Let The Shadows Win

Stagnation Has Set In

"Would you like to sit down?" Sherlock offered, gesturing over to the living room.
"Ya, sure." John agreed, wondering just how many bugs had made their homes in the cushions he was about to seat himself in. Yet Sherlock seemed eager to the point where he might be offended if John refused, and so he took his seat in an armchair while Sherlock settled himself on the couch. The man crossed his legs and set the candle down on the table, smiling to himself slightly before looking back at John.
"It's so very odd to see you here." Sherlock admitted. "It seems all like a dream."
"I remember seeing you in my dreams as well. And also in my nightmares." John admitted quietly.
"Let me say again how deeply and truly sorry I am for that. John, I was in a bad place, I was in such a dark place. My thoughts weren't my own; my actions were swayed by the mere memories of the lives I took. I felt them, and I did as they told me because...because I thought it was the way to make you stay. And yet, it was the very thing that took you away from me for good." Sherlock whispered regretfully.
"I'm not gone for good. Sherlock, I'm right here." John pointed out with a pathetic little laugh.
"Not all of you." Sherlock whispered. "Your heart is with her."
"My heart is with you. Sherlock I haven't had my heart to give away since you first took it; she's never gotten a glimpse of such a thing." John assured determinedly, setting his glass of whiskey aside so as to lean forward for emphasis. Sherlock nodded quietly, looking as if he didn't even dare believe such a thing, yet he nodded so as to show he was listening. He wanted John to know that despite his hesitations he still had an open mind, despite how afraid he might be of mucking up a relationship that had been flourishing in his absence he still wanted to hear a solution that might sway him back to what he really wanted. Oh it wasn't morality that concerned him; it wasn't age old commitments and marriages. Wedding wings could be removed, and sins could be erased through prayer. Yes, those weren't concerns of either of them. It was merely commitment, the old flame that they wanted to strike back up with the perfect excuse. For now they sat in stagnation, both powerfully in love yet too shy to show it this early on.
"Thank you." Sherlock muttered, yet he didn't sound very sincere. "Thank you John." He repeated. John nodded once more, downing some more whiskey so as to help ease himself into this moment some more. For it was Sherlock that was sitting across from him, that much he knew was not a dream. Yet what happened after, that was all up to him. And what could end up happening, well it could be like his dreams. Yet it could also end up like his nightmares, in which Sherlock either kills him, leaves him, or admits he had never felt anything this whole time. It was all what happened next that determined what happened after they surpassed next. It was in John's control, equally in Sherlock's, and yet now all they could do was sit there, drinking and thinking of anything to say next! The future was unfolding before them, and yet at the moment they watched it in agony, hoping that fate might deliver a path to them that they did not have to pick for themselves. For determining whether or not you should do the right thing or the desired thing was surely not a choice best left up to mortals. Especially not those who would kill someone else or even each other for the promise of being together forever. 

Sherlock POV: Sherlock was interested in what John's excuse might be for not returning home that night, or at least not when he had been expected. He was just about to fall asleep when John rose to his feet from his arm chair, still having been a good ten feet away for the entirety of the night. Yet with conversation came proximity, and while John had been quite far away Sherlock could almost convince himself that he had been sitting right here beside him the whole time. They didn't talk about love, for such a subject would draw them closer together if they were not careful enough. And so they merely talked of life, or at least the life that had been developing in each other's absence. They talked of the horrible penitentiary and the pit that had opened up in Sherlock's cell (one that John had been able minded enough to remind him was all in his head), and worst of all they talked of John's adaptation into domesticity. What a funny image, that once wild and crazy boy who was looking for the next adventure and the next fight to pick, now settled down into suburbia! With a house that looked like all the rest, a yard that was trimmed to perfection, and a daughter who wore braids in her hair. It was hard fitting the seventeen year old boy he had once known into such a mold, and even now Sherlock had trouble telling himself that these two separate Johns were actually the same. Thirteen years had done wonders in shaping that man into a specimen; however he was so different in personality and place in the world that Sherlock wondered if he had gone bland already. He was fit, he was handsome, and yet throughout their conversation John never once delve into the world of the interesting. He talked of window panes and marital status, his child's education and the drama on the street he lived on. Was that time gap really enough to get John's brain into a one track setting, in which all he thought about was such insignificant things like that? Did he stagnate so quickly? It was almost upsetting to the extent John suddenly bored him, yet Sherlock knew that within a couple of weeks of influence and at least something different to think about he would have the old John back, the one who was snarky and daring enough to take on an entire army just to prove a point. That idiot in a soccer jersey who would try to convince Mycroft to abandon his age old ideals, and who would go behind everyone's back just to love the boy he believed he was meant to love. Now he was pulling on his jacket, muttering to himself in frustration as he tried to check his phone, only to find that there was no signal.
"Mary's going to kill me." John muttered just as Sherlock opened his eyes and rose lazily from the couch on which he now lay.
"She doesn't know you're here?" Sherlock wondered carefully, a small smile appearing on his face as he realized he had thought too soon. Evidently John was the same idiot he had stumbled upon all of those years ago.
"No of course she doesn't! I'm not telling her about any of this, she'll get the wrong idea." John muttered in a state of panic, shoving his phone into his pocket (which displayed that it had gotten to one o'clock without their noticing) and starting towards the basement door from which they had both arrived. Sherlock followed quickly, leaping off of the couch and following John as he so fearfully walked down into the darkened basement.
"The wrong idea? You told her about us?" Sherlock clarified with a gasp, for surely an affair with a boy no matter how long ago was not something you should be telling your wife.
"No of course not. It's just that she knows you're a criminal, and I don't think she'll appreciate that." John muttered a bit angrily, stomping down the basement steps without a visible fear in the world. Even Sherlock was apprehensive as he cupped his hand around a candle, shedding light on what little of the basement he could. This house really was tedious without any form of electricity, and it would certainly make it hard to live in if he didn't get it repaired soon. That stupid little apartment was merely transport to when his inherited manor was set to be lived in, and after that he would live in comfort like all of the Holmes family members before him. Of course he would also be the last to have such an honor, for the bloodline would be discontinued with his death.
"She never knew about us in high school? I thought we were the talk of the town?" Sherlock commented, almost disappointed that John's wife didn't know what sort of position he was now in. Of course if she did know it would make their meetings much more secretive and much more frowned upon, for the moment John stepped a toe out of line (like now, for instance) Mary would be up in arms about stopping the affair that hadn't even begun yet. She would tear them apart just after they had been reunited, and just like that, through thirteen year old gossip, Sherlock would lose the only motivation he ever had for getting out of that heinous prison.
"Evidently she wasn't listening. That or everyone was just too scared of us to actually talk." John suggested, sounding to be more and more irritated as the time went on. He went over to the trap door, looking as if he had the intent to jump up before he stopped, almost as if he had just remembered he was forgetting something. Sherlock waited near the staircase as john turned around, giving him a bit of a teasing frown so as to summon Sherlock closer than he had thought he was originally allowed to go. They smiled at each other, and for a moment it seemed as though a waiting and panicked wife meant nothing to John when he still had a farewell to say.
"Do you have a phone yet?" John wondered. Sherlock nodded proudly, for he had been supplied one at the apartment. It really was a game changer, even though it was merely a landline he still had the opportunity to talk to the one person he was willing to talk to. He hadn't needed it until now, yet he just now envisioned himself waiting by that thing every chance he got, with the intent of getting a call from John.
"Ya, actually I do. Do you want the number?" Sherlock asked excitedly. John nodded, handing Sherlock his phone with the contacts already open. Sherlock typed in the number as he remembered it, not daring to add any little symbols next to his formally typed name. A heart would be too obvious, however tempting it was to add it.
"You can call whenever; if I'm out I'll just call you back. I might be here for a lot of my time, I want to fix it up, maybe get to move in eventually." Sherlock admitted with a proud little mumble, looking about the basement once more as if regretfully observing the state it had deteriorated into.
"Well if you want any help, I know a good place to get some windows." John said with a little tease.
"You can come...well you can come over whenever really. This door is never locked, even if I'm not here, you can still come in. If you wanted to just look around, I mean I don't know why you would ever want to but..." Sherlock shook his head, silencing himself before he rambled on and made a fool of himself.
"I'll keep it in mind." John agreed with a grin. "Until then, maybe you could come over for dinner or something like that. Something normal."
"Dinner with you?" Sherlock clarified eagerly. John just sighed, shrugging his shoulders and looking down towards the ground with an almost shameful expression.
"And my family. I'm sort of in the position where I'd be filed with neglect if I didn't feed them." John pointed out with a little laugh.
"Yes of course. Dinner with you and your family. Not what I had in mind for our reunion, but I will certainly be willing." Sherlock agreed with a soft grin. He couldn't help but try to hide his disappointment, for as much as he loved the idea of sharing some sort of dinner with John he also remembered just how dreadful the occurrence had the possibility of being. Sitting across from John, all while his wife and child sat by watching. Not only fear would be radiated over that table, but suspicion as well, wandering eyes that would never cease to observe until they found out just what was going on. Sherlock would much rather sit with John and only John, eating a meal that one of them had made for the other, sitting here in this kitchen. He would much rather eat with the anticipation of what might possibly come next.
"Speaking of my family, Sherlock I really have to go. But it was lovely to see you, in fact it...well it almost made up for those thirteen years of misery. And I want to see you again." John admitted with a grin.
"I'd like to see you again too." Sherlock agreed. "Every day, for the rest of my life."
"We can arrange that." John admitted with a little laugh. Sherlock just shook his head, knowing that such a wish was impossible no matter how dedicated they both were to it. Then again, Sherlock's life span might make the feat a little bit easier. If he died tomorrow, for example, he would have achieved his goal of seeing John every day. Yet if he died in fifty years that might be a little bit more difficult, especially considering John was now a busy man with actual obligations. There was no formal farewell, for both knew that John had a deadline, and if they were daring enough to give each other a hug goodbye they would mostly spend another hour sitting in each other's arms. And so John climbed out of the basement door and gave Sherlock a casual farewell, and just as he had appeared he was gone out of Sherlock's life again. Dashing through the weeds and uncut grass, undoubtedly, to better face his wife at a more reasonable hour than would be if he had walked.