Sigma Eta

Drag The Queen From The Throne

The plan had to wait until Sunday dinner, since that was the only time John had ever seen Sherlock eat anything. The boy didn't seem to need to eat, for he was never spotted with food on any other day of the week. However he was polite when it came to his arranged event, and so as to support the struggling boys who had burned the pasta and microwaved the sauce, he always made a point to at least stomach a mouthful or two. The Sunday dinners really weren't as much of a chore as John had imagined them; in fact some of the fraternity brothers had some shocking skills in the kitchen. James especially was a fan favorite, that boy seemed to know the ins and outs of most every dish they could imagine, and when the assigned chefs found themselves out of their depths he always enjoyed stepping in to help. A long table was set up in the living room; pulling together all of the desks and tacking on some folding tables to the end to make sure that each boy got a seat. And together they would eat, a peaceful arrangement of brothers and a very good opportunity to catch up on the week's events. It was about comradery, it was about family. Sunday dinners were one of the only things that Sherlock had introduced that seemed to be doing any good, though they were not going to be enough to spare his life. This frat was sinking under the waves of its own obliviousness, its captain driving it down into the depths seemingly intentionally. John was one of the only ones in a position to save Sigma Eta from itself, and as such he would have to become a murderer. It was worth it, was it not? The stain of Sherlock Holmes's life was the only mark he would bear, and in light of the situation it seemed to be a necessary reminder of his heroics. While Sebastian's death would have left him equally wounded, Sherlock's death would give him newfound life. Things could go back to normal, once the influence of their President faded away. Can't be punished for the death of a squatter, a man who wasn't supposed to be on this campus at all. It could be solved quickly, covered up effortlessly, and the world would keep on turning. Rid the Earth of the Devils, and force them back into hell. As John descended the staircase he felt in his pocket for the feel of the plastic bag, tucked where it was supposed to remain in the pocket of his jeans. Each little pill was there, waiting to be deployed, waiting to end the life they were meant for. He followed the sound of conversation towards the kitchen, where he saw Clay and Tobias trying to pour batter into the waffle maker. They had a great big metal bowl, though they were struggling immensely with the effort of getting the mix into the machine and not all over the counter. James was standing by, waiting with an oven mitt and a look of disgust, seeming to be expecting a summoning sooner or later. The boys who were not helping in the kitchen were all spread out in the living room, beginning a game of poker on the coffee table while a radio was playing somewhere in the background. It was a pleasant evening, one that would soon be spoiled by John's intentions. As delightful as the mood was tonight, they were living under a lie, breathing in the seductive influence of their President. The more they celebrated under his rule the more susceptible they became to his suggestions, becoming pawns on the side of the black queen without intending it. Which ones among them had already enjoyed a night with his company, which ones had their hands interlocked with his own, waiting to do his bidding when the time came? They were trapped, trapped like mice in an experiment, waiting until their usefulness was over. John found Greg, who was sitting on one of the couches and fiddling again with those strange chemistry models. He didn't seem too interested in joining in on poker, though he seemed relieved when John came to sit next to him.
"Brunch tonight?" John presumed.
"More like...brinner?" Greg suggested, very unsure of himself as he created a strange combination of meals.
"Looks like another pity dinner, one plate to be polite and then off to the dining hall." John muttered, even now noticing a line of dark smoke issuing from around the corner where Tobias and Clay were operating.
"I suppose." Greg muttered, still very concentrated with his three dimensional homework. John wasn't in the mood for conversation either, though with the commotion in the room he felt almost entitled to join in. His heart was heavy with nervousness, his hands tingling with the anticipation of their task, though he found it was easy to keep his voice calm and collective. It was easy to play the part of the follower, for he had been perfecting such a role for so long.
"When do you think it's our turn to cook?" John wondered, more for the sake of a conversation and not an actual inquiry. Considering Sherlock's rule would end with his life, John found it unlikely that he would ever be burdened with the weekly feast.
"Not sure. But I know we're going to be having breakfast too. And by breakfast, I mean everyone gets a bowl of cereal. It's the only thing I can cook without burning the house down." Greg admitted grimly.
"I've seen you come close to disaster with such a simple task." John debated, to which Greg gave a little chuckle of agreement.
"We could all go out on the front lawn and photosynthesize." He suggested at last.
"I like that idea better." John agreed, curling up his legs and watching as the boys in the circle began to quarrel over the poker chips. As he took in the surroundings, with each section of the room slowly sinking into its own level of chaos, John began to notice that something was not right. It seemed as though everyone was accounted for, everyone except the one boy he was preoccupied with...
"Where's Sherlock?" John asked at last, scanning the living room and kitchen as far as he could see. The boy was not present in either, as if he had decided to avoid his own arranged event.
"Off brooding somewhere, I guess." Greg muttered, not seeming terribly invested in the whereabouts of his President. For a moment John felt a strange feeling of hope, remembering Sebastian's pledge to remove Sherlock from the house in a democratic and legal fashion. Well that plan had hatched a couple of days ago, certainly leaving enough time for action to have been taken. If Sherlock wasn't present soon, perhaps that scheming had paid off? Perhaps he had been taken quietly away, handcuffed and stowed in the back of a police car? If that was the case, then no blood needed to be shed today. If he was locked up, well then the white queen had won. For a moment John could breathe again, the hope of Sherlock's disappearance easing pressure off of his chest. Perhaps the frat had been saved. The peace and quiet was interrupted with the blaring of one of the smoke alarms, set off of course by the waffle maker's persistent black smoke. The chefs of the night were all taking turns batting towels and lids at it, trying to introduce new and fresh air towards the sensors so that the screeching would finally subside. This of course summoned the most powerful of the house, and after about two minutes of continuous excitement the President of Sigma Eta at last showed his face. Sherlock emerged from the staircase, looking quite formal as he always did, scanning the room with squinted eyes. At last he held his finger against his lips, as if to silence not only the alarm but each one of the boys as well. Each one of the boys obeyed, as if suddenly their lips had been shut and their voices erased. After a moment the smoke alarm obeyed as well, the beeping subsiding and the room clearing. At long last the radio was the only sound which could be heard, a slow melody filling the room with its song, entrancing each one of its captive audience members. John's eyes were on Sherlock, all eyes were on Sherlock, and at last they boy settled his attention on the radio. With his finger still on his lips he gave the radio a quick glance, and after a moment even the radio ceased to play. Silence engulfed.
"Thank you for your cooperation." Sherlock said simply, and with that he began to stroll into the living room, approaching the couch on which Greg and John were sitting peacefully. Sherlock's finger dropped from his lips, and at last the radio began to play once more. The boys found their voices, and after a while conversations began to sprout up. the only two who were left silent were Greg and John, each one momentarily captivated by Sherlock's glance and waiting for his instructions. He was standing there, right in front of their couch, looking as if he desired something. He had a request, and it would be their duty to obey.
"May I sit?" Sherlock asked at last, as if that was his simply question. Well, simple questions must receive simple answers.
"Yes." John agreed immediately. The boy gave a smile, choosing the side closest to John and sinking down into the cushions of the couch. He relaxed, easing himself back and leaning with his weight towards John, comfortable enough that their shoulders were now overlapping.
"Not interested in poker, are you?" Sherlock questioned, as if he found that all together uncharacteristic. John hesitated, looking towards Greg and seeing that he was at a loss as well. Certainly they didn't expect the honor of hosting Sherlock Holmes on their couch, though now that the boy had arrived it seemed as though they had no other option than to entertain him.
"No, I'm too tired for such mayhem." John admitted after a moment.
"You seem perfectly alert to me." Sherlock commented, his gaze settling almost agressivley on the details of John's face. He could feel the eyes almost as a heat source, bearing down upon him.
"Yes well, how could you not with all this noise?" John protested a bit weakly. Sherlock nodded, his voice humming his quiet agreement as he now fumbled to take John's hand. It was a terrible feeling, as if Sherlock was settling a shackle upon his wrist, though John had no choice but to obey. He smiled a bit nervously, feeling each one of Sherlock's' fingers as they worked their way within his own, interlocking their hands in a bond that would soon be broken.
"Have you given thought to our previous conversation?" the boy asked in a low voice, as if trying to be sure that Greg wasn't overhearing. Well of course Greg was sitting just inches away, certainly he could hear each word exchanged between the two! But it didn't matter, for there was nothing to hide anymore.
"I have." John agreed, feeling his heart beginning to race within his chest.
"Good, good." Sherlock smiled, leaning even closer as if to keep their words now so quiet that even the two conversing would have difficulty understanding. "And your verdict?" he whispered.
"I'll make you proud." John promised without missing a beat, whispering his response so quickly that Sherlock hardly had time to rearrange his face into one of pride. His lips curled, revealing each one of his sparkling white teeth from where they notched within his smile. Being so close to the boy's joy was not without its side effects, for even John was beginning to feel a strange feeling of excitement. Sherlock's emotions were contagious, and even though John was feeling nothing more than utter terror he found himself beginning to cheer up. Sherlock was happy, so what reason was there to fret?
"I always knew you would." Sherlock agreed. "My little pawn, my most beloved." With his free hand he began to play with the strands of blonde hair that were falling onto John's forehead, pushing them aside gently and running his fingerprints along the brim of John's hairline. John felt a shiver each time he felt Sherlock's skin, feeling as though there was an electric current spanning between the two of them.
"Are you busy tonight, John?" Sherlock wondered softly.
"Me? Always busy Sherlock. I've got algebra homework, not to mention all of my other classes." John said quickly, his words jumbling over each other as they tried to be as convincing as possible. He was beginning to sweat under this pressure, as if the body heat which was radiating off of Sherlock was beginning to warm him abnormally. Suddenly Sherlock's hand in his own was becoming constricting, like a tropical snake was squeezing all of the blood from his arm, and his gaze was bearing down now with laser like consistency. It was an interrogation as much as it was a request, and for a moment John found himself going pale and clammy. He felt feverish, just with the effort of denying an almost direct request.
"You're afraid of me, John." Sherlock commented. "And you have every right to be."
"I'm not afraid." John lied quickly.
"I can sense it, John. Don't try to hide what you cannot." He insisted. John hesitated, sniffing nervously before managing a smile.
"Alright, yes. I'm a bit afraid." He agreed.
"Of joining me, or simply of my presence?" Sherlock wondered softly.
"Both." John spat out, forcing himself to pronounce syllables that were not allowed. Sherlock sighed in some disappointment, though he didn't seem very surprised.
"I know that I did not make a very good impression of myself the first time. But I can redeem myself, if you would like to try. I can be gentle, John..." Sherlock promised, his voice dropping into such a lullaby that John felt his eyes beginning to droop. And he believed it, oh he believed every word! Each syllable dripping in seduction, each one taking John by the hand and leading him up the stairs! He wanted to follow, he wanted to leave this ridiculous brunch behind and curl between Sherlock's arms. He wanted to feel safe; he wanted to feel loved...any excuse to save himself from his task would be well appreciated.
"I believe you." John whispered in response, feeling himself leaning into Sherlock's chest almost involuntarily. The boy smiled, his hand falling onto John's neck and cradling it ever so gently. It was a warm touch, one that was much appreciated.
"I would have you again, if I could." Sherlock murmured. At that, John found it possible to stay silent. His spell broke, as if his senses had all returned to his body in a single moment. His eyes remained closed, but he felt as though they could still see. Suddenly Sherlock's skin felt rough, like sandpaper pressed against his bare neck, rubbing it raw with every motion they took. If I could, he says...if I only could.
"Dinner is served!" Tobias announced from the kitchen, finally allowing John the break he needed from Sherlock's unyielding attention. The boy issued a small sigh of disappointment, as if he still had many phrases still planned in his head, though he withdrew his fingers and his attention when at last he got to his feet. Greg was sitting still, almost as if he had been instructed by an unheard voice, though when Sherlock entered the kitchen he was at last awoken. John remained seated, watching with paranoid eyes as the dinner table began to take shape in the middle of the room. Chairs were ushered in around it; plates arranged on top, food piled high upon the frat's large serving plates. Dinner was served...though not yet its additive. As usual, Sherlock took the head of the table. He arranged his armchair of choice at the top of the table, allowing him to stare down upon his subjects and demand their unyielding attention. As he sunk into the comfort of his chair he gestured towards John to join him, to sit at one of the folding chairs immediately at his side. John didn't hesitate; in fact he was almost pleased to see such an advantage point. From there it would be only too easy to slip in a special ingredient to Sherlock's drink.
"Come on Greg." John instructed, ushering Greg up off the couch and wandering over to where Sherlock summoned him. The two boys took chairs next to each other, with James sitting on the opposite side of the table. Sherlock seemed to take a liking to James, though as far as John could tell there had never been a deal struck between them. James was always a very confident boy, able to solve his own problems when they arose. Certainly he had no use of Sherlock's powers, and perhaps that was why he appeared to be so attractive in Sherlock's eyes. He was a self-sufficient subject, not needed to be ruled, only to be observed. John looked into the kitchen, seeing that Tobias was now struggling to pour hot tea into a large arrangement of glasses, ranging from the appropriate tea cup to some of the strange shot glasses that had accumulated in the cabinets over the years. There, the perfect opportunity!
"Let me help you, Tobias." John exclaimed, jumping to his feet to offer his services to the struggling boy.
"Life saver." Tobias chuckled, setting down the tea pot in his agony and trying to arrange some of the glasses towards the edge of the counter. "I was worried that they'd all go cold by the time I could get them around."
"I'll serve, you pour." John suggested. Tobias nodded, agreeing that it was a good plan as he turned to fill the pot with more hot water. While he was occupied at the stove, trying to pour from the kettle directly into the lid of the pot, John saw his opportunity. Slipping his hand within his pocket he unearthed each one of the cyanide pills, figuring that if one could kill an ordinary man it would take at least three to take down the great Sherlock Holmes. Before Tobias had the chance to notice John dropped all three of them into one of the larger tea cups, the most appropriate vessel from which to serve a queen. They fizzed slightly as they dissolved within the hot water, and John stalled for a moment to make sure that the bubbles faded and the surface of the dark tea remained motionless and still as the rest. When at last he could not distinguish one from the other he took Sherlock's cup in one hand, his own in the other, and marched proudly over to the head of the table.

"Your tea, Sherlock." John said with a little smile, setting the cup next to Sherlock's plate and arranging his own on the other side. The boy thanked him quickly, now rather preoccupied with the sudden syrup shortage at the other end of the table. It would seem as though the patience of fraternity boys was dwindling as of late, for they had begun to eat even before everyone took their seats at the table. As John helped Tobias to arrange the cups the first plate of waffles was devoured, and when at last John settled himself down to eat he was presented only with a half of a waffle, the other half currently being swallowed nearly whole by Greg. Sherlock was the only one with common decency, for although he had been treated to at least three waffles he had not begun to eat. He had manners, perhaps one of his only true assets. A conversation began between each of the boys, speaking of football, classes, and various girls who happened to be the unfortunate focal point of their day. James even engaged Sherlock in a conversation about graduation, for in James's eyes he was talking to a fellow senior. James was currently the top of their class, and as such was struggling with his choice of grad schools. It was an interesting enough conversation, at least able to keep John's struggling attention, though as much as he was entertained by the talk of scholarships and merit he was more interested in the cup of untouched tea next to Sherlock's plate. Everyone else was enjoying their tea, drinking it from water glasses or shot glasses displaying the logo of Route 66, though Sherlock seemed preoccupied with his food and conversation. It was almost as if he was intentionally ignoring the tea, as if he knew there was something foul within. John's meal was finished quite soon, and before long he found himself utterly transfixed with Sherlock's actions. With each motion of his hand, John expected the boy to at last reach for the handle of his cup. It seemed wholly unlikely that he would just ignore the tea, splash it all down the drain, though as time wore on it seemed as though he just wasn't thirsty. At long last John figured he ought to do something, it would be increasingly difficult to get Sherlock to drain that cup unless action was not taken now. And so, being the rather rash person he was, John struggled to his feet and commanded the attention of the room. Raising up his tea cup, and looked around at each pair of eyes which now fixed themselves upon him. It was a spotlight that he didn't appreciate though he knew it was necessary for the survival of every one of them.
"Brothers, I propose a toast!" John announced at last, holding up his tea cup. "To an excellent fall semester, to the powerful playoffs of our favorite teams, and above all, to the wonderful chefs who managed not only to serve us dinner, but also managed to keep the house in one piece during the process!"
"Hear hear!" called out Clay from the other end of the table, holding up his shot glass of tea and throwing it back in a single swig. The room erupted into laughter, though on cue each one of the brothers began to drink. John took a long sip of his own tea, just to coordinate the action, and in his peripheral vision he saw Sherlock's white fingers begin to wrap around the handle of his own mug. He was smiling, laughing at the chaos of the boys across the table. There was a light in his eyes, so human that John felt a dagger of regret sink deep into his heart. There was a sparkle, a smile...a beauty. He almost called out in protest, though he clenched his fist and sunk back in his chair, setting down his cup of tea while Sherlock began to drink from his own. One sip, two sips...John saw him swallow; he saw the cup tipping back. His own limbs went clammy, his face paling, watching with desperate eyes as Sherlock began to drink from the bottom of his cup. In the moment there was noise, there was the laughter and joy of each brother as they enjoyed their Sunday chaos. It was interrupted with a shattering tea cup, fallen from the hand of their President, colliding with the hardwood floor. Each piece of ceramic flew, each remaining droplet seared into the gaps in the wood. The fingers dangled, the boy's eyes widened... John's heart stopped, his breath catching in his throat as he saw Sherlock's hands go limp upon the arms of his chair. The boy's face had lost what color it had, draining into a ghostly white as his eyes struggled to focus. At long last they began to roll; blinking wildly as his mouth began to open, issuing strangled noises of desperation. It didn't appear that he was breathing, as if he was choking on his own throat, his fingers beginning to scratch at the table in a desperate but silent plea for help. He struggled, he flailed, and slowly his lips began to issue forth a steady stream of white foam. One last sound, one last motion, and Sherlock Holmes's head fall flat upon his plate in front of him, his body limp and motionless, his reign and his life now ended. All that was left was the soft rattling of his silverware, having fallen off of the plate and wiggling upon the table in anguish.