What a pretty little thing, wriggling on the pavement, one wing striking the air desperately because it remembered how it felt to fly. The other stayed bent, awkward and motionless and beautifully broken. Those soft white feathers would always stick in his mind. There was something so gorgeous about the innocent little thing. Oh, it tried so hard to fly once more, and as he watched, he found that he hated the innocence as much as he adored it. "I wonder," he mused, the corner of his lip twisting slowly into a wicked smile, "What it would look like when it died? I've heard the light fades out of your eyes." His grin was full now. "Do you want to find out?"
"You're sick," the other boy spat, straightening up in righteous indignation. "It's hurt, Jim. What's wrong with you?"
His smile disappeared abruptly. He replaced his previous expression with one of careful agreement and a hint of barely contained violence. "You're right," he said, slipping a hand into his pocket.
"You're a freak, you know that? You're a bloody psycho," the other boy picked his way carefully around the wounded creature and away from Jim. He stood there in disgust for a moment before shaking his head and walking away.
Jim raised an eyebrow, watching, imaging a knife sinking into those shoulder blades, or the tremors that would wrack that lean body if he were poisoned. "You're right," he repeated in a whispered snarl.
His fingers closed around the pocket knife he kept, and in a moment of explosive rage, he tore it out of his pocket, opened the blade with a satisfying 'click', and pinned the flailing wing into the earth. Oh, god how the little thing shrieked as its white feathers were stained red. He watched it for a moment, satisfied and unmoved by its dying cries as it bled out. He imagined fire mingling with the scarlet, dancing on those feathers, leaving behind ash and pretty little blackened bones. "I could use a match right now…"
He couldn't explain the hate that filled him. All he knew was that something so beautiful was better off broken. And broken things were meant to be destroyed.
He stared out the window at the blood-red sunset that outlined the darkening city of London. London should always be bathed in blood. He couldn't suppress a satisfied little moan as he imagined standing at the top of one of those buildings with Sherlock, kissing him, and hating him, and breaking him. Taking a lighter and setting him on fire. He imagined shocked blue-grey eyes, lit up by the brightness of the flame. There was something delicious, something almost religious about the fantasy. Something passionate and pure. Oh, Sherlock would burn so bright. And then he would fall.
He would slip through empty space, limbs flailing, flames trailing behind him as he rushed through the air. And Jim would watch his angel fall, reverent. He would take whatever purity Sherlock had and crush it. He chuckled as the sun sank below the horizon. "Come and play, Sherlock," he whispered to the darkening skyline. "I want to break your pretty wings."