Let The Shadows Win

You Must Protect This Life

Sherlock POV: It was wonderful to stalk this terrain and know there were no consequences. It was wonderful to meander throughout every room and hall, dragging his bad leg all about Mary Morstan's household without her being able to do a thing. She was not here any longer, at least not in spirit. Her body remained, to be dealt with in the morning, when Sherlock woke up once more next to her husband. This time without any fear of who might catch them, for there was no one left to care.
"You've done it, Sherlock. You've secured his heart." Mycroft was whispering anxiously, walking swiftly alongside of Sherlock so as if he to congratulate him as he wandered his way down the long hallway. With every step he clomped, yet every step in a world ridded of that beastly woman was an accomplishment all the same.
"I have." Sherlock agreed in a whisper, looking towards his brother with a snide smile, his hands flexing about his walking stick as he paused, looking through a door that had been left ajar. A bed that must be the Watson's bedroom, empty now that there was only one left. Sherlock looked off towards John, towards where he was just shutting Rosie's door, looking preoccupied if for the moment. Victor was standing off to the side, allowed it would seem back into Sherlock's head. He smiled at Sherlock, yet in a mournful sort of way. As if he was proud that he had overcome an obstacle, yet upset that the reward was the everlasting heart of his competition. Sherlock knew that Victor had wished their futures had turned out differently, that he was able to live past eighteen and that Sherlock had taken a life for him rather than from him. However the past had been set in stone, and just as Mary had joined the afterlife so did Victor, now out of Sherlock's reach and out of his obligations. Victor was merely a memory now, not a thing to touch or to love, but a memory who was forced to watch Sherlock fall in love with someone else. Sherlock waited for John to approach, leaning now against the wall and letting his leg relax.
"You're alright?" Sherlock asked. He of course knew that this was their mutual plan, as was it their mutual decision, yet he never knew just what the mind of a sane man could come up with. Emotions, presumably, and sympathies that were supposed to have been forgotten.
"I'm just fine, Sherlock. Just fine." John assured, walking up to Sherlock and placing one of his hands on the side of his face, holding his cheek in place so as to gaze into his eyes once more. Sherlock grinned, taking a deep breath as he noticed that he did not feel a ring against his skin. That was the hand that John wore it on, and so he had taken it off, this time without guilt, for there were no obligations tied to the thing anymore. He was a free man after all.
"I am fine as well. In fact, I have never been better." Sherlock admitted with a happy little grin.
"I like to see you smile." John agreed, stepping up on his toes so as to press a kiss to Sherlock's lips, a celebratory kiss at that. For they were congratulating each other on a job well done, a pest now neutralized and a problem they had solved together. Gone were the days of Mary Morstan's reign, for she had been dethroned by a powerful enemy, by Sherlock Holmes. The one who was truly fit to rule over John's heart.Sherlock pulled away with a grin, pushing open the door to the bedroom and allowing himself inside, walking backwards so as to let John follow obediently.
"Would you like to know how I had done it?" Sherlock wondered, backing up towards the foot of the bed as John scrambled to close the door. There were no true enemies in this house anymore; however there always was a certain danger in allowing Rosie to see too much. That is why they needed to close the door; just in case she got up to get a drink of water and just happened to look in.
"How you killed her?" John clarified, his words sounding as if he could not force them out fast enough. As if his heart was racing too quickly, and his words simply could not keep up.
"What else?" Sherlock agreed, beckoning the man to come and stand before him. John obeyed, his fingers clenched in excitement all while Sherlock's face could not get rid of its smile. Ever since Mary took her last breath he had been smiling, for there was never anything more exhilarating or rewarding than being able to experience such a thing. Being able to feel the life seep from their body, to watch as their struggling fingers finally stilled. There was something much more rewarding about strangulation, for not only was it less bloody, but it was more intimate as well. Sherlock could feel the last breath that woman took, just as he could feel her slump back into the chair in which she was seated. And now, the final reward. For what had once been hers was now his...exclusively. And here was the prize, standing before him, eagerly.
"Yes of course I would like to know." John agreed anxiously, already trying to unbutton his shirt. Yet Sherlock stopped him, thrusting his walking cane onto John's hand and stilling it.
"Pay attention." Sherlock demanded. John nodded, taking a sharp breath now as Sherlock hobbled alongside him. "She was seated, when I came in. I was quiet."
"Through the front?" John clarified. Sherlock nodded, creeping now behind John, holding his head very closely to the man's alert and eager ear. His breath played across his skin, and everywhere it touched he could sense goosebumps erupting. Yet John was still, however excitedly he quivered.
"She was seated on the couch, facing away from me, watching TV. I did not see Rosie. I made no introductions, yet as I crept over I'm sure she saw my reflection in the darkened screen. Yet she couldn't scream, because already I had my cane at her throat." Sherlock whispered, now whipping his walking stick up to John's neck, holding it as he did earlier today, and yet not squeezing, not yet. He merely held it there, for John to giggle now as if this was some sort of game.
"And then?" John asked in a breath, his hands not reaching to protect himself, but instead reaching for Sherlock behind him, pulling at the bottom hems of his jacket so as to hold himself against his 'attacker'. He sounded completely infatuated, as if the tale of the murder of his wife was exactly what he needed now, to set the mood of the night.
"And then I pulled. I pulled up against her throat, sharply, and her feet began to kick. She formed words yet could not get any voice out. She clawed at my fingers, she squirmed madly. Yet I pulled all the breath from her, I pulled all the life from her. She fell limp, with your name on her lips. For she knew that I had come to kill her, and undoubtedly she knew who had sent me. Like a mad dog, let off the chain." Sherlock whispered, pulling sharply against John's throat now for just a moment. The man gave a great yelp, clutching to Sherlock now more agressivley than ever. However he did not squirm for his life, rather for the excitement of his impending death. As if Sherlock was going to prevent him from taking his last breath as well, and he anticipated it with great joy.
"Well then we can certainly agree on one thing." John said in a wheezing voice, taking deep breaths as now he put his hands to the cane, wrenching it from Sherlock's hands only to flip and hold it threateningly against Sherlock's heart. Sherlock could feel his pulse beating against the silver cap, positioned almost as if John intended of sending it through his rib cage so as to stop it beating. Yet he laughed all the same, for he could not think of a greater honor than to be killed now by John Watson, still with the blood of his wife fresh upon his hands. It would seem almost vengeful, however intimate the death might become. Yet John did not hurt him, he merely held the cane there as if to warn Sherlock that he had the power to.
"And what is that?" Sherlock clarified. John smiled, stepping closer and pushing the cane even deeper into Sherlock's chest. Yet the man did not move, for he didn't feel the need. He didn't feel the threat that might have been felt by a normal man. Instead he felt...exhilaration.
"That you are indeed mad." John whispered, pulling the cane away only to lunge at Sherlock, kissing him as madly as would have been expected from two psychopaths. They kissed and their cares fell away, they kissed and their clothes fell away, they kissed and that weapon fell to the ground by their feet, rolling across the floor as they fell upon the bed in their passion. Sherlock with John's head in his hands, Sherlock with Mary's blood upon his hands, and John with pure euphoria and freedom in his heart. It was a joyous occasion, undaunted now by the knowledge that there was a woman waiting. For no one waited, no one living anyway. Mary could be watching, from where she lay now in the garage, yet what she would see only was her own mistakes. What she would see was what real love looked like, what real passion embodied. Her husband now clawing to the skin of her murderer, of the man who had taken her life. And Sherlock, holding him closer with every touch, embellishing now every kiss and every breath and every sound. And he knew that they were watching, he knew that his brother stood in the corner along with Victor, both with mournful expressions upon their faces. Yet this time Sherlock was not feeling shy, this time he was not ashamed at all. For his body, however subpar it may be, was still able to take a life, as it was able now to renew one. He used those same hands, the ones that had squeezed the life from Mary, now to caress John's back and to hold his head between his hands. He was born to kill and to love, and to kill for that love and love because of the kill. He was born a monster with but one exception, for the most human feeling that had ever burned in his heart was love for this man. The most powerful emotion was now erupting as if volcanically in his chest, begging him to take more even though there was nothing else he could do but lay and laugh. Nothing else he could do but appreciate his situation, and claw at the arms that now held him down. Nothing else he could do but smile, and watch to make sure the soul of Mary Morstan did not join the crowd who was watching as they exchanged their congratulations of renewed freedom.