victims of this morning's attack, perhaps to hand out fresh shirts to those who now smelled like an old dairy farm. John was still disgusted with his own state of dress, considering he had not only school milk but also multiple people's saliva now caked into the fibers of his tee shirt. But that his was second most pressing concern, his first was much closer, and much more serious. Seeing as though the nurse's office was completely unattended, John found it terribly easy to sneak past the reception desk and into the backroom, here where they kept the patients that were waiting for their parents to pick them up. The room was dark, with only a few of the lights switched on as if to give the single patient a more relaxed environment. Towards the back there were plastic mats that were supposed to pass as beds, elevated at almost waist height and draped in paper so as to keep them sanitary. Only one bed was occupied, covered with a curtain as if to hide the patient from anyone who would want to sneak in. John crept up towards the curtain, keeping his footsteps light so as not to wake the poor boy. Perhaps Sherlock was still unconscious, perhaps he had fallen asleep, either way there was no other motion as John approached the bed and drew back the curtain as carefully as he could manage. As promised, there lay Sherlock Holmes. He was drawn out upon the bed, hands folded haphazardly across his chest as if he was prepared to be mummified, but his eyes were shut peacefully. There was no response to John's arrival, it would seem as though he was still out cold.
"Sherlock." John muttered, grabbing one of the cold hands and squeezing it anxiously between two of his own. Once again, there was no response. John felt for a heartbeat, bending his head down against the boy's chest and hearing that predicted thud, feeling the chest rise and fall with his slowed breathing. Still alive, then. That was a relief, though not too much of a surprise. John sighed heavily, still keeping his hands laced within Sherlock's, and stood anxiously by his side. The boy looked so peaceful as he lay there, with his curls splayed out on the plastic table and the dim lighting casting shadows all through the crevices in his face. His cheeks were terribly defined, his eyes sunken in with darkness, and his nose already bent a strange way due to Mike's devilish aim. John began to wonder if this was a Sleepy Beauty situation, and if one kiss would bring the poor thing back to life.
"Sherlock, you got to wake up. Come on then, back to the world of the living. You can't just leave me here with these idiots." John pleaded. Unfortunately he got no response, as Sherlock still didn't seem to want to speak. John checked for a heartrate again, this time as more of a formality. He was sure that Sherlock wouldn't die in the matter of a minute, though he had to be sure. It seemed as though Sherlock's slowed heartrate had only elevated his own, and before long John had begun to sweat with anxiety as he stood above Sherlock's ever silent body. As time ticked away John still didn't feel motivated enough to go to his classes, for he knew he would be all together unproductive if he was sitting in a desk and worrying about the state of his friend. If he wasn't in this room in body then he certainly would be in spirit, and surely that would be a waste of everyone's time should he arrive in class only half present. And so he decided to wait, sitting up on the other table and pulling Sherlock's hand over with him, knitting their fingers together and giving the boy occasional squeezes at steady intervals, as if to try to call him back to the present with a sort of signal. Perhaps Sherlock's soul had gotten lost in the maze of his unconsciousness, and he needed a firm grip and a dedicated boy to bring him back to the world of the living. Who knows how long John sat there, wallowing in his grief and his worry? At least two school bells rang, and before long he figured it would be time to go home. His backpack was still somewhere in the cafeteria, that is if they hadn't confiscated it yet, and for a while John began to wonder why Sherlock was still lying here. Where were his parents, where was his brother? Certainly someone would take it upon themselves to take him off of this plastic bed and reassign him to a more comfortable position? Was it really only John who cared? With the final bell John was finally discovered, this time by the nurse as she went in to check on her neglected patient. The lights had turned on harshly, and John was woken from his daze as the woman came rushing in and swatting him away, demanding that he leave her patient alone and to stop terrorizing him further. John was forced to release Sherlock's hand and jump from the table, now avoiding the swatting of a sanitized towel that the woman was using as a sort of whip, trying to keep the room as stress free for Sherlock as she could. Surely she knew of their feud, and perhaps took John's being there as a threat to Sherlock's health once he woke. Oh there was so much even the staff didn't know, now that their feud had morphed into romance! If only John had the opportunity to explain it, at least to one person, to prove that people could change! All the same he allowed himself to be shoved away, this time exiting the nurse's office just in time to meet the rush of students as they drained from their classrooms and into the hallway. John was swept along with the crowd, though when most of the students had emptied into the buses he went to retrieve his belongings from the cafeteria. As promised, his and a couple of other bags were left behind, tucked up against one of the walls for their owners to retrieve. One of the bags he recognized as his own, the other surely belonged to Sherlock. Being the responsible friend he was, John grabbed both of the bags and slung each onto opposite arms, figuring this would be a more definitive way to invite himself into the nurse's station. Certainly he would be accepted, now that he had a peace offering. As he approached the nurse's room he finally heard voices, this time it sounded like an argument between a more familiar, deeper voice and a rather bubbly female. The door was swinging ajar, and from the backlight of the harsh white bulbs John could make out a couple of figures standing in the entry way. Oh well, one more person in that little room probably couldn't hurt, and besides he had something of Sherlock's that he would find quite helpful. John pushed the door open, now recognizing the man standing next to the reception desk to be Mycroft Holmes, that pompous little brat with his arms folded and his head held high. His lips were pursed in the most patronizing glance, and his black eyes were shining with a glaze that made his position in this argument quite clear- he was listening, but only so that he might get a chance to speak when the defense was over. Thankfully John interrupted this little argument before the man could get his chance to speak, though with his arrival it would seem that Mycroft had forgotten about his previous pest. Instead his shoulders arched, like a cat getting ready to strike, and his eyes flashed with a harsh, dangerous glint.
"What are you doing here?" the boy growled.
"A better question would be where have you been?" John snarled back. "I happen to know that Sherlock has been sitting here all alone since lunch time."
"And how might you know that?" Mycroft wondered.
"Because I was sitting here, waiting for a new shirt right before the bell rang. I happened to be covered in milk." John said proudly, holding his head high as if that gave him an advantage over his opponent. Mycroft sniffed the air, wrinkling his nose in protest and clutching what looked like an umbrella tighter in his fist.
"John, I'm happy to see you." said Mycroft's original opponent, now turning to show her face to the light. It was none other than Molly Hooper, probably here to dig up the story about Sherlock's unconscious state by breaking and entering into the nurse's station. Well if John wasn't allowed in then Molly definitely shouldn't be considered, for she had nothing to do but investigate and highlight the attack in her next unread copy of the school newspaper. He gave her a bit of a strange look, though humored her by allowing her to continue.
"You don't think I could email you about the fight today? I was working up here, and I didn't get a chance to witness it. I've heard great stories, none of which could possibly be true." Molly chuckled.
"That's where you're right, Molly. Nothing happened today, absolutely nothing." John agreed with a nod. The girl's smile faltered, and now she looked back and forth at the two men as if wondering which one of them would give her a straight answer.
"You're saying that Sherlock knocked himself unconscious intentionally, you poured milk on yourself, and Mike Stamford asked politely for a week's worth of detention?" Molly asked.
"That is exactly the case. In fact, I'm pretty sure all four of us asked nicely." John agreed.
"So it is true! I heard that Victor got time as well, but you did? And the forth?" Molly wondered, whipping a small notebook from her front pocket and leaning forward anxiously.
"I think that's an easier mystery to solve." John grumbled, dropping the two backpacks onto the floor so that he could hook his thumbs into his pants pockets. The more he sniffed the worse his personal odor became, until John was nearly doubled over with the stench of curdling milk.
"Sherlock, oh my goodness! But I heard he was a pacifist in all of this?" Molly wondered anxiously, scribbling just as fast as her pen would allow. John sighed heavily, for that had been his opinion on the matter as well.
"Not according to the administration." John mumbled.
"Mr. Watson, not that I don't appreciate story time, but what is your purpose here with my brother? I think you would be a deterrent to his waking. Just the sound of your voice would tell his soul to slink farther back." Mycroft announced at last, his eyes narrowing in on John with that ever familiar accusation.
"I happen to be worried about him." John said at last. "This time he's done nothing to deserve his state."
"I heard that John took down Mike Stamford, all for Sherlock's sake." Molly added in, her little voice squeaking over the harsh conversation. Mycroft glanced towards her for a moment, as if he was wondering if that little fact was worth his attention or not. Certainly it intrigued him, and when he returned his glance to John there was but a moment of hesitation, a quick recalculation.
"Took down? This means like..."
"Like tackle, ya." John agreed, crossing his arms all the while Molly Hooper began to giggle excitedly to herself. Perhaps she was just thrilled to get the opportunity for a good story, a sort of redemption arc for one of the most notorious boys in the school.
"Would you say, John, that you jumped in to protect Sherlock from further harm? Even though he is your adversary?" Molly clarified, her voice jumping another octave with each syllable. John looked past Mycroft's shoulder, glancing only at the white curtain that was hanging down and preventing him from getting a better look. Adversary was one way to put it, though Molly's question seemed to cover most all of the truth. It seemed as if she was prying, asking specific questions to get specific answers. As if she already knew what John was going to say, but needed a direct quote to spice up her little investigative report.
"I'd say I jumped in because my body was on autopilot." John said truthfully, remembering his original theory of this world being created by another. When he remembered back to the original skirmish he couldn't quite place what had made him jump up from his seat. Perhaps it was his defensive instincts, reacting as any boyfriend would when their lover went down under a hostile fist. Or perhaps he was being controlled once again, his hesitation being overridden by the intentions of another?
"What a strange way to put it." Molly Hooper muttered, though she was scribbling down a fair amount of notes, much more than John had ever put to words.
"Ms. Hooper, that is...that is your name, right?" Mycroft wondered nervously. Molly nodded, allowing the man to continue. "I think you might find it conveniences everyone if you were to step out in the hallway and shut the door."
"Everyone except myself. How can I get a good interview from behind the door?" the girl complained.
"I'd say your interview was satisfactory. You seem to know the story better than anyone else, even though you weren't there to witness it." Mycroft assured. John nodded, though when he remembered just who he was agreeing with he made sure to sport a more convincing frown. Certainly he couldn't be caught in agreement with that monster. The moment John and Mycroft cooperated might just bring about the apocalypse.
"One more question, to John. Please tell me now, if your relationship with Sherlock has changed in any way since the beginning of the school year?" Molly wondered, this time her eyes darting up from the page in a very excited way, as if she was looking more for a reaction rather than a solid answer. John couldn't help but allow his face to grow red, and he hated that his flush prompted the girl to take more extensive notes! How could she know to ask such a loaded question, seeming to know just how John would react?
"I'd say it would be very nice if you were to leave." John grumbled in response, turning away with a little frown and concentrating his eyes back upon the tile. Thankfully Molly got the hint, and before long she was scuffing her way out the door, trying to make her exit as loud as possible as if to demonstrate just how inconvenienced she was by the boy's insistence. It was a relief when the door finally slammed behind her, though the weight in the room got much heavier, now that their mutual enemy had vanished. This left just John and Mycroft together, both eyeing the other up as one would a fresh piece of meat, one they might like to hack into when the appropriate moment arrived.
"You got his backpack, then?" Mycroft muttered, dropping his umbrella (to which John gave a jolt, getting ready to defend himself from that potential weapon) and tapping it lightly against the ground. It would seem as though Mycroft was more nervous than John, due of course to his total lack of social skills.
"Yes." John agreed. "Got it from the cafeteria."
"I sent Victor there to get his bag. Certainly he'll have a hard time trying to find it, being as though it's already arrived." Mycroft muttered with a bit of a disappointing sigh.
"It would be funny to watch him search though." John offered with a little chuckle. Mycroft sneered, as if he was rather protective over that fool, and John raised his hands up in defense.