John POV: All night John pondered what might be going onin Sherlock's head, yet never that night could he have realized what hadalready become of the man he needed to love. That night as he lay in bed, hecould never quite fathom the stranger who he now lie next to, the one thatmight have once been Sherlock, yet who had morphed into someone quitedifferent, yet someone startlingly familiar all the same. He stared through thedarkness, while Sherlock laid very still and very stiff on his back, his eyesshut and his eyelids staring up towards the ceiling. John lie next to him yetcould not will his eyes to shut, for just now he was contemplating if it waseven safe to allow himself to slip into unconsciousness while this man sleptnext to him. Did he sleep? Was he actually able to these days, or did he simplylie there, with controlled breathing? Did he have any reason to sleep anymore? John studied him, the way hischest rose and fell, the way his nostrils flared as he exhaled heavily, and theway his eyelids remained stretched tight and unmoving over his eyeballs. Thosebeautiful things, the beautiful galaxies that were housed in his irises, thosevery eyes that were these days forever ridden with madness. John stared atSherlock and thought again to how much he loved him, and what that love mighthave to drive him to do. Just as someone loved a family pet, when they showedsigns of a sickness that would only progress more it was customary to put itdown. And Sherlock...well Sherlock was showing all the telltale signs of adisease that might take over his brain any moment these days. A disease thatwas progressing him into something of a secluded paranoia, in which he assumedthe outside world was hostile. Yet it was the same world that he had known, itwas the same world which had housed him and held him throughout his days offreedom. It was the same world which brought the two of them together. Yet thatalone...did that make it harsh? Or was it in fact destiny, and not cruelty, thathad driven these two to be inseparable? John breathed carefully, for he did notwant to wake Sherlock if he was indeed asleep, and he was too afraid to facewhat might become of Sherlock in his consciousness. He seemed to be seeping inhis own madness, basking in the obsessions of his delusions, and listening toointently to the voices in the back of his head. He was beginning to show signsthat John could not ignore, signs that he was cracking, and that he wasbecoming something that was difficult to love, tolerate, and live with. Thephone line was just one of the many offenses in these short days, his obsessionwith Victor, his declaration of love, and his sudden wardrobe change had allgot John on edge, thinking about what might be happening inside of that head.That beautiful head, which was supposed to be his to value forever, yet thatwhich might be breaking from the inside. That what might be dead already. Johnrolled onto his back as well, tearing his eyes away from Sherlock and staringinstead at the darkened ceiling, staring at it and wondering what his lifecould come to if Sherlock was no longer in it. Wondering if his love would needto drive him to murder, for there was no way Sherlock would walk away, andthere wasn't a chance that John would let that happen. To leave Sherlock wouldbe a fate worse than death, and John didn't want him to suffer. He didn't wanthim to hurt, and even now he knew that Sherlock was facing pains which he couldnot describe, for they did not physical hurt. Yet the strains, and the obsessions, and the fears which were completelyirrational, those were the symptoms of the ailment which befell him. His mindwas sick, and it could not send out any warning signs because it could notprocess the disease anything other than impending logic. Presumably Sherlockwas seeing the world differently, and he saw it as cruel, and unforgiving.Presumably Sherlock saw John as a sneak, and as a traitor, and he saw Rosie asa small demon which was constantly out to plague him. What he saw was not true,nor was it fair to any party, yet still he suffered, and still John wept forhim. He wept silently, in his own head, for the battle which might be raging inhis lover's brain. And he wept because he could not imagine a world withoutSherlock Holmes, yet all the same might be forced to live it. For a madman madea terrible husband, and an unreliable father. A madman could only live safely in a cell lined with rubber, and that wasnot the fate which John envisioned for him. If Sherlock had to leave then hehad to die, and it would be an honor on both of their parts if he too should bemarched down those stairs to the freezer, and live through what had happened toevery other man which he had dared love. It was the curse of a member of theHolmes family, after all, to meet their abrupt end in this house. It didn'tjust absorb the madness, it expelled it as well. It didn't just witness death,it handed it out. Death was almost as common as life in these walls, and wouldbe just as necessary if things progressed down the path they seemed to befollowing.
John woke up at the same time he normally did, both relieved and afraid to see that the bed was empty next to him. It was supposed to be empty, of course Sherlock always got up before him, however this morning there was a hanging sense of climax, this morning seemed to be a lot more portentous than the rest of the mornings spent in this house. John got to his feet and dressed quickly, still unable to shake the feeling of uneasiness even as he descended the stairs to the normal smells of coffee, bacon, and eggs. He searched the house as he went, yet the only things that were very obvious to him were still the portrait of Victor (which still made him cringe) and the cut phone wire. All the rest seemed to be just as he had left it. The basement door was shut, and John could only assume that it had not been opened since they last ascended the stairs. He hoped that Sherlock had kept away from those bones, and all evidence suggested that he had. Then again, who knows how he spends his days now that he was alone? John went to the kitchen to find Sherlock at his normal spot at the stove, and for a moment he could breathe a sigh of relief. Surely it was all in his head, and this cloud of threatening energy had all just been due to some random paranoia which had sparked in his head. Sherlock looked over at John with a smile, for he did seem to be in quite a good mood.
"You're up early." Sherlock pointed out, turning away once more just to poke at the eggs once more with his spatula.
"Not really." John defended, shrugging his shoulders and going to get a cup of coffee from where the pot was freshly brewed and steaming.
"Well, I say early as in it's usually in two minutes that you arrive." Sherlock admitted.
"You're saying I'm two minutes early, and that's surprising?" John asked with a little laugh, leaning up against the counter and smiling up at his dearest love. Sherlock looked normal this morning, which meant nothing of course. Madness didn't make itself very visible, all the while John had known Sherlock the ugliness inside never interrupted the beauty that shown on his face.
"You're usually rather punctual." Sherlock corrected, grinning all the while he tended to their breakfast.
"Yes well, maybe today I decided to change it up. Maybe today was my day to be a rebel!" John exclaimed sarcastically, leaning in for a quick morning kiss before going back to the table and starting on the newspaper as he always did. Nothing was very interesting today, as nothing ever was these days, for the town's only serial killer had now converting to cooking breakfast with a flowery apron on. Such was a good transition, and times were well. At least, John assumed they were. He was trying to tell himself to calm down, yet still something inside of him was telling him repeatedly that something was wrong. Something was different, and his heart could not slow, nor would the hairs on his arms settle back down to his skin where they belonged. Something was off, yet he would not acknowledge if for he did not want to. There was nothing obvious, and so he forced himself to settle into his breakfast as he always did.
"Here we go, breakfast is served." Sherlock said proudly, coming over with a nicely arranged plate of eggs and bacon as he most always did. Sherlock had evidently found his breakfast niche, for it never shifted yet it never disappointed. John found that he could actually enjoy Sherlock's meals these days, which was a feat that his past self would obviously think to be impossible.
"Thank you Sherlock, it looks lovely." John said with an appreciative smile, rounding up that beautiful man and pressing a kiss to his hand all while Sherlock tried to sneak away and start on the dishes. He giggled joyfully, and that alone was able to put John's mind at rest for now. The sound of Sherlock's laughter, and the knowledge of his content, was enough to calm him for now. John enjoyed his breakfast, and as usual Sherlock took his place next to him at the table when he was finished cleaning, pulling the comic strips from the bundle of newspaper content so that he could sit back and admire the abstractly drawn animals and humans, occasionally smiling in amusement but never laughing once. Sherlock was a strange man when it came to humor, never once had John heard him laugh at anything which would otherwise be found hilarious. Sherlock laughed for reasons which would make most anyone else cringe, he laughed at gore and at madness, yet they were laughs that were most always deprived of any amusement. Instead they were laughs of cruelty, and delight that was derived from pain. He was a very mystic and confusing man, which was why John did not expect him to very much appreciate the humor of Garfield. When john finished his breakfast Sherlock still did not rise, in fact he let John's plat sit there and watched him with some sort of pleased look on his face.
"What's with you this morning?" John asked, getting to his feet and pulling around at his outfit so as to smooth it out. Neither man had perfected or even attempted ironing, so his clothes were especially wrinkled these days as a result.
"Am I not allowed to enjoy the morning anymore?" Sherlock asked with a sort of innocent laugh, as if he felt as though he was being attacked in whatever way. John merely smirked, shrugging his shoulders and starting towards the hallway.
"I suppose you're allowed." He agreed with a grin. John went to get Rosie, for he had forgotten in all that morning's mayhem that she was supposed to be up at this time too, for he was to drop her off at daycare before he went off to work. There was some panic in this process, for Rosie always took too long to get ready than would an average four year old, and so while she dressed John took it upon himself to fix her a nice bowl of cereal. Eggs would take too long to cook, yet Sherlock had volunteered all the same. He was now leaning up against the counter, watching with a very amused look in his eye as the Watsons ran about and attempted to get ready for their day. John had almost expected him to be upset about this process, for yesterday he had moped around all morning after finding out that he would be left alone. He had made a great big scene so as to emphasize to everyone just how hurt he was, as if it was all their sole responsibility these days to entertain him and keep him company. Yet today he was surprisingly calm, which might have been all the indication that John needed for what was coming next. That might solely be the reason he felt so at ease, the mere fact that Sherlock too was extremely calm.
"Alright Rosie, ready to go?" John asked, noticing that Rosie's bowl of cereal was just about empty as he was running around, attempting to get things all set and ready for the day. He had his briefcase, and Rosie's lunchbox, and of course his jacket was slung uselessly on his shoulder. Rosie nodded, wiping the excess milk from her lips with the back of her hand and rushing to get her pink fluffy jacket from where it hung in the closet.
"I'll see you later Sherlock, I love you." John said with a little grin, walking up to Sherlock and giving a quick peck in farewell. Of course such a thing was a little bit underwhelming, for he had almost expected Sherlock to be extra clingy and loving. However he seemed perfectly happy with a mere peck, and waited next to the counter as John steered Rosie off to the garage. Sherlock said nothing, which was surprising and unnerving all at the same time, yet it became clear what John feared, and what Sherlock was expecting. It all made perfect sense, really, when John opened the door of the garage to find that his car was sitting a good couple of inches lower than it should have been...with tires deflated all the way to mere strips of rubber clinging uselessly to the machine. For a moment he was speechless, and some optimistic yet crazy part of him decided to blame either rouge teen vandals or possibly the freak occurrence that all four tires had suddenly decided to deflate over the night. Both of these options were much more preferable than what must be the truth, than the fact that there must be slashes somewhere on the tires, slashes made by a certain maniac. John took a sharp breath, looking back to the door and beginning to wonder if he should even go back inside. There was no reason for him to stay out here, and no way for him to leave, however going back would be playing to Sherlock's wishes, he would be finishing the heinous game of obsession which Sherlock had been setting up all night. Slashing the tires, disconnecting the phone...well this was becoming something of a prison, was it not? This house, there was no real way to leave except to walk back, and such a task would be impossible to a little girl of Rosie's age. She could hardly make it up the stairs without finding herself out of breath, and John could never leave without her. They were captured then, like animals perhaps, or merely a dog in a cage, with the sole intent of being admired and loved yet trapped all the same. Sherlock really had lost it then, hadn't he? John swallowed hard, looking about the garage to see if perhaps one of the Holmes family members had ever kept a bicycle about. However the very idea of either Sherlock or Mycroft taking up any form of exercise was almost laughable, and he realized that after a quick sweep of the premises that such a search would be useless. No they were stranded, here with the madman, here with someone whose intentions were otherwise unknown.
"Daddy aren't we going to go?" Rosie asked quietly, obviously unable to tell just what was the matter here. She didn't know anything about cars, nor of the phone which was useless, nor of the lack of signal out here. She didn't realize that they couldn't leave, nor did she realize that there was no way to call for proper help. She was useless to realize that they were in something of a conundrum, and caught in a web which was woven especially for them by expert hands and craftsmanship. Sherlock knew how to trap them; he did it to a tee, yet now was the question of why he would go through such lengths. Now they could not go to the grocery store, they couldn't work or make money to upkeep their electric bills. They would go starving, if the depression of everlasting darkness did not kick in first, or perhaps the lack of running water. John knew that in some way or another one of them was going to need to hitchhike or walk back to town, however he had a sneaking suspicion that such operations would have to be done when Sherlock had gone off to bed, or when he was debilitated in some way. John suspected that Sherlock would not want anyone going off for help, and he would much rather waste away in the walls of this horrible manor than let the family he had come to love search for anyone who might save their life.
"No Rosie...we're not going to go. Why don't we stay here for a little while longer? Perhaps I can take another sick day." John muttered apprehensively, for he knew that his work would surely fire him after he showed up without explanation for days at an end. However he had no way to call, no way to contact anyone. His saving grace might be his boss come to break down his door, oh that horrible man might actually be the person responsible for saving John's life if it ever came to that. At the moment such a situation would not be dire; being trapped in this house was quite doable for maybe a week or so, until the food began to run out. Until the bills slackened, or the madness of being caged up took them all by the throat. This was not a short term problem, yet in the long run John saw Sherlock's actions could be downright deadly.
"Alright!" Rosie said happily. "I didn't want to go to daycare anyway."
"That's good. Well, you might not have to go for a while actually." John murmured, putting one hand on his daughter's shoulder and very carefully leading her back into the house. Sherlock was waiting, as John knew he must have been this whole time, not having moved from the counter on which he leaned. He looked pleased with himself; almost as if in that short moment between John's departure and arrival that Sherlock had almost worried he was not coming back. As if somehow the plan had failed, and John figured out a way to drive his car without any traction or lift.
"Back so soon?" Sherlock asked with a little smile, smiling as if he was pretending to have nothing to do with the matter. As if John didn't distinctly remember Sherlock going in and out of the garage last night, right before he cut the phone, before washing a knife in the sink.
"Yes well, haven't got much of a choice have I?" John wondered with a little regretful smile. Sherlock sighed heavily, yet with a look on his face that made it seem that such a sigh was one of accomplishment, as if he was proud of what he had done, proud of what he had seemingly accomplished.
"No, not much of a choice at all I'm afraid." He admitted with a sigh.
"Not to worry. I'm perfectly happy staying at home, and Rosie had already admitted that she didn't want to go to daycare." John assured, trying to keep an upbeat attitude, trying to make it seem as though none of this was bothering him at all. However it was, in fact this all was cutting rather deeply into his soul. He was worried, deeply worried, about what Sherlock's intentions were. He knew of course that this was the last straw out of a sizable pile; he understood that this little endeavor was going to cost them both a relationship that they desperately wanted to preserve. Yet how could he these days, how could he tolerate Sherlock and his acting out for the rest of whatever remained of his life? John very well could die this very day, at the hands of a man who claimed to love him. And that would be fine, in fact John wouldn't' mind such a death at all, had it not been for Rosie. She needed him to stay alive, it was his daughter which he did everything for, and he desperately did not want to leave her in the hands of what should have been her other father. Of someone who should be caring for her, who should be watching over her like any able bodied and responsible guardian might have. Yet he did no such thing, Sherlock proved himself to be unsuitable in a domestic environment, he proved himself to be unable to control his own brain and therefore he needed to meet his end. And quickly.
"Good, John. It's good that you're staying home with me." Sherlock muttered thankfully, opening his arms wide so as to let John walk towards him carefully. It was a hug that should not have been awkward, for they had held each other in their arms many times before, however today John's arms were stiff, and his heart trembled with fear instead of passion. Who knows what sort of weapons Sherlock might have clenched in his fist, or hidden up his sleeve? Was he intending to starve the Watsons out, or was he instead going to have pity on them and cut their throats? Did he understand that his actions could very well lead to their deaths, and if he did understand, did he even care? Or was this all part of his plan, the finale of what thirteen years had done to him. He wanted to get a family and keep it all to himself, he wanted to rule this house with an iron fist and an iron chain, in which he shackled all of them together yet pretended to love them all the same. Sherlock's actions were going to cost them all a great many things, one of those thing was ultimately going to be a life. Yet who was going to be killed first, who would get the pleasure and who would get the opportunity? Would John have to take the initiative and get Sherlock by his throat, or would it be Sherlock and his steady plan of starvation that would take them all in the end? Was this now not a battle for love and household control, but for life and death?