Let The Shadows Win

The Beast Looms Closer

Sherlock didn't want to wait long, although he knew that there was a perfect time and place to do such a crime. It had been a week since he had planned it with John, and a week since he had seen John all together. He knew that would give the man enough to time to say goodbye, yet enough time in between their meetings and their phone calls so anyone who might want to poke into the disappearance would not see too obvious a connection. Sherlock wanted to tell himself that there was a better alternative to all of this, that he could merely talk John into divorcing the woman, that or he could tie her up somewhere and tell her husband that she was dead. Yet as he sat on his couch thinking it over he decided that not only would keeping her alive ruin the whole point of murdering her, but it would also take out all the fun. And fun of course was his main priority. Sherlock had missed the rush adrenaline that came when he took someone's life, the feeling of power he hardly ever experienced these days! Thirteen years had cost him a lot, and of course those thirteen years were punishment for doing exactly what he was preparing to do again. Yet this time he was smarter, this time he was more discreet. Not a soul would ask of Mary because the only person who cared was the one asking for her murder, no one would bother when she vanished because no one would care enough to notice. She was a housewife, presumably with family who lived far off. John would be the only one knowing enough to sound the alarm, and since he was the one setting the dogs on Mary then it was evident that he would keep the entire thing hushed up. It was going to be the perfect plan, a completely low flying operation that would produce a result that no one would notice unless they wanted to. And who of course, who want to notice such a thing? And so Sherlock didn't hesitate as much as he should have, in fact he was growing more and more excited by the minute. He sat on the couch, thinking of his past murders and what had driven him to kill. Predominantly it had been fear, yet the last (uncompleted) attempt had been love. And tonight, well it would be a mixture of them both supposedly. Sherlock killed Mary because of his love for John, and yet he also killed her in fear that her presence still on this earth would keep John from being his. He killed her out of selfishness, among other things, for Sherlock learned now just how hard it was to share something you wanted all to yourself. John was that something, and Mary was of course the unyielding woman who felt that she was still entitled to him. Yet she was not the first...no she was not the first. And that was why she had to die. And so Sherlock began over to the Watson's house somewhere near three o'clock in the afternoon, a sunny Monday when he knew that John would be at work and Rosie would be occupied in some childish way. Playing with her dolls, no doubt, while her mother puttered around the house with her cooking and cleaning and whatever else a housewife even did. Sherlock wasn't alone when he walked; no Mycroft and Victor had been gracious enough to materialize for this trip. The air was heavy with excitement from the three of them, yet the common passerby would not notice such an energy. They would not look at Sherlock as anyone suspicious, for he was just another person out for a walk. The sidewalks were made for travelers, even ones who walked heavily upon a silver topped cane, walking with a smile on their face into suburbia. 

 John POV: Sherlock never told him when or where, yet when John arrived at his house that evening he knew it had been done. He knew because he rolled his car into the driveway and heard silence, an unnerving silence, one that set heavily upon the house like a thick, dismal fog. John took a deep breath, clutching to the handle of his car and wondering just what he had done, what they had both done. And most importantly, he wondered if they were going to get away with it. Murder was a daring thing, especially when it was attempted with such obvious motives and such obvious suspects. Yet it was done, and there was no turning back now. John knew that before he even stepped foot into the dismal house. John got out of his car and walked up to the front door, as he always did, to find that it was unlocked. He stepped inside quietly, to find as promised that the house was empty. Or at least it assumed to be. The lights were off, yet there was music playing from somewhere. He could hear the steady melodies of what sounded to be opera flowing from the living room, from the old stereo system that had been replaced in whole by their Bluetooth speakers hidden about the house. John walked through the darkness and finally arrived in the kitchen, finding that everything was just as he had left it. He wondered where Sherlock took her life, he wondered how. The music was loud yet it seemed to be playing for no one, almost as if the entire house had been deserted while he was away. The windows provided whatever illumination they could behind the thick curtains, all of which had been drawn, yet there was enough light streaming in so that while it was bright outside, it appeared to be but dusk or dawn inside. John walked about the kitchen, running his fingers along the counter tops and checking to see if the oven had been used, as it usually was at this hour. It was strange for Mary to be out, which only proved even more validly that she hadn't left by choice.