Heir Apparently

You Can't But You Have To

John POV: As soon as he thought he was out of earshot, John broke into a run. He ran as fast as he could away from the dining room, away from where Sherlock stood in shame, very alive and very happy. He had no idea what was coming, none at all, he kept talking about their love, about their gesture, as if they had any sort of future at all. He had no idea, he was prepared to lay down half of his own fortune to ensure John's staying, but he had no idea that John was going to be caught, going to be hanged, going to known as the man who killed the kings. John was going to betray him in the most painful way ever, go back on his word, on his love; he was going to have to kill him while Sherlock was most vulnerable, while he was willing to submit himself even to death. Sherlock would lay down everything he had while they were alone, locked in an embrace with their lips hovering against each other, and John knew that he would then have to take Sherlock's life. He would have to stab him in the back in the most literal way possible, just when Sherlock thought he was going to have everything he was going to lose it all. John didn't know where he was going, but he ran out the castle doors, out into the blinding sunlight and down the cobblestone paths, his legs leading him to where he thought it would be possible to cry, to be alone. He knew that he would never get away with the murder of the prince, he wasn't as careful as Mary, he wasn't as unknown. If Sherlock turned up dead while Victor and his guards wouldn't let anyone in, obviously the only suspect would be John. He was the only one that Sherlock trusted enough to be alone with, he was the only one that everyone already questioned. Victor would catch them; he would find Sherlock's dead body and find John sobbing in defeat, the scarlet stained knife lying on the floor between them. John suddenly found himself in the empty arena, dust kicking up from his feet as he ran into the middle of it, turning in a wide circle and seeing rows upon rows of empty stands. He remembered when he had just won it all, when these stands were alight with people's shining faces, with their cheers and their screams of delight, cheering him on as he kicked their forsaken king onto his back, being held up by the crowd and paraded around the arena like a hero. But not anymore, this action wasn't going to be rewarded, this feat wasn't going to be celebrated. Suddenly John's leg collapsed underneath him, the weight of the knife pulling him towards the ground and making him fall into the dirt. The knife that would take the life of the king, he fumbled with the straps on the sheath, his fingers shaking in horror as they once more grasped the silver handle. He saw the emeralds encrusted into the silver, he saw it shine in the sunlight....John blinked, and suddenly he saw this very same knife embedded into the body of his lover, he saw Sherlock, falling over himself and coughing up blood, falling onto the floor in a lifeless heap. John threw the knife as far as he could, stumbling away from it until he hit the wooden wall, feeling tears streak down his eyes, shaking madly dispute the summer heat. He still saw the silver gleam from all the way across the arena; he could see the shining blade so far away yet so close. He could almost watch as the scarlet blood soaked through the dirt, Sherlock's royal blood, traveling in trenches and creeping towards where John sat. It collected and made its way in a wave of guilt, coming closer and closer and closer, John couldn't avoid it, he couldn't run...John closed his eyes, breathing heavily and telling himself that there was nothing to worry about, there was no blood wave coming towards him, no one would know it was him who had killed the king, no one would ever find out. He would be secretive, he would be careful, he'll dispose of the body, yes, he sit Sherlock in his throne instead of his bed, he would make it look like Sherlock had been thinking, or writing, or just taking a walk. No one would ever need to know that he had been killed by his lover. John opened his eyes carefully, seeing the arena as empty as ever, seeing the dirt undisturbed other than by his frantic footsteps, still the knife gleamed in the sunlight, but he dared not retrieve it, not now. He had to do this, it was necessary if he wanted his family to live. They were suffering; they were starving, dying in Moriarty's cold dungeons. It was now or never, if Sherlock Holmes wasn't dead tonight then his mother would be killed, who know how? They could hang her, burn her, take her to the guillotine. They could torture her; make her suffer just because her son had picked a boy he had met a month ago over his own mother. No, of course not, Sherlock had to die; it was John's own fault that he let himself get attached. He had known this day was coming, since he had arrived at Lauriston he knew that he had one and only job, and yet he had gone and made it as difficult as possible. Sherlock may be the one who was dying, but John was going to suffer even more. He had to make Sherlock's death quick, easy, painless. He had to kiss Sherlock good bye and drive the knife right into his heart, or his brain, somewhere that was so quick Sherlock didn't even know he was dying. He would just...fall asleep. And never wake up. John shook his head, rubbing his face with his dusty hands and deciding that he couldn't spend his day absent, self-loathing and dreading what gruesome task was ultimately going to befall on the entire kingdom. He had to be brave, he had to just face his fears, and most of all he needed to make sure he wasn't suspected. So he got to his feet, brushed off his pants and made the hike to the other end of the stadium where the knife lay innocently in the dirt. Its shining blade was befouled slightly by the specks of dirt it had collected while it had skidded through the dust, but nevertheless John could still admire it's true, destructive beauty. He picked up the blade, surprised at how light it suddenly felt, and wiped it off on his shirt before tucking it beck into its sheath where it was safe, where no one would find it. John marched back up the castle, trying to make it seem like he wasn't scared of what waited for him at the top. He wondered what Sherlock was doing, how he was trying to twist John's leaving into a story where it was his fault, how he was trying to figure out why John didn't love him. Sherlock was such a drama queen, but in the end it was his fault that John had run from the table. He couldn't sit there any longer, being smiled at by the queen, defended by the king, and glared at by the bitter prince. Mycroft was the only one in that family who saw John as who he was, a traitor, unworthy of any of their royal time. John walked through the hallways alone, making sure to look extra ordinary as he walked towards the servant's quarters.
"I don't want to ask you for the millionth time, Mr. Watson, but just where are your escorts?" Victor's snakelike voice asked from behind him. John sighed heavily; checking to make sure his knife was properly hidden by his clothes as he turned to face Victor Trevor. This man knew even more than Mycroft thought he did, he suspected everything and all of his conclusions would be proven true in about twenty four hours. If anyone was going to catch on to John's ultimate goal, it would be Victor.
"Hello Victor." John muttered, waiting as the man walked closer and closer. Victor smiled at him icily, and John could only imagine the hate circulating in that man's small brain.
"Where are your guards Mr. Watson?" he wondered.
"They're hiding from you, they don't' want you to see them doing their job." John snapped. Thankfully Victor didn't look around, proving that he had some sort of common sense in him. Victor just glared at him, his smile not moving from his venomous lips.
"Evidently they're not doing their job." Victor muttered.
"No, I suppose not. Can I go now?" John wondered. Victor stepped even closer, making John want to jump back in horror.
"I suppose I should congratulate you." He muttered with a voice of poison. John looked up at him in confusion, having absolutely no idea what he wanted to mean by that. Maybe he thought he was being intimidating, but it wasn't scary, it was just weird, it was uncalled for.
"I'm sorry?" John wondered. Victor looked down at him with daggers in his blue eyes, looking genuinely pained while that smile still stuck on his lips like glue.
"For winning our precious king's heart." He muttered. John didn't say anything, even though he would love to rub it in Victor's face that he had done what he could never do, he still didn't want to arise any unusual suspicion.
"Tell me John, how do his lips taste? How does his skin feel, how does his body tremble when you place your hand gently on the side of his neck?" Victor whispered, his eyes alight with mad curiosity. John was silent once more, shaking his head and closing his eyes, not wanting Victor to know that he knew the answer to all of those questions.
"I don't know what you're talking about." John decided, turning away before Victor caught his arm, pulling him back once more, for one more question.
"Just tell me John, how secure do you think the throne room really is?" Victor wondered. John's eyes widened in horror, pulling away from the man and stumbling backwards.
"You...you..." he muttered, pointing a trembling finger at Victor accusingly.
"I couldn't help myself, although I do envy you." Victor admitted with a smile. "I do sometimes dream...dream that he was muttering those beautiful three words to me."
"You're sick Victor." John snapped, turning away and breaking into a run down the hallway, trying to get as far away from that snake as he could.
"I'm always watching Mr. Watson!" Victor called down the hall. "Always!"