Heir Apparently

You Can't But You Have To

John heard the clock strike six thirty, its solemn chimes echoing through the empty courtyard. John stood in the throne room, all alone except the statues of the kings lining the velvet carpeting. He knew that he shouldn't be in here, he knew that it was supposed to be secure, reserved only for the royals and their kings. But he couldn't help himself, he couldn't help but suspect that Sherlock was right, he really was meant to stand in this hall or sit in one of those thrones. He was meant for more than the life of a servant, than that of a farmer. He could've been a king, a prince, a hero, but instead he had been trapped into the meaningless life of a tortured farm boy. And now he was going to throw away all of that potential, he was destroying the hopes of an entire kingdom and the dreams of his little farm town, wishing that their child could return once more to them. Here he was, standing in the most magnificent halls in the land, knowing that he was going to be the one to single handedly dismantle the entire kingdom. He didn't want to put these poor people through the loss of their king once more; he knew that they didn't deserve that, that Sherlock didn't deserve any of it. But he had to do it, and surely these statues, with their empty, knowing eyes, could see that as well. They all watched John as he stood next to the thrones, facing the long, darkened passage way by which he had first entire the kingdom.
"I'm sorry." John muttered, staring up into the marble statue of the most recent king, Sherlock's father, his white, pupil less eyes staring down at John judgmentally.
"I'm sorry that I have to do this." He whispered. He stood there for a moment longer, letting the dark stained glass windows glitter above him, standing in the room where his life had been fulfilled. Standing in the room where he had thought everything was going to be okay. But it wasn't okay, at least, not anymore. Because he heard the clock chime five forty five, and he knew that he had to get a move on. He had to go kill the king. 

    As John approached the door he could feel his legs shaking, his knees were weak and his feet didn't want to move. The corridor seemed so much shorter because he knew he was dreading what lay at the end, the door, the door that lead to death, destruction, and chaos. The door that would lead not only to John's arrest and Sherlock's murder but also the deterioration of one of the biggest most powerful kingdoms on this side of the ocean. John knew that whatever happened tonight, it would go down in history. Either the amazing capture of the famed assassin John Watson, or the fateful murder of the last king of Lauriston kingdom. John knew that whatever he did tonight, well, it would change the course of history for better or for worse. So finally he reached the door, that sheet of wood that separated John from Sherlock Holmes, the door that was trying its best to prevent all of this from going down. John was surprised that there were no guards stationed around it, hadn't Victor just warned him not to try anything, that he was always watching? Obviously Victor had been lying, because he definitely wasn't here now. John knew he was early, but nevertheless he held his breath and knocked, clutching the knife at his side just to make sure it was still tucked safely on his belt, away from the eye sight of anyone who might be suspicious. He could hear what sounded to be a small scream from inside, and panicked yelling, yelling that didn't sound at all like Sherlock...The door flung open and John jumped back, seeing Sherlock and two other people in the room, all looking paranoid.
"John!" Sherlock exclaimed.
"John!" Molly agreed from behind him.
"John!" Billy added loudly.
"Sherlock!" John exclaimed, just trying to fit in. All three of them looked panic stricken, as if wondering how much he had heard while standing outside the door. Sherlock looked beautiful, he looked as if he had done everything in his power to look almost angelic, and it had worked. In fact it almost looked like he was wearing makeup, but then again, it was probably just a trick of the light. His hair was brushed to perfection and his skin glowed, his eyes gleaming with the life that would soon fade out of his lifeless corpse. John blinked for a moment, trying to get that grotesque thought from his mind. Not now.
"I think it's a good time for you two to leave." Sherlock decided, spinning on his heel and trying to push both of his friends out the door.
"Well, if you two need anything, drinks, food, I could go get some I'm not far." Molly assured.
"No, I'm sure we'll be fine." Sherlock insisted, pushing them both very roughly out the door. John sidestepped to avoid getting hit by them stumbling out together, looking rather insulted at being pushed away so frantically.
"They could stay and chat, you know, if they wanted." John muttered very awkwardly, knowing that if this night was going to go how either of them planned it, they needed to be alone. Then again, Sherlock was definitely not having the right assumptions of tonight's private meeting.
"Go away, go away." Sherlock growled, pushing Billy farther down the hall.
"Alright, well, you two have a nice night!" Molly decided.
"Yes, goodbye." Sherlock agreed, shooing them away. John didn't want to think how this would be the last conversation Sherlock would even have with his two closest friends.
"John, come in, please." Sherlock insisted, opening the door wider as the retreating clicks of Molly's high heels faded into the distance. John nodded, clearing his throat rather awkwardly and feeling the knife start to get heavier on his belt, aching to be in Sherlock's chest rather than in a sheath. John walked into the room, noticing that Sherlock had done an excellent job of cleaning up. The floor was washed, the laundry folded, the bed made, everything looked beautiful, fit for a king really. The door closed and John spun around, seeing Sherlock standing very awkwardly by the door, as if feeling like he needed to make some sort of small talk before the kissing began.