Heir Apparently

The Golden Prince Rusts

           

Finally John came to stand next to Sherlock and the crowd died down, John bowed to the royalty and looked at his competitor with a smile.
"Hey Sherlock, ready for this?" John wondered.
"Please don't kill me." Sherlock whispered, and John just laughed, smiling apologetically.
"I'll do my best." He decided. "I know you've got a lot on your shoulders."
"Finalists!" the king said, getting to his feet and acknowledging the two with a proud smile. "You have come all this way, through these past three days of combat, to prove yourselves worthy of this honor. You have defeated the greatest knights in our realm, and now it is time to prove to everyone that you deserve to be here, that you are the most superior warrior in the land. I expect a clean fight, and I know that I can expect fairness and respect from both of you. Now, let the games begin!" the king finished, and the crowd erupted once more. A servant came to retrieve Sherlock's cape, plucking it off of his shoulders easily and scampering away. The two of them put on their helmets, staring at each other through the slits as they walked to the center of the arena, swords drawn. They shook hands with gloved hands, and Sherlock was almost sure he saw a smile on John's face, even through the metal.
"May the best man win." John said almost tauntingly. Sherlock growled, not thinking of anything snappy to say in return.
"Champions are you ready?" the announcer called. John gave a very obnoxious thumbs up while Sherlock just nodded, raising his sword in defense, taking slow deep breaths. This was it; this was going to be the time where everyone saw what he was and what he wasn't. He was most certainly going to lose, but all that mattered was how long it took him to lose. If he could defend himself from John's blade for just a little while then he would be alright, he would look trained enough to defend against common warfare. He stared at John's beautiful eyes behind the visor; John looked determined, venomous really, as if he were channeling all the emotions he could think of to try to get through this fight. It seemed as though emotions were something that would be a factor on both of their sides. Sherlock's blade shook in the air, his hands trembling in nervousness as he waited for the bell to ring. He just wanted this to be over he just wanted...ding. The bell rung and Sherlock's ears rung with adrenaline, his muscles tensing up but ready for action. He took one very weak swing at John's chest, to which the servant easily deflected, pushing Sherlock's arm completely out of the way. As soon as Sherlock was vulnerable John reached his foot up and kicked Sherlock as hard as he could, right in the chest. And just like that it was over. Sherlock went flying, landing on his back, sprawled out in the dirt. His sword fell from his hands; his lungs felt like they had been deflated, he could only cough and sputter in the dirt, wheezing for his next breath as he watched John step over him, standing victoriously over the defenseless prince. The bell rung not thirty seconds after it had begun, and the crowd exploded into cheers, louder than ever this time. Sherlock could only lay on the ground and cough, not worried about the humiliation so much as his own life at the moment. But soon the arena was flooded; all of these people dressed in shabby brown clothing with multiple patches ran into the dirt, all chanting John's name and cheering. They stepped over Sherlock, they stepped on Sherlock, they kicked his sword out of the way and crunched his fingers with their toes as they lifted John onto their shoulders, parading him around the stadium with cheers. Sherlock could only lift up his head, pulling off his helmet and taking a quick look at his father, who had sat back down in his throne with a defeated look on his face, holding his face in his hands as he watched John's victory tour. He looked absolutely humiliated, not to mention betrayed. The whole royal family looked as though they wanted to run from the crowd, they looked embarrassed to even call Sherlock their son. Sherlock felt a bubble of self-pity explode in his chest, he had been beaten by a servant, he had been defeated by the one man who he had thought he had control over. He let his head fall into the dirt, his shiny black curls getting befouled with the footprints stamped into the mud. Sherlock just lay in the arena and stared at the sky, the blue sky with only one cloud hanging in the air. One dark cloud hovering just over where Sherlock lay, as if Mother Nature was trying to tell him herself how much of a failure he was, how much of a disappointment. John had done it, he had won. He had taken the Golden Prince and made him rust.