"Aw, Pet." Jim said pushing the barrel of the gun into John's neck. "You don't look happy to see me."
"What the hell are you doing here?" John whispered feeling panic skitter across his skin.
"I can't come visit my favorite pet?" Jim mocked with that irritatingly terrifying grin.
"I want you to leave." John said shortly.
"That's adorable." Jim giggled before ruffling John's hair with his free hand. "The crippled dog trying to be brave. Really, Johnny Boy. You're almost amusing enough to keep around."
"Leave." John said a bit more firmly.
"I said almost." Jim said ignoring John's demand. "But I'm afraid you've outlived your usefulness. Useless, crippled dogs have to be put down."
John jerked away as Jim shoved the gun harder against his neck. But Jim had his other hand clutching John's blond strands and he pulled painfully causing tears to form at the corners of his eyes.
"What are you doing here?" John whispered.
"I'm bored." Jim shrugged. "And a bit irritated. My Sherlock has been incredibly annoying these past seven months."
John felt his breath hitch as several puzzle pieces slotted into place quickly in his head. Fuck.
"You didn't know?" Jim asked with a gleeful grin. "It's pretty telling, isn't it? Even when he hates me, he still devotes more time to me than he does the pet he supposedly loves. That must make you feel awful."
"Shut up." John said trying to function through the emotions boiling in his head. Of course it was Jim. God, how had he not seen it before? He'd been so fucking stupid. No wonder he'd run off to play this game. He couldn't resist.
"Now, Pet." Jim scolded lightly. "Be nice. Or you'll have to be punished."
"You do realize that I don't give one fucking shit about playing these games with you." John said feeling anger burn like acid through his entire body. He was so fucking angry. He couldn't even see straight. "Sherlock may like playing games with you, but I don't. So either fucking try to kill me or get the fuck out."
"Oh, Johnny Boy." Jim said, his voice taking on a quiet rage of his own. "I'm not going to try. I'm going to succeed."
"Then do it." John snapped back. "Because then maybe I can finally get some peace from self-satisfied, know-it-all pricks with gigantic fucking egos."
"Don't worry." Jim said soothingly. "I will. But I'm going to have some fun first whether you like it or not."
"Fuck off." John said firmly shifting against the metal at his throat. He flinched as Jim smacked him hard across the face.
"It's really up to you." Jim said. "How you end your time on earth. Do you want it to be quick and almost painless or do you want to go out torn to shreds?"
"It makes me no difference." John said firmly.
"Bit of a death wish, then?" Jim said, that smile lighting up his features again.
"My only wish is that you'd stop talking, you incredibly tedious arse." John shot back. He knew it wasn't smart, but he couldn't be bothered to care. Everyone else in this situation was acting like a complete fucking idiot, why not him as well?
"Fine." Jim said shortly. "I'll kill you right now. Get up and face the wall. I don't want to get any blood on this suit. Westwood."
John felt his entire body protest the movement through terrified self-preservation, but his rage overrode it. He got up stiffly keeping a wary eye on the hardware at his back. He faced the wall and took several breaths trying to control the rage and panic fighting for dominance inside him. He was most likely going to die. He'd die and his mother would cry and his sister would get drunk and his aunt would be upset and Sherlock…fuck. Sherlock would be devastated. He'd be lost and alone and he'd do something stupid.
"You know." Jim said cutting into his thoughts. "I do hate getting my hands dirty, but for this. This moment. I'm more than happy to make an exception. It's going to be worth it watching your lifeless body slam to the ground as all of your faculties leave you and you piss and shit all over yourself. Then Sherlock won't want you for sure. He'll be all mine. To play with. To fuck. And then, when I get bored, and I will. I'll have him killed. Probably string up his corpse and have it tied to the gates of that ridiculous country home of his. Ya know, it might be poetic to take care of the whole family. So, John. At least I'm sparing you that. See, I am incredibly sweet when I want to be."
John let rage consume him. He'd tried to stamp it down. Tried to lock it away in his mind, but he'd officially had e-fucking-nough. There were only two things that he and his father had in common. One was anger. John's dad was at his best when he was drunk and raging and stumbling around the house with wrath. But John didn't need to drink. His anger was honed simply by existing. He'd kept it locked away, ashamed of his weakness because he knew that it made him like his father. But it was always just there. Simmering away. Waiting for a moment to lash out. John finally gave up and felt it consume his entire being with hot, caustic burning. He felt the gun pressed firmly against the back of his skull and all of his awareness seemed to pinpoint to that one spot. He let out a huffing breath and felt his body tense in anticipation.
He heard Jim shift his stance and readjust his grip on the firearm. John took one more deep breath before shifting quickly to the side and ducking under the barrel as he twisted to grab the psycho's wrist and slam it hard against the wall he was just standing against. He saw surprise across the other boy's face but didn't let it halt his movement as he caught the gun in mid-air and utilized the only other thing that he and his father had in common. It was the only thing that they ever did together. The only thing his father had ever actually taught him. And he was good. Extremely good. And at this distance, only a foot away, it took him less than a second to fix his grip, line up the shot and pull the trigger.
John froze with the gun still raised as Jim stumbled back and clutched at the red mark blooming quickly on his pristine white dress shirt. The fear and rage and pain on the other boy's face sent sick jolts through John's entire body. Jim's weakening body hitting the floor finally broke through the cold immobility of the blond. He jerked forward almost throwing the gun away from himself and grabbing the sheets off his bed as he knelt by the man who tried to kill him applying pressure on the gun wound to the chest. John's hands were steady despite the terror racing through his body as he pressed down on the hole.
"You fucking piece of shit." Jim said weakly, his entire body shaking in pain and anger. "I'm going to fucking kill you. Do you hear me? I'm going to rip you apart."
"I'm sorry." John said brokenly. "I'm so sorry."
"Fuck you." Jim said as he began coughing up blood. "Fuck…"
John watched in horror as Jim's eyes rolled back up into his head and his body lost all tension. He kept pressure on the wound and was whimpering as tears ran down his cheeks, "sorrysorrysorrysorrysorry..."
He wasn't sure how long he sat there covered in Jim's blood keeping pressure on the wound. Mycroft would tell him later that another team of agents had entered his flat just minutes after the gunshot, but to John it felt like hours. Hours sitting next to the corpse of someone he'd just killed. Murdered. Hours of playing through the event in his head over and over and over again. Wondering why he didn't just knock him out or shoot him somewhere he wouldn't die. Why did he aim for the heart? Why in a place that almost guaranteed that the other boy would die? Fuck. Why would he do that?
He was pushed and prodded down the stairs of his flat and into a waiting vehicle by someone. He wasn't exactly sure who. They were trying to talk to him. Trying to get him to say something, but John couldn't quite focus. Couldn't quite get his body to respond. They covered him in an orange blanket and pressed heat packs against his skin. He was shivering and shaking despite the warmth of the vehicle and his entire body was roiling with panic. He wasn't sure at what point his body decided to rid his stomach of its contents, but luckily someone was there with a bucket and he spent the rest of the ride dry heaving every few minutes.
He was exhausted and ragged by the time he was all but carried into Mycroft's home in London. He was pushed down gently into the window seat in the study and promptly curled up into himself clutching the orange blanket for everything it was worth. He heard people whispering very close by but he couldn't be bothered to actually tune in. he rested his head on the cold glass and stared out onto the dark street feeling nothing but a sort of muted emptiness in his head. Everything felt muffled and soft. Not quite real. Fuzzy.
He held his hands out away from himself. They were dark brown with blood. Stained. Tainted. He hung there in some sort of weird inanimate coma until he felt someone jostle his shoulder and he jerked away and closed in upon himself once more.
"John!" Mycroft's raised voice cut through the muted sounds around him. "John! Look at me!"
John's head felt heavy and wobbly as he shifted to stare at the elder Holmes. Worried. He looked worried. Why? Was Sherlock alright? He had to find out. Had to ask. But his mind kept short circuiting. He couldn't get his mouth to open. Couldn't get his tongue to form the words. All he could do was stare and hope that Mycroft gave him the answer he so desperately wanted.
"John!" Mycroft continued. "Are you alright? Talk to me John!"
John shifted his gaze back down to his bloody hands and held them out in front of them like proof. No, he wasn't alright. But Jim was less alright. Jim was dead and he'd killed him. And he'd gotten angry and shot someone. Right in the heart. He'd murdered someone. Oh, god. He'd murdered, killed, destroyed. He felt something tear its way out of his throat and a rough sob sounded loud in the room as John finally broke down and curled further into himself as the tears fell for the second time that night.
He couldn't remember how he'd gotten into the bathroom, but he found himself standing in front of a mirror staring at his hands and blood spattered face letting his whole body shudder in revulsion at the sight. He frantically tore off the clothes and turned on the shower jumping in despite the ice cold water still pouring from the tap. He shivered wildly until the hot water flowed freely and then he began scrubbing at his skin. Meticulous. He went over every inch of his skin carefully ensuring that it was free of blood or dirt. He stayed under the faucet for hours checking and rechecking his body for blood. He climbed out feeling exhaustion tugging at his awareness. He pulled on a pair of pajamas that had appeared in the bathroom and all but crawled across the hall to Sherlock's bedroom.
Mycroft had cleaned everything up during Sherlock's absence but the chemistry set and books were familiar, comforting. He crawled under the sheets and pushed himself all the way over into the wall. He heard someone open the door and glanced over his shoulder to see Mycroft standing in the doorway.
"John?" Mycroft asked softly. "Are you alright?"
"Tell me." John whispered through abused windpipes. "Where's Sherlock?"
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I hated writing this chapter. It tore at my insides.
