Let The Shadows Win

Ask Him The Impossible

Sherlock stared about the apartment for a moment, noticing that while his meeting with John was at ten o'clock tonight that of course it was only three o'clock in the afternoon. He had a long ways to go, and right now it seemed as though time was going slower and slower, as if it had some sort of grudge against Sherlock. Yet it would seem that time just had to get in line, because the more people he met only made the more people who had grudges, for Mary seemed to be suspicious, and Greg seemed to be suspicious... well was there anyone even on his side these days? John didn't count, for he might be acting not on his own accord but on the strings of Sherlock's insanity, the strings that he had attached thirteen years ago that had gotten John all tangled up. Only now could he walk freely, and now again Sherlock was tugging on him and making him dance. Mrs. Hudson then was the only one who was truly acting nicely because she wanted to, yet he had not yet done anything that could possibly offend her. Even after telling her his life story she seemed almost desperate to help, yet one little slip of his finger and he knew that she would turn into a very bad enemy to have. She had a past that was sizable even when compared to his, and he now knew enough to know that getting in her way was a very bad thing. To bide his time Sherlock went to his bedroom and curled up into a little ball on his bed, much like he used to do as a teenager. This was one of the times where he missed his bed hangings, the ones he could just pull around the edges of his bed and forget about the world for a long while. Then again, those were only useful if you were trying to hide from someone. Here there were no villains; here Mycroft's reign was ended. He would no the lurking in the hallway, pressing his ear up against the door so as to try to condemn Sherlock for actions he did not allow. Mycroft may be in Sherlock's head, yet his being there only assured that he knew everything already. Nothing could surprise that man, even if he did make an effort to show up. And so as Sherlock did when he was a teenager he again pulled out the journal that he had been building up along the days, holding the thing on his lap and paging through it to appreciate the art he had created. Of course they were much different pictures than before, for his notebooks only ever displayed what was on his mind, or what was bothering him. Back then Sherlock had drawn primarily boys, some who had distinguishing characteristics and others who were anonymous. Back when he had been struggling with his emotions, especially then when Mycroft told him that he was a sociopath, the feelings he had for boys was very strange to him. At first drawing them relieved the pain, and yet as their faces morphed more and more into a face that played upon his head for the longest time, well the art in a way had revealed to him where his heart did truly lie. Those days Victor Trevor had been recreated in graphite, the beautiful face in all angles, the beautiful body drawn just so that Sherlock could experience the limbs and the torso without being so daring as to go out and touch him. Those were the days when he thought his feelings to be impossible, almost even belonging to someone else! And he thought even more that such strange desires would never be returned. Yet here he was, now with a reasonably sized romantic background, biding his time until he could meet his soulmate once more. The drawings now revealed a bit of a darker, less innocent side of his mind. Many drawings depicted the pit, for as soon as he had gotten the notebook he made a point to preserve such a terrible thing. He didn't want to remember that place, yet all the same he thought it might be worse to forget it. There was also a rather daring drawing of his, one that he had admired as soon as he got the idea for such a thing. It was of a small, hallow human shell (this was supposed to be him) crouched over while an angel and a demon battled before him, battling for control. The angel, sporting great billowing robes and a soft aura of light, was drawn with the head of Victor. The Devil, wearing a dark suit and sporting the appropriate horns and tail, was of course Mycroft. And together they fought with their stern looks of control, fighting as to who was going to be able to fill Sherlock's body up with their ideas. They were locked in a battle above the poor cowering creature, not aware that while they both tried to have his best interests in mind he was of course hallow all the while they lingered. Hallowed out and confused. This was drawn when he was unsure of what to do regarding John, and now, after thinking of what he had amounted to and where the two of them were in their relationship...well it was rather obvious that Mycroft had won in the end. And now a blank page waited for him, and it was all Sherlock could do but press his pencil to it and hope for the best. The picture developed what his mind was thinking, almost like a polaroid picture as it slowly developed, for Sherlock knew what he was expecting but he did not know what form it would take. On his mind lingered John Watson, as it so often did, and he knew that John would be staring up at him from the picture he had drawn. However when finally his pencil stopped, and the shading was completed and the lines were drawn, he saw not John Watson but himself. Sherlock saw his own face, his eyes closed and his mouth askew in some sort of gape. The curly locks made his identity very obvious, for his head was tilted back and they hung about his forehead in a tangled sort of mess, with another man's head positioned so as to catch his neck with his own. The stranger seemed to be holding him, supporting his dangling head with his hands in a way. Sherlock's bare arms were grasping at the man who lay on top of him, grasping at the sculpted muscles that fluctuated and fluttered as they moved and contorted. The man had to be John, for the hair was the same close cut, and his stature was accurate. Yet Sherlock looked at the picture more, trying to decipher just what was happening. They were both bare, however the look he had drawn onto his own face, well he could not quite place it. Going by John's angle alone, Sherlock's first impression would be that they were loving one another, however with a second glance he could not tell if it was pain that was strewn across his expression. He could not tell if he was euphoric or if he was suffering some grim fate. Was John loving him, or was he killing him? Sherlock took a deep breath, knowing that such an enigmatic portrait was not the answer he was seeking. Even his subconsciousness was confused as to what place the both of them would take in each other's lives, and if their presence there was going to harm or help them in the end. And if art would not help ease his mind, well then maybe alcohol will. Not a lot, just a sip, for Sherlock had found that the cheap whiskey he was able to buy with what little income he was able to scrape up was the perfect remedy for all ails. Yet as Sherlock closed the journal and looked up towards the room that was surrounding him, he found suddenly that he was not alone. Creeping along the shadows of the curtains was his brother's figure, moving in a very erratic fashion alongside of the wall as to get close enough to Sherlock to whisper his laughter into his ear. Sherlock shivered in sudden fear, for even as an adult who should have gotten used to his brother's constantly being there, Mycroft still scared him. He felt much like a little child again when Mycroft's laughter sent chills down his spine, like a child who could do nothing against the abuse that was sometimes inflicted. And even now, the mere promise of doing something to upset Mycroft was enough to unnerve him. Tonight of course, Sherlock was going to upset Mycroft.
"Going back to him again, are you Sherlock?" Mycroft taunted, stepping out of the wall and taking full form by the bed side, putting a hand on the post so as to demonstrate to Sherlock that he was not allowed to leave until Mycroft had said his fair share. Sherlock shuttered, yet he let his legs fall from the tight ball they had been clenched in, trying to look brave in the face of the demon that tried to inhabit his empty shell.
"I am." Sherlock agreed stiffly, trying not to look at his brother for too long. He knew that in this case ignoring him would be the best option; however his ignoring didn't seem to do anything except make Mycroft much more nosey. He had assumed that if he didn't acknowledge Mycroft long enough that he might simply go away, and yet that theory had proved to be futile.
"I thought you had decided that you were no longer good for him? That you were passing off such negative energies..." Mycroft pointed out in something of a shameful way. Well of course he was going to try to make Sherlock guilty about meeting with John, simply because Mycroft was still under the impression that love was a toxic thing. And while Sherlock's relationship with John may not be the prime example of a healthy relationship, they were at least content with each other enough to face the consequences that such a love might deliver.
"We are going to overcome that. His issue is not my presence, but my absence. So long as I stay by his side I have no need to worry." Sherlock said confidently, beginning to rise from the bed when Mycroft gave a growl of disapproval. And, quite like he had when he was a child, Sherlock fell back and obeyed even a nonverbal command.
"You know I don't like you going out with this man. You know I would prefer you to sit and enjoy your freedom in the solitude that was designed just for you." Mycroft pointed out in that tut-tut little voice of disapproval. Always the mother, wasn't he?
"I do not want solitude. I want John Watson." Sherlock clarified harshly, this time bringing his eyes around to meet his brother's in a dangerous fashion. Yet Mycroft didn't wince, he stayed perfectly calm, collective even, as if he knew that his brother's threats were hallow acts of ridiculously farfetched control.
"Has it ever come into your consideration that maybe he does not want you?" Mycroft pointed out tauntingly, smiling in a sickening way and leaning ever closer, close enough so that he could rest his knee on the bed. His black eyes gleamed with excitement, for he always loved to be the bearer of bad news. Sherlock hadn't any idea where he got his theories from, however If Mycroft really was a figment of his imagination, then possibly his theories came from Sherlock's mind as well. He just wasn't entirely conscious of them, unless they were spelled out from his childhood villain. The only one who could deliver such thoughts in an appropriate, fearful manner.
"No of course I haven't thought of that, because it is ridiculous. I know you're trying to scheme to get me away from him...just as you schemed the last time." Sherlock growled.
"Yet it would've worked, yes? If you hadn't given up so easily you would have killed him, you would have made him your own. He would've been with you all that time, whereas you let him live. You let him abandon you. All because of your weakness." Mycroft taunted.
"I wasn't WEAK!" Sherlock defended, sitting up angrily so as to look his brother right into his dark, soulless eyes. "I was stopped! If you hadn't been there, if you hadn't distracted me!"
"Then you still would've found an excuse to cower out! You have never been able to do what is necessary when it comes to emotions. You work so hard to develop these inconvenient feelings...only to cast them away for weakness when the time comes to preserve them." Mycroft snapped.
"I was stabbed!" Sherlock complained.
"You were pushed. Foiled in your own attempt...and letting his feelings die so as to preserve his sinful body." Mycroft growled.
"I was right to let him live! I was right to preserve him, for I am back now, and he is still here for me!" Sherlock exclaimed defensively, once more trying to get closer to his brother only for Mycroft to force him back onto the bed with a powerful push.
"Do not challenge me, brother mine. For you will always lose. You do not understand your own errors, as you will never understand the intentions of the people around you. John Watson's heart does not belong to you any longer. He may claim that it does, that it always has, but that ring that he so stubbornly keeps on his finger is an eternal reminder of what he can never give away. She will not leave like a passing wind, and she is the final proof that your fallacies of eternal love are wasted on him! He betrayed you, Sherlock, by abandoning you. And as long as she lives to wear that ring he will continue to lie." Mycroft growled.
"You're trying to convince me to murder her. I will not, I flat out refuse." Sherlock growled.
"And why ever not?" Mycroft wondered, raising his eyebrows before smiling in that devious way, a look he wore so fondly. He simply loved to get inside of Sherlock's head, to twist up his thoughts all around his oversized finger, twist them until suddenly Sherlock was thinking the same way he was programed to. That death was the only real solution to preserve the precious values of life.
"Because they'll send me back to that place! They'll send me away, where I could never see him again. I won't face it, Mycroft. I won't do it. Now leave me alone." Sherlock demanded.
"See him tonight, Sherlock; ask him what I know to be the impossible. Ask him to leave her. If he says that he cannot, for whatever reason, you'll know that a part of him still cherishes that woman. Let the doubt seep into your mind, Sherlock, so that you can finally see what is necessary of you." Mycroft warned. Sherlock shook his head, scooting off the other end of the bed, this time ignoring Mycroft's demands for him to sit back down and behave. He wasn't going to listen to this; he wasn't going to get scared into committing another murder. This time, without any just claims to self-defense. He could not kill Mary Watson, for that would be besides the purpose of her death. To get rid of her was to preserve his future with John, while his return to a life of crime would ruin it once more. He could be locked in that prison for the rest of his life if he let his knife slip over another person's throat, and in that eternity John would surely find a replacement for him. Someone who he claimed to love, all while his real thoughts were with the man who was beyond his reach once more. And so, to preserve his love and future with John, as well as preserving poor John Watson's mental state, Sherlock chose to ignore his brother. A task that wasn't so easily accomplished, of course, when Mycroft was continually whispering into his ear. 

John POV: John said that he wasn't coming to bed because he wasn't tired, which was of course their excuse now for sleeping separately. It had been four nights since Mary found out the truth, and it had taken merely ten seconds for her to weave such minimal information into a tale that she saw fit, a story that she could live by so as to justify her sudden alienation from her husband. It was obvious that she still loved him, for such a process would not be agonizing if she did not, yet drawing from the same observations it only made it more obvious that John did not love her. For he did not mourn something that he had been especially eager to leave behind. It was not his fault that he was clinging to the more preferable option, and as he figured Mary could create the rest of his story he also felt as though there really was no need explaining it. Evidently such a piece of information was the missing piece in this puzzle that had been concocting right underneath her nose, the information that completed the mysteries of John's past and present. And so he made no excuses, and gave no explanations, for the reasons he was so distant. He felt as though Mary already knew who was on his mind when his eyes glazed over, and obviously she knew where he was going when he left. Just as he did tonight, backing up out of the driveway a little bit before ten and knowing that his wife's silhouette could be visible through their thin curtains, should he care enough to look. It wasn't like he was being a bad person, throughout all of this he was attempting to mind his family's wellbeing; he was trying to keep them happy even though he was growing happier without them. It was for Rosie's sake that he hadn't already left, for the mere idea of Mary Morstan was beginning to repulse him. For the both of them, Sherlock and John that was, she was merely a statue of his past attempt at futile happiness. She was the monument erected only to remind them all that John had tried to make a life without Sherlock, and she stood for disgrace, distrust, and abandonment. John didn't like her around Sherlock; he didn't even like her around himself, for he looked at her and saw the mistakes that were so easily avoidable. The mistakes now that came back to haunt him like an especially dedicated ghost, sticking to his very being so as to remind him of what he had done and what he had failed to do. And so it would be easy to leave her behind, and tumble her down to her foundations. John drove the familiar road, with the radio off and the windows open so as to hear whatever sounds the country night could produce for him at this speed. He didn't live in much of a city, however from whatever remnants of human life still clung to the town around him, such solitude as out here was almost unthinkable. There was never a moment in his house where there wasn't evidence of a human population, whether it be by a car going by, or a light blinking in the distance, or the sounds of yells and music that came usually from the yards of their younger neighbors. Out here it was silent, silent but for the crickets, the blowing of the wind, and the grumbling of the gravel under these new tires. Out here there was but one occupant who was not a cow, and only one structure that loomed above the rest. The house that had become a mere shell of what it used to be, a house whose eye like windows had been shut with plywood, so as to stop it staring into the silent night. John pulled up the long driveway and this time did not hesitate to jump from the car. There was no obvious lights coming from the house, but then again how could there be? The windows and doors were shut tight, with nowhere for the light to go. And still John did not linger near his car; he turned the headlights off straight away and started down the now beaten path of weeds that their feet had made, following the trial off towards the basement door, where it would appear he had been expected.