Let The Shadows Win

At The Hand of A Holmes

"Who's in there?" John asked nervously, just now nearing the freezer and squinting into the darkness. He could make out a shape, what appeared to be a body lying on the floor. It was almost sad that at first, John didn't react. He didn't find that odd at all, considering all the times he had been in that freezer he had not been alone. Yet it was thirteen years ago that those bodies had been removed, and why one now lay there in that same spot tonight, well that was enough to make John retreat just a step in fright. Yet he clutched his weapon pointedly, freezing now that he was standing right next to the open door, which was pouring freezing fog out into the basement and through the whole house.
"Sherlock?" John whispered nervously, presuming that Rosie wouldn't come down here just to lie down, or to dispose of her dead. For a moment there was silence, and then to John's great relief, the form began to move. Its head lifted for just a moment, before setting back down on the ground and beginning to giggle. Yet that giggle was not amusing for both parties, in fact the mere idea of it frightened John to his very core. For it was indeed Sherlock, yet his motives and his mentality were still very much unclear.
"So sure it's me, John?" Sherlock asked with a grin.
"Who else would it be?" John asked immediately, wanting to upkeep this conversation so that he could get Sherlock up and out of there as fast as he could manage. Yet there was silence, as if Sherlock was thinking of his answer very carefully.
"It could be Mycroft." Sherlock offered finally. John gulped, nodding his head and readjusting his fingers on the knife's handle, for they were beginning to go numb in this cold.
"It's not Mycroft. Mycroft's dead." John said firmly, hoping that this time Sherlock might actually believe it. There was more laughter, yet still Sherlock lay there. He lay in a very familiar spot, one which was outlined and pooled in blood. One which John knew Victor to have laid in for all that time the police had searched for him, lying in a frozen heap with his neck gnashed open and that look of horror still imprinted onto his once beautiful face.
"Mycroft lives." said Sherlock simply. John shivered, stepping closer and wishing he had some sort of light with which to illuminate this unnerving darkness. The freezer was wide, and who knows what might be hidden in its many corners? Who knows what might be still lurking from all those years ago?
"He's dead, you killed him, Sherlock. Right here. We burned the body, he's not coming back. He's dead." John repeated once more, stepping closer towards Sherlock's still body.
"He lives in my head, John. He stays in my memories, and in my consciousness, and in my words and actions. Mycroft is a part of me, John...so long as I am alive, Mycroft lives as well." Sherlock clarified slowly, talking as if even he was afraid of the power of his words. John nodded, closing his eyes for a moment in fear yet taking another step into the freezer. Still he did not know if this blade was necessary, yet all the same he carried it. He carried it because he did yet know if Sherlock was the man he knew before. If he was the man with a brain which might...function.
"Why don't you get up Sherlock? Come on, we'll go to bed." John offered apprehensively, for he really didn't know what to do in this situation, and more importantly he didn't know how to react. The very idea that Mycroft might still be living always seemed much too real, John had always told himself that the man was dead yet still it always seemed too good to be true. And if Sherlock had made the connection between himself and his brother as well, then of course it must be true. They were one in the same.
"John, I miss him." Sherlock admitted finally, with a huff that at least sounded relatively sane.
"You miss Mycroft?" John clarified with a frown.
"NO!" Sherlock yelled, suddenly pounding his fists against the ground and making John jump, the knife nearly falling out of his hand as he did so. Yet he knew in his panic that he would need it, and so he clutched onto the thing like a lifeline, now as Sherlock rose to sit up in the spot where Victor had died.
"I miss Victor, John. I miss Victor so much that I feel it...I feel it building up inside of me. It hurts to think of him, John, and that portrait merely subsides the pain yet it comes back stronger once I look away. And I am once more reminded that I was the very one who deprived myself of him." Sherlock admitted heavily. John clenched his teeth, now feeling a bit more jealous than terrified. Well of course Sherlock's words scared him, yet his fear now was nothing to his overwhelming feeling of defensiveness. Why was it that he was forever cursed to compete with someone who was already long dead?
"Sherlock, you have me now." Was all John could manage to say, for he prayed that it might be enough to snap Sherlock back into reality, into appreciativeness.
"And still, Mr. Watson, I am afraid that you might leave me." Sherlock admitted quietly, still sitting up on his elbows so that whatever light was bouncing along the walls of the freezer could make a home in his white, pale skin. And in his eyes, which gleamed now with that familiar madness. John hesitated, but stepped forward once more. He only wished that madness repulsed him, like most normal people. Yet if it did, God knows he would be long gone. If he was afraid of madness he would have left Sherlock alone in the first place, he would have not cared to cherish the boy when they were younger, and had he been afraid he would have left those thirteen years ago. Oh but what could he do except admit it, madness did not scare him. Madness attracted him. And that was why he stayed with Sherlock Holmes all these years. That was why he took that fateful step forward.
"Why do you think I will leave you?" John wondered quietly. "Why would I leave now, after I had proposed to you?"
"Because you left her, after you bid her the same honor." Sherlock responded, his smile widening as he noticed now that John had come equipped with their very weapon of choice.
"I didn't leave her...I returned to you. I outgrew her, I...I went back to where I was supposed to be." John corrected, shaking his head now and stepping right up to where Sherlock was sitting. The cold didn't matter now; the cold meant nothing to him. In fact standing where Sherlock was now, it almost felt warm. It almost felt inviting.
"You're supposed to be with me, John. Yet how would people know that?" Sherlock asked with a smile, reaching a hand up for John to take. And John did, timidly, and Sherlock wrapped his frosted fingers around his wrist and yanked him down towards his own eye level. John stumbled before falling heavily on his knees right before the man, now staring into his eyes in what little light could be produced from the basement bulb. He stared at him and felt their heart beats racing, in that exhilarating blend of fear and passion.
"I will never leave you." John promised again, however Sherlock shook his head, not looking too convinced. He looked as if he needed more proof, as if he was going to try to make certain that John remained forever his. The last time they had discussed this had been when there was a knife to John's throat, in a time where Sherlock had every intention of slicing it open as he had done once more.
"I would like to say that I believe you, John." Sherlock muttered with a grin. "Yet that would make us both liars."
"Are you going to kill me?" John wondered in a trembling voice, holding fast to the knife yet knowing that his grip would release if Sherlock asked it to. He knew that he would obey such a command, and most importantly he knew that he would not fight if fate had made tonight his night to die.
"Don't tempt me to be both your lover and your killer." Sherlock mocked, leaning over now so close that John could feel his elated breath upon his own face. Yet Sherlock did not kiss him, instead he let his hand feel for John's hand, the weapon that was clenched in his slackened fist. John knew his request, and he would offer it, he would allow it.
"Then kill me." John said flatly, holding the knife to where Sherlock would not need to search for it. Holding it right in front of the man's face so that there would be no secrecy, and no discretion. The most insulting part about Sherlock's previous attempt on John's life was that he had not made it obvious, that he did not make it ceremonial. John would have lay in that bed in his funeral outfit if he had known death was approaching by Sherlock's hand, and even now he would lie with his arms crossed on his chest if Sherlock thought that would be best. For it would be an honor to join those who had died in this house at the hands of a Holmes. Sherlock took the knife with a satisfied breath, a smile on his face that was not uncommon when he was trapped in this state, yet he did nothing but hold it for a moment, admiring the way it glistened even in the darkness, admiring the way which the ice particles clung and melted along its warm blade. And then suddenly, the man pounced. With force John did not know him to have, Sherlock forced John onto the ground, lying now on the frozen, blood stained ground. Yet he didn't fight, and he didn't resist, he lie there with Sherlock now over top of him, the blade still in his hands, hovering right above his heart. John trembled, yet he kept his eyes on Sherlock, he kept their eyes locked. If his death was coming, then it would be best to get one last look at such universes before they were taken from him for good. It was all he wanted from Heaven, was Sherlock's eyes again. Oh how they glistened in the most enchanting way.
"I will not kill you." Sherlock assured finally, leaning down and pressing a kiss to John's lips, as if that his was his way of making his promise. As if that was supposed to be the thing to reassure John of the fact that his life was very much secure. "Yet I want to make you mine. More than any wedding might manage, more than any ring might secure. I want the world to know that you are mine, in a way which you could never hope to hide. I want anyone else to know, John Watson, that you belong to me." John nodded, letting his head fall back onto the ground knowing that his attentiveness was not entirely required. Yet this was also a way of demonstrating his previous mark, the one which might show whoever was looking that he was very much indeed connected in a permanent way to Sherlock Holmes and his blade. Sherlock touched his hand upon the scar, laughing for a moment as he let the knife clatter to the cement floor beneath them, and in a single motion he tore John's shirt away from his chest. The buttons popped and the fabric ripped, and in a heaping mess Sherlock pulled the thing away to reveal what little was left to hide John's beating heart. His chest, his skin, and the rib bones that still managed to protrude.
"I am yours, Sherlock. That much I will acknowledge, and if my lips shall not be able to say it, then make it in a way which can." John insisted, speaking weakly all which Sherlock's smile widened.
"Your skin, Mr. Watson, scars very nicely." Sherlock decided, first letting his lips hover and press a kiss to John's neck, and the horrible patch of dead skin that dared stay unhealed and deformed along a jagged line. John took a breath, his fingers attempting to clutch to Sherlock's shoulders, yet the man shook him off. It was almost as if he did not want to be touched, did not want to be interrupted. For he now bent down, pressing his lips instead against John's side, right along his ribcage, right underneath his beating, throbbing heart. He kissed here as if sanctifying a spot, as if making it known that such a place was now hallowed by his love. And with that, Sherlock picked up the knife, trailing the blade along John's skin in a harmless way before taking a deep breath and gently easing it down, into the skin, where blood began to pool. John felt the pain, yet it was more of a welcome feeling if anything. If this would be the way which he could ensure Sherlock of his loyalty, then this would be necessary. This pain would be...well it would be welcome. John grabbed hold of Sherlock's shoulders, and now that the man was carving he could do nothing to oppose it. John felt blinding pain in such an area, so he could not realize just what Sherlock was making until the knife clattered once more to the floor. He looked up weakly, and seeing in the darkness, making out what he could underneath the blood flow, that his skin now sported the wounds which displayed SH. Sherlock's initials...his brand. With a laugh Sherlock pressed his hand upon the wound, soaking the blood between his fingers before grasping at the side of John's head and kissing him passionately. And John kissed back, happy to finally be able to be with his love in such a way which marriage could never promise. In a way which bonded them, and branded them together.
"Now you are mine." Sherlock clarified, laughing in a wonderful, meaningful way. With that he rolled to the side, pulling John along with him so that he was the one who could be marked. He rolled onto the floor, allowing John to reposition himself over top him, still dripping blood with his shirt torn to pieces and hanging uselessly around his shoulders. "And I will be yours." Sherlock promised again, his fingers working tirelessly to pull apart his jacket, vest, and shirt. Yet such rough behavior was unacceptable with this ancient attire, John knew that for sure, and so he helped Sherlock gently unbutton it and fold it over, so that Sherlock's thin chest was exposed, yet his shirt would not be ripped. Of course the blood would be a welcomed factor, for these clothes were once Mycroft's, and such stains might be considered homage to him if anything. Mycroft would welcome his clothes being soiled by his brother's blood. John knew what he was supposed to do, and just as Sherlock had done he pressed his lips above Sherlock's heart, feeling it beating at an almost inhuman rate. Sherlock lungs were inflating joyously, yet he kept still, he kept with that smile stuck on his face. And John took up the knife, pressing it to Sherlock's skin and carving as gently yet as permanently as he could manage his initials, JW, so as to tell anyone who might ever dare to try to access Sherlock's heart that it was indeed his own to keep. Sherlock now belonged to him, just as he belonged to Sherlock. And with his fingers now covered in blood, with his face and chest dripping with it, he lowered himself once more onto Sherlock, taking the man's head his hands and staring into his eyes in the most cherishing, most passionate way he could think to manage.
"And now, Sherlock Holmes..." John kissed him quickly. "You are mine." He finished. And with that Sherlock grabbed up to his face, kissing him in his excitement, in his enthusiasm. He kissed and they flailed, and together they loved each other for the first time all while being officially and forever branded with the other's name. Just as they did the first time, when they were but terrified teenagers, unable to realize that such a love might spread for the rest of eternity, they pulled at each other's clothes and tore at each other's skin, kissing vigorously with their hearts beating overtime so as to manage the amount of love which was simmering through their bodies. Their wounds went unattended, and the blood kept pouring into a delightful mixture of both John and Sherlock, into a pool that they might call their own creation. Their marks tore right over their hearts, for the world to see if they should dare to look, so that for all eternity they might belong to each other. 

 Sherlock POV: It was very familiar, waking up next to John Watson all the while being almost too cold to move. The last time they had ended up like this they had at least had the brains to move away from the freezer to fall asleep, yet tonight they slept in what seemed to be a frosted puddle of their own blood, sleeping on top of each other so as to conserve whatever body heat they were able to hold onto. They were...well it's safe to say they were a little bit out of sorts last night, and this morning was only a cruel reminder of how terribly foolish it was to start anything in a walk in freezer. Sherlock woke first, yet as soon as he saw the newly made vampire slushy they were both lying in, he was quick to wake John. At first the man was slow to stir, and Sherlock was afraid that they might both be cursed with some sort of horrible hypothermia. Yet once Sherlock rolled to his feet and found whatever articles of clothing he could positively identify as his own he got dressed quickly and hurried John to do the same. 

"What the..." John woke in a start, sitting up quickly before seeing Sherlock as he forced on as many layers of clothes as he could. They of course provided no relief, for they were stiff as a board and coated in ice particles that had frozen onto them from the moisture in the air, however they were better than being exposed to the manmade elements that were created in this horrible thing.
"Flashback thirteen years, huh?" Sherlock agreed groggily, looking down to where there was a nice long mess of broken skin and blood, and when he wiped his hand through he found to his satisfaction that there was a clear cut of JW carved above his heart. And so it had been a successful night after all.
"My God, I think my whole body is frozen." John said confidently, yet nonetheless he struggled to his feet and dressed as quickly as he possibly could. "Not to mention I'll be late for work!"
"You don't know what time it is. It might be two in the morning for all we know." Sherlock scoffed, shaking his head and flexing his now suspiciously blue fingers and toes.
"Or ten in the morning." John offered nervously, patting his side and wincing before starting up the stairs in a hurry. Sherlock followed, yet not nearly as enthusiastically, his bare feet leaving nice bloodied footsteps as he locked up the freezer and made his way up the wooden stairs.
"Seven ten!" John announced thankfully. "I'll jump in the shower quick!"
"Yes alright. I'll get breakfast prepared." Sherlock promised with a sigh, trudging through the house and shivering madly. He would have grabbed a nice blanket had there been no chance he would heavily stain it with his blood, and so instead he just trekked to the kitchen and ran his fingers under the warm water from the faucet. Sherlock was satisfied with house the night had gone, for of course it had been in the back of his mind for a long while that he intended to make some sort of unmistakable mark upon John. A tattoo had been his first idea; however a scar was much more their speed, was it not? A scar was even more permanent than a tattoo, and much more meaningful. You had to hurt to get something you truly loved, and such a wound would remind John that he was forever bound to Sherlock, for with the risk came the reward. It was fitting, and it would certainly do the trick. In a terrible world there might come a day when John went off with some other man or woman, and should he ever end up shirtless then that person would know, without a doubt, that he did in fact belong to someone else. A wedding ring only went so far when it was on someone's fingers, whereas a scar was utterly immovable. John's condemned suitor would have to know that they were with a man who was not free, and if they were wise enough to match such initials with their owner, well then they would be wise enough as well to keep away. For if they knew anything about Sherlock Holmes, they'd undoubtedly know that he'd be coming for them if they dared lay a finger on John Watson. Yes, the night had been successful; however it had not been the night Sherlock had exactly imagined for himself. The truth was, he was down there to be with Victor, not with John. Every time he looked at that painting it ripped another hole in his heart, and now that Victor's ghostly form had gone away Sherlock was cursed for an everlasting hiatus of that beautiful, enchanting boy. It was no secret that Sherlock still loved him, and in no way would he ever deny such a thing. He knew it, John knew it, and even Victor knew it to an extent. However Victor did not appreciate it, for Sherlock hadn't either when he was so readily accessible. And to imagine back then, that Victor was his idea of a burden! That he did not cherish every breath that boy took, while he still could! Sherlock missed him with an unyielding passion, and it was getting to the point where he was considering options which might bring them closer together, even if their souls were still destined to be far apart. John arrived downstairs just as Sherlock was finishing scrambling some eggs for their breakfast, however it was getting considerably late and john might even need to bring his food in the car. That is of course, if he did intend to go to work today.