My Full Confession

Don't You Dare Mourn

I set to work with my father, grabbing up about all of the towels I had at my disposal so as to begin mopping up the mess he had made. It was interesting, being able to tread so heavily around the man. Seeing him on the floor was not all together unknown to me, being as though he liked to pass out in odd places about the house. Yet the hole in his back was sign enough that he was dead, and likely to remain so. And so it was the first time I could ever make a sound, even step on him if I pleased! He wasn't going to wake to harm me, or at least I tried to convince myself of that. It was difficult, admittedly, to remind myself that he was not going to wake. So shocking was the transition from life to death that I could hardly acknowledge it as a fact. I tried to rejoice, and yet seeing him in front of me made it quite difficult to truly contemplate the end of my father, and the beginning of a whole new reign of freedom. I mopped up his blood to the best of my ability, upset to see that it was already beginning to stain. I couldn't think of what excuses we could make for ourselves, if there was any to be made. John would think of something I'm sure, and yet as much as I wanted to think that we might stay here, I knew in my heart that staying would prove to be impossible. Victor was a conniving man, he'd put the pieces together rather quickly. He knew that both us brothers housed a deep hatred for our father, he knew that we would be prepared to kill him if need be. That man wouldn't fight for us, no in fact I think the day he first met us he was waiting for the opportunity to send us to the gallows. Victor fed off of brutality, and nothing would make him happier than seeing his best friend and his younger brother hang. It wouldn't be safe for us here, that was for sure. And yet we could make up an excuse, or rather we might have been if the next couple of days weren't going to bring in family and friends. How would I tell the wedding guests, when they arrived, that my father had just decided to leave? That he had gone on an errand or two? No surely that would be unfathomable, especially when there was a big blood stain on our kitchen floor. Besides, if I stayed here Irene would find me, and insist that I not go. While her words meant nothing to me, still her protesting would be a lot more painful than leaving silently, and leaving her fits for someone else to deal with. I wasn't in the mood to watch her cry, not again. For she really did love to cry. I was about halfway done mopping up the floor, wringing out the towels of their blood in the kitchen sink with my hands stained scarlet, when my brother appeared from upstairs. He looked dismal, covered in trace specks of blood, and rubbing his face in an anxious, overwhelmed sort of way. Obviously my brother didn't know what to make of this, of any of it. So many bullets had hit him all at once that I was surprised he was still standing.
"Have you got it cleaned?" he asked quietly. I looked at him disappointedly, wondering if he really expected so much out of me so fast.
"We'll need to scrub at it." I admitted quietly, throwing down the saturated rag and smashing it into the floor with my foot. I hated to touch his blood; I hated every part of that wretched man that lay in an empty heap before me.
"Are you planning to hide it, or are you going to run?" Mycroft wondered, going over to our father and staring down at him. Now that the deed was done he didn't look too upset. His previous shock had worn away, and whatever sympathy he might have had for the man in his dying moments had all faded away as he came to realize the reality. In the end, our father was the reason Mycroft had wasted his life thus far. He had nothing to mourn, nor anything to lose.
"I think we'll have to leave. It's too suspicious." I admitted finally. "And with the wedding...well I'll have to avoid that somehow." Mycroft made something that sounded fairly close to a growl, letting his gaze drop yet holding his tongue for a moment more. Then again, he could only suppress himself and his wisdom for so long.
"William, John told me everything upstairs." He admitted finally.
"You make everything sound so detrimental. It's just love, Mycroft. You knew it was there all along, we all did." I defended, not in the mood to be playing games or tiptoeing around obvious truths.
"Yes but without love, we wouldn't have a body on our kitchen floor!" Mycroft exclaimed, throwing his hands up in the air in exasperation. I was still not impressed.
"You act like he was something special. Really, why would you dare to mourn him?" I wondered, to which my brother sighed heavily.
"Because he was the last parent we had. He was the last relation we had, save for each other. We're orphans, William." Mycroft grumbled.
"We can make our own families, proper ones at that. We were orphaned when our mother died, ever since then we've just been...we've just been slaves." I muttered quietly, shaking my head in quiet disgust. Mycroft faltered, yet he didn't dare protest. Instead he just prodded at the man's form, moving him away from the pool he was still making along the tiles.
"I'll get a bucket then." He decided finally, starting away before pausing abruptly. He turned back to me, his gaze turning into that more familiar gaze of brotherly concern. "Are you alright?"
"Of course I'm alright." I insisted, standing a bit defensively next to the sink.
"Did he hurt you?" Mycroft corrected, realizing that I was bound to defend my pride quicker than my physical health. I reconsidered that question, feeling up to where my neck was oddly swollen. I was sure it would be bruised the next morning, and yet I was alive, and so I nodded all the same.
"I'll live." I managed finally. Mycroft nodded, bowing his head apprehensively before walking back outside to retrieve the scrub brushes. I sat alone in the kitchen for a moment, knowing that John was still probably in an embarrassing state upstairs. I didn't have any problem with that of course, yet Mycroft would surely add me to the body count if he found me upstairs while John was bathing. Poor modest Mycroft. I didn't want to look at the body any longer. For whatever reason it was beginning to disturb me. The longer it pooled out on the floor the more deflated it became, and while it was undoubtedly my father he was beginning to look a lot more...drained. As of late. Not that his fate bothered me, not that I cared an ounce about him at all. It was just deterring in a sense, I wished that we could just bring him out back and burry the body. I wished that Mycroft had not reminded me now how alone we were in the universe. How utterly alone.
"Here we are then, one for you, one for me." Mycroft grumbled, throwing a bucket with a brush in my direction so that I could get started filling it with soapy water.
"Shouldn't we move him?" I suggested.
"To where?" Mycroft asked a bit heinously, looking towards the large lump of man.
"I don't know, perhaps the barn? Or the fields, the corn is high enough to hide him until we can find something better." I suggested.
"The birds will eat him out there, they'll draw attention." Mycroft muttered.
"Are we going to hide him, then?" I presumed.
"What choice do we have? We'll all be hanged, just for the stalling we're doing now." Mycroft admitted. "Yet you must still run, I'll not hesitate to tell the truth once they find out."
"Yes of course. I don't want you to suffer for us." I agreed, nodding my head before passing the full bucket along to him to set on the counter.
"Perhaps a wheelbarrow?" I suggested, knowing of course that the two of us couldn't lift such an unanimated body together.
"Go and fetch a bedsheet, William. I'll get the wheelbarrow from the barn. We'll put him in the hay loft, until we can dig a hole out in the fields." Mycroft decided finally. I nodded, abandoning the buckets now as I raced up to the linen closets. I found the oldest bedsheet we had and brought it downstairs, setting it carefully on the ground next to his body so that I might roll him up in it. Well, as soon as I got close enough to touch him I recoiled, as if a snake had lurched out at me. I saw his face, his glassy eyes, and the skin that was now hanging lamely along his bones as it slowly bled dry. I almost screamed at how ghastly he looked...such a memory never left me. His haunted expression still visits my nightmares. Yet I had no time to be afraid, no time to hesitate. And so, as quickly as I could manage, I yanked the bedsheet over his head so as not to look at his face any longer. He was expressionless now, what was left of his humanity now hidden away for the world. Forgotten. Mycroft returned with the wheelbarrow, wheeling it into the kitchen and squeezing it a bit forcefully next to the counter, as close to the body as we could get. He helped me roll the man up into the sheet, and thankfully my only task was to pick up the man's lower half, so as to help ease him into the wheelbarrow for my brother to take away. I had never realized the full girth of my father until it was my job to pick him up. Even his feet weighed more than I did, and it was nearly impossible for me to lift him up off the ground. With my brother's help I was able to get him into the wheelbarrow, and from there he was Mycroft's problem. I was happy to see the man go, or rather the strangely humanoid figure of a man, wrapped in a bedsheet like a makeshift Halloween costume. Just as soon as I was left alone I set to scrubbing, knowing that the longer we let the blood sit on the floor the more it would seep in, and make it almost impossible to hide or forget the crime that had committed on these very boards. It was laborious work, and yet it had to be done. I didn't know where we would be going from here out; I didn't know if there was any reason besides aesthetics to hide these blood stains. Yet I knew that he must be hidden, this man's foul print upon our floors, the faster it was erased the faster we could go on forgetting about our heinous father, and the relationship we were supposed to be mourning. While Mycroft was away I heard footsteps descending the stairs, and I looked up to see an almost unrecognizable John Watson tottering on the last stair, clutching to the handrail as if his life depended on it and still looking quite broken. All the same, he was walking, and he looked at least more alive than when I last saw him, undoubtedly owing to the lack of blood that was covering his skin and clothes. He was dressed in my brother's clothes, owing to how baggy they were around his shoulders and ankles. He looked like a little boy who had raided his father's closet, so tiny in a mess of fabric that I almost was tempted to smile. Almost.
"Are you feeling better?" I asked him, struggling to my feet and struggling to extend my cramped knees to their proper height. John winced, but managed to nod. That gash along his head was very distracting, and it worried me. If it was left untreated and uncared for, it could get infected. Something as simple as a cut could lead to the death of my dearest lover, that alone was enough to make me tremble.
"I'm alive." John managed finally. "In the end, that's all that counts."
"You're a hero." I insisted, dropping the bloodied brush back into the water and going to him now, walking with slow and careful steps. It was hard to believe that so much had changed since the barn, since we were last so flustered, helpless in each other's arms. We had kissed each other no more than an hour ago, and yet it felt like years when I tried to remember back. It was so distant I almost didn't remember all the details. Yet we had fallen into place, had we not? Such a kiss had simply connected the pieces, and together John and I changed from friends to lovers, in such a quick amount of time that it almost seemed natural to take his hand, and hold it against my lips in thanks.
"I did what I had to do." John assured quietly, pulling his hand away only to stroke my face, as if he wanted to cherish the thing he had saved, as if he wanted to appreciate what he had tried to immortalize.
"Yet we have bigger problems on our hands. Now we're not just running from Irene, we're running from the police as well." I reminded him, leaning into his touch yet keeping my gaze fixed on his, intensely so as to demonstrate the urgency of this situation.
"We'll leave tomorrow morning then, by the back roads." John decided.
"We'll have to take a horse, there's no way you can walk that far." I insisted, studying his bruises more carefully along his face, knowing that they must be mirrored, if not worse, under his baggy borrowed clothes.
"If we take your horse we can be traced." John insisted.
"Then we won't take Redbeard. We can have Mycroft walk to town and buy a horse, a new one." I suggested.
"We haven't got the money for that." John protested.
"Then we'll ride Redbeard to the edge of town, tie him there, and have Mycroft retrieve him. We can walk from there, but only a little ways." I suggested finally. John's gaze softened, and he paused for a moment to try to find a flaw in that plan. Obviously he could not, for it was a wonderful plan if I do say so myself, and he could only nod a stiff little nod of approval.
"Yes alright." He agreed finally. "That might work. But we'll need money; we'll need to stay at an inn or something, until we can manage to get jobs. We need to get far from here, maybe even to the city."
"I know where my father's money is hidden." I offered quickly.
"Is that not stealing?" John wondered hesitantly.
"Is he not dead? Oh come on then, you'll be his murderer and I'll be his thief." I suggested, leaning forward and kissing John very briefly before pushing past him and climbing the stairs, going round to my father's study and forcing open the bottom drawer of his large filing cabinet. As a child I remember watching him fold up dollar bills and stuff them in here, and yes! Just as promised, there was a small box hidden in the back, under a handful of papers and folders. I grabbed the box and opened it anxiously, finding a large wad of cash that had to amount to enough. I emptied it out onto the floor, retrieving the coins as they rolled, and added up all the money to about one hundred and ten dollars. That alone was more money than I have ever seen, much less owned, and I could hardly believe my eyes when I shoved it all back into the box and sprinted downstairs with it.
"We'll be fine! John look, look at what my heinous father had been hiding from us! And to think he forced us to live a life of poverty!" I exclaimed, opening the box and revealing to John its crumbled contents.
"That's more than enough, that's...well that's downright overwhelming." John admitted quietly, examining the money so as to make sure it was all legal currency.
"We'll need to give some to Mycroft, of course. But the rest can be used at the inns until we can get back on our feet. It's enough to live on, for now." I said excitedly, pocketing great handfuls before counting out about thirty for my brother. That'll be enough for him, considering he had the wages of the next crop at his disposal if he could find the man power to harvest it.
"You're really okay with this, Sherlock? Leaving everything behind and...and just running?" John clarified, wincing with the effort of standing for so long. His eyes looked hopeful, downright pleading, and yet still the question had to be asked. Perhaps he found it hard to believe that anyone would want to run away with him, perhaps he found it hard to believe that anyone would love him. I paused, for a moment, leaning against the railing and staring him right into his beautiful eyes, staring at him so as to make sure my emotions were clear.
"I'd run anywhere with you, John. Have we not been waiting for this opportunity our whole lives?" I reminded him with an anxious raise of my eyebrows. John shrugged his shoulders, looking a bit humble as if he hadn't wanted to be the one to remind me of the time span of this whole operation. And yet it was true, whichever way you look at it. We had been in love for as long as we had known each other, and that gap that separated our childhoods from now was when the friendship developed into something more like longing. There had been something magical about the way it had all been put together, somehow it was like our lives had been planned out for us, and the pieces shifted around in something of our favor. Both of us lived very tough lives, but we would be fools if we tried to deny what little bit of fate had brought us together in the end.
"I suppose so." John agreed, allowing himself a little smile. "But it would be stupid to just leave, wouldn't it? Then again, we've always been somewhat stupid."
"Leaving is smarter than staying." I reminded him. "I'd rather starve to death than hang."
"I agree with that. If I arrive in Heaven and meet my father with the same fate, well surely he'd be rather disappointed." John agreed.
"Oh don't try to rationalize this, John. It's what you want, yes?" I interrupted, thinking that Heaven was a rather bad reason to validate bad decisions.
"Yes, yes it's what I want." John agreed.
"Then it's settled." I insisted, taking very lightly by the shoulders and leaning over to kiss him on his forehead, no matter how bloody it was. "We'll leave tomorrow morning. You go rest, we'll clean your wounds and leave at first light."
"Do you not need help with all of this? The cleanup, the hiding?" John wondered.
"Yes we do. But you need help standing, so I don't think you'll be of much use." I pointed out.
"I can scrub, oh come on. I was the one that killed him, after all." John insisted, taking a step towards the scrub brushes before giving something of a yelp and falling back onto the wall, clutching his side in agony.
"John, rest." I insisted, this time taking him by the shoulder so as to steer him up the stairs.
"You know what, ya. I've changed my mind." John agreed finally, nodding his head before struggling up each stair.
"You can sleep in my bed; I'll be up when all of this is settled." I pointed out.
"Is that...is that allowed?" John wondered, pausing on the stairs and looking back at me apprehensively. I allowed myself to chuckle, for it really wasn't the time to be pondering the rules of romance now.
"If it's not, who's there to stop us?" I reminded him.
"Your brother, for one." John returned immediately, as if that was the authority figure which most concerned him.
"I'm not scared of my brother." I scoffed.
"Well I am." John insisted, his eyes widening in some enthusiasm.
"Go upstairs, John. And shut up." I suggested, to which the boy's shoulders sagged in disappointment. In the end there was nothing he could do but agree, and so he slouched off to my bedroom, as per my instructions.