The process of getting ready for princess really was a complex one, for Rosie always wanted to look the part and therefore they both had to sit in front of Sherlock's old worn out vanity, trying to push each other out of the way so as to get a better view as they applied that cheap eyeshadow that was sold with various Barbie dolls these days. Rosie went with an obscene shade of pink, all the white Sherlock went with a neural silver so as to better call out the beautiful shades of his eyes. Then came the lip gloss, which Rosie wore in a great huge glob, while Sherlock being the minimalist he was merely dabbed a couple of drops onto his lips. The stuff was foul smelling, supposedly cherry yet probably a good four years old, and so now it smelled and tasted like old, clumpy sugar that might have been mixed with various chemicals and sparkles at one point in its existence. This was the closest the two of them had ever gotten to properly coexisting, for they at least were able to share what little makeup Rosie was able to collect for herself, yet not a word was spoken, and still there was a tenseness that could not very well be ignored. Sherlock knew that if this was a real situation, and they were faced with an evil dragon, Rosie would very well be pushing him towards it with meat strapped around his neck as bait before running in the opposite direction. Then again, the joke was really on her, for he was big enough to lift her and just toss her at the thing like a game of fetch.
"Are you two princesses almost ready?" John whined, pounding a little bit on the door all while Rosie was still very preoccupied strapping on a pair of old, nasty butterfly wings to her back.
"Almost." Sherlock sighed, sitting back onto the bed and looking up once more towards the ceiling where the beautiful portrait still stayed in all of its peeling glory. He smiled at it proudly, for such a thing was his own creation, and the man who was embodied in the paint was still his own to cherish. If only he could see himself now, from where he once slept as a teenager. When he trembled to hear Mycroft's footsteps down the hallway, and when he would lock his door so as to hide from the darkness that was beginning to overwhelm the empty house. If only he could see now how happy he could be, with his new family, and with his soon to be husband. How far he had come, with now but two minimal distractions from his ongoing life...the police, and Rosie. When taken into account that the police really had no leads, nor did Rosie have any real power over him, well it would be very safe to say that this was the simplest living Sherlock had ever had. All he really had to do was sit back and relax, and enjoy the fact that his family was cooperating to his every whim these days.
"Alright, alright I'm ready!" Rosie called excitedly, instinctively running to hide behind the bed while Sherlock still lay without much interest. He wasn't too terribly scared of john, no matter how many times the man tried to growl and pound on the door while Rosie screamed in delight. For a while of course there was nothing John could do except pretend the door was actually impossible to get through, and all the while Rosie was running around the room in her princess voice yelling and carrying on, almost as if she thought there was any real danger to this situation. Sherlock attempted to follow suit, however he didn't really feel like getting up and so he merely let out a little groan so as to show that he was still following along, and had not only agreed to play so that he could contour. Finally John had enough of pounding on the door, and Sherlock began to hear the telltale clicking of a key into the lock.
"Rosie, the dragon has found our secret key!" Sherlock exclaimed, to which Rosie gave a great scream, running up to the large bureau which had once been his own, and scrambled inside so as to hide herself. Sherlock sighed heavily, knowing that it might be in his best interest to hide as well, and so he merely rolled under the bed, crossing his legs in relaxation and staring up at the underside of the mattress. It was only from this angle that he could properly see the blood stains still imbedded into the hardwood, for the light from the window illuminated the wood here in a way which still gave it that red tint. It was his own blood, of course, from his final attempt on John's life. Sherlock sighed heavily, smiling for a moment and thanking whatever God might be listening that he hadn't gotten the chance to take John's life away. For he had once been in the mindset that the dead remained forever, yet even now Sherlock had not seen either of his victims in a long while. And had John died, Sherlock would never be hiding under this bed with cherry lip gloss smothered about his mouth. Finally the door opened, and even though Rosie was supposed to be hiding her great scream really made her hiding place very obvious. Yet of course, being the polite man he was, John the dragon instead went after Sherlock first. It was actually a very violent procedure, in which John grabbed hold of Sherlock's legs and yanked him from underneath the bed; all the while Sherlock was legitimately yelling and trying to kick to fend him off. But it really was no use, for John was quite over dominating, and finally it was all Sherlock could do but clutch onto the banister and force his way to his feet, his leg shaking hesitantly as he looked over to where he had left his walking stick on the bed. John merely giggled upon seeing Sherlock's makeup; however they had to stay in character as of now.
"Oh no, the great dragon has caught me! I have been killed." Sherlock said sadly.
"I didn't kill you!" John defended with a little frown.
"I have been eaten whole, and while I am still alive, I am cursed to be digested and die." Sherlock corrected in some confusion. Rosie's scream sort of subsided, for it was obvious she wasn't quite sure how that would work.
"The dragon has not killed the princess yet, but has instead taken her...him? Captive! And will hold him for ransom when the king comes to bargain. For dragons want gold, not princess snacks." John corrected with a little nod, his eyes wide so as to mention that Sherlock should really be playing along.
"Yes...I am bound by invisible chains, and I will sit on the bed and wait in vain while the dragon hunts down my fellow princess. Oh if only the king values our lives enough to..."
"The king will pay any price." John interrupted quickly.
"Ah, my poor economically challenged king." Sherlock grumbled, sitting up against the headboard and pulling his knees up to his chest so as to pretend to be in chains.
"Now where is that other princess hiding?" John asked in a questionable tone, even though they could all hear a small voice from inside the bureau giggling. It really didn't take long until John gave up pretending to search, and he pulled open the door to which Rosie gave a great scream and a giggle, for he scooped her up into his arms immediately and began to tickle her as his dragon's revenge. Sherlock was a bit upset that he didn't get such treatment, but then again he was probably a little bit too big to be carried around. When finally Rosie was kicking out and claiming that she couldn't breathe, John tossed her onto the bed in a gentle way, and let her flop around for a while as she tried to readjust her butterfly wings.
"The dragon has won." John announced finally, to which Rosie giggled and Sherlock smiled.
"How could the princesses have won?" Sherlock wondered curiously, for it didn't seem as though this was a very fair fight.
"The princesses could have...I don't know? Escaped maybe?" John suggested.
"We could've slayed the dragon!" Rosie insisted, jumping on the bed in a great bound to which John shooed her down, being the careful father he was. Sherlock just chuckled, looking over to where the bloodstain was just visible from underneath the bed.
"Can't say I've never attempted that." Sherlock offered with a little giggle, to which John merely stared at him, as if accusing him in some way of scaring his daughter.
"But in the end, they both won." John teased, coming to sit on the bed next to Sherlock and wrap one of his arms around his shoulder, in a protective yet affectionate way.
"That can't be. Dragons and princesses can't both win." Rosie taunted, sitting cross legged on the end of the bed and staring at her father with that know it all look she so often tried to wear.
"I'm afraid you're wrong about that, Rosie. Just like the bear and the deer, even the most destructive of pairs can find a happy ending." Sherlock corrected, to which Rosie's face screwed up in immense dislike. Sherlock merely sighed in annoyance, for leave it to him to ruin the moment.
"Daddy, why can't you stay home every day?" Rosie whined, crawling up so that she could sit on her father's lap. Sherlock frowned as John withdrew his arm from around his shoulders so as to pretend to braid Rosie's hair; however he really couldn't manage the first step at all. In fact, the only hair care John knew was undoubtedly just a glorified process of messing it up even more.
"I agree." Sherlock said with a little grin, leaning into John's shoulder as if to try to remind him that he was still here, and still required constant attention. "Why can't you stay home every day?"
John POV: It was no secret that there was something different about the way the household functioned, yet it was almost in a flattering sense. John was beginning to feel as though he was the most heavily desired man in the world, from the way Sherlock and Rosie constantly begged him to stay home. Of course Rosie's requests were obviously just driven by loneliness, for she really did hate Sherlock and that was becoming all the more clear every moment John saw them together. Yet Sherlock, well his requests were the more troubling ones. John wasn't sure why Sherlock wanted John to stay home constantly, yet every morning he would make a lovely breakfast as if it was some sort of offering, and propose that John call in sick right as he was finishing up. It was flattering in a sense that John felt wanted, yet Sherlock was beginning to take on a role that was terrifyingly familiar. At first John suspected that the resemblance between the two Holmes brothers was merely a coincidence, and that it was just this house that was twisting with his perception of things. Yet these days, well it was hardly ignorable to anyone who had known of Mycroft's ruling over his household. The man dressed just as his brother did, constantly going through his wardrobe and donning multiple suit and tie combinations so as to fit the mood. He sat in Mycroft's chair these days; the one which John almost thought was cursed and unusable after the man had died. Sherlock drank Mycroft's favorite whiskey, he listened to his favorite operas, and he was even beginning to cook the same meals he claimed to have seen his brother making! They were becoming one in the same, that much was obvious, yet who was to blame for such a transformation? Sherlock undoubtedly perceived himself to be the pillar of the family, despite John being the one who went to work and made all the money for them. Yet Sherlock sat at the head of the table, and he instructed people around almost as if he had every right to tell them what to do. He was especially more forceful with Rosie, and all of his demands towards her were voiced in a way that was ridden with disappointment and hatred, as if he was terribly upset that he still had to be reminding her about things like finishing her vegetables or sitting up straight. And Sherlock's way of ruling the house was different than John's, simply because he was ruling it with not an iron fist, but a soft, comforting hand that was there only to hide the metal plating that was underneath. John knew this form of parenting, it was the one that Mycroft had taught himself, in which behavior and obedience was expected and rewarded, yet a toe out of line would get you either beaten with an umbrella, or locked in the freezer, or subjected to who knows what other sort of abuse? Sherlock had yet to get violent; however the look in his eyes whenever Rosie acted out, well it was enough to get John apprehensive. He hated to see the man with a knife these days, for John knew that every second that ticked by was just another nerve that was being pulled at, and who knows how long it would take Sherlock to snap? If Sherlock was following Mycroft's path of parenthood it might not be long until he began to take means that were a bit terrifying to imagine, yet just as Mycroft always carried that umbrella, so did Sherlock keep his cane at his side at all times. But would Sherlock kill Rosie? And most importantly, would he be willing to kill John again? John wanted to think that he would never be able to; he wanted to think that Sherlock's days of killing were over. However he thought back to when he was so quick to abandon whatever morals he wanted to adapt, when Sherlock practically leapt at the opportunity to kill Mary when he was offered to. He was a killer at heart, and as much as John wanted to think that the therapy helped him, well it was no secret that there was still something disturbingly off about the man. And John wasn't looking for any reason to leave him; no he wanted to preserve his relationship with Sherlock for as long as he could manage it. He wanted to help the man, as was his goal when they were teenagers, yet that empathy only went so far...that dedication and commitment was only enough to perhaps convince John that Sherlock could change, all the while leaving Sherlock to simmer in his own madness. There came a night not too long after John's first sick day which was the first sign of the cracks that were beginning to form around Sherlock's mental state. It was about ten o'clock at night, long after John had put Rosie to bed, and he had sat up for a while in the dining room, working only by the light of kitchen with his back towards the rest of the house. John was doing his usual work stuff, going through the latest of their sales and putting all sorts of numbers into a spreadsheet to cross reference later. It was tiring work, stuff which there was no time for in the office, and so he had decided to take it home with him. The hours ticked by slowly, and he assumed from the quiet of the house that everyone else had gone to bed. At eleven thirty John decided to call it a night, only having gotten through about half of the work which he had sat down to do, yet with distractions like a nice pot of tea and some left over pasta, well he hadn't exactly managed his time well. But that was quite alright, for there was always tomorrow night. And so John got to his feet, setting his tea cup in the sink to wash later and walking over to turn out the light. With the flick of the switch the house was overwhelmed in darkness, something which John had not fully adapted to. He didn't like this house at night, much less when he couldn't see a thing, in which every creak of the wind was some new psychopath emerging from the Holmes family tree. It was unnerving to say the least, and as John started his way to the hallway shivers began to run frightfully down his spine. Yet as he started through, using merely the light of the moon as his guide, he discovered quickly that such shivers were not entirely made from the fright which plagued him. In fact, John noticed sharply that there was a chill in the air; he noticed that the temperature in the hallway was probably a good fifteen degrees colder than it was in the nice toasty kitchen. That was when his toe hit something solid, and the creaking of the door hinges betrayed that someone was still awake...or at least someone had been as he had been concentrated on his work. The basement door was open. Now John was properly cold and scared, for he had been under the firm understanding that everyone in this house had no use of the basement, nor would they dare go downstairs for any reason. The only thing down there was old boxes that had been stored away before Sherlock's parents had died, nothing which they could use these days! And well, there was always the freezer. John walked towards the doorway and felt around for the light switch, finding it rather easily and finally illuminating the awful place. Oh if there was one thing more unnerving than the darkened basement it would evidently be the lightened one, for now he could see the freezer, humming in all its freezing glory, with those horrible red stains that were permanently imbedded into the cement. The stains that belonged to Victor, and Mycroft, and that terrible uncle which had reigned over the household years before the brothers took control. All seemed normal; however the freezer's door was open. As if someone had gone in there and forgot to shut it, that or someone was still in there?
"Sherlock, is that you?" John called down nervously, his voice shaking all the while he tried to keep himself calm. He was evidently fighting a losing battle, for his hands were trembling against the doorframe, standing still at the top of the stairs where he at least knew he would be safe. There was no response, yet John knew that he needed to check things out. Of course the worst case scenario is that Sherlock was down there, maddened out of his mind, yet even that would be manageable if John was in the right mindset. He needed to go down, for he had no idea if it was Rosie, or if it was Sherlock, or if a burglar had broken in. Either way, the freezer could not remain opened, either way John had to go and take a look. He took a deep breath, yet suddenly with some sort of intuition that must have been sprung by where he was and what he was doing, John realized that he best arm himself. The freezer was, after all, a dangerous place. If John went down there to find Sherlock off his rocker, or even if there was some thief poking around for whatever reason in there, John would rather be prepared. And so he went back to the kitchen, this time making sure to turn on all lights which were within his arms reach, and he light up the entire house by the time he arrived at the knife drawer. Carefully John pulled a blade which he thought suitable, one that seemed hefty enough to break whatever bones which might be standing in the way. Then again John gave no notice to that, really, other than the fact that it was the one which best resembled the knife that had been pressed against his throat, the one which had killed Mycroft, and the one which took Victor's life as well. The blade which did the most damaged, undoubtedly sitting where it would not memorialized in some police container, forgotten as the case of Sherlock Holmes had been long since closed. Yet it went on, so long as Sherlock Holmes himself was still alive. John took up the blade, feeling a rather unusual power flowing through his body as he started back through the well-lit house, making his way back to the basement with much more confidence than might be expected from someone who was nearly wetting themselves moments ago. He started down the stairs apprehensively, for while the basement light was on there was no possible way that all the shadows could be illuminated. No, they were still there, permanently stirring in their corners, or behind their boxes, or wherever the darkness may seem fit to inhabit. And John only now realized just how formidable the shadows could be.