The Forth Wall

A Perfect Romeo After All

"Why are you still here?" Mycroft asked at last, as if he was tired of avoiding the most pressing question fo the day. John sighed, figuring that really was something he couldn't answer. In his past life he would've bolted the moment he saw those black eyes trained on him, though now it seemed as though he had no choice but to stay still. Perhaps it was some of that unfortunate magic again, setting him in one spot while his mind wished to run free. Besides, he had practice starting in about three minutes! Certainly he'd get in trouble for being late, and that on top of his performance today at lunch! Oh he would never get to stop running laps for the rest of his life if he continued on like this! And yet he stood still, stone still, this time feeling pressure applied to his muscles as to make them solid as a rock.
"I just want to make sure he's alright." John offered, figuring that was a defense that even Mycroft couldn't counter with a bout of sarcasm.
"That's quite gallant of you. But it's not necessary. Like I said before, you'll scare him if anything." Mycroft insisted.
"I'm not so easily convinced. Besides, I don't take orders from you." John shot back.
"You really should learn to." Mycroft insisted. This time he tapped his umbrella harder against the floor, as if the equivalent of a warning shot. John folded his arms, trying to make it look as though his feet weren't cemented to the floor. Of course he would've held his ground either way, though this time he was forced to do the right thing. Certainly someone else had it planned out that he should stay until the very moment that Sherlock woke up, just in case a Sleepy Beauty situation was necessary.
"Was that girl serious, when she spoke of you tackling another heathen on behalf of my brother?" Mycroft wondered finally, seeing as though John didn't intend to move nor speak. This time he let his mouth upturn into a smile, proud that his achievements were finally being recognized.
"Like I said, it was just instinct." John muttered at last, unsure of why he couldn't just take this compliment and move on. Why brush it off as nothing when it was, indeed, something?
"Last I remembered your instinct was to join in on a beating of my brother. I'd never imagine you'd come to his aid." Mycroft defended, as if he was deliberately trying to turn John into some sort of hero. The boy began to blush, shrugging his shoulders and deeply distrusting that feeling of pride within his chest. It was a strange feeling, this praise, considering his heroics were mostly ignored by all who knew him. This was Mycroft's way of thanking him, wasn't it? Of acknowledging his humanity?
"I'm not all bad. I think that's what you Holmes don't understand." John insisted.
"More than just us Holmes." Mycroft assured with a little sigh, almost as if he had predicted the door to swing open. Just as Mycroft had promised, in came a rather frazzled Victor Trevor, sweat accumulating on his forehead and a look of desperation on his face. Obviously he hadn't noticed his audience, for as soon as he saw Mycroft he broke down into a fit of wails and closed the door with a slam behind him.
"I searched everywhere, I just couldn't..." Victor stumbled within the darkened room, his feet catching on Sherlock's backpack where it had been dropped earlier. Slowly his eyes rose, realizing that he had just tripped upon his very treasure.
"It's been here this whole time!" He exclaimed in outrage, giving the bag one more kick to show his dissatisfaction.
"Yes, Mr. Watson was so kind as to deliver it." Mycroft agreed, his voice softening into a more human tone with the arrival of a friendly party.
"John?" Victor growled, his face upturning into a rather predatory snarl.
"Hi Victor." John added quickly, giving a wave as if to give Victor the appropriate notice of his presence. The boy took a great jump back, his fight or flight response kicking in before his manners could offer up a hello in return.
"Oh my Lord, he's come to kill me!" Victor exclaimed. "John, you forced my hand! What was I supposed to do except retaliate? I couldn't drink it, I just couldn't!"
"I'm not here for you, don't be so conceited. You're not all that important." John assured in return, though Victor's shoulders dropped in relief.
"Oh, good." Victor muttered, before at last the full sentence was processed... "Hey!"
"He's here for Sherlock, actually. Our knight in shining armor is following up on his princess." Mycroft chuckled, sighing as he swung his umbrella in a rather haywire pattern. John stepped backwards, still afraid that he would be the prime target for that thing once the situation turned hostile. He couldn't remember ever getting beaten with an umbrella before, though Mycroft had been known to hit him with anything available in the room. Considering how easily this device could be turned to the offensive, well John was already wary of its movements.
"That is one word to use." Victor agreed with a little sigh, glancing behind Mycroft towards the still white curtain. "He's not awake then, is he?"
"No." Mycroft agreed. "We're tried everything, really. All except whiskey, which our father had demanded as a last resort. He did, however, provide me with a flask full."
"Oh really?" Victor asked excitedly, stepping in closer to which the older boy shooed him away with a grin.
"Victor I'm not sure you're even allowed to drive, much less drink." Mycroft reminded him with a little tut.
"I'm allowed to vote! I'm a proper adult!" Victor defended, though his voice climbed to very unconvincing octaves as he stood his ground. Mycroft was still grinning, as one might smile towards a misbehaving child that was just too adorable to despise. It was a strange look for the man, considering John had never seen him smile before. He looked, well dare John even admit this, but he looked downright human. Strange how quickly these Holmes boys could change when you got them in the right mood.
"We can argue about your status later, Victor. For now, well let's apply our own medicinal practices. The nurse has left, yes? And I'm sure we're all sick of breathing the same air." Mycroft swept aside, snatching a flask from the inner pocket of his coat and shaking it around excitedly. Victor gave a whoop, obviously assuming he would get a sip when this ordeal was over, though for now Mycroft lead the small party into the adjoining room, descending upon the curtain and snatching it back with one of his white hands. It pained John to see Sherlock so lifeless, for the boy didn't seem to have moved since last he was shooed out of the room. His eyes were closed, his chest rising and falling only slightly, one of his hands dangling from the plastic mattress since John's final displacement. Mycroft gave a little sigh, arranging his brother's arms back upon his chest as if to make sure each of his joints got the chance to relax. On one side of the bed were Mycroft and Victor, standing rather close and looking intently down on their fallen brother. Opposite was John, the outcast in this whole situation, and of course the only one who's presence would need an explanation. For now he was accepted into the mix, though the only boy who could appreciate his presence was the only one who was lying unconscious in the bed. In the eyes of Mycroft and Victor, John was nothing but a snake ready to pounce on an exposed victim. His gallantry had been lost to their severe distrust, and even now Victor was eying him with that familiar suspicion, as if expecting John to grab some sort of weapon and slit Sherlock's throat.
"He looks so peaceful." Victor commented quietly.
"He makes a perfect Romeo after all. Perhaps we should invite Mr. Stamford to set up the final scene." Mycroft muttered, unscrewing the cap of the flask and giving the whiskey a sniff. With a wince he determined that it was strong enough to do the job, and without hesitation he pried Sherlock's mouth open, titled back the boy's head, and dunked a couple of swigs down the poor boy's throat. Well, whatever the nurses had been trying certainly wasn't up to par with a good old fashioned distillery. As if a switch had been turned Sherlock came to life, giving something of a yelp and hoisting himself up into a sitting position, his head spinning and his eyes still struggling to open fully. Each one of his party members gave a little yell of excitement, though as Sherlock regained his consciousness he only seemed to notice one. Even though Mycroft's hand was still supporting the back of his neck it was John who he first looked to, his muscles relaxing and his arms stretching out to accept an embrace.
"My God, how long has it been?" Sherlock whispered, his hand at last clutching to John's shoulder and trying rather desperately to meet his eye. John gave a little giggle in hesitation, brushing aside Sherlock's hand and trying his best to maintain his character.
"Long enough to forget about personal space." John managed.
"Obviously you've received some head trauma, little brother." Mycroft interrupted from the other side of the bed. Sherlock's face fell, his arms shot back to his side, and with pale cheeks he turned to greet the other side of his welcome wagon. The boy gave a shudder though forced a smile, at last scooting to rest his back against the wall of the nurse's station and huddle his limbs to his chest. He looked almost defensive, now realizing that his first instinct had to been break character and reveal his true intentions.
"Mycroft, what are you doing here? Should you be at work?" Sherlock wondered rather quickly, his voice wavering as he tried to maintain his original temperament.
"They let me off early." Mycroft assured. "Besides, I couldn't miss out on seeing you knocked cold."
"Not my fault that we go up against Vikings in the lunch room." Sherlock grumbled. "In fact, out of the three leading members of the scuffle, I'm the only innocent party."
"Now hold on there, I had nothing to do with Mike's temper!" John defended.
"And I..." Victor sighed, deciding as he began his speech that he really had nothing to say. "Well, my hand was forced." He admitted at last.
"We'll all have a great time discussing it in detention for the next week. There we can determine just whose fault it is." Sherlock assured, though both he and John settled their eyes across the bed towards the true guilty party. Victor slunk a little closer to Mycroft, as if expecting the older boy to defend him from these accusing stares.
"We better get you out of here, Sherlock. Quickly, before the nurses smell your breath." Mycroft suggested a bit anxiously.
"What, I brushed my teeth this morning. Shouldn't be bad." Sherlock defended.
"You smell like whiskey, Sherlock." John reminded him.
"And you smell like soiled milk." Sherlock shot back.
"Just another day then." John assured.
"Who asked you to speak?" Victor snapped, swatting at John as if he had regained a bit of bravery. John merely glared at him, though didn't feel it necessary to respond.
"I think we should all take a moment to appreciate Mr. Watson's heroics of the day. Certainly if he hadn't stepped in we would be in a hospital room, rather than a nurse's office. Besides, his follow up care was more than could have been asked from a boy with such a...well an unsettling past." Mycroft suggested at last. John held himself up a little higher, noticing that Sherlock was now hiding a smile behind his elevated knees.
"Thank you very much, Mycroft." John said with a grin.
"This doesn't change anything, Watson." Victor warned. "Perhaps you really are human, but humans can be nasty as well."
"So long as I'm no longer the Devil, then I'm satisfied." John assured with a proud little huff. Oh, no matter how tall he stood he was still much too short to compete with anyone in the room, though his prideful glance was enough to make him feel equally powerful.
"Get going, John." Sherlock commanded, trying to lace his voice with utter inconvenience.
"A thank you from the man of the hour wouldn't go amiss." John reminded him with that large, characteristic grin. Of course he knew Sherlock would thank him, if not in this moment then certainly later in the privacy of their own world. Though it was more fun to bother him, especially when Sherlock would have to choose his words very carefully. The boy sighed, tapping his fingers upon his knees before at last kicking his legs out and folding his arms distastefully across his chest.
"Alright, Mr. Watson. If you need appreciation, I will thank you. I suppose Mycroft is right, things could have gone much worse." Sherlock agreed.
"There we go. Delightful...almost makes me want to be a good Samaritan more often." John admitted.
"You're a slugging ruffian, looking for a fight rather than a medal." Victor pointed out.
"At least he runs towards a fight and not away from one." Sherlock reminded him. "I do remember seeing your retreating back."
"There was a target on it, if you remember clearly!" Victor snarled in defense.
"Enough, all of you! Children, quarreling children!" Mycroft exclaimed, stepping away from the bed with a decisive smack of his umbrella against the ground. "Sherlock, get up and get your bag. We're going home. And Victor, you rush off to drama practice. I'll pick you up when you're ready."
"Yes Sir!" Victor exclaimed cheerfully. Mycroft sighed, looking back towards John as if wondering if he had any control over him.
"Do you need a ride home, Mr. Watson?" Mycroft wondered.
"No, no I've got an appointment with the cross country course, unfortunately. Coach always makes us run when we're in trouble." John grumbled.
"Even when you were being so noble?" Victor teased.
"Even then. It's called discipline, Victor." John snapped back. The boy sneered, but was silent.
"Run along, Victor." Mycroft insisted, pushing Victor away in a rather strange orientation. It was only when John saw a gleam of metal that he realized the true meaning for the man's roughness. He wasn't just dismissing Victor; he was gifting him the flash by slipping it into his front pocket. The nerve of that man, the shocking criminality! Certainly Victor realized the ploy, either by the lingering hand or the sudden weight in his jacket, though his face glowed and he gave Mycroft a very strange, very admiring smile. Finally he scurried away, leaving the room empty of all comic relief. Mycroft's face hardened and John grew ever more uncomfortable, before at last he gave each Holmes brother a parting glance before announcing his dismissal and heading off towards the field. Oh he could already feel it, the pain of endurance running, the shame of being late, and the retaliation for making a fool of himself in the lunch room! It would be a miracle if he wasn't kicked off the team after the mess he had made of his day. Though all things considered, perhaps it hadn't been a total waste. There was some trust now, between John and those who once wanted his head. He was on the road to validation, and at the moment he didn't care who was organizing it. If that witch had the world in her palm, allowing Mycroft to second guess his past assumptions, well then maybe she did step in at precisely the right time. Perhaps she was no witch at all, rather a miracle worker. 

Sherlock POV: If Sherlock never had to tell the story of the lunchroom again he would die a very happy person, though it would seem as though everyone in his life was expecting another rendition, another explanation, and another dramatic retelling. His mother was agonizing over her poor son's injuries (thankfully not a bruise, but a sprained nose) and his father was already setting his sights upon Mike Stamford, wherever he may roam. Shockingly the only one who seemed to appreciate John's role in the situation was Mycroft, who stood firm on his position that John had acted as the hero throughout the duration. It was a strange shift of loyalties, so strange that Sherlock had to consider Mycroft's true role in it. Perhaps he was fallen under the influence of their controller, now seeing the world much differently than he once had. Though as time continued Sherlock also began to wish that Mycroft had never taken an interest, for it seemed to be his favorite topic of conversation. For the whole car ride home he had interrogated Sherlock on his relationship with John, mentioning at least twice Sherlock's rather dramatic reentrance into the world. Mycroft was terribly observant, oftentimes inconveniently so, and for a long while he thought out loud about what Sherlock's reaching towards John could mean. Thankfully he was observant but not imaginative, and despite his constant guessing it would seem as though Mycroft could never quite come up with the correct assumption. Perhaps his little brain couldn't process the idea of a secret relationship (not that it was plausible in any context on their own accord), and the man at last settled upon the fact that Sherlock was grasping towards John because of his protective abilities, perhaps waking and assuming he was still in danger on the lunch room floor. Not only was Mycroft obsessed with the whole ordeal, but so too was the rest of the school when at last the reconvened the next morning. It seemed as though Molly Hooper had gotten all of the information out to the general public, and pretty soon even those who were not present in the cafeteria at the time of the incident were speaking of it as if they had been live witnesses, involved in the skirmish and witness to the fight. But along with such truth came ridiculous gossip, and before long Sherlock had heard such ridiculous stories about his own heroics (one involving a strange sort of karate, in which he was able to kick the milk from Victor's hand and spray it upon the jocks). The tales were becoming so ridiculous that he was wondering if he even believed his own version of events, the truth now becoming so boring and uneventful that it seemed the least plausible of all options. However, as promised, there would be plenty of time to think it over in detention. There they could get their story straight, if ever they got the chance to have a proper conversation. It was only upon their departure from their final class that Sherlock and Victor had a proper moment of conversation, seeing as though Victor had been trapped by Molly Hooper in the newspaper office to retell his version of events during their usual study hour. As opposed to all of the other members of the incident, Victor was reveling in the attention. It was one of the only times he was ever recognized as a key player in anything, and even though he had lit the fuse to the bomb he was just so proud of the explosion it created. For the first time he was the talk of the town, and had survived the affair completely unharmed.