Mother Bird

The House Sleeps

This was a terrible mindset to be caught in, especially now that he required a clear mind and a silent step. Sherlock needed to pursue on with his mission, he needed to find that hard proof, he needed to be sure...and so at last he set his food onto the hardwood, lingering now into the lamp light and creeping just as quietly as he could towards what could only be the basement door. When he turned the knob there was but a silent squeak, however the TV was sure to cover up that noise. He wouldn't be betrayed tonight by squeaking hinges...It was dark in the basement, though as he descended a single stair he felt under his feet the soft feeling of carpet. So it was redone, it was furnished. Sherlock shut the door behind him, creeping through the darkness and hastening to find a light switch, assuming for a moment that the light would go unnoticed by any occupants of the house. Though has fingers played against the walls, as his hands brushed through the paint and his nails scraped the plaster...he heard a whisper. He heard a whisper that made his blood run cold.
"Do you want to play truth or dare?" asked a quiet little voice, a child's voice. A voice he recognized.
"Mommy told me not to stay up late, and it's already two hours past my bedtime." Another voice whined. It was Hamish, then. The children were sleeping downstairs.
"I don't have a bedtime." Annie bragged, to which Sherlock could only smile a bit thankfully. At least she took some pride in Sherlock's irresponsibility, as if it was some sort of status to boast about.
"Mommy says that I have to get a lot of sleep, or else I won't grow up big and strong." Hamish defended, though his voice came in something of an unconvinced whisper.
"Daddy says that bedtimes are for babies." Annie said with a giggle.
"Well we're not babies." Hamish said flatly, as if that was quite the condescending term. Bold words, really, for someone who didn't need two hands to count their age on their fingers.
"No we're not." Annie agreed at last. And with that a light was cast, a flash light beam that penetrated through the darkness with the possibility of interrupting Sherlock's entire operation. He had not expected to be discovered by the children, oh what a scene that would cause! Children who had no sense of discretion, if Annie caught a glimpse of her father it would be over for him, perhaps even for the both of them. He couldn't get discovered, not like that...And so Sherlock retreated, scared like a rat back into hiding, fleeing from the light that might prove to be his downfall. He took careful steps back up the stairs, moving farther and farther from where the Watson's secrets might be kept, and grabbed hold of the door handle. In an instant he eased the door back open, treading with absolute stillness back into the illuminated hallway. He glanced once towards the living room, where he knew John Watson to be last, and saw thankfully that it had been deserted. Perhaps John had went back towards his wife, perhaps he had decided to apologize early and not go to bed angry. Sherlock took a breath of relief, turning now to shut the door and catching a glimpse, just out of the corner of his eye, of a short stature standing silhouetted against the stained glass windows of the front door. And with that, for sure, the game was over. The man stood near the door wordlessly, almost as if he wasn't fazed by Sherlock's breaking and entering. Almost as if he had no other choice but to observe, as he had lost the ability to be surprised. From his hand dangled a half full bottle of wine, and his other hand was clutched around itself in a lethal and ready fist. Sherlock hesitated at the basement door, unsure whether it would be smart to close it or to leave it open, just in case he needed to flee towards the protection of the children. John wouldn't do anything too rash with his son present, would he?
"Might do this silently, yes? Don't want to wake the children." Sherlock muttered, knowing now that excuses would be a waste of what breath he was still able to produce. Each word chosen might be his last; he might as well make sure he didn't say anything stupid. With that he shut the door, easing it against the frame with the softest of snaps. John was still silent, stoic and threatening, as if all words he might have mustered would be been wasted as well. There was a period in which Sherlock didn't know what to expect, he couldn't tell if his life was soon to be over or just beginning...was that look in John's eyes a feeling of rage, or was in instead a sort of lust? What would be the extent of his anger, if he was even angry at all?
"What are you doing in my house?" John managed at last, his words so calm and quiet that Sherlock took them to be more threatening than any other octave. Sherlock might have preferred the man to yell, that would at least give him a grasp of where he stood. There was the chance now, to run or to stay...Sherlock didn't know yet which would be necessary.
"Are you drunk?" Sherlock whispered.
"What are you doing here?" John growled again, this time his tone reflecting at least some of the anger that was bubbling within his chest. Well of course Sherlock would need to answer him, though the truth would never do...at least not the whole truth.
"I'm here for you." Sherlock whispered at last, closing his eyes for just a brief moment as if the words physically pained him. John was silent, his grip clenched even tighter now around the neck of the wine bottle but his fist softened, as though the words had taken him aback in such a way that he had momentarily forgotten his anger. The words that rung out just what he wanted to hear...an invitation.
"This is how it always goes, does it not? This is how it always will be. You need more than just a woman; you need more than just your wife. You need strength, you need something to conquer. A challenge, a being of utmost confidence. You need to belittle them, to make them beg." Sherlock whispered, not entirely sure where these words were coming from. They were being recited as if they had been planted in his mind a long time ago, as if he were reading them from a script which played along so carefully within his head. These words may not be his own, though they were exactly what he needed right now. He needed to turn his being in the house into an act of service, not of trespassing. He needed to turn this into John's secret, not his own. Still, John said not a word. But Sherlock knew that words will not suffice, he knew that actions spoke much louder. And so he hasted his fingers to his jacket, he undid the bottom most button and rather flung himself forward, stepping towards his enemy when all common sense begged him to go the other direction. The proximity would do him no good unless he was absolutely sure he would be received.
"You've been on my mind since we first met, you've been torturing me. I need you now more than ever; I need you now more than you need me." Sherlock promised, just now pushing his jacket to the floor and working on the buttons of his shirt. John stared, his eyes a mess of emotions that Sherlock dared not try to solve. His head was clouded and his heart was pounding, and for a moment this performance of deceit was fooling even his own intentions. For a moment he forgot the real purpose he had been found in John's house, and for a long moment he was considering the fact that every word from his mouth was in fact the whole truth.
"The house sleeps, John." Sherlock whispered, revealing his bare chest now as he flung his shirt to meet his jacket on the floor. "But we don't have to." With each step he kicked off his shoes, and before long he stood merely in his trousers, standing right up next to John Watson, where a foot did not separate them any longer. Still not a word from the other man, still not a motion.
"What do you say?" Sherlock breathed, daring to trace his fingers along John's cheeks, daring a little smile as their skin made contact once again. It was a lovely sense of familiarity, a lovely sense of purpose. "What do you say to a little risk?" with that Sherlock took John's silence as an invitation, he took it as the man's way of never agreeing to a single thing, though never disallowing it at the same time. John refused to let himself bow to the temptation, though by standing stone still one could never blame him for agreeing. One could never see him as the guilty party. And so Sherlock drew their faces close, he picked up John's chin with his fingers so that their eyes might have met, had his own already been shut tight with anticipation. Though without sight he still knew where to aim, and at long last he felt finally the feeling of John's lips upon his own. He finally was able to feel the raw sensation of ecstasy, so potent still from the last time he had felt it, almost six years behind him. Purpose in a kiss, not merely entertainment...love, displayed involuntarily on either side. Though as delightful as it was Sherlock pulled away, satisfied now with the smallest of pecks, satisfied that he had at least gained a single kiss from the man he almost dared to call his own. His own? Perhaps not. John had something to say about it, in the end. John at last opened his eyes, at last let his lips part in some sort of incoherent speech...and reacted quicker than Sherlock might have ever predicted. He reacted quicker than Sherlock had time to process...and before the taste of John's lips had faded from his own he felt something else of John's upon his face. John's fist, to be exact. It came flying with such ferocity that Sherlock caught the whole of its power, concentrated in a lethal dose upon the front of his face. He felt a crack, he felt unmeasurable pain, and then he saw the ceiling. He found himself now lying flat on his back, staring above him at the empty world and wondering what on earth he had done wrong. He thought, just for that moment, that he had done exactly what they both wanted.
"Sherlock, you're incredibly bold." John grumbled. "Get up, my God get up."
"I don't...I don't know what I did. What did I do?" Sherlock whispered.
"YOU KNOW BLOODY WELL!" John exclaimed, grabbing his face in some agitation.
"Keep your voice down." Sherlock hissed, grabbing at his face and wincing as he noticed blood speckled now on his fingers. Something was bleeding, something was broken. He allowed his eyes to shut in defeat, knowing that he had somehow managed to break both his heart and his body all at one time. He had failed, oh so miserably, in all aspects of this adventure.
"Get up, Sherlock. Get up so I can beat you down again." John demanded.
"Well in that case..." Sherlock growled, rolling onto his side now and struggling as all the blood rushed into his nose, spewing all down his lips and onto his bare chest. He hastened to his feet, grabbing onto the wall and smearing his blood all down the molding as he staggered upright. He stared down at John now, staring with vision that was crossing every so often and blotting out in some areas. John, however, remained a constant figure. The room distorted and shifted around him, the colors blended and the lighting faded, however John remained strong, tall, and angry. He remained in a position of power, held fast to his own rage and keeping his angry eyes focused onto his weak and stumbling victim.
"Think about your anger, John...what is it you really want to do to me?" Sherlock managed. "Aggression and lust...the feelings are ever so interchangeable."
"Stop talking like that; stop talking like you know me." John growled, stumbling forward just to deliver a push to Sherlock, sending the man stumbling back against a decorative table and spilling a vase of water onto the floor, adding now to the treachery of their little battle. He winced as his body hit the wall, using it now as support as the room spun in circles around him...
"I do know you, John Watson...I know everything about you." Sherlock whispered.
"Stop this, Sherlock stop. My wife is upstairs, our children are downstairs, and you're here trying to seduce me?" John growled.
"NO! I'm not trying to seduce you; I'm trying to put you into your right mind! I'm trying to save my own f*cking life."
"I'm not going to kill you." John promised.
"You'll get close." Sherlock grumbled.
"Only if you keep talking like that." John assured, smiling a bit lethally now as his fists clenched tightly. He looked ready for a fight, he looked ready to jump upon any invitation Sherlock offered him. Though it was no fun for him, no fun for the both of them. Sherlock was too weak to be of much use to the aggressor, he wasn't being nearly as entertaining as someone who whined and cried. He remembered back to the bullies in high school, how they would stop when their prey stopped screaming...
"You're telling me you never considered it? Considered us? I know you've got a history; I know we've got a history. The first time we met you might have died for this opportunity...now here I am." Sherlock whispered.
"Don't talk about that, Sherlock I was drunk!" John growled. "Get off the wall."
"I won't get off." Sherlock muttered, as he knew that the moment he distanced himself from the wall he would be made a much easier target. He clung to it, not just for its safety but also for its support. He wasn't entirely sure that his legs were capable of holding him upright.
"You're crazy, Sherlock. You're sick." John growled.
"I'm not crazy!" Sherlock defended, shaking his head in defense, hating to hear that word, hating to hear it directed at him...Too many times in his life had he been unrightfully declared insane, each occurrence by a different person who knew nothing of mental illness. They knew nothing of the state of his mind, only perhaps that it was different from their own. But that didn't mean that there was something wrong, perhaps he was the only normal person in this crazed world?
"You're insane, Sherlock, you're in my house. It's nine o'clock, and you're lurking..."
"I'm in love with you!" Sherlock breathed, blurting out the words now without knowing if they were true or not. He didn't really care if they were true, he only noticed that as soon as he said them whatever weight he had been carrying around for a long while was suddenly lifted from his shoulders. It was a love confession that was much more pure than what he had been spewing before, it wasn't racy, it wasn't sexual...it was love. Pure and simple love, the very emotions that flowed through his heart, the very emotions he was too afraid to realize. The makings of happiness, of childhood ecstasy...such a pure feeling was love that he had almost completely disregarded its presence, not until it was too late. Not until the words were out there, uttered without proper meaning though absorbed by both parties with the appropriate truthfulness weighed behind them. For a moment John hesitated, closing his eyes and setting the wine bottle down onto the table, stretching his fingers but not clenching them. Sherlock stared nervously, his heart beating now at such an abnormal rhythm...
"Sherlock..." John started, though he didn't seem to be able to finish. Instead he shook his head, running his fingers through his hair before at last plunging his hand into his pocket and withdrawing his phone from the folds of fabric. Sherlock wondered what on earth he could be doing with that, he had to wonder if he was prepared to take a picture, or play music? Though at last his fingers dialed upon three numbers, three numbers that might call the very people Sherlock needed most to avoid...
"911, what's your emergency?" Sherlock could hear the woman's voice through the phone, he could hear her now, setting up the very force that could take Sherlock down, that could positively burn his empire to the ground.
"No, no!" Sherlock exclaimed. "John you can't..."
"I have a home intruder." John said calmly. Sherlock lunged at the phone, trying to yank it away from the man's grasp, though with a strong locked arm John kept him at bay, carefully reciting his address for the police to come pick Sherlock up in their squad car. But that was too much, no if they took his prints for the system they might be able to link him to the unsolved mystery of the lost child, if they saw his face they may very recognize him from that case studied five years back...
"John I can't go to prison!" Sherlock exclaimed desperately, tearing his fingers at his cheeks and feeling tears rushing into his eyes. He was beginning to break, he could feel his self-control diminishing...
"Then why the h*ll did you break into my house?" John growled at last, shoving the phone back into his pocket. "Did you think you'd get a warm reception? You're out of control, Sherlock. You need serious help."
"I don't need help, I need you!" Sherlock whined, now breaking into a pathetic sort of sob. John didn't seem moved, in fact he seemed all the more annoyed to hear such terrible confessions.
"Stop saying that! Stop talking as if I can just drop everything and be with you!" John growled.
"You can. You can, what part about affair do you not realize? It's not like..."
"WON'T YOU SHUT UP!" John exclaimed, and with that he took on the persona of some sort of rouge football player. Instead of merely pushing Sherlock aside he took him full around the waist, diving towards the man and using him as a cushion as they both fell to the floor in a heap. Sherlock took the whole of the force, slamming his head against the hardwood and groaning miserably, all the while John fell atop of him and positioned himself in a way so as to get a better angle...twice he punched Sherlock around the face, causing his head to go this way and that across the floor and spew blood from his mouth and nose, erupting into a fit of pain and of delirium. He was hardly conscious when Mary arrived, when he felt John's weight being pulled from his body, when at last he heard the soft cooing of a woman's voice hastening her husband away from his prey. He could only see the woman as angelic as she came into view, he could see her as a force sent by God to protect his most fragile creature.
"Mary...Mary help me." Sherlock groaned, feeling at his face now, feeling his broken nose as it wiggled dangerously where it should have been.
"He broke in!" John exclaimed in defense, cowering now towards the door and seeing the craft of his violence, looking upon Sherlock's broken and bloody figure as if it was all coming back to him, the guilt associated with brutality. Suddenly his anger seemed terribly childish, now that there was someone to judge him.
"I was just...checking in on my daughter." Sherlock whispered in defense.
"You liar! God!" John exclaimed, turning and kicking the door with his toe, wincing now as that seemed to backfire. Sherlock sat up now with Mary's help, the woman draped her arm around his bare shoulders and eased him into a sitting position.
"Sherlock, here. Hold these to your nose." She whispered, shoving tissues into his hand a bit more roughly than he would have appreciated. She didn't seem to receptive to him either, as if she was the one who was burdened with the cleanup, the one who didn't know the sides of the argument but disagreed with them both. She undoubtedly saw both men as children; she undoubtedly saw them as lunatics who had lost control a while back. She'd be right to assume such a thing, of course. She'd be absolutely right.
"He's not here to check on Annie! He's here to stalk us, to try..." John hesitated, looking down into Sherlock's disfigured face, seeing still that pleading spark of love that was creeping along in the fading light of his eyes. John wanted to tell, he wanted to blurt out all of the reasons that could keep Sherlock on the Watson's blacklist...though his tongue held fast behind his teeth, and his words were left unsaid. He shook his head at last, thankful that Mary wasn't waiting on the end of his sentence, and quieted.
"Sherlock, sit up at the kitchen. John, I want you to go upstairs." Mary instructed.
"I'm not going upstairs." John growled.
"John, I said you're going to go upstairs." Mary demanded, this time in a much harsher voice, so as to make sure her husband understood that was not a request. John shuffled back and forth on his feet, at last giving Sherlock one last hateful look before retreating up the stairs as instructed. This left Sherlock and Mary alone in the entry way, still with the police due to crash the party at any moment. Their reaction time was admittedly lacking, if Sherlock had been here to cause any sort of damage then he would've been quite successful. The Watsons were lucky, therefore, that they had an inquisitive burglar instead of a violent one.
"Mary, I don't know how to thank you. He might've killed me if you hadn't come in." Sherlock whispered, using Mary's support to clamber to his feet and stumble over to one of the kitchen chairs.
"He wouldn't have killed you." Mary muttered, though her voice was weak enough to display her doubtfulness. She hadn't a clue of her husband's intentions, nor of his capabilities. No one seemed to be able to predict John, that tainted man who put on a different mask every day.
"He would have tried." Sherlock whispered. To that, Mary couldn't argue.
"I think your nose is broken, Sherlock." She muttered, kneeling down towards Sherlock's side and easing the tissues away from Sherlock's face so as to properly assess the damage.
"It better heal correctly...if after all this time a crooked nose ruins my looks I'll be back with vengeance." Sherlock promised, wincing as he tried to straighten the thing back along his face. Mary could only chuckle, retreating for a moment to fetch some cotton balls and disinfectant. Sherlock wasn't sure how many germs could have tainted his face through John's fist, though there were enough open wounds to make it worth her while.