AN: WARNING: The main events of this fic are centered around a school shooting. There are mentions of violence and multiple deaths. Please do not read if you are at all sensitive to these subjects.
Now that that's out of the way...this fic kind of accidentally came about because my Jim muse was being a little shit and also wanted teenlock so this angsty little thing happened. The title of the fic comes from the song of the same name by the Soho Dolls, which makes a vague illusion to a British school shooting. Hope you enjoy, and comments, as always, are love. 3
"Ohhh Johnny boy! Come out come out wherever you are!"
John didn't move, even his breathing quiet where he hid behind the library shelves, crouched down with Sherlock right next to him as they held their breath with their bodies tensed to move between the shelves as needed. They'd already been slipping between them, moving when Jim wasn't looking to the places he'd already looked over. Jim wasn't the problem at the moment; Sebastian was, because they had no idea where the fuck he was and there was no way they'd be able to hide with both of them sweeping the library. From his vantage point John could see the body of a boy about a year younger than him on the floor, covered by the body of another dead student. But there, the boy's chest was moving just slightly, and John realized with an exhale of relief that he was just playing dead, blood soaking his shirt to add to the illusion. Smart kid, and thank god for that.
"Oh, don't tell me you don't want to play, love," Jim called, his voice ringing through the quite literally dead empty library. He sighed dramatically. "Then I suppose I'll have to give you a little incentive." There were a few sounds and then a female cry. "Come out, or I'm going to shoot this lovely girl in the head. Sarah, isn't it? Aren't you two friends?"
John instantly moved to get up, looking stricken, and Sherlock pulled him right back, wrapping his arm tightly around John's chest and arms, his other hand going to cover John's mouth. "He's going to kill her anyway, John, he's killing everyone he finds," he breathed in John's ear, and John shook his head and tried to move again and Sherlock held him in place until they heard a gunshot. John instantly went limp in his arms, something breaking inside of him as he leaned back against Sherlock, who moved his hand to pet his hair softly. His hand was shaking slightly. John was perfectly still, his body calm under the adrenaline. Calm was a relative term when his heart was currently being strangled by fear, already broken pieces being ground into a fine powder by the pressure of his terror.
"John, we have to find a way to get out. He's going to find us eventually, and when he does he's going to kill me and do much worse to you," Sherlock said, his voice lower than even a whisper. Each word came out with an exhale, the rhythm of his words in time with the rhythm of his breathing.
"Johnny, I never thought you could be so cold. I must admit, I rather like it. Survival of the fittest, isn't it?" He paused, and John could nearly feel his eyes sweeping the library, brushing over their hiding place. He held his breath even though he knew it was ridiculous and only let it go when he felt Jim's eyes were away again. "Though I'm sure if it had been dear Sherlock I was threatening, you would have changed your tune. Does that sound about right, dearest?"
John shivered against Sherlock as Sherlock's arm tightened around him, an automatic stress response. If Jim was going to shoot them, he hoped it would be like this, so he could at least die in Sherlock's arms. But god did he know that Jim would never give them that gift.
"He would deserve it, though…" the voice continued, turning into something slick and dangerous. John tried to focus on Sherlock's voice in his ear instead as the baritone softly commanded, "The windows in the computer lab are big enough for us to slip through but we can only move so far without him noticing us. Now—"
"You BETRAYED me!"
Both of them flinched back at the sudden shout, and John could have sworn he saw the boy playing dead on the floor twitch. The room held its breath, and after a minute there was a low, mournful voice. "Johnny…I just want to see you again…I just want to fix things…"
"We'll have to run the last part," Sherlock was continuing as if John wasn't a step away from crying, his lips a feather light brush against John's ear. "And slipping out the window while he's shooting at us won't be easy. The best thing to do would be to—"
Sherlock's voice abruptly cut off, and before John could look to see why he heard a deep voice saying, "On your feet, Holmes, and let go of the boy."
His blood froze on the spot, recognizing that voice instantly, and Sherlock's arms slid away from him as he stood. "John, I think it would be best for both you and Holmes here if you walked out to say hello to Jim," the deep voice continued, and John nodded, putting his hands up as he walked forward, Sherlock following after him. He glanced back and yes, there was Sherlock with his hands up and his head slightly bowed, Sebastian Moran holding a gun to the back of his head. Sebastian's eyes were dark and John found himself so chilled by them that he turned his head forward again, in time to emerge from behind the shelves and see Jim.
He wasn't sure which was worse; the way Jim's eyes lit up when he saw him or the way the other teen already looked. Because Jim…god, Jim. The first, most obvious detail was the gun in Jim's hand, a sleek black handgun like the one Seb was holding to the back of Sherlock's head. More shocking, however, was the red spray of blood over Jim's white t-shirt and part of his face, varying from flecks on his neck and chest to near splotches on his left arm, his left hand the one that held the gun. His shoes, too, Converse, had their white edges tainted with crimson, and John realized that his legs were trembling as he walked.
"Johnny boy," Jim purred, taking a step towards him as John continued forward, as much as his instincts were screaming for him to run. "I've been looking for you."
Sherlock was in the lab when the firing started. John was halfway across the school in the library, and the sounds hadn't quite reached yet, but on his side, it was quick and unexpected; five shots in quick succession, and then the screaming started and the firing didn't stop. He was up from his microscope in a second and by the door in another, keeping it closed and pressing his back against it before moving just slightly to peer out of it. The chaos hadn't reached them yet which meant that the other part of the school hadn't been hit. They'd started with the cafeteria, clever, there were no security measures in place and anyone had to run out the exits to get into the halls, probably hoping for a classroom if they couldn't reach the doors to the school. It was going to be murder on a mass scale, Sherlock already knew who was responsible for this and they would certainly be well prepared for it.
"Sherlock, what is it?" Molly asked, her voice frightfully small. She and Mike had frozen on their stools when it started and were waiting breathlessly now, knowing they had a better chance of survival if they waited for the help of the genius in the room.
"Hide," he said after a moment, and then turned pale mint green eyes on them. "Go underneath the lab benches, they won't be able to see you from the other side of the door. Turn off all the lights and lock all the doors, and whatever you do, don't let them in."
"What are you going to do?" Mike asked, his voice not much bigger than Molly's had been.
Sherlock's hand pushed down the handle to open the door, and he didn't even look back as he said, "I have to find John." Then he slipped out the door, and heard the click of the lock as Molly, always a good girl, followed his directions. He didn't bother to look in the direction the shooting was coming from, knowing he didn't want to see what was happening and couldn't help anyway. Even if he shouted at everyone that there was no use in trying the exits because they had to all be blocked, they wouldn't listen. They were all in panic mode, and most would run and few would manage to find places to hide. Luckily the classrooms this way were unaffected and Sherlock stopped everyone he could manage to quickly tell them to get in a classroom, lock the door, turn off the lights, and hide out of sight. He didn't have much time, though, and thanked god for his height and resulting long legs as he mostly ran to the library, flinging the doors wide when he reached it. The sound of shots must have gotten closer because everyone was scrambling for a place to hide and there was John, trying to figure out a way to get a back door open with a few other students.
"Sherlock," he breathed with absolute relief when he saw the other teen, and Sherlock instantly said to everyone in their vicinity, "The doors are all blocked, find a place to hide and do it quickly," before rushing over to John and pulling him back behind the shelves, only barely managing to get behind them before the doors burst open and the sound of quick, successive shots rang out. They both dropped into a crouch at the sound, hiding as best they could against the nearest shelf. After a few minutes the firing was over, and Sherlock tightly held onto John's hand, managing to move them both at the exact moments needed to escape the gaze of the boy who was so softly, so sweetly calling, "Oh, Johnny boy…Daddy just wants to have a talk…"
They'd planned it out perfectly. Of course, that was because Jim was a genius and Seb wanted to go into the military—just like John, just like fucking beautiful wonderful awful heart tearing out John—but when it was finished, it was beautiful. Bolt all the doors from the outside except the office one, go back in through that one, shoot the administrators and guidance counselors, then head to the cafeteria and start shooting. From there they could work their way outwards, Seb taking one route and Jim taking the other. That way Seb could take care of other important matters while Jim made his slow, bloody way to the most important item on the agenda; John. Well, Sherlock was important too, but he knew that the raven haired teen would immediately go to help John no matter how far away they were from each other when the firing started.
The thought actually made him slightly sick and definitely angry when he really considered it, but at the moment it was just a tactical advantage. The easiest way to kill two birds with one stone, so to speak. And Sherlock, at least, had to die. This was his fault. This was entirely his fault, and he was going to BURN for it. John…well, Johnny boy could be reclaimed. Johnny was a good boy, a smart boy, and he just needed a little reminder of who he belonged with (to) and how this all worked. Who had had him first, who was the real genius, who he really wanted, who fucking DESERVED him. And with Sherlock out of the way, it would be easy for him to reclaim what was his.
It was so good that he had Sebby on his side, because he was the most valuable asset Jim had in this plan. Seb was cold and cool and tactical and enjoyed bloodshed. More than that, he was willing to go down with Jim's ship or even sacrifice himself so Jim didn't have to. Perfect, just perfect. If only John could be that devoted to him. Well, he almost had been—but Jim shut that thought down, knowing he had to stay focused for this.
So when all the doors were prepped and they stood outside the last one, ready to break in and kickstart this whole affair, he grinned at Seb, gun in hand, and Seb gave a small smile back, which amounted to about ten of Jim's grins.
"Let's have some fun, Sebby," Jim whispered, and then they kicked the door open and started firing.
"This is because of him, isn't it?" Jim asked, eyes dark, and John instantly jumped into a defense, shaking his head.
"No, Jim, it isn't," he said, though they both knew damn well that it was. But Jim was volatile and he didn't want to risk Sherlock getting hurt in the fallout. "I just…it's not working."
"It was working perfectly fine until Sherlock Holmes showed up," Jim said, his face calm in a way that was scaring John.
He licked his lips nervously, Jim's eyes darting to the motion, and tried again. "Okay, yes, it is. But this is my choice, Jim, he's not forcing me into anything. It's not fair of me to keep seeing you if I have feelings for someone else. I'm not going to cheat on you and I'm not going to stay if I'm only leading you on. And I…I'm sorry. Because I really did mean everything I said to you. But it's just not working. And I'm—" his breath caught because god, he didn't want to say this, he didn't want to hurt Jim but no matter what he did it would hurt him "—I'm in love with him." His blue eyes stayed fixed on his hands as they nervously picked at his nails, a habit that he knew Jim hated—Sherlock did too, actually, because of the symbolism of it, same reason Jim did—but that he couldn't stop at the moment. It had to stop, however, when pale, slim hands slid over his own, Jim gently prying apart his fingers to keep him from hurting himself. John's eyes rose to meet Jim's warm chocolate brown ones, and thank god, somehow the other student didn't seem furious. He just seemed a touch sad. And still calm. And the calm was really what was worrying John. John's entire face softened at the sight of the other boy, and he was having a hard time resisting the urge to cry just because he hated hurting Jim and he knew what this was going to do to him and everything was so new with Sherlock and he wasn't sure what he was doing—
His thoughts cut off as Jim lifted first one hand, then the other, to lay a soft kiss to the back of each, making sure to maintain eye contact with John. John's heart seemed to stutter to a stop, more so when Jim gently pulled him into a hug, arms wrapped around the slightly smaller blonde.
"Johnny boy," he breathed against John's ear, and John had to repress a slight shiver because he'd heard that whispered nickname in so many other situations, "it's alright. Holding on to you would only hurt you, and I would never do that."
John nearly collapsed against him, sure that the other teen could feel the enormous amount of tension he'd been holding and just how hard this was for him. He didn't want to let Jim go. He had actually loved Jim. But Sherlock...the way he felt about Sherlock was on an entirely different level. And he couldn't resist that pull even if he tried.
"I'm so sorry, Jim," he said shakily against Jim's shoulder. "I never meant to hurt you."
"Shhh, Johnny boy, let me fix it for you," Jim had murmured back, and had continued to pet John's golden hair as they made their peace and said their goodbyes. John was still shaky when he left, still upset about the entire thing, but he felt a little better since Jim seemed to take it so well. But that worried him. Because even as he walked away, he could still feel Jim's dark eyes on him, and he knew that it was unlike Jim to give up on something so easily. Especially on John, because Jim had nearly worshiped him. Jim's love was a strong, dark love that bordered on obsession and John knew that it couldn't be this easy. Well, maybe something else was waiting in the wings. Maybe Jim would show up at his window in a few days and beg and plead and scream. Maybe he'd try to hurt Sherlock. Whatever it was, John knew he could handle it.
"I'm in love with you." The words were blurted out in a rush, Sherlock nearly tripping over them in his haste to get them out.
John just stared up at him for a minute, the book in his hands entirely forgotten. "What?" he asked after a minute.
"Please don't make me repeat it, John," Sherlock said, his tone as pleading as it could possibly get.
John looked at him for a minute before slowly nodding, then gestured to the seat next to him at the library table, which Sherlock took. "So," he said after another minute of nervous silence. "You're in love with me."
Sherlock nodded, his entire body thrumming with a nervous energy that made every word John said sharp and clear. Everything was heightened like this, every sense on edge as he waited, desperately, to hear what John would say.
"And you know I have a boyfriend," John said, and Sherlock's heart sank as he nodded at the same time as something with angry fangs reared its head in the back of his mind. Jim Moriarty should not have been John's boyfriend. Jim didn't deserve him in the slightest, and Jim was extremely, extremely dangerous. He just hid it very well. And of course, John, sweet as he was, always tried to see the best in people. And Jim was nothing if not doting; Sherlock had seen them together plenty of times and Jim nearly oozed affection, constantly using pet names and seeming unable to keep his hands off John, always holding hands with him or kissing his cheek or lips or whatever he could reach, at least if John wasn't just completely enveloped in his arms like he quite often was. Jim worshipped John with love and affection, and Sherlock felt sick at the thought of him doing the same in private, worshipping every inch of John's skin with lips and teeth and tongue and—
Even if he'd been able to stop that thought before its eventual conclusion, Jim wouldn't have let him. Because Jim hated him, they'd both hated each other since Sherlock had stepped foot into this school, even before Sherlock had met John and realized that yes, this was it, this was the exact person that he needed. That John was what was missing in his life. And sure, Sherlock and Jim could play games with each other on an entirely different level from anything else either of them had experienced, but they were quite firmly on opposite sides of the board. Sherlock, for all his faults, still represented the light, while Jim, as always, preferred to play in the dark. But John, dear, darling John couldn't see that. He'd known Jim far before Sherlock came along, and Jim didn't show any intention of letting him go.
Instead, he made sure Sherlock knew exactly who John belonged to, making sure Sherlock saw plenty of long kisses and not quite but close to inappropriate touches and the easy, general air of affection they had together that was unfortunately reciprocated by John, the blonde easily, almost unconsciously slipping his hand into Jim's in the hallway or giving him a goodbye kiss with that brilliant smile John had when he was truly happy. It killed Sherlock. So he'd confessed.
John was looking at the library table now instead of staring at Sherlock, and Sherlock wasn't sure if that was better or worse. The silence dragged on, and finally Sherlock just had to say, "I know you're dating Jim. I'm not expecting reciprocation. I just had to tell you."
John's cerulean eyes returned to his, and for all his deductive powers Sherlock couldn't figure out what on earth the other teen was thinking at the moment. "Why?" he asked.
"I—because I—because—" He stopped, words, always a strong suit, failing him. "Because it drives me insane when I see you with him and I can't be friends with you anymore without losing my sanity." He came to an abrupt stop there, eyes on the table for a moment before flashing back to John's, his cheeks slightly flushed. Facts were so much easier to deal with than emotions. And who the hell decided that the two could be combined?
He found himself unable to look away from John's gaze, the other teen looking at him evenly for a minute before looking at his nails as he began to pick at them, nervous habit that Sherlock had noted since the very first time they met. It had added to some of the more…unfortunate deductions on his part. "Okay," John said after a moment, and Sherlock realized his heart had stopped beating. "So you're in love with me."
"Yes," Sherlock said. How many more times was he going to have to repeat it? John continued to pick at his nails and suddenly Sherlock couldn't stand it anymore, reaching out with long, elegant fingers to clamp down on John's hands and get him to stop. John's eyes lifted to meet his, and then the most wonderful words Sherlock had ever heard came out of his mouth; "I'm in love with you too."
Sherlock nearly choked on his words when he tried to speak and gave up before he asphyxiated. That was good, because he needed the oxygen to keep his heart going when John said, "But I also love Jim, and I am still dating him. So I don't know what I can do, Sherlock."
Leave the psychopath and be with me, Sherlock's mind whispered, but he shoved the words back down, seeing from the look in John's eyes that he was already too torn up about this, had been for some time. "You don't have to do anything now," he said, proud of how smooth his voice was. "Take your time. I won't bother you about it."
"Of course," John said, and offered him a slight smile that, although it was somewhat sad, gave Sherlock something to cling to on top of John's words. It made it a little easier to leave John that day, though he knew so very much was weighing on the other student and a good portion of that was Sherlock's heart, the fragile organ left in John's care because he was the only person who could possibly be trusted with it. And it would break irreparably if John chose Jim in this instance, but Sherlock had had to risk it. He had to at least try with John, even if nothing came of it.
"I met that bloke today. The new one everyone keeps talking about," John said. He and Jim were sitting against one of the trees in the courtyard, John between Jim's legs with his back to Jim's chest, Jim's arms around his waist.
Jim was playing with the fingers on one of John's hands, using his own to spread them wide, slip between them, bend them with slight pressure on his palm, whatever he felt like because John was just letting him as usual and he loved the minute details that made up John as much as he loved John allowing him free reign over his body, mind, and heart. "Sherlock Holmes?" he asked, knowing that that was who John meant before he even said, "Yes, that's the one! He was in my English class."
"Really?" Jim murmured into John's blonde hair, his attention seemingly focused on the contact between the pads of their fingers when in actuality he was hanging onto John's every word. Sherlock Holmes was a danger to him, he could already feel it in his bones. Sherlock was far too intelligent and far too observant and far too similar to yet different from Jim. They hadn't officially met yet, but no doubt Sherlock had heard as much about him as he'd heard about Sherlock, if not more. An insidious, twisting thought rose in his mind as he contemplated John's meeting with Sherlock, and he asked nearly innocently, "How did that happen?"
"Well, basically Mike knew him already and he introduced us," John said, his eyes on their hands as Jim's motions slowly continued. He shifted for a moment before settling completely back against Jim again, his body automatically relaxing and molding itself to Jim's. It was so wonderful that it almost made up for John running across Sherlock Holmes. "Then he basically ran down my entire life for me in a few sentences and seemed surprised when I told him it was brilliant. Then I told him that of course I thought it was brilliant, my boyfriend can do the same thing, and he asked about you."
Good, his John had been good and immediately marked himself as Jim's. It always sent a thrill through Jim whenever John referred to him as his boyfriend so naturally, like it was just a normal, obvious fact in his life. "What did you tell him?" Jim asked. From his position with John's head back against his shoulder he could see John's smile before he turned those pretty blue eyes on Jim.
"Worried about what I say about you when you're not there?" he asked with a slightly teasing tone, then turned his attention back to Jim's hand, using both of his own to play with it and slide his fingertips up Jim's palm. "I told him that you're brilliant and fantastic and amazing and I think he'd love you if he met you." He picked up Jim's hand, kissing the tip of each finger before turning to smile at him again. "Not as much as I do, of course, but that's kind of hard to beat."
And Jim kissed him, something swelling in his chest at the thought that this, this was all his for the taking and John was offering it freely to him, wanted him just as much as Jim wanted him. Well, maybe not quite that much. Jim felt a dangerous combination of love, obsession, and desire for John, and he knew that it was darker and stronger than what John felt for him. But when they broke apart and Jim said, "I love you," John said back with one of his more brilliant smiles, "I love you too," and Jim knew that once again, still, as always, John was his.
"So are you going to try to be friends with him?" Jim asked after a few minutes of contented silence, and John shrugged.
"I don't see why not," he said. "Most people don't seem to really like him because they're idiots, and he just seems really…lonely, I guess. I think it'd be good. Besides, he seems off-putting at first, but once you talk to him a bit you see he's not actually that bad." He turned to smile at Jim again. "Though I don't know if I can handle two geniuses, mine is already a handful."
Jim slipped his hand to John's side to tickle him slightly, smiling as John giggled and begged him to stop. He did after a minute, laying a kiss on John's temple as his arms wrapped securely around John again and John leaned back against him. "Just be careful," he murmured against John's fine blonde hair.
John's brow furrowed, lips pursing slightly in that adorable way he had. "Why do you say that?"
Jim thought for a moment, carefully choosing his words. John always wanted to see the best in people, and he'd dismiss anything Jim said if he didn't see it as good enough of a reason. He was eager to make friends, and while it was what had drawn them together in the first place it was also a constant source of jealousy to Jim whenever John threw himself into friendly exchanges with everyone around himself. So the best way to go about this would probably be to give at least a little bit of the truth, appeal to John's boundless emotional side. "Because you don't know anything about him. And if one genius already fell for you, why couldn't two?" he said, and after a moment John slipped out of his arms to face him completely, kneeling between Jim's legs and putting his hands on his chest.
"I already have everything I want right here, why would I go looking for it somewhere else?" he asked, and offered Jim a genuine smile before kissing him again, Jim's heart fluttering in his chest. John, lovely John, his John, always knew how to reassure him. And that was good, because he didn't know what he'd do if he lost him.
John was the loveliest obsession he'd ever had. Usually Jim's brain latched onto darker concepts like explosives and serial killers and the best methods for disposing of a body, but John was the opposite. He was sheer light, clean and pure and powerful and wonderful. He was beautiful. And Jim wasn't sure if he'd ever wanted anything more in his life. John Watson had started as an infection and turned into a fever that inflamed his entire body, mind, and heart. His time alone at home, which had consisted before of planning the best ways to kill the people he didn't like, was now devoted to John, formulating plans and theories and just thinking about that soft blonde hair and those bright blue eyes. He wanted John so much that it almost hurt, and it was why he found himself sneaking into John's house on a day he was sure it was empty.
It was far too easy to get in, and John's room was left unlocked, though the door was closed. The room itself was pretty small, though sunny, and had room for his bed, a desk with a rolling chair, a closet and a dresser. Oh god. This was so lovely, and almost too much. The entire room breathed John. It was so obviously, so entirely a place that belonged solely to him, and Jim felt a thrill at secretly being here, of violating John's territory like this without his knowledge. John, John, John, John. God.
Jim let his fingers run across the items on John's desk, pencils and pens and knick knacks and books alike. Just touching things that he knew John had touched, that he spent time with, was intoxicating. Jim's high was only enhanced by sitting on John's bed, smoothing the comforter down with his hands as he imagined what John would look like when he was sleeping. What else John did in this bed. What John would look like when his eyes slipped shut, hand sliding down underneath his pants as he gasped and moaned quietly, trying to make as little noise as possible. What Jim could do to John in this bed. Ohh, a shudder wracked through him at the thought, and he had to stand up again before the temptation became too great. As aroused as he was by the thought of pleasuring himself in the very same bed that John slept in every night, he absolutely could not leave any evidence behind that he'd been here and if things went well, he wouldn't have to imagine what he'd do to John in that bed anymore.
He crossed to the dresser, opening each drawer and touching all of John's clothes, delighted when he could pick out the items he'd seen on John before. He lingered over his pants drawer, admiring the bright colors that John evidently hid under his jeans. Did it give John a thrill, to walk around wearing something that could be considered exotic when no one else knew he had it on? He had to pull himself away, resisting the urge to take a pair as a souvenir, and closed the drawer again before finding the one temptation he couldn't resist. There was a hamper of dirty clothes next to the dresser, and in it was one of John's jumpers, a lovely one that Jim had seen him in several times. He'd only intended to look at it when he picked it up, but wound up pressing it to his nose and huffing it like an addict because god, it was absolutely saturated with John's scent. No, this was it. He had to take this. He had to at least have something to show for this visit, and this was it. He needed it.
Later that day found him curled up in his bed with his headphones on, John's jumper bunched up in his arms with his nose pressed into it, the scent having managed to lull him to sleep. John would undoubtedly notice it was missing, but that was alright. He'd assume it somehow got lost in the washing, or he left it at school, or that it was somewhere in his room and he just couldn't find it. He would never think that Jim had snuck into his house and stolen it, because that seemed crazy. Jim was a nice kid, a genius, a friend, why would he do something like that? Never mind the fact that Jim spent a good chunk of his time now getting high off of John's scent while thinking about John, his brain circling around and around as he tried to gather the courage to make a move.
Finally, it was the jumper that did it. It had started to lose its scent, away from its lovely owner for too long, and Jim simply couldn't go without John's scent and couldn't steal another one. He needed more of it, needed more of John, needed all of him. And now. It was the push he needed to finally, finally ask John, "Will you go out with me?"
And John had smiled, and said almost instantly, "I'd love to.
"Johnny boy," Jim purred, taking a step towards him as John continued forward, as much as his instincts were screaming for him to run. "I've been looking for you." His gaze stayed fixed on John even as he asked Seb, "Where were you?"
"Finishing off the last of the teachers," Sebastian answered, positioning himself off to the side with Sherlock in front of him, the gun still firmly pressed to the back of the other teen's nest of raven curls.
The corners of Jim's mouth lifted into something terrifying that John loathed to consider a smile. His steps to Jim faltered slightly and the smile-grimace-whatever-it-was disappeared instantly, Jim's gaze turning darker. "John," he said, just a slight warning, and John somehow managed to close the last of the distance between them. Instantly Jim's demeanor changed, a pleased, nearly delighted smile popping back onto his lips as he stepped close to John, his hand slowly going to John's hip as he gently nuzzled the blonde's neck, as if he was afraid of scaring him away. And meanwhile, the gun in his hand was fully within John's line of sight, close enough for him to reach even though he didn't dare.
"Oh, Johnny boy," Jim breathed, breath ghosting along John's collarbone and leaving goosebumps in its wake. He made a happy noise, breathing in deeply at the juncture between John's neck and shoulder. "I missed you." His fingertips slipped under the edge of John's t-shirt, cold fingers pressing lightly against his warm skin. Suddenly he pulled entirely away from John, commanding, "Turn around."
John obeyed, turning so that once again he could see Sherlock, pinned in place by Seb's gun and staring intently at the scene before him. The scene in which Jim was currently wrapping his free arm around John's waist, pulling the teen backwards, flush against him. John winced slightly at the contact, his eyes staying locked on Sherlock's, an anchor for his heart in the flood that was about to come. Jim's lips traveled up the back of his neck before his entire body molded against John's, chest pressed to his back, arm tightly around his waist and his hips pressed completely against him. He could feel Jim's breath along his neck and shoulders and then his ear as the brunette whispered, "You've been bad, Johnny boy." He shivered at that, and Jim's arm around his waist tightened slightly. "You hurt me. Abandoned me for Sherrrrlock." The 'ck' was pronounced and then Jim's chin was on John's shoulder as he looked at Sherlock. "How should we kill him, love? Quick bullet to the head? Or let him bleed out and suffer?" His voice was loud enough for Sherlock to hear, now, and though the other teen was doing a good job of hiding it John could see the fear that had set itself in his pale jade irises.
John nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt the cold touch of metal against his side, Jim's gun slipping underneath his shirt to glide along his hip and waist. "Come on, talk to me," Jim murmured, his voice dropped into an almost soothing tone, a madman's hush. "Let me hear that pretty voice, John."
It took John a few minutes to find his voice, having to first coax it down from the deeply hidden place it'd flown to in terror. Finally, he managed to get out, "J-Jim…"
"Oh I love it when you say my name, John," Jim groaned softly, pressing a kiss to the shell of John's ear. "Keep going, come on, for Daddy."
John closed his eyes for a second, taking in a shuddering breath before opening them again to reconnect with Sherlock's gaze. Sherlock's beautiful, heartbreaking, all important gaze. "Please tell me…" Jim waited patiently, silent while John strung words together though the muzzle of his gun was tracing circles on John's side "…that you didn't do this for me."
The giggle from Jim in response made his eyes slip shut again leadenly. Oh god. "I wouldn't say it was for you, Johnny boy. More that you were the inspiration. My muse." He kissed John's cheek. "My beautiful muse."
He hummed happily for a moment, nuzzling John's neck and breathing in his scent deeply, waiting for John's eyes to open again before saying, "You never answered my question, pet. How should we kill him?"
"Please, Jim…"
"Now now, no need for theatrics, love. It's quite simple. He stole from me. He's going to die for it." A hint of something far too clever entered his voice. "However…"
John found his hands being manipulated and before he knew it, his fingers were wrapped around the gun and Jim was holding his hands in place with his own, carefully controlling John's grip on the gun so there would be no firing unless he said so and no way John could break away with it. Jim pressed up against him again, and John could feel the other teen's arousal. God, of course he was getting off on this, the danger and sadism and being pressed this close to John all creating a cocktail somewhere between lust and adrenaline. "You kill him," Jim breathed in his ear, and his heart stopped, Sherlock's eyes going wide. "Kill him, Johnny boy, and you can make it out of here alive, without even a single scratch on you."
"And what's my other option?" John asked immediately, his hands shaking on the gun slightly.
Jim giggled. "Well, dearest, then I can take every single one of your transgressions out on that pretty flesh of yours however I feel like taking it. And right now I'm feeling especially creative. And Sherlock will die anyway. Maybe I'll drag it out. It's no fun when they die instantly, is it Seb?" Seb shook his head with the hint of a smile drawing up a corner of his lip. "So what'll it be, Johnny?"
"Do it, John," Sherlock said instantly, and John was amazed that he managed to keep his voice flat, even. "He's going to kill me anyway and this way you'll get out of here alive."
John shook his head slightly. "You don't know that," he said, something raw scratching at his throat. "He could be lying, and then I'll have your blood on my hands for nothing."
"When have I ever lied to you, Johnny boy?" Jim asked, a touch of a pout in his voice. "Oh, I know what I'll do," he said in a suddenly much more pleased tone. "I'll make him watch. As I take you apart, tear you down to your very bones. As I mark every single tiny inch of your flesh as mine again. As I make sure that no one ever touches what's mine again." His lips trailed up the shell of John's ear, curved up into a smile, and he raised his voice slightly. "Doesn't that sound like fun, Sherlock?"
"John," Sherlock said, drawing all of John's focus back to him in a second, and John's heart nearly gave up entirely when he saw the slightest hints of pleading in his otherwise passive expression. "Do it. You're only delaying the inevitable."
John bit his lip to keep himself from crying, shaking his head slightly. "Sherlock, I—" He broke off, shaking his head again as a few tears started to fall.
"Need a decision, dear," Jim said lightly, one of his thumbs stroking the back of his hand, and after a tense minute of silence John shook his head, lowering his arms as best he could. "No," he said. "I can't. I won't."
Sherlock's eyes slipped shut at the same time as Jim kissed John's cheek enthusiastically. "Oh, you always know what I want, don't you, Johnny?" he purred, nuzzling against John's ear. "It would've been so hard for me to keep my hands off of you if you killed Sherlock." He took control of the gun again, John's hands kept pliant by the unstated reminder of the gun to the back of Sherlock's head, and wrapped an arm around John's waist. The gun returned under his shirt after a few moments as a stand-in for Jim's hands, trailing up to the ribcage John's heart was trying to pound out of. Jim might have been high off of John at the moment, but that didn't mean he was stupid enough to put the gun down for even a second. John could barely even feel the touch of the cool metal, however, as all of his attention was focused on Sherlock, whose eyes were still closed as if he could block out this entire situation if he tried hard enough. "Now, where should we start, love? What do you think would hurt our dear Sherlock the most? Hmm? Or maybe," he said, voice slipping into something almost seductive, "we should work up to it. Start off slow and build to the worst. What do you think, dearest?"
John found his own eyes closing, exhaustion washing over him in a wave. "The police are bound to be on their way soon, Jim, someone must have called 999."
His eyes flew open again at the touch of a warm and wet tongue to his ear before Jim said, "They're going to find it pretty hard to do that with all of the phone lines disabled. And as for mobiles, well, no one can ever get a signal in this school anyway, can they?" He buried his face in the hair at the back of John's head, breathing in deeply. "So," he continued, voice slightly muffled, "you still haven't picked the game we're going to play, Johnny boy."
"Please…Jim…" John tried weakly, and there was a pause as he took a shaky breath. "Please don't do this…I'm so sorry…"
"You're not SORRY!" John flinched at the sudden shout, opening his eyes to find that Sherlock's were open as well. He barely had time to contemplate it as Jim's voice was in his ear, low, quick, dangerous. "We both know you left me, abandoned me, BETRAYED me. And for what, John? A pretty little genius sociopath? What does he have—" here he pressed closer to John, holding him with the arm across his waist nearly tight enough to hurt "—that I don't? You were so happy with me, Johnny boy," he said, the last sentence dropping into a whine. His mood had changed at least three times in the past minute and John was having trouble keeping track. "I made you happy. And I needed you. Need you. But you don't want me…" The end trailed off miserably, and if Jim hadn't just murdered most of the school and wasn't currently holding both Sherlock and John hostage, he would have felt sorry for him. Instead, inspiration struck.
"Jim," he started softly, the fingertips of one hand just lightly brushing against the arm around his waist. When no reaction was forthcoming, he continued, beginning to draw light, soothing circles on Jim's arm. He could nearly feel Jim holding his breath. "Jim," he repeated after a minute, the name a soft sigh accompanied by a slight press of his hips back. A soft noise that might have been a whimper came from the other teen. "You do make me happy…and I still—" he paused, corrected himself "—I will always want you." Jim's nose buried itself in the crook of his neck, inhaling deeply. "I need you, Jim." This point was emphasized by another press of his hips back, a little more forceful this time, and Jim groaned softly. Time to really sell this. His head was already turned about as much as it could, which wasn't saying much because Jim's position was blocking him from actually seeing his former boyfriend, as much as he knew eye contact would help him with this. "I love you."
And Jim shivered, pressing his entire body as close to John's as he could, still breathing in his scent, the hand and the gun with it currently pressed against his hip. "John," he breathed, and it sounded more desperate than anything. If John hadn't already turned away from Sherlock he would have had to do it now, knowing one look into the other's eyes could bring this entire thing crashing down in a second.
"I want to make it up to you," John breathed right back, his voice a delicate balance of apologetic and remorseful, with just a touch of enticement that grew into a layer with his next words. "How would you like me to?"
At that Jim groaned, spinning John around to kiss him, the hand with the gun sliding up to cup his face as best it could. John kissed back with all he had, all he could manage, trying to pretend that this was just like it used to be, back when Jim wasn't a psychopath and he wasn't a hostage. He only had to hold on for so long, however, as there was a thud, a shout, and a shot from behind him, and then quite suddenly Jim had him turned around again, an arm back around his waist and the gun pressed to his temple. It took John a few seconds to realize that Sherlock was alone, now, pointing Seb's gun at Jim as Sebastian lay on the ground, bleeding from a hole in his chest. Even though there was a gun pressed to his head relief fluttered in John's chest, faith in Sherlock overcoming the fear of Jim.
"Let him go, Jim," Sherlock said, and his voice was remarkably calm for the situation at hand. "We both know you're not going to kill him."
"Not kill him, no," Jim said smoothly, and laid a soft kiss on John's cheek, his next words whispered just for John. "No, Johnny boy, I want you to live. I'm going to mark you, and I want you to live so that every time you look at that mark, every time you see it, you think of me. I will always be there, John, a brand of possession on your body, and a ghost in your soul. Sherlock may have you a year, two, five, ten, who knows from now, but he won't have you like I do. Because no matter what you do, I will always be with you."
"Jim, what are you—" He never got all of the words out because suddenly there was pain exploding in his left shoulder as Jim pressed the gun down and shot him, the bullet going through him and straight into Jim's chest. He fell forward, Jim releasing him, and a second shot rang out—from who he didn't know—and Jim's body joined him in a moment, eyes open, sightless, dead.
"John!"
Surely that was Sherlock shouting his name. That had to be. He knew that. But everything was rapidly going darker under the pain, sounds coming from under water while sensations were white hot. He was aware of a touch on his arm, of someone rolling him onto his back, of a flash of blue-green eyes, and then he was gone.
"You're a prat," John said, though he was smiling as he said it and Sherlock was hanging above him, smiling at him with his weight braced on the hands that were on either side of John's head on the bed.
"Your prat," Sherlock reminded, and John pretended to sigh about it.
"Yes, my prat," he said, unable to help the smile on his features when Sherlock bore a twin one. "I must have been mad, voluntarily choosing to be with you."
Sherlock chuckled, and John loved the way that his baritone rumbled in his chest when he spoke. "There's a fine line between genius and insanity, John, and I believe your decision lies in the former category."
This was lovely. Wonderful. Another day of domestic bliss, in the flat that they'd found together, that they'd moved into together, that they'd stayed in love in together. Sherlock had managed to pester Scotland Yard until they let him consult on cases, ever the brilliant detective with his not so brilliant blogger in tow. Though, John was a doctor now, and he was happy with that, happy with Sherlock. Happier than he'd ever been, really.
"Yeah, the jury's still out on that one," he responded to Sherlock, and the detective shook his head with a grin and swooped down to kiss along John's collarbone from shoulder to—oh. Shoulder.
Sherlock's lips paused at the scar on John's left shoulder, a sort of solemn hush falling over the room. John tried to quiet the sudden increase in his pulse, but it was hard when he just kept hearing the same words over and over again in his head before the sound of a gunshot.
"Because no matter what you do, I will always be with you."
Sherlock looked up at him, seeing the change in his eyes and instantly deducing John's thoughts. "He's gone, John," he said quietly, and John nodded his head.
"I know," he said. This was a routine that they'd done dozens of times, though a lot of times they just skipped past it and ignored the slightly sick feeling they both felt upon seeing John's scar. He wanted to shake it off again. He wanted to be able to shake it off every time, but it was so hard when PTSD had followed him his entire life and a constant reminder of him lived on his skin.
He forcefully pulled himself out of the past, attempting a smile and saying, "Weren't we talking about my insanity?"
Sherlock managed a smile back, though they both knew it was forced. "You mean your genius," he said, and John chuckled.
"You're my genius," he said, affectionately carding his fingers through some of Sherlock's curls. And Sherlock kissed him, and somehow they managed to work their way back to alright, as they always did. No matter the dark places John went, he always managed to find his way back to Sherlock in the end.
But Jim had been right. No matter what he did, he couldn't shake off his ghost. He would always, in some way, belong to Jim.