"I'm sorry; I was just going to go to bed." John attempted, however Sherlock put up a hand to quiet him.
"Stay with me a little while longer." Sherlock pleaded, sitting up only enough so that he could watch John from where he lay on the couch. John nodded, smiling a bit nervously at the man before walking over and taking a seat on the coffee table, so that he could hold the hand that wore that beautiful ring. John weaved their fingers together, looking upon Sherlock with love and appreciation in his eyes.
"Something's got you down, Sherlock." John commented. Sherlock took a deep breath, nodding his eyes and bringing his feet to sit on the couch as well, bending his knees in what appeared to be a lethal point.
"Yes, I lost someone today." Sherlock admitted quietly, blinking for a small moment as if trying to keep tears from forming in his eyes.
"You lost someone?" John asked in confusion, trying to think of who Sherlock had ever had.
"Victor." Sherlock clarified, closing his eyes just for a moment. "Victor left me today." John was quiet, for he really didn't know how to respond to such a thing. Victor had been dead for over fourteen years, and so for Sherlock to say that he had now just only left was quite the unnerving declaration.
"I'm sorry Sherlock, but I'm not really seeing your point." John admitted timidly.
"My point, John, is that he's left me forever. I told you that I didn't see anyone anymore, I lied, I saw him. I saw Mycroft. But Victor told me today that he served no purpose in my head any longer, and he left me. I can't see him anymore John...he won't talk to me." Sherlock admitted with a tremble, finally unlacing his fingers from John's and pulling them away sharply. "He's gone."
"Sherlock you're not serious? You still see these people?" John clarified, not bothering to hide his concern any longer. And so Rosie's theory had been correct, Sherlock really had never swam out from the deep end.
"Well now I don't see Victor! And I'm even lonelier than I can properly fathom." Sherlock admitted miserably.
"You've got me, Sherlock. Don't forget that you've got me." John insisted, taking Sherlock's hand now so as to squeeze it in reassurance. Sherlock sighed heavily, nodding his head yet still not bringing his eyes to meet John's.
"You couldn't help me like he did, John you don't understand the forces that are at stake." Sherlock whispered. John laughed a bit nervously, going now to push the curly bangs out from around Sherlock's eyes, like a caring mother would do when she noticed her child was getting sick.
"And what forces are those?" John wondered. Sherlock took a deep, sharp breath, and suddenly his hand clamped around John's with all the force of a man who was just now fearing for his life.
"Victor's purpose was to protect me from Mycroft." He whispered fearfully, his fingers trembling ever so obviously, as if he was still concerned that his brother might be returning from the grave to terrorize him. "And now Victor's left me, and Mycroft's still here....he's still lurking."
"You sound crazy, Sherlock." John objected, trying now to loosen the man's grip, staring into Sherlock's eyes only to see madness staring back.
"Then maybe I am. But...but in my head it is all real, John. In my head, there's every reason to be afraid." Sherlock whispered in a trembling voice, his face now growing pale as he turned his head and stared right over John's shoulder, his grip on his hand somehow getting even tighter as he was overwhelmed with sudden panic.
"It's him...John it's him." Sherlock whispered, his eyes growing wide. For a moment John was afraid as well, and a great shiver went down his spine to hear Sherlock so convinced that they were not alone. And yet he had to be strong here, he had to stay calm and insist to Sherlock that what he was seeing was completed separate from reality. And so John turned, looking towards where Sherlock was so fearfully staring, and seeing to his utter relief that such delusions were just so. There was no one standing there, the shadows remained unoccupied, and it was all John could do but force himself to ignore the heartbeat that was beating so vigorously in his fiancé's chest; he had to ignore how much fear was evident in those beautiful, complicated eyes.
Sherlock POV: Sherlock couldn't sleep...he could hear the scuttling in the corners of the room, the familiar pacing that he had to listen to all of those years he was locked away. Mycroft was on edge, for he now knew that he was in full control of Sherlock's fate. Victor had been in charge of keeping him away, Victor was the sole reason that Mycroft never took full control, never tried to establish his domination over the still independent parts of Sherlock's brain. And now Victor had left, presumably because it was his way of escaping the ultimate humiliation of being forever second to John Watson. He claimed his job was annulled, yet little did he know that his sole purpose was keeping Sherlock safe from the beast that lurked inside of his head! It was his responsibility to keep Mycroft away, and here he was now...pacing. Sherlock's eyes remained wide, and his heart was racing long after John had fallen asleep. He lay with his head on his own pillow, yet John's hand was still clenched in his own. He knew that he had the ability to wake John, yet the man's help would be useless now. John couldn't chase away what was only in Sherlock's head; he couldn't protect him from the shadows that had learned to walk. Yet this was Mycroft's terrain, this was his own terrain. Sherlock was inhabiting his house, sleeping in his bed, and sitting at his place at the table. There was no wonder why Mycroft was becoming defensive, why he suddenly couldn't just let things unfold the way they were. Mycroft was so against Sherlock's romantic entanglements, his purpose in Sherlock's head was to remind him of the ideals and values that he had supposedly been raised on. Purity, loneliness, and most importantly the withdrawal from all seemingly useless emotions, that was what Mycroft enforced in his head! The diseased part of Sherlock's brain that still existed after years of therapy, the faltered little thing that still kept trying to tell him to walk away from his family and ignore the pulses of his heart, that had taken shape as his brother when his sanity had left him. It was Mycroft's views, not the man himself, who haunted Sherlock like an insufferable plague. And now it was here, lurking through the darkness yet distinct enough for Sherlock to follow it with his never closing eyes, listening to the ticking of the clock and the scuffing of Mycroft's polished shoes against the hardwood. He didn't say a word, yet his intentions were clear. He hated that his bed was used as their own, he hated that the love he had tried so hard to keep away was now manifesting under his own sheets, and that his brother, who he tried so hard to alienate, was repeatedly grasping onto them and crying out into the pillows. Mycroft hated that such obscene acts had to take place in his own bed, yet it had been ironic before, it had been fitting. Now that Mycroft's wrath was unchained, well it wasn't so enjoyable now that there very well may be consequences. But what was his plan, what was this whole scheme going to shape out to be? In the end, Mycroft was here to protect Sherlock. Yet his methods of protection were very far from what might be considered necessary or even legal, and what he thought was the enemy very often turned out to be the very person Sherlock never wanted to lose. So what did he intend to do? Convince Sherlock to kill John, or convince him to move houses? Would he want him to run away, or to adopt the same sort of protective iron fist that Mycroft himself had developed so as to keep his household in line? Was that what Mycroft intended Sherlock to become...himself? And that very thought was terrifying, ti was enough to keep Sherlock up the whole night, his eyes strained and his hand clenching tightly to John. For even though he knew he had his fiancé, even though he knew he had Rosie...well he understood that this was a battle he was going to fight alone.
Sherlock made the coffee again, yet this time with trembling fingers. He was trying to think of what might be done to deter Mycroft, if anything at all could be managed. The man was still hiding, yet the occasional squeak of a floorboard or swinging of the basement door alerted Sherlock constantly to his presence. Mycroft was always watching, and always making himself known in the most haunting of manners. This was presumably because he wanted to impose fear; maybe Mycroft thought it was enjoyable. Maybe he wanted to be just like the ghosts in the horror films, stalking about the house and causing chaos that would be considered unexplained by any nonbeliever. Sherlock wondered, if Mycroft really was just something he had made up, if John could see the evidence. Victor and Mycroft had both been perfectly solid, and able to move things at ease. If ever Mycroft decided to slam the door, or smash a glass, would John be able to see the evidence? Or would the carnage be invisible as well would that glass remain unbroken, or that door remain open? It was curious, how Sherlock had no idea the extents of this fantasy world which he so often lived in. And so he ignored such thoughts, instead of worrying about what might be real and what not be he instead stuck to what he knew. He brewed the coffee and had a cup for himself, he set out the cereal boxes for Rosie all while heating up the stove to make whatever he could with a couple of eggs John had brought home. He adopted his role as the housewife, because that was what he knew to be true, that was what he knew to be necessary. Yet even as he went about his normal routine his eyelids began to droop, his limbs became heavy, and once more it became ever so obvious that he had gone without a wink of sleep all night. Maybe today he could nap while Rosie played with her dolls, that or he could attempt to rest to an extent. Sherlock knew that sleep would come with some difficulty; however he was willing to bet that it would be easier in the daylight, where the shadows were nowhere near big enough to hide the ghostly form of his brother. When John finally awoke he was met with Sherlock's version of scrambled eggs and bacon, a typical breakfast for the typical working man. Of course the eggs were a bit undercooked, and the bacon was a bit overcooked, yet none the less the effort earned him a quick kiss of appreciation, and John sat down triumphantly to eat. Rosie was not yet awake, and for a moment it was just the two of them, sat at the table and enjoying their haphazard breakfast all while trying to think of how to possibly address the situations of last night. Sherlock was embarrassed of the scene he had caused, yet that night he had been so distraught over Victor's leaving and so fearful of what it might mean for him that he knew such a thing was rational, at least in his own mind where he saw the consequences of such occurrences. John thought he was crazy, that was for sure, yet to some extent he was. Maybe the quicker they acknowledge the insane elephant in the room, the quicker they could adapt to a lifestyle where it fit in. Yes, Sherlock wasn't perfectly sane, yet that didn't change anything about the suburban dream, did it? He could be crazy and still function was he was needed to, molding from the lone and confused bachelor into a husband who wore an apron and chased the children around the house for a living.
"Did you sleep well?" John wondered casually, peering at Sherlock over the rim of his coffee mug as he took a great swig. Sherlock shrugged, knowing that in this case lying would get him nowhere.
"Not at all." Sherlock admitted finally. "I was quite scared."
"Of Mycroft?" John clarified with a suspicious raise of his eyebrows, as if he still wasn't sure of how valid these fears were.
"Yes, of Mycroft. He was lurking last night, but I can't do anything about it. That was always Victor's job...the shadow that protected me from the darkness." Sherlock whispered mournfully, scanning the edges of the room as if expecting that boy to be hiding off somewhere. He hoped in the back of his mind that such a scene was just a ploy, and that Victor would appear before him once again with that grin on his face, for he had just wanted to see how much he would have been missed. Yet such a display of agony would have brought him back, and now that Mycroft was scheming, well if Victor was anywhere that might give him the ability to deter such plots, he would have returned. Yet where he had gone, Sherlock did not know. Did he retreat farther back into Sherlock's head as a dead memory, or was he simply gone? Sherlock could remember him just fine, yet those memories said nothing new. He felt as though he had reached a point where he could know everything there was to know about Victor, and unfortunately never learn anything new. For the boy was gone, his absence was a sure sign.
"How poetic." John teased, yet with an edge of jealousy in his voice.
"Yet you have always been the light." Sherlock reassured, to which John smiled proudly once more, as if that was exactly the sort of praise he thought he deserved.
"Well I'm proud to be such." He decided with a nod of his head. "Yet I think that it's time your extended metaphors got taken over by reality. There is no Mycroft; the darkness isn't hiding him anywhere. He's not real, Sherlock, and the sooner you accept that, the faster he'll leave."
"I do know that he's not real, John I'm self-aware enough to realize that he's some feverish delusion. But as far as thoughts go, well they're only real inside of your head. But that's where he wants to do his damage, and so long as my brain concocts him, well he can manage to fight back. Since he's a thought he has control over everything else I think, he can stick his fingers into my brain and twirl it all around until I see things his way, and I act as he wants me too. In fact I'd rather him be real, John, then I could kill him for real. So long as he's in my head...well he's a much larger threat." Sherlock admitted remorsefully, staring down at his breakfast now without much appetite. John was looking equally disturbed, yet there was nothing either of them could do but nod and accept the facts as they were presented. John may still think Sherlock was crazy, and that was fine, yet so long as he accepted that such craziness was a lost cause, well then maybe they could move on. So long as he understood that Mycroft was a threat whether he was real or not, then at least he could do his best to protect Sherlock from forces neither of them could ever hope to understand.
"Well then, when you put it that way you worry me, too." John admitted finally. "Do you need to see a therapist or something?"
"To be honest I think therapy only stirs them up more, I spent thirteen years in therapy and all they did was get worse." Sherlock said regretfully, poking his eggs now at the burnt little corners of bacon that were sitting charred on his plate.
"So what do you want me to do?" John wondered, asking with all the purpose in the world. He wanted to help, that much was obvious, yet it was a terrible thing to tell him that he couldn't. It wasn't as if Sherlock didn't want or appreciate the help, it was simply that John's help would do nothing at all. This was Sherlock's battle to fight, alone, for he was the only one in the world who could really do anything about it. His brain was the one that was damaged, and he was the only one who could concentrate on fixing it.
"I don't think there's anything you can do, honestly." Sherlock admitted regretfully, to which John's look of dedication melted a tad bit back into a frown.
"Nothing?" John clarified.
"Unless you can get into my head and chase him away, but like I said...that was Victor's job." Sherlock admitted remorsefully. He really did miss that boy, even if he was a needy, jealous thing. He did his job, served his purpose, all in the name of the love he never expected to be returned.
"Well I never like to be second to Victor." John grumbled in disappointment. Sherlock just frowned at him, frowning in that sort of way that tried to call out just how ridiculous he sounded.
"You will never be second to Victor, what a preposterous thing to say." Sherlock laughed, shaking his head in exasperation as John continued to grumble.
"Well if he can protect you and I can't, then he's at least beat me at that." John pointed out.
"You forget, John, that he's left. The very fact that you're still here makes you superior." Sherlock pointed out, to which John nodded his head triumphantly. It was always so much fun to repair that man's fragile ego, especially when it only took but one mention of his superiority.
"An excellent point, Sherlock." John agreed finally. Sherlock just shook his head and got to his feet to begin the dishes, all while John got up and set his things next to the sink. This had been his routine for a while now, leaving his own dishes for Sherlock to clean because he was running late once again. Sherlock tried to remind him that he only ran late because he slept in too long; however it was all he could do but give John a quick kiss of farewell and go about his day as usual. The sound of John's car started up signaled that he had finally left, and Sherlock stood again in the illuminated kitchen, alone with nothing but the dirty dishes and egg shells that he had left scattered about. Mycroft kept his distance, he still hadn't said anything yet Sherlock could feel that he was getting closer. He could feel his presence, and with every passing moment Sherlock knew that he was creeping steadily forward. And for now that was fine, so long as he didn't start running his mouth so as to try to convince Sherlock to run another person through with a kitchen knife. He was always so manipulative, was Mycroft, and even the most irrational of arguments sounded almost obviously simple when coming out of his mouth. Mycroft's solution to everything was just death, and of course that was the one thing Sherlock wanted most to avoid.