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What the hell was wrong with him?
Sherlock thought looking at the sky through his office window. The phones rang, people came in calling his attention, people stood there to speak. But he noticed nothing. He was oblivious to everything. As if nothing else existed except for him.
Dr Watson was going to die.
And he was the reason for it. How could he be so stupid? So irresponsible? Doesn't he know what happens to the people who come near him? Doesn't he remember what happened to peter? Doesn't he remember what happened to that guy at the party? Doesn't he know what could become of John Watson just because of his want of adrenalin rush? God what had he done.
John.
The name itself gave Sherlock a breath of fresh air. A feeling of safety, a feeling of freedom. It was strange how he never felt like this with Jim. To be honest he was the safest man on earth with Jim. No one could touch him, no one could reach him, no one could harm him. Yet this feeling of safety he could relate to John, who's own safety was now questionable if Jim was to find out Sherlock's inclination towards the doctor.
Oh what a mess he has made.
Sherlock tapped his temples with his fingers in exasperation. He needed to calm down, he needed to regain control over his thoughts but they had started disobeying him at every mention of John Watson. He hated it yet he loved it. He had lost control with Jim so many times and regretted it every time. But now this doctor who was nowhere close to Jim was wrecking his control and he was actually enjoying it. He was longing for it.
He tried to force his thoughts away from the course they were taking. His thoughts were growing wilder with images of him losing control to the doctor.
Oh what pleasure it would be! I won't feel guilty about it, it won't be as harsh and brutal like it is with Jim. I would never touch John like that. John would never tough me like that. Did he actually feel the way his eyes told me he did? Or was it just a moment of bewilderment? A stumble? What if all this is a dream? I need to check again. If possible go talk to him. Lay a hand on that beautiful warm hued skin, course my fingers through those soft light locks. Take hold of him, claim him. Making sure what he felt was real. What I felt was real.
Sherlock slapped himself mentally. He reminded himself that John would be skinned if he touched him, he would be decapitated if he ran his fingers through his hair, silenced to death if he ever dared to hold him. This was a mistake. This was a great big mistake.
If only Jim could understand.
Sherlock thought wistfully. But then what would Jim understand? That he was not enough for Sherlock? That no matter what he did for him was just not enough? That Sherlock coveted a man as plain and simple as the doctor? That Sherlock was willing to have them both? That Sherlock would prefer if Jim had some attributes of John? That he could calm and comfort him by his presence like the doctor?
That Sherlock was cheating on him after ten years of blind love and loyalty from Jim?
The last thought startled Sherlock. He sat up straight and as if on cue Jim called. He saw the caller Id and settled himself. Trying to hide everything on his mind in the deepest darkest recesses of his vast mind.
"Jim." Sherlock acknowledged.
There was a faint sobbing sound from the opposite side. It gave Sherlock a deep frown.
Oh God! No! please no! please Jim hasn't found out! No!
The sobbing continued.
Two of his bodyguards came into his chamber and stood silently by the door.
He had to go.
On his way Sherlock couldn't help fidgeting. All the horrible scenarios played in his mind. He never hated himself as much as he did today. He ran his hands through his hair contemplating. What would he do if he had actually caused John's death? He wouldn't be able to let Jim get away with this one. No, his doctor would be avenged, no matter what the consequence. Maybe Jim hadn't killed him yet, maybe he could talk Jim out of it. He would give Jim anything he wanted to make sure his doctor was alive.
I would do anything. Anything at all.
All the way Sherlock continued to think of ways to make his wrong right.
When he entered their living area burst opening the door, panting, hearing his own heart beat away in his ears he saw Jim was sitting on the sofa, with a dejected expression. His head hung over his chest.
Holding a gun to his head.