Let The Shadows Win

Eyes Had Been So Deprived

    "Is someone there?" John asked immediately, turning towards the wood in delight. He stepped forward, towards the door with that newfound sort of fearlessness that he adopted when near this wooden house. This invulnerability, purely because of the knowledge that he was mentally sound and almost above the historically trapped occupants. He felt as though he had a mission when he was here, to save the occupants from themselves, and that gave him something to fight for. Something to be strong for. And if that really was Sherlock on the other side of the door, well that would give him all the more reason to stand tall.
"There's only one man who would think himself worthy enough to go and knock on my door." Responded the voice in an almost amused tone, a voice John recognized even through the barrier that separated them.
"And only one man who would answer." John agreed with a small smile, stepping closer with the temptations of pressing his head against the pallet so as to hear better.
"John." The voice muttered.
"Sherlock." John agreed quietly. There was silence, for even though this reunion was meaningful there was still a barrier between them. This time it was much more physical than any protective older brother or meddlesome weight of a wife, and this time it was much more enjoyable.
"Come around back, John. I'll be waiting." Sherlock promised. John nodded, not exactly knowing why the back would provide any better entrance than the front, considering the back door was sure to be boarded up as well. And yet Sherlock must have gotten in some way, proving that John too could slip inside despite the best attempt of the township. And so, as he always did, he followed the advice of Sherlock and started along through the thick, overgrown grass. He felt as though he had all sorts of diseases passed through vectors, just as he started through the grass he almost felt his legs get over run by ticks and mosquitoes and everything else that might live around the thicket just to get a good taste of a human's exposed leg. And yet he trekked on, he walked on because he knew that at the end Sherlock would be waiting. John passed along the side of the house and into the back, the familiar backyard that was barren enough to see the mountains afar, still with a patch of destroyed and charred earth where they had made their burn pile. This was Mycroft's final resting place, that is until the coroner came to take his bones away. It was getting dark and yet John could still distinguish a figure from the side of the house, a man cloaked in darkness as if it was specially tailored for him, standing proudly in the moonlight for John to see. A beautiful man, that glowed just so that he could stand out among the shadows. John took a deep breath, for still he was not used to seeing Sherlock in things other than dreams. Still he was torn between running for his life or running to his arms, yet both emotions were so strong that he just stayed still, and waited to see what Sherlock would do next. Because he was there, that beautiful man that beautiful being! There for the taking, there for the appreciation.
"I won't hurt you." Sherlock promised quietly, as if he suspected that was the purpose of John's hesitation. The sound of his voice, now when they were alone so that john could appreciate it, was the most wonderful thing. Now when they were together outside of this house, not in some grocery store aisle with Mary and Rosie looking on, John felt as though he was capable of many things. He felt as if he could run up to Sherlock and embrace him, that or he could just stand here and absorb his voice, redefining the image he kept of Sherlock inside of his head, modifying it now to capture the beautiful state of adulthood.
"Yes I know. I was just...contemplating." John admitted quietly.
"Contemplating me?" Sherlock asked with a bit of a smile.
"Yes of course. I'm always thinking about you Sherlock; it's just weird to know for certain that you're thinking of me as well." John muttered, stepping forward once more and taking in as much air as he could. His lungs seemed to have stopped working out of shock, and so now that he could focus on the necessity of air he wanted to gulp as much of it as he could.
"Should I be flattered by that?" Sherlock clarified a bit hesitantly, still with that half smile on his face. The one John had known so well, yet had already become foreign in those years apart.
"Yes. Yes of course." John whispered, starting once more even closer to where Sherlock stood, taking stumbling steps before stopping all together. Sherlock smiled once more.
"It's been a while, John." Sherlock muttered from where he stood. John nodded, squeezing his eyes shut so that he didn't embarrass himself by crying. And yet seeing Sherlock there, standing so proud and tall, just where he was meant to be. It made John mourn the years he had missed, and it had overwhelmed him with the fact that now he could attempt to make up for his absence. Now he could appreciate Sherlock's return, he could cherish him as he always should've, and he could make a future for them. Now was the time, and yet it was all he could do but stand here in the weeds and wipe tears away from his eyes. Acting like a child, in a way that he simply couldn't control his emotions.
"It's been too long." John agreed weakly. And with that he simply couldn't help himself, he shook his head for he knew he might regret this, and broke into a run so as to arrive at Sherlock quicker. He took off with all the urgency that had been stirring up in his bones ever since he knew that Sherlock was to be released, and with all of those wasted opportunities he ran so that Sherlock didn't even have time to duck away. He threw his arms around that man's neck, without any hesitations whatsoever, and held him close once more. He held him close, for he hadn't for so long. He balled up the fabric of that familiar jacket in his fists and broke into tears into the lapel, the same one that smelled ever so faintly of the old house, and of the cologne Sherlock wore when he tried to be fancy. And just as John appreciated the familiar breathing under his chest and the familiar heart beat in his ears, once again he felt those long, lanky limbs embrace him as well. And just like that they held each other in their arms, for thirteen years' absence had made them both so nostalgic for the other's presence. It felt so appropriate to be back together, just like magnets that had been separated for so long, finally clicking back together after such strong, nonstop pulling. And it didn't matter, suddenly, what had happened at the grocery store. They both forgot the new lives they had made for themselves, they forgot the past and they forgot the future. All that mattered now was the present, was this very moment, in which they could stand there together undaunted and unrestricted, just cherishing the other's presence so long as they would be allowed. It wasn't uncomfortable to be in Sherlock's arms; however it was obvious that as the hug progressed they became more and more aware of what fools they were making of themselves. Especially John, who found himself crying like a baby, just weeping into Sherlock's shoulder as if he couldn't bear to do anything else in his presence after so long. It was just the emotions that were running wild, the ones that had been balled up in his chest ever since he had to watch Sherlock get carted away on that stretcher, listening to him howl and scream about how their future together had been ruined, and how John had betrayed him. It was all the neglect, all of the absence, and all of the pressure he had been under ever since Sherlock had been left alone in that hospital.
"I'm sorry, I'm...I'm crying." John said with a cowardly little laugh, shaking his head and peeling himself off of Sherlock so as to regain his composure.
"It's fine, it's understandable." Sherlock assured with a reluctant little grin. "I'm on the verge of tears myself."
"Well if you're almost crying then I know I'm fine. Mr. Emotionless here, I'm surprised you even missed me." John said with a little grin, shaking his head for he knew that was a bit insolent all the same. Sherlock smiled anyway, grinning at John proudly, looking at him as if he had imagined this moment over and over again in his head. And now, finally, it was becoming a reality.
"You're just the same, after all of these years." Sherlock admitted quietly, staring at John as if he simply couldn't get enough of him. As if his eyes had been so deprived of that man that now he had to seep in as much as he could so as to get an accurate memory.
"I don't know if I can same of you. You look the same, but that's not all that was changed when I left you. But you're out now, you're out and that's what matters." John muttered apprehensively, still unsure of whether or not his host now was perfectly sane. That would be the deciding factor of if Sherlock was still the same, if he was still raving mad or if he was now in complete control of his body and mind. Sherlock smiled, nodding his head apprehensively.
"The doctors said I'm sane. I guess then, that means I am." Sherlock said a bit positively. John nodded, however he knew enough to know that doctors didn't know the whole of their patient's minds. Sherlock was a complicated man; he wasn't as simple as sane or insane. There were layers of his mind, some that were perfectly calm and some that held demons. Maybe now he was at rest, maybe now he was at ease. Yet John knew that there was always a chance that there might be a trigger, something that might set Sherlock right back to the state which John had left him. Mad, screaming, and back into the inferno of insanity that John had hoped he could have crawled out in those thirteen years.
"Would you like to come inside?" Sherlock offered carefully, clearing his throat and looking down into what seemed to be a metal door, leading into the darkened cavern of the basement. John recognized the place; even in the shadows it was ever so familiar. He saw it constantly in his dreams; he saw it when he didn't want to. It was the place of his nightmares, yet also the place of his daydreams. It was always what memories he chose to summon from that place that decided if it was good or bad. If he would be running for his life or just lying there, staring up at the boy he thought he had lost. Because in that basement he had almost lost his life, yet he had also lost his innocence, on the same exact floor, within minutes of each occurrence. That had been the turning point for the both of them, when the rush of murder had turned to uncontrollable lust. It had been the tipping point in what they attempted to call their mental health; it was what led them down paths they couldn't escape without professional help. And yet still, long after they had wandered back to the path most traveled, somehow they still ended up in each other's arms once more.
"Yes I suppose." John agreed hesitantly, going over towards the house where what appeared to be a chasm was open up in the wall.
"I'll get down first, help you." Sherlock offered, in his own lost attempt to be a gentleman. Truth be told, John knew that Sherlock was much more uncomfortable than he was. John had every reason to be afraid of this encounter, yet the guilt Sherlock felt in this reunion far overwhelmed whatever qualms John had. Both powerful emotions, emotions that had spawned from the same occurrence. Yet Sherlock was afraid that John might hate him, he was trying to redeem himself after the mess he had made when they last left this house together. The tiny possibility that John might his death in this house tonight was nothing compared to the reality of Sherlock getting left alone once again. Sherlock crawled down, as he promised he would, leaving John to wait in the darkened weeds where Sherlock had left him.
"Alright then, come on down." Sherlock offered, holding up what appeared to be a candle so that John could see his way down the trapdoor. John nodded, crouching down and sticking his feet inside before sliding very uncomfortably down to the basement floor. Sherlock was there, as he promised to be, yet he was overwhelmed with shadows that were being cast by the flickering candle light. He was very spooky looking, in the basement where the bodies were kept, silent now that the freezer had stopped running. He looked around for a moment before bringing his eyes back on his host, where he stood so still in that light, illuminating his gorgeous skin, that John could almost believe that there wasn't a world beyond this. John took a deep breath, nodding his head and looking as if he wanted to start up the stairs. Yet Sherlock was standing there still as could be, staring at John in this dim lighting as if he couldn't bring himself to look anywhere else. Quietly he held the candle to John, lighting his face up with the flicking light and frowning quietly.
"Something different." He commented with an air of disappointment, almost shame. He was looking at the scar; John knew that without needing any clarification. Yet Sherlock's fingers suddenly rose towards his neck, playing across the jagged, repaired skin as if he couldn't believe that it was he who had left it there.
"Something horrible." Sherlock whispered once more, his hand falling away with a shutter. "John, I'm so sorry."
"It's fine, Sherlock it's...it's alright." John assured, trying to step forward almost as if to ease Sherlock's nerves, to subside his guilt. He knew that the man was trembling, he could tell by the way the candle light danced this way and that, he knew that he was afraid of what come next. Because this scar, this ugly noticeable thing, this was his doing. And this was his first chance to comment on the heinous wound he had left into the man he loved.
"It's not alright, my God what sort of monster was I?" Sherlock muttered with a trembling voice, as if he was afraid of his past and more afraid for his future.
"You're better now, it's alright. It's in the past, remember?" John pointed out. Sherlock winced, blinking his eyes a couple of times as if trying to block out the voices in his head. He looked around, as if suddenly noticing where he had left them, and turned to go up the rickety old staircase that led back into the house.
"Yes, in the past." Sherlock agreed as he turned away. John followed him obediently, noticing once again the obvious limp that plagued his once so graceful body, putting a great interruption in the ease of motion that was common for most people. John understood that limp was Sherlock's scar, something he couldn't so easily hide with makeup as could John. It reminded him constantly of the mistakes he had made, and in a way was much more fitting as a memory than a physical scar. Instead of just looking in the mirror to be reminded, all he had to do was take a step so as to feel the necessary guilt of the crimes he had committed. They emerged into the familiar hallway to the smell of mildew and multiple unrecognizable molds. There was no light filtering through, for the windows and doors were boarded up tight. The only light was provided by lamps and candles that Sherlock had lit about the place, illuminating the old dingy house in a way that made it seem like he was intending to stay. Everything was the same as John remembered it; everything was exactly the same as he saw it in his dreams. Yet it was old, deteriorating in a way that took away the charm he once remembered and replaced it with a vague sense of sadness, of emptiness, of imitation. There were holes in the couches, dust on the banisters, and obvious animal droppings scattered about the corners of the house. Sherlock marched right in, looking a bit fearful that John wouldn't want to stay. Well of course John would stay, he hadn't expected anything more from a condemned house, and Sherlock's presence here made it manageable in the end.

    "I'm sorry I didn't have time to fix it up a little bit, or at least tidy. They condemned it, as you might notice. But everything's here where we left it, the records, the wardrobes, the whiskey. It's aged; shall I tempt you with a glass?" Sherlock offered with a bit of a grin, lingering nearer to the kitchen without any firm agreement from John. As horrible as drinking from a glass that hadn't been washed for the thirteen years sounded, John agreed all the same. He saw that Sherlock was drinking and he wouldn't want the man to feel alone, and so he leaned up against the worryingly shaky doorframe so as to watch as Sherlock very nervously poured him a glass. He was just as John had remembered, so socially awkward, so unsure of how to handle himself when he went out of his way to try to make a good impression.
"Have you been about the whole house?" John asked, looking up towards the ceilings so as to try to gauge how structurally sound the upper level might be.
"Yes, it's just old, but it's quite alright. Except...well except for there's a hole in the roof up above the bathroom. I imagine that's how the bats got in." Sherlock admitted with a careless little shrug.
"Oh, it's got bats?" John clarified a bit apprehensively, looking about the shadowed corners of the kitchen as if trying to notice those little creatures staring back.
"Bats, mice...there actually might be a raccoon about here as well." Sherlock admitted with a little frown, passing along the rather dusty glass of whiskey to John, who took it with a faint, forceful smile.
"Well at least you won't be lonely." John muttered with a grin.
"I'm not living here. Well, not yet. I've got an apartment down on Main Street; I could give you the address if you want to come visit." Sherlock offered hopefully, perking up in interest at John's maybe coming to visit.
"How on earth can you afford that?" John asked with a teasing little smile.
"The penitentiary has it for me, until I can get back on my feet and start earning some money." Sherlock admitted with a grin. "I've never been very good with money."
"Have you got a job yet?" John wondered.
"No." Sherlock admitted with a little shake of his head.
"I could try to get you one, I mean the place where I work, we're always looking for interns and stuff like that. We could get you all trained up on the art of window sales." John offered with a grin.
"Window sales? You're actually selling windows? My God John, I thought you were off to be some sort of CIA agent, or psychiatrist, or anything a bit more interesting than window panes." Sherlock admitted with a laugh, shaking his head in absolute amazement.
"Well it's not as bad as you think; honestly it's sort of exciting. Sometimes I get to go and tour out arenas and whatnot, worksites." John let his voice trail off in some sort of disappointment. "Well you know, now that I say it, it does sound awfully boring." Sherlock laughed, nodding his head and taking a sip of his whiskey before looking about the kitchen, reminiscing in a way. John remembered this kitchen well; right after the basement it had proven to be the second most terrifying spot in the house. Here where John had sat so many years ago, still so hopeful that he could get Sherlock to change, still hopeful that he could sway Mycroft, the original monster, into allowing him to love Sherlock as he was meant to be loved. That had been a difficult time, and yet in the moment John had no idea what sort of house he had found himself in. He had no idea that the man who sat at the head of the table planned to slit John's throat right about the time desert ought to be served. And Sherlock, the boy thing had been trembling all night long. John remembered the fear in his face, the urgency when he tried to warn John, tried to help him escape. And John didn't listen. Yet it turned out alright, in the end, it turned out just fine. At least that occurrence did.