Secretly I Think You Knew

Beautiful Faces Immortalized in Graphite

"Hello to you too." Sherlock sighed.
"Hello Sherlock." Mycroft sighed. Sherlock buckled his seat belt and turned on the radio; if Mycroft didn't want to talk then he didn't want to sit in this awkward silence. As soon as Sherlock picked his station though, Mycroft went and turned the radio back off.
"Hey, I was listening to that!" Sherlock debated.
"I like the silence, and I'd expect you would too." Mycroft snapped.
"I don't like silence." Sherlock insisted with a frown.
"Have you talked to the Watson boy lately?" Mycroft asked.
"Oh, so I'm getting a lecture now?" Sherlock sighed.
"I'm asking a simple question Sherlock, don't start." Mycroft snapped. Sherlock thought for a moment, what answer would be best suited for this situation?
"No, I haven't talked to John; I thought I had told you I was done with him." Sherlock insisted.
"I rather remember you saying you were done with Victor Trevor as well." Mycroft pointed out. A shiver went down Sherlock's spine as he heard his brother say that name, Victor Trevor; he said it with such carelessness, as if it were just another name to be thrown about. He didn't care what Sherlock had felt, he didn't care what Sherlock still feels, to Mycroft Victor Trevor was simply a name of the past.
"Would you stop comparing John to Victor, there is no connection, they have nothing in common." Sherlock snapped.
"You fell in love Sherlock, a completely outrageous task for someone of your mental makeup, something that I can't let happen again!" Mycroft snapped, swerving off the road slightly as he tried to look at his brother.
"I'm not falling in love again Mycroft, it's not my fault, it's normal, it's natural!" Sherlock insisted.
"NOT FOR YOU! You're not allowed to fall in love you're not supposed to feel anything! If you feel, you fail, and I've known from the start that you would always be a failure. You're a pathetic attempt at a sociopath, a terrible actor, pretending like you feel nothing for this world, you do Sherlock, you're gay and you're in love again, I can tell! Now I should go over to this Mr. Watson's house right now and set things straight, like I had to do with Victor Trevor!" Mycroft yelled. Sherlock felt tears sliding down his face, huddling against the car door as if his brother would suddenly lash out.
"I'm not in love." He muttered fearfully. Mycroft sighed in doubt, but with that he turned the radio back on, as if trying to drown out the sound of Sherlock's quiet sobs with classical music. As soon as they pulled into the drive way Sherlock jumped out of the car, abandoning his backpack and running right up to his room, where his brother dare not follow. How dare he say that Sherlock was a failure, did he not know how desperate Sherlock was to be accepted in his brother's eyes? Did he not know the lengths Sherlock was going, internally and externally, to avoid all feelings for John Watson? Did he not notice the inner battle going on in his head, the battle between his brother's opinion and his need to be accepted, to be loved? Sherlock was doing everything he could to feel nothing, but he was failing once more, as he had failed with Victor, and there had been tragic consequences. Sherlock lay on his pillows and pulled the hangings around his bed, blocking out the world and more importantly blocking out his brother. Hidden in his privacy, Sherlock grabbed the book from under his mattress, flipping through numerous pages; all filled with drawings and poems about one person, one beautiful person. Until he got to the first blank page, a small little sheet of paper with so much opportunity...Sherlock pressed his pencil tip lightly to the page, letting his hand take over, drawing, erasing, sketching lines and lines until suddenly they made more, they all connected and interlocked and webbed together to create something more than lines, something more than led on paper. Soon he saw not lines and shading but the face of John Watson, staring up at him from the paper, his mouth turned up into that contagious, annoying smile, his eyebrows slightly raised as if he were accusing Sherlock of something, maybe for drawing his face in his book. Maybe John was accusing him for letting his unconscious mind drive him into immortalizing his beautiful face onto Sherlock's notebook. Maybe accusing him for knowing what was coming, what might have already come. Sherlock sighed, letting his pencil drop back to the bed and staring at John, John Watson, this beautiful human being that had actually noticed Sherlock, the second person to have done that. The first, well, let's just say Sherlock didn't want John to end up like the first. He didn't want to have to...Sherlock sighed, closing the book quickly and trying to repress those thoughts, those memories. He didn't want to think about what had happened, he didn't want to relive that tragic night, when he felt like his entire world might be collapsing around him. That had been the night he realized that Mycroft was right, he had always been right, he always will be right, and when he wasn't he'd correct that. He'd form the truth on tragedy, and make Sherlock suffer for being able to prove him wrong.
"Sherlock, dinner!" Mycroft called sternly up the stairs.
"I'm not hungry!" Sherlock called down, even though his stomach was growling.
"Don't lie to me Sherlock, come down here at once!" Mycroft yelled. Sherlock groaned, rolled out of his bed and slouching all the way down the stairs to where Mycroft was setting a large roasted chicken in the middle of the table.
"I had a great meal planned Sherlock, I had rather hoped you wouldn't spoil it with your...delusions." Mycroft sighed.
"I'm not going to spoil anything as long as you don't bring anything up." Sherlock snapped, sinking into his chair as Mycroft brought over the rest of the food. As delicious as this meal looked, Sherlock didn't want to eat it, he didn't want to be anywhere near his brother and his cooking. Mycroft sat at the head of the table, starting to carve into the chicken and giving Sherlock all of his favorite parts. Sherlock murmured his thanks but couldn't look his brother in the eyes, worried that Mycroft would see the truth hidden behind his veil of abnormality.
"So, how was school today?" Mycroft asked as they began to eat. Sherlock shrugged, poking at his chicken but feeling as if he were going to throw up.
"It was fine I suppose, same old school." Sherlock muttered.
"Good, I wouldn't want you to start slipping on your education." Mycroft decided.
"I haven't been slipping on my education, it's going fine." Sherlock snapped.
"Your English paper is finished I presume?" Mycroft asked.
"Yes." Sherlock muttered, wondering why Mycroft keeps insisting on bring up John even though he seemed to hate the topic.
"I do hope you didn't let that boy mess it up with his humor and his illogical mindset?" Mycroft asked.
"I deleted most of his sentences, but others were alright, they added to the point I was trying to make. And besides, if the paper looked as if it had only been written by me the teachers might get suspicious; this is supposed to be a group project." Sherlock pointed out.
"Yes...a group project. I should have a word with the school board." Mycroft sighed.
"And why is that?" Sherlock muttered.
"Well, it is my duty to keep you safe, obviously this group project had only heighted your romantic whims." Mycroft pointed out.
"I don't have..." Sherlock sighed, but decided it was better to leave the conversation untouched at the moment. "It's good chicken." He muttered instead.
"Thank you." Mycroft said proudly, and that was the end of that conversation. When dinner was finally over, Sherlock quickly helped wash the dishes before running up to his room, drawing the curtains once more but ignoring the notebook that he knew lay under his mattress. He didn't want to tempt these feelings once more so instead he opened up a book, diving into a world of someone else's imagination and for a short while was able to forget about his own. It was a lot more peaceful in a world of words, especially when there always seemed to be a happy ending. For Sherlock there was no happy ending, at least not yet. When the clock was approaching ten Sherlock decided that he ought to get to bed, so he placed the book on the bedside table and curled up in his bed, protected by the thin curtains that hung around him. Anything could be out there, but at the moment Sherlock couldn't be bothered, he only cared about what was in here. He sank his head into one of the pillows but the other he held to his chest, a very pathetic attempt to hold a person in his lonely life. But for now it provided the comfort he needed and if he thought real hard and tried to imagine it, he could almost smell the familiar scent of Victor's cologne, a smell he had always remembered dispute all of Mycroft's attempts to erase that boy and all of his traits away from the Holmes household.