Let The Shadows Win

No Respectable Thing

Tonight would be something of a critical moment in their relationship, for while John could tolerate a certain amount of madness there always must be a limit. Sherlock could not be running of, he could not be disappearing and leaving Rosie behind, and more importantly he could not be lying about in the freezer at odd hours of the night! He could not be...well John didn't know what this was! Was it irresponsibility, or was it merely madness? Did John not want to tolerate any of this unpredictability anymore, or was he merely asking himself when it was time to make a change? Was he realizing slowly that there was something innately wrong with Sherlock Holmes, and that therapy or medications or a loving household could not fix it? Something was off, a piece which Mycroft removed long ago from Sherlock's brain, something that could not be replaced and never will be. Something which drove his brain to a maniacal state, something which could only last so long before someone needed to take pity on him. Before someone needed to stop and think about what might be best for the world and for Sherlock Holmes himself. The outcome of their relationship would depend on where Sherlock had gone off to, and as John sat here waiting for him on the couch, he came up with the most fantastic outcomes which might befall them. There were those of tragedy and those of domesticity, those of grotesque motives and those of innocent strolls. Yet with Sherlock any one could be a possibility, there were even some outcomes which were simply too outlandish for John to come up with at this point! No one ever knew what might go on in Sherlock's mind, and if they were able to predict him well then that would undoubtedly make them as mad as he was. John never hoped to predict that man, less he become just as unstable as his fiancé. John was the one to prepare dinner that night, and as they sat at the table with whatever vegetables he could manage to steam, each plate with a ridiculous looking pork chop, there was an uncomfortable yet excited silence between them. John was contemplating, and Rosie was celebrating, for she could tell at last that her father's mindset was slowly shifting to sympathize with her. Rosie had been afraid of Sherlock this whole time, and all the while John had been too busy to realize that he might pose some sort of threat to their family. Of course he was loved, and he was willing to love in return, yet that did not cover for the wild stretch of possibilities that might befall them in his care. Say Sherlock disappeared again, this time leaving Rosie unattended for the entire day? Say she hurt herself, or went hungry, or the house was broken into? She was much too young to care for herself, and if Sherlock could not be trusted to look after her then there would have to be some changes made. Daycare, possibly? Those women had proved to be good caretakers, and while the money would be difficult to come by these days at least John had the assurance that Rosie was safe. Yet Sherlock would not like that, he had already made it clear that he did not like it when they left the house. He was becoming more and more like his brother with every passing moment, and John was afraid that it would be any day now that he turn just as cold blooded, and just as lethal. John loved him of course, yet who knows what this sort of erratic behavior might lead to? What if Sherlock's vanishing turned violent, and instead of just wandering about the town he began taking victims again? Wonder if the police caught onto him once more, and John had to suffer that loss as he had before? Or if Sherlock decides again that the best way to keep everyone safe is to take their lives? What then, if Sherlock ever decides to turn his love into wrath?
"Daddy, what are you going to do to Mr. Sherlock?" Rosie asked quietly, poking at her food without much enthusiasm. John hadn't even picked up his fork yet, for he sat with his head cradled in his head, with a look up utmost concern on his face. He was scared for Sherlock, yet he was more scared for himself and for Rosie as well. What might come about if he had to tell Sherlock something he did not want to hear? What if he had to tell Sherlock something which would not be so easily digested?
"I don't know yet." John admitted in a small, forceful voice. The kitchen was lit only by the lamp above the table, and John was ever so conscious of the shadows collecting and fusing as the sun began to sink lower against the horizon. He was aware still of the darkness that Sherlock so often raved about, the darkness he insisted could move, and could speak, and could watch him with the eyes of those who were already dead. John noticed as that darkness closed in around them, until it only ever felt safe under the light.
"Are you going to leave him?" Rosie wondered, her voice sparking up a hopeful tone, as if she would wish nothing more than to leave that man and his house as far behind as she could.
"I don't know yet." John repeated quietly, undoubtedly playing to Rosie's hopes as her smile widened.
"I want to." She said simply, and with that she prodded once more at her broccoli yet refused to eat it. John sighed heavily, for he knew that Rosie wanted to leave the moment they arrived. She knew that she wanted Sherlock out of her life as quickly as Mary had vanished, yet he knew in his selfishness that he had pulled her along on this journey of madness, the same trail he had followed all of those years ago. And in the end he had no hesitations; in the end he would have let Sherlock kill him. Was he really going to put his daughter at such a risk, keeping her in the hands of an impulsive maniac? One who might split her throat for fun, or gut himself in the basement so as to know what it really felt like to be dead? A man who had a complicated relationship not only with John, but with life and death as well. Sherlock, who might walk on a wire between madness and sanity just to see which one he might fall into first. John rubbed his temples furiously, and he sat there under the light of the kitchen all night. With his dinner going cold and untouched before him, he sat and he pondered until at last the lights of a car coming up the driveway chased away what darkness had managed to manifest around him. John leapt to his feet, racing out the front door to find that the hearse had indeed arrived, and in it was Sherlock Holmes himself. He didn't pull into the garage; instead he parked it right alongside John's car and stumbled out into the weeded driveway. By the lights of the headlights, and with the background noise of the running engine, John raced up to the man and threw his arms around his neck. For despite his ponderings tonight, he still could not deny that it delighted him to see Sherlock safe and sound once more.
"Sherlock where have you been?" John demanded, pulling away just as soon as he remembered his anger. Sherlock merely grinned, starting towards the backdoors of the hearse in a suspicious way.
"In no respectable place, doing no respectable thing." Sherlock assured him with that tone of mischievousness in his voice. John went cold, for he could only imagine Sherlock had been out either loving or killing people, both of which made John angry. It was only now that he realized Sherlock's clothes were covered in dirt, coated in mud all the way up the legs of his trousers and even sprinkled some in his dark curls.
"And what might that be?" John wondered suspiciously, stepping forward all the while Sherlock pulled open the backdoors.
"If you were to guess, John, where might you think I was?" Sherlock asked tauntingly, pausing in his work as he looked at John through the darkness. Once more there was that insanity in his eyes, yet tonight it was more unnerving than attractive. John crossed his arms, shifting his weight upon the gravel and the weeds as he stared at his fiancé through the eerie light of the headlights.
"I cannot say. I thought you only stayed here." John admitted. Sherlock chuckled, nodding his head in agreement before grabbing something from the back of the hearse and pulling it through. John was worried before he noticed that it was merely a sack, a black sack that seemed to be quite weightless. What Sherlock might have inside was beyond him, yet all the same the sight of such a mysterious prize was unnerving.
"I've been serving my car its purpose, John. And I am returning an old friend home." Sherlock said simply. With that he walked along side of the hearse and turned off the engine and lights, closing the door with a final snap before walking back inside of the house. As he went past John caught a strong, horrible whiff of what could only be described as the familiar scent of rotting human flesh, and in an instant he realized that there must be something dead in that bag. Someone familiar, no doubt, someone who brought a scowl to his face. Sherlock had gone and gotten Victor Trevor, hadn't he? He had been grave robbing. John followed Sherlock into the house quickly; racing to find that Sherlock had immediately went down to the basement, undoubtedly down to the freezer.
"Daddy he's back!" Rosie called, yet such an exclamation was pointless at this moment. Of course John knew that Sherlock was back, and this outcome was far beyond anything he might have come up with. In a way it was worse than him going out to kill someone, for it was him going out to love someone, someone who John still couldn't win against even though he had been dead for fourteen years! It was infuriating that victor Trevor somehow stood at the same elevated position in Sherlock's heart as he had all of those years ago! You would swear that when Sherlock saw those bones he still saw that beautiful, pristine face starting up at him. It was obvious that he was still very much in love.
"Yes I know he is, honey. Stay upstairs alright? Don't come down." John insisted, pushing past his daughter in his jealous urgency and pulling the basement door shut behind him. John raced down the stairs just as fast as his legs could carry him, and when he arrived in the freezer he saw that Sherlock was already laid out on the floor, mulling in the blood that was now frozen solid onto the floor.
"Sherlock you can't bring him here, I don't want him here." John growled, standing in the doorway all the while Sherlock seemed not to listen. He instead sat with the bag next to him and he very carefully unknotted it and reached inside. John ignored the smell, for it was becoming almost intolerable and he knew that he really could do nothing at this moment. It was all he could do now but convince Sherlock to get rid of the body, for grave robbing was not only a crime, but it was unethical and unfaithful as well. John couldn't believe that Victor was still being invited into this house, even though Sherlock had killed him so many years before! Could Sherlock not settle his heart on one man or the other? Could he not decide which he loved more? From the bag Sherlock drew what appeared to be some sort of long, decayed leg bone. Still clinging to it were bits of fabric and bits of skin, yet in this long decaying period whatever was left of that frozen body had long since been eaten by various worms and maggots.
"Beautiful, is he not?" Sherlock whispered, clutching to the leg bone as if it was the most admirable thing he had ever seen. Very carefully he cradled it, as if it was something of a child to him, before he set it down on the ground.
"Sherlock you're listening, ya? I told you I don't want him here. He's dead, Sherlock, and I can't have you still loving him." John growled.
"Just as you have your daughter, John, I have my own distraction." Sherlock protested, now pulling a various assortment of smaller, less identifiable bones from the bag. Very carefully and very precisely Sherlock set them in various spots on the floor, crawling and sliding about the frozen blood, as if he was arranging a puzzle which only he knew to assemble.
"My daughter? What's Rosie got to do with this?" John growled defensively. Still Sherlock worked, producing all sorts of ribs, fingers, and at one point a perfectly constructed arm from the bag. He handled all of them with care, and all very gently did he place in their spots on the floor. For some odd reason, and with anatomical skill that John never knew the man to possess, he was completely reconstructing the bones into a shape that might represent a human being.
"You look at her, and you see your wife. It is impossible not to, every day that beast morphs more and more into Mary Morstan. Every day I am cursed to see your infidelity in her eyes." Sherlock said in a very pointed, very knowing sort of way. As if he was in any state to accuse John of being unfaithful, all while he cradled the bones of his long decayed lover.
"She is my daughter, she is my responsibility! I cannot abandon her because you see her as competition!" John declared. Sherlock merely chuckled, producing what appeared to be a pelvis from the bag and setting it very carefully in its place. John hesitated, clenching his teeth and reminding himself that such touches should mean nothing, that these were merely bones and showed nothing of the romantic nature. However Sherlock handled them with such love and with such care, that John could not help but feel a little bit betrayed.
"You say that as if there is not an easy way." Sherlock teased, finally producing the skull from the bag. Carefully he held it in his hands, sighing very carefully as he looked upon it with that same sort of softness that John had always assumed was exclusively reserved for him. It was Sherlock's look of love, of undying passion, and he stared into those empty sockets and John could've sworn that Sherlock assumed someone looked back. His horrible first love, that daring boy who challenged John for everlasting rights to Sherlock's heart, that obscene Victor Trevor!
"I'm not going to kill my daughter." John growled. Sherlock sighed heavily, still staring into the skull and seeming almost as if he had accidentally missed out on every last word his fiancé had said. Instead he seemed to be basking in the joys of finally looking upon Victor Trevor again. Still he did not set the skull down.
"Shame." Sherlock said simply, yet whether or not he was talking about Rosie or Victor, John did not know.
"Sherlock, listen to me! Why won't you just listen to me?" John growled, stepping forward not and attempting to rip the skull from the man's hand. Yet Sherlock was quicker than that, he avoided John's swipe and with a scream of defense he jumped to his feet. John was very aware that the knife lay between them, off towards the left where it could be grabbed by either one at a moment's notice.
"I am listening, John! Has it simply not come to your attention that I do not care?" Sherlock demanded, holding the skull to his chest with such a gentleness that made John quiver in jealousy.
"You love him, then? You love Victor?" John presumed.
"Yes of course." Sherlock growled. John nodded, biting his lip and dropping his hands, staring down at the ground and trying to decide now what to do. Did this count as cheating, was Sherlock having some sort of undead affair at this point? What did he do now, what was he even supposed to say? Was this enough to break up their relationship, or was it something they can surpass together? Blind anger was rushing through him, still he knew that it was childish to lash out about something that could be so easily explained, yet all the same he felt a sort of obscene rage at the thought that Sherlock's heart, which he had claimed was so devoted to John, still thought of Victor in such a romantic way.
"If he was alive now, would you be with him instead?" John asked quietly. Sherlock opened his mouth yet faltered, no words came out and he just stood there gaping like a pathetic, disgraced fish.
"What a thing to ask." Sherlock said finally.
"Well would you? All this talk of faithfulness, all the while you would be out with that man, you would have left me for him, your dead wh**e?" John growled, stepping up in his rage and kicking those bones that lay so precisely about the floor, sliding them over the frozen surface of the freezer so they scattered about in a mess. Sherlock gave a shriek of discontent, lunging at John as if to try to stop him yet falling short, instead he fell to his knees into the pile of bones, holding the skull to his heart with tears in his eyes. He knew that he could not stop John at this point, he knew that he was at his mercy, and he looked terrified, even devastated, to see John at such a powerful position. Sherlock knew a lot about being kicked around, he knew a lot about being abused. Yet it seemed as though he had never prepared himself to fall at John's aggressive hand.
"I never got to know, John! I never got to know if I could ever be with him! I never had the power to save him, I killed him with my own two hands it's...well it's only fair to keep him close! To keep him safe and to keep him protected! I owe him that much, John, I owe it to him that I still want him!" Sherlock exclaimed, his voice trembling in his weakness as he looked about at the scattered remains of his lover.
"But you're PROMISED to me! You wear my ring; you're to be my HUSBAND!" John yelled. "I can't have you in love with a pile of bones!" Sherlock fell now to the floor, finally letting the skull roll away as he cradled his own head in his hands, agonized now to the point where his speech became slurred, and his back curved at the most inhumane angle. He looked terrified yet guilty as he stretched out upon the floor, wearing a mud stained suit that had once belonged to Mycroft, lying about the scattered bones of his long dead love. He was a pitiful sight, and yet still anger was flared in John's throat so that he could not think to take pity on him.
"If you cannot love me as I am then pity me, John Watson. For you are all I have in life." Sherlock begged, his voice trembling with tears and sobs that were going for now, unnoticed. John hesitated, for he did not want to step forward yet he could not bring himself to step away. Sherlock deserved his being there, yet the way he had been behaving lately very much deserved him a night locked in the freezer as well. Yet John was sure that Sherlock would like to be in the freezer, John was sure that Sherlock would prefer the company of those bones in the dangerous temperatures to a warm bed with a living, breathing man under the blankets.
"I can love you, Sherlock. You know I'm able." John growled. "You just make it so bloody difficult sometimes." Sherlock took a breath, as if he was unable to realize that was John's way of assuring him that all was well. He couldn't understand that after such a fight he could be forgiven so easily. He forgot then, that John had put up with so much in his lifetime, and had still come out the other end loving Sherlock Holmes more passionately than he had before. After all of these years, well it would take a great deal to take the man away from him in a less than ceremonious way. If there came a time where John would have to rid himself of Sherlock Holmes then so be it, but never in any universe would that be a process of sending him away. John understood that Sherlock needed him, and more importantly he knew that Sherlock would have nowhere to go. If he couldn't have Sherlock then the world could not have him either, a break up would come in the form of a blade, not in a goodbye.
"You'll have me then?" Sherlock breathed. John stood up a bit taller, frowning down at Sherlock as he lay among those bones, yet he felt his head nod all the same.
"Of course I will have you, Sherlock. What else have I got but you?" John asked, his face still serious and his heart still furious, yet all the same he found it possible to extend a hand and let Sherlock get up to his feet, treading carefully so as to avoid crushing Victor.
"Even if I still love him?" Sherlock whispered apprehensively. John sighed heavily, looking down towards those bones even though he knew that they had done their very best to personally offend him.
"Yes Sherlock, even if you do still love him." John agreed quietly. "We all have our faults, do we not?"
"I have one too many." Sherlock admitted nervously, drawing closer and intensifying the smell of mud and decaying flesh. He was almost too horrible to allow any closer, and yet John accepted him quietly all the same.
"Come on then Sherlock, I'll run you a bath." John offered, shivering now as he noticed once more the horrible temperature in this freezer. Sherlock nodded his thanks, allowing John to lead him out the door all the while he looked back at where the skull and bones still lay. He looked back as if he longed to take them with him, yet could do nothing now but turn away and let John close the door shut between the two of them. It was no permanent barrier, yet it was enough to keep Sherlock's mind with one man, at least for tonight. It was enough to keep him present, and his heart in his chest all the while John stood beside of him.