Let The Shadows Win

Please Let This Be My End

"Come on then John, take my hand." Sherlock pleaded, wiggling his fingers to which John merely looked up at him, his eyes alight with fear and sadness, tears already forming as he looked up at where Sherlock stood so calmly, so collectively.
"How can you be so calm?" John managed in a cracked, forceful voice. Sherlock merely shrugged, appreciating the way the man trembled, and overall appreciating his humanity right now. Should he have shown the same amount of carelessness then Sherlock might have pegged him as some sort of sociopath as well.
"I am the one who is going to die; my part in this all is quite simple." Sherlock admitted. "And besides, I have taken so many lives that the concept of dying no longer scares me. If you see it fit then certainly it is my time to join them."
"You'd let me kill you?" John asked in a horrified sort of way, as if simply couldn't fathom Sherlock's willingness. Yet Sherlock smiled, taking John's hand now without waiting for him to finally come around and do the honors. He clenched his fingers tight, appreciating the feeling of their skin together for he knew that it might be the last time he felt such touch in a careful, domestic sort of way.
"I'd let you kill me." Sherlock agreed simply. "Now then, can we get on with it? All this stalling is making my anxious."
"You really are a psychopath." Greg began to mutter, yet as Sherlock turned his gaze back at the man who stood so out of place in this beautiful old manor, his voice faded off and he was silent again. John nodded, squeezing Sherlock's hand tightly as if he was the one in need of comforting and of guidance, for the first time ever it would seem that the executioner was more upset than the one condemned to die. Yet Sherlock had been in his shoes, he knew the exact sort of strains it put on the body to have to take another life. He knew the nauseating power of the imagination, he knew the trembling sort of disobedience of the legs and the knees. He knew the crushing headache that was imposed upon the pour soul, and most importantly he knew the guilt that was already being hefted up onto John's poor shoulders. Sherlock knew now, above most any other time, was going to be the most difficult on John. And so he helped him through it, as was his job these days. To protect the Watsons from pain, even if they would not spare him that same luxury. John began to nod; taking a step in the direction of the kitchen before Sherlock merely shook his head, leading him to the basement door instead.
"It's already down there, don't you remember?" Sherlock whispered, patting his own chest so as to make John remember the carvings they had both done in the freezer. There was no need of a knife up here, for it was waiting for them in the cold.
"Yes." John agreed with a yelp. "Yes of course." Sherlock nodded, taking one last look at the mural of Victor (which Greg was not staring at with quite a lot of concern) and opened up the basement door for them all to descend. Sherlock led the way, behind him stumbled poor John, and Greg took up the rear as if it was his duty to make sure no one escaped. Greg had not been down here yet, or at least not to Sherlock's knowledge, and the man was looking around in great interest. Surely he had heard of the freezer, where the bodies that he had pointed to had been lying, yet never before had he had such an honor. Sherlock pulled open the handle and was hit with a blast of cold air, a refreshing feeling really, considering that his nerves would have something to do while he waited around for his own death. The feeling of uncomfortable cold reminded him once more that he was still human, and that he could still feel the emotions that might be unavailable to him when he was dead. The feeling of cold, the feeling of excitement and of fear, and most importantly the feeling of John's fingers in his own. His beautiful John, who would prove to be his beautiful executioner. As promised, the blade sat where it had been left, covered with blood that had been crystalized along its hilt and blade, shivering in its own inhuman sense yet radiating the sort of power that was associated with any sort of blood soaked weapon. It was to be the last sensation Sherlock felt, that cutting power. Hopefully his death might be quick, for Sherlock had often times put himself in the place of Victor, or of Mycroft, and decided that he did not want to know for real what bleeding out felt like.
"What's all this blood from?" Greg asked nervously, stepping carefully to the very few dry patches of cement near the front of the door.
"Nothing that needs concern you." Sherlock mocked, walking carefully towards the freezer wall and setting his back upon it. Even more of a chill overcame him, yet he held his head high. He could not deny now that his hands were shaking, as much of a man as he wanted to be in this situation he could not hide from his humanly fears of death. He knew that death would be inviting, yet the pain that might be involved to get there would certainly be excruciating. He was ready for such experiences of course, he had mentally prepared himself ever since the day he first drew a knife across Victor's throat...yet still he was afraid. Still he couldn't help but tremble. Greg stood near the door, acting as some sort of body guard just in case anyone did try to run out. At the moment the one who looked closest to deserting was John, who was still in the process of trying to pick the knife up from the floor. The poor man's hands were shaking so badly that he could hardly grasp the thing, however Sherlock knew from experience that once that blade settled into your hand, there really was no going back. There was no dropping it, for the power which radiated from the thing was enough to freezer your hand around the hilt, it was enough to override whatever fears or tendencies that might make your brain unclench your hand, if only for a moment.
"Come on John." Greg said roughly, looking over to Sherlock with that familiar expression of utmost dislike. The reason he was unable to show any proper emotions now was because he was going to be so much happier when Sherlock was dead, his mind might finally be able to settle back to where it should be in this point in his life. Sherlock knew that Greg had to have been worrying all the while he knew Sherlock and John were reunited, for of course he remembered the mess they had gotten themselves into the last time. Surely he was happy to see his problems relieved, or at least gutted, before his very eyes. John nodded, finally allowing his fingers to clench over the handle of the knife, tears now flowing shamelessly from his beautiful eyes. It was the most painful part now to see John so weak, and so afraid for something he really shouldn't fret over. Surely he understood that Sherlock welcomed his own death, especially if he had the honor of being killed by John Watson? Surely he could understand that this whole operation was an open, accepted sacrifice. If Sherlock didn't want to die then he wouldn't be standing here, that was simple. If he did not want to die, then he would have run as far as he could as soon as he suspected John's little operation. Finally John approached him, stumbling his steps as his eyes pooled with tears of both grief and guilt, of sorrow and of pity.
"It's alright John." Sherlock assured carefully, holding out a hand so as to summon John to him quicker, holding out a hand to hurry him. If it was not too audacious to admit, Sherlock was actually becoming impatient.
"It's not alright, my God Sherlock...I'm going to kill you. You'll be dead you'll be...you'll be gone." John managed to whisper, falling forward just enough to clench onto Sherlock's hand. Sherlock helped him upright, and he pulled him closer so that they could stand together as they were meant to. He pulled him closer so that he might once more get to stare deep into those emotional brown eyes, and wipe away just one wave of the sea of tears that poured down John's stained cheeks.
"You deem it necessary, then it must be. I am not afraid of death, John. You're the only thing I have in life; to spare me and leave me would be cruel." Sherlock whispered, holding John's hand tighter and smiling reassuringly at him.
"But I can..." John faltered, shaking his head and wincing at the impossibility of his own words.
"No more second chances, John. I have failed you, as a husband and as a parent, surely I cannot..."
"Now STOP!" John exclaimed, shaking his head vigorously before pressing their lips together with something of an angry, passionate kiss. Something which was exchanged to prove a point. "You didn't fail. You were the best husband I could have asked for, you were the most caring parent that Rosie could ever have had..."
"I locked her in the freezer. I slashed your tires." Sherlock pointed out obviously.
"With good intentions." John managed, yet even then they both could not help but cracking a bit of a smile. For such a statement was so ridiculous that even in a settling such as this, they couldn't restrain their laughter. Sherlock really was going to miss that nervous little laugh, that shameful thing which erupted on John's face when it really shouldn't, his smile that would make Sherlock smile back all the same. The smile which had proved to be his only light in this world of darkness.
"John, I love you. Do remember that. All of these years John, I have loved you. You've made my life worth living, and now you are going to be the one to end it. You were my beginning, now please be my end. Make sure I don't have to live a second without you, John Watson, make sure I don't need to suffer anymore." Sherlock insisted, gripping John's hand tighter and backing them both up into the wall.
"I still...no Sherlock! I still have things I need to say!" John debated, looking over at Greg who merely rolled his eyes in such a sense to get on with things. They were all impatient, those who had arranged here without regret, and without doubts. John was the only one attempting to stall, he was the only one who was planning a way to talk himself all the way through daybreak, so that they might forget their gruesome task with the arrival of the sun, and instead gather around the breakfast table. Yet that would not happen, that could not happen. Sherlock did not intend to leave this freezer unless he was being carried in a body bag.
"I know what you will say, John. I know everything that has already passed through you mind." Sherlock whispered, forcing a little smile and leaning his head back a little ways, so as to better expose his neck. Already he was becoming nervous, already he was becoming afraid. So difficult it was to keep a calm composure, for all while he attempted to be mature about this, the terrified little child was attempting to erupt from where he kept it locked up in his heart. The afraid thing he used to be was already beginning to whimper, as if John with his knife was nothing less than Mycroft with his umbrella, marching around the house in search of Sherlock's new and creative hiding place. So long ago...something that was so distant it might actually be considered a good memory. Yet now Sherlock was grown, he was an adult and he was willing to face his death with conviction. With pride. John kissed him once more, this time in a very final sort of way, this time the tears ruined the kiss. He was trembling so badly that he could hardly keep their lips together, and when he pulled away he managed a little squeak, he managed what could only be described as a yell...and with that he drove the blade straight into Sherlock's stomach. Sherlock gasped, clenching to the frozen wall for a quick moment before reaching towards the blade which was impaled in his stomach, writhing with the pain that had erupted from the spot...from the ripping and the tearing and the bleeding. Such a death was not appropriate; John would kill him like a pig and not like a human being! In the stomach, and not the neck... Sherlock let out a gulp, for there was the horrible taste of blood which he was just able to sense. Yet his brain was overloaded with the pain, with the nerves that had exploded in his skin, organs, and bones. With that invasive knife, draining him from the inside out. He fell to his knees, for he could no longer hold himself up with his own legs. He fell to the cold ground, and of course John was there to catch him. Above all else, Sherlock was able to feel those sturdy arms encircle him once more.
"Sherlock?" John was yelling, in a way which an onlooker might confuse for hope, as if he was calling for Sherlock to still be alive, to cling to life when he was the one who had attempted to kill him. Sherlock wanted to say anything, he wanted to do anything, even muttering John's name might have been appropriate, or holding his hand. Yet Sherlock's lips could not move, his hand could not even twitch. He was weakening, draining, and suffering. He couldn't smile, he couldn't blink...all went still yet he was still alive. He could just make out John's weeping face above him; he could just make out the tears that were streaming down his face. That beautiful face, which had appeared to him in so many of his dreams. It was the last thing he had the pleasure of seeing, before those shadows that had forever haunted him took over his vision. It was the fate he had in mind for himself, the fate which had befallen so many before him. Such a fate that never will take place again. In that freezer, with that man which would still cradle him long after his body stilled and at last his wretched consciousness was pulled away from him. When at last his diseased brain would slow to a stop, and his emotionless heart would cease all together. Where his sinful hands would fall still, and his body which used to cower would be motionless once more. John would hold him, of course, even though he did not understand how much more peaceful it was to be dead. He could not understand how happy Sherlock was to be approached by nothingness. 

John POV: John awoke with a start, sitting up stiffly in that bed which was intended for the both of them. Once again it was that dream...once again it was the nightmare. And once more, he looked over to the spot which once held Sherlock, as if expecting tonight to be the night which he might appear once again. Yet the sheets were empty beside him, and the darkness became once more overwhelming. He took a breath, trembling as he attempted to wipe the matted sweat from his forehead, shaking his head repeatedly so as to push such thoughts from his mind. Every night he saw Sherlock, those final moments in which the man lay twitching and spurting in his arms, every night he saw those pale cheeks drained of what little color they had managed, and in his ears he heard repeatedly the little grunts of effort that he put forth when trying to spit up the blood that was pooling his throat. For days John's hand could not unclench, for days he could do little more than sit and mourn, and cry, and suffer. Death really was the preferable path in this scenario, was it not? Sherlock was the lucky one now, for he did not have to suffer through the aftermath, and the loneliness. John attempted to get to his feet, for his throat was parched and he could hardly move his jaw. He could hardly walk as it was, yet just as he began to untangle his strewn limbs from the blankets and sheets he was stopped. He felt the very ominous presence of someone watching him, unmistakably he was being observed. John first looked towards the door, to where he thought Rosie might be lurking after hearing his screams, yet the house was silent. No one stirred but him. So what was it then, who could be watching him? He was sure they had ridded the house of all pests and vermin when they had moved in, yet could a raccoon be to blame for his uneasiness? John shivered terribly, now scanning in the darker corners of the room, looking for an observer who thought it best to stay hidden. And yes, as predicted...a shadow loomed from the darkness. There, standing in the corner was a very humanoid shape, lingering quietly, and waiting patiently to be noticed. John gulped, unsure of course what to do, or what to say. Such a shape was not welcome, this house was empty except himself and Rosie and so this man, whoever he might be...he was an intruder. John opened his mouth to say something, to make some sort of threat that he was in fact a murderer these days...yet he couldn't bring himself to say anything. He couldn't bring his voice to work, for as afraid as he should be, he wasn't. That man, that villain, whoever he claimed to be, well there was with him a sense of peace that was strangely overwhelming. Something which calmed John to a point where he couldn't even claim to be afraid. He couldn't even force the name out onto his tongue, he couldn't even force his lips to form the word which came first to his mind when approached with such a figure, and so it was all he could do but wait and watch. He watched as the thing began to move, as the darkness around it fell away and it instead walked into the silvery moonlight. John could not believe his eyes; in fact he had to think that he was still dreaming, for in the world of the sane the dead usually stayed dead. Yet no, that was not the case tonight. Either Sherlock was alive, and returned to stand in his bedroom once again...or John was just as crazy as that madman.  

A/N: So there it is, the end of an era. These stories were always one of my proudest achievements, so disturbing and unnerving. If ever there was a plot I wanted to take far, it's this series. Nevertheless, here is was and here it goes. Hopefully the conclusion was satisfactory, maybe a little bit sad but in all honestly it couldn't have gone any differently. Sherlock couldn't be domesticated, he's destined to meet the fate planned for him and destined to die at the hands of someone he loves. It's the night Sherlock was supposed to kill John, just reversed. and it's proper. I had an alternate story line half written where Sherlock's shadow spirit is kicked out of his body and he's watching the end as a third party, while Mycroft steers around his body. Then I thought it was a bit too much, bit too weird. All the same, thanks for reading everyone! And up next I've got a cute story about an old life story of scandal and murder...fun stuff. So thanks again, and I'll see you on Wednesday!