MCC #2: Reflection Unveils Ocean Eyes (Chapter 2)
The Sound Of Falling Rain
The normal expectation level of happiness in John's blue irises and smile weren't the same to match his usual cheerful self. When the present was revealed in front of Sherlock's abdomen area, the blonde merely twitched the corners of his mouth in his lame attempt at a smile and turned away. In fact, he even went as far as to ignore the brunette and make Sherlock frown in failure. Holmes did absolutely nothing wrong, it just seemed like the lack of interest was dawning on the birthday boy.
After a few stabbing moments of dissatisfaction, the older friend balanced the weight on his feet and went to find out what was wrong with the twelve-year-old. He strolled over to the opposite side of the tree where John was curled at the base, clutching the earth-colored gift in his hand. The box was a decent size to fit in his palm comfortably, as he had a reasonable amount of room to wiggle his fingers around if the grip felt painful.
John continued to sulk, knees bent into his chest as he stared at his Snitch. The golden sports ball continued to circle the outer edge of his legs, making the boy go slightly cross-eyed as he watched it zoom around. He didn't even stir when the detective happened to be standing with the tips of his toes brushing Watson's sneakers, staring down almost with his neck completely bent over. Playfully, the younger Holmes sibling tapped Watson's calf with his dress shoe, hoping for some sort of gesture to know that the blonde was paying attention. The birthday boy still didn't move. All he did was blink, fluttering his eyelashes and tensing up his upper back muscles.
"Hey," Sherlock said, in sync as he crouched down to find John's eyes, "why the long face?" His voice was so frail as he pressed a hand to Watson's arm, which was bent and stuck out at an awkward angel. "No need to feel blue on your birthday, is there?"
Personally, John didn't understand how Sherlock was acting so unlike himself. What was more was that he looked like he was trying to impress the blonde. The world seemed suspended when he talked in a quiet manner, like sundown clinging onto the existence of darkness for a final bow; a final spotlight before leaving and coming back some other day.
John cupped the Snitch into his left hand, causing Holmes to flinch as his touch was cut off from the younger boy's arm. His hand sank to the dirt, collecting some dust on his pale skin cells as he searched for another method of advice. John was now staring at a specific point with sad pupils, making him resemble a lost kitten. The sight cracked Sherlock's heart in two, but it was re-stitched as he tried to speak for a second time, forced to guess what was bothering the Gryffindor rather than hearing it from the lion as the truth.
"Is Harry ruining your day?" Sherlock referred to the Gryffindor's older sibling by her shortened name, figuring it was easier to say and since John knew what he was talking about anyway. The lion shook his head, lifting up his chin so Sherlock could get a portrait of his full complexion.
"I just assumed so cause you texted me that she was giving you a hard time." The eagle pulled out his phone and scrolled through his messages, almost as if to prove it to John and show him. He wasn't looking through their texts together though, because Mycroft had buzzed to Sherlock with a consequence.
Sherlock, if you don't come back home now, you're going to be in serious trouble. –MH
What are you gonna do, give me a detention? –SH
Don't give me attitude. –MH
Sherlock rolled his eyes, sitting completely on his backside and bringing the iPhone before his nose. "Piss off, Mycroft," he grumbled, feeling that his brother was acting too much like an adult before he even entered his final year at Hogwarts. He didn't want to deal with his stuck-up teenage sibling.
"So, if it's not Harry, then what else is bothering you?" John obviously didn't want to tell him and turned away, trying to avoid Sherlock's gaze and mind his own business. Holmes slouched back on his bottom, curling his spine under him so he could look sterner. "John, enough," he suddenly spat out, and the younger friend actually made an offended face.
"What?" he grumbled, staring right in Sherlock's green eyes as his own molded to have a dark glare to them. They actually absorbed some shadow and Holmes flashed his pupils in alarm. "I'm not doing anything wrong, so why are you bothering me?"
"Because!" It was a lame excuse of an answer; a typical one-worded retort that most little kids give just to get out of an argument. The Gryffindor rolled his eyes and pressed his cheek to his knee, only one ear exposed to his surroundings so he could hear the taller boy's complaints. The Ravenclaw never lost a fight with Mycroft, but when it came to the stockier boy before him, John knew how to bring the heat. He always made sure to make the battle compact and worth every word. When it came to John Watson, he was one of the few people who could directly order Sherlock to give in or shut up.
"You wanted me to come here, and so I did at my own will, but now you're telling me to bug off?" Sherlock pressed his forearms so hard into his calf bones he could feel them rubbing together as he rocked back and forth. He tilted his curly head and almost glared at the back of the birthday boy's locks of hair, but all he got was a groan as Watson continued to block him out. "Seriously, I don't know what you're playing at. I really don't see the chemistry in bringing me here whatsoever -"
"Fine!" John violently spat, throwing his hands up in frustration and surprisingly not startling the eagle. He suddenly curled up in shame, trapping himself in a cage and feeling punished for boiling over too harshly. "I'm sorry," he mumbled, sniffing and taking back his rude remarks from earlier. The immediate change in tone and intensity of John's voice came like a smack to the face and made Sherlock look up in astonishment.
"Oh." The brunette felt stupid and couldn't come up with a more reasonable reply to expose. Of all the words in the human race, he let out the dumbest comment of them all. To back up his low-level status, he wanted to let his friend know that it was nothing to get jittery about. "To be honest, it's -"
"No, it's not," John said, cutting Holmes off before he could finish his assurance. The Ravenclaw went crisply silent and let his lips hang open in an overwhelmed manner. Watson smacked the ground in furry as he was upset with himself. Gathering up a jumble of nonsense, he inhaled sharply and shook as he allowed his words to fall out of his mouth in a sort of monotone. "I'm getting worked up over a stupid suspicion," he stated, switching his position so one knee was bent to the side while he rested his elbow on his vertical leg.
"What?"
"Nothing. It doesn't involve you."
"That doesn't mean I can't be interested." John gave him a sulking look with his mournful eyes, waving Sherlock off with a flick of his wrist.
Sherlock was no getting sick of playing John's guessing game. He wasn't supposed to be forced into doing this, trying to solve the puzzle and work out what was tormenting the lion's brain. He needed to know what it was because of one simple solution; to fix it. There were thousands of things that could be irritating John, but by digging deeper he could reveal what it was and that would narrow his field for advice significantly.
"Come on, John. Tell me what's wrong."
The blonde-haired boy made a sort of croaking noise and tilted his skull in the direction of The Daily Prophet lying in the grass by his hip. Sherlock got the mime and collected the newspaper with one swift swoosh of his arm. His eyes contracted when he read the main story's title, clearly disgusted by the minister's choices. He took a few moments of silence to skim over the front page, twisting his eyebrows when he finished and not seeing what was in plain sight in front of him.
"I don't see anything. Just a stupid and messed up editorial on us. Did you not want this to be released to the public or something?"
"No. Why would I have a problem with that?"
"Well, there's nothing else that could be critical written on here." Sherlock flicked his hands and the paper folded in a new deformed figure, but he straightened it out again and waited for a declaration from his shorter friend.
"My blood status." Holmes looked perplexed and checked back in the text for proof. It mentioned John as a Muggleborn, but there seemed to be no mistake in that.
"What about it?" he questioned.
"It's wrong."
"And?"
"Am I supposed to ignore it? Is it some sort of joke? Am I supposed to make something out of that? Cause I definitely did notice it."
"What the hell are you talking about?" John lifted his head up from sulking to stare at his best friend. The older boy was making deductions, considering his pupils were small and he looked way too concentrated.
"It's just a typo," Sherlock said after a few seconds when no reply came. "It means absolutely nothing."
"Does it?" John was so determined he was getting somewhere that he was on his feet in a flash; he actually made Holmes jump he was so alert. The blonde paced back and forth, his hands occasionally clenching and relaxing from fists. "Is that supposed to mean nothing? Do they think they could put that in the news and I wouldn't notice?" He pointed down at the crumpled report in the Ravenclaw's hand and stood staring like an owl, waiting to pounce on its prey.
"How is this getting to you?"
"Sherlock," Watson said threateningly, stopping in his tracks and holding his hands out parallel for the eagle to witness. "This is the Ministry of Magic we're talking out. Clearly, they have all the records of wizards in the world, so I obviously have not been told something."
"Alright, honestly, don't drag me into this -"
"Why? You said you'd help me…" This put a shock to Sherlock, but this had nothing to do with him at all.
After a couple moments of silence, the younger Holmes brother spoke up to try and give his neighbor some advice. "How badly do you want to find out?"
"Find out what?"
"The truth." More silence.
"Sherlock, I need to know what's going on."
"Well, deep down, you know who you need to speak to."
Wow, John's using observation skills. To be fair, I knew he'd find out eventually. Why didn't I tell him in the first place? I just knew it was going to go downhill if I didn't. After all, he couldn't actually believe that about himself, could he?
But why didn't I warn him earlier?
There was a buzz somewhere to John's left and he crinkled up his forehead in mystification. Sherlock's phone had lit up and displayed a message on the screen. By squinting his pupils, John could see that it was a text from the older Holmes brother.
The brunette gritted his teeth in his closed mouth and picked up the electronic device in displeasure. "Go away, Mycroft," he grumbled, reading the dim text in the small bubble dedicated for quick communications. However, this time Mycroft hadn't come back with another threat. Instead, he'd typed back a response that grabbed the attention of his younger sibling.
Redbeard needs to be taken on his walk. Do it now. –MH
John only got a faint mutter of the name Sherlock had mentioned, until the rest of his sentence faded as he read it out loud and sank a little in his shoulders when he'd finished. His head collapsed like a great weight but was hauled up with ease again as he furiously tapped on the keys and sent his opinion back.
He'll be taken care of later. He can wait. I've got far more important things to deal with at the moment. –SH
John's feet awkwardly shuffled against the prickly soles of his sandals, his faced paused in a sort of mistaken gesture as he pointed towards Holmes's ribcage. He tried to start a conversation for multiple attempts, but nothing came out until he was able to repeat his prepared question in his head three times. He finally got up the ability to a few syllables just because his curiosity was taking over his mind.
"Who's Redbeard?"
Of all the months they'd spent together, Sherlock had never told anyone about who he cared about almost all the time whenever he wasn't occupied with his best friend. His stupefied expression molded into a teeth-baring smile, and he let out a small chuckle while preparing to tell the Gryffindor. He set his iPhone on the ground and let his present join it before going on with a small rant.
"Redbeard is our family dog. He's an Irish Settler with long, floppy ears and a short tail with ruffles that he loves to wag."
John contracted his stomach muscles as he giggled in delight. The sight of it made Sherlock smile as well; he absolutely loved it when John showed his happiness, as he sometimes did something funny on purpose just to hear him laugh. Whatever was upsetting the birthday boy seemed to have been swept from him and sucked into a vacuum, making him perk up and become his unique self filled with amity.
"How did I never know you had a dog? I've been to your house dozens of times…"
"That's because he's usually in the other section of our mansion that you haven't visited yet."
"Oh!" John mocked, trying to tease the brunette and fire his own bad jokes at him. "You mean the section that I haven't been to because you claimed it's haunted?"
"Uh, yeah," the twelve-year-old replied with guilt, finding it unbelievable that he told the blonde such a lie in the first place. "But that wasn't a complete myth! We do believe there's a ghost roaming our house. It's just that we think it's secluded in the attic. You can find all sorts of magical creatures in the homes of wizards." The blonde snorted, agreeing with the fact based on the knowledge from his first year at Hogwarts.
"I'm just worried that one day we'll have to put him down," Sherlock sulked, ignoring the following vibration after his exclamation. Watson looked up at him with distressed irises.
"Why?" he wondered, sounding like another story might break him if the detective said another word.
"Who knows? I overheard Mum and Dad discussing it but was caught snooping. They wouldn't tell me anything when I asked."
"I mystery to us all I suppose," John concluded. "The world may never know."
"Mycroft hasn't got a clue as to what my parents are planning. I just hope they switch their minds quickly and allow him to stay." He was beginning to fell teary-eyed and wiped them away when John wasn't looking. No, I can't cry here, he told himself. Emotions; such a waste of space that could be used for storing information instead.
"I don't want to see him go," the Ravenclaw continued, making it unnoticeable that sentiment was getting to him. "I-I love him."
John stuck a finger in his ear and tried to clear out the gunk in it, obviously thinking he'd misunderstood. Gross, he thought, scrunching up his face in a disturbed expression. After the wave of emptiness and bewilderment had passed on and Sherlock seemed to be drowning in a puddle of failure and acting like it was his fault, the blonde broke the tender moment with an honest opinion.
"You know, I think that's the first time I've heard you openly express your feelings towards someone so freely."
"Your presumption is inaccurate, John."
The younger friend gave his buddy a quizzical glance and was lost at the retort that was thrown back at him. "How so?" he asked, waiting for an in-depth response.
"I have fully expressed my affections for a certain someone over the course of the last year and you have been unsuccessful in seeing it. The hints were right there under your nose and you still haven't come to realize their presence."
John was still confused. "What? When?"
"You know what, it doesn't matter." Sherlock was depressed that his best friend wasn't getting the fix on their conversation, seeing as their friendship bond was getting stitched in a tighter pattern every second they spent together. He practically said it directly to his face and the younger boy didn't understand. His perfectly carved hand swooped down to grasp his neatly-wrapped present gleefully, holding it before the shorter kid and urging him to open it with his eyes.
"I thought we were discussing Redbeard…" John pointed out, but when the gift was shoved into his lap he couldn't help but accept it.
"You are what's important right now," Sherlock plainly put it, nodding down upon the box that was now snuggled in John's right paw. "Go on. You know you want to open it."
"You didn't have to get me anything," John inputted, nevertheless untying the symmetrical bow that protected the paper from ripping and served as a piece of decoration.
"You know I would have no matter the situation," Holmes stated. The lion expressed a cheeky grin and tossed the ribbon aside, now tearing back the wrapping paper to reveal a white, square box. One of the corners was bent and the tape securing the lid on tightly had already been sliced for him. Watson slid his fingernail under the tab holding it down and pushed the top up, revealing the contents of what was inside.
It was no surprise to find some sort of padding to keep his present from breaking. Bubble wrap was cleverly folded to hide the gift from view and John popped one before handing the roll over to Sherlock, who took it joyfully and began breaking the clumps of air like an entertained animal.
The simplest deduction the birthday boy could make from the gift was that it was some sort of necklace, judging by the long chain and a sort of charm on the end. At first he thought he'd been given the wrong present but was corrected when he pulled it all the way from the box. Some sort of bronze pendant had been fastened to the end of the string, just a plain shape of a rectangle made out of an element from the periodic table. He's always involving science somehow, John snickered.
But when John looked closer, a name was scripted on the longer side of the pendant into the bronze in a sharp shade of blue, bearing the name in cursive Holmes. The younger boy let his fingers run over the flat texture of the metal, and when he flipped it over while twirling it he saw there was more on the backside.
A silhouette a little bigger than his thumbnail was carved into the necklace, making the outline of the shape of Sherlock's upper body. Directly under what would have been his shoulders was his first name, written just as swiftly as it was on the opposite side.
John looked up in amazement to see Sherlock smiling down at him. The brunette suddenly reached down behind the buttoned cloth of his shirt, bringing out to show Watson nothing else than a pendant of his own. Only his was gold with a red silhouette.
The silhouette of John Watson.
"Open it," Holmes beckoned, hinting with a twinkle of his eyes as the shorter boy couldn't think of anything to say. John didn't think he could open it, but just below the loop where the string was threaded through he found the tiniest button he'd ever seen. With one light press, the locket flung open to reveal the inside composition.
On both sides of the pendant's flat interior was a glossy mirror. The Gryffindor supposed it was just for charming looks, and so he peered into the left one to find his own stunning blue iris reflected back at him. When he looked into the other mirror however, this time he saw a bright green eye watching him with curiosity.
"What?" he gasped, flinging it away suddenly but luring his gift back in hastily to check that he wasn't hallucinating. Sure enough, the green eye was there and looking at him like it always did. That oh so familiar stare that made him tell anything to the Ravenclaw.
"How does that work?" he remarked, finding it odd that Sherlock could look at him through a mirror. "Is it some sort of transport?"
"No," Holmes laughed. "I bewitched it. If and whenever you need me, just look in the right mirror and I will hopefully be there. The pendant will give you a signal if one of us is calling the other. Don't worry; nothing serious or distracting. That way, we can communicate with each other whenever it becomes necessary."
John stared at him in pure astonishment, clearly impressed with the eagle's over-the-top qualities added to a simple piece of jewelry. "Clever boy you are," he commented, grinning in excitement. "Mr. Clever, that's who you are."
Before the older friend could ask for any feedback on how the birthday boy liked it or not, he was balled over in a massive hug and had the daylights squished out of him for minutes on end.
He took that indication as a yes.
It had been two days since John had turned twelve and he'd discussed his doubt about his blood status with Sherlock. The Ravenclaw didn't think it was that big of a deal, but the change from a half-blood to a Muggleborn had quite an effect on the blonde-haired wizard.
He was sitting alone in his bedroom while bending over his journal, stuck at how to play and write out words that would be a treat for a reader when first discovering his and Sherlock's first meeting. He was getting nowhere, especially with his owl Athiel hooting loudly in her cage and the alarm clock ticking on his bedside table. The fury was burning up inside him and his mind was not focused on becoming an author; definitely not when The Daily Prophet headline about his encounter with the dementors was sitting directly beside him, taunting him to just do what he desperately needed to.
To search for the truth. More so even, if he had to, to dig for the truth.
He'd had enough. The moving pictures on the front page article were all too familiar from him staring at it for hours on end, reading the same bit of sentence over and over. Now, he was just fed up with people and him not knowing the truth about his own life. Maybe this wasn't a major problem for some other wizards, but he certainly wasn't going to be fooled and messed around with by such things as this. His pencil fell out of his grip and landed with a few clinks on his desk, drawing stray marks on the pages of his book by accident as it wriggled from his touch. John nearly bumped his knee on the underside of the furniture while snatching up the week old copy of The Daily Prophet.
The clutter of car keys on the counter signaled that his mum had returned from work. She was the only one who knew the truth; the only one who could sort it all out and owe him the right facts. Taking a deep breath and putting on his best angry face with ease, considering that he couldn't believe he was being lied to, John pulled open his bedroom door and headed straight for the kitchen.
Eventually his feet began to stomp on the polished floor he couldn't contain himself, and when he turned the corner to find his mum's back to him, she spun around in her normal jolly fashion and prepared to greet him. But when she saw the look on her son's face, her heartwarming smile was instantly removed from her cheeks.
"John," she said, cowering back in fear and waiting for an explanation from the short-heighted boy who was approaching her with almost complete hatred. The sun was setting over her left shoulder through the glass window, bringing an orange glow into the room as navy blue clouds prepared to take over the night sky. The sliding door that led to the porch was open and the second screen door let a soft breeze flow into their house. John got a glimpse of their dog Gladstone briefly out of the corner of his eye running about in the yard before he reached the waist-high bar that connected different countertops in the Watson's kitchen.
The front page article was thrown onto the surface so hard it made a cracking noise through the air like a gunshot. John's mum flinched and hovered over him in shock, her eyes passing from his enraged face to the words floating on the wizard newspaper. She gave no hesitation in knowing what it was or showed any sign of confusion as the images were moving.
"John," she tried again, but his spoken name only acted as a trigger to his next move. From a spare cup next to the toaster John pulled out a bright pink highlighter, making sure it was a vibrant color so it would get his female parent's attention at first sight.
He pivoted the folded paper around so it faced him, and found the words he wanted to show her in the blink of an eye. No scanning of the page was required after skimming it so many times, and when he had finished coloring over the six words he'd proved to be correct and the vocal explanation was false, he properly secured and closed the cap on the marker and dropped it onto the marble surface.
His mother bent over to read the words he'd made stick out gingerly, afraid that he might possibly attack her if she made one wrong move. Aware of her mistake as she'd finished, her mouth fell open and she straightened her back to stare down in disbelief at her son.
Watson, as he is a Muggleborn.
He may have needed six words to show why it lit a fire under his temper, but he only needed one word to fish out the real truth from his mother. And so he spoke the first word he'd said to her since she'd arrived home that day.
"Explain."
They were now seated together at the dining room table. John just knew as well that Harriet was secretly spying on them in the living room. The only son made sure to sit as far away from his mum as possible, showing his displeasure with her and waiting for his parent to spit out the truth. He was slouching in the chair reserved for his father; the Watson family always kept it empty in hope that he would return one day from war to be able to eat with them all again. John launched himself out of his seat and began to walk around, trying to clear his mind. His mother's eyes watched him with every step.
Thunder rumbled outside and John noticed the clouds from before were raging up a storm. Rain started to lash against the side of the house, beating on the wood porch and causing a small river to flow through the pipes lining the roof outside.
John stopped pacing by the door and crossed his arms. "Care to elaborate?" he projected with sass, nodding his head at the informational text lying in front of his mum.
Mrs. Watson let out a long sigh before concluding that she had to tell her son the obvious. "John," she started, and her son wanted to hear more than just his name since she got home from work. "I was given those objects from my father before he died. And just from gaining those wizard items, I wanted to learn as much knowledge as I could about the wizarding world."
"And you had to lie to me about it?" John asked.
"Sweetie, I'm sorry. There was nothing else I could do, and I didn't want to upset you -"
"You could have just told me from the start. Then I wouldn't have had to go through all this pain. Didn't you ever consider that, Mum?"
"I didn't think it would affect you that much," his mother interjected. "And over the years, I had to weave it around me and your father's relationship, but -"
"Oh, so Dad was in on this too?"
"John…" Mrs. Watson now really sounded hurt.
"So everyone knew about this but me?" John was on the verge of bursting out in rage. He suddenly fell silent and choked out with his next input. "So, there's nothing wizard related with you or Dad?"
Her lips trembled and hung open for a split second before she carried on. "No. Actually, if you really want to know who I am…"
"What?" her son demanded. "Tell me, Mum."
Her body shook all over before she concluded their conversation. "I-I'm a Squib."
John's face simultaneously changed to a crushed expression as hot tear droplets sprung to his eyes. He let one slide down his face and over his cheek before he whipped around and groped to open the porch door.
"John!"
Too late. He'd thrown the door open and hurled himself out into the rain. Gladstone was nowhere in sight, presumably hidden in his doghouse as he bolted across the lawn. When he reached the fence surrounding their property, he could hear his mother shouting for him to come back, but there was no way he would swing back around after what he'd just heard. The gate crashed shut behind him as he ran away, finding himself drenched in the downpour in less than thirty seconds. He didn't want to go back home that night; he'd sit out in the field all night if he had to.
It didn't take long for him to reach the lone oak tree planted in the meadow between the two neighborhoods in his town. Not even the moon was shining through the small gap in the clouds above. He sluggishly came to a halt, bracing an arm against the tree to steady his shaking nerves. Finally, he collapsed and let the weight of his body fall to the dirt at the base of the trunk.
All he did was sit and cry. He needed to get his feelings out about his entire family business. He bent his knees into his forehead and bawled like a child. He let the rain curl into all the cracks and gaps in his clothes, not caring how wet he was by the end of the night.
Over to his right he spotted a yellow light flickering on in an upstairs room. To whom it belonged to, it didn't matter. He smelled fresh water seeping into earth and slipping over the bumps in the tree bark. The grass tickled his bare feet and crickets chirped around to fill a tune in his ears.
His hair was now soaked and because he kept shuffling his hands through his blonde locks it stuck up all over. He felt awkward without his black jacket protecting him, but nothing mattered to him now. Taking it in all at once was too much.
John was suddenly aware of footsteps approaching his crouched figure. He supposed it was his mother; she worried about everything. But he was mistaken when a skinny hand pressed to his shoulder with such known comfort. Even stronger than the usual comfort of a family member.
"John?" Sherlock's deep voice was heard through the loud claps of thunder and flashes of lightning. The sound was blurred but John could still hear it even with buckets of water drowning the insides of his ears.
"John!" Sherlock shouted again, clearer this time and it came from a closer location. "John! What happened?"
The younger boy looked up with stinging eyes. Another flash of lightning lit up his face and the Ravenclaw was able to see how upset his friend was. Then, after a defining sniffle, John yelled out what he needed to, regardless if it made sense or not to the younger Holmes brother.
"I was right! My whole life, it's just one big lie! One enormous lie wrapped up in a truth just to make it stronger!"
