Let The Shadows Win

The Shadows Learn To Walk

"I'm sorry; I was just going to go to bed." John attempted, however Sherlock put up a hand to quiet him.
"Stay with me a little while longer." Sherlock pleaded, sitting up only enough so that he could watch John from where he lay on the couch. John nodded, smiling a bit nervously at the man before walking over and taking a seat on the coffee table, so that he could hold the hand that wore that beautiful ring. John weaved their fingers together, looking upon Sherlock with love and appreciation in his eyes.
"Something's got you down, Sherlock." John commented. Sherlock took a deep breath, nodding his eyes and bringing his feet to sit on the couch as well, bending his knees in what appeared to be a lethal point.
"Yes, I lost someone today." Sherlock admitted quietly, blinking for a small moment as if trying to keep tears from forming in his eyes.
"You lost someone?" John asked in confusion, trying to think of who Sherlock had ever had.
"Victor." Sherlock clarified, closing his eyes just for a moment. "Victor left me today." John was quiet, for he really didn't know how to respond to such a thing. Victor had been dead for over fourteen years, and so for Sherlock to say that he had now just only left was quite the unnerving declaration.
"I'm sorry Sherlock, but I'm not really seeing your point." John admitted timidly.
"My point, John, is that he's left me forever. I told you that I didn't see anyone anymore, I lied, I saw him. I saw Mycroft. But Victor told me today that he served no purpose in my head any longer, and he left me. I can't see him anymore John...he won't talk to me." Sherlock admitted with a tremble, finally unlacing his fingers from John's and pulling them away sharply. "He's gone."
"Sherlock you're not serious? You still see these people?" John clarified, not bothering to hide his concern any longer. And so Rosie's theory had been correct, Sherlock really had never swam out from the deep end.
"Well now I don't see Victor! And I'm even lonelier than I can properly fathom." Sherlock admitted miserably.
"You've got me, Sherlock. Don't forget that you've got me." John insisted, taking Sherlock's hand now so as to squeeze it in reassurance. Sherlock sighed heavily, nodding his head yet still not bringing his eyes to meet John's.
"You couldn't help me like he did, John you don't understand the forces that are at stake." Sherlock whispered. John laughed a bit nervously, going now to push the curly bangs out from around Sherlock's eyes, like a caring mother would do when she noticed her child was getting sick.
"And what forces are those?" John wondered. Sherlock took a deep, sharp breath, and suddenly his hand clamped around John's with all the force of a man who was just now fearing for his life.
"Victor's purpose was to protect me from Mycroft." He whispered fearfully, his fingers trembling ever so obviously, as if he was still concerned that his brother might be returning from the grave to terrorize him. "And now Victor's left me, and Mycroft's still here....he's still lurking."
"You sound crazy, Sherlock." John objected, trying now to loosen the man's grip, staring into Sherlock's eyes only to see madness staring back.
"Then maybe I am. But...but in my head it is all real, John. In my head, there's every reason to be afraid." Sherlock whispered in a trembling voice, his face now growing pale as he turned his head and stared right over John's shoulder, his grip on his hand somehow getting even tighter as he was overwhelmed with sudden panic.
"It's him...John it's him." Sherlock whispered, his eyes growing wide. For a moment John was afraid as well, and a great shiver went down his spine to hear Sherlock so convinced that they were not alone. And yet he had to be strong here, he had to stay calm and insist to Sherlock that what he was seeing was completed separate from reality. And so John turned, looking towards where Sherlock was so fearfully staring, and seeing to his utter relief that such delusions were just so. There was no one standing there, the shadows remained unoccupied, and it was all John could do but force himself to ignore the heartbeat that was beating so vigorously in his fiancé's chest; he had to ignore how much fear was evident in those beautiful, complicated eyes. 

Sherlock POV: Sherlock couldn't sleep...he could hear the scuttling in the corners of the room, the familiar pacing that he had to listen to all of those years he was locked away. Mycroft was on edge, for he now knew that he was in full control of Sherlock's fate. Victor had been in charge of keeping him away, Victor was the sole reason that Mycroft never took full control, never tried to establish his domination over the still independent parts of Sherlock's brain. And now Victor had left, presumably because it was his way of escaping the ultimate humiliation of being forever second to John Watson. He claimed his job was annulled, yet little did he know that his sole purpose was keeping Sherlock safe from the beast that lurked inside of his head! It was his responsibility to keep Mycroft away, and here he was now...pacing. Sherlock's eyes remained wide, and his heart was racing long after John had fallen asleep. He lay with his head on his own pillow, yet John's hand was still clenched in his own. He knew that he had the ability to wake John, yet the man's help would be useless now. John couldn't chase away what was only in Sherlock's head; he couldn't protect him from the shadows that had learned to walk. Yet this was Mycroft's terrain, this was his own terrain. Sherlock was inhabiting his house, sleeping in his bed, and sitting at his place at the table. There was no wonder why Mycroft was becoming defensive, why he suddenly couldn't just let things unfold the way they were. Mycroft was so against Sherlock's romantic entanglements, his purpose in Sherlock's head was to remind him of the ideals and values that he had supposedly been raised on. Purity, loneliness, and most importantly the withdrawal from all seemingly useless emotions, that was what Mycroft enforced in his head! The diseased part of Sherlock's brain that still existed after years of therapy, the faltered little thing that still kept trying to tell him to walk away from his family and ignore the pulses of his heart, that had taken shape as his brother when his sanity had left him. It was Mycroft's views, not the man himself, who haunted Sherlock like an insufferable plague. And now it was here, lurking through the darkness yet distinct enough for Sherlock to follow it with his never closing eyes, listening to the ticking of the clock and the scuffing of Mycroft's polished shoes against the hardwood. He didn't say a word, yet his intentions were clear. He hated that his bed was used as their own, he hated that the love he had tried so hard to keep away was now manifesting under his own sheets, and that his brother, who he tried so hard to alienate, was repeatedly grasping onto them and crying out into the pillows. Mycroft hated that such obscene acts had to take place in his own bed, yet it had been ironic before, it had been fitting. Now that Mycroft's wrath was unchained, well it wasn't so enjoyable now that there very well may be consequences. But what was his plan, what was this whole scheme going to shape out to be? In the end, Mycroft was here to protect Sherlock. Yet his methods of protection were very far from what might be considered necessary or even legal, and what he thought was the enemy very often turned out to be the very person Sherlock never wanted to lose. So what did he intend to do? Convince Sherlock to kill John, or convince him to move houses? Would he want him to run away, or to adopt the same sort of protective iron fist that Mycroft himself had developed so as to keep his household in line? Was that what Mycroft intended Sherlock to become...himself? And that very thought was terrifying, ti was enough to keep Sherlock up the whole night, his eyes strained and his hand clenching tightly to John. For even though he knew he had his fiancé, even though he knew he had Rosie...well he understood that this was a battle he was going to fight alone.