Let The Shadows Win

Time To Complete The Family

"That felt amazing. Best shower I'd probably ever had." John said confidently, smiling thankfully at Sherlock before his smile faded to something much different. "You're not cooking in those clothes?" he asked apprehensively, to which Sherlock merely chuckled.
"No I'm not." He lied, as he very obviously continued to stir the things up in the pan. John sighed heavily, understanding of course that he had no say in the matter.
"You're disgusting Sherlock, covered in blood and frost and who knows what else!" he exclaimed, however it was really all he could do but shake his head and towel off his hair a little bit better, going over to where the newspaper was sitting obediently at his spot at the table.
"Did you put some antibacterial cream on that cut? I'm worried they both might get infected after being so cold." Sherlock admitted with a little chuckle, as if the idea of some mysterious disease was honestly amusing to him.
"Ya, and a bandage. I'm one step ahead of you, Sherlock Holmes." John teased. Sherlock smiled, although he sincerely doubted that. And so he merely paid attention to the eggs, for he knew at this point that John enjoyed them best when he found that fine line between under cooked and too brown.
"You're going to work then?" Sherlock asked as he dumped some perfectly golden scrambled eggs onto John's plate. The man sighed, looking at his watch and nodding quietly.
"Ya I guess I should. I'll be a little late, but that's excusable." John decided with a shrug. Sherlock nodded, sighing in his disappointment before turning back to the stove. He wished that John didn't have to go to work, and all the while he knew it was a necessary evil, they could of course live long enough without it. He didn't want John to leave, and frankly he didn't trust him to. It was a terrible case of jealousy, probably seeping in through his disgust of himself. Sherlock was not innocent of a pure heart, yet all the same he wanted John to be...he wouldn't want to get the same sort of emotional abuse as he was giving John now. And it wasn't fair, of course it wasn't, and yet Sherlock still felt as though their family would be much better put together if John didn't have to leave every day!
"Have you ever considered working from the house?" Sherlock suggested, turning with a hopeful sort of smile all the while John looked at him as if he now had multiple heads.
"From the house? Like...never leaving?" John clarified with a blink.
"I know some people do that these days, those who want to wear their pajamas all day I suppose." Sherlock admitted, bringing over the egg pan to set and soak in the sink while he went to take a seat next to John at the table. He was still quite bloody, and his clothes were even beginning to drip an odd mixture of water and blood onto the floor where he stood, yet still he sat, and paid no notice.
"I don't think that sort of thing is for me, sorry Sherlock." John admitted with a little grin, taking an innocent sip of his coffee and smiling as it warmed him now from the inside. Sherlock was still shivering, and he honestly thought that some of his toes might have to be amputated, yet he still did not get a cup of coffee. Instead he sat here as he always did, and as he was meant to do.
"Well why not? There's nothing at your work that's keeping you going there? Right?" Sherlock asked apprehensively, poking a little bit at the table and not finding the strength to look John in the eyes.
"You're jealous, aren't you?" John asked with a teasing sort of smile. "Worried I've got a mistress behind your back or something?"
"Well no, no John I trust you, it's just..."
"Trusted me enough to carve your name into my chest." John added quickly.
"No! It's just; well I miss you around here. I like to have everyone I care about close to me, so that I can know they're safe. So that I can keep taking care of them, as they're meant to be." Sherlock admitted finally, to which John raised his eyebrows in a very presumptuous way.
"You sound like your brother, you know?" John pointed out. Sherlock sighed heavily, shrugging his shoulders and trying to think back if they had discussed Mycroft in the freezer or not. To be quite honest, their conversation was entirely a blur. Sherlock had been lying where Victor was; lost completely in thoughts about the good old days before he even knew properly how close murder could come to his own house and his own hand. John had walked in and by then he was certainly in no proper state of mine, and even now there were just blurs and blurbs of conversation that might hint to what was discussed.
"Yes well...he did raise me." Sherlock muttered a bit weakly.
"Well he's in your head, didn't you say that? That he's alive?" John asked with a teasing little laugh, as if such a statement was so ridiculous that it could be completely looked over. Sherlock smiled a bit shyly, shrugging his shoulders as if to say that he had absolutely no idea what John was talking about.
"I said that?" Sherlock asked with some false curiosity, for he did remember at least thinking that same way in the past. There was definitely a time when he knew that Mycroft was still alive and inside of his head, however he didn't know that he was at the point where he was quoting such internal thoughts to John.
"Yes. Although I can vouch that you were somewhere along the lines of raving mad." John admitted with something of a little smile, to which Sherlock only chuckled and folded his fingers politely on the table. He waited until John was done with his breakfast before he began to wash the dishes, and when John went off to work Sherlock kissed him sadly goodbye before going up to take a shower. He was freezing to the point of shivering in the warm house, and just as soon as he started the hot water running he was immediately anxious to jump in. Sherlock piled up all of his bloodied clothes in a pile on the bathroom floor and stepped into the steady stream, nearly wincing at the powerful temperature change as all of his limbs went numb as they began to defrost. Yet it was a necessary evil, a welcoming sting, and Sherlock basked in it thankfully. He washed his hair a couple of times, for every time he would lather it up and then run it under the water the foam would always wash down the drain in a deep red color, which made him suspect there was some more hidden in his curls. When he had killed Mycroft his shower water ran off red for days, which may have been some sort of hallucination or it was actually due to inaccurate washing techniques. All the same, he recognized just how difficult it was to get blood out, and so he got at it thoroughly before switching to scrubbing at his skin instead. The wound which had been left in his skin was very painful when the water touched it, however as he dabbed it clean with a soapy washcloth it was beginning to shape into a very nicely shaped cut. It would scar, undoubtedly, and such a scar would most certainly turn into a lasting reminder of who he really belonged to. He touched it thankfully, and remembered with a smile that John bore the same mark of ownership wherever he went. It was some consolation, being as though he had no control over what John did when he was properly out of sight. Sherlock trusted him to an extent, however after the whole incident with Mary there was no doubting that he was at least a little bit self-interested, or at least he was to a point. He had broken his promise to wait for Sherlock, and although he abandoned his wife just as soon as Sherlock stepped back into the picture, his loyalty had indeed faltered throughout that thirteen year break. John's heart was with Sherlock forever and always, yet his body was not always so easily protected. That was why Sherlock needed his mark to be made, that was why he needed to engrave his initials into the one man who might forget that he belonged to him. When Sherlock stepped out of the shower there was a completely new feeling to him, far past clean, far past warm, and far past good. He felt entirely reborn, and the fact that his fresh cut was not bleeding and could be seen in the bathroom mirror only proved that he was living the best existence that was available for men such as him. If all of those old croons at the mental hospital could see him now, refreshed, loved, and cherished, well they surely wouldn't recognize him as the miserable man who used to be afraid of the dark. He was rejuvenated into a new, happier person these days. And so he dressed and stepped out into the hall, deciding to throw his clothes into the laundry before Rosie awoke to find evidence that there was some sort of violence going on in the basement. He hated to wake the little gremlin, for it meant that she would be up and conscious and ready to bother him, however all te same Sherlock enjoyed making her miserable. And waking up was always the most miserable part of the day. And so he confidently strutted into the bedroom and flipped on the light, announcing that it was time to 'rise and shine' all while Rosie let out a series of inhuman shrieks, hiding under her blankets while Sherlock went to pull open the curtains in a triumphant sort of way.
"The birds are all singing, the sun is shining, what a beautiful morning to be awake!" Sherlock exclaimed, for he was a terrible person and was very much excited to bring a certain amount of misery to this poor child's life.
"Mr. Sherlock just five more minutes!" Rosie begged, however Sherlock shook his head at her in a disapproving sort of way.
"Now come on Rosie, if I had intended to give you five more minutes I would have come in five minutes later! Now is the time to wake up and smell the roses." Sherlock said with a great big obnoxious smile.
"I hate you!" Rosie whined, throwing her pillow over top of her head so as to stifle out Sherlock's terrible morning catchphrases.
"And I have never been your biggest fan either. Yet that means nothing, for you still have to follow my rules, and so get up, get active, and...Don't throw anything at me!" Sherlock complained, ducking just in time as that horse stuffed animal he had gifted her so long ago was hurled at his head. It smacked against the window pane instead, sliding down to fall at Sherlock's feet where he could only frown in a disapproving sort of way.
"Now don't make me lock you in that freezer again." Sherlock warned. "It's gotten much scarier since the last time you were there."
"Go away! I'll get up just go away!" Rosie demanded, sounding almost as if she were about to cry. Well, evidently Sherlock had no real reason to be in here, unless of course she began to cry. Then he would want to be there for that. Yet as for now he merely made his leave, hobbling out with his cane back down to the kitchen to start what would be very broadly defined as breakfast. The day crawled by, for there was nothing Sherlock looked forward to more than when John came home. All through the hours of his absence Sherlock was cursed to have to listen to Rosie's whining and complaining, telling him at odd intervals just how much she hated him and how much she wished her mother would come back. Yet these days she must have at least accepted the fact that Mary was gone for good, had she not accepted that she would still most likely be still watching out the window for a car that would never arrive. Sherlock did not know if anyone was going to take pity on her and tell her what had really happened to Mary, for the poor thing seemed to be agonizing mostly over the fact that her mother would leave without saying goodbye. In a way, letting her know that Mary had been murdered might at least ease her mind, yet then again it also might break her heart to know finally that there was no way she could ever see her mother again. Still no one had made a fuss about it, which Sherlock decided must be a good thing. Even Greg Lestrade and the police force took no interest, which meant that the lie that had been crafted had worked to a tee. Evidently it was only too easy to trick people when they were terribly uncomfortable, and the idea of a gay love affair always made them squirm. No one was thinking when all they wanted to do was hastily change the topic of conversation. All day while Rosie whined, Sherlock was doing some internal whining of his own. He found himself sitting across the hall from Victor's painting, staring into those vivid blue eyes that were forever cursed to live only in Sherlock' head. For everyone else must have forgotten them by now. What a masterpiece he was, what a marvel. It astounded Sherlock that he had even crossed paths with such a man, and it astounded him even more that he would have put such a creature down. Why did he not know his own strength back then? Why did it never come to his mind to kill Mycroft, and instead...instead deprive Victor of his future, and of his adulthood, and of his love? Sherlock wanted him back; he needed just any form of Victor that might appease this loneliness. And once he gets Victor back, then their family will be complete. Once Victor joins them there really will be no use to let John go back to work, Sherlock could close the doors and together they could live in harmony. Just as Mycroft had done all those years back, Sherlock could hug his family so tightly that they would never escape his grasp, yet all the same they would never know they were being imprisoned. They would be so thankful to have his love and appreciation that they never gave the outside world another thought, simply because it seemed so irrelevant. They could all be happy; for once in their lives they could all be fulfilled! It was about time to close the gates, it was time to let no one in, and more importantly let no one out. Sherlock could rule over this family as he was meant to only after he was sure that his family was willing to cooperate, only after he knew that they were indeed his own to control. He would have his husband, and his first love, and that wretched beast he was forced now to call his child. Yet maybe, when she realized that Sherlock was here to stay and here to protect her, well then she might at least appreciate him some more. Maybe she would even grow to tolerate his presence, and see him as not a stranger or a villain, but as a friend. Yes, Sherlock knew that it must be done. He had John's name on his heart and John's face in his head, yet now he stared into Victor's eyes and knew it was time to bring him home as well. And so Sherlock rose to his feet abruptly, grabbing up his walking stick and starting towards the garage, without any second thought to who he might be leaving behind as he went.