Let The Shadows Win

Marrying The Maniac

 "Daddy are you really going to marry Mr. Sherlock?" Rosie asked quietly, this time as they sat alone in her room for story time. Sherlock had been upset the whole night, however when John attempted to console him it was all he could get out but a few grunts and shakes of his head, as if Sherlock didn't want to talk about whatever it was that had gotten him down. 

"Yes I am." John agreed, setting aside the story about a little bear who couldn't reach the honey pot. Rosie nodded, squeezing her stuffed animal tighter in her arms and watching her father with fearful little eyes.
"I don't want you to." She managed. John sighed heavily, for he had known that such a conversation was bound to come up. After his daughter's outburst the night he had popped the question he had expected at least one or two grown up conversations before finally Rosie might give in to Sherlock's permanent imprint in their lives. The room was lit only by a small lamp in the corner, giving it a very sleepy orange glow. And of course the moonlight that was streaming through the curtains, such lighting that might have been taken for granted in any other household, was looking especially beautiful as well. What a perfect night, yet what a difficult conversation indeed. John had come up with plenty of scripts and explanations to why he wanted to marry Mr. Sherlock, and why Rosie had to come to accept him into the household, yet at the moment every single conversation he could think of just sounded artificial. They didn't fit into this setting, on a night so peaceful, well John had made half of his scripts into arguments! He didn't want to disrupt such a night with yelling, and so instead he smiled at his daughter and took her little hand lightly.
"Why don't you want me to?" John asked finally, a question that very obviously needed to be addressed.
"Because he scares me." Rosie admitted quietly. "He talks to himself when you're not here."
"Talks to himself?" John clarified, blinking in some surprise. For he knew that Sherlock wasn't the sort of crazy to talk to himself, instead he was the sort of crazy to talk to people who weren't really there. People that Sherlock had promised not too long ago were not there anymore.
"Yes, he yells, too. When he gets angry." Rosie muttered. John nodded, for he had known that part all too well. Sherlock was a very vocalized man, especially when someone had snapped his last nerve.
"Well everyone yells when they get mad." John suggested.
"He yells into the corners. He yells as if he's having a conversation, and today he was crying." Rosie whispered.
"That's...well I can talk to him if you'd like." John offered, knowing of course that there was nothing he could say that might rationalize Sherlock's strange behavior. The man had some issues, that much was for sure, yet John thought that therapy had helped him? John had been under the impression that Sherlock was still a sane man. Or had he just been pretending to be sane, all while his brain was as liquefied as ever when he was alone?
"Don't marry him, please Daddy don't do it. I want Mommy back, I don't want Mr. Sherlock." Rosie begged, squeezing John's hand with as much strength as her little hand could muster. John nodded, for all the while he was here to console her he also knew that leaving Sherlock was not an option. And so instead of making some sort of excuse, he looked up. He looked towards that peeling painting, still as beautiful as when he had first seen it, of himself in some sort of angelic lighting. A painting that Sherlock had created when he was most afraid, and a painting they both still cherished as a sign of their protection of each other, and of their everlasting love.
"You've seen that painting before, haven't you?" John presumed, lying on his back so that he could stare at the thing for a long while. Rosie laughed a little bit, for he laid down right over her knees, yet she too craned her neck up to the ceiling.
"It's you." She pointed out obviously, to which John nodded.
"Ya, it's me. Do you know why it's here?" John wondered, smiling as he tried to picture a teenaged Sherlock lying flat out on his back so as to get the scale right, paint dripping on his face all the while he pondered the perfect proportions.
"I don't know." Rosie admitted quietly, although she sounded as perplexed as might be expected.
"It's here because this used to be Sherlock's room, way back in high school when we first met. And when he lived here his brother left him, and suddenly he was left alone in this dark, creaking house. And he was afraid of it, because he's never lived alone. And so he painted this, because I was the only one he knew that would ever try to protect him. He painted me so that I would always be looking over him, even if I wasn't actually there." John admitted with a grin.
"Mr. Sherlock painted this?" Rosie muttered apprehensively.
"Yes he did. He's always been very artistic, and unfortunately very lonely. And that's why I'm marrying him, Rosie. I want to give him a family, I want him to be surrounded by people who love him, and will protect him from the shadows that creep up from time to time. This mural had always meant so much to us both; he painted it when we were first falling in love. Even then he wanted me to be in his life forever, and now here's my chance. I love him more than anyone I've ever met, and I want to make him my husband so that he stays with me for the rest of my life." John explained quietly. Rosie was quiet for a moment, yet the grip on John's hand never slackened, and for a moment he was almost expecting her to finally accept that there was nothing she could do to impose on her father's happiness. John was expecting Rosie to just nod and admit that maybe they could all be happier if John took Sherlock as his husband, and yet for a moment she just took a deep breath, staring up at the painting for another moment as if to clarify her thoughts on the piece.
"Only crazy people think paintings protect them from the dark." Rosie whispered finally, and with that she let her hand fall away. John was quiet himself, for as he looked at the painting he couldn't help but consider that Rosie was right. Such a mural was meant to immortalize their love, but in a way it also did make sure everyone remembered the bout of craziness that had overtaken Sherlock in those dark days. When he used to call frantically in the middle of the night because he thought Mycroft was still there, and when he finally convinced John that burning Mycroft's body would rid them all of the ghost. And after that...after that Mycroft's spirit seemingly took form in his head. This picture reminded John that their love was made from fear, and twisted so as to turn to dependency and protectiveness of the most abnormal kind. It made him wonder if Mycroft's rule had been the thing to try to deter their love, or if it had been the very thing that had brought them together in the first place. For John loved to feel like a hero, and Sherlock had been looking for someone to save him for his entire life.
"Just think it over, Rosie. And try to keep in mind what's best for us all." John suggested, getting a bit reluctantly to his feet and tearing his eyes away from the painting that almost called his eyes back, that stared at him from the ceiling in mockery.
"Goodnight Daddy." Rosie muttered, to which John smiled, kissing her on the forehead in agreement.
"Goodnight Rosie." John whispered, and with that he clicked off the lamp and allowed that ominous room to get plunged back into the darkness where he had first found it. John walked downstairs to find Sherlock stretched out over the couch, which his long legs sticking out one end and his head set uncomfortably on the armrest opposite. He looked mournful, despite that ring that was still shining beautifully on his finger. John sighed heavily, unsure whether or not he should bother Sherlock for some sort of explanation, and yet what Rosie had told him tonight had shaken him in a way that he really couldn't put into words. He loved Sherlock, and he knew that Sherlock loved him. Yet it was obvious that their perceptions of love were much different, and the way they handled it was too very strange. Sherlock's love never stopped him from doing anything that might seem counterproductive; in fact love had been his driving motivators for most all of his killings, and his attempts. He loved Victor, and he slit his throat. He loved his brother, and still he was the one who thrusted that knife into his stomach. He loved John...and he had left such a nasty scar. For Sherlock to begin acting strangely, talking to himself, crying without explanation, well it made John wonder just what was going on inside of that fragile little head. John had just settled on letting Sherlock have his privacy when finally the man turned his head, looking towards the corner in which John lingered as if expecting to see someone else there.