Secretly I Think You Knew

What Should've Been

        Sherlock POV: Sherlock didn't really know why he ran, he didn't know why he was still running, and he most certainly had no idea why he was running away from John Watson. If there was any reason to run it would be for protection, for love, and for comfort, and John was the only person in this entire world that offered Sherlock all three. And he was running as if his life depended on it. Sherlock tore through the streets of the little development where John lived, down the main road, dodging all sorts of pedestrians, dogs, street lamps, trash cans, sprinting back to the library in case Mycroft decided to show up hours early. When finally Sherlock climbed all of the stairs to the main doors he was relieved to see that there was no Mycroft waiting for him at the entrance, there was no black car parked out front, obviously Mycroft had stuck with his end of the deal. Sherlock, of course, did not. He walked nervously into the library, trying not to look so terrified, trying to look as if he were returning from a carefree stroll with a friend, only a friend...that was all. Sherlock realized that he hadn't even grabbed his backpack, it was still at John's, he would have to come over and return it like he did the lunch box. Or maybe for once he would use what little bit of a brain he had and bring it to school. And then they would have to face each other, and look at each other, and all the memories will come flooding back and John would think that Sherlock hates him and will never want to talk to him again because he had run but that wasn't the truth Sherlock loved him he always loved him and now he was just....scared. Sherlock was absolutely bloody terrified. He walked over to the bathroom, which was hardly ever occupied thankfully, and shut the door, locking it and staring at his reflection in the mirror. He looked pale yet flustered with exercise, he was breathing heavy but he was sure that if he had just taken the bus he would still feel like he had finished a marathon. John Watson, the John Watson he had imagined and daydreamed and drawn about had actually tried to kiss him! But why, what did he do differently this time, what might he need to do next time, might there not be a next time? Sherlock might have screwed it up, this was probably a once in a life time opportunity, the minute John decides Sherlock isn't worth it is the moment his heart travels onto another poor soul that he decided to help. Sherlock was his charity project, his good deed for the year, so was he just playing around? Or did John actually mean it...did he want to hold Sherlock's hand and want to stare into his eyes and want to kiss him? Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment and he could see John coming closer and closer, his beautiful eyes starting to close, his mouth slightly open, his lips ready to get the first touch of Sherlock's lips, their souls fully prepared to intertwine. And then Sherlock could see himself running, falling over himself in a mad rush to get away even though that had been all he had ever wanted in life. Even Victor hadn't tried to kiss him; even Victor never held his hand. John was something special, different, entirely new, and Sherlock was going to lose him as well. But this time he wasn't going to have to kill him, this time it wasn't directly Mycroft's fault. This time it had been the remains of Mycroft's rules, the thought that the moment their lips met that John would be in more danger than Victor had ever been in. Sherlock had a strange feeling that John wasn't the best at keeping secrets, especially if he had a grudge with Greg about Sherlock's dedication to their friendship. He's want to parade his new boyfriend around the school and somehow word would leak out and somehow Mycroft would find out and Sherlock would finally see the betrayal and fear in John Watson's beautiful chocolate eyes as he slid a knife over his windpipe. Sherlock could never do that, no, for John's sake, for everyone's sake, there will be no romance. In fact Sherlock shouldn't even talk to him at all. Maybe it was best to let the things you love go, but this time Sherlock wasn't accepting them back. If John came back he would end up in the freezer, his frost bitten, cracking body lying next to Victor's, the blood clotted in ice crystals, the frozen eyes staring at the dark ceiling... Yes, that it what he will do. John might take it the wrong way, what if he thought this meant Sherlock hated him? What if Sherlock's sudden abandonment made him think that his feelings weren't mutual? No, that was a good thing. The more Sherlock hurt John the less he would ever want to come back. The more Sherlock hurt John, the safer he would be. Sherlock cupped his hands together and held them under the cold water of the sink, splashing it over his face so that he couldn't tell the water from the tears that dripped down onto his jacket. There was no difference, John's leaving wouldn't hurt him, he wouldn't dwell on the things that could've been, he would remember that because he is leaving John, the boy had a guaranteed future. Maybe he could find someone else, some woman, having children, buy a house, start a family and be happy. And Sherlock would still be with his brother, nowhere to go, no one to talk to, no one to protect him and no one to love. For years and years until finally Mycroft joined the souls in Heaven he had sent there. Well, maybe he would have a family reunion with their uncle down in hell. That was more like it.
"How was the project?" Mycroft asked hours later as Sherlock stumbled into the car.
"Oh, it was good." Sherlock agreed.
"Where is it? I expected an extravagant poster." Mycroft asked with a sort of laugh, pulling onto the road and driving off to their house.
"It was online, PowerPoint, so I had to use a computer." Sherlock shrugged.
"Where is your backpack?" Mycroft asked, eyeing Sherlock suspiciously.
"Backpack? I didn't have a backpack." Sherlock said quickly. Mycroft's eyes narrowed in suspicion but he couldn't seem to find anyway to blame John for this little apparent gap in his memory.
"I thought you did." He muttered, turning his eyes back on the road. Sherlock sighed, watching as the trees and the fields went by, feeling a dull aching where he had thought his heart had been. When they got home Sherlock disappeared into his bedroom, pulling the curtains around his bed once more, a handy little trick for secret diary drawings. Mycroft waited downstairs, oblivious of everything that had just happened in Sherlock's life, so many things he would be uncomfortable with. But obviously something of Mycroft was sticking to Sherlock; something was able to scare him away from any sign of romantic interest from anyone. Mycroft's rules had managed to scare Sherlock straight, almost literally. Sherlock sighed, grabbing a rather dull pencil from his bedside table and opening the book once more. This time he skipped straight through the Victor drawings, all from years past, weeks and weeks drawing and wishing and daydreaming about that boy. Oh, if only he could have Victor, oh, he would never notice me, oh, Mycroft might not approve. Might is the key word, because that was before Sherlock really knew the extent his brother's hatred went. Sherlock and Mycroft had a fabulous relationship before Sherlock actually grew up, grew...interested. They were the perfect siblings, both friends and family in their little cave of a house, not going outside, not caring what they were missing, living the life Mycroft had picked for them and not saying a word in complaint. Sherlock lived that life because he had no idea what it was like to live anyway different. He didn't know that relationships were wonderful, he didn't know the obsessive beauty love and crushes brought, he never knew that people were actually wonderful, not the monsters Mycroft described. As a little boy Mycroft had always taught Sherlock to fear people, women most of all. Maybe that's why Sherlock turned out to be gay after all, because Mycroft was terrified he would fall in love with a woman someday, and tried to turn Sherlock against them. He said they would bait him, kiss him, then tear his heart out and clear his bank account. Sherlock had been terrified of women as he started to grow up, so scared in fact that when he was in school he would only hang out with the other boys. But he soon found out that he wasn't much like those children, the boys in the backwards baseball hats and basketball shorts, the ones who played sports and liked bugs and thought girls were the best creation to walk to earth. Sherlock soon found that he had nothing in common with any of the children, until he met Victor Trevor. It was around freshman year when Sherlock had first met him; a boy dressed for an occasion, a boy wearing slacks and a button down for school. Just like Sherlock. He was a grade above Sherlock, which is why it had taken him ten years to notice, but Victor showed Sherlock kindness like no other. They shared a math class together and whatever Sherlock couldn't figure out (which wasn't math oriented, more like how to turn on his laptop), Victor helped with. He was charming, he was handsome, and everything Sherlock did seemed to amuse him. The boy seemed to be as taken as Sherlock as Sherlock was with him. Of course, Sherlock started to get thoughts, get feelings, although he couldn't place them, he didn't know what it meant. He had felt very odd, getting extremely embarrassed when Victor was around, blushing when the boy turned his brilliant blue eyes on him, and for once there seemed to be an aching, a yearning in the place Mycroft said his heart was. Soon the notebook started, picture upon picture until one day Sherlock discovered that this wasn't friendship, this wasn't admiration, he was in love. He was absolutely breathtakingly in love and there was nothing he could do about it. He knew Mycroft wouldn't like it, but he thought that maybe he'd grow more accustomed, that possibly by getting to know Victor he might accept that not all humans were bad. So Sherlock had told his brother, he told him...everything. That was probably that worst idea Sherlock has ever had, because as soon as dinner was over Mycroft gave Victor a tour of the house, starting with the basement. He encouraged him to go into the freezer, and locked him in there, until at least Sherlock was forced to come down. Forced to open the door and see his love freezing, terrified, knowing that the only thing he could do to Victor's fear was enhance it. That was the last Sherlock had seen of Victor Trevor, and Sherlock didn't want to lose John as well. He didn't want to have to watch Mycroft drag John down the basement stairs, he didn't want to have to hear him screaming, pounding against the freezer door, begging for help, as Mycroft selected the best kitchen blade to slit John's throat. Sherlock pressed the pencil to his notebook, taking a deep breath and letting his hand flow once more, his thoughts, memories, all pouring out onto the paper and materializing in graphite before his eyes. After a while Sherlock put his pencil down and observed his new creation. Once again it was he and John, both seeming as if they were sitting but there was no background, there never was in Sherlock's creations. Sherlock's hand was in John's, and they were centimeters away from kissing. This must be what had happened at John's house, they were sitting on the bed, watching sports, not a care in the world. In this representation though, Sherlock was looking eager, excited, excepting, as did John. Sherlock knew that if he could jump into the world of his pictures that this Sherlock wouldn't run, he wouldn't run from his love and from his life. The two lucky graphite lines would kiss and they would fall in love, something Sherlock could never do. He could never let John get too close to Mycroft; he could never get Mycroft too close to John. The two couldn't ever meet, they couldn't lay eyes on each other, because it they did, well, John's body would be lying downstairs in the freezer, where Sherlock could never see him, where Sherlock could never find him, where Sherlock could never love him.