Let The Shadows Win

The Disrespectful And The Demons

When it came time to wake Rosie up Sherlock lumbered up the stairs, heaving his leg up with some difficulty before meandering like an old man down the hallway, leaning very heavily on his walking cane as he went. When he opened the door he found that Rosie was already awake, lying on her bed and staring up at the ceiling with wide, curious eyes.
"Good morning Rosie." Sherlock muttered, not entirely sure what she was doing or how he should approach her in this state. Rosie blinked, obviously not having realized Sherlock had appeared, and with a jolt of fear she pulled her blankets all the way up to her chin.
"Good morning." she managed in a little whimper.
"What are you doing, already up? You're allowed to sleep in; you should be enjoying such privileges while you can. Isn't school coming up soon?" Sherlock wondered teasingly, walking into her room to open up the curtains and let a little bit of light in. He still hadn't appreciated just how nice it was to have windows, for the natural light really did liven up this old, condemned building.
"I had a nightmare." Rosie admitted quietly, still looking quite afraid as Sherlock lingered by the windowsill.
"A nightmare? Well so did I, actually. What was yours about then?" Sherlock asked, turning on his heel to which Rosie flinched once again. This morning's fear was different than her regular agenda, and it only made Sherlock more convinced that he was the very villain who had haunted her dreams last night.
"I can't remember." She said forcefully, in a tone that made Sherlock suspect that she was lying.
"Well mine was about my brother." Sherlock admitted, which in itself was sort of a white lie. He hadn't dreamt about his brother, no Mycroft had been very real last night. And it hadn't been a nightmare; Sherlock hadn't gotten a wink of sleep. Yet all the same, it had scared him.
"Mr. Sherlock...are there ghosts in this house?" Rosie asked carefully, her voice laced with fear of not only their topic of conversation but also of the very man she was questioning. Sherlock paused for a moment, for he did not yet know the answer to such a question. In all reality he was haunted, yet he wasn't entirely sure if his house shared the same curse. There were certainly enough horrible deaths here to justify a haunting, however it seemed as though the dead had taken up residence in his head instead.
"I don't think so." Sherlock said finally, shrugging his shoulders and obviously not making Rosie feel any better.
"Daddy said that you painted this when you were afraid to be here alone." Rosie pointed out. Sherlock laughed for a little moment, walking over to the side of the bed and craning his neck up to see the mural he had created all those years ago.
"I wasn't afraid of ghosts, Rosie. It was all in my head, in the end." Sherlock assured with a little grin.
"Are you crazy?" Rosie questioned, her grip never slackening on her blanket, and her little body trembling even as Sherlock walked closer.
"Why would you ask that?" Sherlock asked with a laugh. He expertly avoided any sort of response, for he left the room in quite a hurry before Rosie could even think of something else to say. It wasn't as if he was avoiding the question, for surely if Rosie knew enough to ask then she must have her suspicions. Yet there was a difference between suspecting and knowing, and of course on Sherlock's side there was the choice between lying to his new daughter or simply telling her the reasons why she should be very afraid. No child would want to live in a house when someone was pronounced crazy, especially when she was already having problems with Sherlock's being there, problems completely unrelated to his mental state. And as Sherlock limped down the stairs once more, well a striking realization presented itself. Rosie was right about the ghosts, and somehow she seemed to know about Sherlock's struggles before he had learned to adapt to his new visitors. Back then he had painted the one who was gone, so that even while they were away their image could still offer some protection. That must have helped before, when he crafted John's face from the little dabs of paint that he could afford, well why couldn't he do it again? He could immortalize Victor in a place where he could forever be protecting the house, somewhere that he could fend off Mycroft's energy just by his image being there. Somehow Sherlock knew that a project like that would work, and so instead of fixing Rosie's cereal like he usually did, Sherlock instead went digging around in the basement for a nice big tarp with which to cover the floor from paint splatters. Then he found his old paint sets, as well as the new paints he had bought when he did his first artistic errands. Rosie wandered downstairs just in time to find Sherlock spreading the big blue tarp out on the floor, right near the spot he thought most necessary for a Victor mural. Somewhere that could fend off the very place that radiated the energy of his brother, and kept back the spirits or memories that may attempt to seep their way through the cracks in the door. The wall right across from the basement door, of course. There wasn't much space to work, considering the basement door was nearly adjacent to the kitchen, however to the left there was a considerable sized wall which he could work with.
"What are you doing?" Rosie asked curiously, looking very sleepy as she dragged around in a robe that was still much too big for her. Sherlock never really processed that such an oversized thing must have once belonged to her mother.
"I'm painting." Sherlock said obviously, beginning to pour out some of the much needed paints onto his little plastic palate.
"But it's time for breakfast." Rosie protested. Sherlock sighed heavily, looking up at her as if he really couldn't be bothered with such useless things as breakfast.
"Must you really interrupt my artistic vision with breakfast?" Sherlock groaned.
"I'm hungry!" Rosie insisted, raising her voice in that confrontational way Sherlock hated so much.
"Well then pour yourself some cereal! You're old enough to manage that, aren't you?" Sherlock snapped bitterly, dipping his paintbrush in a little mug of water and scowling at the girl as she ran off in a huff, back up the stairs to her room presumably. Well fine, if she didn't want to be grown up enough to make her own breakfast then she might as well just starve. For a while Sherlock heard random screaming coming from the upstairs, presumably yelled by Rosie in her anger, yet he ignored it. For Sherlock had already finished coating the space he planned to use in thick white paint, and was beginning now to begin the outline of Victor's beautifully sculpted face. It was a peaceful experience, and in some ways the very thought of Victor so constantly on his mind gave Sherlock the reassurance he needed to at least feel safe. For the first time since Victor vanished before his eyes, he felt as though he was himself keeping Mycroft at bay, merely by envisioning the boy's beautiful face. Well of course Sherlock had to think about Victor if this painting was going to turn out anywhere near accurate, yet still there was a certain sort of magic that came along with allowing that boy to once more overwhelm his thoughts. Victor had been a close friend, and had even managed to get as close to being a lover as you could be without ever being one. They had both been in love with one another, yet those were the days in which Sherlock had no idea what to do with such emotions. Victor was the first boy to ever unearth the feelings of love and longing inside of him, and it was an odd feeling indeed, sort of like an addictive drug. And of course, in those days Sherlock never knew of the lengths Mycroft was willing to go to keep such feelings from ever being a reality. Yet before he had died, Victor had been everything Sherlock ever wanted in life. Still he wished that he had acted differently in that freezer, he wished that instead of blindly obeying his brother's orders he thought of what he actually wanted, and what his own needs were. Killing Victor to keep his love at bay was completely useless, because around came John not long afterwards, John who would be the driving force behind the knife that impaled itself into Mycroft's stomach, even if it was Sherlock who had been the one to kill him. John taught Sherlock not only to love but to fight for such a love, and it was through John's motivation that Sherlock finally overcame his demons. Yet in ways, John would never be Victor, and in ways Victor would never be John. They were two distinctly different boys, separated mostly by the mindset that Sherlock was in at the time. Who knows if things would've turned out differently if he hadn't accepted his brother's rule, or if his brother wasn't over dominating at all? The love he felt for John was more powerful than anything he'd ever felt before, yet if Victor had survived that night, how different might things be? Sherlock didn't really want to know, he didn't want to think that maybe he would be somewhere different, with someone else. Sherlock was happy where he was, with John and with Rosie, and he wouldn't trade it for the world. Yet Victor...that beautiful clueless boy, that blindly loyal boy who would fight Sherlock's demons for him! What would have become of him, if he had lived to see today? And through such abstract thoughts, his brush strokes intensified. Through the thoughts of Victor's beauty and of his potential, there came beautiful shapes, beautiful eyes, and hair that curled just so above his forehead. With the powerful love that burned through Sherlock, that same love was materialized before him in Victor's stern yet careful glare, he stared at the basement door with all the anger that could be summoned, yet all the softness that was his driving force. For Victor was angry at Mycroft, yet angry because how deeply he was in love. And such an expression, such an enigma, was immortalized on his beautifully reconstructed face, opposite of the dismal basement door. When Sherlock was finished he sat back and stared for a moment at Victor, taking in the gaze he had thought he lost when Victor said his final goodbye. There was a light erupting from behind the boy's face, a bright light made of yellow and white paint, as if he was forcing the light back towards the basement door where the shadows collected. Such a light was the defensive force, and it was Victor now who would hold his own against whatever tried to creep from the freezer and into the rest of the house. It was a beautiful painting, in fact it took Sherlock's breath away just looking at it, and for a moment he remembered a time when he could look into such eyes, and they weren't painted. They weren't just flat designs on a wall, no they were...they were real, and physical, and he could reach out and touch the boy, he could reach out and feel the softness of his cheeks against his thumb. When Victor was around, to be loved and to be cherished...such wasted opportunities! Why did Sherlock not appreciate him when he could, before he knew that along with mourning would come the utmost regret! Sherlock was sitting back and admiring his painting when he began to hear footsteps approaching, those who must belong to the same creature that had been lurking about this whole time. And they were coming closer, approaching quicker, than Sherlock would have liked. He knew that the painting would do nothing except ease his mind, yet as he heard the footsteps, as he heard the floorboards creaking to support the weight, he stared into Victor's eyes and prayed for strength against the demon who was stalking him, irritating him...tormenting him. Sherlock stared into Victor's eyes and wished upon every star that there would be a way in which the boy could rise from the wall and overtake the monster who was approaching steadily and quickly. Somehow...Victor could save him again. Yet when finally the footsteps were close enough for him to peer out of the corner of his eye, it was not the darkness that approached, instead it was a monster of different creation, with pink ribbons tied in her hair. Rosie gave a scream when she noticed Sherlock looking at her, yet instead of staying to at least say a word of defense she grabbed his walking stick, which had been resting near the doorframe, and took off with it across the house. Sherlock blinked, dropping his paint brush in surprise and a sudden burst of anger as he realized that this was Rosie's way of getting back at him for not making her breakfast. She was tormenting him now, like a pesky little demon, and making fun of the handicap that he had developed in his battle for her father's ultimate promise.
"ROSIE!" Sherlock exclaimed, hobbling heavily out into the living room and finding it close to impossible to go anything faster than two steps a minute. His leg flared up in anger, and instead of lifting it, all he could do was drag it uselessly behind him on the floor.
"Haha, you can't catch me! You can't walk!" Rosie taunted, standing on the landing of the staircase and waving the walking stick around in a taunting manner. Now of course, there were many other options to getting the stick back, including using another one from the crate he had found his original, yet all logical reasoning went right out the window at such a horrific taunt. How dare she openly mock him, how dare she torture him like this? As her loving new father, Sherlock did not deserve such treatment!
"Rosie get back here, come on, give it back!" Sherlock exclaimed hobbling towards the staircase yet taking a breather at the bottom, beginning to hoist himself up finally when he was able to at least give his leg a good bend so as to start ascending. It was a hellish process, yet he could feel the fires of determination burning brightly in his eyes. He could feel the anger beginning to bubble up inside of him, the anger that he had been housing for this disruptive, insulting child! This was the final straw this was...well this was impossible. Sherlock stopped at the landing, doubling over in his effort while Rosie stood at the top of the stairs, waving the stick around and calling out his name in the most irritable of fashions. She was mocking him for his inability, she was laughing at him!
"Rosie, you give that back right now, and I won't punish you for long. You'll get a time out, and a stern talking to...but I won't tell your father. Give it here, and John doesn't have to get involved." Sherlock growled, heaving himself up onto the banister of the staircase just so that he could look at Rosie in his pleading, helpless sort of way.
"No! You can't walk, and we're going to leave you! Daddy doesn't love you, he loves Mommy, and now that you can't follow, we're going to leave you!" Rosie taunted. Sherlock's grip on the banister intensified, and finally he could feel his nails beginning to imprint upon the old wood. A couple of more insults and he felt as if he might shatter the thing beneath his grip.
"Your father loves me, more than you could ever imagine!" Sherlock growled. "He loves me more than he loved your mother; he loves me more than he could ever love you."
"You LIAR!" Rosie yelled, her face heating up in rage as she suddenly stormed down the stairs, towards where Sherlock was leaning helplessly. "HE LOVES ME MORE THAN YOU! HE HATES YOU, WE ALL HATE YOU, SO WHY DON'T YOU JUST LEAVE!" and with that, in all her childish rage, Rosie took the walking stick in her hands like a baseball bat and swung it madly at where Sherlock's head would've been if he hadn't flung himself away. The walking stick smacked wildly off of the banister, and as Sherlock lunged to grab it as Rosie was taking another swing, the girl instead jumped forward and pushed him as hard as she could, pushing him right in the chest. And that little offset, considering how little balance he had in the first place, was enough to send Sherlock falling backwards down the stairs, landing painfully on his back and thudding his way all the way down to the bottom of the staircase. His head spun, and he could feel a great big burst of pain erupting at the base of his skull and all down his spine. For a moment Sherlock thought he might be paralyzed, yet he could twitch his toes when he intended to, and his arms seemed to still be flexing his fingers, as if he was still attempting to grab onto the staircase. He was too dazed to scream, too delirious to do anything else but stare up at the ceiling and let his head down on the floor where it belonged. His legs were strewn still on the bottom most stairs, and Rosie was still at the top and she was...laughing. She was laughing, he could hear it now, there was definitely laughter! And just as Sherlock's anger began to multiply, just as he was beginning to consider just what he would do to that child if he ever got the chance to get up...well he realized the flaw in such laughter. He realized first, that it could not be coming from Rosie, for she was still at the top of the stairs, and the laughter was closer. It was getting closer, from behind, from where the hallway stretched out before him and where...where the basement door was ajar. And with some concentration Sherlock realized that such laughter was too deep to be Rosie's, he realized that the laughter was male, and amused, yet with a pungency of destruction underlying such joy.
"Lying helpless again, are you brother mine?" Mycroft teased, his ghostly form now appearing in Sherlock's weak line of vision. Now he could make out the silhouette, he could make out the way that devilish smile was curled upon his lips. Mycroft had finally come out of the shadows. Sherlock tried to speak, and yet as soon as he summoned his voice it was all he could manage but a scream, a scream of anger, and of fear, and of defeat. He couldn't say anything or do anything to get himself away, he couldn't fight back and he had no one else who would care to protect him. Mycroft was right, he was alone, and he was helpless. He was helpless to stop whatever his brother was intending to do.
"Why don't you just let me take over then, Sherlock? Why don't you let me handle what you so obviously can't." Mycroft suggested, stepping closer now and kneeling down so that Sherlock could look right into his black, overwhelming eyes. "Why don't you let me take care of you?" Mycroft muttered, and with that he took Sherlock's head in his hands, he stared down at his brother for just a moment, and then began to dissolve. Yet unlike when Victor vanished, Mycroft's remains stayed floating in a cloud of black smoke, almost like a demon. It twirled and it spun, until finally it all collected and Sherlock's head fell back down onto the floor, for no one was supporting it now. And his mouth fell open, his mouth that may just still be screaming, and in a rush that black smoke jammed itself inside, down his windpipe, infecting his brain, infecting his body...infecting his heart. With a jolt Sherlock took a sharp breath, yet he felt as though his actions in that moment were not his own. He felt almost as if he was doing someone else's bidding, as if that voice inside of his head had taken control.