"I'm king now mother, that means I've got more power than you." Sherlock pointed out with a nervous smile. His mother just glared at him and Sherlock sighed heavily, shaking his head in disappointment.
"Yes, alright, I'll go to my room." Sherlock muttered, seeing that no matter what crown he wore, his mother was still superior. 

 Sherlock sat in his bedroom, sitting on his bed and staring at the crown that sat on his dresser as if wondering if it were actually there. This all had to be a bad dream, this all had to be some wild fantasy. How did his mother expect him to be the man everyone had thought he once was? How did she expect him to make his kingdom proud and make his family proud and somehow manage to redeem his honor from his people? From people who wouldn't even bow to him, their king, the mock and ridicule their own ruler. Disgusting, disgraceful subjects, how dare they disrespect him? Now he had the power, now he had the control, but what to do with that power now that it was officially his? What did he do to ever earn this, to deserve it? There had to be a mistake here, obviously this was all some sort of huge joke the entire kingdom was playing on him, they couldn't seriously expect him to sit on the throne of his father and rule the land. Suddenly there was what sounded like yelling outside his door, yelling between the soldiers and a familiar voice. Sherlock got up from his bed in a huff, marching over to the door and opening it. The two soldiers had their swords drawn, pointing their blades at John, who looked very small compared to their armor. 

"Let him pass." Sherlock demanded.
"But your majesty, Mr. Trevor said not to let anyone pass, no matter your orders." One of the guards insisted. John sighed heavily, looking at Sherlock for any help.
"And would you take the word of some traveler over your own king? Let him pass, or you will both find yourselves without a job." Sherlock warned. The soldiers eyed each other uneasily, but finally they shrugged, putting their swords back in their sheaths where they belonged and letting John pass through. Sherlock slammed the door a bit aggressively, turning to see John make his way right over to where the crown sat on his dresser.
"Don't touch it." Sherlock snapped immediately, worrying that John would get his grubby little fingerprints all over the polished gold.
"I had no intentions to, God forbid I dropped it." John assured, looking back at Sherlock with a half-smile.
"Congratulations." He added. Sherlock groaned loudly, shaking his head and staying where he was, images of his dream coming back to him dispute all that had happened since. God that was so embarrassing, his self-consciousness kept wanting to bring up those images, those feelings, even though he worked so hard to push them away.
"John you know...you know I can't do this." Sherlock muttered, his voice shaking a little bit. John turned, his smile fading a little bit as he took a step closer.
"No Sherlock, you can, you most certainly can. Your mother picked you for a reason, I know that you'll do a good job, I know that she made the right choice." John assured, walking up to where Sherlock stood as if it were to provide some sort of comfort.
"John you know me better than anyone, I've let you see me as I really am from the start, I've let you in." Sherlock whispered. "You know who I am and what I can and cannot do."
"You can't fight, I know that." John said plainly, making Sherlock look up in shock. He was right of course, but it was weird to hear someone say it so blatantly, especially in a moment like this.
"And you can't interact with people; I've seen that first hand. You can't smile when you don't want to; you can't hunt, or defend yourself, or even pour your own orange juice. But Sherlock, don't even try to tell me that you can't wear that crown, sit on that throne, and rule this kingdom. You're right, I do know you, maybe more than you know yourself, and if there is anyone on this earth that should sit on that throne it's you. It's your heritage, your blood line, your destiny. You trust me with your life and I trust you with the lives of thousands, and it's time to realize that you were always going to wear that crown." John stared right into Sherlock's eyes, so fearlessly it was almost terrifying. Sherlock had thrived so well when John didn't know it was him, in his dream, when his eyes were closed. Now, with those hazel eyes staring so intensely into his soul, Sherlock felt the need to hide. He wanted to hide everything he's ever seen, everything he thought he might have felt, he didn't want John to know the true weakness that was buried inside of him. Now John could see him, now John could know it was Sherlock who stood before him.
"I don't know how you still have faith in me John; I don't know how you could possibly..." Sherlock took a deep breath, cutting his own sentence off because he had no idea where it was going. Somewhere dark, probably, and maybe even somewhere personal.
"I think you need to see yourself now as a king, not just a prince, not just a fake." John insisted.
"But I am a fake, John I've said it from the start, I've known it. You say that there isn't anyone alive that should be king, you should be king John, you should! Out of the both of us you're the only one that can fight; you're the only one with an even temper, with a pure soul and a beating heart. You're fair, and responsible, and respectable, you're everything that I'm not. And you're nothing more than a servant." Sherlock muttered.
"I don't want to be king Sherlock, there's no way that I would ever be qualified for royal life. That's why you're the king, not me Sherlock; you know what you're doing even if you don't want to admit it." John stepped even closer, forcing Sherlock to turn away, ducking his head so that John couldn't see the blush that crept into his cheeks. He didn't want John to know whatever emotions were beginning to stir in his heart.
"You're afraid of me?" John wondered. Sherlock shook his head, still not turning around, staring at the ground in shame.
"No of course not John, I could never be afraid of you I just don't want you to be afraid of me." Sherlock admitted vaguely.
"Why would I be afraid of you?" John wondered. Sherlock had no idea of course; he had no idea how to respond to such a question.
"I don't know, I just...I don't know." Sherlock admitted. He felt a hand on his shoulder, a soft, gentle hand placed there for emotional support, nothing more.
"I'm not afraid of you." John assured. Sherlock reached up, holding John's hand onto his shoulder and squeezing the tears out of his eyes, shaking his head and letting their fingers weave and interlock in some sort of weird puzzle. John's skin was soft, John was gentle, every touch from his fingers gave Sherlock more strength, more courage that John just might be right after all. But what was he doing, what he was thinking? What could John think of this, what could he discover if Sherlock suddenly became too intimate? Feeling his fingers was one thing, but what if Sherlock lost his nerve, what if he turned around, kissed John, what if everything that he did in that dream suddenly became reality, and John was too scared to say anything about it? John might just go with whatever Sherlock wanted, he was the king after all, and what can a servant do to stand up to a king? Sherlock took a deep breath, but finally he pushed John's hand away, turning to face the man with all the self-control he could muster.
"I don't think I should be close to you John. I don't think that I should be...alone...with you." Sherlock decided finally.
"Why not?" John asked firmly, clenching his jaw as if trying to keep in his emotions.
"What has Victor told you of me John?" Sherlock wondered.
"Oh so you're listening to Victor now are you?" John asked, sounding offended.
"Has he spoken to you recently, has he said anything that sounded unusual?" Sherlock wondered.
"Why, what does Victor know that I don't?" John wondered.
"He knows why you shouldn't be here right now." Sherlock insisted, stepping around John and marching over to the dresser. He hated to send John away, he hated it, but what could happen if he got everything that he wanted? John would never talk to him, the only person who ever believed in him would be disgusted by his very presence.
"What has he told you about me? Has he tried to convince you that I'm your killer, is he trying to somehow warp your brain so that you're turned against me? You know Sherlock; you know I would never do anything to hurt you." John insisted.
"I don't think I'm good for you John." Sherlock whispered. "I don't think...I don't think you're good for me."
"Where is this coming from Sherlock? Who have you been talking to, who has been convincing you that I'm a villain?" John wondered.
"You're not a villain John, that much I know for sure. But what of me, what might I do? I can barely treat the townspeople with respect what makes you trust me with yours? The last thing I want to do is disappoint you, the last thing I want if for you to see the truth in me." Sherlock insisted. Sherlock couldn't believe he was saying this, he could believe that any of these words were coming from his own mouth, why would he send John away when they had been so close? He was scared; he was so utterly terrified that John would discover his true intentions, his hidden desires. What would John think of a man who was in love with another man?
"I think maybe it's time for me to leave." John decided. Sherlock hid his face from him, telling himself over and over that this was somehow the right thing to do. This wasn't just some whim of self-dignity that he was going through with to save himself. He needed to do this; he needed to let himself go from whatever ties John had on him. Sherlock heard John's footsteps out the door and then the door close quietly, sounding as if John didn't even care. Sherlock shivered a little bit dispute the warmth, staring at the crown as if it was the one controlling his voice, his words and his thoughts. Sherlock shook his head, feeling like such an idiot. Was he already doing what he thought was good for the kingdom by doing what was wrong for himself? Sherlock took the crown in his hands, staring at the golden reflections, his face distorted in the image. Oh how could he look at himself, how could he ever bring himself to be someone he isn't by sending away the only person he wanted to stay? Sherlock placed the crown on top of his head, the weight immediately making his knees buckle, seeing in the mirror not Sherlock Holmes but the king of Lauriston Kingdom. He could see himself with the power, with the strength, the ability to move armies and destroy livelihoods. He had everything anyone could ever want, all of the power and riches in the world. But he had no respect. Right now the only person that saw Sherlock Holmes as the king was Sherlock himself. No one else saw Sherlock Holmes as anything more than a spoiled brat in his father's clothes, pretending like he meant something, pretending that he had the self-control that was needed to rule his kingdom. He saw himself in the mirror but he didn't want to, he saw a king that had all the power in the world but none at all. He could crush kingdoms and men and mountains, except he couldn't overcome the obstacle that was stirring inside of him, in his brain, in his heart. The one weakness that planted itself in every man at one point, the parasite he had thought he had killed long before. Sherlock raised his fist and smashed the mirror, the shards of glass ripping into his skin, spilling drops of his royal blood onto his desk, the mirror shattering into fragments beneath him. Sherlock fell to his knees, the crown wobbling on his head as he let the tears fall once more.
"I'm sorry John, I'm so sorry." Sherlock whispered to himself. "I'm sorry that I love you." 

 The funeral wasn't long, to Sherlock's pleasant surprise. All of the townspeople came to the square once more, all holding candles and lighting the way as the sun went down. Horses pulled the carriage on which the king's coffin lay, people wept and cried, obviously they had been so attached to a man they had probably never met. Sherlock stood next to his mother and brother, the king's crown on his head and his hand wrapped in bandages. The cuts were still bleeding, no doubt there was still glass stuck in his hand, but the bandages caught it, slowly turning red as the night went on. Thankfully Sherlock didn't have to make any speeches or talk to the crowd because he doubted anyone would listen, they were all giving him very dirty looks from where they stood. John was there, of course he was, standing in the crowd with the Adlers and looking depressed, watching as the horses pulled the coffin by him and throwing a flower on the road. Why was he such a good person, he had barely even known the king and yet he felt the need to cry with the rest, god it just wasn't fair to Sherlock's poor heart. He couldn't take his eyes away from John that whole night, he barely even focused on the coffin as it made its way down the way, he didn't listen to his mother as she made a speech, he tuned out whatever Mycroft was trying to muter to him. He kept his eyes on John although that was the last thing he wanted to look at. It hurt him to stare at the man; it hurt him to keep his distance while every fiber in his body told him that there was nothing more he could do. If he told john about his love then he would destroy every respect he had from the only man that mattered. John would be disgusted if he ever found out; even Sherlock was disgusted by himself for considering these feelings. But they were there; he couldn't deny that any longer. Somewhere buried deep inside of his heart was that small little voice, whispering to him and insisting that it would be alright, that John may accept him for who he was. But no, he was a king, he was a ruler. He didn't have time for tiptoeing around John Watson; he didn't have time to let his brain wander off to a servant. God, here he was actually thinking about the good of his kingdom, who was he turning into? It was this pathetic crown, sitting on his head and warping his brain, it was telling him what to do and how to act, it was poisonous. And yet it was necessary. 

"You don't look as sad as I thought you'd be." Molly observed, coming up to Sherlock as the crowds started to move away, extinguishing their candles and plunging the square back into moonlight darkness. Sherlock shook his head, wondering if he should tell Molly or not. She knew everything, why not this? But this was madness, it was illegal and immoral, no, not another living soul could know.
"It's still processing I believe." Sherlock muttered, walking into the castle as quickly as he could to get away from his mother, who was still trying to use him as a shoulder to cry on.
"Well that's alright, take your time." Molly assured. "We haven't been able to talk since all of this happened, since you got that crown."
"Yes I know, it's all been a whirlwind." Sherlock agreed, talking at her and hoping she'd get the hint that he really didn't want to converse at the moment.
"How are you feeling, honestly?" Molly wondered, trying her best to make it up the stone stairs as fast as Sherlock did, dispute her high heels.
"Oh you know, a little bit surprised I guess." Sherlock said with a shrug.
"Sherlock I'm not your mother, you can tell me." Molly insisted. Sherlock shook his head, storming down the corridor with his cape flying out behind him.
"I'm the king now Molly, what do you think I'm feeling?" Sherlock wondered.
"Well I don't know, that's why I'm asking you. I think most men would feel honored, excited even, but I know that you're not most men." Molly pointed out. Sherlock shook his head, thinking to everything he's thought and done in the last twenty four hours.
"I think it's safe to say that there is only one of me out there." Sherlock agreed.
"I know that it's too early to try to ask this, but what's going on with you?" Molly wondered.
"What do you mean? I'm fine, I'm...me." Sherlock insisted. Molly just laughed, shaking her head doubtfully as they made their way to Sherlock's room.
"You're not you, of course you're not how could you be, but I thought that maybe you'd be handling this whole thing a little bit more maturely than you are. I imagine your mother is thinking the same." Molly guessed.
"Did she put you up to this?" Sherlock wondered suspiciously. Molly sighed heavily, shaking her head as if that was supposed to be obvious.
"No of course not, don't be so paranoid." Molly insisted.
"Paranoia is a job for another entity in this castle." Sherlock said in almost a growl, thinking back to one of his least favorite men.
"Victor, stop thinking about Victor for like, five seconds Sherlock!" Molly insisted.
"I'm not thinking about Victor, I'm just pointing out the obvious." Sherlock defended.
"I think you're going crazy, I think he's got your brain in a knot." Molly decided.
"You do, do you? How would he do that?" Sherlock wondered. They had finally reached his room, Sherlock threw open the door and left Molly to close it, taking off his crown as soon as he possibly could and setting it back on his dresser where it couldn't mess with his brain any longer.
"I think you're taking everything he says to you too seriously." Molly decided, crossing her arms stubbornly.
"Who have you been talking to?" Sherlock wondered, taking a threatening step forward.
"No one of course." Molly insisted, shaking her head but looking a little bit nervous.
"You've been talking to someone...you've been talking to him..." Sherlock hissed.
"Alright, fine, yes, I met John in the hallway. He said that you threw him out, that you looked downright scared of him." Molly pointed out. Sherlock turned away from her, facing the shattered mirror and seeing many different distorted images of himself staring back.
"I'm not scared of John." Sherlock muttered. Maybe not of the man, but he was most certainly scared of the feelings John radiated.
"Then why did you throw him out? Yesterday you would've sold your soul to get a little bit of time with him, and then Victor comes and gets you all worried about an assassin, you've got to realize that John would never hurt you!" Molly insisted.
"What do you think I am Molly, stupid? Of course I know John's not going to hurt me; of course I know that he would never be the assassin." Sherlock insisted, his voice trembling with emotion.
"Then what in the world is going on with you Sherlock?" Molly wondered.
"I can't say." Sherlock whispered.
"Is it your new position; are you scared for your life? Think about it Sherlock, you need to figure out what's going on so that you can fix it." Molly insisted.
"It's not that I don't know Molly!" Sherlock roared, smacking a candelabrum off of his dresser and listening to it slide across the floor in a crunch of metal. Molly jumped back in fear, covering her mouth with her hands to stifle her cry of surprise. "It's not that I don't know, it's that I can't tell you." Sherlock insisted.
"You can tell me anything, and anyone who told you differently is lying to you." Molly insisted. Sherlock turned towards her in anger, his fists shaking in fear, could he tell her, would he dare?
"I different Molly, I'm not...there's something wrong with me." Sherlock insisted, his voice quivering.
"There's something wrong with all of us." Molly assured. She looked terrified yet strong, her hands were shaking in her neat white gloves but her eyes were solid, she wanted to help no matter what the cost.
"No, no, you don't understand, I don't understand...you're right, I'm taking his words too literally, but they're true Molly. He knows something about me; he figured it out before I could." Sherlock whispered.