Secretly I Think You Knew

Straight Outta The 1800's

"So, do you go to school around here?" John asked as they started back up the road to where John's car was stranded. There was a very awkward silence, and Sherlock didn't respond. John didn't want to ask the question again, so he didn't say anything more, wishing he could roll down the window without making a big production. So he simply stared out the window nervously, hoping this boy wasn't going to lead him to some shady cabin in the woods.
"Yes." Sherlock muttered. John looked at him in slight confusion.
"I'm sorry?" John asked.
"Yes, I do go to school here. I go to the only high school around here." Sherlock agreed.
"Ah, Westerly?" John asked, thankful for some conversation on the most uncomfortable car ride ever.
"Yes." Sherlock agreed.
"What year? I don't think you're in mine, I would've seen you by now." John decided.
"Eleven year." Sherlock muttered.
"So am I, how have I not seen you before?" John asked in confusion, not terribly sorry he hadn't gotten an opportunity to meet this boy before now.
"I wouldn't expect you to notice me, no one ever does. I'm sure a lot of people don't know I exist." Sherlock muttered dramatically, staring out the windshield without glancing at John once more.
"Well, I mean, I'm sure some people notice you. I see you now." John admitted. Sherlock smiled, but it wasn't a happy smile, more like one you see in a sad chick flick when the main character insists they're okay.
"You see a part of me John. You see nothing more than the part of me I want you to see, the rest is hidden." Sherlock pointed out. John blinked rather nervously, was he quoting poetry or was he just really dramatic?
"Well, yes, that is the tragedy of strangers, you don't quite know them." John agreed, trying to get an intelligent stream of word out. Of course, he incredibly failed.
"Well, we're not strangers, not anymore." Sherlock decided.
"No, I suppose not." John muttered, although he was pretty sure he wanted nothing else to do with this boy once he was back on the road in his own car. Finally the little hunk of junk was spotted, on the edge of the road right where John had left it, looking perfectly normal.
"Is that your car?" Sherlock asked.
"No, that's just someone else's car, parked on the side of the road, broken down." John snapped. Sherlock kept driving.
"No, that was sarcastic, that's mine!" John yelled just as they were about to drive past it. Sherlock slammed on the brakes so aggressively John nearly hit his head off the dashboard, growling in annoyance but straightening up in an effort to look appreciative.
"Why didn't you just say so?" Sherlock asked, as If this were John's fault.
"Well, I kind of just assumed you'd react normally to sarcasm, not take it literally." John muttered.
"I'm a very literal person, don't play word games." Sherlock suggested, backing the car up to park in front of the John's bucket of bolts. John jumped out of the car while Sherlock very elegantly climbed out, taking an old looking tool box out of the trunk and walking around to where John's car was hissing suspiciously. John walked up to the car and pulled up the hood, sighing as he saw that the engine looked fried.
"Well, there's your problem." Sherlock muttered, poking the charred engine with a wrench.
"What are we supposed to do with that?" John groaned, holding the hood up with that weird little bar thing and staring at the inside of his car in disgust. If only he had a better car, then he never would be in this mess.
"I could drive you back to town. I don't know why Mycroft sent me with these tools; I don't even know what they do." Sherlock admitted, examining the wrench curiously.
"You can't fix a fried engine with anything except a new one, so don't bother with that." John decided. Sherlock looked at him for a moment, making John very uncomfortable, but there seemed to be a sort of spark of interest in his glare, as if something in John excited him.
"And what do you suggest I do then?" Sherlock asked.
"If it's not too much trouble, could you drive me back to my house? It's in town, but then I can have my parents help out a bit, get a tow truck and whatnot." John decided.
"Of course, yes." Sherlock agreed. John sighed, putting the hood down and wiping his brow. It really was hot out.
"I haven't even eaten dinner yet, tonight is a disaster." John groaned, checking his watch and seeing that it was close to six. It was a Sunday night too, John had homework and responsibilities, he did not have time for this.
"You have to admit, it's rather exciting." Sherlock decided as he walked back to his old car. John raised a confused eyebrow, but nodded as if in default.
"A bit, I suppose." He muttered, not thinking running around with some wax figure was very exciting. But he had no choice, so he climbed back into the passenger seat of the car and waited for Sherlock to get situated, putting the tools in the back seat and getting back into the driver's seat.
"Would you like me to turn on the radio?" Sherlock offered, sounding like this was some great burden he was doing out of the goodness of his heart.
"Ya, sure, cut through this awkward silence." John agreed.
"It's only silence if you don't talk." Sherlock agreed, turning on the radio. John was expecting some pop hits, maybe even country music given they were in the middle of corn fields. But no, it was classical music, complete with a violin, a piano, and absolutely no lyrics. John's frown only depended.
"You live in town?" Sherlock guessed as they kept driving, having passed Sherlock's house a while back.
"Yes." John agreed, watching the numerous trees and fields go by. This car was ancient, but he had to admit, it was pretty cool to drive in.
"Mycroft never lets me go into town, not if I'm not going to school." Sherlock admitted. John looked back at his driver in surprise, that seemed like a very lonely way to live life.
"Why not?" John asked.
"Oh, I'm not sure. He doesn't think human interactions are very healthy." Sherlock admitted.
"How aren't they? You learn a lot by talking with other people." John pointed out.
"Mycroft, well, I shouldn't get into my personal life." Sherlock sighed, tapping the wheel along to the piano notes on the radio.
"Do you have any friends at school?" John asked.
"No, not particularly." Sherlock admitted.
"That's, well, sad." John admitted. Sherlock shrugged, but John just looked at him peculiarly. No wonder this boy was so odd, he had no concept of normal teenage life. Judging on all John knew about him, he probably enjoyed going to school.
"It's not sad, it's practical. Entanglements distract me, emotions are pointless, and conversations themselves are a complete waste of time." Sherlock decided.
"But how do you have fun?" John wondered.
"I, well, I don't know. I suppose I read, draw, write." Sherlock shrugged.
"You write stories and stuff?" John asked. Sherlock sighed heavily, as if he really didn't want to talk about it.
"Stories, yes, mostly poetry." Sherlock admitted.
"Poetry, very manly." John laughed. Sherlock glared at him and John recoiled a little bit, regretting having become friendly with this boy. He should stick to silence and listen to Mozart's best hits.
"It doesn't have to be manly; it's a good way to express myself." Sherlock decided.
"Does your brother read it?" John asked. Sherlock just chuckled a little bit; his smiled forced and rather cold.
"Mycroft? No, I'm not sure he wants me to express myself at all. I'm not supposed to show feelings, I am, what you might call, a sociopath." Sherlock pointed out. John raised his eyebrows in doubt.
"A sociopath, like someone that doesn't feel anything?" John asked.
"Well, nothing pointless. Guilt, sadness, love, all pointless emotions, mutations of feelings that are better left ignored." Sherlock decided.
"So you're saying you could drive this car into a tree and watch me die, and you'd feel nothing?" John asked.
"Would you like to find out?" Sherlock asked, swerving slightly to the side of the road. John screamed, clutching onto his seat and preparing for impact. However, it never came, and Sherlock just kept driving in his lane, laughing a little bit at John's terrified expression.
"No, I wouldn't feel anything." Sherlock admitted.
"Obviously." John muttered, regaining his composure. They drove into town a short while later, all the familiar shops and stores passing by.
"Alright, just down this road, into the little development." John decided. Sherlock followed his instructions, taking John down the road towards his house.
"Alright, right there on the left." John decided. Sherlock nodded, pulling over on the side of the road and watching John for a moment.
"Yep, this is it." John agreed. "Would you like to come in, have a cup of coffee or something?" he offered, feeling bad that he made this kid drive all the way out here just to drop him off. Sherlock smiled rather sadly and shook his head.
"No, I'm fine." He admitted. John nodded, feeling rather awkward, but opening his door, about to get out.
"Alright then, thanks mate." He decided, going to clap Sherlock's shoulder in appreciation. Instead Sherlock recoiled, flattening himself to the door and avoiding John's hand as obviously as possible.
"I don't like to be touched." He muttered, watching John's hand as if it were a loaded gun.
"Oh, sorry about that." John muttered. "Well, thanks again, I guess I'll see you at school."
"I'm sure you won't." Sherlock muttered. John nodded, getting out of the car and closing the door. As soon as he stepped onto his front yard Sherlock sped away, not bothering to make sure John was let into the house. Well, whatever, if he wanted to be a jerk, let him be a jerk. John sighed, walking up to his front door and knocking on the door, hoping someone was home. Finally the door opened, and his mother came bustling out, nearly strangling him in an attempt to give him a hug.
"Oh John, where were you?" she exclaimed. John struggled for air, practically prying his mother off and stepping the minimum safe distance away.
"My bloody car broke down." he groaned, stepping into the nice air conditioned house.
"How did you get back home? You didn't walk, did you?" she asked, coming in as well and shutting the door.
"No I didn't walk, I found some house on the road, this kid drive me home, my car's still out there." John groaned.
"Oh, well I should probably hire a tow truck then?" she guessed, looking rather nervous.
"That will help, ya." John agreed. Mr. Watson came out of the kitchen, looking rather indifferent.
"Those groceries are probably all spoiled now." He decided with a frown.
"I'm fine dad, thanks for asking." John muttered sarcastically.
"Sorry John, are you alright?" he asked with a laugh. John just rolled his eyes, staring up the stairs to his room.
"I'm fine, I'm going to take a shower though, and I need to get some homework done!" he called down.
"Alright dear, we'll get your car back!" Mrs. Watson assured.
"I hope so. Or better yet, leave it there and get me a new one!" John suggested.
"We'll get your car back." Mr. Watson insisted, and with that John ran up to his room and shut the door, having had enough of their pestering for now.                                                    

        Sherlock POV: Sherlock drove back out from the town, through the barren country roads and corn fields, having long since turned off the radio. It just didn't sound right, listening to beautiful pieces of art from the eighteen hundreds on a car stereo. It didn't capture the magic in the music like a record player did. He drove back up to his house, pulling the car into the garage and grabbing the tool box from the back seat, not knowing why Mycroft made him take it in the first place. What was he supposed to do with a tool box, take the engine apart and get Mr. Watson back on the road? He was no mechanic, he couldn't even figure out how to hammer a nail. John was right; he wasn't very manly at all. Then again, there was no one to judge him but Mycroft, who had made sure that he fitted exactly the correct mold. Mycroft had raised Sherlock since he was a child, both of their parents having died in a car crash right after Sherlock was born. They had moved into their grandparent's house, who were dead as well, inheriting all of their old possessions, their clothes, their music, and their furniture. Sherlock felt as though every time he entered his house he was plunged back to the 1800's, when life was simple and people kinder. He rather wished he was in the 1800's; he wouldn't be looked at as if he were some sort of freak. Sherlock sighed, shutting the car door and walking in through the side of the house, pulling the screen door shut and locking it with the little latch. 

"Mycroft, I'm home!" he called, walking through the dingy mud room and into the living room. Mycroft was sitting on a large armchair, sitting stiff as a board, reading the newspaper. There was a record on the record player, some sort of opera. Mycroft loved opera, while Sherlock preferred instrumental pieces, which was alright. At least he didn't have a thing for the top pop hits, then Mycroft was bound to kick him out of the house.
"I'm home." Sherlock repeated, dropping the tool box on the couch and starting off to the kitchen for a drink of water.
"Put those tools back where they were, I don't want them messing up my couch." Mycroft snapped, not bothering with a hello. Sherlock sighed, turning around and taking the tool box to the closest, putting them on the top shelf and walking back to the kitchen, filling a dusty old glass with water and going back to the living room to sit on the couch. Mycroft still didn't look up from the paper, as if whatever he was reading was very important.
"How did that boy behave?" Mycroft asked. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but wasn't very surprised at the question. Mycroft was very interested in the few people they come in contact with. He wanted to make sure the rest of the world behaved as practically as the Holmes family did, as few of them as there was.
"He was kind, thankful." Sherlock shrugged.
"What did he say?" Mycroft asked.
"Lots of things, he didn't like silence." Sherlock admitted, sipping his water and staring at the old coffee table in the middle of the room. There was no TV in this house, Sherlock wasn't sure why, but maybe Mycroft felt like it modernized them. Maybe he felt like a TV would corrupt Sherlock's character, like the townspeople and the modern world did.
"Did he touch you?" Mycroft tasked, ruffling the newspaper to see a different article.
"He tried to clap my shoulder, I avoided it." Sherlock admitted.
"Good, you don't know where that boy has been before." Mycroft decided.
"Are you afraid I'm going to catch some sort of disease?" Sherlock wondered. Mycroft looked up at his brother from over top of the newspaper, the first time he had looked at his brother since he had walked in.
"No, I'm afraid you're going to catch feelings. You know what happened last time that happened." Mycroft insisted, going back to his paper in boredom. Sherlock sighed in regret, tapping his toes together just to give himself something to do.
"I made a mistake and I recognize that. I won't happen again, and it certainly won't happen with something as simple as a touch." Sherlock assured.
"I hope not, for your sake. You know who you are, and you know what you are. Feelings are unnecessary, they are impractical and for you they shall remain impossible." Mycroft pointed out.
"I know Mycroft, I've heard the lecture." Sherlock agreed.
"Now go wash that glass, it looks dirty." Mycroft insisted.
"Of course it's dirty, it's ancient." Sherlock pointed out.
"Are you complaining about your way of life?" Mycroft asked, staring his brother right in the eye, as if challenging him to say something.
"No Mycroft, I was just stating the obvious." Sherlock insisted, getting reluctantly to his feet and walking over to the kitchen, washing off the cup and starting off to his room.
"Where are you going?" Mycroft asked.
"To my bedroom, is there a problem?" Sherlock asked.
"No, of course not." Mycroft assured.
"Good, thank you." Sherlock insisted, rushing up the large wooden staircase and down the hall to where his bedroom was.