Let The Shadows Win

When The Temperature Drops

 John POV: It was no secret that there was something different about the way the household functioned, yet it was almost in a flattering sense. John was beginning to feel as though he was the most heavily desired man in the world, from the way Sherlock and Rosie constantly begged him to stay home. Of course Rosie's requests were obviously just driven by loneliness, for she really did hate Sherlock and that was becoming all the more clear every moment John saw them together. Yet Sherlock, well his requests were the more troubling ones. John wasn't sure why Sherlock wanted John to stay home constantly, yet every morning he would make a lovely breakfast as if it was some sort of offering, and propose that John call in sick right as he was finishing up. It was flattering in a sense that John felt wanted, yet Sherlock was beginning to take on a role that was terrifyingly familiar. At first John suspected that the resemblance between the two Holmes brothers was merely a coincidence, and that it was just this house that was twisting with his perception of things. Yet these days, well it was hardly ignorable to anyone who had known of Mycroft's ruling over his household. The man dressed just as his brother did, constantly going through his wardrobe and donning multiple suit and tie combinations so as to fit the mood. He sat in Mycroft's chair these days; the one which John almost thought was cursed and unusable after the man had died. Sherlock drank Mycroft's favorite whiskey, he listened to his favorite operas, and he was even beginning to cook the same meals he claimed to have seen his brother making! They were becoming one in the same, that much was obvious, yet who was to blame for such a transformation? Sherlock undoubtedly perceived himself to be the pillar of the family, despite John being the one who went to work and made all the money for them. Yet Sherlock sat at the head of the table, and he instructed people around almost as if he had every right to tell them what to do. He was especially more forceful with Rosie, and all of his demands towards her were voiced in a way that was ridden with disappointment and hatred, as if he was terribly upset that he still had to be reminding her about things like finishing her vegetables or sitting up straight. And Sherlock's way of ruling the house was different than John's, simply because he was ruling it with not an iron fist, but a soft, comforting hand that was there only to hide the metal plating that was underneath. John knew this form of parenting, it was the one that Mycroft had taught himself, in which behavior and obedience was expected and rewarded, yet a toe out of line would get you either beaten with an umbrella, or locked in the freezer, or subjected to who knows what other sort of abuse? Sherlock had yet to get violent; however the look in his eyes whenever Rosie acted out, well it was enough to get John apprehensive. He hated to see the man with a knife these days, for John knew that every second that ticked by was just another nerve that was being pulled at, and who knows how long it would take Sherlock to snap? If Sherlock was following Mycroft's path of parenthood it might not be long until he began to take means that were a bit terrifying to imagine, yet just as Mycroft always carried that umbrella, so did Sherlock keep his cane at his side at all times. But would Sherlock kill Rosie? And most importantly, would he be willing to kill John again? John wanted to think that he would never be able to; he wanted to think that Sherlock's days of killing were over. However he thought back to when he was so quick to abandon whatever morals he wanted to adapt, when Sherlock practically leapt at the opportunity to kill Mary when he was offered to. He was a killer at heart, and as much as John wanted to think that the therapy helped him, well it was no secret that there was still something disturbingly off about the man. And John wasn't looking for any reason to leave him; no he wanted to preserve his relationship with Sherlock for as long as he could manage it. He wanted to help the man, as was his goal when they were teenagers, yet that empathy only went so far...that dedication and commitment was only enough to perhaps convince John that Sherlock could change, all the while leaving Sherlock to simmer in his own madness. There came a night not too long after John's first sick day which was the first sign of the cracks that were beginning to form around Sherlock's mental state. It was about ten o'clock at night, long after John had put Rosie to bed, and he had sat up for a while in the dining room, working only by the light of kitchen with his back towards the rest of the house. John was doing his usual work stuff, going through the latest of their sales and putting all sorts of numbers into a spreadsheet to cross reference later. It was tiring work, stuff which there was no time for in the office, and so he had decided to take it home with him. The hours ticked by slowly, and he assumed from the quiet of the house that everyone else had gone to bed. At eleven thirty John decided to call it a night, only having gotten through about half of the work which he had sat down to do, yet with distractions like a nice pot of tea and some left over pasta, well he hadn't exactly managed his time well. But that was quite alright, for there was always tomorrow night. And so John got to his feet, setting his tea cup in the sink to wash later and walking over to turn out the light. With the flick of the switch the house was overwhelmed in darkness, something which John had not fully adapted to. He didn't like this house at night, much less when he couldn't see a thing, in which every creak of the wind was some new psychopath emerging from the Holmes family tree. It was unnerving to say the least, and as John started his way to the hallway shivers began to run frightfully down his spine. Yet as he started through, using merely the light of the moon as his guide, he discovered quickly that such shivers were not entirely made from the fright which plagued him. In fact, John noticed sharply that there was a chill in the air; he noticed that the temperature in the hallway was probably a good fifteen degrees colder than it was in the nice toasty kitchen. That was when his toe hit something solid, and the creaking of the door hinges betrayed that someone was still awake...or at least someone had been as he had been concentrated on his work. The basement door was open. Now John was properly cold and scared, for he had been under the firm understanding that everyone in this house had no use of the basement, nor would they dare go downstairs for any reason. The only thing down there was old boxes that had been stored away before Sherlock's parents had died, nothing which they could use these days! And well, there was always the freezer. John walked towards the doorway and felt around for the light switch, finding it rather easily and finally illuminating the awful place. Oh if there was one thing more unnerving than the darkened basement it would evidently be the lightened one, for now he could see the freezer, humming in all its freezing glory, with those horrible red stains that were permanently imbedded into the cement. The stains that belonged to Victor, and Mycroft, and that terrible uncle which had reigned over the household years before the brothers took control. All seemed normal; however the freezer's door was open. As if someone had gone in there and forgot to shut it, that or someone was still in there? 

"Sherlock, is that you?" John called down nervously, his voice shaking all the while he tried to keep himself calm. He was evidently fighting a losing battle, for his hands were trembling against the doorframe, standing still at the top of the stairs where he at least knew he would be safe. There was no response, yet John knew that he needed to check things out. Of course the worst case scenario is that Sherlock was down there, maddened out of his mind, yet even that would be manageable if John was in the right mindset. He needed to go down, for he had no idea if it was Rosie, or if it was Sherlock, or if a burglar had broken in. Either way, the freezer could not remain opened, either way John had to go and take a look. He took a deep breath, yet suddenly with some sort of intuition that must have been sprung by where he was and what he was doing, John realized that he best arm himself. The freezer was, after all, a dangerous place. If John went down there to find Sherlock off his rocker, or even if there was some thief poking around for whatever reason in there, John would rather be prepared. And so he went back to the kitchen, this time making sure to turn on all lights which were within his arms reach, and he light up the entire house by the time he arrived at the knife drawer. Carefully John pulled a blade which he thought suitable, one that seemed hefty enough to break whatever bones which might be standing in the way. Then again John gave no notice to that, really, other than the fact that it was the one which best resembled the knife that had been pressed against his throat, the one which had killed Mycroft, and the one which took Victor's life as well. The blade which did the most damaged, undoubtedly sitting where it would not memorialized in some police container, forgotten as the case of Sherlock Holmes had been long since closed. Yet it went on, so long as Sherlock Holmes himself was still alive. John took up the blade, feeling a rather unusual power flowing through his body as he started back through the well-lit house, making his way back to the basement with much more confidence than might be expected from someone who was nearly wetting themselves moments ago. He started down the stairs apprehensively, for while the basement light was on there was no possible way that all the shadows could be illuminated. No, they were still there, permanently stirring in their corners, or behind their boxes, or wherever the darkness may seem fit to inhabit. And John only now realized just how formidable the shadows could be.