Let The Shadows Win

The Shadows Learn To Walk

Sherlock made the coffee again, yet this time with trembling fingers. He was trying to think of what might be done to deter Mycroft, if anything at all could be managed. The man was still hiding, yet the occasional squeak of a floorboard or swinging of the basement door alerted Sherlock constantly to his presence. Mycroft was always watching, and always making himself known in the most haunting of manners. This was presumably because he wanted to impose fear; maybe Mycroft thought it was enjoyable. Maybe he wanted to be just like the ghosts in the horror films, stalking about the house and causing chaos that would be considered unexplained by any nonbeliever. Sherlock wondered, if Mycroft really was just something he had made up, if John could see the evidence. Victor and Mycroft had both been perfectly solid, and able to move things at ease. If ever Mycroft decided to slam the door, or smash a glass, would John be able to see the evidence? Or would the carnage be invisible as well would that glass remain unbroken, or that door remain open? It was curious, how Sherlock had no idea the extents of this fantasy world which he so often lived in. And so he ignored such thoughts, instead of worrying about what might be real and what not be he instead stuck to what he knew. He brewed the coffee and had a cup for himself, he set out the cereal boxes for Rosie all while heating up the stove to make whatever he could with a couple of eggs John had brought home. He adopted his role as the housewife, because that was what he knew to be true, that was what he knew to be necessary. Yet even as he went about his normal routine his eyelids began to droop, his limbs became heavy, and once more it became ever so obvious that he had gone without a wink of sleep all night. Maybe today he could nap while Rosie played with her dolls, that or he could attempt to rest to an extent. Sherlock knew that sleep would come with some difficulty; however he was willing to bet that it would be easier in the daylight, where the shadows were nowhere near big enough to hide the ghostly form of his brother. When John finally awoke he was met with Sherlock's version of scrambled eggs and bacon, a typical breakfast for the typical working man. Of course the eggs were a bit undercooked, and the bacon was a bit overcooked, yet none the less the effort earned him a quick kiss of appreciation, and John sat down triumphantly to eat. Rosie was not yet awake, and for a moment it was just the two of them, sat at the table and enjoying their haphazard breakfast all while trying to think of how to possibly address the situations of last night. Sherlock was embarrassed of the scene he had caused, yet that night he had been so distraught over Victor's leaving and so fearful of what it might mean for him that he knew such a thing was rational, at least in his own mind where he saw the consequences of such occurrences. John thought he was crazy, that was for sure, yet to some extent he was. Maybe the quicker they acknowledge the insane elephant in the room, the quicker they could adapt to a lifestyle where it fit in. Yes, Sherlock wasn't perfectly sane, yet that didn't change anything about the suburban dream, did it? He could be crazy and still function was he was needed to, molding from the lone and confused bachelor into a husband who wore an apron and chased the children around the house for a living.
"Did you sleep well?" John wondered casually, peering at Sherlock over the rim of his coffee mug as he took a great swig. Sherlock shrugged, knowing that in this case lying would get him nowhere.
"Not at all." Sherlock admitted finally. "I was quite scared."
"Of Mycroft?" John clarified with a suspicious raise of his eyebrows, as if he still wasn't sure of how valid these fears were.
"Yes, of Mycroft. He was lurking last night, but I can't do anything about it. That was always Victor's job...the shadow that protected me from the darkness." Sherlock whispered mournfully, scanning the edges of the room as if expecting that boy to be hiding off somewhere. He hoped in the back of his mind that such a scene was just a ploy, and that Victor would appear before him once again with that grin on his face, for he had just wanted to see how much he would have been missed. Yet such a display of agony would have brought him back, and now that Mycroft was scheming, well if Victor was anywhere that might give him the ability to deter such plots, he would have returned. Yet where he had gone, Sherlock did not know. Did he retreat farther back into Sherlock's head as a dead memory, or was he simply gone? Sherlock could remember him just fine, yet those memories said nothing new. He felt as though he had reached a point where he could know everything there was to know about Victor, and unfortunately never learn anything new. For the boy was gone, his absence was a sure sign.
"How poetic." John teased, yet with an edge of jealousy in his voice.
"Yet you have always been the light." Sherlock reassured, to which John smiled proudly once more, as if that was exactly the sort of praise he thought he deserved.
"Well I'm proud to be such." He decided with a nod of his head. "Yet I think that it's time your extended metaphors got taken over by reality. There is no Mycroft; the darkness isn't hiding him anywhere. He's not real, Sherlock, and the sooner you accept that, the faster he'll leave."
"I do know that he's not real, John I'm self-aware enough to realize that he's some feverish delusion. But as far as thoughts go, well they're only real inside of your head. But that's where he wants to do his damage, and so long as my brain concocts him, well he can manage to fight back. Since he's a thought he has control over everything else I think, he can stick his fingers into my brain and twirl it all around until I see things his way, and I act as he wants me too. In fact I'd rather him be real, John, then I could kill him for real. So long as he's in my head...well he's a much larger threat." Sherlock admitted remorsefully, staring down at his breakfast now without much appetite. John was looking equally disturbed, yet there was nothing either of them could do but nod and accept the facts as they were presented. John may still think Sherlock was crazy, and that was fine, yet so long as he accepted that such craziness was a lost cause, well then maybe they could move on. So long as he understood that Mycroft was a threat whether he was real or not, then at least he could do his best to protect Sherlock from forces neither of them could ever hope to understand.
"Well then, when you put it that way you worry me, too." John admitted finally. "Do you need to see a therapist or something?"
"To be honest I think therapy only stirs them up more, I spent thirteen years in therapy and all they did was get worse." Sherlock said regretfully, poking his eggs now at the burnt little corners of bacon that were sitting charred on his plate.
"So what do you want me to do?" John wondered, asking with all the purpose in the world. He wanted to help, that much was obvious, yet it was a terrible thing to tell him that he couldn't. It wasn't as if Sherlock didn't want or appreciate the help, it was simply that John's help would do nothing at all. This was Sherlock's battle to fight, alone, for he was the only one in the world who could really do anything about it. His brain was the one that was damaged, and he was the only one who could concentrate on fixing it.
"I don't think there's anything you can do, honestly." Sherlock admitted regretfully, to which John's look of dedication melted a tad bit back into a frown.
"Nothing?" John clarified.
"Unless you can get into my head and chase him away, but like I said...that was Victor's job." Sherlock admitted remorsefully. He really did miss that boy, even if he was a needy, jealous thing. He did his job, served his purpose, all in the name of the love he never expected to be returned.
"Well I never like to be second to Victor." John grumbled in disappointment. Sherlock just frowned at him, frowning in that sort of way that tried to call out just how ridiculous he sounded.
"You will never be second to Victor, what a preposterous thing to say." Sherlock laughed, shaking his head in exasperation as John continued to grumble.
"Well if he can protect you and I can't, then he's at least beat me at that." John pointed out.
"You forget, John, that he's left. The very fact that you're still here makes you superior." Sherlock pointed out, to which John nodded his head triumphantly. It was always so much fun to repair that man's fragile ego, especially when it only took but one mention of his superiority.
"An excellent point, Sherlock." John agreed finally. Sherlock just shook his head and got to his feet to begin the dishes, all while John got up and set his things next to the sink. This had been his routine for a while now, leaving his own dishes for Sherlock to clean because he was running late once again. Sherlock tried to remind him that he only ran late because he slept in too long; however it was all he could do but give John a quick kiss of farewell and go about his day as usual. The sound of John's car started up signaled that he had finally left, and Sherlock stood again in the illuminated kitchen, alone with nothing but the dirty dishes and egg shells that he had left scattered about. Mycroft kept his distance, he still hadn't said anything yet Sherlock could feel that he was getting closer. He could feel his presence, and with every passing moment Sherlock knew that he was creeping steadily forward. And for now that was fine, so long as he didn't start running his mouth so as to try to convince Sherlock to run another person through with a kitchen knife. He was always so manipulative, was Mycroft, and even the most irrational of arguments sounded almost obviously simple when coming out of his mouth. Mycroft's solution to everything was just death, and of course that was the one thing Sherlock wanted most to avoid.