Secretly I Think You Knew

You're Never Truly Alone

    Sherlock was admiring the silence of the house, not wanting to strain his ears too much, just in case something did move, when something sounded like a floorboard creaked outside of his door. Sherlock sat as still as he could, so still his muscles ached, but any movement, any breath could alert the intruder of his presence. There it was again, an old floorboard creaking with unusual weight, just outside Sherlock's bedroom door. Sherlock slowly rose to a sitting position, looking around for anything to defend himself with and coming up with nothing but a pencil or a paint brush, both useless against his brother's ghost. Nevertheless Sherlock wielded the pencil as a sort of spear, holding it tightly in his fist as he pulled the curtain back. Was Mycroft still there? Was he somehow alive again, waiting for Sherlock to come out of his room, waiting to release his hellish revenge on his murderer? Sherlock's blood ran cold, listening as hard as he could for any sign that his brother was still there, but none came. Sherlock rose to his feet, walking slowly and quietly to the bedroom door, his pencil sharp and ready to get jabbed in someone's eye if worse comes to worse. Sherlock got closer and closer but no sound came, nothing except the small creaking of the floorboards under his feet, nothing except his quick breaths, noting except his beating heart. Soon Sherlock was up against the door, pressing his ear to the old, rotting wood and listening for movement, anything that would alarm him of someone else in the house. There was still silence, but for some reason Sherlock felt the need to investigate, or at least get down to the kitchen in an attempt to arm himself against more potential threats. He was sure that if he woke up in the middle of the night with his brother's rotting corpse standing at the foot of his bed, a mere pencil wouldn't do a thing. No, Sherlock needed to arm himself with Mycroft's weapon of choice, a kitchen knife. So he slowly opened the door and peered into the dark hallway, the light switch too far away, he would have to risk it, run down the stairs as quickly as he could, get to the warm, light, safety of the kitchen, then he could plan his escape back upstairs. Sherlock took a deep breath, his eyes flickering to his brother's room, the door shut, never to be opened again. And with that Sherlock ran, dashing across the hallway loudly, fleeing down the stairs as fast as he could and collapsing against the far wall. The entire house was dark except for his bedroom, so far, Sherlock could do this...He held the pencil out, brandishing it at shadows, shadows he expected to move if he didn't watch them closely enough. Sherlock walked very slowly into the kitchen, turning on the light and taking a deep breath of relief. He had made it, he was safe. Sherlock dropped his pencil onto the table and walked over to the cutlery drawer, pulling it open and picking out a small steak knife. It was small enough so that he could fit it into his desk drawer but wicked enough to slit someone's throat, if need be. Sherlock grasped it by the handle, feeling a new sort of power flowing through him. He was armed, and he knew how to use a knife. He had used it against others, he had taken the life of others, bled them out, murdered them, with a knife. And he wasn't afraid to do it again. Sherlock closed the drawer and walked over to the light switch, feeling as though he was pulling himself though a whole new region of terror as he flicked it off, plunging himself once more in a state of inky blackness. As Sherlock walked towards the stairs, the hand that held the knife shook slightly, ready to stab anyone who dared come close. He heard a low, ominous creaking sound, coming from the basement door. Fear burned through his veins as, through the darkness of the house, he could see what looked like the door opening, even though he distinctly remembered locking it before he had made his dinner. Something, or someone, was opening it again. And then he saw a foot, taking a large step into the hallway, the shadowed, pale foot of his brother, walking once more. Sherlock screamed, running to the phone and dropping the knife in terror, punching in John's number as the shadowed figure got closer and closer.
"STAY AWAY FROM ME!" Sherlock screeched desperately, scrambling to retrieve the knife and thrusting it at his attacker. He couldn't see Mycroft's face but he saw the outline of his body, moving slowly, closer and closer, up from the basement stairs. There was a cold aura radiating off of him, the cold air from the freezer, the slow dripping of water and blood as he dragged himself across the hallway carpet.
"Sherlock, what, Sherlock are you there?" John's voice asked from the other end of the phone. Sherlock scurried behind the couch, the phone cord just barely reaching as he curled into a ball in the brightest patch of moonlight he could find.
"John...he's here....John he's back." Sherlock whispered, paralyzed with fear.
"Sherlock, what's wrong?" John yelled, sounding so distant, so far away. He couldn't help, not now, he was too late.
"Mycroft." Sherlock whispered. "Mycroft is alive." John hung up as soon as Sherlock finished his sentence, letting the phone fall limply from his hands and fling back into the middle of the living room, the cord raveling back up and leaving the receiver, beeping to be hung up, right next to Mycroft's chair. Sherlock cowered in fear, curling into a tight ball and holding the knife to his chest, hiding where he hoped Mycroft couldn't find him. He waited there for about ten terrified minutes, every second that went by felt like an hour, every sound from the wind outside to a cricket on the window sill to the heating struggling to turn on, somehow it was all Mycroft. Every sound was his breath, every small movement were his frozen limbs, moving once more, everything in this house was alive with the ghost of Mycroft, surrounding Sherlock and making sure he had nowhere to hide.
"Sherlock, Sherlock!" John voice called, the front door slamming open as John ran into the house. John was the only one that Sherlock knew wasn't Mycroft. He was the exact opposite of Mycroft, he was God and Mycroft was the Devil himself. John turned on a lamp, illuminating a small square of the living room, gasping as he noticed Sherlock, cowering in a tight little ball behind the couch.
"Sherlock, are you alright?" John muttered, holding out a hand for Sherlock to take. Sherlock just stared at him; his eyes alight with fear, staring at John as if wondering if he were real or simply another character of his imagination, spilling into reality.
"John, he's back." Sherlock whispered, yet slowly he reached and grasped John's hand, holding it tight and letting John pull him to his shaky feet.
"How could he be Sherlock? You're seeing things, Mycroft's dead, we both ensured that." John insisted.
"I...I saw him, he came up from the basement, in the darkness, he came up." Sherlock whimpered, letting the knife he was holding fall to the floor as his fingers lost their will to hold onto it any longer.
"It's alright, Sherlock I'm here; I won't let him get you." John assured, holding Sherlock close and wrapping his protective arms around the shaking boy.
"We need to get rid of him, he's haunting me." Sherlock whispered. He let John hold him as close as he could, grasping onto the fabric of John's shirt with shaking hands, pressing his face against John's warm chest, feeling safe for once in his life. Feeling as if nothing could hurt him again.
"There's nowhere we can put him, it's not like we can bury him, or cremate him." John insisted.
"We can burn him outside, in the backyard. Mycroft always loved camp fires, he has a stack of wood next to the house, we can burn his body on that." Sherlock suggested.
"Will that get rid of him?" John asked, stroking his fingers through Sherlock's curls in an attempt to calm him down. Sherlock nodded weakly.
"I hope so. Everywhere there is darkness, there is Mycroft. I see him in his chair, I see him in the basement, his presence, it's everywhere, and I'm defenseless." Sherlock whispered, his voice still shaking.
"You're not defenseless Sherlock, you have me, and I won't let anything happen to you." John insisted.
"There are things you can't prevent." Sherlock insisted.
"Are there? Like what?" John wondered. Sherlock simply laughed, a small, appreciative laugh that made John smile as well.
"You can't prevent me falling in love with you even more." Sherlock decided. John just laughed as well; Sherlock could feel his chest moving up and down, he could feel his heart beating faster, John Watson, his savior.
"Well, you've got me there." He decided. Sherlock pulled himself up so that he could loom over John once more, standing at full height and looking at John with sad, scared eyes.
"We need to burn him." Sherlock whispered.
"And we will, if that's what you want." John agreed.
"It's the only way I can be rid of him forever." Sherlock insisted, pressing a cold hand against John's warm cheek, holding his face there so that he could never turn away, never leave Sherlock alone again.
"Alright then. I'll go and get the body." John decided.
"I'll come with you." Sherlock offered.
"Are you sure? It's awfully scary down there." John warned with a laugh, pressing a kiss to Sherlock's forehead.
"Then you shouldn't be down there alone. Besides, my brother loved cake; you won't be able to lift him alone." Sherlock insisted.
"I love you Sherlock." John decided. "I love you so much."
"I love you as well John. I'm happy to know I can rely on you to come when I call." Sherlock agreed.
"I will always come when you need me, and I will stay with you the rest of the night." John assured.
"What did you tell your parents?" Sherlock asked, not wanting to get John in more trouble than he already had.
"The truth, bent a little bit. I said that your brother is away on business and you were scared to stay in the house alone." John admitted.
"I'm not...scared." Sherlock muttered, grabbing the phone and hanging it back up on the wall.
"Sherlock, you called me, shaking, and I found you behind the couch with a steak knife muttering about how your brother's ghost has returned from the freezer to haunt you. If that's not scared, I don't know what is." John said with a little laugh.
"Alright, maybe I was a little bit scared, but at least I have my knight in shining armor to come help me." Sherlock admitted, and John just shook his head, looking flattered nevertheless.
"Alright, let's go get your brother." he decided, walking over the basement door rather reluctantly. Sherlock took a deep, worried breath, watching as John went over to the door. He looked equally nervous, of course as brave as he tried to be the idea of Mycroft's corpse was just as disturbing, even to John Watson.
"You're sure that this was all an illusion, right? I mean, he's not actually...alive?" John asked, his voice shaking slightly as he pondered the idea.
"I think so. I've been going a bit, well, I've always been a bit...crazy." Sherlock muttered, not wanting to say the word and admit it to himself.
"If someone's not just the slightest bit crazy then there's something seriously wrong with them." John decided. Sherlock nodded with an uneasy laugh, watching as John's hovered over the door handle, and without warning he yanked the door open, making Sherlock scream in fright, expecting some sort of ghost to come swirling out. But John stared down the dark stairs, not looking very scared, so that means Mycroft's bloody corpse wasn't waiting for him on the stairs.
"The freezer's shut, it's locked." John insisted.
"I want him out anyway." Sherlock whispered. John nodded, starting down the stairs and turning on the single light bulb, disappearing behind the wall. Sherlock walked over to the door, not wanting to go closer but also not wanting to get too much distance between John and himself, so he very slowly and very regretfully started down the stairs. The wood creaked under his feet and the lightbulb buzzed and clicked, as if there was a bug trapped inside trying desperately to escape. John was already at the freezer, easing the lock open and pushing open the door, the cold air rushing out and chilling Sherlock to the bone.
"He's here, they're all here." John assured, his voice bouncing off the frozen, empty walls of the freezer. Sherlock came down as well, his feet touching solid ground as he walked into the freezer, wrapping his arms around himself and shivering.
"The memories that come from this place..." John muttered, obviously there were too many memories, of good and bad, to possibly describe. Sherlock walked cautiously over to his brother's body, looking down at its broken, disfigured form, Mycroft's face twisted into an expression of fear and shock, the knife stuck into his heart instead of his stomach, where Sherlock had thought he had left it. Mycroft's face was blue, ice crystals forming on his skin and in his eyes, clinging to his lips; he looked more ghastly than anything Sherlock could ever dream up. The blood that should've frozen into a solid pool was disfigured, swirled and pushed to the side as if it had been disrupted as it froze.
"The knife moved." Sherlock pointed out. John looked down at the blade, looking rather guilty.
"Ya, I um, I thought it was more appropriate in the heart." He admitted. Sherlock looked over at John with a slight smile, proud of his boyfriend for thinking of something so maniacal and twisted.
"It is definitely more appropriate there." He agreed, grabbing the knife and yanking it out of his brother's chest, just in case he needed to use it later.
"Do you have a blanket or something, we could drag him up, it might be easier." John suggested.
"Ya, up in the closet, I could go..." Sherlock started, but John held up a hand to silence him.
"I'll get it, in the closet?" John asked.
"Ya, just grab anything, a sheet, a blanket, they really don't matter to me." Sherlock admitted.
"Alright then, stay here and don't freeze." John decided, dashing up the stairs and leaving Sherlock alone with the bodies. He moved on from Mycroft's to Victor's, lying there where he had left him, the frozen skin and blood looking a lot more beautiful than Mycroft could ever look. Sherlock kneeled down next to the body, running his finger softly against Victor's frozen cheek, watching as the skin cracked at his touch, feeling Victor's cold skin once more. He didn't deserve this fate, no more than John did, Victor never deserved to die. He was so young, so beautiful, he could've loved Sherlock just as much as John had, but Sherlock could never love him as much as he loved John. Victor may be handsome, and polite, and loving, but John was all of that and more. There were no words to describe John Watson; Sherlock only knew that he was so much more than Victor Trevor ever was.
"I got the..." John's words cut off when he saw Sherlock stroking Victor's face, obviously a bit taken about by Sherlock's sudden affection to the body. Sherlock looked up rather cautiously, smiling slightly at John's reappearance and getting to his feet.
"I want to do something with Victor as well, but he doesn't deserve to get burned. Or at least, not like we'll burn Mycroft." Sherlock insisted.
"Alright, we'll do something with him later, but for now, let's take care of your brother." John decided. Sherlock nodded and started over to help John unfold the sheet he had grabbed.