To Kill The King

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"So, how are you?" he wondered, walking over very slowly. John coughed a little bit, his stomach twisting in nervous knots as the knife got heavier and heavier. He shifted his weight to his other leg, but the force of gravity was pulling him down, he had the weight of a thousand lives hanging on his belt, the weapon that would destroy an entire kingdom. Sherlock was getting closer and closer, and John thought he was just going to go in for the kill this early, but no. He walked past John towards the window, staring out into the darkened courtyard dramatically. John watched him; he could see Sherlock's reflection in the dark, cold glass, distorted slightly as the oil lamps flickered.
"I'm fine." John said at last. Of course he wasn't fine, nothing was going to be fine again, but Sherlock didn't know that. He didn't want Sherlock to suspect anything, not now, not ever. The realization that the one you love would be your assassin, well, that wasn't a burden Sherlock deserved to carry.
"Fine, yes, me as well. I'm fine." Sherlock agreed. He didn't look at John directly, but John could still feel his eyes on him, Sherlock was using the magic of reflections to watch John as he moved behind him. This would be a good time to do it, he wasn't looking...no. Later, later. John still couldn't bring himself to the realization that this was the night that Sherlock Holmes died.
"You're um...you're not planning on buying me then?" John wondered. Sherlock sighed heavily, and with a single dramatic motion he yanked both of the curtains shut, completely alienating the two of them from the eyes of the rest of the world. He turned to face John, looking very powerful, very emotional, and very desperate.
"I want to of course, but Mycroft won't have it." Sherlock snapped, looking livid.
"It's alright of course." John assured softly, happy to know that they still haven't wasted their money on the man that was single handedly going to destroy their kingdom.
"It's not...it's not alright." Sherlock insisted, his voice shaking as he looked up at John in uncertainty.
"You don't really want to leave, do you?" Sherlock wondered. John shook his head, wanting to take a step closer but staying where he was.
"No, of course not, but I don't want to be a burden." John insisted modestly.
"You said in front of my mother, you said that you agreed with Mycroft, I was worried that you didn't think I was...worth it." Sherlock admitted in nothing more than a whisper. He sounded beyond worried, he sounded terrified that his love would leave him forever. Then again, he'd be much better off if John did leave.
"You're worth it, of course you are, you're worth all of the gold in the world." John assured.
"Then why not let me spend a mere portion of it? Why not let me invest in the love I think we have?" Sherlock wondered desperately, taking a couple of steps closer desperately.
"Because I feel like you'll ultimately regret it. I feel like someway, somehow, I'll end up disappointing you. I may not be the man you hoped I'd be; I may not be the right companion. I may just be the first of many." John insisted.
"I want you to be the first and the last. I want you to be the only one, you're the only person I want, you're the man I don't deserve, the man I've always wanted to be." Sherlock insisted, walking closer and closer to John, who felt like retreating. He didn't want to do this to Sherlock; he knew that he couldn't kill the king, so why was he even trying? For his mother.For his family. He needed to kill Sherlock, just...do it for the ones you love, the ones other than Sherlock. Because God help him he did love Sherlock, and it hurt him so much to have to drive a dagger through Sherlock's poor, unexperienced heart. Just when he was learning to love, just when he was learning how...John was going to mess it all up, he was going to destroy him.
"Sherlock I'm sorry." John muttered vaguely.
"Sorry for what? John there's nothing to apologize for, you're everything I've ever wanted, you're the only man I could ever dream for. And I have, I have dreamed of you." Sherlock admitted.
"I don't deserve the love you're prepared to give me, Sherlock; I don't want you to lose everything you have because of me." John insisted.
"Why would I lose anything because of love?" Sherlock wondered, stepping even closer still. John took a very deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment but passing it as just an elongated blink; he didn't want Sherlock to think that this was stressful for him.
"I don't know. But Sherlock, I'll just...I'll let you decide. If you want to keep everything you have, if you're not willing to part with your people, your power, or your crown, I'll let you leave me. I'll walk out of this room right now and never come back, and you can live your life on your throne." John insisted.
"But I don't want that John; I've never wanted any of this, this power, this responsibly. I've never known that I wanted love, I never knew that love would suit me so well, that I'd ever find someone like you." Sherlock insisted. John felt like he was about to cry, he felt a sob building up in his throat, tears stinging the back of his eyes, waiting to emerge.
"If you would really sacrifice everything for me then stay, then love me and let me love you back, because that's what I want and I know that's what you want too. Just...know that by loving me there may be a price, down the road. All the things that you've done, they might catch up to you." John muttered.
"It's worth it, whatever the cost, whatever the tradeoff. I would pick you over and over again until I am carried to my grave. You are worth it John and you always will be." Sherlock whispered, stepping closer and closer until they were as close as they had been before. Until they were close enough to press their lips together.
"I chose you." Sherlock assured quietly.
"And I you." John agreed. Slowly Sherlock lifted his hands to the sides of John's face, letting the two of them savor the moment they both knew was coming. He leaned down ever so slightly, pressing his trembling lips to John's for the final time. John kissed him back like he should, like he had to, cradling Sherlock's thin body in his arms and pulling their faces closer and closer together. He could only see darkness, he could only feel passion, he felt Sherlock's lips and his hands and his skin and his hair, he felt his body shake and quiver in fear. John tried to appreciate the moment, he tried to savor it as he should, but every time John nearly forgot what he was really here for the knife started to get heavier and heavier, making John lean over just a little bit, just enough to make Sherlock turn his head to properly kiss him.
"Come here." Sherlock whispered, pulling away and walking John over to the bed. A shiver went down John's spine but he knew that it was necessary; he knew that if Sherlock was going to die, he ought to die happy. Even if he would never fully be satisfied. Sherlock lay down, pulling John on top of him and cradling John's face in his hands, he looked so beautiful, so desperate. His beautiful dark curls were spread out on the pillow beneath him, the expensive red and gold fabric making a beautiful back drop for the scarlet blood that would soon be spilt. John just sat there, however, he didn't lean down and kiss Sherlock once more, he didn't do anything. He was transfixed, he felt Sherlock's breaths, he felt his heart racing underneath his shirt, buried deep in his chest where he thought it was safe. John loved the way Sherlock's hands felt on his face, he loved the way the king was trying to control his breaths, trying to make it seem like he didn't need to gasp just to fill his lungs properly. He was so in love, he was gasping for it, he was addicted, he needed his fix, he needed more...
"Kiss me John, kiss me, what are you waiting for?" Sherlock breathed, closing his eyes and pulling John's head closer, his lips closer. And so John kissed him, he leaned over and pressed their bodies together, kissing Sherlock's lips with all of the love that he could manage, because he knew it would be the last. Sherlock trembled beneath him, he ran his fingers lovingly through John's hair, he gasped between kisses and pulled John closer still. He was so in love, breathing in John's kisses like he needed them to live, but in the end they were going to be the thing that killed him. This love, it was his drug, and he was about to overdose. It was going to kill him. John kissed him ferociously but decided that if there ever was a time to kill the king, this would be it. This was going to be the time, it was necessary, it was needed. Sherlock Holmes was going to die. This was his most vulnerable state, he may not even notice the stab wound until it bled him out, he may not even notice the pain if John's kisses kept coming. With one hand John was holding Sherlock's face, his fingers pressed up so close to Sherlock's cheek bones that he thought he would get cut as well. But with the other he was fumbling with the sheath, releasing the strap and slowing pulling the shining dagger out into the light. Sherlock's eyes were closed, he had no idea, he was still aching for the love he thought he was about to receive, he was so vulnerable it was almost pathetic, he was so ignorant that John couldn't help but pity him. The man he loved, the man who loved him, this would be the end. This was going to be the end. As John started to raise the knife he could feel Sherlock's heart beating more and more, as if something inside of Sherlock realized that something wasn't right. But alas, his eyes never opened, and he never did anything to stop it. Of course, what could he do now? Now that this was all set in motion, he was powerless to stop it, even if he did sit on the throne of Lauriston kingdom. The man with all the power was defenseless, and all it took was a simple soft, loving kiss. Suddenly the door to the closet flung open, John was only able to gasp in surprise before a figure came crashing into him, throwing him off of the bed and slamming him to the cold stone floor. John tried to cry out but Sherlock beat him to it, a blood curling scream of anger erupted from the king's throat, crawling into a defensive ball on the bed. John's face was pressed to the granulated stone, his eye sight blurry and his head spinning.
"No, Victor, stop, STOP IT!" Sherlock exclaimed desperately. Victor. "It's alright, it's okay, I love him, you were right!" John only closed his eyes tighter, as if that would help block out Sherlock's desperate screaming, his defense of the guilty man.
"Don't be an idiot Sherlock." Victor growled, pressing John's face deeper into the stone, keeping him held down with all of his body weight. John didn't even have the strength to panic; he didn't have the will to fight back. He just let it happen, he just gave up.
"Please, we weren't doing anything wrong, it's not wrong, it's not unnatural, I love him!" Sherlock insisted again, as if he hadn't heard Sherlock the first time.
"Drop it John." Victor growled. John could hear a confused breath from above, as if Sherlock was trying to figure out just what was going on. John groaned loudly, in defeat, in anger, in despair, he had no idea.
"DROP IT!" Victor exclaimed, picking John's head up only to slam it back into the stone once more. John growled in pain, seeing the promised scarlet blood start to leak out of the wrong person. He felt his skin rip off, he felt his wound start to leak...he unclenched his fist, and the knife clattered to the stone floor. The sound made everyone stop, Victor stopped fighting, John stopped struggling, Sherlock stopped breathing. There was a silence that was tangible, a silence that sliced through all three of them better than even the sharpest of blades.
"It's not about the love Sherlock, it's never been about love for Mr. Watson." Victor muttered.
"No, he wouldn't....no...." Sherlock muttered, his voice breaking in defeat, in despair. Victor sighed in relief, grabbing the fallen knife from the floor and holding it up to show Sherlock. John couldn't see it, he couldn't see anything but blinding darkness, he felt the pain, he heard the scream, the sob. So now Sherlock knew the truth. He really did kill the king, if not in the way he had expected.
"John, no..." Sherlock managed. John pushed his head farther into the ground, paining himself even more. "You were supposed to love me; you were supposed to be different!" Sherlock exclaimed. John heard the bedframe strain as Sherlock fell back onto it, he could hear his cries, he could feel his hopelessness. In Sherlock's eyes the only man he had ever loved had just betrayed him. In Sherlock's eyes, all of this had been for nothing.
"I think I warned you how this was going to end, but for now Sherlock, I will refrain from saying I told you so." Victor muttered. Sherlock's sobs just continued, the crying of a man not depressed, but a man in pain. A man who discovered that everything he thought he had ever known was a lie, a man who had just been stabbed in the back metaphorically and almost literally. Maybe it would've hurt less if John had killed him. John could only lay there and listen to Sherlock's tears, knowing there was nothing he could do to stop them, to wipe them away. Never again would he be allowed to hold Sherlock, never again would he be allowed to tell him his true feelings or kiss his soft lips. John would die for this, he would die. Not shortly after the sound of armored men could be heard, their footsteps clicking through the floor, John could feel their vibrations through the stone. Victor still held him down and Sherlock still sobbed on the bed, pulling at the pillows in despair, clawing at his heart as if attempting to stop the pain manually. John was hauled to his feet, lifted carelessly by his arms and dangling uselessly, his legs refusing to work. Victor stood near the bed, twirling the silver dagger in his fingers and smiling tauntingly at John. John couldn't do anything about it, black dots were starting to form in his vision, blooming like flowers and blocking out this miserable scene. Sherlock was still laying on the bed, his face white and his eyes red, all of the sheets torn up, all of the pillows thrown. He was in pain, unbelievable, incomprehensible pain, and all Victor would do was smile. And that was the last thing that John saw, his beloved in tears, his enemy smiling in glee. He had thought the black dots would just engulf this scene but the guards beat him to it. Before his vision went totally black he received a blow to the back of the head with what felt like the butt end of a spear, and John collapsed in the soldier's unforgiving grip.

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