John POV: "Hide, hide, get into the closet!" Sherlock hissed, his face turning as white as the sheets which they had clutched not moments before, grabbing at his clothes and looking close to tears. John didn't hesitate, he understood the danger he was in and was suddenly flung from the cloud on which he had laid, suddenly he was struck with reality, reality that came like the sounds of approaching boots upon the stairs. John dove into the closet, shirtless and freezing, closing the door and trembling with fear as he ducked into the concealment of the hanging clothes and piles of old junk that was lying about. He couldn't move or something would give his presence away, he simply ducked into the back and watched through the slits in the door, watching as a desperate Sherlock made the room more presentable, more as would be expected. He was trembling as he worked, and when finally the footsteps had drawn right up to the door he unlocked it, pulling at the handle before falling into the bed with a horrified sigh. And John watched, watched as the door opened, and with that he could hardly dare to breathe, for fear of the sound it might make. He couldn't give away his position, not tonight. Whatever fantasy of immortality he had been experiencing as he kissed Sherlock had long since disintegrated, and the power he had once had glowing through his veins had been replaced with horror in the face of a boy much more powerful than he, much more fearless. It was that boy who arrived tonight. The door swung open with an ominous creak, the announcing of the villain.
"Sorry I'm late Sherlock, it's been..." Victor's words trialed when he saw the state of his boyfriend, sitting upon the bed still heaving for breath. Sherlock was struggling to look normal, and John could see the suspicion beginning to grow in Victor's face. He dared not move, he could barely even breathe, for this was the most vulnerable he had ever become in Victor's presence.
"I wasn't expecting you Victor; I thought your father had kept you again." Sherlock admitted, trying to smile at him, trying his absolute best.
"He tried, but he passed out and so I came here. He won't remember, he won't care." Victor admitted as he turned towards the door once more, closing with a snap and taking a cigarette from his pocket. John watched as Sherlock took this opportunity to glance at the closet, John watched his eyes and yet he knew that Sherlock couldn't see him. That was a good thing. Victor lit his cigarette clumsily and breathed in the foul smoke with a sigh, looking much more relaxed as he stared upon his boyfriend. Sherlock was sitting shirtless, one of the arrangements he had made before Victor had come in was throwing his shirt very clumsily under the bed, for if it was found lying on the ground next to the window there would certainly be suspicion. John's shirt as well, had been hidden.
"What are you wearing?" Victor wondered suspiciously. Sherlock looked down at his chest, as if trying to pretend as though it's being bare was a surprise to him.
"I think the question is what I am not wearing." Sherlock joked forcefully, to which Victor's lips didn't even twitch. He bit down on his cigarette and looking about the room, almost as if he was looking for where John could possibly be hiding. For a moment those electric blue eyes focused right on where John was hiding, almost as if they were making eye contact, and for a moment John lost his breath entirely. Thankfully Victor looked away, and John sighed as quietly as possible. His legs were beginning to go numb, as he was sitting with his knees drawn to his chest, however he knew that even the slightest change of position might give away his position.
"Why aren't you wearing your shirt?" Victor demanded, his words becoming slurred as if in drunkenness. Sherlock tensed, for obviously he could detect the anger that was beginning to flow from those words, Victor was out of his mind yet again tonight.
"I got tired of the buttons, and I was too lazy to get another." Sherlock admitted in a small voice.
"You're lying to me." Victor growled.
"I'm not, what use would I have to lie..."
"Get up, come here, now." Victor demanded, taking a puff of his cigarette before throwing it towards the nearest ashtray. Miraculously he made the shot, and it landed safely in the ceramic where it snuffed and smoked, however that was the least of their worries. Sherlock stumbled from the bed in a panic, falling towards Victor with legs that suddenly didn't seem to work; John could sense the tears that were beginning to fall from his eyes, for those very same tears were brimming in his own eyelids. Sherlock was terrified, and John felt that, he understood it for he was terrified as well.
"Now tell me really, Sherlock what you were doing. Convince me." Victor purred, taking Sherlock by the bare shoulder and pulling him closer, so that they were only inches apart and that their faces were level with another.
"I was just uncomfortable, just believe me this once." Sherlock begged in a breath, his knees shaking as John's knees went numb. Collectively they held their breath, and then something unanticipated happened, something that seemed so out of place and yet so welcome. Victor smiled.
"Oh Sherlock my love, I do appreciate your attempt at a story. Now admit it, you were waiting for me. You were expecting me." Victor whispered, one of his hands trailing about Sherlock's face lovingly, and yet of course he could never be as gentle nor as soft as John had been when he had ever so gently taken Sherlock in his hands, held him and cherished him, no Victor would never be able to be as angelic.
"Victor I'm telling the truth, I'm sorry. I wasn't expecting you tonight." Sherlock said truthfully, to which John almost gasped. He had been saved, rescued by Victor's drunken perception of selfishness, could he just agree to Victor's wild theories, and please him in the way he claimed had worked in the past? Blind Victor once more, immobilize him for the night in order to ease his mind and cover his eyes with the tendrils of misplaced love? And yet Sherlock denied him! He must have a reason, a qualm of some sort that would keep him from submitting to such an easy solution.
"And yet I am here, Sherlock, and how I ache for you tonight." Victor whispered, leaning his head closer while Sherlock could only duck away with a pained expression on his face.
"I'm tired, Victor, could we just postpone? It's been a long day, and I have a calculous test tomorrow." Sherlock pleaded, trying to step away and yet Victor's hands grasped him tighter, pulling him back so that he fell into the boy's solid chest, looking as though his confidence had been shattered. John couldn't bear to look and yet he needed to, suddenly the numbness he had felt was replaced with anger, a fire that was beginning to spark in his heart and spread to the rest of his body. How dare Victor treat such a precious boy with such force, how dare he disrespect Sherlock's wishes?
"Now I came all the way here Sherlock, I came here for you. It's considered rude, you know, when someone puts all that effort in and you deny them. It's considered disrespectful." Victor whispered, leaning so close to Sherlock's face that his words were pressed up against his cheek. Sherlock could do nothing but stand stone still, looking so disgusted yet John could not see his face, he could only see the hands that were by his side, clenched into fists, almost as if he was on the verge of fighting back.
"I'm sorry Victor, I'm sorry." He whispered. "But I can't."
"But you will." Victor growled, accompanying his words by pushing Sherlock onto the bed, following as quickly as he could, grabbing at the boy's struggling shoulders and silencing his lips with his own. Sherlock couldn't scream, and so John screamed for him. Suddenly the fire of anger ignited, and it burned, it burned through John's body and it flared for that boy who lay on top of the struggling angel, the broken angel. John flung from the closet in a panic, finding that his mere presence had done the appropriate job of freeing Sherlock from Victor's grasp. Victor jumped to his feet, Sherlock rolled away, and John could only stand and point at him accusingly, quickly discovering how helpless he was in this situation, when faced by a boy twice his size.
"You get away from him, how dare you, how dare you!" John snarled, lunging at Victor before he was stopped, halted by the mere draw of that pistol from Victor's belt. The old gun still gleamed in the meager lighting from the bulb above, it was wielded with such desperation that it seemed much more daunting than a mere handgun. It seemed as though it was the personification of death itself, and the barrel that stared John down was not just a part of the weapon but its eye, the very black eye that was used by the Grim Reaper to see his next victim. And that victim, so it would seem, would be...
"Don't, don't you dare!" Sherlock screamed, falling in front of John just as Victor began to tempt himself into pulling the trigger. Sherlock shielded John with the courage he had never been expected to have, tears streaming down his face as he chose death above loneliness, death above isolation with Victor for the rest of his existence. Victor's mouth contorted into a forceful expression of despair, his lips down turning as his skin grew hot, he waved the gun and opened his mouth, and no sound came out. He tried again.
"You're...you're with him!" Victor choked out, sounding the very definition of agony, of heartbreak. And yet who could say he didn't deserve it? Victor let the gun drop, shaking his head quickly, shaking it ferociously, before turning back towards the two and raising the weapon once more.
"You've betrayed me!" Victor exclaimed.
"You've hurt me! What else was I supposed to do, how could I have loved you?" Sherlock defended. Neither of the screams sounded angry, they sounded broken, they sounded desperate. Both boys were crying and it was all John could do but watch, watch and try to pull Sherlock closer so that he could push him to the ground should the gun ever fire. Sherlock couldn't be the one to die, he couldn't be killed in the fray for his heart, for then there would be no winner. He was too beautiful to bleed; he was so precious to be laid in the dirt to rot, not yet. Let nature take his beauty as it was meant to, let age wither away his skin, let not the worms feast on the moonlight that shone through his very body. No, death could not be permitted to enter this house and take the boy that was most sought after, and of course both the suitors realized that. It would be unfair for death to claim such a prize, when he had done nothing but wait until the beauty was destroyed by a single bullet. John would die; he would choose death, if of course death didn't come to Victor first.
"You weren't supposed to, I can't see how...Sherlock I loved you, I loved you so much, for so long, Sherlock how could you?" Victor breathed, shaking his head in disbelief, too taken aback to be angry, too broken to show anything but pain. Sherlock couldn't seem to say anything, and for a moment he seemed tempted to go to the boy who now dropped himself to his knees before them, clenching at his hair with one fist and with the other he grasped the handle of the pistol so tightly that his knuckles soon began to turn white. He looked as submissive as John had ever seen a man, he looked as broken as anyone so powerful could ever be, his pride had been shattered and his love had been stolen, oh how that once over dominating figure shuttered. And yet John took no pity, in fact this was exactly what he had seen when he dreamt of the end, he had seen Victor left as broken as he had made Sherlock all of these years, helpless beyond contemplation. It wasn't force nor domination that had toppled the boy, for in violence he had no superior. Even the toughest of boys couldn't defend themselves from the destructive force of a broken heart, tearing them apart from the inside out. His love had been valid all of these years, for what else could have broken him tonight?
"I loved you Victor, I loved you once." Sherlock promised, his voice breaking into a sob and yet he could not go to him, he dare not when that gun was still set level to where John's head might be, aimed to shoot straight through Sherlock's neck.
"And I loved you always! I love you still, Sherlock please, Sherlock, I'm begging you..." Victor pleaded, his words breathing all sense of agony that might be imagined from such a position. John finally took Sherlock's arm into his grasp, pulling him back so that he couldn't act upon the temptations of drawing nearer. This might still be a plot.
"Don't go to him." John whispered softly, speaking against Sherlock's neck so that he might again feel the lips that were so tempting to him not minutes before. Sherlock leaned towards John's touch, for a moment all was still and the only sound remained Victor's weeping, the broken man that had once been so daunting now bested by the simple presence of an adversary.
"I love you." Victor breathed.
"As do I." John assured softly, kissing Sherlock's skin once more, kissing him and pulling him closer. Sherlock didn't protest, he didn't move, he was drawn to John's touch almost magnetically, and with every step he drew farther and farther from the past he left sputtering on the floor.
"You would not have me now, changed and regretful, broken and at your mercy? You would not take me back into your arms, I who had cherished you for..."
"You BROKE ME!" Sherlock exclaimed suddenly, shattering the silence as he tried to lunge at Victor, Victor who now fell to the floor in hysteria. He still had the gun raised, and yet he was now doubled over in pain, almost as if this heartbreak was becoming intolerable...
"It was how I learned, and I can learn again, oh Sherlock please, please, take pity on me, the boy who has loved you for so long." Victor begged. Sherlock took a deep breath, and John drew his arms ever tighter around the boy's chest, met again with no opposition. He felt Sherlock's chest draw in a heave of breath, a final breath, before he spit his answer out.
"I do not want you, Victor, not anymore. Kill me if you see it necessary, but don't lay one finger on John, who has fallen prey to the very emotions that eat you now, eat you alive." Sherlock growled. And with that he took a step closer, with that John gave a cry of protest, and Victor a cry of defeat. Victor pushed himself up to his knees, he raised the gun, he closed his eyes...And John couldn't do a single thing, he was too far to dash at Sherlock in time, he was too late to shield him from the gunshot that rang out, and too late to pull him to the ground as the gun fell from Victor's bleeding mouth, too late to turn the boy's head away from the mess of blood and skull that was now his mutilated first love. Sherlock gave a cry of anguish and John pulled him into his arms, pulling him away from the newly created corpse that lay on the carpet, the once beautiful boy now fragmented and destroyed. Sherlock's tears wiped away the speckles of blood that riddled his pale skin, unharmed and yet devastated all the same. John held him, he cradled him, and yet he shed not a tear for the sake of the life that had been lost. It had been a necessary loss; it had been an imminent death. Victor had only to live for his love, and when Sherlock had been taken from him what only did he have to look forward to than the end? To take a bullet was much less painful than to take heartbreak, to take a failure. And so it had been finished, it had been completed, and the end approached with the blue and red blinking lights that shone through the curtains that had only once been closed, only this once. There was no use for them to stay open now, no use for them to be available, for the only reason they had been never been drawn was the sheer knowledge that on the other side of the road, in the dark room there stood a desk and there usually sat a boy, with wide eyes and an even wider imagination. He had wondered what it would be like here in this room, there in that bed, now with Sherlock in his arms. Never had he imagined there would be tears, never had he expected there might be blood, and never before had he witnessed a corpse bleeding and broken on the floor next to them. Never before he had imagined the cry of agony that escaped from Sherlock's lips, the same pain that might have been Victor's last conscious feeling before his feelings were suddenly interrupted with the self-administered bullet to the brain that need suffer no more.