Like a Fairytale

Happily Ever After

Mycroft pulled onto the curb, getting out of the car and slamming his door so hard it might have shattered the windows if they weren't reinforced. Mycroft was convinced someone would be out to get him in the business world, which was unfortunate for Sherlock because he knew a lot of ways to get people to walk. For example, when you twist someone's arm behind them and bend their hand, it inflicts serious pain, but not permanent pain. Sherlock was very much aware of this as Mycroft led him through to the front door, it was like he was a prisoner, about to run any second he got. Mycroft slammed the door open with his foot, throwing Sherlock carelessly into the staircase, where the poor boy crumbled.
"What on Earth is going on?!" Mr. Holmes' voice echoed off the walls, he was angry already, and he had no idea just what had happened to his youngest son yet.
"I found him!" Mycroft hissed, staring at Sherlock with a ferocious glare. Mr. and Mrs. Holmes stormed into the entry way to see Sherlock crawling up the steps backwards; just enough to get out of their reach in case someone started throwing punches.
"You stay right there!" Mr. Holmes demanded. "What happened?" he hissed at Mycroft, and the older brother suddenly turned very smug.
"I didn't get any pictures, sorry mother, but I caught him dancing." Mycroft pointed out, dropping a small camera in Mrs. Holmes' confused hands.
"What's wrong with that Mikey?" she asked. A smile appeared on Mycroft's face, a smile that only makes an appearance when he knew Sherlock was going to get in serious trouble.
"He was dancing with the Watson boy." Mycroft said. there was a still silence, and Sherlock might have rather them start screaming and yelling, but instead there was a stony silence, and all members of the Holmes family stared at Sherlock with such shock, anger, surprise, that they didn't seem able to make a sentence about their thoughts.
"The Watson boy? John Watson?" Mr. Holmes clarified. Sherlock took a deep breath of suspense.
"In the flesh." Mycroft agreed.
"I didn't raise you to be a TRAITOR!" Mr. Holmes exclaimed, grabbing whatever he could find, in this case a vase, and throwing it at the cowering boy on the stairs. Sherlock scrambled backwards, just in time for the vase to smash against the wooden steps and spray him with glass fragments.
"I DIDN'T RAISE YOU TO BE A GAY EITHER!" Mr. Holmes exclaimed, throwing a set of coasters at Sherlock, who was now on full retreat, sprinting three stairs at a time. Something else smashed at his feet, he couldn't see what it was, but he wasn't going to stick around to find out. He slammed his bedroom door, locking it and desperately pushing his dresser up against the wood. Now even Mycroft and his self-defense or Mr. Holmes and a jack hammer couldn't get in.
"YOU GET BACK HERE BOY, YOU GET BACK HERE AND FACE ME! HOW DARE YOU GO AGAINST YOUR FAMILY, HOW DARE YOU BETRAY YOUR COMPANY!" Mr. Holmes shrieked. He was still downstairs but his voice carried up the steps. Sherlock cowered against the wall, shaking with silent sobs, hiding from his own family; hiding from the torture he knew would come, hiding from the evil he knew he deserved. How could someone that was supposed to be so nice be so evil, how could someone that was supposed to take care of him in his time of need be so willing to smash a vase over his head? Sherlock slid down the wall, defeated, in both physical and mental pain, he would never be able to see John again, Mr. Holmes will never let him, he would have to leave the one thing that was keeping him alive, keeping him sane, willing to fight on. He looked at the window, it was looking pretty nice right now, and with the banging from downstairs and the torment he knew was coming, it seemed much easier to just join Redbeard in the easy battle of death. The problem was, the window was looking back, with blonde hair and chocolate eyes and such a desperate expression that Sherlock was sure it was some sort of crazy hallucination. Sherlock didn't know whether to scream at him, or start crying harder, or to run to him and never come back, but John opened the window and fell inside.
"You shouldn't be here John, you really shouldn't be here." Sherlock pointed out, trying somewhat to hide his face from his concerned boyfriend.
"And leave you like this? I don't think so." John laughed.
"GET OUT HERE WILLIAM!" Mr. Holmes screeched.
"Is that your real name?" John asked. Sherlock nodded covering his ears with his hands so that he didn't have to hear Mr. Holmes' yells. Sherlock was curled in a little ball on the floor, hiding from everything and everyone, he was shaking and crying and he was downright terrified.
"I'm ready to go John." he decided. John stopped what he was doing, which was trying to get a blanket off of Sherlock's bed, to comfort him with no doubt.
"What do you mean?" John asked softly.
"I mean I'm ready to leave, I want to leave now." Sherlock pointed out.
"Great minds think alike I suppose." John said with a little chuckle.
"What do you mean?" Sherlock asked, did he dare hope that something might have actually gone right today?
"I mean that my car's out front with my suitcase in the back." John said, smiling wickedly. Sherlock jumped to his feet and they worked in unison, Sherlock grabbed his suitcase from under the bed and John grabbed a couple of outfits from the closet. Sherlock shoved in four of his regular outfits, plus pajamas and, for good measure, jeans and a tee shirt, for outdoor work and what not. He raided the bathroom, stuffing everything that would fit into the suitcase, a picture of Redbeard and his family, because why not, and his phone and laptop, which he might need for conversation.
"Do you have any money?" John asked. Sherlock nodded, opening up his desk drawer which was overflowing with bills of all type. It was his money drawer, and he emptied the whole thing into his trench coat pockets. Sherlock took a deep breath, grabbing a pillow and blanket from his bed as well and looked around the ransacked room. It might be the last time he saw this room, but who even cared? It held no memories; mostly seclusion, boredom, anger, sadness, and pain left their memories, not happy things that Sherlock couldn't leave behind.
"Ready?" John asked, giving Sherlock an encouraging glance.
"Ready." Sherlock agreed with a nod. John went first, carrying the blanket and pillow, and then Sherlock followed with the suitcase. They left the window cracked open just in case they needed to break in later, but Sherlock hoped that wouldn't be necessary, he never wanted to see this place again. It was a bit awkward climbing down a tree with a suitcase, but finally Sherlock jumped, landing not so stealthily on ground.
"Be really quiet, I don't know where they will be." Sherlock whispered, and John nodded. They creeped along the side of the house, trying to be as stealthy as possible, but their cover was blown when the back kitchen curtains were yanked open and Mrs. Holmes looked surprisingly back at them.
"They're around back!" she yelled. "Both of them!" Sherlock and John made a run for it, spriting around the side of the house as they heard the front door slam open, Sherlock put on a burst of speed as he saw Mr. Holmes and Mycroft emerge, sprinting as if their lives depended on it. John was already to the car, unlocking the door and throwing the things inside, Sherlock threw the suitcase into the passenger seat, he heard footsteps behind him but he jumped in as well, feeling a hand on his shoulder but he smacked it away.
"Drive!" he screamed as he slammed the door shut and tried to lock it before Mr. Holmes could wrench the door handle off.
"If you leave us you'll never be welcomed back!" Mr. Holmes threatened. For a second a part of Sherlock was terrified. He wanted to stay with his family, those he knew would protect him, and there was still something inside him that was a small child, wanting to run crying to his mother.
"Drive." Sherlock repeated, and John hit the pedal, swerving off the curb and barely missing Mycroft's red convertible. Sherlock heard the shrieks and yells and even threats from the two men on the sidewalk, but there was no turning back now. Those shapes in the taillights, those weren't his family anymore, John was his family, his only family, and now it was the two of them against the rest of the world.