John collected some fresh clothes from his room, trying to take his time so that Harry could get finished and get out before he went to shower. But alas, when he got to the bathroom door, pajamas in hand, the door was still shut.
"Harry, hurry up!" John called, banging on the door in annoyance.
"Ya, ya, shut up John!" Harry yelled back. John groaned, leaning against the wall and waiting. And waiting. And waiting.
"Harry what are you doing in there!" John groaned.
"Go away!" Harry insisted. John wiggled the door handle impatiently, there was no other shower in this house, unless he wanted to take a bath in the attached bathroom in his parent's room, which he didn't.
"John oh my god, can't I get a little bit of privacy around here?" Harry groaned, opening the door in annoyance. At first John thought she had been rolling in some blood as well, but then he saw a brush in her hand and a box on the counter, hair die. Her hair was bright red.
"Oh my god." John muttered in amazement, trying to contain his laughter.
"What, I'm my own person!" Harry growled.
"Well at least I'm not in trouble anymore." John laughed. Harry looked confused for a second, before her face snapped right back into the familiar scowl.
"What is that supposed to mean?" she asked in disgust.
"It means they're going to be so busy yelling at you that they'll forget that I didn't come home." John decided.
"Oh shut up, they might fall for your idiot stories, but I don't. You didn't go to anyone's dinner last night, you went partying." Harry laughed. "My own little brother hitting the club scene."
"I didn't go partying, I'm not you, I don't want to go 'clubbing'. I went to dinner at Sherlock's house; it's what normal people do with their friends." John insisted.
"You're not normal John; you're a preppy white school boy with rich parents." Harry snapped. John groaned, here we go again.
"Harry, our parents aren't rich, and you're my sister, and you're white as well." John pointed out.
"So what, my skin color doesn't define me!" Harry insisted. John just looked at her in confusion, nothing that came out of his sister's mouth ever made sense.
"And it defines me for some reason?" John asked. Harry groaned, but nodded.
"Yes it does." She agreed.
"That's stupid. Now can you get out of the bathroom, I need to shower." John insisted.
"No, go away; I still have thirty two minutes for the dye to settle in." Harry snapped.
"Can't you do that somewhere else?" John growled.
"And risk getting my hair dye on mother's beloved carpeting? I think not." Harry laughed.
"So what do you want me to do?" John asked.
"Wait thirty two minutes, oh wait, not it's only thirty one. Time really does fly, bye now." Harry decided, closing the door quicker than John could stick his foot in it, resulting in John slamming his bare toe against the wooden door and growling in pain, throwing his clothes on the floor and going back to his room in defeat. He couldn't wait until Harry went off to college, away from this house forever.
"John, Harry, dinner!" John's mother called just as John was drying off his hair over the sink/hair dye murder scene. Harry may have spared the carpeting, but the sink and the counter, that was another story. There was red everywhere, staining even the mirror for some reason, as if Harry had really wanted to see what her hair looked like up close. What a psychopath. John trotted downstairs, joining his father at the table as his mother finished up on some sort of chicken soup they were having. Harry wasn't down yet, but John considered that a good thing, he got to see the moment both his parents blew up.
"Ah, John, good to see you." Mr. Watson muttered rather coldly.
"The honor is all mine." John said with a sarcastic little smile. His father just stared at him, unimpressed, moving the silverware around on his napkin and thinking about what he might say.
"Where were you last night? Harry seems to think you were partying." Mr. Watson pointed out.
"Harry's gone crazy, I'm sure she'll assure you of that fact in a little bit. I was at Sherlock's, we were watching a movie, we all sort of fell asleep, and I woke up in the morning and panicked because I was late for school." John decided.
"Sherlock, the boy that I met the other day?" Mr. Watson asked.
"I wouldn't classify one word as meeting him, but yes." John agreed.
"He seems like a nice boy." Mr. Watson decided. "Maybe a little bit odd, but nice."
"Don't tell mom that, she has a blood feud against him for some reason, convinced he's very rude." John laughed.
"I don't pretend to know him; maybe he's a lot worse than I thought." Mr. Watson shrugged.
"Honestly I think I know him better than anyone, and I still don't know him enough to tell you whether he's nice or rude. He's just Sherlock; I don't think there's another word to describe him." John decided. Their conversation was interrupted by a shrill scream coming from the kitchen; obviously Harry had come down to see what was for dinner.
"WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO YOUR BEAUTIFUL HAIR!?" Mrs. Watson exclaimed. Mr. Watson rushed to his feet, scrambling into the kitchen to make sure nothing was seriously wrong. John just stayed in his seat triumphantly, listening as Harry got yelled at, tried to defend herself, got grounded, insisted that she was a free person and they couldn't take her phone away, and then started screaming because they took her phone away. It was all a very nice experience, because John was sure both of his parents would forget everything that had happened with him and focus purely on Harry's artificially red hair, looking like a very moody cheery as she sat across the table from John with a large scowl on her face.
"That's only temporary, right? I mean, it'll wear off eventually?" Mrs. Watson asked worriedly, looking over at Harry's red mane once again.
"Nope. It's forever; it actually goes into the roots of your hair and genetically modifies them to look exactly like Elmo." John pointed out. Mrs. Watson gasped, nearly dropping her fork in shock, but John just laughed.
"It does not look like Elmo!" Harry defended.
"I'm kidding mom, I'm kidding, it's probably only temporary." John assured. "Most dyes are."
"Why didn't you tell us Harry, we're your parents we deserve a vote." Mrs. Watson insisted.
"You're my parents and you whine too much. I knew that if I had let you in on it that you wouldn't let me, and I was already set myself. And besides, I'm a grown adult; I don't need your permission." Harry decided.
"Harriet you live in our house and you will abide by our rules. Either get a job and move out or go to college." Mr. Watson snapped. John laughed happily, whenever they address Harry by 'Harriet' he knew something was about to go down. Harry just groaned though, and to John's disappointment, there were no more arguments or scream fights or shattered plates. So when dinner was over John washed the dishes and headed back up to his room, sitting on his bed and watching sports while his mind wandered elsewhere. What was Sherlock doing right now? Had he already burned his house down in an effort to cook himself pasta? The boy must be going mad, alone in his house, no one to protect him, it almost made John want to crawl out of his window and drive over there right now, but even he knew that was a bad idea. The parents were against Harry right now, and John had to somehow keep it that way. As long as they were mentally scarred by Harry's choice of hair dye, John would be alright.
Sherlock POV: Sherlock sat alone in his kitchen, the empty pot still sitting on the stove, the kitchen light on, illuminating the small square of security in the otherwise darkened house. In front of Sherlock was a full plate of spaghetti, lathered in some old tomato sauce he had found in the pantry, still steaming and smelling delicious. But suddenly Sherlock found that he wasn't hungry. In fact the very thought of eating anything made him sick. He had told John that he was fine being home alone, that he had done it before, but that was a lie, and he thought that John knew that as well. Mycroft had never gone away; he had nowhere to go, no business trips, no social outings, no dinner dates that spilled over to the morning. Every single night in this house, Mycroft was always there. Except tonight. Mycroft was in the house, of course, Sherlock wasn't completely alone, but his presence lingered over the boy more like a plague than a comfort. Mycroft was in their basement, along with Victor, and with their uncle, their frozen bodies all keeping each other company and hoping for a visit from the single living boy, cowering alone in the light, afraid to step into the darkness. So many times did Sherlock look at the phone, the paper on which John scrawled his phone numbers taped above it; the only number Sherlock would ever need to call. But he couldn't call John, if he called John now he would become dependent, he would never learn to live alone. Every night, Sherlock would have to call John and beg him to come because he was scared of the dark, scared of his own shadow. But times like these made Sherlock wonder if his shadow was really his own, or if it was Mycroft's, his very soul, following Sherlock around, watching and monitoring his every move. If Mycroft really was Sherlock's shadow, how on earth was he going to adapt to this newfound freedom? If it was freedom at all. Mycroft's spirit could follow Sherlock wherever he went; there was no shaking him off. The living Mycroft, he could be stopped, but by denying Mycroft his life and his body, Sherlock might have guaranteed him a stronger form, an indestructible form, and ensured that he never be free of his brother again. So Sherlock got to his feet, not daring look down at the form, cast by the overhead kitchen light, following his every move on the ceramic tiles. He wrapped his untouched dinner in tinfoil and set it into the fridge for later, squirting dish soap on the sponge and beginning to clean the pot. This was the last thing Mycroft had ever done with his time, before killing John, when the act was still up, he was washing the dishes. Sherlock had made an attempt to save John, to save them all, while Mycroft was distracted. Sherlock was only now glad that his attempt had failed. In fact, he didn't know why it had taken John's suggestion to kill his brother, that escape was only too simple, why hadn't he thought of it before? Murder seemed to be the way the Holmes family faced all their problems, an affair? Kill them both, kill yourself. An abusive Uncle? Kill him as well. A wandering heart? Kill the two boys that had dared Sherlock to listen to his own feelings. It was simple really, so simple, but John had thought of it. He had been so calm, with that knife pressed to his neck, as if he knew all along that Sherlock was just playing, that he was just teasing him. Like he had no idea Sherlock was actually going to slit his throat. Sherlock threw the freshly washed pot into the dish rack, quickly making himself a sandwich for tomorrow's lunch before realizing he was already getting low on food. No wonder, Mycroft was killed before he could go shopping, a half finished grocery list was hanging on the fridge, with all the necessities the two brothers needed to eat and survive. Sherlock didn't even know how to get the money, all of the money they had inherited, Mycroft probably had a bank account, or a safe, neither of which Sherlock knew how to get into. Might he have to get a job? Or should he just get a crow bar and a ski mask? No, no more crime, at least not now. What Sherlock needed was to calm down his worrying brain, his anxious legs and his twisting stomach. The darkness was calling to him, it was beckoning for him to wander into its midst and get swallowed whole by the very beast that he had slain. Mycroft may be dead, but he certainly wasn't gone. Sherlock heated himself up a nice cup of mint tea, stirring in cream and sugar, watching as the little grains got absorbed or simply sunk to the bottom of the glass, the only sound in the house was his spoon, metal hitting against ceramic, stirring the tea and mixing it together. It was a deadly silence, not the silence of pure solitude, but the silence of a deep breath, of someone who was hiding in the shadows, someone who dared not make a sound. It was the silence that one dreads because no matter how silent it really was, they know they're not truly alone. Sherlock wasn't alone, even if the only sound was his spoon hitting his cup. Sherlock sighed deeply, wandering at the line of darkness and light, staring off into the shadowy beyond of the rest of the house, his shadow, cast by the kitchen light hanging above the table, melted right in, but Sherlock stayed in the light, for some reason he felt a very strong urge to stay in the kitchen light until the sun rose. But no, his room, it was the safest room in the house, it always has been. He could turn on all the lights, he could pull the drapes around his bed and he could lay there and try to fall asleep, alone for the first time in seventeen years. So Sherlock stood on the edge, having to turn on one of the lamps in the living room, and to do that he had to pass through the belly of the beast. He took a deep breath and stepped through, into the darkness, walking deeper and deeper down the hallway to the living room, where he saw the outlines of the chairs and the couches, the moonlight just narrowly providing enough light to silhouette the furniture. Except, there was something else, an arm, dangling off of Mycroft's chair carelessly, the fingers twitching and dancing in the darkness, a chair only one man dare sit.
"Tick tock, brother dear." Said a very calm, familiar voice from the chair, the speaker unseen, but Sherlock recognized the voice. It was the evil, careless voice of his brother, sitting in his chair once more. Sherlock's mug smashed to the floor, tea, ceramic, sugar, all splashing along the floor tiles and on Sherlock's feet as he stood, paralyzed with fear, in the dark hallway. The arm moved to the armrest, as if Mycroft were about to pull himself up out of the chair, and suddenly Sherlock's fear turned to panic, fleeing as fast as he could up the stairs to his bedroom, turning on all the lights he could reach as he passed. Sherlock shut the door to his bedroom, locking the door as quickly as he could and stumbling away, expecting someone to be pounding on the door, expecting the wood to cave in, the hinges to snap, and the broken, frozen body of Mycroft to come walking clumsily in as if animated by a puppeteer, his limbs dangling and dragging as he closed in on his brother, what blood he had left dripping and oozing from the hole carved into his stomach. But no noise came, the house was reduced to silence once again, as Sherlock lay sprawled on the hardwood flooring of his bedroom, watching the door in terror. When nothing came Sherlock got slowly to his feet, fully prepared to run, to grab the knife out of his brother's stomach and decapitate him with it. But nothing came, and Sherlock approached the door slowly, cautiously, pressing his ear to the wood to listen for any oncoming footsteps, for any movement. But nothing came, and Sherlock drew away, climbing onto his bed and pulling the curtains so that he was in his own little fabricated square of security. Even when Mycroft was alive he never penetrated this wall of curtain, and he wouldn't when he was dead either. This was Sherlock's only safe place, this was the island in the middle of the roaring ocean, this was his home inside his makeshift home. It was only fit that John join him. There were only two sections of wall that Sherlock could see, the wooden wall directly in front of the bed, and the plaster ceiling, which was looking much more likely. Sherlock dug around in his dresser for a moment and found what he was looking for, an old paint set, with all of the paint dried, cracking, or missing. All except for the color he needed, blood red. Sherlock spread an old bedsheet overtop of his comforter and shook the bottle of paint up the best he could, blending the settled paint and the mere water that lay on top of it. Then he dipped the brush into the paint and set to work. It was difficult; Sherlock had to admit it was the most difficult piece of art he had ever attempted, simply because it was on a ceiling. Sherlock had to bend over backwards just to get an accurate view of the painting, and even that was skewed. Thankfully though, he wasn't relying on his vision or his sense of scale. His soul was at the wheel, directing his arms, his fingers, his body to move and stroke the paint at will, drops of red falling from the ceiling and splattering the artist and the old bedsheet, paint as red as blood but not nearly as satisfying as the real thing. Sherlock could speak from experience, and a drop of red paint on your face felt nothing like a smear of blood, the blood of your enemy, dripping and running down your cheeks. Soon his hand stopped moving and Sherlock closed the paint jar and threw the brush into the sink, to clean off later. He rubbed the paint off of his face and clothes and ripped the old sheet from the bed, pulling the curtains once more and lay on the bed, facing the ceiling to see John staring right back. John Watson, looking as beautiful and as confident as ever, no smile on his face but he was obviously happy. Even if Mycroft still lurked these halls, Sherlock wasn't alone anymore, it wasn't a one on one battle, he had backup. He had John Watson. And even if John couldn't lay there with him, hold him and kiss him and tell him everything would be alright, John would always be looking over him, as long as he was in this cube of safety, of light, Sherlock would be safe. Even as he slept, John would be watching over him.