Let The Shadows Win

Her Presence Still Lingers

The door was propped open by what appeared to be a piece of wood, one thick enough to withstand the weight. It was a nice gesture, a useless one, but a kind one all the same. It was the condemned house's way of welcoming John inside, even if its welcome mat had long since worn away from the elements. As seemingly accessible the door seemed to be, John still felt the need to knock upon the metal so as to announce his arrival. And so he wrapped his fists before waiting a moment or two before finally prying it open and sliding inside. There was a candle left on the table next to the door, evidently set there to allow John to wallow through the darkened basement without tripping on anything. The lack of electricity in this place was most certainly inconvenient; however it was strangely charming in a way. It was symbolic, sort of, as they were going back to the most fundamental ways of living. Just as they were going back to the most fundamental ways of loving, simply and with an internal longing, and not some sort of misplaced whim. The sort of love that creates a happy eternity, and not a short lived misery that ended with loads of divorce papers. John took the candle from the table and began his way through the darkness, knowing that there must be hundreds of memories packed away in these boxes, those that lingered in towers in the darkness corners of the basement. These had all undoubtedly been packed away before Sherlock's time. His parents, perhaps? Or possibly his brother, or uncle? It was odd to think of the previous generations of Holmes, however it was necessary that they had to exist or Sherlock wouldn't be here today. Yet he was the only one living on with the name, the only one of his known family to bear the inheritance and the accomplishments that were passed down and wasted in the form of a mentally disturbed, solitary creature. It would seem as though as the blood kept getting passed down it kept getting tainted, and along with the infidelity of his parents, Sherlock also got the abusive ways of his uncle, the mental troubles of his brother, and who knows what else that had been passed down by generations upon generations of men and women? It was a shame to see the line die off; however the very idea of whatever children Sherlock might spawn (along with the impossibility, considering his preference in partners) was almost frightening.
"You've made it." declared that strangely ominous voice from the top of the steps, just as John was beginning to mount the stairs. He looked up only to see the flickering of candle light, the light that was hardly doing well enough to illuminate at least a humanoid silhouette. Yet it was Sherlock, it had to be Sherlock, or John would not get this overwhelming feeling of relief, of safety.
"Yes of course." John agreed quietly. "There's nowhere I would rather be." He heard that small laugh from above, and even in the darkness could see the smile.
"Always one to know how to flatter, John." Sherlock chuckled. John nodded proudly, walking steadily up the stairs and smiling as he ascended. Sherlock began clearer as the light became nearer, and he could see now that he was the same old creature that John had last left behind. The same who had stood in the kitchen, the last time they were able to lay eyes on each other.
"You look well." John said confidently. Sherlock blinked in some confusion, as if he really didn't like such a greeting.
"That's almost formal of you, John. I thought we were above formalities at this point?" Sherlock clarified.
"I thought it appropriate to at least try to come across as civilized." John explained with a shrug, only now choosing to take his eyes off of his host and look about the house once more. It was short look, simply because there was nothing else but the familiar darkness. It would seem as though Sherlock had lit but two candles, and they were both held by feeble human hands.
"I apologize for the darkness, but I could not seem to light candles fast enough to prepare for your arrival." Sherlock admitted shamefully. John just gave him a suspicious look, as if doubting the sincerity of that statement.
"That's rather deceitful of you, Sherlock. A clever lie for anyone who doesn't know it takes merely ten seconds to light ten candles. You could've illuminated the whole house if you had wanted to, that is if you weren't so busy planning your dramatic entrance." John accused. Sherlock squinted his eyes in a rather innocent way, as if he wasn't very happy with John's insulting his way of doing things.
"My entrance was not dramatic." Sherlock scoffed; standing next to the basement door all while John wandered off towards the living room. It was very eerie, the way the furniture emerged from the darkness when added with candle light. it loomed here and there, placed where it always had been yet in its own way, very surprising.
"It makes me wonder, Sherlock, what you plan to do in the darkness." John whispered, setting his candle down on the coffee table and letting it flicker there. Sherlock blinked, looking off towards what must be the kitchen, looking as if he was expecting someone to be waiting there, looking back.
"I had nothing in mind." He said in a small, innocent voice. He sounded remotely scared, however at the same time awfully intrigued. Surely he knew that something was going to happen, yet he didn't know what it was quite yet. John just laughed, shaking his head quite doubtfully all while shrugging his shoulders, teasing Sherlock now with what they both wanted to happen, and what they both knew was coming.
"Well then, we could just have a drink and talk." John said with a shrug. Sherlock opened his mouth, and for a moment a quick look of disappointment flashed upon his face. It was obvious now that he had liked John's first vague suggestion a lot more.
"I um...well I suppose it's whatever you would prefer. I just called you here because I felt rather...lonely." Sherlock admitted quietly. John nodded; humming his doubt all the while he looked Sherlock up and down, wearing that look in which he knew exactly what he wanted, and how to get it. Obviously right now, he wanted Sherlock.
"Lonely, yes? Lonely for how long?" John wondered with a bit of a grin. Sherlock thought for a small moment, looking almost as if he knew this to be a trick question. It was of course, for even as he said it John began to take off his jacket, making slow work of it just so he could cherish just how long it took Sherlock's face to glow red in realization.
"John...John I think we should..."
"Think we should what, Sherlock?" John interrupted with a playful little smile, his eyes glinting in seductiveness now as he let his coat fall to the floor beneath him. Sherlock took a sort little breath, looking a bit lost for a moment as if he had forgotten now what he was going to say.
"I think that maybe we should wait." He struggled out. John just laughed, shaking his head because he obviously wasn't convinced by that.
"We've waited how long? Thirteen years?" John clarified. Sherlock cleared his throat, nodding heavily as if realizing now that his excuse was not valid.
"Yes, I suppose we have." Sherlock agreed quietly.
"If you do not want to, then just say the words. But if you do, Sherlock, then come here." John instructed, holding out his arms in welcome for the man he knew would come stepping into his clutches. Sherlock bit his cheek in anxiousness, however it was obvious that he could not so easily tell John no. He could not so easily deny himself what he had obviously been waiting for this whole time they had been apart. And so, as predicted, Sherlock took a couple of shuffling steps forward. His candle was shaking so vigorously now that the wax was dripping along all sides, yet if he was getting burned he obviously took no notice. He was merely staring at John, who was now standing in his tee shirt and awaiting his lover's proximity. John could tell that Sherlock was nervous, yet it was all going to be natural so long as they got over this awkward sort of prelude. It had been spur of the moment, the last time they had loved each other, and whatever consolation it was at least this time they were not covered in blood that was not their own. This should feel appropriate, tonight. It should feel fitting.
"I haven't done this in a while. Not since...not since the last time." Sherlock warned carefully.
"That's alright Sherlock. That's quite alright." John assured with something of a smile. Finally Sherlock was close enough for John to be able to reach out, letting his fingers trail very carefully down one of Sherlock's sculpted cheeks. Sherlock smiled timidly, smiling as he didn't think he was supposed to be excited.
"Are you sure you're allowed to do this?" Sherlock clarified in a trembling voice, his eyes flickering down to where John's wedding ring still sparkled in the light of the candle. John hesitated, looking at the thing and knowing that he should take it off. He knew that it would be inappropriate to wear it, especially when Sherlock knew enough about his wife to feel the ring and remember her, the way she must be sitting at home now, mourning the loss of her husband who was not yet gone. Yet he didn't want to take it off, for some reason the thing felt appropriate, for some reason it felt impossible to remove. And so he merely avoided the question, taking the candle from Sherlock's hand and setting it down onto the table near his own so that their small corner of light was all they had of visibility. Who knows what lay behind the darkness in this house, what sort of eyes were watching them now? Bats, raccoons...maybe other, more perceptive creatures. Yet it mattered not, in this corner of light it was their own world, it was theirs to do whatever they liked, caring not who may have the dedication to watch. John didn't care if it was Mary in those shadows, or Greg, even Rosie! They may look if they liked, just so that it could be properly demonstrated how much he loved this man.
"You're not afraid?" John clarified carefully, letting his hands now envelop the man's ever so deserving face.
"I'm not afraid when I'm with you." Sherlock assured quietly, trembling a little bit to the touch, however John suspected now that it was not from cold, nor from fear. It was from a much more pleasurable feeling, it was from euphoria that was spawned simply by the right touch at the right time, by the hand he had most been longing to feel. John now let his hands fall towards Sherlock's shoulders, sliding his jacket off of his shoulders to which the man happily yet timidly complied. He didn't know what to do, that was obvious, and so it would fall upon John now to coach them both through. Sherlock took a breath, a breath which John returned, and ever so carefully put his hands upon John's waist, holding him there as if trying to make sure he didn't slip away at a moment's whim. John smiled up at him in a reassuring way, and with that he pressed the first kiss onto that man's deserving lips, the first kiss of the night that would be followed undoubtedly by many more. Sherlock breathed heavily, as if he was trying to recover now from the shock of the moment, and yet even in such a state he was able to reach over and press another kiss onto John's lips, continuing what might have spawned from the first spark of love. A flame, one that would undoubtedly grow into something bigger now that their lips parted only to take a breath. It was slow going at first, for Sherlock stood as stiff as a board, afraid evidently to make a move that would ruin the heat of the moment. Yet John knew what to do, he knew how to continue on from this kissing stage they seemed to be stuck in, momentarily. And so he pulled away, wiggled away from Sherlock's touch for only a moment, and pulled his shirt off over his head. This was evidently something that Sherlock had not been expecting, at least not so quickly, and when he first gazed onto John's bare chest his face flushed in guilty pleasure, his fingers trembling as they still lingered ever so closer now to John's torso. John simply chuckled, letting his shirt fall now to the pile of clothes that was beginning to collect at their feet. He really did appreciate that look of awe on Sherlock's face; it simply wasn't a look he got anymore in his aging years. Yet still in Sherlock's eyes, John's mediocrely toned chest seemed to be quite magical. Sherlock took a sharp breath, seeming obviously to feel that he was not allowed to reach out and touch John anymore, as if he was afraid he was invading personal privacy in some way. However the lack of privacy was sort of the name of the game, and so John stepped closer once more and grabbed at Sherlock's face once more, whispering his reassurances all while Sherlock's hands ever so carefully replaced themselves onto his sides.
"You're all right, Sherlock." John assured quietly, letting their chests press together now as he slowly began to let his lips kiss against Sherlock's exposed neck. Sherlock nodded stiffly, his fingers now working about John's chest as if he was trying to figure the best angle from which to hold him. He seemed overwhelmed, which was not uncommon for a man who had gone thirteen years without seeing anyone, much less being with anyone. Yet there was something more to his uncomfortableness, a reluctance that gave John the growing suspicion that there was another divide between them. Yet Sherlock's skin tasted so sweet, and John couldn't help himself to slow down and bother with what might be praying on Sherlock's mind in the moment.
"Take it off, John." Sherlock mumbled as John's fingers now played against his chest, trying to undo the buttons down his shirt. John just chuckled, taking his lips away now to look at Sherlock teasingly, before nodding his head as he vigorously tried to get that shirt off of his thin, white chest. Evidently the man saw some urgency, with a request like that. Yet just as John was pulling apart the fabric Sherlock caught his hand, preventing him from going any farther.
"Not that, I meant your ring. Take it off." Sherlock corrected. John's fingers went rigid, even standing here in the heat of the moment he seemed to have gone cold. He blinked, and noticed now that the very hand that was trapped and squirming in Sherlock's closed fist was indeed the hand that bore the mark of his marriage with Mary. The ring that seemed almost stuck there, the one he hadn't removed in what felt like forever.
"Take off my ring?" John clarified a bit reluctantly, pulling his hand away with something of a reluctant lurch.
"Yes, take it off." Sherlock demanded, sounding a bit more insulted now, as he noticed finally John's evident reluctance. John looked towards the sparkling thing, feeling his head shake all by itself, shake in stubbornness and denial.
"I don't think I should." John muttered quietly. He looked up at Sherlock, who had now gotten quite pale. Almost as if he was just now realizing something that he hadn't considered before now.
"John you can't be with me and still be with her. It isn't right." Sherlock snapped, taking a step away with a wince, as if his leg had just cramped up underneath him and made it even more difficult for him to retreat. John blinked, now realizing what sort of fool he had been. Of course Sherlock would take that as an insult to John's dedication, yet he had never imagined Sherlock would go so far as to walk away!
"Wait, Sherlock come on! I'll take it off!" John protested, wiggling the ring off of his finger only to feel very naked without it. He had worn that ring since the day Mary had slid it over his finger, and even now he could almost feel the sort of happy energy he had felt then. And now it was leaking away from that indented skin, what little happiness concerning his wife that still remained was now seeping away into the floorboards, it was getting lost like most all emotions did in the woodworking of this old house. Yet that didn't seem to help, in fact John's sudden change of heart only seemed to draw Sherlock even farther away. Sherlock had stepped out of the light; however John could just barely make out the form of a man standing against the wall of the kitchen, his hands at his chest working vigorously to clothe himself properly.
"It doesn't matter now, John. You still love her; you've made that very clear." Sherlock snapped. John gaped, taking a step forward to meet Sherlock before feeling a little bit of panic. He knew that there were only two of them in this house, yet the darkness was providing a very eerie feeling, one that kept reminding him that he had no real proof that the figure he was approaching really was the man who was known to him. Yes, it looked like Sherlock, and yes it spoke with his voice. However there had been such a dramatic change in moods throughout this mere minute of conversation, and what had once been Sherlock could now be something different entirely. That was how it went with someone like him, someone who had voices inside of his head that were not his own.
"I don't, Sherlock don't be a fool of course I don't love her." John insisted, yet his voice was forced and his throat was dry. His thoughts did not reflect his words, and his body was making it almost impossible to squeeze out such lies. Yet he knew...he knew that they were necessary.
"You married her." Sherlock pointed out.
"Only because you were away." John protested, still standing where he felt safer, where the light could illuminate his surroundings enough for him to be aware of them. Sherlock's breath came in a struggle, yet the figure shook its head quietly, disappointedly.
"You still feel sympathy...or you feel something. And I cannot love you while you are in love with someone else." Sherlock insisted. John hesitated, shaking his head yet not knowing what there was to say any longer. It would seem as though Sherlock had picked the perfect moment to trap him into whatever debate of loyalties they were having, for while John's heart was still yearning so badly for the man who stood before him, a mere morsel was also mourning for the woman he had left behind.
"I can...Sherlock we can fix that." John said quietly. "If you don't want me to love her then we're going to have to get rid of her."
"Get rid of her?" Sherlock clarified, his voice sparking with that insane interest John recognized so very well. The sort of excitement that came along with a very forbidden action, one that would fortify their dedication for one another.
"Yes." John agreed in a trembling voice. He fiddled with his ring once more before clutching it inside of his fist, trying to choke the life out of it before it was able to tempt him enough to shove it back onto his finger. "Get rid of her. And then, just as you have Victor, I will too have Mary. Ghosts of our pasts, reminding us what we had to go through to get to each other, and to where we belong."
"Ghosts." Sherlock agreed with a little chuckle. "You'd like me to make her a ghost?"
"I'd like you to do whatever you see fit. If she's living...if she's dead. I give you permission to do what you think necessary." John agreed quietly. Sherlock rose from where he was leaning, his figure rising now to its most impressive height, and as he roamed towards the light John could already see the gleaming white of his smiling face.
"Whatever is necessary." Sherlock mumbled in agreeance. He loomed closer now; his eyes alight with that familiar madness, the same madness that John had fallen in love with all those years ago. For nothing got Sherlock excited quite like the probability of murder. "That is what I like to hear."
"Now then, Sherlock. Where had we left off?" John wondered, dropping the silver ring onto the coffee table and approaching the man once more. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck, and of course the man immediately received him, holding his bare chest against his own and smiling as he let John's lips take their place once more on his skin.
"Somewhere here, I suppose." Sherlock presumed. John nodded, taking a deep breath now as he was finally able to kiss Sherlock with an ease of his anxious mind. Now they both knew that these kisses meant something, they knew that they would be permanent, everlasting. Sherlock had the reassurance of knowing that John's heart was dedicated enough to him so as to make the sacrifice of his wife, and John had the freedom of an unburdened hand and a weightless heart. For the ring was gone, and with that hand now he could stroke against Sherlock's cheek, he could kiss upon his lips without the feeling of guilt, and he could love him now without remembering that his wife was waiting for him. For in his mind, at the moment, Mary was already gone. It was only a matter of time before that was made official.