Secretly I Think You Knew

Freedom is Fabulous

John POV: John woke up shivering, and for a moment he stared at the bleak, barren ceiling above him and wondered where he was. It wasn't until he felt the familiar warmth pressed up against him, the soft, slow breathing of Sherlock Holmes to realize he was exactly where he should be. John looked down at Sherlock, asleep on his chest, his skin stained with the scarlet blood, frozen in his hair and cloaking him in a gory paint. John's heart swelled even more to see Sherlock so close, to know that finally they had become free of their oppression, of their antagonist and became one. Sherlock, this innocent, pure boy, murdering his own brother so that John could live, there was no way John could ever repay him. John moved a little bit so that he could kiss the top of Sherlock's frozen head, kissing the top of his hair, deep in his curls, until finally Sherlock's breathing increased and his eyes opened.
"Good morning." John muttered. Sherlock took a deep breath, wrapping his arms tighter around John's chest and looking up into his eyes.
"John, did..." he looked over in horror at Mycroft's dark form, the light from under the freezer door illuminating him just enough to they could see the hilt of the blade sticking out from his jacket.
"It wasn't a dream." Sherlock whispered. John turned Sherlock's face gently away from the body of his brother, his blood covered face, his eyes gleaming even brighter in the sea of scarlet.
"I'm happy it wasn't." John agreed, pulling Sherlock's head down closer so that their lips could meet once more.
"This is...this is real?" Sherlock murmured.
"Of course it is Sherlock; you never have to be afraid again. You never needed me to protect you, you did it all on your own." John assured. Sherlock lay back down on john's chest, as if he was very okay with this being real.
"I'm all alone now." He whispered quietly, his fingers stroking the side of john's neck thoughtfully, as he realized just what he had done.
"You have me." John assured. "Think of how alone you would be if I were the one dead." Sherlock nodded, staring at the other figure lying on the ground, a couple of feet away. It was dressed in formal clothes as well, surrounded in its own pool of frozen blood.
"Is that Victor?" John whispered. Sherlock forced a nod, huddling even closer to John as if Victor's body would rise up and somehow take him away.
"He was the first." Sherlock whispered.
"And Mycroft made you kill him?" John asked gently.
"I would've had to kill you as well." Sherlock agreed.
"I'm happy you didn't." John assured.
"As am I." Sherlock agreed, sounding like he was in a small degree of shock. Of course, who wouldn't be, so much had happened that night it was startling how calm John was managing to be. It was Sherlock's presence; his beautiful body pressed so close, his fear, radiating off of his skin only to be absorbed by John immediately, calming him and making sure he was safe. John never wanted Sherlock to be scared again.
"School, we need..." Sherlock muttered, clambering quickly to his feet and standing rather awkwardly in the middle of the freezer.
"Who cares about school?" John whispered, getting to his feet as well and wrapping his arms around Sherlock from behind. Unfortunately Sherlock was a lot taller than him, so John could only just see over his shoulder.
"I do, John, Greg will be worried, you don't want him to panic." Sherlock insisted. John sighed, but nodded, letting go of Sherlock and walking over to Mycroft's body, which was blocking the door.
"Should I be the one to move him?" John asked. Sherlock nodded, looking away as if the sight of his brother's body was starting to become too much. The blood had long since stopped bubbling from the wound, but it was staining the tan suit, matching the tie a little bit too well.
"He would have had me dead." John decided, grabbing one of Mycroft's arms and pulling him away from the door, closer to the back of the freezer. Blood started to fall once more from behind the kitchen knife, staining John's bare feet even more.
"I'm sorry John, I'm so sorry, the very thought that I might have considered killing you..." Sherlock muttered, leaning against the wall and closing his eyes. John sighed, throwing Mycroft's limp body next to the figure in the back and turning back to where Sherlock was standing.
"It's not your fault Sherlock; I know it's not your fault. Your brother forced you, you've done nothing wrong." John assured. Sherlock nodded, his eyes still closed, shivering against the stone wall.
"We should shower, we're covered in blood." He muttered.
"That didn't seem to bother you before." John pointed out. Sherlock forced a smile, shaking his head carelessly.
"We have to look normal; we have to go to school." Sherlock insisted. John just stared at him, the most beautiful being he had ever come to know, so pure and so helpless and so breathtaking.
"You're right, as always." John agreed. Sherlock nodded, pulling open the freezer door and dashing up the stairs, leaving John in the freezer, alone with the dead. He sighed, walking over to Mycroft's body, lying in the blood covered darkness, finally alone.
"Well Mycroft, you deserved it." John decided, kneeling down so that he was just above his body. "You deserved everything, torturing your brother, threatening him, making him kill. I guess you learned the hard way, you give a boy a knife and he will kill his enemies. I am not his enemy Mycroft, as much as you'd like me to be. You're hiding behind my good intentions, twisting me away, mutating me in your brother's eyes so that I was some sort of villain. I assure you Mycroft, I am no villain." John grabbed the knife out of Mycroft's stomach, pulling it sharply out and letting some old blood fizzle out of the wound.
"I was always doing what I thought was right for Sherlock, I am right for Sherlock, and I think now, you realize that. I think finally he's old enough to think for himself, to realize that love is good, it is pure, it is happiness. Do you have a heart Mycroft? I'm sure you think you don't, well, I think we should find out." John dug the knife into Mycroft's chest; breaking through his rib cage and feeling the blade come into contact with some sort of organ. It had to be his heart, finally finished beating.
"There it is." John muttered triumphantly, dragging the knife through Mycroft's chest, carving the shape of a stereotypical heart onto his chest. "Now you have a heart Mycroft, just like me, just like Sherlock." John left the knife in Mycroft's chest, the fresh wound bleeding and soaking into his jacket. It looked beautiful, tragically beautiful in fact, and John stood and admired his handiwork. This was for Sherlock, all of this was for that tortured boy, and John vowed as he stared above the monster never to let that boy hurt again. Physically, emotionally, spiritually, if anyone tried to come between Sherlock and his happiness again, they would pay. If they tried to hurt him, John might just have to invite them over for dinner. When John climbed up the stairs to the living room he heard what sounded like water running upstairs, Sherlock was presumably in the shower. John sighed, his clothes covered in blood, he had to wash them before he went to school but he knew that wasn't possible. John pulled his shirt around himself, wandering over to the kitchen where there was a clock on the stove, 6:13; they had less than thirty minutes to get to school. The kitchen was still a mess, the table toppled over and all of the dishes still in the process of getting washed. Of course, Mycroft had been interrupted. John looked over at the chairs, some still standing, and tried to go back twelve hours, sitting in that chair, not having a clue what was about to happen. Why didn't he see it, Mycroft's sudden charm, his hospitality, Sherlock's nerves. That poor boy knew everything that was about to happen and yet he wasn't allowed to say anything, he was so scared. The idea that he had almost died wasn't exactly processing in John's mind, that Sherlock was inches away from tearing the life out of his neck. But he hadn't, something John had said had worked, Sherlock had somehow realized that he had other options, and he had taken them. Even though John couldn't understand how he didn't see what was going on, he was kind of happy he was blind to it. If John had run then Mycroft wouldn't be dead and he wouldn't have woken up with Sherlock on his chest. They were free, free of Mycroft for the rest of their lives, they could be together forever and ever and no one was going to stop them again. John climbed up the stairs to where he heard the water, seeing a light under a bathroom door, hearing the shower running and water splashing to the floor. John didn't know which bedroom was which, but he went into the one that was presumably Sherlock's, with a pair of his shoes tucked neatly next to the bed. It was a very nice bed, ancient by the looks of it, with curtains hanging around the edges for extra privacy. John could see Sherlock now, hiding behind those curtains, cowering under his covers while his brother paraded around the house, he could see Sherlock trying to lock the door as his brother tried to come in with his umbrella, trying to hit him and hurt him because he dared think for himself. John was filled with a white hot rage, balling up his fists and wanting so badly for Mycroft to be alive, just so he could kill him again. That man deserved so much worse, he deserved to be skinned alive with a poisoned blade, he should be happy he didn't suffer more. John didn't know what Sherlock would do now, with his only family gone; he was an orphan, the last Holmes on earth. Would he stay here, would he go to an orphanage? Surely Sherlock could take care of himself, but then again, he had John now. And he could go into town, he could buy himself groceries, get a job, he could have a life of his own, the window of opportunity was now open for good. John would have to make sure Sherlock was alright, he's killed before, but not to this extent. John was sure that killing your own brother didn't come without its own consequences, but then again, Mycroft was no brother. No wonder Sherlock was so scared, no wonder he had tried to talk John out of coming over for dinner. John couldn't help but laugh to himself when he realized Greg had been right, he had warned him not to go, he had said John would suffer the same fate as Victor, and he had been right. Now John and Sherlock were both criminals, one murderer and one accomplice, they would both serve time in prison if caught. But the good thing was, there was no way they would get caught. Mycroft had been, if anything, a recluse. No one knew him when he was alive and no one would notice his absence now that he was dead. Victor's death might have been harder to cover up, and John's murder surely would've been investigated, but Mycroft, who would alert the police if not Sherlock?
"I'm finished, if you wanted to shower." said Sherlock's voice behind him. John turned around and smiled, seeing Sherlock button up a fresh white shirt with sagging wet hair.
"What are you smiling about?" Sherlock asked, but even as he said it, his face broke into an unavoidable smile.
"What is there not to smile about?" John asked, coming closer and attempting to press another kiss to Sherlock's lips, but the boy held him away at arm's length.
"John, you're caked in my brother's blood, and I'm all clean." He insisted.
"Oh, what does it matter, we're late already." John laughed.
"Well then make it a quick one; I was already late once this week, I don't want to be again." Sherlock insisted. John just groaned, ruffling Sherlock's soggy curls and walking into the bathroom, which was still all steamy from the hot water.
"What should I wear?" John asked, opening the door back up and poking his head out.
"What do you mean?" Sherlock asked, still standing in the doorway of his bedroom. John just laughed, looking down at the ground and trying not to look too happy about being able to shamelessly gaze at the boy in front of him, the morning light streaming through the window and making his white shirt glow.
"I mean my clothes are covered in blood." John pointed out.
"Not a sentence you hear every day." Sherlock decided.
"Do you have anything a little bit more...casual?" John asked.
"Well I suppose so, they might be a bit too big, but I have some." Sherlock agreed.
"My jeans can be washed quickly; I don't know about my shirt, it's pretty covered." John muttered. Sherlock went into his room for a moment and came back with a smaller looking black button down shirt.
"Will this work?" he asked. John nodded, trading Sherlock the shirt for his blood covered jeans.
"Just wash them out under the sink, they should be alright." He decided.
"Alright, just no signs of blood, no suspicion. I don't want the cops to come." Sherlock insisted. John just laughed again, wanting nothing more than to kiss this idiot in front of him.
"I'll be right out." he decided, closing the door, grabbing a towel from the closet, and stepping into the shower. It was a bit of work getting the blood off of himself, it seemed to be everywhere, streaked along his face (thanks Sherlock), in his hair, on his skin, but soon it all just washed off, and with every drop a little bit more of Mycroft went spiraling down the drain. John heard Sherlock come in and deliver his freshly washed jeans but thankfully the shower curtain was thick fabric and he couldn't see so much as a silhouette from the bathroom. So when John was done he quickly dried himself off with the towel, slid into his clean yet slightly damp jeans, and put on Sherlock's shirt, not bothering to button it yet, as it was just a little bit too big. As skinny as Sherlock was he had a lot longer arms and torso, so John felt like he was wearing some very odd night shirt. But then again, it felt appropriate, like sharing sweatshirts with last names on it. Sherlock always wore the same couple of button down shirts; it felt right to be wearing one of them the day they had first kissed. The fabric was soft and it smelled a little bit like Sherlock, it was very satisfying. He dried his hair the best he could with a towel and used some old looking mouthwash on the bathroom counter, feeling as good as new. He tried to ignore the blood on the shower walls, mixed with the shampoo foam that had somehow stuck. John stepped out of the bathroom, taking a deep breath of the slightly colder air outside in the hallway, Sherlock nowhere to be found.
"Sherlock?" John called, checking in his bedroom where there was still no Sherlock. John raced down the stairs, suddenly worried. Of course there was no danger in this house, but after an emotional roller coaster like that, you never know.
"Sherlock?" John yelled, running into the living room desperately.
"What are you yelling about?" Sherlock asked, reappearing from the kitchen with a small smile on his face.
"Nothing, I just didn't know where you went." John admitted.
"It's my house John, I'm sure I won't get lost." Sherlock assured with a small smile. John sighed heavily, staring at Sherlock for a moment, finally staring at his official boyfriend.
"You're beautiful, you know that? Downright gorgeous." John decided. Sherlock blushed a little bit, looking down at the floor as if ashamed of being flattered.
"Thank you, you're gorgeous as well." He assured, seeming as if he didn't know quite what to say.
"You owe me a kiss; by the way, I don't have any blood on me now." John pointed out. Sherlock just laughed, walking up and pressing a quick kiss to John's lips, which didn't satisfy him at all.
"Oh come on!" John insisted.
"Button up your shirt, we'll be late!" Sherlock called, grabbing his backpack from the hallway and staring out a side door.
"Should I drive?" John asked, running to catch up.
"We'll just take my car; your clothes are in the washing machine so I'm sure you'll be back." Sherlock shrugged, opening the garage door.
"Well of course I'll be back." John agreed, buttoning up his shirt as quickly as possible and walking into the garage.