Let The Shadows Win

Remnants Of The Madness

It was the night before Sherlock's release, and John was very unsure as of what to do. He didn't want to talk to Mary about it, purely because he didn't want her to know how severe this release really was. She had been there for the initial shock, yet he had pegged that little breakdown to be entirely due to the surprise of a serial killer being released into the world. He hadn't admitted to her how fast his heart had been racing, or how many times that familiar mug shot appeared in his dreams. It had been such a startling image, not because John had forgotten what Sherlock looked like, but because he had never thought to remember. He had been cured of the disease Sherlock had passed along to him, cured enough so that he could forget to think on it. He had been living a completely normal life, right up until that photograph burned into his mind once more. And now he had the chance to see the real thing, the real boy, grown now into an adult! Would he be there to greet him, would he be there to watch? Surely there would be no procession waiting for Sherlock when he arrived to the outside world, considering his family was dead and everyone who knew him before was afraid of him. And yet John couldn't decide if he should be there, he couldn't decide if it was safe for him to be there. As much as he wanted to be reunited, as much as he wanted to look upon the boy who had simmered so long in his dreams, he also knew that it would be a bad idea. Like most temptations, like most addictions, John knew that after he had given something up it was dangerous to go back, especially when there was an overwhelming possibility that he might end up in the same chasm he had begun in. It was like a drug in all aspects, he knew that when he had it he would feel amazing, yet he knew that all the while he had it he was nearing closer and closer to an early death. He had to stay sober, at least for now, and not let the temptations recapture him. John simply didn't know what to do, and as the day turned to night he was still pondering about which road to take. Sherlock was set to be released at noon, right over John's lunch break. He knew that he could be there if he wanted to be there, it was just a matter of if it was a smart decision or not. He stood in front of the bathroom mirror for a while, staring at the long, dragging scar that still rose up against his windpipe in a horrible array of dead skin. It was an ugly thing, left there as if to intentionally remind John to stay away from the boy who had given it to him. Yet times had changed, had they not? John had survived, he had lived to be more than just a constant voice in Sherlock's head, he had adapted and become his own man, his own individual. The wound was now a reminder that he was a survivor, not just a victim, and that Sherlock too might have survived such an episode.
"John are you coming to bed?" Mary asked him quietly, lingering near the doorframe of the bathroom to watch as John very quickly looked away from his scar. He forced himself to nod, clearing his throat and hoping that she had not observed such an episode.
"I looked him up, Sherlock Holmes." Mary admitted carefully. "I knew him, or at least I remember his face. He was in our school." John looked down mournfully, nodding his head all the same. He didn't want Mary to remember him, he didn't want Mary to delve deeper into the past John had attempted to keep secret. He wanted her to be totally removed from all of this, an object of his future, not of his past. Yet she was there for both, she just didn't fully understand one of them.
"Ya, he was in our grade." John agreed a bit bitterly, attempting to move past her and into the bedroom. Yet she stopped him, stepping in his way in a confrontational sort of way, almost as if she was trying to remind him that this conversation wasn't over.
"It said he killed three people." she pointed out.
"They're wrong." John muttered. "He only killed two."
"There were three bodies in his house." Mary pointed out. John groaned heavily, shaking his head in reluctance for he really didn't want to have to talk about this again. He didn't want to have to remember those bodies, looking at them, dragging them to and from. He remembered them all so vividly, when he was locked in that freezer and listening to the sounds of the Holmes brother's footsteps descending the stairs, not knowing whether he was going to live to step out of that freezer or end up like the frozen bodies that were there with him. The humanoid lumps that lingered in the darkness, one he knew to be Victor Trevor, the other that was foreign to him. The remnants of the madness of Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes.
"I don't...Mary I'm sorry, but I don't like to talk about this stuff. It's all too real to me now." John muttered carefully. Mary sighed heavily, looking down upon John's scar once more and deciding that she needn't ask him anymore how he got it. It was obvious now that she knew.
"I'm sorry about what happened to you, John. I know that you didn't deserve it, you're a good person. Too good to be caught up in the agenda of a murderer." She muttered quietly, reaching over and hugging John for a moment. He hugged her back, purely because he knew that he had to, despite his reluctance considering just how presumptuous she had become. She acted as if John was totally innocent, as if he had done nothing but stumbled into Sherlock's path and paid the price for it. She knew nothing of what he had done, the way he had helped Sherlock avoid the police, burn Mycroft's body, and hide the evidence of all of the previous carnage. He had done his fair share of illegal activities, not to mention his affair with the murderer in question. He did deserve some violence, he did deserve some pain. In the end he had basically been asking for it, for it had been his fault for returning to Sherlock after he almost killed him once. Yet Mary wouldn't know that, she wouldn't know any of it. For John's relationship with Sherlock was never mentioned in the newspapers, it was never mentioned his name at all. He had completely avoided the press, his mother had made sure of that, and so it was easier to move on. And so Mary still saw him as a tragic hero, and the world still saw him as completely uninvolved. How wrong they all were to assume that he was innocent, and how wrong they all were to assume that he was normal. Yet he hugged his wife anyway, he hugged her tightly because he wasn't sure how many more opportunities he was going to have to give her genuine affection. He didn't know what Sherlock's role might be in the years to come, however he suspected there would be a change. He suspected that Mary and he won't be able to appreciate and comfort each other like they were doing now, simply because one of them would be getting progressively more distant. He knew that it would be hard to love her, if ever his heart began to love someone else.