Heir Apparently

You May Have This Dance

           

Sherlock POV: Sherlock took one of John's hands in his own, his fingers wrapping around John's stiff fingers and pulling him closer. John looked very timid, but Sherlock's heart was racing in his chest, he had the floor now. Somehow they had both managed to get rid of their dates, a feat Sherlock thought would be a lot more difficult than it actually proved to be. Irene had been whisked away by her father before Sherlock had a time to reclaim her, which was fine with him of course. It had been Mary that he was sure would be the problem, be she seemed as eager to get away from her date as Irene had been. Maybe there was some kind of woman conspiracy going on here, but either way Sherlock didn't care, he had John Watson close, and for a moment that was the only thing that mattered.

"Alright then, put your hand on my waist." Sherlock instructed in a low voice, looking down on John with very soft eyes. John looked very handsome tonight, looking formal in his cape and crest. He almost looked as if he were royalty, which was a trait he most certainly deserved. The look of a prince, and the friend of the only prince who didn't deserve that role. Sherlock still believed that the two of them should switch entirely, and John deserved to be royalty while Sherlock should live the lowly life of a servant.
"I know that I have to do that, it's the foot work I'm not good at." John insisted, though his hand still stayed at his side.
"Well then, go on." Sherlock insisted. They were standing stone still on the dance floor, everyone else waltzing around them in annoyance.
"Isn't that kind of, you know...intimate?" John asked nervously. Sherlock just laughed, shaking his head reassuringly. But as soon as John suggested the idea something in his heart exploded, something told him that he wanted John's hand on his waist now more than ever.
"I'm teaching you how to dance John, do you want to learn or not? Dancing is an art, a beautiful art, yes it is intimate, but that's exactly the point. You need to pick your partner wisely." Sherlock insisted. With that he placed his hand gently on John's waist; feeling sparks of electricity rushing up and down his arm. John sighed heavily, but he very softly put his hand on Sherlock's waist as well, as if scared to actually let any weight fall on the other man.
"There we are, the first step." Sherlock said with a smile, stepping closer to John once more.
"Now when I step forward, you step backwards, and when I step backwards, you step forward. We may be two people, but when we dance we move as one." Sherlock said in a whisper. He stepped forward again and John stumbled back, Sherlock stepped back and John was pulled forward, stumbling on his feet very clumsily.
"You're a disaster John." Sherlock decided with a laugh. John scowled, shaking his head angrily.
"Like I said, I'm no good at this." John repeated, but he didn't just give up, which Sherlock was happy to see.
"Forwards and backwards John, forwards and backwards." He repeated. Soon they were moving to the rhythm of the music, stepping in tune and swaying together on the dance floor. They got some weird looks of course, some people may find it odd to see two men dancing together, especially when one is the champion and one is the loser. But nevertheless they danced, and soon they switched to right to left, and eventually they were walking around the dance floor, stepping in and out, forwards and backwards, moving together as if they were linked. Sherlock noticed that John soon stopped tripping, soon he was able to step gracefully, he was even starting to smile, as if he were starting to enjoy this. Sherlock held up his arm, letting John spin like a moron, his cape flowing out behind him and getting all tangled up in his legs. Sherlock pulled him back in, but John didn't stop, he went tumbling right into Sherlock, falling into his chest. Sherlock quickly wrapped his arms around him, trying to make sure that John stayed upright, at least for now, and it took a moment to them both to realize just what they were doing. John was so close, looking up at Sherlock with an apologetic and thankful glare. Sherlock was holding him in his arms, feeling his breath, feeling his heat, he almost had the temptation to lean down, as to let John's head fall onto his shoulder, he had the sudden urge to place a kiss on the top of John's forehead, just to see what his skin felt like under his lips. But before the two of them could make any action, whether that be to get closer or to move apart, there was a horrible scream from the back of the room and the sound of breaking glass. John quickly got to his own feet, grabbing Sherlock's hand in panic, as if he knew what had happened before anyone else did.
"The king!" someone shouted, to a chorus of more screams. "The king has been killed!" A rush of panic settled over the crowd, and soon everyone was scrambling this way and that, trying to get to the body, trying to escape. The band's music faltered, their instruments falling to the ground in shock. Sherlock pulled himself away from John, a feat he never would've imagined he would ever want to do, but now he needed to see his father, he needed to make sure that the last words they exchanged weren't screams. Sherlock pushed through the crowd, tripping over dresses and pushing through capes, trying to get closer, he was the prince after all, he should be priority. Sherlock could just see over the crowd's head to where the body was most certainly laying, he could see only the fallen crown, lying on its side on the stone ground, never to be worn by the same head again. Sherlock's heart cracked in two as he tried to move closer, feeling tears start to fall from his eyes, the crowd was screaming, sobbing, all of the people watching as their king lay dead on the floor. Sherlock felt someone grab his arm, pulling him closer. He didn't necessarily care who it was, whether it be his family, his friends, or the murderer himself.
"Sherlock we need to go, we need to get out of here." John's voice insisted.
"My father, he's been..." Sherlock started, but John turned him violently so that they were once again not a foot apart, staring into each other's eyes in shock. But it wasn't romantic, Sherlock didn't feel that pull of their heartstrings, he felt his tears well up even more, he saw the panic settled deep in John's beautiful eyes.
"We need to go, before the assassin comes for you as well." John insisted. Sherlock nodded numbly, letting John pull him back through the crowd of sobbing onlookers, pulling him across the empty dance floor and out the door. They ran through the hallways in a panic, their capes flowing around them as they darted down the stone steps and out the door, John leading the way the whole time.
"Where are we going?" Sherlock called out to the figure darting through the darkness in front of him. John didn't respond, he just kept running, the stars and moon being the only light to guide them through the deserted cobblestone paths. There was a bell ringing from the castle, the emergency bell, when that was rung everyone around knew that there was a tragedy. Suddenly people started to emerge from their houses, in tattered bedclothes, looking up at the castle in confusion. John ran straight through, Sherlock on his heels, until finally they ran into a building, closing the door and locking it, leaning against the wood for a moment and catching their breaths. Sherlock leaned over, steadying his shaking body on his knees and staring at the dirt floor. He could only hear the sounds of his own breathing; he could only hear his heart racing and the screaming echoing around in his head. His father was dead.
"We can stay here Sherlock, we should be safe." John decided, walking around the room. Sherlock looked up and immediately recognized the stables, dark and lonely, with the soft whining of horses as they slept.
"You don't think they'll send someone to kill me as well?" Sherlock whispered, rising shakily to his feet and following John's footsteps to the hay bales in the back corner. John paused for a second, looking back at Sherlock with an expression of pity.
"It's a possibility. I guess it's a good thing that you're with me then." John decided. Sherlock nodded, looking at the horses as they slept, standing on all fours with their eyes closed. It couldn't possibly be comfortable to sleep while standing up, but it's the only thing that the horses knew. Just like Sherlock only knew a big fluffy feather bed, and as he looked on his expected sleeping arrangements, well, he could only laugh. It was a tragic laugh, a desperate laugh to hide the tears still falling down his eyes, but a laugh all the same.
"You expect me to sleep on hay bales?" Sherlock wondered. John nodded, rearranging the hay so that there was space for the both of them to lie.
"You're always welcome to go sleep in your bedroom, but then again, you might not wake up." John insisted. Sherlock sighed heavily, looking around for anything that might make this a little bit more comfortable. But of course, there was nothing, it was a stable after all, unless he wanted to sleep in a saddle. John sat down on the hay, pulling his cape off of his back and using it as a blanket, engulfed in green fabric and looking comfortable enough.
"Not really that bad, almost as comfortable as the beds in the servant's quarters." John decided. Sherlock just stood there and stared at him, not seeing much. He could hear his last conversation with the king, eh could hear the yelling, the verbal abuse. His father had died thinking that Sherlock, his most prized son, was a failure. He would never know the true value of Sherlock, if he even had any. Sherlock would never be able to prove himself once more to the man who's opinion mattered the most. He was dead, and he was going to remain dead for as long as Sherlock lived. Then again, Sherlock didn't know how long his own life span was going to be. If the king had been assassinated then whoever his killer was would probably go after the heirs, they'd most certainly want to wipe out the entirety of the Holmes family. Maybe there was only one, maybe there were more. And if so, who hired them, or were they working alone?
"Sherlock aren't you going to sit down?" John wondered, looking up at Sherlock in confusion. Sherlock sighed heavily, walking over to the bales of hay and taking his own cape off, jumping up onto the closest bale and settling himself next to John, wrapping himself in the thin purple cape. Only now did he realize just how cold it was in this barn, the wood provided very little protection against the wind blowing outside, the cold torches on the wall swaying as the drafts snuck in through the gaps in the walls.
"Are you alright?" John wondered, looking over at Sherlock with a soft expression. Sherlock shook his head silently, not really in the mood to talk but knowing that he would be expected to all the same.
"Who's going to get the throne?" Sherlock wondered, more to himself really.
"Your brother most likely, he's the oldest." John decided.
"I was the heir though; I was supposed to get the crown, back when they thought me worthy." Sherlock admitted.
"Then it'll be you, you'll be the king." John agreed. Sherlock shook his head softly, staring at the darkness in front of him in shame.
"They don't think anything of my anymore, I'm a disgrace. They only deny the eldest son the throne if the younger is fit for the crown, but now I don't think I'm much of anything. It'll be Mycroft." Sherlock decided.
"Let's not think of this now, let's think happy thoughts." John decided.
"What could be happy now?" Sherlock wondered. John shrugged, obviously thinking very hard to think of anything joyous from Sherlock's point of view.
"He hated me John, he died hating me. After the tournament he said that he was ashamed to even call me his son." Sherlock whispered. John sighed heavily, but nodded.
"I know, I had the unfortunate coincidence of hearing your entire conversation." John agreed.
"You heard us?" Sherlock whispered, looking at John with tears welling up once more in his eyes.
"I'm sorry, I am, but Molly said you wanted to talk to me, we were outside the tent when your father went off." John admitted. Sherlock nodded, letting his head fall back onto the hay behind him, tears falling from his eyes and making their way down his cheeks.
"I have to think that this is all your fault." Sherlock whispered. There was a stunned silence; Sherlock could almost hear John's elevated heartbeat, as if scared to think what that could mean.
"Surely you can't blame me for his death?" John whispered back, fear clinging to his words, almost as if he were guilty and trying to hide it.
"I know that you had nothing to do with his murder, but I can't help but think that your victory has gotten people a little bit, rebellious. They realize that the royal family isn't invincible, they realize that all people, no matter what social class, have the power to do whatever they please, no matter how violent the task." Sherlock muttered. John shook his head softly, shifting on the hay so that he could see Sherlock better.
"I didn't want any of this to happen Sherlock, I never wanted your father's death, I never wanted you to be disgraced, it was never my intention." John insisted.
"That's not true John, just because the consequences are more personal now doesn't mean you didn't want them to begin with. That fight down at the river, I told you that I was going to kill you, and I realize that you probably had a fate worse than death prepared for me. You wouldn't take the ransom money because my downfall was priceless." Sherlock muttered.
"No, Sherlock of course not..." John started, but Sherlock shook his head, silencing him.
"It's alright John." Sherlock whispered, not giving any reasoning why. "It's alright." With that Sherlock repositioned himself so that he could lie down in the hay, being poked and prodded at all angles, his thin cape trying its best to keep him warm even though he still shivered. John lay down as well, laying on his side and staring at the broken prince as he stared at the ceiling, not wanting to look back.
"I don't want you to die Sherlock." John muttered, as if this had anything to do with their conversation previous.
"Sometimes I wonder if I deserve death or not. It's times like these that convince me." Sherlock decided, still with his eyes on the ceiling. "Goodnight." He added, ending whatever conversation John had hoped they would have.
"Goodnight." John agreed, rolling onto had back as well, farther away from the prince. Sherlock just lay there, silent and still, wanting to be closer to John but wanting to be as far away as possible at the same time. John was the boy who had destroyed his entire world, but he had done it in a way that made Sherlock want to be closer and closer to him. There was something about John Watson, something that made Sherlock want to hold onto him and never let go, a feeling that he had never experienced before. A feeling he couldn't name, and most certainly couldn't act upon. Sherlock was the prince while John was just a lowly servant, a successful one maybe, but a servant all the same. There was no way anything could ever work out between them, because the prince could never hold the hand that feeds.