Secretly I Think You Knew

Let's Just Blame it On The Car

John POV: To put it simply, John hated school. Everyone hated school, it was just kind of the default human setting for a regular teenage individual. I mean, I guess if you're a big nerd and you took learning as a religion than sure, you'd like school, for a normal kid however, you hate it. That was why the weekends were so amazing, so perfect, the calm between the storm that comes for five days, the two day reward for surviving such terrible, cruel and unusual punishment for an entire week. And of course, John was spending his time like every normal, school hating, weekend loving teenager. Running errands for his mother.
"Your change is three thirty two, thank you for shopping at Macy's." said the heavily makeuped woman at the register, smiling with a fake white smile at him as John dragged the shopping bags from the register, loaded with very feminine products like conditioner, blush, eyeliner, and actual feminine products. To say the least, it was humiliating. So he carried the bags all the way back to the car, happy to get a little bit of an arm workout in as he destroyed his masculinity once and for all. Finally he got to his car, an old clunker really, painted bright red with peeling paint, the bumper falling off and the left taillight out. Nevertheless, he loved his car more than he loved life. That was because it was the only place he really could be free, away from his parents and their rules, away from his annoying sister that seemed to have a grudge with the entire world, and away from his teachers and coaches who all thought they saw his hidden potential. Well, they were right, that potential was hidden. John dropped an arm full of bags to unlock the trunk, forcing it open and stuffing the bags into the back. Of course they didn't fit, with the grocery store run he had done twenty minutes ago there were already too many bags in the trunk. Thankfully though, John knew an expert way to fit things in the trunk, with skill, precision, and just a little bit of luck...John jumped and body slammed the trunk door down, and just like that, there was a satisfying click and it didn't pop open again. See, perfection. No wonder there was a big dent in the back. John walked back to the front of the car, unlocking his door manually since the button that was supposed to open the doors from a distance had run out of batteries. John always told himself he would replace it, but with a battery that small, where do you even get them? So he procrastinated, as usual. John back out rather forcefully, almost hitting a lady with a shopping cart and a spray tan, who started yelling out choice words that would make a mother cover her children's ears. John however just lowered his windows and shot some comments back at her, mostly about her attitude and bleach blonde hair. An exchange of rude gestures and John was off, driving out of the parking lot and back home. There was only one major road around his town, the one that led to all the department stores and the rest of the world. Everywhere John needed to go; it was on this road, since his little old town had the smallest, most pathetic town square imaginable. There were some sad looking restaurants with C health ratings; a general store that looked like it hadn't restocked since the Great Depression, and an ice cream parlor with only about five types of freezer burnt ice cream. Nevertheless, it was home, and as much as John complained, he loved it there. It was home, and home would never be anywhere else, he would never belong anywhere as much as he did there, even if the town was as pathetic as his life. John pulled onto the exit from the busy road, pulling onto an old country road that took him back to his town, through all of these corn fields, cow fields, soybean fields, wheat fields, and fields growing very mysterious plants that you could never name. There were select farms scattered all over the place, with large barns, stables, and big old farmhouses with rocking chairs and blood hounds lounging on the porch. It was a stereotypical farming town I suppose. John was about half way home when his car started to make some funny noises. John had to turn down the radio to listen again, an odd jangling under the hood, something was evidently wrong. Oh well, something for him to toy around with when he got home, hopefully he did make it that far. But, with his rubbish luck, the jingling and jangling only lasted about another half mile before all of the sudden there was a large bang and the car shuttered dangerously. John pulled over on the side of the road, turning off the engine and jumping out of the car as if it were going to explode suddenly, like a dramatic movie. But no, all the engine did was fizz and some black smoke emitted from under the hood, which could never be good. John sighed heavily, crunching through some heavy weeds to get to the cracked pavement road, looking around to see if there was any civilian life around here. Even a cow ranging in a pasture would be reassuring. This was a desolate place, the yellow lines in the middle of the road weren't even painted, they had long since faded away, and no one had mowed the grass around here for ages. It was almost a jungle of exotic weeds. John took a deep breath, grabbing his wallet from the car, a bottle of water in case he got stranded, his phone, and his keys, locking all of the doors and deciding to walk until he found someone that could help. There was bound to be life around here, these fields had to be owned by someone. He would've texted his parents a SOS, but around here there was no signal unless you were in the middle of town, so John didn't even bother checking. This was the definition of bad. So John walked, the hot sun burning down on him without any breeze to soften the air, the weeds and plants rustling in the wind, but no houses. Not even a fence, not a tractor; the air was so quiet that it was almost unnerving. When John was starting to give up hope, maybe an hour from when his idiotic car decided to stop working, he saw a break in the weeds up ahead, it looked like a driveway! John ran excitedly to the other side of the road, this meant there were people here, to help get his car to the nearest repair shop or even back home. John tuned on to the drive way, a simple dirt path winding up a hill, and stared up it. Perched on a hill, in the middle of nowhere, was a house right out of an episode of Scooby Doo. Not like he watched that...of course. It was large; it looked somewhat like a Victorian mansion and seemed to be in that condition as well, with peeling paint, dangling shudders and dusty windows. A shiver went down John's spine as he debated whether or not he was actually going to ask someone in there for help. It was bound to be abandoned, maybe its inhabitants are dead and no one noticed, he wouldn't have a hard time believing that, from where it was located. But never the less, there didn't seem to be another house for miles, and it was almost dinner time, his parents would be worried. So John brought himself to full height, which still is a lot shorter than most girls in his class, and started up the dirt road, walking up to the large porch wrapping around the house. There was an oak door on the front of the house, with stained glass windows that weren't just stained with color but also with many years of grime and mildew. John sighed, looking for a car in the garage or perhaps a silhouette of someone normal in the windows, but to no luck. This house seemed as deserted as the fields that surrounded it. So John walked up onto the porch, which squeaked dangerously underneath him, and knocked nervously on the door. For a moment there was no response, and John was debating turning around and hiking back to the car to wait for any passerby's, or his mother who decided to go on a rescue mission. The might have been the best option, but before John could turn around and walk off of this rotted old porch, there was shape of a man coming up to the door. John could see his figure through the glass, tall, thin, and seemingly normal. No visible hunch back, tail, or facial hair. He started to feel a bit better; this is probably some sweet old man, who was ever so happy to help a young chap in need. The figure paused at the door, as if trying to see who was knocking through the glass as well, and John waved a little bit nervously, not knowing what else to say. The door cracked open and he only saw half of the man's face, young by the looks of him, maybe college aged, with brown hair and permanent scowl lines.
"No solicitors." He snapped, starting to close the door.
"No, wait; I'm not a solicitor!" John yelled desperately, throwing his foot in the door. That only seemed to work in movies, and not with doors that were the width of your forearm and made of oak. Because that thing hurt like heck. John took his now throbbing foot out of the door, and the man opened it a bit more, just so that the daylight illuminated his face. He looked sort of normal, if not a little bit angry.
"If you don't want to sell me anything, why are you here?" he asked.
"My car broke down, a while away; this was the first house I saw." John admitted with an innocent sort of shrug. He could already tell this man wasn't going to help; he didn't seem the type to hike out a couple of miles to help a friend in need. His frown simply deepened and he looked at John very suspiciously, as if he had come with the intention of ruining his peaceful afternoon.
"And what is to be done about that?" he asked. John took a small step back in surprise, that was a very hostile, if not suspicious way of answering a plea for help.
"Well, I mean, I don't know if you had any handymen around, or you could call a tow truck or something." John shrugged.
"I don't know any tow truck numbers, and I don't have any...handymen around." The man said icily. He was making John very uncomfortable, as if he was simply stalling for his creepy family to come sneaking around the porch to catch John in a bear trap.
"Well, alright, um, thank you then, do you know another..."
"SHERLOCK!" the man screamed, his eyes still fixed on John. John nearly jumped off of the porch in horror, not knowing if that was some sort of battle cry or made up curse word, either way, John got the hint.
"I'm sorry, I don't...I should really go, thank you for your time." John decided, starting to scramble off the porch.
"Come back here, you idiot." The man insisted, opening the door wider and letting light into the equally dismal house. John was backing up very suspiciously, nearly tripping over the numerous rocks and weeds peppering the lawn. He definitely didn't want to go back onto the porch, god forbid he had knocked on the door of some cannibal. Suddenly another boy appeared at the man's side, around John's age who looked like he hadn't been out in the sun his entire life. His skin was so pasty that he contrasted greatly with the darkness of the house; seeming to glow from John's prospective.
"Yes Mycroft?" he asked in a very deep, monotone voice, sounding much more mature than he looked.
"This young man's car broke down, he needs assistance." The man, who must be Mycroft said. The boy looked over at John, who smiled rather innocently, trying to come across as friendly. So Sherlock wasn't a curse word, it was a name. Sherlock and Mycroft, not weird at all. Perfectly normal, not creepy. This was starting to feel more and more like the beginning of a horror movie.
"Why is he in the front yard?" Sherlock asked curiously, looking at John with a sort of pity, as if watching a confused animal at the zoo.
"I think I frightened him." Mycroft said with a little laugh, as if it were so hilarious to scare helpless boys.
"And what do you want me to do about this?" Sherlock asked.
"Drive him back to his car, take tools, see what you can do." Mycroft decided. The boy looked at Mycroft in confusion, obviously not wanting to say anything to upset the elder.
"And...what am I supposed to do with the tools?" Sherlock asked.
"You fix the car; do I need to spell it out for you? Now go!" Mycroft insisted, his eyes looking venomous. Sherlock nodded, scurrying back into the house, seemingly for some tools.
"What is your name?" Mycroft asked, staring at john once more. John was a little bit, well, terrified, and he could do no more than gape. "Your name boy or I shall call my brother off!" Mycroft demanded.
"John Watson, my name is John." John said very quickly, scampering backwards once more and nearly falling into a very overgrown bush.
"Well, John, I do hope you accept my idiotic younger brother can...satisfy your mechanical needs." Mycroft said with a very unnerving smile.
"Yes, sir, thank you." John said, nodding furiously. Mycroft's smile stayed on his face, his eyes wide and knowing, and he shut the door. So, where was Sherlock? John sighed, turning around and nearly walking right into the boy, shrieking very childishly and falling backwards into the uncut grass.
"I'm sorry, did I scare you?" Sherlock asked, not sounding sorry at all and not trying to help John up.
"Yes." John muttered, pulling himself to his feet and brushing off his pants.
"Yes well, get in the car." Sherlock decided. John looked around; he hadn't noticed a car earlier. But as promised, there was a black car that looked to be in worse condition than John's parked in the driveway, its engine running surprisingly quietly, for a car that old.
"Oh, alright." John agreed, walking very quickly around to the passenger seat and climbing inside. It smelled like a mix of smoke and old people, the leather interior peeling and cold, with flimsy seatbelts and windows you could only roll down with a hand crank. Sherlock got into the driver's seat, ignoring his seatbelt and starting to back down the driveway. As he concentrated on the road John got his first good look at him. He couldn't be any older than John, with extremely pale skin, jet black hair that provided a major contrast, and brilliant green eyes, like he had the universe trapped in his iris. He looked like a walking piece of modern art, it if weren't for the clothes he was wearing. It seemed that, along with his house and car, that he had stolen them from a museum, faded black slacks with a purple button down shirt and, despite the heat, an equally faded black jacket. What type of people did John manage to find?