Sherlock POV: Sherlock realized his grip was slipping whenJohn announced that he would be taking Rosie to daycare that morning. It cameas a surprise, a blow that Sherlock had not yet prepared himself to take, andwhen finally he did process that he would be left home alone he began torealize that they were trying to work their way away from him. He realized witha start that their process of alienating him was beginning, that with daycarewould come preschool, and after that kindergarten, and Sherlock would be leftalone with Rosie for the rest of his life. Now that was no fault, for thatdemon child surely should be someone else's responsibility, yet when John'strust faltered Sherlock knew that he would soon have little left. John onlyloved him because he thought he was the only one who could handle him, yet ifever he began to see Sherlock as more of a threat than a lover, well then thatwas where the trouble began. Sherlock had no say in the matter, even though hethought it necessary that husbands converse together, so as to make a plan thatbest suits them both. Sherlock didn't like the idea of being home alone; hedidn't like the idea of the Watsons going out to taint themselves in the realworld once more. Yet he couldn't do a thing to stop it, could he? He couldn'tlift a finger to protest, for John had already made the decision and with thatit was concluded final. And so in vain Sherlock stood on the porch, waving offto the car that backed down the driveway, where he could see John'sconcentration as he watched his mirrors, trying not to run into the mailbox atthe end of the long decent, and Rosie's look of what appeared to be mockery. Sherlock could see her face now, that littlesmirk that she wore when she knew she had won a battle that they had neverfirmly clarified was raging. She was triumphing over a victory Sherlock had notofficially joined, as if it was his loss now that both Watsons were leaving himfor the day. For the day, yes...he could manage a mere eight hours. He could holdhimself together for those hours, he could occupy himself. Yet with what?Sherlock sighed heavily, leaning against the wooden porch and looking out helplesslyto the road, where he could not see the car anymore, announcing finally thatwho he thought was his family had instead left him once more. Shameful, was itnot? To not be trusted any longer, and to be kept on house arrest like somesort of unruly child. Sherlock could tell now that his purpose had beenexhausted. John loved him once because he could replace Mary Morstan, yet nowthat his babysitting duties were considered inaccurate it was evident that hewas nothing more than a burden. John could never love him any longer, that muchwas becoming more obvious by the day. John didn't like to share Sherlock'sheart with Victor; he didn't like that Sherlock still had feelings for a boywho was supposed to be long dead. John didn't appreciate the lengths Sherlockwas willing to go to for this family, for their survival as a whole! Did Johnnot understand that he loved Rosie, despite her faults, and he loved John morethan anything else in the whole world? Could he not understand, still, that itwas essential for Sherlock's value in life for him to have someone to nurture,and someone to cherish? He needed a family, and now they had left him here,like the family dog. They had left him here to fend for himself, and toentertain himself, while they paraded about in the corrupted outside world,expecting him to turn a blind eye and allow themselves to waste away withouthis protection. Well what use did heserve if he could not keep them to himself? What purpose did he have in life ifhe let them go? Sherlock sighed heavily, clutching onto his walking stick andhobbling into the lonely, quiet house. For once in his life he felt trulyalone, without the darkness, without the voices that talked to him from theshadows. The pit never opened up, nor did the living come to torment him. Hewas entirely and utterly alone, in the house that served him no use but toremind him of who was not inside. It was an insult, it really was, it wasJohn's way of admitting to Sherlock that he did not trust him with his own daughter,it was John's way of telling Sherlock that he would be no good as a father. Yetwhat then, how could he keep them to himself? How could he be trusted withtheir security of they did not trust him to be around them for long? Would heneed to keep a tighter fist, or would he need to begin punishing? Oh heunderstood now, the burden of crushing nervousness which had collapsed Mycroftas he grew. Sherlock understood why the man had such trouble sending hisbrother to school, why he could hardly bear to let Sherlock grow, andsocialize, and collaborate with people on projects and talk in the hallway.Well no wonder he was so afraid of the outside world, what might have happenedto Sherlock if he had taken the words and advice of those barbarians seriously?He would be a drug addict or a legitimate father when he was just a teenager,he would be an alcoholic, or a homeless man out on the side of the street! The penitentiaryhad been a perfect place to grow; the prison cell had been the perfect place todevelop from a boy into a man. There were no temptations; there were noopportunities that might have dragged him from the path which he had beenliving his whole life. Sherlock had never been without a cage, and that waswhat allowed him to survive. Mycroft's fingers had laced prison bars; he hadkept a close grip on Sherlock's shoulder and led him throughout life, so as toget him from birth to death in the most painless, the most careful waypossible. All the while Sherlock was in Mycroft's care the only abuse hesuffered was when he strayed, when he pushed Mycroft aside and insisted that hecould handle himself! When he found Victor, and the boy's death had torn a holethrough his heart. When he had found John, and suffered both physical andemotional consequences for allowing himself such pleasures of opening his heartand life to that boy. The only pains he remembered from his childhood was thatinflicted upon him from other people and from his own dumb, rebelliousdecisions. The penitentiary had allowed him to bypass the preliminary stages ofadulthood, the prison had blocked him from might have become of his life. Justas John had ended up, Sherlock may have been married; he may have gone tocollege and engaged in unthinkable behaviors. How terribly John had condemnedhimself, to the life of a domestic office worker! How might he have ended up ifSherlock had not been locked away, or would it be no different? Would they haveboth fallen into the suburban trap, and continued on living life the way themiddle aged women intended them to? He did not get that life, Sherlock hadbypassed such a fate and in turn come out the other side of adulthood as anaccomplished, well of man. He had survived and lived to tell his tale, he wasunscathed from the outside world with the help of both his brother and thepolice, and today he could proudly sit in this empty house, knowing that he hadsurvived what most people did not know to be a plague. The real world, theprocess of making money, spending money, and marrying respectable women. Oh what had John Watson done to deserve sucha terrible fate? And more importantly, what could be done to protect him, andhis daughter as well? Would Sherlock need to fortify this house, would he haveto create their own prison cell, and ultimately force them into living asimpler, safer life? They did not trust him now, yet they trusted the rest ofthe world? How foolish, how utterly irresponsible of them! They would pay forsuch actions, Rosie would grow into a corrupt little girl and John woulddegrade from being a king of this manor to being merely its prisoner. Sherlock had to execute his right to protecthis family; he had to inherit the responsibilities that came with owning such ahouse, and such a legacy. Just as Mycroft had done, Sherlock too will protectthe ones he loved. For Mycroft hadn't been a villain, no quite the opposite. Ifit had not been for Mycroft, Sherlock would have a life as John Watson did.Sherlock would work in an office, he would have casual acquaintances, God forbidhe even married a woman without ever realizing the fault in it. If it was notfor Mycroft, the name Sherlock Holmes would never have meant anything toanyone. And just as it had been then, it would be now. If he did not make amove now, the same fate shall befall the poor unfortunate Watsons. If he didnot take initiative and fight for what he knew what right, and what he knew wasappropriate, Rosie Watson will becoming nothing more than someone else. A faceacross the desk, or a name of a nicely printed notecard. She will become asales woman, or a maid, or a nurse. She will marry a man of no importance, andbecome a woman of no importance all the same. She would have a house, and achild, and a dog, and no blood on her hands. No worthy blood, and no initiativeto do what is necessary when the time is right. That was what separated themall, wasn't it? The difference between the Holmes and the Watsons is that theWatsons never knew what was necessary. Yet Sherlock was smart, he was ablebodied, and he would create a world where his family would be safe. He wouldcreate a house in which nothing could ever touch either family again, and wherenone of the occupants shall ever be cursed to a life of nothing, a life ofunimportance and of stagnation, ever again. This was their rebirth, theirreckoning, and their destiny. And he would be the organizer of it all, he wouldbe the savior they never asked for, yet the one they would get all the same.Sherlock would never be alone ever again, and the Watsons...well they would neverbe unimportant. What more could be asked of him, what more could be expected?This was his role as the keeper of the house; this was his role as the soleHolmes inheritor.
When John and Rosie arrived home, Sherlock was waiting for them in Mycroft's chair. He was enjoying a nice glass of Scotch, one of Mycroft's favorite sort of liquor, and listening to the beautiful serenade of his opera records. They arrived without acknowledging the severity of their actions today; they arrived without approaching Sherlock on his thoughts, and on his loneliness. Instead John kissed him hello, as was expected, and Rosie disappeared up into her room. They reeked of the outside world, of unfaithful thoughts and unimaginable failure. Sherlock sat in his chair like a throne, for he alone had accomplished something today, he alone would accomplish more. John had made money, Rosie had made crafts, and Sherlock...Sherlock would make eternity. John lay down on the couch quietly, looking over at Sherlock occasionally as if expecting him to say anything. Yet Sherlock was quiet, and so was John, and together they enjoyed the silent idea of each other's company, staring at their own respective wall in the ceiling or on the floor, imagining the futures they had imagined for themselves. Little did John know that there was only one possibility for only one future, and such was being organized at this moment, inside of Sherlock's head. For dinner Sherlock had baked a chicken, which had been so graciously bought by John this afternoon at the grocery store. Sherlock took note of such a gift, for it meant that it was not just work which occupied John's days. It was the grocery store, and it was the dare care, and who knows what other establishments? Did John go visit Mary's grave, or their old house? Was he taking Rosie away to see her grandparents, or was he organizing an arrest so as to avenge his dead wife? Was he plotting Sherlock's downfall, all while pretending to hold his hand? Sherlock watched the man carefully all while he carved into the chicken, for it would seem as though John was the only one who considered himself skilled enough to differentiate between light and dark meat.
"How was your day Sherlock?" John asked after he finally sat down, smiling at the dinner that had been prepared for him. He really was so desperate for a new housewife, wasn't he? After Mary's death he was looking for someone to watch his child and cook his meals and clean his house. Yet it would seem that Sherlock couldn't fill all of those roles, it was seem as though Sherlock was inadequate, subpar, and disappointing.
"Lonely." Sherlock admitted truthfully, looking outwards where Rosie was sitting and swinging her legs wildly from on top of her booster seat. Sherlock was crazy if he actually missed such a rascal, yet here he was now...almost enjoying her presence! How ghastly loneliness was, and how crazy it made him at times!
"I'm sorry we had to leave you Sherlock, but surely you understand?" John presumed, although he asked in such a way which made it sound as if Sherlock was the one in the wrong, and that he himself was some sort of saintly family man, who was only doing what was best for them all. Yet they were all at fault, they were all in danger! Surely John must realize that Sherlock would not be so selfish if he was doing it for a just and selfless reason?
"I understand, John." Sherlock said simply, for he did not want to worry them both, nor did he want to interrupt such a fabulous dinner as he had prepared. He knew that they would grow accustomed; he knew that they would learn to accept their new way of life one way or another. It would be Sherlock's sole responsibility, therefore, to adjust them properly and to monitor them so as to make sure they were on the right track. The transition would be difficult, yet that was precisely why Sherlock was needed to lead them through. He knew of a life that was easier, and of an existence that was more purposeful. He knew of people who need not be bothered with, and of a universe that would do more harm than good. Sherlock knew what was right, what was wrong, and what was necessary. Everything else was unimportant as of now. Rosie went on and on about her day at daycare, yet the carefree way which she presented it surely was some sort of ploy. Sherlock knew that the only reason she thought to lecture them all on the art of Popsicle stick butterflies was to remind Sherlock that she was out having fun, while he was here all alone, mourning. She knew that bringing up daycare only brought to light once more John's apprehension, and his sudden change of heart. It was an insulting and humiliating story, formed simply because Rosie knew just how to dig her painted nails into Sherlock's heart and squeeze. When finally dinner was over (a painful occurrence, despite the wonderful meal) Sherlock helped John clean the dishes and wipe the table, bringing their kitchen back into the sparkling and adequately sanitary state it had been in when he had begun to cook. Sherlock very much enjoyed cooking and cleaning, simply because it gave him a role which might allow himself to be important. The meal depended on him, and the empty stomachs which were housed in John and Rosie were dependent on him as well. Should he not cook then they would both suffer consequences for actions which were not their own, and should he cook then they will live another day, and reward themselves for the treachery they inflicted upon him. It was a position of power, for he could slip an unnoticed ingredient into their plates, he could kill them with a mere flick of his fingers, or he could ensure that they live on strong and healthy. Yet still, the master of the kitchen was not a title which he aspired to have. He was the master of the house, was he not? The man of the hour and the savior which was never deserved. And that was why he slipped a small blade into his pocket, that was why he swooped over and gave John a quick kiss on the forehead, and then proceeded to go outside to meet the two cars where they sat in all of their glory. The darkness covered him as he closed the door to the garage, approaching that beautiful silver machine which would betray him every morning that he would allow it. It would cart John Watson away from him, it would carry his whole family down his driveway and away from his reign of control. That was why it cannot be any longer, that was why Sherlock bent down, took out the knife, and drove it hilt deep into the nice round tires, one by one, until the entire car sunk down to the concrete floor of the garage. Until it was about as useless as it could ever be. Sherlock nodded, proud of himself and his work, and proceeded now to the hearse which he himself had preserved, which he himself had pitied. Yet it had fulfilled its final drive last night, and accomplished its purpose. A hearse to carry a body, a hearse to sit in a graveyard and wait for a hole to be dug. That car had carried Mycroft, it had carried Sherlock, and now it had the honor of transporting Victor from his earthly prison back to his home, where his destiny awaited and his permanent resting place must be. It was a beautiful car, which meant the world and more to Sherlock, yet even as he reminisced of his wonderful times in that passenger seat he drove that knife once more through its ancient and flimsy tires. The hearse sunk down as the silver car had, and with that they were stranded. There was no way John could leave him now, there was no way he could take his daughter, that mound of clay that had still yet to be molded quite perfectly into an ideal woman. It was Sherlock's job to keep the hands of society away from her, and inside of this house she would be sculpted into a woman of reason, of meaning, and of importance. That was his task, that was his purpose, and that was why Sherlock defaced such important possessions. The cars could not serve their purpose if they were never to disobey him, and so he took their purpose away and ensured their loyalty. This was what he must do; this was what was necessary if his family was to survive. Lastly Sherlock marched inside, seeing that John was once more spread out on the couch, smiling at him as he lolled his fingers lazily in the air to the now familiar rhythms of the opera singers. Sherlock smiled back, proudly, with that knife still in his pocket. One more task now, to ensure the project was seen through to the end. Sherlock knew that he had an audience, yet all the same he knew that it did not matter. John was in no position to stop him, he was fated to watch and find out what was to be his future. He would find out sooner or later, why should it not be now? Sherlock's smile never faltered as he approached the phone, pulled out his knife, and with one quick slash cut the receiver from the mount. The wire cut easily, and the thing fell to the floor, now completely useless. Just like the cars, the phone might betray him as well. A single call for help would paralyze him, and now all their connections to the outside world were annulled. There was no signal out here for their cell phones, nor any Wi-Fi supplied. With the landline down, they were alienated as they should be. Sherlock smiled, and even as he heard John gasp he started carefully and carelessly into the kitchen, going to wash his trusty blade before setting it back in its spot in the drawer.
"Sherlock, Sherlock what the h*ll did you just do?" John challenged, his voice pausing as he inspected the now destroyed phone. Sherlock stood calmly by the sink, taking deep breaths as he rubbed the sponge along the blade of the knife, feeling a reassuring bout of power wash over him. Never again shall he be lonely, and that voice of John Watson...that will be constant.
"Sherlock?!" John repeated, storming into the kitchen now to which Sherlock merely smiled.
"Yes John?" Sherlock asked, turning still with the knife and with the sponge in either hand. John knew better than to come closer, for in Sherlock's hands either one could prove to be a weapon.
"Why did you cut the phone line?" John demanded.
"Because we did not need it anymore." Sherlock answered simply, in such a way that alluded to the foolishness of such a question.
"Why don't we need a phone? We've got people to call, ya? Grandparents, friends..." John muttered, blinking as he realized that his grandparents were dead and they had no friends. Yet he stuck to his point, for his posture never wavered, and his fists remained clenched. Sherlock smiled at him, tucking the knife into the drawer and setting the sponge where it sat on the edge of the sink.
"We don't need to call them, for they have nothing to say that cannot be said here." Sherlock decided, walking towards John with a twinkle in his eye, for he knew that John's presence in his life was bound to be permanent.
"That's obscene, Sherlock, and actually kind of creepy." John decided, shaking his head in exasperation and looking back towards the destroyed phone.
"It's necessary." Sherlock assured, holding out his arms for a hug, to which John reluctantly obeyed. He didn't yet know the severity, he didn't yet know about the cars. John only assumed that Sherlock was cutting off their communication, not their transportation as well. And so he was still able to be held by Sherlock's arms, he was able to crawl into them and be cradled as he was supposed to be. He was kept by the arms that would hold and protect him for as long as Sherlock deemed necessary, those that would keep him and protect him from those who desired to do him wrong. From the women that might chase him, and the men that might talk down on him...it was Sherlock's job now to keep such villains at bay. This was his act of taking up the mantle, of taking his spot on the throne of the Holmes household. He was the champion, and he was the king. He would be loved and feared, that was how he shall rule. No one would dare leave the house, yet they had no reason to all the same. He would be...well. He would be Mycroft.