PARA/DOX

A Friend of Your Brother's

Sherlock walked home slowly, his backpack weighed with his calculus book as he trudged determinedly down the narrow sidewalks of this landlocked suburbia. Cars were moving just as slowly, seemingly matching his pace, as if each driver was trying to stare at him, trying to study him. Sherlock wouldn't be surprised if news had spread already, if Musgrave had already posted the secret on any social media website he had. Sherlock would expect rumors to begin flying at any moment. He didn't regret the decision to share, though as he progressed down the sidewalk he began to wonder if it was worthwhile at all. In his head, especially in his younger days, Sherlock had expected such a confession to lead to something more celebratory. He had expected fireworks, and news stations, and perhaps a parade. He had imagined his final confession to announce to his world just how spectacular he was. When nothing had happened except the immobilization of Reginald Musgrave the entire production felt falsified. He felt as if they had to go through the motions again, this time with a hired entertainer. The act felt hallow, and perhaps it would remain to feel that way until he could see his friend again. Not even friend...now more of a confidant. A secret sharer, with his full purpose simply being keeping his lips shut. Oh but it was nothing to ponder, nothing to worry about. The damage was done, was it not? And the whole world already classified him as a freak. Anyone who wore sunglasses inside was immediately labeled as less than adequate, perhaps now it would benefit him to at least demonstrate why he needed them so desperately. The sidewalks were clear this afternoon, giving Sherlock the perfect view of his house and driveway before he had the chance to approach. From a long ways away he could tell that there was one extra car in the lot, a black car, one he had seen before. Sherlock halted on the sidewalk, keeping his feet stuck as if he had sunken into wet cement. His backpack suddenly sprouted about twenty pounds, nearly pulling his spine out of shape. Had news really spread so fast? Had the agency come to stifle it? Sherlock swallowed hard, recognizing the car as the same which had taken his brother away so long ago. He wondered if he ought to turn and run, dropping his books and his life behind him on the cement and save himself before the government could get their sticky fingers upon his eyeballs. Mycroft had only survived there for two years, Sherlock was hardly about to let them lead him to the same black car. He wouldn't fall prey. The boy hesitated; slowly his arms released his bag from his shoulders and let it fall to the sidewalk. Sherlock took a breath, wondering if this really was the end, and turned to find his bag hovering before his very eyes. It hadn't even hit the sidewalk; there had never been that satisfactory thunk.
"I think you were going to drop this?" presumed a deep voice, deep and eloquent. Unrecognizable, though with the same flare that Sherlock had come to despise. The backpack drooped, allowing the speaker to reveal his face. Sherlock hesitated, taking a step back as he was met with a man in a crisp and ironed suit. Really the attire was all he needed to prove his point; it was all that was necessary to shock him out of his hopeful doubts. No one wore such expensive suits to this side of town, no one bothered looking formal. He must be from the agency, and yet he did not look like any of the usual government villains. No in fact he was young, perhaps closer to Mycroft's age if the boy had been able to live out his days uninterrupted.
"It uh...it just slipped." Sherlock managed, grabbing at the strap of his backpack and yanking it away from the man's loose fingers. The stranger's hand, now empty, immediately rose towards his hair. He pushed his fingers through the styled brown wave, a bit more extravagant than Sherlock would have expected from the American Government.
"Sherlock Holmes, I presume." The man muttered, posed not as a question but rather as a direct statement. As if he wasn't questioning the boy's identity, rather confirming it in case Sherlock was confused as to who he was today.
"Are you from the government?" Sherlock presumed. The man chuckled, settling one hand in his pocket while he extended the other for a handshake. Sherlock hesitated, switching his backpack from one hand to the other in an attempt to clasp the stranger's hand appropriately.
"Victor Trevor." He said proudly, his white teeth exposed from behind a forceful and almost practiced smile. He appeared animatronic, as if he wasn't used to showing emotion. The handshake was firm, the skin was soft. Sherlock noticed that the fingers curled for a moment longer than expected, keeping their hands clasped long after the handshake had ended.
"Victor Trevor." Sherlock repeated. "Is that your car in my driveway?"
"Your mother said I was to expect you on the sidewalk. I didn't want to pounce, but I wanted to be able to introduce myself." Victor explained, finally allowing his hand to slink away from Sherlock's.
"You could've introduced yourself inside." Sherlock pointed out. Victor hummed, clicking his heels on the sidewalk as if he didn't feel the need to explain his every move. It was self-explanatory for the most part. He wanted to introduce himself before Sherlock saw the car; he wanted to make himself likeable before Sherlock discovered anything about his connection with the agency. And yet he looked like a government man, he looked like Uncle Sam's puppet. He wouldn't be able to hide from his reputation, with or without the car as precedent.
"Let's walk." Victor suggested, pivoting to step away from the house, away from where Sherlock had been headed before. Sherlock stayed still, shouldering his backpack and giving the man a frown.
"I don't want to go anywhere with you. I'm going home. It's up to you if you follow or not." Sherlock grumbled, turning back towards the house and starting in his determined direction. He heard a little mutter from behind him, too faint for words to be deciphered but loud enough for that deep voice to utter a single syllable, presumably explicit. Footsteps followed rapidly, and before long Mr. Trevor was striding at his side.
"I recognize your last name." Sherlock said immediately. "Your father was the one who took Mycroft."
"My father recruited Mycroft." Victor corrected. "But I don't wish to compare you to your brother; certainly you are two different people."
"Are you saying that in hopes that I don't kill myself?" Sherlock presumed. Victor was silent, presumably biting down on his tongue. Not a very good recruiter after all. Rather, not a good kidnapper. They walked in silence, perhaps Victor was trying to think of a good argument that could not so easily be shot down with sarcasm. Thankfully Sherlock was comfortable with the silence, and as they trudged up the sidewalk and past the sleek black car he was able to pretend that he was alone. Victor followed like a shadow, running his hand through his hair again as if he was worried it was his hairstyle that wasn't making him seem likeable. He was much too young to be a recruiter, for the man who had come to collect Mycroft had fostered a domineering presence, a certainty and security that could not be so easily discredited. The room had bene at his beck and call, the enthusiasm of his audience undeniable. Then again, the older Mr. Trevor had the benefit of the doubt. There were no mistakes to make up for, no elephants that filled the room. Sherlock knew not to get his key from his bag; he rattled the door and found it was already open. So his mother was home, two hours before she was expected. Sherlock sighed heavily, already sick of collusions.
"So this is your version of fun now? Letting your son get kidnapped on the street?" Sherlock presumed, throwing his bag onto the stairs and moving through to the kitchen. He found his mother seated at the table, sipping a cup of tea with her hair done in her professional fashion. She looked anxious, saying nothing.
"Mr. Holmes, try to be reasonable. Don't you at least want to hear my offer?" Victor wondered, pressing his hand upon Sherlock's shoulder as he squeezed past him in the doorway. Victor seated himself behind another cup of tea, this one still steaming as if it had been relatively undisturbed. The two of them sat on one side of the table, lining up their accusing gazes as one might position a firing squad. Mrs. Holmes looked anguished, Victor looked uncomfortable. Sherlock smiled weakly, appreciating that he could at least make a government official uneasy. The boy slid into the seat across from the pair, understanding that he would be forced to at least flatter the agent while he took advantage of their hospitality. Victor reached into his pocket, revealing a carefully folded flier and sliding it across the wooden table towards where Sherlock had settled.
"You've got pamphlets now?" Sherlock chuckled, observing the little flier and admiring the little copyrighted clipart. It read in big bold letters The Future You Support, below listing each one of the apparent benefits of time travel. That was, after all, the agency's main purpose. Their use for the boys extended no farther than lab rats, and Sherlock was not so easily going to be poked and prodded. Mrs. Holmes shifted in her chair, obviously finding most of Victor's talking points to be very attractive. Oh but it would be so easy to convince a grieving mother to fund a project such as time travel. Who wouldn't like the ability to turn back the clocks?
"We've collected more investors. We've drummed up enough support to fund our research in full." Victor explained.
"Short a subject." Sherlock guessed immediately. "Can't do any research without the rat."
"You will not be a rat, Sherlock you will be a scientist. A participant in the discovery, the sole man with the ability to turn our dream into reality!" Victor insisted, clenching his fingers so hard around his mug that his knuckles turned white.
"It's not a tempting title. I'd rather be a student. I'd rather be alive." Sherlock decided.
"Sherlock, won't you be reasonable?" Mrs. Holmes whined, her voice hushed in nervous enthusiasm, as if she didn't want to reveal just how desperately she wanted his cooperation. Sherlock leaned back in his chair, folding his legs and pursing his lips unconvincingly.
"What's in it for us?" he asked at last. "You stick me with needles and hook me to machines, what's the benefit if all of this research is for nothing?"
"Five million dollars a year." Victor declared.
"Baseball players make that, Mr. Trevor, and they come at a dime a dozen." Sherlock complained.
"It's a negotiable amount." Victor explained, his voice rising as he began to grow hopeful.
"Negotiable...twenty million then." Sherlock corrected, his mind jumping to what felt like a reasonable amount.
"Twenty million a year. That can be arranged." Victor muttered, though he sounded a little unsure. Perhaps he hadn't warned his boss that he would be making deals four hundred times the amount they had proposed. Sherlock looked at his mother, the woman who was already looking considerably more wealthy.
"Money or not, I don't trust you. I don't trust any of them." Sherlock pointed out. "You drove my brother to suicide, I can't be sure you won't do the same to me."
"We were unaware of his mental health at the time. We did not promote any such actions, and we certainly offered a workspace that..."
"I don't want excuses. You're discrediting it, like a lawyer would." Sherlock snarled. Victor rolled his shoulders back, his sharp jawline catching the light as his blue eyes began to study his subject more carefully. He was getting frustrated, as if he could finally tell that he wasn't just dealing with a bitter teenager. More like a brick wall.
"I mourned for the loss of your brother." Victor explained. "He was a friend, as dear as anyone can be. To think that he was suffering such feelings, to think that he could be driven to such...extent. It's incomprehensible. It's agonizing."
"A friend. Mr. Trevor, you make me laugh. Mycroft didn't have a friend in the world and you...you certainly weren't one." Sherlock snarled. Victor leaned forward upon the table, these words evidently having hit a nerve. He curled his fingers against each other, balling up his hands as if to keep them restrained. His eyes shone dangerously, all politics aside.
"Don't speak about things you couldn't possibly understand." Victor warned sharply.
"And don't speak about things you caused! You and your agency, you're the reason..."
"Enough! Enough of this, enough of you!" Victor growled, jumping to his feet so violently that his chair flung out from behind him. the clatter was loud enough to make Sherlock jump, tough before he could defend himself he was caught by a quick and enraged hand, long white fingers looping around his collar and dragging his body painfully into the table. Victor was hunched over the woodwork, folded like a giant, his eyes wide and wild. Mrs. Holmes yelped, though Victor's grip never faltered.
"Bad news for you, Mr. Holmes. Your life has already been signed away. You're a minor, I'm afraid. And your mother has signed in your place. Twenty million, that's the deal. And I can take you; snatch you, with or without your consent." Victor snarled.
"No one said anything about snatching!" Mrs. Holmes debated as the man's grip loosened. Sherlock fell back into his chair as the man recollected himself, clearing his throat and trying to let his face fade back into its original colors.
"It's a synonym, Mrs. Holmes. A synonym for what you agreed to." Victor corrected with a breath.
"You've signed me away already?" Sherlock exclaimed, slapping his hands upon the table so as to draw his mother's attention back towards him. She had already begun to cry.
"Sherlock, you can help change the world." she whispered in defense.
"You would lose another son to them?"
"We won't let you die!" Victor growled, obviously fed up with what he considered to be an empty threat, a useless assumption.
"Oh ya, like we all say. It was just one time." Sherlock insisted.
"I will not tolerate such attitude!" Victor insisted.
"Well get used to it! If you really are my new master, then you're stuck with me and my attitude." Sherlock snarled.
"Perhaps we will let you die, just a little." Victor whispered. Mrs. Holmes's tears increased, falling down her cheeks and falling in heavy drops upon the table before her. Sherlock's anger dissipated, slowly phasing into a disgusted form of disbelief. He hesitated, pressing himself farther into the chair as he realized what exactly his life was going to change into. Without his consent, with his permission.
"Mother, what have you done?" Sherlock managed in a broken, strained voice. Mrs. Holmes wept. Victor Trevor smiled, arranging a cufflink upon his jacket sleeve. The victorious party.