Let The Shadows Win

Cherish The Condemned

It wasn't too difficult to get a taker; for even though this road was sparsely used anymore (he was now vaguely aware of a highway having opened up) there were still enough people driving so as to provide him with adequate transport. It was no shock that the driver was a female, for who else would pick up a young(ish) man in dress clothes along the side of the road? She drove a small blue car with music playing loud, seemingly around Sherlock's age yet completely unrecognizable to him.
"Need a lift?" she asked enthusiastically, turning down the radio so as to dull down whatever sort of classic rock had been pumping through the speakers.
"Yes um, yes." Sherlock agreed, not wanting to point out that his thumb out on the side of the road was a clear indicator that he 'needed a lift'.
"Well come on then." The woman said with a grin, unlocking the doors so that Sherlock could clamber into the backseat. He made himself as comfortable as he could, for while the woman seemed to have no hesitations of her new passenger he was still a bit apprehensive about her. Of course she didn't seem violent, yet you never know about someone who seemed this chipper around complete and now isolated strangers. It was a stroke of luck that she didn't recognize him from the news, otherwise he would be still walking. The car was comfortable, and the driver would be considered beautiful. She was young, with close cut black hair and a pair of sunglasses perched on top of her head. She evidently enjoyed some outdated music, however she had clipped a lilac air freshener to the vent of her air conditioning (which was still on, despite the windows all being rolled down) so it wasn't that bad.
"What are you doing on the side of the road out here?" the woman asked him with some amusement, as if it was funny to encounter such a traveler in the middle of nowhere.
"I don't have a car, thought it best if I walked." Sherlock shrugged. "Not a good idea."
"Not a good idea at all. Poor thing, dressed like you're going to a party." The woman laughed, looking Sherlock up and down once more with very keen eyes. He shivered a bit uncomfortably, trying to keep his eyes on the road for both of their sakes. He seemed to be the only one interested in road safety, however, for she was still observing him with a bit of excitement.
"Yes well, they're the only clothes I have right now." Sherlock admitted with a little frown.
"The only clothes?" she clarified with a doubtful little laugh.
"Yes, they're not exactly practical are they?" Sherlock muttered a bit shamefully, feeling as though he should throw in a little joke here as she seemed to be in such a good mood.
"They're dashing." The woman admitted with a grin. "As are you."
"Well um, thank you. I guess. You're not entirely unappealing yourself." He forced a bit nervously, for it was quite obvious that this woman wasn't picking him up off the side of the road out of the goodness of her heart.
"What a gentleman." She muttered a bit disappointingly, as if expecting something a bit more flattering than that. Sherlock nodded, looking out the window once more as if trying to ignore the overwhelming heterosexuality that was sitting next to him in this car. Surely he had to play along, lest he be abandoned by his ride and left on the side of the road once more. Yet looking away was a bad idea, for even as the scenery began to turn familiar he felt a hand on his arm, almost as if she was trying to grab at his hand for some quick intimacy. Sherlock jumped horrifically, yanking his arm away and flattening himself against the door so as to make sure he was as far away from this strange and flirtatious woman as he could manage.
"This is it!" Sherlock shouted thankfully, for as he turned he was able to see the looming structure in the windshield, sat up on top of the hill as it always had been. Waiting for him to return.
"This is what?" the woman asked, sounding extremely offended as she glared at him. Thankfully her hands were now both on the wheel.
"My stop. This is where I'm going." Sherlock exclaimed, and just like that the woman slammed on her brakes with enough force to send Sherlock flying into the dashboard. His seatbelt caught his shoulder and he was yanked back again into the seat, and just like that he took a few thankful breaths before unbuckling and scrambling out of the car fearfully.
"This is where you're going? The creepy old house?" she clarified with a doubtful laugh.
"Yes, this is where I'm going." Sherlock agreed.
"You're not just saying that to get out of my car? Because I'll stop flirting, if you don't like it." the woman insisted, still sounding a bit offended that Sherlock had so abruptly and almost agressivley denied her advances.
"No, of course not. I'm just going here because I need to get all my old stuff. It's my house. Or it used to be." Sherlock admitted with a frown, looking up towards the house and immediately getting a chill down his spine. There was nothing welcoming in that structure, there never had been, however it was home whether he liked it or not. He and that house had learned to cooperate, and that understanding would have to continue even after so many years.
"You're joking, come on. You can't actually have lived in the murder house, where they found all those bodies?" she carried with a little mutter, looking now a bit more fearfully at her departed passenger. The realization must now be donning on her, for if she knew of the murders she knew of the murderer, and the fact that he had just been released.
"Yes, they never were very good house guests. Goodbye then, thank you for the ride." Sherlock said with a little grin. With a scream emitted from both the tires and the woman she sped off, obviously breaking the speed limit so as to ensure she got as far as she possibly could from the murderer she had just left on the side of the street, where she had found him originally. Sherlock chuckled to himself just a little bit, just enough to get his spirts up enough for him to approach the house without fear. It wasn't like that woman didn't deserve a good scare, especially since she had been so blatantly flirting with him. She had sort of asked for it. Obviously this was a fun game Sherlock could play with civilians who didn't immediately recognize him; see just how afraid he could make them without getting arrested. Sherlock took a deep breath, tapping his fingers against his crushed water bottle and looking up at the house from where he stood on the other side of the road. It was very silent, disturbingly so, as if the wind had paused its waving just so as to ensure Sherlock could look up at the eye like windows of his old house and be completely undisturbed. He was afraid, he would admit that, yet he started across the street all the same. The mailbox was lying in the overgrown grass, hit some time ago undoubtedly and never bothered to be replaced. It had the address was still printed in peeling white letters against the familiar brown paint, yet there was obviously no mail being delivered anymore. Whatever had been in there after all of these years had either deteriorated or been stolen, and Sherlock was not daring enough to check. He was sure there were all sorts of creepy little things hidden inside, his old mail really wasn't that important. And so he started up the driveway with some difficulty, for as he got closer to the house his leg began to tense up even more, almost as if it didn't want to go back to the place where it had lost most of its function. Yet Sherlock continued on, stumbling over the thicket of weeds that now grew over top of the old rocky driveway, which no foot nor vehicle had disturbed in all the years he had been away. Who would be here to visit the house, when there was not another Holmes left in existence? Surely not John? Sherlock so distinctly remembered this driveway, and the many times which he had walked or driven along it. He remembered seeing John's terrible red car parked here, in the many times he had visited with or without permission. He remembered the old black car that Mycroft had used to drive, the old bucket of bolts that had very often been compared to a hearse in its day. That thing hadn't been used since Sherlock had been imprisoned as well, undoubtedly the engine had gone rusted and the interior given completely to mildew and decay. Oh that thing had always been horrible, it would be no surprise if it had just completely turned to dust. Sherlock walked up to the porch, getting a very ominous feeling as he felt once more the memories that were imprinted almost permanently into the wood. All of the feet that had passed along this porch, all of the words that had been said. It didn't feel like long ago when he stood here with John by his side, breaking down into tears for seemingly no reason at all. That was the time where John had been trying to befriend him, and Sherlock was just beginning to realize that he may have found a decent person after all. That meeting had been interrupted when Mycroft arrived, oh Sherlock could almost hear the engine now! Rolling up the hill, that old car's driver jumping out to drag him inside and beat him until he forgot the name John Watson and abandoned all feelings of love. Yet that never happened, he remembered, and he persevered. And Mycroft had met his end because of it. Sherlock turned towards the old swing, half expecting to see someone familiar sitting on it, yet as expected the thing was dangling by merely one rusted chain, the other having snapped from disuse long ago. Sherlock frowned quietly, remembering how John's feet had just barely touched the ground when he rocked on that thing. So recently, yet so long ago.Sherlock turned back away from the swing, not sure if he was supposed to smile or cry. All of these emotions, all of these memories, they were rushing back with such force that he almost didn't know how to handle them. What was he supposed to do now, now that John was gone? Oh his presence almost made Sherlock miss those years, even when he was squished under Mycroft's thumb he was at least not as alone as he was now. He still had his future to look forward to, and his love to begin to blossom. Oh was Sherlock crazy for missing the days when he was just beginning to descend into madness? The days where he could sit on that swing and watch the cars go by, the days when he could wait for his knight in shining armor to rescue him, not knowing what fate that very knight would meet when faced with the dragon. Sherlock sniffled just a little bit, opening the screen door to find a great big piece of plywood nailed where the door was supposed to be. His beautiful oak door, with the stained glass windows, what had they done with it? Sherlock groaned in defeat, just now understanding how very persistent the health agencies were when condemning a house. Obviously they didn't intend on anyone entering. Yet Sherlock knew more about this place than the government did, and he knew that the front door wasn't the only way in. And so he did a loop through the tall grass, looking in vain for any window that might have been skipped over when they were boarding up the entrances. There was one hope, a hope that really was a long shot, and yet a hope all the same. There were no windows, yet there was a door to the basement, a hidden sort of thing among the garden that had been neglected even when Sherlock had lived here. It wasn't a large door; merely a metal thing constructed and then hidden in the ground, however Sherlock knew that it was there because he had used it many times before. It was the brother's way of getting inside if they had forgotten a key, for its existence was so little known that they didn't bother to lock it. In fact even Sherlock had forgotten about this door, right up until the point where he needed to use it once more. And just as promised, when Sherlock stumbled through the overgrown weeds and vines that metal door sat there just as obediently as it always has. It wasn't too difficult to get the thing pried open, and to Sherlock's relief he found that it opened just enough to admit himself into the house. It would be a little bit of a squeeze, considering the hinges had rusted over so that the door didn't open all the way, however it was manageable for now. It was much better than having to break down plywood at least. And so, without much thought of what he was plunging himself into, Sherlock seated himself on the ground and shuffled down to where his feet met the stairs, scraping his back up against the dirt as he shimmied through the gap in the door and into the cold, dark basement. Sherlock held the door up long enough to get his bearings, however as he sat on the rotting wooden steps he had to admit to feeling a bit vulnerable. It was pitch black down here, save for the light provided by the sun through the door, and yet he could still see what had become of his ancient basement. Still there were boxes in the corner, boxes that used to hold all the decorations for various holidays, presents that they felt too obliged to get rid of, and boxes of old photographs that had been kept by the Holmes parents before they had met their end. It was surprising that the people didn't clear out the house before they boarded it up, yet just as they had left them the boxes remained. They hadn't been touched in all the years the brothers had lived here, and still after thirteen years they remained the same. And then Sherlock looked towards the freezer, that ominous thing with the gigantic handle, seemingly empty now, and quiet. It had been turned off when they had taken out the bodies, that was for sure, all that frozen blood that had remained still for centuries, washed out and soaked into the wooden boards of the staircase. And the corpses, those who had been untouched, forced to haunt the very freezer in which they lay, now having been removed and given a proper burial. Sherlock shivered at the thought of being truly alone, without even Victor's body to console him. He remember when Mycroft had locked him in there, when he thought he would die of hypothermia only to lie next to Victor's dead body and be comforted by his companion. Still laying where he had left him, until of course Sherlock's brain took over, and in its injured and deformed state it produced a companion from the frozen body. It produced a lover for that cold night. And now he didn't even have that. Reminiscing, brother mine.Spoke that horrible voice inside of his head, the one that sounded like Mycroft. Sherlock gasped, blocking his ears only to let the door fall shut and plunge the room into complete darkness. And suddenly he was overcome with fear, irrational fear at that, for this was his own basement, his old basement, and he knew that the only things to be scared of had been long since relocated into either a burial ground or inside of his head. Yet he was still frightened, for the darkness reminded him of the pit, and as soon as the shadows took over he had no choice but to run towards where he knew the staircase was. He could swear he heard laughing as he took off as quickly as he could, whether or not that laughter came from inside or outside of his head remained to be seen, yet before he could think to investigate he pushed open the basement door and collapsed into the familiar hallway. He couldn't think for long, for Sherlock immediately got to his feet and shoved the door closed, leaning up against it and shivering in fear. And just like that, he was back. Back from those years, only to find that his house was more or less intact. Yes, the wooden floors were beginning to rot, and the carpets were beginning to stink of mildew. However everything was exactly how he had left it, mirroring perfectly with what he had left behind so many years ago. In front of him was the kitchen, with its little table set up with a deteriorating table cloth falling in shreds alongside of it. And to his left, the living room, where Mycroft's chair still proudly sat next to the old record player, covered in cobwebs, having not been sat on since Mycroft died. To his left, the door which he had failed to enter from. The plywood that had replaced his beautiful oak door, and the staircase that led up to the rest of the house. It was disgusting, Sherlock had to admit that, yet it was home. How else could he describe a place in which so many memories had been made, in which so many lives had been created, enhanced, and lost? The house which held so much laughter, which held so much passion, and held so much death. Screams echoed from the basement while cries of joy emitted from the bedrooms, the old opera soundtracks still singing from the broken machine, the sound of the fire crackling in the cold, abandoned hearth. Yes this place may be rotting, yet this place may be condemned, yet it was still the most beautiful thing Sherlock had seen in a long time. Not a person as a companion, but a house. A structure that could understand him, that could sympathize with him and understand his pain. A beautiful house...still left standing so that it could be reclaimed by its new and rightful owner.