Don't Stray From The Light

By Means Of Fire

"My Lord! My Lord what have you...Sherlock what have you done?" asked the voice of Michael as he rushed into the room, through the doorway he had entered through when they had first woken up together. The kitchen must be back there, or his servant's quarters, oh but it didn't matter now! It mattered that he was the only possible friend in this entire mess, the only one with a sane head that lingered about the darkened walls of despair in the Holmes household!
"Michael he's going to..."
"Silence, Watson." Victor growled, rearranging his hand so as to cover John's mouth with his bony and frankly unhealthy feeling hand. Sherlock was intending on killing them all, wasn't he? Starving them out, perhaps, so as to kill them before John made his grand entrance? But why were they here, was he stockpiling men so as to be accompanied every night? Was he keeping them here to get them away from their wives, or to make sure they didn't spill the secrets he was trying to keep? Were these the 'nomadic lovers' that he had alluded to? Yet they seemed to be quite stationary, John could only imagine the poor men hadn't seen proper daylight since they were first taken into the house, how many years ago.
"Sherlock you cannot kill Mr. Watson, he's a detective, they'll be looking for him!" Michael exclaimed, looking off towards where John was being held by the fierce arms of Victor Trevor. Oh what a sight this must be.
"What does it matter, Mycroft? What does any of it matter?" Sherlock breathed, shaking his head carelessly as John's eyes grew wide. That was no slip of the tongue, yet it was for sure Mycroft Holmes who stood before him, but why? Why would the eldest son be resorted to the mere servant?
"Sherlock they'll hang you." Mycroft pointed out.
"You cannot kill what is already dead. This is my exit. My grand finale." Sherlock promised with a little grin, drawing nearer to the fire and staring at the flames in eagerness, almost with a longing sort of satisfaction. Mycroft hesitated, looking towards the myriad of men that stood concealed in the shadows, his usually black eyes alight in obvious concern.
"You're going to kill them all?" Mycroft clarified.
"Yes, I am. And I too will go out in the flames, and Mycroft, you will join us as well. We can go meet mother and father again, I know you've been looking forward to that." Sherlock teased, shaking his head before turning back on his brother with a sardonic grin on his face.
"I want to live, if at all possible." Mycroft mumbled.
"And live what life? You're an accomplice; they'll hang you if not me. They'll want someone to frame for the crimes, and I am dead then you will be the obvious suspect, considering the past you have." Sherlock teased.
"This was your operation; they'll believe me when I say it!" Mycroft promised.
"Let's not take that chance. Come with me, Mycroft dear. Join your brother." Sherlock whispered, taking a step forward and reaching out his hand for his brother to take. Yet Mycroft stayed still, trembling as he stared upon the devil that had become of his baby brother. In that moment of silence, in which even the men had stopped to stare at the family feud going on before them, John knew he had to take a chance. He knew that while they were all plenty distracted, some watching in awe to see if Mycroft would join, others simply staring in horror as they realized that they had escaped one painful death and gotten recruited for another. Yet John didn't want that death, he didn't want any death in fact. His wife was waiting; the very woman he was determined to stay faithful to was the same that was undoubtedly waiting up in bed, waiting for her husband to return. It was his unfaithfulness that had gotten him into this situation, and his faithfulness that had only escalated matters. Should he really abandon that determination now that the end was potentially near? Would he really trade a life with Mary for a death with Sherlock simply by not trying to escape? No of course not, this was the time to act; this was the time to fight! And so John brought his teeth down hard on Victor's hand, the very one that was clenched over his mouth so as to silence him was now the one that was bleeding. He yanked it away on instinct, yelping in pain before John finally brought an elbow hard to his stomach, making the man clench away for only a moment, just enough time for John to turn and plant a well-placed kick to the man's chest. He stumbled away in a heap, yet John didn't pause to wait for a reaction, he didn't wait to see what became of the man after he fell. That very man who John had been trying to find, trying to save, would have been the man that assured his death in the end. The face on the bulletin board turned to the last face John would ever see. Yet not anymore! John raced towards the door, hearing Sherlock's screaming, hearing the parade of footsteps as the troupe followed him through the hallway, following him out the front door and into the night.
"HE CAN'T LEAVE, DON'T LET HIM LEAVE! NO ONE LEAVES THIS HOUSE TONIGHT!" Sherlock was screaming, his voice high and crazed, his limbs shaking as he struggled to make his voice louder. Yet John ran, he didn't heed the man's command, he didn't even attempt to follow it. Instead he ran, his feet smashing against the cobblestone as he raced down the driveway, through the open, rusty gate that led to the shadowy awning of the sycamore trees, their branches hanging down like limbs that would catch him if he trailed too close... John was fast, yet it would seem these men were faster. He heard their footfalls, bare feet against the stones, sliding and bleeding as they raced to catch up, their lungs heaving in fresh air as the descended with mad ferocity, running not for their lives, but for their master. Somehow that will was stronger, their desire to please the man that would take their life as soon as they returned. He ran through the night yet he was not fast enough, with a look back he saw all eight men descending, their limbs thin and their chests bare, their faces unshaven and their eyes crazed as they raced after him like the undead, hunting down the damned. They were not slowing down; all the while John's legs were beginning to tire. Suddenly he understood that there was no running away, there was no escaping after Sherlock had willed his staying. As Victor, the fastest of them all, closed the gap ever more John tried to swerve off into the grass, ducking under the tendrils of the sycamore trees yet getting swept off of his feet by a tackle, familiar limbs wrapping around him and brining him hard onto the mud, sliding into the base of a tree and smacking his forehead hard off of an exposed root. John gave a great moan of defeat, rolling over so as to cover his head and feel for welts while the unaffected man on top of him immediately grabbed at his wrists, coiling rope around so as to prevent John from escaping once more. The sound of a rolling carriage alerted John of his defeat, and as he rolled over he saw the last of the night sky, the last of the stars. He understood now that as he lay in the night air it would be the last time he ever saw such light before the darkness took his eyes forever. Was this really how it was going to end, his head throbbing, his legs burning, his lungs gasping for air? And his wrists now restrained as that sickened newspaper reporter lay on top of him, breathing heavily yet laughing into his neck? Was this really the end?
"Ah, Victor good catch, marvelous job!" Sherlock exclaimed in delight, coming to a halt right next to where the two men lay struggling. He was the one driving the carriage, so Mycroft's whereabouts were currently unknown. Was the man dead, or was he waiting back at the house, getting ready the guns with which they were to be shot? Sherlock leapt from the carriage and shouted a stream of profanities at Victor, demanding him get off of his soulmate or whatever, for john's ears were ringing and he only heard snippets of Sherlock's harsh voice. Suddenly the man was flung aside and Sherlock pulled John by the collar to his feet, forcing his shaking legs to steady himself on the squishy moss ground.
"Not trying to get away, are you? Not going anywhere now!" Sherlock exclaimed in delight, opening the carriage door and throwing John's limp body inside, where he rolled lamely off of the seat and fell to the ground in a heap. John groaned miserably, kicking his feet yet not making contact with anything but the doorframe, which merely hurt all the more. He heard Sherlock's laughter yet he wasn't sure where it was coming from, it would seem from all sides now, even internally he could hear the man's chorus of delight!
"In, in all of you! Keep our detective company, if you will, make sure he's comfortable on the trip back home." Sherlock demanded. Suddenly John heard footsteps approaching, and then the carriage sank down with the added weight, creaking and groaning as the wheels now had to support eight extra bodies as they clambered in. John was kicked multiple times as the men organized themselves, and Victor, who must be the leader of this circus, merely kneeled over top of him, rolling John over so that he could look him in the eyes as the door was closed and they were left alone in the darkness once more. John stared up at him fearfully, seeing out of the corner of his eye many familiar faces, sneering and grinning with their thin cheeks and disgusting stubble, looking dead already! Looking nothing like the photographs that hung in the hallway of the darkened station, nothing like they did before Sherlock got his hands on them. John hardly struggled, for he assumed that Victor would like it if he did. He merely lay there; hardly able to breathe as Victor reclined down so as to hold his face mere inches away from where John's lips were parted, struggling and gasping as fear overtook his body once more.
"What makes you so special? Hm? What makes you any better than me?" Victor whispered venomously. John didn't answer, partially because his voice didn't work but mainly because he knew that this question had been rhetorical, and whatever way he answered would be met with hostilities. John knew it best to stay silent, to stare up into the crazed blue eyes that had once been so dormant, so docile, looking over the newspaper on the sunny sidewalk café. And now he was a monster.
"Is it the way you look? The way you love? The way you make his heart feel, or the way you make his body quiver?" Victor questioned, his fingernails digging into John's shoulders as he leaned ever closer, his lips hovering terrifyingly close to John's neck and his breath stinging against his skin.
"Dear detective, why would you run from him? Why wouldn't you cherish the opportunities you were given, why did you not take him as your own? Have you any idea how lucky you are to be given his full attention, his top priority? He would have taken our lives at your expense, and still that is not enough? What high maintenance!" Victor exclaimed, sitting up with a laugh only to pull open John's shirt, tearing the buttons away so that they popped off and were strewn all about the carriage. It was almost as if he knew what was there for when he revealed it, he almost knew that he was looking for the bite marks that went up and down John's now bare, exposed chest. Victor sighed a breath of satisfaction and immediately took to kissing them, the wounds that still hurt and now stung with his tainted saliva. It was a horrible feeling, one that automatically made John kick his feet in protest, letting out a cry of protest that only made Victor all the more eager. The man above laughed, watching in delight as John was at the mercy of the lunatic that hunched over him, they laughed as if this was the most excitement they had had in years! Yet thankfully the carriage stopped, and immediately the carriage door was flung open and Sherlock escorted them all out, bringing out Victor first (Victor got slapped, although he seemed to enjoy it) and demanded that all the men walked back into the sitting room and arranged themselves near the fire. He said that Mycroft had cleared away the furniture and there was space for them all to sit. Now John doubted this was some sort of singalong, he knew that they were organizing themselves to die, to get killed like some sort of sacrificial lamb. John was pulled towards a sitting position by rough hands, hands that clenched around his shoulders so as to bring his eyes back towards reality. Back to where Sherlock stared into them, eagerly, yet with a hint of the softness that ha drawn them together in the first place. For a moment it was quiet, and the monster contemplated what it was he would say next. John waited, for he certainly wasn't going to be the one to start the conversation, and for a moment the silence was almost calming. John would've been able to trick himself into admiring Sherlock's presence here and now, should he have wanted to. He would've been able to tell himself that he was safe.
"Where did we go wrong?" Sherlock whispered, leaning forward so as to wipe what must be dirt from John's throbbing forehead and tutting sort of like a disappointed mother. "You're hurt."
"Why are you doing this?" John managed, coughing up a foul tasting something that must be blood, his head spinning ever more as he tried to recoil away from Sherlock's fingers, which were now parting his hairline and pushing the bangs from his eyes.
"To make sure that our futures interlock. To make sure that, if we cannot spend the rest of our lives together, that we are at least joined in our last couple of days. All in all, Mr. Watson, we will have spent the last of our days in each other's company." Sherlock whispered. "Like it was meant to be."
"I don't love you." John spat, to which Sherlock just chuckled. This was hardly the reaction he had been expecting, yet in some ways he was thankful Sherlock didn't retaliate.
"You do. You just don't know it anymore; you're trying to blind yourself with hatred for me, trying to blind yourself with fear. But you're not scared, Mr. Watson. You know as well as I that you are not scared. You do not tremble." Sherlock whispered, his hand smoothing along John's still arm with a small smile. "How you used to admire my touch."
"Get away...get..." John shook his head in defeat, and instead of fighting he merely willed himself to fall back, this was his form of protest, his form of defeat. What a powerful being he once was, overcome by a madman with a rope and a small army of the near dead! A madman he used to love...
"I will be gone soon." Sherlock promised. "Now let's get you inside, Mr. Watson." It must have been Mycroft who carried him in, for Sherlock had no strength and John most certainly didn't get inside on his own. They were strong arms, the ones that carried him in, clad in a fine suit, arms that didn't shake at all. John lolled against the man's chest as he listened to Sherlock's voice in the background, going on about how he loved the house, how he would surely miss it, and how he hated to destroy it. Going on about how he had no heir, yet his estate was tainted all the same. It would burn with him, he was saying. It would burn with him. John was settled on the rug next to the fire, in the middle of a circle that had been arranged by the eight men who had taken up secretive lodgings in the Holmes manor. He was laid on the carpet and Sherlock joined him, smoothing back his hair and cooing words that went unheard. Mycroft stood outside the circle, for he was not one of Sherlock's lovers and so he could not join. He merely watched then, as the men all kissed Sherlock's feet up to his head, all of them crawling over themselves and crawling over John so as to kiss the man up and down until he was satisfied. It was like a mad rush of limbs, all of their love strewn about as they tried to get as much of the man they all loved as they could, trying to kiss him so that their affection was most known.
"My men, oh I will miss you all!" Sherlock exclaimed as they all settled back into their seats, the firelight playing over their faces as they stared once more at their master. What amazed John was that they didn't seem afraid, what amazed him even more was that he wasn't afraid either. Death, it was formidable yes, and at this point he understood that it was unescapable. Yet he almost felt...safe. Was that too bold? John had always feared the unknown, a death that came without warning, in a crowd of strangers. Yet he felt now that he knew each and every one of these men, personally through papers and files, photographs and interviews. Yes he knew each man that sat before him, he knew the man that stood outside, and he knew the man that was now seating himself at the head of the circle, seated dangerously close to the flames that burned in the hearth. And John knew exactly what was coming, a death that would be slow, yet a death that would be beautiful. Death that he would appreciate...and death that he did not fear. For it wasn't unknown anymore. He didn't struggle against the ropes; he didn't kick at the air, at an enemy he could never hit. He did not fight then, as Sherlock pulled him into his arms, arranging him just so that he could settle his head against the man's shoulder, cradled like a child so that he could stare into the fire that sat behind them both. John did not tremble, for he could feel Sherlock's heartbeat, slow and steady, through the soft fabric of his silk dressing gown.
"Is it not beautiful, Mr. Watson?" Sherlock whispered. "Is it not appropriate? That we should all die together?" That was all he said, for love confessions at this time would seem almost like pathetic last words. For it was love that brought him to do this, love that destined them all to be seated here, facing their fate. Sherlock loved them all and they all loved Sherlock, and so a declaration of such thing would be useless. John didn't speak, yet he knew what he would have said. Sherlock held him closer with one hand, yet the other he extended backwards, laughing as he winced, laughing as he gave a sharp scream of pain. And John got to watch it; he got to watch it all. He watched as Sherlock stuck his hand into the flames, he watched it catch, watched it begin to burn. His dressing gown went up quickly, spreading towards the man who was held to his chest, the pain began to multiply, to their hair, to their skin. John suddenly couldn't see, suddenly he couldn't feel. He only heard Sherlock's voice calling the other men, and suddenly they all were swarmed, suddenly the screaming echoed from Sherlock's mouth, to John's, and to a chorus of the eight men who surrounded them. They fought towards the flames, for dying at its hand would mean dying with their master, dying with their love. The flames that had been caught from the body of their lover, only to kill them all. They all felt the same thing; they all suffered the same fate! And from the men caught the rug, and from the rug the furniture, the walls, the ceiling. The entire Holmes manor caught flames along with its master, along with its servant, and its occupants. Along with its guest. Sherlock's laughter continued until it could no longer, until his voice was silenced and the delight taken from his body. Until all it was in John's power to do but lean closer to the body that had been engulfed, emitting smoke from the eye sockets and from the ears, he could only lean into the body that had once been so beautiful, gleaming not with fire but with radiance. The body that had been charred and burned, that had brought about destruction to the ones it loved and the ones that loved it back. Bringing about the crumbling of the manor around it, and with the smoke the secrets were emitted out into the air. John leaned closer, and with his dying breath and his charred tongue he could force out his last words, the ones that Sherlock wouldn't hear yet would appreciate all the same.
"It's beautiful." John managed, and with that, his mouth hung open, and the last of the breath left his body. He was left now to be found by the firemen that first responded to the scene, and by the constable, who was forced to share the bad news with the detective who was now working alone, trying to solve a case that had closed itself with means of fire. 

A/N: Even though this wasn't my most populate story, I still think it's a completely radical idea, something I sort of thought up in a fever dream and decided that it would be cool on paper. It was the first detective story I wrote, sort of twisted as it's John who's doing the detective work. Needless to say, I'm sure it's the only one of it's kind! Pretty dark, pretty creepy, and it really takes into account the madness of solitude and the need of human contact. Anyway, this is the second story today that's completed, but to make up for the two I'm only going to publish one. I don't have a lot of time for writing now that I'm in college, so it's been difficult to keep my same amount of content. Nevertheless, you've got the secretly I think you knew sequel, and coming up is going to be a very disturbing story about life, death, and the unconscious mind. Thanks for reading my friends!