Let The Shadows Win

Soak Up Your Sanity

John POV: John was feeling more and more detached from his present life as his past life began to get ever so closer. He was beginning to feel strange, almost unnatural in his domestic niche, almost as if he was meant to be somewhere else entirely. Things that he was supposed to enjoy were becoming hallow, and things that used to remind him of Sherlock seemed to be the only source of true happiness. He was staying in his room for a while now, and reading the article he had kept over and over again until he remembered every line, word by word. He could recite it back with ease, he could blink and there would be the mug shot on the wall, just where he had left it in the corner of his vision. It was becoming something of an obsession once more, and yet it hurt all the worse to know that his counterpart now wanted nothing to do with him. Yet that was impossible, it must be impossible! Sherlock loved him, he was merely letting the whims of whatever moral code he had adopted get in the way of the obvious. John was married, yet that could be worked around, that could even be fixed. If Sherlock asked, John would drop everything and run to him like he did in the past. As a teenager he had his obligations, the very same that he had abandoned so as to report to Sherlock's every call. Now he had the same sort of obligations, yet in different forms. Just as soccer had been all those years ago, an expected dedication, his wife was to him now. Something that he was obligated to stand by for no apparent reason, and something he could give up with a mere word of finale. He had quit soccer for Sherlock, who's to say that he couldn't quit Mary? That really wasn't the attitude a dedicated husband should have on marriage, however most dedicated husbands didn't have their real soulmates released suddenly from the penitentiary. Yet just as there had been one obstacle the last time John tried to give up everything for Sherlock, so simply did that same obstacle arise again. The second time around, trouble the sequel, the only person who ever seemed to have a clear head in situations that involved that most beautiful boy. Greg Lestrade.
"So I heard something especially funny today, and John I'm sure you'll like this one." Greg said with a little laugh, leaning back in his deck chair and sipping from the cold beer bottle that he held in his hands. It was just another patio party of four, in which the Lestrades and Watsons got together for some summer relaxation, parties that John had enjoyed before he had something else on his mind. And yet even as his suspicion of Greg increased, for he had been the one to call the authorities on Sherlock the first time, he couldn't help but ease into the armchair he was sitting in and enjoy the cool refreshing taste of a lime stuffed in the neck of a bottle.
"Something from work?" Mary wondered. She was holding John's hand from where she sat a couple of feet away, something that John should appreciate, yet instead something that he ultimately despised. He didn't like the feel of fingers that didn't fit perfectly into his own, he didn't like the uncomfortable ring against his knuckles, the ring which he had given her and the ring he surely wished to take away.
"Ya, they got a call in on the emergency line. Apparently a woman had picked up a hitchhiker, and she had called to report that there was an escaped convict on the loose." Greg said with a little laugh. John looked up in interest, suddenly feeling as though this conversation was becoming similar to the one he was having with himself in his head.
"Escaped convict?" John clarified.
"Well we later learned that it was in fact the released convict. She had picked up Sherlock." Greg said with a laugh. John almost jumped out of his chair in excitement, yet instead he dropped Mary's hand and leaned forward very eagerly on his knees, listening very intently for news of where Sherlock might be going and why. He wanted to find him, they needed to reunite somehow, and this was undoubtedly going to prove to be vital information.
"Sherlock? Is that the man the news keeps going on about?" Molly asked with a little frown, raising up the brim of her large sunhat so as to look around at the very mixed emotions going about the patio. Everyone thought differently about this man, and while John wore an expression of interest, Greg seemed amused, whereas Mary looked a little bit defensive. Obviously she could tell that John had a sort of passion or this man, whether or not she suspected the form that passion emitted was still completely unknown.
"Ya, that's him. We told her to relax, told her to watch the news a little bit. I guess she had to drive him to the old house, where he freaked her out by talking about the bodies that had been in there." Greg admitted with a laugh. "I don't know why she called 911, but it was something I thought you'd like."
"We met Sherlock, at the grocery store." Mary muttered immediately, long before John could open his mouth to reply. Yet his brain had clicked on, and however stagnated his search had been, this information got everything moving once more. If Sherlock had gotten a ride to the house that means he's either there, or on his way back home. That's a long ways away from town, and if he's walking all the way there that means there might still be time to catch him! Wouldn't that be wonderful? To reunite after so long in the ruins of that old house, the place where they had loved each other and killed each other.
"You like him much?" Greg wondered casually, all while John's brain was anxiously searching for ways to excuse himself from this conversation, from this patio all together.
"He didn't talk to me, John went over and he ran off." Mary admitted with a shrug, as if she really couldn't be bothered by who Sherlock was or wasn't. She only seemed interested in how quickly he was going to exit their lives. How but really, did she not understand just how futile his presence was? Now that he had been freed, and now that the past could be relived! Did she not understand that she had met her replacement?
"He ran from John? That's not the Sherlock I remember." Greg said with a laugh. "Back in high school, those two were..."
"Some things, Greg, should stay in high school." John interrupted, shushing Greg just in time to protect the secret he had been trying to protect for so long.
"Oh she doesn't...yes of course. Ya well, needless to say they were very close." Greg corrected finally, nodding his head in very obvious secrecy while it was all John could do but nod in irritation. Greg may be a cop, and he may be a good person very deep inside, yet it was ever so obvious that he was an absolute airhead.
"Thanks." John muttered. He set his beer down, knowing now that he had to make some effort to get out of here while he still could.
"So what's the story with this guy? He was arrested when he was a kid, for killing how many people?" Molly clarified, sitting up from her lounge chair and looking at Greg expectantly.
"He was seventeen, and he only killed two out of the three bodies in the house. Mycroft killed the third." John muttered defensively. "And both were in self-defense, actually all three were."
"They killed three people and kept them in the house? That's disgusting!" Molly exclaimed.
"They were in the freezer so it wasn't that bad." Greg added casually.
"Except Mycroft, we...he burned him in the backyard." John agreed, clearing his throat a little bit nervously.
"Mycroft he's...?"
"The brother, older than Sherlock. He treated him horribly though, and he made Sherlock kill his first victim. Then he made him try to kill his second, but the second got away. The second convinced Sherlock to kill Mycroft instead." John admitted quietly, keeping his head down because he could still feel Greg's eyes on him. Greg was one of the only people who knew most everything; in fact Greg was one of the only people who was still around to recount the entire process. He had been there through most of it in the end, trying to be there for John so as to remind him what a mess he was getting himself into. To be quite honest, John knew that he didn't deserve Greg. He was a good friend, then and now, who got caught up in forces of love and obsession that he simply could never understand. He was useless to stop John's passion, and he was helpless to get in the way of the unstoppable force that was their love. Just as he had done in the past, Greg would try to get in the way again. He knew what he thought was right for John, and of course there was no way he could actually know. Greg liked normality, he liked people confiding to their expectations and never pursuing what they actually wanted to do. He wanted John to be just like him, for when they were friends for this long he had begun to think that they weren't just inseparable, but one in the same. Yet John wasn't like him, he didn't fit so easily into domestic life, he didn't cram himself into the same mold that everyone these days was living in. He wanted what he wanted, and if this life wasn't it then there really was no stopping him from changing it. And change it he will.
"I'm sorry but...I've got this horrible headache." John muttered in false agony, blinking his eyes a couple of times and messaging his temples where he thought might have helped.
"A headache?" Mary clarified worriedly, suddenly tuning back into this conversation as if her presence would do anything to help.
"Ya, I don't know if it's from the stress, or...well I don't know. I guess I'm just tired." John admitted miserably.
"Do you want an Advil?" Molly recommended, evidently that being the peak of her medical excellence.
"No, no I think I'm just going to go home. I don't want to spoil the party." John muttered.
"Ya, that's best. Go and get some rest, John. You've had a long couple of days." Mary agreed carefully, getting to her feet and offering to help him up. John just shook his head, stumbling to his own feet and looking about his hosts once more.
"Thanks for having me, Greg, Molly. I'll see you both around." John muttered, looking towards his wife only to ease her off of him for a moment.
"Mary I'll be fine. Could I take the car?" he asked with a pouty little look of pain, the very one that most always got him what he wanted.
"Ya of course, I can walk home. It's only a couple of blocks." Mary agreed reluctantly, still seeming as if she felt the obligation to help. A caring wife had an issue letting her sick husband go where she could not care for him, however if she was just a little bit more stubborn his plan was ruined. For once in his life John was very happy to be neglected.
"Stay as long as you want, don't let me impose. I'll be fine. Thanks guys." John muttered, kissing his wife because that was what he was expected to do. It hurt, in fact it almost stung, yet he managed and nodded his way off of the patio and back towards where the car was parked. Yet when he got onto the street he had no intentions of going home. In fact he drove right past it, out towards the familiar roads which he used to follow as a teenager, before the highway was built just a ways away. Down the old country roads that would twist this way and that, back towards the house on the hill. Back to the Holmes household, where it undoubtedly waited for him. John started towards the house just as the sun was setting, and he could see the outline of the ominous thing sitting up on the hill where it always had been. In the years of Sherlock's absence the house had become something of a tourist attraction, or at least it was to those who knew the story of what had happened there. Teenagers would try to break in on dares, and there was the occasional amateur ghost hunter who tried to get permission to hunt about. Sometimes murder junkies would even come to town, inquiring about the Holmes case and where the house was, yet they were turned away. This little town, well it was quiet and that's how they liked it. Sherlock's disturbance had been inconvenient then and it still was getting on people's nerves now, with all of the crowds of different disturbing circles trying to get their own taste of whatever criminal or paranormal things might be happening. Eventually they condemned the place, just so as to give people a valid excuse for saying no, and they let it rot. As far as John knew there were no real plans to tear it down or anything, the township had just planned on letting the old thing fall apart where it stood, considering that they would be the ones to have to pay for its removal. John hadn't been by the house for a long while, for the road it was on was now virtually useless to anyone who had an idea of time sensitivity. What used to be a twenty minute meander through meaningless and barren country roads to get to the shopping malls was now turned into a five minute zoom straight from one exit to the other on the brand new highway. Now this road was forgotten, and the house that stood degrading, almost as if the world was trying its best to forget about the horrors that had occurred along here. Yet John didn't want to forget, and that's why he arrived here tonight, because he knew that the house had a special place in his heart and soul. In those very walls he had nearly lost his life twice! He had witnessed murder, he had loved in a freezer, and he had allowed the very walls to soak in his sanity until he was close to having none left for himself. That house, and that man who was undoubtedly in it now, well together they really should be repelling John. Yet tonight they were drawing him even closer, until his heart was racing almost unbearably in his chest. John turned up the driveway and felt the familiar crunch of gravel underneath the tires, trekking through the overgrown weeds until he was able to pull to a stop near the garage. He remembered all the times he used to pull up this road, always once with a purpose, yet tonight he didn't know if the occupant would have him. Sherlock had been very secluded at the grocery store, almost as if he had lost whatever few social skills he had ever developed. As a child he was secluded, and now as an adult he was even more so! It was almost as if there was a higher power, deciding that Sherlock best be left alone. John got out of the car reluctantly, for as much as he adored this house he knew that it was a completely different structure when you didn't know what awaited you. The very process of turning on the headlights and submitting the place to darkness was enough to send shivers down his spine, and when he actually had to get out of the car and face the warm wind of the summer...well he shivered all the same. What would Sherlock do, what would this house do? Was it true what they said, about its being haunted? Were there really spirits about those boarded up windows, roaming aimlessly through the deteriorating halls? Nevertheless, even if there were spirits John would know them well. Mycroft, well he had known that man in life. He had been witness to his death, even been the cause of it. If he saw Mycroft's ghost he wasn't sure what he would do, it all depended on how Mycroft would take his being there again. Did he hold a grudge, after John's survival and part in his death? Or was he now tolerant, happy that there was someone now that was looking after Sherlock after he had gone? As for Victor, well if he haunted this house that would be something of an inconvenience to John. He was always a bit jealous of Victor, for what reasons he really couldn't explain. He didn't know much of Sherlock's relationship with him, presumably it had been on the cusp of being romantic if it hadn't blatantly been, yet John still felt even after he was dead that Victor still owned a sizable piece of Sherlock's heart. Well of course that would make sense, being as though Victor was the first boy Sherlock ever fell in love with. John knew that maybe he would be the final taker of Sherlock's love, maybe he would be the last, yet he could never compete with Victor for monumental purposes. Victor would always be the first, no matter how hard tried to be last. And so John didn't like the idea of Victor roaming about, purely because that meant that even in death he was competition to Sherlock's heart. The way Sherlock had been talking the day he was arrested, he made it seem as though he could see them both. Victor, Mycroft, it was as if they weren't even dead. He was talking to them, screaming at them at points. And so were they spirits, or merely voices inside of Sherlock's head? John tried to push away his fears and go up to the porch, however he realized how stupid of an idea that was when he came around the familiar walk way (hidden now by long grass) to see a great big board where the door should be. Nevertheless, he wasn't here to trespass, he was here for Sherlock. And if no one answered, well he should just go home anyway. Even if there was a pallet for an entrance, it was still acceptable to knock. And so John tried his way up the stairs, nervously testing out each and every board before he trusted it with the whole of his body weight. He felt as though this structure was crumbling, and however magnificent it was when it had been built it was just deteriorating into nothing without an occupant. When John knew the Holmes brothers all those years ago the house didn't even seem structurally up to code, and yet now after thirteen years of stagnation and abandonment it was looking somehow even worse. Yet John marched up onto the porch, remembering briefly all the memories shared on this thing before he was able to pull open the screen door and knock as loud as he could. The wooden board shuttered under his fist, which made him think that it wasn't very well condemned, yet he knocked once more just to ensure that whoever might be inside would hear. For a scary moment John was worried that there might be squatters inside, homeless people who had chosen the house for refuge. They certainly wouldn't take lightly to visitors, would they? Yet Sherlock was here this morning, John knew that for a fact! He had hitchhiked over, and so he must've been in and cleared out the unwanted guests. Unless he never got in at all? John shook his head, not hearing any sort of motion inside, paranormal or otherwise, that might lead him to suspect he would be omitted. He knocked one last time, this time almost with the expectations of going back towards where his car was waiting. The night was quiet, and the house was quiet as well. It was only until he had begun to turn away when he noticed a sound, almost as if he knocking was being returned from the inside. A horrifying, hallow sort of sound that sent shivers down his spine. Someone was knocking back, from the inside.