Let The Shadows Win

Made By A Maniac

John POV: All night John pondered what might be going onin Sherlock's head, yet never that night could he have realized what hadalready become of the man he needed to love. That night as he lay in bed, hecould never quite fathom the stranger who he now lie next to, the one thatmight have once been Sherlock, yet who had morphed into someone quitedifferent, yet someone startlingly familiar all the same. He stared through thedarkness, while Sherlock laid very still and very stiff on his back, his eyesshut and his eyelids staring up towards the ceiling. John lie next to him yetcould not will his eyes to shut, for just now he was contemplating if it waseven safe to allow himself to slip into unconsciousness while this man sleptnext to him. Did he sleep? Was he actually able to these days, or did he simplylie there, with controlled breathing? Did he have any reason to sleep anymore? John studied him, the way hischest rose and fell, the way his nostrils flared as he exhaled heavily, and theway his eyelids remained stretched tight and unmoving over his eyeballs. Thosebeautiful things, the beautiful galaxies that were housed in his irises, thosevery eyes that were these days forever ridden with madness. John stared atSherlock and thought again to how much he loved him, and what that love mighthave to drive him to do. Just as someone loved a family pet, when they showedsigns of a sickness that would only progress more it was customary to put itdown. And Sherlock...well Sherlock was showing all the telltale signs of adisease that might take over his brain any moment these days. A disease thatwas progressing him into something of a secluded paranoia, in which he assumedthe outside world was hostile. Yet it was the same world that he had known, itwas the same world which had housed him and held him throughout his days offreedom. It was the same world which brought the two of them together. Yet thatalone...did that make it harsh? Or was it in fact destiny, and not cruelty, thathad driven these two to be inseparable? John breathed carefully, for he did notwant to wake Sherlock if he was indeed asleep, and he was too afraid to facewhat might become of Sherlock in his consciousness. He seemed to be seeping inhis own madness, basking in the obsessions of his delusions, and listening toointently to the voices in the back of his head. He was beginning to show signsthat John could not ignore, signs that he was cracking, and that he wasbecoming something that was difficult to love, tolerate, and live with. Thephone line was just one of the many offenses in these short days, his obsessionwith Victor, his declaration of love, and his sudden wardrobe change had allgot John on edge, thinking about what might be happening inside of that head.That beautiful head, which was supposed to be his to value forever, yet thatwhich might be breaking from the inside. That what might be dead already. Johnrolled onto his back as well, tearing his eyes away from Sherlock and staringinstead at the darkened ceiling, staring at it and wondering what his lifecould come to if Sherlock was no longer in it. Wondering if his love would needto drive him to murder, for there was no way Sherlock would walk away, andthere wasn't a chance that John would let that happen. To leave Sherlock wouldbe a fate worse than death, and John didn't want him to suffer. He didn't wanthim to hurt, and even now he knew that Sherlock was facing pains which he couldnot describe, for they did not physical hurt. Yet the strains, and the obsessions, and the fears which were completelyirrational, those were the symptoms of the ailment which befell him. His mindwas sick, and it could not send out any warning signs because it could notprocess the disease anything other than impending logic. Presumably Sherlockwas seeing the world differently, and he saw it as cruel, and unforgiving.Presumably Sherlock saw John as a sneak, and as a traitor, and he saw Rosie asa small demon which was constantly out to plague him. What he saw was not true,nor was it fair to any party, yet still he suffered, and still John wept forhim. He wept silently, in his own head, for the battle which might be raging inhis lover's brain. And he wept because he could not imagine a world withoutSherlock Holmes, yet all the same might be forced to live it. For a madman madea terrible husband, and an unreliable father. A madman could only live safely in a cell lined with rubber, and that wasnot the fate which John envisioned for him. If Sherlock had to leave then hehad to die, and it would be an honor on both of their parts if he too should bemarched down those stairs to the freezer, and live through what had happened toevery other man which he had dared love. It was the curse of a member of theHolmes family, after all, to meet their abrupt end in this house. It didn'tjust absorb the madness, it expelled it as well. It didn't just witness death,it handed it out. Death was almost as common as life in these walls, and wouldbe just as necessary if things progressed down the path they seemed to befollowing.