Let The Shadows Win

To Suffer The Same Fate

Sherlock POV: Sherlock did not need to ask where John had went when he found that he had left, nor did he search too hard to find if he was hiding about anywhere in the house. There were no cars, yet John was an athletic man, and when he set his mind to something surely it would not be impossible. Sherlock knew that this was coming, and in a way he was almost happy that it was. Sherlock was almost happy that John could muster up the courage to do what was necessary, he almost felt as though he was at the man's debt as soon as he had disappeared. Yet if he was going to die, well then he was of course going to have to do it properly. If Sherlock was going die, it had to be done right. Sherlock was not afraid of death, for he had witnessed it so many times in his life that it did not at all seem bothersome. It was a sleep, a rest of sorts, yet one which you never woke from. It would rid him of this exhaustion that had bottled itself up in his chest; it would allow him for once in his life to sleep in absolute silence, unbothered by dreams of those who he himself had condemned to such an eternal rest. Sherlock was excited to see what might lie behind the veil, yet he knew in some ways that should Heaven and Hell really exist, well then of course he might be suffering a fate far worse than what he ever suffered on earth. He would undoubtedly be condemned to the pits, yet when taken into consideration the company he kept, Heaven would be a lonely place if ever he did find himself there. Hell was where he would see his brother again, Hell would be a place where his parents resided, and where he could see his uncle now with eyes which might acknowledge him as anything more than a villain. Sherlock's only regret was that Victor would not be with them, Heaven was a place for the innocent and that boy had never done anything wrong in his life. Victor would be among the angels, and for that fact and that fact alone, Sherlock wished that death would not be anything more than just darkness. For if there was Hell, he would undoubtedly be spending the rest of eternity wishing that he would have done some more charity work, so as to ensure he got to spend the rest of his forever with Victor once more. And John, where would he fall on the spectrum? Would he be condemned to Hell for the deed he was preparing to do, or would he instead end up in Heaven because of the necessity of it all? For John's sake as well, Sherlock hoped that there was no Heaven, for such a man would either be destined to torture by Sherlock's side, or instead be living it up with the angels, lonely as could ever be. The mystery of life after death was one that could not be solved until one actually did die, and so Sherlock knew that it would not be a mystery much longer. He knew that his time on this earth was drawing to a close, and therefore he had to make the final preparations before it was his time to fall as so many before him had at the hands of a kitchen blade. And so Sherlock marched up to his bedroom, or Mycroft's bedroom rather, and selected the outfit which he supposed might best suit the occasion. Well of course there was one option, only one that might be suitable. The very outfit which Mycroft had worn all of those nights, the one which he had died in...somehow it was still sitting in the closet for Sherlock to select. The one which he had been stabbed through, and burned in, yet here it was sitting untarnished, untorn, and completely intact. Maybe it was a miracle, more possibly it was some sort of delusion which Sherlock's brain had chosen specially for the night, however he did not complain as he pulled the outfit from its spot in the closet. Carefully he pulled on the tan suit, the one which haunted his nightmares, and the one which was always on Mycroft when he frequented his hallucinations. The tan suit, creaseless and ironed to perfection, coupled in a lethal sort of sense with a tie which was of the deepest, bloodiest of reds. The tie that may very well have been white to begin, yet the way in which this outfit had been treated, and the things which it had experienced in its duration, well it really was no wonder that the tie had become the very shade of scarlet that burst from the wounds which were cut in the freezer, and in the darkness. Sherlock smiled as he fastened the horrible thing around his neck, observing himself in the mirror for what very well be the last time. It was the first time he had ever seen this outfit and felt completely in control of what was going to happen, it was the first time in what felt like ages that he might actually appreciate the results of what might prove to be the final battle. It was the first time which these such events would fall into place and he would not be afraid of the result. No tonight, well tonight it would be almost effortless. He did not need to watch someone he loved die, nor did he have to overcome an advisory to save the day. He would not be forced to kill, or to watch as someone killed for him, or to drive a knife into his oppressor's stomach. Tonight would be a night of celebration on his part; for it was the night he got to leave this cruel world. Yet John...he must leave John as well. The man was his only regret, for the only reason John would turn a knife on Sherlock, the one which he claimed to love, is because he assumed that he had no other choice. John saw that Sherlock would not slacken his grip on the Watsons, and he was right in that regard. Yet to counter such protectiveness, such carefulness, with murder? Surely there could be another way? Yet Sherlock did not want to hear another way, he did not want to be faced with what might be worse than simply having to die. Death took no effort, it was as simple as letting your life fade away from you without a fight. Yet life, or whatever existence might try to pass for when John was gone, that would not be worth living. If John truly wanted Sherlock out of his life, then death was the way which would hurt the least. For life was not life if he was cast away, and existence was worth nothing if he did not have John by his side. Yes, death would do just fine. Death would be welcome, at this point, as an honorable and just way of separation. Before he headed downstairs, Sherlock pulled open one of the drawers in Mycroft's closet to reveal one of the more hidden treasures of his wardrobe. He was not allowed to have Victor's skull, he knew that by several authorities, both domestic and criminal, that he was not allowed to have this prize. Yet he could not live without it, and surely he could never leave it alone? No, he kept it up here with him, the bronzed and beautiful thing, the old decaying skull that had once housed the brain that had allowed a heart to love him. A beautiful creation, which had sat atop a beautiful boy, now in Sherlock's hands as it served no purpose but nostalgia. It was no use now, trying to hide his prize, and so with all the carefulness in the world Sherlock took the thing in both of his hands and pressed a kiss to the forehead, closing his eyes for a moment and rejoicing.
"I shall be with you soon, Victor. I shall suffer your same fate." Sherlock promised, and with that he started down the hallway. One last thing before he descended for what might be the last time, one last parade about the house so as to make sure everything was intact, and just the way he had remembered it. Sherlock clenched the skull in one hand, and with the other he very carefully opened the door to the room which used to be his own. The figure was sleeping on the bed, little Rosie Watson, asleep underneath the portrait of blood. Sherlock smiled, walking in very carefully and very quietly, for he did not want to wake Rosie before he thought it was necessary. She could continue to sleep, until he thought it necessary to say goodbye. Very carefully Sherlock started his way around the room, looking towards the vanity and remembering when he used to stare into it as a teenager, when he used to look at his tired, anxious eyes and wonder when his life might get easier. Well it had never been easier, yet at the moment he was beginning to feel what might be described as peace. Oh his teenaged years, all the angst which had built up inside of him. It had been purposeful of course, for if he had not suffered he would not have ended up with such a prize as John Watson. Yet the suffering that he had gone through, the pain of both physical wounds and emotional bruises...when he was a child he could never see how any such torture could be worthwhile. Yet he looked back now, upon that frail little thing that had once sat upon the desk with trembling hands, wondering who he was, and who he could never be. He looked upon that conflicted boy and he smiled, for he was happy to have allowed such a thing a future and an end that was worth his suffering. He was happy to allow that boy to be happy and then to leave that happiness behind the moment it became in jeopardy. That boy did not deserve to watch whatever life he had built for him merely fade away, no it must be an abrupt end, for there was no shame in going out at the hands of someone you love, before you were cursed to watch them walk away. Sherlock finally went to Rosie; he knelt down by her bedside and craned his neck up to look at the portrait which he had created all those years. Still there, painted up on the ceiling in all of its glory... Sherlock took a deep, satisfied breath. He was very pleased that such a face that had provided him comfort all along would be the one to take his life, a familiar man, who might dare to be gentle. Suddenly Rosie began to stir, for she must have felt his presence there at her side. She rolled about a little bit, with her little impractical footie pajamas, and for a moment as her sleepy eyes opened Sherlock did not sense any fear. Maybe she could tell that he had come here in a final way, for she did not panic.
"Mr. Sherlock?" Rosie mumbled sleepily, her long blonde hair caught all about her face and in her mouth even. Sherlock smiled at her, seeing in her little face the traits that would grow to be Mary's, seeing that deceit and that unfaithfulness that would bloom in time.
"Rosie, I've come to say goodbye." Sherlock whispered.
"Goodbye? Where are you going?" Rosie wondered quietly, not sounding as though she could fully understand such a statement. She didn't seem to know if she liked the idea of his leaving or not, for there was no remorse yet there was no delight. Maybe she was too sleepy to remember her hatred for him.
"Somewhere I should have gone long ago, Rosie. Somewhere I do not want you to follow me...not anytime soon." Sherlock whispered with the slightest smile.
"You're leaving Daddy?" she clarified quietly, as if she could hardly believe it. Sherlock stiffened, dropping his head in some regret as he allowed himself to nod.
"Yes Rosie, I'm leaving your father. But you understand, don't you, that there is nothing in this world that I love more than him?" Sherlock clarified quietly. Rosie was quiet, yet still she could allow herself to nod.
"I know you love him. I know he loves you." Rosie agreed in the smallest of mutters, as if she didn't want to admit to such things. Sherlock smiled carefully, patting her shoulder where it jutted out from under the blankets.
"That is all I need then, that is all I need as a formal farewell." Sherlock said with a grin. "Remember me, will you, Rosie Watson? Remember Mr. Sherlock, and remember that I loved you." With that he rose to his feet, waiting for no response from Rosie as he silently walked from his bedroom, exiting that door and leaving all of his childhood behind him. He walked from the hallway and left the suffering, the ecstasy, and the terror behind him. He left his mural, and his daughter, alone in that room to sit and wait in vain for him to return, to wait until finally they both realized that he was not coming back. Sherlock took a deep breath, looking about the upstairs once more before clutching onto Victor's skull and descending the stairway, letting his fingers slide in admiration down the carefully carved banister, his fingers interlocking with generations of Holmes as he did so. He was to join them soon. There would be no dinner served, yet because of that aspect had almost wished that John would've coordinated better. He wished that John would have told him the exact date of his death, so that he would at least know to prepare the meal which was in all of their stomachs when they were led to the freezer. However Sherlock would not fret, instead he poured himself a nice glass of whiskey and settled himself where he was meant to be, housed on Mycroft's throne. He set the opera record on, the one which had been playing in the background of every single one of their last suppers, and carefully he drank from his glass, reclined just so and rejoicing that this death ballad was being sung tonight in his honor. He sat there, with the hearth cold next to his feet, enjoying the serenade and the alcohol as the clock ticked on, and on, and on. What felt like an hour had passed, and Sherlock sat in silence and in vain. For a terrible moment he considered the possibility that John had left him, he had run for the hills and had no intention of coming back. Yet many things did not make sense about such a theory, primarily circulating around his dear daughter. John would never abandon her, especially if Sherlock scared him so much these days. No, he would be back, Sherlock was sure of that. Victor's skull sat on the coffee table, watching him with those hallowed out eyes, those sockets which Sherlock could almost sense emotion in, as if they were watching with those beautiful blues, watching in excitement as their owner began to realize that he was returning to him, and this time returning to stay. Sherlock stared at the skull with the same sort of sympathy, yet it was interrupted rather rudely by the opening of a door. The front door, to be exact, and in marched a mercenary, in marched a fiend. A man Sherlock had not presumed would be at his death, yet a man who Sherlock might appreciate all the same. And there was John behind him. Sherlock dared not get up, he watched the two men walk inside of his house and he regarded them with the utmost respect, almost appreciation.
"Greg, so good to see you again." Sherlock muttered with a little grin. Greg Lestrade rose up before him, standing tall and proud, almost as if he was expecting Sherlock to at least ask why he was here. Yet Sherlock knew, although he was rather insulted by his purpose. John had recruited Greg because he thought that Sherlock might fight, he thought that Sherlock might struggle. Greg in all of his brute strength was here to hold Sherlock down, to prevent him from running. He was silent, and they both looked upon John who was standing nervously in the hallway, looking upon Sherlock as if wondering why he was not reacting. Yet it was obvious, was it not, that all of this was imminent? All of this was supposed to pass, and Sherlock was merely accepting his Fate as it was presented to him.
"You've come to kill me?" Sherlock presumed, looking towards John with an expression of regard, of honor even. He wanted John to know that he was not afraid, nor was he angry, about the path which he was destined to follow. It was all in good time, and soon he might be among the angles, or the devils, or the darkness.
"I'm sorry Sherlock." John managed quietly, trembling as he clenched to the wall, almost as if he could not will himself to stand up on his own. He looked downright nauseated, and of course there again was Greg's purpose. Not only was he here to make sure Sherlock didn't interrupt their plans, but he was here to make sure that John followed through with them. Surely John was worried that midway through his murder he would forget the purpose, or pity Sherlock enough to give him one more chance? And so here was Greg, his coach in a way, his supervisor. Sherlock merely smiled in a sad sort of way, bowing his head in respect towards where John was leaning against the wall.
"What is meant to be surely must be. Now then, let us do this properly, yes? Appropriately, like the gentleman we are." Sherlock suggested, draining his whiskey and letting the alcohol burn down his throat one last time before he rose to his feet with purpose. That purpose being, of course, his own death. That purpose being the ending of a cruel and confusing existence. Greg nodded, obviously a little bit taken aback by Sherlock's cooperation but at the same time he surely wasn't going to complain. Sherlock would definitely prove to be a slippery man to get hold of, if ever there was a need to pin him down. Greg looked happy that he did have such a burden placed upon him any longer. In fact, Greg was very welcome to leave when he decided that his purpose was through. Sherlock straightened out his tie and pulled at his jacket, standing proudly before the two men and even forcing a smile onto John, where the poor man was already clutching his stomach and blinking tears out of his eyes. Sherlock knew what he was feeling, he knew how grotesquely terrible it was to have to kill someone, and more horribly yet, know that it was someone you loved. Someone you couldn't live without yet saw it fit to live without all the same. Why else would John have thought it necessary to kill him, if he was not prepared to live without him for the rest of his sad existence?
"This is quite illegal, Greg. Surely you will be put up for some sort of trial if your involvement is discovered?" Sherlock presumed, looking at Greg with a bit of a taunting smile, for of course Greg was a police officer.
"Nothing will be discovered, no one knows you Sherlock. You don't leave the house, the only one to report your death would be John." Greg pointed out sternly. Sherlock hummed in agreement, lingering next to his distance for just a moment and reaching out a hand for John to take. An escort was needed, for both of them it would seem, yet still John looked terrified to see such a thing extended towards him. As if he did not think himself worthy of accepting it.
"Yes, and in my experience, he is very good at keeping certain disappearances hushed up." Sherlock said with a smile, looking back at Greg so as to see if he might understand the reference to Mary's death. Greg however nodded once more, as if with John's offer had come a bout of confessions which had been long overdue.
"Evidently he is." Greg agreed quietly. Sherlock chuckled, looking back to John when he noticed that his hand was still empty. The man was standing stone still, shaking in a way that almost made Sherlock pity him.