Secretly I Think You Knew

A Different Kind of Oath

"Well Sherlock, what are you waiting for?" Mycroft asked, materializing next to the bed and placing his hand on Sherlock's shoulder lightly, just as he did in the freezer. The very hand that had driven Sherlock to murder.
"John, this is the only way we can ever be together, the dead, they talk to me, they're always in my head, they can never leave no matter what." Sherlock whispered, his eyes alight with madness.
"You think that just because I'm alive I will pick someone over you?" John whispered.
"Yes, of course he will." Mycroft agreed.
"Yes, of course you will." Sherlock repeated, his hands shaking as he pressing the knife deeper into John's throat, a fine line of blood traveling across the blade and soaking into the blankets.
"I would never leave you Sherlock. I would never want to." John assured. He was lying, saying anything he could to save his own neck. Literally.
"Sherlock you know that's a lie. The moment he decides you're not entertaining enough he will leave you behind." Victor insisted, appearing at the other side of the bed.
"You're saying I have to do this?" Sherlock asked.
"Yes of course. You have no other options." Mycroft agreed. John looked confused for a moment, well, about as confused as you could be when a knife was pressing into your windpipe.
"Who are you talking to?" he muttered.
"They're here John, they're here." Sherlock whispered, leaning down so close the he could feel the terrified breaths escaping John's lips. "They've never left."
"Sherlock, they're not real! They're in your head, you're going mad." John insisted.
"We're both mad, we're all mad John. It's the only way to have a little bit of fun in this world." Sherlock pointed out. John started to struggle against Sherlock's weight, he knew he could get past him; it was the matter of whether or not he should.
"The moment I kill you John, you join them in my head, we can all live together in peace." Sherlock whispered, kissing John ever so softly. "Don't you want to be in peace?"
"Sherlock if you kill me we can't ever be together." John insisted, managing to worm one of his hands out from under Sherlock's.
"YES WE CAN!" Sherlock exclaimed, rising up and gesturing to the corners where Mycroft and Victor stood. "Can't you see them?" John took this opportunity to grab the hand holding the knife and push it away. The blade slipped from Sherlock grasp and flew to the floor with a metallic clang. Sherlock growled in frustration, but there were other means of death. Much more intimate ways to take a life.
"John don't you see what you're doing, you're denying us our future, our forever!" Sherlock insisted, holding John down once more and kissing his forehead repeatedly, cherishing the way John's warm skin felt under his lips.
"Just because I love you doesn't mean I'm going to submit to this insanity." John insisted. "Something happened to you the night we burned your brother, something broke."
"I saw the light John. I saw them." Sherlock whispered, shaking in anticipation. "If I can't slit your throat then maybe I'll just have to break your neck."
"Do it Sherlock, you know that he deserves it." Mycroft whispered.
"I never denied you the right to take my life. I never struggled; I knew that it was necessary." Victor insisted. "Maybe he's not the one, maybe he doesn't care as much as I do."
"Shut up Victor, you and I both know that he's the one." Sherlock snapped, wrapping his hands around John's neck as if feeling just how to break it. "I've never done this before. It should be very interesting, feeling your beautiful bones snap beneath my fingers."
"Sherlock, no!" John screamed, pulling all of his body weight to the side and managing to send Sherlock flying off of him, falling off of the bed and onto the floor. Unfortunately the knife was already lying on the hardwood, and when Sherlock went down the knife went plunging into his upper leg, making him scream in agony, in pain. As he dug the knife out of his quad John took the opportunity to run from the bedroom, starting down the hall and down the stairs.
"John no!" Sherlock screamed, trying to drag himself to his feet using the bedpost, pain paralyzing his legs, blood gushing onto the floor, his own blood, not the blood of his love.
"JOHN COME BACK HERE!" he shrieked, falling over himself near the door, clawing at the plush carpet, trying to pull himself into the hallway, feeling so weak and helpless, knowing that if he didn't get John in his grasp that they would never be together. If John ran out those doors he was never coming back.
"WE NEED TO BE TOGETHER FOREVER! WE NEED TO LOVE EACH OTHER LIKE WE WERE MEANT TO!" Sherlock screamed, feeling as though the same blade was slicing his heart in half.
"What are you doing Sherlock, get up!" Mycroft insisted.
"Get after him, he's leaving!" Victor agreed, sounding a little bit less urgent. He didn't care what happened to John; he wanted Sherlock all to himself.
"What do you think I'm trying to do?" Sherlock hissed, gasping in pain as his wound dragged against the floor. "JOHN WE WERE SUPPOSED TO DIE FOR EACH OTHER! We were supposed to grow old..." Sherlock whispered, staring at the floor in defeat, knowing there was no way John was going to come back. Knowing that John wasn't willing to make the final sacrifice. He clenched his fists in agony, pounding the floor on which he lay, screaming in defeat, tears leaking out of his eyes.
"You weak child! How dare you let him escape, how dare you just lie there? I raised you to be strong, to be tougher than this. It's a little scratch, get him!" Mycroft yelled, appearing at the door and gesturing madly. "You were so worried about him leaving you, you should've just killed him, you made sure he could run! Trying to be dramatic, trying to be clever, you always were such a disappointment."
"Sherlock I thought you said you loved him. I thought you were willing to fight for your love." Victor agreed.
"Stop, stop, I do, I love him." Sherlock whispered, unable to move another inch. This was where his love story came to an end. This was where the only light in his life went out.
"But he doesn't love you." Mycroft pointed out with a sigh, as if he were really anticipating the I told you so.
"Not enough to die for you." Victor agreed.
"He never loved me enough." Sherlock whispered, grasping the carpet and managing with much pain to roll onto his back, staring at the painting of John on the ceiling, so far away, over the bed he should've died on. "He could never make the final sacrifice." Sherlock agreed, letting his head sink farther and farther into the carpet in front of the door. John Watson, his John Watson, who he loved with all of his very soul. He hadn't been enough. He had left him. Mycroft had been right the whole time.