When I craned my neck towards the window once more I finally saw a darkened figure approaching through the very dim light that the windows were able to produce. Yes, that was John; he was carrying that same puny bag on his shoulder, walking with the same stature and swagger. I breathed a sigh of relief, grabbing both my trunks before casting my abandoned looking bedroom a rather pitiful gaze. It felt wrong to have to say goodbye, for such a room had always provided my comfort when there was none. It seemed as though throughout my entire life I would always end up here, no matter what happened. And now it would be the last time I ever said goodbye, the last time I turned my back upon such a bed, without the intention of returning. It was something more emotional than I had anticipated; nevertheless I forged on without a tear in my eye. The tear only began to form when I stared back down the hallway, towards my poor brother's room, where the man would be undoubtedly asleep. The door was closed for the night, and it was not my job to open it. It was not within my power to disturb him, no matter how much I wanted to wrap my arms around his neck and plead for his blessing, and for his forgiveness. Bold as I was at that age, I loved my brother still. I wanted him to be happy; I wanted him to join me in my quest for actualization, I wanted him to accept himself even though he was afraid of what he had become. Nevertheless I turned away, knowing that emotions were the things that were getting me into this mess in the first place. I need not complicate the matter by letting more stream into my already hysteric mind. And so I crept down the stairs, noticing John's silhouette through the glass, and striding forward to open the door and escape with him. I was halted, however, by the slightest creak of a floor board. Followed then, by another.
"Are you going somewhere, William?" asked the grunting voice of my father, hidden somewhere in the living room behind my back. I froze, unsure if I should make a run for it or if I should turn and make some excuse. I didn't know what it was he expected of me, or if he knew the truth yet or not. I dropped my bags, trembling from head to toe as I turned to face the villain himself. My father was standing tall, towering in the doorway like a threatening mountain. In one of his hands he held a beer bottle, and in the other he clenched a fist so tight that I recoiled in fear.
"I'm just...no I'm not going anywhere." I whispered, for I knew that even though it was impossible to lie, it was still better than speaking the truth.
"Come here then, if you are not." My father insisted, beckoning me to him with that bottle of beer. He took another swig, his eyes growing wide again, and insisted once more that I approach. I hoped that John might know what was going on, for surely I had become at least a minute late by now. I hoped to God that he heard my voice, and would know to come and save me if need be. I couldn't help but think that my plan was foiled, I couldn't help but worry that my only chance of escape had been foiled by my own carelessness. I should've looked before I ran into the kitchen...oh what a fool I was if that was the only thing that had stood in my way! I had no choice but to step forward to the spot appointed to me, just a foot from where my father stood, so close that I could feel his breath stinking of stale beer. He stared at me with those small, watery eyes, his lips turning up into a snarl.
"Why have you got bags packed?" he asked.
"I was preparing for...for moving in with Irene." I managed quietly, wincing as my lie materialized upon the beast's face.
"Leaving so prematurely then? Deciding to leave in the dead of night, escape off with your mistress?" he presumed.
"Yes...yes I was anxious to." I agreed hesitantly.
"I think not." The man decided, his hand shooting out and hastening itself around my neck. I struggled, grasping at his hand around my throat in some panic. While it was not strong enough to strangle me yet I knew that it would take one wrong word, and so my eyes bulged in panic and my fingers began to tear at his, trying to yank them loose.
"You are not going anywhere tonight, William." My father insisted.
"Yes alright. Alright I'll...I'll go back upstairs." I promised with what little breath I could conjure, for his grip was tightening. I began to panic, struggling now to keep my lips closed, and to keep myself from crying out for help. I knew that with a scream John would come running, yet I also knew that his appearance would only escalate matters. If I could settle this quietly, and without much dispute, all would work out fine. I could sneak out the window later, return for my bags when I knew he would be passed out, and all would be well. And yet his grip clung tighter, and my breath became weaker. My lungs became deflated and my heart slowed to a dangerous rate. I began to panic, and with such a panic I felt a scream emerge from my lips. A scream that, unfortunately, took the shape of John's name. Just as soon as my cry got to his ears, the door flung open and my hero arrived. Just as I had presumed, however, he did not come as a very esteemed guest.
"Watson! Get out of my house this instant!" My father exclaimed, his grip tightening so heavy on my throat now that I could not manage a breath. I could not even gasp, for his hands were so constricting upon my neck that air could not sneak by. I was suffocating. I kicked now, I kicked and opened my mouth in panic, and with a flying scream John came rushing at the man, trying to come to my aid. Oh what a hero he tried to be, and what a terrible fool he amounted to. Thankfully his attack forced my father's attention away from me, and his hand fell off of my neck to intercept the flying man. I fell to the floor, gasping for breaths as they came slowly in, clutching at my own throat in an attempt to get air moving more freely, coughing as I had never coughed before. I lay crouching on my hands and knees, watching as John bolted at my father with the force of a thousand men, and a rage in his eyes as I had never seen it. No matter my savior's dedication, all of this brute's force was enough to deflect John's rage, and hit him square in the stomach with a punch that could kill a cow. John fell back with a grunt, falling against the doorway as my father readjusted himself and got ready to kick us both while we were down.
"Working together now, are we?" he wondered, his eyes growing evilly in his sockets. "Were you going to take my son away, Watson? Were you going to steal him from me?"
"Were you going to kill him?" John shot back, gasping for his own breath before staggering to his feet and putting up his hands for a fight. My father appeared to be twice as tall as he was, and easily three times as wide. I knew just by watching that John was disadvantaged in a fight, save for the motivation behind such a quarrel. He had the tenacity to keep swinging, even if he had fallen down. He was an idiot, for as long as I knew him. Standing up to any bullies who might try to cross my path, no matter how unmatched the fight was. It didn't take long until John finally swung away, hitting my father square in the jaw before recoiling and going back into a defensive position. Such a blow had not even fazed the large man, and in an instant he swung that beer bottle and smashed it against John's head. It exploded in a cloud of glass and foul liquid, causing such crash that I was sure it must've killed him. I let out a scream of agony, and yet found it within myself to try to save us all. I knew that while John was still fighting my father's attention would be on him, and that I would be free to sneak along the kitchen and use the resources offered to me. I needed to make sure that tonight I would not lose another one of my loved ones to my father's maniacal fist. I knew that no matter what, I had to preserve John Watson. And so, while the two scuffled (John now sporting a terrible gash atop his golden head) I pulled myself towards the cabinets and retrieved the wickedest looking knife I could manage. It was a clean blade, one that might stab him with ease should I manage. My only hesitation, with bringing a knife into this fist fight, is that it might end up being used against me. I had to make quick work of this brute; otherwise I might find myself falling under the blade of my own weapon. And so I closed the drawer, handling the knife carefully as I hobbled towards where my father was now swinging madly at John. My lover was huddled into himself, still fighting despite how badly he was surely beaten. His face was bruised, his head bleeding, and his nose spurting a fresh stream of blood. He looked hideous, and yet the fact that he had not fallen was due entirely to the love he had for me, I knew that. I couldn't walk fast, for I was fatigued from my own fate, and yet thankfully neither of their attention turned onto me. Thankfully my father didn't notice his youngest son approaching, creeping slowly across the tiles with a blade in his hand. John swung a punch, the man sidestepped, and with a fist stronger than iron he knocked John clean to the ground. The boy fell hard, hitting his chin against the molding and staying down, only to get hit again and again with equally powerful kicks.
"What business do you have in my house, what business do you have with my son?" My father yelled, heaving all of his strength against John's bones, breaking him with every kick planted in the right spot. It was now or never, if I didn't kill the man now, he would kill the only boy who had ever meant anything to me. It was up to me, to end his life before he took one. I crept behind, raising the blade...
"William, stop!" cried a new voice, interrupting us all enough to look towards where my brother had materialized on the staircase. Undoubtedly he had been drawn to the noise, and looked upon us all with such horror that I dropped the blade in shock. I couldn't contemplate what I was doing, what I was about to do...and in my utter terror at seeing Mycroft's astonished face I went completely limp. The knife clattered to the floor, and like that my father noticed it, turning his attention on me now.
"You would kill me, boy? You would kill your own father?" he growled. I opened my mouth, finding no words that might come out. Instead I backed into the wall, cowering like a baby, feeling tears of fear leak out of my eyes.
"Father don't hurt him! My god, everyone just calm down!" Mycroft begged, and yet his words meant nothing. He had no idea what he had walked into, what sort of blood bath. And yet he was too late, his words bounced off effortlessly, and I felt a fist against my chest so powerful that not just my breath, but my very lungs, flew out of my throat. I crumbled to the floor just in time to see John begin to twitch, the man just finally coming back to life. He was a horrible sight, a mess of blood and bruises. When he moved he convinced me of a zombie, a dead man who was reanimated to fulfill a purpose. My eyes were going black, and yet I had just enough strength left within me to watch as John slithered upon the floor, his bloodied hands taking the knife within his fingers. And with that he sprung, lunging at my father and springing onto his back. He plunged the blade hilt deep into my father's rib cage, straight through his heart with such a force that the tip of the blade erupted from the other side. All four of us screamed, reaching such an octave that I'm surprised the glass didn't shatter. My brother screamed in horror, John in dedication, my father in pain...and I in relief. And all together we collectively embodied the complete range of emotions, if only for a second, as we watched the beast fall to the floor. As we watched my father, lifeless finally in body, lay helpless in a puddle of his long overdue blood. And after that scream, silence. Silence, for we all watched in astonishment as such a beast of a man was degraded into nothing but a hunk of meat, an unanimated, useless mass that was bleeding out on our kitchen floor. I screamed again, finally finding that my voice had returned to me, and leapt in horror from the corpse, making sure that none of his blood would dare touch against my skin or clothes.
"What've you done?" Mycroft whispered, rushing down the stairs and lunging straight towards his father. He did nothing but roll him over, seeing obviously that there was no pulse, and no way that he could still be alive. John had stumbled into a wall, messaging his aching body and standing with some struggle up against the wall.
"Get...get out of this house. John Watson you're not welcome." Mycroft growled.
"We go together, or not at all." I demanded, putting my foot down in some determination. My brother just shook his head at me, pulling the knife from my father's useless body and holding it threateningly towards where John could now hardly stand. He couldn't leave, not if he wanted to. One step away from that wall would lead him to fall over and die as well.
"He's a murderer, William. He'll be hanged for this, just like his father." Mycroft insisted. "He's killed the only man who would have supported us, we're ruined."
"We're not ruined; you're perfectly capable by yourself." I insisted. "But I'm not staying; I'm leaving with John tonight."
"You're not going anywhere." Mycroft demanded, turning now and staring me straight into the eyes with a blackened stare. I stared right back, having a flush of inconvenient confidence now as I stared the man down, challenging him to do anything that might force me back into action. Yes of course I was useless in the fight, and yet I found myself ready for another. My adrenaline was pumping, my heart was racing, and my fists were already clenched in preparation for another go. I was ready to hit my brother; I was ready to hurt him.
"And will you stop me? Are you prepared to?" I demanded, walking towards him now in an effort to sidestep, and nurse John where he stood clutching his stomach anxiously. Mycroft's eyes widened even still, and his mouth dropped into something of a gape that I did not recognize. He looked utterly taken aback, not used to being talked back to by someone he had basically raised from childhood.
"I will do what I must." Mycroft demanded, and yet he could only watch as I rushed to John's aid, letting the boy drape his arms around my neck so as to use me as a support. I allowed him to dangle his head onto my shoulders, crying out something of a mumbled groan, and coughing up what I could only imagine was a mouthful of blood. He was not in a good position, not at all. And yet his hands were more bloodstained than was his mouth, and while he may suffer his opponent lay dead in the aftermath. In the end, it was John who got the better deal.
"I'll take him away, I'll let him rest. We'll take Redbeard." I decided finally.
"William, you'll be an accomplice!" Mycroft exclaimed.
"And so will you, brother mine!" I growled. "You've seen the crime, but you won't report it. We'll all go down together, and so it's best not to argue!"
"Who's to say I won't report it?" Mycroft demanded.
"My six year old self." I growled, turning my head to glare into his eyes, trying to see just a glimmer of emotion in the cold, dead expression. "And of course, your eleven year old self. The two boys who watched the man hang from the gallows, promising themselves that they'll never let themselves get trapped in the same snare. You wouldn't send me there; we both know that full well."
"You overestimate my humanity." Mycroft decided.
"And you underestimate mine. Now come on then John, can you walk?" I asked quietly, pushing him up off of my shoulder so that I could brush the bloodied bangs from his face, and look into his swollen features. "You look hideous." I whispered in a teasing sort of way.
"I'll heal. I'll be fine." John promised. "But your brother is right."
"I often am." Mycroft agreed immediately.
"You can't be caught with me. You ought to go to the Sherriff now, and ensure you're not caught in any of this." John insisted. I growled, shaking my head in exasperation. Surely John knew just as soon as he uttered those words that they would be ignored?
"Why is everyone so instant on protecting me? Why won't anyone let me protect them for once? My God I am not a child!" I exclaimed.
"Because we love you, idiot." John grumbled, chuckling for a moment before falling into a fit of sickened coughs once more. I heard my brother utter a little exclamation, yet he silenced himself, unwilling to comment any farther.
"Mycroft will you get me a towel?" I suggested.
"No." my brother protested.
"Will you get me a towel?" I repeated again, looking back at him again so as to try to clarify that it was not merely a suggestion. The man sighed heavily, looking upon me as if I was slowly becoming the bane of his very existence, yet decided that he could do nothing to protest. And so, like the good brother he was, he went along to the kitchen cabinet and pulled out a towel. He wet it slightly, and then passed it over to me so that I might mop off my lover's face. I didn't like to see him covered in blood, the whole mess and mixture made his injuries seem much worse than what they actually were.
"You've saved my life, John Watson." I muttered, steering him towards the dining room so that he might sink into a chair. "Now let me save yours."
"Don't be so dramatic about it." John protested, wincing as the cold water leaked into his cuts and seared them with pain. I just shushed him, brushing off his forehead to reveal the great gash that had been torn through by the beer bottle. It was a nasty cut, still with flecks of glass inside, something I could not think to bother with now.
"I wish we knew a doctor." I muttered apprehensively.
"It's fine, Sherlock. I'll live." John insisted. "And yet we are losing darkness, surely we must flee before the police arrive."
"No one will notice he's gone. Not for now at least. Perhaps we can stay here another night. You can rest, and we can leave in the morning." I suggested. John hesitated, thinking it over. Obviously he didn't like such a plan, and yet going off the fact that he could hardly hold himself upright against the table, I knew he really wasn't in a position to argue.
"He's not welcome to stay." Mycroft protested, and yet his voice faltered before cutting off all together. He merely shook his head, as if he knew that his own comments were completely worthless by now. I dabbed the remainder of the boy's face clean, finally smiling upon the face that I could recognize. It was battered, bruised, and swollen, and yet there was no caked blood to be seen. His open wounds would need bandages, yet that was easily fixed.
"How about a bath?" I suggested, completely ignoring my brother's previous comment.
"Absolutely not!" Mycroft exclaimed. "Have you not heard me before, William? He must leave!"
"I'll start the water then." I muttered. "Mycroft, I'm just ignoring you from now on."
"Oh you are such a brat! Your father is dead and you only tend to his killer!" Mycroft exclaimed.
"Our father has been killed out of self-defense, Mycroft. Furthermore, we have avenged our poor mother by doing so! There have been too many murders in this house for my taste, yet better they balance each other out!" I exclaimed. "Now I am taking John upstairs, and I'm going to run him a bath."
"No. No, I'll do that. I don't approve of you and he in any sort of...bathing situation. You stay down here, William, and clean up this mess before it seeps into the floorboards." Mycroft demanded. I smiled; knowing of course that once my brother had decided to be an accomplice there was no turning back. Just as I had predicted, there still was that boy hidden in there from long before. Under the mass of stoic labor, Mycroft's true form was reemerging as he began to care once again. His heart was breaking free of the mold he had placed around it, all for his father's sake. I did what I was told, after I made sure Mycroft was handling John as carefully as he needed to. I knew that my brother disliked John only to the point jealousy would allow. Beyond that he could not hate him, for he knew that John was, in the end, truly devoted to me. Mycroft merely harbored a hatred for the things he could not have, and a murderous boyfriend was somewhere around the top of his list. Nevertheless, he knew that he had to tend for the one I had chosen, and would not dare to break my heart my mistreating him.