Secrets Aren't Made Slowly

We Are All To Blame

John POV: It was gift wrapped on the door step, with a little bow, and yet John knew enough not to watch it. Sherlock had told him of such a tape before John had told him of his secret, and now a copy of the very film lay in his fingers. Maybe this was Victor's idea of a prank, or maybe he had intended it to fall into the hands of one of the Watson parents. Well it was lucky then, that John had found it first. He was in a constant state of misery, and this tape really didn't make it any better. If it hadn't been for this he would still be with Sherlock. He wouldn't have been forced to confess, he could've kept his secret, he couldn't kept his relationship. And now they were separated; now they were both hurting. It came as some consolation to think that this matter was going to be resolved with age. It wouldn't take long for John to turn eighteen, three months, that was all! And in six months he would be graduating, he would be out of the school system, then all of Sherlock's nerves would be resolved. There would be no crime in loving someone in that situation, he would return to Sherlock, he would love him as he was meant to, and that would be that. Sherlock may be holding a grudge now, who knows how that poor man was holding up, but it would be resolved. John would come back, and Sherlock would accept him, that was how this was going to go. It was how it could only go, for this love was genuine! If it wasn't then this wouldn't hurt nearly as bad, the aftermath, the separation. John felt as though he had been gouged out by a sharp spoon, he felt as though his heart had been cut from his chest and thrown on the floor, only to be rolled over by a car and pecked at by the birds. He only wanted Sherlock, and yet he had to be patient. He had to be smarter in this situation; he had to wait for Sherlock to get over himself. Maybe they didn't have to wait for graduation, maybe his eighteenth birthday would be enough to convince Sherlock that love would win in the end. There was no doubt that Mr. Holmes wouldn't be in school tomorrow, going by his condition this afternoon, and yet come Monday John was sure that whatever fire that had been burning inside of him had long since ceased. It was now only a matter of time. And yet maybe it wasn't so easy. Maybe...maybe there had been something uncalled for. Friday morning Mrs. Hooper was crying. She wasn't even trying to hide it, as Sherlock had the day before; she was standing near the phone and crying, as if she had hung up just in time to break down. The class, some of which who had gone through Sherlock's episode the day before, were equally as confused as John. However John was concerned, Mrs. Hooper wasn't one to cry, she wasn't one to lack a smile, and so when she leaned against the wall and hung her head in her hands...well John was uneasy.
"Mrs. Hooper, is everything alright?" asked one of the kinder girls, one who was considerate enough to be gentle with the now weeping woman.
"No um...can I please see John, please? In the hallway?" Mrs. Hooper requested in a trembling voice, trying to wipe away her tears, now staining her cheeks with mascara. John immediately felt all eyes fall onto him, for surely everyone thought that there was some sort of death in his family. And yet he knew enough, he knew enough to know that Mrs. Hooper wouldn't cry at the loss of a Watson. His blood ran cold.
"Who was it?" John whispered, for he knew that would clarify everything quite quickly. They both knew a name that no one else knew; they both knew a connection that was unknown to all the other children sitting in this classroom. Mrs. Hooper took a rattling breath, trying to contain whatever tears that were trying to get out of her eyes, almost as if that would make any sort of difference.
"Janine." She said in a small voice, wincing even as she said the name. John got to his feet, holding himself up with his desk in urgency, knowing that everyone had their eyes on him, knowing that everyone was watching. And yet he didn't care, not anymore, for that name struck fear in his heart, fear for the worst. And so he followed Mrs. Hooper out into the hallway, getting well enough out of the door way so that no one could the classroom could hear their conversation. However Mrs. Hooper spoke in a quiet voice, and John could hear every breath that escaped her lips, knowing what she was about to say before she could even say it.
"John I hate to have to say this..." Mrs. Hooper just shook her head, giving a squeal of grief before leaning up against the wall in a helpless sort of way, almost as if she couldn't hold herself up any longer.
"He's dead, isn't he? He's dead." John whispered, feeling his heart stop for just a moment as he realized with horrible clarity what Mrs. Hooper's silence confirmed. She couldn't bring herself to speak; she could do nothing else but nod her head, her ponytail shaking so heavily on top of her head that John thought it might fall off. Suddenly he understood why the wall was so critical, now more than ever did he realize the effects grief had on the body. Suddenly he couldn't stand, he shot out his hand to support himself and yet he, just like Mrs. Hooper, fell into the wall with a heave. He was dead. There was no...no goodbye. There was no last words, no last kiss. He had died, and John was quite sure that it was his fault. This was no coincidence; no he was sure it was no heart attack, no car crash. Suicide, and all because...
"She told me to tell you, John how does she know about you? How do you know about her?" Mrs. Hooper wondered in a crackling voice, as if her voice box was beginning to refuse to work. She was terrified, he could hear her pulse as it began to race in her veins, what a tragedy this all was, what a tragedy.
"What, he never told you? He..." John just shook his head, leaning his back against the wall and hanging his head in his hands. However he couldn't produce tears, he couldn't cry. He had wasted his tears last night; last night when he thought that only his relationship was over, not his lover's life. He cried when he still had at least a shred of hope, he had cried when there was still an opportunity for them to reunite. What a fool he had been, now that he couldn't cry, now that there was no hope, no opportunity.
"Oh Sherlock, Sherlock you...." Mrs. Hooper just shook her head, crying once more while looking at John in astonishment. Talking to Sherlock as if he was still here to listen. "He mentioned he was falling in love, he never said that it was with..."
"I lied to him. I told him...I lied about my age. And yesterday he found out the truth. I killed him." John whispered.
"No you don't know that, John don't say things like that don't say that! I'm sure it's unrelated, oh John don't blame yourself!" Molly begged, dropping her hands from her face only to pat John's hand in a sympathetic way, as if she thought it might console him in a way. And yet it didn't, no it was as if she was thrusting more and more blame onto his back! This was wrong, it was entirely his fault, he had killed Sherlock Holmes and Molly knew it. She knew full well.
"No it's fine... If it was what he wanted then how can I blame him? God I wish I could just..." John just shook his head, his knees unlocking without warning and sending him tumbling to the floor. He sat there in a heap, heaving in breaths as he couldn't seem to get enough oxygen. And tears were falling, as they should've long before, because he stared at the floor realizing that there was a time Sherlock walked it. He never would again, would he? He looked at his hands, and realized that there was a time Sherlock held them, a time when they held Sherlock. Never again. He felt his heart beat, and realized that it had once been cradled by Sherlock, by his careful pale hands; it had once trembled in his presence and yearned for him like no other....never again.
"My God what have I done?" John whispered, letting his head fall into his knees in agony, knowing full well that Mrs. Hooper was standing above him and crying as well, both of them mourning for a man they loved. Both of them knowing that that man had never loved them back, never properly, of course. Never sincerely.