Jim saw the musical, too.

It was some years ago, in a fit of pique and restlessness, that he grudgingly sat down in a theater with the mayflies of London. It was entertaining, surely, but as always the book was better. The Phantom had depth there. On the screen he was just a villain to fuel Christine and Raoul's romance. He left the theater, but not before slitting the throat of the woman in front of him who couldn't be bothered to turn off her phone during the movie.

It would be many years before he'd think of The Phantom again.

Years of plotting and scheming and killing. Forcing his way through the darkness and shadows, building himself up, becoming the respected overlord of the criminal underworld.

Then came Sherlock Holmes and, by extension, John Watson.

And then, oh then, he remembered.

Years without thinking of The Phantoms lust and desire for something the world would deny him, only to be consumed by those same passions. He would do anything, promise anything, be anything to have John Watson. Lie, cheat, kill; he'd done it all before and now he was willing to go farther, tip himself over the edge if needed, risk it all for one man.

God he was pathetic.

But the plan worked. It was only a matter of time after Sherlock's fall before he made his move. He slithered his way into John's bed and then his mind. He wrapped John so completely in his web that he would never get out. And John hates him for it.

There really is something profoundly glorious about a hate-fuck.

But deep down it's not what he wants and Jim wonders, briefly, if The Phantom would have been satisfied to have Christine this way, mind and body engaged, but never the heart.

He thinks not.

So he grips John's thighs too tightly and sinks his teeth into the scar on John's shoulder that dashes across his skin like star fire. He makes it hurt. He wants to hurt John for not loving him the way he loved Sherlock bloody Holmes, the way he'll always love Sherlock Holmes, till the day he dies.

And if afterwards, in the darkness as John sleeps, he brushes his fingers against John's temple in a loving gesture and feels some remorse for the things he's done…well, he's the only one who knows it, because John is dreaming of blue eyes and Baker St., and doesn't feel the soft puff of Jims breath on his ear.

"And yet I am not really evil. Love me and you shall see! All I wanted was to be loved for myself."